sermon by Torin Eikler
Matthew 22:34-46 Deuteronomy 34:1-12
As I have been reading commentaries and listserves about “the greatest commandment” these past few weeks, I have found myself caught up in several different conversations about some pretty fascinating stuff … well … fascinating to those of us who are professional exegetes. We get into the scriptures and dig around in there and look for all the little contradictions or images or translation issues and make a really big deal about how they change “the whole interpretation of a text” because that’s what it means to be a professional exegete. We’re people who are paid to nit-pick about the details of scripture.
This time around, my colleagues and I have been talking about questions like: “Isn’t it interesting that the Pharisees asking for the one greatest commandment in the law and Jesus gives two commandments as an answer?” and “Why would the lawyer ask for the greatest commandment when everyone would have known the answer? What was the catch?” and “What was so hard about Jesus’ question? If David was speaking by the Spirit, wouldn’t the Pharisees have viewed his words as a prophesy and assume that they would be words spoken to a Messiah who was still a son of David sometime in the future?” … and the perpetual discussion of the three types of love: eros, philia, agape or intimate love, brotherly love, and unconditional or self-less love.
If you think those are long and confusing questions, you should “listen” on the conversations! They are a bit tedious at times, and since none of us really have the answers, things tend to degenerate after a while. But it is easy – for me – to get lost in the discussions and forget the more basic questions that can make these verses difficult to understand. Thankfully, I was brought back to earth by a question from our bible study. I think it was Rich Fleisher who said, “How can we love God with all our heart and with all our soul and with all of our mind and still have room for anything else?”
Now there’s a question worth pondering.
A couple of years ago, Carrie told me a story. It was soon after Alistair was born, and we were struggling to figure out how to juggle the needs of two children. Personally, I think that’s the hardest transition to make. You go from having two adults to one child to having, quite often, two children and only one parent. (shake head in disbelief)
Anyway, Carrie had been talking with other mothers and passed on this modern folktale:
There was a young mother who was finding it hard to manage life with her new baby. She didn’t seem to be able to figure out what her child needed when he was crying, and she knew that she was supposed to be able to … perhaps through some kind of intuition. She was up all night, and with all the chores that needed to be done around the house, she didn’t get much sleep during the day. She was a wreck.
Then, one day, when she was walking her son past a local park, she saw a woman there with five children playing and a young baby in her arms. “How do you do it?!” she burst out, close to tears. “How do manage six kids?! I takes all my time with just one.”
The woman looked at the young mother and replied, “It doesn’t take any more time to raise six children than one.”
Love isn’t quite the same thing as time, though. Time comes in a fixed amount – here today and gone tomorrow. And it often feels like we don’t have enough time to get everything that we want or need to get done.
Love doesn’t march on. It doesn’t run out. It would make sense that if did. Then it would fit into our world of limited resources. But, that’s not the way of love. There always seems to be more of it. If you’re a parent … or a child, you know that instinctively. Do you love one parent more than another? One child? If a new person comes into your life, do they slowly take over space in your heart from somebody else? … Maybe the Grinch standing at the top of Mt. Strumpet would be a better image to describe the nature of love. Somehow, our hearts seem to grow and grow and grow to make space for more and more.
That makes it a little easier to answer Rich’s question. We can love God – at least with all our heart – and still have space to love others. But our heart is not all that God asks for, and when you add in those other two, it still feels a little intimidating. And here’s where those twisting conversations I can come in handy.
One of the good bits from this week’s trip through the listserve discussion is this. The word for “love” that Matthew uses in this text does not fit into that three tier system I mentioned above. It’s certainly not erotic love. But it’s not brotherly love or even completely self-less love as you might think (though agape comes the closest). In fact, there’s really not a Greek word that fits the situation. The Greek translators of two millennia ago just had to do their best with what they had.
“Love” in these verse isn’t even really a feeling in the way that we think of feelings, which may be what gave those translators so much trouble. This love is about commitment and dedication. In the Hebrew that Jesus was quoting, the word used is hesed which is translated in other places as “steadfast love,” and usually refers to God’s love for the chosen people. So, “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind” means to commit yourself to God in the same way God is committed to creation. And, “love your neighbor as yourself” means committing to yourself to your neighbors’ wellbeing (and to your own, by the way) in the same way that God is committed to the wellbeing of all humanity.
Now some of you, I’m sure, are thinking, “that doesn’t make it sound any easier. Now it’s not just love. It’s dedicating my whole self to God and then trying to find something left to others … not to mention myself.” (raise hand) You are not alone in that. Our spiritual history is filled with people who tried to balance these two commandments … tried and failed. King David, the disciples, Paul (at least in his early years), Jacob, Adam and Eve … from the very beginning, it seems, we have been struggling to find space in our hearts and our lives for God, ourselves, and our neighbors, and we tend to come down on one side of the equation or the other … usually ourselves.
And then there is Moses. For more than forty years he served God and the people with his whole heart, mind, and soul with only one or two lapses. He endured a lot of frustration and fear in the process, I imagine. He stood up to the greatest power of the time to demand the release of the slaves, after all. And, he led those same people through a barren land and took care of them despite their whining and complaining. He even stood face to face with God and argued for them when they had abandoned both God and him to worship gold.
I think, he must have found a good deal of joy in journey as well. How else would he have been able to keep it up for so long. He watched as the Hebrews grew up as a people of faith. He watched as his own family grew up on the journey. And, in the end, he got to see the promised land before he passed his work on.
Now, even the people who wrote his epitaph centuries later said that there has never been anyone else like Moses. The other great prophets and leaders don’t quite live up to his accomplishments. Some have signs and wonders nearly as impressive on their resumes. Some were granted visions of great power. Some worked tirelessly for the people. But none of them were able to put the whole package together. And that makes it hard to imagine that we normal folks would be able to come anywhere close.
On the surface of it, I think that’s right. But here’s another gem mentioned in passing in one of my conversations: “you cannot love God wholly without also loving your neighbor as yourself and vice versa.” What my colleague meant by that is that God’s deepest desire – God’s strongest commitment is to care for the well-being of all creation and especially humanity. If you dedicate yourself to God, you dedicate yourself to that over-riding purpose. And that means that you will be dedicated to your neighbors and yourself as well. On the flip side, if you commit your life to caring for your neighbors, you will be committed to following God’s will.
The hard part is making that commitment with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind because there really isn’t room for anything else. But, the is joy and fulfillment that comes from that decision reaches into every part of our lives.
Some of you, I’m sure, have heard me talk about getting baptized a year after I was married. It was a long time coming, and I was finally able to let go of my own need for control just long enough to go through with it at 29 years old. (I’m pretty sure that I’ve taken a firm grasp on that need for control again, but it’s not so bad as it used to be…. Two steps forward for one step back.)
When I went through the vows that I would be taking with pastor Alice, I realized that I needed to think about a few things … well just one thing actually. I was about to commit my life to God, but I had already made that same promise to my wife. I could not then – and I still can’t now – guarantee that living out that commitment would not take me away from her at some point. That’s not to say that it would break apart our marriage or threaten my love for her, but my vow to be there for her in every circumstance of our lives might have to be stretched if we were both truly called to different places for a time. Such things do happen when we strive to follow God’s will.
