Against Invisibility

 A sermon shared at the

Suttons Bay Congregational Church

Sunday, March 14, 2021

Scripture: Luke 15:11-32

(The Parable of the Prodigal Son)

Many years ago, a friend of mine was invited to give a speech at a conference that was being held at a grand old hotel. At the conclusion of his presentation, he received a nice round of applause. Feeling good about how things had gone, he went up to his room and changed into casual clothes so he could take a stroll around the city and relax. 

He took the elevator down to the lobby and, when the doors opened, he discovered that a large and highly energized crowd had assembled. To his astonishment, as he stepped forward people burst into cheers. Clearly, his speech had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.

Then, glancing to his left, an unexpected sight came into view. It turned out that the door of the elevator next to his had opened at the same time. Laid out in front of that elevator was a long red carpet that led to a magisterial fountain in the middle of the lobby. And waddling down the carpet, led by a beautifully outfitted bellman, was a line of ducks—dutifully marching their way toward the water. 

The “duck march” has been a tradition at Memphis’s Peabody Hotel since 1933. Back then, several hunters who were staying at the hotel took some live birds that they had used as decoys (which was legal at the time) and put them into the fountain as a prank. A tradition was born, and the hotel now keeps a coterie of ducks in a swanky apartment on its roof. 

        Every day, a bellman who has been appointed “Duckmaster” leads them down to the fountain to the strains of a John Philip Sousa march. And, in the evening, the bellman plays drum major again and takes them back up. It’s a ceremony magnificent in its goofiness, and my friend had wandered into the middle of it. 

Places like the Peabody Hotel tend to manufacture good stories. I have a pretty decent one myself—about introducing my mother-in-law to Elvis Presley’s tailor there. And maybe someday I’ll figure out how to weave that epic moment into a sermon.

 

        But what I love about my friend’s story is the glee with which he tells it on himself. He sees the humor not just in a parade of ducks but in his mistake in thinking that he was the subject of so much adulation by strangers when they didn’t know he existed. He thought he was in the spotlight; they didn’t even notice he was on the stage. He thought he was the target of every eye in the room; he was invisible to them. 

  

I suspect that we all have had moments like this and, in a sense, it is completely understandable. After all, we reside at the center of our own existence, so it’s easy to fall into the error of thinking that we must hold the same position in the lives of others. When we catch ourselves in this mindset, it is often funny and always humbling. 

In many cases, however, our invisibility as human beings gives rise to a completely different set of feelings. When others act as if we do not exist, we may feel disrespected, discarded, devalued, and dehumanized. And we may feel that way for a very good reason: it is how we are being treated. All of which brings us, perhaps unexpectedly, to the Parable of the Return of the Prodigal Son.

*

Over the years, I have heard countless sermons about this famous parable. I have preached a few myself. It has inspired works of art that mean a great deal to me, including Rembrandt’s masterful depiction of the moment when the father and the son are reunited.

        So, I have spent a lot of time with this parable. And yet, until recently, some of the most critical players in this drama remained invisible to me. I simply did not notice them, and I have come to think of this as an inexcusable lapse. 

        It is their story I would like to explore with you this morning. 

*

Let’s start here. Those who closely study this parable and give sermons on it generally view themselves as having three choices in teasing out the meaning of the story. And this presents something of a problem, because all three choices are good ones. 

Perhaps the most obvious choice is to focus on the figure of the prodigal son. This makes a lot of sense. After all, by tradition we refer to this as his story and we tend to view him as the star of the show. In that famous Rembrandt painting, he is the figure placed front and center. A core theme of the parable is the virtuous but hard work of repentance—and he embodies it. 

        The prodigal son does indeed have a powerful tale to tell. Greedy and overreaching, he squanders the inheritance he receives early from his father and loses everything. Then, in the depths of despair, “he comes to himself”—in my view, one of the most beautiful phrases in the entirety of the New Testament—and he returns home. 

        Rainer Maria Rilke concludes one of his poems with the stark line: “You must change your life.” The prodigal son has the same message for us. And his story says that we must affect that change by “coming to ourselves,” remembering who we are, and returning home to God. 

        Another perfectly good choice in thinking about the meaning of this parable is to focus on the father. The father is a key figure here, too. Another central theme of the story is forgiveness and the father’s exercise of it has important lessons for us all.

        Perhaps the greatest lesson lies in the extravagance of the father’s forgiveness.  The father does not just tolerate his son’s return; he runs to him. He does not just welcome him; he embraces him. He does not just take him back; he throws him a big party. His son was lost, and now is found, and his father showers him with an amazing grace. 

        Some people think that this is what makes the father the most important figure in the parable. Without the father’s enthusiastic forgiveness—and it may be worth remembering that “enthusiasm” comes from roots meaning “filled with God”—there is no story worth telling. In Rembrandt’s painting, the prodigal son may be front and center; but it is the father who gives off the heavenly glow that bathes his child in light and illuminates the scene.

        In exploring this parable, however, there is yet a third choice. Creative preachers have sometimes focused on the brother, who balks at his father’s generosity and who receives the news of the banquet with, well, a tantrum. This focus requires some ingenuity because many of us find the brother the least appealing figure in the narrative. He may remind us of some people we’ve known—but may have occasionally wished we didn’t. Indeed, it is tempting to read the story as if the brother has no role other than as a foil, a stark contrast to the humility exhibited by the prodigal son and the compassion exhibited by the father. 

        Still, sermons that pursue this theme sometimes suggest that most of us may have more in common with the brother than with anyone else in this story. The brother is important, the argument goes, not because he reminds us of other people but because he reminds us of ourselves. This idea may make us squirm a bit but it may also have some truth to it. 

        Think of it this way: Most of us do not ascend to the dizzying moral heights of the father. But most of us also do not descend to the impoverished moral depths of the prodigal son. We live somewhere in the middle: we’re bad enough to confirm that we’re human; we’re good enough to confirm that we’re trying; and we’re inclined toward pettiness and minor hissy fits whenever we think we might not be getting our fair share. And there ends this week’s entry in my ongoing series, “Confessions from the Pulpit.”

        In his painting, Rembrandt captures this idea by placing the brother to the side, where he stands passively while the father and son play out the drama of reunion and thankfulness. The image challenges us to reflect on how a life that occupies the comfortable middle can constrict our soul, suffocate our spirit, and relegate us to the sidelines of the heart. It may prompt us to wonder whether we, too, have been lured outside of the light of love by our selfish preoccupations and fussy resentments.

*

        As I say, if you’re seeking the meaning of this parable, then these are three good ways to go about it. And they are not mutually exclusive. We can take all of these lessons from the parable without diminishing the importance of any of them.

        And, yet, still one more choice exists, because it turns out that there is another group of players that are central to this drama. In my view, however, we tend to read past them. We make them invisible. They appear in the Rembrandt painting. But you may not have noticed they were there. 

        These other players are described by the Greek word doulos. Some translations, like the New Revised Standard version, render this word as “slave.” But many others, like the New International Version and the New King James Version, render it as “servant.” 

        I am no expert in the Greek language, but I find the word “servant” more consistent with the messages and structure of this text. After all, in the parable the father represents a God of infinite love and grace. Such a God has people who serve him—ideally, we all strive to do just that. But God does not enslave people. To our great and perpetual shame, slavery is an enterprise on which human beings hold the monopoly. 

        So, here is what I want you to notice. Now that we have made these servants visible, observe how critical they are to the drama that unfolds before us. They convey the news of the prodigal son’s return to the brother. They share in the father’s excitement over these developments. 

        The father counts on them to find the best robe and to wrap it around his beloved son. He counts on them to put a ring on his son’s finger and sandals on his feet. He counts on them to kill the fatted calf and to prepare the feast. He counts on them to join in the festivities and to make it a party. We can imagine them dancing at the feast; the parable does not even tell us whether the brother shows up to it. 

