I hesitate to write this. Not because it isn’t worth saying, but because I’m still child-rearing in the church myself. And I know the last thing a child-rearing adult wants is uninvited attention on what their kids are doing.
So, parents and caregivers, let me be clear from the start: this is written with overflowing gratitude and respect—from your senior pastor and fellow child-rearer.
Lately I’ve found myself admiring the church we are growing into. I see it on Sunday mornings. I know that what happens in our classrooms is deeply formational. I see it in the kids who show up week after week. I hear about it at home too. Meghan and my kids help out down there nearly every Sunday, and over lunch they often tell me about what they saw and experienced that morning.
But where I see it most clearly isn’t just in the classrooms. I see it in our sanctuary. Parents swaying little ones in the back. Toddlers talking with their voices echoing through the room. Preschoolers escaping our volunteers and making a determined beeline down the aisle to hug their parent… even though I’m sure that parent was hoping they’d stay with the rest of the kids for the next forty minutes. And honestly, those moments fill me with joy. Because that’s what a living and loving church sounds and looks like.
I think one of the mistakes of past generations is that we sometimes asked children to be entertainment during church or to be entertained and not participate. Kids sang songs or performed in plays, and the congregation smiled proudly. And those things weren’t bad. Many of us carry good memories from them. But sometimes we weren’t as good at making sure children were full participants in the life of the church.
Then there often wasn’t a clear transition from Sunday School to Sunday worship. Those are two very different ways of participating in faith. One is interactive and activity-based. The other invites us into stillness, listening, and shared practices of prayer, song, and reflection. So, as kids grew up, many of them didn’t really know what their role in worship was supposed to be. And when people don’t know their role, they often stop showing up. Honestly, I don’t blame them.
But something is changing among us. We’re seeing more inclusion of all ages in worship. More intergenerational activities. More opportunities for formation that include every age. And what I’m beginning to notice is families finding UMCG and discovering that the community here feels different. More loving. More safe. More invested in relationships than performances. Less judgement. Less interested in competing for the “largest youth group in town” title—if that was ever really a thing—and more interested in building a community where people actually know and care for one another.
As I’ve been thinking and writing about this, one passage keeps echoing in my mind: 1 Corinthians 13.
It’s often read at weddings, but it isn’t really a wedding poem. It’s a discipleship poem. The Apostle Paul writes:
“If I speak in tongues of human beings and of angels but I don’t have love, I’m a clanging gong or a clashing cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and I know all the mysteries and everything else, and if I have such complete faith that I can move mountains, but I don’t have love, I’m nothing.”
Paul goes on: “Love is patient. Love is kind. It isn’t jealous. It doesn’t brag. It isn’t arrogant or rude. It doesn’t seek its own advantage. It doesn’t keep a record of complaints. It hopes in all things. It trusts in all things. It endures all things.”
And then Paul concludes: “Now faith, hope, and love remain—these three things—and the greatest of these is love.” When I read those words, I can’t help but think about church life.
If we have the best choir, or the most inspiring sermons, or the most moving prayers, or even the best coffee hour in town… but our children and families don’t feel love—then it’s nothing.
Thankfully, that’s not what I see here.
What I see instead is a church where the sound of puzzles being put together in the corner sometimes competes with the sermon. A church where people smile when a baby babbles. A church where someone making faces at a toddler during worship is considered ministry. A church where a child running down the aisle to hug their parent earns warm, distracted smiles instead of scorned looks. Because if we do everything we do in worship—singing, praying, preaching—and there isn’t room for that kind of genuine love and belonging, then all of it would be for nothing.
When a church creates space for people of every age to grow in faith, hope, and love…then we are living the very thing Paul was talking about. Faith. Hope. Love. And the greatest of these is love.
So today I simply want to celebrate something I see happening among us. We are becoming a church where the greatest thing we do is not performance or perfection. It is being loved by Jesus enough that we learn to love each other—and our neighbors—the same way.
And if someone happens to be looking for a place where babies can babble, children can wander, parents can breathe, and faith can grow across generations…well, that kind of love is already taking root here.
