The Typographical Man

"Tell me again," Manny said.  He twirled his pen between his fingers.

The interrogation room was half-dark.  A single-shaded lamp hung crookedly from the ceiling, providing spare illumination.

"Tell you which thing?" the prisoner said.

"Well, for starters, what were you doing on church property?  That's what got you arrested."

The prisoner stared at him, his eyes half-lidded and cold.

"You won't believe me," he said.  "Nobody does."

"Try me."

The prisoner cast his eyes at the floor, shaking his head slowly.  He cracked his knuckles and took a long drag on his cigarette, making its tip glow bright red.   The jaundiced light emanating from the ancient bulb overhead gleamed dully off of the twin metallic studs in the man's ears.

What a great way to spend Christmas Eve, Manny thought.

The prisoner exhaled a thin plume of blue-gray smoke.   He rubbed his eyes, stubbed out his cigarette, and stared up at the ceiling.
"Let me think for a minute," he said.

"Take all the time you want," Manny said.

Manny had agreed to take the Christmas Eve shift again because his friend Ben had been assigned the duty this year.  Sandra, Ben's wife, was in the hospital with a recurrence of breast cancer.  Bone metastases, the doctors had said.  Spread all over.  Ben didn't ask Manny for any favors - he never would, Ben was just like that - and they didn't talk about it out loud, but they both knew that Sandra would almost certainly not be here next Christmas.

It had just seemed like the right thing to do.

He almost got lucky.  The only call he'd gotten all night was this one - a bald, half-naked tattooed guy caught trespassing on church grounds.  He was a street person, shirtless and shoeless, dressed only in gym shorts.  But the cops knew the city's usual collection of vagrants and thieves and addicts and hookers, both male and female, and no one had ever seen this man before.  It was like someone had simply dropped him out of the sky.

And then there were the tattoos.

He had thousands of them.  They covered every square centimeter of his skin - at least the parts that Manny had seen.  What was unusual was that there were no pictures of any sort, just words.  The man was literally covered in verbiage.  The other odd thing was that there weren't any sayings - no lines from Tupac, no obscure song lyrics.  The tattoos were just random words, in many languages and a hundred different fonts.  The arresting officer, Mike O'Malley, was a beefy Irish street cop with a crew cut and eyes that looked like twin chips of Coke bottle glass.  O'Malley liked nicknames.  He had one ready for the tattooed trespasser when he brought him in.

"I got the Typographical Man here," he had said, roughly shoving his cuffed prisoner into the interview room.  "Broke into a church. Can you imagine? Breaking into a church on Christmas Eve.  No ID, no history.  And here's the really weird part:  no fingerprints.  Like they were burned off, you know?  Fingers as smooth as porcelain."

O'Malley had then closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Manny glanced at his watch.  It was a little past eight-thirty.

Amy and the kids would be through with dinner at her parents' place by now.  Jeremy and Mimi would be running through the place like maniacs and Big Jim would be flipping them over his head in that way that always terrified Amy.  Soon, Amy's mom would finish clearing the table and begin trying to herd everyone into the den to open the presents.

He could hear the discussion as it wound up once again.  Big Jim just couldn't help himself.  He'd always wanted Amy to marry Raymond.  Manny had never even met Raymond, but he knew all about him - how long he and Amy had dated (three years), what Raymond did for a living (heart surgery), and where he lived (the Landings, in a gargantuan castle that Big Jim liked to call the Biltmore South).

Where's Manny?

At work.

On Christmas Eve? Isn't he a detective yet?

The Typographical Man scratched the back of his head.  The letters on his hand were in a gothic script.  It was different from the lettering on his scalp, which seemed Arabic, or the lettering down his neck, which looked like the Hebrew alphabet.  There were others, in Greek and Cyrillic as well as other forms of lettering Manny had never even seen.

"Where did all the tattoos come from?" Manny said.

"Where did your nose come from?" the Typographical Man said.

"Look, I was born with this schnoz," Manny said.  "Nothing more complicated than that."

"Same answer," the Typographical Man said.

He grinned.  His teeth gleamed.  His incisors were studded with diamonds.

"You're a real piece of work," Manny said.

"So are you.  We all are, in fact, truly miraculous."

Manny shook his head.

"You know, I don't want to be here any more than you do.  It's Christmas Eve, and right now my father-in-law is telling everybody in my wife's entire extended family about how his daughter could have been married to some rich guy she used to date, right there in front of our kids, and I'm sitting here at the police station while you play mind games with me.  I know that all of this probably doesn't mean Jack to you right now, but it's important to me.  So can we get on with this?  You're wasting my time."

