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It is
abundantly clear to me that much of who I am ... and much
of what you see when you look at me ... was dialed in genetically,
long before I ever saw the light of day. I inherited it from
George and Lillian. And they, in turn, inherited it from William
and Helen along with Anton and Agnes. How much of me came
that way, I really don't know. But a lot of it did. Probably,
more than I will ever understand.
Genetically
speaking, I have no complaints. I figure I got a decent start.
Most of the physical equipment works. Most of the mental equipment
works. Personality-wise, there are a few glitches. But not
knowing how far back to trace them, I doubt that my friendly
neighborhood DNA splicer will be able to fix them. So I'll
either have to adapt to them, mute them, or manually tinker
with them.
In short,
I don't spend a lot of time wondering about my genes. I came
into the world with a lot of things already decided. But,
then, so did you. As did we all.
But I
am interested ... increasingly so ... in the things you and
I learned in our earliest years of life, when we weren't paying
conscious attention to anything, but were absorbing and cataloging
virtually everything. John Claypool (who will be here in March)
refers to those years as "the years in which the tracks
were being laid." For many of us, the trains of our personality
have been riding those tracks ever since.
One of
the issues that was permanently settled early in our childhood
concerned the degree of trust we felt in our world and the
people in it. Think about that for a moment. Did you grow
up feeling secure or insecure ... safe or unsafe ... settled
or threatened? Early on, you learned that people would generally
look out for you ... or that they wouldn't. If you were among
the latter group, you had to look out for yourself. And if
you had to look out for yourself, it probably toughened your
character and accelerated your independence. But, emotionally
and spiritually speaking, you have probably spent every day
since glancing over your shoulder. And you never learned to
trust the dark ... any dark ... especially the dark night
of the soul ... without the presence of a nightlight (however
dim its wattage may have turned out to be).
But if
you are lucky enough to be among the sure-footed and trusting,
I suspect you can draw some memory from the well of your personal
history, wherein you knew ... just knew ... that your well-being
was safe in hands other than your own.
Several
months ago, I suggested a memory that is common to many. You
are riding in the car. It is very late at night. You are many
miles from home. Whereupon somebody throws you a blanket ...
maybe even a pillow ... and suggests that you stretch out
and go to sleep, insofar as space permits. Which you do. Most
likely in the back seat. Sleep comes easy, given your confidence
that the people in the front seat will know where to go ...
how to get there ... and will not run out of gas, money or
wakefulness before the journey is complete. Which is exactly
what happens. Quite apart from your help, you are suddenly
there ... wherever "there" is. Whereupon you are
lifted up, carried in and laid down, without any requirement
that you come to. Upon awakening in the morning, you have
no remembrance of how any of this happened. Nor do you care.
For me,
one of the most beautiful lines in the Bible is the one that
reads: "He watching over Israel, slumbers not nor sleeps."
Yes, I know it is more allegorical than literal. Its purpose
is not to paint God as a chronic insomniac in need of Tylenol
PM. But I've got to tell you that on more nights than you
know ... along about three o-clock in the morning ... the
only way I get to sleep is by telling myself that it's all
right to surrender control over my little slice of the universe.
Because, given God's watchfulness, there's no reason both
of us should be awake.
So let
me ask you: "When did you first learn that the world
was safe ... that you could live out your days in relative
trust ... and that the people closest to you could be counted
upon?" Many children have no such faith because they
recall no such memory. All they can recall are people who
weren't there, needs that weren't met, terrors (even imaginary
ones, like the monsters under the bed) that weren't faced,
and promises that weren't kept. Isn't that why the film Angela's
Ashes was so hard to watch ... not because Frank McCourt's
family suffered from so much poverty, but because the adults
in Frank McCourt's family behaved so irresponsibly.
At every
critical juncture of the story, the adults took care of themselves.
Although who could blame them, given the pitiable situation
that made victims of them all. But that's not quite right.
You could blame them. But what good would it do? For blame,
rendered in retrospect, seldom gets you anywhere. I mean,
what good would it do if I could tell you ... right now ...
with absolute certainly ... that 62 percent of everything
wrong with you can be directly attributed to your parents?
How many minutes would it take for the self-satisfaction of
my assessment to wear off? Sixty minutes? One hundred twenty
minutes? Two hundred forty?
No, blame
won't necessarily assist recovery. Nor is that my purpose
this morning. My purpose is to redirect you to those people
and places, along with those moments and memories, when the
world and those in it stood by you, with you and for you ...
watching over you ... looking out for you ... while reassuring
you that life is good, you are good, the future is good, and
that faith and trust are not things you have to self-generate
in a world that mocks and knocks them at every turn.
Toward
that end, let me tell you a personal story. Historically speaking,
a very early story. My fear in telling it is that you are
not going to get it ... or that in "getting it,"
you are going to think it trivial and maybe even silly. But
let me try.
I must
have been in my late threes or early fours at the time. Which
was war time, accounting for the fact that my father wasn't
home. Instead, my father was in Italy. Which was unsettling
on my life, don't you see. Because my mother had to work.
Which meant that I had to go someplace ... every day ... very
early in the day ... right through to the end of the day.
Fortunately,
that "place" was my grandmother's. There I learned
Old Country stories ... ate Old Country foods ... and memorized
Old Country songs. But somewhere in that pleasant little war-time
odyssey I call "Weekdays with Grandma," it was decided
that either Grandma needed a break or that Billy needed some
playmates. So a decision was made to enroll me in a nursery
program that was housed in Greenfield Park Elementary School.
To which I didn't want to go ... didn't feel I was ready to
go ... and couldn't, for the life of me, understand why it
was that I needed to go.
