“At the intersection of desperation and fear: Jesus”

John 6:1-21

Sunday, July 29, 2018
First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Earlier this week I brought my kids with me to work for a couple of hours and they were kind enough to help me with a few tasks. One of the things I asked them to do was fill up our Blessing Box outside. They went through the bin in the lobby carefully selecting items - pasta sauce to go with pasta, some soup, beans, fruit. After we re-stocked the box, they noticed it didn’t have a sign and wanted to make one. So we came back inside and created a sign. When we went back out five minutes later to hang it, they noticed that some of the food we had just put in the box was gone. In the five minutes we were inside someone had already used the Blessing Box.

I assume some of us in this room have been hungry and unsure of where our next meal would come from. I assume others of us don’t know what this would be like. In her novel Anything is Possible, Elizabeth Strout tells the story of a man named Abel who had grown up very poor and had, later in life, married rich and started an air conditioning company, eventually becoming very wealthy. His wife, who didn’t know what it was like to be poor was astonished when he once told her that, as a child, he would hunt for food in dumpsters. “Weren’t you ashamed?” she asked with incredulity. “If you have to ask that question,” he thought, “Well, then, you’ve never been hungry.” [1]

Hunger is a powerful force. When we are lacking something as basic as food, nothing else really matters. When our basic needs aren’t being met, we don’t have the luxury of worrying about things like our pride. The same can be said lacking other basic human needs, too - like affection and love, shelter from the elements, mental and physical health, water, feeling like a person who matters and has worth.

When I was a child, one of the main takeaways I had from my time in church was that it was a Christian’s responsibility to help meet other people’s needs. If someone was hungry, we should feed them. If someone was thirsty, we should give them something to drink. If someone was lonely or left out, we should include them.

This is all true, of course.

But I realized later in life that I had somehow missed an essential part of Christ’s message in all of my hours in the pew and hunched over a Bible. Because following Jesus isn’t only about meeting other people’s needs - it’s also about allowing ourselves to get in touch with our own needs, our own hunger, our own desperation.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly enjoy feeling desperate. That frantic sort of feeling you get when you need something - really need something - and you’re just not sure how you’re going to get it. Whether it’s food, water, pain relief, money to pay the electric bill, letting go of the burden of a terrible secret, safety, acknowledgment of your humanity. When we’re not sure where these things are going to come from, we can start to feel desperate. And that’s a pretty yucky feeling.

Have you ever noticed how many stories about Jesus begin with desperation? Go through a Gospel sometime and look for desperate people. They’re everywhere. This is why I’ve come to believe that being in touch with our own hunger and desperation - no matter how unpleasant that can feel - is a prerequisite for following Jesus.

Today’s story is no different. It begins with desperate people. 5,000 of them, in fact. They are so desperate that they’ve followed Jesus up a mountain because they’ve seen how he can heal the sick.

The author tells us that “the time of Passover was near” so we know this is going to be a story about liberation. Jesus is clearly being cast in the role of Moses - not just climbing up “a mountain” but “THE mountain” - perhaps to help us remember how Moses did the same. We recall the desperate people who followed another stranger into freedom. We remember their hunger, too. Wandering in the desert with nothing to eat, they were completely reliant on God to meet their basic needs.

Hunger is a problem in this story, too. Now that they’ve all climbed a mountain to follow Jesus, they’re hungry. But Uber Eats hasn’t been invented yet and the disciples are starting to wonder who’s going to feed all of these people. This story, by the way, the story of Jesus and his disciples feeding thousands of people with just a few loaves of bread, is the ONLY miracle story that exists in all four Gospels. Our faith ancestors clearly believed this story taught something essential about Jesus.

In the other three gospels, Jesus instructs his disciples to do the feeding. But in John’s version, Jesus does it himself. A child has five barley loaves and two fish. Unbothered by the people’s growing desperation or the ridiculousness of trying to feed them all with this small amount of food, Jesus sets the table and invites everyone to take a seat.

The miracle begins when Jesus takes the bread into his hands and says the magic words, “thank you.” The Greek there, eucharisteo (“he gave thanks”) is where we get the word Eucharist, by the way. There is no story of Holy Communion in John’s gospel. At the “last supper” in John 13 we get Jesus washing his disciples’ feet instead of breaking bread. This Eucharist on the mountaintop is the closest thing we get to Jesus saying the Words of Institution in John’s Gospel.

