Christmas on a Sunday : Let Jesus Interrupt You

I have to confess of having a bad attitude when I found out Christmas fell on a Sunday this year. When I checked the calendar some months ago, the roots of irritation had already started growing. The frustration only deepened when neighboring churches posted the cancelling of their Sunday worship services as the impending date drew nearer.

And I was just annoyed, annoyed that, once again, Jesus was interrupting my life; and in this case, my Christmas morning ideal.

Because we are having Sunday morning worship, I knew exactly where I would (and wouldn’t) be on Christmas morning.

I would be in church.

And I wouldn’t be actualizing my cozy, Christmas dream with the children in matching pjs as they patiently, kindly, and without any selfishness in their hearts open presents one by one while the fire crackles on the hearth.  (Snorting as I write this, ohh my stupid little sinful heart)

Here I was, angry that, once again, Jesus was getting in my way of my wants.

Here I was, confronted, once again, with the truth that I am not God.

But two weeks ago, when it looked like ice and frigid temperatures could actually cancel church, my heart cracked. It broke even deeper when one of my children made mention of how terrible it is when any holiday falls on a Sunday. In that moment, I came face to face with my sin—God using both nature and a firstborn son to show me just how desperately I favor it.

But is there anything more fitting for believers on a Christmas Sunday morning than to gather?

We should celebrate the incarnation together; celebrating the Son of God who interrupted and entered time because he loved us. Celebrating the truth of Jesus born and placed in a manger, frustrating all preconceived notions of what the King of Heaven would be like. Should we not rush to celebrate the plan set forth before the foundation of the world?—that God would give an undeserving, sinful people the greatest gift of all, himself. Immanuel, “God with us.” 

It is just like the Son of God to interrupt our family traditions.

Christmas on a Sunday.

It is just like Jesus to inconvenience our plans.

Christmas on a Sunday.

It is just like the Lord to frustrate the dreams we hold so dear.

Christmas on a Sunday.

And why would we shy away from this God who came to live with us, as us, for us? We would want it no other way. Because unless the Lord Jesus Christ frustrates the sin within, puts an end to the dreams you hold dear, and interrupts the trajectory of your life, he will not be your Lord.

You see, this Christmas wasn’t the first time God has used nature and a firstborn son to wake up sinners, like me. But I’m glad that he did, on both accounts. I’m eagerly waiting for Sunday morning, not because presents will be under the tree, but because there is no place I’d rather be than with the body of Christ on a Sunday morning, Christmas or not.

Let Jesus interrupt you this Sunday. It’s worth celebrating.

God Will Provide: A Lesson in Nature from my Kitchen Window

I live in an oasis, and I don’t mean the desert kind. I mean more of a sanctuary for slinking stray tabbys and a jungle gym for squirrels. It’s a feast for your (well, maybe just mine) eyes, because there’s really nothing spectacular about my neighborhood—it’s a typical block of starter homes lined with ranches and cape cods that mirror one another. Many residents moved here nearly 30 years ago when the houses wore their first coat of paint. We’ve lived here for 5 years and though the square footage is fixed, it seems to have decreased with every mouth we’ve gained. I groan because of this reality often, vividly reminded of the discontentment that still rattles my insides. But really, it’s not because of what I do or don’t have that I whine. It’s deeper, beyond the surface of just an attitude. It’s my heart that incessantly fails to believe that God is good, He does good, and has provided all I need in Christ. And I have quite literally seen the Lord’s hand extend in the most tangible and ordinary ways to provide for my lesser needs. But still—Oh, this war within—I gripe.

So when I look out my kitchen window or gaze through the sliding door, I am given a gift that new builds and mansions cannot rival. I am forced to be still, encouraged to listen, and roused to look outward and upward. It’s here, by God’s grace before this wildwood, that I am given decades-old trees that readily proclaim, “God will provide.” I am front row to choirs of birds and symphonies of insects that can’t help but bellow, “God will provide.” The contrast of naked and needly trees and the blue fabric of the sky is enough to steal your breath. The red ribbons of Virginia creeper coiled tightly and my neighbor’s dogwood still coated in the most vibrant carnelian while I catch a glimpse of the willow oak dropping its last threads of gold. “God will provide” the foliage declares as the familiar green is lost.

