Most mornings, I wake up already sweaty, wisps of hair clinging to my neck. Dhaka isn’t a city that rises early, or so I’ve been told. It’s with good reason – by 8 or 9 in the morning the heat reaches a level of stifling quite incomparable in most parts of the world, and it bears down on the city’s 14 million inhabitants, unyielding even after dusk.

On one of these mornings not too long ago, I turned twenty-three, marking a year of university graduations, intercontinental one-way tickets, and, as I like to think of it, the year that shit gets real.

A week before reaching Dhaka, I was in Boston attending my graduation ceremony, where early summer means schizophrenic weather – we sweltered in our caps and gowns and tried to pay attention as the speaker droned on in paragraphs forgettable, but by the time it hit mid-afternoon we were huddling together on the library rooftop, cursing the chill.

Two days, three suitcases, and many tears later, I was on the Logan Airport tarmac, preparing to jet thousands of kilometres an hour in a direction away from youth and towards adulthood, unsure of when or if I’d return. By the weekend I was shoved onto a budget Tiger Airways flight, which must have been a peculiar sight for all inquiring eyes – a young Chinese girl on board a plane full of Bangladeshi construction workers and their stern-faced foremen. At dinners with expats in the weeks to come, I would continue to be told about how peculiar it all seemed. “A young girl like you, in Bangladesh alone… it doesn’t seem right,” a concerned middle-aged man concluded, or “you’re a brave soul,” someone chuckled, as if I was tiptoeing around the parameters of life, stretching their imaginations of what good Singaporean girls ought to be doing with themselves.

Last year, I wrote about turning twenty-two and going against the grain. While I’ve come to better terms with liking what I like and not liking what I don’t, I’m still as uncertain about the future and where that will take me, although I’m beginning to suspect that this feeling might be more permanent than previously imagined. After all, six months ago, much of what I knew about this country came from newspaper articles about garment workers, classes on microfinance, and the hazy memories of construction workers I’d seen around while growing up in Singapore.

Here’s to turning twenty-three – in Bangladesh, of all the unexpected places in the world – and trying my best to be the grown-up I’ve always wanted to be. Perhaps if I fake it long enough, I just might make it.

The Desh has finally gotten me. After weeks of being miraculously untouched by sickness as I watched friends succumb one by one to deliriousness, I’m now in bed, with a box of tissues as my trusty companion.

It’s been exactly three weeks since touching down in this country. That Saturday was three days after I landed in my own, and six days after graduating from college on the other side of the world. Since then I’ve had a fair number of interesting experiences. I have a regular rickshaw wallah who takes me to work every day. I’m slowly picking up some Bengali. I’ve made friends with all sorts, from the Chuck Basses of Dhaka to liberal atheist photographers, to chauffeurs who study philosophy. I drink cups and cups of tea, and because of how tea and cigarettes go hand in hand here, I’ve inhaled so much second-hand smoke I’m starting to wonder about the state of my lungs.

Yet in spite of the distractions this chaotic city provides, it feels like I’m merely on my way to somewhere else. I’m grateful for the journey all the same. An author that I like very much, Alain de Botton, wrote in his book, The Art of Travel, that “journeys are midwives of thought.” While I’m not crazy about the birth analogy, I certainly hope that my time here will yield sufficient moments of self-discovery. Those years in Boston have made me surer of who I am and who I want to be, but I’ve got my years in Singapore to find out how my country and I are going to get along.

I shall now leave you with an Instagram photo of a bus I saw tonight. We were stuck in one of those epic traffic jams that characterize Dhaka, so what better way to wile away the time than to look out for a photo opp?

I have a habit of scribbling things down in random places. Sometimes they make their way back to me, and I publish them here.

Yesterday evening, I listened as a boy told me about his life. He came from a lineage of military men; one of his grandfathers was a bomber pilot in WWII, the other grandfather was in the Marines. His father had grown up hitchhiking, always wearing a tie, tennis racket in hand, just so drivers would take pity and pick him up. This boy didn’t know where he was going – all the men in his family had told him what manhood was and not too long ago he had found it in shambles. He had the world at his feet, and privilege in his hands, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t know why sadness still followed him around.

