Poverty and riches

I saw a little crib in a Nativity tableau the other day. There are a multitude out there, with Mary serene in a spotless blue dress, Joseph indistinguishable from the shepherds, three wise men, several months too early and an elderly Tiny Tears doll swaddled in a crochet blanket, all squashed into a cosy-looking stable. It made me think.

I was born in poverty, too.

Not the sort of poverty that speaks of cold and deprivation; oh no. I have, all my life, been warm and looked after and well fed (just look at me) and I had my own Tiny Tears and all the accessories. No, not that sort of poverty.

When I was born, the birth that I'm talking about, I was as poor as it's possible to be in every way that matters. I had nothing, and the day I realised that was the day that I was born.

That should be my birthday, really; that was when life began for real. I realised the lack - the void. The gut-wrenching poverty. The absence. The emptiness. The need.

For me, I didn't have to live with that feeling of poverty too long, for no sooner had I realised that I did not have the only thing that mattered, that I longed for it, asked for it - then it was given to me.
You are endlessly generous like that.

How much more awful for those who feel that desperation but don't know where to come to find it, this new birth. It must break your heart, Father God.

That day you stripped everything away from me to reveal what actually mattered. I had nothing, and my birth in poverty was yet an elevation for me, for the Creator of the world had business with me. With me. To touch me with the revelation of my need - the moment I understood and my soul reached for you was the moment that the floodgates of blessing from Heaven opened and I became rich.

I look at you, baby boy in an MDF manger, and I realise you knew poverty too.

For you - you had everything, Everything, and you chose to lay it aside to come to this place of filth and cold and hurt to be close to us. You laid aside your majesty, as the song goes, and chose the sweat and smells and roughness of humanity.

You were rich, and you became poor. I was poor, and you gave me riches.

You and I, reborn - humble, vulnerable nakedness. For you, the vastness of Almighty God, shrunk to inhabit a tiny kicking, crying, feeding baby. For me, the smallness and pettiness of a created being expansively given another chance by the grace of the One who reached down and lifted up my chin so that He could look into my eyes with love.

I am a baby as you were. I have all that I need only because you provide it. Mary fed you, cleaned you, dressed you, sang to you and loved you into childhood, adulthood, to execution and beyond. I live because you sustain me. Everything that I have comes from you. If you forgot about me for one second I am sure that I would cease to be. I am hopelessly dependent.

I am uncomfortable in my manger of hay; it prickles. I'd like it to be more comfy. Sometimes I don't feel at home because you have given me that longing for my eternal home, and yet you, you lived among us naturally, freely, as if you never felt homesick for the heaven that you had left behind to come here to us.

I sense the Somewhere Else, sometimes; me, insensitive and short-sighted as I am, and yet the King of Glory walked purposefully away from that place; you chose to become small. The limitless in a limited body. The transcendental made finite.

I am lifted gently out of the dirt to be called a Child of God. A crown has been placed on my head and a robe around my shoulders even though there I am hopelessly unworthy.

I live honoured as your daughter, heir to a wonderful place in your Kingdom. You, the very Son of God, fought your way down the birth canal of a peasant girl and landed in straw, surrounded by livestock. With the hands that arranged the stars in the heavens and created the animals and the birds you'd have brushed against the roughness and splinters of an animal's feeding trough. With your first breaths you would have inhaled the odour of cattle. Me, I'm used to the stench of life down here - it seems normal to me, but to you, it must have been strange indeed. You came from a place of peace, beauty, power and honour and put yourself in the hands of two poor, bewildered kids, far from home, who had only the faintest inkling of the magnitude of what was happening.

My rebirth opens up miraculous doors of wonder and possibility; you became confined in a tiny, frail body, kicking and wailing, feeding and sleeping.

You were born so that I could be born again.

And I've realised by staring at that roughly-made trough-cradle, that it is when I stand with nothing, without anything at all, just me as you made me, unable to conceal a single thing, a single part of me - that's when I am most blessed. I am a new creation.

You had it all, just as you have once again; you turned your back on your glory to become one of us.

You were exalted, and you became weak. I am weak, and you raise me up. I can't get my head around it. You know what it feels like to be poor, to be vulnerable, to be human.

Lord Jesus, baby Jesus, King of Kings, Redeemer, Saviour.

Thankyou.

Happy Birthday.

