Sermon by Reverend Dr. John W. Mann | June 25, 2023

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 & Philippians 4:4-9

When I was around twelve years old, I read a memoir by John Steinbeck entitled, “Travels With Charley.” The story told of the author and his dog Charley on a road trip around the country. It was the first book that I read in the great literary tradition of, “Someone goes on a journey.” It sparked an interest; it planted a seed that grew into a life-long appreciation of the American Road Trip.

Over time I came to see that life itself is a journey. Whether we move around or stay in one place, we are on a journey from birth to death. And, in our Christian view, from death to after life. For all of us, this journey is a epic story. Today I share with you a few observations about the great road trip of life.

On our recent road trip from Duluth to North Carolina and back, there were days when we got off the main roads and took the scenic route through highways and byways. We drove through towns we never knew existed, yet in which people have lived their entire lives.

One highlight of the scenic route is seeing churches, church signs and religious messages posted in various locations. The Word of God for those going by at 55 miles per hour. One sign reads, “Jesus is Coming Soon.” What do they know that I don’t know? Though by the weathered appearance of the sign by the road one wonders if the sign painter is of the “a thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone” camp.

A hundred yards or so down the road is a companion to “Jesus is Coming Soon,” which states, “This is Your Last Warning!” Duly noted, thank you. I’ll bear in mind that should I feel in need of being warned again. I’ve had my chance. No more warnings for me. But what if I were to drive down that road again? Does my last warning become my last warning over again? Perhaps the sign painter should add a codicil stating, “We Really Mean It This Time!”

What would it mean to actually heed the warning, as in “Jesus is Coming Soon.” I tend to interpret the meaning more as the possibility of meeting my redeemer at any given moment. Some might say in response, “Live each day as if it was your last.” But if you think about it, that’s not very good advice. If I knew for a fact that this day was my last day, I would take care of certain details – such as saying good-bye. But if it was only “as if” this was my last day, then seeing people again or saying good-bye every day would be like the awkward moment of running again into the people who dropped me off at the airport. 

One time on a road trip we had planned to attend church, but discovered that it was “Youth Sunday.” Nothing against youth, it’s just that “Youth Sunday” means more when they are one’s own youth. Another time, when visiting a friend’s church, we discovered only after entering the building that she wasn’t there that week. And to make matters worse, it was “Clown Sunday.” Yeah I know, fools for Christ and all that.

There was something about finding out it was Clown Sunday only after it was too late to make a polite exit, let alone an informed decision, that made me feel tricked. I’m sure that was not their intention. Some warning would have been appreciated. Maybe a sign in the parking lot with a clown on it and the words, “This Is Your Last Warning!”

Remembering adolescence, one time in the 9^th grade I was in the cafeteria eating my lunch, minding my own business when this other kid, Kevin, with whom I had been engaging in a mutual aggravation contest came along and smashed a Hostess Twinkie on the front of my shirt. I went after him and before push came to any further shove, a teacher intervened.

Mr. Cotton was his name. He took us down to gym, down to the wrestling room and gave us each a pair of 16-ounce boxing gloves. “If you guys are intent on fighting,” he said, “here’s your chance.” He made us take off our shoes to tread on the wrestling mat and when we started swinging it became clear what his motives were. It was nearly impossible to gain any purchase in stocking feet and get in a good punch. There was a lot of swinging, missing and falling down. With much energy expended.

Mr. Cotton let us fight as long as we wanted, which wasn’t long. Both of us soon saw the futility of it and “shook hands” in peace. I think all the animosity between us was dissipated by the energy we expended.

The fights going on now are considerably more lethal. As much as we pray for peace, wish for it, work for it and no matter how many cease fires, pacts, treaties and accords are put in place, it seems that people are intent on fighting it out until no one is left standing.

Yeah but, he wiped a Twinkie on my shirt! I forget what I did to him to inspire that. They took our land – they blew up my grandparents – they killed my sister – they attacked our school – layer upon layer of intractable grievance that will fester as long as people are alive to keep the sores open.

As much as I have marched for peace, spoken out for it, and worked to make the world a better place, I also realize there are people locked in a death struggle. I feel for them and for the innocent victims of their violent rage. But I also admit that there is something in me that says, “A curse upon them for their violence. Let them reap what they sow.”

I realize that I shouldn’t feel that way. But I do. Does anyone else?

In a session meeting long ago, someone reported to me, “My children are bored in worship.” There seemed to be multiple implications to the statement. It was delivered as a mild accusation as if, 1: boredom in children is a bad thing; 2: boredom of children in worship was my responsibility both in terms of cause and 3: the need for me to come up with a solution.

That conversation and others like it were probably the reasons I started shaving my head for many years; so that if I succumbed to the temptation to pull out my hair, there would be nothing to grab hold of.

I am selective about how I am bored. On Sundays when I am blessed with a holiday, I tend to engage in what is known as a “lie-in.” Sleep late and read the papers in bed with ample coffee at hand.

On occasions when I choose to be bored by attending worship, I want it to be the proper form of boredom. It may seem odd, but I prefer to be engaged with boredom. By that I mean a worship experience that provides just enough leeway for the mind to wander a bit. Not to be so engaging as to try and fill every moment and with programmed expectations about what God is capable of doing through worship. In any great symphony, the pauses are as critical as the notes.

Which would mean that I avoid worship that seeks to entertain me; I don’t need God explained, which is impossible in any event. Rather, I appreciate worship in which God might be revealed in some way. That can happen in a lot of ways. The way a hymn strikes just the right note; the way a prayer elicits just the right spirit; the way a sermon reveals an interesting pattern of dots that the Spirit connects. Perhaps not as the preacher intends, but as the freedom of spirit is allowed, which is often better anyway. The way questions are left to linger and be pondered.

All of that takes a fair amount of boredom, the clearing of mind and expectation and letting the fields of the heart and soul lay fallow for a season. It is more of an answer than can be given in the exact moment when boredom is flung like a curse.

Those days once upon a time ago were rife with no-win situations. Now a little older and wiser I think back to what I might have said, but even so perhaps to no avail. I might have pointed out the difference between the deadly sin of ennui, in which “there’s nothing to do” and boredom which offers every opportunity. But that was then, and the opportunity is for now. Who might respond to an invitation to “come, and be bored?”

One time a visitor shared, “I was looking for a little peace and quiet. I’ll be back.” Maybe he found what he was looking for. Maybe I bored his socks off. Perhaps I’ve done the same for you. Amen.