A Community of Trust
April 29, 2007
The texts this week are full of sheep; you certainly want to enunciate that clearly! From lying beside still waters in Psalm 23 to hearing the shepherd’s voice and following him in John, the people of God are sheep this week. And the flocks would be even thicker if we’d picked up the final reading for the morning, from Revelation, where we hear this strange message:
For this reason they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
I’ve got to admit that the sheep images in scripture never really speak to me. I’m a city boy, after all, and all I know about sheep is that they’re pretty stupid and easy to lead astray. Thus I always approach these “sheep” passages with a good deal of suspicion. After all, who among us wants to be compared to something stupid and easily led astray? Worse yet, who among us wants to be compared to dinner?
Sure, we can profit some from these readings by focusing on what they tell us about God. The good shepherd tends the flock with love and concern, spreading a feast for the flock even amidst the wolves, walking alongside the sheep even through the darkest and most dangerous valley. It is, of course, always good to be reminded of God’s steadfast love and faithfulness to creation, and it is equally good to give thanks for that.
But I somehow doubt that most sheep have the capacity for gratitude. The farmer comes, the farmer goes. Food shows up. Life is what it is, and then you die. I don’t know about the interior life of sheep and I’m certainly guilty of anthropocentrism here, but it’s a bit difficult for me to imagine much in the way of awe and wonder at the grandeur of creation, much of transcendence, much of hope, much of agape.
It is precisely our capacity for those experiences that makes us human.
If you accept that line of reasoning – and reason itself is another distinctively human capacity – then perhaps the sheep metaphors serve to remind us about another human characteristic that we 21st-century North Americans deny at every turn: our radical dependence.
That essential characteristic, the fundamental part of begin human, runs absolutely counter to the way the culture wants us to think of ourselves. The ruggedly independent, self-reliant individual is the stock figure in the stories we Americans tell about ourselves whether it’s Han Solo from Star Wars, the Marlboro Man from commercial fame, or the Horatio Alger self-made man. These are the stories that we tell ourselves, and they shape the way we think of ourselves and our world.
The sheep stories from scripture tell another story: a story of dependence and interdependence. These stories remind us that we depend upon each other and that we depend upon God. Moreover, they remind us that, utterly contrary to the myths of the culture, we are at our very best when we live in mutual dependence, when we create and live in communities of trust.
The church can only be what it is called to be when it lives as such a community. We, at Clarendon Presbyterian, can only be the progressive, inclusive, diverse expression of Christian life and faith that we have been called to be if we live as such a community of trust.
Such trust does not come naturally to most of us. We are taught, in this society, to separate ourselves from one another in so many ways, and while some of that process is good and right and necessary for healthy human development, we tend to take the necessary developmental process of individuation and turn it into the ultimate goal of human life.
We learn to distinguish ourselves in competition as children on playgrounds and in classrooms and we keep right on aiming to be number one. It’s the “Ricky Bobby” philosophy of life: “if you ain’t first, you’re last.”
Of course, that makes losers out of all of us because not one of us finishes first every time.
The other day I was talking with a friend about 12-step programs. Every congregation I’ve ever been part of has members who are in such programs, and they often find themselves there for the first time when they feel most lost and most like losers. My friend said the great thing about 12-step programs is the complete acceptance of people right where they are. There’s no separating out by rank and station, winners and losers, because within the circle of the group everyone shares a common brokenness whether it’s drugs or alcohol or food or sex or any of the myriad other addictive behaviors.
There is a deep trust within the circle that begins with the simple sharing, “hi, I’m David, and I’m … whatever it is.”
Sometimes I think that’s the way we should begin worship; and, to an extent, we do because we begin worship with confession. It’s as if, in the prayer of confession, we all say, “hi, I’m me, and I’m, well, human.”
For each and every one of us shares in the brokenness of humanity, each in our own particular way, but broken and longing to find the wholeness of the circle in which we are welcome in spite of the broken places.
Still, despite the fact that we begin worship with confession, I often feel as if we move past that moment as quickly as possible, perhaps like whistling past the graveyard. I know the high school kids at our church in Cleveland Heights always referred to the prayer of confession as the “we suck” prayer because of its focus on our many and manifold sins.
