| "Upstate New York, the Adirondack Mountains, earlier this weekend." Outside, red and orange leaves rustled and fell in gusts of cold north wind, while, inside, red and orange flames kindled into being, crackling upward toward the stovepipe, nipping the autumnal chill settling into our cabin-a blaze of life, and joy, and energy to counteract the cold north wind of death, and tears, and fatigue that's chilled us to the bone these past weeks, dampening our ardor for life, and causing our faith in God and goodness to flicker and somewhat fade. An hour or so later, as, outside, the sun set behind rapidly darkening mountainsides, leaving our lake valley shrouded in shadows, inside the wood fire itself had ebbed to a few red-streaked embers glowing fretfully amidst some still-smoldering stumps. Once again the sorrow and tears of weeks past started to settle in. I swung wide the cast-iron doors and poked the embers, prodding them tight against the stumps. Then I took the bellows and pumped, first slow, then faster, fanning to life fresh tongues of red and orange, rekindling the ash tree's gift of warmth and hope. "Recalling the tears, rekindling the gift"-both of these were a central part of my Adirondack reality earlier this weekend, and both also confront us here today, in this service of worship, for "recalling the tears" and "rekindling the gift" are two of the central images offered to us in today's Second Lesson, from the Second Letter to Timothy. As the author of this letter sets the scene, the apostle Paul is a prisoner awaiting trial (probably in Rome). From prison, Paul writes to Timothy as if writing to a son. (You see, for the past many years Timothy has served Paul as both his close associate in mission and his trusted emissary.) Paul is now recalling the tears of grief shed by Timothy (tears of grief shed first over the suffering and persecution they had so long endured together, and tears of grief shed second over the loss they were experiencing by having been separated from each other). So Paul is portrayed as writing to assure Timothy that while Paul's in prison he's praying for Timothy night and day. First, Paul is praying in order to offer thanks to God for Timothy's faith in Christ, a faith that had first taken life in Timothy's grandmother Lois and in his mother Eunice. (You see, all three of them-Lois, Eunice, and Timothy-had probably been baptized into Christ when, many years earlier, Paul and Barnabas had come to preach in their hometown of Lystra [cf. Acts 14:1-7, 15:36-16:3]. It had probably been Paul himself, therefore, who had baptized Timothy and had ritually placed hands on his head.) And Paul's praying for Timothy night and day has a second part to it as well, the petition that amidst Timothy's sorrow and tears of grief he may still be able to rekindle the gift that God has given him in baptism (the gift of a faith that trusts in God and goodness, of a hope that yearns for God's will to be done on earth, and of a love that surrenders self to the well-being of others). Yes, in baptism, God has given Timothy a perpetual flame of faith and hope and love that can support and sustain him through life. Faith-like that which enables a bird to feel the light and begin to sing while the dawn is still dark (Rabindranath Tagore); Hope-like the pulse of a new day that gives us the grace to look up and out into the eyes of our sisters and brothers and to say simply, "Good morning" (Maya Angelou); and Love-like that which prompted so many persons last September 11th, as agony seized their world, to phone someone dearly beloved, not with cries for vengeance, but with final, tender words (Francis Clines). Yes, in baptism, God has given Timothy the gift of a perpetual flame of faith and hope and love. All, then, that remains for Timothy to do is simply to keep that flame of faith and hope and love alive, by seeing to it that it is rekindled whenever it ebbs to embers amidst the cold north wind of tragedy and sorrow. "Recalling the tears, rekindling the gift"-a task of ours as followers of Christ in a sad and weary world. In a similarly sad and melancholy time during the 19th century (1867), the English poet and essayist Matthew Arnold used a different metaphor to describe a dimming faith in God and goodness, a dimming faith like that which many of us today are experiencing. Arnold used the metaphor not of flickering flame and dampening fire but rather the metaphor of a once wide sea that's now retreating, as if a once full baptismal font were draining dry. Listen, please, to Matthew Arnold's poignant poem, "Dover Beach." I read stanzas three and four: "The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled; But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night wind down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. "Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night." Arnold's imagery resonates powerfully with our own day. His fourth stanza evokes for me images of our own crushed American dream, which, this side of September 11th, now seems so devoid of any real joy, or love, or light, or certitude, or peace, or help for pain-swept up as we are today in what Arnold calls "confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night." In the face of our tragic loss of family and friends and dreams, Arnold would suggest to us that the Sea of Faith can only retreat, with what he terms a "melancholy, long, withdrawing roar." And Arnold would suggest that the only solace remaining to us amidst the debris of our dreams destroyed is a hope that that which binds me to my loved one may remain true. Well, I would contend, that Arnold is on to something when he speaks thus of hope and love as an anchor amidst sorrow and tears, but that he isn't seeing the whole picture quite right. For I believe that in the face of such tragic loss the Sea of Faith need not retreat infinitely but can be restored to fullness. Or, as Second Timothy would picture it, amidst the tears the flame of faith in God need not be extinguished but can be rekindled, such that we continue to know God as the source for all hope and love. For it is none other than the risen Christ who assures us that in baptism we have been bound to our loving God, and that God's gift to us of the perpetual flame of faith and hope and love can be counted on to remain ever true and certain. In our services of baptism here at Rutgers Church, the officiating pastor places hands on the head of the adult or child being baptized and offers this prayer: "Defend, O God, your servant Mary, with Your heavenly grace, that she may continue yours forever and daily increase in Your Holy Spirit more and more until she comes to Your eternal realm." And I believe, with the apostle Paul, that no power in the universe-neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation-no power in the universe will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-39). Yes, in baptism, God promises us eternal love and presence. In witness to that truth, in the baptismal rite the pastor follows up the prayer that accompanies the laying on of hands by marking the sign of the cross on the forehead of the adult or child, and, in God's name, speaks this promise: "Mary, child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ's own forever." It is in the sacrament of baptism that God gives us the gift of a perpetual flame of faith and hope and love, a gift which I've sought to symbolize this morning by placing some of the Adirondacks' red and orange leaves in our baptismal font. As Second Timothy acknowledges, that flame which God has given us at times does burn low and at times does need rekindling. And it is in the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, it is in our coming to the communion table, that we experience that rekindling of God's perpetual flame. When, in the face of tragedy and death, we come anew to the communion table, God comes afresh to empower us for living, to rekindle in us the power of faith, the power of faith that can overcome grief and fatigue and cause us to blaze again with hope and love. Outside, red and orange leaves rustle and fall in gusts of cold north wind, while, inside, red and orange flames kindle into being, crackling upward, nipping the autumnal chill settling into our lives-a blaze of faith, and hope, and love to counteract the cold north wind of death, and tears, and fatigue that's chilled us to the bone these past weeks, dampening our ardor for life, and causing our faith in God and goodness to flicker and somewhat fade. And it may be that in another month, outside, once again the sun will be setting behind rapidly darkening mountainsides, leaving our valley shrouded in shadows. Inside, the fire itself will perhaps have ebbed again to a few red-streaked embers glowing fretfully amidst some still-smoldering stumps. Once again the sorrow and tears of the intervening weeks may be threatening to settle in. So we shall again swing wide the doors to the flame and poke the embers, prodding them tight against the stumps. Then, too, we shall take the bellows of the Spirit's breath and pump, first slow, then faster, fanning to life fresh tongues of flame, rekindling once more God's gift of faith and hope and love. Recalling the tears, come again to Christ's table, and rekindle the gift. Let us pray: Amen |
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