Isaiah 40:3-5
A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”
Today is the first Sunday of Advent. “Advent” means coming. And so today we remember that Jesus is coming. Of course, we look forward to Christmas and the story of Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, but we also remember that God comes to us in other ways, too. So during this season of Advent, we celebrate God’s love for us and we look for signs of God’s presence in our world.
The prophet Isaiah was a person who believed that God was coming, too. He lived a long time before Jesus, but he believed in God’s love for all people and he believed that it was important for the people to prepare for God’s presence in their lives.
What do you think it means to “prepare the way of the Lord”?
What signs of God’s presence have you seen lately?
Dear God, we light this first candle as we celebrate this season of Advent. Help us to prepare for your presence in our lives. As we watch and wait for you in the coming weeks, please help us follow Christ each and every day. Amen.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Don't Go to Church - Mark 12:41-13:2
Sermon on Sunday, November 15
He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
“Don’t Go to Church.” If they ever have a contest for “worst sermon title,” I think I just might have a chance with this one. “Don’t Go to Church”—not necessarily the message one expects to hear from a pastor. But I want to be clear right from the start this morning. I would sincerely like to invite everyone in this room, from this moment on, to stop going to church. Just stop. That being said, you are here now, so I would like for you to stay for just a few more minutes and at least hear what I have to say.
Today is Stewardship Sunday. And you know this works. Our leadership on the Session is asking each of us to fill out a giving card, indicating the amount of money we can commit to giving to the church in 2010. And in a few moments we’ll all be invited to come forward and place those cards in these baskets. Our theme this year is “Faith in God, Faith in our Future.”
So before I elaborate on my request that you stop going to church, I’d like to take a second to say something about money. Does that make you uncomfortable? A money talk? It does for most people. Psychologists today refer to money as “the last taboo,” and claim that clients in therapy will talk about most any topic before they’ll bring up the subject of personal finance. Real conversation about money—about how much we earn, how much we spend, how much we save, how much we waste, and how much we give away—is conversation that makes us at least a little squeamish.
But let’s talk about money for a bit. After all, Jesus talked a lot about money. In fact, did you know that if you added up everything Jesus said about money—about wealth, poverty, earning money, giving it away, about the virtues of having money, and about how loving it can be our downfall—if you added it all up, you would find that one-sixth of what Jesus had to say was about money. In fact, the kingdom of God is the only topic Jesus addressed more in the gospels—which makes it somewhat ironic that money is a subject we shy away from.
So what if we followed Jesus’ lead? What if we talked about money here in the church one-sixth of the time? Every sixth sermon, every sixth prayer, every sixth hymn. Actually, I’m not sure that we have too many hymns about money. But what if we talked about money that much? Well, for one thing, you really might stop going to church!
Our gospel story today is, among other things, about money. Jesus and the disciples are in the temple in Jerusalem. And Jesus does a curious thing. He sits down opposite the treasury and just watches as people present their offerings. Now that act alone would make us cringe, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine if Jesus were here with us in worship, and if right before the offering, I said, “It is now time to present our weekly tithes and offerings. Jesus himself will be coming around with a collection plate.” And then what if Jesus looked in each envelope, just to see what you put in. That’s sort of what took place in the temple that day in Jerusalem.
Many rich people put in large sums, the gospel says, but then a poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then Jesus called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”
The widow’s mite. This is a gospel story that plays nicely into the hands of a pastor trying to encourage a congregation to give more this year and to give generously. I would like to steer away from that in this sermon, however. After all, as you will recall, this morning I’m encouraging you not to go to church anymore, remember? So let me say this about Jesus’ encounter with the widow in the temple.
Jesus says of the widow, “She has put in everything she had. Everything.” And I can’t help but wonder if Jesus didn’t see something of himself in that woman. All that she had to give, she gave—and in just a few days in Mark’s gospel, Jesus, too, would give everything he had to give. In the grand scheme of things, the widow didn’t show up with much. She wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation was that her life would come and go without much of an impact. And in the grand scheme of things, Jesus didn’t show up with much, either. Born in a barn to unwed teenage parents, he wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation among many was that his life would come and go without much of an impact. But Jesus knew, as he watched that woman drop her coins into the treasury, that he too would give all he had.
