Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Easy Like Sunday Morning


A Sermon Given to Madison Baptist Church
By Rev. Stephanie Little Coyne
July 15, 2018

Much of my sermon today comes from the experiences that our youth and children and I had during our youth trip and at Kids camp.

While I was at Kids camp, I began brooding about my message today and shared with Jacob Beckham, willing chaperone, and thus now, my best friend, that I always start with more than I need and the process of paring down of my words and scripture is always a difficult one. 

So, our scripture passages today are a little choppy, for no other reason than to be respectful of our time together this morning. I encourage you to read these passages in their entirety for your devotional time with God. The lessons are overwhelmingly poignant. 

I John
1:5-10
5This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. 6If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; 7but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. 8If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. 9If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 10If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.

2:1-2; 12
1My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; 2and he is the atoning sacrifice for our sins and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world.

12I am writing to you, little children, because your sins are forgiven on account of his name.

3:11-18
11For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another. 12We must not be like Cain who was from the evil one and murdered his brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous. 13Do not be astonished, brothers and sisters, that the world hates you. 14We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death. 15All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them. 16We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. 17How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?
18Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.

Luke 18:16
16But Jesus called for them and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.


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And Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.”

His name is Charlie. 

He is an addict, but now, thankfully, has many years of recovery to claim. He was homeless; he was lonely; he lived in lands East of Eden.

And now, the world that held him captive for so many years has now become his church without walls, and his congregants fellow unsheltered people. Charlie walks around his church—wooded areas behind Wal-Mart, Academy Sports, and alongside well-traveled roads in Cartersville—and greets his congregants by call or by name. His hands get dirty while he worships.

On our trip, our youth followed, always several steps behind Charlie, allowing him to enter the homes of the homeless first. He would gently shake their tents, even clap or call their name out loudly if he did not receive a quick response. Several of his church members were not home, some came out and greeted us all, and a few could not be awakened or could not come out of their tents. 

The water, coffee, and food were always welcome gifts, and they each said “thank you,” some, able to look at us, some, unable to let their gaze meet ours. 

At the end of each encounter, Charlie would tell each person that he loved them and that Jesus loved them too. He invited them to dinner at the homeless shelter and to the recovery program. He invited them, and I believe Charlie offered invitation each time he saw them, to come forward…to church, to a different path, to a more loving home, to sanctuary.

Her name is Angela. 

Her church is less than a mile from the homeless shelter. Fluent in both Spanish and English, she makes sure that both languages are heard and can be read in their church services, bulletins, and during their activities. 

There is nothing that can be described as “elaborate” in the church. Their symbols of worship are not fancy liturgical linens or architectural ornaments. Rather, their displays of active ministry in their community are their offering. They love as they have been taught to love. They love as they have been commanded to love.

Though the offering plates of Douglas Street UMC may not be filled to the brim each Sunday, they share and give and do the work of the church faithfully and often.

Their ministries are both financially and emotionally burdensome. The needs of the community are constant and extensive. Most of the money that comes in, goes out. The phrase, “Easy Like Sunday Morning,” means nothing to this church. And as long as people hunger, that would have their church be no other way.

Our group helped serve lunch to children and adults. Children, 18 years of age and younger, eat food supplied by the local school system. There is not always food available for adults. The church relies on donations from local restaurants and grocery stores, or groups like ours who are able to bring lunch for the day. Because of our church’s financial donations to mission work, we were able to leave enough food with the church for two more days of adult lunches.

Her name is Jessica. 

A graduate of both the University of Georgia and Truett Theological Seminary at Baylor, she uses her skills as minister and social worker to aid the community of non-profit organizations in Cartersville. The Good Neighbor homeless shelter was in desperate need of financial and structural management. 

Jessica revamped the program, setting up stages of transition for the people who entered the program. She worked with the other non-profit organizations so that monetary and emotional support could be more efficiently and effectively offered to those individuals who needed such help. In doing this, she and the other directors were able to eliminate some of the duplicate services, making sure that the funds they received were distributed in a more fiscally responsible manner.

Jessica was able to secure funding and materials to build eight transitional homes for those who were entering into that particular stage of the program. The homes have filled a gap in the tiers of homelessness.

