Rekindling the Gift Within
By Rev. Dr. Ken Henry
Intro to Sermon Theme
We continue with the sermon series, Set the World on Fire, exploring images of fire in both the Old and New Testament. This morning, we turn to the smallest of fires: an ember, a spark, a tiny glow among the ashes waiting to be fanned into flame. A few summers ago, I was hiking in Oregon along The Pacific Crest Trail when I came to section of trail where apparently lightning had struck or perhaps a careless hiker started it but regardless of the cause, several hundred acres of timber had burned. The fire was out, but in its aftermath, it was like walking out of a green and dense forest and onto the surface of the moon. The accumulated ash was like 4-5 inches of gray and powdery snow. And parked beside this eerie scene was a water truck and guy scanning the area for tiny glowing embers.
The Epistle of James makes this clear: “How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire.” (James 3:5-60)
Think about it: one spark, one word from our mouths, can bring life and warmth; it can deepen our friendships and provide hot food for the table, but fanned by a strong wind, a single word said in anger can also burn down a whole forest of relationships.
Listen to what the Apostle Paul writes about this ember or spark.
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus, 2 To Timothy, my beloved child: Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.
3 I am grateful to God—whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did—when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. 4 Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. 5 I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. 6 For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; 7 for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.
8 Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel, relying on the power of God, 9 who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace. This grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, 10 but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. 11 For this gospel I was appointed a herald and an apostle and a teacher,[a] 12 and for this reason I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him.[b] 13 Hold to the standard of sound teaching that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. 14 Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.
Prayer
Lord, if we have fanned the flames of anger this week, if our words have hurt more than healed, forgive us. Renew us. And if we feel the flame within us has gone out, if we have lost our faith, if we are not inspired, and if embers of resentment and shame are still smoldering in our hearts, strike a new fire within us, rekindle our gratitude, burn away our sin, and warm our spirits with your unconditional love. Amen.
Sermon
When I was 14, I was entered into a speech contest. The speech contest was sponsored by Portland General Electric and somehow, (I can’t remember how it happened!) my name was put into the competition. No one had explained the rules to me. No one sat me down to explain what writing and delivering a speech would require of me. Or perhaps, I simply wasn’t listening. In other words, I had no idea what I was getting into.
When I arrived at the contest with speech in hand and very little practice or preparation, looking back, I think I knew I was in trouble. I remember walking into a dimly lit auditorium with my mother and sitting down. Then when my name was called, I walked to the front of the auditorium, walked up the steps to a brightly lit stage, stood behind a podium, gazed out at the 75 people who had gathered for the event, and froze. Just when I needed my brain to function and my mouth to work properly, I became paralyzed with fear; my head began to spin; (Has this happened to you?) I began to sweat. My words came out like molasses or thick honey; slow, monotone. I thought that speech would never end. And, frankly, I have no idea what I said. I finished the speech (I think I did.), but during the delivery, my mind had been somewhere else, lost in a sea of anxiety and dense fog.
I will always remember a few things about this speech contest. I will always remember looking to the back of the auditorium and seeing a man’s teeth. Though the spotlights blinded me and I could hardly see my audience, at the back of the room, I saw the grinning smile of man; his teeth cut through the darkness and he seemed to be enjoying this moment. Even now, I can see him.
And the second thing I will always remember is that I took 2nd place! Of course there were only two contestants, but I distinctly remember being handed a trophy while the audience broke into polite applause.
I was ashamed.
What was I thinking? Apparently, I was not. It was sheer embarrassment. It was one of those moments when you feel so small and alone in the world, you want to crawl under a rock. Looking back, it was a moment when I wished a trap door had slid beneath my feet providing a way of escape from publically humiliating myself. If only someone, my mother, had stepped into rescue me. If only someone had saved me from myself. And in a way, someone did. I am thinking of that man in the back of the room with his broad toothy smile. Indeed, I think his smile was the only thing that got me through the whole ordeal.
I am reminded of a short poem by Emily Dickinson that I have often used when writing a letter of encouragement to someone:
You might not need me,
But you might.
I’ll let my head be just in sight.
A smile as small as mine might be
Precisely the necessity.
This past week, reflecting on Paul’s Second Letter to Timothy, I found myself wondering: How did Paul overcome his shame? Indeed, after being dragged away to prison, what got him through it? And when no one came to rescue him how did he endure the isolation and suffering?
Now, up to this point, we may have assumed that Paul was treated as a kind of white collar criminal, a kind of a Martha Stewart, a celebrity prisoner with privileges and the permission to write letters and preach the gospel to his captors, but if you read all of 2nd Timothy and know something about ancient Roman prisons, clearly, Paul was treated like all the other prisoners. If you went to prison, back then, you were considered a threat and a traitor to Roman society. If you endangered the ideals of Rome, they made you disappear.
