Our Daily Bread

Sermon based on Exodus 16:1-35 preached on October 15th, 2017

Sermon audio

Is God enough?

When a friend betrays us, is God enough?

When you or I have a health scare, and we suddenly figure out that our bodies are much more vulnerable, and our lives more finite than we ever realized before, is God enough? When we’re struggling professionally, or we’re not sure we’ve put away enough for retirement, is God enough?

When we don’t recognize our own value, is God enough? When the circumstances of our lives change dramatically—maybe through flood or wildfire—our homes washed away or burned to the ground, is God enough?

We ask these sorts of questions in one way or another all the time. They are not unlike what the ancient Israelites were asking aloud about their present circumstance. Here they are in the wilderness. Their leader, Moses, the one whom God had called to draw His people out of slavery in Egypt, has wrestled them out from under the crushing, oppressive grasp of Pharaoh. They are now free people.

For 400 years, the Israelites woke up each morning and went to bed each night when Pharaoh told them so. They slaved under the desert sun, making bricks and building pyramids because he told them so. They lived according to every word uttered from Pharaoh’s lips. That’s all they knew. So we cannot blame them for not knowing that there is a high cost to their newfound freedom. Here in the wilderness, on the other side of the Red Sea—the one God split in two so that they could be rescued—here, in this barren wilderness, they had a hard time imagining how God was enough.

“If only we turn back now, we could eat all the food we want…If only we had died…”

If only.

The word Manna comes from a question: Mannhu?, What is it? No one had ever seen this substance before.

The appearance and taste of this manna was unlike anything they knew of or had experienced. They thought they had seen it all, but here, God surprises them. This is God’s new food for them. And God promises to provide it every day. Every morning, except on Sundays, they will wake up to manna. God will give His people their daily bread. This is unexpected and unknown provision. It seems to materialize out of the clear blue sky. God provides in ways that we cannot expect, foresee, or can ever anticipate.

In the midst of the Israelites’ need and all of their questioning, God provides. But He doesn’t do so in any way they could have expected. The Israelites were not provided for by being sent back to Egypt—the only way out of scarcity they could imagine. God gave them more, right where they were. Daily bread to carry them through each one of their future days. God still does this for his people.

We must get used to this. God gives us exactly what we need for the moment—for this season of our lives. For the wandering Israelites, it was Manna, completely unanticipated and unexpected. An abundance they had no notion of until God gave it to them. And it was enough. More than enough.

That makes me wonder: Is there an abundance among us that we have no notion of?

Here’s what we must know about this story: God gives on God’s terms and not on our terms. If the Israelites got their way, if God would have relented to their desires, if God delivered them in the way they desired to be delivered, then God would have either sent them back into Egyptian slavery or He would have lifted them up out of the wilderness altogether and set them down gently into the Land He had for them. No painful waiting involved. Instant deliverance! Instant gratification!

But God didn’t do that. God’s people didn’t get that. When we rely upon God, we get what God gives us and we develop and adjust our expectations around it.

But we don’t like that. It wouldn’t be long until the Israelites would begin complaining about how gross manna tasted—how having it every day was a drag. They wanted a bigger menu. And they remembered what the buffet was like back in Egypt, and they actually entertained the thought of voluntarily giving themselves back into slavery to the Egyptians. Evidently, slavery is a small price to pay for a full belly. That sounds crazy, but that’s where their minds were. Back there in the past. They were willing to sacrifice their present freedom and the promised abundance of their tomorrows for a chance to return to the bondage of their past, because at least it was safe there, at least in Egypt they knew what to expect. They were willing to trade the promised plenty and the wide open spaces of their tomorrows because they could not let go of the nostalgia that chained them to their past. Because at least then, they knew what to expect.

There’s lots of talk in churches these days about what’s missing. About what once was. The yesteryears were great, we say. They were filled with plenty! We look back and we see abundance, and we want to go back. Back to the way things were. At least then, we knew what to expect.

Just like the Israelites, it seems like some of us would easily trade our futures for our past if we could. We cannot see God ahead of us because so often, we’re too busy looking back over our shoulders at the places and experiences of our yesteryears. Our nostalgia can keep us from recognizing the enoughness that is right in front of us and is promised for our tomorrows. Is there an abundance among us and for our tomorrows that we have no notion of? And if there is, mannhu? What is it?

Last Sunday, we kicked off our Stewardship season. Our theme this year is Growing Our Faith Through Generosity. In order to be freed for generosity, we must remind ourselves of a few things—a few biblical truths, the very substance of our faith. We can only be freed to live generously when we know that our daily dependence does not come from our own frantic and anxious efforts to gather enough.

Let’s learn that lesson from the Israelites: The ones who gathered too much manna—who attempted to hoard it—saw it spoil. They were given Daily Bread, and they tried to keep a part of it for the next day. When they woke up the next morning, the leftover part was spoiled and it began to smell. So, the people had to learn to trust, not in their own anxious efforts to gather more but in God’s promise that each new day, enough would be provided.

Give us this day our daily bread.

Stewardship is the practice of trusting in God’s daily provision—in God’s enoughness. This is faith: To rely not upon our own ability to keep what we have stowed away for tomorrow but to trust in God’s promise of daily provision and in that, find our abundance.

In order to grow in our faith, we must be generous. And in order to be generous, we must put our trust in someone other than ourselves—something other than our own ability—to provide. This is the one way forward. In order to give generously, we must be freed from our mistaken notions of tomorrow’s scarcity. We must trust that God will give us manna for tomorrow, and it will be enough for us.

So let me ask you, What do you rely upon? And what are you expecting? When you peer into your tomorrows and this church’s tomorrows, what do you see?

Is God’s daily provision a part of your vision? Are you okay walking into the future God has for us not knowing exactly where it will lead, but confident that the way forward will bring us to a place filled with milk and honey? Do you believe that? Can you believe that?

I know that when you look around, all you can see is a lack of what you had back there, back then. But would you believe it if I told you that what’s up ahead is even better? Can I challenge you to raise your expectations? God will see us through.

Let us live with the courage, confidence, and the conviction that there is enough for today and that there will be enough for tomorrow. There is abundance ahead.

There is abundance ahead.

Can you believe it?

