Does Christmas not feel quite right to you?

Then you have something in common — in varying degrees — with self-absorbed Ebenezer Scrooge, bankrupted George Bailey, worried Charlie Brown, skeptical little Susan Walker, the jealous Grinch, questioning Cindy Lou Who, the doubtful nameless hero boy of “Polar Express,” disillusioned Betty Haynes, divorced Scott Calvin and any number of other major characters in classic holiday films.

And that commonality leads me to believe that “not quite right Christmas” is an experience shared by more people than might be willing to admit it.

After all, Christmas is supposed to be the season of hope; the hope of the world, right?

Yet the world just goes on being the world, and people go right on being people.

Things change; not always for the better.

Losses happen.

Jesus comes, but then He goes again.

The light of hope can become clouded and even obscured by the darkness of disappointment and even despair.

I think I get that. I’ve been there plenty of times in my life, and not always at Christmas.

But I’m learning to look for the light; in others, in giving, in kindness, in faith. I’m figuring out how to turn outward from inside myself, where it can get pretty dark. To reflect the light. Even to be the fuel that the light burns.

I’m trying to see opportunity in life; even if it’s the shadowy opportunity to learn empathy from sharing in the suffering of others, and seeing their strength, and attempting to lend some of my own.

If there’s anything in common with all the holidays of the season, I think it’s that we need light; there must be light in these days of longer darkness for us northern hemisphere dwellers:

• Gratitude, for plentiful harvest and having enough.
• Generosity in sharing the excess.
• Grace toward others, because we all begin again — not just as each year ends — but as each outgrown season of life comes to a close.

Those things are what I see helping make the world a little more right when it doesn’t feel quite right.

At Christmas, or any other time.

I have not been to church for several years.

I went to church almost every time the doors were open from infancy on up. Until a few years ago.

I kinda stopped going during the pandemic and never really went back. Oh, I kept preaching online for my little home church here in Eureka Springs. And for a while after we decided to meet again.

Then I retired and stopped going.

I had no problems with anyone there. Sweet people, and I miss them.

But at some point, my longstanding questions about why we “do” church the way we “do” church had no satisfying answers.

I had been asking myself for years why we were there; why weren’t we out doing things together to help other people?

Feeding the hungry? Visiting the ill and injured? Housing the homeless? Helping the unemployed get jobs? Getting things fixed and painted for older people? Giving lost folks directions to the places they want to go? All kinds of things that just HELP?

Instead we sit for a lecture about what we should already have read and know. We sing and pray things that praise God who wants actions more than words, and supposedly encourage each other instead of asking what’s wrong or how-can-we-help or listening. We give to pay a staff to do some of these things for us instead of experiencing the joy of caring, and a building to do them in (and the utilities/maintenance for it). We have elders, deacons and boards to look after all that, often instead of each other, and then to deal with excluding people who weren’t included enough not to do something wrong that would embarrass the church. Does helping people go out really help them out?

Not once in scripture do I find a menu or even an example of the acts of worship we’ve all generally agreed upon in connection with a gathered church. Sometimes a visiting missionary would share a long mission report and some poor weary chap would fall asleep and out of a window, but I’m not sure that was supposed to be exemplary.

There were no examples of purchased buildings, on-site staff, performing choirs or bands or special effects or testimonies or much of anything else that was for us but not for Him.

I find in the teachings and life of Jesus of Nazareth many examples of people being fed, cared for, healed and taught by parable and thought-questions whether there was a crowd around or not.

Thing is, I think over the centuries, people came up with a formula for doing church themselves that often conveniently required the minimum development of character and involvement in the lives of others with the maximum expenditure of donated funds.

And while some may have greatly simplified and reduced the expenditure of that formula, it’s often the same old things being done in the same old ways. I’m not sure that’s for everyone. I’m not sure that it really helps anyone in their spiritual development to be more loving and caring outside that circle of fellowship — perhaps to the folks who feel the need for grace and inclusion the most.

In the end, it was not encouraging me. And I didn’t feel like I could go on trying to encourage people within it.

