Lambeau Leap?

One of the highlights of this year’s Christmas pageant, besides one of the sheep dumping cheerios all over the stable, was King Zack doing the “Lambeau Leap.” He told us he was going to “leap into the stands” like a Packers player following a touchdown in Green Bay. And, by God, he did. After the Magi presented their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, Zack turned around and jumped into Bryna’s arms in the front pew. The picture above shows that twinkle in his eye just before he made his mad dash. He then went right back into character kneeling before the manger.

We almost didn’t have a Joseph this year. For some reason most of our pageant-age kids are girls. As it was we had to go with the Angel Gabrielle. I was lamenting this at the dinner table a few weeks ago when Ben stunned me. He said, “I’ll be Joseph.” Wow. This is the same kid who was all set to be a king one year and then backed out at the very last minute. Jesus didn’t get any Myrrh that year. But this year Ben came through big time and did a great job. Zack teased him relentlessly about “being married” in the days leading up to Christmas Eve but Ben was undeterred. It helped that “Mary” was a friend of his.

Now about that cheerios-spewing sheep. I think Jack was just mad about his great demotion. It’s tough going from baby Jesus to a sheep in twelve months. And how do you think his mother felt. Last year, whenever I saw her, I looked at her and said, “Holy Mother of God!” This year, she’s was a ewe.

A Night to Remember

3:09 am. Are you kidding me?? Both boys came into our room in the wee hours asking if they could go downstairs to see if Santa had come. I nearly had to block the stairwell to prevent their stampede. My only recourse was the desperate parental reminder that if Santa Claus sees them they could say sayonara to seeing any presents. They reluctantly returned to their bunk beds and I had to stay there for another 30 minutes while Ben squirmed and Zack announced the new time on the clock every two minutes. In between he kept asking, “Has it been four hours yet?”

The other problem was that I’d only gotten to sleep at 1:30 am following Midnight Mass. Actually I was home a bit earlier but I still had to wrap one of Bryna’s gifts. Well, I use that term loosely. What I really did was cover it in two A&P grocery bags with a bit of scotch tape as the coup de grace. Classy, huh? It’s even worse when you consider that Bryna’s the best wrapper since L.L. Cool J. Everything she wraps look like it was professionally done, which it sort of was. One of her dark secrets is that she managed a local Hallmark store while still in high school. Don’t tell her I told you.

At least the kids slept in (the second time around) until 6:40 am. Given the alternative, I’ll take it.

Who Ordered the Egg Roll?

So what does a clergy family do on Christmas Eve anyway? Well, our tradition is to pull out the crystal and silver and order Chinese food. It works for everyone: Bryna doesn’t have to cook, I get fed in between the two services, the table looks festive, and the kids pig out on sesame beef. Alright the kids don’t actually eat Chinese so we end up making the requisite Christmas Eve chicken nuggets. But they do gorge themselves on fortune cookies and those Chinese noodles that come with the wonton soup. So tonight after the 4pm pageant service we came home and waited for the guy from Pacific Palace to show up. Nothing says “Ho, ho, ho” like an order of General Tso’s chicken.

The hardest part for me is that Midnight Mass starts way past my bedtime. Whoever started this tradition clearly didn’t have kids. So I just had another cup of coffee. It wouldn’t be that bad except that the kids invariably come bounding into our room at 0-dark hundred. We’ve told them not to bother us until 7 am this year — we just put an alarm clock in their room. They can get their stockings before then but they’ve been ordered not to bother us until the magic number hits 7. I have a nagging feeling this edict will be utterly disobeyed.

The good news is that we can open all the gifts at a leisurely pace (if tearing off gift wrap like a ravenous pack of dogs can be considered leisurely) before I need to head back to church for the 10 am service.

In the words of the prophet Isaiah (I think), “Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!” Off to the coffee pot.

