Who Am I?
Sermon
Sermons on the First Readings
Series III, Cycle B
Back in the '60s, a real "hip" kid attended the morning service of worship at an upper-class church. The pastor greeted him at the door. The groovy kid grabbed the minister's hand and said, "Dad, I really dug that sermon!" The staid pastor was taken by surprise and said, "Young man, I don't understand." The beatnik answered, "Dad, I really 'went' for that sermon; it really came down the middle, man, loud and cool; it was like, gone, man."
The minister's dignity was rattled and he decided to confront the young man with some propriety. He said, "Son, I just don't understand what you are trying to say; perhaps you could use some appropriate English." The loose-shirted, blue-jeaned, and sandaled lad tried again. "Dad, what I really mean is, I really went for what you had to say, so much so that I put 100 smackeroos in the collection plate." Suddenly the cast of enlightenment crossed the face of the minister and he said, "Crazy, man, crazy!"
The story is really about identity. The minister presented his identity, staid, professional, dignified, a member of the religious establishment. The hippie wore another identity, an identity assumed, perhaps, for the purpose of broadcasting to the world, "Hey, look at me, pay attention to me, don't ignore me!"
Some years ago, in the '80s, a tour director led some of the older ladies in his group after the evening meal down Kurfuerstendam, the main street of Berlin. The streets were crowded by punkers, one outfit more outrageous than the other. As the leader approached one particular punker, she noticed something furry on his shoulder chained by a pin to his ear. She was startled to discover that it was a rat. A bit of a mean streak seized her and she quickly stepped aside in order to observe the reaction of the lady next in line. The punker also attracted the interest of the tourist. The woman approached him with curiosity, closing in order to figure out what he had on his shoulder. When she realized that she was almost within kissing distance of a live rat, she yelled and jumped backward a considerable distance.
The punker, of course, loved it. He delighted in shocking the people walking along Kurfuerstendam. He had found identity and he wanted to flaunt it. In a city that, before the reunification of Germany, was a symbol of lost hopes and futility, the punker found "success" with purple hair, with an outrageous costume, and with a rat pinned to his ear.
How desperate are we to find our identity? At one moment in his life from his prison cell Dietrich Bonhoeffer asked the question, "Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine."
Once there was an Ethiopian. He was a eunuch and a prestigious minister of the court of Candace, the queen of the Ethiopians. He went on a journey to Jerusalem, perhaps on business for his boss, or perhaps to find his identity. Who knows what kind of identity crisis can occur when one has to become a eunuch in order to rise to a high position in a country so powerful that it was often yoked with the powerful empire of Egypt?
Some historians have observed that the first century in the Middle East was an age of honest doubt and seeking. Many were tired of divine pantheons and loose morals. Many were searching for a religion that offered hope and made sense. The magi came from the east looking for new hope to which a suspicious star pointed. For some, the strict monotheism and values of Judaism offered an answer. Some Gentiles submitted themselves to circumcision and became proselytes. Others went to synagogue worship and read the Jewish scriptures and became God-fearers.
Christians are those who have a strong sense of identity centered in Christ and are those anxious to bestow the mantel of meaningful identity upon others. Before the enlightenment of Peter about inclusion and before Paul was even a believer, there was Philip. Philip saw the light of an angel. "Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza." Philip obeyed. On the road to Gaza, he ran into the eunuch, reading aloud some scripture while riding in his chariot (the kind with a seat). Philip wiggled his way into an invitation to join the eunuch in order to interpret a troublesome passage from Isaiah.
"Who's this sheep that was led to the slaughter?" asked the VIP from the south. "Is Isaiah talking about himself or is he talking about someone else?" "Well," replied Philip, "that's a good question. I'm glad you asked. The prophet is announcing the coming of my Lord, Jesus, who died on the cross, like a sheep led to slaughter. He rose from the dead and announced salvation to all who would believe."
"Stop the horses!" commanded the eunuch. "I believe and I want to be baptized, right now!"
Some Christians believe that baptism is something one agrees to when one becomes a believer. Other Christians believe that baptism is a sacrament, that it bestows faith. It doesn't matter. Baptism is a sign of one's faith. The eunuch went back to Ethiopia, cleaned by baptism, in union with Christ, and ready to start a new life. The existence of the Ethiopian Orthodox church today might be a witness to the eunuch's powerful witness. Who knows? The point is this: The Ethiopian eunuch found identity in Christ and probably shared the hope of a meaningful new identity with others.
