Preston Gillham

A few days ago I put a copy of “No Mercy” in the mail to my good friend, Fred. He emailed yesterday to say my package had arrived, but without the book. Someone along the way neatly cut the mailer open, removed the book, and resealed the envelope. An empty envelope from Bonefish Publication arrived in his box on Wednesday.

Fred, who lives in Vermont, said he had the same thing happen on another occasion. He packaged up a container of maple syrup and mailed it. When it arrived, the recipient said the top of the box had been neatly opened, the syrup removed, the box resealed, and the empty container delivered otherwise unscathed. This is bad news for whoever ordered the syrup but good news for the value of “No Mercy.”

Items get lost, damaged, and delivered wrong all the time. There are whole departments at the USPO that manage these inevitabilities. But tampering with the mail—I think that is a federal crime that can land you a pair of orange coveralls and shower shoes.

Here is what I find interesting: Thousands of books are mailed, probably every day. I don’t have a clue how many of these packages are tampered with, but I find it remarkable that no more copies of “No Mercy” than there were in the mail on this given day (probably just that one), Fred’s was methodically, carefully opened, the book removed—and kept!—and the package resealed and delivered.

There is some probability that this event is coincidental. There is also a probability that this event is spiritual. Personally, given the content of “No Mercy,” what I’ve been observing of Father’s work through the book, and what I know of spiritual warfare I think the spiritual probability is statistically much greater than the coincidental option. Indeed. Much greater!

Since there are two, great forces in the world, this leaves two perspectives to consider: First, Fred is without his book. So, Satan prevents Fred from whatever benefit he will ultimately derive from reading “No Mercy.” Knowing Fred as I do, I think he’ll make it until the replacement arrives. Satan’s thwarting also costs me money and the anticipated endorsement from Fred once he is done reading. But seeing as how the “No Mercy” project and related business is Father’s, I’m not sure there is anything to be consternated over.

Second, the person who opened this innocuous package containing “No Mercy” (why didn’t they open the box containing the Magic Bullet blender?), and kept what they opened, is now in the hands of Father God. That’s pretty interesting to contemplate.

As we have seen time and again, Father will go to any measure to engage a man who is seeking Him. I like this option and consideration, although I’m not certain how a just God gets around mail tampering in His quest to engage this person’s heart. He’ll most likely get this figured out though.

Satan’s pettiness is easily remedied: a new book is en route to Fred via the US Mule. He’ll have it by spring.

But the man or woman with the stolen copy of “No Mercy:” Now this is something different.

I have two, big thoughts as I write: Pray for this person. You’ve read the book, and if you haven’t, this is a pretty good indicator you might closely consider doing so. It seems quite probable that Father is on this person’s trail—the “Hound of Heaven,” as Francis Thompson called Him, is chasing him. Intercede for this person! Pray that their encounter will be life-altering.

Second: Father is distributing “No Mercy” via unconventional means. I cannot honestly say my marketing plan included mail tampering. Clearly, it should have. Chalk it up to a small vision on my part!

What is an integral part of the marketing plan is for “No Mercy” to spread and circulate because you talk about it. That Father would smuggle a book to an unknown person between Texas and Vermont indicates He is using the message and story of “No Mercy” in remarkable ways. He is targeting souls, hunting them down, and engaging them. (Can you envision the person with the stolen copy of “No Mercy,” the book crying out to him from the kitchen counter or wherever it rests now that he has tampered it into his possession?)

I don’t know about you, but when I see Father head down an unmarked trail like this, I want to join Him.

So, please pray for this unknown soul. Please pray for yourself in light of this post, and if you need a copy of “No Mercy,” or need to send a copy to someone, here’s how to get it done. And, your discount increases as you order more copies. While you are praying, pray for Fred too. He’s a great man doing fabulous work.

I used to work on a pig farm.

Come to think about it, I had left home and gone to the far country of Kentucky, but for different reasons than the prodigal boy of Jesus’ story. Besides, I’m not at all certain he went to Kentucky. I think he actually wound up in Louisiana.

We were not a high tech swine operation by any stretch of the imagination. Nothing much was automated, excepted that we had to tend pigs every day, twice a day, and when a sow was about to deliver a litter of pigs we tended to her and hers all night. In pig parlance a sow’s gestation is “three months, three weeks, three days, three hours, and three in the morning.”

Raising pigs as we did was a hands-on operation. If you think about it, God gave a pig three handles with which to guide him: two ears and a rope-like tail. Moving pigs isn’t necessarily aided by a herd instinct like sheep or cows exhibit. But lift a hog by the tail and you can steer him like a wheelbarrow!

Winter was hard on our farm. You wouldn’t guess it, but pigs are sensitive creatures. Unlike cows and horses, sheep and goats, pigs don’t have a coat of fur to keep them warm. In fact, they don’t have fur at all; they have hair, and like mine, theirs is rather sparse.

So when the temperature dips and the ground gets hard, pigs pile up with one another to stay warm. This is a good plan for a cold night, unless you are the pig on the bottom of the heap.

No matter how diligent our preparation, it was a long, cold walk from the dressing shack where we took off our farm clothes and put on our pig clothes, down the lane to the pig lot. One never knew what he would find.

If a pig was down—meaning he couldn’t get up—we had to remove him from the rest of the hogs or they would kill him and eat him. Truth be known, I really didn’t mind moving and working hogs, but dragging a dead or injured animal out of a feeding area into the barnyard was a dreary, messy task.