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

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Chasing Scoundrels

A sermon based on Genesis 27:1-23 and Genesis 28:10-17 preached September 24th, 2107

Sermon audio

If God was the CEO of a company, in business to bring to the world some sort of decency, some moral order that would get His creation off to a booming start, picking all the right people along the way to represent him—if God was out to recruit the cream of the crop, the upstanding among us—than by now, at this point in Genesis 27 and 28, we could safely consider His tenure as CEO a complete disaster. By any standard measure of success, God is not off to a good start. We should wonder if God knew what He was doing when He spoke the world into being with those first words,

Let there be…

By every measure, God has failed. Adam and Eve have two boys, Cain and Abel. One murders the other. And a few chapters later, God comes off as a Creator who has lost complete control of His creation. He’s created a monster that can no longer be reigned back in again, so God picks one family—the best one of the bunch—and a flood comes of the earth and drowns all the rest of them. Noah and his ark. We know the story. It’s not a children’s tale. It’s a troublesome narrative of a God who needs to go back to the drawing board, erase away this first attempt, thinking it’s a good idea to start creation all over again—take two! He does so by washing away all but one small family and using them to start all over again. This is terrifying. By the end of Chapter 11 of Genesis, we should wonder if God has any clue what He’s got Himself into.

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Then, Chapter 12.

God seems to have a new idea. Instead of hoping that the next generation of human beings is entirely capable all on their own of figuring out how to treat each other and this world with some smidgen of respect and decency, what if God does something a whole lot more direct?

And so it goes. God will not leave this world to its own devices. Things quickly spiral out of control that way.

For God, there will be no more of this ‘letting us go and hoping for the best.’ God enters into relationship with His creation. He chooses now, beginning with the 12th chapter of scripture, to guide us from here on out. To enter into deep relationship with His people. One based on a promise to stick by His people no matter how rough the ride gets. There will be no more of this letting His children find their own way. We are much too clueless to figure out this life and how to live it all on our own. We need God’s help—and daily, too!

God picks out a family. We talked about this last week. In Genesis 12, God calls a wilderness wanderer and his wife, Abraham and Sarah. Out of every family of the earth, why them? We don’t know. Neither did Abraham and Sarah know. God commits Himself to this family. And so goes the rest of God’s story. All of scripture is about this one family. God says to Abraham that his offspring will become more plentiful than all the stars in the sky. God will take these regular people—completely unimpressive and unremarkable—and from them, build his future, start His story. Let that soak in: God will stake His claim and risk His reputation on this one family.

Here we are in Genesis 27. Isaac, the son Abraham nearly sacrifices, is now a blind old man. As far as we can tell, Isaac, as important as he is to God’s story, has lived a bland life. And by all indications from our first reading for this morning, he has a complete mess of a family. They’re as dysfunctional as you can get. Mother Rebekah does what no mother should do and picks a favorite out of her two sons, going so far as ensuring that Jacob—the youngest, her favorite—successfully steals out from under Esau, her oldest, his father’s birthright and blessing.

Lifetime makes made-for-TV movies like this!

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Much of this talk about a father bestowing his birthright and blessing on his child before he dies is a completely foreign thing to us. So, we need to take a moment to realize what’s at stake here.

This blessing that Jacob steals from his older brother Esau by deceiving his father is no empty gesture. There’s more than meets the eye here. In ancient culture, words shaped lives. The same words could end lives, too.

Father Isaac unwittingly gives his blessing away to the wrong son, and these spoken words cannot be taken back. Once spoken, this ancient birthright and blessing must be honored. Jacob steals this birthright and blessing from his father and his older brother. These words of blessing from Isaac’s mouth are as real and as official as if he had signed his name on the dotted line of a contract.

Jacob knows what he has done. He seems almost surprised that it worked. He also knows it’s just a matter of time before his brother Esau will come back home expecting his father to give him this stolen blessing, so Jacob runs far away, out into the wilderness where no one will ever find him.

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By all accounts, God has another mess on His hands. This is the family—the one family—God has chosen. From this wreck of a family will come God’s people, God’s salvation. God has made a covenant with this family that He cannot break. And now the future of this covenant is in the hands of a thief. God’s story—and our story, too—begins this way. With a fugitive on the run from his own family. Even his name, Jacob, means deceiver—he came out of his mother’s womb grasping the ankle of his brother, Esau! From the very start, he took a hold of what was not his to have. Jacob has never earned a thing. Everything he ever owned and enjoyed was taken from someone else. Jacob is a scoundrel. But he’s who God has to work with. We would expect God to take Jacob—this shoplifter, this swindler—and punish him, chastise him, disown him. God cannot stake his reputation on a rascal like this! But, that’s not what happens. God does not chastise Jacob. Instead, He blesses him.

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To ask the question of whether or not God blesses Jacob because he deserves a blessing is to misunderstand God and all that’s happening here. The relationship between Jacob’s dishonesty and God’s blessing of him is not cause-and-effect. God doesn’t seem to care about what Jacob deserves here. This story is one we still read today because it tells us about a God who is unlike us—who is always surprising us. Our God is a God who blesses us despite our own actions. It even seems like God doubles-down on the worst among us. We belong to a God who calls the craziest ones among us and uses them to accomplish His purposes.

This story speaks, all these thousands of years later, because it tells us of a God who continues to bless even when we don’t deserve it. Most spectacularly, though, God refuses to let us destroy ourselves. He will not leave us to our own devices. He will not leave this world to its own devices. God has and will—always and forever—pursue us—chase us down, even when we try our best to run away into our wildernesses, where we’re sure no one could ever find us, and shows us what we need to see to change our hearts and lives. To re-direct our purposes. God still chases scoundrels.

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By the time Jacob ran far enough away to feel sure that no one could find him, he was exhausted. So exhausted that he finds the nearest rock and makes it his pillow for the night. Even in his anxiousness, he gets some sleep. And Jacob dreams a big dream. Maybe this is the only way God can catch up to this weasel of a man—pursue him in his sleep. Here, Jacob’s helpless. Here, he has his guard down. Here, he can’t run away like he always has.

Jacob is as spiritually blind as his father was physically blind. This is a rare instance for God to grab the attention of this frantic and inattentive, thoughtless, self-absorbed man, and get him to see. In his dream, Jacob has a vision of heaven and earth becoming one, connected by a vast stairway.

This is no ladder. Think instead a ramp joining together the space between where we are and where God is. Heaven and earth are no longer so far from one another. This is the first glimpse we get in scripture of God’s great project to merge the heavens and the earth into one. This is the first notion we get of the Kingdom of God that, later, Jesus will usher in and spend all of his time talking about. This joker, Jacob, is the first to witness God’s tireless and eternal effort to restore heaven back to earth. What the rest of scripture, and we today, call salvation. Earth has to do with heaven. Heaven has to do with earth.

