Rev. Keith Morgan

There is nothing quite as disconcerting as being interrupted while giving a speech or teaching a class. A college professor told me once of giving a lecture to a large room of people that were very noisy and constantly interrupting him. At one point in his lecture he left his notes and angrily proclaimed to the class: “I have been speaking for nearly fifteen minutes, but there is so much interruption I can hardly hear myself speak.” “Cheer up, my friend,” came a voice from the rear, “you are not missing much.”

Sometimes interruptions are funny; sometimes they can be quite serious. I have read about one interruption that prevented an event from ever happening. It involved a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which started under the title “Kubla Khan.” However, he never finished the poem. He was not able to remember just exactly what he wanted to say.

And the reason for his failure to compose was that he was interrupted. Precisely at that moment of illumination when all the scribbling on the paper began to make sense, when a fresh and vital idea was bursting forth into creative life, somebody knocked on the door. When Coleridge returned to his desk after responding to that knock, his mind and the writing tablet shared something in common. They were both blank. He had lost the poem, never to find it again.

Such a situation happens far too many times to poets, play writes and even preachers. After hours or days or weeks of diligent and dedicated struggle the creation begins to jell, only to be destroyed prematurely by some kind of regretful interruption. Coleridge tells about the incident himself, though never reporting just exactly what it entailed. He simply states that the interruption was orchestrated by “a man from Porlock,” who came on business and who detained the poet for just about an hour. We will never know what that knock robbed from the world of literature.

We do not have to be poets, however, to know the frustration of being interrupted by people from Porlock. The mother finally gets her family off to school and out of the house, and decides to treat herself to a long, luxurious soak in the Jacuzzi. She carefully makes the preparations and gently lowers her aching body into the hot soothing water. Then, just as the relaxation starts to take over, the telephone rings. She gets out of the Jacuzzi, “drips” to the phone and is underwhelmed to hear her friend ask: “What are you doing?” When the visit is over and it is now time to pick up the baby, both the water and her spirits are cold. People from Porlock call at all times.

Father reserves the television in the den for Saturday afternoon’s game of the century. All members of the family pledge three hours of silence in living tribute to him, the popcorn and sandwiches are prepared, dad is in the lazy-boy waiting anxiously for “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” and all is ready. But during the National Anthem the man across the street comes over and asks for a little advice about how to repair his lawnmower. The “little advice” turns into two and a half hours, and when daddy returns to the scene the popcorn is gone, the sandwiches are gone, the silence is gone, the game of the century - now in the last two minutes - is gone, and the empty den has turned into a whole army of fifteen-year-olds watching MTV. People from Porlock intrude on all occasions.

You get on a plane and have only two hours to read your extensive notes in preparation for your big report at the other end of the trip. You must used every minute in flight, but know you are in trouble when the gentleman next to you smiles and says: “One of my children flies a great deal, too.” When the plane lands just forty-five minutes before the time of your presentation you know much more about his son than you know about your report! People from Porlock - they always sit next to you on the plane, in the lobby and at the meeting.

My purpose in all of this is not to suggest that interruptions are a laughing matter, for they are not. Neither do I presume in these moments, since we are at worship, to imply that people from Porlock always knock on our doors for holy or religious reasons. Sometimes they are just tired of living in Porlock and want us to experience some of their misery. There is nothing distinctly Christian about interruptions, but if we are distinctly Christians it affects the manner in which we deal with them.

Look at the life of Jesus. For 2,000 years the church has been drawing attention to all that He did. And some of the most memorable events in the New Testament transpired because Jesus was interrupted while he was doing something else. “Then Jesus started off with Jairus. And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him.

“Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years ...She touched his cloak, immediately her hemorrhage stopped;...” “Who touched me?” ...Can’t you see I’m busy, there’s a girl’s life in danger... Who touched me?... but he stopped and responded. That pattern is repeated over and over and over again. Everywhere He went crowds surrounded Him, pulling on His garment, vying for His attention, begging Him to take His mind off of His agenda and focus it on theirs.

As a matter of fact, practically every miracle that Jesus performed resulted from some unexpected interruption. He did not get up in the morning and say to the disciples: “I feel strong today. Let’s go out and throw a miracle on the crowds.” No, He simply went into each day open to whatever it held and whomever it held up. Jesus was so loving of and sensitive to human beings that He refused merely to pass them by when they shouted out in pain. The more they cried, the more he cared. The more involved He was in the meeting of their need, the more inconvenienced he was because of their need. Anytime someone interrupted He stopped, listened and made an appropriate response. And when He did, all the people present felt the miraculous power of God. Even the Greek word for miracle can be translated as power. Every time God’s power is channeled through a loving Christian disciple to some human being in need, a miracle takes place.

