As the mother of three of those children on the brink of meltdown, I always dread the pageant. Sure, it’s cute and all, and it helps my kids understand, in a very concrete way, why we celebrate Christmas. But after weeks of baking, shopping, wrapping, and decorating, I’m ready to kick back with a glass of wine to admire the tree and stare into the fire.
We worry about the next generation of Episcopalians. At our lowest we worry about whether there will be a next generation of Episcopalians. I sometimes wonder whether that would change if we made participation in the Church somehow forbidden. What if, for example, we barred everyone under sixteen from worship?
The fact is that we were terrible youth leaders. Scott and I had no plan but we genuinely liked the kids even though they were tiring and seemingly impervious to anything we had to say about walking humbly or otherwise with their God.
They pushed fluids … gave round after round of epinephran and took turns doing chest compressions for over two hours. They would get a pulse for a moment or two, just long enough to decide to keep going, before her heart would slow to a stop again. It was the longest I ever saw the medical team in the pediatric intensive care unit attempt resuscitation.
I have read much about Jesus’ openness to children. In his day and time children were not of much more value than cattle, if that much. So for Jesus to permit children to “bother” him was different enough to merit a mention. It is also, in my opinion, proof of Jesus’ celibacy. Only a really cool uncle would say such a thing about children. Of course, Jesus never said such a thing directly to my youngest son.
The resurrection as it actually happened is God’s savage rebuke of all human tendency to cover up pain, all cosmetic smoothing over, all letting bygones be bygones, all conspiracies of silence, and phony cover-ups masquerading as reconciliation. “He showed them his hand and his side.”
Then I picked up the cup of wine. “This is my blood,” I said. Before I could go any further, my little blond-headed boy disgustedly interrupted: “Blood?!?!? I’m not drinking blood!” “It’s a rep-re-sen-ta-tion,” a 5-year-old girl replied, taking special care with her pronunciation. “It’s not really blood,” I said. “It’s wine.” “It’s a rep-re-sen-ta-tion,” the little girl said again. “It’s OK. You don’t have to drink it,” I told the boy. “I’m not drinking blood!” he said again.