I’ve been on the road today, attending the funeral of an aunt who passed away on Thursday. She had been quite ill in her final days, and as she was a believer, we rejoice that she has now gone home. She left behind a husband, two children, and six grandchildren, who we pray will be comforted in her absence.

      Precious in the sight of the Lord
      Is the death of His godly ones.
                          —Psalm 116:15

These are a few of my favorite Christmas hymns. They are lesser known than many others, which may be part of their appeal to me. I am pretty sure I have never sung them in a worship service. Links open videos in popup windows.

In the Bleak Midwinter

Text: Christina G. Rossetti, 1830-1894

Music: Gustav Holst, 1874-1934

Tune: Cranham

Meter: Irregular

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;

heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;

but his mother only, in her maiden bliss,

worshiped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

yet what I can give him: give my heart.

Of the Father’s Love Begotten

Text: Aurelius Clemens Prudentius (348-405)

Music: Plainsong, 13th century

Tune: Divinum Mysterium

Meter: 8.7.8.7.8.7.7.

Of the Father’s love begotten, ere the worlds began to be,

He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending He,

Of the things that are, that have been,

And that future years shall see, evermore and evermore!

At His Word the worlds were framèd; He commanded; it was done:

Heaven and earth and depths of ocean in their threefold order one;

All that grows beneath the shining

Of the moon and burning sun, evermore and evermore!

He is found in human fashion, death and sorrow here to know,

That the race of Adam’s children doomed by law to endless woe,

May not henceforth die and perish

In the dreadful gulf below, evermore and evermore!

O that birth forever blessèd, when the virgin, full of grace,

By the Holy Ghost conceiving, bare the Savior of our race;

And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,

First revealed His sacred face, evermore and evermore!

This is He Whom seers in old time chanted of with one accord;

Whom the voices of the prophets promised in their faithful word;

Now He shines, the long expected,

Let creation praise its Lord, evermore and evermore!

O ye heights of heaven adore Him; angel hosts, His praises sing;

Powers, dominions, bow before Him, and extol our God and King!

Let no tongue on earth be silent,

Every voice in concert sing, evermore and evermore!

Righteous judge of souls departed, righteous King of them that live,

On the Father’s throne exalted none in might with Thee may strive;

Who at last in vengeance coming

Sinners from Thy face shalt drive, evermore and evermore!

Thee let old men, thee let young men, thee let boys in chorus sing;

Matrons, virgins, little maidens, with glad voices answering:

Let their guileless songs re-echo,

And the heart its music bring, evermore and evermore!

Christ, to Thee with God the Father, and, O Holy Ghost, to Thee,

Hymn and chant with high thanksgiving, and unwearied praises be:

Honor, glory, and dominion,

And eternal victory, evermore and evermore!

I Wonder as I Wander

Text: Appalachian carol

Music: John Jacob Niles

Tune: I Wonder as I Wander

Meter: Irregular

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,

How Jesus the Savior did come for to die.

For poor orn’ry people like you and like I;

I wonder as I wander out under the sky.

When Mary birthed Jesus ’twas in a cow’s stall,

With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all.

But high from God’s heaven a star’s light did fall,

And the promise of ages it then did recall.

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,

A star in the sky, or a bird on the wing,

Or all of God's angels in heav’n for to sing,

He surely could have it, for he was the King.

Lo! How a Rose E’er Blooming

Text: German carol, 16th century

Music: Geistliche Kirkengesäng, Cologne, 1599; harmonized by Michael Prætorius

Tune: Es Ist Ein’ Ros’

Meter: 7.6.7.6.6.7.6.

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung,

Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung.

It came, a flow’ret bright, amid the cold of winter,

When half-spent was the night.

Isaiah ’twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;

With Mary we behold it, the virgin mother kind.

To show God’s love aright, she bore to men a Savior,

When half-spent was the night.

The shepherds heard the story, proclaimed by angels bright,

How Christ, the Lord of glory, was born on earth this night.

To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger found him,

As angel heralds said.

This flow’r, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,

Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness ev’rywhere.

True man, yet very God; from sin and death he saves us

And lightens ev’ry load.

O Savior, child of Mary, who felt our human woe;

O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know,

Bring us at length, we pray, to the bright courts of heaven

And to the endless day.

on the cor anglais (English horn) and organ,

the guitar,

and a rather unusual chorale arrangement

Tune: Picardy

Meter: 8.7.8.7.8.7.

Let all mortal flesh keep silence,

And with fear and trembling stand;

Ponder nothing earthly minded,

For with blessing in His hand,

Christ our God to earth descendeth,

Our full homage to demand.

King of kings, yet born of Mary,

As of old on earth He stood,

Lord of lords, in human vesture,

In the body and the blood;

He will give to all the faithful

His own self for heavenly food.

Rank on rank the host of heaven

Spreads its vanguard on the way,

As the Light of light descendeth

From the realms of endless day,

That the powers of hell may vanish

As the darkness clears away.

At His feet the six wingèd seraph,

Cherubim with sleepless eye,

Veil their faces to the presence,

As with ceaseless voice they cry:

Alleluia, Alleluia

Alleluia, Lord Most High!

When Will My Heart Arise

(Traditional / Bjerkestrand / Graham)

On this glad Christmas morning

When will my heart arise?

The dew will rise the dawning

The sun rise to the skies

Oh Jesu, while you're sleeping

The whole world sings its joys

But I am filled with weeping

When will my heart arise?

I am the thorns that crowned you

I am the whips that scourge

I am the chains that bound you

Who all my sins did purge

I am the cross you shoulder

A cross that crucified

Against your tongue the boulder

When will my heart arise?

I heed here by your manger

Oh blessed winter child

Pray, do not turn this stranger

Into the winter wild

I kneel here for forgiveness

And all my sins despise

Forgive me gentle baby

Then will my heart arise

Christmas Eve is sacred night in our household. It is the one night we will, under no circumstances, alter our tradition. We will not leave home for any reason, and we will not be blogging. You may join us, if you wish, here. Tomorrow I’m going to post a few of my favorite Christmas hymns. I’ll bet very few of you will be singing any of them in church this year.

