Thrilled by Hope

“Hope is a good thing, and good thing never dies.”

              -- Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption

Strangely enough, I embraced the Christmas spirit much earlier this year. Usually I find myself in late-December, soaking up the California sun, trying to magically conjure up some Christmas flair. But today wraps up my third week in full holiday mode. The decorations were up before the Heisman was announced and the gifts were wrapped before Miss Universe was crowned. Oh and the carols have been a-playing for weeks. 

Christmas carols are magical. I love all the songs from Bing Crosby to Kelly Clarkson, from the exclamations (Angels We Have Heard on High! and Joy to the World!) to the questions (Mary Did You Know? and Do You Hear What I Hear?). However, my all-time favorite is still O Holy Night.

O Holy Night contains the one of the greatest lines this side of in a galaxy far, far away:

A Thrill of Hope … A Weary World Rejoices.

A thrill of hope … it’s a line that brings me to my knees every December. Because I remember a time not so long ago when I had lost my hope.

Interestingly enough, an atheist, Frenchman Placide Cappeau, originally wrote O Holy Night in 1843 as a poem called Midnight, Christians to celebrate the renovation of the town organ in Roquemaure, France. A few years later, composer Adolphe Adam put the poem to music. Then in 1855, American minister John Sullivan Dwight created the song we know based on Cappeau’s text.

Pastor Dwight was thrilled by hope, but what thrills you? An amusement park thrill ride? A promotion? A quiet night with your significant other? Zooming down a winding mountain road? Short lines at Costco? Author W.P. Kinsella has a book of baseball stories named, The Thrill of the Grass. The title always comes to mind when I chase fly balls in leftfield. I find watching talented performers extremely thrilling: a dancer, a singer, a skater, an actor, an athlete, or a musician. I find the opening to U2’s Where the Streets Have no Name completely thrilling. A sunset. Standing on the edge of a cliff in Zion National Park. Laughing with a Mozambican child. All so thrilling.

Are you thrilled by hope?

I am. Because hope can be gone in a flash.

Can our world be any wearier? There is the constant threat of terrorism. Natural disasters such as fires, floods, earthquakes, droughts, and tornados pockmark the planet. Wars and the rumors of wars highlight the news. Social injustice. Human trafficking. Poverty. Homelessness. The refugee crisis, mass shootings, and Common Core math.

We live a world that appears to be unfixable. I know the feeling.

And yet, 2,000 years ago, a young couple settled in for the night in remote corner of a tiny town, in a little country surrounded by a sea of Roman oppression. As darkness fell, the world paused and held its breath … like I do before Mike Trout goes back to the wall, or before The Edge plucks that first note, or before an Olympic gymnast takes flight  … everything appears to stop … and wait.

Like the shepherds in the field waited …

Like the angels waited to take center stage …

Like the young couple waited in the stable …

And then the crowd goes wild because the catch is made; the gymnast sticks the landing, the guitar solo echoes through the arena, and the baby Jesus cries.

One day in 2008 I found myself without hope. It was a lonely bottom-of-a-pit kind of place. I adamantly believed that the rivers of troubles in my life weren’t going to part and the walls of my problems were not going to tumble.

The absence of hope is doubt, and doubt isn’t very thrilling.

My heart breaks for people who go through life without the hope that Jesus brings. I think it’s why we Christians try to share our faith. Sure there’s the amazing realization that through Jesus we gain forgiveness of sins, reconciliation with God, and eternal life. At times those truths can feel abstract. But as with love and faith, hope is tangible. And that’s what Christians want to see their friends and family members grasp on this side of heaven.

Thankfully, God brought me out of that pit. In doing so, he restored my hope. I think he also left a small dose of doubt, as a reminder and as something he uses to bolster my faith. And now, hope is what gets my feet out of bed. It’s what moves me to help orphans in Africa and to volunteer with local homeless outreaches.

