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There once was a boy who grew up
on Detroit’s near west side. His neighborhood wasn’t safe,
and because of the demons his father struggled with, his
home wasn’t safe, either. This young boy grew up in an
environment of instability and insecurity. It was difficult
to find any peace in the midst of life’s constant storms.
There was one thing, however, that broke through the clouds.
Every year his family packed up their car and headed for the
U.P. for a week of camping.
Things were different during
this week. A peace that could never be found back in the
neighborhood suddenly descended upon his family. Surrounded
by the beauty of the open space, he felt an ease not
experienced any other time. Every evening he would find
himself by the side of the lake as the brush strokes of
pinks and reds, oranges and purples—hues from the palette of
the setting sun—would paint the canvas of the once-blue sky.
It was on those shorelines that he heard a voice whispering
through pines trees, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I am here.”
Thirty years later this boy, now
a grown man and accomplished musician, once again found
himself on the lakeshore. This time he sat there with
nothing but his keyboard and he played. He just let himself
go. He let his fingers move with the Spirit that was in the
wind. He describes it as pure praise, returning thanks to
God who once again had come and met him on the shoreline. He
placed a blank cassette in the recorder of his keyboard,
capturing the melody that this connection to the Creator
inspired within him. What he captured that day was a
soundtrack—the track of contentment.
Contentment. The dictionary
defines it as “the state of being when a person is satisfied
with what a person is or has; the ease of mind when a person
finds themselves not wanting more.” Each of us has a setting
in which contentment pays us a visit:
-
early
in the morning while the coffee is hot and everyone is
still asleep
-
late at
night as you kiss your sleepy six-year-old’s forehead
-
in a
boat, on a clear lake, when it doesn’t matter if the
fish are biting
-
in the
arms of a spouse
-
at the
Thanksgiving dinner table
-
in a
candlelit sanctuary with everyone singing “Silent Night”
Contentment. An hour when
deadlines are forgotten and striving has ceased. An hour
when what we have overshadows what we want. An hour when we
realize that a lifetime of ladder climbing can’t ever give
us what the cross gave us in a single moment—a clean
conscience and a new start. What we wouldn’t give for an
hour or two of contentment.
Unfortunately, in our culture of
unrelenting schedules and ever increasing competitiveness,
hours like these are about as common as a Lion’s trip to the
Super Bowl. In our world, contentment is like a strange
street vendor who seldom finds an open door. This funny
little salesman moves from house to house, tapping on
windows, knocking on doors, offering his wares: an hour of
peace, a moment of clarity, a glimpse of the big picture, a
calming serenity, a sigh of relief. But hardly anyone takes
him up on his offer.
“Not now. I’ve too much to do,”
people say, closing their front doors on this street vendor
named Contentment. “Too many marks to be made, too many
achievements to be accomplished, too many dollars to be
saved, too many promotions to be earned.”
So the funny little street
vendor moves on. When asked why so few welcome him into
their homes, he says, “I charge a high price. My fee is
steep. I ask people to trade in their schedules,
frustrations and anxieties. I demand they put a torch to
their fourteen hour days and sleepless nights.” “You’d think
I’d have more takers,” this street vendor named Contentment
says, shrugging his shoulders.
Contentment—being satisfied with
who we are and what we have. So where does it come from and
how can we experience it? To get some counsel, let us turn
to Paul and his letter to the Philippians. In this reading,
Paul tells us that he has “learned the secret of being
content in any and every situation,” both in times of plenty
and need.
This becomes especially
remarkable when you consider when, where and under what
circumstances Paul writes these words. To the best of our
knowledge, this is Paul’s last letter to a church. He writes
it from the confines of a Roman prison. Paul has been locked
away for preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ. Remember that
in the first century Roman world, to claim that Jesus was
Lord meant that Caesar, the leader of the world’s only super
power, was not. To claim that Jesus was Lord was paramount
to treason. In the eyes of his country, Paul was a traitor,
and the only thing keeping him from immediate execution was
the fact that he was a Roman citizen. This fact might save
his neck, but it would not prevent the authorities from
locking him up and throwing away the key.
So it is fair to say that as
Paul writes about the secrets of contentment, he knows he
will never see the light of day. And it is probable that
Paul writes these thoughts knowing he will die at the hands
of his captors. It is from the dark, damp and diseased
confines of prison that Paul claims to know the truest
essence of contentment….and isn’t that when contentment
matters most? It is easy to be content when things are
smooth, but to have an attitude of contentment in the midst
of life’s struggles and difficulties is a different story
altogether.
From the most difficult of
circumstances, Paul writes these most surprising words:
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: rejoice!
The Lord is near… Do not be anxious about anything…” Right
here, Paul identifies the main enemy of contentment:
anxiousness. “Do not be anxious about anything,” he
counsels. The dictionary defines anxiousness as a “state of
apprehension or anticipation of danger or misfortune.” So if
contentment is the belief that we have enough and that we
are enough, then anxiousness is the fear that that there
isn’t enough and we are not enough. Anxiousness is the fear
that there isn’t enough time…enough money… enough
food…enough security…enough “stuff.” It is also the fear
that we are not enough…not pretty enough…not thin enough…not
cool enough…not husband enough….not parent enough. In our
current Michigan job market, there is a lot anxiousness
about whether one is employable enough. And unfortunately,
our churches are full of people who worry they aren’t
Christian enough.
