Matthew 20:1-16  

I hate math. I don’t know why, really. It’s just that one plus one is always two. And two plus one is always three. Which is fine. I understand. I can live with that. I mean, really, I can…. But why does forty-nine plus one always have to be fifty? Why can’t it add up to thirty-nine? Or twenty-one? Or even forty-nine-and-a-half for heaven’s sake.

And then there’s nineteen. Patrick was nineteen back in the summer. Nineteen when he went to bed every night. But he woke up one morning and it was all over. Twenty, mind you. Our little baby is twenty years old. Do you know what that means? It means somebody is going to be fifty-six one of these days. Not any time soon. But it’s out there. Fifty-six! And fifty-six is just wrong. There has to be some kind of mistake here… But as my dear, tender, compassionate wife says, “Do the math, you old geezer.” But I don’t want to do the math. I don’t even like math. I hate math. Always have. Always will.

In grade school, the teacher insisted that when you add the number one to the number ten it makes it eleven. Every time, she said. And there was no negotiating with this woman. It was her way or no way when it came to the numbers. But the way I had it figured, you could take the number ten and add the number one to it, just put it there to the right of the one and the zero in the number ten, and it would be 1-0-1! A hundred and one! It made sense to me. I mean, I thought it was just fascinating, myself. Add a one to a ten and you get something a whole lot bigger than eleven… And if you added it to the other side of the one and the zero, or even stuck it there between the one and the zero, you’d get an even bigger number — a one and another one with the zero on the end. A hundred and ten! It was ten times as big as Miss Staley’s way of adding. And if you had four different numbers like a twenty-four (24) and a thirty-seven (37)… well the possibilities were just overwhelming. I mean, can you imagine?

That’s the whole problem with math, I think. There’s only one right answer. Not much room there for creativity and adventure if it’s always the same. Because there’s only one way the story can end. One plus one is always going to add up to two, said the teacher. If you have one green apple and you add another one to it, how many apples do you have? Well … it all depends, doesn’t it? Maybe you ate the first apple. Or maybe there was a worm in it and you only ate half of it — the apple, I mean, not the worm, I hope. And if you eat both of them, mind you, what you have is no apples and a bellyache. So how do you like them apples? “But it doesn’t work that way,” she said. So I had to give in and do it her way.

That’s why words were so much better than numbers, I thought. Words were not so limited as that. You could take a few words and put them together, and the possibilities were just enormous. You could make things happen. Anything at all. And every time you do it, every time you put the words together in a different way, the story changes somehow. It says something it didn’t say before. So words were exciting. Like paint in the artist’s paintbrush. And you could take them and paint anything you wanted. But numbers were just numbers. And numbers for me have never been all that exciting, really.

I thought things might change, you know, when we started doing those little story problems in math class. But it didn’t. Do you remember doing them in school? They were usually only one or two sentences long. And they never really got the story straight, as far as I was concerned. They just raised more questions. Because they left out all the really important stuff. Like the one about the train. There was always one about a train that went something like this: A train leaves the station house in Philadelphia at three-fifteen going a hundred and two miles per hour, it said. If it reaches its destination at eight-thirty that evening, how far is it from Philadelphia to the other place, wherever it was?

Well, what kind of question is that? Maybe there was a cow on the tracks somewhere and they had to stop the train while they tried to get the old heifer to move along. Or maybe there was a really steep hill between Philadelphia and the other place. And it slowed them down. Or who knows? Maybe the conductor fell asleep at the throttle. Did they ever think of that? It could have been like the section of I-64 between here the Fifth Street exit and the Huntington Mall. You could leave here doing a hundred and two and not get to Ruby Tuesday’s till sometime after three!

Well, anyway… you get the picture. My brain just wasn’t wired for math. And when fourth grade came along, that was it. It was just all over for me and the numbers thing. Because the biggest bully in the school was in my fourth grade class. And her name… was Mrs. Rottenborn. My fourth grade teacher. Biggest bully in the whole school. And one of the biggest people I’d I had ever seen. She was tall and wide. And she looked like a line-backer. And she was as tough as one, too. Even tougher, I think. Made the NFL players look like a bunch of sissies. I mean, that woman could have whipped her weight in wild cats. And this is the truth, she never smiled. She never looked happy. She was the kind of person little children tremble in fear of… And her favorite subject was math.

And she took it seriously. Believe me. So serious that wrong answers were not to be tolerated. And anyone who couldn’t get it right deserved to be punished. Really. I remember one day in her class four or five of us had to stand at the blackboard and work a problem. And we had to stay there till we got it right. And if we put the wrong answer on the board, she said, we would get paddled. And she meant it. We would be spanked right there in front of the whole class. And we only had two or three minutes to figure it out. And I was nervous and frightened. And it made me feel stupid. But just at the last possible second, something clicked. And I saw the answer. And I wrote it on the board. And she said, “Take your seat.”

But there was one boy left who just couldn’t get it. It hadn’t clicked for him yet. And she raised her voice. And called him stupid. And she spanked that boy so long and so hard that he begged her to stop. And he was crying. Most of us were crying. And I remember thinking, “Danny — the boy who was punished — was one of the nicest, friendliest, most well-mannered kids in the whole school.” Danny never got into trouble. He never talked back. He never acted out. He always did what the teachers asked him to do. He was just a good kid. “Danny doesn’t deserve this,” I thought. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. It isn’t right to be punished for not understanding.” That’s not discipline. That’s not teaching. It just wasn’t fair.

I didn’t want much to do with math after that. I just didn’t have the stomach for it. But… I survived it, I guess. Even survived algebra and geometry in high school and college.  And then came seminary. And it was like being delivered — delivered from math. I mean, I can’t tell you how thrilled and how relieved I was when it dawned on me that there are no math classes in seminary. There was Greek, mind you. And the Old Testament. Which is hard enough. But not a single class on math. So I thought I was home free. A life free of math. [This was before I had to start paying taxes.] It was the end of things that just didn’t add up in my life.

Boy, was I wrong about that. There is math in ministry. Church’s have finance committees. And finance committees have budgets. And budgets have numbers. Lots of numbers… It just never ends does it.

