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What an
exciting new venture this is. I can't help but be thrilled
with the number of people who have gathered. For some of you,
this is your first time in this church. For others, this is
your second or third service of the day. As for me, it's my
fourth. But who's counting? Besides, what a day it has been.
Looking
around the sanctuary, I don't see many of you who were here
at 8:15 this morning. Which means that you missed Russ Ives'
wonderful solo. Russ sang "If With All Your Hearts, Ye
Truly Seek Me" from Mendelssohn's Elijah. And Russ has
seldom sounded better. But he had a great song to start with.
Rumor has it that Karl Barth once identified Mozart as the
person he most hoped to see in heaven. But I trust that in
some corner of the life that is to come, God has made some
room for Mendelssohn.
If you
go down Woodward Avenue to Metropolitan United Methodist Church,
you will see the words Russ sang stenciled high above the
altar. The only problem is, the letters all run together.
No spacing separates them.
IfwithallyourheartsyetrulyseekmeyeshalleversurelyfindmethussaithyourGod.
I am not
sure why it was done that way. But, sooner or later, most
people catch on.
The idea
behind the text is that, at some time or another, most of
us will go looking for God. Not that we will do it continuously
... or devotedly. But, at some point in time, the quest will
capture and consume us. It will take some to mountaintops
and others to monasteries. Still others of us will go to places
where human need is raw, the better that we might find God
in the faces of our hurting neighbors.
But I
want to suggest something of a counter movement ... that God
goes looking, too. Moments ago I read a trio of texts. All
of them describe a seeking God. In the first text, Adam is
hiding from God in the garden. Leading God to ask: "Where
are you?" Unless I am mistaken, it is the first question
God poses in the Bible. He wants to know where Adam is.
The second
text quotes the psalmist:
Where
can I go from your spirit?
Where
can I flee from your presence?
If
I ascend to heaven, you are there.
If
I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If
I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even
there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
Imagine
that. Wherever we go, God will find us. Making our bed in
Sheol is a "death image." So is "taking the
wings of the morning and dwelling in the uttermost parts of
the sea." What is the psalmist saying? He is suggesting
that even if we die, God will hunt us down.
Then I
read a couple of stories from Luke 15. I could have read them
all, but a little taste is enough. A shepherd loses a sheep
and goes looking for it. A lady loses a coin and does the
same. And, in a story I didn't read, a boy leaves home and
heads for parts unknown. But his father never turns off the
porch light, even as we picture him standing in the doorway
scanning the horizon for a familiar face.
The connecting
thread seems to be obvious. Things get lost. People get lost.
And God organizes a search party. Even when we are indifferent
... or downright hostile ... to discovery.
Hiding
is sometimes deliberate. We wander off intentionally. I don't
know if kids play Hide and Seek anymore, but I played it every
night. Somebody was chosen to be "it." He then buried
his face in the big maple tree and counted to a hundred by
fives. Then he cried: "Here I come, ready or not."
And we were always ready. Meaning that we were well hidden.
I don't
remember all the variations of the game that followed. Either
he found us, or we somehow "got in free." But I
once got to thinking: "What if I hide so well that people
stop looking?" What if I am still hiding when everybody
else quits and goes home? Or quits to play baseball? Or starts
a new game without me? I picture myself wondering: "Aren't
you going to look anymore?" Leading me to ponder the
possibility that human beings crave discovery.
But hiding
is sometimes inadvertent. We don't plan to hide. We just wander
off. Still, God looks for us, even when we are unaware that
we have wandered.
John Wesley
called this "prevenient grace." In theological terminology,
it means: "What God does for me, prior to my awareness."
Let me illustrate. Picture taking your kid to the state fair
... to a giant amusement park ... or to a shopping mall. All
of a sudden, you become aware of the fact that your kid is
no longer by your side, but has wandered off. At first, you
do a quiet little search. You go up one aisle ... down another.
But when your ever-widening circles fail to lead to discovery,
you panic. Your search becomes sweaty and emotional. You make
inquiries. You enlist allies. You have them page your kid
over the loud speaker.
Eventually,
you are successful. You hug your kid. Then you scold your
kid. But your kid gives you the dumbest look in the world,
followed by the question: "What's all the fuss about?"