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But Jesus called for them and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.”

“Despised Zacchaeus, come to me! Come down from that tree! I’m going to your house today!”

“Despised Adulterer, come to me. I can give you living water. Go and sin no more!”

“Despised, blind beggar, come to me! Let him come to me! Sir, receive your sight; your faith has made you well.”

Jesus called for the despised to come closer. He called for the addict and the rebel and the mentally ill. He called for the rich and he called for the poor.  He called for the refugee and the citizen and the exiled. Jesus even forgave them and healed them. Christ Jesus even praised them—“Go, and be like the Good Samaritan.”

The life of Jesus—his teachings and his actions—are as offensive today as they were in his time. And why are they offensive? Because they shed light on our hypocrisy and our acts of “un-love.” They offend us because his words speak to us personally and we don’t like to be wrong!

Just as in the very politically-charged time of Jesus, our own “us and them” culture seeks division in our communities and nation and world, and in the Church. We are all party to and agents of our society’s segmentation.

Conversely, in welcoming all, Jesus was closing the gap between the minority and the powerful, the clean and the unclean, or, as we might say, the blessed and the…unblessed.

If I say that my privilege, my wealth, my health indicate the amount of blessings that God has heaped upon me, I cheapen God’s blessing and I cheapen grace. I equate blessing with luck. I distinguish between myself and those who have nothing, not even good health. And why? This is a distinction that God does not make, for we are all God’s children, fearfully and wonderfully made.

When I highlight my perceived blessings, I raise myself above others and my “isms,” my racism, classism, and ethnocentrism, rear their ugly head and I become like the Publican praying at the temple—conceited, proud, and superior—rather than like the tax collector, humble, unjustified, and reverential. Blessing does not come in the form of wealth or material goods, of pain-free lives. Blessing is found in those moments when we are drawn closely, near to the heart of Jesus, and we hear, and we are heard, and we know, without a doubt, that we are loved.

Our political environment—on either side of the metaphorical, and sometimes literal, aisle—contains divisions of people who require their members to assimilate their ideology, sometimes subverting one’s personal theology. They, we, require adherence to human law rather than God’s greatest laws—to love God with our whole beings and to love our neighbors and ourselves. 

We are all God’s children—sinners, in desperate need of forgiveness.

“My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the atoning sacrifice for our sins and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world. I am writing to you, little children, because your sins are forgiven on account of his name.”

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They are our pre-teens and teenagers. Annabelle, Eli, Claire, Grace, Shea, and Eli. They sometimes have trouble hearing. They are often loud and messy. They get tired during the day and yet stay up late at night.

But they are bold enough to serve. On our trip, they filled plates, held babies, played with animals, jumped in on basketball games, learned about history, ate at tables with people who do not look like them.

They sometimes came close for head rubs or hugs. They asked thoughtful questions and gave mature responses. They played with kids who idealize every part of their beings. They gave drive-by smiles and hugs to children—and ministers—who were unaware of their need for one.

“For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another. We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in someone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

Henri Nouwen, in his book, Prodigal Son, reveals that his interpretation of Jesus’ parable, and even Nouwen’s own understanding of his ministerial calling, changed when he saw Rembrandt’s painting of the Prodigal’s return. Among his visual revelations was his noticing the people in the background of the painting, the “bystanders,” as he refers to them. 

Nouwen writes:

Certainly there were many hours of prayer, many days and months of retreat, and countless conversations with spiritual directors, but I had never fully given up the role of bystander.

[Those in the painting] all represent different ways of not getting involved. There is indifference, curiosity, daydreaming, and attentive observation; there is staring, gazing, watching, and looking; there is standing in the background, leaning against an arch, sitting with arms crossed, and standing with hands gripping each other. Every one of these inner and outer postures is all too familiar to me. Some are more comfortable than others, but all of them are ways of not getting directly involved. 

Charlie, Angela, Jessica, and our youth, understand that the work of the church is not always in being the bystander. It’s dirty and it’s burdensome! It calls for time and strength that we do not always have. But in our exhaustion, our hearts turn us toward the need for communion with God. We pray and we listen, and we kneel as we return to God’s welcoming house.

