There is a tribe in Africa — the Masai tribe — a tribe of fierce warriors, feared and respected by the neighboring villages. When these warriors meet each other away from their homes, they don’t say "Hello. How are you doing? What’s going on with you or how are things at home?" They say, "Kasserian Ingera" which means how are the children. HOW ARE THE CHILDREN? This is the greeting used by all villagers, whether or not they have children of their own. The Masai place the village’s well being — the highest value on the most powerless of their tribe. They know that without the children, the village would cease to exist. The warriors know that if the tradition response is given "ALL THE CHILDREN ARE WELL" that the village is prospering, that life is good within their tribe.

2000 years ago in another tribe of men, there is an extraordinary episode in the ministry of Jesus. It is a familiar passage to me, a scene most of us recall — Jesus welcoming the children. I remember posters hanging in our Sunday school classroom, the shiny picture of Jesus surrounded by kids of all different colors. His love for children is real, and the story is amazing, because it suggests to us, even mandates to us, a new way of engaging the world, a new kind of faith that changes our relationship with God and our relationship with our society.

In the story of Jesus and the children, our Lord is getting ready to preach — He’s getting in the zone. He can see that the crowds are getting bigger. The intensity is great. He knows that what he is about to say must be perfect, that many will challenge his words, and few will hear and understand. Clearly, the stakes are high. Yet amidst all this, people brought their children. It was a bit like bringing your baby to a musical or to an R-rated movie. Most people steer clear from the couple who dare to bring their baby into the theatre. But unlike the parents who drag their kids into and inappropriate movie, these parents were hoping that Jesus would share a touch or a blessing with their children. It seemed like the appropriate thing for parents to want the best for their kids. But to the disciples, the ones running Christ’s schedule, they are a burden. The disciples feel that these children should not be there. They are obstacles to Jesus' being able to say the important things to the important people. The disciples believe that children should be seen and not heard, and, in this case, they don’t want the children even seen.

The disciples address the children and their parents. How dare they bring the children here, to this powerful man who has much better things to do! They push them out, they yell at them to move on, and I would guess that they are pretty proud of themselves, showing Jesus that they are moving the clutter out so He can do His most serious business. It’s what He would want, right?

But in the story Jesus did not agree with his disciples, and I would guess that in his voice there was great disappointment. Mark says that Jesus is offended. "Let the little children come to me. God's kingdom belongs to them." The disciples are no doubt horrified, confused, embarrassed at this public rebuke. Jesus continues, "If you don't receive God's kingdom as a child, you will not enter His kingdom."

To make matters worse for the disciples, to "put his money where his mouth is" Jesus welcomes those annoying children, he embraces and loves them, blesses them, in front of everyone, in front of us, who encounter this story generations upon generations later.

We have heard the over quoted, antiquated saying "it takes a village" many times. It’s been used everywhere — politics, movies, books. But have we really thought about what that quote means? I used to think that it meant my village — my people — my kids, my husband, my parents, various aunts and uncles, some related, many who are not — The group of people that I love. Then as I got closer to this church, I included my church in my village. I watch your children, I know my children are watched, I am not afraid to have my children walk around the church among all of you. It was great. It IS great! It reminded me of my childhood. In our small town in the Midwest, we lived two houses down from St. John’s Church of Christ, and it was a very social place for me. I learned to sing in Jr. Choir, acted in every different Christmas or Easter pageant, ate countless breakfasts and dinners, and fought through confirmation there, and most of the time without my parents around. But it was a village and I still feel a kinship, 12 years after moving to Utah to my childhood church, and my childhood pastor. He and I never quite saw eye to eye on biblical terms, but he opened my mind to all kinds of possibilities. So, I guess, even tiny Melbourne, Iowa is a part of my village.

But still I feel my village is not big enough. Shouldn’t my village include all of Logan or even Utah? How about the entire United States? More worries…more responsibilities for "how are the children?"

