Matthew 11:18-19, 25-30
“Speak to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” - Ephesians 5:19 NKJV
Today’s sermon is more of a story. It is 100% true, and it shows the power of music that God has used to great effect—not so much at times to teach us something, but so that we might encounter the eternal. Not simply to talk about peace and harmony, but to be struck, as by a meteor. The word that most accurately describes the event is shalom. It is a Hebrew word easily translated as peace, but it has many more layers. It encapsulates a universal harmony, the web of mutuality that Dr. King spoke of, the peace of all life that Isaiah dreamed about, the joy of human love shared without boundaries, and ultimately, our perfect union with God.
There is a song this week, but rather than analyze it, we will make a journey. There are times when a song transcends the meaning of the lyrics and its author. At this moment, you see not only the hand of the writer and singer but the hand of God. I want to share with you just such a moment.
But first, let’s set the stage through today’s text, which makes clear that Jesus spent a great deal of time with the so-called “sinners and tax collectors.” And in today’s lesson, He invites us as well, "Come to me, all that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."
But Jesus doesn’t leave it at that. It is not only physical. He levels it up, "…rest to your souls."
Jesus recognized that whether we are rich or poor, this world at times offers more than we can handle.
Youth can become particularly susceptible to this vortex of purposelessness, as they are often forced to spend all their time in school on their own future. They become bored with such a self-centered life. But the mission work they do from churches around the country relieves the burdens of others, making them Christ’s hands and feet, giving others His rest and comfort.
They have:
Packed endless meals for the hungry.
Brought together endless supplies for the homeless.
Raised millions for disadvantaged children.
Hammered untold nails to fix houses.
They get it!
Such work helps us believe—believe in goodness, believe in God. It helps us to feel we are a part of something greater than our own immediate problems.
John Polkinghorne devoted his life to thinking about the place where science and religion meet. He wrote:
"Despite the strangeness, bitterness, and incompleteness of this present life, human beings do not give way to despair. In the human heart, there is something that responds to the conviction expressed so powerfully by Julian of Norwich, that in the end, 'all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.'”
And 20 years ago, I felt the power of Julian of Norwich’s words more profoundly and clearly than I ever had before in my life. For a moment, the sense of God’s power and love and sovereignty was completely clear to me, without even a shadow of a doubt in my heart.
New York City is such an enthralling place because it is such a juxtaposition of all of humanity—the most noble virtues, the worst vices. Some of the wealthiest and most famous, and some of the most impoverished, destitute, and disturbed. In 2003, I saw it all.
Jesus’ mission always called for others to come alongside Him. And that week, He took me and a dozen youth on a mission trip from Buffalo to New York.
For seven days, we had an absolutely clear purpose: to help Christ free the burdens of those on the streets, to give them rest. But our burden was lifted even higher.
We stayed at the church of my childhood, Broadway Presbyterian Church. I had not been there for 25 years, but I remembered the fellowship hall that I raced my brothers in, the bell tower that I climbed to the top of (without my mother’s permission), and the pews I crawled under (while my mother was out of reach in the pulpit!). They had a shelter in the basement, and the youth sat down with these folk and just listened to their stories and endless opinions on politics. They willingly shared their deepest pain and sometimes shameful experiences with an honesty and openness rarely found in this world.
As we were exiting the building, we ran into Jerry Seinfeld!
"Cool shades," he said to two of our youth! They seized the opportunity and had their picture taken with him! It was a thrill, but ultimately, I think they were more captivated by Austin—a man formerly from the street.
One night, we assisted in Midnight Run, a ministry that feeds the homeless. We were asked to make sandwiches to deliver on the streets and be ready at 10:30 p.m. to go out. After we assembled 130 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, we were picked up by Austin.
Austin looked like he fell out of an overpacked suitcase and wielded an Irish shillelagh, which we mistakenly called a cane, but he spoke like a professor of American cultural idiosyncrasies. Now sleeping in a warm and cozy home, he devoted his life to helping those still on the streets.
We drove by The Met just as a performance had ended and saw some of the most exquisite dresses ever made by human hands. Two blocks later, we opened the back of the vans and proceeded to hand out clothes and food to those hidden in the dark corners of that neighborhood. The juxtaposition of such wealth and such poverty right next door to each other was not lost on our youth, who were struck hard by it.
Later, we stopped outside Central Park when, for a moment, we saw Christ’s dream come true.
It was 1:30 in the morning, and it was by far the busiest stop of the night. In fact, one passerby called the police because he thought a fight had broken out from the rush of people. A score of police showed up on the scene in moments. But they quickly saw that nothing problematic was taking place. Rather than a fight, it was a conglomeration of my Buffalo youth and the homeless sharing a glass of lemonade, trading jokes, and enjoying the beauty of the night.
But there was one woman who stood out. She hated the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and was dissatisfied with the selection of clothes—the only grumpy one in the bunch. But as we were getting ready to leave, she pulled us back and asked her friend on the street, John, to play us a song.
He wore those round rainbow glasses, so he resembled John Lennon, and we expected a Beatles song. As he tuned his guitar, we began to wonder if he could really play, since he seemed to be using the tuning as a delay tactic. Soon, everyone nearby gathered to listen—there must have been about forty people. The pressure mounted, and it seemed his tuning wouldn’t stop. Then, he began to play.
That’s when it happened. Suddenly, that woman was transformed. She wore an expression you mostly only see on the faces of children. It was the face of pure delight. I think she was crabby because she had been tired of always receiving, and she knew she could not give us anything material. But now, she smiled, knowing that they were giving us something special.
As I recall the moment, it is the moon that I remember. It was dazzling, ancient, enthralling.
Full and bright, it floated through the trees. A faint crispy rustling sound—leaves rubbing against each other as a gentle breeze billowed across branches.
John treated us to a beautiful song with a beautiful message. Something happened to us, tied us together. Shalom is the only word that can capture it. The kingdom of God happened right there, on that street corner in New York City, when we experienced that soul rest Jesus promised. But it was a song by another Beatle—George Harrison—that John from the streets made his own that day.
Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth)
(George Harrison)
Give me love. Give me love
Give me peace on earth
Give me light. Give me life
Keep me free from birth
Give me hope. Help me cope
With this heavy load
Trying to touch and reach you with
Heart and soul
O . . . my Lord . . . PLEASE take hold of my hand
That I might understand you
Won't you please? Oh, won't you…
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