Why I am not a young-earth creationist.

From time to time I’m asked whether I believe God created the universe in six days, or whether it and humanity evolved over time. My usual answer is “Yes.” I believe both.

Various Christians insist I can’t believe both. I must believe in one and reject the other. And they’re pretty insistent I gotta beleive in the six-day creation. In a literal six-day creation; God literally spent six 24-hour periods creating the heavens and the earth. ’Cause if I don’t believe this, I’m going to hell.

That’s largely why they asked me about what I believe in the first place: They wanna see whether or not I’m going to hell. If I believe as they do, we’re good. If I don’t, since I’m going to hell they want nothing more to do with me, lest I corrupt them and drag them to hell with me.

Oddly they’re not saying people go to hell for believing in evolution. There are a few extra steps in their procedure.

1. You believe in evolution.
2. Which means you don’t believe the bible’s depiction of a literal six-day creation.
3. Which means you don’t beleive the bible.
4. Which means you don’t believe anything the bible says about Jesus.
5. Which means you don’t believe Jesus can actually save you.
6. Which means he won’t.
7. So you’re going to hell.

There are all kinds of flaws in this logic, beginning with #3: Just because you don’t interpret the Genesis stories literally does not automatically mean you don’t believe the bible. Nor the gospels, nor in Jesus.

Plus it’s not even logically consistent with how Christians come to Jesus. I came to Jesus before I had ever read a bible. Likely so had you. Yeah, the truths about Jesus which we were taught, largely came from the stories in the gospels—but they didn’t have to. The first people Simon Peter preached to in Acts 2 didn’t have a written gospel. Paul wrote his letters before the gospel authors wrote their gospels. Paul did extraordinarily well at sharing Jesus without a New Testament. Because you don’t actually need a bible to share Jesus. You only need the Holy Spirit. You always need the Holy Spirit.

Requiring the bible for salvation, is elevating a book above the Holy Spirit. Yes, it’s inspired by the Spirit. Still mighty useful for explaining salvation, correcting us, and training us in doctrine and righteousness. Still a book though, and claiming it, instead of the Spirit, has the power to save, is still bibliolatry.

And anyone who says a devout follower of Jesus, who just happens to believe in theistic evolution or old-earth creationism, is going to hell for these beliefs, have elevated their young-earth creationist (YEC for short) beliefs above Jesus. That’s idolatry too. Jesus requires us to trust him to be saved; that’s all. And I do. As should you.

My firm belief is God created the universe. Doesn’t matter how. Doesn’t matter if it took him six literal days, or six ages lasting a billion years apiece. Doesn’t matter if we’re descended from lower animals… and frankly, thanks to sin and human depravity, there are no lower animals than us humans. Christ Jesus came to us to fix that, and through his self-sacrifice and the Holy Spirit’s power, humanity can now adopt the mindset of Jesus, the nature of God, and evolve to perfection. (YEC promoters hate when I say that. It’s biblical though.)

So, studying weird YEC pseudoscience for the purpose of debating an evolutionist? Massive waste of time. You won’t convince them you’re anything but a nut, and you won’t grow any more Christ-like. You’ll be another one of those smart-alecks who take pride in winning arguments, but never win any souls… and don’t win as many arguments as they imagine they do.

So if I’m okay with evolution, what’s the point of Genesis’s creation stories? Ah, good question; glad I asked it.

The prayers of a jerk.

Last week I wrote about Jesus’s Pharisee and Taxman Story, in which he compared the prayers of two guys in temple—a self-righteous Pharisee, and a taxman begging for mercy. The taxman, said Jesus, went home righteous. Lk 18.14

The Pharisee, on the other hand… well, it really depends on how you translate the Greek preposition παρ’/par’. Properly, it’s “besides,” but Christian tradition has been to interpret it as “against, contrary to,” and claim the Pharisee was not righteous.

Why’s this? Well, his works. His prayer makes him sound like a real jerk. Jerks aren’t righteous, are they?

Luke 18.11-12 NASB

11“The Pharisee stood and began praying this in regard to himself: ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other people: swindlers, crooked, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12I fast twice a week; I pay tithes of all that I get.’ ”

“I don’t swindle. I don’t connive. I don’t cheat. I’m not like this collaborator with our Roman oppressors. I voluntarily give up food so I can concentrate on you. I give away a tenth of absolutely everything.” What a braggart.

Thing is, once you think about it, plenty of devout God-followers oughta be able to say the very same thing, and honestly mean it. Hopefully not with this Pharisee’s attitude, but still, as far as good works are concerned, dude was doing ’em.

The part which makes us unsympathetic to the Pharisee’s prayer is of course the very first part of it. “God, I’m so happy you didn’t make me one of the lowlifes who don’t do as I do. Thank you that I was born into this race, and for making me one of the good ones.” Yep, it’s his crappy, fruitless Pharisee-supremacist attitude. How dare he. (And hopefully our offense isn’t because we figure only we are permitted to think that way, as Christian supremacists will.)

Still, does the Pharisee’s bad attitude undo his righteousness? What does makes us righteous or unrighteous? What justifies us before God?

Hopefully we’ve not forgotten basic Christian doctrine: It’s faith. We don’t merit justification and salvation by fasting and tithing. Neither do we unearn it by disparaging others in our petty, selfish prayers. When we believe and trust God, he accounts it to us as righteousness, same as he did with Abraham. Ge 15.6, Ro 4.3 Does the Pharisee in Jesus’s story not trust God? Clearly he does—and he’s totally thanking God for making him the way he is. And yes, he’s a great big jerk about it. But he does believe God. Like it or not, this means he’s not unrighteous, no matter how your favorite bible translates Luke 18.14.

Okay, maybe he’s less righteous, as William Tyndale put it:

Luke 18.14 Tyndale

14AI tell you: this ma departed hoe to his housse iustified moore then the other.

But again: If our righteousness comes from faith not works, it bad theology to say this Pharisee isn’t righteous. Jesus does rebuke his hypothetical Pharisee for being a dick, but he never does declare him outside of God’s kingdom. For he’s not.

This oughta be some comfort to those Christians who slip up, mirror this Pharisee’s attitude, and start thinking of ourselves more highly than we ought. And even start praying that way too. We shouldn’t do that; we should certainly know better; the Christian walk should reflect humility not pride. Remember no matter how many good deeds we do, it never wholly cancels out our sins; we don’t deserve salvation. But God is gracious, so we have his salvation anyway. So be gracious as well. Be better than this Pharisee.

Suffering for goodness.

1 Peter 4.1-6.

You remember in 1 Peter 3.18, Simon Peter wrote, “Christ Jesus once also suffered for sins… so that he could bring us to God, putting us to death in the flesh and making us alive in the Spirit.” (My translation.) In today’s passage he bounces back to that idea. Jesus suffered, and in so doing conquered sin.

And y’know, if we suffer, we can kinda conquer sin:

1 Peter 4.1-6 KWL

1So, about Christ suffering in the flesh:

Prepare yourselves² as well with the same mindset.

For one who suffers in the flesh prevents sin;

2is no longer into human desires,

but the rest of the time they’re in the flesh,

is into God’s will.

3The past was plenty of time

to achieve the desires of gentiles—

living in unchastity, lust, drunkenness,

partying, drinking, breaking the law for idols.

