Mountain Standard Time
Sermon
Humming Till The Music Returns
Second Lesson Sermons For Advent/Christmas/Epiphany
Somewhere today there is a widow who sits at the window of her apartment. Her body is motionless, her hands rest quietly in her lap, her eyes don't even blink. She stares into space, not really noticing the bits and pieces of life that flutter around in a frenzy beyond the glass barrier. She's lost in the world of her thoughts.
In her mind she is a young girl again. She romps with her best friend through fields of flowers. She whispers secrets into her mother's ear. She feels the caress of her lover's hand on her skin and the heat of passion surges through her veins.
Somewhere today there is a man on a business trip away from home. It's Sunday and he is stuck in a distant motel. His only companion is the television. He flicks from channel to channel, stopping only when an old movie catches his attention. He's seen it before, but it captures his mind, and he becomes entranced. It's a story of love and courage, of strength and bravery, of gentleness and humility.
And long before the final scenes fade into music he's crying. He's weeping because he knows that something inside his soul just called to him. He's not sure what it is, but he knows that it's the best of him. He knows that whatever he has become, whatever it was that brought him to this place on business, it isn't what he wanted his life to be about. He's lost something along the way because he forgot that Voice, and he followed a different path.
Somewhere today there is a young bride who sits on a hard church bench. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her husband, and she can hardly keep from grinning! She didn't know that she could love someone so much! Who is this powerful stranger who has suddenly become her life, her laughter, her love?
The service of worship swirls around her, but she hears little of what is said, and she knows even less of what is done. Yet when they rise to sing, the words are all her prayer:
Love Divine, all loves excelling, Joy of Heaven, to earth come down!
Fix in us thy humble dwelling; all thy faithful mercies crown!
Somewhere today there is a police officer cruising the back streets of the city. Nothing much is happening. It's nice to have things quiet. The radio plays softly in the background, one of those "golden oldies" weekend shows. He drives past a park and stops to watch the children play. Four of them: Asian, White, Native, and Black. The radio catches his attention because Dion is singing. His voice is trembling in a ballad of great grace and of great pain. The song climbed the charts decades ago, not because of its funky beat, but because of its mournful cry for three lost brothers: "Abraham, Martin, and John."
That's the name of the song, and those are the people Dion sings of: three men who spoke of righteousness, and of justice, and of liberty. Three leaders who were stopped cold by assassins' bullets.
Suddenly this officer remembers why it was that he went to police academy, and he wants to run up to those four children. He wants to gather them into his arms. He wants to breathe a blessing of hope on their heads, and tell them that they hold the key to the future of the human race in their playing hands.
Do you know these people? Do you know what they are feeling? Do you know what makes them one, what makes their faces come alive in your mind, what makes them real to you? It's Mountain Standard Time.
You see, we are all bound by time. Time is our teacher. Time is our boss. Time is our constant companion.
Time locks us into the march of life, and forces us to wake up each morning in a place we've never been before, in a place we can never return to again.
All our lives we struggle with time. "When will we ever have enough time?" "When will I be old enough?" "When will time stop long enough for me to love you?"
One woman went through a great period of depression when her husband died. The grief slowed time for her. A year later, somewhat recovered, she talked with her pastor. "How long did it last for you," he asked, "these months of loneliness in the wilderness of your grief?"
"Longer than I had hoped," she told him, "but not as long as I had feared."
Bound by time! She wrestled alone in the deserts with him, captive to his march of dictation. Wilderness Standard Time. The time of struggle. The time of depression. The time of empty hands.
Time marches on, we say. Business Standard Time. The time of racing and pacing. The time of timeclocks and punchcards. The time of shiftwork and overtime. The time of hiring and firing, of corporate climbs and trembling takeovers.
Someone tells of a young man who had just gotten his diploma. He was so excited! He rushed out of the graduation ceremonies, held his piece of paper up to the skies and shouted, "Here I am, world! I've got my B.A.!"
Suddenly a large voice boomed back at him from the heavens: "Stick around, son, and I'll teach you the rest of the alphabet!"
That's what happens in Business Standard Time: we learn our paces; we march to the corporate drumbeat.