Do you want an example of what
anxiousness looks like? When Bridget and I were first
married, I was in charge of the family finances. I kept
track of the expenditures, paid the bills and balanced the
accounts. At the midpoint of every month, I would panic. I
was sure we weren’t going to have enough to make it to the
end of the month. I would announce a spending freeze. No
more eating out. No more movies. I suggested that we fast. I
wondered if we should make our own clothes. I was sure we
could ride our bikes wherever we needed to go. I became so
anxious about our finances that Bridget said I could no
longer do them. Anxiety pushes us into the unknown future,
robbing us of the joy of the present moment, preventing us
from realizing we have enough and we are enough.
Paul’s guidance in the face of
anxiety is prayer. He writes, “Do not be anxious about
anything, but in everything, by prayer and
petition…present your requests to God.” Paul suggests
that prayer is the best response to anxiety.
Now I know what some of you are
saying. “Prayer. Sure thing, pastor. That’s the typical
religious response. We’ve come to expect it from you. I’ve
prayed before and it never works. Nothing ever changes.” The
truth of the matter is that many of us struggle with the
notion of prayer. We worry that we don’t know the proper
words or formulas. We come to think that we are not
“spiritual” enough or “pious” enough for God to take our
prayers seriously. We might think that God has more
important things to be concerned about than our little fears
and hang ups— there are wars, famines, epidemics, genocides,
and natural disasters to deal with, after all. And some of
us are just convinced that prayer doesn’t work. We’ve prayed
for something or someone, and it just seemed as if the
prayer went unanswered.
Let me make a bit of a
confession. Until recently, I struggled mightily with the
whole concept of prayer. I had all of these misconceptions
about prayer, and I just stopped praying altogether. Sure,
I’d pray at meals or in the hospital or while leading
worship. But praying for the things going on with me, the
things that made me anxious and worried, wasn’t something I
did. But recently I have had an awakening about prayer. I
have discovered that prayer isn’t about formulas or fancy
words…it isn’t about being especially spiritual or pious. I
am learning that at its core, prayer is a posture. It is a
position of being open to God, it is remembering the truth
of what Paul said: “The Lord is near.” Prayer is just
showing up and expecting God to be there.
Sometimes in the midst of an
anxious moment I find that simply taking a deep breath
brings me into the presence of God and offers me a different
perspective on the situation. Or sometimes if I am
struggling with not feeling big enough, or smart enough, or
creative enough, or patient enough to handle a situation, I
find that I can simply sit still for a moment and open my
hands as a gesture to receive the insight, wisdom or
assurance that this too shall pass. I love the way that
writer Paula Hamel describes prayer. She writes, “Prayer
only looks like an act of language; fundamentally it is a
position, a placement of oneself. Focus. Get there and all
that’s left to say is the words. [And] they come…” This kind
of prayer moves me from anxiousness to contentment.
Paul then goes on to explain
what will happen when we open ourselves up to God in moments
of anxiety. We will enter right into “the peace of God which
transcends all understanding…”
It is interesting what Paul
doesn’t say about prayer. He doesn’t say that prayer leads
to changed circumstances, but instead results in changed
perspectives. I love the way C.S. Lewis describes prayer.
“It doesn’t change God,” he says, “It changes me.” Prayer
might not change our circumstances (Paul never left those
prison bars). But if we are open to it, our prayer will
change us, leading us to discover “whatever
is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is
pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything
is excellent or praiseworthy.” That is what Paul found while
locked away.
Being open to God’s presence in
the midst of life’s trying and anxious times will allow us
to experience a peace that surpasses all understanding—a
peace that will allow us to believe that despite any
evidence to the contrary, we have enough…we are
enough…because God is enough. And that, my friends, is the
definition of contentment.
Tomorrow is Labor Day. Most
people won’t go to work tomorrow. But I know one guy who is
working. He will be out there working the streets as he does
every day. It’s that funny little street vendor named
Contentment. I hope he knocks on my door, because if he
does, I’m letting him in. In fact, I think I’ll invite him
to spend the day.
Notes:
The title of the sermon was
taken from a chapter by the same name in Max Lucado’s book,
No Wonder They Call Him Savior. This chapter has been
a favorite of mine for a long time, and I am thankful for
Lucado’s keen insight and great storytelling.
The story at the beginning of
the sermon is a biographical account told to me by Joe
Armijo, the music leader for Sunday Night Alive. The sermon
began with Joe playing the piano as images of Northern
Michigan appeared on the screens. It was truly a powerful
moment.
Patricia Hampl’s thoughts on
prayer come from her book, Virgin Time: In Search of the
Contemplative Life. And the C.S. Lewis quote on prayer
was taken from the 1993 movie, Shadowlands.
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