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“Little children, come to me.” “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

They are our children. Hollis, Payton, Robert, Asher, Mary Ella, Joe, and Michael. They are often whiny, clingy, needy, and muddy. But they are eager and reflective. They listen and understand far more than we adults believe. They absorb and are touched by the presence of God far more than we adults can expect for our own selves.

They are not always welcome because they are loud and unaware. After all, they are all still learning about themselves and their surrounding. But the fews years that they have accrued on this earth means that they are closer to the Creator than we are. They still have forming clay in their innermost parts and hearts. They are often willing to share their emotions, but they are also keenly aware when adults are emotionally needy too.

Thus, they are both impressionable and receptive and we, as Disciples of Christ, have the responsibility to teach, nurture, and model faithful journeys with the Almighty. We are all called to be present for their needs and present in the life of our church. We are called to participate in and even call for mediation and reconciliatory opportunities. We are to pray as Jesus taught us to pray and call to and love children as Jesus called to and loved and still loves us all:

“Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” “Little children, come to me.” 

“Easy Like Sunday Morning,” may be a relaxing tune, but it is not Truth for the Church. It is not always “easy!” But our aim is that God’s kingdom will be on earth, just as it is in heaven—a loving place, without walls, and without conditions for love.

Come, little children, come. Rest in the arms of Jesus, ye servants of the Lord. Amen.











Pastoral Prayer

Oh Lord, you are mindful of us and we praise you for your presence. Your Spirit knows of and understands our deepest emotions and stays with us as we walk through the degrees of each one. 

We give thanks that you are in our hospitals, rehabilitation, and nursing facilities. 

We give thanks that you are in our funeral homes, chapels, and at gravesides. 

We give thanks that you are with us in our homes as we recover and as we mourn.

Lord, you know that we do not understand everything, and we will continue to wonder and wander, but we pray and we believe that you reside with us still, and that your presence will be made known to us. 

When all we have left is prayer, we kneel and humbly come before you: hear us as we pray, conscious of the strength of the words Jesus taught us to say:

Amen.

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Changing Perspectives

A Sermon Given to Madison Baptist Church
By Stephanie Little Coyne
May 6, 2018


The week before last, I visited with Steve Barrett. I walked away having gained something from our conversation—a common happening with pastoral ministry. I learned a life lesson; I saw things from a different perspective.

An avid adventurer, I asked Steve what he liked the most when he was flying. His response, “I could see everything. I could see everything from my spot above. It was peaceful, quiet.”

Then he crashed.

“And now,” he continued, “my view is often the ceiling.” He said this with a smile on his face, a mix of revelation of irony and fond memories.

From earth’s dirt, to heaven’s skies, to his present place in a hospital bed, Steve’s perspective, his sight line, has changed. 

I was struck, not only because I was moved by his story, but because my own imagination followed his changing sightline. I could see myself on the ground and then in the air, experiencing along with him the peaceful solo ride through blue skies, seeing the tops of houses and trees, a mountain’s firm hold in the landscape, horses and cows in their green open fields. I saw cars on roads and I saw their paths on those roads far before their drivers could.

And then, I followed Steve’s vision from beautiful blue sky to bland, speckled hospital ceiling tiles. I looked at the one ceiling tile that was painted with the hospital logo—a reminder to the patient of where, in life, he lay. 

For the first time, I saw a bigger picture of Steve. I knew more about him than I had before, simply by traveling with his sight-line. Perhaps I will be a better minister for him. Surely the Holy taught me through him that day.

Philip Yancey, in his book, Prayer, recalls walking up a mountain to find the origin of a stream by which his house sat. From the top, he could see how the water pooled from melted snow and then traveled down to form the stream that lay in the canyon. He writes:
It occurs to me, thinking about prayer, that most of the time I get the direction wrong. I start downstream with my own concerns and bring them to God. I inform God, as if God did not already know… Instead, I should start upstream where the flow begins…Grace, like water, descends to the lowest part. Streams of mercy flow…With this new starting point for prayer, my perceptions change. I look at human beings and see not only a “poor, bare, forked animal,” but a person of eternal destiny made in God’s image.

