Saving our Souls Through Worship

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church

Sabbath, January 10, 2015

Luke 4:5-8

The devil took Jesus up on a mountain top up and showed him all the kingdoms of the world. “Look,” the devil said, “I'll give it all to you. The whole thing. Complete power and authority. You can run the world just the way you please. You want to abolish slavery? Done. You want to put all the bad guys in prison? Done. You want to eliminate armies? You can do it. You can have absolute total control. All I require is that you pay obeisance to me. Acknowledge that you got from me and it's all yours.”

Imagine the devil made a similar offer to you. If you lean to the right politically, you could eliminate the income tax, get rid of food stamps, rein in the EPA and privatize Social Security. If you lean to the left you could reverse Citizens United, eliminate corporate tax loopholes, create a single-payer health care system, permanently block the Keystone pipeline.

You would be free to unilaterally edit every law, streamline, reorganize or eliminate any government agency. You could fix everything. There would be no dissent allowed. If you were offered unlimited power over every human being in the world, would you take it?

When you read commentary on this passage in the Gospel, frequently you'll encounter discussions about whether the devil could actually deliver on his offer. Did the devil have the capability to give Jesus the kind of power he was offering? Another question is the matter of trustworthiness. If the devil had the power to had over power over all the kingdoms of the world, if Jesus had bowed, would the devil have delivered. I suppose these are legitimate questions, but they don't appear in the Gospel story.

In the story as it's told in the Gospels, Jesus did not question the capability or honesty of the devil. Jesus went straight to the cost and refused to pay.

“You ask me to worship you? Are you kidding? I worship God and God alone. No deal.”

It was clean, simple, profound.

Jesus' practice of worship protected him against seduction. Similarly, we, too, can avoid investing our souls in foolishness through the practice of worship God.

In February, 1968, I was a tenth grader at Memphis Junior Academy, an Adventist parochial school. The city was electric with tension. The first day of February two garbage collectors, Echole Cole and Robert Walker were crushed in the compactor of their truck.

It was an accident. No one intended their death, but it was an accident waiting to happen. Cole and Walker were Black men. The Black garbage men in Memphis worked in miserable conditions, for miserable pay with no benefits. It was late in the afternoon, their shift was over and the truck was headed back to the terminal. It was pouring rain. There was no room in the cab for Cole and Walker so they climbed into the compactor area at the back of the truck. Some where along the drive, a short activated the compactor. The driver stopped the truck and hit the kill switch, but it was too late. The men were crushed.

Ten days later, the garbage collectors went on strike.

The Mayor, Mr. Loeb, refused to recognize the union. When they marched on city hall, he shouted at them to go back to work. He announced defiantly that he would never kowtow to an illegal rabble of whining employees.

February turned into March. The garbage was piling up. I remember the pile in our backyard by the alley gate.

The strike drew national attention. Daily, strikers marched demanding the city respect their dignity as human beings.

Finally, Martin Luther King, Jr. came to town. Good white folk muttered among themselves about how wrong it was for some outsider to get involved in our business. At school we talked about the strike and about race relations in general. As you would expect in a whites-only school, most of the students shared their parents' scorn for the Black sanitation workers—we called them garbage men. We insisted to ourselves that these garbage men should be grateful for the more than ample wages we gave them. What, did they think they should be paid like White people?

The hostility of white people in Memphis against Dr. King was even more rabid than right-wing hatred of President Obama today.

The beginning of April, Dr. King came back to Memphis for a major march at the beginning of April. At school we traded rumors about plans to assassinate Dr. King. The haters recited these rumors with great glee. Someone was going to “take care” of that troublesome outsider! Only they used other words than outsider.

What made Dr. King do it? What prompted him to expose himself to the hatred and violence of the White population of Memphis?

The answer is found in the concluding paragraph of his speech the night of April 3.

He gave a long, stirring speech talking about the challenges facing the strikers and the call on all people to come to their aid. He referenced the story of the Good Samaritan and asked, What would happen to these people beat up and left by the side of the road by those in power in Memphis? Finally, Dr. King addressed the risk he faced in coming to Memphis.

"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now. Because I have been to the mountaintop…

Like anybody, I would like to live - a long life; longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. So I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

Mason Temple. Martin Luther King, Jr. April 3, 1968

All big decisions carry a cost. There are no free passes. The question is when you have paid the cost, when the transaction is history, will you be glad you paid?

Jesus refused the devil's offer of an easy path and ended up paying with his life. Jesus was satisfied with the deal he got.

Dr. Martin Luther King knew he was putting his life on the line. He knew that coming to Memphis and standing with the sanitation workers was putting his life at risk. He did it any way. He paid. Without regret.

The day after that speech, Dr. King was shot dead on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.

Where did he find the courage to stare death in the face? The key to his courage, to his wisdom, is in those few sentences at the end of his speech there in Memphis.

I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. . . . Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

This is what we do in worship. We go up on the mountaintop. We survey the promised land. We fill our eyes with visions of the glory of the coming of the Lord.

