I am now shaving with a straight-razor. I asked for it as a Christmas present. My family, who don’t think I should be trusted with sharp objects, reluctantly honored my request. But I have reasons for daily taking a naked slice of steel to my throat.

One, I admit, is pure cussedness, my way of protesting against "shaving systems" with batteries in the handle and more blades than a Swiss Army Knife. On a deeper level, however, there is the matter of attention. You have to be careful when you scrape a honed blade against your jugular; it demands focus. In a society where absent-mindedness masquerades as the high-tech virtue of multi-tasking, I like having a daily routine which requires my full concentration. We call it "paying" attention, a phrase which recognizes that mental and emotional focus is coined soul. Most of us are miserly with the currency of self, substituting instead the scrawled IOU’s of distraction.

Paul writes to the church at Philippi (and, thus, to the Church) as an outfit whose calling requires its full awareness. As an imperial colony, the people of Philippi were called to build Rome among the barbarians. As a colony of the Kingdom, the Christians of Philippi were called to display Heaven in the midst of earth. Our citizenship is in heaven, he reminds them (Philippians 3.20). Living in a world no one else sees demands constant concentration.

We will spend the next couple of months studying Paul’s letter to the Philippians. As we do so, I want us to remember that the Word of God, like my razor, is an edged tool (Hebrews 4.12). Throughout history the church has, in its haste and distraction, drawn blood with a mishandled Bible. In place of the modern mechanisms of devotional books, sloganeering sermons, "efficient" worship and time-saving spirituality, we do well to return to the straight-edged and sharp disciplines of meditative reading of Scripture and a slow soaking in prayer. We live in a different place, and must live at a different pace.

I read recently that a statue of Mary at the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament in Sacramento has begun weeping crimson tears. The Catholic hierarchy says they have no plans to investigate this supposed miracle, a decision which does not disconcert the local pastor, Reverend James Murphy. "There’s no rush," he explains. "The church thinks in terms of centuries, not tomorrow’s news."

"There’s no rush." That’s how I feel as I’m shaving these days; at least, there had better not be any rush. May we bring the same spirit to our work as the Body of Christ. May we think in terms of eternity, not the latest fads.

Razor Sharp,

Doug

Amanda Wingfield, protagonist of Tennessee Williams’ Glass Menagerie, disapproves of her daughter’s actions. "Mother," Laura complains, "when you’re disappointed, you get that awful suffering look on your face, like the picture of Jesus’ mother in the museum!"

Laura may be right about the paintings, but she’s wrong about the real Mary. Mary suffered, all right, but not by means of silent facial contortions. The Virgin Mother does not appear often in Scripture (virtually nowhere outside the Gospels), and speaks very little, but what playing time she gets, and what lines she’s given, mostly involve nagging the incarnate Son of God.

"Where have you been? Your father and I have been worried sick!"

"The caterer underestimated the wine for the wedding reception. What? Don’t talk to me about timing; just do something."

"You’ve gone meshugganah with this Messiah business. Come home for a nice rest."

Mary was a warrior, and a draftee at that. Simeon warned her that swordplay came with the job, and wimps need not apply. Her career in Scripture comes between the bookends of two battle cries. "Be it unto me according to thy word." (Luke 1.38). That’s Aramaic for, "Bring it on!" "Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum." (John 19.19-20). That’s Latin for, "Mission accomplished."

Mary is an honorary Texan: she would have done well at the Alamo. She back-sasses angels (Luke 1.34), accuses one-third of the Trinity of insanity (Mark 3.20), and refuses to desert her post, even when that post holds the transfixed body of her firstborn (John 19.25). The Spartans at Thermopylae could have taken lessons from this bit of peasant baggage.

So set aside the sentiment; Christmas is a time for the tough who cling to Christ and keep on coming, even when the Lord they love makes no sense. Jesus does not call us to martyred looks of silent suffering, but to active duty in a war zone. Sometimes, like Mary, it may well be that the only way to win is simply refusing to quit.

Merry Mary,
Doug