Over There: Christmas Tree

My barber sent me the link to this picture of a field expedient Christmas tree.

He is Risen, Indeed.

My wife Laura found the link to this song about our Lord's resurrection. You may recognize the tune, Waltham, as the one used for the Christmas carol, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." (Click here to hear the tune.)

Lift up, lift up your voices now!
The whole wide world rejoices now;
The Lord has triumphed gloriously,
The Lord shall reign victoriously.

In vain with stone the cave they barred;
In vain the watch kept ward and guard;
Majestic from the spoilèd tomb,
In pomp of triumph Christ is come.

And all He did, and all He bare,
He gives us as our own to share;
And hope, and joy and peace begin,
For Christ has won, and man shall win.

O Victor, aid us in the fight,
And lead through death to realms of light;
We safely pass where Thou hast trod;
In Thee we die to rise to God.

Thy flock, from sin and death set free,
Glad alleluias raise to Thee;
And ever with the heavenly host
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

St. Patrick and The Lorica

Today is St. Patrick's day, and the day has been thoroughly Americanized. The average citizen associates this hero of the Christian faith with drunken orgies, leprechauns and "the wearin' o' the green." In reality, Patrick was a stalwart believer who challenged Druidism in Ireland and championed the cause of Trinitarianism in the Church.

Patrick Friend explains the significance of the hymn known as "The Lorica" or "Breastplate of St. Patrick":

There is a beautiful prayer that legend says was written by St. Patrick himself. As the story goes, he suspected an ambush while he was on the way to meet King Laoghaire. He said the prayer, known today as St. Patrick's Breastplate, the Lorica, or the Deer's Cry, and as the soldiers lay in wait Patrick and his companions passed by but all the soldiers saw were deer! (source: All About Irish)

A lorica is meant to protect its wearer from harm, like a breastplate. As the Druids used magical incantations to call upon the powers of Nature, Patrick invokes the name of the Triune God and claims all the phenomena of nature for his armor because God created them.

You can read the words and listen to the melody played at the cyberhymnal site, but be warned they've removed the two most martial stanzas. I've reproduced the hymn in its entirety below.

If you want to learn more about Patrick, you can download this free e-book. As with many items I make available to you, I do not necessarily endorse the publisher or all of the book's contents -- one example would be the picture suggesting that the shamrock accurately represents the Trinity.


May you, Christian Martialist, be imbued with the faith and love of the truth that marked the spirit of Patrick, evangelist of the Scoti. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

I bind unto myself today

The strong Name of the Trinity,

By invocation of the same

The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this today to me forever

By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;

His baptism in Jordan river,

His death on Cross for my salvation;

His bursting from the spicèd tomb,

His riding up the heavenly way,

His coming at the day of doom

I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power

Of the great love of cherubim;

The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour,

The service of the seraphim,

Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,

The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls,

All good deeds done unto the Lord

And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today

The virtues of the star lit heaven,

The glorious sun’s life giving ray,

The whiteness of the moon at even,

The flashing of the lightning free,

The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,

The stable earth, the deep salt sea

Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today

The power of God to hold and lead,

His eye to watch, His might to stay,

His ear to hearken to my need.

The wisdom of my God to teach,

His hand to guide, His shield to ward;

The word of God to give me speech,

His heavenly host to be my guard.

Against the demon snares of sin,

The vice that gives temptation force,

The natural lusts that war within,

The hostile men that mar my course;

Or few or many, far or nigh,

In every place and in all hours,

Against their fierce hostility

I bind to me these holy powers.

Against all Satan’s spells and wiles,

Against false words of heresy,

Against the knowledge that defiles,

Against the heart’s idolatry,

Against the wizard’s evil craft,

Against the death wound and the burning,

The choking wave, the poisoned shaft,

Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ behind me, Christ before me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me,

Christ to comfort and restore me.

Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,

Christ in hearts of all that love me,

Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name,

The strong Name of the Trinity,

By invocation of the same,

The Three in One and One in Three.

