So, okay, I really wanted to set up this blog, so I could do day and date posts.
Didn't happen.
And I took my computer to Israel with me, so I could send my impressions from the Holy Land immediately.
Didn't happen.
And then I started posting notes from my journal, in March, so that at least I could share some of my impressions, more or less in chronological order, and pretty much as I remembered them.
Didn't happen.
It's now the end of June--three months after my last entry--and I have completely neglected this blog that I was so insistent upon having.
In a group discussion a few days ago, one of our congregants said that we needed to give the website more ability--streaming video, podcasts, etc;, even blogs. "Wait!" I said, "I blog".
"Yes," he replied, "but not enough"
Man, he is so right! I had this great--perhaps grandiose would be a better word--of my sitting down, every day or two, and pouring out my thoughts--which would naturally be incisive and insightful--to anyone who cared to read them. And, of course, there would be many, many people who would want to read them.
Didn't happen.
So for me, perhaps, blogging seems to have turned out to be like most of my exercise plans--a good thought, a planned regimen, a few days of carrying out that regimen, followed by a slow period, and then, a time I put it off--which leads to another time I put it off--which leads to thinking that it can wait . . .and it waits . . .and it waits.
Til, like now, I do nothing.
So, just like my exercise programs, I'm promising to start over, and be a little more faithful . I'm not going to promise to do this every day--I'm not going to expect myself to have some brilliant insight every day--I'm going to start slower. I'm going to go back to attempting to record some of my experiences in Israel. I'll try to let you know some of what's happening in our church--and, knowing myself, I may just sound off about things in general . . .we'll see.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
So this is where it happened? Day 2
And as I wait for the Maundy Thursday service:
Aha! Today, a guide! We meet Kasim, a Palestinian Christian, who is going to be our guide through Israel. After yesterday, we are quite sure we need one.
So, after being introduced to Eli, who will serve as driver (and, as it turns out,on local culture commentator par excellence) we start off, going first to the Mount of Olives.
This is, and will remain, one of my most enduring memories of Israel. As I stood there, looking across the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem, things began to fall into place. The valley was much steeper than I imagined; the Temple Mount more prominent; the oldest part, the city of David, more limited. And yet, despite the modern veneer, I could see how things must have happened, back then--they would have come from Bethany on Palm Sunday, this way. And then, Kasim points out the traditional location of the Upper Room--and the Garden of Gethsemane. And, frankly, that's when I lose the vision. It's a lot farther from one to the other than I imagined. I can envision Jesus leaving the city to pray; I can't envision the hike from the supposed Upper Room to the area identified as the Garden. Too far, I think. Too far. Why walk so far?
This is the reality that I deal with throughout the trip. Most, if not all, of the Christian "holy sites" were identified in the fourth century, or later. The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, and to all appearances a more devout Christian than her son, visited the Holy Land, and more or less decided where certain events happened. She built three churches--the Church of the Nativity, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Church of the Ascension. At least I think it's those three. I know one is the Church of the Sepulcher, because she also set out the Via Dolorosa, the Stations of the Cross, with the last several Stations (ok, I'm not Catholic, so I don't know all the Stations that well!) inside the Church. At any rate, my rational mind keeps saying "yes, it probably happened somewhere around here--this general vicinity--but exactly here? Just because the Empress said so over three hundred years later?"
So, this is the Mount of Olives,and over there is Jerusalem, and down the path a ways is Gethsemane. We stop very briefly at Gethsemane--which is now a rather attractive formal garden, The olive trees there are clearly old, and Kasim tells us that they are considered to be third generation from those of Jesus' time. I feel at least a small stirring of spirit here, but it quickly disappears as we are told that we must hurry, because the Temple Mount closes admission at 10:00 a.m.(I still don't know why) My visit to Gethsemane seems to be of the "we've seen it, let's go" variety. No lingering.
After our visit to the Mount--more on that another time--we walk the Via Dolorosa, at least the route laid out by Empress H. It twists and winds and at least once makes what seems to me to be a u-turn that would be tough to make with a cross, but who am I to question Empress H.? I'm 1700 years further away from the event than she is.
