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A Congregation Of The "Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen |
From April 27, 2008 When we were kids, the making and keeping of promises was nothing short of a sacred enterprise. "Promise? Swear to God?" one would ask. And the other would nod solemnly. "Cross my heart and hope to die." This promise making was serious stuff. There was the occasional friend, however, who crossed his fingers when he spoke. In my neighborhood, a friend who got caught doing that was labeled a fink and couldn't be trusted anymore. But even when we made promises in earnest, there were no guarantees. I meant it with all my heart when I promised my friend a horseback ride after school. But my horse had other ideas; I chased after Cookie for a whole hour but never got close enough to put a bridle on him. That day my friend and I both suffered, the promiser and the promised to. I think about promise-making whenever a bride and groom are exchanging vows. Those pledges not only speak to present intent, they serve as touchstones when times get hard. Still, even the most love-inspired wedding vows don't come with iron-clad guarantees. Surely on her wedding day Terry Schiavo's beloved meant it with all his heart when he vowed to stand by her side in sickness and in health. Few agonies compare to living with a broken promise. Which is why feel so moved when those promises are tested and fulfilled. Long ago there was a young man who, before he left on a long journey, handed a letter to the woman he loved but had known but a short while. "On my honor, I promise to return and marry you." And then he went on his way. Days became months and months became years. The townspeople snickered behind the young woman's back as she waited by the window for the man who had not even once written to her. Out of concern for her mental health and her future, the woman's friends urged her forget this man so that she might marry another. She refused emphatically. One day while she was looking through her desk, she discovered the letter her beloved had given her. She read it slowly, and then again, and her spirits lifted. In the days ahead she read and reread the letter many times. And each time the letter gave her tremendous comfort. Finally, after many years, the young man returned home. "I am grateful and also amazed that you are still waiting for me. How did you remain faithful during my long absence?" he asked. "Even you don't understand?" asked the young woman. "I believed in you because I had your word, in the letter." (Adapted from Stories for the Journey, p. 26, William R. White.) We are like that woman, only our letter isn't a letter; it's scripture, tradition, and our lived experience as individuals and as a faith community. This morning in John's gospel, we hear Jesus making promises to his disciples. As we consider what Jesus is saying, it is important to know the story behind the story. When he sat down to write this gospel, John was very intentional about placing Jesus' promises right here, right at the worst point in the story, which was the last night Jesus spent with his disciples. The community to whom John was writing was at the worst point in its story, too. They were losing hope, losing heart, and failing fast. You see, so much time had passed since the church had first came into being that almost anyone blessed to have known Jesus was now dead. The shining center of Jewish life--the Temple--had been destroyed by the Romans years earlier, an act that dealt a devastating blow to Jews of every stripe, including Jesus' followers. And on top of all this, Jesus had not yet returned in a blaze of glory, which left everyone wondering if Jesus had meant what he said when he promised he would come again. Believers felt pushed right up to the edge of despair and understandably began questioning their faith. So as he wrote the gospel, John pulled together the best of what Jesus had said throughout his ministry and put it here, in the fourteenth chapter, right as Jesus says his last good-byes to his dear disciples. This way all those broken-hearted believers, men and women who were just barely hanging on, could--like the woman in my story--hold fast to Jesus' word. Last week we heard Jesus promise his disciples that they would go on
to do greater things than Jesus himself. Not alone, mind you. And not by
their own force of will. But through prayer. Jesus pledged that anything
the disciples asked in his name he would do, so that God might be
glorified. And indeed, the disciples did pray and they did go on to greater things. And so did that beleaguered community John was writing for. And so have followers of every subsequent age who have dared to trust Jesus would keep this promise. Now today in the second half of his farewell speech, we hear Jesus making other important promises on the night he prepares his inner circle for what is coming next. "I will not leave you orphaned," Jesus vows. "I will not leave you orphaned." What a touching promise to make to men who, having just heard Jesus speak at length about his impending death, surely must have felt as helpless and abandoned as little boys thrown out onto the streets to fend for themselves in a dangerous world. Jesus knows his disciples well. "I will not leave you orphaned," he pledges. Remember now, our gospel writer has a very special reason for having Jesus offer this promise just before Jesus dies on the cross. He knows his community will easily identify with those first disciples. John knows his people are feeling alone and forsaken, left to their own devices in a threatening world. And he knows they desperately need Jesus' words of abiding relationship if they are going to conquer their doubt and move into the future with confident faith. We can understand their fears, I suspect. After several years of having our pews swell with newcomers, there is nervousness about our dwindling numbers. Others are concerned about other numbers; the ones in each week's bulletin that keep reminding us of the gap between our offering and the amount needed to support our God-given mission and ministries. If we are feeling a bit like orphans, it's understandable. And we have company. Not far from us down Buckner Lane, folks at Westminster Presbyterian are seeing what we are seeing and are feeling what we are feeling. They find themselves feeling anxious and maybe even a little abandoned. We have company across the Ohio River in southern Indiana, too. As many as 25% of our sister congregations there are wondering what happened to the God who, not all that long ago, seemed very present and busy pouring out blessing upon blessing. But not now. Mainline churches across the country are feeling what John's community of believers felt at the end of the first century. Indeed, some are so fraught with anxious worry that they have already started thinking about how they want their obituaries to read and are wondering who should call the electric company when there is no further need for power. Anxiety about survival can do one of two things to Christ's disciples. It can leave us as frantic and fearful as orphans, making us desperate and causing us to lose track of everything our faith calls us to. OR…it can catalyze our faith and help us reach out to Christ with renewed passion and purpose and find him among us in powerful and potent ways. "I will not leave you orphaned," Jesus says to his disciples in every age, promising his abiding presence even when he is absent physically. How is this possible? Jesus explains: "I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you." This was a promise Jesus didn't just utter; he delivered on it promptly. On the evening of his resurrection, he returned to breathe his Spirit into the lives of disciples who were grieving and trembling in fear. He kept his promise again at Pentecost when the Holy Spirit swept into the lives of believers gathered in Jerusalem, transforming them into the church, into Christ's own body. Even as this can be a concerning, even scary, time for us as a congregation, I believe it is also an exciting time, a Spirit-filled time. A time when Jesus intends to keep his promise. Remembering that the Chinese character for "crisis" is "dangerous opportunity," it seems to me that we have an opportunity right now to let Christ come into our midst in a way every bit as powerful for us as Pentecost was for believers who, until then, thought they would have to proceed under the power of memory alone. How can we seize the Spirit-opportunity at hand? I have two ideas about how we might help ourselves be open to the promises Christ makes today. Ways I intend to spell out for you in writing, in the form of a letter I intend to send this week, so that those who are not here today can be included. Very briefly, I intend to ask all who feel moved by the Spirit to participate with me in one or both of two pursuits. The first is foundational: pray in groups of three or more for the prospering of our church. The second pursuit is to explore together a short but important book by Rev. Paul Nixon. It may not have all the answers but it can, I believe, help move us from where we are right now to where the Spirit would have us be. Those who do not feel called to either of these pursuits can certainly support those who do with words of encouragement and with your own private prayers. Jesus has promised he will not leave us orphaned. He has promised us his abiding presence through the Holy Spirit. It is through the Spirit now that we hear him speaking us to now: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid." Let us pray… © Rev. Karen Winkel I am grateful for the help I received from Rev. Dr. Barbara K. Lundblad in her sermon "I Will Not Leave You Orphaned," from April 20, 2005, as posted on www.textweek.com the week of April 21, 2008. |
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