LITTLE-LORD-JESUS MAN: A Great Christmas Blasphemy

 

     There is a line in a beloved Christmas carol that I’ve not sung for over 25 years, nor do I ever intend to sing it again. Rather, I’ve been on a fervent crusade to bring the heresy of the seemingly innocent lyric to the attention of those potentially deceived. 

     It started in December of 1997. Through moist, glazed eyes, I made out an image that has lingered ever since as a surrealistic mast. Cheap tinsel glistened on an evergreen tree near the front of an unfamiliar sanctuary. The dancing of light, through the reds and greens of the decked out room, pierced into my cloud of mourning -- not enough to free me but just enough to pronounce into the haze: “It’s Christmas out here! Life goes on even when it may have stopped and frozen for you.” The jarring glare of refracted light seemed a mockery of what we were going through, saying our goodbyes to my little sister Amber, the baby of the family, the one whom – if life were “fair” – should have been the last of us to go. 

     That touch of sparkling tinsel, viewed through waters that I attempted to forestall spilling from my eyes, stayed with me, intermingling with the carols that would play in the walking dream that followed. For days and weeks afterward, nothing was real, yet this glimmer remained with me. Words melted into incoherent syllables, sounds, bells, clanging, empty, loveless. Time was not linear – did it even exist? 

     Children stood donning their Christmas best in the front of another church, singing “Away in a manger....” The song warbled impotently across air that was as visible as anything else. Cute little baby Jesus... I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Jolly old Saint Nick and the Easter bunny, too... Deck the halls and flashback to Amber. 

     Amber and I shared a room growing up. I used to have such a hard time keeping my big mouth shut. Christmas presents should be surprises, I thought, but I would always end up spilling the beans and telling her what I had gotten her. Then I would have to get her something else, too, so she could have a surprise. Before long, I would inevitably tell her about the new gift, necessitating that I find yet another. The gifts may have been small stupid things, the kind of special inside jokes that only sisters can understand. 

     Back to the kids singing on the stage... sisters standing next to each other: one pokes the other, the other whacks her back, sticking out the tongue, hitting, pinching... a mom glares at her offspring. Why can’t they be good at least until the song’s over and they’re out of the spotlight? The song warbles on: “...the little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes....” That’s it, the mom thinks – why can’t my kids be more like the Little-Lord-Jesus? One sibling pinches the other. Little sister sniffles, a full blown fit is about to ensue. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” 

     The song reminds all seated in the mass of ceremony how unlike us that Little-Lord-Jesus is: He is a superhero. The entire taking on mortality thing that I thought Christmas was supposed to be about begins to unravel. God put on a costume to pretend he was a real baby, but the fact that he didn’t cry gave him away. He’s an impostor! 

     Suddenly, the quaver of the sweet traditional hymn is pierced by a fleck in the flickering tinsel – I’m back at the funeral, trying to hold back the tears, trying to be good, trying to act like the hope of being reunited in the afterlife is enough now, in this moment. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The flickering tinsel is ablaze in flame now, engulfed in righteous anger, and the anger is not mine. “LIE!” a voice shouts through the fog, but everyone else drones on. They didn’t hear – perhaps they are trying to drown him out. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The inflamed tinsel becomes a tear, a blazing hot tear burning through the fog. It washes over me in a refreshing flood that will never again allow me to sing those words: “The little Lord Jesus” did what? 

     Have you ever had that feeling of betrayal, when you discover that someone has been spreading lies about you, defaming your character? You thought they knew you, but they obviously didn’t. You may feel anger about being misrepresented. You may feel hurt. But then, if someone you love dearly is harmed by the misrepresentation, the anger and hurt give way to heartbreak. You want to pour yourself out and wash away the poison, make all right. You want to whisper the truth, to be heard, believed, to bring healing. The lie may go on, but once you are holding the one you love, it fades like meaningless noise into the background. You whisper the truth and the power of it washes away the lies. 

