Sometimes It's Better to Receive Than to Give

We didn't do the whole presents thing this Christmas. And yes, I am bragging about how we survived Christmas without embracing the mass consumerism in which you probably indulged (*pursed lips, judgmental eyes*). No, not really. In fact, as much as I appreciate pure family and food, I do miss the childhood anticipation, the feeling that the one thing on my Santa list would set the world right if I found it under the tree, and the valuable lesson of the inevitable anticlimax. My pajamaed sisters and I would wake up at an hour most of us would not care to even know about and sing Christmas carols until my parents woke up. Then, with my dad's camera flashing, we would rush to the tree with only a millisecond to notice the beautiful store-front (or tree-front, to be more accurate) display that my mom had finished only three hours earlier. What followed was always carnage (or a massacre, to borrow my friend Sandra's phrase). No liturgy. No waiting while your little sister struggled with ribbons. Maybe we missed a valuable lesson in patience and delayed gratification, but we didn't miss out on those other things the gifts bring out in us - gratitude, appreciation and a real knowledge that, unlike the Santa myths, we were receivers, recipients of the blessed bounty of our parents' work and grace.

2011 has been a year of receiving. My family and I, offering very little (other than cute pictures of our daughter on Facebook), have been surrounded by givers. Friends helped us with housing in the States, family helped us with house and car in Germany, and this was after they helped us fly to Germany in style. We received babysitting, plenty of free meals and the time and room for both an Alpen vacation and further education. All the givers in our life had been given much, and they only gave inasmuch as they received. Now, I'm writing for free and teaching for pennies, hoping to carve out enough of a subsistence that we can be better givers ourselves. Whenever I get to that point, it will be riding on the backs of so many who gave to us.

We didn't do the present thing, because my family in the States decided to forgo presents and pitch in to fly us to Florida. So we had one big present, a sunshine holiday, family, lots of pictures and plenty of food. It's an appropriate final gift after a year of receiving. After all, Christmas celebrates the Word who was both with God and was God, becoming a gift for us. That's why Christians took the dark pagan solstice holidays anticipating the return of the light and transformed them into our own Christmas feast. We celebrate what the Apostle John calls this "the true light that gives light to everyone" who came into our world. To follow Jesus is a gift available to us all. It is well worth receiving. May you receive much in 2012, so that you may give.

Walkin' in a Summer Wonderland

We're here. My family and I escaped the darkness of Central Europe and their Christmas Markets to spend the Winter Solstice (and surrounding holidays) in sunny Orlando. I'm enjoying sunning myself in my flip flops, taking my daughter to the beach and sleeping with the fan on, but I've noticed something: Christmas can be a difficult time for Floridians. An overlooked aspect of all the cultural wars surrounding the holidays is how "northern-centric" most of the festivities are. We sit here in our lounge-chairs drinking pina coladas while holiday films and music paint an idyllic scenes of snow-covered houses, steaming hot cocoa and Tommy Hilfiger models sitting around the Christmas tree in comfy sweaters. We poor southern souls dream of a white Christmas, knowing that the only way we'll get one is if we go on a ski vacation. In this economy? Forget it. The rest of the country puts on their galoshes to go caroling in the snow with Tiny Tim before a hearty dinner of roast goose, and we're left out.

In order to combat this insidious anti-warm weather bias in our solstice festival culture, and in the classic American spirit of Christmas war retaliation, I'm going to re-write some holiday classics that visits the sunny side of the "most wonderful time of the year." Below are some attempts, but this is a work in process. Feel free to add your own suggestions.

Walkin' in a Sunshine Wonderland

Jet skis zoom, are you listenin'?
Flowers bloom, sunsets glistenin'
A beautiful sight, the tiki torch bright
Walkin' in a sunshine wonderland

Gone away, is well none of the birds
Here till March is the snowbird
He comes from New York
In a car full of torque
Walkin' in a sunshine wonderland

A Christmas Song

Shish kabobs roasting on an open fire
sunscreen covering your nose
Yuletide carols being sung by the pool
and folks dressed up like Michael Phelps

Everybody knows a palm tree and some mistletoe
Help make the season bright (not that the sun isn't bright enough already)
Tiny tots, with their cheeks all aglow
looks like we forgot the sun block

Jingle Bells

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle through the land
Oh what fun, it is to ride in a four-wheeler in the sand
(repeat)

Dashing o'er the beach
in an uninsured vehicle
by the waves we go
too hot to laugh, so we giggle...

