By Rev. Rebecca Messman

November 21, 2021

Christ the King Sunday

John 18:33-37

³³ Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” ³⁴ Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” ³⁵ Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” ³⁶ Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” ³⁷ Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Pilate asked him, “What is truth?”

Let us pray: Gracious God, uphold me that I might uplift thee. Amen.

Do you remember the court room scene in the 90s movie A Few Good Men? Tom Cruise is young unmotivated Naval officer and lawyer named Lt. Daniel Kaffee. Jack Nicholson is Base Commander Colonel Nathan Jessup, a hard-jawed marine. It is a court martial case of two marines charged with murdering fellow marine, William Santiago, and also truth and justice in a messy world. In the tensest moment of the court room scene, Jessup says, “You want answers?” “I think I am entitled to it,” Kaffee says, “You want answers?” Jessup asks again. Kaffee yells back, “I want the truth!” and Col. Jessup fires back (say it with me if you know it) “You can’t handle the truth!”

In today’s text, it is Jesus who is brought in for questioning. So are you the King of the Jews? Pilate asked, feigning interest, sipping coffee I imagine. The Pilate administration routinely had to deal with various extremist groups and their leaders. This was generally a paperwork thing. Someone says yes, he is convicted, “dispositioned” as an enemy of the state, and the rest of the breakfast meeting continued. But in this case, curiously, the leader did not give a straight answer. Which was problematic. Granted, there was no fear here for Pilate, just a need to avoid a potential parochial PR nightmare with the Jews, the largest group of his particular region. Pilate knew that the more these subgroups fought each other, the better for the administration, honestly. When they fight each other, you see, they do your work for you. They wound themselves and they tarnish their peaceful holy messaging and what’s more, they are easily controlled. That these faith leaders would adopt a world view based on revenge and capital punishment suited Pilate just fine. But, this Jesus would not take the bait.

What is truth? Pilate asked, maybe with a Col. Jessup edge in his voice by now. The Pilate administration had an answer they were listening for. Let’s be clear: this was not a philosophy class. This was a loyalty litmus test. It’s likely that Pilate already agreed with Jesus on what truth does: Truth shapes people. Truth affects their actions. Their identities. Their allegiance. If you want to know what a person believes is true, just watch their feet. Gravity, for example, is a powerful force on our planet. That is true whether someone assents or not. And yet those who belong to that truth, who believe it, walk most carefully around cliffs. Oxygen is essential for human life. There is no need to poll on this truth to gauge its popularity. And yet those who belong to that truth, who believe it, always move toward fresh air. People, no matter how dogmatic, do not hold their breath for very long.

And the only other truth that mattered was that Caesar was King. Like a good middle-manager, Pilate spent a great deal of time controlling the truth narrative. And his tools were the normal ones. Ask a question like “What is truth” enough and people get confused about what they know is true. A little fear was often enough to make people behave irrationally even around cliffs. A little smoke was often enough to make people run the wrong direction away from the oxygen they need to survive. With enough fear, smoke, and confusion in the air, Pilate and therefore Caesar would remain the voice of truth. Those tools were as effective as any cross or travelled faster than any chariot.

Scholar and preacher Fred Craddock said,  “Like many moderns, Pilate assumes truth is a ‘what,’ that truth has a definite objective content that can be clearly stated.  This is not the understanding of truth in the Fourth Gospel, where Jesus is never said to teach truth.  He does not deliver the truth to his disciples, who are never said to ‘have’ the truth.  Truth is not an object, a body of material that can be possessed.  Jesus is not a great teacher who gives disciples ‘great truths’ to live by.  He gives himself; he himself is God’s truth.  Truth is a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’”⁹

Our world is full of Pilates Pro Tem who still ask “What is truth?” A shelf of recently published books suggest that Western societies are becoming hostile to expertise, increasingly susceptible to bias and vulnerable to superstition. They suspect we are drowning in a flood of information. That we are now post-Enlightenment. If the Enlightenment gave us we hold these truths to be self-evident, the post-Enlightenment might say, “What is truth? Why those truths? Your truth might be self-evident to you but not to me.” In 1966, Time Magazine ran its first cover without art. The cover said, “Is God dead?” It was a discussion about the health of churches and the beliefs they taught. Then, 50 years late, in 2017, using the same font, Time’s cover was “Is truth dead?”