Even the scriptures have a kind of math in them. Though it’s a very special kind of math. A new kind of math. Where one plus one isn’t always two. Because it tells us about a God — the One God who is Three. Father, Son and Holy Spirit. One God and yet three persons. And with this God it says one day is like a thousand years, but a thousand years is like a day. And then Jesus comes into the picture and everything’s changed. Because he brought us a new way of seeing — a new way of reckoning that takes the world’s math and turns it upside down.

There’s the shepherd he spoke of. Remember the shepherd who goes after his sheep? He has a hundred. A pretty big flock. But one of them gets lost. One out of a hundred. So what does he do? He leaves the ninety-nine right where they are. In the wilderness, it says. Not in the fold or the barn or inside the gate. He leaves them out there. Vulnerable. Defenseless. At risk in the wilderness. Because he has one sheep that is lost. He risks losing them all to find only one. What kind of math is that?

And what about the loaves and the fish. Five barley loaves, two pieces of fish, and more than five thousand hungry people wanting to be fed. Do the math? It won’t work. There isn’t enough. But Jesus says, “It’s more than enough.” And every one eats. And the leftovers alone would feed an army!

And then there’s that woman who took nearly a quart jar of costly perfume — a fragrant ointment worth more than a whole year’s salary! And she poured it all out on Jesus’ feet. Every drop of it! A whole year’s salary poured out. And Jesus praises her for it. How does that add up? What kind of math is this?

Oh, and then there’s the widow with her mite. Jesus sat with his disciples one day, watching all the rich people dropping bags full of money into the offering box. Bags of it, mind you. Huge amounts of money. They dropped enormous offerings into the treasury box of the temple that day.  And along comes this woman, a widow living in poverty says Matthew. And Jesus sees her drop something into the offering. A penny. One little penny. And Jesus says, “Look. Do you see that woman? She has given more than all the others put together.” There isn’t a calculator in the world that can make that add up.

And today in this reading from the gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells this strange little story about a farmer who went out to hire some people to work in his vineyard. And it just doesn’t add up. I mean, you know the story…

Because Jesus says this farmer went out at the crack of dawn, nearly, to find some good, able-bodied folks to come work in his vineyard. And they agreed to come work for him for the usual wages: a good day’s work, a good day’s pay. Isn’t that how it goes? So off to the vineyard they went, just after daylight.

And later that morning, about nine o’clock says Jesus, the farmer went back into town. And he saw some other folks standing there with nothing to do. And he said, “Go on down to my farm. You’ll find some work there in my vineyard. And I’ll pay you what’s right.”

And the farmer was back there at noon, and then later at three and did the same thing. And when he went back to the market at five that evening there were still people there just standing around with nothing to do. And he said, “Why are you standing around here all day doing nothing?” And you know what they said. “Nobody hired us.” And so the grape farmer said, “Well, I’ve got some work for you. Go on down to the vineyard. There’s plenty to do there. And I’ll settle up with you at the end of the day.” Which was not too far away by that time, of course.” 

And when it was time to call it a day, the farmer told his foreman to call the workers in from the vineyard and give them their pay. And the strange thing is he told him to start at the end. With the last bunch that was hired.” And he did. The workers he hired late in the day came to get their pay. And when they opened their little white envelopes (or whatever it was) he had given them a whole day’s wages!

Can you imagine being someone in the back of that line who’s worked the whole day? If the people who worked only an hour got a whole day’s pay from this man, can you imagine what your pay would be?

But when the last ones in line stepped up to the foreman, they got the usual daily wage. The same thing those latecomers got for one measly hour. What kind of math is that? This man can’t count, they thought. This isn’t fair. We worked longer, they said. We did more than they did. And not in the evening shade either. We worked in the heat! We did all the work. But you pay them as much as you paid us? It doesn’t add up. We need a union. Well… they didn’t say that. But it still wasn’t fair. He promised. He said he’d give us what was right.

It just doesn’t add up. Something strange is happening here in this story. In our math one plus one equals two. And that’s it. It always adds up the same. But here in Jesus’ math, one may be worth as much as ninety-nine, as it was with the shepherd and his one lost sheep. Five loaves of bread and a couple of fish may add up to a feast for crowd! And one little coin is said to be worth more than a big bag of money, depending on who’s keeping the books.

And when Jesus tells this story about the workers in the vineyard the same thing happens. Except most of us hear this thing with the early bird’s ear. We put ourselves in their place — the ones who worked the whole day — the ones who did most of the work, mind you. And we think. “Well, no wonder they grumbled. Of course they complained.” We put ourselves in their place in this story because that’s who we are. We’ve been here in God’s vineyard — here in the Church, mind you — most of our lives. And to hear that the latecomers — the ones who show up just before the paychecks are handed out get the same as us… it isn’t fair. It just doesn’t seem fair, does it?

But what if we were really at the other end of the line. What if we were one of those whom no one else would even consider hiring because of some injury, or some handicap, or because we just didn’t have the training, or the education, or even a way to get to market where the hiring was done. What if we were passed over all day long and only got hired at the end of the day? What then? We step up to the front of the line and we receive the same wage as the ones who had been there the whole day… We would rejoice. We would celebrate! We would tell everybody we know about the One who didn’t pass us over! We’d tell the whole world about this generous, good-hearted, compassionate One who gave us this wonderful, wonderful gift.

That’s what’s so different about this NEW MATH in God’s kingdom. It all has to do with grace. God’s amazing, abundant grace in Jesus our Lord. And most of us aren’t really used to that kind of reckoning. We live in a world that says you should get what’s coming to you. People get what they deserve. If we do this, then we get this. And it gets inside us, I think. It colors everything we do. Even how we think about God. We think to ourselves, “As far as God is concerned, if I do this, then I will get that.”

But Jesus says here in this parable that God doesn’t deal with us according to what we deserve. And aren’t you glad that he doesn’t? God doesn’t forgive us and free us and save us from the guilt of sin and the power of death because we’ve earned it. The truth is, we don’t have it coming. And yet, God in his great mercy looks at us and pours his love out upon us because that’s the kind of God he is.

As the prophet says, God’s ways are not our ways. God’s measurements are not our measurements. Or as Paul said to one of his churches, God has chosen to take the things that add up to nothing, and make them into something big. 

