“Liberals take the same view as the proprietors of the Dar al-Islam: Once they hold this land, they hold it forever. Notwithstanding that those who give to the foundation are specifically giving to support breast-cancer research, Komen could not be permitted to get away with disrespecting Big Abortion. We don’t want to return to the bad old days of the back alley, when a poor vulnerable person who made the mistake of stepping out of line had to be forced into the shadows and have the realities explained to them with a tire iron. Now Big Liberalism’s enforcers do it on the front pages with the panjandrums of tolerance and diversity cheering them all the way. In the wake of Komen’s decision, the Yale School of Public Health told the Washington Post‘s Sarah Kliff that its invitation to Nancy Brinker [Komen founder and CEO] to be its commencement speaker was now ‘under careful review.’ Because God forbid anybody doing a master’s program at an Ivy League institution should be exposed to anyone not in full 100 percent compliance with liberal orthodoxy. The American Association of University Women announced it would no longer sponsor teams for Komen’s ‘Race for the Cure.’ Sure, Komen has raised $2 billion for the cure, but better we never cure breast cancer than let a single errant Injun wander off the abortion reservation.”

—Mark Steyn, National Review.com, February 4, 2012

Although Earth One came out over a year ago,  I’d stayed away from it.  For one thing, I just can’t bring myself to buy a  twenty-five dollar comic book.  Calling it a “graphic novel,” encasing it in hardback doesn’t ease the pain of this overgrown kid still pining for the drugstore spinner racks of a bygone era.

Another reason I avoided E1 was I’d heard the story was “darker” than the usual Superman stuff.  My tolerance for darkness was pretty much exhausted twenty five years ago after Watchmen and The Dark Knight.  I think it’s safe to say that darkness has been done to death in the interim.  Nevertheless, when my friend John, no fan of dark stuff himself, recommended this one, I was intrigued enough to get it.

The story begins with a young Clark Kent wandering around Metropolis looking for a job.  There are amusing scenes in which he astounds research scientists with his knowledge and pro-sports team owners with his athletic prowess.  His is not the problem us regular guys have, that of finding a job.  No, Clark’s problem is choosing among a hundred lavishly-paying professions, all of which he can do with ease.   Which will fill his heart’s desire?

Meanwhile, back on the farm, the widowed Martha Kent yearns for her adopted son to choose a totally different career, the like of which the world has never seen.  She’s even made him a special uniform for the job.  But Clark is in denial.  Although he wants to use his marvelous gifts to help people, he can’t accept his destiny.

If you watched Smallville much, you’ll recognize the same motif which, unfortunately, was played out over a decade on that show.  The glory of this story, however, is that Straczynski doesn’t let his hero run in place too long.  When an alien invasion threatens the world, Clark sees he has no choice but to cape up and cut loose.

I like Earth One for several reasons.  Not only is the story exciting, suspenseful, and absorbing, but it tweaks the Superman legend in all the right places.

Take, for example, what Straczynski does with that old bastion of journalistic truth and integrity, the Daily Planet.  The joke about the Planet has long been  it’s the paper that gets all the good Superman stories.  Naturally, that’s because, whenever Superman arrives, somehow a certain mild-mannered reporter always manages to be on the scene.   At least, he’s the one who gets the byline.   But why, in a day when newspapers are dying right and left, when the digital has all but displaced the printed, should there even be a Daily Planet?  Ah, this is where our writer glanced back and noticed what was there all along.  Against all odds, fashions, and economics, the Planet manages to stick around precisely because it gets all the Superman stories!  Indeed, Superman’s presence is an economic necessity to the editors, reporters, and employees of that grand old lady.  As such, it feeds Clark’s own need to be needed.  Granted, in the real world, there’s no Superman to prop up the printed page, but, in this story at least, it makes sense.

I also like Straczynski’s approach to Superman’s costume–or uniform, if you prefer.  It’s really the latter his foster-mother, Martha, has in mind as she painstakingly sews together a suit made from the fibers of the red and blue blankets in which the infant from Krypton was wrapped.  Here, Straczynski  allows a major theme from the Christopher Reeve Superman movie–destiny–to hold sway.  But, refreshingly, he departs from the idea that the S-shield on the uniform is some sort of Kryptonian crest.

