A Fourth Church Sermon by John A. Cairns

October 7, 2001 | 9:30 and 11:00 a.m.

Connected

John A. Cairns
Dean, Academy for Faith and Life,
Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 80:3–19
Philippians 3:7–14, 17–21

World Communion Sunday is the result of an idea given birth after World War II. It recognized that the world had become smaller; that we were more in touch with our international neighbors than ever before; and that a by-product of that awareness was the realization that there were Christians who gathered around the Lord’s Table in literally every time zone. So churches were encouraged, no matter when or how frequently they scheduled Communion, to be sure to include the first Sunday of October so that the worldwide “twenty-four hours of Communion“ possibility could become a reality. Now, more than fifty years later, some of the novelty has worn off; our world has become smaller still; and we are increasingly aware of a wide variety of the other faiths that draw the devotion of the world’s peoples. Still it is important for us to take time—particularly on this Sunday—to consider our ties within the Christian family and the challenges of honoring those ties within the common faith we share. To that end I want to tell you a story.

The story is set on a Chicago street whose name you might recognize if I mentioned it, but where you probably haven’t driven recently. On this street, there is a large, square, two-story house with a porch across the front. The house shows a few touches of architectural style, but it has seen better days. The lack of recent painting is obvious. Still, the curtains at the windows and the flowerpots on the porch give some indication of the life within. The four mailboxes beside the front door let you know that this once-spacious house has been converted into four separate apartments.

In the first apartment, downstairs on the left, are Jimmy and Mavis Jackson; their daughter, Di, age three; and Jimmy Jr., known as J. J., seven months. Jimmy works as a night custodian in the Loop. He earns minimum wage. Mavis waits tables on the weekends. Things are tight, but they are managing, although the arrival of J. J. has really made things difficult. They hope to move, but Mavis says they still haven’t paid the hospital bill for J. J.’s delivery. Jimmy and Mavis have never had an official wedding, but they consider themselves married.

I have not worked for minimum wage since the summer after my freshman year of college. I have never had a bill seven months past due. The people I am acquainted with all know whether they are married or not. I am not aware of any connections between Jimmy and Mavis Jackson and me.

Above the Jackson’s apartment is Shalonda Washington and her three children: Missy, two-and-a-half; R. T., one-and-a-half; and Brittany, two months. Shalonda has never been married. She lives on TAFIN (Temp Assignments for People in Need) and food stamps. She is twenty-one, overweight, and often cries herself to sleep at night.

I have never been on welfare. I have never shared a bedroom with three children, except on vacation. I have no acquaintances that have three children without the benefit of marriage. There seems to be no connection between Shalonda Washington and me.

Across the upstairs hall is the Hunter apartment. Effie Hunter lives there with her sixteen-year-old daughter, Rosie. Rosie has always had trouble in school. She was in the eighth grade when she recently dropped out because she is pregnant. Last week, Effie moved her mother—who suffers from dementia—in with them. She had to do it. Her mother had literally sold or given away or spent everything she had.

Everyone in our family has at least finished high school. I have never experienced what will soon be a four-generation household—not to mention one with no men. I have never known anyone who had absolutely no money. It is difficult to find any connections between Effie Hunter’s family and me.

Back downstairs on the right is Grandma Dunn and her German shepherd. No one knows if “Grandma” has any grandchildren, but she is old and thus the name. To feed herself and her dog, Grandma frequently brings home groceries she hasn’t paid for, goes nowhere without her dog, stands guard at the mailbox when the Social Security checks are due, has three locks on her door and a gun under her mattress.

I have never known anyone who had to shoplift food in order to eat. My dog stays home when I go out. I do not own a gun. There are no connections between Grandma Dunn and me.

Everyone who lives in this house is poor. They have too little heat and too little privacy. There is not a washing machine or a microwave or a decent mattress anywhere in this house. Again that leaves me with no connections. But let’s go on.

This morning (about an hour from now), Grandma Dunn will put on a black hat that she has put on every Sunday for probably fifteen years. She will take her dog and walk seven blocks to the Pilgrim Missionary Baptist Church. Then the dog will be tied to a rather scrawny-looking tree behind the chapel, and Grandma will go inside and take her place in the choir. Grandma is also a great alto. Effie Hunter has turned on the TV, seated her mother in the comfortable chair, and given her very specific instructions to watch TV and not touch anything. Now she and Rosie will leave and go to the Bethel Church of God in Christ. Effie wears a white dress, which indicates she is part of the Women’s Guild. Rosie helps in the Sunday school.

Shalonda Washington is with adults—and without her kids—for the first time all week. She is seated with friends in the sanctuary of the Wesley Methodist Church. Missy, R. T., and Brittany are in the nursery.

Jimmy Jackson returned from work just over an hour ago, showered, changed his clothes, and with Mavis, Di, and J. J. is heading for the 9:00 Mass at St. Timothy’s.

Before this morning is over, each of these people will take their place at the Table and together with us will celebrate Communion, Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. So in spite of my failure to see it earlier, we are connected—Mavis and Jimmy, Shalonda, Effie, Rosie, Grandma Dunn, and I—and each of you, as well. We are connected around the table. We are connected as sisters and brothers in Christ.

Now I will grant you that this scenario is a bit contrived. Still we do make a lot of noise about being part of the body of Christ. And so we must ask, Is that one of those nonspecific terms? One of those vague concepts that is easy to espouse—and then easy to ignore? Are we still comfortable with being part of the body of Christ when that means being clumped with folks whose daily routines are replete with seeming disregard for the rules and moral standards? Who live with broken family patterns, undeveloped gifts, and dependence upon the public dole? Shouldn’t the body of Christ gathered around this table possess a lot more positive character traits than the group I just described?

In our scripture lesson from Philippians, there is an interesting phrase, Paul writes about “those who live as enemies of the cross.” And we are inclined to conclude that he is speaking about people whose lives are embarrassments to the church. We are quite clear that our desire to be separated from these brothers and sisters is not because they are poor and struggling, not because of the way they see the world, not because of where they live, but because of how they live. Their lives are just not a positive reflection on the Christian faith that they claim to follow.

But we may be too quick in assigning an identity. Those whom Paul is identifying as “enemies of the cross” are not those to whom we would apply the label. They are not the outcasts and sinners. The cross was for sinners. Christ died for the outcasts of society. Paul reminds each of us of our own sins and says of those who determine they can take care of themselves—who have no need of Christ’s sacrifice—they are the enemies of the cross.

Paul wants the Philippians—and us—to understand the choice. Either we will be self-sufficient, dependent on our own skills and resources, charting our own course, and upholding our own standards, or we will live as acknowledged sinners, humble and reliant upon God to offer us forgiveness and to give value and purpose to our lives. Paul pulls no punches. The self-sufficient group, they are the enemies of the cross. But those who are reliant upon the grace of God are the church. The church understands that together we have been forgiven, together we have been accepted into “community,” together we are called “children of God”—not because we have earned it, but because God has graciously shared those gifts with us.

When confronted by people like those in our story, how often have we heard, thought, or even said, “There but for the grace of God go I”? Friends, the grace of God has not separated us from misfortune nor from the unfortunate. Surprising as it may seem, Shalonda, Effie, Rosie, Jimmy, Mavis, and Grandma Dunn celebrate the grace of God in their lives—lives we would be afraid or humiliated to have to live. Each of them finds regular evidence of the abundance of God’ grace. Yes, abundant grace—which may be easier to notice when we are not surrounded by a lot of other “stuff.”

At this table we remember that Christ offers himself to each one of us. A comfortable condo or tailored suit entitles you to no more of his love or grace or forgiveness than Grandma’s well-worn black hat and empty purse. One bread, one cup for the whole family of God.

The Jackson’s worshiped early today, and then Jimmy took the kids home so Mavis could get to her Sunday waitress job. You might notice her name tag just below her smiling face when you stop for brunch. She might notice your bulletin as you sit down.

“Did you folks just come from church?”

“Yes, we did. How about you? Did you have a chance to get to church?”

“Oh yes. My family went real early so I could get to work.”

“The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you, Mavis.”

“And also with you, my friends. And also with you.”

Amen.