The Kingdom | The Gates of Repentance (Luke 18:15-17)

What's the cost of entry?  Whether it's the theme park, ball park, or skate park - it likely isn't free to get in.  What about the magnificent, marvelous kingdom of God?  What would it cost us to get in?  It's not a material amount, and it's not some great deed that we can do, but there is a cost.  The cost of humility.  The cost of setting aside our pride and allowing God to carry us.  The cost of repentance, which turns to God to receive his mercy, favor, and grace - all which he is so willing to give us, so much so that he didn't seem to even think twice about the great cost of forgiveness to him.  He gave up his only Son, and Jesus gave up his life so that we could know this forgiveness. What a blessing!  What a kingdom! What a king!

Transcript

It was one of those classic family graduation parties—camp chairs across the driveway, photo displays on a garage table, toddlers with Cheeto dust on their fingers, teenagers glued to their phones. And in the middle of the usual chaos, I saw a moment that stopped me. One of my little cousins was tugging on my uncle’s jeans. Tugs, plural. Hard tugs. His eyes were wide, his little hand trying again and again. And my uncle? He didn’t even notice. Not because he was cruel. Just distracted—locked into conversation, scrolling through photos someone was showing him, chuckling about something completely unrelated. That little cousin kept tugging. That memory came back to me as I thought about Jesus and how he interacted with kids from babies on up. The questions popped up: Isn’t that how life feels sometimes? Like you’re tugging on the world’s jeans, and no one’s even giving you a look?

We all desire to be seen. There’s a reason the phrase “to be seen” has taken off in our culture today. Originally, it was a way for marginalized groups to describe the aching joy of finally being acknowledged—of having someone not just tolerate your existence but notice you, value you, celebrate you. But it’s since become part of all of our vocabulary. “I just want to feel seen.” And that longing crosses every generation. Kids crave it in a parent’s distracted glance. Teens scroll endlessly hoping for a ‘like’ that says, “You matter.” Adults quietly ache in marriage or workplaces where it feels like no one really notices how tired they are. Seniors sit in quiet rooms wondering if anyone remembers who they used to be. “Will anyone notice me?” It’s a cry that echoes in our souls. And in Luke 18:15–17, it’s a cry that Jesus answers.
Luke writes: “People were also bringing babies to Jesus for him to place his hands on them. When the disciples saw this, they rebuked them.” The disciples were probably thinking they were protecting Jesus. Important people don’t have time for kids. He had sermons to preach, miracles to perform, VIP’s to impress. And kids? They were loud. They drooled. They didn’t understand deep doctrine. They were, quite frankly, in the way. In a culture like ours, that tends to idolize productivity and hustle, we might feel the same. Children don’t “add” to your career portfolio. They’re often seen as a detour, even an obstacle. You can hear it in phrases like, “I had to put my life on hold to raise kids.” But Jesus won’t let that lie stand. “But Jesus called the children to him and said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them…’”I want you to notice that: Jesus called the children to him. He made time. The Son of God, carrying the weight of the world’s salvation on his shoulders, paused. He saw the toddlers. The babies. The messy, noisy little humans. And he didn’t just tolerate them. He called them close. Why? Because Jesus makes time for the overlooked. Because Jesus sees who others miss. Because Jesus himself knows what it’s like to be ignored, rejected, pushed aside. The world didn't recognize him when he came. Isaiah prophesied he would be “despised and rejected by people.” But still he came. Still he loved. We saw that firsthand this past week at VBS. Every day, we shared the gospel—sometimes with pictures, sometimes with songs, sometimes through skits, sometimes in the simplest words imaginable. And without fail, kids kept blurting it out. Unprompted, unfiltered joy: "Jesus died for me!"

Again and again, the kids couldn’t hold it in. Their hearts already knew what their mouths couldn’t help but say. Jesus sees me. Jesus loves me. Jesus died for me. And there’s a beautiful, heartbreaking bittersweetness to that. Because we know the world they’re growing up in. We know Satan will throw everything he can at them. He’ll whisper lies. He’ll tempt and twist and try to steal that joy away. But that’s why we’re here. Not just as parents. Not just as volunteers. But as fellow children of God—called to simply remind these little lambs, again and again, of what they already knew at VBS. Jesus loves you. Jesus died for you. Jesus sees you. That’s where it hits deeply. These passages aren’t just about kids. It’s about you. Because sometimes you are the toddler tugging at the jeans of the world. You’ve tried to do everything right. You’ve worked hard. You’ve served faithfully. You’ve prayed and held it together through some dark nights. But has anyone noticed? Jesus does. Jesus sees you.

