So, I once overheard a conversation while sitting in a hospital waiting room. The television was tuned to CNN and they had just been discussing these pictures from Pluto. And the person sitting next to me was was one of those 'aginers,' the kind of person who is always against whatever it is that people are for. She was going on about what a colossal waste of money the whole thing was, when those funds could have gone to programs for people here on Earth. People were in need all over the world, and here we were sending some little machine at the cost of zillions of dollars to some place nobody is ever going to go to and probably couldn't live there if they did. But this younger dude kept interrupting this tirade by simply stating, “Yeah, but it's so cool.”
Now I have to admit that that I side with “it's so cool.” I'm a child of the sixties. I watched the Jetsons and am still waiting for the flying cars and jet packs and trips to our Mars colony. If I were President of the United States I'd devote as much money as possible to research the benefits of chicken wings and anything that NASA could imagine doing. In fact, my fellow seminarians who all knew about my passion for all stuff “out there” once dubbed me the Archbishop of Space, a title I still cling to, hoping one day I'll be able to travel out there and put it to use.
And these awesome pictures from Pluto, which is still a planet to me, no matter what snooty scientists say, just fire me up to get back out there, to see real live human beings once more go where no man has gone before. I can only imagine what it's like.
Out on the frontier, guarding the rest of us, making these long sweeps of our solar property like a night watchman. Isolated, deserted. To be that far away from everything you've ever known, but to know that you are still part of everything there is. . . .
But then reality hits, and the phone makes one of its many noises, or I get an email, or somebody stops by the office, and life goes on. People need food or money for utilities. Someone needs to arrange a funeral. Another person has a good idea for a new ministry. Meetings are met. Schedules are set. Classes are classed. The Catos go on a trip, and I have to dog sit. Mom and Brian come for a visit. And I get busier and busier. And eventually I begin to become nothing more than a schedule.
I think this is beginning to happen with David. The story is taking a turn here. We don't see it quite yet in our Sunday readings, but something is going on. The mere fact that a new prophet, Nathan, has shown up, lurking in the shadows, should tell us that something is about to happen.
David has gone from shepherd to king, from musician to soldier. He has conquered and he has united. Israel is now whole and is sitting at the crossroads of empire. And with that comes responsibility. And with responsibility come council meetings, reviewing the troops, reading lists of crops and armaments and building projects. People lining up to petition him; people wanting their needs met; people demanding justice.
And there David is, sitting on his throne, looking around him at his splendor, then looking at that ratty old, dinged-up ark of the covenant sitting in a patched-up old tent. And David thinks the obvious: Building Project! This will employ people, get the priests off my back, and my name will be attached to it. And God will be close by so I won't have to waste so much time going in search of Him. And Nathan, the prophet, thinks this is splendid, too. “God's all for this,” he immediately says, forgetting that nobody has bothered to ask God what he thinks of the whole thing.
But God has other plans. And God says, “No. You are not going to do this thing. I may have a house one day, but not now and not from you.” Because God likes the tent living. This God of ours has a wild side. A free side. And this God of ours is found out on the edge of life. Out in the wilderness, out where there is danger, out where there are wild things in the dark, eyes looking at and tracking the vulnerable wanderer. God, who is so often a gentle breeze in our lives, also needs enough space to become a whirlwind. Blowing things over; knocking things down. Rushing out to deserted places and filling them up with that wild, crazy Spirit.
And I think David had forgotten this. God was always calling to David, “Come here. Come away to this deserted place where only I dwell. Sit with me. Learn from me. LISTEN TO ME. I will protect you. I will raise you up. I will guide you, and you will go places. But I will be out here with you.” And David was always at his best when he was listening to God's call to follow to the wild places. Places where a shepherd wouldn't dare to go alone. Places where a simple musician could never go alone. But those places where God would meet this shepherd, would take this musician, and change him.
Out there. Out on the edge. What do you think is out there? If you close your eyes, if you let yourself dream of being out on the edge of the wilderness, what is there? Are you afraid? Are you afraid that God is not there? Or that God IS there, and has a plan for you?
Our Gospel reading today is at the heart of all of this. There is Jesus, our God, out there among the people. And they are pressing and pressing and trying to box him in. They want a Messiah, they want salvation, but they want to hem it in, to make it manageable. And Jesus says to his disciples, “Come away to a deserted place...” And they try. They really try to get to that deserted place.
But life happens and the people find them and keep pressing in. Pushing and pushing with all those needs, and there's not enough time any more to go to that deserted place.
And here's what I think. Here's what I suspect. When I look at my calendar and see all the dates and times filled in, here's what I think is going on with the disciples. I think they are relieved. I think they are happy that the people keep pressing in. I think it makes them feel needed. I think it gives them something to do that they are pretty good at. I think they like seeing the lines of the crippled, the throngs of the hungry, the clusters of the lepers. I think these are familiar problems to them, and it makes them feel like they are accomplishing something.
But mostly I think they are relieved, because out there in that deserted place? Out there alone with Jesus? That's can be scary. Because they know something about Jesus. They know something that we've always suspected. He's not just this nice healer, this gentle teacher that the crowd throng for. He's got that God streak in him. That wildness, that sense of danger, that edginess.
He's got those eyes that look at us from out in the dark. He's watching us, always lurking to find those signs of need, those signs that the defenses in our lives are crumbling. Just waiting to say to each of us, “Come away with me to this deserted place.” And in that place he just might change us more than we want. He might take the accountant into a deserted place and say, “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to travel to a land where they really really need you? Not your money. You.” He might take the engineer out to the deserted place and say, “I need you for a special project that doesn't involve numbers and computers, but pain and sorrow.” He might take that nurse and say, “I am going to teach you to care in ways you never thought possible.” He might take that retired person, that person who has finally gotten used to relaxing, and say, “Oh, no. Your adventure is only beginning.”
Those deserted places? They never really are. Deserted, that is. They are filled with new experiences just waiting to be lived. Whether they are somewhere else on Earth with a new people and a new culture. Whether they are out there on the rim of the solar system. Or whether they are new, unexplored parts of our soul. Those deserted places are not deserted at all. They are filled with God. Our God waiting on us, ready to take us on a new adventure. The question is: Can we clear our calendar? Can we pack lightly? Can we listen for the call?
Are we really, really ready for the adventure of a lifetime?