"Saving Eutychus" (April 19, 2026 Sermon)

Saving Eutychus

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Sunday, April 19, 2026

Text: Acts 20:7-12

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Scripture

Acts 20:7-12

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A Bizarre Story with Something to Teach Us

So, I may not be the best preacher in the world, but I can safely say I have never literally bored anyone to death with a sermon. And, interestingly enough, that is more than the Apostle Paul can say.

Today’s text is proof. My guess is that for most of you, the story of Eutychus is unfamiliar. You probably did not hear it in Vacation Bible School or Sunday School, and you may never have heard a sermon on it before. It is, admittedly, a bizarre story.

But I love bizarre stories in the Bible, because they give us the chance to see scripture in fresh and surprising ways. And this one has everything: a long-winded preacher, a sleepy young man, an open window three stories up, and a moment that begins almost like comedy before turning suddenly serious. It is, in other words, a preacher’s worst nightmare. But it is also a story that has something important to teach us about worship, attention, bodies, and what it means for faith to be fully alive.

It is, in other words, a preacher’s worst nightmare. But it is also a story that has something important to teach us about worship, attention, bodies, and what it means for faith to be fully alive.

Eutychus Is Us

Eutychus may have a name that strikes us as odd, but his character is one we all know well. He is every weary soul who has tried to pay attention when the body simply had other ideas. He is every student fighting sleep, every parent running on too little rest, every older saint whose energy is not what it once was. Eutychus is not strange. Eutychus is…us.

And we are tired. Tired of one absurd news cycle after another. Tired of schedules and responsibilities and bad news and hard conversations. Tired of being asked to carry more than seems bearable. Tired of living in a constant state of alert in a world that keeps hurling one relentless curveball after another.

So when we come to worship, we come craving something embodied. Something real. Something more than words alone. We come needing good news we can taste and touch, see and smell. We come longing not merely to hear about grace, but to encounter it with our whole selves.

We come needing good news we can taste and touch, see and smell.

The Window

I wonder if that was what Eutychus longed for that evening: an encounter with a grace that engaged all of his senses. But that night, only one sense is being fed: his hearing. Notice, Church, where he is. He is in the window. He is neither fully in nor fully out. He is in a liminal space, teetering between realities. From his window, Eutychus is caught between attention and distraction, between faith and fatigue, between belonging and isolation. And, if we’re honest, that window is where many of us live.

And so this story leaves me with a few questions. How can we save Eutychus before he slips? What weary bodies has God placed in our midst who need not just a grace they can hear, but a grace they can touch, smell, taste, and see? How can the church become a place where those in the window are welcomed to the center rather than left unnoticed at the margins?

Wiggly, Weary, Wondering Bodies

And on a Sunday when we are celebrating our church preschool, perhaps this bizarre story reminds us that the church is healthiest when it doesn’t require stoic attentiveness, but makes room for whole human beings - wiggly, weary, wondering bodies and all. After all, children understand something many adults forget: that the body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

The body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

How Faith Felt

I know this to be true because when I think back on church as a child, I do not remember many sermons. But I remember plenty of other things. I remember the feeling of the coarse rope in my hands when our church’s music director let me ring the bell in our steeple for the whole city to hear. I remember the smell of bacon in the church kitchen when I would wake up early on Tuesday mornings to help my dad cook for the men’s breakfast. I remember the clanging of cell doors as they shut when we would go to the local youth detention center to read scripture with other kids my age who had been forgotten by so much of society. I remember the flickering candles on Christmas Eve when we sang Silent Night before I went home, crawled into my bed, and waited for the wonder of the next morning. I remember the ground shaking beneath my feet at the booming “amen” chords at the end of Widor’s Toccata on Easter morning. I may not remember many of the words, but I remember how faith felt. I remember how worship sounded and smelled, and how it shook the floor beneath me. I remember that long before I could explain grace, I had already begun to experience it.

One reason my faith still matters so deeply to me is that the church did not leave me in the window, as Eutychus was. Yes, there were moments of boredom, as there are in every life of faith. But church was never meant to be an empty exercise in sitting still and zoning out. It was meant to call forth the whole self. It was meant to engage the whole person God created us to be. And maybe that is part of what this strange little story is trying to show us. If we want to save Eutychus before he slips, then we must become the kind of church that refuses to leave weary, wiggly, wondering bodies at the edge of the room. We must become the kind of church that welcomes them to the center, where grace can be heard, yes, but also touched and tasted, seen and smelled, lived and known.

