CFS Christmas Special with Pastor Robert J. Morgan

Okay, so I am Terry Kammerzell, and I'm here on behalf of Creation Fellowship Santee. We're a group of friends who love to learn about our Creator God and believe that the Bible, when read properly, rules out the possibility of long ages.

After 10 years of meeting in person at the Creation and Earth History Museum in Santee, California, we have been meeting online in this platform for four and a half years. And this year, God has been so faithful to us, and he even brought us our 100th unique CFS Virtually There speaker.

You can find archives of our past presentations by going to tinyurl .com forward slash CFS.

Archives.

That's C for Creation, F for Fellowship, S for Santee, and the word archives. Tonight we have with us Pastor Robert J. Morgan. Pastor Morgan is the Associate Pastor of World Outreach Church in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and the leader of Robert J. Morgan Ministries, whose aim is to energize God's people with a greater understanding of and appreciation for the Bible and Christian heritage.

He is also a best-selling gold illuminations and gold medallion winning writer with more than 35 books in print and approximately 5 million copies in circulation in multiple languages. So, Pastor Morgan was our speaker two times in the first year that we were online, and we're so happy to have him back with us tonight for a great Christmas celebration.

With that, I'm going to turn it over to you.

Thank you, Terri, and thank you, all of you. For many years, on Christmas Eve, I've been telling a story. I've been writing an original short story. These stories are fictional, and when I was a senior pastor, then I would tell these stories or read these stories to my church on Christmas Eve, and they became very popular.

People genuinely enjoyed listening to them. We had large crowds for our Christmas Eve services, and some of them were published in a book called Twelve Stories of Christmas. The book now is out of print, but the audio version is still in print.

So if you're traveling over the holidays or you're going to be in your car very much and you want to listen to something, these are family-friendly Christmas stories, and they all tell a particular point about Christmas.

Well, the one that I'm going to read to you tonight—this is a piece of fiction that I've written. It's the only fiction that I write, are these Christmas stories every year. But this is a story called Christmas in Maggie Valley, and it's based around the concept of Genesis 3 .15, and I know that verse and that whole portion of Scripture is very special to you all, and so I thought this would be a good, appropriate story to tell.

Maggie Valley is a little village in western North Carolina that is one of the most beautiful places you'll ever visit. It's right in the Blue Ridge, right in the Appalachians. It was hit hard by Hurricane Helene, and they're still recovering from it.

I wrote this story back in 2015, long before the hurricane, of course, nearly ten years ago. But I think you'll enjoy this story, and I think maybe you'll see the significance of it theologically, but it's sort of like C .S. Lewis.

We write these stories for children, but sometimes as adults we see a deeper meaning. So this is a story, a short story, called Christmas in Maggie Valley. Until now, Floyd and Viola Studebaker had enjoyed a quiet and placid life.

They were mild, mannered, and affable, and had forged a career getting people to smile. They were photographers, and their studio had flourished on Staten Island. But in their mid-sixties, they decided to retire and to leave the city.

They sold their studio, packed their duds, and relocated to a commodious log cabin in Maggie Valley, where Viola had inherited 88 gorgeous acres on the side of a mountain. Moving from New York to North Carolina was an adjustment, but the Studebakers considered change a tonic.

They embraced their new life with enthusiasm, and determined to be outdoorsmen. They signed up for hunting lessons, and they bought guns. They acquired permits and licenses, but they soon realized they didn't have the temperament to shoot animals, except with cameras.

So they stowed their rifles and shotguns, opting instead to hike through the hills, taking pictures, and selling their prints in an artist co-op in nearby Waynesville. It was a healthy life, and Floyd and Viola were fit as fiddles as they both turned 80.

The twist in the tale began the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when Floyd decided to skip church to find a Christmas tree. "'We have acres and acres,' he said. "'There's no need to buy a tree. I'll cut one down.'".

Viola rolled her eyes and went on to church while Floyd spent the morning searching for his tree. He found it on the ridge. It was a beautiful balsam, an eight-footer growing by itself in a clearing.

Firing up his chainsaw, Floyd cut it down and lashed it to his four-wheeler. Once home, he fitted it into the stand and placed it in the bay window, where it stood like a prima donna awaiting an audience.

Presently, Floyd heard the Jeep rumbling up the mountain, and he went out to meet Viola on the porch. "'How was church this morning?' he asked. "'Very good,' she said. Pastor Parkinson spoke from a single verse, Genesis 3 .15.

