My little sister used to love the Christmas Carol Joy To The World. When she was little, she used to sing out, “Let every heart repair His room!” I can still hear my mother crying out, “Prepare! Sing it right. Prepare Him room.”
I’ve often wondered if my little sister would have enjoyed the Christmas Carol so much if she would have realized that it actually isn’t about Christmas. The lyrics were originally written as a poem in 1719 by the English hymn-writer Isaac Watts in His collection The Psalms of David. The poem was based on Psalm 98 which is actually more reflective of Christ’s second coming than of His birth. In 1836, a Boston music teacher set Joy To The World to music and published it in December which is why it became associated with Christmas.
I’ve heard it said that ignorance is bliss. When I first learned the truth about Joy To the World, I couldn’t sing it during the Christmas season. It bothered me to no end that the entire world was wrong about the meaning of the song. But, as I matured, I thought, “Who cares?” It’s a great song of worship that brings joy to millions of people every year. Isaac Watts would be thrilled with the success of his poem.
If the Lord is honored by it, that’s enough for me. Besides, I love the memory of my sister singing it. She’ll have to tell me if she still likes it when she reads this post.
Click Here to listen to one of my favorite renditions of Joy to the World by Whitney Houston and the Georgia Mass Choir.
One of my favorite Christmas carols has a dreadful name. In fact, its name may be the reason it isn’t included in many of today’s “happy and jolly” Christmas collections. However, to me, this carol has one of the best sentiments regarding Christmas. It always moves me.
The carol to which I’m referring is In the Bleak Midwinter by Christina Georgiana Rossetti.
Christina grew up in an artistic home and with representatives from the world of art and literature frequenting her family home. Unfortunately, Christina became ill at the age of sixteen and lived with poor health for much of the rest of her life. She faced the solitude of her sickness with a deep faith which can be seen in her writings. Not willing to let illness stop her literary contributions, Christina published three books of poetry, four devotional collections, and many Christian songs, including In the Bleak Midwinter.
With great skill, Rossetti creates a hopeless, desolate world, filled with bleakness and despair. Into this world, Jesus, Immanuel, God With Us, the Incarnate One, the Light of the World is born. Jesus transforms this world, bringing warmth and light into the most desperate of situations. Heaven’s glories couldn’t hold this Savior of ours back from bursting into our world. The humble circumstances of his birth didn’t dissuade Him from His mission of redemption. Hallelujah!
In the final stanza, the author is forced to deal with her own response to the Christ Child. What can I bring to Him or offer Him that would be of value to Him:
What can I give Him, Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.
If I were a wise man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give him;
Give my heart.
Click here to hear the song performed by Keith and Kristyn Getty or Click here for a more liberal performance by Rend Collective
Some have called it the most neglected of the major holidays. Although it gets more attention than Ground Hog Day (sorry Bill Murray), it’s slowly getting squeezed out by the Christmas, the king of the hill as far as holidays are concerned. Even Black Friday, which has taken over Thanksgiving Friday and is making its moves on Thursday, gets more respect than it deserves.
Thanksgiving does lack the pageantry and presents of Christmas. It’s meant to be simple, but so much has changed. It’s now become a day that’s more about overeating (gorging might be a better word), football watching (the original binge watching), dish washing (somebody has to do it), and Christmas shopping (sigh).
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
We can choose for Thanksgiving to be more of what it was meant to be. (It’s actually more of what Christmas should be as well) – a day when family and friends cease from their labor, thank God for his blessings, and enjoy some of his blessings, all the while growing closer together and closer to him.
Sorry, Thanksgiving, for the way I’ve treated you over the years. This year, help me remember to be truly thankful.
I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I’m living.
The lyrics above were sung by Fantine, a fictitious factory worker turned prostitute mother in the musical Les Miserables. It’s been reported that in preparing for the role of Fantine, actress Anne Hathaway tried to envelope herself in sadness. She even sent her husband away from her for a time because his being near her made her too happy to play the role accordingly. Her plans certainly succeeded for she played the role flawlessly.
However, the words she sang are all too often the very true unsung anthems of countless people in our world today. These victims of life live in all corners of society, silently marking time with their steps and lives, all the while watching their dreams being pulled further and further away. I think if people everywhere spoke honestly, they would…
The first cried out to me loudly enough for all passersby to hear, “You look like you’ve gained 100 lbs since I last saw you. What have you been eating? Lard mixed with cement?”