This afternoon, I listened as a girl told me about injustice and inequality. She sat at a kitchen table, paralyzed by the what-ifs and the fear of the imperfect. I just want to build community, she said, the word conjuring flashes of scenes she had witnessed in so many countries other than the one that brought her up and needed her in return, like a retiring parent in need of support.

After I listened to her, I went and buried my nose in a book about injustice and inequality – about a woman who fought the lineage of slavery and made her way to university and to marriage and was left wondering where she went and where to go next. I so easily walked out of these lives around me and settled for a paperback instead.

I had a blast giving the commencement address yesterday as Ben graduated from Derby Academy in Hingham. It really was very special to be asked to do this with a son in the graduating class and I was very grateful for the opportunity. Of course I didn’t say what I really wanted to communicate to the students upon finishing 8th grade: “Congrats! Now move out of the house and get a job!”

As you’d imagine with the oldest co-educational school in the nation, there are many commencement day traditions. Each year on Derby Day the entire school processes down Fearing Road to the New North Church for the graduation ceremony. It happened to be raining but that didn’t stop Head of School Andrea Archer from saying “busses be damned!” (or something to that effect). And we all marched jubilantly down to the church umbrellas in hand.

The commencement address is referred to as the Derby Day Lecture — in fact I gave the 222nd one in the school’s history. To me the difference between an “address” and a “lecture” is about 40 minutes but fortunately for everyone involved I didn’t go with my gut. In my experience, as with sermons, no one has ever complained about a commencement address being too short.

I don’t think I’ll be replacing Oprah on the short list for Stanford or Yale next year but my mid-May calendar is pretty wide open at this point. I’m just disappointed I was awarded an honorary 8th grade degree.

 222nd Derby Day Lecture
June 7, 2013
New North Church
Hingham, Massachusetts
The Rev. Tim Schenck

A few weeks ago I spent some time with the 8th graders and had the opportunity to sit in on a number of their senior speeches. They touched on a variety of topics but I was so impressed not only with their public speaking ability but with the content. This is a group of young men and women who are passionate, articulate, profound, thoughtful, and witty. And, frankly, I’m a bit nervous having to speak in front of all of these wonderful public speakers.

As happens when learning the basics of oratory, they were encouraged to begin each speech with a formal introduction. Which went like this: “Honored faculty, fellow students,” and then since I was there they were required to add “distinguished guest.” Now I admit it was pretty good for my ego to hear that phrase over and over again. For some reason my family refuses to refer to me as “distinguished” when we’re sitting around the dinner table and I hardly ever get called “distinguished guest” when I show up at The Snug.

But this morning, I think we need to turn this around a bit to recognize that this is a special day in the lives of our graduates as we gather to celebrate the Derby Class of 2013. So here goes:

Mrs. Archer, esteemed trustees, honored faculty, family members, friends, and distinguished guests.

Today each one of you is a “distinguished guest” as we mark this milestone. You have worked hard to get to this moment and I encourage you to revel in it and savor it and enjoy it. Just don’t expect to be called “distinguished” for the rest of the summer. It’s not happening.

When Mrs. Archer first called on behalf of the Board of Trustees to invite me to offer the 222nd Derby Day Lecture, I had two initial thoughts. First, I have to admit I thought there’d be horses involved. And big hats and mint juleps. And that I’d be at Churchill Downs in Kentucky. I was all set to handicap the big race; the Kentucky Derby, the crown jewel of racing’s Triple Crown.

And then I realized she was talking about a different Derby Day. But a Derby Day no less grand in its pageantry and tradition and importance. And if you think about it, there are some parallels between the pageantry of a Triple Crown race and a DerbyAcademy graduation. Instead of the jockeys being all decked out in colorful racing silks, we have the faculty all decked out in colorful academic garb. Instead of the horses processing up to the starting gate, we have the graduates processing into NewNorthChurch. In both instances there’s a tangible sense of excitement and anticipation in the air; a spirit that not even a little bit of rain can dampen. There’s only one problem with this analogy: your lives are not a horse race. It’s not a sprint to the finish with blinders on. You’re here to enjoy each moment, to soak it all in, and to revel in the relationships you make along the way.