I believe that perspective might be one of the most important lessons of Jesus’ ministry that we can pass along to our youth. 

Isn’t it a beautiful thing to see the revelatory light in their eyes when they see the world through the eyes of a child in Africa? When they feel compelled by gratitude for new vision to give thanks for their water supply AND to make water more accessible to children around the world? For I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink…

Isn’t it wonderful when they see this church as a safe, sacred space, set in a free-to-worship nation and then see them understand that in this world, this safe, sacred space is the exception and not the rule. Isn’t it wonderful to see them, compelled by gratitude for new vision, to want this same freedom to exist throughout this nation and throughout this world?

Jesus’ presence alone caused Zaccheus, a selfish, greedy man, to seek a place where he might catch glimpse of this radical teacher. Jesus calls out to Zaccheus, inviting him down, and inviting himself over to dinner. And around that table, Jesus draws Zaccheus’ attention to those people from whom he has stolen money. Zaccheus’ perspective changes. This new vision compels him to change, to give it all back—and then some.

This dinner engagement did not delight the crowds around Jesus. Their perspective was that Zaccheus was only bad, that he could never be good, and that Jesus was foolish for even trying. We do not know if their perspective changed—were they able to see Zaccheus through the eyes of Jesus?—were they able to see the possibility of redemption?

Jesus offered new perspective to both the woman caught in adultery and her accusers. “Woman, see yourself as a child of God—you are loved—go and live differently. Accusers, you see her sins—can you see your own? Live life differently.”

What of the Pharisee’s question, “Who is my neighbor?” What was Jesus’ reply? Jesus told the story of the good Samaritan, a story that challenged the cultural definition of righteousness. Perhaps today, the story challenges us to consider different perspectives of Christian compassion.

And in the most fantastic of conversion experiences, Saul, the terrorist, the persecutor, is blinded by bright light from God. When the scales fall off, when his sight is restored, his very name changes, he can literally see with new perspective, and he immediately becomes a proclaimer of Jesus’ message.

I confess that I have not had such a moment. While my beliefs have shifted over the years, I, more often than not, consider this world through my eyes as a white female, educated, English-speaking, two-parent home, raised in a medium size town in the Southern United States. I’ve never gone without food or shelter or clothing. Except for some short travels overseas, I have never considered myself as an “other.” Only during a mission trip to South Korea have I found myself as the racial minority.

Only once have I felt threatened because of my physical appearance of “white female.” And I emphasize once, as I tell this story! Once, a little late at night, I was waiting at a red light, about to head east on interstate 10 towards our home in New Orleans. I rolled forward, about to make the turn, and had to quickly apply my brakes, seeing two African American youth suddenly appear in the road. I stopped, believing that they were crossing the road, having visited the gas station store. Instead, they threw their drinks at my windshield. I flinched, but instead of feeling threatened or scared, I was angry. So in my large SUV, I drove onto the ramp, ticked off. My feelings were such because I felt certain that the incident occurred because I was a white female, an “other,” in that situation. In a mere 10 seconds, my perspective changed. I understood anger that comes from being pre-judged.   

Will Willimon, author of the book, Fear of the Other: No Fear in Love, retells a story from his friend, Tom Long. A stranger, dressed in shabby clothes, entered Tom’s church one Sunday morning. The congregants thought, “perhaps he is up to no good, perhaps he will take money out of the offering plate, perhaps he is preying on us while our guard is down.” 

The man left the church, uneventfully, but having not been graciously received. Tom, a child at the time, saw several of the Georgia farmers talking with each other under a big oak tree after the service. “Everyone knew that God had put our church to a test. And we flunked.”

Collectively, as a body of Christ, that congregation only saw the man through one perspective. Only until he departed did they wonder what the experience must have been like for him.

During our Tuesday morning prayer breakfasts, bright and early, 20+ students and I walked through the many lessons of Genesis 1 together. Each week, we moved back and forth between the understanding of self and the understanding of the world around us. We learned to see the image of God, created in us, as well as the image of God created in the “others.”

