Welcome the Children, Welcome the Future

This was my second sermon at FUPC. The text for this message is Mark 9:30-37. We celebrated communion that Sunday. In this time of uncertainty in the congregation, I thought it was appropriate to look at this gospel reading in light of our most ancient and vital tradition, the Lord's Supper.

Welcome the Children, Welcome the Future (9/20/15)

          Good morning! I want to start by saying a big, huge thank you to all of you! You were so warm and welcoming to my mother and my cousins last Sunday. That really, really means a lot! Oh, and to me, too! You all welcomed me into your community and so many of you have given me good feedback on my sermon. I appreciate your kind words and I’m really glad to know that you’re engaged with the message I offered. So thank you!

          Of course there’s just one problem with preaching a great sermon—you gotta do it again! I mean, on Monday I was thinking, “Man, I should have preached an above average sermon, or maybe even a good sermon, but not a great sermon.” I mean, that’s a lot of pressure for your new pastor. And it’s been a busy week. Two funerals and a session meeting—it makes me wonder what my second week will be like.

          Okay, all kidding aside, on Tuesday, a number of us went to Jude Pohl’s funeral. If you weren’t there, let me tell you it was a beautiful service. I never met Jude, but it was clear from all the people who were there that Jude touched a lot of people’s lives. One person in particular who caught my attention was Jude’s goddaughter, Octavia. She was adorable! However, she had a little trouble sitting still. Can you blame her? There were so many new and interesting faces, and a church she had never explored.

          Octavia’s parents tried their best to keep her occupied and quiet and in her seat, more or less. At times it was quite a struggle. And part of me thought it was a shame that they even attempted to keep her still—I actually enjoyed watching her squirm and hearing her make noise! It was such a nice counterpoint to the somber funeral service. Octavia’s energy and joy reminded me that, in the midst of grief, life goes on. That’s a better sermon than anything I can write.

          Of course, I suspect that Octavia’s parents were a little less enthusiastic about sharing Octavia’s joy with the other mourners. And who could blame them? We were all there to celebrate Jude’s life and mourn his passing. I’m sure Octavia’s parents didn’t want their daughter to distract the rest of us. I understand this completely. It speaks into one of my deepest fears.

          I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m afraid of this calling. I’m afraid of where it may take me—and as I’ve explored this calling, I’ve been led into some interesting places: a coffee farm in Nicaragua with no electricity or running water; border crossings in Israel and Palestine; in a taxi on a crazy highway in the Andes Mountains in Bolivia, with a cab driver who was chewing coca leaves. Those were some scary places, and yet, this calling to ministry holds something even scarier for me. Do you know what my greatest fear in ministry is? Any guesses? Anyone?

          Children’s sermons. Yep. I’m afraid of giving children’s sermons. Now I can tell you that I’m afraid I won’t be able to bring the message down to their level. And I can tell you that I’m afraid that I won’t be authentic. And both of those things are true. But what scares me the most is this: when I sit down with a bunch of little kids, I’m no longer in control. That’s it. Up here, I feel like I’m in control. I have a script. I know exactly where this is going, nobody is likely to interrupt me, and I have it on paper, in case I lose my place. I’m not afraid to stand up here and preach because I’ve done this before and I have a pretty good sense of where this is going. This part of my calling is not that scary. But children’s sermons? They terrify me. I am so scared that I’ll lose control and screw the whole thing up. I’m afraid that I’ll say something incoherent or something boring, and in doing that, I’ve lost the opportunity to reach those kids.

          So there it is: fear and kids. This brings us right to our gospel lesson. At the beginning of this story, Jesus and the disciples are passing through Galilee and Jesus tells them that he will be betrayed, killed, and then three days later, he will rise again from the dead. And how did the disciples respond? They were confused; they said nothing! They were afraid.

          This is typical behavior for the disciples in the Gospel of Mark; it is characterized by fear.

Fear is ubiquitous in Mark. Characters repeatedly fear Jesus (Mark 4:35-41) or some manifestation of the Kingdom of God associated with him (Mark 5:1-20). Fear, in Mark’s gospel, is the paired opposite of faith. For example, in the calming of the storm, Jesus asks the disciples: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” (Mark 4:40).[1]

And what happens next in this story? Instead of asking questions about what Jesus meant, the disciples spent their time arguing over which one of them was the greatest.

          Now it would be very easy to criticize the disciples, but I think it’s important to remember that their response comes out of their deepest fears. They dropped everything to follow Jesus’ call, and now Jesus is telling them that he’s about to be betrayed and he’s going to die.

          Put yourself in the place of one of the disciples for a moment. You’re a young man, a faithful Jew, in Palestine. You have a trade—perhaps you’re a fisherman. Your father has some property, so you stand to inherit something and there’s a measure of security in your life. And along comes Jesus!

