Texts: Jeremiah 11:18-20, James 3:13 - 4:3, 7-8a, Mark 9:30-37 A friend of mine is a music teacher, who leads middle school kids in writing and conducting their own compositions, with titles like “Juice and Potatoes” or “Anti-Chicken Nugget.” When a student conducts their piece, they get to put on the coat—an extra extra large men’s suit jacket that goes to their knees or the floor, the sleeves dangling well past their hands. They stand at the front of the class, waving their arms to conduct their peers. I’ve heard the recordings. They are cacophonous, and beautiful. I love the image of the child conductor, because it’s how I feel every time I put on this robe. And if we’re being honest, it’s how we should feel looking around at each other. Just kids in grown up’s clothes, waving our arms to the liturgy, waving our arms at our lives, as if we had any influence over what comes next. “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name,” says Jesus, “welcomes me.” In our gospel reading for today, Jesus begins by foretelling his own death, but his words falls on deaf ears. In plain words, Jesus has given them the core of the Gospel: that the Son of God will die and rise again in three days. But rather than receiving or responding to this, his disciples begin to argue about politics. About who will be the greatest among them. Who will come out on top in the end of time.
So Jesus says that Gospel truth again, in different words: that the least among us shall be the greatest. And to make his point, he takes a child onto his lap. Welcoming this child, he says--this child who is vulnerable, as all children are; this child who is beautiful, as all children are-- welcoming this child is welcoming Jesus himself. A week ago I visited an exhibition put on by Doctors Without Borders. It was called “Forced from Home,” and it walked visitors through different stations representing the refugee experience, illustration the crisis in our world today. The UN refugee agency estimates that there were more than 68 million people displaced last year. That’s 44,400 people per day. The closest I personally have come to witnessing this reality was in visiting Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya, four years ago. On my first day, my colleagues drove me to the outer reaches of the camp to visit the area for new arrivals from South Sudan. More than the overwhelming number of people, and the mud that sloshed inside and outside of tents, I was struck by the absent expression in the faces of the adults—haunted not only by the journey before them, but what they had left behind. “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name,” says Jesus, “welcomes me.” As conflict and violence drive more and more people from their homes in poor countries, rich countries have become more and more protectionist, closing borders and making it harder to enter legally. The United States three years ago brought in more refugees than any other country, more than 100,000. By next year, it will likely be one quarter of that. Welcoming another person in Jesus name is not only welcoming out of concern—although that would be reason enough. It is welcoming that person as Jesus the Son of God, in his glory and beauty and truth. Not only Jesus in his suffering, but Jesus in his strength. Jesus who can do all things. Even in the new arrivals area, ankle deep in mud, children played. In the areas of the camp that had become more established over years or decades, markets thrived, theater and dance groups competed, children went to school. Without glorifying this very hard life, I will share that the most striking impression I had when visiting Kakuma, was of the incredible resilience, and the vibrancy of the communities who lived together. Of people who were making a way to thrive in the desert. To make community in the wake of war. To sustain life in the midst of death. This is my story of witness, but in this congregation there are many lived stories—of trauma, and of thriving. I have been humbled and honored to hear fragments of your stories. Fragments that, God-willing, we may hold together, as community and as family. There are still more stories in our neighborhood, some of which you might hear alluded to at Homework Help or at Wednesday Night Supper. Stories of vulnerability, of trauma and resilience, to which it is our privilege as neighbors to bear witness. Three weeks ago, I asked you to hold a hard truth: that we are each of us created good, and we are each of us capable of terrible cruelty. This week, I ask you to hold another: that the most vulnerability among us are too often the most exploited. You do not need to look far in the news today to find support for this. “I was like a gentle lamb led to the slaughter,” speaks Jeremiah, his words echoing through Jesus’ life and through our lives today. We are not equal in our vulnerabilities, because of the way, in sin, power is broken down by race and language, wealth and ability, gender and sexuality. Some in this community live far more precarious existences; many in our neighborhood live with fear. We are not equal in the threats we face. But we all share in the experience of vulnerability that Christ names in our reading today. At one point in our lives, we were, each of us, helpless but for the loving arms of those who carried us. And we still have a child within us, who cries out in fear, who longs for unconditional love. We are all of us, no matter our ages, children in grown-ups clothing. As God spoke to the apostle Paul, She has spoken to us: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” That is, exactly where you feel small, exactly where you are cut down, exactly where you are weak, is where the cross stands empty and the tomb lays open. In your smallest self, you are welcomed to Jesus’ arms. To welcome children is to welcome Jesus, and to welcome God our Mother. To welcome children is to acknowledge that we were all helpless once, every person in this room, every person in the white house. To welcome children is to welcome another in weakness, while bearing witness to their thriving and resilience. To welcome children is to proclaim Resurrection amidst death, hope amidst sorrow, And that after three days the Son of God shall rise again. To welcome each other as children is to predict the Passion, it is to live out the Gospel story, cacophonous and beautiful. Comments are closed.
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