For me, hope provides the confidence that my future is secure. It gives me comfort in my loneliness. It allows me to be content in my circumstances. I’ve discovered firsthand, that Andy Dufresne was right. He may not have had a Jesus-filled hope, but, nonetheless, I know that hope, even when cloaked in doubt, never dies.

Hope tells me that we don’t have to look to governments and politicians to fix this weary world. Hope says that the baby who was born in that manger is the one who will restore this world to the way it was meant to be, one doubting heart at a time.

For me that is thrilling. And I think the world … though waiting and weary as it may be, is still rejoicing.

Merry, Merry Christmas everybody.

Decorating My Own Red Cup

The appearance of my Christmas coffee cup is important to me, so I took a handful of black markers down to Starbucks. I figured I’m artistic enough to decorate my own plain red cup.

Everything about this made-up controversy has bugged the F (for Frappuccino) out of me. So I started with writing the word grace on outside of the cup. Everybody needs a venti-sized portion of grace right about now. From the folks who are upset over the plain red cups to those who feel they need to tell everybody who is upset where to better focus their angst.

Christmas is going to arrive right on schedule. Around the globe, followers of Christ will use the season to worship and remember his miraculous arrival. While for millions of others, Christmas contains zero spiritual significance. Yes, this issue has been blown way out of proportion, but I think that red cups actually do matter. Because at the heart of this controversy is the subtle reminder that the true meaning of Christmas is slowly fading from the mainstream culture.

Many traditional Christmas symbols refer back to the birth of the Christ child. We’ve got the wise men, the shepherds, Mary and Joseph, and the baby in the manger. But there’s just not enough room on my cup for the whole cast of characters. So I decided to decorate my red cup with the symbols that have, over time, lost their religious connotations. 

Frist, I drew a candy cane. The candy cane dates back to Germany in 1670. Tradition holds that the Cologne Cathedral was hosting a living Nativity scene and the children’s choirmaster used candy to bribe his little cherubs to be quiet. He asked the local confectioner to add the hook to the candy in order to encourage the children to watch how the shepherds of the Nativity used their canes to direct the live animals. More importantly, the choirmaster instructed the children to consider how Jesus is the “Good Shepherd.”

Next I drew a wreath. Wreaths date back to ancient times but the folks of northern Europe were the first to associate them with winter. It was thought that wreaths brought a sense of hope into a home. When northern Europeans converted to Christianity, wreaths continued to decorate their homes during the winter season. With time, wreaths became distinctly Christian in their symbolism. Since their circular shape had no beginning or end, they served as a reminder of the “Eternal God” and a life without end offered to “whoever believes in the Son.” Evergreen wreaths (trees that survived the “death” of winter), symbolized both the immortality of God and the souls of men. Lastly, the light of a wreath represented Jesus, “the light of the world.”

Then I decided to deck my cup with some boughs of holly. From ancient times to the present, holly has religious connections. Ancient Romans believed holly could repel malice. They also thought that holly was sacred to the god, Saturn. Thus, during Saturnalia, the feast celebrated in his name at the end of December, holly could be found in abundance. Later Druid priests in Europe believed that holly attracted good spirits and offered protection against evil spirits. They often wore holly in their hair during religious rituals. Christians too have identified a wealth of symbolism in the form of holly. The sharpness of the leaves recalls the crown of thorns worn by Jesus and the red berries act as a reminder of the drops of blood that were shed for salvation. Since holly maintains its bright colors during the Christmas season, it naturally came to be associated with the Christian holiday.

Many other Christmas symbols such as bells, Christmas trees, doves, stars, poinsettias and jolly ol’ Saint Nick himself have traditions steeped in Christian history. All of these were added to my very-festive red cup.

Lastly I decided to bring my cup into the 21^st century. Since Christian-bashing is about to replace baseball as the national pastime, I added a “HC” to my cup in honor of Hillary Clinton who said, “Christians need to change what they believe”. The initials will serve as a reminder that how Christians are viewed in America is changing for the worse. Therefore, our lives, words, and actions need to be full of love, grace, integrity, truth, and justice. We need to be examples of Christ, not people who prevent others from knowing Jesus by doing stupid-crazy things … like complaining about oh, I don’t know, a coffee cup. Plus, if you can love Hilary, you can love anybody.

