Homecoming
Commentary
Object:
Ian Maclaren tells the story of a young woman in his book Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush. She's raised in a Christian home but leaves it behind in search of a better life, a freer self. She finds the kind of life she thinks is free, and she gets for herself all that she's ever desired.
But it's never enough, and what she possesses begins to possess her. Finally she doesn't even know what it means to be free. One day she decides to go home. When she gets near the cottage of her birth, she wants to turn around. Her footsteps falter. She begins to turn her body. But then the dogs in the yard catch scent of her. They haven't forgotten her, even though it's been so long.
Then the light comes on at the door. The door opens. All she can see is her father, bathed in the light. He calls out her name even though he can't see her face. He calls out her name, even though he doesn't have a reason to expect her. He calls out her name, and suddenly her feet come running to him.
Then he takes her into his arms. He sobs out blessings on her head. Later, when she tells her neighbor of that night, she says, "It's a pity, Margaret, that you don't know Gaelic. That's the best of all languages for loving. There are fifty words for 'darling,' and my father called me every one of them that night I came home."
Today we celebrate several homecomings in the words of our lectionary passages. Peter calls the crowd of Jerusalem at Pentecost to come home to the faith they didn't realize they had left. Later in life, he challenges those who are newly baptized to keep returning home through the disciplines of faith family practices. And when Luke reminds us of Jesus' first days after Easter, the story of the two on the road to Emmaus brings to mind the importance of coming home in so many senses, not the least of which is faith in our risen Lord.
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Here is the first documented sermon about Jesus. On the day when the power of the Holy Spirit was unleashed on the church, Peter stood up to preach Christ, describing the significance of his coming, the meaning of his person, the content of his teachings, the impact of his actions, the character of his death, and the miracle of his resurrection.
Jesus is the center of history, according to the Bible. The very term "gospel" means "good news." In a world that is plagued with a lot of bad news, Jesus' coming and presence reminds us that God wants to love us, to care about us, to help us understand the ethics and morality of the kingdom of God that protects and affirms us. That's why the preaching of the church is always about Jesus. And it begins with the gospels.
Luke begins both his gospel and the follow-up book of Acts with a quick personal note to Theophilus, who is a friend and a recent convert to Christianity. Theophilus may have been a highly placed government leader, since Luke calls him "most excellent." More interesting, though, is the man's name. "Theophilus" means "friend of God." Whether this was the name given to him by his parents or a nickname he claimed when he became a Christian, it is a marvelous title for all who read about Jesus and call him Savior and Lord.
As Luke notes, becoming a Christian is always a kind of homecoming. This is precisely how Peter framed the message to those who listened to him at Pentecost. We are all displaced people, whether in little or great ways. The gospel story reminds us that God came into our world in the person of Jesus to find us and to bring us home to love and grace and eternity itself.
When we actually begin to breathe the air of the gospels, they smell of home. Christopher Fry put it this way in one of his plays (The Lady's Not for Burning): Margaret and Nicholas are talking about a woman who seems to be acting strangely. Margaret says, "She must be lost."
Nicholas responds, wistfully, "Who isn't? The best thing we can do is to make whatever we're lost in look as much like home as we can."
That's what we do with our lives, isn't it? We have so many goals and dreams and hopes in life, yet so few of them turn out. We get old before we've done half of what we wanted. Somehow we never become what we thought we might. We make a few mistakes along the way. We disappoint some people, and they disappoint us. Even our best times have an edge of bitterness attached to them -- when they end we walk away nursing our nostalgia. We're always a little bit away from home -- from the home we remember, or the home we desire; from the dream we miss, or the dream we're still looking for. That's what Nicholas is saying to Margaret in Christopher Fry's play. We're all a bit lost in life. We're all a bit away from home. The best we can do is make what we have look as much as possible like what we think "home" should be, until we can finally see our true home, and, under these urgings of Peter at Pentecost, bring our friends along with us.
No matter where we go, no matter what we do, there must live in each of us a touch of that homesickness, or we die a horrible death. Our trips "home" are only a pale imitation of the place we belong, and merely a wayside rest stop on a restless journey to the real home of God's love and God's eternity. More than we know that is where we all truly want to go. And only in finding Jesus and the coming of God's kingdom will our desires find fulfillment and our longings be satisfied. Only then will our homesickness end.
