A Fourth Church Sermon by John A. Cairns

May 16, 1999 | 9:30 and 11:00 a.m.

Looking or Leaping

John A. Cairns
Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

1 Peter 4:12–14
Acts 1:6–14

“Discipline yourselves, keep alert. . . and after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace. . . will Himself restore, support, strengthen and establish you.”

1 Peter 5:8,10

Faithful God, we are restless and unsettled. The world’s chaos and confusion only mirrors our own. How do we find direction and purpose, O God? We look this way and that, searching for something to hold onto; to commit to. Through your Word connect with us, offer us a way and the courage to pursue it. Give us friends and faith that will enable us to follow where you lead. Through Jesus Christ our risen Lord. Amen.

It happened to me again just a couple of weeks ago, probably because I have a lot of curiosity and very little discipline. As many times as I have told myself not to do it, you would think I would learn, but no. I was just a block away from here, next to the Water Tower. And there, parked beside Borders was one of those TV remote trucks with its aerial extended into the sky, ready to transmit some significant happening to everyone out in TV land. The cameraman was on the sidewalk, the large camera hefted onto his shoulder, pointing it at something almost straight above me.

Now I was in my car waiting for the light to change—and no matter how I twisted and turned I couldn’t see what was above me. My unsuccessful contortions only served to increase my curiosity, so I maneuvered the car to the curb, hopped out for just a second, stood next to the cameraman, looked up and—unsure what to look for—asked the young man what was up there; what was he shooting? “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “No, I’m just killing time until some author arrives.”

There I was, standing next to my idling car, staring into space, looking at. . . nothing. Although I will admit that the cameraman and I had produced a small knot of people who were also craning their necks only to discover that they too had been taken in, and were probably vowing as I was, “Never again.” “Never again,” I said to myself for at least the hundredth time in my life. “Never again will I get suckered in to staring into space just because someone else is doing it.”

I remembered my misadventure when I read the Ascension Day account of the disciples, which is our second lesson this morning. They had been in the presence of the resurrected Jesus for some days and now he is leaving them. It was a difficult and emotional time for this small band of followers. They had become very dependent upon Jesus’ leadership, his direction, his wisdom, his teaching, his presence. And then in a moment that must have seemed to come with dramatic suddenness, he was gone and they were on their own. Alone; with no leadership, no direction, no motivation, no discernment, no guiding presence. So they stood there, staring off into space—space where once their Messiah had been, but was no longer. Staring at. . . nothing, with no particular awareness of how foolish they seemed to those who passed by.

And then the voice—perhaps internal, perhaps external—that breaks their trance and calls them back to reality. “Why do you stand there staring into the heavens. . . ? Jesus will come again, and in the meantime you have work to do.” So they returned to Jerusalem and began to pray, to prepare themselves for the dramatic and risky venture that was to come.

As Luke tells this story, it is a prelude to Pentecost which we will celebrate next Sunday. But it is also his way of showing us how easy it was for the disciples—and for us—to become immobilized—stalled—in these lives we intend to lead. Time after time we have a series of things that happen to us; events, encounters, thoughts that cause us to stop and reflect. They have that feel of importance, that we are on the road to something significant. We actually prepare ourselves to do some deep and critical thinking about life and goals and future—and then the motivators disappear; the incentive is gone; the lights are no longer flashing; and we step back—step away—and stare into space. And when someone approaches and asks what is going on with us we quickly say, “Nothing!”

The moment is gone and nothing has come of it. And we are back again to a life that is piling up on all sides; to situations where we feel all alone, to questions which seem to have no answers and journeys that are stalled for lack of direction.

It’s not that we become dysfunctional. We know how to make a living, how to crunch numbers or analyze organizational structures or play Mozart, or diagnose symptoms or teach methodologies or nurture children. We know how to keep appointments and pay bills and dice onions and plan vacations. But we don’t know what to do with the hollow spot that we notice every once in awhile; with the restlessness to find purpose; the longing for some kind of an anchor. We don’t know what to do with the identity question except to busy ourselves with nothingness, to stare off in another direction until the urge passes. And yet we have a hunch that if “life is what happens while you’re making other plans,” this unsatisfied search may be about the essence of life. We may be talking about the piece of the human puzzle that matters most; the action, the decision, the step that offers meaning and focus to all the bits and pieces that fill up our days.

In the face of this personal tempest, the Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard offers what I find to be a very helpful description of what we need to do to get off of dead center, to claim the restless moment, to respond to life’s nudges, to get on with the journey. Kierkegaard says we need to make a “leap of faith.” We need to trust what we have seen and heard in Jesus Christ and go with it; leap out and grab it. We need to say “I believe.”

Now I need to tell you that I do not receive this suggestion enthusiastically. I am not a leaper. Some of you may be—our youngest child is—I am not. My idea of how you get from one side of the stream to the other is that you walk along the bank until you come to a bridge! Or failing that, that you look for large, flat stones that you can walk on. So when we talk about a personal decision as a leap of faith, then I am inclined to be a “peninsula builder.” That may be the teacher in me, but I want to make the leap as predictable and safe as possible by laying elaborate groundwork; by narrowing the gap. I want to fill in all the cracks and questions so I can just stride across to the conclusions on solid ground. That is what I want, but I have learned that with faith it doesn’t work that way; that is not the way to say “I believe.”

If we stay with the image of crossing a body of water, my experience says that the peninsula building works only up to a point; that worship and study and stewardship and service can move you closer to the other side. But at some point you encounter a swift current which has cut a deep channel and your peninsula will not hold. You can build no further. You just have to jump.

I can remember taking walks with our children when they were quite young, and I recall the delight they had holding on to a parental hand on either side and “flying” over the puddles on the sidewalk—a modest leap of faith. But I can also remember as a child playing along Cobbs Creek in Philadelphia. As a young boy, I learned that the way across was to jump toward the outstretched hand of someone who had already made it to the other bank; to push off with all the energy you could muster and grab hold while frantically scrambling to get your feet on solid ground. Truly a leap of faith.

Kierkegaard would see these illustrations as appropriate models for the church; that while leaping is necessary, its success is only possible in a community that includes those who have themselves already made the leap; who have already risked belief; who can offer and extend their hands to those still on the other bank.

And so we come this morning to this place, many of us trying to find the wherewithal to concentrate on those subtle nudges and recurring questions and pit-of-the-stomach messages that would seem to call us to a next step; to a fuller sense of self; to a faith that we can grasp and build on—a faith that will make a difference in the living of our days. We come and we hear that the only way to get there is to leap. We try to concentrate on that goal, but sometimes despite our best intentions we wind up staring off into space looking at “nothing.” (It’s been known to happen right in the middle of a sermon!) But maybe, just maybe, as we approach Pentecost 1999 we can look around and see where we are standing—on the bank, out on the peninsula—with the other side in view and with the hands of those who have already taken the leap extended to us. And maybe, just maybe, the nudge that got you here this morning is not done with you yet.

Look around! This is the best picture of the Church I can offer you. Before we are a constitution or an institution; before we are an array of programs and an extensive pastoral staff; before we are membership roles and glorious music, we are a community of leapers and potential leapers. This is where men and women risk saying “I believe.” This is a place where no one can take away the uncertainty of the leap of faith but where there are always those whose hands are outstretched to all who are ready to jump.

So let the leaping begin. In a matter of minutes, we will repeat the Apostle’s Creed—“I believe in God. . .” You and I know that we can go through the words while staring into space and thinking “nothing.” I invite you to do something different—to claim a piece of that creed, to leap into it—live into it—grab hold of it.

Draw your courage from the experience of those around you and from the words of Peter that we heard earlier: “Discipline yourselves, keep alert. . . Cast all your anxieties on God, because God cares for you…and the God of all grace, Who has called you. . . will support, strengthen, and establish you”—will set before you a faith you can hold onto. . . if you will risk your own leap.

Amen.