The Night of First Christmas

by Chad Sparks

Twas the night of FIRST Christmas, and all round the earth

A few were expecting our great Savior’s birth.

But outside of Joseph and Mary his mother,

It was a surprise to anyone other.

Most mortals were nestled all snug in their beds,

Or pining away in fear and with dread.

Yes, viewed from humanity’s angle was seen

Our distance from God, man’s sin in between. 

So dark was the world, in more ways than one,

Man needed some sunlight and needed the Son.

But what was occurring in heaven that night

Is something that I want to now bring to light. 

In the throne room of God, who rules earth and space,

Great joy for the ages was was just taking place.

A plan that for eons was followed precisely

Was perfectly coming together quite nicely.

It was no mere chance or stroke of good luck

that led to the night that left shepherds awestruck;

God did more than nudge fate’s outcome that night,

He planned it with joy from creation’s first light.

That’s right, e’en before creation’s beginning, 

He conceived a great story, that included our sinning.

It’s rarely considered—God’s side of the curtain

A different perspective, I can say that for certain.

So with your mind’s eye, let’s go there right now,

to the throne room of God to see why and how.

Before there was earth, sun, or planets like mars,

Before there were galaxies, matter, or stars

God did, don’t you know, already exist,

The causeless effect, and here’s a good twist:

This God, although one in essence and being,

Is also three distinct persons agreeing

And living in harmonious communion and love

God Father, God Son, and God Spirit the Dove 

He completely enjoys satisfaction unending

And glory and pleasure and light comprehending;

He precisely had need for not anything more 

With riches and goodness and power galore!

Yet discussion amongst the Godhead began

to consider sharing God’s bounty with man.

“We are so much joyful in fullness and light

We must create others to share our delight. 

What will be these creatures who can comprehend

A God, Almighty, and also a friend?

They must be formed in our image you see,

Like us they’ll be plural, a he and a she.

We’ll give them a soul, a spiritual hunger,

Make them crave worship, appreciate wonder.

Let’s first make a world where they can survive,

Let’s make it with water where all life may thrive.

We’ll create a sun for light, warmth, and weight

Of gravity that makes it revolve and rotate.

A sky that is filled with stars that shine out

And a moon that at night glows with visual clout.

In fact, a whole cosmos for just that blue dot

And physical laws of this nature God wrought

Might cause men to yearn for the Creator of all 

and know of his wisdom and order and call!

We’ll make them mere mortals but make them alive

We’ll give them a garden, of no gift deprive

We’ll put them in charge of all other life kinds

And let them experience a love’s tie that binds.

They’ll love one another, they’ll be as one flesh.

They’ll love their creator with passion afresh.

They’ll know the great love God has in God’s self.

They’ll live in the joy and enjoy the earth’s wealth.

We’ll walk with them daily in the cool of the eve,

They’ll know us completely, they’ll MORE than believe, 

They’ll relish our presence, they’ll feel our delight

They’ll make earth much better, they’ll fill it with light.

But how will they know us completely?” God asked,

“If they never know need, if they're never downcast?

If they never need God to give them relief,

Will they understand hope, if they never know grief?

And what of the goodness of God will they see?

His grace and forgiveness, cause for jubilee?

Will men know the depths and extent of God’s love? 

Will they be bound to earth and not heaven above?

If men have no option for sin from the start

Obedience for them won’t be from the heart.

They’ll know not the fullness of God as they could

What’s light, until darkness is well understood?”

So God gave man something, a gift or a curse

God gave him a will—free, for better or worse.

Obedience is cheap if it’s forced and compelled.

But given from love, it’s unparalleled.

Man’s gift of free will, well we know the story

He ate of the fruit, it’s no allegory

Death and a curse was rightly his wage,

For sin and rebellion deserving God’s rage.

And so came the evil and sadness of sin.

Man entered a prison with darkness therein.

A slave to his flesh and to Satan he was,

A sin-nature that dirties whatever he does

Is now an intrinsic part of his being,

And will be passed down to his seed unforeseeing. 

Cain’s murder of Abel his own little brother

Was first among many who killed one another.