Speaking of terrorism, I added 30 little crosses to my cup to not only honor those Egyptian Christians beheaded by ISIS earlier this year, but all Christians around the world currently undergoing persecution for their faith. Additionally, I drew several hearts to represent the Christians killed in the mass shootings in Oregon and South Carolina.

My red cup was nearly complete. There was just enough room for one more word:

Hope.

As in the “thrill of hope” from my favorite Christmas carol, O’ Holy Night.

Hope for a weary world, a broken world, a troubled world. Hope for hearts that use the symbols of the Christmas season to draw deeper into their worship of God and his Son, given for all mankind.

Because, remember, it was hope that the old-timers in Europe saw in their wreath-clad doors.

Which reminds me, I need to retrieve my Thanksgiving and Christmas wreaths from the garage. Although, I could make a new wreath. Perhaps one made out of red Starbucks cups.

Where There's a Mill There's a Way

Suppose you’re in the mood to make some corn bread. You’re a true chef and the thought of using a

box mix gives you hives. But, you’re out of corn flour. What’s your solution?

Option A: You hop in the car, cruise over to the grocery store, and buy some corn flour. You’re back in the kitchen 20 minutes later, mixing and whisking, dancing to Pandora on your wireless Bluetooth speaker.

Option B: You grab a 50-kilogram sack of corn and prepare for an eight-mile walk to the local mill. You strap your smallest child to your back and ready the other children for the journey. The older kids could stay home and watch the younger ones, but you may need help carrying the corn. You decide to bring the whole gang because 110 pounds of corn is quite heavy. Nonetheless, the older children are missing a day of school. All for some corn bread.

If you chose Option B you may live in Mozambique and the corn bread might be all that’s for tonight’s dinner.

I left my heart in Mozambique last summer. I went as a part of a team called Life for Mozambique, which is the global missions branch of my church, Life Covenant in Torrance, California. Through eight years of following God’s lead, two orphanages and 16 churches have been established in Mozambique. We spent a lot of time at the first orphanage, The Melanie Center. In addition to housing and caring for few of the country’s 700,000 orphans, the Melanie Center serves the local community in many ways.

To get a good idea of what this community is like, imagine your neighborhood, but take away all of the infrastructure: the stores, shops, and service providers. Turn all the roads to dirt. Delete most of the electricity. Picture a half dozen one or two-room houses made of cinder blocks and thatched roofs inhabiting the space your home occupies. Each day we traveled through this community by van on a long bumpy road. We counted over 200 homes along the road. Countless others lay hidden behind those that were visible. Needless to say, it’s a large community.

Who knows how many people actually live around the Melanie Center, but many of them visit for medical care, education, and clothing. One of our goals last summer was to find another project to help move the Melanie Center toward self-sustainment. We already have a chicken-raising business called Operation Mozambeaks. A group of our guys visited the nearest corn mill. They reported back that building a mill at the Melanie Center was a strong possibility. They also figured that we’d require about $17,000 to build it.

We thought it would be a daunting task, as 17 large ones is more than half of the Life for Mozambique annual budget. Some serious fundraising was in our future. Just about a year later, the mill is almost ready to go. Without a fundraising campaign. Because when God needs a mill, he provides the money.

We started by presenting the need, which we did back at church. One Sunday morning after our return, everybody from the trip had about three minutes to talk about his or her experience. The last team member to talk was one of the mill researchers. He talked about the women, the kids missing school, the weight of the corn, and the distance traveled for a simple meal.