"'It was quite interesting. You should have been there.'. What did he say?'. He said, "'Genesis 3 .15 is the first Christmas verse in the Bible, the earliest prediction of the coming of Christ. It was spoken to the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

God told him that the coming Savior would crush his head. It was quite interesting. "'And you missed something else, too. What's that?'.

"'J .C.

Jones. Remember him, the paramedic? He was baptized.'. "'Good for him,' said Floyd. "'Yes, and everyone asked if you were sick. I told them that you skipped church to go tree-hunting. They wondered why you didn't wait till this afternoon.

"'It's supposed to rain this afternoon and all week,' said Floyd defensively. "'And besides, I've had success. Come and look at the balsam I found up on the ridge. I have it in the living room, ready for decorating.

Come and see what you think.'". Viola shed her coat in the foyer. Stepping into the room, she gazed at the Christmas tree with surprise. It was large and luxuriant. With her photographer's eye, she noticed how the tip narrowly touched the ceiling, and it was perfectly tapered top to bottom.

There were no gaps or empty spots. It was a symmetry of branches, blue-green and close-knit, dense, thick, aromatic, perfectly centered in the bay window. "'It's gorgeous,' she said approvingly. "'It's truly gorgeous.

I can't believe you found a tree like this. Frankly, Floyd, I was a little worried. I thought you'd come back with something scraggly, but this is just about as perfect as—'. Viola stopped mid-sentence.

Something caught her eye. Movement in the top branches. Floyd saw it too. They watched in slapshot horror as a wave of motion oscillated top to bottom through the tree. The balsam trembled as if a breeze were blowing through it.

Viola felt a flutter of fear. Floyd's mouth fell open. The couple stood paralyzed as a scaly, slimy face shuddered in and out of the branches. A five-foot black snake glided through the limbs like a demon.

It dropped to the floor with a thud and slithered beneath the davenport. Viola tried to yell, but her lungs were frozen. Floyd let out an involuntary scream that sounded like the test of the emergency broadcast system.

Then they just stood there, hearts racing, mesmerized, traumatized. Finding breath, Viola cried, "'Floyd, there's a snake under the chesterfield!'. "'Uh, I know,' said Floyd.

I know. What do we do?'.

"'Well, we've got to get him out of here. We have to move the chesterfield and shoo him out of the house. You open the door, and I'll get the broom.'. "'You open the door, and I'll get the broom,' repeated Floyd.

Should we try to photograph him?'. "'This is no time for pictures, Floyd. There's a reptile in our house.'. With boots laced, the door propped open, and with brooms in hand, Floyd and Viola took their places at both ends of the large leather chesterfield sofa.

They slid it across the floor and then jumped back several feet. But no snake was there. They circled the sofa, and from a respectful distance, Floyd cast the beam of his flashlight beneath it. He ran the broom handle under it, but nothing moved.

They heaved the sofa onto its back, but the serpent had vanished. The couple spent the rest of the day searching every inch of their house. They shone flashlights into every corner. With thick gloves, they unpacked every closet.

They moved every piece of furniture and searched every branch of the Christmas tree. No sign of a snake. By midnight, Floyd and Viola were exhausted. They gave the bedroom another inspection, turned over the mattress, changed the sheets, closed the doors, sealed the cracks, huddled together, and slept with the light on.

Over the next several days, life returned to normal. Fred and Viola didn't exactly forget about the creature, but they figured that it had slipped out of the house the stealthy way that black snakes do.

Viola proceeded to decorate the tree cautiously, and soon the house looked and smelled like Christmas. About a week later, Viola baked a fruitcake, drenched it with rum, and left it on the kitchen counter.

That's for our Christmas party next Tuesday, she said. Later, after supper, she cleaned up the kitchen. After wiping the counter, she noticed a bit of the fruitcake was missing. Floyd, she said, did you take a bite of my fruitcake?

Not me, he said, coming over to study it. That piece must have stuck to the pan when you unmolded it. Just press some fruit pieces into that spot and no one will notice. I can't believe that I didn't see it earlier.

She said it's rather of a large piece. Taking some candied pineapple, Viola repaired the spot and put the cake under the glass on the cake stand. Floyd, meanwhile, built a fire and switched on the lights of the Christmas tree.

He came into the kitchen with an idea. Let's watch Miracle on 34th Street. It had snowed in the higher elevations, and the nocturnal scene through the windows was beautiful, with the glow of the moon reflecting off the white terrain and the outline of the distant mountains silhouetted against the stars.

