The Balcony of Saints-a sermon for October 30th
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Gentle Readers, it's been a while since I've posted anything of substance. So, I'm throwing this draft of this Sunday's sermon into the 'sphere. (Apologies for length. When I'm passionate I get wordy. Occuaptional hazard, I suppose.)
The Balcony of Saints
Joshua 3: 7-17
October 30, 2005
Reformation Day/All Saint’s Day/Confirmation Day
It seems like heroes are hard to find anymore. Or maybe that’s just my own jaded-ness talking. I know that there are athletes and actors and public figures who inspire the hearts and minds of many people, especially our young people. Or maybe I’m speaking from my own social location—as if I never needed somebody else’s example of success to pull me out of a bad situation, and help me dream of better things.
One of my heroes died this week. She and I never met, and we couldn’t have lived lives that were farther apart culturally, ethnically, or generationally. Rosa Parks never wanted to be a hero. She wanted merely to be able to go home after a long day of work, and to do it in the seat that was the most convenient for her as she entered the bus. Rosa Parks didn’t want to be the person who sparked a movement, who rallied the beginning of a long-overdue quest for equality and dignity for persons of color. She just wanted to sit down and be left alone.
And when her act of sitting and riding became too much for another to bear, and she was asked to give up her seat and move to the back of the bus with the other “people like her”, I’m sure her protest was not loud and attention-getting. It seems, according to all accounts, that she merely took her stand by remaining seated.
This happened on December 1, 1955 in Montgomery Alabama. Montgomery's segregation laws in that day were complex: blacks were required to pay their fare to the driver, then get off and reboard through the back door. Sometimes the bus would drive off before the paid-up customers made it to the back entrance. If the white section was full and another white customer entered, blacks were required to give up their seats and move farther to the back; a black person was not even allowed to sit across the aisle from whites. These humiliations were compounded by the fact that two-thirds of the bus riders in Montgomery were black.
Rosa was of course arrested and taken to trial; the trial lasted 30 minutes and nobody was surprised by the results, with the expected conviction and penalty. That afternoon, the Montgomery Improvement Association was formed. So as not to ruffle any local activists' feathers, the members elected as their president a relative newcomer to Montgomery, the young minister of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church: the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. That evening, addressing a crowd gathered at the Holt Street Baptist Church, King declared in that sonorous, ringing voice millions the world over would soon thrill to: "There comes a time that people get tired." When he was finished, Parks stood up so the audience could see her. She did not speak; there was no need to. Here I am, her silence said, among you. Rosa Parks has been portrayed as someone who sat on the bus that day because she was tired, or her feet were sore. But Rosa herself would say her soul was tired and her heart was hurting at the injustice shown African Americans in 1955 Alabama.
Sometimes a hero is not content with taking a silent stand, but must protest injustice and wrong in a way that is loud and resounding. Sometimes it sounds just like a hammer striking a single nail. Martin Luther loved the church. He loved it so much that he wanted the church to be what God had intended for her. The selling of indulgences --in effect paying a fee to get one’s loved ones out of purgatory and into paradise-- was a practice of the church that Luther and others of his time disapproved of strongly enough to write about it. And his act of nailing the 95 these to the door of Wittenberg Church was his way of taking a stand against a corruption that had so penetrated the church that it was every bit as convoluted as the segregation laws of Montgomery Alabama in the 50’s.
In our Old Testament text for today, Joshua is another would-be hero, and we can suspect that he might have been a reluctant one as well. Serving under Moses, the ultimate hero of the Hebrew Scriptures, he had occasion to watch as Moses died with his dream unfulfilled. Moses had brought the Israelites out of bondage and through the desert and the wilderness for forty long years, and had come to the bank of the Jordan, where he and the Israelites faced the very last leg the journey. We can imagine that they could see the Promised Land in the distance—that land flowing with milk and honey, the good land that God had promised. A homeland at last!
But Moses would not live to see that dream fulfilled. Can you imagine being the second in command when your boss dies without seeing the project through? It might have seemed to Joshua that there was some sort of curse on the promise to see the Promised Land. He might have thought that the Israelite children would never listen to him, would never respect his authority in the way that they did Moses’. Getting a big job with lots of responsibility after the death of your long-term predecessor is hard enough. Getting that job within weeks of the end date of biggest project to ever happen in your department would be even tougher. But the lesson in this is that being given authority—even as a reluctant hero—does not guarantee successful completion of the task at hand.
