Creekside Church Sermon of September 14, 1997 "And He Took a Child" Mark 9:30-37	Rev. David Bibbee
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As I was pulled out, strapped in, x-rayed and sutured, the sermon didn't matter. Laying down and looking up all afternoon, everyone seemed much bigger than me. I knew what it was like to be a child again. I knew what it was like to be scared, to not know what was happening, to need a hand to hold, to realize I didn't want to be alone, but needed help.

This Wednesday I got a call and was told that a college classmate, Sharon Kneckle, an administrator at McPherson College, was killed in an auto accident. Young, attractive, intelligent, loved...gone. In between my accident and hers, I have felt the cumulative weight of other thingsþboth things that have happened to me and to you, accidents, discouragements, distressing diagnoses. In between have come experiences which have left you sad, shaken, and scared. Every Sunday you come here carrying a load, need upon need. You are living illustrations of the poet's observation, "Life is a whirlwind and not a breeze. It picks us up, it hurls us down, and brings us to our knees."

Each Sunday we come here in hopes of hearing some word that will help. Were we all to somehow muster the courage to speak of all that ails us, the pastor would probably crack under the pressure of finding the words to say. So we saunter in with our Sunday-go-to-meetin' faces, and say, "How are you this Lord's day?" and back comes the predictable response, "Fine, thank you." I know a man, who, when asked, "How are you?" responds, "Don't ask that question unless you have four hours to hear my answer."

Jesus was teaching the disciples while traveling through Galilee, telling them what was to come. "The Son of Man will be handed over. Hung up. Killed." It didn't register, and they didn't bother to ask. While Jesus was telling them he would be reduced to nothing, they were speculating over who would get which cabinet appointment once Jesus assumed power. They dreamed of being big and in charge for a change. Then Jesus took a child in his arms; a little, dependent, powerless child, and said, "If you welcome this child you welcome me. Welcome me, and you welcome God who sent me." As happens so often in the gospel of Mark, Jesus and the disciples are going in opposite directions. They were movin' on up. He was headed down. "If you want to be first of all, you must be servant of all," he told them as they passed each other going opposite ways.

Jesus held a child to illustrate what it means to make it. Making it has nothing to do with the American dream. Nothing to do with acquiring, achieving, earning power, maintaining a 4.0 GPA, doing better than others, controlling your destiny, or climbing the ladder. The way up is down, Jesus said. To be big is to be little. It's the dependent ones, the poor in soul ones that are the object of God's concern. By not figuring out how to be in charge, by not being full of themselves, they find the way to God.

I've talked with lots of older people who have shared the fear of not being able to care for themselves. "I don't want to be a burden to anyone. I don't want to be dependent." For lots of us this will happen because this is the way life is. Were you brought into this world capable of caring for yourself? Were you born able to feed yourself, and diaper your own bottom? Were you less a person because you needed someone to care for you?

Between our first years and our last, we get lulled into the myth of independence. But God has a way of showing me, the further I go, the less control I really have. Like you, I can dip into my sack of strengths and manage to make it, come what may...for awhile. But God isn't obliged to act according to our plans. Our desire for an orderly life usually comes unraveled, and it is then, when we are least, that we can receive God's best. We see a little more clearly the way to walk when we hold out a hand for God to take and guide us on.

Rabbi Harold Kushner was at the beach watching a boy and girl build a sandcastle. It was an elaborate castle complete with towers, moats, the works. But as they were putting on the finishing touches, a big wave rolled in and washed their castle away. He expected them to start crying, but instead they ran further up the shore holding hands and laughing, and sat down to build another castle. In these children, he saw a parable of life. We devote so much time and energy into building structures for our lives, but it is inevitable that time and circumstance will wash it all away, save for what really lasts...relationship. He says, "Only the person who has a hand to hold will be able to laugh."

"When you receive a child, the little ones, you receive me. Unless you become small, you can't enter the Kingdom." is what Jesus said. I hear him telling us that in his kingdom, you don't have to pretend. In calling us to be his church, we have been given another way and strength from another source. Here, in his church, you don't have to pretend it's okay when it isn't. Here you don't have to pretend you're in control when you're not. Here you don't have to act like life is perfect when it is the pits.

If you can't come to the community of Christ as you are with the hope of a hand to hold or finding a clue of how to live, then let's board this place up, because there is no place else to go. If you can't find it in church, you won't find it anywhere. We are here to learn how to live with each other in God's kingdom. Maybe it would help if we put new entrances on the church. Doors just four foot high. Maybe it would help us to remember how little and dependent we really are to stoop to see from a lower perspective.

Let me tell you when I think worship is most real around here. It's when we have the anointing service. When you come forward and get on your knees, you don't look all adult and all together. When you come as you are in your need, you are little again; you enable us to receive you as little ones and in the process, help us receive Jesus. In your honesty, you point the way to God, for the rest of us.

From a Methodist church in Tennessee comes the story of three year old Michael. His mother Karen was pregnant with her second child. The pregnancy was progressing normally, and Michael began a relationship with his unborn sister by singing to her night after night. When it came time for the baby to be born, however, something went wrong. By the time Michael's sister was delivered she was in serious condition. She was rushed to the neo-natal intensive care unit at a Knoxville Hospital. As the days passed, she grew weaker. The doctors told the family the child's condition was grave, and began to prepare them for her death.

During the hospitalization, Michael constantly asked to see his sister. "I want to sing to her." After two weeks, the family agreed. He was dressed in oversized scrubs, and taken into the unit. Some of the personnel were upset that he was there, and asked him to leave. But Karen declared, "He's not going to leave till he sings to his sister." Michael walked up to the incubator where his little sister was barely clinging to life. Then he began to sing. I want you to sing his song with me:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are gray.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away.

In the Kingdom, you don't have to pretend. "God. I'm so little. I'm limited. I'm longing. Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand." It's precisely then that we hear the gospel. Receiving it as the children we are, we hear the tune. "Do you know dear, how much God loves you?" When you don't pretend, when you stop acting all confident, controlled, independent, and move from trying to be tall to small, you're more able to receive God and be a vessel for God, singing God's music that calls people to life.

Let me tell you about three people who shared a common goal. Albert Schweitzer said his goal was to "amount to nothing." Mahatma Ghandi spoke of being "reduced to zero." And a week ago Friday a woman who stood four foot eleven whose name was Mother Teresa, died. Her goal was to die poor, and she achieved it. Her worldly possessions consisted of two pairs of sandals, two pairs of eyeglasses, a sweater, a well worn Bible, a wooden bucket, and an olive wood cross. Nothing. Zero. Poor. Small. And look what they did for God and look what they meant to the world.

I've been feeling small lately. So have you, but it's not something to be depressed about. To the contrary, when we are this way, we can best hear the good news. We extend our little hands, trust that the Lord will take them, and lead us to our hearts true home.

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