Preschool Grace

And neighbors, on this Preschool Celebration Sunday, I thank God for the holy work our preschool does here. Long before these children can explain grace, they are already experiencing it here. They experience it in the love of teachers who kneel to meet them at eye level, wipe away tears, tie shoes, redirect big feelings, sing songs, read stories, and tell them again and again: you are safe, you are loved, you belong. Tricia and I know this personally. Hazel Grace and Winnie have both been blessed by Ms. Becca, Ms. Mary, Ms. Michelle, Ms. Heather, Ms. Sarah, Ms. Carrie, Ms. Beth, Ms. Cassidy, Ms. Jasmine, and so many others who have helped shape them into the amazing young women they are becoming. And for that, we are deeply grateful.

And I know there are parents here today who are tired. Tired because parenting is holy work, but it is exhausting, too. Tired because the world is heavy, and you want so badly for your children not just to grow up and get by, but to grow up with a living faith. A faith that makes them resilient. A faith that makes them compassionate. A faith that teaches them to seek justice, to love mercy, and to trust that the goodness of God is stronger than the fear of this world. So hear this: when you bring your children here, when you let them wiggle, wonder, sing, and ask questions, when you place them in the care of this community, you are not wasting your time. You are planting seeds of grace. You are helping save Eutychus before he slips. Because every time we welcome a child, every time we make room for a young family, every time we draw someone in from the window and remind them that they belong at the center of Christ’s love, we are doing the work of the gospel.

Every time we welcome a child, every time we make room for a young family, every time we draw someone in from the window and remind them that they belong at the center of Christ’s love, we are doing the work of the gospel.

Bringing People to the Center

Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me,’ and that is what we do here at Guilford Park. We make room. We open our arms. We bless the wiggles. We trust that Christ is already at work in the bodies, questions, laughter, and holy energy of these children. In just a few moments, we will pray not only with our words but with our whole bodies, because that too is part of our witness: that faith is not merely something to be explained but something to be experienced. Thanks be to God for a church that does not leave people in the window. Thanks be to God for a preschool that helps bring children to the center. And thanks be to God for Jesus Christ, who still gathers us up in grace, holds us close, and brings us alive again.

Thanks be to God for a church that does not leave people in the window.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Protection and Care for the Vulnerable" (March 15, 2026 Sermon)

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Protection and Care for the Vulnerable

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 15, 2026
4th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture

Deuteronomy 24:17-22

“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; therefore I command you to do this.

“When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings. When you beat your olive trees, do not strip what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow.

“When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.

Matthew 19:13-15

Then children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them, but Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” And he laid his hands on them and went on his way.

“You were a child once, too.”

You were a child once, too. That's what Mister Rogers said, that's what he wrote down, once upon a time, for the doctors. The doctors were ophthalmologists. An ophthalmologist is a doctor who takes care of the eyes. Sometimes, ophthalmologists have to take care of the eyes of children, and some children get very scared, because children know that their world disappears when their eyes close, and they can be afraid that the ophthalmologists will make their eyes close forever. The ophthalmologists did not want to scare children, so they asked Mister Rogers for help, and Mister Rogers agreed to write a chapter for a book the ophthalmologists were putting together—a chapter about what other ophthalmologists could do to calm the children who came to their offices. Because Mister Rogers is such a busy man, however, he could not write the chapter himself, and he asked a woman who worked for him to write it instead. She worked very hard at writing the chapter, until one day she showed what she had written to Mister Rogers, who read it and crossed it all out and wrote a sentence addressed directly to the doctors who would be reading it: "You were a child once, too.” And that's how the chapter began.^[1]

My friend Tom wrote those words about his friend Fred back in 1998 for Esquire Magazine. You see, Tom made a mistake, a mistake he would later regret. He wrote an article about a very famous person, and in that article, he insinuated something very hurtful, something that wasn’t his story to tell. And it got him into trouble. Tom had developed a reputation for being a ruthless journalist. Ruthlessness is something someone does when they care more about themselves than others.

And so, as he feared that his career had stalled because of his ruthlessness, his editor gave him a new assignment. He called him into his office and told him he wanted him to interview Fred Rogers. “You mean, Mister Rogers? The kid’s show guy?” Tom scoffed. “Yes,” his editor replied, “We’re doing an issue on heroes, and I want you to write a profile on him.” And so, the invulnerable journalist called up the cardigan-wearing Presbyterian minister. “Invulnerable” is a word that means you feel like nothing can touch you, challenge you, or change you. Magical things happen when the invulnerable meet a person like Fred Rogers.

