"Heart to Heart"
November 26, 2006: 25th Sunday after Pentecost, Year B
The Rev. John MacIver Gage, senior minister
United Church on the Green, UCC: New Haven, CT
www.unitedchurchonthegreen.org

Scripture:
John 12:44-50
Then Jesus cried aloud, "Whoever believes in me believes not in me but in the One who sent me. And whoever sees me sees the One who sent me. I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me should not remain in darkness. I do not judge anyone who hears my words and does not keep them, for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world. The one who rejects me and does not receive my word already has a judge; on the last day the word that I have spoken will serve as judge, for I have not spoken on my own, but the Maker who sent me has given me a commandment about what to say and what to speak. And I know that God's commandment is eternal life. What I speak, therefore, I speak just as the Maker has told me."

"May God speak through these words and make from them a holy word for us today. Amen."

Sermon:
This Sunday is the last in the church calendar before we begin a new liturgical year next week with Advent. It's usually called Christ the King Sunday, or here in the kindler, gentler United Church of Christ, where we try to avoid too much monarchical language, Reign of Christ Sunday. Either way, it's a moment of transition. It's a little like New Year's Eve, church-style, and just as we do on December 31, we have an opportunity here to examine where we've come from and where we're going to, as a community of faith.

And since we call ourselves the United Church on the Green, part of the wider Church sprung up in the footsteps of Jesus of Nazareth, shaped by his story, and guided by his spirit toward the transformation of the world, I think it would be pretty appropriate for us focus our attention there, on the heart of the matter, on Jesus. After all, as these beautiful decorations, courtesy of our friends at Orchestra New England, remind us, Advent is nearly upon us, and from there it's just a hop, skip, and a candle trim to Christmas, the feast of the nativity. Shouldn't we take a moment to ask ourselves who's coming to dinner?

So let's ask: Who is Jesus? Who was he then and who is he for us now? Who has he been for the countless generations of faithful persons who have preceded us along this Way? Who will he be for those who take up his cross after us? I would not presume... no, I would not pretend to offer you a definitive answer, and would caution you to be wary of anyone who does. As I have said often from this pulpit, for me, Jesus is the face of God turned toward the world in love. How can I possibly capture that image fully in just a few short, broad strokes this morning? I can't. Artists and authors, painters and poets, princes and peasants, saints and sinners down through the ages have tried. But to even begin to do justice to a subject so rich, so complex, so powerful and yet so delicate, so deep and high and broad would take a lifetime and more, many lives. That's why we come together here Sunday after Sunday to share the old, old story of God's love in Christ and to listen anew for the accents of the still-speaking God for us today through these words from scripture and tradition.

But, you know, it's not really my job just to tell you about Jesus, as though I were a New England missionary trying to describe snow to the residents of some South Seas island, second-hand: "Well, snow is what happens when water gets very, very cold and freezes. It's white and falls from the sky. It can be fluffy or icy, with great big flakes or tiny stinging grains. It's fun. You can ski on it, or go sledding. But it can also be dangerous. It's slippery." That might be an interesting exercise in imagination. It may even be useful, up to a point. But it's not why I'm here, not really. As a pastor, I not called simply to talk at you about Jesus, but to help us come together to build an environment, a church community, in which you can experience God at work through the spirit of Christ for yourselves, first-hand, first-heart.

So I'm not going to stand up here and rehearse the details of what scholars have unearthed about the historical Jesus, a working-class Jew living under Roman occupation in First Century Palestine. I won't take a lot of time to describe his ministry as a reform-minded wandering rabbi following in the prophetic footsteps of John the Baptizer. I won't try to tease out for you the political tensions among the Jewish priests, scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees, and Zealots as they struggled to reconcile their devotion to Yahweh God and the demands of Imperial Rome, or the messianic expectations that saturated Jewish life of the period, particularly among the ascetic Essene community along the shores of the Dead Sea. Neither will I lecture you on the literary-historical process by which the gospel texts, indeed the whole Bible, have been shaped for better or worse by communities of faith down through the ages, the multitude of ways in which these stories have been preserved or altered or suppressed in the tradition. I won't take on the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Nag-Hamadi library or the Gospel of Judas. I won't, not today, at least, because these days PBS or The Discovery Channel or Time Magazine do a much better job of that than I ever could.

It's not that all those facts aren't important. They are immensely important. It's just that while those historical deatils inform our faith, they are not the sum total of it. They form the structure, the strict haiku 5-7-5, within which the poem of our faith may come to blossom and flower. The more we know about the historical Jesus and his context and about the vagaries of two millennia of Christian history between him and us, the more we can trust our faithful imaginations to grow freely in garden of God and, watered by the Spirit, bear good fruit that will nourish us and our community and the world.

So this morning, I invite you into a different kind of sermon experience, less of a lecture and more a guided meditation. I invite you to open your ears, yes, and your minds, of course, but also your hearts. And close your eyes. Sit up straight, stretch your neck and roll your shoulders, then settle back into the pew. Feel the wood at your back, the cushion underneath you, your feet on the ground connecting you to the earth below. Let your restless hands find a home in your lap or at your sides. And let yourself become aware of your breathing. In and out. Happens all the time, but focus there for a moment. Feel how the tight places in your chest, your shoulders, your stomach are blocking the air. So hold each of those places in your consciousness for just a moment and feel them gently unwind under your attention. Then feel the air flowing in deeper with each breath. In and out, deeper and slower and more relaxed.

Slowly open the eyes of your mind and look around. You're in a library, a room filled to overflowing with books. And it's a mess. The shelves are empty, but great heaping stacks of books and boxes of magazines and newspapers surround you, all a mishmash of languages, unintelligible to you. The titles make no sense. The piles hem you in so you can barely turn around, and you cannot see the walls. But because you are centered in your breathing, this causes you no anxiety. Simply stretch out your hand and take hold of the nearest stack and begin putting them away. One after another, pick up the books and put them away. Under your hands, the books just seem to flow up onto the shelves. Gradually you clear a little space on the floor, then more and more. The work goes swiftly and easily and fills you with a sense of great satisfaction. Once the piles are cleared away, you see in the wall before front of you a door, a door you'd not seen before. It's solid, with a big brass doorknob, old and worn, right in the center. Reach out now and turn the knob and push. The door moves surprisingly lightly on its hinges as it swings outward.

And you step through to a comfortable place, the most comfortable place you've ever known. Maybe it's a clearing in a forest you found once on a hike, green and lush. Maybe it's your grandmother's kitchen, and they're cookies in the oven. Maybe it's a church, old and stony and dim, with music flowing down from the choir loft. Maybe it's your dad's woodshop, where the smell of fresh shavings fills your nostrils. Maybe it's your own living room, and you're curled up on the sofa with your cat. Maybe it's a place you've always imagined, but never been.

Wherever it may be, feel it there around you. See what you see, hear what you hear, smell what you smell. Reach out and touch it. This is your place. More than any place has ever been, this is your place. Here you feel comfortable and free and still and safe. You belong here. Feel each breath go even deeper as you the muscles in your neck and your shoulders and your hands, in your gut and your feet relax, letting go of whatever tension you may have brought with you to this safe haven. Let it go, and in its place, breathe in peace.

In the safety of this place, you hear a still small voice whispering in your heart. Again, no anxiety. This is your place, you are comfortable and safe, and this voice is familiar, like the voice of a childhood friend half-remembered. Listen to this voice, and be aware of how it may stir up images and feelings as it caresses the deep waters of your spirit. Listen and hold each of them for a moment, then let them go. They cannot harm you here. Listen now to the one who is speaking:

I am the poor one, born in a stable.
I am the Son of God, the heart of God at home in your frail flesh.
I am the Son of Man, the heart of humanity come home to the heart of God.
I am the refugee, fleeing the abuse of power.
I am the lion of Judah, champion of the widow and orphan and the stranger.
I am the living Word, the mind of God, sharper than a scalpel. I cut to the heart of the matter.
I am the teacher who nurtures wisdom.
I am the servant of all.
I am the bread of life. I am broken open to feed your soul.
I am the light of the world, come to dispel the shadows and show the way.
I am the door. Knock, and I will open for you.
I am the good shepherd. I give my life for the sheep.
I am the true vine. My spirit flows through you to bear good fruit.
I am the way—the journey, the destination, and the bridge to cross the gap.
I am the truth—not an idea to be believed, but a truth to be lived.
I am the life. In me there is abundant, meaningful life, here and now.
I am the king who reigns is justice and in peace.
I am the lamb who was slain. I know the pain of betrayal, denial, and death.
I am the resurrection. I am the way when there is no way.
I am your bride, your groom. I offer myself to you in love.
I am your eternal friend. I walk with you from birth to death and beyond. I will never leave you orphaned and alone.

As these words come to rest in your heart, you realize that you are not alone. You turn slowly and see... Jesus, who has been there all along. And Jesus says to you, .I am with you. Do not be afraid.. And in a clear, sweet flash of consciousness, you realize that you aren.t. You.re not afraid. Jesus has come to meet you here, in your place, your home, you heart. You look into the face before you, so familiar, worn, and warm, and as you do, Jesus reaches out to touch your shoulder and looks deep into your eyes. Then Jesus speaks to you, just to you, just for you... You close your eyes and listen, easy, free, unafraid, letting those words flow inward with each new breath, opening up new, unknown spaces inside you. You stand there, breathing in Jesus, one breath at a time. In and out. In and out.

And when you open the eyes of your heart again, Jesus is gone. Instead, before you once more stands the door your came through to find this safe haven. But you can feel those words imprinted on your heart now, like a habit of wholeness: "I am with you. Do not be afraid." You look down, and in your hand there is a brass key, old and worn, like the doorknob on the door, the key to this place. You know that you can come back here whenever you like. So, putting the key in your pocket and stretching out your hand, you open the door again and step through, back into the library.

Only now when you look up at the neatly ordered shelves of books lining the walls, they make sense. You can read the titles. Great leather-bound books, worn paperbacks, scrolls, slim pamphlets, spiral notebooks. Volume after volume of poetry and prose, diaries, essays, reflections and dreams and they are all open to you, anytime you care to read. And you know that, in time, you can add your own, if you like. You have belong here now, too.

One particular volume catches your eye, an old book, though not as old as some. There's some dust on the plain cover, but the name along the spine stands out clear in bright letters: United Church on the Green. Reach up and take it down from the shelf and open it. And as you begin to read, you find yourself coming back to your body here, now, slowly and easily, as though you were waking up from a nap. Supported still by your deep and regular breathing, you come back to feel the wood of the pew at your back, the cushion underneath you, your feet on the ground connecting you to the earth below. You can feel your toes and fingers, and give them a wiggle. And when you're ready, you can open your eyes once more. Take a look around, and realize that this, too, is a safe place, and it belongs to you, and to all of us. This is a place where we can learn and reflect and share. Feel that book in your hand, still. And what's more, so much more, this is a place where we can encounter Jesus, heart to heart. The key is still in your pocket. The door is open to you, now, forever.