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It would be great if I could tell you that from here on out Jacob was through being a jerk. It would be even better if I could tell you that after a few failed generations, God finally figured out a sure-fire way of getting people’s attention, setting them on the right course, following right paths. But we know this is not true. We are, all of us—at some time or another just as bone-headed, self-absorbed, and self-interested as Jacob. We have to settle for less.

Here, Jacob has seen a bit of God in a bit of him. He’s woken up to a sliver of heaven come crumbling down to earth, but even the grandeur of the heavens is not enough to lift us out from our all-too-earthy ways.

God is patient with us still, tirelessly chasing His hard-headed, hard-hearted people—you and me—hoping, one day, even the scoundrels might see.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

The Thresholds of Faith

A sermon based on Deuteronomy 11:18-21 and Ephesians 6:1-9 preached on August 27th, 2017

Sermon audio

As we’ve slowly made our way through Ephesians—passage by passage, instruction by instruction—we’ve seen how serious Paul is about getting the life of God—the large, eternal, infinite life of God—inside of us. The letter to the Ephesians is Paul’s attempt to get us to notice all the ways that God is inviting us through Christ to participate in resurrection living.

Throughout our summer’s exploration of Ephesians, we’ve heard one message said a dozen different ways: practice Jesus. In everything you do, in every place you find yourself—practice Jesus. His is the only life large enough for us. Everywhere else is cramped space. We have been invited into the resurrection life of Christ, and it’s a wide-open space. Only in Christ is there enough room for us to grow into the people God has created us and wishes for us to be.

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These are big ideas from a big God. We can easily be overwhelmed by it all.

The first few chapters of Ephesians contains multitudes. They’re here to wow us. To get us interested in becoming a part of something big and beyond us. Paul speaks in Ephesians chapter 1 of a divine mystery—something given to us by God that not one of us will ever be able to comprehend or conjure up for ourselves, on our own. But in order to get in on this divine mystery, in order to begin this vast resurrection life that Christ invites us into, we must give up our own ways of going about life in general, we need to sacrifice life on our terms. The Christian way is first and foremost life on God’s terms. Our ways need changing. The particulars of our lives, especially our relationships, take on new form. Jesus-form, servant-form, cross-form. That’s why halfway through Ephesians, Paul shifts his perspective from telescopic to microscopic, as if to say,

Now that you know about the infinite holiness of this God, this is how the mundane particulars of your minutes and hours and days, and every one of your relationships will be different.

Think eternally; act locally. Start practicing resurrection right where you are! Once we got to Chapter 3, we take the big vision we glance at through our telescopes, and we let it inform and shape what we see when we look into our microscopes.

In every next chapter of Ephesians, Paul has us focusing on ever smaller layers of our lives. First, Paul makes sure we know that we Gentiles have been incorporated into the covenant of God. We are part of the ancient promise given to Abraham and Sarah. The circle of salvation grows to include all of us. Then, Paul takes us to church—talks about the body of Christ, tells us how to live out the eternal promises of our infinite God as we gather together inside of these four walls.

Then, turning the dials on the microscope even closer, he gives us instructions for how to behave and treat one another—what our lives will look like as we practice Christ together. Then, when he’s done addressing life in church community, he focuses in even closer. Now, Paul wants us to pay attention to what happens at home. How spouses are to regard one another. No longer with an attitude of dismissiveness as if we own each other, but with reverence. No longer is it okay for women to be talked down to. Now we are to look at one another in equal measure, and search for Christ inside of each other.

I love this! I love this because this movement from eternal to specific confronts us every time. We have an increasing tendency to think of God in ethereal, new-agey ways. Those who call themselves spiritual but not religious love to talk about how spending time with other human beings inside of religious community is unnecessary when they can just get up every morning and see God in the sunrise, or in the birds soaring through the sky, in the crisp cool air, or the quiet sound of wind rustling through the leaves. They say these things as if no one else witnesses God in these ways—like they’re in on something new. But Paul will have none of that. The farther we go in his letter to the Ephesians, the more Paul insists that God is found in and by those who gather together in sacred community with others on a regular basis. God becomes flesh and blood this way—something more than some transcendent idea, Someone real and present, calling us to say no to all the ways our culture is disconnecting from what’s real and personal. All of scripture, and Jesus Himself, points to a God who insists on being found in flesh and blood relationships with our fellow human beings.

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Place these words inside your hearts. Get them deep inside you.

Those are the first words from our passage in Deuteronomy for this morning. Deuteronomy is all about the particulars. It’s Moses’ last sermon before he passes away, and after he’s gone, he needs the Israelite people to remember how God has changed their life. And just like Paul does in Ephesians, Moses drills down to the specifics in Deuteronomy. And the most specific layer of our lives—the closest our microscopes can focus down upon, is what happens at home.

Inscribe these words…on the doorposts of your houses. Teach them to your children. Do all of this on the soil that God has promised to give you. Get all this deep inside of you.

God is not happy being left outside of anything. It’s not enough to find Him in sunrises and sunsets or in crisp, cool mountain breezes, in the sound of crashing waves, or the soaring of seagulls. God wants into our houses! Our kitchens and bedrooms. Our living and dining rooms. This is ground zero for our faith: what happens at home. It turns out that the biggest thresholds of our faith are the ones we step through every morning and evening as we leave and return home. Home is where it all begins, where faith is formed and then matures.

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When my parents first told my brother and I they had decided to sell the house we grew up in, I found myself surprised that I wasn’t at all sad. There was no grief there. The only thing I questioned was why I wasn’t grieving it. I talked to my brother about this, and I found out that he wasn’t grieving either. This made me feel better.

As the days went on after this news from my parents, as the house went on the market, memories of life in that house began to surface. The front yard of this home was the one my brother and I and all the neighborhood kids tore up playing baseball. Ghost man on first and third. And what about the pile of unused bricks—the ones that sat in the same place in the backyard for 30 years? The ones we used to build forts with or hide behind whenever we played outside. And then there was the panel of unfinished drywall in the garage with pencil etchings all up and down it, where my parents measured our height every few months with the dates scrawled next to each marker. What would happen to that?

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Our lives are lived, and we are formed, in-house. Nowhere else is it more important to live out our faith than in the space behind our front door. Everything begins at home, and everything about who we are and how we are, mirrors home. I am who I am, and you are who you are, because of what home is like.

