A Fourth Church Sermon by John W. Vest

September 27, 2009 | 4:00 p.m.

Jesus Makes a Lovely Sweater

John W. Vest
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Colossians 3:5–17

Do you remember the movie The Cannonball Run? It was a comedy, starring Burt Reynolds, about a coast-to-coast outlaw car race, based on an actual race that happened a few times back in the seventies. All the racing teams were pretty quirky and employed a variety of novel tactics to elude the police and gain an advantage in the race. Burt Reynolds’ character and his partner, played by Dom DeLuise, raced in a souped-up ambulance, a clever way to travel really fast without attracting unwanted attention.

But in hindsight, especially now that I wear a collar on Sundays myself, my favorite team was played by Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. Their gimmick was to dress like Catholic priests, supposedly delivering the monsignor’s car to a church gathering in California.

I love the idea of these two bandit racers thinking that they can get away with breaking the law simply by wearing clerical collars. It was all the more funny because their characters were not exactly priestly material.

I’ve been told that some pastors have worn their collars for their driver’s license picture, hoping for some grace should they ever be pulled over. I’ve never tried that myself.

But this does remind me of a time, not long after I started working here at Fourth Church, when I started wearing a collar. My wife was running in the Chicago Marathon, and since I was new here, I didn’t feel like I should take off a Sunday morning just yet, so I made the mistake of not going to the race. When I dropped her off early that morning, I was a guilty mess and sobbed like a baby. By midmorning, my guilt had gotten the better of me, so I figured that I could slip down to Grant Park between Sunday activities to at least see her finish.

Thinking that it might help me sneak to the front of the crowd or get some kind of preferential treatment on my way down there and back, I kept my collar on, something I don’t often do when I’m not at church.

It didn’t really help. People weren’t necessarily any more polite or deferential to me. I was able to see Anna finish the race, though it was due more to my height than my collar.

But on my way back up, as I was walking up Michigan Avenue looking for a cab to whisk me back to church, my collar did attract some attention. There was a man on the street, clearly down on his luck, perhaps even homeless. He grabbed my arm and said, “Father, give me a blessing.”

I was caught! I didn’t know what to do. He must have thought I was a Catholic priest, but I was clueless. Presbyterian pastors don’t really do blessings so much. Somewhat lost for words or something to do, I touched his shoulder and said, “Bless you,” and then turned back on my way.

But the man wasn’t having it. “No, no, no. Give me a real blessing!” So I stopped, asked the man what his name was and what was going on in his life, and then I said a short prayer for him. This seemed to satisfy him, and so I was back on my way.

It’s a funny thing what this collar does. I found out last night that it won’t inspire a resolute bartender at a wedding to mix me a drink after the bar is closed. But it does clearly identify me as a Christian leader. It clearly identifies me as a follower of Christ. It sends a signal that I’m the kind of person that should be able to offer a blessing. Or lend a hand. Or somehow, in some way, serve others like Jesus did.

Could you imagine what it would be like if every church member wore some kind of clothing that identified them as a Christian? Would we be more careful about what we did or how we did it? Would we be more careful about where we went? Would people treat us differently? Would we be prepared to respond when someone stops us looking for some compassion or a little help?

That’s why I love the imagery in the scripture passage Roger just read for us. I love this notion of clothing ourselves with love. In some other New Testament letters, the writers talk about putting on Jesus, clothing ourselves with the likeness of Christ. It is a baptism metaphor, this idea that when we begin to follow Jesus we take off the soiled clothing of our former lives and put on the shining likeness of Christ as the clothing of our new lives. According to this image, Christ doesn’t make us new clothes—Christ is our new clothes. It’s like wearing a Jesus costume, but not in a creepy way.

Yet the thing about this clothing of love—this clothing of Christ—is that it’s not for show. From time to time during political elections, much is made about whether or not politicians should “wear their religion on their sleeve.” The cynics among us, myself included, typically see this kind of public display of religion as a cheap ploy to get more votes. And it works. I’ve heard people talk about supporting politicians simply because the candidates go to church or identify themselves as Christians. Rarely do people swayed by such tactics take the time to see if the politicians’ actions actually line up with the gospel they are purporting to follow.

But this is what it should mean to wear your religion on your sleeve—or to wear Jesus on your sleeve: clothing yourself with love, clothing yourself with Christ, is an act of transformation that reconfigures who you are. It brings you closer to the likeness of Christ and therefore the likeness of God. It reshapes you into the image of God you were created to be, the image of God that you are called to be.

We are all called to wear love like a garment. At the wedding I officiated at yesterday, I remarked that on wedding days we all put on our very best—beautiful dresses and sharp suits. I wear my collar and black robe and a beautiful white stole. But more important than any of that, we are called to clothe ourselves in love. When we do that, we become the people God creates us to be.

So what would it look like if we all clothed ourselves in love? Well, we would pretty much look the same as we do right now. But we might act a little differently.

Clothed in love, we might welcome a stranger that we’ve never met before.

Clothed in love, we might make sure that everyone felt accepted in this place, in this community.

Clothed in love, we might prepare a meal for others.

Clothed in love, we might extend a helping hand, offering whatever we can in service to others.

Clothed in love, we might try to heal the deep divisions in our society between races and genders and religions and the many other things we use to separate people from each other.

Clothed in love, we might participate in the transformation of the world—the rebirth of the world into the community God always intends for it to be.

We are chosen and we are called. Let us put on love—let us put on Christ—and live the life we are meant to live.

Amen.