Sermon 8.23.26 Choosing Courage in Times of Change
- standrewcin
- 14 minutes ago
- 7 min read
Have you ever been back to a place that was once familiar to you (and you to it) only to find that everything had changed?
Maybe going back for a school reunion, or a hometown; going back to a place where you had worked; a place where you knew everybody and they knew you?
The place was still the same: the buildings, the sidewalks
Your memories of the time spent there, fresh as if they happened yesterday.
Some small detail that of course you remembered well, but only after seeing it again; something indelibly imprinted on your memory that only comes back after seeing it; a crack in concrete, that one brick that was a slightly different color.
You get washed in memories and smells; the scent of yesterday; wet grass in the morning, the spine of an old book, a loved one’s morning aftershave.
Many of these things remain; nostalgic, just caught in between the sweetness of what was and the bitterness that it is lost to time.
Among all of the sights and sounds, maybe the most startling thing (if it has been a long time since you returned) is what has changed; sure, it could be a tree that once dominated the surrounding area; a victim of a storm.
It could be something new that wasn’t there before; a new neighborhood development, where once there was a field, a starbucks where once there was a mom and pop book shop.
But most of all what changes is the people.
Some are the people that walked the hallways with you, and sometimes they are the pillars that seemed like they held the roof up.
When I was in seminary, one of my favorite people at Virginia Seminary was Dennis Quivis.
He worked in the refectory, the cafeteria on campus.
Everyone knew Dennis, and Dennis knew everyone.
He worked there for decades and his father for decades before that.
Dennis lived with his father in a little house not too far off of the seminary grounds, which his family had owned for generations.
His family belonged to a tiny little Episcopal church in the old segregated projects of Alexandria, Virginia called Meade Memorial on Alfred Street.
His glasses, when he wore them, were always just a little bit smudged,
And he hardly ever made eye contact when you saw him through the little window where you dropped your dishes.
If Dennis liked you, you knew it.
If he was in a funky mood, you would say, “hey Dennis,”
And in a way that I’m sure he learned from his momma, he would stare to the side and just go “mmmhhhhmmmm….”
Most of the time, Melanie and I would eat together, and we’d see Dennis together, and Dennis would look at Mel and then he’d look at me and smile and say with his high-pitched lilt, “She’s your sweetheart, isn’t she?”
We were there when Dennis’ father passed and Dennis would cry a little, and then look up as if to ask if he was grieving properly.
We were there when he had to move out of his family’s house, because his other siblings wanted to sell the house in one of the most seller friendly markets in the nation.
We were there when Dennis retired.
And then, when we went back after graduating, of course, Dennis wasn’t there, though he still called us from time to time to ask if Melanie was my sweetheart.
We often fear change; We don’t want the pain that comes with the nostalgia.
Or so many things are changing all at once, nothing feels stable or grounded or secure.
Nothing is what it used to be.
So, we avoid people or places, we try to cover up our grief with coping mechanisms, we try to hold back time or try to take control of other things in our lives; try to make them unchangeable.
Although it is only one line in the beginning of the Book of Exodus, more of a transition statement than anything else,
I’m always struck by the phrase, “Now a king arose in Egypt, who did not know Joseph.”
On the one hand, it can be read as a kind of joke or satirical conceit.
Joseph’s name comes from an ancient Hebrew root word that means “to increase” or “to add.”
And we’ve seen that this is indeed one of the themes of Joseph’s story in the Bible.
He was able to save and increase the amount of grain before the famine in Egypt to bring two people’s together.
And here, it sets up the main conundrum of Moses’ birth story, the increasing population of the Hebrews, which scares the Egyptian Pharaoh and sets the whole Exodus into motion.
And so, at one and the same time, we hear about a king over Egypt, who not only did not know Joseph, but on a symbolic level, he also did not know what to do about increase, change, transformation,
And so, he tries to stop it.
