A Christmas Rose

 

I wrote this several years ago, but thought of it today...and thought I would post it again.

In the midst of a most trying year....I wish you a most blessed Christmas....

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As dogs go, he wasn't much of one.  Part Newfoundland Hound, part Springer Spaniel, and all ugly.  And, sadly, by any standard, he wasn't smart, but he had a smile that the little boy loved.  For as long as the boy could remember...nine years to be exact...the two had been inseparable.  The dog adored the boy, the boy loved the dog and,  until this Christmas, life had been good for both of then.

When the boy's father was drinking, which was often, he had a tendency to become a theologian of sorts.  He had a particular fondness for the prophets of the Old Testament and two hours after his birth, as his father was toasting the happy occasion for the sixth time, he decided on a name.  On the birth certificate, the boy's name was listed as Amos Ezekiel, but since his mother did not have quite the same regard for the prophets as his father, everyone called him Bud.

Standing outside the flower shop window, the dog watched the boy as he admired the roses through the glass.  With his hand on the shaggy, black head, Bud pictured himself walking to his mother's bed and laying the flowers in her hand.  He only needed two...maybe three.  It would make her Christmas so special and yet, the price was so much more than the few quarters jingling in his pocket.

There had been a time when he simply would have asked his mother for the money and she would have given it to him without much of a thought.  That was before his father had left, and it was before the cost of medication and treatment for his mother had swallowed what little money they had.  So, it was the dog, the boy, and his mother....and he had overheard the doctor tell his mother that this would likely be her last Christmas.

Running his hand through the dog's thick coat, Bud tried to envision life without his mother.  The thought brought tears to his eyes, but he had to stay strong, for he was the man of the family now.  His mother had told him that many times, and he tried to be brave, but Christmas without his mother....well, he just couldn't imagine it.  If this proved to be her last Christmas, he wanted to make it a good one.  The flowers would help, for his mother loved roses, but they were a luxury, and one thing they couldn't afford this year was luxury.

Using his coat sleeve to wipe the tears welling in his eyes, Bud took one more look at the flowers, and slowly walked on with the gray muzzled dog a step behind.  He glanced back, and the dog was looking at him with his tongue hanging out, displaying his typical lopsided grin.  The grin usually brought a warm feeling to Bud, but on this day before Christmas, even his dog's grin could not stop the cold fear growing in him.

The boy and the dog walked to the end of the block, crossed the road, and sat on the bench facing the Cathedral garden.  It was a small but beautiful garden, and a place where Bud would often come when he needed time alone.  The dog sat with his head on the boy's lap, as the boy gently rubbed the graying nose.  His eyes followed families rushing to finish their Christmas shopping, and people entering the Cathedral to prepare for the evening service.  But in his mind, he saw the roses in his mother's hand....only two or three....and they would make his mother so happy, for she loved roses.

A woman plopped down on the bench next to him.  She was the choir director from the Cathedral and Bud could tell that she was angry.  "Two months," she mumbled, partly to herself and partly to the boy.  "We've worked on it for two months, and they still can't get it right...it will be a disaster!  The tenors are tone deaf, the altos can't count, and the soloist is working up a great case of laryngitis.  This is the last year I'll ever do this."

"I'm sorry," said the boy, for he knew nothing about choirs and really didn't know what else to say.  "I'm sure it will go well." 

"There's no possible was that it's going to go well!" the lady almost shouted.  "Christmas will be ruined and I'll never be able to show my face in that church again."  With a sigh, she lifted herself from the bench and started back toward the building.  As an afterthought, she turned to the boy and said, "Have a good Christmas, young man."

Bud forced a weak smile and watched her walk away, but in his mind he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses....only two or three...and they would make her so very happy, for she loved roses. 

"It's going to be the worst sermon I've ever preached!"  the larger of the two approaching men shouted in a loud baritone voice.  He was addressing the chairman of the deacon's board and the two had stopped at the street corner next to the garden bench.  "I just haven't had time to work on it, and it reads like a bad novel.  It'll be a catastrophe!  Maybe I need a vacation." 

"I'm sure it will be just fine, pastor," came the reply.  "What really worries me is the music.  Have you heard that choir?  And even worse, Viola misses half the notes when she sings, 'What Child is This?'  She used to have such a wonderful voice, but she should have stopped singing years ago."

For the first time, they noticed Bud.  "Smile, my boy, it's Christmas Eve!"  boomed the pastor.  "Why are you sitting here with that glum look?  You should be home with your family."

