World Communion Sunday, October 6, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Mark 10:13-16
People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.
Psalm 139 declares that we humans are fearfully and wonderfully made. And so, we are! The human body is a marvel of engineering and adaptability and regeneration. And the human brain, well, the human brain contains a universe all its own. It is a vast repository of information and data.
Scientists tell us that the average human brain can hold 2.5 million gigabytes of data! And some recent studies even suggest that the brain’s capacity is larger than that. Can you imagine?
We often think of data as cold, hard facts – things like multiplication tables or recipes or anniversary dates. But our memories are also included in this vast database. And memories can be more ethereal than the hard facts. For example, we might remember what color our childhood house was. But we also might remember how that house felt to us. We might remember the experience of being in that house and of that house.
In the same way, a smell can suddenly take us on a memory journey to a feeling we thought we had forgotten. A whiff of orange blossoms instantly takes me back Spain and I am seventeen years old again and on the adventure of a lifetime. I don’t remember what I wore that day, but I know how it felt to be there. And that feeling is also the truth because the truth is bigger than cold, hard, verifiable data. The truth is also feeling and longing and that insistent whisper.
Yet we sophisticated adults resist this idea. I’m not sure why. Fear, I guess. Maybe hubris. Or a need to control. Don’t talk to us about what cannot be proven. We want facts, not faith. Explanation, not exploration.
And yet, we have chosen to follow Jesus, a most ethereal experience. One cannot prove the veracity of the Christian faith, no matter what anyone tells you. Instead, one receives it. As Jesus said: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive (or accept) the Kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”
One day, people were bringing children to Jesus so that he might touch them and bless them. But the disciples, concerned as they were with very adult things like order and reason and schedules, spoke sternly to the parents and no doubt frightened the children.
Well, Jesus didn’t like this one bit. In fact, Mark says he was indignant. And so, to his controlling disciples, he said: “(No, no, no!) Let the children come to me; do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” “Truly I tell you (adults), whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”
So how do children receive the Kingdom of God? And what is it that they are receiving? Well, it begins with simplicity. Little children receive each day as a gift. They live in a world is which anything is possible. And everyone is a friend. Life is beautiful. They don’t worry about their next meal. They take it for granted that they will be safe and warm and loved. Are they just naïve and inexperienced, not yet graduated from the school of hard knocks? Or do they remember something that we all used to know?
About twenty years ago, there was a preacher in the City of New York named R. Maurice Boyd. He was a brilliant man and delivered his well-chosen words in a delightful Irish brogue. Dr. Boyd was spellbinding in the pulpit, effortlessly pulling references from Shakespeare and astronomy and pop culture and the Bible, and then weaving them all into a tapestry of inspiration.
In one of his sermons, he told this unforgettable story: a young couple in his former congregation came to him one day with a wondrous tale. They had a son who was about five and a daughter who was a newborn. And, of course, they had a baby monitor so they could hear their daughter if she needed them.
One day, they heard a voice on the monitor that was not their daughter’s. It was their five-year-old son’s. He was having a chat with his little sister, which they found awfully cute. But then his voice grew quiet and serious. And this is what they heard him say: “Emily, tell me about God. I’m beginning to forget.”
What an odd thing for a child to say. Or was it? Is it even remotely possible that he had an actual memory that was slipping away? And did we have those memories once too?
“Emily, tell me about God. I am beginning to forget.”
Oh, how easily we forget. We have forgotten where we even came from. We have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten whose we are. We are suffering from a mass amnesia that threatens our very existence.
And we don’t even try to hide it anymore. We openly love power more than kindness; muscle more than mercy. We love our opinions more than people. The Kingdom of God is all around us. The memory of its glory still resides somewhere in our brains. But we are beginning to forget.
And that is exactly why this room, and what we do in this room, are so important. And that is exactly why I will never apologize for calling this congregation to be regular in worship; to make it a priority - because it is in worship, in community, that we remember what is true. In this room, we remember who we are. In pulpit and pew, at font and table, we receive the Kingdom of God... like a child.
I don’t know what you think happens at this Table. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what we think. What matters is the experience itself. At this table, we experience community and unity and the laying aside of all the differences we pretend are so important. At this table we experience the power of sacrifice and love. At this table, we remember Jesus, who called us his own family, making us all siblings. At this table we REMEMBER, with our bodies, what is actually and finally TRUE.
And what is true is that we are hungry. And what is true is that we are thirsty. And what is true is that we lonely. - But what is also true is that we are family. And what is also true is that this table is set for the whole world. And what is also true is that Jesus meets us here with the very Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.
We forget. But Jesus helps us remember. And all we have to do is receive it… like a child.
