SERMONS

By Rev. Anthony B. Robinson, Sabbatical Interim Minister
October 25, 2009

Job 42: 1 – 6, 7 – 10; Mark 10: 46 – 52

This is my last Sunday with you as sabbatical interim minister. It’s been a joy and a privilege to be with you in this way since late July. Even from such a relatively short time, I have been fortunate to make many good deposits in my memory bank.

I recall, now, how summery it was when I began in July, and how really hot it was there in August. Remember that? In those weeks I preached through all of the lectionary’s August fare, John 6, the rich and repetitive chapter on Jesus the bread of life. We had some wonderful summer music and hymn sings.

The Fall Retreat at Pilgrim Firs in early September was a highlight. And about that time we started “Hot Off the Press,” our Sunday morning adult study. I enjoyed volunteering in the Food Bank on a couple of occasions and getting to know the staff and children of REWA pre-school.

On Drumfest Sunday in early October, as storms and tsunamis beat the Philippines and Samoa, we heard from members of the Filipino and Samoan communities. Rev. Ta’amu sang “Jesus Loves Me” in Samoan.

There were some administrative matters. I worked with some of you on Bethany’s personnel policies and procedures, with others on position descriptions. Last Sunday, the Blessing of the Animals, and we ran the gamut from worms to wolves.

My time with you has been bracketed by important family milestones. Just before I began in July our son, Nick, was married. And yesterday was the wedding of our son, Joe. Though I didn’t point them out, both were here last Sunday.

So, a lot has gone on in a brief time. It’s been a gift to me to get to know you better, to share life with you for a season. Thank you.

So, “Starting Over Again;” it’s a good theme for this Sunday, don’t you think so, Angela? Don’t you think so, Bethany? A sabbatical season that began in mid-June now ends, and you start over again, a new chapter in the life of this congregation, its mission and ministry.

Two texts which we have today from the Lectionary, Job and Mark, both speak of starting over again. I want to spend some time with each of them, and then conclude with a few thoughts about the time of transition after a pastoral sabbatical.

Let’s start with Job. Our text comes from the very end of this epic drama, the final chapter. The Book of Job is an exploration of what happens when an innocent man, or innocent people, experience great suffering. What does that do to their faith and their relationship with God? What questions does it raise? What are the answers to those deep and anguished questions?

As I say, the reading we’ve heard comes at the very end of the book, after most–really all–of the dramatic action. Now, finally having met God face to face, a vindicated Job repents of his doubt and despair.

In the very last verses we read, “the Lord restored the fortunes of Job . . . The Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before. The Lord blessed the latter days of Job more than his beginnings; and he had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand donkeys. (I guess that’s a Blessing of the Animals, or with animals!) He also had seven sons and three daughters . . . In all the land there were no women so beautiful as Job’s daughters. After this, Job lives one hundred and forty years.”

Some people don’t much like this ending. Not a few Biblical scholars charge that it’s not original, that is was tacked on later. After the great drama, the deep questions, the suffering and loss, this “happy ending” seems at least to some too tidy, too easy. In some ways the great questions of suffering and evil, and faith in God, haven’t really been answered. Instead we get this “happy ending.”

And some find that troubling, even offensive. They ask, “Is Job being paid-off for his suffering? Is the message that suffer and you will be rewarded?”

Could be, but here’s a somewhat different way of looking at it. In Archibald MacLeish’s play JB, based on the Book of Job, a character who observes and comments on the story throughout the play says this:

“After all the filth and blood and fury,

to begin again . . .

After a life like his

to take up the seed of a sad creation

planting the hopeful world again.”

Instead of seeing the restoration of Job’s fortunes as a divine pay-off, MacLeish helps us to see how amazing it is that Job, after all he been through, including the loss of reputation and wealth, home and family, and even his health; that Job is willing to start over again.

Job got back together with his wife, and they had children again. Once again Job raised animals and grew grain. They chose to live again, despite the suffering, despite the possibility that suffering might come again.

There was a powerful essay in last Sunday’s New York Times titled “To Nurture Again with Courage.” It was written by a woman, a mother, who had lost her five year old daughter, Grace, to a sudden and virulent form of strep. Ann Hood wrote of how hard it was to risk love again. And yet, three years later, she and her husband did just that. With her husband and son, she traveled to crowded orphanage in Hunan, China to adopt Annabelle, their new daughter.

She concludes her essay, “There is no safe route through parenthood, or through life. When we offer our heart to others, we do not know what will happen to it. It may break. It may grow. It may take us places we never imagined.”

In the face of loss, Ann Hood and her family, dared to “start over again.” In Job, in the stories of Scripture, in the life of faith, starting over again is not an exercise of a perennial or shallow optimism. It is starting over again in the face of some experience of darkness, even despair.

Or in MacLeish’s words in JB,

“After a life like his, to take up the seed of a sad creation, planting the hopeful world again . . .”

The reading from the Gospel of Mark is also a story of “starting over again,” in the face of a great darkness. Literally.

