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A few years ago, executives at a large theme park hired consultants to help them understand how to capture the attention of small children. The consultants spent a few hours in the park, observing the children to see what most interested them. What they learned surprised them: the children seemed to be most captivated not by the exciting rides, the costumed characters, or the colorful displays but, instead, by “their parents’ cell phones, especially when the parents were using them.”
We live in what some have called a “consumer society,” a society focused on buying and selling—then buying and selling some more. Such a society thrives on discontent, inadequacy, competition, and comparisons, because that drives us to make more purchases. The late British rabbi and writer Jonathan Sacks observed: “A consumer society … encourages us to spend money we don’t have, on products we don’t need, for a happiness that won’t last. … In a consumer society,” he explained, “we act to be envied rather than admired.”[1]
A story from ancient times provides a poignant example of how mercy and justice intersect in our lives and our relationships. A young man named Joseph was hated and mistreated by his brothers. They even contemplated killing him but finally settled on selling him into slavery. For some 20 years, Joseph toiled in Egypt, far from his home and family, with plenty of time to think about what his brothers had done to him.
New Year’s Day might very well be just another day—no different from the 364 that follow—if it wasn’t for our traditions. We gather with family and friends. We eat special foods together. We celebrate and reflect. We thank God for the blessings of the past year and the opportunities in the year ahead. No, there’s nothing inherently special about January 1. But in these and many other ways, we make New Year’s Day meaningful with our traditions of gathering, of love, of remembering, of gratitude to God—of looking back and looking forward. Let’s hear how some people around the world celebrate the New Year.
I’m standing at Wenceslas Square, in the heart of Prague, near a statue of the Duke of Bohemia, affectionately known as good King Wenceslas. A caring Christian ruler and patron saint of the Czech Republic, Wenceslas has come to represent kindhearted generosity and selfless giving. And because these attributes are at the heart of Christmas, it’s not surprising that good King Wenceslas is also the subject of a beloved Christmas carol.
In Ireland, the land of my ancestors, Christmas traditions have given the holidays a profound sense of meaning and purpose. They help families welcome the Christ Child into their lives—both on Christmas Day and throughout the year. For the generations before me, that meant cleaning the barn, whitewashing the cottage, scrubbing floors, ironing linens, and cooking a special meal for family coming home. As the Irish love to say, “Níl Aon Tinteán Mar Do Thinteán Féin”—“There’s no hearth like your own hearth,” or, in other words, there’s no place like home. And that’s especially true at Christmas. Today, while our family lives far from the Emerald Isle, we still get ready for Christmas in some of the traditional ways. But our most important preparation has to do with our hearts—with remembering others, reconciling differences, and returning kindnesses. Even the old Irish custom of a Christmas morning dip in the icy sea was an invitation to wash away the old and begin anew—to welcome the Christ Child into hearts made clean and pure for Him.
Every year at Christmastime, small children put on makeshift costumes and gather household props to act out the Nativity story while someone reads from Luke chapter 2. Never mind that the real Joseph didn’t wear a fuzzy bathrobe or that the sheep looks suspiciously like the family dog. Adoring parents and grandparents overlook the fact that the donkey missed his cue and the angel forgot her lines. These homespun productions are cherished because they’re a tender tribute to the beloved Bible story in which Mary “brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”
Christmas is a season of interesting contrasts. In many parts of the world, for example, Christmas comes in the darkest, coldest part of winter—and yet Christmas is a season of light and warmth, characterized by the warm glow of lights on houses and trees. People are kinder and filled with more compassion and love, but at the same time the stress of the season can make people busier, ruder, and more impatient. And while Christmas is traditionally a time of joyful gatherings with friends and family, so many feel uninvited, forgotten, and alone. Contrasts like these are with us all year long, but at Christmastime they are amplified, more tender and poignant.
Christmas lasts much longer than one day. Weeks in advance, decorations are hung, and stores and streetlights are lit up in happy anticipation. Music...
Isn’t it interesting that sometimes those who have the least are the most grateful, and yet there are others who seem to have everything—except gratitude? As religious leader Henry B. Eyring observed: “We so easily forget that we came into life with nothing. Whatever we get soon seems our natural right, not a gift. And we forget the giver. Then our gaze shifts from what we have been given to what we don’t have yet.”[1]
Sometimes we feel like pilgrims on a sea of strife. A pilgrim is one who has journeyed far from home, and that journey can leave us feeling wounded, lost, and weak. But a pilgrim isn’t a lost or aimless wanderer. As pilgrims, we journey with a purpose. We know that this unsettled world—with its strife and pain and disappointment—is not our true home. So we set off in search of heaven’s strength and grace. When all else fails around us, we search in faith for something secure to hold onto, someone we can rely on, someone who will never let us down.
More than 20 years ago, Gene Scheer read a book about the creation of the Constitution of the United States. He read about the passionate dedication of the founders of this nation—a nation that would one day become a symbol of freedom for the world. As he read, he felt inspired—so inspired that he wrote a song and called it “American Anthem.” The song has been performed at presidential inaugurations and was featured in a popular documentary about World War ll. Scheer said he wanted it to be a “rallying call,” reminding citizens—including himself—of our responsibility “to get out there and … do something” for the country.[1]
Sometimes we see things so often that we don’t really look at them anymore. When was the last time you stopped to watch a beautiful sunset, gaze at a canopy of clouds, or look up in wonder at a cluster of stars? We are surrounded by the natural world, but we can only understand our place in it—our connection with all of creation—when we take the time to reflect on the beauty around us.
