John 10: 11-18
If I asked you what is the most popular or common scripture read at funerals or memorial services, what would your guess be? It’s 23rd Psalm. Even the unchurched and the biblically illiterate usually know how it begins: The Lord is my shepherd. And, of course, for Christians the image of Jesus as the good shepherd is a beloved one. The Old Testament prophets, such as Isaiah, often spoke of the Messiah as a shepherd. Jesus is called the great shepherd in the Epistle to the Hebrews and in 1 Peter Jesus is named the chief shepherd. And of course Jesus referred to himself as a shepherd in the beloved parable of the lost sheep, when the shepherd leaves the 99 to go searching for the one who is lost.
In today’s reading from John the image of Jesus as the shepherd is a continuation of an image that began in the first verse of chapter 10, when Jesus speaks of the gate through which the sheep enter. Jesus was speaking to the Pharisees, who did not understand, and so he explicitly names himself as the gate, and then in verse 11, which is where today’s scripture began, he calls himself the good shepherd, who lays down his life for the sheep. So with all these references to shepherd, it should come as no surprise that the visual image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is one of the most frequently used depictions in art and the earliest we have of Jesus.
There are no known images of Jesus before the third century, most likely because of the Jewish prohibition against graven images of God. But as Christianity became dominated by gentiles, we see in the catacombs in Rome how the post 3rd century Christians imaged Jesus. At first they actually borrowed images from the Greek and Roman gods. After all, it made sense to use familiar images to evangelize the new faith, and so Jesus in these early images appears as a breadless youth, like a young Greek god, sometimes represented like the Roman god Hermes with a ram or lamb around his neck. Jesus was also imaged as Orpheus, playing his lute among the wild animals and at other times he looks like Apollo, the god of light and sun, truth and prophecy. Though we are accustomed to a bearded Jesus, no beard appeared until the early fifth century.
The visual images we have of Jesus as the good shepherd are very comforting ones, showing him walking among the flocks or sitting down and calmly watching his sheep, or searching for the one lost lamb, and after finding it, gently cradling the animal or carrying it on his shoulder. What we never see in these images is Jesus as he is portrayed in today’s lesson--- defending his flock from attack, and laying down his life for his sheep.
The life of a shepherd was not an easy one. They lived out on the land with their flocks for long periods of time. Dirty and unkempt and usually uneducated, they were considered the lowest of the low in terms of job status. Shepherds were actually considered unclean, and were barred from certain religious rituals unless they went through rites of purification. Now the Greek word good, attached to shepherd as a description of Jesus, does not mean good in the moral or ethical sense, but rather it is the platonic ideal, the model of perfection. Jesus, in other words, is what a real shepherd is supposed to be. And as a real shepherd Jesus would lay his life down for his flock and receive it back again in the resurrection triumph, which then would open the gate to eternal life for his flock. But there is something unsettling about this imagery, because it reminds us that the flock must follow the good shepherd through the valley of the shadow of death. Yet even then, as the psalm says, you are with me.
I don’t know what you know about sheep, but they are not very bright. Some years ago, when my husband and I were hiking in the English Lake country, we learned that sheep would often climb onto a ledge from which they could not get down, and if the shepherd or the farmer could not reach the ledge, the poor animal would die of hunger and thirst as it pathetically bleated its life away. Jesus must have known how dumb sheep are, so calling his followers a flock of sheep was not a very flattering description. But then being a shepherd was not very flattering either, so maybe the point is that status is not something to be pursued----either by the shepherd or the sheep. But whatever Jesus meant to communicate by calling his followers sheep, he did mean for them to follow him, to go where he goes.
And where is it that Jesus goes that we are also supposed to go? Yes, through the valley of the shadow of death, but he also goes to other He hard places, places of discomfort, places where the outcasts hang out, places where the enemy is, places where hurt dominates and forgiveness doesn’t seem to have a chance. Jesus is often in those uncomfortable places. And those are places we are supposed to go to as well.
A few weeks ago I received an email from a colleague of mine in Wisconsin, who had just conducted a memorial service for a 19 year old, who had died of an opioid overdose. The boy had been on medication for his epilepsy, and when the heroine was injected (for the first time) by his girlfriend, who was a nursing student of all things, the combination proved lethal. The minister was at the hospital when the life support was disconnected, and as the parents were saying good bye to their son, my colleague told me it was almost more than she could bear. “It took every ounce of strength I had not to run screaming from that room. But what I witnessed later that week at the funeral was beyond anything I could have ever expected. She told me how Janet, the nursing student, was not only at the church for the service, but she also went to the parents’ house for the reception.
Now my colleague said she did not understand why the girlfriend was not in jail, but there she was sitting in the parents’ house, while sipping tea and eating sandwiches. The boy’s mother took Janet’s hands in hers and said, “You will always have a place in our home and in our hearts.” Though Janet looked surprised and even uncomfortable, the minister was beyond shock. And she later asked the mother, “How did you do that? She had a direct hand in your son’s death. Forgiving her is one thing, but inviting her into your home and your heart? I don’t get it. Help me understand.”
The mother responded, “I am trying to get through this without dying of the pain. I think we humans are all a bunch of dumb sheep, and the only way I will survive this horrific heartache is if I follow the good shepherd, who tells me that I also need to consider Janet---her pain, her guilt, her sorrow. ” The minister did not know what to say, so she simply took the mother’s hands into her own, and the two of them just sat down in silence for a very long time, because there are some things that are just beyond words, and this was one of them.
In our scripture reading for today, we hear that the good shepherd lays down his life for us, and this mother was doing something very similar---laying down her blame and her anger that the one who aided in her son’s death might have a chance at life---full and abundant life. That is what it sometimes can mean to follow the good shepherd. It is the easiest and the most natural thing in the world to follow our feelings, especially our wounded feelings. The good shepherd never asks us to deny our wounds. After all, remember that when Jesus appeared to his disciples, he appeared with his wounds. Though the wounds do not magically disappear, they nonetheless do not have to overcome life with pain----when we struggle to follow the one whose pain and death were overcome by the power of love and mercy.
5/28/2018 0 Comments
Luke 24: 36-48
Some years ago, I took a trip to the sites of the Reformation, which included not only Germany but also the magnificent city of Rome, where we visited the Sistine Chapel. Because the frescoes are so magnificently beautiful and numerous, it is impossible to take it all in, so the eye must choose its visual target.