Frosty

Frosty the snowman, shouldn't come to Orlando
In the summer swelt, the poor guy will melt...  hey, dibs on the pipe!

The Death of Someone Who Cared

In 1998, I spent a month in Bologna, Italy with Agape Europe, a Christian student group. When I shared this with an Italian friend a few months ago, she was surprised. The University of Bologna, she told me, had a reputation as a Communist stronghold and many there were decidedly anti-Christian. At the time, I was naive about the reputation and no one reacted to our message with hostility. But if I had known, it would not have discouraged me - quite the opposite, actually. Not because I enjoy antagonism - I'm the type of sensitive soul who wants everyone to play nice. But some things are important, and I'd rather discuss important matters with someone who passionately disagrees with me than with someone who just doesn't care.

Perhaps that's one reason why Christopher Hitchens' columns in Slate and Vanity Fair were appointment reading for me (the other two reasons are both his informed opinions on pretty much everything and the quality of his prose, agree or disagree), and it's why I join everyone who marks his death with sadness. It seems like every scribbler in the business has written an obituary of sorts (many of them are quite moving), but Michael Gerson of the Washington Post best expresses my thoughts as a believer:

(Hitchens) recognized that there is one argument worth having about religion: Is it true or false? The rest is sociology. Hitchens thought religion to be false and dangerous, but not trivial. This may help to explain the affinity of many believers for the world’s most articulate unbeliever. Hitchens took the largest questions seriously.

I find having a strong antithesis to my own views energizing. They force me to examine and explain, not in the face of a tract or a political advertisement, much less in the face of emotional pressure, but in the face of an intelligent person who has purposefully and thoughtfully rejected my worldview (I've even used this space to exercise a response to one of Hitchens' essays). And if we really believe in truth, in Ultimate Truth, then we have nothing to fear from this. The truth is our friend, my father likes to say. This isn't to say the world of apologetics isn't dangerous. It has teeth, and it's best to go in well-armed and well-education, in community and  in prayer. But if apologetics is dangerous, apathy is deadly. If Hitchens' polemics has caused more people to consider Ultimate Reality, then for that, we can raise our hats in appreciation. 

Learning Colors

My (almost) two year old has been working on her colors. Here's a conversation we had some time ago while on a walk:

Me: What color is that car?

Daughter: Blue!

Me: Hmmm... actually it's red. What color is the grass?

Daughter: Blue!

Me: mmm... actually the grass is green.

Daughter: Grass... green!

Me: Exactly. What color is that house?

Daughter: House... blue!

Me: mmm... well, the house is white.

A brief pause. We both look around.

Me: Ok, what color are papa's jeans?

Daughter: blue!

Me (in my best praising voice): Exactly! Very good!

She's getting better.

Hamburger! Cheeseburger! Wutburger!

Speaking of Christmas markets and meat, if I ever set up my own booth for all the holiday festivities, it would be an old-fashioned, American hamburger stand. I mean, other than McDonald's, Burger King, Starbucks, Hollywood, Friends, Sex in the City, 65% of everything else on TV, Coke, Sprite, (all you who bleed red, white and blue, start humming "America the Beautiful" here) Pepsi, binge-drinking college students, Subway, Kentucky Fried Chicken, women playing soccer, foreign policy, the Ford Focus, CNN International, Gangster Rap, Jack Daniels, the Twilight books, Cowboy films, Native American street musicians and several military bases, the Germans really don't get enough of the good ol' U. S. of A. It's a good thing I'm here.

I would name my stand "Wutburger," after the city of Stuttgart's own wutbürger, those brave citizens who have stuck it to the Man and his insidious plans to... let me check my notes - build a nuclear power plant? No, that's not it. Send German troops to war? hmmm... nope, that's not it. To use child labor pour nuclear waste into the Neckar river? Hmmm... nope. Ah, here it is: The Man's insidious plan is to... modernize Stuttgart's train station. The wutbürger have thwarted this dastardly scheme by camping out by the main train station for the past... how long? Well, at least since I've been here. You can almost hear Neil Young singing:

"There's something happening here
And what it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man building a train station over there
and it might cost too much money to be worth it depending on who you ask..."

