I suppose we always show up in the middle. I can’t ever know the whole story of someone’s life. At best, I get invited into a season.
Some say “I love you” are the hardest words to say, but I don’t think so.
Looking into your own child’s eyes as you anoint them (and holding it together) is not something they teach you in seminary.
It’s so like us to assume God has gone somewhere else – that God has left us on our own.
What are the rules for being included at the nativity? And who gets to set them?
Is my forced exile of the wise men also my act of rebellion against the commercialization (and consumer-ization) of Christmas?
It’s easy for me to forget – as the pastor – that I am also a worshipper.
I love the suggestion that hope springs eternal even when the odds and circumstances suggest otherwise.
So we went – and we listened – and we watched. And then we went home. I thought that was it. Boy, was I wrong.
What if we had the courage to stand up to hate? What if we said, “No!” to the false narrative that says this is normal? What if we could learn to choose love?