Rev. Kevin M. Pleas

Luke 15:3-10 September 13, 2009

So he told them this parable: "Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.' Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

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In the introduction to Barbara Brown Taylor's book, "An Altar in the World," she tells about a time when she was invited by a "wise old priest" to come and talk with his congregation. When she asked him, "What do you want me to talk about," he replied, "Come tell us what is saving your life now." She then talks about how she felt when he said that.

It was as if he had swept his arm across a dusty table and brushed all the formal china to the ground. I did not have to try to say correct things that were true for everyone. I did not have to use theological language that conformed to the historical teachings of the church. All I had to do was figure out what my life depended on. All I had to do was figure out how I stayed as close to that reality as I could, and then find some way to talk about it that helped my listeners figure out those same things for themselves.

This one paragraph is what made me decide to use Taylor's book for my class this fall. What she's describing here is a feeling I've often had about my own ministry and preaching. You've probably noticed I don't spend a lot of time up here trying to say things that "conform to the historical teachings of the church." Partly, that's because our founders believed we could learn from the historical doctrines of the church without having to bind ourselves to them. As a UCC congregation, we are not required to be doctrinal or dogmatic, although we can be if we want to.

But since being doctrinal has never held much appeal for me, what I try to do instead is use the kinds of questions Taylor was asking as something of a guiding principle. What do our lives depend on? How do we stay close to that reality? And how do we share it in ways that help people connect with it? Let me tell you, questions like this set a standard for preaching that can be hard to live up to. But, I find, they also help keep the preacher on his toes. The spirit of God, I believe, is always living and dynamic. If our lives are going to be faithful to that Spirit, they need to be living and dynamic as well, and preaching ought to be a means to that end.

I find Taylor's book compelling because she has a way of looking theologically and spiritually at some of the frequently overlooked, ordinary experiences of our lives; turning them into spiritual disciplines. We're going to go through her whole book in my class, but I also plan build some of my sermons this fall around a few of her chapters, in no particular order. This morning I want to talk about chapter five, "The Practice of Getting Lost." It begins like this:

When I first moved to the land where I live, I shared it with a herd of cows. The first thing I noticed about them was that they were pure white. The second thing I noticed was how predictable they were. With a hundred acres at their disposal, they had worn narrow paths across those acres to their favorite watering holes, shady spots, and clover patches. When they wanted to get from one of those places to another, they lined up single file and followed the tracks they had made across vast expanses of pasture. Some of these tracks were no more than eight inches wide, which is about one-forth the width of a cow. Yet the cows knew exactly where to put their feet, even without looking.

Watching the cows made her think about how people act much of the time. We tend to follow familiar, well traveled paths. We tend to line up with the crowd and go where they go. We tend to choose the predictable and comfortable over the unpredictable and uncomfortable, when we have a choice. And most of the time, we do it all without even looking. It is perfectly understandable that we would act this way. Staying in places that are predictable and familiar has a very definite upside. We can relax. We can let down our guard. We can be confident that we are safe, for the most part, and we can go about our normal routines without having to work too hard at paying attention.

However, there is a pretty significant downside too. If we spend all of our time in places that don't require much attention, it's incredibly easy to fall into the habit of simply not noticing much of anything that's new or different. When we don't have to be in a state of heightened awareness, we usually don't bother. We see what we expect to see. We tune in to the things we know we need to attend to, but not much of anything else. The downside of spending all our time in places that are comfortable and familiar, is that we easily become blind to the mystery, the wonder and the beauty of life's little grace notes.

Personally, I'm not sure I like being compared to a cow, but it is true that most of my life is about as safe and predictable as, well, most of yours are. In an average week, I rarely encounter anything like a truly novel situation. Pam and I went to Cafe Miranda a couple of nights ago for the first time. (Great food by the way.) We enjoyed dinner immensely. But in light of what we're talking about this morning, the experience was well within the range of what we consider normal and, as I think about it, it was without a doubt the newest and most different thing I did all week. Life does settle into patterns doesn't it. Simon and Garfunkel wrote a song by that name: Patterns. "My life is made of patterns that can scarcely be controlled." No kidding. And though patterns can very well be familiar and comfortable, I think Taylor is right to warn us against allowing the routines of our lives to anesthetize us. We might as well be sleepwalking.