Back to Bonhoeffer's question. "Who am I?" "Who are we?" Maybe we don't care. But some of us do. Hans Kueng, the German theologian, points out that there are those, however, "who are not content to spend a whole lifetime approaching the fundamental questions of human existence with mere feeling, personal prejudices, and apparently plausible explanations."1
Are we the flower children? Are we the punkers? Are we the staid, holier-than-thou Christians who feel soiled in the presence of unorthodox language? What identifies us? Is it our money -- our status in the corporate world -- our houses, our cars, our profit-sharing plans, our time-shares?
Bonhoeffer answers his own question: "Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine."
Maybe it's all right to dub the beatnik slouch or the punker outrageousness, or the goody-goody-two-shoes righteous believer. The costume is not the thing. The thing is the lifeline to Christ. The decisive quality is union with Christ. If we know that we belong to Christ, then we can wear practically any outfit we want. Philip and the eunuch became brothers in Christ but Philip wore the sandals of a commoner and the eunuch wore the robes of a high-ranking statesman.
What identifies us is our unity in and with Christ. He called us; we answered; we have returned to him. We are his. What does it mean to belong to him?
A group of American teenagers sat together for evening devotions at the youth hostel in Germany where they were staying. Their leader, an American pastor, introduced a special guest for the evening. Her name was Gertrude Schaefer.
She was born in 1916 in Berlin. Her education included basic schooling in the suburb of Spandau and, later, a basic course in home economics. One day, after the Nazis had come to power, she asked the classmate sitting next to her, a Jewish girl, if she were planning to stay in Berlin. The girl gave no answer. The chair was empty the next day but Gertrude found out that she and her family had successfully flown the country the night before. The Jewish girl and her family were lucky.
Later that year, in 1934, Gertrude met a young man named Paul preparing for the Protestant deaconate at a preparatory school where she got a job in the office. She married him in 1940 and had three days together before he, as a soldier, was sent to the Russian front. Gertrude accompanied him to the train station and bravely held back the tears as she bade him good-bye. She returned to the privacy of her apartment and cried buckets of tears.
In 1941, Gertrude said good-bye again to Paul when she returned to Berlin to gather some of her things from their apartment in Bremen. Paul, on leave, told her by phone not to return to Bremen because a bomb had fallen through their bed. Their home was destroyed. Gertrude and Paul met in Hanover to begin again in a new apartment. Paul went back to the front.
Finally, the war was over. Paul survived. He came home and a new post-war life began in their home, unscathed by the bombs, in Hanover.
The post-war years were the worst. The survivors went to the train station to "appropriate" coal from the open American train cars when the trains stopped to move onto different tracks. The family lived on potato soup and crusty bread soaked in milk and baked in the oven.
Paul continued his work as a Protestant deacon, passed the exams, and was ordained as a pastor in 1964. Gertrude related that, later, one of his sons asked him if he had ever shot another soldier. He replied that he was once ordered to shoot at Russian soldiers approaching his line from a forest. Luckily, his comrades finished off the Russians before Paul could fire. "What if you had refused to fire?" asked the son. Paul replied, "Then I would not be here with you today." The son, sitting beside his mother, could not conceal his emotions.
The young visitors were then invited to ask questions. "How was it living during the war in Hanover?" Gertrude replied that she and her children sometimes had to run four or five times to the bunker to escape the rain of death from the sky. The bunker shuddered violently because some of the bombs fell right upon it.
"Did you know about the concentration camps?" asked another teen. Gertrude said that she suspected that the Nazis were systematically disposing of the Jews but she didn't know for sure until a neighbor with a radio found out about it from an English broadcaster.
By the end of Gertrude's testimony, translated by the American guide, the teenagers were wiping tears from their eyes. Hitler had unleashed a Fascist monster upon the world and his people were also his victims. The widowed lady, age 91, sat before them, one who for many years had been in union with Christ who had called her on her baptism day many years before. In English, she said, "No more war!" The meeting was over. The teens stood and formed a prayer circle around the room. Prayers were spoken. Thanks for the witness of Gertrude. Thanks for her long life. Thanks for the evening. Thanks for him who was in their midst. After the prayers, Gertrude received many hugs from those who were her young brothers and sisters in Christ. It was unlikely that they would ever see her again but they would never forget the aging pastor's widow they had met; with whom they had prayed.
Philip, the Ethiopian eunuch, Bonhoeffer, Hans Kueng, perhaps even a few hippies and punkers, Gertrude Schaefer, young Christians in a youth hostel in the Black Forest; all these have one thing in common. They have an identity forged and perpetuated through baptism into Christ.
