Loving the Questions

Lately I have been noticing that I LOVE questions.  Sometimes (I'll be honest) I love questions simply because I know the answer and knowing the answer makes me feel smart and even useful.

For example, on Sunday at confirmation one of the student's mothers asked a question about our worship service that morning.  We had Palm Sunday and included just a portion of the story of Jesus' suffering and death.  On the way home her husband had asked, "Where does Judas come in?"  She said, "I'll ask Pastor tonight at confirmation."  And I felt a surge of pastoral usefulness as I told her that Judas comes in before the section of scripture we read -- he had betrayed Jesus earlier in the story, and he's already out of the picture.

The week before I went to visit a woman with communion in her home.  She was ready for me with "questions for the pastor".  I realize that I love these moments -- she wanted to know the meaning of the phrase, "By his stripes we are healed."  And I could do that.  

I love questions.

But I realize that there is more than one kind of question -- there is another kind of question, and sometimes I am privileged to hear it.  It's not a question that makes me feel smart, or useful.  It is a kind of question that makes me feel humble, and (I'll admit) a little uncomfortable.  It is a question that makes me feel like I am walking on holy ground.  The question is bigger than I am.

Last week, someone asked me a question like that.

He was four.

The question he asked was, "Why is Jesus so important?"

How do you answer a question like that?  That is not a question to be answered (not really), but a question to be lived.  It is a question that I hope will follow this boy his whole life, and I hope he will discover different answers to it at different ages.  I wonder what he will discover by asking why Jesus is so important.

A little while later, someone else asked another question, "Why did Jesus have to die?"

She also was four.

And you may disagree, but I believe that this is the same kind of question.  I do not know the answer to that question, not really.  I know some people say they know, but I don't.   In the same way that I don't really know why anyone "has to" suffer -- but they do.  

And yet

This is Holy Week, and I can't help thinking that this is the week for these kinds of questions.  The second kind.  The kind that humble you, and make you realize that you are standing on holy ground.  The kind that you live with your whole life.  

This is Holy Week.  The week for questions that are bigger than I am.

Sunday Sermon: Isaac the Questioner

Isaiah 22:1-19

            Children ask questions, that’s the truth  They ask innocent questions, they ask annoying questions, they ask the same question over and over again.  They even ask theological questions. 

            I remember getting a phone call one day from a young mother in our congregation.  She was looking for advice:  theological advice.  

            Her three year old was asking questions.  Well, one specific question, actually, and she didn’t know how to answer:  “Where Is God?”  What do you say to a three-year-old? She asked, when they ask this question.  

            What’s the best answer? She wanted to know.  

            Now I knew this woman pretty well, and knew she knew the answer to that question – for herself. 

            She was a woman of deep faith – faith which had already been tested.

            But she took  her daughter’s question seriously, and she wanted the right question – for her child

            What do you say to a three year old?  Or to a five year old or a twelve year old, for that matter?

            I am reminded of this question when I think about the story of Isaac today – because the story itself raises a lot of questions that demand answers.  

            For example:  What kind of God asks a father to sacrifice his son?

            Why would God do such a thing, ask such a thing? 

             We think religions that demand child sacrifice barbaric. And here is God, testing Abraham. 

             You can say, after the fact, that God did not end up requiring it, but while it is happening, it’s still pretty horrific to think about.  

            What  is God thinking?  

            And even though these questions seem important to us, they are apparently not important to Abraham. 

            He’s not asking any questions.  He’s just obeying.  At least this time.

            But there is someone asking a question.  Isaac, the child.  

            And his question is central to the story, but perhaps not so important to us, who ask adult questions, and seek adult answers.  

            This is the question of a child.  

            And like the mom who came to me for help, Abraham the parent wants to give him the best answer he can.  “Here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?”  Isaac asks. 

             Abraham listens to his son’s question.  He takes it seriously.  “God himself will provide the lamb,” he replies.

            There are a couple of pieces of this story that might seem like details, but I think are important. 

            The first is this: that three times Abraham hears a call. The first and the third time it is God calling.  

            Abraham answers God: “Here I am!”  

            The second time, the middle time, it is his son, Isaac, calling.  Abraham answers his son the same way he answers God, with the words “Here I am!”  

