With the Eyes of Your Heart

Ephesians 1:15-23 

Luke 24:44-53 

When we think about where God resides, we have a tendency to think “up.” Humans understand things spatially. We know where things are in relation to other things. So this kind of spatial thinking extends to our thoughts about other-worldly things too. Heaven is up in the sky. Whenever we think of God, or our loved ones in heaven, we want to look up. 

There is an old movie made in South Africa called The Gods Must Be Crazy. A man named Xi lives in a hunter-gatherer society, far away from the industrialized world we live in. One day an empty glass Coke bottle falls at his feet – a pilot threw it from his plane. Xi has never seen anything like this before. He assumes it is a gift from the gods, because it fell from the sky.

So Xi takes it back to his village where everyone is curious about this strange gift. Soon they begin to find all kinds of uses for it. Everyone wants this wonderful thing – but unfortunately there is only one bottle. This gift becomes the source of much new stress in their relationships around the notion of scarcity. Lots of arguing about who gets to use the bottle how much and when – and pretty soon Xi has decided this gift is not worth having, so he takes the bottle and sets off on a journey to dispose of it once and for all. He plans to take it to the edge of the world and drop it off.

The film is about the journey and all the different people and difficulties he encounters along the way. But, in the end, he does find a place that looks like the end of the world to him. He drops the bottle into the abyss and feels the satisfaction of ridding himself of a big problem. Then he begins his journey back home. And he, presumably, lives happily ever after.

You and I know that the earth is not flat. And we know that heaven is not up in the sky. But still, don’t we act as though it is?

In the story from Luke’s gospel, we read that Jesus was carried up into heaven. Again, in the first chapter of the book of Acts, we read that he ascended right before their eyes, and that “they were gazing up toward heaven.” 

Perhaps, like me, you don’t often think about the ascension of Jesus. It often seems like a detail that I just gloss over on my way to the story of Pentecost. What’s more, the story, brief as it is, makes it sound as though heaven is the same thing as gone. Jesus withdrew, we read; he was taken from their sight. Heaven, we read from this, is somewhere else. So I don’t spend much time on it. But maybe it’s worth taking a minute to wonder about.

 Jesus actually talks a lot about heaven – the kingdom of heaven or, sometimes, the kingdom of God. It frequently comes up in the gospels. But he often speaks about it in parables. 

What is heaven like? It is like a mustard seed; it starts out as the smallest of seeds, but it holds within it enormous potential.

It is like a hidden treasure, or a pearl of great value; a person who finds it will recognize that its worth is greater than anything and everything else in the world.

It is like seed sown in a field; it is like yeast that, when mixed into dough, will cause everything to rise.

It is like a net thrown into the sea that catches every kind of fish.

It is like the landowner who forgives great debts.

It is the place that belongs to the children, to the poor, to the vulnerable.

The kingdom of heaven has drawn near; the kingdom of heaven is at hand.

And if we hear the words Jesus says about heaven, and we can stop looking up long enough to listen, we might realize that he seems to be talking about something very real, very present, very much available to us here and now.

This was something his first disciples had to find out after he ascended. Their great immediate concern was about where he had gone and when he might come back because, of course, they missed him terribly. They felt lost and without direction when he was gone. But gradually they began putting the pieces together, the things they had learned from him, and what they grew to understand was that he left them responsible, in some sense, for this beautiful kingdom.

He left them responsible for building the church, so every person on earth might have a taste of the kingdom of heaven.

And this is our inheritance too. This is our responsibility and gift. To uphold the body of Christ – the church; to share the vision we have been given; to offer to others the kingdom of heaven.

During this season of Easter, we have been looking at all the elements that are at the heart of being church. And we have also been in the midst of our annual stewardship season. That is not a weird coincidence. Because good stewardship is at the heart of being church.

According to Genesis, God created humans to be stewards over the whole of creation – to care for it, protect it, and nurture it. I believe that caring for creation is about doing what we can to ensure its continuance for future generations. 