The second man was more subtle. He asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kevin James?”
“Kevin James?” I asked. “He’s not a bad looking guy, but isn’t he quite a bit heavier than me?”
“Sorry,” he replied. “Did I say Kevin James? I meant to say that fat guy from the Guinness Book of World Records who was buried in a piano case!”
“Am I that big?”
“My apologies,” he replied. “I meant to say that you look like Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars!”
Ok, so none of that happened exactly, but two men did call me fat, sort of. The first saw me and said, “Wow, you gained back all of the weight you lost and more. That’s not good. You should lose it again so you won’t be, you know, fat.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” I replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”
The second guy pointed at me and said, “You look like Mike Golic.”
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Don’t you watch Sports Center?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
“No, I don’t,” I replied.
He looked down, shook his head, and walked away in disgust.
I did a quick search for Mike Golic and showed the images to my wife.
“Do you think I look like this man?” I asked.
“The one where his hair is longer looks like you,” she said.
“But that’s the picture where he looks the heaviest,” I replied.
My wife smiled and tightened her lips at the same time. That’s her way of telling me I’m fat without actually having to say the words.
So let me correct my earlier statement: “Today, two men and my wife told me I was fat.”
I’ve been eating food all of my life. I’m a big fan. Some might even call me a fanatic.
Recently, I’ve written about bougie food grocery stores and the dangers of the demon weed kale. Once, I even wrote about Healthy Eating’s Evil Cousin better known in the underworld as exercise. I’ve been avoiding the topic of exercise because I’ve been avoiding exercise altogether, but as I approach my next birthday, I can’t hide from it any longer (at least I think that’s what my wife said when she told me I had to start exercising).
Avoiding exercise is one sport where I reign supreme. Move over squats, treadmills and elliptical machines! Mama says we have a new exercise Daddy now and he’s here to stay because I have perfectly mastered the fine art of exercise procrastination.
My wife tried to tell me that if it’s not in the Olympics then it’s not a real sport. I beg to differ. I’ve traveled all across this world and I’ve seen it practiced everywhere. Entire cultures have been built around it. Take, for example, the entire nation of Spain and its practice of the siesta. If that’s not avoidance of exercise, I don’t know what is unless it’s our practice of fried chicken and waffles in the south, better known as nirvana.
To help me overcome my exercise procrastination, a “former” friend sent me an article titled Exercise Motivation: How To Overcome Procrastinationby Fit Day, a free diet and weight loss journal and app designed to make my life miserable.
The article suggested I do the following:
Set Achievable Goals (not working out is pretty achievable to me)
Exercise for a Minimum Amount of Time (I can’t get any more minimum than nothing)
Choose Enjoyable Forms of Exercise (I considered hammock mastering. It takes a lot of effort to get in a hammock and sometimes even more to get out)
Exercise With A Friend (I’m trying to avoid friendship accountability in this area of my life)
Reward Yourself for Exercise (How about a large pizza after every workout?)
I suppose if you really want to get motivated and move forward with exercise, this is good article with good advice. However, if you want to be cultured and support the arts, more specifically the fine of exercise procrastination, avoid it at all costs.
*Image courtesy of Giorgio Trovato and Unsplash
*Thanks to the editors of Fit Day whose article really did challenge me. Check it out here.
The first page of the introduction slapped me hard across my face:
This is what it said:
I don’t believe there has been a moment in history when the temptation to be a worship leader for all the wrong reasons has ever been greater, never a moment where the seduction of personal glory, fame, followers, adulation, money, self-gratification and earthly reward has more surrounded and infected this precious thing we call worship.
Then, I turned the other cheek so I could read it again.
I first heard about The Reset: Returning to the Heart of Worship and a Life of Undivided Devotion from a friend of mine. I was intrigued, so I purchased the short book, expecting to finish it in a day. It took me a week because I had to spend time reflecting after each chapter.
The book causes me to pray for those musicians who play or sing in multiple churches but who aren’t a part of any. At the same time, it reminds me of the times when I’ve settled for less than what God wants of me as a worshiper and a disciple of Jesus Christ.