By Whom all nature hath creation,

Eternal Father, Spirit, Word

Praise to the Lord of my salvation,

Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

From the Barber's Chair: 12-Day Celebration

I sent my barber a link to an article about the traditional distinction between Advent and the 12 days of Christmas (Nativity celebration). Click here for article.

I thought you might like to read his response:

 The Lutheran faith adheres to the church calendar.  We do not say merry Christmas until the Christmas eve service,(even then it's still not correct, but I do it).  It's tough on the children because of the secular influence.  This is one of the reasons I enjoy being "catholic without the guilt."  Which is how I refer to being a Lutheran!  You know I don't have a problem with traditions!  Adhering to the church calendar is attractive to me......

Six and counting!

Resistance is Futile!

Happy 5th Day of Nativity Celebration!

Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain (i.e., futile) thing? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD, and against his anointed . . . .  (Psalm 2:1-2)

I always thought I was the only one who drew a parallel between Star Trek's cube-dwelling Borg and the foursquare city of New Jerusalem (Revelation 21:16). Each respective cube lies suspended in space (the heavens).

I don't know if the writers and producers of the science fiction saga had that in mind, but it seems that at least one unbeliever has made the connection and constructed a web page dedicated to his interpretation of it. (See here) I hope you find the web page instructive, in that it provides a glimpse at how those who embrace a non-christian worldview view believers. They see us as regimented, unfree and intellectually sterile. 

Fulfil ye my joy, that ye be likeminded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind. (Philippians 2:2)

This unity of belief and purpose stands out in distinct contrast, of course to public school instruction where humanistically trained teachers lead multitudes of children all to reach the same "politically correct" conclusions. And, as soon as they do, their indoctinators congratulate them that they are finally thinking for themselves.

The main point, however, that I want Christian Martialists to take away from a discussion of the Borg is the first half of their motto/battle cry: 

"Resistance is futile."

At the celebration of our Lord's nativity, Christians momentarily leave behind their theological pessimism and sing the carols that herald the victory of the King and His reign over the nations of men. For a few days, they embrace the real possibility that He actually can establish peace and justice in our world.

I believe that He not only can, but that He will. The nations may rage against Him, but resistance is futile. Our God has not abandoned history to Satan; He will fulfill the commission He gave to the Church (Matthew 28:16-20), even if it's in spite of His people's lack of faith.

I've previously published a series of statements I'd like to put on signs in front of our property here in Possum Kingdom. Up until now, though, I've been looking for a better way to word the penultimate statement.

Now I think I have it.

JESUS CHRIST IS KING

YOU CANNOT IMPEACH HIM

HE WILL NEVER RESIGN

RESISTANCE IS FUTILE

THEREFORE TRUST HIM AND OBEY

Happy Stephenmas

The post below first appeared in my WARSKYL blog in 2008.
The Feast of Stephen (or Stephenmas) falls on December 26th. Its close proximity to the Nativity celebration (or Christmas) explains why we sing "Good King Wenceslaus" (a Stephenmas carol) at this season.

Although primarily associated with Saint Wenceslaus (or Vaclav,in Czech) the first, Duke of Bohemia in the early 10th century, I like to think of it in conjunction with a later Wenceslaus.

Wenceslaus IV of Bohemia was the king who provided political protection for John (or Jan) Hus, the proto-reformation figure who inspired Martin Luther a century later. We remember Hus for his courageous stance that Christ alone is head of the Church.

According to Wikipedia:

[Hus's] book on the Church and on the power of the pope contains the essence of the doctrine of Hus. According to it, the Church is not that hierarchy which is generally designated as Church; the Church is the entire body of those who from eternity have been predestined for salvation. Christ, not the pope, is its head. It is no article of faith that one must obey the pope to be saved. Neither external membership in the Church nor churchly offices and dignities are a surety that the persons in question are members of the true Church.

His ecclesiastical opponents condemned Hus as a heretic and had him burned at the stake. One student of history observed that Wycliffe kindled the spark; Hus lit the torch; and Luther illumined the land.

