This is a day of celebration for our congregation.
Today, we give thanks for the gift of God’s persistent,
pursuing call in all of our lives and particularly in the
life of Rev. Sara Dorrien-Christians, as we install her
to the position of Associate Pastor for Children and
Family Ministries at Second Church. To paraphrase
Presbyterian author Frederick Buechner’s profound
definition of vocation, the place where God calls you
is where your gifts and the world’s needs meet. Pastor
Sara brings an abundance of gifts to the work of
ministry—the inspiring combination of a bright mind,
compassionate spirit, and a heart for shaping the faith
of children and those who love them. We honor those
gifts as we install Sara this morning.
But first, I want to speak about the world’s needs
side of the equation. At Second, we’re concluding a
monthlong sermon series on questions and topics
raised by members of our faith community, and one
of the most common I’ve received is this: How can
we ensure the future of our faith? How can we ensure
that our children (whatever their age) find faith in a
complex and troubled time?
Simply put, are the kids alright? The shortest answer
to this very real question is, in many ways, no.
Kids are struggling. As a parent and a pastor, the
statistical and anecdotal trends on the health of our
children and youth hit especially close to home for
me. Rates of depression and suicidal thinking and
behavior are rising at unprecedented rates. They
are beginning earlier and earlier in life. The distress
experienced by children mirrors and reveals the state
of crisis in families, the burdens carried by broader
society. Children do not exist in a vacuum. They are
particularly vulnerable to the disconnection and
despair that we all encounter.
The causes of our collective distress are complex,
to say the least. But for me, it is impossible to
ignore recent shifts. The addictive ways that digital
and social media amplify anger while driving
disconnection are clearly part of the puzzle. The
permission structure and example of outreach given
by public leaders. But from my perspective, these are
symptoms of a deeper disease among us. The heart of
the struggle, in my view, is the collapse of community.
Communities of support and accountability. The
kinds of places where we learn values and our value.
Places where we build relationships that bridge
chasms of difference and model forgiveness when we
are caused harm or when we harm. Places like this
one. Indeed, I wonder: Are any of us alright when we
spend precious little time in meaningful community
and so much in the lonely light of screens that neither
teach nor connect us?
It feels to me as if we are at a crucial and
consequential moment. We have concluded, I think,
that what we are doing is causing harm. Deep harm.
This way of interacting is working for no one. Even the
fleeting jolts of dopamine and energy we feel when
we attack someone else are not worth the long-term
isolation. We are failing. Our children are showing
us how. And so, we must decide whether we’ll do
something about it or not.
I want to suggest this morning that the Church offers
two gifts in response to the needs of the world—two
places where our giftedness meets the scarcity in
the world and the struggles of our children in this
moment. Both gifts are rooted in the idea of thick
moral community.
First, here in this place, children can be seen and
known. Perhaps the most important factor in the faith
development of young people is that trusted adults
beyond their family know their names. I speak from
personal experience here. I stand before you because
of the communities and saints of churches who chose
to see me, not as a distraction or a disruption, but as
a part of their family of faith. If you were to ask me
about the moment I first knew I belonged to God, I
would tell a strange story.
I was four years old. It was Sunday morning, and my
sister and I were sitting with my mother in worship
at Unity Presbyterian Church in Woodleaf, North
Carolina. Now, this will surprise none of you, but fouryear-old Chris lived for the children’s sermon. It was
my weekly opportunity to show the congregation
what I knew and, if I played my cards right, get a
chuckle from the adults in the pews. The service
began that morning as it always did. My father, the
pastor, led us in an opening prayer. That’s when the
trouble started. I turned to my mother in the pew.
“Mom! I have to use the bathroom.” My mom did
what she would do. She scooted up to let me out of
the pew, but I froze because if I left now, I would miss
the children’s sermon! Soon the situation was far
too serious—I had to go. I sprinted to the boys’ room
down the hall, did what needed done, and sprinted
back just as the children’s sermon was beginning. I
made it! I ran down the aisle, where my father was
waiting with wide eyes. “Chris,” he said, “please pull
up your pants.” Yeah, I got my chuckle that day. But to
be honest, what I most remember are the feelings of
grace and comfort. I remember knowing I belonged.
And to this day, I wonder how much of my love for the
church was birthed in moments like that one. Friends,
I cannot think of a more important message for the
church—our church—to deliver than this: children
belong here. Not just in the building, but in worship.
Not just as a symbol, but in the fullness of who they
are. In the messiness of who they are. Feeling seen
and being known are essential to spiritual and mental
health. And here, at our best, we take time to see and
know each beloved child of God.
The second gift is the mirror image of the first. Here
in this place, children see. They participate. They
experience the holy. Again, research confirms what
we know in practice: that the key to forming a faith
that will stick with us through adulthood is seeing
the people you love practice the faith in worship and
prayer. Children learn by watching. They emulate the
models we set for them. They absorb the priorities
we stake in our own lives, values disclosed by how
we spend our resources—our time, our money, our
attention, our focus. Children see it all, and they know.
So, bring your kids to church.
In fact, that’s how it happened for Timothy. Though
the Christian movement was still in its infancy, Tim
is a third-generation disciple. He received the faith
from his mother and his grandmother. In other words,
Tim was raised in the church. Faith was a part of his
identity, his self-understanding.
And according to his mentor, Paul, he is now ready
to lead. Paul’s words offer encouragement alongside
responsibility. After reminding Timothy of that
powerful moment when he received the gifts of
the spirit and was welcomed into the church (think
Confirmation Sunday), Paul implores Tim to “cultivate
these things…immerse yourself in them…do not
neglect the gift that is in you.”
Now, look. This is not Paul’s way of giving children
a little time in the worship service; it is foundational
to his message. You must not ignore the gift that
God has given you, Timothy. And you, the church,
must offer a place for those gifts to be discovered,
cultivated, grown, nurtured. We do that in so many
different ways, each of them sending a message—you
belong here; you matter here.
Every time we gather around the baptismal font, we
renew a covenant, a promise that begins with God’s
grace, is confirmed in the commitment of a family,
and then extends to all of us who are part of this faith
community. Every single time, you say that you will
guide and nurture this child with words and actions.
In other words, you accept a charge. This is not a
purely symbolic ritual. We are answering the call to
be the kind of place where the faith of children can be
formed and shaped, recognized and celebrated. This
is our collective responsibility, and it is a role each of
us takes on as a part of this faith family.
I love to see you living those promises. I see you
creating a community of belonging. I see you making
room in your pew, offering the warmth of a smile,
taking time to meet and know one another. I see
you sending notes to children who read scripture in
worship and making way for those who run the halls,
even if you wish they wouldn’t. And I see you, families
who carry the chaos of overcrowded schedules.
Parents and grandparents who come in here without
much sleep, who hoist and lug heavy diaper bags,
who corral wandering children. I see you, because
you are here, maybe making it just in time, making
this time a priority because you want your children
to know what matters to you. You want to give them
a hope they will find nowhere else. A place to feel at
home. Families, we see you.
If our vocation is that place where our gifts meet
the needs of the world, then our call is clear: to be a
family of faith in a time of isolation. To nurture gifts
and learn names. To intentionally create thick moral
community. To make it our mission that every single
one of God’s children knows this: You belong. You
belong. You belong. Amen.