If you desire to worship the Lord in a way that is deeper than music, status, and position, this book is for you.
This past Friday at 6am, I checked in to the hospital for my colonoscopy. I signed up to go first. I was happy to have the procedure because it meant I was finished with my prep: a clear liquid diet, four laxative pills causing explosive diarrhea, and two bottles of liquid solution torture water. My prep began at noon on Thursday and ended at 3am Friday morning.
Let’s just say I became very acquainted with my bathroom.
The morning of the procedure, I dressed in a hospital gown and jumped on my personal rolling bed. I had promised myself I would stay calm, but that was hard when the staff arrived. They asked me for my date of birth while they simultaneously took my temperature, blood pressure, and pulse.
One of the assistants asked the doctor, “Why do we ask all of these security questions for a colonoscopy? It’s not like he’s trying to sneak in here to take someone’s test!”
“That’s true,” said the doctor, before turning to me. “Any kind of music you’d like to hear?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I replied. “Whatever will help you all be calm and steady.”
“Ah,” he said. “Good answer. I think it’s time for some Michael.”
“Oh good,” one of the nurses replied as a grin covered her face.
As my IV was inserted, Michael Jackson sang, “I want to love you, PYT, Pretty Young Thing.”
Suddenly, Groucho Marx entered the room, removed his cigar, looked at me, and said, “So today, you get to be the guinea pig.”
My eyes grew large. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Don’t say that to someone about to have a procedure!” scolded the doctor.
Groucho shook his head and said, “Well, anyway, here’s his anesthesia iPad.”
I breathed in deeply as Michael Jackson switched to Blame It On The Boogie.
“We’re trying this for the first time,” said a nurse, trying to comfort me. “This iPad sign in, I mean, not your procedure.”
“We really are medical professionals,” said the doctor. “I promise.”
A nurse shook her head at his comment, turned to me and said, “Before we put you to sleep, can you turn onto your side please?”
I did as she instructed and noticed a monitor showing the ceiling. Something told me the picture was coming from the camera they would use to, well, you know.
“Ok,” said the anesthesiologist. “I’m putting you to sleep now. Believe me, you wouldn’t want it any other way. This might burn a bit at first.”
I started getting sleepy. The last thing I remember is the music switching to Montel Jordan’s This Is How We Do It.
I woke up later to hear a nurse say, “Looks like you’re waking up. Would you like some water?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”
I dressed as the nurse went for my water. She came back and shared my results as I sipped my water. Everything was fine.
As I stood to leave, she handed me a thank you note from the staff.
“We’re really glad you came,” she said as if I had visited her church.
“Ok,” I said, feeling awkward. “It sure is quiet at this end of the hall.”
“Oh, it will fill up soon. Your procedure was first this morning.”
“Oh yeah,” I said with a smile, “I always wanted to be number one, just not quite like this.”
Most people give up too early. Their closets are filled with unopened saxophone cases, shrink wrapped canvases, unassembled carpentry tools, unopened art supplies, unread books, unlearned language resources, and dusty exercise bikes with 2.4 miles on the odometer. Giving up on dreams can be devastating to people, but can also have disastrous results for others.
Here’s one example:
As a young man, Adolph Hitler applied to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts and endured a two day entrance exam where his drawing and painting techniques were evaluated. He failed the entrance exam. He demanded an explanation. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that his art demonstrated a lack of talent for artistic painting, especially when it related to the human form.
Although devastated, young Adolph vowed to develop his skills and reapply the next year. However, he was distracted by his mother’s illness and abandoned most of his projects before they were completed. Hitler did reapply the next year, but wasn’t allowed to take the final artistic exam because of his lack of effort.
Hitler became homeless for a short time on the streets of Vienna, until he finally moved into a homeless shelter. Once there, he abandoned his art, sold his paintings to Jewish merchants, and joined the German military. It is said that on the day war was declared that he fell to his knees and thanked heaven.
Steven Pressfield, in The War of Art, makes the following observation: “Call it an overstatement but I’ll say it anyway: it was easier for Hitler to start World War II than it was for him to face a blank square of canvas.”
Don’t give up. Don’t give in to distractions. Pursue it, whatever it is, passionately. Pray for direction and work like your life, and mine, depended on it.
