chappelltemple

All in all, it’s been quite the experience.  For with but a short exception we’ve lived out all of our marriage and our ministry in houses belonging to the church or appointment where we were assigned.    And each has had its charms—and challenges—to be sure.

There was the sign reading “Methodist Parsonage” that hung out in front of our very first home, for instance, clearly identifying both the house and its inhabitants to all.   Similarly, there was the house which sat in the church parking lot at another of our appointments– convenient to be sure, but sometimes just a little too much so.   For despite the easy “commute,” we somehow still managed to often be the very last ones to make it across the driveway to church meetings.

Then there was the house with the Sunday School room dividers built in, those vinyl sliding walls that jumped the track on a regular basis, until that is, we took them down, puttied in the holes in the wall, and swore that they had never been there.

Likewise, back before the conference wisely adopted a plan for pastors to own their own household belongings, we found the exact same peculiar china cabinet in three different houses, making me wonder if there was actually a secret “parsonage room store” somewhere.

Most of all, living in a manse has been a tangible expression of the covenant which we Methodist pastors share, for we’ve not only slept in the same houses through the years, we’ve also found each other’s items after the moves, sometimes in the moving truck, and sometimes in the utility room dryer!

Similarly, we’ve enjoyed the notes which the previous pastors have left explaining the peculiarities of the house to its new inhabitants.  “You have to jiggle this handle three times.”  “When it says it is “off” it really isn’t.”  “This has never worked, at least since we’ve been here.”  Even, “we couldn’t catch the cat—good luck—she’s mean as blazes!” 

Fortunately, for the past eleven years, we have had the joy of living in the most beautiful home of our ministry, lovingly cared for by church folks who have seen it as their ministry to provide a parsonage which is both spacious and comfortable.  And to be sure, we will miss many things about the house, and miss even more the three magic words of parsonage living, at least when anything breaks:  “Call the Trustees!”

At the seasoned age of sixty, however—lest anyone accuses us of “failure to launch”– it’s time to make the move.  And so thanks to the continued graciousness of our current congregation, we have taken the plunge and are now the certified (or certifiable) co- owners–along with the bank, of course–of our very own patio home in the parish, downsized to a single story far more suitable for all the years to come.

It’s exciting, to be sure, particularly to finally have an answer to the frequent question I’ve never known how to answer, specifically, “Do you rent or own?”  For living rent-free in a parsonage the only response I have been able to make over the years is, “Neither- we just kind of squat there.”

Still, even after some thirty-six years and fourteen houses later, there is one thing that I am sure is the same, however:  “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” (Psalm 127.1)

Here’s hoping then that the Lord may have had His hand even in the building of a non-parsonage dwelling as well.

Just in case the Trustees no longer want to take my calls, that is.

I had almost forgotten it was Independence Day. For traveling for months from one side of Europe to the other, the days had begun to blur together a bit, with a decidedly American holiday pretty far off of anyone’s radar screen.

We were, in fact, much more concerned with how to get yet another load of banned Bibles into the Communist country we were headed toward than with remembering the national celebrations our family and friends were surely enjoying back home.

That is, until we hit a roadblock. More specifically, a border crossing that was temporarily closed, leaving us stranded for several hours in a no-man’s land between the Free World and the fabled Iron Curtain.

Faced with an unexpected delay in our schedule, we improvised a little. We found a balloon, blew it up and let it squeal and fly all around the inside of the van as we let the air out of it. We lit a few matches from our camping supplies and ran around outside the van, waving them over our heads as “fireworks.”

And of course, we sang all the patriotic songs we could remember, from “God Bless America” to “The Star-Spangled Banner” (a truly forgettable rendition, I should confess) to “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” which my two companions from Northern states found only slightly amusing. (I made them do the clapping part.)

No doubt the border guards looking at us through their binoculars at the station ahead must have wondered a bit about the crazy folks about to arrive on their doorstep.