One cold morning we scraped our rubber boots along the frozen lane leading to the pig lot. Our first duty: checking the feeding floor for hogs that were down. Sure enough, one of our Hampshires was on his side. He was covered with defecation, partially chewed food, and the slime from pigs’ snouts. It took two of us to drag him from the feeding floor and into the barnyard.

The grim reality is that most farmers would simply dispatch this animal, and perhaps we should have that morning. We did leave him while we tended to the rest of the herd. An hour or so later, with our hands stuffed deep in our pockets and our stocking caps pulled down low on our foreheads, we stood over the injured hog contemplating our options: do him in or shoot him with some drugs and see if he makes it to the next feeding.

Ordinarily, there is an art to giving a pig a shot, but not with this pig. He simply lay against the out-building where we had dragged him and grunted slightly as we poked him two or three times with the needle and syringe. We left him lying in the sun and went about our chores.

Day by day, the pig lived. He didn’t go anywhere, but simply stood against the building in the barnyard. We fed him, and he ate. Watered him, and he drank. For a time he simply held his own in his fight to survive, but then he began to overtake his lot in life, started gaining weight, and looking better out of his eyes.

One spring day, the hog was not where he normally was. He had moved across the barnyard and was standing by a post grunting as he scratched his neck. His daily progress was reassuring that we had made the right decision not so long ago on that frigid morning.

For several days, we found the hog in different locations, so we knew he was moving about, but neither of us had actually seen him walk. This realization is only apparent now in retrospect. With 325 squealing swine snorting and rooting, it never crossed my mind to wonder how this one hog managed something as rudimentary as walking. It was simply enough to know that he was mobile, eating, drinking, and gaining on the goal of market weight.

But then with jaw-dropping amusement I observed one morning as the pig made his way from point “A” to point “B”. Evidently, while struggling under the pile of his pig brethren that harsh, winter night, the hog’s inner ear had been damaged. While he appeared healthy, growing, and mobile, he progressed toward his goal not in a straight line but in waltzing circles.

All of our pigs were simply identified by a number notched in their ears, but from that morning forward, this pig’s name was Dizzy. To look at him, he was simply another oinker in a lot full of hogs. Except that he had a name, and the reason for the moniker was readily apparent as soon as Dizzy moved any distance.

Like the color of our Hampshire hogs, life in the pig lot was black and white. If the ground was not frozen, it was muddy. In the winter, you had to keep the pigs dry. In the summer, they had to be wet.

I said we were not automated, but this is not entirely true. We had run water lines throughout most of our pens that were interspersed with drinking spigots. These worked when a hog rooted on them. This saved a great deal of water-hauling effort. However, pigs are incredibly destructive. Keeping the water lines working was a daily task. Something was always leaking, and this was partially by design.

When the weather heats up, pigs need help staying cool. In their minds, a mud hole is a gift from God, and I don’t know that I can argue their point. Submerging in the mud not only cools, but keeps the flies away from them, a point that was not lost on me as I shooed swarms of flies from me while the lounging swine observed from their disgusting wallows.

Mud holes just happened in the pig lot. I suppose from all the rooting and wallowing and natural low spots in the ground, we never once had to create a mud hole for the pigs. While they didn’t do anything else for themselves, I suppose a well-equipped mud hole was too important to be entrusted to a farmer. So, they made their own.

Because of his condition, Dizzy was not allowed in with the other pigs. While surrounded by those of his kind, he lived alone in the barnyard. Aside from a few puddles when it rained, Dizzy had no mud hole.

I never thought much beyond the simple things Dizzy needed, namely shelter, food, and water. Providing for his need to roll in the mud escaped my attention, so I never thought about it, until the day I missed Dizzy.

The cold of winter had given way to the heat of summer. Parkas and toboggans had been traded for overalls sans shirt, but still with the ubiquitous rubber boots. I was distributing corn from five-gallon buckets to the sows-to-be-bred when Dizzy’s absence registered in my mind.

I looked in the familiar places frequented by Dizzy, and began fearing the worst. I had often wondered if his progress was too good to be true. Chores were put on hold while we searched for Dizzy, but to no avail. We reconvened and contemplated what to do. Much as we had done the first morning considering the disheveled pig we would come to know as Dizzy, we stood with hands rammed deep into our overalls wondering what we should do and where he could be.

As we stood sweating in the sun, swatting at flies, it dawned upon us almost simultaneously, Dizzy was trying to escape the heat. He had gone to where he could coat his sensitive skin with protection from the very things plaguing us at that moment. He had gone in search of mud.

A feeding floor is simple enough in design. It is a sloping slab of cement where the manure and urine of many, many pigs, along with water from the sprinklers and any other detritus from the pig lot, slowly slides downward toward a cesspool. We had no fancy silo like the big boys have. No system to capture this semi-liquid muck and distribute it for fertilizer. We simply collected this waste in a great pond on the north side of the pig lot, and for good reason never went over there. It was a disgusting aspect of working with a large herd of animals in a relatively small space.

But this manure pond was the only wet place for Dizzy to retreat. As we thought about it, the feculent pond of refuse that we avoided like the plague was Dizzy’s only option to exercise his genetic disposition as a hog to roll in the mud and lounge in a wallow. Sure enough. We found Dizzy. The stench was gagging, and all was not well.