Maybe our human nature truly can’t handle the truth very well. Research shows that when new technologies arise, whether it’s the Roman road system long ago, the printing press or the internet, human nature is pretty predictable no matter what century you’re discussing. The fastest things to spread are the same: confusion, smoke and fear.

Pilate reminds Jesus that his nation has turned on him and wasn’t that significant a nation to begin with. If someone feels weak and alone, they usually flip. What is Truth? In Caesar’s world it was power and pressure and pandering and policing and politics and pretense and privilege and posturing and popularity and eventually severe punishment. In Caesar’s world it was performative and pecking orders and prison and predation. In Caesar’s world, that truth is self-evident.

And there is the world of Jesus. The world where truth is as personal as it is general. The world where truth is not a kind of accounting. Counting heads. Counting rights and wrongs. It is an encounter. It is not a rule. That allows us to feel right and stand in judgment over others. It is a relationship. Where we are vulnerable because we know how wrong we can be and we are loved anyway.

Those who belong to that truth, who believe it, feel God’s love grounding them like gravity and feel the Spirit breathing them through every fear. Christ the King Sunday is when we practice de-throning ourselves as the Kings of our lives. We take off our little paper ego crowns and slide off our shoes and remember we stand on holy ground. On Christ the King Sunday we stand in awe before God who chose to be truth among us, the kind of truth we could follow but never possess, love but never limit, trust but never trap. A real relationship.

When Dave and I were going through premarital counseling, we met with a wonderful Episcopalian Priest named Frank, though he had a fancy title in the diocese The Very Right Reverend. He laughed and said, “You know that doesn’t get me very far when I use it at home with my wife.” He wrote a wonderful book called The Art of Being Together, and as we talked, Frank said perhaps the most important skill in any marriage is the ability to renegotiate around a new truth. He said it twice. The most important skill in any marriage is the ability to renegotiate around a new truth. Suppose someone gets a new job or a child is born or someone wants to move. Someone becomes a vegetarian or is plunged into grief or is suddenly home all the time or gains 25 pounds. All of these are new truths, and the marriage needs to learn how to adapt. He said it is often not effective to tell the other person to deal with it. Nor does it go well to keep plodding along as if the change has not happened, avoiding the new truth. You have to renegotiate.

And how do you do that? When a new truth comes, healthy marriages become very articulate. They speak what they need, plainly without manipulation. Sometimes there isn’t an easy agreement. She loves going to parties. He does not. She wants to be more social. He wants to relax. When it is clear there isn’t an easy way for both parties to get what they want, he said our faith tells us to rely on the truth of grace, and to speak the language of gift-giving. For example, if he decides to go along to the party, she makes point to say “Thank you. I know you that wasn’t your favorite but it meant a lot to me.” If she stays home, he makes a point of saying, “Tonight has been a gift. I see what you gave me. Thank you.”

This is true for any relationship. Friend groups, families, churches, communities. We all renegotiate around a new truth. Whether that new truth is a new family member at Thanksgiving or a community dealing with a new phase of the pandemic. There might be a Thanksgiving where not everyone agrees. Or a season at church where not everyone agrees. Or even a time in the country when not everyone agrees. I know, it is hard to imagine, but think on that with me. Instead of Caesar’s truth, governed by pandering and pressuring and punishment, imagine that people could be articulate about what they need and that we could use the language of grace with each other, of gift-giving. Not the Black Friday gifts kind. But the gift of relationship. The gift of listening with absolutely no agenda. The gift of saying, “I might be wrong.” The gift of laughter so that conversations have oxygen enough to breathe. The gift of trying their suggestion. The gift of saying thank you when someone goes along with your plan when it is not their preference. Truth within real relationship.

