I heard a Bible teacher once comment that the two books of Samuel and Kings are history written from man’s viewpoint while Chronicles is history written from God’s viewpoint. For example, consider how King David is remembered in each. In Samuel and right into Kings it’s tabloid fodder galore. You get it all: Bathsheba, Absalom, the works. Now, look at how David’s life is memorialized in Chronicles. Only one thing against him is noted: when he tried to take a census of Israel, something strictly forbidden under Mosaic Law.

It’s not that God turned a blind eye to David’s transgressions. He didn’t. David paid a heavy price for his sins. Yet despite these, God called him a man after His own heart. How? Penalty and consequence. Christ died for David’s sins. David endured the consequences of his actions. The latter had its time under the sun. But the forgiveness, the grace, the love? These are forever. These are eternity, an eternity with Jesus facilitated by His sacrifice and subsequent destruction of death’s hold.

It’d be easy to rattle off a list of everything that went wrong or at best sideways in 2009. There were more than a few dark moments. Instead, kindly indulge me as I mention some of the things that went right this soon to be past year. While I am very glad to see 2009 go, there were moments and events I will never let go.

I finished the book. In doing so I honored God’s call on my life.

I drew closer to, more aware of Christ’s truths and love.

God was kind enough to use my modest scribbles here and elsewhere to get people through brutal situations by drawing them closer to Him.

I rediscovered the joy of creating music.

Despite hard times financially, it didn’t all come crashing down.

I met and was blessed by some beautiful fellow ragtag soldiers.

I was witness to some amazing moments of God speaking with a smile.

And did I mention I finished the book?

Yes, there was a lot of serious suckage in 2009. But throughout it all, in Christ I made it through it all.

Bring on 2010.

Get well, Rush.

It’s been previously noted, yet warrants repeating, how the Internet is synchronized beauty and horror. Beauty in how everyone can participate. Horror in that so can anyone.

The manner in which a believer conducts his or herself online should be no different than how we behave in any other aspect of life. Unless we’re in character for a role playing game, in which case we might want to consider turning off the computer and going outside more often, we are we. Sounds silly, but there are times we seem to forget.

Since the only element by which people online know us is by our written word, for the believer it’s vital to make sure our message has consistency. It’s not a case of every word tapped into our keyboards needing John 3:16 attached with Super Glue or else we’re off course. However, if we say we believe something and then by our own words contradict those professed beliefs, there’s a problem.

One of those elements is the workplace. Unless we’re employed by a ministry, chances are extremely good we are not paid to be a minister. Which has nothing to do with the call to minister; that is on us all as part of our daily lives in how we care, share and love. But it’s not our reason for drawing a paycheck.

If all we do online is bitch about any combination of the boss, co-workers and the job itself, what kind of witness are we presenting? There’s nothing wrong with blowing off some steam now and then. We need to. Far better to vent than to be in danger of becoming the next quiet person who kept to themselves. That duly noted, if everything we say is negative what in fact are we saying? God really screwed this one up by having us be where we are?

There’s also the fact noted earlier. Anyone can get online and see what’s out there. Including our employers. Who, if we’re publicly talking trash about them, will in most cases be delighted to swiftly lighten our workplace burden one hundred percent. So let’s be wise. Honest, but wise. Some things are better left unsaid.

Another element is politics. One of the beauties of Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue is how she details the foundation of her political philosophy. It is rooted in the dual influences of her semi-rural Alaskan upbringing, with its mandate of rugged individualism coupled with community cooperation as a necessary means of surviving the harsh environment, paired with total faith in and servitude to Christ. When we understand these things, we understand the whys of her political beliefs plus actions.

For the believer, there is no luxury of disconnect in the realm of policies or practices. If Jesus is Who He says He is; if He holds the place in our hearts, minds and souls He ought to hold as not only Savior but as our Lord, our political agenda must reflect His teachings. Regardless of how one leans, unless it’s always in which direction the wind presently blows (helpful hint: that’s bad), we should always publicly note Christ is the reason upon which our reasoning and behavior rest. Again, this isn’t a case of arc welding Scripture quotes onto every dissertation concerning foreign or domestic policy. However, it needs to be woven into the fiber of what we say and do. It needs to be spoken of without reluctance. Others can and will disagree with us. That said, when we provide not only the whos, whats, whens, wheres and hows of our position but the whys from which they come there is no misunderstanding save that deliberately undertaken by the disingenuous.

The final point needing mention is demon alcohol. That’s a bit of a joke. Those who do flips and twists that would do an Olympic caliber gymnast proud to try and bend Scripture into being a screed for Prohibition are on the wrong side of truth. Paul predated the studies about a little wine being good for us by urging Timothy to have some for medicinal purposes. And have we forgotten that Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine in order to keep the party going? Getting drunk, especially staying that way, is clearly a no-no. But that’s the sin, not drinking itself when done properly.

