So, I still remember the exhilaration I felt, skittering over the surface of the Pamlico Sound in North Carolina on a small sailboat. The sun was shining, and all was well with the world in that way that seems to happen magically when you're on a boat.

So, how many times have we heard the story of the Magi, the wise men, the THREE wise men? Legend give them names: Melchior, from Persia; Caspar, from India; and Balthazar, from Babylon. All from the east; all bringing valuable gifts: gold, frankincense, myrrh. Gifts for the Christ child, gifts for a god, symbols of kingship, of deity, of death.

So, Merry Christmas! With that merrymaking out of the way, this Sunday we get hit with the other side of Christmas, a story most of us, especially us Protestants, tend to ignore because it doesn't fit in with all our jingle and Crosby and yule logs and gingerbread. It's known as the Commemoration of the Holy Innocents.

So, way back when I was beginning my discernment for the priesthood, a church committee would meet with me to discuss things. And one guy one time paused and asked, “How do you see your job as a shepherd?” I paused, was about to respond, and paused again. And I paused some more, to the point that people probably thought I'd sort of dozed off with my eyes open.

A half-hour bus ride from St. George’s Cathedral and the Old City walls of Jerusalem takes you to the extreme western edge of the city, to a small neighborhood called Ein Karem. It used to be its own village, but time and the creeping expansion of urban centers is eating it up like a slow moving amoeba.

So, here we are, another passage in the Gospel, guest starring John the Baptist. And of course, if you are me, a big fan of old movies, your thoughts might drift to that great actor, Charlton Heston, with a wild wig and sackcloth, standing in the river, yelling, “You brood of vipers!”

If you ever get a chance to go to Rome, you will probably visit the Vatican. And if you visit the Vatican, you will probably visit the Sistine Chapel. And if you visit the Sistine Chapel you will probably try to locate on that famous ceiling, Michelangelo’s iconic picture of God reaching out, touching Adam’s finger, and giving him life. Everyone knows this picture, and you can get it on anything, even in Vatican gift shops: t-shirts, magnets, clocks, posters…I even have it on a tie.

When I first started seminary, I was back home in Chattanooga, having coffee with a friend of mine who directed community theater. She was planning to do a production of Jesus Christ Superstar, and some of the board members were worried that it would be too blasphemous. Now, in actuality, they were worried that sponsors would be mad, but they wrapped it up and presented it to her as blasphemous. Seriously, this was the mindset. This was Chattanooga at its weirdest.

So, what if we prayed like we really believe it? I was asked about prayer the other day, how it works...and how it doesn't. And I got to thinking and remembering.

So, I've been giving a lot of thought to these readings in light of last week. And I think we have work to do.

So, here we are, All Saints Sunday. The beginning of the ending of the church calendar and the beginning of the beginning the the holiday season. And yet, somehow, even when we mark this day every year, it sort of get not much more than a passing nod of our time as we read off some names in church and go about our way.

So, let's face facts. We all want to be the best at one time or another. We want to be the kid in class who gets chosen to beat the erasers; we want to be the gold medalist; we want straight A's; we want to fix something and have it actually work better. We, each in our own way, want to better ourselves.

So, when I was a teenager, I taught swimming lessons to little kids. The most fun part of it was “diving day.” Now “diving day” did not mean that these three and four year-olds would actually dive. That was still a long way off. But telling them they were diving rather than just jumping made them feel so special.

So, my mom got a divorce. And frankly, I’m glad. I really believe that if she hadn’t, she would not be alive. Neither would I. And when she got that divorce, she became a success in work, a hero at home, and an all-around amazing human being. In fact, I’d actually say out loud and in front of everybody that her divorce was a moral good.

I need to tell you about the dogs, Cotton and Lola. Now Cotton is still with us and is a black-mouth cur (though that black mouth is pretty white now). He is the gentilist, most loving dog you could ever want. He has soulful brown eyes that you know actually see some goodness in you that you may not even be able to see yourself. Cotton is smart, so smart that sometimes I think he is on the verge of speech. He is that kind of dog.

So, we've all seen those movies and TV shows. The ones were someone is having to make a decision and an angel appears on one shoulder and a devil appears on the other, and they argue back and forth, trying to get the decider to go their way. You know what I'm talking about.

So, here we are with this Gospel reading, and y'all, every time it comes up, I have trouble with it. This Sunday's Jesus doesn't fit with the picture of Jesus that we so often carry around. From the get-go, as little kids, looking at our Children's Bible, we have a picture of Jesus with a serene look on his face, arms outstretched, maybe doing a miracle or bouncing a child on his lap. Calm, happy, and inviting.

When my granddaddy was alive down in Red Bank (just outside Chattanooga), he and I were part of a secret club. Actually, we were the only two members of the club, and now it's just me, so I reckon it's ok to let you in on the secret. It really wasn't much of a secret to begin with (I'm pretty sure my Grandma and Mom knew) – it's just we never talked about it. My granddaddy said it wouldn't be as much fun doin' it if we told everyone, and as a kid that seemed to make perfect sense.

So one thing I used to do in seminary was make bread. All sorts of different kinds, but mainly the kind we used for communion at the Chapel of All Saints where seminarians worshipped. I actually got quite good at it, especially my buttermilk biscuits and French rolls.

So, when I got older, like in my adolescence, my grandparents got a whole lot dumber. Now, let me clarify. I'm pretty sure they didn't REALLY get dumber. I'm pretty sure they stayed more or less the same gentle, wonderful, brilliant people that they always were. I think what happened is that I got a whole lot more uppity and snooty.