Yes, it’s really hard to talk about the crucifixion with children. Adults have enough trouble with it. Please don’t skip over the hard parts, though. We do know how the story ends. We call Good Friday ‘good’ because we are an Easter people. Even in the name we give it, we do not look at this day alone for the terrible thing that happened, that Jesus died on the cross. We look all the way to Sunday, when Jesus rose again. We pause on Friday to remember that Jesus, whom we love, died on a dark day when soldiers shamed him, nearly all his friends left his side, and he wasn’t even sure that God was with him. We tell the story of what happened that day because it is vital for our children to hear: Jesus was afraid, he suffered, he died . . . and God turned his fear, his suffering, and his dying into hope, wholeness, and new life.
We tell this story—our Christian story—over and over again because it tells us the truth: not that there is no darkness, but that “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”Remembering that gives us comfort and makes us bold, helps us encourage others and find goodness in the most difficult of days. We are Easter people because we have been to the cross and the grave and we know the promise God makes to us in Jesus: God’s power and grace can transform anything; God’s love is stronger than the cross, stronger than death itself.
You might bring some sweetness to this bitter day in a traditional way, by baking hot cross buns, a custom that dates to Saxon times. My husband makes this recipe. Break your fast with these, and make enough to share with your neighbors or with the overworked staff of your church, who still have three intense days before they rest.
Sermon/Keynote for the Diocese of Olympia Faith Formation Day February 25, 2017
I am so happy and thankful to be here with you today. I was invited here because I recently wrote a book calledFaith at Home: A Handbook for Cautiously Christian Parents. That’s a very deliberate subtitle, and even though I was brought up in the Episcopal Church and have worked for the Episcopal Church in some form or fashion nearly all of my adult life, I place myself firmly in that category of “cautiously Christian.” I still have a lot of questions. There are days and moments within days when I struggle to believe, but I try to live, I choose to act as though I do.
I’ve just heard two great stories about Bishop Rickel, and one of them is from the national news, that you and the Diocese of Olympia are standing on the side of refugees against the current administration, joining in a lawsuit with the ACLU, for which I am so grateful. The other story is from a clergy friend who tells me that you ask each candidate for Confirmation to write you a letter telling you why they want to be confirmed. Not only do you read those letters, but you have met with parents whose child actually didn’t want to be confirmed to explain that you were not, in fact, going to confirm them. Bishop, as a parent and a Christian educator, I salute you. Both of these stories tell us that following Jesus is serious business, friends! My son Peter is trying to get out of going to theological debate camp for a week this summer by telling my husband and me that he has trouble with the Nicene Creed. I am flabbergasted by this. Seriously, Peter? That’s your excuse? Have I taught you nothing? Join the club! A seminarian friend told me she thinks Peter’s trolling me on that one. Anyone else have trouble with the Nicene Creed? Thank you, yes, Peter is going to camp.
“Learn to love the questions,” as Rainer Maria Rilke wrote to the young poet, which is good advice for the cautiously Christian. There is a question implicit in the scriptures we have heard today, a common thread running through them:
Where do we find God? Where does God dwell? Listen:
“But the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind, there was an earthquake. But the Lord wasn’t in the earthquake. After the earthquake, there was a fire. But the Lord wasn’t in the fire. After the fire, there was a sound. Thin. Quiet. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his coat. He went out and stood at the cave’s entrance. A voice came to him and said, ‘Why are you here, Elijah?’”
You might, like Elijah, think that God’s usually a bit of a show-off, and then, also like Elijah, discover God in the unexpected—in the silence, not the storm.
Our psalm this afternoon is one I know best in this hymn:
How lovely is thy dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts, to me!
My thirsty soul desires and longs
within thy courts to be;
my very heart and flesh cry out,
O living God for thee.
Beside thine altars, gracious Lord,
the swallows find a nest;
how happy they who dwell with thee
and praise thee without rest,
and happy they whose hearts are set
upon the pilgrim’s quest.
I learned that hymn as a child, in my parish church of St. Mary’s in Laguna Beach, California. Children expect to find God in church. I have a vivid memory of sitting beneath the altar, very quietly, as if I were Samuel in the tabernacle, listening for God. Teachers, clergy, do you ever do that? Let the kids explore the sanctuary? We just had a middle school sleepover in St. Paul’s Chapel, the oldest building in continuous use in Manhattan, where George Washington worshipped on his inauguration day and where scores of recovery workers slept in the months after 9/11. Before bed, we told ghost stories (it’s a 250 year old chapel—of course there are ghosts!) and then we dragged our sleeping bags up around the high altar for the best ghost stories from the Hebrew scriptures: Saul and the Witch of Endor and Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones during Compline by candlelight. Holy ground made for a surprisingly good night’s sleep.
