Every spring, in addition to doing a more thorough cleaning of the house, my wife and engage in a “cleaning out” of our closet and personal items. This process involves sorting, discarding, and reorganizing.
The season of Lent arrives each year quietly inviting us to open the closet of our soul and take an inventory. Just as spring cleaning clears away the dust and clutter that accumulates unnoticed, Lent calls us to examine our inner lives and make space for God’s renewing grace. It is not about self-condemnation, but soul-restoration.
Scripture reminds us that God is deeply interested in this interior work. The psalmist prays, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10). Lent is that season when we hold our inner self up to the light and ask what needs to be swept out. This may include things like the resentments we’ve nursed, the habits that dull our compassion, and distractions that throw us off track.
Spring cleaning is rarely glamorous. It involves getting into corners we’d rather ignore. Yet it is precisely there that grace does its best work. When we fast, pray, give generously, and practice repentance, we are not earning God’s love. Rather, we are clearing away the debris that keeps us from experiencing it fully.
C.S. Lewis suggested,“Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.” Lent gently reorients us in this daily reliance. Each act of surrender is like wiping down a dusty shelf. It is a small but intentional practice that is transformative over time.
In the early 16th century, Martin Luther described repentance not as a one-time event but as a lifelong posture. In a world focused on outward religious performance, Luther emphasized the ongoing need for inner renewal. This radical idea reframed faith as a continual turning of the heart toward God. His insight affirms that repentance is not about dwelling on guilt, but about returning to grace again and again.
As we journey through Lent, imagine God walking through the rooms of your soul with you, not as a harsh inspector, but as a loving companion. Some things will be kept, while others will be discarded.
Lent has a way of decluttering the chaos within so that our sense of peace is restored. Many years ago, Billy Graham advised, “Like a spring of pure water, God’s peace in our hearts brings cleansing and refreshment to our minds and bodies.”
This year, when Easter arrives, may it find our hearts lighter, cleaner, and more spacious, and ready to welcome the risen Christ with joy.
“Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.” -Psalm 51:1
In my growing-up years, I remember the elderly in our community and in my family saying, “Lawsy mercy!” whenever they heard about an accident or an illness or some sort of tragedy. In Southern Appalachia, “Lawsy mercy” was a common expression of concern or sympathy to surprising or troubling news. The saying was a derivative of the biblical phrase, “Lord, have mercy.”
The biblical version, however, packs a more powerful punch. It is one of the most ancient and enduring prayers of the Church and yet also one of the simplest: “Lord, have mercy” is a cry that rises from deep within the human heart, a prayer offered not from a place of strength, but from a place of need. During Lent, we are invited to slow down long enough to hear ourselves praying these words honestly, without defensiveness or disguise.
Historically, the prayer Kyrie eleison (“Lord, have mercy”) was spoken not only in worship but also in moments of desperation. During the Black Death of the 14th century, entire communities processed through the streets chanting this plea, not as a magical formula, but as an act of trust when answers were few and suffering was overwhelming. The prayer acknowledged a hard truth: human effort has limits, but God’s mercy does not.
Lent helps us rediscover that truth. It reminds us that mercy is not something we earn through self-denial or religious effort. Mercy is something we receive when we finally stop pretending we don’t need it. To ask for mercy is not only to confess our shortcomings, but to practice humility. It is to recognize that grace, not perfection, is the foundation of our relationship with God.
The reformer Martin Luther once wrote, Those words were found scribbled on a scrap of paper after his death. They capture the spirit of Lent beautifully. No matter how accomplished, faithful, or disciplined we may be, we remain people in need of daily, ongoing, and undeserved mercy.
Echoing this posture of trust, Thomas Merton proposed, “Mercy is the kindness that makes sense of our failures.” Lent does not deny our brokenness. It places it gently in the hands of a merciful God who knows us fully and loves us completely.
To pray “Lord, have mercy” is a way to open ourselves to transformation. Mercy does not merely forgive the past; it reshapes the future. As we receive mercy, we are invited to extend mercy to ourselves, to our neighbors, and even to those we struggle to love.