And so, here we are, again, in the Church of the Sepulcher. This time with a guide. Kasim explains that the Church is shared by six denominations--and clearly, not all equally. For example, the Ethiopians seem to have huts on a flat part of the roof to live in, and a small chapel featuring, appropriately, the Queen of Sheba. We go into the main part of the Church, and up a small staircase to the area that is, purportedly, Golgotha. Though now well within the city walls (Crusader era walls, to be sure) we are told that at the time of the Crucifixion, it was indeed a hill outside the city. Okay by me, but today, it's part of a very ornate Church. The Roman Catholics have a small chapel area where "He was nailed to the cross". Next to it is an area, which my notes say is Greek Orthodox, where the cross stood. It is quite ornate, in the Eastern style, and a little disconcerting to my Presbyterian sensibilities.
There is an altar over the 'site of the cross". You must kneel, crawl under the altar, and then you can put your hand into a hole in the bedrock, to feel the place where the foot of the cross rested. I kneel. I crawl. I put my hand in the hole. I feel nothing. Not emotionally, not literally. There is just space. I wave my hand back and forth, conscious of other tourist/pilgrims behind me, waiting their turn. Nothing. Finally I feel the rock at the side of the opening. I back my way out (Holy Sites turn out to be like Royalty--you can't turn your back on them). The guide takes a photograph, which will never be seen by anyone, of my rear end backing out under the altar. We proceed downstairs, where the "tomb of Joseph of Arimathea" sits in an adjoining part of the church. The area is surrounded by ornate walls, and by a large, open church. It is explained that the original hill, in which the tomb sat, was leveled in order to build the church around it. I can see the need, but it does lose some authenticity of atmosphere.
There is a long line of tourist/pilgrims circling the tomb. Kasim says that since we are just two, he will speak to the monk guarding the entrance, his friend, and we can perhaps be allowed into line ahead of some of the large groups. This is strongly reminiscent, unfortunately, of our visit to Moscow in 1986, when we got to cut in line at Lenin's tomb. Lenin was, when viewed "in situ" more than somewhat waxy. This is not a good thought to entertain when visiting the tomb of Christ.
We are allowed in during a gap between groups. We walk into the inner chamber with another small group of three. Five at a time is the rule. We stand by the wall, and look at the small ledge. I take out the two Jerusalem crosses I have bought in one of the many Via Dolorosa shops. I am, I was told, supposed to put them on the ledge so they are blessed. I do. I say a small prayer. I look at the ledge. I think that, even given the differences in diet and health from 2000 years ago, Joseph of Arimathea and Jesus must have been VERY small people, because it is a very small ledge. I think that I am supposed to be thinking more spiritual thoughts. I want to. I am, after all, a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). I want to feel the emotion that I see evidenced in other pilgrim/tourists. I back out. I want to, in some way, share in the experience of what happened here 2000 years ago. But I didn't. And so, here at my first encounters, here at the sites--or at least in the general area--where Jesus walked, and suffered, and died, I'm thinking about Lenin, and about size, and about everything except the reality of what happened. Faith and Reason. Emotion and Intellect. Nowhere in my life have they been brought into such a clear separation as here, in the Holy Land. The thing is, I believe wholeheartedly in God, in Christ, in the Spirit. I believe that those things that happened here, so long ago, profoundly changed our lives and our world, and continue to do so. To see these places is, definitely, interesting. Educational. Informative. But I was expecting Awe. I want Awe. And at least so far, Awe hasn't shown up. God has not appeared, the Spirit has not spoken on schedule.
And then I think--the Holy Land is not a theme park. There's no pre-programmed voice of God, no motion sensor shining light, no inspiring music to set the mood and stir my emotions. God doesn't follow a schedule. God isn't always where you expect him to be. God, perhaps, is more about what you are than where you are.
It's almost time for the Maundy Thursday service, when we re-enact and remember those last few days of Jesus of Nazareth, preparing for the glorious day of Easter Resurrrection. I was privileged to see where they might have occurred, long ago. I need to go now, and open myself to what they mean, tonight, March 20th, in the Year of Our Lord 2008.