Dizzy had gotten into the muck easily enough, but when he attempted to get out, given that he walked in circles, Dizzy had literally screwed himself into the mud and manure and waste that had slid down the feeding floor for years. There, submerged to his shoulders in a greenish-brown ooze that seemed a good idea at the time, Dizzy was helplessly stuck from trying to get out of the mess he had wandered into.

I stepped into the repugnant morass in an effort to reach Dizzy, but quickly encountered two problems: First, Dizzy was screwed in deep, and second, he was in deeper than my boots were tall.

I backed out to my partner’s side where we again faced the same decision we had encountered months earlier: Do we dispatch him where he is—the wise and conscionable thing to do—or should we attempt to rescue him?

It strikes me that this must be similar to the decision facing God and Jesus. With their hands crammed deep in their pockets, standing on the precipice of heaven and the brink of earth’s morass, their dilemma was: Should we dispatch them where they are or should we attempt a rescue?

Christmas is like Dizzy. Despite all of our intelligence and the lives of those who have gone before us, mankind progresses through history in circles, each man living just as the man before him lived. As it is said, the more things change, the more they remain the same. In the repetitious circles of our independence and self-absorption, we have lived life by wandering farther into the pond of our own detritus, only to screw ourselves inextricably into its muck attempting to be free. Up to our necks in our waste, we are hopelessly stuck unless mercy is extended to us.

The incarnation of God in Christ is the mercy we need. Desperately, we require someone who will come to where we are, humble himself, rescue us, and lead us to safety. The Bible speaks of Jesus descending into hell and retrieving a host of captives from that deep pit. It talks of Him humbling Himself, sacrificing His reputation, taking on the refuse of our humanity as descendants of Adam, and becoming one of us. With His incarnation, Jesus took on our form. The spotless and pure Son of God became a man and descended into the hopeless, helpless, cesspool of men-run-amok through independence and waded in to retrieve us. This is redemption, and simply put, this is Christmas.

Jesus did not lasso us and pull us to Himself. He did not stand at a safe distance and shoot us between the eyes with His rifle of justice. Nor did He effuse vengeance upon us with cursing, castigating fear, and shame for breaking His rules. He did not inflict pain upon us in anger for thinking no farther ahead than to realize our malady and propensity to wander into the swampland of life when the heat of life rose. And He did not reject us when He discerned that we were screwed into the morass of our own making.

On the contrary! Helplessly trapped in our ooze—“while we were still sinners,” the Bible says—Christ came to us, kicked off His boots, and waded in to retrieve us who were irretrievably useless to Him. Without regret He was sullied by the greenish-brown dump of our lost condition, and not flinching from the stench steaming up from our bondage, He reached into our refuse, put His arms around us, and pulled us to Himself.

We conceptualize the celebration of Christmas as a banquet of cured ham, tenderloin of pork, and filet wrapped in bacon along with all the trimmings. In a very real sense it is all this and more. But in another, Christmas is the entry of “Him who knew no sin” into the world of us who are sin to the extent that He became what we are so we might become as He is.

Christmas is many things. It is the joy of a new-born babe’s soft cries, the sweet scent of an attendant cow chewing her cud, and the soft breath of the donkey upon whose back Mary had ridden to Bethlehem. It is the strange birth announcement delivered upon angelic wing to recalcitrant and reprobate shepherds tending their flocks by night upon the wrinkled hills. In a scary reality, it is the launching of an invasion into enemy territory, of a great dragon waiting to devour the Christ child, of falling stars, and clashing armies in heavenly places.

It is also the silent, holy night—the calm night—when Jesus and His Father stood with hands stuffed deep into their pockets contemplating the plight of those fallen into the hell of a vast waste and torment. It is the nod of agreement and conclusion that He who is light and life should come to those living in darkness and death, rescue them, and endow them with life eternal and abundant.

I put the toe of my left boot behind the heel of my right boot and extracted my foot. Did the same with my other foot, and stood for a moment considering what I was about to do. I began wading. The yogurt-like consistency closed around my legs. Steam rose and the ammonia smell gagged me. I suffocated, searching for a fresh breath, but found none.

Standing thigh-deep in the refuse cast off by hundreds of swine, I grasped Dizzy by his ears and began pulling. The sucking of muck slipping into the vacuum left by Dizzy’s legs was punctuated by his squealing and my grunting and the oozing gurgle of refuse expelled as I sank deeper into the swine’s sewer under Dizzy’s weight.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did. No telling what sort of nasty infection I might have contracted saving the life of a mixed up hog. I had Dizzy’s condition all over me. His predicament was under my fingernails, in my hair, and I reeked atrociously of his blunder into the manure pond. But Dizzy lived.

He brought me pleasure in an otherwise black and white world of Hampshire hogs, monotony, and numbers. At the time, I couldn’t see the imagery of the Incarnation. I only wanted to hose myself off as quickly as possible, throw my clothes away, and get into the shower.

I am a performer. I do a good job, have reasonable talents, a measure of intelligence, and a litany of plaques on the wall affirming that I have achieved. It is tempting, given this personal history and disposition, to believe I have worth and deserve merit. It chaps me when I am not recognized for my contributions.

Let me be blunt: Although I hate to admit it, there has been more than one Christmas when it seemed perfectly reasonable to me that Jesus would love me and come for me. After all, He desires for us to enjoy heaven together.

