Most Likely to Succeed

Most Likely to Succeed

Text: I Samuel 16:1-13

(Gary W. Charles at Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, on 3-26-2017)           

          In our recent move, I ran across my parents’ high school senior yearbook. In it, there are several pages devoted to special students – “Best Athlete,” “Best Dressed.” “Best Student.” The one that caught my eye, though, was “The Most Likely to Succeed.” Beneath the title was a handsome, shaved, buff, All-American looking young man – someone whose appearance leaves no doubt that he is heading down the highway of fame and fortune.  

          The text for today is written for those of us who are easily seduced by appearance – be it the clean-cut chap voted “The Most Likely to Succeed” or the obstreperous teen with rings and tattoos adorning every conceivable body part. At its heart, this biblical story suggests that our eagle eyes and initial impressions are not nearly as foolproof as we often assume.

          In this classic tale of surprise, the wise and venerable prophet Samuel visually inspects the children of Jesse, one by one. Each son is pleasing to the eye and as each son parades past Samuel, the prophet is sure that “this must be the one that God has chosen to be king!” The parade of sons ends though and not one of Jesse’s sons is the one chosen by God to be king. Samuel judges on appearance only and as a result, he misjudges God’s intention. It is not until the young, ruddy, runt David is summoned that Samuel finds the son chosen by God – a choice that Samuel himself would never have made in a thousand years.

          Each of Jesse’s older sons had the customary appearance of a king, but looks in this particular story, as is so often the case in life, were absolutely deceiving. Confounded by how God could not choose one of these fine looking boys to be the next king of Israel, God informs Samuel:  “the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart." Samuel’s judgment was flawed on repeated attempts, because he failed to understand that you never know a person until you have looked beyond initial appearance and have seen their heart. 

          What would you say if you were asked: “Who is Gary Charles?” Some might answer, “He’s a Presbyterian pastor, the new pastor at Cove.” “He’s Jennell’s husband and Erin and Josh’s dad.” “He’s the guy who has way too many opinions and never hesitates to share them in the pulpit.” All of those statements are true, but they are not worth the breath used to speak them, until you have seen my heart.

          The Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature . . . for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” Doesn’t that make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, knowing that God does not judge us by outer appearance, but by the quality of our heart? 

          Before answering that loaded question, think twice. Do we really want God to see the inner recesses of our heart, see greed masquerading as concern for an aging parent? See racism dressed up as civic virtue as we protest that we are just trying to keep our neighborhood “safe.” Is it good when God sees our hearts turned stone cold, keeping an excel spreadsheet on every slight done to us or when God sees us playing fast and quick with the truth while lamely excusing it as a “white lie”?

           It can be a terrible thing when God looks only on the heart. Had God looked only on David’s heartfelt lust for Bathsheba, he would never have remained king.  Had God looked only on David’s heart as he conspired to get rid of Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah, David could well have lost more than his kingship. 

          God does look on the heart, but not in order to entrap us and to condemn us, but to restore us to the image in which you and I were created in the first place. God looks on young David’s heart through eyes of grace and is able to see a king, is able to see beyond the ways David will break God’s own heart. As John says it so well in his Gospel, “God did not send God’s Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” When God looks at our hearts, God no doubt sees our scars and wounds, sees the horrors that we do to ourselves and to others, but God also sees something in us far beyond a broken and damaged heart.  

          What do you suppose other people see when they look at Cove Presbyterian Church? That is what I was trying to find out last year before I accepted the call to be your pastor. I had driven by the church many times on my trips from Atlanta to Waynesboro. Driving along at 60 or 70 mph on Route 29, Cove struck me as one of the countless charming 18^th century brick sanctuaries that can be found throughout Virginia. I even wondered aloud on occasion if this church was still open. You see, the tiny signs for Cove on 29N and 29S do not tell you much; first impressions rarely do.