This Thanksgiving Day, I break from the weekly schedule* to reflect on the goodness of God. I have so much to be thankful for. First, I’m thankful that he saved me, and for all that is consequential to that one cataclysmic event. Second, that I obtained favor from the Lord†, and all that is consequential to that.

I think that covers everything of real importance.

Yesterday my wife and I joined the church we’ve been attending. This is the testimony I presented to the congregation. A previously-written, and quite different version, can be found here.

I haven’t shared my testimony publicly in this way very many times. Of the times I have, when I look back and remember what I have said, it occurs to me that most of what I have said has been about me. That ought not be the case, and I am going to try to avoid that this time; because my testimony is not primarily about me. It is primarily about God. God is the main character in my story, and the mover behind the various minor players.

God has been gracious to send people into my life and use them to bring me the gospel. In my earliest years, I was given wise and godly Sunday school teachers. I thank God for the example of my mother, whom I frequently saw — and who still can be seen — sitting with her Bible, always with a notebook at hand, writing copious notes. He sent me friends whose lives made me want to know God, even while I resisted him.

I don’t know when God saved me. I know the general time frame in which I began to receive assurance of salvation, which is now more than twenty years ago. Because of some rather confused theology in the churches I grew up in, I had a difficult time gaining that assurance. That’s not particularly important. What is important, and what I do know, is how God saved me. Ephesians 2 says,

1 And you were dead in your trespasses and sins,  2 in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience.  3 Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.  4 But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us,  5 even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved),  6 and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,  7 so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.  8 For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God;  9 not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.

I have done nothing; God has done it all. It was God who chose me before the foundation of the world according to his good pleasure (Ephesians 1). It was God who sent the gospel to me, who convicted me of my sin, called me to faith in Christ, gave me the gift of faith (Ephesians 2), granted me repentance (2 Timothy 2), and gave me the understanding to discern the things of God (1 Corinthians 2). It was God who adopted me as his son (Romans 8, Galatians 4, Ephesians 5), and made me a joint-heir (Romans 8) with his only natural son, Jesus Christ. It was God who gave me a new nature (2 Corinthians 5), so that I would hate my sin, and love him and his Word. And it is God who continues to work in me, “both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Philippians 2). Finally, it is God who has promised to perfect the good work he has begun in me (Philippians 1) and to glorify me with him (Romans 8).

I was conceived and born in sin. I had no ability or inclination to choose Christ, accept Christ, make a decision for Christ, or any other phrase you may have heard or used to describe conversion. I was an enemy of God, a rebel, concerned only with my own pleasure and well-being. As much as I would like to diminish my role in this story, there is one way in which I was very actively involved. I actively hated God and loved myself. But God loved me, and saved me. Just as he called Lazarus out of the grave, he called me from mine; and just as Lazarus could not raise himself from the dead, neither could I raise myself.

I am not saved because I have accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I am saved because God, in Christ, by his perfect righteousness and his death for my unrighteousness, has made me acceptable to him. He has not accepted me because I have accepted him. My acceptance of him is a consequence, not a cause, of his acceptance of me. I have accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior because God has accepted me in Christ.

Because of Christ, God doesn’t see me as the sinner I am. He sees me covered with Christ’s righteousness. And in that same way, I hope when you hear [or read] this testimony, it causes you to see not me, but the glory of God in Christ.

This is not Myspace. I just wanted to get that cleared up right away, as I’m going to do something I seldom do: ramble about my exceedingly mundane life.

I got up yesterday, came to my office, and posted to the blog at 7:26 AM, according to the time on the post. Then, cup of coffee at hand, I did my Bible reading. I’m reading Romans this month. It takes a little less than an hour every day to read it through.

Then I went to the dentist. I don’t really mind going to the dentist. Pain doesn’t bother me much; if I can survive the initial shot of Novocain, I’m alright. The real pain comes through speakers in the ceiling. Forty-five minutes of Lionel Ritchie is a lot to endure. “Hello — is it me you’re looking for?” No, Lionel, it’s not; now shut up. I hate morning appointments. They really mess up my day; it’s hard to get going on anything in the afternoon if I don’t get a good start in the morning.

I decided to spend the afternoon fiddling around with some small projects, some important, most not. I needed to wash Lionel out of my ears, so I started up Musicmatch Jukebox. I’ve become a big fan of audio Bibles, and have several translations, so I put up a playlist of — what else? — Romans. It’s the book of Romans in six different translations, interspersed with music. It’s twelve hours long, so, because of the late start, I didn’t get through it all yesterday. In case you care, and I haven’t bored you to death already, it goes like this:

• Romans, 1599 Geneva
• Celtic Hymns
• Romans, KJV
• Christopher Parkening, Simple Gifts
• Romans, NKJV
• Christopher Parkening, Grace Like a River
• Romans, ASV
• Paul S. Jones & the Westminster Brass, Praise God in His Sanctuary
• Romans, NASB
• Paul S. Jones, Impromptu: Meditative Hymn Improvisations
• Romans, ESV
• Handel, Messiah

My wife made some really good beer-battered fish (now that I think of it, I didn’t even ask what kind of fish) for supper. Later, before going to bed, we watched an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Now, wasn’t that just fascinating?

Sheepish Brian has tagged me with one of those meme things. I’m supposed to tell you “seven things about myself that you don’t know about me.” Number one would be that I absolutely cannot resist pointing out the lousy structure of that phrase, except that I think I’ve already mentioned my grammar correction compulsion. I really couldn’t think of anything interesting, so here are seven mundane things you probably don’t know about me.

1. I eat Cheetos with a fork.
2. I’ve attended Baptist worship services twice in my life. They were two different churches on consecutive Sundays while looking for a new church. I haven’t been in a Baptist church since.
3. My favorite chip & dip combination is Pringles Jalapeño with plain sour cream. You can‘t eat Pringles with a fork, or I would.
4. I write two or three articles for every original one I actually post. I abandon two or three for every one I finish. Some frequently-posting bloggers affirm my feeling that this is a good thing.
5. I don’t shave my legs. I don’t actually understand why anyone does.
6. I’ve been to both coasts and two Canadian provinces, but I’ve never been south of Waterloo, Iowa.
7. I’m more handsome than I appear.

