The following thoughts flow from seeing one article in the most recent copy of The Lutheran and the cover.
1. The cover story: New Thinkers in the ELCA. I’m not listed. I feel slighted.
2. There’s an article about my home church (article not online yet). Not a perfect article but a great picture of two members and the church basement.
I’ll write more commentary tomorrow – and possibly post my sermon from Thursday night – but I’m battling an awful cold by watching countless hours of The West Wing. It’s possible that my Sunday School lessons this week will sound like Aaron Sorkin wrote them.
Yesterday, I assisted in a funeral, and, for the first time, it was a funeral for someone I knew.
And it was a very strange funeral. The person who died was a distant friend/relation to the congregation. She grew up there, kept in touch with some of the people, but she had such a wide circle of friends and people she worked with, that the pews were filled with people I didn’t know. There were young people and old; people with families and people on their own. And the urn, containing the ashes of the dead women, sat in the front of sanctuary, with a large bouquet of flowers in front, and the lit paschal candle standing behind it.
And it was probably the most silent church service I have ever been too.
It was a strange experience to be at a service, a service that had around 70 people in the pews, and for it to be so quiet. The hymns that were sung were well known. The organ, rather than the piano, filled the air. And there were some good singers in the congregation. But the people in the pews were the unchurched or from different faith traditions. They didn’t know how to use a hymnal, and even when we explained it, it didn’t seem to click. People seemed afraid to sing so I tried to sing louder – a hard proposition for a vicar who is suffering from a cold that is causing him to lose his voice. It was…. unnerving. I’m use to the sanctuary space, even for services of 10 people, to be filled with singing voices. A Lutheran service without the sound of singing, even bad signing, just isn’t right.
The service was so, so quiet. It unnerved me. There was no celebration of new life, of the resurrection, or even the dead woman’s life, it seemed to me. It felt like we were sitting in the morgue. just looking at her, and talking a little bit. That’s not how I like my funerals.
There were also some other elements that made the funeral interesting. Six eulogies were delivered. One women tried to sneak in her own interfaith tradition into the service and wanted the last word – but two homilies by the two presiding pastors stopped that from happening (“Never give anyone else the last word,” my supervisor told me later). There seemed to be an aura of energy trying to keep this from being a Christian service – a reflection of the people who were there, no doubt. And not that I don’t understand that. These were people with their own traditions, their own ways of processing and relating to death. They were processing this event in their own way. But the funeral was a Christian funeral for a woman who was baptized and considered herself a Christian, to some degree. It was hard to keep this funeral about her.
There was also a few other strange things. Some visitors, for religious reasons, would not enter the sanctuary, but we could see them watching through the doors that lead to our fellowship hall. I helped split the ashes, and ended up filling my lungs with the stuff (it took me a few hours to finally feel like my airways were cleared of ash). And, once the funeral ended, I met with a group of pastors to plan our Confirmation Camp for our confirmation kids. From death to new life, from death to a bunch of kids running around on a ropes course in the woods…. there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
While I’m at my ministry site, I don’t get asked for money all that often. It happens but maybe only twice a week – and usually it is requests for Metrocards or money for NJ Transit. Today, however, two people asked me for money so far and the second gentleman played it very well.
Sir: Hello.
Vicar: Hello! How can I help you?
Sir: I was wondering if you have any food. I’m really hungry. (grimaces, rubs stomach)
Vicar: We have a sandwich line at 4 o’clock, downstairs, that will be able to help you out.
Sir: But I’m hungry now (looking sullen).
Vicar: I’m sorry, but we don’t have anything to give out until 4 o’–
Sir (interrupts): How about $5 dollars then? $5 to buy a sandwich next door? (rubs stomach again, points outside towards the Subway fast food joint)
Vicar (my brain instantly went “Ooh, clever – well done sir! He was paying attention.”): I’m sorry but we don’t have anything to give out until 4 o’clock, sandwiches, downstairs.
Sir: (looking disappointed) 4 o’clock?
Vicar: Yep. 4 o’clock.
Sir walks out.
Picture taken on an iPhone by my Aunt Lisa.Trinity Lutheran Church, Long Island City on January 20, 2013 on the occasion of Oliver’s baptism. Text is primarily based on John 2:1-11 – the Wedding at Cana. Interruptions that caused me to make jokes during the sermon are noted within the text.
