Commuters Do It Five Times a Week: Why there are no Christians on I-85.

As a veteran of the northern exurb to downtown Atlanta commute I have had ample opportunity to embrace the deepest darkest places of my soul. There's nothing like a good traffic jam to elicit white-knuckled rage from the calmest, quietest soul. If you are a celebrant of Festivus (obscure Seinfeld reference), commuting in metro Atlanta will provide you with a voluminous list of grievances – inexplicable traffic jams, that guy who 'cuts you off,' the GA 400 commuters (usually driving a Lexus, Porsche or Mini – jealous much?) who believe it is their god-given right to immediately merge left across six lanes once they enter I-85, erratic out-of-towners staring at 'them tall shiny things,' and those degenerates who do the speed limit in the left lane.

I am a card-carrying introvert (INFJ/P), but I have 'enjoyed' the splendid cathartic powers of commuting to explore my shadow sides. I have found myself shouting and banging my steering wheel – "WHY AREN'T WE MOVING – AAAAHHHH!!" I have said things to other people (who couldn't hear me), including little old ladies, that you wouldn't say to your worst enemy. I have invented new expletives, combining the best of four-letter favorites into novel compound nouns. There is no telling what kind of maniacal fool I have looked like, faced pressed against the glass, slobbering and cursing at the sky or my nearest fellow commuter.

I'm certain there are two probable explanations for such inane behavior. Possibly, commuting is the apocalyptic machinery devolving humanity into a sub-species of zombies who will soon inhabit all major metropolitan areas. OR, slightly more likely, sometimes we just aren't very nice people, and acute stressors have the ability to bring out "Mr. Nasty" (obscure You've Got Mail reference).

The infamous theologian Calvin got one thing right, we're all depraved – some more than others. There's a nasty side to all of us – it's a reality of the human condition. Not even Jesus was immune from an occasional bout with "Mr. Nasty." In Mark 7:24ff we find Jesus seeking a place of respite near Tyre – "He entered a house and did not want anyone to know it." Apparently Jesus needed a little 'downtime' – his ministry was intense, and I imagine there were plenty of times that the last thing he wanted to do was give another piece of himself away…even to the 'least of these.' Alas, his peace was interrupted by the "Syrophoenician woman" of Sunday School fame. In short, she needed help and Jesus blew her off – even insinuating that 'her kind' were 'dogs.' After a bit of reproof from this awesome lady, he consents, but with what seems a half-hearted effort (something like, "yeah, yeah, you're daughter is healed, whatever…go away now"). Few passages have received more over-apologetic interpretative tactics to release Jesus from any impropriety. But, these are the kind of narrative moments that endear me to the Jesus of Nazareth – he's real, he's able to instruct his disciples about defilement coming from the heart in one breath, exhale that defiled state in the next, and then move on, committed to growing from that moment for the better (see the before and after in Mark 7). I'll pause to recognize that my Jesus may be less orthodox than yours…

Recently, while alerting a colleague that I would be late for a meeting due to traffic (it took me 3.5 hours to achieve what should have been a 1.5 hour drive), she said something to the effect of, "no problem, at least you aren't the poor person in the accident." In the midst of the 'jam' my response was lukewarm and cynical, expressing little concern for those with real problems. She was exactly right and I was dead wrong. But, I'm glad she said what she did – it hasn't left my mind as I've continued my daily grind. My "Mr. Nasty" moments are an opportunity for growth – reminding me to operate with grace, even while operating my car. So, next time you cut me off on I-85, I'll try to wave…with all five fingers. Happy commuting! – D. Christian Nix, 5/10/2011

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"As the Scriptures say, 'No one is righteous—not even one.'" – Romans 3:10 (NLT)

"So what if you can see the darkest side of me…Help me believe it's not the real me…Somebody help me tame this animal I have become…" – Animal I Have Become, Three Days Grace.

He is not here…

I remember my one and only Easter as a full-time student pastor far too vividly. It may be the only 'do-over' in egg hunt history. It was a beautiful day, but the sun was quickly blotted out by an untimely false start at the third through fifth grade egg field. There was an apparent miscommunication – I blame other people – and a handful of kids were somehow allowed to start hunting before the masses had made it to the starting gate from their hot dog lunch.