            He really listens to the voice of his son, and he takes Isaac’s words, and his question, seriously. 

            The second piece of the story is the element of trust:  Abraham trusts God, and Isaac trusts his father.  

            Why do I believe this? I believe that Isaac question is a sign that he trusts his father – he trusts him enough to ask a question. 

             His question is innocent:  the idea that he himself might be the sacrifice does not seem to occur to him. 

            And Abraham trusts God – I believe ultimately, and even while he is getting ready to sacrifice his son, he really hopes that there is a way out, that God will not require this. 

             When he tells his servant they are going ahead, he says, “the boy and I will worship, and then WE will come back to you.”  

            His words to his son also indicate this trust, “God himself will provide the lamb….”

            Children ask questions, that’s the truth.  

            They ask innocent questions, they ask annoying questions, they ask the same question over and over again. 

            They ask questions until we stop listening, because we can’t take it any more.  

            Children ask questions, and those questions are more important than we often think.  

            For one thing, before you can find the right answer, you have to ask the right question. 

             For another thing, a good question is a sign of trust, not doubt. Children ask us questions because they trust us.  

            Children trust us. And when I think of the world as it is today, I think that we are not always worthy of that trust. 

            This week I saw a snippet of one of the presidential press conferences.  

            Sarah Sanders was answering questions, and she saw a young reporter – and when I say young, I mean he was a child – and she smiled and said she would take his question. 

             I think as a mom herself she felt a warmth and thought he would not ask a hard question.  

            But the young reporter told her about the fear he and some of his classmates have when they go to school, and asked what the president and what the government was going to do to help them feel safe. 

             And when Ms. Sanders responded, I could tell that she had really listened to him, because for a few moments she teared up, and she had a hard time responding.  

            It felt like a genuine moment, so rare in our hyper-partisan time.  It felt like a moment of real listening.

            Children ask questions, that’s the truth.  (

            They ask innocent questions, they ask annoying questions, they ask hard questions.  

            It was perhaps the hardest question Abraham ever heard, “Father, here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”

             And when Abraham answered with the words, “God himself will provide the lamb” he opened up a way not only for himself, not only for Isaac, but for all of us.   

            He spoke out of his deepest trust, his deepest hope, that God would provide a way through a hopeless situation.  

             

            And he was right. There was the ram in the thicket. There all along.   

            There was the offering. God will provide.   In our deepest questions.  In our deepest need.  

            Not an answer, but a lamb.   

            The lamb of God. Jesus.  

            Not just for Abraham. Not just for Isaac.  For us.

            When we are cut to the quick, when we are sinking in despair, when we are asking “why?”, when we are dying to live.  

            When we have tears in our eyes because we don’t know the answers to our children’s questions.

            When our tears are because we know the answer – and we fear it.

            When we know our failure.

            When we know our grief, too deep to bear.

            There is the lamb of God. There is the lamb of God.    When we are broken.  When we have failed.   When we have failed to protect our children.  

            There is the lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.  There is the lamb of God, walking with us, taking seriously all of our questions, loving us, healing us, drawing us again to him.  

            

            Children ask questions, that’s the truth.   Holy questions.  And so do we – all of us children of God.  May we listen, and may those questions draw us closer to the lamb of God who provides a way for us.

            AMEN 

Building Trust

I was meeting with a small group of adults who were dreaming about, and hoping for the future of adult faith formation in our congregation.  What did we want faith formation to look like?   What did we hope to accomplish in the life of adults?

It is called "strategic planning", but I also call it hoping.  I call it sharing stories.  We started by sharing stories of moments of faith formation in our lives, things that picqued our curiosity, made us grow.  One person shared the importance of witnessing an adult baptism.  Another person told about shepherding youth through writing faith statements, and how that helped her consider how she would speak of her own faith.  Another person shared faith retreat weekends, and how that intentional time together helped their whole family.

There were just seven of us around the table.  We had considered the purpose and outcomes we desired, and now we were honing in on some values that were important to us.  One value came up again and again, that we want to be a safe place where people can bring their questions, the questions and doubts of faith.  We don't want faith formation simply to be a place where people find answers, but a place where people wrestle, can speak up about the things they don't know, the things they might never know.  They were going beyond information, venturing forth to the deeper waters of formation.

