“Maranatha: We’re Expecting”

Luke 1:57-80

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

December 5, 2021

The author of Luke’s gospel keeps driving us forward while firmly rooting us in the present. 

“In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah…”

“In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth…”

“In those days, Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country…”

“Now the time came for Elizabeth to give birth, and she bore a son…”

The days fly by and time stands still. The earth spins wildly on its axis and yet our feet stay firmly planted in one place. Our spirits stretch to infinity and everything collapses into one still, small moment. A baby’s first cry. A love and wonder that makes our hearts do double-flips.

He was to be named John. And although naming babies is always of great importance, it seems to take on additional weightiness in Luke’s gospel. Two families visited by angels. And the angels are quite bossy about names. This one is to be named John - not up for negotiation. And the other, Jesus - also not up for negotiation. 

John. “God is gracious.”

Jesus. “God is salvation.”

A gracious God of salvation is breaking forth among us. The names of these two babies point the way. They are a sign. A flashing sign that says, “Watch. Wait. Sit up. Take notice. Lean in. Pay attention. Take on a posture of expectation.”

We’re expecting. We’re driven forward and firmly rooted in the present. 

Zechariah and Elizabeth have a head start. The angel comes first to Zechariah. And the angel says what angels nearly always say: “Do not be afraid.” Right. Of course. 

Take a deep breath, Zechariah. Find that posture of expectation. God is about to do a new thing.

Zechariah hesitates for a brief moment. Puzzled over the angel’s words. And in that moment of hesitation he loses his voice. The angel tells him he’ll get it back when the baby arrives. 

And so he and Elizabeth enter into a time of waiting. Expecting and wondering and preparing and probably folding diapers and distracting themselves with bad TV and doing all the things we humans DO when we can feel that the world is about to shift in some seismic way and we have no idea what to do with ourselves. Waiting. 

“Now the time came for Elizabeth to bear a son…” Expectations fulfilled. 

On the eighth day it’s time to name the baby and everyone naturally assumes he’ll be given his father’s name. But, no. Elizabeth firmly states that he is to be called John. “John? Who’s John? That’s not a family name!” the community puzzles. But Zechariah, furiously scribbling away on a notepad, backs her up. John it is. 

And the community looks at this little one with curiosity. “John. What then will this child become?”

This baby - the first of two, remember - this gift of Grace wrapped up in tiny human form is here to pave the way and point the way. 

“One is coming who is more powerful than I,” the grown-up Voice of Grace proclaims, “And I’m not even fit to untie his sandals. I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with fire and the Holy Spirit.” 

Cousins. Splashing together in the wombs of their earthly mothers. Diving down deep into the River Jordan and listening for the voice of the One who called them into being, Stories tangled up from before the beginning. And John is clear. His job is to pave the way and point the way. He points to something beyond himself and his own ministry. He points to Jesus - “God is salvation.” 

Father Richard Rohr  says that John is the embodiment of the descending way. “I am not the Messiah,” John says, “I have been sent ahead of him. He must increase and I must decrease.” John makes space for God to act. 

Rohr says, “John the Baptizer is the strangest combination of conviction and humility, morality and mysticism, radical prophecy and living in the present. This son of the priestly temple class does his own thing down by the riverside; he is a man born into privilege who dresses like a hippie; he is a superstar who is willing to let go of everything…” [1]

He comes by it naturally. Remember Zechariah & Elizabeth? Setting aside tradition and family expectations - allowing an angel to name their child. They empty and descend, forgetting their egos for a moment, leaning expectantly into their role in God’s story. 

Rohr says that some have cleverly said ego can be understood as an acronym for “edging God out.” We allow ourselves - our own dreams, fears, ambitions - to get in the way of what God is doing. We get so caught up in our own drama that we don’t make room for Grace to be born among us. We get so busy trying to save ourselves that we forget God is our Salvation.

But John points to an alternative. John empties himself and makes room for God. Rohr says, “There’s got to be such emptiness, or we cannot point beyond ourselves to Jesus, as John did. Such emptiness doesn’t just fall into our laps; such humility does not just happen. It is surely the end product of a thousand letting-goes and a thousand acts of devotion, which for John the Baptist gradually edged God in.” [2] 

In Advent, John captures our attention. Pointing the way and inviting us into this season of holy expectation. It’s not a time of passive waiting. At least it doesn’t have to be. 