Aha! Today, a guide! We meet Kasim, a Palestinian Christian, who is going to be our guide through Israel. After yesterday, we are quite sure we need one.
So, after being introduced to Eli, who will serve as driver (and, as it turns out,on local culture commentator par excellence) we start off, going first to the Mount of Olives.
This is, and will remain, one of my most enduring memories of Israel. As I stood there, looking across the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem, things began to fall into place. The valley was much steeper than I imagined; the Temple Mount more prominent; the oldest part, the city of David, more limited. And yet, despite the modern veneer, I could see how things must have happened, back then--they would have come from Bethany on Palm Sunday, this way. And then, Kasim points out the traditional location of the Upper Room--and the Garden of Gethsemane. And, frankly, that's when I lose the vision. It's a lot farther from one to the other than I imagined. I can envision Jesus leaving the city to pray; I can't envision the hike from the supposed Upper Room to the area identified as the Garden. Too far, I think. Too far. Why walk so far?
This is the reality that I deal with throughout the trip. Most, if not all, of the Christian "holy sites" were identified in the fourth century, or later. The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, and to all appearances a more devout Christian than her son, visited the Holy Land, and more or less decided where certain events happened. She built three churches--the Church of the Nativity, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Church of the Ascension. At least I think it's those three. I know one is the Church of the Sepulcher, because she also set out the Via Dolorosa, the Stations of the Cross, with the last several Stations (ok, I'm not Catholic, so I don't know all the Stations that well!) inside the Church. At any rate, my rational mind keeps saying "yes, it probably happened somewhere around here--this general vicinity--but exactly here? Just because the Empress said so over three hundred years later?"
So, this is the Mount of Olives,and over there is Jerusalem, and down the path a ways is Gethsemane. We stop very briefly at Gethsemane--which is now a rather attractive formal garden, The olive trees there are clearly old, and Kasim tells us that they are considered to be third generation from those of Jesus' time. I feel at least a small stirring of spirit here, but it quickly disappears as we are told that we must hurry, because the Temple Mount closes admission at 10:00 a.m.(I still don't know why) My visit to Gethsemane seems to be of the "we've seen it, let's go" variety. No lingering.
After our visit to the Mount--more on that another time--we walk the Via Dolorosa, at least the route laid out by Empress H. It twists and winds and at least once makes what seems to me to be a u-turn that would be tough to make with a cross, but who am I to question Empress H.? I'm 1700 years further away from the event than she is.
And so, here we are, again, in the Church of the Sepulcher. This time with a guide. Kasim explains that the Church is shared by six denominations--and clearly, not all equally. For example, the Ethiopians seem to have huts on a flat part of the roof to live in, and a small chapel featuring, appropriately, the Queen of Sheba. We go into the main part of the Church, and up a small staircase to the area that is, purportedly, Golgotha. Though now well within the city walls (Crusader era walls, to be sure) we are told that at the time of the Crucifixion, it was indeed a hill outside the city. Okay by me, but today, it's part of a very ornate Church. The Roman Catholics have a small chapel area where "He was nailed to the cross". Next to it is an area, which my notes say is Greek Orthodox, where the cross stood. It is quite ornate, in the Eastern style, and a little disconcerting to my Presbyterian sensibilities.
There is an altar over the 'site of the cross". You must kneel, crawl under the altar, and then you can put your hand into a hole in the bedrock, to feel the place where the foot of the cross rested. I kneel. I crawl. I put my hand in the hole. I feel nothing. Not emotionally, not literally. There is just space. I wave my hand back and forth, conscious of other tourist/pilgrims behind me, waiting their turn. Nothing. Finally I feel the rock at the side of the opening. I back my way out (Holy Sites turn out to be like Royalty--you can't turn your back on them). The guide takes a photograph, which will never be seen by anyone, of my rear end backing out under the altar. We proceed downstairs, where the "tomb of Joseph of Arimathea" sits in an adjoining part of the church. The area is surrounded by ornate walls, and by a large, open church. It is explained that the original hill, in which the tomb sat, was leveled in order to build the church around it. I can see the need, but it does lose some authenticity of atmosphere.
