O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Matthew 1:18-25

December 1, 2013 • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

He sat there, in the ashes that had been his life. Everyone he knew was gone: either they had died or they had deserted him. He could still remember the day when his world had come to an end. His children had been killed in a horrific accident. His fortune, carefully tended over a long period of time, disappeared in an instant when the market crashed, and his property had caught fire and burned to the ground before the fire department could get there. He might have been tempted to wonder, “What’s next?” except that, aside from his own life, he had nothing left to lose. Even his wife had disowned him. She told him how stupid he was and walked away. So there he sat, and then came the mysterious illness. No one knew what it was, but even if they did, he had no money left to get treatment. The illness was painful, but that pain was dull in comparison to the ache in his soul. No money, no job, no family. If he had any strength, he might have ended it all. But he didn’t. He just sat there, staring into the distance.

He had no idea how long his three friends had been there before he noticed them. At some point, they had just come up to him, joined him and sat there silently. They brushed flies away, made sure he took a drink of water every once in a while, but otherwise, said nothing. They just came to be with him, because he was their friend. And they may have been his last three friends on earth. He was grateful for their presence. It meant the world that there were people who just wanted to be with him (cf. Job 2:11-13).

Now, if you’ve read much of the Bible, you might recognize that as the story of Job. The book of Job struggles with what it means to suffer, and while it doesn’t provide any answers, it does give us this image of the three friends who sit with him for a whole week in silence. They just come to be with him. I’ve said they did their best ministry in that week when they were with Job. After that, they open their mouths and it all goes downhill fast. But for a week, they just came to be with him. We all need friends like that, and maybe you’ve had friends like that. Every time we’re in a desperate situation, we need friends who come alongside and are just there. We know they have no answers. There usually aren’t any answers. But we just need someone to be with us.

When I was in the hospital nearly fifteen years ago with my heart surgery, I remember one day in particular when one of my closest friends made the drive down to Indianapolis just to be with me. Cathy was at the hospital much of the time, but she also had a four-year-old boy to take care of, so when my friend walked through the door, I was so grateful. If you’ve been in the hospital, you know how long those days can be. And we talked about various things, but mostly he just came to be there with me and didn’t even mind when I dozed off. The same sort of thing has happened when we’ve had deaths in our family. I can’t tell you how much it means when friends walk in the funeral home or church, and though they can’t fix it and may not even know what to say, they’re just there. They’ve come to be with us. That becomes so important in times of grief. And there are another times when I’m struggling, and a friend will say, “Hey, let’s go get some lunch.” Not to talk about what was troubling me, but just to be there. To be with us. Those times make all the difference in the world, and I’m betting right now you’re thinking of times in your own life when there have been people who came to be with you. Take a moment and just picture those folks in your mind. What did it mean that someone wanted to be with you?

Now, imagine that that “someone” is God. Imagine that God wants to be with you. Richard Foster once talked about his intense study of the whole Bible, and what he learned above all else. He put it this way: “Through Scripture we heard God whispering down through the centuries, ‘I am with you.’ ‘I am with you.’ ‘I am with you.’ Then, we heard God asking a question that searches the human person to the depths: ‘Are you willing to be with me?” (Life With God, pg. vii). Perhaps at no other time of the year do we hear that theme so clearly as we do during the Advent season, these four weeks in which we prepare for Christmas, the celebration of Jesus’ birth. But Advent is not just about shepherds and angels and a baby in a manger. It’s also about the promise Jesus made that he would come again, that as he came in humility the first time, he would come in victory and triumph the second time. Advent is meant to prepare us for both comings, to shape our hearts as people who are ready, willing and able to be with God as seen in Jesus Christ.

This Advent, we’ve chosen some of the carols of the season as a “starting point” for our preparations. The devotional we put together will cover many more carols than we can on Sunday mornings, but your daily readings will work together with Sunday worship to help us sing our way into this holy season. And to begin, we start with a hymn from the middle ages that echoes so well the cry of the Scriptures: “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” You’ve already heard its words: “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel…” The song has seven verses, each of which celebrate Jesus by a different name: Wisdom From On High, Lord of Might, Root of Jesse, Key of David, Dayspring, Desire of Nations, Emmanuel (UMH 211). The words of the carol go back to ancient times, when monks would use them during the last week before Christmas to remember who Jesus is (in fact, Roman Catholic and Anglican churches still use this song that way), but actually the words are older than that. They’re all rooted in the Hebrew prophets, those preachers of old who saw the coming of Jesus centuries before he arrived. This is Biblical language, so if the words seem strange to us today, it’s most likely because we live in a world so unacquainted with those ancient seers, those prophets. The words of this carol were chanted in Latin in medieval monasteries until they were translated into English sometime in the 1800’s by a man who used his “spare time” to rescue ancient songs so that they wouldn’t be forgotten. When it was first published in a hymnal, the notes indicated that the tune came from “French sources,” although no one could trace down what French song it was based on. It wasn’t until much later when someone discovered that the translator had “borrowed” the tune from a 15th century French funeral hymn.

Now, that seems rather odd, doesn’t it? This song we sing to prepare ourselves for Christmas and to usher in Advent began as a funeral tune? But the more I thought about it, the more it seems appropriate. There is a certain amount of dying that has to take place if we’re really going to be able to welcome the baby of Bethlehem. Certainly Joseph got that, and it was a difficult decision for him. Matthew tells us the Christmas story from Joseph’s perspective. Though Joseph says very little, we learn a lot about him just in the way Matthew tells the story (cf. Augsburger, Communicator’s Commentary: Matthew, pg. 28). We know he is a righteous man; he was “faithful to the law” (1:19; Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pg. 28). But we also know he wasn’t all about law, or just following the rigid application of it. If he were, he would have demanded that Mary be stoned, killed. You see, that’s the penalty prescribed in the Old Testament for a woman who was found to be pregnant by another man. Even though Mary and Joseph weren’t yet fully and legally married, they were “betrothed” or “pledged to be married,” and though we think of that as an “engagement,” it was a lot stronger than our idea of engagement. To break off a betrothal required a divorce, and for Mary to (it seemed) have slept with someone during that time was considered adultery. Mary has been “found” to be pregnant, Matthew says, which probably means nothing more than her belly is starting to show. At some point, she has told Joseph her incredible story—that the baby within her is the result of the work of the Holy Spirit, that she hasn’t been unfaithful to him. But Joseph can’t believe her. He’s a builder, a very practical man. He needs to see the proof, the evidence, and the evidence is that Mary is pregnant and he knows he’s not the father. So, legally, he could call for her death and the death of her unborn child, and he would be justified in doing so. No one would condemn him. So why doesn’t he? If he’s “faithful to the law,” as Matthew says he is, why doesn’t he apply it rigidly now?

