Sermon – Job 14.1-14, HS, YB, April 3, 2021

Tags

Christian, church, community, disciples, drama, faith, Holy Saturday, hope, Jesus, Job, liturgy, pandemic, preparation, quiet, redemption, Savior, Sermon, silence, sorrow

Up until last year, I had not remembered that there was a liturgy in our Prayer Book for Holy Saturday.  I had always thought it was Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil on Saturday night (which is basically just Easter), and then Easter Sunday.  But when the pandemic hit last year, we realized doing a virtual Easter Vigil just would not work – there is so much reading, singing, doing things by candlelight, and the drama of being huddled together that we had to let the Liturgy wait until we could gather again.  So instead, we turned to this tiny liturgy, whose entire content is listed on one page of the Book of Prayer Book.

Still in a pandemic a year later, I found myself curious about this liturgy we are entering once again.  The truth is, the earliest accounts of Holy Week observances had no liturgies for Holy Saturday, with the exception of private use of the daily office.[i]  Instead, this day has simply been known as the “quietest day of the Christian year.”[ii]  That the church has not always gathered on Holy Saturday and that Christians might see this day as a day of quiet makes a lot of sense.  The Church says so much this week – from our waving of palms last Sunday, to our gathering around the upper room table to wash feet and share bread, to devastating betrayals of Jesus, to the vivid walk toward the cross, to the finality of the closed tomb.  We almost need a day of quiet to let the drama sink in and wrap our heads around what this week means.

But I suspect if your life is anything like mine or most Americans, we are not sitting quietly in our homes from 3:00 pm on Friday until Easter morning.  Instead, we are filling the time with preparations – tending to all the things we did not do while we were attending church this week:  dying eggs, entertaining children, stuffing Easter baskets, prepping Easter day meals, cleaning the house, or just having fun.  There is nothing inherently wrong about those things, but this year, of all years, I am grateful for a Holy Saturday liturgy.  With this last year of suffering through a pandemic and reflecting on our broken humanity’s inability to eliminate racism or mend civil discourse, even with the rise of vaccines, I find our country is in a Holy Saturday kind of time.  We have been through a tumultuous experience and are not yet healed. 

That is why I like having Job as a companion today.  Job’s words are stark.  As Job sits in the ashes of his sorrows, having lost his children, his livelihood, and his support system, he describes the brutality of life.  He talks about how trees have hope – even when cut down, they can sprout again, and new life can be born out of death.  But not so with humans, he argues.  No, when their bodies lay in the ground, there is nothing but death.  Job captures the essence of this day.  There is a similar finality at the door of Jesus’ tomb this day.  All the hopes and dreams, all the joys and blessings, all the promises of new life are sealed away in a tomb.  And after such a violent death and the threat for those who followed Jesus, there is no wonder why the Church has considered this a quiet day.  Unlike the quiet waiting of Advent, when the church is brimming with expectation and bustling around in preparation for Christ’s birth, today is a day of silence devoid of restorative peacefulness.  As one scholar says, “The waiting of Advent is like having warm bread in the oven.  By contrast, the air of Holy Saturday smells more like stale smoke, as though something essential was burned the day before.”[iii]  As our lives are not yet pandemic free, and as threats of spikes in cases emerge, we know that kind of waiting all too well.

And yet, in the very last verse of today’s reading, the despondent Job says something totally counter to everything else he has said.  “If mortals die, will they live again?” Job asks.  For someone who has boldly proclaimed the finality of human death, his question is a question that only a person of faith can ask – a question that reveals the tiniest bit of hope still left in Job.  Job communicates in this question a truth we people of faith hold dear:  no matter how bad the suffering, no matter how prevalent the experience of dread and doom, no matter how deep the failures of humanity seem to run, there is always hope.  The disciples and community surrounding Jesus Christ do not know that hope yet.  But as followers of Christ 2000 years later, we now stake our entire identity on the risen savior. 

So yes, receive the gift of stale smoke this day.  Sit in ashes with Job and mourn all in your life that feels dead.  Take time in this busyness of life for some uneasy silence.  Name all those who have been lost due to disease and violence.  But keep asking the questions.  Hold on to the hope, however infinitesimally small that God can indeed redeem us – us as individuals, us as country, us as Church.  Holding the two in tension is difficult – we want to rush to Easter and forget all that has happened.  But letting the power of all that has happened speak to us today will allow us to know the astounding power of resurrection much more deeply tomorrow.  Job, Jesus, and this faith community here will pull up a chair and sit with you by the ashes until we can reap with tears of joy tomorrow.  Amen.

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[i] William Joseph Danaher, Jr., “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 310.

[ii] Christina Braudaway-Bauman, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 312.

[iii] Braudaway-Bauman, 312

On Finding a Hand…

Tags

Blue Christmas, broken, Christmas, church, grief, hand, joy, loneliness, Mary, sadness, sorrow, walk, winter solstice

Photo credit:  https://sinceileft.com/2014/06/11/118/

Tomorrow night is the longest night of the calendar year in the northern hemisphere – the winter solstice, when the earth reminds us how little light these days have.  We mark the longest night at our church with a service called Blue Christmas, acknowledging the ways in which Christmas can also be devoid of light for many of us.  For some, the reasons are obvious:  grief over the loss of a loved one, broken marriages or other relationships, illness, or loneliness.  For others, the reasons are a bit more ambiguous:  a recognition that the world around you seems filled with happiness, and yet, there is a dull sadness or pain aching inside that is oddly out of place.

