January 20, 2008 Des Moines

TEXT: Psalm 40:1-11

John 1:29-42

Getting Acquainted with Opened Ears and Active Lips

In a couple of weeks the space shuttle Atlantis is scheduled to rocket back into space. The mission for this trip is to deliver the Columbus European Laboratory Module in what will be the twenty-fourth mission to the International Space Station. But then, you no doubt knew that. I’m sure you follow those plans with rapt attention.

Or probably not. Once upon a time we all did. I can remember getting up before the sun and staying glued to the television each time NASA worked its science-fiction magic. The fantasy of sending human beings into space absolutely enslaved my attention and captivated my imagination. The mysterious vapors that wafted from beneath the rockets on the launch pad; the rhythmic drone of the launch commander, counting down to lift-off.

I would even watch the evening news to hear reports and see television shots from space; watch as the cameras scanned the skies over the ocean to catch the first glimpse of the returning capsule before it splashed down near the waiting ships. Gosh! It was exciting. At least it used to be. Now the shuttles fly and land with all the intrigue of a UPS truck. Yawn. I've gotten jaded...and to more wonders than that - as perhaps have you.

Take, for instance, just now. These are weighty days. Important events are moving around us that deserve our appreciation and attention - not so much because of their wonder, but because of their import. State Senators and Representatives have arrived again in Des Moines to commence their work on our behalf. The calendar is full of state primaries around the country devoted to selecting nominees for President of the United States. And tomorrow, we will celebrate the life of a modern prophet/martyr.

To be sure, whether annual or quadrennial, they are familiar events. Legislators have been here before, and presidents come and go; we're familiar with Martin Luther King, Jr. and the things for which he worked and stood. And it's easy to just press on with our affairs. There's snow to be shoveled and bills to be paid; there are groceries to buy and homework to supervise and that briefcase full of work brought home to be slogged through. Best of luck Chet and Martin and all you weary but hopeful candidates, but include us out. We're busy, and we've nodded in those directions before. Yawn.

But there is something dangerous about such deafness, such indifference born out of familiarity. There is a deadness into which we can be seduced - a detachment that appears to save our energy and our psyche, but which ultimately drains us of life - and life is that priceless commodity that we are called to enhance.

Authentic, vital living begins when we use the equipment that comes standard on all human models: the senses, turned on and plugged into the moments, the people, and the dynamics around us. It begins with an awareness of the intricate facets of everyday life that glint and sparkle and turn around us, and pondering the possibilities and potential implications of the simple as well as the grand - the dripping icicle as well as the inauguration; the innocent trust of a child, as well as the heroic determination of Martin Luther King, Jr. It is, to say it another way, to allow every moment - no matter how ordinary or familiar - to be an occasion for learning; an opportunity for growth - a window into one's deeper self and a doorway into fuller understanding. In short, life - at least life the likes of which we are called to live - begins by noticing.

Note the way that John and Andrew and Simon stopped what they were doing long enough to notice Jesus, and to be curious enough to wonder about him, to get acquainted, and learn. “Come and See,” Jesus responded to their queries; and they did.

Which is to say that it’s not simply noticing in general. These early disciples noticed the very movement among them of something holy. The Psalmist, dusting the doorknobs and the windowsills of at least his most recent trying experience, notices nothing less than the fingerprints of God. "I was in desperate straits," he recounts to those in his audience. "I had one foot in the grave and was slipping fast, and God lifted me up and set me on solid ground." More than simply getting sick and then getting well; more than simply slipping and then getting up; more than simply feeling frightened and then getting over the fear, the Psalmist noticed something deeper about his new standing. "What I am," he confesses, "I owe to God."

There's no evidence that a bargain had been struck - a quid pro quo - a "this for that." As a matter of fact, just the opposite seems the case. The tone of the Psalm is one of gratitude, and gratitude is not the spontaneous response of those who receive that to which they are entitled. The psalmist is responding to a blessing - a gift the likes of which he can't believe. "God," he says, "has been - and continues to be - active in my life in healing, saving, and restoring ways, and I will never be the same because of that involvement."

That, it strikes me, is ultimately the case with every disciple: we are not people who simply think it through and come to the conclusion that faith is the logical and wise course, but are people who have come to be aware of God's presence and movement and impact. We are people who, at least once in our life, have noticed and come to grips with the difference God has made in the living of our days, and have decided, on the strength of that experience, to place our trust in that continuing presence.

And that, it seems to me, is the first key to keeping our flame of faithfulness vibrant and warming: continuing to notice; looking for and discovering that hand in even the most mundane of our affairs; consciously, intentionally refusing to become indifferently numb. Refusing to yawn our way through life, but remaining bright eyed, open pored, and ever listening.

It's not only the way to remain fresh and alive, it is as well, says the Psalmist, the kind of gratitude that God prefers. "Sacrifice and offering you do not desire," says the Psalmist to God; "burnt offering and sin offering you have not required, but you have given me an open ear." Or, to use the more literal and graphic translation, "you have dug for me an ear, and your law is within my heart."

An open ear; listening as the gratitude God prefers. Submitting ourselves so that God might dig an ear in us that reaches all the way to the heart on which the very will of God is written. And if there is any question as to the sounds such open ears would hear, I would remember, as an indication, God's words to Moses at the burning bush: "I have heard the cries of my people who are in Egypt on account of their taskmasters. I have heard; indeed I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them."

Opened ears that hear the sounds of pain from people distressed or oppressed; crying or dying; hungry or sick or marginalized or simply ignored. God has been good to us; has touched us and saved us in more ways than we are even aware, and the gratitude we can offer is to listen with the ears of God - to be attentive and to simply hear the realities around us. Would that those campaigning around the country this week hear with those kinds of ears as they wrestle with hunger and ethnic abuse around the world and health care, economics and personhood closer to home.

Would that those who this week climb capitol steps to push legislation and pull state purse strings hear with those kind of ears as they think about education, human rights, and the way we will respond to crime. Would that we, who live far closer to the human realities into which those larger issues are translated, hear with those kinds of ears as we make decisions about how we will relate to people who look, who act, who believe, and who value very differently from ourselves. Hearing with ears that have been dug down to a heart that has been imprinted by God.

And would that we then take the second step, as have a few great witnesses before us, and like the Psalmist, not restrain our lips. Would that we might speak of and with the same steadfast love and faithfulness of God that has lifted us from the pit. That would be gratitude, indeed. That would, indeed, be genuine, joy-filled life.

“I have waited patiently for the Lord, and God heard my cry. Having made my steps secure, God has put a new song in my mouth.” With open ears and active lips, let us hear it; and let us sing it with all our heart.