A pair of women in the congregation donated about two-thirds of the money to build the mill. They saw the struggle and the danger the women in Mozambique endure to provide food for their families. They felt the pain of walking long distances and of carrying heavy loads. They understood what such a task was doing to these women’s bodies, the physical breakdown, the wear and tear, and the emotional hardship. They realized that they couldn’t do themselves what Mozambican women do day in and day out. They were compelled to act. This was women helping women, girls helping girls, sisters helping sisters. This was the family of God assisting in a real, tangible, completely life-changing way. The rest of the money came from a local foundation that has a heart for children and for providing for those in need.

Construction on the mill happened over three phases. First electricity had to be run out to the site on the Melanie Center grounds where the mill would sit. Then a building was erected to house the mill. Lastly, the milling equipment had to be purchased and installed. As of today, the mill is nearly functional. Remaining agenda items include hooking up the electricity and hiring some local people to operate the equipment and keep the books. A security guard will also be required. Thus, the mill is also creating employment.

It's estimated that the mill could generate $30.00 a day. After expenses and salaries the profits will go toward the operating costs of the Melanie Center. Additionally, the discarded cornhusks can be used as chicken feed, which offsets some of the Operation Mozambeaks expenses. After time, the mill quite possibly could generate enough money to cover all the costs of running the Melanie Center. That would free up Life for Mozambique to fund for other projects like a mill at the second Melanie Center or possibly a third orphanage.

So now Option B from above is completely different: You’re out of flour and your older kids are at school. You strap your youngest child to your back and walk a few hundred yards to the local mill. Your smaller children run up ahead, laughing and playing. Your burden is light because the distance is short. A smile crosses your face as you remember how long this journey once took. As the vision of freshly baked cornbread fills your mind, you offer up a prayer of thanks for the new local mill, knowing you’ll be home in plenty of time to feed your hungry family. 

Wondering about Kindness in the Age of Social Media

"If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all." Thumper the Rabbit

Thumper would have loved the book Wonder.

For the last three years I’ve ended the school year by reading it to my class. The same thing has happened each time. Without fail, students get their own copies to read along with me. Some even finish on their own before I do. With no other book does this occur.

Wonder, by R.J. Palacios, is the story of August Pullman, a 5^th-grade student in Manhattan. Auggie has previously been homeschooled, but for junior high his parents decide to send him to a private prep school. It’s a risky decision, because, well, Auggie isn’t a normal child. Intellectually, he is above average. Physically, though, he is facially deformed. Hideously deformed. The Elephant Kid.

Palacios gives her readers a few descriptions of Auggie’s face, mostly in one chapter narrated by his sister Via (if you’re curious, Google mandibulofacial dysotosis). But the full force of his appearance comes through how others react to seeing him for the first time.

The look away.

The pause.

The double take.

And these are from adults. Children are less subtle. Through Auggie’s classmates, we see how mean kids can be. Auggie is ignored at lunch and sidestepped during class. His classmates go to great lengths to avoid touching him, as if his DNA is contagious.

Against this backdrop, Palacios weaves a theme of kindness. She starts with Auggie’s English teacher, Mr. Browne, who challenges his class to live out a monthly precept. He starts the school year with:

“When given the choice between being right or being kind. Choose kind.”

Palacios concludes with a wonderful commencement speech by the middle school director, Mr. Tushman. In between, Mr. Browne’s precept reverberates as Auggie’s classmates are challenged. Readers see who has listened and who hasn’t.

Why does Wonder resonate so strongly with today’s children? Palacios uses humor at the beginning to grab her readers. Her chapters are short and fast-paced and Auggie is as funny and loveable as he his grotesque. In this age of picture books disguised as novels, Palacios proves that today’s kids can handle mature themes with challenging messages.

But I wonder if it’s because children are longing for moral direction and instruction. Which takes us back to Bambi’s sidekick Thumper. His words from 1942 need to be repeated to our kids everyday. Or at least as often as they hear the latest Ariana Grande lyrics.

