…in Three Movements

Movement 1) The Creator & Paper Airplanes

Just when we think we know what God’s deal is, God reminds us that there is a lot more to God than whatever we think we can pin down. More vast than we can really imagine, so vast that the hem of God’s robe, the tiniest portion of God, fills the Temple, a space itself so huge that it takes up the entire top of Mt. Zion in Jerusalem. Yet we still tend to think we can nail this God’s robe down, claim that we have cornered the market on God, that ours is the only temple that God’s robe will touch. Like Nicodemus, the Pharisee, who, like all Pharisees, knows exactly what God expects, and how to earn God’s favor. So here he comes, sneaking in to see Jesus by night, claiming he’s got Jesus figured somehow. “Rabbi, we know. we know who you are. we know you are a teacher who has come from God.” And Jesus’ response is basically to say, “oh you think so? well, just what is it you think you know?” And faced with God incarnate, Nicodemus is forced to look at his shoes and mumble, “Um. Well. Nothing.” Nothing Jesus says makes any sense to him, so that finally, almost in frustration, Jesus blurts out, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?”

So preoccupied with the rules of what can and can’t be, Nicodemus misses what is – God with us – sitting right in front of him is Jesus, the Son of the Father, telling him that God is more interested in creating something new each day; that God is working in the here and now; that God is dropping down out of the heavens, so that each person can be born from above; not because this is what we have to do, in order to earn God’s love, but because this is what God does, this is how a Creator works, the One who loves the world in just this way – that God’s judgement of the world is not condemnation, but creation, new from old, life from death, restoration and renewal from brokenness and need.

Isn’t that always the way with us humans. We pick the part of God that suits us, that meets our own needs, and we run with that. Whether it’s the God of law and judgement, the God of transcendence, the God of power and might, terrifying the socks off of us, so that even the Seraphs in attendance are screaming, “Holy! Holy! Holy!” as in Holy expletive, this God is terrifying! Or whether it’s the God of love and redemption, the God of resurrections, the God who so loved the world, the God of promise and presence, the God who is moving toward us. Somehow, like Nicodemus, we have a way of deciding what God suits us, and making that God the center of all we do. As if we get to decide God’s priorities. As if we could parse God into bite-size pieces that we can stomach.

But what we have is a God that’s bigger than any one image, any one view, any one story. We have a God whose very name is the story of all creation; a God who invites you into that story, who will welcome Sean Patrick Stewart into that creation in a few minutes, through the waters of baptism, to be named as one created, and to become a co-creator with his Father in heaven.

You have a sheet of paper that was given to you. I want to invite you to get creative with it. Make a paper airplane. Whatever paper airplane you know how to make. It doesn’t have to be beautiful, but it can be. It doesn’t have to be perfect, unless you tend towards perfectionism. Just have fun creating for a minute. While you do that, I’m going to go on to the second movement of this sermon.

Movement 2) The Redeemer & The Classified Ads

In some newspapers, there is a section that lists unclaimed payments, refund checks, and inheritances. I think there’s even a website where you can search to see if you have money sitting out there somewhere, left to you by some long-lost relative that you never even knew you had. And the reading from Romans today, this passage that Paul wrote 2000 years ago, this is that section – this is the section in the Bible that lists the unclaimed inheritance.

Paul sets the stage for this notice by letting us know where we stand at the outset. From the beginning, by virtue of being broken people living in a broken world, we are like slaves in a master’s household. According to the law, that is, if we are going to measure ourselves before God and one another according to our ability to live up to the law, then we are going to fail. We are going to fall short. We are not going to be able to keep the letter of the law, no matter what the Pharisees like Nicodemus may think. It’s just not possible. And in an ancient court, if you’re found irredeemably guilty, as we obviously would be (as we confess weekly), then you can be sold into slavery. So, if we are going to be dealt with by God according to the law, then we are in trouble. If the law is the only standard by which God operates, then we are in fact condemned to slavery, and everything that goes with it. Which, in the ancient world means that you have no legal standing, no legal rights, not even legal parenthood or childhood. You might have biological children, but you do not have legal children. You might have biological parents, but you will never stand to inherit anything other than slavery from them – no money, no name, no rights, nothing. Your only identity is, and can only ever be, that of a slave. According to the law, this is the condemnation that we are entitled to.

But Jesus just told Nicodemus, didn’t he, that the Son of God was sent into the world, not to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. So God is not operating under the legal system. God has something else in mind – for you; for me; for the world. And here is the unclaimed inheritances section of this paper – you, though rightfully a slave, you have been chosen for adoption. And not just any adoption, but an adoption that will make you a co-heir to the Kingdom of God; an adoption that gives you all the authority and power of Christ himself. By virtue of your baptism, though you have never lived a sin-free life as Christ did, though you never endured temptations in the desert, though you have never turned yourself over to death on a cross, you have inherited a full share of everything that Christ earned by his own life, temptation, suffering, and death. This is what Sean Patrick will receive in the waters of baptism: a full and equal share with Christ in the Kingdom of God.

Which means that you and Sean are in a rather incredible position. Where you were once nothing more than a slave according to the law, with no hope of ever becoming more than that, you now have the opportunity to claim that inheritance, and all the authority that goes with it. And not only to claim it, but to share it! Because not only is your name there on the list of those who might claim this inheritance, but so is the name of your neighbor, of your friend, of your spouse, of your child. Whether they are a Christian or not, whether they have ever been baptized or not, whoever they are, and whatever they have done, they stand to receive a full and equal share of the Kingdom, with all the rights, privileges, and yes, responsibilities, that go with it. But maybe they’ve forgotten. Maybe they have encountered obstacles on the way to claiming it: pain, grief, shame; maybe they’ve been told they’re not good enough; maybe they have been sent off in a different direction by the twists and turns of life. Maybe they need to be reminded. And that is a part of your inheritance. You, yes, you have been given the keys to the kingdom, so that you can open the door, because you have the authority to declare to each person that they have not inherited the spirit of slavery, but the spirit of adoption.

So I want you to turn to the person next to you and tell them, in case they have forgotten. Tell them the words that are in your bulletin, in the second reading, “You did not receive a spirit of slavery, but a spirit of adoption.” And then, to remind yourself of your own authority, I want you to draw a picture of a key somewhere on your airplane, while I go on to the third and final movement of the sermon.

Movement 3) The Mover & Flight

So we have a God who is at work every day, creating new from old, life from death, restoration and renewal from brokenness and need. We have a God who has adopted each one of us, who is prepared to adopt each one, and give her or him the keys to the Kingdom, not because of anything we have said or done, not because of any merit, not because we have somehow made ourselves sin-free. Still, in the face of the God of love and redemption, there comes a moment when I have to wrestle with the fact that I am a person of unclean lips, and I live among people of unclean lips, and I am not worthy even to see the hem of God’s robe as God sits on the throne, and yet, here is God, who has created me, who has come into the world for me, who has adopted me in spite of all the reasons why God ought not to adopt me. And as much as I might try to parse God out and as much as I might try to fit God to my agenda, if I’m honest with myself, there is going to be a Holy expletive moment, because this is all just way too much for me to get my head around, this is all way too much for me to bear. Being forgiven, utterly forgiven, so forgiven that my fear is no longer what rules me, so that I am now standing here holding the keys to the kingdom, that kind of forgiveness is not something to be blasé about; that kind of forgiveness burns like a hot coal touched to your lips; it leaves you changed, and dizzy and confused as if you just saw a bunch of angels and seraphs flying around the throne of God, screaming holy, holy, holy!

It’s hard to wrap your mind around; even harder to wrap your life around. And yet, here we are, gathered around the table, singing the same song that the seraphs sang, holy, holy holy! and glorifying the One who has created us and adopted us; gathered around the bread and the wine, touched to our lips, reminding us once again of what we have already received: forgiveness, cleansing, wholeness. And then, as we turn away from the table, we hear the call: Whom shall I send?

And how do we answer? How can we possibly answer? It is such a daunting task, and there are so many who need to hear the news, so many hurt and damaged people, and how can I possibly be the one that God has in mind when God calls: Whom shall I send? After all, I am a person of unclean lips. When God calls, we reply, “But, but, but…” But this: your lips have been burned clean by the bread and the wine, your spirit of slavery has been replaced by a spirit of adoption, and you are now called. Whom shall I send? It’s you! You are the one sent, and if you don’t think you have the energy or the time or the motivation or the words or the knowledge or the whatever else you don’t think you have, think again, because when we cry, “Abba, Father!”  when we cry, “I can’t do it!” that is the very Spirit of God bearing witness that we are children of God. And it is that very Spirit that pushes us out of the nest, out into the world, toward one another, toward our neighbors, toward even our enemies, if we have any, across every border that divides us, across every boundary that holds us back, past every obstacle that stands in our way. That is the Spirit.

So take your airplane, and send it flying. Let it soar on the breath of God, let the Spirit carry it where it will. You have been created. You have been adopted. And you are being sent. Thanks be to God.