"I'm a little sad," said the boy as he looked away from the men and down at his dog, "My mother's not feeling well," was all he could say. 

"Why don't you and your mom come to our Christmas Eve service tonight?" offered the deacon.  "It might cheer you up."

"Splendid idea," said the pastor, as he reached into his coat pocket for a flyer.  "All the information is on here," he said as handed the paper to Bud.  "Now, I really must get to work on my sermon."

"And I need to pick up a few things before the stores close," added the deacon as they hurried away in opposite directions.

The flyer slipped from the boy's listless fingers and settled in the snow.  He barely felt the dog lick his chin.  In his mind, he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses...only two or three...and they would make her so happy....for she loved roses.

Two women walked from the church and crossed the road.  "The tree started to die a week ago.  There will only be brown needles left by tonight," one whispered to the other, as they waited at the corner.  "And have you ever seen such pathetic looking wreaths?" 

"I told you they started decorating too early," came the reply.  "The whole thing was poorly planned from the beginning.  Well, I'm tired of telling them.  Just let them be embarrassed tonight.  We'll be a laughingstock, but maybe they'll do it right next year.  If I wasn't so busy, I'd do it myself!"

A whine from the dog, drew their attention to the boy.  Bud was absentmindedly scratching behind the dog's ear, and the dog loved it.  He whined again, completely content with life.

"What a cute dog," the lady lied.  "But shouldn't you be home getting ready to open your presents?  All you kids seem to think about these days is what you'll get for Christmas.  You've lost sight of what the season is all about."

Bud sat quietly, staring at his hands.  He hadn't even thought of what he might get, but he did know that it wouldn't be much.  Before he could say anything, the woman was digging through her purse.  "Here," she said, handing him a tract she had pulled from the bag.  "This explains what Christmas really means."

"Thanks," was all the boy had a chance to say before the women hurried across the road.  Bud read the title, "Putting Christ Back Into Christmas," but he couldn't get much further.  He just didn't feel like reading.  The tract soon found a place next to the flyer.  In his mind, he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses...only two or three...and they would make her so happy, for she loved roses.

A man in an expensive suit hurried across the road and collapsed on the end of the bench.  "Two months," he almost shouted at the startled boy.  "For two months we've been shopping...we have dolls, doll houses, doll dresses, and doll cars....we have board games, computer games, a play station, and clothes....we can barely walk through our bedroom.  And this afternoon, the brat decides she wants a puppy for Christmas.  A puppy!  My wife chases me out of the house and tells me not to come back without a puppy.  Why am I telling you this?  You're just a kid and all you kids are just alike....spoiled rotten and always after something for nothing."

Bud looked at the grinning dog on the ground next to him.  An uncomfortable thought was inching its way into his mind, and it kept advancing, regardless of how hard he tried to push it back.  He stared at the stupid, lopsided smile, but all he saw were the roses...the roses in his mother's hand.  Oh, how his mother loved roses, and he only needed two or three.

"Mister," the boy's voice was barely audible, as he kept his eyes on the ground away from the dog.  "I'll sell you my dog."

Laughter burst from the man and the belly beneath the expensive suit jiggled.  "Son, I appreciate the offer, and I'm sure he's a fine animal, but if I brought that mutt home, my wife would divorce me."  He looked at the dog and giggled again.  "Where can I find a puppy on the day before Christmas?" he spoke to himself as he stood and began to walk away.  "Have a merry Christmas, kid."

Bud was ready to go home, but the dog had climbed up with him, and was sleeping soundly with his head in the boy's lap.  Just as he was about to wake him and leave, an old man staggered across the road and dropped unceremoniously onto the bench.  Fumes of whiskey enveloped the area as the ragged man shouted with a smile, "Merry Christmas, youngster," and gave him a slap on the leg.  The drunk ran his hand through the thick hair of the sleeping animal and told the boy that he had a unique looking dog.  "What do you make him out to be?"  he questioned.

"I guess he's pretty much of a mutt," the boy answered.  "But over the years, I've grown kind of fond of him."  The dog was dreaming and his grin grew even more goofy and lopsided.  Bud rubbed the nose as he had so many times over the years.  Again he saw the roses in the hand of his mother, and almost without thinking, he turned to the man, "Mister, I'll sell him to you for six dollars.

"Now, why would you want to sell a fine dog like that for six dollars?"

