Many of you know the stated purpose of this church. We gather to worship God, to proclaim and live the Gospel; to provide hospitality and safety for those threatened elsewhere. We want to be an ecumenically minded congregation; we enter the lists in behalf of righteousness, justice and peace. But behind these components, one of the pervasive underpinnings of our common life here, it seems to me, lies in our capacity to serve as a "spiritual halfway house." I think we recognize many people throughout much of their lives consider themselves on a spiritual journey. They are pilgrims. They search for some place, some condition, some constellation of human beings among whom they may find deeper meaning and high purpose. Indeed, these days especially, as one author reminds us, we can wander into a bookstore, and the "old religion section is gone and in its place [we'll] find a set of more specific rubrics catering to popular religious topics such as angels, Sufis, journey, recovery, meditation, magic, inspiration, Judaica, astrology, gurus, Bible, prophesy, Evangelicalism, Mary, Buddhism, Catholicism, esoterica and the like. . ." Religious seeking is among the more evident cultural trends of our day-and frequently, I believe, some of those on this joruney wander in here seeking a resting place along the way, looking, maybe, for God. . . a spiritual halfway house.

I hold a conviction, however, that just as we may be looking for God, even more so, God is looking for us. As some of us join an assiduous search for God, God, even more so, searches for us, and in the most wonderful, surprising, unassuming ways, I believe God finds us.

I

Take, as illustration number one, that eminent worthy tucked away in the fifth chapter of II Kings. Remember? Naaman? He sets out to find God, but through a most chaotic set of circumstances and surprising combination of people, God finds him first.

What a marvelous human story! Naaman, so the historian tells us, commands the Syrian army. We see him as a stellar figure, in high favor with the king because his genius brings victory on the battlefield. In fact, the historians of Israel hold Naaman in high esteem, in spite of his success in defeating Israelites in crucial battles. Our author tells us Naaman is "a mighty warrior-(yet here's the kicker)-Naaman is a mighty warrior, but he is a leper." In the religious and medical culture of the time, leprosy represents not only a loathsome, disfiguring, chronic disease, but the sign of a wounded soul, a loathsome, disfigured spirit, a sickness of being. "Naaman: a mighty warrior, but he was a leper."

Oh, oh! Anything there sound a little bit familiar? "He was a mighty warrior, but. . . " You have said it; I have said it. As we size up and evaluate others, in many cases we are ready to grant much the benefit of the doubt: There is a woman who has everything, but. . . She is strong; he is good; they are models, but. . . Like Naaman we suffer from some debilitating, spiritual sickness of soul.

Who knows what may lie beyond that "but". Perhaps a quick trigger, spewing anger all over the place, humiliating others, embarrassing ourselves, causing resentment, putting others off, injuring our prospects. Really, a solid person, but. . .

Or ambition? Chewing up our colleagues, isolating our spouses, taking time from our children, nibbling at the edges of our integrity. A fine friend, but. . . he adds a little hyperbole to what he says, especially about himself. And of course so-and-so may be a great guy, but. . . She may be a great gal, but she'll bankrupt you with clothes. They may be popular, but careful what you say; they are gossip hounds.

Oh, how we would be strong and serene and successful, but for our family on the rocks, a teenage son or daughter with a life out of kilter, compelling us to wonder whether ours is out of kilter, too. It may be a life we can manage only with increasing doses of alcohol, or drugs, or cosmetics. And of course, we may limp along because, as the old confession suggests, of something we have done, or left undone, and whatever health there is in us comes under constant assault from something we cannot flee or escape or over up. "Many of us, great and mighty warriors, but. . ." What to do about it? Where to go? Who can heal us? Religion? God? That is what we wonder. . . Naaman, too.

And the ball gets rolling. There happens to be a little Jewish slave girl whom Naaman on one of his raids kidnapped and carried off to tend his wife. That slave girl informs her mistress, who in turn relates to Naaman, that over in Samaria there lives a prophet, Elisha by name, who might heal his leprosy.

