September 22, 2024

Making Your Mark

There may be some of you out there who don’t know that I’ve written a book.  I say that some of you may not know about it, because I’ve certainly done my best to get the word out.  I bring it up whenever I can.  You see, I don’t want anyone to know about this, but I’m actually quite proud that I’ve written a book.  I’ve become quite expert at finding ways to subtly work it into a conversation.  For instance, someone may be discussing the economy or the weather, and I very adroitly say, “Did you know that I’ve written a book?”  This is not just vanity, mind you.  Well, it’s not entirely vanity.  Actually, it may be mostly vanity.  Ok, it’s vanity.

I wrote the book for a lot of reasons.  First and foremost, I guess, it’s because I had a bunch of things inside that I wanted to say.  I didn’t even care much at first if it ever got published.  I just had to get some of this stuff down on paper.  I know I’ll never be the writer that Nowell is, but it wasn’t long before it became clear to me that a major part of doing this thing was that I wanted to leave something behind that was important – you know, when I’m gone.  It was Ben Franklin who said, “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth the writing.” Well, that’s the real hook – when you start to think that maybe you’re going to write that book that becomes a classic and changes lives, and somehow you’ll find your place in history because you’ve made such a significant contribution to the library of human consciousness.  Not that I have delusions of grandeur or anything.  Well, maybe a few.  Ok, I’m delusional.

Wouldn’t we all love to find a way to “make our mark” on the world?  With the elections coming up, I think of all those people who have chosen to run for office across our land, from town councilors to US Senators to candidates for the Presidency.  And it strikes me how these are not extraordinary or superhuman beings; they’re real live people who have, at some point in their lives, made a decision to step forward and try to make a difference.  There are certainly those who are trying to make a mark in the world and going about it in the wrong way – Vladimir Putin and Nicolás Maduro among them (not to mention a few political leaders in our own country).  But for every public figure who is using his position to exercise his dysfunctions, there are a dozen more, I’m convinced, who are genuinely doing their best to have a positive influence in the world.  I think at some level we all hunger to have just a little of that feeling.

OK, so maybe I’m not going to write the book that makes the New York Times best seller list and alters the course of human history, but I’d like to at least leave something behind.  Maybe someone, a hundred and fifty years from now, will pick up a dusty copy of my book in a yard sale and read it, and it’ll be meaningful to them, and something I did will survive in some small way into the future.  Maybe you won’t become President, but you’d like to stand for something that matters, and try to be part of improving society just a little (or perhaps even one little corner of it), so that your influence will outlive you.  Maybe you won’t command armies and have nations rallying to your side, but you’d like to be in charge of something – a working group, or a committee – or at least have someone listen to you, and feel that your opinion carries some significance.   Even if it’s just vicariously, we’d like to be part of a team that wins the World Series or the Super Bowl, or to be part of the nation that is, as many of us are fond of saying, “the greatest country in the world.”  In one way or another, most of us would like to “make our mark.”

So, when we read about the disciples of Jesus arguing on the road about who was going to be named “disciple emeritus”, and who was going to get their book published, it’s a cinch to walk along beside them and join the fray.  That’s where you and I fit in this story.  Maybe we’re not quite as blatant about it as they were (actually arguing over who will be the greatest), but we have our own ways of competing for prominence, or position, or just trying to be memorable.

I picture Jesus being almost amused as he overheard the disciples arguing and jockeying for position.  I picture him being almost amused when you and I yearn to “make our mark” in the world.  He said, “‘Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.’  Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking the little one in his arms, he said to them, ‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.’”  It seems that there is a different ledger in which the true marks of our worth are made.  It is the Lord Almighty who pays attention to our greatness and validates it.  But that greatness in the eyes of the Lord has nothing to do with being prominent citizens, getting books published, or even having opinions that get listened to.  The enduring marks that we leave in the Divine register are things like helping and serving another person, visiting a lonely soul to bring a word of hope, welcoming a little child into our midst, and taking time to listen to her story with eager ears.  These are the marks of greatness that assure us a place in the noblest of histories.  These are the shining record of our existence that outlive the sun and the stars.

William Willimon, the theology guru at Duke University, tells of learning something about being the least and the greatest.  He says, “While in seminary, I learned of the death of an uncle who was killed in a crash while flying his private plane.  Being near my aunt’s home, I was summoned by my family to go to her side and to minister to her in her grief.

“Though a young seminarian, I had received some training in pastoral care and thought I might be able to bring some comfort to her and the family.  I had handled similar situations while serving as a pastoral intern the year before.

“My aunt has a son who is mentally retarded and was about ten years old at the time – Joey, we called him.  He didn’t understand fully what had happened to his father, but he saw his mother’s grief and felt instinctively the need to reach out in some way to comfort her.  In his room Joey took out a few crayons and a sheet of paper.  he drew her a picture.  It wasn’t very well done, but Joey put his best into it and you could easily tell what it was meant to depict.  In the picture were three objects: an airplane, a rainbow, and a cross.  Joey took the gift to his mother and said, ‘Here, Mama.  I made this for you.’  Then he went back to his room.”

Willimon says, “Even in my relative inexperience in pastoral matters, I had the good sense not to try to wax theologically about what had happened.”  Joey had said all that needed to be said.

You and I are not asked to be brilliant.  We are not expected to become world leaders.  We are not called to be bright or articulate or witty or charming.  We are not encouraged to win, or to achieve great things, or create monuments to ourselves.  We are given with this great gift of life a simple opportunity to serve others, and welcome children, and open our hearts in love, and thereby be acknowledged for the only kind of greatness that truly matters in this world.

I’ve seen you out there.  You’ve stopped into the church when you thought no one was around so you could take care of some little problem, or clean up a mess so someone else wouldn’t have to.  It’s been noticed.  When you’ve offered a word of encouragement to someone who needed a boost, you’ve been overheard.  You’ve been found out.  That special mission you’ve quietly supported, the child you took time to listen to, the cause you fought for, the loving energy you put in to that committee project – it hasn’t gone entirely unseen.

Don McCullough relates a wonderful story about Winston Churchill: “During World War II, England needed to increase its production of coal. Winston Churchill called together labor leaders to enlist their support. At the end of his presentation he asked them to picture in their minds a parade which he knew would be held in Picadilly Circus after the war. ‘First,’ he said, ‘would come the sailors who had kept the vital sea lanes open. Then would come the soldiers who had come home from Dunkirk and then gone on to defeat Rommel in Africa. Then would come the pilots who had driven the Luftwaffe from the sky.

“‘Last of all,’ he said, ‘would come a long line of sweat-stained, soot-streaked men in miner’s caps. Someone would cry from the crowd, ‘And where were you during the critical days of our struggle?’ And from ten thousand throats would come the answer, ‘We were deep in the earth with our faces to the coal.’’”¹

My message this morning is this: those gallant ones among you who are striving not for recognition, who are giving yourselves to others daily in service and love, who are “deep in the earth with your faces to the coal” are the truly great ones among us, and you will leave your mark.

 

¹Don McCullough, Waking from the American Dream