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Mark 10:13-16
People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.
Psalm 139 declares that we humans are fearfully and wonderfully made. And so, we are! The human body is a marvel of engineering and adaptability and regeneration. And the human brain, well, the human brain contains a universe all its own. It is a vast repository of information and data.
Scientists tell us that the average human brain can hold 2.5 million gigabytes of data! And some recent studies even suggest that the brain’s capacity is larger than that. Can you imagine?
We often think of data as cold, hard facts – things like multiplication tables or recipes or anniversary dates. But our memories are also included in this vast database. And memories can be more ethereal than the hard facts. For example, we might remember what color our childhood house was. But we also might remember how that house felt to us. We might remember the experience of being in that house and of that house.
In the same way, a smell can suddenly take us on a memory journey to a feeling we thought we had forgotten. A whiff of orange blossoms instantly takes me back Spain and I am seventeen years old again and on the adventure of a lifetime. I don’t remember what I wore that day, but I know how it felt to be there. And that feeling is also the truth because the truth is bigger than cold, hard, verifiable data. The truth is also feeling and longing and that insistent whisper.
Yet we sophisticated adults resist this idea. I’m not sure why. Fear, I guess. Maybe hubris. Or a need to control. Don’t talk to us about what cannot be proven. We want facts, not faith. Explanation, not exploration.
And yet, we have chosen to follow Jesus, a most ethereal experience. One cannot prove the veracity of the Christian faith, no matter what anyone tells you. Instead, one receives it. As Jesus said: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive (or accept) the Kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”
One day, people were bringing children to Jesus so that he might touch them and bless them. But the disciples, concerned as they were with very adult things like order and reason and schedules, spoke sternly to the parents and no doubt frightened the children.
Well, Jesus didn’t like this one bit. In fact, Mark says he was indignant. And so, to his controlling disciples, he said: “(No, no, no!) Let the children come to me; do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” “Truly I tell you (adults), whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”
So how do children receive the Kingdom of God? And what is it that they are receiving? Well, it begins with simplicity. Little children receive each day as a gift. They live in a world is which anything is possible. And everyone is a friend. Life is beautiful. They don’t worry about their next meal. They take it for granted that they will be safe and warm and loved. Are they just naïve and inexperienced, not yet graduated from the school of hard knocks? Or do they remember something that we all used to know?
About twenty years ago, there was a preacher in the City of New York named R. Maurice Boyd. He was a brilliant man and delivered his well-chosen words in a delightful Irish brogue. Dr. Boyd was spellbinding in the pulpit, effortlessly pulling references from Shakespeare and astronomy and pop culture and the Bible, and then weaving them all into a tapestry of inspiration.
In one of his sermons, he told this unforgettable story: a young couple in his former congregation came to him one day with a wondrous tale. They had a son who was about five and a daughter who was a newborn. And, of course, they had a baby monitor so they could hear their daughter if she needed them.
One day, they heard a voice on the monitor that was not their daughter’s. It was their five-year-old son’s. He was having a chat with his little sister, which they found awfully cute. But then his voice grew quiet and serious. And this is what they heard him say: “Emily, tell me about God. I’m beginning to forget.”
What an odd thing for a child to say. Or was it? Is it even remotely possible that he had an actual memory that was slipping away? And did we have those memories once too?
“Emily, tell me about God. I am beginning to forget.”
Oh, how easily we forget. We have forgotten where we even came from. We have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten whose we are. We are suffering from a mass amnesia that threatens our very existence.
And we don’t even try to hide it anymore. We openly love power more than kindness; muscle more than mercy. We love our opinions more than people. The Kingdom of God is all around us. The memory of its glory still resides somewhere in our brains. But we are beginning to forget.
And that is exactly why this room, and what we do in this room, are so important. And that is exactly why I will never apologize for calling this congregation to be regular in worship; to make it a priority - because it is in worship, in community, that we remember what is true. In this room, we remember who we are. In pulpit and pew, at font and table, we receive the Kingdom of God... like a child.
I don’t know what you think happens at this Table. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what we think. What matters is the experience itself. At this table, we experience community and unity and the laying aside of all the differences we pretend are so important. At this table we experience the power of sacrifice and love. At this table, we remember Jesus, who called us his own family, making us all siblings. At this table we REMEMBER, with our bodies, what is actually and finally TRUE.
And what is true is that we are hungry. And what is true is that we are thirsty. And what is true is that we lonely. - But what is also true is that we are family. And what is also true is that this table is set for the whole world. And what is also true is that Jesus meets us here with the very Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.
We forget. But Jesus helps us remember. And all we have to do is receive it… like a child.
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