“The Maladjusted Christian”

                                                                 January 11, 2009

I Samuel 7:5-6, 12-14

Mark 1:4-11

One of the mottos of our congregation is “Opening Doors across Three Centuries.” You’ll see that on our website. It’s on the cover of this year’s annual report. And it’s written in large letters above the time line bulletin board in Rockwood Hall. Those words speak to the open minds and open hearts in our church that extend a welcome to all people. Since this building was completed in 1869 our doors have been open to all who pass by.

We like the motto—but, if the truth were told, we’re not really content with the doors themselves.

We keep changing them. Old photos show that at some point we found it necessary—and possible—to put an electric light above the door. At first the doors were at the top of a flight of stairs. Then we remodeled and brought the entrance down to the street level. We put a new façade on top of the original doors. And now we have installed a stained glass window above the doors. This morning we dedicated that window to the glory of God.

The word “glory” points to the radiance, the fullness, the beauty of God. Theologians suggest that it is something like the feeling aroused in us by bright, concentrated light—something that can only be described by pointing to that feeling. When we speak of the glory of God we point to an ecstasy that includes joy and happiness, beauty, and the thrill of great power and meaning, the overflowing of all that is cherished and desired.

All the stained glass windows in this building match, with the exception of the one made by Mr. Tiffany. And they are glorious—especially in the afternoon, when the western sun shines through the great windows in the balcony and bathes this room in a splendid light. You should come back some sunny afternoon and look—or as the Bible says, “Behold.” Behold as well the way the light illuminates the dove in the new window. Glorious.

The beauty, the glory of these windows does not shine only upon those of us on the inside. Floodlights on the inside send colored light outward onto all who pass by our front doors through the hours of darkness on their way to classes and concerts, bars and restaurants, libraries and lectures. It is truly “light cast on an oft times puzzling world,” as Denny put it. It is light that welcomes doubters and seekers. Which means, of course, that the light continues to shine on us as well—for we, too, live mostly outside our doors, beyond our windows, in the puzzling world.

Day and night it is busy outside our doors. Now the dove in the new window silently tells all who pass by of the peace of God.

We can use that peace, because we are in some ways a discontented, restless people—dissatisfied with our doors, changing them to reflect the changes going on inside this building, changing this building to reflect the changes going on in the world and inside ourselves.

We are restless people. We don’t settle for easy answers. We don’t settle for the way things are. We don’t settle for the way we are.

We can regard this window as an “Ebenezer” of sorts—a marker that we have come this far in our individual lives and our life together by God’s help. The dedication of this window marks a point on the road, not the journey’s end.

Congregationalists often call themselves “pilgrim people,” harkening back to our early New England ancestors in faith. And whether we are simply going here and there in Iowa City or traveling around the globe as so many of us do, we recognize that our very lives are a pilgrimage.

The plaque for the new window uses that word, “pilgrimage.” And it is a good word. More than, say, the word “journey,” “pilgrimage” suggests a spiritual, religious nature to the traveling, the wandering, the living that we do. It suggests a sacred nature to the discontent that keeps us moving, keeps us changing.

The faith we know is not about adapting and adjusting.

Martin Luther King, Jr. put it this way:

“I never did intend to adjust to the evils of segregation and discrimination,” he said. “I never did intend to adjust myself to religious bigotry. I never did intend to adjust myself to economic conditions that will take necessities from the many and give luxuries to the few. I never did intend to adjust myself to the madness of militarism, and the self-defeating effects of physical violence. And I call upon all [people] of goodwill to be maladjusted because it may well be that the salvation of our world lies in the hands of the maladjusted.”

Restless pilgrims. Maladjusted Christians.

Maybe it’s much better if we don’t fit, if we feel uncomfortable in this world of comforts.

The article that the Christian Century group is discussing tonight mentions columnist and author Thomas Friedman as one who “wants the US to spend more on green technology and science education”—good ideas—“but he also advises us to give up on” what he calls “nostalgic dreams of social justice and equality.”

I’m not so sure.

We should not intend to adjust ourselves to a new economic order that makes hunger and poverty a growing reality. We should intend to put an end to the hunger, poverty, and homeless in our midst. We should be maladjusted enough to seek justice.