There is a long line of tourist/pilgrims circling the tomb. Kasim says that since we are just two, he will speak to the monk guarding the entrance, his friend, and we can perhaps be allowed into line ahead of some of the large groups. This is strongly reminiscent, unfortunately, of our visit to Moscow in 1986, when we got to cut in line at Lenin's tomb. Lenin was, when viewed "in situ" more than somewhat waxy. This is not a good thought to entertain when visiting the tomb of Christ.
We are allowed in during a gap between groups. We walk into the inner chamber with another small group of three. Five at a time is the rule. We stand by the wall, and look at the small ledge. I take out the two Jerusalem crosses I have bought in one of the many Via Dolorosa shops. I am, I was told, supposed to put them on the ledge so they are blessed. I do. I say a small prayer. I look at the ledge. I think that, even given the differences in diet and health from 2000 years ago, Joseph of Arimathea and Jesus must have been VERY small people, because it is a very small ledge. I think that I am supposed to be thinking more spiritual thoughts. I want to. I am, after all, a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). I want to feel the emotion that I see evidenced in other pilgrim/tourists. I back out. I want to, in some way, share in the experience of what happened here 2000 years ago. But I didn't. And so, here at my first encounters, here at the sites--or at least in the general area--where Jesus walked, and suffered, and died, I'm thinking about Lenin, and about size, and about everything except the reality of what happened. Faith and Reason. Emotion and Intellect. Nowhere in my life have they been brought into such a clear separation as here, in the Holy Land. The thing is, I believe wholeheartedly in God, in Christ, in the Spirit. I believe that those things that happened here, so long ago, profoundly changed our lives and our world, and continue to do so. To see these places is, definitely, interesting. Educational. Informative. But I was expecting Awe. I want Awe. And at least so far, Awe hasn't shown up. God has not appeared, the Spirit has not spoken on schedule.
And then I think--the Holy Land is not a theme park. There's no pre-programmed voice of God, no motion sensor shining light, no inspiring music to set the mood and stir my emotions. God doesn't follow a schedule. God isn't always where you expect him to be. God, perhaps, is more about what you are than where you are.
It's almost time for the Maundy Thursday service, when we re-enact and remember those last few days of Jesus of Nazareth, preparing for the glorious day of Easter Resurrrection. I was privileged to see where they might have occurred, long ago. I need to go now, and open myself to what they mean, tonight, March 20th, in the Year of Our Lord 2008.
So this is where it happened? Day 1
It's Thursday, March 20th--Maundy Thursday, and we will have our traditional service with communion and tenebrae in a few hours.
Just a month ago I was in Jerusalem. On our first full day there, my husband and I, recovering from jet lag, and with everything closed for Shabbos, had ventured from our hotel into the Old City on our own; it was apparent from our reception that we were representatives of a very rare species--tourists, without group or guide. We were constantly surrounded by offers of "help you find where going" or "look in my shop, two minutes, two minutes" we wandered helplessly through the-- streets? alleys? passages?--anyway, through the places of foot traffic. Once, finding ourselves in a dead end, residential courtyard, we did accept the offer of a boy of about 8 or 9 to "find where going?" "Church" we said, thinking if we could work our way back to the Christian quarter, Chuck could use his map to get us out the Jaffa gate. Our young guide led us through a maze of winding streets, all seemingly fronted by the same tourist shops, all seemingly offering the same goods.Moreover, the all seem to offer the same or similar goods as other places we've visited-chess sets, roughly carved statues, inexpensive brass, wood, tiles, local (?)--all those seem to abound in Istanbul, in Mexico, in Peru, in Hong Kong, in Equador, in the Carribean Islands..The globes I thought beautiful in France years ago now crowd the markets of Jerusalem. There has to be a tourist central somewhere (China, maybe?) that provides slightly customized goods to tourist markets everywhere.
Just as Jesus found moneylenders in the temple, we find tourist stalls throughout Jerusalem.