In the Gospel reading, Jesus speaks of God as our Father in heaven, and also very clearly says that we do not need to go to the synagogue to pray. Instead, Jesus tells us to go into our room and shut the door. God is there, too. “Bidden or unbidden, God is present,” says Erasmus of Rotterdam, classical scholar and Catholic priest of the Middle Ages.
It’s possible that you regularly or occasionally run into God at church on Sundays. It’s possible, too, that you are most aware of God while running or hiking or at the beach. You might find God in your children’s faces or in the touch of your spouse. It’s equally possible that you have long since stopped looking for God. That’s okay—you showed up here today in spite of that. It’s possible some part of you still longs for that connection to the holy. What if I told you that YOU are that connection?
We do this all the time–I do this all the time–I make divisions between heaven and earth, the holy and the ordinary, the miraculous and the rational. That’s not how it works, I have come to understand. The realm of God and our world meet each time we remember that we are made in the image of God, we carry the divine spark of our maker, we are holy people, all of us.
Pastor and author Rob Bell’s book, What We Talk About When We Talk About God, takes on these false dichotomies in a powerful way. Bell writes, “This is why the Jesus story is so massive, progressive, and forward-looking in human history. Jesus comes among us as God in a body, the divine and the human existing in the same place, in his death bringing an end to the idea that God is confined to a temple because the whole world is a temple, the whole earth is holy, holy, holy, as the prophet Isaiah said. Or, as one of the first Christians put it, we are the temple. There’s a new place where God dwells, and it’s us.”
We recognize this in our baptisms as we make the promise: “to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.” We teach being Christian to our children by modeling this. We do this not because we are good people. We do this because it’s how we follow Jesus.
Notice that when Jesus invites us to pray, he calls God “our” father. We are part of a new family now, everyone who follows Jesus, and when we pray, even when we pray in secret, we are united with everyone else who calls God “father.” We are not Christians alone. Despite what some well-meaning people will tell you, Christianity is not about a personal relationship with Jesus. Christian life by necessity, almost by definition, is one lived in community. We need each other. The first Christians even called themselves “followers of the Way,” understanding that it was how they lived and not what they thought or believed about God or Jesus that identified them as Christians.
Much later in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus tells a parable in which the righteous sheep are rewarded by their shepherd, the king, who tells them:
“Come … Inherit the kingdom that was prepared for you before the world began. I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me.”
The sheep are stunned by this revelation:
“‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we see you as a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear? When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’
“Then the king will reply to them, ‘I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done it for me.’”
The theologian Stanley Hauerwas points out, “It is significant that the righteous have not known that when they ministered, provided hospitality and visited that they did all of this for Jesus.” They have simply done what we are supposed to do; they have been God for each other. We belong to a new family, together we are building a new kingdom, and it won’t be finished until everyone, everyone is in.
That’s why we are here, isn’t it? This is what we want for our children and for ourselves: a deep sense of connection, belonging and purpose, a strong moral foundation rooted in God through Jesus, who showed us what God is like. Now more than ever we need to teach our children that it’s our compassion, not our commonalities, that make us neighbors, and a Christian’s neighbors are everyone, everywhere.
Expanding our children’s circles of concern from family and close friends to others whose lives and experiences may be very different from their own is a key factor in developing empathy. A recent study –part of the “Making Caring Common” project of the Harvard Graduate School of Education—involving 10,000 youth ages twelve to eighteen across a wide spectrum of race, culture and class, found that 80% of the respondents valued personal happiness and success over caring for others. The same number of kids—80%—reported that their parents were more concerned about achievement or happiness than caring for others. Empathy is defined as the ability “to walk in someone else’s shoes,” but it is more than that: it is valuing and responding with compassion to other people and perspectives. Giving our children the opportunity to know, listen to, and actively help others is vital, not only to our Christian identity and formation, but to changing the society in which we live, or as my friend and former boss Ed Bacon likes to say, “turning the human race into the human family.”
Parents, we are our children’s primary pastors. Decades of research show that the faith and values our children carry with them into adulthood are largely taught at home. The Reverend Martin Luther King, Sr. made a point of serious conversation around the dinner table every night, telling his young children about the injustices he encountered as a black man in the South in the 1930s and 40s, and how he confronted them. Years later, his daughter wrote, “These stories were as nourishing as the food that was set before us.” We can imagine how these stories inspired his son. The stories we tell from the day’s news, the office, the classroom or the playground give us the opportunity to reflect on where God is in them, and where God is calling us to be. Everything that’s worth talking about with our kids is worth talking about in the context of our faith.
The stories we heard in today’s scriptures have fed our spirits and soon we’ll be fed holy food and drink at God’s table. All this is strength for the journey of following Jesus, the adventure of a lifetime. May we be faithful and bold as we “seek and serve Christ in all persons.” As St. Francis of Assisi advises us, “Preach the Gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words.” Amen.
The Church for centuries has observed the feasts of saints on the day of their death. In this case, however, let’s remember and honor the life and ministry of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. when our nation does, on the Monday closest to his birthday, January 15. What our kids learn about him in public school isn’t enough: his Christian faith and his calling compelled Dr. King to make civil rights his life’s work.
The lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures appointed for his feast day is taken from the story of Joseph with the coat of many colors, whose brothers were jealous of him and decided to get rid of him. Eventually, they sold him into slavery, but Joseph became a powerful leader in Egypt. Pharaoh, Egypt’s king, believed Joseph’s dreams and because of that, Joseph was able to save the Egyptians and even his own brothers from a terrible famine. It is taken from Genesis 37:17–20:
They said to one another, “Here comes this dreamer. Come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; then we shall say that a wild animal has devoured him, and we shall see what will become of his dreams.”
Read or listen to the “I Have a Dream” speech, beginning at the line, “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”Continue to the end of the speech. Talk as a family about Dr. King’s dream, and how it has continued after his death.
Families with young children could try beginning this conversation with a brown egg and a white egg. Crack the eggs into the bowl one at a time. No matter what we look like on the outside, inside we are the same. Dr. King’s most famous speech is about his dream that everyone will one day live the way God wants us to live, treating each other fairly and with love, no matter the color of our skin or how different we might be. Read this quote: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” What we have inside us is the most important part of us. Talk together about what we dream of doing to make the world a better (more peaceful, just) place. Read the excellent picture book God’s Dream by Desmond Tutu.
Parents, we are our children’s primary pastors. Decades of research show that the faith and values our children carry with them into adulthood are largely taught at home. The Reverend Martin Luther King, Sr. made a point of serious conversation around the dinner table every night, telling his young children about the injustices he encountered as a black man in the South in the 1920s and 30s, and how he confronted them. Years later, his daughter wrote, “These stories were as nourishing as the food that was set before us.” We can imagine how these stories inspired his son. The stories we tell from the day’s news, the office, the classroom or the playground give us the opportunity to reflect on where God is in them, and where God is calling us to be.
Last year at March for Our Lives, we heard Dr. King’s nine-year-old granddaughter Yolanda Renee King tell people across the nation about her dream. One of my favorite quotes of Dr. King’s is this: “Life’s most important and urgent question is, ‘What are you doing for others?'” We share our stories, our dreams, to help us live the answers to that question.
If you are new to the process of talking about race with your children, here are some helpful resources.
My book is now out in the world (!) and I am finding that by far the most frequent question I get is about the subtitle: “A Handbook for Cautiously Christian Parents.” While I wrote with parents in mind, more than that I wanted to write for the cautious Christian, for anyone who struggles with the way “Christian” is defined by popular culture and much of the media, for anyone who doesn’t picture God as an old man with a long white beard, or who maybe doesn’t even think of God as a person at all, for those of us who love Jesus and try to never forget he was a Jew who had no intention of founding another religion.
Cautiously Christian to me means not expecting answers to prayers and praying anyway, because what matters is feeling connected to God. It means reading the Bible critically AND reverently, and sometimes having to throw reverence out the window in order to keep reading. It means that while I follow the Christian path, I believe with my whole heart that there are other equally valid paths to God. It means that because I have faith, I have no need of certitude. My faith is roomy enough for questions, wonder and doubt.
I am not less of a Christian for being cautious; in fact, I hope that I am at my most Christian when action is called for. That’s where the rubber meets the road. When I am thinking about and talking about and writing about my religion, I am careful and choosy, I take my time, I weigh things carefully. When I am living my Christian identity, I throw caution to the wind. I’m all in.