     “The little Lord Jesus...” the voice whispers, “Where is that in my book? Where?” He flips the pages of my memory and my eyes settle on the words of the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) 

     “Jesus wept,” it says. How beautifully profound. How perfect. Jesus wept. When Mary and Martha had lost their dear brother Lazarus, in that very moment. In that moment. Jesus knew they would see him again. Jesus even knew that he had the power and would bring Lazarus back to life. He could have said, “Get over it. You’ll be with him in heaven.” He could have said, “Settle down, look, he’s alive now. No biggie.” He could have used any of the comforting words spoken by Job’s friends and all of their descendants to put those of “little faith” in their places and to tell them to be good. Jesus, however, did none of these things. Jesus wept. 

     Since December of 1997, that verse has become central to my understanding of what the gospel of Christ is. We are so often distracted from what is central by the droning noise of our own traditions. La la la la la... blah blah blah blah blah... it is all like a clanging cymbal “if we have not love” (1 Corinthians 13). He didn’t come into the world to be a role model. 

     "Follow me. Be good. You better watch out. You better not pout. You better not cry..." 

He came because he wanted to be with us. To laugh with us. Cry with us. Feel with us. Love with us. He wanted to make a way for us to truly live with Him. It’s about connection. 

     All I want for Christmas is to see a few more droning choruses shattered, if that will help us to see the Jesus who wept, and still weeps – who loves us every moment and doesn’t expect us to be good little super-heroes. Let’s be real. Let’s be honest. God can handle that. It’s what He wants. He wants us. 

~~~~~

December 2024. The past few years have been filled with more funerals of family and friends than all of the rest of my years combined. Young and old. Anticipated or not. It’s never easy. In studying the book of Matthew, one little phrase from the Sermon on the Mount keeps pestering me: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned through the years, it’s that God’s Word is living and intentional. I want to know what Matt. 5:4 means. We speak words of comfort to the mourning all the time, but what about the “blessed” part? What is the blessing in mourning? What is this Comfort? 

      I pray that all of you, my loved ones who have suffered loss this year especially, will have a truly blessed Christmas. I'm not posting this until the 7th Day of Christmas (New Year's Eve) because I wanted to edit this more--to make it perfect. But that would have meant putting it off, possibly until next Christmas, or the next... That would be missing the point entirely. I'm not a superhero and I never will be. But looking forward into the New Year -- a year that will be full of ordinary days -- I will not despise "small" things. 

Day by day: Don't put off hugging those you love, and be intentional in seeking the only One who is the answer to all of our questions. 

If we could see through her eyes now…

Blue Fog

Like fog creeping over mountaintop,
running wispy fingers
slowly
through branch, parting leaves--
soothing, seducing,
lulling unsuspecting ridge to sanction passage.
Saturating, consummating, consuming,
then vanishing to phantom misty memory.
Dull void.
Sad silence.
Bare

Barren.

My Lost Birthday Buddy (with A Dramatic Monologue)

Back when we lived in Wyndmere, North Dakota

I know it's not the same as having a twin, but somehow it adds extra cement to the bond when siblings have birthdays in close proximity to each other.  My boys' birthdays are only 11 days apart--that makes the month of May a special time that they share. Amber & I had birthdays just 12 days apart in July. As a kid, I remember her birthday was always the sign that mine was coming soon (and for kids, that is a pretty big deal.) 

Those who have suffered the loss of a loved one know that there are specific times when the ache is intensified, even after years have passed. Amber's birthday is a tough day for me now, but mine isn't the same without her to celebrate it with, either. It helps to pull out the old pictures and remember the good times together.

I've declared the month of July sister appreciation month (at least for myself). Those of you who still have a sister with you in this world, enjoy her! 

We didn't take as many pictures back when I was growing up as my kids do now, but the pictures in my head are still vivid and plentiful.  I thought I'd jot a few random memories down in memory of Amber and in celebration of sisters:

ON SHARING A ROOM:

Even though sharing a room with a sister was a royal pain at times, I am so thankful that we didn't have a big enough house to have our own rooms.  When we lived in Schuler--before Amber came into the family--our three bedrooms were distributed like so: (1) parents' room, (2) kids' room (shared by myself and two brothers), and (3) my dad's office.  Then, there came a day when my brothers (or at least my older brother) decided that I no longer belonged in their room.  They wanted a Boys' Room, so I had to go.  

My dad graciously moved his office to the basement, and I suddenly found myself with a room of my own.  I wasn't used to sleeping alone in a dark room all by myself, and I think it was around that time that my sleep-walking got kind of out of control.  I remember waking up in my parents' bed many a morning and not remembering how I got there.  I guess I just didn't like being alone.  

It was around that time that I decided I needed a sister.  I vaguely remember my mom trying to explain that it wasn't as easy as just wanting a baby.  I may have been too young to understand the concept of fertility, but I was old enough to understand the Public Service Announcements that Canadian television ran at that time promoting adoption.  The ads made it sound pretty easy, and before long there was a crib set up in my bedroom, awaiting my sister.

The day we went to pick up Amber, I remember taking one of my favorite baby dolls--a homemade "sock" doll--and placing it in Amber's crib. This was finally going to be The Girls' Room--PLURAL--just like The Boys' Room that I had been kicked out of was plural, and The Parents' Room that I would sleep-walk to was plural.  I wasn't going to be alone anymore.  It was so exciting!  I wanted to share my room, and I wanted to share my dolls.

There was a waiting room at the adoption agency.  It was nice that they had some toys in that room because we had to wait a LONG time.  I guess my parents had paperwork to finalize, and social workers to talk to.  At first it was just my brothers and me playing with the toys in the waiting room, but eventually, a little girl with dark curly hair and a kind of funny way of walking came in.  I guess she had just recently had braces removed from her legs, and hadn't yet learned that her knees were capable of bending.  She saw the toy that I was playing with and without hesitation, she hobbled over and took it from me.  That's not fair!  Everyone knows the rules--I had it first and I wasn't going to let this rule-breaker get away with it.  I grabbed the toy back, and the little girl started to cry.  My mom intervened, not defending the fact that I had the toy first, but rather by taking the toy from me and just giving it to the little girl.  She then whispered to me something about letting Amber play with the toy because we needed to play nicely so the people could see that we could get along.  This was important, she said.  That is how I met my sister, and that is when I first had second thoughts about whether I wanted a sister.  As soon as we got home, I rushed to my bedroom and took back the rag doll I had put in Amber's crib.  I had changed my mind.

As the years sped by, sharing a room meant that Amber and I were together a lot.  Sure, we fought, just like all siblings do, but I remember a whole lot more playing together.  Amber was funny.  Since she wasn't used to being able to bend her knees, she had developed and interesting way of sitting down on the floor when she wanted to play:  She would run, do a little jump, spin around in a half-circle, flinging her legs straight out in front of her and landing on her seat with a thump.  We had hard wood floors, not carpeting, so the thud would echo every time.  Once she was out of her diapers and without as much padding, we thought she would get hurt doing this, but she was a tough kid.  She had discovered that people found her antics amusing, and she would laugh as she landed.

We moved to the States not too long after adopting Amber.  That was the third move in my life, and yet another followed just a few years later.  Having a sister provided continuity, when I was constantly being uprooted from my friends (or living in fear of the next move.)  It was nice that Amber was younger than me, too, because that gave me an excuse to play dolls even after most of my peers had decided they were too old for such things--I was just doing it for her (wink, wink).  And because Amber was younger, I had a roommate right up until I left for college (where I also had a roommate)--you could say that she prepared me for the fact that I would have to share for most of the rest of my life.

A rare photo-shoot inspired by the movie, Desperately Seeking Susan

ON LIVING APART:

Since we had summer birthdays, even after I left for college, we were able to spend most of our birthdays together.  The first four summers after my early high school graduation, I had summer jobs in North Dakota, close to where the family was living at the time.  Amber was so excited the first time she got to come and spend her birthday with me at my first apartment in Park River, ND.  I don't think she knew how equally excited I was.  It was such a joy to be able to bake a cake for her in my very own kitchen and decorate it with childlike fancy (and animal crackers and candy.)  It was just the two of us that birthday--it was an exercise in pretending to be grown-up.  We decided we wanted to go out for dinner a little late in the day, and we ended up driving from small town to small town in the forsaken middle-of-nowhere looking for a restaurant that was open.  I don't think we ever found one, but we did have cake, so that part was a success.

By the time Amber was expecting her first child, I was living miles away in California.  I was so thrilled about having a niece that I went to an expensive toy store and picked out the best teddy bear they had.  I think it was wearing yellow corduroy overalls.  I couldn't afford it, but then I couldn't afford not to get it--I'd just have to cut back on other things that month.  I'd find a way.  

And Amber loved flowers.  I remember the first time she sent me flowers for my birthday.  The flowers arrived without a card and I thought they were from my husband, but he didn't take credit--in fact, it seemed he might even have been a bit jealous over these flowers from a mystery admirer.  When I figured out they were from Amber, I was so touched.  That's when I realized she had really grown up.  It may seem like a little thing--ordering flowers--but the fact that she had remembered my birthday and taken the initiative to make the day special for me caused me to see her in a new light.  She was doing what I had done with the animal cracker cake in my little apartment in Park River.  She was asserting her own independent creativity to celebrate this bond we had--without a mommy there to remind her or help her.  She wasn't just another signature on the family card.  And after that first time, came many more bouquets in recognition of birthdays and babies and even an occasional "just because."

ON SAYING "GOOD BYE"

We had a preview of things to come when Amber was eight years old.  She got sick, and the doctors who examined her suspected leukemia.  She would have to come back for more tests.  My parents  immediately put her on our church's prayer chain and a lot of people were praying for her.  When she went back to the doctor, we were told that there must have been some mistake with the earlier tests.  There was no sign of leukemia.  Amber was fine.  She had a ninth birthday, and a tenth--a couple more decades of birthdays.

This painting was made from a school picture of Amber at the age when she exhibited blood platelet symptoms that made the doctors suspect leukemia in Viroqua, WI

After the birth of her first child, there were more blood platelet issues.  Amber was not fine.  She was eventually diagnosed with Fanconi Anemia, a genetic disease that typically leads to bone marrow failure, leukemia, and cancer.  It is tragically common for Fanconi Anemia patients to get leukemia and die of bone marrow failure by the age of eight--the age when the doctors had first suspected leukemia.  Amber lived another 20 years.  I do count those years a miracle, but even with such a blessing, it was almost unbearably hard to say goodbye.  (I've touched on that in a previous blog.) 

I no longer have my birthday buddy.  That's a change that is hard to get used to.  After the passing of Amber's first birthday "away from us," I wrote a monologue that was inspired by this struggle of getting through significant days without the people who made the days significant in the first place.  I'm going to share that monologue for the very first time online here.  I'm probably too close to this to know if it's of any dramatic value, and not just self-indulgent therapy.  Maybe I'll do something more with it one of these days, but for now, it is what it is...

 

“AUGUST 15”

A monologue by Rebekah Score

SARAH

I appreciate you wanting to help, but there’s really nothing you can do, nothing to say. 

Could you, could you just sit there?

And don’t say anything.  Don’t look at me, either. 

      (beat)

It’s August 15. 

Her birthday.  August 15, and I can’t even remember her face.

I called in sick today.  Sick.  No one else knows... why I...

You know what I want? 

I want to rip open my chest and lay on the earth.  I’m so numb there’d be no pain, just my blood pouring into the ground.  I’d stretch and grasp till the dirt and plants became part of me. 

Still I’d be empty. 

I just want to hold her.  I know she’s not in the ground, not in that cold, cold casket. 