Our guide wanted us to focus on the scene of the Last Judgment, which in most chapels and churches is painted on the west wall, facing the setting sun. But Michelangelo painted it right behind the altar, above the place where the priest celebrates the mass. The Last Judgment, in other words, has pride of place, riveting your attention. Before we entered the chapel, we were told to look at one particular character, whose classic pose suggests The Thinker, later memorialized by the great French sculptor, August Rodin. Pulled toward hell by the sheer weight of a green serpent and two demons, the victim crouches in a gesture of self embrace, one hand covering his right eye. While other hell bound characters fight to save themselves from the fires, this one assents to his fate.
As we stood there, mesmerized by the sheer power of the ceiling, we heard a voice, trying to describe the scene. Our guide was annoyed, because silence is commanded in the Chapel, and so explanations have to be given either before or after the visit. But her annoyance quickly subsided, when she realized that the voice was attempting to verbally paint the scene for a blind man. "Imagine," the voice said, "the balance between perfect justice and perfect mercy, and then lunge toward justice. That is where Michelangelo paints, the guide told her blind charge. “No artist can paint that balance”, she insisted. “All art, like all theology, errs on one side or the other, either justice or mercy. Only in God does the balance lie, she said, and no one, not even the genius of Michelangelo can paint it, no one, not even the genius of St. Thomas Aquinas can think it."
The perfect balance between justice and mercy: We cannot even imagine it, let alone achieve it. Perfect Justice, perfect mercy: justice takes seriously what we have done with our lives, what we have made of the gifts we have been given, and mercy compassionately comprehends the struggle, the weakness, the ignorance, the compromise. Justice without mercy is cruel; but mercy without justice can look weak. Only in God do the two meet; only in God is the balance achieved.
One of the criticisms mainline Protestantism faces these days is its failure to take sin and judgment seriously. Many churches no longer have regular prayers of confession in their Sunday worship, because parishioners and clergy often find an emphasis on sin a turn off. After all, the Gospel is finally good news: God’s love for all people, so why talk about sin, when Jesus said that he came that we might have full and abundant life? Yes, the gospel is certainly about that promise, but it is undeniably true that people are often weighed down by burdens (feelings of guilt, failure and inadequacy) that so easily get in the way of full life. Indeed, this is why Luke shows us a resurrected Christ speaking of repentance and forgiveness of sins. Forgiveness frees us from sin. Yet we profoundly misunderstand sin if we reduce it to a list of bad things we have done or good things we have failed to do. Besides the commission and omission that sin is, it also the structures and systems which hold us in bondage---racism, sexism, economic oppression for which direct responsibility is often hard to assign. Go to any mental hospital or prison, and you will hear stories of sin that are reminiscent of a line from the Greek tragedian, Sophocles: “Who is the victim? Who is the slayer? Tell me, if you dare think you know.”
Just two weeks ago I was visiting someone who wondered if she were hated by God, because her life has been anything but full and abundant. And I know of another young woman, struggling under the weight of a recent schizophrenic break, after three lay offs from companies, moving elsewhere to do business more cheaply. She has struggled her whole life, given up to foster care by a 13 year old mother, and then tragically abused and taunted for being an interracial child. And yet she persisted and was doing well—until she lost her third job and then her condo and everything she owned. If she is full of self-loathing, it is not because she has sinned, but rather because she has been sinned against not only by the cruelties of systems, but also by systems, which reward profits above people.
Because human beings are often so conflicted and burdened, Jesus commanded that the Good News of forgiveness be proclaimed to the whole world. In our own country, soon after the end of the Civil War, the Universalist denomination took off with its preaching of universal salvation, meaning all will finally be saved through the love and mercy of God in Jesus Christ. The awful carnage of the War, led some (including Abraham Lincoln) to interpret the war as the wrath of God, judging the nation for the sin of slavery. Battered and bruised by four agonizing years of battle, the country ached for Good News, and so when the Universalists declared that God loves all, forgives all and will finally save all, that theology felt like the balm of Gilead, warming the sin sick soul. And indeed by the middle of the 20th century, the hope for God’s universal salvation was embraced by many of the mainline churches. But universal salvation does not mean that judgment has no place in the gospel or in our lives. In our reading today we hear the resurrected Christ speak of both repentance and forgiveness. It is hard to forgive, when there is no repentance, as someone commented last week in our book discussion on Mother Theresa. And although God may not require our repentance to forgive---After all, Jesus from the cross, commanded, “Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing,” yet repentance remains critical for us in our lives, because without it, we remain ignorant of our true self, pulled down by the weight of sin’s power---like the man on Michelangelo’s ceiling.
Some years ago I had a lesson in mercy, forgiveness and years later repentance. I was working at a big medical center, where a 38 year old neurosurgeon, a mother of two young children, married to another surgeon, came to die. Stricken with a brain tumor, which she courageously battled for two years, she was facing inevitable defeat, when her husband, who saw the defeat coming, panicked and ran. He could not remain, he said, and watch the love of his life die. God forgive me, he insisted, I cannot and will not do it. And so he left, and Pamela came with their children to the hospital and medical school, where her father was a recently retired professor of medicine. “I will die broken hearted,” she said, “but I will not die embittered. That will be my spiritual victory. To understand all is to forgive all? I understand why he ran, she said. He battled death as his great enemy, and whenever the battle was lost with one of his patients, he would fight depression. Pamela did die broken hearted, hoping against hope, her husband would come to her side at the end. He did not. Nothing could prevail against his terror and his rebellion against the cruelty of fate, and there he remained, frozen solid like the block of ice in Dante's hell, which encased Satan.
Twelve years after his wife’s death---long after I had left my job there--- he returned to face his children and his in-laws. Late one afternoon he came to the office of pastoral care to see my colleague and friend, a priest, also a professor of medical ethics at the medical school. The shadows danced on the walls, and as Jeff entered the office, he looked more like an apparition than a man, the priest thought.
"I didn't come to seek forgiveness," Jeff insisted, “because if I had to do it all over again, I know I would run. I am not an evil man, he insisted, but I am a weak and a cowardly one. Most cowards and weaklings live a lifetime guarding themselves from that knowledge, but I have no such luxury. Pamela was the love of my life, and I abandoned her, because I did not have the guts to stay. And I've remained away these years, because I have not had the courage to face my children with what I have done."
Imagine living with that guilt, with that knowledge of yourself. He's right; most of us do manage to defend ourselves from such awful truth. If this isn't judgment, I don't know what is. Michelangelo's image of the poor agonized thinker, pulled down into hell while offering no resistance, because he knows what he has done and that he would do all over again, pales in comparison.
