conversations that really matter

This blog was started to track conversations about business, but some exchanges eclipse any commercial interaction.

On Sunday morning I sat beside a child in church.

Her dad was teaching Sunday School. Since she has outgrown her dad's class, he wants her to sit in the main service and learn to take notes. So side-by-side we wrote. Her inscriptions were sparse. When I turned my paper to the second side, the child marveled, "You're like my dad! How can you take so many notes?"

"We listen for the things that are interesting to us," I explained. "And we try to follow the preacher's outline and get his main points. More important, we listen for what's meaningful and write that down."

Her notes got thicker, more interesting, and more meaningful. The preacher is new to our congregations, so his sermon began autobiographically ("there is nothing good about me except for Jesus Christ"), and moved into preparing us for communion.

"What is it that commends me to this table?" the preacher asked, and the child wrote that down. "My sin," the preacher answered, and the child wrote that down. "Christ came not to save the righteous but sinners," he continued, and the child wrote it down. Later she observed to her dad, "He was talking about justification." She got the point.

We can never be good enough. Some people examine themselves and, finding themselves wanting, bypass the bread and wine (or juice). At the same time, our preacher noted, we can never be good enough. Communion is not about tallying our badness to bar us from eating nor tallying our goodness to earn the right to eat: it is about coming before our Saviour and receiving his gift of salvation. "Is there anything God can't do?" asked the preacher. "Yes: God cannot see my sin when it is covered by the blood of Jesus."

So communion followed, and the child bypassed the bread, telling me, "I don't know if I'm allowed." I called the usher back to serve her. She took a piece of bread and I inquired, "Are you a sinner in need of a Saviour?" She nodded with a look of wonder. I replied, "Then you're allowed." She smiled, relieved.

I know that training in religion can be controversial, that some biological parents are even reticent to 'indoctrinate' their own children. But all adults who associate with children have a hand in training the young, whether explicitly or implicitly. Why not train intentionally rather than haphazardly? We can do it without imposing. We can invite without forcing. We can encourage with certain spiritual disciplines without damaging. We can offer the truth (as we understand it), in hopes that the child will grow to a reflective adult who chooses and responds well and discerns what really is truth and what is not.

This is the real work that matters: to train children in ways they should go. And Sunday morning was one such rich moment for me.

Hear, O Israel: the LORD our God, the LORD is one. Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. (Deuteronomy 6:4-9)