We Join Their Unending Hymn

It's springtime. I know the calendar says that it's only February. And I know the temperature is still a little chilly. We may even have another snowstorm before it's all said and done. But it's springtime. Do you know how I know?

Somewhere in Arizona this afternoon, a group of men will go out on a green field. They'll cross some chalked lines that mark the edges of the playing area. They'll put a leather glove on one hand and pound their fists in it. They'll toss a ball from one pillowed base to another and then give it to a man on a raised pile of dirt. They'll put their hands on their knees and crouch down to give their full attention to what's going to happen at the point where the chalked lines intersect. The pitcher will throw the ball. A man with a bat will try to hit it. And the spring training season will officially begin for the Texas Rangers.

It's going to be an interesting year for the Rangers. They made it to the World Series last year. The best year they've ever had. But one of the pitchers that helped them get there, Cliff Lee, has gone to play for Philadelphia. They picked up Brandon Webb to replace him in the rotation but he hasn't pitched for two years basically because of injuries and nobody knows if he still has his stuff. He's going to pitch off the mound for the first time this afternoon. Mike Young, who has played for the Rangers longer than anybody else - the all-time hits leader for the club - is unhappy because he is being relegated to the role of designated hitter and backup infielder. He's showing some age but he's still the leader in the clubhouse.

Lots of question marks for the Rangers. But for every club there are questions. On the first day of spring training it's all about possibilities. The story of this season is all yet to be written. All the frustrations and disappointments of last year are gone. There is something eternally new about walking out onto that field.

Just like it was for Tyler Webb last weekend when he began the season for South Carolina and won his first game. Just like it will be for all those little league teams over at Randy Custis Park.

I know you've got a former pastor here, Brooke Willson, who used to think that all of life's questions could be answered by reference to the movie Field of Dreams, but it is a good movie and it captures something essential about baseball's appeal. It shows how baseball can connect us to the past and how giving attention to it can touch something deep in our souls. In the movie, an Iowa farmer hears a voice that leads him to convert a section of his cornfield into a baseball diamond. The field he creates becomes a place where people with unresolved issues, both living and dead, can come together and work them out through baseball.

In one scene the farmer's dad, who had died, comes back as one of those ballplayers who had never really had a chance to play out his dreams. He comes and meets Ray, his son, the farmer. Doesn't recognize him because he comes back as a young man. He looks at Ray and the field and says, "Is this heaven?"

"It's Iowa," Ray responds.

"Iowa? I could have sworn it was heaven," he says as he begins to walk away and collect his equipment.

Ray follows him and says, "Is there a heaven?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the place where dreams come true."

Ray turns and sees his wife and daughter playing together on the porch and says, "Maybe this is heaven."

There's a lot of sentimentalism that has crept into how we think about baseball. The mythology gets laid on pretty thick. When we watch players with multimillion-dollar salaries, it's hard to get at what's pure about the game. And to think of a ball field as heaven is a little much. But there is something about the idea of being able to sense, to touch, to feel, to smell a connection to something larger than ourselves when we go to the ball field that is very attractive. It is like touching heaven on earth.

In the Eastern Orthodox branch of Christianity, that's part of the belief about what happens when you enter the sanctuary. When you do that you are not just entering a space like any other space - you are entering the kingdom. You are experiencing God's presence on earth. You're touching heaven.

I've been thinking a lot about heaven lately. I suppose you do as you get older and as you have loved ones die. No one has been there and come back. Although, maybe we have glimpses in stories like 90 Minutes in Heaven. But what it is, what it looks like, is only given to us in images. The Bible talks about gates of pearl and streets of gold. It is a place where all that has been lost is restored, where those who have died in faith will continue to live. It is so much more than "a place where dreams come true." That makes it sound like Disney World. It is a place, above all else, filled with the presence of God.

One of the most enduring images of heaven is that it is a place where we will gather with loved ones at a table. Did you hear in the gospel lesson from Luke today how Jesus talks about the Last Supper that he shared with his disciples? He is gathered together with them for the last time to eat a meal together. And he tells them that he has "earnestly desired" to eat this Passover dinner with them. It was not just an instructional meal for them. It wasn't merely that he was doing things that he had to do before going to the cross. We rarely get a glimpse into Jesus' thoughts, but here he tells us that he desires to eat with them.

Then he goes on to tell them that he will not eat the meal again until he shares it in the kingdom. Think about what that means. It means that the Last Supper does not have to be the last supper. It means that though everything else about life after death may change, gathering around a table to share a meal seems to go on. There is something eternal about the table, something that makes the meals we share in the here and now a taste of what is to come.

So Jesus takes the cup (in Luke's version he takes the cup before and after the bread) and he says, "Divide this among yourselves. For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” Then he takes the bread and shares it and they can remember what he has said, "For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

We talk about communion as a memorial meal - a time to remember what Christ has done for us. It is that. But it is also a foretaste and a promise of what is to come for those who believe. When we eat it we begin to participate in the kingdom which is already emerging into this tired, old world. We can begin to see that God is present even when it feels like we're all alone. We can begin to look at even Iowa and believe that it can be a glimpse of heaven.

This week I had a long discussion with someone about why it is that clergy are the ones in our tradition who preside at the table. (That's what you call it when Peter or I stand at the table - presiding. You might also called us celebrants, which makes it sound like we're at a party.) But it's a good question. A long-standing question, especially for Protestants like us Methodists. If we really believe in the priesthood of all believers, that God has given us all equal access to God's grace, why is it that the role of who stands at the table is reserved for the clergy? Have you ever thought about that?

The reason for it is because it gives me something to do. There are many places to serve in Christ's Church. We all have gifts. It's one of the reasons we did the mission fair a few weeks ago, to help us see where our gifts meet the needs of the world. But the particular role of clergy is a calling to Word, Sacrament, Order and Service. Proclaiming the Word, ordering the life for the congregation, serving the people in this place, and administering the sacraments - baptism & communion. And the reason why we have clergy to do it is so that every time we come to the table, someone who has given herself or himself to the study of the scriptures, who is grounded in the story of Christ's life, death and resurrection, who has been examined by the Church and authorized to be a representative of the larger body of Christ, will ensure that the story is faithfully told and that the sacrament is faithfully enacted.

That's the long version. The short version is that I preside at this table so that you can preside at every other table in this whole, blessed, God-hungry world. I preside here to remind you that you dare not neglect God's presence out there. Don't you forget, as soon as you walk out the door of this building, that Jesus died not just for the people in here but for everyone you meet. Don't you forget that your behavior out there is a testimony to what this bread here means. Don't you forget that people are hungry for bread, hungry for grace, hungry for love, hungry for justice, hungry for a new day and they don't know where to find it, but you have been to the table. You know where that bread is. And you know how to give it. Don't you forget that this bread is a promise of what God is going to do.

You don't need an advanced degree or the bishop's hands on your head to break a loaf of bread. But unless you are feeding regularly at a table where you are reminded that the bread you hold is heaven on earth, then you will start to lose the ability to see that every other morsel of food you take in your hands, even if it's a Twinkie, is a sign of grace. My calling tells me to feed people in the name of Jesus, so that you can feed people in the name of Jesus, until the kingdom comes.

In her book Take This Bread, Sara Miles talks about her frustration at why only the clergy in her Episcopal church can preside at the table, but then she tells this story. She talks about how she was delivering groceries for people in need in her neighborhood as part of her calling as a Christian. She is passing a bag of groceries in to a woman named Ruth through Ruth's open bedroom window. Behind her she hears a noise and turns to see a "skinny middle-aged guy in an old overcoat" darting behind a nearby building. It's Ruth's son who is a thief and constantly in trouble. Ruth cries as she tells Sara his story and Sara cries with her.

"All of a sudden, the words I sang every day at morning prayer echoed in my head. "Send out your light and your truth, that they may guide us and lead us to your holy hill and to your dwelling." I felt dizzy. This was God's holy hill: the Hill. And that apartment, with the broken tricycle out front, next to Ruth's? That was God's dwelling. God lived right there, in that actual apartment. God lived in Ruth's hands.

"What had I been thinking by praying those words without really paying attention? They were real. Above me, above the projects and Ruth's tears, above the wrecked roofs and broken doors and every mistake I'd ever made in my life, was the dark sky, luminous in the east. And in my hands were some Cheerios, some lettuce, and a loaf of bread."*

At this table we've got bread and juice. Out there you've got some Cheerios, some lettuce, maybe a pepperoni pizza. You've got your hands, your feet, your amazing body with all of its strength and all of its frailty. And maybe when you're out there among the wrecked roofs and broken doors of the world you will hear the echo of words that have been spoken at this table. These Cheerios, this lettuce, these hands - make them be for us the body and blood of Christ, so that we can be for the world Christ's body redeemed by his blood. By your Spirit, make us one with Christ, one with each other, and one in ministry, until Christ's comes again and we feast at his heavenly banquet.

Something profound happens at this table. You get to touch heaven. And then you get to touch earth. And somehow the distance between them is as thin as tissue. Thanks be to God.

*Sara Miles, Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, [New York: Ballantine Books, 2010], p. 196.