But Dizzy helped me get over my irrational valuation. There is no reason Jesus should have come for me. He should have simply knocked me in the head the day I failed and fell on the feeding floor of life. He should have gone about His chores and given me not even a second thought. After all, death is part of life on a farm and on Earth. There will be another to replace this flawed one. He should have put a chain around my hock and dragged me with the tractor to the ditch behind the barn.

Christmas escapes logic. The Incarnation was foolish.

I was foolish to wade in after Dizzy. I did not tell a soul what I had done. It was shameful to me that I had taken the immense risk of vile infection for something of so little value. I feared getting sick and having to confess to the doctor what I had done. I lay awake at night for many hours and many nights worrying! What I had done was stupid!

But Dizzy helped me understand the dilemma before Jesus as He considered my plight. No matter my performance and promise, I was at heart a rebel drawn by my Adamic genetics to wallow in the mud. What Jesus did was stupid. It cost Him mightily! He gave up everything. He became shame.

The parallel stops here. I did not die from some dread disease spawned by the E. coli in hog waste. Apart from having to buy new overalls, I suffered no ill effects from retrieving Dizzy from the cesspool. But Jesus did not fare so well.

While His redemption of me was successful, He did not survive the experience. The E. coli of my life and condition invaded His system such that He became what I once was. He became cursed and despised. Like my avoidance of the cesspool at the end of the feeding floor, not even Jesus’ Father came to where He was, let alone anyone else.

Of course, there is the good news of Easter and Christ’s return from hell and death, but there is the phenomenal investment of Christmas that must not be missed. We know how these two stories end: Dizzy is rescued and I live to tell about it. I am rescued and Jesus lives to tell about it.

But as another Christmas celebration loads into the shoot and “Silent Night” wafts its refrain in my heart, I see in my memory the image of Dizzy—stranded—and stand again at the edge of the green pond in the pig lot and wonder what I should do. I pause, and however weak the parallel might be, I wonder about my Older Brother’s thoughts as He gazed upon the green pond of mankind’s predicament. Surely He must have contemplated what He should do.

Would I go after Dizzy all over again? I don’t know. I don’t know if the risk would be worth it.

Upon His return to heaven, I imagine Father must have said to Jesus, “Was it worth it?”

“It was. It was indeed.”

“I agree. You did the right thing.”

And after a pause, most likely with their hands stuffed in their overalls’ pockets, Father turns and says, “Oh, by the way, merry Christmas!”

“In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to his own town to register.

“So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child” (ref. Luke 2:1-20 (NIV)).

Not far from Bethlehem, bivouacked in the Judean hills with hoards of demons, Satan contemplated Joseph’s journey. In the spiritual battle for the hearts and lives of men and women, this inconsequential couple, pregnant out of wedlock, an embarrassment, were the avenue by which God would initiate His coup de grace of mankind’s redemption. While the world took no notice, Satan knew, God knew, the demons and angels knew—and Joseph knew—Mary was pregnant with the Messiah. With His birth, it would be Christmas.

God was not perturbed or anxious. His plan was working just as He had conceived it from before He laid the foundations of the world. Although not visible to Joseph and Mary, an elite corps of angelic, special agents guarded their every move. The hosts of heaven stood ready to trumpet their praise to God with a celebration second only to that planned for the end of time. The archangel, Michael, and the armies of heaven stood at “red alert” should God issue them a command. Christmas must not be deterred. Meanwhile, Satan paced, brooded, spat, and cursed to himself, “There must be a way.”

While Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem, “…the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”

With the sound of Mary’s labor, Satan stalked closer to her, determined to destroy and devour the child, the hope of mankind, the light of the world, the Crown Prince of heaven’s kingdom. It was a desperate plan conceived for a desperate moment.

In Satan’s war of rebellion, this birth was the harbinger of a heavenly weapon unparalleled in the universe and was without equal in all of hell’s arsenal. Satan screeched to his mob, “The Tyrant upon my throne must not be allowed to deploy the Messiah!”

And in the intimate quiet of this Middle Eastern stable, in a stall filled with fresh straw, Mary labored, while all around her the demons lurked and the devil poised for a fatal blow to her helpless child. Christmas was imminent.

The ranks of angels in heaven’s army waited in disciplined anticipation for a command from Michael whose eyes were fixed on God. Before them was an earthly scene not unlike any other birth. But from a spiritual perspective, a great initiative was about to be launched.

Awaiting the birth of Jesus was an anxious man, Joseph, and a great, red dragon—Satan—having seven heads and ten horns and a tail that twitched from side to side doing violence throughout the universe as if to destroy the stars in the sky (ref. Revelation 12:1-17 (NASB)). His rage at this young woman was controlled only by his anticipation of her giving birth to the Son of God, the heir to the throne, the throne he wanted for himself.

With one final push the baby was born and the enormous dragon lunged. The heavenly hosts broke into praises to God accompanied by trumpets and cymbals. God nodded. Michael and the armies of heaven leapt at His bidding and there was war in the heavens and upon the earth between Michael and his angels and the great dragon and his demons. It was Christmas morning.

As the world slept placidly Mary cradled her newborn. Joseph methodically tended to his family and freshened the straw in the stable while the cattle chewed their cuds. “And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests.’”