So, there’s this wedding and Jesus, his mother, and disciples were all invited. Now, this wedding wasn’t like weddings we have today. There was nothing about a “big day.” It was more like a “big week,” with a proper wedding lasting seven party filled nights and days. And now, halfway through this wedding, disaster struck: they ran out of wine. And, Jesus’ mother, seeing the problem, goes over to her Son and tells him about it.
Now, for the writer of John ‚Äì Jesus’ mother is…well ‚Äì it’s complicated. I mean, we as a church, just went through Christmas. We know about the angels, the virgin birth, the census, the shepherds, the magi, Joseph ‚Äì we even know Jesus’ mother’s name: Mary. But, John never names her. She only shows up twice in the entire gospel. And her first appearance is right here ‚Äì attending this wedding ‚Äì and telling Jesus that there is no wine.
And then Jesus goes ahead and insults her.
Jesus looks straight at his mom and calls her “WOMAN.” It’s harsh. In the original Greek, Jesus is using a common word to identify a woman that he doesn’t know. But…this is his mom. She gave birth to him, fed him, changed his diapers ‚Äì raised him. And the first words out of Jesus’ mouth is to call his mom a stranger.
I imagine that all parents have experienced this ‚Äì maybe when your child is a teenager ‚Äì and I’m sure I did this a hundred times ‚Äì there’s a fight and the kid, in a voice full of angst, goes “MOOOOM! You just don’t understand!”
[Interruption from Pastor Paul]
Pastor Paul talking to my mom: Now, did Marc ever say that?
My mom (sarcastically): Only once.
Me (from the pulpit): But there are two of us – so she got to hear it in stereo.
[End Interruption from Pastor Paul]
Jesus sounds like that here. He sounds like a teenager telling his mom to leave him alone ‚Äì that she can’t know who he is, what he’s made of, who he is called to be. He insults her. He calls into question her love ‚Äì her identity as a parent ‚Äì her identity as a person capable of knowing, deeply knowing, the child that she raised for all those years ‚Äì and Jesus says, like some punk kid, you just don’t get me.
And Mary ‚Äì God bless her ‚Äì does what parents are sometimes known to do ‚Äì she totally ignores what he says ‚Äì and she affirms, that not only does she know her son ‚Äì she has faith in him. She turns to the servants and says “listen and follow” because Jesus is worth listening and following. And the wild thing is that the servants ‚Äì these servants who just heard Jesus insult his mother ‚Äì they do listen; they do follow. They do what Jesus asks ‚Äì and the party is saved ‚Äì the gusts are fed ‚Äì they are nourished ‚Äì until the wedding’s comes to its proper end.
Mary knew her Son. The servants knew to listen. They all had faith.
*******
This story, I think, grounds that word “faith” a little bit. Mary looks like the perfect example of true, deep, and honest faith. She models the aspect of faith that is knowledge ‚Äì a deep knowing ‚Äì a deep understanding ‚Äì a knowledge that isn’t just the right answer, or knowing the right doctrine or dogma ‚Äì but something that fills every crevice of our bodies, ever molecule in our bones, every part of our soul ‚Äì an unwavering relationship with Jesus.
And this is our dream, as Christians, to be that kind of person ‚Äì to be Mary. We want to be so filled with Spirit, grace, love, and faith ‚Äì so we become good Christians – solid Christians ‚Äì capital C Christians. So that the love of God and the love of neighbor ‚Äì they aren’t just some fancy slogans ‚Äì but they are buried deep within us ‚Äì so deep that the many crosses of our lives ‚Äì death of a loved one, a broken relationship, a lost job, a failure that destroys our sense of direction and identity ‚Äì that through all of this, our faith will be unwavering. This is our vision and dream of the ultimate in discipleship ‚Äì and its a dream that, well, sermons, bible studies, Campus Crusades, street revivals, books, articles, even facebook posts and tweets on twitter ‚Äì all try to provide the answers on how to get us to be like this ‚Äì how to become capital C Christians ‚Äì to be…to be like Mother Teresa or Martin Luther King Jr. To be people of solid faith; to be Mary.
But… the trouble is ‚Äì our faith ‚Äì doesn’t work like that.
It sometimes seems that our days are filled being little c christians. christians who, well, when we see a person on subway begging, we don’t know if we should give. christians who know how to help those in need during Thanksgiving and Christmas but not during Memorial Day or Labor Day. christians who struggle to remember to pray. christians who enjoy their brunch, run their errands, maybe visit a museum ‚Äì and just forget that God is even there. or christians who think that God just doesn’t seem to care anymore about me, or any of us.
