A Personally Correct "MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

I don't know if we ever needed real hope more than we do this Christmas of 2009. We are living in a world filled with godlessness in political leadership, the media, and personal lifestyles. On the flip side of godlessness, God is used to promote terrorism and fear around the world.

Of course these conditions also bring out the best in people. Many are prompted to come forth and proclaim their faith and take a stand. The readers of my blogs, books, and those like them are those fearless ones, who know they can't stand alone, but must find like-minds and stand for Christ...his birth, mission, and message of everlasting hope.

SO... In the face of opposition: from the media, the education boards, the city councils, the Federal and State government, the commercial enterprises who are afraid of the now politically incorrect refrain: "MERRY CHRISTMAS," we stand together and proclaim it loudly with joy!

This Christmas I share Chapter 1of my latest novel, THE CHRIST REPORT.

Though fiction, and created from my imaginings of that evening where people flocked to their cities of birth to be counted in a Roman tax census, I ask you to see if you can relate to the pressures of a young innkeeper, and an equally young couple destined to play the role of parents to the newborn Prince of Peace; parents desperate for clean lodgings for the eminent birth of their firstborn son, even Emmanuel.

For those who may believe in Christ, yet are not taking time to seek or “find” Him, I share the following story as found in my just released novel, THE CHRIST REPORT.

From… THE CHRIST REPORT Chapter One

Bethlehem – Eve of the Roman tax census


“More wine. And more loaves!” a legionnaire growled.

“See to it Phinnias,” the innkeeper whispered.

“Yes, Master Cleophas.”

The usual mix at occasions of celebration and feasts in the land round about Jerusalem brought all sorts to this place but the inn filled to the brim this night.

The Emperor’s edict, the Roman tax census, added the pressure that caused his dining hall to fill beyond capacity. The required reporting of each head of house to his home town or village of birth caused the inn of Cleophas at Bethlehem, not many furlongs from mighty Jerusalem itself, to be a loud place, shoulder to shoulder at the dining tables, and to overflowing with all-night boarders.

“The fool thinks this is old wine. See how he pretends at drunkenness,” Phinnias whispered into the ear of the server boy Asa, while pointing to the raucous legionnaires. Asa nodded and hurried past him with the fresh loaves for each table.

People Cleophas had never seen before were coming to Bethlehem to be counted. He himself would venture to Emmaus on the morrow. Some three score furlongs from the capital city in the opposite direction, and the place of his birth, he would be counted tomorrow and pay the tax of a single man, and then hurrying back, he would manage the crowds here again.

He longed to stay in Emmaus, be with her, but crowds also filled the purse; brought revenue. The people filling his dining hall and small inn eased their purse strings as they merrily consumed more wine, ate more victuals. His job was to insure that merriment—keep it going strong late into the evening. He would have the dowry required by Jarom for her hand in marriage soon. The sound of payment for his services in coins of copper, silver, and gold too, made this night of anticipation more bearable. He would rather be in Emmaus now, with her, but for this...

And, there was another kind of pressure this night. Jarom, his future father-in-law, would be here any minute. He wondered if he would measure up to the man’s expectations. He had already proven adept at turning a copper penny into a good shekel.

Barely twenty years old, recently inheriting this inn and boarding house from his uncle Simeon, he’d never experienced these demands before. Like a father, Simeon had brought him up to learn a trade and be an observant Jew in all the laws of the prophets. Although originally from smaller Emmaus, Simeon brought him here when his parents died.

He had worked here from his eighth year, attended school, made his offerings, and observed the Sabbath here. So close to Jerusalem, he had also picked up on the cosmopolitan pretenses of travelers from the big city who often stopped for refreshment on their way to the cities and coasts in other lands.

Cleophas had learned the art of the smile, the art of compromise. The patron is always right, Simeon reminded him along with: Satisfy thy guest and thy purse shall never be empty.

Simeon had made him this promise, he Cleophas had tested it, and so it was.
Cleophas had proven shrewd for business. It pleased Simeon greatly. On several occasions before his death Simeon would trust the young man to the hospitality enterprise on his own. Cleophas had never let him down. Simeon’s wife had died of the fever years before, and childless, Simeon’s last wish was for Cleophas to inherit the inn. With his final breath he uttered: “And remember my son, there is always room at the inn for the least to the great. Walk with God. Peace be unto you, my son.”

