Jared Wilson writes about the problem we ignore at Christmastime: if God is immutable, if he is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, then how did he not change when he was incarnated as a man? He says, “What Paul is getting at in Philippians 2:5-8 is not that Jesus did not ‘hold’ or ‘maintain’ the fullness of his divinity but that he did not exploit it or leverage it against his experiencing the fullness of humanity. He didn’t pull the parachute, in other words.”
Scary Ghost Stories of Christmases Long Ago
“The first key to a Christmas ghost story,” writes Colin Fleming, “is a convivial atmosphere. People in these stories are well fed, they’re often hanging out in groups, you feel like you’re hanging out with them, and you do not wish to leave any more than they do. It is cold outside but warm in here, and it’s time to rediscover that sense of play that so many of us adults lose over the years, and which, when we are fortunate, we remember to rediscover at Christmas.”
He recommends five old stories to fit the bill.
Kipling Didn’t Look Back
How Kipling seemed to a brilliant contemporary is shown by the parody “PC X36” in Max Beerbohm’s A Christmas Garland (1912). The narrator’s policeman friend Judlip spotted an old man with “a hoary white beard, a red ulster with the hood up, and what looked like a sack over his shoulder” standing on a rooftop.
Ordering him down to the street, the constable grabbed his collar. “The captive snivelled something about peace on earth, good will toward men. ‘Yuss,’ said Judlip.
‘That’s in the Noo Testament, ain’t it? The Noo Testament contains some uncommon nice readin’ for old gents an’ young ladies. But it ain’t included in the librery o’ the Force. We confine ourselves to the Old Testament – O T, ’ot. An’ ’ot you’ll get it. Hup with that sack, an’ quick march!’ ”
Beerbohm is right about the often annoying rendering of dialect and the petty violence, but he puts his finger on a more important feature of Kipling’s world: its rejection of Christianity. Kipling lost all that in the Southsea boarding house.
‘The Short Drop,’ by Matthew FitzSimmons
Matthew FitzSimmons is a new author, and he seems to have hit a home run with his first novel, a mystery/thriller entitled The Short Drop.
The story’s hero is Gibson Vaughn, a young man with world-class potential who’s the victim of his own indiscretions. Years ago he was briefly famous when he hacked into the computers of a prominent senator, Benjamin Lombard, uncovering evidence of malfeasance. The whole thing blew up on him when further investigation revealed that the actual author of the malfeasance was Gibson’s father, the senator’s chief aid. Gibson’s father committed suicide, and Gibson himself barely escaped prison when he was allowed to enlist in the marines. On leaving the service Gibson learned that the senator, now Vice President, has neither forgotten nor forgiven. In spite of his skills, Gibson is unhireable.
Then he gets an offer from a security company to do a short-term hacking job. In spite of his desperation, he almost says no, because the head of the company is a man who used to work for Sen. Lombard. He played a major role in prosecuting Gibson. But Gibson changes his mind when he learns the purpose of the investigation. They’re trying to find out what happened to Suzanne Lombard, the senator’s daughter. She was like a sister to Gibson, and she disappeared as a teenager while Gibson was in jail awaiting trial. He joins the team to work with a male/female pair of operatives, and gets involved more deeply than anybody planned.
The story that follows must have been a nightmare to outline. Surprise follows surprise, good guys and bad guys change places, people die unexpectedly, and the plot twists around like a politician’s principles. The tension never lets up.
Highly recommended, with the usual cautions.
Not a spy, but a cool story
There was big news in the world of C. S. Lewis studies today. Christianity Today released an article by Harry Lee Poe about the discovery of a previously unknown recording of a radio talk by C. S. Lewis. Not a talk for the BBC, but for Iceland, on Her Majesty’s Secret Service, so to speak:
Until now, the general public and the world of scholarship had no idea that C. S. Lewis began his wartime service by undertaking a mission for MI6. Long before James Bond, Lewis rendered service to this clandestine branch of British Intelligence, which was so secret for so long that few people knew of its existence, and few of those knew its actual name. Alternatively known as Military Intelligence, the Secret Service, and MI6, its actual name may be the Secret Intelligence Service. Ian Fleming gave the head of this spy network the code name of M, but in real life he is simply known as the Chief. When Lewis came on board at the beginning of World War II, it was still a fledgling group of amateurs desperately working to save their island home from disaster.
