Here’s the story, as it was told to me, and as I told it to the Middlers.
There was once a tribe in the deep recesses of the African jungle. Among its many tradition was a rite of passage for its young men. Every spring, the 13- year-old boys in the tribe were sent out alone into the jungle where they had to live by their wits and survive the challenges of the land and of each other. Every day before sundown, the boys would gather for games of fierce competition. Two young men soon stood out among the crowd as leaders in all the contests. And as leaders, they attracted their followers, or, should I say, fans. After about a week of this, emotions were raw and tempers became unpredictably explosive—between the leaders and among their fans. On this one night, it began as a wrestling match. Twists and holds, flips and pins were covered in sweat and dust. And then blood. The crowd’s cheering became screaming and yelling. Wrestling had turned to anger and hatred; to beating and strangling, and to death and silence. No longer fans of victor or victim, the crowd turned mob and chased the murderer through the jungle. Stunned by his own crime and in fear of the mob’s frenzy, the young man rushed from the jungle into the village clearing and stumbled into the hut of the tribal chieftain. In shame and anguish, he confessed his crime. The mob surrounded the chieftain’s hut, as he emerged with the young man to cries of murder and demands of punishment by death.
“He has confessed and seeks forgiveness,” said the chieftain.
“His crime is murder and his sentence must be death,” cried the mob.
“Again,” said the chieftain, “he has confessed and seeks forgiveness.”
And a lone voice cried out from the crowd, “But it was your son whom he murdered.”
Silence—dead silence.
The chieftain stared at the crowd, turned to the young man beside him, looked back at the crowd, and again at the young man. Placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders, the chieftain said, “Then, from this day on, you shall be my son.”
There was once a tribe in the deep recesses of the African jungle. Among its many tradition was a rite of passage for its young men. Every spring, the 13- year-old boys in the tribe were sent out alone into the jungle where they had to live by their wits and survive the challenges of the land and of each other. Every day before sundown, the boys would gather for games of fierce competition. Two young men soon stood out among the crowd as leaders in all the contests. And as leaders, they attracted their followers, or, should I say, fans. After about a week of this, emotions were raw and tempers became unpredictably explosive—between the leaders and among their fans. On this one night, it began as a wrestling match. Twists and holds, flips and pins were covered in sweat and dust. And then blood. The crowd’s cheering became screaming and yelling. Wrestling had turned to anger and hatred; to beating and strangling, and to death and silence. No longer fans of victor or victim, the crowd turned mob and chased the murderer through the jungle. Stunned by his own crime and in fear of the mob’s frenzy, the young man rushed from the jungle into the village clearing and stumbled into the hut of the tribal chieftain. In shame and anguish, he confessed his crime. The mob surrounded the chieftain’s hut, as he emerged with the young man to cries of murder and demands of punishment by death.
“He has confessed and seeks forgiveness,” said the chieftain.
“His crime is murder and his sentence must be death,” cried the mob.
“Again,” said the chieftain, “he has confessed and seeks forgiveness.”
And a lone voice cried out from the crowd, “But it was your son whom he murdered.”
Silence—dead silence.
The chieftain stared at the crowd, turned to the young man beside him, looked back at the crowd, and again at the young man. Placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders, the chieftain said, “Then, from this day on, you shall be my son.”
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish, but might have eternal life. (Jn 3:16 in Today’s Gospel)
All of the Elementaries got a cross to carry in their pockets for the rest of Lent. With it came the poem “A Cross in My Pocket,” which was given to me by a parishioner Martha Chaleski. If Martha were still with us, she would have been 103 on March 15. She died four years ago at age 99.
I hope the kids showed you their crosses and shared the poem. If the poem didn’t make its way home, here it is:
I carry a cross in my pocket
A simple reminder to me
Of the fact that I am a Christian
No matter where I may be.
This little cross isn’t magic
Nor is it a good luck charm.
It isn’t meant to protect me
From every physical harm.
It’s not for identification
For all the world to see.
It’s simply an understanding
Between my Savior and me.
When I put my hand in my pocket
To bring out a coin or a key
The cross is there to remind me
Of the price he paid for me.
It reminds me, too, to be thankful
For my blessings, day by day.
And to strive to serve him better
In all that I do or say.
It’s also a daily reminder
Of the peace and comfort I share
With all who know my Master and
Give themselves to his care.
So, I carry a cross in my pocket
Reminding no one but me
That Jesus Christ is Lord of my life
If only I’ll let him be.
Love,
Deacon Charlie
All of the Elementaries got a cross to carry in their pockets for the rest of Lent. With it came the poem “A Cross in My Pocket,” which was given to me by a parishioner Martha Chaleski. If Martha were still with us, she would have been 103 on March 15. She died four years ago at age 99.
I hope the kids showed you their crosses and shared the poem. If the poem didn’t make its way home, here it is:
I carry a cross in my pocket
A simple reminder to me
Of the fact that I am a Christian
No matter where I may be.
This little cross isn’t magic
Nor is it a good luck charm.
It isn’t meant to protect me
From every physical harm.
It’s not for identification
For all the world to see.
It’s simply an understanding
Between my Savior and me.
When I put my hand in my pocket
To bring out a coin or a key
The cross is there to remind me
Of the price he paid for me.
It reminds me, too, to be thankful
For my blessings, day by day.
And to strive to serve him better
In all that I do or say.
It’s also a daily reminder
Of the peace and comfort I share
With all who know my Master and
Give themselves to his care.
So, I carry a cross in my pocket
Reminding no one but me
That Jesus Christ is Lord of my life
If only I’ll let him be.
Love,
Deacon Charlie
No comments:
Post a Comment