The Typographical Man frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "Didn't mean to do that."

Manny blinked and rubbed his eyes.  It looked for a moment like the words on the Typographical Man's skin had moved, wavering for a moment before settling down again, like an old-timey television signal when the antenna wasn't quite right.

Getting tired, Manny thought.

Manny motioned to a pitcher of water that squatted in the center of the table.  Condensation beaded on it, glistening like tiny jewels.

"Water?" he asked.

The Typographical Man shook his head.

"So level with me.  What were you doing in the church?"

"Praying."

Manny slammed his palms on the table.

"Jesus!" he said.  "Are you gonna work with me or what?"

The Typographical Man glanced up at Manny.

"Okay," the Typographical Man said.  "Call me Phillip."

"Phillip?"

"That's my name.  One of them, anyway."

"Okay, Phillip.  At least we've got that much.  Do you have a last name?  Any ID?"

The Typographical Man shook his head.

"You have no last name?"

"I don't.  We could make up one, if that makes things easier for you.  Smith would be fine.  Or perhaps Chan or Lopez, if you want to get a little ethnic.  But technically, no.  No last name.  Just Phillip.  And I have no ID.  In fact, it would be a problem if I did, as I have no pockets."

Manny sighed.  He knew right then that it was going to be a long night.

"I told you that you would not believe me.  Officer O'Malley sure didn't."

"Not many street people break into churches just to pray."

"Okay, first of all, I didn't break in, okay? It was unlocked.  Second, I was actually praying when O'Malley arrested me.  You can ask him.  But someone saw me in there and didn't like the way I looked, so they called the cops.  Third, I'm not a street person.  I'm just a person.  In many ways, a person like you."

"Okay, let's say you were praying.  I'll give you that.  And I'll accept the idea that you're not a street person.  But if you're not a street person, where do you live, Phillip-with-no-last-name?  Where did you sleep last night?"

Phillip was silent.

"Phillip, for God's sake, answer the question!"

The Typographical Man looked up at Manny.   His dark eyes seemed to go on to eternity.

"I don't sleep," he said.  "Not ever."

The bulb overhead flickered a little bit.  It was after nine-thirty now.  Manny had completely missed dinner.  Amy would be heading back home soon.  Of course, her dad would help her load the presents and the kids into the back of the minivan and would remind her once again about the opportunity she had missed with the rich, handsome,  all-powerful Raymond. 

Manny wondered if Amy ever thought about Raymond on her own on nights like this.

He hoped not.  Manny sighed.

"Listen, Phillip, I'm going to make this easy on you.  If I put you in a holding cell, looking the way you do, those guys are going to beat the hell out of you.  I'm a nice guy, so I'm going to try to avoid that.  We'll get a psych evaluation.  I think we can get you off on the trespassing charges that way.   Maybe they can get you a bed to sleep in for a couple of days, get you back on your meds, and we can get you on your way.  I know you're not from around here.  All I ask is that you level with me.  Tell me what you are doing here, where you're from, and where you want to go, and that will be a great start.  Capisce?"

Phillip was silent.

"Phillip? You've got to give me something to work with here."

"You're not going to believe any of it," Phillip said at last.

"I believed you about the praying."

"Okay.  You did."

"So level with me."

The tattoos moved.  Manny was sure this time.  They swirled on Phillip's skin, rearranging themselves, the letters forming words and the words forming thoughts and the thoughts forming sentences.

Phillip grabbed Manny's hands in his own.  His grip was dry and firm and warm.  Not just warm, in fact.  Phillip's hands were blazing, incendiary, the heat flowing out of them like molten lava.

The words along Phillip's arms were swimming about like fish in an epidermal aquarium.  Manny could feel lines of electrical force radiating through the bones of his hands, traveling along the phalanges and metacarpals and through the carpals into the radius and the ulna, vibrating with pent-up energy.

There was a strange magnetism between them.  Manny could not let go.

"What are you doing?"  Manny said.

"Helping you see," Phillip said.

The words flowed through their clasped hands and into Manny's soul.

Manny was not certain if Phillip had actually spoken or not, but he heard the words just the same.

"For I shall give you wisdom, which all your adversaries will not be able to resist," the voice said.

It was at that precise moment that Manny blacked out.

When Manny woke up, he was still sitting up, but the room was completely dark.  It actually seemed devoid of light, as though all illumination had been sucked out of it.

The light overhead flickered and came back on.