The strange thing about faith ‚Äì about deep, true, honest faith, I think, ‚Äì is that it doesn’t stop the doubts, the questions, the forgetting, or the struggle. Deep honest faith doesn’t stop feeling as if God is snubbing us or ignoring us; deep faith isn’t immune to any of this. We hope and pray that our faith will be so strong that we will never feel far from God ‚Äì but it sometimes seems, that Jesus is looking right at us and calling us a stranger ‚Äì saying that he does not know us. Deep faith doesn’t stop this from happening. Deep faith sees that even the mother of Jesus experienced this; that even the mother of Jesus, who nursed her Son, who knew him ‚Äì even she felt that fear ‚Äì she heard those words ‚Äì and yet she still turned to those servants around her ‚Äì and said “listen and follow.”
And they did.
********
In a few moments, all of us, right now, are going to do something faithful. In a moment, my brother and sister-in-law will come on up, and Kate and I will join them, and we’ll bring little Oliver to the font. And we’ll pray that the water isn’t too cold, that Oliver behaves, and that he doesn’t squirm too much. And the entire congregation will follow along in our bulletins, hear the words of promise, and make our own promises. We’ll promise to be faithful to Oliver ‚Äì to give him access to the tools of faith ‚Äì and to walk with him in his journey with God. And I’ll be right there with all of you ‚Äì repeating the same words ‚Äì making the same promises ‚Äì and praying ‚Äì praying ‚Äì that I will be like Mary to him. Praying that, when his older years come, when he stands in front of me and tells me that I do not understand him ‚Äì that God doesn’t understand him ‚Äì that the promises I made here had all failed ‚Äì when he looks at me and accuses me of being a stranger ‚Äì that I will be a Mary to him. That I will be faithful to the promise that I make here, to him, and to God.
Because, the truth is, I have no idea where his faith journey will go. I have no idea if he’ll ever confess Christ crucified and risen. I have no idea if he’ll even pray. Maybe my faith isn’t as strong as Mary’s ‚Äì but that doesn’t stop us from bringing him to the font; from being like the servants ‚Äì bringing him to this place where water and God’s word will be joined ‚Äì and where Oliver will share in the baptism we all share ‚Äì where we were claimed by the kiss of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit ‚Äì where the distance between God and us breaks down ‚Äì and not because we are perfect, or that this is an assembly full of people like Mary who are able to confess Christ all day, every day, and without ceasing ‚Äì but this is where God breaks through ‚Äì and seals us with the promise that God will be faithful to us. That God will love us, give us the gift of faith, give us the gift of grace ‚Äì gifts that cannot be taken away ‚Äì gifts that do not rely on how much like Mary we are, or how much we pray, or how perfect we are ‚Äì but gifts that are promised to transform us ‚Äì whether we notice that or not ‚Äì whether we even feel God’s presence of not.
Our baptism rests in God’s promise ‚Äì and ‚Äì in a way ‚Äì this story of the wedding in Cana ‚Äì this is John’s gospel proclaiming to use that we should not limit ourselves to only trying to be Mary ‚Äì to thinking our only hope is to be the deep, faithful, capital C Christian ‚Äì because there’s more to this story than just a mother and her son. There are those unnamed servants ‚Äì that group of servants who listened and followed; who filled the jars with water, who dipped their hands and cups into those giants jars and discovered the wine of Jesus’ Last Supper, his suffering, and his passion. When we can’t be Mary ‚Äì let this story be our Mary ‚Äì let the gospel stories that teach us that the promises of God and new life, of grace and forgiveness, of reconciliation and being made right with God ‚Äì it begins in baptism. And let us see here, at the Wedding of Cana, that the wine that is found ‚Äì that the wine that is given out ‚Äì it is not reserved for the Marys of the world, or the disciples, or just the servants. But that this wine is shared ‚Äì shared with everyone who gathered at that wedding ‚Äì with everyone who partied for seven long days ‚Äì and that it is this wine that let the wedding come to its proper end; that the guests were nourished by it; fed by it; that it allowed them to take their journey ‚Äì and they didn’t even know that this miracle had happened. That’s the promise of baptism ‚Äì that we are never left to our own skills, never left to our own ideas of faith, never left to our own understanding of what it means to be a capital C Christian. We are loved and sealed with the kiss of Christ forever ‚Äì sealed with the promise of faith ‚Äì the promise of grace ‚Äì the promise of Hope ‚Äì the promise to be nourished at the Eucharist and through God’s gifts of faith and grace. We are promised to be a people who see that Calvary hill, who walk through the shadow of the valley of death, who see the failures, the broken relationships, the distances that we build between ourselves and God ‚Äì and to return to our baptisms ‚Äì to that nourishing stream of water ‚Äì water that splashes us three times but never actually goes dry ‚Äì that water is like that wine at Cana ‚Äì allowing us to say “listen and follow” because brokenness, doubts, questions, worries, and the absence of hope ‚Äì all of that has lost its sting ‚Äì because we know the Cross and we know that Easter follows.
