Strictly Obeying Orders

 I had plans. Big plans. It is Christmas after all. I certainly want to be at everything in my local church over this special season. I love the carols, watching the children's faces, sensing the sacred atmosphere, and speaking about the real meaning of Christmas from the pulpit. But, then came that dreaded four letter word. I was sitting in the doctor's surgery with my wife Diane there as witness. 'Rest' the GP said, 'do nothing at all'. 'What?' I replied shocked, 'you have got to be kidding me'. Her stern but caring look said it all. No kidding! My heart is struggling. 'Cascade angina' she opined. 'I want you to have your feet up watching Strictly Come Dancing'. My goodness, I would have to be ill to do that!

It's not just that I have had so much care and attention paid to my physical recovery from 22 years of agony that if I keel over this Christmas, would all be wasted. Nor is it just that I love my family so much that I owe it to them not to drive myself to an early grave. I think that God is trying tell me something about learning to lean on Him and enter into a rest which is important for us all. It may be inconvenient, but it is no less significant. 

Learning to rest in God and the work of Jesus on our behalf is a key Christian virtue. In the book of Hebrews we read "The promise of “arrival” and “rest” is still there for God’s people. God himself is at rest. And at the end of the journey we’ll surely rest with God. So let’s keep at it and eventually arrive at the place of rest, not drop out through some sort of disobedience." (Heb. 4:11 The Message) So, I want to obey and learn to rest.

I think God can 'do' Christmas without my help. With tongue in cheek I recall the line from Monty Python's film 'Life of Brian' which so shocked the Christian world in the late 1970's. "No, he's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy". Perhaps I need to deal with my messianic complex myself - the desire to always 'be there' for others.

So, it is going to be a quiet Christmas for me. But nothing and nobody can take away the joy and peace that I feel celebrating the birthday of my precious Lord. Just with my feet up.

Is there any hope?

 

I listened to an interview with the renowned artist Tracey Emin on BBC Radio 4’s Today programme on the 3rd December. After having major cancer in 2020 and being told she would not see Christmas, Tracey is now recovering well following major surgery and treatment. She said, ‘I’m taking every day as it comes, I’m just so happy to be alive’. You could hear the joy and relief in her voice. Her surgical team call her ‘miracle woman’ because she was not expected to be alive to see Christmas. 

Tracey told us how that she is more balanced now, more cautious and feels like she has been forgiven and that a great curse has been lifted from her life. ‘If the choice was losing your bladder to survive and be happy – I chose to be happy’. She had a near-death experience, making her will and ordering her affairs, and then she was set free. ‘You prepare yourself and then receive a sudden reprieve. I will never ever take anything for granted again and I will do my best in every day, every moment. I’m on the cusp of something great’, she burbled joyfully. 

Hope has come to her. Hope is the Christmas message. I too came near to death, more than once, and survived. I made my will several times and wrote out my funeral plans etc. But that was not God’s plan for me, and I am grateful. I also feel that a great curse has been lifted off from my life, and despite my advancing years, I too can’t shake off the feeling that she describes that I’m on the cusp of something great! I see it happening in the church I serve. I have hope now, but it’s all because of Jesus and Christmas.

This pandemic has been awful. There’s a lot of darkness and despair around, but I take hope from hope, and from the message of Christmas. This is how Eddie Askew puts it in his book of prayers and poems called No Strange Land (p65):

I hope for hope, Lord.

The seeds of light sown in the darkness round your cross,

germinate, and flower and fruit

in the fallow fields of my small life.

My hope starts in your death and resurrection.

Continues in the certainty of your presence.

Fulfills itself in the clear calm confidence

of final victory.

For now, I cling to hope's small seedling.