Presented March 19th, 2006, by Chris Douglas
Scott had been looking forward to the opening of the movie, “Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” for months. The movie, based on The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis, opened this past December. It happened to be at a time we were on vacation in Florida. But because Scott had waited so long for this movie to come out, on a beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon in Florida, we went to a movie theatre. On the big screen, the movie was captivating and I truly felt myself transported into Narnia. In fact, I shivered from the cold as I watched the movie. It all seemed so real, like I was really there. When the movie was over and we stepped outside into the warm sunshine, I had some moments of disorientation. Narnia had seemed so real. Which was really life: my time with the Ice Queen in Narnia, or this sunshine and warmth of central Florida?
What is real life? Our theme during this Lenten season comes from the scripture in I Timothy 6:19, “…take hold of the life that really is life.”
The six weeks of Lent, as we journey toward Good Friday and Easter Sunday, is a good time for us to pause and ask ourselves, “What is the life that really is life?” I’d like for us to reflect on that question this morning in light of two scriptures in our lectionary for today. In Exodus 20 we have the Ten Commandments God gave Moses on Mt. Sinai. Moses and the Hebrew people brought out of slavery in Egypt came to believe that if they followed the Commandments that they would have real life.
In John 2, with Jesus cleansing the Temple, we are reminded the Jewish people believed that “real life” was found in making the ritual sacrifices of a dove, a pigeon, or even a lamb. They believed that by paying money for a burnt offering at the Temple that God would be pleased and bless them, and they would experience real life.
Today in North American, middle class society, we are taught that real life is in buying stuff—big screen TV’s, new cars, fashionable clothes, beautiful houses. Our culture would tell us that the American Dream is “life that is really life.”
What about for you? What is the life “that really is life?” What was the writer of I Timothy talking about when he encouraged Timothy to “take hold of the life that really is life?”
This week I asked some people what they thought life “that is really life” is and I got great responses! Someone said, “It’s what Jesus meant when he talked about the living water-when you drink it, you’ll never be thirsty again. It’s about being so alive that it’s not destroyed by the tragedies that happen.”
Others said, “It’s when your life feels like music.”
“It’s living into your truest self and all that God is calling you to be.”
“It’s the times when I feel connected to something larger than myself.”
“It’s when I use the gifts that God has given me to serve others.”
Janice’s death made many of us stop and think about what’s really important. We have been reminded of what a precious and fragile gift life is. Who of us has not held our friends and loved ones a little more tenderly since we were reminded so harshly of how unexpectedly life can end?
I hope I don’t forget this lesson. The culture around us has a way of squeezing us into its mold. It’s easy for me to forget what I know in my truest self about what is really life. Instead I often accept whatever is normative in our society as being real. I can read the story now in today’s scripture of Jesus cleansing the Temple and think, “Well, of course, paying for a burnt offering of an animal sacrifice isn’t what life is really about.” But for those in 33 A.D. they couldn’t imagine religious life without making sacrifices of burnt offerings. And I guess maybe we’re not so different. We, too, accept the values of the culture around us.
I recently heard Stanley Hauerwas in a video say that much of modern Christianity accepts the notion that sometimes war is the only way to solve a conflict. In contrast to the first few centuries of Christianity when followers of Jesus would never participate in war, today many Christians do not see the killing of others as a faith issue. Hauerwas said, “Why haven’t Christians gotten themselves banned from the military? If they were really following Jesus, all Christians in the military would get down on their knees together every night in the barracks and pray for their enemies. It would be so hard on morale of the other troops, that the military wouldn’t want them! They would ban Christians from entering the military!”
Max Lucado wrote a story entitled “The Wemmicks” to talk about how often we take our cues from society around us.
The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village. Every Wemmick was different. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the same village.
And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of dark blue dot stickers. Up and down the streets and all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.
The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars. Some Wemmicks had stars all over them. Every time they got a star it made them fell so good that they did something else and got another star.
Others, though, could do little. They got dots. Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around him and give him dots.
After awhile he had so many dots that he didn’t want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many dots, that some people would come up and give him one without a reason. “He’s not a very good wooden person.” After awhile Punchinello believed them. “I’m not a good Wemmick,” he would say.
The few times he went outside, he hung around with other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them. But one day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he had ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lucia. It wasn’t that people didn’t try to give her stickers; its just that the stickers didn’t stick. Some admired Lucia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn’t stay either.
“That’s the way I want to be,” thought Punchinello. “I don’t want anyone’s marks.” So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it. “It’s easy,” Lucia replied. “Every day I go see Eli.”
“Eli?” “Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him.”
“Why?” “Why don’t you go find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He’s there.” And with that, the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away. “But he won’t want to see me,” Punchinello cried out. Lucia didn’t hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots. “It’s not right,” he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.
He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. Punchinello swallowed hard. “I’m not staying here!” and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.
Punchinello?” The voice was deep and strong. Punchinello stopped. “Punchinello! How good to see you! Come and let me have a look at you.”
Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large craftsman. “You know my name?” the little Wemmick asked. “Of course I do. I made you.” Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench. “Hmm,” the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected all the dots. “Looks like you’ve been given some bad marks.”
“I didn’t mean to, Eli. I really tried hard.” “Oh, you don’t have to defend yourself to me, child. I don’t care what the other Wemmicks think.” “You don’t?” “No, and you should either. Who are they to give stars or dots? They’re Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn’t matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special.”
Punchinello laughed. “Me, special? Why? I can’t jump; my paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?” Eli looked at Punchinello and spoke very slowly. “Because you’re mine. That’s why you matter to me.” Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this. He didn’t know what to say. “Every day I’ve been hoping you’d come,” Eli explained. “I came because I met someone who had no marks.” “I know. She told me about you.” “Why don’t the stickers stay on her?”
“Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them.” “What?” “The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about their stickers.” “I’m not sure I understand.” “You will, but it will take time. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care.” Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground. “Remember,” Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. “You are special because I made you. And I don’t make mistakes.”
Punchinello didn’t stop, but in his heart he thought, “I think he really means it.” And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.”
We laugh at Lucado’s story of Wemmicks putting stickers on each other. But how often do I live out of the values of this world instead of listening to my Maker? In my heart I know that real life is found in intimacy with God, not in living the American Dream. But every year I dump a bunch of fertilizer and weed killer on my lawn so it will look nice. I know it’s hard on our environment, but I want my lawn to look clean and green so my neighbors won’t put an imaginary sticker on me for being a slacker with an unkempt lawn.
When will I learn to listen more to God than to the culture around me? When will I learn to trust God to show me what the “life that is really life” is? Will I believe that it’s just about following commandments or about continuing rituals? Or will I take hold of the life that is really life? Mary Oliver asks this question in her poem, “The Summer Day:”
“Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”