to those of you who remember camp so fondly: I do too... but I think you also remember how scary it was to be so close to those screaming mountain lions... and if you lived at camp you remember how good it was as well as how hard it was, which is why I love you so.
to those of you who love camping: you probably already know I'd sleep outside under the stars and blue moons with the best of you, I'm not really squeamish about that. but good grief, I really love taking long showers these days.
to those of you who don't like sermons, even of the most honest types: you can stop reading here, my dear.
022110, phinney ridge lutheran church, seattle wa.
I grew up at summer camp. No, really. We were there, all year, every year for 12 years. Our house was at the end of a dirt road nestled between a hill too steep to climb and a creek too swift to cross. Kids my age came by the hundreds from the suburbs of San Francisco and then returned to their sidewalks and streetlights after a week’s stay. They said I was so lucky to live in the woods. They loved to visit the wilderness and wished they could stay longer. I, on the other hand, lived in the wilderness. I knew better. I worried in winter that the creek would rise and flood the roads again. I remembered when the electricity was out for two weeks straight and we cooked on a propane camp stove the whole time. I became an excellent camper, of the highest order. But I hated it. I was stung by bees, bitten by mosquitos, lost on long hikes and my throat stung constantly from dust caught in my sinus—not just for a week or two each year but every day, all year. It was a real wilderness time for my whole family. The wilderness is a dangerous place. But mostly I thought of it as uncomfortable. I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t respect it. I took it for granted. I dreamed of an escape. And Really we all do. My friends from the suburbs dreamed of getting away from the cement and drug deals while I dreamed of getting away from the threat of mountain lions and forest fires.
We give in to the idea that danger is temporary or that discomfort won’t last and so we never come to respect the familiarity of discomfort or see danger as a constant companion. When I think of the Messiah in the wilderness, I want him to be a hero—even though I should know better. I want him to wave off temptation as though he were swatting mosquitos. I want him to outsmart dangers and avoid discomforts of all kinds. It is so easy to overemphasize his divinity and figure it was simple enough for him to handle wilderness and temptation, danger and discomfort. His days on earth were numbered. But the truth of the matter is that so are mine, by a God who knows what it is like to have skin that is no match for thorny brambles, bones that ache from walking too far and a heart that breaks too easily. The Messiah experienced danger and discomfort just as real and lasting as any that you and I confront. The difference between the Son of Man and this child of God is that Jesus wasn’t always planning his escape. The Christ draws near to drug dealers and comes close enough to hear the mountain lions scream—he doesn’t turn and run, nor does he expect them to arrive at perfect on their own. There was one way for the Messiah to truly come, to be with us in solidarity and perfection. It says right there in Luke’s text that he knew the discomfort of hunger pangs, just like you and I are hungry when we are really hungry. He was not just peckish and not power hungry either but hungry nonetheless with the kind of hunger that comes after a long lost connection with something beloved. He was hungry like the widower gets lonely or the orphan hopes for a mother’s embrace. This hunger is the kind that comes when the addict needs a fix or the prisoner hopes for release. But Jesus, unlike us isn’t desperate to escape it, or solve it or wish it away. He stays in it, God, with us. We can be sure that the Messiah from today’s story is after more than bread, but we can also be assured that he knows what it is like to need sustenance. He walks steadily out of the wilderness and calmly, gently, proclaims a blessing over the song of our whining bellies: He knows our hunger, He knows our need—(He brought us to this place, and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey) and He is here, with us To say You needn’t live on bread alone. In fact, the worst wilderness is not any easier to handle on a full belly because it is going to be dangerous—no matter what. I’ve traded the redwood trees of my childhood for a life among the brick buildings but I know there is more to life than my surroundings—there is my inner life to attend to. And there, I find myself still wishing to escape dangers and discomforts of all kinds.
We always want for something easier and simpler. I wanted to wake up this morning with a renewed sense of my calling, unafraid! and confidently preach my first sermon as your Vicar. But I didn’t wake up in denial of the import of this task and so I’m left wanting more and hoping to escape the wilderness of my insecurities, if just for this moment and bless you with a hopeful word. I’m out here in the wilds of internship and I am aware of the dangers of this position, deep down in my gut. It grumbles a little as it digests and suddenly I am aware of my need in a new way. I am ever more aware that I don’t need more food, I need more faith. I need to trust, to hope, to love and that means I need you. I need this community, I need this common meal to make the discomforts of life into something bearable, maybe even beautiful! I need communion with you to strengthen me for this long journey. We all need to return to this bread and water and wine as often as we can.
At the end of the day I am glad the Christ knew hunger well because I am hungry. I am glad he is not avoiding discomfort because we are hungry and hurting and wanting for more than a simple trail mix, snack-sized spirituality. And here is this bread--so big it has to be broken. We want more than a bottle of water: And here is this font overflowing with the waters of grace and purity splashing so high and loudly that we jump out of our seats when we hear it poured out for all of us. They are here, we are here Right here. You and I are out in the wilderness of our lives but we are not alone we are together with Jesus and here we will come to see that because of him this water and this bread are satisfying, they are more lasting than our discomfort, and they are not an escape from danger—they are the Truth, the Life and The Way, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
I want to publish this on my blog, is that ok?
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