So I’ve outed myself as a believer in God now, but not particularly a believer in church as we “do” it. (That will save everyone else the trouble of outing me. 🙂)

I’m not exactly a cloistered monk though. Church is still all around me, because church is the kingdom of God in this world. I’m surrounded by His kids, whether they’ve known or accepted His paternity or not. I’m serving in my own way with my meager set of skills and resources; loving others no matter what, calling out dumb stuff that should be obvious, giving directions to sidewalkers who are befuddled by Eureka Springs maps, holding doors open, donating food cans when I can, smiling, giving out free compliments, always being available for hugs and a cup of coffee. There are civic groups willing to accept my help with bigger needs, so I try to support them. My cottage is a place of welcome.

I’m the church, 24/7, just like everyone else who wants to love and care and help when they can, whether individually or in a group. It’s just that our costs of doing business are lower.

And, perhaps, the reward of the joy of being part of it firsthand seems greater.

Walking by Eureka Springs’ Crescent Spring at noon on Wednesday is a contemplative experience for me.

On one side, you hear the gentle carillon up the hill at St. Elizabeth’s; her chimes singing to you some hymn of goodness and light and all that heaven enfolds and humanity should aspire to.

On the other side, you hear the tornado/air raid sirens on East Mountain, warning and testifying to you of all the worst, most destructive capabilities that the heavens and mankind can mete out.

They swell against each other, and of course the sirens have the advantage in volume in spite of their distance from you, and for three to five minutes they overcome — drowning out the chimes.

The sirens win.

But the carillon continues gently singing its angelus prayer-songs for another ten minutes, reassuring you that there is still divine love and mercy and grace, and your world goes on turning while you continue your walk.

The carillon endures.

I’m retired from preaching, but every once in a while I just feel a need to say something that I feel should be obvious … just in case it’s not.

Tomorrow is Easter, and Christendom will observe the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth.

Sermons will recount how it brings hope and verifies the promise of life after death and testifies to divine power and love.

I don’t mean to diminish any of that, nor any of the other encouraging insights those messages may bring.

But I feel that if we fail to grasp that the promise of abundant life is just as much for the here and now as it is for the hereafter, we’ve still missed the point — even if we gladly accept all the other points made.

We fit this planet and it fits us. We fit with each other. We have a place in life, and a purpose, and a way to enrich life’s meaning.

The Man who left the tomb taught and lived and fulfilled a life of perfect love and harmony with all around himself who were willing to share in that vision.

He created; told simple stories to reveal how to love.

He walked and met people where they lived and worked, and told them how much they are worth.

He fed them when they were starving for hope and sometimes even for food or health or life itself.

He felt we deserved a perfect example, even if we could never perfectly imitate it.

He proved it could be done.

And even the way His life was ended — willingly, obediently, self-sacrificially — was a way to make and keep peace in such a troubled time.

So of course His life couldn’t be ended by hatred, jealousy, fear, anger, paranoia and all the other evil factors that conspired to end it.

Love never ends.

That’s the Story.

That’s the essence of the Story
I would want to preach if I still preached; that I would want to quietly post on a noisy social media tool; that I would want to live until I die, when only the loving parts of me are remembered here and become part of the hereafter.

Love never ends.

The Story of Easter.

I’m posting more actively at my former portfolio site — and now author blog — http://wkeithbrenton.com.

For the most part, I’m talking about the novel series, The “People of the Water” Cycle, available on Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle format. The posts on my author blog feed into my Amazon author page via RSS.

The three novels, set mostly in Eureka Springs, Arkansas between 1886 and 2014, detail the adventures of a family and friends investigating the secrets of the “Waters of the Stars” and shouldering the burden of what they have learned.

The series is a swirl of history, mystery, solitude, romance, the normal, the paranormal, science, science fiction, fantasy, and suspense.

Feel free to follow the journey here!

Jesus, keep me near the cross
the one on the wall in my church
or in my study
but not the one planted in the ghetto
where crime is rampant
and poverty is the rule

Keep me near the cross
where the shiny people are
people like me
people my color
people who make about as much as I do
or maybe a little more

Jesus, keep me near the cross
the shiny gold one
superimposed on my country’s flag
that tells me you’re on our side
and that we’re never wrong

Keep me near your cross
where there aren’t any thieves
hanging about nearby
where there’s no guilt or shame
or suffering or pain
or anything that requires my attention
my sympathy
my empathy
my generosity
myself

Jesus, keep me near the cross
that’s just there once a week
and not every day
every hour
every minute
every second
that’s just too much to ask
from the One who gave it all

I’m not sure that I do, anymore.