As many of you know, as a commencement speaker I’m not a completely objective observer — I’m also the father of one of our graduates. And so my second thought after being asked to speak today was what a wonderful, unique, diabolical opportunity to publicly humiliate Ben. I recognized a chance to get him back for all the nagging about homework and all the chauffeuring around town and all the times I asked about how his day went only to be given the one word response: “fine.” For parents of middle schoolers much of life is lived on a “need to know” basis and there is evidently precious little that falls into that category.

Okay, I promised I wouldn’t do or say anything too embarrassing — I mean besides my mere presence. But as many of you know, Ben has a certain pet he likes to talk about. A lot. Mimi the ferret. In fact, I understand that Ben’s known to his classmates as the Ferret King. I am so proud of him for this that it literally makes me want to weep. But I did promise Ben and some of his friends that I would somehow work ferrets into today’s address.

So here goes — four pieces of advice based on why you should not act like a ferret. First, ferrets are sneaky. They like to abscond with things like keys and mittens and important papers like homework. So my first piece of advice to you is don’t steal things.

This is related to number two. Ferrets live in cages. If you steal things you too might end up living in a cage. Don’t go to jail.

If not bathed occasionally ferrets begin to smell. Trust me, you haven’t really lived until you’ve bathed a ferret in the kitchen sink while your wife takes a photo of you and immediately posts it to Facebook. So the third piece of advice is, bathe occasionally.

Finally, ferrets sleep for 22 hours a day. Don’t sleep for 22 hours a day. You’ll miss school, you won’t be able to hold down a job, and you may well wind up living in a cage.

Okay, graduates, that was your brief ferret shout-out — I hope you enjoyed it.

Now when you’re dressed like this you have to at least mention Scripture. And there was a particular passage that kept popping into my head as I thought about this day. In Matthew’s gospel Jesus talks about those who hear his words and act on them as being like a wise man that built his house on rock. “The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock.” But those who hear his words and fail to act on them are like a foolish man who built his house on sand. “The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell.”

What this speaks to in this context is the importance of a strong foundation.Through your parents and your teachers and your classmates and your entire Derby experience, you have a solid foundation for the rest of your lives; a foundation built on rock. No one can take that away. And as the storms of life swirl — and they will — you can always trust in this foundation. This foundation that has been built by loving parents, gifted teachers, dedicated friends, and by your own hard work. This foundation isn’t complete of course — it will be added to and fortified over the years. But much of this foundation is formed from the culture of support and honesty and creativity and love and care at DerbyAcademy. And it is a solid foundation upon which to build the rest of your lives.

And, yes, you have a lot more life in front of you. You’re facing four years of high school. And then four years of college. And then, for some of you, another two or three years or five years of graduate school. In other words, you have about another decade of school ahead of you. Your future holds tens of thousands of pages you haven’t read; hours and hours of homework you haven’t done; hundreds of essays you haven’t written; myriad math problems you haven’t solved, and tons of tests to study for.

Now, I’m not trying to depress you on this celebratory day; quite the contrary. Because your future is a great gift. And along with all that future hard work comes opportunity. You have the opportunity to make a difference in the world. You have the opportunity to be a force for good. You have the opportunity to impact lives. You have the opportunity to share your creativity and giftedness with others. And I know you will.

But if there’s only one thing you remember about this day, I’d like you to remember this — it’s something that’s important as you enter high school and it’s something you need to live a full, fruitful, healthy, and successful life: find your passion. It doesn’t matter what it is — playing the oboe or writing poetry or rugby or rock climbing or chess or chemistry. Experiment, try new things, challenge yourself, fail at some things and realize it’s all part of the learning process.

Your calling over the next few years is to find your passion, to seek out what brings you joy, to discover what makes your soul sing. Your passion is something as unique to you as your DNA. Only you can discover it and nurture it and allow it grow into maturity.

And as you step out of the familiar and friendly confines of DerbyAcademy into the new, exciting, yet unfamiliar place of what is to come, never forget the solid foundation upon which you stand. It will serve you well as you discover that each moment of your life is dripping with possibility and teeming with energy and passion. Go out and find yours.

Thank you and God bless you all in the years ahead.

“People may not do things the way I want them to, but you have to step back and realize that…

Last week I wrote about The Often Overlooked Humor of Jesus. I’ve adapted this idea into my latest monthly “In Good Faith” column. This version is shorter and more suitable for my column — the point of which is to bring faith into everyday life and reach out to people who don’t necessarily attend church.