There you go: seven things you probably didn’t know about me — like you care.

Because all work and no play makes David a dull(er) boy . . .

Because I’ve always wanted to do this, and now I can . . .

Because my three sons need the education . . .

Because my wife told me to . . .

And because the esteemed Pastor Garry Weaver can’t have all the fun . . .

My apologies to the majority of you who have no idea of what this is about or why anyone would care. The few of us who do get it get very excited about these things! That aluminum intake manifold is a genuine original ’69 Ford muscle part, somewhat hard to find — kind of like Reformed Theology for engines. B-b-b-b-r-r-ooom . . . b-b-b-b-r-r-ooom . . . b-b-b-b-r-r-ooom . . .

I'm making engine noises as I type. I can't help it.

My wife kept saying we needed a pickup so we could stop hauling stuff in her minivan. I call it her minivan because no real man owns a minivan. At the same time, my sixteen-year-old son was determined that he needed a truck himself. He went online looking for deals. While I was discouraging him from blowing his hard-earned money on a vehicle he did not, in fact, actually need, I let him show me what he found. Then, when he found a nice '68 F100 with a good-running 302 (my favorite engine), I swooped down like a vulture and snapped it up myself.

Here it is:

It's in good working condition as is, but it's begging for some major modifications and paint. The details are top-secret, of course, but when I'm done, that guy from Amazing Grace and Old Codgers is invited to bring the Chevy of his choice for a late-night drag race.

Incidently, my son found a sweet old ride of his own, a '70 Galaxie with a 351, so everyone's happy.

I’m going to kill two birds with one 12-gauge light target load. First, Jen posted a quote from G.K. Chesterton that highlights a sad literary truth: “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” Hard to believe, isn’t it? Sure, there may be a verse or two on cheese hidden away somewhere in a Shel Silverstein book, but I’m afraid this beautiful gift has been almost entirely, inexplicably, overlooked by the poets. I aim to rectify that.

Second, Brian, the sheepish one, has tagged me with one of those meme things. I reserve the right to arbitrarily choose to participate or not in any meme. Participation in this meme does not obligate me participate in any others. So there. So, here you go: cheese (or cheesy) poetry and 7 things that others may not know about me.

Cheese Couplets

Colby is fine, but what I like better
Is the lovely bouquet of extra-sharp cheddar.

For a good, tasty snack that will never miss,
Try a nice dunkel bier and a platter of Swiss.

My lips smack
When I eat Pepper Jack.

Grab a sheep and pull and squeeze—
That’s what it takes to make Bleu cheese.

Though Muenster cheese may sound quite German,
It’s American, like Munster (Herman).

Feta is a royal treat,
Although it smells a lot like feet.

When cheese smells bad, it means that it’s good—
I’d say that of my verses, if only I could.

7 Things about Me that You Might not Know

1. I scored high on my driver’s license and hunter’s safety tests. The rest of my academic record is a wreck. In spite of my lack of formal education, I am a grammar tyrant. If you use the word “like” improperly, I might correct you — even if you’re in the middle of a sermon. I even appreciate it when others correct my grammar, spelling, & punctuation. I also love math. I admire those guys who memorize π to a bunch of decimal places. Off-hand, I can do 3.141592. I’m such a nerd that I actually use all those digits when I do geometry.
2. Six of my eight children were born at home. I delivered four of them myself. My wife helped a little. She came in pretty handy.
3. I have worked with dairy, swine, and beef. Pigs are smarter than cows. Cows are smarter than sheep. Sheep are smarter than Democrats. Democrats are smarter than straw bales. I have also worked in construction. Straw bales are smarter than drywall hangers.
4. I‘ve been busted for drag racing on the highway. When I told my story — “We weren’t racing, I was just passing” — the judge laughed out loud. I was passing. Unfortunately, I was in the right lane.
5. I’ve only been kissed by two women other than my wife. The first was my boss’s wife at a New Year’s Eve party. I never saw it coming. The second was a girl in a bar in Glasgow, Montana, who found out it was my birthday. I’m pretty sure she had thrown up recently. My kissing experiences after that have been much better.
6. Andrea Bocelli is my favorite tenor. Christopher Parkening is my favorite guitarist. Yet I have a few Hank Williams tracks on my computer.
7. My rugged good looks are only rivaled by my poetic skill.

There you go. Am I not a wonder to behold?

My testimony is no doubt much like many others, but very unlike most that are shared publicly. I cannot point to a moment in time at which I was saved. All I can say is, “Whereas I was blind, now I see.” Due largely to the confused theology that I was raised on, I cannot say when that was.

I was raised in a very conservative, evangelical Lutheran denomination. Justification was by faith alone, and no question about that. Man was utterly incapable of obtaining salvation through his own efforts. Salvation came by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone. In that, my church was quite orthodox.

Evangelism was a high priority in our denomination. Every year, as well as I can remember, a guest evangelist was invited for a week of evening evangelistic services. This is where the confusion comes in. While the Gospel was faithfully preached (again, this is to the best of my recollection), the call to “receive Christ” was very Arminian. There was always a heavy emphasis on emotional appeals. If the Holy Spirit didn’t move anyone to repentance and faith, the preacher surely would. Consequently, I prayed a “sinner’s prayer” and “asked Jesus to come into my heart” more times than I can remember.

On one of those occasions, I remember asking the evangelist why, when I had gone through all the necessary steps on previous occasions, it hadn’t “stuck”? I had prayed the prayer, and I had really, really meant it, but I hadn’t stayed saved. I was told that I needed to preserve my faith through diligent Bible reading and prayer. I confessed that, although I had begun well, I had gradually slacked off in my devotions and drifted away. He encouraged me to do better this time, and promised that he would remember to pray for me, that my faith would not fail. I remember the man, and met him on several occasions in subsequent years, and I have no doubt that he made that promise in good faith and kept it. Yet, I did fall away as before—which, I now realize, meant I was probably not saved at all.

