2 of 5

So I sat with the whole family. According to my plan, we all spoke of our individual readiness to embark on confirmation classes. The atmosphere was completely democratic: if any one of the three of us (child, pastor, guardian) felt unready or unable—or if a parent truly thought the child unready—that single veto moved the question of confirmation on to the next year. But if we all said yes—why, I had both the promise and individual goodwill to go on.

I continued seeking and saving this three-way covenant ever thereafter.

The second event happened Easter Sunday morning that year. I'd come to the church in the wee, dark hours of the morning in order to pace up and down the central aisle, learning my sermon by heart. This was my Sunday habit: preparation for preaching was as much emotional and spiritual as it was intellectual.

After the sun had arisen, about an hour and a half before worship was to begin, children started to arrive—without their parents. And since our building had only two large rooms (the fellowship hall below and the sanctuary above), the kids chased through them both, heedless. I couldn't think. The sermon was dying inside me. I was veering toward panic and schemes of bloody assaults. Where were the teachers? Why were these kids here now?

I did not know that the children were not here for Sunday school at all. I did not know that the teachers were not here because there was no Sunday school planned. I did not know that the refrigerator downstairs was full with cartons of colored eggs. Of course the kids were antsy: they were looking for a good time and gifts.

All shot out of patience for the want of a sermon, I shouted to the children, "Sit down!"

They froze mid-run and looked at me. Sit? Why?

"Sit down," I said, and the next thing popped unbidden out of my mouth: "And I'll tell you a story!"

I'll tell you a story. It was the most natural thing for me to say. And it had its natural effect: the kids sat. All ages sat down in the pews, facing me, filled with anticipation, ready for a story. And because no other story was so immediately to hand than this one, I began by saying, "Jesus was eating supper with his disciples, and he was soooo sad."

The littlest faces fell straightway into lines of deep sorrow. They knew sadness, and with my next words, they felt sadness: "Because one of his disciples, one of his friends, was going to go out and rat on him."

For the next 40 minutes I told them the story of Jesus' suffering. I watched them closely. I said the hero was going to die. They did not believe me! Heroes never die! And they were identifying tightly with this hero. They liked Jesus.

When, therefore, I described in detail his arms and hands being nailed to a cross-piece of wood; described in detail how they lifted the cross-piece and Jesus' body up to a stout pole and dropped the whole onto a peg there; when I raised my arms to show the great weight that pulled on them, closing Jesus' chest, causing his own body to suffocate his lungs—why, those children's arms were unconsciously up in the air, same as mine. And faces filled with an unspeakable sorrow. Because I said, "He died. He died. Jesus really did die."

A marvelous thing was occurring in that little sanctuary: By story, 25 children had been transported straight back to Jerusalem and Golgotha.

And then the adults started arriving at church, chirping welcomes back and forth, bringing with them a daffodil morning, and smiting the eyes with their bright Easter finery. The adults entered the sanctuary—and found their children all gloomy in the pews. Well, he died! No, there was no joy in the hearts of the children at that moment.

next page... |  2 of 5

share this page

February 2004, Vol. 48, No. 2