A Sermon for Stephen Ministries Sunday, Based on Philippians 4:4-14 & Mark 10:46-52

          In my time at the Wesley Foundation, one of the yearly low-lights of orientation for new students was icebreakers: the important but endless activities helping students get to know each other and feel more at home on campus. By the end of orientation, students were too through.
          But one such icebreaker activity still stands out for me. It was done several times on a Sunday afternoon so every new student participated, but in smaller groups of 300 or so. It began with all the students on one side of the room; then the leader would call out a description and if it fit you, you moved to the other side of the room. It started out fairly tame: if you have blue eyes, move to the other side; if you’re from Virginia; if you’re Baptist; if you have siblings. Gradually the exercise dug deeper: if your parents are divorced; you’ve experienced the death of a peer; you know someone with cancer; someone mentally ill; someone with an addiction; is in an abusive relationship; who’s thought about suicide. Students became quieter, more pensive; they looked around to see who also moved with them, and saw they weren’t alone. Somebody knew the troubles they’d seen; there were tears, the occasional embrace or a knowing look; strangers saw they had more in common than they thought. True community began to form through the bonds of shared struggle. For me it was a moment of holiness born of vulnerability.
          It’d be interesting to get up right now and move into the Fellowship Hall to do a similar exercise, perhaps with other descriptions: if you’ve ever been bullied; concerned about health; dealing with dementia; in conflict with children or parents, or both. But we’ll have none of that; we prefer safe and predictable worship; we might go over an hour; oddly enough we fear the church is the last place to show our wounds, even as we claim to be disciples of the Christ whose wounds are still visible. But if we did such a thing and moved into that space, we probably would be stunned to see the wounds we bear. Some are still fresh; perhaps recently opened, or a scab’s broken-again. Even if our wounds are now scars, we know they’re there and some areas are still sensitive; all of us came limping here one way or another. And at least for some, there’s a lingering, longing wish that we were a community where wounds could be more easily shared.
          We live in a culture that tells us to be quiet, don’t make a mess, keep your troubles to yourself; we’re entered into an endless competition always to be the best, the brightest, the happiest, the most successful, the most beautiful and fit. That competition produces one of the most depressing parts of December: the Christmas letter from folks touting their great successes and accomplishments. Did you ever notice that when tough times came to folks’ lives, the letters stopped coming, too?
          For a younger generation the phenomenon of social comparison is linked to depression, low self-esteem, and jealousy. It’s the funk felt on Facebook or other social media when our humdrum lives bump up against our friends’ highlight reels of fun, parties with friends, and awesome vacations. Ugh.
          Thank God for another, more real and true story found in scripture. What a blessed relief to see that wounds are real; terrible things happen; life can be a mess; and that that isn’t the end of the story. As many a preacher has said, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. We know Good Friday’s darkness, but Easter dawns. The Crucified Jesus is also the Risen Lord. An imprisoned Paul on his way to Rome and possible execution writes to Christians in the town of Philippi, “Rejoice in the Lord always. Do not worry about anything, but in everything let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus;” then he is bold to say, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” We followers of Christ can sing this truth, “Forget your perfect offering/There is a crack, a crack, in everything/That’s how the light gets in.” (Leonard Cohen)
          Sisters and bothers, it’s OK, even a blessing, to own our brokenness and our need, and to cry out for help, even when good people around us tell us that’s in poor taste, or to shush up. It’s a blessing, because that’s how healing and transformation happen.
          Imagine how unsettled the crowd is around Bartimaeus when he begins to howl for help, “Jesus! Son of David, have mercy on me!” A bunch of folks tell him to put a sock in it, but desperately hopeful people do desperately hopeful things so he just cranks it up a notch, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” And then Jesus says, “Call him here.” Did you notice that? Jesus’ call doesn’t come directly from him but through the crowd. It’s the crowd that says, ”Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” Healing comes from Jesus, but through the caring help of those around Bartimaeus.
          Think of what would’ve been missed if Bartimaus had just shut up and stayed in his proper place. The crowd would’ve stayed distant and removed; they would’ve missed the opportunity to help healing happen. They would’ve missed seeing God’s amazing power transform a life. Bartimaeus would’ve stayed blind, he would’ve stayed put, begging on the sidelines, and he would’ve missed seeing the face of Jesus and the adventure of getting up to follow on the Way.
          For this gospel, following on the Way is not just walking a road; it’s following Jesus, being a disciple.  In Mark’s Gospel, Bartimaeus sees what the disciples hadn’t: following Jesus is about serving, not being served, finding life by giving it away, becoming great through suffering love. Bartimaeus was never the same.
          And I suspect that following Jesus led him to see that becoming like Jesus meant helping others also to experience healing and hope and new life. And I suspect the crowd was never the same, either. Because of what they saw and said that day, they knew they’d had a part in God’s work of healing a life.
          That’s our calling and promise, too. What happened with that crowd and Bartimaeus can still happen here in this place, where Jesus also stands. Indeed, it happens, every week.
          When I left the Wesley Foundation to become the pastor of the United Methodist Church at Randolph-Macon College, I was thankful that dedicated Stephen Ministers were there; we became a ministry team as I offered first response to need, and they followed with long term care as I went to the next crisis. We knew that together we were the care-givers, but God was the Curer. Here too, each week, Stephen Ministry care-givers serve their care-receivers.
          But it isn’t one-way. Blessing comes to all. Any Stephen Minister will tell you they get as much or more out of the humble gift of being allowed into the most fragile parts of a person’s life. They know God guides and helps them; the ministry is simply beyond their ability. They’ll tell you it’s a holy thing to be Christ’s instrument of transformation in a life, and to sense Christ at work through their flesh and blood. Wouldn’t you want to experience Christ alive in such a way?
          And any Stephen Minister will tell you God works in their life through the care-receiver they serve. Every gift of the Spirit has grown in them, especially peace, patience, kindness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. This ministry’s changed them; they’re more open to others and willing to share their deepest selves, more ready to be still, to wait, to listen. One Stephen Minister confessed, “Christ has developed parts of me I didn’t know I had.” Watch out: put yourself at God’s disposal and you don’t know what’ll happen. But trust me, it’ll all be good, for others, and you. Perhaps God is working on someone right here and now with a challenge and call to let God do such things again. Maybe that call is to you.
          A Stephen Minister here told me she’d once been a care-receiver and it was such a gift in her need that she felt called to share that gift with someone else. Mutual blessing happens when we become wounded healers together in Christ. From prison Paul wrote to the Philippians, “It was kind of you to share my distress.” Paul had birthed that church and helped them come to Christ. Now in his need they were the ones to offer help as mutual care and ministry were given.
          Some years ago I was one of the pallbearers for a friend and mentor who’d died. We were seated in the church together and during the singing of the opening hymn, at one time or another each of us broke down in grief. But the song kept on; others sang for us until we could again join in singing when sadness silenced other voices. That’s what it means to be the Body of Christ: sometimes we serve, sometimes we’re served; in all times and places we all join love’s sweet harmony; we hold the Christ light for each other until we can see clearly the Christ who helps us all follow the Way that leads to life, thanks be to God.
-2017, David M. Hindman, soli Deo gloria.
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