Ten years later, following God has led me to meaningful work and deepened my commitment to care for others. (I honestly don’t know if I would have made it this far as a parent if it weren’t for that extra something that keeps me from total breakdown in the midst of all the whining and everything else.) My life is richer and more joyful than I would have imagined.
I still wonder about that possibility, though. I still wonder if the day will come when one of us will be called across the country or across the globe. But, I also still remember the thought that the final bit of my worry. It was when I said that the God I believed in would only choose to separate us if there were no other way. The God I believe in would prefer to have loving couples stay together. It is better for them, and together – supporting each other – they can do more good than they could on their own. I still remember those words, and I still believe them.
It is not an easy thing to love God or to love others. But it does get easier when we stop trying to see them as two different things. Then, the struggle that we face is not in finding a balance. It is in making the decision to love … to love with a commitment care for the well-being of all humanity – to those closest to us and to those we only cross paths with for a moment. It is consecrating our lives to the service of God and neighbor each day, knowing that we will probably fall short, and then getting up the next day to try again.
It’s not easy, and it is all-consuming. But that is the path of discipleship, and if we follow … day after day after day, our lives are filled with a joy and a peace that come only to those who love.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Treasures in the Dark
sermon by Carrie Eikler
October 16
Psalm 139, Isaiah 45:1-9
When Sebastian was only about two months old, I went to our family physician for a routine physical. My whole body was weary: recovering from nine months of pregnancy, a first labor and delivery, lack of sleep. If you’ve ever gone through something like that you know that in that situation, you are acutely aware of your body, and somehow, completely numb to it at the same time. Everything feels rundown, pained, tired…but not at all your own
The physical was going normal until the doctor gently put his hands to my throat. And I noticed it. That thing you don’t want to see your doctors do. The furrowed brow. My stomach made itself known to me again. It flipped and tightened. He said, (and this is me reconstructing the conversation as best as I can, 5 years later) he said, “Ah. Yeah. I want you to get your thyroid checked out. It feels swollen.” Now the furrowed brow was mine. “So I want to get you in for an ultrasound. Now it could be hypo-thyroidism. And of course there is a chance that it could be cancer but thyroid cancer is very treatable…”
And by the time he said cancer, I was gone. Check. Me. Out of here. I thought, should I start writing my bucket list now, or talk to Torin about funeral arrangements? As I tried to shake these thoughts out of my head, my doctor said “Are you OK?”
Am I ok? Am I OK. You tell me I might have cancer, all be it apparently the best type of cancer to get if you’re gonna get it, and you ask me if I’m ok? No, thank you very much, I’m not ok.
Well, as reassuringly as he could be, he gently put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “I don’t think it’s the worst. But we just want to rule it out.” I couldn’t tell if the lump in my throat had grown painful from the recently contrived cancer imposed on it, or from trying to hold back the tears and swallow the fear.
A week later, I found out it wasn’t cancer. It wasn’t even hyper- or hypo-thyroidism. I have multinodule goiters on my thyroid that enflame from time to time.
Strangely, I’m glad I had that experience. And I’m glad I had it because of what came to me in my moment of fear. I didn’t want the ultrasound . I didn’t want to know if it was the worst or if it was nothing because I was terrified that it was the worst.
But then somehow my rational self that seemed to be put on hold enlivened, or maybe it was the wisdom of my mother who has faced and beat cancer…something told me: it is what it is, and the truth will set you free.
If it was cancer, it was cancer whether or not I called it cancer. Somehow, in that moment, that realization was more powerful to me than whatever outcome was ahead of me. And somehow that knowledge--whether it was my rational mind or my mother’s wisdom-- whatever it was…it was of God.
So I get these things checked out annually, a routine process of “ruling out the worst.” Or perhaps, as I’ve tried to think of it, confirming the best-- that being, confirming it is nothing I need to worry about. But once a year as I lay in that darkened room, and they squeeze that goop on my throat—just to make sure it’s nothing—and I still lose a little bit of confidence.
That experience of discovering these goiters was a rather “dark moment,” you might say. We use a lot of that language in Judeo-Christian tradition, don’t we? Dark-light. Lightness permeating the dark. Dispelling the dark. Dark is bad. So you can imagine my surprise when I approached today’s scripture with that general understanding and see something counter to that idea. Isaiah says something that’s challenges our thoughts. And the Israelites were probably pretty surprised by it too.
To begin with God is proclaiming that he has anointed Cyrus--in fact the Hebrew word that is used is the word for “Messiah.” Wait, Jesus is Messiah right? Well here, God is saying Cyrus is chosen, anointed.
Cyrus. He isn’t really one of those guys that come to our minds when we think about characters in the Hebrew Scriptures. He was a conqueror of Babylon, and he sent back the exiles to their homeland. Hooray! Shout the Israelites.
Oh, and he was a pagan—not one of the chosen people. “Ohhh, “groan the Israelites . That is…unexpected.
Cyrus did not know YHWH, though somehow he was part of YHWH’s larger plan for the Israelite people. Now that’s a whole other sermon, and really that’s not what surprised me.
What surprised me was this: “I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places so you may now that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.”
I find that to be a powerful and beautiful image: treasures of darkness, riches hidden in secret places…in this way you will know it is God, the one who calls you by name. Not, “treasures when the light comes to you,” or “riches in the brightness shining of the glorious day.” It echoes the Psalmists amazement of God being part and within the darkness around him, talking about God working intricately in the minute and unknown and newly forming parts of life. The dark places.
I have to say, this verse sat with me in such a profound way these last few weeks, that much of the time, I had to just let it work its own meaning out for me, knitting itself together in my heart, making itself known to me in the dark. It was something that the writer Sarah Ban Breathnach says “is experienced, not understood.” I struggled to think about how to speak on this thing that I profoundly felt. And then I came across this sermon, written by Charles Spurgeon, a popular English pastor from the mid-19th century.
Now I’m not one to find a lot of relevant joy in the sermons of dead 19th century British men. But something he preached to his congregation struck me. He preached these words on the eve of a solar eclipse in 1848. He said,
“All are expecting to-morrow to witness one of the greatest sights in the universe—the annular eclipse of the sun. It is possible that many of us shall have gone the way of all flesh before such a sight shall again be seen in this country and we are therefore looking for it with some degree of expectation….I shall note this morning, in addressing you, that since the Lord creates darkness and well as light; first of all eclipses of every kind are part of God’s way of governing the world; in the second place, we shall notice that since God creates the darkness as well as the light, we may conclude beyond all doubt that he has a design in the eclipse—in the darkness as well as the light; and then, thirdly, we shall notice that as all things that God has created, whether they be light or whether they be dark, have a sermon for us—no doubt there are some sermons to be found in this.”
How do we see God in the dark moments of our lives--the eclipses of every kind in our life? That’s the spiritual question this scripture has planted in me. As we have been exploring Appreciative Inquiry in Sunday School, and as I have been doing my own work with cultivating gratitude, it has become apparent to me that gratitude is seeking the divine in all things. Not always seeing the divine, but seeking the divine. In all things. The darkness and the light. The messiah within the pagan. All are part of me, says God. That’s how you know I am God.