And then there is Relational Standard Time. The poet put it this way:
When as a child I laughed and wept, Time crept.
When as a youth I dreamt and talked, Time walked.
When I became a full-grown man, Time ran.
When older still I daily grew, Time flew.
You know what he is talking about, don't you? The time that flies when you are having fun. The time that races and teases and stalls and hurries. The time that lingers during the week, but rushes through a Friday night. The time that charts the weeks of courtship, and organizes the plans for the wedding. The time that counts nine months meticulously in pregnancy, and steps year-by-year through the grades of school. The time that changes babies into children, and children into teens, and teens into young adults, and young adults into newlyweds, and newlyweds into parents, and parents into middle-aged folk, and middle-aged folk into seniors.
Relational Standard Time.
But there comes a moment in all our lives when it is Mountain Standard Time that we long for. It is a moment when the time zones we have lived in don't promise enough anymore. It is an hour when the clocks on our walls and the watches on our wrists and the chronometers in our cars can't tell us everything we need to know about the aging of our lives. Somewhere in time we long to step into eternity.
An old Star Trek program gives a neat picture of these things. A race of people invades the starship Enterprise, but no one can see them because they live in a different dimension of time. Their systems respond to a different clock. So, while all of the crew of the Enterprise carry on with life in their own time frame, these beings dance around them as if they weren't moving at all. They romp and roam the ship and celebrate their freedom in a land of time-bound bodies.
They are only detected when one woman falls in love with Captain Kirk and slips a pill in his coffee so that his body system accelerates and he is able to enter the world of her time zone.
Perhaps that is the kind of thing Paul has in mind when he pens these words to the Corinthian church. He writes to people who are so busy with the world of their time zones, some caught up in the rush of Business Standard Time, some wasting away in Wilderness Standard Time, some rustling along in Relational Standard Time.
"Be alert!" he commands. "Because a day is coming when Someone will drop a pill into your morning coffee and your systems will enter a new time zone. You will look at your watches and you will find everything moving now in Mountain Standard Time."
Here you will learn again the meaning of your lives. Here you will see again the purpose of your times. Here you will find again the strength of your hearts, and the beauty of your souls, and the wisdom of your minds. For in the world of Mountain Standard Time, the pace is set by the King of the Mountain, the One who measures all time correctly, and the One before whom all Time bows as a servant.
We who live in Time mark days and weeks like Paul marked time. We wait for the Lord of time to come along. He is like our Lover, who drops the seed of eternity into our morning coffee, and quickens the pace of our heartbeats, and stretches out the span of our moments.
Of course, those who already know this eternal Lover live with moments of eternity pacing their days. I thought of that some time ago when my parents called after returning from three weeks of travel to Australia and New Zealand. "How was it?" I asked.
"Wonderful!" they said. "But it sure was hard to keep up with the changing time zones!"
Their bodies wanted to remain on Minnesota time while their spirits tried to live on the other side of the International Date Line. For the traveler that is a tough business.
But to the citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven it is a tough business as well. Once we have tasted life on the other side of the International Date Line, whether we live in Michigan or Minnesota or Mongolia, the pace of our existence quickens to the ticking of that other clock. And we, says Paul, who march to the beat of Wilderness Standard Time, or Business Standard Time, or Relational Standard Time, find our spirits torn by another time frame. We find our souls yearning for another pace of existence and another measure of life. Our faith makes us restless to live again on God's Mountain (cf. Isaiah 2:2-4) in Mountain Standard Time.
That's why the widow's body allows her soul to slip back to Mountain Time memories. That's why the businessman's soul searches for Mountain Time meaning that he lost somewhere along the way in Business Standard Time. That's why Relational Standard Time can't capture all the thrill of the young bride's soul; she's lifted her heart to Mountain Standard Time. That's why the police officer searches for the Mountain of racial justice to climb when he sees the children at play. Sometime Mountain Standard Time, God's time, will make them brothers forever!
Do you know why you came here this morning? Do you know why you first came to this church, and wanted to become a member of it?
