Ho Ho Ho, Let my People Go!

Nothing says Christmas like a plague of locusts, but I think Exodus: Gods and Kings is a well-timed holiday movie. The miraculous account of Moses, leading the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt is an amazing story that points directly to the life and death of Jesus – the Christmas baby.

Not even Hollywood could dream up an event like the Exodus: pestilence, catastrophic death and destruction, and a dramatic escape of 1 million people. It’s where the phrase “biblical proportions” probably came from. Kim Kardashian not withstanding.

The Old Testament of the Bible is the history book of God’s chosen people, the Israelites. The Exodus is the event that they hang their yarmulkes upon. Over 100 times in the OT God identifies himself as “the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt”. The Israelites are continually prompted to remember their deliverance from slavery and oppression.

Hopefully you know the story. If not see the movie. Or read about it in the book of …  you know, Exodus. In a nutshell, God calls Moses to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt. Pharaoh says no and there’s a bunch of plagues. With the last plague, the death of the first-born, God brings the hammer. Moses instructs his people to kill a lamb and paint the blood on the doorposts of their houses. Then God sent an angel to wipe out all the first-born sons in Egypt. But if the angel saw the blood on the doorposts, he passed over that home and nobody died. Pharaoh finally relents and the Exodus begins.

Later on God gives his people a set of rules, laws, and ceremonies. They are told to annually remember their deliverance from Egypt as well as their salvation from death with a feast. The main course: a sacrificed lamb. This feast is known as The Passover.

Fast-forward about 1,000 years to Jesus and the Christmas story: the crowded inn, the stable (possibly home to a lamb or two), and the Angel of the Lord visiting the shepherds … who were watching their … lambs. Zip ahead 33 years. On his final night, Jesus and his pals enjoy a last supper. The meal they were eating was the Passover Feast. He’s then arrested, beaten, and crucified. Jesus was killed during Passover. Was that a mere coincidence? I guess maybe. But I think not because the spiritual significance is too hard to miss. Jesus was our sacrificial lamb. Like blood on a doorpost, his shed blood allows our own personal escape from the slavery of sin and death.

I think the Exodus account is a primary reason to believe the Bible’s authenticity. What I love about the Bible, what keeps me reading through times of doubt, is that  it was written over a span of 1,500 years, on three continents, by 40 different authors and still maintains a harmony of themes and messages – like that of The Passover.

The point of the Exodus is to demonstrate the tremendous lengths God will take to save his people. He could have had Moses do an Obi-Wan-Kenobi mind warp on Pharaoh so the Hebrews could exit Egypt like a joyous crowd leaving a football game. Instead God went with the dramatics. He went overdrive on the special effects. He performed miracles and landed a definitive blow upon the Egyptians so his chosen people would know he meant business, he could be followed, and he could be trusted. It showed them that God was only one responsible for their rescue.

I imagine that the Bible’s miracles prevent many folks from believing. Just to get the Hebrews to the promised land, God toppled the walls of a fortified city and parted another large body of water. Then there are all of Jesus’ miracles. Somewhere along the way, God stopped doing the spectacularly outward feed-5,000-people type miracle and went with the quiet inward miracles. The kind that happen in your heart.

The kind of miracle that can turn a convicted felon into a worldwide prison minister. Or one that can give a former WWII POW forgiveness toward his Japanese captors. Or take a shy, stage-fright-filled kid and turn him into a teacher. It would be cool if God used a giant outward miracle to right some of the world’s issues. Instead, he’s decided to use people to feed the poor, care for the orphaned, and rescue those trapped in slavery.

Christmas itself was one of God’s quiet miracles. He ditched the special effects and went back to silent film era. No fireworks, wall-crumbling announcements, or computer-generated explosions. Instead it was just a young couple, a smelly barn, and some lowly shepherds. As with the Exodus, the birth of Jesus demonstrates the distance God will travel to save, deliver, and redeem, not just his chosen people, but all of mankind.