But this does not mean that we have to fall into theologies that tell us God brings us bad things and there is an ultimate plan in it all. Or to put our arms around a friend who is hurting and say “There, there. I’m sure God has a reason for all of this.”
As your pastor, I will never do that to you, even if you want to hear it…because we sometimes do want to hear that God has a reason for bringing darkness into our lives because at least, God is remembering us. At least, we are part of God’s plan.
But God has promised us more than being part of some scheme. Some “plan.” God has promised to know us intimately, and before you stop me and say “ah! You said two weeks ago that we couldn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus,” because I know I may be sounding contradictory, I’m not talking about us knowing Jesus in a way we know a friend. I’m talking about God knowing us when we can’t even see God, or trust God, or know God. God naming us, claiming us, wrapping us in divine love even in the darkness.
The Israelites were forced to shift their thinking. God was claiming that God used an outsider, a pagan as a divine instrument. That had to be pretty hard to swallow. Why couldn’t God use one of us? At least, use someone we can appreciate and be grateful for? Not this…outsider.
What if we shifted our minds? What if we didn’t see darkness and light as different struggles. Or that we have to move through difficult times in order to be in the good times. What if we recognize that God is in the total eclipse? The passing of the moon and the brightening of the sun. That God is to be found in the lump in the throat, not just present when the diagnoses is good.
[pause]
Somehow, the dark has something for us. A treasure. A moment of touching God. Something richer than we could never seen when we are blinded by the brightness of the sun. It can be a dark experience that comes at you unbidden, or the dark part of your soul that you have wrestled with for a lifetime. In that darkness there is a treasure. In that secret pain you don’t want anyone to know about, there is something rich.
And as the psalmist recognizes, is in the dark places where life, and new life, grows--getting ready to be born. The dark is a fertile place, a womb of new life created, knitted, fashioned, and we can’t escape it, or the God who is in it.
Charles Spurgeon must have preached what was about an hour sermon, by the length of the text. And he concluded with this image, as he spiritually prepared his congregation to face the physical eclipse with a spiritual openness.
“—And let the Christian recollect another sermon. Let him take his child out, and when he takes him outside the door, and he sees the sun begin to grow dark and all things fade away, and a strange colour coming over the landscape, the child will begin to cry and say “Father the sun is going out, he is dying; we shall never have any light again.” And as gradually as the moon creeps over the sun’s broad surface and there remains only a solitary streak of light, the tears run down the child’s eyes as he says, We shall have to live in darkness;” and he would begin to weep for sorrow of heart. You would touch your child on the head, and say, “No, my little child, the sun has not gone out; it is only the moon passing across its face; it will shine bright enough presently.” And your child would soon believe you; and as he saw the light returning, he would feel thankful, and would believe what you had said, that the sun was always the same. Now, you will be like a child to-morrow. When you get into trouble you will be saying, “God has changed.” Then let God’s Word speak to you as unto children, and let it say, “No, God has not changed; with him is no variableness, neither shadow of a turning.”
There are treasures for you in your darkness. Riches hidden in secret and unwanted places. When you find them, you will know God.
October 16
Psalm 139, Isaiah 45:1-9
When Sebastian was only about two months old, I went to our family physician for a routine physical. My whole body was weary: recovering from nine months of pregnancy, a first labor and delivery, lack of sleep. If you’ve ever gone through something like that you know that in that situation, you are acutely aware of your body, and somehow, completely numb to it at the same time. Everything feels rundown, pained, tired…but not at all your own
The physical was going normal until the doctor gently put his hands to my throat. And I noticed it. That thing you don’t want to see your doctors do. The furrowed brow. My stomach made itself known to me again. It flipped and tightened. He said, (and this is me reconstructing the conversation as best as I can, 5 years later) he said, “Ah. Yeah. I want you to get your thyroid checked out. It feels swollen.” Now the furrowed brow was mine. “So I want to get you in for an ultrasound. Now it could be hypo-thyroidism. And of course there is a chance that it could be cancer but thyroid cancer is very treatable…”
And by the time he said cancer, I was gone. Check. Me. Out of here. I thought, should I start writing my bucket list now, or talk to Torin about funeral arrangements? As I tried to shake these thoughts out of my head, my doctor said “Are you OK?”
Am I ok? Am I OK. You tell me I might have cancer, all be it apparently the best type of cancer to get if you’re gonna get it, and you ask me if I’m ok? No, thank you very much, I’m not ok.
Well, as reassuringly as he could be, he gently put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “I don’t think it’s the worst. But we just want to rule it out.” I couldn’t tell if the lump in my throat had grown painful from the recently contrived cancer imposed on it, or from trying to hold back the tears and swallow the fear.
A week later, I found out it wasn’t cancer. It wasn’t even hyper- or hypo-thyroidism. I have multinodule goiters on my thyroid that enflame from time to time.
Strangely, I’m glad I had that experience. And I’m glad I had it because of what came to me in my moment of fear. I didn’t want the ultrasound . I didn’t want to know if it was the worst or if it was nothing because I was terrified that it was the worst.
But then somehow my rational self that seemed to be put on hold enlivened, or maybe it was the wisdom of my mother who has faced and beat cancer…something told me: it is what it is, and the truth will set you free.
If it was cancer, it was cancer whether or not I called it cancer. Somehow, in that moment, that realization was more powerful to me than whatever outcome was ahead of me. And somehow that knowledge--whether it was my rational mind or my mother’s wisdom-- whatever it was…it was of God.
So I get these things checked out annually, a routine process of “ruling out the worst.” Or perhaps, as I’ve tried to think of it, confirming the best-- that being, confirming it is nothing I need to worry about. But once a year as I lay in that darkened room, and they squeeze that goop on my throat—just to make sure it’s nothing—and I still lose a little bit of confidence.
That experience of discovering these goiters was a rather “dark moment,” you might say. We use a lot of that language in Judeo-Christian tradition, don’t we? Dark-light. Lightness permeating the dark. Dispelling the dark. Dark is bad. So you can imagine my surprise when I approached today’s scripture with that general understanding and see something counter to that idea. Isaiah says something that’s challenges our thoughts. And the Israelites were probably pretty surprised by it too.
To begin with God is proclaiming that he has anointed Cyrus--in fact the Hebrew word that is used is the word for “Messiah.” Wait, Jesus is Messiah right? Well here, God is saying Cyrus is chosen, anointed.
Cyrus. He isn’t really one of those guys that come to our minds when we think about characters in the Hebrew Scriptures. He was a conqueror of Babylon, and he sent back the exiles to their homeland. Hooray! Shout the Israelites.
Oh, and he was a pagan—not one of the chosen people. “Ohhh, “groan the Israelites . That is…unexpected.
Cyrus did not know YHWH, though somehow he was part of YHWH’s larger plan for the Israelite people. Now that’s a whole other sermon, and really that’s not what surprised me.
What surprised me was this: “I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places so you may now that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.”