Manny was still seated at the table in the interview room, but now he was alone.  There was no Typographical Man.  Even the water pitcher had vanished.  The room was barren, empty, as if it had been sterilized.

Manny looked at his watch.  It was after midnight.

Christmas Day, he thought.  And I'm still here.

He imagined Amy in the dark, alone, thinking of Raymond.  Thinking of how her life might have been different if she had married him, of the things he could have given her that Manny could not.  And the weight of these thoughts squeezed Manny's chest like a vise.

I've failed her, he thought, pulling on his overcoat to leave.

It was then, out of the dark, that he felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

"There are so many things that you need to understand, Manny," a familiar voice said.

Phillip's voice.

Manny could feel the words thrumming in his chest once again.  A torrent of images and emotions flooded into him, washing over him like a tsunami. 

Manny could not process it all.  He felt like he was drowning.  His eyes closed.

Suddenly, everything was quiet.  It was as though someone had simply turned off a spigot.

Manny opened his eyes and gasped.  He clawed at Phillip with both hands, finally wrapping a desperate arm around Phillip's tattooed neck.

"What the..." Manny said.

They were floating high over the darkened city.

It was as though everyone else had left the world.  The streets were empty.  The silence was thick, viscid, an invisible fog blanketing anything and everything.  Not a single cricket chirped; not a single car horn blared.  Overhead, the stars stared down at them, cold points of light scattered across the vast firmament of the heavens.

"How is this happening?  Am I dreaming?" Manny said.

"Do you think this is a dream?"  Phillip said.

"I'm not sure about anything right now."

Phillip smiled, thin-lipped.

Suddenly, they were on the ground, standing in an alley.  There was a bundle of rags piled against a brick wall, next to the dumpster. 

And then the pile moved.  With a shock, Manny realized that it wasn't a pile of rags after all.

It was a man.

The man was ancient. He was toothless and shivering, his eyes closed.  Gray hair hung in coarse ringlets framing his bearded face.

Manny remembered that face.  He'd seen it in another alley, an alley just like this one, many years before.

Manny took off his overcoat and covered the old man.  The old man's bleary eyes flickered open and he smiled.

"Thank you," the old man said.

It was Phillip's voice.

And then, just like that, they were in a classroom.  It looked a lot like his classroom in second grade.

Actually, it was his second grade classroom.

Mrs. Heery was at the chalkboard with her glasses at the end of her nose.  She was talking about Patrick Henry's role in the American Revolution as she wrote, her hands covered in chalk dust.

But Manny wasn't looking at the teacher.  Instead, he glanced over at Robin Settles, the little girl sitting next to him.

Robin was crying, her dark hair hanging in her face.   She was quiet and unobtrusive, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but the tears flowed nonetheless.

And then Manny saw the bruises.

Robin's arms were a mottled aggregation of blotches of black and blue.  There were other things, too - round and well-circumscribed, a few of them freshly red and raw even as others had faded into dark, unmentionable scars.

"Robin?"  Manny asked.

The little girl looked at him.

"I have some Oreos.  Do you want one?"

Robin nodded, drying her eyes with her sleeve.

"Thank you," she said.

It was Phillip's voice again.

And then they were gone again, flying high over the city.

"Robin died in the fourth grade," Manny said quietly.  "I had forgotten about her."

Phillip's face was grim, his jaw set.  He said nothing.

Manny realized that they were standing in front of Our Saints Hospital.

The hospital, a monumental edifice of steel and concrete, towered in front of them.   Fluorescent lights shone in every room.  Some were brilliant. Others were washed-out, dim and flickering.  A few had been extinguished.

 The two of them walked into a hospital doorway.  No one stopped them.  No one even seemed to see them.

"Where are we going?" Manny asked.

But, deep down, Manny knew.  He felt ill.

Ben was asleep by his wife's bed, holding her hand.  The room was oppressively dark.  The monitor LEDs glimmered red and green across Sandra's sleeping face.

Sandra's eyes opened.

"Manny?" she said.

Her voice was but a whisper.

"Hi, Sandra."

Her eyes flicked over to Phillip.  They opened wide.

"Is it time?" she said.

She was looking directly at Phillip now, her eyes transfixed.  She seemed to know him.  It was as though no one else was in the room.

"No," Phillip said.  "Not yet."

His hands grasped her own.

For the first time, Manny could clearly see the words as they rearranged themselves on Phillip's skin.   They seemed to glow, ever so slightly, as they spelled out a verse that Phillip knew so well:

I am the way, the truth, and the life, they said.

"Have faith," Phillip said.

