Good morning church family,

Before long, I’m afraid newspapers will go the way of phone booths, gray flannel suits, and the milk man. And that’s a sad reality to have to accept, for newspapers have long played a wonderful role in the life of the nation and its many cities and communities. Anyone leafing through his local daily would become literate on any number of important matters close to home and around the world. A good newspaper didn’t just educate its audience but would motivate and inspire them as well. Using provocative headlines, newspapers often coaxed people out of their informational ecosystems; daring them to read stories and opinions from disparate voices. The daily newspaper also served as public record; keeping neighbors informed of police activity, property sales, graduations, engagements, births, and deaths. And it wasn’t all high and lofty either. There was a lot of fun to be had too as ink and newsprint were devoted to comic strips, box scores, crossword puzzles, Dear Abby, and the jumble. It’s not hyperbole to say that newspapers were often the knitting needles that helped produce the very fabric of our society.

As a young boy, I enjoyed delivering newspapers on my paper route. For years I would get up every morning and find bundles of still-warm copies of the Washington Post out by the curb in front of our house. I would haul them into my family’s living room, cut the ties, stuff the inserts, either band or bag the papers depending on the weather, and then, with a loaded newspaper sack over each shoulder, head out to deliver my route. Cox, Sheridan, and Somerset were my streets and it seemed that nearly every house up and down the road got the paper. And the ones that didn’t get the Post – got the Times. Papers seemed to draw the entire neighborhood around a campfire of information and conversation. I loved it.

One of the most endearing things about newspapers has always been the different names these dailies would put on their mastheads. You can group newspaper names into two general categories; those that present a newspaper as a simple historical record and those that present it as a defender of the public interest. Names that fit in the former category are ones like the Times, Chronicle, Journal, Post, Globe, and Gazette. Names fitting the latter category would be newspapers calling themselves the Herald, Tribune, Sentinel, Crier, Courier, and Star. I love how these types of names had the newspapers assuming an almost prophetic office within the community. And that got me to thinking.

As the newspaper industry now fades into history, what might it look like if we tried taking up the mantle ourselves. Why can’t we all be newspapers of a sort? Obviously, should I be a newspaper (the John Tate Times or the J. T. Harbinger and Dispatch might work) the universe of my reporting would be quite small. I could write plenty of stories concerning events at 63, 75, and 82 Eastern Avenue. I could also provide editorial insights into the heart and mind of the publisher, though I don’t imagine many would care much about that. But I might endeavor to do some additional reporting into areas of much broader interest. Suppose I had something to report under the following headlines: “Death Defeated!” “God Revealed!” “Doorway Into Eternity Discovered!” “Peace on Earth!” Shouldn’t headlines like these get folk’s attention and have them asking for a copy?

Think of it – I could do biblical journalism on all kinds of subjects including marriage, family, economics, diet, and the Middle East. I could break all kinds of stories on matters near and dear to my readers; things such as the root of all evil, the key to self-discipline, and how to achieve the desire of your heart. Instead of only studying the Bible as a matter of personal devotion or merely for immediate application in areas of singular concern for me and my life, I might also study the Bible for the benefit of others. With my neighbor in mind, I could wrestle with all sorts of difficult concepts, work to comprehend any number of mysteries, and become so familiar with complex doctrines that I might be able to articulate them to anyone, anywhere. I could make sense of things! I could be a hardboiled gumshoe tramping through the Scriptures, the breathless reporter showing up on the scene of every major happening in my neighborhood, and the most compelling editorialist sitting out in front of the hardware store, in the barber’s chair, or on the barstool at the local watering hole. No matter the situation or the conversation, I could fire up the presses and get the good news out.

I know it might seem a strange thing to say and perhaps it stretches the metaphor’s elasticity to the point of snapping, but why not consider how you might be a daily newspaper in the year to come; publishing a biblical worldview with every word you speak? I’m certain that God will go with you on your paper route.

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to celebrate the birth of our Savior and the reign of our King, Jesus Christ! The season of advent is so rich in wonder, hope, and joy. What a blessing to be able to share in it with each of you! As I continue to mature in my faith – I’ve certainly come to look more forward to Christmas Sunday than I do Christmas morning (though it’s a close second!). Whichever it is for you – come into His house rejoicing! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

It doesn’t take much for a class of seventh-grade students to turn into a jumble of sleepwalking moon bats. It takes even less when those same students are just one ring-of-the-bell away from embarking on their Christmas break. On this particular final school-day of December, the transmogrification was brought about by the presence of risers in the school gym. The students had filed into the large gymnasium following their lunch of pizza, crinkle-cut fries, apple slices, and candy canes when they saw the three-tiered semi-circle risers placed just in front of the basketball goal at the far end of the hardwood court. For the last couple of months, all the Crosby Middle School students had spent their chorus period learning a number of Christmas carols and classics ahead of the annual holiday concert held on the Friday before break. Those chorus periods had been held in Mrs. Swicker’s music room. To say that the vast majority of Crosby kids – especially Crosby boys – were unenthused during these chorus periods would be a very kind understatement. But despite the fact that most of her pupils behaved like uncooperative hostages, Mrs. Swicker had still managed to prepare a fair program with a serviceable choir to perform it. But now, as the students assembled for the dress rehearsal before the concert later that evening, the moon bats, with bellies full of pizza and peppermint, were disorganizing themselves on, around, and underneath the risers.