As we think of John Hus on this Feast of Stephen, let's not forget the "good king" whom God used for a season to provide protection for the reformer:

GOOD KING WENCESLAS LOOKED OUT
ON THE FEAST OF STEPHEN
WHEN THE SNOW LAY ROUND ABOUT
DEEP AND CRISP AND EVEN
BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT
THOUGH THE FROST WAS CRUEL
WHEN A POOR MAN CAME IN SIGHT
GATH'RING WINTER FUEL

"HITHER, PAGE, AND STAND BY ME
IF THOU KNOW'ST IT, TELLING
YONDER PEASANT, WHO IS HE?
WHERE AND WHAT HIS DWELLING?"
"SIRE, HE LIVES A GOOD LEAGUE HENCE
UNDERNEATH THE MOUNTAIN
RIGHT AGAINST THE FOREST FENCE
BY SAINT AGNES' FOUNTAIN."

"BRING ME FLESH AND BRING ME WINE
BRING ME PINE LOGS HITHER
THOU AND I WILL SEE HIM DINE
WHEN WE BEAR HIM THITHER."
PAGE AND MONARCH FORTH THEY WENT
FORTH THEY WENT TOGETHER
THROUGH THE RUDE WIND'S WILD LAMENT
AND THE BITTER WEATHER

"SIRE, THE NIGHT IS DARKER NOW
AND THE WIND BLOWS STRONGER
FAILS MY HEART, I KNOW NOT HOW,
I CAN GO NO LONGER."
"MARK MY FOOTSTEPS, MY GOOD PAGE
TREAD THOU IN THEM BOLDLY
THOU SHALT FIND THE WINTER'S RAGE
FREEZE THY BLOOD LESS COLDLY."

IN HIS MASTER'S STEPS HE TROD
WHERE THE SNOW LAY DINTED
HEAT WAS IN THE VERY SOD
WHICH THE SAINT HAD PRINTED
THEREFORE, CHRISTIAN MEN, BE SURE
WEALTH OR RANK POSSESSING
YE WHO NOW WILL BLESS THE POOR
SHALL YOURSELVES FIND BLESSING

The Combat Master's Christmas Tale

The following appeared in my WARSKL blog one year ago.


Over the years, the nature of my work required that I spend too many Thanksgivings and Christmases in lonely, empty buildings away from my wife and children. In spite of that -- or perhaps because of it -- Nativity Day has acquired a taste of nostalgia and longing such that I can identify with those who must spend the day away from those they love most.


I dedicate this story to all of them and, indeed, to all who have struggled alone in battle for our Lord. I hope I remember it well enough to do them the honor they deserve. Further, I hope that each of you will find something of your own story in it.


Some, no doubt will think my story is an empty fabrication: a mere fancy of my tired, old and idle mind. But such people cannot know that the Nativity Day atmosphere which I breathe shines bright with promise and weighty with hope. 


The ignorant will say it's magical, but its power draws on something much deeper and more powerful than magic. The word miracle comes much closer to describing it. In the Nativity celebration, life surpasses legend, and we find that we embrace more freely those things that ought to be. 

*****

It was the eve of our Nativity Day celebration, and for once, the mountain was shrouded by blizzard instead of mist. The weather had been clear when I started out to bring a small gift to my teacher, the master of all combat arts, ancient and modern. As I climbed, the snow fell softly at first, then the flakes became so thick and the wind gusted so strongly that it became nearly impossible for me to see my way.

White flakes started to crust the thick, full beard of the hardy Scot as he thanked me for my present. Then he said, "Ye'll not be going home in this weather, lad. Come with me."

He led me to his well-concealed stone cottage, and welcomed me into his home that was so much like its builder and owner: austere, yet sturdy, honest and warm. The heat of the fire and a couple of tankards of mead made the silence between us feel easy and friendly.

I watched the warrior follow his nightly ritual. First, he field stripped, cleaned and oiled his M-14. Then he did the same with his Model 1911. He hung them in their places above the mantel.

Then he dressed the edge of his claymore with a pocket hone, oiled it and hung it over the mantel where the warmth would drive away any moisture. Finally, he turned his attention to his dirk, but when he finished with it, he laid it by his side, for since his wife died, it was the only companion he took to his bed.