Divine Comedy

Jesus is hilarious.

Okay, that’s not a sentiment you hear very often. You won’t see a Comedy Central special called “Joking with Jesus!” And too many of us have encountered humorless Christians over the years. You know the type — tight lipped, judgmental, unsmiling, puritanical. People who view frivolity as sacrilege and humor as heresy.

But this understanding of the Christian life is incomplete. A more nuanced reading of Scripture leads us away from an attitude of holier-than-thou solemnity and Jesus himself points the way. Jesus uses humor to teach, heal, convert and, ultimately, redeem. Seriously. And he does this while modeling the fact that laughter and profundity are not mutually exclusive.

The humor of Jesus is subtle, nearly imperceptible at first glance. The Sermon on the Mount, for instance, doesn’t begin with a joke to warm up the crowd. But throughout his ministry Jesus displays great wit, command of the language, a gift for irony and word plays, and impeccable timing — all hallmarks of great comedians.

The gospels aren’t funny in the traditional sense. It’s not slapstick comedy; there are no pratfalls. They’re passion narratives, not anthologies of “The Wit and Wisdom of Jesus Christ.”

Yet when you dig a little, you start to see that Jesus had a wicked sense of humor. Which makes sense — a master storyteller would never forsake humor as a means to reach an audience. Jesus, who spent much of his ministry breaking down barriers between people, knew that humor does exactly this. Humor disarms and unites; it sets people at ease and leaves them receptive to the speaker’s message. He understood that laughter is simply good for the soul and that humor allows us to confront the darker sides of life with grace and composure.

The examples of Jesus’ irony and wit are plentiful. Perhaps we can view the humorless Pharisees as the ultimate straight men for Jesus. Throughout the four gospels the joke, it seems, is on them. Their somber rigidity is paralyzing; their hypocrisy and self-righteousness keep them from true relationship with the divine. They are the perfect foils to Jesus’ message of love as he continually meets their scorn and contempt with quick wit and perfect timing.

The encounters with the Pharisees are full of brilliant one-liners. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mt 22:21) is a perfect response dripping with irony. The blind leading the blind is, of course, a comical visual image and a pointed commentary on the religious leaders of the day (Mt 15:14). And think about the hilarious image of straining out a gnat while eating a camel (Mt 23:24). His hearers certainly chuckled at this purposefully ludicrous image. And it invariably stuck with them.

There are hosts of other wonderfully amusing moments in the gospel accounts. There is irony and humorous exaggeration, phrases that would have brought smiles to the lips of his hearers, if not full belly laughs. Explaining the efficacy of prayer he asks the Apostles, “What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If your son asks for an egg, will you give him a scorpion?” (Lk 11:11-12) “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of the needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God” (Mk 10:25). That’s a memorable image.

Unfortunately we lose the facial expressions and tone of voice so crucial to successful comedy. David Letterman can make us laugh with a smirk or the inflection of his voice. A manuscript of his show wouldn’t be nearly as amusing as seeing it live. So it’s a shame the gospels have been handed down to us as manuscripts and not YouTube videos.

The point here is not to place Jesus in the Comedy Hall of Fame. Rather it is to encourage us to see and hear the message of our Lord with fresh eyes and ears, to discover a new aspect of his divine brilliance and to meet him with renewed joy and laughter in our hearts. Above all, Jesus encourages us to take our faith but not ourselves too seriously.

As you’ve probably heard, the “next big thing” to hit the market and change your life will be Google Glass. While still in the experimental phase, Google Glass is basically a wearable computer in the form of futuristic-looking eyewear. The idea is hands-free computing, allowing the user  to use voice commands to surf the web, take pictures and video, get directions, and send messages.

It used to be that you could separate the sane from the insane by whether they talked to themselves while walking down the street. That theory was tossed aside with Blue Tooth and will be buried further with Google Glass.

I’m not an early adopter with technology so you won’t see me sporting these fancy specs anytime soon. But I was thinking about how this technology could assist me in my vocational life. If Google could come up with a Clergy Edition, I might just reconsider. Here’s what I’d need and how I’d use it:

1. Face recognition software that would allow me to identify parishioners by name while greeting them after the service (especially the C & E crowd!).

