2 Corinthians 4:1-18 · Treasures in Jars of Clay
To See Your Face Is Like Seeing The Face Of God
2 Corinthians 4:1-18
Sermon
by James Angell
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If you could deliver one sermon, what would you speak about? Though the question sounds trite, it has sometimes been asked of most preachers - usually in a half-serious way. What text, truth, or character has come to fill your heart's imagination, changed your life, or made you eager to use one big chance to share it with others?

For me, the answer is in the story of the reconciliation in the desert between Esau and Jacob, years after the stealing of the birthright, where, comforted by Esau's forgiveness, Jacob says: "To see your face is like seeing the face of God."

I have fallen in love with this part of the Genesis narrative because it is filled with echoes and the images of having so often seen, during the years of my active ministry, the face of God in the faces of others. We say of Jesus that faith enables us to see in his face the human face of God, which may come as close to expressing his divine nature as we can get.

By my early 20s much had happened that brought me face to face with God on more than one occasion.

• I walked beside George Washington Carver, the African-American agricultural genius, in a Simpson College baccalaureate parade and heard him describe his intimate dialogue with "Mr. Creator." Carver was a deeply spiritual, self-made man who, in spite of racist opposition, became one of the world's most distinguished botanists.

• I entered law school and began to see God at work in ways and places and people and history that dissolved all false boundaries between the secular and the sacramental.

• I was married in 1942, as a commissioned ensign, soon after Pearl Harbor. I had taken vows at the old Chicago Post Office to help defend the country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Yet love's vows have always seemed like the most important, and the years that followed, including the births of our four children, produced their own solemn, beautiful moments of grace.

• I had my first up-close assignment with death - death on the high seas. Our American destroyer, The USS Moffett, was assigned to anti-submarine patrol in the South Atlantic Ocean. It was May 1943. A German submarine had attacked a convoy of Allied ships, and a call had gone out for help. Moffett was soon on its way and the crew placed on General Quarters, the ship's highest state of battle readiness. As we reached the location on the navigational chart where the marauders supposedly had been sighted, the South Atlantic waters were blue and unruffled, and the sun was shining brightly overhead. But within less than an hour all that changed. Depth charges launched in strategic patterns sent geysers high into the air, and spread lethal shrapnel fires beneath.

More minutes passed.

More depth charges dropped and spouted.

Then, out of Neptune's chambers there arose, dragon-like, the gray prey, as the enemy submarine's crew manned the deck guns and brought our ship under brief but withering fire. Then the ocean became blood. The submarine was abandoned, leaving two dozen crew adrift in yellow life vests, each stenciled with swastikas. Later there would be a sunset burial of all the dead. And along with other of our own young officers I would move among the survivors held in the mess halls, looking into their equally young faces - Esau and Jacob - hoping our failure to live in understanding and peace might be converted into some better peace for tomorrow.

Written years later on a passage to England aboard the S.S. France, these words of mine kept me remembering some of the unusual places where the face of God shines unexpectedly upon us:

Chapel On Board Ship

Why does it seem strange to find
You here, O Lord? You who
Knew the sea, and loved it well.
The swell of the waves you understood.
Their power you once did bind.

This shiny, stained-glass stall
Was built for you, they say.
The cross is here, and a place
To kneel. Here today, I sought
Your face; and, yes, I heard You call.

But out there, thick with salt and flimsy foam
I think I see a crowded boat
With twelve rough men and ageless Love.
The Chapel door I close (with thanks).
And try to hitch-hike home.

• When we were living in Lexington, our three-year-old son whom we called Jamie, later Jim, developed a case of croup one evening after most of the family was in bed. We did all we could to relieve the wheezing and gasping for breath. We walked him, turned on the shower, hoping steam would help. But his condition seemed only to worsen. At midnight we were beginning to feel desperate and telephoned Dr. William Maxson for advice.

Were there any pharmacies open at that time of night, and could he call in a prescription?

Yes, there was one. And yes, he could.

I got into our car and went roaring down the deserted streets. Within a half hour I was back with the coveted remedy. Relieved, but also surprised to see Dr. Maxson standing in the front hallway, attired in bathrobe, bedroom slippers, and a scarf thrown around his neck. The answer to the fears of two very frightened young parents.

Bill Maxson was bald, at times almost severe looking, but inwardly golden and good. Seeing him there in the doorway at 1 a.m. gave me one more unforgettable glimpse of the face of God.

• There was an earlier glimpse, too. It was my 19th birthday and I was a college junior. I had been allowed the use of my dad's car for the faIl semester, so four of us celebrated with a picnic at Water Works Park, a few miles south of Indianola, Iowa. We were Virginia, my main and lifetime love interest, and I; and another couple, Wayne and Letha. As Maurice Chevalier would put it, "I remember it well."

We were in a celebrative mood and had a lot of fun along the banks of the stream that divides the park. Around nine o'clock we repacked our picnic basket and started back to town along the same dark, narrow road that had brought us. I was driving.

So was a man, named Fred Hutchcroft, but in an opposite direction. His farm bordered the road. Because he had seen a light in one of his fields, he had set out to investigate, driving slowly along the dirt edge, on the lookout for intruders.

We approached each other near the crest of a hill steep enough to observe the headlight beams of both cars, but too late to avoid a collision that shattered not only the quiet of a cool October evening, but also the steel and glass hood, radiator, and windshields of both vehicles.

I got out of my father's car and asked this stranger if he was hurt.

"I don't know," he said, "how about you?"

Inside our 1938 Chevrolet with its once brightly polished but now-mangled front, there were no sounds, no pleas for help nor moans of pain. Only three crumpled human forms on upholstery smeared with blood. I alone remained conscious - stunned and frightened. Mr. Hutchcroft had disappeared, the road soaked up in the night.

I took my three unconscious companions and laid them beyond further danger, after trying to see if anyone could speak or had any idea about what had happened. But they were all as silent as the stars. If I prayed, I don't remember it. I only recollect starting to walk back along the way we had come - fighting back 19-year-old tears. Then breaking into a run.

Another car approached, slowing when its occupants saw me, and inside there was a warm, wonderful woman's face, with lovely auburn hair. I remember it wreathed the moment as she asked, "Are you in trouble? What can we do to help?"

I saw the face of God that night. The face of a human angel. Some of the injuries were serious, but we all survived. A trial later vindicated my car handling in spite of my age.

God as a Rescuer is not that rare for anyone who has come from the darkness into light again.

James Stephens describes another form of identification, this one closer to that famous wrestling match between Jacob and an adversary who, it turns out, was also on a heavenly assignment.

I saw God! Do you doubt it? Do you dare to doubt it? I saw the Almighty Man! His handWas resting on a mountain! And He looked upon the World, and all about it: I saw Him plainer than you see me now - You mustn't doubt it!

He was not satisfied! His look was all dissatisfied! His beard swung on a wind, far out of sight Behind the world's curve! And there was light Most fearful from His forehead! And He sighed - That star went always wrong, and from the start - I was dissatisfied! -

He lifted up His hand! I say He heaved a dreadful hand Over the spinning earth! Then I said, - Stay, You must not strike it, God! I'm in the way! And I will never move from where I stand! - He said, - Dear child, I feared that you were dead, - ... And stayed His hand!

- James Stephens "What Tomas Said in a Pub"

I began by talking about a favorite text that keeps drawing me back, a Scripture that keeps playing familiar music inside my soul.

As I look forward to the completion of my own life, so beautifully satisfying, so rich in human relationships, a cup that has overflowed, then overflowed some more, a gift beyond anyone's deserving - let this part of the story end by remembering these two other personally favorite verses:

You will do well to pay attention to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts. - 2 Peter 1:19 (RSV)

And from the second letter to the Corinthians:

It is the God who said, "Let light shine out of darkness" who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. - 2 Corinthians 4:6 (NRSV)

CSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, THE ROMANCE OF PREACHING, by James Angell