But then we quietly prayed, and as we did so, an enormous sense of privilege came upon all three of us. Perched on the edge of a country not yet free to enjoy such basic rights as exercising one’s faith unencumbered, we were reminded just how precious that those rights truly are.  It was then that it hit us: For reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with us, we had each been born into a land of liberty, while others equally deserving had not been.

And having spent time on the other side of those barbed-wire fences and feeling for ourselves the constant stress brought on by living in an oppressive state, we came to better understand that our freedom really is a gift. It had been granted by the Providence of Almighty God, no doubt, but secured as well by the bravery and sacrifice of countless individuals who have gone before us.

All of which may explain why my own heart has remained to this day more sympathetic to the intense desire and even desperation of so many immigrants — legal and otherwise — to somehow become a part of this amazing land we call America. For even just the idea of freedom is intoxicating when all you’ve known is its opposite.

No doubt most will celebrate the Fourth this year with more than just a few matches and a balloon. But sometime during the day or night, might I suggest that a prayer would also be in order? Thank the Lord for living in this land of the “free and home of the brave,” and for those who gave their all to make it so.

And then remember as well those for whom the American dream is still only that — a dream — waiting to be realized, perhaps even through the efforts and caring of people like you and me.

Riots in the streets…vicious propaganda and pamphlet wars…graffiti on the stone walls… the situation in the Bospurus straits was increasingly untenable, and the leader of that land knew that something had to be done.  But unlike today’s unrest in Turkey, where mobs continue to demand the resignation of the prime minister, the ruler of that fractious region eighteen centuries ago had a different problem on his hands, one far more theological than political.

It had all begun with a priest in Egypt named Arius, a persuasive and charismatic figure indeed, who had clashed with his bishop over claims that the Father alone was really God and so the Son, as one created by God, must be essentially different from Him.  As the teachings of that preacher spread, however, others saw that there was a greater issue at stake:  Was Jesus truly God or not?

And so to answer that question the Roman ruler Constantine decided to summon bishops from across the empire to the world’s first church-wide council held at his vacation lake home in the town of Nicaea, now known as Izmit, Turkey.  Some 220 bishops arrived, coming from as far away as France and North Africa (but only two from Rome itself), spending a month during that sweltering summer of 325 A.D., all under the watchful eye of the emperor himself.

Piling up all of the scrolls and letters which had been sent to him with accusations and complaints by bishops against other bishops, Constantine began by announcing he had not read any of them, and then he instructed his attendant to burn them all on the altar.  Whatever grievances they had, the emperor chided, he wanted them all settled during their time in Nicaea together.

Similarly, when faced with a rather rigid stance on the part of one of the participants, it is said that Constantine—who surprised them all by his understanding of both Greek and theological concepts—scolded the bishop in question, saying, “Place a ladder, Acesius, and climb alone into heaven.”

So encouraged, thus, in the end the bishops hammered out a consensus that may not have been either specific or pretty but which was able to gain the assent of all but three of those who were present:  the Father and the Son, so they suggested, were of the same substance, or homoousias, using a Greek word not found in the scriptures but which pointed to a basic equality all the same.

Later on, the basic tenets which were discussed at that lakeside assembly would come to be known as the Nicene Creed, though many of the issues remained unresolved, including what exactly to do with those who followed Arius.  When the council concluded, however, it is said that the emperor went around the hall not only to speak with each bishop but to kiss many of them right on the wounds that they had suffered in earlier times of persecution by the empire itself—the stubbed fingers that had been hacked off, the empty eye sockets where eyes had been gouged out.  He asked the bishops to remember him in prayer and to likewise live in peace with one another in the days to come, despite the imperfections of what they had been able to accomplish together.

In the centuries which followed, of course, everything was to change in Turkey as it shifted from being a vital center of Christian faith to a land embracing Islam instead.  But I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if the followers of Christ had been stronger and clearer when faced with the competing claims of Mohammad in expressing both the abiding truth and winsome love of God which can bring even those of vastly varying views into genuine communion.

