On Being a Monday Christian

Adam Jones, Lay Speaker
Tarrytown United Methodist Church

June 10, 2007
Laity Sunday

Galatians 1: 11-24

For I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that the gospel that was proclaimed by me is not of human origin; for I did not receive it from a human source, nor was I taught it, but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ. You have heard, no doubt, of my earlier life in Judaism. I was violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it. I advanced in Judaism beyond many among my people of the same age, for I was far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors. But when God, who had set me apart before I was born and called me through his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him among the Gentiles, I did not confer with any human being, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were already apostles before me, but I went away at once into Arabia, and afterwards I returned to Damascus. Then after three years I did go up to Jerusalem to visit Cephas and stayed with him fifteen days; but I did not see any other apostle except James the Lord’s brother. In what I am writing to you, before God, I do not lie! Then I went into the regions of Syria and Cilicia, and I was still unknown by sight to the churches of Judea that are in Christ; they only heard it said, “The one who formerly was persecuting us is now proclaiming the faith he once tried to destroy.” And they glorified God because of me. 

There are two hibiscus plants on my back patio. Great plants, hibiscus, I bought them to cheer up the backyard, which is typically full of toys and bare of any grass at all in the high traffic areas trampled on by three boys and one very old dog. The hibiscus dressed up a cookout I had for my wife Erin’s birthday. They are flowering plants, bloom all summer, love the heat and – most importantly – are almost impossible to kill, no matter how green or brown your thumb is.

I have grown somewhat attached to them. Every morning, before the house gets up, I visit them with my first cup of coffee and see how they are doing. No, I have not named them yet, if you are curious. But, on the other hand, I am not convinced that they are completely devoid of personality – an introvert in need of a pet (who is not quite ready for a cat) could certainly do worse than to buy a hibiscus.

I observed this morning that the more scraggly of the two produced the most brilliant blooms for some reason. Erin thought it may well be because Jesus loves the meek.

The growth of these plants is fascinating. When the summer heat really gets here, my two new friends will explode with so many floral shells that I won’t be able to keep up with them. But, for now, in the late spring, the blooms take their time. They come one-by-one, as if taking turns, slowly and surely opening to the morning sun over a period of several days. They eventually burst into broad colorful blooms—sometimes as big as your hand. The flowers linger for a day or so, and then eject themselves onto the ground and the process starts all over again.

How our faith can be like the hibiscus: bursting forth on a Sunday morning, withering, ejecting and lying nascent until Sunday comes again.  Friends, what would our world be like, if we could be Monday Christians, as well as Sunday ones?

I am very humbled by the assignment I have on this Laity Sunday. When I first read the lectionary for June 10th, I didn’t know what to make of it. Today’s Old Testament reading comes from first Kings where the prophet Elijah invokes the Lord and revives the young son of a widow from near death. In the Gospel reading, Luke chapter seven, Jesus brings back to life the dead son of a widow in the city of Nain.

These are astonishing descriptions. We read of these acts from the comfort and distance of 21st century America, but to be there…to be present to witness the healing power of God through the prophet Elijah, or to watch Christ raise up a dead man on a crowded street. To be there would have been overwhelming, disturbing, frightening – maybe wonderful, uplifting, inspiring, but frightening nonetheless.

Not possessing a graduate degree in theology, I passed on these two stories. I settled on today’s epistle, which was just read. Later in this letter, Paul really lets the Galatians have it. But first, he tells his story:

I was a zealot and a persecutor, but God called me by his grace and revealed Christ to me so that I could proclaim him to you.

I didn’t ask anyone’s permission to do this—I did this through God and spread the word throughout the lands, so that God may be glorified.

Paul interjects into this story (in some versions of the Bible, the translator sets this apart in parenthesis): In what I am writing to you, before God, I do not lie!

In many parts of our state, including my native Panhandle, this is translated:

I ain’t lyin’!

I think Paul feels compelled to put this in the text because he is astonished that God has brought him here. That God through Christ has given him this life. He does not particularly care what day it is; this is Paul’s declaration of independence, his putting aside of fear.

Sometimes we are afraid of God bringing us to life…what kind of life would it be if we acted truly as the hands of Christ on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…If we were unafraid to offer a Christian response to someone who has wronged us in our workaday lives. To give someone the benefit of the doubt – even during rush hour. To be “loyal to the absent” – speaking of a colleague in private no differently than you would speak to the same person if he was standing in front of you.

We are often not very good at this. To be spiritually alive can be frightening. It is much easier to retreat into our cynicism, our laziness, our convenience and material comforts.  Jesus never said that this would be easy. He said straight up: blessed are you when you are persecuted. And it is not easy to look the world in the eye and to proclaim our faith, to declare our independence, to tell our story.

This church has a wonderful story to tell. We are a thriving, energetic and passionate congregation. Because of this, the Texas Methodist Foundation has asked us to participate in a two-year strategic planning experience called Holy Conversations – I love the title. You will all hear much more about this exercise over the summer, but the most interesting part to me is that each congregation chooses their own biblical story. In other words, are we, as a church:

The Israelites wandering in the wilderness? (I hope not), or are we:

The Good Samaritans?

Noah, loading up the ark two-by-two?

Are we Peter, or Paul? Samuel or David? Mary or Martha? Esther or Ruth?

And what is your personal story within our congregation? What is your declaration of independence? Your proclamation of faith?

When I think on these questions about my life, they often take me back to my grandfather. He was a college professor and dean at West Texas State in Canyon. I used to sit with him at the kitchen table to hear whatever he had to say. He couldn’t see worth a darn—never could really—and my brother Sam once recorded the entire book of Ecclesiastes for him. He did it on a little portable cassette machine and a microphone purchased at Radio Shack.

Grandad would sometimes sit in the corner, eyes closed and listen to my brother on tape recite the times to plant and to harvest, to dance and to mourn. Ecclesiastes, along with Job, were his favorite books in the Bible. He was obviously a man who loved a challenge. He earned the nickname “Bulldog” as a ferocious 155-pound guard for the WT Buffalo football teams of the 1920s.

Bulldog’s favorite literary hero was Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac. The great poet/warrior with the short stature and the unfortunate looks, not much different than the Apostle Paul really. Grandad always complained that when Cyrano was staged, the hero always had some ridiculous prosthetic nose. You might remember this from the Jose Ferrer movie or from Steve Martin’s comic take in Roxanne.  My grandfather always believed that Rostand had never intended for Cyrano’s nose to look like Pinocchio’s, but that the size of his nose was a figment of his own underlying insecurities.

This didn’t stop Cyrano, like Paul, from having a fearless exterior.  Cyrano had his own soliloquy on independence. As I have grown older, it is one of two works I try my best to live by it – the other is the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, which is #481 in your hymnal, if you are curious.

Cyrano says this about life:

To sing, to laugh, to dream. To walk in my own way and be alone, free with an eye to see things as they are. A voice that means manhood—to cock my hat where I choose—at a word, a Yes, a No, to fight or write. To travel any road under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne.

Never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart; yet, with all modesty to say: “My soul be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.”

Cyrano is certainly unafraid of this world.

Just like Paul is unafraid of this world, regardless of the day of the week.  .

My question then, friends, is this:

What are we afraid of?

Let us pray: Lord, thank you for our many blessings in this astonishing life. Thank you for the blessings we celebrate on Sunday morning and also the blessings we take for granted on Monday. Amen.