I experienced mixed emotions when I heard that Tony Jones was stepping down as National Coordinator of EmergentVillage. First there was a foreboding that my declining years would contain a lot less laughter.

And I won't deny that I was more anxious than Phil. 4:6 permits me to be: never has such a slap-dash, impromptu collection of religious dropouts ever been less well coordinated, and the last thing this world needs is a well-organized collection of religious dropouts. What if fate begins to play fast and loose with this arrangement and a leader emerges?

Just think about that the next time you feel drowsy while driving. You won't blink for the next 20 exits.

But I will miss Tony's lectures on Church History. From his interviews with Marie and Pastorboy to his sins against the mandolin, no one was ever tempted to confuse Tony Jones with a thoughtful person; there was an absence of gravitas in everything he did. He was amusing to watch: Tony made Barney the Dinosaur look like the Beast of Revelation.

(He even reworked his website to make himself appear more intimidating. Gone is that dorky image of a boy looking up at you from a sandbox. Now he looks like he wants to be confused with a logger or a soldier of fortune.)

Going also is this promising movement.

The "vibe" and the "ethos" have gone. Cohorts have already split. Disputes over the meaning of words have arisen. Some advise us to abandon the word emergent. Some people are already blacklisted.  Spokesblokes are becoming dissatisfied with the ethos, and they begin showing an inordinate interest in karpos.

(This is especially interesting to me. These people claim to be not Christians but "followers of Jesus", but to read St. Mark's account of the man, fruit was an important element in Jesus' ministry. Jesus said very little about water systems, "fair trade" and "gender equality", but what he said and did in connection with fruit-bearing strikes me as intriguingly portentous.)

Trucker Frank has vanished as a rôle model for church planters, and to my knowledge no seminary has hired him to chair any pastoral theology department.

Doug Pagitt is setting up a blogtalkradio schtick in his run for office in the state of Minnesota. Gone is the trombone abuse and The Roadshow That Bombed Everywhere. In fact, I will miss that gimcrack ad campaign/book tour/self-promotion scheme that made Tammy Faye and Jan Crouch look like such classy dames.

The movement has given us nothing in the way of art, goodness, experience, love of narrative, community, or humility, and the only mystery connected with the movement is what the word eschaton really means.

But our readers ought to take heart.

The going of Tony means the coming of a successor, and there are all sorts of people ready to step up and take ownership of this religious calamity. This is probably my favorite so far: Troy Bronsink (with knit cap, requisite glasses, soul patch and malfunctioning equipment) looks like he's serious about continuing the high standards of leadership Tony set during his administration.

Be on the lookout for further developments.

The Christmas of 2008 was grotesque and lingering.

Up at Schloss Dissidens darkness had fallen and the elderly gentleman morosely putted this year's Christmas present, a piece of coal, with last year's Christmas present, a stick, across the marble floor of his library. Between the fluted arches above the fireplace was the mounted head of an elk, his nose garnished with a red cotton ball placed under the cover of darkness by some insolent staff member.

The glad and golden hours of which the Christmas poet spoke so confidently had not come swiftly on the wing as expected. Instead, the philistines abroad in the world were emboldened to share with us their feelings about "the holidays". One Canadian dunce who thinks of himself as an artist trapped in a pastor's body fashioned something for us that is neither artistic nor pastoral. Nor clever.

But I do think it is indicative enough to assault you with.

This selfsame dunce had a good cry while meditating on the promise of the "first Christmas". [cucullus non facit monachum] You can go there for the whole thing or you can read an excerpt here:

I had a strange and surprising experience yesterday. I went into a store that sells fair trade goods from all over the world. It's an interesting place. Ethereal, New Age music playing. Incense burning. My wife and daughter browsed around looking at their very unique handmade items. I checked out several things. There were 3 or 4 ladies serving people. They were very helpful and friendly. It was packed with stuff and with people. I picked up a vile of aroma therapy perfume called "Rain" and sniffed it. I liked it. I want some. I made my way over to a corner were some handmade banners were hanging inscribed with wise sayings from Mother Teresa, Zen Masters, Nelson Mandela, Buddha, Jesus, Albert Einstein, John Lennon, Confucius, and so on. As I was reading the sayings with the aroma of "rain" still in my nostrils, I suddenly noticed that I was feeling very emotional. I was embarrassed and almost left the store. Instead, I maintained a level of control, just allowing my eyes to be misty and my throat slightly choked up. My heart was welling up with waves of incredible feeling. I walked around the place enjoying the rich atmosphere of peacefulness, calm, joy, and solidarity. I felt genuine unity among all of us in that store. More than any other store, including the Christian book store, this one seemed to promote, even unconsciously, the good will toward all people that the angels promised on that first Christmas. Oh, may it be!

I do hope his Christmas stocking contained a "vile of aroma therapy perfume" along with a lavender sachet and perhaps a nice lace handkerchief.

Elsewhere there was this:

Ever notice how responsive reading in church tends to make us all sound like the Borg? Creepy!

And another promising artist tries his hand at some run-on poetry here:

Twas the Night Before Preaching

Twas the night before preaching and all through the church
not a person was stirring much less were they screaching

The Gospel was hung by the pulpit with care
in the hope that St. Jesus would soon be there

The Christians were nestled all snug in their beds
While vision of rapture danced in their heads

While Christians all settled down for a long winters nap
And the devil got ready for a debilittating rap

When out in the sky that rose such a clatter
I ran out to see just what was the matter

What did I see, Jesus you guess
Now ask Him to do what it takes to fix your mess.

I give at this point.

Have a Great Jesus Christmas.

Bill

He did that all in one sentence and never even had to reach for the dictionary. It's a kind of Christmas Miracle!

And walking by a television one might have seen EWTN broadcasting a tale of gregarious insects and a stolen fruitcake. We cannot tell you the end of the matter because we didn't stay to watch it, but we are confident that it brought glory to God in the highest.

And all the world is filled with the bleat of deluded and sentimental religious folk who, though conspicuously covered in tinsel, powdered sugar and scotch tape, assure us that they are ever mindful of "the true meaning" of the season. So they celebrate this most holy thing by juxtaposing misplaced sentiments and professions of piety. Because mixing the sacred and the profane is what the righteous do.

We were told that whereas the church once "focused on logic, evidence, proof, answers, scholarship, reasons, arguments, and appeals to authority", it would now " focus more and more on beauty, goodness, experience, questions, mystery, community, and humility".

Ironic, isn't it?

I have not any fearful tale to tell
Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw,
Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell
To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw;
But what in yonder hamlet there befell,
Or rather what in it my fancy saw,
I will declare, albeit it may seem
Too simple and too common for a dream.

Two brothers were they, and they sat alone
Without a word, beside the winter's glow;
For it was many years since they had known
The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow
Of age had frozen it, and it had grown
An icy-withered stream that would not flow;
And so they sat with warmth about their feet
And ice about their hearts that would not beat.

And yet it was a night for quiet hope:—
A night the very last of all the year
To many a youthful heart did seem to ope
An eye within the future, round and clear;
And age itself, that travels down the slope,
Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near,
The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime,
Jerking our souls into the coming time.

But they!—alas for age when it is old!
The silly calendar they did not heed;
Alas for age when in its bosom cold
There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed!
They thought not of the morrow, but did hold
A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed
Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute
As if they were a-cold from head to foot.

O solemn kindly night, she looketh still
With all her moon upon us now and then!
And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill,
She hath an eye unto the hearts of men!
So past a corner of the window-sill
She thrust a long bright finger just as ten
Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came,
Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.