Your churchy explanations don’t help.  You don’t know where she is anymore than I do. 

I’ve heard people say... that when some one they loved – passes – after such a long battle with sickness, they look into the face and see peace and they feel relieved.

Relieved. 

I looked.  I looked and you know what I saw?

Nothing.  Nothing at all.  It was like I was standing in that room with a total stranger.  The nurses couldn’t see it.  Maybe that’s why they hadn’t warned me.  She really was... gone. 

Oh, sure, they said, “She’s gone;” but that’s just what they’re supposed to say.  It’s just a line.  When I walked in that room, I still expected to see my little sister.  I said, “This is all a joke, right?  Come on, Heather, sit up!  Open your eyes.  I know you hear me—you have to hear me!  Can’t you give me some sign?”

I didn’t say that to— to her. 

Instead, I focused on the little molecules of dust dancing in the air. 

I hated her—that corpse—nothing but a vicious actress standing in for my sister—

I hurried out into the hall.  Had to find her. 

I had felt a strange sensation when I passed by the children’s ward on the way to her room.  Maybe she had been there, but she wasn’t anymore.

August 15 is the loneliest day – We don’t call each other – the family.  It’s, it’s like no one knows what to say.  I want to say... 

-to say, “It’s August 15, Mom? Dad?  Heather would have been 25 today.”  I want to say that, and have them remind me of all the good times.  Then maybe I’d see her face.

Maybe they don’t remember either.  Maybe that’s why they’d rather just act like it was another day.

August 15^th. 

I feel like I’m standing on the outside of everything that’s real.

BLACKOUT

 

It will take the generous support of many to find a cure for Fanconi Anemia.

FA research will also benefit understanding and treatment of other cancer-related disease, especially those affecting children. 
Please consider donating to the Fanconi Anemia Research Fund, a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization (which means your donations are tax exempt)
www.fanconi.org
or mail in a donation to
Fanconi Anemia Research Fund
1801 Willamette Street, Suite 200
Eugene, OR 97401

LITTLE-LORD-JESUS MAN: A Great Christmas Blasphemy

Have a blessed Christmas and don't put off hugging those you love while you can.

The most frequently stolen Christmas decoration in the United States is not the inflatable Santa. Not shiny-nosed Rudolf. Not even bunches of kiss-inducing mistletoe. No, the most often lifted holiday token is the baby Jesus figurine. Faced with the threat of the holy little tyke going missing from their nativity displays, some churches have even installed GPS trackers in the little Lord Jesus.

This led me to wonder how many people would in fact be able to describe the real Jesus for a missing person’s report. With so many Christians upset about Christ being “taken out of Christmas,” I’d like to suggest that those who lament this vacancy should examine what exactly it is that they would like to see in Christmas. Who is this Christ? Is he the Christ of tradition or is he who he says he is? And are the two all that different?

There is one line in a beloved Christmas carol that I have not sung for almost eleven years, nor do I ever intend to sing again. Rather, I feel like going on a crusade to bring the heresy of the seemingly innocent lyric to the attention of the potentially deceived.

It was December of 1997. Through moist, glazed eyes, I made out an image that has lingered ever since as a surrealistic mast. Cheap tinsel glistened on an evergreen tree near the front of an unfamiliar sanctuary. The dancing of light, through the reds and greens of the decked out room, suddenly pierced into my cloud of mourning--not enough to free me, but just enough to pronounce into the haze: “It’s Christmas out here! Life goes on even when it may have stopped and frozen for you.” The jarring glare of refracted light seemed almost a mockery of what we were going through, saying our goodbyes to my little sister Amber, the baby of the family, the one whom--if life were “fair”--should have been the last of us to go.

That touch of sparkling tinsel, viewed through the waters that I fought to keep from spilling forth from my eyes, stayed with me, intermingling with the carols that would play in the walking dream that followed. For days and weeks afterward, nothing was real, yet this glimmer remained with me. Words melted into incoherent syllables, sounds, bells, clanging, empty, loveless. Time was not linear--did it even exist?

Children stood donning their Christmas best in the front of another church, singing “Away in a manger....” The song warbled impotently across air that was as visible as anything else. Cute little baby Jesus... I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Jolly old Saint Nick and the Easter bunny... Deck the halls and flashback to Amber.