It's because there is something of Mountain Standard Time that whistles through this place. We are bound by the clock across the street, chiming the quarter hour in Eastern Standard Time. But just for a while, in this place of worship, we experience the quickening pace of life on the Mountain of God, somewhere beyond the International Date Line, and Mountain Standard Time becomes our wish, and our hope, and our prayer.
In her mind she is a young girl again. She romps with her best friend through fields of flowers. She whispers secrets into her mother's ear. She feels the caress of her lover's hand on her skin and the heat of passion surges through her veins.
Somewhere today there is a man on a business trip away from home. It's Sunday and he is stuck in a distant motel. His only companion is the television. He flicks from channel to channel, stopping only when an old movie catches his attention. He's seen it before, but it captures his mind, and he becomes entranced. It's a story of love and courage, of strength and bravery, of gentleness and humility.
And long before the final scenes fade into music he's crying. He's weeping because he knows that something inside his soul just called to him. He's not sure what it is, but he knows that it's the best of him. He knows that whatever he has become, whatever it was that brought him to this place on business, it isn't what he wanted his life to be about. He's lost something along the way because he forgot that Voice, and he followed a different path.
Somewhere today there is a young bride who sits on a hard church bench. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her husband, and she can hardly keep from grinning! She didn't know that she could love someone so much! Who is this powerful stranger who has suddenly become her life, her laughter, her love?
The service of worship swirls around her, but she hears little of what is said, and she knows even less of what is done. Yet when they rise to sing, the words are all her prayer:
Love Divine, all loves excelling, Joy of Heaven, to earth come down!
Fix in us thy humble dwelling; all thy faithful mercies crown!
Somewhere today there is a police officer cruising the back streets of the city. Nothing much is happening. It's nice to have things quiet. The radio plays softly in the background, one of those "golden oldies" weekend shows. He drives past a park and stops to watch the children play. Four of them: Asian, White, Native, and Black. The radio catches his attention because Dion is singing. His voice is trembling in a ballad of great grace and of great pain. The song climbed the charts decades ago, not because of its funky beat, but because of its mournful cry for three lost brothers: "Abraham, Martin, and John."
That's the name of the song, and those are the people Dion sings of: three men who spoke of righteousness, and of justice, and of liberty. Three leaders who were stopped cold by assassins' bullets.
Suddenly this officer remembers why it was that he went to police academy, and he wants to run up to those four children. He wants to gather them into his arms. He wants to breathe a blessing of hope on their heads, and tell them that they hold the key to the future of the human race in their playing hands.
Do you know these people? Do you know what they are feeling? Do you know what makes them one, what makes their faces come alive in your mind, what makes them real to you? It's Mountain Standard Time.
You see, we are all bound by time. Time is our teacher. Time is our boss. Time is our constant companion.
Time locks us into the march of life, and forces us to wake up each morning in a place we've never been before, in a place we can never return to again.
All our lives we struggle with time. "When will we ever have enough time?" "When will I be old enough?" "When will time stop long enough for me to love you?"
One woman went through a great period of depression when her husband died. The grief slowed time for her. A year later, somewhat recovered, she talked with her pastor. "How long did it last for you," he asked, "these months of loneliness in the wilderness of your grief?"
"Longer than I had hoped," she told him, "but not as long as I had feared."
Bound by time! She wrestled alone in the deserts with him, captive to his march of dictation. Wilderness Standard Time. The time of struggle. The time of depression. The time of empty hands.
Time marches on, we say. Business Standard Time. The time of racing and pacing. The time of timeclocks and punchcards. The time of shiftwork and overtime. The time of hiring and firing, of corporate climbs and trembling takeovers.
Someone tells of a young man who had just gotten his diploma. He was so excited! He rushed out of the graduation ceremonies, held his piece of paper up to the skies and shouted, "Here I am, world! I've got my B.A.!"
Suddenly a large voice boomed back at him from the heavens: "Stick around, son, and I'll teach you the rest of the alphabet!"
That's what happens in Business Standard Time: we learn our paces; we march to the corporate drumbeat.
And then there is Relational Standard Time. The poet put it this way:
When as a child I laughed and wept, Time crept.
When as a youth I dreamt and talked, Time walked.
When I became a full-grown man, Time ran.