The question caused words to flow from Bud like they had never flowed before.  He told the inebriate about his mother...about her illness....about the roses, and his mother's love of roses.

When the boy had finished, the gray haired old man had a far away look in his eye.  Somehow, through his alcohol muddled mind, he had traveled back more than half a century.  Clearly, he saw his mother and he saw a child handing the woman a small bouquet of wild flowers.  He recognized the child as himself, before the world had beaten him into the man he was today, living from drink to drink, waiting only for death to remove the pain.

His hand went to his pocket and he felt the well worn ten dollar bill he had hoarded to buy the whiskey that would make Christmas Eve and Christmas Day bearable, or at least help him sleep through it.  He looked at the dog, then at the boy, and he saw himself all those years ago.

Standing slowly, and with much effort, the grizzled old man took the bill from his pocket and laid it on the bench.  "Keep the dog," was all he said, as he slowly walked away.  Bud jumped to his feet startling the dog.  The boy grabbed the bill, and ran after the retreating figure.  When he caught up to him, the old man smiled through the tears in his eyes, "You'd better get to the flower shop before it closes."

In his joy, the boy hugged the old man and turned toward the store.  The man watched him go.  "Kids nowadays," he said to himself as he turned toward his little shack on the edge of town.

Bud raced into the house with the grinning dog close behind him and three beautiful roses in his hand.  Slowly he walked to his mother's room, looked inside, and made his way to the side of the bed.  Her eyes opened slowly, and a smile crossed her face as she saw her son place the roses on her arm.  She was to weak to speak but the smile, and the tears slowly moving down her cheek told Bud that his gift had touched her.  He went to the other side of the bed, crawled in next to her, and held her hand.  As he began to doze, he dreampt that the hand would always be there for him to hold.  The peacefulness of the dream shattered when his eyes slowly opened.   To him, she had always been the most beautiful woman in the world, and in death she remained so.  While he had slept, she had pulled the roses onto her chest, close to her face as if to catch their fragrance.  Her other arm was around Bud's shoulder, pulling him close.  As he looked at her, through his tears, he pushed a wayward strand of hair back into place.  He kissed her cool forehead and let the tears flow freely.  The dog put his head on the edge of the bed, his eyes on the boy, and for the first time the boy could remember, the stupid grin was gone.  In the background he heard the gentle music from the radio, "So this is Christmas....and what have you done...another year over....and a new one's begun..."

On the edge of town, the old man lay under his blanket on a small, rickety bed.  He was starting to shake as his body demanded whiskey that he could not supply, and he knew it was just the beginning.  The night would be a sleepless one and Christmas Day would be dreadfully long, but he remembered the joy on the kid's face and had no regrets.

In another house, closer to the center of town, a little girl had brought two months of shopping to an end in fifteen minutes.  Wrapping paper and half used toys were scattered everywhere.  The mother carried the little girl to bed while the father went to the kitchen to make a place for the puppy.  It would be a long night for him as well.

As the Cathedral bells chimed, people began to file from the church.  It had been an extraordinary service, by all accounts.  The pastor had preached one of his best sermons in years, and was receiving the congratulations due him.  The choir absolutely brought the music to life, and even Viola sounded twenty years younger.  In the candlelight, the oldest members had to agree that the setting was the most beautiful they had ever seen in the church.  It had been a most memorable Christmas indeed.

On the first Christmas Eve, a young woman prepared to give birth to the greatest thing to ever set foot on this spinning pile of dirt. The Creator God, wrapped in human flesh and taking human form would step from eternity into time.  The Creator touching his creation.  Some two thousand years later, as pastors preached, choirs sang, and gifts were exchanged, that same Creator was still touching his creation.  He was gently wrapping his arms around a little boy....a boy holding three beautiful roses and hugging an ugly dog, as they sat through the darkest of nights.  And, perhaps to the dismay of some of the more religious, He was also in a lonely shack on the edge of town, sitting close to the bed of a shaky old man who had given a few moments of Christmas joy to a young stranger.

When the Cherith Dries Up

Now Elijah the Tishbite, of Tishbe in Gilead, said to Ahab, “As the LORD, the God of Israel, lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.”

And the word of the LORD came to him:  “Depart from here and turn eastward and hide yourself by the brook Cherith, which is east of the Jordan.  You shall drink from the brook, and I have commanded the ravens to feed you there.”