Advent can be a time of radical waiting. A digging deep and finding the strength and courage to accept the Gospel’s invitation to be driven forward while rooted in the present. A leaning in, leaning on, leaning against Hope as it is born again among us now. A deep breath of Peace and a giant exhalation of Joy as we make space for Love in our bodies, our homes, our community, our world. 

More than anything, though, it seems that Advent is a time of radical expectancy. Feel that sense of expectancy with me now, will you? What’s the feeling you have in your body when you’re expecting something? When we’re expecting something bad, it might feel like dread. When we’re expecting something good, it might feel like elation. And then there’s everything in between - because we often don’t know what to expect, right? And there are just so many uncertainties in our lives. 

To accept the invitation to Advent is to place our gaze where John directs it. To allow this wild-eyed, radical, charismatic prophet to capture our attention and hold it for a bit. To say along with Zechariah and Elizabeth and Joseph and Mary that we’re expecting. 

We’re expecting God to do a new thing in our midst. 

We’re expecting God to show strength with her arm and scatter the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. We’re expecting God to bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly. Maranatha: Come, Lord Jesus. 

We’re expecting that the wolf will live with the lamb and that the leopard shall lie down with the kid and the lion and that fatling together. We’re expecting that a little child will lead us. Maranatha: Come, Lord Jesus. 

We’re expecting that we shall beat our swords into plowshares, and our spears into pruning hooks. We’re expecting that nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall we learn war any more. Maranatha: Come, Lord Jesus. 

We’re expecting that every valley shall be be lifted up and every mountains and hills be made low. We’re expecting the rough places smoothed out and the glory of God revealed and all flesh shall see it together. Maranatha: Come, Lord Jesus. 

We’re expecting that the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, and give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death. We’re expecting God to guide our feet into the way of peace. We’re expecting Emmanuel - the Word in flesh and blood, dwelling among us now. A light shining in the darkness. We’re expecting that the darkness cannot overcome it. 

Maranatha: Come, Lord Jesus. 

[1] Rohr, Richard. Preparing for Christmas: Daily Meditations for Advent (p. 21). Franciscan Media. Kindle Edition. 

[2] Ibid, 2. 

“Revolutionary Love: Joy”

Psalm 126

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 14, 2021

“In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, 40where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. 41When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leapt in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit 42and exclaimed with a loud cry, ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. 43And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? 44For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leapt for joy. (Luke 1:29-44)

The child in Elizabeth’s womb leapt for joy. Now, I know, I know, it’s not Christmas yet. It’s not even Advent yet. But if Target can put out their Christmas stuff in October, I figure we can read this story in November, right? Joy is the theme for today as we spend one final week traveling alongside Valarie Kaur on this journey of revolutionary love. 

Kaur says, “Joy is the gift of love.” For her, it is both the cornerstone and the capstone as we seek to live into the call of Revolutionary Love in our families, our communities, our world. She elaborates, “I have come to believe that laboring for a more just and beautiful world with joy and with love is the meaning of life.” [1] Again and again, Kaur reminds us that choosing joy is a revolutionary act. It is what sustains us when the going gets hard. And it is not dependent on circumstances. Honoring, seeking, inviting, savoring joy is our birthright and it can be done even in the midst of pain. 

Jesus gets this too, right? In the Gospel of John that we just heard, he speaks of a parent laboring to bring new life into the world. The pain of the labor is intense - there is weeping, there is heartache and striving. But when the child arrives, the anguish is forgotten. The joy of connection with this new child has a way of erasing the pain. The joy and love eclipses everything that came before. 

And so, perhaps it’s only natural that our sacred stories of Jesus’s birth are filled with joy.  When the angel announces Jesus’s birth to the shepherds, we are told that this is “good news of great joy for all people.” When the magi see the star in the sky, they “rejoiced - exceedingly - with great joy.” And even Jesus’s unborn cousin leapt for joy in his mother’s womb. A holy litany of joy, joy, joy echoes down through the Christamas story and we mortals are invited to join the mighty chorus. 

Like pretty much everything else about Christmas, joy has been co-opted by consumerism. I got real grumpy a few years back when I went through a McDonald’s drive thru and saw a bunch of slogans that said, “Tidings of comfort and joy.” Because, hey, I love a good burger, but the joy that comes from an intimate connection with Emmanuel through the Christmas story and the joy that comes from scarfing down a Big Mac are two very different things. 

One can be purchased and the other is free for the taking. 

Activist Tarana Burke, who is the creator of the #metoo movement, spoke about this in such a relatable way recently. [2] She talked about how, when her child was young, she was on a quest for joy. She was deep into all kinds of self-help books and trying to manifest joy. She said:

I didn’t have all the language yet, but what I did have was a job that didn’t pay [well] and a child to take care of by myself. And The Secret cost, like, $119! I will never forget watching that infomercial all the way through and getting to the end and being, like, 7 CDs? $119? I can’t afford that! Every message that I got during that time said “joy is right out there somewhere if you can just get your coins together to get it. It’s just right there, just beyond your reach. It’s outside of you.” And I said, “So what about people that can’t afford it? So, we just don’t get joy? That can’t be right. There’s no way that God set us up in the world so that joy is only for the rich or privileged.”

So she went out and bought a blank book from the dollar store. She says we can probably all just dust off one of the 7,000 blank journals we already have sitting around our houses: “Rip out the first page that you already used and start over. Write ‘joy’ at the top and you’ve got a Joy Journal.” And she started to write down - to document - joy in her life.

She  wrote down things like this: she would go and pick up her child from daycare. And Burke always wears a whole armful of bracelets that her mother gave her. So they jingle, right? And she’d go to pick up Kaia at the end of the day and as soon as Kaia heard the bracelets - every single day - the whole building would hear Kaia yell out, “MY MOMMY’S HERE!!!” And then you’d hear her feet running down the hallway. Burke wrote this down because it was the most joyful part of the day. Even if the feeling only lasted a few minutes, it was so good. Like, nothing bad was there - just pure joy to be greeted like that. 

In writing down these moments of every day joy, she reclaimed the true essence of joy. Burke reclaimed her own power because if she could document where she already had joy in her life, then she could remember that she didn’t need what others were selling. She already had it. She reminds us that we all already have it. 

The Psalmist reminds us of this, too. 

All of us - even those who have sown tears, will also reap shouts of joy. Made in the image of God, we have the capacity for both. “Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves.”

As has happened so often during this sermon series, Valarie Kaur’s words remind us that God is stillspeaking and that there are contemporary psalmists all around us. She tells a beautiful and memorable story about being at the bedside of a friend, Baba Punjab Singh. [3] Singh was paralyzed during the shooting at the Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin in August 2012. He survived until March 2020, surrounded by family and friends who cared for him. 

Over these eight years, Kaur visited him often and the two became close. Since he was unable to speak, he would communicate by blinking. One blink for no and two for yes. “Papa Ji, do you recognize me?” Blink, blink - yes. “Papa Ji, we are all praying for you. Do you feel our prayers and our love?” Blink, blink. His son asked, “Pape Ji, are you in chardi kala?” Two blinks, “Yes, I am in chardi kala.”

Kaur explains that chardi kala is a Sikh concept sometimes translated as “relentless optimism,” but what she learned from this family is that it’s not necessarily about the future at all. Instead, chardi kala is about “a state of being in the present moment, as if now is all there is. Now and now and now….This is the state of joyfulness inside the struggle, - an energy that keeps us in motion, a breathing that keeps up laboring, even inside the pain of labor.”

Chardi kala is a gift the Sikh community offers the rest of us. A way of being in the world that seeks joy - no matter the circumstances. A reminder that sometimes joy is found in the midst of profound moments, like at the bedside of a man who has survived a horrific act of hate. And joy is also found in everyday moments that we might miss if we’re not paying attention - like the squeal of a young child being picked up from daycare by their mom. 

Joy is found at the graveside. Joy is found on the birthing table. Joy is found when we lean down and watch an ant scurry across the dirt and it’s found when we gaze up in wonder at brilliant red leaves swaying in the breeze. It’s found in chopping vegetables and folding laundry. The sound of a child snoring and the first sip of coffee in the morning. Joy can be found in struggle and in moments of ease. And in a world that is always trying to sell us something - and always trying to tell us we are sorely lacking - it is a revolutionary act of faith to claim joy each and every day. 

Joy is our birthright as those created in the image of God. For God is joy. Deep, solid, profound, simple, abiding joy. 

As we leave this journey with Valarie Kaur, let’s accept her invitation to practice joy together. I’m going to share some questions for your reflection. You might want to close your eyes as you answer them silently or you may want to jot down your responses. 

Guided inquiry from Kaur

1. What brings you joy? Choose one thing that is simple and accessible. A person, a place, or an activity that you could go to right now if you wanted to. 

2. Notice what it is about this thing that brings you joy. See it, touch it, taste it. Remember how it felt when you were fully in it. The  sensation could be very strong. Or just a slight feeling. Place more attention on it. Let yourself enjoy it. 

3. What does joy feel like in your body? Notice where you feel sensation, ease, and tingling. Place your attention there and notice what happens. Go back and forth between your source of joy and the sensations in your body.

4. Notice any blocks to letting yourself feel this joy. Feelings of guilt or shame? Stories about what you deserve? Call upon your deepest wisdom to speak to yourself as you would your own beloved child or best friend. What do you hear? 

5. What do you need to protect this joy every day? Joy is your birthright. The deepest wisdom within you knows what you need to do. Listen. [4]

NOTES

[1] https://valariekaur.com/learninghub/10-joy/ 

[2] We Can Do Hard Things podcast, episode 34, “Unbound with Tarana Burke, part 1,” Oct. 12, 2021. 

[3] Kaur, Valarie. See No Stranger, 242. 

[4] https://valariekaur.com/learninghub/10-joy/ 

“Revolutionary Love: Loving Ourselves”

1 Kings 19:1-13

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 7, 2021

If ever there were a Biblical poster-boy for depression, Elijah might be it. [1] In today’s reading, he’s in a downward spiral. He’s just gone toe-to-toe with the priests of Baal. He’s called down actual fire from heaven and brought rain to people who had been living through a drought for seven years. The great Troubler of Israel has put on such a show that he brought the nation safely back under God’s wing. 

Though he appears successful, one threatening word from Queen Jezebel brings it all crashing down. When she threatens his life, he spirals into fear. He runs and runs until he crashes. 

Now, anyone who has ever battled depression probably isn’t too surprised by this. Because you know that you can find yourself in a downward spiral at any time. It doesn’t only happen when things are going badly. It can also happen when it looks like you’ve got it together. 

And those who have lived with depression will also likely feel a kindred connection to Elijah when we hear his lament, “It is enough now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.” Elijah collapses in despair under a solitary broom tree in the wilderness.. He doesn’t seem to have any plans for the future. He’s just done. 

But an angel comes along and nudges him, “Get up and eat.” And so he does. But then he’s right back in bed with the covers pulled up over his head. This angel, though, is like the friend who comes over and pounds on your door and walks you into the bathroom and turns on the shower and tells you you have to get in. “Get up. Eat! Otherwise, this isn’t going to end well.” And so Elijah eats again. And somehow finds the energy to keep going. 

There was a tweet from a couple of years ago that I love. Joy Marie Clarkson said, “This is your gentle reminder that one time in the Bible Elijah was like “God, I’m so mad! I want to die!” so God said “Here’s some food. Why don’t you have a nap?” So Elijah slept, ate, & decided things weren't so bad. Never underestimate the spiritual power of a nap & a snack.” [2]

To be clear: a nap and a snack doesn’t fix clinical depression. We are blessed with many other powerful, healing tools available to us now like trained therapists and brain science and medication. We can go way beyond a nap and a snack, thanks be to God. 

And still, this tweet makes me smile because she gets at something really important, I think, and that’s how embodied our struggles can be. As much as we might like to try and put things into categories like “mental” health, “spiritual” practices, nutrition, exercise, and other physical components - the truth is, they’re all connected, right?  And when the angel visits Elijah, we see this. He is mentally low, low, low and he is physically unable to get up and keep going. The angel comes and ministers to his spirit by telling him to care for his body. The nap and the snack don’t just help Elijah’s body, they are also a balm for his spirit and mind. 

Our Stillspeaking God reminds us about the mind-body-spirit connection through the story of Elijah and ALSO through the wise teachings of Valarie Kaur. We are nearing the end of our journey with her book, See No Stranger, and this week we are exploring the three chapters about loving ourselves: breathe, push, and transition. 

