It probably won’t surprise anyone who knows me to find out I lean heavily on the ‘decades/centuries begin on the year that has a 1, not a 0’ side of the contention about when these things actually start. This article from Mental Floss has placated me a bit with its observation that it’s not really about math, it’s about how use the dates to group things. Now if everyone can officially agree that the first decade has nine years, and the first century has ninety-nine years I’m happy. And even if everyone can’t I think I can live with it. I think.
Local shoe repair and key cutting legends Bannister and Son stock Redwing Boots.
I thought of them when I saw this post on Atlas Obscura about the world’s largest Red Wing Boot, in Red Wing Minnesota.
I’m not sure how the staff at Bannister’s would cope with repairing this bad boy, but they’d give it a crack.
The final day of the twelve days of Christmas (and this season of Christmas songs) is also known as Ephiphany.
The focus (principally) seems to be on the visitors who came to honour the one born to be king.
Whether they were kings, wise men, sages, or scholars and whether there were three or more is not the main point.
The main point is that they came from from afar to worship Jesus.
Here’s a song I’ve never featured before (or heard of before) What Star Is This With Beams So Bright translated by John Chandler from the original lyrics of Charles Coffin.
This rendition provides verses 1,2, and 4.
The lyrics:
1
What star is this, with beams so bright,
More lovely than the noonday light?
’Tis sent to announce a newborn King,
Glad tidings of our God to bring.
2
’Tis now fulfilled what God decreed,
“From Jacob shall a star proceed;”
And lo! the eastern sages stand
To read in heav’n the Lord’s command.
3
The guiding star above is bright;
Within them shines a clearer light,
And leads them on with pow’r benign
To seek the Giver of the sign.
4
O Jesus, while the star of grace
Impels us on to seek your face,
Let not our slothful hearts refuse
The guidance of your light to use.
5
To God almighty, heav’nly Light;
To Christ, revealed in splendor bright;
To God the Spirit now we raise
A never ending hymn of praise.
Union with God in Jesus is a unique relationship. Though there are similarities with aspects of human relationships the complete non-dependence of God and the absolute dependence of we humans means all comparisons with other relationships have limits that need to be reconised.
They contribute to helping us understand, but they don’t define the relationship.
Over and over again, the New Testament tries to tell us something we have so much trouble hearing: that the goal of Christianity is dependent union – an unusual sort of God—human relationship that doesn’t have a true parallel in the human—to—human world. God uses earthly metaphors to hint at What he means by this bond—sometimes bride—groom language or parent—child comparisons. But no human relationship can catch all of what’s happening in our unity with God because he is more intimate with us than anything we will ever share with another person.
If you read back through the New Testament, you will notice that the Bible uses strange phrases like “Christ in you” to describe this intimate union. Sometimes we are called a “dwelling place,” and other times we are called branches on a Vine. This isn’t like anything we read about in pagan mythology — not the tinkering of a god who hangs out most days on Mount Olympus but whips up a strategic thunderstorm for the Trojans now and then. This gets inside our space. It gets inside our lives.
When life is going great, most Christians don’t let these metaphors get too close because we love our autonomy and feel as if we have a handle on things. But when chaos hits —when the nine—volt battery of our own ability finally fizzles out — we’re at last ready to plug our electric cords into God’s outlet. “Give me the juice!” we pray. “Live through me because I got nothin’.”
Even in that moment of vulnerability, Paul’s word choice may still look strange to us. “I delight in weaknesses,” he wrote — but no, that’s not the emotion we feel at all. At least not yet. In fact, “delight” is the very last thing we feel. We feel ashamed of ourselves, maybe. We feel desperate. We feel humiliated. But all of these emotions are ust afiershocks of the downfall of our self-effort. They are tremors in the dust of an infrastructure that needed to collapse.
Rebecca K. Reynolds, Courage, Dear Heart, Navpress, 2018, pgs 77-78.
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