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I
look for him every year. Without fail, I look for him. I scan
the crowd, looking for him, hoping to glimpse him. I wonder if
you look for him, too? You know that guy. I know you’ve seen
him. That guy who sits behind the goalpost every year at the
Super Bowl, holding his John 3:16 sign high above his head
during every field goal attempt. It just wouldn’t be the
Super Bowl without that guy. He’s become a part of the game,
a part of the tradition. I look for him every year, and every
time I find him, or some variation of him, I see this
messenger, this visible sign of God’s presence, bobbing up
and down in the vast ocean of human chaos.
You
know, sometimes I think that in the chaos and frenzy of our
lives, it wouldn’t hurt to have our own little guy following
us along, raising up his sign every time we looked his way,
reminding us that God is here in the midst of the chaos that
is our lives and our world. More and more people are asking
that question, you know: “Where is God in all of this?”
Before the dawning of our modern times—before time and space
were measured in nanoseconds and kilobytes, back in the days
when change was slow enough to chart and our lives had some
degree of predictability—back then, people were asking the
“why” questions. “Why did God allow this to happen? Why
am I in this mess? Why is the world the way it is?” Back
then, people figured if they just knew the “why” of life,
they could fix their problems and dig themselves out of their
messes.
But
it’s a different world now. Things move much faster. Life is
becoming increasingly more complex. It sometimes feels as
though we’re on one of those globes in our junior high
geography class, and while the teacher isn’t looking, the
class clown is spinning it as fast as he can, and all we can
do is hold on. The truth is that we don’t have much time or
energy anymore to ask the “why” questions, to dig
ourselves out of our messes.
It
may be, too, that we are afraid of the answers. We are a
generation that has discovered that answers, propositions and
proofs can neither save us nor satisfy our deep longing for
the personal experience of spiritual community and a
connection with something much bigger than ourselves. Sometime
in the last twenty years, we’ve come to realize that we are
not after answers; we’re after God. We’re not after
religion; we are after a relationship. In this world we are
now experiencing, we mostly just want to know where to find
God and where to find community in God, so we can stay
grounded and connected while the world goes on spinning.
That’s
what I like about this guy at the big game. Somehow he seems
to be saying, “Hey, God is here.” On what has become the
biggest media and marketing day of the year, this man’s
little sign seems to say, “Hey, if you’re looking for
something bigger, bigger than this…well you don’t have to
look too far. God is here. Here for you. Here for me. Here for
us. Don’t miss it.”
I
have looked for him at other times, you know. This guy with
the sign. This guy with the reminder of God’s presence. I
bet you have, too. When those towers fell that early fall
morning, I looked for that guy. I wanted him to be there
holding that sign. I wanted to know where to look for God in
the chaos and mess of that morning that will forever be
implanted in my consciousness.
When
those students got killed in Columbine,
I scanned the crowd looking for him that day. I needed
to see him. That guy with the sign. In the midst of this
tragedy, this unexplainable tragedy, I needed to know where to
look for God, where to find a presence of peace in the midst
of the inexplicable.
I
looked for him again. This time it was in the hospital room. I
looked for him there that day. In that hospital, as I stood
there with my family and watched my mother continue to lose
her battle with cancer, I looked for him. I searched for him.
I needed him. I needed to be able to find God in the midst of
this. I wasn’t looking for answers. All the answers seemed
trite. I looked for him that day, for that little guy with the
sign, because I was looking for arms big enough to hold me
when I would no longer be able hold myself. Not why, but
where. So I needed someone to be there holding that sign.
Jesus
seemed to know that people would be asking the “where”
questions. Where can I find hope? Where can I find meaning for
my life? Where I can I get some help to raise my kids? Where
can I get some support? Where can I find some encouragement?
Where can I find some refuge from a world that seems to be
falling down around me? Where? Where are you, God, in the
midst of all this?
In
the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells his disciples that they
are to be the ones to help people answer those
all-too-important “where” questions. He tells his
disciples that they would become the little guys with signs,
showing up in the midst of the chaos and frenzy of the world
to say: “God is in the
mix…all the time.” (You remember that saying: “God is
good…all the time. All the time…God is good.” I think we
should add a new one: “God is here…all the time. All the
time…God is here.”)
And
to help his disciples understand what it would mean to be the
ones to point out that presence, he used the metaphor that
came from our reading this morning. Hear him again and know
that he is talking to us.
You
are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be
hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel
basket, but on the lamp stand, and it gives light to all in
the house. In the same way, let your light shine before
others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to
your Father in heaven.