There is a church I know that even before the pandemic was realizing that being a multi-cultural church was important to them but that meant not everyone was getting what they wanted. What felt beautiful to some, extended silence for example, was uncomfortable to others who preferred an extended passing of the peace. So, they started using something called the 75% rule. They realized when they gather for worship everyone should be happy with no more than 75% of the service otherwise it was likely that one cultural preference was being dominantly expressed. That meant that the 25% of the time or more when something was unfamiliar or even uncomfortable, and others felt joy and comfort, they learned to see this as a gift to God and from God, a gift found in relationship.

The Kingdom that Jesus describes so often throughout Scripture is unlikely community and unexpected welcome and strength found in weakness and wisdom that looks like old school foolishness. It’s bread multiplied and death defeated and life rich and abundant. The gifts of God for the people of God.

Indeed, this is a hard time for churches, for all communities. It is a time of renegotiation around a new truth of pandemic and polarization and such deep pain. I wish it were not so. I wish I had started with you when the truth we were facing was simply which coffee brand we preferred.

Recently we watched Lord of the Rings as a family. I identified so deeply with Frodo who looked at Gandalf and said, “I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

I suspect we are here today because we want to be reminded again about what is true. So here it is: The truth is not a what but a who. Jesus who gave his life for you not because you were very right but because you are very loved. Jesus who turned Caesar’s tools…. a cross, pain, punishment, into the sign of God’s truth… forgiveness, eternal life and world-changing communion. Jesus who prepares you and prays through you and prods you to serve your neighbor and promises you that you will not be alone to face this and provides others who while different from you are essential to you so together you become the people of peace and patience and purpose. A people of proclamation that Jesus is Lord.  Amen.

By Rev. Rebecca Messman

November 7, 2021

All Saints’ Sunday

Revelation 21:1-6b

¹ Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. ² And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. ³ And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

“See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
⁴ he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.”

⁵ And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.” ⁶ Then he said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.

When I was a child in church, I would often pass the time by taking my mom’s rings and putting them on the tops of my thumbs so that they looked a king and queen wearing a crown. So I think I was almost as distraught as she was when, about 15 years ago, her engagement ring went missing. She told me over the phone that she’d looked everywhere in the house, from obvious places like next to her bed to the places one looks only when they have not only lost something precious but also lost trust in themselves. Maybe it would be in the fridge? Could I have put it in a sock drawer? She told me that she worried maybe someone had taken it. When you’re desperate, you can easily imagine how desperate other people might be. So, she contacted the local pawn shops. They hadn’t seen anything like it. Eventually, she told herself that it was fine. The wedding memories were as clear as any diamond, she said, and she took comfort in trying to care less, to minimize the loss in her heart. Shock, Anger, Denial. That is the grief cycle for you.

And, I also remember when, on a whim, my Dad went back to the same jeweler he’d visited as a young man with sweaty palms decades before, with a slightly thinner wallet and midsection. He called me to say, “You’re not gonna believe this. Your mom’s ring. The original jeweler was still there and had one almost identical. So, hot dog, I got it and I just proposed again.” “And I said yes,” I heard her yell out in the background. Every phone conversation was kind of a free for all like that. And I was glad for a time to be in a world where all things could be made new. A bride adorned for her husband. Every tear wiped away. Mourning and crying no more. Once lost, now replaced. Alpha. Omega. Done.

The book of Revelation ends with this gleaming vision of God unrolling a new heaven and a new earth. At the end of one of the most difficult and frightening books of the Bible, there is this opening of hope, this vista of possibility, as Professor Brian Blount calls it. And, I for one absolutely love the notion of a shiny new world as it should be with no crying and no death and only God’s gentle thumb on our cheek wiping away any tear. I love to imagine God as a generous groom proposing to all of humanity that we start over again. I love to daydream about the world God desires free of baggage and injustice. Behold, I am making all things new! In this new earth, cereal boxes will now have Ziploc bags and our communities will nurture everyone well and the wolf and the lamb will play in Fall leaves together that rake themselves and our loved ones will never leave us.

