Pentecost

Promise Keepers

1 Peter 1:3-5

St. Peter states the promise of faith in Christ clearly—it is a do-over, a reboot, a restart, and any other terminology that fits a new beginning, a moment when the slate is clean, and we are awakening to a brand new day.

Gosh, but does the world need that right now!

It always has, and, I suspect, it always will as long as the dominant species on the planet is homo sapien. Our miraculous minds, able at once to reach for the stars, while simultaneously plotting the destruction of the planet and everybody in it, set the world on the edge of chaos daily. Our history is marked by moments when chaos reigned. The earth bears the scars of our inanity and our insanity. Our fellow human beings walk with a limp inflicted through centuries of abuse, some of it in the name of righteousness. As St. Peter wrote, within his audience of slaves, wives of pagans, and other underclasses drawn to the message of the Gospel, there was certainly a longing hunger within his group for the promised restart; and as we sit here this morning, that same hunger brought some of us to this church—the need to know that nothing is final, nothing is fixed in place, and that there is still time and possibility for things to get better and for all to be well.

The month of May is a season of hope. Graduations dot the landscape, ranging from preschool and kindergarten ceremonies to high school commencements to collegiate festivals of academia—there are all bound together by hope—hope for the young people before us, hope for ourselves grounded in their presence, and general prayer that this time, things—the world and us within it—can make real progress. 

St. Peter believes with every fiber of his apostolic being that such hope is realistic, practical, and relevant. He takes this stance because his faith reminds him continually of the presence of God with us. His own story is nothing if it is not an affirmation of exactly the sort of hopeful promise he preaches. He failed. He failed catastrophically. He denied Jesus. He denied Jesus after being the loudest disciple in his assertions that he would be there with Jesus until the bitter end, even if that meant that they had to pry his cold, dead fingers from Jesus’ robe. He blew it. But he got the reboot. Jesus reclaimed him from his failure. Jesus reclaimed through the painful process of making Peter answer his denial, word for word. But he got his do-over. He got another chance. Now, here he is, missionary, apostle, “rock on which the Church is built,” and a member of the redeemed. He knows of which he preaches. His experience confirms his own hope in hope.

But therein may lay a problem for the rest of us—do we have such experience? 

One of the key critiques rising from the flood of skepticism that continues to wash through American religion is that religion makes promises it has no evidence to support their possibility. In other words, we say a lot of things with nothing to back them up.

That is where our work appears.

Answer them like Peter did.

My assumption is that every one of us is here because something clicked within us through our experience that made church a viable, practical, and meaningful part of our lives. Our struggle is, though, that Presbyterians by nature are reticent to talk about our experience. 

That needs to change.

If what we find here truly is life-altering, really is that reboot so longed for, then why not share it?

No one will laugh, think us silly, or dismiss us, so long as we keep it real, to use the vernacular. Don’t be afraid to say how Jesus made a difference in your life stream. That does not mean spouting deep theology like Karl Barth, or praying with the illustrious eloquence of Teresa of Avila—it means sharing what happened to you. 

Each year, our newly elected Elders and Deacons rise one by one to stand before their peers to tell us their story. The stories are powerful because they are real—here is a real person sharing their deepest person with us—What a gift! What a treasure! And what power of proclamation! Each person shares and experience of God’s entrance into their lives and how that entrance altered everything else. They range from stories of instantaneous intervention—an accident led to a miraculous interruption—to a slow cooking of spirituality to readiness—a life within the sheltering arms of a family, a congregation, and a communion that led to a response of service. No one comes away from that evening feeling humiliated or dismissed, but rather it becomes a powerful moment of affirmation, confirmation, and assurance that God is good and grace abounds—and that there is no more important truth that we carry. 

In the acceptance of such a call, the world can change. It can begin to move, friend to friend, neighbor to neighbor, person to person—the kingdom comes!