The fire flickered in the hearth. They covered themselves with a blanket and settled down side by side for a quiet evening of Christmas nostalgia. By and by, Viola felt her husband's arms slide over her shoulder.

Oh, honey, she said with a girlish giggle. It's been a long time since you snuggled up to me during TV time. I'm not snuggling up now, said Floyd. He looked over at her. In the pale glow of the television and with the moonlight casting its radiance through the window, he saw a moving black shadow slink across Viola's shoulders.

His breath was arrested. His face morphed into a Halloween mask of horror. Lifting a trembling finger in her direction, he screamed, Oh, Viola leaped up with energy she hadn't known for years and flung the serpent off her shoulders, through the air, across the room and into the kitchen.

It landed on the counter and took a wistful look at the fruitcake. Grabbing the poker from the fireplace, Viola pursued the creature with vengeance. She brandished the iron like a sword and sent it smashing into the granite counter near the snake.

The serpent spiraled toward the floor, hissing and writhing, its tail gripping the base of the cake stand. Everything crashed onto the tile, glass shattering, snake coiling, fruitcake crumbling into tiny pieces of pineapple and cherry and nuts.

The creature slithered eight inches, flattened himself and disappeared through a hole in the grating of the vent. Viola lunged for him and caught him by the tip of his tail, which curled around her fingers with surprising force.

She screamed and let it go. He's gone down the ventilator, she cried, running to the sink and rinsing her hands under the hot water. He's in the duck work. Floyd regained the presence of mind to join Viola at the sink where he washed his hands, too.

What are we going to do, Viola said, wiping and wringing her hands. I don't know. I don't know, said Floyd. You'll have to go into the crawlspace to find him, she said. Not me, said Floyd. Well, we have to, said Viola.

But her adrenaline drained away as quickly as it came, and she lost the courage of her convictions. They dried their hands and looked at each other and burst into laughter like people who were losing their minds.

Let's cover the ventilator, said Floyd, at length, and tomorrow we'll call the heating and air conditioning people. They went through the cabin, sliding pieces of furniture over every vent and closing the doors to every room.

That evening, they gave the bedroom a going over, stripped the mattress, changed the sheets, sealed the door, and went to sleep with the lights on. The heating specialist came the next day, but a thorough inspection revealed no sign of a snake anywhere.

It had either fled the house, or it was a master of concealment. The Studebakers considered canceling their party, but after several snakeless stays, they opted for normality. After all, the invitations had already gone out.

Viola baked another fruitcake, prepared hors d 'oeuvres, and set out the eggnog. People came. They admired the tree. They ate and laughed and told jokes and stories. They exchanged pleasantries and presents.

All went well, until nine o 'clock, when the conviviality was disturbed by screams from the bathroom, blood-curdling screams, like a woman in the grip of mayhem and murder. Everyone stood shell-shocked for a moment.

Then they stampeded to the end of the house to find Wilma Witherspoon, the matron of Maggie Valley, in paralyzed fear. She was standing in the shower stall. Her limbs were shaking like old water pipes.

Her silver hair spilled onto her face, and the pearls around her neck were vibrating like jumping jacks. Her face was fixed on the toilet. They managed with effort to lead Wilma from the bathroom to the Chesterfield sofa, where everyone crowded around her.

She had not generated such an audience in years, not since her retirement speech as president of the Maggie Valley Citizens Club. At first, Wilma seemed unable to speak, but after a restorative sip of the spiked eggnog, she found a few words.

I was looking for the powder room, she said, squeezing her eyes in painful recollection. I found it and went in and closed the door. I lifted the lid of, she paused delicately, of the commode. There he was, a huge snake like a python.

He started uncoiling and coming out of the water straight at me. Wilma Witherspoon crumpled into convulsive tears, and when consolations proved ineffective, someone suggested she spend the night with her daughter in Waynesville.

Her Cadillac was fetched, and J .C. Jones, the paramedic, was chosen to drive her down the mountain. Everyone watched in silence as the taillights disappeared in the darkness. The party broke up, and Viola and Floyd wondered if they should leave too.

They thought of checking into the Maggie Motel, but the Studebakers were not accustomed to being driven from their home. They stood their ground and slept with the lights on. The next day, the Studebakers hired their church youth group, kids wanting adventure and needing Christmas money, to find the serpent, clad in boots and gloves and goggles and armed with flashlights.