Amber and I shared a room growing up. I used to have such a hard time keeping my big mouth shut. Christmas presents should be surprises, I thought, but I would always end up spilling the beans and telling her what I had gotten her. Then I would have to get her something else, too--so she could have a surprise. Before long, I would inevitably tell her about the new gift, necessitating that I find yet another. The gifts may have been small stupid things, the kind of special inside jokes that only sisters can understand.

Back to the kids singing on the stage... sisters standing next to each other, one pokes the other, the other whacks her back, sticking out the tongue, hitting, pinching... a mom glares at her offspring. Why can’t they be good at least until the song’s over and they’re out of the spotlight? The song warbles on: “...the little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes....” That’s it, the mom thinks--why can’t my kids be more like the Little-Lord-Jesus? One sibling pinches the other. Little sister sniffles, a full blown fit is about to ensue. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...”

The song reminds all seated in the mass of ceremony how unlike us that Little-Lord-Jesus is: He is a super hero. The entire taking on mortality thing that I thought Christmas was supposed to be about begins to unravel. God put on a costume to pretend he was a real baby, but the fact that he didn’t cry gave him away. He’s an impostor!

Suddenly, the quaver of the sweet traditional hymn is pierced by a fleck in the flickering tinsel--I’m back at the funeral, trying to hold back the tears, trying to be good, trying to act like the hope of being reunited in the afterlife is enough now, in this moment. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The flickering tinsel is ablaze in flame now, engulfed in righteous anger, and the anger is not mine. “LIE!” a voice shouts through the fog, but everyone else drones on, they didn’t hear--perhaps they are trying to drown him out. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The enflamed tinsel becomes a tear, a blazing hot tear burning through the fog. It washes over me in a refreshing flood that will never again allow me to sing those words: “The little Lord Jesus...” did what?

Have you ever had that feeling of betrayal, when you discover that someone has been spreading lies about you, defaming your character? You thought they knew you, but they obviously didn’t. You may feel anger about being misrepresented. You may feel hurt. But then, if someone you love dearly is harmed by the misrepresentation, the anger and hurt give way to heartbreak. You want to pour yourself out and wash over your beloved, to wash away the poison and make it all right. You want to whisper the truth, to be heard, believed, to bring healing. The lie may go on, but once healing has occurred and you are holding the one you love, it fades like meaningless noise into the background. You whisper the truth and the power of it washes away the evil lies.

“The little Lord Jesus...” the voice whispers, “Where is that in my book? Where?” He flips the pages of my memory and my eyes settle on the words of the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) “Jesus wept,” it says. How beautifully profound. How perfect. Jesus wept. When Mary and Martha had lost their dear brother Lazarus, in that very moment. In that moment. Jesus knew they would see him again. Jesus even knew that he had the power and would bring Lazarus back to life. He could have said, “Get over it. You’ll be with him in heaven.” He could have said, “Settle down, look, he’s alive now. No biggie.” He could have used any of the comforting words spoken by Job’s friends and all of their descendants to put those of “little faith” in their places and to tell them to be good. Jesus, however, did none of these things. Jesus wept.

Since December of 1997, that verse has become central to my understanding of what the gospel of Christ is. We are so often distracted from what is central by the droning noise of our own traditions. La la la la la... blah blah blah blah blah... it is all like a clanging cymbal “if we have not love.” (I Corinthians 13) He didn’t come into the world to be a role model. "Follow me. Be good. You better watch out. You better not pout. You better not cry..." He came because he wanted to be with us. To laugh with us. Cry with us. Feel with us. Love with us.

All I want for Christmas is to see a few more droning choruses shattered, if that will help us to see the Jesus who wept, and still weeps--who loves us every moment and doesn’t expect us to be good little super-heroes.



written 12/24/2008



Amber and me