We’re talking about stewardship today, and the best stewardship question we can ask is not, “How much can I part with next year?” The best stewardship question we can ask is, “What is my life worth? What is my life worth?” Have you ever asked yourself that question? The temptation is to reduce it all to a financial snapshot: savings, checking, mutual funds, bonds… But the question is not “What is my net worth?” but “What is my life worth.” There’s a huge difference, or at least there ought to be.
The question “What is my life worth?” begs us to remember that we only live once. Our chances in this life to love and be loved, to show kindness and to work hard—they’re the only chances we’ll get this side of heaven. And so I wonder: if you don’t ask yourself today, “What is my life worth?” then what are you waiting for? We’re all busy. We’ve all got too much to do—too much to think about, too many places to go, too many lists, too much on our schedule. But if we’re not entertaining the question, “What is my life worth?” then what are we doing? What’s all the busy-ness for?
Take a moment right now, please, and ask yourself the question, “What is my life worth?” Think about it. And if you start thinking about money, that’s ok—but don’t think about it too long. Move on to other things. Close your eyes if it helps. Ask yourself, “What is it all worth? What is it all for? What is my life worth?”
You don’t have to look at me, because I’m not going to say anything for a little bit.
“What is my life worth?” The temptation is always to answer that question with a list of things that we do. But friends, this is a question of being before doing. The question is not, “What do you do with all that time you have?” but rather, “Who are you and what is it all worth?”
Jesus looked to the widow as an example, not because of the amount she gave, but because she knew what her life was worth. And knowing what her life was worth, she gave it all accordingly. My earnest prayer for us, as a growing, vibrant family of faith, is that we do the same.
So, what time is it? Can someone look at his or her watch and tell me what time it is? (There are two things, by the way, that preachers should never do. The first is to tell the congregation not to go to church. The second is to actually ask people to look at their watches during a sermon!) Ok, so what time is it? Now, mark the time and remember. Starting now, on November 15th, 2009, no one here is ever going to church again! We’re not going to church anymore.
From here on out, we’re going to BE the church. Let me be clear. We’re still going to come here—to worship. But this place is not the church. We are the church. And we will still come here to worship—to be equipped and sent to be the church in the world. We will still come here to worship—to ask the question again and again: What is my life worth? And finding that answer in Christ and in Christ’s call in our lives, we will go from this place, strengthened to be the church in the world. There can be no greater act of stewardship—than to give all that we have in this way. Amen.
He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
“Don’t Go to Church.” If they ever have a contest for “worst sermon title,” I think I just might have a chance with this one. “Don’t Go to Church”—not necessarily the message one expects to hear from a pastor. But I want to be clear right from the start this morning. I would sincerely like to invite everyone in this room, from this moment on, to stop going to church. Just stop. That being said, you are here now, so I would like for you to stay for just a few more minutes and at least hear what I have to say.
Today is Stewardship Sunday. And you know this works. Our leadership on the Session is asking each of us to fill out a giving card, indicating the amount of money we can commit to giving to the church in 2010. And in a few moments we’ll all be invited to come forward and place those cards in these baskets. Our theme this year is “Faith in God, Faith in our Future.”
So before I elaborate on my request that you stop going to church, I’d like to take a second to say something about money. Does that make you uncomfortable? A money talk? It does for most people. Psychologists today refer to money as “the last taboo,” and claim that clients in therapy will talk about most any topic before they’ll bring up the subject of personal finance. Real conversation about money—about how much we earn, how much we spend, how much we save, how much we waste, and how much we give away—is conversation that makes us at least a little squeamish.
But let’s talk about money for a bit. After all, Jesus talked a lot about money. In fact, did you know that if you added up everything Jesus said about money—about wealth, poverty, earning money, giving it away, about the virtues of having money, and about how loving it can be our downfall—if you added it all up, you would find that one-sixth of what Jesus had to say was about money. In fact, the kingdom of God is the only topic Jesus addressed more in the gospels—which makes it somewhat ironic that money is a subject we shy away from.
So what if we followed Jesus’ lead? What if we talked about money here in the church one-sixth of the time? Every sixth sermon, every sixth prayer, every sixth hymn. Actually, I’m not sure that we have too many hymns about money. But what if we talked about money that much? Well, for one thing, you really might stop going to church!