My September 11th story takes place the following Sunday, when the Gospel we read in church was the same as the Gospel we heard this morning: that God searches for all the lost ones, finds us, and brings us home, rejoicing.
On September 16, 2001, I walked back after lunch to the church where I had begun work only the month before, on the Upper East Side of New York City. As I came through the front door and my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see two people sitting in the front pew of the otherwise empty sanctuary: a woman and a young girl. I grabbed a few blank index cards and a fistful of crayons from a basket, walked over and knelt down beside them. I introduced myself and handed the child the crayons and index cards. “This is Annie, and I’m her aunt,” the woman told me. “Annie’s father died on Tuesday, and she is wondering who is keeping her safe now.” I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and began.
“Well, Annie, your mother and your aunts and uncles are keeping you safe. So are the firefighters, and the police officers, the mayor and the president.” I paused, and pointed to the paschal candle in front of us, which had been lit and placed in the center of the chancel as soon as we heard the news of the second plane hitting the towers. “Do you see this candle? We sometimes call it the Christ candle, and it’s there to remind us that God’s love is stronger than anything, even death. Jesus is here with us, and we are safe in God’s love.” I don’t remember if I said anything else. What I will never forget is that Annie drew three pictures. The first was of the paschal candle, the second was of the dark church with jewel-bright stained glass windows, and the third was the sun blazing in the sky. Annie knew. I simply reminded her.
School starts tomorrow. Am I the only parent who shops for supplies at the last minute? This year I shopped via Amazon and Peter’s binder arrived, large enough to hold the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica, if a print version still exists. The school sent home a reassuring email saying that eighth graders do not have to bring all their supplies with them in the morning, so I have a brief reprieve. If I am really organized, I could leave the house when he does and go to Target when it opens. (I once had to do this on School Picture Day, when I discovered that there was nothing clean for him to wear.)
Tomorrow we’ll fill his backpack with folders and composition books, pencils and pens, a water bottle, a packed lunch, and a pocket cross. Soon, there will be a blessing of backpacks (well, of the children wearing them) at church, and perhaps this prayer I wrote some years ago will be spoken:
God of Wisdom, we give you thanks for schools and classrooms and for the teachers and students who fill them each day. We thank you for this new beginning, for new books and new ideas. We thank you for sharpened pencils, pointy crayons, and crisp blank pages waiting to be filled. We thank you for the gift of making mistakes and trying again. Help us to remember that asking the right questions is often as important as giving the right answers. Today we give you thanks for these your children, and we ask you to bless them with curiosity, understanding and respect. May their backpacks be a sign to them that they have everything they need to learn and grow this year in school and in Sunday School. May they be guided by your love. All this we ask in the name of Jesus, who as a child in the temple showed his longing to learn about you, and as an adult taught by story and example your great love for us. Amen.
I pray this for Peter, and for all our children who are lucky enough to attend school. I pray for children who don’t have what they need to learn and grow. May we work together on the serious and timely issue of education equity. As Marian Wright Edelman reminds us, “The future which we hold in trust for our own children will be shaped by our fairness to other people’s children.” (If you want to read an inspiring story that clarifies some of the issues surrounding education equity, start here.)
And tonight, I will say a special prayer of thanks for teachers and principals everywhere. God bless them!
(Riding the 2 train in 2013, Peter noticed a kindred spirit with an animal attached to her backpack. When he asked her what it was, the woman promptly took it off and gave it to him: “He’s been with me 10 years; it’s time for a new adventure!” We do not look gift wombats in the mouth.)
As a general rule, I do not recommend getting married, starting a new job, and writing a book in the same year. I also do not recommend writing a book using the hunt-and-peck method, or using a keyboard that looks like this:
Still, I wrote a book, and in a few weeks people will be reading it. People who do not already know and love me, plus people who know and love me and may very well disagree with me. Peter, my thirteen-year-old son, is grateful that his friends will not be reading the book, that the people reading embarrassing stories about him either know them already or are of an age and disposition to not tease him publicly.
I’m excited and nervous, as you perhaps can tell. In Faith at Home: A Handbook for Cautiously Christian Parents, I am both “the expert” (the field of Christian formation and ministry to children, youth and families is my vocation) and in the struggle, too: how we live and raise children with a strong Christian identity as well as the ability to think critically and act compassionately in this day and age is a lot of work.
There’s much joy in it, too, and I look forward to hearing from you, readers and potential readers, about what interests, inspires and engages you in this conversation about Christian parenting, cautiously or with abandon or anywhere in between.