We should not intend to adjust ourselves to the homophobia that remains rampant in so many places in our nation and the world. We should not intend to adjust ourselves to the ongoing oppression of women and the exploitation of children around the globe. We should be maladjusted enough to pursue the equality that respects all people as God’s creations.

Look at John in the wilderness. He is not the picture of a well-adjusted religious person. He is clothed with camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist. He eats locusts and wild honey. And with wild abandon, he calls people to repentance—to turn from their “well adjusted” ways that they might know the new life that God offers.

John knows that the life we live is incomplete. He looks toward something, someone really, yet to come. Faith shows itself in some people as vision for the future. They focus on that which is to come. These are the kind of people who look at what might be and ask, “Why not?”

King again, exhorts: “Let us be maladjusted, as maladjusted as the prophet Amos, who in the midst of the injustices of his day could cry out in words that echo across the centuries, ‘Let justice run down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.’ Let us be as maladjusted as Abraham Lincoln, who had the vision to see that this nation could not exist half slave and half free. Let us be as maladjusted as Jesus of Nazareth, who could look into the eyes of the men and women of his generation and cry out, ‘Love your enemies. Bless those who curse you. Pray for them that despitefully use you.’”

How might we go forward as maladjusted Christians? How will we continue on our restless pilgrimages of doubt and wonder?

Let me suggest a few possibilities—you might have thought of others as well.

First let us make the connection between restlessness and peace. As you leave this morning, look once more at the new window. The dove of peace holds an olive branch in its beak.

Do you remember where that image comes from?

Genesis tells us that after the flood, Noah sent out a dove from the ark to see if the flood waters had subsided. Finding no dry ground, the dove returned to the ark. Seven days later Noah sent the dove out again. This time, it returned with an olive leaf. After another seven days, Noah sent the dove out; this time it didn’t return. This is a story of the peace that comes only out of restlessness, out of wandering, out of not settling for the way things are.

In our restless wanderings, in our pilgrimages we discover the deep peace of God shining on our lives in unexpected ways, in unexpected places. When the peace of God comes upon us, we are stirred from lethargy, we see what might be, and we seek the new thing that God is doing in the world.

See that your restlessness and your peace are connected.

Second, remember who you are. The account of the baptism of Jesus affirms that the new life in Christ that God makes possible is one in which the value of each individual human being—of you and me, of neighbors and the strangers who walk by or through our doors—the value of each human being is grounded in the fact that we are the children of God.

This is a different value than we find in the rest of the world. It's not who you know or what you know, it's not what you have done or haven't done, it's not how much money you have or don't have that establishes your worth as a person. We are who God says we are—the sisters and brothers of Christ, the daughters and sons of God. You are a child of God. That is enough. And that cannot be taken away from you.

Knowing who we are perhaps we can find the strength to forgive or seek forgiveness, the courage to reach out to when someone hurts.

Knowing who we are perhaps we will laugh and dance a little more.

We might not be well adjusted, but we will find the life that really is life.

Remember who you are—a child of God.

Third, live through difficult times and make difficult choices with the courage that comes from knowing you are loved by God. Perhaps you are young enough to remember the words of Albus Dumbeldore, the headmaster of Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, when great evil is rising up, he says: “The time will soon come when each of us will have to choose between what is easy and what is right.” When we act with courage in the face of those things that destroy, it will not be easy. By God’s grace, we find ourselves faithful enough and maladjusted enough to choose correctly.

And this cannot be said often enough: let your light shine. The world can be very dark and cold. But here and there, now and then, people like you find ways to bring some light, some warmth into the world. Sometimes it is a brilliant light that amazes and inspires all who see it. Sometimes the light is faint, but it is enough, enough to see a little better, a little further down the road that we travel.

Let your light shine, because it is desperately needed in our world today.

Let your light shine, because you are the only one in the world who has that particular light.

We are the restless faithful, discontented Congregationalists. We have still further plans for those doors. We have further plans for our ministry and mission beyond those doors. We are still at work in the world.

God is still at work in the world—and in your life. May we all be maladjusted enough for that work to continue.