4They’re surprised you don’t join them in these things;

in the same flood of indecency as they,

slandering you.

5They will give an account

to the One who has to judge the living and dead,

6This is why the dead are preached to:

Though they are judged by human flesh,

they may yet live by God’s Spirit.

Now yes, there are certain Christians who take this idea “One who suffers in the flesh prevents sin” in verse 1, and put it into practice in very unreasonable ways. They look for ways to suffer. They figure “Suffering builds character,” so they set out to do things in the most challenging, backwards, wasteful, ridiculous ways. They put up with abuse, instead of resisting it or getting their abusers rightly prosecuted, because they think they’re meant to suffer. They deprive themselves of healthy things, and fast way longer than is medically safe. They reject medical treatment and ordinary comforts. They whip and cut themselves. They seek out the sort of people who would murder them, because they want to be martyred.

Christians have been doing this stuff throughout Christian history. And unless they were following the explicit orders of the Holy Spirit, they were wrong to do it. Yes, life is suffering, but Jesus has conquered the world, Jn 16.33 and there’s no reason for us to suffer unnecessarily. There’s plenty enough suffering in our lives! Family and friends die, accidents and disasters happen, we lose money, we lose our health. There’s lots we can’t prevent—without adding more to it, just because we’ve fooled ourselves into thinking random suffering makes us righteous.

In context, Peter is writing about the pushback his audience got from pagans who couldn’t understand why they were no longer living like pagans—who could no longer even condone pagan behavior.

Why 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 we cure people on sabbath?

Luke 14.1-6.

One of the regular Pharisee complaints about Jesus was he cured people on sabbath. He’d even cure them right in the middle of his synagogue lessons.

Y’might know Pharisees were strict about sabbath. Y’might also know they weren’t all that strict about a whole lot of things. Like Christians nowadays, they cherry-picked the issues they cared to be strict about, based on their own prejudices and conveniences. Like us, they’d come up with loopholes in the Law of Moses which let ’em do the bare minimum. If they wanted to do a certain kind of work on sabbath, they’d easily find a pious-sounding reason which let ’em get away with it. And like many a hypocrite, they likely hated when Jesus called ’em on it—which he basically did every time he cured someone on sabbath.

Pharisee attitudes about curing people on sabbath were mixed. Life-saving procedures, like slapping a choking person on the back, was fine; like helping someone who’d just been curb-stomped by the Romans was fine. Praying for the sick was usually fine—we can always pray, and if the Holy Spirit answers the prayer and cures someone on sabbath, that’s on him, not us. (Shammai and his disciples felt this teaching was pushing it, but they recognized they couldn’t legitimately rebuke anyone for praying.)

But both these schools of thought rebuked the practice of any medical treatments on sabbath. Any of that stuff was supposed to be done Friday, before sabbath began at sundown; then held off till sabbath ended at sundown on Saturday. In that 24-hour period, you could pray, but otherwise you did nothing.

This story takes place during a dinner party. Luke doesn’t say whether it’s breakfast, brunch, lunch, or supper. But y’know, let’s just say it’s the evening meal. Let’s say it happened at 5PM—let’s even say it happened a half-hour before sundown, when it wouldn’t be sabbath anymore and nobody could object to Jesus curing this guy. Because it doesn’t really matter what time it was: Jesus is establishing the principle that it’s always right to help people on sabbath.

Luke 14.1-6 KWL

1This happens on sabbath,

when Jesus goes to eat bread

in the house of one of the Pharisees’ leaders.

People are watching him closely—

2look, a certain person who has an edema

is in front of Jesus.

3In reply, Jesus speaks to the lawyers and Pharisees,

saying, “Can one cure on sabbath,

or not?”

4The lawyers and Pharisees are silent.

Laying hands on the sufferer,

Jesus cures him

and sets him free.

5To the Pharisees, Jesus says,

“If a child or ox will fall down a well,

who among you² will not quickly pull him out?

—even on the sabbath day?”

6The Pharisees are not able

to reply to these things.

The KJV translates ὑδρωπικὸς/ydropikós, “fluid build-up,” as “dropsy.” Nowadays we call it an edema. You know those people whose ankles swell up, so they have to wear compression socks or they’ll have cankles? That. It’s not necessarily life-threatening, but it can make you miserable.

Luke says this person was ἔμπροσθεν/émprosthen, “in the face of,” Jesus. It gets translated “before him,” but he wasn’t just really close to Jesus; he was unavoidably close. Probably on purpose. In Jesus’s day, people ate dinner Roman-style, laying down on couches, and it’s entirely likely this guy’s cankles were right next to Jesus’s head. Whoever was in charge of the seating put Jesus right next to this guy.

And the rest of them were watching to see what Jesus would do. Would he break sabbath?

Well, Jesus never sinned, 1Pe 2.22 so he never did break sabbath, regardless of what your favorite dispensationalist preachers might claim. But he totally broke Pharisee customs about sabbath. Broke a lot of their customs, intentionally, because they were just godless hypocrisy. The custom about not helping the needy on sabbath?—perfect example.

The Pharisee and Taxman Story.

Luke 18.9-14.

Immediately after the Persistent Widow Story, Jesus tells this one. It likewise touches upon prayer… but it’s more about people who consider themselves devout, yet are jerks. Sometimes it’s called the Pharisee and Publican story, ’cause “publican” is how the KJV translates τελώνης/telónis, “collector of tolls, customs, or taxes.” But “publican” is an anachronism at this point in history.

Yep, it’s history lesson time, kids. Before the Cæsars took over, Rome was a republic. Not a democracy; it was an oligarchy run by patricians, the Roman upper caste. At some uncertain point in their past, the patricians overthrew their king and ran Rome collectively. Every year, patricians elected two consuls to run things; the consuls selected senators, and these senators ruled for life. But senators weren’t permitted to collect taxes, so they hired lower-rank patricians to do it for ’em. These tax-gatherers were from the publicani rank, and over time, publicani became synonymous with taxmen.

These publicans practiced tax farming: Different companies applied for the job of collecting taxes in a certain town or county, by offering the government an advance—say, x10,000. (The x stands for denarii; it’s like our dollar sign.) If they outbid everyone they got the contract, and had to pay the government the x10,000 advance. Now they had to make the money back: Collect rent, charge tolls, demand a percentage of merchants’ profits. They shook everybody down to make back that x10,000.

Everything they made beyond that x10,000, they got to keep. So the more unscrupulous the publican, the higher taxes would be, and the richer they got. Richer, and corrupt. They’d bribe government officials to get their contracts, bribe their way out of trouble if they were charged with over-taxing, and bribe their way out of trouble for any other crimes.

When Cæsar Augustus took over the senate in 30BC—that’d be about 60 years before Jesus tells this story—he took tax-gathering away from the publicans and put government officials in charge of it. He figured it’d lower taxes and reduce bribery. The publicans switched careers, and got into banking and money-lending. So, like I said, “publican” is an anachronism: Publicans weren’t taxmen anymore.

But Cæsar’s reforms didn’t fix the problem. Lazy government officials simply hired tax farmers to collect for them. Any wealthy person could bid for the job and get it. That’s what we see in first-century Israel: Wealthy Jews became tax farmers, and did the Romans’ dirty work for them. Their fellow Jews saw them as traitors—as greedy, exploitative sellouts. Which, to be fair, they totally were.

