I love the south; it is the only home I have ever known. I may often poke fun at its less appealing attributes, but I still love my town and state and the values that most Southerners hold dear.
That being said, I fear that Southern culture and ideals have twisted Christianity into something it is not. The reality of sin and the beautiful truth of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ have been worn down to mere ethical traditions.
In Hank Williams Jr.'s 1981 song "Country Boys can Survive," there's a line that goes like this - "we say grace, and we say ma'am, and if you ain't into that, we don't give a damn." That really epitomizes my entire point here and I could just stop talking, but as I have a lot more thoughts to vent, I won't. If you read my recent post "I don't like camouflage," you have an idea of my background - of my struggle to conform to the definition of manhood as held by my generation of Southerners. In that time of personal conflict, I found that a huge part of what my peers, and even most older people, consider "Biblical values" and "God-given rights" were merely slightly varied applications of Southern tradition. Many have even gone so far as to equate a "country" way of living with a Christian lifestyle, as made evident in the "I love Jesus and sweet tea" and "Southern by the Grace of God" tee-shirts (most of you reading this probably own one of those. Yes, I am saying you should burn it).
In my preteen and early teenage years, in times of loneliness and desperation, I reached out to multiple churches and received no response. The Biblical knowledge of my peers did not go any further than John 3:16 and the Romans Road, and Christianity was nothing more than a mental belief in an omnipotent creator and a system of ethics based on being polite, telling people you'll pray for them, and blessing people's hearts. Many of them had parents who were prominent in their respective churches, and they too were oblivious to the true messages of Scripture. Church was regarded merely as a weekly salvation bill. The older people in the church had absolutely no problem allowing their sons and daughters to go mudding with a bunch of other half-naked teenagers or listen to country music that objectified women or spoke of getting drunk and waking up in Mexico. Heaven forbid, however, they listened to a song by Foo Fighters or Moses Mayfield that elaborated on true human emotion. In many churches in the South, as long as a boy wears jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, he can do pretty much anything he wants and face no discipline. He's just a good ol' boy, never doing no harm. He could come home at 16 with the smell of alcohol on his breath, have a carton of cigarettes hid under his bed, or be regularly having sex with five different girls, and the reaction from his parents would pale in comparison to the reaction he would get if he came home with a mohawk, tattoo, or holes in his ears.
We have all seen it. Our priorities are severely distorted, guys. This message is mainly geared towards parents: your child is not perfect. I don't care if he says sir or ma'am, how clean she keeps her room, how polite she is in her language, or how elegantly she dresses. God is not a middle class farmer with a John Deere license plate and a hankering for sweet tea. He honestly has absolutely no regard whatsoever for how downright proper you are or how much you love the American flag.
He wants righteousness. Righteousness we can not possibly achieve. Thus, He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.
All of that being said... it was the kids with crazy hair cuts and pierced ears that showed me the love of Christ in those times of hardship; that instilled in me a knowledge of Scripture and gave me loving discipline where necessary.
The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.
For Those Missing Someone This Christmas
The first Christmas I can remember was when I was four. I was ecstatic. I can't begin to describe the feelings the day brought; not just because of the gifts, but the food, the unconditionally joyous smiles on everyone's face, and my first visit from Santa Claus. He (I still don't know who it was) came to our house bearing gifts for my cousins and I. After the gifts were given, further requests made, and photos taken, he departed before returning to say that "Rudolph ran the sleigh off in the ditch." Of course, he was actually driving an Astro van and the driveway was iced over. I was informed that the sleigh turns into a normal vehicle when spotted by children. I bragged for years that my dad and uncle had helped Santa Claus himself pull his sleigh out of the ditch.
The next year was equally as joyous. By then, my mother owned a restaurant not far from my school and hosted a "pictures with Santa" event (guess what he drove up in? An Astro van). Four Christmases went by and I became acquainted with all of the odd traditions associated with the occasion - the planting of a plastic tree in the middle of the living room, the hanging of lights on the gutters, and of course, "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown." Mom and Grandma would make egg noodles, sweet potatoes, oyster dressing, and every other sort of dish and pie imaginable, and relatives from other states would visit and bring presents. I loved every bit of it. For my family and I, the entire year revolved around Christmas day. I remember the feeling, on December 26th of each year, of sadness and frustration at how far away next Christmas was.
Though it seemed second nature, our Christmas traditions were greatly interrupted when I was 7. My grandmother, who had spoiled me rotten and been my best and only friend, passed away. As this particular family structure and mindset had been all I had ever known, I did not know how to deal with her death. I did not live that summer. I only relived the first several years of my life as I remembered them. I shut myself up in my room and, as any young boy would have, I cried. Nevertheless, Christmas went on. The tree and lights again went up, the pies were made, and the presents wrapped. Everything was nearly physically identical to the year before, but it wasn't the same. Though I was by no means alone and enjoyed the company of my huge family, there was one person on my mind; the one person who could not make it to dinner.
Years went by and Christmas became a bit more stressful it seemed. The responsibilities that it involved were no longer fun. No matter how many friends and family members I was surrounded by, it was who was not there that plagued me. When I was 11, my uncle Joe passed away shortly after being diagnosed with cancer. That following Christmas, our entire family gathered together for a dinner - aunts, uncles, and cousins. If you know my family, you know that is a lot of people. Though dozens, if not a hundred, beloved kinsmen surrounded the feast table, as the prayer was said, one person was on each of our minds - the one person who could not make it to dinner.