He also does not know where the increase of his wealth and economic stability came from, upon whose labor it was built,
And so, he takes his increase of prosperity for granted.
He does not know how the increase of populations works, because he sends mid-wives (and later all of his people) to kill the baby boys.
So, this new king, we see, knows nothing about increase.
But, this line also sticks out to me, because of the aforementioned ruminations on places and people we’ve known.
My question for us today (a question that every generation must ask itself) is: How should we deal with increase and change?
Should we be like Pharaoh? Living in fear brain, worrying that some amorphous “they” will crowd “us” out?
Like Pharoah, trying to steal children from parents?
Like Pharoah, forgetting where the increase of wealth came from and who made it possible?
Like Pharaoh, trying to keep everything the same in the face of change?
Or, should we lean toward the faith and courage of the apostles to face change with renewal and transformation?
The Apostle Paul tells us that we should not be conformed to this world, but that through the renewing of our minds we should be transformed.
He goes on to intimate that it is only through this process of renewal and transformation of heart and mind that we can discern God’s will;
Only if we assess ourselves correctly, our place in the grand scheme of things, our connectedness to the people and places we’ve known and loved, our part in the building up of something bigger than ourselves.
A full knowledge that we are important in the life of the places that we live and inhabit, we are making contributions, and those people and places are nurturing us in return.
But, we also know that as a body, there will come a time when we will be the ancestors upon whose shoulders other stand, just as surely as we stand on those mighty shoulders of our own ancestors
We will hand these places on and so we need the courage like Paul to be agents of transformation and change for the good.
I think we often think of our gospel passage, where Peter declares that Jesus is the Messiah, as an important and monumental moment for Jesus.
He’s finally been recognized for who and what he is; the anointed one of God, for whom the world has been waiting since creation began.
But, it is also an earth-shaking moment for all of those around him.
It is a moment of transformation and change for everything they have known.
This is why Jesus says, “flesh and blood has not revealed this to you.”
Each of the disciples grew up with the stability and certainty of the sacrificial system of the temple.
Each of them had people and places that they had known, places where they were known; places that would no longer accept them as their faith in Jesus increased.
Each of them could rightfully have fear over how the Messiah would change and upend their lives.
Many around them would take the path of Pharaoh, the path of fear, at the monumental change that Jesus represented.
Flesh and blood often does this to us; our worries about ourselves, about if there is enough to go around, if we have enough control, if we will be forgotten, if things will change too much.
But each disciple chose the renewing of their minds and the transformation of their lives.
Each put away the concerns of flesh and blood to receive the Spirit and the promise.
We are also given this possibility; the choice of courage or fear in the face of change; the temporary and mercurial stability of white-knuckled control, or the joy of new possibilities.
I think it is amazing as a sign of this message that even now, St. Andrew’s is welcoming a new life into our church family as we speak.
Last week, Marissa prayed that she wouldn’t be here today for baby Marlee’s baby shower.
I reminded her yesterday as she was going into the hospital to give birth that it was her prayer that was being answered.
What will this church look like for baby Marlee as she grows up?
How will our fear or courage shape what we offer her?
Which will we choose to pass on to her?
I pray that we will choose a place that desires transformation through the renewing of our minds;
A place that not only welcomes visitors, but seeks out those who are not yet here.
A place where we not only show out the material benefits that our God has blessed each of us with, but we show up as worshipers, volunteers, leaders, and seekers.
The future can be daunting to consider, because we fear that the past will be lost;
We recognize that baby Marlee and all those whom we welcome into our community will never know Jeanne Hayes, or Mary Herring, Irma Tillery, Spaulding Dickerson, or Edmund Oxley.
But the future is also bright, because the courage of those who put us on this path is the same courage that we have now as our prayer for church growth says: to grow in numbers, spiritual commitment, and service to our community.
Today our Scripture puts before you courage and fear.
I say to you, choose courage and let the Spirit do her thing.
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