There is a something in the winds of heaven
That stirreth purposely and maketh men;
And unto every little wind is given
A thing to do ere it is still again;
So when the little clock had struck eleven,
The edging moon had drawn her silver pen
Across a mirror, making them aware
Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blind
And looked upon the sleeping town below,
And on the little church which sat behind
As keeping watch upon the scanty row
Of steady tombstones—some of which inclined
And others upright, in the moon did show
Like to a village down below the waves—
It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall,
Except it were some very plain remark.
Ah! why should such as they be glad at all?
For years they had not listened to the lark!
The child was dead in them!—yet did there crawl
A wish about their hearts; and as the bark
Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware
Of a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun
A web of heavy cloud about their brain!
And many a sun and moon had come and gone
Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain!
But now with timed pace their feet did stun
The village echoes into quiet pain:
The street appeared very short and white,
And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say
—I knew not which was elder of the two—
"Right through the churchyard is our better way."
"Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew.
I have not seen her grave for many a day;
And it is in me that with moonlight too
It might be pleasant thinking of old faces,
And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan
Sitting about a solitary stone!
Stranger than many tales it is to scan
The earthy fragment of a human bone;
But stranger still to see a grey old man
Apart from all his fellows, and alone
With the pale night and all its giant quiet;
Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hid
The priceless pulses of a mother's soul.
Full sixty years it was since she had slid
Into the other world through that deep hole.
But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid
Grew deaf with sudden hammers!—'twas the mole
Niddering about its roots.—Be still, old men,
Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away,
But it will stay with you till ye are dead!
It is but earthy mould and quiet clay,
But it hath power to turn the oldest head.
Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say
More than a hundred tongues had ever said.
So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket
Into the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life,
An inquest held upon the death of things;
And in the naked north full thick and rife
The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings
Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife;
And the trees seemed to gather into rings,
Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail
Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees,
And most within the quiet moony light,
Therefore those aged men are on their knees
As if they listened somewhat:—Ye are right—
Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees!
Although ye never heard it till to-night,
The mighty mother calleth ever so
To all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways,
And heard her voices in the market-place,
But ye have never listened what she says
When the snow-moon is pressing on her face!
One night like this is more than many days
To him who hears the music and the bass
Of deep immortal lullabies which calm
His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleep
To dim the eyelids of the shining moon,
But so it seemed then, for still more deep
She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon
Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep
A pressure on her; so there came a swoon
Among the shadows, which still lay together
But in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight groped for the chime
As she were heavy with excess of dreams,
She from the cloud's thick web a second time
Made many shadows, though with minished beams;
And as she looked eastward through the rime
Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams,
There fell a little snow upon the crown
Of a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring,
A very helpful little spring indeed,
Which evermore unwound a tiny string
Of earnest water with continual speed—
And so the brothers stood and heard it sing;
For all was snowy-still, and not a seed
Had struck, and nothing came but noises light
Of the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow—
It is a grey head to the spring time mild;
So as the creamy vapour bowed low
Crowning the earth with honour undefiled,
Within each withered man arose a glow
As if he fain would turn into a child:
There was a gladness somewhere in the ground
Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blush
Of red voluptuous roses did it come
That silent speaking voice, but through the slush
And snowy quiet of the winter numb!
It was a barren mound that heard the gush
Of living water from two fountains dumb—
Two rocky human hearts which long had striven
To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shout
Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer;
It was a youthful group that wandered out
To do obeisance to the glad new year;
And as they passed they sang with voices stout
A song which I was very fain to hear,
But as they darkened on, away it died,
And the two men walked homewards side by side.

--- George MacDonald

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
  Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
  Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
  Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low-
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
  When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.

 --- George MacDonald

There stood in heaven a linden tree,
But, though, ‘twas honey-laden,
The angels cried: ‘No bloom shall be
Like that of one fair maiden.'

Sped Gabriel on wingéd feet,
And passed through bolted portals
In Nazareth, a maid to greet,
Blessed o'er all other mortals.

‘Hail Mary!' cried the angel mild,
‘Of womankind the fairest:
A maiden ay shalt thou be styled,
Although a babe thou bearest.'

‘But how should I a mother be
While yet a maid remaining?
No man with love hath looked on me:
‘Tis strange past all explaining!'

‘Most noble queen, no man on earth
Shall share in thy conceiving:
Thou shalt by God be brought to birth,
The Holy Ghost receiving.'

‘So be it!' God's handmaid gan cry,
‘According to thy telling.'
To heaven the angel then did fly,
To his celestial dwelling.

This news filled all the heavens with glee:
‘Twas passed from one to other
That ‘twas Mary, and none but she,
That God would call his mother.

--- Traditional fifteenth-century carol