So to Jesus’s audience, a Pharisee—a devout follower of the Law of Moses—would be the good guy; and a taxman would be an utter scumbag. And now, the story.

Luke 18.9-14 KWL

9Jesus also says this parable

to certain hearers who imagine themelves fair-minded

and despise everyone else.

10“Two people go up to temple to pray.

One’s a Pharisee, and the other a taxman.

11The Pharisee, standing off by himself, is praying this:

‘God, thank you¹ that I’m not like every other person!

Greedy capitalists, totally unfair, totally unfaithful!

Or even like this taxman!

12I fast twice a week.

I tithe whatever I get.’

13The taxman, who’d been standing way back,

didn’t even want to raise his eyes to heaven,

but beat his chest, saying,

‘God have mercy on me, a sinner!’

14I tell you² this taxman goes back to his house

declared right in God’s eyes

—same as the other man!

For everyone who raises themselves will be lowered.

And those who lower themselves will be raised.”

The Feast of Peter’s Confession.

Today, 18 January, is a feast day for Anglicans, Lutherans, and Orthodox Christians, held in memory of when Simon Peter first publicly identified as Messiah.

Weirdly, not Roman Catholics, even though they’re huge fans of St. Peter, whom they consider the first pope. They’re the ones who started the feast too. It was part of their Feast of St. Peter’s Chair—which honors, as the title plainly states, St. Peter’s chair. His literal chair. (But probably not—unless they swapped out broken parts of it until it was all swapped, Ship of Theseus style. The oldest parts of it date from the 500s.) It’s big, it’s wooden; they’ve got it in a place of honor in the Vatican. They think Peter sat on it when he ran the Roman church. Catholics moved that feast to 22 February, and dropped the Feast of the Confession, and celebrate his confession along with his chair. After all the chair didn’t confess anything.

The other liturgical churches kept the Feast of the Confession where it is, and celebrate it then. If you’ve read the gospels, you know the story. Here’s the Matthew version of it.

Matthew 16.13-20 GNT

13Jesus went to the territory near the town of Cæsarea Philippi, where he asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?”

14“Some say John the Baptist,” they answered. “Others say Elijah, while others say Jeremiah or some other prophet.”

15“What about you?” he asked them. “Who do you say I am?”

16Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

17“Good for you, Simon son of John!” answered Jesus. “For this truth did not come to you from any human being, but it was given to you directly by my Father in heaven. 18And so I tell you, Peter: you are a rock, and on this rock foundation I will build my church, and not even death will ever be able to overcome it. 19I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of heaven; what you prohibit on earth will be prohibited in heaven, and what you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven.”

20Then Jesus ordered his disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

These events took place near Cæsarea-Philippi, yet another one of the cities named for the Cæsars, but also named for Herod Philip, tetrarch of the Dekapolis, who founded it. (It’s now called Banias. It’s one of the sources of the Jordan River.) At the time Jesus and his Twelve were in the Dekapolis, which was largely populated by Syrian Greeks, who were less likely to recognize Jesus and his kids: Nobody would know their cultural background, nor what a Messiah is. So it was kind of a safe space for Peter to come right out and say Jesus is Messiah.

Even so, Jesus shushed them and told them not to repeat this. In their culture “Messiah” means king. If you claim you’re the king, anybody else who’s using or who covets the title, might object. Especially when you have a really good claim to the title, as Jesus does.

Spiritual warfare: Resist temptation!

Plainly and simply, spiritual warfare is resisting evil. Evil in our own lives, evil in our families and church, evil in the world.

Now yeah, some Christians only describe it as fighting evil. And mostly they imagine fighting some evil spirit, if not Satan itself. The devil and its imps are trying to destroy the world, so they’re fighting back! They’re praying really, really hard for the devil to get defeated, and bound in unbreakable chains. In some cases they’ll pray directly to the devil: “I bind you, Satan; I order you into the pit.” I’m not sure they understand only Jesus puts Satan in the pit. For that matter I’m not sure they understand spiritual warfare in general.

Y’see, back in the 1980s, author Frank Peretti wrote some novels about an unseen cosmic battle taking place between the good and evil spirits, which used humans as their proxies. (Much like the Greek gods manipulated humans in Homer’s Iliad.) From the humans’ point of view, there was a culture war going on between good Christians and evil pagans. From the spirits’ view, they were fighting in the skies with sabers and scimitars. And somehow prayer made the angels’ swords mightier. And that’s why we gotta pray. Our prayers are like the charging cable for our angels’ lightsabers!

In real life? No. Dumb. But the novels really struck a nerve with the fleshly, fightin’ part of culture warriors, and to this day you’re gonna find some the language from Peretti’s novels mixed in with the speech of “prayer warriors.” Doesn’t matter that none of this is biblical. They’ve heard this myth so long, and heard other Christians quote it as if it’s wholly true, so they’re convinced it’s totally biblical.

But again: Spiritual warfare is about us resisting evil. And to do that effectively, we gotta be humble before God. We gotta recognize there’s no way we can defeat evil without him. He’s gotta empower us to resist. He, not our prayers, does it.

James 4.7-10 KWL

7So be submitted to God;

stand against the devil, and it’ll run away from you.

8Come near to God

and he’ll come near to you.

Sinners, cleanse your hands!

Those on the fence, sanctify your minds.

9Recognize your misery, mourn, and weep.

Change your laughter into sorrow

and joy into shame:

10Be humble before the Master

and he’ll lift you up.

But of course the Frank Peretti novels indicate the only human activity in spiritual warfare consists of evildoers unknowingly following the evil spirits, or saints praying. So “spiritual warriors” are gonna insist they have been spiritually battling—with all the weepy, loud praying they do, which knocks down strongholds and takes ground for God. (“Takes ground” when the novels only describe spirits fighting in the skies. What ground. Meh; whatever.)

In reality God wins the battle against evil in the End, with or without us. But of course he’d much rather have us on his side, and not get consumed by all the evil, and destroyed. So I recommend doing as James said: Come near to God, clean your hands and minds, stop laughing off these things as if they’re nothing to worry about, and acknowledge Jesus is right and we are not.

Stop assuming prayer is warfare, worship is warfare, going through the motions of devout religiosity is warfare. None of those things are. Jesus and his apostles never describe ’em as such. Because they’re not.

Submitting to Jesus and resisting temptation: That’s warfare.

The scriptures’ purpose. [2Ti 3.15-17]

2 Timothy 3.15-17 KJV

15And that from a child thou hast known the holy scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus. 16All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: 17that the man of God may be perfect, throughly furnished unto all good works.

Most of the time, when Christians memorize this passage, they only memorize verse 16, the bit about scripture being inspired, and profitable for doctrine, reproof, correction, and instruction in righteousness. They might also memorize verse 17, which says this’ll prep us for good works. But seldom do they include verse 15, which is a huge mistake.

