Toko Haruka, a Japanese TV personality, has a dim view of love and marriage.  She says Japanese men work late, then go bar-hopping.  They expect their wives to stay home, cook, clean house and rear the kids.  If the kids are brats, it’s the wife’s fault.  If he has an affair, it’s the wife’s fault.

            Some Japanese women aren’t buying it!  Surprise!  Up to a million Japanese men, baffled by their wives’ sudden “feminism,” have slipped into hikikomori, an affliction characterized by withdrawal from society, with tho’ts of suicide.  I think it is what we might call clinical depression.

            Ms. Haruka says the men shut themselves from society for weeks at a time, preferring isolation.  They seem to find it easier to battle the demons within when they are alone.

            Hector Mann just may have suffered hikikomori.  “Everyone thought he was dead.  Hector Mann had been a silent film comedian, but had not been heard from in almost 60 years . . . Few people seemed to know he ever existed.”

            Those are the opening sentences of The Book of Illusions, by Paul Auster.  That book gives the expression, “keeping a low profile,” an entirely new dimension. 

            The story begins in 1988.
            College professor David Zimmer lost his wife and two sons in a plane crash.    He became an alcoholic and considered suicide, essentially buried himself in self-pity and depression.    Not hard to understand under the circumstances, is it!

            One night he saw a film clip of an old Hector Mann comedy, and it made him laugh — the first time since the loss of his family.  He was so much impressed with the fact that he could laugh again that he began to research the films of Hector Mann.  Then he wrote a book about them. 

            After the book was published, Zimmer got a letter from Mann’s wife, telling him that Hector Mann was very much alive, had seen and read the book, and would like to meet Zimmer. 

            Zimmer was very skeptical that anyone who had been off the radar for 60 years could still be around, yet he decided to go the New Mexico ranch and see for himself.  He did.  He met Hector Mann, who, by the way, died the next day!

             But wait, let’s hear the “rest of the story.”

            In 1929 Hector Mann was a rising young star in silent films.  He was engaged to one woman even as he was dallying with another!  His fiancee
shot his lover; she said accidentally.  To protect her, he buried the body, took a new name and skipped town.  No one knew of the connection, so he was not pursued.

            As an atonement for his guilt, he vowed never again to work in the public eye.  He worked at lowly jobs. Then met a woman who recognized him . . . and married him!

            She had a good income, so they settled in New Mexico, he took her last name and sulked in “hikikomori.”

            He longed to make movies again, but to keep his vow, they built sets and editing rooms, and made movies, but with the proviso that they never be made public.  In fact, he stipulated that upon his death the films were to be destroyed.

            Since Hector Mann died the day after Zimmer met him, Dr. Zimmer watched Hector’s wife burn the films.

            Sort of a weird story, isn’t it!  I told you that story because I see a parallel with the story of Moses.

            Did Moses suffer hikikomori, at least until God scorched him with a fiery shrub, calling him out of his funk? 

            Moses was reared by Pharaoh’s daughter in the splendor of Egypt’s wealth, very much in the public eye.  Then, like Hector Mann, he found himself on the run, because he also had buried a body!  If he had not run, they would have killed him, prince or not,

            He, too, took on a new persona, ran all the way to Midian, met and married a woman who joined him in a completely new way of life, “a new way of thinking” as we noted last week. 
            Moses’ deliberate obscurity continued until one day as he tended his father-in-law’s sheep, he saw a flaming brush fire. 

            I guess the consonance of Moses and Hector Mann stops about here.  Unlike Mann, who never really reentered life, Moses, albeit kicking and screaming, rejoined the living.  Moses was healed of his hikikomori, healed by the heat treatment of the fire.

            The message we hear, loud and clear, is that God has a purpose for every one of us, and we do God and ourselves an injustice — dare I call it sin? — if we wallow in our self-pity. 

            In my life I have had at least 3 close loved ones who suffered from clinical depression, and I am in no way saying you can just “snap out of it” and live happily ever after.  At the same time, I believe God can and will help us live “life more abundantly” if we cooperate in maintaining a healthy lifestyle — physically, emotionally, socially, spiritually. 

            I am convinced the message we heard from Paul last week, the radical challenge to “let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think” can and will lead us to  a more abundant life.

            Please understand that I am not telling you it is easy, or simple.  Jesus never promised his followers an easy life.  Quite the contrary.  Jesus promised hardships, a cross to carry, a completely new set of standards; commanding, demanding standards.
            C. S. Lewis was one the most prominent Christian writers of the past century.  He was a professor of English Literature at Oxford.  He had several “relationships,” but when he met Joy, he indeed found the joy of his life. 

            Then he lost Joy, and he was devastated.  He was crushed by that pain the rest of his life.  But he went on with life.  He wrote. “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our consciousness, but shouts in our pain . . .”

            Nobody likes pain.  We’ve all seen TV commercials that promise relief from pain.  Just take a pill or two and you will feel great!  Then in a soft, rapid voice someone adds “Side effects may include headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, stroke or temporary blindness.”