It’s because his passion for the law, for righteousness, is tempered or mixed with a love for Mary. He is a man in whom both truth and grace dwells, which is, of course, why he was the perfect foster father for the one who would be described by John as “full of grace and truth” (cf. John 1:14). Joseph was more concerned about what the loving thing to do was than the purely righteous thing. So because “he did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her” (1:19). A simple, quiet breaking of the bonds between them, and they could both get on about their lives. That was Joseph’s plan. It was righteous and loving and, in his mind, the best thing for both of them. He couldn’t raise a child that wasn’t his. But he couldn’t harm Mary, either. Truth…and grace. And with that in his mind, Joseph went to bed.

Have you ever had one of those nights where something was on your mind so heavily that you couldn’t get away from it, even in your dreams? I know I have, and I’m sure you have, too. Now, we know from Luke’s gospel that an angel appeared directly to Mary to tell her she was going to become pregnant (Luke 1:26-38). But for some reason, when the angel appears to Joseph, it’s in his dreams (1:20; cf. Card 28). Maybe it’s the name. Like his namesake in the Old Testament, Joseph is more likely to listen in his dreams. Maybe he’s like a lot of us. In the daytime we’re too busy and too occupied to be able to hear from God, and the only time we’re quiet enough to really listen is when we’re asleep, when our body has stopped. That’s when God is able to break through. So the angel comes to Joseph as he sleeps, and gives him what will turn out to be a life-changing message: “Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins” (1:20-21). And then Matthew, the narrator, reminds us that this was to fulfill a promise made long ago by the prophet Isaiah: “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” (Isaiah 7:14; 1:23).

What’s in a name? For the Hebrews, names indicated something about the person, what you hoped they would become. And Jesus, in this passage, is given two names. The first name, “Jesus,” was a fairly common name in those days. It meant, “God saves,” and the Hebrew version of it is Joshua or Yeshua. So many boys in that time were named after the one who brought the Hebrews out of the desert and into the Promised Land, the great leader who followed Moses. And the name’s popularity spoke to the eager anticipation of the people at the time. They were looking for someone who would save them from the Romans, from the taxes and brutality of the government, someone who would come in and give them their freedom. They were looking for a military savior, a political messiah. So they named their boys “God Saves” and hoped that one of them would be the one. “Jesus” was a common name at the time, but “Emmanuel” was not. No one else was given the second name Matthew mentions (Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part One, pg.8).

Emmanuel is actually more than a name. It’s a promise. It’s a hope. It’s the fulfillment of all the hopes and dreams of the people of God because it means, as Matthew tells us, “God with us.” In Jesus, all the hopes, all the prophecies, all the aim of God’s working with we human beings comes together in one person. In Jesus, God comes to be with us. We don’t know if Joseph made that connection in his dream or not, but we do know that the next morning, Joseph had changed his plan. No longer was he going to divorce Mary. Instead, he takes her as his wife—which means he also has to bear the disgrace of taking her son, perceived as illegitimate, as his own—and he heads into an uncertain future. I’ve got to think he probably wondered if the dream was real or not, but if there was a chance that this baby in Mary’s womb was Emmanuel, was “God with us,” Joseph was willing to risk it all—his profession, his reputation, even his own life—to help it come to pass.

Remember I said how the tune for this carol was originally a funeral hymn, and that anticipating Emmanuel requires us to die? This is what I was talking about. Joseph had to die to all those expectations, all those hopes and dreams in order to provide the way for Emmanuel to come. Joseph had to give up his rigid dependence on the law and on what he thought was righteousness in order for Emmanuel to come, in order for God to be with us. He and so many others would have to die to their expectations of what the Messiah was supposed to be in order to receive what God really had in store for them. Joseph, after the angel spoke to him, was willing to die to all of that because he knew that the ancient promises were being fulfilled. His prayer that day was: “O come, O come, Emmanuel…whatever it takes, come and be with us.”

God longs to be with us. That’s why Jesus came. That’s why one of his names is Emmanuel—God with us. God wants to be with us—the question is will we be with him. Are we, like Joseph, willing to do whatever it takes this Advent season to be with him? And maybe, more to the point, is this: what do we have to die to in order to be with him? Advent comes every year, and every year it’s a struggle, isn’t it? We come to church and we say in our spirits we’re not going to let the reason for the season disappear, we’re not going to be overtaken by the commercialism of modern American Christmas—and then we go home, and live in exactly the opposite way. And when Christmas comes, we’re tired, worn out, and barely have enough energy to think let alone to worship. Perhaps, for some of us, what we have to die to are some of our traditions, some of those things that don’t bring life, even the ideal of a perfect holiday. Do we really need to buy all of those gifts? Does more stuff equal more love? We may need to die to our own expectations and some of our plans, just as Joseph and countless others had to do when the Messiah, the savior, finally came. Perhaps for God to be with us, we have to let some of those other things go.

We may also have some emotions or feelings that need to die or be let go of during this year. Perhaps we’ve been angry with a family member, or had a broken relationship that needs healing. The one who is being born in the manger, who is growing in Mary’s womb even as the angel speaks to Joseph, is the one who is the healer, who longs to bring shalom—wholeness—to each and every life. There are people who remain bitter through the holiday season—I know, because my wife is a counselor and sees her load increase this time of year. What if we let go of that bitterness, those hurts, the woundedness we carry around like a badge of honor, and allowed God to come near, allowed Emmanuel to bring his healing grace? For us to be able to approach the manger, to truly see the one who is Emmanuel, maybe we need to call that family member we haven’t talked to in two years. Maybe we need to seek reconciliation as Jesus calls us to. Whatever blocks the joy of the season—isn’t it worth letting that go to be with God?

Joseph also had to let his own preferences die. Things were not going to go the way he wanted, and Matthew lets us know that in a rather graphic way. He tells us that, even after they were married, Joseph and Mary did not consummate their marriage until after Jesus was born (1:25). Roman Catholic tradition takes that even further, stating that Joseph and Mary never consummated their marriage, thus making Mary a perpetual virgin, but there’s nothing in the Scriptures to necessitate such a belief. There’s nothing indicating that, after Jesus’ birth, Joseph and Mary had anything other than a normal marital relationship. In fact, there are historical indicators that they had children after Jesus. But be that as it may, Joseph had to, at least for a time, say “no” to his own desires, his own preferences, so that God’s work could be done, so that Emmanuel could be born, so that God could be with us. What are some of the preferences you have to say “no” to? Pastor Deb talked about some of the season-specific ones last week, but I’m thinking even beyond the season. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been talking and talking a lot about what everyone wants in a new church building over at Crossroads, and I’ve not even heard all of it, but I know that to do everything that everyone wants will not only be cost-prohibitive, it’s simply impossible. People have different and conflicting preferences. I also know people feel strongly about their preferences when it comes to a building. But remember the reason we are moving ahead with this project: it’s to help others know that God is with them. It’s to allow those who are not yet here to encounter Jesus Christ, to come to know Emmanuel. Are we willing to let our preferences die for the sake of the greater good of the Kingdom of God? Because it’s not about us; it's about Emmanuel. It wasn’t about Joseph; it was and is about Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. That’s what salvation is, after all—God being with us and us being with God, coming near to God, becoming more like him each day (cf. Augsburger 29). Emmanuel, Savior—God with us!

Giving up, dying to those things that stand in the way of us being with God—that’s scary stuff, which is, I think, at least part of the reason the angel begins with Joseph and with Mary, and eventually with the shepherds, by saying, “Don’t be afraid” (1:20). Literally, “Fear not!” It’s a command, not a request. Don’t be afraid, don’t fear, because what is coming is so much better than what you have now, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. So trust God, and don’t fear, because God is coming to be with you in every circumstance of life. He is Emmanuel, the one who is with you, in the highs and the lows, in good times and bad, in victories and defeats, in life and in death. God is with you, so there is no need to fear. There is nothing any circumstance or any person can do to you that God can’t overcome. Paul said the same thing in his letter to the Romans: “I am convinced,” he said, “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39). So don’t be afraid. Whatever you have to die to in order to draw near to Emmanuel, it’s worth it. It’s worth every moment of it. “O come, O come, Emmanuel…disperse the gloomy clouds of night and death’s dark shadows put to flight.” He is Emmanuel, God with us, and he has come.

On the world’s darkest night, the one who is Emmanuel knew that the darkest day was yet ahead, and so he gathered his closest friends together and told them to not be afraid (cf. John 14:1). And he gave them a meal that would remind them and all those who would come after them, down the halls of more than two thousand years of history, that he is with them. The bread and the cup not only remind us of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross. They remind us of his presence with us even today. The same one who came as Emmanuel would, before he returned to heaven, assure his followers that he would be with them always, even when they couldn’t see him (cf. Matthew 28:20). And so it is today. This bread and this cup remind us of his presence, remind us that he is Emmanuel, and call us to remove whatever we need to in order to experience God with us. He so longs to be with us, but he will not force his way in. What do you need to lay down at the altar this morning in order to truly sing, “O come, O come, Emmanuel…come and bring healing, hope, light and life this Advent season”? Come to the table, knowing he longs to be with you always.

Twelve Lunch Pails

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Mark 6:30-44; Philippians 4:10-20

November 17, 2013 • Portage First UMC

His mother handed him his lunch pail on his way out. Today was a day he had been looking forward to. He was going to work alongside his father, something every young boy anticipated doing one day. His father was a craftsman, and the boy was expected to learn the trade and one day carry on the family business. That’s pretty much the way it worked here in Galilee. There wasn’t much business, nor was there as much chance for getting wealthy as there was down in Jerusalem, but there were plenty of good, honest, hard-working people here. Galilee was home; always had been, always would be. So he grabbed the lunch pail, gave his mother a quick kiss, and ran out the door. “See you tonight,” he called back, as he hurried to catch up with his dad.

Mid-morning, they heard a call echo through the village. “There he goes! There goes Jesus!” His dad looked in the direction of the sound. There was quite a crowd gathering. Now, Jesus he had heard of. Everyone knew about Jesus. Jesus was a local celebrity, not native to the area right around the Sea of Galilee, but close enough. He was from Nazareth, and though most people thought nothing good could come from Nazareth (cf. John 1:46), Jesus was the apparent exception. He did a lot of good and he told interesting stories. People enjoyed listening to him. His father turned to him, “What do you think, son? Want to go hear Jesus?” As they headed in the direction of the crowd, the boy ran back to get his lunch pail. He might need a snack later!

The crowd watched as Jesus and his disciples crossed the little lake in a boat. The boat was struggling against the headwind on the lake, so the crowd on land was actually able to make better time than those in the boat, even with having to cross the Jordan River at the top of the lake (cf. Wessel, “Mark,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 673). When Jesus’ boat made landfall, in a remote and deserted area, the crowd was already there to meet them. The boy couldn’t wait to see Jesus, and, if he was lucky, maybe he’d even get to talk to one of the disciples. He watched as Jesus got out of the boat, and that’s when he saw it. He saw Jesus’ eyes. They were weary. Jesus was tired. He must have come to this place on purpose, trying to get away from the crowd, to find some rest, and yet here they were. They had chased him down. Suddenly, the boy felt just a little guilty for being part of the crowd, but not enough to go back home. He watched as Jesus’ eyes quickly lost their weariness and took on another emotion: compassion. Jesus, it seemed, loved the people as much as the people loved him.

It was a wonderful day. Jesus told stories and talked to people. He answered questions, and taught them many things (6:34). The boy even got to meet Andrew, who was a brother to Simon Peter, one of the top disciples! The day went by so fast that the sun was starting to go down before he realized he hadn’t eaten his lunch! That’s when he overheard the disciples talking to Jesus. “Hey, Jesus, it’s late. What are we going to do about this crowd? Why don’t you wrap things up and send them away so they can find some food in the towns and villages around here? There’s nothing here. It’s desolate. Send them away, Jesus, so they can get food to eat.” Did he imagine it or did Jesus catch his eye as he told the disciples, “You give them something to eat”? The boy chuckled as the disciples stammered and stuttered, “But, Jesus, we don’t have that much money! It would cost about two hundred denarii—that’s an eight-month salary—just to give each person a small bite! Where are we going to get that kind of money?” (6:37; Wessel 673). Obviously, the disciples had spent the afternoon doing the math; they knew before Jesus asked how much it would cost to feed all the people gathered there!

“What do you have?” Jesus asked. “What’s in your hand? What’s available to you?” The disciples looked around and Andrew caught the boy’s eye this time. “Hey, you have a lunch pail,” Andrew said. “What’s in it?” Now it was the boy’s turn to stutter and stammer. “Uh, well, just five small barley loaves and two small fish,” he said (cf. John 6:9). Andrew was obviously disappointed, but what did he expect a boy from a poor family to have for lunch? Barley loaves—food of the poor. They were small and flat, and you could eat several of them at a single meal (Wessel 673). He usually did, in fact! And the small dried fish—they were cheap but not very filling. Andrew may have been flustered, but Jesus wasn’t. He told the people to sit down, in groups of fifty or a hundred, and he asked the boy if he could use his lunch. “Sure,” the boy said, handing over his lunch pail. And then he listened as Jesus prayed: “Blessed art Thou, Eternal God our Father, King of the Universe, who causes bread to come forth from the earth” (Card, Mark: The Gospel of Passion, pg. 89). Then Jesus gave the bread and fish—his bread and fish—to the disciples and asked them to feed everyone. And they did. They did! How his small meal went so far, he had no idea. But it did. No one else seemed to notice what really happened except the little boy who gave away his lunch.