So here he was now; young, on his own, and he swore to make this property even more prosperous, more famous for service than his well-respected uncle Simeon had. “More wine I say! Innkeeper! The loaves! Where in the name of Jupiter, Zeus, and...and...” The unruly legionnaire turned to another soldier, now pretending to be too drunk to know the difference between the question and the answer. “What is the Hebrew’s name for their God?” the stammering soldier laughed to his company of friends. He bellowed his question to the room full of guests when his comrades shrugged the question off.

No answer. The room went silent as the diners wondered what the irrational man might do with his sword.

“No matter,” he cackled loudly. “Bring the meats!” He slammed his fist upon the table and sat, creating noisy ribaldry in his native tongue.

A soldier. But not just any soldier. These were the most despised of the Roman Legion. Provincials. And they were late. They always left for the Fortress Antonia at dusk before. Perhaps they were camping in the fields this night, manning the census tables on the morrow. Yes, perhaps, Cleophas grumbled.

You could never tell about the occupiers though. Uncertainty was one thing, he Cleophas, had learned he could come to count on. And these were of the crude Syrian band of legionnaires. Conscripts. No lovers of the Jew, even if the Roman saw the Jew as a mere conquered people, the crass Syrians from the north and the Jews from the land of Israel went back many generations to great wars and strife. Now both the Syrian and the Israelite were under the dominion of the Roman. The Syrian gladly picked up the sword for the Roman Legions, happily took his pay, a fine uniform, respect as a fellow conqueror, and occasionally the opportunity to kill a Jew.
The Jew picked up the sword for no conqueror. This Syrian sort was the most vulgar guest Cleophas had known for many months, and easiest to madden. Cleophas knew he must attend to this one, or the entire room of guests would know his wrath.

“Now!” he barked louder, standing and pounding his fist even louder now against the long table.

“Coming sir! Yes sir! I am bringing a fresh loaf, a warm loaf, direct from the hearth. The best loaf and the finest wine! Be assured sir, I want only the best for you,” Cleophas answered equally loud. “Coming even now!”

The room went still. Quiet to the sound of a rattle of a dish, a cough, any noise at all, all eyes were now upon the Syrian. How he would react would determine the fate of this warm hall and the foods spread before each boarder and diner.

The slovenly soldier wiped at his mouth, now dripping with the last ounce of wine in his cup and stuffed with the last morsels of meat on his plate. He grunted, the soldier next to him spoke in the foreign tongue, and they both laughed. A snarl, a wave for the boy to hurry, and the look of contempt for this crowd was the answer from the trouble-maker to Cleophas.

“Take this wine, take this bread, and satisfy the dogs,” Cleophas whispered to Phinnias. “Do not be far from them. Be there when the Syrian pig grunts, mutters any word of aggravation. Our night, this very busy night, the gifts left upon the tables after the meal, our reputation, depends upon the satisfaction this entire room has for an evening warm and filling. The rest; look at them. They are as eager as you and I to make sure these barbarians, these uncircumcised curs are well attended to.”

Phinnias nodded.

Cleophas shook his head, trying to jolt away the sleepiness, that wearing him down now, was causing him to increasingly lose his smile, his act; the happy host, glad to be a servant to all these, his guests. He had but three hours sleep the night before, arising early to go to the market and start the fires in the long corridors of the sleeping quarters, in the hearth for cooking the morning fare, for warming the bread stones.

Cleophas gazed to the door. The words in Hebrew carved into the white fir plank that had started life in a forest in Lebanon hung over the entrance to this inn. It was long ago. A grateful and youthful family and kin to Simeon, father and son, former Bethlehem residents but now carpenters from upper Galilee, had not only repaired tables and chairs for their room and board during Passover that year, but also created the wood plaque. A gift, though simple, Simeon had cherished the plaque and had instructed that it hang above the door forever, so that when a boarder entered or left, he or she would be compelled to read it.