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As your Pastor, I can lose my voice and my breath teaching Christ to you. I could take crowds of kids to places like Montreat and Bluestone. I could run around all week long, and still I wouldn’t have as much an impact over your child’s or grandchild’s faith, your family’s faith, as you do. Study after study proves this: the single most important social influence on the religious and spiritual lives of children and adolescents is their parents. This sanctuary is not the space within which faith is formed. It is merely the place in which it is celebrated. As it turns out, our faith is born, instilled, grown, and brought to maturity in the same space we are born, grow, and brought to maturity—in our kitchens and dining rooms, in our living rooms and bedrooms. The primary responsibility of fostering Christ in our children resides with you, parents, grandparents, great-grandparents.

Parents, you are painting a portrait of God for your children. What does that picture look like? What happens at home?

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Fathers and mothers, take your children by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master.

The thresholds around the front doors, side doors, back doors of your homes—they’re also the thresholds of faith. This shouldn’t be surprising. Jesus did most of His earthly ministry around tables—the ones inside of other people’s homes—sharing food and drink with friends and enemies, outcasts and the well-connected.

We believe in a God who was born into a family. In a stable that was adjacent to a house. That is to say, we have an incarnational faith. A home-faith. A flesh and blood faith. A God-in-house faith. In the opening words of the Gospel according to John, in Jesus Christ, God has pitched a tent and moved into our neighborhood. God is born and still resides with us! In house. Teach your children well.

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The invitation and challenge we’re given as we enter the last chapter of Ephesians is to live a specific faith in a specific space. Speak no more flighty, five syllable words! No more floaty theological conjectures will do! God is not some concept or notion. God is a person who longs to take up residence among us.

So, what happens at home? I urge you to keep asking yourself that question.

As it turns out, faith is shaped inside of the havens of our homes. As it turns out, it’s the soil in which we have been planted that we grow—grow strong and mature in body, in mind, in heart…in Christ.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

Diving Strongly Encouraged

A sermon based on Psalm 145:10-21 and Ephesians 3:14-21 preached on July 2nd, 2017

Just last summer I jumped into a swimming pool for the very first time in my life. 38 years in. Even though growing up I always went to the neighborhood pool, not once have I ever jumped off a diving board, done a cannonball, or even a belly-flop off the edge a pool before.

I guess from my experience on land I am well-versed in the less than fine art of falling. And falling hurts. No matter which way you fall, it hurts—we can damage ourselves that way. Sometimes we hurt our bodies, but more often and more lasting, we damage our pride, our senses of independence and strength is hurt. Maybe jumping into a pool seemed to me too much like falling. Why would I ever want to do it on purpose?! So, I never did. Up until last summer.

It took me 20 minutes of standing at the deep end of the pool, toes coming closer and closer to the edge, staring down into the depths of it, before I jumped. For that 20 minutes, I was silently making a bargain with the water: If I jump, do you promise you’ll catch me?

There I stood in the sun, at the edge of the Gold’s pool. My Karen was in front of me in the pool, standing in the shallow end, gently encouraging me, never frustrated with my remarkable hesitation, at least not out loud, God bless her, but hoping I’d eventually summon enough courage to jump in. To do it, already. To trust the fall for the first time in my life. To have some faith that the pool’s liquid arms would reach out and grab hold of me.

All of that took me 20 minutes, but I did it. And once I did it, I couldn’t stop doing it.

It’s funny how these little accomplishments bring out the kid in us. I must have jumped, swam to the side, and jumped in again 30 times before I was through! All of it a celebration of my new relationship with water.

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The bulk of our passage for the day, from the middle of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, is a prayer. It’s a remarkable prayer. A prayer of encouragement. And it’s not unlike the encouragement it takes from our loved ones to jump into a swimming pool for the first time ever. So far in this letter, Paul has expressed his love to this church in Ephesus. He’s done so through words of challenge, through prayer, through teaching.

Paul the Apostle, the founder of this church and many others, ran alongside his churches, nurturing them in their new faith in Christ. Like a father running beside his daughter who, for the first time, is on a bicycle without training wheels, barely holding onto the handlebars or the back of the seat, but still right there next to us, encouraging us to go ahead and trust the two wheels and ride. Trust the water and jump in.

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These metaphors, or any other we could make, fall short of course. This is God we’re talking about after all. All our words are too small. But in order to immerse ourselves into the incomprehensible, we need handlebars, and metaphors are the best handlebars we’ve got. So let’s try another metaphor. One literally quite deeper than swimming in a pool: scuba diving.

Dive deep, Paul encourages. Know, or at least try your best to grasp, how wide and long, how high and deep the love of Christ is! Jump in! Explore the vast, immeasurable ocean of God’s love.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Here, only scuba gear will do. Here, we need oxygen tanks, because in order to explore God’s love we will need to leave the superficial behind, get beyond the surface of things, and dive deep underneath. God’s love is fathomless. In order to love this life in Christ, we must plunge its depth. No more wading in this water. No water wings or life vests. There’s no toe-dipping here. God’s love is for diving into. God’s love is fathomless, and ultimately impossible for us to comprehend, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to understand it. Diving is strongly encouraged.

It’s our business to learn as much as we can about God, His love and mercy for us, His life and the life He wants for us. This is what the Christian life is for. This is our way to maturity in Christ. Jump in. The water’s warm. Dive underneath. Plumb its depths. Get to the bottom of it. The life of faith is total immersion. In order to know—really know!—the love of God, we must know it like a fish knows water. We must swim in it and then it will start swimming in us. The way of Jesus is complete absorption in, involvement in, being occupied by, diving into, God’s love.

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The end of the passage sounds like a benediction. In fact, it’s been our benediction throughout this summer. There’s an Amen at the end of this passage, but Paul is not done. The end of chapter three/the beginning of chapter four is a hinge point in Ephesians.

It’s at this moment where Paul has said all he needs to say about how God is involved in this world and our lives in it, and now it’s time to talk about what that means for us who live together in that God-immersed reality called church. This is when Paul says,

This is how God is, and is with us, and for us. And given these Divine truths and promises, how then shall we live?

This is the challenge of a lifetime, our lifetimes: to take the vertical and put it to work in the horizontal. I don’t much like that metaphor. It seems to suggest there are only 2 dimensions. But we know better than that.

Ocean breadth, length, height, depth. God moves—and God moves in us—in all directions, in every dimension.

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More about this astounding prayer Paul prays. It’s a prayer for us. For all who have ears to listen. Eyes to see.