Now you may ask, was I really not saved, or was I backslidden? How can I say? There is no doubt that I was under conviction of sin. I understood quite clearly that Jesus died in my place for my sin, and that if I confessed my sin and believed on the Lord Jesus Christ, my sin would be forgiven and I would be saved. Perhaps I was truly saved, but I don’t believe I was.

As I grew older, I drifted steadily farther away from the faith I was taught. If I was merely backslidden, it was a long slide. Through my high school years, no one who knew me on a daily basis would have imagined I was a Christian. I certainly did not believe I was, but I had determined to come back—someday, when the cost was not so high, when there was less fun to be had, when it became necessary to get serious about life and eternity. I would buy my ticket before the box office closed. I even told my drinking buddies that I still believed the preaching I was raised with, and that someday I would get seriously religious. They thought that was funny. Perhaps they would have taken me more seriously if I hadn’t been their best source of ribald humor.

Through those years, I continued to put on my saved face for church. I’m sure few people in our small town were fooled, but I didn’t always stay in town. I made a point of attending every Bible Camp I could and going to several retreats put on by our denominational Bible School. I learned to sing and quote Scripture and became reasonably handy at “sharing” around the campfire. I made several friends at those retreats, including one who, it turns out, was playing almost the same game as I. However, God was providentially working on both of us through that time. Twenty-six years after we met at Flathead Lake, Montana, he is still my best friend.

I left home at the earliest possible opportunity and headed for the Twin Cities, not exactly to seek my fortune, but to leave the old town behind, and maybe even the old life. I was undecided, but I thought I might give God a try again. I chose the Twin Cities for two reasons: first, because several of my Bible Camp acquaintances were attending the denominational Bible School in the suburb of Plymouth, west of Minneapolis, and second, because my older sister lived with her husband in New Brighton, north of St. Paul. They had offered me a room if I wanted to come.

I arrived in the Cities in the Fall of 1983. On my way to my sister’s apartment complex, I stopped for gas at a Standard station in Arden Hills. Seeing a “HELP WANTED” sign in the window, I asked for the manager and applied for a job. I was hired on the spot. I had barely enough money to pay for my tank of gas. If you think that was providential, a day or two later, before my first day of work, my thermostat went out and I blew a radiator hose two blocks from the Standard station. I took advantage of my employee discount and free towing before I had even punched in.

As you might expect, “giving God a try” didn’t go so well. It wasn’t long before I was back to my old ways. It was not uncommon for me to be involved in some variety of ungodly behavior with my suburban St. Paul friends on Friday night, and be in church on the Bible School campus in Plymouth on Sunday morning. God would have to wait. A year went by. Then, two events coincided to disrupt my happy, irresponsible existence. I lost my job (one of the few things that I still maintain was not my fault), and my sister got pregnant—we need your room, could you please move out?

I will now skip my adventures as a wandering nomad for several months.

I finally landed in an apartment with some friends who had attended the Bible School, and was working two jobs. I was now thinking seriously about spiritual matters. I was attending church semi-regularly, and I was listening with real interest to the Christians around me, all of whom believed I was one of them. It was not really that they had anything to say that I didn’t already know. I had spent my life immersed in evangelical Christianity and orthodox theology. I understood the Gospel better than some of them. The question that troubled me was, why didn’t it work for me? Why was it real for them, and just knowledge for me?

One Sunday evening I attended church with my best friend from camp days. I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself in the very uncomfortable position in the pew between him and a girl he was sweet on. The service had started, the church was packed, and we were in the second or third pew from the front, so I couldn’t just get up and move. Anyway, because of my discomfort, and because I didn’t think it was a very good sermon, I wasn’t really listening to the preacher. As I sat there, my mind wandering, I began to feel really out of place. The people around me, they belonged there. I did not. Why not? I believed everything I had to believe, and more. I wanted to be a Christian. But what they believed changed them, while I was still the same old sinner. I determined at that moment to be a Christian. I knew it didn’t work that way, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had “gone forward” and prayed a “sinner’s prayer” so many times that it was meaningless. I had, in effect, been vaccinated against salvation.

In the following weeks and months, I read my Bible more or less regularly, and prayed. I doubted that God heard me.

After some time, I began to realize that when I confessed my sins, I really was sorry. It wasn’t just a rote prayer. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. When I gave thanks, I was truly thankful. I loved hearing God speak through Scripture. Wait! God speaks? God speaks! To me!

And just like that, I knew that God had created a clean heart in me. He had granted me repentance. I was a new creature. Like Lazarus, he had called me forth from the grave. All the Scriptures that I had learned in Sunday School applied to me. I believed on the Lord Jesus Christ—I was saved!

When did God breath life into me? I don’t know. Sometime in the Spring or Summer of 1985, I think. All I know is, whereas I was blind, now I see.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, my birthday was on Saturday. I am now twenty-four years old (or some similar combination of integers). I had a carrot cake and got some nice stuff from friends and family. Since you asked, these are a few of my birthday gifts:

	A Scottish Christian Heritage by Iain H. Murray
	Revival and Revivalism by Iain H. Murray
	Contending for Our All: Defending Truth and Treasuring Christ in the Lives of Athanasius, John Owen, and J. Gresham Machen by John Piper
	Bach: Complete Flute Sonatas; Complete Viola da Gamba Sonatas
	Beethoven: Piano Sonatas
	Bach: Brandenburg Concertos; Violin Concertos
	Law & Order - The First Year

Christmas Eve at our house was the same as every year. Click here for a sample.

As much as we hate to see our children grow up, it is always gratifying to see them show signs of maturity. Even better are the times when they encourage one another, a la Hebrews 10:24 (And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works).

Just a couple of days ago, my wife was in my office, probably attempting to provoke me unto good works, when we overheard our eight-year-old son admonish his sister: "You're not four anymore. You're five years old. Start acting like it!"

Yes, we have high hopes for them.

I know, this was one of those Ain't My Kids Cute stories that makes everyone's eyes roll. Sorry, but, well, you know, my kids are cute! At least it wasn't another cat post.

Bloggers who have nothing to say write about their cats. At least that is what I have observed. Today I am writing about my cat. Draw your conclusions as you will.

When we lived in the country, we always had cats. We had to. It was either cats or mice, and we chose cats. Those cats were not pets, they were livestock—not like cattle, because we didn’t eat them, but like horses, because they had a job to do. When we moved to town, we didn’t bring any cats with us.