Cleophas had been a table boy, a server, one week into his eighth year when they had visited. Distant cousins of Simeon, the man and his son had made the pilgrimage at the Passover in the year the boy had become a man. Cleophas recalled the name of the boy who carved these words into the soft rectangular piece of fir-wood. His name was Joseph, who was the son of Jacob, also a carpenter, and would be four years older than him now. Simeon cherished these words from the Koheleth; words from him who was simply called “the Preacher.” He strained to read them now. Tired eyes studied the words to remind him of his duty.

“Go thy way, eat and drink with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart, for God now accepteth thy works. Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest...for that is thy portion in this life.”

He wasn’t sure if God accepted his works or not, but he was sure that his inn, situated on the road into and bypassing Bethlehem would be the inn of choice for the weary traveler, one that would provide for his future bride, Mary daughter of Jarom of Emmaus, a fellow innkeeper, a first cousin to uncle Simeon.

He had long loved the slender, but comely young lady. Flaxen, her crown was made of soft, silken braids with tresses so fine, yet falling so loose upon delicate shoulders, as if to accentuate the sculpted beauty of the face one expected of a princess. Wispy locks with a hint of crimson, they seemed willing to fly easily in the soft spring breeze along with songs she so effortlessly sung with such gaiety. Every mannerism, all of her earthy beauty beckoned, called to him to touch, yet he could not. Not yet.

He yearned to have the girl, now a woman of legal age to marry. He visualized her eyes, those unusual eyes, a tint of olive, dark yet penetrating, gazing out from a face with the purity of an angel. Fair skin, soft skin, in need of tender care, he longed to hold her hands in his, sit and marvel at the woman who would bare him sons and daughters.

A living gem, she was granted these refinements and qualities by the God of Israel to stand out for him, Cleophas, to see and love. Mary was her name, and Mary was the morning sun, bright, full of shine, a sparkle to please those who came near. “Dear Mary,” he breathed, unaware of his day-dreaming solitude. “I must have her,” he said quietly to himself. “And soon.”

But first he must prove himself to Jarom, a stubborn man who no doubt would want proof that he was capable to the task Simeon had left to him.

“The door! Answer the door, Asa!” Cleophas ordered, awakened from his reverie by the urgent pounding. “If it be Jarom, usher him quietly, and without hesitation to the quarters reserved for him. But there is no room! No room in the inn for anyone else! Tell them there are victuals, but they must eat outside. No room! Make it clear Asa!”

He hurried to the kitchen to see if the porridge was ready for the kettle, the mutton for the skewer. He would gladly accept another boarder, any night but this. He had, in fact, kept it secret. One single room, his best, fit for the High Priest, or a Roman Tribune if need be. New, it was fitted with a bathing receptacle. Filled urns of fresh water from the deep well too. One for drinking, one with a basin for washing. A bed fit for a King. Ample, off the floor, with posts of cedar, side rails as well. Forgiving bedding of lamb’s wool, not straw, not common padding, but real and expensive quantities of fleece which allowed the traveler’s tired body to find its most satisfying sleep. The room was large, almost one half the size of the dining hall. And two separate chambers resided on either side of the main room. His wife and children would occupy these one day.

And something else this room had, which no ordinary home in Bethlehem possessed; a window with glass! The only room to let in the light of the mighty city, God’s City, so close, with the temple and its golden fiery dome. The glory of God resting there, and in such plain sight, would always remind them of their eternal love. It could be seen just across the valley through the fired and molded silica, a gift from an artisan whose glass-blowing craft was prized throughout finer homes in Jerusalem. He was from the far east and occasionally traveled with the caravans of friend Artemaus who, when passing this way, often camped his people in the hilly fields throughout Bethlehem’s boundaries, but resided in the inn during his sojourn in the land around Jerusalem.

Now Cleophas had just finished these rooms. Chambers for a Prince, he had considered. Jarom would be pleased. And the master chamber would be her room one day; his Mary’s room. He would serve her every want, every wish. This night would prove to Jarom, her father, that he Cleophas indeed could make his daughter a suitable husband.