Oh, it was an ugly, ugly scene – tables were overturned, tears were flowing, blood was shed…or was it just ketchup? Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it wasn't my proudest moment. Adults had to recover eggs from children with overburdened baskets, order had to be restored, angry parents assuaged and eggs re-distributed across the asphalt parking lot – it was more a mad chase scenario than a hunt, I guess. The irony was thick, instead of a 'triumphal entry' I had created an 'angry mob.' I'm certain I heard chants of 'crucify him, crucify him' pointed in my direction. I had leveraged an event that involves a competition driven by greed – enhanced with monstrous prize eggs – to celebrate the selfless life and death of Jesus. In the midst of the hunt I had forgotten what it was we were supposed to be searching for.

The 'hunt' for Jesus began early in his ministry. He was constantly surrounded by crowds, many following him from town to town. When he took a boat across the sea, the crowds met him on the other side. Certainly they were enamored by his message…and his miracles. Like children at Easter, many were probably hoping to find a prize egg.

After a long day of caring for the sick and afflicted in Capernaum, Mark reveals that Jesus sought a quiet place of solace the next morning (Mark 1:35ff). After his disciples finally find him, in what must have been an exhaustive search, they chide Jesus for his absence – "everyone is looking for you!" Jesus calmly responds that it's time to move on. Jesus appears to have had little interest in being the hunted. His driving motivation was not to be the center of attention, but rather to bring attention to the needs of communities, and to challenge the social, political and religious boundaries that diminished (and continue to diminish) the lives of so many.

Eventually the 'hunt' for Jesus takes a decidedly disastrous turn. The crowds that praised him vanish – apparently all the 'prize eggs' had been found. They are replaced by moneychangers, rich young rulers and religious authorities hell bent on his destruction.

Few stood by the cross as he died, and only three, two Mary's and a Salome, visited his tomb. In the end, the hunt for Jesus comes up empty. As the angel tells them, "He is not here…" (Mark 16:6). The message brought fear and trembling, and maybe the anger that only true mourners could hold for their beloved – "Where are you?! Don't you know that everyone is looking for you!"
Yet, Jesus' posthumous call to his followers in Mark's Gospel was simple… 'it's time to move on.' Begin again. Challenge the authorities again. Put the rich young rulers in their place again. Heal the sick again. Comfort the afflicted again. Seek justice again. Be willing to die for it…again.

I've spent the better part of three decades trying to wrestle Jesus from his hiding place – "Damn it, Jesus! Don't you see the trouble in our world…do something! Don't you know that everyone is looking for you!" I think I've become just deaf enough to the Christian cacophony to finally hear Jesus calmly whispering, "Damon…it's time to move on. Why are you still standing by my tomb? Don't you see – it's the world that needs to be resurrected, not me."

"He has risen…he is not here" – those words are not a comfort, they are a challenge…and they leave me trembling. – D. Christian Nix, 4/22/2011

Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally

I recently returned home from a workshop in Charlotte, NC. I spent three days rehearsing my freshman year in college so I can (hopefully) pass a professional certification exam in the near future. We covered material I had hoped to never see again from chemistry, physics, and economics…things like "PV=NRT" and "F=MA" (If you know what those letters mean, I feel your pain).

While doing a basic mathematics refresher I was reminded of a phrase I hadn't heard since middle school – "Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally." As most of you know, it's a mnemonic device designed to help you remember the order of operations when solving math problems – Parentheses, Exponents, Multiply, Divide, Add, and Subtract. It's critical that you follow that order or you'll end up with the wrong answer. Thinking back, I always felt like subtraction got the short end of the deal (and I realize thinking about things like that makes me a bit strange). Why was it always last? As if it was the least important part of the process.

In life, subtraction can be a painful thing. Yet, growing up requires a great deal of subtraction – progress always requires a bit of 'letting go.' Moving from school to work we reduce a great deal of our previous leisure. Then, if we become parents we let go of the rest of our leisure! We eliminate, or at least attempt to eliminate, vices, habits and attitudes as we mature. Relationships are ended for various reasons – some good, some bad. And, saddest of all, we experience the subtraction of loved ones from our lives in the passing of time. All these subtractions have a great impact on who we are and who we become.

So, too, with the 'Christian' life and the life of religion and faith in general. By the time we're adults our theology is an amazingly complex mass of refined, yet often conflicting, beliefs. Often these beliefs become fixed as we seek some sense of certainty in our less than certain lives. But, what about that subtraction bit? Is there any room for subtraction in our personal belief systems? After building such a fine calculation of faith, what could we – what would we – possibly let go?

