Shepherd's Meal

This Christmas I find myself pulled between two different desires. On the one hand, I want to simplify Christmas in our home, paring it down until all that is left is the bare trunk of the proverbial Christmas tree (the “root of Jesse,” if you will). On the other hand, after 18 Christmases as our own family, I want to create some new, fresh traditions to bulk up our celebrations – meaningful, purposeful, beautiful moments that help take my family’s eyes off of the absurdity that December has become and anchor them back on the incredible and intensely profound moment when the godhead veiled himself in flesh. 

It's not an impossible dichotomy, but it’s not a natural one either, and it does stretch one’s mind to find ways that these two desires – simplicity and solemnity – can come together. With four boys ages 9-16 at three different schools, a professor husband whose semester has to gear up before it winds down, and my job as the Children’s Director for our little church (where I am guilty of adding activities to already frazzled family calendars), how could I pare things down and at the same time bulk things up? And when on earth could I do it? 

 Well, we have to eat. 

 I remembered something I had read several years ago. It sounded like a nice idea at the time, but I was too breathless in that season to give it much attention – toddlers and school programs and baby asthma and such. I recently flipped back to it and this December feels like just the right time to give it a go. It’s simple. It’s solemn. It has food. This year we’re going to have a Shepherd’s Meal on Christmas Eve. 

I first read about the idea of a Shepherd’s Meal in Sally Clarkson’s book The Life Giving Home, though she originally wrote about it in her book The Life Giving Table and has written about it and recorded a few podcasts about it since (you can read one of her lovely accounts of it HERE). The basic gist of a Shepherd’s Meal is to eat a rather simple meal similar to one the shepherds would have eaten (loosely interpreted) on that very first Christmas then read the nativity story together. Over the last few weeks, I have read several articles and blog posts about how other families have instituted this tradition over the years – and it looks beautifully different for each family. That’s a huge selling point for me. I need the freedom to match my expectations to my family, not the “fine China” family nor the “toddler season with sectional character plates” family. We are a “rough-around-the-edges-teen-and-pre-teen-boys-only-with-tired-parents-who-all-love-each-other-and-Jesus” family, and I need to be able to work with that. Ragtag and rustic is much more our vibe. 

Guys, I am so excited. 

 I’m excited about the menu I’m planning – basically a giant charcuterie board but heavy on the meats and light on the fancy cheeses. I’ll cook and cut up a giant sausage, crusty bread and some hummus and butter, fruit, goat cheese (for me!), and a potato soup recipe Sally shares in her book. 

I’m excited about the environment I’m going to lay out – our dining room table set with candlelight only, our star projector on the ceiling and a “Campfire Ambiance” soundtrack I found on YouTube playing in the background. Maybe even an open window depending on what Texas weather decides that night. 

I’m even excited about the dishes we’re using – a variety of stoneware bowls and platters that I bought from the thrift store for just this occasion, sold as a mismatched set for $3.50! 

And I’m excited – so excited – for the simplicity and solemnity of it all. Soup in a crock pot simmering all day, bowls upon bowls of various foods that my family loves and can DIY their own happy plates, my little family together, focused on each other and the incredible story when the night skies were filled with the praises of God for what He had just accomplished.

After the meal, we’ll read together the familiar nativity account in the gospel of Luke. Angels sent by God to humble shepherds in the fields, doing the same thing they did every night. Shepherds sent by angels with God’s peace to witness the fulfilment of the promises He had made over and over since the fall of mankind. Young, poor, newlywed travelers and their tiny shivering baby called Immanuel – “God with God from the beginning, suddenly now God with us.” 

Simple. Solemn. 

I cannot wait for December 24! Our first Shepherd’s Meal. 

Whether you try your own Shepherd’s Meal or roast a goose yourself… Whether your Christmas is all hustley and bustley or soft and slow… Whether you’re photo-ready in matching jammies or ragtag and bedheaded (like we will be over here!), I hope your Christmas is simple enough to soak in the profound peace proclaimed to the shepherds that night, and solemn enough to recognize the thrill of hope that message brought to this weary world. 

Merry Christmas!

Hope: Anchored and Alive

My portion of the day was coming to a close. I had been sitting with Pike (talking more than I’m sure he liked) for nearly 9 hours and his parents were driving back from the airport at that moment. The doctors and nurses and church staff had been bouncing in and out of the room all day long to check on the precious teen from every angle, and we had a few moments of unexpectedly uninterrupted quiet.

I had just finished reading through the book of Hebrews out loud to him. I had decided pretty early in the day that both Pike and I could use some good anchoring to Hope, and that book offers it more than any other I could think of. I started reading mid-morning, and it literally took all day to work our way through it. I took several breaks, of course, for the check-ups and check-ins, and every now and again I would pause to try to explain something that’s a little fuzzy as best I could. We also broke it up with a lot of music throughout the day. I knew he'd need a break from listening to his friend’s mom’s voice drone on and on.

