Luke 2: 41-52
Steve Lindsley
I imagine him there, all of twelve years old, standing in the entrance hall to the grand temple in Jerusalem. I picture him as one among thousands – for it was Passover at the time, and everyone went to Jerusalem when Passover came around. I imagine him blending in with the crowd, not standing out in any noticeable way, except for one – that he was all by himself. His parents weren’t anywhere around. They had left town a few days before, heading back home. Apparently they’d assumed their son Jesus was with their entourage and that they’d come across him at some point. Apparently, they assumed very, very wrongly.
And I, for one, do not fault Mary and Joseph for this. These two have my deepest understanding, partly because of a story that’s been woven into my family’s narrative for over half a century now. It happened when I was all of two years old, a couple of years before my brother came along. At the time my Mom and Dad and I were living in Toronto for a few months while Dad was up there on business.
As the story goes, the three of us were in the basement garage of our 30-floor high-rise, waiting for the elevator to arrive so we could get to our apartment on the 21st floor. While waiting, some neighbors came along and my mom and dad engaged in small talk. And in the millisecond they were distracted, it happened. Supposedly – I don’t remember any of this, of course. But in that millisecond, so the story goes, the elevator doors opened long enough for a curious two-year old to step inside before they closed.
And that was when my mom and dad realized, to their horror, that I was no longer there.
Now I have no recollection of what happened inside that elevator – again, I was two. I imagine I was fascinated by the flashing buttons on the wall, the odd sensation of what it feels like going up, and perhaps a little curious about where my folks might be. But again, no one was there to verify any of that.
However, I do have a very vivid account of what went on with my parents – looking down where I should have been, seeing the closed elevator doors, and putting two and two together. I can confirm that my father shattered every speed record, bolting to the nearest stairwell, bounding up those steps, and racing to the elevator on the first floor; just in time to see the doors open and me standing there. A stroke of luck that I’d only gone up one floor in a 30-floor high-rise building. We reconnected with Mom, made it to the 21st floor and our apartment, and all was well.
Now our separation, although I’m sure it felt much longer for my parents, only lasted less than a minute. Nothing like what Jesus’ parents faced. For them, it was two days. For two days, they had assumed that Jesus was somewhere in the crowds with them. He was not, of course. And where was he? He was back in Jerusalem, all the way back in Jerusalem. An attractive place for a 12-year old kid without parents: lots to explore, lots to get into.
It’s where he was in Jerusalem that really stands out. Of all the exciting, enticing, and adventurous places he could’ve gone in that vast city, Jesus chose the temple. The temple. Imagine a 12-year-old exploring Uptown Charlotte all alone. Where would you expect them to wind up – at one of our three professional sporting venues? A cool hip restaurant or high-rise hotel? Romare Bearden Park? Maybe riding the light rail? The last place you’d expect to find them is a church – right?
And yet, that’s exactly where Jesus was. And we don’t really know why. Maybe he was being your typical 12-year old – contradictory and testing his boundaries. Maybe he was there because he figured that was the last place his parents would look for him.
Or maybe Jesus wound up at the temple because he was searching for something – something he couldn’t find back in Nazareth. Something that weighed on his heart all of his young years. Maybe Jesus was trying to learn more about himself by being in this place, this temple to God.
If you’re like me, you were raised to believe that Jesus knew all along who he was – that even as a child he knew he was destined to be the Messiah. But I wonder sometimes if he might have wrestled with that identity a bit, just like any teenage kid. Perhaps I’m just comforted by the thought that even someone like Jesus had to take a little time to figure out who he was.
I mean, that is the ultimate quest we each face, isn’t it – discovering who we are? It’s a natural longing we have, built into our human psyche. We go down this road only once, and sometimes life moves so fast we hardly have time to think about it. But if we take a moment to get off the treadmill, sooner or later you and I are staring it in the face: Who am I? And its close cousin, where do I belong? We spend the better part of our lives sorting these two things out.
Who am I, and where do I belong?
For Jesus, something about the temple was that place. A place where he could learn more about who he was. A place where he knew he belonged.
And while some might be inclined to say that Jesus naturally belonged there because he was the son of God – he almost had to belong there – I wonder if we are selling this story short in thinking about it that way. I wonder if we might be missing the real point here. Because the story of 12-year old Jesus in the temple is not only revealing the essence of who Jesus was, it’s also telling us a lot about the temple, too. A whole lot.