Sandra smiled at him.  She grasped Phillip's hands in her own.  The verse on Phillip's arms intensified, the script brilliantly incandescent.  It illuminated the entire room.

"Yes," Sandra said in a calm, clear voice.

"Yes, of course."

And then the room melted away, and Manny and Phillip were gone.

In the blink of an eye, the two men were standing on a moonlit beach. Crescents of silver light glimmered over the whitecaps.  The ocean murmured gently to them.

Manny turned to Phillip with tears in his eyes.

"Why are you showing me all of these horrible things?  All of this sadness and pain?" he said.

"You miss the point," Phillip replied.

"There's a point?  Because I'm not getting it."

Phillip looked at him.  His dark eyes sparkled.

"You gave the old man your coat when he was cold.  You gave the little girl a measure of hope when all the hope had drained out of her world.  You gave your friend Ben precious time with his dying wife."

"Those things just seemed right," Manny said.

"Manny, you are a kind and generous man.  And you love others unconditionally, without expectation. You did a noble thing tonight.  And yet you had doubts," said Phillip.

"My father-in-law is always comparing me to Raymond.  I'm just afraid sometimes that I don't measure up.  Raymond is rich, and very successful."

"Kindness and compassion for one's fellow man are the true riches in life, worth far more than any amount of gold or silver," said Phillip.

 "Raymond also looks like a movie star."

 "And do looks mean everything? What did you think when you first saw me?" Phillip said.

Manny did not answer.

"One should judge a man by his character.  Possessions mean nothing.  Appearances mean nothing.  There is no substance to these things."

Phillip scooped up a handful of beach sand and threw it into the air. It caught the moonlight for a moment before disappearing into oblivion.

"No substance at all," Phillip said.  

He touched Manny's arm.  The words swirled and glowed.

And Manny felt the memories return.

The old man in the alley.  Robin Settles.  Sandra and Ben.

Something settled in Manny - an understanding, a subtle deepening of comprehension.

A quiet peace.

The two of them stood on the beach for a long time.  Waves crashed and hissed on the shore; stars glittered overhead in a bejeweled sky.

"It really is a beautiful world," Manny said at last.

"It is, isn't it?"  Phillip said, grinning. 

A stray moonbeam caught the array of diamonds in his teeth, sparkling there for a moment.

"Who are you?" Manny said.

But Phillip was gone.

When Manny awoke, he was in his own bed.  Amy was lying beside him, her arm draped over his shoulder.  He could feel her warmth, could sense the weight of her body against his own.  The vague floral scent of her hair filled his nostrils. 

In an instant, Manny was awash with love for his wife.

Amy's eyes opened.

"Merry Christmas," she said, smiling.

"Merry Christmas," he replied, kissing her gently on the forehead.

"The kids will be up soon," she said.

"I'm surprised they aren't in here already," he said.

"Last night go okay?  I'm sorry I wasn't there.  It's just that I promised Ben..."

"Hush," she said, placing her finger against his lips.  "It was fine."

"It's just..."

"The fact that you would even do that sort of thing is the very reason I married you, you silly man," she said. 

She kissed him back, on the lips.

"Look, it was important that Ben could be with Sandra last night.  And, anyway, wasn't that just great news?" she said.

Manny's brows furrowed.

"What news?"

"Ben didn't call you?"

Manny shook his head.

"Sandra's back in remission.  They repeated her x-rays after she was admitted and - well, something's happened.  They're not sure what.  But the cancer is gone.  The doctors sent her home.  It's a Christmas miracle!"

The first golden rays of the morning sun had begun streaming through the blinds.  The bedroom door burst open.  Jeremy and Mimi ran into the bedroom.

"Mom, Dad, get up!  Santa came!" the children squealed.

"Hold on, hold on.  Us old folks have creaky bones that don't work right.  It takes us longer to get up than you young whippersnappers," Manny said.

"Mom, what's a whippersnapper?" Jeremy said.

"Ask your dad," said Amy, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair.

"Hey, Daddy!" Mimi said, hopping into the bed. She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. 

"I love you," Mimi said.

"I love you too, honey," Manny said.

It was Christmas morning, and everything was good.  For the first time he could ever remember, Manny was certain that he was right where he belonged.

He sat up, Mimi's arms embracing him, and said a silent prayer of thanks for Phillip, the Typographical Man, who reminded him of the truly important things in life.

"It really is a beautiful world," Manny murmured.

And he meant it.

With all of his heart.

- Mark E. Murphy

Listening to a commentator on a cable news program last week, I was struck by his description of humankind.  He said that we live on an obscure planet revolving around an average star on the edge of the Milky Way galaxy and within a frighteningly vast universe that is 41 billion light years wide.  Human beings, this person contended, are terribly insignificant creatures living alone in a cold and cruel universe.

In contrast, the apostle John wrote in his account of the Gospel:  "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father."  Frederick Buechner expressed it somewhat differently in saying:  "The claim that Christianity makes for Christmas is that at a particular time and place God came to be with us himself."  Who could have imagined?

The Christmas story is all about our being found by God.  Whoever and wherever we are, whatever we may have done, our God has chosen to be with us.  The Bible affirms that God entered our world in order to let us find again the embrace of the One who made us and forgives us and loves us still.

Light the Christ candle this Christmas Eve and hear what the angels have to say:  "For to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord."  We are not alone.  Our God has come to love us, to save us from our sins, to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.  Heaven is singing for us tonight.  Is it too much to ask that we listen?

- John Finley

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

             We have all heard and perhaps uttered this truism and although we can't always explain what it means, we know it when we see it.  When did mankind first have that "ah-ha" moment when the meaning of the phrase hit us like a ton of bricks?

             No one can know, but consider this:  For several centuries a religious tradition believing in an all-powerful, all-knowing God, one of both love and judgment, flourished in lands of the Eastern Mediterranean.  It honored a monotheistic God, a God above all gods, a God whose commandments taught his people the way to live according to a set of rules - good rules indeed, but legalistic ones, implying that to live within those Ten Commandments was to achieve the fullness of what God expects of us.

This belief system became the dominant theology of the people of Israel, yet it was hardly dominant outside a small portion of the known world.  And as it matured as an organized religion, it became encumbered by the imperfection of human interpretation of God's intent.  It got bogged down in a maze of laws, rules and regulations, and minutiae which detracted from its larger mission.  It, like many institutions, became inwardly focused and irrelevant to many.  It was not  fulfilling the mission that God had for his people.

What to do?  What God did was the same thing a loving parent would do. He found a way to speak to us in a way we could understand - by becoming one of us.  He sent Christ to live among us.  Christ didn't simply speak the word, he lived the Word - full of love, goodness, truth, grace, generosity, pardon, and dozens of other attributes we attribute to God. He patiently instructed us in the full meaning of God's will for his people:

Blessed are the poor in spirit . . . .

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

For as much as you have done this for one of the least among us, you have done it for me.

A new commandment I give you:  As I have loved you, love one another.

He was sent to God's people to tell them of a new way to live according to God's will.  He became a tangible and visible example of God's love and his purposes for our lives.  We heard his words and tried to absorb what they meant.  Then we saw it unfold in his life and actions, and we got it.  The "ah-ha" moment arrived. That picture was indeed "worth a thousand words" - when the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

- Lamar Davis

Incarnational Evangelism:

Becoming Visible as Christ's Presence

             Henlee Barnette, author of Clarence Jordan:  Turning Dreams Into Deeds, reminds us, "There is really only one method of evangelism in the New Testament:  the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ.  God made his good news the 'Idea' - Clarence translates 'Logos' or 'Word' as 'Idea' - known to mankind by becoming a man.  In Jesus, God became visible."  Too many of us are reaching for the vanishing cream to avoid life.  It is the challenge of every believer to become the visible Christ.

The "Saint in Overalls" or "Prophet in Blue Jeans," Clarence L. Jordan, founder of Koinonia Farm which became Koinonia Partners, presents the best understanding of what "the Word became flesh," the doctrine of the incarnation, really means.

Challenging the church he attended at the time (1950), Rehoboth Baptist Church located near Koinonia Farm, on having become an "enclave of racism" and concerned with "petty programs of self enhancement," he was excommunicated along with everyone who was a part of Koinonia.  The reasons given were holding "views and practices contrary to those of other members of Rehoboth Church."  Some practices were visiting black churches and holding worship services "where both white and colored attended together."  None of the other churches in the area would allow them to join.  Clarence never again tried to join a church, and when asked about his denomination would reply, "Ex-Baptist." 

Clarence said of the current fate of incarnation:  The word became a sermon and was later expanded into a book and the book sold well and inspired other books until of the making of books there was no end.  And the word died in darkness and was buried in the theological library.  The cost of becoming the visible Christ is high.  It could be your denominational affiliation or even your life, as in the case of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

The Cooperative Baptist Fellowship has it right.  Christianity is all about "being the presence of Christ" wherever one finds oneself in this world.  Is it any wonder the Christ event became SO significant it literally changed the calendar?  What an awesome challenge has been set before us to be the voice, the hands, the feet, the money, the peace, and love of God in this world!  Thanks be to God in Jesus Christ we can meet the challenge, and the world can be a better place through incarnational evangelism!