But, Revelation according to John of Patmos proclaims that God dwells with us, not just somewhere else. Revelation declares that this making new is happening in the present tense, now, already, as we speak. For those of us obsessed with HGTV, Revelation declares that theologically, the renovation has started and this text is God’s permit taped to the window. And I have come to believe that that is even more hopeful than some kind of religious reboot. It gets at a truth our hearts know. That our lives aren’t some linear chain rolled out to a certain length and then cut, but that we are part of everyone we have known and they are part of us and we are all being breathed alive by God in an ecosystem of love. We are being made and remade all the time by the grace of God.

All Saints’ Day might be the day when we practice that truth in the most personal way. In our tradition, saint means holy. So that means all of us, not just the heroes and martyrs of old. We whisper or type or chant or scribble or sniffle through the names of those people who are holy to us and have joined the “church triumphant” as we might call it, and as we do that, we expand our souls to better imagine eternal life. On All Saints Sunday, we practice that part of the Apostle’s Creed that often is just rattled off, “I believe in the communion of saints” or that part of the communion liturgy that rolls toward the singing part, “joining our voices with the choirs of heaven and with all the faithful of every time and place who forever sing to the glory of your name.”

All Saints’ Day began around the 6^th century. In those days, death was much closer to home than it now, and much more normal. Death happened at home, not in hospitals. And often church happened at home too. The bitter persecutions of Christians had abated by then but normal courage was still required. So, the early church practiced remembering the Saints. Like Peter, how he denied his Lord and then went on to be the boldest disciple and the rock of the church. And I imagine remembering him well kept them from perfectionism. The early church practiced remembering Paul, who persecuted Christians mightily and then quite literally fell blindly in love with the Gospel. And I imagine that kept them hopeful that people could change. For us, maybe today we remember the grandparent who showed us what unconditional love looks like at a dinner table. Maybe we remember the husband who hiked us up the mountain trail of life where we beheld life’s splendor. We remember Fred Rogers and Fred Craddock. We rest in the truth that none of us is self-made. If anything, we are recycled, made new out of all those God made before. And even though grief is no picnic, we wouldn’t be who we are without those we have lost. Which reframes the idea of loss toward a more Christian one. Remember the verses we say at all the weddings? The one thing that never passes away is love.

As I have shared with some of you, my mom passed away on March 20, 2020. Cancer is a terrible foe. Since then, I haven’t really been able to sing For All the Saints all the way through without blubbering or going mute like Ariel the Mermaid. I kind of go dead-eyed when someone offers me platitudes like “she was so nice God just wanted to have her sooner.” Or “she’s in a better place now.” Or “she had done what she needed to do and God needed her back.” Maybe you’ve been on the business end of those words that are meant to comfort the hearer but often just comfort the one saying them. Those words also do no service to the God we know. What God is saying in today’s text sounds more like, “I am here for you.” It sounds more like, here are flowers from my garden. Here is bread from my oven. Here is a hug with no words at all. I’ll just stay for a few days – I brought my stuff. And, drink this water, honey, it’s a gift from the spring of life.” That is what today’s text sounds like.

I was talking with one of you the other day when it dawned on me, losing someone really does make all things new, though not necessarily in the ways you want. You get new routines, new work to do, new roles. Suddenly you are the one who figures out the taxes or the Christmas lights. Losing as much as we have in this pandemic makes our world feel new to the degree it is almost unrecognizable. The ongoing racial reckoning in our country gives us a sense of how deep the grief goes. I learned that the word bereaved actually means robbed. We feel robbed of time, events, people, and a sense of our place in the world. Rather than speed through toward a reboot, we need to acknowledge the grief. Not to become stuck there. But to learn to carry it. And learn from it. And let it teach us.

