I Would Not Mind A Little Encouragement, God
Sermon
Holy Email
Cycle A Second Lesson Sermons for Advent, Christmas, Epiphany
E-mail
From: KDM
To: God
Subject: Embracing Hope
Message: I would not mind a little encouragement, God. Lauds, KDM
A relationship gone afoul brings a career to a halt. The death of a life partner means a move from the family home. The college of choice has already met its out-of-state quota. Failed eyesight ends driving years. Diabetic nerve damage makes emotions and clarity of thought too inconsistent to remain work effective. Arthritic fingers can no longer do repetitive computer work. Parkinson's disease forces early retirement of a plant manager. All of the people just mentioned have met the "I can't."
Our hearts, too, can resonate with the message of today's e-mail: I would not mind a little encouragement, God. Lauds, KDM. You and I stretch the limits when we are young, when it is fair, fun, and not a luxury. That is unlike our limits stretching us on a rack and bringing on the unholy whine. Limits tell us what we do not want to hear. Limits tell us we are finite creatures who must live within given boundaries.
I would not mind a little encouragement, God.
In early life, we discover possibility. In next decades, we acknowledge our limits. It is the human will, however, within precious seconds not measured by time that we must deal with, for our bodies are cement. Limits hint that we do not measure up. Limits say we cannot compete with others despite our wanting to and despite the pull of the "ought." As we turn toward what is possible, we come to appreciate that life's nectar lies not in competition but in walking with each other along the journey.
Limits are not moral issues with dimensions of shame, worth, or self-value. Limits challenge our pride. Limits stop us. Limits hurt. Limits imprison us until, unless, we live within them.
I would not mind a little encouragement, God.
We despise what is broken about us. We apologize for it. Seeing only what is wrong in our lives, we ask God to forgive us for the brokenness within the whole.
Why not ask forgiveness, instead, when we are guilty of not respecting that we are doing the best we can?
Why not ask forgiveness when we demand of ourselves more than we are able?
Why not say, God, forgive us for not honoring what is whole amid our limits?
God, forgive us when we refuse to be thankful for the parts of our body that do work.
In adverse situations, a sense of impossibility first overrides all else. However, feeling overwhelmed by the "I can't" does not necessarily mean that we "cannot." It does not mean that we have sunk. It means that we are facing the truth of being unable to do something according to original plans. That is all it means. The temporary despair that accompanies a sense of being overwhelmed quiets as we figure out another way to do what is important to us. Limits just are.
There are two sides to impossibility. On the one hand is the "I cannot," that is, the precise detail of the inability. Sometimes in the midst of this "I cannot," our will to let go rages and nearly wins out. So strong at times is this struggle between the death wish and the will to live that we use most of our stamina just to hold on. The other side of impossibility is the "I can." The tenacity of our will to live is persistent. Most of the time we rise above the impossible intervals. We discern that defeat is only one part of limitation. Limitation also includes a sense of challenge.
I want to tell you about Fritz. He is the plant manager with Parkinson's, the paralyzing disease that causes a faulty relay between the brain and muscle. When speaking, Fritz says he has learned to wait out the silences until the words slip out. If a sentence still does not speak clearly, he accepts it. He says a matter-of-fact, "Again," and invites the sentence to repeat. Fritz has realized in the midst of the muddle of trying to communicate that hope is something he can choose. He, therefore, chooses daily to separate the disease from the person by focusing his energy on its management.
Each time Fritz designs a back-up strategy, his satisfaction overrides his frustration. The limitation that handicaps him becomes only a disability, an annoyance, a surmountable inconvenience.
Hope is something we have to choose. The "I can" shows itself as the rising energy that engenders creative and imaginative trying. When we are able to follow this drive to find another way, we move beyond mere survival and begin again to thrive.
Some times are tough to move through. Hope is something we have to choose. God is someone we have to seek. Sometimes, a single sentence is the most we can call out to God. Sometimes our best is only a few words or only a God-directed sigh. Sometimes when we need to have God near, we need more encouragement than we can summon through our own pep talks.
We would not mind a little encouragement, God.
It is not enough for us to snatch at hope like a bird flitting from limb to limb snatches at rose hips in a brier thicket. We need to embrace hope, choose hope, and grab on to hope with all our might.
Where does God come into all of this? Paul reminds us that God is God of steadfastness and of encouragement. Is not the Holy Spirit of God -- from out of the somewhere or from deep within the soul -- the very infusion of energy that gives us the idea, the possible solution, the urge to work around a limitation, the reach for the "I can"?
You, who no longer drive, locate a driver with a flexible schedule. You with arthritic fingers get funding for a computer adapted so you can work. You with the entangled work relationship discover a career opening that fits your abilities.
You who lost a life partner and left your house find a way to surround yourself with what really matters. You, who were refused the college of your choice, begin a new search with a clearer idea of your talents. You with the diabetic fluctuations discover another profitable outlet for your creative energies and find again a fulfilling life.
All who know about the journey from hopelessness into hope recognize Emmanuel, the presence of God walking with us. All know the surprise of God's presence coming into the midst of our chaos. All of us can meet the "I can" of our lives.
Christmas happens when God's choosing hope and our choice of hope meet. Christmas happens when we remember to be curious. Christmas happens when we allow the "will to live" part of us, the part that refuses to stay stuck behind a barricade, anticipate again and figure out another way of being who God means for us to be. Christmas comes when we let God in and begin again to be practicers of thriving.
