Poolesville Presbyterian Church
05.25.14; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: John 14:15-21
It was a mission of sorts, last year, as our summer vacation plans took us winging across the Pacific to the Hawaiian Islands, where the weather is almost as lovely as it’s been here over the past few weeks. Almost.
We had a whole bunch of different plans for that trip, touchstones that we absolutely had to do to register our Hawaiian experience. We had to go into the bay at Waikiki, paddling about in the perfect blue waters as we hummed the HawaiiFiveO theme to ourselves. We had to sit around poolside as the boys splashed and mucked about with people they’d just met. Cooling Pacific breezes wafted over us and our adult beverages, while the gentle melodies of Hawaiian music filled the air. Oh, the humanity.
But in the midst of our visits to museums and our wanderings through Oahu, there was a key destination we had set before us. An entire day was set aside for a visit to Pearl Harbor, the Naval Aviation Museum, and the two great battleships that rest in that harbor.
As a pastor, I shouldn’t like battleships, I suppose. They are, after all, instruments of war. But the twelve year old boy in me just couldn’t quite get over the cool of it. I wandered the decks of the retired USS Missouri, the Mighty Mo, it’s hard not to be impressed by the scale and scope of it.
Here, a ship that was active in my lifetime, with a storied history spanning decades. It was a history so mythic that some of those myths had apparently somehow worked its way into the schpiel of our cheery Hawaiian bus driver. Did you know the Missouri could be ready for action in less than a week, he intoned over the intercom. Well, no, actually, that was a movie about aliens. And you didn’t need myth. There’s a primal quality to it, this immense vessel with its immense 14 inch cannons that could easily hurl me and and my Prius most of the way back to Annandale. '
'It’d be much a faster commute, but I don’t think it would end well.
'
'I stood there, right there, on the spot where MacArthur and Shigemitsu signed the end of that terrible war, and it was hard not to feel the ghosts of that September day for the peoples of both nations.
The other battleship we saw that day, though, was more solemn, and our visit there was also about family history. We took the ride over to the USS Arizona Memorial, and peered over the edge of that stark and simple building into the clear water of the harbor. From the depths below, oil still drifts up from the coral encrusted corpse of that broken ship. The BB39 had been thirty thousand tons of steel, six hundred feet long, and in that floating, bristling fortress, one thousand five hundred and twelve young men lived and worked together. For one thousand one hundred and seventy seven of them, enough souls to fill every seat in every church in Poolesville, the first day of that war was their last. There, on a far wall, was a long list of names.
05.25.14; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: John 14:15-21
It was a mission of sorts, last year, as our summer vacation plans took us winging across the Pacific to the Hawaiian Islands, where the weather is almost as lovely as it’s been here over the past few weeks. Almost.
We had a whole bunch of different plans for that trip, touchstones that we absolutely had to do to register our Hawaiian experience. We had to go into the bay at Waikiki, paddling about in the perfect blue waters as we hummed the HawaiiFiveO theme to ourselves. We had to sit around poolside as the boys splashed and mucked about with people they’d just met. Cooling Pacific breezes wafted over us and our adult beverages, while the gentle melodies of Hawaiian music filled the air. Oh, the humanity.
But in the midst of our visits to museums and our wanderings through Oahu, there was a key destination we had set before us. An entire day was set aside for a visit to Pearl Harbor, the Naval Aviation Museum, and the two great battleships that rest in that harbor.
As a pastor, I shouldn’t like battleships, I suppose. They are, after all, instruments of war. But the twelve year old boy in me just couldn’t quite get over the cool of it. I wandered the decks of the retired USS Missouri, the Mighty Mo, it’s hard not to be impressed by the scale and scope of it.
Here, a ship that was active in my lifetime, with a storied history spanning decades. It was a history so mythic that some of those myths had apparently somehow worked its way into the schpiel of our cheery Hawaiian bus driver. Did you know the Missouri could be ready for action in less than a week, he intoned over the intercom. Well, no, actually, that was a movie about aliens. And you didn’t need myth. There’s a primal quality to it, this immense vessel with its immense 14 inch cannons that could easily hurl me and and my Prius most of the way back to Annandale. '
'It’d be much a faster commute, but I don’t think it would end well.
'
'I stood there, right there, on the spot where MacArthur and Shigemitsu signed the end of that terrible war, and it was hard not to feel the ghosts of that September day for the peoples of both nations.
