Who’s Missing?
Matthew 19:13-15 and Deuteronomy 24:17-22
I remember the day we brought the children to Jesus. Word had spread that he was coming through our village, and people were already gathering along the road, some hoping to hear him teach, some hoping for healing, and some just curious. We had heard the stories. They said he could drive out demons, heal the sick, and even calm a storm with a word. So I thought, well, if he can handle a storm, maybe he can handle my children.
You should have seen them that morning. Running everywhere, wrestling in the dust. One of them had already knocked over a water jar before breakfast. Still, I wanted them to be blessed. In our family that mattered. My father used to place his hands on our heads before the Sabbath and speak a blessing. His father did the same before him. Sometimes he would say the words of the priests: “May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make his face shine upon you.” Other times he would remember the story of our ancestor Jacob crossing his hands over his grandsons and saying, “May God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.” I can still see the smile of my younger brother.
So when we heard Jesus was nearby, I thought, why not? If a blessing from a grandfather mattered, surely a blessing from a teacher like this might matter too. So we gathered the children and made our way through the crowd.
That is when the disciples saw us coming. They stepped forward quickly, arms out like a gate across the road. “No,” they said. “Not now. The teacher is busy.” Busy. I suppose I understand. Important people always seem busy. But the children were already pushing past me, trying to see him. And suddenly I felt embarrassed, like we had made a mistake coming at all. You know that feeling? When you realize you might not belong where you thought you did. Like maybe this place was not meant for people like us.
Then Jesus looked up. He saw the children. He saw the disciples trying to hold us back. And he said, “Let the little children come to me. Do not stop them.”
The disciples stepped aside. The children ran straight to him, climbing into his lap, tugging on his sleeves, talking all at once the way children do. And Jesus laughed. Then he placed his hands on their heads and blessed them. And he said something that puzzled me at first. “For it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.”
I remember thinking, if heaven belongs to children like these, then heaven must be a lively place. Full of running feet, dusty knees, and questions that never stop. Maybe the kingdom of heaven looks less like a room full of important people sitting quietly and more like a place where everyone, even the smallest, loudest, most unlikely among us, is welcomed right into the arms of God.
In Matthew’s Gospel, children are a living parable of the kingdom of God. In chapter 18 Jesus tells the disciples, “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” After Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, it is the children who cry out in the temple, “Hosanna to the Son of David.” Children demonstrate how to enter the kingdom. Children exemplify who receives the kingdom. Children recognize the king.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus tells us that it is “to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” So to what qualities is Jesus pointing?
In the ancient world, children were considered blessings. They were also considered possessions. They were completely dependent. They lacked any social standing or status. They had nothing to bargain with but were open to receiving. They simply come. And Jesus beckons us to come with the same posture.
The real surprise in this story is not that Jesus blesses the children. The surprise is that Jesus says the kingdom belongs to people like this. The disciples saw an interruption. Jesus sees a revelation. Those assumed to be the least important become the clearest picture of God’s reign.
Which raises a question for us. If children help us see the kingdom more clearly, who else might we be missing?
That question runs all through scripture. Long before Jesus welcomed the children, the law of Israel was already teaching the people of God to look for those who were easiest to overlook.
In Deuteronomy, Moses gives the people instructions about how to live together once they settle in the promised land. He says, “You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there.”
Then he gives a surprisingly practical example. Leave a little extra in the field. Leave a few olives on the tree and a few grapes on the vine. Leave some for others.
In other words, build space into the life of the community for those who might otherwise be left out. Space in the fields. Space in the harvest. Space in the economy of the community.
The people of God are told not to gather everything for themselves. Leave room for the stranger. Leave room for the vulnerable. Leave room for those who rely on the kindness of the community.
And the reason given is striking. “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt.” Remember what it felt like to be powerless. Remember what it felt like to depend on the mercy of others. Remember what it felt like to be a child. Remember that your life was changed because God lifted you up when you were vulnerable.
If that is how God has treated you, then that is how you are called to treat others.
So when Jesus says, “Let the little children come to me,” he is not inventing something new. He is revealing something that has always been at the heart of God’s kingdom, that the wideness of
God’s love covers us all, especially the least, the last, and the lost.
And that brings us back to the question. Who is missing?
Who are the people who sometimes stand at the edge of the field, wondering if there will be anything left for them?
Sometimes they are people who assume church simply is not for them. People who carry identities that churches have not always welcomed. People who wonder whether they will be seen as a problem to fix rather than a person to love.
Sometimes they are people who come from different cultures or traditions and worry they will not quite fit in here. Sometimes they are people who drive past a building like this and think that looks like a church for someone else, a church for people with more money, more history, more belonging than I have.
And sometimes the people standing at the edge are simply those who feel unseen. People carrying grief. People carrying doubt. People who have been hurt before and are not sure they want to risk being hurt again.
The disciples were not trying to be cruel. They were trying to protect Jesus. But in doing so, they almost kept people away from the very grace Jesus came to offer.
Which means the question for the church is not just who belongs here. The question is who might still be standing at the edge of the crowd, wondering if they are welcome to come closer.
The good news on this fourth Sunday of Lent is that Jesus keeps saying the same thing he said that day. Let them come to me. Do not stop them.
I imagine the parents going home that day with the children still running ahead on the road, dust on their feet, questions tumbling out of their mouths, and energy that never seems to run out. Maybe they were still turning Jesus’ words over in their minds. “For to such as these belongs the kingdom of heaven.”
What must heaven be like if that is true?
Perhaps the kingdom of heaven looks like a place where everyone is welcomed with open arms. A place where people are not measured by status or achievement. A place where those who have nothing to bargain with are still received with joy. A place where we are embraced and blessed just as we are.
And if that is what the kingdom of heaven looks like, then the church is called to look a little like that too. A place where the door is open wider than people expect. A place where those who have wondered if they belong discover that they do. A place where the words of Jesus are lived out again and again: “Let them come to me. Do not stop them.”
Because the kingdom of heaven does not belong to the powerful, the accomplished, or the impressive. The good news on this fourth Sunday of Lent is this: the kingdom of heaven belongs to the vulnerable, to the marginalized, to the least, the last, and the lost.
And when the church becomes the kind of community where all are welcomed, we begin to look a little more like the kingdom Jesus was talking about.
Which means the question for us is still the same one we asked earlier. If Jesus were standing here today saying, “Let them come to me. Do not stop them,” who might we suddenly notice standing just outside the circle? Who might still be wondering whether there is room for them here?
In other words, who is missing?