The images in these chapters are of labor and birth. That is to say the stories are messy, bloody, damp, and filled with exhaustion and ecstacy in equal measure. One of the things that Kaur makes clear is that the work of loving ourselves doesn’t happen in isolation. Hers is not a gospel of self-care that says we can dig our way out of despair simply by carving out “me time.” Instead, she shares the wisdom of her friend Melissa Harris-Perry who says we need to move beyond self-care to “collective-care.”  Kaur says, “The term ‘self-care’ implies that caring for ourselves is a private, individual act, that we need only to detach ourselves from our web of relations and spend our resources on respite or pampering. But Melissa reminds us that care is labor that we all do for one another, in seen and unseen ways….Meslissa calls for ‘squad-care’ - a way to be in relationship with people committed to caring for one another. ‘Squad-care reminds us...our job is to have each other’s back.’” [3] 

Elijah didn’t pull himself off.  Instead, the angel in the story represents squad-care, the community at work making space for him to breathe, push, and transition into the next stage of his journey. Loving ourselves isn’t only about speaking gently to ourselves, honoring our boundaries, and making intentional choices about how we treat ourselves. It’s also about allowing God to love us through other people. 

One of my dear friends lost her mother earlier this week. Earlier this week I was scrolling through Facebook and stopped and lost my breath for a moment because of the beauty of a photo she shared. It was a photo of my friend, curled up with her mom in the hospital bed. Her mom’s arms are wrapped around her tightly and her mom looks up at the camera, grinning from ear to ear. My friend’s eyes are closed, with her head resting on her mom’s shoulder. The photo exudes peace, trust, joy, comfort, love. It is a photo of giving and receiving love. And, in it, I saw the arms of the Spirit wrapped tightly and fiercely around both of Her beloved daughters as they learn to let go. My friend said of this week, “Time is so weird in this liminal world at the edge of life and death. It feels like another kind of birth process… but in reverse. She is going through a different kind of labor. The Holy is luring her Spirit back into the great Love of the universe. We are holding her hand as she goes slowly…”

These moments when we are pushed to the very edge like Elijah was - these moments like the one my friend captured with her mom - these are spaces of transition. The final stage of giving birth is called transition. It is the most intense and dangerous stage of labor. Contractions are often right on top of each other and time seems to lose all meaning. Kaur says, “Transition feels like dying but it is the stage that precedes the birth of new life.” One of the phrases Kaur is known for is this question: “Is this the darkness of the tomb or the darkness of the womb?” Sometimes, when we’re in a heap on the ground like Elijah, it can be awfully hard to tell. 

Sometimes, when our whole society seems to be going through transition together, the labor can feel overwhelming. We can’t yet see what is being born and we are stuck in the pain of labor, unsure where we’re headed. 

When transition terrifies, Kaur reminds us how important it is to get quiet. To breathe. 

She writes about two voices that live inside of her - competing for her attention. One of them she calls “Little Critic.” He’s the voice of doubt that tells her she’s never good enough and that danger lurks around every corner. He’s Queen Jezebel, sending her packing in despair. The other voice she calls Wise Woman. She writes about how Wise Woman is quieterl. She has to make space to hear her voice. Kaur began sitting down with a blank journal just to listen to Wise Woman. She would write at the top of the page “Wise Woman here. Wise Woman says…” and then she listens and writes. 

I wonder if that’s what Elijah was doing when he found himself in the cave. After the nap, after the snack, after he put one foot in front of the other he found himself in the darkness of - a womb? A tomb? - a cave. 

And the word of the Lord came to him and told him to go outside on the mountain and to listen, for God was about to pass by. And there was a great wind, a wind so strong that it split rocks, but God’s voice wasn’t in the big wind. And then there was an earthquake...and a fire..but God’s voice wasn’t there, either. Finally, there was the sound of silence. The Wise Woman whispering so quietly she was barely audible at all. 

And Elijah turned his face into the silence and listened with the ear of his heart. He picked up a pen and wrote at the top of the page, “Wise Woman here. Wise Woman says….”

Thanks be to our Stillspeaking God. 

NOTES:

[1] Here’s a nice blog post about this: https://wordsbymatthew.com/blog/7-lessons-depression-elijah-suicidal-prophet 

[2] https://twitter.com/joynessthebrave/status/1101120361012346881?lang=en 

[3] Kaur, Valarie. See No Stranger, p. 248-249. 

