UNPREPARED FOR SPECIAL DAYS

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

Well, here it is, and once again, I’m not ready. Yes, St. Patrick’s Day, and I did not write anything specifically for the day. Other folks plan ahead. They know that 2016 is the 300^th anniversary of the first line dance, and so one of them has already written a novel, The Salsa Murders, and another an historical monograph, Line Dances Through the Ages, and someone else has posted a photo montage on Facebook, not to mention the several Facebook quizzes, such as “Which Famous Line Dancer Best Expresses Your Inner Salsa?”

And here I am, St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m barely able to remember to wear green so that I don’t get pinched if I go out in public, which, admittedly, isn’t so bad when people are trying to pinch you through long underwear, a flannel shirt, a wool sweater, and a parka.

We are in Lent right now. I didn’t realize it until I saw all those people with dirty foreheads. When I did, I groaned. Didn’t we do that last year?

I hate the church seasons, not because of their meaning, but because preachers think that a season calls for a series of sermons. They have to find a theme, like “Journey to the Tourney,” although sort of more religious, like “Journey to Golgotha,” and every week they torture the Scripture into a variation of it. “The First Step. The Second Step. The…” well, you get the idea. Or, “People on the Journey,” or “Stumbling Stones on the Journey…”

Mea culpa. I used to be the worst. I could think up really clever series names. Then, of course, I had to make life fit the series.

Well, life doesn’t fit a series, or a special day. While some folks are getting pinched today, others are mourning the loss of a loved one, others are trying to get sober, some are going to jail. It doesn’t matter which saint’s day it is, or what season it is, or how many round-numbered years it’s been since the last time. All they want is a chance at some comfort and safety and hope.

I suspect that God doesn’t even know it’s Lent. God doesn’t care about your ashes in the form of a cross. God just wants to wash off your dirt, regardless of how or when it got on your face.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.