What fantastic news! So Naaman, being a man of very high station, sets out to seek God and healing in a very high fashion, surely befitting God-and yes, befitting Naaman. He arms himself with royal credentials, court references and protocol. He goes "taking with him ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, ten changes of clothes. . . and a letter of introduction from his king demanding that Israel's king receive Naaman, set him up royally and cure him of his leprosy. With a million dollars, his king's imprimatur, a vast cortege and fearsome reputation Naaman knows he will not only impress this Hebrew king but this Hebrew prophet Elisha, and even more so, this Hebrew prophet's God.

What is this? On the face of it the whole thing appears ludicrous, something out of Arabian Nights. And yet, in reality what we may see in Naaman may well be reflected to some degree in us, if we might look a little bit closer: a person, perhaps, who seeks God on her or his own terms. Any number of us, I suspect, have joined in this search for healing or for God with our eyes open to the God we want to see rather than the one who is there to be found. And perhaps even more so, we look for the one who will do us credit. We want, as Naaman does, a God worthy of ourselves.

Even thinking about it can make one uneasy. One may wonder right here in Old South as we look at the majesty of our church building, the richness of the architecture, the radiance of the stained glass, the sonority of our choirs, the solemnity of our prayers, the choreography of our liturgies whether it is all to the glory of God, or perhaps little more than an empty ritual loaded with gimmicks to bluff God, ourselves, and any of our friends who may drop in. Be assured I ask the question not only of you, but even more stringently of my colleagues and myself. Talk about bluffing God! The self-deceptions waiting to entangle us clergy-types nurturing a fondness for the occasional status, privileges and approbation of our clerical office lies at the very core of sin. As a colleague of mine once remarked, "I suppose the average layperson does not appreciate how difficult it is for a clergyperson not to sound like one." A lot of us in the churches-but even more so we professional religious types-find ourselves tempted to plunge into this questionable business of approaching God in a manner befitting God. . . and ourselves.

Is it any wonder, then, that Naaman, after his arduous trip, finally arriving at Elisha's house, expresses outrage when Elisha fails to come out of his house to greet the great man, and with flash and fanfare dance around and importune his highly reputed God with mumbo-jumbo, abracadabra, sweet potions and fragrant elixirs to cure his leprosy? But no. We see no religious drama. We hear no sepulchral tones. There appears no seraphic choir. . . just a scrubby messenger who comes from Elisha and tells Naaman to go and bathe in the filthy waters of the Jordan.

At this ridiculous prescription Naaman goes almost berserk. Syrian chauvinist that he is, he angrily asserts that if plunging into a foreign river might heal his leprosy, the rivers of his own country carry far more healing power than anything in pathetic, third class Israel. It is almost as if Naaman comes to Boston, prepares to meet the Governor, the Mayor and the President of the City Council, puts down payment on a private room in Mass. General's Philips House, arranges with the Dean and Faculty of Harvard Medical School for a consultation with the surgeons, dermatologists, internists, nutritionists, diagnosticians, immunologists, toxicologists and pathologists-a gathering worthy of his station-only to be greeted by a hospital orderly who tells him to go soak in the healing waters of the Charles.

With that absurd prescription, Naaman decides to quit and go home. . . snubbed, rejected, humiliated. His search for healing ends up, so he thinks, at a stone wall; a dead end; a silent, mocking abyss. Indeed, because God apparently does not respond in a manner appropriate to this valiant warrior's problem and self-regard, Naaman might well believe there is no God.

II

But here we get right to the point. God does say something appropriate to Naaman's sad condition. What god says, and how God says it, almost get lost amid the political protocols, the medical diagnoses and the bruised egos. Remember? God's word nearly gets lost the first time when the King of Israel, reading that letter of introduction from the King of Syria, wonders what the devil is going on, he cannot cure leprosy; Naaman is probably a spy and ought to be locked up as a security risk.

God's word almost gets lost again, when Naaman, furious over a reception hardly befitting his station, stomps off in a tantrum.