Similarly, as the struggles in Turkey continue to unfold, we should remember that it was in that very land that not only the Council of Nicaea met long ago, but every other ecumenical council of the undivided church, as well, including those at Ephesus, Chalcedon, and Constantinople.  We ought never to take for granted thus the continuing obligation of each generation to live out the gospel to all those around us, whether we live in a “churched” culture or not.  After all, as even the German chancellor Angela Merkel has rather remarkably said of her own homeland, “we don’t have too much Islam, we have too little Christianity.”

And I can’t help but wonder just what the emperor would have said to that.

At least we didn’t sing it in a ridiculous reggae style again this year.  Still, just listening and looking around the room at our annual conference session last week, it was fairly obvious that there were many who may not have had any true appreciation for the words that we were mouthing, despite the fact that the song has been used to open such conference sessions since the days of John Wesley himself.

It was Mr. Wesley, in fact, who altered his brother’s hymn a bit, stretching it to six verses and making it the first song in a section entitled “For the Society…at Meeting” in the hymnal that he produced in 1780.  American Methodists followed his lead and they too began to sing it after organizing a brand new church for a brand new nation here some four years later.  For given the circumstances which circumscribed the lives of the early circuit riders, the question which they asked in the opening song of their yearly gathering was far from merely hypothetical at all.

The garb of those pioneer preachers told some of the story, for it amounted to a uniform of sorts– a black round-breasted coat, a long vest with the corners cut off, short breeches and long stockings (later changed to full-length trousers), and a broad-brimmed and low-crowned hat which marked them all for quick identification.

Usually sleeping out in the woods and traveling on foot or horseback, those spiritual riders on the storm went not only town to town thus but also door to door with the most personal kind of spiritual exhortation one could imagine.  They even inspired a popular saying of the time that suggested that during any heavy rainstorm that there would be “nobody out tonight except crows and Methodist preachers.”

And so, in turn, due to the rather harsh living conditions which they endured, the average life expectancy of a Methodist circuit rider was only 33 years of age, half of them dying before reaching that benchmark year, much less any imagined “perfect preacher’s age” of 45.  Of the first 672 preachers whose records were kept in full, in fact, two-thirds of them perished before being able to render 12 years of service.

Still, by 1828, over 2,500 men had served in what Nathan Hatch has called this “stern fraternity,” led by the indomitable Bishop Francis Asbury who could pretty much outride them all.  So when they indeed did gather for their annual conference, as those circuit riders glanced anxiously around the room, searching out for their friends and comrades, this was an all too real question:  “And are we yet alive and see each other’s face? Glory and thanks to Jesus give for His Almighty grace!” 

The song continued with words with which many in the church can still resonate, I suspect:  “What troubles have we seen, what mighty conflicts past, fightings and fears, within, without, since we assembled last!”

And then, after noting the help which the Lord affords us by His love, the hymn concluded with an exhortation that is likewise yet worth remembering:  “Let us take up the cross till we the crown obtain, and gladly reckon all things loss so we may Jesus gain.”  And can’t you almost hear Samwise Gamgee telling his friend and fellow Hobbit in Tolkein’s classic story Lord of the Rings, “Let it go, Mr. Frodo—let that ring go.”

All things loss indeed.  No wonder this song had a power to it that absolutely defied merely mumbling through the verses or sighing them only half self-consciously.  What’s more, I think Charles Wesley’s words can still have such an impact if we but take them more seriously, or at least recognize their historical and spiritual significance.

Oh, you probably won’t hear this song in a contemporary worship service, either with or without a steel guitar strumming along in the background.  But perhaps you should.  After all, we all owe a debt of gratitude to those fiercely faithful young heralds in the broad-brimmed hats who took up the cross disregarding the cost.

Maybe that’s why the longer I have been a pastor, the more powerful this song has become to me, as well.  For now when I look around the room at conference sessions, what I can’t help but notice is not just who is there, but who is missing, as well, especially those who have gone on before us, “saved to the uttermost, till we can sin no more.” 

And thinking of them, how dare I sing this hymn with anything less than all of my might and maybe even with a few tears in my eyes?