            Some relief, eh?  Pretty sneaky.  Well, surprise — Jesus promises us some pretty wonderful perks . . . and then adds some possible side effects!  Persecution, opposition, even by one’s own family.  If we choose to be disciples, we are promised “success” and the power of the Spirit . . . but we are also enjoined to carry a cross, guaranteed opposition, and for some, persecution.

            I struggled for a long time with Lewis’ comment that God shouts to us in our pain.  But the more I think about it, the more I see it as a truth. 

            Lewis grieved the loss of his love, but God blessed him with more influence as a Christian apologist than he had ever had before.
            I have grieved some losses in my life.  I listened to a tape of the Lighthouse Chorale as I drove to the church yesterday.  Of the many choirs and choral ensembles I directed, it was one of the most successful. 

            Now I can’t hear well enough to direct a musical group ever again.  That part of my life is over . . . past . . . gone!  When I experience hikikomori because of that loss, God shouts at me.  I seem to hear God shout, “Felix, shut your mouth and listen . . .”  And when I do, I hear “Now that I have your attention . . .”  And God reminds me thru my tears that I am so blessed with so many good things in life.

            Among the pictures and mottos on my office wall is one that says, “Don’t cry because it’s over.  Smile because it happened.”

            (I’m working on it!)

            Let’s get back to Moses.  When Moses ran from Egypt, wallowing in his hikikomori, I’m sure he had good reason to be depressed. 

            The real miracle of this story isn’t the burning bush, as flashy and spectacular as it was.  The real miracle is that the Lord, needing a leader to save Israel from slavery in Egypt, went looking for a sinner; a sinner, in fact, with a dreadful disease even worse than attitudinosclerosis, which of course was hikikomori!

            God shouted at Moses in his pain, shouted from a shrub which was burning. 
            Moses heard God say, “Now that I have your attention, take off your shoes.  Sit and watch that fire for awhile.  Think things thru. Then together maybe we can find a cure for your hikikomori.”

            And they did.  It was a brand new career for Moses.  I hope you remember that Moses was an 80 years old when God gave him a new job to do!

            For the past few weeks I have felt very despondent about some things I don’t have.  As I sat at the computer yesterday, literally crying because of something that’s over, I almost literally heard God shout at me again: “Felix, you ungrateful soul, why don’t you count your blessings instead of whining about your pain?”

            I am not going to say I have completely conquered my hikikomori, but I have been counting my blessings.
For one thing, I realize I don’t deserve all the blessings I have.  I’m sure if you count your blessings, you will have to say the same. 

            To help you join me in counting blessings, we will close worship today with a celebration song which has blessed and thrilled thousands, “Count your Blessings.”

            C. S. Lewis again: “Pain is the megaphone of God.  He uses it to speak loudly of our need for him.  Though he does not send or cause (the pain) he uses it to help us lean totally on his grace and healing.”

            Have you lost a dear one, by death or a broken relationship?  It hurts.  I don’t have to tell you that. 

            It hurts bad!  But that’s life, friends.  Don’t blame God for your pains, but compare your pain with the pain experienced by others.  In the words we will sing to close worship today, “And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.”

            That is a guarantee: Count your blessings “and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.”

            Following Jesus, accepting his invitation to be a true disciple, is a demanding and challenging decision.  That’s why our UCC Statement of Faith includes, “He calls us into his church to accept the cost and joy of discipleship.” 

            Notice the sequence of that phrase.  The cost comes before the joy.  C. S. Lewis may have wanted to turn it around — he found his love for Joy first, then paid the cost.  I’m sure he again found supreme joy in his success as a Christian author, costly as it was.

            One of my favorite quotations in: “Character is not made in a crisis, it is only exhibited then.”

            A teenager said to a mature Christian in whom he saw the glow of a saint, “I’d give the world to experience life as you do.”

            The response was, “That’s exactly what it costs, the world!”

            You may have seen the TV ad produced jointly by Roman Catholics and Presbyterians.  In one scene, a nun is ministering to a black man in a faraway land.  Another man, watching from the sidelines says, “Sister, I wouldn’t do what you are doing for a million dollars.”

            Without even looking up, she responds, “Neither would I.”

            That’s the message of our Gospel. Jesus predicted his suffering, and Peter said, “Heaven forbid, Lord, That will never happen to you!”

            So what did Jesus say?  “Get away from me, Satan!  You are a dangerous trap to me.  You are seeing things merely from a human point of view, and not from God’s.”
 
            That’s the same Peter who just a few verses ago, heard Jesus say,  “You are blessed, Simon son of John.”
Poor Peter, just after being praised for identifying Jesus as the Son of God, the Christ, the Messiah; now he gets roasted for his limited understanding of why the Messiah had come and what he would do.

            Like Moses before him, Peter was both a strong, chosen, powerful leader . . . and a weak, human man.  That should give us hope, don’t you think?

            This is a serious story, with a serious lesson for serious-minded saints.  Last week we heard Paul tell us about the need to “let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.” 
            Have we done that?  Have we let God transform us into new persons?