(In their defense, I should point out that the train deal was pretty shady and dishonest to begin with, and that the train station could cause damage to part of Stuttgart's historic garden. The frustration resulted in the reigning Christian Democrats being kicked out in the last election. We're now ruled by the Greens in partnership with the SPD, and I wish them all the best)

"Wutburger" is a wonderful word. Burger means citizen (this fact has done extensive damage to the transatlantic relationship, particularly at lunch time.

German diplomat: "We must ensure that our mutual economic policy is in the best interest of the burgers!"

American diplomat, drooling: "Mmmm.... burgers...")

Wut, pronounced "voot" is hard to translate into English, but it includes a distinctively German brand irate rage. You'll experience wut if you commit one of Germany's unpardonable sins, like walking in the bike lane or or driving on the sidewalk. (people are strict here!) If you'll take a comparison to American politics, the Wutburger combines the rage and demographics of the Tea Party with the politics of Occupy Wall Street. Thankfully, the German commitment to pacifism trumps even the most extreme cases of wut. Think peaceful, seething protests. Against train stations.

I'd name my burger stand for the Wutburger, because they've had a tough week. It seemed like a victory for them that the funding for the train station was put to a popular vote last Saturday. Alas, democracy revealed that their "people's voice" didn't actually represent the people. The citizens of Baden Wuerttemberg decidedly voted pro-train station, revealing either a state-wide love of trains or a deep-seated distrust of hippies. So to all the wutbürger: you fought the good fight. Put your plackets in the recycling bin. Roll up your tents. Come on down to the Christmas Market and enjoy something hot off the grill. Yes of course there's a vegetarian option.

My "Wutburger" hamburger stand would feature the following culturally relevant offerings:

1. The original Wutburger - When I think of wut, I think of spice. Yes, the wutburger would be covered in Dave's Insanity hot sauce and feature several of those chilli peppers that even burn your skin. Why? You know what's worse than the Man building a train station? The Man building a train station while your tongue is touching the sun.
   
2. The Swabianburger - This burger may look modest on the outside, but the quarter pound beef patti will be covered with spaetzle, lentels and brown sauce. Eating the burger change your pronunciation so that your "s" sounds like "sh", cause you to keep your steps swept clean and give you a better taste in automobiles.
   
3. The Berlinburger - Like the city it's named after, this burger is poor but sexy. Poor because it's made from grade "F" canned ground beef. Sexy because it's covered in curry ketchup (hey, it's what they eat up there, so it must be sexy). Instead of a bun, you get two jelly donuts. Being the cheapest burger among the menu, it will be the most popular among Swabians, which causes resentment (even wut) among actual Berliners.
4. The Bavarianburger - The Bavarian is the most expensive burger on the menu. Not content with a simple beef patty, the Bavarian is augmented with sauerkraut additional meat, including three strips of bacon and a huge slab of pressed liverwurst. It's also covered in honey mustard and served with a liter of beer (two liters if you show up to the stand wearing lederhosen). Because the burger is rich, it's favored to win the Burgerliga every season, regardless of form from other burgers, and usually does so as long as the superstar meats don't quarrel (when they do, people roll their eyes and complain about the Hollywoodburger). It is therefore despised by every other burger on the menu, but let's be honest, it's the only burger that can consistently represent the Burgerliga in European competition.
5. The Frankburger - Covered in delicious green sauce and laced with Euro Notes.
   
6. The Ruhrburger - The proud burger of the mining industry, it actually consists of several small burgers combined to make the largest burger on the menu.
   
7. The Freiburger - Vegan, crunchy and only cooked in a solar power oven. Which is difficult in December.
   
8. The Hannoverburger - The only burger on the menu that speaks Hochburger.
   
9. The Cologneburger - Chances are, you've already seen this burger on TV.
   
10. The Dusselburger - A more expensive version of the Cologneburger.
    
11. The Hamburger - A beef patty served on a bun with pickles, lettuce and tomatoes. Hey, what were you expecting?
12. The Buffettburger - Lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and french-fried potatoes.
    

The Corner of the Christmas Market

I am so thankful for Christmas markets. You have no idea. They're like warm little campfires, providing a homey glow in the dark, German December. It's dark here for this Orlando boy. The sun rises in part of the South and sets in another part of the South, never having the courage to muster more than a 9:30am light. At 4:30pm, when the sun leaves its last pink kiss on a southbound cloud, I feel as though someone owes me something.