And the glory of that vision steals us against the allures of ignoble offers and opportunities.

Dr. King did not arrive in Memphis because of moment of adrenaline-pumped courage. This was not a mother or dad racing into a burning house to save a child. This was not a soldier making an instantaneous decision to jump on a hand grenade to save his buddies. This was the culmination of a long march toward glory. In 1955, Dr. King was a pastor in a comfortable parish in Montgomery. He could have lived out his days as the respected, appreciated pastor of nice congregations. Instead, he fed his soul with the grand visions of the Bible prophets. He allowed his inner vision to be captivated by the pictures of justice and equity painted by Isaiah and Amos and Micah.

He could have settled for a comfortable life, a respectable career. Instead, through worship, he was drawn to greatness because over and over and over again he turned his attention and admiration to the glorious vision described by the prophets of a world of justice and equity.

May that be true of us as well.

The devil would tempt us to settle for a comfortable respectable life as a congregation.

In worship we are called higher. Jesus could not be seduced by the devil because Jesus resolutely devoted himself to the worship of God—and nothing less. It can be tempting to worship power, money, comfort, respectability. These are good things. There is nothing wrong with them . . . unless we turn them into idols. Unless we worship them. Unless we give them the attention and admiration that belong to God alone.

God is good. Beauty, harmony, strength, intelligence, integrity—all these point toward God. Gentleness, compassion, tact, winsomeness, sweetness—these, too, are attributes of God. God is the sum of virtues and beauties.

Every week, in worship we celebrate this conviction. In worship we declare with joy God is good.

We also kindle again and again our desires to embody the glory of God in our own lives. We are made in the image of God. It is our natural destiny to live out the divine character. In worship, we feed this hunger to live worthy of our divine Creator.

The more clearly we see the divine glory, the more resolute and skillful we will be in living it out.

So in worship we rehearse the goodness of God. We declare the goodness of God. We discuss and ponder. We sing. God is good. We intend to be good.

I would encourage you to be intentional in worship more often than once a week here at church. The ideal would be to make time in your life every day—some special time when you contemplate the goodness and glory of God.

Friday night, at the end of your week, begin the Sabbath by celebrating the goodness of God.

Saturday night as you end the Sabbath, begin your week by celebrating, giving attention and admiration to the goodness of God.

Worship is deliberately focusing our attention and admiration on the goodness of God. When we practice worship that goodness will come to suffuse our lives and shape our minds. We will become immune to the seductions of the devil. We will become devotees of righteousness. We will live lives worthy of our Maker.

Worship

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

Sabbath, July 26, 2014

Texts

Exodus 20:1-6. A conservative translation.

Revelation 4:1-11 (the entire chapter)

Synopsis

In worship we affirm and celebrate an astounding hope: God will win. Peace, well-being and happiness will triumph. This is incredible! We are not blind or unfeeling. We see tragedy and injustice. We weep at the hurt. Sometimes, we get angry at God for the mess in God's world. Then we come to worship and join the saints across the millennia and God, too, in dreaming of better things. In worship, we rekindle our hope that ultimately peace will flow like a mighty river. Beauty and goodness will be as common as beach sand and rain. In worship we savor this unbelievable truth, allowing its sweet influence to shape our souls and fuel our own participation in the purpose of God.

The first Friday night of my freshman year at Southern Adventist University I was sitting in the university church. The place was full. You could feel the electricity of a thousand, maybe 1500 students, alive with dreams and ambitions, full of confidence they could master the knowledge and skills necessary to change the world and build careers. For many of the students, all this earthy expectation was connected deeply with God. We believed God had plans for our lives.

I had my own dreams. I was going to be a doctor doing research on the unique physiological challenges divers faced when they spent a long time working at great depth. Or I was going to be a minister who help people bridge the chasm between the ordinary life and God. My dreams of making discoveries in medicine were connected to the stories of the greats of medical history—Pasteur, Fleming and Salk and Sabin. My dreams of ministerial greatness were fueled by the stories of Fernando Stahl, the Adventist missionary and social revolutionary who improved life for the indigenous people of Peru, David Livingstone, the missionary/adventurer/explorer in Africa, and Martin Luther, the Protestant reformer who broke the stranglehold of the medieval Catholic Church on the minds and souls of people in Europe.

Doctor or preacher, I would join a stream of noble humanity. My work—whether furthering knowledge of physiology or helping people experience God—would become part of this grand work of God through humanity.

Sitting there in church at the very beginning of my college life, it was easy to dream these dreams.

Then the organ began the introduction for the opening hymn for the evening worship service. Full volume. Pounding bass. A thousand college students stood and sang the words:

1. For all the saints, who from their labors rest,

who thee by faith before the world confessed,

thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

2. Thou wast their rock, their fortress, and their might;

thou Lord, their captain in the well-fought fight;

thou in the darkness drear, their one true light.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

3. O may thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold,

fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,

and win with them the victor's crown of gold.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

4. This verse was not in the Adventist Hymnal

O blest communion, fellowship divine!

