As a Lamp Shining in a Dark Place
| John Wilkinson |
Third Presbyterian Church |
| February 3, 2008 |
2 Peter 1:16-21/ Matthew 17:1-9 |
“In life and in death we belong to God.” So begins
the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)’s “A Brief Statement
of Faith.” In life and in death we belong to God. That
phrase was borrowed from a statement more than 400 years its
predecessor, the Heidelberg Catechism. It is a historic claim;
it is a comforting claim; it is a radical claim – that
nothing – no power, no failure, not even death itself,
can trump our primary allegiance to God, and more so, God’s
primary allegiance to us.
Written in the 1980s, when the grip of the Cold War was still
very strong, the Brief Statement also included new affirmations
about the equality of women and men in the church, our responsibility
for the planet entrusted to our care, justice among differing
groups of people.
The statement was occasioned by the reunion of the northern
and southern branches of the Presbyterian Church, some 120 years
after the Civil War. It was also the first real effort
to produce such a statement with a truly diverse writing group
– women and men, multi-racial, elder and minister, liberal
and conservative.
The statement itself has been criticized as a kind of theological
least common denominator, but I believe it to be better than
that, much better. It summarizes our faith, what we believe,
and does so poetically and accessibly. We use it regularly in
worship here. We share it in the new member process, and just
this past Wednesday, our commissioning class read it through
and used it as a springboard for a very lively and thoughtful
theological conversation.
That diverse committee that wrote it was chaired by Jack Stotts,
a Presbyterian ethicist and seminary president. Jack would have
been my seminary president, but he left right before I got to
Chicago to head our seminary in Austin, Texas. I often joked
with him later that he stood me up. Later, when my colleague
at Fourth Presbyterian Church John Buchanan was serving as moderator
of our denomination, we lured Jack out of retirement to come
and be our resident preacher and sage, and I had the pleasure
of having an office next to his, which I would visit from time
to time to ask impertinent questions about theology and the
church. He received me graciously every time, as he did everyone.
He embodied the gospel he proclaimed. He advised me, in fact,
as I was considering moving to Rochester, and his counsel was
invaluable.
He preached in this congregation twice, in the 1980s and 1990s,
and led a theological forum that some of you will remember.
Jack Stotts died this past week, a loss that many of us are
feeling keenly.
I share that news with you for two reasons. We will need to
postpone the Lenten forum with Cynthia Campbell, Jack’s
successor at McCormick Seminary, so that she can attend his
memorial service next weekend. She very much expresses her regret
in not being here and very much looks forward to a re-scheduled
visit.
Secondly, the news of Jack’s death allows us to thank
God for this good and faithful servant, whose personal integrity
and theological perception have enriched us all, whether we
had the gift of knowing him personally or not.
***
Today represents a kind of culmination and transition, a bridge
from here to there. We have been on a liturgical roll –
from Advent to Christmas, from Epiphany to the baptism of Jesus.
And now today, the day in our liturgical calendar when we mark
the transfiguration, that pyrotechnical and nearly inexplicable
event that seals Jesus’ role and identity in a powerful
and mysterious way.
Through it all, have you noticed, is light? Lots of light.
The light of the Advent candles, of Christmas Eve, of the star,
and now this.
Jesus goes with Peter and James and John to a mountain –
and he was transfigured. His face shone brightly, his clothes
dazzled. The three disciples then see Jesus talking to Moses
and Elijah, the tradition’s symbols for the law and prophets,
and they are overshadowed by a bright cloud and a voice booms
out identifying Jesus as God’s beloved. And it is over
as soon as it starts.
Talk about light! It would put tonight’s halftime show
to shame (the game will have been decided long before that…sorry
Giants fans[1]) and will make results of this Super Tuesday
look tame by comparison.
A culmination and transition, between all of these moments
when light has been so central, to something different. Lent.
We know the light that awaits us on Easter. But we also know
the important journey we must take to get there. And we know
that it feels more than a little dark from time to time. We
know there are moments in our lives when we revert to our childhood,
when we were more than certain that a monster was under the
bed.
Those monsters are different now. Health. Relationships. Work.
Multiplied by a war, a lurching economy, an election that worries
us regardless of our political stripe. Every personal bump in
the road and every public anxiety.