I find that to be a powerful and beautiful image: treasures of darkness, riches hidden in secret places…in this way you will know it is God, the one who calls you by name. Not, “treasures when the light comes to you,” or “riches in the brightness shining of the glorious day.” It echoes the Psalmists amazement of God being part and within the darkness around him, talking about God working intricately in the minute and unknown and newly forming parts of life. The dark places.
I have to say, this verse sat with me in such a profound way these last few weeks, that much of the time, I had to just let it work its own meaning out for me, knitting itself together in my heart, making itself known to me in the dark. It was something that the writer Sarah Ban Breathnach says “is experienced, not understood.” I struggled to think about how to speak on this thing that I profoundly felt. And then I came across this sermon, written by Charles Spurgeon, a popular English pastor from the mid-19th century.
Now I’m not one to find a lot of relevant joy in the sermons of dead 19th century British men. But something he preached to his congregation struck me. He preached these words on the eve of a solar eclipse in 1848. He said,
“All are expecting to-morrow to witness one of the greatest sights in the universe—the annular eclipse of the sun. It is possible that many of us shall have gone the way of all flesh before such a sight shall again be seen in this country and we are therefore looking for it with some degree of expectation….I shall note this morning, in addressing you, that since the Lord creates darkness and well as light; first of all eclipses of every kind are part of God’s way of governing the world; in the second place, we shall notice that since God creates the darkness as well as the light, we may conclude beyond all doubt that he has a design in the eclipse—in the darkness as well as the light; and then, thirdly, we shall notice that as all things that God has created, whether they be light or whether they be dark, have a sermon for us—no doubt there are some sermons to be found in this.”
How do we see God in the dark moments of our lives--the eclipses of every kind in our life? That’s the spiritual question this scripture has planted in me. As we have been exploring Appreciative Inquiry in Sunday School, and as I have been doing my own work with cultivating gratitude, it has become apparent to me that gratitude is seeking the divine in all things. Not always seeing the divine, but seeking the divine. In all things. The darkness and the light. The messiah within the pagan. All are part of me, says God. That’s how you know I am God.
But this does not mean that we have to fall into theologies that tell us God brings us bad things and there is an ultimate plan in it all. Or to put our arms around a friend who is hurting and say “There, there. I’m sure God has a reason for all of this.”
As your pastor, I will never do that to you, even if you want to hear it…because we sometimes do want to hear that God has a reason for bringing darkness into our lives because at least, God is remembering us. At least, we are part of God’s plan.
But God has promised us more than being part of some scheme. Some “plan.” God has promised to know us intimately, and before you stop me and say “ah! You said two weeks ago that we couldn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus,” because I know I may be sounding contradictory, I’m not talking about us knowing Jesus in a way we know a friend. I’m talking about God knowing us when we can’t even see God, or trust God, or know God. God naming us, claiming us, wrapping us in divine love even in the darkness.
The Israelites were forced to shift their thinking. God was claiming that God used an outsider, a pagan as a divine instrument. That had to be pretty hard to swallow. Why couldn’t God use one of us? At least, use someone we can appreciate and be grateful for? Not this…outsider.
What if we shifted our minds? What if we didn’t see darkness and light as different struggles. Or that we have to move through difficult times in order to be in the good times. What if we recognize that God is in the total eclipse? The passing of the moon and the brightening of the sun. That God is to be found in the lump in the throat, not just present when the diagnoses is good.
[pause]
Somehow, the dark has something for us. A treasure. A moment of touching God. Something richer than we could never seen when we are blinded by the brightness of the sun. It can be a dark experience that comes at you unbidden, or the dark part of your soul that you have wrestled with for a lifetime. In that darkness there is a treasure. In that secret pain you don’t want anyone to know about, there is something rich.
And as the psalmist recognizes, is in the dark places where life, and new life, grows--getting ready to be born. The dark is a fertile place, a womb of new life created, knitted, fashioned, and we can’t escape it, or the God who is in it.
Charles Spurgeon must have preached what was about an hour sermon, by the length of the text. And he concluded with this image, as he spiritually prepared his congregation to face the physical eclipse with a spiritual openness.
“—And let the Christian recollect another sermon. Let him take his child out, and when he takes him outside the door, and he sees the sun begin to grow dark and all things fade away, and a strange colour coming over the landscape, the child will begin to cry and say “Father the sun is going out, he is dying; we shall never have any light again.” And as gradually as the moon creeps over the sun’s broad surface and there remains only a solitary streak of light, the tears run down the child’s eyes as he says, We shall have to live in darkness;” and he would begin to weep for sorrow of heart. You would touch your child on the head, and say, “No, my little child, the sun has not gone out; it is only the moon passing across its face; it will shine bright enough presently.” And your child would soon believe you; and as he saw the light returning, he would feel thankful, and would believe what you had said, that the sun was always the same. Now, you will be like a child to-morrow. When you get into trouble you will be saying, “God has changed.” Then let God’s Word speak to you as unto children, and let it say, “No, God has not changed; with him is no variableness, neither shadow of a turning.”
There are treasures for you in your darkness. Riches hidden in secret and unwanted places. When you find them, you will know God.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
A Matter of Life and Death
sermon by Torin Eikler
Matthew 22:1-14 Isaiah 25:1-9
Death is a part of life … right? All the organisms on this earth – be they plants or animals (that’s us) or fungi live for a time. Then their bodies wear out, and they simply stop … like a battery that has run down. (That’s how I’ve tried to explain it to my 5-year old at least). It’s normal. It’s expected. It’s the natural order of things … or so I learned in all my biology classes from 3rd grade up through the end of college.
Then, I went to seminary, and I was introduced to Eastern Orthodox theology just enough to threaten that assumption. I’m not going to get into the particulars of the argument – mostly because I didn’t ever really understand it myself. But, the gist of it is that when the scriptures say, “the wages of sin is death,” they mean it literally. In other words, death is absolutely not a natural part of creation, and if things had gone as planned, everyone and everything that had ever been alive would still be alive.
It’s a fantastic idea, and I mean that in both senses - a wonderful thought and a fantasy. I can deal with the idea that all of us and even all living things can exist together in a spirit realm where space and resources are not a concern. But, how on earth could we all fit if we never died? For me, death will always be a part of life. But … that doesn’t mean that death has to limit life.
When screen writer, Will Reiser, was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 25, he was devastasted and, as you might guess, he went into a profound depression. His life was over, and it had only just begun. So many of the things that he had dreamed of doing were still undone, and there was only about a 50/50 chance that he would make it through treatment to do them.
He went ahead with the treatment anyway – what else was there to do. And as he and his friend, Seth, talked about what he was going through, they found themselves retreating to the morbid humor that comes into life at its most absurd. Then, one day Seth made a joke about turning the whole experience into a movie – a comedy. Could it be done, they wondered. Could a young man’s struggle with cancer be treated with humor without demeaning the experience? The two of them took up the challenge though they were still unsure if Will would live to finish the project, and their movie “50/50” was recently released in theaters.
