Now

As I looked at the readings for this Sunday, my first thought--from a preacher’s perspective--was "Good grief, I’ll be glad when this church year is finally over." And it is almost over. This is the last Sunday of this church year. Next Sunday we begin anew with the wonderful, hopeful expectancy of Advent. But still today we have these awful readings that we get every year at the end of the year. Jesus talks in the Gospel about seeking the truth, belonging to the truth. But it’s a challenge, at least for me, to find truth that has meaning for me in this morning’s reading from Daniel. The Ancient One with streams of fire, beasts, and horns and visions in the night… It is, at the very least, a preaching challenge to grapple with these year-end readings. So I will, indeed, be glad when this church year is over.

I’ll be glad when this is over. I imagine that everyone here has said or thought those words more than once in your lives. I’ll be glad when this is over. Whatever this may be. I’ll admit to having thought those words more than once last Sunday as I anticipated the announcement I knew I would be making at the end of the service. And I am glad that that specific piece, the announcement piece, is over. But I’ve often felt that way in my life, over big things or little things. I’ll be glad when this is over. It could be listening to someone else’s long, dull sermon, or enduring the long slow death of someone beloved. It could be a difficult class in school, or a difficult phase of childhood--for either parents or children. I’ll be glad when this is over, when this time has passed. It is a universal human feeling… the hope that time will pass so that a difficult time will end.

But then there’s the other universal human sentiment, the time when we say to ourselves, I wish this moment would never end. There are such moments, whether fleeting or long-lived, in every human life. Moments that we cherish and would do anything to hang on to. It might be time spent with people whom we love. Or some specific event of joy or celebration. An unbelievably beautiful day, or something as simple as a chocolate milkshake savored slowly with the hope that it will never be finished. A shared glance of understanding and communication so deep that words disappear. Peace. Grace. Reconciliation. Sometimes in those moments the hope that time will stand still is so strong we forget to breathe. I wish this moment would never end.

We are baptizing three new young Christians today. That moment when the water washes over their faces… whether or not they feel it, surely we would wish for them that this moment might never end. It’s a moment when nothing at all stands between them and God. Nothing. In a way time really does stand still at that moment. At that moment when the waters of baptism wash over them… at that moment they live in God’s kingdom, a timeless kingdom that is not, as Jesus says, of this world. In that moment, these children will be alive with the eternal light and life of God’s presence. The very light of Christ will burn not only in the Paschal Candle next to the font, but will shine forth with a brightness undimmed in their hearts and souls. What a moment!

Every human life will have both of these sorts of times--times we can't wait to end and times we wish would never end. But there is a third sort of moment that is offered to us every time we enter into worship. People from deep and complex theologians to simply hymn writers have given this third sort of time a name.  It's profound theological name is "now".  It isn’t time that we hope will pass. It isn’t time that we hope will stand still. It is now. And the "now" of worship is available to us no matter what the pace or the place of the rest of our lives. No matter if we find ourselves in times of darkness or struggle that we eagerly hope will end. No matter if our temporal, human lives are filled with a joy we wish would never end. No matter. In worship all that matters is now. And God’s presence with us now.

At the sing along on Friday evening I was thinking about some of my favorite hymns. Unfortunately, quite a few of them aren’t the easiest to sing, so they’re not as familiar as I wish they were. But some of them are marvelous, even just the words.

There’s one entitled "now." The words were written (in 1968, I think) by a Slovakian pastor and hymn writer. The words expressed in the hymn grew, he says, out of his previous 18 years in full time Lutheran parish ministry and express, "a list of awesome and exciting things one should expect in worship, culminating in a Eucharist and benediction." It has been described as "one of the most remarkable hymns of the twentieth century." It’s about the time we enter when we enter worship. It’s about now… this now, right now. [Hymn 333]

Now the silence
Now the peace
Now the empty hands uplifted

Now the kneeling
Now the plea
Now the Father’s arms in welcome

Now the hearing
Now the power
Now the vessel brimmed for pouring

Now the Body
Now the Blood
Now the joyful celebration

Now the wedding
Now the songs
Now the heart forgiven leaping

Now the Spirit’s visitation
Now the Son’s epiphany
Now the Father’s blessing

Now Now Now

The other times of our lives will pass. The time that we want to pass and the time we want to hold on to. They will all pass. This church year and its grim and obscure Scripture readings… they will indeed be over soon, and next week I’ll get to preach on Advent readings. Advent is my favorite season of the church year. And, although the children we baptize today will be irrevocably transformed today by God’s grace, the crystal pure moment of baptism will pass. And they will enter into the rest of their lives… sometimes difficult, sometimes joyous lives in which human frailty and ambition and divine hope and guidance are all jumbled together.

But this moment when we enter in worship… it is always right before us. It will never pass away. This moment is always "now".

Now the Spirit’s visitation
Now the Son’s epiphany
Now the Father’s blessing

Now Now Now

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