But at the same time were were passionate, we realized that we were stuck.

Someone shared about his daughter's experience in a class at college, where they discussed deep issues of faith and community:  abortion, racism, poverty, and many other areas where faith and life meet.  He said that these conversations were transforming to his daughter's faith.  And someone else said that we should be able to talk about these things in church.  The church is a sanctuary, that is, a safe place, where we can bring our true selves and be assured of God's grace and forgiveness.

There was a deep deep pause.  The word "should" hung in the air, as we realized the gulf between our ideals and where we are.  And we realized that one of our first tasks, if we want to become a community safe for questions, was to inch along toward becoming that place that we desire to be:  a sanctuary, a safe place for questions, for the doubters and believers.

How do we make it so?

I think we can only do this by practicing, and that is what makes it so hard, because we will make mistakes, and there will be some people who are too wounded to try.  We can only do this by practicing, by beginning to have the conversations, practicing grace with one another.  I think there are ways we can lay some ground rules as we begin, and hope that people trust enough to engage with us.  We can lay some ground rules about how we listen, and how we receive each other's stories, about not having to agree with one another to listen.

And then we need to learn to practice forgiveness, which is a part of trust.

It is a great vision and goal that we have identified:  to be a safe place for questions.  We will never fully accomplish it, in this life.  But I like to think that when we stand before the throne of the Lamb, we will stand there with the choirs and the feast prepared, and even our questions will find a home.

"What's More Important Than Your Eternal Life?"

I was meeting with a family; they were telling stories about their mother, their lively, smart, stubborn, faithful mother.  She loved music and singing, cooking, traveling and learning.  She made and kept friends easily; she was interested in people.  She had been a nurse and an active partner to her husband, a family practice doctor, who had died during the last year after suffering from memory loss.

So we were sharing stories about their mother's faith when one of the daughters remembered their non-negotiable church attendance.  During the time she was growing up, their parish had a tradition of a pre-Lenten family night.  The daughter wanted to stay home instead and watch "The Wizard of Oz."  But her mother was adamant about the family priorities, saying, "What is more important than your eternal life?"

I have to say, I can't imagine any parent these days saying something like this to their children.  And I will also admit that, out of the context of the conversation I was having, it doesn't sound like something I would even want a parent to say to their children.  To the unpracticed ear, it sounds like a threat, "Go to church or your eternal life might be in jeopardy."  Is our salvation dependent on our church attendance?  Does going to pre-Lenten family nights earn us more salvation points with God?  I think not.

But, I am not sure that is the point the mother was making to her children.  It is not that somehow the certainty of their eternal destination depended on attendance at a certain number of church functions.  Perhaps it is more the hope that attendance at those church functions would be part of creating a foundation of trust.

"What is more important that your eternal life?"  Maybe that question doesn't mean "What is more important than knowing where you will spend eternity?"  What if it means more like, "What is more important than knowing God?"  After all, that is the definition of eternal life in John 17:3:  "Now this is eternal life:  that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent."

One of the things that impressed me about this woman, and her faith, was that she had a list of questions that she was going to ask God, when she saw God face to face.  And the questions she had for God -- they weren't small potatoes.  They weren't theoretical questions.  Her top question to ask God was, "What's with this Alzheimers' crap?"   Deep faith did not mean unquestioning faith.  Deep faith meant faith deep enough to ask questions without fear.  Deep faith meant faith deep enough to know that she could bring her questions, and even her anger, to God.

To me, it's a powerful combination:  to trust God enough to bring to God the hardest questions of our lives.  And to teach our children that they can do it, too.

What is more important than knowing God so well that you can ask God your hardest questions?

Remembering Why I Said 'Yes'

Tonight I went to an ordination.  I got to be present when a new pastor made her vows, promised to be faithful, put on her stole.  I was thinking about how tired I get, sometimes.  I was thinking about how everyone says the church is declining, on its way out.  Then I went to church, tonight, and I thought back to the weekend.

Well, actually, Saturday.  I remembered Saturday afternoon.

It was a busy Saturday at church.  While preparations were underway for a large wedding in the sanctuary, I was preparing for the evening chapel service, where I was preaching and presiding.

There were also going to be three baptisms at the evening service.

At the appropriate time, children, parents and a host of godparents showed up for the pre-baptism preparation and a little bit of rehearsal.  There were two brothers and a little girl, and more baptismal sponsors than I could keep track of.

I always like to begin with a conversation about the meaning of baptism in our tradition.  I pass out a booklet that I like, and ask everyone to turn to a particular page, filled with scripture passages and small cartoons that illustrate all the different meanings and and dimensions of baptism.  I ask people to pick their favorite "picture", and we talk about why they like that particular picture.  So one of the baptismal sponsors said that she really liked the picture of the ark, and we talked about how the church has imagined baptism to be like a passage on Noah's ark, being saved from the waters of chaos and death.  Another person offered as his favorite picture of baptism the tree, with a branch being grafted in.  Still another person really liked the image of being adopted into God's family.  We talked about baptism being about both our relationship with God and our relationship with other members of God's family.

"Can you get baptized many times?" someone asked.  We talked about the fact that some people do get baptized many times, but that our tradition believes that only once is necessary, that the promise lasts forever.

"Have you ever done a baptism in a river?" one of the baptism sponsors asked, a little abruptly.

"No,"I admitted.  "I wouldn't be against it, but I haven't had the opportunity."

"I have been reading about river baptisms," she said.  "I like the imagery of flowing water, and what it means about life."

"Yes, that is great imagery," I agreed.  "A healthy river has an inlet and an outlet.  But most of our healthy lakes do too.  You could get baptized in a lake, as long as it isn't the middle of winter."

We talked more about rivers and water and God's promises to us.  I felt a thirst in the room, a curiosity, that reminded me of why I went to seminary in the first place, studying Greek and Hebrew, Pastoral Care and Systematic Theology.  It wasn't to prop up an institution, to try to get people to join a social club, to get more people to attend events.

It was about having conversations that mattered, about faith and doubt and questions, rivers, lakes and streams, where to find God.  It was about breaking bread and pouring wine, putting my hands in the water and letting it run through my fingers.  It was about death and life and the yearning inside each of us.

Later on, we all went to the chapel for the worship service and baptisms.  The woman who had the questions volunteered to be my assistant, pouring the water into the font and holding the candles that we gave to each of the children.

I laid my hand on three small heads and prayed for them by name.  And three small hands each tried to push my hand away while I was praying.

When I dipped my finger in the oil and said, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever," one of the fathers whispered to his little boy, "This is the best part."

After the worship service, the woman with the questions came up to me and asked me a couple more questions about baptism.

"You don't do baptisms for hire, do you?" she asked.

I shook my head no.

But I would have loved the chance to have another conversation with her.

Tonight I went to an ordination.  A new pastor heard and made promises, promised to serve Christ and Christ's people.  A new pastor put on the yoke, broke the bread and said the words of life to us.  And I remembered.  I remembered again why I "said" yes.

Water. Wine.  Questions.  Promises.  A river with an inlet and an outlet.  Life.

Yes.

Easter: What Difference does it make?

Starting on April 1^st, I have been trying to write a poem a day.  It's National poetry month (I admit to knowing this).  At first I thought that I would find a favorite poem for every day of the month.  But then I threw caution to the wind and decided to write a poem a day instead.  I have never considered myself much of a poet, but I did it anyway.

I have been writing and posting the poems on Facebook, which is odd in a way, but for some reason I am the sort of person who writes a poem if she knows that she has a commitment to post it publicly every day (sort of the anti-Emily Dickinson.)  

Late on Easter evening, I had not written or posted a poem yet.  But here's what came out:

what difference does it make?

on this Easter evening

this question I take to sleep with me.

You rose.

what difference does it make?

what difference to my

lying down,

waking,

working,

dying every day

life?

You rose.

on this Easter evening

I take this prayer to sleep with me.

What difference will it make?

lying down,

waking,

working,

dying every day,

make me an instrument

of your love.

