Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels. For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction. If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how. The text for this week’s reflection comes from Matthew 2:1-12.
1Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, 2saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” 3When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; 4and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. 5They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it is written by the prophet:
6″‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel.’”
7Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star had appeared. 8And he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child, and when you have found him, bring me word, that I too may come and worship him.” 9After listening to the king, they went on their way. And behold, the star that they had seen when it rose went before them until it came to rest over the place where the child was. 10When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. 11And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. 12And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way. —Matthew 2:1-12 (ESV)
Herod the Great was a paranoid sociopath—a personality perfect for the job he held as the ruler of Judea under the authority of Rome. He built his empire to create the illusion that he was a man who could be in many places at the same time. Aside from his fortresses at Herodium, Sebaste, Machaerus and Masada, he also built palaces in Caesarea, Jericho and Jerusalem. At any moment, he could have been in any one of them. So at every moment, he might was well have been in all of them.
His affinity for architecture was well known, as was his obsessive mistrust of those he couldn’t keep an eye on, and even more so of those he could.
Already the bones of one wife, several sons and multiple distant relatives were gathered in the family tomb as the result of his conviction that each and every one of them was at one time or another involved in a conspiracy to kill him.
There could only be one ruler in Judea. Herod was passionate about this.
Learned men from the east, experts in the study of sacred texts, had heard that somewhere in Judea a king had been born—the king of the Jews. They remembered that their Jewish holy book said, “A star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.” (Num 24:17) So when they saw a star they did not know rise in the direction of Jerusalem, an uncommon star that seemed to have been lit for them, they followed it.
It led them to Jerusalem. They wanted to honor this king and to pay tribute to his majesty, so they began to ask around. Where was he?
When Herod was told of these men and their quest, the dissonance of hearing the words “king” and “Jews” with no mention of him was more than he could bear. He summoned the chief priests and the scribes to tell him everything they knew about this king, no doubt smoldering all the while with the notion that they had been holding out on him.
Herod came seeking a theology lesson, and the priests gave it. The prophet Micah said that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem, the city there just a few miles south where Jacob’s love Rachel was buried and where King David was born. They gave Herod these details without hesitation, quoting Scripture to the verse. They knew all about it. But still, not one lifted a foot to go and see for themselves if the Magi were right.
The Chief Priests were the keepers of the temple and the religious life and culture of the Jews. The Scribes, or teachers of the law, were the guardians of the Word of God. They wrote copies of the sacred scriptures, poured over them, knew the minute details of every scroll of every book. And yet, among those who should have been the most expectant, all the religious leaders displayed at the mention of their coming king was apathy.
They did not seek him then. They would not seek him later either. When he was grown and was ministering around them, they did not believe in him.
But Herod did.
Herod was one to err on the side of caution and it was enough for him that the Magi had come so far so laden with such gifts. But this one, he figured, he should play close to the vest. If there was such a king, maybe the Magi could lead him there. Maybe if he feigned a desire to pay a tribute of his own, the Magi would see in him a comrade.
“When you find him,” Herod told the visitors, “Come back and tell me where he is. I have a gift of my own.”
After hearing him out, they left for the settlement to the south. It wasn’t long before their familiar star rose before them, leading them like a shepherd to a house on the outskirts of town.
Finding the king, it was no wonder why he was nothing more than a murmur in Jerusalem. When they entered the house, they found a child in the arms of a young woman—practically still a girl were it not for the other-worldly look of an old soul in her eyes.
There was something about that moment that only the woman, her husband, the Magi and the child knew—something that bent the knees of those scholars to the posture of worship. There was no crown, no miracle they could see, no sign of greatness. Just a woman and a child.
One of the Magi moved forward on behalf of the rest and produced a purse of gold. Laying it at the child’s feet, another came with a flask of myrrh, and another with a box of frankincense. Unaware that they were probably funding a hasty trip to Egypt, they gave these gifts for no other reason than to honor the one born King of the Jews.
This was not their king. Israel’s God was not their people’s God. And yet, here they were because the thought of a God of mercy with healing in His wings awakened in them a longing to be close.
No matter how unfamiliar the King in this story may be, God beckons the multitudes across the span of space and time to behold His salvation and to worship.
The journey of these Magi was a success. As they slept the slumber of satisfaction, an angel unfamiliar to them but known well to the woman warned them to take another route home. History would remember a Herod dripping with the blood of wives and sons. But not this son, not yet.
Having been made aware of Herod’s bloodlust for this baby and his insidious, yet consistent plan to slaughter all Judean male children under the age of two, Joseph gathered his wife and the boy and set out for Egypt.
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on Friday, December 19th, 2008 at 12:21 am by Russ Ramsey
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The Fiddler’s Gun, A Review: Making History Come True
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Shive Arrives: A Song by Song Commentary on The Ill-Tempered Klavier
One listen to Ben Shive’s debut The Ill-Tempered Klavier will provide obvious evidence of why this young man has secured the respect of peers and colleagues on the inside of the Nashville music community. With The Ill-Tempered Klavier, Shive’s skills are now planted in the public garden.
Heretofore, there have been unsubtle hints: Andrew Osenga pronouncing Shive as his favorite songwriter, Andrew Peterson naming him as producer of The Far Country, his ubiquitous presence as a studio piano ace on a wide range of mainstream CCM records, Sara Groves choosing him to produce her next record, and the majestic arranging of the strings for Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ. Like a fast growing wildflower, Shive seems to pop up everywhere, though always in the background. Now, the secret is out. Raise the curtain on Ben Shive.
I just stumbled on a copy of O’Connor’s complete short stories at a used bookstore here in Nashville and listed it in the Rabbit Room store. Years ago a friend bought me this same edition and I read it with a sense of creepy amazement; it was like nothing I’d ever read. I knew Chris Slaten was a big fan of her work so I asked him to write a recommendation for the book. We only have one copy, so if you click here and can’t find it, someone beat you to the punch.
———————-
This collection is essential to both long time fans and first time readers interested in the work of Flannery O’Connor. My first time to read a handful of her short stories I was helpless to interpret them. One would expect that reading the 1950’s work of a female “Christ-centered” southern fiction writer would be a simple, modest or at least predictable experience.
Several people in the last few weeks have commented to me about how glad they are that they discovered Wangerin’s The Book of the Dun Cow here in the Rabbit Room. It really is a remarkable book, and I still can’t recommend it highly enough. It won the prestigious National Book Award when it was first published in 1978, and was only the beginning of Wangerin’s career.
I just stumbled on his most recent novel, Saint Julian, and was so captured by it that it bumped aside the other four books I’m reading. Last Sunday afternoon–a perfect Spring day–I sat on my front porch swing and read the last half of the book, savoring the careful prose, the pastoral tone, and even the look and feel of the book itself. The cover illustration fits the epic, vivid quality of the story perfectly, and the fonts (I’m a sucker for a great font) added just the right atmosphere.
RELEASE DAY REVIEW: On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
But once a year the Sea Dragons sing just off the coast of Glipwood. With their song, life reasserts itself in the hearts of Skreeans who have long since learned to numb themselves:
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
Arkadelphia from Randall Goodgame: Music in Motion
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Walt Wangerin is a name I’ve seen in print many times. My dad had Ragman and Other Cries of Faith lying about at home for years and I remember thumbing through it at Christmas or Thanksgiving, reading bits here and there, and being intrigued by the style of writing; the words on the page had a canter to them, and a sparseness that gave them strength.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Do you have any CD’s in your collection that will be forever associated with some event or season of life—like the soundtrack to your last high school summer or what you listened to over and over again on that one road trip to wherever it was?
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Virtual Advent Wreath, Week 4 - One Star Lit for Them
1Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, 2saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” 3When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; 4and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. 5They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it is written by the prophet:
6″‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel.’”
7Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star had appeared. 8And he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child, and when you have found him, bring me word, that I too may come and worship him.” 9After listening to the king, they went on their way. And behold, the star that they had seen when it rose went before them until it came to rest over the place where the child was. 10When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. 11And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. 12And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way. —Matthew 2:1-12 (ESV)
Herod the Great was a paranoid sociopath—a personality perfect for the job he held as the ruler of Judea under the authority of Rome. He built his empire to create the illusion that he was a man who could be in many places at the same time. Aside from his fortresses at Herodium, Sebaste, Machaerus and Masada, he also built palaces in Caesarea, Jericho and Jerusalem. At any moment, he could have been in any one of them. So at every moment, he might was well have been in all of them.
His affinity for architecture was well known, as was his obsessive mistrust of those he couldn’t keep an eye on, and even more so of those he could.
Already the bones of one wife, several sons and multiple distant relatives were gathered in the family tomb as the result of his conviction that each and every one of them was at one time or another involved in a conspiracy to kill him.
There could only be one ruler in Judea. Herod was passionate about this.
Learned men from the east, experts in the study of sacred texts, had heard that somewhere in Judea a king had been born—the king of the Jews. They remembered that their Jewish holy book said, “A star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.” (Num 24:17) So when they saw a star they did not know rise in the direction of Jerusalem, an uncommon star that seemed to have been lit for them, they followed it.
It led them to Jerusalem. They wanted to honor this king and to pay tribute to his majesty, so they began to ask around. Where was he?
When Herod was told of these men and their quest, the dissonance of hearing the words “king” and “Jews” with no mention of him was more than he could bear. He summoned the chief priests and the scribes to tell him everything they knew about this king, no doubt smoldering all the while with the notion that they had been holding out on him.
Herod came seeking a theology lesson, and the priests gave it. The prophet Micah said that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem, the city there just a few miles south where Jacob’s love Rachel was buried and where King David was born. They gave Herod these details without hesitation, quoting Scripture to the verse. They knew all about it. But still, not one lifted a foot to go and see for themselves if the Magi were right.