In a nod to our heritage, we like to say that our church is “Reforma Semper Reformanda” which means, of course, reformed and always reforming. This phrase has always struck me as rather nebulous in meaning. What does it mean to be reformed? What does it mean to be always reforming? It strikes me as the kind of phrase a person could use to mean almost anything.
Martin Luther, of course, did not ponder the meaning of “reformed and always reforming" because such an idea did not exist for him. Martin did not mean to split the church in half, he simply saw an injustice and could do no other thing that to try to change it. So, armed with only the Bible, his deeply held convictions, and a hammer he did what he could. Understand, Martin did not reform the church—God alone has the authority to do this. But Martin held up the truth, like an Ark, so that others could see it.
Joshua, likewise, did not bring the Hebrews to the Promised Land—he happened to be there for the final act, but it was those who went before him—Moses, Miriam, even Aaron—who made it possible for him to be there. And it was God who did the delivering.
Which brings us to those twelve priests standing in the riverbank on dry ground. I love this image—it is triumphal, it is grand, it is a victory march if ever there was one. And there I the middle are twelve men holding up the Ark, holding back the water so that the rest of them can cross over to the Promised Land. It is twelve nameless, faceless heroes—saints if you will.
In the language of the church you will find reference to the “cloud of witnesses”—the saints who have gone on before us, those who have spent their lives standing in the river bank holding back the water so that the rest of us could pass through to the other side. My preaching professor used to refer to it as the “balcony of saints.” I like that phrase even better because the cloud of witnesses seems so far away, but the balcony is right there. And if it is helpful for you, as it is for me, to think of all those who went before as close enough so that we can see then clearly, and hear them, and almost touch them, then imagine them here with us this morning. It’s a full balcony we have up there. Martin and Martin are there, as well as Theresa, Mahatma, Elisabeth, Rick, Delores, George, and now Rosa. They are up there, cheering us on in our work here below. Because, you see, just because you are called to be a hero, doesn’t mean that you will be there when the story is done. And God is constantly doing a new thing in God’s church. That is what we really mean when we say that we are reformed and always reforming. It’s not a thing that started in Wittenberg; it is a thing that started in the Garden.
And into the flow of this new thing that God is doing, we are celebrating the entrance of four young men today. Four young men who started this journey at a font. Four young men whose parents wanted for them a faith to profess, a God to worship, a church for them in which to be nurtured into discipleship. These four young men have this day made a decision whom they will serve.
And so I have a few words to say to Tyler, Taylor, Cody, and Danny:
You may be tempted to think that this is the end of your education in the faith. That would be a mistake. This is the beginning in many ways. Today you are given a voice and a vote in the workings of our congregation and our denomination. Please don’t squander it. It is privilege to have a voice and a vote—ask anyone who doesn’t have these things, and they will confirm it. If you are serious about the commitment you are making today, let your voice be heard and let your vision be known. If anyone tells you that you don’t know what you’re talking about because you are too young, or that your ideas won’t work because they represent things that have never been done before, say to them: “Martin Luther. Rosa Parks.” If anyone tries to tell you that you are the “church of the future”—gently but firmly correct them. You are the church today.
In the same vein, you are joining ranks today with folk who have been part of the effort to be the body of Christ for many years. This church in particular has been in existence for 163 years. The balcony is full to overflowing, and the ones here holding back the water for you so that you could cross over today have untold wisdom to share with you. Do not think that the ideas of those who have gone before you are necessarily out of date or out of step with what God has in store for this church. As you pass on dry ground today, be thankful for those who have been standing there, holding up the Ark for you, protecting you so that this day could happen: people like your parents, your Sunday School teachers, even perhaps the pastors—past and present—who have been there for you. Think of us as your cheerleaders, ready and willing to support you and cheer you on in this new adventure of church membership.