In a conversation on NPR, Joseph Gordon-Levitt – the actor who plays the lead in the film, spoke about the Will Reiser that he learned to know during filming. Throughout his many conversations with Will and Seth (Reiser survived by the way), he heard stories of the time before and the time after. Before his diagnosis, Gordon-Levitt said, Will seemed to a little shallow. He was kind of a whiny, wimpy guy who avoided problems and kind of ran away from difficult situations. But that’s not how I see him now. He is strong and confident, and he’s not at all afraid of the curves life throws him. It’s like before he was sick, he was living in fear of something – maybe of death, and now he’s not afraid anymore. He’s faced death and all those painful and embarrassing things he went through, and now he’s free to live without worrying about them.
There are other stories like that out there. Some of us know people who have lived through cancer and have seen those kinds of transformation ourselves. Sometimes it isn’t cancer that brings people to the point of overcoming the power of death, and sometimes people suffer through horrible things without ever finding the kind of new life that Reiser found. But, one truth that remains is that most of us who haven’t lived through a life and death experience still live with the weight of death sitting on our shoulders.
We get up each morning and get ready for the day, and as soon as we go out the door we start to limit ourselves out of a sense of fear. We go where we need to go and do what we need to do, but we are always on the lookout for threatening people or dangerous environments. We shy away from unfamiliar situations because they might not be safe, and who knows what we miss out on? Who knows what our lives would be like – what fascinating people we might meet, what good we could do in the world, or what new joys we might find – if we were free to live without the threat of pain or sorrow overshadowing our lives?
And yet, that’s the invitation we have received from God through Christ. We have been promised that death has no power over us – that “[God] will swallow up death forever, [and] wipe the tears from all faces.” That doesn’t necessarily mean that death won’t come to our bodies, but it does mean that death and suffering and pain and mourning no longer have the power to interrupt or limit the joy of our living if we don’t give them that power ourselves.
Another fantastic thought… because I know – we all know that it’s not as simple as just deciding to refuse death and suffering their due. At least it doesn’t feel that way … ever. But that is the promise that God has made. The banquet that Christ invites us to enjoy is the feast of freedom and joy laid out for us even in the shadow of our enemies … if we find the way to truly accept.
The parable Martin read us from the gospel of Matthew is full of people who declined the invitation (some even killing the messengers) to the banquet and people who accepted … and one who accepted but was thrown out of the feast for wearing the wrong clothes. Most of us understand instinctively that all that is an allegory – that the story and the people in the story represent something other than themselves. Many scholars connect it with the story of the chosen people who heard prophets call them to live according to God’s plan and still refused the invitation. So, the apostles were sent to others who accepted. But some of them came to God in name only, and they were ultimately thrown out of the party because their lives showed that they had not really accepted the invitation.
Books of sermons have been written on that poor soul who showed up to the party in the wrong clothes. They typically go something like:
Woe to those who have rejected the salvation of Christ for they will be destroyed. But it will be worse for those who pledge themselves to Jesus with their words but not in their hearts. On the day of judgment, they will be cast out into eternal suffering. Guard against that sin and keep your hearts pure, and you will be counted among the faithful who have truly accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior and you will have a place at the King’s banquet in heaven.
Imagine an active member of some congregation – a grandmother – has just heard that sermon. The judgment she hears so loud and clear brings tears to her eyes. She has a son who was baptized as a youth and is now a self-proclaimed atheist. Her granddaughter has yet to be baptized. The wonderful woman who lives next to her and has been a good friend as they age together is Jewish. And her doctor – who may be the best listener she has ever known – is a practicing Hindu. She may on the list of heavenly guests, but all of these people – so many people she loves – are going to hell. How can she be happy in heaven without them?
As the service works towards its close she drifts in and out, thinking about her friends and, especially her granddaughter. She wonders if she could save them. She reaches back to remember when she accepted the invitation, and she can’t remember what moved her all those years ago. She does remember, though, the many recommitment services she has attended where she pledged to imitate Christ, and she wonders to herself as she stands for the closing hymn: “What would Jesus do if it was his friend, his doctor, his grandchild (or maybe his mother)?”
What would Jesus do?
I don’t know, and neither does that grandmother. But she remembers the way that Christ suffered and died for those he loved. And she decides in that moment that she would gladly give up her own life – be it this life or the next – so that her granddaughter would find a place in heaven. And, she thinks, for her son as well. And for her neighbor or even her doctor if it came to that.
I think that earnest grandmother has understood this parable better than many of us do most of the time. I don’t think that it’s all about the final judgment day and who has accepted claimed Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. There very well may that kind of a judgment day coming, but I have trouble picturing a merciful God and the loving Christ who died to save all people throwing people into enteral grief and darkness because they have don’t have the right clothing or because they have not said the right words. I believe that, ultimately, all humanity and all creation will be reconciled with God. But, there is still a salvation that can be ours now and here, not just in the great by and by.
I think that’s what Isaiah speaks so eloquently about. That’s the banquet we have been invited to. And that’s the invitation that both Will Reiser and our faithful sister have accepted. They have found joy and hope in the midst of the shadow of death. They have discovered, as the Apostle Paul puts it, that death no longer has any sting for those who put on Christ. Death has no power to weigh down our spirits or to limit our lives if have already chosen to serve God … to follow the path laid out for us by Christ … the path that leads to the banquet table of the Son.
Much has been made this week of the death of Steve Jobs who touched the lives of people all over the world in both profound and shallow ways. Toward the end of his life, as he struggled with pancreatic cancer, he spoke to a group of students at their graduation and he said:
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
That’s a profound statement. It puts a practical twist on the “live each day as if it’s your last” platitude that we hear so often. Yet it is still not very far from something you might find in a self-help book.
Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth – a leader of the Civil Right Movement – also passed away this week with much less notice. He was remembered for inspiring the marchers in Birmingham even after receiving several severe beatings and being imprisoned. In one letter to those who accused him of being a rabble-rousing outsider he wrote:
I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns: and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco-Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom far beyond my own hometown.
Another profound thought – one that is inspiring in the power of its commitment – a power that sustained and strengthened Rev. Shuttlesworth through the pain, suffering, and fear of his experiences in Birmingham.
If we put those two thoughts together, we might come up with our own way to sum up what Paul was trying to say in his letters. We might say each morning, “Today I am a follower of Christ. Whatever I am asked to do, I will do with joy. Wherever I am asked to go, I will go without fear. For I belong to Christ and death has no power over me.”
And I think we’d be amazed at what our lives would look like if said that … and really meant it.
Matthew 22:1-14 Isaiah 25:1-9
Death is a part of life … right? All the organisms on this earth – be they plants or animals (that’s us) or fungi live for a time. Then their bodies wear out, and they simply stop … like a battery that has run down. (That’s how I’ve tried to explain it to my 5-year old at least). It’s normal. It’s expected. It’s the natural order of things … or so I learned in all my biology classes from 3rd grade up through the end of college.
Then, I went to seminary, and I was introduced to Eastern Orthodox theology just enough to threaten that assumption. I’m not going to get into the particulars of the argument – mostly because I didn’t ever really understand it myself. But, the gist of it is that when the scriptures say, “the wages of sin is death,” they mean it literally. In other words, death is absolutely not a natural part of creation, and if things had gone as planned, everyone and everything that had ever been alive would still be alive.
