No Mixed Signals

Your gates shall always be open;

day and night they shall not be shut.

(Isaiah 60:11a)

A sermon by Siegfried S. Johnson on World Communion Sunday, October 1, 2006

(Volume 1 Number 15)

First United Methodist Church, 605 West Sixth, Mountain Home, Arkansas 72653

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Charles Kuralt, of Dateline America fame, tells of a cafe in Indiana displaying the sign, “Open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”  Seeking to enter, Mr. Kuralt saw a smaller sign attached to that unambiguous welcome.  It said,  “Closed Thursdays.”  Mixed signals.  “Our gates to this cafe shall be always open!  24 - 7.  Day and night they shall not be shut.  Oh, except Thursdays.”

One of my favorite Frank and Ernest cartoons is similar.  The pair approaches a restaurant with a proud sign, “We don’t know the word  Closed.”  Imagine their surprise when they try to enter and find the restaurant door chained and bolted.  A sign hangs from the chain, “Not Open.”  They may not know the word “Closed,” but they know how to say, “Not open.”  Mixed Signals.

A Wall Street Journal cartoon poked fun at today’s modern workplace frustration with computers.  As a man works at his computer, an instruction pops up with which any of us who have computers are familiar, “Hit any key to continue.”  When he hits a random key another screen pops up, “No, idiot, not that one.”  Mixed Signals.

I wonder.  Does the church’s message ever convey Mixed Signals?  “Open for grace.  24 -7.  Come.  Anyone.  Anytime.”  Then, as a person draws close, “No, sorry.  ‘Anyone’ doesn’t mean you.  ‘Anytime’ doesn’t mean now.”  Does the church ever communicate Mixed Signals?

The First Sunday of October is World Communion Sunday.  You approach this altar seeking a sense of Divine Presence, of divine forgiveness.  You feel drawn to participate in Christ’s redemptive act.  To eat of the body broken for you.  To drink of the blood shed for you.  You want to know that Christ’s death has given you life.  Even you.  Especially you.  Yesterday.  Today.  Tomorrow.  The gates of God’s kingdom opened 24 -7. 

When it comes to the sacrament of Holy Communion, it can be said that we Methodists don’t know the word “Closed.”  Ours is proudly “Open” Communion, open to any and all who seek God.  We don’t even require that small children be confirmed or make a personal profession of faith, anymore than we would require our children, before we invite them to partake in our Thanksgiving Feast, to give intellectual assent to and proof of understanding the historical events of the Pilgrims and the Mayflower.  This is a feast of God’s grace, open it to all who are hungry, all who are thirsty, without checking credentials.  We embrace, in this sacrament, a larger family.  Open always.  24 - 7.  You see it in our logo:  Open Hearts.  Open Minds.  Open Doors. 

No, we Methodists don’t know the word “Closed.” But I wonder.  Do we sometimes, somehow, covey the message, “Not Open?”

In the older liturgies, which I love and which are ingrained in me from childhood, your minister may say words like these, “Be assured that through Christ your freely, honestly, and earnestly confessed sins are forgiven.”  Clear message?  Good News?  Free and amazing grace?  Open to all?  24 - 7? 

Well, perhaps you read it like that.  But listen again.  Listen closer and this time let’s put the em-PHA-sis on a different syl-LA-ble.  Rather than emphasizing the invitation to be assured of forgiveness, let’s stress those three lurking adverbs.  “Be assured that through Christ your freely, honestly, and earnestly confessed sins are forgiven.”  Did you hear the Mixed Signals?  Those adverb qualifiers (freely, honestly, earnestly) have the potential to swell into the Giants of Despair. 

Hearing that, I can imagine someone wondering.  “Am I invited to an assurance of forgiveness ONLY to the extent that my confession is free and honest and earnest?  If so, I may be in trouble. How can the promises apply to me?  Just how freely have I confessed?  How honestly?  How earnestly?  How can I be sure that I’ve been honest and earnest enough?”  Mixed signals. 

Does the worshiper have an ear to hear the grace offered, leaving the altar with an assurance of pardon and a spiritual sense of inner peace?  Or does this person put the em-PHA-sis on a different syl-LA-ble, hearing loudly those adverb qualifiers, leaving with a profound sense of unworthiness to participate in a promise so amassed with conditions?

It’s a theological dilemma caused by the limitations of language.  “Confess” is a verb.  As we have read in our Introit and in our reading from 1 John, “If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”  Confess.  That’s all.  No adverbs.  No qualifiers.  Still, do we not rightly sense the need to guard confession against insincerity?  The only mechanism we have that will lead people beyond a mere perfunctory recital of sin without remorse, without intent to change, is to attach qualifying adverbs reminding us that confession is no mechanical duty, but a heart-prompted act.  Still, how far do we go in guarding against insincere confession before we risk driving the honest seeker of God to a self-examination which erodes or possibly negates assurance?

To pose the question another way, is confession a measurable act?  Do you imagine God attaches gauges to one’s confession?  “This man’s confession is ‘absolutely’ free and honest and earnest.  That woman’s confession is only ‘moderately’ free and honest and earnest.  And that poor fellow there.  His confession is only ‘marginally’ free and honest and earnest.”  If confession of sins is a measurable act, we need revelation from God regarding a ranking system, we need to know what level on the gauge is the minimal level of acceptance.  

A man once said to Jesus, “Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.”  He was aware of the struggle in his heart and mind between faith and doubt.  So also must we pray, “Lord, I confess and repent the best I know how.  Though I fear it is not honest enough, not earnest enough, help thou my lack of honesty and earnestness.” 

Let me offer another example of how church-speak has the potential to send Mixed Signals. Listen to this old invitation to the table of Holy Communion, again from the 1938 Book of Discipline, which will be immediately recognized by you who grew up in the Methodist Church.  “Ye that do truly and earnestly repent of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbors, draw near in faith.”  Do you hear the Mixed Signals?  While the words have the intent of drawing us to grace, do they not also possess the potential to paralyze us from approaching the altar?  “Have I repented ‘truly and earnestly’ enough?  Just how ‘truly and earnestly’ must I repent before I’m accepted at this table?  And, am I ‘in love and charity with my neighbors’?  What about that spat I had yesterday with Mrs. So and So?”  I have personal stories of some who would seldom receive communion when offered, out of guilt for a difficulty in their relationships with family and friends.  Withdrawing from the Table with an “I’m not worthy” comment sounds spiritual and humble, but in fact it reverses intention of the sacrament, for who among us is worthy?  Our unworthiness is, in fact, our ticket to this table.  You see, there is a subtle danger of sending Mixed Signals through quantifying our repentance and faith. 

The old rituals, of course, knew this and came to grips with this dilemma of language in the statement, again recognized by many who grew up in the Methodist Church, “We do not presume to come to this thy table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies.  We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table.  But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy.  Grant us, therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that our sinful souls and bodies may be made clean by his death, and washed through his most precious blood, and that we may evermore dwell with him, and he in us.” 

In the liturgy we will use this morning, there are words that are a bit uncomfortable for some of us who grew up with these older forms.  After the minister says, “Hear the Good News: Christ died for us while we were yet sinners.  That proves God’s love for us,” he declares, “In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven.”  The people respond to the minister, “In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven.”  Then, all join in praise, “Glory to God.  Amen.” 

It should be obvious why this language is uncomfortable for some.  How can any minister or congregation declare sins forgiven?  Surely we all agree that only God can gauge how true and honest and earnest one’s confession is.  Only God can, at last, declare, “You are forgiven.”  What is that language doing upon our lips, when it is an act only God can accomplish?

These words, however, far from being understood as an attempt to play God, are spoken in the same spirit as John, who wrote, “This is the message we have heard of God and declare unto you.” (1 John 1:5).  In the text we read, the word “declare” is used by John four times.  In other words, when we declare to one another, “You are forgiven!” we do so not on our own authority, as if we possessed power to forgive sins.  Rather, we are declaring “in the name of Christ,” thus we voice our agreement with the gospel’s amazing Good News.  Even for me.  Even for you.  Even today. 

 “Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine, O what a foretaste of Glory Divine.”   As we now are invited to the altar, let us experience in the Body and Blood of Jesus, a foretaste of glory divine.

Sources and notes:

The Doctrines and Discipline of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, 1938.