Not the polished version you show at work or church. Not just your highlight reel. He sees the late-night tears. The prayers you don’t know how to word. The parts of you that feel invisible to everyone else. And here’s the wonder of the gospel: He doesn’t just see you. He died for you. The cross is Jesus’ loudest way of saying, “You matter. I came for you.” Not because you were useful. Not because you were impressive. But because he loves you. When Jesus stretched out his arms on that cross, he was reaching for the unnoticed, the unimportant, the uninvited. He was reaching for the children. For the marginalized. For you. He didn’t just give you a glance. He gave you his life. Now listen again to what Jesus says: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” That’s surprising. He doesn’t say, “Make them wait until they grow up and understand more.” He says, “The kingdom belongs to such as these.” Why? Because faith, at its core, is childlike trust. Children know they can’t survive without their parents. They don’t pretend they’ve got it together. They just lift their arms and say, “Hold me.” And Jesus says that’s what real faith looks like. Faith isn’t having all the answers. It’s knowing who to run to. Faith isn’t figuring out all of life’s mysteries. It’s grabbing the hand of the One who already has. Faith isn’t trying to impress God. It’s collapsing into his grace. And that kind of faith—raw, humble, trusting—is what God gives us through his Spirit. That’s the open door into his kingdom.

When you know that Jesus sees you, really sees you, and makes time for you, something begins to change. You begin to see others differently. You see the child fidgeting during church not as a distraction but as a gift. You see the frazzled single mom not as an interruption but as someone Jesus cherishes. You see the elderly neighbor, the socially awkward teen, the person everyone else overlooks—and you start to move toward them. Why? Because Jesus moved toward you. Because Jesus made time for you. Because now, in grace, you get to do the same. We don’t show kindness so God will love us. We show kindness because he already has. We don’t notice others so we can earn the kingdom. We notice others because the kingdom has already been given to us.

So how do we live this out? Let me suggest three simple but powerful ways. Notice someone no one else does. Maybe it’s a child in church. Look them in the eyes. Say their name. Ask about their week. Maybe it’s the quiet coworker. Pause. Listen. Invite them into conversation. Make time that feels “unproductive.” That might mean slowing down your schedule to talk with your teen. Or visiting someone in the hospital or assisted living. It’s not wasted time. It’s kingdom time. Receive grace like a child. Stop trying to prove yourself. Run to Jesus with empty hands and just take in his Word. He always has the time.

Remember that little cousin tugging on my uncle’s jeans? What I didn’t tell you is that eventually, someone else noticed. It wasn’t my uncle—but my aunt saw it from across the yard. She bent down, smiled, and scooped that little guy into her arms. He grinned. All he had wanted was to be seen. That’s what God does. Even when the world is too distracted. Even when you’re ignored. Even when your life feels like nothing more than a quiet tug. God sees. God stops. God scoops you up with grace. Because the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

Not just includes them. Belongs to them. Let that land on you. Babies—yes, babies—are the standard of faith. Not the seminary student. Not the well-read. Not the theologian with footnotes. Not the high-capacity leader with a color-coded planner. Babies. Those who can’t speak in complete sentences. Who contribute nothing but need. Who bring only their cries, their hunger, their complete and total dependence. We have this backwards, don’t we? We tend to think faith is maturity. That real spiritual strength is when you can finally stand on your own two feet, navigate Scripture like a scholar, and pray eloquent, tear-stained prayers that sound like poetry. But Jesus doesn’t say, “Become more like the adults.” He says, “Become like the little ones.” Because babies can believe. Not in the way we overcomplicate it. Not by logic or proofs or religious achievement. But in the truest way of all—by trust. By helpless, leaning, clinging trust. Makes me think of something the great preacher Charles Spurgeon once said. “It is not your hold on Christ that saves you—it is Christ. It is not your joy in Christ that saves you—it is Christ. It is not even your faith in Christ, though that is the instrument—it is Christ’s blood and merits.”

It’s this kind of faith that makes no claim except this: “I need you, Jesus.” And isn’t that the gospel? Not that we climbed up to God, but that he came down for us. That when we were helpless in our sin, Christ died for the ungodly. That when we didn’t even know how to ask for help, he bled to give it. There is no faith stronger than that of the infant, sleeping in the arms of her mother during baptism. Because that child, without even knowing it, is confessing: “I bring nothing. But Jesus gives me everything.” What a Savior we have. One who doesn’t wait for us to be articulate. One who doesn’t measure us by spiritual résumé or emotional stability. One who sees faith in a whimper. Who hears a sermon in a cry.
One who scoops us up—not because of what we’ve done, but because of who he is. Jesus doesn’t just make time for children. He becomes like one. That’s what Christmas tells us. That the God of all glory would become a baby—voiceless, vulnerable, wrapped in cloth. So that no one could ever again say, “God doesn’t see me.” He sees you because he became human. And he still is. In your weakness, he’s with you. In your helplessness, he holds you. In your shame, he shields you. And in those moments when your prayers feel more like a tug on his robe than a well-formed petition—he turns to you with eyes full of grace. You are not invisible to him. You are his. So cry out, cling, collapse into the arms that carried the cross for you. And then… look around. Find the ones tugging on the world’s jeans. The ones being shushed or rushed past. The ones who feel like too much or not enough. Bend down. Look them in the eye. Speak the name of Jesus with the tender joy of a child who knows they’re loved. Because the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Because the King himself came to carry us all home. Amen.