When he finally spoke, the combat master's Scottish brogue was low and sonorous. "Clodhopper, this night reminds me of a Christmas eve ever so long ago . . . " Then he told me this tale:

The enemy hated our faith and made war on us to snuff it out. My companions and I were fleeing a force that outnumbered us twelve to one. I was wounded, and my pace slowed my brothers-in-arms so that we surely would be caught. 


The ground lay bare that December 24th, but the chill wind bit deeply as the sky darkened. Well knew I that the enemy needed no snow to track us, for the blood that dripped from my wounds left trail enough to follow.


Finally, I insisted that they go one way and I another. They would not have done it, had I not outranked them, and even then they almost stayed. But for the beginning snowfall, they probably would not have left me alone.


I finally prevailed by insisting that the snow would cover both our trails, and I could hide much more easily alone. They were a stout bunch who hated to leave me, and they would doubtless have stayed, had they known the true extremity of my weakness.


With the last of my strength, I hacked off some pine boughs with my claymore and dragged them under the low-lying branches of a pine tree. Then, I scooped out a nest in the deep, insulating carpet of pine needles, rolled up in my great kilt, and pulled the pine boughs over me, expecting that I would not live til morning.


The snow fell deep and fast, covering my blood trail and the tree that provided my shelter. Chills and fever took turns on me, that night, and at some point I heard the heavy boots of those who hunted me crunching through the snow mere feet from my hidey hole. The echo of their curses sounded in my fevered brain long after they had passed.


Then, at some point, I must have slept. I must have slept, for I had the strangest dream . . . if, indeed, a dream it was.


In my dream, I stood in a vast hall filled with many tables that fairly creaked under the load of a great and hearty banquet. About each table sat such a company of men as has never gathered in this life.


They reminded me of my companions -- good, true, honest and faithful men -- warriors all. The men were a merry lot as they ate and drank, but their laughter was not rude and their manner was courteous, filled with mutual love and respect.


Then I espied at the head of the hall, a dais that supported a wondrous manly throne of rich, carved oak. Upon the throne sat the King, beholding with sincere approval His warrior host.


Realization dawned upon me that I stood in the Hall of Valiant Warriors who served the true and rightful Warrior King. Pagan warriors had heard of the place, and they corrupted its beauty and simplicity in their myths of Valhalla, but now I stood in the actual midst of the great warrior-servants of the true King.


And how shall I describe Him, Clodhopper? Authority without arrogance . . . dignity without pride . . . and His eyes filled with the kind of compassion you find only in those who have suffered much. 


Then my eyes fell upon His wrists and the deep scars from the nails that had wounded Him in His battle for the souls of men. On that day, a Roman spear pierced His side, but the dark lord's lance shattered into splinters against His mighty Soul.


Now and then, one or another would rise from this table or that and bear a plate of food to the dais and bid the King eat. He received the offer with grace and affection, but He, Himself, did not even once take a morsel of the great feast.


I started at the voice of one I had not noticed beside me. "Welcome, Mac."


"Y' know me, then. But you have the advantage, for I know you not." 


"You may call me 'Ben'."


It amazed me that one of these mighty men should recognize one such as I. Even more amazingly, he assured me that he not only knew me, but that he and some others had eagerly awaited the chance to trade stories with me.


Before I could answer, the hall grew suddenly quite still. The men's gaze followed that of their King to the far end of the hall, where a pitiful, naked, bedraggled wretch limped through the portal.


No square inch of the man's body was without some laceration, bruise or swelling. Some wounds looked fresh, but others stank from putrefaction.


I watched in wonder as he tried to approach the King's dais, but his strength failed him. He collapsed to the floor in an aisle between two rows of tables.


Two warriors closest to where he fell rushed to him, one on each side. I thought that perhaps they would carry this beggar out of their assembly and away from the sight of their King. Instead, the most singular thing happened.


The mighty men gingerly lifted the beggar to his feet, and with their arms under his, conducted him slowly to the King. They treated him with the tender gentleness that you may have the privilege to observe in men of great courage and strength.


As they did so, the King stood to His feet, and every man in the hall arose and snapped to attention.