How does judgment square with forgiveness, justice and mercy? Life, like art and theology, errs on one side or the other: justice or mercy. Choose on which side you will err as Michelangelo did, but dare to hope that in Jesus Christ the opposition is overcome and perfect justice meets perfect mercy so that all manner of things shall finally be made well---if not on this earth, then in a time beyond our seeing or knowing.
5/28/2018 0 Comments
John 20: 19-29
Well, here I am, the Sunday after Easter, though I tried very hard to argue with the Lord, suggesting to him that I should be sent here on Easter, rather than on Low Sunday, when church attendance is well, low. Lord, I said, it would be far more amusing if I showed up on Easter, when least expected. I’d come in right after the people have sung the joyous resurrection hymn: Christ the Lord is Risen Today. Have you seen him? I would ask. Have you touched the wound in his side and felt the imprint of the nails in his hands? Unless you see for yourselves, how can you believe? But the Lord would hear none of it. “Thomas, he said, you may be a most engaging character, but I think you enjoy far too much riling people up. You are going to the Unionville Church the Sunday after Easter.
So here I am, Thomas, Doubrting Thomas, the disciple who likes to rile people up, but only because I want people to think. Religion, after all, is not only a matter of the heart; it also concerns the head. Religion is also about how we think and what we think. I want people to understand that doubt can be the handmaiden of faith---not faith’s enemy. Doubt can help us to think, to ask questions, deep, penetrating questions.
And I have always loved the questions more than the answers. That is the way I am made, the way my mind works, and Jesus understood that about me, which is why he never tried to make me into someone I was not. He knew I am one of those people for whom questions never go away. We can begin with the most basic question of all: Why? Why is there a world? Why is there suffering? Why do some people do wicked things, while others do the good? Where does that goodness and wickedness come from? The questions go on and on; they never go away, because they can never be fully answered, at least while we live on this earth. You find an answer to one question, and it only leads you deeper into another question, and so on and so on.
So where to begin my story of Easter and its aftermath? Not with the questions, and not even with the doubt, but I shall begin with the fear. Fear is stronger than doubt, and let me tell you this, we were all afraid---afraid that the Jewish leaders would betray us to the Romans and make of us rebels against Rome. And we knew what Rome did to rebels. So yes, we were afraid and for good reason. But you can limit fear with reason, and that’s what annoyed me so much that day about the other disciples---they weren’t thinking, only emoting. There they were, huddled in a room in a house known to the Jewish authorities, sitting there, shivering with fear, waiting to be arrested. The doors were securely locked, as if locked doors could stop Roman soldiers. “Look,” I said, this is ridiculous, just sitting here waiting to be arrested. We should all go home. It’s over; he’s dead. We’ve got to defeat our enemies by scattering, by returning to our old lives. They won’t bother us if we go fishing. Let’s go back to what we knew before he ever came into our lives.
Peter stood up and eye balled me, straight on. We can’t go back, he said. There is no going back, because everything has changed. Everything is different, because we have known him, because we have heard his words and tried for a while to live his truth. You are right about that, Peter, I said. Everything is different now. He is dead. We have to make our own way.
Peter and I never got along. He never used his head; he was all heart, and the heart is no infallible guide. It is, as the Psalms say, deceitful above everything else. When Peter and I would argue about such matters, Jesus would never interfere. He would listen to us exchange our barbs, knowing that no resolution would ever come, and Jesus never tried to provide a resolution. But one time he did ask me if I thought the mind was an infallible guide. Surely you know me better than that, I said. Nothing is infalliable when it comes to human beings, but I do find that my head is a more reliable guide than my heart. And so for you, Thomas, Jesus said, it is. But it may not be so for everyone. And that is all he would say on the matter.
So when Peter first told me the story of the empty tomb, I concluded that it proved nothing----only that the body was not there! And Mary Magdalene’s story about seeing Jesus, I thought it all hysteria. And I was disgusted, so disgusted and angry that I left the house. I went home. Home: Where else do you go when your heart is broken, but home. I had not been home for a very long time, but when I walked through the door and saw my family, no one asked me for an explanation. They just looked at me, and I realized that although they did not understand all I had been through, they accepted and loved me. Maybe that’s what home is: the place that accepts and loves you even when they do not understand you. I went to bed that night and slept as I had not slept in days.
Early the next morning, Peter and John came breathlessly running to my house. Pounding frantically at the door, they commanded me to open it. Have there been more arrests? I nervously asked. No arrests, they said. We come with great news. We have seen Jesus! We have seen the Lord! At that moment I felt such anger welling up in me. When are you going to stop this nonsense? I yelled. When are you going to face the hard cold facts? He is dead! Don’t you understand? He is dead. We saw him nailed to the cross, and if we had not all been such craven cowards, we would have seen him die. But, did we not see him laid in the tomb? He is dead, I tell you. He is dead. Shut up, Peter shouted, and his hand swung through the air so quickly that I was sure I was about to be hit. But instead, his hand found its place over my mouth, and very calmly he said, “He is alive, I tell you. We saw him. We all saw him.” My anger began to cool; there was such conviction in his voice that I began to wonder. Unless I see the mark of the nails on his hands; unless I touch the wound in his side, I will not believe, I calmly said.
A week later I returned to the house. The doors were all shut, and suddenly with no warning, there he was. Jesus was among us. Peace be with you, he said. Looking me in the eyes, he gave a command, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe. I don’t think I ever touched him, at least I don’t remember doing so. I just looked at him and said, My Lord and my God! He looked at me and asked, Have you believed because you have seen me? And when I did not answer, he simply said, Blessed are those who have not seen and yet come to believe.
It is true, I only believed because I saw. I needed proof; that’s just who I am and how I am, the same way that Peter was the way he was, and you are who you are. Oh, we change and we grow, but we are ourselves. And so you skeptics out there, you doubters, you, who are full of questions, just know that God has a place for you in the story. You are needed; your questions are needed and so are your doubts. And one last thought: Jesus came to me not when I was alone, but when I was in the company of others. You see, faith is never simply a private affair. The church is needed, because it reminds us that we are interdependent. We need one another to help each other be witnesses, and we need one another to help each other believe.
Mark 16: 1-8
There are some of us here, I am sure, whose English teachers were real sticklers about how we began and ended our essays. Well, some might think that Mark could have used such a teacher, because his beginning and ending are---quite frankly--- a bit disappointing. There’s no birth narrative in Mark, no dramatic scene of an angel making a scandalous announcement to a virgin, no angels filling the skies with glorious words of peace and good will, no wise men making a long journey to Jerusalem to worship the new born baby. Mark has none of this; he just begins at the beginning with “the good news of Jesus Christ.” And then there is the ending, which is our concern for this Easter Sunday. All Mark tells us is that after the two Marys had been told by a young man dressed in a white robe that Jesus has been raised and has gone ahead to Galilee, the women fled, ”because terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” And this (verse 8) is where the original gospel ended.
Unlike the other gospels, Mark never shows us the resurrected Christ. After his resurrection we never hear him utter one word or see him do one deed, and so in comparison with the other three gospels, Mark’s ending does seem disappointing, which is probably why someone later tacked on verses 9 to 19. New Testament scholars believe that this additional ending is a much later addition, perhaps centuries later, because the older versions of Mark simply do not have it. Someone thought the original ending needed work.
And we can understand why. Not only is the risen Christ absent, but also the two women at the tomb completely fail in their understanding. Though they were given some pretty clear instructions about what they were to tell the disciples, they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid. Afraid, because when the world does not work as expected, when the usual rules and procedures are overturned, we human beings often do respond in fear, which is why Jesus spent so much of his ministry telling people, “Do not be afraid; do not be anxious.” And, of course, when it comes to death and dying fear is rampant.
Now the people of Jesus’ day knew death far more intimately than we do, because while we are successful at pushing it away—into hospitals, nursing homes, hospices, or even in execution chambers, closed to the public, the people of Jesus’ day were intimate witnesses. They had seen Jesus suffer and die. They knew he was dead, and the women, who were the caretakers of the dead, knew the sight and smell of death. But they did not know what to make of the news that he was resurrected. They did not understand; they were clueless, and when we feel completely clueless, fear is neither uncommon nor inappropriate.
Don’t most of us feel pretty clueless when it comes to the resurrection? We are people, after all, who believe in and respect science. When someone dies, and we ready ourselves to attend a memorial service, we don’t expect to arrive and be told, “He or she is alive, risen from the dead.” Since the resurrection is so outside the realm of normal human experience, none of the four gospels attempt to describe it, so we do not know what or how it happened. What we do know is that after the initial shock and fear of Jesus’ arrest and execution, the same disciples, who had abandoned Jesus, came together and proclaimed that God had done something new in Jesus Christ. “He is risen,” they said, and from that proclamation, the church grew.
Though none of us can explain or describe the resurrection, we still struggle to interpret it, that is, say something about how it impacts human life in the here and the now as well as in the future. And to me the resurrection is all about the persistence of God. God persists, no matter what we human beings do or say. No matter how many times we reject God and the new creation, God does not reject or give up on us. In the crucifixion, we human beings said and say NO to God, but in the resurrection God says NO to our NO. God persists in love, and that is what the resurrection is all about.
About five years ago, my husband and I went to Poland for two weeks. Kaz, who is Polish, had been a student intern at my church in New Haven for three years, and we became very close. After graduation, he was called to a church in Massachusetts, and every summer he would return to Poland, where his parents and brother still lived. One summer he invited my husband and me to come, so we spent a week with Kaz and his parents, and then went on a guided hiking tour in southern Poland with an English hiking company. In mid week we had a day off, and since we had rented a car, we decided we would visit Auschwitz and Bikenau, notorious concentration camps. It felt to us like a kind of pilgrimage, something we owed to the victims of history. The night before our pilgrimage, we mentioned to our hiking group that we planned to go, and this one man, a retired teacher from England, asked us if we would take something he had written, and place it in one of the women’s bunkers. I have been to Auschwitz once, he said, and once is enough. I was hoping someone from our hiking group would be going. And then he told us the story.
“My 35 year old daughter had recently died of breast cancer,” he said, “and I was in the depths of despair. I simply could not get out of my depression, and one afternoon I was outside in my garden, looking at the blooming flowers, trying to embrace new life, when my neighbor, an elderly gentleman, came out of his home and joined me in the garden. We spoke for a while about the lovely weather, and because it was such a warm day, he had no jacket on, and for the first time, though I had lived next door to him for over 40 years, I noticed his arm with a number on it. I knew he was Jewish, and so I blurted out, “You were in a concentration camp? I asked in astonishment. You never told me; you never talk about it.
Why would I want to remember such pain and sorrow, he said. I lost my wife and my eight year old daughter at Auschwitz, and after they died, I had no will, no reason to live. One morning I refused to rise for my work detail. The guard was screaming at me, telling me to get up or I would be shot. But I didn’t care; death would have been a welcome release, but suddenly I felt this heavy push against my shoulder and then against my back and a voice in my brain, saying, “Get up and live. I will be with you.” And I did get up and live, and whenever I was tempted to give up, I felt this push and pull. I had no doubt it was God. God just doesn’t give up, my neighbor said to me, even when so many people around us, do, even in the midst of great evil or great pain. And so I survived; I have lived all these many decades; I married again and have three children, 7 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. That is my revenge against all that evil.
That man helped me as no one else could, the teacher said to me, and then he handed me the words he had written, a free verse poem, dedicated to the 8 year old daughter of his neighbor. And the name of the poem: “God Persists.”
God persists in love, even when we are tempted to hate.
God persists in mercy, even when we might rightly choose vengeance.
God persists to call us to new life, even when,
especially when our lives have been pulverized by an evil and sorrow so bitterly deep we cannot begin to understand or name it.
Yes, God persists in love, a deep heart wrenching love for the victim
And most appallingly of all, a deep heart wrenching love for the victimizer.
We cannot understand this.
We do not want to understand this: why God persists in this kind of tormented love.
And yet it is this love and mercy of God that move the universe and make all life new.
And so I placed the poem on one of the wooden bunkers in the women’s barracks and walked away, thinking, God persists. Indeed, this is what the resurrection of Christ is: the persistence of God’s love and mercy, even when, especially when we reject what God so graciously gives. God will not take our No for an answer.
Luke 22: 39-46
In recent decades there has been a great deal of theological reflection, even arguments about Jesus’ death. Why did it happen? Who or what needed it? We know the religious language that says, Jesus died for our sins, but what does that really mean? The Church has never offered a definitive answer to that question, and though throughout the ages, it has pondered multiple theories of the atonement, no one understanding or interpretation has ever been declared the official one. But in the western church with Rome as its capital the satisfaction theory became (for both Catholics and Protestants) the dominant one, which says that because human sin is so serious an affront to the majesty and justice of God, the whole human race deserves the punishment of eternal death, and satisfaction can only be made to God by the perfect human sacrifice. And so Jesus became the sacrificial lamb, the pure offering to God.