This morning I peered over the sink and I noticed the dark-eyed juncos have returned to my side yard, bringing with them the chill of winter. It’s an opportunity for complaint as temperatures quickly plummet, but this is creation proclaiming, “God will provide” as it settles into dormancy from its laborious summer production.

In the bushes bordering my yard, the resident cardinal couple darted in and out and then briefly paused on the rocky path below. His astounding red coat and her orange beak so unlike the deadness all around them. The red-bellied woodpecker flickered from branch to branch tapping its flaming head along the bare limb. The blue jays flitted back-and-forth in a chase, with streaks of sapphire quickly painting the brown thicket. Each announcing “God will provide” even unexpected beauty in a brown and barren land.

There was a teeny downy woodpecker—maybe it was the same one that found its way into my kitchen last month—right outside on the oak tree. Near it, a small nuthatch defied gravity on the trunk of a slash pine. The black-capped chickadees hopped from fence post to the next before heading elsewhere to dance. As if a bird’s job isn’t consumed with avoiding the feral felines and finding food, there is yet still time for play. “God will provide” sings playful birds who find time for merry-making among the mundane. There must be time for me to indulge in the good works of the Lord, surely He has provided even this.

Another woodpecker came in like a fighter jet only to land and make aimless, elevated loops at the top of the old poplar before coming to what seemed like a permanent halt. A gray squirrel sat deadly still on the split rail fence while clutching an acorn between his paws. He looked like the kind of animal figurine you’d see in a Cracker Barrel. In unison, each animal professed,“God will provide” through the bitter, lonely, and cold months—whether through meticulous preparation or falling berries and plump larvae, “God will provide” is what all of creation proclaims.

I took this all in within ten minutes. As I stood tippy-toed at my window, two hands on a warm mug, the gift of stillness was given and I saw, that yes, God has provided.  It's like this every day. Day after day He provides. And like that, I smiled and because in those ten minutes of watching creation do what creation does, God provided a moment—to reflect, to delight in an intimate God who sent His Son for me, to be aware of my sin, to find joy in the flora and fauna, to express thankfulness for my warm home and frosted backyard, to stand in awe of every moving part outside and the God who orchestrates it all, and to have confident hope that all will one day be made new.

To hear the muffles of birds still raising their songs when there’s nothing in my bird feeders; or to watch the trees lose the very leaves their limbs gripped so tightly, and they do so without a complaint against their Maker—Oh, it is a gift to see my sin in contrast to a creation that depicts, “God will always provide.”

Slow Death of the Iron Fist

So much of my life, and maybe yours too, is a slow, painful death of having all the things I thought would satisfy my need to feel wanted and fulfill my desire to belong graciously ripped away from me. Every day is a physical reminder that the love I search for in marriage and the overwhelming fullness I feel in motherhood is just not ultimate—yes, it is a gift that has brought immense joy, but time and again I sit with my discontentment and remember that the created wasn’t meant to be my god.

My heart recoils at where I am and how the Lord is still working out the countless kinks in my iron fist—Like shouldn’t I be further along by now? Shouldn’t I be past struggling as I do? Shouldn’t my desires have been totally dethroned by now? Oh this war within.

I’m exhausted. I hate the sin see-saw I find myself buckled into—the playground of looking to lesser things to give me what Jesus alone can offer. He alone satisfies this wandering and weary heart. I know that and yet I still find myself drawn to what I know will consume me.

Why do I keep looking for more creative ways to lessen the loneliness? Dry the tears? Cure the pain? Remove the frustrations?

I say with Paul—"Oh wretched person that I am. Who will rescue me from this body of death?" (Romans 7:24-25)

And then I remember. That’s the tension of the Christian life. To be here and not there. To be now and not then. That all my pain. And all my struggle. And all my sin. And all my hurt. And all my failures. And all my letdowns—that they would be swallowed up in Christ and push me nearer to the Lord who in spite of my frailty will be glorified in my weakness.

Oh Lord, help me sit with the better portion until all things are made new.

*Originally posted on Instagram (12-2-22)