Author: Chris Boyd

Why we need to remember the God-given language of music.

When my nine-year-old daughter communicates with me about something that happens in her day at school, she uses gestures, eyebrows, words, and inflections to try to get the story from her heart into mine. For a child, everyday conversation is something more like singing than talking. Music, relationship, and storytelling are three strands of the same cord.

Sometimes it seems we have forgotten our childlike ability to sing. But even when we are silent, there are thousands of love songs streaming on the radio. There’s evocative orchestration beneath the scenes in our favorite movies. Songs are ubiquitous, yet we have forgotten how to speak the language of music.

You may not think of yourself as a singer. But if we can suspend all judgments about what makes a good vocalist, there is something irresistible about it. Singing is part of what it means to be human. You don’t have to sing a solo on a stage, but all creation is invited to join in the song back to the God who made us. When we sing, we engage our affections, not just our speech.

Ephesians 5:18–20 contrasts the intoxication of wine with the intoxication of worship. Beyond the pull of pop radio and movie orchestrations, this text affirms that God has designed us for rich, emotional expression. Before school, on our way to work, at weddings, or beside a hospital bed—we are called to sing our gratitude to God at all times for all things:

Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit, speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit. Sing and make music from your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Have we forgotten …

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But in his spare time, a leading refugee pastor is mentoring immigrant ministry leaders across the country.

Nobody naps on Saturdays in the Gatera family.

If anyone has a right to, it’s Jean Pierre Gatera. Most weekdays the 43-year-old drives his wife, Appoline, to her tomato-packing job in Minneapolis at 6:30 a.m. Then he sends their kids—Joel, 15, Emmanuela, 12, and Deborah, 8—off to school and does a few hours of work for his degree, a master’s in leadership from Bethel University. He preps some rice and meat for dinner, since Appoline is usually exhausted when she gets home. Then, at 4:20 p.m., he leaves for work: waxing floors for a janitorial company until 1 a.m. He sleeps about four hours a night.

But if he’s fatigued on a Saturday afternoon in July, Jean Pierre does not show it. He and the kids pile into the family van and one of them says a prayer for safety before heading to the Hosmer Library, just south of downtown Minneapolis. He leaves them at the stately, hydrangea-framed historic building to kill a few hours while he drives to Jonathan House, a ministry in neighboring Saint Paul where immigrants seeking asylum can stay for up to six months while they find their feet.

Jean Pierre stands waiting at the door of the small, forgettable white structure, unornamented except for some gray shutters. He is about 20 minutes late for a 1 p.m. appointment with Gabriel Wilson, an immigrant from Liberia. But Wilson is still asleep. He works nights too.

Asylum seekers like Wilson have almost no safety net; they are not eligible for welfare cash assistance or other government benefits. Which is why Jean Pierre is here today, to see to it that Wilson never needs a net.

Still groggy, Wilson shows Jean Pierre into the front room, where they review several goals they’ve set together for Wilson: get a …

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Ministries in Sulawesi, Indonesia, engage kids in a crucial first step in trauma healing: play.

In a church in the bayside city of Palu, Indonesia, volunteers smile wide as they lead dozens of children in sing-alongs with hand motions. They pass around coloring pages with packs of crayons and colored pencils. The group sits cross-legged on the white tile floor, hands folded in their laps, to pray together.

It looks like a typical day at Sunday School—and that’s the point. Because outside of the walls of GPID Manunggal Palu, these kids’ world is a disaster zone.

A 7.5-magnitude earthquake struck nearby in late September, causing a massive tsunami, aftershocks, and mudslides that killed more than 2,000 of their neighbors—including hundreds of students at a Bible camp. Their streets are unrecognizable, with crumbled buildings and buckled roads. They’ve lost homes, electricity—and normalcy.

“The kids miss their normal routine,” said Priscilla Christin, spokesperson for World Vision Indonesia. “Routines like school are especially important when children have experienced a scary event.”

Days after the earthquake, ministries rushed to provide safe spaces and trauma recovery programs specifically for kids, who often can’t process what has happened or what they’re feeling as readily as adults. “They lack both the language and life experience to understand what they’re going through,” said Jamie Aten, founder and executive director of the Humanitarian Disaster Institute (HDI) at Wheaton College.

Relief charities like World Vision and Samaritan’s Purse have seen on the ground what researchers like Aten have concluded: Even basic care—like a safe location, kids to play with, and someone to talk to—can go a long way toward reducing …

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Most of us have an idea of what peace looks like. But is that the peace that Christ promises?

When you think of peace, perhaps you think of somewhere quiet and calm, far from noise and distraction. Perhaps you imagine time with loved ones and close friends.

For me, peace is being with my family. Having everyone in the house at Christmas time is a time of joy and peace for me.

