Change the World

Chaplain Mel Baars

June 24, 2012

Presbyterian Church of Chestertown

"Go into the whole world and proclaim the good news to every creature." (Mark 16:15)

Throughout the week, our Vacation Bible School has been learning new insights of faith each day by “diving into” God’s word. On Monday, we learned how to - DEPEND ON GOD - through Proverbs 3:5 which says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, don't rely on your own intelligence." Tuesday’s lesson - DARE TO CARE - came from the gospel of Matthew 22:39, "You must love your neighbor as you love yourself." On Wednesday, we learned to- CLAIM JESUS - remembering this well known passage from John 3:16, "For God so loved the world ..." Thursday’s story, from Joshua 25:15, taught us that we should - CHOOSE TO FOLLOW - and we learned these words, "Choose today whom you will serve ... but my family and I will serve the Lord." Finally, on Friday, we learned that we are all commissioned to - CHANGE THE WORLD - by "Going into the whole world and proclaiming the good news to every creature." It is this verse from Mark 16:15 which is our gospel reading for this morning. It’s not every day that the gospel is just one, short verse. You got lucky. Nonetheless, through Mark’s gospel we remember a very important message about who God has called us all to be, people who share good news.

Listen as I read our gospel verse for today from the gospel of Mark chapter 16 verse 15, 

“Go into the whole world and proclaim the good news to every creature.” 

This is the word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.

             

Believe it or not, my grandmother is one of the most technologically savvy people that I know. Long before I had a digital camera or a phone with internet or a keyboard for texting, she did. She was always ahead of the game, coxing us along to get with the program. I never know what new thing she is going to be up to. About a year ago, I got an email from her, sent through her Blackberry no less, inviting me to view a series of videos on her website which she had just digitized from old VHS technology. She was hoping to keep the footage preserved much longer than the tapes could ever guarantee. The video she sent out was mostly a string of random family Christmases and birthday parties. Dispersed throughout these holiday clips were a few other videos of me as a small child, standing on top of our fireplace hearth, equipped with my mother’s hair brush as a microphone, singing a variety of Vacation Bible School songs that I had learned at church over a number of consecutive summers. One performance was of a song called God is Love. Another, was of a song that many of you know well, He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands, and then, perhaps the favorite of my childhood VBS songs, Jesus Loves the Little Children.

Like most of our children, actually most in this room, I, too, have been singing songs about God and God’s love for the whole world since I was barely old enough to speak distinguishable  words, certainly long before I knew what any of these words really meant. I doubt many of us can pin point the first time we learned Jesus Loves Me or Jesus Loves the Little Children or any of our other VBS classics, but these are the songs, the words, that first taught us about God, who God is in our lives, and who God is calling us to be from our youth until we take our final breath. I may not remember the first time I sang “red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world,” but in almost thirty years, I have never forgotten these words. I have never forgotten the awesome notion that even when I have been at a loss in how I might love others from different places or backgrounds, God has been and continues to be at work, paving a way for all of us, showing us what this kind of faithfulness can look like. 

Watching my post-VBS performances and being present this week as PCC “dove in” for another wonderful week of Vacation Bible School, welcoming children from across Kent County and even beyond that, I have realized that there is a real theology present in these songs. They may be simple, but they are absolutely pertinent to our understanding of discipleship. If you listen carefully to the words, there are important lessons to learn about faith, lessons as important for us as adult as they are for our VBS participants. In many ways, some obvious and others hidden deep inside of us, these words, their meaning, their promise, and even their demand, to go out and to share the good news, become our lifeblood. They are at work in us even when we don’t realize it. Their melodies run through us, reminding us in whispers and in bits of phrases, that we are loved, that we have work to do in the world, that our strength and courage come from God, that God is with us always until the very end of the age.

It should be no surprise that I was particularly struck with the words of the theme song of our last day of VBS, “Change the World.” It echos our gospel “passage” for this morning found toward the very end of Mark’s gospel, so far toward the end that it is in a section entitled “the longer ending of Mark." In this verse, Jesus’ disciples, his followers as we learned this week in VBS, because a disciple is “one who follows,” were told this: “Go into the whole world and proclaim the good news to every creature." (Mark 16:15) This verse tells us how we are to be a part of God’s changing the world, God’s ultimate restoration of all of creation. After all, it is God who is doing the changing and restoring. It is us who are vehicles of this change. We are the hands and feet of Jesus, reaching out to every creature wherever we go.

