Reunions
Sermon
Daniel J. Weitner
And Other Reflections On Christmas
Object:
The older I get, the more I'm convinced that the best
reunions are the ones that are unplanned.
Call me a social introvert, but I have never once responded to the invitation of my high school classmates to join them for those occasional gatherings -- not even for the twenty-fifth, which I understand many consider an important milestone.
Don't misunderstand me. If you like that sort of thing, good for you! It's just that, personally, I'd rather avoid it. Maybe it's because the Clifton (New Jersey) Class of '66 to which I belonged had over a thousand in it, so any reunion has to be held in a ballroom roughly the size of an airplane hangar. Or maybe because the affair has so many details to consider, the planning's got to be started two or more years ahead of time. Everything has to be just so: the seating arrangements, the centerpieces, the lighting, the food, the service, the music, the speakers, the presentations.
By the time the doors open and the guests arrive, every move has been choreographed. Every minute's been planned. Every step has been laid out. Spontaneity? You've got to be kidding. There's no room for it anywhere.
Frankly, the sort of reunion I like to hear about is the kind that people never even dream could happen to them. The kind of reunion Bob Atkins had a few years ago.
At the time a 72-year-old retiree and resident of Lorain, Ohio, Atkins drove his wife to the local hospital for minor surgery, and sat down for a while in the waiting room. Almost immediately, he and another man, a stranger who was also awaiting word about his wife's condition, struck up a lively conversation.
In the course of their chat, the subject of military service came up. For Atkins, the matter hit a raw nerve. He had never quite gotten over the death of his best friend, Roy Stump. The two men had been in the Infantry during the Second World War, and were taking Holland back from the Germans a foot at time. Stump was walking just ahead of Atkins when he stepped on a land mine.
As he cradled his buddy's body, Atkins tried to stop the bleeding with a handkerchief. But the explosion had torn the left side of Stump's head away, and the medic who came along lingered only long enough to take the wounded soldier's dog tags. When the doctor left, Atkins knew the terrible truth: his friend Roy would not survive.
Now, over fifty years later, in a hospital waiting room, a flood of memory and sadness washed over him all over again. But the stranger interrupted Atkins' thoughts and silent grief as the two continued their conversation. "Anybody get hurt in your outfit?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Atkins. "Unfortunately. Good friend of mine, Roy Stump. Mine blew up in his face. Died right there on the field."
With that the other man got out his wallet, brought out his license and Army discharge papers and said, "Sorry to surprise you here, old buddy, but I didn't die!" It was Roy Stump, who not only did not perish, but fully recovered, went home, began a career, got married, and raised a family.
Unknown to either one of them, both men had moved to Lorain. They bought houses within five miles of each other, got gas at the same service station, and ate at the same diner at the same time of day. Stump remembers speaking to Atkins several times. The two always greeted each other cordially. But neither ever knew who the other was. Until that day at the hospital.
Since then, the two have been inseparable. They frequently have dinner at one another's homes. They have coffee and danish at the diner where they passed each other by so many times. And as you may have guessed, they talk endlessly. After all, when you think your best friend died a half century ago, you have a lot of catching up to do.
Long ago, a man and woman held a precious, dying comrade in their arms. They wept as they realized their loved one's life was ebbing away.
They themselves lay worn-out on a battlefield. They were bruised, broken, confused, and frightened. Their Enemy had used his best offense against them -- a half-truth which made them first question, then doubt, and finally abandon a promise which, until that moment, had been their best defense.
You may know that postwar scene as "the fall." You know the fallen man and woman, too. Their names? Adam, Eve, parents of the human race, your forebears and mine. The crafty warlord is Satan.
And the friend who is wounded, bleeding, and dying is God's presence. God's friendship. God's fellowship. God's nearness. God's communion.
God had shared the secrets of creation, of the universe, of heaven and earth, with the man and woman. He had revealed truths to them which not even angels had been privileged to hear. He had made them, not to respond as computers are programmed to recall bits of typed-in data, but to freely converse with new ideas and new questions and new revelations.
As they lie in the dust, shell-shocked and trembling, rocking their friend as a mother would comfort her child, all that is now gone. Members of the Evac team move in, pause at the failing victim, shake their heads in sympathy, remove the dog tags -- and move on.