The far more important question is: “What does God see when God looks on the heart of Cove Presbyterian Church?” It was not until a very cold early winter night a year ago that I first began to uncover the answer to that question. On that night, I met with the Pastor Nominating Committee for the first time, with Renee and Fran, Will and Susan and Beth Neville. I soon learned that my first impressions of Cove were woefully inadequate. I began to see the heart of Cove as I listened to members of the PNC share their stories. Then, we walked into this holy sanctuary and I felt the faith of not only the members of the PNC, but of the countless members and pastors and musicians who have come before us. 

           When I asked members in presbytery for impressions about Cove, they cautioned me that Cove has not called a full time pastor in years and some wondered aloud if it were wise to do so now. Some even suggested that Cove should find another small, struggling congregation and together share a pastor. Clearly, these presbytery members knew something about Cove, had some definite first impressions, but they knew Cove mainly from outward appearance and as a result, they had a poor read on Cove’s heart. In fairness to them, though, that is what we mortals are apt to, to render judgment on first impressions, but God looks directly on the heart. And, God knows that the heart of this church is so much larger than any person could ever see from the street or know from afar.

          I am convinced that when God looks on the heart of Cove, God sees the strength of longtime members who have persevered and provided perspective through troubled transitions and challenging times. God sees the courage of Cove to choose welcome in a time when many are choosing to withdraw or close doors. God sees Cove’s passion for mission, from housing a fine preschool for children on the grounds to building homes with partners in Habitat, from supporting mission workers in Haiti to laboring in new construction in Reynosa, Mexico, from keeping the Food Bank supplied with food to exploring how we might host refugee families. God beams with pride looking on the hearts of members caring for the well-being of each other, with wood delivered and food prepared, hospital visits made and prayers offered.

             My strong hunch is that when God looks at Cove Presbyterian Church, God sees a living, lively, loving, sometimes quirky, always opinionated, definitely inquisitive, abundantly generous, body of Christ, a company of flawed and fabulous hearts that surely have made and will continue to make glad the heart of God.

                    AMEN

The Adjacent Possible

The Adjacent Possible

Text: Genesis 12:1-4a

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 3-12-2017)

A few years back, I read a book by Steven Johnson called, “Where Good Ideas Come From?” In his book, Johnson introduced me to the concept of the adjacent possible. He borrowed the phrase from research in prebiotic chemistry being done by Stuart Kaufmann. For Johnson and Kaufmann, the adjacent possible is a kind of shadow future, hovering on the edge of the present state of things, a map of all the ways in which the present can reinvent itself.

          Johnson helps explain the concept with this fascinating metaphor:

“Think of it as a house that magically expands with each door you open. You begin in a room with four doors, each leading to a new room that you haven’t visited yet. Those four rooms are the adjacent possible. But once you open one of those doors and stroll into that room, three new doors appear, each leading to a brand new room that you couldn’t have reached from your original starting point. . . . The strange and beautiful truth about the adjacent possible is that its boundaries grow as you explore those boundaries. Each new combination opens up the possibility of other new combinations.” (pp. 31-33).

As Chapter Twelve of Genesis opens, we meet Sarai and Abram for the first time. So far, in Genesis, all the stories have been a series of disappointments. Adam and Eve are promised the good life, but opt for wanting more. Cain kills his brother out of jealousy. Noah is rescued from the great flood only to stumble off the boat in a drunken stupor. The world is united by one common language, but when they reach beyond their means, babel results.

As readers, we do not expect too much from Abram and Sarai when God instructs them to: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” So far in Genesis, human behavior has been all too predictable; no one has been willing to step into God’s adjacent possible.

After an invitation to enter into God’s adjacent possible, I can imagine Abram and Sarai having one of those difficult “couple’s conversations” during which temperatures rise and voices soar:

“Abram, if you think I’m leaving home and family to head off to God knows where, well, you’ve got another think coming!”

“You say that it was ‘God’ inviting us to pull up stakes, leave our friends behind, and head to destinations unknown. And, I say, ‘You and God have a nice trip’.”

