Silver Cup Blessing

In recent weeks I had the privilege of spending the evening with my dad and talking until well past when we both knew we should be going to sleep. It was like a moment was held out to me to hear and to be heard, to be challenged and to find voice for what is often held silent. I hope that I will always take hold of those opportunities. I did not fully realize that the conversation was still so present with me, until tonight, when I came nearly to the end of The Fellowship of the Ring. I have been reading Tolkien’s book to my teenage daughters for the few minutes just before they turn off their lights. It has taken the better part of a year. Today we came to the tragic fall of Boromir. At some point in my late-night conversation with Dad, he and i were reflecting on the tendency of Christians to desire control in our world, to gain political influence in order to usher in what is good. Dad remarked, “That is, of course, the whole point of the Ring of Power in Lord of the Rings.” The c...

I have reflected on favorite Christmas songs over the past weeks, but I think my favorite remains “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” The part of the song that means the most to me is this verse: “How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv’n. So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven. No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin where meek souls will receive him still the dear Christ enters in.” Jesus’s birth was unnoticed and uncelebrated when it happens. In the same way, most of our profound meetings with God, I think, happen in the mundane moments. Jesus met people along the dusty roads and in the gnawing hunger of scraping out an existence. The peace that he brings comes often unseen and so I long to be ready for him, to be seeking him. I love the idea of a silent, quiet moment, but perhaps for so many of us the dear Christ must enter in while we are driving kids to school and activities, while we are carrying out the tasks of our work, when w...

Sometimes poetry and song lyrics communicate just enough to open up new ways of seeing theological truths that cannot possibly be expressed in mere logical propositions and cannot be exhausted through valiant attempts at metaphor. This is how I have felt about “Welcome to Our World": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYSZsrEfvX4 “Fragile fingers sent to heal us, Tender brow prepared for thorn, Tiny heart whose blood will save us, Unto us is born.” Something about the words and music of this song has helped me to sense the reality of Jesus as a little baby, but also Jesus as my Savior. He was an infant just like my five little ones. And the most important story of history was prepared and already underway there in the untidy stable. The final verse of the song not only speaks of that story, but also of how it is woven together with mine, with all of ours: “So wrap our injured flesh around You, Breathe our air and walk our sod, Rob our sin and make us holy, Perfect Son of God, Perfect...

“Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see, hail th’Incarnate Deity! Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus our Immanuel.” (Hark! The Herald Angels Sing) God in the flesh, God with us, is the deepest of mysteries. How can it be? But what has been most striking to me about these lines for years is the reminder that God’s entry into the world was not obvious. Those who came to see Jesus at His birth were those whom God showed (the shepherds through the announcement of the angels and the Magi through the signs in the heavens and the words of the Prophets). There was no halo around Jesus’s head in the manger. There was nothing in the face of a squalling baby that gave the hint that God had done the impossible and become what he had created. For the baby in the manger, this may be easy to acknowledge, but it is also true of the man Jesus, preaching and teaching. We might wish to think that somehow Jesus’s deity was obvious to those who saw him or heard him. He spoke with authority, yes. He perfo...

There are two things that I still own and use that my dad got for me thirty years ago. They are items that have little inherent relationship to one another, but that embody what I appreciate most about him. My Rawlings baseball glove is one of them. The other day, when I was out pitching to my oldest son Benjamin, i let myself just feel the glove again. I put it to my face and breathed in and it brought back the days of playing catch with Dad in the yard, of the years that he spent driving me to practices and coaching my teams. It reminded me of the way he took time to nurture my appreciation for this game through trips to spring training in Vero Beach and the stories that he told about listening to the Cardinals play on the radio. I remember the pride I felt in looking at the newspaper clippings from when he played ball. This glove has the characteristic of all good gloves and my relationship with my dad. It is well-broken in, it wears like it was made for me, having adjusted to years...