When Nothing More Can Be Done
Sermon
Sermons on the First Readings
Series II, Cycle C
Object:
Colleen was a good woman with a bad heart. She had been a member of my last congregation for more than thirty years, ever since she'd married a man who'd grown up in our church. But for several years, she had been living with a weakened heart. It was just one of those things that afflict some people, and she'd been doctoring for it for some time. Initially, she'd kept working, but as she missed more and more days on the job because of the problems from her heart, it eventually became clear that she could not continue. By the time I arrived at that parish, Colleen, in her late fifties, was essentially homebound.
Because of the limits imposed by her health, she hadn't been able to come to church in more than two years. I'd visited her in her home a few times, and I also saw her at the hospital during several stays where she underwent various treatments and procedures. In fact, she'd been hospitalized for a few days right before the particular visit with her that I am about to narrate to you.
When I'd seen her in the hospital a couple of days earlier, she had not yet received the final report from the doctor, but she'd hoped that he'd have some new therapy or medicine to relieve her of her deepening weakness. So on the first day she was back home, I stopped by her house to find out what she'd learned.
I found her there alone. Her husband was out on an errand. After she invited me in, I asked what her doctor had said.
When she answered me, there was the sound of astonishment in her voice. What she said was, "He told me, 'Go home and prepare to die!'"
Frankly, I didn't know what to say. Certainly, nothing I'd learned in seminary or from my previous experience provided a clue about an appropriate response. Finally, I asked, "Is there nothing at all that can be done?"
"No," she said. "My overall health is too far gone. He said I probably won't live out the week."
It was a surreal moment. There we were, sitting in her sunlit, tidy little home surrounded by the glory of awakening nature in early spring. And there was Colleen, who, except perhaps for looking a little tired, appeared to be fine. And in that homey, friendly, bright environment, Colleen was calmly saying that she probably had less than a week to live. It was one of those times when the evidence all around you makes it difficult to accept what your ears are hearing. In fact, I asked her about the possibility of a transplant or seeing other specialists, but Colleen explained that all those things had been explored. There really was nothing more that could be done.
And, as it turned out, in less than a week, I was called to conduct Colleen's funeral.
Colleen came to my mind a few years later when I was watching the movie, Titanic. There is period right after the great ship has hit the iceberg where things still seem to be okay. The officers know that something has happened, but for the moment, the ship appears to be steaming on as usual. The passengers, after having been jarred a bit by the bump, have returned to their activities and things are carrying on as before. The ship's designer is on board, however, and he goes below to inspect the damage. He sees the water pouring in and makes some quick calculations. Then, in the movie, he meets with the captain and other officials. After explaining his calculations, he states his conclusion: within a few brief hours, the ship is going to go down. And there is nothing they can do to prevent that from happening.
Can you imagine what the men at that meeting were thinking at the moment? "He can't be right. The ship is still going along all right. There must be some repairs we can make. After all, this ship was built to be unsinkable." The evidence seen by their eyes was screaming against the information they were hearing, but as we know, that information was correct, and the ship went down that night, taking more than 1,500 people with it.
If you can put your mind into the startling effect of either of those there's-nothing-more-that-can-be-done incidents, then you are in a position to understand how the prophet Amos must have felt when he received the word from God that is recorded in today's reading. God's message must have come as a jolt to Amos. In the earlier part of the book, we see this prophet delivering the message he had received from God, and while it was filled with judgment against the people for their sins, there was at least still an element of hope in it: If the people will repent and turn from their sins, disaster could be averted.
The people have resisted Amos' call for repentance, however, and so now, in chapter 8, Amos hears a new word from God. In a vision, Amos sees a basket filled with summer fruit. God then explains to Amos the meaning of the vision, saying, "The end has come to my people Israel."
Actually, we'd have to be able to read this passage in the original Hebrew to make the connection. The Hebrew word for summer fruit is qayits, and the word for end is qets. The two words are not related in meaning, but they sound similar, and that is the basis for the association.1 The message Amos hears is, "Israel's summer is almost over and the harvest of judgment has come." Essentially, God is telling Amos that the people have gone on too long in their sins and have passed a point of no return, and the nation will suffer an unwanted fate. And that is exactly what happened. Less than thirty years later, Israel fell to the Assyrians and many of the people were dispersed to other lands.
So Amos, too, hears the word that nothing more can be done.
There is a moment with a similar kind of impact in the New Testament, when Jesus prayed in the garden the night before his crucifixion. He prayed, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup [meaning his arrest and crucifixion] pass from me" (Matthew 26:39), but what he evidently hears from his Father is that it is not possible, not if Jesus is going to be faithful to his Father's will. Nothing more could be done, and so Jesus adds, "Yet not what I want but what you want." At that moment, it might have still been possible for Jesus to get up and run for his life, but he chose to remain.
We, too, have faced awful circumstances where nothing more could be done. We've gotten that unwanted diagnosis. We've seen cherished relationships come abruptly to an end. We've seen great opportunities forever lost. We've seen irrevocable choices we've made end in horrendous consequences. We've heard the finality of the words, "It's too late." We've had to learn the meaning of the phrase, "It's terminal."
