A Message on 2 Corinthians 12:1-10

I know that when I broach certain revelatory moments in my messages many of you are shocked by the truths that you learn. Certainly some of the brief windows that are opened into the heart and soul of this one man are surprising, while others are downright dumbfounding. In this message, I share with you, one such moment, which is bound to leave your jaw slack, and your head saying: “It just cannot be.”

That said, I ask that you prepare yourself, as these moments are never easy, and often are accompanied by a degree of shock and awe.

Here goes…

I have not always been the suave, charming and debonair individual that now stands before you. I know that this might be hard to grasp, or to fully wrap your arms around, but there was a time, when yours truly was less than a social dynamo.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a misfit or an outcast, I just found it a bit more challenging than your average Joe to move effortlessly through social situations. Albeit there are moments today that still fill me with considerable social anxiety, they all pale in comparison to that 18 year old version of me, trying to find my way in the world.

I of course blame my parents, for passing on bad genetics. At 18, I had a horrific complexion, a rather chubby nose, bad hair, and a gangly stature. I am sure that someday I will gather the necessary courage to bring in some old high school photos that will demonstrate just how true this assessment is. I like to say that, like a fine Merlot, I have matured over the past 22 years, but I imagine it’s more a result of just time wearing away the rough edges.

When I find myself thinking back on my more youthful years, I am reminded of how different a person I was, physically, mentally, and spiritually. I look at my wedding pictures, and I marvel that there was a time that I weighed 140lbs without an ounce of muscle…90 pounds less than I do today. That’s the gangly stature thing I just mentioned.

I recall the things I did, believed, and viewed as important, and I shake my head. I am thankful that I can count as of my core talents the ability to block out those particularly awkward or dorkish moments of my youth. This skill has allowed me to carry on with day to day living, oblivious to the embarrassment that should still persist.

Despite this pleasant amnesia, there are a few memories that remain, that make me cringe still today.

I think of my first car, a 1968 Toyota Corolla. The thing was in perfect shape with little rust. I bought it for a few hundred dollars, and through the lens of a more mature individual, I can honestly say the car was nothing to be ashamed of. Yet at the incredibly wise and worldly age of 17, I was horrified by it. I saw that baby blue Toyota, and I thought dork. I instantly decided to do something about the coolness level it relayed. Ultimately, my actions speak volumes of how broken a 17 or 18 year old boys brain could be.

I took that car, drove it into the garage, and proceeded to spray paint the car black. Mind you, I was too cheap to actually use my own money on spray paint, so I used the two cans of black primer that were already in the garage. I painted the whole thing this dull black, including the rear windows, which I thought would look “tinted” when complete. For a couple of days I decided that the car looked great, and drove that thing all across town.

In retrospect, I can only imagine what my parents thought. I didn’t care, for it was now cool black and not baby blue. Sadly, the truth of primer jobs on cars is that it is anything but permanent. Within a day or two, there were streaks of baby blue peeking through the horrific paint job. Back in the garage it went.

When I was complete with the Extreme Makeover: Toyota Edition, me and a buddy had more found more spray paint, and together we decided to paint a giant yellow bat man logo on its side. We thought it was the coolest thing, and we actually called it the batmobile.

Not satisfied with the vehicular beauty we were creating we actually figured out a way to jimmy-rig a rudimentary switch on the dash, that had wires that lead through the truck to two model rocket engines that were creatively attached to the rear hatch to look like exhaust pipes.

There we were, my buddy and I, cruising down the main streets of Concord, and Manchester NH behind the wheel of this atrocity. To make matters worse, there was that moment (one moment thank God) when we pulled up to a light and saw a cute girl on the street or the car next to us, we would smile, rev the engine, turn the switch, and drive off with flames shooting out of our hatch. We thought we were all that. I shudder to think I completely missed the dork factor that was so openly displayed in those years.

It took a few years of college to begin the process of opening my eyes, and although I was less than successful academically in my first round of college, I am grateful that my parents gave me the ultimatum which got me there.

Although everything wasn’t instantly corrected (it took meeting Stacey a year later and close to 20 years of her watchful eye to do that), I came back during the summers with a different focus. I came back with the beginning of a slowly fading teenage mentality. I started the process of discovering who I was, and I realized that the fullest of the dork-ness was beginning to be shed.

Mind you, there is plenty that remains even today, but when needed, I can hide what’s left.

The trail to arrive at this fine specimen before you, certainly took many years, but the process had started. I came home eager to be seen differently, to move differently through the world, and to grab the world by the golden ring. Sadly, there were still lessons to be learned. Ultimately, I didn’t respect the journey. I thought I had arrived when I had merely only taken the first few tentative steps.

Of course, there is a story that demonstrates how far young Scott had to do. Its centers on a girl we will call “Mary Jo”. Mary Jo was beautiful, and the source of all my fascination for years. I add the caveat that this was before Stacey, just in case this illustration gets back to her. So prior to Stacey, I could think of no girl more wonderful, more beautiful, or more perfect than Mary Jo.

There were months that she captivated my entire mind and all my thinking. Sadly, she was always out of my league. She was star student, star athlete, and she travelled in those premier non-batmobile circles. I was completely star struck by her.

That first summer, coming home from college, there was still the flame of first crush burning, for sweet Mary Jo. Although it had faded a bit, I still envisioned her as the perfect girl, and entertained visions of one day making her my girlfriend.

It wasn’t long before our paths crossed. I remember the afternoon as if it was yesterday, sadly. I was at the mall, killing time perusing the book store, when I noticed Mary Jo at the fiction section. Quickly, I jumped behind a row of shelves. “Compose yourself” I told myself. Now was my opportunity. I was going to take my new-Scott self over to pretty Mary Jo and ask her out on a date.

Maybe a movie. Maybe dinner. Maybe dancing. I was so sure this was my opportunity.

Ultimately, my legs were hearing none of it. Although full of enthusiasm, I could not garner the necessary courage to make the forty foot trek to where she stood. There she was oblivious to the presence of her one true love so close to where she, like an angel, rifled paperbacks. I frantically tried to compose not only the right words but the courage to approach. I stood there, and within moments that all too familiar moisture started forming on my forehead. Within seconds, I was sweating profusely.

I started to think that maybe she would notice me. So I tried to look debonair, suave, and sophisticated. I picked up a book on antiques and proceed to pull out the full range of dramatic skills at my disposal. Shaking my head, feigning interest, and trying to pass of an air of worldliness, I just waited for her to notice. I waited and waited, only to come to the conclusion that this plan was not working. I decided in that moment, that I had to talk to her.

I took several deep breaths. I popped a breath mint. I nonchalantly checked for foreign objects in my teeth, or hanger-on’s in my nose. A few more deep breaths and I was ready. I had my words ready. I would approach to pick up a book, that was conveniently just next to where she stood, and I would absently mindedly breeze through the pages. In a moment, I would see her standing beside me, and cock and eyebrow; “Mary Jo is that you?”

That’s pretty much where my plan ended, but I was positive that it would be enough. She would be putty at the hands of my charm, and in just a few hours we would be sitting in a movie theatre, holding hands and popcorn, as together we watched that timeless intellectual film; “Who framed Roger Rabbit”.

With a final deep breath I began my journey. When I reached her side I was shaking head to toe. Yet, I was in full character. I was part James Bond, part John Kennedy, part Sir Lancelot – Knight in Shining armor. I reached to her left, and grabbed a paperback, and started to flip the pages. Imagine my horror at the realization that it was a Harlequin Romance novel, with Fabio on the cover.

I took another deep breath, gave myself a mental reminder that I had committed, and there is no going back. The sweat still poured down, as I waited, waited, and waited some more. She wasn’t noticing, despite my incredible display of pure Rhodes Scholar intellect. I was Mr. Peacock with my full plume displayed and she wasn’t buying.

Finally, acknowledging the presence of this individual beside her, she turned and our eyes locked. Now was my moment. I smiled and proceeded to deliver my carefully scripted proposal.

Sadly, the outcome was less on the money than hope. I managed to get one word out of mouth, “Mary Jo”, and as I did out came the lifesaver mint, attached to this obscenely long dangle of spit.

From there I was lost. With a bit of stammering and stuttering, some sweat, and the instant embarrassment over the Fabio I was now clenching with both hands, I turned and bolted from the store. Leaving, pretty Mary Jo behind in my wake, wide eyed and dumbfounded by the freak who just approached her.

I only hope that Mary Jo has that skill to wipe unpleasant memories from her noggin too. If not, maybe she will stumble upon the posted version of this sermon and realized I wasn’t some unstable crazy person. Whatever filled her mind, as I ran like a school boy through the food court, I don’t know. In the end, it was the last time I saw Martha.

I met Stacey a month or two later, and if Mary Jo was all that,…Stacey was all that and a ham sandwich to boot. It was when I was around Stacey that I realized, eventually, that I didn’t need to put on the fake front. I didn’t need to be Jack Kennedy or James Bond. I realized that with her the words came easy. Standing beside her wasn’t awkward, but the only place that ever felt right. The memory of Mary Jo faded in an instant.

I imagine that each of us have stories that we would just sooner forget. I imagine that we all have stories of the times we pretended to be something we are not, or people other than who we are. I imagine that your stories, although not publically shared, come with same level of frustration and embarrassment.

The truth is every time we try to convince the world that we are something we are not, we screw things up. When we pretend to be something we are not, we end up stammering fools, with spittle on our chins.

I am telling you this incredibly embarrassing story this morning, because I want you to remember the more we are able to shed the masks, the fiction, and the façade of our faith, the closer we come to figuring all this out. Shedding the facades that we cling to will be one of our hardest struggles. You would think that the battle would be made easier because we find ourselves here, but reality couldn’t be further from it.

Since the dawn of the church, this place is ripe for donning a mask or two. The nuts and bolts of it are simple; there is something to be figured out in the church, and the temptation is strong for us to want others to think we got everything pegged already.

There is a misconception that I am sure we are all familiar with. When you make your home in the church everything is figured out. It says that once you chose to follow this new way, all the temptations, faults, poor choices and mistakes end. We throw up the facades and pray; pray that no one sees through them. The last thing we are willing to show anyone is weakness or doubt.

To make matters even worse, the pretense of hiding behind our masks keeps us from experiencing all that our faith has to offer. We are afraid to open ourselves to one another. We are afraid of revealing our weakness, and our weakness grows. In the end, we become slaves without chains.

It’s easy to see why we do this. When we reveal our weaknesses to others, or when they are revealed by others, we are looked upon as immature in our faith, or worse as someone’s pet project.

We hide the things that make us stumble, as opposed to turning to others who can make a difference. Those weaknesses that we each struggle through are not unique. We each have our own. Maybe in one person it is alcohol, or another temper. Maybe it takes the form of jealousy or envy. Maybe it’s a handful of the many temptations that shake us up from day to day.

Whatever it may be, the truth is that it leaves us far away from the true sanctifying grace available through our faith, and it is a far cry from the faith that led the early church. This is so easily seen when we turn to Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. Paul is open and candid. He tells the church that he has a thorn in the flesh. There is something that weakens and cripples him. Many scholars say it was a skin condition, others theorize it was no different from the thorns in our sides. (2^nd. Cor. 12)

Paul writes that he begged God to fix it, and God’s answer to Paul, should be hang like a constant reminder to each of us. “My Grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness”. He goes on to say, he would rather boast in his weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell with him. What Paul does is simple. He admits his weakness. He throws away the façade and the mask. In doing so, the power and glory of God is revealed.

Imagine how our lives and our churches could change if instead of pretending we were real with each other. How would my life be different if we could stand in this place and admit that we have a problem with our temper, alcohol, or temptation? Imagine if we could turn to one another for help, for strength, and comfort in our journeys to break their death grip on us.

In this message I remind each of you, that this is exactly what the church is for. We stand together. We stand for each other. We are people who are broken, and look to each other and God for fixing. We don’t win, when we stand and pretend to be something different. We don’t win, when we hope another loves us because the masks we put on. We don’t win, until we are willing to be true to each other.

Without a doubt its scary. We don’t open ourselves without risk. Yet, the truth remains (albeit a bit Spiderman sounding)with great risk comes great reward. The life we are called to, and the action we are called to take, begins with being honest. I know that I am willing to listen, to stand beside you, and to humbly bear your burdens. As I consider those in my circle of faith, I know that they are willing, and ready to humbly bear mine. Together let us cast aside our masks, and claim this wondrous gift.