With my family in town, we visited the Cloisters today. Tomorrow, Oliver will be baptized. I should stop playing with my pictures and finish the sermon I will be preaching.
That’s the long way around to the question I want to pose: How much has contraception contributed to the emasculation of men and to men’s shrinking roles as provider and protector?
…
Men in this day and age are rarely encouraged to procreate freely; they are asked to step up to the plate a couple of times and then are sort of put out to pasture, for lack of a better term. Their role as father is never fully realized (nor is that of the mother but that is another discussion) – it is always held in check, restrained and controlled and eventually severed, whether surgically or otherwise. Have women been emboldened, and deep inside do they look down upon men, who allow this manipulation of their progeny? And have men in turn been weakened – and have they become intimidated by the huge but beautiful responsibility of providing for a family – due to the false sense of control contraception gives, and with it the temptation to avoid heavy family and financial burdens?
…
From this total control of reproduction comes an inflated sense on the part of the parents of their role as the sole creators of life. This is, no matter how sweet the family, a form of arrogance, at the bottom of which is a lack of understanding that they are called to be not the sole creators of life, but co-creators with our Creator himself, a very humbling acknowledgement indeed.
And the followup comment is just as juicy.
Mary’s observations are quite penetrating. They put forward in a formal way something I have often observed casually over the years. Men who are fathers of several children, especially those who have been openly living the Church’s teaching against contraception, gain a confidence and ease in their masculinity that does not seem equaled by others. These men seem aware of their power. This leads to a confidence in, especially, how they relate to their families and how they discipline their children. Of course this is a generalization, but it would only stand to reason. A man who has not denied his masculine procreative power is a man whose virility is evident to the world.
A man who has not denied his masculine procreative power is a man whose virility is evident to the world.
Indeed.
Where do I even begin?
So this is the second draft of the blog entry I was planning to write. I spewed around 2000 words and realized that it was getting too long. There are so many underlying assumptions, social and theological, in this little nugget of joy, that an argument can easily develop into an attack on ALL THE THINGS. But I don’t have time to attack ALL THE THINGS. Instead, I will focus on one.
As a Lutheran Christian, my lens is, well, biased in a certain way. I am fine with that. In fact, I am more than fine with that. The Lutheran lens is freakin’ fantastic and I think that EVERYONE IN THE WORLD should be in on it. I know that is a false wish and hope but I just find it so wonderful – I can’t help but share it with everyone.
Part of that lens, then, is to take the Jesus event very seriously. The lens, in a sense, requires that Jesus not be made unnecessary. And that thread runs deep in every aspect of Lutheran thinking and thought. That is also the driving force behind the piece of Luther’s thought that I repeat all.the.time: we are called to be little Christs to one another. That is our job; our vocation. If you’re baptized, that’s a big part of your job description as a Christian – be a little Christ to those around you – to everyone around you – no matter who they are. Of course, as a sinner, this is ridiculously hard to do and hard to get right all the time. But, with the help of the Holy Spirit, the love of God and Christ, and through our gathered communities and the wonderful gift that is faith, we pray that God will turn us into these little Christ’s. We sometimes need help getting there – and sometimes just having the thought that we are supposed to be little Christ’s is the Holy Spirit’s way of challenging and changing us. So, in big, bold, letters: little Christs. That’s our job.
The wild thing about that calling is that it does not rely on a gendered form of vocation and identity. The arguments detailed about manliness, contraception, feminism, etc, etc, are not God-given boundaries on vocation. Rather, the call to be a little Christ – to be a free gift to those around you – to truly engage with, know, and love those around you – is a vocation that all, no matter sex or gender, are required to do. Vocation is not restricted to biology or cultural norms. Vocation starts with, and through, Jesus. God is not limited by our limitations.