In one of George Bernard Shaw’s plays, a successful young woman challenges the idea that we are victims of our circumstances. “I don’t believe in circumstances,” she declares. “The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can’t find them, make them.”1
A beloved children’s book from decades ago contains this keen observation: “A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts, they will shine out of your face like sun beams, and you will always look lovely.”[1]
Whenever we see a wildflower pushing through a crack in concrete, we marvel at its determination to thrive. A seed landed in a difficult spot, but it had the tenacity to grow and bloom anyway.
To have a name is to have an identity. Our names give us a sense of both individuality and belonging. They distinguish us from others while at the same time connecting us with our family or culture, teaching us about our origin. A name can be a sign of a special emotional bond, endearing us to loved ones. Besides identifying who we are, a name can inspire us to become who we want to be.
Living things need light and food and water. And these aren’t just physical necessities—we need spiritual light and nourishment too. Amos was a prophet from the Old Testament who foresaw a time when the world would seem dark, even “in the clear day.”1 He also predicted a future day when there would be “a famine in the land, not a famine of [food], nor a thirst for water, but [a famine] of hearing the words of the Lord.”2
For all of their differences, there are some things that many of the world’s religions share in common. One of these is the symbolic tree of life, representing a connection between heaven and earth and our longing for the eternal. Somewhere deep inside, we all want to know that life continues, that our existence has meaning beyond the here and now, and that its purposes do not begin with birth or end with death.
I’m here in Essex County, New Jersey at the Eagle Rock September 11th Memorial, overlooking Manhattan Island. On that morning, twenty years ago, I was in the city, co-anchoring a national network news program.
Labor, by definition, is hard. It can be exhausting, uncomfortable, even painful at times. So why do we do it? There are many possible motivations for labor, but the greatest is love. And the interesting thing about a labor of love is that it leads to more love. When we put loving effort into something, it becomes more meaningful to us. Whether we’re preparing a meal, a handwritten card, or a little homespun work of art, we care more about the things we make when we care about the person for whom we’re making them. The labor and the love become intertwined, and somehow, we weave a little part of ourselves into our creations.
When Gideon George arrived at New Mexico Junior College, the newest member of the Thunderbirds’ basketball team, he found things to be quite different from his home in Minna, Nigeria. He had an air-conditioned dorm with indoor plumbing, for example. The basketball courts were not made of cracked concrete or hard-crusted dirt. And in Nigeria, you didn’t typically see a pair of almost-new basketball shoes in the trash.
If we open our hearts and listen, we can learn a lot from those who are a few steps ahead of us in life’s journey. This is especially true of the elderly people in our own family. Their lives are rich with treasures to be passed on to future generations. Long ago, the Psalmist pleaded, “When I am old and grayheaded, O God, forsake me not; until I have shewed my strength unto this generation, and thy power to every one that is to come” (Psalm 71:18). A family’s shared legacy survives and endures only as those of earlier generations share their stories—stories about the difficulties and heartaches they faced and how they persevered and found joy. Such stories are an inheritance more valuable than wealth.
On a particularly hot summer day, a woman jokingly asked her husband to go online and order some cooler weather. The husband got on his computer and a few minutes later reported, “Done. It should arrive sometime this fall.”
Decades ago, researchers measured the effects of diet on the heart health of rabbits. Not surprisingly, rabbits that were fed fatty foods developed cholesterol problems. But something else was surprising—one group of rabbits had significantly better health outcomes. They had eaten the same foods as the other rabbits, but they had also been cared for by a particular researcher—one who happened to be “an unusually kind and caring individual.”[1] She didn’t just feed the rabbits. “She talked to them, cuddled and petted them.”[2] She didn’t know she was altering the results—she was just being herself.
A beloved poem from the 1800s tells of six blind men who wanted to find out what an elephant is like. So they went to visit one. Each man approached it from a different direction, each taking hold of a different part of the elephant and describing what he discovered. One felt a tusk and concluded that an elephant is like a spear. Another, feeling a thick, sturdy leg, decided an elephant is like a tree. Still another, grabbing the trunk, declared that an elephant is like a snake, and so on.
From here in Copenhagen, Denmark, between 1850 and 1900, nearly 20,000 Danes set out across the ocean. Their final destination was Utah Territory in the western United States. Their purpose was to gather with fellow believers. They were pioneers of faith. Along with thousands more across Scandinavia and tens of thousands from other parts of Europe, they traveled to Liverpool, England, to cross the Atlantic and then make their way by foot, wagon, and handcart to the Salt Lake Valley.
If you’ve ever been to a baseball game, you know that something special happens in the middle of the seventh inning. It’s called the seventh-inning stretch. Reportedly, this tradition began way back in 1910, and baseball loves its traditions. So to this day, right before the home team’s half of the inning, all the fans stand up for a minute or two, often singing a song together. After all, they’ve been sitting in those seats for quite a while now, and it’s nice to get a good stretch in before the last two innings of the game.
As big as this world is, it can sometimes feel crowded. Not crowded with people, but crowded with facts and opinions, with tasks and demands. Sometimes the hectic pace of life doesn’t leave us much time to process the experiences that bombard us. As a result, we can feel trapped—like we’ve been hurried onto a high-speed train before we have time to find out where it’s going.
I am standing today at the World War II memorial at Pointe du Hoc on the northern coast of France. In the early hours of June 6, 1944—better known to us as D-Day—American rangers scaled these 100-foot sheer cliffs. Their mission was to seize German artillery to clear the way for the invasion later that day of the Normandy beaches below. It was a key element of the strategy to liberate Europe after four years of Nazi occupation.