Once we got to Hebrews 10, I had to slow my reading down for the rest of the book - partly to make sure that he and I could both soak in the words, and partly because of my emotion. Every word just seemed so perfect, so fitting, so needed. Hope. Faith. Suffering. Eyes unwaveringly fixed on Christ, who endured his own suffering and now stands beyond it and has anchored our Hope ahead with Him! *sigh* Yes, I cried. I apologized to him for making it weird, but I couldn’t help it…he and I both needed to cling to that Hope and keep our eyes fixed on Christ.

When I finished reading, I thanked God for the hope that Pike and I both have in Christ. I thanked Him for anchoring our hope beyond the veil - a hope that is secure and sure. I prayed that Pike and I would both have the faith to hold on to that hope. I thanked God for using Pike for His glory, and for equipping him for the good works God had for him to do. I thanked God for Pike’s incredible perseverance and how much he has taught, encouraged, and spurred me on.

And now, with just a few minutes left before I knew his family would be home, I decided to give him a break from my voice and put music back on. We had been going back and forth between my music (hymns) and his music all day. It was his turn. I pulled up the Phil Wickham station and sat quietly next to his bed, petting his fuzzy strawberry hair. “God, thank you for loving this precious boy more than any of us ever could. Thank you for being with him, even in the darkest places none of us can go.”

Before that day I had not listened to much Phil Wickham, and I was grateful Pike had introduced me to him. As I sat there resting my hand on his knobby knee, a song came on that I recognized from church. I looked at his sweet, sleepy face and just thanked God for the song. It was perfect. It was everything I had just read and prayed, and it was a voice that was sweet and familiar to him. I stood out of my chair and, keeping one hand on his knee and the other raised up, I closed my eyes and silently mouthed the words that I knew:

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

And as I stood there, still one hand on his knee and teary eyes now looking down at his restful face, the next words both broke me and revived me all at once. “Yes! This is it, Pike! This is what Christ has done for you!”

Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Jesus, Yours is the victory!

The song ended. I wiped my tears and got my weepy face under control. Another nurse came in to check his numbers. Then a knock on the door and a boisterous “Hey Pike!” from Paul. Mama rushed to her boy, big brother and new sis walked to his bed to tell him all the news. His family was home and my time with him was done.

But here I am, one year later. I remember my time with dear Pike so vividly, truly as if it was yesterday. It has forever impacted many areas of my life and heart, and it enriched and deepened my understanding of Hebrews and several songs (hymns and Phil Wickham alike). I don’t understand why I was given such a privilege to spend that day with Pike, but I’m so thankful for the work that God has been able to do in me through our day together.

I know Pike has nothing left to hope for - by God's plan and mercy Pike reached out and touched his Hope that very night. But I am still clinging to the Hope that is anchored ahead of me. I know that Hope is secure, risen from the grave, living and victorious. Hallelujah!

Until I hold that Hope for myself, I will be forever moved by my precious day with Pike. He reminds me to run the race marked out for me and fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith and my anchored, living Hope.

Living Hope by Phil Wickham
How great the chasm that lay between us
How high the mountain I could not climb
In desperation, I turned to heaven
And spoke Your name into the night
Then through the darkness, Your loving kindness
Tore through the shadows of my soul
The work is finished, the end is written
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Who could imagine so great a mercy?
What heart could fathom such boundless grace?
The God of ages stepped down from glory
To wear my sin and bear my shame
The cross has spoken, I am forgiven
The King of kings calls me His own
Beautiful Savior, I'm Yours forever
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Jesus, Yours is the victory!

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Christmas Guest Post #3: Erin and Anna Teske

"PRESENT"

Present with Your presence
Remembering the silence, the promise, the waiting, the hope
Emmanuel is finally
here.
among us.
Sleeping but not asleep.
Earth expectant...ready.
in murmured, pleading worship.
Now. And here. Hear and bow.
Tiniest of packages contains the fascinating weight of eternity

________________________________________________

I have known Erin my entire life, and Anna I've known for all of hers. Erin is my oldest sister and is hands down the most creative person I have ever known. Anna, her youngest daughter, is one of the most driven. A mom of three girls, Erin is currently a preschool teacher at a private Christian school in Frederick, MD. Anna is completing her senior year at the same school and is currently candidating for both the Naval Academy and Air Force Academy. They wrote this acrostic poem on their drive from Maryland to Chicago last week. Talk about beautiful mother-daughter bonding over things that matter!

Darker than the Darkest Darkness

...but brighter than the brightest star.