And that is just where so many people think matters still stand: God's presence was taken away by a war crime, an act of deception, a sin, that was committed a long time ago; God's presence with the human race just died and turned into dust; truth, justice, and goodness disappeared and nothing was ever done about it since then.
If that is what you think has happened -- nothing -- then you'll pardon my saying it but --
Where have you been?
What have you been doing?
And what have you been reading?
The true story of two army buddies illustrates the condition of so many people. Are you among them? There are so many who really don't know what an earlier generation used to call the imminence of God. Are you among them? Contemporary Americans don't seem to have a clue when it comes to the presence of God in the world. If they think of God at all, they believe his last appearance in the universe was at the dawn of time. The words of the Bible really fit them: "Thou knewest not the time of thy visitation" (Luke 19:44, KJV).
Are you among them?
Do you know that God lives nearby? Have you not seen that he's a neighbor of yours? Are you aware that he was never far away to begin with? But do you realize that God never came so close to you as he did when, as Scripture says, "And the Word became flesh and lived among us ..." (John 1:14). That is the message and the miracle of Advent: reunion.
* God coming to the earth to heal the severed relationship. Reunion.
* God making right what had been wrong for so many years. Reunion.
* God restoring wholeness of heart where there had been only brokenness of spirit. Reunion.
And, like the best reunions, that one -- the birth of Jesus -- was filled with spontaneity. Not from God's perspective, but from ours. God was planning it for a long time. But as far as we were concerned, there were going to be no more surprises ... no more visitations from heaven ... no more words ... no more actions ... no more conversation or communion with the Creator.
So when a heavenly messenger split the night sky to announce the holy birth: Wow, what a party!
And what about you? Just when you are good and lonely, just when you're on the edge of giving yourself over to despair, just when you are ready to say what you have felt for so long, that God has left forever ... he comes.
God comes on a silent night to announce that the reunion party is about to begin.
He comes to tell you the patient has not died.
He comes to give you the truth: The Lord of Hosts is both Creator and Friend... the Judge of sin and the Savior of sinners ... wholly Other and wholly God-With-Us ... one whose home is in heaven and in the believing human heart.
Do you know this God? If you do -- if you can recognize the Almighty in the face of Jesus Christ -- then let the reunion begin!
Call me a social introvert, but I have never once responded to the invitation of my high school classmates to join them for those occasional gatherings -- not even for the twenty-fifth, which I understand many consider an important milestone.
Don't misunderstand me. If you like that sort of thing, good for you! It's just that, personally, I'd rather avoid it. Maybe it's because the Clifton (New Jersey) Class of '66 to which I belonged had over a thousand in it, so any reunion has to be held in a ballroom roughly the size of an airplane hangar. Or maybe because the affair has so many details to consider, the planning's got to be started two or more years ahead of time. Everything has to be just so: the seating arrangements, the centerpieces, the lighting, the food, the service, the music, the speakers, the presentations.
By the time the doors open and the guests arrive, every move has been choreographed. Every minute's been planned. Every step has been laid out. Spontaneity? You've got to be kidding. There's no room for it anywhere.
Frankly, the sort of reunion I like to hear about is the kind that people never even dream could happen to them. The kind of reunion Bob Atkins had a few years ago.
At the time a 72-year-old retiree and resident of Lorain, Ohio, Atkins drove his wife to the local hospital for minor surgery, and sat down for a while in the waiting room. Almost immediately, he and another man, a stranger who was also awaiting word about his wife's condition, struck up a lively conversation.
In the course of their chat, the subject of military service came up. For Atkins, the matter hit a raw nerve. He had never quite gotten over the death of his best friend, Roy Stump. The two men had been in the Infantry during the Second World War, and were taking Holland back from the Germans a foot at time. Stump was walking just ahead of Atkins when he stepped on a land mine.
As he cradled his buddy's body, Atkins tried to stop the bleeding with a handkerchief. But the explosion had torn the left side of Stump's head away, and the medic who came along lingered only long enough to take the wounded soldier's dog tags. When the doctor left, Atkins knew the terrible truth: his friend Roy would not survive.
Now, over fifty years later, in a hospital waiting room, a flood of memory and sadness washed over him all over again. But the stranger interrupted Atkins' thoughts and silent grief as the two continued their conversation. "Anybody get hurt in your outfit?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Atkins. "Unfortunately. Good friend of mine, Roy Stump. Mine blew up in his face. Died right there on the field."
With that the other man got out his wallet, brought out his license and Army discharge papers and said, "Sorry to surprise you here, old buddy, but I didn't die!" It was Roy Stump, who not only did not perish, but fully recovered, went home, began a career, got married, and raised a family.
Unknown to either one of them, both men had moved to Lorain. They bought houses within five miles of each other, got gas at the same service station, and ate at the same diner at the same time of day. Stump remembers speaking to Atkins several times. The two always greeted each other cordially. But neither ever knew who the other was. Until that day at the hospital.
Since then, the two have been inseparable. They frequently have dinner at one another's homes. They have coffee and danish at the diner where they passed each other by so many times. And as you may have guessed, they talk endlessly. After all, when you think your best friend died a half century ago, you have a lot of catching up to do.
Long ago, a man and woman held a precious, dying comrade in their arms. They wept as they realized their loved one's life was ebbing away.
They themselves lay worn-out on a battlefield. They were bruised, broken, confused, and frightened. Their Enemy had used his best offense against them -- a half-truth which made them first question, then doubt, and finally abandon a promise which, until that moment, had been their best defense.
You may know that postwar scene as "the fall." You know the fallen man and woman, too. Their names? Adam, Eve, parents of the human race, your forebears and mine. The crafty warlord is Satan.
And the friend who is wounded, bleeding, and dying is God's presence. God's friendship. God's fellowship. God's nearness. God's communion.
God had shared the secrets of creation, of the universe, of heaven and earth, with the man and woman. He had revealed truths to them which not even angels had been privileged to hear. He had made them, not to respond as computers are programmed to recall bits of typed-in data, but to freely converse with new ideas and new questions and new revelations.
As they lie in the dust, shell-shocked and trembling, rocking their friend as a mother would comfort her child, all that is now gone. Members of the Evac team move in, pause at the failing victim, shake their heads in sympathy, remove the dog tags -- and move on.
And that is just where so many people think matters still stand: God's presence was taken away by a war crime, an act of deception, a sin, that was committed a long time ago; God's presence with the human race just died and turned into dust; truth, justice, and goodness disappeared and nothing was ever done about it since then.
If that is what you think has happened -- nothing -- then you'll pardon my saying it but --
Where have you been?
What have you been doing?
And what have you been reading?
The true story of two army buddies illustrates the condition of so many people. Are you among them? There are so many who really don't know what an earlier generation used to call the imminence of God. Are you among them? Contemporary Americans don't seem to have a clue when it comes to the presence of God in the world. If they think of God at all, they believe his last appearance in the universe was at the dawn of time. The words of the Bible really fit them: "Thou knewest not the time of thy visitation" (Luke 19:44, KJV).
Are you among them?
Do you know that God lives nearby? Have you not seen that he's a neighbor of yours? Are you aware that he was never far away to begin with? But do you realize that God never came so close to you as he did when, as Scripture says, "And the Word became flesh and lived among us ..." (John 1:14). That is the message and the miracle of Advent: reunion.
* God coming to the earth to heal the severed relationship. Reunion.
* God making right what had been wrong for so many years. Reunion.
* God restoring wholeness of heart where there had been only brokenness of spirit. Reunion.
And, like the best reunions, that one -- the birth of Jesus -- was filled with spontaneity. Not from God's perspective, but from ours. God was planning it for a long time. But as far as we were concerned, there were going to be no more surprises ... no more visitations from heaven ... no more words ... no more actions ... no more conversation or communion with the Creator.
So when a heavenly messenger split the night sky to announce the holy birth: Wow, what a party!
And what about you? Just when you are good and lonely, just when you're on the edge of giving yourself over to despair, just when you are ready to say what you have felt for so long, that God has left forever ... he comes.
God comes on a silent night to announce that the reunion party is about to begin.
He comes to tell you the patient has not died.
He comes to give you the truth: The Lord of Hosts is both Creator and Friend... the Judge of sin and the Savior of sinners ... wholly Other and wholly God-With-Us ... one whose home is in heaven and in the believing human heart.
Do you know this God? If you do -- if you can recognize the Almighty in the face of Jesus Christ -- then let the reunion begin!
