A Precious, Flickering Light
Sermon
The Home Stretch
Matthew's Vision Of Servanthood In The End-Time
Lucille's Grief
A little baby girl was stillborn. Unfortunately, no one had anticipated problems going into delivery. Fifty years ago, when this happened, they didn't have the sophisticated technology to detect the particular problems this baby was having; her mother, Lucille, had gone under anesthesia expectant and hopeful.
She awoke a few hours later to the tragic news: there was no baby to hold, no cute little fingers and wiggling toes. Lucille never saw her precious little baby Martha, and they buried the baby during Lucille's ten--day hospital stay.
When Lucille finally came home from the hospital, all evidence of a baby had been removed from the house. Nothing was left of the preparations she had made so carefully for the baby - no nursery furniture, no baby clothes, no stroller, nothing.
Fifty years ago, pretending there had never been a baby seemed the best way to ease the pain. Lucille never saw her precious little Martha, and she came home from the hospital to life as usual.
But life was never usual after that. She never forgot that little daughter she loved so deeply but never saw and never held.
The years went by. Eventually she had another child, a son. She also loved him deeply but she never forgot her little baby girl.
Lucille and her husband and one son had a good life together. Forty years later Lucille's husband died and her beloved son lived far away. She had a lot of time to think. She thought a lot about little baby Martha, perhaps missing her more than ever before.
Lucille sometimes invited her good friend Bernice over for homemade soup, and they would have wonderful talks sitting at her kitchen table. Bernice didn't know about baby Martha. No one did.
One day Lucille was missing Martha very much, and vaguely mentioned her baby to Bernice. Little by little, over several lunches, she told more and more until one day she said, "You know, what really bothers me is that Martha never had a funeral."
Flickering In The October Wind
Bernice suggested they call their pastor and have a private funeral service out at little Martha's grave. Their pastor agreed and they set a time for the service one week later.
Lucille was both excited and nervous. She bought a special plant in memory of her daughter and set it in a sunny place in her living room. Pastor Kay and Bernice came over to her house and they planned the service carefully. Then on a bright October day, one week later, they headed out to the cemetery. Lucille brought flowers to leave at the grave, and Bernice brought a candle.
The Bible says the Spirit of God blows around us like the wind, and the Spirit was really blowing that day. They huddled together against the wind and thanked God for creating little Martha. They read special passages of thanksgiving and comfort from the Bible. They lit the candle to remember that, although Martha was unable to receive the gift of baptism in this life, she was still God's creation and loved by God.
Both Lucille and Bernice had to cup their hands around the candle to keep the wind from blowing out the flame.
They got to some of the most wrenching and hopeful words in the funeral service, the commendation. Loudly and into the wind Pastor Kay shouted, "Into your hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend little Martha." At that precise moment, with no change in the wind and hands still protecting the flame, it suddenly went out - as if someone had blown it out.
For a long time the three women looked at each other in silence. It was a holy moment. The Spirit of God was stirring with the wind, assuring Lucille, "Yes, little Martha is with me. Yes, she's fine. Yes, I love her and everything's all right."
Lucille's faith was as fragile as that candle flickering in the wind. That day she was like the ten lepers in the Bible who had also suffered much, perhaps also for many years. She and the lepers cried out to the mercy of almighty God for healing, as needed in their own ways: "Into your hands, O merciful Savior!" "Jesus, Master, have mercy!"
And God heard. God acted with mercy. God lifted their burdens and blessed them.
Lucille, Bernice, and Pastor Kay went back to Lucille's house after the service. They were all amazed at what had happened, and knew they had all sensed the same thing: the sure presence of God's comforting Spirit at that moment, at that little grave.
It was such a special experience that Lucille asked them not to tell anyone else about it. It would have been hard to explain what happened, and others might call it coincidence or dismiss it as if they were making much out of nothing. But they knew what they had experienced, as sure as the lepers who looked down and saw their skin healed.
Fifty years of silent grief began to lift from Lucille's shoulders that day. God had heard her; she felt sure of it. God loved her little Martha even more than she did. She no longer felt alone; God was in this with her. Lucille's heart felt lighter and her faith grew a little stronger. She was thankful.
Thank You, God!
You might wonder why I chose to tell a funeral story on Thanksgiving. It would be nice if our Thanksgivings were unclouded by the griefs and challenges of life, but that is seldom the case. That funeral service was really a service of giving thanks, and it was a mixture of all the complexity that makes up our Thanksgiving holidays as well.