“All Saints: Rowed into Beauty”

Revelation 21:1-6a 

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 31, 2021

As we gather on All Saints’ Sunday to honor those beloveds who have departed us this past year, it might seem - at first glance - a little odd to turn to the book of Revelation. I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I know some folks don’t even like to crack this book open because it can be so scary and weird. 

Revelation is filled with horror, to be sure, but there are also parts of the book that cast a vision of what things might be like some day when the horror has passed. John wants his hearers to look forward to the time after the great battle. He paints a picture of a new heaven and a new earth where pain will be no more. There will be no more hunger, no more thirst. All will worship God and God will wipe away every tear from the eyes of those who weep and mourn. 

There has been a lot of weeping and mourning this past year. We have so many people in our congregation who have lost loved ones. And, of course, there are many other things that can cause grief, too: job losses, divorce and other estrangements, loss of direction, health and ability changes and more. Many of us have shed tears this year. Or sat with others as they’ve cried. 

When I was in seminary and did the required residency as a hospital chaplain, I received detailed instruction on the use of Kleenex from our instructor. She told us, “When someone starts to cry, do not hand them a Kleenex! If you hand them a Kleenex, you are basically saying, ‘Stop crying. It makes me uncomfortable when you cry.’” Those of you who have cried in my office may have thought I was strange because I didn’t offer you Kleenex but now you know why. I try to keep it conspicuously available, right there next to the couch, so you can reach it if you need it. But I try not to hand it to you. We need to know it’s okay to weep together. 

I don’t think God wiping away every tear is supposed to be about a vision of God saying, “Stop crying. Pull it together.” Instead, I think this is a vision of comfort. A vision of a time and place where those who mourn are held secure in the arms of Love. A time and place where all who grieve will find solace and relief.

Of course, John’s vision was cosmic and way beyond the constrictions that we deal with in the real world. Since it’s doubtful we are going to be worshiping at the feet of the Lamb anytime soon, what are we called to do and be as people of faith living in the here and now? It seems we have to draw upon all of the Holy within us to love those who are grieving well. 

This isn’t easy. It’s really hard to know what to do or say when we are confronted with a person who is hurting. One of the things that makes offering support so challenging is that no two people handle grief the same way. Some might want their tears wiped and others do not. Some might not even shed a tear. But even with our differences, there are, I think, a few things that are almost universally helpful if we want to comfort those who mourn. 

First, be aware of your place in the drama. A few years ago there was an article in the L.A. Times about this. The authors talked about concentric rings around the person or persons who are going through a trauma of some sort. So let’s imagine a scenario where a person has experienced a miscarriage. They are at the center of the circle. Others surround them – perhaps the person’s partner, if they have one, and then other children, if there are any; parents or other close relatives; closest friends; the medical staff that provides care; coworkers and acquaintances; strangers on the street. 

Being around someone who is suffering can bring up all kinds of our own stuff….bad memories, anger at injustice, frustration with God. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the rule is this: you can only say those things aloud to the people in the bigger circles. So the person at the center? They can complain to everyone. But the people who surround them need to work to comfort those who are in the interior circles. “Comfort IN, Dump OUT,” is the rule of thumb. 

Another thing we can do: show up. Be there. Sometimes we don’t ask how a person is doing after a loss because we don’t want to “bring it up.” Most grieving people have told me, “Don’t worry about that. You aren’t going to reopen a wound by acknowledging it.” And we shouldn’t stop asking after a week or a month. I’ve often heard that it can be a powerful thing to have a friend remember the anniversary of loss. A simple note in the mail saying, “I remember your mom died a year ago and wanted to say I am thinking of you” can bring comfort. Or how about a text saying, “I know this Friday is the anniversary of your divorce. Want to get together for dinner?” Showing up matters. One of the ways our congregation does this is by offering a series of grief books to people in the first year after their loved one has died. I am grateful to our Ministers of Care for offering this important ministry. 

I think we are often nervous about showing up because we don’t know what to do once we’re there. We are so scared we will say the wrong thing, we say nothing. We are so aware that there is nothing we can do to fix the pain...so we do nothing. But the ministry of presence - showing up - is doing something. It matters. 

One of my clergy colleagues who is also a dear friend lost her mother to cancer a few years ago. Recently, she shared a beautiful poem called “The Guest” by Patricia Fargnoli. I’d like to share it with you: 

In the long July evenings,

the French woman

who came to stay every summer

for two weeks at my aunt’s inn

would row my brother and me

out to the middle of the mile-wide lake

so that the three of us

would be surrounded by the wild

extravagance of reds that had transformed

both lake and sky into fire.