Does that mean that culture, society, government, and other such things do not matter? Of course not. We all have very many different kinds of vocations – vocations that help us earn money to live – and other vocations (parenthood, being a student, being a kid) that are parts of our identity. Those vocations might change and they can be culturally and socially defined. That’s okay. But, from the very start, through our baptism, we are called to be little Christs. We’re not called to be little men or little women at the expense of being little Christs. We’re not called to mistake social order as the limit of God’s imagination and the limit to our calling. We’re called to LOVE first – and this calling underpins all other callings. Although the blog entry above does not start there, overtly, it sounds like it does to me. It sounds like it begins with biology, with creation, and then moves to faith and spirituality. But that’s not where my lens begins.
This doesn’t mean that I think the conversation about gender identity are meaningless. I think that it’s an important one to have. But the question of manhood is not a question of worth. An argument that tries to combine Christian calling, vocation, and identity with an argument of social norms in relation to contraception won’t work. An argument about contraception is fine. An argument about gender identity is fine. An argument about Christian identity, vocation, and how that interacts with gender identity and contraception is fantastic. These are conversations we need to have. But to claim that contraception limits maleness or virility, through a claim of the “Church” is just downright silly. By that argument, Jesus, as fully human and fully God, who walked among the world, who interacted with men and women, slaves and free, rich and poor – who’s martial status was never defined, who’s parenthood is never stated but who has historically be seen as single (and loving it), would, in the guise of this conversation, not be virile. He would be sub-man and, thus, sub-human. And that’s just silly. The reconciler of the world, the ultimate provider, the ultimate protector, the head of the church, the savior of the world…. actually, you’re totally right. There is nothing “manly” about that guy – at least how “manliness” is defined above.
Jesus commands his followers to “go and make disciples of all nations.” Fulfilling the Great Commission in a rapidly changing, post-Christian world requires the church to think seriously about responding to the unique “nation” and culture of young people living in our midst. We need also to develop effective paradigms for understanding and reaching cultures of future emerging generations. In fact, the label “Emerging generations” is no longer limited to just teenagers. In addition, “adolescence” is no longer limited to those whose chronological age places them in their middle and high school years. Our growing understanding of early, middle, and extended adolescence has expanded the boundaries on both ends, resulting in a world where youth culture is shaping individuals in the emerging generations from birth through young adulthood.
This track will help those ministering to the emerging generations – youth pastors, children’s ministers, college/young adult ministers, and pastors – to work through the practical implications of living obediently to the Great Commission of Jesus Christ in today’s rapidly changing cultural context (including the changes yet to come). Members of the cohort will be equipped to embrace the task of “dual listening” as defined by John Stott: “We stand between the Word and the world with consequent obligation to listen to both. We listen to the Word to discover even more of the riches of Christ. We listen to the world in order to discern which of Christ’s riches are needed most and how to present them in their best light.” (The Contemporary Christian)
What the what?
I mean, I get it. I get why a seminary would create this program. It seems relevant. I’m sure there are a lot of pastors out there who want the kids to get off their lawns; I’ve met a few of them. And there’s been plenty of pop-theology/pop-psychology/pop-whatever books written on the subject – enough so that critical mass has been reached and stuff like this is going to explode all over the place. They’ll read a few books by Rob Bell, visit an “emerging” church that’s not self-sufficient but seems “hip”, write a paper, start a Twitter account, pat themselves on the back, and call it a day. They’ll get a degree to hang on the wall and some more college debt hanging around their necks, the seminary will get some extra tuition, and everyone wins.
Well, actually, nobody does.
There’s just so much silly inherent in this, I don’t know where to start. First off, this is just a screams out-of-touch-old-person talking to kids, in a program that won’t work. Secondly, post-Christian/changing cultural contexts sets off red flags for me. It assumes that there was some cultural context that was “Christian” and that we are, today, moving beyond that. It’s a silly reading of history because it ignores, well, basic reality, that cultural contexts of the past have been romanticized in this country and that those of us who do not fit those cultural contexts are, somehow, just brand new (like my brown skin is some kind of unexplained, and new, birth defect). It also ignores basic facts like, how, the percentage of foreign-born people in the US is finally returning to historical averages – and that the last fifty years, with it’s super low number, was the exception, not the norm. It also makes the assumption that the celebrated “nones” of today are any different from the thousands of years of C-and-E Christians that the church has experienced. The difference is that they don’t mind calling themselves “nones” now – a willingness that is important to acknowledge but doesn’t change the fact that the church has been dealing with this stuff since forever. And the simple fact is that none of this stuff came out of a vacuum. The “reality” of today comes from somewhere. If you want to blame someone, blame thirty years ago. The seeds of our reality was already there – even if you try to romanticize it away.
