Why do we do it,
This hustle and bustle?
The cards. The gifts.
The garlands that rustle.
Everything’s perfect
For the One we’re expecting.
Not Santa. Not Rudolph.
The One we’re forgetting.
It’s Jesus who came,
A vulnerable child.
He left heaven’s comforts,
For a world that’s gone wild.
The ultimate gift!
The one we try to out-do.
As each year we forget,
That he gave his life, too.
‘Tis the season of expectation,
Remembrance, and awe
For the one who loves us,
So much, he gave us his all.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Finishing the Race
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” 2 Timothy 4:7
I stood at the finish line of two races this weekend. One was the New York Marathon, the other was at the end of a well-lived life. At both, people were shattered, but limping and staggering home, confident of their ability to heal.
A dear member of our church family died more that a week ago. Although he hasn’t been at worship for nearly a year because of his declining health, he is still dearly missed. He brought a sense of humor and an uncommon passion for justice to our church family. As I listened to the comments of his friends and family throughout the service, I realized that I knew only on small part of this person who took great risks and went to great lengths to live a life obedient to God’s calling.
That was yesterday.
Today, I cheered on marathon runners at mile 25. A friend and I handed out water to exhausted, staggering and bleeding runners. As the day wore on, the runners who came past our station were more worn out. The seasoned marathoners had finished hours ago, the folks who were now passing the water station were running not out of physical strength, but out of sheer willpower. You could see the determined set of their eyes as they dragged their feet along this last mile pavement. We yelled every encouragement we could to these warriors as they passed. We hoped to empower them to finish the race.
The marathon inspires me every year, but this year it was different. I was watching through a mourner’s eyes—As one reflecting on the metaphorical race we all run in life. I watched the runners pass: Each battling their own demons telling them to stop. Each one finding the strength to take another step.
I don’t know how I will look at the end of my race. But after today, I know how I want to be – determined, single-minded, always faithful to the goal, and never ever loosing hope.
I stood at the finish line of two races this weekend. One was the New York Marathon, the other was at the end of a well-lived life. At both, people were shattered, but limping and staggering home, confident of their ability to heal.
A dear member of our church family died more that a week ago. Although he hasn’t been at worship for nearly a year because of his declining health, he is still dearly missed. He brought a sense of humor and an uncommon passion for justice to our church family. As I listened to the comments of his friends and family throughout the service, I realized that I knew only on small part of this person who took great risks and went to great lengths to live a life obedient to God’s calling.
That was yesterday.
Today, I cheered on marathon runners at mile 25. A friend and I handed out water to exhausted, staggering and bleeding runners. As the day wore on, the runners who came past our station were more worn out. The seasoned marathoners had finished hours ago, the folks who were now passing the water station were running not out of physical strength, but out of sheer willpower. You could see the determined set of their eyes as they dragged their feet along this last mile pavement. We yelled every encouragement we could to these warriors as they passed. We hoped to empower them to finish the race.
The marathon inspires me every year, but this year it was different. I was watching through a mourner’s eyes—As one reflecting on the metaphorical race we all run in life. I watched the runners pass: Each battling their own demons telling them to stop. Each one finding the strength to take another step.
I don’t know how I will look at the end of my race. But after today, I know how I want to be – determined, single-minded, always faithful to the goal, and never ever loosing hope.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
When is a train not a train?
According to one young rider, a train just isn’t a train unless someone says “all aboard!”
It was a recent weekend and I was stuck on the slow boat to Chinatown (read: express trains running local into Manhattan). A father and son walk on. The boy is about four years old and very excited to be riding New York City Transit with his father.
The conductor announced “standclearoftheclosingdoor,” the doors closed and the boy looked at his dad and said, “I though we were riding a train?” His tone was that of someone seriously betrayed.
His dad told him, “We are”
“But they didn’t say “all aboard.” They have to say “all aboard” on a train,” he said. He was most-likely reviewing every Thomas the Train episode he’s ever watched in his young mind.
The father tried to explain to his son that “all aboard” was not necessary, but his son would not be moved. “All aboard” was a requirement for the train riding experience according to the boy.
After some whining at his father’s attempts to reason with him, the dad had a brilliant idea. “Why don’t you help the conductor out by saying “all aboard” for him, since he seems to have forgotten?”
And so, at every stop—every blessed stop on this local train with many stops—the little boy said with all the enthusiasm he could muster, “All aboard!”
It was cute at the beginning, but soon became less so as the stops wore on. And so I was forced to think about why this was so important to the boy. God and the MTA know I had a particularly long time to think about this as the train inched its way toward Manhattan.
We’ve all had our expectations of something be completely blown like this boy’s expectation of what happens on a train. And we have a choice. We can deny reality with all our might and become angry, bitter and whiney in our inflexibility. Or, we can make it into something else and yell “all aboard” to all of life’s surprises and make them our own.
It was a recent weekend and I was stuck on the slow boat to Chinatown (read: express trains running local into Manhattan). A father and son walk on. The boy is about four years old and very excited to be riding New York City Transit with his father.
The conductor announced “standclearoftheclosingdoor,” the doors closed and the boy looked at his dad and said, “I though we were riding a train?” His tone was that of someone seriously betrayed.
His dad told him, “We are”
“But they didn’t say “all aboard.” They have to say “all aboard” on a train,” he said. He was most-likely reviewing every Thomas the Train episode he’s ever watched in his young mind.
The father tried to explain to his son that “all aboard” was not necessary, but his son would not be moved. “All aboard” was a requirement for the train riding experience according to the boy.
After some whining at his father’s attempts to reason with him, the dad had a brilliant idea. “Why don’t you help the conductor out by saying “all aboard” for him, since he seems to have forgotten?”
And so, at every stop—every blessed stop on this local train with many stops—the little boy said with all the enthusiasm he could muster, “All aboard!”
It was cute at the beginning, but soon became less so as the stops wore on. And so I was forced to think about why this was so important to the boy. God and the MTA know I had a particularly long time to think about this as the train inched its way toward Manhattan.
We’ve all had our expectations of something be completely blown like this boy’s expectation of what happens on a train. And we have a choice. We can deny reality with all our might and become angry, bitter and whiney in our inflexibility. Or, we can make it into something else and yell “all aboard” to all of life’s surprises and make them our own.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
He is Risen!
Someone I once knew told me about her family’s Easter tradition. When they were young and all living at home, her father used to wake them up on Easter morning proclaiming, “He is risen!” Even as they grew up and moved away, he would call his children on the phone on Easter morning greeting his children with, “He is risen!” Her father didn’t just say it; he proclaimed it as if it was the first time. As if this wasn’t the expected. As if Easter was new to him each year.
I often lose this newness—I allow the Bread of Life to go stale. I take for granted the mystery of Easter, of salvation, of activity of God in the life of someone such as myself. It takes work to keep any relationship fresh, even and most especially, one’s relationship with God. It wasn’t until I attended Good Friday service at my church, which was a Taize service this year, that I realized I had once again lost my wonder of it all. It is a wonder how the King of the Universe would continually and consistently see relationship with people like me.
I often lose this newness—I allow the Bread of Life to go stale. I take for granted the mystery of Easter, of salvation, of activity of God in the life of someone such as myself. It takes work to keep any relationship fresh, even and most especially, one’s relationship with God. It wasn’t until I attended Good Friday service at my church, which was a Taize service this year, that I realized I had once again lost my wonder of it all. It is a wonder how the King of the Universe would continually and consistently see relationship with people like me.
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