I have had many bitter truths come home to roost of late, chief among them is that while Lutheran doctrine is still truly different, Lutheran churches are not.  They are still bound by the necessity to conform to the norm and to not violate the social contract.  Woe to those who do, especially with the pastor.

Another is the inescapable fact that I loathe Christmas and I am struggling to live with that truth.  I do not care what anyone says, Christmas is not about Christ.  At many churches, during special services,  for a brief span of time, it is about Christ.  Lutheran liturgy, if followed, assures this because it does not really have a place for special dramatic and choral performances that make the service more about the season than the Savior.  I am confident that other churches, other denominations, also fix their eye on the Author and Perfecter of our faith during their services.  But many do not.  And for most people I know, pretty much all people I know, outside of Church, Christmas is about the season.  It is about presents and cards and food and parties and family.

I loved Advent, having never known what it was, I loved it and eagerly await its arrival again, eleven long months from now.  I loved the very idea of waiting on Christ and, in doing so, reflecting upon all the ways He comes to us.  In fact, although Advent is over and a while has passed since my selfish request to have others write me more verses to the hymn, I just received another one from the woman who once memorized scripture with me:

Jesus comes in Word and water,

Saving Grace poured out on us,

Sins forgiven life eternal,

Gifts no other font can give.

Alleluia!  Alleluia!

Life-giving water rich in Grace.

The idea, the concept, that Lutherans celebrate Christmas not for one day but for 12 was intriguing to me.  Twelve days to celebrate the Savior not the blasted season!  But here, on day eight, I have failed miserably at doing so.

All around me is the season and it is a season that has no place for me.  Personally, I believe it is a season that has no place for Christ either, but I am sure many would argue with me.

However, I read in slight horror and overwhelming sadness an article in the newsletter of our synod district that took the things of the season and showed how they were actually reminders about Christ.  I am sorry, but I cannot believe the use of holly at Christmas really serves as a reminder of the prick of the crown of thorns upon Christ's head.  Holly has been used by Druids and others for far different purposes for thousands of years.  Why not focus on the things of Christmas themselves:  the angel's message, the nativity, the actual birth...?

In fact, I read through nineteen issues of the newsletter searching for something that taught, that illuminated the bible or Lutheran doctrine.  But that's not really the purpose, I suppose, of those newsletters.  There were many articles about planned giving--so many I grew a bit disgusted.  There were many articles about works other churches were doing, which did make me wish our church did some of those outreach activities so I could be involved more like I was back in high school, college, and up until I started teaching college myself.  But the emphasis on the works made me uncomfortable.  I kept reading through the thing thinking that if Luther were to write a newsletter to all the churches in his "district," even keeping in newsy bits for "connectedness" it would be far, far, far different from what I read....and the two Christmas pieces would not be about the season but the Savior.

But the world has chosen the season, even the church.  And I don't fit in the season.  And I hate how I fail miserably at remembering that I am a cherished child of Christ when it seems the whole world has somewhere to go, a place to belong, a welcome sure and certain.

Last night, I went to Vespers.  Sort of.  It was at Pastor's house and was quite crowded.  With the rain and cold and the fact that it was New Year's Eve, I had hoped that few would come so it wouldn't be crowded even though I truly and earnestly also wanted the whole church to be there, to be among, as someone wrote recently, those who share the blood of Christ.  I chose a seat in the corner of the couch, but it was a mistake.  At the last moment, a strange man arrived and took a seat in the chair that was at my knees.  I was hemmed in by men and started to struggle the moment he sat down.  But that was also the moment that Pastor got around to starting the service.  I lasted through the first hymn, opening versicles, and reading of the Psalms before I jumped up and fled to the basement.

For a while, I sat on the bottom of the stairs and let the next hymn wash over me as I felt so stupid for coming and so ashamed of my weakness that is greater than my desire to be in "church," but when I lifted my eyes to search for a better place to sit, I spotted three crosses on the wall, two of them crucifixes.  One of them was/is exactly what I have been searching for online for the past few months.  It is a simple cross, plain in all respects, two tones of metal, with a well-defined body of Christ.  That's a poor description, but since crucifixes have never been part of my life, I really have no better words.

Looking up it, Christ called to me and I started weeping, weeping for what He has done for me and for what I fail to do for Him.  Never before have I wanted anything as much as I want that crucifix.  Yes, that actually means I am breaking the ninth commandment and would willing break the seventh commandment if it were not so truly horrible to steal from a pastor.  I do not even recognize myself.  But never have I longed for something as I do that crucifix.