2. The ability to scroll the sermon text so my brilliant thoughts would appear “off the cuff.”

3. X-Ray vision so I could see how much Reserved Sacrament we have without having to open the aumbry door.

4. A program that would allow me to engage in what Helen Prejean calls “Biblical quarterbacking” so I could cite relevant chapter and verse the next time I get into a debate with a Baptist.

5. Take POV (point of view) video as I celebrate the Eucharist allowing everyone to experience what it’s really like to be a priest at the altar.

6. Surf the internet during boring diocesan meetings while seemingly paying rapt attention.

7. Read the latest Grisham novel during the curate’s sermon.

8. Scroll through my Twitter feed during pastoral visits.

9. Google newcomers in real time so I seem omniscient when I ask about their hobby of bee keeping.

10. Change the Scripture passage to read: “Why do you see the speck in your neighbour’s eye, but do not notice the Google Glass in your own eye?” (Matt 7:3)

There’s nothing worse than a humorless Christian. You know the type — tight lipped, judgmental, unsmiling, Puritanical. Someone who views frivolity as sacrilege and humor as heresy. Perhaps you’ve even met the type — online or in person.

But this understanding of the Christian life is incomplete. A more nuanced reading of Scripture leads us  irrevocably away from this attitude of holier-than-thou solemnity. Jesus uses humor to teach, heal, convert and, ultimately, redeem. And he does this while modeling the fact that laughter and profundity are not mutually exclusive.

The humor of Jesus is subtle, nearly imperceptible at first glance. The Sermon on the Mount, for instance, doesn’t begin with a joke to warm up the crowd. But throughout his ministry Jesus displays great wit, command of the language, a gift for irony and word plays, and impeccable timing — all hallmarks of great comedians.

The gospels aren’t funny in the traditional sense. It’s not slapstick comedy; there are no pratfalls. They’re passion narratives, not anthologies of “The Wit and Wisdom of Jesus Christ.” But then the story of our salvation, the death and resurrection of our Lord, is serious business.

Which is precisely why Jesus made his message so accessible. Parables, with their use of common language and commentary on everyday situations, spoke directly to people. And so, while Jesus’ messages held the keys to salvation, they were couched in language people could understand and relate to.

A master storyteller would never forsake humor as a means to reach an audience. Jesus, who spent much of his ministry breaking down barriers between people, knew that humor does exactly this. Humor disarms and unites; it sets people at ease and leaves them receptive to the speaker’s message.

Jesus recognized that humor is as equal a part of the human condition as suffering and joy. It is integral to the human condition, and Jesus embodied this just as much as he embodied forgiveness, compassion and hope. Jesus had a wonderfully vibrant sense of humor, but it wasn’t employed merely to “get laughs.” It is humor that seeks to inform and convert. Even when the humor is directed at a certain group, such as the Pharisees, it is still a humor born of love and compassion. Jesus mocks the self-righteous even while calling them to open their eyes, repent and see.

Jesus exposes our human foibles not to embarrass or condemn but to illuminate and transform. When we take ourselves too seriously, we commit perhaps humanity’s greatest sin: trusting in ourselves rather than God. Jesus shows us the absurd consequences that invariably result.

The examples of Jesus’ irony and wit are plentiful. Take, for instance, his relationship with Peter. Naming this impetuous, overly eager apostle “the rock” is amusing. You can almost envision the sly smile as Jesus says, “Upon this rock I will build my church.” Time after time, Peter was anything but a rock in difficult situations. The irony must not have been lost on the other disciples. And yet, it indeed was upon this “rock” that the Church was built. With Jesus, the line between the deadly serious business of faith and the human attempt to live out this faith blurs. And, because there is some of Peter in all of us, it becomes untenable to take ourselves too seriously.

Which is precisely Jesus’ point. Perhaps we can view the humorless Pharisees as the ultimate straight men for Jesus. Throughout the four gospels the joke, it seems, is on them. Their somber rigidity is paralyzing and their hypocrisy and self-righteousness keep them from true relationship with the divine. They are the perfect foils to Jesus’ message of love as Jesus continually meets their scorn and contempt with quick wit and perfect timing.

