The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
The Very Rev. Steve Lipscomb, Dean
Grace Cathedral
8/22/10

Jeremiah 1:4-1

Some years back, a man went into the wilderness on a camping trip. Camping alone is dangerous, but this particular trip was all the more dangerous because there had been reports of an unknown stranger stalking those woods.  Because of that danger, some would have called the camping trip a foolish venture.  Others, including the camper, would have called it necessary.

As I said, no one really knew much about the stranger.  It was almost as if his presence was suspected rather than proved.  In any event, it was believed that anyone who happened to encounter and who dared to enter into combat with the stranger would surely lose.  And the loss—the defeat—would be extraordinary, costly, painful, complete.

And yet, what made this story—this solitary venture into the forest—so interesting is that only a little more was known of the camper than of the stranger.  What could be said of the camper?  Well, some called him an outlaw.  Others called him a wronged man who had simply managed to survive through the use of his own cunning. 

In either case, what was known about the camper was this:  he had stolen from his own family, and he had conned his brother out of a fairly hefty inheritance.  It was said by some that if he'd had to, he would have killed his brother for the inheritance.  As it turned out, he didn't have to kill him; he merely outsmarted him.

So here's the scenario:  a cunning, solitary man in the wilderness pitted against a suspected stranger whose strength was said to be fearsome.  About all we know from the news report is what happened late in the night when the camper lay on the ground asleep. 

He said he was suddenly awakened—his sleep suddenly disturbed—by the feeling of another presence in the camp, and a rather strange presence at that, not just near him, but somehow all about him—even in the deep part of his gut.  In the most intense moment of this inner turmoil, the camper opened his eyes just in time to grab the stranger who was lunging at his body.    

The battle was fierce.  The camper felt a blow to his head, the likes of which he had never felt before.  He said it felt like an iron hammer against his head, and he barely remained conscious after the blow.  Realizing that another blow like that could kill him, the adrenalin started pumping.  The camper grabbed the stranger, whose face he still couldn't see, and he began fighting for his very life.

The two wrestled into the night, blood spilling from both bodies, neither getting the upper hand on the other--until finally, about daybreak, the stranger cried out, "Let me go."  But the camper, by this time so close to death that he no longer feared it, shouted back, "I will not let you go until you give me your blessing."

"What is your name?" asked the stranger.
"My name is Jacob."
And the stranger said to Jacob, "You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God and humans, and have prevailed."
           
Of course you know how the rest of the story goes.  Jacob walks out camp—limps out of camp—with his blessing and a few sore places from the experience.

That is the story of the call of Jacob.  And it is a fitting introduction, I think, to any “call” story in the Bible (or, for that matter, in our own lives).  But that is precisely what we have in our text this morning from Jeremiah—a call.  The call of God to a boy who, like Jacob, fears the unknown stranger who calls:
            "Ah, Lord God!  Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy."
            ". . . you shall Speak whatever I command you.  Do not be afraid . . . for I am with you and will deliver you."

The idea is that there will be great peril from which the boy will need to be delivered.  That is the first thing to understand about a call from God.  Don't expect it to bring cheerful blessing or favorable ease.  It doesn't usually.  It's not an easy thing to take up God's call (though most find it even harder to decline).  Believe, rather, that a genuine call from God first brings pain and fear: the pain of your certain defeat at the hands of God; the fear of the dangerous unknown that lies ahead.

When you—like Jacob and Jeremiah—are engaged in a struggle with God, don't expect to come out unscathed; you will be maimed.  You'll come out of the battle limping, for any encounter with God is a life-changing encounter.  We all know that change, even for the good, is at first painful.

I don't think we're honest in the church about this matter, with others or with ourselves.  What do we tell people about following Jesus?  That it's easy?  That for those who are Christians, life is grand and gay, all sunshine and roses?  Anybody here know a life like that?  What is the understanding the church has about authentic spirituality?  If we paint conversion, discipleship, spirituality with light colors suggesting perpetual joy and calmness of soul and peace of mind, we're painting a false picture; we're not being honest.

Conversion and discipleship and spirituality ought to be painted with dark colors and swirling brush strokes, suggesting upheaval and disturbance.  You may be certain that an encounter with the holy will disturb the human soul.  There is no way to get to the light without going through the darkness—no way to the peace that passes understanding without coming through the turmoil that racks the mind. (Christianity is not for wimps!)

That's even true in our worship.  You can't just show up on Palm Sunday, then go away for a week and expect to come back and celebrate Easter.  It won't be real.  That kind of Easter joy you can get from baby chicks and Easter eggs.  But if you really want to know and experience the true joy of Easter, you walk with Jesus through that whole week, including Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, because without the Crucifixion, there is no Resurrection.  Jesus knew that when he accepted God's call.                                            

You look at these call stories—experience these stories of encounter between God and people—and you soon understand that when we come face to face with the Living God, we are in a scary, awful (awe-full) place.  The world that we have known and trusted suddenly gets turned upside down.

Theologian Paul Tillich talked about our experience with God as a frightening experience.  He wrote, "We all desire to escape God . . .{People] of all kinds, prophets and reformers, saints and atheists, believers and unbelievers, have the same experience.  It is safe to say that a person who has never tried to flee God has never experienced the God who is really God."

Do you know why that is—why we try to flee from God?  I think it's because God knows us so deeply.  That is, God knows us not as we present ourselves to the world, with all our hypocrisy and fear and deception, but as we truly are.  God knows us naked—bare.  He knows the good and the evil, the honesty and the hypocrisy, the courage and the fear, the truth and the deception.  As God says to Jeremiah, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you."  And God knows each one of us--today.      

 Just think for a moment of being known deeply, truly, completely.  Think of being known in such a way that no one else in the world knows you—not even your spouse, not even you yourself.  Think of all the stuff you hide, all that makes you hurt, all that causes you regret or sorrow or shame.  Think of being known in those ways by the Holy One.

And then, with the unbearable weight of that knowing on your shoulders, think of being spoken to by the Holy One:  "You are mine.  I claim you as my own.  Do not be afraid for I am with you.  Do not fear the unknown, for I will lead you through it.  Because I know you.  I know all of you—through and through—and I love you with a love that surpasses the limits of reason.  Before you were, I knew you, and I chose you.  I made you, and I claim you now.”

We do have to wrestle with being known completely, for we don't even know ourselves completely.  We do have to wrestle with being accepted unconditionally, for we're not very good at accepting even ourselves.  We do have to wrestle with being loved endlessly, for there are limits to the love we hold even for ourselves.

An encounter with the Holy One who knows you and accepts you and loves you beyond the limits of reason is a fearsome, awful thing indeed.           

"I knew you before you were," says God.  "And I am calling you now."
Are you like Jeremiah? Lacking confidence in your abilities, your goodness, your acceptability, but unable to resist God's call?  Are you like Jacob? Wrestling with the stranger, wanting to let go, but knowing you can't because you have hold of something that stirs the deepest part of your soul?

I suspect we all have a little bit of Jacob and Jeremiah in us.  We're all restless; all longing for God; all confused at times; all weary at times; all scared at times.  Yet, when the holy does grab us, we'll fight through hell to hold on.

So what do we do?  The only thing we can do.  Like Jeremiah and Jacob--we keep on fighting, and struggling and holding on until we finally realize that what ultimately has us really had us all along. 

Maybe when we realize that, then the darkness will fade and we can look for the first time into the eyes of the One who is not a stranger, and who says to us, "I know you.  I love you.  --And I call you."

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