I hope we as a congregation can use grief language to speak about what has changed here and from there continue to comfort each other and trust God is still doing a new thing among us, in this place, even now.

It’s not all Eeyore either. Grief slashes the veil between this life and eternity in ways that can be exquisite. When you are in grief, a single yellow flower can feel like an answer to a prayer only you know about. A cardinal or a hummingbird or a rainbow can feel like a visitation from a loved one. You start to see the soft contours of humanity in all its grief and beauty all around you and want to offer a tissue to a complete stranger. Ordinary things are crowned with meaning like a ring on a thumb.

I’ll tell you this story that I wouldn’t believe if it were written in a novel except that it truly happened. In late February of 2020, we knew mom only had a few weeks with us, tops. There was such an intensity about those days that we would sometimes find a silly errand or task just to breathe. To let our brains rest. Grief… it comes from gravare, the Latin word for heavy. It was a heavy time. And one of those tasks was organizing mom’s jewelry. Mom and Dad started telling stories about each piece. “Ah, this one was from when you were born. These were our 20^th anniversary. And these earrings were from our trip to Texas. I think it goes with a bracelet, check in that bowl in the cabinet near the sink,” Mom said. My sister brought over a ramekin with a couple of safety pins and a bracelet and also, under that Texas bracelet, the missing engagement ring. There was a lot of whooping and weeping about that, and then Mom said, “How about that, now there’s one for each of you.” And we held it in our hands, something that wasn’t new, in fact, it had always been there, we just hadn’t known where to look for it.

God makes a home with mortals. For my family, it was like finding a lost ring and believing even without mom’s presence that we’d have what we needed. Maybe for you it is the friend who shows up at just the right time with candles and wine and you know you are not alone. Jesus described the Kingdom of Heaven as treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid the treasure again and bought the whole field. It wasn’t a different glamorous field somewhere else but this same old field was precious to him all the more because he knew the treasure it held. The kingdom of Heaven is like that.

The English poet David Whyte describes grief as a deep well.

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
turning down through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else.

The kingdom of heaven is like that. Field of treasure. A wishing well. A communion table where we are surrounded. Whatever metaphor we go to, this is the not the kiddie pool of church. It’s not the shallow part where most of the noise comes from. This is the deep end, where there is peace even though we can’t touch bottom. Even though it doesn’t fit into tidy slogans. Even though it might leave us cold sometimes. We know in some ineffable way those loved ones join us at this table. We feel it. Sometimes we see it. Maybe you have her smile. Maybe you have his ring on your necklace. Maybe you say “fantastic” the exact same way he did.

The kingdom of heaven is like that. You love and it breaks your heart and by God’s chivalrous grace you wind up with more love that you started with.

Amen.

Rev. Rebecca Messman

October 24, 2021

Mark 10:46-52

⁴⁶ They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. ⁴⁷ When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” ⁴⁸ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” ⁴⁹ Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” ⁵⁰ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. ⁵¹ Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” ⁵² Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.

Let us pray. Lord, startle us again with your truth so that we might not only see you but see ourselves and each other as you see us. And in my words, may your people hear your word. Amen.

An interesting thing happens to a child in a robe at the front of a church. They begin to feel … like the Holy Spirit, I guess. And I don’t mean peaceful and serene. Oh no. I mean they believe because people don’t really react to them that they must be invisible. And they can move in powerful, uncontrollable ways.

That’s how it was for me anyway, sitting in the regal pew at the front of the chancel at First Presbyterian Church Danville, my parents socked away in the pews and the choir loft. One Sunday, I had earned an entire box of Andes candies during Sunday School for saying all the beatitudes. And at some point during the sermon, stricken with hunger, I took the box out of my acolyte robe and began to eat the candy. Now, even though she was about 12 feet away on the other side of the chancel, the other acolyte, my friend Kelly must have seen the gleam of the green wrappers. Since she probably felt invisible and powerful too, naturally she motioned for me to throw her one. Throwing candy in a robe is harder than it looks, it turns out. On the third try, likely around when the Pastor was landing his third point in the sermon, I landed a mint right onto her lap.

