Tents of God: A Sermon for 18 December 2011

St. Alban's Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

A number of years ago—quite a number—my four living siblings and I gathered at the home of our parents in Kalona, IA. And not only the four of us, but our spouses and grown children, some of whom also had spouses and children of their own.

Needless to say, the modest parental home we had once shared would no longer hold us all. My late husband and I decided to camp in a nearby state park. We had one of those tents made of light-weight but extremely tough, rain-resistant fabrics that popped up in minutes with flexible, fiberglass poles and shock cords. We staked it down and were good to go.

Our second night in Iowa, we got classic Iowa summer weather. Of course, we heard the storm warnings, but it didn’t sound that bad. I’m not sure whether vanity or just plain stubbornness ruled the day, but… Oh, no, we said. Of course we’re going to sleep in our tent. We’ll be fine.

The wind blew and the rain came. That little tent with its flexible poles shook and bent in the wind. At times, it laid over so completely that the walls of the tent were right down on top of us. We were too scared to try to leave!

Past midnight, the wind laid down, we slept a bit, and morning came. That little tent had taken a beating. The fiberglass poles were limp from stress fractures, some of its seams were pulled a part, and some of the shock cords had torn loose from the fabric. It had gotten us through the night, but it was done for.

So… why… would God… prefer a tent… to a house?

Because that’s what happens in today’s Old Testament lesson (2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, NRSV). There’s David, enjoying a respite from fighting for the security and safety of God’s people. And as king, he lives in a fine house.

As sometimes happens when humans have a little peace and quiet to think, David has an idea. It really is a fine idea. And I’m sure it came from David’s heart.

See now, David says to the prophet Nathan, I am living in a house of cedar, but the ark of God stays in a tent. Nathan gets the picture right away and supports the plan. Go, do, he says, for the LORD is with you.

But God immediately nips the scheme in the bud. ‘Who told you to build me a house?’ he asks David, through Nathan. ‘I’ve been traveling with my people in a tent since the day I brought you out of bondage,’ says God, ‘and have you heard me complain?’

We recognize rhetorical questions, questions that are posed for effect, not because they need answers. And we get the feeling that a bit of a scolding is going on here!

Then comes the clincher. ‘In fact, David,’ says God, ‘I brought you in out of the fields, I have traveled with you every step of the way, and I have protected you from your enemies. And one more thing, David. I'm not finished with you yet. I the Lord will make you a house, a house of people, generations of people, a kingdom of people who will be my people forever.’

Now we know, because we’ve read the next story, that David’s son Solomon got to build the temple. And we know that God cooperated. Indeed, God put on his architect’s hat and gave Solomon detailed instructions—not only for the temple itself, but all of the appointments that were to go in the temple and down to the vestments to be worn by the priests.

So I’m not suggesting that God dislikes temples or churches, won’t live in them and doesn’t want us to build them and make them beautiful. Far from it.

But on this occasion, the first occasion in the Biblical account that a human offers to build The One God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, a fine house to reside in, God says, ‘No, I’ll stick with the tent, thank you very much!’

So.. why would God.. prefer a tent to a fine house?

I think it not a coincidence that God turns right around and promises David a house of people, many generations of people. In fact, maybe tents and people have some characteristics in common that particularly appeal to God.

For starters, both tents and people shelter life. I am amazed by the photographs of mountain climbers camped on snow pack in what appear to be handkerchief-size tents that weigh ounces. But those tents are the difference between life and death.

Everest Base Camp, by Mathias Schar

                            
Tents and people are both resilient. Both can take quite a bit of being buffeted about by the winds of change and challenge in life.

But ultimately, both people and tents are mortal. Only God is immortal, and it is one of the great mysteries of faith that The Immortal One chooses mere mortals to love and live within and among.

Then there’s mobility. People and tents, and especially people with tents, can go most anywhere. And where the people of God go, they take the Kingdom of God with them.

You see, I think WE are the tents of God. God chooses us and dwells within us and goes with us. We call it Incarnation.

Yes, of course, God is here in this church as well, and in churches and synagogues and temples and mosques, grand and humble, around the world. But God is not here because of the beauty of the rose window or the fineness of the wood or the plush red carpet. God is here because we’re here.

So, why, when David wanted to build a fancy house for God, did God choose tents instead? Maybe because David needed a bit of a comeuppance for getting ahead of the plan.

Maybe because God was afraid David and the people would get confused, as humans so easily do, and think they could keep God in the house they had built for him, where he could be consulted as needed but otherwise ignored!

Or maybe for the same reason God chose a stable for the only Son of God to be born in. God seems to like showing up in places that seem least likely to humans.

Maybe because God needs arms and feet, mobile human tents to do the work of extending God’s kingdom here on this earth.

