Stop me if you have heard or spoken these seven words
in recent days: I just can’t wait until it’s over. I heard it four
times from parishioners last Sunday alone. In fact, the
phrase feels like a kind of mantra for the moment we’re
in, the one sentiment that transcends all our division and
unites everyone. We are weary with our worry as we wait
for what comes next. We are exhausted by our outrage.
I empathize with all who feel this way; I understand
the hope that soon and very soon the fever will break,
the temperature will drop, and our relationships can be
restored. I just can’t wait until it’s over.
This morning, I want to suggest that, from the perspective
of faith, this yearning is misguided. Here’s why. Moments
of consequential decision do not arrive in four-year
cycles. We must be careful not to circumscribe our Godgiven responsibility to deadlines of human construction.
Four weeks ago, here at Second, we introduced a
covenant for faithful living in divided times. Our hope
was to offer some scriptural guidance for how people
of Christian faith can respond to situations of hostility
or dissension. We listed five promises built on Biblical
values that shape our character. Over the last month, this
covenant has taken root and branched out. I’ve loved
hearing stories of members who put the covenant on the
refrigerator for daily viewing. One man this week told me
that he had taped it to his desk right next to his keyboard.
When I asked him why, he said, “Well, that’s the place
I’m most apt to fall short.” I’ve loved hearing how the
covenant has sparked conversation at dinner tables and
workplaces and church meetings. Earlier this week, I
heard from a pastor in Mendocino in Northern California
who used the covenant in a retreat with his church
leaders last weekend. The pastor wrote me, “Please
convey to the makers of the covenant that [our elders]
resonated with the scriptural passages. It led to deep
conversations, vulnerability, and a commitment to listen
to one another. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
Now, imagine that next Sunday I stood before you and
said, “Good news! It’s over. Mission accomplished. You
may now rip up those covenants and abandon those
promises. Live however you choose now.” I trust you get
the point. The commitments contained in the covenant
remind us that we have ongoing agency. We are not
pawns positioned by powerful players who manage
our every move. We make choices. Choices that reveal
our moral core and determine our direction. Character
means choosing. This week and every week.
The words I just read come from the very end of the book
of Joshua, just before the old man dies at 110 years old.
This is Joshua’s final speech, his last chance to address
his people, the ones who raised him up and taught him
the faith, the ones who respected him enough to follow
his lead after the death of his mentor Moses.
Joshua gathers them at Shechem. The place matters.
It is the same spot God appeared to Abraham with a
covenant of faithfulness generations earlier. And in
that sacred space, Joshua uses his final words to urge
this people to reaffirm that covenant, to renew their
commitment. He asks them to make a choice, and he
demands that they do it immediately—choose this day
whom you will serve. The choice is stark. Two roads
diverge. Idolatry or fidelity. It’s time to choose.
Whom will you serve?
Joshua’s language is precise, and it is repeated. Some
version of the Hebrew word abad appears nine times in
these five verses. What does it mean? Most translations
use serve. “Choose this day whom you will serve.” But
Hebrew is an elastic language, and in other places the
word is translated worship, honor, cherish, adore. At its
heart, this little word abad describes the act of giving
oneself entirely, of wholly committing, forsaking all else to
fully invest in what matters most to you. That’s the choice.
Whom will you serve? It would be appropriate to ask it
this way: who is your God?
To whom do you pledge ultimate loyalty, primary
allegiance, your deepest soul-level devotion? Joshua
is not naïve. He knows that there will be other options.
And this is no less true for us. Every day we make
choices that reflect our priorities, that disclose our first
principles. If we are guided by faith, we must carefully
examine our hearts and honestly ask: does this decision
honor, cherish, serve God? Because, listen to this: you
will come more and more to resemble what you serve.
Over time, we become what we worship. I have seen it.
If you worship wealth, you will become singularly
focused on achieving material success, piling up
possessions that amount to nothing when your earthly
journey is over. Do not worship wealth.
If you worship power, you will come to regard other
people as means to an end. You will sacrifice your
integrity for imagined authority. The power you acquire
will be built on a foundation of sand, swept away when
the tides change. Do not worship power.
