I grew up in churches that often included a kid’s service. The pastor would invite the littles to join him/her up in front for a bible story. They would come, some reluctantly, some exuberantly, and some with their hands already thrown up in the air to ask a question even before they knew what the story was about.
Some might think, like the early disciples, that children are a bother. That they are getting in the way of the really big stuff, the really important stuff, that only adults can understand. Jesus disagreed. He said, and I paraphrase, “Bullshit. Move over and make room for them. The Kindom (not a typo) of God is made up of people just like these little humans. Unlike a lot of you adults, kids keep it simple. They come with curiosity (like the ones raising their hands), and faith (like the ones who dare to come close), and wonder (like the ones who are wide-eyed and eager to hear more.”
If that’s not the really big stuff, the really important stuff, I don’t know what is.
On a recent Sunday at the end of an annual family gathering, after a farewell brunch we gathered on my sister’s fireplace porch. Three generations deep, the eldest was 81, the youngest 5. It was a hot summer morning, but a fire was still going, because what is a farewell brunch without S’Mores? My sister had planned an ad-hoc church service as only she can do, to celebrate family, deepen connections, and to gather us all together around my husband as he prepares for open-heart surgery.
It had all the elements of a typical church service: opening prayer, a hymn, an offering, a message, and a closing prayer. But it was anything but typical. The opening prayer was offered by a nephew who is a cancer survivor, as is his wife. Tears streamed down faces as he prayed as only those who have been through the fire and come out alive can do. The hymn was sung by three great nieces. One a teenager who is old enough to drive, and her two little sisters who adore her and probably drive her crazy now and then as all little sisters should. An offering was taken, the money put in baskets carried by little hands, and given to none other than me, to be used for lunches and snacks at the hospital, because waiting for good news when someone is opening the chest cavity of your favorite human will make a girl hungry. When it was time for the message, the guest speaker was introduced: The geologist I love and sleep with, dad to our daughters, grandfather to our grandchildren, Uncle Rock to nieces and nephews, and simply Tom, the guy we all know and love.
With all the littles sitting around him, he opened his soon-to-be-mended heart and talked about three miracles. The miracle of modern medicine and the unexpected discovery of his potentially fatal heart condition. The miracle of finding family like those gathered in front of that fireplace on a hot, Sunday morning. And the miracle that we are all beloved and held and connected by God, the Mysterious Love behind it all.
Like a kid, Tom kept it simple.
Life is precious. Family is precious. We are precious.
If that’s not the really big stuff, the really important stuff, I don’t know what is.
Amen.