So he went and did according to the word of the LORD. He went and lived by the brook Cherith that is east of the Jordan.   And the ravens brought him bread and meat in the morning, and bread and meat in the evening, and he drank from the brook.

And after a while the brook dried up, because there was no rain in the land. 1 Kings 17:1-7 (ESV)

Elijah, one of the more dramatic biblical figures, appears on the scene of the Old Testament without a recognizable genealogy or a long list of credentials.  He shows up abruptly before the wicked King Ahab, and declares the truth that God had shown him.  “It is not going to rain until I say it’s going to rain.”  Under the kingship of Ahab and his infamous queen Jezebel, the people of Israel had rejected the true God and began worshiping the false god’s of Baal.  The bible tells us that Ahab had done more to anger God than all the kings before him.  Elijah fearlessly and boldly confronted the most powerful man in Israel with this prophetic proclamation from God.

Elijah would go on to fill pages of scripture as a healer, miracle worker, king breaker and, above all as an ardent opponent of Baal worship.  He shows up out of nowhere, leaves this earth when a chariot of fire and horses of fire appear and lift him up in a whirlwind, only to appear again centuries later on the Mount of Transfiguration with Jesus and Moses. To be sure, he is not an insignificant biblical figure.

  

Elijah confronts the king, God brings the promised drought, and along with it comes the wrath of Ahab and Jezebel toward the prophet. 

But God leads Elijah to a brook called Cherith.  As the drought becomes worse, God provides water for Elijah from the stream, and has the ravens bring him bread and meat a couple of times a day.  It’s amazing how even the birds of the air hear the voice of the Creator and respond in obedience.

So, Elijah spends the first part of the drought that he had prophesied alongside of Cherith, with his own personal Perrier bubbling up, and ravens delivering whatever nutrients were required for the day.  He is safe from the fury of the king as well as the people of the land who blamed him for the skies drying up.  Elijah is being refreshed spiritually, emotionally and physically in this little Cherith oasis in the midst of a suffering nation crying out to the fertility god Baal for rain to cover the land.

But, after a while, the Cherith dried up.  We don’t know if it happened quickly, and Elijah woke up one morning to a dried up creek bed, or if he watched the water gradually disappear.  Either way, it must have been disheartening and even devastating to watch the sanctuary God had provided for him to no longer have the ability to support even his most basic needs.

Now, I do not pretend to know what Elijah thought when his Cherith dried up, but I know the kind of thoughts I would have.  I know because God has dried up a few Cherith’s in my life. 

 

I am convinced that the God I serve is rich in grace and mercy and, in that grace and mercy, he provides Cherith’s for all of his children as we journey through the highs and lows of a life that does not always go as smoothly as we would like.  There are struggles.  There are difficult times.  There are loses.  There are times when we feel abandoned and alone. 

 

Being a follower of Christ does not make us immune to the pains that come from walking in a fallen world.  Just read of the things Paul and the other apostles had to endure.  But in the midst of it, God provides Cherith’s.  Places or people…moments or years…where God says to stop and be refreshed.  Times when our Father says, “I know the road is hard at times, but stop here to be refreshed spiritually.  Pull over here for a moment to be rejuvenated emotionally.  Stay here and let your body be strengthened and healed.  I’ve got a nice little brook for you, and some birds I want you to meet.”

There are not many Elijah’s out there, but my Father cares for each of his children as if we were.  And he gives us our own little Cherith’s along the way.  It might be a momentary, chance encounter in a store, or a well-timed phone call.  It could be something more long term like a job or a church.  It could be a person or a group of people.  It could be periods of financial security or physical well-being.  The Cherith’s God places in our lives are as varied as his children, because each of us has our own pilgrimage and our own needs along the path.  The Father deals with each of us specifically, not randomly or generically.

But what happens when the Cherith dries up?  What happens if the job is lost?  Or the friend or family member leaves or dies?  Or the bank account begins to dwindle?  Or when you get concerning medical news?  Or when a virus paralyzes the world?  

What happens when the Cherith dries up?  For Elijah, God provided the Cherith brook to protect him and to revive him.  But the same God who provided the Cherith brook, also allowed the water to dry up.  The bubbling little creek, became a sun baked, barren bed of clay.  

Did I mention that Elijah confronting Ahab, and retreating to the Cherith brook is only the beginning of Elijah’s story? 

