It’s an honor to be here with you all today at Rutgers Presbyterian Church. At this very moment, the congregation I
serve on 93rd and Broadway, Advent Lutheran is also worshipping and Pastor Leslie Merlin from Second Presbyterian Church
is preaching there. I was so pleased when the west side clergy put together this pulpit exchange to celebrate the Week
of Prayer for Christian Unity. It’s a first attempt, and wouldn’t you know we would choose the weekend of the first
major snowstorm of the winter on which to have it? What are you going to do?
But here we are, and the point of all of this is to open up these scriptures that each of our traditions holds dear
and hear a word that speaks to us right now, right here, at whatever place we each are in our own lives. These scriptures
draw us together, from our varying traditions. And these scriptures speak a powerful word for us today.
In our Gospel text from Matthew, Jesus finds himself alone. John the Baptizer has been arrested and Jesus will not
see him again. Jesus leaves his hometown of Nazareth and makes a new home elsewhere. He chooses Capernaum, a little
community located right on the Sea of Galilee. Capernaum is an historic place because it was here that the prophet
Isaiah spoke a word of hope to people who had lost everything and were living in exile. From this land of Zebulun and
Naphtali, Isaiah offers a glimpse of hope and new life to people who could not have sunk deeper in despair than they
were currently in. “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and
shadow of death, light has dawned.”
From here Jesus begins his public ministry, taking these words of Isaiah with him as he sets forth. As he is walking
by the Sea of Galilee, Jesus begins to call disciples. He starts with four fishermen, Simon Peter, Andrew, James and
John. They are the ones who will carry the same message from Isaiah with them, “people who sit in darkness can see a
great light, on those who sit in the region and shadow of death, light can dawn.”
Now I don’t know about all of you, but when I was a child, I was afraid of the dark. For some reason, every time my
family was visiting my grandmother in Wisconsin when I was growing up, my grandmother would always call upon me to go
down into the basement cellar and get the things she needed to make dinner. This was one of the scariest things I had
to do as a child. My grandmother’s cellar was pitch black, with not a glimmer of light coming in anywhere.
I had to go down this narrow staircase, which was scary by itself, and in the pitch black, slowly move into the center
of this big room to try and find the string that hung in the center of the cellar that would turn on the light. I would
close my eyes once I got to the bottom of the stairs because that way I could control the darkness. I stretched out both
of my arms as wide as I could reach and begin to walk into the center of the room. I knew that eventually one of my arms
would hit that string and then I could quickly turn on the light, get what I had to get, turn off the light and dash up
the stairs as fast as I could.
The light exposed everything. It exposed what I wanted to see like the things my grandmother wanted me to bring
upstairs. But it also exposed things that I didn’t want to see, like living creatures that would dash out of sight as
soon as the light came on. It exposed dust and broken pieces of furniture that might get fixed someday. It exposed
chaos and disorder. It exposed memories packed away in cardboard boxes with some of the lids halfway open, photos
peeking out from within. The light didn’t just expose the good. It exposed everything. Everything was seen in the
light. And by being seen, everything could be known.
These disciples in our gospel text for today took a great risk when they stepped out of those boats and into the
light of Christ. That light would expose everything in their lives, both the good and the bad. But Jesus took all of
it. Jesus himself had to step out of his familiar hometown in order that the great light he was called to bring forth
could be shared with the world. Everything about the gospel of Jesus is about risks, stepping forward with the
confidence that there is a light out there and that in allowing all that is within to be exposed to the light, we can be
cleansed and healed. None of this great gospel story took place without people willing to take risks for the sake of
their faith.
In the Lutheran tradition, we talk a lot about grace. Everything is based on the grace of God and we believe that we
don’t deserve God’s unfathomable grace and there is nothing we can do to earn it. But, I’ll tell you, taking risks
involves choice. We have the choice in whether we’re willing to take risks for the sake of our faith, whether we’re
willing to step out of the boat and expose ourselves to the light that comes from Jesus Christ. It’s much easier to
stay in the boat. Or stay at the top of the stairs and never enter the darkness. But the Christian life is all about
risk-taking, believing that the light is there, allowing ourselves to be fully exposed to the light and then stepping
out into a world that believes it can create its own light. We bring the true light that comes to us through Jesus into
a world enclosed in its own false brilliance.
A story is told of the elderly Catholic priest of a small, rural parish in eastern France. A stalwart, pillar family
of the parish had a son who lived with deep depression for many years. After years of struggle, this young man took his
own life. In keeping with the tradition, it was decided that this man could not be buried in the parish cemetery because
he had committed suicide. So his body was buried just outside of the cemetery fence. A small stone was put up marking
the grave and the family chose not to put their name on the stone because of their humiliation.
The priest writes that he could not sleep the night of the burial because all that was captured in his mind was a
vision of this child of God resting outside of God’s gracious arms. Somehow, the priest could not rest with this image.
And so, the next night, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, the priest went out to the grave and lifted up
the cemetery fence and moved the fence out so that this young man’s grave was inside it. He didn’t utter a word about
this to anyone. A few days later, when he went to visit the grave once again, he saw that someone had carved the name
of the boy on the stone. The priest never discovered who did this. But he wondered if perhaps God, the great sculptor,
had carved the name of one of his precious children on this small stone that marked his difficult life. This was a
child who fell within God’s gracious arms, despite what the tradition said.
Faith in Jesus demands that we take risks, that we step out of the boat, that we move the fences of the world so that
no one falls outside of God’s grace. It is our choice to be risk takers for the sake of the Gospel. To follow the scared
disciples and search through the darkness for a light we know is there. Faith in Jesus demands that we allow all of
ourselves, everything that we are and ever hope to be, to be exposed to the cleansing, healing light of Christ. We have
to get out of the boat first, and Jesus will meet us there.