Oh, I still believe in God and His Son Jesus and their Holy Spirit.

And I believe that our Savior died and lived again and sent His Spirit to establish a church — a gathering of people dedicated to living a life that echoes His, does good in the world, ministers to others, lives in constant prayer and worship and service to Him and the Father through Him and by the power of that Spirit.

What I’m uncertain that I believe in is the church as it is.

Riddled with division.

Torn by power struggles.

Wounded by selfishness.

Weakened by faithlessness.

Prostituted to worldly enterprises and politics.

Unprincipled, powerless, poor, sick and dying.

And totally unable to see itself in this condition.

How can a church repent when she cannot see herself in need? How can she return to the husband of her youth when she cannot leave behind her paramours in business and government? How can she be one bride when her personality has been shattered across denominations and conferences and names and opinions and creeds and committees and factions and races?

So many times she lives in grandiose luxury cathedrals in the middle of neighborhoods plagued by poverty and squalor — and does nothing.

Would her Champion do nothing?

Too often her spokespersons preach gospels of wealth and acquisition and greed through code words like “blessing” and “favor” and “grace.”

Would her King show such favoritism?

Constantly the cries of her scattered consciousness of “I am the one true church” fall on deaf ears and her (frequently) self-serving “good” works are unseen by eyes turned away by her hypocrisy.

Would her Lord be so duplicitous?

Yet she squanders her resources to grow and “reach the lost” with bigger and better and more; with programs and ministries and Sunday shows; with worship bands and laser lighting and smoke machines and big-screen visuals; with campaigns and revivals and marches and protests.

Is that how her Christ won the hearts of people seeking a better life?

Only Matthew’s gospel quotes Him as mentioning the church, and only three times. And all three times, it’s in the context of how faith affects action.

Do the spokespersons for His bride teach this anymore?

Because that’s pretty much all He taught. How He lived. How He died. How He lived again.

He believed He could live a life that served others and therefore pleased His Father, and death could not stop Him.

He believed that the faith of Peter would survive His death, and death could not stop the church that would be founded on such faith. (Matthew 16:18)

He believed that faith acting in love was the way that people in His church could successfully deal with problems among themselves. (Matthew 18:15)

He believed that even if that initially failed, that those whose intransigence separated them from that church could still be drawn back to it by love and faith. (Matthew 18:17)

What you believe affects the way you act toward others.

In spite of our fallibility and failure and selfishness, it is possible to live that kind of life and be a part of that community of faith and love.

He is actually not quoted as saying anything about meeting together or when or how often or what is required when that happens or who is allowed to lead or read or speak. I think He assumed it would happen as people drawn together by love and faith.

So He made a dying request, as He asked His closest friends to remember Him at the table of His bread and wine: Be one. Even as He and the Father are One. Love each other to the point you would lay down your lives for each other.

Then He went to the cross and laid down His life for them, for us, for all. He went to the tomb and laid to rest His mortality and all the wrongs and injustices that could ever be done. He went to His Father’s side to prepare a place for those who wanted to live in love forever.

And He must look at us and wonder how His shattered, scattered, schizoid bride could live with herself together in one place.

Surely He still weeps.

That’s what I’m having trouble believing in. What it’s difficult for me to remain a part of.

Because I see friends and others largely living the kind of life that loves and serves others, though they have either no real knowledge of Him, or judge Him by His bride, or simply feel they have no need for ritual or creed or the kind of exclusion they have felt because they are not part of the fellowship.

Does the One who died to save all draw the line that excludes them?

Does He not know how they’ve been treated; seen how His bride has treated others — judging and belittling and mocking and rejecting them, all the while proclaiming their “love” for them?

I can’t help but think that’s not the kind of life He bought for her with His very own.

I haven’t really been to church in a while. I miss it. I miss the fellowship, the breaking of bread, the instruction, the prayers. I miss the songs that should flow from all grateful hearts. I know I’m not perfect; that none of us is perfect; that we could all be better.

But I just feel there’s got to be something more. More than one holy day per week. More than one hour of worship while gathered. More than one voice teaching or preaching or praying or reading. More than opinions that divide rather than love and grace and humility and faith which unites.

I still, perhaps foolishly, believe that the church can be one.