- Will Barnes

Meditation on Mother and Child

Mother and child.

Dear Mary, your firstborn lies sleeping in your arms.

Into your care he is placed.

By your hands, he will be fed.

Nourish him for his journey ahead.

By your teaching, he will learn.

Tell him the lessons of old.

By your example, he will live.

Guide him to seek out the ones who need him.

How blessed you are!

Blessed Mary and the Christ child.

Dear Jesus, asleep in your mother's arms.

Fully human and fully divine, you are God's One and Only.

Into your care we are placed.

By your hands, we shall be fed.

Nourish us with your everlasting bread.

By your teaching, we shall learn.

Tell us how God thinks, and how we should in turn.

By your example, we shall seek new lives.

Show us by your sacrifice how to live anew.

You are God's perfect example.

How blessed we are!

- Doug Craig

As I have written in the past, I tend to go overboard with Christmas decorating.  More often than not my souvenirs from trips are ornaments for the trees, another nutcracker, an additional manger scene, etc.  There is a story about each and every decoration, whether or not anyone else wants to hear it.  I realized four holiday seasons ago that it was time to add yet another tree and decided to move some of the holiday decor to the screened porch with a tree of the colors I associated with the word "serenity" - a word that had just recently begun to take on new meaning.

Last December, among the scurry of the season, I had to pause due to my mother's cancer diagnosis.  Decorating and shopping took a place on the back shelf and for the first time it just didn't matter whether everything was perfect for Christmas Eve or not.  As I traveled back home less than a week before Melissa and Drew were to arrive, my thoughts were in a hospital room in Albany, Georgia, rather than with the unopened boxes scattered around the house.

The long miles provided me with time to think, to meditate, to pray, and I kept recalling Christmas Eve services of the past.  I couldn't help but wonder if we would even be sitting in First Baptist Church of Savannah for the upcoming service.  Arriving at home I was blessed with the tender understanding provided me by several close friends who told me to remain constant in my faith and that the answers would fall into place - in God's time, not mine.  They told me to do what I needed to do and not to let myself become so absorbed in apprehension that I completely eliminated the joy of the holy season.  They also told me to choose only one thing I really wanted to accomplish rather than the long list from which I normally operated.

Late on the Tuesday prior to Christmas I suddenly had the urge to decorate my serenity tree on the porch where I sit each morning with my coffee and meditate.  As I began placing the ornaments on the tree I let the anguish inside my spirit release; there were tears and heavy sighs as I reached into the boxes.  But even in the overwhelming sadness I was feeling there became a very clear sense of peace.  I felt for the first time that regardless of what the future held, Christmas was coming and shouldn't I make this one the happiest possible?  Somehow I began to sing in my head the anthems the choir would sing on Christmas Eve which I had not wanted to think about at all in the previous days.  And as I decorated I used The Serenity Prayer as my mantra.  Then the phone rang - my brother's voice said, "She's going to be able to go home for Christmas!"  With those words I knew within my soul that it was no mere coincidence that I was standing in that space doing what I was doing when I heard the news that became my best gift of Christmas 2010!

Stories do not always have happy endings and most of you know that it would be only a couple of months later that my phone would ring yet again with words I never wanted to hear.  The call came the morning after I returned home from Cuba in February - a trip that my mother insisted I make.  "You're going - do not change your plans.  I'll be here when you get back."  Miraculously she was!  This year my serenity tree will be my first decorating task because somehow it simply feels right!  Life changes and we never know when or how but God's love brought down at Christmas endures forever.  Indeed his Word was made flesh and dwells among us.  Thanks be to God!

- Janis Lewis

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth" (John 1:14).

             I was about seven years old when I first recall hearing this simple, beautiful Bible verse.  I was in a Sunday school class at Bull Street Baptist Church during the Advent season of 1957 and my teacher was a young woman named Mrs. Godshall (really and truly her name).  She was an excellent teacher and I enjoyed being in her class, but every now and then her lessons were over my head and this lesson was one of those.  My classmates and I listened as she carefully explained what "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" meant and why it was so important at Christmas to understand this verse.  I know she did her best to explain it so that our seven-year-old brains could comprehend, but I was lost.  It was too much to understand, but I knew it was important, so I remembered the verse.  All I could think was that Jesus came to us as a baby.

