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.