But the redemptive and healing word of God does not finally get lost because our God finally takes a hand in the proceedings, and comes in a way Naaman least expects-not through high politics, not through court diplomacy, not through religious ostentation. Naaman's search through those standard channels gets him nowhere. His healing, his wholeness, his search for God is resolved when God finds him through the most unsuspected channels, the most improbable people.

First of all, do you recall that little servant girl? A Jew; an inferior, a nobody to those conquering Syrians, but one who makes a comment to her mistress who in turn conveys it to Naaman-that mighty warrior-reluctant to believe intelligence from such a source can bear any weight, but who passes it on anyway to his king, "My wife hears such and such from one of her dressing room chambermaids." We begin with a shred of boudoir gossip sending Naaman on his search.

And then, what about those servants accompanying Naaman on his trip? While he crashes around, hurling curses, throwing his tantrum, turning his grand caravan toward home, those servants tackle this valiant warrior and with simple logic, cool him down. Again, as if in Boston: "Look," they say, "if Elisha asked you to take your million dollars and make the rounds of the hospitals, clinics, medical schools, and private offices, you'd have done so, wouldn't you?" "Of course," replies Naaman. "Then why not do the easy thing? Take a dip in the Charles."

And so Naaman washes and finds that for all his status, standing and pride, God and healing find him through the lips of the least likely people; doing the least likely thing.

Friends, if there is one truth the Bible drums home time and again, it is this one: The key to our search for God lies in opening ourselves to God's finding us in ways and experience and people we least expect. It shows us Moses, a murderer turned fugitive, caring for sheep, a drain on his wife's income, a stammerer afraid to open his mouth. Pharaoh cannot believe God would use such scum of the empire to challenge him, but by golly that is where the revolution starts.

Or take Tamar: who would ever believe it? A foremother of Jesus whom Matthew highlights in his genealogy. Tamar, a widow who, disguised as a prostitute, seduces her own father-in-law Judah, in order to maintain the family line-a line proceeding to David, yes, proceeding to Jesus. No sexual intrigue, no Jesus. Astounding! Thank God for Tamar!

Or Jesus of Nazareth himself. Remember Philip's question: Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Or the Cross, that God-forsaken Cross! As the human enterprise looks for God and healing, generation after generation we find Love speaking to us from, of all places, that Cross. Most unlikely. Most incredible!

This wondrous truth holds today for us. Are you looking for God? Aren't we all? Many of us come here to church hoping that if not in the whole of the service at least in some part of it we will catch a glimpse of the living God. The music, the scriptures, the prayers, the hymns, the sermon reflect time-honored vehicles perhaps enhancing the search. But who of us has not heard a child or a cabby deliver an insight revealing more of the nature of God than any preacher's nonsense? Who of us has not heard a popular song or seen a contemporary movie or vivid drama conveying insights into the human condition and the possibilities of love and hope that make a service of worship pale in comparison? Who of us has not gone through an experience of loss, tragedy, illness, or a 180 degree turn of fortune, some event or occasion that appears almost Godless, that has not driven us to our knees and then in some astounding fashion lifted us again to fight another day, our search fulfilled from an off-beat source, a person or circumstance, in our opinion befitting neither us nor God, but in truth, awakening us to the many ways we are sought, searched for, grasped, found?

III

In a moment we will sing one of the treasures of Christian hymnody. Charlotte Elliott wrote the text, an invalid, bedridden, given to deep depressions, a sense of isolation. In conversation one day with a friend who came to see her, she snapped at his well-intentioned, but rude, religious questioning and begged him to leave. A week or so later the gentleman reappeared; Charlotte Elliott's attitude altered a bit and she asked him, "How can I find God? How can I be healed?" His answer, "Come to God just as you are."

Just as you are. No special claims. No big deals. No nothing. Where God appears distant, unreachable, absent. Come, just as you are. And there, perhaps, to your great astonishment, unpredictably, God will find you.