Peter calls for his hearers to turn around (repent) and come home ("... to all whom the Lord our God will call..."). Not a bad way to end a sermon today!
1 Peter 1:17-23
Habits are hard to break, but they are just as hard to make. One habit that demands a lifetime of practice is the habit of a deep faith, a firm belief, and a Christianity that runs true. This is the message of Peter as he begins his instructions to new-to-the-faith Christians for whom he has recently officiated in their baptisms.
Some people believe it is valuable to "sow wild oats" when we're young or to do something just to "get it out of our system." And maybe we do need to experience superficial things in order to find our way to things that truly matter. But we need to be careful, because habits are hard to break, and habits of shallow living are just as hard to break as are habits of deep living.
Peter knew the value of developing the habit of faith. Practice is necessary in any area of life in which we want to excel. A woman once rushed up to the great pianist Arthur Rubinstein after a brilliant performance. "Oh, Mr. Rubinstein," she gushed, "I'd give anything to be able to play like you do!" Rubinstein was honest in his reply. "No you wouldn't," he said, "because you didn't!"
The same lesson applies to faith. Have you ever known a person of great faith who didn't have to fight for it, struggle with it, and grow it out of the difficulties of her life?
During World War II, many members of the Lutheran church in Germany lost their faith because Hitler seduced them into ways of living that kept them from practicing their faith. But there was one man whom Hitler couldn't seduce. His name was Martin Niemöller. During World War I, Niemöller was a great hero in the German military. But during World War II, he refused to bow to the authorities. He was marching to a different drumbeat. And march he did. When Hitler couldn't make him change his tune, couldn't bring him in line with the Nazis' brutal policies, he had him thrown into a concentration camp.
Seven years later, when he came out of the camp, this is what he said: "Christianity is not an ethic, nor is it a system of dogmatics, but a living thing." Everyone who saw the fruits of his life knew who he was and where he stood and how he built his reputation.
Sometimes it seems fashionable to downplay our faith, to show ourselves in tune with our world, to treat Christianity flippantly. "Don't become a fanatic," we say. "Don't go overboard with religion. I believe in my heart; just don't ask me to make a big deal of it."
But our faith is a big deal -- or it's no deal at all. Our relationship with God is everything or nothing. With Peter, we either develop the habit of deep faith or we get stuck in the habits of the world.
Luke 24:13-35
Unique to Luke's rendition of the message about Jesus is his strong emphasis on worship and song and prayer. The gospel itself begins and ends in the temple, where people are gathered for times of public devotion. At the coming of Jesus, a number of songs are sung (by Mary, Zechariah, the angels, and Simeon). Prayer also forms a key element of Jesus' teachings, with an even greater emphasis brought to it than noted by Mark (see especially Luke 11:1-13). This flows right through to the end.
At the close of his gospel, this emphasis shapes Luke's final story about Jesus. Luke tells of two people walking away from Jerusalem after the terrible events of Jesus' crucifixion. Suddenly they are joined by a man who seems familiar and yet remains a stranger. As they review the sad story of recent days, their fellow traveler, whom Luke has told us is actually the resurrected Jesus, begins to call their attention to the promises of the Old Testament, which somehow illumine both the life of their friend and the recent events that have troubled them.
As they enter their village of Emmaus, these two travelers urge Jesus to take a meal and hospitality with them. During that time together, while Jesus blesses the bread, they suddenly recognize him, and he disappears. The two quickly retrace their steps to Jerusalem, scurrying to tell the news that they have seen the risen Jesus. Their message is heard with joy by the other disciples, of course. Yet Luke seems to have an additional reason for including this tale. How would those who were not privileged to live in Palestine during Jesus' days on earth (like Luke's friend Theophilus, to whom this gospel was addressed), ever encounter Jesus? Luke could answer that question from his own experiences: He had found himself seeing Jesus in one special location -- the church and its ministries. When the congregation met together to re-enact the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples, Jesus himself was present among them in his post-resurrection, spiritual form. If Luke or Theophilus or any other person wished to see Jesus these days, the place to find him was in the church. So it was important for Luke to conclude his gospel with this memorable story. It was a clear indicator of the great truth needed in this new, messianic age: Jesus could still be found in the church's breaking of the bread.
