Stop me if you have heard or spoken these seven words

in recent days: I just can’t wait until it’s over. I heard it four

times from parishioners last Sunday alone. In fact, the

phrase feels like a kind of mantra for the moment we’re

in, the one sentiment that transcends all our division and

unites everyone. We are weary with our worry as we wait

for what comes next. We are exhausted by our outrage.

I empathize with all who feel this way; I understand

the hope that soon and very soon the fever will break,

the temperature will drop, and our relationships can be

restored. I just can’t wait until it’s over.

This morning, I want to suggest that, from the perspective

of faith, this yearning is misguided. Here’s why. Moments

of consequential decision do not arrive in four-year

cycles. We must be careful not to circumscribe our Godgiven responsibility to deadlines of human construction.

Four weeks ago, here at Second, we introduced a

covenant for faithful living in divided times. Our hope

was to offer some scriptural guidance for how people

of Christian faith can respond to situations of hostility

or dissension. We listed five promises built on Biblical

values that shape our character. Over the last month, this

covenant has taken root and branched out. I’ve loved

hearing stories of members who put the covenant on the

refrigerator for daily viewing. One man this week told me

that he had taped it to his desk right next to his keyboard.

When I asked him why, he said, “Well, that’s the place

I’m most apt to fall short.” I’ve loved hearing how the

covenant has sparked conversation at dinner tables and

workplaces and church meetings. Earlier this week, I

heard from a pastor in Mendocino in Northern California

who used the covenant in a retreat with his church

leaders last weekend. The pastor wrote me, “Please

convey to the makers of the covenant that [our elders]

resonated with the scriptural passages. It led to deep

conversations, vulnerability, and a commitment to listen

to one another. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Now, imagine that next Sunday I stood before you and

said, “Good news! It’s over. Mission accomplished. You

may now rip up those covenants and abandon those

promises. Live however you choose now.” I trust you get

the point. The commitments contained in the covenant

remind us that we have ongoing agency. We are not

pawns positioned by powerful players who manage

our every move. We make choices. Choices that reveal

our moral core and determine our direction. Character

means choosing. This week and every week.

The words I just read come from the very end of the book

of Joshua, just before the old man dies at 110 years old.

This is Joshua’s final speech, his last chance to address

his people, the ones who raised him up and taught him

the faith, the ones who respected him enough to follow

his lead after the death of his mentor Moses.

Joshua gathers them at Shechem. The place matters.

It is the same spot God appeared to Abraham with a

covenant of faithfulness generations earlier. And in

that sacred space, Joshua uses his final words to urge

this people to reaffirm that covenant, to renew their

commitment. He asks them to make a choice, and he

demands that they do it immediately—choose this day

whom you will serve. The choice is stark. Two roads

diverge. Idolatry or fidelity. It’s time to choose.

Whom will you serve?

Joshua’s language is precise, and it is repeated. Some

version of the Hebrew word abad appears nine times in

these five verses. What does it mean? Most translations

use serve. “Choose this day whom you will serve.” But

Hebrew is an elastic language, and in other places the

word is translated worship, honor, cherish, adore. At its

heart, this little word abad describes the act of giving

oneself entirely, of wholly committing, forsaking all else to

fully invest in what matters most to you. That’s the choice.

Whom will you serve? It would be appropriate to ask it

this way: who is your God?

To whom do you pledge ultimate loyalty, primary

allegiance, your deepest soul-level devotion? Joshua

is not naïve. He knows that there will be other options.

And this is no less true for us. Every day we make

choices that reflect our priorities, that disclose our first

principles. If we are guided by faith, we must carefully

examine our hearts and honestly ask: does this decision

honor, cherish, serve God? Because, listen to this: you

will come more and more to resemble what you serve.

Over time, we become what we worship. I have seen it.

If you worship wealth, you will become singularly

focused on achieving material success, piling up

possessions that amount to nothing when your earthly

journey is over. Do not worship wealth.

If you worship power, you will come to regard other

people as means to an end. You will sacrifice your

integrity for imagined authority. The power you acquire

will be built on a foundation of sand, swept away when

the tides change. Do not worship power.

If you worship political ideology, self-righteous pride

will come to consume you. Tests of partisan purity will

replace meaningful relationships and leave you empty

and alone. Do not worship political ideology.

If you worship human leaders, you will find yourself

justifying actions you once condemned, adjusting your

values in ways that would ultimately be unrecognizable

to your former self. Do not worship human leaders.

Now, this is a partial list. John Calvin said that the

human mind is a permanent factory of idols—that we

are endlessly creating and forming new gods to whom

we bow down. Karl Barth suggested that even religion

itself becomes an idol when we worship our beliefs

instead of the God who never fits in the boxes we

construct. You see, there are many would-be masters

competing for our adoration.

Which one will we serve? The answer you give will

reveal your character.

In an act of leadership, Joshua speaks first. “As for me

and my family,” he says, “we choose the Lord. We will

serve the Lord. Come what may, we pledge ourselves

to God’s way. We choose to be led by the values of our

faith no matter what.”

This is the 274th sermon I have preached at Second

Church. You have no doubt learned that I am not as

gifted as Joshua in the art of succinct summation. Give

me time—I’m not 110 yet. Still, taking my cue from this

courageous leader, I will be very clear. I firmly believe

the central question facing us is unchanged by the

passage of millennia.

Whom will we serve?

To whom will we give our hearts, our souls, ourselves?

What kind of witness will we pass on to our children and

generations yet to come?

These questions are not artificial. They’re not academic.

They’re not abstract, and they are not avoidable. They

sit here with us. This week. Every week.

Today, we remember the saints. Those whose race

is over. Today, we recognize faithful members of this

church for more than fifty years. And today, we can

renew the commitment that has animated this church

for nearly two centuries. The commitment that led your

founding pastor, Henry Ward Beecher, to courageously

speak against the evil of slavery at great personal risk.

The commitment that has given rise to initiatives aimed

at reconciliation, compassion for the stranger, welcome

of all, and unity across difference. The commitment to

serve only God here.

Yes, two roads diverge, and it is time to choose. But first,

examine your heart. In the days ahead our democracy

will make consequential decisions of a political nature.

We know that. I for one remain convinced that, at its

best, politics is a means by which we love our neighbors

and care for the most vulnerable among us. We carry a

weighty responsibility. We have been given a precious

gift. We should neglect neither.

Weighty responsibility. Precious gift. Joshua sees both

as he looks back on his journey and forward at his

people’s future. Second Church, this is how I see our

life together. Gifted by those whose witness we recall

today, we have a responsibility to stand firm in the face

of any message or messenger that devalues the dignity

of any person, to stand up for the values that shape our

character in the image of God’s unyielding love. This

will require our collective faith and all the courage we

can muster. It will require us to commit to each other

and to commit to Christ even when the foundations

under our feet are shaking.

This week. Every week. Hold on to these covenants,

my friends.

Now, I am no Joshua. We’ve established that. But here is

what I pledge to you:

I will choose to serve God.

I will trust that the One who has led us this far will not

leave us now.

I will seek the path of integrity, mercy, compassion for all.

And I will fail. And I will keep trying. And I will trust your

forgiveness as I offer you my own.

Joshua speaks with intimacy. He’s coming to the end. He

reflects on his household. His family.

I have two sons. Eleven and seven years old. All week long

I’ve been thinking about them. When I come to the end,

when my name is read in remembrance, will they be proud

of the witness I have shared, the choices I have made? With

all my heart, I want them to see in me that faith makes a

difference. I want to show them, in the words I speak and

the way I act, that faithfulness is not a badge we wear, not

a prize we earn. It is a choice to walk in the way of love. And

when they ask, and they do ask, “Dad, why did you make

this decision?” I want to answer, “because I love and trust

God. Because I love and trust you.” This week. Every week.

The name Joshua means “the Lord is salvation.” Only

God saves. When the name moves from Hebrew to

Greek to Latin, the meaning stays the same, but Joshua

becomes Jesus. The Lord is our salvation.

He told us the truth.

You cannot serve two masters.

It’s time to choose.

This week. Every week.

Choose whom you will serve.

Amen.