So what can we say to all of this darkness? We can say this, that great affirmation all Christians share: In Christ, the end is not the end. In Christ, what we call the end is the great beginning of eternity. That affirmation is true whether you are a Baptist, a Lutheran, a Catholic, a Methodist, or any of the denominations into which Christians divide themselves, for we hold in common that powerful reality that Jesus both taught in words and demonstrated with his resurrection: The end is not the end.
It is true that Christians share a belief in an end of this age, but we should note that such a doctrine is not really about ending. Rather it is about a new beginning, the beginning of God's kingdom fully come and the beginning of true life in its enduring form. Yes, we observe and remember the crucifixion of Christ, but our highest holy day is not Good Friday; it is Easter. Ultimately, while the whole Christian year, in one sense, marches us toward the cross, it does not leave us there. It pauses there, to be sure, but eventually it delivers us to Easter.
That sense of eternity sometimes comes out in the darkest moments of finality, the time when it is suddenly clear that nothing more can be done. On 9/11, Madeline Amy Sweeney, a 35-year-old mother of two small children, was one of the flight attendants on board American Flight 11, the plane that eventually was the first to be rammed into the World Trade Center. As the hijacking was under way, Sweeney, in the rear of the plane, managed to phone an American flight service manager in Boston. With remarkable calm, she told the manager what was happening, identifying the hijackers by their seat numbers. They included Mohammed Atta and four others. Sweeney reported that two flight attendants had been stabbed and that a business-class passenger had been killed by a hijacker who cut the man's throat. Moments before 8:46 a.m., she spoke of seeing water and buildings. And then, after a brief pause, when she apparently got some glimpse of what was about to happen, came her last transmission. She exclaimed, "O my God! O my God!"2
What was that? A cry of astonishment and terror certainly, but more, I think. In an instant when we suddenly comprehend that nothing more can be done, that things really are ending, from somewhere deep inside us sometimes comes the realization that the only refuge we have left is God himself. And there may only be time for the briefest of prayers: "O my God!"
When all else is gone, that is our only plea, our only prayer, our only affirmation of faith and our only claim on eternity. "O my God, receive me!" It was the prayer of Jesus on the cross -- "Father into your hands I commend my spirit" (Luke 23:46) -- and it is ours. Commending ourselves to God is what can be done -- the only thing that can be done -- when nothing more can be done.
Thank God!
__________
1. Peter C. Craigie, Twelve Prophets, Vol. 1, The Daily Study Bible Series (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1984), p. 181.
2. I gleaned Sweeney's story from several accounts of her actions on 9/11. One is a notice published in The Boston Globe, September 14, 2001, www.legacy.com/ LegacyTribute/Sept11.asp?Page=TributeStory&PersonId=91761.
Because of the limits imposed by her health, she hadn't been able to come to church in more than two years. I'd visited her in her home a few times, and I also saw her at the hospital during several stays where she underwent various treatments and procedures. In fact, she'd been hospitalized for a few days right before the particular visit with her that I am about to narrate to you.
When I'd seen her in the hospital a couple of days earlier, she had not yet received the final report from the doctor, but she'd hoped that he'd have some new therapy or medicine to relieve her of her deepening weakness. So on the first day she was back home, I stopped by her house to find out what she'd learned.
I found her there alone. Her husband was out on an errand. After she invited me in, I asked what her doctor had said.
When she answered me, there was the sound of astonishment in her voice. What she said was, "He told me, 'Go home and prepare to die!'"
Frankly, I didn't know what to say. Certainly, nothing I'd learned in seminary or from my previous experience provided a clue about an appropriate response. Finally, I asked, "Is there nothing at all that can be done?"
"No," she said. "My overall health is too far gone. He said I probably won't live out the week."
It was a surreal moment. There we were, sitting in her sunlit, tidy little home surrounded by the glory of awakening nature in early spring. And there was Colleen, who, except perhaps for looking a little tired, appeared to be fine. And in that homey, friendly, bright environment, Colleen was calmly saying that she probably had less than a week to live. It was one of those times when the evidence all around you makes it difficult to accept what your ears are hearing. In fact, I asked her about the possibility of a transplant or seeing other specialists, but Colleen explained that all those things had been explored. There really was nothing more that could be done.
And, as it turned out, in less than a week, I was called to conduct Colleen's funeral.
Colleen came to my mind a few years later when I was watching the movie, Titanic. There is period right after the great ship has hit the iceberg where things still seem to be okay. The officers know that something has happened, but for the moment, the ship appears to be steaming on as usual. The passengers, after having been jarred a bit by the bump, have returned to their activities and things are carrying on as before. The ship's designer is on board, however, and he goes below to inspect the damage. He sees the water pouring in and makes some quick calculations. Then, in the movie, he meets with the captain and other officials. After explaining his calculations, he states his conclusion: within a few brief hours, the ship is going to go down. And there is nothing they can do to prevent that from happening.
