If
you asked them, most pastors would probably confess to hearing more positive
comments about their children’s sermons than their pulpit sermons. I can’t tell
you how many times I’ve heard (never in this congregation, of course!) something
along the lines of “the children’s sermon always makes so much more sense to
me.”
And,
truth be told, I get it. I really do. Sermons from the pulpit end up being a
little too in-depth and complicated, often biting off more than they can chew, at
least in my case. Children’s sermons are typically more focused on one
particular object or point. I do not like using the term “dumbed down” in this
sense. A better way to say it, perhaps, is that they are just more distilled, made
appropriate for a certain audience’s attention-span, which, I suppose, is just
another way of saying that pulpit sermons are often too long.
But,
let’s be honest: children’s sermons are also often comical. It is quite
renegade to put a bunch of young children essentially on stage each Sunday for
an impromptu lesson. And in a liturgical, traditional worship format, it is the
only part that really feels out of our control, unleashed. An extemporaneous
dialogue between a nervous adult and fifteen or twenty talkative, restless,
curious children in front of a whole congregation? What could go wrong?! In fact, do you know what music I hear playing
in the back of my head each time I invite the children to come forward to the
children’s sermon? The theme from Jaws.
I think to myself: I’m gonna need a bigger boat.
In
all seriousness, there is great truth and blessing to the children’s sermon and
how we all receive them. There is a lot to be said for the spontaneous gospel
interaction that happens here on the chancel each week. One of my colleagues
says that if people really are getting more out of sermons we direct towards
children, then maybe our pulpit sermons should start to look like them. Maybe
things like props and guided dialogue help in getting a point across.
All
this is to say, Jesus was in the same boat, too. Even he had to resort to a children’s
sermon every once in a while. At least, that’s what seems to be happening on
the road through Galilee in the gospel lesson this morning. Jesus has been traveling
with his disciples for some time now, giving plenty of quality pulpit material,
but they are still not comprehending it. He’s taught, for example, using parables
to illustrate his kingdom—parables that use imagery familiar and accessible to
them—and it’s still going over their heads. On several occasions he’s even
explicitly laid out the parables’ meaning, carefully explaining the symbolism
and allegory.
Most
recently, of course, he has openly talked about the suffering and death that
will stand at the fulcrum of his reign. For the second time in probably in
probably the same number of days, he has mentioned in straightforward fashion that
his power will be marked not by domination but by service, but it is clearly
not sinking in. They are still caught up in old, earthly definitions of power
and glory. Even after all of Jesus’ lessons about mustard seeds and five loaves
being enough, they are thinking about Jesus’ kingdom in grand, worldly terms. And
so Jesus distills it. He goes for the children’s sermon.
Interestingly
enough, his children’s sermon involves a child. That’s because the disciples
are debating their greatness, and Jesus needs to find the littlest, weakest
thing he can to get his point across. The disciples are very likely arguing
over who will be at Jesus’ right arm and left arm when he comes into his
kingdom—symbols of power and authority—and Jesus grabs a child and literally
puts those arms around it.
 |
| "Jesus and the Children" (Carl Bloch) |
The
rebuke of their pretentiousness would have been profound. Did you know that
children are the only things we are told that Jesus takes into his arms in the
gospels? On the one hand, a small child might be the only thing small enough to
be held in a grown man’s arms, but in another way it is very significant. For
if Jesus needs an object to illustrate weakness and lack of power, he could
find nothing better than a child. In ancient times, children were considered to
be little disease factories. Vulnerable and unvaccinated, children were
susceptible to many sicknesses, and adults were often wary of them. They were
also a drain on the family resources. Although their lives were in some sense
valued, it was mainly it was thought that one day, if they made it to adulthood
(and often 30%-40% of them did not), they would be able to contribute to the
family well-being and income.
So
here, in the middle of his most serious part of his most serious lesson to
date, Jesus reaches and grabs a little contagious, annoying, likely
snotty-nosed little child and pulls it to his bosom. It’s like he looks at this
child, hears (as does everyone else) the Jaws
music playing in the back of his head, and welcomes the child without fear. He
leaves himself vulnerable to this most vulnerable of beings. He embraces the
very kind of person that most would push far away.