Maybe, though, your mental picture of peace is a little more detailed. Maybe you can’t help but hope for restored personal health or the restored health of a loved one. Maybe more financial security, a better family dynamic, or less violence in your community immediately come to mind.

I get it. Peace can often elude us.

But regardless of what you imagine or why, most of us can agree on this: our lives are not always peaceful, and we think we know why.

Around Christmas, ‘peace on earth,’ as the old song goes, can feel so close and yet so far from each of us. It’s as if all God had to do was move this one small obstacle or send a little bit of help and all would be well in our world.

And yet, he sent Jesus. Into this messy place with all its problems, God sent a baby.

The Prince of Peace?

Interestingly enough, amidst their own sea of questions and skepticism, the Israelite prophets of old assumed that their coming Messiah would bring peace. The prophet Isaiah foretold Christ’s coming thousands of years before the Incarnation ever took place—long before the days of Mary, Joseph, or those lowly shepherds. He writes in Isaiah 9:

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given,and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne …

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The peace on earth and good will to men we so desperately long for are only possible because of that lowly manger scene.

Christmas is the only holiday I can think of that comes with its own soundtrack—a plethora of artists and albums we draw from each year to get into the holiday spirit.

Everyone has their favorite go-to songs this time of year, but many of them really end up spreading the same message of Christmas cheer. Themes of joy, light-spiritedness, and laughter echo all around.

But there’s one song coming to mind that gets at two other important themes for the season: “peace on earth” and “good will to men” as the tune repeats.

The lyrics to the song ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’ date back to the mid-nineteenth century. They were originally written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a most respected literary critic and poet of his day. We sing them aloud in church, on the street, and through the radio this Christmas season, but as with most pieces of art, there’s a seldom-told story behind this song’s profound message—in this case, a story of pain and tragedy.

Longfellow lived with his family, a wife, Fannie, and six children in Cambridge, Massachusetts. But in the early 1860s, Fannie’s dress caught on fire. Henry tried all he could to save her, sustaining critical burns to his own face as a result, but try as he might to extinguish the fire, she died the next morning.

The first Christmas after her death, Longfellow wrote, “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays,” later describing himself to a friend as “inwardly bleeding to death.”

Have you ever felt that way?

By 1864, the Civil War was in full swing. The country, less than 100 years old, was tearing itself apart from the inside out in the midst of what still to this day remains America’s …

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The abbreviation offends 6 in 10 evangelicals, but its history is deeply Christian

Though the demand for “more Christ in Christmas” seems to be losing momentum, most evangelicals still believe the holiday—and its seasonal greetings—should more explicitly reference the Savior.

Overall, the number of Americans who say Christmas should be more about Jesus has dropped from 79 percent in 2014 to 65 percent in 2018, according to LifeWay Research.

“Saying Christmas should be more about Jesus is a little like saying Thanksgiving should be more about giving thanks. It’s in the name of the holiday,” said Scott McConnell, LifeWay Research’s executive director. “Yet, it appears there is less cultural expectation for celebrations of the Christmas holiday to include the religious aspect.”

American nones and those of other faiths account for the bulk of the shift. In LifeWay’s 2014 report, 63 percent of members of non-Christian faiths and nearly half of the country’s nones (46%) said Christmas should be more about Jesus. Four years later, those percentages dropped to 35 percent and 28 percent, respectively.

Even Christians are slightly less likely to want to see a greater emphasis on Jesus, with 8 in 10 agreeing this year compared to 9 in 10 in 2014. But nearly all evangelicals by belief, 97 percent, still insist on more Jesus.

A majority of evangelicals (65%) say they take offense when someone says, “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas,” though fewer than half of Christians (42%) and a third of Americans (32%) agree.

Over the years, LifeWay found the abbreviation “X-mas” to be just as controversial as “Happy holidays” or more, with 42 percent of Christians and 33 percent of Americans saying it was …

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Like Christmas itself, we can become nostalgic about reconciliation rather than embrace the messy grace and humility that it requires.

Many of us love Christmas. We love the lights, the festivities, and the jovial delight that comes with the season. And as much as I hate to admit it, here in the biting-cold Midwest I even enjoy the snow this time of year, although those pretty flakes can be gone once the New Year rolls around.

But no amount of nostalgia can capture the real power of Christmas: Christ has come for us. He has crossed behind enemy lines to rescue us who have long been slaves of sin, fear, and death. We celebrate Christmas because we celebrate our king becoming vulnerable, becoming weak, humbling himself to bring reconciliation between us and God.

Reconciliation is a wonderful idea when we are the ones that have been fought for, and we are the ones who receive mercy, forgiveness, and restored relationship.

But like Christmas itself, we can become nostalgic about reconciliation rather than really embrace the messy grace and humility that it requires.

