“Be Not Afraid”
Sermon by The Rev. Wallace Adams-Riley
Rector, St. Paul's Episcopal Church
August 8, 2010 - The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
Listen to the Sermon
Sermon Text
Dear God, take my lips and speak through them;
Take our minds, and think through them;
Take our hearts, and set them on fire. Amen.
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We were probably at around 9,000 feet, I suppose, when the pair in front of us were told to get ready.
In a moment, they would climb out the small door to our right, and onto the platform positioned below the wing.
And then, I knew, sometime soon thereafter we, the second (and only other) tandem pair, would be told to get ready.
My friend Trey and his instructor went through a last-minute check of their equipment, Trey being in the front position, with his instructor tethered behind him. They also reviewed what to do on the way down; in particular, what to do when coming in for the landing.
As I watched and listened to Trey and his instructor, from maybe a foot behind them, (quarters were tight, in the small fuselage), (as I watched and listened to them) a choice suddenly came into an unusually sharp focus.
And it wasn't simply (actually?) the question of whether I would go or not.
It was the question, first, of where I would put my attention.
Would I focus my attention on the danger and the fear, or would I direct my attention to what I needed to do?
And I knew, I knew that if I gave my attention and my imagination over to the danger and the fear, I knew, without question, I knew that I simply would not go; that I never would climb out onto that little platform, under the wing: If I put my attention on the fear, I would go: nowhere.
On the other hand, I was pretty confident that, if I put my attention on doing the next right thing; if I focused simply on the small things that I needed to do, one at a time, that, in a few minutes, I would probably end up enjoying a remarkable and, for me, unprecedented experience.
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And, moments later, sure enough, as we went spinning off the platform, at 11,600 feet, and the wind whipped by at 120 miles an hour, I was already grateful that I had not given over to fear.
As we roared through the air, I remember laughing and screaming in exhilaration, until, that is, the wind quickly sucked every bit of moisture out of my mouth, and I was forced to shut it.
(That's right, if you ever want to shut me up; all you have to do is: throw me out an airplane.)
Meanwhile, strapped to my chest, so that I could see it, was an altimeter. One job I had on the way down was to watch the altimeter. After 6,000 feet of free-fall, at 5,500 feet, I was supposed to signal my instructor (floating, tethered, just behind me) by flashing 5-5 with my hands; and then I was supposed to pull the rip-cord.
Well, I dutifully glanced at the altimeter occasionally as we fell, until, indeed, we reached 5,500 feet, and I flashed 5-5. Only I didn't pull the rip-cord.
I suppose I would have gotten around to it eventually; but, I suppose, I was simply so taken in by the experience that I just neglected that one little duty.
Well, anyway, the next thing I knew, a massive jolt brought us from wild, hurtling free fall to a sudden and beautiful calm, as we floated serenely through the big blue sky, with billowing, cottony clouds spread all around.
At one point, I literally put my hand through a cloud. And the quiet was amazing; exquisite, really: the wonderful, peaceful calm, dare I say, heavenly, quiet.
And so, down we floated; as buildings and tree lines and such slowly came into greater and still greater definition. And closer and closer it all came; until, finally, according to plan, we flared the parachute, thus breaking the speed of descent, until we came gently down, jogging to a stop.
After a moment, of taking it all in, and getting used to being on the ground again, I looked down and saw the rip-cord in my hand.
And I turned to my instructor, and said, "I don't remember pulling this!"
And he said, "You didn't. I did. And I handed it to you."
I didn't remember any of that.
I trust, again, that, at some point, if he hadn't pulled the cord, I would have.
I'm grateful that I didn't have to find out.
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Anyway, the experience (of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane at 11,600 feet) has stayed with me, for any number of reasons; as you might imagine. That being said, perhaps more than anything else, even more than floating serenely through, as e. e. cummings puts it: a "blue true dream of sky," even more than that, the thing that impressed me most was that (earlier) moment when I realized, very suddenly and starkly, that I had a choice to make. I had a choice to make.
Would I choose to give over to the fear? Or, would I choose to look through and past the fear to the moment at hand the opportunity at hand?
That moment, waiting to climb out under the wing, has become a defining metaphor for me.
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We all have fears, whether we are conscious of them or not.
Indeed, to be human is to know fear.
This is true literally from the moment we leave the warmth and security of the womb, as the tell-tale wail of the newborn attests.
And fear is part of everyday life, of course, be it fear over one's health, or one's job; fear about being left alone, or about going bankrupt.
Yes, fear is woven into the human experience.
As we grow into maturity, however, the question increasingly becomes, not simply: how to live with fear, but how to live with and beyond fear.
Fear will remain, but how do we learn to live in such a way that fear does not get the better of us, does not hold us, keep us, back, from doing what God would have us do; that fear would not keep us from really living the lives that God would have us live.
And so, in this morning's gospel passage, we hear Jesus say, "Be not afraid."
Be not afraid. And be ready, he says.
"Be dressed for action," Jesus says, "Be dressed for action, and have your lamps lit."
"Be alert," and, "Be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks."
And, finally: "You must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour."
Be ready. And be not afraid.
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Clearly Jesus has in mind, here, his return at the end of the ages. However, as have Christians in every generation, we too hear and receive Jesus' counsel as being about, not only the end (of our lives), but, in the meantime, the very living of our lives, day to day.
Jesus invites us, Jesus calls us into a way of living, a way of being, that chooses faith over fear, a way of being that chooses trust, over desperation.
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Needless to say, this is not a choice we make once; and then we're done with it. Of course not.
This is a way of life. A way of life, the Way, Jesus is telling us. His way.
This is what it means to truly live, Jesus is telling us. To live as God intends. Free. Empowered. Ready to act. Ready: to follow God's prompting.
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Again, there will always be fear. There will always be many fears.
That is not the question.
The question is whether, day by day, we make the choice Jesus makes.
The choice for life. The choice to make the leap. The leap, yes: of faith.
Even if, even when, sometimes, it feels like a free fall. Jesus tells us not to be afraid.
Jesus tells us to be ready; and to trust, as he does.
And that, when we are afraid, his peace, he assures us, his peace, his blue true peace, the peace that comes from trusting, in God, is already on the way.
Be not... Be not afraid.