I’ve heard more than one preacher pitch the question, “What’s the scriptures for?” and then launch into 2 Timothy 3.16: It’s for doctrine! And reproof!—or as the New International Version puts it, rebuking!—and man alive do they love to rebuke this evil, evil world and all its sins, and throw proof texts at this world as if our pagan world is somehow gonna be convicted by sayings from a book it considers massively out of date. Never you mind that Paul wrote this passage to Timothy, a Christian, and that it’s about us Christians rebuking ourselves for our own selfish behavior, and reminding us to follow Jesus for once.

It’s for correction! It’s for instruction in righteousness! And again—it’s for Christians to self-correct; it’s for Christians to work on being on being righteous, although a better translation of δικαιοσύνῃ would be justice. It’s not about us being good, although we absolutely should be good, and the scriptures do teach us the difference between good and evil, and push us towards goodness. It’s about doing the right thing to God and others, and being fair-minded and equitable in a cruel world which upholds social Darwinism and worships Mammon.

But these preachers skip verse 15 altogether, and completely miss Paul telling Timothy, plain as day, what the scriptures did for him. They made Timothy “wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.” 1Ti 3.15 KJV. The scriptures taught him how to be saved.

And that is what the scriptures are for. What the bible is for. Doctrine, rebuke, correction, and justice, make very little sense, and have very little lasting impact, when they’re not in the context of how God saves us and adopts us as his children, and is making his temple and an everlasting kingdom out of us.

Doctrine is for us Christians—because pagans aren’t gonna follow it! Rebuke is for us Christians—because pagans dismiss it. Correction is for us Christians—because pagans don’t think they’re wrong and need correction, and unfortunately way too many Christians believe the very same thing. And training in justice is for us Christians, because pagans think justice is about putting criminals in prison, executing rapists and murderers… and giving free passes to the wealthy and famous because somehow these qualities are rewards for them being better and smarter people, and again, that’s just social Darwinism talking. God taught us better than that, but social Darwinists have convinced many a Christian that perhaps we, just by being Christian, are also some of those better and smarter people, and maybe we deserve some free passes too. Maybe we should get to take over the country or something. “If thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine,” Lk 3.7 promises Mammon, and Christians who can’t tell the difference between it and Jesus are perfectly happy to bend the knee. ’Cause they might know their bible verses, but they’re missing the context.

But I digress. We learn this stuff from the scriptures, and practice it, because we’re a saved people. Because Jesus called us forth from our cruel world, forgave us, showers us with infinite blessings, and makes a new nation out of us; a nation that’s marked by the good works he wants us to do for others. We don’t do those good works just because the bible says; we do it because we’re sharing those blessings. And if those whom we’ve helped bless, wanna know how to likewise be saved… well if you’ve memorized verse 15, you know that’s why we have the scriptures in the first place.

Getting hungry for God. Literally.

FAST fast verb. Go without food [for God].

2. noun. A period of going without food [for God].

Whenever I talk to people about fasting, their knee-jerk reaction is “No food? No food? No FOOD? You’re outa your [profane adjective] mind.” After all, this is the United States, where a 20-ounce soda is called a “small.” In this nation, the stomach rules.

This is why so many Christians are quick to redefine the word “fast.” Fr’instance the last several churches I’ve been a part of, have annually done a 21-day “Daniel fast,” which I described elsewhere. It’s not a literal fast; nobody’s going without food. They’re only depriving themselves of certain kinds of food, depending on who writes up the Daniel fast’s menu. Usually no meat or sweets. But no hunger pains either.

Fasting, actual fasting, is a hardcore Christian practice. The only things which go into our mouths are air and water. In an “absolute fast” you even skip the water. Now, we need food and water. If we don’t eat, we die. And that’s the point: Push this practice too far and we die—but God is more important than our lives. That’s the declaration we make when we fast: Our lives aren’t as important as God.

Why would we do such a thing? For the same reason Jesus did it, when he went to the desert for the devil to tempt him. Mt 4.1-2, Lk 4.1-2 Fasting makes people spiritually tough. It amplifies our prayer and meditation by a significant factor, which is why it’s a common prayer practice. When we deprive our physical parts, and shift our focus to the spiritual parts, those parts get exercised; they get stronger.

We reject our culture, which teaches us we should never deprive ourselves of anything. We recognize God, not food, is our source of life. Our minds get better attuned to God’s will. We hear him better, because our bodies physically feel our need for him. We detect spiritual things faster. We discern the difference between good and evil better.

Yeah, fasting does all that. That is, when we’re praying as well as fasting. If you’re fasting but not praying, it’s time wasted.

Don’t get me wrong. Other forms of self-deprivation have the same effects. Dieting for God, or going without certain beloved things and hobbies, because God’s more important than any of our desires, can also achieve the same things as fasting. Just not as quickly; not as intensely. The stakes simply aren’t as high. Fasting is hardcore, remember? Going without bacon, as hard as that might be for you personally, isn’t life-threatening. (In fact it’s better for your health.) But though a small thing, it’s still a sacrifice, and part of the proper mindset: “God is more important than my palate.”

The One Sheep in a Hundred Story.

Matthew 18.10-14.

This particular story is often called the Lost Sheep Story, which makes it really easy to mix up with the Lost Sheep and Lost Coin Story which Jesus tells in Luke 15. It’s mighty similar: A shepherd has 100 sheep, one gets lost, and the shepherd leaves the 99 behind to find the one.

But too often when people tell the story, they skip its context. Because they’re focused on telling the parts which parallel with Luke 15; they only wanna talk about the shepherd finding the lost sheep. And then they wanna talk about evangelism, or about how Jesus loves us so much he’s willing to ditch all the other Christians and go after the lost, and how we gotta be willing to ditch all our Christian sisters and brothers and focus solely on missions.

It misses the whole point of the parable. What is the point of the parable? Duh, the context. Jesus told this story for a reason, and if you ditch his reason because you’ve got your own reasons for telling this story, you’re not preaching his gospel; you’re preaching your own.

So I’m gonna share this story, in context, so you can see for yourself what Jesus means by it. Beginning, not at verse 12 like they preach it, but verse 10.

Matthew 18.10-14 KWL

10“See to it you² don’t dismiss

even one of these little ones.

For I tell you² their heavenly angels

see the face of my heavenly Father

all the time.

11{For the Son of Man comes

to save those who are being destroyed.}

12“What do you² think?

When a certain person comes to have 100 sheep,

and one of them might wander off,

won’t he leave the 99 in the hills,

and go seek the wanderer?

13And when he happens to find it,

amen!—I promise you, he rejoices over it

more than the 99 who didn’t wander off.

14Likewise it’s not the will of your² heavenly Father

that one of these little ones be destroyed.”

Brackets around verse 11 are to remind you the Textus Receptus added this verse to the bible. Jesus legitimately says it in Luke 19.10, and St. John Chrysostom, when he taught on this passage in the late 300s, quoted it… so starting in the 700s, the copyists of various Matthew manuscripts decided to tuck it inbetween verses 10 and 12. That’s how it got into the Vulgate, the Textus, and the KJV.

The Luke parallel to this story isn’t about little ones—by which Jesus means children—being dismissed, overlooked, corrupted, or destroyed. It’s about how Pharisees objected to Jesus dining with taxmen and sinners. Jesus used this story to tell them his Father also cares about taxmen; that they’re lost, and the Father wants ’em found. But here, Jesus tells the story for a different purpose: He doesn’t want us to dismiss children, and permit them to go astray. We’re to lead ’em to Jesus and raise them to follow him. If they later go astray and apostate, it absolutely shouldn’t be because we pushed ’em thataway. It usually is, though.