Fifty years ago [maybe a little more than that now] things didn’t add up. In Biloxi, Mississippi some people could get a job if they were willing to work. But some people who were just as willing to work — and some that were even more willing to work — couldn’t get themselves hired. And some people there could get a good education and some people who lived in the very same town couldn’t get a good education to save their lives. And there wasn’t any good reason for that. There wasn’t any good reason why any of them should have been passed over or treated any differently than anyone else.

No good reason… But you know what made the difference. Some were white and some were black. And finally, through the courts, something started to change. And they made the white schools — the schools with the money and the resources and the tools people need for a good education — open their doors to the black children in Biloxi. And the first black child to walk through the doors of the public school was a little girl named Ruby.

And every day Ruby would walk to school guarded by Federal Marshals. And they would escort her through an angry mob of protestors. And there was a psychiatrist there who was brought in to help. He was there to help people make the change. His name was Dr. Coles. And Dr. Coles was concerned about Ruby and what effect all this hatred would have on her life. He knew, as a psychiatrist, that Ruby was probably having trouble eating, and sleeping at night. And she was probably having trouble just carrying on her normal routine. So he sat down and talked with her every day. And every day he would look at the little girl and say, “”Ruby, how are you sleeping?” And she’d say, “I’m sleeping just fine.” And Dr. Coles would say, “Then I bet you aren’t eating too well are you?” And Ruby would answer, “I’m eating just fine.” Every day he would ask her the same questions and she would say the same thing every time: “I’m just fine.”

And then one day he heard Ruby’s teacher say that she’d noticed Ruby was talking to herself when she walked through that angry mob every morning. So Dr. Coles asked her what she was saying as she walked through the line of angry people. And this is what she said. “I say, Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.”

Of all the things she could have said… Of all the things she could have wished, or thought, or prayed when she walked past that mob, she said, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.” 

That’s the new math. That’s God’s way of reckoning. And when God looks at you and me and the people all around us he does not give us what we deserve. He gives us what we need. He gives us Jesus.

Thanks be to God. Oh, church… Thanks be to God. Ω

My eyes will be open and my ears attentive to every prayer made in this place. For I have chosen this Temple and set it apart to be holy — a place where my name will be honored forever. I will always watch over it, for it is dear to my heart.

Every prayer that is made in this place…

The people at Mt. Pisgah prayed. Every Tuesday evening at seven o’clock they would gather on the hill at Ousley Gap, West Virginia, in a little one-room church. And they would pray.

If they needed to have a meeting of the Church Council or the Trustees or the Finance Committee or any other kind of committee, they would stay over fifteen or twenty minutes. Everybody would just stay a little while longer for what they called a “business meeting”. Didn’t matter what kind of business it was, they’d all stay. All the same people were on all the committees, because the church was small. Only forty-five members or so. And that was on the roll, mind you, not in the pew.

But prayer meeting always came first. “This is the church,” the lay leader would say. “First things first.” So every Tuesday evening, for about an hour, they would gather on the hill to join in prayer as the Body of Christ in that place. And they prayed…

I’ll never forget it. They prayed one Tuesday night for the local beer joint at the foot of the hill. Charlie Brown’s Place was the name of it. And they didn’t care for it at all. It was okay when they sold gasoline there… and Twinkies and chewing tobacco. But somewhere along the way, they took the gasoline and the Twinkies and the soda pop off the menu and put alcohol in its place. And instead of selling Milky Way bars they put in a pool table and a bar. And they hauled in a juke box that played Hank Junior and Merle Haggard and writers of hymns that we did not sing at Mt. Pisgah.

The place drew a crowd. That was part of the problem, I think. They had a bigger crowd than we did. And they sang louder, too! And they held their Sunday evening service the same time we held ours. And generally stayed later — even later than the Baptists! (Isn’t it amazing that people will sit on barstools and bleachers and old theater seats made for small people for hours on end, but make such a fuss if they have to sit in a church pew for more than hour!?)

Bad things happened there. Fighting and stabbing…  even a shooting. And some of the people who lived near the place were afraid at night. They were alone and afraid. That’s why they didn’t care for the place up at Mt. Pisgah. So they decided to do something about it. These sweet old, mild-mannered Methodists did something to rescue their poor neighbors from that awful place… They prayed. They prayed that God would shut the place down. That he would make them go away. Because it wasn’t setting a good example for the children. And it just wasn’t right. They didn’t have to explain it. God knew that already.

And sometime between that Tuesday evening and the next Sunday morning, Charlie Brown’s Place burned to the ground… Ann and I were almost afraid to get the newspaper out of the box the next morning for fear of what we might see there. Eighty-four year old church lady admits to arson. Claims she was inspired by pastor to be an acolyte for righteousness. (You think I’m kidding.) “Dear Lord,” I prayed, “I’m not saying it was you. But if it was you, couldn’t you have been a little more subtle? I’m only twenty-five and I don’t even know any lawyers.” It was quite an experience for a young preacher, believe me. ♦

Something like that happened at another church around that same time. And this time it was in the newspaper. A nightclub (a gentleman’s club they call them. Isn’t that something? You will not find a gentleman in one of those places…) Anyway, they opened this place in a small town somewhere. And the churches there organized an all-night prayer vigil. And they prayed that God would destroy that club with the flames of his righteousness. And that very evening, (this is a true story) the nightclub was struck by lightning, and before the volunteer firefighters could get there to put out the fire, it was gone. Burned to the ground.

And this is almost unbelievable, but it’s true… The owner of the nightclub sued the churches that organized the prayer vigil. Took them to court, mind you. And the churches, of course, denied any responsibility… “We didn’t set it on fire,” they said. “You can’t blame it on us. What did we have to do with it?” So after hearing both sides, the judge said, “It seems that wherever the guilt may lie, one thing is clear. The nightclub owner believes in prayer… but the church doesn’t.” ♦

When the Temple of Solomon was finally finished and all the dedications and feasts and ceremonies were done, God spoke to Solomon. And this is what he said. God said, “My eyes will be open and my ears attentive to every prayer made in this place.”

But let me tell you about another temple, another church. The house of God for the people of that place… When Tony Campolo was teaching at Eastern University in Philadelphia, he would take the students in one of his classes to New York City for a weekend. It was part of a sociology class he taught. He wanted the students to get a feel for the city and see firsthand how different groups of people from different income levels and different backgrounds got along with each other. And a church in Brooklyn, just across the East River from Manhattan, gave them a place to stay on Saturday evenings. So they brought blankets and sleeping bags and slept on the basement floor of the church. And on Sunday morning, they used the church kitchen to make breakfast. And then, out of courtesy to the church for their hospitality, they all stayed for Sunday morning worship.