This Lent, let that simple prayer rest on your lips and in your heart. Not as a sign of defeat, but as an act of hope. For the God who meets us in mercy is already at work, healing what is wounded and restoring what feels lost.
So today, as we pray for ourselves and for our world, may we begin “Lord, have mercy!”
17 Be good to your servant while I live, that I may obey your word. 18 Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law. 19 I am a stranger on earth; do not hide your commands from me. 20 My soul is consumed with longing for your laws at all times. 21 You rebuke the arrogant, who are accursed, those who stray from your commands. 22 Remove from me their scorn and contempt, for I keep your statutes. 23 Though rulers sit together and slander me, your servant will meditate on your decrees. 24 Your statutes are my delight; they are my counselors. Psalm 119:17-24 (NIV)
When I visited my optometrist for my annual eye exam, he said, “Your vision has changed a little. We need to update your prescription for your glasses.” I knew it would happen one day. I’ve had the same prescription for almost 7 years.
Sight is extremely important. Maybe that is why the psalmist prayed, “Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law” (v.18). However, I don’t think the psalmist was referring to the ability to see the smallest letters on the vision test chart.
Just as eyesight gives us the capacity to see the physical world around us, things like hindsight, foresight, and insight give us the capacity to better understand God’s word, to shape our faith perspectives, to formulate our worldview, and to exercise wisdom and discernment in our decision-making.
Helen Keller contended, “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”
Lent is an eye-opening season where the Spirit helps us better understand our purpose in life as we revisit the story of Jesus, who fully embodied God’s universal mission.
The psalmist wanted the eyes and minds of worshippers to be wide open as they pursue a deeper understanding of God’s vision for the world. The petitioner prayed, “Cause me to understand the way of your precepts, that I may meditate on your wonderful deeds.”
After the eye exam, my optometrist gave me my new prescription and advised me to upgrade to progressive lenses. For years, I had worn bifocals, mostly for reading. He cautioned that the change from bifocals to progressive lenses would require a period of adjustment. “You need to be especially careful when walking because your depth perception will be a little different.”
I have discovered that every new flicker of insight or morsel of wisdom requires a period of adjustment as I apply it to life. May our understanding of God’s word encourage and equip us to follow God’s ways.
Reflection:
How does God communicate new insights to you? Do you welcome new points of view or are you inclined to resist changes in your understanding? How easily can you move from stale presuppositions and open your mind to fresh insights from God’s word?
Prayer:
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart; Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art; Thou my best Thought, by day or by night; Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light. (Eleanor H. Hull, Mary E. Byrne)
Each year, the season of Lent invites us to slow down, pay attention, and tend to the deeper places of our lives. Observed during the forty days leading up to Easter, Lent has long been understood as a season of preparation, a time to tune our hearts, habits, and hopes to the teachings and attitudes of Jesus. Far from being a gloomy or burdensome practice, observing Lent can be deeply enriching, offering clarity, freedom, and renewal for everyday living.
I was not introduced to the disciplines of Lent until I was in college. I had heard about Lent, but I assumed it was something my more liturgical friends dutifully observed by giving up one or two things they enjoyed. However, once I better understood the intent, I discovered a more prayerful and reflective prequel to the resurrection.
Lent is a season to reevaluate, realign, and recalibrate. Here are 7 ways observing Lent can deepen your faith and enrich your life:
Lent teaches us to pause. In a culture that prizes speed and productivity, Lent gives us permission to stop and reflect. It invites us to notice where we are spiritually and where we may be drifting. Andy Stanley observed, “We don’t drift in good directions. We discipline and prioritize ourselves there.” We need to pause introspectively for self-evaluation.
Lent sharpens our self-awareness. Through prayer and honest reflection, Lent helps us recognize both our gifts and our growing edges. We become more attentive to the habits, attitudes, and assumptions that shape our lives, for better or worse. We need to be alert to our vulnerabilities and awakened to our potential.