Jesus was the master of subtraction. He was always subtracting burdensome and unnecessary rules as detailed in his many encounters with the Pharisees. From the sick and outcast he subtracted the social stigma that bound them to the lowest places in society. And he even subtracted undeserved honor and status from the rulers and elite who often came with their 'brilliant' questions. Jesus established a mission of subtraction – removing pain and injustice wherever he went.

I think much of this occurred because of Jesus' willingness to subtract from the orthodoxy and religious and cultural norms of the day. This stands out to me particularly in Matthew 5 in Jesus' repeated refrain, "You have heard that is was said…but I tell you…" How did Jesus arrive at such different conclusions about life and faith than so many of his contemporaries, including John the Baptist? I've often wondered if it was the outgrowth of a great subtraction from his own life – the death of a loved one, a personal experience of injustice or simply the incongruence of a 'certain' faith amidst clearly uncertain times.

Regardless, Jesus seems to have set about the process of 'subtraction' as an adult. He unraveled the calculations he'd been given – undoing the additions, multiplying what had been divided and dividing what had been multiplied, inverting the exponentials and finally, and most graciously, removing the parentheses of exclusion. Life was no longer a problem to be solved, but a community of people, places, cultures and beliefs that had value and worth in and of themselves.

I've been about a journey of subtraction myself the last few years. I believe far less than I did before…yet, I also believe so much more. Constants have been replaced with variables, and I'm growing more comfortable with leaving them unsolved. – D. Christian Nix, 4/6/2011

Beer, Baptists and Belief

I recognize the volatility this blog may have for some of my numerous [sarcasm] readers. I pause to apologize to those who will express disappointment. Yet, the following is an outgrowth of my own personal walk in faith. In no way do I wish to diminish the reality that alcohol has participated in many personal struggles and tragedies. The purpose is not to glorify the use of alcohol, but to recognize its appropriate place in the life of the individual believer and non-believer alike.

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Some of my fondest memories have involved the sharing of a drink. Whether tailgating with friends from college, toasting my best friend at his wedding, or sharing a beer with my brother at the end of Pier Street after grandma passed away, a libation has enhanced many of the moments in my life – transforming them from 'time spent' to 'timeless.' I certainly have a trail of forgettable moments with alcohol as well, but such is life – I also have a trail of forgettable moments with dressing myself, talking out loud, and sending emails.

Not too long ago, on a Saturday afternoon following Thanksgiving, I sat with my best friend Steve at the Gordon Biersch restaurant in Midtown Atlanta. We were enjoying the seasonal winter brew, watching college football and sharing the same old stories we love to hear and love to tell. Somewhere in the midst of my second mug our food arrived. As was our custom we said a prayer before we ate. Not long after an older woman approached our table – "I was watching you from over there, and I just want you both to know how touched and encouraged I was to see you pray over your meal in the middle of this crowded restaurant." For a boy who grew up in a small northeast Georgia railroad town, the idea of having a 'God moment' while simultaneously enjoying a beer seemed like a paradox. Yet, that relatively innocuous event was a watershed moment for me – I recognized a certain earned confidence in my own faith journey (and lord knows I've got the scars to prove it) to make, and live in peace with, lifestyle choices that might be 'controversial' to others. I wish the same for other believers and non-believers alike…

Jesus modeled unorthodox, but confident, decision-making like none other. He seemed especially fond of thumbing his nose at religious purity laws and Sabbath regulations.

In fact, in the canonical vision of Jesus' life, the first great miracle he participated in was to subvert the use of ritual washing pots to 'flash ferment' an excessive amount of wine for a small wedding party (John 2). How could Jesus – the ultimate killjoy(?) – have participated in the drunken revelry that was the wedding celebration of antiquity? It seems Jesus may have had a different view on alcohol than the conservative voice of Christianity today.

Where I live in Georgia, alcohol is a hot topic these days – specifically, whether or not wine and beer should be sold on Sundays. While the dangers of alcohol abuse are evident, the prohibition of alcohol sales on Sunday has little to do with those issues. I'd gladly support legislation that limited late-night alcohol sales (nothing good happens after midnight, right?) or increased penalties for drunk drivers, etc. But, a demand that all citizens submit to a conservative Christian religious construct (that has no grounding in the life of Jesus or the New Testament) is a cultural artifact whose time has passed.

One of the great principles of historic Baptist faith (of which I partake) is the 'doctrine of soul competency.' Every individual's religious convictions are an extremely personal matter – one bound up in their own journey with the Divine. For those who feel strongly about Sabbath alcohol restrictions, it would seem a much more sincere approach to freely choose not to purchase alcohol on Sundays – as a matter of personal conviction, not state legislation.