Application
Frederick Buechner once wrote about a dream he'd had. He dreamed he was staying in a large hotel with many floors and hundreds of rooms. The room he'd been given was absolutely wonderful. For some reason it made him feel warm and comfortable and happy. He says he can't remember what the room looked like, but he still gets a shiver of delight whenever he thinks about being there.
In his dream, after staying in that room for awhile, he left the hotel on a variety of journeys and adventures. Later, though, his dream brought him back again to that same hotel. Only this time, when they gave him the key to his room, it was a different room than he'd been in before. He says that he could actually feel the difference as his dream took him into the new room: it felt cold and clammy, cramped and dark. This room made him shudder with fear.
In his dream, he went down to the front desk again. He told the clerk about the change in rooms and asked if he could have his old room back again. He said that he didn't know the number of the room, but he described it: bright, cheery, homey.
The desk clerk smiled. He knew exactly which room that was. In fact, he said, Buechner could have that room anytime he wanted. All he had to do is request it by name.
"Well, then, what's the name of the room?" Buechner asked.
"Simple!" said the clerk. "The name of the room is Remember." A room called Remember!
Buechner woke up then. But his dream stayed with him: a room called Remember. A room of peace. A room that made him feel loved and accepted. A room that gave him a sense of coming home. Buechner says the room called Remember is that place in our own hearts where we find our truest selves. It's those times in our lives when we connect the "now" of the present with the reality of the past and the promise of the future and sense again the pervasive loving hold of God on our souls.
Each of our lectionary passages today is a room called Remember. They all rehearse the litany of history that is essentially God's story of grace: Peter's recounting of Israel's history at Pentecost, his testimony near the end of his life to new companions on the road of the kingdom, and Jesus talking with the two who were traveling "home" in ways they did not yet realize as they wended from Jerusalem to Emmaus.
Experiential religion requires a constant "high," an ever-increasing dose of entertainment, an emotional fix of mind-blowing proportions at every new gathering. But deep religion has a history to it. And even when the moment doesn't excite, the soul runs deep with hope and gratitude as it moves toward HOME.
Alternative Application
1 Peter 1:17-23. The passage in Peter's first letter is powerful and practical. It resounds with the morality and behaviors of Christianity at its finest. It is about grace and transformation and repentance and turning, just as Victor Hugo summarized it in his masterpiece, Les Miserables. He said the novel was a religious work. So it is. The story echoes the gospel message at nearly every turn.
The main character, Jean Valjean, has been beaten hard by the cruel twists of fate. He has seen the sham of hypocrisy on all sides. So he casts the name of the Lord to the ground like a curse. What does God know of him, and what does it matter?
Imprisoned for stealing bread to feed his family and resentenced by the vindictive will of his jailer, Jean Valjean finally manages to escape. On his first night of freedom, he stays with a bishop, who treats him well. But behind Jean Valjean's thankful mask is the cunning face of a thief, for the bishop has many valuables.
In the early morning hours, Jean Valjean steals away with some silver plates. And when his suspicious appearance brings him under arrest, he is forced to face the bishop again, charged with new crimes.
Then the miracle of grace occurs. For in Jean Valjean's eyes the bishop sees something that begs forgiveness and hopes for mercy. Instead of taking revenge, the bishop declares that the silver dishes were a gift to Jean Valjean. In fact, he says Jean Valjean forgot to take the two silver candlesticks he had also given him.
In an instant, the bishop declares Jean Valjean innocent and gives him back his life. But with this gift of forgiveness, he commissions Jean Valjean to bring Christ to others. The rest of Jean Valjean's life becomes a testimony of one who is made new in the grace of divine love. He becomes the person of whom Peter writes in these verses: Christ incarnate in his followers.
It is like the story of the "Happy Hypocrite," a tale of a man who had lived a worthless life. He used everything for his pleasure and treated women like toys to break and throw away. One day he met a young woman whose life intrigued him. She was a Christian and her actions supported her testimony of faith.
In order to have his way with her, the man put on a mask of piety. He went to church with her and pretended to be as sincere as the mask he wore. Soon, he thought, when she trusts me, I'll use her and toss her on the heap of my conquests.
Then something happened that he hadn't counted on -- he fell in love. He began to truly appreciate and adore this woman. Always he kept his mask in place. Always he played the part of her righteous friend. And gradually she fell in love with him, too. Incredible as it seemed to him, they got married, and he found himself enjoying the role of godly husband.
