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Mamaroneck United Loving God and Neighbor...
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MUMC |
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Mamaroneck United Loving God and Neighbor... |
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5 March 2006
The Firsts Sunday of Lent Mark 1.9-15, and selected readings
The Reverend Jennifer K. Morrow
There is a trend in the church today, bent on making worship as comfortable as possible. It is born out of the desire to make the church a non-threatening place, particularly for those put off by organized religion. Adherents of this trend often sing only vaguely religious songs, set to familiar contemporary rhythms, and remove daunting Christian symbols from their sanctuaries. In our church, I have no doubt in my mind, that “the eye” would be the first thing to go. I can sympathize with their motives, and I appreciate their commitment, but I am not entirely persuaded. Primarily because of what can be lost: holy awe and a little expectation.
Author Annie Dillard suggests an alternative vision. “On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? It is madness to wear ladies hats and straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”[1]
Today is the first Sunday of Lent, and for that reason I am convinced that if there has ever been a time when we should expect something of God, if there has ever been a season when crash test helmets might be appropriate, it is now. I realize this is may sound a bit overly dramatic, perhaps a presumptuous way to begin. But today the scriptures err on the side of presumption and so will I.
Forty days. In every passage we read this morning, someone spent forty days doing something. Our forty days began this past Wednesday, with ashes on our foreheads and the drag of giving something up. And this season of Lent and the readings this morning beg us to ask the question, “What can God do with 40 days?”
In the flood story, God destroys and recreates. In Joseph’s story, a death is mourned. In Elijah’s story, his former hope that there was something significant he could do was all but lost, but in forty days God sustains and recreates that hope. In Nineveh’s story, their age-old infamy dies, usurped by repentance and an open spirit; with this God relents and all Jonah’s expectations are shattered. In Jesus’ story, his forty days in the wilderness are his final solitary and preparatory step on his way to public preaching and ministry, and eventually the cross.
Among what I find compelling about these stories, ostensibly related only by the theme of forty days, is that in each one of them the central figure could in no way have imagined the potential outcome.In the midst of the storm, could Noah see dry ground? In the midst of mourning his father, could Joseph see the one-day nation of Israel whom from his father would come? In the midst of his apparent failure, could Elijah see the end of a corrupt dynasty? In the midst of his fear, could Jonah see God’s love extend to the “other?” In the midst of the hunger and exhaustion of the 39th day in the wilderness, could Jesus see us sitting here today?
In every story there is an element of challenge, pain, effort, or difficult growth. Likewise in every story God is present and exceeding expectations. The truth is twofold: we ride out the storm, and we ride it out with hope.
And what of that hope? It is certainly far more than the passing thought, “Gee, I hope it gets sunnier again.” It is a hope not because of, but in spite of. One that looks the storm square in the face and says, “Yeah, now what?” It is an open-eyed hope and an active one. Open-eyed in that looking around it realizes that not everyone is in the boat. And active in that it reaches out, hanging over the edge pulling in anyone whose arms are in reach. And it builds other boats to hoist overboard to those out of arms’ reach. And it does not rely on the whim of the waters to direct it; rather as best it can it steers in the direction of the greatest waves.
Where shall we go? What in this world can you abide no longer? AIDS, racism, poverty, war? Where in your life does the storm rage most savagely? At home, at work, in your own mind?
Last week in Nicaragua I saw a rainbow one morning from the balcony of the hotel. The sign of God’s promise to Noah to never again destroy the earth, stretched there in the sky above the city of Matagalpa and the poorest of its barrios, Maria Romero. And I felt hope. Hope for the people of Nicaragua, hope for the children in Maria Romero, hope for our team and the work we were doing, hope for myself. And as I look around at the light spilling through the rainbow-colored stained glass all around us this morning, I feel hope for us. Because I am convinced that God’s promise can be made good, in part, in us. We can begin with these forty days of Lent. Expect God to do something with this time.
Not long after I arrived here several years ago, I was guided through this church’s long history. My guide pointed out the fact that if you turn this church upside down, it seems as though it might just float. It was built by shipwrights, and many have noted that the sanctuary resembles the inverted hull of a ship. What a beautiful reality for us to pursue. Let us live into our architecture, turn this place upside down, and embark into the storm to be led by Love.
[1] Dillard, Annie. Teaching a Stone to Talk, 1982.
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