Rebellion at Babel, the self-worship tower

Confusion of language diluted man’s power.

But God was undaunted, his plan still in tact, 

As men grew more evil in breach of contract

Meant judgment of all, the whole human race, 

Would show them the consequence of their disgrace.

God sent a great torrent that covered the world

And under the waters that flooded and swirled,

The sinners of earth were summarily drowned 

Except Noah’s family which ark did surround.

Then drunken old Noah began it again

What seemed to be clean was marred with his sin. 

Then God chose a man whose family he blessed.

Because he believed, God’s name he professed. 

God purposely chose to reward Abram’s faith

And for the first time, a Messiah, he saith

Would be Abram’s seed, a descendant, a star, 

Would bless all the world and would bring near those far.

Abe’s family, Isaac, and Jacob and sons

Believed in God’s promise but still weren’t the ones

Who God said would come and bless all earth’s men

And save them from all of the wreckage of sin.

Abe’s children were stubborn and like all of us

They could not be faithful, they sinned and they fussed,

God freed them from slavery, from Egypt’s hot sand

He gave them his law which he wrote with his hand.

But time after time the people defied

This God that had showed so much grace they denied.

God sent them the prophets to warn them and plead,

And gave them his word that they would not read.

Untold generations continued rebelling

Until God declared that his earthly dwelling 

Would no longer be in Jerusalem’s temple.

He’d had it with Israel, t’was really that simple.

His Spirit ascended to heaven and closed

Off all conversation and those who opposed

Israel were given the run of the place,

Their temple destroyed, their people displaced

But God was in heaven, honing his plan

Whereby God the Son would become a man.

“Let’s do this to show them what God’s really like

That God sees the rich and the poor both alike,

The male and the female, the young and the old

All are my children, find all in my fold.”

So by a poor girl Christ came to this earth. 

The angels called shepherds to witness his birth.

But imagine in heaven before the revealing,

Michael and Gabriel and others were feeling

Excitement that no human words can express

As all were waiting to sing and to bless.

The multitude of the heavenly host 

Instead of Jerusalem, announcing to most

God sent them to pastures near Bethlehem town.

To a handful of shepherds and sheep bedded down.

“Don’t make them afraid,” to the angels God said,

“We want them to come to the manger his bed. 

My Son is for poor men—like these—who receive,

I want them to see him, that they might believe.

And instead of a quasar or comet of might, 

A stellar event, exceedingly bright,

Let’s make a new star, for those who are seeking

A sign from above in the heavens for speaking,

Let’s show them that not only Jews do I love

We’ll call some from Persia with a star up above.

The Scriptures they copied from the captivity

Will lead them to join in my nativity.”

So instead of a God-sized and grand celebration,

God’s humble appearance is a clear illustration,

The job of reporting the news of God’s birth

Falls right at our feet to take round the earth.

Yes, the climax of all of God’s grandiose plan

To create a world for a creature called man

And to give him a choice and allow him to fall

So he would know God, and his grace most of all.

Of course Jesus’ birth is not the last word,

This baby was born (don’t think I’m absurd)

for the purpose of dying a criminal’s death.

As he said it himself in his final breath:

“It is finished!” The darkness, the stain of man’s sin

That plagued our existence, corrupted within.

God finished the mission he started at first;

He showed us his love, when we were our worst.

Yes he, himself, took our sin and our stain.

Yes God bore our guilt, he felt our pain.

Now when we believe in this baby that came

And follow this God who calls us by name,

Our lives are made new, and we are now blessed;

We live life forever, not on earth at it’s best,

But in heaven with God, who has given us more

Than this physical world that we wrongly adore!

So let’s spring to our feet, to our friends give a whistle

And send out the Good News like the down of a thistle;

And let us proclaim with all of our might:

Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

[For a video of the reading on Christmas Eve 2016, click here.]

He Restores My Soul

Another feeble attempt at poetry. Don't make fun! I'm just trying to exercise the right (read: creative) side of my brain, and express my heart as well. I've been dwelling on Psalm 23:3 this week. It's rich.

He Restores My Soul
by Chad Sparks

My soul, you need restoring!

My life is dry, forlorn. 

