The Most Precious Gift
Rev. Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
3/7/04

 

Reading   

From 20^th century Universalist, Clinton Lee Scott:

 

And it came to pass that the time of the year was upon them when the call went forth from the Great Temple for pledges of support for another twelvemonth.  And one there was who rebuked the solicitor gruffly, saying, “Get thee hence, and return not.  Verily, the Great Temple seeketh money from everlasting to everlasting.”  The solicitor accepted the rebuff, and said unto him quietly, “My son, when he was a child, was very costly.  He was forever hungry, and was fed; he was forever wearing out or outgrowing his raiment and was clothed anew.  As he increased in the stature of manhood, ever more money had I need to spend upon him.  And it came to pass that the Angel of Death smote him, and he died.  And lo!  Now he costeth me not a cent!”  And he who had rebuked him was filled with compassion and understanding, and he said, “Verily, verily, thou has opened mine eyes; for now I see that only a dead Temple needeth no money: a live Temple needeth ever more!”  And he offered up his pledge…a sadder but wiser man.[1]

 

 

Sermon

When I found out that this year’s pledge drive to support the general operating fund of the church would be a face-to-face canvass I was delighted.  I was delighted because I knew that some of you would be meeting and getting to know each other through this process for the first time…and I know enough of you to know that this is a good thing…this getting to know each other.  You see, when people call me for information about our church, I do my best to give them a quick overview of our liberal approach to religion.  I usually say something like  “We are a democratic, creedless religious community that covenants to walk together through the big questions of our lives.  We are home to those holding many different theological viewpoints and perspectives (from atheistic to agnostic to theist) and we are energized by these differences.  We celebrate life in its sorrow and its joy. We aim to find meaning through growing our minds as well as our spirits and we do our best to be present to each other and to this world we share. But,” I always add, “to really get a feel for who we are, you need to come to church and meet the people who make up our congregation.  It’s the people, after all, who make the church.”

 

I’ve always known that the people are the real treasure of this community, and that the more each of us would get to know each other, the more rich that treasure would become.  That’s one of the reasons why, when I began as your minister in the fall of 2001, I set out to create with you a small group ministry program that has the same basic mission as this year’s canvass:  making connections.  This morning we begin enrollment for the fifth six-month session of small group ministry, a church-sponsored program designed for members and friends to get to know each other in a meaningful way.  If you haven’t yet tried it, I and around 100 of your fellow church members will be glad to convince you to do so.  It’s a truly wonderful program that has often startled its committed participants with its power and meaning, and the connections that have been created by it have a great deal to do with the energy we feel around here these days.  Small group ministry is all about people getting to know each other, establishing themselves in this community, which to me is essential since, after all, it’s the people who make the church.

 

This is the same reason why I have cheered you on as you have become more intentional about welcoming newcomers and have proudly watched as you have formed affinity groups like the writer’s group, the parent’s group, and interweave, just to name a few, that provide even more avenues for connections.  It’s also why I celebrate with you this morning as the church officially passes the three hundred-member mark for the first time in recent memory.  The more people we welcome to our shared journey of discovery and community, the more exciting our community becomes.  The more people who are with us, the better.  After all, it’s the people who make the church. 

 

As you have heard me mention from this pulpit before, my personal theology is grounded in the idea that the divine exists when we take the risk to come out from our isolation and get together, when we listen and share with one another with the expectation that something greater will emerge in the space in-between our solitudes.  It’s that expectation part that makes all the difference, you know.  The idea that if we expect to be changed, transformed even, by how we live in the world and engage with those around us, we will be.  The expectation, then, is as holy as the interchange itself.

 

I found myself returning to church several years ago when I couldn’t deny my desire to participate in an intergenerational community of support and challenge. Once I got there, I was surprised to discover that my expectations were growing and I was being called to more than just membership.  I was being called to ministry.  I found that I wanted to be with people of all ages in their times of joy and sorrow.  I wanted to soak up the wisdom of those who have found meaning in asking questions together and who continue to strive to fully inhabit this life we share.  I wanted to take my place in what some have described as the best seat in the theatre of life, and looking back on my decision, I haven’t been disappointed.  In fact, my life has already been so enriched by the connections I have made and seen others make that I feel one of the most important goals of my ministry is to encourage each of you to take your place right along side me…to accept your calling to ministry as well.  For in a church like ours, I contend we are all ministers.  I believe that each of us has a role to play in the creative interchange that is not only the “source of human good” (as theologian Henry Nelson Wieman contended) but the primary means by which we can effect positive change in our own lives and the lives of our brothers and sisters in this great dance of life we share.

 

That’s not to say that this ministry stuff isn’t risky business now and then.  Indeed, there are many times when being with people amidst all misery and glory that life has to offer, not to mention the imperfections that make us human, will challenge us in ways that go beyond what we think we can handle.  I certainly have felt in over my head occasionally, faced with situations for which I did not feel adequately prepared. 

 

In my work with AMOS [the broad-based organization of area churches and institutions seeking to build relational power to change the body politic in metropolitan Des Moines], I had a one-on-one meeting with a local minister this week, a minister with nearly ten times the amount of experience that I have, a minister who serves one of the larger churches in town.  I took the opportunity to get my elder colleague’s perspective about this work of ministry that we share. I asked him, “How long did it take you to feel like you knew what you knew what you were doing?”  He paused for what felt like a long time and then offered an answer that has wisdom for each of us, I think, in the various ministries of our lives. “Ministry,” he said,  “is about intentionally going to places where you cannot possibly know what you are doing.  That’s what makes it ministry.”

