“In him we live and move and have our being.”


Last Sunday, the son called with the news

that he was going to the Phillie’s game.

He had great seats, he said. Fifth row.

Every time a right handed batter was up we could see him.

Leftie after leftie came up. Finally a rightie.

And there we sat in front of our 19 inch, squinting.

Finally the birth mother’s eyes honed in on her firstborn.

“There he is!”

She dialed feverishly and we could see him

reach for his cell phone to answer.

“Is that you next to the blonde woman?” “Yeah.”

“What are you doing talking to her- I’m telling your wife!”

So- we remained glued to the screen, and

I knew as we continued watching how weird this was-

to be spending our evening watching Scott watch a ball game.


“In him we live and move and have our being.”


Is that what it’s like?

God with a direct TV line on us, where our every move is seen,

with a cell phone to call us with reminders?


Paul tells his people that God created us all so that we would search for God,

would grope for God and find God- that indeed God is not far from each of us.

Paul gives us those incredible words

“In him we live and move and have our being.”


In John’s gospel Jesus tells us to expect the Spirit.

The spirit that abides with us,

the spirit we are to abide in.


Thursday at a clergy day a speaker described God

as out there in the farthest reaches, and way down in here.

God wants us there, and right there, right in the middle of where God is.


Jesus, risen from the dead, is now preparing to return to the Father.

That will be some reunion- the Son returning to the Father, mission accomplished.

This week we will celebrate that moment of the Ascension.

By then, Jesus had already told us over and over,

that he is with us, in us, and we are with him, in him.


So when he ascends to his Father, since we are now always with him,

this Son of God who is our human brother, we are always with him;

we get to go along with him for the ride.

We are already part of the package deal.

He goes to sit at the right hand of the Father, and we are there, in Him.

This amazing life of the Trinity,

where the Father’s endless love for the Son returns through the Spirit;

this relationship of creative, enduring, empowering love-

once Jesus made his human footsteps and was born and died with us and for

us and as one of us-

his return to the Father includes us all.

You’ve seen stained glass windows of the Ascension.

All you can see are Jesus’ feet going up.

I picture all of us holding on to his toes as he goes through the clouds.

We’re all in him. He said so.


We are within God, and God is within us.

That’s a lot closer than in the temples or shrines or on the altar that Paul found in Athens, devoted to the unknown God.

That’s a lot closer than a promise of heaven after we get through a performance test here.


What Paul promises, and what Jesus delivers, is a very known God.

A God who sets up house within us in the now, and us in him in the not yet.


The story is told of a young monk who was on a quest, looking for God.

He finally found a wise old monk and asked him where please, he could find God.

The monk said “That is like a fish swimming around looking for the ocean.”

It’s going through your gills- You’re in it!


A lot closer than a cell phone and a TV camera.


Maybe sometimes we get waylaid because of our expectations.

We may be looking for some kind of trademark

or recognizable fingerprint where God is,

or where or how we want God to be, some ahah moment.

We get tons of forwarded e-mails showing spectacular sunsets or nature shots

that knock our socks off, screaming of God’s presence, might and beauty.


And as inspiring as a picture of a breaching whale or a glorious field of daffodils are,

we don’t spend too much of our time

in moments of such breathtaking connection to God.


And often enough, those fantastic photos

would do little to inspire us at 4:30 in the afternoon,

as we deal with the stresses, pains and demands of our days.

We forgot to defrost something for dinner.

A note from the teacher and the dog pees on the floor.

Not a good time for seeing God in the forsythia bush.


In his book ‘Learning to Fall”, Philip Simmons says:

“We have all heard poems, songs, and prayers that exhort us to see God in a blade of grass, a drop of dew, a child’s eyes, or the petals of a flower. Now when I hear such things I say that’s too easy. Our greater challenge is to see God not only in the eyes of the suffering child but in the suffering itself. To thank God for the sunset pink clouds over Red Hill- but also for the mosquitoes I must fan from my face while watching the clouds. To thank God for broken bones and broken hearts, for everything that opens us to the mystery of our humanness. The challenge is to stand at the sink with your hands in the dishwater, fuming over a quarrel with your spouse, children at your back clamoring for attention, the radio blaring the bad news from Bosnia, and to say “God is here, now, in this room, here in this dishwater, in this dirty spoon.” Don’t talk to me about flowers and sunshine and waterfalls: this is the ground, here, now, in all that is ordinary and imperfect, this is the ground in which life sows the seeds of our fulfillment.”


God abides in us, John says.

There is not a moment of our life that God is not intimately present to.

Occasionally we notice.

And if we already notice God in the face of our sleeping child,

or the echo of a glorious anthem from the choir,

let us ask God for the grace to notice more.

To notice, to cling to God in all things.


It’s like this great secret, this invisible world

that’s always there, and most people don’t know about,

like seeing sound or hearing color.

God is right here and now, and always, abiding in us;

we are right here and now, and always, abiding in God.

Each moment is open for us to remember,

to notice with our hearts what won’t fit in our minds.

Yes, God is way out there, in the farthest reaches,

and God is way down in here.


“In him we live and move and have our being.”

Amen,
Rev. Terry Suruda, Deacon