The state of our union is not what we’d like. There’s growing division. The dawn’s early light has morphed into darkness and shrouded our hope that unity can be restored.
A Congress divided. A White House beet-red from classified docs Biden wants put to bed. And fears of recession that won’t go away just add to our growing despair.
There’re protests in cities. Things aren’t black and white when it comes to policing and criminals’ rights. The blindfold of Justice needs to be retied while those who are guilty are judged.
The Church is in conflict over what Scripture means. Are it’s teachings still timeless or what culture deems? Should preachers be silenced from speaking their minds? Has tolerance trumped what was truth?
Yes, the state of our union is fragile at best. There’s constant division and brewing unrest. We need a revival of psyche and soul. May God bless our nation again!
How sweet the sound! Amazing Grace played on a piper’s bag. The haunting drone enveloped me with peace. A tune I love reminded me that lost souls can be found and those we lose to death find faith’s release.
John Newton knew this truth first hand. By grace his life was saved. A reprobate became a parish priest. Through many dangers toils and snares, ‘twas grace that helped him see that all are objects of God’s love… the greatest to the least.
This month marks the 250th anniversary of the most-loved hymn of all time. I was grateful for Neil Hubbard’s rendition of Amazing Grace at a memorial service I recently conducted. Truly amazing!
On this twelfth day of Christmas, I’m listening for the percussive rhythm of twelve drummers drumming. But I don’t hear it.
I don’t even hear the familiar melody of that traditional song that calls attention to (among other things) five golden rings, three French hens and a partridge in a pear tree.
Perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree. It’s entirely possible. The recent “blizzard of the century” that blanketed upstate New York in an unprecedented snowfall unleashed the sounds of sirens from emergency vehicles helping the despairing and searching for the missing.
Rather than twelve drummers, what’s drumming in my head are the snares of holiday travel that kept families separated from one another this season.
I’m aware of the sighs and tears that punctate the pain and grief of those facing this new year without a loved one who left through the doorway of death in recent days.
I’m hearing the cacophony of chaotic concerns related to the recent upticks in COVID variants.
I’m listening to the constant (and as-yet unanswered) prayers for peace in Ukraine while those in Ukraine hear the scream of rockets overhead and the scream of victims on the ground.
My ears embrace the sounds of suffering from terminally-ill kids in cancer wards in children’s hospitals as well as the muffled weeping of countless women who regret their decision to abort their unborn baby.
I can’t help but hearing the sounds of praying parents and grandparents calling out to God on behalf of those they love who are making self-destructive choices or suffering the consequences of mindless decisions made in haste.
And on this day before Epiphany, when we will at long last celebrate the magi’s arrival at their longed-for destination, I also hear an infant’s cry.
It is a cry that echoes down the hallway of two millennia. It is the cry of empathy and understanding. God-with-us is with us, indeed.