It was my first paying job in journalism and it gave me an incredible insight into the institution I had already decided to commit my life to serve.  For working on the local church editions of the United Methodist Reporter while a journalism student at SMU long ago, I found myself reading and processing through the news items of hundreds of congregations each week.  Every chili supper, every UMW meeting, every weekly financial report, every pastor’s column—they were all there, and so over the course of time, each became an ongoing storyline for me, long before Facebook and blogs made mass communication an instantaneous experience.

Later on, after completing seminary and being assigned a church of my own, I became one of those pastors sending in weekly items to a drop-box in Dallas.  And I still marveled at how working into the wee hours of the night, others did what I once had done, giving form and order to bits and pieces of otherwise random information to transform them into a newspaper with both local and national stories that miraculously (or almost always at least) arrived by Friday of the same week.

All of which is why when the United Methodist Reporter announced last week that they will cease publication in a few days due to dwindling finances, it felt like an old friend indeed had died.  For while I understand that the church press could not stay immune to the forces of change which have closed countless newspapers and magazines across the country in recent years, I had come to hope that at least in its digital form the ministry of the UMR had many days of meaningful ministry ahead of it still.

The sad truth may be, however, that the world is changing more rapidly than the church can keep up. For it’s not just the Reporter that has succumbed to societal shifts this past year, but other church institutions that have likewise done so.   Cokesbury, our chain of bookstores dating back to the beginnings of Methodism in this country (and named for our first two bishops, Thomas Coke and Francis Asbury), closed its last retail stores, including the one in Houston, in April, not long after Lon Morris College, which was the oldest private two-year school in Texas (and one which I was privileged to serve as president long ago), closed its doors last fall.  Just as every month, across the nation, Methodist congregations in both rural areas and inner cities dissolve as well, unable to draw enough of a crowd to keep their ministries going.

There are magnificent exceptions to the trend, of course, and how grateful I am to serve such a vibrant congregation as Lakewood UMC which is one of them.  But as a denomination, when we can’t support our own institutions any longer, I have to worry at least a little if there is not a canary singing in a mine somewhere.

This is definitely a time thus for both persistent prayer and hard thinking about who we are as a people of faith today, and what it will take for us to go forward and practice, as the tagline of this blog says it, “faithful living in a fickle world.”  For while it is never wise to simply cling to the past, it’s even more unwise to refuse to learn from its lessons, or heed its warnings.

In the meantime, pardon me if you see a little tear in my eyes these days.  Some dear old friends indeed have just passed away.

It’s a desolate place, the land good for nothing but hunting grouse and grazing sheep, and even those ruminant creatures have to be fairly resourceful to pick out the few blades of grass or heather which lie hidden among the craggy rocks. Very often in the winter the road which runs through it is closed due to the snow and high winds which over the centuries have carved out the harsh and forbidding features of the land, almost as though the millstone hills have simply aged and now–like many of us–show the passing time in our sags and wrinkles.

And yet there is a compelling beauty to those moors of West Yorkshire and none more so than when on a recent rare sunny day in those “wuthering heights,” there appeared almost out of nowhere a rainbow which stretched all the way down the hillside beneath us. Like a peacock spreading its plumage, its bright colors shimmered in the early morning light, cascading down to where–were one given to believing in such things—there could easily have been a pot of gold hidden in the hollows.

Better than what any leprechaun could grant you, however, the rainbow in the moors reminded me of the pledge which God made long ago, promises that I also thought of a few days earlier when we baptized our grandson at the little Methodist chapel in Wooldale. For at the age of just four months, Jedidiah is clearly too young to have realized why his Obi was throwing water on his head. Likewise he could hardly be expected to comprehend the reason for his family and godparents all solemnly making vows to live a life before him that becomes the gospel.

In the end, though, what baptism is all about is simply promises– those we make to God but even more importantly, the promises which He, rather inexplicably, is gracious enough to make to us. That is why when Jed is older, should he ask me one day, I will tell him that even if he can’t quite “remember his baptism and be thankful”–no matter how earnestly a pastor may cajole him to do so–that it’s still okay, for as the rainbow reminds us, God never forgets a promise, even when the circumstances of our lives may seem as bleak and foreboding as the moors themselves.

