“Religion is for the weak.” This is what a friend of mine said maybe 10 years ago. And it’s a statement that has stuck with me ever since.

            My friend wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. He said it during one of those late-night group conversations young people often have about life. And he said it at a time when few of my friends knew that I sometimes liked to see what was happening at the local church; or to browse the religion section in our local bookstore.

            He just said it: “Religion is for the weak.” And then, as if we all realized he’d breeched the unspoken rules of those conversations, the statement just hung there in the air for a moment, and then someone quickly changed the subject.

            But for some reason, that moment has stayed with me over the years. I’ve often reviewed the event in my mind, imagining what I should have said in response to my friend’s opinion.

            And you know, of the possible responses I’ve imagined, the one that seems best to me does not involve outright denial of what he said. In fact it begins by affirming it. Because, in fact, all people – all people – are weak, at least sometimes, and in comparison to some of what we have to face as human beings.

           

            For one thing, as humans, we can collectively create our own Goliaths. We can fashion political or ecological crises so great that they threaten to destroy us. And in fact, it seems we have done so.

            Churches can face Goliaths as well. In fact, whole denominations today face threats of break up, while many local churches face futures filled uncertainty.

            And these collective Goliaths are not the only kind. A loving parent loses a child. A woman battles the memory of abuse at the hands of someone who was supposed to love her. A man struggles to ward off depression. A young person faces a sense of aimlessness, while an elder faces mortality.

            Goliaths are often personal as well.

            And in the face of things this big, every one of us is weak, whether or not we are religious. And so, the question is not whether we are weak.  The question is: What is our Goliath? What threatens to overpower and enslave us? And how should we, as people of faith, respond?

           

Well the first question – the question of what threatens to overpower and control us – is a question I leave to you. And I’ll bet that most of you can name several such Goliaths without much trouble. But the second question – the question of how to respond to our Goliaths – that is a question addressed in scripture, even in the story we just heard.

           

            You know the story. Goliath is enormous – an impenetrable, violent, seasoned fighter – a champion. By contrast, David is apparently not even ready to be a simple soldier, let alone represent his entire nation in a winner-takes-all fight against Goliath. In fact, when David puts on Saul’s armor, he can’t even walk.

           

            But, it is what happens next, when David removes the armor, where we begin to see that the response of faith is different than the response of faithlessness.

            See, the armor is the tool of the armies around David. And those armies can imagine only two choices. Either they fight Goliath on his own terms, using his own methods, and relying on their own power. Or they do nothing, giving in to hopelessness.           

David, on the other hand, refuses to enter the false choice Goliath presents. David knows that – no matter what Goliath demands, David will not go to fight him by himself. He will take with him a resource bigger even than Goliath – the God of all heaven and all earth, who says even to the sea, “This far shall you go, and not beyond.”

 

And what David displays in this story is not so-called “blind faith”. It is faith informed by experience. David remembers. He remembers that the one who has saved him from the lion and the bear is the same one who will save him from Goliath. Or put another way, as we are fond of saying here at Old South, the one who has brought us this far will sustain us.

 

            But there is more to this story. Because remembering that the God who has been with us in the past will be with us in the future does not comprise the whole meaning of faith, at least not faith in its mature form. David’s memory is not of a God who killed the lion and the bear using thunderbolts from the sky, but of a God who aided him while he himself took out the lion and the bear.

            David’s faith – the mature faith of this remarkable young boy – is mature not only because he remembers God while everyone around him seems to forget, but also because he takes action.

            David is a person of song, of worship, and of prayer. But his faith is not the sort of faith that stops at prayer. His prayerfulness instead provides a foundation and energy for his action; and it fashions in at least this boyhood version of David, a discerning wisdom, and resourcefullness in his time.

           

            David watches carefully what is happening around him. He looks not for the tools Goliath uses and is prepared for, but for those just right for David’s own talents and gifts, and that Goliath isn’t prepared for, namely five smooth stones, each of which is capable of slipping through the tiny gap in Goliath’s helmet.

            Whatever our Goliaths might be – whether personal, or collective, or global – we do have resources that are appropriate for our situations, and just right for slaying our Goliaths.

            The smooth stones are waiting for us to see them, and to use them. What we need is the help of God in discerning what they are, in mustering the courage to claim and use them, and the wisdom to do so effectively.

            And, as it turns out, this is just what our ultimate resource – the God of covenant and relationship – yearns in love to help us do, lest we ever let Goliath convince us, that we fight him alone.

 

 

Partnering with God. Taking action with the resources we have, while staying open to the God who guides and empowers and completes our work. This is the mature faith David shows; and it’s the reason that while throngs of soldiers stand in fear, David runs forward, and down to the river, to gather these five stones, one of which will lead him to victory.

 

 

Most of you know that my time here as an intern at Old South will end today. And I’m aware that as I go forward from this internship, and on to new ministries, I will face my own Goliaths. There will be times of conflict and death, tragedy and injustice, scorn, difficult decisions, and even exhaustion.

But I think that when I came here to Old South, I was – in some ways like David, heading down to that riverbank, gathering those resources I need to partner with God effectively.

And I want you to know that I have found my smooth stones here. And while I can’t tell you about all of them now, I can tell you about five – five smooth stone I’ll take with me from my time at Old South, and onward to face the Goliaths I encounter.

 

First, I’ll take with me increased confidence, improved ability to claim my calling. And I’ll tell you that this has not always been the easiest thing for me to claim. But when I’ve struggled to claim it, you’ve helped me do so.

You told me my presence in the chancel was effective. You offered kind words about the prayers I offered, reflections I wrote, and the Bible studies I shared with you.

You offered constructive feedback, both critical and affirming. And you did it all, with grace and with love. And by doing so, you instilled in me a depth of confidence I couldn’t have instilled in myself, so that when the Goliath of self-doubt comes, I’ll rely on the confidence you built in me.

 

A second smooth stone I’ll take with me is renewed optimism – optimism that the mature faith, demonstrated by David, is alive, and can be lived out by whole communities, if we will hold ourselves accountable to it.

Believe me, the kind of faith that partners with God is not something to be taken for granted in our day. There are many faith communities that focus deeply on spiritual growth and soul-opening worship. And there are many faith communities that focus deeply on social justice, and on critical thought. But there are precious few faith communities that do both things simultaneously. And you’ve shown me that it is not only possible to stay committed to both, but it is vital for either sort of ministry to be done well.

I’ll remember the questions we struggled with in Bible study, and how we held them in prayer and song. I’ll remember serving communion to a homeless woman, who had not received it in over 20 years, because the message of “you don’t deserve it” had somehow become a Goliath for her – a Goliath you at Old South destroyed, by inviting her to the table of Christ, no matter what. I’ll remember watching so many of you stand last week as we honored the commitment of this church to fighting AIDS, and wrapped it in an energetic hymn of praise.

Don’t ever lose or diminish this beautiful ministry of mature faith, simultaneously prophetic and pastoral. It is a real treasure in our time, and one that will always inspire my own approach to ministry.

 

A third smooth stone I’ve gathered here at Old South is the realization that I need not do everything alone, and indeed I can’t. I’ll remember the moment when I was struck so deeply by just how many ministries and committees at this church operate outside the scope of what I needed to concern myself with here, and how vital this was to my ability to do what I was called here to do.

I’ll remember all of you who helped us at the jazz service, the amazing ministry of the congregational care and support committee, the collaboration of the twenties and thirties group. You’ve shown me a deeper meaning and importance of the “priesthood of all believers,” and the “body of Christ,” and I will carry that forward in ministry as well.

 

A fourth smooth stone I’ll take with me from Old South into my ministry is the wisdom of having fun in ministry.

I’ll remember Jeff Mackholm and Larry Bowers in colonial costume. I’ll remember trying to guess the secret passwords the children required of me, as I passed through the Gordon Library. I’ll remember Quinn telling us about the theology of Global Positioning Units, and Nancy telling us the story of Jesus, Moses, and God on a golfcourse. I’ll remember pub trivia night with the twenties and thirties group, and experimenting with new songs and forms of worship at the jazz service. And I’ll remember how this joyful approach invited others into the realization that faith can be joyful and spontaneous, and that play is part of God’s plan for us.

And you know, there are Goliaths to face, in which play and laughter and spontaneity are the best smooth stones we have.

Finally, a last smooth stone I want to mention – one other thing I’ll take with me from Old South and forward into my ministry – is the realization that even things that are too short can be incredibly special, and that every moment counts.

My time here has felt too short. But, like the boy David, who was also too short – or so it seemed – this time was filled with power and with grace and with God’s own Spirit.

And I will treasure this time forever.

 

Friends, I will miss you, and remember you. I hope that I’ve given to you even a portion of what I’ve gained from you.

And I promise that I’ll take the smooth stones you’ve given me, and put them in my pouch. And when Goliath comes, I’ll throw them at him. And with God’s help, Goliath will fall down.

 

I pray the same for each of you, and for all of you.

God bless you, and amen.