No wonder KDM signs off the e-mails with a perky, "Lauds." The final result in our relationship to God is a note of encouragement and praise.
From: KDM
To: God
Subject: Embracing Hope
Message: I would not mind a little encouragement, God. Lauds, KDM
A relationship gone afoul brings a career to a halt. The death of a life partner means a move from the family home. The college of choice has already met its out-of-state quota. Failed eyesight ends driving years. Diabetic nerve damage makes emotions and clarity of thought too inconsistent to remain work effective. Arthritic fingers can no longer do repetitive computer work. Parkinson's disease forces early retirement of a plant manager. All of the people just mentioned have met the "I can't."
Our hearts, too, can resonate with the message of today's e-mail: I would not mind a little encouragement, God. Lauds, KDM. You and I stretch the limits when we are young, when it is fair, fun, and not a luxury. That is unlike our limits stretching us on a rack and bringing on the unholy whine. Limits tell us what we do not want to hear. Limits tell us we are finite creatures who must live within given boundaries.
I would not mind a little encouragement, God.
In early life, we discover possibility. In next decades, we acknowledge our limits. It is the human will, however, within precious seconds not measured by time that we must deal with, for our bodies are cement. Limits hint that we do not measure up. Limits say we cannot compete with others despite our wanting to and despite the pull of the "ought." As we turn toward what is possible, we come to appreciate that life's nectar lies not in competition but in walking with each other along the journey.
Limits are not moral issues with dimensions of shame, worth, or self-value. Limits challenge our pride. Limits stop us. Limits hurt. Limits imprison us until, unless, we live within them.
I would not mind a little encouragement, God.
We despise what is broken about us. We apologize for it. Seeing only what is wrong in our lives, we ask God to forgive us for the brokenness within the whole.
Why not ask forgiveness, instead, when we are guilty of not respecting that we are doing the best we can?
Why not ask forgiveness when we demand of ourselves more than we are able?
Why not say, God, forgive us for not honoring what is whole amid our limits?
God, forgive us when we refuse to be thankful for the parts of our body that do work.
In adverse situations, a sense of impossibility first overrides all else. However, feeling overwhelmed by the "I can't" does not necessarily mean that we "cannot." It does not mean that we have sunk. It means that we are facing the truth of being unable to do something according to original plans. That is all it means. The temporary despair that accompanies a sense of being overwhelmed quiets as we figure out another way to do what is important to us. Limits just are.
There are two sides to impossibility. On the one hand is the "I cannot," that is, the precise detail of the inability. Sometimes in the midst of this "I cannot," our will to let go rages and nearly wins out. So strong at times is this struggle between the death wish and the will to live that we use most of our stamina just to hold on. The other side of impossibility is the "I can." The tenacity of our will to live is persistent. Most of the time we rise above the impossible intervals. We discern that defeat is only one part of limitation. Limitation also includes a sense of challenge.
I want to tell you about Fritz. He is the plant manager with Parkinson's, the paralyzing disease that causes a faulty relay between the brain and muscle. When speaking, Fritz says he has learned to wait out the silences until the words slip out. If a sentence still does not speak clearly, he accepts it. He says a matter-of-fact, "Again," and invites the sentence to repeat. Fritz has realized in the midst of the muddle of trying to communicate that hope is something he can choose. He, therefore, chooses daily to separate the disease from the person by focusing his energy on its management.
Each time Fritz designs a back-up strategy, his satisfaction overrides his frustration. The limitation that handicaps him becomes only a disability, an annoyance, a surmountable inconvenience.
Hope is something we have to choose. The "I can" shows itself as the rising energy that engenders creative and imaginative trying. When we are able to follow this drive to find another way, we move beyond mere survival and begin again to thrive.
Some times are tough to move through. Hope is something we have to choose. God is someone we have to seek. Sometimes, a single sentence is the most we can call out to God. Sometimes our best is only a few words or only a God-directed sigh. Sometimes when we need to have God near, we need more encouragement than we can summon through our own pep talks.
We would not mind a little encouragement, God.
It is not enough for us to snatch at hope like a bird flitting from limb to limb snatches at rose hips in a brier thicket. We need to embrace hope, choose hope, and grab on to hope with all our might.
Where does God come into all of this? Paul reminds us that God is God of steadfastness and of encouragement. Is not the Holy Spirit of God -- from out of the somewhere or from deep within the soul -- the very infusion of energy that gives us the idea, the possible solution, the urge to work around a limitation, the reach for the "I can"?
You, who no longer drive, locate a driver with a flexible schedule. You with arthritic fingers get funding for a computer adapted so you can work. You with the entangled work relationship discover a career opening that fits your abilities.
You who lost a life partner and left your house find a way to surround yourself with what really matters. You, who were refused the college of your choice, begin a new search with a clearer idea of your talents. You with the diabetic fluctuations discover another profitable outlet for your creative energies and find again a fulfilling life.
All who know about the journey from hopelessness into hope recognize Emmanuel, the presence of God walking with us. All know the surprise of God's presence coming into the midst of our chaos. All of us can meet the "I can" of our lives.
Christmas happens when God's choosing hope and our choice of hope meet. Christmas happens when we remember to be curious. Christmas happens when we allow the "will to live" part of us, the part that refuses to stay stuck behind a barricade, anticipate again and figure out another way of being who God means for us to be. Christmas comes when we let God in and begin again to be practicers of thriving.
No wonder KDM signs off the e-mails with a perky, "Lauds." The final result in our relationship to God is a note of encouragement and praise.