We
are the light of the world. You, me, everyone here today—we
are the light of the world. Two things are important about
this light. First and foremost, we are light. We are
light. It is what we are. Right now. Already. In this very
moment. Jesus does not say, “Maybe one day—if you work
hard enough, and pray hard enough, and fast often enough, and
put in so many hours of community service—then maybe, just
maybe, you can be a light to the world.” No, he says, “You
are the light of the world.” We are not challenged to try
harder to be light, we simply are light. We have not been
called to more self-exertion. You can’t make yourself be
something you already are. You are the light of the world. We
are called to accept this identity, to embrace it, to live
into it. This is not a call to do more or be more. It is a
reminder of something that is already true. We are the light
of world. It is within us, within each of us—the very
presence that can bring light in the midst of darkness, hope
in the midst of despair, healing in the midst of brokenness.
We have it within us. It’s already there. “Just let your
light shine,” Jesus tells his followers. Be what you are. Be
the light of the world.
The
second important thing to take note of here is that light does
not belong to us. Jesus does not say,
“You are the light of the church.” He does not say,
“You are the light to your small group.” He does not say,
“You are the light to your contemporary worship community
that gathers at six o’clock on Sunday in the summer and five
o’clock the rest of the year.” No, Jesus says to us that
we are the light of the world. To the whole world.
The
light that is already in us belongs not to us, but to those
around us. In this moment, Jesus puts to rest once and for all
every notion that religion is purely a personal or private
endeavor. We are the light of the world, and therefore our
faith is to be lived out in the context of the world. Jesus
calls his disciples, both then and now, into the active
mission of letting their light shine for all. The metaphor is
clear here. We, the church, have already been lit with the
light of God in Christ. We have not been lit for own sakes,
but for the sake of the world—and not to bring glory to
ourselves, but to bring glory to God.
We
are the light of the world. “I know that’s some great
preachin’ there, preacher, but what does it mean? Really
mean? How are we supposed to let our light shine for the
world?” Well, let me suggest that we can do it in simple but
yet profound ways. We begin to be the light of the world by
letting the light of God shine in the midst of places that we
live our lives. Invite people to share in the light that
emanates so brightly from within this place. Letting that
light shine means so much more than just inviting them to
church. It means that if you have someone in your life who is
going to have surgery and they don’t have a faith community
to connect to or a pastor to pray with, let me know and I will
call, on our behalf. I will let them know that we are praying
for them and we will help them see where God is in their
midst. If you have friends or coworkers who are going to get
married but don’t have a church and a pastor to help them on
this important day, bring them here so we can show them the
life, love and hospitality of this caring community of faith.
If a friend is going through a tough sickness or difficult
loss, let us know so we can organize meals and support so they
know that God is in the mix with them. After all, we are the
light of the world. So let’s not hide it, but let it shine.
Now
think about it for a minute. Jesus says that we are light. The
light of the world. That is a very powerful metaphor he uses
to describe what our lives are to be like. Imagine if we were
to turn out every light in the CLC and cover every window.
Darkness would envelop everything. In the darkness, we would
not know where to go. We wouldn’t be sure of where the exits
were. We wouldn’t know which to way to move, in which
direction we should step, or where to find others who might be
able to help us out of the darkness. There, in the midst of
the darkness, we would become unaware of others around us and
we might find ourselves feeling more and more isolated, more
and more alone.
If
we suddenly found ourselves in a dark CLC, light would become
a precious commodity. If a person had even the smallest of
lights, a penlight or a key light, the whole situation would
change. That single ray of light would literally pierce the
darkness. We would all be able to see it. We would all be able
to make our way towards it. For the first time, we might
believe that we could get out of the dark place. That single
light would become a beacon of hope. It would reassure us that
we weren’t in darkness alone and that if we could get to the
light or follow the light, then maybe, just maybe, together we
could get ourselves out of the darkness.
The
truth of the matter is that many people in this world know the
darkness all too well. For many people in our communities and
neighborhoods, it is as if somebody just shut off the lights.
All they know from one day to the next is darkness. In this
darkness of their lives, they feel as if they have no place to
go, no exit to escape the darkness. In the darkness of their
pain and struggles, they don’t know which way to move or in
which direction they should step. They begin to feel more and
more isolated, more and more alone, more and more trapped in
the darkness.
What
is this darkness that envelops so many in our communities?
Well, it comes with many different names and many different
shades. This darkness descends on our local nursing homes
where the wheelchairs
are lined up in front of the televisions to watch The Price
is Right and Bonanza reruns. There in the dark, the
voice whispers, “Have I been forgotten?”