God gave us his son to reveal that he can be trusted and followed. To say that he alone is responsible for our salvation.

And that’s the greatest miracle of all.

A Non-Wish-List Christmas

I’m finally ready for Christmas.

By “ready” I don’t mean my shopping is finished. I mean I’m finally able to embrace all things Christmas. I really admire people who can start shopping in November, put their tree up before Thanksgiving, and listen to the Burl Ives Christmas album on Black Friday.

I’m not like that. Every year it takes until mid-December for my sleeping yuletide heart to awaken. But I’m now one with the Christmas season. I’m a candle-lighting, carol-trolling, ginger-snap-baking, Amazon Prime-shopping fool. Bring on the Soul Cakes, baby. I have two week to soak in the season. I’m marinating in merry measure. There are a few things to do, but nothing very stressful. The one thing I won’t be doing is making a wish list of gifts I want under the tree.

This will be my first non-wish-list Christmas. There is nothing I need or want badly enough to ask for it as gift. Or perhaps, when you’ve seen how the other side of the world lives, another book, or gadget, or sweater simply doesn’t matter that much. My time in Mozambique this past summer showed me how blessed I am and how much stuff I have compared to a large part of the world.

A few years ago I was turned onto a movement called Advent Conspiracy [adventconspiracy.org]. AC’s goal is to encourage Americans to celebrate Christmas differently. This is done by spending less on those who don’t need much and giving more to the needy and less-fortunate around the world.

How do you know if someone doesn’t need much? If they live in America and have more than two clean shirts, they’re doing pretty well. The average American lives on $90 a day. Approximately one billion people live on less than one dollar a day. And around 2.6 billion live on less than two dollars per day. Meanwhile, Americans shell out $450 billion on holiday shopping. Imagine if we each took our portion of our Christmas budget and gave some of it away: to the homeless, to the refugees fleeing from ISIS, or to the African orphans. Did you know that 25 bucks will provide a family of five access to safe water for a year? Or that there are nearly 30 million people held in slavery today? Think about what a sliver of that $450 billion would do for a thirsty family or for a non-profit trying to rescue trafficking victims.

The idea here is to rein things in, not to stop shopping, or to pour a dose of guilt into your hung-with-care stockings. Maybe two gifts for that special someone instead of three. Or pool your resources and get dad a “from all us kids” gift. Take what’s left over and help World Vision feed the hungry or Living Water International dig a well. There, no guilt.

The Life for Mozambique team that I am apart of is conducting an Advent Conspiracy campaign titled, “One Day” to raise money for our two orphanages in Mozambique. Shoppers can buy a day’s worth of meals for one or both orphanages. Or they can gift a day’s, a week’s, or a month’s operating costs for the orphanages. Please contact me if you’re interested in helping our children in Mozambique.

Don’t tell the folks at Advent Conspiracy, but I’m still going to shop for my family members. I can’t help it. I love to buy Christmas presents. I’m donating toward the One Day campaign too. Those little Mozambican kids are now a huge part of my heart. I can’t wait to go back and not a day goes by where I don’t think of those children.

Wait, I just thought of what to put on my wish list. Dad, Christy, and Jenny, if you’re reading this … forgo the Christmas shopping and feed some kids in Mozambique in my name.

And if you’ve already bought me something, save it until July. Advent Conspiracy doesn’t pertain to birthday presents.

The Only Autograph that Matters

“But I've got a blank space baby

And I'll write your name.”

-- Taylor Swift / God

My family and I moved to Los Angeles in 1988. Upon arriving at LAX my mom recognized a famous football player in the baggage claim area. She grabbed the book I was reading (Shoeless Joe by W.P. Kinsella) and sprinted toward him, hurdling Samsonites like O. J. Simpson in those old car-rental commercials. She returned with his signature on Shoeless Joe’s inside front cover. The football player was actually Orenthal James in the flesh! She made it back alive and I still have the book.

