Do you know the phenomenon of when you buy a new model of a car, a model you have never owned before, a model that maybe you haven’t even noticed that much while driving around town, and suddenly you see that car everywhere? In the carpool lane, at the bank, in the church parking lot, on a trip to grandma’s house…suddenly that car, your car seems to just be, well, almost omnipresent.

This is a little bit of what it is like to move to camp, work at camp, and then travel to other camps and hotels. But in reverse. Instead of seeing your camp everywhere, you begin to see all the things you could or should have at your camp.

This is how I find myself snapping pictures of everything from toilet plungers (Trinity Retreat Center has them in EVERY room – how novel!) to self-serve campfire starting supplies (at Kanuga) to the perfect albeit industrial lounge carpet (at Hunters Lodge).

I take pictures of the pretty and the practical. I track down directors and gardeners, chaplains, and hosts. I ask questions, I open closets, I peek around the corners of commercial kitchens and through windows of locked cabins. I horde programming leaflets, campus maps, and leave-behinds like printed coasters, unique key cards, seed packets, and bookmarks.

I am searching for clues, and I am taking notes; I am gathering inspiration and tips on how we can do things better, how we can be more practical, more hospitable, more affordable, more in alignment with our mission and values, and yes—prettier. At all times, at every camp, boutique hotel, or retreat center, I want to know—what is working? What isn’t working? How can we improve based on what you have learned?

When I find someone—like Laura or Mark at Trinity, for instance—who is each, in their own way, offering gifts and expertise that resonate with the sort of things Nathan and I hope to offer at Procter, I just want to sit at their feet for days and soak up every bit of wisdom and joy that they have in and for their ministry. Because during even the short time I had to visit with them, it was clear that they had a lot to give. They are clear on why they do what they do, and they are ready to share.

Instead, you must worship Christ as Lord of your life. And if someone asks about your hope as a believer, always be ready to explain it.

– 1 Peter 3:15 (NLT)

What I was a child and a teen, growing up in an evangelical Christian context, a lot of emphasis on 1 Peter 3:15. I was led to believe, that if I was a good enough Christian, that people – specifcally strangers – would naturally see the light of Christ within me and ask me about it. And then I would have the opportunity to witness. To share the Good News of the saving grace of Jesus.

This scenario was something that the evangelical sunday school teachers and youth group leaders put a lot of time into preparing me for, yet I have not been asked as often as I had expected based on those years of preparation. So I am wondering – is it me? Or is this not something people actually ask?

In The Episcopal Church we like to sing the song They Will Know We are Christians by Our Love.

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
And we pray that our unity will one day be restored
And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

But every time we sing this song, I think, but do they? Do they know we are Christians when what constitutes love isn’t even clear? And who is the “they” in this scenario? Other Christians? Non-Christians? The people at the grocery store? My followers on Instagram?

And if they do know, why aren’t they asking me to give my account regarding the source of that love? Are they asking other people? Is there something I am doing wrong? Or, do people not ask these questions now (did they ever?) Or, maybe I am not just not around the people who would ask.

As I am writing this and processing these questions, it is occurring to me that I don’t ask. I don’t ask people – strangers, acquaintances or my nearest and dearest to explain the hope they have as a believer. To explain where the source of the love they demonstrate resides.

Maybe , just maybe, I should be just as curious about your hope and the source of the love I witness in you as I am about the fact that Trinity keeps a basket of battery-powered lanterns by its front door for anyone taking a night walk to use.

Maybe, it’s like the new car phenomenan. I can’t receive these questions until I give these questions. Maybe the explaining doesn’t start with my answer, but with my questions.

After all, I would never (I hope) walk up to Aimee at Kanuga and begin telling her, from a place of instruction, how we lead prayer walks at camp. Instead, I would (I hope) begin by asking her how she is integrating prayer and meditation into nature adventures, and then I would listen. I would learn. And if asked, I would share what we have been trying, but always with an ear towards learning from her experience, her wisdom.

There is no use pretending that the world isn’t on fire. That we all have more questions than answers about how to proceed faithfully and productively given the daily landslide of threats and trauma. And I wonder, what if instead of simply asking “are you okay?” – because no, we are not that should be a given- what would it look like to ask each other – stranger, acquaintance and nearest and dearest – to give an account of their source of hope, of love, of faith. Because, despite what we see in our feeds, these things persist. I see it. I see evidence of hope and love and faith and even joy in small and big ways everywhere I go. Sometimes they are struggling to make it up above the surface of the terrors, but they are there, and I am afraid that if we don’t reach for them in each other, they will disappear from the narrative. If we don’t give these questions a chance to be answered, we will never receive the hope, love and faith that they will naturally produce in the giver, or the receiver.

I don’t know about you, but hope, faith, and love are gifts that I could stand to give and receive. They are gifts that I would happily welcome returned to me in full—pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into my lap. But like my questions to Laura, Mark, Aimee and Jimmy, the amount I give is what will determine the amount I get back.

So that is this weeks plan in the resistance against the tyranny of despair and hate. To create a spacious opening that invites accounts of hope, faith, love, and even joy. It may be awkward at first. I may get some deer in the headlight looks. But I am going to test my Sunday School teachers theory that this question matters and that Good News lives on the other side of the wondering. Only, I am going to be the one doing the asking.