But what kind of God would need or demand the suffering and blood of an innocent human being to satisfy a notion of besmirched justice? Is it really God who requires the death, or is it human beings? Who cried out, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Certainly not God, but human beings, who have a long history of hating the good and embracing evil. In the cross of Jesus, we see the revelation of human nature, saying NO to the love and mercy of God. Now thankfully and mercifully this not the whole story of our human nature, which is made in the image and likeness of God, but we do see in our own individual stories as well as in the stories of others how it is that human nature is often divided against itself and how the larger society participates in that division, sometimes making it worse, at other times working to heal what is broken and divided.
Some decades ago, when I was working as a hospital chaplain, I had this patient, Linda, a drug addict, who had five children, all born addicted, yet given up to the state, because there was no way she could care for them. And here she was pregnant again, neurologically impaired and bodily damaged from years of abuse. The doctors gave her but a few months to live. She was a month away from delivery, and obstetrics wanted to take the baby, because they did not think the baby could continue to survive in utero. Now Linda was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. She knew she would not survive any kind of surgery, and so she said, NO. One of the doctors was so angry he told he had to restrain himself from slapping her to the floor. I knew the feeling. I would not even take an aspirin when I was pregnant, and here this woman did not care what it was she put into her body.
It was Maundy Thursday, 1990, and I walked into Linda’s room with no expectations at all. I was not about to try to convince her of anything. I knew that was futile, and quite frankly it was simply my job to be present to her in all her agony and pain. So, when I pulled up a chair beside her bed, she suddenly looked up at me and asked, “Do you believe that part about the angel?” What part do you mean? I asked.
You know, she continued, when Jesus was in the Garden, facing death, wanting to throw that cup away, and it says that an angel gave him strength. Here, she said, handing me the bible, read it to me. And so I read, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will, but yours be done. Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength.” Linda suddenly interrupted, “That part about the angel isn’t in Mark or Matthew. I read them both, looking for the angel, but it wasn’t there. Why?”
I looked at Linda and did not know what to say. After all, I knew from seminary study that the line about the angel was a later addition in Luke, because in the earlier Lucan manuscripts, the angel is not there. And Linda was right; there was no mention of angels in Mark or Matthew’s account of Jesus in Gethsemane. But Linda was not interested in biblical criticism, and so I just looked at her and said, “I don’t know.”
But do you believe that part about the angel giving him strength? There was such a look of desperation on your face and the sound of desperation in her voice, and I, who court knowledge and rationality and harbor my own deep doubts about angels, simply looked at her and said, “Yes, I do believe.” I believe it too, she said. And then she closed her eyes and never said another word to me.
Later that afternoon Linda gave her consent to a surgery from which she would never awake. She died peacefully a few hours after her healthy, non-addicted baby girl was delivered, her doctor told me, with tears running down his cheeks in spite of his wanting to slap her a few days before. Her peaceful death was probably the most peace she ever had in her life, he said to me, and now let us both hope she has God’s peace, a peace the world could not give her and she could not give herself. After a moment of silence, he looked at me and said, “I hate it when a patient gets to me this way.” And then he walked away.
The gospel is a kind of lens, and when we put it on and look at life through that lens, we can see life more deeply, more truthfully and more compassionately than before. Jesus’ struggle in the Garden and his death on a cross are unique historical events with deep theological meaning, but the human themes of struggle and sacrifice are replayed again and again in human life, which is why the story still has so much power for us. God did not need or demand the death of Jesus, but we demand it and we need it, because in our blindness and stubbornness, we fail to see what is before our eyes: the love and mercy of God, which shows up especially in places we least expect to see it---in a Garden called Gethsemane, in a cross on Golgotha and in a hospital room in Stony Brook, New York.
Even after all these decades I still remember Linda, and so does God.
Jeremiah 31: 31-34
John 12: 20-33
“We want to see Jesus.” That is the request made to Philip by some Greeks, who had come to the festival. They were Greeks, not Jews, and John’s gospel is very specific about that identity. The Greeks, of course, were known for their tradition of seeking wisdom, a tradition that had not only produced the philosophies of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, but also the great tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripedes. The Greeks had produced giants, and there is no doubt that western civilization stands on their shoulders. And yet with all that wisdom at their disposal, the Greeks came to see Jesus. They were looking for something more.
Now seeing Jesus in John means more than mere eyesight. To see Jesus means to know the truth deeply, to follow the one who promises full and abundant life. Alas, many came to see Jesus, but failed to see him. And let’s face it, that is our struggle as well. We see Jesus through the stories we know so well, and we catch glimpses of him as we live out our faith in small and even large ways. And because we realize that seeing Jesus is not always so easy, we come to church to hear and ponder his lessons in the hope and faith that we really will see Jesus---although there may be times in our lives when Jesus seems hidden or obscured. At times we may not be so sure exactly what or whom we are seeing.
There was such a time in my life when Jesus was overshadowed by a whole lot of questions that I could not answer. Oh, I had been raised in the church from the time I was a little girl, and I always loved the stories of Jesus, and even when I went off to college and read the great atheists like Fuerbach, Marx and Freud, I was remained impressed by Jesus. To me he was a great moral teacher, a spiritual genius, but, though I admired him, I no longer saw him as savior and redeemer. Yet I was curious about Jesus, very curious, and there are times in our lives when curiosity can lead us to places we never thought we would go. And so I enrolled in a course at Harvard University, taught by Harvey Cox, who then was probably at the height of his reputation, known by many outside the theological circle for his book, The Secular City. Today I cannot tell you what the name of the course was, or what books we read. What I do remember is one particular lecture and a story about the Lutheran theologian, pastor and martyr, Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
I did not know who Dietrich Bonhoeffer was, and perhaps some of you do not know, but he is certainly one of the 20th century’s heroes of the Christian faith. Having grown up in an aristocratic and highly educated family, he shocked his parents when he told them he was interested in studying theology. The family, after all, was not at all religious. His father was a psychiatrist and professor; his brothers studied law and science, but his parents believed strongly that their children should follow their interests, and although they had strong misgivings about the church, they encouraged their son. And so Bonhoeffer studied theology, wrote two doctoral dissertations, and undoubtedly would have had a brilliant academic career---had the war not come.
Germany had a state church, and when Hitler came to power, all Lutheran clergy, whose paychecks were signed by the state, were required to take an oath of loyalty to Hitler. Many, of course, did so willingly, while others signed with great misgivings, and still there were those who would not sign at all. Bonhoeffer not only refused to sign, he also helped to establish a resistance seminary at which he taught until it was closed down by the Gestapo in 1937. Considering the taking of the oath to be an act of heresy, Bonhoefer insisted there is only one head of the church and that is Jesus Christ. There can be no pledge of absolute loyalty to anyone or anything except Christ. As a committed pacifist, he argued that the duty of the church is to stand with the victims, to work and pray for peace, and to love the neighbor as well as the enemy.