Listening, even this morning, as our kids sang “Change the World,” it struck me how significant it is that we not only teach our children these songs as a part of a week of Bible school which includes great food, fellowship, and fun, but also, that we show them what sharing this Good News looks like, here and now in our community and even reaching beyond our own borders to other places and peoples who, despite distance or experience or even understanding of God, are still a part of us, still apart of that whole wide world which God is holding in holy hands. 

We are hands and feet of Jesus... knitting warm sweaters, scarves, and hats or a bear which might bring comfort to a child in Afghanistan or South Africa or even in our own backyard, as we  recognize that there are many who need the love and support of a community of faith...

We are hands and feet of Jesus... sewing backpacks and collecting school supplies so that kids in Kent County and in other parts of the world may have more of a chance to thrive in school, so that perhaps, one day, these kids, too, may be a vehicle of change in their communities...  

We are hands and feet of Jesus... supporting malaria nets for mothers and children in Malawi or the Responsible Fathers Program as a part of Shared Opportunity Service, Inc in Kent County. It’s hands and feet, one hand and one foot at a time. It’s sewing seeds, when the landscape is fallow and dormant, trusting that God is going to do what God always does, create something good.

On my way home from Afghanistan last week, I had a fascinating conversation on one of my many flights with a bright young man, just a few years younger than me, about the state of our nation and the future of the world. Now, granted I had been traveling for more than five days, and I was not on the tip top of my game. But, as I listened to him regale his dismay of the present situation and go on at length about the hopelessness he perceived which only seemed to be getting worse, it dawned on me that what this young man really needed to do was head to the Eastern Shore and the Presbyterian Church for a week of Vacation Bible School. Because no matter how hard things may seem or how much the darkness may threaten to extinguish whatever light remains, when we come together and remember these simple truths, that God is love, that God does have the whole world in God’s hands and that because of God’s boundless love for every color and flavor and shape and size, hope is hard to ignore. This is why, eight months ago, I made the decision to come here for my leave from the Army. I had no idea then what my Afghanistan experience might turn out to be, but I figured that a reminder of some of the ways that God is working for good might help me find the strength and the courage to continue with the mission upon which God has called me.

In these past few days, I feel that I have become a little like a broken record, making vain attempts to thank you for all the ways that you have reached out into the whole world, proclaiming the good news to every creature, particularly in Afghanistan. I have had the privilege to share stories of some of the kids who have benefitted from your generosity or the soldiers, sailors, and airmen whose lives have been made a little brighter because of your care and support. But, for just a moment, I want to paint a more vivid picture. First, you need to imagine the colors gray and gray with some brown, and then more gray and lots of rocks. This is our landscape-- literally and figuratively. There is very little color and as the time goes on, it sometimes feels as if whatever color exists is being slowly drained away. 

With this as our backdrop, I want you to imagine some other things, too. Imagine the picture of our congregation taken last November, which was included in the Christmas cards that you sent to every member of Task Force Viper, imagine this picture taped and pinned on computers, walls, and bulletin boards so that daily, throughout our camp, I see you smiling at me. Imagine your blue Christmas cards with a handprinted dove and these four simple words, “And on Earth Peace.” Talk about proclaiming good news. Imagine over a hundred and fifty Afghan women and children, leaving the local hospital with brightly colored fleece blankets with your hearts sewn subtlety their edges. Imagine children, the same age and size as the ones who were just singing here, maybe with the same energy and love and dreams for a better, less violent tomorrow, wearing their new backpacks filled with pencils and crayons and paper. Imagine all this immense color. Imagine all this hope which you have continued to offer over these months. 

"Go into the whole world and proclaim the good news to every creature." (Mark 16:15) Sometimes it’s hard to know where to begin in this task of changing the world, of bringing fullness of life into places of pain and sorrow, of bringing light into what has been a dark and endless night. It is a daunting task, which is why we never endeavor to share good news all by ourselves. While very few of you have been to Afghanistan, at least physically speaking, you have been there through me, as I have been there all this time with you. Wherever it is that we are called to go, when we go out into the whole wide world, we go hand and hand, as a community of faith. This is the way we proclaim Good News to every creature. We are all witnesses of God’s transforming and changing love from our very first church days at VBS all the way to our very ending. Going out and sharing Good News, in the way we live, in the way we serve, and in the way we love one another. This is what it means to follow Jesus. This is how we change the world. Really, there is no other way. Amen.

Operation Pencil Visits the Egyptian Hospital

"What is true of the individual will be tomorrow true of the whole nation if individuals will but refuse to lose heart and hope." ~Mahatma Gandhi


Hope has been the theme of this past week. Sunday morning, I preached about it and then, throughout the week, I had the opportunity to see it working in our midst, as members of Operation Pencil traveled to the Egyptian Hospital to give away over 450 backpacks of school supplies to local Afghan children from a primary school just outside our walls. None of us knew what to expect when we invited the principal and his teachers and pupils to come and join us for a day of celebrating education in Afghanistan. Yet, as soon as the students began flooding into the hospital compound, we realized what an exciting opportunity we had been afforded. 


One of the more talented artists in our group painted a banner with the Operation Pencil logo on it so that we could hang it up for all participants to sign, our volunteers as well as the children and teachers. When the students, who were ages 7-12, first arrived, we greeted them with permanent markers and an opportunity to make their special mark. While some quickly signed the banner, others took time, diligently writing their names and sometimes adding an extra word or two. One even wrote a poem about Afghanistan being the lifeblood of this region. A few of the teachers hovered closely, correcting some of the writing and encouraging their students to be brave with their signatures. Because our volunteers also took time to sign the banner, it was filled quickly with both English and Dari. In the end, over 500 people signed their names, reminding us that in many ways, our collective future is inextricably bound.


As the students waited in the courtyard for their backpacks, volunteers threw Frisbees and kicked the ball back and forth. There were more smiles than actual words exchanged, and no doubt, laughter reverberated between the primitive buildings and the guard towers that protect the perimeter of the airbase. Though we only spent a few hours with the children, hosting them in groups of fifty at a time, their company was a breath of fresh air after some very long weeks of suffocation.


Most of the Operation Pencil volunteers  either guard the detainees or man the prison watchtowers on twelve hour shifts. They live a perpetual Groundhog Day, weeks on end, and with the change of deployment cycles, those who are only serving nine month tours, don’t get an opportunity for a break. While many assume that volunteering is going above and beyond one’s duty, especially in a combat zone, those of us who volunteer here acknowledge that our service is more for us and our sense of purpose than anything else. A chance to get away from camp and interact with locals, in any capacity, is almost as good as going out into a village. For many of us, this is as close as we will come to the heart of this place and this people. It is an invaluable opportunity. 


 When I have talked to my soldiers in the days that have followed our hospital visits, most of them recount a story of their favorite student, of the little boy with the widest grin, the child who didn’t want to stop throwing the frisbee, even to receive his brand new backpack, or the sole girl who walked in proudly with her Afghan brothers, curious to meet new friends. These are the memories that we will hold on to as we weather the end of our deployment and prepare for going home. The exchange of smiles, the moment of unspoken appreciation, the high five and thumbs up, still international gestures of good will, these images will linger with us much longer than the drudgery and long, grueling days of what has, at least some of the time, felt like internment.  


In the end, our backpack giveaways were a reminder that hope is alive and well, even in this place where good news is rare. This became particularly clear to me as I spent over an hour with an eleven year old girl who was a patient at the hospital; she and her family had traveled two days in order for her to receive medical treatment. The first time I met her, she quietly, but boldly, wrote her name in English on our banner. Roshna  in Dari means “light.” I couldn’t believe that this girl, with an IV protruding from her frail, tiny arm, not only knew how to speak some English but also knew how to write it. When she appeared again the second day, not interested in the school supplies but just wanting to talk to us, I realized how remarkable she was not just to me, but to Afghanistan as a whole. That a little girl would be so brave to speak for over an hour to American soldiers with weapons and body armor, through a male interpreter, helped me see that, even in the depths of this darkness, a light still shines. I met hope in a girl named Roshna. Her light, though small, is surely enough to catch fire. 

"Choose Hope" - Sunday Sermon, June 10, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

Psalm 130

June 10, 2012

“Choose Hope”

If you have ever been to my office, you know that I love “snail” mail. My walls are almost completely covered with letters and cards that I have received over the last eight months. I just can’t bring myself to throw mail away, even when the correspondence is from a stranger. If it is addressed to me personally, then I have found room for it on one of my walls. A few weeks ago, I got a card from a friend which really got my attention. It was simple. On the front, in water colors, was an “H” and then, written in thin, almost unnoticeable script, were these two words, “Choose Hope.” I wouldn’t have even seen these two small words on the front of the card if the sender had not pointed them out to me in her message. That is how camouflaged they were within the bigger picture. But, once I noticed them, these words became the most prominent piece of the card’s front design.

Choose hope. When stated like that, choosing hope appears to be a seemingly uncomplicated choice. Choose hope, kind of like choosing a tooth paste brand or a new pair of running shoes. As simple as this concept may have seemed, I know better. I decided to tape the card in a place on my wall where I would see it often. Despite the fact that hope is a simple choice, and despite even, our knowledge of God’s steadfast ways, I still forget that hope is an active, and sometimes even risky, choice that we each have to make each and every day. No matter how much I believe, or at least want to believe, that hope is working in the world, it is so easy to lose sight of it. From broken relationships, interminable violence or illness or both, the wounds that don’t seem to ever fully heal -- considering all that we are bombarded with each day,  it’s easy to miss hope altogether.

In this deployed environment, no matter how many months it has been, it is always an appropriate time to visit and revisit the subject of hope. Here, in our camp, we work with detainees, some of us with our “hands on,” as guards, medical professionals, interrogators, others of us as supportive elements to the mission of detainee operations. While there are occasional glimpses of hope, kindness shown when we least expect it or even the smallest acknowledgement of gratitude, mostly what we see and deal with is anything and everything but hopeful.

The past few weeks of local news have not helped much either. We have had some of our deadliest days where suicide bombers and vehicle born explosive devises have wreaked havoc, the civilian death tolls reaching previously unseen heights. Just a few days ago, another girls school was poisoned, which makes at least six schools for girls targeted in the last few months. Afghan teachers and principals along with government officials have been arrested as a part of the these horrendous acts. It’s hard to imagine who would target innocent children. Yet, it happens, again and again. In the face of this and other difficult, even devastating realities in our world, the light of hope is often made very dim.

So what of these three things: faith, hope, love. These are our watchwords; they are cornerstones of our lives with God. They are at the very heart of God which means that they should also be at the heart of our lives with God and with one another. Faith, hope, and love. As much as they are separate ideas, they are also so intertwined that they cannot ever be fully distilled from the other. To have faith in God requires hope that God will make good on all the promises that have been made. To have hope is to believe that despite the evidence to the contrary, love is possible. As J.R.R. Tolkien once said as a part of his Lord of the Rings trilogy, “Though the world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is mingled with grief, love grows perhaps the greater."^[1] Though we may not see it, hope means that we believe that love is working in the world, mending and healing even the impossible wounds that we carry around with us.

And, this is all very good news. Except that most of the time, we don’t live like we believe it. We are so beat down that one foot in front of the other is as good as it gets, and on some days, for some of us, even that is a stretch. It is from this place, from this dark and deep place of pain, that our psalmist cries out to God, saying, “Out of the very depths, I cry to you O Lord.” This is how it all begins. And, thank God for the psalmist and his courage to give voice to the suffering that he is experiencing. I wish we would follow his lead more often. Out of all that he utters in these eight verses, his naming of where he is, just how far gone he has become, this is an incredible act of bravery. And, as they say, naming the problem is half the battle. This is exactly what he does when he calls out to God, asking for an audience, recognizing that he is lost and in need of being saved by someone other than himself.

I have to wonder how our psalmist landed in these depths in the first place. Was it a result of his choices or someone else's? Could it have been natural disaster or just plain bad luck? We really have no way of knowing, which is one reason this psalm has the power to resonate with so many people. People end up in the depths for many reasons-- too many to account for here. No doubt, there are times when our choices yield very painful consequences. But, sometimes we have little control of the way that life unfolds around us. Often, it is the choice of someone else which has a ripple effect whether on a single relationship, a family, or a whole community, bringing with it a cloud of darkness. Blame and pain are not always partners in crime. Think about Job or even the cross. There was no reason for either Job or Jesus to be cast into the pit, but they both were. This is life. As my own father has reminded me whenever I have struggled with my own suffering and grief, at times, life is just plain tragic. It hurts. It brings us to our knees.

When the psalmist mentions iniquities, he opens the door to the reality of sin, of a creation that is cracked and broken apart. Yet, he does not claim these iniquities for himself or place the cause of his pain elsewhere. Instead what he does is make a subtle point. Wherever the blame may lie, at the end of the day, suffering is a rampant issue. The whole human family is threatened by the broken shards of glass which are continually shattered by sin-- individual, communal, collective-- so where do we go from here?

Over these eight verses, the setting of our psalm doesn’t change. We begin in the depths and we end there, too. But, what does change is the psalmist's outlook on the darkness that surrounds him. With some time and maybe even a little perspective, and most importantly, growing patience, he remembers something that he had forgotten. Even in the pit, with no light in sight, with nothing but darkness as company, he remembers God. He remembers that God is still at work. This is hope. It is what the psalmist holds on to when there is literally nothing else.

Like every good poet, our psalmist helps us to see the significance of waiting, by his use of repetition. We he says, “My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning,” he gives us a palpable example of the difficulty of waiting. I am willing to bet that every one of us has had the pre-dawn shift of watch at one time or another in our military careers, even me. It’s the hardest shift because, even when we know, inevitably that the sun will rise, watching for it to actually happen, is like watching for water to boil. It’s almost impossible. There is this moment when, despite knowledge of science and physics and whatever else, it feels like it’s never going to happen.

For those of us who live in a world of instant gratification, of constant communication, of texting and updating, and emailing and gchating and more, waiting is a tall order. It is one of the hardest things that we will ever do. But, just as it was then, when our psalmist cried out to God from the depths, the practice of waiting is an important part of participation in a community of faith, hope, and love. For when we wait with faith and hope and love, we become witnesses to the work that God is doing in the world, even here, even now.

One of my favorite theologians and priests, Henri Nouwen, wrote extensively about his own struggles with suffering and the prayers he prayed because of the pain that he experienced deep in his own pit. One of my favorite quotes of his about hope is this, “When you pray with hope, you turn yourself toward a God who will bring forth his promises; it is enough to know that He is a faithful God.”^[2] The depths may still be dark, at times pain and grief may threaten to undo what we love most, but with open hands and hearts, we can still choose hope. For God has promised to make good out of our ashes. Surely, this promise is enough. Amen.

      

---

^[1] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring. Harper Collins, 2002

^[2] Henri Nouwen. With Open Hands. Ave Maria Press: Notre Dame, IN, 1995

0500 Hours

It’s not that I hate mornings. In fact, I can be quite a happy person, even during pre-dawn hours, as long as I have had a decent night’s sleep. When I was in high school and traveled with my church youth group, a few of the other kids specifically asked that I not speak to them in the morning. I was too cheerful, which just made them angrier. And, since they really did like me, they hoped to taper their rage as much as possible before engaging in any conversation.

This deployment has skewed time in many ways. Most of us stay in the office until nine or ten at night, sometimes working and sometimes just hanging out because there isn’t much else to do or many other places to go. Even though this is the Army, in a deployed environment there is no morning reveille. Rarely do I start my day before eight, and that’s only when I have a special event on my calendar. I try my best to avoid that scenario. So, the other day when our unit had an early morning run scheduled, I was shocked to discover that the sun is up at 0500 hours during Afghanistan’s late spring and summer months.

Admittedly, I have never loved waking up before the sun. When I used to work out regularly in the morning, not only would I dread the sound of my alarm, but also I would cringe at setting the alarm in the first place-- it was almost a visceral response to seeing such an ungodly time. By the time the day had broken fully, and we were back from our run, all of my regret of the early wake up call was forgotten. The repose of dawn is different than any other moment of the day. Stillness covers the earth like a blanket. The quiet of the lingering night continues to rock back and forth as more and more light creeps and then eventually begins to overflow into the new day. Whenever I do wake up in time to witness and breathe in the beginning of a day, I am never disappointed.

It’s just that I can never seem to get to bed at a reasonable hour. As long as there are people awake and willing to have conversation, I hate to miss out. Most of the guys can’t believe that I can spend over an hour talking to someone in the bathroom, but it happens on a regular basis. There are certain people who I look forward to seeing there, as odd as that may sound, and it’s midnight before we realize just how much time has passed. It’s easier to put the place to bed rather than to wake it up the next morning.

Almost eight months into this deployment, I have discovered that one of my biggest challenges is knowing when to give it a rest. My extroversion has saved me on many a long, jam-packed day, but over weeks and months, it adds up. I never realized how much I appreciated space until I came to a place where there was none. And, of course, we make the best of it. I steal a moment on the balcony of our little building, as I wait for a friend, or I sit in the darkness of my room a few minutes more than I normally would, especially if my roommate happens to be working a different shift. There are plenty of creative ways to make space, but what I have learned is that when a window of opportunity arrises for a quiet moment, I can’t let it pass me by. Another one may not be in the cards for some time.

I hope I don’t see 0500 again any time soon, but in a way, those few hours were some of the most peaceful I have experienced in Afghanistan. When it happens again, I will remember how grateful I am for a reason to set the alarm and enjoy momentary respite from the fullness of my life in this little fish bowl we call home.

"Trinity Sunday" - Sunday Sermon, June 3, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

Isaiah 6:1-8

June 3, 2012

“Trinity Sunday”

I was feeling a little stumped about how to begin this Trinity Sunday sermon. I have only had to preach this particular Sunday one other time, a few years ago, and it seemed a little daunting then, too. Throughout the week, when I mentioned it was Trinity Sunday, I got a few very quizzical looks. I would say a good portion of regular church goers, myself included, at least until seminary training, take a very laissez-faire posture toward the Trinity. We know it’s important, but we really don’t want to dig too deeply or find ourselves in the position of having to explain it.

Three in one; Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer-- These all sound like nice theological words. If you grew up Catholic or even Episcopalian, like me, you would have encountered the Trinity every single Sunday in one of our churches oldest and most important Affirmations of Faith, the Nicene Creed written in 325 C.E. Being a very driven worshiper, I took pride in the fact that I could say the Creed without even looking at my prayer book, as if it was some kind of church contest. Of course, the best part of this Creed, in my opinion, was the part when Jesus went to hell. The fact that it was permissible to say such a word, and in church of all places, was just plain thrilling to me. Although, I did run into a slight problem when I went with friends to other churches where they said different versions of the Creed. Once, at the Methodist church, I prayed the “descended into hell” part pretty loudly, so impressed with my memorization that I didn’t realize everyone else was praying something completely different. Not one of my finer moments of piety. But, throughout all the years of saying the Creed, even as a young adult in college, I think I mostly took the Trinity for granted. I believed it, sure. I had been professing it for my entire life, but I really couldn’t explain what my belief amounted to.

Being tasked to preach about the subject or just trying to explain it to persons of other faith backgrounds who have not grown up with some implicit Trinitarian understanding has made me realize just how difficult the Trinity is to wrap one’s brain around. Some of the poorest, yet most comical, attempts to describe the Trinity will happen during children’s sermon this Sunday morning. For the “older” youth, God’s threefold nature may be likened to H2O, solid, liquid, and gas. This example is helpful, at least vaguely. We understand ice, running water, and steam, three distinct elements being strangely one in the same. These are palpable examples which we can grasp. But, this example is also limiting. It doesn’t explain is God’s characteristics, who these three persons are and what is significant about them? Why does it matter that God is three-in-one? What does this mean for us and for our faith?

Another favorite, yet heretical, example used is an egg. Surprisingly, this is a heated debate on certain theological websites. There are quite a few people that get worked up when the Trinity is likened to an egg: shell, white, and yoke. One of the problems with this example is that when you take away the shell, what is left is still “egg.” But, if you take away a person of the Trinity, then God would be incomplete. Interestingly enough, the egg example was first used by clergy in the Church of England. This further proves that even those who are trained in these subjects struggle with how to teach and articulate them. It seems that our examples and even to an extent, our language, is inadequate to explain God fully.