Sometimes Thanksgiving celebrations feel inauthentic, when our burdens and losses almost mock us while we try to give thanks. Perhaps we are aware of the people missing from our Thanksgiving tables. Perhaps things tug at our hearts while we try to smile and celebrate. Perhaps we miss Thanksgivings past, or fear what the future holds. Perhaps we wonder how to give thanks when our cup feels more than half empty, or we feel empty inside. Sometimes we might not feel like giving thanks, and sometimes giving thanks might even seem inappropriate for our circumstances.
Fragile as a flickering candle in the wind, we may feel more like shouting into the air, "Jesus, Master, have mercy!" rather than, "Thank you!"
The healing of the ten lepers in the Bible and Lucille's story remind us that we are not just "blowing in the wind" when we cry out to God for mercy. When we commend ourselves and our concerns to the heavens, God hears. God acts mercifully. God gives us reason to give thanks, even in the middle of difficulties.
In the movie Joe vs. the Volcano, Joe is a life--long hypochondriac, stranded and dying on a raft floating in the ocean. Hungry, dehydrated, and half--delirious, he stirs in the night and sees the moon hovering over the water. It is huge and bright, practically covering the whole sky. He struggles to his feet. For the first time in his life, he has perspective on life.
Then he falls intentionally to his knees, crosses his arms over his chest, and does something he apparently hasn't done before: he prays. Quietly he says, "Dear God, whose name I do not know, thank you for my life! I forgot how big! Thank you. Thank you for my life."
The irony in this movie scene is powerful. Joe had spent most of his life so worried about dying that he never really lived. On the raft, actually facing death, he finally realizes what a gift it is just to be alive. Facing our losses and disappointments helps put our life and our priorities into perspective.
And when life falls into perspective, we fall to our knees - in thanksgiving.
Maybe this doesn't make sense to the world. Maybe nine out of the ten healed lepers just "thanked their lucky stars" that coincidence or fate put them in the right place at the right time.
Through the Bible, however, we do know who to thank. We see that it is Jesus who is active in the world, responsive to our needs, and powerful to help us. One leper met him on the road to healing; Lucille felt his Spirit blowing in the cemetery; we encounter him in many different ways. Along with Saint Paul, we may confidently claim, "I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38--39).
Commending ourselves again into the merciful arms of this faithful God, may we find the voice to say a simple, "Thank you. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my blessings."
A little baby girl was stillborn. Unfortunately, no one had anticipated problems going into delivery. Fifty years ago, when this happened, they didn't have the sophisticated technology to detect the particular problems this baby was having; her mother, Lucille, had gone under anesthesia expectant and hopeful.
She awoke a few hours later to the tragic news: there was no baby to hold, no cute little fingers and wiggling toes. Lucille never saw her precious little baby Martha, and they buried the baby during Lucille's ten--day hospital stay.
When Lucille finally came home from the hospital, all evidence of a baby had been removed from the house. Nothing was left of the preparations she had made so carefully for the baby - no nursery furniture, no baby clothes, no stroller, nothing.
Fifty years ago, pretending there had never been a baby seemed the best way to ease the pain. Lucille never saw her precious little Martha, and she came home from the hospital to life as usual.
But life was never usual after that. She never forgot that little daughter she loved so deeply but never saw and never held.
The years went by. Eventually she had another child, a son. She also loved him deeply but she never forgot her little baby girl.
Lucille and her husband and one son had a good life together. Forty years later Lucille's husband died and her beloved son lived far away. She had a lot of time to think. She thought a lot about little baby Martha, perhaps missing her more than ever before.
Lucille sometimes invited her good friend Bernice over for homemade soup, and they would have wonderful talks sitting at her kitchen table. Bernice didn't know about baby Martha. No one did.
One day Lucille was missing Martha very much, and vaguely mentioned her baby to Bernice. Little by little, over several lunches, she told more and more until one day she said, "You know, what really bothers me is that Martha never had a funeral."
Flickering In The October Wind
Bernice suggested they call their pastor and have a private funeral service out at little Martha's grave. Their pastor agreed and they set a time for the service one week later.
Lucille was both excited and nervous. She bought a special plant in memory of her daughter and set it in a sunny place in her living room. Pastor Kay and Bernice came over to her house and they planned the service carefully. Then on a bright October day, one week later, they headed out to the cemetery. Lucille brought flowers to leave at the grave, and Bernice brought a candle.