Mrs. Swicker, the school’s chorus teacher, would have attempted to bring the chaos into order but she needed to manage her own chaos first. A slight, middle-aged woman wearing a smart skirt, tight-fitting silk blouse, and high-heeled shoes, Amanda Swicker was simultaneously trying to set up a conductor’s stand, arrange her music, turn the sound system on, and ward off a cadre of high-strung overachievers who were shadowing her every move.

“Okay! Okay everyone,” Mrs. Swicker boomed; speaking into a hot mic. “Please. Would everyone please find a place on the risers? Let’s have the eighth-graders on the top two platforms and the seventh-graders on the bottom two. Don’t worry about it all making sense right away – I’ll move everyone around once I can see how everything looks.”

Mrs. Swicker needn’t have worried that any of her students were concerned with things making sense. They weren’t. But with the help of a couple of classroom aids and multiple threats of holiday homework, the group finally took their places and stood at reasonable attention. Mrs. Swicker wasted no time in firing up the accompaniment tracks that would carry the choir through the program as a cruise ship might carry landlubbers across the Atlantic.

For a public school located in a very progressive part of Tacoma, Washington, the song selections for the holiday program were remarkably sacred. Of course, the majority of the songs were radio favorites; things like Jingle Bells and Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. But just about every other song throughout the program seemed to have something to do with Jesus. The kids had spent months singing Go Tell it on the Mountain, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Joy to the World, and O Little Town of Bethlehem. No one seemed to be offended at the mention of Jesus but no one seemed very moved by it either.

“Well, okay everybody,” Mrs. Swicker said after the choir had run through the entire program of songs while only stopping a handful of times for direction, “that’s not half-bad. Please try and watch me at the beginning and end of every song. Some of you were jumping the gun on some of those songs and some of you were holding notes at the end like opera singers. Not a good look or a good sound. And whatever you do, try and blend your voices together with the other ones singing around you. No one should be able to hear any of us singing but only hear all of us. Comprende?” Mrs. Swicker tapped the top of her music stand with her pencil. “Alright, in just a minute I’ll give you some final instructions on how we’re going to enter into the auditorium tonight and how we’re going to exit. I’ll also be giving you some reminders about how to dress and,” shooting a look over at a motley bunch of seventh-grade boys, “how not to dress.” Impish laughs bubbled up from the boys in the lower risers and a gust of sighs descended from the risers above where girls with arms crossed rolled their eyes. “Now, are there any questions?”

Isabella Carpenter raised her hand. “Do you know where our parents are going to be sitting? Will they be able to see us from here?”

“Yes, Isabella. Don’t worry – everyone will be able to see you. Anyone else?”

Cassidy Paradis raised her hand. “Did you want me to sing the mezzo-soprano part on Joy to the World? It’s no problem. I know the music.”

“No, Cassidy,” Mrs. Swicker said; beginning to look a little defeated. “Please just sing the melody with everyone else. Thank you. Okay, are there any more questions?”

It was then that Kegan, a chubby, somewhat cerebral kid who had a Vulcan manner of talking, raised his hand. “Maybe I should have asked this a long time ago but I didn’t think about it until you told us to try and smile while we’re singing. I have no idea who this Jesus is or who the ‘dear Christ’ is who’s supposed to ‘enter in’.”

Mrs. Swicker folded her arms and cocked her head in earnest consideration. She knew Kegan wasn’t grandstanding or clowning and deserved a thoughtful answer. The question had turned the room unusually quiet. “Jesus was a Jewish messianic figure,” Mrs. Swicker began; her speech careful and halting. “He lived back during the Roman Empire, I believe. Think of him as a symbol of good triumphing over evil; or at least wanting to. Jesus is something like a promise of all that’s good with mankind and the world.”

“So, these songs are Jewish then?” Kegan answered sincerely.

“You know, Kegan,” Mrs. Swicker said; looking to quickly put a bow on this topic, “I’m not really, entirely sure, but…”

“I’m pretty sure,” Kegan interrupted his teacher, “that Christmas is a Christian holiday.”

“Well, certainly Christmas is Christian, Kegan. You’re certainly right about that.” Mrs. Swicker lowered her voice an octave and spoke in a summary tone. “But none of these songs have anything to do with religion for us. These are just some traditional folk songs that we’ve chosen for their beautiful music and uplifting lyrics. If you’re having trouble smiling as you sing, just replace Jesus in your mind with whatever warm and sweet thing you love and find hope in.”

Mrs. Swicker, who had a soft spot in her heart for Kegan, looked over at the young man and dared a follow-up by giving a knowing nod. “Okay?” she asked.

“I guess so, Mrs. Swicker,” Kegan answered, plunging his hands in his pockets; only just then noticing that everyone was looking at him. “I just think it’s strange. Why a religion would make such a big deal about a little baby.”

“I guess I don’t really know,” Mrs. Swicker said, cocking her head again. “Perhaps it’s something to look into.”

“Maybe I will,” Kegan said under his breath and mostly to himself. “It might be nice to have a real reason to smile.”

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow to sing and celebrate the good news that we know and believe with all our heart! Our light hearts are a triumph of Heaven. But the heavy hearts of our neighbors are the charge of Heaven for our lives. What a great and joyous work it is to go and tell the good news to others. We are blessed! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate