Why Are We Here?
Amos 5:21-24
November 16, 2008
As we consider that provocative set of suggestions about Jesus, let’s sing together the second verse of “I Love to Tell the Story.”
You might quickly recognize that we just read that famous passage from Amos for the second straight week. Last week, when our focus was “justice” reading about “justice rolling down like water” made perfect sense. But this week? When our focus is worship? How much sense does it make to read “I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies”?
After all, we are gathered here to share good news, to celebrate with a certain festive air, are we not? And we are gathered with a certain seriousness of purpose that, while not necessarily solemn – as in dour – is at least decent and orderly as befits good Presbyterians.
So, what are we to make of this prophetic word today?
Why are we here?
Let me propose a way forward: let’s begin with our own Presbyterian heritage.
Our Westminster Catechism asks, in its first question, what is the chief end, or purpose, of humankind?
The answer? To glorify God, and to enjoy God forever.
We are created to worship. That is as good a place as any to begin understanding why we are here.
Then again, why are we here? In this particular space?
Again, looking at our own Presbyterian heritage, our Book of Order reminds us that
Because the identifying reality of Christian worship was neither the place nor the space but the presence of God, the early Christians could worship in the Temple, in synagogues, in homes, in catacombs, and in prisons. Wherever Christ was present among them in the interpretation of the Word and the breaking of bread, that space was hallowed. Yet the Church began to set aside special places for gathering in the presence of the risen Christ and responding in praise and service. To this day, when the Church gathers, it is not the particular place, but the presence of the risen Lord in the midst of the community which marks the reality of worship (W-1.3023).
None of this guidance from our heritage is unimportant. It reminds us, in a theological sense, of who we are and of who God is. It reminds us that God deserves worship, is worthy of our praise, and that we are, in some sense, created for that purpose – to reflect the glory of the creator and to praise the maker. Finally, it reminds us that we stand in a long line of fellow creatures who have worshipped and who have passed along to us a particular tradition.
All of that is good, and right, and appropriate; worthy of our study and respect. But it still does not answer, on a deeply personal and authentic level, the question we began with: why are we here? Put more personally, why are you here? In this very moment, in this space – why are you here?
Consider that question as we sing the third verse of “I Love to Tell the Story.”
So, what is your story this morning? Why are you here?
After several stories have been shared: “Let’s sing the fourth verse.”
Let me tell you why I am here this morning, but first I want to share a brief vignette from the conference I attended early last week up at the Stony Point Center in the Hudson River Presbytery about 30 miles up the Hudson River Valley from New York City. We were gathered for what was billed as a consultation on evangelism that was follow up to the General Assembly’s adoption of a report and strategy called Grow the Church: Deep and Wide. Former moderator Rick Ufford-Chase called the gathering together and three of the past four GA moderators were among the 80 of us in attendance. It was a diverse gathering, drawing folks from across the theological spectrum of the PC(U.S.A.), and at one small-group gathering I found myself seated next to a pastor from a confessing church, that is to say, a congregation that is part of a conservative movement of churches and groups that have reaffirmed 1. That Jesus Christ alone is Lord of all and the way of salvation. 2. That holy Scripture is the Triune God's revealed Word, the Church's only infallible rule of faith and life. 3. That God's people are called to holiness in all aspects of life. This includes honoring the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, the only relationship within which sexual activity is appropriate. This pastor was interested in outreach – real, authentic, non-judging outreach – to the GLBT community. At that very moment I knew that I was not in Kansas anymore!
But lest I think for a moment that I was somewhere over the rainbow, in a different group someone lifted up the startling factoid that, among Presbyterian clergy, fully 70 percent would not attend the church they serve. In other words, they would not go to the church except that it pays them to show up.
So, let me tell you why I am here this morning.
First, it is not because you pay me, though I am very grateful for your continued generous support of our family both with your tithes and offerings, but also with your prayers, and, most of all, with your love.
But, before any of that was made manifest, I was on my way to this moment and this place because of Jesus, because of his presence in my life.
Now I don’t have any dramatic Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus conversion story. I don’t have any falling-down-drunk-on-my-knees-in-the-gutter-praying-for-salvation story. I certainly don’t have any turn-the-slave-ship-around-Amazing Grace story.
To be sure, I have my own share of broken places, of scars and wounds. I stand regularly in need of repentance and forgiveness. I have been driven to my knees in prayers of anger at God and at God’s church, to be sure.
And I have been reminded that, if we are doing our jobs as followers of Jesus, there will be scars.
Despite that, or because of it, I stand here this morning because of Jesus. Because the old, old story of Jesus and his love is the story that makes sense out of my life.
At the lowest point in my childhood, the morning that my father’s mental illness became horribly acute, the love of Christ was made manifest for my family through our neighbor, the associate pastor of the Presbyterian congregation in which my dad grew up. Jesus was present in the tears and the trembling.
At the most trying points of my adolescence – nothing overly dramatic, mind you, just the typical crap that comes with those years – the love of Christ was made manifest for me by the youth minister in that same Presbyterian congregation – sometimes in words of wisdom, but more often through the great theological medium of basketball and late-night tennis matches. Jesus was present in the sweat and laughter.
In college, in the midst of the typical sorting out of vocation and calling, the love of Christ was made manifest to me by the kids who responded to my leadership at a Presbyterian summer camp. Jesus was present along the rivers and around the campfires.
Are you sensing a theme here?
After the better part of a decade of holding the church at arm’s length and trying my level best to fend him off, Jesus showed me his steadfast love again through a Presbyterian session that said, “we support you” and “yes, you can” to my unsteady and doubt-filled path of decision about going back to school, again, to pursue ordination in a church with which I had and still have a passionate love-hate relationship. Jesus was present in the polity of the PC(U.S.A.).
And when a wounded part of that church lashed out at me out of its own brokenness and left me unemployed and in deep doubt and despair about the future of this entire irrational enterprise, another part of the body – with, of course, its own broken places – reached out and made manifest the love of Jesus in more ways than Cheryl and I could count, and which we could only repay by continuing to follow the call of Christ as it led us to this place five and a half years ago. Jesus was present in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.
None of this is particularly dramatic – it may not even be particularly interesting!
But I cannot help be filled with wonder and gratitude as I reflect on the ways that the love of Jesus Christ has been made manifest, made real, been incarnate in and through the lives of so many men and women and children who are connected with the Presbyterian Church. That love of Christ, which calls me, comforts me, and challenges me every day, has taken me to places of far more drama than my own imagination could conceive: to witness Christ’s love among the victims of Katrina; to witness Christ’s renewal in our own worship this past year; to witness Christ’s compassion around the deathbed in a hospital in Kentucky as a broken family sobbed Silent Night and sought forgiveness; to witness Christ’s peace in a DC jail cell; to witness Christ’s forgiveness and grace in so many lives in this community; to witness Christ’s presence with grieving families. Jesus was present.
I have seen this congregation feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and proclaim good news to the poor. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, here among us. Amazing grace, indeed.
So I am here this morning for that oldest of reasons, that oldest of old, old Christian stories about the love of Jesus. I can tell you, as I learned so many years ago, “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” And, what is more, Jesus loves me, this I know, for his people show me so.
May we continue to be that people and to show that love: to one another and to a world filled with people aching to know that they, too, are beloved. Amen.
November 16, 2008
As we consider that provocative set of suggestions about Jesus, let’s sing together the second verse of “I Love to Tell the Story.”
You might quickly recognize that we just read that famous passage from Amos for the second straight week. Last week, when our focus was “justice” reading about “justice rolling down like water” made perfect sense. But this week? When our focus is worship? How much sense does it make to read “I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies”?
After all, we are gathered here to share good news, to celebrate with a certain festive air, are we not? And we are gathered with a certain seriousness of purpose that, while not necessarily solemn – as in dour – is at least decent and orderly as befits good Presbyterians.
So, what are we to make of this prophetic word today?
Why are we here?
Let me propose a way forward: let’s begin with our own Presbyterian heritage.
Our Westminster Catechism asks, in its first question, what is the chief end, or purpose, of humankind?
The answer? To glorify God, and to enjoy God forever.
We are created to worship. That is as good a place as any to begin understanding why we are here.
Then again, why are we here? In this particular space?
Again, looking at our own Presbyterian heritage, our Book of Order reminds us that
Because the identifying reality of Christian worship was neither the place nor the space but the presence of God, the early Christians could worship in the Temple, in synagogues, in homes, in catacombs, and in prisons. Wherever Christ was present among them in the interpretation of the Word and the breaking of bread, that space was hallowed. Yet the Church began to set aside special places for gathering in the presence of the risen Christ and responding in praise and service. To this day, when the Church gathers, it is not the particular place, but the presence of the risen Lord in the midst of the community which marks the reality of worship (W-1.3023).
None of this guidance from our heritage is unimportant. It reminds us, in a theological sense, of who we are and of who God is. It reminds us that God deserves worship, is worthy of our praise, and that we are, in some sense, created for that purpose – to reflect the glory of the creator and to praise the maker. Finally, it reminds us that we stand in a long line of fellow creatures who have worshipped and who have passed along to us a particular tradition.
All of that is good, and right, and appropriate; worthy of our study and respect. But it still does not answer, on a deeply personal and authentic level, the question we began with: why are we here? Put more personally, why are you here? In this very moment, in this space – why are you here?
Consider that question as we sing the third verse of “I Love to Tell the Story.”
So, what is your story this morning? Why are you here?
After several stories have been shared: “Let’s sing the fourth verse.”