All four Gospels record this story (Card 88)—usually called the “feeding of the 5,000” because they all tell us there were 5,000 men present, though who knows how many were actually there when you include women and children. But the fact that all four Gospels tell the story—even John, who doesn’t include much from the earlier books—lets us know this is a significant event in the life of Jesus. It’s a story of provision, and so on this Generosity Sunday, when we consider what we have to give to God, we need to hear this story about perfect provision. The message is simply this: when we open our hand and give to God what we have, he will take care of us. That’s the story here. God will provide perfectly.

We have to remember that this story happens in Galilee, a place not known for its wealth. Many if not most of the people who lived in Galilee lived from hand to mouth, from day to day, never knowing if there would be enough for tomorrow. Savings accounts? 501K? Pension plans? Never heard of them. What they had today is what they had. Tomorrow would be a different story. And yet they tended to be people of deep faith. They believed God would take care of them, and more than that, they were people who were constantly looking for a savior, a messiah, one who would come to rescue God’s people. Deep faith. Maybe that’s why Jesus spent most of his ministry in this area.

So they were people of limited resources, and that’s where we step into this story. We don’t know how long Jesus taught, but it was long enough that people were starting to get hungry because apparently no one brought lunch with them when they chased after Jesus. And I don’t know about them, but when I get hungry, I get crabby. I sort of sense that in the disciples, and even more when Jesus tells them to feed the people rather than send them away. When they argue that they can’t afford it, Jesus asks them to open their eyes—and their hands. “How many loaves do you have?” In other words, “What’s in your hand? What’s available to you?” Now, Mark doesn’t tell us about the boy; that’s a detail John includes. But the boy is, maybe, the only one who has food, the only one who brought a lunch. And so he shares it. He gives what he has—his treasure, his resources—to Jesus to use. He has to know it won’t feed very many; it would barely be enough for him. But he gives it anyway.

Now, watch for the miracle here. Jesus prays, breaks the bread, gives the food to the disciples and asks them to distribute it. Did you see it? Did you miss it? There’s no waving of the hands or magical incantation. Jesus prays, and gives (cf. Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 79). He uses what the boy gave and he feeds the crowd. It’s what author Michael Card calls an “unmiraculous miracle.” Jesus simply does with the bread and the fish what any of us do at a dinner table. Pray and give. Does anyone even realize (aside from the boy and the disciples) that a miracle has taken place here? It doesn’t seem so. No one cries out, “It’s a miracle!” No, like good Methodists, they just take their food and eat it. Five thousand men, and not one of them recognize what has happened here. An unmiraculous miracle—Jesus takes what is given and uses it to feed others.

Each and every week, in this place, we have the chance to do what that boy did on the hillside in Galilee. We have the opportunity to give what we have—what’s in our hand—to Jesus and ask him to use it, to multiply it, to make a difference in the lives of others both here and around the world. For the last few weeks, we’ve been looking at what we have to give—our time and our talents—to God’s service. This morning, on this Generosity Sunday, we need to talk about our treasures. We don’t like to talk about money. We don’t want anyone knowing what we give or don’t give, yet we don’t mind posting what we spend our money on on Facebook or other places online. In over twenty years as a pastor, I have come to believe one primary thing about giving, and that is this: we will give to what is important to us. If we consider it vital to our lives, we will give or spend whatever it takes to make it happen. For instance, if we consider a luxury vacation important, we’ll spend whatever we need to in order for it to happen. If we consider a bigger house important, vital to our lives, we’ll find a way to make it happen. New cars, new clothes, new toys—you get the idea. What is important to us, what our priorities are, are most often shown in the way we allot our treasures.

That’s also true in the church. In a little over eight years as your pastor, I’ve been especially proud of the way, when there is a special project presented, or an opportunity to reach out in mission, you all are there. When we started doing “Feed My Lambs,” you all stepped up and, in the last few years, you have continued to do so in extravagant ways. We are, as far as I know, still the largest contributor to feeding children in Portage Township Schools. You’ve supported Red Bird Mission, Royal Family Kids Camp, the Portage Township Food Pantry—and so many others! And you’ve supported the purchase of the Crossroads property; we paid the land off in rapid time, thanks to your extravagant generosity. However, the other thing I know from talking to our financial folks is that we, as a congregation, are not always as faithful at supporting the regular ministries of the church—the Sunday School materials, the worship supplies, the heat and air conditioning, the maintenance, the staff—all of those things that aren’t necessarily exciting, but they are absolutely necessary for ministry to happen in this place, for all of those other, special things to happen here. We’re a little more likely to hold back and keep what we have in our hands when it comes to those things. Even our most recent Crossroads project has evidenced that. Only a few of you have pledged or given funds to help pay off the road.

I get it; roads aren’t exciting. Light and heat and salaries aren’t exciting. But, folks, this morning, I want to show you a glimpse of our future, and it’s a future we can only get to if we meet our obligations in the here and now. Your Building Committee has been hard at work on dreaming and designing and planning for the next building of Portage First United Methodist Church, and we’re going to show you an idea of what that looks like in just a few moments. But first I want to answer the question, “Why?” Some of you were not here eight and a half years ago when we bought the Crossroads land, but that land was purchased out of a desire in this church to be able to continue to grow. On the four acres we have here, between and around the ditches, we’re land locked. We’re stuck. There was no more room for more parking and no more building space. Those who pursued the land next door did so out of a conviction that God is not done with Portage First yet, that we still have a calling to reach, teach and make disciples of the next generations. We’re not done yet; Portage has not been completely reached. The world has not been completely reached. And so the reality was this: either we chose just to stay like we are, or we needed to find more room. God opened the door for the land next door to be purchased, and we walked through. We paid that land off in just about six years. At the same time, we realized early on we needed a safer and better way to get in and out of the property. I still remember the first Easter Egg Hunt we had over there, as we tried to get 120 cars out of the driveway at the same time—well, it was daunting at best. Jeff King took his life in his hands as he stood in the road to stop traffic coming over the tollroad. And we’ve had concerts and family events over there that faced the same issues. We needed a better solution, and out of those conversations came the road and the new parking lot, which we dedicated just a couple of months ago.

