Burning Coals

"When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, 'Bring some of the fish that you have just caught... Come and have breakfast.'"

- John 21:9-10, 12

When I was kid my family used to take trips to Northern Michigan every year. It was a welcomed change of pace, a time to connect with one another as a family, and some of my favorite memories from that time are sitting around a bonfire, sharing stories, smores, and looking up at the stars. There is just something basic and essential to the human experience in gathering around a fire. And it is that experience that captures my attention in this text.

In this story from John's Gospel, Jesus has been crucified, and has resurrected. At some point after the resurrection, the disciples choose to go out fishing. They go at night, working all through the night but they labor in vain. They don't catch a single fish. These skilled fishermen have run out of luck. Nothing works.
As the dawn breaks, the disciples notice a man standing on the shore who calls out to them, "Haven't you caught anything?"
One might think the disciples would respond sarcastically to this seeming taunt. But they simply say "No."
So Jesus tells them, throw your nets on the other side. When they do, their nets are so full that they can barely haul the fish in.
It begins to dawn on them who they're dealing with, so they make their way to shore.
When they land they find Jesus standing next to a charcoal fire, with fish and bread already cooking on it. So Jesus invites them to add what they've just caught and join him for breakfast.

So often in reading this scripture I've jumped directly into thoughts about resurrection, or the disciple's weird inability to catch any fish despite being fishermen by trade. But as I read this text again, I'm drawn to the charcoal fire, the burning coals and the invitation, "come and have breakfast."

More than anything I'm curious about the one detail present in this fire that makes it so special. In Greek, this fire is called ἀνθρακιά (anthrakia), which means "burning coals." It's a word used twice in the New Testament, both times in John's Gospel. It's different from any other fire, it specifically identifies a charcoal fire, made from wood. Here's what draws me in with this word:

The fire that Jesus creates for his disciples takes time to prepare.

The process of making charcoal out of wood is an ancient practice that dates back at least 30,000 years. It's a process that can take days but transforms the wood into nearly pure carbon. The result of this labor is a product that burns hotter, longer, more evenly, with less smoke, and fewer dangerous vapors than wood alone. In a sense, making a wood charcoal fire purifies the fire. But it takes time, skill and patience.

There can be moments in ministry where we might toil long through the night. Things we might otherwise assume we can do well produce no tangible results. But what if, even in those doubtful moments, even when we're looking at the end and are preparing to pack it in, Jesus has been working right along side us and we just haven't been able to perceive it yet?

To make this fire Jesus has to have been working at it for a while. Jesus has had to have worked through the night, keeping an eye on his disciples, laboring alongside them, anticipating where they'll be by morning. Jesus has been preparing for a feast. While the disciples believe they are stuck with nothing, in scarcity, Jesus plans for abundance.

I wonder if there is a lesson in patience here, in persistence, a call to wait for the dawn. Because even while we stumble along in the shadows of night, Jesus is anticipating a feast come dawn, and is actively making preparations for it.

As we enter into Lent, a season of preparation walking with Jesus toward the cross and in anticipation of resurrection at Easter, I will keep watch for the burning coals as I labor. I will trust that Jesus works alongside me, anticipating the conclusion to our shared labor and I will invite, just as I have been invited so many times before, to share in the bounty.

You see, the burning coals aren't just a minor detail, they show us Jesus' commitment to working with us, anticipating the fellowship to come, planning for a response of abundance.

Oak

A young couple shares their first meal in marriage and the crumbs of bread mingle with the blood red wine on a lacy white fabric, instilled with the memories of Saints long past.
A candle, unattended, burns long through its wax, forever leaving its own mark.
This once wild oak,
tamed by carpenters hands,
inscribed with an invitation to come and stay, taste and see, has been home not only to some of the greatest mysteries of grace,
but to Legos arranged with the imaginative energy of tiny hands,
tears rolled from weathered cheeks as a bell rings and the name on their heart echos through the rafters,
and small smears of oil transferred from glass,
to hand,
to head
and back again.
The ornamentation of tangled vines and ample ripe grapes is carefully tended,
watched whenever moved from back to front and down short steps.
Yet even when the plates are arranged,
the cloth ironed and cleaned,
the dressings all set,
it is the marks of feasts,
loves,
hands
and wine that stay,
calling through time sounding an invitation stronger than the words inscribed therein:
come and stay, taste and see.