Cleophas paced, working a path into the hard wood floor. He was eager to please and while this night was to impress Jarom, surely by morning the family of Jarom would follow. Like everyone else, they were commanded to be here for the census. A half day’s ride upon donkey, a full day’s walk from Emmaus, Jarom would be tired for he would have suffered the same vagaries of this Roman edict –- the Jews of Israel were to return to the town or village of birth to be counted. So Jarom would be here any time after laying out the busy work for his hirelings. And so his family would finish duties at the Inn of Emmaus and follow before first light.

“Master Cleophas,” Asa said handing a message to him. “From Jarom.”

Cleophas rolled his eyes. He read the small parchment again. So much was riding on the impressions he would make upon Jarom. “He’s not coming. The morrow will see him by last hour, before twilight. He will come with his family to do his reporting for the census and return immediately. He cannot stay,” Cleophas sighed.

“Master, what does it mean?” Asa ventured, knowing full well the anxiety Cleophas had for this night. Asa was but five years younger, a lad without family, an apprentice, and so what might affect this business and the life of Cleophas had an effect upon him.

“No need for worry, Asa. See the man there. The smartly dressed one? Notice his robes and the delicate refined lady he accompanies?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Make inquiries of him. He dresses after the manner of the publicans; a lawyer perhaps. Inquire whether he is staying in Bethlehem for the tax reporting, if he should need a room. I may as well profit from this. Hurry. Go!”

Cleophas could make quite a sum, perhaps as much for the single elegantly adorned room he had reserved for Jarom as he would make on all ten of the sleeping rooms together. He nervously watched as Asa explained the amenities. The richly clothed man smiled and arose, speaking softly to his female companion. Husband and wife, he reasoned. Reporting for the census no doubt, Cleophas silently concluded. From Caesarea, used to the finest. They probably have a plain and drab room with mother and father here in town. We’ll see, he thought as he watched Asa spread the curtain open to the hall leading to the suite. Good. They will not be able to resist.
A few nervous moments lapsed. Asa should be back by now, he said to himself. He paced, watching the servers fill the needs of his guests. Listening to the clanging of the pots, dishes, goblets, the crude talk of the Syrians, Phinnias standing by attending to their whims, the merchants, some regular diners too, all were the sounds of money being made, and he was addicted to that sound.
A knock at the door.

“Phinnias!” Cleophas pointed urgently to the door as he called out to the table waiter.

Phinnias shrugged. His hands were filled with plates and the soldier was pounding the table with fists once more, speaking to him in a stern manner while the soldier’s companions laughed. Cleophas shook his head. He understood, had told Phinnias to stay with the barbarian.

“Oh, stop. Yes, yes, I’m coming!” he shouted. He could barely hear himself speak, even though he shouted at the top of his lungs. The noise of the crowd, the laughter, the raucous behavior of the soldiers, all of it only increased with the wine being poured.

He unlatched the thick door and opened it. The man in rough homespun tunic appealed to him with an expression of panic, hurried speech. Cleophas saw the fear, desperation in this man’s eyes, and knew what he would have to say to the man, but he let him go on.

“Sir. I beseech you. This is our third stop of the evening. My wife is with child. Is Simeon in? Can I speak to him?”

“You know Simeon?”

“I have not seen him for many years. But I once stayed here with my father, the year I reported to the temple, the year I became a man.”

“Simeon is with God. Just one year ago now. I am Cleophas. Simeon was my uncle. I came to dwell with him in my eighth year.”

“Then you are kin,” the tired man sighed with comfort. His look registered relief. “You are the serving lad I remember,” he added. “But such a fine man now. I am Joseph ben Jacob here to report for the census. This is my wife…”
Cleophas forced a smile, held his hand up citing no need for the man to continue. “I am Cleophas.”

He realized his only room was a costly one, being admired even this moment, by one that would pay a small fortune, a King’s ransom, to take proper care of the lovely lady at the table.

“Can you spare a room for one night? We can pay. I am from the Galilee and she cannot ride another furlong. We must find a room, a midwife... Kind sir...dare I say kin? I don’t know what to do.”

“I...” Cleophas stumbled.

