Letting Go�

Colossians 2:6-19

I had an interesting conversation with a summer citizen a few weeks ago after worship. They came to me and told me that the first week that they had come, I was dressed in full pastor's outfit: with robe and stole. The next week, they came and I was dressed in a coat and tie - no robe, no stole. The next week, I had lost the coat, and the next week, I had lost the tie. This person just wanted to know, “Where this trend was going to stop?”�

They had not seen me up in Guinavah for our outdoor service in shorts, but I assured them that the trend would stop before anything untoward was revealed. �

As I was thinking about this sermon, I realized that this trend the summer citizen was concerned about was very much like growing in a living relationship with God. �

As we grow - as we mature in Christ - I believe that God strips away, layer by layer, those things that keep us from being the whole person that God intends for us to be. Eventually, we stand naked before God. Redeemed and healed in Jesus Christ, we are naked, but not ashamed. �

Does this scare you, the idea of standing naked before God? It does me. There are things I don't want God or you to know about me, things that I try to hide somewhere deep inside. There are parts of my life that I don't want to give to God. There are parts of my life that I hang on to for dear life. �

This is what I believe troubled the Colossian church. They were just discovering, in this young movement of faith, what it meant to follow Jesus. Jesus had not come back as quickly as they had expected. So now they were trying to deal with living as Christians, given the fact that Jesus perhaps was not returning for an extended period. Despite their faith, so much of their lives still seemed the same. What exactly does this resurrected life look like in the mean time, as they waited for Christ's return? �

We don't know much specifically about who and what was behind the issues and struggles in Colossae. But apparently some there were struggling with the “elementary powers,” the mid-level “spirit beings” that were a big part of the spiritual landscape of the ancient world. They believed that these “elementary powers” - the local gods, the stars, sun, and moon, angels of one sort or another - still had power or influence over their lives. Perhaps some specific rituals or rules needed to be followed. Maybe some ascetic practices, or prayer, or diet were needed to connect with these powers, or appease them, or enlist their support. �

In our text this morning, Paul, or one of his disciples, says “No! Don't listen to them! You are rooted in Christ. The fullness of God rests in him. Forget the elementary spirits. The reality of life and faith is that you can trust and live in him. Let go of those other powers. They are nothing in Christ.

We may easily say we don't have this problem; that we don't believe in the sun, and moon, and intermediate spirits. But let's face it, we have elemental powers of our own. Philosophically and theologically they may have a different outfit on. They may be very different, but when you look at our lives and the power and influence they exert, but these powers turn out to be not so elemental, not so easily ignored, or let go of.�

Do you ever get the feeling that you faith just isn't what it is supposed to be? Perhaps it is because even though we have been baptized - have come to know Christ - we are still hanging on to parts of the old life. We hang on to these unredeemed parts, consciously and unconsciously, and they keep us from experiencing the resurrection power of a new life in Christ. �

Can you think of one or two examples? Money, perhaps? We need money enough to live on, money for our kids' college education, for retirement, for unexpected health costs. Can the drive to have enough money to feel “safe” have power over us? What do you think?�

Consider the power of addictions to substances and behaviors that hold sway over our lives. 180 billion dollars a year it costs us to deal with the “elementary power” of alcoholism.�

Are we beholden to particular ways of thinking and believing? Are there religious practices or doctrines that used to usher us into the realm of the divine but now have become ends in themselves? We are not willing to give them up. How much energy do we expend trying to appease these elementary spirits?�

Is there a wound in your life, or in your heart, or to your spirit? Is there an experience that has stabbed you, that has made you bleed? Is there a relationship in your life that has hurt you and that you just can't seem to let go of. Is there grief in your life, grief that holds sway over your perspective on life and the world? �

What are the things that we need to let go of? �

These powers seem hardly elementary. Letting go can be oh so difficult. It can take time, and the willingness to risk. We can even come to the realization that on our own, it is impossible to let go. �

Our text tells us how grave our situation is. It tells us that to get to the new life in Christ, we have to go through a little death. �

We are celebrating the sacrament of baptism in a few moments. Our text tells us that when the waters of baptism wash over us, we die. We die. We die as Jesus died on the cross. �

The good news is that this death empowers us to let go of the powers that bind us. �

Whatever elemental spirits bedevil you this morning, there is a fundamental faith reality that will empower you to let go. You are rooted in Christ. Nothing can wash you away. As we grow in faith, God nudges us, encourages us, exhorts us, stands in front of us waving her arms saying, “Hello! Over here! Be rooted in me. Follow me, and you will be free. You can let go. It's time to focus on the future.”�

Elias Chacour is the Archbishop of Galilee of the Melkite Greek Catholic Church (an Eastern Rite catholic church). He is also a noted author and peace activist seeking to promote reconciliation between Arabs and Israelis. In a recent visit to Duke University, and in his book We Belong to the Land, he tells a story from when he arrived as a newly ordained priest to his first congregation in the small village of Ibillin in Galilee. When he first arrived he was all gung ho about fostering reconciliation between Arabs and Israeli's, but he quickly found that the Christians in the village were deeply divided amongst themselves. Initially he tried his best to bring about reconciliation in the church and small community. He worked and worked with no success. After about six months came Palm Sunday, and there, no matter how observant you are or not, everyone goes to church. There they were on that Sunday, all together in one building, but each family separated from each other. �

They had worship, together but divided. Chacour describes the end of the service, when he had just finished celebrating the sacrament. He turned to the congregation to say, “Peace be with you,” but he saw that there was no peace with them. So just before he gave them the final blessing, while everybody was still seated, he went out to the main door of the church and he locked it. He returned to the congregation, stood in front of them while holding the key, and said, “For six months, I have been trying to reconcile you. I have failed. I have not found the personality that is able to reconcile you. You are too stubborn. Today I have found the one person who is able to reconcile you. It is Jesus Christ our Lord who is here in the midst of us in this church. So I ask you all to either reconcile with each other right now immediately, and I will be you priest, and Jesus will be our Lord. Or just get it over with and kill each other right now, and I will officiate your funerals for free! Do not try and leave the church. The key is in my hand, and you can have it only over my dead body.” He waited…and he waited…for very, very long minutes of silence. He was scared. His brief ministry flashed before his eyes.�

After that, a man stood up. He was a police officer. He had come in uniform, and he was “against,” Chacour says, “everyone of his brothers and sisters” in the church. This man stood up and said, “Abuna, I feel that God is present here and I cannot keep silent. I want to ask forgiveness from everyone here, and I forgive everyone.” �

“That's not enough,” Chacour said, “let me come and hug you.” The whole congregation began to embrace, reconciled to each other in Jesus Christ. The hugging lasted longer than the service. He opened the door and told them “you will not go home. We are going to visit every family in town, and on this Palm Sunday we are going to sing the resurrection hymn, because today is the resurrection of our community.” Locked in church, they were forced to look Christ square in the face, and they were able to let go of their dividedness. �

You see, it is possible.� It is possible to let go of whatever is enslaving us today. Sometimes it takes time. Sometimes a long time. But together we can give witness to the reality of the peace and freedom, the hope and reconciliation that God longs to give all of God's children. �

In our personal lives, it is possible too. We come here to confess our sins. We are invited to have a few honest moments with God to see if there is anything in our lives, any part of our old being of which we must let go. �

In these moments, in the privacy of your thoughts and spirit, what is God calling you to let go of this morning? �

Nell was a tough cookie.� I first met her when I was a candidate for ministry, looking for a call.� Nell was a member of the Pastor Nominating Committee of my first church. I did not realize, then, the effort it took for her to attend all of the committee meetings, read all of the files, and interview the candidates.� You see, she had bone cancer. The main symptom is debilitating pain. But she fulfilled her task on the PNC with a persistent faith. That was who she was. She held on to life.� � �

After I started my service there, we spent a lot of time together. She would always express her opinion on the goings on of the church, quite candidly, I remember.� Sometimes, when she was not sure if she would be able to make it to church, I offered her a preview of what I was thinking about for my sermon.� After we read the texts together, she would offer her own insights, and share her own faith. �

As time progressed, and as things did not go the way she desired, questions arose, but her persistence, her strength to continue battling, and her desire to pray and seek God never wavered. �

I would express my admiration of her strength and her desire to fight, despite her questions, despite her pain.� But she would always say, “What choice do I have?” She could not let go.�

I remember the last time I saw her. She was in nursing facility. She was in a room hooked up to medical equipment that was buzzing and beeping, and I had a few moments alone with her. She had taught me so much, the kind of faith knowledge that you can't get in the classroom. They were doing their best to keep her as comfortable as possible, but she was in great pain. Her breathing was very labored. She was still hanging on. �

I did not know what to say. We sat in silence mostly. When it was time for me to go, I said a prayer with my friend, and something inside of me, I believe it was the Spirit, made me whisper to her, “Nell, it's ok to let go.”�

The ride home was about 40 minutes. When I got home, I received the message that Nell had died. She had let go.�

Death is a sad, profoundly difficult thing. But in our faith, before you get to life, you go through a little death. Dieing to our old life, to the elemental powers that have such a big hold on us opens up the doorway to new life. �

Nell knows that. She is reminding us this morning. I know she lives now, pain free, her struggle over. �

What is God inviting you to let go of this morning?

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July 29, 2007

Rev. Paul Heins

First Presbyterian Church

Logan, Utah