By 1941 Bonhoeffer had joined the anti-Nazi movement through the German military intelligence, which was seeking to overthrow Hitler. At first he did no more than bring messages back and forth between Germany and England. But finally, all participants---even those like Bonhoeffer, whose role was not directly violent---were asked to agree that if the opportunity should come, they would be willing to end Hitler’s life. Now this constituted a terrible religious crisis for Bonhoeffer, who did not believe God ever commanded murder or assassination, not even the murder of a murderer. He despised what Hitler represented, but he also believed that Hitler was loved by God. He did not know what he should do, and all his prayers brought him no resolution.
On one cold afternoon in 1943 the conspirators met in a tiny room. All stood in a circle, while a gun was passed around, and if you could accept the gun, you were in the plot. If not, you were out. “There is no shame here,” one of the men said. “There are deeply religious men among us whose consciences may not permit their participation in assassination.” Bonhoeffer stood in the circle and watched as the gun made its way toward him. One man took it; then the next and the next; someone stepped out, and the gun traveled to the next man. Soon it will come to me, Bonhoeffer thought, and still I do not know what I will do, what I must do, what it is God would have me do. When the gun came to him, he put out his hand and took it. “God,” he prayed, “if this is your will I need your mercy. If this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
To this day I can still remember Harvey Cox, standing there, his voice quivering with emotion. When he had finished the sentence, “Every moment of my life, I need your mercy,” he was silent for what seemed like an eternity. And the class was silent too. What can be said after that, and I have no idea what was said. I cannot remember a thing, except my own feeling of deep gratitude that there had been someone who had lived on this earth during such a terrible time, a time, when millions were being slaughtered, a time one could legitimately ask, Where is God? What is God doing amidst this horror? And here was one who answered not by seeking certitude, but by asking for mercy. I was barely 25 years old, and I was struck to the very core of my soul. Bonhoeffer showed me a new way of seeing Jesus.
We live in an age, where certitude is often embraced as strength and ambiguity and uncertainty are dismissed as the tools of the weak and confused. The common wisdom is that uncertainty and ambiguity lead to inaction and confusion, and so many people, all across our globe, are drawn to religions and politics, which offer certainty, the knowing assurance of God’s will. But consider again Bonhoeffer’s words: “If this is your will, I need your mercy; if this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
It was not the certainty of God’s will, which led Bonhoeffer to act, for he realized that neither he nor any other human being could claim that certainty. Rather, it was the conviction of the universal need for mercy, which finally gave him the courage to act, to take upon himself the responsibility for his decision. He picked up the gun, not seeking God’s approval, but acknowledging his need for mercy.
Bonhoeffer never claimed his decision to take the gun was the right one. On the one hand his conscience remained committed to pacifism, and yet he acted against conscience, although as a Lutheran Martin Luther’s words must have rung in his ears: It is neither right nor prudent to act against conscience. But living with a clean conscience may not be the ultimate religious goal. Bonhoeffer’s life and death remind us that God calls us to act not with certainty but with faith—not faith in the rightness of our actions and the purity of our conscience, but faith in the love and mercy of God.
In today’s reading from the book of Jeremiah, we see an Israel, who has forsaken the covenant and broken the law time and time again. Nonetheless, through the prophet Jeremiah the people are told that God will make a new covenant, written upon the heart. We Christians see the new covenant in Jesus Christ, whose lifting up on the cross neither saves us from the responsibility of our decisions and actions, nor gives us the definitive answers about what we must do or what we must believe. The Greeks told Philip, “We want to see Jesus”, and we too want to see Jesus. But when we see him, really see him, we are not then given a list of absolute beliefs to which we must consent, but rather we come face to face with the cross, with the agony and challenge of decision and responsibility. We see, desite the horror, what the mercy and love of God really look like---nothing like our meager attempts at self-justification. Remember Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s words: Every moment of my life I need your mercy. And so we do.
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
John 2: 1-11
I know what time is, said St. Augustine, but if someone asks me to explain it, I cannot. Well, how many of us could explain time? Though we have the benefit of 1600 years of scientific advancement, and Einstein’s theory of relativity, which says that as we approach the speed of light, time actually slows down and if we could exceed the speed of light, we could reverse the flow of time—go back to the future, nonetheless, the concept of time boggles our minds and imaginations. We don’t so much understand time as experience it. We know time not in theory, but in practice. We mark time by recalling the faces no longer among us. We look into the mirror, and notice the inevitable signs of ageing. We watch our children grow up and leave home, go to college, perhaps later marry and have children. And then our grandchildren arrive and grow up. Where does the time go? That was a question one of my kids asked me, when he was 3. Where does time go? He went through this phase, when he insisted on taking a loud ticking clock to bed every night. Mommy, he said with great excitement, now I can see time and hear it!
Time: there is something about it, which fascinates human beings, including a three year old. I remember as a college sophomore, taking a class in social psychology, where one of the psychologists we read was Abraham Maslow. Maslow was the psychologist of self-actualization, who said that the primary project of human beings is to discover their gifts and talents and then use them, actualize them for the benefit of the world as well as the self. But what I best remember was the comment he made about time. Time, he said, is what makes human love possible. Time is what makes our choices and decisions count for something. And then he gave the example of the Greek myths, the gods and goddesses whose love affairs among themselves were boring--- until one of them fell in love with a human being and time entered the picture. Since time means limits---not everything can be done--- the decision to do this and not that, to love this one and not that one means something. And so the immortal gods would learn from human beings that time has a meaning which cannot be found in eternity. Yes, time matters, and because it does, it should not surprise us that the theme of time finds its way into the Bible. The Bible is filled with human concerns and questions, and one of the big questions is how to tell time, how to tell the right time.
When I was a seminary student in Boston, I did some clinical training at Deaconess Hospital, where I met this crusty old Irish Catholic priest, who would come to visit patients. The first question he asked me was if I knew how to tell time. That is the most important lesson in life, he insisted, to learn how to tell what time it is in your life, because if your timing is off, you will be off. I learned a great deal from that man. One of my patients was a 32 year old woman, who had been battling cancer for 4 years, but was nearing the end. I’m done, she told her husband. No more treatment. I can’t do it anymore. The battle is over. You’re a coward, he screamed. A damned coward and a quitter. Charging out of his wife’s room, he ran straight into the priest, who was coming to visit his wife. Very calmly he placed his hands on Mark’s shoulders, and looking him squarely in the eyes, he asked him one question: Do you know how to tell time? There was a painful, protracted silence, followed by some sobs, and then Mark walked back into his wife’s room and gave her the permission she wanted and needed: the permission to die. The time had come.