Paul must have felt abandoned by his closest friends and allies. He had disappeared. When someone makes a mistake or embarrasses us or crosses a line, I believe there is a temptation to pretend that he or she never existed.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Paul must have wondered if those who once heard his sermons on the outside would perceive his incarceration as sign that he had failed in his mission. Now, removed from the mainstream, would his hard work be cast aside? Would his sermons be used as tinder for starting a fire? Would his legacy and reputation be in doubt? Would he be forgotten?
Paul writes in 2 Tim. 4:
“As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, (i.e. I am being poured out as sacrifice on the altar) and my time of departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”
And yet, through all of this, Paul declares that he is not ashamed. He is not ashamed for teaching and preaching the Gospel. He tells Timothy the same thing–that he should not be ashamed of him or God or listen to what other people are saying about him. Paul may be fed to the lions; they may execute him; rumors may circulate about him; they may spit on him, but he’s not ashamed. How can that be?
According to Neil Pembroke, an Australian theologian and author:
Shame is essentially the feeling that one is inferior, inadequate or defective. The one who feels shamed might be tempted to hide from others and seek isolation. He or she fears being exposed. He or she feels small. Shame arises when a person makes the judgment that he or she has fallen short of an ideal.[1]
How does Paul cast off the chains of shame? How do we? And do we believe Paul is sincere when he writes to his dear friend, Timothy: “Don’t be ashamed of the testimony about the our Lord or of me. . . but join with me in suffering for the gospel relying on the power of God. . . ?” (1:8) Do we believe him?
I think the answer to this question goes back to when I was up on that stage. It goes back to that man sitting in the back row, his smile cutting through the darkness and giving me the courage to go on, to finish what I started.
It goes back to remembering that Paul has kept a fire burning within him, the fire of God’s presence, the fire of God’s mercy and grace–it’s right here–and, besides this inner flame, someone still believes in him. The knowledge that someone, a friend, a colleague, Timothy, believes in Paul gives him the strength to endure. In essence, Paul writes from his prison cell:
You might not need me,
But you might.
I’ll let my head be just in sight.
A smile as small as mine might be
Precisely the necessity.
In Montreat, NC a few weeks ago, I sat down to watch a film entitled, Locked in a Box. The film maker, David Barnhart (from Presbyterian Disaster Assistance with the PC (USA)) was there to introduce the film to us and what I saw surprised me. Locked in a Box is a short documentary film that follows the stories of individuals held by the U.S. Immigration Detention system and it’s a film about the people who visit them.
On any given day, 34,000 immigrants across this country are detained in detention centers, many of these centers for profit. (I discovered there is an immigration detention center a little over 65 miles south of Charlottesville.) But what struck me about this film were the people–Presbyterians, Lutherans, Church people–who got into a van, drove to a detention center out in the middle of nowhere, and visited those being held for deportation. Like Paul, they feel abandoned. Like Paul, they too feel alone. We are still trying to make people disappear. And yet, here are these visitors coming to spend time with them as a way of living out their faith, befriending the stranger and caring for those in prison.
Everyone—it doesn’t matter what you’ve done or if you feel ashamed– everyone needs someone to listen, to care, to believe in him or her.
Paul writes from his prison cell;
6 For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; 7 for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” and then he adds in chapter 4: “[Please,] make haste to come visit me soon.” (4:9)
At the First Presbyterian Church in Tuckerton, NJ, Edith Ann was a member of the children’s bell choir. Edith Ann was probably 8 or 9 years old. She stood up in front of the sanctuary, in front of the pulpit, with 3 other children ringing her bell and beaming with pride. They were playing the offertory. And I remember watching with horror as Edith Ann’s bell slipped from her fingers, fell downward and landed in the brass offering plate where it let out a tremendous “CLANG!” Edith Ann’s face turned fiery red with shame. We all felt it. Everyone in the congregation felt Edith Anne’s shame and embarrassment. . . but we all know what’s like, right? That’s the point when we need someone to tell us, “It’s okay. It’s all right. This time will pass.” That’s when we need someone or a power greater than ourselves to pick us up and put us on our feet again.
Listen. I believe, God says to those who feel ashamed, who feel like Edith Ann, who need the strength to go on, who need their faith rekindled:
You might not need me,
But you might.
I’ll let my head be just in sight.
A smile as small as mine might be
Precisely the necessity.
[1] Pembroke, Neil. Pastoral Care in Worship: Liturgy and Psychology in Dialogue, 2009.