These initials are the “others.” Our youth thoughtfully considered those individuals who are cast aside, who are bullied, who are forgotten, and they wrote their initials down so that we would not forget them. We have prayed for them. And the presence of this poster is a reminder for us all to see the people around us as beloved children of God. 

We teach our youth to be good disciples when we, their disciples, help them understand different perspectives, not so they may blend in, but that they might understand the creative work of God that makes us all unique, important, valued children, worthy of God’s grace, worthy of safe space in which to worship, and worthy of compassion.

Not until we see the desert, can we understand true thirst. Not until we roll along in fields that do not hold amber waves of grain, can we be concerned with those who face prison sentences because of any public displays of worship. Not until we experience dental work done on a generator can we believe in the importance of healthcare access for all. Not until we see through the eyes of the disenfranchised can we truly desire for the kingdom of God to be on earth as it is in heaven. 

Oh Lord, help us understand that we are but part of the whole so that we may truly understand the height and width and depth of your love. Oh Lord, change our perspective. Amen.    

Thursday, April 12, 2018

A Light in the Window


A Sermon Given to Madison Baptist Church
April 8, 2018
By Stephanie Little Coyne

Children are amazing. They’re honest, sometimes brutally honest, they see things for what they are, and, when adults don’t get in the way, they live freely and unencumbered. 

As our own years go by, it becomes harder and harder to remember what it was like to be a child—to be na├»ve! I am a minister of youth and children because I believe in sharing lessons of faith. I am also a minister of youth and children because they teach me how to express the joy of faith in my daily life.

I know that I am able to minister because of the people in this congregation who have said that our youth and children are important to AND an important part of this church. These people show their love for God by loving on our children. They cook, clean, rock, play piano, comfort, wrangle, teach, build, play, and they demonstrate the sacred acts of Christianity. Thank you, volunteers and thank you, Children’s Ministry Team.  

After seminary, I worked as a hospice chaplain in an inpatient unit. Inpatients are used for patients whose pain is not manageable at home, whose caregivers need respite, or who are too medically fragile to be transported anywhere else.

Regardless of the reason, these people are not at home, and customs, traditions, and surroundings are unfamiliar. Our staff worked as hard as we could to make sure religious practices were kept.

An older Jewish lady was one of those patients. Her family asked that if she were to die when they were not present, that we please place a lit candle in the window. The symbol of the light was to let passers by know that a spirit was moving to heaven.

Many Jewish traditions incorporate the use of light and candle burning in their rituals. Candles represent the sanctity of a place, a time, or of certain events. In the temple, a Temple menorah sits in front of the Ark, representing the presence of the Eternal One.

According to Rabbi Bradley Artson, each candle also represents “the shining light within each human being: ‘the human soul is the lamp of G-d.’ The light of God’s love, justice, and concern can only illumine the world through the individual light that we shine through our deeds, our communities, and through our performance of commandments.”

Irish Catholics, persecuted by the British Protestants for hundreds of years, placed a single candle in the windows of their homes. This light was a signal to Catholic priests that the home would be a safe place for them.

On Christmas Eve, the youngest female—a symbol of Mary, the mother of Jesus—would light this single candle, often a red candle, which not only signaled safety for priests, it also invited them to come in, lead Mass, and share sacraments with the family.

The light in the window also invited inside people who were in need. The belief of the Irish Catholics was that no one should go hungry or be without a safe place to stay, particularly on Christmas Eve.

In our own Christian tradition, we use candles to signify safe and sacred space. Lights signifies that holy ground lies beneath our feet. A candle is often lit at the beginning of a time of prayer, when people of God gather to share personal struggles and joys. The candle’s presence announces that the prayers expressed will be held by all members of the group.

Northern families often place a light in their window during bad storms to let burdened, weary, or stranded travelers know that they may seek shelter in their homes.

The American spiritual, “Keep Your Lamps, Trimmed and Burning,” was sung among slaves as a warning signal, or to secretly share that an escape was being planned for that evening.

Another spiritual, “This Little Light of Mine,” reminds us all to be a light to the world around us—to not let anyone or anything put it out!—to let it shine…

Robert Alden is quoted as saying, “There is not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of even one small candle.”