It’s a fantastic idea, and I mean that in both senses - a wonderful thought and a fantasy. I can deal with the idea that all of us and even all living things can exist together in a spirit realm where space and resources are not a concern. But, how on earth could we all fit if we never died? For me, death will always be a part of life. But … that doesn’t mean that death has to limit life.
When screen writer, Will Reiser, was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 25, he was devastasted and, as you might guess, he went into a profound depression. His life was over, and it had only just begun. So many of the things that he had dreamed of doing were still undone, and there was only about a 50/50 chance that he would make it through treatment to do them.
He went ahead with the treatment anyway – what else was there to do. And as he and his friend, Seth, talked about what he was going through, they found themselves retreating to the morbid humor that comes into life at its most absurd. Then, one day Seth made a joke about turning the whole experience into a movie – a comedy. Could it be done, they wondered. Could a young man’s struggle with cancer be treated with humor without demeaning the experience? The two of them took up the challenge though they were still unsure if Will would live to finish the project, and their movie “50/50” was recently released in theaters.
In a conversation on NPR, Joseph Gordon-Levitt – the actor who plays the lead in the film, spoke about the Will Reiser that he learned to know during filming. Throughout his many conversations with Will and Seth (Reiser survived by the way), he heard stories of the time before and the time after. Before his diagnosis, Gordon-Levitt said, Will seemed to a little shallow. He was kind of a whiny, wimpy guy who avoided problems and kind of ran away from difficult situations. But that’s not how I see him now. He is strong and confident, and he’s not at all afraid of the curves life throws him. It’s like before he was sick, he was living in fear of something – maybe of death, and now he’s not afraid anymore. He’s faced death and all those painful and embarrassing things he went through, and now he’s free to live without worrying about them.
There are other stories like that out there. Some of us know people who have lived through cancer and have seen those kinds of transformation ourselves. Sometimes it isn’t cancer that brings people to the point of overcoming the power of death, and sometimes people suffer through horrible things without ever finding the kind of new life that Reiser found. But, one truth that remains is that most of us who haven’t lived through a life and death experience still live with the weight of death sitting on our shoulders.
We get up each morning and get ready for the day, and as soon as we go out the door we start to limit ourselves out of a sense of fear. We go where we need to go and do what we need to do, but we are always on the lookout for threatening people or dangerous environments. We shy away from unfamiliar situations because they might not be safe, and who knows what we miss out on? Who knows what our lives would be like – what fascinating people we might meet, what good we could do in the world, or what new joys we might find – if we were free to live without the threat of pain or sorrow overshadowing our lives?
And yet, that’s the invitation we have received from God through Christ. We have been promised that death has no power over us – that “[God] will swallow up death forever, [and] wipe the tears from all faces.” That doesn’t necessarily mean that death won’t come to our bodies, but it does mean that death and suffering and pain and mourning no longer have the power to interrupt or limit the joy of our living if we don’t give them that power ourselves.
Another fantastic thought… because I know – we all know that it’s not as simple as just deciding to refuse death and suffering their due. At least it doesn’t feel that way … ever. But that is the promise that God has made. The banquet that Christ invites us to enjoy is the feast of freedom and joy laid out for us even in the shadow of our enemies … if we find the way to truly accept.
The parable Martin read us from the gospel of Matthew is full of people who declined the invitation (some even killing the messengers) to the banquet and people who accepted … and one who accepted but was thrown out of the feast for wearing the wrong clothes. Most of us understand instinctively that all that is an allegory – that the story and the people in the story represent something other than themselves. Many scholars connect it with the story of the chosen people who heard prophets call them to live according to God’s plan and still refused the invitation. So, the apostles were sent to others who accepted. But some of them came to God in name only, and they were ultimately thrown out of the party because their lives showed that they had not really accepted the invitation.
Books of sermons have been written on that poor soul who showed up to the party in the wrong clothes. They typically go something like:
Woe to those who have rejected the salvation of Christ for they will be destroyed. But it will be worse for those who pledge themselves to Jesus with their words but not in their hearts. On the day of judgment, they will be cast out into eternal suffering. Guard against that sin and keep your hearts pure, and you will be counted among the faithful who have truly accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior and you will have a place at the King’s banquet in heaven.
Imagine an active member of some congregation – a grandmother – has just heard that sermon. The judgment she hears so loud and clear brings tears to her eyes. She has a son who was baptized as a youth and is now a self-proclaimed atheist. Her granddaughter has yet to be baptized. The wonderful woman who lives next to her and has been a good friend as they age together is Jewish. And her doctor – who may be the best listener she has ever known – is a practicing Hindu. She may on the list of heavenly guests, but all of these people – so many people she loves – are going to hell. How can she be happy in heaven without them?
As the service works towards its close she drifts in and out, thinking about her friends and, especially her granddaughter. She wonders if she could save them. She reaches back to remember when she accepted the invitation, and she can’t remember what moved her all those years ago. She does remember, though, the many recommitment services she has attended where she pledged to imitate Christ, and she wonders to herself as she stands for the closing hymn: “What would Jesus do if it was his friend, his doctor, his grandchild (or maybe his mother)?”
What would Jesus do?
I don’t know, and neither does that grandmother. But she remembers the way that Christ suffered and died for those he loved. And she decides in that moment that she would gladly give up her own life – be it this life or the next – so that her granddaughter would find a place in heaven. And, she thinks, for her son as well. And for her neighbor or even her doctor if it came to that.
I think that earnest grandmother has understood this parable better than many of us do most of the time. I don’t think that it’s all about the final judgment day and who has accepted claimed Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. There very well may that kind of a judgment day coming, but I have trouble picturing a merciful God and the loving Christ who died to save all people throwing people into enteral grief and darkness because they have don’t have the right clothing or because they have not said the right words. I believe that, ultimately, all humanity and all creation will be reconciled with God. But, there is still a salvation that can be ours now and here, not just in the great by and by.
I think that’s what Isaiah speaks so eloquently about. That’s the banquet we have been invited to. And that’s the invitation that both Will Reiser and our faithful sister have accepted. They have found joy and hope in the midst of the shadow of death. They have discovered, as the Apostle Paul puts it, that death no longer has any sting for those who put on Christ. Death has no power to weigh down our spirits or to limit our lives if have already chosen to serve God … to follow the path laid out for us by Christ … the path that leads to the banquet table of the Son.
Much has been made this week of the death of Steve Jobs who touched the lives of people all over the world in both profound and shallow ways. Toward the end of his life, as he struggled with pancreatic cancer, he spoke to a group of students at their graduation and he said:
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
That’s a profound statement. It puts a practical twist on the “live each day as if it’s your last” platitude that we hear so often. Yet it is still not very far from something you might find in a self-help book.
Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth – a leader of the Civil Right Movement – also passed away this week with much less notice. He was remembered for inspiring the marchers in Birmingham even after receiving several severe beatings and being imprisoned. In one letter to those who accused him of being a rabble-rousing outsider he wrote:
I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns: and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco-Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom far beyond my own hometown.