Joseph struggled in search for his purse. “I have...”

Cleophas raised his hand to calm the man and turned to see Asa nodding. Good. Now I can honestly tell this man there is no room at this inn. Cleophas started with mild tones, apologetic words.

“But she is giving birth. Please sir. You are kin of Simeon. We have no other family here. I must find shelter immediately. Simeon surely would not have...”

“Friend! I will not stand here and have you invoke the sentiments I have for my deceased uncle, sentiments close to my heart,” he said pounding with a closed fist upon his chest for emphasis. “As I said, there is no room at this inn, this night. Look for yourself.” He stood back and held the door open wide.

Cleophas nodded toward the finely dressed lawyer and his lady. The lawyer held out his hand and his wife reached up. He whispered something that pleased her greatly, and then with Asa leading the way, entered beyond the curtain separating the dining hall from the sleeping quarters. The tables were loud, and the hired servers were frantically trying to keep goblets filled, delivering bowls hot with soups, stews of mutton.

“Sir...” the voice of the man choked. “Mary cannot ride another minute. See her pain,” he gestured. “Give us a place outside the kitchen, anywhere...please?”

“Mary?” he asked. I have a Mary, he thought. She was to be here in the morning. “Mary you say?”

“Yes. Mary, my wife. She is young. I must attend to her needs with dignity,” he pled.

Cleophas’ compassion was overcoming his reason. Perhaps he could let them have his room. No, I must be here for the lawyer now. Close to attend to his whims, coax more for the service I will provide. I cannot...

He himself had slept in the stable before. The straw was clean. He was a man who would rent his own room for that extra shekel that would bring him closer to his goals of providing the expensive dowry to Jarom for the hand of his daughter. Mary, he thought.

“Sir look above your door. I hung it there myself.”

The desperate man’s words broke Cleophas from his mental wanderings. He stood back and read the hand-carved sign that Simeon had insisted stay forever.

“It is rented,” Asa whispered in Cleophas’ ear. “And for twice the asking price,” he proudly added. “Master there is no room,” Asa reminded him, noting him standing in silence, considering the couple, door ajar, as if Cleophas might not be aware.

“Shut that door, Innkeeper!” growled the Syrian. “Are you a fool? I said...”

Cleophas was in that space where people go sometimes –- the narrow corridor of conscience, a place where memories remind one of similar times and their outcomes. What would Simeon do? Give up his room? He considered what that meant. How many days? Simeon was kin. That makes me kin. I am a business man, not a charity, he reminded himself.

He pictured the woman he loved, looked at the weeping woman seated upon the donkey, the fearful man. “Asa, take care of this place. I am going to the stable. Send one of the servers for the midwife Anna. Have her report to the stable immediately. Have the server then bring cloth, and bedding, any extra bedding from storage.”

“But Cleophas, Master, I...”

“Asa! Do as I say now!”

The boy nodded and retreated.

“Come,” Cleophas urged and reached for the arm of the man. “I have shelter to give you without cost. There is clean straw and I am ordering adequate bedding for you.”
The Galilean replied gratefully blessing the name of Simeon, Cleophas and all his household as he led the animal with his quietly sobbing wife away from the boarding house.

Joseph ben Jacob of Nazereth. Well... He knew Simeon would have wanted him to keep peace at the inn. And, under ordinary circumstances, not these pressures of the Roman census, he would have found some accommodation, even if it were his room. But this is no ordinary night, he assured himself.

***

This chapter, taken from my novel THE CHRIST REPORT, creates a more complex character out of the first man, an innkeeper, to reject the Christ. Here I represent him as a young man in a hurry. Here was a young man accustomed to noise and accommodating those who could pay for his services. Here was a young man who was not bad at all, just so caught up in the day to day cares and under pressure this night of the Roman census that he listened to his head, and not his heart. He couldn’t see Jesus because he was not seeking to find Him.

As THE CHRIST REPORT tale carries on, we begin to understand Cleophas better as he ages, especially on the eve of Christ’s crucifixion. Now the questions we must each ask ourselves is this: Does He knock on our door or do we on His? If He should knock on my door tonight, what choice would I make? Would I be so busy and caught up in other things that I would not recognize the knock? If I answered the knock would I actually “see” the Christ standing there? And most importantly would I be eager to…

“…let him in?”