The Chief Priests were the keepers of the temple and the religious life and culture of the Jews. The Scribes, or teachers of the law, were the guardians of the Word of God. They wrote copies of the sacred scriptures, poured over them, knew the minute details of every scroll of every book. And yet, among those who should have been the most expectant, all the religious leaders displayed at the mention of their coming king was apathy.
They did not seek him then. They would not seek him later either. When he was grown and was ministering around them, they did not believe in him.
But Herod did.
Herod was one to err on the side of caution and it was enough for him that the Magi had come so far so laden with such gifts. But this one, he figured, he should play close to the vest. If there was such a king, maybe the Magi could lead him there. Maybe if he feigned a desire to pay a tribute of his own, the Magi would see in him a comrade.
“When you find him,” Herod told the visitors, “Come back and tell me where he is. I have a gift of my own.”
After hearing him out, they left for the settlement to the south. It wasn’t long before their familiar star rose before them, leading them like a shepherd to a house on the outskirts of town.
Finding the king, it was no wonder why he was nothing more than a murmur in Jerusalem. When they entered the house, they found a child in the arms of a young woman—practically still a girl were it not for the other-worldly look of an old soul in her eyes.
There was something about that moment that only the woman, her husband, the Magi and the child knew—something that bent the knees of those scholars to the posture of worship. There was no crown, no miracle they could see, no sign of greatness. Just a woman and a child.
One of the Magi moved forward on behalf of the rest and produced a purse of gold. Laying it at the child’s feet, another came with a flask of myrrh, and another with a box of frankincense. Unaware that they were probably funding a hasty trip to Egypt, they gave these gifts for no other reason than to honor the one born King of the Jews.
This was not their king. Israel’s God was not their people’s God. And yet, here they were because the thought of a God of mercy with healing in His wings awakened in them a longing to be close.
No matter how unfamiliar the King in this story may be, God beckons the multitudes across the span of space and time to behold His salvation and to worship.
The journey of these Magi was a success. As they slept the slumber of satisfaction, an angel unfamiliar to them but known well to the woman warned them to take another route home. History would remember a Herod dripping with the blood of wives and sons. But not this son, not yet.
Having been made aware of Herod’s bloodlust for this baby and his insidious, yet consistent plan to slaughter all Judean male children under the age of two, Joseph gathered his wife and the boy and set out for Egypt.
This entry was posted on Friday, December 19th, 2008 at 12:21 am by Russ Ramsey and is filed under Story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
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One listen to Ben Shive’s debut The Ill-Tempered Klavier will provide obvious evidence of why this young man has secured the respect of peers and colleagues on the inside of the Nashville music community. With The Ill-Tempered Klavier, Shive’s skills are now planted in the public garden.
Heretofore, there have been unsubtle hints: Andrew Osenga pronouncing Shive as his favorite songwriter, Andrew Peterson naming him as producer of The Far Country, his ubiquitous presence as a studio piano ace on a wide range of mainstream CCM records, Sara Groves choosing him to produce her next record, and the majestic arranging of the strings for Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ. Like a fast growing wildflower, Shive seems to pop up everywhere, though always in the background. Now, the secret is out. Raise the curtain on Ben Shive.
I just stumbled on a copy of O’Connor’s complete short stories at a used bookstore here in Nashville and listed it in the Rabbit Room store. Years ago a friend bought me this same edition and I read it with a sense of creepy amazement; it was like nothing I’d ever read. I knew Chris Slaten was a big fan of her work so I asked him to write a recommendation for the book. We only have one copy, so if you click here and can’t find it, someone beat you to the punch.
———————-
This collection is essential to both long time fans and first time readers interested in the work of Flannery O’Connor. My first time to read a handful of her short stories I was helpless to interpret them. One would expect that reading the 1950’s work of a female “Christ-centered” southern fiction writer would be a simple, modest or at least predictable experience.
Several people in the last few weeks have commented to me about how glad they are that they discovered Wangerin’s The Book of the Dun Cow here in the Rabbit Room. It really is a remarkable book, and I still can’t recommend it highly enough. It won the prestigious National Book Award when it was first published in 1978, and was only the beginning of Wangerin’s career.
I just stumbled on his most recent novel, Saint Julian, and was so captured by it that it bumped aside the other four books I’m reading. Last Sunday afternoon–a perfect Spring day–I sat on my front porch swing and read the last half of the book, savoring the careful prose, the pastoral tone, and even the look and feel of the book itself. The cover illustration fits the epic, vivid quality of the story perfectly, and the fonts (I’m a sucker for a great font) added just the right atmosphere.
But once a year the Sea Dragons sing just off the coast of Glipwood. With their song, life reasserts itself in the hearts of Skreeans who have long since learned to numb themselves:
Walt Wangerin is a name I’ve seen in print many times. My dad had Ragman and Other Cries of Faith lying about at home for years and I remember thumbing through it at Christmas or Thanksgiving, reading bits here and there, and being intrigued by the style of writing; the words on the page had a canter to them, and a sparseness that gave them strength.
Do you have any CD’s in your collection that will be forever associated with some event or season of life—like the soundtrack to your last high school summer or what you listened to over and over again on that one road trip to wherever it was?