Do you realize what that means? Some of those interruptions in your life that annoy and frustrate you and literally tear apart your carefully prepared agenda for the day... some of those interruptions may be the frantic actions of women and men and children in desperate need. And God can only miraculously intervene in their dilemmas if you are willing to stop, to listen and to respond.

Think about that man from Porlock who interrupted Coleridge. We are only told he came on business. Maybe he was selling insurance or cutlery. Perhaps he was bringing his daughter’s Girl Scout cookies or his son’s popcorn for the soccer league. Then again, maybe his was a more serious kind of business. Perchance his wife had moved out on him and he felt more lonely than he ever had before, needing urgently to be in the presence of somebody...anybody. Possible the doctor had told him his was a terminal disease and he thought the poet would be a man of sensitivity and of depth. Then, it could be that the man from Porlock was having one of those days which all of us have known. His life seemed so fragmented and his problems so unbearable that he knocked on the first door he came to, and uttered to Coleridge those very same words which all of us have confessed at one time or another: “I just had to talk to somebody.” Through it all, the world lost a poem. Only God knows what the man from Porlock received in return.

All of us have known how it feels to be interrupted at an inconvenient time. But on how many occasions have we known the surge of delight deep within that comes from feeling God’s transforming power move through us and into the life of the one who interrupted? Only God’s children know that experience, and it is the most fulfilling and gratifying sensation in all the world.

The colleague at work nudges into your office, and with a tentative tone of voice asks: “Have you got a minute?” You do not, but you listen anyway because you realize what the person really means is: “I need to have one of your moments.” After the visit your friend is at least looking for hope and you have been reminded that life at it’s deepest and most significant levels is seldom lived behind a desk.

You are rushing to get out of the gathering when some older person wants to know how you are doing. Well, you are doing poorly because she will not let you go and do what you want to do. You stop and chat, and at conversations’s end you perceive what the person really needed was for you to know how she was doing. As you listen to her story she is reminded that someone still cares, and that love among people still thrives. Through you God’s redemptive power has been channeled and a miracle has been performed.

You simply want to read the paper; nothing more, nothing less. But halfway through the front page that 2½ foot tall person who lives in your house knocks the paper away as if to say: “Come on, Dad. Wake up, Mom. I need a little affection.” So you play and laugh and make funny noises and even relax. After fifteen minutes or so you still get to read the paper, and your child has spent a quarter of an hour in the presence of a caring parent. Only one word can describe that experience: miracle!

People from Porlock - they call and knock and intrude at the most inconvenient of times. But when we respond to their concern, Christ offers redemption to their souls. And what happens to us as individuals also takes place within the community.

Since I have been here I have learned some things about this congregation. I have watched you at Community Fun Day, popsicles in the park, the country breakfast. And last week I saw how many of you were willing to help with the Angel Tree - adopting children to make sure that their Christmases are full of joy and love. I know what that means. I know that during December you will be confronted by all kinds of people and children in need. Their stomachs deserve food, their bodies deserve clothing and their human dignity deserves a decent Christmas. The asking for your help and their plight serve as an interruption to everyone of you in this congregation. They are people from Porlock; children from Porlock.

How many times have you come to church just wanting to experience the worship service (and, of course, the preaching) and you open the bulletin and find an envelope calling for extra money to go to flood victims or hurricane victims. Or someone makes a plea to help a local agency or food pantry or homeless shelter. They are more people from Porlock; this time poor and hard-luck people from Porlock.

But if we respond to interruptions as Christ’s disciples have always done (and as Christ Himself did), the inconvenience will be but a prelude to a miracle from the hand of God. Every time Christians stop and respond to human need, whatever the form, the hand of God goes to work.

“When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.

“Then Jesus went off with him. And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him.

“Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. ...she touched his cloak... Immediately her hemorrhage stopped...Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘who touched my clothes?’

...But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. Jesus said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’”

Usually preachers prefer to end a sermon with a dramatic story or a heartwarming poem. Let me close with a simple warning. If you take seriously what I have said here, that interruptions can be the occasions for some of God’s greatest miracles, you may become so flexible and tolerant and understanding and approachable and loving that you will hardly be able to live with yourself. If that should happen, and I pray with all my heart that it does, then the words of one Christian will become yours as well. He confessed: “You know... my whole life I have been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I learned that my interruptions were my work.”