When they came to the foot of the dais, they stopped at a crystal font filled with clear, pure water. There they bathed the beggar's wounds and the purity of that water healed his flesh. Clotted blood, bleeding wounds and putrefying sores shrank away and became faint battle scars, much like those borne by all the mighty men in the hall. 


Now I knew that he was not a beggar, but a soldier most recently fallen in the service of the King. He knelt before his sworn Sovereign who said, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."


At that, his fellow-warriors draped him with a great kilt just like those worn by everyone in the company, and the King presented him with a sword and a shield. "These you shall bear for me in the great and final day of battle."


I turned to my companion, "Tell me, Ben, why am I here. Like yon man, I entered wounded and filthy, but I do not feel a part of this company."


"It is not yet your time, brother. You have come here because although you must continue the fight, we do not want you to battle on without hope. There is a seat reserved for you here, and one day you shall feast among us as we gather strength for the final victory."


The words "final victory" chased round and round in my fevered mind as consciousness slowly forced itself upon me. Thick snow blanketed the forest that long ago morning of December 25th. I arose from concealment, still weak, still fevered and sick, but alive and filled with renewed purpose and devotion, for I had seen a wounded and broken warrior honored by the King.

My teacher fell silent after the story, and so we sat again, both of us lost in thought. Then suddenly, "So, Clodhopper, tell me now a story of your battles. I long to hear of a great victory you've won.

I cringed with shame. "I have no great victories, and no real battles to recount. That's not what my life has been like at all." He did not say a word, but only fixed me in his gaze until I spoke again.

"All right, you want to know what my life is really like? I'll tell you a typical story from when I was a young believer."

The year after I surrendered my own life to the King, I accepted the challenge to carry my Bible to school every day, as testimony to my faith. My biology teacher saw my Bible, and he singled me out for ridicule in front of the class.


One day, he even falsely accused me of vandalizing a nature trail that he had made -- again, in front of the class. I never engaged the man in battle, and after that year, I had only limited contact with him.


At the end of my junior year, he proctored an exam I was taking. I finished it early, and to occupy myself, I wrote out John 14:1-6 on the scratch paper along with a little poem I had memorized. As I looked it over, a shadow fell across my desk, and the biology teacher stood over me.


He picked up my papers, no doubt thinking that I had smuggled some crib notes into the exam room. He stood there and read the Scripture passage and the little poem I had memorized by R.C. Trench:

   Weep not for broad lands lost,
   Weep not for fair hopes crossed.
   Weep not when limbs wax old.
   Weep not when friends grow cold.
   Weep not when death must part thine
   And the best loved heart,
   Yet weep, weep all you can.
   Weep, weep because thou art a sin-defiled man. 


Then the unbelieving teacher said, "Interesting," and returned my papers to the desk. Later, during my senior year, he exacted petty revenge upon me for whatever crimes he imagined I had committed against him.


At that time, he made me look and feel a fool, and he humiliated me in front of others. 


I tell you this story because it's fairly typical of my life. So often when I try to stand for what's right and true for the sake of my King, others have put me down, I've lost a job, or been mocked and scorned.


I cannot pick up a sword and go after these people. It's not the way my life has fallen. My story is not like yours, a tale of taking part in great battles and facing deadly enemies with rifle or blade.

The combat master fixed his eyes upon mine as he asked, "Did you rejoice?"

"What?"

"Did you rejoice when the teacher humiliated you?"

"Uh . . . well . . . no."

"Acts 5:41 tells us that after the authorities had publicly  beaten and humiliated the apostles, they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name."

I remained silent as he continued. "You must understand that the deepest wounds a soldier carries, no mortal eye can see, and no human surgeon can heal. Though you've not fought with weapons such as hang on my wall, you carry deep wounds of that sort, as well.

"Forget not the King's cross. He lifted no material weapon, and He suffered shame and humiliation for our sakes. And it looked for all the world to see as though He suffered a great defeat amid the scornful laughter of those who mocked.

"And yet, though it appeared a loss, it turned out the most decisive victory in the War of the Ages -- a great strategic victory that the King won naked, wounded and alone without rifle or sword.

"That is why He honored that poor, naked and broken warrior in my dream. Because that warrior followed his Sovereign.