        And, although we may tend to miss the central role of the servants here, the father does not. He says: “Let us eat and celebrate, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.” The text adds: “And they began to celebrate.” Treating the servants like members of his family, the father invites them to share in the joy and revelry.

        The presence of the servants offers another interesting insight into the respective characters of the brother and the prodigal son as well. On learning of his father’s celebratory plans, the brother peevishly exclaims: “For all these years I have been working like a servant for you! And yet you never even gave me so much as a goat to eat with my friends!” Brimming with a sense of victimization and self-pity over his goat-dinner-deprived existence, the brother compares himself to his father’s servants, who the brother clearly sees as inferior beings.

        In contrast, you’ll remember that when the prodigal son comes home he offers to work for his father as a day laborer. Again, the translation here poses some challenges, but this may carry a great deal of meaning. In the ancient Near East, such workers typically had a job for only one day. This offered them much less security than that held by regular household servants. In other words, the prodigal son sees himself as inferior to his father’s servants and as unworthy to hold their position in his home. 

        We can imagine the father looking a bit embarrassed when the brother compares himself to the servants, and looking utterly adoring when the prodigal son asks to work as a day laborer. If this idea sounds familiar to you, it should. We encounter it in the twelfth verse of the twenty-fifth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus says: “And whoever exalts himself shall be humbled, and he who humbles himself shall be exalted.”

        Notice how once we’ve seen the servants in the story, we can’t un-see them. Their critical roles in the narrative become obvious. And maybe we will never read the parable again in quite the same way.

        And that’s how it works in life, too. Consider: for the past year the pandemic has forced us all to engage in a prolonged experiment in heightened consciousness, finally seeing people who may have been invisible to us before but who make our lives possible. Now we cannot un-see them. And we will never again see them in quite the same way.

  

*

        As you may know, in the Zen Buddhist tradition practitioners study texts called koans. A koan is a story, a riddle, or a proposition that invites the student into the deep contemplation of possibilities. They’re often confusing and difficult, if not even unsolvable. The most famous of these is probably: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Let me know when you have that one figured out.

        Now, a connection exists between koans and parables. Indeed, our word parable comes from the Greek word “parabole,” which translates the Hebrew word “mashal.” And, as theologian William R. Herzog observes, the “basic meaning” of mashal is “riddle.” In other words, parables, like koans, do not come to us with one simple message; rather, they invite us to puzzle over their meaning—or meanings. 

        I think of the Parable of the Prodigal Son as one of the richest and most complex koans in all of sacred literature. It has so many meanings and messages; it offers so much insight and instruction; it glows with such poignancy and poetry. It rewards prolonged consideration and contemplation. As I say, there are lots of ways to think about this story, and all of them are good.

        For my own part, I have come to believe that one of the parable’s subtlest but most important message is that in the great unfolding narrative of repentance, compassion, forgiveness, and grace, we must never allow anyone to become invisible. This is how Jesus conducted his life and ministry: everyone came into his sight and into his care. This is how the Living God does business: not a single soul escapes the attention of the One who marks the fall of even a sparrow. 

        This is why we are invited to let our light shine: because it brings others out of the shadows. This is why the merciful, and the peacemakers, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness are blessed: because no one is invisible to them. This is why the father and the brother in the parable both have something to teach us: because one sees a beloved son, while the other sees only himself.

*

        This season of Lent aims its irresistible energy toward the greatest act of love in the history of the world. It is the perfect time to spend our days working toward compassion. Which also makes it the perfect time to work against invisibility.

        Letting no one become invisible to us because they are poor, or imprisoned, or undocumented, or think differently than we do, or look differently than we do, or love differently than we do. Letting no one become invisible to us because of the mistakes they have made, or the words they have said, or the political party they have supported. Letting no one become invisible to us because of their economic bracket, or their employment or unemployment, or their physical or emotional challenges.

 

        And this, too: letting no one become invisible to us because they are one of the “strong” people, one of the people on whom we may not expend our empathy and compassion because we don’t think they need it. Everyone needs it. Even, sometimes especially, the supposedly strongest among us.