And, if not a “couple’s conversation,” I can imagine one of those “crossroads conversations,” especially since the city Haran from which Abram and Sarai are called to leave, literally means “highway” or “crossroads”:

“Sarai, maybe we should go, but if I am honest, I am not even sure what I believe about God, much less believing promises from God about life on the other side of Haran.”

“God seems to have more confidence in us than we have in ourselves. Maybe God is making a mistake choosing us?”

The remarkable thing about the story is not that Abram and Sarai are invited to walk into God’s adjacent possible, several characters in Genesis have already declined the invitation. The remarkable thing about this couple is that they choose to walk forward through the mysterious door of possibility that God holds opens for them, having absolutely no clue what awaits them on the other side of that door. On the journey ahead, they will walk into rooms that look as expansive as a starlit sky on a crystal clear night, but also into rooms that will make them wonder why they ever left Haran. Into each room, they will walk into a future about which they have only God’s promise.

   It is no surprise, then, that years later, when the Apostle Paul talks about faith, he points to Abram and Sarai, who pack their bags, leave their expansive homestead, and walk into God’s promised future. On their journey, they learn what the scientist discovered in his research in prebiotic chemistry; you cannot leapfrog the adjacent possible. You cannot leapfrog from God’s promise of land and progeny into the reality of land and progeny. Doors have to be opened, rooms explored, and trust maintained.

By the time we meet Abram and Sarai, they are long past their childbearing years. What God holds out to this aging couple is well beyond their estimate of what is possible. God invites them on a journey into new rooms of promise that will lead them far beyond being “barren” into God’s fecund future. In a decision that comes as a surprise to everyone, Abram and Sarai accept the invitation and set out into God’s adjacent possible.   

The season of Lent has long been pictured as a journey into God’s adjacent possible, but this season, I find myself stuck in the Lenten starting blocks, stuck in Ash Wednesday, unable to find the door into the adjacent possible, much less to walk through it. I find myself stuck in sorrow over the violence being done to mosques and synagogues across the nation and the violence we never hear about being done in the depths of our inner cities. I am stuck in bewilderment at how quickly and easily we use social media as a launching pad for vicious assaults on others with complete impunity. I am stuck in grief over national attitudes that punish the victim for being female or gay, bi-sexual or transgender, a person of color or a person who lives on the streets.  

To speak of God’s adjacent possible on this second Sunday in Lent feels a little hollow, maybe like telling a barren couple that they were going to have the world’s largest family. And, yet, this is the very couple to whom we tie our hopes when we follow Jesus on the Lenten journey into God’s adjacent possible. This is the very couple that inspired Jesus to resist the temptation to leapfrog rooms of deprivation and suffering, as if he could ever know his full humanity without walking into the same rooms of suffering and grief that Sarai and Abram and you and I walk and walk with others all too often.

In many ways, it is easy for a comfortable, white, male to opine about walking into God’s adjacent possible. The obstacles before me are so few. It is so much harder for many of my friends to dare to do so. On our recent drive to the Outer Banks, Jennell and I passed two enormous Confederate flags, prominently placed next to the highway. As I looked at those flags that were not waving for National Confederate History Month, but as a visual sign of intimidation to people of color, I was reminded of a poem by Langston Hughes, a black poet from Joplin, Missouri, who dreamed about walking across the landmines of racism to enter into God’s adjacent possible.

In his poem, “I, Too,” Langston dreams:

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll sit at the table.

When company comes

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen.”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed –

I, too, am America.

I wish I had the faith fortitude of Abram and Sarai and Langston. I do not. I need you to help me get unstuck, so together we can walk into God’s adjacent possible. I need you to remind me that God is calling us into new rooms, into new possibilities of mercy and love, forgiveness and forbearance, new rooms that expand with our faith and imagination.  

What would it mean to pray FULLY: “O God, may I have the courage, resilience, and imagination to walk into God’s beautiful, and sometimes terrifying, but always trustworthy, adjacent possible? I intend to find out, for that is my Lenten prayer.

AMEN