Several years ago, hundreds of thousands of grieving British filled parks and lined the streets of London for Princess Diana's funeral. Around the world millions gathered in coliseums and sanctuaries and millions more watched the event on television in their own homes. I watched that morning, grieving for Diana and Charles' sons, and for a nation so obviously in shock and grief that it reminded me of when I sat cross-legged as a young girl, on my living room floor, three feet away from our black and white television set, watching the funeral procession of President John Kennedy. The sense of deep national grief was palpable even for a six-year-old.

What I found most fascinating about Diana's funeral, and still do, is that in a country where mostly empty churches function more as museums than as places of worship and community, millions of people chose to participate actively in a Christian funeral. It was not only the people inside Westminster Abbey who sang the songs and prayed with the priests. Video screens and loud speakers made it possible for people outside to sing and pray as well. And they did. As the organ soared inside, mourners sang in the park, hymns of the faith. As the Archbishop prayed inside, mourners sat on the grass and said the familiar words of their childhood in unison. For those mourners, this was a sacred moment of mystery in the face of tragedy, so powerful they will remember it for the rest of their lives.

On a much less dramatic scale, a similar phenomenon occurs in this country whenever tragedy strikes in the form of a bombing, a terrorist act, racial violence, a school shooting, or when a so-called natural disaster occurs. Here, too, the community gathers in the largest auditorium available to sing songs, to pray and hear words of comfort drawn from scripture, as happened not so long ago after the Oklahoma City bombing.

At such times, people who go neither to church nor synagogue nor temple, choose to participate in and are nourished by a religious service. People who have not been to worship in years sing Amazing Grace and pray, with tears running down their cheeks. People who would not describe themselves as religious become religious at that moment because they want to make sense of what they are experiencing, pain and all, and on their own and by themselves they cannot.

Peter Gomes writes, "It is for moments such as these that religion was made, and when we confront the unconfrontable, or more to the point, when it confronts us, we are at a religious moment, and for a moment at least we are religious. Religion is not an escape from reality but rather a genuine effort to make sense of what passes for reality and all that surrounds it. Religion is not the answer to the unknowable or the unfaceable or the unendurable; religion is what we do and what we are in the face of the unknowable, the unfaceable, and the unendurable."

What do all religions have in common? Is it a belief in God? No, for not all religions believe in something that could be called "god." Is it belief in an afterlife or in some type of scripture? No, because not all religions believe in an afterlife or have a collection of writings they consider holy. Is it a universal standard of morals or ethics? No, it is not that either, for no such thing exists.

What unites all religions is this: the experience of mystery, sometimes found in great joy or suffering, but greater than these as well. "Religion in its simplest terms, is about making sense of life, of this life first of all, and particularly of those aspects of it which challenge and disturb us" (John Habgood, former Archbishop of York). All religions of the world have always been concerned with making sense and meaning of these encounters with joy, suffering and mystery wherever we can.

"Mystery is not an argument for the existence of God; mystery is an experience of the existence of God" (Gomes). That experience of mystery is the common thread woven through all religions. Very much like suffering and joy, mystery can often be that place in which we come to know better who God is, and who we are.

But what is mystery? Sometimes mystery is used as the religious cop-out when something cannot be explained, when there is a problem to which there appears to be no answer. In that sense it is the frontier between what we know and can explain and what we experience and cannot explain. You might say it is unfinished business, which in the fullness of time and with the inevitable improvements in skills and technologies will be solved. Mystery, in this case, is merely an unsolved problem, and unsolved problems do not provoke awe or devotion but merely irritation, intrigue, and persistence.

Mystery in the religious sense is not an unsolved problem to which we just do not know the answer yet. Diogenes Allen, professor at Princeton Seminary writes:

"Mysteries to be known must be entered into. For we do not solve mysteries; we enter into them. The deeper we enter into them, the more illumination we get. Still greater depths are revealed to us the further we go. ... When a problem is solved, it is over and done with. We go on to other problems. ... But a mystery once recognized is something we are never finished with. It is never exhausted. Instead, we return to it again and again and it unfolds new levels to us. ... We live in a universe permeated by a divine reality whose hem we touch when we encounter mysteries."

In The Good Book, Peter Gomes, (Preacher to Harvard University and Plummer Professor of Morals) draws a connection between what happens in murder mysteries and the experience of religious mystery. I, too, love murder mysteries of all types, and I realize Gomes is right: it is partly the interplay between the unsolved problem and beckoning mystery that makes them most enjoyable. Here's what I mean.

Almost always the police who are the professionals in the murder business, are set up as problem solvers. Somebody is dead, somebody has committed the crime, and the problem is to find out who as quickly as possible. This problem must be solved so that one can get on to the other problems awaiting solutions; therefore police officers are usually in a hurry, eager to follow obvious leads, anxious to jump to conclusions because of the very reasonable desire to conclude.

The great detectives, even if considered only amateurs by the professionals, such as Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes, Lieutenant Columbo and yes, Jessica Fletcher, look upon murders not as problems to be solved but as phenomena to be entered into. They seem to understand that we do not solve mysteries; we enter into them, and they understand that the deeper we enter into them, the more illumination we get. Still greater depths are revealed to us the further we go. These detectives are neither distracted by the apparent nor impatient with the apparently obscure. They are usually not in a hurry, and have the time to unravel the whole skein of relationships, motives, personalities, and the like.

