Sermons

“Living the Mystery”

Psalm 116; Corinthians 15:51-58 – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California – November 3, 2019

All Saints Memorial Sunday

 Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words, that the minds of our hearts might grow strong in faith and find our rest in you.  In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

There are certain lines of scripture that never lose their capacity to grab hold of us.  Those who have lived with them for years don’t need to hear the whole story; just a few words will prompt our memories to fill in the rest and invoke the fullness of the passage.  “Let there be light!”  “God has told you, O mortal, what is good.”  “Go and sin no more.”  If it were up to me – which, of course, it isn’t, since these phrases enter into our psyches on their own timelines, for reasons often hard to explain, but if it were up to me, the beginning of I Corinthians 15:51 would be one of them:  “Listen, I will tell you a mystery!”

It grabs you at least a little, right?  It sounds exciting, intriguing, as if Paul is about to tell us an important secret that will make all the difference.  Which, of course, he is.  But here’s what’s important to notice: Paul doesn’t say, “Pay attention. I’m going to explain this mystery to you.”  He says, “Listen, I will tell you a mystery!”  And it is important to remember that what comes next is shaped by Paul’s unshakable belief that Jesus is coming back in his lifetime, but at some level, the timing isn’t the point, which is good, since he was wrong about that part!  What Paul tells us is the ‘what’ not the ‘how’.  “Imperishability” will replace “perishability” and death will be “swallowed up in victory.”  The ‘how” is not for us to know; we are simply called to trust in the ‘what’.  Paul isn’t explaining the mystery, just telling us about it.  And given the extended scope of the playing out of this enigmatic transformation, I think it’s fair to say the passage, as it stands today, is inviting us to live the mystery.

What happens after we die?  It is the most unanswerable mystery of all, the one none of us has any clue about until it’s too late to share what we’ve learned.  As we gather today to remember those who have passed on before us, perhaps we can find blessing in considering how mystery lives at the center of our faith and exploring ways to increase our capacity for ambiguity.  We cannot explain it any more than Paul can, but talking about it can bring comfort regardless.

It seems to me that you could probably make some pretty accurate guesses about someone’s theology, if you asked how they feel about stories that don’t have clear endings.  Think for a moment about when you read books or watch movies.  Do you prefer to have all the loose ends tied up?  Do you desire total closure?  Are you frustrated by not knowing what happened to so-and-so, or do you appreciate the chance to wonder?  Do too-tidy endings feel forced and fake, or so you find them satisfying?  Do you like to have obvious heroes and villains, or do you favor imperfect protagonists and bad guys with soft spots?  Examining your preferences in this area might tell you a lot about your beliefs and hopes about God.  There is not necessarily a right or wrong way to do this, but cultivating some level of appreciation for ambiguity can help us be more resilient in the face of life’s trials, many of which are striking in their senselessness.

It is not surprising that our discussion starts with stories.  Art in all its forms can help us develop a deeper comfort level with uncertainty.  Music, paintings, sculpture, dance, and theater draw us into experiences that create as many questions as they answer.  Talking through our experiences afterwards with others, we discover just how differently others may have interpreted what we all saw together.  We are reminded of the vast diversity of human thought and perspectives.  The more we bring well-crafted art into our lives, the more comfortable we may become with ambiguity and the stronger our resilience for life may grow.

On the other hand, the more we expose ourselves to the creative expressions of humanity that fill our world, we may also become more convinced of the existence of certain, basic truths.  With Halloween happening this past week, I found myself prodded to reflect on our relationship with monsters.  (Stay with me here.)  Life has always been a bit terrifying.  Thus it is that humans have long created tales of horrifying beasts – sea monsters and dragons and frankensteins and zombies – who terrorize the villages and give opportunities for heroes to prove their valor by vanquishing them.  These stories give us a vessel for holding the various fears we have, while also promoting hope of conquering those fears.

But here’s the other thing we do with monsters.  Just as surely as we have tales of monsters ravaging the townspeople and wreaking havoc on the kingdoms, we also have stories that insist the beast is simply misunderstood, in which a brave, compassionate, unexpected hero arises to approach the monster differently and bring about their redemption.  The dragon learns to control its fire-breath.  The beast learns to move more gently.  The monster made of harvested organs was just very new and didn’t know how to communicate effectively, but eventually finds happiness and safety.

Humanity knows that life is scary.  We have found countless ways to express and use our fears.  But listen, I will tell you a mystery!  It seems that we also insist on holding onto the possibility of redemption, even for the monsters in our midst.  In all the ambiguity, the lack of clarity about who the good guys are and where to draw the lines of who’s in and who’s out, we hold onto the hope that everyone can find a way home.  We can’t always see it ourselves, but we lift up our prayers for God to have mercy and trust that God does.

Stories are just one way we try to get a handle on the ambiguities of life.  There have been even more robust attempts all throughout history.  Indeed, one could argue that the history of what some call ‘civilization’ is one long process of bringing order to chaos.  The creation story in Genesis, where light is separated from dark – with no mention of the in-between beauties of dusk or dawn – and then everything is given a name.  Our attempts to figure out where we are on the surface of the planet, and where the planet is in relation to other objects floating in space.  Carolus Linnaeus helping us make sense of the natural world by creating taxonomy: Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus Species – a place for everything and everything in its place.  Thousands of years science and philosophy and theology trying to make sense of it all.

And yet, we know too, if we’re willing to admit it, that this attempt to bring order has wrought as much damage as it’s brought benefit.  When some decided that there are different races of humanity around the globe and some are superior to others.  When cultures decided that men should be this way and women should be this other way, and everyone has to be one or the other.  When the church stifled scientific discovery because it threatened our previous understandings of how the world works.  For so long, we convinced ourselves that enforcing order upon chaos was carrying out the work of God, as modeled in Genesis.  But listen, I will tell you a mystery!  The longer we occupy this beautifully complex planet and the more we learn about it, the harder it gets to avoid noticing that ambiguity and chaos are also parts of God’s glorious creation.

Mystery is at the center of our faith, whether we’re comfortable with it or not.  What Paul want us to understand is not how the mystery works, but that the Mystery is Good.  As we aim to grow in Christ, part of what we must do is learn to live in harmony with mystery.  This is the essence of faith, the “hope of things not seen.”  This is how we can declare, as we mourn our loved ones lost, that they rest in God, even though we know not how.  This is why we keep laboring for Christ, trusting that our work is not in vain.  When we tell stories that offer redemption for monsters and salvation from unexpected directions, we nurture our capacity to welcome complexity and appreciate ambiguity.  When we say “Listen, I will tell you a mystery!” it is an exclamation of joy and hope.  When we live our lives so that they proclaim that Mystery, the gospel of Christ is shared.  Alleluia and Amen.