More and more Christmases came and then went, and they continued to become less interesting and more of a hassle. In just a little over two years, two cousins near my age, my aunt, and three more uncles passed away. The only down side to having such a large family is having to face the reality of mortality more often. We continued to have family dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and occasionally Easter, and while we truly enjoyed each others' company, the topic of every discussion was, "I wish _____ could be here."
As a child, I learned that Christmas was this tradition and these songs, and you sang them with these people, and this person was good at cooking this sort of food, and this person another. Christmas was a glorious time filled with laughter and family, and as the years went on, many of those that insured that Christmas would be that for my cousins and I passed on to a day much more glorious. I gave up on holidays. They became too inconsistent. I have laid awake all night (it is now 6:11am) staring at the ceiling and facing this reality, and I am thankful that God has brought me to the realization that He has.
While I may not really care to celebrate Christmas, as what I know it to be has long passed, I can teach the young ones the ways of the old. I can share the story of my Grandma falling into the Christmas tree and knocking it over with my nieces and nephews who never knew her. I can tell them about the time their Grandpa and uncle helped Santa pull his Astro sleigh out of the ditch. I can tell them the jokes my aunt told me on her knee all those years ago. I can share with them the reason we call it Christmas.
I cannot change the past. Believe me, I've tried. However, the future is still open to modification. I may never again be a little boy that hugs his Grandma on Christmas morning and destroys the kitchen helping her make egg noodles, but I can be the uncle, and one day father, that supervises and cleans up the mess. I can again find that unconditional Christmas joy by carrying on the legacy of those that can't make it to dinner.
If there is someone absent from your table this Christmas, please know that you are not alone. There is a sovereign God who is yet merciful and loving. Though it may not be blatantly displayed, I assure you there are those that love you and are beyond thankful that you have pulled up a chair. Know that it is okay to miss one person in a crowded room. Above all, know that there are those whose love of Christmas goes untainted; continue to teach them what it's all about.
The next year was equally as joyous. By then, my mother owned a restaurant not far from my school and hosted a "pictures with Santa" event (guess what he drove up in? An Astro van). Four Christmases went by and I became acquainted with all of the odd traditions associated with the occasion - the planting of a plastic tree in the middle of the living room, the hanging of lights on the gutters, and of course, "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown." Mom and Grandma would make egg noodles, sweet potatoes, oyster dressing, and every other sort of dish and pie imaginable, and relatives from other states would visit and bring presents. I loved every bit of it. For my family and I, the entire year revolved around Christmas day. I remember the feeling, on December 26th of each year, of sadness and frustration at how far away next Christmas was.
Though it seemed second nature, our Christmas traditions were greatly interrupted when I was 7. My grandmother, who had spoiled me rotten and been my best and only friend, passed away. As this particular family structure and mindset had been all I had ever known, I did not know how to deal with her death. I did not live that summer. I only relived the first several years of my life as I remembered them. I shut myself up in my room and, as any young boy would have, I cried. Nevertheless, Christmas went on. The tree and lights again went up, the pies were made, and the presents wrapped. Everything was nearly physically identical to the year before, but it wasn't the same. Though I was by no means alone and enjoyed the company of my huge family, there was one person on my mind; the one person who could not make it to dinner.
Years went by and Christmas became a bit more stressful it seemed. The responsibilities that it involved were no longer fun. No matter how many friends and family members I was surrounded by, it was who was not there that plagued me. When I was 11, my uncle Joe passed away shortly after being diagnosed with cancer. That following Christmas, our entire family gathered together for a dinner - aunts, uncles, and cousins. If you know my family, you know that is a lot of people. Though dozens, if not a hundred, beloved kinsmen surrounded the feast table, as the prayer was said, one person was on each of our minds - the one person who could not make it to dinner.
More and more Christmases came and then went, and they continued to become less interesting and more of a hassle. In just a little over two years, two cousins near my age, my aunt, and three more uncles passed away. The only down side to having such a large family is having to face the reality of mortality more often. We continued to have family dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and occasionally Easter, and while we truly enjoyed each others' company, the topic of every discussion was, "I wish _____ could be here."
As a child, I learned that Christmas was this tradition and these songs, and you sang them with these people, and this person was good at cooking this sort of food, and this person another. Christmas was a glorious time filled with laughter and family, and as the years went on, many of those that insured that Christmas would be that for my cousins and I passed on to a day much more glorious. I gave up on holidays. They became too inconsistent. I have laid awake all night (it is now 6:11am) staring at the ceiling and facing this reality, and I am thankful that God has brought me to the realization that He has.
While I may not really care to celebrate Christmas, as what I know it to be has long passed, I can teach the young ones the ways of the old. I can share the story of my Grandma falling into the Christmas tree and knocking it over with my nieces and nephews who never knew her. I can tell them about the time their Grandpa and uncle helped Santa pull his Astro sleigh out of the ditch. I can tell them the jokes my aunt told me on her knee all those years ago. I can share with them the reason we call it Christmas.
I cannot change the past. Believe me, I've tried. However, the future is still open to modification. I may never again be a little boy that hugs his Grandma on Christmas morning and destroys the kitchen helping her make egg noodles, but I can be the uncle, and one day father, that supervises and cleans up the mess. I can again find that unconditional Christmas joy by carrying on the legacy of those that can't make it to dinner.
If there is someone absent from your table this Christmas, please know that you are not alone. There is a sovereign God who is yet merciful and loving. Though it may not be blatantly displayed, I assure you there are those that love you and are beyond thankful that you have pulled up a chair. Know that it is okay to miss one person in a crowded room. Above all, know that there are those whose love of Christmas goes untainted; continue to teach them what it's all about.
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