Before he writes a word of it, Paul says he kneels before God with these words. Those are words that don’t catch us by surprise, because kneeling and prayer go together for us, but for Paul’s time, this is remarkable. People prayed standing up in his time. Kneeling was unusual. It suggests an exceptional degree of earnestness. Paul really means this prayer. Here, at the hinge of his letter to the Ephesians, he takes a knee.

I’ve taken you this far. This is as far as I can go,

he seems to say.

With this prayer, with the Amen at the end of it, I now hand you over to God. The rest I have to say is something only God can do for you.

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In her book, Waiting for God, French philosopher and Christian ethicist, Simone Weil, writes this:

That we may strive after goodness with an effort of our will is one of the lies invented by the mediocre part of ourselves in its fear of being destroyed…There are people who try to raise their souls like a man continually taking jumps in the hopes that, if he jumps higher every day, a time may come when he will no longer fall back to earth but go right up to the sky. Thus occupied, he cannot look at the sky. We cannot take a single step toward heaven. It is not in our power to travel in a vertical direction. If, however, we look heavenward for a very long time, God comes and takes us up.He raises us easily.

Poet Robert Browning put it a different way when he wrote, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”

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When Paul wants to put the church to work, he doesn’t tell us to get to work. He doesn’t give us jobs to do. Assigning specific roles to specific people. This prayer he prays is no pep rally. No job description, no technique to get something going. It’s prayer, pure and simple. Paul leaves all the inner workings of our life together as Church up to prayerful attention to God.

First and foremost, prayer. Prayer at all times. Prayer is what forms and informs the Church—the people of God in Jesus Christ. This prayer for the Church leaves one thing clear: Church is not some effort we make. Church doesn’t happen under our own power. Church happens because God brings it to life and God sustains its life. The Church must learn to rely upon God, not itself.

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What does that look like?

Well, Pauls says it himself. First and foremost—right from the outset—we kneel. We surrender our own power. We say something to ourselves that’s similar to what Paul said to himself at the hinge point in his letter to this church: We’ve taken ourselves this far. And no, we haven’t done it on our own. God has always been a part of this journey of ours. But God wants more. More for us. Not from us, but for us. And that means we stop and let God lead the way from here. Leading us into the fathomless reaches—how wide, how high up and long, how deep down they are!

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This is the point at which we stop gasping for our own breath, and we strap on our oxygen tanks; stop trying to see for ourselves and put on our dive masks. We stop walking under our own power and we give ourselves to a completely different power. A power that upholds us, cradles us like the ocean does a diver. Committed together, as Church—Christ’s church—to growing daily, praying and living our way toward the fullness of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Here, swimming together in the depths of God’s love, diving deep is strongly encouraged. And then plunge the depths, lengths, and heights all around us. Completely immersed. Prayer and praise are our oxygen that fills us with the fullness of God.

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

Together, Together, Together

A sermon based on Jeremiah 23:1-8 and Ephesians 3:1-13 preached on June 25th, 2017

Sermon audio

“It’s all a mystery,” we say.

“Everyone likes a good mystery.” We say that, too.

“I think the butler did it,” one says.

“No way!” says another, “It’s the cook in the kitchen. She’s the one with all the knives!”

Most mysteries can be solved. All we need is time and a bit of detective work. Some snooping around.

Most are solved within the sixty minutes of a TV show. Before we get to the bottom of our gigantic bucket of popcorn in a movie theater. By the last page of a book.

Most things we call “mysteries” simply take careful discernment. The combing over of evidence left behind or gathered together. Facts will be collected. Lies will be dispelled. Stories will be set straight. Fingerprints will be lifted, but the truth will be reached. Solving these sorts of mysteries is not only possible but likely. Most times, we can be confident that with the right help we’ll figure it all out. It might take a while, but we’ll get there.

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Then there are those mysteries without end. The ones that cannot, by definition or essence, be sorted through. Mysteries without answers. These sorts of mysteries are not the kind we solve. They’re the kind we live. Fathomless. Their very incomprehension is the thing that draws us in.

Some mysteries are meant to be immersed inside of, rather than figured out, enjoyed instead of scrutinized. The miracle of birth. The ways of the human brain or heart. What the soul is and what it is made of and where it resides. Why ice cream tastes so good.

Some things are best left unscrutinized. Untouched. It’s best to hold them up—behold them—lose ourselves inside of. Wonder about. And getting to the bottom of them, if we ever tried, would drain the beauty, the sensation, the miracle out of them. This is the type of mystery Paul mentions in these verses.

In English, the word mystery means “dark,” “obscure,” secretive,” “puzzling.” But in Paul’s language, Greek, the word mystery is used to talk about a truth into which someone is initiated. It’s God-language. Jesus-language. Mystery is what we’re invited into. Led to see. Become included in. Grow eyes for.

And we’re not brought in, as investigators are, in order to figure it out. No, we are brought into mystery in order to live our lives inside of it. Traverse it. Explore all its parts. Enjoy its landscape. Have our eyes opened further the deeper we go.

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Paul is under house arrest. There areRoman guards standing at his front door 24/7. He has not a window to look out of. In ancient times, only the rich had windows. Paul was not of the lackadaisical sort. One could make an argument that by this time, he had logged more miles than Caesar. He was no homebody. We can easily imagine Paul restless as he wrote this letter to the church in Ephesus while under the custody of Rome.

If you want to get into technicalities, Paul was a prisoner of Nero, the Roman Emporer from 54 to 68 AD. Nero was ruthless. He had it out for Christians. Nero considered this small group of believers a great threat to his power. Nero was the one who fed Christians to lions inside of Roman colosseums. But as Paul gets personal here in this passage, explaining his current situation as a prisoner under house arrest, nowhere do we find the name Nero. Paul refuses to use it. As he saw it, No Nero, no Caesar had the final say about him. Only Jesus did.

Throughout his letters, Paul refers to himself as a prisoner of Jesus, because Jesus was the only one he belonged to. Paul was evidently a tiny man. Small in stature and in voice, but he was large in spirit. Imprisoned often, there was no containing him. His essence belonged and resided in the wide open and hope-filled landscapes of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

That was the only way he allowed himself or others to define him. A prisoner of Jesus Christ. In this way, though often bound in chains, Paul was nonetheless free. That frustrated his captors to no end.

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This vast and wide-open mystery is ours, too. This Jesus-life. This boundless, eternal purpose. We have been invited into it. We have been let in on it. Some still, small voice has whispered something into our ears, and we woke up. This mystery is too big for us to handle. No mind or heart can fathom it. No fence can hold it in or keep it out. This is a revelation that includes us and all who hear it.