I wonder if the disciples felt invulnerable. “Disciples” is a word for people who want to follow Jesus. If I were his disciple, I would be tempted to feel invulnerable. How does one not feel that way when your teacher is a man who feeds thousands with table scraps, or resists Satan’s seduction, or calms a tempest, or summons the very dead from their slumber? Hang around with stuff like that long enough, and it goes to your head. Which is why, of course, when the children came to Jesus, they shooed them away. “This is grown-up business,” they tell them with the sort of condescension little ones are all too familiar with. “Condescension” is a word for when grown-ups think they always know better.

But Jesus bristles. He bristles because the disciples haven’t been listening. Just a few days earlier, he had placed a child on his knee and reminded them that whoever welcomes such a child in his name welcomes him. Now they are telling children that this is “grown-up business.” This is, of course, a silly notion, because the Kingdom of Heaven is neither “for” grown-ups nor a business.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable.”

The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable. The kingdom is open to all, of course, but again and again Jesus insists that it is the vulnerable, the overlooked, the little ones, who are nearest its center. And this is good news for kids, especially for those whom Jesus welcomed in today’s passage. Being a kid back then was no easy thing. According to Michael Joseph Brown in his book True to Our Native Land, “Fifty percent of children died before the age of five. They were the weakest members of society. They were fed last and received the smallest and least desirable portions of food. They were the first to suffer from famine, war, disease, and natural disasters. Many, some say more than 70 percent, would have lost one or more parents before reaching puberty. A minor had the same status as an enslaved person, and it was not until adulthood that they would be considered a free person.”^[2]

And being a child here and now, for many, is a similar kind of struggle. My work with A Simple Gesture has made me more aware of the scandal of child hunger right here in Guilford County. Close to one in four children here is food-insecure. In many parts of our county, families live in food deserts, far from a grocery store, dependent on public transportation just to buy food. And if you ride the bus in Greensboro, you are allowed only two bags. If you carry a purse, that counts as one. It should not be this hard to feed a child.

“Let the children come to me,” Jesus said. “You were a child once, too,” Fred Rogers said. Too often, our nation’s policies and priorities tell children and their families: your hunger is not urgent enough.

I began this sermon with an anecdote from Mr. Rogers for several reasons. First of all, this upcoming Friday would have been Mr. Rogers' 98th birthday, and as such, our denomination has designated that day in his honor, celebrating his memory and his message of neighborliness. Second, Fred Rogers was someone who had an innate gift for seeing the world through children’s eyes, to remember what it was like to be a little kid navigating a very big world. And that’s a spiritual gift that we all could do more with these days.

Last night, Tricia and I went to the Tanger Center to see The Sound of Music. It had been quite a while since I last saw the show, so I had forgotten several parts. One of those was how funny “Uncle Max” is. He is Captain von Trapp’s friend and a music agent and producer trying to get the von Trapp Family to perform at an upcoming festival. But beneath Uncle Max’s comic relief is a much more dangerous motive. Time and again, he tries to convince Captain von Trapp to adopt a stance of neutrality (at best) or tacit support (at worst) of the German annexation of Austria. “What’s going to happen is going to happen,” he tells Georg von Trapp at one point, “just make sure it doesn’t happen…to you.” In other words, he implies that von Trapp has the power and privilege to stay out of the mess and let the worst happen to others.

However, I trust you know how the story goes. His heart is hardened for good reason. He is devastated by the death of his wife, the children’s mother, and the sound of music has been verboten from his home. Maria and the children soften the Captain’s hardened heart. Together, they bring melody and joy back to his life, and he learns to see the world as his children do. And, indeed, see himself as his children see him. It is this softening that leads the “invulnerable” Captain to open his eyes to how the fascists are preying on the vulnerability of those around him. And he refuses to be complicit. With the help of the nuns, he defies Berlin’s “invitation” (i.e., command) to join the Navy of the Third Reich.

“Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too.”

“You were once a slave in Egypt, too,” God says to the Israelites. “You were once a child, too,” Fred Rogers says to each of us (not just the ophthalmologists).

You see, the gospel is asking us to remember:

Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too. Remember what fear feels like. Remember what hunger feels like. Remember what it is to need gentleness from a world that can be so hard.

And then let that remembering soften you:

Soften you enough to leave grain in the field. Soften you enough to make room for children. Soften you enough to resist every voice that says, “What’s going to happen is going to happen—just make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” No. Not for those who follow Jesus. For those who follow Jesus, the vulnerable are not interruptions. They are where the kingdom shows up first.

So let the children come. Let the stranger come. Let the hungry come. And may they find, in us, not a closed hand or a hardened heart, but the welcome of Christ himself.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

Notes

[1] Junod, Tom. “Can You Say...Hero?” Esquire, November, 1998.

[2] True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian K. Blount, Gay L. Byron, and Emerson B. Powery, (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2024). 120.

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