            Elizabeth Barrett Browning, that 19th-century poet who was an invalid most of her life, wrote:

Earth’s crammed with heaven
and every common bush
afire with God:
and only those who see
take off their shoes.
The rest sit around
and pluck blueberries!

            Please, may God give us the vision to serve others in the name of Jesus, a sure cure for hikikomori.
           
            I leave you this morning with an Haggadah, a Jewish story:

            Moses kicked the dry and rocky rubble.  He hated the desert.  He hated Midian where he lived in exile.  He hated the sheep he cared for, sheep that amazed him with their stupidity.

            “Ha!” snorted moses. “I’m amazed by my own stupidity.”

            A moment of recklessness had brought him to this wilderness.  An Israelite slave abused by an Egyptian overseer.  In a flash of anger Moses killed the overseer.  Then ran into the desert like a hunted fox.

            Moses desperately to be back in Egypt, in the palace, eating well-cooked food, exchanging well-phrased witticisms with well-dressed courtiers. 

            But here he was in this God-forsaken desert. no one to talk to but the half-witted sheep.  Nothing to eat except half-cooked mutton.  Nothing to drink except lukewarm water.

            Moses was trapped in the wilderness. trapped by Zipporah, his wife, trapped by his son, Gershom, which means, “I have become an alien in a foreign land.”  For a moment, he hated his wife, his son, everything.

            There in the searing desert, Moses wept for all that was lost to him.  His earliest years had been spent with his mother, Jacobed, who told Moses the ancient stories of a chosen people and planted the seeds of faith in a God who cared.  Then he had been taken to live with his adoptive mother in the Pharaoh’s palace.  The noxious weeds of ambition, pride, envy, and greed all but choked the tiny seedlings of faith planted by his mother.

            Now in the heat of the desert sun, Moses struggled to revive those seedlings. At night he would fantasize a triumphant return to the lush Nile valley — to his friends in Pharaoh’s court.  But now in the glaring brightness of noonday he could only think of his family, his people, struggling to make bricks for ambitious, cruel Pharaoh.

            At first, Moses tried not to think of his family. 

            He tried not to think of the Israelites.  “They’re slaves,” he muttered. “So what?  They do all right if they’re not lazy . . .
            “They get enough to eat.  Anyway, it’s none of my business.  If I’d realized that sooner, I’d still be in Pharaoh’s court.”

            But the thought wouldn’t go away.  The seeds of his Israelite past were well planted, the seeds of his mother’s stories, of a sister who had risked her life.  And the seeds grew in the heat of his ruminations.

            “Why?”  Moses yelled out to no one in particular.  Or maybe to God.  “Why does it have to be like this?”  Why do you let your people be slaves?  Why don’t you do something?”  The sheep scampered away at his outburst.  There was no other response.

            In the tent that night, Moses felt some comfort.  He loved Zipporah and his son. Moses snuggled closer to Zipporah and pulled the blanket over them.  He remembered when Zipporah was pregnant with Gershom, how he felt the child grow and move in her womb as he lay close to her in the night.

            As he drifted off to sleep, Moses half imagined that he too was pregnant with . . . with something . . . something God had seeded.  He dozed, and the fantasy, or dream, became a memory of twins in a womb, Esau and Jacob struggling, each trying to dominate the other.  Moses was both of them: one twin was Moses the ambitious courtier, and the other was Moses the angry slave. 

            Both were struggling toward birth. 
            One would die in the struggle and one would be born.  Suddenly Moses  awoke, his hand on his own belly.  The dream was in his mind the next morning, and the next, and the next.  He almost felt an ache in his belly.  Or was it pleasure?

            It was noon.  Suddenly, a crackle broke the stillness.  Moses turned.  A small bush was on fire.  Not unusual in this heat, but then he saw that the bush was not consumed.  It burned and burned and burned.  Moses went to have a look.

            “Moses!”  The voice was gentle, quiet, strong.  “Don’t come any closer, Moses, and take off your shoes.  You are standing on holy ground.”  Moses fumbled off his sandals.  The hot sand burned his feet.
 
            “Moses!  I have seen the misery of my people in Egypt.  I  have heard them crying at the hands of the slave masters.  Moses, I will bring my people out of Egypt.  You will be my instrument of salvation for them.  You will go down to Pharaoh and bring them out of slavery and into a land that I will show you.”

            “Me?  I’m just a shepherd.  Why me?”

            “Moses,  I am with you now.  I will be with you then.  You will bring my people out of Egypt.”

            Moses struggled within his soul.  This was the moment he had dreaded . . . and longed for. 

            Now was the time to choose; now was the holy, terrifying moment.  The soul of a mighty man struggled, struggled forward, held back, then groaned itself to birth.  All that was, held Moses back.  All that might be, pushed him on.
 
            Then, barely whispered words: “Yes, Lord, I will go.”  Moses turned and faced the land where he was born.  There in the desert, God had loved a prophet into birth.

            Go down, Moses,
                        way down in Egypt land.
            Tell old Pharaoh,
                        let my people go.

            Let us pray  .  .  .

            Lord we praise you for lessons we can learn from saints in the past.  May we, like Moses, respond to your call, and to serve your people.