        That’s another lesson of this existential koan that we’ve all been living through called the pandemic. That those we count on to be the strong people—the nurses and doctors and pastors and teachers—are human beings, too. And they need us to see them in their full humanity so that we can support them in their labors.

 

        To make progress here, we need to remain mindful of all the ways we make people invisible. Ignoring them. Dismissing them. Treating them like objects. Not bothering to learn their names, let alone their hopes and their worries and their dreams and their aspirations. Those are perhaps the obvious tools of invisibility. 

        But sometimes we make people invisible by projecting onto them our own prejudices, preconceptions, and predispositions. We use them like a blank screen. In Ralph Ellison’s classic novel, Invisible Man, the narrator—who, pointedly, is never given a name—describes his experience as a member of a racial minority in this country in these words:

"I am an invisible man … 

"I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, [they see] everything and anything except me."

        This is what sin does, whether it is societal or individual. It makes people invisible. And, if it sees them at all, it sees them for everything and anything except what they really are. 

Lent points us toward that inexpressibly bad, inexpressibly good Friday, when the people could not see Love for what it was and so nailed it to a cross and tried to kill it. Tried to silence it. Tried to render it fully and finally invisible.

        Eventually, we will arrive at that sacred message of Easter: It didn’t work. It never does. It never will. Love prevailed and prevails. The light shines still in the darkness. And He is risen, indeed. 

        But, before we get there, we must do the hard work of Lent.

    

*

        During the pandemic, Lisa and I have been reading our way through the novels of Swedish author Fredrik Backman. We’re on our third, a book called Bear Town. The story includes lots of characters, many of them members of a boy’s hockey team, but also a woman named Kira. 

        Kira is married to the general manager of the local hockey league, which is a big deal in the small town where the novel is set, and they have children. Early on in the novel, Backman tells us this story about Kira: 

"When the members of her family are asleep, Kira still goes around the house and counts them. Her own mother always did that with her children, Kira and her five siblings, counting them every night. Her mother said she didn’t understand how anyone could have children and not do that, how anyone could live without being terrified of losing them at any moment. “One, two, three, four, five, six,” Kira would hear her whisper through the house, and each child would lie there with his or her eyes closed and feel that they had been seen and acknowledged. It’s one of her most treasured childhood memories."

        They would “feel that they had been seen and acknowledged.” And they treasured it. 

One of the things about sharing sermons is that it puts you always on the lookout for parables, for koans that we can turn over and over in our thoughts, trying to figure out their deep significance and what they mean for how we live our lives. I think that Backman here gives us a very powerful parable, a koan that we can ponder during this season of Lent. One that might inspire us to work even harder against invisibility. 

        For, in the end, my brothers and sisters in Christ, what do any of us want, what do any of us desire, what do any of us need more than to know that we are seen? That we are visible. That we have been counted. That we count. 

        This reflective time of Lent is the perfect occasion for us to think about how we can share that gift with others. Even with others who seem to us different and distant and disconnected. Because, after all, how does the redemption of the prodigal son really begin? With his father seeing him—even from very far away.

        And so it is with the One who sees us. And runs toward us. And calls out to us. As we walk through the valley and seek the right path. As we make our way back home.

     

    And the people said: Amen.

In the Shelter of the Most High

 

In the Shelter of the Most High

 

A sermon shared at the Suttons Bay Congregational Church

 

January 17, 2021

 

 

Len Niehoff

 

 

Scripture: Psalm 91

 

 

         The pandemic has led many of us to return to old and familiar hobbies or to take up new ones. Last year, I built Lisa her first raised garden bed so she could try her hand at growing vegetables. She went at it with her characteristic zeal, and as a result we can now tell you all the things you can do with a crop of several hundred cherry tomatoes.

 

         I’m an enthusiastic amateur carpenter, so I’ve spent lots of time constructing boardwalks, potting benches, grilling tables, woodsheds, and the like. Lisa is a dedicated knitter, so she’s been hard at work on endless numbers of hats, mittens, cowls, and socks. At one point, we were so busily laboring at these two activities that I worried we’d get mixed up and I’d build a sweater made of cedar and she’d knit an addition onto the house.