She can find her path, her love, her mission for others; herself.

But that journey is long, and difficult.

And I’m not at all sure that’s the direction she’s going.

Jesus.

Your final words from that cross are still ringing in our ears.

We followed you for years, and it all ends like this?

Where are you?

Are you gone?

Can the One you called Father no longer hear our cries or feel our anguish or siphon our tears into His bottles of grief?

Where is He?

Why is the face of the Divine hidden from the mortal?

Why have we been forsaken?

We are scattered like sheep.

We are undone.

We are lost.

We speak to You, but there is no answer.

We cry out, but there is no comfort.

Our bones are dried up from weeping.

Our hearts are liquefied from fear.

Can You return to us from the grave, as You brought others back to life?

Can the dead who raised the dead raise Himself from the dead?

Are You really the Son of God?

Or did we waste our time, only to waste away now — slinking back together in secret, in terror for our lives; in dread of escaping the threat that took You and returning to empty lives?

Where have You gone that we can’t follow?

What mansion can be built inside a tomb by the dead?

We try to believe.

But we can’t even believe You’re gone.

Please.

If somehow You still live …

Outside of our hearts

Beyond our memories

Out of the reach of all pain

In a place that’s real …

Please.

Don’t leave us.

The year of the COVID-19 pandemic.

The year I stepped back from the best job in the world — conducting the passenger train at the ES&NA — two weeks before the governor issued a mask mandate that would have made it safer.

The year I preached mostly from Facebook Live. And I’m still not a preacher; I’m a teacher and scripture reader and that has to be enough.

The year I gave dating one last shot before retiring from it. In December of 2019, I decided to give it one more year. So of course the year I decided to give it was 2020. And of course it didn’t work out, and I didn’t get over whom I needed to get over, and I didn’t get any better at dating in the 21st Century than I was in the 20th.

No surprise, really.

The year I stayed home and did nothing. Though I did finish writing my weird trilogy of novels. That will probably never be published, and that’s okay; at least I finished them.

The year I didn’t overdecorate at Christmas. The year I didn’t decorate the cottage at Christmas, at all, really. I put up wreaths. And a 24” tree.

The year that was so depressing that it would have been no surprise if Donald Trump had won re-election. And it was really no surprise that he fought the results and refused to concede and did as much damage as he could in the waning days of his presidency.

The year that more than 325,000 Americans died from a virus that too many people were too stupid or stubborn or selfish to take steps to help prevent or protect themselves from.

The year that absolutely everyone could agree on needed to be over as soon as possible, but it had to hang in there for its full 366 days because it just had to be a leap year too.

The year we all want to forget, but shouldn’t, because otherwise we’ll never learn from it.

After all, if I can’t be candid with you folks after almost 14 years, I can’t be candid with anyone.

I don’t write much anymore.

This is tough for a writer to admit.

I know it’s a kind of writer’s block, and last night I figured out/admitted which one it is.

Fear.

Not fear of failure, but of unintended success. I’m afraid that once I start, it will all come tumbling out, burbling in words of anger and frustration and sorrow at the way the world is and shouldn’t be. I’m afraid I will successfully communicate the way I feel using the words I normally wouldn’t use and I will cause wounds and rifts and pains that would at least be minimized if I keep holding them in. I’m afraid the words will take on the power of incantations that alienate and destroy.

No, you’re right; keeping them in is probably not healthy. And I do share them in prayer, very candidly, but I don’t get a lot of response these days.

So I keep on not writing.

And that is probably not healthy either.

I fumbled along in a writing job graciously offered for several years, earning part of my keep by maintaining a web site as well, but pretty much incapable of writing to meet the needs of my employer and audiences. I will always be grateful for that opportunity, and saddened that I wasn’t able to live up to the challenge.

Sure, there are thousands of texts out there that say “You were able! You are now! Just try! Just do it! Be a Nike sneaker!” and people like me buy them thinking that somehow they will be the needed kickstart and magically boot the chockblock from in front of the wheels. But they don’t.

The old magic isn’t there, because unleashing it would level Hogwarts.

So it’s best to chain it in the dungeon with the three-headed dogs and gigantic spiders and monstrous serpents and just say it isn’t there.

At least for now.

Until the spell can be found to keep it disciplined and under control.