Lent cultivates humility. Historically, the early church used Lent as a season of catechesis and repentance, reminding believers that faith is not about perfection but transformation. Acknowledging our need for grace softens our hearts and increases our compassion for others.
Lent reorders our priorities. Fasting, whether from food, screens, affinities, or distractions, teaches us that we do not live by bread alone. What we set aside reveals what we have been relying on. In that letting go, we rediscover what truly nourishes us.
Lent strengthens empathy. When we practice restraint, we become more aware of those who live with daily scarcity, struggle, or deprivation. Lent stretches our concern beyond ourselves and invites us into acts of generosity, advocacy, and justice.
Lent clarifies our focus. Cleaning out a cluttered garage can be challenging. However, once the excess is removed, the remaining items become visible and useful again. Often, we discover tools we had forgotten. Lent functions the same way for the soul, clearing shelves, discarding, re-purposing, and reclaiming, so faith has space to grow and flourish.
Lent prepares us for joy. The purpose of Lent is not the denial of pleasure but the restoration of joy. By walking honestly through repentance and reflection, we increase our gratitude for the passion of Christ and strengthen our commitment to the mission of Christ.
Lent creates sacred space for solitude and spiritual reflection. As Henri Nouwen once observed, “Without solitude it is virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.”
Whatever you choose to give up for Lent will be more than outweighed by the blessings and benefits you receive through its faithful observance. When embraced with intention, the ancient practice of Lent becomes a gift that gently reshapes how we live, love, and walk with God each day.
What contributes to genuine happiness? During my years serving as a pastor, I have tried to observe the values and practices of happy people. I’m not talking about momentary happiness, where someone is happy in the moment because their team won the game or because they received a promotion at work. I’m thinking more about people who live happy lives.
Internationally acclaimed motivational speaker Denis Waitley wisely observes, “Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, or worn. It is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.” That insight rings true in both life and ministry.
I have never met anyone with perfect circumstances or anyone who lives in a constant state of bliss. Life is demanding, unpredictable, and often heavy. Everyone I know carries burdens, navigates disappointments, and wrestles with uncertainty. Happiness, therefore, cannot be reduced to ideal conditions.
So what really makes a person happy? Is it professional success, the right soulmate, good health, or financial security? While these factors can contribute to well-being, they do not guarantee happiness. Chasing perfect circumstances is like pursuing the proverbial—but nonexistent—pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Through the years, I have known people across the economic and social spectrum—some wealthy, some modest in means—and I have learned that circumstances alone do not determine happiness. Recently, as my wife and I reflected on our friends, I noticed recurring qualities among those who live with a steady sense of joy. Over time, we have observed seven traits that happy people hold in common.
Happy people treasure relationships. They view family, friends, and colleagues as gifts rather than inconveniences. Research supports this observation. As Thomas Oppong notes in an article published by the Stanford School of Medicine, “Good social relationships are the most consistent predictor of a happy life.”
Happy people are generous people. They give cheerfully, not reluctantly. A 2017 University of Zurich study concluded that generosity—even in small measures—actually rewires the brain in ways that increase happiness.
Happy people find joy in serving. They have an affinity for helping others through hospitality, volunteerism, and acts of compassion. A Chinese proverb captures this well: “If you want happiness for a lifetime, help somebody.”
Happy people are resilient. They face adversity without being defined by it. They bounce back, adapt, and refuse to let setbacks become dead ends.
Happy people live with grit, grace, and gratitude. They have a stalwart spirit of determination. They are quick to convey grace rather than pronounce judgment. And they tend to focus on their blessings rather than fixating on life’s unfairness. Gratitude has a way of shifting the soul’s posture from scarcity to abundance.
Happy people are present in the moment. They are not perpetually haunted by the past or consumed by anxiety about the future. They learn to inhabit today with attentiveness and appreciation.
Happy people are rooted in their faith. The happiest people I know possess a humble, simple trust in God that shapes their daily lives. Psalm 144:15 says it simply: “Happy are the people whose God is the Lord.” Their faith is not performative or episodic. Rather, it is life-shaping and life-giving.