Let me tell you why I am here this morning, but first I want to share a brief vignette from the conference I attended early last week up at the Stony Point Center in the Hudson River Presbytery about 30 miles up the Hudson River Valley from New York City. We were gathered for what was billed as a consultation on evangelism that was follow up to the General Assembly’s adoption of a report and strategy called Grow the Church: Deep and Wide. Former moderator Rick Ufford-Chase called the gathering together and three of the past four GA moderators were among the 80 of us in attendance. It was a diverse gathering, drawing folks from across the theological spectrum of the PC(U.S.A.), and at one small-group gathering I found myself seated next to a pastor from a confessing church, that is to say, a congregation that is part of a conservative movement of churches and groups that have reaffirmed 1. That Jesus Christ alone is Lord of all and the way of salvation. 2. That holy Scripture is the Triune God's revealed Word, the Church's only infallible rule of faith and life. 3. That God's people are called to holiness in all aspects of life. This includes honoring the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, the only relationship within which sexual activity is appropriate. This pastor was interested in outreach – real, authentic, non-judging outreach – to the GLBT community. At that very moment I knew that I was not in Kansas anymore!
But lest I think for a moment that I was somewhere over the rainbow, in a different group someone lifted up the startling factoid that, among Presbyterian clergy, fully 70 percent would not attend the church they serve. In other words, they would not go to the church except that it pays them to show up.
So, let me tell you why I am here this morning.
First, it is not because you pay me, though I am very grateful for your continued generous support of our family both with your tithes and offerings, but also with your prayers, and, most of all, with your love.
But, before any of that was made manifest, I was on my way to this moment and this place because of Jesus, because of his presence in my life.
Now I don’t have any dramatic Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus conversion story. I don’t have any falling-down-drunk-on-my-knees-in-the-gutter-praying-for-salvation story. I certainly don’t have any turn-the-slave-ship-around-Amazing Grace story.
To be sure, I have my own share of broken places, of scars and wounds. I stand regularly in need of repentance and forgiveness. I have been driven to my knees in prayers of anger at God and at God’s church, to be sure.
And I have been reminded that, if we are doing our jobs as followers of Jesus, there will be scars.
Despite that, or because of it, I stand here this morning because of Jesus. Because the old, old story of Jesus and his love is the story that makes sense out of my life.
At the lowest point in my childhood, the morning that my father’s mental illness became horribly acute, the love of Christ was made manifest for my family through our neighbor, the associate pastor of the Presbyterian congregation in which my dad grew up. Jesus was present in the tears and the trembling.
At the most trying points of my adolescence – nothing overly dramatic, mind you, just the typical crap that comes with those years – the love of Christ was made manifest for me by the youth minister in that same Presbyterian congregation – sometimes in words of wisdom, but more often through the great theological medium of basketball and late-night tennis matches. Jesus was present in the sweat and laughter.
In college, in the midst of the typical sorting out of vocation and calling, the love of Christ was made manifest to me by the kids who responded to my leadership at a Presbyterian summer camp. Jesus was present along the rivers and around the campfires.
Are you sensing a theme here?
After the better part of a decade of holding the church at arm’s length and trying my level best to fend him off, Jesus showed me his steadfast love again through a Presbyterian session that said, “we support you” and “yes, you can” to my unsteady and doubt-filled path of decision about going back to school, again, to pursue ordination in a church with which I had and still have a passionate love-hate relationship. Jesus was present in the polity of the PC(U.S.A.).
And when a wounded part of that church lashed out at me out of its own brokenness and left me unemployed and in deep doubt and despair about the future of this entire irrational enterprise, another part of the body – with, of course, its own broken places – reached out and made manifest the love of Jesus in more ways than Cheryl and I could count, and which we could only repay by continuing to follow the call of Christ as it led us to this place five and a half years ago. Jesus was present in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.
None of this is particularly dramatic – it may not even be particularly interesting!
But I cannot help be filled with wonder and gratitude as I reflect on the ways that the love of Jesus Christ has been made manifest, made real, been incarnate in and through the lives of so many men and women and children who are connected with the Presbyterian Church. That love of Christ, which calls me, comforts me, and challenges me every day, has taken me to places of far more drama than my own imagination could conceive: to witness Christ’s love among the victims of Katrina; to witness Christ’s renewal in our own worship this past year; to witness Christ’s compassion around the deathbed in a hospital in Kentucky as a broken family sobbed Silent Night and sought forgiveness; to witness Christ’s peace in a DC jail cell; to witness Christ’s forgiveness and grace in so many lives in this community; to witness Christ’s presence with grieving families. Jesus was present.
I have seen this congregation feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and proclaim good news to the poor. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, here among us. Amazing grace, indeed.
So I am here this morning for that oldest of reasons, that oldest of old, old Christian stories about the love of Jesus. I can tell you, as I learned so many years ago, “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” And, what is more, Jesus loves me, this I know, for his people show me so.
May we continue to be that people and to show that love: to one another and to a world filled with people aching to know that they, too, are beloved. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
2:57 PM
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