War on Christmas

While they were there, the time came for Mary to have her baby. She gave birth to her firstborn child, a son, wrapped him snugly, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the guestroom. - Luke 2:6-7

I don't know if y'all feel it, but this year is just hitting hard.

What I'm really feeling right now the constant, unending, and brutal justification of violence in our country, and I have never felt further away from the Christmas story.

And then there was this:



If you didn't watch the video here's the pertinent quote:

"I just want to point out that there had been these protests in Times Square, right outside of our building here for the last week or so, since the non-indictment came down in the Ferguson situation. So, I mean, I certainly hope nothing is going to happen here in New York City today, and we've got the tree lighting ceremony."

 I hope nothing is going to happen... We've got the tree lighting ceremony

If there has ever been a war on Christmas, it has been the slow, purposeful stripping away of other's humanity.
The very reason we celebrate Christmas is because of the glory of the God-with-Us.
Emmanuel.
God made flesh.
We celebrate because in the midst of all of the chaos of the world, in the midst of our pain and suffering, God came bursting into life, crying, irritated, and in need of mother's milk.
Jesus being born into the world is about more than a birthday. It is the surest message from God that our lives matter. Our pain matters. Our flesh matters.
The central message of the Christmas story is that our humanity matters to God.

And yet, with another non-indictment in the killing of yet another black American, the response from major news sources, white Christians, and others has been the callous disregard for human life.

Remember an indictment just means that something will go to trial. So to not indict means that there is NO evidence to suggest any wrong doing whatsoever. Not even a question.

In the case of rioting, with shops being burnt, there were calls for the heads of those doing the rioting. There was condemnation of those practicing peaceful protests, but rarely was there anyone white or in the media looking to understand why. Why it is that people protest, why it is that some people riot. Because the conclusion that most white people and most people in the media came to was that

property ranks higher than black lives.

Gosh, I just hope black people don't protest the non-inictment of Eric Garner's killer in NYC. It would really be just terrible to ruin Christmas.

That mentality, the one that places things above people; the one that justifies the killing of one person because they supposedly sold individual cigarettes instead of being licensed to sell the whole pack; the one that says your pain is not worth my time. The one that says every time some one who looks like you dies, no matter if they weren't armed, no matter if they weren't actually a threat, no matter if they were in an accident and looking for help, no matter if they are an adult or a child, they deserved to die.

That is the war on Christmas.

Because it is antithetical to everything God set out to do.
And when I sit down with my family this year to celebrate the birth of Christ, I know this to be true more than ever: We need God. We need Christmas. We need a win.

Black lives matter to God. Eric Garner mattered to God. When people are upset by the lack of justice, or the lack of an admittance of wrong-doing in cases like Eric Garner, and our first response is to focus on how their pain inconveniences us. We walk away from Christ. We walk away from God. And I guarantee you, we do not get an invitation to the manger.

I am tired of the phony, pathetic excuses we make. I am tired of the mantra of the war on Christmas because I know 9 times out of 10 that war is a weak excuse to distract us from the real threats to Christmas.
I am tired of this sinfulness, and I know there are many people who have felt this for far longer than I have, who've lived it more deeply and experienced it more intimately.

This year I'm doing something about it and I hope you'll join me. I'll start with a prayer:

O Lord, anytime we make an excuse for the death of another human being, or anytime we place a pretty tree above someone else's pain, God, remind us that people like Eric Garner matter to you. Remind us that Jesus was born into this world for Eric's pain. Remind us that Jesus shares in his suffering. Remind us of what Jesus was born for, that on Christmas morning, Jesus was brought into this world to know what it is like to die Eric's death. Forgive us for our sin of hatred, apathy, and racism. And if we cannot meet you there God, remind us of how far away from that manger scene we really are. Amen.