This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, August 1, 2010.

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Readings

Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12–14; 2:18–23
Psalm 49:1–12 (antiphon v.3)
Colossians 3:1–11
Luke 12:13–21

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Prayer

Father in heaven, direct our gaze to you and guide us, by your Spirit, to seek what you desire for us, through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
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Message

Once there was a boy whose favorite question was “why.”
No matter what his mom and dad were doing,
he would come to them and say, “Mom … ? Dad … ?”
And after they would set aside their tasks and say yes,
he would begin, “Why … ?”

Why is the sky blue?
Why does water always go this way down the drain?
Why do we only see stars at night?
Why do cat’s eyes shine in the dark?

He was shy, inquisitive, thoughtful, and filled with wonder.
He puzzled over why his little world was put together
the way it was and not some other way.

It’s hard to know what would have become of him
if he were born in the days of the colonial settlers
or the pioneers or in the depths of the Depression.

But he was born in a time of exploration.
He was old enough to stay up late one night in July
and to watch a grainy black-and-white image on television—
back when TV had rounded corners—
and to see a man clothed in white,
with a shining helmet,
take careful, tentative steps backwards down a ladder.

Then he stepped down one last time
and planted his booted foot upon the dusty surface of the moon.
And he said, “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

The boy watching TV had discovered a hero,
a person to look up to, to emulate.
The walk upon the moon changed that boy’s life.
It inspired him to raise his gaze to the heavens,
to wonder about the things above him,
to ask why was it all there,
where did it come from,
what was it made of,
how big was it,
did it end or go on forever?

From that moment,
he found himself drawn to see the things above,
literally above him, in the vast expanse of space.
And so he wanted become an astronaut,
a sailor of the stars.

His parents bought him an Apollo 11 lunchbox.
He read about astronauts—real and fictional—
he learned all he could about space,
and eventually he decided to study science,
because it was a discipline dedicated to asking “why.”

Of all the sciences,
physics was the one that attracted him.
And astrophysics asked the best questions
about the worlds that shone like gems in the darkness.
It asked all the “whys” about the stars.

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A great hymn reminds us:
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day. (“O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” Isaac Watts)

The years have passed.
That little boy has grown up.
His dream of becoming an astronaut has remained just that.
Eventually he turned away from physics.
But even so, he still loves to ask “why.”
He still turns his eyes to the heavens to gaze at the stars,
hoping to see and to seek the things above.

He does not search alone.
Anyone who wonders what is this world,
where do I fit in, what is my purpose,
who can give my life meaning,
is someone who gazes longingly at the things that are above.

But the truth that is the object of our search
is a little tougher to embrace,
a little harder to acknowledge
than the romance of that hope we celebrate
when all is simple and easy in the world of a child.

When we grow up,
seeking those things above
with the innocence of a child’s wonder
is like trying to see the stars clearly and cleanly,
strewn across the blackness of the sky at night,
when the lights of the city glow brightly all around us,
blazing every which way and up,
subduing the splendor of the stars,
washing them out, making them fade and grow dim.

When we grow up,
we discover that our heroes,
the people we once emulated and revered,
do not always live up to the heroic ideal.
They fall from glory and quickly fade,
like shooting stars arcing into the darkness.

When we grow up,
we find the wonder and the mystery
of the unknown dimmed and diminished,
replaced by the known, the familiar,
the well-worn, the mundane.

And sadly, we can find ourselves
echoing the Teacher of Ecclesiastes,
and we mutter to ourselves,

“I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun;
and see, all is vanity and a chasing after the wind.” (Ecclesiastes 1:14, NRSV)

So we change the questions we ask ourselves.
We ask the grown-up questions.
What’s the point? Why bother?
Who cares? What difference does it make?

Nothing. No reason. Nobody. None at all.

And the Teacher’s voice whispers in our ear,

“What do mortals get from all the toil and strain
with which they toil under the sun?
For all their days are full of pain,
and their work is a vexation;
even at night their minds do not rest.” (Ecclesiastes 2:22–23, NRSV)

But despite the Teacher’s worldly wisdom whispered into our ears,
we put our heads down anyway,
we lean into the harness of job and task and project,
and we work.

Perhaps we do not hear a calling to our service,
but instead a voice from within us says,
“Pile it up. Load it on. Get it while you can.”

So that’s what we do.
As best we can, we heap up an abundance of possessions,
as protection from despair, as insurance against death.
And then we stand upon our piles—
a little closer to the heavens, but not really—
and we join our voices in musing with the rich man:

“Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years;
relax, eat, drink, be merry.” (Luke 12:19, NRSV)

The sounds of the celebrations are so loud,
we cannot hear the voice of God say softly to us,

“You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you.
And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” (Luke 12:20, NRSV)

The lights of the party shine so brightly,
our eyes grow dazzled and we squint.
We cannot see the faint lights of the things that are above,
the things we once gazed upon longingly as children,
the things that drew us up and out in hope and wonder,
beyond the grasp of our tiny outstretched hands.
All may be “… vanity and a chasing after the wind.” (Ecclesiastes 1:14, NRSV)
You and I may have grown up to become fools,
bent upon “… stor[ing] up treasures for [our]selves … .” (Luke 12:21, NRSV)
But there is still time.
There is still hope.

Come outside, away from the glare of the lights.
Come away, far from the noise of the clatter.
Be still and wait—
not for heroes, but for our Father in heaven.
Look up to the heavens—
not to the stars, but to Christ our light.
Be quiet and listen—
not to the wind, but to the Spirit of life.

And remember what the Apostle has told us:

“So if you have been raised with Christ,
seek the things that are above,
where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.
Set your minds on things that are above,
not on things that are on earth,
for you have died,
and your life is hidden with Christ in God.
When Christ who is your life is revealed,
then you also will be revealed with him in glory.” (Colossians 3:1–4, NRSV)

“Seek the things that are above.”
Together, you and I seek them, and now we find them—
here in our midst,
here upon the altar,
here in the bread of heaven,
here in the cup of salvation.

This is where Christ is seated with us.
And so we rest from our seeking
and we turn now to eating and drinking.
In this Meal,
we find our minds mysteriously set upon the things that are above,
on the One who is hidden, but truly present
in this holy and heavenly Meal.

We eat and we drink,
and when we do,
we die with him who died for us,
and we rise renewed,
knowing why we feel refreshed,
because our life is hidden with Christ in God. Amen.