Sermon for Grace Episcopal Church, Florence, KY
January 16, 2011
Lectionary Readings for RCL, Year A, Second Sunday after the Epiphany:
Isaiah 49:1-7, I Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42, Psalm 40:1-12, John 1:29-42
Jacob was an angel-faced, rotund little boy from a single-stop-sign, trailer park town in Harlan County. He had attended Reading Camp for one year already, and, as many returning campers do, he came back to Pine Mountain Settlement School feeling like he was king of the world. That Sunday afternoon, he approached the check-in table with gusto, his parents trailing behind him, and gave hugs to all the staff members he knew from the previous year. Those he didn’t know, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Jacob,” with an air of “…and I’m someone to know.”
You could tell from watching him that he had looked forward to camp all summer long – if not all year long. He was jovial and affable, laughing and talking up a storm as he performed the rather mundane but necessary check-in tasks of visiting the camp nurse, taking his things to the dormitory, and decorating his “shower bucket” (which, for the boys, means writing your name on the bucket with a big black sharpie, sticking a few motorcycle or Nascar stickers on it, and then running off to the playground to play basketball).
For a child, he was particularly emotionally intelligent, able to immediately identify the new campers (who weren’t always the smaller ones, because some 11 year campers had been held back so many times they were just entering the fourth grade), give them a good pat on the back and say, “Well hey there. I’m Jacob. I been to camp before. It’s awesome. You’re gonna love it here.”
Mid-week that particular year, the staff was having quite the time dealing with a camper named John David. John David looked straight out of a 1950’s soda shop – small for his age; always wearing white t-shirts, cornflower blue jeans, and clean, classic tennis shoes; with startling blue eyes, and sandy blond straight hair that naturally curled into a little spiral cowlick at his crown. It was his first year at camp, and he succeeded in putting on the “tough-guy” routine for the first 24 hours.
Then, on Monday night when all the campers were running and laughing, playing water games in the field with their counselors – a perennial favorite that, if forgotten, dooms a camp to failure – John David was sitting with some of the camp teachers on the gravel walk, inconsolable. Whining and pouting, stubborn, and really, downright nasty, his face was streaked with tears that intermittently rolled down his cheeks whenever he found it particularly impact-ful to cry. The camp directors, teachers, and counselors tried without avail to tell him that, “No, John David, you can’t go home now. Camp has just started, and you have no idea how much fun you’ll have! We don’t want you to miss that.” And always the same response: “I don’t care. I want to go HOME.” While most of it was an act, we realized that John David was very nervous and frightened; he had never been away from home before, and he was terrified.
We went through this with John David through Tuesday’s learning centers, afternoon environmental education, and evening campfire, convinced that he might find something that he liked, and just change his attitude. He didn’t. He sulked right through the highlights of the day. On Wednesday morning, we were justifiably fed up. He was being such a pill that we all threw our hands up in the air, out of ideas.
And then, during lunch, I looked over at Jacob. Sitting at a table of campers and teachers, he was talking animatedly, adeptly bringing the other kids into the performance, and entertaining the teachers, who were laughing so hard that they had picked up their napkins and were either dabbing their eyes or fanning themselves. And I thought, “Jacob. That’s who we need right now. We need Jacob.”
During the mid-afternoon snack break, I approached Jacob at the lemonade cooler. “Jacob, could I talk to you for a sec?” “Sure, you want some lemonade?” he held a cup at arm’s length for me to take. “Thanks.” We sat down on the side of a small footbridge that extended over a sparkling creek that bubbled along below us. “So, Jacob, I need your help. You know John David, right?” “Um hmm. He’s been real sad.” “Yes, he has. Now, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to be a friend to him. He’s having a hard time, and I think you could help him.” He put down his lemonade and put his left hand on my shoulder, lowering his chin, furrowing his brow, and said, seriously, “Now, you don’t need to worry, Allison. I’ll take care of him.” And he got up, threw back his lemonade, and marched off to the playground. I shook my head and chuckled as I watched him walk off in determination.
A few hours later, he and John David – who, for once, was smiling – stood together in the dining hall, lining up to get their supper. I came over to Jacob and asked quietly, “How’s everything going?” Again, the hand on the shoulder as he led me a few steps away. “Well, he’s fine now. He just needed a good cry is all. He’s gonna be just fine.” He gave me a wink (what child winks?), turned on his heel, and rejoined the line beside John David. And I sat down in a chair, scratched my head, and thought, “Well, I’ll be darned.”
I thought about Jacob and John David as I was reading this week’s Gospel lesson and preparing for this Sunday. In the middle of the passage, we read that Andrew and Simon have been following Jesus, moved by his presence and motivated by a yearning to go with him. The last verse in today’s Gospel is Jesus’ re-naming of Simon, “You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas,” Peter. And in that small moment where Simon’s name changes, something much more incredible happens. Jesus calls him CEphas, but more importantly, Jesus calls him to discipleship. He calls him to spread the Good News of God and God’s kingdom here and abroad. And through that call, he transforms Simon Peter, knowing that by living out this call, Simon Peter will transform the lives of people around him. Not unlike Jacob transforming John David’s week of camp, helping him get rid of his unrelenting fear.