But my favorite “maybe” of all, isn’t a “maybe” at all. It’s the one I’m most certain of. God chooses to live in the human heart, imperfect and mortal tent that it is, because it is the only dwelling place… that can love God back.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

The Last Speech: A Sermon for 27 November 2011

Christ Episcopal Church, St. Joseph, LA

                                                                
Every fall semester, I teach an advanced writing class at ULM. The first day of class I require students to complete a diagnostic writing exercise. I give them several topics to choose from and a time and word limit, and set them to work. One of the topics is “The Last Speech.”

For “The Last Speech,” they must imagine they have six months to live and write the farewell speech they would give in the waning days of their lives. Young people write some interesting things when presented with that particular challenge. I’ll share a few examples with you in a moment.

But first let’s turn to today’s lessons and the church calendar for how my students and their essays are relevant today.
                          

Detail, the Pontifical Irish College Chapel

                       
I might also have begun this sermon by saying “Happy New Year”! Today is, of course, the first Sunday of Advent, the first day of the church year. Today we begin again the familiar cycle: Advent; Christmas—all 12 days of it; Epiphany, followed by a short bit of “ordinary time”; then Lent—all 40 days of it, with Sundays being in, but not of, Lent.
 
Then comes the peak of the church’s year, the terrifying and glorious events of Holy Week and Easter. Forty days into Eastertide, our Lord ascends into heaven, and just 10 days later comes Pentecost—the birthday of the church, which again introduces the looong season of what we call ordinary time.

So “Happy New Year” it is, but… just what does Advent call our attention to? Christmas, the coming of our Lord in human form, for sure.

But why then the color purple? Wouldn’t the red of Christmas be more appropriate? Why then greenery on the altar, rather than festive poinsettias?

When we Christians here the words of the prophet Isaiah and the psalmist calling for the coming of God Almighty, we know the answer. God came!

But that answer is easy to forget, given the challenges of life. We too have mountains to climb. We cry out with Isaiah (64:1-9, NRSV), O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence…

Indeed, God seems to have forgotten us in the most difficult passages of life. Our strength is drained by the winds of change and the roller-coaster of life. And so we cry out with the psalmist (Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, NRSV) , …stir up your strength and come to help us.

Advent focuses our attention on God’s answer to the human cry for God’s presence in the world. But at the same time, Advent reminds us that the ultimate answer, the final moment of reconciliation and end to human suffering is yet to come.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians (I Corinthians 1:3-9, NRSV), we wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will strengthen us so that we will make it to that great day of our Lord Jesus Christ.

But leave it to the always cautious if not downright gloomy Mark to remind us of the stresses and uncertainties of being between the babe in the manger and our Lord in triumph (13:24-37, NRSV): [A]bout that day or hour no one knows, writes Mark, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. ...Therefore, keep awake-- for you do not know when the master…will come... And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.

Living in between is the nature of our lives. Living between Incarnation and Resurrection defines our days. And this in-between time is fraught with beginnings and endings and uncertainties about them.

A dear friend of mine buried his 90+-year-old father about a month and a half ago. Then two and a half weeks ago the wife of his best friend, who was also his friend and his own age—that being mid-50s—died a not so timely death after a battle with cancer. Then, most shocking of all, on the eve of Thanksgiving, just four days ago, his 33-year-old son-in-law also lost a valiant battle to that dread disease.

He said to me on the phone yesterday, I hope I am done with death for a while. I hope and pray he is, too. But we never know.

Earlier I promised to return to my students and their assignment. This year three young men took up the challenge of writing their last speech. Their approaches were quite different and each one instructive in its one way.

One imagines himself at the age of 46 with many regrets but determined to not waste his remaining time. No more passing up opportunities, he wrote, I’m embracing everything from here on out. And he imagines a trip to Australia, one that he didn’t take last year, but now he’s pricing some plane tickets for himself and the family.

Another of the three has clearly felt some real pain is his short years. He thanks his parents, reminds them that he had to wear the ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes of his older brother, their “golden child,” but also that they were also always there for him. And I love you, he says. After noting a couple of other great disappointments —one at the hands of his best friend, who stole his girlfriend their freshman year, and another in his country. But he ends with one word: Peace. He has come to terms.

The third young man lives his life in a wheelchair, and his last speech is a statement of courage and defiance. My disability does not define me. I define it, he wrote. That is what I want to talk to you about tonight. Doing the best with what you have and never looking back.

I will close with the words of Mary W. Anderson in an article published by Christian Century.

What if you knew you had only one month left in your life? she asks. Would you finish up important matters at work? Would you travel to a place you always wanted to go? Would you pray more, go to church more, do that generous act you always wanted to do for others? Would you find ways to leave a mark on the world? Would you reconcile a fractured friendship?

By answering yes to one or more of these possibilities, she continues, we indicate that in our last days we would be better stewards of all the things God has given us in this life... In the intensity of last days, we would live better, be better. We would be more generous, more focused on the most important things in life. The question is: Why do we need to be under threat of death to be better stewards?

In this Advent season, as we focus on the gift to come, let us also awaken to our stewardship of all that is in this uncertain in-between time of our life on earth. Come, Lord Jesus.                                                          

AMEN