Luggage
"Trust in the LORD forever, for the LORD GOD is an everlasting rock."Isaiah 26:4 ESV
Forever.
Everlasting.
Permanent.
Reliable.
Never ending.
Certain.
Sure.
Secure.
Whom or what are you trusting in for your salvation?
Whom or what are you clinging to in place of faith in Christ?
What's the luggage (baggage) in your life?
Yom Kippur, the ending of the Jewish High Holy Days, begins at sundown on October 7th and ends at sundown on October 8th. The following excerpt from R.R. Reno's post can be read in full, here, http://www.firstthings.com/onthesquare/2011/10/days-of-awe:
Yom Kippur ends with a service known as Ne'ilah ("closing the gate"). The doors to the sanctuary that hold the Torah scrolls are opened, a ritual gesture akin to the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. For an hour the congregation stands as the liturgy returns again and again to variations on a single theme: "The doors are closing, the doors are closing." The shadows lengthen. The half-light of impeding darkness gathers around the synagogue. The atmosphere becomes urgent. God, our Lord and Judge, beckons us to repent, but not forever. Death is nearer than we think. Time is short. The doors are closing.
It is not easy to stand in one place for an hour, and over the years when I have been with my [Jewish] wife at the Ne'ilah service, I have found that it is even less easy to confront my own spiritual immobility. The doors are closing, and yet I hesitate. I have a career and mortgage payments and college tuitions to think about. Repentance? That can come later, or so I often think.
Grace abounds, but as modern Christians I fear that we presume upon God's mercy. Jesus issued a dire warning to those of us who imagine that we can tarry, putting off the real changes required by true repentance until after we get our worldly lives in order: "No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God." I should be casting aside the luggage of life and running to enter the kingdom of God. I strain, I desire to purify my soul. But I take my hand off the plow. I look back.
I am Christian and not Jewish. I have no real grasp of Hebrew and I only vaguely follow the prayers in my wife's synagogue. Yet, in the final moments of Yom Kippur I have felt a terrible anguish, yearning to move, and yet immobile, wanting to rush to God's side and yet nailed to my worldly life. I have shuddered as cantor cries out: "The doors are closing; the doors are closing." For in those haunting words I hear Jesus saying: "Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand."
Any seasoned business traveler will admonish you to "pack light" when travelling. In the early 90's I travelled frequently to the East Coast on business. In the beginning, I made do with old luggage, which had to be carried and didn't have wheels or a telescoping handle.
For whatever insanity possessed me, I booked a layover flight from Orange County through Chicago O'Hare with my final destination, Boston, on American Airlines. Chicago is the 2nd largest airport in the US (Atlanta being the 1st) when it comes to flights in/out of the airport. Chicago also is a major hub for American Airlines (or was back then).
Due to inclement weather, our arrival into Chicago was delayed by 30 minutes. My 45 minute layover window had been reduced to 15 minutes. This was my first time to land in Chicago, but, in blissful ignorance, I didn't panic. Reasonable flight schedules would allow for reduced layover times, right? And, how far away could my connecting flight be?
How far indeed! It was so far in fact, when I disembarked and inquired at the gate as to the location of my connecting flight, the attendant told me I might make it if I run. Run!? In fashionably high, 3" heels and a pencil skirt? Yes. Holding my shoes and lugging my wheel-less, school bus yellow American Tourister, hard sided medium sized bag, I hiked up my skirt and ran...and ran...and ran.
It took 13 minutes to run from one terminal to the other.
For 13 minutes I maneuvered around casually strolling passengers, fuming at them as they impeded my way.
For 13 minutes I surveyed the obstacles ahead of me, and like a running back holding the football for a certain touchdown, I tucked my head, and plowed through the crowds picking the path of least resistance.
For 13 minutes I observed others, with those new rolling, black, Tumi bags, jogging effortlessly past me.
For 13 agonizing minutes I debated the necessity of the items I had packed and calculated credit card limits to determine if I could replace everything I brought so I could trash my antiquated luggage and be free to continue my marathon to my departing flight. Sentimental memories of taking said dinosaur luggage to summer camps or family vacations galvanized my hold. Fiscal responsibility and the high cost of a certain brand of makeup renewed my ebbing energy.
With shaking arms, wobbly legs, heavy, out of breath, huffing and puffing, and sweat smearing expensive makeup I wore, I barely made my connecting flight. As I collapsed into my seat, the mean spirited businessman next to me inquired, "First time at O'Hare? No one mentioned the trains?" Trains? What trains? As I had no breath with which to speak, I just dumbly stared at this stranger. Apparently there are shuttle trains to transport you between the concourses. Sheesh!
The gate (door) to my connecting flight almost closed on me. Had it closed, I would've been stuck in Chicago trying to figure out how to get another flight. I never connected through Chicago again. Ever.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home