Tony says the service was anything but inspiring. The choir sang off key. And the preaching was dull. But they sat through it… with smiles and looks of interest and even inspiration on their faces. And he says that after visiting that church for a couple of years or so, he noticed that the congregation was growing. In spite of the bad music and the dull preaching, more and more people were showing up on Sundays! Tony said, “I always tried to get my students to think about why this was so. So I was delighted when, following the Sunday service, one of them asked the pastor the secret of the growing attendance at worship.” The kid just walked up and asked the preacher what he was doing to bring in new people. And the pastor said, “Well, this is Brooklyn, you know, and there are tall apartment buildings all around our church. But you can’t just go in and knock on doors. The doormen won’t let you. So there’s no way I can visit the people who live in those apartments. But I do something else, he said.

“Every morning at ten o’clock, I take a folding chair and sit outside one of the apartment buildings. And I pray hard for each of the families that live in the building. And when I can,” he said, “I go up to the outside directories and get all their names. And then, one by one, I pray for those people and those families… I do that for about an hour-and-a-half at the same building every day for a week.” And he said, “I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but usually the next Sunday one or two families from that apartment building show up at church. And when I ask them what brought them to this church, they never really have a good answer. They usually say something like, ‘Well, I knew I needed church. And I’ve passed by this place on my way home from work for a pretty good while. And I always thought maybe I should stop in and visit here some Sunday. But I never got around to it until this week. Something told me this week that I ought to stop putting it off and come to worship here, and that’s why I came.”‘

The students were impressed. They began to sense something about the power of prayer. And Tony said, “Later, as we mingled with the church people that morning after the service, one of my students met a Puerto Rican woman and her two sons. And he tried to talk with them.” But it wasn’t easy, he said, because the mother spoke very little English. And the student asked her about that. “Why do you come to this church? Why do you come to hear a preacher who doesn’t speak your language?”

The woman said that three months earlier her oldest son was arrested by the police and put in jail on Ryker’s Island. And he called and told her that he didn’t know why they’d arrested him or what they were going to do with him.” And she said, “He was frightened and crying. And I didn’t know what to do.” But a friend of hers told her that the church there was always willing to help people. “So, I came to the church office here and told the pastor what had happened. And he dropped everything and went with me to the jail and asked if we could see my son.”

She went on with her story. “The man at the desk said that the policeman who was in charge of arranging visits wasn’t there that morning. And he wouldn’t be in for about four more hours. So the pastor told the man at the desk that we would wait. And for four hours, the pastor and one of the church members sat there holding my hands, comforting me, and praying with me for my son.”

“Later that afternoon,” she said, “they got my son released and brought the two of us home. So the next Sunday, the three of us got dressed up and came to church. And she said, “We have come to church every Sunday since then. This is the only way we know how to thank the church for what they did for us.”

Tony Campolo says, “You know… sometimes the secret of church growth isn’t anything the experts in the field can explain. Sometimes, it is praying and caring and doing for others what love requires that draws people to God. ♦

Sounds familiar doesn’t it? Luke said the same thing. It was there in the first reading this morning – in the second chapter of Acts. And they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals (including the Lord’s Supper), and to prayer… (They prayed.) And all the believers met together in one place and shared what they had. They sold property and possessions and shared the money with those in need. And they worshiped together at the Temple each day, met in homes for the Lord’s Supper, and shared their meals with great joy and generosity — all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people. And each day the Lord added to their fellowship those who were being saved.

Day by day… Day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved – those who were being rescued from fear and hopelessness, from brokenness and sin, from loneliness and despair, and from everything that held them back and kept them from being the men and women God created them to be. That’s what they did. They did what Jesus taught them to do. And that’s it… They didn’t hire a motivational speaker, or a church growth consultant, or set a goal for attendance over the next ten years. They just did what disciples of Jesus do. They prayed. And they cared. And they loved God and each other. They came to worship together. And they shared communion together. They cared about the people around them. Treated them the way the way Jesus had taught them to treat other people…

And something happened. People could see something there in the Church. In the people, I mean – they didn’t have a building. But something about these Church people spoke to something inside them. I mean, being with these church folks was like being with Jesus. And the more they prayed, and the more they loved, and the more they shared with the people around them –  the more they lifted up Jesus – the more people wanted to get to know him. And the way to know him was to get to know his people – the Church.

They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals (including the Lord’s Supper), and to prayer, says Luke. And day by day, the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

Oh, if it were only that simple. If it were only that easy to reach the community and all the families who live here in Westmoreland. If only we could do something that simple to reach people for Christ. Wouldn’t that be something?

Well… it would be something. Because that’s what God wants for this community. It’s what God wants for every child, every youth, and every person who lives in Westmoreland. And it is just that simple. But I wouldn’t call it easy… Because it takes a lot of hard work from a lot of willing hearts to do that, I think. It means we have to love people who aren’t always so easy to love. And it means we have to be willing to pray. A lot… It may even mean holding a few prayer vigils here at the church. Or walking around the community in groups of two or three or four just to pray for the people we pass on the street or the families who live in the houses there. And it will mean asking God to open our hearts so that we can begin to love and care for the people God loves, the people God cares for so much.

We could just sit back and wait for people to come on their own. But most people don’t do that. Did you do that the first time you went to church? Even if no other person asked you to come, you didn’t just up and do it on your own. There was a nudge. Something tugging at your heart. Something (or Someone, I should say,) drawing you, encouraging you, pleading with you to come to his people, his Church. And you came… just like the people in Brooklyn, you came. And so will they if we pray and ask God to be at work in their lives. It will make all the difference in the world for those people. Just as it did in the very beginning, before the church even had a name or a building or a sign to hang over the doorway. Because God said it himself… My eyes will be open and my ears attentive to every prayer made in this place. For I have chosen this Temple (this church, this place of worship) and set it apart to be holy.

Let me tell you just one more little story this morning. Mike Yaconelli was pastor of a Lutheran church in some place called Yreka, California – population not so many. About 7000 according to the last census. And Mike used to say that he was pastor of the slowest growing church in America. But he was also a natural born leader in youth ministry. And several years ago, he was in Nashville to meet with some other pastors and youth leaders who were planning a national youth rally. And it was just before Billy Graham was to hold one of his evangelistic crusades there in that same city.

Mike says it was rainy, and really foggy that night as he and one of the other youth pastors were driving back to their hotel. And at some point they drove past a building that was made to look like the Parthenon. And as they were driving by, they saw a man sitting on the steps. He was just sitting there in the rain with his head between his knees. And he had his coat pulled over his head to keep the cold out… and the rain and the wind. And the poor man looked so pathetic that Mike stopped his car. And he and his friend got out and climbed the steps to where this man was huddled. He was homeless, they thought. He must be homeless.

Mike said, “Hey, mister, you don’t have to sit here in the rain like this. We’ve got enough money to put you up in a hotel. Come on with us. We’ll give you what you need for a good night’s sleep.” And the man looked up. And Mike was shocked when he saw the man’s face. Because, this man – the man they thought was a poor homeless man on the streets was none other than Billy Graham, the great evangelist himself. “It’s okay,” said Reverend Graham. “I’m okay… I just want to sit here for a while and pray for this city.” ♦

Mike said he and his friend went back to the car. And for a long moment they just sat there in awe, I think. And then Mike said, “So that’s it. That’s why Billy Graham is able to win so many people to Christ. That’s why he’s so effective in the pulpit. Before he ever preaches, he prays over the city, just as Jesus once prayed over Jerusalem.”

I believe God is calling us to do the same thing. To pray over this city. To pray over this community – for the people who live here all around us… Because God loves them with all of his heart, just as he loves you and me.

So let us devote ourselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals (including the Lord’s Supper), and to prayer…  And day by day, the Lord will add to our number, our fellowship, those who are being saved.

† In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

2 Advent, 2008

 Tonight, Brother Maurus greeted me at the door of the guest house and helped me carry my bags to the room nearest the Oblate Chapel. How is it that he always seems to know what I need? If I am here to write or study, he leads me to a room near the library upstairs. If I am here for a silent retreat, he assigns a room away from visitors or groups of retreatants. And tonight, when I need to pray and lay my broken heart before God, he brings me here to a room just across the hall from the font and the chapel I have come to love so much. It’s so much more than I would expect or ask of him. And the mystery and grace of it all is that I never tell him why I’m coming. When I call to make arrangements, I simply ask if there’s a room available. We never talk about the reason behind my private retreats, or the spiritual task or work of the heart I need to do while I am here. And yet he always seems to know.

Coming here, especially in December, always feels like coming home. Abbot Justin tells us (the oblates) that this is our home. “Saint Meinrad is your spiritual home. You are a part of this house. And you are always, always welcome here.”

They always do that. The monks of this house always find a way to make us feel that we are more important than we really are.  For more than fifteen centuries Benedictines have been known for their hospitality and kindness. It is so much a part of who they are. And yet, no matter how many times I experience it, the grace and warmth of Father Meinrad (the oblate master) and Brother Maurus (the guest master) always come as a gift. A lovely gift. The kind that leaves you speechless and amazed, feeling honored and deeply cared for by these humble “servants of the servants of God.” It is like coming home to a house filled with understanding, acceptance and love.

◊

Later in the evening, when I dip my hand into the cold, clear water of the baptismal font and enter the chapel, the tears begin to flow. There are no words or images in my mind. It is simply the Spirit speaking to my spirit, reminding me again that God is my Father. God reaches out to me as a loving parent ready to take the wounded child in his arms to comfort and hold and reassure. That is why the tears flow so freely, I think. It is embarrassing to say, but I am like a little child, hurt and wounded, running into his Parent’s arms.

All is silent. All is silent…

Be still and know that I am God…

I sit in the chapel before the crucifix, the image of Christ on the cross, and remember that Jesus was beaten and broken, nailed and pierced and  wounded for me.  And this is why he was born. The Word became flesh, God became one of us and one with us that we might be healed.

He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

This is how much God loves you. This is how much… on the cross he stretched out his arms and died. God loves you this much. God so loved you…. that he gave his only begotten son. His Little One. The Beloved. His very Self. And this, says Paul, is how we know God loves us — that Christ died for us while we were yet sinners. And that means, it has to mean, that God loves me.  

Oh, but that is so very hard for me to say, because I am so unworthy.  Paul said we have the treasure in earthen vessels, in old clay pots that are fragile and imperfect and easily broken. But somehow my imperfections seem so great as to render me a useless vessel. Think about it… Why would God choose someone like me? I am too quiet, too bashful, too big, too broken. I feel so inferior to others, at times. I make mistakes, so many mistakes. I am too sensitive at times, while at other times I am wholly insensitive. I have very few (if any) real social skills. No grace. But worst of all (to me), I was told once that I am not companionable. My personality is not unlike a tree stump, at times! And the rest of the time? Rather like an irritable old bear! But truthfully, all kidding aside, why would God want someone so flawed and fragile as me? It’s so hard for me to imagine that I am loved by God or anyone? So why me?

◊

I realize that all of these feelings came to me before I even knew how to say the words that describe them. They came when I was a very small child. And in a child’s way of understanding and interpreting his world, everything bad – all that was dreadful and hideous and wrong — was my fault, I thought. It was all because of something I did. “This happens to me because I am bad. There’s something wrong with me,” I thought. “Something about me causes this.” How hard it is to change this distorted way of reasoning. Even when I know that it is wrong.

Sometimes my unworthiness even explained what I perceived as God’s absence and inaction. “Why doesn’t God know where I am? Why doesn’t God rescue me?” Or “I’m so bad God can’t even love me,” (as if my own sinfulness was somehow greater than God’s love).

This is the arrogance of self-loathing and shame. It’s the “flip side” of believing you cannot be loved. It is saying, in effect, that God cannot love you. God’s heart isn’t big enough. God’s love is limited. Conditional. Less than perfect. But that is nowhere near the truth. For God’s love knows no bounds. No one is beyond the reach of God’s love. For God so loved… not just me, but the world. All of us. Every one.

That’s what disturbs me so much when I offend someone, or let them down, or say or do something that hurts them. They are God’s children. In hurting them I have hurt one of God’s little ones. And in hurting them, I have hurt God. It’s what happens to parents when someone breaks their child’s heart. Or rejects her. Or treats him badly. It nearly tears your heart out to know that the child you love so much is hurting. And this is what I do to God when I hurt somebody else. Psalm 51 says it this way: Against you, you alone, have I sinned….

The first General Rule for “the people called Methodist” is “do no harm.” The second is “do all the good you can.” And the third can be summed up by the words, stay in love with God. Bishop Grove asked me to reflect on the three General Rules and write something about them. But for the life of me, I couldn’t get past the first one. I couldn’t get past the feeling that I am doing harm to others. So often I feel that I am hurting the church, holding it back.

Sometimes I honestly feel like I am killing this church. But oh, how I love it. I become impatient with the church, at times, because I am convinced that God wants to help us be the best church we can be. I wish there was something I could say or do to let the congregation know just how much God loves and delights in them. I wish I could show them that Jesus lives in and among them. Not the spirit of Jesus, as in the spirit of Gandhi, or Lincoln, or Dr. King, or even Santa Claus. But Jesus himself. The real Jesus. I wish I could help them know — I mean really know — that God can be trusted. That God is real. That God is for them. That church isn’t just one among the vast number of things vying for our attention these days. But it is the main thing, God’s own way of being with us together as one body. (It’s so important for Christians to know that Jesus didn’t just come to save us as individuals or to connect to us solely one-on-one. But he came to form this community, this living thing called church.

I wish I could help people hear God calling them to love and serve and give.  And I wish there were some way I could stir up their desire to live for him — to “prefer nothing whatever to Christ, that he may lead us all together to everlasting life” (St. Benedict). But I don’t know how to say it. I simply don’t have the words.

◊

Saint Meinrad is in one of those strange parts of Indiana where the time zones gap and overlap. The town of St. Meinrad is now in the central time zone, but Ferdinand (just a few miles to the west) is on Eastern Standard Time. And to complicate things St. Meinrad does not observe Daylight Savings Time, but Ferdinand does. (Some folks say their cell phones start behaving like the instrument panels of airplanes flying over the Bermuda triangle when they get to Birdseye, Indiana!) It changes things. In November and December, as the days become shorter and shorter, darkness falls just after four o’clock. And the vesper bell rings out in the dark of night at a quarter to five.

This evening I went early to the abbey church to wait for vespers. I sat alone in the great stone church listening to the gentle trickling of the “living water” of the baptismal font. A few of the older monks come and quietly take their places in the choir stalls. The younger monks begin to ring the enormous bells in the church tower, ringing out the call to end their work and gather again in the presence of God. The monks who are here (more than half are away this week visiting in local parishes and sister houses or distributing gifts of gratitude to Saint Meinrad’s benefactors around the country) take their places in the choir. And the bells continue to ring out in the darkness. They will not stop ringing until the monks start to pray. “O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me.”

Tonight, in this second week of watching and waiting, we sing softly the first of the three psalms appointed for this night. It is the De Profundis, Psalm 13o:

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord,
   Lord, hear my voice!
O let your ears be attentive
   to the voice of my pleading.
If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt,
   Lord, who would survive?
But with you is found forgiveness:
   for this we revere you.
My soul is waiting for the Lord.
I count on his word.
My soul is longing for the Lord
   more than watchman for daybreak.
(Let the watchman count on daybreak
    and Israel on the Lord.)
Because with the Lord there is mercy
   and fullness of redemption,
 Israel indeed he will redeem
   from all its iniquity.

My soul is longing for the Lord. In this season of Advent I’m watching and waiting. And I know God hears my prayers and the longings of my heart. I want to follow Jesus. I want to be a good pastor, a better pastor. I will ask God to help me. My longing is to be more and more the person God created and continually calls me to be. I am flawed, an earthen vessel with many weaknesses and rough edges. That’s why I must continually put my hope and trust in God. For God is God. Nothing is ever impossible with God. As Mary, who was at once both the mother and disciple of Jesus our Lord, said to the angel Gabriel, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.”

 O Lord God, Holy Father, you have called us through Christ to be partakers in this gracious covenant: We take upon ourselves with joy the yoke of obedience, and engage ourselves for love of thee, to seek and do thy perfect will. We are no longer our own, but thine.

I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt;
   put me to doing, put me to suffering;
   let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee,
   exalted for thee or brought low for thee;
   let me be full, let me be empty;
   let me have all things, let me have nothing;
   I freely and heartily yield all things
   to thy pleasure and disposal.
And now, O glorious and blessed God,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
   thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it.
And the covenant which I have made on earth,
   let it be ratified in heaven. Amen. 
(from Wesley’s Covenant Service)

Let it be… Let it be.

The love of Christ compels us, because we have concluded this: one died for the sake of all; therefore, all died. He died for the sake of all so that those who are alive should live not for themselves but for the one who died for them and was raised. So then, from this point on we won’t recognize people by human standards. Even though we used to know Christ by human standards, that isn’t how we know him now. So then, if anyone is in Christ, that person is part of the new creation. The old things have gone away, and look, new things have arrived!

From this point on, says Paul… From this point we will not recognize people by human standards. Somebody else said it this way: The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Do you remember who said that? It was the Lord. The Lord said that to Samuel. “I don’t see things the way you folks do… I look at the heart.”

Let me tell you about Melvin. He was the unofficial mayor of Blue Jay, West Virginia. Which is not on the map, really, but if it ever gets there… well, I always thought it would be Melvin who put it there. Because Melvin had one of the biggest displays of Christmas lights in southern West Virginia. Had lights on everything. His house. His garage. An old sixty-eight Buick (that had been parked there for years)… And on one of the biggest evergreen trees I’ve ever seen.

He had lights everywhere… everywhere you can imagine! The neighbors used to worry about the man’s dog. Afraid the poor thing might fall asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time and wake up with a sixty-watt light bulb attached to his nose. “If it isn’t moving,” they said, “Melvin will hang a Christmas light on it.” And by the time we went there in 1987, there were so many of them he had to start not long after Labor Day just to get them all up by December.

The man would be out there stringing lights around the tree and the house and the fence posts for hours at a time. Old-fashioned lights. With the big glass bulbs that screw into the sockets. And every one of them was blue. Carolina blue. You could see it for miles, this mysterious blue halo above the little town of Blue Jay.