Holy Chaos

In my favorite scene from my favorite movie, “Diner” (Barry Levenson film set in 1950’s Baltimore), the Kevin Bacon character gets drunk and punches out the three Wise Men in a life-size nativity scene outside a church. In his underwear.  I’m reminded of this every year during the annual Christmas Pageant rehearsal. We held ours last night and once again, by default or lack of delegation, I ended up as the director. As much as I enjoy impersonating Francis Ford Coppola (“Silence on the set!”), I’ve got to let this go.

I have, however, gotten to the point where I almost look forward to the “holy chaos” of the pageant itself. I’d imagine the chaos is closer to what really happened in Bethlehem anyway. It may have been a holy night but silent? I doubt it — not with all those sheep and cows and whatever other animals were hanging around. Plus have you ever been in a birthing room? Many things come to mind but silence is not one of them.

But rather than detract from the miracle, I think the chaos amplifies it. Jesus came into the very messiness of our lives — not just the order of a dignified Sunday morning service but the craziness of the yearly Christmas pageant. And thanks be to God for that.

Feeling Grinchy

I read The Grinch to Zack’s first grade class yesterday. This has become an annual tradition for me; ever since the kids were in nursery school I’ve gone into their classrooms wearing collar and Santa hat to read this seasonal Seussian classic. I even use my old copy — the one my father used to read to me. It has my name written on the inside cover in a very early, yet not entirely successful, attempt at penmanship. My favorite classroom encounter took place when Ben was in kindergarten. I walked in to read and one of Ben’s classmates looked up at me and asked in wide-eyed wonder, “Are you Hanukkah Harry?” Ummm. No.

To me The Grinch is really a Christian parable — it’s a story of conversion, repentance, and forgiveness. Or at least I started seeing these themes the year I had to read it every night for three months. Pitchers and catchers had reported for Spring Training and I was still reading about all the Whos down in Who-ville.

But I didn’t mind. It erased the other memory I have of the Grinch. At my college fraternity some of my brothers had turned the television version into a drinking game. You drink every time you hear the word “Who.” Which is a lot.

Seuss’ underlying message never goes out of style in our raging Christmas-industrial complex: “Maybe Christmas doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” Indeed it does.

Party Hopping

A couple of weeks ago I complained to Bryna that we never get invited to any Christmas parties. The next day we literally got four invitations in the mail, all for the same weekend. Which merely proves the axiom, “Be careful what you wish for.” So, we spent this weekend “holiday party” hopping. This is the old people equivalent of clubbing. The invitations were from a variety of constituencies: one was a family party, one was a new friend’s annual holiday party, one was hosted by parishioners, and one was held by the parents of one of Zack’s friends. A good time was had by all.

My biggest struggle at these things is what to say when people wish me “Merry Christmas.” I know it’s all done in the spirit of the season but my inner liturgical Nazi says “It’s not Christmas! It’s still Advent!” There are 12 days of Christmas and we don’t hit the first one until the 25th. So instead of just saying, “And Merry Christmas to you, too,” I say something passive agressive like ”Yup, it’s almost Christmas” or “It won’t be long.” Maybe that’s why I rarely get invited back the following year…

It’s always interesting when people find out what I do for a living. I usually don’t bring it up unless asked because it’s often a conversation killer. While it doesn’t faze most people, you can see other playing back the preceding dialogue in their minds to make sure they didn’t curse or say something inapropriate. As if I’ve already condemned them to the fifth ring of hell. I’m often tempted to just tell people I’m in “life insurance,” which is true in a sense. Of course that might make them run away as well.  

We don’t have any more parties on our December social calendar. Which is just as well. I’ve got some sermons to crank out.

Monday Morning Blues

Unlike the rest of the civilized world, I do not fear Mondays. It’s not that I’m an annoyingly energetic type-A workaholic who can’t wait to get back to work after the weekend (for the record, I’d call myself type-B+). It’s not that I’m retired and every day feels like Saturday (when does that Pension Fund kick in?). And it’s not that I enjoy the mad Monday morning rush to get the kids out the door to the school bus. It’s just that Monday is my day off. For some reason I wasn’t able to negotiate Sunday mornings off in my contract with All Saints’ www.allsaintsbriarcliff.org. They expect me to work on weekends — I guess those old blue laws don’t apply to clergy.