As poor as it's possible to be

Happy Birthday, my friend. 

I've been thinking about you today. Yes, in church this morning, with 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing' and 'O Come, All Ye Faithful', and yes, when the vicar gave us his talk about brussel sprouts and you, and yes, when the Queen gave her speech which, thankyou my God, spoke of service and inspiration and giving our hearts to you this Christmas.

But also, when I saw the little crib in church. It's been there for a whole run of Christmas services with what appears to be an elderly Tiny Tears doll wrapped up inside, but today it spoke to me. Again.

I was born in poverty, too.

Not the sort of poverty that speaks of cold and deprivation; oh no. I have, all my life, been warm and looked after and well fed (just look at me) and I had my own Tiny Tears and all the accessories. No, not that sort of poverty.

When I was born, the birth that I'm talking about, I was as poor as it's possible to be in every way that matters. I had nothing, and the day I realised that was the day that I was born. That should be my birthday, really; that was when life began for real. I realised the lack - the void. The gut-wrenching poverty. The absence. The emptiness. The need.

For me, I didn't have to live with that feeling of poverty too long, for no sooner had I realised that I did not have the only thing that mattered, that I longed for it, asked for it - then it was given to me. You are endlessly generous like that.

How much more awful for those who know, and feel the desperation but don't know where to come to find it, this the new birth. It must break your heart, Father God.

That day you stripped everything away from me to reveal what actually mattered. I had nothing, and my birth in poverty was yet an elevation for me. For you - you had everything, Everything, and you chose to lay it aside to come to this place of filth and cold and hurt to be close to us. You laid aside your majesty indeed, and chose the sweat and smells and roughness of humanity.

You were rich, and you became poor. I was poor, and you gave me riches.

You and I, reborn - humble, vulnerable nakedness. For you, the vastness of Almighty God, shrunk to inhabit a tiny kicking, feeding baby. For me, the smallness and pettiness of a created being expansively given another chance by the grace of the One who reached down and lifted up my chin so that He could look into my eyes with love.

I am a baby as you were. I have all that I need only because you provide it. Mary fed you, cleaned you, dressed you, sang to you and loved you into childhood, adulthood, to execution and beyond. I live because you sustain me. Everything that I have comes from you. If you forgot about me for one second I am sure that I would cease to be. I am hopelessly dependent.

I am uncomfortable in my manger of hay; it prickles. I'd like it to be more comfy. Sometimes I don't feel at home because you have given me that longing for my eternal home, and yet you, you lived among us naturally, freely, as if you never felt homesick for the heaven that you had left behind to come here to us. I sense the Somewhere Else, sometimes; me, insensitive and short-sighted as I am, and yet the King of Glory walked purposefully away from that place; you chose to become small. The limitless in a limited body. The transcendental made finite.

I am lifted gently out of the dirt to be called a Child of God. A crown has been placed on my head and a robe around my shoulders even though there is no way that I can prove myself worthy. I live honoured as your daughter, heir to a wonderful place in your Kingdom. You, the very Son of God, fought your way down the birth canal of a peasant girl and landed in straw, surrounded by livestock. With the hands that arranged the stars in the heavens and created the animals and the birds you'd have brushed against the roughness and splinters of an animal's feeding trough. With your first breaths you would have inhaled the odour of cattle. Me, I'm used to the stench of life down here - it seems normal to me, but to you, it must have been strange indeed. You came from a place of peace, beauty, power and honour and put yourself in the hands of two poor, bewildered kids, far from home, who had only the faintest idea of the magnitude of what was happening.

My rebirth opens up miraculous doors of wonder and possibility; you became confined in a tiny, frail body, kicking and wailing, feeding and sleeping.

You were born so that I could be born again.

And I've realised by staring at that roughly-made trough-cradle, that it is when I stand with nothing, without anything at all, just me as you made me, unable to conceal a single thing, a single part of me - that's when I am most blessed. I am a new creation.

You had it all, just as you have once again; you turned your back on your glory to become one of us.

You were exalted, and you became weak. I am weak, and you raise me up. I can't get my head around it. You know what it feels like to be poor, to be vulnerable, to be human.

Lord Jesus, baby Jesus, King of Kings, Redeemer, Saviour.

Thankyou. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Happy Birthday.