On this night, the course of history changed. Earth, hell, and heaven would never again be the same. In a placid Judean town, nestled in the hills, in a simple feeding trough for livestock, a helpless, boy-child with an olive complexion was wrapped in rags and laid to rest on fresh straw by His teenage mother. God had invaded earth, the seat of the dragon’s bastion.

All around, the spiritual world convulsed with the ebb and flow of combat, death, and destruction. The great dragon did signs and wonders, children were murdered, and Joseph and Mary eventually fled to Egypt for safety. Michael and the army of heaven carried them as though on eagles’ wings. While the hosts of heaven declared the glories of the Lord and his grace, the dragon dragged the very stars from heaven and flung them angrily about. It was Christmas day.

In Bethlehem, a baby was born. In heaven, a spiritual revolution established an earthly beachhead that would forever change the course of history and reclaim the hearts of mankind. Christmas had come. The angels filed the universe with their songs. God had become man.

We live in parallel worlds. As Philip Yancey says, “One world consists of hills and lakes and barns and politicians and shepherds watching their flocks by night. The other consists of angels and sinister forces and somewhere out there places called heaven and hell. One night in the cold, in the dark, among the wrinkled hills of Bethlehem, those two worlds came together at a dramatic point of intersection. But the few eyewitnesses on Christmas night saw none of that. They saw an infant struggling to work never-before-used lungs.”

Unflinching in His determination, God continues to execute His plan of reconciliation. It is His all-out, last-ditch effort to once again state in words we cannot mistake, in words that echo from the lips of an angelic envoy in the Judean hills, down to the pits of hell, up to the ramparts of heaven, and into the hearts of every man, woman, boy and girl: “I love you. Merry Christmas.”

Reference: Luke 2:1-20 (NIV); Revelation 12:1-17

Have you considered giving a gift of No Mercy this Christmas? It is a gift that will keep on giving, influencing, and creating a vision long after the decorations are stored until next year.

The next time the family gathers, you can discuss what it means to you to walk in the light versus live in the pit. Or, like the main characters in No Mercy do, what it might look like to go on a llama-supported, fly fishing trip together.

You can purchase the book at Amazon, but if you would like for me to personalize your copy, or if you would like to receive a bulk discount, you need to order through my publisher, Bonefish Publication.

In order to personalize books, place your order, then send an email with names and/or personal messages to, Info@BonefishPublication.com. I’ll sign the books and then they will be shipped.

I’ll write to you again before Christmas Day, but until then, here’s wishing you a wonderful Christmas!

Ever wish you hadn’t picked up the phone?

A young man in a major mess called me yesterday. He is an up-and-coming residential contractor quickly gaining a reputation for building million-dollar-plus, custom homes. He is engaged to a delightful lady and they have scheduled their wedding for next spring.

However, his bride-to-be told him last night over a quiet dinner that she is pregnant by another man. He is stunned! Numb! (So am I, frankly.) Nevertheless, he expressed to me over the telephone a resolute determination to marry this girl anyway.

What do you think? What do you suppose will become of his reputation, his clients, his acceptance by his rather prominent family? Should he marry this unfaithful girl? How will he love and accept her child that is not their child? All of this, and more, he wanted to know from me as we talked over the phone.

He is considering relocating.

What do you suppose will happen to this man—and woman, for that matter—should they choose to relocate to your town? Will they be welcome in your church? Can I refer them to you as a person ready to be their friend? Tough call, huh?

It is always risky to impose modern culture too heavily upon ancient culture, but pregnancy out of wedlock has always been problematic, and if anything, more so in ancient days than today. As a matter of fact, an adulterous woman, or an unmarried woman who rendered up her virginity, was to be stoned to death by law in many ancient cultures, the culture of the Bible included.

Take my telephone call last night and attach the people’s names, families, and location. It is no longer a case study but involves real people making huge decisions. While no telephones existed, a communication from Mary to Joseph did occur years ago (ref. Mt. 1:18 ff). A young man going about the normal process of building his construction business, looking forward to his wedding date with the lovely lady of his dreams, is stunned by the news that she is pregnant…and not by him.

And what a fantastic stretch the story of conception is that Mary offers Joseph: an angel talked to her; the Spirit of God impregnated her; the child conceived is destined to be the Savior of the World, no less than the Messiah.

Come on, Mary!

How easily, through familiarity and distance, we gloss over the pages of Scripture that recount the events leading up to the first Christmas. Consider Joseph! He was a real man, doing real business in the real world, engaged to a real woman who turned up pregnant thus presenting a problem that would not ever go away but that would haunt him for the rest of his days and recast his reputation for generations.

Disappointment. His fiancée was unfaithful to him and there is no viable explanation, at least no explanation that is credible. No one has ever been pregnant by the Holy Spirit before. There is no precedent spiritually, and certainly none physiologically. Who can he even turn to for counsel?

But note: Joseph possessed character of sufficient depth to corral his emotion, his loss, and his disappointment and consider Mary. The Scriptures smoothly mention that Joseph desired to end his engagement to Mary quietly and in secret, not to protect himself and his reputation as one would anticipate, but rather to avoid disgracing the one unfaithful to him: his fiancée, his promised one, his Mary. Facing his own heartbreak and disillusionment, Joseph thinks of Mary first.