The bad news is that it’s nearly impossible to take the family and “go away for the weekend.” I’d be willing to preach via video feed but that idea’s been unceremoniously shot down. For some reason people expect their priest to appear “live and in person.” Perhaps I’ll suggest that one Sunday a month people sleep in and just tune into Joel Osteen.  

The good news is that I can sit at my favorite coffee shop — Coffee Labs in Tarrytown http://web.mac.com/coffeelabsroasters/iWeb/Coffeelabsroasters/Coffee%20Labs%20.html — with Delilah at my side and blog. I’ve even been to the gym already so I don’t feel the least bit guilty. The boys are in school, Bryna’s subbing at the Middle School, and I’m drinking a cup of full-bodied black Mexican chiapas. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m drinking an egg nog flavored coffee with milk and cream. But you get the point.   

So I love Mondays; the weekend’s done, I’m responsibility-free, and it’s pretty quiet around the house. Now Tuesdays are another matter. Tomorrow I’ll, once again, be off to the salt mines… 

‘Roid Rage

All this steroid talk following the release of Major League Baseball’s Mitchell Report reminds me of our family’s brush with ‘roid rage. This fall, Ben came down with croup. Now I always thought croup was just for infants. We certainly had our share of late night runs to the ER for croup, ear infections, first-time parent paranoia, etc. But evidently 8-year-olds can also get it. And the accompanying cough is horrible. When Ben would get going, he sounded like a hacking, chain-smoking octogenarian.

So off we trudged to the doctor. Well, Bryna did. And when I came home from church that evening, Ben looked at me and said with great gravity, “Dad, I have something in common with Barry Bonds.” “Oh yeah, what’s that?” “We both take steroids.” Turns out the standard treatment is a non-anabolic steroid. Fortunately our pediatrician noticed Ben’s concern and eloquently described the difference between “good” steroids and “bad” steroids. Another crisis averted.

In or Out?

Bryna and Ben have been fighting over baby Jesus. Bryna’s of the mindset that Jesus shouldn’t be placed in the creche until Christmas Eve. We have it all set up in the living room but Jesus is on the bookshelf behind the creche. Unless Ben wanders into the living room; then baby Jesus is placed back into the manger. He likes the whole scene to be set up properly. It’s been going back and forth like this all week. I’ve stayed above the fray by avoiding the whole conversation.

But actually, they’re both right. I prefer to keep the baby Jesus out of the creche until Christmas just to emphasize the void that gets filled with Jesus’ arrival. Of course I also don’t like the three wise men getting to the creche before Epiphany on January 6th. Call me a nativity scene fundamentalist. But Ben’s theory is true as well — even as we await the arrival of the Christ-child, Jesus is fully present with us. In the context of things, it’s not much of a holy war.

Dimly Lit

You’d think a priest’s family would be able to remember to light their Advent wreath. We’re now well into the second week of Advent and the candles are untouched. Oh, the wreath looks great, as it sits on our dining room table. It’s just never been used. We got out of the family dinner routine on the first Sunday of Advent — I flew to LA for a meeting immediately after church. But the second Sunday we just plum forgot. That’s embarrassing. Perhaps we should move the wreath into the kitchen which is where we actually eat dinner. Formal dining doesn’t exactly happen a whole lot at our house. Not with the boys jumping up and down like pogo sticks after each bite.

The good news is they both like to say grace. Sometimes, like tonight, they even do joint graces; first one then the other. Of course mocking what the other is saying takes some of the spirituality out of it. But they are learning to pause and give thanks for the blessings of this life before digging in. Or at least just as they’ve begun stuffing their faces. Baby steps…

I’m hoping the third time’s the charm. That is, we’ll light all three candles for the third Sunday of Advent and we’ll be back on track. In our defense, the boys have been fighting each morning over who gets to open the Advent calendar on the refrigerator door. Doesn’t that count for something?