Connections

Morning, Lord

Today I am getting things done. I have a pile of paperwork next to me that just gets straightened up from time to time and rarely gets sorted until deadlines are looming and I have a bit of a panic. Amid the filing and the reminders and the scraps of paper with incomprehensible scribbles on (that were so important at the time) I found some important things.  I have sent Christmas cards to a few people via Christian Solidarity Worldwide who are imprisoned or persecuted for their faith. 

I like the idea that somewhere in a prison a long way away someone might open an envelope from me and realise that they are not forgotten. That someone is thinking about them and praying for them even as they sit alone and wonder what the future holds. Lord, I read about these people who have such faith, such courage. They stand up for you when it might well cost them all they have; certainly it has cost these two men in Vietnam their freedom and their home - they are separated from their wives and children and they endure beatings and the constant threat of worse. 

Would I be so brave? I don't know. Here I am in my comfortable home, writing Christmas cards and saying a prayer and it all seems so small in comparison. Lord, keep them safe. Give them hope. Bless them in ways that transcend their captivity.  

Another lady in Cuba marches alongside the ladies who have had relatives who disappeared because of their beliefs. She was not personally affected but she believes that as a Christian she should stand for what is right. In exchange for her integrity and courage she has been ostracised, threatened and beaten, her house vandalised. Still she stands with her sisters and asks for justice. 

Wow. I find life difficult sometimes and I moan incessantly but what have I really to complain about?  I need to remember people like these who know about fear and hardship. 

I've written a letter to the little girl that we sponsor as well. Her name is Karen and she lives in El Salvador. She doesn't have much but in a photo we have she is smiling broadly. My daughters have made pictures for her and so I've sent those as well as a photo of us. Katy has something that looks suspiciously like chocolate all round her mouth but it was the only photo I could find with the four of us on it. I suppose Karen won't mind a dirty face. Isn't it amazing that we can connect from across the world? This little girl is five years old and is very, very poor. She lives in a hut with mud floors and she works as well as going to a little school in the afternoons. She tells me that at school she can play with a doll. That doesn't sound as if she has many toys - not like my girls who have so much already and are excitedly discussing what riches Christmas might bring. Little Karen has responsibility that belies her years, few things to play with, no room of her own, not enough to eat some days and no idea at all of the sort of life that my children live. 

How can I get this across to my girls? When we look at the pictures of Karen and we discuss what she might do for toys they are mystified and change the subject. They don't understand because they are so young and have so little experience and idea of the size of the world and the diversity of lifestyles. I tell them things but they find it hard to understand and I want them to grow up understanding how blessed they are and understanding the privilege of the choices that they have and the opportunities they are presented with.  It drives me mad when they break toys and discard them without a second thought, when they won't share, when they want more when they already have more than enough. 

I know that I'm to blame when they don't appreciate their things; I am quite sure that every parent wants to give gifts to their children and see their faces light up and I've done it far too often. I love Christmas morning when they open their stockings. Stockings are small, and full of small treasures. A packet of tissues. A pencil. A satsuma. It's Christmas afternoon that makes me a bit anxious when they open the presents from all the family and people are so generous and the gifts pile high. For the last two years I've spirited away armfuls of presents as it was an embarrassment of riches. 

What a thing to worry about. I don't suppose the two Vietnamese pastors in jail whose families are struggling at home without them worry about spoiling the children this Christmas. I don't suppose Karen's parents in El Salvador are concerned that she might take her non-existent toys for granted. I bet they would love to give her piles of presents.  I bet she'd be delighted with anything. I bet the mothers whose malnourished babies are dying in Africa aren't worried that they won't appreciate the things that they have. It makes me feel ashamed. 

Forgive me, Lord, for all the times that I shower my children with unnecessary things that don't do them any good and just bring short-lived joy. Forgive me, Lord, for the times that I don't show them how blessed we are and make sure that they understand. Forgive me, Lord, for the times when we turn our backs on people we could help and look inwards to our own comfort instead. 

Thankyou for all the blessings of our life here. Help us to appreciate them instead of taking them for granted and wanting more, and I mean me as well as the children. We're all as bad. With Christmas approaching help me bear in mind the things that are important and don't let me bury it all underneath a mountain of wrapping paper. 

And may those pastors in Vietnam, the lady in Cuba and my little girl in El Salvador know how proud you are of them. May they experience you in a real way this Christmas - and for that they don't need money or wrapping paper or even freedom. 

Now there's a thought.