Our gospel story today is, among other things, about money. Jesus and the disciples are in the temple in Jerusalem. And Jesus does a curious thing. He sits down opposite the treasury and just watches as people present their offerings. Now that act alone would make us cringe, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine if Jesus were here with us in worship, and if right before the offering, I said, “It is now time to present our weekly tithes and offerings. Jesus himself will be coming around with a collection plate.” And then what if Jesus looked in each envelope, just to see what you put in. That’s sort of what took place in the temple that day in Jerusalem.
Many rich people put in large sums, the gospel says, but then a poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then Jesus called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”
The widow’s mite. This is a gospel story that plays nicely into the hands of a pastor trying to encourage a congregation to give more this year and to give generously. I would like to steer away from that in this sermon, however. After all, as you will recall, this morning I’m encouraging you not to go to church anymore, remember? So let me say this about Jesus’ encounter with the widow in the temple.
Jesus says of the widow, “She has put in everything she had. Everything.” And I can’t help but wonder if Jesus didn’t see something of himself in that woman. All that she had to give, she gave—and in just a few days in Mark’s gospel, Jesus, too, would give everything he had to give. In the grand scheme of things, the widow didn’t show up with much. She wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation was that her life would come and go without much of an impact. And in the grand scheme of things, Jesus didn’t show up with much, either. Born in a barn to unwed teenage parents, he wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation among many was that his life would come and go without much of an impact. But Jesus knew, as he watched that woman drop her coins into the treasury, that he too would give all he had.
We’re talking about stewardship today, and the best stewardship question we can ask is not, “How much can I part with next year?” The best stewardship question we can ask is, “What is my life worth? What is my life worth?” Have you ever asked yourself that question? The temptation is to reduce it all to a financial snapshot: savings, checking, mutual funds, bonds… But the question is not “What is my net worth?” but “What is my life worth.” There’s a huge difference, or at least there ought to be.
The question “What is my life worth?” begs us to remember that we only live once. Our chances in this life to love and be loved, to show kindness and to work hard—they’re the only chances we’ll get this side of heaven. And so I wonder: if you don’t ask yourself today, “What is my life worth?” then what are you waiting for? We’re all busy. We’ve all got too much to do—too much to think about, too many places to go, too many lists, too much on our schedule. But if we’re not entertaining the question, “What is my life worth?” then what are we doing? What’s all the busy-ness for?
Take a moment right now, please, and ask yourself the question, “What is my life worth?” Think about it. And if you start thinking about money, that’s ok—but don’t think about it too long. Move on to other things. Close your eyes if it helps. Ask yourself, “What is it all worth? What is it all for? What is my life worth?”
You don’t have to look at me, because I’m not going to say anything for a little bit.
“What is my life worth?” The temptation is always to answer that question with a list of things that we do. But friends, this is a question of being before doing. The question is not, “What do you do with all that time you have?” but rather, “Who are you and what is it all worth?”
Jesus looked to the widow as an example, not because of the amount she gave, but because she knew what her life was worth. And knowing what her life was worth, she gave it all accordingly. My earnest prayer for us, as a growing, vibrant family of faith, is that we do the same.
So, what time is it? Can someone look at his or her watch and tell me what time it is? (There are two things, by the way, that preachers should never do. The first is to tell the congregation not to go to church. The second is to actually ask people to look at their watches during a sermon!) Ok, so what time is it? Now, mark the time and remember. Starting now, on November 15th, 2009, no one here is ever going to church again! We’re not going to church anymore.
From here on out, we’re going to BE the church. Let me be clear. We’re still going to come here—to worship. But this place is not the church. We are the church. And we will still come here to worship—to be equipped and sent to be the church in the world. We will still come here to worship—to ask the question again and again: What is my life worth? And finding that answer in Christ and in Christ’s call in our lives, we will go from this place, strengthened to be the church in the world. There can be no greater act of stewardship—than to give all that we have in this way. Amen.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Evotional - Cello
Today is Veterans Day. I ran across this poem a while back and thought I’d save it for today’s Evotional. It made me mindful of those among us who live as veterans of various wars—the sacrifices they made, the burdens they may still shoulder, and the images they continue to carry. Beyond that, the poem speaks to me of grief—the kind of real, authentic grief we carry when we lose someone close to us.