But one day one of his former consorts found out who he was. She was livid. He had used and tossed her aside, and she wanted revenge. She met with him privately, telling him she would reveal the hideous truth to his wonderful wife. She'd crush him just the way he had crushed her so many years before.
She rushed at him to snatch the mask from his face and reveal the ugly man beneath. But when the mask fell away, the face behind it looked just like the pious mask. Love had changed the cruel man's heart; the habits of his life had molded his face to fit the mask of righteousness.
When love has its way with us, our face and our life will find its shape in him. Exactly, says Peter.
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19
by Schuyler Rhodes
I will pay my vows to the Lord
Almost everyone takes vows. From marriage vows to oaths of office, we line up to make formalized promises of fealty and faithfulness. Boys and Girls in Scout Troops recite their promises while soldiers lining up at recruitment centers swear an oath of faithfulness to their country. We all take vows at one time or another in our lives. Often we do so without thinking.
In churches across the land, people who "join" the church take membership vows. These vows often have the new member promising to confront injustice and oppression. They also commit the person to being present in the life of the community, and they inevitably require the commitment to support the community with financial resources.
Once ensconced in a favorite pew, however, do church members pay attention to the vows they took? Do pastors lift up these vows as serious commitments of faith and community? Do church communities as a whole pay attention to their vows?
These promises, so often made in rote rapidity, are serious vows to God. If we claim, as we do, that the church is the house of God and the community inhabiting God's house are God's people, then the vows we take are not just a rite of passage to gain admission to a religious club. No. The vows are our commitment to be part of God's great plan of salvation for the world. These are promises that we should be intentional about keeping. In other words, the psalm gets it right when the writer says, "I will pay my vows to the Lord."
A good starting place might be to hold a discussion group focusing on the membership vows of the church. What was it we promised, anyway? How are we doing at keeping these vows? How could we be more faithful? What is God calling us to as we think about these vows?
Perhaps churches could form accountability groups where people could lovingly hold one another accountable for the promises they've made to one another, and to God. If membership vows involve a commitment to struggle against injustice, how is that taking place? Where is there injustice in our community? Who is being hurt by it? What can we do today to make a difference?
If Christian communities started to be intentional about "paying their vows to God," there would be an eruption of excitement and new life. Membership would have more meaning, and the church would be taking a much needed step out of the doldrums and into faithfulness.
But it's never enough, and what she possesses begins to possess her. Finally she doesn't even know what it means to be free. One day she decides to go home. When she gets near the cottage of her birth, she wants to turn around. Her footsteps falter. She begins to turn her body. But then the dogs in the yard catch scent of her. They haven't forgotten her, even though it's been so long.
Then the light comes on at the door. The door opens. All she can see is her father, bathed in the light. He calls out her name even though he can't see her face. He calls out her name, even though he doesn't have a reason to expect her. He calls out her name, and suddenly her feet come running to him.
Then he takes her into his arms. He sobs out blessings on her head. Later, when she tells her neighbor of that night, she says, "It's a pity, Margaret, that you don't know Gaelic. That's the best of all languages for loving. There are fifty words for 'darling,' and my father called me every one of them that night I came home."
Today we celebrate several homecomings in the words of our lectionary passages. Peter calls the crowd of Jerusalem at Pentecost to come home to the faith they didn't realize they had left. Later in life, he challenges those who are newly baptized to keep returning home through the disciplines of faith family practices. And when Luke reminds us of Jesus' first days after Easter, the story of the two on the road to Emmaus brings to mind the importance of coming home in so many senses, not the least of which is faith in our risen Lord.
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Here is the first documented sermon about Jesus. On the day when the power of the Holy Spirit was unleashed on the church, Peter stood up to preach Christ, describing the significance of his coming, the meaning of his person, the content of his teachings, the impact of his actions, the character of his death, and the miracle of his resurrection.
Jesus is the center of history, according to the Bible. The very term "gospel" means "good news." In a world that is plagued with a lot of bad news, Jesus' coming and presence reminds us that God wants to love us, to care about us, to help us understand the ethics and morality of the kingdom of God that protects and affirms us. That's why the preaching of the church is always about Jesus. And it begins with the gospels.