Then, last week, a kitten walked into the house and decided to stay. This one, I guess, is a pet. Her name is Dagmar. She hasn’t done a lick of work since she arrived, and I doubt she ever will. She sleeps a lot. When she wakes up, two little girls harass her until she makes a break for my office, where she climbs up my leg and promptly falls asleep on my lap. Sometimes she climbs across my keyboard, typing in tongues. I will be reading Charismatic Chaos to her soon. At least she meows in English.

So, now I have blogged about my cat. Can I sink much lower? Well, yes, I suppose I could have posted pictures, but then I would never be able to look in the mirror again, regardless of how devastatingly handsome I am. Here is a cat picture for anyone who cares to see one. It’s not our cat—I wish it was.

I wonder if this is what they call jumping the shark.

It happens every year. Some school teacher tells the truth about the mythical fat man from the North Pole, and parents flip out as though something wrong has been done. Christian parents, whom I would expect to love truth, are often as outraged as the pagans. It has happened again this year. I’m not going to link to the story. I’m sure you can find it if you want. Besides, it’s the same story as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and next year too. Only the names and places have changed.

Now, I agree that it is within the parents’ rights (legally, not morally) to tell their children whatever they want. Let them tell their children that a jolly fat man who lives at the North Pole—there is no land at the North Pole, by the way—makes an annual visit to every good child on the planet via a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer. Let them say that the moon is made of cheese, that they can accomplish anything with enough self-esteem, that global warming is a legitimate threat, and that Ralph Nader would make an excellent President. Parents are certainly entitled to decide what to tell their children, and I am right out front in the battle against anyone who says otherwise. That is why we homeschool.

On the other hand, my right to teach my children whatever I see fit does not translate into an obligation on anyone else to back up my story. I have no right to wax indignant because someone says there is no Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, or Santa Claus.

“But,” you say, “They don’t have to go out of their way to do it. Furthermore, not all truth must be told. Some truth should not be told.” Then you might give an example of crossing the street to tell someone they’re ugly , which is a ridiculous comparison, for a few reasons. First, ugly is subjective. That anyone is ugly is neither true nor false. Second, supposing ugly is a fact, there could never be a good reason for saying so. What kind of person would do that?

Third, and most importantly, it would be highly unusual for anyone to be forced to declare someone to be ugly. Anyone who spends a lot of time with children will inevitably be faced with the necessity of either affirming or denying Santa Claus. Any teacher committed to telling the truth, no matter how studiously he avoids the subject, will eventually have to say, “No, sorry, it’s just a story.” You have no right to object to that, and to expect them to cross their fingers and lie.

Then there are the children who know the truth. Eventually, they learn to avoid the subject and keep quiet. Little kids haven’t learned that, and they don’t have the skill to maneuver through this minefield as adults can. Sometimes, they are just going to blurt out, “There’s no Santa Claus!” There is no malice or guile in that, and I would be ashamed to hear my children say otherwise when they know the truth. Children lose any illusion of innocence far too soon as it is. I will not teach them to lie for any reason.

“But,” you say again, “Surely you tell your children stories; not everything you tell them is technically true.” Yes, we tell stories, and some of them are real whoppers; but we call them fiction. We don’t actually convince our children that there really are trolls living under bridges or pigs that can build houses or bears that eat porridge. We never try to convince them of anything that is not true. The possible example you’re thinking of right now? No. I don’t need to know what it is, the answer is, “No. Absolutely not. Nope; not that, either.”

As aggravating and absolutely wrong as it is to expect complicity in deceit, worse is the scorn that is often heaped upon those who choose to tell their own children the truth. I’m talking about Christians who look down on others for telling their own children the truth. We are stealing joy from our children. We are miserable, dour adults who suck the fun out of Christmas. That attitude is astonishing. First, to be contemptuous of others for telling the truth—for telling the truth!—is audacious beyond description.

Second, to think that the legitimate focus of Christmas is somehow lacking, and that a fairy tale can add anything to the true story of God incarnate, born of virgin, without sin, who lived and died to bear my sin and secure eternal life for me! The true story of the incarnation alone needs a companion fairy tale, or Christmas won’t be fun! Such attitudes are unworthy of Christians.

Tell your children whatever you want. That really is not my concern, or the focus of this article. Your children will probably grow up just fine, although many have testified to the harm done to their faith when they learned the truth about Santa. Just don’t expect complicity from me. Don’t expect sympathy when you throw your temper tantrums over the gall of some teacher who told the truth. Don’t expect an apology when your child discovers that mine doesn’t believe in Santa. You see, if maintaining your deceit requires me to be deceitful too, you’re on your own. If that ruins your Christmas, I’m afraid you’ve missed Christmas anyway.

Like it or not, the majority of our neighbors—yours and mine—call October 31st “Halloween.” Unless you live in an Amish community, you cannot simply ignore it. Even if you choose to ignore it, you cannot do so passively; you must actively avoid it. So what should you do about Halloween? I don’t intend to answer that question; not directly, anyway. I will state a few facts, make a few observations, and tell you what we do and why.

Anyone who examines Halloween thoroughly and honestly must admit that it is, at its core, a celebration of evil. Evil spirits, ghosts (the souls of the dead walking among us), witches—all of these represent the evil (Satanic) side of the supernatural world. Those are the facts of Halloween. Another fact, and one that few think of, is that it is simply unacceptable to knock on a neighbor’s or stranger’s door and demand candy. How that ever got to be an accepted practice among civilized people is beyond me.

In spite of those facts, I grew up with Halloween. I went trick-or-treating. We had Halloween parties—not “harvest celebrations,” “All Saints Day” parties (I’m not recommending that, with all the Catholic baggage it brings), but Halloween parties—complete with scary costumes and paper skeletons. I went out as a vampire. I slicked my hair back and wore a black cape and fangs. On no occasion did I become demon possessed or engage in witchcraft. One year, however, I and my partner in crime did change costumes and hit every house in town twice. An early start, a good plan, and a very small town made that possible. All in all, Halloween was just good, clean fun, and no harm done. I see no reason to believe it is much different today. Yet we do not now participate in Halloween.