When older still I daily grew, Time flew.
You know what he is talking about, don't you? The time that flies when you are having fun. The time that races and teases and stalls and hurries. The time that lingers during the week, but rushes through a Friday night. The time that charts the weeks of courtship, and organizes the plans for the wedding. The time that counts nine months meticulously in pregnancy, and steps year-by-year through the grades of school. The time that changes babies into children, and children into teens, and teens into young adults, and young adults into newlyweds, and newlyweds into parents, and parents into middle-aged folk, and middle-aged folk into seniors.
Relational Standard Time.
But there comes a moment in all our lives when it is Mountain Standard Time that we long for. It is a moment when the time zones we have lived in don't promise enough anymore. It is an hour when the clocks on our walls and the watches on our wrists and the chronometers in our cars can't tell us everything we need to know about the aging of our lives. Somewhere in time we long to step into eternity.
An old Star Trek program gives a neat picture of these things. A race of people invades the starship Enterprise, but no one can see them because they live in a different dimension of time. Their systems respond to a different clock. So, while all of the crew of the Enterprise carry on with life in their own time frame, these beings dance around them as if they weren't moving at all. They romp and roam the ship and celebrate their freedom in a land of time-bound bodies.
They are only detected when one woman falls in love with Captain Kirk and slips a pill in his coffee so that his body system accelerates and he is able to enter the world of her time zone.
Perhaps that is the kind of thing Paul has in mind when he pens these words to the Corinthian church. He writes to people who are so busy with the world of their time zones, some caught up in the rush of Business Standard Time, some wasting away in Wilderness Standard Time, some rustling along in Relational Standard Time.
"Be alert!" he commands. "Because a day is coming when Someone will drop a pill into your morning coffee and your systems will enter a new time zone. You will look at your watches and you will find everything moving now in Mountain Standard Time."
Here you will learn again the meaning of your lives. Here you will see again the purpose of your times. Here you will find again the strength of your hearts, and the beauty of your souls, and the wisdom of your minds. For in the world of Mountain Standard Time, the pace is set by the King of the Mountain, the One who measures all time correctly, and the One before whom all Time bows as a servant.
We who live in Time mark days and weeks like Paul marked time. We wait for the Lord of time to come along. He is like our Lover, who drops the seed of eternity into our morning coffee, and quickens the pace of our heartbeats, and stretches out the span of our moments.
Of course, those who already know this eternal Lover live with moments of eternity pacing their days. I thought of that some time ago when my parents called after returning from three weeks of travel to Australia and New Zealand. "How was it?" I asked.
"Wonderful!" they said. "But it sure was hard to keep up with the changing time zones!"
Their bodies wanted to remain on Minnesota time while their spirits tried to live on the other side of the International Date Line. For the traveler that is a tough business.
But to the citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven it is a tough business as well. Once we have tasted life on the other side of the International Date Line, whether we live in Michigan or Minnesota or Mongolia, the pace of our existence quickens to the ticking of that other clock. And we, says Paul, who march to the beat of Wilderness Standard Time, or Business Standard Time, or Relational Standard Time, find our spirits torn by another time frame. We find our souls yearning for another pace of existence and another measure of life. Our faith makes us restless to live again on God's Mountain (cf. Isaiah 2:2-4) in Mountain Standard Time.
That's why the widow's body allows her soul to slip back to Mountain Time memories. That's why the businessman's soul searches for Mountain Time meaning that he lost somewhere along the way in Business Standard Time. That's why Relational Standard Time can't capture all the thrill of the young bride's soul; she's lifted her heart to Mountain Standard Time. That's why the police officer searches for the Mountain of racial justice to climb when he sees the children at play. Sometime Mountain Standard Time, God's time, will make them brothers forever!
Do you know why you came here this morning? Do you know why you first came to this church, and wanted to become a member of it?
It's because there is something of Mountain Standard Time that whistles through this place. We are bound by the clock across the street, chiming the quarter hour in Eastern Standard Time. But just for a while, in this place of worship, we experience the quickening pace of life on the Mountain of God, somewhere beyond the International Date Line, and Mountain Standard Time becomes our wish, and our hope, and our prayer.
