It's a Strange Badge of Honour

We’ve come a long way from being Pharisees. We don’t stand and proclaim our righteousness, when we know that inside we are just sepulchres full of old man’s bones. Oh, no. We would be shocked at such hypocrisy and maybe even shun someone who was audacious enough to try it.

We don’t try to come off as righteous. We fully and honestly believe that we are sinners, every day—thought, word, deed—and we take a strange pleasure in confessing it. It is as though we wear our sinfulness as a badge of honour; we pin it on our lapel and make sure it stands out. Nobody’s badge is the same colour, of course, but all of them mean the same thing—I am sinful—and we are almost proud of it. We hold our sinfulness very near and dear; and woe be to the man who suggests that we need not wear such a badge.

This situation is a very interesting twist, I think. I can’t call it hypocrisy—it’s not—it’s not claiming to be something we’re not, or acting one way and talking another. It’s quite the opposite; it’s claiming to be something we really believe we are, acting the way we talk. But it’s such a strange way to talk. Because we talk like we would die if we weren’t sinful. Because we talk like it’s a horrible sin to be un-sinful. Because we cling so dearly to the thought that we are sinful, so tightly to the idea that we are hopeless cases.

I find it intriguing in light of the thought that we are (supposedly, anyway) God’s children. Wisdom is justified of her children. Abraham’s children do the works of Abraham. “Ye do the deeds of your father.”

This strange talk evades a name. What should I call it? Can it be honesty? If I call it honesty, what then do we make of what we claim to be, if “the lusts of your father ye will do?” Can it be, perhaps, taking the Lord’s name in vain? We take his name to ourselves, calling ourselves His children—and yet we speak and act as though sinfulness is the most consistent and true trait of our lives.

If the Tree Fits, Why Not Put It Up?

Sshh. Not a sound could be heard. Not through the whole town, not in any home, and specially not this House. All were fast asleep. The night was still and dark, colder than most. Clear and crisp air cloaked the nimble shadow that crept to the side door. The doorlock was plied with a softly glowing key that was burnished by centuries of careful use.

The Family was sleeping, but only hours ago they had all been feverishly working. Laughter, gaiety, and warmth filled the House as they had all gathered round to apply the finishing touches to the House's decorations. At last, the final fragile ornament, a beautifully painted pastel-tinted egg, hung upon the spindly dogwood. All the eggs dangled from the branches, gently moving as they were touched by the breath of air circulating through the room; it was a picture reminiscent of that tree from paradise, the fruit gently hanging from its branches, swaying in the soft breeze of the garden. In spite of itself, the little dogwood practically bloomed in the bright, cheerful light of the Family's glowing faces. The labour all finished, the family gazed on the sight once more, and then happily, excitedly lay in their beds and drifted off to sleep one by one.

Without fail, it would creak. But not this morning. It was indeed morning; still dark, still night, but that darkest and stillest part just before the first peep of light, when all seems to be most asleep. As he slowly pushed the door open to slip in to the Family's mudroom. He took in the sight carefully, noting the little pairs of boots all lined up and caked with yesterday's mud. "Yes, it was good that I packed carefully." He even thought in a whisper, lest he disturb the sleepers and rouse someone to spy out his mission. He stole into the center of the house to find the dogwood just where he knew it would be. Silently, he lowered his knapsack to the floor and spread out the gifts, placing them gently and quickly under the tree. Soon there was a pile of baskets crowded under the tree, a pile that belied the size of both the knapsack and the Rabbit that carried it. Then he was gone.

The sky had barely turned a faded greenish navy hue when Boy's eyes flashed open. It had come! Morning was here! They must hurry if they are to be on time. Ever so quickly, he rushes to rouse the rest of the House, to find only little Sister still asleep. Get up! Get dressed! It will never do to be late to the sunrise service. The sun would not wait for them. And afterwards, oh! the scrumptious breakfast, the hot cross buns, the Easter Egg hunt, oh, such surprises this morning always held.

And the tree. Boy almost forgot all about the tree. Then he heard a faint sound from the living room, and it all came back to him. Did they come? He had to go see; there was even less time to waste now than ever. He rushed hurriedly to finish, he ran to the room that held the best surprise of all, and almost doubtingly entered the room. He hesitated as he looked across the scene, for it was as if this room were sacred. But Mother and Dad were there, they seemed satisfied, ready, waiting. It was true. All the gifts he had hoped for, all the celebration for which he'd patiently and eagerly waited so many weeks; they were there. And the tree; the tree stood silently, but growing brighter as the rising morning light pushed the Family out the door.

Oh, friends. Would this day mean anything without the tree? Had the tree not come, certainly the fruit would not have come; certainly the Seed would never have held such promise. Could the real Son have come, had not the tree come?
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This is satire. If you don't get it, do not assume that it is simple fiction.