Our kids do not trick-or-treat, and we do not have Halloween parties, for the reasons stated in the second paragraph of this article. The axiom “no harm, no foul” does not apply in our home. It is a matter of principle. However, while we can choose not to actively participate, we do not have the option of ignoring Halloween. Let’s consider a few of our options:

1. Leave home, go to the mall (not really an option here in God's country), go anywhere so we’re not home when those pesky kids come to the door. I suppose this is an acceptable option, but really, what are we accomplishing by allowing a mostly benign custom to drive us from our homes?
2. Shut off the lights and sit in the basement watching movies (or something), pretending we’re not home. I agree with Tim Challies that this presents a poor witness. Not that I think answering the door and handing out candy is a particularly good witness; after all, every infidel in town is doing the same thing. There is no positive witness in handing out candy. However, there is definitely a negative witness in ignoring people who come to our doors.
3. What we do: stay home, answer the door, be friendly, hand out candy, eat candy, have fun, and don’t waste any time thinking about how much more righteous we are than those horrible parents whose kids are ringing our doorbell—because we’re not. Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t say our choice is not more right than theirs—why else would we do it?—but right does not equal righteous.

This October 31st, we will be remembering the Reformation by going around town nailing ninety-five theses to every door in town. Each child gets a hammer, a nail apron, and . . . No, seriously, we will be at home watching Martin Luther (1953), spilling popcorn on the floor, and generally having fun. I might get this one and make it a double feature. At some point, someone will express the hope that not too many more trick-or-treaters come so there will be lots of candy left over. That someone might even be me. It really doesn’t matter, though, because we will surely buy more as it goes on sale November 1st. Nope, that doesn’t make me a hypocrite. Not at all.

This week, Pulpit Magazine began a series of posts on “Lordship Salvation” taken from the writings of Pastor John MacArthur on that subject. Today, they republished a 2003 article titled A 15-Year Retrospective on the Lordship Controversy, which begins by noting that it was fifteen years (now eighteen) earlier that MacArthur’s The Gospel According to Jesus was published. The article gives a brief discussion of the nature of the controversy, and why a correct view of the lordship of Christ is so important to our Soteriology.

The Pulpit article caused me to do a retrospective of my own. I remember very well when The Gospel According to Jesus was published. I was newly married and living in Fridley, Minnesota. I was driving a delivery van for a formal wear company, which gave me the opportunity to listen to the radio most of the day as I made my rounds around the Twin Cities and surrounding area.

It was during this time that I was introduced to John MacArthur through the Grace to You radio broadcast. MacArthur was the first genuine expository preacher I had ever encountered, and it wasn’t long before I was hooked on Grace to You. I was no undiscerning listener, though. I had mentioned MacArthur to some friends from the Lutheran Bible School I had attended, and one of them had warned me that he was a Calvinist. I had not heard any overtly Calvinist teaching on Grace to You, but I was on guard lest I be taken in by that heresy.

The first point of doctrine that impressed me while listening to Grace to You was MacArthur’s conviction that salvation was more than a pardon from damnation. A redeemed sinner cannot continue in sin. The “carnal Christian” is a myth. The Gospel According to Jesus completely changed my perspective on so-called “Free Grace” Theology. My opposition to this absurd heresy had formerly been legalistic. To think that one could be saved and still do whatever he wanted was repugnant. Although I affirmed that salvation was by grace alone, there was a sense in which I believed that salvation was contingent upon obedience. I would have denied it, but I really believed that we are saved by grace, and kept, at least in part, by works. I think things through slowly, and do not usually change my mind quickly (I regret the times that I have, as I have been wrong in almost every case), so it took me longer than just reading this book for the truth to sink in. I eventually came to understand that a true believer lives obediently not out of obligation, but because his desires have been changed. He is being conformed to the image of Christ, not by his own effort, but by “God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Phillipians2:13).

As much as I appreciated MacArthur’s expositions of Scripture and his stand against the antinomianism of the “Free Grace” movement, I remained on guard against any sneaky Calvinism that might creep into my thinking. I still have my first-edition hardcover copy of The Gospel According to Jesus, with one paragraph marked where he snuck in his belief in eternal security. I was greatly disappointed, since the rest of the book was so good.

Over a period of at least ten years, as I listened to Grace to You, read MacArthur’s books and study guides, increased my study of other theological sources (often frustrating my wife with wild spending at the bookstore), and searching the Scriptures “to see whether these things were so,” I learned two things. First, I learned that I had been right. Calvinism as I understood it is heresy. Second, I learned that I had been wrong. Arminianism is serious error, and some of what I had believed was heresy. Third, I began to see that genuine Calvinism is no less than Biblical Systematic Soteriology; but it would still be a few years before I would understand that completely and be willing to say so out loud.

In fact, there are some points that I have only recently come to terms with, and others that I know I never will. I am convinced that many of the debates over the finer points of Calvinist Soteriology are attempts to answer the unanswerable. The more I see of these discussions, the less they interest me.

To conclude these somewhat rambling thoughts, the Pulpit Magazine series on “Lordship Salvation” takes me back to a major turning point in my life. The Gospel According to Jesus on my shelf is a memorial to the day in my life when I really began to pursue theology seriously. Since then I have read many other books, including many that are better and more important, but The Gospel According to Jesus is the one that started it all. And I reached that turning point because I was working a low paying, dead end job that allowed me to listen to the radio all day.

I stumbled onto this link somewhere, and... well, I don't normally do things like this, but after my eschatology post last week, I thought maybe I should stick with something more on my level. Anyway, it was kind of fun for about five minutes, and it turned out about how I expected.

I don't know where the 10% Yankee comes from. It must have been that weekend I spent in New Hampshire & Massachusetts a few years ago, although the pastor of the church we visited was from Minnesota.

I'm especially proud of that 0% Dixie. Sorry, Phillip, Jason & Scott, Steve, and Jeremy. I still like listening to your sermons. Substance over style, you know. I wonder who else I've offended? Probably Jonathan, but I've never actually heard his voice, so I'm just guessing.

