I want to explain why I don’t have a sermon this morning. I hope you’ll be understanding.

As some of you know, I usually write my sermons at a Caribou Coffee Shop. This week, I was sitting at my usual table, staring blankly at my laptop, trying without success to come up with a sermon. Then something happened that, I think, gives me a pretty good excuse for not coming up with one.

When I know what I want to say and I’m in the groove, a clown could come in and set off firecrackers and I wouldn’t notice. But when I’m struggling, I notice every sound in the room, and I start people-watching.

So I noticed when a man sat down at the small table beside mine. I noticed when he looked at his watch, then the door, then tried to read the paper, then looked at his watch again. It was clear that he was meeting someone, and they were late, and he was nervous about the meeting. I knew I should have been writing a sermon, but I was stuck, and this was intriguing.

After a few minutes, I noticed another man come in. When the men spotted each other, there was a slight hesitation on both their parts. "So," I thought, "they’ve never met." But it quickly became clear that I was wrong; they just hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

"Matthias?" the one who came last said. "Matt? Is that you?"

"Yes," the other said, rising from his chair. He stopped some distance away and appraised the newcomer as a grandmother might say to her grandchildren: "Let me look at you."

"Joseph Barsabbas, you are a sight for sore eyes," Matthias said. Then they hugged, got their coffee, and, although there were other tables available, they returned to the one Matthias had been sitting at before Joseph arrived. It was so close to mine that I couldn’t have avoided overhearing their conversation even if I had tried. But, I confess, I tried only to keep staring at my blank screen and not to be too obvious.

"Does anyone still call you Justus?" Matt asked.

"Wow!" Joe laughed, "I haven’t heard that in a long time. If somebody calls me Justus, I know they knew me from the old days, and the old days, you know, are really old by now."

"Yeah," Matt said. "It’s been a long, long time."

"It has," Joe said, "but I’m glad you called." Then he paused. "Why did you call, after all these years?"

Matt hesitated. "It had been a long time, and we had gone our own ways, you pursuing your ministries and me mine. I heard of you every now and then, always meant to arrange to get together, but never did. And this seemed like a good time to track you down."

There was a long pause. Joe was getting ready to say, "I’m glad you did" when Matt said,
"and. . . ."

"Yes?" Joe said. "And?"

"And . . . I’ve always been . . . . I’ve always felt . . . guilty, I guess. Worried about you. Just uncomfortable with it. I mean, a roll of the dice, and I was picked to be an Apostle, and you weren’t. I know the other Apostles had to replace Judas, that they needed twelve and all that, but it came down to the two of us because both of us had been with Jesus the whole time. Both of us were faithful disciples. Both of us. Either one of us would have been fine. But . . . I’m just sorry that one of us had to be the one not picked."

There was a long pause. It was clear that this was painful for Matt, and that Joe knew that and gave him some space.

"To tell you the truth," Matt finally continued, "I’ve felt guilty about it for years, and . . . I’ve wanted to tell you that for years." He hesitated, then went on, "And, . . . that’s probably also why I’ve avoided seeing you for all this time. I really called you here to ask you to forgive me."

As is often the case, as the emotional content of their conversation had intensified, the volume had decreased. So, without realizing it, I had been leaning closer and closer to their table. At that moment, my elbow slipped. Papers cascaded onto the floor, and I had to catch myself before my chin hit the edge of my table.

"Oops!" I said, very red-faced, as I picked up the papers. I thought I saw them exchange a bemused glance, but I’m not sure because by that time I was staring very intensely at my blank screen and nodding my head slightly as if I were reading something particularly illuminating. I turned my laptop a little to be sure they couldn’t see the screen.

After a moment, Joe continued. His voice was soft, gentle. "Matthias, there is nothing to forgive you for," he said. "Really. You’ve been honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. It did hurt. I was disappointed. Very disappointed. In fact, for a long time, I sort of pouted. And I was angry. I was angry at you for a while, but not for long. It didn’t take me long to realize that you really had nothing to do with it. But it took me longer to get over my resentment at the Church, at the leaders. It hurts not to be picked, but I knew it wasn’t your fault."

