When God Comes Knocking

 He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree. Roy L. Smith

There is a tale of a man who found himself standing outside a massive wall and a single door. Beyond them was the kingdom of heaven. The man knocked on the door, but there was no answer. As he walked along the wall looking for a way in or through, he noticed other people entering through the door, but it was always closed by the time he’d get back to it. He sat beside the door for days, and eventually for years. Each day he would rise and knock, but nobody would answer. Whether he stood by the door or sat by it, others would come and go, and yet the door was always closed before he could reach it, and no one would answer, no matter how long, hard, or persistently he knocked. And yet, never did a day go by where he did not rise and knock, despite the seeming futility of the act.

Have you ever seen one of those drawings that seem to be one thing, and yet if you look carefully, you see something else? The first example that comes to mind is the drawing of a vase, and upon second view what you thought was a vase is actually the outline of two faces staring at one another. Or the drawing of a young lady in a hat facing away that, upon closer examination, becomes a wrinkled old woman facing forward.

When I first heard the story above, I found it alternatingly frustrating and delightful. It is frustrating in that the protagonist wants to get into heaven, but can’t. It seems like God’s not listening. That’s terrible! On the other hand, there is the delightful persistence of the person who is seemingly content to rise each day and knock on heaven’s door. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? It’s not our door; it belongs to God. We don’t have the key; God IS the key. So we knock.

As a problem solver, I’ll confess that when I first heard the story I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Well, if it were me, I’d just go around the corner and use the Servant’s Entrance.”

I thought more about the story; it wouldn’t let go of me. Something in the tale nagged and nibbled on the back of my mind until a different picture emerged. What if that story isn’t about a man – about us – but about God? What if it is a story about God standing beside the door to the kingdom of heaven – but not one “high in the sky in the great by and by,” but one that resides in you, me, and every other creature here-abouts? What if it is God seeking entry into the kingdom we call “our heart,” but which is really God’s heart – a heart that belongs to God?

There is a famous painting from the Gerffert Collection of Jesus standing beside a door. Jesus holds a lantern and knocks on a door that has no handle or knob. It is latched on the inside, and it is up to those who reside within to open the door and let him in. 

I confess I often struggle to hear God knocking at the door to my heart day by day. I don’t believe God ever comes in once and stays. God has work to do, errands to run, life to manage, and I think part of that thing we call the love of God requires our listening for God’s daily knocking at the door so we can open up and share with one another our thoughts and dreams, adventures, misadventures, frustrations and delights fresh each day, just as we do with all those whom we love.

God knocks. That’s a miracle. This week, God knocks as a migrant family with an overly pregnant woman whose water has just broken. Will we hear the knock at the door? Will we open the door? Will we make room for God to be born under our roof, and under the shelter of our wing? That’s the question we face at Christmas, and each and every day here in this, our valley. Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When God went Plumb Loco!

Behold this day. It is yours to make. Native American Proverb

I was a young lad of about twelve or thirteen and was trying to come up with a gift idea for my grandfather. I was a child, so I wasn’t expected to get anything for anyone, but there was no way I could let Christmas come and go without finding something for those I loved. Grandma was easy. I got her some really sweet smelling spritzer juice at the local drugstore. It looked a bit like windshield washing fluid, but smelled a lot nicer, so I just knew she would love it.

But Grandpa was a tougher nut to crack. When us grandkids came to the house he primarily sat in his chair reading the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking his camel cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. If we got too boisterous, he would head down to the basement where he would busy himself with some project or other. His hobby was building lighthouses out of concrete and seashells. They were highly sought after in the neighborhood, in fact.

I knew he was a craftsman, so I found myself down at the local hardware store seeking inspiration for a gift, and suddenly I found it. There amongst the bric-a-brac (the large majority of which I had no idea what they were, what they did, or how one used them) I saw a shiny hunk of steel in a bin marked “plumb bobs.” A passage of scripture leapt immediately to mind  from a recent Sunday lesson from the prophet Amos: “Thus He showed me, and behold, the Lord was standing by a vertical wall with a plumb line in His hand.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine my grandfather would have anything as rare or precious as a plummet in his collection of tools. On those rare occasions I had spent with him in his workshop, I’d never seen anything like it. It was expensive when compared with the cost of Grandma’s eau de toilette, but I couldn’t imagine a better gift for a builder – a craftsman.

Christmas Eve came for the traditional gathering of the extended family dinner and gift exchange. The aluminum tree was up; the lighted color wheel turned ever-so-slowly. All was as Merry as it had ever been. The meal was served; a baker’s dozen of us crowded together around a table barely big enough for six, but Grandma made it work. My cousin, Gayle, and I were smushed in our usual corner of the room with aluminum tv trays that fairly well buckled under the weight of all the food we piled on our plates. It was loud, noisy, crowded, and chaotic – perfect in every way.

Afterwards, of course, it was time to gather in the living room  for the giving and receiving of gifts. Hidden in the tree were small envelopes into which Grandpa had placed Silver Dollars for the grandkids. He complained that silver dollars were getting harder and harder to find. Other gifts were handed out and opened one by one to the oohs and ahs of the clan. Grandma thanked me for the spritzer; I blushed and smiled at the compliment.

Then Grandpa opened his gift, looked at it with wide-eyed amazement and said, “What the heck is this? What do I need a plumb-bob for?” Then he remembered himself for half a moment and added (with a slightly hidden eye-roll), “Thank you,”  after which he tucked the worthless chunk of steel aside while taking another sip of Old Grand-Dad.

Christmas isn’t always full of warm fuzzies and pleasant memories, and that’s okay. When the Magi told Herod about the birth of a king, Herod no doubt muttered to his counselors, “What the heck do we need with another king?” God just ignored the ignoramus and dropped Jesus – the plumbline – down on Christmas day.

The world rolled its collective eyes and asked, “What the heck is this? What do we need this for?” A wall ready to topple is too dumb to know it isn’t square or true. That requires a carpenter, an experienced eye, and a plumbline.

God does not drop the line to judge the wall, but to repair it – to make it vertical. God drops the line for love. The line drops down with the beating heart of God attached, and that’s what matters. The question now is, will we remember ourselves this season and recognize God’s love here in this, our valley?

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)