There’s no room for barriers or boundaries here. This mystery is like a treasure each and every one of us is invited into. A mystery as big as the cosmos. There’s room here for all of us. No matter what room he was quarantined inside of, jail cell he was thrown into, Paul never felt cut off from it, alone, hopeless, anxious, forgotten. And the same should be true of us, too. Despite our current circumstances, we are a part of an eternal purpose, heirs together, in on a mystery and a promise together, members together, sharers together. In Christ Jesus, we are together, together, together.

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Paul knew why the caged bird sings. That’s an image given to us by the poet Paul Lawrence Dunbar. It’s from a poem called Sympathy.

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing

    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

    And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting—

I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

    But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—

I know why the caged bird sings!

Source: Twentieth-Century American Poetry (2004)

Never alone. Always connected. Always together.

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This shouldn’t be a surprise. We are made in the the image of God, after all. God is, in Himself, community. That’s another mystery we’ve been invited into. The mystery of the Truine God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It’s hinted at but left unnamed in these verses. Verse 6: Together, together, together. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Holy, holy, holy! Trinity. This is who God is. Not one or the other at different times in different places, but always and everywhere one. Don’t ask me to explain it.

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There are many things I can’t explain. The list is too exhaustive to read off right now, but here are the first to come to mind: The art of Salvador Dali. The reason why The Bachelor is still on the air. Why people suffer and good men die too soon.

There are many things we simply must wonder about. Including this one. God is one. God is three. Both at the same time. Not one of these—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—are ever separate from one another. This too is a mystery not for us to solve. That’s been tried before to no avail. It is one to hold onto, be invited inside of. This is a holy mystery, so it’s not the sort we gaze at with our head cocked to the side and with sqinty eyes. It’s not the kind where we throw up our hands and say, “I don’t get it—the numbers just don’t add up!”

The Triune God is the sort of mystery in whose presence we lift up our hands in praise. With awe and reverence, we give ourselves to it. God is a mystery we participate in. Trinity is a way of God revealing Himself to us that says,

You cannot know Me as some impersonal abstraction, as some nameless force, some warm and fuzzy thought, some new age aura swirling around, so don’t even try! Neither can you reduce Me to something you use, or understand, or need for your own bidding, on your terms.

God refuses that, too. Trinity says that God will not and cannot be known on our own. Under your own power, or mine. With our own wits. Solitary isolation is forbidden. The Truine God, the Holy, Holy, Holy, Himself lives in community. So, we, who are created in His image do not try to live on our own. In so doing, we will destroy ourselves. We will uncreate ourselves. Unravel.

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The manifold wisdom of God plays out when we are together, together, together.

So, it’s not a stretch for Paul to declare that of course the Gentiles, those who for centuries upon centuries have been understood as not a part, not a people, have always belonged. This isn’t God doing something new, re-drawing the circle wider. This is God’s people realizing that God’s love for every bit of His creation has always been this big. So, of course, come in! You are a part. We are a part. In fact, we’re all nothing if we’re not a part! We all have always been a part. Sorry it took so long for us to realize this about you, O God, O neighbor, O stranger! But, now we know.

Isn’t that how it has always worked, friends? History is full of moments when suddenly we are let in on the truth that is always been right in front of us. We only needed to grow eyes big enough to see it. The mystery is no secret. It’s God grace for God’s creatures.Each one of us, each one of them, loved beyond reason. Until love is enough to get rid of those words: Us and Them.

Then, all of us will be able to see one another for exactly what we are: each one of us heirs together, members together, sharers together. Together, together, together. What a marvelous plan! Holy, holy, holy!

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

The Foothold of Faith

A sermon based on Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22 and Ephesians 2:1-10 preached on June 11th, 2017

Sermon audio

Hobby wind-surfer, Adam Cowles, realized he was way off-course when he spotted a cargo ship. He was windsurfing the Swansea Bay, not too far from his house, but after a few hours of delightful distraction, Adam found himself in strange territory. He had unwittingly made his way into the Bristol Channel, 140 miles away from home.

The water that day was freezing cold. If he fell in, he’d be in serious trouble. If there came a lull in the wind, Adam could have found himself stranded. Opposite the cargo ship, Adam could see land, so he surfed his way to shore and walked into a nearby bar, soaking wet.

The locals must have seen sights like him before, because even though he was still dripping wet when he walked into that pub, the patrons thought and said nothing of it. They even bought him a beer.

Adam began to tell them his story.

They told him how far away from home he was. 140 miles. He was astonished. And then he was embarrassed when he had to call his wife, asking her to make the 280-mile round trip to pick him up. She was not happy.

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Wind is so prevalent inside of scripture that one could easily call it a character. A living force rather than an object or an atmospheric phenomenon.

God shows up in the beginning of the opening act, in the very first lines of our story in Genesis 1, as wind. This is the form in which the Spirit of God makes way into creation, and then helps creation take its shape out of what was before simply chaos and nonsense. The second verse in all of scripture says it this way:

Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

This is how God shows up. In a breeze. And that happens over and over again throughout God’s story—our story, too.

Consider the moment of the Exodus, when the Hebrew people, enslaved for two centuries in Egypt, make their way across the Red Sea and to the other side, outrunning Pharaoh and his army and into freedom. The Sea was split in two that day by a strong eastward wind.

And then there’s Jonah, the stubborn prophet, who tried his best to outrun God after God asked him to do something that made no sense to him. Throughout the Book of Jonah, he’s stopped, over and over again, to the point where it gets comedic, by wind and sea, by whale and wave.

We try our best but there’s no escaping the Spirit of God.

There’s at least two stories in each of the four Gospels, where fisherman disciples are out on a boat on the Galilee Sea. Terrified by brewing storms and rising waters, Jesus comes to calm the waves and the rain and brings them through. These are messages for us about how when we are caught in the scary seas of our own lives, when the water rises too high all around us, Jesus comes to us and subsides our fears and says to us the same thing he said to His disciples in those moments:

Peace be with you.

Last and certainly not least is the story we have in the Book of Acts where Luke gives us a glimpse of Paul’s travelogue. To get to the churches he has planted, Paul and his own team of disciples, servants, doctors, and scribes cross the Mediterranean Sea and sail up the Aegean between present-dayPaul Turkey and Greece, and north into the Sea of Marmara. Some of these voyages brought disaster. Pirates, shipwreck. Loss of cargo and loss of life. Throughout scripture, water and wind give life but they also take it away.