          “Follow me and I’ll make you fishers of men!” And somehow, in spite of everything that passes for common sense in first century Palestine, you follow Jesus. And it’s great! You witness healings and feedings; you see demons cast out and people raised from the dead. You think to yourself, wow, this guy really might be the Messiah! Then Jesus tells you that he’s going to be betrayed and he’s going to die. And your heart goes thud! And you’re too scared to ask Jesus why.

          I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to cut the disciples some slack. Their fear makes sense to me. They had something that worked: they had lives and jobs; they had identities. And then they abandoned everything they knew and the followed Jesus. And then Jesus said, “okay guys, we’re about to do something completely different.” That’s scary. That’s truly frightening.

          You know what? That’s exactly where we are today in our society and in our churches. Last week we had 95 people in worship. Now from where I stand, that’s really great. I’m used to preaching to congregations of 40 or 50. Sometimes I’ve preached to 20 or 25. Or a dozen. Once, I preached to a congregation of four. So from where I’m standing, this looks great.

          But from where you’re sitting, maybe things look different. Maybe you noticed the ropes blocking off the side sections of pews. Maybe you see the people who used to sit in certain pews: the Thomas family or the Wilsons or the Murphies or the Flemings. Maybe you see a favorite former pastor. And certainly, even though your numbers here at Houston are still strong, you know that churches elsewhere are dwindling. And even though your congregation is healthy, maybe, just maybe, the fear creeps in from time to time.

          So what do we do with all this fear? What do we do about the empty spaces in the pews? And where’s Jesus in all of this? I read a very interesting article on the Presbyterians Today website. Maybe some of you read it, too. (I’m looking at you, Becky Washabaugh!) It was written by Joshua Bower and he serves as the pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Albany, Georgia. In his blog post, Bower talks about the ways that the church typically engages with kids. We shush kids if they make the tiniest bit of noise. We only let kids stay for part of the worship service and we rarely, if ever, let them take communion or witness a baptism. Bower writes:

Now, I don’t believe for a moment that any of us are shushing kids with malevolent purpose. We just don’t want to be disturbed in our worship. But in the process, we are silencing our children, making them feel unwelcome, and crippling their personal expressions of faith.[2]

          The whole article is an excellent read. I read it on Wednesday, as I was starting to put this sermon together, and as I read it, I kept seeing little Octavia squirming around in the pew and her parents trying to restrain her. And it brought to mind the ending of this morning’s gospel lesson: “Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, ‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.’”

          Now I’m not saying we need to revamp our approach to children’s church. I have no particular opinion on that. But in this time of transition here at First United Presbyterian Church, there are some questions we need to be asking ourselves:

·        Who are we?

·        Who are we welcoming?

·        What are our fears?

·        How do those fears shape our actions as the church?

I don’t have any quick answers to those questions, nor should you. The conversations that we have are as important as the answers we reach. Still, I think when we’re in times of fear and anxiety, we reach for traditional answers, even when those answers don’t always work.

          I had a seminary professor who liked to talk about the difference between tradition and traditionalism. He said that tradition was the living faith of dead people and traditionalism was the dead faith of living people. I think that’s important. I think that we need to distinguish between our vital traditions and the things that are merely familiar.

          It would be easy for me to stand up here and bang my fist and say, “You can’t cling to the past!” But that’s not helpful. It doesn’t offer any way forward or any grace. And I want to offer you grace and calm as we enter into this period of discernment. None of us make good decisions when we’re afraid. Fear gets in the way; it trips us up. So in place of fear, as we move forward and as we work together to figure out who we’re called to be, let me remind you of our most vital tradition: this table, this bread, and this cup. These are the things that tell us who we are and what matters most in our lives. This ancient tradition—this table and this bread and this cup—this is our identity.

          We are all in need of God’s grace. Outside of this place we think we’re all so different from one another. Out there we’re men or women; black or white; liberals or conservatives; young or old; married, divorced, or single. But in here, when we come to this table we are all the same; we are all equal. We are all God’s beloved children, and as we approach this table, each of us admits that we need God and we need God’s grace. This is our center. It’s not this sanctuary with these beautiful stained glass windows. It’s not the fellowship hall or the chapel. It’s this table, with this bread and this cup.

          So as we work out what God is calling us to do, we have to focus on our center. We can’t keep looking to the past and the way we did things in the eighties, or the seventies, or the sixties. We have to look at the people who are here now and the people who might come here. We have to start a bunch of different conversations, always mindful of our center in Christ, and His table, and this bread and this cup. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Benediction

          Now, beloved, as you depart from this place, remember that this table and this bread and this cup are at the center of who we are. Remember this as you acknowledge your fears and work to discern how God is calling you to be the Church. Go forth and be instruments of God’s peace and reconciliation. Do not return evil for evil to any person, but know that we are all loved by God, and that we are called to reflect that love to everyone we meet. In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, let all God’s children say, Amen!

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[1] Micah Kiel. Commentary on Mark 9:30-37, retrieved from: http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2620

[2] Joshua Bower. “Not Quite Right,” Presbyterians Today, September 16, 2015: http://www.pcusa.org/blogs/today/2015/9/16/not-quite-right/