We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;

yet all are one in thee, for all are thine.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

5. And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,

steals on the ear the distant triumph song,

and hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

6. From earth's wide bounds, from ocean's farthest coast,

through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,

singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost:

Alleluia, Alleluia!

As we sang I felt myself to be truly part of that countless host. I, we, the thousand students in that university church, the Adventist doctors and nurses working as missionaries in Africa, the Albert Schweitzers and Mother Teresa's of the world, the Mohammad Unases and Paul Farmers of the world—we were all part of the grand stream of humans participating in the Kingdom of Heaven. We were all part of the work of God in the world.

Singing that hymn that evening was perhaps the closest I've ever come to Pentecostal ecstasy in worship. I felt my connection with good people, God's people, all across the ages. All the doctors who have worked to ease suffering and enhance health, all preachers who have inspired people to hope and to pursue wisdom and goodness.

As I've gotten older my understanding of the value of human work has expanded. Caregivers and IT professionals, plumbers and fashion designers, biologists and electrical engineers, chemists and hair stylists, moms and dads, aunts and uncles and grandparents—all us are indispensable agents of the Kingdom of Heaven. Each of us touches life, enriches life in a unique way.

And when we gather in worship, we affirm that our work, our lives, are part of the grand dream of God of a world that will one day be free of pain and sorrow, a world where peace will flow like a river and beauty and goodness will be as common place as sand and rain. In worship we dream together of the day when the happiness of God and the happiness of humanity flow mingled in a mighty, unbroken current.

A couple of weeks ago I was visiting with a young man. We were talking about God and faith. We explored questions about who's in and who's out when it comes to God's eternal plans.

I told him I no longer worried about damnation. If I, as a father, could not imagine damning my children for their imperfections and failures, how could I imagine that the heavenly Father would damn his children because they had failed to grasp just the right idea about faith or had failed to transcend some deeply-rooted character flaw.

“But now, you're just doing anthropomorphism.” My young friend protested. “You're ascribing human characteristics to God.”

“Guilty as charged.” I said. “And that is what Christianity does. It takes the grandest, most beautiful attributes of humanity and says God is something like that, only better.”

God is like the best father who ever existed. Only better.

God is like the best mother who ever existed. Only better.

God is like the most skillful, compassionate psychiatrist who ever help people find sanity. Only better.

God is a brilliant engineer, only smarter.

God is a wise governor, only wiser.

A generous philanthropist, only more generous.

A musician, only capable of stirring our souls even more deeply.

We believe that at the heart of the universe there is goodness, wisdom and compassion. But it's unbelievable. So we come here to worship and in worship rekindle our faith.

Some of us come with a buoyant, confident faith. When we sing here, we are singing the same song our heart sings all week. Others of us come barely believing anything good. Our hearts are crushed with what we read in the news or what has happened to our friends. Our own lives are so full of pain, we vacillate between wishing for healing and praying for death.

We come here and worship.

We turn our attention once more to the incredible Christian affirmations of God. We celebrate the richest, sweetest, grandest affirmations about God imaginable. We let go of our arguments because they merely touch the front of our heads. In worship we believe with our gut, with our bodies.

We believe God would rather die than live without us.

The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the poor in spirit. That is the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to me. And to my friends whose mental illness whips them from sanity to insanity, from appropriate behavior to violence, from speaking blessings to spouting curses. Their situation is hopeless. Maybe medication can dampen the swings. Maybe hospitalization can contain their illness. In worship, we say theirs is the kingdom of heaven. God has good plans for them. And God is able to accomplish those plans. In worship we hope again, even for hopeless people.

And we know that our hope is the hope shared across two thousand years of Christian hoping.

And our theology, our religious theory, takes us back another two thousand years to Abraham, so that in our worship we are keeping company with the hoping saints across 4000 years of time. Adventist theology pushes our worship connection back another 2000 years to Adam and Eve. In our worship we are joining 6000 years of human hope and confidence in God.

The world is full of pain and tragedy. Yes. We are not blind. We are not unfeeling. We weep at the hurt. We get angry with God for the mess in God's world. Then we come to here to worship and join the saints across the millennia and join God, too, in dreaming of better things. We sing of hope and promise and the triumph of love.

Here, we insist God is committed to the ultimate triumph of shalom—peace, well-being, happiness. And God will finally get his way.

Here, in worship, we insist that justice ultimately looks like reconciliation and redemption.

These things are unbelievable. When we pay attention to the news, sometimes listening to the stories of our friends, this all seems like foolishness. For some of us, our own personal pain threatens to drown out this happy song. Our experience whispers hopelessness.

So we come together in worship to sing again about hope. We sing together about the triumph of the community of God—our community. We come together again and again, stubbornly fanning the flame of hope.

Yes, the struggle is fierce and long. Sometimes our arms grow weak, our hearts become faint. So we come again to worship. We join the song. Our hearts are made brave again and our arms strong as we sing Alleluia.