The other day, as I thought about this sermon, I remembered a poem by Billy Collins. I don't know how many of you are familiar with Billy Collins; I have heard him several times on The Prairie Home Companion. I have also heard specials he's given on Public Radio. He writes humor, and profundity, and a combination of the two in a single poem. Hear this one he wrote on giving in return:

 

The Lanyard

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewrite to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past -
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
stand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift - not the archaic truth

That you can never repay your mother,
but rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Billy Collins is both writing with tongue in cheek, and admits the profound truth: try as he might he just could not repay his mother for what he was given through her.

Though reciprocating the gestures for all she has offered us is important, Moms aren't the recipients I am really concerned about. Rather I am thinking of all that Christ Jesus has given us. What do we give in return, in the living out of our lives? I am afraid that most of us probably weave lanyards, rather than be attentive to the consequences of our faith.

Our Genesis Scripture reading describes the third such covenant God makes with Abram. Abram was seventy-five when God first came to Abram. He was eighty-five when Ishmael was born as heir apparent. Now at ninety-nine God offers again, a promised son. Twenty-four years have gone by; that's a long time to wait.

During what turns out to be this long barren time, Abram and Sarai do not wait around doing nothing. They trust God and are led by God. Oh they aren't perfect in their responses, that's for sure. But they heard God's promise of a new land and an heir. It wasn't all happy times: leaving their home, ending up in Egypt , the Pharaoh. What caused them to remain so faithful and to give their lives to a slow-acting God who promised them an heir? But perhaps a fruitful question might be, ‘Do we prove as patient, reliant as Abram?'

Now God's promise is even greater, ‘You shall be the ancestor of many nations.' Included in this promise and venture is Sarai. Abram becomes Abraham; Sarai, Sarah. The name changes in our biblical text is a clue that something really is about to happen.

But what do Abraham and Sarah give in return for this third promise/covenant/relationship to God? It is in this third covenant-making with Abram that God now asks for something in return. Not only is Abraham to follow God's Word but there's more. Our reading does not include all the verses. It is with this third covenant-building that God speaks of circumcision as the sign of the covenant. Abram as a sign of his faithfulness is to undergo circumcision. We can only imagine Abram's immediate response; his faithfulness requires more of him.

During the now less than 40 days of Lent, we are to attend to our relationship with God. We don't cruise straight for the finale in April. It's not a time to be concerned about Easter candy, Easter outfits, and Easter vacation. But instead, we might trying asking ourselves – what do we trust will give us life? What concrete kinds of things have us bodily involved with God? How do our decisions about how we live, how we interact with folks, how we spend our time, what we say, how we spend our money, and where we spend our efforts: how do they reflect God's abiding presence and promise of hope? What things, if we really were honest and upfront, don't really measure up to what an equal opportunity God of Love, a God of Creation, a God of Life might expect? These questions aren't answered by the weaving of a lanyard. Questions like these are continual checkpoints for us as we plan a week, a vacation, think about family. These aren't multiple-choice questions. They take time to reflect upon. Our journey in faith takes time to mature and deepen. Do you dare to sit and pray about such things? Do you dare to sit and talk with another about such choices?

Our Gospel lesson speaks more strongly. What can/do we give in return? Unlike Billy Collins who says you can never repay your mother, Jesus says if anyone is to become my follower, let that one deny him/herself and take up his/her cross, and then follow me.

Often I hear folks say, ‘Oh that's her/his cross to bear.' And reference is being made to a life made difficult because of an illness or a circumstance that is beyond one's control. But, I believe, Jesus is saying, no, this is a choice. We are to choose to deny ourselves, and then take up that cross.

So given what we have in life, how do we dare deny ourselves of (and I am not talking about giving up chocolate, or candy for Lent) but rather how do we deny ourselves of a privilege we live out every day or periodically because we are who we are? And then how do we do that gracefully?

I'll give us some time to think about it: a little less than forty days.