Disgrace. Working through his disappointment, Joseph attempts to create a scenario that will protect Mary’s honor. The Bible gives no indication that Joseph ever considered the disgrace he would incur whether he married Mary or not. It is one thing to live through and recover from disappointment; we have all done this. It is quite another challenge to recover from disgrace. As a matter of fact, disgrace scars for life, and in the case of infidelity, it wounds a man deep in the core of his masculine soul.

Nevertheless, Joseph marries Mary. He believes her story about the Holy Spirit, and is obedient to the guidance given to him by the angel who appeared to him, but until their wedding day he does not know for certain that she is indeed still a virgin.

And what good is such information except to Joseph himself? He can’t announce to the community his finding of Mary’s virginity, can’t prove to his family and friends that she was a virgin on their wedding day. Who’s going to believe that?! Look at her physique! You can only hide a baby bulge for so long. Besides, whatever Joseph says, he and Mary will always have a child older than their marriage.

Determination. Another matter lightly mentioned, I suppose because of its personal nature and inappropriateness to the holiday season: The Scripture notes almost in passing, Joseph kept Mary a virgin until after Jesus was born. Wow! Consider that for a moment. Do you recall how long it took to get from your wedding reception to your honeymoon suite? In my case, we only drove an hour or so, but it seemed like three days! That’s as it should be. Making love is wonderful! But imagine the intimacy of Mary and Joseph living together in the honesty of marriage and Joseph possessing the self-control to refrain from sex with his new wife for months until after the birth of Jesus.

What if Joseph had failed and let his desire get the better of him? What would Satan’s immediate accusation be? That Christ was not conceived in innocence by the Holy Spirit at all. In actuality, he was conceived by Joseph and Mary, via the same process that all other children are conceived, and just like all other children is the descendent of Adam, endowed with a flawed heritage that makes Him incapable of saving Himself before God, let alone all of mankind.

Can you imagine the talk among “the guys” when sex and women were discussed and Joseph insisted that Mary was still a virgin? Right, Joe! What’s with you? How do you explain that progressing bulge under Mary’s dress? You’ve been smelling too much glue in the carpentry shop!

What if Joseph had failed to protect and preserve Mary’s virginity? But note: He did not fail! He determined to be obedient, and he was, all the way to the end.

Being a man is about a lot more than marrying, loving a woman, or waiting to make love to a woman. Joseph not only obeyed God regarding sex with Mary until after she delivered Jesus, he obeyed God at the expense of his reputation and married Mary in spite of her fantastically conceived pregnancy. He denied his desires. He released his hold on his reputation. As a result of Joseph’s obedience, Scripture is fulfilled! Jesus is born of a virgin.

Another angel appears to Joseph shortly after Jesus is born, and for the safety of the child, instructs that Joseph should flee to Egypt with Mary and Jesus. Now understand, the angel is telling Joseph something about his wife and child, but in between his worded message are clear implications that Joseph no doubt understood: leave your home; leave your family; abandon your profession and compromise your ability to provide a livelihood.

Tell me: What would happen to a carpentry business left untended for two years, which is how long Joseph was away? But that night, Joseph leaves with his new family and moves to Egypt. This man was obedient, and as a result, Scripture was fulfilled! God drew Jesus out from Egypt.

And what of Joseph’s return from the foreign country of Egypt? God instructed—for the sake of the integrity of Scripture—that Joseph relocate to the backwater town of Nazareth. I intend no offense, but this would be like moving from Dallas, Texas to Whiskey Flat, Texas. In Joseph’s line of work, this was a very unreasonable request that God made. But he moved, and he adopted the stigma of being from Nazareth, and he raised his family in the backwater, backwoods of Nazareth and because he did, Scripture was fulfilled! Jesus was born in Bethlehem, emerged from Egypt, but hailed from Nazareth.

Much is made of Mary at Christmas, and this is as it should be. Systematic theology emphasizes the role of the Holy Spirit conceiving the Christ in Mary’s virgin body in order that the Christ be sinless, and rightly so. But it is appropriate as well that we consider Joseph. Granted, Joseph was something of a custodian for his pregnant wife and God-incarnate child. But he was also a man of impeccable character who played a significant role in the development of Jesus’ burgeoning character as he grew from infant to toddler to child to boy to man to the God/man destined to redeem mankind through His sacrifice and blood covenant with God.

While Jesus displayed many noteworthy characteristics during his tenure on Earth, perhaps none is more critical to His convincing display of allegiance to His Father than His unwavering obedience. I wonder if the man who served reliably as His earthy father had anything to do with demonstrating what unflinching obedience looked like?

Although never married, the Bible is clear that Christ loves the church as a man loves his wife. In a grand display of sacrificial love and commitment, Christ loved by laying His life down at Calvary for His bride, the church. But in some ways that in practicality seem even more profound, He lays His life down every day on behalf of His bride, and often He does so at the expense of His reputation and ease. I wonder if Jesus was influenced by the man tapped to serve as His masculine role model, Joseph, as He observed this humble man love his wife Mary with little regard for himself, his reputation, and his comfort?

As we sing “Away in a Manager” and “Silent Night” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” this holiday season, I think it fitting that we recognize the quiet, heavily-bearded man standing beside the Virgin Mary and the newborn Christ Child lying in the manger. He helped in the delivery, and he cleaned up, and he tended to his donkey, and he screened the unruly shepherds, and he foraged for food in the crowded town, and he listened to his Heavenly Father.

