A Place to Call Home

SCRIPTURE TEXT:  Isaiah 25:6-9, Rev. Monte Marshall, Senior Pastor

A Place to Call Home will be our focus for the next six weeks.  According to the dictionary, home is “the place where one lives”[1]—and surely this is true.  But home is also much more. 

An ancient Roman philosopher wrote: “Home is where the heart is.”[2]  Others have said that home is a place where we belong—a place where we feel safe and secure—a place where we are known and valued—a place that gives meaning and purpose to our lives.

“Home” can be anywhere—in places both familiar and unfamiliar.  A song by Phillip Phillips captures the idea:

Hold on to me as we go

as we roll down this unfamiliar road

and although this wave…is stringing us along

just know you’re not alone

’cause I’m gonna make this place your home.[3]

Maya Angelou once said that “The ache for home lives in all of us.”[4]  Benedictine writer and artist, Hubert Van Zeller, identifies this “ache” as loneliness and homesickness.  He wrote that “The soul hardly ever realizes it, but…loneliness is really a homesickness for God.”[5]  Do we know this “ache” for a place to call home that van Zeller describes? 

Author Mark Ralls tells a story about our yearning for “home.”  He writes: “When I was in my early thirties, I studied at a school in Germany for almost two years.  I lived alone, and my research in the library was a solitary pursuit.  I was sometimes lonely and often felt at least a twinge of homesickness.  I found solace listening to a homeless street performer named Terry.  Terry spent his days on the old stone bridge that I walked across on my way to the university.  Every afternoon I would listen to Terry play American folk songs and would feel a nostalgic pull toward home.

“Terry was a remarkable talent.  Even though his voice sounded as if he had just gargled a handful of gravel, he knew how to work a crowd…. Although he had not bathed in weeks, Terry was utterly charming.  Crowds swelled around him.

“Terry always ended with his signature piece:  Bob Dylan’s classic, ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’  When this homeless man sang about living without roots or a place to call home, the crowd was stilled…. We knew instinctively that with this song, Terry was singing, not for us, but for himself.

“And yet, Terry was still singing about us.  Homelessness is not just about where someone sleeps at night.  Our homesickness is a condition of the soul—a dislocation of our hearts from the heart of God, a disconnection from the hearts of one another.  Looking back, I now realize that I was not the only person on that bridge looking for a place to connect.  In our own way, all of us were there searching for a home.”[6]

In this morning’s text from Isaiah, the prophet envisions “home” in a particular way.  For Isaiah, “home” is on “this mountain”—the holy mountain of Zion—this place that symbolizes God’s dwelling among us.

In this place called “home,” there’s celebration; there’s a table; there’s food; there’s drink; and God is the host.  Yahweh is preparing a banquet “for all peoples” featuring the best foods and the finest wines.  The image harkens back to a feast in the wilderness at Sinai.

Before entering this place called “home,” mourning veils and shrouds are left at the door because God has destroyed death, wiped away every tear, and taken removed our shame. 

In this place called “home” around the banquet table, we all belong, we’re safe, we’re secure, we’re known, and we’re valued. 

In this place called “home”—on “that Day”—we all will proclaim: “This is our God, this is the One for whose liberation we waited, Yahweh is the One in whom we had hoped!  We rejoice exultantly in our deliverance, for the hand of Yahweh rests on this mountain!” 

This, my friends, is the poetry of hope.  The words of the prophet provide hope for the hungry, hope for the grieving, hope for the homesick, hope for the lonely, hope for the isolated, hope for the alienated.    The words of the prophet remind us of a place called “home,” even when “home” seems so very far away.

Hope is an important ingredient in finding a place to call home.  A case in point:  On Tuesday, May 8, 1984, Presbyterian Pastor Benjamin Weir was kidnapped on the streets on Beirut, Lebanon by members of the Islamic Jihad.  Rev. Weir was taken to a building outside of Beirut and placed in a bare, cold and dirty room.  He was blindfolded.  His left arm was chained and padlocked to a nearby radiator.  He was left utterly alone—separated from his home, his wife, Carol, his family, his friends.  This is how Benjamin Weir began many long months of captivity in Beirut, Lebanon. 

On Friday, May 11, Ben Weir decided to create a place to call “home” within the circumstances of his captivity.  He would begin with a banquet on Sunday morning.  So when supper came on Saturday, he held back a piece of bread from his sandwich.  On Sunday, he took the bread and celebrated Holy Communion. 

This is how Ben Weir describes that day: “I awoke thinking of a visit Carol and I had made ten months earlier to Pakistan.  Once more I could see Christians coming to church, the women in their colorful and graceful native dresses.  I thought of a village congregation seated on the floor singing the gospel story enthusiastically in their Panjabi language and clapping to the beat.  I imagined teachers, students, doctors, nurses, patients, public health workers, literacy teams, men in construction projects, seminary students and faculty along with missionaries—all awaking and proceeding to places of worship while I was still sleeping.  There they gathered at the Lord’s table.

“My mind moved westward with the sun:  Assyrian, Armenian, Persian-speaking Christians in various cities of Iran, and Arabic-speaking Christians in Iraq coming to worship also.  I envisioned people of various cultural backgrounds gathering at an ecumenical center in Kuwait.  I was part of this far-flung family, the very body of Christ.

“I unwrapped my piece of bread and began the Presbyterian order of worship: “We are now about to celebrate the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.”  For me the “we” had special meaning. 

“I ate the bread behind closed doors [just like] the fearful disciples and the risen [Christ] on that first Easter.  When it came to sharing the cup I had no visible wine, but that didn’t seem to matter.  I knew that others were taking the cup for me elsewhere at this universal table.

            “As others prayed for me, so I prayed for them and their ministry and mission.  It was the longest Communion service I have ever attended.”

            Now Ben Weir was still a homesick hostage in captivity, but he kept hope alive!  He managed to create for himself the imaginative space to experience “home” around the expansive banquet table of Holy Communion.  Weir writes that at the end of the day, “I was finally able to settle down for the night with a feeling of trust, comfort, and praise, plus the hope that in a tender way I might again share moments with Carol.  This last thought brought tears to my eyes.”[7]

So are we homesick today?  Are we looking for a place to call home?  Well, look around.  Home is here.  God is here.  And can’t we hear God saying:

Just know you’re not alone

’cause I’m gonna make this place your home.[8]

If we doubt it, then when the time is right, come to the banquet table where all are welcomed, and see what “home” is really like.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.