The next piece, then, is beginning to build a permanent church on that land, to make room for more people to come to know the good news of Jesus Christ. You see, that’s what it’s ultimately all about. It’s not about building for the sake of building. This is about our values, about the things we hold dear. It’s about radical hospitality: making room for people to come, providing ministries that warmly welcome the community. It’s about passionate worship: providing even better space for all sorts of worship to take place. It’s about intentional faith development: our Sunday School space is inadequate for today’s demands. We need larger rooms and better-equipped space. Most weeks, our classrooms are full during the 10:00 hour and there’s no room for more children to come and learn about Jesus. Beyond that, our small groups and team meetings often find themselves stuck in a corner somewhere during the week trying to meet or study because there isn’t enough room for them or there aren’t rooms that are appropriate for them. We need better rooms, better space, flexible space, useable space for intentional faith development. It’s about risk-taking mission and service: as we reach more people for Christ, we’re able to do more and impact the community more. How many more “lambs” can we feed as we grow? How many more mission teams can come out of a congregation that’s excited and on fire and alive? What sort of outreach will Congregational Care be able to do as they reach toward the broken and hurting places of our community? And all of that, my friends, relies on all of us embracing our fifth value: extravagant generosity. It relies on us being the one who brings our lunch to Jesus and says, “Take this, Jesus, multiply it so that everyone can be fed.”

That’s our goal and our desire in whatever we do here, including the way we approach buildings. Everything centers on our mission statement: we are “becoming a community where all people encounter Jesus Christ.” It’s never about the building; it’s about being able, the best way we can in today’s world, to reach out with the good news and to do it with excellence. So, what might that look like? Well, here’s a possibility, and at this point it’s only a possibility. We don’t have firm costs or finalized plans. But here’s a glimpse of what the Building Committee has been up to.

VIDEO: Portage First Future

Now, you may be excited by that, you may be frustrated by that, you may be undecided, somewhere in the middle. Whatever you are, we want you to come on Wednesday evening at 7 to a Town Hall meeting specifically to discuss that proposal. That’s when we’ll take questions and give a bit more information. But remember the goal: the future is all about reaching more people for Jesus Christ.

And to do that, we, as the current congregation, have to become passionate about that mission, so passionate that it becomes our priority. What that means in dollars and cents, though, is we have to support the current budget and be able to pay off the road before we can make significant strides toward that future. And even more to the point: we have to become people of extravagant generosity if we’re ever going to be able to fully do what God calls us to do. Our biggest voiced concern is often that we won’t have enough for us. “If I give, I won’t have enough for me.” And that, in many ways, is the real miracle in the story from Mark’s Gospel. Did you catch the “miracle after the miracle?” After the potluck is over, and everyone has had enough to eat, Jesus tells the disciples to go back into the crowd and pick up the pieces that are leftover. In John’s Gospel, he tells them, “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted” (6:12). That’s a very Jewish command. To these Galilean Jews, food was sacred, a gift from God. It was considered an insult to God to waste food—which may have something to say to us, in a land where so much food is thrown away. So Jesus instructs his disciples to canvass the whole area—probably several acres—and pick up the pieces that have been dropped, that have been laid aside, that have been put down when someone was full. So they each take a lunch pail and go do that. Now, one question that occurs to me is where did they get the extra lunch pails? If only one boy shared his lunch, where did the others come from? Perhaps from people who brought their lunch but refused to share with others, to give what they had to Jesus. No matter, Jesus uses their empty pails and when the disciples are done, they have exactly twelve lunch pails full of leftovers. Just enough for them to each have lunch for the next day. Not abundance. Perfect provision (Card 90-91). Just enough that they could live out what we pray so often: “Give us this day our daily bread.” This day. Not another day. This day. Perfect provision. So the question that really comes down to us when we face the fear of having “enough” is this: do we trust God to provide perfectly for us? Is God big enough to be able to take care of you and me?

Paul believed he was. You might remember Paul—he had a successful career ahead of him as a persecutor of the church, a destroyer of Christians, until a bright light from heaven literally knocked him off his horse and took away his eyesight. But then, he “saw” better than he ever had. His spiritual sight took over, and he realized Jesus was the savior, the messiah, the Son of God. When his physical sight was healed, Paul left behind a lucrative career to become a traveling preacher. And travel he did, all over Asia Minor and the Holy Land—by foot, by boat, and almost any other way you might imagine. He didn’t have a regular paycheck, and because of that he had to learn to rely on God and God’s people to take care of him. But he believed in the mission so much that when Jesus said, “What do you have, Paul? What’s in your hand?” he said, “Not much, just my life and my pen. I can preach and I can write letters.” And Jesus sent him out to do just that. In one of those letters, he writes to thank some dear friends for supporting him, for sending help when he needed it, even though they didn’t have to. He tells them, "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want” (4:10-12). And then he tells us that secret, in a verse that’s often taken out of context. The secret is simply this: “I can do all this through him who gives me strength” (4:13). Because Jesus is the most important thing in Paul’s world, he’s content no matter what he has because he wants to be spent, used up, everything exhausted for the sake of God’s kingdom.

John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, grew up in terrible poverty. His father, Samuel, was pastor of one of the lowest-paying parishes in England, and John even watched his father marched off to debtor’s prison once. He was determined to live better than that, until he met a chamber maid who came to clean his quarters at Oxford. She had nothing to protect herself from the cold winter except a thin gown, so Wesley gave her money to buy a coat. That changed him, and from that day on, he determined to give as much of his money away as he could. He found that, as a single man, he could live on 28 pounds a year; since he made 30 pounds that first year as a fellow at Oxford (about the equivalent of $6,000 in 2013 dollars), he gave away 2 pounds. And as his income increased, he continued to live on 28 pounds. At its highest, Wesley’s income from his books and other activities was a little over 1400 pounds (somewhere around $200,000 in modern currency), and he gave all but about 30 pounds away. It was so strange that the tax commissioners once wrote to him saying, “[We] cannot doubt but you have plate for which you have hitherto neglected to make an entry.” Surely, they thought, a man of his prominence must have some silver in his house that he should be paying taxes on. Wesley wrote back: “I have two silver spoons at London and two at Bristol. This is all the plate I have at present, and I shall not buy any more while so many round me want bread.” At his death, Wesley only had a few coins in his pocket and claimed to have never possessed more than 100 pounds at any one time. Wesley believed in the mission of Jesus Christ so much that he believed not just the first tenth belonged to God, but all of our income. Wesley believed a Christian should spend what they have only at God’s direction. When Jesus asked him, “What’s in your hand?” he gave it all.

