Caroline Black Preaching

      Technically, my room isn’t a mess. I believe the term “organized confusion” is far more fitting: I know which clothes on the floor are clean and which ones are dirty; all important papers are somewhere on my desk; and if I need to locate any information about college, all I have to do is consult the stack of brochures piled against the wall. One corner in particular exhibits the hodgepodge of activities in my life: a pair of prom shoes, programs from a choir tour to Sweden, an SAT study guide—even a piñata. Now I understand the frenzied expressions of those reminiscing about their junior year.
      I guess it’s really no coincidence, then, that I hadn’t seen much of God lately. It wasn’t for lack of trying: between Sunday school, high school fellowship and advising middle school connection, it seemed like there were ample opportunities for me to connect with God, but recently I couldn’t. Everything crammed into my schedule—including the fun things—took the front seat, and I seemed to be overwhelmed by everything except God’s presence. When the time came to say my prayers at night, I ended up falling asleep before the thoughts came to my mind.
      It was on one of these recent school nights that, sitting at my desk, I glanced over at that particularly cluttered corner of my room. As I examined the crowded collage of activity, I noticed something else: halfway concealed by shopping bags and boxes, collecting dust in its spot near the wall, was my statement of faith.
      Two years ago in Confirmation class I decided to sculpt my faith statement instead of writing it, incorporating symbols to represent various parts of my faith such as my baptism and the trinity. At the center of the sculpture is a globe encircled by a telephone cord, representing my belief that God communicates with me via my experiences on earth, especially in my interactions with others. I had intended my sculpture to be something that I could see everyday to remind me of my faith; now it only seemed to blend in with all the papers and clothes and bags in front of it, its bright colors at most a decoration for my room.
      The same night that I noticed my neglected statement of faith was the night that I first read this passage from Luke, and the parallels between my life and the story began to unfold. When Jesus reveals himself to the disciples after his crucifixion, they are overcome with happiness, but still aren’t completely convinced; though Christ is standing amongst them, they still disbelieve. There, literally in the midst of the overpowering clutter of my life, was God, standing amongst it all just as he stood among the skeptical disciples.
      So what would it take to assure the disciples that it was really Jesus, staring them in the face? What proved to me that God, sitting over there against the wall, really was present? I read the passage again.
      Jesus prods the disciples’ disbelief, asking, “Why do doubts arise in your hearts?” He verifies that he is the same Christ whom they knew before by showing the disciples his wounds and reminding them of Old Testament prophecies, helping them to finally make the connection that he is the Messiah. “Touch me and see,” he says, “for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” Again I looked at my statement of faith, this time studying the globe I had placed at the center and recalling its significance. God in the world—God working through the flesh and bone of His people. Turning this idea over in my head, I was transported back to a rooftop in Mississippi on a muggy summer day, where the patience, diligence, and cheerfulness of my fellow mission trippers persisted in the more-than-a-little-tedious business of shingling in 90-degree humidity. I was transported back to McCarter Theater on a Sunday in October, where I witnessed the joyful union of two churches overcoming a history of separation. And I was transported back to this sanctuary little more than a week ago, where the deep sorrow of loss and the endurance of grace were beautifully juxtaposed by the single note of a choir.
      It was then that I realized that though I had felt that God was absent in my life, He has really been here all along. I have touched Christ and truly seen that we—these people next to me, this congregation, the church—we are the embodiment of Christ’s spirit. And while in our joy, sadness, anger, or stress we may disbelieve, He will always be standing amongst us.

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