After Jesus feeds everyone to their heart’s content, they gather up the leftovers and the people are astonished. They call him a prophet - perhaps thinking of Elisha who also fed a big group of hungry people with very little food. Biblical prophets are those who can help us see with new eyes. They hold up a mirror, showing us what we are really like. And, at the same time, they put magical glasses over our eyes, showing us who we could be. It is that gift of being able to see the “how it is” right alongside the “how it could be” that is the particular role of a prophet.

In this instance, Jesus holds up the mirror to these hungry, desperate people. His very presence leads them to feel their own desperation more acutely because, for once, there is hope that another world is possible. And in the midst of very reasonable concerns about scarcity Jesus gifts the people with the glasses of abundance. Streams of water in the desert, manna from heaven, a jug of oil that never runs out, water into wine, hope in a hopeless place.

Lots of people have tried to explain this feeding miracle over the years. Maybe the miracle is that everyone actually had a granola bar or two tucked into their purses and they all took them out and shared. Maybe the miracle is supernatural. Or maybe the miracle is simply that a group of desperate people were willing to admit they had needs and sat down together trusting Jesus could feed them.

However the miracle worked, one thing is clear: Jesus doesn’t shy away from our desperation. He meets us there.

Later in this passage from John we find the disciples in the midst of another yucky human emotion: fear. This second, shorter, story has an almost dreamlike quality about it. The disciples go down to the sea but Jesus is not with them. They get into their boat to leave and the water becomes rough.

I don’t know what your fears are, but I assume you have some. Maybe you are afraid you’ll never amount to anything. Maybe you’re afraid someone will discover your deepest, darkest secret. Maybe you’re afraid because there’s just so much violence in our world. Maybe you’re afraid because you inhabit a body that makes you the target of other people’s fear and hatred.

When I was a child, I had a recurring nightmare for years. Nothing complicated or fancy. But the power it had over me was the visceral sense of fear it created in my gut. That fear would even sneak up on me in the daytime when I was just doing normal, everyday things. Even when the sky was blue and people around me were laughing and smiling, the fear would grab me and punch me in my gut. And it was a nasty, awful feeling.

It was probably that same sense of gut-punching dread that the disciples felt as their small vessel rocked and swayed in the waves three or four miles from shore that night. Suddenly, they see Jesus walking towards them across the water. He walks towards them on the sea and says, “Hey, guys. Wait up!”

Just kidding.

He says, “I am; do not be afraid.”

The voice of a friend whispering to you in the dark, when you’re both crouched in fear, “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s just me.”

But also….these are loaded words. “Do not be afraid” is what the angels always say when they show up in the Bible - remember the Christmas stories? To Mary, Joseph, the shepherds...the angels always start with “do not be afraid.” In the Bible these words arrive on the lips of holy messengers from God.

But not just a messenger. In saying “I am,” John’s Jesus makes an enormous claim. Because those are the same words Moses heard from the burning bush, “I AM. Tell them ‘I AM’ sent you.”

“I AM” is the One John says walks on the water and feeds the multitudes. “I AM” is the One whose very presence makes us realize our own desperation and causes crowds to climb mountains. “I AM” is the One who meets us in the midst of our fear and desperation and does not look away from it.

“I AM” arrives when we are hungry, thirsty, tired, vulnerable. “I AM” shows up even in a world where people are being killed in the streets and on subway platforms because of white supremacy. “I AM” is still present in the detention centers where children weep for their parents. “I AM” arrives even in the midst of ecological devastation as temperatures rise and plastic gathers in the sea. “I AM” is surely present when veterans and transgender youth continue to die by suicide at alarming rates. “I AM” is with us when the healthcare system fails us, when hearts are broken, when our control over our own bodies is threatened, when pain is unbearable, when leaders lie, when hope is nowhere to be found.

When we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, “I AM” meets us there. “You set a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows.”

At the intersection of all our desperation and fear: Jesus.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Strout, Elizabeth. Anything is Possible, p. 245.