While there is no guaranteed formula for happiness, it seems far more connected to attitude, purpose, and faith than to circumstances. Pretense is exhausting, and authenticity is freeing. I am convinced that lasting happiness is discovered, not by chasing it directly, but by following Jesus and practicing his teaching in ways that ground you and guide you through the maze of life’s shifting circumstances.
As Groucho Marx once quipped, “I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.” Once I heard a pastor preach, “God is more interested in your holiness than your happiness.” However, at this stage of life, I have come to understand that happiness and holiness are not competitors after all. Maybe they walk hand in hand, on the same path, as partners on life’s journey.
(This column is a revision of a Wednesday evening devotional message I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola in 2014.)
Whatever we spend our time thinking about, plants seeds in our minds, and those seeds eventually grow into actions. Few passages of Scripture capture this truth more clearly than Philippians 4:8–9. Writing from prison, the Apostle Paul does not begin with complaints or escape plans. Instead, he turns our attention inward, to the overlooked but decisive arena of the mind.
“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things… And the God of peace will be with you.”
Paul understood what modern science continues to confirm, that our thought life either enhances or diminishes our spiritual life. Though the human brain weighs only about three pounds, physicist Michio Kaku once observed that it is “the most complex object in the solar system.” It can store an estimated 2.5 million gigabytes of information—roughly the equivalent of 300 years of television programming. Yet despite its capacity, Henry Ford famously noted, “Thinking is the hardest work there is, which is probably the reason so few engage in it.”
Thinking is never neutral. Unhealthy thoughts have a way of filling the unclaimed spaces of our minds. Paul does not call believers to empty their minds of everything negative, but to intentionally fill them with what is good. Just as our computers and smart devices are vulnerable to spam, corrupt code, and viruses, so our minds are vulnerable to disinformation, lust, impure motives, and manipulation.
As one pastor aptly put it, “The devil knows that if he can capture our mind, he holds our future.” Paul’s words remind us that mental discipline is not optional for a Jesus follower—it is absolutely essential.
Paul is not naïve. He is not suggesting that positive thinking will eliminate all trouble. Rather, he is proposing that meditating on noble things helps us avoid unnecessary trouble. Eugene Peterson’s rendering in The Message captures Paul’s pastoral wisdom well:
“Fill your minds and meditate on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.”
Paul urges believers to reflect, meditate, contemplate—or, as my maternal grandfather use to say, cogitate. Earlier in Philippians, Paul had already challenged the church, “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.” Before we can walk as Christ walked and talk as Christ talked, we must first learn to think as Christ thought.
Galileo insisted, “I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.” Faith does not require the abdication or abandonment of thought. Faith teaches us to love God with our minds. This mean that the way we exercise our minds to do problem-solving, conflict resolution, imagining, visioning, strategizing, and discernment are all ways of loving and honoring God.
When we intentionally focus on what is true, right, and admirable, God often synchronizes our thinking—bringing clarity, unity, and spiritual harmony among people of faith.
Paul refuses to separate thinking from living. “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice.” Thoughts always precede action. When we focus on negative thoughts, we produce negative actions. When we dwell on lustful thoughts, we produce lustful actions. But when we focus on noble thoughts, we produce noble actions. And when we focus on kingdom thoughts, we produce kingdom actions.
Ralph Waldo Emerson captured this progression beautifully: “Thought is the blossom; language the bud; action the fruit behind it.” Right thinking bears visible fruit.
Paul concludes with a promise we desperately need: “And the God of peace will be with you.” Peace is not portrayed as the absence of problems but as the presence of God. When disciplined thinking leads to faithful living, God’s peace steadies us, even in uncertain circumstances.
In the 1960s, excavations at one of Herod the Great’s palaces uncovered 2,000-year-old seeds from the Judean date palm, seeds that were long thought extinct. In 2005, scientists successfully germinated one of those ancient seeds. Today, that tree has produced fruit and pollinating offspring. What was buried and dormant for centuries came to life again.