We all have work to do reconciling relationships with the people in our lives. Whether it’s a slight irritation with a coworker or a full-on feud over deep wounds, we all have imperfect and broken connections with other humans. But those minor cracks can break, and major brokenness can soon become septic.

If we are to pursue building up the Church, be effective in our evangelism, and experience the true fullness of mercy, grace, and redemption, we cannot ignore broken relationships.

And if we are going to truly say, “Merry Christmas,” then we must adopt the passion of Jesus to step into the awkward, uncomfortable, humbling messiness that is reconciliation.

We are God’s kids. When Jesus came, he didn’t stop at forgiveness; he brought us into full relationship; he brought us …

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Penned during the Civil War, Longfellow’s “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” is a carol for our age.

The word apocalypse in the Greek means “uncovering,” and 2018 has been a year of uncoverings, of pulling back the curtain to reveal the worst things that people can do to one another. It has uncovered abuse and corruption at every level—spilled blood, separated families, failure of justice after failure of justice, each headline hitting so quickly that it feels impossible to give anything the attention it deserves. There will be more before the end of the year; there will be more before you even finish reading this piece.

It’s hard to rejoice in an atmosphere like this. “The most wonderful time of the year” does not seem wonderful; shopping, twinkle lights, hot chocolate, ice skating and the bright bombardment of advertisements fill the space like cotton candy, too sweet and flimsy.

Like we do every year, my parents took my brother and me to see “A Christmas Carol” on stage to get everyone into the Christmas spirit (which is no small feat at the end of November). The story is familiar and heartwarming, but the song they ended their production with struck me: “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” Set to music a few decades later, this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was written over Christmas of either 1863 or 1864, in the middle of the bloodiest war in American history.

The carol is not cotton candy; it is a beating heart, laid bare in seven stanzas with simple language. At the second-to-last verse, I noticed dimly that I had begun to cry; by the end of the song, my face was wet with tears.

“And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’” …

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God’s messengers can be both bombastic and surprisingly subdued.

In my years of writing, I’ve not paid much attention to angels. I’ve never knowingly encountered one—knowingly, I say, for how could I tell for certain? Supernatural go-betweens, angels operate in the invisible world, rarely revealing themselves to those of us who occupy the material world.

I think of angels as something like the dark matter that physicists are still trying to understand. Our familiar world of matter—the Earth, stars and planets, everything that we can see—represents only 5 percent of the universe. Dark matter, which doesn’t interact with “normal” matter, comprises some 27 percent, according to the latest estimates. We know dark matter exists due to its effect on gravitation but can’t easily detect it since it doesn’t absorb, reflect, or emit light.

Evidently angels have the ability to cross over between darkness and light, spanning the invisible and the visible worlds. They may act in subtle ways, through dreams, whispers, and mysterious coincidences—witness the many accounts of “guardian angel” experiences. Or, as in the Bible accounts, they may manifest themselves so dramatically that they must begin with the words “Fear not!”

As Christmas approaches, you can’t avoid angels. They turn up in such places as Christmas carols in the mall, greeting cards, wrapping paper, Nativity sets, and the tops of decorated trees. These cute, cuddly depictions have little in common with the angels of the Old Testament, who often came as warriors to dispense judgment.

Puzzled by this abrupt change in style, during Advent I took a closer look at the dozen accounts of angels in the four Gospels.

Entertaining Angels

In the four centuries …

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Jesus’ life began and ended in earthly fetters. Who better to understand ours?

E. B. White once lamented, “To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year.”

I wouldn’t want to argue with the beloved author of Charlotte’s Web. Yet I have an affection for Christmas wrapping precisely because it helped me perceive Jesus through a fresh lens.

Several years ago, I decided to write a daily Christmas post on our church blog during the month of December. Saying something fresh about the Nativity every single day had me reaching far and wide for ideas. In my grasping, for one entry I decided to tackle the theology of Christmas wrapping. I vaguely recalled that some cultures use cloth instead of paper to wrap gifts, which sounded intriguing.

So I dug in. That’s when I first learned about the ancient Japanese art of furoshiki. Feudal lords needed a practical way to bundle their belongings while using the shogun bathhouse, and they displayed their family crests on the outer cloth to identify whose was whose.

Over the centuries, people adapted furoshiki into a beautiful means of presenting gifts. The cloth is folded and tied in deliberate, creative ways, inviting the recipient to pause and appreciate the thoughtfulness behind the packaging before opening it.

What’s more, unlike paper, the material can then be reused over and over again, which has made furoshiki a popular, eco-friendly alternative. When Yuriko Koike was the Japanese Minister of the Environment, she praised the benefits of furoshiki, saying, “It’s a shame for something to go to waste without having made use of its potential in full.”

I realized that Jesus came to us in furoshiki, wrapped in cloths. And while the strips of swaddling served their original purpose long …

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