Luke begins both his gospel and the follow-up book of Acts with a quick personal note to Theophilus, who is a friend and a recent convert to Christianity. Theophilus may have been a highly placed government leader, since Luke calls him "most excellent." More interesting, though, is the man's name. "Theophilus" means "friend of God." Whether this was the name given to him by his parents or a nickname he claimed when he became a Christian, it is a marvelous title for all who read about Jesus and call him Savior and Lord.
As Luke notes, becoming a Christian is always a kind of homecoming. This is precisely how Peter framed the message to those who listened to him at Pentecost. We are all displaced people, whether in little or great ways. The gospel story reminds us that God came into our world in the person of Jesus to find us and to bring us home to love and grace and eternity itself.
When we actually begin to breathe the air of the gospels, they smell of home. Christopher Fry put it this way in one of his plays (The Lady's Not for Burning): Margaret and Nicholas are talking about a woman who seems to be acting strangely. Margaret says, "She must be lost."
Nicholas responds, wistfully, "Who isn't? The best thing we can do is to make whatever we're lost in look as much like home as we can."
That's what we do with our lives, isn't it? We have so many goals and dreams and hopes in life, yet so few of them turn out. We get old before we've done half of what we wanted. Somehow we never become what we thought we might. We make a few mistakes along the way. We disappoint some people, and they disappoint us. Even our best times have an edge of bitterness attached to them -- when they end we walk away nursing our nostalgia. We're always a little bit away from home -- from the home we remember, or the home we desire; from the dream we miss, or the dream we're still looking for. That's what Nicholas is saying to Margaret in Christopher Fry's play. We're all a bit lost in life. We're all a bit away from home. The best we can do is make what we have look as much as possible like what we think "home" should be, until we can finally see our true home, and, under these urgings of Peter at Pentecost, bring our friends along with us.
No matter where we go, no matter what we do, there must live in each of us a touch of that homesickness, or we die a horrible death. Our trips "home" are only a pale imitation of the place we belong, and merely a wayside rest stop on a restless journey to the real home of God's love and God's eternity. More than we know that is where we all truly want to go. And only in finding Jesus and the coming of God's kingdom will our desires find fulfillment and our longings be satisfied. Only then will our homesickness end.
Peter calls for his hearers to turn around (repent) and come home ("... to all whom the Lord our God will call..."). Not a bad way to end a sermon today!
1 Peter 1:17-23
Habits are hard to break, but they are just as hard to make. One habit that demands a lifetime of practice is the habit of a deep faith, a firm belief, and a Christianity that runs true. This is the message of Peter as he begins his instructions to new-to-the-faith Christians for whom he has recently officiated in their baptisms.
Some people believe it is valuable to "sow wild oats" when we're young or to do something just to "get it out of our system." And maybe we do need to experience superficial things in order to find our way to things that truly matter. But we need to be careful, because habits are hard to break, and habits of shallow living are just as hard to break as are habits of deep living.
Peter knew the value of developing the habit of faith. Practice is necessary in any area of life in which we want to excel. A woman once rushed up to the great pianist Arthur Rubinstein after a brilliant performance. "Oh, Mr. Rubinstein," she gushed, "I'd give anything to be able to play like you do!" Rubinstein was honest in his reply. "No you wouldn't," he said, "because you didn't!"
The same lesson applies to faith. Have you ever known a person of great faith who didn't have to fight for it, struggle with it, and grow it out of the difficulties of her life?
During World War II, many members of the Lutheran church in Germany lost their faith because Hitler seduced them into ways of living that kept them from practicing their faith. But there was one man whom Hitler couldn't seduce. His name was Martin Niemöller. During World War I, Niemöller was a great hero in the German military. But during World War II, he refused to bow to the authorities. He was marching to a different drumbeat. And march he did. When Hitler couldn't make him change his tune, couldn't bring him in line with the Nazis' brutal policies, he had him thrown into a concentration camp.
Seven years later, when he came out of the camp, this is what he said: "Christianity is not an ethic, nor is it a system of dogmatics, but a living thing." Everyone who saw the fruits of his life knew who he was and where he stood and how he built his reputation.
Sometimes it seems fashionable to downplay our faith, to show ourselves in tune with our world, to treat Christianity flippantly. "Don't become a fanatic," we say. "Don't go overboard with religion. I believe in my heart; just don't ask me to make a big deal of it."
But our faith is a big deal -- or it's no deal at all. Our relationship with God is everything or nothing. With Peter, we either develop the habit of deep faith or we get stuck in the habits of the world.