Additionally, children need tangible examples of what responding with kindness looks like. They need to know that being right is secondary to being kind, that emotions and feelings get bruised just as easily as elbows and knees. Because, yes, words, just as much as sticks and stones, do hurt. Most children don’t judge their peers based on race or socio-economic status. But children do respond selfishly, angrily, or cruelly if they feel they’ve been slighted. This happens regularly, usually when lining up or playing on the yard. It’s during these times that teachers and parents need to not just quote Thumper but also explain and instruct that’s it actually okay to respond with kindness and suppress the desire to be right.

Classroom teachers are big on quoting a guy a little older than Thumper. He said to treat others like you want to be treated. Maybe you’ve heard of the Golden Rule? This rule is summed up with the word respect.

With all due respect to Aretha Franklin and Rodney Dangerfield, I’m going to have my students attach another word to the Golden Rule and Mr. Browne’s precept: Admiration. What if students were taught to treat others better than they want to be treated? As if they looked up to their peers, like they do the principal or a pop-culture superstar. As if little Suzie was Taylor Swift and little Billy was Clayton Kershaw. Perhaps then more kindness would start seeping into our schools.

Wonder’s message is good for our grown-up hearts too. Who are the Auggie’s in our world? For many, they’re those who appear or act differently than the perfect view we have of ourselves. They’re those who think differently or believe contrarily than we do. In our PC climate we don’t voice our disgust out loud. Instead we take to social media to express our “rightness” and declare everybody else’s “wrongness”. We tweet and post things that we’d probably get punched in the stomach for saying to someone’s face. People leave hatefully anonymous notes to protest a war and they type vile and repulsive comments about a dentist who killed a lion.

The culture of social media reminds me of my only trip to Boston’s Fenway Park. It was in 1997 and Redsox great Roger Clemens had returned as a Toronto Blue Jay to pitch against his former team for the first time. Clemens had left Boston as a free agent the previous off-season. My seat was near the Toronto bullpen and as Clemens went through his pre-game warm-ups, the Boston fans read him the riot act. They spewed every form of possible profanity on him. And man, can Bostonians cuss. Of course, Clemens was helpless. He had to take it. Today’s fans save the strain on their vocals cords and type their disdain into their smart phones.

Facebook is a great platform for declaring your agreement or disagreement with the issue du jour. But is it always kind to do so? I learned a valuable lesson in this the other day. I “shared” a chart about murder rates in Chicago vs. the murder rates in Houston. I thought it was interesting and maybe a little snarky. I didn’t consider that I have friends and relatives in Chicago. Nor did I think that they might not approve of the chart. A Chicago-based friend minced no words in explaining in a private message how angered she was by the chart. It was a misgiving that could have been easily avoided. It was an-anti-Mr. Browne’s-precept-moment.

It’s impossible to limit our newsfeed readership to those who believe exactly like we do. However, I am going to think very carefully in the future before I hit the “share” button. For me, it’s worth it to do so if I want to place kindness above being right.

Maybe Thumper’s words need to be updated: If you can’t post something nice, then don’t post at all.

I think it’s what Auggie would want.

Civil Lefts

“Oh there ain’t no other way,

Baby I was born this way” – Lady Gaga

I’m tired of being a minority and I’m fed up with the discrimination against people like me. I’ve had it with living in a country where my rights are going unrecognized. Today I went to my local postal store where I had to use a pen, attached with a chain, to the wrong side of the counter. The chain was too short. So, I had to precariously contort the pen and my envelope without knocking the display of bookmarks and miniflashlights to the floor. I’m sick of adapting to a world that ignores me for who I am and for how I was made:

Left-handed.

Since our government is doling out civil rights, it’s time for action. I want my civil rights too. And I’m not stopping until I have them …even if I have to go all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States.

This is a serious matter and I’m not making light of the necessary changes we’ve made as a society. But if handicapped people can have ramps and blind people can have those little raised bumps on corner intersections, then I want left and right chained pens at banks and postal stores.

Go ahead and laugh. Now head to the kitchen and try to open a can of soup. But do it left-handed. Put the can opener in your left hand and twist the knob with your right. See what I mean? Then take a pair of scissors and attempt to cut something left-handed. Good luck. Welcome to my world.

