I sometimes preach a sermon entitled “The Four Little Candles.”
The author of the original story is unknown. In it I tell the story of four
little candles that were burning softly and quietly. Listening closely
you can hear them speak. The first little candle is peace. Lamenting that the
world no longer wants to try and keep the peace the candle becomes tired and
slowly goes out. The second little candle, faith, cries for a world that finds
faith superfluous and unnecessary. A gentle breeze comes along and blows out
the little flame of faith. Love, the third little candle angrily huffs that
people don’t even know how to love the ones that love them, much less someone
else. Suddenly, the candle ceases to burn. 
Among the top ten things you do not want to hear coming
out of your Jewish child’s mouth is, "Mom, who killed Jesus?" I will always remember the moment I heard those
words. They came from my then five-year
old son as he was sitting at the kitchen table in our home in Austin, TX. It was the week of Passover, which coincides
with Easter, and because we do not eat pasta or bread or anything with a grain
that has risen, he was eating the staple of the Passover diet: a hard-boiled
egg. It was actually the millionth
hard-boiled egg of the day, and as I stood there at the sink, my back to him,
peeling potatoes I was worrying about his cholesterol level and asking myself
if that was something you should be concerned about in a five year. And then, out of the blue I heard from behind
me, "Mom, who killed Jesus?"