Preached to the Congregational Church in Exeter, U. C. C., on the second Sunday after Epiphany, January 20, 2002, by Michael L. C. Henderson, pastor.

Isaiah 49:1-7; I Corinthians 1:1-9; John 1:29-42

In every way you have been enriched.

                         –I Corinthians 1:5

     They say letter-writing is a lost art now, thanks to our telephones, our cell phones, our email, our inability to sit still except in front of a TV, and our lack of interest in maintaining connections. I have to admit you couldn't disprove it by me. I'm a terrible correspondent. I used to say this was on account of my penmanship (penpersonship?), which features the left hook — that's when the writing hand follows along behind the writing instrument and smears the ink before it can dry, giving the reader the impression that the writer is about five years old and hasn't quite got the hang of it. But even I saw eventually what a lame excuse that was, and now I just admit I'm delinquent.

     The Apostle Paul, on the other hand, was a big letter-writer. His letters are so good that they became Scripture, which is probably not going to happen to any of my letters, although Paul didn't expect it to happen to his either, so you never know.

     Whenever I do sit down at my computer to write a letter, there is this highly annoying little guy shaped liked a computer with legs who appears on the desktop and says, "You seem to be writing a letter. Would you like help with it?" I hate it when machines think I need help. I can't get rid of the guy. He is God's punishment on me for using a computer to write letters.

     Paul didn't need any little guy to tell him how to write a letter. He already knew. Look how he does it. First you say who is sending the letter: Paul and our brother Sosthenes, whoever he is. We really have no idea. Then you say something about yourself: Paul, called to be an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God. Then you say whom the letter is to: The church of God that is in Corinth. Then you say something nice about them: Sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints, together with all those who in every place call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, both their Lord and ours. Then you wish them well: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. And then you say something to let them know how you feel toward them: I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus, for in every way you have been enriched in him, and so on. And then, finally, you can get down to the real business of the letter, the meat of it.

     Sounds like so much polite, conventional flowery flattering fluff, doesn't it? Like he's just softening them up for something, some demand he's about to lay on them. Lulling them into lowering their guard and giving him whatever he wants. Like the telemarketer who says, "How are you doing today? I have good news for you! You have been chosen for a free estimate for vinyl siding!"

     We're so jaded, we don't believe anything that sounds too nice. We want people to be real, and let's face it, we find them more believable if they're unpleasant, or at least not excessively pleasant. Unless we happen to know them well enough to have some evidence that they actually care about us, and even then we'll be somewhat skeptical.

     It occurs to me that this might be a problem for us, this habit of not believing in anything that sounds really good, so that for example if somebody says to us, "You have been enriched in every way," we immediately think they are going to try to relieve us of some of our enrichment. That may be the wisdom of hard experience, but it doesn't leave a lot of room for anything to be truly terrific in this life.

     This is the dead of winter we're having here: Gray sky spitting snow; scrape, shiver and slide; icy grit, gritty ice, headlights on all the time — every move you make turns into a big project. Living in New Hampshire, we turn this into an art form. We develop an Attitude about it, we brag to ourselves that we're in our element in January and February. This is what we're good at, right? Slogging along, plugging along, hanging on — In fact, it's the way we live all year round. Our seasons are winter, mud season, flood season, black fly season, mosquito season, tourist season, hunting season and flu season.

     So what do we come to church for? I guess we come for fortitude and endurance: the strength to cope, the will to keep on keepin' on. Keep on rolling the boulder up to the top of the hill and watching gravity roll it back down again, this is as good as it gets. In the words of a loyal long-time member of this church whom we laid to rest last year, "Life was never meant to be easy." It's like we spend our whole lives dwelling in that miry bog we mentioned in the Call to Worship, and we're doggone proud of ourselves for it.

     Which means we have a hard time relating to this string of compliments Paul lays on the Corinthians. But suppose for a moment that he meant every word of it as he wrote it. What are the implications of that? One possibility is that he was a hopeless bubblehead, I guess. That's the easy way out: refuse to let him challenge us. But I have to tell you, I see a challenge here. I see a whole string of them.

     One: Of himself, Paul says he is called to be an apostle. It's not a rank or a status, it's a job. And he is called to it, meaning he is summoned, commanded. He's under some kind of external compulsion, the will of God overriding his will. Two: He says the Corinthian church is also called — called to be saints, no less. Three: He lumps them together with all those in every place call on the name of Christ. Makes them sound like a drop in the bucket of Christianity. So much for whatever uniqueness or superiority they fancied for themselves! Four: He tells them that in every way they have been enriched — in the passive voice. They didn't do anything to make it happen. It was given to them. Five: He invites them to join him in celebration and thanksgiving for all of the above.

     Which means that the miry bog is no place to live, not even if you're really good at it like we are. Not even if you sort of enjoy it. We still have to get out of it. More to the point, we have to let ourselves be lifted out of it.

     It goes against our grain to admit this, but living well isn't a matter of our discipline or determination or will or endurance. If we are faithful in deed as well as word, if we are steadfast, if we keep our promises and survive our losses and bear our troubles, that doesn't come from our character or our training, it comes from another place altogether.

     John sees Jesus coming and he blurts out, "This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" Not "sins" in the plural but "sin", singular. Not our numerous big and little misdeeds that we can write down on a list, but the condition of our souls, the force that dwells in us, the power that possesses us and turns us away from ourselves and each other and above all from God. That's the real miry bog. It's inside us, it has little to do with circumstances. And living well becomes possible when we are drawn up out of it.

     "The Lamb of God" is a title for Christ. He's called the Lamb of God because he becomes God's gift to us, giving himself for us, exorcising the power that demonically possesses us. And John isn't just declaring or identifying Jesus there, he's worshiping him.

     And worship is the place where faithfulness begins. You may have thought it was the other way around: First you have faith, and then as a result you worship. But worship is always first, or if that word bothers you, then reverence, or awe, or adoration, or devotion, or prayer will do. The heart of the matter is to come before God fully aware that your life, your existence, your world and your place in it, and all the connections that keep you from floating off by yourself into space, the whole thing is a gift, it could just as well have never been, and it's priceless.

     That's why those two disciples of John's suddenly followed Jesus instead: they saw how John worshiped him, and they were hungry to be worshiping too. And Jesus turns around and says to them, "What are you looking for?" And they ask him, "Where are you staying?" Which means: Where are you hanging out? Where are you at? What makes you real? They're not interested in his address. They're interested in a way of life. So are we. And I hope we've come to the right place.

     Amen