MUMC Sermon-05/14/06

Tantalus, according to Greek mythology, was a mortal on excellent terms with the gods. The son of Zeus and Pluto, Tantalus was a frequent guest of the gods at their Olympic feasts where they would wine him and dine him. He lived a carefree life, joyful and all together happy — until he committed an unforgivable crime.

We’re not exactly sure of the crime, for different story-tellers tell different stories. One version of the story claims that Tantalus revealed to his fellow mortals the secret mysteries meant only for the gods. Others say that he became arrogant because of his good relations with the residents of Mt. Olympus and that he began to suspect himself wiser than the gods. Still another version charges Tantalus with the theft of nectar and ambrosia which mortals were not meant to taste.

Tantalus’ crime, as we can see, depends on who is telling the story, but the reason for his punishment is the same in all three. Tantalus was guilty of acquiring and sharing knowledge which neither he nor other humans were meant to have. Or, more to the point: Tantalus would stop at simply partaking with his divine friends; in his conceit and arrogance he wished to make for himself what could only be enjoyed as a gift.

The punishment was swift; it was also as cruel as only offended and vengeful gods could make it. Tantalus was placed in river water up to his shoulders. Whenever he bent to drink of the water, the waters would recede; and whenever he reached for the delectable fruit hanging from a branch directly above him, the winds would blow and keep the fruit just out of Tantalus’ reach. Tantalus, thus, goes down in history as one who always longed for something just out of reach, something tangible and wonderful, yet never attainable. (Hence, whenever things tend to vanish the moment we seem to have them, at long last, within our reach — we complain of being tantalized by their tantalizing nearness.)

The ancient Hebrews told a similar story about a man and woman named Adam and Eve, whose penalty for eating the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge meant only for God was expulsion from paradise; and the paradise was a paradise because they could live there trouble free, they didn’t have to make the choices on which their happiness depended.

The Jewish God, like the residents of Olympus, also exacted a cruel punishment. The penalty God designed for Adam’s and Eve’s offense was no less painful than the one exacted on Tantalus — it was only, so to speak, more sophisticated and called for more interpretative skills: “With labor you shall gain your bread by the sweat of your brow.” Once making his punishment known, an angry God stationed ‘to the east of the Garden of Eden’ an angel and a sword whirling and flashing to guard the path to the Tree of Life. This was to warn Adam and Eve and their offspring that no amount of labor or sweating would suffice to bring back the serene and carefree happiness of paradise; paradise had been irretrievably lost once innocence was lost.

Memory of paradise would haunt Adam’s and Eve’s decedents and keep them hoping against hope that the road back could be discovered. Yet, this will never be; on this there was no disagreement between Athens and Jerusalem. Loss of innocence is a point of no return. Having learned the meaning of happiness through its loss, children of Adam and Eve were bound to learn the hard way the bitter wisdom Tantalus also learned. Their purpose would always elude them, however close (tantalizingly close) it might seem.

In our Old Testament lesson today the ancient descendents of Adam and Eve are in the wilderness, a very long way from paradise. As the story goes, since the time of their earliest ancestors they had wandered aimlessly looking for what they once had: a paradise home. Yet on the way they have been enslaved for 400 years, and since the time of their liberation they have been wandering in the wilderness for 40 more years. Indeed toil and sweat has been the only experience they have known; their forty years of wandering is really a search for relief, for rest, for a return to what was once lost. And at the end of our reading we have what will come to represent an alternative to Eden — a promised land flowing with milk and honey. It’s not paradise, but it’s a close second.

And, yet, we know something of how the story turns out. The promised land is beautiful indeed, but blood flows there more than milk and honey. The promised land is most certainly home, but home is hard fought, never secure, and peace always seem tantalizingly close, but never attainable.

I imagine the early Christians understood well the story of Tantalus and Adam and Eve and the ancient Hebrews, stories with which they were probably familiar. After all, the early Christians were what we now probably call ‘idealists’. They had chosen to live in community and tried to approach in their shared life what was intended for them in Eden: to love God and to love neighbor and to live in peace with one another. That is what their community life was all about. Yet, it never seemed to last. The ideal, the command of Jesus that they be one of mind and heart, seemed, oh, so tantalizingly close. But something always got in the way.

And so this morning we read once more from the first letter of John. John writes to them encouraging them not to give up on the Jesus ethic. They had to stay the course, recover Eden, and make a way where others had failed. Knowing of the problems they had in getting along, constantly bickering and undermining each other for stupid, silly things, the author reminds them: “Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God for God is love…Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from God is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.”

John writes this because what was so tantalizingly close was starting to slip away. People were becoming disenchanted, frustrated by the constant strife and infighting, the petty bickering and undermining that constantly took place. They were discouraged, but didn’t seem to know how to stop what had become worse than a bad habit. The community of Jesus, whose mission was to be an example to world around them, seemed not be at all different, perhaps they were even worse, than those who weren’t guided by so noble a purpose. Eden seemed so far away, and the author of John is increasingly concerned.

Friends, we too understand Tantulus’ dilemma well don’t we? When you think about your own life doesn’t it seem like what you want most is always so tantalizingly close, just within your reach, but never attainable: a happy family, purposeful work, a debt-free life, a respite from the hectic day-to-day rat race, a fulfilled marriage, health and wellness, meaningful community; it all seems so close and yet still so far.

And perhaps that is the problem. We seem to be reaching for something out there, something we think we see, but that is more truthfully a projection of our perceived needs and desires. Tantalus and Eden are stories about what is lost, about what once was, about what will always, no matter what, remain beyond our reach. So why keep longing for it? Why keep trying to get that which isn’t going to ever be ours?

The Christian response to those questions, and a better reading of First John I would argue, is to create. In the beginning God created in love. Where there was nothing God breathed love and something beautiful came into being. And that is the lesson for us, and the adventure of the Christian life. We tend to be so consumed with what we have lost, with what is not, with our disappointments, that we fail to look at what might be. Jesus came among his people and spoke a new word and made a world and a community possible that was not possible before. Why did we ever stop? Why do we let our frustrations, or our limits, or the people who will always complain and find something to be upset about stagnate our capacity to create something new and beautiful with our lives and with our faith?

If you long for community — create it. Work at it. Make it real. If you long for love — then love. Work at it. Give it and receive it freely. Stop being stingy with it and stop being so guarded about it. If you want a debt-free life — stop spending money you don’t have. If you want purposeful work — create a purposeful life. If you need rest — rest. Stop believing the lie that you can’t stop and that everything will fall apart if you don’t keep running the rat race. Create a different way.

If you want a meaningful church, a church that serves and worships and grows — then create it; stop complaining about everything it’s not and do something loving. Love your neighbors enough to invite them. Love your fellow members enough to care. Love God enough to give generously. And love this family of faith enough to give your best here, to offer love here, and keep anything that falls short of that out of these walls. Love risks. Don’t be afraid to risk and stop pining for what once was. Create it here and now!

The life you want doesn’t have to remain tantalizingly close — it’s waiting for you to create it. And Jesus tells us that best way to do that is to love our way through life. Love is not out of reach, it is woven into the fabric of your being; it flows through your veins and every inch of your being. It is who you are. And today, friends, you have the opportunity to show God, your neighbor, your church, yourself what you’re truly made of.