And forget for a moment that this is Jesus we’re talking about, okay? Those in the temple that day would not have had the benefit of the view we have, of who Jesus would one day become. To them, this was nothing more than a 12-year old kid who wandered in off the streets. It would’ve been so easy to dismiss him, tell him to run along, or just ignore him altogether.
But that’s not what they do, do they? No – they welcomed him into their discussions, they made space for his questions, they genuinely listened to what he had to say. They made him feel like he belonged there – and because they did that, he did.
Beloved, I think there’s a lot for us to unpack here – not about Jesus, but about ourselves. About the church. That temple in Jerusalem was not just a home for cherished traditions and time-honored rituals; it was a place where learning and connection happened. It was a place that valued curiosity, no matter where it came from. The way the leaders treat Jesus here reminds us that the real strength of a spiritual community is found in how it nurtures and empowers the people who show up – especially our children.
So yes, this story is about Jesus’ remarkable gifts and the way a middle-schooler wowed the temple authorities with their decades of religious training. But my friends, we are missing the most important part of this story if we leave it there. Because it is also very much about the kind of community that helped Jesus be Jesus.
And it challenges us to think about how we make space for the next generation in our own midst. Are we listening to their questions? Are we honoring their voices? Are we making space for them and prioritizing them in everything we do and in all that we are?
Ponder this with me, Trinity: what would it mean for us to be a space where our children and young people feel seen, valued, empowered? Just as the temple leaders welcomed Jesus and centered him in their interactions with them, are we doing the same ourselves? Are we creating an environment where our children and youth can bring their curiosity, gifts, and voices into the conversation? It’s not enough to admire their potential from a distance. How are each of us, individually and collectively, making space for our children and youth to grow and thrive?
I bring this up because, on the first Sunday of this new year, I don’t think there is a more important question for our church to ask than this. I believe that this church is called to be a community that truly prioritizes and centers our children and young people. And I’m not talking about a few programs and ministries that we can point to and say, “See, we care.” No, I’m talking about a church-wide effort across all generations to build on what we already have and truly make our children and youth the highest priority in the life of this church.
It begins with each of us, individually, making it a priority in our own lives. Whether that’s through mentoring, teaching, listening, or simply being a presence, we all have a role to play. When we each take responsibility to invest in our children and youth, we come together as a church to embody that commitment in everything we do. And here’s the thing: this is not a responsibility that one ever grows out of or becomes too old for. Only when we each take this responsibility seriously can we truly say that our children and youth are not just a part of the church but are at the very heart of who the church is.
For if the church is not doing everything in its power to support its young families, what are we doing? I mean that honestly: what are we doing?
If we’re not coming alongside parents and caregivers as the church with the resources and encouragement and community they need, what are we doing?
If we are not making our children, youth, and their families a priority when it comes to budgeting and when it comes to staffing, what are we doing?
And if we’re not creating a culture where every child and young person knows that they are loved, that they matter, and that they belong here, what are we doing?
Beloved, I know my time with you is short and that I won’t be here to see the ways that you will live into this critical calling in the new year and beyond. But for what it’s worth, I want to share with you the kind of Trinity that I see unfolding in this new year:
I see a Trinity as the kind of church where Marius and others like him feel right at home – before they even know in their heads what “church” is, they know it here in their hearts.
I see Trinity as a church where adults, especially those who are not their parents, take a genuine interest in the lives of our young people – where those adults embrace and own up to the fact that this responsibility is not someone else’s but theirs.
I see Trinity as the kind of church that children and youth seek out. Where they don’t come because they have to but because they want to. Where they’re the first in the car on Sunday mornings, waiting impatiently for mom and dad to get moving. Where their sense of belonging comes not just from a few programs tailored to them – Sunday School, Morning Watch, youth group – but is woven into everything the church does, deep in its DNA. Where they don’t view the church as something their mom or dad belongs to but something they belong to.
I see Trinity as the kind of church that a 12-year old Jesus, having broken free from his parents and going rogue, would choose over the three professional sports venues or the cool hip restaurant or the high-rise hotel or fancy park or light rail; even choosing Trinity over all the other gazillion churches in this city.
That’s what I see, at least. But here’s the really important question: is it what you see? Is it what you want? And if so, what are you willing to do to make it happen? To be a church where a twelve-year old kid feels welcomed, embraced, and loved. To be a place where all children know beyond a shadow of doubt that they belong.
Beloved, if you do nothing else this year, I implore you, be that church.
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!
* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.