I certainly don't believe the Sunday sale of alcohol is a big enough cross to die on – there are far greater issues to attend to. So, I implore believers to consider the question Jesus asked of his mother at the wedding feast – "what does this have to do with us?" (John 2:4, NASB) – D. Christian Nix, 2/16/11

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"Let beer be for those who are perishing, wine for those who are in anguish! Let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more." – Proverbs 31:6-7 (NIV)

Tiger Moms and Prodigal Sons

My best friend, a Chinese-Canadian-American (yes!), recently sent me a Wall Street Journal article by Amy Chua, author of the just published book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother." The email was in jest, but reading the article, entitled "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior," got me thinking about my own parentage and parenting.

Chua's argument is that 'the' Chinese method of parenting, which, in my interpretation of Chua's description, entails complete domination of the will, intentions and actions of the child, produces exceedingly better outcomes than Western parenting styles. In many aspects I agree. Western parents in the post-spanking era (thankfully) have much to learn from Dr. Chua's pragmatic approach, particularly in relation to establishing limits and expectations (though, her exact methods are more like prohibition and demand). The ingrained discipline, overwhelming emphasis on academic success and constant push towards overall excellence has led to the (often true) stereotype of superior Chinese-American students.

But, it is precisely the context of 'Chinese-American' that I think is important. This method of parenting, which is supposedly superior to the innumerable Western styles of parenting, finds its apex precisely in Western culture. I think what Chua, a law professor at Yale (of course!), is actually describing is less a function of culture and ethnicity and more a method of class distinction. Chua and many other Chinese-American parents have discovered how to succeed in Western culture – intense discipline, academic rigor and a rejection of failure are indeed the same hallmarks of many socio-economic elite 'Westerners' as well.

The broader issue at hand might rather be whether or not Western-style success in matters of wealth and prestige are the ultimate measures for our children. The reality (and the ultimate counter-argument) is that all children in China are born to 'Tiger Moms,' but poverty, inequality, injustice, and failure are as rampant there as in the United States and other Westernized nations...and more so. Are these mothers, who love their children as desperately as Dr. Chua, failures? Are their children failures? I think not. Might there be another measure for success that eschews ties to culture, ethnicity, economics, etc.?

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Bruce Springsteen's "Growin' Up" is easily in my top-ten list of favorite songs. I have a live version on my iPod that was recorded a few months before I was born in 1978. Within the song there is a three or four minute monologue where Bruce tells his story of 'growin' up.' A master musician, he recalls his parents' (who were in attendance) incessant pleas to "turn down that goddam guitar!" In his narrative he shares that his father wanted him to be a lawyer and that his mother had hoped he would become an author so that he could 'get a little something for himself.' Springsteen eloquently replies, "But what they didn't understand was that I wanted everything…one of you wanted a lawyer and one you wanted an author, but tonight 'yous' are both gonna have to settle for rock n' roll." As the full ensemble kicks in – guitars ringing, horns blaring – no one in that audience, and no one with ears to hear would ever imagine that they were settling for anything. Bruce concludes in verse, "when they said 'sit down,' I stood up!" Neither Bruce's rejection of his parents' desires, nor their inability to mold him into the person they hoped he would be, led to failure. As his deeply personal address suggests, irrespective of achieving pop icon status, he had succeeded in life (in his own unique way) because he knew he was loved. I imagine the "everything" that Springsteen wanted was more than worldly success – it was wholeness as a person.

Likewise, many know Jesus' story of the 'Prodigal Son' in Luke 15. The dastardly younger son demands an inheritance from his not yet deceased father then proceeds to squander it through 'wild living.' Impoverished, malnourished and humiliated he returns to his home hoping to simply be treated as a servant. He had failed as a son. He had failed his family by dishonoring his father, he had failed morally by living in disrepute and he had failed economically by wasting vast resources with no return. But, and this is the crucial juncture in the story, he did not fail to be loved:

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let's have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' So they began to celebrate." (Luke 15:20-24, NIV)

 

The lost son was found…and more so, the lost son in that moment likely found himself. His identity was not the manifestation of his successes and failures in life, but rather his grounding as a person who was loved without condition.