Luke 24:13-35
Unique to Luke's rendition of the message about Jesus is his strong emphasis on worship and song and prayer. The gospel itself begins and ends in the temple, where people are gathered for times of public devotion. At the coming of Jesus, a number of songs are sung (by Mary, Zechariah, the angels, and Simeon). Prayer also forms a key element of Jesus' teachings, with an even greater emphasis brought to it than noted by Mark (see especially Luke 11:1-13). This flows right through to the end.
At the close of his gospel, this emphasis shapes Luke's final story about Jesus. Luke tells of two people walking away from Jerusalem after the terrible events of Jesus' crucifixion. Suddenly they are joined by a man who seems familiar and yet remains a stranger. As they review the sad story of recent days, their fellow traveler, whom Luke has told us is actually the resurrected Jesus, begins to call their attention to the promises of the Old Testament, which somehow illumine both the life of their friend and the recent events that have troubled them.
As they enter their village of Emmaus, these two travelers urge Jesus to take a meal and hospitality with them. During that time together, while Jesus blesses the bread, they suddenly recognize him, and he disappears. The two quickly retrace their steps to Jerusalem, scurrying to tell the news that they have seen the risen Jesus. Their message is heard with joy by the other disciples, of course. Yet Luke seems to have an additional reason for including this tale. How would those who were not privileged to live in Palestine during Jesus' days on earth (like Luke's friend Theophilus, to whom this gospel was addressed), ever encounter Jesus? Luke could answer that question from his own experiences: He had found himself seeing Jesus in one special location -- the church and its ministries. When the congregation met together to re-enact the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples, Jesus himself was present among them in his post-resurrection, spiritual form. If Luke or Theophilus or any other person wished to see Jesus these days, the place to find him was in the church. So it was important for Luke to conclude his gospel with this memorable story. It was a clear indicator of the great truth needed in this new, messianic age: Jesus could still be found in the church's breaking of the bread.
Application
Frederick Buechner once wrote about a dream he'd had. He dreamed he was staying in a large hotel with many floors and hundreds of rooms. The room he'd been given was absolutely wonderful. For some reason it made him feel warm and comfortable and happy. He says he can't remember what the room looked like, but he still gets a shiver of delight whenever he thinks about being there.
In his dream, after staying in that room for awhile, he left the hotel on a variety of journeys and adventures. Later, though, his dream brought him back again to that same hotel. Only this time, when they gave him the key to his room, it was a different room than he'd been in before. He says that he could actually feel the difference as his dream took him into the new room: it felt cold and clammy, cramped and dark. This room made him shudder with fear.
In his dream, he went down to the front desk again. He told the clerk about the change in rooms and asked if he could have his old room back again. He said that he didn't know the number of the room, but he described it: bright, cheery, homey.
The desk clerk smiled. He knew exactly which room that was. In fact, he said, Buechner could have that room anytime he wanted. All he had to do is request it by name.
"Well, then, what's the name of the room?" Buechner asked.
"Simple!" said the clerk. "The name of the room is Remember." A room called Remember!
Buechner woke up then. But his dream stayed with him: a room called Remember. A room of peace. A room that made him feel loved and accepted. A room that gave him a sense of coming home. Buechner says the room called Remember is that place in our own hearts where we find our truest selves. It's those times in our lives when we connect the "now" of the present with the reality of the past and the promise of the future and sense again the pervasive loving hold of God on our souls.
Each of our lectionary passages today is a room called Remember. They all rehearse the litany of history that is essentially God's story of grace: Peter's recounting of Israel's history at Pentecost, his testimony near the end of his life to new companions on the road of the kingdom, and Jesus talking with the two who were traveling "home" in ways they did not yet realize as they wended from Jerusalem to Emmaus.
Experiential religion requires a constant "high," an ever-increasing dose of entertainment, an emotional fix of mind-blowing proportions at every new gathering. But deep religion has a history to it. And even when the moment doesn't excite, the soul runs deep with hope and gratitude as it moves toward HOME.
Alternative Application
1 Peter 1:17-23. The passage in Peter's first letter is powerful and practical. It resounds with the morality and behaviors of Christianity at its finest. It is about grace and transformation and repentance and turning, just as Victor Hugo summarized it in his masterpiece, Les Miserables. He said the novel was a religious work. So it is. The story echoes the gospel message at nearly every turn.