In the gospel, Jesus made his followers the stewards of his church. In the same way, I believe that caring for the church is about doing what we can to ensure its continuance for future generations. To ensure that the church carries out its mission in the world.

This means that while we look back, with gratitude, we also look forward with a sense of commitment. 

When I was a seminarian, I heard the Reverend James Forbes preach in our seminary chapel. The Senior Minister at the Riverside Church in Manhattan, Reverend Forbes was a powerful preacher, full of the Spirit. After the service I approached him, and, apropos of nothing, I started telling him about my father-in-law, Peter Hill, who had also been a preacher. Peter was someone who inspired me on my journey, someone who meant a lot to me. He had died several months earlier at the time I was meeting Reverend Forbes. 

Reverend Forbes held on to my hand and listened to me intently. And then he leaned in and said to me, “And now it’s on you.”

I really did not know what the future held for me in that moment. But I knew what he was saying to me: step up; take on the mantle; give your life in service to Christ’s church.

And because in the Presbyterian Church we do not order ourselves hierarchically, I can say to you that the calling for each one of us is the same: step up. We are all called to give of ourselves in service to Christ’s church.

We are called to give freely, from a desire to see the church be the best we can be. We are called to give generously, from the knowledge that we receive God’s gifts freely and abundantly. Like the character Xi, we may know that a sense of scarcity brings harm to a community in all kinds of ways. But trust in God’s good abundance empowers us to do more than we might have imagined.

It is our calling as Christians to work together to carry out the mission of the church, sometimes working through tension and disagreement. We allow love to carry us through any conflict, seeking understanding and reconciliation, because our wholehearted commitment is to Christ’s church. It is our duty to support the church with our time, with our talents, our energy, our particular gifts of the Spirit, as well as our material possessions. Our giving to the church, in all its forms, is an act of faith, an act of gratitude, an act of love, knowing that all we have to give is pure gift, given to us by our Creator.

Now it’s on me and you.

Because 2000 years ago Jesus left his church in the hands of a few disciples. He could see the potential that was in them. Through the eyes of our hearts, we can see it too: what might be. We can see the possible.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

For Keeps

1 Peter 3:13-22

John 14:15-21

One Sunday years ago I took a small group of college students to a little Quaker church. Actually, it’s called a meeting house.  This was in Millville, Pennsylvania, the Millville Friends Meeting, which has been there a long time – since 1795.  It is a very small, simple, old building with plain wooden pews.  In the front of the room there’s no pulpit because most Quakers don’t have preachers.  They are known for worshiping in silence and waiting on the Holy Spirit to speak to them. When someone feels inspired by the Spirit to share something, he or she will simply stand up and say what is on their heart and mind.

There were a couple of long benches in the front of the room that faced the pews, sort of like a choir loft, I guess.  We were invited to sit there so that we could watch things as they unfolded, so we did. The worship hour began and there was a long period of silence.

Then, someone stood and spoke briefly. Shortly after, another person stood and said something. It was all very calm and mostly quiet. From my seat in front, I found myself most interested in a family sitting toward the back. A father and mother with three young children. The children sat, leaning against mom and dad, all quiet and serene.  And I thought it was amazing.

After the worship ended I told the mother how impressed I was that her children were able to sit so calmly and quietly during the hour. She told me the whole family really treasured this time together – to be able to sit with one another, to just hold one another and rest in the silence. During the rest of the week, they led busy, active lives just like every other family we knew. But for this one hour of the week, they really valued the quiet.

So, I guess that’s something the Quakers have going on. They are offering something that we need – quiet. But most of us probably don’t even realize we need it, because we are so used to its absence. It’s not easy to find quiet in our world.  Even in our homes when we are sleeping, our appliances are still humming away. Even when we are not talking to one another, our TV’s and phones, and computers are making noise, talking to us. But without the quiet we are missing something we need.

