Be Thou My Vision

Back Last year the IPC, Irvington Presbyterian Church, adult education class spent some time studying the Great Ends of the Church, as our denomination had requested. One of the study sessions dealt with The Maintenance of Divine Worship, and, as part of that discussion, we asked ourselves what subject we would preach on, if we had to give a sermon. I can assure you that there was lots of head scratching and looking at the ceiling, and we were all immediately grateful that we didn't have to come up with even one sermon, let alone 48 or so in a year. However, since I had posed the question, I was duty-bound to give an answer, and I said that I would use as my subject my favorite hymn, "Be Thou My Vision."



It's funny how no good deed goes unpunished. Later that year, long after I had forgotten my rash behavior, the IPC minister told me that he had been unable to find a substitute for one of his vacation Sundays, and, in the last act of a desperate man, he asked me to give today's message. So today, instead of hearing about the lectionary reading, you're going to hear about my favorite hymn.



Now any regular at IPC's Vespers service can tell you how lucky you are that I'm not going to sing this, but I would like to tell you a little about what the hymn means to me. First of all, if you look in your hymnal (it's number 339) you will see that it is anonymous - both the lyrics and the music. Like many of the great cathedrals of Europe, it is the masterwork of artists and artisans who labored in obscurity, and created out of devotion and not pride. For me, that makes those cathedrals all the more impressive, and this hymn all the sweeter and more haunting.



And I certainly find the words haunting. "Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart. Naught be all else to me save what thou art." The very first line expresses to me what I would like my life to be. The vision of God, and of Jesus, always before me, always inspiring me, leading me where I should go. This is not the vision of St. Paul, the blinding light that knocks you off your horse, but the constant vision that accompanies me everywhere I go. The hymn speaks of my desire to have God rule over my heart, not just my mind. I am, by lifelong training, an intellectualist, placing my head above my heart. I seem to prefer reason over emotion, in religious matters as well as most others. But what I've come to understand in the last few years is that my heart is more important. And here, in this house, is where my heart is at home. This is where I know that God and Jesus are Lords over it.



But who am I to say to them "Naught be all else to me save what thou art?" I am not to give them instructions, they are to give me instructions. So here is my favorite hymn, and it seems to have it all backwards. What's going on here? Actually, this is the same conundrum we find in prayer. If God knows our every thought and need, what are we doing voicing them? Even praising Him seems redundant, since he knows what we want to say already.



Well, I think the answer is that our prayers, and this hymn, aren't uttered for God's benefit, but for ours. They aren't meant to tell God how we feel or what we ought to do, but to remind ourselves. So this line reminds me what God is and what He is not. He is not Santa Claus, on whose lap I might sit and ask for things. He isn't my boss, doling out paychecks and rewards for jobs well done. He is that most remarkable of beings, the truly benevolent dictator, all powerful and all kindness, able to crush me like an ant and yet caring for me like a child. What more could I possibly want?



"Thou my best thought, by day or by night. Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light." Thoughts...I can assure you that I have plenty of thoughts, all during the day and night. Unfortunately, they aren't always my best thoughts, and that is one of the great frustrations of my life. Given that I know what God wants, and that is what I want, too, where do these other thoughts come from, and why do they camp out here?



This question, of course, has bedeviled Christians since the very beginning. From Saint Peter to Francis of Assisi and from Martin Luther to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Christians have asked the same question, although perhaps more eloquently than I. From their writings I know that dealing with these persistent thoughts is one of the highest callings of Christianity, perhaps even its hallmark. And that is why I welcome the enlightening presence of God, and the teachings of his Son, every day and night of my life.



"Riches I heed not, nor vain empty praise. Thou my inheritance, now and always." Well, here is one spot where I have a little bone to pick with the anonymous composer of this hymn, and it's that word "heed." I wish I paid no heed to riches, and even more so to "vain empty praise," but it just isn't so. So when I sing the hymn I change the word "heed" to "need." "Riches I need not, nor vain empty praise." That's more like it. But even here it isn't so much the riches I don't need as it is the vain empty praise that gets me in trouble, and the vainer or emptier the better. Remember when we talk after the service - I sure don't need the praise.



I do need to be reminded of my inheritance, though. Not just the Scripture and the theology, but the people - an unbroken line of Christians stretching back two thousand years to those who walked with Him and talked with Him. I am easily reminded of the famous ones, of course, but I feel an even stronger inheritance from the common ones, the forgotten ones, the unnamed ones - who labored to build the great cathedrals, who hid the Jews from Hitler, who kept Christianity alive in the Dark Ages, and who wrote this hymn. It is a rich heritage indeed.



"Thou and Thou only, first in my heart, Great God of heaven, my treasure Thou art." There's a lot about hearts in this hymn, and it isn't just because the Irish are among the most emotional of people. It is also because so much of our lives, or at least so much of my life, is a contest between my heart and my mind; between what I think I know and what I really know; between what the world tells me and what God tells me. Whenever I find myself wandering off course, whenever I find myself defensive and not trusting; whenever I am being less than I could be, whenever I start to lose the vision - invariably its my mind talking instead of my heart.



So I have to put God first in my heart, in the penthouse suite, in the corner office, on the throne. If God is in charge of my heart, you might think there would be no room for anyone else, but the odd thing is, there's plenty of room left. The more space God occupies, the more space is left for others. Wow! What greater treasure could there be?



"Be Thou my wisdom, and Thou my true word. I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord." Now, I've always been a big believer in wisdom, but I've recently discovered that there are many kinds. The best kind, and the hardest to find, comes from God. Here are a couple of examples of God's wisdom, I think.



* First, it is diversity that makes us strong. Whether we are speaking of a nation, an individual, a species, or a congregation, the more diverse we are, the stronger we are. Homogeneity is always more comfortable, but it is usually the first step toward extinction. And diversity doesn't seek us out, we have to seek it out.



* Second, change is our constant companion. I have a basic belief that change either happens to you or through you - there's no other option. Christianity has survived and thrived for two thousand years because Christians were willing to change - in fact they were often the agents of change - sometimes at great risk to themselves. If we stop changing now, both we and our faith run the risk of becoming irrelevant.



But silent wisdom is simply enlightened spectatorship. If we don't put God's wisdom into action, we are in the audience and not on the stage. And we know that God is on the stage, not in the audience. If we are to be with God, and God with us, there is only one place for us to be - in the thick of it all, taking chances, missing sleep, being uncomfortable. And when we are there, we know who's comforting hand will be on our shoulder.



"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall, Still be my vision, O Ruler of all." So what does this all mean to me? It means I only have a room in God's house if he lives everywhere in mine. It means that God is with me in the hard times so I can be with him in the good ones. It means he owns me, lock stock and barrel so that nothing else can. And it means I am forgiven every failing so that I can forgive every failing in his name.



It means that God is truly the ruler of all; of everything. Of governments and the governed, of amoebas and angels, of choirs and chaos. He rules those who worship him and those who ignore him. He rules the mighty and the misbegotten. But mostly he rules me - the subject, the serf, the prisoner, the joyous, enchanted slave of the one who made me and the one who died for me.



May it truly be so. Amen.



Back