The youngsters went up and down, inside and outside, through every corner, cupboard and closet, crawling and cleaning and exploring and inspecting. They shook every curtain and emptied every cabinet. Next came an army of plumbers and electricians and contractors.

The heating and air conditioning crew returned. Sheriff Tapper stopped by to offer advice, and Pastor Parkinson showed up to offer prayer. By general consensus, it was agreed, the serpent had left the premises via the septic lines.

A wave of relief spread through the hills, and life returned to normal. Until, two o 'clock on Christmas morning, Viola rose at that wee hour to fetch Floyd's gift and put it under the tree, so that it would be there when he awoke.

Another snowfall had swept through the high country, and the snow glistened in the moonlight. Viola retrieved the present and was carrying it toward the tree, when she heard the ornaments rustling in the limbs.

Lowering the box to the sofa, she switched on the lamp and peered at the tree. The branches moved again, and two evil eyes stared at her through the darkness. The creature was wrapped around Viola's favorite decoration, a blown glass ornament of the Christ child.

The snake slithered around, tightening its grip. It flicked its tongue and hissed at her. A surge of fury shot through Viola like a blowtorch, overriding her fear and her judgment. She strode from the room like a general, and marched down the hall to the office.

Switching on the light, she spun the dial to the gun safe, and keyed in the combination. She grabbed the 20-gauge Harrington and Richardson single-shot shotgun, remembered what she had learned in her gun classes.

Viola pressed the apparatus on the barrel, opened the chamber, inserted a shale, and snapped the thing shut. She didn't pause to think whether this was the wisest thing to do. She didn't bother to consider the consequences.

She had the resolve of a Marine on a mission, as she retraced her steps and spotted her antagonist, still in the Christmas tree, still coiled around the nativity ornament. Their eyes met, and the snake faded into the tree.

In one smooth motion, Viola pulled back the hammer, pressed the butt of the gun to her shoulder, aimed, and fired. The blast shook the house like an explosion. The Christmas tree went crashing through the bay window, glass shattering, branches and ornaments, and garland flying through the air like shrapnel.

The recoil sent Viola reeling backward into the wall, and she slumped to the floor, stunned. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and got one brief glimpse of a long black ribbon slithering out of the demolished window like an inmate escaping prison.

Viola might have said a bad word had she not lost consciousness. When she came to, J .C. Jones was hovering over her. I don't think I got him, were her first words. Well, Viola, you got everything else, say J .C.

You took out the Christmas tree and the window and some of the railings on the front porch. You almost gave Floyd a heart attack. What in the world got into you? I was trying to kill the snake. Floyd, still untangling his nerves, knelt down beside her and complained, well, if you didn't hit him, you scared him to death, and me too.

I've heard of burning down the barn to kill the rats, but this is too much, Viola. It's too much even for you. Viola's ears were ringing, her shoulder was bruised, and she didn't feel like being scolded.

She struggled with help to her feet and was led to the Chesterfield where her legs collapsed under her. What caused you to do such a fool thing, Floyd said. I've never known you to do such a fool thing.

Well, Floyd Viola snapped. If you must know, I just thought I would have a real blast this Christmas. Floyd wisely said no more. He sat down beside her, bit his tongue, and patted her hand. A preliminary check showed no broken bones or concussions, but J .C. insisted on a trip to the hospital for a thorough examination.

Viola started to protest, but she was wobbly, and when she tried to stand, she could hardly get to her feet. She reluctantly reclined onto the stretcher, was carried down the steps, and placed headfirst into the back of the ambulance.

Floyd said he'd follow in the Jeep. He was muttering something about it's being past three o 'clock in the morning. Viola closed her eyes and heard J .C. slam the back door of the ambulance and walk around the driver's side.

She heard the crunch of his boots in the snow. She heard him slide into the seat and close the door. She heard the snap of his seat belt. She heard him turn the key and start the engine. She felt a gentle lurch as he shifted into reverse and softly pressed the accelerator.

She felt him turn the steering wheel as the ambulance rolled backward to gain the clearance it needed to turn around. One foot, two feet, three feet. She felt a slight bump. The rear wheel of the vehicle rolled over something.

She opened her eyes as J .C. shifted gears and pulled forward. She lifted her eyes onto her elbows and looked through the back window. The house receded from view. There in the brilliance of the floodlights and of the moonlight crisp against the snow, she saw what had happened to the serpent's head beneath J .C.'s snow-studded tires.

