14th Sunday after Pentecost Sermon
At St. John’s, the method of spiritual formation we use with our children is called Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. It uses the principles of Montessori learning, but its topics are scripture, theology, liturgy, Biblical history and geography, prayer. The hallmark of this method is how seriously it regards the spiritual potential of the child – recognizing that every stage of life, from birth to death, offers its unique potential to perceive and relate to God.
Part of the wisdom of this method is how carefully it pairs theological themes with children’s plane of development as they age. For example, when kids get to around first grade they begin to develop a strong ethic for fairness. It’s a natural development for that age. You can just hear the familiar protest, “That’s not fair!”
And so, as they reach that stage, as they’re looking at their world through this lens of fairness – of right and wrong and its consequences – they naturally begin to apply that same spirit of justice to God, that God must function the way they’re beginning to function. Which means, very often, when they perceive a loved one in their life as “not doing something right,” especially in matters of faith, of “not being a Christian,” they suddenly begin to fear that, because this loved one is “doing it wrong,” God must be angry; there must be punishment coming. And although we’ve never introduced the theme of hell, they’ve often heard it elsewhere, and they fear that God must surely be preparing to damn them.
At this stage of development, this fear of God’s disapproval and rejection can be a very serious matter.
And when the catechist hears a child expressing this fear, they’re prepared. There’s a lesson they’re prepared to give. It’s the lesson of the Found Sheep, that parable from Jesus we just heard read. They read it, verbatim from the scriptures. They act it out with little sheep and a little shepherd. And they engage in dialogue, with the confidence that the Holy Spirit is the teacher in all this. The catechist is facilitating what God is doing. And these are the themes that emerge:
• Jesus is the Good Shepherd who will never stop looking for his lost sheep.
• His love never gives up, and when he finds the sheep it is always a reunion of tenderness and intimacy.
• And this reunion is always a cause for celebration, and a return to community.
Knowing that today was the fall kick-off for Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, and knowing that the Found Sheep would be our gospel lesson, I asked Lorel McChesney earlier this week, if she would give me this lesson. (Lorel now oversees our children’s ministry).
And by chance, a few days later, I was visiting an elderly parishioner who was dealing with this same fear, the fear for a loved one who’d turned their back on God. And, with Lorel’s lesson still fresh in my ears, I told the parable of the Found Sheep – who will never stop looking, whose love never gives up, who finds the sheep and greets it with tenderness, then celebrates its return to the full community of God.
And when we were done talking, there were tears streaming down her face. This is the spirit of God we trust to be true, in this life and the life to come.
These are no “childish” themes. They are substantial truths we all need for the whole of our lives. But a child, as young as five or six, is ready to learn them. They are forming their picture of God and God’s justice at this age, with or without good data, and it is our privilege to introduce them to a God whose justice is mercy.
And at St. John’s, these are our children. At every baptism we ask the whole congregation, “Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support these persons in their life in Christ?” And we shout, “We will!” One way to fulfill that commitment is to choose to be trained as a catechist. It does take a lot of time. I won’t lie. But you are being equipped to be present in their lives with the hundreds of lessons waiting for them in the atria, lessons that will also nurture your own wounded and hungry souls. We never stop needing the hope of God’s love.
But our commitment at their baptisms also means that we live with one another– at home and in church – in such a way that the children who are watching have reason to believe that God is real, that being like Jesus is desirable, and that a life spent in pursuit of God is not only morally right, but central to this whole task of being human. We are made to be in loving union with God, and with one another.
From the moment a child enters this world, she begins piecing together, from everything she experiences, what this world is and what it means for her to belong in it. And let’s not over-sentimentalize childhood – as if it were all golden afternoons on tire swings and catching tadpoles in the pond. Yes, that magic of discovery is real and true, but just as real and true is the confusion and difficulty of navigating one’s way in this bewildering world – a world of inconsistent parenting, taunting classmates, lonesomeness, and the existential confusion of “what it’s all about.”
And so the way we relate to children, and the dignity we show them, is an affirmation that they are already having a real human experience and that they already have agency. They can already make a difference in how others are experiencing this world. Especially at school – that complex social organism where the impact of peers has already begun to supplant the safety of their families.
They are of age to begin choosing a deliberate life of faith to be (as in this case) like the good shepherd, seeing and caring for those who suffer – giving flesh to God’s love as their peers are being shaped by this world.
Our family moved to Birmingham the summer before Henry started first grade. He knew nobody and had no friends at school. Coming from another state, he’d had a different curriculum, which meant he was immediately behind in reading. The combination of lonesomeness and shame in the classroom was devastating. It was not enough that his parents loved him and believed in him. He needed a peer to believe in him. He needed another student to accept him and receive him as friend.
Unfortunately, just the opposite happened. Some punk of a little kid thought it was funny that Henry couldn’t read as well – so funny, in fact, that he started teasing him on the playground and telling the other kids how stupid he was. It went on for months. And Henry could hold up his chin during the day, but when he came home, he’d disintegrate in tears.
Until one day, Connor, another kid in their class, could stand it no more. Now, Connor was a sincere little Christian kid, but he was also a people-pleaser. He never wanted to upset the boat. But one day something in him snapped. He got in the bully’s face and simply told him that he was wrong. Henry wasn’t stupid. He was smart. And once confronted, that bully had nothing left to say. And there stood Henry, witness to the whole thing. And even today, looking back over his formative years, that memory of Connor standing up for him and the friendship that followed, was the most significant moment of redemption in his entire childhood.
Connor was as the good shepherd to him.
But the reverse can be just as impactful. Cynthia (my wife), remembers with shame a choice she made in the second grade. Jeannie was the social outcast of their second-grade world. She was very poor. And it showed. And her classmates devised a form of tag in which – as you tagged the person – you’d simultaneously shout, “Jeannie-Germs,” as if you were passing on some contagious disease.
Now, Cynthia, too, was a conscientious little Christian girl, even as a second grader. So the first time she was tagged, she simply refused to pass it on, and let the game end with her. And she did this day after day and Jeannie saw it and knew that there was one – just one – person in her class who would not go along with her shaming. But Cynthia can still recall, vividly, one bright, sun-shining day; she remembers the energy and the laughter. She got tagged and – without a thought – struck out after someone else, tagged them and shouted, “Jeannie Germs!” then turned around… and there was Jeannie. And in her eyes, that look of betrayal and deep, suffocating sadness. And Cynthia remembers, “I wanted to die right there.”
She’d become participant of that profound untruth that saturated Jeannie’s world: “I am undesirable and will always be rejected.” It is the type of untruth that burrows deep within a child’s soul and is far more dangerous and deadly than whatever germs they thought she possessed.
Our children are coming of age in a world filled with fear and uncertainty and a barrage of false truths that they don’t belong and there is no hope.
And we are the ones who can create a community of love, belonging and hope. Coming to church – coming to St. John’s – should be more than just a private worship experience. It is entering community; it is being the church together – a church formed around this basic, elemental hope that God is. God is real and God is with us in all things. And that we are learning to discover and embody this hope together.
And if you say, “It’s too late. I’ve waited too long to begin an honest pursuit of God,” I say, “Rubbish!” It’s never too late.
Could you have chosen faith earlier and might it have meant a different “you” today? Certainly. But in the Kingdom of God, there is no such thing as “too late.” For the saying holds true, “the first shall be last and the last shall be first.” And a faith discovered late in life is the pearl of great price.
It is not too late.
For which of us is not that lost sheep for whom the Good Shepherd will never stop looking? whose love will never give up? And when we are found, will greet us with tenderness and intimacy, then celebrate our return to God and the community where we can be at home?