My Fellow Pilgrims: Story

Being a verbal processor, more times than not, I speak before I think. Sometimes this is not a good thing. Sometimes, it works. In a planning meeting for the coming school year, I was speaking with a colleague, and said, "We are shaped by the stories we tell ourselves." Our choices and responses are formed by the scripts playing in our minds (conscious or not), and we are playing the part of ourselves. As Shakespeare said,

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...

Changing the part I am playing requires me to change the stories I tell myself about myself. Defining (or redefining) my character if you will. I love the closing to the Coen Bros.' The Huddsucker Proxy when the main character reads from the blue letter, and allows himself, because of the new story he tells himself, another chance. Or, casting myself into other tales, like the parables of Christ, and seeing myself and my possibilities from whole new perspectives. We ARE shaped by the stories we tell ourselves, and may we all live happily ever after.

This was a narrative sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent.

Harold sat in his pew, in his church, watching the children in their bathrobes fidget and fuss. Every year a new crop of elementary school kids took their places in the same roles their older siblings took every year in this age-old story. Roles their parents may have taken when they were their age. He thought of how the cycle of the years had brought them once again to Christmas, the culmination of Advent. All the children were in their spots, bath towels tied atop their heads and their bathrobes wrapped about them as if they were actual shepherds or Magi from the East, or even traveling carpenters and unwed mothers enacting the miracle of the incarnation two millennia and even more miles from that night in that place.

The minister was beginning the drudgery of trying to say something new to a story people new backwards and forwards, and Harold sat quietly and pleasantly but his mind wandered back through the years. He already had his finger in the hymnal marking the closing hymn, that he had sung every year for decades at this pageant. The words seemed so out of time, and almost silly in this day and age.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.

“Yeah, like if a President wasn’t bad enough, but a King, yeah that’s what we really need,” he thought. He smiled at his silliness. Maybe he should drop the cynicism and just be appreciative, he thought, as he glanced around. “Lord,” he prayed silently, “prepare Him room in my heart tonight.” He sighed. Even for an old man he was tired.

Harold looked up and saw the little red-haired Johnson kid not remembering he was in front of everyone. Harold looked across and saw Mrs. Johnson turning beet-red while her dear child, a supposed wise man picked his nose almost up to the second knuckle. Harold went back through the years to when he played a shepherd, the year he had asked for a new bike for Christmas. He could still envision the mass of red wrapping paper covering that bike. He learned years later had taken his dad most of the night to finish putting it together, and that he had about 10 minutes before Harold came screaming in the room to say “I got my bike!” He could still see his dad’s weary smile. His dad told that story over coffee when Harold was a father himself. He thought of the adventures and misadventures he had had on the bike and in his childhood mind, it was so good. At that point in his life, he had named it joy.

Glancing down, he looked to the next verse.

Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.

Repeat. Repeat. He could see his days on the football field, and the coach screaming, “Repeat!” Blowing the whistle. Watching them foul up the play once again. “Repeat!” Blowing the whistle. On one of those days was when he saw Lilly for the first time, looking coyly under her bangs and giving him a smile.

Joseph squirmed on the platform. Obviously Mary, his betrothed and the Mother of the Messiah, had cooties. Mary, kept looking from the baby doll to her husband lovingly, but Joseph would have none of it. He would shift away and roll his eyes. Ahh, young love.

Walking Lilly home, despite being exhausted from practice, Harold felt like they were going a thousand miles an hour, he was so smitten. Those walks could not last long enough. He still feels that weight of judgment from Lilly’s dad meeting them at the porch so that a walk home with Lilly would be all that he would get. That was the beginning of many walks they would share. Around the lake at college. Down the aisle right next to him as soon as they had diplomas. Down the halls of the hospital as they had there first, then second, then third and fourth children. The twins. Talk about repeating the sounding joy. He thought of Lilly and the children, and those busy yet tremendous days, and he had named it joy.

These ancient words, so often sung, had he ever truly considered them before?

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

The Curse, that’s the only word he could think of for it, the Curse with capital C. It had taken so much from him. The retirement he had planned and prepared for was now gone, every penny spent because of the Curse. His dear wife, Lilly, was eaten alive one system at a time by the Curse, cancer, as it was called by those who could separate themselves from the emotions of it. To Harold it was only the Curse, and as far as it was found was from his wife’s beautiful head to her toes. She had kept them painted bright red throughout all those pointless treatments and procedures. Had they made a difference? Had they given her even an extra day? If they had, they were worth all the fortune they cost, and Harold would have paid double. In a second.

He looked at the empty pew beside him, where Lilly had shushed her children, then grandchildren, and Harold missed her arm touching his as the sermon continued on. He rubbed the cushion of the pew and there was an indentation from the years of their attendance, his wife’s presence no longer there, but not absent either. He thought of the small times, the routines of a life together, and he named it joy.

Again, looking down, keeping his mind exploring the days, he saw the final verse.

He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders, of His love.

The wonders of God’s love, all the wonders. He thought of all the days strung together that made up this life he had lived. He thought of the faces, children busy with their own lives, raising up all those beautiful grandchildren he would be lavishing with love over the coming weeks. He thought of the faces of those who had loved and nurtured him. So many. He thought of the times that could not be called happy, but there was an undercurrent, a melody that played just below the consciousness of his life. He heard its theme, its magic. Despite the bad times, despite the tragedies, even in the joyous moments, there was an undercurrent of… He would have to name it joy. One of those funny little one-syllable words that English has that means so much more than its length. Like love. Like peace. Like hope. Just joy. He fought back the tears. The minister’s sermon was coming to a close, and the children could not have been happier. All of them looking expectantly at the Pastor, they had tried to be so good.

The Pastor spoke: “And in conclusion, I remind you of the words from Hebrews 12:1-3, ‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such hostility against himself from sinners, so that you may not grow weary or lose heart.’

“Brothers and sisters, as we ponder the meaning of Christmas, let us keep that in mind. It was not out of duty, or responsibility, but rather Pure, Unadulterated Joy that the baby was born in the manger, lived a life, taught and healed, and then died, so that we might join him in our lives, and in the life to come. Merry Christmas!”

And Harold, pondered this, the underlying joy of his life, where it came from, and where it was heading. He had not always happy, but he always had had joy. He would have to name it joy, that haunting melody underneath the events of his life. It was not a naïve Pollyanna attitude that ignored the bad or the suffering, but a joy that was true and real that could only come from one who is above and beyond his sorrows. He reached out to his wife’s empty place, and missed her, but loved every second of every minute of every hour they had had. He remembered a joy from one who was there in the triumphs and even closer in the tragedies. A savior. His savior. A Messiah. His Messiah. A baby who chose to come and be one of us. A man who walked amongst us. A man who cried. A man who bled. A man who died. Jesus, the bringer of Joy.

And as the Pastor raised his arm, Harold stood. He raised his hymnbook and sang with all the sincerity he had, “Joy To The World.” Those around him, heard him and sang loud and true themselves.

Let us do the same.