The thought of mere enduring

A dreadful, painful thorn.

The “re-” in restoration

Says something once was fresh,

Alive with foliation;

A vibrant, healthy flesh.

But now my leaves have fallen,

My skin is pale and cracked.

My sin like ragweed pollen

Has now my soul ransacked.

Do I possess the power

To change this weary soul;

Rise up like Babel’s tower

And wrest from God control?

No! I stand as helpless.

Frustration is my cell.

Useless, conquered, feckless,

Condemned to earth-bound hell.

Regardless of my straining,

No matter how I try,

There waits beyond my feigning

A higher Rock than I.

He is Righteous Creator!

Incomprehensible!

How can he love this traitor?

I’m indefensible.

His Grace is my salvation

Oh how I love him so!

Beyond justification

He now restores my soul!

By grace I was forgiven;

New birth from spirit death.

By grace I am now given

New thirst, new strength, new breath!

My Shepherd is my rescue!

He stands me on my feet

So I can eat green fescue
And find delight replete!

Twenty Three

Twenty Three

By Chad Sparks 

YaHWeH

A word that’s like no other

We know not how to speak it;

The Word and Wholly Other

All else lies far beneath it.

Shepherd

Protector, guide, provider

I feel your presence near me,

No arms are open wider

To love and hold and heal me.

Contentment

My wants in you assuaged

All others left me longing,

Thirsty, empty, enraged

Before to you belonging.

Renewal

From you my needs extinguished,

You give me rest sublime. 

Restorer of souls distinguished

From others of all time.

Direction

You map and know the way

To holiness and pleasure

Which are the same you say.

Your glory is the measure.

Courage

When the trail of life grows dark

Your presence gives me cheer;

You are my strong bulwark,

I have no use for fear.

Indulgence

You feed me while foes hunger.

You make me shine with health.

My heart feels pleasant languor

As one who earned great wealth. 

Future

And what now of the morrow? 

As long as earth I roam

His grace and good will follow.

‘Til his house is my home.

Attempting Poetry

Poetry? You’re kidding, right?

I’m really wanting to exercise the right side of my brain. For some reason poetry has become meaningful to me in recent years. I know, it’s probably more proof that I’m getting old. I mean, who reads poetry? Certainly not many people in my circles…that I know of. There are always those English majors around who say they do. I sometimes wonder if they really do…as in regularly read poetry. Kind of like the pastors I know who say they pray a lot. I hope they pray as much as they say they pray (but that’s another subject). I have found an interest in the writings of poets long dead, vis. Frost, Kipling, Wordsworth, Cowper, Burns, Dickinson, Longfellow, Milton, Tennyson, Emerson, and others. This interest was piqued when my son, Drew, a lover of old books, bought some volumes on poetry. I admit I sneaked into his room and read from them. I also have noticed that many old hymns were first poems (before later being set to music). Inspiring and beautiful! Where have these works of art been? Why have I not read them before?

Poetry seems to be a dying art. I have wondered why. There was a time—most of human history in fact—when poetry was ubiquitous. Books, magazines, newspapers; all printed some verse. Most sermons of generations past included poetry. Is it the changing of communication media? Is it that we are too busy and distracted with other more- and less-worthy pursuits? Is it, as some friends of mine have suggested, that people aren’t as smart as they used to be? None of those answers satisfy my curiosity.

Granted, poetry is not entirely forgotten. There are small societies for poets and poetry among the literary sort. And hip-hop (i.e. rap), a wildly popular form of music, is indeed lyrical poetry with meter and rhyme. But why are we no longer encouraged to write poems? Why don’t we read them as previous generations did? Do you know of someone, anyone, who makes their living by writing poetry (a.k.a. a poet)? I don’t.