Another profound thought – one that is inspiring in the power of its commitment – a power that sustained and strengthened Rev. Shuttlesworth through the pain, suffering, and fear of his experiences in Birmingham.
If we put those two thoughts together, we might come up with our own way to sum up what Paul was trying to say in his letters. We might say each morning, “Today I am a follower of Christ. Whatever I am asked to do, I will do with joy. Wherever I am asked to go, I will go without fear. For I belong to Christ and death has no power over me.”
And I think we’d be amazed at what our lives would look like if said that … and really meant it.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Knowing Christ
John 13:21-30, Philippians 3:4-14
World Communion Sunday
I have a friend, Karen, who is a dog trainer. Actually she prefers “canine behavior counselor”, or something along those lines. She spoke with us at Parents’ Place this week, the preschool here in this church, and her topic was on dog safety. Namely, how to prevent dog bites in little children.
I think she was sort of nervous to talk with us. She kind of rambled and after a brief introduction about what she was going to talk about she stopped and said, “So, now I’m going to tell you why you should listen to what I have to say” and she told us about her experience in dog training, all very impressive, I should add. And she concluded that part like she began: “So that’s why you want to listen to what I have to say.”
Now I know what she really was getting at was, “you might be wondering about me, about my credentials, my experience and education. Well let me tell you...” But in what seemed to be a bit of a stressful situation, she just put it out there: this is why you should listen to what I have to say.
Paul is kind of doing the same thing in his letter of the Philippians. He wants to remind they understand his credentials, why they should listen to what he has to say.
And it’s pretty impressive, at least, he wants it to appear impressive. He has done everything right. Every religious observation-check. The family connection-check. The right, go-get-em attitude-double check. In fact, zealous-check you might say. His experience of righteousness in the eyes of the spiritual elite-- impeccable. Knowledge about the law—stunning.
But it is all rubbish. Rubbish. Don’t be impressed, my dear Philippians (he might say) with all this experience, this great wealth of knowledge. Rather be impressed that that I know it is all worthless.
A couple of weeks ago, Donna Mast lead us in a study of Philippians, so you may remember from her sermon that it is believed that Paul was in prison when he wrote it. It’s hard for us to really relate to Paul in this condition. Many of us probably find it hard to relate to Paul anytime.
But in the midst of whatever turmoil he was in here in prison, there is something he says in this letter that I think many of us can relate to: I want to know Christ. I want to know Christ. Many of us are here because…we want to know Christ.
A few years ago I preached a sermon here, and then again at Waynesburg University, about that tricky question many of us have been asked, or asked others, sometime in our Christian walk: the question is “Are you saved?” Well, as I think about it now, I realize that’s not the common icebreaking question among well intentioned and curious Christians. What’s more common these days is the question “Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ?”
I admit, I don’t like being asked that question, because I don’t really know what people mean by it. And there have been times when I’ve feigned spiritual stupidity and asked… “what exactly do you mean by that?” and then the situation has changed as if somehow I have then caused the awkward moment by my question. And by asking for clarification I don’t mean to act spiritually superior—for we know, it’s all rubbish anyhow, however great we think we are spiritually—but I really want to know! I want to know because this language is all over contemporary Christianity and because the Bible isn’t the most consistent when it comes to giving us concrete information on it.
John Suk, in his book “Not Sure: A Pastor’s Journey from Faith to Doubt” thinks that what people mean when they say personal relationship with Jesus is that they relate to Jesus very much like they relate to other people they know. And he wonders, is that really possible? Can we apply what we have known about our human relationships—about where we have tried and succeeded and failed in human relationships—can we compare that with our connection to Christ? Should we?
Now, Biblically-speaking, what scripture says about personal relationships is a mixed bag, really. There is strong evidence that God is person-like. God is the shepherd, the one who restores our soul. In Isaiah, God promises Israel that when it passes through waters or fire “I will be with you.” And as we Brethren and Mennonites love to remember, Matthew has Jesus saying where two are three are gathered, he is there. Like, another one of the gang.
[pause]
John Suk reminds us that in addition to these, the Bible also speaks about God’s distance, his absence in our lives. In the gospel of John, Jesus says “I am with you for only a short time, and then I go to the one who sent me. You will look for me, but you will not find me; and where I am you cannot come.” He says “Do not hold on to me, for I am going to my Father.” It sounds like Jesus is saying that we cannot have a personal relationship with him, or even his Holy Spirit whom he sent in his absence…we can’t have a relationship with him that is anything like what we know of relationships.
And yet, Paul wants to know Christ.
But I don’t think he was looking to know Christ in a best-friend, chummy-chummy sort of way. He wants to share with Christ, not his deepest secrets, but share with Christ in Christ’s sufferings. He wants to know Christ by walking in his sandals. He wants to know by understanding the power by which Christ willingly suffered and died. He wants to know by becoming like him. And becoming like Christ is more than simply having a relationship with him.
It is certainly not a formula for what we would call a healthy human relationship. In fact, if those we are in relationship with compelled us to do things we are called to do by Christ’s teaching, we’d hopefully see them as pretty messed up relationships. Give all we have, even the coats off our backs? Become vulnerable to the point of death? Accept the willing death of that other person as good for us, our souls? Thank goodness I don’t have personal relationships like that.
But I’m not Paul. I can’t say I’m eager to experience Christ’s sufferings the way he did on the cross. But then, Paul said while that might be his goal (all judgment from us aside), it’s not where he is. Whatever relationship he wants with Christ, it’s still in the making. In fact, when Paul says I want to know Christ, I hear more power in the word want than I hear in the word know.
I want to know Christ. And it’s that want that drives, that presses him, that strains him forward. It’s the wanting that strengthens faith. And faith—faith is a subject the Bible is consistent on.
[pause]
Maybe this knowing that Paul is speaking of, or at least, this wanting to know, doesn’t start with suffering, but with his service. May it doesn’t start at the cross. Maybe it starts at the table. I’ve heard that in many Latin American countries, one’s family is defined by who is sitting at your dinner table.
Maybe, if you want to know Christ, you should look at who is at his table. Who’s there that he called his family, and can you welcome them into your heart? And I’m not simply referring to prostitutes and tax collectors-they get called out enough.
But at his table is the one who betrays him. The one who denies him. The ones who hide from him, who lie about him, who do violence in his name, the one who would take his own life, the one who doubts him… essentially, the ones who had a personal relationship with him…but never really knew him, and somehow drastically failed him.
And the thing about this table, is he didn’t just let them come. He fed them. He washed their feet. He blessed them into knowing him. And they do. Eventually. Certainly not right away. Not even after having amazing, mind blowing, spiritual experiences with him. Was the rest of it all rubbish, as Paul says? I don’t know? Did their personal relationships help them really know Christ at the table? Did it take them to the cross with him?
I think when we strive for a personal relationship, we of course do it out of our desire to know Christ. Many times language of closeness and relationship are the only things that keep me striving, connecting. It is what I use in my prayers in my cries to God.
But I agree with that pastor, John Suk: if we’re not careful we will unknowingly replace striving for faith with an easier experience of applying our own standards of relationship onto Christ, whose relationship with us is defined like none other we can fathom, or replicate.