And if the idea of having so many cheerleaders around is confining and stifling, remember this: there are heroes watching over you. Your heroes in the faith want you to be a part of the wonderful thing that God is making anew, over and over. Look up from time to time to acknowledge the balcony.
Thanks be to God.
The Balcony of Saints
Joshua 3: 7-17
October 30, 2005
Reformation Day/All Saint’s Day/Confirmation Day
It seems like heroes are hard to find anymore. Or maybe that’s just my own jaded-ness talking. I know that there are athletes and actors and public figures who inspire the hearts and minds of many people, especially our young people. Or maybe I’m speaking from my own social location—as if I never needed somebody else’s example of success to pull me out of a bad situation, and help me dream of better things.
One of my heroes died this week. She and I never met, and we couldn’t have lived lives that were farther apart culturally, ethnically, or generationally. Rosa Parks never wanted to be a hero. She wanted merely to be able to go home after a long day of work, and to do it in the seat that was the most convenient for her as she entered the bus. Rosa Parks didn’t want to be the person who sparked a movement, who rallied the beginning of a long-overdue quest for equality and dignity for persons of color. She just wanted to sit down and be left alone.
And when her act of sitting and riding became too much for another to bear, and she was asked to give up her seat and move to the back of the bus with the other “people like her”, I’m sure her protest was not loud and attention-getting. It seems, according to all accounts, that she merely took her stand by remaining seated.
This happened on December 1, 1955 in Montgomery Alabama. Montgomery's segregation laws in that day were complex: blacks were required to pay their fare to the driver, then get off and reboard through the back door. Sometimes the bus would drive off before the paid-up customers made it to the back entrance. If the white section was full and another white customer entered, blacks were required to give up their seats and move farther to the back; a black person was not even allowed to sit across the aisle from whites. These humiliations were compounded by the fact that two-thirds of the bus riders in Montgomery were black.
Rosa was of course arrested and taken to trial; the trial lasted 30 minutes and nobody was surprised by the results, with the expected conviction and penalty. That afternoon, the Montgomery Improvement Association was formed. So as not to ruffle any local activists' feathers, the members elected as their president a relative newcomer to Montgomery, the young minister of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church: the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. That evening, addressing a crowd gathered at the Holt Street Baptist Church, King declared in that sonorous, ringing voice millions the world over would soon thrill to: "There comes a time that people get tired." When he was finished, Parks stood up so the audience could see her. She did not speak; there was no need to. Here I am, her silence said, among you. Rosa Parks has been portrayed as someone who sat on the bus that day because she was tired, or her feet were sore. But Rosa herself would say her soul was tired and her heart was hurting at the injustice shown African Americans in 1955 Alabama.
Sometimes a hero is not content with taking a silent stand, but must protest injustice and wrong in a way that is loud and resounding. Sometimes it sounds just like a hammer striking a single nail. Martin Luther loved the church. He loved it so much that he wanted the church to be what God had intended for her. The selling of indulgences --in effect paying a fee to get one’s loved ones out of purgatory and into paradise-- was a practice of the church that Luther and others of his time disapproved of strongly enough to write about it. And his act of nailing the 95 these to the door of Wittenberg Church was his way of taking a stand against a corruption that had so penetrated the church that it was every bit as convoluted as the segregation laws of Montgomery Alabama in the 50’s.
In our Old Testament text for today, Joshua is another would-be hero, and we can suspect that he might have been a reluctant one as well. Serving under Moses, the ultimate hero of the Hebrew Scriptures, he had occasion to watch as Moses died with his dream unfulfilled. Moses had brought the Israelites out of bondage and through the desert and the wilderness for forty long years, and had come to the bank of the Jordan, where he and the Israelites faced the very last leg the journey. We can imagine that they could see the Promised Land in the distance—that land flowing with milk and honey, the good land that God had promised. A homeland at last!
But Moses would not live to see that dream fulfilled. Can you imagine being the second in command when your boss dies without seeing the project through? It might have seemed to Joshua that there was some sort of curse on the promise to see the Promised Land. He might have thought that the Israelite children would never listen to him, would never respect his authority in the way that they did Moses’. Getting a big job with lots of responsibility after the death of your long-term predecessor is hard enough. Getting that job within weeks of the end date of biggest project to ever happen in your department would be even tougher. But the lesson in this is that being given authority—even as a reluctant hero—does not guarantee successful completion of the task at hand.