Human inadequacy is the overarching theme for the day, especially as we encounter our Old Testament text. The prophet’s first words are incredibly telling when he says, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” This is why I love the Old Testament so much. The prophets always keep things real, which is refreshing to say the very least. But, think about it, what would any if of us say or do if we were in Isaiah’s shoes. A vision of God on a throne, with seraphs in attendance saying ‘Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts, the whole earth is full of his glory,’ with such power that the foundation of the whole place shudders and smoke billows to the ceiling.

This scene is otherworldly, not at all what Isaiah is expecting. But then again, encountering the holy always seems to have an element of surprise and mystery. Whether God shows up in a burning bush, as an infant child in a lowly manger, or anything and everything between, when we are tuned in enough to notice a glimpse of holiness, feelings of inadequacy, of insignificance, are almost always in order. Most of us can relate in some way—holding our newborn child for the first time, hovering silently over a hospital bed as a loved one takes her final breath, beholding the majesty of mountains lit up by the first rays of sunlight—in these holy moments, there are few, if any, words to say. It’s no wonder that the prophet finds himself on his knees, confessing what he has known all along, but what has suddenly become clear in God’s presence. But by the grace of God am I.

What comes next in the story is telling, too. Once the prophet has uttered his confession aloud, once he has voiced the inadequacy that he feels, one of the seraphs intervenes. With a flutter of its wings, this creature picks up a hot coal from the altar and takes it over to the prophet, touching his lips and saying, “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Just acknowledging his smallness, his loss of direction, his need for divine healing, is enough for an intervention. It’s enough for him to be wiped clean of his faults and sin. In this moment he is recreated into something new, and all because of his confession, his willingness to respond to God’s presence with a sense of awe and reverence.

When we worship, we gather together to remember God’s enormity, we are reminded that despite all the ways we convince ourselves that we are in control, or wield significant power, have many of the answers, or continue with our advancement, ever on the cutting edge of technology or medicine… Despite all that we are capable of, what we have been able to create and achieve, there are many things that we cannot command. We are still very small. There are still times when we find ourselves on our knees, in grief or despair, with a sense of loss or wonder in the face of life’s mystery. No matter how big we get, we never outgrow God.

As Isaiah’s story goes, it’s only after he is made new that he is able to hear God calling out this question: “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”And in one of the most well known “Call” stories in the whole Bible, the prophet answers, “Here I am; Send me!” Just like that. I don’t know about you, but it feels like all of this is happening so fast. Out of nowhere, Isaiah has a holy encounter. He confesses his inadequacy. He is made new, and the next thing we know, he is raising his hand, ready to go out and be God’s voice to the people. It takes place in a matter of moments. And, we are left reeling, wondering even, if Isaiah really knows what he is getting himself into. Does he really know what he is saying yes to when he answers so boldly, “Here I am; Send me!”

Anyone who has ever answered “the call,” no matter what the call happens to be-- marriage, parenting, ministry, military service, or any other vocation-- has no real clue what he or she is saying, “Yes” to. Our scripture for this morning doesn’t tell us the rest of Isaiah’s story, about the heartache, about the dark days, about all the trials and difficulties that he encounters because of his affirmative answer. All we know today is that he says, “Yes.” He says “Yes,” despite what doesn’t fully know or understand. He says, “Yes,” even though he knows he is small and inadequate, even though he can’t articulate God’s fullness. He simply says, “Yes.”

On one hand we have the unknowability of God and on the other hand we have God’s call, despite all that we don’t know and can’t predict, to go out into the world, ready to do holy work. Now, I realize that I have pretty much skirted the whole issue of explaining the Trinity. But, it’s more than an analogy about an egg or even solid, liquid, and gas. It is so much more than any of these vain attempts. The Trinity, God who is three in one, is so much more a mystery than concrete, so much more unknown than known. And somehow, standing with the saints and hosts of witnesses from every age, past, present, and to come, despite this uncertainty or inadequacy on our part, we find courage to profess our faith in God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

We don’t say yes to God because what God offers us is fact. We say “Yes,” because what God offers us is true, because somewhere inside of us, we know that saying “Yes” is the only way to answer. Despite the mystery or perhaps even because of it, we are filled with the awe and majesty of a God who is never fully knowable. When we are in the presence of God, when we confess all that we are not and in turn give honor and praise to all that God is, we are in a position for God to make us new again, ready, despite any doubts or fears, and even our human limits, to bear Good News, loving and serving the Lord along the way. Amen.