To be sure, neither Jed nor his family should be under any illusions that what happened in that Methodist chapel was about his salvation. He will still need to make that decision to put his trust in Jesus all by himself one day. But on a chilly Sunday morning in West Yorkshire, my grandson was clearly claimed both by and for God, with witnesses all around who also made a promise to help that claim grow into a reality in his heart when he is older.

Given the considerable distance from Texas to England, I told the Methodists there that we were going to depend on them to do a lot of the heavy lifting when it comes to modeling what the life of discipleship really means. Somehow, though, I think they will be up to it, for they will surely have the help of Heaven in that regard, just as we prayed on Sunday.

After all, as that rainbow in the moors reminded me, God can turn even grit into gold if He likes, and there simply is no end to the wonder of His promises.

They should really put a back door on those things. For if you could come in through the rear and never even saw what the first class seats look like, it would make the whole experience much easier. But as the old song from World War I once so eloquently put it, “how ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Par-eee?”

Maybe it’s because I’m old enough to still remember when flying was not just a means of transportation, but a life event. For in earlier years, folks always dressed up before they got on board whereas today much of the public is not exactly looking their best. That was all before airlines became simply flying cattle cars, however, designed to address the algorithm of “how many pounds of fare-paying passengers can you fit into an increasingly finite space?”

But it’s only made worse when you have to pass through the first class accommodations in order to reach the economy or coach class. For on a recent trans-Atlantic trip I couldn’t help but notice that the elite travelers not only have seats that stretch into virtual beds, but they actually have little compartments with swinging doors into each of their private spaces, making their part of the plane no less than a flying gated community!

All of which brought to mind an old Seinfeld joke about that moment when the flight stewards pull the curtain across the Great Divide between the people with class and the great unwashed masses with a look that suggests, “If you’d only worked just a little bit harder I wouldn’t have to do this!”

How grateful I am, however, that the trip to Heaven involves no such class distinctions. Rich or poor, young or old, legal or illegal, your status is irrelevant when it comes to God. For all He will ask us if if we knew His Son, and if so, did we follow Him while we journeyed here below.

I have to confess, though, that if it was up to me, I’d have another question before I let folks into Heaven, as well. Reflecting the reality of original sin, in fact, I’d like to know “When flying, did you thoughtlessly recline your seat in coach all the way back, disregarding the extreme discomfort you caused the person behind you, clearly failing thus to love your neighbor as yourself?”

But then perhaps my economy class chip is showing.

I’m almost surprised that Methodists haven’t crashed the whole Internet, as many emails, twitter messages, and blog pieces that have been circulating through cyberspace over the subject in recent days. For the “outing” of a Texas Conference internal proposal, one intended just for discussion, that would set an age limit on entering the ordination process has created a virtual firestorm of comments– some serious, some snarky, and some somewhere in between.

The truth, however, is that when it comes to ordination, it should not so much be about the years which have passed as the years that are left. That is to say, while it is sensible to suggest that those entering ordained ministry should have a reasonable minimal number of years of service to the church which they can render– say ten, perhaps– it is entirely different to mandate that someone who is forty-five, with a potential viability of 27 years of ministry ahead, is “too old” to become an elder.

Such is not to imply that some discrimination on the part of Boards of Ordained Ministry should not take place, for that’s exactly why they’ve been established, as one of my younger clergy friends has pointed out. And having served on the Texas Conference Board for many years, I can testify that one of the most difficult but important tasks that any such group has is to deliberately discern whether a candidate has the necessary gifts, graces and temperament to serve the people of our congregations. But in that process of discernment, I might also suggest that age is perhaps one of the least relevant indicators of a person’s vitality, readiness and potential effectiveness in ministry.