But go
I did, one rainy day, walking two long blocks hand in hand
with my grandma. But when we got the corner by the school,
I refused to go one step further. After that, my mind is blank
as to the persuasive tack that she took. But I remember, to
this very day, the deal that was struck. Actually, it was
my deal. Pointing to the school, I said: "All right,
I'll go in. But you have to promise to stand right here on
the corner until I come out."
And do
you know what? Every day ... every single day ... she was
there when I came out. Did she stand there the whole three
hours? Probably not. But it was years before I figured that
out. She did what she needed to do ... what I needed her to
do ... leading me to learn something that I never once forgot.
Not only would she be on my corner, but she would be in
my corner.
Now you
know where the sermon title comes from, don't you? It has
nothing to do with the old song that talks about "standing
on the corner, watching all the girls go by." Which I
can sing. But never really did. And probably wouldn't tell
you if I had. Today, such an activity sounds sexist. It also
sounds detached. I mean, if "watching" is all you
ever do on the corner, you are just taking up space on the
corner ... impeding progress on the corner ... and slowing
the flow on the corner. Girl gawkers are to foot traffic what
accident gawkers are to vehicular traffic. A darned nuisance,
that's what they are.
But what
if the people "on the corner" are also "in
your corner"? Personally, I despise the sham and travesty
that professional boxing has become. I mean, Mike Tyson strikes
me as being several French fries short of a Happy Meal. But
Mike Tyson may be an absolute genius, given the mind games
he played with the bloke he beat up on Friday at the Palace.
But one
thing I remember from boxing in its better days (to whatever
degree boxing may have had "better days") was that
in order to have any chance at the "big time," you
had to have quality people in your corner. But when was that
ever a truth limited to boxing? True, your "corner people"
can't follow you into the ring. But theirs is the last voice
you will hear ... and the last touch you will feel ... before
going out there. And your corner people are the ones with
the stool, the robe, the swab sticks and (if necessary) the
towel with which to greet you every three minutes ... figuratively
or literally ... upon your return.
I suspect
that most of us have corner people. Who are yours? And when
were you first aware of their presence? Don't tell me ...
unless you want to. But do tell them. By all means, do tell
them.
And what
of the churches who have stood both on and in your corner
... hopefully, this being one of them. I have never met a
funeral director ... and I have met (and ridden with) plenty
in my lifetime ... who didn't tell me that there is a discernible
difference (between church people and non-church people) as
to how each group grieves at funerals. I won't go into detail
about the differences, but I am here to tell you that church
people impress the daylights out of funeral directors. Why?
I suppose it has something to do with the fact that church
people are more likely to have a support group around them,
a pastor who knows them, and a future beyond them. And if
church people, by all anecdotal evidence, deal better with
death, why should it surprise you to suggest that church people
may also deal better with life?
Such is
certainly true for me. Personally speaking, I can't fathom
life apart from this ... apart from us, I mean. It is not
just that life is too hard to live on my own, but that faith
is too hard to keep on my own. I can count, on the fingers
of one hand, the days when I would have been a whole lot happier,
had I never heard of (or enlisted in) the Church of Jesus
Christ. Yes, there have been a few of those days. But that's
just five days out of how many? And where would I find the
fingers to count all those other days, unless you were to
lend me your hands? Which you have. More times than you know.
Some people
are glad for the church on the corner, even though they are
seldom seen in the church on the corner. Just last week, I
received (on your behalf) a four figure check with a letter
attached. The letter was from someone who feels no need to
be among us, but a real need to stand with us. I really didn't
need to read it, given that I get the same letter (and the
same check) every year. What he is saying to me is (in effect):
"Don't count on seeing me very much, but I can't imagine
a world without you folks in it ... being who you are ...
doing what you do. So hang in there."
Corner
people! Corner churches! Followed by this: "Behold, I
stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and
opens the door, I will come in and eat with them, and they
with me." This comes at the end of the letter to the
church at Laodicea. Which I could locate for you ... and describe
to you ... thereby impressing the daylights out of you ...
and justifying all the money Yale extracted from my pocket
before credentialing me to stand in front of you. But I'll
skip all that, reminding you simply that First Church, Laodicea
was a fat-cat church with a lukewarm attitude. Which is not
why I read the letter this morning. So don't get your defenses
up. Let the starch slip back out of your backbone. I have
not come with scripture to whip you.
Instead,
I want you to focus on this image of the "knocking Christ."
You've seen this depicted by Holman Hunt in his famous painting
entitled "The Light of the World."
Call it
to mind, if you will. See Jesus standing at the door ... knuckles
poised before the door ... but note the absence of a handle
on the door ... at least on the outside of the door. The meaning
of which is obvious. To the degree that the door has a handle,
it is locatable only from the inside. Which means that the
Lord who would approach and await, will neither invade nor
intrude. Apart from an invitation, that is.
But once
the door has been opened, future accessibility is eased. I
am willing to bet that most of you have two or three people
in your life who ... because of what has happened previously
... can reenter your life without formality, phone calls,
and maybe even knocks. That's because a closeness has been
established on previous encounters, enabling them to know
when their presence is most needed ... and will be most welcomed.
For some of us, the Lord is one of those two or three people.
*
* * * *
Some of
you came today, thinking that I was going to talk about stands
that ought to be taken by you, rather than for you. If so,
I apologize for surprising you. But it strikes me that the
gospel generally begins ... not with things asked of us ...
but with things done for us.
And if
I can't make you see that ... or if I can't make you feel
that ... I probably can't convince you to pay for that. But
if I can, then nothing will be impossible for us ... in life
... in death ... or even in church. Especially in church.
*
* * * *
Note:
This sermon was delivered on the first Sunday of First Church's
annual campaign to underwrite the budget. This year's campaign
is entitled "Take a Stand." Seen in that light,
the last few paragraphs will make better sense and some of
the earlier imagery will become more transparent.
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