I wonder if Jesus saw in Simon Peter gifts and talents just waiting to be used for the glory of God, waiting to be used to transform the world. I wonder if he saw charisma, a fiery passion, nerve; or if he saw patience, determination, and gentleness. He undoubtedly saw his human failings, but called him despite his errors and mistakes, just as he calls us. He knew that Simon Peter had the potential for transformation, not only of himself but people around him. Potential to hasten the coming of God’s kingdom, transforming the world through small acts that intimately touched people: healings, prayers, and teachings that rid them of their fear and vulnerability, and told them of God’s inconquerable love.
The story of Reading Camp is a story of potential. Every year we serve children who have been held been held back repeatedly; whose parents are illiterate and who, statistics say, have little chance of becoming literate themselves; Children who come to camp with dire prognoses from their public school teachers: “NON-READER,” the forms say, and invariably, “Johnny has no support from home, Megan is a serious behavior problem in class, or I highly doubt Freddy will ever be able to read.”
The ministry of Reading Camp is not easy; ministry never is. The volunteer staff people – teachers, support staff, counselors – we read these forms and we brace ourselves for the worst. It’s the strong bond amongst the staff members, and plenty of deep-breathing exercises, that assure us we can make it through the week with these little heathens we expect to receive.
But then, we meet the children – we see them in all their vulnerability as they get off the bus, having come to camp without their parents; as they say goodbye to mom, aunt, or foster parent, lips trembling, a few tears welling in their eyes and homesickness starting to creep in. We sit with them in the learning centers, coaxing them out of their reticence to read, the oppressive fear of failure, the hindrance of self-doubt and disappointment. We maintain an atmosphere of patience, encouragement, and enthusiasm for their progress and discoveries. And, the moment when one of the lowest readers reads his first sentence, when a child with comprehension problems answers every “who, what, when, where, why?” question perfectly, when a fourth grader runs to you and excitedly blurts out, “I just read two chapters in this book! I’ve never read a chapter book!” is enough to stop you dead in your tracks, bring tears to your eyes, and to marvel at that small miracle. To marvel at the untapped, unlimited potential of these children – these children who have been held back, whose parents are incarcerated, whose father cannot read, whose teachers haven't noticed their potential.
I have no doubt that God marvels at each of us – his beloved children – the same way that we at camp marvel at the children. We too are vulnerable, we are broken, we are hurting, we are hurtful – and yet that doesn’t stop God from calling us to discipleship and ministry, from calling us to progress and discoveries….just as it didn’t stop Jesus from calling Simon Peter.
I saw the potential in Jacob to help John David, and so, on my faith in his gifts, I called him to reach out. I knew he could be a friend. And, he was. And John David was no longer afraid.
The volunteers of Reading Camp see the potential in each child, and with unbending faith in each child’s creative ability and intelligence, we call them to use their gifts in ways they never thought possible. In ways that startle and excite them, and make them know, completely, that they CAN do it. They CAN read, they CAN learn, and they CAN relish the sense of accomplishment. The pain of past failures begins to fall away, as the child is empowered by his own sense of self-worth.
Reading Camp is a story of potential. The potential of the children, undtoubtedly, but more importantly, the potential of the volunteers to be conduits for God’s work in the world. To be witnesses to His love. And the most beautiful thing about the ministry of Reading Camp – YOU, as you are, are needed for . Whether you’re sixteen or 79, a certified teacher or an uncle who loves to read to his nephew; a teeball coach, a knitter, a guitarist, a poet; an energetic, bubbly personality or a calming presence and soothing voice; whether you can volunteer at a week of camp, help throughout the year or support this ministry financially – we need you. We need you to see your potential to change a child’s life. We need you to see the potential in the children we serve, but even moreso, the children need you to see their potential. To identify it, nourish it, and praise them for it. And our society has never needed these things more than it does today.
In the inner cities and poor rural areas, 68% of low-income 4th graders cannot read at a basic level. (http://www.educyberpg.org/)
It is estimated that more than $2 billion is spent each year on students who repeat a grade because they have reading problems. (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services)
More than three out of four of those on welfare, 85% of unwed mothers and 68% of those arrested are illiterate. About three in five of America's prison inmates are illiterate. (Washington Literacy Council)
And, the reason Reading Camp began: that California, when determining how many jail cells it will need in 10, 15, 20 years, looks at the number children failing in reading in the 4th grade.
I am so blessed to be with you this morning, by fellowship and worship with you, but also by the potential of this moment. This moment is a call; not unlike Jesus’ call of Simon Peter. A call to you to pray, consider, and identify your gifts and how you might claim a place in the life-giving ministry of Reading Camp. A call to you to see how, through impacting one child’s life, you are impacting the world. By empowering one child to read and complete his education, you are ending the cycle of poverty in his family, giving him the tools for gainful employment, and imbuing him with the ability and knowledge to “pay it forward” and help others achieve the same. You are a vehicle for the transformative power of Christ’s love.
I ask you: do you hear the call?
Glory to God, whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.
Amen.