And those of us – you and me – who take the church’s
claims seriously worry about its ongoing viability and sustainability.
We have been asked by our presbytery, the Presbytery of Genesee
Valley, to light a candle of solidarity with our partner congregations,
and we do so this morning.
We are vaguely mindful of short letters in the latter pages
of the New Testament. We encounter one today, called 2 Peter.
Its author and cultural setting are ultimately unknown, but
I have discovered and latched onto a phrase this morning that
seems helpful as we negotiate all of these transitions, from
this to that, from light to a Lenten journey that will lead
us through darkness.
Peter is concerned that the early church’s faith is slipping
away because Jesus had not returned immediately. It is an important
theological matter. Hold on, Peter says. Hold on to the promise
of the message. This is no myth we have been called to believe,
but an experience that we have witnessed and shared. The message,
the good news, has been confirmed to you. And then Peter tells
us that “we will do well to be attentive to this as to
a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the
morning star rises in your hearts.”
For Peter, the transfiguration speaks about Jesus, and it speaks
to the church. Beverly Gaventa writes that “to a society
accustomed to abundant light at any time and at the flick of
a switch, the metaphor of light and darkness loses much of its
strength.” (Texts for Preaching, Year A, page 169-170)
Perhaps. Is it ever really dark any more?
But even asking the question takes us to the deeper point.
* If… in life and in death we belong to God.
* If…in a broken and fearful world the Spirit gives us
courage to pray without ceasing. If…we have been given
the gift of faith so that the shadows of our personal battles
are given illumination.
* If…we have been called from east and west and north
and south to sit at table to receive nourishment from the bread
of life and sustenance from the cup of the new covenant.
* If, if, if…then darkness is never really dark, and the
light at the end of the tunnel is not a train coming at us,
like an old Road Runner cartoon, but rather this beloved one,
who is the light of the world, and who journeys with us every
step of the way, to make all things new. Our bright morning
star.
We are not so clever around here as to plan things perfectly.
But every once in awhile things line up pretty well anyway.
We will celebrate the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper today,
and on April 6 and on June 1 – the first Sundays of those
months. And on each of those days, and here is where the accidentally
clever planning comes in, we will mark an important day in the
unfolding of our capital campaign, called “Faith for the
Future.”
You have heard already about how this will happen. You will
receive mailings and e-mails. You will be invited to congregational
forums. You can peruse the website and experience PowerPoint
presentations. You will be informed to saturation, and inspired,
we hope!
We will talk about money. I like how this was presented the
other day – thinking of a big congregational chat, a conversation
among friends about the church and its vision and its needs.
At some point, you will be visited and asked to prayerfully
consider your response.
We all know how important this is, for now and for the future.
And we all know that we are being called to stretch, to think
about a vision for this congregation much more than a nuts and
bolts, bricks and mortar proposition.
But rather than architect’s plans, rather than the mechanics
of a campaign, think this morning about this table. Think about
this church. Think about faith. Think about light. Think about
what this place means to you, and what you mean to it, what
it means to you and through you and because of you – and
the ones that have gone before you and the ones that will go
after you. Think what it has meant at points of transition –
births and deaths and everything in between. Think what it has
meant and means to our children and youth, or to those in need
in our community with little in the way of physical resources.
Think what it has meant to you. And think what it has meant
because of you.
And take all of that Presbyterian thinking and move it to a
different place – to your heart and to your spirit.
And think of that table. Like a beacon for a wayward traveler
that provides guidance and direction. Like a lamp shining in
a dark place, providing illumination, and by so illuminating
you and me, reflecting off of our faces into a world in need,
a broken and fearful world that needs this light as much as
it ever has.
Whatever dark night you are experiencing, you will find light
here, not the cheap and easy light of casual spirituality and
cultural comfort, but rather the true light of incarnation and
epiphany and transfiguration.
“Even the darkness is not dark to you,” the Psalmist
writes. “The night is as bright as the day.” And
having experienced that light, can we do nothing else but be,
ourselves, as beacons, as shining agents of reconciliation and
restoration and hope – and even this church – you,
me, all of us, generations past, present, future – as
a lamp shining in a dark place. Amen.
