CELEBRATING:
SERMONS
13 - Sep 2009
A sermon delivered by Rev. Gordon How
"Between Memory and Hope"
Open House Sunday - I like to think that this day for
us to be both such a blessing and a challenge. Blessing,
because it is the first day of a new church year when
we can reconnect with each other and look together at
the new horizons of the coming year, when we all can
enjoy making it a great church year for each other.
But, Oh my goodness - this is also a challenging moment
of the year - because we know that without everyone's
participation what we end up with will be less than
what we want.
Every church year is a mixture - it includes matters
like celebrating new program successes such as the Summer
Arts Week, the Outreach support of the congregation,
honouring the lives of those who go before us and the
joys of last years worship and music and life as a congregation;
and, yes, it includes matters like worrying about an
aging boiler, worrying about an aging minister, as well
as strengthening a congregation for the future. It is
both a blessing and a burden to be here today, to recognizing
all that takes place in the lives of people and the
life of a congregation over the course of a year. I
carry this congregation deeply in my heart as do so
many of you.
And as it is with all important matters, in our congregation
the past colors our anticipation of the future. Today,
we can be in awe of both the strengths and joys of the
past and the hope of a future which starts today right
now! God was present to us in the past, how wonderful
it is that God will be present to us in the future.
Today, we arrive at that point in time that is between
the past and the future, between what has been and what
is not yet, between memory and hope.
Our Old Testament lesson is just such a reminder for
the people of Israel. THE MEMORY: "Remember all
the way which God has led you in the wilderness. Your
clothing did not wear out and your feet did not swell
these forty years." THE HOPE: "For the Lord
your God is bringing you into a good land, a land of
brooks, of fountains and springs, flowing forth in valleys
and hills, a land of wheat and barley, vines and fig
trees and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey
…. and you shall eat and be full; Bless your God,
for you shall lack for nothing."
As with the Israelites of old, our memory serves to
remind us of the God who has promised never to forsake
us or leave us alone. We also can participate in hope
today--hope born out of the assurance that the promises
of God are trustworthy and true and will be fulfilled.
Emily Dickinson had a wonderful definition of hope:
"Hope is the thing with feathers / that perches
on the soul / and sings the tune without the words /
and never stops at all."
So it is here on Open House Sunday that we find ourselves
perched on the border between memory and hope, holding
our memories and reaching out for what lies ahead in
both our individual lives and our life together as God's
people in this place of SHUC.
I want to tell you a story this morning. My first experience
with it was in a black and white movie when I was a
young lad. It has stayed with me, for all these years.
It is about memory and hope and those moments in between.
It is about a man and a boy who share a train ride to
a town called Smithville. The man first notices the
boy when he board and the train is lurching out of the
station. He jostles down the aisle he finds himself
flung into the unoccupied seat next to the young man,
still almost a boy, who turns away quickly. "How
old is he?" the man asks himself. Seventeen, eighteen,
maybe . . . at the oldest, twenty. What could worry
someone so young? The look on the boy's face is not
easy to explain. Is it shame? Is it guilt? Is it fear?
Whatever it is, the boy's tension is obvious. He pays
no attention to any passenger around him, he makes no
reply to the man selling sandwiches and drinks. Is he
looking for someone out there? But there is nothing
to see. The lad peers out the window. Not even an occasional
light breaks the darkness. The man tries to forget the
boy by opening a magazine, but looks up in time to see
the boy's head drop dejectedly against the window. The
hand on the window ledge is clenched into a fist. The
man is sure the lad is fighting to keep from crying.
The lad sits. But every now and then he steals a look
at the man instead of peering out the window so intently.
Finally, the boy asks the man if he knows what time
it is and when the train will get to Smithville.
"That where you're headed?" the man asks.
"Yes," comes the reply.
"Very small town, isn't it? I didn't realize the
train stopped there."
"It doesn't usually, but they said they would stop
for me."
"You live there, do you?"
"Yes. That is, I used to."
"Going back home, then?"
"Yes. That is, I think so … maybe."
Somehow the question turns the boy back to the window.
It is quite a while before he speaks again. When he
does, it is to tell the story of his life. Four years
ago, he had done something so wrong he'd run away from
home. He couldn't face his father, so he left without
seeing anyone. Since then he had worked here and there,
but never for long in one place. He had learned about
the pain of life. He'd often been without money, sometimes
pretty sick, usually very lonely, and once in a while,
close to real trouble. Finally, after these years of
drifting, he had decided he would try to go home again
to his father's house.
For a while that is all the boy tells. The man doesn't
press him with any questions. But finally he asks just
one.
"Your dad know you're coming?"
"Yes," replies the boy.
"Then he'll be there to meet you, I imagine."
"Maybe. I don't know. I just don't know."
Then silence, and a long look out the window. Then the
rest of the story:
"I sent him a letter. I didn't know if he'd want
me back. After what I did, I wasn't sure he could ever
forgive me. He has never known where I was, and I have
never written him, except for the letter three days
ago, when I said I wanted to come home. But I know how
much I hurt him. It must have hurt! So, in this letter
I said I'd come home if he wanted me to.
"You see, there's a tree right before the little
station in Smithville, a few hundred feet this side
of it. We used to climb that tree all the time, me and
my brother. In the letter I told my dad to put a sign
on the tree if he wanted me to get off the train and
come home. I told him I'd look for a white rag on one
of the branches that hangs over the fence where the
train passes. If there's a rag on the tree, I'll get
off; if there isn't, I'll just ride on, somewhere."
So, the train pushes on through the night, and once
again, the conversation wanes. A kind of silent companionship
has developed now between the man and the boy. Both
now wait for Smithville. Morning begins to dawn, and
the boy turns from the window and speaks with such intensity
that it takes the man by surprise.
"Will you look for me? I'm sort of scared. All
of a sudden I don't know what to expect . ."
"Sure. I'll be glad to." They change seats.
Shortly after the man had begun to peer out the window,
the conductor comes through the car, announcing, "Smithville,
next stop!" The boy makes no move, says nothing.
He merely drops his head into his hands, waiting. The
man peers for him into the new morning. Then he sees
it. He shouts so loud everyone in the car can hear him.
"My friend, that old tree is covered with white
rags!"
It's a universal story, reaching deep down in the well
of memory and compassion, touching the raw nerve of
human experience. It also demonstrates the generosity
of hope experienced in separation. It is not a story
about cheap grace or shallow repentance, but rather
I'm telling you this story in worship because it is
a story about two people who acknowledged both memory
and hope in the midst of their love for each other and
their faith in the future that God has for them.
Of course, it is a parable about God's love for us
as well as a story of our love for each other. Through
the story we are reminded of the love of God which is
both Alpha and Omega, beginning and end, memory and
hope, prologue and postscript, prelude and postlude.
Today, we remember that God's love is always with us,
a love which is deeper, stronger, broader, and wider
than anything we have ever done or that has ever been
done to us. Today we hope and rejoice in knowing we
are God's people and God is with us. God will wipe every
tear from our eyes …. the former things pass away
and God makes all things new.
PRAYER Today God speaks to you and me: saying: I have
always loved you. I love you now. I will love you always.
I have tied white rags of love and grace and hope to
the trees of all your lives. Amen.
Sermon Resources: Deut.8:1-10 ; Rev. 21:1-6a; The Language
of Faith, Robert Dewey; P. de Jong.
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Shaughnessy Heights United Church
congregation is a Christian faith community respecting
each other in our diversity and reaching out to all
who seek God’s love.
1550
West 33rd Avenue,
Vancouver, BC V6M 1A7
Canada SEE
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Tel:
604-261-6377
Email: admin@shuc.ca
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