And so, we found ourselves at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. We venture in. Its big. it has lots of levels. Its dark. There are lots of people. There are no signs. There is no booklet. We have jet lag. We retreat to the hotel and nap, deferring our "experiencing" the site until we have a guide who can at least tell us what we are seeing.
Just a month ago I was in Jerusalem. On our first full day there, my husband and I, recovering from jet lag, and with everything closed for Shabbos, had ventured from our hotel into the Old City on our own; it was apparent from our reception that we were representatives of a very rare species--tourists, without group or guide. We were constantly surrounded by offers of "help you find where going" or "look in my shop, two minutes, two minutes" we wandered helplessly through the-- streets? alleys? passages?--anyway, through the places of foot traffic. Once, finding ourselves in a dead end, residential courtyard, we did accept the offer of a boy of about 8 or 9 to "find where going?" "Church" we said, thinking if we could work our way back to the Christian quarter, Chuck could use his map to get us out the Jaffa gate. Our young guide led us through a maze of winding streets, all seemingly fronted by the same tourist shops, all seemingly offering the same goods.Moreover, the all seem to offer the same or similar goods as other places we've visited-chess sets, roughly carved statues, inexpensive brass, wood, tiles, local (?)--all those seem to abound in Istanbul, in Mexico, in Peru, in Hong Kong, in Equador, in the Carribean Islands..The globes I thought beautiful in France years ago now crowd the markets of Jerusalem. There has to be a tourist central somewhere (China, maybe?) that provides slightly customized goods to tourist markets everywhere.
Just as Jesus found moneylenders in the temple, we find tourist stalls throughout Jerusalem.
And so, we found ourselves at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. We venture in. Its big. it has lots of levels. Its dark. There are lots of people. There are no signs. There is no booklet. We have jet lag. We retreat to the hotel and nap, deferring our "experiencing" the site until we have a guide who can at least tell us what we are seeing.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Arrival
My husband, Chuck, and I are off to visit Israel and Jordan. It starts at the airport, with the El Al security. They are, rightfully, known for their more thorough approach to questioning passengers.
"Why are you going?"
"Tourism"
"What tour are you with?"
"None. We're on our own"
"Who do you know in Israel?"
"No one"
"Why do you wish to visit Israel?"
"To see the Holy sights"
"There is another group going on a pilgrimage. Are you with them?"
"No"
"Why are you not with a group for pilgrimage?"
You know, that's a hard question to answer in terms of airport security. The answer, basically, is that we did not want to be with a group. I wanted to visit the land where our faith began and was nurtured--the land of Abraham and David, as well as of Jesus of Nazareth--at my own pace, on my own schedule, and without entering into religous, theological or political debates. I like courteous and respectful exchanges of viewpoints. Unfortunately, religion, theology and politics are subjects in which courtesy and respect in discussion is often lacking. So I thought it best to experience Israel in my own way. Also, I admit, I had heard stories of the commercial activities surrounding some of the holy sites. . .and I admit that I wanted to be free to be skeptical, or to laugh, if I found something improbable, or amusing, without fear of offending someone else, who might be deeply moved. (As it turned out, that was a good judgment call) So we were going alone.
But the next question caught me out, as well.
"You are going on pilgrimage alone?"
I'd never thought of this as a pilgrimage. That had such a "church" sound. "Pilgrimage" meant, to me a journey needed to be taken as an act of faith; I thought of this as more of an act of seeing, of learning, of history--and just plain curiosity. I wanted a visual context in which to set the Scriptures,that's all.
There it is--that tension that we see all around us. People talk of Faith v. Reason, as if it has to be one or the other. Why was I going--faith, or reason? Learning or experiencing? Was I on a pilgrimage, or a field trip?
I thought about that during the fourteen hour plane trip--at least until I fell asleep. And I set foot in Israel without an answer.
"Why are you going?"
"Tourism"
"What tour are you with?"
"None. We're on our own"
"Who do you know in Israel?"
"No one"
"Why do you wish to visit Israel?"
"To see the Holy sights"
"There is another group going on a pilgrimage. Are you with them?"
"No"
"Why are you not with a group for pilgrimage?"
