This sermon was preached on Saturday and Sunday, June 23-24 at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Mount Lebanon, PA. The readings for this sermon were: 1 Samuel 17: 32-49, Psalm 9:9-20, and Mark 4:35-41.
“So that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not save by sword and spear.”
When David the young shepherd boy goes to face Goliath the mighty warrior, he comes armed with the only secret weapon he needs. David’s special power is his trust in God—a trust grounded in his own terrifying experiences with lions and bears. David knows by heart the promise woven through the entire story of God’s people: God can be trusted to be there for us, the way God was there for us before.
For David, going with God means a staff, a shepherd’s pouch, five smooth stones from the riverbank, and his sling. He already has what he needs.
Now for Saul, though, going with God meant strapping on his bronze helmet and heavy chain mail and huge sword. Saul’s faith was different, shaped by different experiences, and when he comically piles it all on to the small, young boy, it’s obvious it does not fit. David can’t even take one step forward, let alone fight.
There was a period in my life – a long one – when I wanted badly to believe in God but couldn’t. I looked around at the faith that others had, what they said it felt like, and I tried so hard. I prayed prayers that didn’t make sense, I attempted to make myself feel things that weren’t really there. I didn’t understand that faith is not a matter of effort or willing oneself – but a gift of grace, given when we least expect. Born out of God’s movement in our own lives, in the bears and lions and storms.
“So that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not save by sword and spear.”
When David the young shepherd boy goes to face Goliath the mighty warrior, he comes armed with the only secret weapon he needs. David’s special power is his trust in God—a trust grounded in his own terrifying experiences with lions and bears. David knows by heart the promise woven through the entire story of God’s people: God can be trusted to be there for us, the way God was there for us before.
For David, going with God means a staff, a shepherd’s pouch, five smooth stones from the riverbank, and his sling. He already has what he needs.
Now for Saul, though, going with God meant strapping on his bronze helmet and heavy chain mail and huge sword. Saul’s faith was different, shaped by different experiences, and when he comically piles it all on to the small, young boy, it’s obvious it does not fit. David can’t even take one step forward, let alone fight.
There was a period in my life – a long one – when I wanted badly to believe in God but couldn’t. I looked around at the faith that others had, what they said it felt like, and I tried so hard. I prayed prayers that didn’t make sense, I attempted to make myself feel things that weren’t really there. I didn’t understand that faith is not a matter of effort or willing oneself – but a gift of grace, given when we least expect. Born out of God’s movement in our own lives, in the bears and lions and storms.
Still, sometimes when I hear others talk about their relationship with God, sometimes, even, when I hear sermons like this one, I worry—is that the way God’s supposed to work in my life, too?
I wonder if, for a moment, David felt that way, too, before shrugging off Saul’s sword and armor, and going back to trusting God the only way he knows how.
David’s faith—it’s bigger and stronger than mine. It wouldn’t fit me either. And I don’t know the first thing about using a sling. But the armor part, that rings true to me. Here’s what I’ve learned, when I really listened, what I’ve been learning when I do my darnedst to live out Christ’s love. Faith is just as much about taking off the things that hold us back.
I wonder if, for a moment, David felt that way, too, before shrugging off Saul’s sword and armor, and going back to trusting God the only way he knows how.
David’s faith—it’s bigger and stronger than mine. It wouldn’t fit me either. And I don’t know the first thing about using a sling. But the armor part, that rings true to me. Here’s what I’ve learned, when I really listened, what I’ve been learning when I do my darnedst to live out Christ’s love. Faith is just as much about taking off the things that hold us back.
Faith, for me, has meant dismantling the armor I have built up around my heart. It’s meant realizing the things I’ve been using to protect myself, they’re also what keeps me from running forward. As the Psalmist writes, the pits I’ve dug have become my prison, and in the snares I set, my own foot is caught.
Don’t forget, the Psalmist warns, God can be trusted to be there for us, the way God was there for us before. But that promise doesn’t mean God’s all about keeping us safe the way we prefer. It doesn’t mean we won’t open to be wounded, too.
Following Christ in this world means that we cannot remain untouched by the suffering all around us, in our own lives and in our neighbors. It means we cannot safety walk past the crumpled figure of the homeless woman on the street. Or block out the cries of sobbing toddlers taken from their mothers’ arms. Or dodge the gut punch of another black teenager shot in the back, here, in our city.
Don’t forget, the Psalmist warns, God can be trusted to be there for us, the way God was there for us before. But that promise doesn’t mean God’s all about keeping us safe the way we prefer. It doesn’t mean we won’t open to be wounded, too.
Following Christ in this world means that we cannot remain untouched by the suffering all around us, in our own lives and in our neighbors. It means we cannot safety walk past the crumpled figure of the homeless woman on the street. Or block out the cries of sobbing toddlers taken from their mothers’ arms. Or dodge the gut punch of another black teenager shot in the back, here, in our city.
Christ calls you, me, us to hear and respond to the voices crying out in the raging storm, don’t you care? Don’t you care? Not because we know exactly what to do, and certainly not because we can make it all better ourselves. But because that’s how God was there for us, before.
That thing that saved you, that got you through that one time or that one storm, the secret weapon that brought you back from the edge—what was it? What does it look like to be that for someone else?
If God’s going to be there the way God’s been there before—well, then, I’ve got to remember this. I felt God’s presence moving with me when I let go of all the other things I thought would save me. I knew it best when I risked running forward and reaching out an unprotected hand.
I feel God with me most when I am wearing no armor at all.
In the face of invincibility, God sends vulnerability. To lay low a mighty, monstrous warrior, God sends a small, shepherd boy with no helmet. To fell Pharaoh's army, God sends a stutterer with nothing but a staff. To vanquish human brokenness once and for all, God comes as a tiny infant in a manager.
And in that final act, for that last enemy, God stretches out his bruised and naked body for all the world to see. No spear, no sword. Just perfect faith and perfect love. Not ours, mind you. His.
In the scene from the Gospel passage today, the disciples are helpless in the face of a terrible storm, the wind and rain they cannot control. The disciples are overwhelmed, paralyzed even. So they do the only thing they can think to do: they wake up the napping Jesus.
Jesus’ rebuke to them at the end of this scene makes it clear that the disciples have a long way to go and a lot to figure out. But still, they had just enough faith to cry out to God, “Don’t you care?” It’s not the perfect faith of the cross—it doesn't have to be. Because Jesus is who Jesus is, in this moment, it’s all the faith they need.
In the face of the storms and battles of this life, God has sent you. Because Jesus is who Jesus is, you already have all the faith you need.
That thing that saved you, that got you through that one time or that one storm, the secret weapon that brought you back from the edge—what was it? What does it look like to be that for someone else?
If God’s going to be there the way God’s been there before—well, then, I’ve got to remember this. I felt God’s presence moving with me when I let go of all the other things I thought would save me. I knew it best when I risked running forward and reaching out an unprotected hand.
I feel God with me most when I am wearing no armor at all.
In the face of invincibility, God sends vulnerability. To lay low a mighty, monstrous warrior, God sends a small, shepherd boy with no helmet. To fell Pharaoh's army, God sends a stutterer with nothing but a staff. To vanquish human brokenness once and for all, God comes as a tiny infant in a manager.
And in that final act, for that last enemy, God stretches out his bruised and naked body for all the world to see. No spear, no sword. Just perfect faith and perfect love. Not ours, mind you. His.
In the scene from the Gospel passage today, the disciples are helpless in the face of a terrible storm, the wind and rain they cannot control. The disciples are overwhelmed, paralyzed even. So they do the only thing they can think to do: they wake up the napping Jesus.
Jesus’ rebuke to them at the end of this scene makes it clear that the disciples have a long way to go and a lot to figure out. But still, they had just enough faith to cry out to God, “Don’t you care?” It’s not the perfect faith of the cross—it doesn't have to be. Because Jesus is who Jesus is, in this moment, it’s all the faith they need.
In the face of the storms and battles of this life, God has sent you. Because Jesus is who Jesus is, you already have all the faith you need.
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