TEXT: Matthew 14:13-21
Withdrawing, and Returning
By the numbers:
·
3
months
·
19
beds located in 7 states
·
Over
13,000 miles, 8000 of which were by car – from
·
Worshipped
in congregations representing 6 denominations
·
Read
21 books
·
Along
the way I encountered 1 dead longhorn, one feral hog, one dented fender (yes,
those two have something in common), suffered two hornet bites, lost my breath
to beautiful sunsets, worked with great teachers, heard moving speakers who
indeed moved me to new places, took a class in Couple Communication which I’m
still struggling to practice, wrote a sermon for publication this fall, and a
marriage enrichment resource which will hopefully find its way into the hands
of couples in at least two states and hopefully beyond. And just this week voted, along with
Disciples from throughout
It has been a busy time, but also a renewing one and I deeply
appreciate your grace and generosity in making it possible. I deeply appreciate as well the extra ministry
provided by Sondra, the extra burden placed on other members of the staff, and
the elders, and several retired ministers in our midst, along with all the many
others who preached in my absence. This
is, after all, a congregation of gifts quite capable of being the church
together in ministry and witness, with or without my presence. That is, at once, quite humbling and
satisfying, and it is good for both of us to remember it.
This has been, for me, a wonderful
sabbatical. It isn’t, you understand,
merely a “break”, as useful as such a respite might be. It is purposeful time – a time for the both
of us, people and pastor, to listen and discern a new beginning for our time
together. You have been doing,
practicing and learning things in my absence that I look forward to catching up
with. It is good to hear new voices, new
messages, and dabble in the different gifts and styles they have to offer. And I hope it will be good, as well, to hear
an old one – albeit an old one made new.
Sabbatical, as
I say, is intended to be purposeful time, for you as well as me. Eugene Peterson, one of my teachers during
this time away, once recalled a turbulent scene in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick “in which a whaleboat scuds
across a frothing ocean in pursuit of the great, white whale, Moby Dick. The sailors are laboring fiercely, every
muscle taut, all attention and energy concentrated on the task. The cosmic conflict between good and evil is
joined; chaotic sea and demonic sea monster versus the morally outraged man,
Captain Ahab. In this boat, however,
there is one man who does nothing. He
doesn’t hold an oar, he doesn’t perspire; he doesn’t shout. He is languid in the crash and the
cursing. This man is the harpooner,
quiet and poised, waiting. And then this
sentence: ‘To insure the greatest
efficiency in the dart, the harpooners of this world must start to their feet
out of idleness, and not out of toil.’
“Somehow,”
Peterson reflects, “it always seems more compelling to assume the work of the
oarsman, laboring mightily in a moral cause, throwing our energy into a fray we
know has immortal consequence. And it
always seems more dramatic to take on the outrage of a Captain Ahab, obsessed
with a vision of vengeance and retaliation, brooding over the ancient injury
done by the Enemy. There is, though,
other important work to do. Someone must
throw the dart. Some must be harpooners.”
(Eugene Peterson, The Contemplative
Pastor pp. 24-25).
For Peterson,
that is the pastor’s role – in quietness and strength, in stillness and focus,
preparing for the throw. And sabbatical
helps with the aim. I notice in the
scripture story we read together that Jesus, himself, was on his way to enjoy a
kind of sabbatical of his own before he was interrupted by another gathering
crowd, and after attending to their needs in more ways than one, he again
turned his mind to retreat. I recognize
that such quiet centeredness can’t finally rely on three-month interludes every
six years but must draw from a more daily stillness. That said, I thank you for this sacred and
extended time that comes around every now and then to make just such harpoonist’s
preparation, and gather just such poise and focus.
One of the
critical things I realized during these months is how extraordinary is the
experience we are fashioning here as a congregation. There are congregations all over doing
significant ministry, but Sunday after Sunday Lori and I left worship wishing
for the intimacy and grandeur, the relationality and reverence, the leadership
and shared experience, the dignity but also the unpretentiousness that has
become our way of offering our thankful praise to God. We are doing something special here that we
all should find more ways to share. For
my part, I had simply settled in too close to appreciate it. I had to get away in order to see it.
It has
happened to me before.
Berclair is a tiny little smear of a
village well down the long and slanted state highway connecting
It’s empty now, and for sale. It badly needs some structural work on the
front porch and a fresh coat of paint, but as Lori and I walked around it last
month, and peered through the windows, it was alive with the animation of
stories remembered. Here is the front
porch where we rocked and talked into countless summer nights. Here is the bedroom in which I was sleeping
when the lamp fell over and burned my arm with the frayed electrical
chord. Here is Ma and Grandad’s bedroom,
and that’s where his bed was situated, and where I would perch myself each
morning to watch him tie his bowties and beg him to teach me how.