The story is interesting, not only for the revelation of Lewis’ work for British Intelligence, but because it involves one of his all too rare explications of his passion for Norse literature and myth.
I think the title’s a bit misleading, since Jack Lewis was nothing like a spy, but the story’s a big deal nonetheless. Kudos to Harry Lee Poe for his discovery.
Japanese Illustrated Coffee Cups
Illustrator Adrian Hogan says a friend of his, another artist, inspired him to illustrate disposable coffee cups with Tokyo street scenes. CNN has the story.
Is Pastoral Advice Making Pastors Depressed?
The gospel isn’t “do better” or “try harder”, and yet the advice we tell ourselves about preaching usually falls into this category. Why do we believe that “do better” and “try harder” will motivate better preaching? If it’s powerless for the banker, it’s powerless for the preacher as well.
Pastor Mike Leake offers this point as one of the reasons for depression among pastors.
The Night the Devil Stole the Moon
Nikolai Gogol’s The Night Before Christmas is not the kind of Christmas story today’s readers expect to find on the holiday sale shelf.
The novella is unlike most Christmas stories. It opens with the devil flying above the small village of Dikanka, enjoying one last night of freedom before he must return to hell, when he decides to steal the moon and put it in his pocket in order to thwart the amorous designs of the local blacksmith, Vakula. In addition to being an excellent blacksmith, Vakula is also a talented painter, and his favorite theme is the vanquishing of Satan.
Micah Mattix writes, “perhaps no Russian writer is as foreign as Nikolai Gogol. He was even baffling to his own countrymen. ‘Gogol was a strange creature,’ Vladimir Nabokov famously wrote in his idiosyncratic biography of the writer, ‘but genius is always strange.’”
Flash fiction: “The Slaying Song Tonight”
(Phil and Loren Eaton have turned their skilled hands to flash fiction over the years. I never had a suitable idea before. But here’s one. Copyright 2015 by Lars Walker.)
The killer whistled a Christmas carol as he rinsed the blood from the knife. The stuff ran thick and dark at first, but grew thinner and clearer until the stream of water out of the faucet ran pure. The knife wouldn’t stand up to forensic analysis, he knew, but only the victims’ blood was there. And in any case, he himself was above suspicion. Still, he liked to leave things as clean and orderly as possible. It was a personal quirk.
The remote location of this house had been perfect for his purposes. The couple had screamed long and loud – they had known who he was and why he was killing them, and he had not let them die quickly. But he was methodical about his work. Now only the child remained, but that was a routine job.
He climbed the stairs and entered the room where the child lay sprawled on a bed. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. “You!” she cried. “It’s you!”
He unbuckled the straps that secured her to the bed frame. Tenderly he lifted her in his arms. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s all right. I’ll take you to your parents; then I’ll have to get to work. Lots to do tonight.”
The child wept great sobs and buried her head in his shoulder. He didn’t try to quiet her. It was good for her to cry. She would have to cry a great deal, and would need to talk to someone. But she would not die. Tonight this child would not die.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine. But you need to promise me one thing.”
“Wh-what?” she asked, through her sobs.
“Never tell anyone who rescued you. The children must never know of this – only the ones I rescue, like you. For most children, this is the happiest night of the year. For you it will never be the same. I understand that. You’ll have to help me carry my burden, to save the night for the little ones.”
“I will,” said the girl, holding tight to his red coat. “Does that make me one of Santa’s helpers?”
Today Is Yesterday Rolled Up
Today Is Yesterday Rolled Up
“It is a mistake to think that the past is dead. Nothing that has ever happened is quite without influence at this moment. The present is merely the past rolled up and concentrated in this second of time. You, too, are your past; often your face is your autobiography; you are what you are because of what you have been; because of your heredity stretching back into forgotten generations; because of every element of environment that has affected you, every man or woman that has met you, every book that you have read, every experience that you have had; all these are accumulated in your memory, your body, your character, your soul. So with a city, a country, a race; it is its past, and cannot be understood without it. It is the present, not the past, that dies; this present moment, to which we give so much attention, is forever flitting from our eyes and fingers into that pedestal and matrix of our lives which we call the past. It is only the past that lives.”
— Will Durant, “The Map of Human Character“