MUMC Sermon-07/16/06

Just in case you haven’t yet heard, there was a soccer match last Sunday afternoon. Not just any match, either, but the final match of the world cup, the only sporting event in the world that is truly global, and the winning team claims the title as the best “football” team on earth.

And, in case you didn’t know, the team from Italy played the team from France. After the regular 90-minute game ended in a one-to-one tie; and after two fifteen-minute overtime periods remained scoreless; and after the best French player, playing his last game before his retirement, was ejected in the last two minutes of the second overtime for head-butting an opposing player; and after the tie-breaking penalty kicks eventually settled the outcome; the Italian team won. (Or, if you prefer, the French team lost.) However you want to frame it, the Italian team received and accepted the trophy as the victors in this year’s world cup. Then the celebrations began, as the Italians in the stadium and around the world began their dance.

The dancing began with the Italian team receiving their medals, and it quickly spread to their fans in the stadium. They danced in Italy, of course, and around the world, all those who are Italian, or who are descended from Italians, or those who wished they might be related to Italians.

Wherever else they danced in the streets, the dance was evident on Boston Post Road. People were dancing. Cars seemed to be dancing. Wonder of wonders, even the fire trucks seemed to be dancing in the streets. All people Italian, dancing, and laughing, and waving to each other, and blowing horns. A moment of passion it was, for people known for their passion. It would have been hard not to know that the soccer match was over, and just who had won. The joy of the victors was beyond containing. Whatever is the Italian word for “hallelujah” was being shouted in cities and towns all over the world, it seemed.

“Hallelujah,” of course, is Hebrew, not Italian. It means “Praise God!,” and it describes the “dancing in the streets” feeling of all three of the three lessons for today. The Old Testament lesson, with a kind of musical backdrop of the ecstatic Psalm 24, describes the joyous moment when David, the young leader of the newly formed nation of Israel, leads a host of 30,000 in bringing the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem. That city then came to be known as “the city of David.” So here, at the outset of this reign that prefigures Camelot by more than a millennium, David leads this procession. As he does, all the people celebrate the promise of God’s steadfast promise to be their God, and to establish this little nation as a light to all the other nations.

David leads the parade, for it is certainly that, as the Ark of the Covenant comes majestically, gloriously into the city. The ark is sacred on at least two counts: first, it contains the tablets of the Ten Commandments handed down from Moses on Mount Sinai, but it is sacred as well because it symbolizes God’s very real presence in their midst. They are God’s people, and God is their God. It is a moment of victory in its own right, for David has brought the nation to peace. Jerusalem is now the seat of power, the city’s highest promontory is the destination of the ark. Spontaneously, David starts dancing. Half-naked ashamed of neither his clothing nor his own exuberance, David dances “with all his might.”

I’m afraid that some of us find such displays embarrassing. I stand with some of you, there with Michal, Saul’s daughter and David’s wife, looking down from the balcony at the spectacle. When “she saw King David leaping and dancing before the LORD,” says the lesson, “she despised him in her heart.” (v. 16) We’re not told her thoughts, but we can imagine what she’s thinking: “Come on, David, you’re a king now. Stop acting like a child. Come on, set a better example. Get control of yourself. Don’t become a fanatic.”

And we know the feeling. None of us wants to find ourselves out of control, overcome with enthusiasm. Partly because of our own caution, we don’t want to see others out of control, either. None of us wants to be a fanatic.

The problem is, each of us needs to become a fanatic about something, at some time in our lives. Each of us human beings longs to be caught up in something bigger than ourselves. But we hold back, not wanting to look foolish, not wishing to be seen as interested. From an early age, we learn not to enjoy learning, not to raise our hands, even when we know the answer, not to appear the fool. It’s as if we think there’s someone looking at us from a balcony, waiting to judge us, waiting to despise us in their heart.

So we stop dancing. We sing only in the shower. We pour our passion into the wrong places, becoming addicted to highs that never fully satisfy. Some of us become fanatics for our sports teams, flying our colors, giving our allegiance, having a passion for the game. Sports fanatics we become, or, in its more popular, foreshortened nomenclature, we become “fans.”

The lessons for today invite us to celebrate more than our team allegiance, but to celebrate our lives and our faith as well. David dances in the streets with wild abandon—not for the soccer team, but for the joy of standing in the presence of the living God. He becomes a fan of the LORD. A fanatic. Though he is a king, he lets loose his energy. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him, “Sing, David, like no one is listening; dance like no one is watching.” It’s not that he doesn’t care who sees. Rather, David knows that he dances for God, who sees and loves already. This same God, David knows, is looking for a few good fans. Caught up in the joy of the moment, David is fully alive, and therefore he is fully in the presence of the living God.

So, too, in the epistle lesson for today, the author invites the church to freely live a life of praise of God. Why? Because, of all people, we are most richly blessed. In Christ, our team has won the victory over evil, over sin, over death itself. Just listen again to the way today’s lesson begins: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, just as he has chosen us in Christ…” It goes on: “He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ… [and] In him we have redemption, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace that he lavished on us.” Hear that again, God’s grace is LAVISHED on us. What a word. It’s a call to each of us who bear the name of Christ simply to rejoice, to become something of a fanatic, a “fan” for God. God loves us richly, wonderfully, abundantly beyond our own small understandings, beyond our needs. We are God’s children. The game of life is, in the ultimate sense, already won on our behalf. There’s nothing left to do but say, “Hallelujah!” and go out dancin’ in the streets. Failing that, we can sing, as if no one is listening.

One of the mysteries of life, as well as one of the truths of faith, is this: when we get in the game, it becomes important; when it becomes important, we lose ourselves for others; when we lose ourselves, we find ourselves; in doing so, great things happen, and when they do, it’s hard NOT to dance.

About this time of year in 2003, Lynne and I were in a village in Ghana, West Africa. We had been there with others from our church, and together we worked with the villagers to build new homes for three families. We worked with Habitat for Humanity, but together we all worked in the name of Christ. It was hot, but we worked. We grew tired, but we worked. And, at the end of the week, we gave the keys to a new home to a woman and her family.

But our time there was not over when we gave her the keys. All that week we worked, and we were tired, and hot, and dirty. But the village wanted to celebrate with us. We celebrated our coming to know one another, our working together. We celebrated our accomplishments and our hope. We celebrated the life of Christ in our midst, in two languages, neither of us fully understanding each other. Still, we had speeches, and we smiled.

Then, at the end, as we listened to music, the villagers began to dance. The women danced. The children danced. The men danced. Even the chief danced. And some of them came, took our hands, and got us on our feet. We didn’t know the steps. Some of us felt foolish. Some of us were good dancers. Some of us were not. But all of us felt the joy of that day. All of us knew the truth of our kinship in Christ. All of us, that day, let our passion lead us. We let our hearts lead our heads, our bodies respond for our minds. We let ourselves be caught up in the joy of the moment. And, doing so, we celebrated our kinship with our new brothers and sisters more deeply than words might ever have done. They were wise, those Africans. They wouldn’t let us go home until we had danced together.

Our response to God’s grace is too important merely to think about, too rich only to pray. There are times when we are called to let go, to feel the passion of our faith. We’re called to dance, following Jesus, the Lord of the dance.

Amen.