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

James
www.powerthink.com

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS and HOLIDAYS 2007

I really love Christmas. I love the religious significance, but Santa Claus, sleighs, carols, trees, presents, and just the general spirit of kindness that pervades the season. I have never grown up. I still believe. In fact, I look for Santa, I think, as much as I do for Jesus. He is, after all, so pleasant, and seems to "get" the "naughty and nice" thing just like Jesus so I don't have to sort it out. All I got to do is be "nice."

I like that. Besides, he wears red. He's an equal-opportunity "good guy." The cheery color is used in America's, England's, and just about every other country's flag design on the planet -- including the "naughty" ones... aka communist, former commies, and so on.

And then there is baby Jesus. Isn't Santa really just one of the "wise men" bringing gifts to all the little princes and princesses of the world? And isn't each person, (especially a child) who gives gifts being taught the wonderful lessons that thinking about others creates? I think so. So we have this religious history and Santa Claus all thrown in together. And each of us, in a way becomes a "wise man" or wise woman bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. Nice. I can't help but see the magic in Christmas, and in my own mind can't help but see Jesus smiling on the result.

After all, isn't the result all about holidays? And who doesn't like those? We make too much about commercialism destroying the spirit of Christmas. Bring on the Frankincense, myrrh, and aloe vera too! (I get "Old Spice"in my stocking every year.) The clothes, the toys, the jewels... Bring it all on! Didn' t the baby in Bethlehem get treated that way? Why shouldn't His little lambs be treated in the same spirit of giving?

And the word "holiday?" I like that word. It rings of "surrender" to the spirit of the times when we "let go" of the hectic, fast-paced, and awful adult sophistication and just become "child-like." Kind of like getting a ticket to enter Disney World. I think we should have one "holiday" every week. Just to relax and recover.

Oh yeah, we do. It's spelled a bit different though. Sunday in English. Domingo in Spanish. "Holy Day" is where the word is actually derived... "Dia Santo" in Spanish (Sacred Day) -- so that makes sense to have it cut out of the other 6 days -- a "day of rest." Kind of like Christmas. A time of rejuvenation, kindness, relaxing, giving, service, joy, singing choirs, angels, crosses, gifts, family...

I didn't really stop to think that Christmas was really already a weekly deal until I started writing this. Hummm... I like that to0. See what Christmas inspires? Just all the good, none of the bad.

And I still like Santa! Oh, speaking of Santa. I want to be like him when I grow up -- (minus the belly) and in a different sort of way than I want to be like Jesus. (I'll explain later.)

So I'm giving a book away. One chapter every "holy day" (Sunday) until finished. All you got to do is email me at http://www.jmpratt.com/ and request: "FINDING CHRIST, Chapter One." Then if you like it, keep requesting the next chapter. I'm ahead of the game on writing it, so I am sure we can work out giving this away before it gets published.

Once published in 2009 (by a small independent press, by the way) I am using 100% of the proceeds for humanitarian causes... I want to enjoy being Santa for as long as I can. And in the end the best way for me to do that is one holy day and one chapter at a time.

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2007 and many HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

James

PS: Go to my website and click "Email the Author" on the top menu bar when you request FINDING CHRIST Chapter One. http://www.jmpratt.com/.

CHRISTMAS POLITICS 2007

Christmas, Politicking, and the Bottom Line

The Christ, His day, and personal politics...

Christ wasn't Republican nor Democrat, and I wish I could write a different message -- one of pure hope, but I must openly offer my Christmas 2007 message through commentary on the politics of our time, as witnessed recently in the public debate over "who's" Christianity is "electable" in the presidential races now under way.

I will not bring up names of those running. But I will say immediate disqualification for my vote was attached to one whose purposefully planted remarks of, "Don't they believe Jesus and the devil are brothers?" were intentionally designed to foment bigotry against a formidable opponent, and thus hit a new low in American politics. Maybe this is just a "shot over the bow" using Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) as the target, but the last time they were shot at by other Americans they crossed into Iowa over a frozen Mississippi from Illinois in February 1846 to escape government sanctioned murder and mobbings. Now Iowa 2007... Odd to see faith used to attack a political opponent so close to the geographical location that the opponents ancestor's were physically driven from.