This was something I had in mind when I was serving a church with a preschool on site. I wanted to offer Children’s Chapel. It was something I learned about from a colleague, who developed it in her congregation. It is a way for very young children to participate fully in the spiritual life of the church. 

Once a month the children and the teachers would walk in straight lines from their classrooms to the sanctuary. I wanted to do it every week but settled for monthly. When they arrived at the door, I would remind them that in this place we move more slowly, and we talk more softly; that in this place we are meeting God. This was just to help them transition, to quiet their spirits, to ready them for worship.

We would sit in a circle on the floor. I would guide them in taking a couple of deep breaths. 

Then we would greet one another with the ancient words of the church – 

The Lord be with you. And also with you.

We always lit a candle and I would remind them that God is here, and God is the light of the world.

And then we would begin to do the most amazing thing – we shared our joys and concerns. Because we all cared about one another and all the good and bad things that were going on in our lives. Here is something very important for us to know: Children understand that life holds both joys and sadnesses. It is the adults who think we can, somehow, prevent any sadness from impacting their lives.

After we shared our joys and concerns with one another, we shared all these things with God, who is with us, loves us, and cares for all the little and big things in our lives. Just like we do here.

Before sending the children back to their classrooms, we did one more thing: we blessed one another with these words: God made you, God loves you, and God is always with you. Now and then, parents would tell us that their children were taking this practice home with them.

When we come together in this place, we draw close to one another and we draw close to God. For many reasons, all kinds of reasons that matter. We come here because we have friends here whom we love – or we come here because we are looking for friends.  We come here because we have a need, a hunger, we are looking to fill – a hunger for love, for purpose, for joy, for peace. And maybe we will find what we need here. 

We come here because the spirit in us is calling out to the Spirit of God in this world – it’s like a little dog tugging on the leash when they see another dog and want to be closer. Maybe your spirit is the little dog that senses the Spirit of God here and wants to draw near. 

We come here because that same Spirit of God is whispering to us, calling us to be a part of God’s work in the world – somehow.

When we come together in this place we breathe deeply, knowing that with each breath we are filled with God’s Spirit. That it is like Jesus said, “I am in the Father, and you are in me and I am in you.” That God is as near to us as our breath. 

And a little bit of quiet sometimes is what you need to know this: that God made you, God loves you, and God is always with you. For keeps. 

With Steadfast Love

Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

John 14:1-14

Lyndon Johnson had a long and prolific career in elected politics before he became president. He represented Texas in the House of Representatives for 12 years, then the Senate for another 12 years. 

Johnson was well-loved in Texas for serving his constituents well, especially in and around Johnson City. Back when I lived in Texas, driving through this area of the Texas Hill Country, I noticed a surprising number of little rest stops along the road. They weren’t fancy like the rest areas we are used to now, with all kinds of amenities for weary and bored travelers. These rest areas consisted of a couple of picnic tables and benches, a trash can. They were well-tended and attractive. And they popped up about every mile or so. 

One could argue that this was excessive, a profligate number of rest stops. But no one could ever accuse LBJ of neglecting the needs of his constituents. If they needed work – well, there would always be jobs building rest stops. And this ensured there would always be a place to stop and rest for the weary traveler.

I thought about this unusual feature of the Hill Country landscape as I was thinking about the words Jesus speaks in our passage from John’s gospel: In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. Because a dwelling place may be temporary as well as permanent. A dwelling place is a place to rest.

And Jesus offers this as comfort: In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. 

I have often been drawn to this passage for funerals. The image of God’s many dwelling places, or rooms, gives us some comfort when we are trying to imagine where our dearly departed ones are now. 

I sometimes let my imagination run with this and try to envision just what this person’s dwelling place might be like. I think about the special gifts they had in their life here on earth and how might God continue to allow room for those gifts to flourish in heaven.

