Knowing

Chris Kelly – October 5, 2014 1 Comment

Texts: Deuteronomy 30:11-20, Psalm 139:1-10, James 2:14-18, Mark 10:46-52

Theology has been called faith seeking understanding. This has always sounded to me like a kind of intellectual personals ad: Handsome M seeking fun-loving F for companionship, possible marriage. As if faith (lowercase) had to be completed, as if it could not be complete without understanding. As if when we did not examine and know and understand how things of faith were, then our faith would be less, whatever that could mean. And if by understanding people mean knowing—I’m not sure that is even possible. And whether it is an honorable task.

On the day I was installed here, April 2, 2000, the Reverend Doctor Janet Corpus, friend, mentor, and preacher that day, started her sermon by telling everyone that I had told her that I had no idea what I was doing here. She told the truth. I had said that. I cannot exactly remember what I meant, but I see now that it could have meant two things. It could have meant that I had no idea how I ended up as a pastor in general and serving Faith (uppercase)—wonderful Faith—in particular. That was true. I also could have meant that I had no idea how to go about doing that. Which was also true. And I have to say that fifteen years later, both those meanings are still true. I still don’t know.

Even though I said at the beginning of worship today that in many good ways this is an ordinary Sunday, this is not an ordinary sermon for me. First of all, I’ve already said more about me today than I think I have in all the other times I’ve been in this pulpit put together. Krister Stendahl, scholar, Bishop of Sweden, and teacher of the art of preaching, used to have a list of the ten commandments of preaching, the first of which read: None of your little stories. Meaning partly that sermons are not about the life of the preacher. They are about the Gospel revealed in part by scripture. The story that every sermon is about is the story of God. Nonetheless, I’ve already started with a little story—this is the one day I get to violate Krister’s commandment.

But second of all having said all that, from now on I’m going to talk mostly not about me but about you. About Faith Church. I’m going to start by telling what might be called the Origin Myth of Faith, the origin being from the time I first came here (so I guess that is about me; what could be more self-centered than to think that the beginning of one’s own story is the same as the beginning of time?). And then I’m going to encourage you to do and think certain things in the future. And finally, I’m going to come back to what Pastor Corpus said—back then at the beginning of time.

For years Faith had been known as the Swedish Church. Eric [congregants’ last names deleted for posting. ed.], Vivan’s husband, used to introduce himself as a member of “the Swedish Church.” When I’d walk down Tremont Street, people would ask me if I was the pastor of the Swedish Church. Before its name was Faith, this church was the Augustana Swedish Lutheran Church of Cambridge.

But by the time I was installed here, Swedes were few and far between. In fact, people were few and far between. The church, once the largest Lutheran church in Boston, with 1200 members, had shrunk to 1 percent of that size. That’s 99% smaller. The population was small and mostly elderly. About as old as I am now, it turns out.

There were a few new, younger leaders (some not even Swedish!), who had come to Faith during the four-year tenure of the previous pastor, Michael Cook. (I thought, by the way, that today I might mention some people by name, as a way of honoring them and, as poet Wendell Berry once said, “I name them now to give them my blessing.” So that’s what I’m going to do.) Vivan and Eric and their son Tim were long-time members. Mark and Diane were here, and Terrie, whom some of you might know, Kim and Pam, who now live in DC, a young woman named Dawn and a young grad student named Jason, who was the every-week usher and bell-ringer. They were added to the tiny remnant.

A small but Spirit-filled church. A church, as it is today, with a lot of heart. Seriously and actually welcoming of all sorts of people. Amazingly not dismayed. Or dismaying. Before I was called as pastor here, I really wanted to be the pastor here.

Not dismayed, but maybe a little anxious. Money and membership were the dominant issues. The church ran a large deficit—about $80,000 a year, funded mostly from a bequest and the sale of the parsonage in Belmont. When I first started, I was told to expect that the church would be bankrupt within four years. Every council meeting, as I remember it, started with a discussion of how much—or really, how little—money, and therefore time, we had left. After that discouraging report, there was not much enthusiasm for mission. But, thank God, there was some.

The church tried all sorts of ways to attract new people to these pews, with only middling success. One day a pastor colleague (his name: Brian Greene, of Pentecostal Tabernacle) told me his story about how his church had tried everything and was on the verge of closing. Finally, they simply began to pray that God would invite new people in. And God evidently did. So we began to pray the same, as we still do now: that God would bring to this church people who would be nourished here and who would nourish this church. And God evidently did—you are the evidence.

The population of the church began to grow and change. Brooke was the first, I think. Then other younger people from Cambridge, neighborhoods and schools, started coming and staying. One by one at first, then some twosomes (and some twosomes created here, like Allyson and Michael). Babies were born or brought.

Faith Kitchen was born, with the help of the people of Calvary Praise and Worship Center. The synagogue joined in. Sometimes the mosque.

Faith was not alone. We have been blessed. The Eritrean worshiping community joined in. Students from Harvard and BU divinity schools helped, becoming what we now call vicars. Diane Rainson, now a pastor in Connecticut, was the first of a long line that continues today with Vicar Natalie. Tim Seitz served as assistant pastor. Annie, and then Tim Snyder, organized and fostered Sunday School and adult education. Flossie (Florence Dunn) and then Dan (amazing Dan) brought music and musicians.

That is the story of what happened. Praise God.

But I do not know why it happened. What are you doing there? people would say. I’d say: I don’t know. I still don’t know. The church is full of life. People like one another. People are seriously faithful. You are here. How did that come to be?

When I was installed here, one of my colleagues listed some things for the church to think about. That is, he gave a charge to the church. I’d like to do the same today. Here is my charge to you. Five charges.

One. Love one another. The second greatest commandment, Jesus tells us, and sometimes harder on us than the first. A new commandment, Jesus tells his disciples in John. The mandate of Maundy Thursday. Love one another. And included in this, at least for the purposes of this charge: admire one another, listen to one another, think one another to be funny. Long to be with one another. Invite others, as yet unknown, to be with you. Rejoice when they do. This is a gift Faith already has. Do not leave it unattended.

Two. Choose life. Moses exhorts his people: I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live. Make decisions based on love, not fear. Do not be too cautious. Be exuberant. Do not put the budget at the top of the agenda for every council meeting. Do not rely much on doctrine. God is the kind of person, Luther wrote, who likes to do what is foolish and useless. Do likewise.

Three. Don’t forget James. Works have their place. Grace is great; God does not judge us on our piety or our performance. But as James says, what good is it to proclaim peace and plenty yet not provide those things. By my works, says James, I will show you my faith. Not prove it, but let it show in your actions. Look for chances. Do not pass by your homeless and hungry brother or sister. Do not neglect them. Keep your eyes open.

Four. Ask for what you want. Be resolute in prayer. Bartimaeus shouts by the side of the road, begging from everyone, making a nuisance of himself. Jesus, Son of David, he cries. Jesus, Jesus, he cries again. He expects no answer, yet he gets one. What do you want, Jesus asks him. What do you want. For Bartimaeus this is the moment of faith. Isn’t he tempted to ask for the likely and the feasible? A coin, perhaps, a little bread. Instead: I want to see again. I want to see. Do not edit your own prayers. Pray for what you long for.

And five. Be patiently ignorant. Do not worry that you do not know all you want to know. Do not worry that you do not know what you are doing. It depends more on God’s grace than on your expertise. Give yourself some slack. It is not a performance. You might not get it right. Forgive yourself.

Before I was called here I served, as Britta soon will be, as supply pastor here. And every week, it seems, I preached the same thing: the church is not the pastor. You are the church. But there is more to it than that. God is the church. This church belongs to God. It is not the pastor’s job to make everything work out right, and it is not your job, either.

We do not know what the future holds. Thankfully, we do not have to in order to live in faith (lowercase). We cannot know. Perhaps God knows. But, I’ve been convinced, partly by my time here, that if so it is not like a script or a recipe, but more that God has hopes and a kind of itinerary for us. A plan only in the sense that it is an idea. A kind of structured hope. Like all good adventures, room for (and expectations of) lots of occasions for deviations, dead ends, attractive detours and side trips.

God searches us and knows us, says the psalm. God knows our thoughts, our notions, our inclinations. God is always with us.

I still don’t have any idea what I’m doing here, and I’m sure I never will. But it does not matter what we know. It matters only that God knows us.

Thanks be to God.