Taylor's prescription is to get lost. Intentionally introduce a little unfamiliarity into our lives. Intentionally seek out the new and different. Put ourselves into situations where we don't automatically know what the ground rules or boundaries are. Throw a party for someone you don't know well enough. Visit a Hindu temple. Eat some tofu. Heck, sit in a different pew once in a while. I don't know. It doesn't have to be anything earth shaking or life threatening, so long as it forces us to actually experience what we're experiencing. Getting lost becomes a spiritual discipline when it enables us to be alive to our own lives for a change.

Taylor has an interesting take on what getting lost is all about; far different than the negative associations we usually have. I think most people would say getting lost is serious business. Wandering around in unfamiliar territory is a sure way to raise our anxiety level. What if we get hurt, or run out of food and water, or never find our way back? I rather suspect the current popularity of GPS navigation systems, beyond their being the latest cool electronic toy, has at least something to do with our underlying fear of not knowing where we are.

Or, if you think about being lost the way more traditional church people often do, the danger isn't so much physical as it is spiritual. One typical sermon illustration I found along these lines tells of three brothers in Scotland out on a lake when a storm comes up unexpectedly. They're all thrown overboard and one brother drowns immediately. The other two begin swimming toward a small rocky island a couple of hundred yards away. The older brother makes it, the younger brother doesn't, and the illustration ends with the older brother sobbing, "Oh! lads, little brother was nearly saved! Little brother was nearly saved! ... nearly saved, nearly saved!"

Now I don't mean to sound hard-hearted. Assuming this is a true story it had to have been a very real tragedy when it happened. However, it doesn't take much imagination to suspect that, in the hundreds or perhaps thousands of sermons this story has appeared in since that time, the dominant theme has been something like this, "Oh people, this tragedy, as horrible as it was, is nothing compared to the tragedy of the souls who come within sight of the very gates of heaven, only to be lost for all time as the angels cry out: "Nearly saved! Nearly saved!"

This is actually one of the earliest arguments I had with traditional Christian theology. Even as a confirmand, way back in eighth grade, it never made any sense to me that a loving God would permit the souls "He" created to be lost for all time. But even more to the point, preaching like this is about trying to motivate people through fear. To me, that has always felt out of keeping with the fundamentally loving and forgiving messages of Jesus. God goes out in search of the lost sheep, the lost coin, the lost son, and the point of these stories always seems to be that God will not rest until the lost are found.

Being lost, getting lost, can have all kinds of dimensions for us. It tends to be something we fear, but, if Taylor is to be believed, there are also benefits. She talks about "Getting slightly lost, so that [we] can gradually build the muscles necessary for radical trust." I like that, and my own experience bears her out. My most profound experience of being lost happened at the end of my ministry in my last church. We'd been in Westport for about five years when everything started to fall apart at once. My church work wasn't working, my family was in chaos and my mother died, all within the space of a couple of months. It's not the kind of experience I would ever go looking for intentionally. At the same time, God has never seemed more real to me that when I was right in the middle of it. There is no doubt in my mind that this experience "strengthened the muscles of my radical trust," and it has greatly strengthened my ministry as well.

Being lost, getting lost, can have all kinds of dimensions. And rather than fear it, it seems to make good sense to me to seek it out in small ways so that we can practice being lost without losing ourselves. We can practice being lost in ways that tune int to the presence of God. We can practice learning new things and heightening the awareness of our lives, confidently and radically trusting that the Spirit of God is with us and always will be.

Taylor writes:

Once you leave the cow path, the unpredictable territory is full of life. True, you cannot always see where you are putting your feet. This means you can no longer afford to stay unconscious. You can no longer count on the beat-down red dirt path making all of your choices for you. Leaving it, you agree to make your own choices for a spell. You agree to become aware of each step you take, tuning all of your senses to exactly where you are and exactly what you are doing.

And, I would add, tuning your heart to the gracious Spirit of God. And so, as we leave worship this morning, though it's not something I would normally say, I hope you will all get lost. And I will too.

Amen