In all of the discussion that is ongoing, three simple observations need to be made. First, ordination is a gift of the church— it is not the inalienable or civil right of any man or woman, even if they have gone to all the trouble and expense of acquiring the necessary educational credentials. No one is entitled to be ordained, no matter who he or she is, or even how fervently they may have sensed their own individual calling from God. Rather, ordination is the corporate affirmation of that calling which, by very definition, may or may not be given following the serious reflection and prayer of others within the community of faith.

Second, the order of elders is not the brass ring of the church either— it is but one expression of meaningful ministry, not inherently better or worse than others. Deacons and local pastors are not “junior varsity” members of the clergy; they are simply colleagues whose gifts and graces, as well as life situations, work better under a different arrangement. To suggest that an individual pursue those avenues rather than the elder track is not to downgrade their divine calling at all, thus– it is to better define it.

Third, the church needs servant leaders not simply of all races, genders, and backgrounds, but even of all ages as well. Toward that end whatever efforts we can make– and the Texas Conference has helped to lead in this respect– to recruiting and encouraging younger clergy we should certainly do. But similarly, there is absolutely no place for prejudice against those who may be on the other end of the chronological scale. Encouraging clergy in their sixties to retire early in order to clear some space for those who are younger, for instance, or telling pastors that once they have passed that benchmark that good appointments may also pass them by, suggests a deplorable lack of respect for the contributions which those individuals have made and can continue to make.

Imagine, for instance, if someone had tried to tell John Wesley that he was too old to keep on going when he turned not just 45 or even 65, but 88 and was still very much in the game. Likewise, we may even wonder a bit about our mandatory retirement age in the United Methodist Church of 72, given the fact that our Catholic friends just elected a new pope who is four years beyond that marker. When all is said and done, therefore, it is my hope that the proposed age guidelines will appropriately enough “time out” before they are ever enacted.

If not, even the great St. Augustine, who wasn’t ordained until he was leaning towards forty, would barely have made the cut-off point had he lived in Carthage, Texas, and not that other ancient city by the same name in North Africa.

Uncle Robert had a grocery store there, and it was always where I wanted to head first whenever we visited that little town with the geographically challenged name. For if you could maneuver your way down those narrow aisles and one-cart wide wooden plank floors, at the back of the store there was his meat counter where my uncle would always wink, swear me to silence, and then slice me off a generous chunk of Nemechek bologna, as wonderful as Turkish delight to my pre-teen taste buds.

My cousin Bobbie worked in the store sometimes, when he wasn’t riding his motorcycle or playing ball down at the sandlot near the edge of town, that is. Bobbie was a few years older than me, with a smile as wide as the interstate, and he was one of my favorites for when you were with him, something exciting always seemed to happen.

His older sister Cheryl Lynn seemed far more sophisticated in my eyes for she carried herself with all of the polish of a small town princess, plus she knew the words to all of the Beatles songs and had most of their records as well. And Denise, the youngest of the brood, was the happy kid who just wanted to hang around the older cousins, and despite our protestations, usually managed to do so.

My aunt Cora Lee was the real queen of the family, however, for it was clearly my mother’s younger sister who held the clan together. “Get in this house!” she would exclaim whenever we drove up, and then she’d hug each one of us as if there were no tomorrow. We’d visit for a while in the front room, have a slice of her homemade chocolate pie, and then after several good nags on the part of the children, drive on out to the Palladium, an Olympic sized swimming pool that folks came from miles around to enjoy.

And then–far too soon I usually thought–we’d make our way back the fifteen miles or so north to Hillsboro where my grandmother and two more of mother’s sisters and their families lived. (Bobbie once made it there in nine minutes, though his parents didn’t find that out until several years later.)

As the years went by—and as it always will– life changed in that little town, to be sure. A modern and more spacious grocery chain came to the community and pretty soon, my uncle had to close his family run business. Bobbie went off to Vietnam and when he came back he was never quite the same.

Cheryl Lynn married a Czech boy from town and it took a while for her Church of Christ family—by far the most religious branch of our extended clan– to figure out what to do with that. Cora Lee got cancer and died way too early, and Denise moved to the city, never really to come back. And the Palladium was simply abandoned, I think, eventually falling into ruin before being torn down altogether.