When Elijah’s Cherith dried up, scripture doesn’t tell us his thoughts, and we are left to speculate.  Perhaps he was mad at God.  He may have questioned God or felt abandoned by God.  It’s possible that he felt like he had displeased God or sinned against God or not prayed the right way or not done the right things.  Again, I am replacing my experience with dried up Cherith’s with how Elijah may have felt.  And, my guess is, unless Christ returns before I go home, my departure will not be quite as dramatic as Elijah’s.  Perhaps his response would have been more trusting, more spiritual, and less questioning of God. 

I don’t know.  But what I do know that even as the Cherith was becoming as dry as the rest of Israel, there was a widow about eighty miles north of him who was rationing the last of her food for her and her son.  Her plan was for the two of them to eat as long as the food lasted and then to curl up and submit to the seemingly inevitable.

The Cherith dried up, Elijah turned to God and asked what he was supposed to do next. He was told to head north because there was a widow who would provide for him.  As far as we can tell, he wasn’t told that the woman was making one final meal for her son before they died.  But Elijah was obedient, traveled north, and found the woman with a handful of flour in a jar and a little oil in a jug.  We’re told that Elijah, the woman and her son ate from the tidbit of flour and the dregs of the oil for many days. 

 

Notice this. The Cherith was never meant to be the destination.  It served a purpose for a season in Elijah’s life to revive him spiritually, emotionally and physically.  It protected him as God prepared him for what was to come.  Had the water kept bubbling up, and the ravens kept bring food, Elijah could have made it his permanent dwelling place.  Elijah could have immersed himself in the luxury of the Cherith while the woman made one tiny, final meal for her and her son.  Elijah could have been washing down ribeye’s with cold water as the woman went through the agony of starving to death and, even worse, watching her son slowly waste away to nothing and die.

The Cherith was never meant to be the destination.  While, through Elijah, God was feeding the three of them for many days by miraculously multiplying food that would not have been sufficient for even a small meal, the son of the woman dies.  But Elijah was there, and he was there because his Cherith had dried up.  Elijah prayed and, as he prayed, death bowed it’s knee to the heavenly appeal of this Spirit filled servant of God, and the child was brought back to life. 

Let me say it again.  The Cherith was never meant to be the destination.  In the next chapter of 1 Kings (1 Kings 18), Elijah confronts King Ahab and 850 prophets of the Baal gods.  It’s one of my favorite stories in the bible.  In the end, Elijah challenges them to a contest.  Eight hundred fifty prophets of Baal against one man of God.  Elijah would build an altar, and they would build an altar.  Elijah would pray to his God, and they would pray to their God.  The rules were pretty simple.  Whichever God answered by fire, that God is the true God.  Nothing happened when the eight hundred and fifty Baal prophets spent the day jumping around and shouting out to their god.  Toward evening, Elijah had them pour twelve barrels of water on his alter, and when he prayed, the fire of the Lord fell, and consumed the offering and the wood and the stones of the altar.  The fire also licked up the water and annihilated the dust around the altar.  That’s a hot fire that will burn up stone and dust.  And, for a moment anyway, the people of Israel declared that God was the true God.

Be patient with me as I say it again.  As great as the Cherith was.  As refreshing and welcome and rejuvenating as it was.  The Cherith was never meant to be the destination.  There was a widow and her son who needed to be fed.  The son needed to be raised from the dead.  And Baal, the false god that had infiltrated the people of God, needed to be defeated.  Elijah would never have done any of these things if the Cherith brook had not dried up.

When the Cherith dried up, Elijah was not being punished. God had not abandoned him or forsaken him.  Elijah had not sinned or displeased God.  The Cherith dried up because it was never meant to be the end of the story.  The Cherith was only there to rejuvenate Elijah so that he might be to write part of God’s story.

So, my friend, when our Father provides Cherith’s in your life, recognize them for what they are and use them.  Refresh yourself in them.  Revive yourself in them.  Revitalize yourself in them. And, as you soak up what God is providing for you, praise him for his kindness, and worship him for his provision.

But when the Cherith dries up, hold your head high. It might be disappointing, and it might hurt, but  God has not forsaken you.  He has not left you alone, and he is not mad at you.  You have not displeased him.  Your Cherith has dried up because the Cherith was never meant to be the destination.  They are merely moments…or a seasons… where God, in his goodness, brings restoration to our lives.  When it dries up, move toward the people he has for you to minister to, and into the victories he has for you in the battles with the false god’s of this generation.  Use the rejuvenation of the Cherith to propel you, and allow the Father to draw on the canvas of your life those things which most glorify him.

