The words of the wise are like goads, their collected sayings like firmly embedded nails—given by one shepherd. (Ecclesiastes 12:11)

I find myself at a loss for words this week as I sit down to write. This is not bad in itself. I learned a long time ago that great words from the lives of others can often speak to me or for me in a way that nurtures and guides my life. So, rather than expound on some specific topic this week, let me share with you a few quotations that I’ve collected over the years. In doing so, I pray that you may hear the voice of the “One Shepherd” to you.

We’ve made it past the middle of January. The days are getting longer. Spring is now, at least, a distant hope. Yet, for many, these last days of January and the early days of February are the darkest of days. Whether its the “down” after the hopeful joy of Christmas, the cumulative effect of all the dark days and long nights, or the difficulties of life that seem somehow much heavier at this time of year, it’s hard to remember who we are, who we serve, and what is our responsibility.

I’ve been sick for two weeks and I’m sick of it — the lack of energy, the hacking cough, and worst of all, the lack of voice to be able to talk (and you all know how I like to talk!). I haven’t been really sick, just sick enough to ruin my plans and frustrate my efforts — sick enough to basically confine myself to office work, meetings in which I don’t have to talk (there aren’t many of those), and sad attempts at playing floor hockey when I have no energy. But, during this period, I’ve had an epiphany — two of them actually — which is great, since this is the season of the church year known as Epiphany.

On July 7, 1902, Theodor Herzl, the founder of political Zionism, giving evidence before a Royal Commission while in London, was asked why Jewish immigration to other host countries was not as important as immigration to Palestine, especially since Jewish philanthropists were providing significant financial backing for establishing settlements across the Atlantic.

Wilberforce was persuaded to give himself fully to Jesus Christ. It was no casual commitment.

Why hadn’t any of his friends, instructors, or tutors taken him aside and told him he was on a dangerous path? He put this question to Frewen (an old Christian friend and Cambridge instructor): Would not the golden rule have prompted you to use towards me the language of a friend, if not of a father? (My natural father I lost when eight years old, and my grandfather and uncle soon after I went to Cambridge.) Ought you not to have urged me to … consider what must be the issue of the course of life I was pursuing, and of the choice I was making of associates and friends?

(William Wilberforce: A Hero For Humanity; Kevin Belmonte; 11, 42)

The idea made both practical and logical sense. That should have been my first warning.

I once had a neighbour who said, “Why do something manually when there is a tool for that?” While I don’t always agree with that (I’m a contrarian, after all.), I’d say that it has strongly influenced my development as a handyman.

I looked up the word in order to get the definition. The irony of what I found wasn’t lost on me.

The word in question, “keening”, comes from a mid-19th century Irish word that means “to wail.” It describes wailing in grief or an eerie wailing sound. It can also be used as a verb (“keen”) in order to describe “expressing grief or pain out loud.”

Delivery was as predicted. The furniture arrived and it exceeded our anticipation. The colour was as we had hoped. Sharon had done a great job in researching, such that the size was perfect. Everything worked. Nothing was damaged in the packaging or shipping. After two years, we have a “furnished living room” (or something like it).

“The practice of hope” and the purchase of new furniture — a perfect paradigm as we move through the first week of Advent.

Sunday, Pastor Reagan did a great job of bringing the theme of hope to bear as he opened up Micah 4 to us. In passing, he used a phrase which captured my attention: “the practice of hope.” “How do I practice hope?” I asked myself. And that got me thinking about furniture.

It was a simple request from my loving wife: cut the fresh peanut butter rice crispy brownies into squares; remove them from the pan and place them in freezer containers. What could go wrong?

He’s an honoured and famous, champion football player. But this season hasn’t gone well for his team and, for the first time in his career, they are in jeopardy of missing the playoffs. After the team’s most recent loss by a field goal, in a game where he had the chance to lead a game winning drive with less than two minutes to play, he met the media. He made no excuses. He blamed no one else. His confession: “I have to be better.”

It was the middle of a conversation. I was talking about two young men who are very dear to me — one of my grandsons and his very good friend —and I couldn’t remember their names. I could see their faces in my mind, knew all kinds of facts about them but couldn’t remember their names in that moment. Honestly, it was a bit troubling.

The boat hit the rock with a glancing thud and lurched sideways. For a brief instant, I filled the air with language that shouldn’t be coming from the mouth of a father (there were two boys in the boat), let alone a pastor, language that definitely shouldn’t be heard by young boys. Meanwhile, the other father in the boat was laughing maniacally, which didn’t do much to dampen my internal temperature at that moment. It wasn’t my finest hour — by a long stretch. Honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing to even talk about.

I just found out that my friend died on this Sunday past. I was reflecting in my journal about the weight I was feeling because of his illness and how little time I had spent with him (he’s a new believer) because of all that has been going on in my life lately. I closed my journal and opened my email to find a note from his wife, telling me that he had died.

The town was small and the roads were dark. I drove past a large church where the parking lot was full but dark. I found the Tim Horton’s I was looking for in a strip mall, attached to a cash and carry gas station, a beacon of light in an dismally lit parking lot. My bladder was signaling that it had been an hour and a half drive to this town from my last coffee meeting and that coffee is, indeed, a diuretic. Thankfully, I was early, so I had time to use the restroom and go over my notes before my meeting.

It was normal chit-chat during the coffee break at church last Sunday. I was catching up with my friend, Evan, when his wife came up to us, turned to me and blurted, “Has he confessed to you yet?” The weird thing was that she was smiling while she asked.

After the briefest of moments (which seemed like eternity to me as I mentally assessed as many combinations and permutations of possibilities as seemed reasonable during the time allotted), he confessed, “I tried to duplicate you.”

I sat by my friend’s hospital bed and he said, “Sixty years — I fear I’ve wasted so much time and so many opportunities that were given to me. I’m not nearly as good as I could or should be.”

Are you becoming “as good as you could or should be?” Are you doing things that matter?

In order to answer my questions, you may need to ask some others: How do I know which are the things that matter? Why does it even matter if I get better?

Leave it to a mathematician, who died only two months after his 39th birthday, to give us a method for reaching our culture today with the gospel.

Time for a quiz, since everyone is back in school mode by now. “What is the “last spike?” You get bonus points if you can tell me where the “last spike” was driven and you get even more bonus points if you can tell me when it was driven.  … So, how did you do?

“Is it worth it?” “What am I doing this for?” These are the questions that cause you to wake up at night or, in the event that you are already awake, keep you from going right back to sleep. They are good questions, razor sharp in their ability to cut through all our pretence and get to the core of our motivation and values.