This, of course, balances itself out in June, where the sun is less like Apollo and more like Aphrodite: standing in all her glory, not just beauty herself, but shining on the world to make every part of it lovely, all the way to 10:30 at night when she finally lets the stars join the party. In any case, a little glühwein with friends under golden lamps at the Christmas market helps me forget how much I miss the summer. Thank you, Germany, for your Christmas markets.

On the first day of Advent, my wife, daughter and I decked ourselves in layers of cloth and went down to Plochingen's Christmas Market. I tend to like the small-town Christmas markets more than the huge ones like in Nuremberg. The big ones get repetitive – the same trinkets, sweets and glueweinstubes repeated checker-board style all over town. Small-town Christmas markets are quaint and lovely and you can see from one side to another and still not have the time for all the pleasure offered. We don't need Carnival. We need lights and lebkuchen and warm alcohol.

Even the small Christmas market is a bit overwhelming for my 23 month-old daughter. Crowds, people and scary bearded men. So I took her to the part I knew she would love: The corner of the Christmas market, a make-shift stable full of live animals. Beautiful fuzzy ponies (my daughter squealed and said “Donkey! Donkey!”) and cotton-back sheep, all hoping the visiting children would share their sweets. We petted a pony on the nose and fed grass to a sheep (no lebkuchen for you, wooly!), but then I noticed something else. Two cardboard cutouts of a man and a woman in robes and a discarded baby doll in the feeding tray.

These were, of course, the holy couple and the holy child, Mary, the virgin mother, and Joseph, her fiance, and their baby, Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. These poor cardboard figures leaned against the back of the stable as if waiting to be packed and recycled as holiday cards. Baby Jesus was half-covered with a blanket and looked like someone had tossed him in the manger from a distance of 40 feet. The holy family was thrown in there with so little love that I wondered if the whole purpose of this hesitant nod to religion was to keep Gramma from cussing without ruining the fun part. This was a stark contrast to the beautiful wooden manger scene front and center in Stuttgart's Christmas market (though I should point out that if German kitsch is to be believed, then our Lord was born with hair like Thomas Gottschalk). A starker contrast was the nativity scene I saw a long time ago in New York where I watched the Radio City Christmas Spectacular featuring the Rockettes. It was pimp my manger, baby, with golden stars and lucky charms, live camels and (I'm almost certain) live angels. Heaven on earth, right before the Rockettes came out and kicked their pretty legs. Deh, deh, dah, deh, dada....

The Plochingen manger scene is more accurate. Discarded to the margins during a hectic season, Joseph and Mary were kicked to a cave (sorry folks, the hotel is booked!), great with child, where God would step into the world onto animal feed. The Eternal, now a helpless infant, not in the best American hospital money can buy, but wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger. I can tell my daughter that God was once a baby like her, learning to walk and speak and eat. I can remind myself that he was rejected from the beginning. Ignored and forgotten by all but a few shepherds, away from the city lights where they could hear the angels. For some reason, these shepherds believed their eyes and ears and ran to worship something that couldn't lift it's own head.

If you've ever felt rejection, if you've ever been forgotten, left out or ignored, then know that Jesus identifies with you. We Christians don't believe that God remained something distant, unwilling to be grasped or touched. Jesus came to earth and brought the Kingdom of Heaven very near. He felt every rejection, pain and temptation that we felt. And what's more, he took the rejection, pain and temptation that we inflicted (on him and others) upon himself. He died as we should have died, and Resurrected that we may live. That's why the old Christians took the darkest time of the year to celebrate his birth; when all hope is gone, God shines his light in the darkness, and the darkness cannot understand it.

Wherever you are this Christmas, in the darkened north or the sun-kissed south, remember the child. That vague, fuzzy feeling of Christmas some people talk about – there's something to that, but it should lead us to more. It should lead us to a specific point in history where a child was born and God filled his lungs with oxygen. Remember the child if you are lonely and rejected. Remember the child if you warm your body with glühwein while laughing with friends (I hope you can do that at least once this season) or while shopping out of love and obligation or while watching your favorite holiday flick. Remember the child, light of life, true God of true God, wrapped in cloths, placed in hay. It's too beautiful not to believe.