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dSo when Paul writes from a prison in Rome to the young believers in Ephesus—and by extension, to us—he has been wind-tossed, beat up, lost at sea, and then found again. Paul knows a thing or two about what it is to be blown about by wind. And he warns us, right at the get-go, here at the very beginning of Chapter 2,

Do not be blown about by the wind. Once you lived your entire lives wandering off-course in this perverse world….You were the offspring of the prince of the power of the air. He once owned you and controlled you.

I don’t know what kind of devil you believe in. We talk so little about evil and its personifications. Certainly, the personification of evil into some being with the proper name, Satan, is not as much a creature found in scripture as it is one that has been imagined in the tales of subsequent works of fiction: Dante’s Inferno and John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost. We need to keep our stories straight.

We’ll talk more about this when we reach Chapter 4 of Ephesians, but for now, suffice it to say, here Paul describes some sort of evil or persuasive power, but he doesn’t give it a name or a form. It’s as if Paul is describing that thing mentioned in the first two verses of Genesis 1, a sort of earthly chaos, life and creation without shape, or meaning, or form. Life without God. That is a sort of evil in and of itself.

Paul is warning us against living in a way that’s uncritical, where we get swept up by the power of the air, picked up by every breeze that comes our way. Life lived empty and persuadable, easily manipulated by anything and everything around us. We can get picked up and pushed around wherever the breeze takes us, like that empty plastic bag at the beginning of the movie American Beauty. This is the prince of the power of the air. This is an opportunistic presence that will sweep us off our feet any chance it gets.

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We live in a culture full of wind-blown people. Too often, we get caught up in the prevailing winds of our day, and before we know it we’re like that empty plastic bag that gets knocked around by forces both visible and invisible. We get taken anywhere it pushes us.

What Paul is inviting all of us to see is a new way to live and move. Paul’s words here are a sort of prelude to the important and biblical idea of living in but not of the world. We cannot be blown about. Persuadable. Pushed about. We must find our footing. We must be discerning, keen, wise, sharp, perceptive, insightful, critical. You’ve heard the phrase,

If you don’t stand for something you’ll fall for everything.

This is God’s way of saying a similar thing. Find your footing.

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Paul knew something about wind. He was a tentmaker.

These days, if a person calls him- or herself a tentmaker, there’s a good chance they’re a Pastor who specializes in creating new churches. Paul did that, but before he ever entered into the ministry he actually made tents. This is how he made a living, even while he sailed the seas, planting churches.

So, Paul knew a thing of two about wind. How to shelter oneself against it. How to build a structure that can withstand it. Build them strong, resilient, and with a big footprint so they hold up to the power of the air and the elements. Everything thrown at it.

As we mature in our faith, as we walk forward slowly in the Way of Jesus, following in His footsteps, we too become strong against the breezes that try to blow us off course.

It is with rope and ground pegs, poles and stakes that a tent becomes secure even in the most chaotic of climates. It’s the power of God’s grace that does the same thing for our minds, our hearts, our spirits. God’s grace pins us to solid ground, can keep us from being blown off course. Grace is the foothold of our faith.

I mentioned a few weeks ago when we began our look into Ephesians, that God’s grace given to us is not an end in itself. Grace is not the end of any conversation, as in, “but for the grace of God go I.” Grace is always the beginning of the conversation. Grace was in the wind that blew the disciples out of their tiny house on Pentecost, and it’s the power we have been given by God to walk out of here and do God’s work—in and for the world.

Grace is the fuel, the power source God gives us to start something—to go out from here, or wherever else we are, as agents of God’s love, as keepers of God’s Message, as sharers of God’s mercy. Grace is designed and given to us by God to take us places. It is first unmerited benefit, yes; but it’s also Divine enablement. Grace is given to us to get us going!

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Through grace, we gain a foothold in our faith, stand up tall in Christ, and then become agents of grace—taking it and using it. Paul writes,

For it is by grace you have been saved. You have received it through faith. It was not our plan or effort, it’s God’s gift. Pure and simple. You didn’t earn it.

That’s verse 8. It’s one of the most beloved in all of scripture, but I’m afraid it’s too often misunderstood. People use it to convince themselves that works—doing stuff with and because our faith—isn’t important. But what Paul says is, Take God’s gift of grace, freely given to you—yes, it’s never earned, it’s always a gift—but then do something with it. Use it. Pay it forward. Grace is never the end of the conversation; it’s always the beginning of one. God’s grace is given to us in order to be put to work through us. Grace is God’s enabling power for growth.

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If you feel like you’re trudging through life right now under your own power, if you’ve lost your footing, if you’ve exhausted yourself that way, let me re-introduce you to grace. Author Anne Lamott says,

When you’re out of good ideas, what you’re left with is God.

She describes grace as spiritual WD-40 or water wings, if that works better. And all you have to do to find grace is to say “Help,” preferably out loud. Shout it into the heavens if you have to. The heavens will hear you. “But watch out!” Anne Lamott says. The moment you say that word, “Help!”, the moment you find grace, buckle up! Because, powered by the Holy Wind of God as it always is, God’s grace will take you places you never intended to go!

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.

God’s First Move

A sermon based on Psalm 85:8-13 and Ephesians 1:3-14 preached May 14th, 2017

The world is so much bigger than we think.

There’s a book by Emma Donoghue, and the tie-in movie—both entitled Room—about a young mother named Joy and her 5-year old son named Jack. Jack’s mother has been held captive inside a 12 by 12-foot garden shed for 7 years, for all of Jack’s life plus another 2 before he came along. This 12-foot square room is all that Jack has ever known. He calls it “Room.” It’s his whole world.

When young Jack began asking questions and remembering their answers, his mother Joy decided it was best to tell him there was nothing more than these four walls that surrounded them—the ceiling a few feet above their heads. There were no windows in Room. Just a skylight above that gave them nothing to look at but blue sky and white clouds. The light of the sun and the dark of night was nothing more to Jack than a one-dimensional covering that he must have imagined existed just a few feet above Room’s ceiling. Jack’s world was tiny and simple.

When Jack turned 5, his mother decided he was old enough to comprehend the bigger picture. The black and white TV in Room, she told him, projected images of real human beings—other people who existed in the world and lived hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles away. We can hear Jack asking,

What’s a mile?

Joy tried her best to tell Jack that the world is filled with billions of people who were just like them. That people had to drive cars to get from one place to another because the places they needed to go were so far away. All this was lost on Jack. He didn’t believe her. How could he? He’d never known anything bigger than the cramped and dark 144 square feet of a garden shed.

