29 July 2000

by Michael Usey

Contrary to popular opinion, poets serve a practical purpose: they are the ones who give us words at precisely those moments when we ourselves are at a loss for them. This week, as I prepared to be away from you, my friends, for six months, I read the words of Kahlil Gibran’s wonderful book, The Prophet. Once again, I was amazed at how apt his words were for me:

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth. And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld his ship coming with the mist.

Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

But as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he though in his heart: How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a word in the spirit shall I leave this city.

Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these street, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

It is not a garment that I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

Nor is it a though I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and thirst.

Yet I cannot tarry longer.

The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mold. Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I? A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the other. And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

Actually, I won’t be alone. We plan on taking all three children on a 10-hour flight to Copenhagen via London. And it won’t be by eagle-we’re taking British Airways. An eagle would have a hernia with the 10 suitcases we’re carrying. And I’m not a prophet, just a Carolina preacher with a California point-of-view. And there are no other children-just our three. That’s just a metaphor. I just wanted to get Monica a twich. And there’s little sun in Denmark in winter. But you get the idea.

When it’s time to go, what do you say, even if the leaving is just for a little while? In my family we used to say “Happy Trails,” in mock tribute to my father’s love of the Old West. Actually, the the song has great theology: Some trails are happy ones, others are blue; it’s the way you ride that trail that counts, here’s a happy song for you. One of the great “Happy Trails” passages in our bible is Jacob saying good-bye to his father-in-law, Laban. Laban’s not anxious to let his two daughters Rachel and Leah go to a foreign land with Jacob, but he has little choice. Plus Rachel has ripped off the household gods from her dad, hid them under her saddle, and lied about it by telling everyone it was her time of the month. (But that, as they say, is a different sermon and a very different anthem.) So Laban gives up, but he asks his son-in-law to cut a covenant with him, to promise to take care of his daughters (Jacob’s wives) and not to take more wives-as though two were not more than enough. They throw stones in a heap, eat, and swear-the things men have been doing together for centuries. Jacob says to him a wonderful blessing, a benediction: The Lord watch between you and me when we are absent from the other. This blessing means, essentially, God has your back, and mine too. It’s not all blessing of course, since the one person both Jacob and Laban most often had to watch out for was the other. Still, it’s a blessing, a treaty, a covenant, and a benediction. Jacob calls the place Mitzpah, which means guardpost. “The Lord watch between you and me.” So even today, Jews and Christians, loved ones who are apart from each other, end their letters, calls, and emails with a single Hebrew word: mitzpah. Guardpost-God watch between you and me while we’re apart from each other

I’ve ended most every service that we share together with the benediction printed on the front of the worship bulletin. Written by John Claypool, it was adapted from a farmer’s prayer he once heard at the man’s table. The summer before my second year in seminary I was selected to be a short-term missionary to Panama. I was to be the interim minister at the Charges River Baptist Church. I was excited, packed too many books as I did this week, and more than a little scared. My last Sunday at Crescent Hill, my home church in Louisville, Jack and Mary Ann Boots gave me a copy of this benediction, which they had framed. Claypool was the pastor of Crescent Hill for a couple of years. Their care touched me, and I took the gift of a benediction as a kind of commission. I used it every Sunday I was in Panama; I have no idea what the Choco Indians in my congregation thought of it. When I returned, I found it had been welded to my soul.

These words sum up both my theology and my hope for the mysterious process called worship. Why do we meet here Sunday after Sunday? What exactly are we trying to accomplish. My answer to that is quite simple: we are here to get in touch with God. We want to become aware of who God is, and what the reality behind all things is-and to have a personal relationship with our Creator. Of course, behind my words is an audacious assumption: that imperfect finite people can relate personally to the Source of all things who loves them.

Many years ago in San Diego, a friend of mine had an experience that speaks to what it means for me to be a minister. One day she was in a large department store, a Norstrums, when she heard a considerable commotion around one of the counters. Turning the corner, she saw a four-year-old child who was obviously lost from her parents and crying hysterically. The store clerks were trying frantically to get some information from the little girl. Fortunately, my friend recognized her. She was the young daughter of one of her friends at church. So, my friend went straight to one of the clerks and had her access the public address system in the store. She had the salesclerk say clearly, “Will Karen and Dave Merk, the parents of Francine, please come to cosmetics counter immediately? Your child is safe and waiting here.” And, in a matter of minutes, my friend saw the reunion of a distraught parent and a frightened child. They hugged each other like they had seen each other in months.

This is akin to what I feel about being a minister. Monica, Dorisanne, and I–we happen to “recognize” each one of you. We know who are. Jesus is the name of your species, and none other than God Most High is your parent. You are sons and daughters of God. We also have some sense of how much richer life could be if it were done two by two, and every moment of it sharing with a kind of divine wisdom and love and strength.