What is interesting about the Blue Christmas service is that there are years when I feel like I really need the service, and there are years that I do not realize how much I needed it until I am there.  I think that is because there is a way in which our culture romanticizes Christmas, creating inevitable shortcomings.  Even when you are happy, have created the perfect meal, are enjoying a long-held tradition, there is someone who is not there, some hurt that is not addressed, some bit of life that is unresolved.  All of that is true most days – but the expectations of Christmas are unrealistic that cannot be met fully.

I think that is why I cling to Mary so much this time of year.  Mary always lived in a world of joy and sorrow, of blessings and curses.  The news of her pregnancy made her shout for joy, but also reminded her of how broken the world was to need such a savior.  The joy she experienced of new birth was matched by the promise of sacrificial death.  Mary lived in the “both-and;” the ambiguity always present in life.  I like to suppose she cherished the joys as much as she could:  the joys of a baby kicking in her womb, even as the neighbors stared and judged her unwedded state; the thrill of holding a new baby, even in the most rustic of accommodations; the miracle of new life, even if the miracle can only really happen in his death.  It is in times like this time of year I long to hold Mary’s hand and walk with her for a while.

If you need a place to put your messy feelings this year, or you need a Mary to walk with you, I invite you to join us for our Blue Christmas service.  But if you cannot make it tomorrow, know that Hickory Neck is a place that always has an open hand, ready to walk with you whatever the time of year is, and whatever you are facing.  You are not alone.

Sermon – 2 Samuel 6.1-5, 12b-19, P10, YB, July 12, 2015

Tags

celebration, church, community, dancing, David, God, grief, hurt, joy, Michal, mourning, praise, restraint, Sermon, silly, social media, sorrow

One of the side bonuses of being a parent of small children is that you have to step up your silliness game.  In general, I am not what most people would call being adept at being silly – I tend to err on the side of being serious and thoughtful.  I am not sure when the loss of silliness happened, but I imagine the loss began as I matured into adulthood.  Even scripture seems to condone this putting away of silliness.  First Corinthians says, “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.”[i]  Most of us embrace the mantra of putting aside childish ways when we mature – except perhaps when we are in the presence of a child.  I learned pretty quickly that harnessing silliness could garner me much parenting success.  Nothing deflates a temper tantrum like a silly face contest.  Nothing distracts a fussy baby like silly noises.  And nothing makes a car of children happier than a parent grooving out to a favorite song on the radio while driving.  Sure, the drivers on either side of the car will look at you like you are crazy – and if you think about them too much, you’ll become too self-conscious to keep up your silly dancing.  But if you can block them out, and dance with abandon, the joy in the car multiplies – and the whole car shakes as you and the children dance in your seats.

Restraint is a value for most of us.  Most of the time, dancing while driving is not really appropriate.  Instead we should be calmly and intently focused on driving.  Most of the time, we expect a certain amount of decorum while working.  The expectations around attire, behavior, and language are quite different at work than they are at home.  And most of the time, we expect a significant amount of restraint from those attending church, especially as Episcopalians.  Though we encourage people to come as they are, there are still certain garments that would raise eyebrows if you wore them to church.  Though we say “Amen,” throughout our services, we have designated times for those amens, and many of us tense up when someone says a spontaneous “Amen.”  Though we often sing songs of praise in church, many of us get uncomfortable if someone embodies that praise, either through clapping, raising their hands, or, heaven-forbid, dancing.

And yet, that is exactly where we find David today in our Old Testament lesson – exuberantly, and without many clothes, dancing before the ark of the Lord.  Before we can understand why David’s actions are so outlandish, we need to understand the fullness of this story.  If you recall, we have been tracking David’s story this summer.  We have seen him from his earliest days, when Samuel anoints him after calling him in from the shepherd’s fields; to his daring battle as a boy with the giant Goliath; to his tenuous relationship with Saul and Saul’s children – who seemed to both love David and fear the threat of David at the same time; to the ultimate demise and death of Saul and Jonathan; and to today’s reading, where David is establishing his rule of the people by bringing the ark of the Lord into the city of Jerusalem – the city of David.  If you remember, the ark of the Lord is known as the container of God’s presence among the people.  They built the ark back in Moses’ day, and most recently, the ark had been stolen by the Philistines.  David retrieves the ark so that the ark can be brought back in the center of the people, marking how David’s rule and God’s presence and favor are tied.[ii]  David’s favor with God leads David to begin his dancing journey of celebration to Jerusalem.