Blessings to you this week in all that is good and true.
Ben
“Cello” by Dorianne Laux
When a dead tree falls in a forest
it often falls into the arms
of a living tree. The dead,
thus embraced, rasp in wind,
slowly carving a niche
in the living branch, sheering away
the rough outer flesh, revealing
the pinkish, yellowish, feverish
inner bark. For years
the dead tree rubs its fallen body
against the living, building
its dead music, making its raw mark,
wearing the tough bough down,
moaning in wind, the deep
rosined bow sound of the living
shouldering the dead.
Blessings to you this week in all that is good and true.
Ben
“Cello” by Dorianne Laux
When a dead tree falls in a forest
it often falls into the arms
of a living tree. The dead,
thus embraced, rasp in wind,
slowly carving a niche
in the living branch, sheering away
the rough outer flesh, revealing
the pinkish, yellowish, feverish
inner bark. For years
the dead tree rubs its fallen body
against the living, building
its dead music, making its raw mark,
wearing the tough bough down,
moaning in wind, the deep
rosined bow sound of the living
shouldering the dead.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Stand by Me
Wow. Looking at the Youtube count, I guess I'm the 15,136,759th person to see this, and I'm glad I eventually got around to it. Enjoy!
Monday, November 2, 2009
In Touch - Matthew 20:29-34
Sermon on Sunday, November 1
As they were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. There were two blind men sitting by the roadside. When they heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, ‘Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!’ The crowd sternly ordered them to be quiet; but they shouted even more loudly, ‘Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!’ Jesus stood still and called them, saying, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, let our eyes be opened.’ Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they regained their sight and followed him.
As always I am grateful to be here—grateful to be in your company and grateful to be gathered with you in worship. Not that anyone is keeping track, but this is my 50th sermon with you here at First Presbyterian. (Ok, so maybe I’m keeping track.) But I just thought I’d share that little tidbit with you. This means that so far, you’ve heard me preach for somewhere around 12 or 13 hours. I guess we can all be grateful that these sermons come in installments.
I’ve got nothing special planned for my 50th sermon—nothing special other than another attempt to speak to that which is beyond words and to sense God’s direction in our midst. I am so often humbled by that task, and I am thankful that I am never doing it alone. What I mean by that is that on any given Sunday morning, I may come to this pulpit with a sermon prepared—a few things to say, a few explanations, some biblical historical context, some stories, sometimes a song. But you come too, with your own thoughts and questions and eagerness to know and be known. You arrive in this sanctuary on Sunday morning with your thinking and wondering, and that’s a key part of what happens here each week.
I remember preaching one day—not here, but somewhere else—and I was so anxious about my sermon. I had worked and worked on it, but no matter what I did, I just felt like the whole thing was way too heady and ethereal. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with any stories or concrete illustrations to share with the congregation. Going into that worship service, I thought to myself, “Well this has about got to be the most useless sermon ever.” But I preached it, feeling disappointed that I hadn’t somehow found something to connect what I was saying to everyday life.
And then after the service was over, people were filing out. “Nice sermon… Nice sermon…” But a man approached me and said something I will never forget. He said, “Ben, I want to thank you for that sermon. The way you used stories and examples to illustrate what you were saying really, really spoke to me.” I was stunned, of course—I hadn’t even used one story or example! Not even one! But I realized something that day. We make sermons together, you and me. Every time we gather in this place, we bring with us our own thoughts and stories, and we make sermons together.
I once read an article by Fred Rogers—you remember him, Mr. Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood? You may not know this, but Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister. The article was in a journal of preaching, and he was reflecting on a worship experience he’d had while visiting a church. He said that he was sitting there, listening to the sermon, and thinking to himself, “This just might be the absolute worst sermon I have ever heard in my entire life.” And it’s kind of funny to think of Mr. Rogers, of all people, saying something like this, but he said that the sermon that Sunday morning was simply terrible—painful to listen to and then completely forgettable.
Fred Rogers wrote, then, that when the sermon was over, the congregation stood to sing a hymn, and the woman who happened to be sitting next to him handed him a hymnal. And he turned and saw that she was weeping. He wondered for a second what he should say or do, but she leaned over and through her tears whispered to him, “Wasn’t that the best sermon you have ever heard in your life?” And so Mr. Rogers wrote that it was on that day that he learned that the distance between someone trying to preach the Word of God and a person in need is holy ground.