As I think back on it, I would hazard a guess that my parents along with half the choir and the Sunday School teacher saw the whole ordeal. An elegant older woman named Lib Cuttle, who lived up to her last name, hurried over to us after the service, and said “I saw you tossing those candies… And I want to say,” I blanched, “when God gives you something good, share it like you mean it!” Then, she put her hand out and I slapped a mint into her soft hand.

As I recall, not a single person threatened to expel us from the acolyte gild, if there was such a thing. The result was a budding sense in me that I was accepted there. That I could be seen as I truly was and still bear the light of Christ. That there is a wild delicious love out there and it was worth throwing your whole life at. And, well, here I am. Still at the front of a church, still taking risks for candy and Jesus, still amazed by the generosity of God.

Today, I think of Blind Bartimaeus, sitting on his cloak, shouting out to Jesus from his normal spot on the Jericho road. I imagine he felt invisible but in a more desperate way. He was part of the landscape that many people chose to ignore, hoping the stoplight turns green. His name wasn’t even about him. It means son of Timaeus. What’s interesting there is that, depending on what translation one uses, his name could either mean Son of the Unclean or Son of Esteem. Maybe like all of us, he was a little of both.

Bartimaeus could not see and probably believed no one saw him, and yet he becomes one of the most significant people in the New Testament. The Bartimaeus story is short, just six verses, but in many ways, this story is a hinge on which swings the whole Gospel of Mark. The first half of Mark is set in Galilee. There, Jesus teaches in parables and tangles with the authorities. Jesus heals a bunch of people, like the woman who grabs his cloak.  And yet most people remain blind to who Jesus is. Blinded by wealth, the rich young ruler goes away sad. Blinded by their ambitions, the disciples jockey for status around Jesus. Blinded by tradition, professional holy people take great offense at Jesus. And then, in the second half of Mark, right after this story, Jesus enters Jerusalem triumphantly with cloaks thrown before him. Even as his identity is uncloaked, Jesus is mocked, draped with a purple cloak as he faces the cross for all of us. And in the heart of the book of Mark, Bartimaeus sits on his cloak and makes the first public declaration that Jesus is the Messiah: “Son of David! Have mercy on me!” Even before his vision is restored, the blind man sees clearly. The invisible one, the last in line, he is the one who sees and follows first. That is a core Gospel message.

Another thing moves me deeply about this story. Bartimaeus had just one thing, one possession in the world, his cloak. That was it. That was all he had to shield himself from the sun and rain, from the dust and disgust of others. His cloak was his source of income, like a street guitarist leaving his case open to collect loose change. It was a security blanket and then some. And after so many years of being ignored, all of a sudden, he heard these lovely words from a formerly irritated crowd, “Take heart. Get up. He is calling you.” And that was enough. That and a wild hope hanging on this guy Jesus. That was what caused him to throw off his cloak and leap forward.

Jesus asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?” I love that Jesus didn’t assume a particular answer. There is such dignity in that. And Bartimaeus responded, “Teacher, let me see again.” I love that Bartimaeus knew the answer. It takes spiritual maturity to know what you really want. So many people don’t. And it takes vulnerability to actually speak the words. That requires you to open yourself to hope. Bartimaeus threw off his cloak in hope, and it seemed like, at least according to Jesus, the healing was done at that point. “Go. Your faith has made you well.” And with his feet already on the move and his cloak in the rearview mirror, his vision came back and he joined Jesus on the way.