In a nod to our heritage, we like to say that our church is “Reforma Semper Reformanda” which means, of course, reformed and always reforming. This phrase has always struck me as rather nebulous in meaning. What does it mean to be reformed? What does it mean to be always reforming? It strikes me as the kind of phrase a person could use to mean almost anything.
Martin Luther, of course, did not ponder the meaning of “reformed and always reforming" because such an idea did not exist for him. Martin did not mean to split the church in half, he simply saw an injustice and could do no other thing that to try to change it. So, armed with only the Bible, his deeply held convictions, and a hammer he did what he could. Understand, Martin did not reform the church—God alone has the authority to do this. But Martin held up the truth, like an Ark, so that others could see it.
Joshua, likewise, did not bring the Hebrews to the Promised Land—he happened to be there for the final act, but it was those who went before him—Moses, Miriam, even Aaron—who made it possible for him to be there. And it was God who did the delivering.
Which brings us to those twelve priests standing in the riverbank on dry ground. I love this image—it is triumphal, it is grand, it is a victory march if ever there was one. And there I the middle are twelve men holding up the Ark, holding back the water so that the rest of them can cross over to the Promised Land. It is twelve nameless, faceless heroes—saints if you will.
In the language of the church you will find reference to the “cloud of witnesses”—the saints who have gone on before us, those who have spent their lives standing in the river bank holding back the water so that the rest of us could pass through to the other side. My preaching professor used to refer to it as the “balcony of saints.” I like that phrase even better because the cloud of witnesses seems so far away, but the balcony is right there. And if it is helpful for you, as it is for me, to think of all those who went before as close enough so that we can see then clearly, and hear them, and almost touch them, then imagine them here with us this morning. It’s a full balcony we have up there. Martin and Martin are there, as well as Theresa, Mahatma, Elisabeth, Rick, Delores, George, and now Rosa. They are up there, cheering us on in our work here below. Because, you see, just because you are called to be a hero, doesn’t mean that you will be there when the story is done. And God is constantly doing a new thing in God’s church. That is what we really mean when we say that we are reformed and always reforming. It’s not a thing that started in Wittenberg; it is a thing that started in the Garden.
And into the flow of this new thing that God is doing, we are celebrating the entrance of four young men today. Four young men who started this journey at a font. Four young men whose parents wanted for them a faith to profess, a God to worship, a church for them in which to be nurtured into discipleship. These four young men have this day made a decision whom they will serve.
And so I have a few words to say to Tyler, Taylor, Cody, and Danny:
You may be tempted to think that this is the end of your education in the faith. That would be a mistake. This is the beginning in many ways. Today you are given a voice and a vote in the workings of our congregation and our denomination. Please don’t squander it. It is privilege to have a voice and a vote—ask anyone who doesn’t have these things, and they will confirm it. If you are serious about the commitment you are making today, let your voice be heard and let your vision be known. If anyone tells you that you don’t know what you’re talking about because you are too young, or that your ideas won’t work because they represent things that have never been done before, say to them: “Martin Luther. Rosa Parks.” If anyone tries to tell you that you are the “church of the future”—gently but firmly correct them. You are the church today.
In the same vein, you are joining ranks today with folk who have been part of the effort to be the body of Christ for many years. This church in particular has been in existence for 163 years. The balcony is full to overflowing, and the ones here holding back the water for you so that you could cross over today have untold wisdom to share with you. Do not think that the ideas of those who have gone before you are necessarily out of date or out of step with what God has in store for this church. As you pass on dry ground today, be thankful for those who have been standing there, holding up the Ark for you, protecting you so that this day could happen: people like your parents, your Sunday School teachers, even perhaps the pastors—past and present—who have been there for you. Think of us as your cheerleaders, ready and willing to support you and cheer you on in this new adventure of church membership.
And if the idea of having so many cheerleaders around is confining and stifling, remember this: there are heroes watching over you. Your heroes in the faith want you to be a part of the wonderful thing that God is making anew, over and over. Look up from time to time to acknowledge the balcony.
Thanks be to God.
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