When I was in high school, my youth group would go to a summer camp in the mountains of West Virginia. For one week we rock climbed and repelled, white water rafted, mountain biked, high ropes coursed, and did a number of various other adventures. It is insane to me now that parents would trust a group of 50 teenagers to stand at the edge of a cliff in the remote Appalachain mountains with no one but peers and dreamy camp counselors (I promise, he looked just like Brad Pitt) to help curb life-threatening indiscretions, but I'm pretty sure we all made it out ok. Alive, at least.

There was one adventure at this camp where the oh-so-wise-and-mature college kids would take a group of only-slightly-less-wise-and-mature youth kids into the mountain caverns with nothing but some snacks and head lamps (and, I have to believe, a first aid kit). During this underground journey there was a point where all of the people would gather in one of the larger caves and situate themselves in a circle. Then at the count of three, the leaders instructed everyone to turn off their head lamps together.

Darkness.

Like, real darkness. Before, it was possible to feel the cold and damp of the cave and smell the cold and damp of the cave, but now it was as if you could see the cold and damp of the cave because you could see nothing else. You could hold your hand an inch in front of your eye and not even discern a basic outline. You could hear the unsteady breaths of your companions, but could not discern at all how close they were to you. There is darkness, and then there is empty, cold, oppressive darkness that somehow seems to extend forever and at the same time feels like it is closing in around you.

I, of course, did not sign up for this particular adventure because I value my life and sanity. Spend 4 hours squeezing myself through narrow crevices as we venture deeper and deeper into the mountain, with nothing but an oh-so-wise-and-mature college kid to guide me back to sunlight? No thank you. Have you even heard of Moria? I know what happens in the deep places of the world.

Balrogs and claustrophobia aside, there is actually a part of me that wishes I could have been there for that single moment. I can picture it vividly in my mind, but I wish I had felt it. My eyes have never seen such darkness.

There is a sense, though, in which we have all felt that cold, damp, unending yet constricting darkness. Our souls, in fact, know it well. The emptiness, the oppression, this is who we are in our deepest core. Starting in chapter 3 of humanity's story, the darkness has been our spiritual home. Like that single minute that felt like twenty inside that West Virginia cavern, the souls of man cannot see even an inch beyond ourselves.

This is why the story of Christmas does not start in the New Testament. It is not Matthew's genealogy or the angel's appearance to Zechariah that introduces us to the Messiah. The story of Christmas starts all the way back in the Garden of Eden where the lights were first turned out. When Adam and Eve decided that God should not be the only god (a decision, by the way, I would have also made given the chance), the same thing happened in the Garden that my friends experienced in the cave.

Darkness.

Communion with God was broken. Delight in worship was shattered. Innocence was voluntarily surrendered, and the light in the souls of men was immediately blackened to a cold, damp, unending yet constricting darkness. There was no gradual fade. From light to dark as quickly as the flip of a headlamp switch.

I think it is so important to start the Christmas story here in the darkness, because the darkness sets the stage for the light. In the same way that emerging from the cold depths of a mountain cavern brought a new appreciation, understanding and welcome of the midday sun, my soul needs to know just how dark and hopeless it was without the bright advent of Christ. My dark soul that is darker than the darkest darkness of a West Virginia cave is in brilliant contrast to the bright light of the condescension of the very Son of God.

When Jesus left the glory of heaven to enter into this empty, cold, oppressively dark place, God pierced the night with the light of a brilliant star. From the fields of Judah to the ends of the earth, its bright rays sliced through the dark sky to direct people toward the temporary home of a humble couple. As the weary parents wrapped their baby in strips of cloth, for the first time ever the eyes of mankind that had been darkened by sin met the eyes of God, bright with the Light of life. Though their souls were as dark as a West Virginia cave, as dark as my own heart, they cradled the Light of the world, God with us. The light of that star could be seen from the corners of the world, but its brilliance could not compare to the radiant light that lay in the manger.

Zechariah, whom God had chosen to be the father of the Messiah's forerunner understood the depth of the darkness the world has known since our chapter 3, and the brilliance of the dawn that was about to come. He described the coming of the Messiah in this way. "The rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace." (Luke 1:78b-79)

Ever since death entered the picture in Genesis 3, mankind has dwelled in the darkness of its shadow, but throughout the Old Testament God promised a future light that would once again shine in the souls of men.

Our souls, by themselves, are dark. They are darker than dark. They are darker than the darkest darkness. Do not be buried by this concept, but do not dismiss it either. After dwelling in the empty, cold, oppressive shadow of death for a moment, direct your eyes to the brilliant light of the rising sun and be awed anew at the magnificence of that light. That Light that shines brighter than the brightest star has stepped into the darkness, as promised, to shine in the souls of men.

What a stunning sunrise!

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees!