Friday, July 8, 2011

The Bible, The Boy and The Ball

December 25 is the day that most Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

Much historical information has come to light over the years that suggest that Jesus was not born in December. In fact, my faith holds that Christ was born in the month of April.

That said, I have never believed that squabbles over which month we should celebrate Christ’s birth are nearly as important as the celebration of what the Savior actually did with His life. In fact, I am glad that we as a collective people have elected to celebrate the birth of Christ in December, as I fear it’s proximity to the celebration of Easter would tend to culminate in one big holiday and not as two separate entities that can inspire us at different intervals of the year.

Whether we are celebrating Christ’s birth in December or April (or both!) many of us will be in church on Easter Sunday to celebrate the atonement and resurrection of our Lord that occurred some 2000 years ago. It will be my privilege to join in that celebration, witnessing that Jesus Christ is indeed the savior of the world, and that the power of His atonement is sufficient to heal any wound, forgive any sin, and lift any burden. I have had my share of ups and downs in trying to live His commandments, but I love Him, and am grateful beyond my ability to express for His influence in my life.

I wrote the following post back in December, on Christmas Eve, and never published it.

I share it now just after the eve of the resurrection with the intent of helping both myself and others focus on both the birth and the life of Jesus Christ.

May His spirit strive inside each of us as we “walk toward the sound of music”.

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My wife, Katherine, likes to sing.

She’s actually pretty good at it.

I never realized she could carry a tune until this past year when I heard her singing in harmony with songs on the radio. Whether she decided to take up singing during the time-frame I had noticed or had actually been singing all the other 15 years of our marriage without my noticing is any one’s guess.

Either way, I began to listen.

“You should join the church choir,” I told her one night while we were riding home in our mini-van.

She just laughed and kept singing along with Elton John’s Tiny Dancer, which was the song that was playing on the radio station at the time.

I continued to listen.

She really was pretty good.

Not long after that, we visited my sister, Mandy, and her husband for dinner. As fate would have it, they had just purchased one of those sing-along karaoke video games that was set up much like the more popular music-themed Guitar Hero and Rock Band. The game came with a selection of 80′s and 90′s music, a microphone that was hooked up to the TV sound system, and a screen display that let you know the words to the song and how close to being on key you were. Each contestant, in competition with another person in the group, was challenged to sing the lyrics to a pre-selected song into their prospective microphones. The TV screen processed the sensory input and let everyone know who was winning the contest, which was determined by how many times each contestant goofed during the song and sang off-key.

The person with the least mistakes won.

The game brought out more than a few laughs after dinner as we tried to sing our favorite teen anthems, and I could see how contestants needed to be fairly comfortable with others who were playing in order to open up and really sing.

It was no surprise to me when Katherine aced all of her songs – she was a natural.

I was surprised, however, to learn that my sister could carry a tune as well, since she had never shown any aptitude or interest in music growing up.

She and Katherine were a pretty close contest.

I couldn't keep up with either of them…I have never been a singer.

On the way home, I complimented Katherine again on her newly discovered talent and, as before, mentioned the church choir. She still didn't take me seriously.

The next day in church, I decided to give her a nudge in the right direction. Katherine and I were friends with the ward choir director, who had recently been appointed to her position and was looking for volunteers. After Sunday school that day, I mentioned to the director that Katherine had recently taken a liking to singing, and that she might respond favorably to an invitation to take part in the choir. No more encouragement was needed. The director approached Katherine and extended an invitation. Thankfully, Katherine was gracious with my not-so-subtle meddling, and agreed to stay after church for practice that day.

With nothing else to do while I waited for choir practice to end, I decided to hang out with my nine-year old daughter, Kendall, and my toddler son, Matthew in the Cultural Hall of the church so that they could burn off some calories after trying valiantly to sit still in church for three hours. As they ran back and forth across the basketball court, other parents heard the ruckus and poked their heads in to see what was going on. It wasn’t long before some of the choir members who had children of their own started to notice that there was an adult watching kids in the Cultural Hall. Apparently, a lightbulb went off in someone’s mind, because children began to mysteriously appear in my designated waiting spot like leaves budding on a tree in March. They were all full of energy. They all wanted to play. And they all had parents who were slipping off toward the Relief Society room where the choir had commenced practicing.

It was great to feel needed.

I chuckled to myself and wondered if the Lord was teaching me a lesson about meddling in my wife’s business.

If so, it was a pretty painless lesson.

The kids, though energetic, were well-behaved. I had taught some of them in my CTR-5 class when I served in the Primary program the year before, so it was nice to be able to have a chance to talk to them again.

As it turned out, watching kids in the Cultural Hall became a routine activity for me over the next several months while the choir practiced after church. Occasionally, another parent would join me, and we would laugh as we watched the children’s clumsy social antics.

One afternoon after church was over, I was sitting in my usual post listening to the muted strains of Christmas carols drifting through the practice room door. Kendall, Matthew and another young man were my only children at the moment. They were kicking a large, blue ball around the room, and were being a little more noisy than I would have liked. There was another ward meeting for Sacrament services in the room next to the Cultural Hall. Not wanting to disturb the reverence of the chapel with the thudding of bouncing balls crashing against the partition, I frequently admonished the three children to calm themselves down and turn to quieter activities.

Unfortunately, they would have none of it.

The miniature offending angels looked at me with alternating expressions of annoyance and indifference, then resumed their game of kick-volley-basket-ball.

In the midst of this boisterous activity, the door to the Cultural hall opened.

I waited for a face to appear from in back of the door, and wondered if it was a member of the Williamsburg Ward Bishopric coming in to scold us for our rowdiness.

We certainly had it coming.

Today, however, it seemed that luck was on our side.

Instead of an offended clergyman, a curious blond-haired boy stepped in.

He was six-years-old or so, and had obviously just arrived at church. His parents were most likely shaking hands with other adults in the chapel, and were nowhere in sight. The boy had probably heard the noise inside the Cultural hall and slipped away to investigate.

He wore a white shirt, a tie, a dark-colored sweater vest, and a dark pair of dress pants with neatly buffed shoes. In his left hand, he held a set of scriptures. It was clear that he had been well-prepped by his parents about appropriate behavior inside of the church building. He still had an air of reverence about him that was probably the result of a quiet, peaceful ride to church with his parents.

He looked at the three unruly children playing with the ball and hesitated, probably wondering how to react.

It didn’t take him long to come to himself.

After all, he was a boy, and boys are hardwired to chase, grapple with, and confiscate bouncing balls before heaving them back into airborne orbit. The boy abandoned his reverence and jumped into the game with arms flailing and elbows thumping. His laughter mingled with the excited giggles of the other children. Before I had a chance to try to disassemble the band of church-ball rebels again, the boy’s father walked into the room. He looked around the room, spotted his son, and then stood quietly with his back against the wall near the entry-door. The boy’s enthusiasm for playing ball abated a little when he saw that he was under scrutiny. Once he figured out that dad wasn’t going to interfere, he resumed his bouncing and throwing.
I was embarrassed by my lack of ability to control the children, but was soon put at ease when the man pleasantly remarked:

“Better to get the wiggles out now…before church starts.”

I smiled and agreed.

Here was a fellow who understood that, despite our well-meaning attempts to preserve the reverent atmosphere of a sanctuary, the wiggles must be dealt with – sooner rather than later.

After a few minutes, the man called his son over to him. It was time to go. The organ was playing in the chapel, signaling the start of the Sacrament meeting. The man dusted off his son’s shoulders and tucked the disheveled white shirt back into the dark dress pants. Then he handed his son his Bible and, together, they walked back toward the hallway that led into the chapel.

Soon after they left, Katherine came out of the choir room with a big smile on her face. She always appeared to be energized by choir practice – especially when she was singing Christmas carols. I was glad to see she had found her niche.

On the way home, I thought about the boy who had visited us that afternoon in the Cultural Hall. He definitely made an interesting character-study. On one hand, he had been quiet and reverent when he walked into the church, ready to sit quietly and contentedly during the talks that were given. On the other hand, he had eventually decided to trade in his serenity for a rowdier mind-set, setting down his Bible in favor of good times with new friends.

I wondered which version of the boy was the real McCoy.

I thought about the Bible he had been clutching when he came into the Cultural Hall, and then thought about that large bouncing ball he was chasing just before he left.

Which did he enjoy holding the most…the Bible or the ball?

For a boy of such a young age, we all know what his preferences would likely be… at least for the next few years.

But I decided not to count him out just yet.

One day he would likely be chasing kids of his own around the church building and looking back on his escapades in the Cultural Hall with a rueful grin.