I asked him about it once, the first Christmas we were there. “Melvin,” I said, “why blue? Why not red or white like everyone else?” And Melvin said, “Blue… stands for the King.”  “Oh… Jesus,” I said. “No. Elvis,” said Melvin. My wife always loved that song, Blue Christmas,” he said. “So it’s blue for the king.”

Now… Melvin himself was not a dyed-in-the-wool, long-live-the-king, hand-me-down-my-blue-suede-shoes kind of fan. His wife was, of course. But not Melvin. He made his own music. Carried it around in his shirt pocket. A little harmonica. A French Harp they call it in that part of the world. And Melvin carried one with him wherever he went. Even brought it to church with him on Sundays.

And every once-in-a-while – about once a month — Melvin would slip out of the pew (where he always sat in the back of the church). And he would come forward. And with a big toothy grin, he’d reach into his shirt pocket and pull out his French Harp. And he’d play some old hymn like The Ninety and Nine or Blessed Assurance or Whispering Hope or some other old hymn. And people loved it! “That Melvin Rice can make a harmonica talk!” they would say. And he could. He was good. One of the best I’ve ever heard. 

I’ll never forget our last Sunday at Blue Jay. We had a covered dish dinner. And we sat at the table and broke bread together. Cornbread, of course. And biscuits. With chicken and dumplings and homemade apple pie. And when almost everyone had finished dessert, Melvin stood up and said, “I’m going to do something a little different this evening.” And he did. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his harmonica, and started to imitate the sound of a train – just like Bill Monroe used to do with his fiddle on the Orange Blossom Special. (Please don’t ask me how I know that. I can’t explain it. I just do.) 

Melvin imitated an old steam engine coming down the track. And then he went into that lovely old hymn, Life’s Railway to Heaven. Which says:

Life is like a mountain railway with an Engineer that’s brave;
    We must make the run successful from the cradle to the grave;
Watch the curves, the fills, the tunnels; never falter, never fail;
    Keep your hand upon the throttle and your eye upon the rail.

That was the first Sunday in June, 1991 – the last time I heard him play until just a few years ago. Which was the time, you remember, when Melvin stepped forward, removed his harmonica from his pocket and his teeth from his mouth, and played as I’d never heard him play before… without his teeth there to block the flow of air. Oh, “Jesus, Is Coming Soon” never sounded so good. 

Melvin was, indeed, the unofficial mayor of Blue Jay and one of its main attractions. Which is no wonder, what with his remarkable talent, and the blue lights of Christmas, and that million dollar smile.  It’s just hard to imagine how one person can be so gifted and graced.

And yet, even if Melvin couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket (or his teeth in his pocket), and even if his house didn’t glow with a strange blue light every year in December, he would still stand out, I think. Because it wasn’t just his house that glowed, it was his heart. For he was always giving. Always caring. Always doing something to help someone else. Friend or stranger. Sinner or saint. He was always reaching and serving, ready to let others know that they were somebody… It’s why people thought so well of him there. They felt like “somebody” when Melvin was around.

Not far from Blue Jay, believe it or not, is a little place called Crow. It’s not on the map. Probably never will be. Because Crow was one of the ugliest and poorest places in West Virginia.  There were families living in old abandoned campers and school buses. The kind of thing people in other parts of the country used to think of, when they heard the word Appalachia.

Melvin didn’t want other people to know it, but he would take food and clothes to several of the families who lived in Crow. He’d bring groceries and shirts and sweaters and shoes, and he’d play his harmonica for them and smile. He’d put the children on his knee and hug them and hold them and tease them as if they were his own – the apple of his eye! And they loved it! And he loved it, too! You could almost see them glowing with the joy and the warmth that they felt when Melvin was with them.

I asked him once why he did it… why he gave so much of his time (and money) to the people out there. And do you know what he said? Melvin said, “Because of the King.” Not Elvis, mind you… Jesus. “The way I see it,” he said, “they’re his. They’re royalty. But they’ll never see that if somebody somewhere doesn’t tell them.”

So then, from this point on we won’t recognize people by human standards. Even though we used to know Christ by human standards, that isn’t how we know him now. So then, if anyone is in Christ, that person is part of the new creation.

Well… you know about Samuel. He grew up in the Temple at Shiloh… the apprentice of an old priest named Eli who could barely see. But God called the boy Samuel, who was something like an acolyte, to be a priest and a prophet. Not just any prophet, mind you, but a kingmaker.

Really. It was Samuel who anointed the first king of Israel. A man named Saul. Same name as Saul of Tarsus, the man we know as Paul the Apostle. But Saul – King Saul, that is — lived about a thousand years earlier…

So his name was Saul, too. Which is kind of odd in a way, because the name Saul means “prayed for” or “asked for.” And they asked for it. Really. The people of Israel didn’t have a king. God was their king. God was their leader and protector. God was their ruler. But all the other “nations” had a king, and they wanted one, to0. So they asked for it. God wasn’t happy with the idea. But… they asked for it. So he let them have it. A king, that is.

God told Samuel to go and find this man, Saul. Which was not hard to do, because Saul was “ripped.” A handsome fellow who stood head and shoulders above everybody else. Saul looked like a king. So Samuel anointed him. And Saul was the King of Israel for forty-two years. But it didn’t end well for the king, because he stopped listening to God. Stopped doing what God told wanted him to do. Thought it was all about him… because he was the king, after all. And God regretted that he had ever agreed to put the man on the throne.

So… it was time for a new king. A real king. Someone who had what it takes. So… you know the story, God sent Samuel the prophet to a little village called Bethlehem. “There’s a man there who has a farm,” he said, “and some sheep. I’ve chosen one of his sons to be king. And I want you to go and anoint him.” Samuel didn’t want anything to do with it, at first. He was afraid Saul would find out. And Saul was a big man, remember. A warrior. And he was angry. Up-set. Ticked-off about all of this.

But… Samuel went to Bethlehem. And he found Jesse, the farmer, who had a whole houseful of boys. They weren’t boys, they were men. Hard-working fellows. Big and stout for the most part. And… do you remember what happened? Samuel took one look at the oldest son – a big strapping fellow named Eliab. Tall and good-looking. Kind of like Saul. I mean, Eliab looked like a King. And so Samuel took one look at him and reached for the oil so he could anoint him right there on the spot.