On the final leg of his journey to Jerusalem and the cross, Jesus passed through Jericho. Bartimaeus, a blind beggar sat at the roadside. As Jesus passed by Bartimaeus dared to shout out, “Son of David, have mercy on me.” The crowd around Jesus, his disciples and others, formed another and different Jericho wall. They turned on Bartimaeus, ordering him to be quiet. “Stop making a scene,” they told him. But Bartimaeus refused, he wouldn’t be quiet. He shouted all the more, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me,” and his shouts brought down the walls there in Jericho.

Jesus stopped and said to his disciples “Call him here.” Bartimaeus jumped up and came to Jesus, who said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” Quite a question! What would you say if Jesus asked it of you? “What do you want me to do for you?”

Listen to what Bartimaeus said. “My teacher, let me see again.” Bartimaeus wants, despite it all, to start over again, to see again.

I was visiting with a friend this week. We talked about this story. She said, “You know, if it had been me in Bartimaeus’ spot and Jesus said to me “What do you want me to do for you?” I think I would have said, “Help me cope with my blindness.”

She was struck by how bold Bartimaeus was, and how in contrast she would have played it safe, asking only for strength to cope, not daring to ask for utter healing, for clear sight.

Bartimaeus asked for, risked, more. “My teacher, let me see again.” Let me start over again. A lot of courage there.

Remember the wonderful Woody Allen story of the man whose brother-in-law lived with him and who thought he was a chicken? The man went to see a psychiatrist and described his brother-in-law’s worrisome and obnoxious behaviors. Pecking around the house, building nests in every corner.

The doctor says, “Well, it sounds like an ordinary neurosis. Bring your brother-in-law in, I’m sure we can cure him.” To which the man says, “Oh no, Doc, we wouldn’t want to do that. We need the eggs!” Think about that.

Sometimes we come to like and even, in odd ways, benefit, from our stuck places, our infirmities, or problems. Starting over again can be costly and challenging. “Master, let me see again.”

Few of us get through life without detours, disappointments, setbacks or the need to start over again. But starting over again takes faith and courage.

William Sloane Coffin once made the observation that there are two different kinds of simplicity. There is the simplicity that we have before knowing how complicated and challenging, at times hurtful and disappointing, life is. That simplicity, according to Coffin, may be nice, even appealing, but it really doesn’t count for much.

But there is, he said, another kind of simplicity, the kind we may come to on the other, the far side, of the experience of life’s complexities and challenges, its disappointment and disillusionments. The complexity on the other side of such experiences is, said Coffin, a different, more compelling and powerful kind of simplicity. A deep and wise simplicity.

In ministry and in congregations, something similar is true. There is a beauty to first beginnings, to high hopes and ideals, to fresh ventures.

But there is, perhaps, an even greater beauty to beginning again, to starting over again, when we have known just how tough, how dis-appointing, life can be; when we have bumped up against our own limits and imperfections, or those of others. You know what I’m talking about?

Consider the example of Job.

“After a life like his, to take up the seed of a sad creation, planting the hopeful world again.”

Consider the boldness of Bartimaeus, knowing full well the darkness. “Master, I want to see again.”

Then, finally, just a few words about the end of a pastoral sabbatical and the transition to a new chapter in the life of a ministry and a congregation.

I’ve had two sabbaticals. Both were wonderful. The transition back was, in both cases, more challenging than I expected or anticipated. Perhaps it shall not be so for you Angela or Bethany. Perhaps it shall be seamless and smooth. But in the event that it isn’t, keep these things in mind.

In a four and a half month period apart, both of you, Bethany Church and Angela, have changed in some significant ways. You have had some new experiences. You have re-thought some things. You probably want and need to do some things differently. You’re not the same people you were when you blessed Angela on her way on June 14.

You’ll have to take, or allow yourself, some time to understand how you’ve changed, who you are now and to explore how you would like your relationship to be different. As you do this, be patient with one another. You’ll need to bond anew, and to decide, intentionally, to start over again.

Those who have studied the human experience of transition, note that there are not just two parts to transitions, ending and beginning. There is always a third part, a middle phase, a neutral zone, a time between what has ended and a new reality.

We generally don’t like that neutral zone, the middle time, the time between an ending and a beginning. I know I don’t like it. I want to get on with it. To finish this and get on with that. The in-between time is a little uncomfortable, laced with uncertainty. With the marriages of our sons there’s been some in-between, neutral zone time, when life seems fruit basket upset. In many ways, the wedding service and all that surrounds it is a way we negotiate and make the transition.

But if we don’t live in, endure, and learn from the in-between time, though it may be a little painful, a successful new beginning is unlikely to happen.

So Angela and Bethany, be prepared for some in-between time, some time in a neutral zone. Be curious about how you’ve changed. Inquire about how you might like things to be different as you go forward together in a new chapter.

And be prepared, through it all, in great hope and faith, to start over again. Join Job in planting the hopeful world once again. With Bartimaeus, dare to say, “I want to see again.”

May God bless you dear ones. God will uphold you and sustain you. Angela and Bethany, great things lie ahead. Trust this and dare to start over again. Amen.