Now, I’m not setting up Wesley as the example we must follow to the letter. He had no family to care for, and he did tell the early Methodists they must first take care of those obligations. But the question his example and Paul’s example put before us is this: how important to you is Jesus’ mission in the world and through this church? Is it important enough to give what’s in your hand to him for the sake of his kingdom? Do we believe what Paul wrote to the Philippians, that God will meet all our needs—not necessarily all our wants, but all our needs—in Christ Jesus (4:19)?

What’s in your hand? Now is the time to answer that question, and the rest of the question as well: what will you give? I’m going to ask the ushers to distribute the commitment cards at this time, and while they’re doing that, let me answer a question I often get asked. Why should I pledge? Why should I turn in a commitment card? Isn’t it enough that I give when I’m here? Let me give you two reasons why my family fills out a pledge card, and neither one of them have to do with me being the pastor. First of all, I want my church to know they can count on me. I wrote in the Friday e-note this week that not filling out a pledge card would be like your employer saying, “We’re going to pay you, but I’m not going to tell you how much.” It would be difficult-to-impossible for you to plan your household budget with that lack of certainty. The same is true in the church; from a practical standpoint, the church needs to know how much to budget for ministries in 2014, and we only know that by what you pledge. So that has to do with the church; the second reason has to do with me. Pledging is a way of holding myself accountable. When some purchase seems to be important to me, I am reminded that I made a commitment first to this place and to this mission. It causes me to stop and re-examine my priorities, and that causes me to remember that what we do here is not a passing thing. It’s a matter of reaching people for Jesus Christ and helping them, as Wesley said, “flee the wrath to come.” We're calling people to salvation, to being saved from eternal darkness, from separation from God. Isn’t that a mission worth giving all we can to? That’s why I pledge: to make a promise that helps the church and holds me accountable. My pledge says, “This is important, above all else.”

So, now, let me ask you to prayerfully consider what God is calling you give for the coming year—time, talents, treasure. What do you have that you can give for the sake of God’s kingdom?

What Jesus Never Said

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Ephesians 5:8-20; Matthew 9:18-26

November 3, 2013 • Portage First UMC

We live in a culture obsessed with and addicted to hurry. Hurry is not just a part of life anymore; hurry is life. You see it everywhere. Watch how people drive. Cars zip in and out of lanes on Willowcreek Road, and I’m not a slow driver by any stretch of the imagination, but recently I’ve had people honk at me on Central Avenue because I’m apparently not going the style of hurry they prefer. “Road rage” comes sometimes because the world is not moving fast enough for some people. I experienced that a bit myself this week when I had to go to Indianapolis for a meeting and found myself several times in the passing lane, caught behind two semis who were determined to drive 10 miles an hour below the speed limit and one was trying to pass the other. Have you ever felt that, where the frustration is just growing because the traffic isn’t moving fast enough for you?

Think about the language we use, and how it conveys our addiction to hurry. I’m going as fast as I can. Hope you have a speedy recovery. Hurry up. Get a move on. ASAP. Step on it. I’ve got to run. I don’t have much time; wait a minute. How soon can I expect it? Express delivery. I’m running out of time. I’m going to grab a bite—not a meal, a bite. And the whole idea of “fast food” contributes to our hurry addiction. One study indicates that some fast food restaurants get 65% or more of their income from the drive-through. The average American drive-through takes 3.16 minutes—and a recent article in USA Today calls that “too slow.” We are addicted to hurry. Think about the technology we use. The newest gadgets don’t often change much in terms of form factor or even in what they can do. The biggest changes come in terms of speed. This new computer is 3 times faster than last year’s model; this new smartphone will run 5 hours longer and 6 times faster than the previous one. And on it goes. We buy the newest and latest often because it’s faster. It enables us to hurry better.

Hurry also affects the way we treat each other because one of the first sacrifices we make to the god of hurry is patience. The way we communicate is affected; we’re impatient if someone doesn’t respond right away to our text, our e-mail, our Facebook message, or our Tweet. And it gets even worse when you talk about family communication. We rush past those we claim to love most. As one person has put it, “Proximity breeds familiarity; familiarity breeds assumption; assumption breeds impatience” (Jones, Addicted to Hurry, pg. 8).

Because of our addiction to hurry, a whole industry has developed around the concept of “time management.” No matter how much we might wish we had more time, we only get 24 hours a day. No more, no less. Even “falling backward” really doesn’t give us more time in the day. How do we spend the time we have? Research indicates that, in today’s world, on average, we spend 5,508 minutes a year talking on cell phones. In our lifetimes, we will spend 9 years watching television, we will work 122,400 hours and we will spend 2 weeks of our life kissing another person. A survey from 2012 revealed that women, on average, sleep about 15 minutes more than men each day and they get about half an hour less leisure time, while men work an hour longer than women and both genders spend more time now than they did ten years ago watching television. On top of that, Americans ages 18-64 report spending an average of 3.2 hours a day on social media—and women spend 40% more time than men do in such interactions.

We say there’s never enough time, and yet, you have to wonder. Every day has the same amount. Maybe the issue is how we choose to “spend” our time, because it is a resource, and it is a nonrenewable resource. We only get so much, and ultimately we don’t know how much we actually have. So in the midst of a culture addicted to hurry, to moving along faster, how do we decide the best ways to use the resource of time? This month, we’re asking the question not just from a cultural standpoint, but more importantly from a spiritual standpoint. We’re asking, “What’s in your hand,” and looking at the resources we have—time, talents, and treasure—and how we can best use those for the sake of the kingdom of God. That’s not often a question we ask when it comes to our time, is it? More often, we “fit God in” if we have…time. Or, stated more clearly, if we have leftover time. Are we in such a hurry that we don’t make time to connect with God? Very often, the answer is “yes.”

There’s a marvelous story in the Gospel of Matthew about two healings  Jesus did. First, he gets a request from a synagogue leader. Mark and Luke tell us his name—Jairus—and we know that his daughter was sick. In fact, she’s dying, and like any good father, he’s desperate to do something. He’s heard about this miracle worker who is in the area, and when the girl dies, while the rest of his family prepares for the funeral by hiring professional mourners (as was the custom in those days), Jairus goes to find Jesus. “Please, Jesus, come. If you just touch her, I know she will live” (9:18). Jesus, who has been having dinner at Matthew’s house, gets up without saying a word and goes with Jairus (cf. Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pg. 92).