"As our King won the great strategic victory, so you and a multitude of your brothers have won many tactical victories in His name. Those victories may have looked like defeats --they may not have even looked like battles -- but they were victories nonetheless because His cross supports and affirms them.

"One day the sheer weight of those victories will crush what remains of the Kingdom of Darkness, and all the world will know our King's reign of peace, justice and truth. In that day, you will need no medals, for your scars will tell the story of your battles and how you emerged victorious.

"I have known many warriors, and I have trained many pupils through seemingly countless years, and many times I have looked at one or another and thought to myself, 'This one reminds me of the honored warrior in my dream.'

But tonight, Clodhopper, tonight I fancy that the honored warrior looked a lot like you."

I had nothing more to say, and it was just as well, for the lump in my throat was too large to let a single word past.

*****

That's how  I remember one particular Nativity Day eve that I spent away from my loved ones. I missed them that night, but I would not trade my experience in the combat master's cottage for anything. Anything except maybe to hear the King say to me, "Well done . . . ."

It's a funny thing, how I've thought of my family during the Nativity celebrations when I could not be with them. Yet, those holidays when I am with them, I also cherish the lonely times, when the kind words and good wishes of a good, true and strong friend shone in my darkness like a beacon from the King.

Tonight, I will be in church with my wife and youngest daughter. I will listen to Christmas favorites played on Celtic harps by young women in lovely dresses. But my thoughts and wishes will also be with the lonely warriors who, away from home, struggle in the dark with enemies seen and unseen.

Please accept my wish to you, dear brothers and friends, for a most happy and blessed celebration of the King's birth. And if you feel lonely, defeated, wounded or downhearted in any way, please remember this as the Christmas eve that you climbed the snow-capped mountain and waited out a blizzard before the fire of a warrior whose heart is as great and strong as the mountain he calls home.

And if you ever doubt the value of your efforts, remember that after you listened to his story and he listened to yours, you heard him say, "Tonight, I fancy that the honored warrior looked a lot like you."

A WARSKYL Warm Fuzzy: The Tradition Continues

Many families share Nativity Day traditions, and to some in the WARSKYL family, it has become traditional to expect the retelling of my warmest, fuzziest family holiday memory. It contains a threat of danger, some guns and a happy ending.

Here is the story as I first posted it at Thanksgiving, 2007:

When my older girls were in their teens, we made the trek from Pennsylvania to Riverview, Florida for a visit to my folks. I don't remember if it was actually a holiday or not (but it should have been). My brother & his family were also there, so bedtime was marked by sleeping figures of various sizes curled up all over the tiny house.


Sometime around 2 or 3 AM, I was awakened by a voice outside the house saying, "We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up." I wasn't sure what to think, and my first instinct was to grab my Model 1911 from under my pillow and step out of the bedroom door to see if anyone else had heard this demand. They had.


We all met in the center of the house. My brother had his .45, my dad came out of his room with his Remington .380, and ONE OF MY DAUGHTERS had her Helwan 9mm. I can't think of a family get-together where I've felt more warm and gooshy (This is probably the ONLY time you'll see the phrase "warm and gooshy" in this blog). It would have marked an intruder with poor timing indeed to come through the door at that moment.


It makes me proud that all had the same reaction, all (who were able) came armed, and (not least) all were exercising muzzle awareness -- no one inadvertently pointed a weapon at any other family member.


The menacing voice with the threatening message, it turned out, was a recording that belonged to a burglar alarm at a construction site nearby. The air must have been just right to carry the sound to my parents' house so clearly.


A man does what he can, and occasionally Providence gives him a glimpse of the progress he has made. Those moments can provide encouragement . . . but they can also provide warm, fuzzy holiday memories.


If you missed my Christmas Eve story last year, please check back tomorrow. If you have a warrior's heart, I think you'll be glad you did.

American Evangelical Pilgrims?

The Pilgrims celebrated the first American Thanksgiving in Autumn of 1621, about a year after landing at Plymouth Rock. I have wondered though . . . . If the Pilgrim congregation had reacted like modern American evangelicals, perhaps the Plymouth Colony would never have been settled.