Matthias looked at him with great relief. Then he asked, "But, how . . . ? Okay, I need to confess. I didn’t just hear about you from time to time; I actually kept pretty close tabs on you. I know pretty much all about your ministries, your work for Christ, how you’ve devoted yourself to our Lord. You’ve been an inspiration. And, frankly, it’s made me feel even guiltier. I mean, it has made me feel like the wrong one was chosen."

Joe shook his head and chuckled. "I got over it," he said. "Look, the Apostles prayed about it, and that’s the way it came out. Honestly, I don’t know whether that was God’s will or just the way the dice fell, but they had two qualified people and that was as good a way to decide as any, I suppose. Over the course of time, I came to see that God could use anything, even that, for the good if I would quit pouting and let God work in my life.

"And," he continued, "who knows? Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to do some of the things I’ve done if I had borne the title ‘Apostle.’ I’ll bet being an Apostle has been a pretty heavy burden at times, hasn’t it?"

"Yes," Matt said. "People assume so much, want so much, expect so much."

"Well," Joe broke in. "Maybe not being an Apostle, being the one not picked, has allowed me to surprise some people, get the message to people who would run when they heard that an "Apostle" was coming. Who knows? Maybe it was the best thing for my life, my ministry."

I didn’t move my head (it was still facing the blank screen), but I cut my eyes and studied Matt’s face intently. It was full of awe and respect. Then he sensed me and glanced in my direction. I quickly cut my eyes back to the empty screen, pretending interest in the mysteries it was unlocking.

Matt smiled, looked at Joe, and continued. "I really admire you," he said. "But, I want to
know . . . and I feel silly for asking since, as you pointed out, I’m supposed to be the ‘Apostle’ . . . but, I want to know, how did you do it? You said you ‘got over it,’ but how did you overcome your disappointment in the Church and go on to do such wonderful ministries? I mean, let’s face it, the Church eventually disappoints lots of people, and a lot of them just leave or, maybe worse, pout forever."

"You’re certainly right about that," Joe said. "Sometimes the Church disappoints people because they need to be disappointed, and sometimes it does it simply because we, we who are the Church, we are so human, so fallible. But I’ll tell you what I hung onto that really helped."

"Please," Matt said, leaning in.

"I remembered that last night with Jesus, before he died. He knew he was going to die, and what was he worried about? Us. He prayed for us. ‘They’re going to have to stay in the world,’ he said, ‘the world that is run by systems that are contrary to everything I have taught them. It will be a hard, dangerous place for them. Protect them,’ he prayed. ‘They do not belong to the world. Protect them from the evil one.’ And I especially remember this: he said, ‘Let my joy be made complete in them.’

"Do you remember that night, that prayer? It was so powerful. I’ve really hung onto it, and it has been a great help to me over the years to know that Jesus is praying for me."

"I haven’t thought of that in years," Matt said. "I pray to Jesus a lot, but sometimes I still get discouraged. It’s nice to be reminded that he prays for me."

"He does," Joe said. "He’s rootin’ for you."

"Thank you." Matt said.

"Thank God," Joe answered, "and you’re welcome. It’s good to see you."

They got up to leave, but before they did, they both turned toward me, and Matthias said, "Good luck with your sermon. Looks like you’ve got a ways to go." My face blanched, and I fumbled out something like, "Yeah, thanks."

But I didn’t really mean it. Because I knew they’d messed up any chance I had of coming up with a sermon. All I could think about the whole rest of the day was all the ways the Church disappoints us, and how God can use even that for ministry, and how God uses different types of ministries and different types of roles and credentials to do different types of things. And how profound it is that, as we are struggling with all that — dealing with disappointments, trying to minister in a world of systems we are called to change — Jesus is praying for us, rooting for us.

All that stuff got in my head, and I couldn’t get it out the whole rest of the day. So I hope you’ll excuse me for not having a sermon this morning. It’s not my fault. Sometimes people from the Bible just show up and mess up your plans. I hope you’ll understand.