Now lest we think that dancing before the ark is totally normal in those days, we encounter a strange comment by David’s wife, Michal.  The text says, “As the ark of the LORD came into the city of David, Michal daughter of Saul looked out of the window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the LORD; and she despised him in her heart.”[iii]  You almost miss the line in the long text, but that is partially because we do not get the rest of the story today.  In the verses following what we hear today, David and Michal have a heated conversation about the inappropriateness of a king dancing nearly naked before the common people.  In the end, the text says that Michal never bears a child to David, as if suggesting that she is in the wrong for judging David.

But here this is where I am intrigued.  You see, Michal was the daughter of Saul and the sister of Jonathan, both of whom are now dead.  There is some debate about why Michal despises David,[iv] but I think we must remember that Michal is mourning.  In theory, this is a day for joy, since Michal’s husband is now king.  But Michal has every right to be mourning.  That line, “and she despised him in her heart,” though sharp and jarring, is not unfamiliar to me when I really think about her reaction.

One of the realities of the advent of social media is how quickly news travels.  If you follow social media, you are bombarded with news.  Normally, this is a good thing, because social media allows us to stay in touch with the highlights of friends’ lives from around the world.  Where social media becomes a challenge is when someone is struggling.  I have many friends who have struggled with infertility.  Nothing is worse for someone struggling with infertility than to watch a news feed of friend after friend getting pregnant.  They post the coveted ultrasound picture of a baby.  There are endless congratulations, and follow-up baby-bump pictures.  Everyone is full of joy, except for the person who wants that reality and cannot have it.  Every pregnancy announcement feels like another painful reminder of how you cannot seem to become pregnant.  The same is true about jobs or college acceptances.  The social media community seems adept at celebrating the good, but really struggles with recognizing those who mourn while we simultaneously rejoice.  We prefer to dance instead and forget the bad stuff.

We struggle with that reality in the context of church too.  On our healing prayer Sundays I am acutely aware of that reality.  Though each Sunday is meant to be an Easter celebration, once a month we try to remember how Sunday does not always feel like a celebration.  There are parts of our lives that are not whole or healed.  There are times when we still mourn or long for something else.  There are times when we are just not in the mood to dance, and would much rather have people sit with us in our discomfort than for them to be dancing around praising a God who quite frankly may seem absent, neglectful, or downright mean.[v]

I think that is why I love this story from Second Samuel so much.  When we read about David, we long to be like David – unfettered, totally unself-conscious, and full of joy.  We want to be a people of gratitude, celebration, and praise.  But sometimes, we are more like Michal.  We are not ready for joy, we are not ready for celebration, and we not ready to praise God yet.  And quite frankly, having someone in our face doing just that – or worse, telling us to get over ourselves and start dancing makes us despise them in our hearts too.  But that is what I love about this story.  Michal was not edited out of the story.  This is not a simple story about how we should always praise God.  This is a complex story about how freeing and life-giving praising God can be.  In fact, the joy we get from God can make us dance with abandon, totally liberated from what is socially acceptable.  But, there are also times when we are just not there – and the command to make a joyful noise makes us more angry than willing to yield.  And that’s okay.  Things may not turn out how we want them.  We may need to mourn that reality for a long time.  In this complex reality, the Church stands in solidarity with us all, celebrating what can be celebrated, giving space for hurt and mourning where needed.  We are a community of both Davids and Michals.  And sometimes we identify with one more than the other.  To us all, the Church offers a humble meal, reminding us that there is room for all at God’s table.  Amen.

[i] 1 Corinthians 13.11

[ii] Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel: Interpretation, A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 250-251.

[iii] 2 Samuel 6.16

[iv] Brueggemann, 251.  Also, see other theories by J. Mary Luti, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, supplemental essays (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2012), 6.

[v] David G. Forney, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, supplemental essays (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2012), 3.

On mothers…

Tags

joy, Mother's Day, mothers, prayer, sorrow

The older I have become, the more complicated Mother’s Day seems for me.  I grew up with an amazing mother.  She made tremendous sacrifices for our family, she was incredible witness to what serving Christ and others meant, and she was a caring and loving presence in my life.  As I have become an adult, our relationship has naturally changed.  We do not agree on a variety of things, but I have a deep love and admiration for her – more than I could probably ever explain or express to her or to you.

But as I have become an adult, the idea of motherhood has shifted.  When I moved away from my family, other women became mothers to me too.  I have become a mother myself and now see how incredibly difficult the job is.  And I have watched friends and family lose beloved mothers – sometimes at a very young age, and sometimes at a much more mature age.  The loss never goes away.

But I have also seen the darker side of mothers.  I have come to know individuals who were abused by their mothers.  I have come to know women who want to be mothers but cannot.  I have come to know mothers whose relationships with their children have become estranged and irreparably damaged.

So every year, given that Mother’s Day falls on a Sunday, I find myself torn about Mother’s Day.  I find myself wanting to celebrate the goodness of mothers – however we define motherhood.  And I find myself wanting to acknowledge how wholly painful this day is to others.  The best I can do is be honest about that tension and pray for all of us – that we somehow manage to hold our joy and our sorrow in tension this Mother’s Day.  And for all of us, I offer up this prayer:  https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/42236079/The%20wide%20spectrum%20of%20mothering%20%28resource%29.pdf