As I continued to make preparations for the holiday season that year, I pondered this experience with the young man in the Cultural Hall often. Many times, I caught myself wondering if we adults don’t all have a bit in more in common with our paradoxical young friend than we realize. To me, it seemed like our family opened the door on Christmas that year much like our young friend did when he entered the Cultural hall in our church – with a spirit of well-meaning reverence, holding our Bibles in one hand and doing our best to keep our shirts tucked in and our shoes shining. After observing the excited behavior around us, we, like our friend, momentarily sat our Bibles aside to reach out toward the madness of the moment. Despite our best efforts to keep Christmas in perspective , we were neck-deep in expensive gifts, stacks of holiday cards, and one-too-many chocolate chip cookies melting in our mouths.

It can be hard to turn down the games and diversions of the temporal world. – they are…well…they’re just fun!

If we don’t watch ourselves, though, I think we will eventually find that secularism is not without its price. We simply cannot hold onto our Bibles while engaging ourselves in a vigorous game of kick ball. At some point, we will have to set one or the other down.

I am grateful for the folks who always seem to appear at just the right moment to help us see when we have gotten too far off track.

Sometimes these spiritual mentors materialize in the form of a parent, a friend, a spouse, or an ecclesiastical leader.

Sometimes, they even appear as our own children.

Such people bring to mind a certain bemused father who, after searching high and low in the chapel, meandered into the Cultural Hall to find his lost son.

Once he had scouted his boy out, he didn’t scold him for being irresponsible. He didn’t yell about how his neatly tucked shirt that had come undone.

Instead, he paused a moment to watch his son’s activities.

He knew that those wiggles had to come out.

But he also knew when it was time to wrap up the play session and head toward the chapel. When the time was right, he called the boy over to his side. He gathered him up, dusted him off, and handed him his Bible. Then they walked out of the Cultural Hall together toward the hallway and the sounds of the softly playing organ music.

Such stories, though they are simple and ordinary, tend to leave me feeling a little better about the world we live in. In a way, they kind of remind me of our own relationship with our Heavenly Father. When we are lost in the maze of materialism and worldliness, He always seems to find us. Like the prodigal’s father, he takes time to rejoice that we have been found. When the time is right, He dusts us off, helps us tuck in our shirts, hands us our Bible, and shows us the way toward the chapel, where the “yoke is easy and the burden is light.”

Come unto me, all ye that labor, and are heavy laden,” He says, “and you shall find rest to your souls.”

Sometimes, such “rest to our souls” can seem fleeting in the flurry of activity around us.

We can sometimes feel heavy-laden even when we are trying our best to do the right thing.

Where is the peace we seek?

If you ask me, we don’t need to look any further than the little black book the boy brought into the Cultural Hall that Sunday – the book that our Father wants to help us write in the fleshy tablets of our hearts.

Sometimes, we unwittingly set our Bibles down so we can play a round of “church-ball”.

Other times, we find it right there in our hands and in our hearts, waiting for us to open it.

Either way, there are some stories inside of that book there that are worth hearing; stories that are worth telling over and over as we celebrate the true meaning of our holiday seasons:

“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed….

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”
(Luke 2:1-7)

Two thousand years ago, the still of a silent night was pierced by a single cry.

It was the cry of the babe in Bethlehem.

Named in several millennia of prophesy, he had come in the flesh to “save that which was lost.”

And his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

(Isaiah 9:6)

The peace we seek is closer than we think.

We just have to find a way to set down the church-ball for just a few seconds, and go to that place inside of us that is quiet and reverent, where we can hear the echos of the newborn’s cry deep inside of our souls. Perhaps Linus, when speaking to a dejected Charlie Brown who had lost the meaning of what the season was about, said it best on A Charlie Brown Christmas:

That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

And so it is.

The joy of the bells on Christmas day offers splendid prelude to the quiet still of another day not far distant. After a life spent in service and perfect obedience to God’s will, the reason for the holiday season culminated quietly in the confines of a small, borrowed sepulcher.

The sun had risen on the first Easter.

After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.

There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it.

His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.

He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay.

Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples.”

(Matt 28:1-8)

As I continue to ponder the lesson I learned from the boy who wandered into the Cultural Hall after church, I smile and realize that no matter what we have our hands on at this particular moment – the Bible or the ball – that there is hope rising into the night sky when we look at the stars on Christmas Eve. It is the joyful prelude to the light and hope that dawns inside of us when we notice the blooming flowers, budding trees, and newness of life on Easter morning.

Take a look to the east just before sunrise on Easter Sunday and maybe you’ll see a faint impression of a star that once shone brightly, looking down on a darkened world.

That light will continue to shine down on each one of us as we dust ourselves off, tuck in our shirts, pick up our Bibles, and head back out toward the sound of music.