There
is a darkness that can be found in soup lines at Cass or
Baldwin where folks are waiting for a ham sandwich, a hot cup
of coffee and a new pair of shoes. There, if you listen, you
can hear a whisper, “Is there any way out of here?”
Sometimes
there is darkness in the cubicle next to yours at the office.
You have seen it descend on that guy—you know, old
what’s-his-name—over time. You see it when you pass him,
thinking maybe you should stop and ask how he is, how his
family is, how the chemo is going. Out of the darkness, if you
listen closely enough, you can hear him whisper, “Do I have
to do this alone?”
When
we begin to see with the eyes of faith, we begin to see the
darkness that fills so many people’s lives. It’s
there in a sports bar with the middle-aged man who just lost
his job. It’s there on Eight Mile Road with the old, tired
woman who is pushing the shopping cart. It’s there with the
neighbors whose marriage is falling apart or with the brother
who can’t seem to kick the habit. It is there in the halls
of our high schools where youth wonder if they will ever
measure up to the expectations the world has placed on them.
In the post-9/11 world, with its ongoing cycles of violence
and war, a whole generation is growing up today wondering if
darkness is the only reality they will ever know. If you
listen, you can hear the whisper of the world around us,
“There is really nowhere to go. I don’t even know where to
look anymore.”
It is into this world that can seem so hopelessly dark that even the
smallest bit of light becomes a precious commodity.
When a person brings even the smallest of lights, a penlight
of hope or a little key light of love, the whole situation can
change. That single ray of light—that word of kindness, that
act of love, the touch of reassurance, that hug that says you
don’t have to do this alone—literally can pierce the
darkness.
That
light becomes a light that all are able to see. In the
darkness, that light of love would help others make their way
towards it and, maybe for the first time, someone might
believe that they could get out of the dark place. A kind word
can become a beacon of hope. A visit during a sickness or
hardship would affirm that we aren’t in darkness alone, and
that we if can get to the light, find some more light, live
closer to light or follow the light, then maybe, just maybe,
together we could get ourselves out of the darkness. Don’t
you see? We are the light of the world.
Anne
Lamott recorded the painfully-honest journal of her son’s
first year of life and the struggles she endured as a single
mother and a recovering alcoholic. She writes about a
particular day when she had reached the depths of exhaustion
and depression and frustration with her newborn son. She had
decided that it was totally crazy to believe in Christ. Then,
she writes, something truly amazing happened.
A
man from church showed up at our front door, smiling and
waving to me and Sam, and I went to let him in. He is a white
man named Gordon, fiftyish, married to our associate pastor,
and after exchanging pleasantries he said, “Margaret and I
wanted to do something for you and the baby. So what I want to
ask is, What if a fairy appeared on your doorstep and said
that he or she would do any favor for you at all, anything you
wanted around the house that you felt too exhausted to do by
yourself and too ashamed to ask anyone else to help you
with?”
“I
can’t even say,” I said. “It’s too horrible.”
But
he finally convinced me to tell him and I said it would be to
clean the bathroom, and he ended up spending an hour scrubbing
the bathtub and toilet and sink with Ajax and lots of hot
water. I sat on the couch while he worked, watching TV,
feeling vaguely guilty and nursing Sam to sleep. But it made
me feel sure of Christ again, of that kind of love. This, a
man scrubbing a new mother’s bathtub, is what Jesus means to
me.
It’s
what Jesus intended to do. And he told us that if we intend to
follow him, so will we. We’ll meet him in the dark places of
our world and he’ll hand us the tools of the trade—eyes to
see, hands to heal, words to speak, life to give.
We
are the light of the world. We are the light of the world. We
are the light of the world. That is who Jesus made us to be.
Write it down on a big white sign, and get out of here and go
out into the places of darkness and let it shine…let it
shine…let it shine.
Note:
I am grateful for Mark Feldmeir’s sermon, “Life After
God,” found in the book Testimony to the Exiles: Sermons
for GenXers and Other Postmoderns.
He uses the illustration of the man holding the sign at
the Super Bowl, which I borrowed and used at the beginning of
the sermon. I have never met Pastor Mark, but through his
writings I have found a companion in ministry. Mark, like
myself, is a “thirty something” United Methodist pastor
who is desperately trying to share the Gospel of Jesus Christ
with our generation—a generation that has too often left the
church but is desperately seeking community, connections and a
real experience with the God of Jesus Christ.
The
Anne Lamott piece comes from her book, Operating
Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year.
Lamott’s writings are fresh and frank and shed incredible
light on the Gospel truth for our contemporary age.
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