“When Heads are Rolling: Credo”

Mark 6: 14-29

Sunday, July 15, 2018
First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Earlier this week I was snuggling with one of my sons and told him, “You know, back before you were born, a very wise woman named Beth told me that after she became a mom she felt as though her heart was walking around outside of her body. At the time, I didn’t really understand what she meant. But then, after you and your brother were born, it made perfect sense to me. Because wherever we go, even when we’re apart, it feels as though a part of my heart is always with you.”

One doesn’t have to be a parent, of course, to understand this. I’m pretty sure that when I was a child my heart walked around with my parents. Others have a significant attachment like this with a grandparent, an aunt or uncle, even a close family friend or teacher. Many forms of love create a bond where we feel this sense of always being together.

Buddhist teachings claim that, really, our hearts walk around outside of our bodies all the time because the the ego is an illusion. That there actually is no “me” or “you” - we are all a part of one great connection, hearts beating together, never to be severed.

The Rev. Dr. Cláudio Carvalhaes is Associate Professor of Worship at Union Theological Seminary. In his commentary on this week’s text from the Gospel of Mark, he read this story of John the Baptizer’s beheading through the lens of an immigrant, pairing the story from Jesus’s time with the treatment of today’s immigrants in the United States. [1]

Dr. Carvalhaes spins a new story that’s also an old story - a government operating out of fear of “the other,” prophets arising and standing up to name the wrongs they see, and the consequences of standing up against evil. In John’s case: beheading. In Dr. Carvalhaes’ story, another type of violence, as he names the separation of children and their families as a kind of dismemberment.

Carvalhaes tells the story of Jose, a five-year-old boy who recently arrived in Michigan alone, sent to live with a foster family. For days and days on end Jose could not sleep through the night and cried almost constantly. When he wasn’t crying, he was silent. He refused to take off the clothes that he arrived in. He carries around a stick figure drawing of his father everywhere he goes, sleeping with it under his pillow. Every single day he asks the foster parents he is staying with, “When will I see my dad?” And every single day they tell him the truth: they don’t know.

Carvalhaes says, “I, Cláudio, have a 6-year-old boy and I am an immigrant citizen, foreign and citizen at the same time. I could not read this biblical story of John the Baptist without thinking of stories like José and the loss of his father. To have José separated from his father is like having one’s head cut off. The story told in Mark 6 has no redemption. John the Baptist had his head cut off. That is how hundreds of families are now living, with their heads cut off, parents without children and children without parents.”

Hearts walking around outside of our bodies. Hearts cut off from one another. Dismembered. Beheaded.

The problem of evil is not new. The problem of leaders who trade in fear is not new. The problem of figuring out how to keep getting up and loving, living, resisting fear is not new.

Our sacred texts reach out to us from the distant past with stories of very real humans - other hearts walking around outside of our bodies across the centuries - humans who are not strangers to the problems and realities we live with in the 21st century.

I have had countless conversations over the past several years….in parking lots, in grocery store aisles, in my office, in this sanctuary….where the question is the same: “how do we keep going?”

When heads are rolling…..when evil threatens to overwhelm, how do we keep going? And it’s not just the macro issues on the national and global stage, of course. Violence and pain touch our lives in more intimate ways, too. The loss of those we love - through death or distance or change. The challenges of mental, physical, spiritual illnesses. The anxiety of living paycheck to paycheck - or no paycheck at all. Unhealthy relationships at home or at work that can leave us feeling like our heads are on the chopping block.

So many feel under siege and threatened so much of the time.

What can our faith offer us when heads are rolling? When fear looms, when pain is real….what does our faith offer?

We talk a lot around here about the doing of faith - the practices we engage in that shape our lives, the BEing the church together, the walking in the ways of Jesus as we try to follow him. When I talk to people about becoming members of our church I almost always begin with, “You’ve probably noticed that we don’t have a five-point belief system that you have to sign off on to be a member of our congregation. It’s less about what you believe - because we a group of people with diverse beliefs - and more about a sense of belonging in our faith community.”

One of the things I love about our tradition, the United Church of Christ, is that we don’t all have to believe the same things. The thing that ties us together is not similar beliefs but a covenantal commitment to supporting each other on the journey. I actually really love interacting with people who have different beliefs than me because it’s helps me examine my own understandings and expands my horizons.

