Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
“I do that too,” laughed the old man.”
>Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the old man.
- - - - Shel Silverstein

Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.

When I was little—for most children, I guess, the state of being grown up is where you arrive when you get big—it’s inevitable—something to be looked forward to, to anticipate. I asked Hugh this morning, and he said ‘it’ll be cool!’ It’s the place where you’ll be in control, able to do what you want, a land of realised dreams. When you get there, though … well, what do we reckon? What’s it like, this land of grownup-ness? I guess I’d characterize it something like this: it’s a land where there’s an answer for everything; where everyone is sensible and life is safe; where nothing is dangerous or exciting any more. In some ways it has its attractions: it’s predictable. It’s orderly. Nothing goes wrong—and when it does it’s easily sorted, because people know what to do. It’s a land where you won’t be found out for the fraud you feel inside, because you aren’t that fraud—you are as competent and wise as you pretend to be.

Though it’s a terrifying place too.A place of immense responsibility and burden. Where you can’t be dependent, or vulnerable. You can’t drop your spoon or wet your pants or cry.

Grown up life ruled by deadlines—dead lines that can seem to anticipate death itself. A pressurised time of life, where all that is good and life-giving gets squeezed out, where you have to put away childish things. Where you nee to get sorted. Be self-sufficient. Reliable. Grown up.

In the gospel reading for today Jesus put a small child in the midst of the adults around him and recalled his disciples and followers to something profound and radical. Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.

Jesus knew the challenge he made. He wanted to stop us in our tracks—to turn us back to the important questions of life.

Questions that grown ups often forget to ask—they don’t pay attention to.

This week here at the Cathedral we’re starting to think in some depth about our worship. Next Saturday—do come. A half-day conference for anyone who is interested in what we are doing when we gather together in God’s presence. And afterwards, during November there will be five further sessions when we continue to explore what worship is, what it means to be the Body of Christ in this place. My hope is that when we meet we don’t get too hung up on quibbles and quabbles—but rather that we tackle some of the deep questions that often we leave safely hidden away.

Like who am I? Who am I when I’m face to face with God? How can I love my neighbour? What really captures my imagination? Where is the awe and wonder in my life? Is this life all there is? Do I make a difference?

Where is that restlessness that I used to feel? —the restlessness that St Augustine felt, that is there, in our collect this morning. Big questions—questions I remember asking when I was young. Questions we stop asking, too often, in the land of grown-up ness.

One of the questions I hope we tackle is where are the children in our midst, here in the Cathedral. How do we enable them to find God in their lives? And be open ourselves to what they can show us of God?

But Jesus challenges us to other soul-searching questions too.

One of the things we forget to do—in our careworn, often frantic, stressful lives—the grown up lives we lead—is we forget how to play. Life becomes a serious business—we don’t have time to let ourselves get lost in play. If ever you’ve watched a child at play—absorbed, focused, relaxed yet very intent—safe and secure, yet on the edge of some wonderful new discovery—you’ll know what I mean. Sometimes alone, but often with others, they negotiate the rules—or make it up as they go along. There’s structure for safety—a playground that holds the safety. But within that, wild adventures to be taken. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but it always strikes me that computer games set the scene too much—leaving too little to the imagination. Play, as I understand it, leaves everything to the imagination. The child at play can go anywhere, can get lost and find themselves in a different place; can discover lands; can change size; can be transformed.

And as a result the reality of life is changed as well. The child who can play—at some profound level, becomes better at coping with the dangers and stresses of life; better at imagining a better world; wiser, more centred; able to build and sustain relationships because they’ve explored boundaries, transgressed the limits, discovered self—and others—in play. Most of us will spend perhaps two hours a week in worship—public worship. It seems to me that that time can either be more of the same as our day to day mundane existence. More grown-up ness. Or it can be profoundly different. It can be a time of play—deep, meaningful play where we are able to explore in safety some of the dangerous questions that face us. When we can look at ourselves reflected in the glory of God. Where we can be transformed, changed by the experience of the eternal now. Having fallen into the hands of the living God, we return to tell the tale of a loving God who wants a better world. Another word for worship is ‘Liturgy’. It’s a Greek word; it means ‘the work of the people of God’. When you come to worship you come to work—but in this land which is not the land of grown-up ness, the work you do is play. You play different possibilities. You explore new territories. You let God visit you, awaken you, you are encountered and changed. That’s hard work—because we don’t know, quite, where it will leave us—what changes we may need to make in the land of grown-up ness on Monday morning. But we come—and we take the risk. Anglicans have always taken ordered worship seriously—the structure of play, if you like. We have a long history of shape and text; and with Common Worship, that tradition has been infused with new vitality, beauty, joy—music, choir, art, movement, vestments; new ways to make use of the space of a wonderful building such as this. Ours is a rich tradition—ours to pass on to future generations.

Worship offers many different ways to God. We may find ourselves at a quiet, reflective Book of Common Prayer communion service, where we know the words by heart and our minds can wander and mull over concerns and dreams—where we can be confident that we won’t be disturbed by any surprises.

Or we may seek something altogether different. A Taize evening, or worship where we wander around, and explore our lives as we journey through the Cathedral. Perhaps we might emphasise baptism with the living water of a fountain at the back of the Cathedral—imagine that!

Or simply, we come on a Sunday morning and find that God surprises us with a smile, a glimpse of glory, light and insight as we repeat familiar words together and hear something new for the first time.

It’s a time of exciting discovery, a time of play, a time of encounter with the God who disturbs our lives towards the Kingdom of God. Who knows what will happen as we gather and share bread and wine together? As we hear the stories of the Bible and offer ourselves and our prayers to the God of love? Who knows what will happen as we invoke a God who is the Holy Spirit—the comforter, but also the fiery God of Pentecost? Who knows what this worship will bring?

Someone once said that worship should be like ‘a raft ride down a mountain river, with exciting passages that leave us breathless and calm places where we sit and contemplate—with bends and curves where we cannot see where we are going’. It holds for us silence and sound. Quiet peace and breath-taking moments of awe. Exciting times of a different reality. Times of patience, discipline, a listening heart. Times of struggle; of joy. Of ambiguity; of mystery. The time to remember that God is there, waiting for us around the next corner.

This is a time when, in community, we die to ourselves—the individual, grown up person we have become; when we die to the self-centredness of our lives, the atomized, greedy existence we too often lead. Worship enables us to gaze again, to dance and to be still; to singand cry. As we worship, we are reborn. Reborn as children of God.Children able to receive the kingdomof God and enter it—to taste the feast of heaven—and know how that changes our lives and through us, the world around.