Some of you know that I am a PK. In this case, the
acronym does not refer to placekicker but preacher’s
kid. My father began serving Presbyterian congregations
a couple of years before I was born and continues in
that vocation now in semi-retirement in the mountains
of North Carolina. As a child, I remember often hearing
that there were two kinds of preacher’s kids, though I
don’t think anyone ever described in detail either one for
me. I do think that I’m beginning to understand exactly
what they meant. In any case, I was the type that adored
being the son of the pastor. I delighted in standing
next to my father after the worship service, greeting
parishioners as they came out the doors. I wouldn’t
miss an opportunity in the summer to go with my dad
on a pastoral visit. I was responsible for the home
communion set that he kept in his office, preparing and
carrying it on my lap in the car.
As I watched Dad go about his life and his work, I was
captivated and ultimately called. I watched how his
ministry drew people together, gave them a sense of
purpose, grounded them in the Gospel. And so, as the
old pastor John Ames puts it in Marilynne Robinson’s
novel Gilead, “My father left me a trade, which happened
also to be my vocation.”
I count it among my greatest blessings to have
been nurtured and raised not only by a family but
by congregations, churches filled with people
who modeled faith for me, who served as bonus
grandparents, aunts, and uncles—witnesses to my life
and the lives of my siblings. I am grateful that, from my
earliest memories, the church has been for me a place
of welcome and acceptance. Church has always been
home for me. And as one who grew up crawling under
the pews, helping hand out bulletins, and swiping the
occasional animal cracker from the nursery snack
cabinet, I love being a part of a community where
children are valued, fully included, because I believe
that how we welcome our youngest members says a lot
about the quality of our discipleship.
Jesus seemed to think so. This morning’s scripture from
Matthew’s Gospel offers a kind of case in point, an
object lesson, two distinct approaches to the place of
children in the circle of faith, a brief encounter with a
timeless message, and a bold promise.
First, we must set the scene. Jesus has been preaching,
teaching, telling parables to a growing crowd of
devoted followers and interested interlopers. This part
is particularly important: just one chapter ago, if you
turn back to Matthew 18, in response to this awkward,
uncomfortable, inappropriate question from his
disciples (who is the childish one here?) the disciples
ask, “who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”
(Read: Pick me! Pick me!)
Jesus ignores his disciples, instead choosing a child.
He brings her to the center of the circle and says, in no
uncertain terms, that becoming like a child is the surest
way to enter God’s realm. Now, I want you to hold that
thought. But then, to underscore and expand the lesson,
he gives them a memorable maxim, a proverb to print
and paste on the refrigerator door.
“Whoever welcomes one child welcomes me.” – Jesus
At least, that line should have been memorable. But,
here we are—it’s a chapter later—and those same
disciples completely forget. Now, maybe they were
captive to the ancient understanding of children as
property and not people, or simply determined to
protect Jesus from unnecessary distraction. They order
the parents to get their noisy, sticky, silly, unruly children
out of the way. Now, if you have chapter 18 in mind, you
can sense Jesus’ frustration from the very beginning
of the encounter (what did I just say to you?) as he
returns to the earlier point. “Hey guys, remember: the
kingdom—my kingdom—belongs to these children!”
The promise is both explicit and direct, offered to
people of faith and of doubt. Children are offered a
seat on the front row. When we welcome a child, we
experience the presence of Jesus. When we hold a child
back, we deny the Spirit’s call.
There is a practical implication to this spiritual wisdom.
The statistics and surveys, the studies could not be
clearer. The faith of our children, and so the future of
the church, depends on families and congregation who
teach and live the Gospel, who demonstrate the virtues
of our faith. The most consistent and reliable predictor
of the resilience and durability of faith is the intentional
spiritual practices we observe as children. As most of
us can attest, the messages (spoken and unspoken)
that we receive about God in our earliest years have
incredible staying power.
And so, it is essential for all of us who care about the
future to follow the instruction of Jesus to welcome
children, to offer them full access to the life of the
church and the stories of scripture, to live our own lives
faithfully as models for them. Churches that fail to make
room on the front row for children are forfeiting their
future and missing the message of the Gospel.
All week long, our church campus will be filled with
the sights and sounds of children experiencing the
embrace of community, the joy of song, creative
projects, new friendships, and most of all the love
of Christ. We know that these experiences are
irreplaceable building blocks in the formation of faith,
and we know that all who make them possible are
faithful servants—even saints—of the church.