For some people it is a sin to drink because once they start they will not, or cannot, stop. This doesn’t give them the right to demand others not drink. However, it is important that all of us maintain a consistent witness regardless.

We all need to examine our online conversation content. If we speak volumes about chardonnay and/or Coors while neglecting Christ; if the initials most readily associated with us are JD instead of JC, we have issues. If we can’t imagine or face the day without a drink or two or three or more, we’re crossing the line. If we’re getting hammered and then hammering out messages about it, we’re falling short of the goal. We need to clean up and clam up. That’s not being judgmental. That’s being who and what we say we are in Jesus.

We should always speak freely of our faith. Other areas? Not so much.

… that in at least this moment the Times rocks by naming Neda its Person Of The Year?

Other Neda posts here.

We’ve all occasionally run across the stereotypical angry atheist, all spittle and phlegm as they hurl their progressively weaker arguments at you while never genuinely responding to your refutations of their tortured pseudo-logic. After a while, the root cause for their hatred of Christ and Christians is revealed: something or someone along the line let them down in the category of God serving as Santa. Didn’t get that pony you asked for one Christmas? Didn’t get shielded from anything bad happening to you as a result of someone exercising their free will even as you demanded full reign for yours? Obviously there is no God. Why? He didn’t do things the way you instructed Him.

This nursed grudge isn’t exclusive to atheists. It also permeates more than a few believers. I’m noticing more than a few popping up that for lack of a better terms are the angry ex-evangelicals. While they generally lay claim to some form of belief, more often than not professing allegiance to the “real” Jesus, they also come out with both barrels blazing against the church, both leaders and parishoners. They’re hypocrites. They’re idiots. They don’t get it.

Translation: they don’t do it my way.

As with the angry atheists, when you pare down to the core of their contempt you run across something or someone having let them down in the area of God as cosmic bellhop. For many in their middle ages, much of their angst centers on one of the main tenants of the Jesus Movement in the late ’60s and early to mid ’70s, that being the emphasis on eschatology and a belief that the second coming of Christ was imminent not by God’s standard of measuring such events but by man’s. As it turned out, those who thought this way were wrong. Their zeal led them to gloss over Christ’s warning about playing guessing games. They did not disprove God’s Word. They proved errors of enthusiasm are still errors.

More than a few who followed this teaching have found themselves in the unenviable position of being woefully unprepared for life. They assumed we wouldn’t be here long enough to require forethought about what was ahead because they wouldn’t be here. Well, they have been here all along. And they’re quite upset about it. When in doubt, blame the bad advice and those who gave it rather than admit they heard more than once “in case Jesus doesn’t come back tomorrow…”

Given a choice between our daily dread and waking up to a million dollars, a pony and no responsibilities most of us would choose the latter. The latter is not going to happen. We can beclown ourselves by blaming the God we don’t believe in or those who do believe in Him for our miseries. But when we’re the ones doing the cutting of our own skin while claiming it’s all the fault of who made or who handed you the knife, or we’re the ones who partied our brains out believing there’d never be a need to clean up the mess then go earn a living so we could pay for it all, no amount of playing the blame game is going to change the truth about who’s responsible for our wounds, empty pockets and empty lives.

Christmas draws nigh. As this is a time for gifts, reflecting the greatest gift of all — God’s Son — it’s a good time to reflect on the gifts so many of us share.

It’s easy to look at this bleak world and think “what gifts? Another day of soul-sucking employment or drudgery-laden anxiety over unemployment? Relationships that have failed or are a long-running failure? Heartache punctuated by heartbreak over loss and absence? These are gifts?!! If so, can I exchange them for something better even without a receipt?”

Actually, we have the receipt. It’s God’s Word. It’s His promise that this is temporary while life is eternal. Today’s pain will end today. Tomorrow’s joy will one day be our today, a today without end.

So yes, we have gifts. All of us. And, like good news (which if you think about it gifts are), gifts are best when shared.

It’s a gift when friends come to be as both parties take that chance in reaching out to someone formerly unknown and find their trust returned in like kind.

It’s a gift when the days sliding into weeks tucked into months sandwiched into years spent doing something because you knew it was what you were supposed to be doing regardless of how futile or pointless it seemed at most every turn are rewarded with something beautiful happening in someone’s life. In no small part because you stayed faithful despite it all.

It’s a gift when you realize how in spite of your fumbling stumbling bumbling self-defeating self-destructive silliness Christ still uses you to facilitate both the miracle of life-transforming renewal in others and the miracle of daily blessing through love. Yes, love. From you. Fumbling stumbling bumbling self-defeating self-destructive silly you. Which forever answers the question of whether God exists and Jesus Is Who He says He Is. Plus whether you’re worthy of and capable of love. Yes. Yes, you are.