His signature, along with the words, “Peace to you,” didn’t do anything for me. I don’t understand the need to get something signed by an athlete. You’ll never catch me in line for an autograph. Nor do I go to ballgames early, hang over railings, and stick pen and paper into an outfielder’s grasp. And I’m certainly not going to spend any money for an autograph. Athletes are vilified if they don’t do autographs before or after games. Those who do, are known as the good guys. Autographs these days are a big business, as is autograph authentication. Why the fuss over some dried ink? What makes it so special?

However, I do have some autographs. Dear ol’ dad gave me a baseball signed by Stan Musial. A friend once took my ball cap to a preseason fan expo at Angels Stadium. She came back with Garret Anderson’s “signature” scrawled all over the bill. It looked to be written by a kindergartner with fine-motor issues.

In order to be valuable, I think an autograph has to be from somebody who was pretty dang monumental; either in their athletic feats, character, leadership abilities, or all of the above. Or, I don’t know, maybe because they changed the world. Players like Garret Anderson had fine careers, but the Hall of Fame isn’t calling them anytime soon. And yet, today’s fans push and shove each other for autographs from back-up bench-warmers and rookie relievers. Because they can hit and throw a ball? These are things I’ve been doing since I was three years old.

There are, however, some autographs I would like to own, from people who did things a little more important than hitting a ball successfully three out of 10 times. John Hancock’s for one. Imagine that baby in a frame over the fireplace. Or how about George Washington’s on the rental paperwork from Valley Forge? A light bulb signed by Edison. Throw in Ben Franklin’s on the receipt from the kite store. I wonder if people clamored for Shakespeare’s or Mozart’s signature. Or perhaps it was enough for them to simply enjoy a night at the theatre or symphony. Mother Teresa’s or Jonas Salk’s? People who toiled unselfishly for the betterment of others. That’s what I call monumental.

You know whose autograph I’d like: Jesus’. Talk about doing something monumental. Jesus wrote the book on monumental. Dying for my sins. Coming back from the grave. Defeating death. Holding the universe together. Reconciling mankind with its creator. Dolling out grace, peace, strength, comfort, and love as abundantly as a puppy giving out kisses. Unconditionally.

I bet Jesus’ autograph would fetch a handsome sum at Sotheby’s. Unfortunately, there isn’t a piece of paper on earth containing his handwriting. But there is one in heaven. The bible talks about God having a Book of Life. I don’t know if God has an actual, tangible book on his nightstand. Perhaps he’s digitalized it. The Kindle of Life. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I want my name written in it. In God’s handwriting. His autograph.

In the New Testament of the Bible, the Book of Life represents God’s roster of believers. This book is also called the Book of Life of the Slaughtered Lamb, in which the names of the elect have been “inscribed from the foundation of the world”. Also, Jesus said of his followers that, “their names are written in heaven”.

I don’t think we have to change the world or do something monumental to get our name in God’s book. In fact, there’s nothing one can DO to earn an autograph in his book. Jesus did the work. We just have to believe it. And then set out on changing the world one loved-one at a time.

The Old Testament mentions the possibility of not being found in the Book of Life or having one’s name blotted out of it. This means separation from God for eternity. I don’t think God has a vat of White Out or that he uses one of those big pink erasers from elementary school. I don’t think God really blots out names. It’s just his way of saying that your name isn’t written in his book. Sometimes it’s easy to think that God does blot out the names of his children. I used to think that I was one screw up away from God’s giant pink eraser. But now I know that God uses screw-ups and messy people, like me, to help others and share his love. It’s taken me a long time to learn this.

I think God signs our names in permanent ink. Think the Sharpie of Heaven. Christians believe in something called the Assurance of Salvation. Those who believe in Christ are anchored in eternity. Salvation is certain for all of those whose names are written in the Book of Life. I don’t care if my name is written on the first page or the last page of God’s book. Just as long as it’s there. But, I am kind of curious as to what color with which God writes. I have an inkling that he writes in only one color.

Red.

Blood red.

And that’s a signature for which I’ll surely stand in line.