They tell the story about the fellow who on one Sunday morning woke up, struggled out of bed, shuffled downstairs for his breakfast, and then announced to his mother, "Mother, I’m not going. I’m just not going to church today. I don’t feel like it, they don’t care for me down there, I don’t need it, I’m not going, and you can’t make me"
To which his mother replied, “But son, you ought to go, you really ought to go to church. I’ve always taught you and led you to go to church. Please go on and dress and go to church."
But her son was very persistent; he asked for some reasons. "Just tell me why I should go, Mother. Just give me two good reasons why I should go to church."
"All right, said the mother. “I can give you two good reasons why you should go to church today. For one thing, you’re not a little boy anymore, you’re forty years old and I should not have to persuade you to do this. And for another reason, you’re the pastor."
Well, I wonder whether any of you have experienced a Sunday morning like that. Since you are not the pastor, you haven’t experienced one exactly like that, but is it possible that there have been those days on which it was a real chore to convince yourself that you did want to do this, you really did need to get down there to the corner of Piney Branch and Aspen Streets and do it all over again? Does that sound familiar? Are there times when it’s tough to get excited about being a churchman, tough to get all wrought up and enthusiastic and ready?
Or is there anybody here who is more like the folks my grandmother always used to comment about? She would talk with a degree of awe but also a little bit of suspicion about folks she would say were there "every time the church doors open." In the church where I grew up there were a few folks, mostly deacons and elderly ladies who had been teaching Sunday School ever since Moses graduated from the Burning Bush class, a few folks who were always there, always present, didn’t seem to matter what was going on or what kind of meeting it was. These folks were there every time the church doors opened. In fact most of the time they opened the church doors, and closed them too; they were the people who made things happen, they were the movers and shakers in our church, and if you wanted it done, you’d better know that. You’d better get Deacon Porter to approve, or you were dead. You’d need to get Sister Ada to smile on your project, or it wouldn’t go anywhere. My grandmother, and, I suspect, a lot of other people viewed these folks with both awe and suspicion; they respected them but they also wondered about them, the ones who were there "every time the church doors open."
Well, some are going to be here "every time the church doors open," but others of us, we ordinary mortals, sometimes struggle with our relationship to the church, don’t we? We sometimes struggle with whether it’s going to be worth it to get up and go, we sometimes wonder whether anything will be said or done that hooks up with reality. What is this business of church anyway? Is it important? Does it do anything, mean anything? Is it worth my time? And is it commanding enough, powerful enough, that anybody should be there "every time the church doors open?"
Hundreds of years ago a citizen of Israel, living somewhere out in one of the little villages dotting the countryside, received an invitation. Through the lanes and streets of his village there went a courier, a messenger, with interesting news, with an exciting proposal. The news was that there was to be a pilgrimage, that the people of the village were going to travel together, and they were going to go to Jerusalem. Together they would make provisions for the long and dusty journey. Together they would assemble their pack animals and their sacrificial doves, they would pull together their wives and their children, and up they would go – upward to Mount Zion and to the beautiful city of Jerusalem, on up the steep steps and finally they would stand on the Temple mount itself. And there they would worship, they would bring to the Lord whose presence filled that house all their devotion, all their love and their praise.
And so in the heart of that pilgrim, that villager, there welled up excitement, high expectations, an outburst of enthusiasm and of joy, and so much so that he recorded what he felt, recorded it for us, jaded and over-stimulated moderns that we are, recorded it for those of us who have forgotten the excitement of a new experience, who have long since lost the sense of novelty and of possibility that can be brought to worship. Hear him, hear this ancient Israelite villager, and imagine whether you can hear this in yourself.
"I was glad when they said to me, ’Let us go to the house of the Lord.’"
I was glad, I was excited and full of joy, I was expecting something when they said to me, "Let us go to the house of the Lord."
What about this? Is this another one of those fanatics who is there every time the church doors open? Is this one of these folks who doesn’t have anything else to do, anything better to do, than hide in the church? Or is there a lesson to be heard here for the bulk of us who may need to have our motivations picked up from time to time?
I
I see here a testimony to the power of expectations. I see here a witness to the fact that our relationship to the house of worship is conditioned by what we expect to find there. "I was glad when they said to me, ’let us go to the house of the Lord.’" I was expectant when they said, let’s go. I was expectant. I was hoping and planning and seeking to find something there. I was glad when they said to me, let us go to the house of the Lord. Expectations matter.
You see, our sin is that we bring few if any expectations that do matter when we come to worship. Our sin is the poverty of our expectations. Our mistake is not so much that we expect much only to have a disappointment. Our sin, our mistake is that we expect very little.
One wit once looked at a Christian congregation at worship and then quipped, "They do this every Sunday; they’ll be all right on Monday. It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired."
Low expectations, limited hopes, limited sights, that is the issue. But come here as the Psalmist came to Jerusalem, come here as the Psalmist set out on that pilgrimage toward Jerusalem, and I tell you there will be a difference. Come here to this church to worship expecting what the Psalmist expected at the Temple, and something powerful will happen. We get exactly what we expect: be glad, be on tiptoe when they say, let’s go to the house of the Lord.