So yes, there are gifts this season having not a thing to do with wrapping paper and shopping malls. Savor them. Cherish them.

And don’t quit. Just don’t quit. Especially on yourself. It all might seem like looking for a needle in a haystack. It can and will be frustrating. It can and will seem pointless, hopeless. But don’t quit. There are indeed needle girls (and boys) in this haystack world.

It’s worth the effort to keep looking.

P.S. Thanks to Switchfoot for the title of this post (their new album Hello Hurricane is brilliant; easily my favorite by them). No video for “Needle And Haystack Life,” but there is one for “Mess Of Me.” A perfect tune for when we’re most painfully aware of the fumbling stumbling bumbling self-defeating self-destructive silliness in our lives.

Since I talked about puppies yesterday, ’tis only fair I discuss kitties today. As opposed to cougars, of which I’ve met a few over the years. But I digress.

Although currently cat-less, for many years home was home to two felines named Max and Rambo. I’ll start with Max, since she was the first to arrive. Yes, she. We got her at a mall pet store for free with the purchase of a litter pan, at the time being told this scrawny orange thing (orange she stayed, scrawny anything but) was a boy. Hence the name Max, after Max Headroom which should tell you when this all began. However, we discovered on the way to Max’s first vet visit she had undergone a sex change operation. What to do name-wise? I wasn’t all that keen on Maxine, so it became Maxwella. We always called her Max, though. Or, for the first few months of her tenure with us, Maxstopit. Bit of a hellion, that one.

After said few months, Max’s persona rapidly morphed from one suitable to star in the kung fu epic Flying Paws Of Destruction to Her Most Serene Self-Satisfied And Basically Stuck Up Queen Of The Universe. She would spend her days lounging in sunbeams while striking suitable poses, her favorite being with her front paws crossed, and give you the squint of superiority. One time I swear she even managed a sneer. Max would, however, occasionally break out of character and do something most unusual: play fetch. With a ball. We’d toss a sponge rubber ball up the stairs, Max would chase it at top speed, snag it in her mouth, and trot back downstairs where she’d drop the ball in front of us so we could repeat the exercise.

And then came Rambo.

We inherited Rambo from Mrs. Dude’s niece, who for some reason thought keeping a cat whose primary outlet for entertainment was jumping off the back of the couch and onto the tops of her then small children’s heads wasn’t the best of plans. At the time he was named Ralphie, but one look at his large muscular build coupled with his propensity for action and it became apparent no name but Rambo would do. That said, as we very quickly learned after bringing him home Rambo had obviously missed his target when doing his couch leaping thing and had hit himself on the head a few dozen times too often. Which come to think of it was rather Ramboesque.

Rambo’s main occupation was wandering through the house trying to figure out where he was. He did have at least two areas memorized: the kitchen, to which he would graciously lead you in case you had forgotten its location along with how food was located therein, and the downstairs bathroom which housed the litter boxes. Rambo would unfailingly thank you for every litter box cleaning session by christening the box within three minutes after you were done scooping, then walk into the living room proudly announcing how since you obviously had such great fun cleaning you could do it again. And again. And again. Were it not for the pudge around his middle I’d suspect the cat never metabolized anything he ate. Which was anything and everything available. Finicky eater? Yeahright.

Max and Rambo got along like brother and sister. In other words, they fought a lot. Or at least that’s what they called it. A great show would be made, but in terms of actually doing anything to each other there was more authentic combat in an evening of WWE than they put together in a month’s worth of rowr hiss spit hey let’s go eat.

It’s said that animals can sense pending natural occurances such as earthquakes, this known by their strange behavior prior to the event. I can testify from firsthand experience this is true. The day of the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 I should have know prior to 5:04 PM something was about to happen as both Max and Rambo were behaving like normal cats. When the quake hit both madly dashed around the house. The moment the shaking stopped Max hid under a chair and refused to come out for several hours. Rambo looked around, tried to recall what had just happened, quickly abandoned the effort and resumed his wandering.

They’ve both been gone for several years now. Still miss ‘em like crazy.

Here’s what they taught me.

Max reminds me of how so many times I put on airs of importance or position or power or whatever that have no foundation in reality. You never could have convinced Max she came from a pet shop for free with the purchase of a litter pan and not, at bare minimum, Buckingham Palace. There have been times you’ve have been hardpressed to convince me I was something other than a sinner saved by Christ’s shed blood on the cross. Yet there I am.

Rambo reminds me how much I rely on God for protection in this world. Namely, completely. The thought of that scatterbrained feline with four left feet trying to make it on his own as a predator… please. Yet he lived a life of safety, security and comfort, in return for which he provided uncountable moments of entertainment and not a few when he’d snuggle, look at you with his big eyes and say who are you again. You couldn’t help but love him unconditionally.

Just like how we’re loved.

It’s a good feeling to know.