It was the end, she knew, of the serpent's twisted tail. Viola looked at her watch. It was 3 .15 Christmas morning, and that's the story of Christmas and Maggie Valley. The story isn't true, but there is some truth behind it.

Terry.

That was hysterical. That was really great. I only knew how much I hate reptiles. I never thought to shoot one, but now I'm going to think about it.

Well, the story was really inspired because up here in the mountains of East Tennessee, where I am now, we don't have any poisonous snakes on our side of the hill, but there are black snakes and, you know, they're good.

I don't mind black snakes outside, but they do get up in the trees.

They're the black racer snakes.

Yeah, and when I was a boy, I remember seeing some up in the tree limbs and that sort of inspired the whole story.

That's cool.

Well, so I don't know if people can see on my screen over here, but this is the book that it came from, right?

The 12 stories.

I think that it's not going to show very well,.

But it's the 12 stories of Christmas.

Well, this story is not in that book. That book has 12, my first 12 stories. Now I've done about 12 more that, you know, one day we'll compile into maybe 24 stories of Christmas, but this one is not published, but the others are and they're an audio form.

And, you know, this is a sample of what is in that book.

And the 12 stories of Christmas is an audio form on Audible. Is it available? Is that the only way that people can buy it? Is on Audible?

Well, I think wherever you buy Audible books, you can get it there.

And you're the narrator, is that correct?

I'm the narrator of one story, but there's 11 other actors who really do the stories much better than I can for the other stories.

Okay, okay.

And I did see on Amazon, there are a few used copies that people are selling. I also recently got this one from Amazon.

Yep, that's the first six stories.

Okay, all right.

So that's, wait, are the six in this book also in that book or this is 18 different?

Okay.

No, we came out with six and then we added six more and hopefully one day we'll add another dozen and they'll probably be it.

I have a question.

I'm sorry, Terry, on my iPad, I don't know where the chat is. So I couldn't put any questions in. Did I hear you say that you have this in an audio book? When I drive, I like to listen to audio books or like Jan's program.

So do you have it as where you can pop it in and listen to it?

So this story has never been recorded, but I do have 12 very similar stories that are available in an Audible form you know, as an Audible book. And it's called The 12 Stories of Christmas by Robert J. Morgan.

And we have 11 actors plus myself that tell these 12 stories and it's very, very well done.

Well, I'm gonna find that.

Yeah, you can find it on Amazon or on Audible or wherever you get Audible books.

Thank you.

And of course, you also have many other books that are available in print and on Audible.

Yes, and all of my more recent books, I do the narration on them. Some of my earlier books, you know, they had someone else do the narration, but I finally put it in my contract that I had the first option to read the book on Audible.

And so I've been doing that for a number of years now.

I know personally that's been a blessing to me on long road trips. I take you with me. So, you know, you don't get to see all of the beautiful sights I see, but it feels like you're there. So thank you for joining us tonight.

And can you please tell everybody about your website where they can find all of your resources and your podcasts and your 59 seconds sermons?

Certainly, yeah. My website is robertjmorgan .com. On social media, Facebook and Instagram, every day I put a 59 second Bible study. And so you can go there and find those. I usually go through books of the Bible, just one verse at a time or one minute at a time.

And then I have a Bible study podcast every week. Right now I'm going through Psalm 113 through Psalm 118. And these are called the Egyptian Hallel Psalms. And they are the ones that were sung around the Passover meal.

So when it says that Jesus sang in the upper room with his disciples on the night of the Passover, they would have sung Psalm 113 through 118. And that's my current podcast series. So it's the Robert J. Morgan podcast.

So I think that you would enjoy that. Those of you who listen while you drive and I know sometimes in Southern California, it takes longer to get from one place to the other. And frankly, it's that way in Nashville too.

So maybe that would be of encouragement to you.

Nice. And again, we are Creation Fellowship Santee. And this is our last presentation for 2024, but we are planning to return in 2025. And so you'll be able to visit tinyurl .com forward slash CF Santee.

That's C like Creation, F like Fellowship. Santee is spelled S-A-N-T-E-E to find a list of our upcoming speakers once we get them scheduled and added to the website for 2025. But you can also email us at creationfellowshipsantee at gmail .com so that you'll get notified whenever we are having speakers and you won't miss them.

So with that, Merry Christmas. And we're going to go ahead and turn off the live stream and the recording.

And Terry, I'm not sure I can find recording.