Today, here we are, the pandemic still draped over the globe like a cloak, making it darn near impossible for us to see much of anything down the road and harder for us to see each other. Some of you might have felt invisible during this stretch. Unwitnessed during one of the best or worst times of your life that would have ordinarily been deeply shared. There is ample data that shows that a basic human need is connection, to see and be seen, by other human beings. So, to feel unnoticed at work or invisible at school or ignored in your family, that is often a greater ache than conflict or illness. Sometimes people who feel unseen create conflict or become ill when what they desperately want is connection. And when the church faces so much uncertainty, hardly able to see Advent, much less the five year plan, and when the church feels invisible in the social landscape, it is hard indeed. So, maybe we understand Bartimaeus on the road better than we thought.

And we all have our cloaks, I suspect, those things to which we cling so that we are not exposed, so that people know how to treat us, so that we can manage all that we can’t see. We all have our cloaks. Maybe it’s wealth and influence enough to shield us from as many risks as possible. Maybe it’s credentials and personality and beauty enough to keep us from loneliness. For me, I love a good routine. I love to know what I am doing. I eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch. I love to throw on my cloak, head out into the world, and assure myself that the future will be more or less the same. There is nothing inherently bad about a cloak. And with the popularity of Harry Potter and Game of Thrones, Halloween coming, they seem to be popular. Thanks to Zoom, you can wear a cloak over your work-out clothes and all seems normal.

However, the cloak can get heavy, can’t it? When we end a day feeling like all we did was amass or organize stuff. When we feel like our vision has grown dim and it’s been a long time since we felt childlike delight before God. When our routines and pandemic fears cover us like listless weather, the cloak can get heavy. The cloaks we keep around us can trip us up and make it very cumbersome to follow Jesus with the fresh vision of Bartimaeus. That is when our souls cry out from the roadside of our lives.

And when that happens, you can be sure Jesus will take notice. You can be sure people around you or friends you trust will start to say, “Take heart… Get up… he is calling you.” You can be sure Jesus will ask at some point, “What do you want?” And maybe you surprise yourself with the answer. Maybe you hear an answer from your own lips that you didn’t expect.

Maybe you leap up off that cloak and find yourself in a new ministry, like a church whose signature Bible quote is “Behold, I am doing a new thing.” That is how it is going for me. Apparently I am not alone. The Fall of 2021 saw the largest number of Americans starting new jobs in decades. It’s time to throw off the cloaks of how we have always done it and know that God meets us there with a new thing.

Maybe you throw off the cloak, committed to giving in ways that feel new and exuberant. When we give, we get to feel like kids again, marveling at what God has dropped into our laps, unwrapping the gleam of purpose, and tasting the sweetness of generosity that comes back to us when we pitch it to others. Do you know what the medical term is for inability to see what is close to you? Presbyopia. It means old eyes.

So, if that is you, you are invited to throw off the cloak and see your life and your church and the world in a new way. Maybe you call that neighbor who has been a real challenge for you politically. Maybe you put your phone away for an entire day so that your eyes awaken to your neighborhood. Maybe you read a poem or join the choir or spent an afternoon with a 3 year old as a way to bring color back to your vision. Maybe throwing off the cloak means noticing where the film of despair or the fog of anxiety or the scales of grief have clouded your vision and you let yourself be seen just as you are. Throw off the cloak. See your lift as a gift that has been dropped in your life and then share it like you mean it.

I learned recently that Lib Cuttle entered the church triumphant at age 101. She threw off the cloak of this mortal life and now walks with her God. She never had biological children but she mentored at-risk children and taught Sunday School for 80 years and she made people like me feel seen. My life is evidence that she changed the way the world looked through her bold discipleship.

I’ll end with a poem by Langston Hughes, a poet in the lineage of Bartimaeus.

I look at the world
From awakening eyes in a black face—
And this is what I see:
This fenced-off narrow space
Assigned to me.

I look then at the silly walls
Through dark eyes in a dark face—
And this is what I know:
That all these walls oppression builds
Will have to go!

I look at my own body
With eyes no longer blind—
And I see that my own hands can make
The world that’s in my mind.
Then let us hurry, comrades,
The road to find.

Rev. Dr. David Ensign

Rev. Dr. David Ensign