Clanging Symbols

The little ones in Texas – my grandchildren – have started to a new pre-school. I had worried about separation anxiety for the younger of the two, the redhead. Last year everyday for her meant tears as she was left in her classroom.

But surprise, no such angst now.

In an almost apologetic moment, she said to her mother, “Mommy, you know I don’t cry anymore when I go to school.” Maybe that was meant to console her Mom as well as to give credence to a good thing.

Her brother, only 15 months older, has transitioned as well. He can now be on the playground at the same time as his mom’s class without anything more than a wave. Last year, he ran away to find mommy on a daily basis; once tunneling beneath the security fence to “walk home.” Such actions prompted the Frustrated Old Man of “syndrome” fame to research GPS chip implants. They do it for dogs, but is it inhumane for children?
Maturity is bringing a sense of wisdom and security in Texas.

The new school is also adding a new dimension to their world of counting, colors, and letters.

You may recall from earlier blogs that the Dallas folks are in a “searching” mode with respect to their practice of their religious faith. However, with the new school being based in an established Methodist church near their home, the little ones are beginning to experience a more “hands-on” approach to religious education.

On Friday of each week, the four-year old class has “chapel time” in the sanctuary of the church. Generally, the minister of the church will come, greet the kids, they will sing, and then hear a short Bible story. I am certain that the stories will be adjusted seasonally, much like the liturgy on Sunday.

The first “chapel time” happened this past week and since the minister was otherwise involved, a nice “grandma type” volunteer met with the kids instead. She used this time to point out the various architectural elements that are important to underscore the worship experience.

Now, the four-year old is already into bell towers. From his seat by the window in the SUV, he points out each one he sees. He does a remarkable imitation of their sound. His mother also uses this to teach the concept of high and low sounds as he mimics the bells.

Being inside the sanctuary of the church was a totally new experience for him.

So with the two classes of youngsters seated near the steps of the Chancel, the volunteer proceeded to explain to the children what they were seeing around them. She pointed out the banners, the pulpit, the altar, brass candlesticks, stained glass windows, and then the Cross.

“This is a symbol of our faith. It is called a cross.”

“I thought cymbals were round like a big metal plate,” said one energetic listener.
“Cymbals make loud crashing sounds,” said another. Realizing they were confusing the word symbol with cymbal, she hurriedly added, “No, this is the cross on which Jesus died.”

The silence was deadening. Pardon the play on words.

Now, the first thing you learn in dealing with young, impressionable minds is that you avoid anything traumatic. You don’t sing songs about Grandma moving to Peru like Phoebe Buffay on “Friends.”

The “Aunt Bea” lady hurriedly changed the subject and mentioned that there were two beautiful windows that could only be seen when the lights were turned on behind them. So she went to make that happen.

When she was out of sight, my grandson stood up and in a loud questioning voice asked of his teacher, “Mrs. Moss, why did Jesus die on that cross.”

Of course, that is a question beyond the grasp of his young age.

However, it got me to thinking. It has been a week of hearing hatred spewing from the mouths of people like the Quran burning Terry Wood, Newt Gingrich, the mosque protesters at “Ground Zero,” the Tea-Party enthusiasts who want to get us “Back to God,” and yes, Mama Grizzly herself. Weary of it all, I found myself asking: “folks, why did Jesus die on that cross?”

What did it all mean?

In the 1971 MASS that Leonard Bernstein composed for the opening of the Kennedy Center in our nation’s capitol, there is a song, “God Said,” whose lyrics seem appropriate for the ugly vitriol which has become the current image of many who claim Christianity. One verse goes:

God made us the boss God gave us the cross We turned it into a sword To spread the Word of the Lord We use His holy decrees To do whatever we please

As I think of the reason for Jesus and the Cross, I find it boils down to one simple word – love. Love, acceptance, forgiveness, compassion, charity – it is what our faith is supposed to be about. These are characteristics inherent in all the great religions of the world.

I am also reminded of the passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians:

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as a sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.”

To my grandson, I say, “there are a lot of people around who profess something they cannot seem to be able to live – we will call them ‘clanging symbols.’”

Sadly, some of the worst offenders have made it a career path.

Held Hostage By The Chreasters!

Check your manger scene. There seems to be a trend afoot. In Florida, in Texas, and now at my church here in Chicago. Baby Jesus didn’t make it to the manger tonight and no one seemed to mind.

In an effort to put some new life into the Children’s Service – you know, the one at 5:00 with all the noise – we had a presentation using “Shadow Puppets.” It was fairly effective except that Joseph, being held by a tired young puppeteer, kept wandering off towards Buffalo and once or twice Mary turned her back on the entire tableau. All in all it was effective. Sort of “nativity noir.”

Even with the puppets, we lacked the drama of St. Peters. No one jumped the pews to knock over the minister. Pope Benedict had that singular honor it seems. But wait, this was her second appearance attempting the same intervention. What’s with those Swiss guards?

It is a rainy Christmas in Chicago; cold and wet. The freezing temperature will come later in the afternoon and perhaps with it, the white stuff that we believe to be so necessary for the perfect Christmas. There is a very bad group of choristers on the early morning news; all wearing varying shades of red. There is a bass in black. This must be his attempt at “jumping the rail” like the poor soul in Rome.

I am concerned about the missing baby in the manger. This, of course, is an over powering symbol of the age, but I wont go there – just now. The nativity at Epiphany is one of our nicest holdings. It is Italianate in design and quite valuable. But where is the Baby Jesus? And why did no one notice? Or care?

As the case of many congregations across the world, Epiphany is held hostage by the Chreastors. You know, those people you see only on Christmas and Easter. They are the ones who demand that we uphold a tradition that no longer seems to be workable for our congregation: a Christmas eve service that starts at 11:00 p.m. For them it makes the "perfect Christmas." There were so few people present last night that I could not use the foundation stops on the organ lest I “blow them away with sound.”

If church is not important enough to attend regularly, then why would a particular congregation be so important to someone on Christmas or Easter? Perhaps some regional edifice should be designated as the official site for 11:00 worship for those who need it. A type of Christmas Central. The rest of us could be home earlier in the evening giving us time for reflection and a quiet moment with family.

As my mom would say, “Read your Bible and write the missionaries.”

The phone rang at the church last night around 9:30. I answered. The lady on the other end inquired, rather excitedly, “Is there an 11:00 worship service tonight?” I replied in the affirmative. “I just love Epiphany. Is it still located on the corner of Bradley and Damon?”

Another Chreaster!!!

Where, oh where, is the Baby Jesus in this bleak midwinter?

Baby Jesus in a Texas Humvee

As you may recall, my fiery redhead granddaughter had refused to identify the baby in their Nativity Scene as the Baby Jesus. (See the post, “No Room In The Inn”) Well, she has had some type of “Isle of Patmos” experience and is now certain the figure is indeed, “Baby Jesus.” Being told of his association with the upcoming Christmas, she is even walking about singing, “Happy Birthday.”

However, Baby Jesus is missing. This was revealed our most recent conversation by telephone.

“Grandmon, whatcha doing?” I began a reply and she interrupted with some urgency in her voice, “Baby Jesus is gone and I can’t find him.” As with her younger cousin in Florida, Baby Jesus was AWOL.

I wanted to say that the Baptists had been singing, “Come Home” for years. But instead I said, “where could he be?”

“In the Humvee!” Then she immediately left the phone to pursue something infinitely more exciting than talking to the old man in “Cahgo.”

“In the Humvee.” The meaning was lost on me until I remembered my grandson’s predilection for placing all sorts of “passengers” into his toy car. However, I was struck by the number of images that "Baby Jesus is in the Humvee" evoked in me.

I began to remember all the ridiculous holiday songs from over the years beginning with “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” and moving onto “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.” There was even one about a camel, but, come to think of it, that might not have involved Christmas at all. I also remember the fear that “Up on the housetop” caused me as a child.

No, it was not some sense of foreboding about a fat guy on the roof falling off and breaking a limb. It was the “click, click, click.” I couldn’t snap my fingers as we sang the “click, click, click” part! This was a major source of trauma for a kid in elementary school. So in order to stay ahead in the “peer pressure” department, I was sick a lot on days we had music. Healing came when school was dismissed around December 20th.

I just had to hope Mrs. Heacock didn’t plan on our doing “The Bridge over the River Kwai.” (Whistling was as challenging as snapping my fingers.)

Christmas songs have either been the source of great joy or great consternation. Miss Cleedy Martin came in late on her much rehearsed solo at the Baptist church. She was singing something about the animals in the manger. Knowning the Baptists, I am certain it was not related to the "O Magnum Mysterium." She explained later that she was distracted trying to decide whether to sing ass with the “a” as in attic or the “ah” as in car. (Think about it and you will understand her dilemma.)

“I saw three ships” has always caused a problem if sung too fast. (You will need to think about that one too, maybe even sing it “vivace.”) "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" has always sounded like it was a bit "pouty." (I'm gonna take my Ferrero Rocher's and go home.)

Christmas is upon us and we suffer daily through “Jingle Bell Rock.” But this too shall pass.

Out in Texas, Baby Jesus has been extracted from the Humvee and when last spotted, he was being twirled around while the redhead sang, “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”