Joe obeyed. He loved. He sacrificed. He lived his faith and modeled marriage in front of his children, not the least of which—his eldest, conceived by One other than himself—was learning essential lessons in order that the Scripture would be fulfilled.

If you were God, how would you solve your problem?

After years of being unapproachable, you desire to convey a different message. Yet your omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence are intimidating. Your absolute justice, commitment to truth, perfection, and holiness is scary and beyond even rudimentary comprehension. And the fact that you are sovereign doesn’t help matters.

There are myriad voices regularly singing your praises, reinforcing your preeminence, squinting in your blinding light, and honoring your divinity. Your foes are vanquished, your wrath is legendary, and your power and strength are unparalleled.

Granted, you are the embodiment of love, mercy, compassion, longsuffering, kindness, and more good character qualities than comprehension can inventory. Not that these assist you in becoming approachable. Your love for us is undeserved. Your mercy beyond understanding. Your compassion escapes reason. Your kindness is levied outside the realm of logic and your character is impeccable.

These distinguished characteristics serve you well, but they only exacerbate the distance between you and us. Approachability is not your strong suit.

On a small scale—one that we can conceptualize—for you to become approachable would be like asking us to be unfazed approaching a room occupied by the President, the Pope, Oprah, Bill Gates, and Angelina Jolie. And this example is a miniscule effort to capture the magnitude of the problem. While ridiculously powerful, these are mere mortals. You are God.

For all you are, for all you have done, for all you possess, you simply are not approachable. Your interpreters—the prophets and priests of the Old Testament—did their best to portray you in the best possible fashion. And even though they approached you, and most lived to write and tell about it, you remain dauntingly distant. For someone wanting to be approachable, you have a major problem to resolve.

As God considered His dilemma shuffling through the halls of heaven, I cannot help but wonder if He mused to Himself, What is the most irresistible, disarming, approachable being known to mankind and throughout the universe?

The answer is simple, and you don’t even have to be omniscient to recognize the correct answer. A baby! A baby of anything, but especially a baby human. Red, yellow, black, or white—yours or someone else’s—a baby is approachable. And more! We will make fools of ourselves before a crowd cooing at a baby.

And after careful consideration, without sacrificing anything pertinent to His deity, God became a baby; a poor boy-child cared for by a disgraced, young girl; tended to by sheep, cattle, chickens, and a donkey. His first visitors were ruffians and rejects. His swaddle was rags, His bassinet a trough; His nursery was a barn and His birthplace an inconsequential, backward little town.

But how He showed up was not nearly as important as the message He delivered. Carried on the wings of angels and marked with a luminary in the sky never before witnessed by the wisest astronomers, the clarion message was delivered: God is approachable; all are welcome.

In truly God-fashion, God designed a solution to His problem that defied innovation’s reaches. With His ingenuity, He spread His approachability across the entire spectrum from holy to profane. His advent was complete and the commemoration of the solution He devised in order to become approachable was simply called Christmas.

Today, God remains approachable. He reminds us regularly of this fact and emphasizes it yearly in the celebration of His Advent. His invitation is unchanged since it was first issued: Everyone is welcome. I will live in you and you may find life in me. I will exchange your old life for my new life. Just come.

God is approachable. He lives in you to express Himself through you; he encompasses you in Himself and endows you with the security of all that He is in order for you to be all He envisioned for you. And what is that vision? For you to live a life that makes Him approachable to all that observe you living as He intended.

Here’s a totally cool opportunity!

Tuesday evening–that would be tomorrow, the 14th–my friend and fellow author, Lamar Smith, and I will be signing our respective books during the holiday wine tasting at WineStyles in Montgomery Plaza.

A few weeks ago, Lamar and I were sitting and talking at a restaurant and the owner of WineStyles came over to say hello to us. One thing led to another and she invited us to be part of this special evening in her store. How’s that for way cool?

Lamar has written a very interesting and insightful novella, “There’s More to Life Than the Corner Office.” It is a great gift for the business-inclined folks on your shopping list.  It is also a wonderful introduction to the mind of a truly great individual.

My book, “No Mercy,” is an adventure story. It too will make a good gift for readers who are high-school age and up.

I’m hearing that the story line stands up well as an adventure tale, but if you want a book that invites you to think more deeply as the backstory unfolds, “No Mercy” is a good choice. Most readers are telling me that they finished the book and started reading it again the next day.

WineStyles is located in the Seventh Street corridor between downtown and the Museum District. If you will recall, the warehouses of the old Montgomery Ward complex were blown apart during a tornado. The entire property is now refurbished and reinvented, decorated for Christmas, and filled with everything from great eating places to a big-box, super store or two. Woohoo! You can make an evening of it just strolling under the lights, enjoying the chill, and knocking out some shopping.

Lamar and I will both have books on hand, but feel free to bring your existing copies of our books, and we will be happy to sign them. There is no charge for the wine tasting. Typically there are five wines to sample with light  hours d’ oeuvres in between.

For those of you from Georgia and Oklahoma (both authors included), it is not cool to make a meal off the snacks. (I want to know who made that rule, but I digress.) That said, if you like what you taste, Wine Styles has inventory on hand. Depending upon how your shopping has gone, you can take your wine purchases home or open a bottle at the store. Depending upon how books sales go, Lamar and I may join you.