There’s an interesting flashback wherein Martha presents the suit to her son as Jonathan looks on.  The ‘S’ on the shirt is just that.  According to his mom, it stands for “super-man,” that which her son is and was always meant to be.  Although Jonathan thinks she might’ve gone a bit “fuzzy,” there, he raises no argument.  The emblem will stand for what we all know it stands for.  Regardless of Clark’s ancestry, he is first and foremost Superman!

Here’s a good place to say a word about Shane Davis’ wonderfully detailed artwork.  In these pages, Davis has created what director Richard Donner called “verisimilitude.”  The costume actually looks sewn together, albeit by a fine seamstress.  You can see the ridges along the chest-emblem.  You can tell that, when he finally puts his uniform on, Superman’s wearing a belt.   Oh, and, evidently, neither Martha nor her husband had any qualms about their son using that belt to hold up a pair of red trunks (Take that, New DC!).

I also like the approach to the destruction of Krypton.  Far from being a cosmic accident, we learn that it was, in fact, an act of genocide performed on a truly appalling scale.  While this will no doubt seem new and fresh to many readers, I’m wondering if Straczynski borrowed a leaf from a late sixties tale in which an alien villain killed Krypton  (I don’t have time to look up the issue number.  If you care to comment on that particular story, by all means do so).

Besides the gratification that a grumpy old fan like me feels–”What goes around comes around!”–the plot device also provides a compelling reason for Clark to man up and go to work.  A super-man requires a super-menace.   The vengeful alien Tyrell had made it his mission to wipe out Krypton’s population to the last man.  Realizing that one had escaped his vengeance he bided his time, waiting for him to reveal himself.  When he threatens to use the same war machines that had destroyed Clark’s birth world, he forces our hero’s hand.

Above, I mentioned destiny as a major theme of E1.  Another word to use is “calling.”  Calling is finding that which we were born to do, our true vocation.  It’s a rich biblical term encompassing individuals, faith communities, even whole nations.   Pastors talk about their “calling,” but comedians do too.  Frederick Buechner defined calling as the place where our greatest passion meets the world’s greatest need.   By that definition, I personally believe I am called to preach.  I’m wondering if J. Michael Stracwynski hasn’t read his Buechner too.  He’s certainly written a powerful tale of a young man  finding his place in the world.   The place may be hard, but saying no is harder.

I’d had my own vehicle surgically altered for duty:  an extra rearview mirror and a hydraulic brake on my side.  I was told that, at one time, certain driver training vehicles came equipped with an extra steering wheel as well.  Though I didn’t get one of those, it didn’t take me very long to see the practical benefit of such an alteration.  In the year I spent riding with nervous, hormone-ridden teens, I sometimes wished that my car came equipped with armor plating as well.   Yet, though a couple of my drivers gave me an anxious, even frightening, moment a time or two, they didn’t scare me nearly so much as the “seasoned” motorists we encountered. 

Like the lady who followed us on a curvy, two-lane road.  Double-yellow line; speed limit 35.  The lady evidently wanted to go faster.  She certainly followed closely enough to communicate that desire.  You don’t have to be especially good at lip-reading to make out certain common obscenities spewing from a face contorted with anger.  Meanwhile, my nervous, young student was worried.  I tell him not to worry about her, but keep his eyes on the road and maintain the legal speed. 

Eventually, the lady passed us on the double-yellow line.   My student breathed a sigh of relief.   I said, “Now, you just watch.”  Sure enough, within a minute, we pulled up behind the lady at a red light.  The delicious irony of the moment was tempered a bit by the knowledge that it was likely lost on Heidi Hurry.  

I spent a year riding over hill and dale, through town and county, in all kinds of weather.  In that time, I saw drivers perform feats of daring, not to say stupidity, that looked like things you’d see in a movie, e.g., a motorcyclist weaving in and out of heavy traffic at high speed;  drivers sweeping across four lanes of interstate at rush hour, no pauses, no signal lights–veritably swinging across like Tarzan on a vine. I saw mothers with car-seated infants strapped in the front seat, their back seat piled with junk.  Was Jesus tempted to turn stones to bread?  I saw drivers cheerfully changing red to green, ignoring caution lights, running stop lights two and three at a time.   I saw left on red.  I saw parking lots doubling for highways.  I saw a head-on collision with a light pole.   And everywhere, in all kinds of traffic, at high rates of speed, I saw drivers with a fistful of wheel and a handful of cell phone.   That’s the short list.   

