When I was a junior in High School there was a national youth organization in the church called Luther League.  How many of you were in Luther League?  (Show of hands)

It’s heyday was in the 1950s and early 1960s during the time when every mainline tradition in Christianity was growing, new congregations were being started at a rate in this country that would never again be experienced, Sunday Schools were at their highest attendance, and a frequent weekend TV commercial (in black and white, of course) featured the typical Christian family (all white of course): father wearing a suit, tie, and fedora hat … mother wearing her Sunday dress and ladies’ hat … brother and sisters appearing as miniature versions of their parents … and the voice over was “The Family that Prays Together Stays Together!”

Even thought it wasn’t in reality at all, the myth of post-World War II American life was one of stability, dependability, and any other kind of ability you could imagine.  As a people, we were simply going to grow and get better in every way … in spite of the Cold War, in spite of the growing tensions brought by racism and poverty, in spite of the fears of the future.

The Church was the place where you went to meet God who was on our side, a benevolent divine blesser of our thoughts and deeds, and – while getting older every year – didn’t change very much.  God was a he, and looked like everyone’s grandfather only bedecked in a long white robe and sporting a long white beard and mostly he went around barefoot (which I noticed perusing the paintings of the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo that were in the Art Book that my mother placed on the coffee table for my sister and I to read).

It occurred to me in those early days of being a Luther Leaguer that God was depicted more in our image than in the way described in the Book of Genesis.  But, no matter … life was good, full, dependable, stable, and as I said before very able.

Mostly I remember the people, young people my own age, several of whom went on to Seminary as did I and became pastors of the church (both men and women in time).  I remember the conversations, the teachings, the discussions, the depth probing of life issues, the theological inquiries, the development of a critical mind in the matter of faith and religion.

I remember one of the Pastors in particular who was leading the event … he was, at the time, a young adult, and he was the person my collection of new friends at the Conference wanted to be near all the time.  He seemed to know, he definitely understood our questions.  Though his name is lost to my memory, he is one of the people who helped me in my decision to become a pastor myself, though he probably never knew it (or maybe he did …).

We tried to eat meals at his table, and at one of the meals, at dinnertime, before Evening Prayer on Saturday night, we began to ask him questions, especially we wanted to know how it felt to be a pastor.  One of our group asked, “You must feel very close to God all the time.”

He finished chewing the morsel of college-food he had selected, put down his fork, took a sip of coffee and said, “Let me tell you about that.  You would think that when I’m at the Altar or at the Pulpit I would feel very close to God, I would sense God’s presence … but the truth is, I felt the closest to God when my wife was seriously ill and I was sitting next to her in the hospital room … I felt the closest to God when our child was born and I got to hold her in my arms … I feel the closest to God when I’m talking with one of our members who is going through a hard time in life … things like that.”

Our young questioner persisted, “But don’t you ever feel that you’re close to God at the Altar when you’re doing Holy Communion, let’s say?”

The pastor responded, “Sure, sometimes even there.  But I’m really busy leading worship, sometimes it’s hard to concentrate.  I’m sure God’s there as well, but your question was … where did I feel the closeness … and I have to tell you, as a pastor, you don’t always get that feeling in church.”

I loved this man.  That night he took my questions about God and made God very unexpected for me, and therefore, very real.

I was set free from worrying about pleasing a God who wanted us to pray together and stay together, who wanted us as white people be better than black people, who wanted us to build and build and grow and grow … and introduced to a God who was available in dinner conversation, in the hospital room, and generally in the unexpected, but quite needed places of life.

It was a sort of Luther moment, and for it I’m very grateful. 

It’s the unexpected God in whom I believe; the God who reaches into humankind and touches humanity with a care and grace that cannot be scheduled and cannot be planned.

It the God who abhors agendas and committees, who would rather be sitting next to you in your questions and wrestling, and be dining with you not only in sacramental meals, but as Martin Buber one remarked, “One dines in holiness, and every table becomes an altar.”

It is the God who meets humanity in the biblical account we heard in our First Reading where King Saul has fallen out of favour with God, and Samuel takes over, and comes to Jesse looking over his several sons, and finally chooses the youngest, the most inexperienced, the “runt” (as Eugene Peterson translates it in The Message … a version of the Bible I would highly recommend that you read), this ruddy and nice looking … David.

(Read verse 11-13 from The Message).

And more about David we will hear next week.

It is the God who laughs and plays and then in all seriousness wants to work together with humanity to heal the world, the planet, the people, the creation … and who does that, says Jesus, by taking the unexpected and turning them into something great, just like a tiny little seed of the mustard plant which when planted grows into a shrub capable of housing birds.

It is the God who sits next to you in this time of worship, who meets you in word and meal, who yearns to bind up what is broken in you, seeks to bring healing to you, wants to be close to you … and does that in the unexpected moments here in this place and out there beyond this place.

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(Note: as frequently happens, this sermon had a different ending in the Pulpit, another of the famous “¾ Sermons” … i.e. unfinished.  For me, it’s the plight of preaching, and what makes trying to recreate the ending after the fact so difficult.  However, I think the reader will get the sense of the message throughout … that God ((who is absolute freedom)) is the unexpected God our worship, faith, and life.)