Over ten percent of the population is left-handed. And yet the difficulties we face living in a right-handed world are virtually ignored. The constant ink smears on our hands from writing over what’s already been written. Elbow jousting with dinner companions and battling with spiral notebooks or three-ring binders.

Being left-handed in a right-handed world is psychologically harmful. I still have nightmares from the college lecture halls and classrooms where the ameba-shaped writing surface was attached on the right. While my right-handed classmates listened comfortably, I had to take notes sitting sidesaddle in my desk, with my palm balanced on the spiral binding of my notebook, and my pinky finger smeared with ink.

Even the love of my life discriminates against me. In baseball, three infield positions require right-handed fielders. I’ve never known the intensity of playing third base. Nor have I turned a double play as a shortstop or second baseman.

Left-handers, according to many sources, may die as many as nine years earlier than right-handers. I need my civil rights before my life and health insurance companies prematurely cancel my policies.

Then there’s the stigma that lefties before me have endured. For instance:

• At various times in history, left-handedness has been seen as a nasty habit, a mark of the devil, a sign of neurosis, rebellion, and criminality.

• The word left in English comes from the Anglo-Saxon word lyft, which means weak or broken. The Oxford English Dictionary defines left-handed as meaning crippled, defective, awkward, and clumsy.

• Phrases in English suggest a negative view of left-handedness. For example, a “left-handed complement” is actually an insult.

• The German for “left-handed’ is linkisch, which means awkward, clumsy, and maladroit. In Italian, the word is mancino, which is derived from “crooked” or “maimed” (mancus) and is also used to mean deceitful or dishonest. In Russian, to be called a left-hander (levja) is a term of insult;

• In Latin, the word for left is sinister, related to the noun sinistrum.

Only the Incas had things in proper perspective. They thought left-handers were capable of healing and that they possessed magical abilities. No wonder I enjoyed Machu Picchu so much.

It’s time for change! In addition to the aforementioned pen issue, my civil rights demands are as follows:

• Left-handed scissors and can openers in every home.
• More notebooks with the spiral on the right or the top.
• Three-ring binders for lefties.
• All schools and universities be required to install more left-handed desks.
• The invention of non-smearing ink, pencil lead, and markers.
• Left-handed credit-card machines in all stores.
• Microwaves and keyboards with the buttons and numbers on the left.

Public awareness is going to be essential. Hollywood and the entertainment industry must get on board. The upcoming movie Southpaw is a good start. I think some biopics on prominent historical figures like Henry Ford, Albert Einstein, Beethoven, Marie Curie, DaVinci, and Michaelangelo are a must. The fact that they were all left-handed needs to overshadow their musical, artistic, scientific, and industrial achievements. I’ll also need a symbol, a flag, and a color that can be easily recognized and identified with my cause. I’m open to suggestions here.

Our Supreme Court has two left-handed judges (Ginsburg and Kennedy) so I think my case will be heard. If that doesn’t work I’ll have to meet with the Southpaw in Chief. President Obama must take up the cause of all lefties and guarantee my civil rights before he leaves office.

I’ve always been deeply proud of my left-handedness. It’s a badge of honor and membership in a private club.  And even if I can’t be a middle-infielder, at least I’m a step or two closer to first base when at the plate.

I don’t have equality with right-handers yet. But change will come. In the meantime, I’ll be working on my Machu Picchu hocus-pocus and my Incan-tations.

Making Wedding Cakes with Jesus

A new bakery named Seven Loaves opened up around the corner from me. I noticed a “help wanted” sign in its window so I inquired within to see if the owner could use an assistant for the summer.

The aroma of freshly baked breads filled my senses as I stepped into the bakery. A few tables and chairs were neatly arranged around the room. A large glass case displayed some lovely breads and pastries. A second case was filled with beautiful cakes. There were large sheet cakes for birthdays and anniversaries as well as several multi-tiered, multi-flowered wedding cakes. A counter filled the space between the two cases.

