Sunday, September 4, 2011

When the Lights Go Out

Text: Exodus 12:1-14
Date: September 4, 2011
Green Street UMC, Augusta, ME
© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

So Shawn, an Irishman, meets his friend Paddy on the way to church. “You’re looking sad this morning, Paddy,” says Shawn. “What’s troubling you so?”
“Well, I’ve been to a funeral,” says Paddy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” answers Shawn. “A friend of yours?”
“Oh, yes, a fine friend,” says Paddy. “A loving husband, a devoted father, but an atheist.”
“An Atheist. Is that why you’re so sad?” asked Shawn.
“Yes,” Paddy answers. “I looked down at him in his casket, dressed in his finest jacket, shirt, and tie, and I thought to my self, ‘Poor Seamus, all dressed up and no where to go.”

Well, I’m happy to leave the eternal destiny of Seamus to his creator, but his predicament begs the question for all who do profess a belief in God, are we expecting to go anywhere? I was entering family birthdays into Google calendar the other day, and with each addition I was given several options:

Is this a recurring event? Yes
How often will this event occur? Yearly
For how many years will this event reoccur or will it reoccur forever?

That’s the question, isn’t it? I’d like to think that I’ll be having a birthday 20 years from now, but I’m pretty sure 100 years from now is pretty optimistic. Although I did read an article from a reliable source last month that suggested that the first human beings to reach the age of 150 have almost certainly already been born. So be nice to the kids in the nursery; they may be around for a while.

All dressed up and no place to go. Maybe you saw the cartoon of the three angels in heaven, one sitting on a cloud with a laptop computer close at hand, weeping profusely. “What’s wrong with him?” asked one of the angels. The other answered, “No Internet access.” The point is that heaven is going be a dreadfully boring place if we don’t live now like we expect to be living then. Do we really expect to live eternally checking our Facebook page, watching Soap Operas, and looking for good buys on Ebay? We had a reminder of our technology dependence last week as power went out across the region, and then came back slowly, for some not until Friday or Saturday. And as I saw folks later in the week or as they got back on-line, some reported that they had had the worst time of their lives, while others--even with all the difficulties--described the experience as life-changing. Tracy Cochran, who’s a blogger on Word Press, wrote about how the dynamics of her family and community life began to change.

“For days,” she writes, “I collected sticks in the yard to burn as kindling in the wood stove, and hauled buckets of water into the house to flush the toilet and wash the dishes. It was strange, being so cut off in one sense yet feeling so intimately connected with life and with the way much of the rest of the world lives. Instantly, I was aware of how precious clean water is, and how much I usually waste. Suddenly, I became aware that a house grows dark and cold at night without someone to build a fire and tend it. I became the fire builder, the keeper of the hearth. Anthony, my daughter Alex’s boyfriend from England, cooked food on the cast iron stove. We all learned how long it takes to cook over a fire—hours! And yet this was the center of the evening, the light and warmth from the fire, the promise of warm food, the common talk of how it was coming along, and then stories we told as we ate. We all learned what is elemental and crucial, and that these basic things can be hard work, yet there is something inherently good and right about it. All beings deserve to eat and be warm and safe, and being mindfully engaged in this work can bring wisdom about life. ....

“As the third day dawned to no hot coffee or tea (unless I got up and built a fire and waited for three hours), it began to feel like an ordeal. Alex was sick with a bad cold, our water supply was almost exhausted–and I discovered that those little moments of good humor—that impulse to forget ourselves and help someone else are as crucial as fire. On the third night, as I was struggling to light a fire with damp kindling, the neighbors came by with big pales of fresh water: “We wanted to give you the gift of being able to flush the toilet,” they said.

“...I...marveled at the way this common humanity–this pulling together–just arose spontaneously. We innately know we can’t go it alone. We neighbors who rarely have the chance to stop and talk stood outside together laughing and talking (for hours). We even looked up at the stars that we commented were so clear without ambient lights....” (http://parabolatracy.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/irene-lessons/)


I don’t want to romanticize life without technology. The memories of last week are too fresh for that. But it is clear that something emerges when the lights go out that is closer to our heavenly life than our typical everyday existence. We appreciate the value of our relationships, we marvel at natural wonders that we’re inclined to ignore, we appreciate the simplicity of warm food, adequate portions, and shared responsibility.

I read these words with today’s Scripture lesson close at hand. Moses is told to prepare the people for Passover, that wonderful yet terrible night when the angel of death will smite the first born of their oppressors. In order to preserve their families from this terrible fate, the Hebrews are asked to distinguish themselves from the society in which they live by gathering for a meal, a Passover meal. They are to roast a lamb and to find someone to share it with (Passover is a community event and doesn’t come in single serving containers). They are told to dress as those who expect to be delivered from slavery by morning--shoes on their feet, staff in their hand. There are to be no leftovers, because surely tomorrow morning we will be free.

Likewise, we are called to gather here this morning for this meal set before us. It is the foretaste of the heavenly life that will envelope us when we run out of birthdays. It is communal, and lived in real time, when we are gathered together. It can’t be shared electronically or experienced historically, it can only be eaten now, here, and together. It is more powerful than the darkness which will surround us tonight when the sun goes down, it is more powerful than the hunger as we wait for fire to warm our food; this altar is the hearth around which we gather so that our story may be told to those who haven’t heard it, as well as those who have, but who don’t mind hearing it again. This altar has been here for mere decades, but it is also ancient. It has been the gathering place of our ancestors since Jesus first broke bread upon it and said to his friends, “This is my body, broken for you.” Indeed, it is the same table upon which a roasted lamb was placed, as mothers told their children, “Eat all of it, because tomorrow we will know freedom.”

All dressed up, and someplace to go. Have your staff in your hand, and your shoes on your feet this morning, for this world is not our home. Amen.

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