I know this because it is my story. I am here, in no small
part, because of the people who kept the promise they
made at my baptism. I am here because of the saints
who saw me not as a distraction or an impediment, but
a child of God. I am here because faith was taught in
words and modeled in actions, and I imagine that the
same is true for many of you as well. For my part, I am
here because Gloria Correll rocked me in the nursery
and kept me in her home. I am here because of an
ancient man named Ralph Moore, Uncle Ralph we
called him, who gave me sticks of Juicy Fruit chewing
gum to quiet me down in the pews, and always did it
with a smile on his face. I’m here because Julia Wetmore
taught me children’s songs, and Gin Reid Mitchum took
me to Montreat. I’m here because Miss Lena Cooper
gave me a hug every single Sunday after worship.
I am here—and I trust that you are here—because
saints of the church prayed for me and taught me and
encouraged me to use my gifts, who made a way for
me, who were patient with me, who laughed with me.
I’m here because the church took seriously its call to
show up in my life. And it is worth a moment of your
time to consider those saints who showed up in yours.
Who kept the promise of the church at your baptism?
Remember their names. Call them to heart and mind
now. And then, having been so deeply blessed, commit
yourself to paying those gifts of the Spirit forward in
your life and in this community. This is our call.
And one more thing. Remember that charge that
precedes the promise, the one I asked you to hold in
mind. Yes, we are called to welcome children, but we are
also commanded to become as they are. I believe that
this is about more than simply becoming childlike. What
might it mean? Many things, to be sure. But here is
one: do not lose your capacity for wonder. Do not allow
yourself to become so calcified in your convictions, so
certain that you no longer make space for surprise. I
will confess that sometimes I worry that the Church of
Jesus Christ is at risk of collapsing under the weight of
its self-importance. I think about that as I read about
denominations and individual congregations, of all types
across every spectrum, who are making these sweeping
generalizations or drawing strict lines of exclusion
around people and perspectives that might challenge
the status quo. I think about this while out of fear or
desire for so-called stability, we implicitly conclude that
God is speaking to us and nobody else. And if the others
want to know what God thinks, they can just ask us. Isn’t
Jesus lucky to have us? For shame.
Here we are, forming systems and frameworks,
standards of judgments and rubrics of worthiness. And
along come a group of children. They don’t really have
very much to offer. They are noisy, sticky, unruly, chaotic.
But not only that. Along comes someone whose story is
not the same as your story, whose background doesn’t
match your expectations, whose circumstances are
suspect. Along comes someone whose very presence
makes you uncomfortable, anxious, uneasy, afraid. And
we, responsible disciples that we are, step in to correct
the unfortunate situation. We offer our solutions. We
quote chapter and verse. We draw lines. We make
statements. We craft arguments. We try to protect
Jesus from them, and all the while Jesus, patient and
persistent, repeats the lesson again and again. The ones
you aim to exclude have a seat up front. The kingdom of
God belongs to them. God’s gracious reign cannot come
on earth as it is in heaven until we grasp the breadth of
its welcome. Every barrier we construct, every line we
draw, every test we devise, every dismissive word we
speak, every child we send away, keeps the kingdom of
God at a distance.
What if instead we welcomed the wonder of
uncertainty? What if we opened our hearts to the
wonder of grace? What if we made room in our lives
and in our pews for the wonder of those who see things
differently, trusting that God is above and beyond all
of us? What if we stood together as receivers of grace,
rather than dispensers of grace? What if, following the
lead of our children, we returned to the heart of our
faith? There was no hesitation from our children this
morning when I asked them the question, “How did
Jesus respond?” Jesus welcomed.
One of my favorite stories. After delivering perhaps the
last lecture of his life, the greatest theologian of his time,
Karl Barth, agreed that he would take one question from
the audience at a Chicago seminary. No surprise here,
a graduate student boldly stepped to the microphone.
“Professor Barth,” the young man asked, “what is the
greatest theological insight of your life?” Now, you need
to know that Karl Barth by then had written tens of
thousands of pages filled with theological insight. The
thought of choosing just one seemed preposterous.
There was a chuckle that went through the audience as
the elderly scholar closed his eyes and leaned heavily
on the podium. He was silent for several seconds, so
much so that some in the crowd thought the old man
had fallen asleep at the podium. But then a smile flashed
across his face. “The greatest theological insight of my
life is this: Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells
me so. I learned it in Sunday School.”
So did I. And that, my friends, is the promise, the truth,
the Gospel. Amen.