You know, that's a hard question to answer in terms of airport security. The answer, basically, is that we did not want to be with a group. I wanted to visit the land where our faith began and was nurtured--the land of Abraham and David, as well as of Jesus of Nazareth--at my own pace, on my own schedule, and without entering into religous, theological or political debates. I like courteous and respectful exchanges of viewpoints. Unfortunately, religion, theology and politics are subjects in which courtesy and respect in discussion is often lacking. So I thought it best to experience Israel in my own way. Also, I admit, I had heard stories of the commercial activities surrounding some of the holy sites. . .and I admit that I wanted to be free to be skeptical, or to laugh, if I found something improbable, or amusing, without fear of offending someone else, who might be deeply moved. (As it turned out, that was a good judgment call) So we were going alone.
But the next question caught me out, as well.
"You are going on pilgrimage alone?"
I'd never thought of this as a pilgrimage. That had such a "church" sound. "Pilgrimage" meant, to me a journey needed to be taken as an act of faith; I thought of this as more of an act of seeing, of learning, of history--and just plain curiosity. I wanted a visual context in which to set the Scriptures,that's all.
There it is--that tension that we see all around us. People talk of Faith v. Reason, as if it has to be one or the other. Why was I going--faith, or reason? Learning or experiencing? Was I on a pilgrimage, or a field trip?
I thought about that during the fourteen hour plane trip--at least until I fell asleep. And I set foot in Israel without an answer.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Introduction and Disclaimer
I've just come back from a "study leave". That's what we call a time when ministers can get away from the issues that we deal with on a daily or weekly basis, and have some time to reflect, to read, to pray, and to refresh ourselves spiritually so that we can better serve our congregations.
At least, that's the idea.
I've just taken two weeks of study leave. And, I confess, I didn't study. At least, not formally. My husband and I took a trip to Israel--just the two of us. We--well, I--wanted to see the Holy Land, the religious "sights", and we wanted to do it on our own, with flexibility regarding schedule, but with local expertise. The two of us, with a guide. Experiencing. Learning. Incorporating. Gaining Insight.
At least, that was the idea.
I was going to post notes to this blog as we went, sharing my days, entering my impressions, imparting information, all in real time.
At least, that was the idea.
And like a lot of ideas, it quickly became one whose time had not come. As we travelled, I experienced such a profusion of sights, reactions, experiences that they all started to blur. The best I could do was to jot down notes in a journal as we went, hoping to be able to connect them with memories later. I bought books at different places, thinking that I would afterwards read them, look at the photos, and "all would become clear".
Not really.
But I'm still going to post some of what I saw, and some of what I thought about.
And, SPOILER ALERT, some of this material will undoubtedly work its way into future sermons--so if you attend worship here at FIRST PRES, someday, sometime, this material may resurface. But perhaps somehow there may be value, even if its re-cycled ruminations.
At least, that's the idea.
At least, that's the idea.
I've just taken two weeks of study leave. And, I confess, I didn't study. At least, not formally. My husband and I took a trip to Israel--just the two of us. We--well, I--wanted to see the Holy Land, the religious "sights", and we wanted to do it on our own, with flexibility regarding schedule, but with local expertise. The two of us, with a guide. Experiencing. Learning. Incorporating. Gaining Insight.
At least, that was the idea.
I was going to post notes to this blog as we went, sharing my days, entering my impressions, imparting information, all in real time.
At least, that was the idea.
And like a lot of ideas, it quickly became one whose time had not come. As we travelled, I experienced such a profusion of sights, reactions, experiences that they all started to blur. The best I could do was to jot down notes in a journal as we went, hoping to be able to connect them with memories later. I bought books at different places, thinking that I would afterwards read them, look at the photos, and "all would become clear".
Not really.
But I'm still going to post some of what I saw, and some of what I thought about.
And, SPOILER ALERT, some of this material will undoubtedly work its way into future sermons--so if you attend worship here at FIRST PRES, someday, sometime, this material may resurface. But perhaps somehow there may be value, even if its re-cycled ruminations.