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present for your amusement, edification, and hospitalization, the daring, the defiant, the willful; the heedless, reckless, and stupid…American motorist!

The man who trained me for driver’s ed was a brash little guy who began every new driving class with this dictum:  “Lesson Number One:  Everyone’s a moron.”  The corollary to this came with his next statement:  “What’s that make you?  A moron in training.”  That may sound harsh, but, in the years since, having seen so much moronic driving, I’ve wondered how much of our vaunted teaching really sticks?   That’s the sad part. 

The other, more interesting part, the “enlightening” mentioned above, came as I realized that much of what we see on the road is a stark display of none other than human sin.  For years, now, I’ve been telling the people to whom I preach that, if I believed nothing else in the Bible, I would believe in sin.  It’s real.  It’s s universal.  It’s deadly.  Any internal quibbling I might’ve entertained beforehand was wiped away by my year of living dangerously.   

What is a car to us?  It’s not just a means of getting from place to place, is it?  It’s power!  We zip ourselves up in these two-ton suits of steel, rubber, and glass, and then weeee…EXPRESS OURSELVES!   Again I tell you, if I believed in nothing else the Bible taught, I’d believe in human sin—because I’ve watched it through the windshield!  I’ve seen pride and arrogance, childish impatience at one end, downright nastiness on the other.  For our cars are power and, as Abraham Lincoln said, give a person power and you’ll find out what he’s made of. 

I don’t know, though, whether to laugh or cry at my great theological discovery.  On the one hand, it’s rather heartening for this sometimes doubtful preacher to see so many drivers taking a yellow highlighter to important Bible passages. 

On the other hand…sigh…  On the other hand, I got mad this morning at a fellow driver for whipping in front of me in the drive-thru at Tim Hortons. 

Talk about driver’s education.

It’s been a long time since I saw that logo anywhere.  Like all fads, its time has apparently passed.  Still, the question of what Jesus would do in this or that situation remains valid, still more the apparent concern behind the logo–that Christians act like Christians in all situations.  My friend has taken the concern to heart.  He therefore tends to think more in terms of WWJHMD:  ”What would Jesus have me do?”  He has a good point.  As I told my Bible study class recently, “Learning Jesus is one thing.  Letting Jesus is quite another.”

As a pastor, I’ve been thinking about a different version of the logo: WDTHTDWJ–”What does this have to do with Jesus?”  Probably wouldn’t sell, would it?  Wouldn’t fit on a bracelet!  Nevertheless, as American churches race to catch up with what’s hip, to co-opt the culture–only to find what used to be cool is already out of date–I think my slogan worthwhile.

Chairs instead of pews?  Sure.  But what does it have to do with Jesus?  A huge multimedia screen and strobe lights for worship?  Okay.  But what does it have to do with Jesus?

I’m not condemning chairs, screens, or lights.  I use ‘em all in and out of church.  I’m only asking whether the things we use, the things we do, have Christ as their goal.  Do they help bring people into a saving relationship with God through His Son?  Do they contribute to building people up in Christian faith, hope, and love?  Do they send people out into the world as His servants?  Preaching, teaching, music–what do they have to do with the true and living Christ?  For that matter, what does feeding and sheltering the homeless have to do with Christ?  Are these the ongoing expressions of His love in the world or merely the evangelical’s current cause celebre? 

I don’t mean to suggest that any church activity I’ve mentioned is unworthy or trivial.  As far as I’m concerned, at least, all these are important.  I’m only asking if we ever pause to ask whether and what these things have to do with Jesus?

Paul wrote, “We take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5)–not captive to the culture, to statistics, or to the tenor of the times.   We harness church worship and activity neither to old tradition nor the youth market, but to Lord.  What compass are we using?  Do we pause to check our bearings now and then?  Is all submitted to the scrutiny of the One who walks among the golden lampstands, ala Revelation, the Lord of both Church and churches?

If not, why not?  Perhaps we’re afraid we’ll see how cluttered and encumbered we are, how much we groan and strain, not beneath the yoke of Christ, but in the chains of consumerism–or competition or copycat Christianity.