"Who are we?" We are those who belong to Christ. Amen.
____________
1. Hans Kueng, On Being A Christian (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1976), p. 19.
The minister's dignity was rattled and he decided to confront the young man with some propriety. He said, "Son, I just don't understand what you are trying to say; perhaps you could use some appropriate English." The loose-shirted, blue-jeaned, and sandaled lad tried again. "Dad, what I really mean is, I really went for what you had to say, so much so that I put 100 smackeroos in the collection plate." Suddenly the cast of enlightenment crossed the face of the minister and he said, "Crazy, man, crazy!"
The story is really about identity. The minister presented his identity, staid, professional, dignified, a member of the religious establishment. The hippie wore another identity, an identity assumed, perhaps, for the purpose of broadcasting to the world, "Hey, look at me, pay attention to me, don't ignore me!"
Some years ago, in the '80s, a tour director led some of the older ladies in his group after the evening meal down Kurfuerstendam, the main street of Berlin. The streets were crowded by punkers, one outfit more outrageous than the other. As the leader approached one particular punker, she noticed something furry on his shoulder chained by a pin to his ear. She was startled to discover that it was a rat. A bit of a mean streak seized her and she quickly stepped aside in order to observe the reaction of the lady next in line. The punker also attracted the interest of the tourist. The woman approached him with curiosity, closing in order to figure out what he had on his shoulder. When she realized that she was almost within kissing distance of a live rat, she yelled and jumped backward a considerable distance.
The punker, of course, loved it. He delighted in shocking the people walking along Kurfuerstendam. He had found identity and he wanted to flaunt it. In a city that, before the reunification of Germany, was a symbol of lost hopes and futility, the punker found "success" with purple hair, with an outrageous costume, and with a rat pinned to his ear.
How desperate are we to find our identity? At one moment in his life from his prison cell Dietrich Bonhoeffer asked the question, "Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine."
Once there was an Ethiopian. He was a eunuch and a prestigious minister of the court of Candace, the queen of the Ethiopians. He went on a journey to Jerusalem, perhaps on business for his boss, or perhaps to find his identity. Who knows what kind of identity crisis can occur when one has to become a eunuch in order to rise to a high position in a country so powerful that it was often yoked with the powerful empire of Egypt?
Some historians have observed that the first century in the Middle East was an age of honest doubt and seeking. Many were tired of divine pantheons and loose morals. Many were searching for a religion that offered hope and made sense. The magi came from the east looking for new hope to which a suspicious star pointed. For some, the strict monotheism and values of Judaism offered an answer. Some Gentiles submitted themselves to circumcision and became proselytes. Others went to synagogue worship and read the Jewish scriptures and became God-fearers.
Christians are those who have a strong sense of identity centered in Christ and are those anxious to bestow the mantel of meaningful identity upon others. Before the enlightenment of Peter about inclusion and before Paul was even a believer, there was Philip. Philip saw the light of an angel. "Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza." Philip obeyed. On the road to Gaza, he ran into the eunuch, reading aloud some scripture while riding in his chariot (the kind with a seat). Philip wiggled his way into an invitation to join the eunuch in order to interpret a troublesome passage from Isaiah.
"Who's this sheep that was led to the slaughter?" asked the VIP from the south. "Is Isaiah talking about himself or is he talking about someone else?" "Well," replied Philip, "that's a good question. I'm glad you asked. The prophet is announcing the coming of my Lord, Jesus, who died on the cross, like a sheep led to slaughter. He rose from the dead and announced salvation to all who would believe."
"Stop the horses!" commanded the eunuch. "I believe and I want to be baptized, right now!"
Some Christians believe that baptism is something one agrees to when one becomes a believer. Other Christians believe that baptism is a sacrament, that it bestows faith. It doesn't matter. Baptism is a sign of one's faith. The eunuch went back to Ethiopia, cleaned by baptism, in union with Christ, and ready to start a new life. The existence of the Ethiopian Orthodox church today might be a witness to the eunuch's powerful witness. Who knows? The point is this: The Ethiopian eunuch found identity in Christ and probably shared the hope of a meaningful new identity with others.
