Luke 2:41-52

Jesus at Twelve Years

“Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the feast of the Passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom; and when the feast was ended, as they were returning, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem. His parents did not know it, but supposing him to be in the company they went a day’s journey, and they sought him among their kinsfolk and acquaintances; and when they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem, seeking him. After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions; and all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. And when they saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously.” And he said to them, “How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” And they did not understand the saying which he spoke to them. And he went down with them and came to Nazareth, and was obedient to them; and his mother kept all these things in her heart. And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature, and in favor with God and man.”

The first time I lost a camper I was, fortunately, not in charge. I was merely the assistant on our three day hiking trip in the Porcupine Mountains of Michigan. So if we had totally lost the kid, then there was a counselor ahead of me who would be fired and most likely arrested. Still, the deep dark fear that penetrated my soul upon the realization that we had lost a kid on the trail was panic inducing, but—spoiler alert, do not be afraid, we found him.

But it transpired in the typical way (if you can say that) that these things typically do (if you can say that, too). If YOU’VE ever gone backpacking with a pack of 4 or 5 12 year old’s, then you understand that at some point along the trail, the fast kids will want to go faster and the slow kids will be blamed for holding up the fun. The counselor has a little dilemma on his hands, and an evil little voice starts whispering in his ear saying, “Go ahead, speed on down the trail—don’t worry about the slow poke leaf pickers! Let them take their time! Just think- you might be the first ones to that beautiful campsite overlooking the waterfalls, and everybody would love that!”

I’m not surprised the leader decided to downshift and take the fast kids with him. “You stay in the back.” He told me, “Just scoop ‘em up as you head down the trail, and I’ll meet you at the campsite.”

So there we were. Two slow-poke leaf pickers, and me, moseying on down the trail. But soon, another dilemma arises. One of the leaf pickers was REALLY slow. And he was a little guy; barely four feet tall. His backpack was about as big as him, stuffed with his ginormous sleeping bag and not much else. But he was perfectly content to take his own sweet time. But that sneaky small voice that inspired the counselor to cruise on down the path now started working it’s magic on the other kid. He was feeling the effects of the pre-teen emotional cocktail that kicks in when things like pride, desired acceptance, social mobility and hierarchy, fear and a small shake of teenage recklessness enters the brain. He wanted to be part of the cool kids group; not the charity caboose. I don’t remember if he told me or not, but he started drifting away, and before too long he had gone off to catch up, while the leaf picker and I were left behind.

So imagine our surprise when I finally arrived at the campsite (the beautiful one overlooking the waterfall) and we discovered that Robert wasn’t there.

This was one of the first times I can recall hearing one of our camp counselors curse so loudly and blatantly in front of the campers. And as the sound of his hollered expletive echoed around the hillsides and the canyon walls, the gravity of the situation dawned on me as the sun was setting.

There is a panic that sets in when we discover that a loved one is missing. It comes in varying shades and degrees at different moments of our lives. There’s the hot flash of panic when we lose sight of a child in a mall, but there is also the slow drip of anxiety we experience because our beloved grandfather is no longer with us, for instance, so who will carve the turkey this year?  Both ends of the spectrum are capable of delivering the same harsh revelations; that loss (or the potential for loss) will visit us one day; and we are and will feel very helpless when it comes.

This story from Luke’s gospel; of an anxious and frightened Mary and Joseph , searching frantically for their pre-teen son through the crowded streets of Jerusalem for 3 DAYS, a full day after they realize he’s missing sounds like every guardian’s nightmare. In my imaginings I can see Mary and Joseph taking turns being the reassuring one and the panicking one. I wonder how many times they said, “I thought YOU were looking after him…” Three days searching through the packed streets before they thought to go to the Temple. Where were they looking? The soccer fields? The gaming stalls? The prisons? The hospitals? You would think with his pedigree that the temple would be the first place they would go. But no- Luke has them looking everywhere BUT the Temple for three entire days. (I trust it is not lost on you that this is the same amount of time spent in the tomb before the Eastertide resurrection…). And when they finally find him, regaling the elders of the temple with his insights and his wisdom (at 12 years old) his reaction is predictably pre-teeny.  “What?” “How is it that you sought me? How did you not figure that this is where I would be?”  The scripture says, “And they did not understand the sayings which he spoke to them.” Which I think is Luke’s way of saying that Mary said, “I just don’t understand you. Don’t you realize we were worried sick? THREE DAYS?! You KNEW we were leaving on Monday, why weren’t you with us?!” And Jesus. “What?” “What’s the big deal?”

It’s what we do. We care. We get panicky. We overreact when something or someone which we hold dear is somehow threatened…With disappearing. Transforming into something we no longer can have or keep safe or control, or understand… It is unsettling.

Perhaps a good portion of the unsettling sensation Mary and Joseph experience in this little oft-forgotten episode is that they are realizing that their little baby is not so little anymore. Notice, too, how in this story there is no mention of his messianic tendencies; Mary is no longer a young woman; and this will be the last time Joseph is even mentioned in any of the gospels. This story is a segue into the heart and soul of the gospel stories; this story is the letting go of the Christ child and all the fantastical stories surrounding his birth; from here on out, he stands on his own. We won’t hear another tale told of this Jesus until he returns fully a man, seeking out John for his baptism for the beginning of his revolutionary ministry.

During this Advent season, we often sing of the coming of Emmanuel, which means, “God with us.” And we apply so many titles and hopes and expectations to that little baby; we call him Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace, Alpha and Omega. We foretell that the world will bow down to him, that the spirit of knowledge and wisdom will rest upon him; that he will inspire us to beat our spears into plows and turn our enemies into friends; all these dreams and aspirations and prayers placed on the shoulders of a baby born in a barn to a young teenager.

But like Mary and Joseph, at some point we have to let go of this beautiful little baby child; wrapped up in swaddling cloths and expectations, and we have to allow him to discern his own path.

We have to allow “God With Us” to be revealed on its own terms; free from our own preconceived notions of what that might mean to us, or to our world greatly in need.

“For the miracle of God comes not only from above; it comes through us; it is also dwelling in us. (says Eberhard Arnold) It has been given to every person and it lies in every soul as something divine, and it waits.”

This season of hopeful expectation is a time for us to pray that our dreams for the world will be born and come of age in US. In the same way we plant seeds of hope and expectation into our children when they are born and trust that they will bloom into beautiful and brilliant adults—in the same way our parents planted their seeds of hope and expectation into us; we have to allow those seeds to germinate and to grow on their own terms; and to marvel at the beautiful and unpredictable blooms they produce.

So I find hope in that adolescent Jesus; that clueless pre-teen who get so wrapped up in his own adventure that he can’t comprehend why his parents are so panicked at his absence. I like this story, because it reminds me of pretty much every teenager I’ve ever known; and it reminds me of the teenager that I was, too; filled with the blind hope, fearless/clueless courage and an unbridled enthusiasm for trying to discern who we are, and what we will be to this world.

So much of our hope this season is wrapped up in what is unknown and unpredictable. It lies in a future yet to be; and places great expectation on possibility, with little regard for current realities.  We pray for Love, Joy, Peace and Hope, with a belief that these things will be born again within our hearts, and in our world. But it is up to us to make them manifest, we have to stray from the beaten path, and take the risks to allow the miracle of God to come through us. So, I pray that you might rekindle the embers of your optimistic and adventurous adolescence, and remember and renew your reckless pursuits of discovering how God is made manifest in YOU.

When we lost that camper, Robert, in the woods of Michigan that was one of my first tastes of real fear. It was as if I had been catapulted into great responsibility; and the stakes of life and death were suddenly very real things. It is easy to plunk along behind a goofy little kid, distractible and innocent to the dangers, toils and snares lurking just off the beaten path; and to point out the places for him to place a firm footing, or to brush aside for him the branches that might do him harm.

But when that child drifts away, and we suddenly look up only to realize that he is gone, it is so very hard to trust that he will be ok, trust that he can find his way back, trust that everything will work out in the end.

We went back down the trail, blowing our whistles and shouting for Robert along the way. And sure enough, he had strayed off the beaten, well blazed path, and was barreling through the brush and thicket, backpack askew, covered in sweat, but wearing the biggest grin I’d ever seen him wear. And so were we.