Luke 19:1-10
Rev. Dr. Debbie Clark
Sept. 7, 2020
We had never met. Fran and I have lived in our house for 24 years. George and Sharon have lived in their house, about two blocks away, for almost as long. It’s on my regular dog-walking route, so I have passed their home at least a thousand times.
One day in May, I saw George and Sharon out on their front lawn, reading in the shade. I waved. They waved back. I saw them again the next day—and the next and the next—all through this summer. Their new COVID-19 routines and my new COVID-10 routines had brought us together.
Our interactions grew from a wave to a friendly greeting, to shouted introductions from across the street, to that oh-so-safe conversation starter of Jeannie the giant poodle. One day George asked me about the sign he’d seen on our lawn—the one that says, “In this house, we believe black lives matter, no human is illegal, women’s rights are human rights, love is love, science is real, kindness matters.” “Where did you get it?” he asked. “How can I get one?” In that moment, our connection grew beyond surface neighborliness. The Holy Spirit was at work.
I tell this story because it feels unusual—a human connection made possible by this COVID-19 pandemic. For the most part, my experience is that COVID has disrupted human connection.
What I miss the most about in-person church is the space it creates for unplanned conversations. They happen all over the campus—in the parking lot after a meeting, when we follow up with each other about a prayer concern. In the choir room as singers put on their robes. In the kitchen as volunteers wash dishes and swap stories. On Edwards Street as families walk down the hill after church. By the train table, as children and youth and adults of all ages talk about school and play and life.
Some of the conversations are casual ones; some surprise us with their depth, as we share our lives, our wisdom, our struggles and our hopes. Always, the Holy Spirit is at work in those moments, bringing us together, strengthening the ties that bind us, deepening the shared roots of caring that ground our congregation.
I have this image of our campus as a place full of wind tunnels—through which the Holy Spirit swoops around doing her miraculous work of making us a community. It’s a glorious image—except for now, when it feels like a stark one. The doors are closed. How can the Spirit move? Is God’s Spirit, God’s holy yearning to bring us closer together, trapped swirling hopelessly around an empty campus?
Of course not. The Holy Spirit is far more creative than that. God is not constrained by doors, by distance, not even by a pandemic. God’s Spirit is very much at home on our campus—and God’s Spirit does not obey Stay at Home orders.
On vacation, Fran and I found ourselves bemoaning the loss of what we called “accidental ministry”—the pastoral version of those unplanned conversations that happen so readily on our campus. A serendipitous cup of tea when someone drops by the office. For Fran, an unplanned encounter in the hallway at the Scandinavian Living Center…. Fran and I called them accidental because we didn’t have to put anything in our calendars; they seemed to be chance encounters through which the Holy Spirit moved. I found myself thinking of the “good old days” when so many powerful connections could happen through the accident of physical proximity, in contrast to “these days” when it seems the only way to make a connection is through our own efforts. It feels as though the Holy Spirit used to flow freely, and now it takes a lot of hard work.
That feeling, of course, is as off-base as that picture of the Spirit banging into doors on an empty campus. Always, from the earliest days of Christianity, church community has developed through a wondrously complex intersection of the hard work of people and the movement of the Holy Spirit. In our pre-COVID campus life, we worked hard to open up those wind tunnels through which the Spirit moved. We got up on Sunday mornings in time to drive or walk or pick others up for church. We rearranged dinner to go to meetings and Bible Studies and choir rehearsals. We made conscious choices to start conversations with people we didn’t know. The Spirit moved freely—and it was not by accident.
The Spirit’s capacity—and yearning—to draw us together has not changed. The truth that community is created through a complex interweaving of human intention and divine intervention also has not changed. What has changed is that the familiar ways we contribute to that interweaving aren’t currently possible. We need new ways of opening ourselves to the Spirit bringing us together.
I chose the Zacchaeus story today because his tree-climbing feat offers a vivid metaphor for the challenge we face. Zacchaeus showed up to see Jesus, longing for inspiration, for connection. There were circumstances beyond his control–the size of the crowd, his own short stature—that got in the way of his yearning. He realized he needed a new approach, and he looked around to see what was possible. He did something he probably never imagined he would do. He climbed a sycamore tree. His hard work paid off: he had the perfect line of sight to see Jesus, and the perfect line of sight for Jesus to see him. It took a lot of creativity and effort to open the space for the Spirit to move, enabling a connection that changed his life.
What is our equivalent today of climbing the sycamore tree? What are the creative new efforts we can make, our contribution to a renewed divine-human partnership of deepening connection? How do we open up new wind tunnels through which the Holy Spirit can move?
Climbing a tree is risky. I suspect that developing new habits to enable connection in this time may feel equally risky. I’ve had multiple conversations in recent months about how hard it can be to pick up the phone and call someone we miss. We assume they are too busy, and we don’t want to intrude. We wonder whether they want to talk with us as much as we want to talk with them. We are concerned we don’t have a good enough reason to call. For some of us, some of the time, it is as risky as climbing a tree.
And, I believe, it is as important to our lives and our church as climbing that tree turned out to be for Zacchaeus. There are many challenges our congregation faces in this time—keeping Zoom worship fresh, assuring financial stability in an unstable time, preparing our buildings for our eventual safe return. Of all the challenges we face, this one is the most important, for it is at the heart of being church. How can we be intentional and creative as we reach out to connect with one another?
In a few minutes, as we share in Holy Communion, you will have the opportunity to turn on your video cameras. Depending on the size of your screen, you will see at least a few faces. I invite you to pick one out, someone you have missed. This week, reach out to them. If a phone call doesn’t feel right, try a text or an email, or even an old-fashioned hand-written note. Invite them to join you for a masked, physically-distanced walk. Tell them about a book you’ve read that you think they’d enjoy. Encourage them to sign up for the Anti-Racism Training with you. Or just let them know you care. Then next week, consider doing the same thing with someone else you miss.
For some of us, this invitation is an opportunity to claim what you are already doing. If so, celebrate the human-divine partnership at work. For others, it may feel risky. If so, I encourage you to climb the tree anyway. Dare to trust that the Holy Spirit will meet you there. Dare to trust that the Holy Spirit will move in and through and beyond your efforts, blessing you and all of us with the miracle of ever-deepening connection. Amen.