The other battleship we saw that day, though, was more solemn, and our visit there was also about family history. We took the ride over to the USS Arizona Memorial, and peered over the edge of that stark and simple building into the clear water of the harbor. From the depths below, oil still drifts up from the coral encrusted corpse of that broken ship. The BB39 had been thirty thousand tons of steel, six hundred feet long, and in that floating, bristling fortress, one thousand five hundred and twelve young men lived and worked together. For one thousand one hundred and seventy seven of them, enough souls to fill every seat in every church in Poolesville, the first day of that war was their last. There, on a far wall, was a long list of names.
I was there not just for the history, but for one name. When I was a boy, I’d talked with my
grandfather about that war. He’d lived through it, and my child’s mind was a whirl of Zeros and
P38s. My family wasn’t a warrior bunch on either side, mostly farmers and pastors and
mathematicians, but when I asked him if he knew anyone who had died in that war, he said he
did. He’d shared with me that his first cousin had been on the Arizona. We searched for his
name among the sailors, but couldn’t find it. But there was another list there, nestled in the
larger list of crew, laying out the names of the marine contingent on board.
There he was. R.G. Huff.
It was a peculiar thing, there in that distant paradise, to think of how so many lives would have come so quickly to an end. At one moment, for this cousin, this family, blood of my blood, young life had been an adventure. He would have been just a few years older than my oldest son. For a while, life was work and duty, mixed with oceans and far off ports and the beauty of an island eden. And in another instant, it was over, as were the lives of everyone he knew.
It was important to remember him, to have that time set aside for remembrance. I do and will always struggle with the idea of war. Even though in my own life it has remained blessedly distant, I am not fool enough to think of it as a marvelous thing. It is a terrible thing, as it always has been. So I think of this weekend as a time to remember the lives of the hundreds of thousands of human beings touched by war, and his life in particular. As I remember that life, remember that he served, I remember also that he worked alongside others, as part of a community that supported one another and sustained one another.
In that service, that servant ethic, in which individuals within a community see their duty in dedicating themselves to supporting and protecting one another, I can find a value that translates more cleanly into the Gospel, particularly as we stand in encounter with the story told by John this morning. It’s a story of duty, and a story of service.
The text today comes to us again from John’s story of Jesus, rich and deep and full of the Spirit. It’s a potent little saying, delivered by Jesus as he speaks about his imminent departure to his gathered friends. They’re feeling the coming loss, as Jesus talks obscurely about his coming departure.
As part of that conversation, he gives them a command, and presents them with a promise.
The command is a simple one. He’s ordering ususing command language, after allto love one another. And yeah, I know, we don’t like anyone telling us what to do. But if we’ve committed to the path of Christ, this is a fundamental. If you’ve signed up for this Jesus thing, if you’ve said: I’m committed to the Way, then you’re committing yourself to his service. All he asks of us is that we love one another, and that we share that love. It should be a joy, and on many days, it is. On those days when it is not, when you’ve not had enough coffee or you’re just feeling grumpy and annoyed? Then it is your duty, to be done whether you feel like it or not. It’s duty. You do it, because you’ve said you would.
There he was. R.G. Huff.
It was a peculiar thing, there in that distant paradise, to think of how so many lives would have come so quickly to an end. At one moment, for this cousin, this family, blood of my blood, young life had been an adventure. He would have been just a few years older than my oldest son. For a while, life was work and duty, mixed with oceans and far off ports and the beauty of an island eden. And in another instant, it was over, as were the lives of everyone he knew.
It was important to remember him, to have that time set aside for remembrance. I do and will always struggle with the idea of war. Even though in my own life it has remained blessedly distant, I am not fool enough to think of it as a marvelous thing. It is a terrible thing, as it always has been. So I think of this weekend as a time to remember the lives of the hundreds of thousands of human beings touched by war, and his life in particular. As I remember that life, remember that he served, I remember also that he worked alongside others, as part of a community that supported one another and sustained one another.
In that service, that servant ethic, in which individuals within a community see their duty in dedicating themselves to supporting and protecting one another, I can find a value that translates more cleanly into the Gospel, particularly as we stand in encounter with the story told by John this morning. It’s a story of duty, and a story of service.
The text today comes to us again from John’s story of Jesus, rich and deep and full of the Spirit. It’s a potent little saying, delivered by Jesus as he speaks about his imminent departure to his gathered friends. They’re feeling the coming loss, as Jesus talks obscurely about his coming departure.
As part of that conversation, he gives them a command, and presents them with a promise.
The command is a simple one. He’s ordering ususing command language, after allto love one another. And yeah, I know, we don’t like anyone telling us what to do. But if we’ve committed to the path of Christ, this is a fundamental. If you’ve signed up for this Jesus thing, if you’ve said: I’m committed to the Way, then you’re committing yourself to his service. All he asks of us is that we love one another, and that we share that love. It should be a joy, and on many days, it is. On those days when it is not, when you’ve not had enough coffee or you’re just feeling grumpy and annoyed? Then it is your duty, to be done whether you feel like it or not. It’s duty. You do it, because you’ve said you would.
And then there is a promise. Jesus promises their disciples that as they work their way through
life, he won’t be with thembut another will be.
That other is described by various bibles in various ways. It’s the “helper.” It’s the “Comforter.” In John 14:16 today, we heard it described as the “Advocate.” Advocate is the best word, really, because it comes closest to the the language first used in this Gospel. It’s a term used to describe the Holy Spirit, the presence of God in and with us.
The word John used to tell the world what Jesus had said was the word parakletos. In the Greek, para means together with, right by your side, close in. It’s a prefix of support, of care, of help, right there at your time of need.
Think, for example, of the word parachute. It’s what you need strapped tight to your back as you’ve flung yourself from the burning plan, as the ground is rushing up towards you. They’re first there, right there, giving you the care you need to make sure you make it through that vital first few minutes.
Then there’s the second half of the word: kaleo. It means to make a call or judgment, and taken together, the whole word means the one who knows you intimately, and from that intimate understanding is willing to speak on your behalf. They are your supporter, they stand with you, they serve you.
That’s the grace of the Spirit, as it’s given to us. But it’s not a gift given to us for ourselves alone. It governs and defines our duty towards others. As we invite that Spirit into us, we take it on as our purpose.
Meaning, we’re called to care for and serve and advocate for others, just as God cares for and serves and advocates for us.
It means intentionally seeking out ways to do this. If we are genuinely committed to our duty to serve Jesus of Nazareth, then we can’t say we’re too busy with other things. Our consumer culture will try to steal that time, to take away our commitment to Christ and turn our energies elsewhere. We have to make the time, to prioritize those relationships of care, as we use our energies and gifts not for our own glory, but for building up others.
[Example--ya gotta listen to the sermon for this one, my friend. Just click on the embed...]
Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN
That other is described by various bibles in various ways. It’s the “helper.” It’s the “Comforter.” In John 14:16 today, we heard it described as the “Advocate.” Advocate is the best word, really, because it comes closest to the the language first used in this Gospel. It’s a term used to describe the Holy Spirit, the presence of God in and with us.
The word John used to tell the world what Jesus had said was the word parakletos. In the Greek, para means together with, right by your side, close in. It’s a prefix of support, of care, of help, right there at your time of need.
Think, for example, of the word parachute. It’s what you need strapped tight to your back as you’ve flung yourself from the burning plan, as the ground is rushing up towards you. They’re first there, right there, giving you the care you need to make sure you make it through that vital first few minutes.
Then there’s the second half of the word: kaleo. It means to make a call or judgment, and taken together, the whole word means the one who knows you intimately, and from that intimate understanding is willing to speak on your behalf. They are your supporter, they stand with you, they serve you.
That’s the grace of the Spirit, as it’s given to us. But it’s not a gift given to us for ourselves alone. It governs and defines our duty towards others. As we invite that Spirit into us, we take it on as our purpose.
Meaning, we’re called to care for and serve and advocate for others, just as God cares for and serves and advocates for us.
It means intentionally seeking out ways to do this. If we are genuinely committed to our duty to serve Jesus of Nazareth, then we can’t say we’re too busy with other things. Our consumer culture will try to steal that time, to take away our commitment to Christ and turn our energies elsewhere. We have to make the time, to prioritize those relationships of care, as we use our energies and gifts not for our own glory, but for building up others.
[Example--ya gotta listen to the sermon for this one, my friend. Just click on the embed...]
Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN
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