 

Going where you cannot possibly know what you are doing.  Sounds like a recipe for disaster…if it weren’t such a great way to invite transformation.  Think of the ministries of your lives—your ministries as parents, partners, family members, and friends.  Hasn’t the greatest learning come from going to places where you couldn’t possibly know what you were doing?  Even when you made mistakes?  Especially when you made mistakes?   The ministry we share in this church is much the same.  I think about the kind of commitments that members of this church are asked to make…not just pledging money to support the general operating fund of the church…but commitments like teaching children, leading a stewardship campaign, organizing a fund-raiser, being on the care crew, leading a social-action project, interviewing architects, helping choose a minister, to name just a few, and I wonder if any of the members who have accepted these challenges knew what they were in for when they joined…about how their commitment to the church would encourage them to say “yes” to things that they may have never thought they would…or even could.  I also think about the people who have made the decision to join the church this morning.  I don’t want to be too dramatic here, but I do believe that by committing to membership in this community, they (and the rest of us, too) are opening the door to transformation.  After all, isn’t this one of the most precious gifts and challenges of our church…the possibility that we will be transformed by our participation?  That we will be encouraged to learn and stretch and grow and more fully inhabit our lives as justice-seeking creative-interchange pursuing people as a result?  Of course, whether or not we are transformed will have a lot to do with our expectations, our sense of humor, and perhaps most importantly, our willingness to see the work of the church as the work of our lives.

 

I appreciate how church consultant Michael Durall describes membership in a church. He writes:

“At times, churches are places of comfort, respite, and solace.  But not always.  Sometimes churches present great challenges.  Sometimes we may be asked to give small amounts of time, effort, or money.  But sometimes the church might ask us to make the most significant commitment we’ve made in our entire lives.  And sometimes we may be asked to make the largest charitable gift we’ve ever made. This is the nature of churches.  Anyone coming into this church should know what’s in store—perhaps a roller-coaster ride, perhaps one of the greatest adventures of a lifetime.”[2]

 

Perhaps one of the greatest adventures of a lifetime.  Wow!  This is quite different from a commonly held perception of church as a shelter from the storms of life…or even as a fueling station to reenergize ourselves.  What if each of us were to embrace our participation in the church not as a respite from life, but as an adventure pulling us deeper into life?  What if each of us were to open ourselves to the transformation that comes from engaging with others, even when to do so feels risky, even when to do so is to stretch ourselves farther than we ever thought we’d go?  What if we saw the work of the church as the creation of channels for connection so that others could experience this transformation as well?  If each of us were to do this, I think we wouldn’t have to set aside a Sunday for a stewardship sermon, for every Sunday would be a stewardship celebration.  We wouldn’t have to orchestrate a pledge drive because giving to the church would be one of our top priorities.  We wouldn’t fall prey to the vending machine syndrome of church participation in which we are always looking for what the church can do for us; we would be searching instead for what for what we can do for the church.

 

This is the transformation that the church offers every day:  the chance that we might come to understand that the most precious gift is not the one we receive but the one we can learn to give.

 

This transformation is described in the a parable, from the Hindu tradition:

 

An old monk had slept the night at the edge of a village. He awakened at his usual time, just before sunrise, as a warm wind moved over the land, gathering up faint aromas that sweetened the air:  a small garden here, a tiny blossom there, the pungent whisper-memory of a drying water hole.

 

He sat up, looked to the east where the sky was beginning to lighten, and began his morning devotions, starting the day with prayer as he had done almost every day of his life.  It was during these prayers that the sound of hurried footsteps greeted his ears, and then a voice behind him: “Master, master, where is it?”

 

The old man turned slowly, and there standing behind him, was a young peasant, dressed in rags.  The young man was excited, his chest heaving up and down, his eyes intense and piercing.

 

The old man studied the young man for a long moment. “What is it that you ask of me?”

 

The young man bowed slightly to his elder, seeming to calm himself a bit, and spoke:  “I had a dream last night, and in my dream I came to the edge of the village and met a holy man.  And now here you are.  In my dream that holy man gave me a precious jewel.”

 

“Ah,” replied the old man as he reached down and retrieved from a clump of grass a ruby the size of a fist.

 

“You must mean this.  I found it…I don’t know where, but I have no use for it.  You may have it.”

 

With that the old man handed the ruby to the young peasant, a man whose hands had never held more than two copper coins at one time.

 

The young man took the ruby.  He could not believe his good fortune. He held it up to the sun, his face awash in red shadow.  He walked home slowly, holding the jewel in his hand, his arm outstretched in front of him.  He could not take his eyes off it.

 

Returning to his small cottage he placed the ruby on the table, pulled up the one chair that he owned, and sat all day admiring his treasure.  He would turn the stone this way and that, slowly, reverently stroking this great gift over and over as the hours passed.

 

That night the young man had difficulty sleeping.

 

The next morning he was traveling to the fields, the ruby secure in his pocket, when he came upon the old man.  He walked over to him, bowed in respect, took the ruby out of his pocket, and gave it back.

 

“I do not want this,” he said.  “I want what you know that made it so easy to give it away.”[3]

 

As we each make our financial commitments to the church in the days ahead, may we be so wise, and may we be grateful to have a place that challenges us to learn this lesson ourselves.