As I reflect back on this Lent and Easter, the question I want to ask is not “What is the meaning of Easter?” but “What does Easter mean to me?”  Not just “What difference does it make that Jesus rose from the dead?”  but, “What difference does it make to me?  What difference does it make to us, the church?  And what difference does it make to the world?”

The more I think about it, the more I want to reflect on this question for the next fifty days.  For I suspect that there is not just one answer to this question, "What difference does it make?"  Perhaps there are fifty answers.  

What is your reason?

What difference does Jesus' resurrection make to you?  

  

"What Are You Looking For?"

In the past year or so, we have started using the term, "Faith Formation" at my congregation.  In the past, we talked about "Christian Education," or we talked about "Sunday School," or "Confirmation."  Or maybe, "Adult Study."  Words like that.  But now we have abruptly begun to use the words "Faith Formation," fairly regularly, and it's a fair bet that many in our congregation don't know exactly what we are talking about or why we changed the words we use.

To be fair, it is possible to use the words, "faith formation", and do everything the same way as you used to do it.  You can say that now you have faith formation, but you still do Sunday School, and Confirmation and adult study in exactly the same way as before, except that you have a different catch-phrase attached.  I hope that's not the case with us, but it is something to think about, and guard against.

For myself, though, I really like the term "faith formation."  It gives the impression (true, I think) that the process of forming our faith is eclectic:  faith is formed in worship, through prayer, in service, while we are sitting down at a Bible study, at the dinner table, through informal conversations and acts of love done by us and to us.  Faith is formed through times of doubt or struggle or failure as well.  "Faith formation" also hints at the outcome of study and learning at well:  not the simple intake of information, but who we are becoming as disciples of Jesus.

There's this great scene near the beginning of John's gospel.  John the Baptist is testifying about Jesus, telling people that he's the one they have been waiting for.  He is the Lamb of God, the Chosen One, the Son of God.

Two of John's disciples just up and start following Jesus.  I mean, literally.  They start following Jesus down the street.  Jesus turns around and asks them, "What are you looking for?"

It's such a great, and ordinary question.  It's the question that the assistant at the grocery store asks you, the clerk at the department store, the guy at the gas station, if you come in and you are looking bewildered.  "What are you looking for?"  It sounds like a marketing question.  The church has been asking people this question, too.  "What are you looking for?"  And people are often giving the answers you would suspect:  "I am looking for a contemporary worship service."  "I am looking for a good youth program."  "I am looking for fair-trade coffee at the fellowship hour."  "I am looking for a good Bible study."

Here's the thing, though:  when Jesus asks those two would-be disciples the question, they don't answer him.  They don't answer the question.  I think this was a moment of brilliance for the disciples (who are not known for often being brilliant, to tell the truth.)  They did not answer Jesus' question, "What are you looking for?"

To me, this simple silence is at the heart of the difference between faith formation and Christian education.  Christian Education is a menu of choices as we grow in our preferred direction of faith development.  In that scenario Jesus asks you the question, "What are you looking for?" and you tell him, and he designs a curriculum to fit your needs.

But in Faith Formation, when Jesus asks us the question, "What are you looking for?", there is silence.  There is silence, first of all, because we realize that we don't know what we're looking for, not exactly, except that it has something to do with light, and something to do with an ache in our heart.  We check our pockets to see if there are keys, or a quarter, or something that will help us remember who we are.  "What are you looking for?"  he asked us, and the best answer is silence.  And in the silence, we suddenly realize that it is we who should be asking him that question.  "What are you looking for, Rabbi?"

 In the silence, we put ourselves in his hands, we let him form us, we let him form us.  We feel the weight of a piece of bread in our hands, and we see a small shaft of light near his feet.

And we realize that we are the people he is looking for, and that he means to form us, to make us into Light, and Peace, and Bread.

Questions without Answers

Every Wednesday morning, our congregation holds a small Matins service in our small chapel.  We pray, we sing, we hear the scriptures.  There is a short homily.

This week it was my turn, and, as I had Sunday School and Faith Formation on my mind, I decided to ask the worshippers about their experiences and memories of Sunday School.  What did they learn?  What did they remember?  Several people remembered the songs that they learned, or a favorite Sunday School teacher.  One woman offered that she learned in Sunday School that "The adults in the congregation cared about me."  Others remembered memorizing Bible verses or the catechism.