BOTTOM LINE: The bottom line on Christmas and personal religion as relates to this political debate? Believers are supposed to be brothers. Religious theology and politics are not good partners; history is replete with disaster when this kind of whispering and hints of "politically incorrect" religion are put forth. See if it sounds reasonable to you... (This should be obvious.)

Christianity celebrates its founder's day on one date more than any other day -- but promotes the idea that every day could be like it. Christmas is a time of celebration of the birth of a peace-giver. According to Wikipedia the term comes from the "...contraction of Christ's mass. It is derived from the Middle English Christemasse and Old English Cristes mæsse, a phrase first recorded in 1038.[1]"

Literally a celebration of union to the Christ, whatever the adherent's sect, faith, or derived dogma from his/her link to a church, the December 25th celebration does in fact engender kindness, a sense of peace, love, and harmony for all believers. People give more, criticize less, love through gifts. There is a palpable joy and I believe it is because of the billions world wide who project positive energy to each other; the billions who take the "day off" from the business of life, the political maneuvering, and the posturings to just be child-like as is our historic peace-maker, Jesus of Nazareth.

THE CHRIST I KNOW: The Jesus Christ I know and revere asks me to be a better man regardless of a religious affiliation, politics, privately held ideology... He asks me to be a moral man, a gentler and kinder person. In the end this Jesus asks me to be like him of whom John said in final definition of his persona: "God is love."

This "love" is inclusive, not exclusive. I can love Jews, Protestants, Catholics, Hindus, Buddhists, Moslems, Baptists, Latter-Day Saints, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists, and the list goes on.

I can in fact, "be" for Him what he was for us; the succoring and helpful hands to the ill, the weak, the lost, the poor, the wealthy, the black, white, red, and in-between colors of humanity.

When all is said in done in politics and life, the Jesus I have come to know and love asks me to examine WHO I AM, not WHO YOU ARE.

The character of a man is loud enough when it comes to electability to the office of President of our great land where freedom of religion is an expressed right and privilege, and the cost of which has been so nobly borne by the millions of all faiths from the very founding of our "union." And so, it is with this message for Christmas 2007, to "be like Christ" is to love...become inclusive, and finally as a "Christ Mass" would do, continually offer "peace, good will and tidings of great joy" to all.

The "Peace Maker" I know asks me to be a better man. His accusers used convenient politics and the faith card of his being from "the devil" to seek to turn public opinion against him before crucifying him. You be the judge if a candidate is with Him or associating with the counter to his persona as planted in this week's political rhetoric. There is one thing that is true -- the bad guys always use religion when their argument is weak and when convenient. I prefer not to think of the candidate, slipping in theological nonsense about his opponent's faith, as a "bad guy." However, it puts a question mark on one claiming to be of the nature found in "Christ's Mass." Well... this much is true, "peace-making" and brotherhood it is not.

James Michael Pratt, Dec. 15, 2007

NEW BOOKS by PRATT & CO.

NEW TITLES COMING THIS FALL

Coming Soon to Amazon.Com and Stores Nationwide

Hope you have enjoyed the letter from Iraq: BURY MY HEART IN THE UNITED STATES as still offered on this column by scrolling down. Because I have been busy the months of August, September, and now October polishing the following books to be released in Paperback, E, and Audio formats by PowerThink Publishing, I have felt compelled to allow my nephew's well crafted words to linger at the top of my postings. (see his blog in September Archive.)

My new list of "Inspirational Fiction" category writings:

• AS a MAN THINKETH, In His Heart - Inspired by the beloved 1902 perennial bestseller written by James Allen.


• THE CHRIST REPORT - A journey back in time to the birth and passion of the Christ as witnessed by a modern day television and radio interview show host.

For more on these and other wroks in prgress please visit my websites:

http://www.jmpratt.com/

http://www.powerthink.com/