In the church I grew up in we said the Nicene or Apostle’s Creed each week. And there was a sense, at least from my vantage point, that we were supposed to ALL believe everything in those ancient creeds. When I became a part of the UCC I learned that though the UCC is non-credal (meaning you don’t have to profess specific beliefs to belong) many congregation do say creeds of affirmations of faith in worship. In the UCC tradition, creeds are meant to be “testimonies, not tests.” That is, we testify to what God has done and is doing in our lives but we don’t use the creeds as some kind of litmus test for who’s in and whose out. (Spoiler: in God’s Realm, everybody’s in.)

There can be a tendency in more progressive faith traditions to shy away from pondering or talking about beliefs at all. Sometimes people will say things like, “What you believe doesn’t matter at all. It’s only how you act that matters.” I think it’s actually a little more complicated than that.

It seems to me that our beliefs and actions form a never-ending feedback loop. The things we hold to be true - the stories we tell ourselves - do influence our behaviors and actions. Similarly, the habits we practice from day to day, the things we DO directly influence our beliefs.

When heads are rolling…. When violence and fear threaten.... When life’s circumstances become unmanageable.... When pain and evil press in….those are times when our practices AND beliefs matter more than ever.

Because we live in a world where we are constantly being told stories. There are many competing narratives about the world and our lives. I think our faith provides a very real alternative to all those stories. Our beliefs - the things we each hold to be most true - can sustain us when the going gets tough...and then tougher.

The same wise woman who once told me that her heart walked around outside of her body said this on the first day I met her: “what’s your one true thing about God?”

We were gathered in a small group for CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education - that experience that many pastors have when they serve as an chaplain intern in order to learn more about providing pastoral care). Beth, our supervisor, asked us to go around the table and introduce ourselves by sharing our name and our “one true thing about God.” How’s that for an ice-breaker?

I sat with that question for a long time in silence. What came to me as my own most true thing about God - the one thing that exists even when I can’t find my way to anything else - the one thing that is enough to sustain me when heads are rolling and pain is all around was this: God is present.

As the creed from the United Church of Canada begins, “We are not alone. We live in God’s world.” Or as Jesus reminded us again and again, showing up as a human infant and refusing to let death have the final say: “Emmanuel: God is with us.” Or as the Holy Spirit showed when she arrived on breath and flame at Pentecost: “God keeps arriving and arriving and arriving and there’s nothing we can do to stop her.”

That’s my thing. That’s foundational for me. That’s been enough for me - even on my worst days. To know that I’m not alone and that God is present. Even when heads are rolling. Even when the grief is palpable. Even when fear threatens to crush my spirit. God is present.

That’s my testimony - my credo - what my faith has done for me. That is, of course, not to suggest it needs to be yours. You will have your own, of course. And these credos - these “I believes…” - aren’t forever. It’s not like you settle on one and it never changes. Maybe yours can’t be whittled down to one thing like Beth was forcing us to do. That makes sense. Ever notice how long the UCC’s Statement of Faith is? You can tell it was written by committee!

Whether or not you are currently consumed by anxiety and exhaustion, I invite you to spend some time later this week pondering your own credo. What sustains you when the going gets tough? When heads are rolling and fear becomes an oppressive force threatening to shut you down - how does your faith sustain you?

You may not have an answer. That’s okay, too. Jesus the Great Question-Asker never minded leaving a question hanging in mid-air. Sometimes sitting with the question is transformative by itself.

And then...if you’re feeling up to it, talk to someone else about it. Even if it’s awkward. Because our hearts are walking around outside of our bodies. We are all on this journey together. God is big enough to hold our questions, our credos, and everything in between. Thanks be to God.

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3736

“Neighbors: The Mutuality of Mr. Rogers”

Mark 6: 7-13

Sunday, July 8, 2018
First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

You can almost hear the groans across the centuries as the disciples receive Jesus’s instructions to go out, two-by-two, and cast out demons.

“Seriously, man? We can’t take anything with us? What about some protein bars? An extra phone charger? Nothing? How do we know that the Airbnb is going to have coffee for in the morning? You really expect to heal the sick and cast out demons without being properly caffeinated?”