The next time I remember being intrigued by this verse, I was a seventeen-year-old senior looking forward to graduation.  This time the verse was part of our worship service and I was convinced that I understood the meaning of the verse and that it was very simple and straight forward.  The Word was the prophecies of Isaiah and the made flesh part was when Jesus was born to fulfill those promises.  It was my young and untried attempt to make scripture fit my growing faith.

As young married adults Reed and I tried a number of churches before we found First Baptist.  Our first visit was Christmas Eve 1980. Dr. Tom Austin was the minister and again the scripture was read.  Dr. Austin did not speak based on that scripture, but once more it struck me as being beautiful and meaningful.  Over the Christmas break I checked out a number of commentaries to see what others of faith had to say about this passage of scripture.  I was awed when I finally realized what a powerful message was in those words.

Isn't this what Christmas is all about?  That our all-powerful and all-knowing God sent himself in the form of a baby to be born, to grow and live with us, to teach us, to die for us, and to give us hope.  I am so glad that I could look back on my spiritual journey with this passage as I wrote this devotional.  I hope everyone who reads this will take some time to reflect on your journey with this magnificent scripture. We all need the opportunity to remember how we came to be where we are spiritually and I cannot think of a better time to do that than during Advent and Christmas.

- Barbara Creaser

Early Christian Jews identified Jesus with God the Father Creator:  "I and the Father are one.  He that hath seen me hath seen the Father," said Jesus.

             Much has been written about the Deity of Jesus Christ in the centuries since the Gospel of John declared it in the first chapter.  The only way God could dwell among us and reveal God's truth was to become Flesh, even as we are flesh.  The idea of God as the divine indwelling spirit in all humankind changed the way we see each other.  Jesus gave us the Way: to see God in everyone we meet, to pay attention to the physical needs of the flesh, and to nourish God within us through prayer, study, and worship.  Jesus gave us the Truth: that God is love.  Jesus gave us the Light:  that the promises and the gospel are universal, available to all who believe.  Jesus was the Word made Flesh.  Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light.

I visit a dear friend in the nursing home every week.  Since her stroke in March, her speech is unintelligible.  She tries very hard to talk and makes one syllable sounds with great expression.  She even writes letters in all capitals, but they make no sense.  I believe she understands everything I say to her, and I often gain an understanding of what she is trying to say to me.  She can answer yes or no to questions.  She celebrated her 80^th birthday on October 29.  I recently found her crying as I entered her room.  I held her close and told her I had been crying earlier that day also.  I just shared my sadness and worry with her about my problem.  She stopped crying to listen and then began saying comforting, reassuring, and hopeful "words" to me.  The tone of voice and expressiveness were unmistakable, even though the language was mysterious.  It was humbling to accept such a precious gift from one whose pain is so much greater than mine.

. . . and the Word was made flesh.

- Marty Foxx

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,

full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory,

glory as of the only Son from the Father."

             These are simple yet powerful words that come from John 1:14.  As children growing up in Sunday School, we learn that God is a very powerful being and our Creator.  God had a plan and it was his will for it to come true.  John tells us that God said he was going to send his Son to us.  God's Word became flesh, the flesh of our Lord, and Jesus was born on earth.  God said it and it came true.  But how can this be?  How can God just speak words and they come true?  This is where we learn about faith.  We may not be able to see it, or even explain the things that happen.  We believe because it came from God.  Miracles happen all the time and they need no explanation.  We believe because we have faith in God and in Jesus Christ our Lord.

- Caroline Pritchard

When God's Love Was Brown

             His place was one of the favorite haunts of my carefree growing-up days, running neck to neck with the swampy woods not far from our house.

             Brown was a farmer, black and poor. I was Jimmy, a skinny little white boy, the next dirt road over, Miss Evelyn's son. The belt for his very worn pants was a rope and twine served as laces for his ragged shoes, cut in the sides to ease the pain of his arthritic feet. His house had no running water, a kerosene lantern was his light, and he cooked his food on a wood-burning iron stove in the cook shed at the back of his yard. His tractor was a mule and his delivery truck was a hand- pulled wooden cart from which he sold his very nice vegetables for our plates.

Whether he realized it or not, he was a great teacher of the really important things of life. He taught me reverence for others, humility, courage, perseverance, and, along with many useful and practical things, thankfulness. I can't remember now a single word he said, though, because how and what he taught me was in the way he showed me that I mattered.