In spite of eight years in the motherhood business, I continue to feel like a newcomer to parenthood. I have an excited, almost eight year old son and a beautiful 19-month daughter, but I often feel as though I can’t possibly be their mother. I don’t know enough. I don’t know how to do hair, pick the right clothes or say the right words. I get angry quickly and I yell more than I realize. How can I be my own children’s parent, much less the mother of all the children in Utah — and as we all know — that’s a lot of kids.

In America, every 11 seconds a child is abused, every 20 seconds a child is arrested and every 37 seconds a child drops out of school. Every 41 seconds a child is born into poverty and every 2 minutes a child is born at a low birth weight, and every 19 minutes a child dies before they reach their first birthday. I want to blame the government, scream at them, because among industrialized nations, the US is first in military technology, expenses and exports. We are #1 in Gross Domestic Product, and in the number of billionaires, yet we are 13^th in the gap between rich and poor kids, 14^th in getting children out of poverty, 16^th in low birth rates, and last at protecting kids against gun violence. But the US government alone can’t save all the children. If I include my nation’s children in my village, how many have I failed? How many kids could I have helped, had I taken the responsibility? Maybe none, maybe some, certainly not all, maybe just one!

What would our response be to each other if we as Americans greeted each other as the Masai tribe does…could we honestly say that all the children are well? Would Jesus think that we have allowed the children to come to us?

I am a loud person. I am a loud person speaking, singing, and walking. I am loud. I tend to yell sometimes without realizing that I am yelling. As a parent, I don’t think that is such a great thing. Sometimes I am talking to Sam after he’s walked through the house with mud all over his shoes. I’m just talking to him, like any normal person, about why he shouldn’t do that again. I happen to look at my husband, who is wincing in pain, and I know I am yelling. I don’t hear that I am, but I am. I am quick to apologize. Sam certainly knows that apologies are very important, and you shouldn’t be embarrassed to say I’m sorry. I do that a lot.

I cringe when I think of what Jesus would say about my parenting skills. I don’t think He would berate me. He knows I do my best, but I know that He could do it better — without yelling and with the love that children deserve. Christ could discipline better than anyone. I wish they had a manuscript like that — you know, baby comes out, *poof* there is the book from God — "Thanks for becoming a parent, here’s how to do it."

I don’t have the answers. In fact, I don’t think I really have any answers. I am not telling you to go out and adopt five homeless children, or send all your leftover money each month to the Children’s Defense Fund, or every night go house to house — asking people if they have food — and if they don’t, then hand them a paper sack filled with groceries. These seem like crazy ideas, but small things can be done. As a nation, we remember the poor during Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. It’s amazing how much money, gifts and food is given to angel trees or Sub-for-Santa’s. But we can also try to remember to drop money and food at the food banks during the rest of the year. We can give blood or plasma. We can watch out for our neighbors’ young children, who shouldn’t be outside alone in the first place, and not get huffy that those parents should be doing it themselves. But most importantly, we must make the hard call when we think there are children who are being mentally, physically, or emotionally abused. Let someone know if you fear a child is in danger, and don’t let the fact that you may become "involved" in a child’s life keep you from doing what should be done. Let the little children come to you, and allow yourself to become like Jesus for a moment or two in your life.

As I finished up my first draft of this sermon, I wanted to share it with my husband. I was reading my words to him while we were trying to get Sophie to nap. She was in her room upstairs, but the baby monitor happened to be on. Here I am praising Jesus and telling how we should let the little kids come to us, and MAN could someone keep that kid quiet? I am just trying to finish my sermon!! Give me a second, kid. In the next moment, I am laughing at my own stupidity. And to make matters worse, I was going through the sermon again with my mom, and Sam kept trying to interrupt, and I did it again. Just wait, Sam! I am almost done! Another great parenting moment in the life of Emily Zebarth.

Jesus was the Supreme Being, is the Supreme Being, this awesome, flawless man who spoke truth in a quiet, kind, and passionate way. I strive to become like him, to be a part of him, to possibly have as much love and passion as he had in one of his fingertips. Let the little children come to me. I will try. And remember — grandkids are God’s reward for not killing your own children.