In much the same way, the thoughts we plant—truthful, noble, beautiful thoughts—can bear fruit far beyond what we imagine.
As we continue growing in faith and friendship, we are invited to keep refocusing our minds on what is good, to meditate on what is beautiful, and to pursue excellence in all things. And because thinking shapes direction, many of us go through seasons of rethinking our faith or our church connection.
For those going through a cycle of deconstruction, especially in religious faith or philosophy of life, don’t despair when your assumptions and presuppositions unravel. Keep thinking and processing as you discern which values to embrace and which baggage to discard.
The Bible never discourages us from thinking. It actually mandates that we “think on these things.” The sacred discipline of thinking can help us to more fully become the persons we were created to be.
If you have ever experienced doubts or been skeptical about matters of faith and religion, you are not alone. Frederick Buechner said, “Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.”
In some religious circles, however, faith and doubt are often treated as opposites, as though one cancels out the other. In such settings, doubt is viewed with suspicion, as though it is sinful, something to be hidden, hurried past, or quietly resolved before it becomes disruptive. Yet the Christian story tells a different truth. Faith is not fragile. It is resilient, examined, and durable. It can withstand questions, doubts, and honest inquiry.
One of the most ancient and instructive examples of this kind of faith is found in John 20:24-29 in the confession of Thomas. Often labeled “Doubting Thomas,” he may be better understood as “Truth-Seeking Thomas.” When the other disciples announce that they have seen the risen Christ, Thomas responds with remarkable honesty: unless he can see and touch the wounds himself, he cannot believe. Rather than rebuking him, Jesus invites Thomas to examine the evidence. The result is one of the strongest confessions of faith in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.”
Thomas reminds us that faith does not always arrive fully formed. For many, belief is born through the labor pains of honest inquiry. And, somewhat ironically, once faith takes root, it often generates more curiosity, not less. Authentic faith refuses to settle for slogan-like answers to deep and uncomfortable questions.
In the twentieth century, physicist and theologian Ian Barbour challenged the popular notion that science and faith must exist in conflict. Barbour insisted that his Christian faith made him a better scientist, not a lesser one—more curious, more rigorous, and more attentive to mystery. His work opened space for thoughtful dialogue rather than shallow debate. Like Thomas, Barbour understood that truth does not fear examination.
Consider how we make important decisions today—medical diagnoses, financial investments, or even choosing a school for our children. We do our due diligence. We ask questions. We examine evidence. We seek trusted sources. Rarely do we accept life-altering claims without investigation. Yet when it comes to matters of faith, some are told to suspend curiosity and simply “believe.” Thomas pushes back against that false choice. He models a faith that engages both heart and mind.
The New Testament consistently affirms this kind of integrated faith. Hebrews describes faith as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Substance and evidence belong together. The gospel should never be proclaimed through emotional manipulation or social intimidation, but with truthfulness and grace, trusting the Spirit to do the deeper work of conversion.
Buechner captures this balance well when he suggests, “Faith is not being sure where you’re going, but going anyway.” Thomas did not begin with certainty; he began with courage, the courage to ask, to seek, and to stay in community even when belief felt incomplete.
Importantly, the story does not end in the locked room. Early Christian tradition holds that Thomas carried the gospel far beyond the boundaries of the Roman Empire, eventually reaching India. According to ancient sources, communities of believers there trace their origins to his witness. The disciple who once demanded evidence became a missionary whose faith changed lives across continents. Doubt did not disqualify him; it refined him.
Faith stories are life stories. The chapters already written matter, but the chapters still unfolding may prove the most significant. Like Thomas, we are invited not to silence our questions, but to bring them into the presence of Christ. There, doubt can become confession, and inquiry can give way to trust.
Navigating faith and doubts is a challenge in every generation. Yet Jesus still meets seekers where they are, with all their doubts, wounds, and questions.