Can you come to the table if you do you have a personal relationship? Of course. Just don’t be disappointed once you know about what Christ is offering here.
Can you come to the table if you don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus? I’d say that’s the best place to be…
Ultimately, it is the place to be if you want.
It is the place to start if you want to know Christ.
World Communion Sunday
I have a friend, Karen, who is a dog trainer. Actually she prefers “canine behavior counselor”, or something along those lines. She spoke with us at Parents’ Place this week, the preschool here in this church, and her topic was on dog safety. Namely, how to prevent dog bites in little children.
I think she was sort of nervous to talk with us. She kind of rambled and after a brief introduction about what she was going to talk about she stopped and said, “So, now I’m going to tell you why you should listen to what I have to say” and she told us about her experience in dog training, all very impressive, I should add. And she concluded that part like she began: “So that’s why you want to listen to what I have to say.”
Now I know what she really was getting at was, “you might be wondering about me, about my credentials, my experience and education. Well let me tell you...” But in what seemed to be a bit of a stressful situation, she just put it out there: this is why you should listen to what I have to say.
Paul is kind of doing the same thing in his letter of the Philippians. He wants to remind they understand his credentials, why they should listen to what he has to say.
And it’s pretty impressive, at least, he wants it to appear impressive. He has done everything right. Every religious observation-check. The family connection-check. The right, go-get-em attitude-double check. In fact, zealous-check you might say. His experience of righteousness in the eyes of the spiritual elite-- impeccable. Knowledge about the law—stunning.
But it is all rubbish. Rubbish. Don’t be impressed, my dear Philippians (he might say) with all this experience, this great wealth of knowledge. Rather be impressed that that I know it is all worthless.
A couple of weeks ago, Donna Mast lead us in a study of Philippians, so you may remember from her sermon that it is believed that Paul was in prison when he wrote it. It’s hard for us to really relate to Paul in this condition. Many of us probably find it hard to relate to Paul anytime.
But in the midst of whatever turmoil he was in here in prison, there is something he says in this letter that I think many of us can relate to: I want to know Christ. I want to know Christ. Many of us are here because…we want to know Christ.
A few years ago I preached a sermon here, and then again at Waynesburg University, about that tricky question many of us have been asked, or asked others, sometime in our Christian walk: the question is “Are you saved?” Well, as I think about it now, I realize that’s not the common icebreaking question among well intentioned and curious Christians. What’s more common these days is the question “Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ?”
I admit, I don’t like being asked that question, because I don’t really know what people mean by it. And there have been times when I’ve feigned spiritual stupidity and asked… “what exactly do you mean by that?” and then the situation has changed as if somehow I have then caused the awkward moment by my question. And by asking for clarification I don’t mean to act spiritually superior—for we know, it’s all rubbish anyhow, however great we think we are spiritually—but I really want to know! I want to know because this language is all over contemporary Christianity and because the Bible isn’t the most consistent when it comes to giving us concrete information on it.
John Suk, in his book “Not Sure: A Pastor’s Journey from Faith to Doubt” thinks that what people mean when they say personal relationship with Jesus is that they relate to Jesus very much like they relate to other people they know. And he wonders, is that really possible? Can we apply what we have known about our human relationships—about where we have tried and succeeded and failed in human relationships—can we compare that with our connection to Christ? Should we?
Now, Biblically-speaking, what scripture says about personal relationships is a mixed bag, really. There is strong evidence that God is person-like. God is the shepherd, the one who restores our soul. In Isaiah, God promises Israel that when it passes through waters or fire “I will be with you.” And as we Brethren and Mennonites love to remember, Matthew has Jesus saying where two are three are gathered, he is there. Like, another one of the gang.
[pause]
John Suk reminds us that in addition to these, the Bible also speaks about God’s distance, his absence in our lives. In the gospel of John, Jesus says “I am with you for only a short time, and then I go to the one who sent me. You will look for me, but you will not find me; and where I am you cannot come.” He says “Do not hold on to me, for I am going to my Father.” It sounds like Jesus is saying that we cannot have a personal relationship with him, or even his Holy Spirit whom he sent in his absence…we can’t have a relationship with him that is anything like what we know of relationships.
And yet, Paul wants to know Christ.
But I don’t think he was looking to know Christ in a best-friend, chummy-chummy sort of way. He wants to share with Christ, not his deepest secrets, but share with Christ in Christ’s sufferings. He wants to know Christ by walking in his sandals. He wants to know by understanding the power by which Christ willingly suffered and died. He wants to know by becoming like him. And becoming like Christ is more than simply having a relationship with him.
It is certainly not a formula for what we would call a healthy human relationship. In fact, if those we are in relationship with compelled us to do things we are called to do by Christ’s teaching, we’d hopefully see them as pretty messed up relationships. Give all we have, even the coats off our backs? Become vulnerable to the point of death? Accept the willing death of that other person as good for us, our souls? Thank goodness I don’t have personal relationships like that.
But I’m not Paul. I can’t say I’m eager to experience Christ’s sufferings the way he did on the cross. But then, Paul said while that might be his goal (all judgment from us aside), it’s not where he is. Whatever relationship he wants with Christ, it’s still in the making. In fact, when Paul says I want to know Christ, I hear more power in the word want than I hear in the word know.
I want to know Christ. And it’s that want that drives, that presses him, that strains him forward. It’s the wanting that strengthens faith. And faith—faith is a subject the Bible is consistent on.
[pause]
Maybe this knowing that Paul is speaking of, or at least, this wanting to know, doesn’t start with suffering, but with his service. May it doesn’t start at the cross. Maybe it starts at the table. I’ve heard that in many Latin American countries, one’s family is defined by who is sitting at your dinner table.
Maybe, if you want to know Christ, you should look at who is at his table. Who’s there that he called his family, and can you welcome them into your heart? And I’m not simply referring to prostitutes and tax collectors-they get called out enough.
But at his table is the one who betrays him. The one who denies him. The ones who hide from him, who lie about him, who do violence in his name, the one who would take his own life, the one who doubts him… essentially, the ones who had a personal relationship with him…but never really knew him, and somehow drastically failed him.
And the thing about this table, is he didn’t just let them come. He fed them. He washed their feet. He blessed them into knowing him. And they do. Eventually. Certainly not right away. Not even after having amazing, mind blowing, spiritual experiences with him. Was the rest of it all rubbish, as Paul says? I don’t know? Did their personal relationships help them really know Christ at the table? Did it take them to the cross with him?
I think when we strive for a personal relationship, we of course do it out of our desire to know Christ. Many times language of closeness and relationship are the only things that keep me striving, connecting. It is what I use in my prayers in my cries to God.
But I agree with that pastor, John Suk: if we’re not careful we will unknowingly replace striving for faith with an easier experience of applying our own standards of relationship onto Christ, whose relationship with us is defined like none other we can fathom, or replicate.
Can you come to the table if you do you have a personal relationship? Of course. Just don’t be disappointed once you know about what Christ is offering here.
Can you come to the table if you don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus? I’d say that’s the best place to be…
Ultimately, it is the place to be if you want.
It is the place to start if you want to know Christ.
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