Back to Bonhoeffer's question. "Who am I?" "Who are we?" Maybe we don't care. But some of us do. Hans Kueng, the German theologian, points out that there are those, however, "who are not content to spend a whole lifetime approaching the fundamental questions of human existence with mere feeling, personal prejudices, and apparently plausible explanations."1
Are we the flower children? Are we the punkers? Are we the staid, holier-than-thou Christians who feel soiled in the presence of unorthodox language? What identifies us? Is it our money -- our status in the corporate world -- our houses, our cars, our profit-sharing plans, our time-shares?
Bonhoeffer answers his own question: "Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine."
Maybe it's all right to dub the beatnik slouch or the punker outrageousness, or the goody-goody-two-shoes righteous believer. The costume is not the thing. The thing is the lifeline to Christ. The decisive quality is union with Christ. If we know that we belong to Christ, then we can wear practically any outfit we want. Philip and the eunuch became brothers in Christ but Philip wore the sandals of a commoner and the eunuch wore the robes of a high-ranking statesman.
What identifies us is our unity in and with Christ. He called us; we answered; we have returned to him. We are his. What does it mean to belong to him?
A group of American teenagers sat together for evening devotions at the youth hostel in Germany where they were staying. Their leader, an American pastor, introduced a special guest for the evening. Her name was Gertrude Schaefer.
She was born in 1916 in Berlin. Her education included basic schooling in the suburb of Spandau and, later, a basic course in home economics. One day, after the Nazis had come to power, she asked the classmate sitting next to her, a Jewish girl, if she were planning to stay in Berlin. The girl gave no answer. The chair was empty the next day but Gertrude found out that she and her family had successfully flown the country the night before. The Jewish girl and her family were lucky.
Later that year, in 1934, Gertrude met a young man named Paul preparing for the Protestant deaconate at a preparatory school where she got a job in the office. She married him in 1940 and had three days together before he, as a soldier, was sent to the Russian front. Gertrude accompanied him to the train station and bravely held back the tears as she bade him good-bye. She returned to the privacy of her apartment and cried buckets of tears.
In 1941, Gertrude said good-bye again to Paul when she returned to Berlin to gather some of her things from their apartment in Bremen. Paul, on leave, told her by phone not to return to Bremen because a bomb had fallen through their bed. Their home was destroyed. Gertrude and Paul met in Hanover to begin again in a new apartment. Paul went back to the front.
Finally, the war was over. Paul survived. He came home and a new post-war life began in their home, unscathed by the bombs, in Hanover.
The post-war years were the worst. The survivors went to the train station to "appropriate" coal from the open American train cars when the trains stopped to move onto different tracks. The family lived on potato soup and crusty bread soaked in milk and baked in the oven.
Paul continued his work as a Protestant deacon, passed the exams, and was ordained as a pastor in 1964. Gertrude related that, later, one of his sons asked him if he had ever shot another soldier. He replied that he was once ordered to shoot at Russian soldiers approaching his line from a forest. Luckily, his comrades finished off the Russians before Paul could fire. "What if you had refused to fire?" asked the son. Paul replied, "Then I would not be here with you today." The son, sitting beside his mother, could not conceal his emotions.
The young visitors were then invited to ask questions. "How was it living during the war in Hanover?" Gertrude replied that she and her children sometimes had to run four or five times to the bunker to escape the rain of death from the sky. The bunker shuddered violently because some of the bombs fell right upon it.
"Did you know about the concentration camps?" asked another teen. Gertrude said that she suspected that the Nazis were systematically disposing of the Jews but she didn't know for sure until a neighbor with a radio found out about it from an English broadcaster.
By the end of Gertrude's testimony, translated by the American guide, the teenagers were wiping tears from their eyes. Hitler had unleashed a Fascist monster upon the world and his people were also his victims. The widowed lady, age 91, sat before them, one who for many years had been in union with Christ who had called her on her baptism day many years before. In English, she said, "No more war!" The meeting was over. The teens stood and formed a prayer circle around the room. Prayers were spoken. Thanks for the witness of Gertrude. Thanks for her long life. Thanks for the evening. Thanks for him who was in their midst. After the prayers, Gertrude received many hugs from those who were her young brothers and sisters in Christ. It was unlikely that they would ever see her again but they would never forget the aging pastor's widow they had met; with whom they had prayed.
Philip, the Ethiopian eunuch, Bonhoeffer, Hans Kueng, perhaps even a few hippies and punkers, Gertrude Schaefer, young Christians in a youth hostel in the Black Forest; all these have one thing in common. They have an identity forged and perpetuated through baptism into Christ.
"Who are we?" We are those who belong to Christ. Amen.
____________
1. Hans Kueng, On Being A Christian (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1976), p. 19.