Our scripture lessons for today present us with two different understandings of time. From the book of Ecclesiastes, we have the familiar words: To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven, a time to be born, a time to die. These words from the Preacher, who most likely was not a Jew, came from a world, where time was understood to be circular, a repetitious cycle of birth, death, decay, and rebirth. The seasons come and go; the earth brings forth its fruit, the plants wither and die, and new ones appear. The generations come, the generations go, and the earth endures. Admittedly, there is comfort in such a view; what has been will be again. But there is also a kind of ennui, a boredom and despair that sees nothing new under the sun. And indeed, the reading this morning from Ecclesiastes should not be read without remembering the refrain, which is repeated over and over again throughout the entire book: Vanity of vanity, all is vanity, a mere striving after the wind!
In a part of the world that understood time as an ever repeating cycle, how extraordinary that the Jews would develop another view of time! Time, they insisted, is not a repeating cycle, a mere striving after the wind. No, time moves toward a goal, and the goal is God's kingdom. Time is not simply chronos, ordinary time, clock time, but time is also kairos, divine time, when God breaks into ordinary time, breaks into human history, and transforms it into something new.
And this is what our text from John is about: the new thing God is doing in time and history. As I said, we human beings always want to know what time it is. Is it the right time----the right time to marry, to have a baby, to move or change jobs or retire, and Jesus, being fully human, was also concerned with this question. Is it the right time for him, the right time to begin his ministry, the time when God would transform the ordinary moment into an extraordinary one? Indeed, is it the right time? Notice that his mother seemed to think it was, but then mothers often do. They often push and prod their children to move. But when Jesus’ mother attempted to push him, he turned to her and said, “My hour has not yet come.” The time, in other words, is not yet right. What is going on here?
Well, a wedding is going on, and in ancient Israel a wedding lasted at least a week. It was a time of celebration and heavy drinking! And then the wine gave out. To be out of wine would be a deep embarrassment for the host. The rules of hospitality were such that the provision of food, drink and shelter was at the center of what it meant to be a good Jew. To fail in the rules of hospitality was to fail in one's religious obligation---no small matter.
Secondly, wine was at the center of Jewish religious life. Rituals in the home and the temple were conducted using wine, and so to be without wine was to lack an essential religious tool. It would be of grave concern not only to the host, but also to everyone present. And yet, when Jesus’ mother told him that the wine was gone, his response was, "What concern is that to you and me? My hour (my time) has not yet come." Now such a statement would be heard as not only uncivil, but also religiously insulting, tantamount to saying, "I don't care if we can be Jews." And what does his mother do? She doesn't scold him for his lack of civility, which is what we might expect. Turning to the disciples, she simply says: Do whatever he tells you. And the result was: the man who had just claimed that his hour had not yet come initiates his ministry by performing the very first miracle the Gospel of John records. Click. The time had come.
What happened? Why did Jesus change his mind? Why had his hour suddenly come? We don’t know. The writer doesn’t explain. In John’s Gospel, Jesus is always presented as one who is certain of his destiny---no doubts or hesitations. He even went to the cross with no fear or trembling, unlike the other Gospels in which he begs for the cup to pass from him. And indeed some people believe that this is how Jesus was---always confident of his path and his identity, a man so empowered by God he had no real struggles. But I don’t think that is how it always was for Jesus. Remember that the Gospel is written looking backward, from the perspective of the resurrection, but that is not how Jesus lived his life. He had to live it like you and me, moving forward into the unknown. He had to risk a decision, like you and me, without knowing for sure what the future would bring. He acted in faith, made a decision in faith that God would make of his time the right time.
And so we too are called to act in faith. We too wait and hope for the right time, the right moment. We want a sign, the assurance that things will work out. But such assurances are rarely given. Consider some of the important decisions you’ve had to make---marriage, career, children, moving, consenting to an operation that might save you or perhaps kill you. Did you ever know what the outcome would be? We ponder, think, consider and pray, and then we move ahead. We risk the hope that this is the right time. And sometimes it is, and sometimes it is not. We cannot know beforehand, and sometimes we cannot even know after the fact. As Jesus was dying did he really know how it all would turn out? Did he really know what God would make and continue to make of his magnificent defeat? I doubt it; all he could do was trust. Into your hands, I commend my spirit, he said.
And we can do no better than that. Trust---trust that something new may happen, trust that something good is in store for us, trust that the time is right. Our trust is not perfect, but even imperfect trust is trust. And so let us trust, trust one another, certainly, but even more importantly, let us trust God, the God who says that our time is not wasted; our time is not lost, because our time is in God’s time. God participates in time, and sometimes God pours down God’s blessings and makes our time the right time.
Psalm 22: 1-5; 25-31
Mark 8: 31-38
A clergy friend of mine once commented that life is made up a long string of moments, but some of those moments stand out, taking on great significance, as when an Olympic skier, readying herself to compete for the Gold, said, “This is my moment, my time.” Jesus also had his moment, his time---a relatively short one at that, only one year of ministry according to the synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark and Luke, and three years according to John’s Gospel. Here we are in the 8th chapter of Mark, where we hear Jesus pointing to the deep significance of his approaching death, a death, which has proven to be history changing far beyond anything Peter could have imagined at the time. None of Jesus’ disciples could have possibly understood the full significance of his life and death, and even after 2000 years his impact is still being pondered. We are never finished wrestling with the questions Jesus puts to us and the ways Jesus might change us---change us not only in our personal lives, but also change us in history.
Now February is Black History Month, when we not only remember and celebrate Black Americans who contributed to our American story, but we also wrestle with a painful past that in so many ways is still with us. Imagine Peter looking back at some of his behavior, sometimes shameful behavior, but shame is not where he remained. He grew, he changed and his understanding would widen the compass of his faith so much that he would finally be martyred for his faith. Yes, Peter changed. His faith changed, and indeed, that is one of the great lessons of life: change happens. And sometimes the change is painful as it was in Little Rock, Arkansas.
When Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas opened its doors in September, 1927 the New York Times reported that it was the most expensive public school ever built in the nation, costing at the time 1.5 million dollars. Housing over 100 classrooms with a capacity for 3000 students, Central was named by The American Institute of Architects as the most beautiful high school in America with its four gorgeous classical statues, representing Ambition, Opportunity, Preparation and Personality, gracing the front portals. At its opening, 1800 students crossed its threshold, and as the decades followed more than more students would come---some from outside the district, because Central High was one of the nation’s top high schools.
