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.