I wanted a flat-screen television for three years, truly longed for one.  I thought about them, researched them, and priced them.  Far too much time was spent on this desire.  And I really cannot believe that I have one, although a year has passed.  It is easier to see and, most importantly, did make my rather small living space much larger even though the screen size is 8 inches larger that my previous television.  That desire, though, pales in comparison with this crucifix.

My friend Bettina has this green knife that I would also willingly steal from her but for the fact that I care for her dearly.  It is green.  But it is not just any green knife.  It is a Santoku knife.  This is a type of knife I discovered that I can use far better with my MS clumsy hands after many years of cutting myself whenever I tried to use knives.  I have one.  It is part of the Henkels knife set that I have worked on building for years.  So I do not need hers.  Yes, it is green!  And it is a bit smaller, which would be easier for me to hold.  But I do not need it.  Still, I crave it so.  That desire, though, pales in comparison with this crucifix.

Why a crucifix?  I don't even understand it myself, as I have written before. I am not a fan of icons.  In truth, I have eschewed them mightily.  I have always disliked crucifixes because I thought, I felt, there was something fundamentally wrong about having Christ on the cross.  He is risen, after all.  He is risen indeed!

But I think it goes back to that essential difference between Lutheranism and Protestantism.  It is not that Lutherans despise the empty cross.  Not at all.  In fact, they celebrate Easter for 50 days, not a mere 24 hours!  But Lutherans do not have the act of the cross, the forgiveness of sins, set so squarely in the past.  It is present.  It is here and now. It is in the holy waters of baptism.  It is in the absolution given each divine service and each private confession.  And it is in the true body and blood of Christ given for us, shed for us....at least for those who are privileged to worship in a church which confesses such and who are given such.

When I have looked online, over and over again, I have not found a crucifix that seemed right, that fit what I desired.  The one hanging in his hallway is exactly what I have been searching for, plain and simple.

I stared at it until I calmed down enough to forget how I felt upstairs and spotted a chair in a room to the right.  I could still hear the service, thankfully.  During the sermon, I kept craning my neck to look a the crucifix again.  Pastor was talking about how Christ's circumcision and naming, on the eighth day, could be viewed as a down payment of sorts on the promise God gave to Adam and Eve before sending them from the garden.  One would come who would forever crush satan, breaking his hold on us, making death a joyful deliverance.  It was the first shedding of His precious blood, done willingly, for He willingly became frail human flesh that we might no longer bear the inequity of our sins.

Afterward, there was the rescheduled open house.  The announcement had said it would be a night of games and food and such, but the game part wasn't really happening.  A year ago last fall, I ventured to the Ocktober fest celebration the church had, even though I was not going to church, because it was advertised as a game gathering as well.

I love games.  This is thoroughly documented here and is the second best part about Bettina, that she plays all manner of games with me for hours on end when she can.

Last year, I went to that fest ostensibly because I wanted to give the children staying with me for the weekend a place to play with other children.  But I stupidly went with a bag full of a games.  No one was playing any games and having them with me was like a science nerd walking into a room full of football players and cheerleaders.  GET OUT!  YOU DON'T BELONG HERE.

Last night, I had brought games with me, stupidly believing it would be a game night, stupidly thinking I could be social across a board or a pile of dominoes or a stack of cards.

Pastor checked on me after the service and said he would come back if I did not come up soon.  He never returned.  I was freezing in the basement, but was reluctant to leave because then I could not look upon the crucifix anymore.  I stayed even though I could no longer feel my toes.  I only left when my legs began to tighten, remembering the cramps from when I caroled.  Upstairs, no one was playing games.  I failed to get the one person I thought might play a game interested in doing so.  And I was most certainly rude to the one person who tried talk with me but I did not know why she would have after a choice she had recently made and found no words upon my lips.  I was not long upstairs and wished the whole time the crucifix was magically transported to the wall where my things were since they were tucked in the corner of the room.  After steeling my nerve enough to traverse the room, I grabbed my bag of games and my keys and fled. 

I have been up all night, thinking about that Promise and the broken promises of late that bother me, thinking about my failures and my sin, thinking about how that email haunts me, and thinking about that crucifix.  I Googled for a few hours when I came home trying to think of search terms that might land me one.  But I am sure that it is a crucifix handed down in his family or from his childhood or some other long since defunct source.  I have not found one online like it.

Funny, just yesterday morning, Pastor W posted yet another photo of his new alter crucifix and I puzzled at his love for the thing, the utter longing to gaze upon it he has.  A few hours later, there I was struck by the same.