I’m realistic enough to realize that no church, including mine, can be completely free of culture.  We are in the world, not Heaven.  We will always struggle and we will always make mistakes.  So it must always be in the space between between the Now and the Not Yet.

But the challenge for your church and mine remains–to be in the world but not of the world.  It seems to me that, if we wish to pick up that gauntlet, we start by asking…

WDTHTDWJ?

Somewhere along the way, Peterson began meeting with a group of fellow pastors.  They called themselves “the Company of Pastors.”  I’ve been part of minister’s groups before.  My impression of them was a group of hurried, harrassed men subtly trying to one-up each other:  “How’s it going?  How many are you running these days?  What new programs are you starting?”  Peterson’s group wasn’t like that at all.  These people met regularly simply to talk about what it meant to be a pastor and how to stay true to the calling.

One fellow, who was with them for a few years, decided to leave his church for one three times bigger.  He said he needed a new challenge, an opportunity to use his gifts in a bigger, better way.  This bothered Peterson.  He wrote his friend a letter, a portion of which I reproduce below:

I certainly understand the appeal and feel it myself frequently.  But I am also suspicious of the appeal and believe that gratifying it is destructive both to the gospel and the pastoral vocation.  It is the kind of thing America specialize in, and one of the consequences is that American religion and the pastoral vocation are in a shabby state.

It is also the kind of thing for which we have abundant documentation through twenty centuries now, of debilitating both congregation and pastor.  In general terms it is the devil’s temptation to Jesus to throw himself from the pinnacle of the temple.  Every time the church’s leaders depersonalize, even a little, the worshipping/loving community, the gospel is weakened.  And size is the great depersonalizer. Kierkegaard’s criticism is still cogent: “the more people, the less truth.

Peterson goes on to say that human being often seek transcendence in three misguided ways:  drugs and alcohol, recreational sex, and the ecstasy of crowds.  Church leaders often warn against the first two, but almost never against the third.

Peterson’s statements hit me like a brick.  For years, I’ve heard pastors talk out of both sides of their mouth on the subject, piously dampening the appeal of the Crowd–”Numbers don’t mean anything in themselves”–only to turn around and say things like, “Those who run numbers down usually aren’t running them up.”   But, until I read Peterson’s book, I’d never seen a minister take a smooth stone, put it in a sling, and send it dead-shot into the face of the giant.  I’d never heard a preacher say, “Not only do we not need a crowd; we shouldn’t have a crowd.”

Instantly, I saw my own tendency to equate the Crowd with success.   With a little more effort, I dug deeper, examining the roots of that tendency–my own desire that my preaching be heard by more people.  I confess to sinful pride.  I own it; it’s mine.

Honestly, though, I’m not just worried about how many come to hear me.  I’m worried about our church itself.  I currently serve a congregation that’s aging, maybe even dying.  We have few young families.  In a town of 25,000 with a church on every corner (some of which are large and offer many programs), with new churches being planted here every other year, our slice of the pie continues to shrink.  Many of our people are sick and infirm.  Almost weekly, it seems, the phone rings with news of a medical crisis, a turn for the worse, a death.   The last couple years we’ve been hit again and again by the four “Ds”:  divorce, disease, discontent, death.  For every new member we take in, we lose two. Each day, I can hear the clock ticking.  It seems to be growing louder.

The temptation to leave for greener pastures is strong.   Another confession:  one thing that keeps me from doing so is my own age.  A man in his mid-fifties doesn’t get on the short list of candidates for younger, growing congregations.  As an unemployed preacher friend of  mine put it, “Churches want a forty-year-old with thirty years of experience.”

So Peterson’s letter, and his book, comes at a critical juncture in my career.  It forces me to ask myself what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.  If the Pastor is a shepherd, then he can’t simply leave his flock, can he?  Not if he cares about the sheep.  Naturally, if it’s mere wooly mammals we’re talking about, then there might be half-dozen legitimate reasons to leave them–a bigger, better opportunity elsewhere, more money, even sheer boredom.  But people aren’t animals to be tolerated; they’re souls to be cared for.

Struck as I was by the force of Peterson’s statements, I can’t find it in my heart to fault large, even mega-churches per se.  I’ve been privileged to know a few men who led large churches.  Maybe they were more evangelists than pastors.   Maybe their churches are a mile wide and an inch deep.  I don’t know.  All I really know is the men themselves, and no godlier have I found.   Even Peterson’s church grew to 500 or so before he retired–what some might call “mini-mega.”  I therefore take his comments in this regard with just a grain of salt.

