A solitary goat’s head hung tied up to the side of a barbed-wire fence. Half of it, at least. It remained there this past Thursday as a testament to those who celebrated the Islamic holiday Eid-Al-Adha [feast of the sacrifice] the day before.
       
       Walking home with the children, I tried to divert their attention elsewhere, certain that half of a goat’s head was the last thing they wanted to see just a few days before Christmas. I took another glance, though, I’ll admit. After all, it’s not every day that you find a fresh half of a goat’s head on a barbed wire fence near a Mosque the size and grandeur of Jasmine’s Palace.

       The goat had been a sacrifice, no doubt. It hung eerily on the wire, a chilling reminder of how true a gift Christmas really is.
       
       With the current instability surrounding the upcoming Kenya Presidential election, God provided a way for us to head out of the country for a few weeks while the dust hopefully settles. We briefly passed through Cairo on our way to nestle down in an undisclosed Islamic region of North Africa. It has been an interesting Christmas season, to say the least.
       
       Calls for prayer go up repeatedly throughout the day in a deafening wail which, after a few days, actually seems soothing. Women wrap themselves in veils, covering beautiful faces but maintaining their personality through intricate beading and elaborate clothes. Men sport bruises on their foreheads signifying a supposed greater spirituality through fervent kneeling and bowing prayer. The Koran rests everywhere, worn with use, shouted from loudspeakers on the tops of passing cars, or tucked safely underneath the arm of a devoted follower.
       
       “American?” one local man asked Brian the other day.
       
       “Yes, American,” Brian replied, not really sure if that was a good or bad thing to disclose.
       
       The man grinned broadly putting Brian at ease and quickly made hand gestures like pistols shooting across the range.

       “The Wild West,” he said, laughing while continuing to mock shoot.
       
       “Yes, The Wild West,” Brian answered.
       
       “You know what is thing about you Americans?” the man asked, not really waiting for an invitation to continue. “The thing about you Americans is you have everything,” he stopped to let it sink in. “Everything!” He said again, this time becoming louder in his voice. “You Americans have everything EXCEPT the one true god. We have one true god,” he said, pointing to himself. “You don’t.” His eyes suddenly turned from excitement to dismay, as if he couldn’t understand how a people with so much education and prosperity could have missed something so obvious to him.
       
       With even such a small glimpse as that which we have been allowed into the heart of Islamic culture during this time and times past, it is easy to see how he can say that we, as Americans, don’t have God. After all, our lives don’t reflect that we do to them. Not according to what a life dedicated to God ought to look as outlined in religious books in a myriad of religions ad infinitum.

       Not like their lives look.
       
       A Koran sits on the table of the security man who guards the old apartment we have rented, read throughout the day. A Koran rides in the seat of honor on every dash of every Islamic-driven cab in town. Children have much of it memorized. There is no need to lock the door of our apartment or clutch my kids or purse or bag closely when walking at midnight or even later through the bustling city. Crime is nearly non-existent. No need to worry about getting swindled at stores when prices are written in a language I don’t understand. The sales clerk asks for the right amount. Women dress modestly. Men respect privacy and ask first if they can enter an elevator if it is only myself inside, as one did today.
       
       Speaking of elevators, I’m not really a “mall-girl” - I'll admit - but I thought that since there was a mall nearby and we don’t have them where we stay in Kenya that it would be fun to take the kids to see the extravagance of it for a change . . . maybe get to ride in a glass elevator like Charlie and his grandpa in the Wonka Factory.

      It was just myself and the two smaller children walking the mile or so to the mall when all of a sudden we noticed that we were walking in a steady stream of people. It wasn’t the typical crowd of walkers either; the numbers had increased exponentially, swarming us, and everyone walked in a solemn calm. Suddenly it struck me that it was Friday . . . the day to go to the Mosque for extra prayers. Straight across the street from the mall stood an enormous Mosque and we had inadvertently joined a peloton heading within.  At that moment, I thought it best to cross the street to continue our walk on the side that the mall was on. 

       It pierced me, though, as I started out across the street. Here was a culture of people parading faithfully to a place for prayers, as is their custom to do not only on Fridays but also several times per day every day throughout the year – wherever they are, and here I was . . . a symbol of my own culture at the time of year that we celebrate one of our holiest of holidays, heading straight into a  . . . well, um . . . mall. It was one of those moments that I hoped Jesus was busy saving a continent or something somewhere else and that He didn’t really look on.

      Had He done so, He might have seen men elsewhere down on their knees on their prayer shawls in the middle of the busiest of the city streets . . . men who were not His followers. Just like Brian saw the other day when he walked with an Islamic man through town. Cars swerved so as to not hit the kneeling, praying men.

      “When you kneel and pray like that,” Brian had asked, “what are you praying for? Are you asking for something?”

       “No,” the man volleyed without so much as a second thought. “We never ask Allah for anything. We kneel and pray to give worship.”

       Worship.

          We never ask.

       We only give . . . worship.

       Two thousand years ago on a breezy Bethlehem night, a similar event occurred. Shepherds came to a manger to do the same ~ to kneel and pray . . . and to give worship. Months – perhaps many months – later, Kings and Wise Men traveled far because they had seen a Star pointing them to the One whom they had come to kneel and pray before . . . and worship.

          To give . . . worship.

       If the Spirit of Christmas embodies anything at all, it embodies the very heart and essence of giving worship. If Christmas models anything for us as Christ’s followers at all, it models a life of giving and worship.

       Giving to God.

           Worship of God.

       Worship of a God that gave more than just a babe snuggled softly in swaddling clothes. But worship of a God who gave that babe as a sacrifice for a humanity so steeped in sin that it needs much more than mere goatheads on barbed wire fences to save it.

      Lest Christmas get lost somewhere, as it is so easily able to do so, in the extravagance, tinsel and glass elevators round about us, let us hear the call for prayer and remember the One, true God this Christmas.

                        And when we do so, let us bow, kneel and worship.