September 11, 1988
Text: Mark 8:27-35
Rev. James R. Gorman
Forgive me for telling a story I've told from this pulpit before, but my belief is that a good story should never be told just once.
I was visiting with one of our members at Luther Manor nursing home several years ago. The parking on that day was horrible. There were cars everywhere and I had to park a block away. And, as is my wont sometimes, I told the woman at the registration desk in my most officious voice just what I thought about their lack of parking. She replied very nicely that the Chaplain of the home, Duane Sandstrom, had died of cancer on Monday and that the funeral was to be held in 20 minutes. I said as eloquently as I could, "Oh."
When I got to Carol Brooks' apartment, she had the close-circuit TV on for the funeral of Pastor Sandstrom, who had ministered to Carol in important ways and she hoped that it would be alright if we watched the funeral together. Always ready to see how the other folks do funerals I said, "sure."
Well, the liturgy did not appeal much to me. But when Sandstrom's son Andrew got up and spoke about his Dad (always a risky thing), I just couldn't withhold the tears.
Andy spoke about being proud to be a PK (Preacher's Kid). And how his dad was always the last to leave the church on Sunday, a preacherly habit which had a way of interfering with the family's Sunday afternoon plans. Duane Sandstrom wore one of those old black robes ("O, how I miss those old billowing black robes," Andy said as all the clergy behind him in their linen albs nodded and smiled knowingly). Andy said that his father would stand outside the church in his robe talking with people until all of the congregation had gone home. Andy remembers, as a little boy, grabbing his father's hand, hoping that he could get his dad to hurry his conversation and head home. Failing that, Andy would twist his body into that robe until no one could see him. "I thought that being inside that robe was the safest place in the world," Andy said. That's when tears came to my eyes. And also to Andy's.
Today we are beginning our program year by having a "Rally" day. We are rallying. After a summer's rest, we are rallying; that is to say, we are getting up the energy to confront a new year. School starts. They are rallying as well as we. In fact, our Rally day is really set by the school system. If you look at the Church year, there is nothing whatsoever important about this Sunday. It is just another Sunday in Pentecost, the longest season of the Church year. If we were to Rally according to the Church year, we would probably do that at the end of November when the old year ends and the new one begins with Advent.
The United Church of Canada, from where we got our Church School curriculum, calls this Sunday "Re-covenanting Sunday."
I like the word "covenant" and "re-covenant," even though I don't always know what the word means.
We in the church use the word a lot, but I'm not too sure we know what we mean when we use it.
Our confirmation book defines Covenant as a "special relationship between two parties [such as a husband and wife, . . .]." It is a covenant between two equals (at least that is the way it is intended) to become family.
Covenants in the early days had to be used for those special relationships outside of the family. Friendships or other important relationships could be sealed by a covenant.
I remember when I was a boy of about 10 or 11 years I had a very close buddy with whom I spent all my free time. Hhe had a farm and one day we decided to seal our friendship with what we thought was an ancient American Indian ritual. We pierced the ends of our fingers with a needle and then put our two wounds together and tied our fingers with a string as our blood mixed. We then called ourselves, "Blood Brothers." Which was to say, we were like family. We were now brothers in the most complete sense of that word. We were loyal to each other. If one got in a fight on the playground during recess, the other had covenanted to come to the defense.
A covenant stands for a very special relationship between two or more parties that makes those parties like a family. We therefore refer to the Church as a "covenanted community." In the history of our denomination, the congregationalists used a covenant when they formed a church and each member had to recite it when they joined. One such covenant read as follows: "We Covenant with the Lord and with one another and doe bynd our selves in the presence of God, to walke together in all his waies, according as he is pleased to reveale himself unto us in his blessed word of truth." (Salem Church Covenant, 1629) In such a covenant, a church promises to become family, even though they are not blood relations. They are bound together by covenant, which is as powerful as being bound together by blood.
One of the most moving covenants in the Old Testament is the one between Ruth and her mother-in-law Naomi. Ruth's husband is dead and the reason for their being together is dissolved. Therefore Naomi tries to send Ruth home to her own Moabite people. To which Ruth forcefully replies, "Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you live, there shall I live. Your people will be my people and your God, my God too."
Covenant makes family where there was no family. Covenant makes those who have no family, members of a new family. Covenant crosses the barriers of race and clan in a way that families often don't.
Now, this is not the only definition of covenant, but this is the one that is most important to us today. We commit ourselves anew on this day to be family; to be God's family.
And most powerfully, we covenant together to become for our children and our neighborhood, in the words of Andy Sandstrom, the safest place in the world.
Some years ago, the United Black Christians started a program to get churches to declare themselves to be "safe places." To be alternatives to an increasingly dangerous world, especially for the youngest and most vulnerable of those in our midst. In a world that is less and less safe, the church ought to be the safest place on earth.
"Who is it you say that I am?" Each of us must answer that question in our own way. Jesus is many different things, but most of all he is the one who has invited us here.
When we heed Jesus' call to "come unto me ye who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest," we enter a covenanted community--a community that if it lives out its commission rightly, becomes a safe harbor for the weary, storm-tossed and frightened.
And thus are we all weary, heavy laden and in need of a safe place to rest.
This is now and has always been such a place. Come and rest.