Nevertheless, I’m not a big church man.  My gifts, conviction, and calling seem to go the other direction.  If only I could be settled about it in my own heart.   I covet your prayers.

Writer Grant Morrison revisits the Phantom Zone, the dreadful “antiverse” in which Krypton’s worst criminals were imprisoned.  Jor-El and Lara briefly consider saving themselves by entering the Zone–only to be threatened by General Zod who, in a heart-stopping scene, reaches through the supposedly impenetrable barrier with one clawed, robotic hand.   Remember Superman’s little white dog, Krypto?  He’s onhand too, but this dog is large and a bit frightening himself.  Finally, the spaceship into which the babe is placed, the lifeboat, the interstellar cradle for Krypton’s last son, receives a personality all its own.  In fact, it tells the story from its point of view or, more correctly, from the point of view of the ”Brainiac A.I.” computer which powers the craft. 

Perhaps the most interesting, and amusing, scene takes place shortly after the Kents find the babe wrapped in swaddling cape (a red S-shield cloak worn by Jor-El’s father), lying in its Kryptonian manger–”on a cold winter’s night that was so deep” yet!   Alerted to the presence of the alien craft, the military closes in.   How will Jonathan keep the soldiers from finding the orphan?   His solution (hinted at in issue #2) is, shall we say, unique.  

All this is illustrated in compelling, heroic style by Andy Kubert. 

So far, so good.  The remaining pages of the story, however, are marred by by a muddy and complicated narrative introducing new events and characters but not explaining anything.  Hopefully, that will be rectified in issue #6. 

I liked the first five pages of the lead story.  I liked every page of the back-up tale.  Sholly Fisch (who’s doing a great job with the more kid-friendly Batman:  The Brave and The Bold)  has written a little gem in which he explores the Kents’  childlessness.  I was particularly taken with the young couple’s visit to a minister–presumably their own pastor–for counsel.  It was gratifying to hear the man quote from 1 Samuel about the childless Hannah.  Later, after searching to no avail for a way to cure their childless-condition, Jonathan good-naturedly quotes Hannah’s husband, Elkanah: “Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?”  The minister has told them, however, that something wonderful is coming their way and, of course, we all know that it’s true.   

 It seems we can’t get away from the spiritual dimension of this red-cloaked savior from the heavens.  The myth of Superman is the dream of destiny, of mighty purpose, of power and glory.  It’s the dream we all have, funnybook fans or not.  The gospel therein is crude, but, after seventy years, still going strong.   That’s because Superman’s story is a shadowy reflection of the One True Tale, the story of redemption. 

As, indeed, are all the great stories.

She was quite verbal, with a quick tongue and a quicker wit.  I don’t think she set out to be that way; she just was.  She used to write little notes on the attendance pad at church.  Where her name was supposed to be, she’d write, “Same old trouble and strife” and things like that.

You never knew sometimes what she would do or say.  Just ask the ladies of NS who’ll tell you about the time she came to the pool in a bathing suit…made of Saran Wrap.  She wore rooster shoes and sent funny greeting cards. 

She was childlike in her spontaneity.  And, like a child, she could also be stubborn.  She held strong opinions—which nobody could talk her out of.  I know. I tried. 

For example, we once met her and Al in Frisch’s one day after worship.  I greeted her and soon found myself in a debate over the Lord’s Supper.  I got down on one knee and talked to her about it.  (Actually, I argued with her about it.)  I finally had to withdraw from the fray.  People were tripping over my leg in the aisle! 

…………..

The last time I saw her was three days before Christmas.  We were out caroling.  We went to Al and Eileen’s house.  She sat on the piano bench near the door so she could see everyone.  Al stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.  They both sang along with us.  I remember the sheer delight in her face.  I’m glad that’s my last memory of her.  She seems ageless in that memory, frail in body but with the wonder and delight of a child in her face. 

In the resurrection what kind of a body will we have?  Nobody’s sure what, exactly, it will be, but we can be sure what it won’t be.  Not frail, not humiliating, not frustrating.  I remember Eileen out with a leaf blower, so tottery on her feet, but determined nevertheless.  The power to move came from her own iron will.  