 

         In the isolation of the pandemic, we also found ourselves watching much more television than we normally do. We started by bingeing on a show called Outlander, which attracted Lisa because of the knitted shawls and capelets worn by Claire, the protagonist. The show appealed to me because it is largely set in Scotland and I am a member of the Gordon clan on my mother’s side.

 

The Gordons had a habit of fighting in the losing battles for Scottish independence from the English, and Outlander rather graphically depicts some of those skirmishes, including the Battle of Culloden in 1746. In the show, as the Scottish soldiers prepare for that battle, a woman begins to recite those inspiring words of Psalm 91. “He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler … He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge … You will not fear the terror of the night or the arrow that flies by day … For he will command his angels concerning you, to guard you in all your ways.”

 

Alas, although the Battle of Culloden lasted only about an hour, it went very badly for the Scots. They suffered massive casualties and found their uprising summarily repressed. The words of Psalm 91 offered inspiration to the warriors—but those stirring phrases did not play out in the reality of the fight.

 

         Psalm 91 is one of my favorite passages in the Hebrew Bible. Over the years, I have turned to it countless times for comfort and encouragement. But I fear that we cannot read it or hear it without sensing the deep theological problem it embodies: its words, beautiful as they are, can feel disconcertingly disconnected from our lived experience.

 

         If we read Psalm 91 in a superficial manner, then we might take it to offer the following message: “Here’s how it works. If you believe and trust in God, then He will shield you from bad things, protect you from bad people, and rescue you from bad circumstances.” That sounds like a great arrangement, but it doesn’t always align very well with what actually happens on the ground. To the contrary, life teaches us that bad things happen to good people, good things happen to bad people, the innocent die young, the guilty die old, and so on and so on.

 

         Edward Abbey famously declared that “Life is unfair. And it’s not fair that life is unfair.” On many days, that diagnosis may seem more consistent with life as we muddle through it than do those lines of Psalm 91. And this leaves us with a serious theological dilemma: Is Psalm 91 simply a collection of false promises? Or does it have meaning for us after all—perhaps even a meaning that can bring us into a place of great courage and to a peace that passes all understanding?

 

         Now, the problem I describe here is not limited to Psalm 91. To the contrary, it is in many ways the central dilemma of our faith. How can we believe in a loving and compassionate God when our world is burdened by so much pain, suffering, violence, cruelty, unfairness, and death?

 

People have been trying to answer this question for so long that the effort to do so has its own name—"theodicy.” And that project has occupied such intellectual giants as Plotinus, St. Augustine, St. Irenaeus, John Milton, and Gottfried Leibniz. Indeed, Leibniz came up with the word “theodicy” when he wasn’t busy inventing calculus and refining the binary number system in ways that ultimately made computers possible.

 

         It can be hard to find a factual proposition with which all of the members of any given congregation will agree, but here’s an easy one for all of you: those guys that I just mentioned are smarter than I am. So, spoiler alert: if they couldn’t come up with a completely satisfactory answer to that question, neither can I. If John Milton, one of the greatest minds of the 17^th century, could not achieve his goal “to justify the ways of God to man” in the ten-thousand lines of verse in his epic poem Paradise Lost, then it’s unlikely I’m going to pull it off this morning in Suttons Bay, Michigan, even after three cups of coffee.

 

         My modest goal for today is therefore to make two points about Psalm 91 that I think might help direct us toward an answer, even if they don’t give us a definitive one. The first is a point about the language of Psalm 91. And the second is a point about what that language tells us about the nature of God and our relationship with Him.

 

         Let’s turn first to the language of Psalm 91. I invite you to notice that the words and phrases used in the psalm are overwhelmingly and highly poetic. Indeed, the psalm deploys an abundance of rich and evocative images.

