Sermon of Godspeed

This wasn't my best sermon of the year.  It wasn't even in the top 5.  It wasn't even close.  Nevertheless, as I looked at the congregation I have walked among, through periods of darkness and periods of stark light, I knew they knew what I meant.

I wish there were some sort of magic to put into sermon for a day like today.  I wish there were something more, something bigger, something more fabulous than anything I have ever done before because I want - in some way - to communicate what I have witnessed this year.  How do you describe the breath of God drawing near or the feeling that, even though everything on the exterior looks the same, something on the inside has changed in a way that makes all the difference?  The outside of St. Peter, mostly, looks the same as it did a year ago.  The grass and the shrubs have been cleaned up, the eaves repaired, several windows fixed… but mostly it looks the same.  The inside has a few new coats of paint and has been done beautifully but, really, it looks the same.  The grass will continue to need to be cut, and with each painting job that is completed another one will jump out, begging to be painted next, and, if my experience helping my dad remodel our house as a child is any indication, these projects are never-ending.  What has changed has nothing to do with the outside or the inside of the building. 

Over this past year, I have seen the Holy Spirit tap people on the shoulder and whisper, “Go!” and I have watched as y’all took off running, not to save your church, not to make a last-ditch effort to keep a Lutheran presence in Hillyard, but running toward what it means to truly be church.  And what does that mean?  It means to look at ourselves and at our neighbors and to tell the truth.  It means to allow the pieces of our vulnerability show through; bringing our true selves to the altar not to receive a poker chip of bread and a shot glass of wine, as though we’re gambling on our salvation, but to receive the Bread of Life who is Christ himself.

But there have been hard days.  There have been long days.  We have experienced conflict, tears, and death.  I’m sure there have been days where each of us have wondered, “Is it really worth it?”  There are times it’s tempting to throw in the towel.  No, I’m not talking about throwing in the towel at St. Peter.  I am talking about throwing in the towel on ourselves and on our faith.  Faith is a full-contact sport, and sometimes it leaves us bruised and bloodied, wondering if the battle is worth it.  We have walked in Elijah’s sandals.  “It is enough, LORD; I have done everything, exhausted everything, and given everything, and I’m in no better place than where I was when I started.  I have tried to make the church what I remember it being, when church felt like church, and I have failed.”  What happens when we do everything right and still come up empty-handed?  I would be lying if I told you I smile and say, “That’s okay because Jesus loves me.”  Sometimes, as in Elijah’s case, the presence of God doesn’t feel like enough to keep us going.  Salvation doesn’t feel like enough to save us.  We feel like we are the only ones that care, the only ones that show up, the only ones that are doing the “hard work” necessary to make this church thing work.  “Get up, Elijah,” the angel said.  “You might be done with God, but God isn’t done with you.”  Have you ever had it happen that, you throw up your hands, ready to give up, and God says, “Okay, now I want you to…”  I have watched as God showed up and said, “Get up, St. Peter, you’ve got a journey ahead of you.” 

Hunched over, carrying our baggage of fears and failures, Jesus comes and says, “What are you carrying?”  Our real answer is: I don’t know.  So often, we carry things along with us that were never meant to journey with us.  Old hurts, clinging to the past, things we fear that cannot be forgiven, things we cannot forgive, and all manner of junk make their way on the journey with us.  He says, “I’ll take those,” and we, stubborn things that we are say, “No, I’m okay,” because we fear that if we let these things go, we will forget who we are.  And we do.  Carrying all of these things along with us on the journey, they begin to define us.  Our only definition of self becomes, “Sinner.”  It becomes so much a part of us that we don’t really believe him when he says, “You’re free.”

The truth is: we don’t really understand what it is to be made free.  The disciples, who had seen the feeding of the 5,000, were just as confused as the religious authorities who stood aghast at Jesus claiming to be the “bread of life that descended from heaven.”  In John … they say, “This is a hard teaching; who can believe it?”  Yet Jesus says, “I am the bread of life.  Whoever eats of me will never be hungry.”  I wonder if it is not so much something that we believe, like believing that the sun will rise and set tomorrow, but something that happens to us.  I wonder if it is something like what has happened this past year, that, when it happens, we know something is happening, but we don’t really know how to name it or how to describe it, but we know that something has shifted in a way that says, “We can never go back.”  Here’s the thing: what Jesus was doing wasn’t a teaching at all.  It wasn’t an object lesson, and it wasn’t a teaching that was familiar to the religious experts.  It’s more than a teaching; it’s life, offered freely, for you. 

Jesus came to be the bread of life for people who couldn’t understand him, for people who couldn’t let go of the bags they carried on the journey.  Jesus came to be the bread of life for you.  I’m not sure it so much matters that you understand how Jesus is the bread of life, but that Jesus is for you.  Jesus comes to you and says, “Get up, St. Peter.  I myself will be bread for your journey, encouraging you on your way.”  There will be hard days.  There will be death.  There will be tears.  But there will be laughter.  There will be joy.  Christ promises a feast, not of just enough bread to remind you that you are hungry and just enough wine to remind you are thirsty, but an overflowing of grace. 

As you journey along, not knowing where you go, know that Christ is leading you and loving you along the way.  He is the bread for the journey, drawing us to himself, Christ in us, Christ with us, and Christ for us.

The sermon hymn was what preached; I was overcome, and I only sang 1 verse before the emotions of the day hit:

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice
Be still, and know I am near

I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light
Come and rest in Me

Chorus:
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am strength for all the despairing
Healing for the ones who dwell in shame
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free
And all will know My name

Chorus:
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am the Word that leads all to freedom
I am the peace the world cannot give
I will call your name, embracing all your pain
Stand up, now, walk, and live

Chorus:
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine
As I gave the benediction in tears, "The LORD bless you and keep you, the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the LORD look upon you with favor and give you his peace," I realized the words of parting were the blessing I wanted to leave behind.