It’s an image, a promise, that many of us are hungry for. Many times I have been asked by someone to help them understand where we go after we die. We wonder for our loved ones who are no longer here with us. We wonder also for ourselves when the time comes. 

I remember several conversations with a woman thinking about her own death, which she knew would come soon. Her overwhelming fear was that she would not know where to go, how to find her loved ones, how to find her way in a strange place. For times when we are anxious or confused about life after death, something we simply cannot know in this life, these words of Jesus give comfort. There is room for you. I will be there with you. You know the way there. And so I have found this passage from John 14 to be a wonderful source of comfort and hope at the time of death.

But as useful as it is for imagining eternal life, this is not the only way for us to understand these words of Jesus. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. I go to prepare a place for you. You know the way to this place because you know me.

And I wonder: Do these words offer any guidance, hope, or comfort for our earthly sojourns? Because even if in the great scheme of things our individual lives here are brief, it doesn’t really feel that way while we are living. Every day of our lives provides new opportunities to wonder how to go forward. To be searching for the way. To desperately wish we had an operator’s instructional manual. Perhaps you, too, have cried out in prayer, “Lord, how can I know the way?”

We may feel that ache of longing for home, knowing deep in our hearts that home is just beyond our reach in these mortal bodies. We deeply desire a resting place, a safe and peace-filled room where our worries and fears dissipate, our needs are filled, where there is joy. Contentment for our souls. And we worry, often, that we don’t know how to get there. 

Thomas and Philip were worried. They stood in the same room with Jesus as he spoke these confident, assuring words: this is where I am going. It will be good, for all of us. You know the way there. Yet they were not convinced. Just show us the Father. Which sounds a little like, “I want to see the manager because I don’t believe you have the final word here.”

They were uneasy, because they didn’t feel like people who know the way. Actually, they felt so very far away from home.

This is a feeling that resides within people of faith, more or less – like this earth is not really our home, that we are aliens here who long more than anything to return home. It isn’t that we want to leave all that we love in this life. We would just sort of like to be re-situated, with all that we love, in a better place.

I think the feeling comes through in the verses of Psalm 35. In you, Lord, I seek refuge. From all that is threatening and harmful in this world, I seek my refuge – my safety and peace – in you, O Lord. God as a living and moving fortress.

Yet, there is something even more that Jesus wants to say to his followers. You know the way, he insists, because you know me. Has he not shown them, throughout the time he has spent with them, the way to live? And is this not living in Christ Jesus himself? The way, the truth, and the life?

We do not just follow him, we find our life in him. And when we live in him we live with the Father. When we live in him, in this dwelling place created for us, we are a part of the work he came for.

It seems to me that it is our mission then, as the church, to be such a dwelling place for those who seek it. Even in this place that is not our heart’s home, together we create something like home – a dwelling place for all who seek God in this world. And, in one way or another, we are all seeking to fill that God-shaped hole within us.

What does that mean for us, the church? To seek out the least ones, the lost ones? Those who are most in need of a dwelling place are the ones who suffer most on their journeys through life. 

There is a little story by Gloria Naylor about a woman whose longings were simple, very modest, much like our own: she longed for a place to call home. She dreamed of a little bungalow with a picket fence, green in her imagination. She envisioned geraniums all around the house, because they are so bright and strong. She liked the idea of flowers that weren’t too delicate. Geraniums were durable, able to withstand all kinds of adversity.

It was a dream she held for her whole life. It was amazing that she managed to hold on to the dream even while everything worked against her. No matter how hard she tried to be good, to work hard, to overcome – still, the world was hard on her and in the end, she could only find that dream of home in a bottle of cheap wine. Night after night she would go looking for that home.

This is someone who needed a dwelling place – a safe place, a caring community, a place to rest. Home.

In the Father’s house there are many dwelling places, a place for every one of us, built and sustained with God’s steadfast love. Let us be shaped into such a place.

In the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ.