Four weeks.  Maybe five at the max.  It’s a rather small window of time in which to sing Christmas carols.  That’s ‘cause we don’t sing Joy to the World in April.  And you won’t hear your worship leader inviting you to sing Silent Night in the heat of August.  Why?  Christmas music is for the Christmas season.

So here’s my question—okay, call it a complaint: Why are so many of today’s churches so unwilling to sing exclusively Christmas music during the Advent season?  Sure, everybody mixes in some Christmas carols.  But most churches I’ve observed just can’t quite let go of Ten Thousand Reasons or the latest from Hillsong United.   Why?

We have 48 weeks to sing the regular stuff, so why can’t the Christmas season be exclusively Christmas music?  What is it that today’s worship music leaders fear—or maybe dislike—about Christmas music?  Is it a question of age?  Or do we feel the songs are too slow?

Hear me clearly—I enjoy today’s worship music.  There’s so much to love! But why are we so reluctant to set it aside—all of it—for just four weeks?

Is it a stylistic addiction?  A discomfort with tradition?  A distaste for introspective tunes?  I surely don’t know.  But I’d like to hear your thoughts.    In fact, I’m inviting you to help write one of my next blogs!  Why not share you answer to the question, “Why can’t we sing pure Christmas music” when you email me.  Here’s where to send your thoughts: Jon@jongauger.com. 

I’m definitely interested in your opinion—worship leader or not.  Tell me why you think we’re so afraid to sing plain ol’ Christmas music…at Christmas. 

I must just excerpt your thoughts in a future blog—so be bold.  Meanwhile, enjoy the Christmas music—while you can!

Anticipation gushed like an oil well--and this crowd was fuel hungry.  They came from Tanzania, Ghana, Uganda, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea—and Kenya.  Nearly 160 in number, these Christian media professionals assembled in Nairobi for intense learning and spiritual encouragement.  Moody Radio calls it a Global Partners Training, where every evening session kicks off with praise music.

Until you have experienced African worship, I would politely suggest your definition of blessing is undersized.  This we were reminded of in surround sound as worship leader Gloria Muliro took to the stage.  Every person in the room seemed engaged, if not electrified.

That's when the power went out.  If you have never been there, night time in Africa brings shades of black darker than what you have previously known as dark.   But as power outages are common, no one panicked.  No one even commented.  Cell phones lit up and the music continued—never skipping so much as a beat—literally.

The singing actually intensified as darkness swallowed up scenery.   Frankly, it seemed to almost magnify the sense of worship.  No keyboard, no amplifiers—no barriers. It was just our voices and our God.  But I should hardly have been surprised by the scene.  

Singing in the dark is what Christ followers have always done.  When the lights have dimmed and hope is gone, Christians sing in the dark.  They sang in the Coliseum.  They sang in the catacombs.  They sang in the Gulag.  Christians sing in the dark because we are people of the Light.  We sing in the dark, because as 1 Timothy 6:16 reminds, we worship Him “who alone is immortal and who lives in unapproachable light.”

Psalms 139:12, “Even the darkness is not dark to thee, and the night is as bright as the day.”

So don't be afraid to sing.

Especially in the dark.

They look soft.  Cute.  Cuddly.  In photos and on television, monkeys are portrayed as adorable critters, albeit with a streak of benign Curious George mischief.  My moments with monkeys suggest otherwise.

In South Africa, a monkey dove through the open door of our resort room, stole the bread off our counter and scampered up a tree with it (glaring at my wife as he stuffed it into his mouth).

In Kenya's Nairobi National Park, small monkeys stretched wildly from branch to branch then skittered down trunks.  All this effort because some from our group were offering the diminutive primates potato chips.  They were clearly accustomed to such exchanges, obviously comfortable snatching the chips from human hands. 

The monkeys were willing to engage us as long as the treats kept coming.  But there was never the slightest hint of gratitude or even simple satisfaction expressed on their furry faces.  No cuddling.  No friendly chatter.  Just a beady-eyed stare in search of more.

