This is a day of celebration for our congregation.

Today, we give thanks for the gift of God’s persistent,

pursuing call in all of our lives and particularly in the

life of Rev. Sara Dorrien-Christians, as we install her

to the position of Associate Pastor for Children and

Family Ministries at Second Church. To paraphrase

Presbyterian author Frederick Buechner’s profound

definition of vocation, the place where God calls you

is where your gifts and the world’s needs meet. Pastor

Sara brings an abundance of gifts to the work of

ministry—the inspiring combination of a bright mind,

compassionate spirit, and a heart for shaping the faith

of children and those who love them. We honor those

gifts as we install Sara this morning.

But first, I want to speak about the world’s needs

side of the equation. At Second, we’re concluding a

monthlong sermon series on questions and topics

raised by members of our faith community, and one

of the most common I’ve received is this: How can

we ensure the future of our faith? How can we ensure

that our children (whatever their age) find faith in a

complex and troubled time?

Simply put, are the kids alright? The shortest answer

to this very real question is, in many ways, no.

Kids are struggling. As a parent and a pastor, the

statistical and anecdotal trends on the health of our

children and youth hit especially close to home for

me. Rates of depression and suicidal thinking and

behavior are rising at unprecedented rates. They

are beginning earlier and earlier in life. The distress

experienced by children mirrors and reveals the state

of crisis in families, the burdens carried by broader

society. Children do not exist in a vacuum. They are

particularly vulnerable to the disconnection and

despair that we all encounter.

The causes of our collective distress are complex,

to say the least. But for me, it is impossible to

ignore recent shifts. The addictive ways that digital

and social media amplify anger while driving

disconnection are clearly part of the puzzle. The

permission structure and example of outreach given

by public leaders. But from my perspective, these are

symptoms of a deeper disease among us. The heart of

the struggle, in my view, is the collapse of community.

Communities of support and accountability. The

kinds of places where we learn values and our value.

Places where we build relationships that bridge

chasms of difference and model forgiveness when we

are caused harm or when we harm. Places like this

one. Indeed, I wonder: Are any of us alright when we

spend precious little time in meaningful community

and so much in the lonely light of screens that neither

teach nor connect us?

It feels to me as if we are at a crucial and

consequential moment. We have concluded, I think,

that what we are doing is causing harm. Deep harm.

This way of interacting is working for no one. Even the

fleeting jolts of dopamine and energy we feel when

we attack someone else are not worth the long-term

isolation. We are failing. Our children are showing

us how. And so, we must decide whether we’ll do

something about it or not.

I want to suggest this morning that the Church offers

two gifts in response to the needs of the world—two

places where our giftedness meets the scarcity in

the world and the struggles of our children in this

moment. Both gifts are rooted in the idea of thick

moral community.

First, here in this place, children can be seen and

known. Perhaps the most important factor in the faith

development of young people is that trusted adults

beyond their family know their names. I speak from

personal experience here. I stand before you because

of the communities and saints of churches who chose

to see me, not as a distraction or a disruption, but as

a part of their family of faith. If you were to ask me

about the moment I first knew I belonged to God, I

would tell a strange story.

I was four years old. It was Sunday morning, and my

sister and I were sitting with my mother in worship

at Unity Presbyterian Church in Woodleaf, North

Carolina. Now, this will surprise none of you, but fouryear-old Chris lived for the children’s sermon. It was

my weekly opportunity to show the congregation

what I knew and, if I played my cards right, get a

chuckle from the adults in the pews. The service

began that morning as it always did. My father, the

pastor, led us in an opening prayer. That’s when the

trouble started. I turned to my mother in the pew.

“Mom! I have to use the bathroom.” My mom did

what she would do. She scooted up to let me out of

the pew, but I froze because if I left now, I would miss

the children’s sermon! Soon the situation was far

too serious—I had to go. I sprinted to the boys’ room

down the hall, did what needed done, and sprinted

back just as the children’s sermon was beginning. I

made it! I ran down the aisle, where my father was

waiting with wide eyes. “Chris,” he said, “please pull

up your pants.” Yeah, I got my chuckle that day. But to

be honest, what I most remember are the feelings of

grace and comfort. I remember knowing I belonged.

And to this day, I wonder how much of my love for the

church was birthed in moments like that one. Friends,

I cannot think of a more important message for the

church—our church—to deliver than this: children

belong here. Not just in the building, but in worship.

Not just as a symbol, but in the fullness of who they

are. In the messiness of who they are. Feeling seen

and being known are essential to spiritual and mental

health. And here, at our best, we take time to see and

know each beloved child of God.

The second gift is the mirror image of the first. Here

in this place, children see. They participate. They

experience the holy. Again, research confirms what

we know in practice: that the key to forming a faith

that will stick with us through adulthood is seeing

the people you love practice the faith in worship and

prayer. Children learn by watching. They emulate the

models we set for them. They absorb the priorities

we stake in our own lives, values disclosed by how

we spend our resources—our time, our money, our

attention, our focus. Children see it all, and they know.

So, bring your kids to church.

In fact, that’s how it happened for Timothy. Though

the Christian movement was still in its infancy, Tim

is a third-generation disciple. He received the faith

from his mother and his grandmother. In other words,

Tim was raised in the church. Faith was a part of his

identity, his self-understanding.

And according to his mentor, Paul, he is now ready

to lead. Paul’s words offer encouragement alongside

responsibility. After reminding Timothy of that

powerful moment when he received the gifts of

the spirit and was welcomed into the church (think

Confirmation Sunday), Paul implores Tim to “cultivate

these things…immerse yourself in them…do not

neglect the gift that is in you.”

Now, look. This is not Paul’s way of giving children

a little time in the worship service; it is foundational

to his message. You must not ignore the gift that

God has given you, Timothy. And you, the church,

must offer a place for those gifts to be discovered,

cultivated, grown, nurtured. We do that in so many

different ways, each of them sending a message—you

belong here; you matter here.

Every time we gather around the baptismal font, we

renew a covenant, a promise that begins with God’s

grace, is confirmed in the commitment of a family,

and then extends to all of us who are part of this faith

community. Every single time, you say that you will

guide and nurture this child with words and actions.

In other words, you accept a charge. This is not a

purely symbolic ritual. We are answering the call to

be the kind of place where the faith of children can be

formed and shaped, recognized and celebrated. This

is our collective responsibility, and it is a role each of

us takes on as a part of this faith family.

I love to see you living those promises. I see you

creating a community of belonging. I see you making

room in your pew, offering the warmth of a smile,

taking time to meet and know one another. I see

you sending notes to children who read scripture in

worship and making way for those who run the halls,

even if you wish they wouldn’t. And I see you, families

who carry the chaos of overcrowded schedules.

Parents and grandparents who come in here without

much sleep, who hoist and lug heavy diaper bags,

who corral wandering children. I see you, because

you are here, maybe making it just in time, making

this time a priority because you want your children

to know what matters to you. You want to give them

a hope they will find nowhere else. A place to feel at

home. Families, we see you.

If our vocation is that place where our gifts meet

the needs of the world, then our call is clear: to be a

family of faith in a time of isolation. To nurture gifts

and learn names. To intentionally create thick moral

community. To make it our mission that every single

one of God’s children knows this: You belong. You

belong. You belong. Amen.