Rev. Dr. Joel D. Biermann
Romans 10:9-16
10th Sunday after Pentecost
It happened a lot of years ago—in fact, it was almost 18 years ago, back when the Rams were still in St. Louis, and still winning football games. Some of you probably remember a wide receiver for that team named Isaac Bruce. He was a skilled football player, but perhaps not as skilled as a theologian. In December, toward the end of the 1999 season, Bruce was driving back to St. Louis from Columbia when a tire blew out and sent his car rolling off of I-70. Bruce, walked away from the crash without a scratch. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, but he was driving a Mercedes. But Bruce did not credit the car with saving him, nor his driving abilities for that matter. It was widely reported that for Bruce, it was a matter of faith. One story from CBS put it this way, “He said he knew he’d be fine when he shouted ‘Jesus!’ as the car began to spin, then he took his hands off the steering wheel and waited for the chaos to end.” Bruce himself added this quote: “I knew I was healed and I knew I’d be protected, and that was it.” And then he offered some spiritual counsel: “The moral of the story is to yell out ‘Jesus’ when you’re in trouble. That’s what I tell everybody.” So, there you have it. When you’re facing a crisis, yell, “Jesus,” let go of everything, and you’ll be fine. At least that’s the way that Isaac Bruce saw it. It’s possible that you are a little uncomfortable with his advice. I know that I am. I mean, it’s great that people pray to Jesus, and expect him to help, but is the essence of faith really that you yell out, “Jesus” when you’re in trouble, and then he comes to the rescue? I bristle at the trivialization and almost magical sense of these ideas.
Faith isn’t magic, is it? Faith is trust. Faith is knowing about God’s truth. Faith is a relationship between God and creature. Faith is cultivated and careful. Faith follows certain pathways and progressions. Faith comes through God’s means and through God’s men. Faith is what Paul was talking about when he wrote his powerful, sweeping series of phrases about the need for preachers to peach God’s word, because, as his great verbal flourish concludes, “faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” Paul’s words are the great inspiration for missionaries and pastors and all those who support them. It all follows so logically and methodically: “how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching? And how are they to preach unless they are sent?” It seems from Paul’s words that it’s all about preachers of the word and making sure that they are sent. That’s reasonable and manageable and sensible. These are words that justify institutions like seminaries and the millions of dollars it takes each year just to keep a single seminary open and training people to be faithful preachers. So, this text is all about pastors, and formation in a faith that is deep, thoughtful, and serious and certainly not magical or superstitious.
But, is the point of Paul’s great words the making and sending of pastors? Actually, when you work the progression of ideas backward to the central thought, you don’t arrive at pastors. In fact, pastors are not the end of Paul’s thoughts, they are only the necessary beginning. There has to be a man to preach, and that man has to be sent, but what’s next? Well, there has to be someone to hear what is preached, and then even more importantly, the goal is that there is someone who believes what is preached. In fact, that’s the point of Paul’s entire argument. What he’s interested in, what he wants, is people who believe. The reason Paul wants preachers is so that there can be believers. Paul’s main concern is not with the making of a gospel worker or the sending of a preacher. His interest is not in the people being called and sent to deliver God’s good news. No, Paul’s driving concern is with the people who are coming to faith. The goal of Paul’s tour de force of logic and rhetoric is not a called pastor, but calling people—that is, people calling on God as Savior and Lord. “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” That’s Paul’s point. His great desire is for people calling…not a pastor, but people calling on God. Paul’s text is about call day—not a spring day at the seminary when men are called to go and preach, and not a special voters’ meeting to elect a pastor, but a day when people call on the Lord and are saved. Call day is today.
That’s what the story in the Gospel of Matthew is all about as well. The story of Peter and his brief walk on the waves is a call day story. It’s the story of Peter calling out to Jesus and being saved: call day. Call day did not come easily to Peter. In fact, all through the gospels we read about Peter’s struggle to come to terms with his need for what only Christ could give. Peter did not like having to call out for help. Calling for help meant that he was unable. It meant that he couldn’t do it. It meant that his pride was wrong. And Peter struggled with that. Peter struggled with pride again and again. It was pride that prompted Peter to take the devil’s side and rebuke his rabbi when Jesus had started talking about his own imminent rejection and execution. It was pride that prompted Peter to declare that he would never fall away from his Lord. It was pride that led him as he swung a sword and lopped off the ear of Malchus. And, it was pride that got Peter into trouble that night on the Sea of Galilee.
