Stop me if you’ve heard this one before

In their song about making excuses, the Smiths once sang, “Stop me, oh, stop me; Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before.”

And so, with that inspiration, I begin this sermon with those words, stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.

It might sound familiar to some of you, no?

Like, maybe we heard it recently?

Maybe sometime, say, in April?

It makes sense if this passage is familiar as it is sometimes read around Palm Sunday time.

It is also kind of famous in its own right, so its familiarity makes sense there as well.

Personally, these words resonate with me as I seem to recall them from my youth.

I seem to recall sitting in a pew and hearing them spoken, maybe even by my mother who was a lector at our church and would be careful to pause at commas and take longer pauses at periods.

I wonder if this is just a created memory though, because for much of my church life I seem to remember thinking more about what happened on the previous day’s episode of Hanna Barbera’s Olympics than I do getting anything out of the word.

My times at church back then were more about anticipation and recollection than they were about being present before God.

I would sit there in the pew, placed between my parents and brother and I would look so holy.

Looking front, eyes wide open, staring at whatever I was supposed to be staring at, the priest with his big arms during Eucharist was especially iconic.

But ask me what was said, and I am not exactly sure I would answer correctly.

Perhaps instead of listening, I was thinking about the dam I built down at the brook at the end of my street, somewhere around the Confession I might be wondering if I flooded the lower Naugatuck Valley, if folks in the nearby houses were being evacuated by rowboats piloted by Boy Scouts.

Or perhaps I was wondering about my baseball game coming up later that week, I played second base for VFW and we were headed to the championship.

The trophy we won for eventually winning that championship has since met the dumpster but do not think I didn’t keep that little square plaque naming us as eastern division champions and do not think that I proudly recall my glory days as a little leaguer filled up on Friendly’s ice cream following said victory as I dust that plaque each Saturday.

Friends, I sometimes worry that I might have peaked at the age of eight.

And then, maybe this passage speaks to me because it is one about anticipation and recollection.

I must admit that so much of this, all of this that surrounds us, is for me about…

Anticipation.

And reflection.

When I first started celebrating worship as a priest, at my first service as lone presider without training wheels, I was of two worlds.

One looked backwards, the other forwards.

When I started reading the Collect for Purity, that prayer we say at the beginning of the service which reads, “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid” I felt such an awareness of my youth, such a feeling of where I came from, those dark pews I grew up in could have been before me and I would not have been surprised.

And still throughout that first service, I was constantly reading the bulletin, trying to anticipate what came next, where I should sit, when I should sit, what to do with my arms and would I forget the blessing?

The blessing…

I’m supposed to memorize those words and say them, but did I know them?

Could I say them?

I sat wondering and completely missed the second reading, I might have well been thinking about groundouts and doubles.

The organ blast announcing the gospel woke me from my slumber.

I was of two worlds, anticipation and reflection.

“For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.”

This part of the passage creates nervousness.

I love my memories, we love those happy recollections of quiet and calm, knowing we are loved.

We do not want to lose those things remembered.

Our memories are important to us, they give us life, they give us reason.

Imagine this place without memories, without a memory of watching our children baptized, our own confirmations, our times in Sunday school, the quietness of feeling God surround us we worship.

Without that and without the promise that we might one day create new memories for new generations, I am left worried; who are we without our stories?

At yet promise of what is to come is glorious.

“But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.”

From our past will bloom a greater future, a new Jerusalem, a greater delight.

This passage is asking us to look in two directions so that we might understand just what is to come.

Because along with those gauzy memories of heydays and fondness, we understand that our past was not always easy or even remembered happily.

If we think locally, we might remember not better days but bitter days, days of frustration and heartache.

No parish’s history is a snowball of joy gathering more joy as it rolls down the hill.

No, sometimes that snowball picks up stones and sticks that muddy such joy.

And what is God promising that we will no longer remember?

Because it seems that God is not removing from us joy but clearing the path for it to grow.

No more stones, no sticks.

Isaiah tells us, “(N)o more shall the sound of weeping be heard in (Jerusalem), or the cry of distress. No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime…”

We will no longer remember the heartache and perhaps I am reading too much of myself into this passage, but I do not think God would remove from us the joy that makes us and defines us as who we are.

And the anticipation is just wonderful.

Our labors will not be in vain.

Our children will be born healthy and cared for.

Our children’s children will be blessed by the Lord.

Before we even proclaim our prayers before God, they will be heard by God.

Those are the new heavens and the new earth for which God is preparing us.

That is our hope.

That is our inspiration.

And for me, and my prayer for all of us, that is what we are to manifest in the here and now.

Now, I cannot explain the how and I do not know exactly what happens, but I do believe that Jesus lived, died, was resurrected, and ascended into Heaven.

And when we die, in some form or another, immediately or after some great slumber we are or will be reunited with God and each other.

I know not the particulars, some of it might sound quite daft, but that is my faith.

I cannot proclaim my faith rightly without admitting some of it relies on things I cannot fully explain in words without feeling.

Along with that is the understanding that Jesus did not abandon us.

Jesus did not fly off into the clouds and said, “peace out”.

Instead, he gifted us with the Spirit and with the Spirit we too we are given the kingdom of God, not to build, not to create a manmade representation of what that kingdom should be, but the actual kingdom.

We need to but manifest that kingdom.

That kingdom is here.

It surrounds us and it is us.

In anticipation of the kingdom that is to arrive, that new heaven and new earth, so too are we given the kingdom of now, the one to manifest a new reality without weeping or war or woefulness.

That from our recollections of all those things that formed us and bring us here today, that from all our anticipation for what will form the new heaven and the new earth, we are to form the God’s kingdom by simply realizing God’s dream for all of us.

We are not separate from God.

We are not separated from Christ’s love.

We exist within their love and we realize that love through faith.

Our faith tells us to love one another, so we manifest God’s kingdom by loving each other.

Our faith tells us to worship a God who loves us, so we manifest God’s kingdom by building a community that worships our God who loves us totally and without question.

A community of faith.

A community of questioning and wondering and devotion and song.

This is St. Luke’s.

We are closer to God’s kingdom when we join together in fellowship, when we hold our craft fairs, when join in the peace, when we leave these doors and head for Hartford to volunteer and worship there.

We are closer to manifesting the kingdom when we do all these things, this kingdom gifted to us by God.

This is St. Luke’s.

And so, on this day and in this age, in this time of decreasing church attendance, in this time of greater secularism, in this time church closures, we hold onto memories of how things used to be, of pews that were fuller than now, of having to say excuse me so that you could find a seat, of dynamic programs and youth formation, we are called to anticipate God’s kingdom.

We remember all of those things and we are to anticipate new things.

We hold onto to such recollections perhaps anticipating that one day those memories might return.

And I cannot promise that.

I cannot stand here and promise that we will return to exactly how we were.

I can promise, though, I can promise that God is building new heavens and a new earth and through our faith we are to manifest a new kingdom here on earth.

Not build, but manifest what is already here.

So, all of these words culminate with this.

Thank you.

This is Stewardship Sunday.

Because of what you pledge and what you will give to this church, you are helping to manifest God’s kingdom here on earth.

You are not just supporting a building, you gifting us with God’s kingdom gathering together as a community dedicated to worshiping and loving God who loves us.

You are not just supporting a building, but one that welcomes communities in recovery and seeking new life in new ways.

You are supporting a building that will hold new memories and future joys.

And you are supporting the anticipation of things to come; we all understand just how much potential this community holds.

It is only through your ideas and passion for this place that we will realize that potential.

There are new ideas and old good ideas to explore.

There are good ideas that will fail and God will give us the endurance to try again after failure.

And it is only through you continued stewardship of this community that we will realize that potential.

On this Stewardship Sunday, I thank you for your pledge, your vestry thanks you for your pledge.

And if you have not pledged, I ask you that you please consider doing so.

Thank you for your consideration.

Thank you.

Thank you for all that you do for St. Luke’s.

Thank you for your gift.

Together we can manifest the gift of God’s kingdom here and now and in the community.

Stop me if you’ve heard me say that one before.

Amen.