My apologies as well to all you blokes and blokettes (or whatever the proper vernacular is) that are no doubt feeling quite left out. The quiz just wasn't multi-cultural enough, was it?*

Updated - scroll down.

The school year has begun, and we are having fun. As home educators, we are able to entirely avoid all the problems faced by public school teachers and students. We always have a flawless lesson plan that anticipates every difficulty our students will have, and are ready with imediate solutions to those problems. Our students are unlike any public school students. They rise early each morning, eager to to explore new horizons in education. The never complain, except occasionally at the end of the day, when they sadly put their books neatly away, fondly carressing them as they long for the beginning of a new day.

That is how it is at our house. However, we have some (ahem) friends who don't do so well. One of their sons is having difficulty with his algebra, and my friend is struggling a bit with it himself. The problems they are having are not insurmountable, but, as is often the case, motivation is lacking. My son My friend's son asks the same question we have all asked at one time or another: "When am I ever going to use this?" (Actually, what he says is, "This is stupid! I'm never going to use this [mildly inappropriate noun]! Aaaagh!")

Normally, I have a clear, well-prepared answer for everything. I confess, however, that when my son my friend told me of his son's outburst, I was stumped. My professional background is in agriculture (primarily livestock) and construction, and I know very well the value of basic algebra and geometry. I have used them nearly every day of my life. However, I cannot imagine a real world use for many of the things I teach. This is where I call on you for help. Can you give me a real world example of the use of:

1. Negative exponents
2. 0 exponents
3. Absolute value (|-x| = x)

Why do we do these things? Can you tell me? My friend and I will both appreciate it.

Update:
Michael Beasley offered a few examples.
Matt Gumm shared this helpful link.

Thank you, gentlemen!

I was probably about ten or twelve years old when I became aware of the “social gospel”. I learned that some churches were no longer preaching the Gospel of the salvation of hopelessly sinful men from the power of sin and Hell. They were preaching a gospel of redemption from social and economic inequities which, they said, were clearly the fault of anti-Christian capitalist economic policies. According to the social gospel, Jesus did not come to reconcile man to God, but to eliminate oppression of the poor. If there are any Democrats reading this, you can relax. That “social gospel” is not what I am writing about today.

This social gospel is concerned with our everyday business dealings and the spreading of the true Gospel, and how they are connected. My goal is to convince you to do business as close to home as possible, regardless of the cost. While I can build the case for doing this on economic reasons alone, showing how we all would benefit from it, I will confine my arguments to the spiritual implications of our business practices. How do we impact the kingdom of God through our day-to-day transactions?

I want to make it clear that I am not insensitive to those who find it necessary to economize due to the number of mouths they are feeding and limited cash flow. I fit that category myself, well enough to say that unless you are living in the most desperate poverty, what I have to say about this applies to you.

The current view of evangelism seems to be that evangelism is primarily a church activity – get unbelievers sitting in pews, where they can hear the Gospel. This view not only usurps the legitimate purpose of our assembling together, it lets us off the hook in regard to our responsibility in evangelism. Evangelism is not a profession; it is the calling of every Christian. It takes place as we interact with the people God has placed within our sphere of influence.

Many Christians have effectively removed themselves from a position of influence in their own community by going elsewhere to do business. They can save money by going to a bigger city where there are lower prices; so they hand their money to a stranger, whom they may never see again, in order to save a few bucks. This practice is baptized by calling it “wise stewardship”. I don’t want to minimize the importance of stewardship, but I ask, is God more concerned about how we spend his money, or how we interact with people? Does your good stewardship have the effect of limiting your relationships to the members of your church, and others in your immediate circle of friends?

Allow me to illustrate my point with a personal example. When I have a building project, I can save a considerable sum of money by going out of town to a large, impersonal building supply chain store. I could buy literally everything necessary to build an entire house, excluding the concrete, in one place at significantly discounted prices. Not only would that would be good stewardship, it would make sense, since I have to go there anyway to get the items that my local lumber yard and hardware don’t carry. It would benefit me personally by leaving more money in my pocket. Honestly, I can’t think of a single practical reason not to do business that way.

When I go to my local store, I pay higher prices for a smaller selection of products, but I have personal contact with the owner and employees. They know my name, and remember the last time I was in. We converse about everyday things going on in our lives. They ask me about my life, and I tell them how things are going, and vice verse. If I can develop a relationship with them, even just a casual one, I may eventually have the opportunity to share some Biblical truth with them. At my local hardware store, I have made a point of asking the owner if he can get items that are not in stock. When he suggests that Bigstore in Bigtown probably has it, I tell him, “I know, but I wanted to buy it here, if I could.” He appreciates that, and it opens the door wider for future witnessing possibilities.

There are practical limits, of course. I recently had to buy a car. There is only one automobile dealership in our small town. I could have driven to Bigtown, where there are several dealerships, but I made the decision to buy local, if they had a car that met our needs. It turned out that they did, and at a reasonable price. However, if that one dealer had been a Mercedes or Ferrari dealer, I probably would have to have gone elsewhere.

This policy costs money, and I realize that you can’t spend dollars that you don’t have; but every dollar you now have is a dollar that you previously did not have. If we commit to spending every dollar we have for the glory of God, the dollars will be there. After all, if we’re honest, we must admit that our wealth is not ultimately the result of our intelligence or hard work. It is a gift from our sovereign God, out of his loving provision for us.

So, I went from here to here, and thought, "Who cares? What kind of geek actually reads this stuff?" Twenty minutes later, I realized I was.

Am I a nerd?

I just had an interesting conversation with daughter #5 (5 years old).

"We can't go out naked," she informed me, as if I might be considering it.

"No, that's right, we can't go outside naked," I agreed. "We have to get dressed first."

"But cats are outside naked."

Yes, cats can, but people can't."

"'Cause then they would be all cold."

"Yes, they would be cold, but that's not..."

"In the Summer, they can," she replied, and ran from the room before I could answer.

I suppose I'll have to finish that sentence one day.

Today is my wife's birthday.

Since I never withhold anything she desires, it becomes more difficult every year to get her something she doesn't already have. I pretty much let her go to the store whenever she can give me a couple of iron-clad reasons why she absolutely has to. So I made a list. Then I went down the list, hoping to find something, anything, that was lacking:

House - check.