If you worship political ideology, self-righteous pride
will come to consume you. Tests of partisan purity will
replace meaningful relationships and leave you empty
and alone. Do not worship political ideology.
If you worship human leaders, you will find yourself
justifying actions you once condemned, adjusting your
values in ways that would ultimately be unrecognizable
to your former self. Do not worship human leaders.
Now, this is a partial list. John Calvin said that the
human mind is a permanent factory of idols—that we
are endlessly creating and forming new gods to whom
we bow down. Karl Barth suggested that even religion
itself becomes an idol when we worship our beliefs
instead of the God who never fits in the boxes we
construct. You see, there are many would-be masters
competing for our adoration.
Which one will we serve? The answer you give will
reveal your character.
In an act of leadership, Joshua speaks first. “As for me
and my family,” he says, “we choose the Lord. We will
serve the Lord. Come what may, we pledge ourselves
to God’s way. We choose to be led by the values of our
faith no matter what.”
This is the 274th sermon I have preached at Second
Church. You have no doubt learned that I am not as
gifted as Joshua in the art of succinct summation. Give
me time—I’m not 110 yet. Still, taking my cue from this
courageous leader, I will be very clear. I firmly believe
the central question facing us is unchanged by the
passage of millennia.
Whom will we serve?
To whom will we give our hearts, our souls, ourselves?
What kind of witness will we pass on to our children and
generations yet to come?
These questions are not artificial. They’re not academic.
They’re not abstract, and they are not avoidable. They
sit here with us. This week. Every week.
Today, we remember the saints. Those whose race
is over. Today, we recognize faithful members of this
church for more than fifty years. And today, we can
renew the commitment that has animated this church
for nearly two centuries. The commitment that led your
founding pastor, Henry Ward Beecher, to courageously
speak against the evil of slavery at great personal risk.
The commitment that has given rise to initiatives aimed
at reconciliation, compassion for the stranger, welcome
of all, and unity across difference. The commitment to
serve only God here.
Yes, two roads diverge, and it is time to choose. But first,
examine your heart. In the days ahead our democracy
will make consequential decisions of a political nature.
We know that. I for one remain convinced that, at its
best, politics is a means by which we love our neighbors
and care for the most vulnerable among us. We carry a
weighty responsibility. We have been given a precious
gift. We should neglect neither.
Weighty responsibility. Precious gift. Joshua sees both
as he looks back on his journey and forward at his
people’s future. Second Church, this is how I see our
life together. Gifted by those whose witness we recall
today, we have a responsibility to stand firm in the face
of any message or messenger that devalues the dignity
of any person, to stand up for the values that shape our
character in the image of God’s unyielding love. This
will require our collective faith and all the courage we
can muster. It will require us to commit to each other
and to commit to Christ even when the foundations
under our feet are shaking.
This week. Every week. Hold on to these covenants,
my friends.
Now, I am no Joshua. We’ve established that. But here is
what I pledge to you:
I will choose to serve God.
I will trust that the One who has led us this far will not
leave us now.
I will seek the path of integrity, mercy, compassion for all.
And I will fail. And I will keep trying. And I will trust your
forgiveness as I offer you my own.
Joshua speaks with intimacy. He’s coming to the end. He
reflects on his household. His family.
I have two sons. Eleven and seven years old. All week long
I’ve been thinking about them. When I come to the end,
when my name is read in remembrance, will they be proud
of the witness I have shared, the choices I have made? With
all my heart, I want them to see in me that faith makes a
difference. I want to show them, in the words I speak and
the way I act, that faithfulness is not a badge we wear, not
a prize we earn. It is a choice to walk in the way of love. And
when they ask, and they do ask, “Dad, why did you make
this decision?” I want to answer, “because I love and trust
God. Because I love and trust you.” This week. Every week.
The name Joshua means “the Lord is salvation.” Only
God saves. When the name moves from Hebrew to
Greek to Latin, the meaning stays the same, but Joshua
becomes Jesus. The Lord is our salvation.
He told us the truth.
You cannot serve two masters.
It’s time to choose.
This week. Every week.
Choose whom you will serve.
Amen.