In the story of the Prodigal Son, in Luke, chapter 15, I wonder if this young man felt as though the darkness was overtaking him. Did he long for the welcoming light of a candle? Certainly, many of us can identify with this son—we too have experienced dark, hopeless nights.

This chapter in Luke begins with quite a set-up! “Jesus was becoming popular with sinners!” The Pharisees begin to grumble again, so Jesus starts teaching with a series of three parables.

In the first story, a shepherd searches for a helpless animal, his sheep.

In the second story, a woman searches for a lost coin, an inanimate object, incapable of movement or feeling.

The third story is a much more descriptive. There are multiple characters, people with feelings and actions—and the interplay between them is intense.

Another difference is that the “lost” object, the son, is also the “seeker.” But he is not trying to find a sheep or a coin. He is seeking a different life, a life which is without his father’s guidance or rules; a life full of freedom; a life full of choices.

As he tells this story, Jesus never says anything about the father seeking his son. He lets him go. He even gives him his share of the estate. The father does not know if his son will ever return.

Did he begin the ritual of mourning? Did he place a candle in the window to signal the loss of a family member? Surely, he was grieved by both his son’s selfishness and his absence. 

The Prodigal Son leaves his home because he wants life to be different and he believes that on his own, it will be better. However, as we know, he turns out to be a terrible money manager, he makes poor choices, he begs for money and food, and all that he receives is a meal alongside pigs. The son longs to be at home with his father, even if it means losing his prior status as a successor—a leader—of the estate.

So, he makes the choice to go home and beg of his father. He knows that life will be different, and he hopes that it will be better.

Much has been made of these three parables. Many commentaries have been written about the Prodigal son and his family—father and brother included.

But as I read this passage this time, I began thinking of what the Prodigal’s home must have been like. The placement of home against “not home,” mirrors the distinction between good and “not good,” and to merge these scripture passages from today, of light paralleled with darkness.

A description of the Creation story says that God brought about light, but stopped before it overtook the darkness.* In the author’s reading of Genesis, God chose to leave darkness behind. All would not be illumined; all would not be revealed. God created us with the decision to choose light or to choose darkness, to choose good or “not good.”

Every day, we go into the world that is full of “different”—different cultures, different senses, different feelings. The world is full of lovely situations, of acts of kindness, of collaborative learning experiences, and God looks upon those moments and declares them to be good.

But we know that violence and wickedness and hate also abound from people who have chosen the “not good” and we know that God is grieved in those situations. At times, we have found our own selves eating and living among swine.

On this earth, how are we to promote the Light? How are we to promote the good?

What would a candle in the window our homes signify? Safety? Giving? Forgiving? Would it signify a separation of light from darkness?

As I considered these questions for myself, a mother of two and a minister of children, what would a light in my house signify?

Are we, the people of God, sharing any light at all?

When our children come home, are they greeted with an extension of the world? When they cross the threshold, are they greeted by peace? 

As fathers and mothers, grandparents, and guardians, are the homes we provide our children a place where they can distinguish their home from the rest of the world? Or are they exposed to more violence, more hate-language, more love of money and material goods?

Do we talk to them about the differences between society’s expectation of us versus God’s expectation of us?

Do our children see us offering our home and our plentitude of goods to our neighbors?

What does it say about our faith when we post pictures of ourselves and our children at a church event long before we discuss the meaning behind those events, or the lessons given in worship?

Do we loose from our lips angry words against our neighbor or do we voice our love for God, for neighbor, and for ourselves? 

Even though we are imperfect and rely daily on God’s grace, are we not called to do and be better? To pursue God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven?

And lastly, and perhaps the hardest of all, do we, if our children are as the prodigal, do we let them go, believing in the seeking nature of Christ, our Lord?

Will they long for home, knowing that life will be better? Will they fear rebuke in their return or will they hope for joyous reunion?

How will they understand God’s love and light and forgiveness if they are never exposed to it in our Christian homes?

These things I know: 

God’s word is a lamp, a light.

The true light, which enlightens everyone, has come to our world and that light of Christ resides in us.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. My children, all of you, deserve nothing less. Amen.