 Much to my surprise, Jesus was behind the counter.

I asked about the job and He directed me to have a seat. The Bread of Life brought over two coffees and pair of croissants. Obviously, a million questions were running through my mind, but I thought I’d stay on point.

“Are you still hiring?” I asked.

“I am,” He replied.

Jesus explained that He handles the day-to-day operations on his own. But that He could use some assistance for a few hours in the afternoon. He needs help while he takes wedding cake orders because he likes to sit down and get to know the people who are getting married.  

I told Him I’d be happy to help out and he said come to back tomorrow at noon for my first shift. I arrived the next day and watched as Jesus interacted with customers. He taught me to work the register and showed me how He liked things done. Soon thereafter a young couple arrived to discuss their wedding cake. They were in their late-twenties and looked very much in love. I watched from behind the counter as Jesus sat with them for over an hour. Their conservation was filled with laughter. Jesus showed them pictures of cakes they could choose from and gave them several samples to taste-test.

This scenario played out identically over the next three days as Jesus met with more couples. On the fifth day, a gay couple arrived for their wedding-cake appointment. The meeting looked to go as smoothly as the others and concluded with the couple placing a cake order.

“Jesus, you make cakes for gay weddings?” I asked as soon as the couple was gone.

“It would be rather bad for business if I didn’t,” He answered.

“So, you’re ok with gay couples getting married?

Jesus looked at me, slyly. I could tell He was thinking. It was an electric moment. I was about to get the definitive stance on homosexuality straight from the Son of God.

Instead, Jesus said, “Let me tell you about the people I’ve met this week. The first couple, Tom and Megan, used to know me when they were younger. But Tom’s parents got divorced and he lost interest in me. Megan got her heart broken by a guy and she gave up on me. They met in college and have been together for eight years. Tom fudges his expense reports and Megan lies to all her girlfriends about how great she thinks her life is.

“Then in came William and Jenna. They don’t have a church background at all but they believe my father exists. They think that if they stick to being good and don’t hurt anybody, all will be fine. However, William has a drinking problem … that he hides from Jenna … and Jenna secretly steals things from stores.

“Jack and Anna were next. These guys don’t believe in me. Their gods are consumerism and possessions. They just bought a big house and they want fancy furniture, every top-of-the-line gadget, and two luxury sedans in the garage.

“Then yesterday I saw Samuel and Eva. They are beloved friends of mine. I’ve known them for years. They serve at their church, teach Sunday school, and feed the homeless. But, Samuel has a temper on him. He is working on it though. And poor Eva, she’s such a worrier. She’s going to get an ulcer if she doesn’t stop. I keep telling her to mix in some trust. I think I’m finally breaking through, but it takes time.

“Which brings us to Stuart and Patrick …”

I waited for Jesus to lump homosexuality in with everybody else’s sins.

“… Deep down they believe in me and they’ve even sought out churches they’d be comfortable attending. But it’s hard. It’s easier to stay away.”

“So, they don’t have any glaring sins?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Stuart has major pride issues and Patrick eats way too much.”

“So, Jesus,” I asked, “It’s not about the S…E…X?”

“Of course it isn’t. I’m not into labels; I’m concerned with the heart. Sin is sin. As you can see everybody’s broken and needs healing. I came to redeem all sins for everyone. My grace, my death, my love, forgiveness, and life … are for everybody. For anybody who wants them more than they want their sins.

Jesus tossed some baking flour on the counter and started writing in it with his finger. I watched silently. I thought of the Bible story in which the adulterous woman was brought before Jesus. I hoped he wouldn’t write my sins in the flour.

If it came down to sin,” Jesus said breaking the silence, “Nobody would get a cake.”

“Instead, everybody gets one,” I replied.

“Plus I love weddings,” he said. “Stuart and Patrick just dropped off my invitation.”

“Are you going?”

“Certainly. Who do you think is providing the wine?”