At least, that's the idea.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Important Relationships
I really have very little to do with our Children's Ministry, other than to enjoy them. How is it then, that so much oof what I post here has to do with the kids? Some might talk about the innocence of youth (not me---I've raised three kids!) and how little children often show us the way. Maybe. But maybe also its just because they are so darned cute.
So last week, Rebecca, our lovely, talented and incredibly patient Director of Children's Ministries came back from her after her Wednesday afternoon class laughing. She's been having the primary grade children re-enacting biblical stories--in this instance, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan river. Rebecca encourages them to "express themselves". Like true Los Angeles kids, they immerse themselves in character. Backstories, motivation, all of the tools of the actor's craft seem to be second nature to them. While all of the parts are always up for grabs--on any given day Jesus can be portrayed by a boy, a girl, a six year old, a nine year old, sometimes changing over in the middle of the scene-- the role of John the Baptist is highly coveted by the boys. Why? Because
John lived in the desert, had wild hair, wore a camel skin, and, best of all, he ATE BUGS! Clearly, a scene stealing role!
And so, the dialogue went something like this:
"I'm John. Come and repent and be baptised!" (cue the extras to crowd forward at this time) "Oh, here comes my cousin, Jesus. He's really important. He's The SON OF GOD!" (Flourishes, dramatic arm waving as a shy girl portraying Jesus comes forward)
Rebecca then coaches John on his next line:
"Don't come to me for baptism. I should not baptise you, you should baptise me," explaining that John, though he had come first, must now give way to Jesus. Our young John the Baptist dutifully said his line, but then, indignantly, added: "I"M JESUS' COUSIN. I'M IMPORTANT, TOO".
Its a tricky thing, that relationship with Jesus. On the one hand, we are all important in that we too are children of God, and each and every one of us has value. But do we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that our relationship with Jesus, with God, with the Holy Spirit--and our interpretation of that relationship--make us important in a way that others aren't? Of course not, we say--and we know that's the "correct" answer. Sometimes, though, I think that my actions may not reflect the "correct" answer. As we struggle with many issues of faith and practice, of culture, of church and society, I find it far too easy to think that I have the "right relationship" and that makes me "important".
Micah tells us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Like our young John the Baptist, that "humbly" part can be really, really hard.
So last week, Rebecca, our lovely, talented and incredibly patient Director of Children's Ministries came back from her after her Wednesday afternoon class laughing. She's been having the primary grade children re-enacting biblical stories--in this instance, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan river. Rebecca encourages them to "express themselves". Like true Los Angeles kids, they immerse themselves in character. Backstories, motivation, all of the tools of the actor's craft seem to be second nature to them. While all of the parts are always up for grabs--on any given day Jesus can be portrayed by a boy, a girl, a six year old, a nine year old, sometimes changing over in the middle of the scene-- the role of John the Baptist is highly coveted by the boys. Why? Because
John lived in the desert, had wild hair, wore a camel skin, and, best of all, he ATE BUGS! Clearly, a scene stealing role!
And so, the dialogue went something like this:
"I'm John. Come and repent and be baptised!" (cue the extras to crowd forward at this time) "Oh, here comes my cousin, Jesus. He's really important. He's The SON OF GOD!" (Flourishes, dramatic arm waving as a shy girl portraying Jesus comes forward)
Rebecca then coaches John on his next line:
"Don't come to me for baptism. I should not baptise you, you should baptise me," explaining that John, though he had come first, must now give way to Jesus. Our young John the Baptist dutifully said his line, but then, indignantly, added: "I"M JESUS' COUSIN. I'M IMPORTANT, TOO".
Its a tricky thing, that relationship with Jesus. On the one hand, we are all important in that we too are children of God, and each and every one of us has value. But do we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that our relationship with Jesus, with God, with the Holy Spirit--and our interpretation of that relationship--make us important in a way that others aren't? Of course not, we say--and we know that's the "correct" answer. Sometimes, though, I think that my actions may not reflect the "correct" answer. As we struggle with many issues of faith and practice, of culture, of church and society, I find it far too easy to think that I have the "right relationship" and that makes me "important".
Micah tells us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Like our young John the Baptist, that "humbly" part can be really, really hard.
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