Here's my idea of how a modern evangelical congregation might have received the plea to leave England:

Pastor William Brewster (WB): The elders and I have decided that in light of the present persecution and the likelihood of further measures against us, that our church should leave England.

Congregation (C): We're sure gonna miss you guys!

WB: You don't understand. We mean that the whole congregation -- all of us -- need to leave England together.

C: Leave our homes? The housing market is depressed. We'd lose our equity.

WB: We're talking about saving lives. The king and the Church of England mean to snuff us out.

C: Some of us have been meaning to talk to you about your extremist rhetoric.

WB: Extremist rhetoric? Many have suffered under the yoke of oppression and not a few have died. As your leaders, we see the need to act.

C: Look, maybe if you toned down the rhetoric and made a few superficial changes in our worship service -- you know, to be little more high-church friendly -- we wouldn't have to worry about persecution.

WB: Our doctrine and worship comes from Scripture. We will not compromise God's truth to get along. We must flee those who seek our lives.

C: Don't get emotional. Maybe the best thing would be to dissolve our church and all of us keep low profiles by joining approved congregations.

WB: No! We have covenanted together as a body in a union very like marriage. We must stay together as a community of faith. It is what God has called us to do. Our congregation is an administrative unit in the Kingdom of Christ, and to function according to His calling, we must maintain our corporate integrity. However, if we stay in England we may well be scattered by the forces drawn up against us. That is why we elders have decided we must leave this country.

C: We're sure gonna miss you guys!

Reformation Day

Two years ago, I played the part of Martin Luther in our church's Reformation Day celebration. Below, you will find the piece I wrote & presented on that occasion.

Hello, my name is Martin Luther. You may remember me because on the eve of All Saints Day – you call it Halloween – in 1517, I nailed a notice to the church door at Wittenberg.

Now, in those days before Facebook, the church door was like a public bulletin board, so posting a message was no big deal. I was making a public challenge to debate some of the Church’s practices that I thought were not according to the Bible.

Two years later, I got my debate – with a very famous and learned theologian by the name of von Eck. At that time, von Eck made an accusation that I was a new John Hus.

Well, that hit me hard, because I knew the name of Hus. I had been taught that he was a heretic burned at the stake in 1415. I did not want to be associated with a heretic.

So, I went to the university library and read all I could find about this John Hus. He lived in Bohemia – you call it the Czech Republic. If youlook on a map of Europe, Germany is here, Poland is here, and where my thumbs cross is Bohemia.

As a young priest, John Hus encountered the teachings of John Wycliffe, from England. Wycliffe had translated the Scriptures into his native tongue, and he also showed how the Church had drifted from the Bible’s teachings.

Hus taught some pretty radical ideas. He said that the Church was not made up of pope and priests, but of all God’s elect people; he also taught that Christ, not the pope was the only true head of the Church. He also spoke out against indulgences – paying money to the Church to have your sins forgiven.

Hus preached that one receives forgiveness from God through true repentance, not by paying money. That was the same thing I said in the paper that I nailed to the church door. I really started to like this guy.

It was no wonder that the Church officials were really out to get John Hus. At that time, Bohemia had a good king: Wenceslaus. (Good King Wenceslaus . . . that’s really kind of catchy.) The king tried to protect Hus, but that only lasted so long.

Hus was put on trial and told to renounce his beliefs. He said that he would change only if someone could prove his teachings were contrary to the Bible. On July 6, 1415, Hus’s enemies executed him by burning him at the stake.

Before he died, he made a prophecy. He said, “In a hundred years, God will raise up a man whose calls for reform can not be suppressed." It was 102 years later that I nailed my paper to the church door.

In speaking of the Reformation, someone has said, “Wycliffe struck the spark, Hus lit the torch, and Luther illumined the land.” I prefer to say that God’s Word illumined the land.

As we celebrate the Reformation, we honor those who -- like Hus -- gave their lives for Christ and His Gospel. But I think there is also room to rejoice and make merry as we bask in the light of the truth.

In that spirit, I invite you to enjoy "The Reformation Polka" (video below)