One woman shared that one of her Sunday School teachers had posed the question, "Is it better to be in church, but thinking about being out in your fields, or out in the fields, but thinking about God?"

"And you still remember that, even all these years later," I said.

"Well, I'm still not sure I know the answer," she replied.

I thought that Sunday School teacher was awesome.  I've been thinking about it all week.  This woman was given a question that has haunted her for her whole life, something she has been mulling over and considering.  She doesn't know the answer, and yet she keeps coming back, keeps digging deeper into faith and life and doubt and hope.

When we think about Christian education curriculum, what do we think about?  Songs?  Stories?  Prayers?  I do believe that the foundations of faith are the stories of scripture, the songs and prayers we learn, the prayers we make out of our hearts.  But then again,  what if a large part of the curriculum is questions?  And what if some of the questions don't have answers, except for the answers that you live every day of your life as a disciple of Jesus?

I can't help noticing that Jesus asked a lot of questions.  It's true, he also prayed and he told stories too (although a lot of those stories held a lot of questions as well).  In fact, when people asked him a question, he almost always answered them with another question.  He gave them not just something simple that they could hold in their hands, but something they could mull over, consider, and live with for the rest of their lives.  He gave the something they could return to at different ages and at different stages of their lives.

"What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?"

"Who do you say that I am?"

"Do you love me?"

"What do you want me to do for you?"

We have often thought of the value of faith formation for the answers it provides, and for simple foundational statements we can cling too.  But what if the value of faith formation also lies in the questions that don't let us go, but that haunt us, and keep us coming back, digging deeper into the resources of scripture, song, lived experience and prayer?

A friend called me once because her three-year-old daughter was asking, "Where is God?  and she wasn't sure how to answer.  I searched and searched around and finally found a wonderful little book for three-year-olds and I sent it to her in the mail.  But it occurs to me now that "Where is God?" is not just a question for three-year-olds.  It is a question you can ask at three and at thirty-three, and at one hundred and three.  It is a question we can spend our whole lives asking, and answering, and asking again.

Is it better to be out in the fields, but thinking about God, or in church, but thinking about being out in the fields?

What do you think?

Repentance

A while back I bought a new diet book, a serious one:  The Mayo Clinic Diet.  I knew this was was more about developing a healthy lifestyle than about a "get thin quick" method.  I think it was around Lent last year, so I felt somewhat virtuous just buying the book.  I duly noted (in an intellectual sort of way) that the 5 new habits and breaking old habits at the beginning of the book was similar to the Lenten disciplines of giving up something for Lent and taking up a discipline.

I read the first few pages. 

I saw the companion journal in the store, and thought about buying it several times.  But I didn't.

I did try to walk more often in the spring and summer.  In my mind I thought I was going to eat healthier and snack less.  But the heel pain cut into my walking time some, and I don't really have a back-up exercise.

A little later I realized that to keep track of some of the things in the journal, I would actually have to record my weight from day to day.  I didn't own a scale, so I bought one.

I didn't take it out of the box until a couple of weeks ago.

Last week I bought the journal.  I haven't started using it yet.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the doctor.  We were talking about my plantar faschaitis and about my family history of cholesterol.  She said something about the risk of being "pre-diabetic".  There is no diabetes in my family.  This would totally be based on my lifestyle choices.

I've got two pedometers.  I'm trying to find one of them.  I have successfully pushed away a couple of desserts.  And I'm working on exercise, with mixed results, so far.  I lost a couple of pounds.  I gained it back.  That's so discouraging.

I've tried not to think of the "warning" aspect of repentance.  I like to remind people that what we are turning toward is as important as what we are turning away from.  I still think that's true, and that I won't be able to stick to an exercise and diet plan with only the words "pre-diabetic" in my ears. 

But there are times when it is necessary to expose the unhealthy, self-centered, unjust, delusional roads we travel on.  There are times we need to step on the scale, or go to the doctor, and hear that part of the truth. 

I think the challenge for me right now is to figure out exactly what I am turning toward, when I turn away from the dessert and the snacks and sitting on the coach. 