At one point in the movie, Jack refuses his mother’s big words about this immense world she is talking about. He shouts,

I want a different story!

His mother quickly replies:

No! This is the story you get!!

Jack’s mind is no bigger than what his eyes can see, his ears can hear, and all they know are the tin walls of a ramshackle shed, the static-y murmur of a black and white TV.

I won’t give away the ending. It’s a profound story you must see for yourself. But, this I will say: Room is a story that should make us wonder about the vast entirety of the world—maybe even the cosmos—and our place in it.

Throughout, questions should bubble up in our minds: This world and this life we live in it, do we believe it’s only as big as what we’ve seen and been told by others, or do we know more? Could it be that we move about this vast planet of ours in our tiny little circles so repetitively that we lose perspective? In an effort to be comfortable with our own small version and vision of things, maybe we have taken the vast dimensions of God’s immense creation and shrunk it down into our own versions of a 12 by 12-foot room.

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Just like 5-year-old Jack, in order to grow to maturity, to know the truth about creation, the God who made it, and our place in it, we must first be made aware of how large the gap is between our tiny vision of things and God’s immeasurable power and grace. What else is there but what we can see through our own skylights?

No matter what we’ve been told, no matter how far we’ve traveled or how wide our eyes are as we go along our way, what Paul wants us to know, right off the bat is that everything about God, the grace He gives, the love He has for us, the plans He’s made for us—they’re all much bigger and louder, more wondrous and glorious than we could ever know. This is Paul’s message to those first Christians in Ephesus. And it’s still an important message for us. First, we must be told that, in the grand scheme of things, the only reason why we’re significant is because God has adopted us as his family through Jesus Christ, and because of this, we do not, cannot, live in our own world. This is God’s world, and in order to know our place in it, we must hand ourselves over to God—to persistently and intentionally give ourselves over to ways of Christ Jesus.

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In the original language this whole passage, verses 3 through 14, is one huge, marvelous, run-on sentence. At 201 words, it’s the longest sentence in all of scripture.

Paul must have thought that the urgency of these words was great enough to warrant the abandonment of proper punctuation and syntax. This news is so good that even a comma would disturb the power inside of this sentence! It’s enough to give any English teacher a coronary.

But the largeness, the grammatical abandonment, of this colossal, run-on sentence should be excused, even by the most strident of grammar Nazis, because its lack of punctuation and its sheer size echoes the gracious abundance of its subject: God.

This one-sentence passage is a torrent of God-activity that refuses to pause or come up for air. It’s an avalanche of blessing that gathers size and strength with every tumbling word, all of it mirroring God’s lavish generosity. How can we keep from singing? How can we stop talking about how amazing God is?! This is the Gospel. This is Good News that will not wait!

Right away, through this torrent of nouns, verbs, and adjectives, the message is clear: in order to grow into the life that God has for us, in order to grow into spiritual maturity, what last week we identified as the goal of the Christian life, we must abandon all our shallow notions of who God is, all of our tiny twelve-by-twelve, Room-sized views of things, all of our too-small perceptions of how the world works and how God works in the world, and give ourselves over to the magnificence of what God is doing through Christ Jesus—the salvation He is working within us and among us, as well as far beyond us. God is not merely a part of our lives. That’s way too small and backwards, Paul says here at the outset of Ephesians. We are a part of God’s life.

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In order to open our eyes and then our lives to all this magnificence, Paul fills his run-on sentence with seven action verbs: blessed, chose, destined, bestowed, lavished, made known, and gather up.

None of these verbs have us as their subject. God’s the One doing all the action here. We are the objects of all of these verbs. We do not bless, choose, destine, bestow, lavish, make known, or gather up ourselves. God’s the One who blesses, chooses, destines, bestows, lavishes us. God is the One who makes known to us who we are, and gathers us up.

God’s the first Mover. In this salvation life, we do not begin on our own. These verbs, they’re God’s ways of jump-starting the work of salvation inside of us and among us. God has the first move. All of our action is merely a reaction to all that God has done and is doing for us in Christ Jesus, His Son and our Lord.

These words are in chapter 1 of this letter for a reason. Paul wants us to know this from the start or else all of our starts will be false ones. Let us not waste any more of our time thinking that we are the ones who make any of this happen. Let’s not live one more second of our lives—including our life together as Church—under the delusion that we’re the ones who make something of ourselves. Notions like that are just as tiny as 5-year-old Jack looking up at a tiny patch of blue through a sky light thinking he’s seen the whole world. God has made room for us to stretch our vision. To see things we have never and will never be able to see on our own.

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The older we get, the less we know. You’ve heard that before. In our younger years, we think we know it all. But as we growth into maturity, as we step out into the world, we slowly begin to realize how small we are inside of it.

It’s those moments when we stand beside the ocean, as the song goes, and find ourselves small and insignificant in the vast array of God’s creation, that we begin to realize how tiny we are and how little we know. The moment we realize this is a moment of amazing grace. It’s the instance when we abandon all those overinflated thoughts we have about ourselves, when we slowly let go of our own significance and begin to find ourselves all over again in the vast and Divine family of things. This is the first step into spiritual maturity. When in one way or another, we say,

God, this is all you and none of me

As Paul writes,

It is in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for.

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I hope I don’t give away the ending of Room if I tell you that 5-year old Jack and his mother, Joy, are finally freed from the confines of their 12 by 12-foot world.

Once outside of Room, Jack sees the immense glory of creation—what was once a mere rumor that he refused to believe. At the end of the film, we hear Jack say:

I’ve been in the world 37 hours. I’ve seen pancakes, and stairs, and birds, and windows, and hundreds of cars. And clouds, and police, and doctors, and grandma and grandpa. But Mommy says grandma and grandpa don’t live together in the hammock house anymore. Grandma lives there with her friend Leo now. And Grandpa lives far away.

I’ve seen persons with different faces, and bigness, and smells, talking all together. The world’s like the black and white TV in Room, but it’s on, all at the same time, so I don’t know which way to look and listen.

There’s doors and… more doors. And behind all the doors, there’s another inside, and another outside. And things happen, happen, HAPPENING. It never stops. Plus, the world’s always changing brightness, and hotness. And there’s invisible germs floating everywhere. When I was small, I only knew small things. But now I’m five, I know EVERYTHING!

And the book-readers and the movie-goers and God himself laughs, and we all say:

Jack, You haven’t seen anything yet!

All praises to the One who made it all and finds it beautiful!

Alleluia! Amen.