The encounters with the Pharisees are full of brilliant one-liners. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mt 22:21) is a perfect response dripping with irony. The blind leading the blind is, of course, a comical visual image and a pointed commentary on the religious leaders of the day (Mt 15:14). And think about the hilarious image of straining out a gnat while eating a camel (Mt 23:24). His hearers certainly chuckled at this purposefully ludicrous image. And it invariably stuck with them.

There are hosts of other wonderfully amusing moments in the gospel accounts. There is irony and humorous exaggeration, phrases that would have brought smiles to the lips of his hearers, if not full belly laughs. Explaining the efficacy of prayer he asks the Apostles, “What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If your son asks for an egg, will you give him a scorpion?” (Lk 11:11-12) “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of the needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God” (Mk 10:25). That’s a memorable image. What fool would place a lamp “under a bushel basket or under a bed and not on the lampstand?” (Mk 4:21)

It is a bit odd that within the Church the humor of Jesus is so roundly ignored. Maybe we’re afraid to laugh in the presence of the divine. We tend to shy away from visions of our Lord smiling and joking and engaging us in laughter. Yet there is great evidence that Jesus desires this  important piece of our humanity to shine forth. Laughter is simply good for the soul and it allows us to confront the darker sides of life with grace and composure. Since God created humor, it makes sense that Jesus would use humor to communicate with humanity. Without humor, life would be unbearable. Humor is used as a means to deal with the burdens of life. It makes light the yoke of sin, death, and human frailty.

One obstacle may be that Jesus’ mastery of words is literally lost in translation. Our Scripture is a translation of the Greek, which is a translation of Jesus’ own Aramaic. Without knowledge of Jesus’ native tongue, certain wordplays are simply lost to us. For instance, an added layer of Matthew 23:24 is that the Aramaic word for gnat is galma and the word for camel is gamla. We are deaf to this aspect of the exchange.

We also lose the facial expressions and tone of voice so crucial to successful comedy. David Letterman can make us laugh with a simple facial expression or the inflection of his voice. A manuscript of his show wouldn’t be nearly as amusing as seeing it live. And unfortunately the gospels have been handed down to us as manuscripts, not YouTube videos.

The point here is not to place Jesus in the Comedy Hall of Fame. Rather it is to encourage us to see and hear the message of our Lord with fresh eyes and ears, to discover a new aspect of his divine brilliance and to meet him with renewed joy and laughter in our hearts. May we continue to take our ministry seriously but not ourselves.

Some weeks it’s tough to keep up spiritually and emotionally with all that swirls around us. In the last couple of days we’ve seen images of devastation coming out of Oklahoma. We continue to be pummeled with disheartening world news and violence in our communities, even as many of us are still trying to process the Boston Marathon bombings, the explosion at a fertilizer factory in West, Texas, and the collapse of a clothing factory in Bangladesh.

As people of faith, our first response is prayer. Upon hearing about the latest tragedy or disaster we get down on our knees and pray. Or at least close our eyes for a moment at the next stoplight or post a prayer on Facebook. Sometimes we pray because we know it’s what we’re “supposed” to do; sometimes we pray because we can’t thing of anything else to do; sometimes we pray because it’s part of our ongoing and life-long conversation with God; and sometimes we pray because we know it matters.

Yet it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed to the point of “prayer fatigue.” We’re  bombarded on all sides by tragic news, horrific images, and interviews with the bereaved, all of which contribute to an overall feeling of helplessness. As many of us are discovering, there’s only so much capacity the human brain has to respond to grief, sadness, and traumatic events. We could become hermits and spend all our days in prayer and, still, it wouldn’t be enough. We’d just be scratching the surface of the world’s needs. As we seemingly face crisis after crisis it’s easy to feel that prayer doesn’t matter or that it doesn’t change anything.

The 24-hour news cycle doesn’t help as images of natural disaster, war, and abject poverty assault our senses and our sensibilities. Nor does social media which, in the face of tragedy, serves as an echo chamber. That’s not to say we should all go off the grid when tragedy strikes — there’s tremendous value in connecting with others, offering prayers and resources, and even raising money as a way to “do something.” Rapid response online donations in the wake of tragedy (at least the ones that warrant media coverage) are becoming part of the national grieving process and perhaps even a secular form of prayer. But it still never feels like enough — there’s always the next tragedy, the next disaster, the next shooting.

