HOW TO CHANGE THE WORLD

Hebrews 10:23-25 ²³Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. ²⁴And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, ²⁵not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another-and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

I planned on changing the world. After spending three long years researching and writing my dissertation on the use of critical literacy to develop college level skills in  middle school students, I was ready. Once my work was published and I began to teach a new generation of teachers, the world of education was never going to be the same again!

I’d love to tell you it happened exactly that way. But seven years and many instructional hours later, the paradigm of American education hasn’t shifted much and only a small and very select circle of educational specialists has ever heard of me or my research.

I should be discouraged. But I’m not. I’m one person. Yet I’ve taught hundreds. And if each of the future teachers I’ve worked with impact only a few students, the change we need to make sure all students are prepared with higher order thinking skills will not just be my dream, but a reality.

It takes a community dedicated to the cause.

Let’s take another community that lived long ago, in the Kingdom of Persia in 486-465 BC. At that time, King Xerxes decided to replace his Queen, Vashti, who had publicly refused to obey him. He eventually chose Esther, a young Jewess who had been raised by her cousin Mordecai, an official in the king’s court. Mordecai warned Esther to keep her Jewish heritage a secret so as to not displease the King. Eventually, though, Prince Haman persuaded Xerxes to rid Persia of the Jewish people, saying they were rebels. At this point, Mordecai took to the public square to mourn the coming slaughter and encouraged all the Jewish people to join him (Esther 4:1-3).

Word of Mordecai’s very vocal and public mourning reached Esther, who sent a servant to essentially tell him to hush up, lest her secret be revealed. Mordecai persuaded Esther to go before the King without being summoned—a possible death sentence—and ask for delivery of her people (Esther 4:13).

But Esther knew that although she was Queen, her power was limited. She was only one person. She needed the support and fellowship of others and something beyond mere human courage.

Esther wasn’t in a hurry to bring her petition before the King. She needed both courage and community to accomplish her deed. So after hosting a couple of extravagant banquets for the King—and wicked Prince Haman—Esther asked the King to spare her life and the  life of all her people. And Xerxes agreed, leading to the death on the gallows of Haman.

Don’t you wonder what might have happened if Esther had not had a community to pray with her? If she had just boldly taken it on her own fair shoulders and marched forward? The result could have altered history.

In Sunday’s message, Pastor Aaron told us three reasons why all of us should consider joining a small group.

1.      Relationships matter to God. As we can see in Esther’s plight, it was through Mordecai that Esther was put into a position to save the Jewish people. God’s relationship to us is vitally important.

2.      Growth happens best in a loving community. Alone, Esther might not have had the courage to undertake such a mighty task, but she was undergirded by the support of her community.

3.      A gospel-centered community can change the world. We don’t really know the personal relationship Esther or Mordecai may have had to God, but we do know that fasting, in the Old Testament, was closely associated with prayer. And it changed the world.

Will I consider joining a small group? Well, I’m thinking about it. My life is pretty hectic and the decision to take time out of my busy schedule to commit to something else isn’t an easy one. And most people I know have schedules that are just as packed as mine.

But today I recalled something from a favorite childhood book, Karen (1952), written by Marie Killilea. The book chronicles the life of Marie’s daughter, Karen, whose struggles with cerebral palsy involved the entire family in her therapy to learn to walk. Despite a schedule that would rival my own, Marie went to church each morning to take time to pray with a few others, some parents of kids with CP.

When asked in an interview why she involved herself in the practice of daily attendance at church instead of saving the time for one of her many tasks, she said, “It’s true I really cannot afford to take the time to go to church and pray with others. I also cannot afford not to.”

And what about you?

VOICES FROM THE EDGE: WE'RE ALL A LITTLE LOONEY TUNES

Our family owns no less than eight versions of Monopoly. Back in the day when Lost Boys frequently camped out in the living room overnight and Bonnie brought home potential suitors, Saturday night Monopoly was a given. It’s been a while since we’ve played, so it was a pleasant surprise when Allen asked last Saturday if Ron and I would like to play Looney Tunes Monopoly after dinner. “So we can all laugh,” he said. It sounded like a plan.

Allen has spent a great deal of the summer working on social skills and acceptable public behavior. I knew that the planned game was not about winning but about conversing and having some family time. I explained this all to Ron as carefully as I could. “Remember,” I told him as I set up the board, “it’s not about who wins.” Ron nodded his head; he loves Allen, of course, but I’m the one who does most of the parenting for our adult son who lives on the ASD spectrum.

If you’re not familiar with the Looney Tunes version of Monopoly—and I honestly don’t know anyone other than us that has this version—the game pieces are cartoon characters and the board locations are cartoon shows. The game uses “laughs” instead of money. Allen and I were doing our best to provide the requested number of laughs for rent. And Allen was having fun, making silly comments about the characters, using Wil E Coyote’s figure as he ran around the board. We had properties spread all over the board.

For Ron, though, the game was a different story. He concentrated all his energies on acquiring the railroads—in this case Witch Hazel’s broom rides, Wil E Coyote’s Delivery, Martin Martian’s Taxi, and Acme Rockets—which cost each of us $200 laughs—all of our GO money—when we landed on the spaces. He also invested all he had into three board properties, amazing gigantic hotels and constructing what we called “Fear Street.”

I, part mother and part prognostic, saw where this was headed. I whispered to Ron that he should consider diversifying, making some trades and some deals and spreading things out. He said, “I’m doing fine!” and took another $200 from Allen.

“The point is not winning,” I said to my husband when Allen got up to get a soda. “It’s having fun.” Ron nodded at me. But a nod doesn’t mean one is paying attention.

It wasn’t long before the inevitable happened; Allen rolled a 7, which would put his Wil E Coyote squarely on Ron’s Rabbit Seasonings, costing 750 laughs. Much more than Allen could manage. I tensed myself for the meltdown.

Which didn’t happen. Instead, Allen surveyed the situation on the board, calmly placed the dice in the center of the board, and said, “I don’t want to play anymore. It stopped being fun.” Then he walked away.

As Allen left the kitchen, Ron turned to me and said, “Is it my fault?”

And I started to say, No, of course not, but I changed my mind. Ron is Allen’s father. While I bear almost all of the responsibility for aiding Allen in his quest to be an independent adult, his father should at least not upset the apple cart.

“Yes,” I said to Ron. “It was your fault. Because it wasn’t about winning. I made that clear to you and you weren’t listening.”

“It used to be about winning,” he said.

“Times change,” I said. “Needs change.” I motioned to the wheelchair he was seated in. “Life changes.”

He nodded—because that’s what he does—and wheeled himself into the living room to watch TV.

I was putting away the game board and pieces and being proud of Allen for the way he handled his disappointment --he didn’t get angry or dislodge the board or storm out of the kitchen—when my son appeared again and started piling up the cards.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just couldn’t play anymore because it got to be stressful. Not fun.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I’m happy you didn’t get angry, you just stated your feelings and walked away.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re mad.” He picked up the figure of the Tasmanian Devil and ran him around the board. “I don’t like being mad. Things got too serious. But sometimes, it’s fun to be looney.”

We could all use a little less mad, a little more looney.