But God said, “No, Samuel. He isn’t the one. The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. You mortals judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

Samuel looked again at the sons of Jesse. The next in line was Abinadab. But it wasn’t him either… And then came Shammah. But Samuel said, “No… the Lord hasn’t chosen this one.” And one by one Jesse presented his sons to Samuel. Seven of them! Right on down the line they went. But Samuel said, “The Lord hasn’t picked any of them… Is that all of them, Jesse? Are these all your sons?”

Jesse said, “Well, no. There’s the youngest boy, mind you. But he’s just a kid. Just a boy, that one. Besides, he isn’t here. He’s out in the hills, somewhere, tending sheep.”

Samuel said, “Send for him… I’ll wait.”

So Jesse sent for the boy. And they brought him in. He was ruddy, it says in the bible. Rosy-cheeked, maybe. Or a redhead it says in the old translations. That’s why paintings and icons of Jesus from ages past show Jesus with reddish-colored hair. It was a way of saying, “He looks like David. This is the Son of David.”

So the boy stood there. And he was a boy. He looked like a boy. Not head and shoulders above the others with piercing eyes. But only slightly built compared to the others. With pretty eyes and boyish good-looks. Samuel must have thought, “You’ve got to be kidding. This kid can’t be king.” But the Lord said, “That’s the one, Samuel. Anoint him.” So Samuel took some oil and he anointed David, right there in front of his brothers! And the Spirit of God was with and in him from that time on.

People must have wondered… “What did God see in him? Why would God pick somebody like David? He was the least likely of the whole bunch. Anyone could see that!”

Well… God didn’t see that. God saw something else. Something more. Something deeper than everyone else – including Samuel the prophet. What was it God said? The Lord doesn’t see things the way we see them. You humans judge by the outward appearance. Isn’t that what we do? But God looks past all of that. God looks at the heart.

It’s just ingrained in us I think. It’s what we’ve been taught by this culture, this world we live in these days. We’ve learned to “read” people by the way they look. If somebody looks honest and trustworthy and safe and respectable… I mean, if they look like they come from a decent neighborhood and make a good living… and if they seem to take an interest in their appearance, then they’re probably okay.

Or if they dress to the nines and drive a Cadillac or a Beemer… and if their teeth are white and their hair is nice and they live in a big house, then we think… I mean, we’re conditioned to think, “They must be somebody.”

But a homeless person? A poor person? Someone who can’t for the life of them make a living… A person who doesn’t dress well… Somebody who’s awkward around other people… What do we think about them? Oh, it’s ingrained in people. It’s so much a part of our culture these days that we don’t even think about it, really. Because so much of what we hear and see and learn in this world says, “They’re not important. Not like this other guy. They’ve got problems.” Or we think, “That person is disgusting.” Or, “They’re a burden on the economy.” Or, “He’s a loser. A nobody. Not someone who matters.” Or if we don’t take it quite that far, we just try to look past them, as if they’ll go away if we don’t acknowledge them.

The trouble is God doesn’t see it that way… God doesn’t see us that way. Or any of his children. You know what God sees. God sees someone he loves. Someone he created. Someone fearfully and wonderfully made. God sees someone God made in God’s own image. Ah, the truth is… God sees someone he loves so much that… Do you know how much? So much that God gave his only Son for them. For you. And for me.

And that’s what God sees when he looks at the nobodies… the misfits, the throw-aways, the rejects of this world. That’s what God sees when he looks at the lowest and least among us. At the poor and the lost and the hungry – all those who’ve been labeled as marginal, unimportant, insignificant and unwanted. God looks at them – at them, mind you, not at the outside… but at their hearts. And God sees his beloved. His little ones. His chosen… God looks at them and sees something like royalty. 

At the ordination service at annual conference, Bishop Grove told us about Wayne. Not my hometown, mind you, but a person…
The bishop’s second pastorate (his second church) was in a river town north of Pittsburgh – in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. There’s a well-known golf course in Oakmont – maybe you’ve heard of it. But in that town was a man named Wayne. And the bishop said that Wayne was slightly mentally challenged and he earned his living by sweeping the streets and doing odd jobs for people in their homes. And one day, out of the blue, Wayne stopped Bishop Grove – Pastor Grove it was back then – and he asked him if he could be a member of his church. And to this day, the bishop says, he is embarrassed that he had never thought to invite him.

Well… “Of course,” he said. And they made an appointment for Wayne to come see him so they could talk about it. So… when the time came, the doorbell rang at the parsonage (which is where the pastor’s study was located). And Bishop Grove said that when he opened the door he was amazed… Wayne was wearing a suit, with a white shirt and a necktie. And he was clean shaven and had a fresh haircut. And Bishop Grove (the pastor) complimented him on how nice he looked. And this is what Wayne said: “If I’m going to talk to you about being a Christian, I want to be a clean candidate.”

Well… they talked about baptism and what it would mean for him to profess his faith. They talked about what would happen in the service. And then Bishop Grove said, “Wayne… every member should have a job to do in church. Have you thought about what you would like to do?”

Wayne had been thinking about that. And before Bishop Grove could even get the question out, Wayne had an answer. “I would like to give out bulletins when people come to the service. I would like to stand near the door and… when the weather is nice… I would like to stand outside near the door to give out the bulletins.”

Well, Bishop Grove was curious and a little surprised that Wayne seemed to have given so much thought to this. So he asked him, “ Wayne… why do you want to do this? Why do you want to stand near the door?”

And this was his answer: “Because if people out there going up and down the street see that Wayne is a member here, they might think that they would be welcome here, too.” And they did. They saw Wayne standing there at the church. And they knew that they were welcome. And what they understood was that the church in Oakmont was a place where God would see them and love them and call them his own. Just like Wayne.

And every year, Wayne would go wherever Bishop Grove was serving so that they could worship God together…. I can’t tell you what a difference that made. Not so much for Wayne – though it surely did make a difference for him — but for that church and for their pastor.
That’s what God sees when he looks at his little ones. He sees something like royalty. He sees someone who can make a difference. Someone who can touch the hearts and lives of countless others with the life-giving news that there is a God who loves them just as they are…

And that’s what God sees when he looks at you.

In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria
Benen, OblSB