Expectations; but exactly what should you, can you expect? What is it you can anticipate finding here?
II
What you may expect here, what you ought to expect here, is an experience of affirmation, an experience of coming together, an experience of good news. You see, I hear this Psalmist sharing his expectations in that vein. He did not go to Jerusalem for entertainment, he did not go to witness a good performance, he did not speak of trudging all that way in fair weather and foul in order to get a good seat at the show. Not at all; his expectations were for something more than that. And it takes something more than that to keep anyone’s hopes and dreams going, something more than that to make anyone be around every time the church doors open.
What did he expect? The psalmist expected nothing less than the presence of God in the company of God’s people. Let me say that again so that it sinks in. The Psalmist on pilgrimage expected nothing less than the presence of God in the company of God’s people. "Jerusalem, built as a city which is bound firmly together, to which the tribes go up, the tribes of the Lord, to give thanks to the name of the Lord." The city which is the place in which men and women of differing cultures, differing dreams and varying addresses, all the tribes go up and find common purpose. Expect the presence of God in the company of God’s people.
I don’t know whether it’s important to come to church every time the church doors open. But I do know that it’s important to expect something as you come, and I do know that it’s important what you expect. Don’t expect the choir to rival the angels in their musicianship; as often as not they will, but that’s not the point. The point is that they have come together, out of their busy lives and the cares of everyday work, and as they work together they sing of and they share the presence of God.
And do not, please do not expect that the preacher will always ring the rafters with eloquent oratory and will somehow answer all your questions and wipe away your fears. He will not. And no one knows better than he how much he will not. But that, again, is not the point. The point is that in the exploration of the word we are together, we are Jerusalem, the city bound firmly together expecting and experiencing in a mysterious way the presence of God in the company of God’s people. And that’s unique, that’s special, that’s powerful, that’s worth being here every time the church doors open.
Do not expect that the deacons will always have all the right solutions or will do exactly as you want. Do not expect that they will have the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job, and the courage of Daniel. But expect to find here good news, affirming news; expect to find here the love of God, and here it will be indeed.
III
But I cannot close without noticing with you what happened after this ancient villager whose spiritual excitement we’ve been watching had his worship experience. I cannot close without noticing with you what his response is, what his commitment is after he has worshipped.
Remember what he has gone through; remember that somebody proposed that they go up to Jerusalem and that they worship in the Temple. And remember that he came with a set of expectations, "I was glad when they said to me, let us go to the house of the Lord."
And remember also what he expected, what he hoped for and what he anticipated: "Jerusalem, the city bound together firmly, where all the tribes go up, to give thanks to the name of the Lord." He expected to find good news there, he expected to find himself affirmed, he believed that he would find the very living presence of God in the company of God’s people.
Now it’s all over. Now the worship has happened and he’s ready to go home. Now it’s 12 o’clock and time to enjoy the Jerusalem Oliveskins beat the Philistine Sheepboys. But is he finished? Is that all there is to his worship? Is this the end of it all? Not at all. There is more, there is a response which he makes. There is a promise which he makes to himself and there is a prayer which is on his lips:
"Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May they prosper who love you. Peace be within your walls, and security within your towers. For my brethren and companions’ sake, I will say, Peace be within you. For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good."
Again, imagine the scene. He leaves the Temple, he walks out of the city, down the hillside into the valley below, and then he turns to catch a glimpse of the place which has meant something to him, he turns to see just one more time before turning homeward. And he sees the city with its bulwarks, its battlements and its gates; he recalls how much battle has been done there, he thinks of all the fighting that has marred this place. He even reflects on the irony of the name of the place, Jerusalem, Yarushalayim, Yarushalayim, how much it sounds like the word for peace, shalom. Shalom, yerushalayim, Peace for the city of peace. And his heart forms a prayer, "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May they prosper who love you. Peace within your walls, peace with in you, I will seek your good."
I suspect that this morning I do not have to spell out in detail for you the significance of this word of the Lord for us. Surely anyone of us who has survived the past year or two in Takoma Park Baptist Church knows that this Jerusalem has had no real and lasting peace. And I am confident that there have been times, maybe many times, when it was tough to get up and come here, tough to see the worth of it. Many times, even for those who are here "every time the church doors open." Tough for those in places of leadership.
But the key, the answer, the beginning of the solution is here: Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Pray; pray; pray for the well-being of the house of God, for it’s our expectations that condition what we will find here.
Pray for peace within its walls, for what we may yet find is, beyond all our bickering and beyond all our poverty of spirit, the presence of the living God in the company of his people.
Pray for the house of the Lord God and seek its good. Never, never suppose that anyone of us has any right to do or speak ill to any one of those who dwell in Jerusalem. For my brethren and my companions’ sake I will say, Peace be within you. For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good.
And then, you see, there’ll be something here for you – no, Someone here for you, every time the church doors open.