I think that’s true. All the distance between us is holy ground. And the holiness of this moment and the next is not dependent on what I have to say, but rather on who we are, on why we’re here, and on God’s presence, which certainly cannot be summed up in one sermon, let alone fifty.
Perhaps especially today we bring much with us that would make these moments holy and meaningful. Today is All Saints Day, and so we remember today those saints—those men and women who have died this past year, whose presence lingers with us and still shapes our living. In a few moments, we will read the list of names of those who we’ve lost since this time last year. And as we do, members of those families are invited to come forward and light a candle in memory of that person.
And then a little later, we will receive Communion. We’ll invite you to come forward, to share the Communion bread and cup, and then, if you wish, to also receive a special blessing of healing and wholeness.
And so today in the remembrance of loved ones, in the breaking of bread, and in blessings for healing, we acknowledge the holy ground on which we stand and live, and we give voice to God’s compassionate presence with us.
In our story from Matthew’s gospel this morning, Jesus embodies God’s compassionate presence. He meets two blind men on the road. They call out to him, “Lord, have mercy on us… Let our eyes be opened!” And then Scripture says that Jesus was “moved with compassion.” That’s the English translation, of course.
The Greek word for compassion here is “splagchnos.” It’s used a few times in the Bible to describe Jesus’ reaction to people who are suffering. And splagchnos means what it sounds like, I guess. Literally, it means “gut.” In ancient Greek culture, your guts and intestines were believed to be the source of primal or even violent passion, so when the gospel says that Jesus was moved with “splagchnos,” we should read that Jesus had a physical, bodily reaction!
Deep in his gut, Jesus felt their pain and wanted it to end now. Jesus didn’t look at the two blind men and think to himself, “Gosh, that’s awful—I hope I can help.” Rather, he was deeply, physically affected by their pain.
Maybe you know the feeling. That ache in the pit in your stomach that screams out for you to say something—to do something, anything, to relieve another’s suffering. It might help to know that Jesus felt that too. And it might help to remember that God has true splagchnos for us—true compassion in our own suffering.
We’re in the midst of our stewardship season, and I’m not going to say anything specific about stewardship today, except to say that this is all about stewardship: Our commitments to each other and this church—our passion for each other and this church.
How many times during the past year, as a family of faith, have we felt and reached out to each other with true compassion—with splagchnos? So many times. And that’s a big part of what it means to be a church family—to be tied together in true compassion for each other…
I want to close with a story. Anne Lamott, a writer, once took her then two‐year‐old son up to Lake Tahoe where they stayed in a rented condominium by the lake. That area around Reno is such a hotbed of gambling, that all the rooms are equipped with those curtains and shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and then sleep all morning.
One afternoon she put the baby to bed in his playpen in one of those rooms, in the pitch dark, and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard her baby knocking on the door from inside the room, and she got up, knowing he’d crawled out of his playpen.
She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he’d locked it. He had somehow managed to push the little button on the doorknob. He was calling to her from inside of that dark room, “Mommy, Mommy,” and Anne was saying to him, “Jiggle the door knob, darling,” and of course he couldn’t even see the knob to know what she was talking about.
After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother could not open the door‐‐and panic set in. He began sobbing. So his mother ran around like crazy trying everything possible, like trying to get the door to work, calling the rental agency where she left a message, calling the manager where she left another message, and running back to check in with her son every minute or so. And there, in this dark, locked room was this terrified little child.
Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to reach down slide her fingers underneath the door, where there were a few centimeters of space. She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. And somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time—in touch, on the floor, him holding her fingers in the dark.
Sometimes, that’s the only way God can reach us. Through the cracks in the darkness of our pain and fear, God finds a way to reach through, to be in touch.
Sometimes, that’s the only way we can reach each other. Through the cracks in the darkness of grief and loss—when we need healing the most, we find ways to reach through, to be in touch—to be family together. May God bless us with true compassion for each other and for our world. Amen.