And here was
the dining room in which we all would gather – hmm, so much smaller than I
remember it. It was wall-to-wall table,
I remember that; but it always seemed like hundreds were gathered around it, on
Christmas Day, to be sure, but most noontimes as well. Looking now through the window into this rather
small and modest room I can see that it couldn’t literally have gathered
hundreds. But the room was always alive
with laughter, mountains of food shuttled in from the kitchen, and people elbow
to elbow around that family table.
Always lots of people. And
life! Which is to say that perhaps what
I remember is the spirit of the room, rather than its size – the pulse and
hospitable grandeur of my grandparent’s dining room and table that swelled capaciously
larger than their actual dimensions. No
one was forgotten, no one was alone when she called the children home. There was always just enough but there was
always room for more.
It’s a lesson
I am still learning around another table that graciously swells to make room
for all who hungrily approach it. And it
is, indeed, a family table around which we gather, not a window at which we individually
form a line. The table teaches and models for us welcome here; expansive hospitality. Our gathering is no elitist assembly but a
response to Christ’s indiscriminate invitation to eat the bread of life and
drink from the cup of salvation, and by such nourishment to become more
vigorously part of Christ’s own ministry in the world.
Which is to say that perhaps what we
remember and reach for each week is the spirit of the table, rather than our
actual embodiment of it.
For we have
much yet to comprehend and enact. We have
heard the melody – even hum it sometimes in our head – but hesitant and
mechanical with the lyrics and the rhythm, our singing is still timid and
soft. We are still fashioning our life together – still learning what it means
to worship; what it means to follow after Christ as a community of faith; still
learning the wonders and challenges of living as a sign, foretaste, and
instrument of God’s coming reign.
We’ll talk more about this in the
coming weeks, but one thing I have rediscovered in my studies these months is
that our core practices are classrooms of discipleship. They can teach us more than we have yet
learned – that there is more to baptism, for example, than forgiveness of sin; more
to the offering than paying the bills; more to coffee time than intermission
between events. But conversation about
those will wait for another day. It’s
enough for today to recognize that there is more to this meal than food and my
fair share.
There is,
among other things, the sound of God’s voice, calling us to life that is the
very banquet of heaven where everyone has a place, and everyone has enough;
where no one is forgotten and no one is alone; where we hear God’s voice calling
us together, not simply that we might touch the body of Christ, but that we
might become it; not simply that we might know the love of Christ,
but that we might practice it in the ordinary ways and means of our living.
Around this table is rehearsed the
very gospel in miniature, and every week we have the fresh opportunity to experience
it, but also to be formed and taught by it – here in this place where we hear
God’s voice calling my name…and yours…and names we don’t yet know how to
pronounce; calling us home to eat, but more.
Calling us home to life. Calling
us home by name…
Calling All the Children Home
words & music by John
McCutcheon
"John, Mary Claire, Lulu, Jeanie
Kevin, Jeff, Patty, Nancy, Rob"
Shadows growing longer, light is growing dim
Supper's on the table everybody come in
Been playing at the river and I'm tired to the bone
She's calling all the children home
CHORUS: Home to the table and the big, black pot
Everybody's got enough, 'though we ain't got a lot
No one is forgotten, no one is alone
When she's calling all the children home
Everybody's sittin' in everybody's place
With their fresh-scrubbed fingers and their fresh-scrubbed face
It's quiet just a minute while sister says a grace
Like she's calling all the children home
CHORUS
BRIDGE: I could hear her voice in the middle of a crowd
It was never too late and it was never too loud
Smelled just like home by the time we hit the door
There was always just enough but there was always room for more
So, out in the desert, down by the sea
Hear the voice calling "Allee, allee in free!"
From the city to the forest where the wild beasts roam
We are calling all the children home
LAST CHORUS:
Home to the table, home to the feast
Where the last are first and the greatest are the least
Where the rich will envy what the poor have got
Everybody's got enough, 'though we ain't got a lot
No one is forgotten, no one is alone
When we're calling all the children home
Gathered 'round the table and the big, black pot
Everybody's got enough, 'though we ain't got a lot
No one is forgotten, no one is alone
From the shacks in Soweto to the ice of Nome
From Baghdad City to the streets of Rome
When we're calling all the children home
"Moishe, Isabelle, Sipho, Kim
Mohammed, Mikael, Red Hawk, Tim"
©1990 by John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP).