A Children's Message for R-Rated Scripture

 Zephaniah 1:7, 12-18; Psalm 90:1-12; I Thessalonians 5:1-11; Matthew 25: 14-30

Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

PART ONE: Before the 1^st reading

       Like those “parental advisories” that come on TV before a violent program, I’m going to have to say a few words before we hear our first reading for today. On this Youth Sunday weekend, we are about to share with you some R-rated images from the Hebrew prophet Zephaniah. This “word of the Lord,” is not one that I would choose to share with you today, believe me. I would certainly not choose to share it with children. It makes me uncomfortable. It messes with my theology. It will probably make you uncomfortable, too. We are all going to be digging in our pockets for some Zantac as we “inwardly digest” these words. But that is both the blessing and the curse of our Lectionary. By being given a wide variety of texts to read each week, both you and I are nudged out of our comfort zones. You are not going to be formed only by what I as your rector like to talk about. We are both going to be challenged by the heights and depths, length and breadth, of God’s Word.

          Kids, have you ever seen your parents or your teachers “lose it?” You know: you do something wrong, and they just get carried away in their fussing? Before you know it, they are telling you ridiculous things: like you will be grounded until you are 25, or you are the worst class that they have ever taught, or you will be spending the whole weekend in your room… Their faces probably get red, too, and they shout, and they are just, well, scary.

         Parents and teachers, we all know that this can happen to the best of us, right? It usually happens when we are afraid for our children, afraid that they are doing something that is truly going to harm them: Our toddler is determined to chew through every electric cord in the house, for example; or our class is goofing off so much that students are not going to learn what they need to pass the test; or our child just let a stranger into the house while we were at the grocery; or our teen is hanging out with people we know will lead him astray. "Oh no!" we panic. We are afraid for our children, and so we exaggerate in our response to their actions. We are so desperate for them to hear us, that we yell! We are so desperate for them to listen to our wisdom that reasonable language is no longer enough.

        That’s what is going on with Zephaniah. The words that we are about to hear today are not—and were never meant to be—a prediction of the future. I don’t care what the televangelists say. These are loudly emphatic words of poetry--poetry that is meant to stir the people of Israel from a course that is going to lead to their destruction as a people. Prophets are not fortune-tellers. They are preachers with one eye on society and one eye on God. Their job is to speak words that will get us to change when we are destroying ourselves, when we are ruining our relationship with God. Their job is to root out injustice and stir us out of complacency. Their job is to wake us up, whatever it takes. Apparently, milder words have not worked on the people of Israel, and so Zephaniah is pulling out all of the stops in the poetic vision that we will hear today. Just as when we overhear a parent yelling to save their wayward child, it is not pleasant to hear. But sometimes change requires a fierce response. Like Flannery O’Connor said as she wrote shocking Christian novels about cruel and violent characters, “to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost blind you draw large and startling figures.”[1]

          As you listen to today’s first reading, hear then the desperation of a frustrated leader trying to shake us out of dangerous, life-sapping complacency. Find in Zephaniah’s words a fierceness for God’s justice, not just an angry cruelty. Don’t start worrying over signs of the End. Don’t get all distracted and indignant about a wrathful God. Instead, look inside your heart and ask yourself what it will take for you to wake up and truly love God and your neighbor again. And then, after the Gospel, we’ll talk about Jesus.

PART 2: at sermon time

(On the chancel steps, I have chocolate gold coins on top of weights covered in aluminum foil in the top of the heavy marble baptismal font, which I unscrewed from the base.)

          In Jesus’ story, talents are not things we do, like being good at math or soccer or playing the piano. Talents are a weight of measure. We might talk about an ounce of gold or a pound of iron, but in Jesus’ day they would measure precious metal in talents. A talent of gold or silver was heavy. It weighed about 50-75 pounds. Here on the chancel steps, I have a talent of gold for the kids. We don’t want to put on airs, so let’s assume that we aren’t the super-clever slaves who get either five or two talents of treasure from the master. How would we even move 200 pounds of gold out of here to trade it, anyway? Yes, God’s gifts can seem pretty oversized and unwieldy for us, can’t they? So much abundance can be overwhelming. We’re just a small parish. We like to keep things simple. So let’s say that we at St. Thomas get this one talent from God.

         So what are we going to do with our St. Thomas treasure? Jesus has entrusted it to us to keep for him, so we had better not eat any of it, even if it does involve chocolate. As a matter of fact, we’re supposed to make more treasure out of what he gives us. How are we going to do that? (Get ideas if there are any.)

          Well, why don’t we try moving it into the sacristy? We can lock it up in there with all of our other holy things, since a gift from God has got to be kept holy, right? (Invite small child to come and move it. It will be too heavy.)

         Shoot! Why are God’s gifts so heavy? If we can’t move it, maybe we need to cover it with something?  If we leave it open here, some greedy grown-up might come and slip a piece or two into her pocket on the way up to communion…. We wouldn’t want to tempt anybody like that. (Give kids a chance to try to cover it.)

          If only we could get it outside and bury it. It would be safe then …. Oh, but wait! That’s what the slave did in Jesus’ parable! And he got in big trouble. If we bury it, it will be safe, but it won’t grow, and nobody will even be able to enjoy it.

Gifts from God are strange things. Have you ever noticed how we’re not ever supposed to hoard them? It’s like the manna that God gave to the ancient Israelites when they were starving: If they tried to put the extra pieces in jars to keep until the next day, they became nasty and inedible. Even though God rained down the manna upon them like crazy, they weren’t allowed to save any for later, for “just in case.” God expected them to trust that God would always send whatever they need. God’s gifts seem to have to flow into us and back out again. You know, God gives us life, and then we are expected to live to God’s glory. God gives us love, and we are expected to love our neighbor in turn. God creates beauty in our world, and we are supposed to create beauty, too. God forgives us, and we are supposed to forgive others. God’s gifts are like light shining on us. If you bury light, or as Jesus said, cover it up with a bushel basket, then it is gone. You have to let it shine if you want it to light up the room.

         Did you notice that our treasure here is sitting in the top of our baptismal font? I bet that there is more than chocolate hidden in this heavy talent of divine gift. In baptism, we are given huge gifts like hope, joy, promise, eternal life, justice, reconciliation, grace, Jesus’ own body and blood …. Surely, we can’t bury such important gifts. Surely, they are bigger than anything we can control.

         As I was thinking about those wrathful words from Zephaniah this week, I had a terrible ear-worm playing in my head. I was cursing Rob for picking a hymn for Sunday that is such a terrible ear-worm (hum, “I want to walk as a child of the light.”) …. All of a sudden, though, I realized what I was singing:

         “I want to walk as a child of the Light, I want to follow Jesus. The Lamb is the     light of the city of God. Shine in my heart, Lord Jesus.”  
          I was singing the words of our reading from Thessalonians! And then it hit me: The Light of Christ is the gift, the gift that cannot be buried in the ground, the gift of love and grace and forgiveness that lives as it is passed from heart to heart like the candle flame on Christmas Eve. No matter what mess we get ourselves into in this world, no matter how dark it looks and how tempted we are to curse and yell, the Lamb has suffered that darkness and yet has risen in Light eternal. The Light will continue to shine … Now if only we would dare to live in the freedom of knowing that Love and Light always have the last word.

         Children, at the Peace, I invite you to come forward and take generous handfuls of chocolate gold and hand them around to all of the grownups as you share with them the Peace of Christ. And keep one for yourself! Such treasure is God’s gift to us all.

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[1] Found at http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/80562-the-novelist-with-christian-concerns-will-find-in-modern-life