As they were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. There were two blind men sitting by the roadside. When they heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, ‘Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!’ The crowd sternly ordered them to be quiet; but they shouted even more loudly, ‘Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!’ Jesus stood still and called them, saying, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, let our eyes be opened.’ Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they regained their sight and followed him.
As always I am grateful to be here—grateful to be in your company and grateful to be gathered with you in worship. Not that anyone is keeping track, but this is my 50th sermon with you here at First Presbyterian. (Ok, so maybe I’m keeping track.) But I just thought I’d share that little tidbit with you. This means that so far, you’ve heard me preach for somewhere around 12 or 13 hours. I guess we can all be grateful that these sermons come in installments.
I’ve got nothing special planned for my 50th sermon—nothing special other than another attempt to speak to that which is beyond words and to sense God’s direction in our midst. I am so often humbled by that task, and I am thankful that I am never doing it alone. What I mean by that is that on any given Sunday morning, I may come to this pulpit with a sermon prepared—a few things to say, a few explanations, some biblical historical context, some stories, sometimes a song. But you come too, with your own thoughts and questions and eagerness to know and be known. You arrive in this sanctuary on Sunday morning with your thinking and wondering, and that’s a key part of what happens here each week.
I remember preaching one day—not here, but somewhere else—and I was so anxious about my sermon. I had worked and worked on it, but no matter what I did, I just felt like the whole thing was way too heady and ethereal. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with any stories or concrete illustrations to share with the congregation. Going into that worship service, I thought to myself, “Well this has about got to be the most useless sermon ever.” But I preached it, feeling disappointed that I hadn’t somehow found something to connect what I was saying to everyday life.
And then after the service was over, people were filing out. “Nice sermon… Nice sermon…” But a man approached me and said something I will never forget. He said, “Ben, I want to thank you for that sermon. The way you used stories and examples to illustrate what you were saying really, really spoke to me.” I was stunned, of course—I hadn’t even used one story or example! Not even one! But I realized something that day. We make sermons together, you and me. Every time we gather in this place, we bring with us our own thoughts and stories, and we make sermons together.
I once read an article by Fred Rogers—you remember him, Mr. Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood? You may not know this, but Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister. The article was in a journal of preaching, and he was reflecting on a worship experience he’d had while visiting a church. He said that he was sitting there, listening to the sermon, and thinking to himself, “This just might be the absolute worst sermon I have ever heard in my entire life.” And it’s kind of funny to think of Mr. Rogers, of all people, saying something like this, but he said that the sermon that Sunday morning was simply terrible—painful to listen to and then completely forgettable.
Fred Rogers wrote, then, that when the sermon was over, the congregation stood to sing a hymn, and the woman who happened to be sitting next to him handed him a hymnal. And he turned and saw that she was weeping. He wondered for a second what he should say or do, but she leaned over and through her tears whispered to him, “Wasn’t that the best sermon you have ever heard in your life?” And so Mr. Rogers wrote that it was on that day that he learned that the distance between someone trying to preach the Word of God and a person in need is holy ground.
I think that’s true. All the distance between us is holy ground. And the holiness of this moment and the next is not dependent on what I have to say, but rather on who we are, on why we’re here, and on God’s presence, which certainly cannot be summed up in one sermon, let alone fifty.
Perhaps especially today we bring much with us that would make these moments holy and meaningful. Today is All Saints Day, and so we remember today those saints—those men and women who have died this past year, whose presence lingers with us and still shapes our living. In a few moments, we will read the list of names of those who we’ve lost since this time last year. And as we do, members of those families are invited to come forward and light a candle in memory of that person.
And then a little later, we will receive Communion. We’ll invite you to come forward, to share the Communion bread and cup, and then, if you wish, to also receive a special blessing of healing and wholeness.
And so today in the remembrance of loved ones, in the breaking of bread, and in blessings for healing, we acknowledge the holy ground on which we stand and live, and we give voice to God’s compassionate presence with us.
In our story from Matthew’s gospel this morning, Jesus embodies God’s compassionate presence. He meets two blind men on the road. They call out to him, “Lord, have mercy on us… Let our eyes be opened!” And then Scripture says that Jesus was “moved with compassion.” That’s the English translation, of course.