As always seems to be the case with Jesus, there is a crowd around, and as he makes his way to Jairus’ house, one woman edges her way up to touch him. She is unclean, which means she shouldn’t even be there. She’s not supposed to be anywhere around other people, because if they touch her, they’ll become unclean, too. And what that means is that she can’t worship, she can’t fellowship, she’s not really part of the community. For twelve years—which is how long she’s had this bleeding disease—she has been an outsider. And yet, she, too, has heard about Jesus, and she's got this idea that if she can just touch the edge of his clothing—the fringe of his prayer shawl—she will be healed. If she can just get close enough. And though Matthew sort of tells the story in a hurry, Luke tells us (8:43-48) that’s just what she did. Immediately as she touched the hem of his robe, she was healed. But it wasn’t because of the shawl Jesus was wearing. In fact, Jesus tells her, “Your faith has healed you” (9:22). Not her faith in the garment, or even her faith in faith. It was her faith in Jesus that healed her. Then Jesus goes on and follows Jairus the rest of the way to his house, where he brings the little girl back to life.

Now, what I want us to notice for our purpose this morning is what Jesus didn’t do and what Jesus didn’t say. Jesus only had three years to accomplish everything he needed to accomplish in order to save the world. He had disciples to teach, people to reach out to, sermons to preach. He had very limited time from when he began his ministry to when he was crucified and resurrected. Even assuming a full three years—which is by no means certain—that’s only 1,095 days Jesus had to do all that he came to do. Why would he bother with a little girl who is already dead? And, beyond that, why would he bother with a woman who touched his garment? The Gospels all tell us he took time out to speak to her, to encourage her. He didn’t need to; the woman was healed. She got what she wanted. Well, we might say, maybe he wasn’t in a hurry all that much. After all, the little girl was already dead. And yet, he lived in a culture that believed there was a certain amount of time you had to bring back the dead. Three days—after that, the spirit had departed this world and the body couldn't be brought back to life. Do you remember how long Jesus waited before he went to raise his friend Lazarus from the dead? Four days (cf. John 11:17), just to make the point that he really was in control of life and death. So even if Jesus isn’t in a hurry here—again, an assumption that isn’t certain—Jairus had to be in a bit of a hurry. Can you see him when Jesus stops to talk to the woman? “Come on, Jesus, we’ve got to go. Let’s keep moving. Forget about her—we have to take care of my daughter!” If I were Jairus, I know that’s how I’d be feeling. “Let’s move it, Jesus!” But Jesus doesn’t do that. Jesus takes the time he needs with the woman. In fact, there is never an occasion in the Gospels where Jesus tells someone, “I’m too busy for you. Come back later. I can’t begin to deal with you today.” Jesus never said, “I’m too busy.” Jesus was always fully present with whomever needed him at that moment.

How often do we tell people we’re too busy? Maybe we don’t use the words (maybe we do). Maybe just through our actions we let our kids or our spouse know that we’re “too busy” to pay attention to them. Now, this is a not a sermon to try to get you or me to do more. That’s not the point at all. Here’s the point: we only have so much time. It is a limited resource, and what we do with what we have demonstrates what our priorities are. All too often, even Christian people not only let our kids or grandkids or spouse know we’re too busy for them, we also let God know that. The message this morning is not about trying to do more. The message this morning is really learning to pray the words of Psalm 90: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (90:12). Or, as Paul put it in this morning’s reading, “Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil” (5:15-16).

When I read that, I begin to feel a little bit guilty for those times when I stop and attempt to do nothing, to rest. I hear Bishop Woodie White reading John Wesley’s words at my ordination: “Do not be triflingly employed.” And those of us who grew up in this hurry, hurry, hurry culture are well-trained to not “waste time.” But that’s not what Paul is saying here. The Greek language has two words for time. There is “chronos,” which refers to seconds, minutes, hours—the time that is measured by a clock. You can hear how it’s the root of our word “chronology.” And then there is “kairos,” which is the word Paul uses here in Ephesians. Kairos has to do with “the right moment,” the prime opportunity to do something. It’s a matter of “the right season,” sort like you don’t plant crops in January. You plant them when they will most likely grow. The Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes puts it this way: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Paul is saying we need to be discerning, knowing what “time” it is, what “season” we are in. Are we paying attention, he wonders, and figuring out what is most important to do right now, in this place. The “days are evil,” Paul says, so we must live as people who stand against that evil, as children of light (5:8). Maybe it’s not a matter of needing more time. Maybe it’s a matter of being better stewards of the time we have, of the days we have been given.

The next few verses in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, then, aren’t about random commands or advice. It’s all about making the most of this season of life. Find out what pleases God, and to the best of your ability, do God’s will. Don’t get drunk, he says, which for Paul in this setting is simply an example of wasting your life, wasting the gift of time you have been given. So don’t do that, he says. Instead, be filled with the Spirit—which is another way of saying we should be connected to what God is up to. Worship—sing hymns, songs and spiritual songs. And be thankful. These are the sorts of things, according to Paul, that we should be about, living God’s kingdom life in the world (cf. Dunnam, Communicator’s Commentary: Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, Philemon, pg. 224), shining a light to those around us. It’s a different way of living in the midst of a dark culture, a different way of seeing life, of living life: grabbing ahold of the “kairos” moment and making the most of it.

Several years ago, in a dollar book sale, I picked up a copy of a journal, really, by Catholic priest Henri Nouwen. Nouwen was well known for many books, including perhaps his most famous, The Wounded Healer, but even more astounding was when this priest who taught at Harvard gave up that prestigious position to work with mentally and physically handicapped persons at a community called L’Arche in Toronto, Canada. One year, Nouwen was given a sabbatical. A whole year during which his goal was to travel, connect with friends, and do some writing. The journal he kept during that time became this book, A Sabbatical Journey. So I bought it for a dollar, and then put it on my shelf and sort of forgot about it. Last year, I came across it again, realized I hadn’t read it, and so I began to page through it. What struck me hard was how difficult it was for Nouwen to disconnect. Several times in the year, he either wanted to or actually did go back to L’Arche, to his place of work. It was also hard for him to stay focused, even though he relished the unhurried time he had with so many friends. The other thing that struck me hard was the historical fact that Nouwen, shortly after returning to work from his sabbatical, died of a heart attack. Sabbatical Journey became his final work. His story reminded me again of the fragility of life, and of taking advantage of the “kairos” moment, of making the most of every opportunity.