Fast forward 30 years from 1927 to 1957. Central would be in the news again, but this time as a symbol of racial bigotry and hate as well as courage and faith. That was the year the Little Rock Nine attempted to integrate Central High. Those kids were brave, no doubt about that, but sometimes youth is brave because their idealism shields them from the knowledge of the depths of danger. If these nine youngsters were brave, consider for a moment their parents---brave, yes, but also extraordinarily faithful. Now we are a little over a week away from a terrible shooting in a Florida high school, and over and over again we hear the insistence that schools must be safe places---a no brainer---except if you were the parents of one of those nine kids, who integrated Central High.
Make no mistake about it: those parents knew the danger; they understood how ugly and murderous racism could be, but their faith recognized and believed that God acts and acted in all aspects of life, including politics, and so they sent their children into a situation that I daresay most of us sitting here today would not do. And they did it not because they embraced a naïve faith that believed God would protect their children. No, they did it, because this is what they believed God was calling them to do. And if one of those kids had died; if all of them had been killed in the battle to integrate, they would have seen the deaths not as God’s will, but as a thwarting of God’s will and the price one sometimes pays for picking up the cross and following Jesus. They were not expecting a faith with no suffering, but they knew in the smithy of their souls that God was on a march in and through their history, leading them on a great and righteous struggle for freedom, justice and equality. And when God acts and God calls, these parents believed they had a responsibility to answer, even if the costs were high.
On the morning of September 4, 1957 15 year old Elizabeth Eckford was both excited and nervous on her first day at Central High. She wanted to be a lawyer, and she, like the other eight students, who tried to integrate the school that morning, was chosen by Little Rock’s School Board, because of academic promise as well as strength of character. On that morning Elizabeth’s father was nervously pacing in front of the television set as he watched the convergence of National Guard troops and angry citizens at Central High. “Turn the television off,” his wife commanded. “We need no fear in this house. We need prayer.” And pray the family did, gathering around Elizabeth and asking for God’s protection, mercy and love. Elizabeth’s family was poor and did not own a telephone, so she never received the change in instructions. Rather than meet at the school, the students were told to meet at the home of Daisy Bates, head of the Arkansas NAACP. There the students would be met by a group of white and black clergy, who would accompany them to school. But Elizabeth knew none of this.
As she approached the school’s front door, she saw and heard angry crowds, screaming that she would not be allowed to enter. Nervous she certainly was, but seeing the National Guard troops by the doors, she thought they were there to help her. And so moving forward, she was shocked to hear, “You will not enter this school by order of Governor Orval Faubus.” She tried another entrance with the same result, and so she had no alternative but to walk away. Calmly walking down the street, she was followed by an angry mob, some screaming the N word at her, while others taunted they would be getting a rope, since there were many accommodating trees along the path.
As Elizabeth walked, click, click, click went the camera of Wilmer Counts, Jr., who had been a student at Central High some years before, where he had been inspired by one of his teachers to pursue photojournalist as a career. While other reporters that day had their fancy cameras grabbed and smashed, Wilmer’s small camera escaped notice, so he recorded for all the world to see the story of Elizabeth’s courageous walk. One of those images—a white female student, face contorted with hatred as she screamed the N word at Elizabeth, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in photography. Another picture he took that day of a black reporter by the name of Alex Wilson being beaten by a white mob prodded the President of the United States to send troops to Arkansas. When President Eisenhower saw the photo and heard how Wilson refused to run, even when the crowd screamed at him, “Run, Nigger, run,” Eisenhower said. “I must do something.” Two days later the 101 Airborne Division arrived in Little Rock to help integrate the school.
Elizabeth’s walk that morning ended at a bus stop, where she sat on a bench, waiting for a bus to take her away. She did not wait alone. A local woman by the name of Grace Lorch shamed the crowd for torturing a child, who wanted nothing more than an education, and a reporter for the New York Times, Benjamin Fine, sat next to Elizabeth on the bench and advised, “Don’t let them see you cry.” And Elizabeth did not cry until she arrived at the school for the blind, where her mother taught. Throwing herself into her mother’s arms, both mother and daughter wept---wept for themselves, wept for their city, state and country, wept for all the Christians, who were confident that segregation was God’s will, and finally, they wept for God, who was suffering with, for and from God’s people. Rabbi Abraham Heschel, who would march many times for Civil Rights, once said, “Faith begins when we feel sorry for God.” Elizabeth and her mother felt that sorrow.
And so did many others. Will Campbell was one of the white clergy who accompanied the other eight students to school that day. Like Elizabeth, they too were denied entrance. Standing directly beneath the classical statues, Campbell shook his head and said, “Weep, Christians, weep.” By the fall of 1958 the segregationists managed to close all the high schools in the city in order to circumvent integration.
Shameful yes, but shame did not have the final word not only for the city schools, which were, finally integrated, but also for Hazel Bryan, whose contorted face Wilmer Counts had recorded on film, making her the poster child of hatred. Some years ago, Hazel called Elizabeth and apologized for her hateful deed. “My life,” she said, “has been more than that one moment.” Once again Wilmer Counts was there to click his camera, showing the two women, standing together in front of Central High, gazing pensively away from the school, the one perhaps thinking to herself, Where did I get the courage that day, and the other possibly wondering, From where did that hateful demon come, and how was it that I was finally delivered?
Life is indeed more than one moment. In one moment a 19 year old in Parkland, Florida, shot an assault weapon and slaughtered 17 people; in another moment students would stand tall and vow, Never again. In one moment Peter would reject the sufferings of Jesus and Jesus would call him Satan, and yet other moments would come, including one in which Peter denied Jesus and another in which he would be executed as Jesus’ disciple. More than one moment makes a life, and when one or some of those moments proves to be redemptive, we grab on to it, giving thanks that the redemption has come in whatever form it finally takes. And yet we never know how or when it will come, but faith would have us wait for it, hope for it and yes, even work for it.
About Our Pastor:
I am very happy to be here at the First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT. I arrived here in July, 2017, and have been warmly received. This is a wonderful church community. I have been an ordained minister for over three decades now, and I consider it a great privilege and challenge to be called to serve. Before coming to Unionville I served churches on Long Island, Middletown, CT and then ten years in New Haven, Center Church on the Green. My home is in Middletown, where I live with my husband, Donald Oliver, who is a professor of molecular biology at Wesleyan University. We have four grown children, two boys and two girls and three granddaughters, the youngest born on October 3, 2017!