And this will not actually make a difference to anyone in the “emerging” generation. I’m willing to speak for all of us, right now. I’m willing to make generalizations, right now. I’m willing to stand up on the mic and say, with a loud voice, that this nonsense won’t work. And it won’t work because it says a lot of nothing. By labeling the “emerging generations” as “the nations,” you’ve already defined them as the outsiders. By poorly mixing discipleship with the Word, and ignoring the BAPTIZING part of the Great Commission, you’ve automatically assumed that these emerging generations do not belong with the “true path.” They are on the outside and this program is designed to, somehow, bring them inside, and make them part of the righteous. It masks faith with culture under the pretex of being open and new. This is silliness. We’ve just gone through Christmas, worked our way through Epiphany, and we’re about to see Jesus turn water into wine. If anyone has been paying attention to the lectionary, they’ll notice that there isn’t a lot of “bringing into the fold” that is being done in these stories. Rather, God seems to be breaking into the social contexts that we’ve created. And this is important – because if all social contexts are open to be broken, then all are objectively on the same level. Faith ends up being open to everyone, even those in the “emerging generations.” And I don’t see the Magi, or the shepherds, or the party goers being told to change their cultural or generation status at the door.
For the last two months, or so, our bedtime routine for Oliver includes the reading of, at least, two books. If the books don’t do it, we’ll sing a couple of hymns. If the hymns don’t cut it, we’ll bust out another book. And if that last book doesn’t work, I toss him in the air for a bit. And if that doesn’t work, I tell him about my day. That usually does it.
Tonight, while going through Richard Scary’s Please and Thank You book and Go, Dog. Go! I realized that I’m getting better at speaking in the liturgy because of my reading. When you read the stories like I do, you like to include commentary and additions (you know, poetic license) to the text – which requires the additions to be spoken in funny, and very up-tight and pretentious voice. I caught myself today, while sharing the Thanksgiving at the Font during the Baptism of Oliver’s friend Logan, thinking about Go, Dog. Go! and bedtime reading. So far, parenthood has been making me a better presider, which is something I didn’t expect.
There’s a joke in my clergy circle that people think all we do is sit around and pray all day. Of course, we don’t. We’re busy. We do things. We plan, write sermons, go to committee meetings, do, uh, things – we’re busy people. Oh. And we do pray…. occasionally.
Yesterday, I was doing what I usually do – being busy – when a gentleman walked into the church. He sat in the pews for a bit and then walked back to the office. I was in the middle of printing out the three Sunday school lessons I just finished – the pages jumped completely out of the printer and were all over the floor – when he came into the office. I looked up, he asked for someone to talk to, I said he could talk to me, I left the paper on the floor, we stepped out, and we chatted. And chatted. And chatted. Over two hours later, we parted ways. I never learned his last name – but I listed to his story. He cried several times. I tried to help. And I did what I’ve already learned to do – don’t worry about whether the story is true – just go with it and see what happens. That’s the cost of being an urban church that keeps its doors open – all sorts of people can walk in. And I listen to them, pray with them, and hope that God helping me say the right words. Because, well, that’s part of my job now.
Later in the afternoon, during confirmation class, we started the Lord’s Prayer. And as we talked about prayer in general, I brought up the story of how a random person I didn’t know, came into church, and asked me to talk with him. He told me his heart wrenching story – and we prayed. That wasn’t even the punch line – but I was interrupted by my students.
“Wait – what?” asked one of the students.
“Really?” asked another.
“So…wait…do you have another job?”
I didn’t know how to take that question. Did they not know I work as an intern full time? “Nope – all of this is my job now.”
“And that’s what all the pastors here do?”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
“Wow” said another.
“That’s so cool.”
You see, I know that those of us in the church world don’t spend all our days praying, but there’s at least a dozen twelve year olds and thirteen year olds in New York City who don’t seem to think that having that part of your job description is such a bad thing.
Yesterday, I assisted in a funeral, and, for the first time, it was a funeral for someone I knew. 
So, 
For the last two months, or so, our bedtime routine for Oliver includes the reading of, at least, two books. If the books don’t do it, we’ll sing a couple of hymns. If the hymns don’t cut it, we’ll bust out another book. And if that last book doesn’t work, I toss him in the air for a bit. And if that doesn’t work, I tell him about my day. That usually does it. 
There’s a joke in my clergy circle that people think all we do is sit around and pray all day. Of course, we don’t. We’re busy. We do things. We plan, write sermons, go to committee meetings, do, uh, things – we’re busy people. Oh. And we do pray…. occasionally.