Sometimes, very often perhaps, in our hurry, hurry, hurry culture—we miss the “kairos” moment. I know I do, way too often. We miss what we should be doing while we’re pursuing what we think we ought to do. But, at the same time, we don’t know how to slow down and be better stewards of the time God has given us. Here’s the hard truth, whether we accept it or not: we have the power to un-choose hurry. We really do. I learned that the hard way on a mountain in Georgia. Our family was at Stone Mountain, which is basically what it sounds like, a big, tall outcropping of rock that has a park built up around it. And one of the activities we decided on was walking up the mountain. There is a path along the easiest slope, so we started out, in the morning, water bottles in hand, and we were headed to the top. We passed lots of folks, and were feeling pretty good about ourselves—we were making great time. The kids, especially. They did, in fact, beat me to the top by a whole lot because there was one turn, about 2/3 of the way up, where the incline suddenly took a steeper turn. I know I’m not in the best of shape, but I’m in better shape than some, and so I believed I could keep up the same pace I had been keeping. The mountain, however, had other ideas, and I pretty quickly learned that I couldn’t hurry up the mountain. I had to sit down—or lay down—and rest or I wasn’t going to make it at all. Life is like that sometimes, and when difficult things come into our lives, we just try to charge ahead. I’m going up the mountain, one way or the other! Life has a way of slowing us down, or bringing us at least to the point where we have to un-choose hurry. The biggest enemy we have as we move toward making the most of every opportunity is not our boss, not our calendars, not even the culture. Our biggest enemy is ourselves.

So how do we choose to un-hurry? Very quickly this morning, there are three things we can actively do (or attempt) that will slow us down and help us to un-hurry our lives, to become better stewards of the time we have been given. You can think of it in terms of eyes, ears and mind. The first thing is to see slowly. By that I mean we look at things longer and choose to see fewer things. In our hurried world, we try to see everything and we end up seeing nothing. What if we took some moments to look at something beautiful, something moving, something spectacular? A couple of months ago, Cathy and I were out for a walk at the Lakeshore Park late in the evening, and the sun was just starting to drop behind the horizon as we were ready to leave. We were headed up the hill toward our car when I stopped, for some reason, and turned around. Rather than hurry out (and beat the crowd), we walked down to the end of the sidewalk and, silently, watched the whole time as the sun slipped below the horizon. It was absolutely wonderful, and I can’t begin to describe what that did for my soul as well—taking the time, making the most of the opportunity. Now, that’s a simple example, but seeing slowly is one way we can choose to un-hurry.

Another way is by real listening—a lost art in our hurry culture. We hear music in the background but we don’t listen to what it’s saying. We hear the wind blowing but we don’t take time to appreciate the natural world. And we come to church to hear the word of the Lord, but they say most sermons never get more than about 18 inches past the pulpit because we aren’t really listening. You may not be listening now! Words are perhaps the hardest thing for us to listen to because we hear and read so many and we use them so casually. Real listening requires patience and hard work as we seek to tune out everything else around us. In Congregational Care, we spend a whole session just talking about listening because it’s so important. We have so much noise that our ears need to be retuned to listen for what is most important.

The third piece has to do with our mind: deep thinking. That means we have a searching soul, continually on the lookout for new understanding and insight, never afraid to ask questions. Some people in the Christian tradition actively discourage questions, and I think that’s dangerous. Our faith is not so fragile nor is God so weak that neither can stand up to questions. We may not find clear-cut answers, but I believe God is big enough to handle our questioning. As I get older, I probably have more questions than I’ve ever had about faith and the world and God, and yet at the same time, I’m more certain than I’ve ever been about my faith and God. Deep thinkers refuse to settle for easy answers, but thinking deeply requires time. We have to slow down, un-hurry, so that we can honestly reflect, and that’s hard to do. We live in a world that would rather settle for quick answers than good ones. Look at the popularity of sites like Wikipedia and others. We do a quick Google search on anything and then accept what’s there as truth. If it’s on the internet, it must be true, right? Or maybe not. Deep thinkers will look beyond quick answers and choose to un-hurry so that our faith can adequately respond to the issues of our world.

In reality, when Paul says we should “make the most of every opportunity,” he’s talking about our priorities. What we do with the time we have shows what is most important to us. We can say, “Jesus is the most important thing in my life,” but if we never spend time with him, or if we only worship when we have nothing better to do, or we never get involved with a study group, or we never pray, or we wait to read our Bible until everything else is done (if then), what does that say about our priorities? I’ve had to ask myself that question very recently. I get up every morning to get the kids up for school, and then I sit down on the living room couch, and my routine used to be to check e-mail first, then check Facebook (to see what you all have been up to while I slept), and then I’d get around to reading my Bible and my Disciple assignment if there wasn’t anything else pulling at my attention. And one morning, I happened to get quiet enough that God could whisper to me, “What do your kids see as the most important thing that you turn to it first in the morning?” Uh…well, God, you’re in there somewhere. So now I leave the e-mail and the Facebook until later, and I’m making an attempt to leave those things alone as well in the evenings when we’re home as a family, because I want my family to know that Scripture is important to me, and that they are important to me. Talk about a season—we’re dealing with the reality that Christopher is a senior! Where did those years go? We’re only a family of four for a season, a “kairos” moment. So what does your use of time say about your priorities?

The reality is this: time is a spiritual resource that is too often squandered. I want to challenge you this week to do a time inventory. Don’t make any changes in your schedule this week. Just map out how you spend your time, in general terms. Maybe at the end of the day, jot down something like, “8 hours at work, 2 hours vegging in front of the TV, 1 hour at the dinner table…” and so on. Then, at the end of the week, total it up, and you’ll see what your priorities are. Now, if you have a job outside the home, that’s probably going to be the biggest block of time. So set that aside; that’s a given. In the time that belongs to you, what are your priorities? How are you making the most of every opportunity? In what areas are you saying things that Jesus never said: “I’m too busy”? This will require some hard questions of yourself: if my faith is important, what kind of time am I investing in developing my faith and sharing that faith with others? When is the last time took a moment to invite someone to come to church with me? Do others even know I am a Christian, or that I attend Portage First? If my family is a priority, why don’t they show up on my time usage more often? These are hard questions, but again, time is a resource given to us by God, so how are we being good stewards of what we have?

One more word: God sets before us opportunities, and sometimes we see them and sometimes we miss them. I don’t believe that if we miss them, we’re done. God is bigger than that. God works in and through our lives. I believe there are many times, in my own life, where I’ve missed an opportunity that, looking back, I can see God placed right in front of me. But I can spend my time looking back and regretting that missed opportunity, or I can move ahead and seek to become more aware of what God might put in front of me in the days, months and years to come, by his grace. When we spend all of our time regretting the missed opportunities in the past, we’re unable to the make the most of the opportunities we have yet ahead. So the question for us is this: from this moment on, what will you do with the time God gives you? How will you choose to un-hurry and instead live out your real priorities? Or, as Mike is going to sing, what will you do with the time you have left?