If that’s all we make of confession, then it’s no wonder we want to move right through it and never linger too long. If all we make of it is mechanical routine, a gesture that we repeat because we’ve inherited it, then it means little and transforms less.
But, if we make of this moment, however brief and simple, something akin to the opening of a 12-step meeting – also brief and simple – then something powerful and transformative can be born in our midst.
It makes of confession that moment of our gathering when we say, in effect, “hello, my name is … David … and I am a human being, broken and wounded, in ways that are all too typical and in ways that are uniquely my own, but gathered here in this circle of concern, this community of trust, where I can be utterly honest with myself, with the gathered community, and with God.”
If we are, as Jesus taught, strongest in our weakness, most powerful from our places of brokenness, most compassionate when we recognize our own suffering in the suffering of others, and most free when we recognize our interdependence, then the moment of confession is, in fact, the exact opposite of “we suck.” It is, in fact, that moment when we lay claim to our common humanity and the enormous power and possibility at the heart of that humanity.
But in order to lay claim to that power and live out of it at the center of our lives we must be part of a community of trust, for Christian spirituality – and confession is the heart of such spirituality – is inherently communal; personal, yes, but never private. To build that community requires building relationships.
Therefore, our challenge, in this place, is to construct a web of mutuality that connects us each to one another. The good news is the web is already under construction and is strong in many places, but in order to extend and strengthen its strands we must accept and take up the challenge of building new relationships. Thus, the charge for this day is both incredible simple, but also deeply serious – indeed, the future of this congregation depends upon it.
This day, this morning, before you leave this building, find someone here whom you do not know well and set a time to get together over coffee or a meal or whatever. Have good conversation; share some of your own story with one another; find out what draws you to this place, what gives you joy, what ticks you off in the world. Build relationship, build trust, forge stronger bonds upon which genuine community can be built.
For out of such comes the kind of community of trust that characterized the church described in Acts, and this community is the container of the hope articulated in Revelation: They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
These words describe the beloved community, and remember, at the head of this community stands a shepherd who does not abandon us just because we share the common brokenness of human being. Indeed, there stands one who loves us because we share that common humanity and because we share also a common source and identity: we are the beloved – let us build the commonwealth of the beloved in this place, in our time. Amen.
The texts this week are full of sheep; you certainly want to enunciate that clearly! From lying beside still waters in Psalm 23 to hearing the shepherd’s voice and following him in John, the people of God are sheep this week. And the flocks would be even thicker if we’d picked up the final reading for the morning, from Revelation, where we hear this strange message:
For this reason they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
I’ve got to admit that the sheep images in scripture never really speak to me. I’m a city boy, after all, and all I know about sheep is that they’re pretty stupid and easy to lead astray. Thus I always approach these “sheep” passages with a good deal of suspicion. After all, who among us wants to be compared to something stupid and easily led astray? Worse yet, who among us wants to be compared to dinner?
Sure, we can profit some from these readings by focusing on what they tell us about God. The good shepherd tends the flock with love and concern, spreading a feast for the flock even amidst the wolves, walking alongside the sheep even through the darkest and most dangerous valley. It is, of course, always good to be reminded of God’s steadfast love and faithfulness to creation, and it is equally good to give thanks for that.
But I somehow doubt that most sheep have the capacity for gratitude. The farmer comes, the farmer goes. Food shows up. Life is what it is, and then you die. I don’t know about the interior life of sheep and I’m certainly guilty of anthropocentrism here, but it’s a bit difficult for me to imagine much in the way of awe and wonder at the grandeur of creation, much of transcendence, much of hope, much of agape.
It is precisely our capacity for those experiences that makes us human.
If you accept that line of reasoning – and reason itself is another distinctively human capacity – then perhaps the sheep metaphors serve to remind us about another human characteristic that we 21st-century North Americans deny at every turn: our radical dependence.
That essential characteristic, the fundamental part of begin human, runs absolutely counter to the way the culture wants us to think of ourselves. The ruggedly independent, self-reliant individual is the stock figure in the stories we Americans tell about ourselves whether it’s Han Solo from Star Wars, the Marlboro Man from commercial fame, or the Horatio Alger self-made man. These are the stories that we tell ourselves, and they shape the way we think of ourselves and our world.
