Sixteenth Sunday after Whitsunday
A peculiar and curious thing has been happening to me, lately. It has been happening much more often in recent months. And I have almost begun to expect it.
I will be at a party talking with folks I do not know. Or on a broken down T conversing with strangers. Or having casual conversation with my seat mate on an airplane.
Eventually the inevitable happens. I can feel it coming—yet I still have few moments to brace myself. They always ask: And what do you do?
I could play it safe and funny and say: I do lots of things. I go on runs by the Charles River. I read the New York Times. I go to museums. I spend hours on Facebook.
Or I could lie, or bend the truth and say: Well, I work for a historical non-profit in Boston, with hope that could be the end of the conversation, but it wouldn't be, so I tell the truth.
And nine out of ten times I hear: You’re a minister? They look with suspicion. Perhaps it is my youth, my age—or perhaps it is that I don’t quite look like your average, everyday minister, when I’m not wearing a fancy robe and stole. Whatever that looks like.
But whatever the reason, when their brown unfurls, and their shock recedes, the next question follows,
Well, what do you believe?