Car - check.

Extra set of every-day clothes - check.

A Sunday outfit, complete with those silly shoes - check.

A couple of do-dads for when she wants to look extra-pretty - check.

Do you see what I mean? What am I supposed to do? Well, I came up with something. I mean something good. I knocked the mark-up on all the fine, doctrinally sound Thirsty Theologian merchandise down to 0%. I'm going to let her pick out anything she wants and buy it for cost. I'll probably leave it marked down like that for the rest of the month so she can take her time, because I know it will be tough to choose.

Happy birthday, Honey! Nothing's to good for you!

Last night, daughter #4, age 6, gave thanks for supper. She said,

Dear God, Thank you very, very much for this food. Please help the kids to stop running away from school* so they can learn stuff and not grow up to be idiots. Thank you very, very much for the house and all our stuff and thank you very, very much for our parents. Amen.

She had a straight face and showed no indication that the “idiots” petition was a joke. That’s right, I peeked. I couldn’t help it. I also pray that payer – I just use different words.

If you’ve come looking for a Saturday Stupidity joke, I’m sorry; there won’t be one today. We have experienced a tragedy in our family. We are very shaken by events that took place in our home last evening, but at the same time, we are grateful that we were spared a far greater tragedy. I am particularly unsettled because my own foolishness was the cause of it all.

I usually am not a risk-taker, but yesterday I took a very stupid chance. We were having a few people from church over for supper, and my wife was stir-frying Chinese. She had all her ingredients together, and I was helping to cut vegetables, when she discovered that she had forgotten the mushrooms. I ran out to the grocery store to buy some, but they were out. My wife was pretty annoyed, so I made a suggestion. We have had a very mild Winter here, and a warm Spring, so things are starting to grow. We have a corner in our backyard amongst some trees that gets very little sunlight. I had noticed a patch of mushrooms growing there a few days earlier, so I suggested we try them. She agreed, and I went out and picked them.

While I was washing the mushrooms, my wife asked if this was really a good idea, as some wild mushrooms are poisonous. I was pretty sure they weren’t, but to satisfy her, I fed some to the dog with a little left-over gravy. She was not pleased with that idea, but after a couple of hours the dog seemed fine, so she decided to use them.

We were visiting after supper when a neighbor came to our door, looking very upset. He said he had found our dog lying dead out front. My heart nearly stopped. I hurried to the phone and dialed the poison hotline. I was told to get everyone in to the emergency room immediately, which I did.

To make a long story short, the evening ended with my wife and I and six guests getting our stomachs pumped (an absolutely horrible experience), and our dog dead. Thank God we had sent the kids to a sitter for the evening.

I was taking the trash out this morning when my neighbor walked across the street to say how sorry he was about the dog. “I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “That guy that ran over your dog never even stopped.”

This year I am reading through the Bible on a schedule for the first time. I have read the Bible more than once and most of it several times, but I have never before made a point of reading all of it in one year. The only scheduled reading I do is one chapter per day from the Old Testament Wisdom books. I am continuing that as well.

I have looked at various reading schedules, but I haven't liked any of them because they split the reading into small portions of the different parts of Scripture, destroying continuity and context. The least problematic are those that simply split the daily reading between Old & New Testaments. That scheme works fairly well, I think. Others call for daily readings from the Old & New Testaments and Psalms & Proverbs. Worse, some plans give readings from The Old Testament, Psalms & Proverbs, the Gospels, and the Epistles. I once found one that had further divisions such as Historical, Poetic, Major Prophets, Minor Prophets, etc. I wanted something simpler, so I made my own schedule.

My plan is nothing if not simple. It will take me straight through the Bible from Genesis to Revelation in 344 days, finishing on December 10th. Why not 365 days? Figuring it out to 365 days would have been too complicated. I took my favorite bible, noted the number of pages of actual Scripture (1280), and divided by 365. That gave me 3½ pages per day. I rounded that up to four pages, and went through the Bible and wrote down the last chapter heading on every fourth page. Each day’s reading takes me through that chapter.

I did adjust the daily readings a little. For example, when a day’s reading crossed from one book into another, I cut it off at the end of the book. Then, If that day was reduced to only one chapter, I moved a chapter over from the previous day. Psalm 119 crossed over into two days. 1st, 2nd, 3rd John and Jude were each assigned to separate days even though they weren’t separate originally.

Today’s reading is the book of Ruth. At first sight, Ruth seems rather incidental. Of course, it contains an account of God's providence and sovereign control in the Messianic genealogy, which gives it purpose enough, but someone with only elementary knowledge of Scripture could read it and see little more than that. However, there is much more.

In Ruth we see redemption for Gentiles as well as Jews. Ruth models virtue, Boaz honor. Some time ago, Pastor Mark Loughridge posted his sermons on Ruth. I encourage you to read them along with the text.

Studies in Ruth (1)
Studies in Ruth (2)
Studies in Ruth (3)
Studies in Ruth (4)
Studies in Ruth (5)
Studies in Ruth (6)
Studies in Ruth Chapter 2
Studies in Ruth Chapter 2(2)
Studies in Ruth Chapter 2(3)
Ruth Chapter 3(1)
Ruth Chapter 3(2)
Ruth Chapter 4 - The Redeemer Redeems
Ruth Chapter 4 - The Redeemer Redeems (2)
Ruth Chapter 4 - The Redeemer Redeems (3)

Tonight will find our family at home. No program or church service could drag us out on Christmas Eve (Christmas Day falling on the Lord’s Day will also not prevent us from attending church). The Lady of the house will have prepared a table of hors d’œuvre, and we will spend the evening quietly together – as quietly as ten people can, that is. We will read the Gospel from the book of Luke and open gifts; and we will continue the tradition that was begun 15 years ago, when I brought home a worn copy of The Complete Works of O. Henry from a used book store. It was our second Christmas as a married couple, and our oldest child was a baby. We were living in an apartment not unlike the one you will soon enter. We read The Gift of the Magi, and have done so every Christmas Eve since. I would like to share that tradition with you today.

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.