I must confess, until recently, I’ve never really been into poetry. I liked the poetry in the Bible (of course it is translated into English, losing much of its original grammatical impact), and pithy sayings and quotes my parents and grandparents recited were pleasant. I grew up reading poems for children: from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose. But in school I became intimidated by poetry. Shakespeare, and other ancient forms, were toilsome for me. Teachers seemed to make poetry aloof. Some focused on rules and gave assignments to write accordingly. It lost it’s fun. Others (later) discouraged all guidelines, and advocated more variety and complexity, reflecting our changing culture. Poetry seemed darker, more political, nuanced, existential and relative. These more recent (read: 20th century) varieties seemed odd to me. There was little or no meter or rhyme, and I couldn’t tell the difference between good poetry and bad. Can anyone? And because multiple meanings could be inferred, no one could know what the poet really meant—if anything at all! Poetry became in a sense, complex and unstructured. Cold, hard rules were overthrown by verbal anarchism. Yuck and yuck. In my mind, poetry was relegated to the territory of academicians and elitists. Simple minds (like mine) had a hard time understanding—much less appreciating it. Several weeks ago I was in a bookstore that happened to be hosting an "Original Poetry Reading." Thrilled, I conspicuously (not easy, only five or six others were listening) slipped in a seat and listened to a couple of rather lengthy poems. I must admit...I didn't get it. The first one had some interesting word-play, but made no sense to me whatever (the last one I endured was full of profanity and sexual innuendo—no thanks!). I left asking myself, "Am I so dull?" Maybe so. "Is this what Poetry really is?"

Perhaps my experience is not isolated. Could this be a (perhaps even the) reason for poetry’s waning? In The Virginia Quarterly Review, Christopher Clausen, in his essay, “The Decline of Anglo-American Poetry,” recognizes poetry’s loss of audience during the 20th century, and offers some interesting observations that confirm my own experience:

…Poetry became paradoxically more difficult to read, and the familiar series of phenomena began: the decline in the number of original books of poetry published from year to year, the disappearance of poetry as a major cultural force, the virtual extinction of the self-supporting poet…at almost precisely the time when the traditionally realistic novel was seeking other, often more traditionally poetic modes of expression. It is even more ironic that in the process of becoming less narrowly selective in its subjects and adopting free verse and a closer approximation of everyday language as its most conspicuous formal characteristics, poetry should have become less rather than more accessible to the common reader. (Find this excellent essay here: http://www.vqronline.org/essay/decline-anglo-american-poetry.)

Indeed, whenever a 20th century poet did arise who actually captured an audience, the critics (read: elitist academics) crowed and scoffed until the poor soul was ridden out on the proverbial rail. Rod McKuen serves as an example. In the 1950s and 60s he was arguably the best-known poet in the world, having a mainstream, populist appeal. Highbrows, however, spewed incessant indignation for his works. Writer and literary critic Nora Ephron said of McKuen, “[F]or the most part, McKuen's poems are superficial and platitudinous and frequently silly.” Pulitzer Prize-winning US Poet Laureate Karl Shapiro said, “It is irrelevant to speak of McKuen as a poet.” (Nora Ephron, “Wallflower at the Orgy.”) This kind of abuse, despite his popularity, drove him to despondency and clinical depression. My thought? What’s wrong with sentimentalism and populism if that’s what people want? It seems somewhat better than erudite, sophisticated poetry (or mindless babble cloaked as such) that no one reads! I’m no fan of sentimental country music (for example), but I appreciate it’s appeal. And I certainly don’t wish for its demise! Some of the more sincere, patriotic, philanthropic, and likable celebrities are country music stars. Why can’t we view poetry with the same tolerance as we do music? As with many things elitist, though they feign tolerance, in reality they are not tolerant at all.

So, I think I’m going to try my hand at some poetry. I want to free myself a bit! As Emily Dickinson wrote: 

They shut me up in Prose –

As when a little Girl

They put me in the Closet –

Because they liked me “still” –

Still! Could themself have peeped –

And seen my Brain – go round –

They might as wise have lodged a Bird

For Treason – in the Pound –

Well, maybe I’m not that eager to write poetry. I know I may fall flat on my face, but not trying is no fun. I encourage you to try it too! If we don’t we may regret it. As John Greenleaf Wittier wrote (in his wonderful poem, "Maud Muller") 

For all sad words of tongue and pen, 

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

I think one important thing about art (like poetry) is the opportunity it provides us to be image-bearers of God and create. It satisfies the soul into which God breathed the breath of life to create something unique, beautiful, meaningful, emotional, spiritual, and personal. There is a sense of satisfaction we experience whenever we are more like our God who is supremely satisfied in himself. This is true regarding holiness, and being incarnational, and serving others. And it is true regarding creating art. Because in all these things we are bringing God glory.

