11th Sunday after Pentecost & Wedding Sermon

There is a beauty in fresh, new things – a beauty that has an intrinsic appeal: planting a garden and delighting in the first leaflets that appear and their promise of endless cherry tomatoes come August; the smooth perfection of a baby’s skin; watching a young couple get married – taking their first steps into a future they’ve only dreamed of.

And… there is a beauty in maturing things: of plants that have endured winter colds and summer droughts and grown large and strong; of calloused skin that can handle tools – competently and enduringly; of second marriages that know how to look to a future with hope – no longer rooted in daydreams and fantasies, but born of experience and self-knowledge and eyes wide-open to the realities of this life.

And…there is a beauty in dying things: of lives and institutions that are completing what they were called to do – for better, for worse; in sickness and health – and are now laying themselves down to be given away for a new generation of fresh, new things.

This is the way of life. For this is the created order of things, a testament of its Creator God. Everything has its season. So in everything we can say, “Amen. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

And today, it is this middle season we especially celebrate, with Michelle and Alanna: no longer young, but not yet old; experienced with the realities of life, yet alive with the hope of a still long future before them.

It is a hope we all share, in our way.

My wife and I were talking recently – taking stock of where we are and where we’re going, now that the kids are grown and out of the house. “What do you want, Eric?” she asked. I paused and thought about it a while, then said quite simply and sincerely, “I want a good life.”

Right? It’s true of all of us. We want good lives – lives with love, with purpose; lives that matter, because we exist. We belong to this vast and extraordinary universe (and whatever lies beyond). We are part of it all. And if we are worthy enough to exist (which we do), then we are worthy of the dignity of living a meaningful life.

And, because we belong to a dynamic universe – one that is in a perpetual state of becoming – to have a “good life” includes having a “maturing life.” It is not a perpetually “pleasant life,” an always “comfortable” or “amused” life (much as we would prefer it). It is a “maturing life,” one that continues to grow in experience, in wisdom, and in community.

When we are young, we tend to be fairly self-centered. That’s fine. It’s age-appropriate. But as we age (if we’re aging at all well), more and more we discover our truer selves (our more complete selves) to be and belong to a broadening community – to a broadening world – of, no longer just “me,” but “us.”

And this can lead to one of the many gifts of marriage: its potential to invite us into this deepening sense of belonging – not as a consumer of “good things that ought to come my way” – but as participants together in the creation of good things – with one another and for the world, to which we also belong.

The apostle Paul was writing about the church, but could just as well have been writing about marriage (which is, after all, a kind of very small church): “I beg you,” he said, “to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

Why?

Because “there is one body and one Spirit, one God and Father of all, who is above all, and through all and in all.”

The point of this life we are living, this life in which are maturing, is to bring us to this ever-deepening comprehension that we are one, because God is one, in whose image we are made. Everything comes from God, everything returns to God, and along the way – Please God, may we discover – everything is one with God.

And if this be true – if I am in God and God is in me; and God is in you and you are in God; and God is in the fir trees and the waters and the air we breathe and the fir trees and the waters and the air we breathe are in God – how could we want anything more than to love one another, and this whole creation we share together as one? For in so doing, we are doing what God is doing, in whom we live and move and have our being.

And, as maturing people in this world, one of the particular ways we are able to love this world is our gift of solidarity. If we have lived through pain of any kind – through bereavement, divorce, warfare – if we’ve lived through it and survived, we can become for one another in our bodies and persons a living hope: “There is more to come. And I am with you in it.”

And when this tangible presence and love for one another – be it for our spouse or anyone we come alongside – when it taps into and represents the God in whom it is always and perfectly true, it becomes as a sacrament. We become for each other the tangible sign of God’s invisible grace, a grace that knows no boundaries.

We show up to each other, as Christ showed up for the world, as the presence and sign of God in our lives.

When the crowds were following Jesus from place to place, they wanted what he had to give them: “Heal us from our diseases; give us bread. Meet us in this place of pain and hunger.” Which was perfectly fine. He did heal them. He did give them bread, because he cared about their actual lives. And in so caring, he shows us the heart of God.

And…he invited them to more.

There is bread we need for our bodies. Which is good.

And there is bread we need for our souls. Which is also good.

And it is this “soul-bread” our spirits crave, which he offers: “I am the bread of life. Whoever come to me will never be hungry.”

As I carry on in this life, more and more I discover that my underlying question is simply this: “God, are you with me?” Not just, “are you real?” (which is also a legitimate question), but more urgently and intimately, “Are you with me – here, in this body, in this life, in this circumstance?” Because, if the answer is, “Yes,” then everything is going to be okay. And not just for me alone, but for everything and everyone. Because if God is with me, there is no person and no thing for which this is not also true. God is with us. We have what we most need. The one who made us, the one who loves us, the Ultimate One who is and whose compassion is without end is with us. In sickness and health, in plenty and want, in life and in death, God is with us.

We are not stranded. Our lives are not the butt of some cosmic joke. We matter. Our lives matter. Our love for one another matters. Our giving of self to one another matters. “God with us” is reality of the best and truest kind.

And as we come together to the communion rail today, it is this hope we are sharing. When we take the bit of bread, we are taking unto our bodies the sign and sacrament of hope that God is with us, that God in Christ is in us, that Christ, the Bread of Life, is making himself one with us. And not just us alone, but life for the world.

So this table becomes for us a sign of God’s intent: that all are gathered at the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. Just as Michelle and Alanna are giving themselves to one another, to become one, so Christ has given himself as a bridegroom for us, the bride – a union that will never be severed. And this is his feast, to which all are invited. Amen.