This continues to be my agenda: to stay close to God, to stay close to you, and to do what I could to bring the two of you closer together. Which explains, I hope, why I’ve ended most of the services we have together with the words: Depart now in the fellowship of God the Father . As a minister, what I seek to contribute is getting God and God’s children back together again. This is my primal purpose-everything else in the benediction is simply a description of what this kind of coming together again involves.

I know that for some of you, the image of God as Father is not especially meaningful; to a very few, I know it is intensely negative, largely because of your own experience with your earthly fathers. So you’ve noticed that I occasionally end with, “Depart now in the company of God our Creator .” Nevertheless, no image of God is without negative associations to some. And, in our worship, both male and female imagery for God are welcome and encouraged, especially those that find their roots in scripture. I have never advocated only gender neutral images of God; instead, I see great wisdom in embracing a variety of powerful images for God, our Mother and Father. And, for me-a flawed father–God as Father is an incredibly powerful and intimate image. I hold out hope that, for those of us with less-than-wonderful earthly fathers, God will continue redefine true and just parenting for us all.

So, once you begin to be aware of God, it become clear that your being born into this world was something very good. The book of Genesis claims that all creation comes out of God’s positive desire to share. We are created out of God’s generosity-This is too good to keep to myself; I want others to experience being too. Creation is not a cruel joke. And God is utterly pleased with what God has created: God looked on what God had made and behold it was very, very good. I believe Christian redemption begins when we start to feel about our own creation the same way God feels about all creation-This is good, this is very, very good. The closer you move toward God, the more you evaluate creation as very, very good.

This goodness is not just at our birth, or the birth of the world. By the grace of God you have been kept all day long, even until this hour. There is a mercy in our lives that is just as great as the goodness that lies behind it. Hear me correctly: this is not a promise of protection. There is no promise of safety in our relationship with God. Even so, there are so many things that could have happened to you and to me that did not. Stop to think of all the diseases that you could have contracted and the accidents in which you could have been involved, and you will realize how slender is the thread that sustains us all. God as our guard tower, our mitzpah. The fact that we are still breathing, still alive in the here and now, is as towering a miracle as being born out of nothing. And it all goes back to the grace of God. As the familiar hymn puts it:

Though many hardships, toils and snares, we have already come; ’tis grace has brought us safe thus far, and grace will lead us home.

And what’s it all for? By the love of God, fully revealed in the face of Jesus, you are being redeemed. The first part was our past, being born; the second, the present; his part of the benediction is for the future forward. It is what God intends to do if we let God. The word redeem means literally “to buy back.” Hosea redeemed his wife Gomer from slavery. Yahweh redeemed the children of Israel from slavery in Egypt. The mercy, patience, and persistence of one who has begun a good work and wants to see it through is bound up in this ancient term. In Jesus Christ, God has made clear what a fully functioning human being would be like. God’s goal now in the slow process of life is to continue to work with us until we too are whole and healed. In the face of Jesus we see our species brought to its highest expression, and know that, if God has the final say, God will some day make each of us complete.

The only thing that can impede this process is our failure of nerve, our unwillingness to allow the full sweep of God’s grace to do its work. The crucial issue in life is this: How much or how little will you settle for? The great enemy is not God’s wrath or impatience, but our timidity and fearfulness, our unwillingness to expose ourselves to God’s tough and tender mercy. C.S. Lewis used to say that, whenever he had a toothache as a child, he was always faced with the painful dilemma of whether or not to tell his mother. On the one hand, if he told her, he knew she would give him an aspirin and thus what he most wanted: pain relief. But, the problem was that she would not stop there. She would get to the bottom of his toothache, which meant going to the dentist, the drill, and all of that. And all he really wanted was relief for the moment. He really did not want to undergo a complete resolution.

This spirit is the greatest enemy of God’s good goal: we humans settle for so little. We are so tempted to keep one foot on the bottom of the pool, to cling to tiny securities and achievements we have in hand. We would do better casting ourselves onto the great sweep of God’s mercy, knowing that, no matter how much pain and uncertainty may ensue, God’s goal is to make us full grown and complete. This is a process already begun but not yet complete. You and I are being redeemed, sisters and brothers. I warn you that you have a crucial part to play in whether or not the grand design of God finally comes true in your own life. God wants to make you full-grown and complete, but God will not do so without your consent and collaboration.

And so the preaching is over, for me for a little while. Let us eat and laugh and tell old stories and new Danish jokes, and, yes, let us even sing Kumbaya. I will miss you all more than I can say, my beloved friends in the faith, and I am deeply grateful for this time away to study, to travel, to rest, and to be with my family. It will be true sabbath. Remember what I have tried in my own flawed way to say to you each week: Life is short so live with courage; live with joy; live wisely. Live wild and free in the extravagant love of God. God is, you are, and the two of you are made for each other. It is enough that we should die alone-there is no need to live alone. Our journey can be shared with God. So happy trails, Godspeed, go with God, and be not afraid. Mitzpah.

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