Rev. Michael Phillips’
Sermon –
The
following was told to me as true:
A
thirty year-old man who grew up in a nearby suburb has been arrested in
Back
in
The
parents belong to a large and active
The
door opens, and he is greeted not by one of the parents, but by another one of
his parishioners. “Oh pastor, it’s you.
Come on in.” He takes off his hat, a bit
puzzled by this person’s presence, but nevertheless, steps inside the house. Three steps and he’s
in the living room. On the sofa sits the
parents of the young man. They are
surrounded by other parishioners on either side. Still other parishioners are in the kitchen
preparing breakfast, one is at the telephone screening calls, and still others
are sitting in the living room, for moral support and prayer.
The
pastor steps up to the parents. He
shakes their hands; they have been crying.
He tells them how sorry he is to hear about Eric. He tells them what a good boy he is, how he
remembers Eric’s many kindnesses when he was growing up in the parish, and that
he will be with them every step of whatever legal process and healing process
is needed.
The
pastor offers to say a prayer, and they consent. Everyone in the room bows his or her head.
The
pastor prays extemporaneously about God’s goodness, asking for strength and
courage in the days ahead, for Eric and his troubles, and for the coed and her
loved ones.
When
the prayer is over, the parents look up at the pastor, thank him for the prayer
and then thank him for coming. The
parishioner who greeted him at the door, hands him his hat, and walks him to
the door, where she lets him out, and makes sure no one else gets in.
The
pastor retraces his steps, down the walk, through the news line, and back to
his car. As he starts the engine, he
realizes that he has just been dismissed from his pastoral duties by his own
parishioners. They were grateful for his
coming, but they didn’t need him. They
had more than enough support, emotionally and practically from a half dozen or
so friends and fellow parishioners. He
came because of the enormity of the crisis, out of a sense of caring for the
couple, and out of a sense of professional duty. The parishioners were there out of love.
I
tell this story not to say that whenever one of us has a crisis the rest of us
all need to go rushing over to the house. That may or may not be appropriate
depending upon who we are and what has happened. Instead I share the story in order for us to
look at motivation. Why did those six or
eight parishioners know that they would be needed to support and protect the
couple of the young man? I’m going to
argue in the next few minutes that they knew to go because they had been
baptized.
Why
did the pastor go? What was his
motivation? Well, he probably cared for
the couple. He knew them and had some
level of relationship. But, it was also his job. His motives were mixed. We cannot be positive that he really cared
for the couple. He had to go. Not going would jeopardize the trust he had
built with the rest of the congregation.
Also, he was paid to go. This is
one of the problems that arises when we pay certain
people to live out their baptismal covenant; people like me. Does the pastor act out of genuine concern,
or just because it on his or her position description? Can both be present at the same time?
But
the parishioners who went were not paid.
They were all members of a small study group that included the
couple. When the crisis hit, they knew
to go. They were the pastors in that
setting and for that time. They were
representing the Christ in the midst of that crisis. How did they know to do that?
The
story of Jesus’ baptism starts out like all other baptism stories in the first
century in the
Christian
baptism is with water and the Holy Spirit – not just water, not just
washing. Baptism is an act of being
washed and therefore prepared to be filled with God’s “godness.”
Jesus
comes out of the
That
also describes the six to eight parishioners who knew to go over and help their
friends in the face of an enormous tragedy and crisis. They carried the Spirit of God with them as
they entered the house and began their chores.
Some might call it “ministry.”
When the church’s pastor arrived, he brought nothing with him that was
not already there, except perhaps an official recognition of the pastoral
crisis by the parish leadership. That’s
why he was escorted to the door. They
were fine. The Spirit of God was present.
I
sometimes get frustrated when we want to make Jesus into a God and only a God;
when we forget that he is also human. It
makes Jesus “other” and not “us.” I
sometimes get frustrated by our overly clerical denomination that puts clergy
on a higher level, on holier ground, thereby making clergy “other” as
well. Mary and the acolytes and I dress
in these special clothes every Sunday, and here we are elevated by a few steps
on this platforming. And here we are standing on this
holy ground of the sanctuary. But we are
not here by merit, rather by call. We
are here not as “other” but representing all of you, and representing Christ,
at the same time. What happens at this
altar is the mystery of God and humanity merging into one; a single vessel
being two things at the same time.
That’s what happens when the floor of heaven cracks open and God’s
Spirit comes down to enter us humans.
Are we humans still or somehow now Gods, or both at the same time?
I have
sometimes fantasized about a Sunday service when all of you are jammed into the
sanctuary around the altar and Mary and the acolytes and I are the only ones in
the pews, just so you could feel it, just so you could experience it for
yourself, just to make the point. But I
guess it’s not that practical.
What
we learn from the parishioners in
Amen.