It was the summer after our mother died.

I remember the dipping sound of the oars

and the sweet music of our voices as she led us

in the songs she had taught us to love.

“Blue Moon.” “Deep Purple.”

We sang as she rowed, not ever wondering

where she came from or why she was alone,

happy that she was willing to row us

out into all that beauty.

My friend said she was so thankful for her friends who showed up after her mother’s death and kept showing up…to row her out into beauty. She has no memory of what these people said. In fact, it often seems to be best to show up and say very little. For those who like to talk or fill the silence, this can be a real challenge. But having an awareness of this can help us find a quieter way to accompany. 

It seems to me that we worship a God who sent a guide for us when it comes to all of this. Jesus not only walked the way of suffering and showed us how to march steadily through terror with grace. He also walked alongside those who mourned. When the crowd threw the stones at the woman, he moved into the sand – between the woman and the crowd – he placed his body right there in the midst of the ugliness. He showed up. When his dear friend Lazarus died, he rushed to be with him. He stood at the door of his home and cried with his sisters, Mary and Martha. When he neared death, he wasn’t afraid to talk about it with his friends. He talked about it openly and pushed them to recognize what was happening. Jesus was unafraid to sit in the midst of sorrow – to row that boat out to the middle of the lake and simply be with those who were grieving. 

Our  faith in Christ makes it possible for us to “bear each others burdens and share each other’s joys.” We have a model and we have a calling – to comfort those who mourn, to care for each other in times of distress. We await the day that John describes - when there are no more tears. 

But here and now, in the in-between time, we are the hands that comfort, the ones who come and sit. We row each other out into beauty. We lean into Love  by showing up and refusing to hide from grief. Thanks be to the One who makes us brave.

"Revolutionary Love: Listen & Reimagine"

1 Samuel 3:1-10

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 24, 2021

This is a sermon in three scenes. And throughout the sermon there are places for you to respond with the words printed in today’s bulletin. When I say, “God is still speaking,” you say, “God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart.” That’s a quotation from the Rule of St. Benedict. Let’s practice.

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene One: Listening to God

There was a boy whose mother believed was an answer to her prayers. In thanksgiving to God, Hannah dedicated her son, Samuel, to God and left him at the temple, to be raised in the faith by an old priest named Eli. Each year she would come back to make her sacrifice at the temple and bring new clothes for her son. And each year, the boy grew in stature and in favor with the Lord and with the people. 

One night, as Samuel settled in to sleep, he heard a voice calling his name. Assuming it was the priest, Samuel ran to him and said, “Here I am!” but Eli was confused. “I didn’t call you. Go back to bed.” Again, the voice came, “Samuel! Samuel!” And, again, Samuel ran to Eli - only to be told the same thing, “I didn’t call you, Samuel. Go back to bed.” 

Reader, you and I are both told that the voice was not Eli. It was the voice of God. But Samuel is not yet acquainted with God’s voice. So when the voice came AGAIN, I imagine he was either confused or terrified or both as he ran back to Eli for a third time. By now, Eli has figured out what’s going on and says to Samuel, “It’s God calling you, son. Go back to bed. If the voice comes to you again, say, ‘Speak, for your servant is listening.’”

This story - along with many others in our sacred scriptures - are why we say “God is still-speaking.” God’s voice is not a one-time event. Nor is it only heard by monarchs and priests. It’s a voice that continues to reach out to us - all of us - again and again. 

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene Two: Listening to Each Other

A church basement on a cold February night. Valarie Kaur, a Yale law student, stomped the snow off her boots and descended into the warm room, crowded with families from the community. Children wiggled on their parents laps and the priest, Father James Manship, welcomed everyone and began the meeting with a prayer.

Then he turned and wrote on the board: poder. 

He turned to the group, “Quien tiene poder in esta ciudad?” Who has the power in the city?

The answers were quick. “La policía!” y “Los politicos!”

A pause. Father Jim turned back to the board and made two columns: “the world as it is,” and “the world as it ought to be.” He mused, “In the world as it is, the police and the politicians have the power, sí. But what about in the world as it ought to be?”

