Peculiar Preacher

            On most Saturday mornings I go to Mountain Park Park (Note to the editor—that’s not a typo.  It really is the name of the park.  Mountain Park is the name of the city). (Second note to the editor—maybe you should leave the previous note in the column.  It might be funny.)  (Third note—do you think you should leave in the second note, too?)

            My park is set up for old people and small children.  The track winds around tennis courts where everyone plays doubles, a playground with tiny slides and swings, and a pond with old ducks.  The mile-long path has wooden markers each tenth of a mile offering encouragement to runners every couple of minutes.

            “Run” may not be the exactly the right word to describe what usually goes on at my park.  “Jog” would be closer.  “Trot,” “lope” and “saunter” fit.  We go slow.  We time our miles by the position of the sun.

            My crowd wears knee braces, warm up pants and “Carter/Mondale” T-shirts.  We include lots of moms with strollers.  (I have only seen one mother smoking while out getting her baby some fresh air.) 

            Our children have given us iPods so we don’t talk much, but we recognize one another and (even as we listen to the Tony Bennett our children downloaded for us) nod in a friendly manner.   We admire one another, because we know it takes more than a New Year’s resolution to keep people like us showing up.

            I’ve named one of the regulars “Rocky.”  He wears an orange University of Tennessee visor.  He must be in his eighties.  The way he runs makes me think at least one hip and one knee are recent additions.  He moves slowly, but he is often at it when I arrive and still at it when I leave.   

            “Mabel” waited too long to start substituting the side salad for the fries.  I’m guessing she is there on doctor’s orders.  It is easy to imagine her a few years after her kids left home suddenly surprised that she is wearing XXL.  She brings a white poodle—“Killer”—who keeps her moving though not always in the right direction. 

When I got to the park one recent Saturday, I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.  Young people in $200 Nikes were dashing around at a startling pace.  The high school cross country team had invaded our family friendly track.  A thundering herd of sixteen-year-olds with 2% body fat (even though they still eat double cheeseburgers) were running five minute miles like they owned the place.  They were frightening our ducks.

What had always been a leisurely stroll now felt like running with the bulls of Pamplona.  Parents cheered their sons wildly.  Coaches lined the way with stop watches and megaphones.  If the enthusiastic crowd even noticed slow-moving people like Mabel and me, it must have been with condescension. 

            At first I felt bitter about being run off the road, but after the whippersnappers left I calmed down and began to wonder whether the wrong people are getting the applause. 

            Who are the real runners?  It takes more for my gang to be there than the 100-pounders with teenage knees.  Mabel sweats, labors, and struggles, but she keeps coming.  Most people Rocky’s age have given up, but he still shows up.  Maybe the tenth graders darting around the track will still be at it forty years from now, but isn’t the applause premature?

The runners we should admire the most may not be the young fast ones, but the grandparents who drag themselves out of bed when they are feeling sore all over. 

            The real heroes and heroines may not get the loudest ovations.  The quickest, smartest and best-looking should not get all of the praise.  The best Sunday school teacher may not be the one with the biggest class, but the gracious friend who has been caring for the same good people for decades.  The best pastor may not be the one with the biggest church, but the minister who faithfully serves a congregation that struggles to survive.  God’s finest are the ones—young and old, large and small—who are not running for applause. 

            We spend December planning and preparing.  We drive into the parking lot that used to be a highway in hopes of making it to the zoo that used to be the mall.  We listen to Manheim Steamroller on the radio and look at plastic figures kneeling on floodlit lawns.  We set out the familiar crèche and hang sentimental ornaments on the tree.  A few brave souls try to recreate the smell we remember coming from mother’s kitchen. 

If we are not paying attention, Christmas starts to feel like something with which to deal:  “We’ll get everything done and then we can enjoy the holidays.”

            We do not talk about our secret hope that we will feel like children again with all the innocence and excitement that comes with it.  We want to hear bells.  We want it to snow.  We want everything to be wonderful.  We try to make Christmas happen. 

            Our earnest, misguided attempts to force Christmas to come do not work.  Some of you will be ready for your children to go back to school about December 23.  Some have visitors on the way you secretly wish were not coming.  We have moments when we are tempted to skip the whole thing.  Who needs the extra work?  Why are we the ones doing all the work?  Why is Scrooge so misunderstood?  Where can we get one of those buttons that says, “Humbug”?

             The obvious truth is that Christmas is a gift that we do not give, but can only be given.  By the time Christmas Day gets here it seems like a racecar that has run out of gas.  Christmas begins to feel like just another day.  It is twenty-four hours.  Phones ring.  Sick people are still sick.  Lonely people are still lonely.  We end up sitting on the hillside tending our sheep, as though it was an ordinary day.   

            Our mistake is thinking we are in charge.  If we let go of the idea that we are in control, then we can be surprised again.  God will astonish us with moments of grace. 

A moment when you open a peculiar gift.  You feel like you should pretend it is what you want, but you cannot imagine how the giver could ever picture you wearing antlers that light up.

A moment when a child gives you a handmade Christmas card with a big gold star on the front and, for reasons you cannot explain, your eyes mist up.

            A moment when you think of someone who was with you last year, but is not this year.  But along with the sadness you have gotten used to feeling at their absence, you are surprised to also feel gratitude for the time that you had with them.

            A moment when we can almost hear the songs of angels, and cannot figure out why it would happen to us.  How did God decide to love us? 

            We cannot make Christmas meaningful, because we are not in charge.  The best we can do is take the spotlight off the extras and look for the star.  We are to hope it is so, to be open to the possibility that God is present.  It sounds contradictory to wait for a surprise, but that’s how Christmas happens.  We give up our expectations of what we think should happen and open our hearts to God’s surprising joy.  We push aside our cynicism and let God help us believe again.  We listen to the songs God is always singing. 

We join the chorus singing the carols, not because everyone else is singing, but because something stirs within us.  We give and receive gifts, not because it is expected, but for the joy of it.  We look carefully at the manger and feel what the shepherds felt seeing earth lifted to heaven and heaven stooping to earth.  We remember that God still comes in babies who are easily ignored, hungry people we seldom feed, and lonely people we hardly hear.

            Christmas happens when we least expect it, when we receive the gift of Christ as a spirit and a hope, born in our hearts.

“Getting to Christmas”

The Lighter Side

Brett Younger