 

Dr. Chua and her husband love their daughters passionately. My wife and I love our children passionately. Whether or not our parenting methods drive them to achieve greatness in a Westernized world rife with disparities and abuses – often practiced upon the masses by those 'great ones' – is of little significance. What is paramount is that they know love, so that whatever they 'become' will be imbued with the same – regardless of whether they share our cultural values, theology or politics. This world is full of unhappy doctors and lawyers who made their parents 'proud.' What this world desperately needs is loving neighbors…my prayer is that we raise a couple.

– D. Christian Nix, 1/29/11

Walk the Dog – A New Year’s Resolution

Among siblings few things change quantitatively over time – I will always be a little brother. A few years ago, rapidly accelerating towards thirty years of age, I found myself playing the baby brother role in Boston – my big brother's very new hometown. Outside various shops between Washington Square and Harvard Street in the Brookline neighborhood I stood awkwardly, embracing my trademark insecurity, waiting for my big brother to purchase some picture hangers at the hardware store or pick up a to-go order from the Thai restaurant (well worth the wait). And why was I waiting outside? Because little brother was holding big brother's dog – "you hold Baxter while I get this…it'll just take a minute." Yeah, right. Baxter, a massive, hundred-plus pound yellow Labrador mix, and I had ample time to bond as we stood, sat, and occasionally lay down along Beacon Street.

But, as I soon discovered, being the designated little-brother dog-walker did have its benefits. Standing along the bustling sidewalks, filled with thousands of defrosting Bostonians enjoying the perfect New England summer weather, Baxter became quite the conversation piece. "Your dog is beautiful" and "That's the biggest head I've ever seen" were frequent comments of passersby. Often other dog owners would stop to strike up a conversation as well – their Pekinese and Chihuahuas yapping and growling incessantly while Baxter calmly investigated exactly what type of creatures these little things were.

There was a great sense of humanity to the whole process. Gracious comments passed from one to another, the engagement of human beings in conversation, and expressions of sincere interest in one another's lives – even if at an introductory level. I had more discussions with more people in three days than I had had in suburban Atlanta in the last three years. There's something about being 'out there' walking and talking in the streets that produces a true sense of community, and real opportunities for all sorts of ministry. And there's nothing like a dog in the city to keep you on the street – off the couch and near the fire hydrant.

Jesus was always on the move – from town to town, village to village. Certainly Jesus' ministry would have been much easier if everyone had just come to him – he definitely could have saved on sandal treads. Like John the Baptist he could have established a central location and then waited for the crippled, blind, poor and miscreants to simply come to him. Jesus was a carpenter, surely he knew how to erect a building – and with Matthew's experience collecting taxes starting a capital campaign would not have been a stretch. But, Jesus did none of those things.

Jesus moved through the streets and byways making himself available for individuals and communities in need. And along the street he entertained a broken humanity with healing. The unnamed woman with the blood issue, Zacchaeus, and blind Bartamaeus all found healing after meeting Jesus in the street. Jesus' transformative power was revealed through the daily dynamics of human interaction – he 'walked his dog', as it were.

Wearily standing outside my brother's apartment, Baxter in-tow, I ran into his neighbor. Recently widowed and transplanted from Virginian suburbia to urban Boston, she had spent the entire day discovering the joys of laundry mats. With little more than a sincere "how are you doing?," she opened up the pain of her life to another human being who would listen. It had been a hard day, burying the dagger of a lost marriage partner of thirty-eight years deep into her heart. Her sense of loss heightened, she let choked tears go as she shared her story with another human being who patiently gave her the time to speak. As I finally submitted to Baxter's pleas for relief, she opened her apartment door in a much better mood – "Thank you." A healing had occurred in the street.

Later, outside a video store in nearby Washington Square I found myself again staring through the glass leashed to the Behemoth. Many passed in and out with polite smiles and greetings. From the parking lot I saw a stern looking man walking slowly towards the door. But, as he approached a smile crossed his face as he stared at the large Labrador sprawled on the pavement. Then on his way out he stopped and reached out his hand to rub Baxter's neck. For a full minute he silently stroked his fur. Looking up to speak for the first time he said in a deep Russian accent, "I lost my dog a few months ago." Returning his attention to the great beast latched to my arm he received a bevy of warm licks to his hand. Turning to leave, he simply and sincerely said, "Thank you." Another healing on the street.

Certainly I didn't perform any supernatural miracles, but it seems the truly miraculous is bound up in the natural. Unwittingly I found myself made available to the world in the seeming triviality of walking my brother's dog.