Can I keep plugging along even when I get on the scale and discover that it didn't go the right way this time?  Can I keep on a discipline even though I fail sometimes?  Can I get up and try again, and adjust when something doesn't work? 

In a way, it's not such a different question than the the ones that confront me as a pastor, in my ministry.  Sometimes, in my ministry, I'll confess, the scale doesn't tilt in the right direction.  Sometimes when I reflect I think that I may need to change my habits, not only for my own health, but for the health and the future of my congregation. 

 Right now I'm evaluating both my personal health, and what habits I need to have and to develop to be an effective pastor.  Some things will probably remain the same, and some things will probably change.   The question in both areas is this:

"Can I keep on a discipline even though I fail sometimes?  Can I get up and try again, and adjust when something doesn't work?"

More Questions than Answers

Yesterday, I had my noon Bible Study group read and reflect on the gospel for Sunday, the last Sunday in the Church year. We read about Jesus standing before Pilate, Pilate asking Jesus questions, and Jesus answering with questions of his own. "Are you the King of the Jews?" "I'm not a Jew, am I? What have you done?" "So you are a king?" These are Pilate's questions.

Then there is Jesus' question, "Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?" In other words, "why do you want to know?" Motivation is important, for Jesus.

Our group was strangely quiet yesterday. Usually we're bubbling over with questions, with ideas about the scripture. But yesterday, I don't know: maybe people were having a difficult time figuring out how this story of Jesus and Pilate applied to their lives. Maybe it was me. Maybe I wasn't asking the right questions, not yesterday.

At one point, one man asked, "Why do we have this story about the crucifixion now, at the end of the church year?"

Good question: what do you think?

At one point I got up and went to the white board and wrote down two columns: one was "our kingdoms," and the other was "Jesus' kingdom." And I asked what words might go on the side of "our kingdoms" and what words might go on the other side of "Jesus' kingdom." And a few words came up, like "grace", and "truth" (someone who was reading the gospel) and "loving your neighbor as yourself" -- and on the other side, "judgment," and "lies," and "looking out for number one." And we talked about the necessity of living in the world (our kingdoms), but living as ones who belong to Jesus, with the values of grace, truth, loving our neighbors as ourselves. And how sometimes this will get us in trouble, just like it got Jesus in trouble.

Today I was thinking about it, and wishing that I had brought up, on the "our kingdom" side, "racism." It was on our minds since the Children's Sabbath sermon, and still, I didn't think of it, not overtly.

And I wonder if that's just a by-product of the racism deep within me. I don't have to think about race, at least not most of the time. So I don't.

Today, reflecting, I think about that odd phrase, "belonging to the truth."

"Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice."

Think about it. We usually use the language this way: "We have the truth," which is another way of saying, "The truth belongs to us." But Jesus is saying, "The truth has us," or "We belong to the truth."

How would we live differently if we believed that "We belong to the truth"?

All of a sudden Pilate's question might gain urgency, "What is truth?"

Good Question: what do you think?

Lonely Day

I'm feeling a little bereft this morning, since Husband is going up North to hear Talented Stepson's Jazz Concert this afternoon. I would love to go: I love jazz and love hearing Stepson play, but I have a pre-baptism meeting at an inconvenient time and I can't change it (we just heard about the concert yesterday). So I have morning meetings and he'll leave about noon, and I'll be wondering what to do with myself the rest of the day. Here are some ideas:

• Laundry. At least two loads.
  
• Take Scout on a middle-of-the-day walk for a change. Might be more fun than those early morning ones. (I see that she appears to be voting for the walk.)
  
• Dishes. (we are the only middle-class family in the U.S. currently without a dishwasher, as far as I know.)
  
• Visit someone. (a pastor's work is never done).
  
• Go to a movie by myself (I know it sounds sad, but I'd go to one of the ones Husband ISN'T interested in.)
  
• Work on knitting.
  
• Write. Something. Creative. (perhaps about the girl with the key hanging around her neck on a piece of string...?)
  
• Read Sara's Gruen's book Water for Elephants.
  
• Try not to mope.
  
• Start another blog.
  

any other suggestions? Perhaps something more exciting than what I have suggested? (and I wonder why I don't write short stories any more! .... maybe because I am boring.)