A longer period of silence. And then someone in the back cried out, “El Dios!” God! And someone closer to the front whispered quietly, “Le gente.” The people. [1] 

In Spanish, poder as a noun means “power.” And poder as a verb is “to be able to” as in “sí, se puede.” Yes, it can be done. This moment - in that church basement, was Kaur’s introduction to “movement lawyering,” harnessing the power of a community to say, “yes, this can be done.” In listening, there is power. In reimagining the world, there is power. 

As we continue our journey through Kaur’s book, See No Stranger, today we wrap up the second part of her Revolutionary Love compass. We’ve pondered what it means to love others - to wonder, to grieve, to fight. And a couple weeks ago, Pastor Sue helped us contemplate what it means to honor rage - as we seek to love our opponents. Kaur beckons us forward on this journey of loving our opponents with two more invitations - to listen and reimagine. 

In doing so, we “tend the wound” and find ways to love our opponents. Remembering, of course, that love is not primarily a feeling that we feel. Kaur says it’s “sweet labor: fierce, bloody, imperfect, and life giving - [love is] a choice that we make over and over again. As labor, love can be taught, modeled, and practiced.” [3] We don’t have to feel warm and fuzzy in order to act in loving ways. Kaur says we just “need to feel safe enough to stay curious.” [4] 

In fact, Kaur says that when it comes to listening to others, having too much empathy - feeling TOO much - can sometimes get in the way.  If we listen to those who are different than us and feel their plight, we can sometimes think that just feeling what they’re feeling is action - without doing the hard work of actually changing systems that harm. We feel all the feels but haven’t actually made anything better. [5] 

My guess is that loving our opponents is always done imperfectly. Kaur says that when we choose to stay curious and approach our opponents in wonder, we are giving ourselves a gift: “a chance to live in this world without the burden of hate.” [6]

Think about what a gift that is. “A chance to live in this world without the burden of hate.” Wow. 

God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

Scene Three: Listening to Ourselves

A woman was sitting on the floor of her closet, surrounded by shoes and dirty clothes. Before that, though, she was staring at her device at 3am, typing these words into the Google, “What should I do if my husband is a cheater but also an amazing dad?”

Yes, friends. Glennon Doyle asked Google to make one of the most important decisions of her life. As you might guess, the internet had a lot of opinions - most of them conflicting. And so Glennon realized maybe she’d have to listen to herself instead. 

And that’s how she ended up on the floor of her closet. A friend had sent her a card in the mail that said, “Be still and know.” Glennon said she’d heard that Bible verse forever, but it hit different this time. It didn’t say “read books from experts and know,” or “scour the internet and know.” It said, “Just. Stop...If you just stop doing, you’ll start knowing.”

And so after her kids left for school each day, Glennons sat on the floor of her closet for 10 minutes to just breathe. She said every 10 minute session felt like 10 hours at first. But she stayed with it, telling herself, “Ten minutes a day isn’t too long to spend finding yourself, Glennon. For God’s sake, you spend eighty minutes a day finding your keys.”

Over time, she began to feel herself sinking deeper within herself. “Eventually,” she says, “I sank deep enough to find a new level inside me that I’d never known existed.” And in this low, still place she felt something new inside of her: knowing. 

She began to know down there. She found she could know what to do next and then do it. “The knowing,” she said, “feels like warm liquid gold filling my veins and solidifying just enough to make me feel steady, certain.”

Over time, she discovered that God lives in that deep place within her. And that when she is still and listens to God’s presence and guidance within her in that deep place, God is delighted. And God celebrates by “flooding [her] with that warm, liquid gold.” [7]

And so we are invited, friends, by these three stories from long ago and right here and now. Stories of listening to God, to our neighbors, to ourselves. And, as it turns out, those three things - God, neighbors, ourselves -  aren’t quite as neatly divided as we might think. 

In this great circle of listening, may we come to reimagine a new world together - held within God’s great imagination. Kaur says, “We create the beloved community by being in beloved community.”

Beloveds, God is still-speaking. God, help me to listen with the ear of my heart. 

NOTES:

[1] Kaur, See No Stranger, p 179-180.

[2] ibid., 183

[3] https://valariekaur.com/learninghub/introduction/ 

[4] Kaur, 143. 

[5] Ibid, 144.

[6] Ibid., 139. 

[7] This story and all quotes in this section are from the chapter “know” in Untamed by Glennon Doyle.