I’ve got a song in my head. Don’t you hate that. Those little ear worms they’re called. It just gets stuck in there and you can’t get it out. A commercial jingle perhaps, a popular song played incessantly on the radio (yeah, that’s how old I am, I still listen to the radio), some barely remembered childhood ditty. Or a hymn. I know, that puts me in rare company. But it happens, I get a hymn stuck in my head. Sometimes I can’t remember the words and have to hunt them down. Or I can’t find the beginning to look it up in the hymnal. So, I hum along until there is enough to figure it out. Or I give up and resort to Google. Thank the Lord for Google. “Alexa, what’s the song that goes ...” I don’t have an Alexa. Or a Siri. But I’ve got Google.
The problem is, even when you find it, then you’re stuck with “why that song?” I hadn’t heard that song in years. What was I thinking that brought it back from the dim recesses of my memory? Are you ready? The song that I’ve been humming here alone in the office. Mumbling over the words, getting some, not sure about others. But enough to type in the search bar. Are you ready? Here it is: “Brighten the corner where you are! / Brighten the corner where you are! / Someone far from harbor you may guide across the bar; / Brighten the corner where you are!”
Remember that one? Written by Ina Duley Ogdon, granddaughter of a Methodist Minister, in 1913. “Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do, / Do not wait to shed your light afar; / To the many duties ever near you now be true, / Brighten the corner where you are.” It became one of the signature tunes of the Browns, a sort of country/folk trio of siblings in the mid 1950's. Jim Ed and his sisters Bonnie and Maxine. “Just above are clouded skies that you may help to clear, / Let not narrow self your way debar; / Though into one heart alone may fall your song of cheer, / Brighten the corner where you are.”
No, I don’t remember any of that. I looked it up. Trying to figure out why. Why I’ve been humming that song this morning. I’m supposed to be writing about faith. Preparing to preach. Proclaim the gospel. We’re finishing up a sermon series on Deuteronomy six, launching a family ministry approach to youth ministry, then children’s ministry, then anything and everything else. It’s all about family. Equipping the family. The nuclear family in all of its wild and wonderful manifestations these days. But also the family of the church, the family of God. We’re supposed to help one another do this thing we call making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world. That’s what we’re doing. And what we recognize is that none of us can do it alone. None of us can make disciples of ourselves alone, let alone our kids and grandkids, or our neighborhoods, for heaven’s sake. We’re just not up to it. None of us. We need help. We need a family around us. We need to not fall into the trap of thinking that faith is an individual exercise, a private thing. It is a corporate experience, a shared expression. We’re supposed to talk about it. That’s what Moses said anyway. Remember?
Deuteronomy 6:4-9 Hear, O Israel: The LORD is our God, the LORD alone. 5 You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. 6 Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. 7 Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. 8 Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, 9 and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.
It was Moses, doing his “Father Knows Best” impression, trying to get the people of God to face the realities of living in a complicated world. You’ve got to stay focused, he told them, knowing they were just barely paying attention. They were like kids at the candy counter, looking over his shoulder at all the wonders of the promised land that lay just in front of them. Like school kids waiting for the last bell before summer break, they were anxious to get running. They didn’t want to have to sit and listen to another lecture from old “can’t find his way to drugstore if you dropped him off at the curb” Moses. But he tried anyway. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone. No other. None. There are gods on every street corner in the promised land. Gods on late night TV, gods in your junk mail folder, gods on billboards, gods stitched into your designer jeans. Just ignore them all. And tell your children to ignore them all. Remember the One who brought us out of slavery. The One who loved us at our most unlovable. Remember that One. OK? Then tell the kiddos to remember Him too. Tell them in the morning, tell them at night. Tell them at the dinner table, tell them on the road. Tell them. Tie something around your hand, if you need to, to help you remember. Tie it next to your eyes. Don’t rely on Siri, or Alexa. Just tell them. Write it down. On your house.
On your house. One kid whispered to his mother, “What’s a house?” Shh, honey, Moses is talking. Around the door, Moses droned on. Write these words. With big letters, so you see them. So you remember, every time you go in and go out. “What’s a door?” Shhh. Write them so that you can see them and everyone else can see them. It’s an announcement, a proclamation. Let everyone know whose you are.
Neighborhood covenants aside, is this really what was intended? Who was the writing for? The usual interpretation is that this is a private thing. A reminder thing, like the phylacteries tied around the arm or hand, the little leather boxes tied to the forehead. Everyone else just saw a kooky religious affectation. They didn’t know, couldn’t know, weren’t to know what was in those boxes.
So the mezuzah was invented. A little box that was nailed to the doorframe. A small, almost missable item tucked away in the corner. Wood or metal or ceramic or stone, something that could be hollowed out to hold a little bit of parchment, of paper on which was written the shema, the statement in Deuteronomy 6:4. Hear O Israel. Held in that box, that mezuzah. Each time they arrived home, their hands would rest on that box and they would pray that prayer. They would remember. Each time they left in the morning, to work or school or to run errands or just play, they would touch that box, so that their going out and their coming in was bounded by the memory of the God who rescued them, who claims them, who loves them, and who they love in return. With heart and soul and might.
But. Just but. What if this was more than a reminder for those who knew and didn’t want to forget? What if this was an opportunity? To proclaim, To live outwardly. To let the world know. What if this was the one instruction where we were called to take the risk of sharing faith? Instead of just keeping it to ourselves. Announcing it out loud?
Jude 1:1-3 Jude, a servant of Jesus Christ and brother of James, To those who are called, who are beloved in God the Father and kept safe for Jesus Christ: 2 May mercy, peace, and love be yours in abundance. 3 Beloved, while eagerly preparing to write to you about the salvation we share, I find it necessary to write and appeal to you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints.
Jude is a little letter tucked in the back of the bible, like a grocery list you wrote and then forgot about, a note you were given and wanted to keep and now couldn’t find if you wanted to, until you stumble across it by accident. A little letter with no great, memorable verses. Just a place-holder. Except he says, I was going to write to you about stuff we know, inside stuff. Personal stuff. This faith that we love so much. But something happened. The faith seems to be getting lost in the noise of the world. Swallowed up by other stuff. So I wanted to write to tell you to contend for the faith. Contend. Like an athletic endeavor, compete, strive, run the race. But like a struggle, a battle, a boxing match. In this corner we have you, and the faith that you used to train yourself. In the other corner? Everything else. All those things that gave Moses nightmares on the threshold of the promised land. Good things, bad things, just things, distracting things, time wasting things. Just things. In that corner. And you are called to fight. To struggle. To hold on. To make a difference. To brighten the corner where you are. We are called to be people of light. Bringing light to a dark world. Which doesn’t mean keep it quiet, keep it hidden. Put it in a box for you to remember as you come and go. It means lighting up. Writing with big letters. Announcing to the world whose you are.
Yes, Jude, we’ll contend. We’ll strive. But we won’t fight. There is far too much violence in the world. Instead we’ll brighten the corner where we are. We’ll guide them across the bar on which they’re stuck. We’ll clear the skies, we’ll rescue one heart. Maybe one, maybe more, but we’ll brighten the corner, where we are. Write them on the door where you live, brighten the corner where you are. Contend for the faith. In your corner.
Shalom,
Derek
No comments:
Post a Comment