Epiphany: When Jesus was revealed to the world.

Today, 6 January, is Epiphany, the day which celebrates how Jesus was revealed to the world.

True, the Christmas stories depict Jesus’s revealing when he got born, on Christmas Day. (Which was not 25 December. That date was set because it’s 12 days before Epiphany; not, as pagans claim, because we swiped the winter solstice holiday from Saturn. As I keep reminding folks, we stole our holidays from Jews, not pagans.) Jesus gets foretold by Gabriel and Elizabeth and whatever angel appeared to his dad in a dream, but to the rest of humanity, there are the angels who appear to the sheep-herders, there’s the two prophets who identify him after his circumcision, and a few years later the magi.

But in the Roman culture, you were revealed to the world at your adoption. That’s where your dad—whether biological or adopted—formally declared you his child. Joseph did that when he gave Jesus his name, but the Romans would do it when you reached adulthood, and Jesus’s heavenly Father definitely did that at his baptism. John the baptist described it thisaway:

John 1.29-36 The Message

29The very next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and yelled out, 30“Here he is, God’s Passover Lamb! He forgives the sins of the world! This is the man I’ve been talking about, ‘the One who comes after me but is really ahead of me.’ 31I knew nothing about who he was—only this: that my task has been to get Israel ready to recognize him as the God-Revealer. That is why I came here baptizing with water, giving you a good bath and scrubbing sins from your life so you can get a fresh start with God.”

32John clinched his witness with this: “I watched the Spirit, like a dove flying down out of the sky, making himself at home in him. 33I repeat, I know nothing about him except this: The One who authorized me to baptize with water told me, ‘The One on whom you see the Spirit come down and stay, this One will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ 34That’s exactly what I saw happen, and I’m telling you, there’s no question about it: This is the Son of God.”

35The next day John was back at his post with two disciples, who were watching. 36He looked up, saw Jesus walking nearby, and said, “Here he is, God’s Passover Lamb.”

Ancient Christians began in the third century to celebrate Jesus’s baptism in January. Why January? Two theories. One is Jesus’s baptism had to take place during the Jordan River’s flood stage, usually in January. Otherwise there wouldn’t’ve been enough water to immerse him.

The other theory is the ancient churches divided the gospels into a year’s worth of readings. If you begin with Mark, you’ll get to Jesus’s baptism story in the first week of January, so that’s when they’d observe and celebrate Jesus’s baptism. Two major problems with this theory: First, New Year’s Day in the Julian calendar is 25 March. (Yes, that’s a really odd place to put New Year’s Day, but that’s how it was till the Gregorian calendar moved it to 1 January.) Second, why would you begin the yearly gospel readings with Mark instead of Matthew?

Regardless of why, ancient Christians began to celebrate Jesus’s baptism on 6 January. (Eastern churches which still use the old Julian calendar still celebrate it on 6 January, but since they’re out of sync with our calendar, to us they celebrate it on 19 January.) And since they hadn’t created the holiday of Christmas yet, the ancient Christians began celebrating everything having to do with Jesus’s birth and childhood on Epiphany, till they realized it needed its own celebration. Thus the 12 days before Epiphany evolved into the 12 days of Christmas.

Nope, we still don’t know when Jesus was born, or baptized. Does it even matter? We just need a day or two to celebrate. Or 12. And for the longest time Epiphany also lasted several days. Usually eight.

Epiphany also marks the end of Christmastime. Bummer.

Herod uses the scriptures for evil.

Matthew 2.4-6.

Christian myths say there were only three magi who sought the baby Jesus. The scriptures say no such thing. The magi brought three gifts, but Matthew says nothing about how many magi there were. One magus could bring all three himself. Likewise there could’ve been a hundred magi, each of whom could’ve brought a stocking-stuffer sized amount of gold, incense, and myrrh for Jesus. We don’t know.

But the magi, and possibly their entourage, left Jerusalem abuzz—all the more because they were asking about the newborn king of Judea, Mt 2.2 and the current king of Judea was pretty sure he didn’t have any newborn kids or grandkids around. Sounded like treason to him.

It didn’t help that Pharisees, as part of their End Times timeline, claimed a Messiah—one of the titles of the king of Israel—would show up and usher in the age to come. And Messiah would be a descendant of King David ben Jesse… and the last century and a half of Judean kings had not been descendants of David. They were head priests; they were descendants of Aaron ben Amram. As for King Herod, he was an Idumean Edomite; he wasn’t even descended from Israel.

So yeah, he was the wrong person to talk to about some newborn king of Judea. But Herod wasn’t one of those idiots who think they already know it all, and only surrounds himself with toadies who tell him so. He was a crafty old buzzard who knew knowledge is power, and went straight to the priests to learn what was up.

Matthew 2.4-6 KWL

4Assembling all the people’s head priests and scribes,

Herod is asking them where Messiah is born.

5They tell Herod, “In Bethlehem, Judea.

For this was written by the prophet:

6‘And you,¹ Bethlehem,’—land of Judah—

in no way ‘are the least of the chiefs of Judah:

A leader will come from you¹

who will shepherd my people, Israel.’ ” Mc 5.2

Quoting, of course, the prophet Micah of Morešet-Gath. In English-language bibles this is Micah 5.2, but in Hebrew this is verse 1, where the chapter begins. The previous verse ends in the paragraph-marker ס, meaning verse 2 isn’t part of Micah’s previous prophecy; it’s a new vision—a vision of a savior.

Micah 5.2 KWL

You,¹ Bethlehem Efrátah, little among Judah’s clans:

From you¹ will come forth

one who becomes the ruler of Israel.

His origin is of ancient times,

from eternal days.

The scribes left out that last part, ’cause they figured Herod didn’t need to know that part. He kinda did, though. I’ll get to why in the next section. But Herod was only interested in where Messiah might be—so he could go kill him. Mt 2.16 Spoiler, but I’m pretty sure you already know the story by now.

The Daniel fast.

Daniel 1.8-16, 10.2-4.

Every January, the people in my church go on a diet. Most years for three weeks, although individuals might opt to only do this for one. Generally we cut back on the carbohydrates, sugar, meat, and oils; we instead eat lots of fruits and vegetables. Considering all the binging we did between Thanksgiving and Christmas, it makes sense to practice a little more moderation, doesn’t it?

What does this practice have to do with prayer? Well y’see, the people don’t call it a diet. They call it a “Daniel fast.”

It’s an Evangelical practice which has taken off in the past 25 years. It’s loosely based on a few lines from Daniel 10. At the beginning of the Hebrew year, Daniel went three weeks—that’d be 21 days—depriving himself.

Daniel 10.2-3 KWL

2In those days I, Daniel, went into mourning three weeks.

3I ate none of the bread I coveted.

Meat and wine didn’t enter my mouth.

I didn’t oil my hair for all of three weeks.

