Called to Lose Everything
Luke 9:28-36
A
Sermon Preached by
University
Congregational United
Once upon a time there was a man who loved to tell stories.
He loved the sound and spring, suspense and surprise of them.
He loved all kinds of stories.
But mostly he loved stories that took you away – out of yourself to another time and place.
As he went about telling stories, he began to notice something else – he started losing things. At first, little things – stamps, a pen, a spool of thread. Nothing of any real importance, but it was annoying. He rolled his eyes and laughed about short-term memory loss and middle age.
But the problem grew worse and harder to laugh at. He began to lose bigger, more important things – hours of the day, names of objects, pages from his manuscripts. He lost his sense of where he was going, what he was doing. And he lost people - at first, acquaintances, then family members, friends.
He kept losing so many parts of his life that he grew frightened. One day, he sat down and carefully examined everything he had lost. He came to a terrible realization. He checked it all again, but he could not deny it: Everything he lost he had spoken of in his stories.
He stopped telling stories. He held on to everything he had left and pulled it all close to his heart.
But the stories kept coming – rising up in him.
He took them in like gingerly, greedily like a man hungry for wisdom, insight and hope.
One day, swept away by the telling of a story, he looked down and realized he had lost a finger. The next day, a thumb. He couldn’t go on like this. But he couldn’t stop telling the stories.
He noticed something else too. His stories had a resonance, a depth, that they hadn’t had before. They were more real, more true. In fact, they began to come true in reality. He began to hope that in losing himself perhaps there was a larger design, a whole that he was contributing to and literally creating out of his flesh.
That thought sustained him at times, but he kept losing himself and disappearing – legs, feet, arms, hands, shoulders, hips. Not much of him was left. He clung to his face, eyes, and mouth, his memory and mind, his ears, and lungs, and, of course, his heart. It was all that he had left. Was any story worth losing his sight for? Or his memory? Or his heart?
Was the Story insatiable? Did it really want everything, all of him, down to the last shreds of his body and soul? Could he and would he give it all up, in trust? Could he?
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And that is the question:
How much are we willing to give up in trust?
How much are we willing to lose?
How much of ourselves are we willing to empty so that the story, the Word, might flow more fully and freely through us?
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When I read that story from Megan McKenna, I said “ah ha!” That is what the story of the “transfiguration” is all about! This strange, mysterious story in which the disciples experience Jesus changed in form and appearance. They see his face glowing. They see him standing with figures right out of the stories in scripture, Moses and Elijah. What is going on here?
What Megan McKenna’s story opened my eyes to is this:
What the disciples in the story, and what generations of followers of Jesus have witnessed ever since is a storyteller who has given himself over – mind, lungs, heart, all – over to the story.
A story that tells of this presence of God that is real. Alive. All around us, within us, among us.
This God that has a need of us. A call and desire for each and every one of us.
This presence of God that cannot, will not let leave us.
This love of God for us and all creation that cannot die.
It is like the disciples still see Jesus’ physical face, but they also see in him something else. It is like he has become transparent. They gaze on him, they watch him, they follow him, and they see a story brought to life.
And that is why they, and generations of followers ever since, have said they have looked upon Jesus and seen in him the very face of God.
Ask me about the love of God, the justice of God, the peace of God and I will tell you many stories. But finally, I will tell you about Jesus.
For in him, in his life, in his face, I see the story brought to life.
I see a storyteller who has given himself over completely to the story of God’s presence and love.
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What story is defining your life?
We all live by and out of stories in our lives.
We live in a culture that surrounds us with all kinds of stories we can live by. “Do you need a story? We’ll give you a story?”, our culture says. And the culture offers us stories of what to live by in the movies, TV, and advertisements.
We live by some stories at certain times in our lives, and discard them, at times, for other stories. But we all live by some story.
What story are you living by today?
For some of us, we are living by the story that we are “victim”.
Everything affirms that everyone, everything is out to get us.
That story takes over our sight, our mind, our heart.
And we project to the world, we are “victim”.
Others of us have chosen to live by our society’s story of what it means to be a “success” or “popular”. Our longing to live deeper into that story claims what we do with our hands and where we put our feet. The pursuit of success fills up our lungs with breathless anxiety.
Others of us, even still today, are living by the story that our parent’s gave us, the story of who they wanted us to be.
What story are you living by today?
I, and maybe many of you, have lived by all of those stories at different times in our lives.
But finally, when life has brought loss and grief, none of those stories has the power, the depth to see us through such times. They all fail when they are brought up against the hard realities of life - of pain, loss and death. They haven’t offered enough to see us through such times. And so we have despaired, become restless and anxious, full of longing.
But there is another story that has haunted me, has haunted Christians over the centuries, haunts this church today: The story of Lent.
A story about this Jesus, this storyteller, who gave himself over completely to a story. A story about God’s presence that could not be taken away, the love of God that could not die.
A Jesus who let that story fill up his life – claim his heart, mind, imagination. A Jesus who went on a journey where he and we are invited to go, right into the darkness of denial, desertion, and fear. A journey that would take him and us right up against the power of a violent and corrupt state. A journey that would lead right into pain and agony, imprisonment, dying, and death itself. A journey, in part, that all of us have experienced; are now experiencing; or that we shall experience some day.
A journey that will take everything away. Everything we know and cling and hold to.
Everything that is, except the story of this presence of God, this love of God that could not, would not be taken away.
We need the story of Jesus and his walk through this season of Lent to show us this story - to bring this story to life. To make us wonder: What would it mean to give ourselves over a bit deeper to this story amidst the trial and pain and sorrow of which some of our lives are so full today? What would it mean, what would it take, for us to take that story in a bit deeper? What would we need to let go of?
I and we need to see that story in the face and story of Jesus. But we also need to have this story brought to life in the real flesh and face of people’s lives today. People who have given themselves over to this story, let it fill up, claim their lives.
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Many years ago I was a very
young pastor in the United Church of Christ congregation in
On that first visit, and in the visits we had over the next couple of years, Margaret showed no such hesitation. She welcomed me whole-heartedly into our home, and into her heart.
She shared with me her story and life. Margaret’s life had not always been easy. She had lost her husband many years before, family members, friends. Her own health was frail and in decline. And yet, Margaret shined forth a kind of perseverance, a kind of strength and hope that I could not help but wonder at.
She had been run right up against opposition and times of trial. Being put down and shut out. And yet Margaret would not be put down. Her life showed forth a kind of power to speak and proclaim the truth in love even though it had cost.
Margaret showed me the very gospel of Jesus I needed to hear. A gospel I need to hear:
This welcome of God that knows no bounds.
This persistent presence and power of God that can never leave us.
This love of God that can face times of trial and challenge but that can never die.
A couple of months before I left the church, I went to tell Margaret that I was leaving.
“Oh”, she said, “we just get you folks trained and then you go off and leave us!”
I laughed and said, “Margaret, I will not forget you.”
And she said, “Oh yes, you will. The years will pass and our faces will dim and you will forget all about us.”
Well, it has been many years since I left that church, and many years since Margaret has died. And while her face has dimmed over the years, I can, I do, still see her face still.
But mainly, I see this:
I see the gospel she showed me, taught me about. The gospel that she brought to life in her own. A gospel that keeps feeding me, teaching me to this day.
A story has been passed down, entrusted to us. A story that we have seen a storyteller give himself over to completely. A story that has been passed on through Jesus’ followers who have given themselves over to the story, let it take their hearts, minds, imaginations.
The story of this presence of God that is real.
That is all around us and within us and wants something from us.
This love of God that cannot, will not die.
What would it take to give ourselves over a bit more deeply, fully, to that story this Lent?
How much are we willing to give up in trust?
How much are we willing to lose?
How much of ourselves are we willing to empty so that the story, the Word, might flow more fully and freely through us?
Long before Jesus disappeared into the tomb, Jesus disappeared into a story, into a story about the presence and love of God.
As we step forth into days that will take Jesus and us right into trial, desertion, pain and death, we are invited to step forth and give ourselves over to a story. Letting this story of presence and love hold on to us, fill us up, so we might become more fully, God’s transparent people.
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Thanks to Megan McKenna for the story of the storyteller which I paraphrased in the sermon. I found it in her book, Send My Roots Rain, p.61-63.