October 3, 2004 (David Hyers)


Scripture Readings for Sunday, October 3

Lamentations 3:19-26

The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The LORD is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD.

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II Timothy 1:1-14

Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus, To Timothy, my beloved child: Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord. I am grateful to God--whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did--when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline. Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel, relying on the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace. This grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. For this gospel I was appointed a herald and an apostle and a teacher, and for this reason I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him. Hold to the standard of sound teaching that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.

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The lectionary texts today, I think, point to ways that faith and hope come to us a myriad of ways. There is an apocryphal Scottish blessing that reads:
I met a stranger yest're'een;
I put food in the eating place,
Drink in the drinking place,
Music in the listening place;
And, in the sacred name of the Triune,
He blessed myself and my house.
My cattle and my dear ones,
And the lark said in her song,
Often, often, often,
Goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise;
Often, often, often,
Goes the Christ in the stranger's guise.

Earlier this week and not for the first time in my life, Christ came to me. Now before the choir comes up and sniffs my breath for whiskey, know that I don’t of course mean this in quite a literal sense or perhaps even such a seriously theological way. But in ways that I can’t quite express, or fully understand: “often, often, often, goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise.

I was unprepared sitting at Starbuck Coffee of all places. Writing emails and letters to friends and loved ones, reflecting on the day, on the blessing of our youth after a good Bible study earlier that night, enjoying the sinful paradox of a large decaf mocha, I was vulnerable and unprepared for close encounters of the Gospel kind. “Often goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise.”

So sitting there eyes glued to the glow of my laptop, I caught an odd sight out of the window. One of our brothers from across the street, whom I have seen and spoken to before, was walking towards the outdoor table to my right. Our eyes met, and perhaps taking this as a sign of aggression, he rambled in rage to the window in front of me and began waving. Then he began a silent knocking for me to come outside. Maybe he wanted to fight me, maybe he was just high or plain crazy, but the eye contact set something off in him.

He kept up his pantomime in front of the window, knocking. I was not so much scared as he is five foot nothing and weighs hardly a hundred pounds, not so much angered as I was shocked and awakened from my own insulated experience. I was so shocked I pulled my eyes away, back to the laptop and tried to get back to my writing. However, as a child trying to get the attention of a parent, he motioned every few minutes and waved his papers in my direction, trying to catch my attention.

An individual learns that in dealing with the poor and homeless, in order to say yes to some, we must also set boundaries and say no in order to say yes. Thus we must choose when and how we engage those around us. So I felt it was not a time or place for me to engage in ministry to him. As is often the case, it was his painful ministry to me that I experienced. His recognition of my humanity, his engagement with me, and his persistence to tell me of his presence reminded me that at that moment at that place were his life and breath. Perhaps in this persistence was a hint of hope and possibility. “Often, often, often goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise.” Somewhere in this crazy man’s silent cries and shouts, I began to hear the lament of hope, the passage from Lamentations.

I am reminded that often hope comes knocking to us in the darkness. Hope arrives not only in the morning but as hope for the morning. Hope arrives cloaked in rags of anger. Hope comes as the harsh assurance of a hope that bangs at our back door, a voice of faith that we do not find but one that finds us. Hope comes not only from doves of peace but from an angry homeless wanderer, who cries out to us and who perhaps calls us to awareness of the living Christ within our midst. It is a call to life and love, to justice and mercy, to relationship and responsibility. Perhaps in such hope we have even felt the indwelling of Christ in our own strangeness and alienation and in our own seeking of home

We hear of such experiences in the scriptures such as in Christ’s own parable of care for the least of these and of scared disciples on the road to Emmaus. Also, throughout the testaments, we find special concern and honored place for the stranger and alien, for the widow and the orphan. And so comes a hope-filled call, not of guilt that is a self-seeking salvation or self-righteous works, but a humble and gracious hope that calls us to seek justice, to love kindness, to respond to, for and from God’s grace to us.

The words of Lamentations ring out to us as lament, as sorrow, perhaps even as rage. They are whispered to us midst the disorientation of exile and alienation. They come from those who once were at home but are now strangers in a strange land. These words come perhaps even from us ourselves. In the darkness with our heads bowed low, a cold shower of assurance, of hope is rekindled, perhaps painfully but full of God’s loving kindness in our midst

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases comes the cadence. Her mercies never come to an end builds the cry. They are new every morning. “Great is your faithfulness” is the silent shout. The Lord is my portion, and, therefore, I will hope in him.

Hope appears in our lives in many ways. For Christ also comes to us in more familiar garb, gentler perhaps but no less powerful. Paul’s moving and personal letter to Timothy speaks for such hope in our lives, such faith that abides in us, waiting at times, hidden at times, yet still passed from generation to generation. Paul tells Timothy that he is reminded of Timothy’s sincere faith, a faith that lived first in his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice and now, Paul says, lives in Timothy.

If we look around, we might just see the abiding hope, the faith of our family and friends, even when our own hope is hidden from us. For God’s ways are much more mysterious than can be explained by the nature and nurture of family. In the myriad ways that hope and faith come to us, Paul’s words come as comfort for me. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you.

Here at this table set now before us, we are invited by the living Christ to have our faith, our hope rekindled, to have a foretaste of reconciliation to God and to each other. This Sunday as World Communion Sunday we especially remember that we join with folk the world over, children of God from all times and place, at this table to taste and see that the Lord is our portion,
that hope, faith, love are being rekindled in the midst of variety of each and every life. Whether in the darkness or in the light, joy, or grief, in announcement of birth and in the grief of dying, people are invited to come to this table. Hope is rekindled: hope in and from God, hope growing in community, hope from generation to generation, hope enacted, hope discovered, persistent disquieting hope. Hope in God’s abiding grace and God’s encompassing and challenging mercy show us that through Christ the people of God are filled as vessels of God’s love, the lived experiences of hope.

So, then friends we come to this table to eat of the bread that satisfies more than hunger and to drink of the cup that quenches more than thirst. Before this table in the presence of the Risen Christ in our midst, let us look, let us listen each day, and let us taste this day the abiding hope from God that is within and without, that is even now knocking, calling at our back door.

Now to the One who by the power at work within us is able to do far more abundantly than all we can ask or imagine, to God be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever.

Work consulted: I Hear Hope Banging at My Door

 

 


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