"From Scarcity to plenty"
Dr. George R. Sinclair, Jr.
Pastor
October 28, 2007
Some years ago, and I am at a loss as to just when, but it seems like it was the sixties—maybe the early seventies—I saw a TV commercial which featured a water glass placed alone on a table or a stand. The announcer in a bright voice asked, “Is the glass half-empty or half-full?” Maybe you remember that commercial?
In any event, if you had asked me that same question about stewardship a few months ago, I would have told you the glass is half-empty. Somewhere along the way, though, and I suspect it was the night Henry Morrissette shared with the Session what stewardship meant to him, I began thinking that maybe the glass is half-full. In light of that experience, I started to title this sermon, Confessions of a Cynic, but I thought better and settled on the title printed in today’s bulletin, From Scarcity to Plenty. In view of our Cottage Gatherings which begin tonight and in view of recent experience, I want to speak personally with you about some things close to my heart.
With apologies to Henry, I want to begin by borrowing a line from his stewardship testimony—actually it was the first thing he said when he got up to speak to some forty elders and deacons a few weeks ago, “I’m a sinner.” At the time I thought that was bold and I don’t think, in fact I know I’ve never heard a stewardship message begin that way—“I’m a sinner.” But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to realize that Henry was absolutely right. Stewardship begins with confession which is also where faith begins. “Lord, help me. I’m a sinner.” Look at Jesus’ story about the Pharisee and the Publican.
The Pharisee, Jesus said, strutting into church boasting about how glad he is not to be like other people. He doesn’t lie, cheat, or steal. He fasts twice a week and gives a tithe of all he has. Meanwhile, the tax collector, the Publican comes in and won’t even lift up his eyes. He beats his chest saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Observing the two, Jesus points to the tax collector and says, “This man went down to his home justified.”
“I’m a sinner.” Henry told us that night that we would not read about his sins in the newspaper. I suspect that’s close to the truth about most of us. I know it’s true about me—I’m good at flying under radar—most of my sins are hidden, but that makes them no less real. Let me confess one sin that maybe you also share. And if not, then maybe you’ll understand. The sin I need to confess is cynicism. I am a cynic.
In ancient Greece, the cynics believed that virtue is the only good and that the essence of goodness rests in self-control and independence. Cynics are a lot like the elder brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son. We believe in our own goodness, our self-control, our independence. We are not like others.
You remember the elder brother, the one who stayed behind and did the father’s will? The elder brother was the responsible one. The elder brother was the worker. The elder brother was the one who kept the household together while the younger partied. And when the younger came home and was embraced by the father, the elder brother couldn’t stand it.
You remember, when the elder brother heard the music, he refused to go in and join the party. The elder remained separate. He was a cynic—he believed his younger brother was up to no good and that the only reason he came home was that he ran out of cash and needed another fix. And you know what, he was absolutely right.
The Prodigal is no saint. When he’s busted down and broke in the pig sty he says to himself—“My father’s hired help have it better than me. I know what I’ll do. I’ll get up and go to my father and say to him, ‘Father I have sinned. I’m no longer worthy to be called your son, treat me like one of your hired hands.’”
The Prodigal hatches a scheme, doesn’t he? He plots to get back into his father’s good graces. He’s on the out and he wants back in, which is entirely consistent with the behavior that led him out in the first place. The younger brother is a manipulator. He was when he left home and he is when he returns. Only the father beats him to the punch and welcomes him before he can spill his story. The younger is received not because he confesses but because his father is gracious.
The elder brother was right about the younger—the younger was self-serving. But then we’re all self-serving and if you don’t believe that then on the next sunny day go outside and try jumping over your own shadow.
We never, none of us, ever escapes our shadow. Cynics are right about that. Remember a few weeks ago when I told you my favorite TV character was Dr. House. House is a cynic. “People lie,” House is always saying. And he’s right; people do lie.
We have an awful time telling the truth. But there’s another reason I like House. There’s another reason I identify with him. Deep down House wants to believe in redemption. House wants to believe that he can get over his own lies, which is tied to his hope that others can get over their lying too. And when we get over our lying we find truth. And when we find truth we are fully alive and free.
The problem with cynicism, and I know this problem fairly well, is that we remain, as Karl Barth observed, trapped in the “closed circle of our humanity,” which is another way of confessing hopelessness or what Walter Brueggemann describes as scarcity. The cynic looks at the glass and concludes it’s half-empty. And we see that it is half-empty because we’re stuck on ourselves. We can’t get out of the “closed circle of our humanity.” I confess that’s where my own thoughts began some months ago about Government Street Presbyterian Church. Let me explain.
When I arrived here five years ago you had just moved back into this newly renovated building. Jim Lowry told me the debt would be paid off in no time. The search committee said we had almost 700 members. And when I looked at the census it said there were 500 thousand people living in the area. And I thought, “Shoot, we’ll get the debt paid off in no time and fill up the place.”
What I didn’t know was that our membership was several hundred less than 700. What I didn’t know was that it would take five years to pay off our debt. And while there are 500 thousand people living in metro Mobile, they don’t exactly live next door. To tell you the truth, the glass looked half-empty.
You know me well enough to know that I like statistics. So, I get out my calculator and I’m sitting at my desk trying to figure out what’s going on. And I punch in a bunch of numbers about membership and money and ages and I’m coming to conclusions that grow more and more disturbing. I’ve shared some of those numbers with you before—things like that in 1960 Government Street had 1,200 members and that today, even with 160 new members joining in the past 5 years we have 500 members. And of those 500 members there are about 60 households of senior adults who aren’t able to get out like they once did. We have a decidedly older and smaller congregation than we once did.
Moreover, in past seven years giving has not kept pace with inflation, which means we’re actually working with fewer resources than we did seven years ago. These and other numbers crawled up my throat and grew into a knot. And I’m thinking, ‘What’s Government Street going to be like in another ten years?” And I’m starting to feel like “Chicken Little,” the sky was falling.
Anyway, Henry and I began putting together this year’s stewardship campaign and we’re wondering how to say what we think needs to be said because we’re worried that if we don’t do things differently we’re going to end up with the same results and that won’t be enough to do what needs to be done. I won’t speak for Henry, but I’ve got to tell you the glass looked half empty. All I could see was scarcity. And then Henry had to go and tell the Session that he was a sinner and I start thinking, “Well, maybe the glass is not half-empty after all. Maybe there’s grace.” In fact, the longer I thought about it the more I came to believe that that’s all there is—grace. God’s grace is our only hope. God’s grace breaks through the closed circle of our humanity and when God breaks through we move from scarcity to plenty.
It is not by accident that the theme for this year’s stewardship campaign is, “Responding to Grace.” Well, actually it is something of an accident, because when the Stewardship Committee came up with that title Henry hadn’t made his speech.
Stewardship is not fundraising. Stewardship is not about giving to the budget or trying to come up with a little more money to run the church. Stewardship is about responding to God’s claim on our lives. Beverly Gaventa said it so well when she was here last weekend. In her reading of Romans, she said the Bible speaks very plainly: God gives us life. We honor God with praise and thanksgiving or as our catechism teaches, our chief end is to “glorify God and enjoy God forever.”
Through our Cottage Gatherings and in other ways we’re acknowledging that by God’s grace the glass is not half-empty, it’s half-full and not just half-full but filled and over-flowing. Joel knew that and if anyone ever had cause not to know that, it was Joel.
When you have time, go back and read the whole book. It is not very long. Frankly, Joel doesn’t begin in a very happy place. I mean he begins with a plague of locust. You got to love locust and they’re everywhere in Joel—cutting locust, swarming locust, hopping and destroying locust—he has them all. And then he’s got wildfires and drought; seeds “shrivels under the clods” in Joel. The “storehouses are desolate” and there is “no pasture” for flocks which are “dazed.” I think maybe Joel was a man after my own heart. I think Joel was a cynic. In Joel, trouble is everywhere, so he’s sounding the alarm. He’s blowing a trumpet “for the day of the LORD is coming, it is near—a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness!”
Joel is not playing, “The day of the LORD is great; terrible indeed—who can endure it?” The short answer is no one. Joel knew that. And we know that. No one can endure the Day of the Lord. Quoting Joel, Paul put that claim at the very heart of his letter: “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” We don’t save ourselves. We’re saved by calling on the name of the Lord.
Like the air we breathe, life is pure gift. I mean, who wakes up and says, “Well, I’m glad I gave myself birth.” In the same way, none of us wakes up and says, “I’m glad I’m a good person and I’m going to heaven.” Heaven, like birth, is God’s free gift. And when we receive the gift nothing is ever the same. Joel said it this way, “I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female slaves, in those days, I will pour out my spirit.”
We are those on whom God has poured out God’s Spirit. The drought has ended, bread and wine abound. “Children of Zion, be glad and rejoice in the LORD your God.”
Stewardship is not about ratcheting up our enthusiasm or digging a little deeper. Stewardship is about responding to God’s abundance. We can’t give what we don’t have. And if you haven’t received abundantly you’re not going to give abundantly. Stewardship is not about sacrifice—at least not our sacrifice. It is about the Lord’s sacrifice. It is only about our sacrifice to the extent that we are lost in Wonder, Love and Praise for the sacrifice which fills our cup.
I’m a sinner. I’m a cynic saved by grace and my cup overflows. We are sinners, saved by grace. Stewardship expresses thanksgiving for our salvation. The stewardship of our lives and the gifts of our money honor God with praise and thanksgiving. That’s about as simple as I know how to make it. God is good. Let us thank God. Amen.