Can you imagine what the men at that meeting were thinking at the moment? "He can't be right. The ship is still going along all right. There must be some repairs we can make. After all, this ship was built to be unsinkable." The evidence seen by their eyes was screaming against the information they were hearing, but as we know, that information was correct, and the ship went down that night, taking more than 1,500 people with it.
If you can put your mind into the startling effect of either of those there's-nothing-more-that-can-be-done incidents, then you are in a position to understand how the prophet Amos must have felt when he received the word from God that is recorded in today's reading. God's message must have come as a jolt to Amos. In the earlier part of the book, we see this prophet delivering the message he had received from God, and while it was filled with judgment against the people for their sins, there was at least still an element of hope in it: If the people will repent and turn from their sins, disaster could be averted.
The people have resisted Amos' call for repentance, however, and so now, in chapter 8, Amos hears a new word from God. In a vision, Amos sees a basket filled with summer fruit. God then explains to Amos the meaning of the vision, saying, "The end has come to my people Israel."
Actually, we'd have to be able to read this passage in the original Hebrew to make the connection. The Hebrew word for summer fruit is qayits, and the word for end is qets. The two words are not related in meaning, but they sound similar, and that is the basis for the association.1 The message Amos hears is, "Israel's summer is almost over and the harvest of judgment has come." Essentially, God is telling Amos that the people have gone on too long in their sins and have passed a point of no return, and the nation will suffer an unwanted fate. And that is exactly what happened. Less than thirty years later, Israel fell to the Assyrians and many of the people were dispersed to other lands.
So Amos, too, hears the word that nothing more can be done.
There is a moment with a similar kind of impact in the New Testament, when Jesus prayed in the garden the night before his crucifixion. He prayed, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup [meaning his arrest and crucifixion] pass from me" (Matthew 26:39), but what he evidently hears from his Father is that it is not possible, not if Jesus is going to be faithful to his Father's will. Nothing more could be done, and so Jesus adds, "Yet not what I want but what you want." At that moment, it might have still been possible for Jesus to get up and run for his life, but he chose to remain.
We, too, have faced awful circumstances where nothing more could be done. We've gotten that unwanted diagnosis. We've seen cherished relationships come abruptly to an end. We've seen great opportunities forever lost. We've seen irrevocable choices we've made end in horrendous consequences. We've heard the finality of the words, "It's too late." We've had to learn the meaning of the phrase, "It's terminal."
So what can we say to all of this darkness? We can say this, that great affirmation all Christians share: In Christ, the end is not the end. In Christ, what we call the end is the great beginning of eternity. That affirmation is true whether you are a Baptist, a Lutheran, a Catholic, a Methodist, or any of the denominations into which Christians divide themselves, for we hold in common that powerful reality that Jesus both taught in words and demonstrated with his resurrection: The end is not the end.
It is true that Christians share a belief in an end of this age, but we should note that such a doctrine is not really about ending. Rather it is about a new beginning, the beginning of God's kingdom fully come and the beginning of true life in its enduring form. Yes, we observe and remember the crucifixion of Christ, but our highest holy day is not Good Friday; it is Easter. Ultimately, while the whole Christian year, in one sense, marches us toward the cross, it does not leave us there. It pauses there, to be sure, but eventually it delivers us to Easter.
That sense of eternity sometimes comes out in the darkest moments of finality, the time when it is suddenly clear that nothing more can be done. On 9/11, Madeline Amy Sweeney, a 35-year-old mother of two small children, was one of the flight attendants on board American Flight 11, the plane that eventually was the first to be rammed into the World Trade Center. As the hijacking was under way, Sweeney, in the rear of the plane, managed to phone an American flight service manager in Boston. With remarkable calm, she told the manager what was happening, identifying the hijackers by their seat numbers. They included Mohammed Atta and four others. Sweeney reported that two flight attendants had been stabbed and that a business-class passenger had been killed by a hijacker who cut the man's throat. Moments before 8:46 a.m., she spoke of seeing water and buildings. And then, after a brief pause, when she apparently got some glimpse of what was about to happen, came her last transmission. She exclaimed, "O my God! O my God!"2
What was that? A cry of astonishment and terror certainly, but more, I think. In an instant when we suddenly comprehend that nothing more can be done, that things really are ending, from somewhere deep inside us sometimes comes the realization that the only refuge we have left is God himself. And there may only be time for the briefest of prayers: "O my God!"
When all else is gone, that is our only plea, our only prayer, our only affirmation of faith and our only claim on eternity. "O my God, receive me!" It was the prayer of Jesus on the cross -- "Father into your hands I commend my spirit" (Luke 23:46) -- and it is ours. Commending ourselves to God is what can be done -- the only thing that can be done -- when nothing more can be done.
Thank God!
__________
1. Peter C. Craigie, Twelve Prophets, Vol. 1, The Daily Study Bible Series (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1984), p. 181.
2. I gleaned Sweeney's story from several accounts of her actions on 9/11. One is a notice published in The Boston Globe, September 14, 2001, www.legacy.com/ LegacyTribute/Sept11.asp?Page=TributeStory&PersonId=91761.