That’s how the Daniel fast is meant to work. At the beginning of the year—for westerners, either the Gregorian or New Julian calendar—we likewise go three weeks depriving ourselves. Daniel went without bread, meat, wine, and oil; so do we. True, by ס֣וֹךְ לֹא סָ֑כְתִּי/sokh lo-sakhtí, “I oiled myself no oil,” Daniel was referring to how the ancients cleaned their hair. (Perfumed oil conditions it, and keeps bugs away.) But look at the approved foods of your average Daniel fast, and you’ll notice Evangelicals take no chances. Nothing fried, no oils, no butter, nothing tasty.

Though the lists of approved foods aren’t consistent across Evangelicalism. The list below permits quality oils. Including grapeseed… even though Daniel went without wine during his three weeks. Not entirely sure how they came up with their list.

This list permits oils… but no solid fats. ’Cause Daniel denied himself Crisco, y’know. The Daniel Fast

In fact when you look at these menus, you gotta wonder how any of it was extrapolated from Daniel’s experience. I mean, it generally sounds like Daniel was denying himself nice food. And yet there are such things as cookbooks for how to make “Daniel fast” desserts. No I’m not kidding. Cookbooks which say, right on the cover, they’re full of delicious recipes—so even though Daniel kept away from delicious food, who says you have to do likewise?

This is a fast, right?

My religion is Jesus.

From time to time I deal with people who love to bash “religion.”

They come in many stripes. When they’re pagan, “religion” typically means organized religion—by which they mean church, temple, or mosque. More specifically, they’re speaking of the religion’s leadership—especially leaders who tell them, “Do this, not that, or you’ll go to hell.” Except these leaders sin too—they’re hypocrites—but they’ve granted themselves exceptions; either they’re forgiven, or were granted a religious dispensation which lets ’em get away with it. Some kind of double standard which lets shepherds rape their sheep. Pagans presume every religion works this way, and want none of it. Obviously I don’t blame them for not wanting that kind of religion; what psycho would? But they’re describing cults. That’s bad religion, not good. My church isn’t that way. Many aren’t. Jesus himself surely isn’t.

When they’re conservative Evangelicals, their definition of religion really means dead religion. In “religion,” there’s no living relationship with Christ Jesus; just busywork. There’s bible-reading, but no Holy Spirit guiding you. There’s bible studies, but they’re just book clubs in which you talk about it but never follow it. There’s church functions, like fundraisers and potlucks and feeding the needy, but is Jesus really there in your midst? There’s worship, but between the rote prayers and Christian pop songs, is the Holy Spirit even in the building?

Conservative Evangelicals claim it’s significantly different for them: Unlike other churchgoers who imagine themselves Christian, they have a relationship with Jesus. He’s their guy! He’s gonna save them, let them into his kingdom, and in the meanwhile help them achieve little victories over their domestic life, their finances, and help their favorite politicians get elected. Their lives are gonna change for the better! So what steps must they take to help Jesus do all this? Um…

And here we uncover the fact their “relationships” are entirely one-sided. Jesus is gonna do for them… and they don’t expect to do jack squat for him. Jesus does the entire work of saving him, but they figure this “entire work” includes everything. They needn’t lift a finger. Nor reform their behavior, nor repent in any meaningful way, because the Holy Spirit within them will magically, automatically make ’em more Christian. In short order they’ll naturally think like Jesus. Why, they’re thinking like Jesus right now. Conveniently, he likes all the same things they do!

Yeah, they don’t contribute anything to this relationship. Certainly no self-discipline. They’re not religious about it! But that’s why they’re irreligious Christians, and their relationship with Jesus actually sucks—and pagans look at ’em and think, “What hypocrites.” All while they imagine they’re not hypocrites. Or religious. They have a relationship!

Lastly the nontheists. They don’t care how the dictionary, or how conservative Evangelicals, define religion: They think it’s all hogwash. God’s imaginary. We’re wasting our time and money, and getting suckered by our leaders, who make an awful lot of money in the religion racket. Sometimes—but it’s extremely rare—I’ve met a sympathetic atheist who only wants to help: “Look, these preachers are totally lying to you; I can help you escape!” But nearly always it’s someone who likes to rip apart any religious people they find, just for the evil fun.

All these groups have their own definitions of “religion.” And sometimes the definition varies from individual to individual. Hey, lots of people use words incorrectly; lookit all the people who use “literally” to mean anything but literally. So when they say “religion” they might mean any generic non-scientific belief system; they might mean a strict code of personal conduct; they might not even mean a belief system at all, but the simple pursuit of good vibes. They could mean anything. You gotta ask!

Regardless of what they mean by “religion,” they think it’s wrong or foolish, and mock it. And when I call myself religious, it hits ’em right in the middle of their hangup.

If I tell ’em my religion is Christianity, they’ll mock it aplenty. Heck, I will too: There’s a lot of junk in Christianity which looks nothing like Christ Jesus, even though he’s the guy it’s meant to be centered on. Way too much Christianism masquerading as Christianity. So I can’t fault people for finding fault with it; I find fault with it. Often.

But y’know who I don’t find fault with? Duh; it’s Jesus.

And y’know, pagans and nontheists seldom find fault with him either. Oh, there’ll be exceptions—although a lot of times I find they’re actually finding fault with one of the many not-all-that-historical ideas of Historical Jesus which they picked up from some weird book, outlandish YouTube video, or “religion expert” who was really just talking out of his arse. Actual Jesus, as found in the gospels—no, him they like. He’s all right with them. Cue the Doobie Brothers song.

Which is why I tell them my religion is Jesus.

Read the bible in a month. Yes, seriously. A month.

January’s coming; you’re making resolutions, and one of ’em is to read the bible. As you should! It’s gonna make you more familiar with God. Some people unrealistically expect a new, profound God-experience every day as the Holy Spirit shows ’em stuff, but hopefully you’re more realistic about it. Hopefully you’re realistic about all your resolutions. Not everyone is.

So you need to read through through the entire bible, Genesis to maps. (That’s an old Evangelical joke. ’Cause a lot of study bibles include maps in the back. Okay, it’s less amusing once I explain it.) Every year Christians get on some kind of bible-reading plan to make sure they methodically go through every book, chapter, and verse. ’Cause when we don’t, we wind up only reading the familiar bits, over and over and over again—and miss a lot of the parts we should read. The reason so many Christians misinterpret the New Testament is because they know so very little of its Old Testament context. Every time I quote just a little bit of the Law to explain Jesus’s teachings, way too many people respond, “I’ve never heard that before.” Sadly, I know exactly what they’re talking about.

But part of the reason they “never heard that before” is because they totally forgot they did hear it. Because their bible-in-a-year reading plan had ’em read the Law back in February… and when they finally got to the gospels in September, they’ve clean forgot what they read in February. And by next February when they’re reading the Law again, they’ve clean forgot what they read in September.

So why take a year to read the bible? ’Cause everybody else is doing the bible in a year.

Seriously. It’s a big market. Publishers sell one-year bibles, which chop the scriptures into short daily readings. Sometimes really short daily readings, ’cause they’ll give you three readings: A chapter of the Old Testament, half a chapter of the New Testament, and half a psalm or some other poetry for dessert. If you don’t buy their specially sliced-up bible, there are websites which do it for you, or modules to add to your bible software, or you can just get a list of somebody’s bible-in-a-year plan and follow it yourself. Stick to it and in a year—a year!—you’ll have read the bible.