 

It talks about living in the “shelter of the Most High,” abiding in the “shadow of the almighty,” being delivered from the “snare of the fowler,” finding refuge “under [the] wings” of the Lord, discovering a “shield” in his faithfulness, taking up a “dwelling place” with the Almighty, and knowing that God himself has commanded His angels to worry after us and lift us up. Little wonder we find so much poetry here: the psalms are, of course, songs, and it is their sound and their imagery that make them meaningful and memorable.

 

         Indeed, if we try to reduce the glory of any psalm to simple declarative propositions, then we drain it of its central meaning. Consider those moving opening lines of Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.” We miss the beauty of the psalm—and, I would argue, we miss the point—if we recast that poetry as: “God makes me nap in my backyard and walk next to drainage ditches.”

 

By the same token, we don’t want to reduce the rich and imaginative poetry of Psalm 91 to something that sounds like an advertisement for a lottery ticket. “Believe in God now and you may already have won a victory over someone or something bad! But remember—you have to play to win!” No, we can put aside the poetry of a psalm only at the expense of putting aside everything important that it is trying to tell us.

 

The great translator of ancient texts, Paul Roche, once made this point in connection with the Greek word “Thalassa.” “Thalassa” is a word dense in significance in Greek mythology and invokes images of the primeval spirit of the sea. Roche noted that a clueless translator could mess things up entirely by rendering the word as: “a vast expanse of salt water.” That translation might be accurate in some strictly literal sense, but much of the depth and complexity of the word “Thalassa” would fall away with it.

 

         The theologian David Tracy argues that the Bible often uses this sort of poetic language for a specific reason. After all, the Bible is not a travel guidebook or an instruction manual or an ancient version of Google Maps. Rather, the Bible seeks to shed light on things that lie at the very limits of human experience and understanding: life; death; creation; redemption; rebirth; and, most fundamentally, the nature of God and the essence of our relationship with Him.

 

         Tracy points out that we do not have the capacity to describe these things directly. We therefore must use what he calls “limit language”—things like parables, metaphors, and poetry—to gesture toward a Truth that we cannot convey outright. One of my favorite examples of this comes when Paul writes in First Corinthians that in this life we see only “through a glass, darkly”—using a bit of poetry because he does not even know enough to describe in straightforward terms what he does not know.

 

         Paul expresses a lot of his theology through poetic, imagistic language. Just consider that famous passage in the sixth chapter of his letter to the Ephesians, where Paul urges us to “put on the full armor of God,” including the “belt of truth,” the “breastplate of righteousness,” the “shield of faith,” the “helmet of salvation,” and the “sword of the spirit.” Like the 91^st Psalm, these lines clothe us for the battles of life in an array of metaphors. 

 

         Throughout the gospels, Jesus too uses this sort of “limit language,” often answering direct questions with metaphors, images, or stories. Who are we? We are “the light of the world.” Why shouldn’t I judge other people? Because I have a log in my eye. How does the word of God spread? Like seeds that land in differing soil. What is the kingdom of heaven like? It’s like a mustard seed. And it’s like yeast. And it’s like a treasure hidden in a field. And it’s like a pearl of great price.

 

We even use such language in attempting to describe Jesus. Who is he? He is the lamb. The shepherd. The prince of peace. The alpha and the omega. The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein once observed that our language does not even allow us to describe fully the aroma of coffee; how, then, could we expect it to describe perfect love, grace, and compassion made incarnate?

 

The Bible therefore uses the tools of poetry. The text overflows with metaphors and similes and symbols and parables and all those other devices we learned about in English class but didn’t fully appreciate because we didn’t yet know that this is the language of the prophets, and the saints, and the apostles, and a Jewish carpenter from Nazareth. It is the language of Truth and Mystery—and, for those subjects, it is the only language we have, except maybe for the music of Bach.

 

That brings me to the second point about Psalm 91: through the very use of this sort of language, the text signals to us that the ways of God are, and must, remain deeply mysterious. Psalm 91 does not provide us with detailed information about how or when or in what manner God will embrace us, shelter us, fight for us, and deliver us. It just assures us that God will do so, perhaps in ways we cannot even recognize, let alone fully comprehend or appreciate.