A few weeks ago we welcomed Cleo, a yellow Labrador puppy, into our home. My New Year's resolution is to take her on many walks in my neighborhood. Though far from the crowded metropolis of Boston, I look forward to the many people we will meet along the way this year in our town…and the many opportunities to receive and offer healing on the street. – D. Christian Nix, January 1, 2011

Mary’s Son

Fox's new sitcom Raising Hope is really growing on me. It is a comedy depicting a family living on the socio-economic margins of society (like Roseanne) – in stark contrast to the vast majority of programs that seemingly normalize the lives of the upper middle class and wealthy. The basic storyline is that of a young twenty-something man, born to teenage parents whom he still lives with, learning to raise a baby girl, Hope, on his own. Oh yeah, and the mother of the child is a now executed serial killer (you may have to watch it yourself to grasp the humor in all this).

In the most recent Christmas episode Hope is turned down for the role of baby Jesus in the local church's 'live nativity.' Why? Because she is apparently known around town as the "murderer's baby." The rest of the show centers on the family's (humorously misguided) efforts to transform Hope's image. Family and friends all participate in acts of love towards a child who they believe deserves a meaningful life despite the circumstances surrounding her birth. It is indeed a true Christmas story.

For many Christians, one of the most celebrated aspects of Christmas is Jesus' birth (conception?) to a virgin girl named Mary. I'm not sure this was how the villagers in Nazareth would have viewed it. If we read between the lines (and I think we must because the traditions Matthew and Luke present are different in so many important ways) we can see the social and cultural mess surrounding Jesus' birth, much apart from the stories of King Herod's wrath and the inn with no vacancies. Mark, whose gospel was earliest and yet gives no birth tradition, may be the most telling. In Mark 6:3 a seemingly innocuous statement is made – Jesus is called "Mary's son." Given the context of the passage and the patriarchal system of the day the phrase "Mary's son" was far from innocent verbiage, it was an insult. Jesus was Mary's son – and NOT Joseph's. As we see in Mark 6, the residents of Jesus' hometown were not keen to accept his teaching because he was a son of ill repute – Mary's bastard son. Jesus had been labeled from even before his birth. Not only was he born on the 'wrong side of the tracks' in Nazareth (see John 1:46), but the morality of his birth, and thus his own, was questionable.

A couple of years ago a friend shared with me an experience he had at a Christmas mass. Nominally Catholic by virtue of marriage he was unfamiliar with certain traditions (and let it be clear I intend no disgrace towards those traditions – just curious wonderment). The congregation sorted out row by row towards the front of the chapel – as if to take communion. Only as he approached very near to the priest did he realize he was being summoned to kiss the knee of a plastic baby Jesus doll. He found this quite humorous, "what the hell is that about?," he said, still laughing about it weeks later. He did recall that the plastic baby Jesus received a sound knee cleaning after each kiss – how very sanitary Jesus has become in our churches.

Many of us have heard preachers stand in pulpits and talk about a plastic baby Jesus – a perfect Jesus, a Jesus that was squeaky clean, a sanitized Jesus who proclaimed a sanitized gospel. It's all very neat and orderly. The storm of gossip and questions that surrounded his childhood has been silenced. The tattered clothes of his childhood have been replaced with gleaming robes of white. If we believe the famous hymn Silent Night, the baby Jesus didn't even cry (he must have been plastic!). There was nothing messy about Jesus' life from their perspective – and there damn well better not be anything messy in yours!

Each Easter Christians celebrate the Jesus who bore the sins of the world on the cross. It may be more apropos at Christmas to remember the Jesus who truly bore the sins of the world in a manger in Bethlehem – poverty, violence, prejudice and marginalization. Many 'sons and daughters of Mary' are with us today living in broken homes, economically disadvantaged, and presumed guilty or corrupt because of the street they live on or because of the pronunciation of their last name. Like Jesus, they need mothers with courage like Mary, fathers willing to stand in and take responsibility like Joseph and mentors who can share a vision like John the Baptist.

The real story of Christmas is that of a child who was loved and blessed by those who saw his value when others did not. And in turn, he became love and blessing for others (like no other!). This may be the great 'Hope' of Christmas – a hope that we can share with the sons and daughters of Mary who live around us today. – D. Christian Nix, 12/10/2010

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"Simeon took (Jesus) in his arms and praised God, saying, '…my eyes have seen your salvation.'" – Luke 2:28-30 (NIV)

"Well happy birthday Jesus, sorry your party is so lame!" – Michael Scott (Steve Carell), The Office