Pride, you see, is the very antithesis and enemy of faith. Pride kills faith. Pride inflates a person’s self-obsession and leaves no room for anything or anyone more important or more pressing than self. It pushes out everything else—including faith, including Christ. Pride focuses on self. Faith focuses on Christ. They cannot coexist. So, the beginning of faith must always be the death of pride. And, that’s what Peter learned in the wake of the bold suggestion that he join his Lord walking across the windswept, choppy waters of Galilee. But, understand, when Peter crawled over the edge of the boat to walk with Christ on the water it was not pride at work—that was faith in action. The idea might have been born in impetuous, unthinking enthusiasm, but once he was on the water, it was all about faith. He was looking at Christ, and trusting what Jesus could do. As long as Peter kept looking there, he was walking in faith…he was walking on water. But, pride came back and got him. Pride made him think about himself and what he was doing, instead of thinking about Jesus and what Jesus was doing. Pride made Peter question everything. He was putting his life in the hands of someone else. He was at the mercy of another. What was he thinking? Why was he out of the boat on the water? And as the thoughts of pride grew, faith was pushed out. Peter felt the fear and then felt the water give way beneath his feet. He went down. Pride sunk him.
That’s when the night on the lake became call day. All too clearly, Peter saw the reality of his own inability and the failure of his own pride. Pride can’t do much, actually. It can’t walk on water. It can’t even swim. Sinking in the waves, Peter was in trouble and he knew it. He knew only one place to look: “Lord, save me.” And he did. Jesus reached out his hand and lifted Peter up and brought him to the boat. When Peter called, Jesus answered. When Peter called, it was faith that was at work. It wasn’t thought out. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t planned or crafted. It was immediate and real and visceral. He was drowning. He needed help. He called. Jesus answered. Call day. Pride died, faith flourished.
So, what’s the difference between the desperate cry of a helpless, on-the-verge-of-death apostle, and the desperate cry of a helpless, on-the-verge-of-death wide receiver? Is there a difference? Actually, there is a remarkable degree of correspondence between the two, isn’t there? Perhaps Isaac Bruce was a better theologian than I had thought. Maybe, perhaps even unwittingly, Bruce actually stumbled onto a profound truth; and, maybe the thing that bothers me about his story is not what appears to be superstition or shallow theology. Maybe the thing I don’t like is the unnerving simplicity and glaring clarity that Bruce’s story brings to the issue at hand. Hands off the wheel, tumbling out of control at 70 mph, disaster looming, death rushing in to claim life, no options left, no hope, nowhere to turn, nothing left to do but cry out: “Jesus! Lord save me.” That is exactly what it means to call on the Lord.
And, I do not like it. Well, at least there is a very significant part of me that does not like it. If I’m honest, I have to admit that I don’t like the thought that the heart of faith demands being so utterly out of control, so hopelessly at the mercy of someone else—even if that someone else is God. I can’t deal with a theology reduced to such gut-wrenching, mind-numbing, crude forces. I want my theology to be balanced, refined, nuanced, calmly articulated and nurtured in a classroom—not torn out of me by primitive, human terror and the crisis of the moment. I would rather not be reduced to such simplistic, humiliating pleading; I want to be better than that. But, the sinful creature’s anguished plea to a holy God is never calculated or clean—not when it is the cry of faith. It is desperate, pathetic and offensive. Ask Peter about that, or ask Job, or ask Isaac Bruce. When it gets right down to it, calling on the Lord always looks pretty much the same: helpless, hopeless, doomed humans despairing of all attempts to fix the mess they are in, and plaintively and passionately pleading to God for help. It is the same for every one of us. Flat on your face, begging for God’s mercy: it always comes down to that. Always. Job knew it. Peter knew it. Paul knew it. And clean, cool, controlled, capable, and confident Christians, today, need to know it, too. Nothing can be allowed to get in the way of call day…not propriety, not pride, and not one’s cherished notions about God and religion.
It’s call day, today. It’s time now to take your hands off of the wheel, look to Christ, and pray, “Jesus, save me. Lord God help me!” That’s what it means to call on the Lord. And, that’s the point of Paul’s powerful text. That’s what call day is all about. And, when all is said and done, when life is worn out and over, when everything that once was lined up and in order is scattered in chaos, then, this is the only call day that will matter—the one where you give up on yourself and your ability, and call on the Lord, the one where pride dies and faith flourishes. Don’t lose track of what this Christian faith is all about. Yes, we want to care for those around us, and yes, we want to serve people, and build bridges to the community; we would love to watch people come in droves to fill our sanctuary, and to sing the praises of this exceptional congregation, but none of that is what Christianity is all about. What it’s all about is people turning to Jesus in faith, and calling for his help. Do not ever forget where this all starts. It starts with call day—your call day. Don’t ever get so occupied with being God’s gift to others that you forget about your fundamental need simply to receive God’s gift to you. You need what Christ gives. He gives it here and now. It’s call day. Call on him and you will be saved. Amen.