Brown was always an old man to me. His body and clothes had the fragrance of aged spices and wood smoke. Life and many years of hard tilling of the earth had left him stooped, with callused hands, and a limp. It's funny how the passage of these many years since his death has not dulled but rather clarified what is certainly my love and appreciation of the old man. In my mind's eye, I am still following behind him and the mule, relishing the smell of freshly turned rows of rich soil and looking forward not only to the next day but to the next few weeks when the fields would be covered with vibrant new growth. I think that's when he taught me to be an optimist.

He taught me how to prime the hand pump out back, and I was always amazed at how cold the water was that gushed out from far below. In that water, we washed the vegetables before bunching them for sale. That's when he taught me to be generous.

At midday, I would eat with him sitting on the steps of his cook shed - he had to cut down a bit on the hot pepper sauce for me. That shed with the dried spices hanging from the rafters and his ability to create such culinary alchemy was magical to me. I think that surely influenced my eventual interests in pharmacy and cooking.

Maybe it was because he had no remaining family of his own, but I think he felt protective toward me. One time he even threw himself between me and another white boy threateningly aiming a BB gun at my face.

It is during the season of fall when I reminiscence the most about Brown - I never knew his first name. It is the time of year when the chill of evening was settling on his fields, when smoke from cook stoves and burning leaves hovered close to the ground, when flitting birds and hopping rabbits were heading home for the night. There was a stillness, a sacred presence there. For me and Brown, if for no one else, it was holy ground.

It has been around sixty years since Brown died.  I was puzzled the morning I went over to his house to find several black men all dressed in dark suits sitting with Brown who was lying on his couch.  I didn't realize that they had come to be with him as he passed, and I didn't know that his feeble wave was not one of "hello" but of "goodbye."  You see, those were the deacons of the church of which Brown was pastor and I was Jimmy, the little boy God had been speaking to through my old friend.

from Pecan Road (memoirs)

- Jim Flanagan

The late comedian Brother Dave Gardner used to tell a story about a motorcycle rider named Chuck and his girlfriend Baby.  In the story, Chuck bragged that he knew what was in every book in every library in the world.  When Baby asked what that was, Chuck replied that it was words.  Baby thought that Chuck was wise.  But it was clear to Brother Dave's listeners that Chuck didn't know the words in the books in the libraries, and he didn't know what they meant.

Through the ages, God gave his people words to tell them how to live.  But most of them, most of the time, did not live according to his word.  Maybe they just didn't want to.  But maybe it was because they didn't know the words or they simply didn't understand the words.

When Jesus was born in Bethlehem, the Word was made flesh.  As Jesus lived and died, he showed us how God intended for us to live.  He fed the hungry.  He healed the sick.  He forgave others.  He lived unselfishly.  But mostly he loved God and fellow man.

The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.  Even if we don't always understand the words, we can look to the example Jesus set for us.  Jesus showed us how to live the way God intended.

- Rebecca McClain

Each year when in Advent we set up the crèche

We're reminded again how the Word became flesh,

For there in the manger a baby we lay ─

A baby whose role was to show us the way.

The world God created was in quite a mess,

But rather than curse, God continued to bless.

In form of an infant so helpless and small

God came to the earth to be Savior of all.

Can we comprehend when we look at that baby

That God had a plan and that maybe, just maybe,

That plan could extend to each being on earth,

And help us find value in each other's worth?

Not that each babe is "the Word become flesh,"

But each one is special, and starts life out fresh.

We must be examples of how they should grow,

For actions speak louder than words - this we know.

If we love all children regardless of race,

We might then be able to understand grace.

If we listen closely to voices of youth,

We might then be able to understand truth.

If we give encouragement rather than scathe,

We might then be able to understand faith.

If welcoming strangers caused no controversy,

We might then be able to understand mercy.

So as children grow, let's continue to bless them,

Encourage their dreams instead of repress them.

Each youngster's uniqueness could blossom and flourish;

Their creative talents then be ours to nourish.

I guess what I'm trying to say is just this:
The Word became flesh, so we surely can't miss
Our chance to be all that God made us to be,
And pray for the day of one world family.
This Advent I hope we'll take time to reflect

On whether we treat everyone with respect.

We all are God's children, so what better reason

To flesh out the words we recall in this season?

If basics are offered to each girl and boy,

They might then be able to comprehend joy.

If when they are struggling, we help youth to cope,

They might then be able to comprehend hope.

If we shape their world so that all war will cease,

They might then be able to comprehend peace.

If we place the needs of all others above,

They might then be able to comprehend love.

And love is the basis of all that we do,

So I challenge myself, and I challenge you -

In all flesh around us to look for the Word,

And through our own living let that Word be heard.

- James Richardson