As our open-top van trekked through the Nairobi National Park, uncomfortable truth settled on my soul.  You and I—respectable born again folk—are often more like monkeys than men and women in awe of Christ's generosity.

We hungrily snatch every morsel of good that comes our way from the hand of our merciful Savior.  Having consumed one “meal of grace,” we look for another and another and another.  There is scarce thought toward any show of gratitude, humility, and loving dependence.

Like monkeys, we gather around God as long as His hand extends toward us with blessing and provision.  But where is our thanks?  After all, as James 1:17 reminds us, “Every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow."

It’s time to stop acting like monkeys!

It's supposed to feel sacred, to evoke awe.  Yet somehow, I allowed wonder to pass me by.

Any trip to the Holy Land is punctuated with moments of spiritual consequence.  Like sailing on the Sea of Galilee: you peer out into hills that once hosted a dinner for five thousand.  

Meandering through the streets of Jerusalem's old city is akin to time travel.

But for Holy Land travelers weary of shrines, icons and incense, the Garden Tomb is an oasis.  Stone is possessed of a rare eloquence having echoed the words, “He is risen.”

This seventh trip to Israel, I did what I always do.  I snapped pictures outside what may have been Christ's resting place.  Then I assisted one of our tour guests in and out of the stone vault, clicking the shutter of my Nikon all the way.  And then we were outside again, walking toward the communion chapel.

Only then did I mourn the loss.  I had walked inside the tomb where the Son of God may have lain.  Yet I failed to truly ponder it.  There were cursory thoughts, certainly.  But where was the deep pondering over my own sin whose payment bought this room?

Understand, I do not venerate the tomb itself, which likely may not be the actual location. Even if it is, the Bible forbids us from worshipping a place. But why my personal distraction? Had I become callous?  Or “merely” careless?  Truthfully, I was tired on the last day of a full tour.  But alas, the Judge of my soul knows better.  I went into the tomb, but did not experience the tomb.  I captured its image in pixels, but failed to be captured by its essence.  

God forgive me for having eyes—but not seeing, for collecting spiritual souvenirs—but not really bowing my soul.  May God deliver every one of us from “trafficking in holy things.”

A 4am wake up alarm is not my idea of a fun time.  But some destinations are worth it.  Masada is one of them.

On the eastern edge of the Judean Wilderness, an isolated mountain dominates the skyline.  At the top is a plateau upon which Herod the Great built the fortress known as Masada.  Here, 900 Jews once holed up and defied the Roman army until a siege ramp spelled their defeat.  Rather than become slaves to Rome, all 900 took their own lives hours before the Romans finally breached the top. The edifice stands defiant against time and weather, as it has for millennia.  

Two years ago, my friend Dan Anderson, co-producer of Moody Radio's “The Land and the Book” challenged me to join him in a sunrise hike up Masada's “snake path,” which we did with great satisfaction.  This year, he invited me (along with a few others) to repeat the feat. 

Strapping on LED head lights, we worked our way up, awed by the climbers who left before us.  They snaked back and forth above, their tiny lights piercing the mountain blackness.

A climb up Masada's “Snake Path,” will cost you 700 steps and purchase a view 980 feet above the desert floor.  Trip Advisor and Wikipedia suggest the hike should take between 40 minutes and two hours. I clocked in at about 45 minutes—several minutes slower than my time two years ago—and was mildly discouraged. Marathon runner that he is, Dan easily beat me to the top, by at least five minutes. 

But the thing I will always remember about this climb is what happened near the top.  Climbing those stone steps (many of which are not only uneven, but almost cruel in the agony they exact) I began beating myself up over my poor physical conditioning, wondering if I would even finish.

That's when I started to hear the sounds.  Voices.  There was laughter and encouragement and celebration.   It grew louder. As I climbed the final step I at last saw the hikers who had gone on before. 

What a stunning illustration of Hebrews 12:1, “Therefore, surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

Hey don’t give up!  The climb may be steep but the destination is worth it!  Besides—there’s a celebration coming!