 

The confidence that this is so constitutes the very essence of our faith. But, you will notice that this faith does not require us to believe many things. Instead, it asks us to subscribe to just one central idea: that God loves us. If we accept that single principle, then all sorts of things logically and necessarily follow from it.

 

Those include believing that God will provide for us, although in His own manner and time and not always in ways we understand. He will serve as our refuge and our fortress; He will cover us with His pinions and take us underneath His wings; He will command his legions of angels concerning us. How do we know this? Because a loving and compassionate God could not do otherwise.

 

This promise does not make anything inevitable. It does not mean that we will enjoy economic prosperity, or good health, or unalloyed happiness. It does not mean that people will respect us, honor us, love us, or even like us. And it certainly does not mean that we will be spared our hours in the valley of the shadow of death.

 

But it does mean that anything is possible. It means that even in that darkest of valleys we will have the most loving force in the universe at our side. It means that even in the midst of loss, or grief, or suffering, or despair, or depression we can experience the intimate presence of the Living God. “With man,” Jesus says in the 19^th chapter of Matthew, such things are impossible. “But with God everything is possible.”

 

*

I am a long-time boxing fan and so was very excited several years ago to have the opportunity to visit the Muhammad Ali Museum in Lexington, Kentucky. By coincidence, today is Muhammad Ali’s birthday. Later today I’ll celebrate with a little root beer, his favorite drink.

 

Ali said many memorable things in the course of his life, and a number of them are quoted in the museum’s displays and on its walls. But, during my visit, I was particularly struck by the following words, which seem to me resonant with our scripture for today. Ali once said:

 

“Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion.

 

“Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare.

 

“Impossible is potential.

 

“Impossible is temporary.

 

“Impossible is nothing.”

 

*

         Ours is a faith of impossibilities made possible. A God who sent his beloved Son to redeem us. A messiah born in a manger. A healed leper. A calmed storm. A walking paralytic. The blind given sight. The mute given speech. Thousands fed with a few loaves and fishes. The dead raised. An empty tomb. A resurrected Christ waiting on the shore to have a little breakfast with the disciples he taught and loved.

 

         And our own lives become witnesses to this truth. Think of all the things that have become possible for us just when we had concluded that they were not: A sense of strength, when we had none left. A feeling of peace, when we felt overwhelmed. A gift of care or kindness or currency, when we had given up on generosity. An occasion to smile or laugh, when sadness threatened to overtake us. Calm in the storm, quiet in the cacophony, light in the dark, a still small voice comforting us in the chambers of the indifferent silence, a warm blanketing presence in our coldest and loneliest hours.

 

         The theologian Howard Thurman wrote:

 

         “God knows the heart’s secrets and deals with us at the level of the heart’s profoundest hunger. Where there is fear or anxiety, these take precedence over the ebb and flow of the inward tides. In order for the deepest things in us to be touched and kindled, both fear and anxiety must be wiped away. This we can do for ourselves, sometimes, but not often. The one thing that they cannot abide is conscious exposure to the Love of God.”

 

If we look around us, and within us, we see so much evidence of grace. Resorting yet again to poetic language, the scriptures in several places compare God to a “thief who comes in the night.” Granted, in these our lives we may never catch Him in the act. But, make no mistake about it, He leaves fingerprints.

 

*

Psalm 91 does not offer us easy answers. The psalmist knew that, if you’re looking for those in human existence, you came to the wrong place. Instead, the psalm offers us something better—a poetic expression of the Truth that necessarily follows from belief in a loving and compassionate God, even if for now we can grasp that Truth only through a glass, darkly.

 

Oh, sisters and brothers in Christ, rejoice this good day, rejoice. Rejoice, despite everything, rejoice. Rejoice, even in these difficult times, rejoice.

 

For you do indeed live in the shelter of the Most High. You abide in the shadow of the almighty. You will find refuge under the wings of God. You need not fear in the night, for you have made the Most High your dwelling place. And he will command his angels concerning you, to guard you in all your ways. He will be with you in your times of trouble. And he will show you his salvation.

 

And the people said: Amen.