But Jesus isn’t budging. He is adamant. They are to go out and make themselves totally reliant on the hospitality of strangers. Equipped and empowered to do this amazing work - following in the footsteps of their Teacher as they perform miracles - they are not given any special equipment. In fact, they’re not even allowed to take along any food, money, an extra shirt….not even a bag to carry their non-existent stuff in. Maybe this is just bit of what Paul was trying to get at when he told the Church at Corinth that “power is made perfect in weakness.”

There’s a bit of yin and yang at play here. As the disciples are strengthened and empowered to perform miracles, they are also reminded of their vulnerability and utter dependence on those they are going to serve.

And we are reminded of how discipleship is always rooted in mutuality - it’s never a one-way street. We are able to heal because we have experienced healing. We are comfortable sharing what we have because we remember those who have shared with us in our times of need. We offer a kind word to someone who is hurting because we know exactly how a small kindness can feel like a lifelife when you’re at the end of your rope. We offer hospitality to the strangers because we head the chorus from the Hebrew Bible, “remember, you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.”

In short, we extend ourselves in love because we, ourselves, have been loved.

This most basic understanding - that we are freed to love others because we have first been loved - is at the heart of everything Jesus taught. It’s why he ate with those that society had cast aside. It’s why he healed, even on the sabbath when it was frowned upon. It’s why he spoke in parables, again and again, and pointed the way to the Realm of God. Jesus, who was fully and intimately connected to the astounding and unconditional love of God, was transformed by that love and, from it, modeled what it looks like to reach out in love again and again and again.

The Rev. Fred Rogers, better known to all of us as Mister Rogers, also understood this in a profound way. Mr. Rogers frequently explained that the underlying idea of the neighborhood is “that if somebody cares about you, it’s possible that you will care about others.” [1]

Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood was the place many of us first learned about the power of hospitality, though our four-year-old selves would not have been able to name that fact explicitly. For children who grew up in the 70s, 80s, and 90s, Mr. Rogers was a consistently present, caring adult who modeled a life firmly rooted in the mutuality of giving and receiving love.

Every day at the same appointed time, Mr. Rogers would arrive in my living room, inviting me into his home. The routine was the same each and every day for over 30 years. Mr. Rogers would come in the door, singing the same joy-filled song and welcoming us into his home. He would change into a casual sweater and sneakers, making it clear that this was a place where we could all be comfortable and relaxed.

And then - settled in together - we would begin to talk. Was Mr. Rogers the first adult on television to ask children questions and then pause, leaving room for his neighbors at home to actually answer the questions? I’m not sure. But what I can tell you is that even when you watch episodes that are 40 years old, I find that I have to stop myself from answering his questions out loud. Rationally I know that he’s not actually listening to me through the TV but the openness and genuine curiosity that he exudes is so real I am almost fooled.

Fred Rogers was a pioneer in children’s television precisely because he understood the power of unconditional hospitality. He built a neighborhood where all were welcome. He spoke to children at a pace that was comfortable for him. Every aspect of the show was meticulously crafted to be accessible for Mr. Rogers’ neighbors. Those who worked closely with him have even written about what they call “Fred-ese” a meticulous nine-step process Mr. Rogers went through with each and every script to make sure the messages were accessible to children. [2]

I’m sure many of you have heard the story about the little girl named Katie who once sent Mr. Rogers a letter. Katie watched the show every day, relying on Mr. Rogers’ careful narration to carry the story because Katie was blind. With the help of her father, this five-year-old neighbor sent Mr. Rogers a letter saying that she sometimes got worried about his fish because he didn’t always mention it aloud that he was feeding them at the end of the show. From that day on, Mr. Rogers always briefly stated that he was feeding the fish at the end of each episode. An act of radical hospitality - extending ourselves for the other, going out of our way to make sure each and every neighbor feels welcome, secure, loved.  [3]

Our congregation, Iike so many faith communities, takes God’s call to offer hospitality very seriously. Each week we open our doors to numerous community groups who use our building - Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, and now Overeaters Anonymous meet here nearly every day of the week. We’ve been serving a meal to anyone who wants it every single Sunday night for almost twenty years. Rarely does a week go by that our showers go unused as Sandy, who works in our office, graciously greets those who come in need quick refreshment and shows them the way to the basement so they can get cleaned up.

Giving hospitality is a strength of this congregation. Thanks be to God.