Lawn Mowing Reflections

I mowed the lawn for the first time a couple of weeks ago.  One of the things that I enjoy about mowing is that it a rather mindless activity.  I can sit on the John Deere and let it do the work as I drive it around the yard, and think.  I can daydream and let my mind wander while, at the same time, have a sense of accomplishment as the lawn looks better with each trip around the yard.

With each passing year, when I find myself in those spaces where my mind is free to imagine, I find myself wandering in the direction of my next great adventure.  When I was younger those dreams would be of some future event of my life.  Something I was going to do or something I hoped to do.  I would plan, envision the future, and slip into the contentment of the musings of my mind.  As the years have gone by, and I reluctantly acknowledge that I have far fewer years ahead of me than behind me, I realize that the next great adventure will be the moment when my God withholds that next breath.  I’m not being morbid but, in reality, that is the most significant adventure we have all been moving toward since we drew our first breath. 

 

As a believer, with my hope and trust firmly planted in the grace and mercy Jesus poured out on Calvary, I imagine the glory that will be revealed as I bow before my God.  My Father.  My Abba.  I envision the outpouring of emotion as I gaze upon the beauty of my Savior.  My King.  My Lord.

There will be, of course, the joy of being reunited with relatives and friends that have made the journey before me. 

   

But then, there will be the opportunity to meet the saints and men of God that I have been reading about for nearly six decades.

I picture Moses testifying about the strength God gave him to stand before Pharaoh,  the greatest leader and ruler of the time who, with a word, could have destroyed anyone who dared oppose him.  Yet, this Moses, empowered by the God of creation, boldly walked into Pharaoh’s presence, time after time, and said, “I don’t care what you want to do.  I don’t care what you have decreed.  But you are going to have to let my people go.”

I imagine what it will be like to listen to the prophets who came after Moses.  Men who stood before the leaders of nations and the religious elites of Israel, and boldly declared what God was telling them.  They were beaten, imprisoned, and driven into desolate places.  Many were tortured and killed, but yet they defied the people in power, and spoke the words God was telling them to speak.

When the rulers of Babylon told Shadrack, Meshach, and Abednego to bow before the image of King Nebuchadnezzar, they refused and were threatened with a fiery furnace.  I picture their testimony before the heavenly congregation as they tell of the power of God that allowed them to stand before the furnace and the king and say, “Our God can deliver us.  And our God will deliver us.  But even if our God does not deliver us, we will not bow down to anyone other than our God.”

And Daniel, talking about refusing to obey the law of the land that forbid anyone from praying to any god but King Darius.  Telling of the empowerment of God that caused him to throw open his windows three times a day to pray to Yahweh.    

  

Then there will be the Apostles, and the people of the early church.  Again, beaten, tortured and martyred for speaking of Jesus and for gathering in his name.  The leaders of the Jewish nation, and later Rome itself, prohibited it but were met with a resounding, “We must obey God rather than men.”

There will be the largely unheard testimony of the church throughout the centuries including the one in which we live.  Men and women who defied the leaders of nations and the laws they passed prohibiting the followers of Jesus from gathering to worship.  Despite the threats, they spoke of the one they were prohibited from speaking of, they came together to honor him, and received as their reward torture, imprisonment and martyrdom.  I can only begin to imagine the crowns they received in glory.

Testimony after testimony of the power God gave these fellow saints to stand before rulers and say, “I don’t care what you say.  I don’t care what your laws say.  I’m more prone to listen to Jesus regardless of the consequences.”

As I’m finishing up the lawn, I imagine what I might say when it comes time for me to testify. 

 

“Well, there was this really bad virus going around.  Our leaders told us that we might get a really bad cold if we met and so, in our best interests, they passed a law saying that we could no longer meet to worship.  So we quit meeting.  You need to understand that this was a bad virus, and that there was a small chance that someone getting the virus could die.  But they closed our churches, in our best interest, to prevent us from getting sick, and since it was a law passed for our benefit, we locked the church doors.” 

To be sure, I am glad that I am not a local, state or national leader that had to make decisions during this troubling time.  I’m not a church leader, and I am thankful that I did not have to make decisions that would impact the physical well being of my congregation.  I am not in a position to second guess any of the actions that were taken.  I’m just a guy on a mower trying to make the lawn look nice.