If you are flying in for the signing… (just kidding–a delusional thought).

See you between 6:00 and 8:00 PM, Tuesday evening.

I met Dave a month ago on his seventh birthday—seventh month, that is. He couldn’t really do much other than roll over, and he couldn’t speak a word, although the potential was there judging by his lung capacity at feeding time.

As babies usually are, he was cute as a bug with monstrous blue eyes accented by eye lashes that any woman would envy. Much like me, his hair hadn’t all come in yet so his head was covered with blond fuzz that begged to have my cheek against it. And when rubbed, the skin on his head wrinkled up in silky waves.

Dave held my finger and chewed on it with his two bottom teeth, ignored all the fancy toys his parents had carted to the house, and was totally infatuated with our dog, Honey, who was equally interested in Dave. She couldn’t quite figure if this was competition or simply a moving ornament. It was clear from the start that Dave’s hands were always wet and therefore pulled her hair when he patted her. After the initial introduction, Dave and Honey judged one another from across the room.

Have you ever noticed, or do you remember, how proud parents are? It makes no difference if they were hoping for a girl and were blessed with a boy, if their little bundle is crying, laughing, sleeping, or simply holding the infant seat down on the table. They are justifiably enthralled with their progeny. In addition to being called Dave, this little guy was referred to as sweet, precious, cute, loving, good, a great baby, smart (I’m not sure how this was determined, and I didn’t ask), just like his mother, just like his father, just like his grandfather, and the best. Since we were invited for dinner, and it hadn’t been served yet, I agreed. Besides, if I hadn’t, not only would I have missed dinner, I would have been in trouble when I got home.

As I think back on a wonderful evening with Dave and his family, I don’t recall anyone suggesting that the government would rest on his shoulders one day. Nor do I remember anyone calling him Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, or Prince of Peace. But there was a baby who was called all of these names and upon whose shoulders the government did rest (ref. Isaiah 9:6).

Such were the names attributed to Jesus, the Christ, upon his earthly debut. In fact, as a one-month old, before He was even close to Dave’s age, old-man Simeon held Jesus in his arms and said, “Behold, this Child is appointed for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and for a sign to be opposed—and a sword will pierce even your own soul” (Luke 2:34-35). Have you ever thought about Mary and Joseph’s discussion on the way home from meeting with Simeon? Mothers aren’t usually too keen on the idea of swords piercing their souls, especially regarding their children. But history confirms it, rise and fall many did with the advent of Christ.

While Christ was a completely human baby, with all the challenges and joys that babies bring, He was set apart from every other baby that has ever been born—or that ever will be born—by the names attributed to Him. In the Scripture who is the Wonderful Counselor? None other than the Holy Spirit. Who is the Eternal Father? God Himself. Who is the Prince of Peace? The Son of God. Holy Spirit, God the Father, and the Son. I’m sure Jesus was called all of the things baby Dave was called, but with the prophetic name declared by Isaiah, it is clear that Baby Jesus was the Godhead incarnate.

Old Simeon knew of Isaiah’s prophecy. In fact, he had been waiting for Christ all of his life and recognized him immediately. Eyes that had seen many sunrises and sunsets looked into the face of Mary’s new-born and acknowledged Him as God’s anointed. He confirmed Isaiah’s prophecy: The government of all mankind rested on this baby’s tiny shoulders.

Baby Jesus grew to be a fine man and accomplished all that His Father planned. He then ascended to heaven and now sits at the right hand of God. He is called King of kings and Lord of lords.

With the cusp of the New Year before you, who will govern your life?

If you have not seen the interview with Preston on Canadian television, click the link. It is a wonderful TV debut for No Mercy and your prayer support has been immensely important.

The events in the recent months are taking toll on Preston and he writes, “I’d ask that you pray for me please. While I am interactive with Jim [the TV host], I’m tired, very tired. As you would suspect, life has not slowed down yet after Mom’s passing and the Thanksgiving holiday. I don’t regret the investment of my energy and life in joining my family to care for our folks, but the last months have clearly taken their toll. I need to tend to my health right away.”

Please make this request a matter of your conversations with Father. As you talk to Him, please inquire of what you might do to support the vision of No Mercy. The Christmas season, though busy, affords opportunities for reflection and analysis. Do not hesitate to dream big of how God can use you in relation to No Mercy. What you are really dreaming about is how to help people walk in the Light. And please, share what you hear from Father and what is on your heart. If He puts a dream in you, He will confirm it throughout the community of Believers.

Be blessed as you dream boldly,

Reny Madjarska
Head Prayer Tribeswoman

Crossways to Life in Kitchener, Ontario is hosting an evening with the author—that would be, yours truly—this evening in their offices at 79 Weber Street East.

The evening begins at 7:00 PM. CTL’s Executive Director, Ross Gilbert, and I will discuss my book, “No Mercy,” for a few minutes before opening the room up for discussion and Q&A.

If you have not read “No Mercy” yet, books will be available. If you have already read the book, bring it with you. I’ll be happy to sign books and I am anxious to meet you.

Here is the complete contact information:

Crossways to Life
79 Weber Street East
Kitchener, Ontario N2H 1C6
519-742-1900

I hope to see you this evening. Oh! By the way, there is no charge and everyone is welcome. I will guard against giving too much away about “No Mercy.” So, the storyline will be protected if you have not finished reading yet.