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I ran across a story recently of a pastor from South Africa who had just finished his first year of ministry as a pastor in the United States. He had served congregations in two countries and gotten a pretty good idea of the challenges facing the church in both places. When asked to compare and contrast the two settings, he had this to say: "I am still trying to come to terms with a culture where Mother's Day and Father's Day are more obligatory days of church attendance than is Good Friday."1

Where are you from? I was in Boston several years ago for my brother's wedding. My older brother walked into a convenience store and asked for something in his thick Tennessee accent. The cashier audibly laughed, physically turned, and yelled toward the stockroom, "Hey, Marge! Come on out here and listen to this guy talk!"

Where are you from? When a son or daughter brings home the first boy or girlfriend from college that's about the first thing parents want to know. "Where's she from? Where'd he grow up?" We want to know all about this person's family -- who their people are, what they do for a living.

Where are you from? After studying genealogy research techniques with the Mormons in Salt Lake City for several Elderhostel sessions, my mother can now tell her children all about their lineage and background and all the darkness and light down through the generations of our family. For example, my great-grandfather, for whom I'm named, was once the sheriff of Cabarrus County in North Carolina during the early part of last century. He was against capital punishment but in December of 1908 presided over the last legal hanging in that county. I daresay you've got strange stories rattling around in your past, too. The tales reveal our origins, our odd assortment of forebears.

Where are you from? Our answer to that question is no small source of family pride or perhaps even pain. The answer has to do with homeplace, geography, generations, momma, daddy, family. Most of us can answer the question with a fair degree of accuracy. If truth were told, it's probably why we hold up Mother's Day and Father's Day with all the honor of a high liturgical holy day. Maybe more if that South African pastor is right.

Pilate asks Jesus a very straightforward question today. "Where are you from?" Now Jesus could've told Pilate about his own family tree. Bethlehem, Nazareth, Joseph, Mary. He could've gone way back and named King David as his great-great-great (and then some) granddaddy. But he chose not to do that. "Where are you from?" asks Pilate. And Jesus says not a word.

Now we know the answer to that question. Jesus has already answered Pilate once. "My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting. But as it is, well, I'm not from here." Pilate, as you may recall, got a little huffy with that first answer. By the time Jesus' final sentencing rolls around, Pilate isn't put out with Jesus at all. He's downright afraid of him. The text says, "more afraid than ever." So Pilate returns to his headquarters in the middle of the night and locates Jesus once more. Now where'd you say you were from? Pilate is as nervous as a caged cat.

Have you ever noticed in John's Gospel how downright calm Jesus seems to be as he faces his execution? After sassing the high priest, he's as cool as a cucumber when a policeman slaps him so hard you can hear the echo. Jesus never once questions his purpose in John or has even a hint of internal angst about his mission. You won't find the words, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" in this story. In the other three Gospels, somebody carries Jesus' cross for him. In John, Jesus himself lifts the lumber. Even though the authorities eventually kill him, Jesus still seems to be completely in control of the proceedings. Remember back in the garden, when the soldiers come to get him? He never once resists. "When Jesus said to them, 'I am he,' they stepped back and fell to the ground" (18:6). In the Greek he actually says, "I am" to the soldiers. The divine name from Exodus, the name revealed to Moses at the burning bush, is found here on the lips of Jesus. "I am," he says to the powers that arrive with darkness. And the soldiers hit the deck. These same powers do indeed execute Jesus eventually. But please note: they are never in control. The one hanging on the cross, in apparent weakness, is paradoxically in charge. Now where'd you say you were from? Pilate asks, "more afraid than ever."

Now we the tellers of this story, we the insiders who are aware of the outcome, know exactly where Jesus is from. And, people of God, he ain't from here! He's from a kingdom that makes Pilate's domain look like adult bullies playing with tinker toys. Pilate and his cronies have no power over Jesus and we know exactly why. "My kingdom is not of this world." Don't we know this? Nobody can touch Jesus. Not our Jesus. Not even the most well-managed evil, the most heinous suffering, the most brutal jabs and taunts in the world. "Where are you from?" Pilate asks. And we know the answer to that question that makes Mr. High And Mighty Muckety-Muck, the model of decorum and control, so nervous. See who's sweating? See? Not Jesus. Never once is he out of control in this story. He knows where he's from; knows who his real daddy is. Jesus is in handcuffs before Pilate, but who has the real power?

We know this answer and get an "A" every Good Friday, every Easter. This day gets a little more complicated, however, when we realize something. We know where Jesus is from and why he triumphed over the power of evil, but we are mired in something of an identity crisis in the twenty-first century church nonetheless. Why? Because we forget where we are from. Or else we pretend we don't know. In a prayer that Jesus prays just before those soldiers arrive, he says to God, "Father, I have given [my followers] your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world" (17:14). Did I hear the man correctly? They do not belong to the world. He's talking about us.

"Where are you from?" Pilate asks Jesus. But the question is also our own. Must be our own. If we are his disciples, his followers, we will have a fairly good idea how to respond. And how we answer, truly answer, will have everything to do with our commitments, how we spend our money and time, whom we name as descendants on our family tree, and how our allegiance to God is lived out concretely in the here and now. Our answer will determine how we face evil and temptation, how we handle suffering, how we maintain quiet confidence in the midst of crisis, how we bear our own crosses, and how we relate to people of ill-will who wish to harm us.

Jesus knew his true origins. "My kingdom is not of this world." People of God, we are baptized into this same homeland. Our true citizenship is elsewhere. This doesn't lessen our responsibilities here. In fact, it may heighten them. Such a confession surely clarifies why we're here in the first place.

The church faces myriad challenges in a new century. To face them we must first come to terms with a little question Pilate posed to Jesus so long ago. It also our question.

Now where'd you say you were from?

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1. L. Gregory Jones, "Evil and Good Friday" The Christian Century (April 12, 2000), p. 432.