If
you are looking for a distilled message about Jesus’ kingdom, it would be
difficult to find a better one. If you are looking for a nugget-like episode of
what God’s kingdom is like, this is one to hone in on. Where can we expect the
loving arms of God’s kingdom to show up but in the hospitality extended to
those who are viewed as “less than”? When can we expect Jesus to find us at our
most embraceable than when we’re cranky, sickly, feeling vulnerable and useless?
Jesus’ welcome of this child is the perfect illustration for the cross. Because
there Jesus opens himself up to true pain and mortal danger. There Jesus
humbles himself, moves past all the theological teaching about service to
others, and gathers all broken, hurting people to God’s bosom. God’s kingdom
fully arrives when we, the children, so proud that we can think and act like grown-ups
most of the time realize that our intellect or our ability to be quiet and
respectful will never get us into God’s grace. It just comes.
And,
as it happens, Jesus’ children’s sermon with the child gets me thinking about
several things. For one, it gets me thinking about Epiphany’s long witness of
receiving children, especially the reception of children through adoption and
foster care. It is impossible for me to think of this congregation or
understand its character without those examples of grace, those families who
have opened themselves up to some of the most vulnerable children of the world.
And gift of such life those children have nurtured among us!
It
also makes me think about our own hospitality of children in worship, how as a
congregation we don’t just love the children’s sermon, but also don’t get too
bothered by the presence of children in worship. It makes me think about the
possible connection between something we are so proud of—the way our youth
share their faith—to the fact that many of these children and youth have been
brought into worship for their whole lives. It makes me think about how each
Sunday, while a preacher is up here yammering away about God’s kingdom on some
high-falutin’ adult level, real-life instances of God’s kingdom are happening in
the pews out there whenever a child gets restless or fussy and a parent or
grandparent graciously takes that child into her arms.
There
is absolutely nothing wrong about a parent’s choice to use the nursery on a
Sunday morning. My wife often did, and I know she had to scramble to rush one
of our two out of the pew and into the hall when things got past the point of
no return. However, the presence of a child, even when it cries or fusses, can
be a good reminder to me that no one really deserves to be in here, after all.
And it is also a good reminder that worship is not entertainment where people
need to hush up and be quiet so we can enjoy the show, but a work that we all
are participating in, together. Just when we begin to think that worship is
really only for those who can digest the food of the pulpit sermon, for those
who are on our supposedly high level, then perhaps we need to have a child
scream out and remind us that we’re embraceable, too. When Jesus sends us out
into the world to behold and take part in a kingdom that happens in the
reception of difficult and outcast, it helps when we’ve already started
experiencing it and practicing it here in our worship.
Two
or so years ago when we began asking people of the congregation to provide the
bulletin artwork, children jumped at the chance. It’s still difficult to get
adults to draw something, which probably says something about our
uncomfortableness with our own vulnerability, but we have people—mostly small
kids—lined up all the way through half of 2016. Last year, one child drew a
picture of a cross and a crown for the front of the bulletin. It was not ornate
or complicated. It was done free-hand. Things were a little lop-sided and the
lines were crooked. It was probably not a piece of artwork that particular
child’s parent would take note of, and I know I’ve certainly seen more
elaborate crosses in clip art.
However,
when that family showed up the next Sunday for worship, an retired gentleman
who carves wood as a hobby presented that little child with a real 3-D replica
of her drawing, complete with a small crown cut out of metal and glued to it, just
like in the drawing. You should have seen the child’s face. Because once again,
the kingdom had arrived. And the humble embrace of the cross had been right in
the middle of it.
When
Jesus sends us into the world to behold and take part in this kingdom, to put
ourselves last, to humble ourselves in service to the least, it helps when
we’ve already started practicing it here in our worship. “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me,” Jesus says, “and
whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Thanks
be to God!
The Reverend Phillip W.
Martin, Jr.