Your kid didn't even know he was lost. But there's nothing
unusual about that. Most of us don't.
But the
Bible seems to suggest that whether our hiding be deliberate
or inadvertent, God is a relentless seeker ("Here I come,
ready or not"). God will stop at nothing till we are
found.
*
* * * *
Picture,
if you will, an island. The island is relatively large, but
not so large so as to be inaccessible to all who dwell there.
Meaning that everybody on the island has the possibility of
knowing everybody else on the island. Not everybody does,
of course. But everybody could.
The island,
itself, is both balmy and breezy. Some describe it as "pleasant."
Others hold out for the word "idyllic."
Stories
suggest that people first came to the island following a series
of shipwrecks. But, if true, they happened a long time ago.
Nobody remembers (or talks about) them very much.
Life on
the island is both predictable and comfortable. Early settlers
took pains to civilize things. And classify things. Meaning
that all the birds were named ... as were the fish and animals.
Trees, too. A system of transmitting information was established
so that young minds could be trained. Thus, the island had
education. When disputes arose (as will happen from time to
time), a process was devised so that they might be resolved.
Hence, the island had adjudication. And there was a "fun
side" to life on the island, as evidenced by parties,
parades and even an occasional holiday. Meaning that the island
knew celebration. All told, a pretty nice place to live.
One day,
while walking the beach, a man spotted a bottle. Uncorking
it, he removed a piece of paper on which he found the words
"Help is coming." Not quite understanding what he
had read, he said nothing to anybody and threw the bottle
back into the sea.
Another
day, while walking the same beach, the same man spotted a
second bottle. This time the message read: "Help will
arrive soon." Puzzled, he confided in a friend.
Over time,
more bottles washed up on the sand. Not all at once. And not
every day. But enough, so that others began looking for them.
While the messages varied from bottle to bottle, there was
a common thread connecting them. Included were these:
On the
surface, the messages seemed absurd. People on the island
didn't really need help. But, over time, strange things began
to happen. As word got around, more people began to gather
on the beach. While they didn't have a word to describe what
they were feeling, there was a "curiosity" they
hadn't felt before ... a curiosity about life beyond the island.
They began to wonder what was out there ... who was out there
... and why "out there" cared about "here."
All of
which led to a collective musing ... not about "what
we got" ... but about "what we ain't got."
They began to wonder what they were missing. Was there something
they needed that they didn't have? They began to feel less
than complete.
Over time,
things became ritualized. While people still walked the beach
looking for bottles at odd times of the day and night, others
began to gather on a weekly basis. Some in the morning. Some
at night. Upon gathering to look for new messages, they found
it comforting to reread the old ones. All of which led to
a camaraderie (of sorts) that was deeper than any they had
previously experienced. Meaning that they began to support
each other ... look after each other ... mutually encourage
each other.
They began
to feel good about the fact that the world was larger than
they had imagined it to be. And the place where they lived
began to feel less and less like an "I land."
Some,
of course, didn't have any of these feelings. They paid little
attention to the messages. Instead, they satisfied themselves
by studying every detail of the bottles that brought them.
*
* * * *
My friends,
Russ is right. Seekers abound. Most mornings (and some evenings)
on the "I land," there are people who gather on
the beach to look for bottles, read messages and encourage
each other. Fortunately, bottle sightings are still frequent.
And messages aren't really that hard to find. In fact, one
washed up yesterday. Unrolling it ... and reading it ... it
had the feel of a lyric:
You'll
never know just how much I love you.
You'll never know just how much I care.
And
if I tried, I still couldn't hide my love for you.
You
ought to know, for haven't I told you so,
A
million or more times ...
Note:
This message was delivered at our first-ever "Sunday
Night Alive" service. This represents a new venture for
First Church and offers a fourth worship option each Sunday,
featuring a more "contemporary" format.
"Sunday
Night Alive" sermons may differ somewhat in style from
those preached on Sunday morning. They are delivered from
notes rather than a manuscript ... and from a platform rather
than a pulpit. Over time, a comfortable pattern will surely
emerge.
For my
story about the island, I am indebted to a wonderful book
by Eugene Peterson entitled Working the Angles: The Shape
of Pastoral Integrity.
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