If you have trouble believing in God, maybe it’s not God you have trouble believing, but the various misrepresentations of God. If you have problems believing in Jesus, perhaps it’s not Jesus you have a problem with, but the many counterfeit faces of Jesus that appear in the church and in the world. Examine the biblical account. Consider the life and teachings of Jesus. Probe the evidence, and you may just discover what you are seeking.
(This column is based on a sermon titled “The Thomas Confession” that I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola on January 5, 2014.)
As this new year begins, we pause to express our gratitude for your guidance and your presence during the past year. We receive this new year as a fresh invitation to live more attentively, love more generously, and trust you more deeply.
Now, as we step into this new year, we ask that you move us beyond our biases and prejudices and lead us more deeply into the pursuit of truth. Where our perspectives are limited, enlarge them. Where our assumptions are flawed, correct them. Where viewpoints are dated or misinformed, refresh them.
Give us a willingness to change our minds as we grow in wisdom and understanding. Teach us to remain humble and teachable, remembering that growth often requires listening more carefully and learning more intentionally.
Form in us a Jesus-shaped worldview, a perspective that sees the world through the lens of compassion, justice, and love. May our convictions be shaped not by fear or ideology, but by the teachings, example, and disposition of Jesus.
Make us discerning and wise, skeptical of easy answers, empty promises, and self-interested voices that seek power rather than the common good. Help us to value truth over convenience and integrity over approval.
Teach us what it truly means to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with you and with one another. May our words and actions reflect your goodness and your grace.
We acknowledge that we live in challenging and uncertain times. Grant us peace when anxiety threatens to overwhelm us, patience when progress seems slow, and perseverance when the journey grows difficult.
In all seasons and all circumstances, fortify us with hope, guide us with your wisdom, and energize us with your Spirit.
In the Christian tradition, the 12 days of Christmas are about much more than “a partridge in a pear tree.”
For many people, Christmas feels like a single day, or at most, a short season that ends as soon as the decorations come down and your playlist reverts back to your favorite non-holiday tunes.
Yet, in the Christian calendar, Christmas is not a moment to rush through, but a season in which we are invited to linger. That season is known as the Twelve Days of Christmas, or Christmastide, stretching from Christmas Day (December 25) to Epiphany (January 6).
Rather than counting down to Christmas, the Church has long counted from it, by designating twelve days set aside to savor the mystery that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).
The practice of observing the Twelve Days of Christmas dates back to the early centuries of the Church. By the fourth century, Christmas and Epiphany were firmly established as interconnected feasts celebrating the incarnation of Christ and the revelation of that incarnation to the world. While Epiphany would later emphasize the visit of the Magi, Christmastide underscored the themes of birth, light, revelation, and joy.
In medieval Europe, these twelve days were marked by worship, feasting, storytelling, music, and rest. Work slowed. Communities gathered. The world itself seemed to pause long enough for people to absorb the wonder of Christmas. The Twelfth Night was often celebrated with special services, candles, and communal meals, signaling both joy and transition.
In the Christmas décor displayed in our home, we have a collection of quaint English villages. These not on remind us of the scenes in Dickens’ Christmas Carol; they also hark back to the Middle Ages when homes in English Villages kept Yule logs burning throughout the twelve days, symbolizing the enduring light of Christ in the darkest season of the year.
Christmastide invites us to live into the truth announced on Christmas Eve: “Unto us a child is born” (Isaiah 9:6). The season is not about adding more festivities but about allowing the significance of Christ’s birth to settle into our hearts.
The Twelve Days remind us that joy deepens when it is not rushed. Christmas is not meant to be consumed in a day but contemplated over time.
The familiar carol “The Twelve Days of Christmas” has often been misunderstood as a playful take on holiday gifts. While symbolic interpretations of the gifts mentioned in the carol are often debated, the song itself reflects the spirit of Christmastide. It echoes a season where joy accumulates progressively.
As theologian Frederick Buechner once wrote, “Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.” Christmastide creates space for that recognition.