The sheep stories from scripture tell another story: a story of dependence and interdependence. These stories remind us that we depend upon each other and that we depend upon God. Moreover, they remind us that, utterly contrary to the myths of the culture, we are at our very best when we live in mutual dependence, when we create and live in communities of trust.
The church can only be what it is called to be when it lives as such a community. We, at Clarendon Presbyterian, can only be the progressive, inclusive, diverse expression of Christian life and faith that we have been called to be if we live as such a community of trust.
Such trust does not come naturally to most of us. We are taught, in this society, to separate ourselves from one another in so many ways, and while some of that process is good and right and necessary for healthy human development, we tend to take the necessary developmental process of individuation and turn it into the ultimate goal of human life.
We learn to distinguish ourselves in competition as children on playgrounds and in classrooms and we keep right on aiming to be number one. It’s the “Ricky Bobby” philosophy of life: “if you ain’t first, you’re last.”
Of course, that makes losers out of all of us because not one of us finishes first every time.
The other day I was talking with a friend about 12-step programs. Every congregation I’ve ever been part of has members who are in such programs, and they often find themselves there for the first time when they feel most lost and most like losers. My friend said the great thing about 12-step programs is the complete acceptance of people right where they are. There’s no separating out by rank and station, winners and losers, because within the circle of the group everyone shares a common brokenness whether it’s drugs or alcohol or food or sex or any of the myriad other addictive behaviors.
There is a deep trust within the circle that begins with the simple sharing, “hi, I’m David, and I’m … whatever it is.”
Sometimes I think that’s the way we should begin worship; and, to an extent, we do because we begin worship with confession. It’s as if, in the prayer of confession, we all say, “hi, I’m me, and I’m, well, human.”
For each and every one of us shares in the brokenness of humanity, each in our own particular way, but broken and longing to find the wholeness of the circle in which we are welcome in spite of the broken places.
Still, despite the fact that we begin worship with confession, I often feel as if we move past that moment as quickly as possible, perhaps like whistling past the graveyard. I know the high school kids at our church in Cleveland Heights always referred to the prayer of confession as the “we suck” prayer because of its focus on our many and manifold sins.
If that’s all we make of confession, then it’s no wonder we want to move right through it and never linger too long. If all we make of it is mechanical routine, a gesture that we repeat because we’ve inherited it, then it means little and transforms less.
But, if we make of this moment, however brief and simple, something akin to the opening of a 12-step meeting – also brief and simple – then something powerful and transformative can be born in our midst.
It makes of confession that moment of our gathering when we say, in effect, “hello, my name is … David … and I am a human being, broken and wounded, in ways that are all too typical and in ways that are uniquely my own, but gathered here in this circle of concern, this community of trust, where I can be utterly honest with myself, with the gathered community, and with God.”
If we are, as Jesus taught, strongest in our weakness, most powerful from our places of brokenness, most compassionate when we recognize our own suffering in the suffering of others, and most free when we recognize our interdependence, then the moment of confession is, in fact, the exact opposite of “we suck.” It is, in fact, that moment when we lay claim to our common humanity and the enormous power and possibility at the heart of that humanity.
But in order to lay claim to that power and live out of it at the center of our lives we must be part of a community of trust, for Christian spirituality – and confession is the heart of such spirituality – is inherently communal; personal, yes, but never private. To build that community requires building relationships.
Therefore, our challenge, in this place, is to construct a web of mutuality that connects us each to one another. The good news is the web is already under construction and is strong in many places, but in order to extend and strengthen its strands we must accept and take up the challenge of building new relationships. Thus, the charge for this day is both incredible simple, but also deeply serious – indeed, the future of this congregation depends upon it.
This day, this morning, before you leave this building, find someone here whom you do not know well and set a time to get together over coffee or a meal or whatever. Have good conversation; share some of your own story with one another; find out what draws you to this place, what gives you joy, what ticks you off in the world. Build relationship, build trust, forge stronger bonds upon which genuine community can be built.
For out of such comes the kind of community of trust that characterized the church described in Acts, and this community is the container of the hope articulated in Revelation: They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
These words describe the beloved community, and remember, at the head of this community stands a shepherd who does not abandon us just because we share the common brokenness of human being. Indeed, there stands one who loves us because we share that common humanity and because we share also a common source and identity: we are the beloved – let us build the commonwealth of the beloved in this place, in our time. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
5:52 PM
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