Yes the bible is a big thick book collection. But come on. It’s not so thick it takes a year to go through.

The year-long program makes the bible sound like this huge, insurmountable mountain to climb. It’s no such thing. Why, you can read it in a month. And no, I’m not kidding. A month. I’ve read it several Januarys in a row. Takes me three weeks.

Yes, there are bible-reading programs which read the bible in three months. That’s a little more reasonable. In fact if you wanna really get familiar with your bible, and quickly, it’s a great idea to do this three-month plan and read the bible four times in a year. (Ideally in four different translations.) Read it every time the seasons change—in December, March, June, and September. Get a bible-in-three-months plan and go with their schedule, or get a bible-in-a-year plan and read four times as much.

If you struggle with reading, or reading comprehension, fine; there are six-month bible-reading plans. But when we’re talking a whole year to read the bible, this pace has serious drawbacks. And not just ’cause it makes the bible sound impossibly massive.

Resolutions: Our little stabs at self-control.

Speaking for myself, I’m not into new year’s resolutions.

Because I make resolutions the year round. Whenever I recognize changes I need to make in my life, I get to work on ’em right away. I don’t procrastinate till 1 January. (Though I admit I may procrastinate just the same. But not ’cause I’m saving up new changes for the new year.)

Here’s the problem with stockpiling all our lifestyle changes till the new year: Come 1 January, we wind up with a pile of changes to make. It’s hard enough to make one change; now you have five. Or 50, depending on how great of a trainwreck you are. Multiplying your resolutions, multiplies your difficulty level.

But hey, it’s an American custom. So at the year’s end a lot of folks, Christians included, begin to think about what we’d like to change about our lives.

Not that we want to change. Some of us don’t! But it’s New Year’s resolution time, and everyone’s asking what our resolutions are, and some of us might grudgingly try to come up with something. What should we change? Too many carbohydrates? Not enough exercise? Sloppy finances? Non-productive hobbies? Too many bucket list items not checked off?

Since our culture doesn’t really do self-control, you might notice a lot of Americans’ resolutions aren’t really about breaking bad habits, but adding new habits—good or bad. We’re not gonna eat less, but we are gonna work out more often. We’re not gonna cut back on video games at all, yet somehow find the time to pray more often. You know—unrealistic expectations.

True, a lot of us vow to diet and exercise. Just as many of us will choose to learn gourmet cooking, or resolve to eat at fancier restaurants more often. (Well, so long that the fancier restaurants provide American-size portions. If I only wanted a six-ounce piece of meat I’d go to In-N-Out Burger.)

True, a lot of us will vow to cut back on our screen time—whether on computers, tablets, phones, or televisions. Just as many will decide time isn’t the issue; quality is. They’ll vow to watch better movies and TV shows. Time to binge-watch the shows the critics rave about. Time to watch classic movies instead of whatever Adam Sandler’s production company farts out. (I used to say “poops out,” but that implies they’re making an effort.) Sometimes it’s a clever attempt to avoid cutting back on screen time—’cause they already know they won’t. And sometimes they honestly never think about it; screens are a fact of life.

As Christians, a lot of us will resolve to be better Christians. We’ll pray more. Meditate more. Go to church more consistently; maybe join one of the small groups. Perhaps read more bible—even all the way through. Put more into the collection plate. Share Jesus more often with strangers and acquaintances. Maybe do some missions work.

All good intentions. Yet here’s the problem: It takes self-control to make any resolution stick. It’s why, by mid-March, all these resolutions are likely abandoned. So if we’re ever gonna stick to them, we gotta begin by developing everybody’s least-favorite fruit of the Spirit: Self-control.

The magi show up.

Matthew 2.1-3.

Too many Christians forget our words Messiah and Christ both mean king.

Yes, they literally translate as “anointed [one].” But the ancients didn’t use these words to mean just anyone who’d been anointed with oil. It referred to Israel’s king, who’d been anointed to represent God granting him the Holy Spirit’s power to lead. It’s a royal title. It means you’re king. If you wandered ancient Israel calling yourself Messiah, people would either think you were crazy, like some bum on the street insisting he’s the emperor; or they’d think you had plans on taking the kingdom away from its then-current occupant.

In 5BC, that’d be Herod bar Antipater. And a lot of Israelis felt he wasn’t the legitimate Messiah. For the past century and a half, the head priests of the Hasmonean family had held the office of king. But 32 years before, in 37BC, Roman triumvir Marcus Antonius had backed Herod as he overthrew Antigonus bar Aristobulus, the last Hasmonean king, and took the title for himself. He was neither a priest, nor a descendant of King David ben Jesse like Jesus is. He wasn’t even Israeli; his father was an Idumean Edomite, and his mother a Nabatean Arab. He’s a descendant of Abraham on both sides, but not Israel, and the Law forbade the Israelis from making a non-Israeli their king. Dt 17.15 Not that they had any say in the matter.

Because of the way he seized power, Herod was super paranoid about anyone who might try to overthrow him. Many tried and failed, including Herod’s own family members; including his own kids. He knew Israelis didn’t want him there. It’s why all his palaces were fortresses, in case he had to defend himself from his own subjects; it’s why most of his bodyguard were Europeans, not fellow middle easterners. So you didn’t wanna get on Herod’s bad side. Cæsar Augustus used to joke he’d rather be Herod’s pig than his son. Herod executed three of his sons, and since Judeans didn’t eat pork, Augustus’s comment was quite apt.

So you can see how today’s story would trigger Herod:

Matthew 2.1-3 KWL

1Around when Jesus is born in Bethlehem, Judea,

in the days of King Herod,

look: Magi from the east come to Jerusalem,

2saying, “Where’s the newborn king of the Judeans?

For we see his star in the east,

and we come to pay him respect.”

3Hearing this agitated King Herod,

and all Jerusalem with him.

Yep, agitating Herod meant he might get murdery, so all Jerusalem was agitated too. Well, the magi didn’t know any better.

St. Stephen, and true martyrdom.

You may remember Στέφανος/Stéfanos “Stephen” from Acts 6-7. He’s not in the bible for very long, but he makes a big impact, ’cause he’s the first Christian to get killed for Jesus. Or martyred, as we put it, although properly martyrdom really only means giving one’s testimony. And hopefully not getting lynched for it.

Stephen’s feast day is actually today—26 December, the second day of Christmas. It’s the day good king Wenceslas looked down, if you know the Christmas carol; maybe you do. We have no idea whether Stephen literally died in December, much less whether it’s the 26th (or 27th, in eastern churches). It’s just where tradition happened to stick it. In some countries it’s an official holiday.

If you’ve read Acts, you know his story. If not, I’ll recap.

In the ancient Hebrew culture, tithes weren’t money, but food. Every year you took 10 percent of your firstfruits and celebrated with it, Dt 14.22-27 and every third year you gave it to the needy. Dt 14.28-29 Apparently the first Christians took on this duty of distributing tithes to the needy. But they were accused of favoring Syriac-speaking Christians over Greek-speaking ones, Ac 6.1 so the Twelve had the church elect seven Greek-speakers to make sure the Greek-speakers were served properly. Ac 6.2-3 Stephen was first in this list, and Acts’ author Luke pointedly called him full of faith and the Holy Spirit, Ac 6.5 full of God’s grace and power. Ac 6.8 Definitely a standout.