The Twelve Days of Christmas culminate in Epiphany, the celebration of the Magi’s visit to the Christ child. This moment widens the lens of Christmas, reminding us that the child born in Bethlehem is not only for a small family or a single nation, but for the whole world.
Matthew 2:11 tells us, “They saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage.” The journey of the Magi signals that Christmas leads us outward from adoration to action, from wonder to witness.
Historically, Epiphany was one of the most important feast days of the year, especially in Eastern Christianity, emphasizing revelation and light. In many cultures, gifts were exchanged on January 6 rather than December 25, underscoring that the Christmas story unfolds over time.
In a culture that urges us to move on, Christmastide invites us to stay. To keep the tree lit a little longer. To sing carols past December 25. To practice gratitude after the gifts are opened. To let peace settle in once the rush subsides.
As Howard Thurman wisely observed, “When the song of the angels is stilled… the work of Christmas begins.”
The Twelve Days of Christmas remind us that Christmas is not an ending but a beginning. Christmastide invites us to experience the joy and explore the wonder that “the Word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood” (John 1:14 The Message).
In Luke’s telling of the Christmas story, there is a quiet line that is easy to overlook amid angels, shepherds, and songs of praise. Twice, Luke pauses the action to tell us something about Mary: “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19; see also Luke 2:51). While others hurried home or returned to their fields, Mary lingered. She pondered.
That single word—pondered—feels almost foreign in our hurried world. We are far more practiced at reacting, scrolling, multitasking, and moving on. We skim headlines, rush conversations, and measure productivity by speed. Pondering, by contrast, requires stillness. It asks us to slow down, to contemplate the significance of an experience rather than rush to explain or resolve it.
Mary’s pondering was not passive or sentimental. It was intentional. She had just given birth under uncertain circumstances, welcomed unexpected visitors, and heard astonishing claims about her child. None of it neatly fit together. Rather than forcing quick conclusions, Mary gathered these moments and carried them within her, trusting that meaning would unfold over time.
In this sense, pondering is an act of faith. It resists the pressure to have immediate answers. It allows mystery to remain mystery. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once advised, “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” Mary lived the questions.
Scripture suggests this practice. The psalmist urges, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The prophet Isaiah writes, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). Pondering is not withdrawal from life but a deeper engagement with it—one rooted in attentiveness and trust.
Historically, this kind of reflection was once considered a spiritual discipline. Early monastics spoke of ruminatio, the slow, prayerful chewing on scripture, much like a cow chewing cud. Lectio divina, still practiced today, invites readers not to rush through sacred words but to linger over them until they sink from the mind into the heart. Wisdom, they believed, comes not from volume of information but from depth of attention.
Our fast-paced culture rarely encourages such depth. We are trained to move on quickly, to optimize time, to fill every quiet moment with noise. Even joy is rushed. We snap pictures instead of absorbing the moment, post updates instead of savoring experiences. In the process, we risk missing the meaning woven into our days.
Recovering the lost art of pondering does not require retreating to a monastery. It begins with small, intentional pauses. It might mean sitting with a scripture instead of rushing to the next task, reflecting on a conversation long after it ends, or resisting the urge to explain away an experience that feels unresolved. It means permitting ourselves to say, “I don’t fully understand this yet, and that’s okay.”
Pondering also changes how we listen to others. When we slow down enough to treasure their stories rather than rush to respond, relationships deepen. When we hold moments with care instead of judgment, gratitude grows. Life becomes less about accumulation and more about attentiveness.
Mary’s example reminds us that some truths cannot be grasped in haste. They must be held, revisited, and trusted. The child she pondered would grow, teach, heal, and redeem. But for now, Mary simply treasured what she had been given.
Perhaps this season, and every season, invites us to do the same. To recover the lost art of pondering is to reclaim space for wonder, wisdom, and faith to take root. In a world that urges us to hurry, pondering becomes a quiet act of resistance, and a sacred practice for the living of these days.
(This column is a revision of a Wednesday night devotional I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola in December 2008.)
Cove Creek Reflections 