The Bible says the Spirit of God blows around us like the wind, and the Spirit was really blowing that day. They huddled together against the wind and thanked God for creating little Martha. They read special passages of thanksgiving and comfort from the Bible. They lit the candle to remember that, although Martha was unable to receive the gift of baptism in this life, she was still God's creation and loved by God.
Both Lucille and Bernice had to cup their hands around the candle to keep the wind from blowing out the flame.
They got to some of the most wrenching and hopeful words in the funeral service, the commendation. Loudly and into the wind Pastor Kay shouted, "Into your hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend little Martha." At that precise moment, with no change in the wind and hands still protecting the flame, it suddenly went out - as if someone had blown it out.
For a long time the three women looked at each other in silence. It was a holy moment. The Spirit of God was stirring with the wind, assuring Lucille, "Yes, little Martha is with me. Yes, she's fine. Yes, I love her and everything's all right."
Lucille's faith was as fragile as that candle flickering in the wind. That day she was like the ten lepers in the Bible who had also suffered much, perhaps also for many years. She and the lepers cried out to the mercy of almighty God for healing, as needed in their own ways: "Into your hands, O merciful Savior!" "Jesus, Master, have mercy!"
And God heard. God acted with mercy. God lifted their burdens and blessed them.
Lucille, Bernice, and Pastor Kay went back to Lucille's house after the service. They were all amazed at what had happened, and knew they had all sensed the same thing: the sure presence of God's comforting Spirit at that moment, at that little grave.
It was such a special experience that Lucille asked them not to tell anyone else about it. It would have been hard to explain what happened, and others might call it coincidence or dismiss it as if they were making much out of nothing. But they knew what they had experienced, as sure as the lepers who looked down and saw their skin healed.
Fifty years of silent grief began to lift from Lucille's shoulders that day. God had heard her; she felt sure of it. God loved her little Martha even more than she did. She no longer felt alone; God was in this with her. Lucille's heart felt lighter and her faith grew a little stronger. She was thankful.
Thank You, God!
You might wonder why I chose to tell a funeral story on Thanksgiving. It would be nice if our Thanksgivings were unclouded by the griefs and challenges of life, but that is seldom the case. That funeral service was really a service of giving thanks, and it was a mixture of all the complexity that makes up our Thanksgiving holidays as well.
Sometimes Thanksgiving celebrations feel inauthentic, when our burdens and losses almost mock us while we try to give thanks. Perhaps we are aware of the people missing from our Thanksgiving tables. Perhaps things tug at our hearts while we try to smile and celebrate. Perhaps we miss Thanksgivings past, or fear what the future holds. Perhaps we wonder how to give thanks when our cup feels more than half empty, or we feel empty inside. Sometimes we might not feel like giving thanks, and sometimes giving thanks might even seem inappropriate for our circumstances.
Fragile as a flickering candle in the wind, we may feel more like shouting into the air, "Jesus, Master, have mercy!" rather than, "Thank you!"
The healing of the ten lepers in the Bible and Lucille's story remind us that we are not just "blowing in the wind" when we cry out to God for mercy. When we commend ourselves and our concerns to the heavens, God hears. God acts mercifully. God gives us reason to give thanks, even in the middle of difficulties.
In the movie Joe vs. the Volcano, Joe is a life--long hypochondriac, stranded and dying on a raft floating in the ocean. Hungry, dehydrated, and half--delirious, he stirs in the night and sees the moon hovering over the water. It is huge and bright, practically covering the whole sky. He struggles to his feet. For the first time in his life, he has perspective on life.
Then he falls intentionally to his knees, crosses his arms over his chest, and does something he apparently hasn't done before: he prays. Quietly he says, "Dear God, whose name I do not know, thank you for my life! I forgot how big! Thank you. Thank you for my life."
The irony in this movie scene is powerful. Joe had spent most of his life so worried about dying that he never really lived. On the raft, actually facing death, he finally realizes what a gift it is just to be alive. Facing our losses and disappointments helps put our life and our priorities into perspective.
And when life falls into perspective, we fall to our knees - in thanksgiving.
Maybe this doesn't make sense to the world. Maybe nine out of the ten healed lepers just "thanked their lucky stars" that coincidence or fate put them in the right place at the right time.
Through the Bible, however, we do know who to thank. We see that it is Jesus who is active in the world, responsive to our needs, and powerful to help us. One leper met him on the road to healing; Lucille felt his Spirit blowing in the cemetery; we encounter him in many different ways. Along with Saint Paul, we may confidently claim, "I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38--39).
Commending ourselves again into the merciful arms of this faithful God, may we find the voice to say a simple, "Thank you. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my blessings."
