Sunday, August 14, 2022 | 10:00 a.m.

“What More Shall I Say?”

Lucy Forster-Smith
Senior Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 80:1–2, 8–19
Hebrews 11:29—12:2

The scene was the prestigious National Press Club in Washington, D.C. The speaker that day was Fred Rogers, that is “Mister Rogers.” The National Press Club was accustomed to hearing diplomats, top administration officials, and key opinion makers on the top issues of the day. Some members of the press club privately joke that with “Mister Rogers” on the podium, they were probably in for a “light lunch.” Indeed, there was a sort of roll of the eyes of those who came that day.

According to someone who attended the lunch,

when Fred Rogers stood up to speak, he said that he knew the room was filled with many of the best reporters in the nation, men and women who had achieved much. Rogers then took out a pocket watch and announced that he was going to keep two minutes of silence, and he invited everybody in the room to remember people in their past—parents, teachers, coaches, friends, and others—who had made it possible for them to accomplish so much. And then Mister Rogers stood there, looked at his watch and saying nothing.

The room grew quiet, and as the seconds ticked away and before Fred Rogers tucked away his watch, “one could hear all around the room people sniffling as they were moved by the memories of those who had made sacrifices on their behalf and who had given them many gifts” (Thomas Long, Testimony, p. 110).

Mr. Rogers’ instinct aligns with those of the writer in our scripture from Hebrews, both in the pastoral instinct as well as calling saints, mentors, the key composers of our lives, to mind. The writer/preacher to the Hebrews is not speaking at a fancy luncheon in a chandeliered hall but is addressing a small, dejected church at its wit’s end. The early Christians that are listening to what seems to be a very, very long sermon are weary, exhausted, struggling. They are on the verge of giving up the whole project of faith. Earlier in Hebrews we hear that the community’s hands droop; their knees are weak. Yes, they are tired. They may have been tired of serving the world; tired of worship, tired of explaining endlessly why they believed in this one, Jesus. They were probably tired of being peculiar and whispered about in society, tired of keeping their prayer life going. And when the preacher stood up to bring the word to them or it came by way of a messenger on parchment, they may also have been rolling their eyes, like those at the luncheon with Mr. Rogers.

We don’t know much about what was going on in the community to which the book of Hebrews is addressed. As a matter of fact, we know little about to whom or when this text was written or how this sermon came about. But we do know, in our own lives, how it is in blistering days to need the steadying support and how important it is recall, yes, the calling again, of those who have influenced our faith. What do we do when we are weary, when we feel mightily alone, when we are anything but on fire with our faith? What do we do when our attendance is down, our days of trying to put on the best face, revving up our councils and committees for another year, just doesn’t have the zing it used to? And when we are honest, we don’t know what is ahead—whether our congregation will recover from the pandemic; will it be anything like it has been? Is this part of what God has in store for us? And do we have the energy to step up if we are privileged to hear God’s call?

That sermonizer in Hebrews, who addresses the worn-down congregation, doesn’t chastise them; he doesn’t set up the congregational self-help plan. We don’t see whatever the equivalent of the band of consultants on group dynamics or vibrant church life or conflict resolution called in. Rather, the preacher sets their gaze on the past, first off. Yes, like the moment at the National Press Club, when Mr. Rogers directs the sights of the brightest and best global journalists toward those upon whose shoulders they stand, the preacher in the book of Hebrews spends chapters calling up those in the history of the faith tradition they have inherited—the parents of the faith.

To our ear, when the roll of the faithful is called, it may seem to be a dim past. The activity of God of that time seemed much more alive to the great saints of old. It must have seemed like yesterday to those people who heard that preacher speak of the ancestors who crossed the Red Sea; those who took Jericho; those who worked behind enemy lines to bring about the stunning seizing of the land of promise. Yes, it seemed like God’s work was more evident, more real, in that time. It seems like those people’s faith was founded on real evidence of God’s leading, God’s justice, God working through so many who may not have been in the fold but were folded in.

We begin to catch the preacher’s energy as he drums the beat of pilgrims of old. We can tap our feet to the music that awakens when the preacher names and rehearses the memory of the faithful ones. But you know what? That timeline that began in the ancient history of the people of Israel draws closer and closer to the present. We hear the names—Rahab, Barak, Moses. We deeply appreciate the ones who would not give up the faith even when they were tortured or tormented. And then, suddenly, we realize that, as Tom Long puts it, “the parade of faith has nearly reached the church door, the drumbeat stops, and the Preacher halts—pauses” (Tom Long, Hebrews: Interpretation, p. 125). The preacher then looks over his shoulder and in a grand sweep of the arm discloses the counternarrative: “Yet all of these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised.”

We can imagine the protest arising from those listening. What the . . . Why would all of those stand steady in their faith and not get the prize? And we can boldly join in the protest! Why do we come week after week to hear the word of God; why do we step boldly forward to carry on the faith by having our children baptized; why do we continuously stay out of step with the culture by harboring and holding onto hope when it would be easier to side with the cynics and just live for the moment? Really? They did not get the promise after all their commitment?

Then it happens. Who comes into view? With a jolt, the proclamation is that God had a big, massive, life-awakening wonder in store. And what’s that? It is Jesus. Yes, Jesus is the one whose sights were set on the joy that arose from the cross. It is Jesus who came into the midst of cultural doom and gloom, yes even to those who never wavered from the power of God’s light, beckoning them forward.

And then it comes to us—to you this very day: we are not left to live out this faith on our own. No! We are surrounded by this great cloud of witnesses—and don’t miss the nuance here—the witnesses are martyrs, really. They are not standing by as the runners—that is, you and me—are warming up. They are not an indifferent gang of spectators who turnout on a sunny fall day at the cross-country meet. No, they are lining the road as those who won God’s commendation and are there to encourage those who follow. They are the grandmothers and granddads of our faith, who stayed the course, steadied the rocky way. They are what professor and Dean of Howard University Yolanda Pierce calls her grandmothers. She says that she regularly names her ancestors as part of her devotional life, both those who are blood relatives as well as those who are kin in the struggle of faith and life. She then speaks about “Grandmother theology.” She says, “Grandmother theology is rooted in generational wisdom, in the way that time and age and maturity provide an alternative lens through which to know and understand God. In a world eager to promote the newest wunderkind, grandmother theology carries us two or more generations back: to the kitchens, hair salons, gardens, and the church basements of older Black women who are often invisible in theological discourse but without whom the American Christian church would cease to exist.” She goes on, “I had a praying grandmother, and nothing I have accomplished would have been possible without her prayers” (Yolanda Pierce, In My Grandmother’s House, p. xvii). These are the ones who are lining the way, cheering us on, and not only that, they are also the ones we call and re-call.

Someone, perhaps Shannon Kershner, said from this pulpit, “The journey of faith is a marathon and not a sprint.” And in the marathon of faith, we gird up our loins, stretch our hamstrings, shake off anything that hampers us, knowing that we are not blindly racing toward some uncertain destination. Rather, the lead runner, the pace car, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith is there with us, along with the great cloud of witnesses. And those of old as well as those we call up in our mind’s eye this day come with us, join the race, and put their trust in Jesus and trust that God plants faith in us and in the generations that arise from this time into the future.

There are certainly days when we wonder about all of this focus on faith, all of the times when friends don’t get what we are believing in, all the times we try to explain what this faith thing is about and eyes glaze over and we begin to wonder ourselves. But with the eyes of faith, we see beyond what is simply in front of us to what God is doing. Indeed, this marathon of faith asks that we live with an imaginative uncertainty, yes, a radical optimism, because we don’t just live in the now; we draw into the now the great procession of faith, looking into the face of Jesus. We wander into places we never dreamed we’d go, including places that are “wild”—deserts and mountains, dens and caves. You may be shocked by the way that God shapes your life, calls you out, and opens the way for you. And we as a congregation may well find ourselves called into areas of service, of care, of unbending hope that are simply astonishing. But all of this is possible through the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, Jesus Christ. The author of the impossible possibilities—think resurrection; think calling out the religious leaders; think poor child with five loaves and two fish becoming the one who fed the masses. Jesus has been equipping generations of leaders and followers for 2000-plus years!

On this day, may we say, along with the preacher in Hebrews, “What more can I say?” There are few words, but there is the look over our shoulders, when we see the line of those who have passed the runner’s baton to us to carry forward the grace, peace, and incredible power of God’s life in this world. These saints join us as we race toward the one who waits for us to join him at the grand celebration—and then we see him, the very author of our faith, Jesus.

Whether in a large banquet hall with Fred Rogers holding a stopwatch, pausing for two precious minutes to lead that group of media specialists back in time to classrooms or conference rooms or back porches or kitchen tables with faces they’ve known. Or the grand procession of faithful Fourth Church members, or your mentors in faith, or the hand of God alighting on you, the saints step boldly forward, leading to the face of Jesus. I think the mystic and theologian Howard Thurman was spot on when he said, “When [we] look into [Jesus’] face, we see etched the glory of our own possibilities and our hearts whisper, ‘Thank you and thank God’” (Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited). Amen.