The Greek word for compassion here is “splagchnos.” It’s used a few times in the Bible to describe Jesus’ reaction to people who are suffering. And splagchnos means what it sounds like, I guess. Literally, it means “gut.” In ancient Greek culture, your guts and intestines were believed to be the source of primal or even violent passion, so when the gospel says that Jesus was moved with “splagchnos,” we should read that Jesus had a physical, bodily reaction!
Deep in his gut, Jesus felt their pain and wanted it to end now. Jesus didn’t look at the two blind men and think to himself, “Gosh, that’s awful—I hope I can help.” Rather, he was deeply, physically affected by their pain.
Maybe you know the feeling. That ache in the pit in your stomach that screams out for you to say something—to do something, anything, to relieve another’s suffering. It might help to know that Jesus felt that too. And it might help to remember that God has true splagchnos for us—true compassion in our own suffering.
We’re in the midst of our stewardship season, and I’m not going to say anything specific about stewardship today, except to say that this is all about stewardship: Our commitments to each other and this church—our passion for each other and this church.
How many times during the past year, as a family of faith, have we felt and reached out to each other with true compassion—with splagchnos? So many times. And that’s a big part of what it means to be a church family—to be tied together in true compassion for each other…
I want to close with a story. Anne Lamott, a writer, once took her then two‐year‐old son up to Lake Tahoe where they stayed in a rented condominium by the lake. That area around Reno is such a hotbed of gambling, that all the rooms are equipped with those curtains and shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and then sleep all morning.
One afternoon she put the baby to bed in his playpen in one of those rooms, in the pitch dark, and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard her baby knocking on the door from inside the room, and she got up, knowing he’d crawled out of his playpen.
She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he’d locked it. He had somehow managed to push the little button on the doorknob. He was calling to her from inside of that dark room, “Mommy, Mommy,” and Anne was saying to him, “Jiggle the door knob, darling,” and of course he couldn’t even see the knob to know what she was talking about.
After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother could not open the door‐‐and panic set in. He began sobbing. So his mother ran around like crazy trying everything possible, like trying to get the door to work, calling the rental agency where she left a message, calling the manager where she left another message, and running back to check in with her son every minute or so. And there, in this dark, locked room was this terrified little child.
Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to reach down slide her fingers underneath the door, where there were a few centimeters of space. She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. And somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time—in touch, on the floor, him holding her fingers in the dark.
Sometimes, that’s the only way God can reach us. Through the cracks in the darkness of our pain and fear, God finds a way to reach through, to be in touch.
Sometimes, that’s the only way we can reach each other. Through the cracks in the darkness of grief and loss—when we need healing the most, we find ways to reach through, to be in touch—to be family together. May God bless us with true compassion for each other and for our world. Amen.
Evotional - Eyes Peeled
A great quote to share with you today…
“I do not go to (worship) to make myself "better." I go because, in the dimmest reaches of my scattered, angst-ridden mind, there is something that wants me to get down on my knees and, in spite of my own suffering and all the suffering around me, give thanks. I go because I am beginning to believe that heaven is not in some other world, but shot through the broken world in which we live.”- Heather King, from her essay "Heaven and Earth"
We often strive to be “more faithful” in our lives, but it’s helpful to remember that faithfulness begins in the present. Our task following Jesus is not to wish yesterday could be undone, nor is it hoping that tomorrow will be better. What are we doing today? How are we thankful today? How can we be the church now, here, today?
As a good friend of mine says, “Keep your eyes peeled: God is doing something…now.”
Amen to that. And amen to all of us as we strive to live in faith today.
Peace,
Ben
“I do not go to (worship) to make myself "better." I go because, in the dimmest reaches of my scattered, angst-ridden mind, there is something that wants me to get down on my knees and, in spite of my own suffering and all the suffering around me, give thanks. I go because I am beginning to believe that heaven is not in some other world, but shot through the broken world in which we live.”- Heather King, from her essay "Heaven and Earth"
We often strive to be “more faithful” in our lives, but it’s helpful to remember that faithfulness begins in the present. Our task following Jesus is not to wish yesterday could be undone, nor is it hoping that tomorrow will be better. What are we doing today? How are we thankful today? How can we be the church now, here, today?
As a good friend of mine says, “Keep your eyes peeled: God is doing something…now.”
Amen to that. And amen to all of us as we strive to live in faith today.
Peace,
Ben
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