Both the detectives and the police share the same objective: to solve the crime. In that sense they are each problem-oriented, but as with so many things in life, it is not the end that counts so such as the perspective. In murder mysteries, the police rule out the inexplicable (that which cannot be explained) in favor of a solution. The great detectives however, are fascinated more by the inexplicable than by explanations. Basing their investigations upon what is not there, on the absence of the explainable, they go on to solve the mystery with imagination.

Likewise, religious mystery is not a problem to be solved. It is a reality to be entered and it draws us in more and more deeply like a shuttle craft caught in the tractor beam of the Starship Enterprise. Problems give us the illusion of power, for in solving them we are able to put them out of the way and clear the decks for the next problem; but mystery lingers like incense, mystery deepens, and develops - dare I say it? - a relationship with the one who is drawn into it. Rather than looking for a way out, we're enchanted by what we find within, and within the warp and woof of mystery we have a chance, not to resolve, but to discover the greatest mystery of all, which is the love by which we are united to God and to one another.

Every religion that I am aware of believes there is more to the Divine Mystery than we are able fully to understand or experience. The Christian tradition is no different. Nowhere in the Bible are we told that by faithful study and good works, or even with a little bit of luck, we will be able to understand all that there is to know about the fundamental mystery of God.

Even the Bible says in II Chronicles, "The Lord has said that God would dwell in thick darkness: (II Chronicles 6:1). And in Job we read, "Can you find out the deep things of God? Can you find out the limit of the Almighty? It is higher than heaven what can you do? Deeper than Sheol what can you know?" (Job 11:7-8). Jesus says, "I thank you, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to babes" (Mt. 11:25). And Paul, who on occasion thinks he knows everything, wishes us to be regarded as "servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God." I am always troubled therefore, by people who say their interpretation of the Bible, or their understanding of God or their religion or their religious experience is the only right one. As Presbyterians our understanding of scripture and of God, says that to believe such a thing is idolatrous, for it sets up a false God in the place of the One who is ultimately beyond our knowledge or understanding. It puts God on a leash in a box that will always be too confining for the Creator of the Universe.

In two weeks, Presbyterians will gather in Louisville, Kentucky for the 213th General Assembly of our denomination. One of the topics of great debate will be the nature of our relationship to those of other faith traditions Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh. Is Jesus Christ the only path by which one can know God? Or has God given us several paths to truth and ultimate meaning, of which Christianity is one? We will also debate which Presbyterians' interpretation of scripture is correct; on what basis do we decide who's in and who's out; how do we decide what God wants us to do and not do; and what do we do when our interpretations of scripture and experience of God differ?

As I flew home from Louisville last week, where I had been in preparation for the General Assembly, I read The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. It is a fictional story of a Pentecostal missionary, his wife and four daughters, and of their encounter with Africa, set in the context of The Congo as it became Zaire. Brother Price is horrified by the traditions of the village people and their failure to respond to his version of Christianity. He ends every worship service with a sentence in the native language of the village, Kilanga. He thinks he is saying such as, "Jesus is salvation." But he has come with heavy judgement and refuses to listen closely enough to the people to learn that many words, if given a different inflection, have different meanings. He actually ends each service proclaiming not that Jesus is salvation, but " Jesus is poisonwood," a plant so dangerous as to be fatal. His approach to people of other traditions and faiths is poisonous both to their culture and to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Eventually, we meet Price's predecessor, a compassionate and effective servant of our Lord. Unlike Brother Price, this missionary's ministry was well received and appreciated by the village and brought about lasting change. Where Price is vilified, he is loved, for his approach honors the villagers' already existing experience of religious mystery. He tells Price's family,

"[The villagers] are very religious people, you know. Everything they do is with one eye to the spirit. ... When they plant their yams and manioc, they're praying. When they harvest, they're praying. Even when they conceive their children, I think they're praying. ... I think the Congolese have a world of God's grace in their lives, along with a dose of hardship that can kill a person entirely. I happen to think they already knew how to make a joyful noise unto the Lord a long time ago."

He honors the link between religious mystery in the Christian faith and religious mystery in other faiths, and in so doing, shares the love of Jesus in a truly Christ-like manner. He honors the mystery of which we read in the Revelation to John this morning: That stunning vision of a Holy City of God, with its gates always open. Gates we would think intended to keep people out, are left open by God. Astounding!

The God who is beyond our limited human language, metaphor, theological constructs and biblical interpretation that is the God we worship, the God we serve, the God who beckons us into deeper and deeper relationship. The millions who pour out their grief at times of tragedy, singing hymns and praying prayers they do not even realize they know, they are reaching out for meaning in the Mystery of mortality. Those who pray in mosques and temples, in synagogues and shrines, are drawn there by Mystery. They are not so different than we who are drawn here by that same Mystery. Our experience of the mystery of God binds us together, our experience of the mystery beyond ourselves leads us to see something of God in other faiths and sometimes in people who deny having any faith at all. Our experience of mystery is an experience of God beyond the boundaries and constructed boxes of what we think we know.

The disciples came to Jesus one day, terribly upset. "Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, using the power of God that you have, and we tried to stop him because he was not following us."

Amen.