Stick-Around Theology
Preached at First & Franklin Presbyterian Church on February 18, 2024.
Scripture
John 1:1-5, 10-14
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it…
…He was in the world, and the world came into being through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a parent’s only child, full of grace and truth.”
1 John 1:5-10
This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.
If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.
Sermon
In 2014, Nic Cage did it again, starring in an unforgettable movie. The movie? None other than Left Behind. The critics concur that the film is unforgettable, resulting in a Rotten Tomatoes score of 0%, and a delicious set of reviews. The consensus? As one writer put it, quote “I am now relatively certain there is a Hell and it is a darkened theater with no doors showing Left Behind on a loop for eternity.”
The film is based on a 1995 book by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins, and is one in a string of terrible movie adaptations. In the books, readers follow a rendition of the end times, imagined with the help of the Book of Revelation. But only kind of, because Left Behind tells it in a very specific way. At the very heart of its mysticism is a concept called “the rapture.”
“The rapture,” as some American Christians believe, is when “the saved,” or the elect, are lifted off the earth and brought to heaven by God. In heaven, they will be spared from what comes next for the unsaved on earth: the “great tribulation,” or a period of intense, utter violence; all manners of evil overseen by the antichrist leading up to the final apocalypse.
I had a friend, believe it or not, who grew up with a family that was very zealous in its belief of the rapture. And because nobody knows whether they’re truly saved in this rapture story, everyone needed to be prepared for the prospect of being “left behind.” When my friend was a tween, instead of fire drills or earthquake drills, she had something else: rapture drills. Her parents would hide and leave her to see if she was prepared for being left behind.
Woof! I love being Presbyterian.
There’s a certain type of theology that is singularly focused on the afterlife, where everything culminates in an ethereal after-realm. Getting into heaven is what everything points to: your faith, your ministry on earth, your church’s engagement in a community, and how you raise your kids. You don’t want to end up in “H-E-double hockey sticks,” after all.
Though we’re painting with really broad strokes, this type of theology has acquired a silly moniker. This theology, where everything is about the afterlife, and what comes next, is sometimes called “evacuation theology.” Because the goal of everything–absolutely everything–is ultimately connected to humans’ evacuation from this pale blue dot.
But if we look at the deepest, richest parts of our faith, from the Holy Scripture to our confessions, we see something that is radically different. And today, as you guessed, I’ve come up with an equally silly name for what is found lodged in our tradition: “stick-around theology.”
The season of Lent often marinates in the language of darkness and penance, of sin and confession. After all, this is the time in the Christian calendar when we prepare ourselves for Holy Week and the resurrection of Christ. We’re walking toward both the most gruesome and beautiful moments in our faith, when the sacred heart of Christ is wounded and when the body of Christ is exalted. But as we see so often in Western Christianity, we’re really good at taking this metaphors and rich imagery and putting it into boxes. We’re great at making these things–of light and darkness–into rigid binaries that cannot coexist. We start to embrace one and not the other; to focus on evacuation from that which is uncomfortable rather than leaning into the vulnerability and complexity of God’s world.
Let’s start with what we heard from the Gospel of John. From the very beginning of this Gospel, before anything else, the Gospel writers frame the good news with poetry and mysticism. The Gospel says “What has come into being in [the Word of God] was life, and the life was the light of all people.” It’s important that we note this life and light is *in* Christ, not “from” Christ, or “because of” Christ. It is not a single, saving act that originates this light, but it is rather sourced from the very fount of Christ himself. The incarnation of God–not the cross, not Jesus’ miracles, not his prophetic justice–the incarnation is where John traces back the very flame of Christ. That is when the very light of God began to shine in the darkness.
If we take the incarnation seriously, then we take this next saying of John equally seriously: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.” Here’s where we find a first touchstone for Lent. In Christ’s incarnation–his life, his ministry, his teaching, his justice–God willingly came to dwell in the midst of darkness. In the midst of humanity’s errors, and frailty, and suffering and sorrow, God became incarnate within it. As the Gospel says, “[Christ] was in the world, and the world came into being through him, yet the world did not know him.” The order matters. Bonhoeffer says that the “Gospel breaks into the darkness and seclusion of the heart.” John says that “the Word became flesh and lived among us.” The light came into the darkness. God became incarnate among us, not before or after or despite us.
That’s what Lent is all about, what it is so desperately trying to draw us toward. God’s presence in our very midst. Jesus’ saving life. His miracles, his teaching, his justice, his love. God can do whatever God wants, but God chose to save us by becoming one of us. By entering into the darkness and dwelling among it. God chose to be born a human way, full of pain and fear. God chose to live among us as a subjugated person, victim to imperial Rome. God chose to die a human death, choosing to be humiliated and torn from those who loved God. There’s no way around it. God chose to live in darkness.
In every hospital room, every battlefield, every empty pew, every lonely moment, God is there. This week, I was reminded of a quote by Michael Mitton, who said that the Spirit of God makes a home in the darkest, most demon-infested places in society. Chaplains show up to hospital rooms not to bring God’s light into the space, but to illuminate and enliven and testify to God’s light that is already there. That’s a critical difference. For us, too, we profess that pastors and ministers don’t have special powers to consecrate or sanctify anything, but rather have the authority to preside and administer and officiate over the grace of God that’s already present. In Lent, we aren’t preparing ourselves for a rare glimpse of God’s light; we’re practicing perceiving the light of God. We’re trying to attune our senses and humanity to more fully encounter the incarnate God, trying to deepen our capacity to receive the light of God, trying to crack our souls open a little wider, a little more deeply.
There’s an art called “Spiritual Direction” that’s gained traction over the past fifty or so years. If you haven’t heard of it, spiritual direction is when a person or community meets with a guide who is skilled at listening deeply. This guide listens to God and to a community, and seeks to bring both into closer connection with each other. Sometimes they’re called “spiritual friends.” In relation to today’s Scripture, they’re all about finding the threads of light that are woven into our lives, even when we are living in the most fearful, frightening places. It’s to help us cultivate our senses, to heighten our awareness, and to point us to the more abundant spiritual life that God has extended.
Let’s turn to the first epistle of John. You might have caught that the writers make two somewhat contradictory claims, at least at first glance. First the writers say this: “If we say that we have fellowship with God while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true.” Just a verse or two later, we hear something else: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.”
So far, we’ve operated on the assumption that darkness is equal to sin. Not necessarily personal sins–”bad” things we do–but the human condition. We’ve said darkness equals depravity, more or less. But that’s not what the epistle says. It says we should readily admit and confess our sin while no longer walking in darkness. We are somehow walking in the light of God, even though we’re still sinners living under depravity.
Here’s some good news, a second touchstone for Lent: the way of light, of God’s free and abundant life, isn’t confined to the future. It’s not relegated to an afterlife when sin is no more. It’s not locked away, waiting for a moment when we get wings and play harps while floating on clouds. No, no, no: walking in the light of God is for this side of heaven. The epistle invites us to join in what God has already done in Christ Jesus: to live in the light and to bring life into this world, even in the midst of great darkness and fear and pain and suffering and sorrow. That is the good news, that is our stick-around theology, that is where we find something worth living and dying for. Light coexisting in darkness. Flames of goodness and hope and joy despite every odd.
And if that is the case, our stick-around theology demands that we minister in this world knowing that the light of God is shining. If we can walk in the light of God in the midst of our own sin, then our life as the church and as people of faith will be changed. We’ll get involved in our neighborhood and get to know those around us. We’ll meet the needs of those in our city, especially those who live in poverty and isolation. We’ll get involved politically, even if our local government is a dumpster fire full of corruption at every turn. We’ll plan for a future that is full of climate migration and ongoing pandemics. We’ll live in those ways, not because we’re scared or pessimistic, but because we can’t give up on this world. Because we have experienced the light of God firsthand, and we know that it can and will make a home in darkness.
But if we chain redemption and salvation to some ethereal realm, we will twiddle our thumbs around in this life, waiting and waiting and waiting in the turmoil of our depravity. If we focus our attention and energy on evacuation, the resurrection of Christ is a waste. God was made incarnate and lived among us and was resurrected in the body because the darkness must be transformed by light. Death must be transfomed by life. If the good news of Christ, and the life and light of God is relegated to that evacuation, then how can we ever survive hospital rooms and war zones and lonely days and chronic illnesses? Friends, this is what I’m trying and pleading with you to know: there is love and connection and belonging and hope and joy for you in every dark corner you’re experiencing. The burdens you are carrying, the suffering you’re holding, the fear and terror and uncertainty in your body: the light of God is dwelling in its midst. Not in spite of it, or but because of it. To make a home with it and to break down division.
So that is where Lent begins. Not with self-flagellation or hatred of the darkness. Not with feverish prayers that God will someday make things okay or that we’ll escape the darkness altogether. We start Lent with the deep-rooted, eternal hope and assurance that God makes a home in the darkness. That God leaves no one behind. We start Lent with the joy and hope of sticking around, praying that we might catch a better glimpse of that light of God in our midst. This is the good news of the Gospel. Thanks be to God.