The good news is that the world’s peace and harmony doesn’t depend exclusively upon us. That’s God’s realm, not ours. Once we realize this, it takes the pressure off of us to get the words right or say the proper number of prayers to “fix” everything. We don’t even need words — they’re usually inadequate anyway. We can weep with those who weep and mourn with those who mourn while leaving the big picture to the God who cares for us as a mother cares for her children. This doesn’t mean that tragedy won’t continue to pervade our lives — it’s part of the human condition — but we’re not in this alone. Jesus, who knew something about tragedy, is with us at every step of the journey.

And so, even in the midst of despair, we’re left with hope. As Christians, hope is the bedrock upon which we build the foundations of our lives even as things seemingly crumble around us. Where is God in all of this? Under the rubble; crying out with the disaffected and impoverished; in the tears of those who weep and mourn.

This weekend we mark Trinity Sunday and revel in the fullness of God even as we pray for hope and healing and reconciliation. There is, perhaps, no better time to do just that.

 

I love baptisms. Baptizing infants (and those who can speak for themselves) is one of my absolute favorite things about ordained ministry. Being the conduit for establishing that indissoluble bond between an individual and Jesus is a privilege.

Plus, when there are babies involved — which is the norm — I’m able to get my baby fix. I look at it as grandparent training: holding babies until they do those things that babies do and then handing them back to the parents. Some of my parishioners call me “The Baby Whisperer” and I admit I do have a pretty uncanny ability to quiet down a fussy infant. Also, my preaching puts them right to sleep.

We’re fortunate to do a lot of baptisms at St. John’s and there’s nothing better than welcoming a new parishioner into the “household of God.” But we also err on the side of grace and baptize babies of some families we don’t know. I always run a mandatory baptismal preparation class for parents (and ideally godparents) in the days or weeks leading up to the big day. I talk about the symbols of baptism and the liturgy and what it all means (fortunately I had the Episcopal Church’s baptism guru, the Rev. Dr. Ruth Myers, as my liturgics professor so I take this stuff seriously). I also give them a booklet with some more detailed information about baptism in general and at St. John’s in particular.

One of the major points I like to stress is that baptism isn’t a rite of passage but a rite of commitment. And there’s a major distinction between these two! If the baptism becomes merely something to “get through” before the day’s major event — brunch — then we have a problem. Reading through the baptismal questions demonstrates just how serious this stuff is, a point I’m always tempted to make by showing parents that wonderful carnage-filled baptism scene from The Godfather.

Yesterday on Pentecost — one of the four days of the church year deemed “especially appropriate” for baptism — we welcomed thousands of new Christians into the church (uh, not at St. John’s — five this weekend — but in parishes everywhere). And I’m always reminded that some people still struggle with taking it seriously (not regular parishioners mind you). I think the worst example of Baptismal Parties Behaving Badly was the parish I served in New York where a godparent answered her cell phone during the baptism and then proceeded to narrate the entire baptism for her friend.

So in this light, I have rewritten the baptismal questions from the Prayer Book. There are three renunciations followed by three affirmations. Maybe we’ll start reciting these at our baptism prep classes!

Then the Celebrant asks the following questions of the parents and godparents who speak on behalf of the infants and younger children.

Question: Do you renounce flash photography and all annoying actions that rebel against the liturgy?
Answer: I renounce them.

Question: Do you renounce blowing off coffee hour and other actions which corrupt and destroy the concept of community?
Answer: I renounce them.

Question: Do you renounce yapping during the communion anthem and all sinful desires that draw you from the love of the sacrament?
Answer: I renounce them.

Question: Do you turn to the hymnal and actually sing the hymns?
Answer: I do.

Question: Do you put your trust in God by shutting down your cell phone and not surfing the internet during the sermon?
Answer: I do.

Question: Do you promise not to use the Peace as your own personal family photo op?
Answer: I do.

Okay, so I’m having some fun with this. And in that spirit, feel free to share your own stories. As clergy we do ourselves and the church no favors by accepting such behavior and it’s our responsibility to nip it in the baptismal font.