The main character, Jean Valjean, has been beaten hard by the cruel twists of fate. He has seen the sham of hypocrisy on all sides. So he casts the name of the Lord to the ground like a curse. What does God know of him, and what does it matter?
Imprisoned for stealing bread to feed his family and resentenced by the vindictive will of his jailer, Jean Valjean finally manages to escape. On his first night of freedom, he stays with a bishop, who treats him well. But behind Jean Valjean's thankful mask is the cunning face of a thief, for the bishop has many valuables.
In the early morning hours, Jean Valjean steals away with some silver plates. And when his suspicious appearance brings him under arrest, he is forced to face the bishop again, charged with new crimes.
Then the miracle of grace occurs. For in Jean Valjean's eyes the bishop sees something that begs forgiveness and hopes for mercy. Instead of taking revenge, the bishop declares that the silver dishes were a gift to Jean Valjean. In fact, he says Jean Valjean forgot to take the two silver candlesticks he had also given him.
In an instant, the bishop declares Jean Valjean innocent and gives him back his life. But with this gift of forgiveness, he commissions Jean Valjean to bring Christ to others. The rest of Jean Valjean's life becomes a testimony of one who is made new in the grace of divine love. He becomes the person of whom Peter writes in these verses: Christ incarnate in his followers.
It is like the story of the "Happy Hypocrite," a tale of a man who had lived a worthless life. He used everything for his pleasure and treated women like toys to break and throw away. One day he met a young woman whose life intrigued him. She was a Christian and her actions supported her testimony of faith.
In order to have his way with her, the man put on a mask of piety. He went to church with her and pretended to be as sincere as the mask he wore. Soon, he thought, when she trusts me, I'll use her and toss her on the heap of my conquests.
Then something happened that he hadn't counted on -- he fell in love. He began to truly appreciate and adore this woman. Always he kept his mask in place. Always he played the part of her righteous friend. And gradually she fell in love with him, too. Incredible as it seemed to him, they got married, and he found himself enjoying the role of godly husband.
But one day one of his former consorts found out who he was. She was livid. He had used and tossed her aside, and she wanted revenge. She met with him privately, telling him she would reveal the hideous truth to his wonderful wife. She'd crush him just the way he had crushed her so many years before.
She rushed at him to snatch the mask from his face and reveal the ugly man beneath. But when the mask fell away, the face behind it looked just like the pious mask. Love had changed the cruel man's heart; the habits of his life had molded his face to fit the mask of righteousness.
When love has its way with us, our face and our life will find its shape in him. Exactly, says Peter.
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19
by Schuyler Rhodes
I will pay my vows to the Lord
Almost everyone takes vows. From marriage vows to oaths of office, we line up to make formalized promises of fealty and faithfulness. Boys and Girls in Scout Troops recite their promises while soldiers lining up at recruitment centers swear an oath of faithfulness to their country. We all take vows at one time or another in our lives. Often we do so without thinking.
In churches across the land, people who "join" the church take membership vows. These vows often have the new member promising to confront injustice and oppression. They also commit the person to being present in the life of the community, and they inevitably require the commitment to support the community with financial resources.
Once ensconced in a favorite pew, however, do church members pay attention to the vows they took? Do pastors lift up these vows as serious commitments of faith and community? Do church communities as a whole pay attention to their vows?
These promises, so often made in rote rapidity, are serious vows to God. If we claim, as we do, that the church is the house of God and the community inhabiting God's house are God's people, then the vows we take are not just a rite of passage to gain admission to a religious club. No. The vows are our commitment to be part of God's great plan of salvation for the world. These are promises that we should be intentional about keeping. In other words, the psalm gets it right when the writer says, "I will pay my vows to the Lord."
A good starting place might be to hold a discussion group focusing on the membership vows of the church. What was it we promised, anyway? How are we doing at keeping these vows? How could we be more faithful? What is God calling us to as we think about these vows?
Perhaps churches could form accountability groups where people could lovingly hold one another accountable for the promises they've made to one another, and to God. If membership vows involve a commitment to struggle against injustice, how is that taking place? Where is there injustice in our community? Who is being hurt by it? What can we do today to make a difference?
If Christian communities started to be intentional about "paying their vows to God," there would be an eruption of excitement and new life. Membership would have more meaning, and the church would be taking a much needed step out of the doldrums and into faithfulness.
