WAY-ward.

My children ask a lot of questions. A lot. They ask  why . They ask  where . They ask  who . They ask  when . They ask  how come . And more than anything else they like to ask:  What ?!  What?! What?! Their favorite time to ask questions is when we’re on the road. Trapped in their car seats, my kids immediately become little detectives. With nothing to do but think about and look out at the world around them they become exceedingly inquisitive. They ask both simple and existential questions. They inquire about the mundane and the magnificent. They ask questions that are fun to answer, difficult to respond to and – admittedly – tricky as all get out to address. In fact, more often than not, on the ride home from school I am stumped and tripped up by the questions of my four and six year old daughters.  I got to thinking about my kids and their questions when I read the gospel lesson assigned for Sunday. Jesus is on the road with his discip...

My daughter came home from her first week of school chanting that phrase they taught us all as kids.  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me!  And all I could think as I watched this innocent kid defiantly not giving other people the power to hurt her was:  yeah right . And I got sort of sad – for her, for me, for you, for us all – as I reflected on how hurtful some words can be.  See, sticks and stones my break my bones, but words… can harm a friendship. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… can end a marriage. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… can break our spirit. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… can hurt forever. We tell our children that words will never hurt us, but that’s not true. Words have the power to hurt. Words can be wielded as weapons. Words can be put together in ways that break down and beat down. Bullies use words to degrade others. Politicians use words to slander others...

“MEAT AND KETCHUP!” my two-year-old son John yelled at me when I entered the house.  His face and hands were covered in ketchup. His clothes were too. He had a baby ‘spork’ in his right hand and he couldn’t have been prouder of himself.  “Meat and ketchup,” I replied. “Yum.”  “NO!” he shouted back. “MEAT AND KETCHUP.”  “Yea, Johnny, I heard you,” I offered. “Meat and ketchup. Good boy.”  With his ketchup covered fingers he grabbed my hand and led me to the table. He pointed to his plate, dug the spork in and ate a mouthful of ketchup.  “I’m eating ketchup,” he said.  He sure was. It wasn’t meat and ketchup. He was eating ketchup. He shoveled spork-ful after spork-ful of ketchup into his mouth. When the spork wasn’t cutting it he literally licked the plate clean.  As I watched my son, I couldn’t help but wonder why a person would ever do such a thing. What kind of person just eats a plate of ketchup? There’s no poin...

As I read the story of Jesus’ Last Supper, betrayal, trial, persecution, suffering, and death last week, I couldn’t help but notice a few characters that escaped me before. You may be familiar with the main characters – Jesus and Judas, Peter and Pilate, the chief priests and the scribes – but did you know that in Mark’s gospel alone there are 7 bystanders who are complicit in the crucifixion of Christ?   These bystanders typically are spokespeople for the crowd. Though mere individuals, they speak for the masses. Through their inaction, they are witnesses to injustice. Through their questions, they fuel hatred. Through their comments, they demonstrate coldness and indifference.  While arguably not as evil as Judas the betrayer, Pilate who had Jesus flogged, or the soldiers who cast lots for Jesus’ robes, these characters are burdened with a more subtle form of sin – the sin of inaction and apathy.  My fear for God’s people today is that we have once a...

I have a confession to make. I can’t skate. Despite growing up in Western New York where playing hockey seems to be a childhood rite of passage and where backyard rinks still abound, I never learned to do it. And it was never an issue, until my girls received ice skates for Christmas. What you have to understand is that I have convinced my daughters that I can do everything and that I can fix anything. They believe in me and have never had to wonder why I couldn’t perform a task. I’ve been able to demonstrate and teach. I’ve led the way and helped them discover their talents and gifts. Until now. About a month ago we went to the ice rink in East Aurora. My plan was to offer to watch my son, John, while Kate blissfully skated around the rink with Molly and Delaney. Unfortunately, Kate said that two parents were required on the ice and brought me skates (fun fact: my wife doesn’t know I can’t skate). Once I put the skates on I could barely walk on the floor let a...

I forgot to eat yesterday. I had meetings from 7AM through 9PM that night. Around dinner time I caught 45 minutes of free time and meant to grab a bite, but, like I said, I forgot.  And so, when I arrived at home at 9:30 that evening, I was cranky.  My wife wanted to talk about her day. I shrugged her off.  My older daughter used every delay tactic she knows so she could see me before going to bed so she was still up and wanted a story. Standing at her door, I quickly scrambled through a lame-duck narrative. Once upon a time there was a girl named Molly. She was tired. So was her dad. So she went to bed. And they all lived happily ever after. Good night.    When I crashed on the couch, my wife sat next to me. She wanted a conversation with an adult for the first time all day. I obliged by replying “yea” and “nah” to her questions – too tired to even put an “s” at the end of a one syllable word.  “Thanks for the riveting conversation, Scott.” ...

One of my son’s first words was, “Mine.” He is one-and-a-half and the youngest child of our three. He has two older sisters who have routinely snatched toys, food, blankets, and stuffed animals from his hands. And so, early on he picked up this simple word and has shouted it with ferocity far more than any other thing he has said. “Mine!” John shouts while devouring grapes. “Mine!” John announces as he points to the swing. “Mine!” John cries as his sisters rip toys from his hands. “Mine!” John asserts as he meanders through the playroom. From the throne of his highchair our high king, John, daily declares, “Mine. Mine. Mine,” as he pounds his chest and points around the room.   The thing is, most of the stuff John thinks is “ mine ”, actually aren’t. And, even the stuff that is his is only his because he received it as a gift. As I look around the world right now I see a whole bunch of big people shouting, “Mine!” As tax codes are discussed in congress, people...