But, one day, in the resurrection, her power will flow from God himself and never stop.  Her beauty will be restored, as she reflects the image of the Christ she served.  Her childlike faith will be rewarded with new tasks, new adventures, new pleasures in a new creation bought and paid for with Christ’s own blood.  Her tears, which sometimes flowed when we prayed together, will at last be wiped away. 

And so will ours, if we have the faith of a child of God.

The shepherds have completed their mission.  They’ve been to Bethlehem and found the place where the child lay.  On the way back to the flock, Luke says, they told people about what they’d seen and heard (Luke 2:17).  The New International Version says all who heard it were amazed.  Another version says they were impressed.  I wonder if anybody asked them where the baby and his parents were.  I wonder if anybody took the shepherds at their word and went to see for themselves.  If they did, Luke doesn’t say. 

I tend to think that some of these people were amazed and impressed like I’m amazed and impressed by the stories I see in newspapers:   

$50,000 of Margarine Still Missing but Stolen Truck Found. 

Man Accused of Driving Over Tombstones with Truck.

‘Bored’ Man Guilty of Burying Fiancée Alive. 

Teacher Investigated After Allegedly Writing “Stupid” on Student’s Face. 

Is there really much difference between those headlines and the story the sheepherders were telling:    

Son of God Born in Barn, Shepherds Say:  Heralds Return of Stable Families.    

Really, if somebody told you such a thing, what would you do?  You’d laugh.  You’d shake your head.  You’d go on with your day.  The truth is we hear stories like this all the time, stuff that defies belief.  We might be impressed, but we’re not going to do anything about it.  It’s not going to change our lives. 

Some come to church and they’re impressed.  The people were friendly, the music was lively, the sermon was good.  They were touched, moved.  But they’re not going to come to Christ any more than they’re going to go to Bethlehem.  They’re not going to become Christ-seekers or Christ-followers.  They’re going to move on, unchanged. 

I’ve been in their homes.  I’ve poured my heart out to them.  They’re impressed that I came; they appreciate my concern.  That’s as far as it goes.  And I don’t know what to else to do but pray for them. 

Please join me in praying for the Impressed.

I think the film works a bit better in black-and-white because its strength is its subtlety.  If it had been made in recent years, Santa would’ve displayed his magic in various computer-generated ways.  As it is, aside from an amazing ability to speak fluent Dutch to an orphaned girl, we never see Edmund Gwynn’s Santa (one of the best performances in the role) do anything out of the ordinary–except rile the Powers That Be.   Unlike Tim Allen’s or Paul Giamatt’s St. Nick, he doesn’t live in a fabulous workshop at the North Pole, but in a home for the elderly.  The movie therefore forces the viewer to think:  Is this really Santa Claus–or just a well-meaning but delusional old fellow?  The tension heightens the suspense. 

The theme of the film is Faith.  Without so much as a glimpse of a church, we’re subtly maneuvered into thinking about what we believe and why.  Being a preacher, I quickly took the bait.  I couldn’t help but compare belief in Santa to belief in God and Christ.  Why should any of us believe in the Father?  Where is the evidence of the Son’s lordship?  

When Kris Kringle is forced into a sanity hearing, personal testimonies on his behalf abound.  But the court demands an authoritative body to clinch the deal.  That body appears in the form of the U.S. Postal Service, the minons of which dump thousands of letters to Santa on the judge’s desk.   It’s one of the movie’s most delightful scenes. 

But to what broadly accepted authority do Christians turn to win their day in court?  A myriad of personal testimonies wouldn’t qualify as authoritative.   These days, the Church itself, however defined, isn’t considered a real authority on anything.   How about the Bible?  Regardless of how many swear by it, that’s still just their opinion.   For believers, the Faith remains a matter of personal faith. 

Despite Santa’s’ victory in court, Miracle maintains its ambiguity.   The ending is joyful, but the mystery remains.   Did Kris Kringle really provide the gift the little girl wanted so badly or not?  The same question continues to fuel atheist’s fervor and haunt the minds of even the devout.   But, then, that’s why they call it faith, isn’t it?  

Remember the words of Jesus:  “Blessed are those who haven’t seen and yet believe.”  Remember also the more recent saying, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

Merry Christmas!