The first church still only consisted of Jews. Christianity was a Judean religion—the obvious difference between Christians and Pharisees being we believe Jesus is Messiah, and they believed Messiah hadn’t yet come. Otherwise the first Christians still went to temple and synagogue. It was in synagogue where Stephen got into trouble: The people of his synagogue dragged him before the Judean senate to accuse him of slandering Moses, temple, and the LORD. Custom made slandering Moses and the temple serious, but slandering the LORD coulda got you the death penalty… if the Romans hadn’t forbidden the Judeans from enacting it. But as you know from Jesus’s case, the Judeans could certainly get the Romans to execute you for them. So Stephen was hauled before the senate to defend himself.

Unlike Jesus, who totally admitted he’s Messiah, Stephen defended himself: He retold the history of Israel, up to the construction of the temple. Ac 7.2-47 Then he pointed out God doesn’t live in a building, of all the silly things. Ac 7.48-50 And by the way, the senate was a bunch of Law-breakers who killed Christ. Ac 7.51-53

More than one person has pointed out it’s almost like Stephen was trying to get himself killed. Me, I figure he was young and overzealous and naïve, and had adopted the American myth (centuries before we Americans made it our very own) that if you’re on God’s side, no harm will ever befall you. You can bad-mouth your foes, and God’s hedge of protection will magically defend you when they turn round and try to punch you in the head. You can leap from tall buildings, and angels will catch you. You know, like Satan tried to tempt Jesus with. Mt 4.5-7

That’s not at all how things turned out.

The 12 days of Christmas.

Today’s the first day of Christmas. Happy Christmas!

After which there are 11 more days of it. 26 December—which is also Boxing Day and St. Stephen’s Day—tends to get called “the day after Christmas,” but it’s not. It’s the second day of Christmas.

The Sunday after Christmas (and in many years, including 2025 and 2026, two Sundays after Christmas) is still Christmas. So I go to church and wish people a happy Christmas. And they look at me funny, till I remind them, “Christmas is 12 days, y’know. Like the song.”

Ah, the song. They sing it, but it never clicks what they’re singing about.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

A partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Two turtledoves

And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Three french hens

Two turtledoves

And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Four calling birds

Three french hens

Two turtledoves

And a partridge in a pear tree.

We’re on the fourth day and that’s 20 frickin’ birds. There will be plenty more, what with the swans a-swimming and geese a-laying. Dude was weird for birds. But I digress.

There are 12 days of Christmas. But our culture focuses on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day… and we’re done. Department store policy is to remove the Christmas merchandise on 26 December (if not sooner!) and start putting up New Year’s and St. Valentine’s Day stuff. If the Christmas stuff is already sold out, fill ’em with the next holidays’ stuff now. So the stores grant us two days of Christmas; no more.

Really, many people can’t abide any more days of Christmas than that. When I remind people it’s 12 days, the response is seldom surprise, recognition, or pleasure. It’s tightly controlled rage. Who the [expletive noun] added 11 more days to this [expletive adjective] holiday? They want it done already.

I understand this. If the focus of Christmas isn’t Christ, but instead all the Christian-adjacent cultural traditions we’re forced to practice this time of year, Christmas sucks. Hard. Especially since Mammonists don’t bother to be like Jesus, and practice kindness and generosity. For them Christmas is about being a dick to any clerk who wishes ’em a “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” I don’t blame people for hating that behavior. Really, Christians should hate it. It’s works of the flesh, y’know.

Christmas, the feast of Christ Jesus’s nativity (from whence non-English speakers get their names for Christmas, like Navidad and Noël and Natale) begins 25 December and ends 5 January. What are we to do these other 11 days? Same as we were supposed to do Christmas Day: Remember Jesus. Meditate on his first coming; look forward to his second coming. And rejoice; these are feast days, so the idea is to actually enjoy yourself, and have a good time with loved ones. Eat good food. Hang out. Relax. Or, if you actually like to shop, go right ahead; but if you don’t, by all means don’t.

It’s a holiday. Take a holiday.

When God became human.

INCARNATE 'ɪn.kɑrn.eɪt verb. Put an immaterial thing (i.e. an abstract concept or idea) into a concrete form.

2. Put a deity or spirit into a human form, i.e. Hindu gods.

3. ɪn'kɑr.nət adjective. Embodied in flesh, or concrete form.

[Incarnation ɪn.kɑr'neɪ.ʃən noun, reincarnation 're.ɪn.kɑr.neɪ.ʃən noun.]

Most of our christology lingo tends to come from Greek and Latin. This one too. Why? Because that’s what ancient Christians spoke… and over the centuries westerners got the idea Greek and Latin sound much more formal and sanctimonious than plain English. But they absolutely weren’t formal words in the original languages. When you literally translate ’em, they make people flinch. Incarnate is one of those words: In-carnátio is Latin for “put into meat.”

Yep, put into meat. Nope, this isn’t a mistranslation. And it’s an accurate description of what happened to Jesus. The word of God—meaning God—became flesh. Meat.

John 1.14 KJV

And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.

This isn’t a temporary change, solely for the few decades Jesus walked the earth. When Jesus was resurrected, he went right back to having a flesh-’n-bone body. When he got raptured up to heaven, he still had, and has, his flesh-’n-bone body; he didn’t shuck it like a molting crustacean. It’s who he is now. God is now meat. Flesh, blood, spit, mucus, cartilage, hair, teeth, bile, tears. MEAT.

God doesn’t merely look human. Nor did he take over an existing human, scoop out the spirit, and replace it with his Holy Spirit. These are some of the dozens of weird theories people coined about how Jesus isn’t really or entirely human. Mainly they were invented by people who can’t have God be human.

To such people, humanity makes God no longer God. It undoes his divinity. He’d have to be limited instead of unlimited. And these people, like most humans, define God by his power. Power’s what they really admire, really covet, about God: His raw, unlimited, sovereign might. Not his character, not his goodness, not his love and kindness and compassion. F--- those things. God has to be mighty, and they can’t respect a God who doesn’t respect power the way they do.

So that, they insist, is who Jesus really is. Beneath a millimeter of skin, Jesus was secretly, but not all that secretly, all that raw unlimited power. He only feigned humanity, for the sake of fearful masses who’d scream out in terror if they ever encountered an undisguised God. He pretended to be one of us. Peel off his human suit, and he’s really omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, omni-everything.

To such people incarnation dirties God. It defiles him. Meat is icky. Humanity, mortality, the realness of our everyday existence, is too nasty for God to demean himself to. Sweating. Aching. Pains and sickness. Peeing and pooping. Suffering from acne and bug bites and rashes. Belching and farting. Sometimes the trots from bad shawarma the night before. Waking up with a morning erection.

Have I outraged you yet? You’re hardly the first. But this, as we can all attest, is humanity. Not even sinful humanity; I haven’t touched upon that at all, and I needn’t, ’cause humans don’t have to sin, as Jesus demonstrates. I’m just talking regular, natural, physical humanity. When God became human, he became that. And people can’t abide it.

Yet it’s true. God did it intentionally. He wanted us to be with him. So he made the first move, and became one of us.