Jesus, when talking to his disciples about hospitality, makes it clear it’s a two-way street. It’s not JUST about the acts of healing that we are called to give. It’s also about the vulnerability that Jesus calls us into as we, Christ’s followers, are called to RECEIVE hospitality from others - even complete strangers.

I think that call to learn how to graciously receive hospitality from others is rooted in the understanding that it is only by receiving love, warmth, encouragement that we can, in turn, give the same to others. This is why it’s so important to tend to the back-and-forth dance of giving and receiving care as we try to follow Jesus. We literally cannot extend ourselves, emptying ourselves for others again and again, UNLESS we are ALSO in the practice of being filled, again and again, by the Holy.

Fred Rogers must have had some profound spiritual practices that enabled him to extend himself again and again over the course of his lifetime. Although the internet is full of memes and stories that would canonize him, Mr. Rogers was not actual celestial being - at least not any more than any of us here in this room. He was a regular everyday person who got frustrated with his sons and annoyed by the constant pressures of his job. Like any of us, he struggled from time-to-time with doubts about whether his life was on the right track or what kind of legacy he might leave.

But even with all of these very normal human worries and cares, Mr. Rogers was in touch with some depth of love that enabled him to consistently give and receive hospitality and love.

I read a story on Twitter from a man named Anthony Breznican, who also grew up in Pittsburgh, like Fred Rogers. [4] Anthony grew up, like me and like many of you, graciously welcomed into Mr. Rogers’ home as a guest. He writes about a time, when he was in college and was going through some particularly difficult challenges in life. At a time when he was particularly filled with despair, he heard the familiar voice of his childhood friend, Mr. Rogers, singing softly from a TV screen that had been left on in the lobby of the building where he lived. Anthony was drawn to the TV and stood there, mesmerized as Mr. Rogers sang a song about what to do with the mad that you feel. Breznican said that watching the show felt like a “cool hand on a hot forehead.” That’s one of the simplest and best descriptions of what receiving unconditional love feels like, don’t you think?

Well, a few weeks later, Anthony got into an elevator and guess who was there? Mr. Rogers, of course. Anthony wasn’t quite sure what to do. He didn’t want to totally geek out but he also felt like the universe had perhaps placed them in this elevator together for a reason. As the doors opened, Anthony turned to Mr. Rogers and said, “Mr. Rogers, I don’t want to bother you but I just want to say thank you.” And Mr. Rogers looked at this young man, a stranger, and said, “Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?”

The two men share an embrace and make some small talk. Finally, Anthony shares that he recently stumbled upon the show again when he was going through a really hard time. And Mr. Rogers takes off his scarf and sits down on a window ledge. Anthony explains, “This is what sets Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says, ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’” And the two men sit there sharing stories about people in their lives that they’ve loved and lost  and how brutal this being human business can feel sometimes. Finally, as they prepared to part ways, Anthony apologized for taking up so much of his time, hoping he hadn’t made him late for some important appointment. Mr. Rogers responded, “Sometimes you’re right where you need to be.”

Sometimes you’re right where you need to be.

More likely than not, we’re always right where we need to be. But so often we forget. We are distracted and bothered by so much of the business of being human. We get so busy offering hospitality to others that we forget the importance of receiving it ourselves. Or we get so wrapped up in rushing off to the next thing that we forget to see the opportunity, right in front of us, to sit down on a window ledge and share a moment of human connection with a neighbor.

The disciples are called to go out into the world not just to offer God’s gifts but to RECEIVE God’s gifts. Jesus commands them to make themselves exquisitely vulnerable knowing that this is sometimes the ONLY way we will be talked into relying on the hospitality of our neighbors - when we REALLY need it.

It’s a dance of mutuality that we remember every time we sit down at the Table together - take, bless, break, give.

We love because God first loved us. Thanks be to God.

[1] https://youtu.be/BJDe2-kNs1Q

[2] https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2018/06/mr-rogers-neighborhood-talking-to-kids/562352/

[3] https://www.today.com/parents/6-touching-stories-about-mister-rogers-impact-fans-t124045

[4] https://mobile.twitter.com/Breznican/status/866862355040292864?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E866862355040292864&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.usatoday.com%2Fstory%2Fnews%2Fnation-now%2F2017%2F05%2F23%2Fmr-rogers-story-probably-make-you-cry%2F340111001%2F