Others came in, of course, and figured out how to build on the Bohemian heritage in the area to make the little town of West, Texas, a must-stop along the interstate for kolaches and other Czech delicacies. And to serve the farming community around it, someone built a fertilizer plant in town, not far from the high school and the nursing home.

That plant blew up last night and just as in Boston earlier this week scores were injured with the death count still uncertain. It made me think, however, of what Jesus once said about another accident that long ago killed eighteen when a tower in Siloam collapsed and fell. Those who died, he said, were no more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem…or Dallas…or Houston… or Boston. “But unless you repent,” Jesus went on to say, “you too will all perish.”

All of which should remind us that life indeed is sometimes far more fragile and tenuous than any of us might like to believe. Figuring out faith and getting our priorities in the right places should be job number one for all of us, then, for the truth is that both towns and people can change in an instant, even before you know it.

Likewise, maybe my aunt Cora Lee was right. Maybe we should indeed hug each other sometimes as if there was no tomorrow.

Since 1897 they’ve been running the race in Beantown, making it the world’s oldest marathon. And from early on, the race has been likewise tied to Patriot’s Day in Boston, the annual commemoration of that “shot heard ‘round the world” at Concord when the American Revolution is said to have actually begun. But a different kind of shot indeed was heard yesterday when two bombs exploded just before the finish line, killing three and injuring 140 more.

Watching the chaos unfold in Copley Square, I could not help but be reminded of my own student days in Boston, and then a generation later, of my daughter’s similar experiences there. For with more than 20,000 runners and half a million or so spectators, the Boston Marathon is not only the largest annual sporting event in New England, it is a cultural and communal experience unlike any other.

For many years, for instance, the Boston Red Sox have scheduled a home game to begin at 11:05 a.m. on the day of the race, so that the fans can pour out of Fenway Park afterwards into the neighborhood along the marathon route just in time to root on many of the runners. Similarly, those at Boston College often form a receiving line of sorts to encourage those struggling to get up the fabled “Heartbreak Hill,” an ascent nearby the campus which comes some twenty miles or so into the race when all of the endorphins have just about been depleted.

Yet somehow, the runners go on, with some 97% of those who start crossing the finish line 26 miles later, in anywhere from just over two hours, as the record holder from Kenya did two years ago, to a little over twice that, which is the average finish time for everyone else. What makes the race so special, however, is that all along the way scores of strangers not only watch them run, but they actively cheer them on, surrounding them like a “great cloud of witnesses,” inspiring them in the words of Hebrews 12, to “run with perseverance the race” that has been marked out for them.

It was many of those witnesses yesterday in Boston who were injured when the bombs went off, including an eight-year old child who died from that attack. And as the story unfolds in the days to come, we will no doubt hear tales of both tragedy and triumph, for already the medical responders who were on hand to treat any marathon medical issues are being hailed as heroes.

Similarly, some will make a connection between the attack yesterday and the significance of Patriot’s Day, which is actually April 19, in American culture. For it was not only on that day in 1775 that a colonial militia defeated a company of British regulars at the North Bridge in Concord– following the midnight warnings of Paul Revere and William Dawes– but it was also on April 19 that 81 died in Waco during the raid of the Branch Davidian complex in 1993, and 168 lost their lives two years later on the same day in the Oklahoma City bombings.

All of which remind us of the absolute brokenness of the world and of the need for the people of God to step forward to help in its healing. For it remains our task to be those faithful witnesses surrounding all who run the race in life, especially those who may be challenged as they near the finish line at last.

We may not be able to fix all that’s wrong, or even to comprehend the kind of evil that would lead anyone to sow such seeds of destruction as those bombs in Boston did yesterday. But surely we can find a way to counter it with a compassion and kindness of our own, that reaches out in love to show those around us a “better way.”

And maybe that’s the shot that really needs to be heard ‘round the world today.