A Poem?

Autumn’s Fruits
By Chad Sparks
January 6, 2009

With autumn leaves, more color glares:
   Apples, grapes, persimmons, pears! 

My favorite time of year you are.
   In winter longing from afar 

The icy wind blows through the boughs
   I see my breath and hear snowplows. 

Beyond the feast of Christmastide
   The days grow short, dark clouds abide. 

The springtime and her fragrant blooms
   Woven on God Almighty’s looms 

Do not compare to fall’s sweet fruits
   ‘Een though the trees dress in pink suits. 

The summer comes with heat and storm
   Mosquitoes, flies, and gnats all swarm. 

Sweat, humidity, and haze
   Make my heart long for the days 

Of harvest season’s tasty wares
   Apples, grapes, persimmons, pears!

I’m not a poet. I rarely read poetry. But I do write things in verse from time to time—things that are usually kept between God and me. Poetry is an ancient form of expression that seems less popular than it once was. I’m not sure why.

I first wrote this poem when my daughter Duncan had an art assignment to find a poem she liked and to paint several pictures in response. However, getting the proverbial cart before the horse, she really wanted to paint pictures of fruit and figured that she would be able to easily find a poem about fruit so she just began painting. When the assignment’s due date drew near, she began searching for a poem and could not find one. The whole family searched. Finally, the night before it was due, Duncan went to bed in tears. I decided I’d just try to write one for her. I began just fooling around, using the fruit in her paintings (Apples, oranges, cherries, and pears). As it developed, I started thinking about it and my heart began to get into it. I do love Autumn and the fruits thereof. I chose to change the oranges and cherries to more appropriate fall fruits for East Tennessee (oranges don’t grow here and cherries come out in early summer). Grapes and persimmons grow wild and are fruits that I have frequently enjoyed in the woods as I grew up. Apples and pears are dear to my heart as fall fruits—my grandparents had trees with both, and fall was a time that they made jellies, pies, and other delectables. Fall is my favorite time of year for many reasons: football, hunting, leaves changing color, climate. But there were some deeper symbols emerging as I wrote.

I began to consider the different “seasons” in life. The autumn of life is what I am entering. I have passed the spring (childhood and youth) and summer (college, marriage, and young adulthood). I have kids who are growing older quickly. It is that season of life that we tend to long for all our lives a time we enjoy the “fruit” of our labor, education, and decisions. Truth is, I love this season of life. I find I do not want it to pass. I savor every day as I do fall and its fruits. I do not look forward to “winter” when I will surely long for that season just gone by, when health is fleeting, home is empty of kids, and limbs are cold. Spring (childhood and youth) is a wonderful time. All is abloom. Sovereign God is the one who made us and gives us gifts that grow into the rewards (fruit) of adulthood. Young adulthood (summer) is hot (with activity and passion) and stormy. There are many hazards and discomforts amongst the otherwise good bustle. Finding a mate, having children, starting a career, moving, etc. are par for the course. They make us long for when the fruit ripen, days shorten, weather moderates, colors appear with vigor, and harvest.

On an even deeper level, fall can also serve as a spiritual metaphor. Notice the order: icy, dark winter can symbolize the death and emptiness of a person in sin before regeneration. Springtime is that period after new birth. It is full of color and excitement. God is the one who gives forgiveness and life. Summer is when great growth occurs but with it come the bugs and heat and storm of reality as the newness of the faith wears off. Haze symbolizes the way black and white can seem to become grey when the believer is exposed to the influence of less-than-committed Christians and less-than-biblical compromises. Then harvest comes. In truth, there are many “harvests” for the Christian. Many come early. Some like trees and vines take years of patient cultivation before bearing fruit. But they keep bearing year after year, indeed for eternity!

Duncan turned in the poem with her art and the teacher liked it. Duncan didn’t even know that I had written it. Kind of cool!