7/8/2018 0 Comments I Feel Sorry for JesusA sermon preached on July 8, 2018
on the Sterling, MA Town Common by Rev. Robin Bartlett POEM "I Feel Sorry for Jesus" by Naomi Shihab Nye People won’t leave Him alone. I know He said, wherever two or more are gathered in my name… But I bet some days He regrets it. Cozily they tell you what he wants and doesn’t want as if they just got an e-mail. Remember “Telephone,” that pass-it-on game where the message changed dramatically by the time it rounded the circle? Well. People blame terrible pieties on Jesus. They want to be his special pet. Jesus deserves better. I think He’s been exhausted for a very long time. He went into the desert, friends. He didn’t go into the pomp. He didn’t go into the golden chandeliers and say, the truth tastes better here. See? I’m talking like I know. It’s dangerous talking for Jesus. You get carried away almost immediately. I stood in the spot where He was born. I closed my eyes where He died and didn’t die. Every twist of the Via Dolorosa was written on my skin. And that makes me feel like being silent for Him, you know? A secret pouch of listening. You won’t hear me mention this again. “Who do you say that I am?” Jesus asks. I’ve made a living trying to answer that question out loud so others can hear. It’s dangerous talking for Jesus. You and I both know that there is too much noise right now. Too much talking and not enough listening. Too much posturing; too much declarative pomposity, not enough curious not-knowing. People have so much toxic certainty about issues that are far too complex for anyone to have any certainty at all about. And we all have just so much to say. The lack of collective humility takes my breath away. There is so little silence. Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” And people are all too quick with an answer. “You are a permissible friend, a judge-y foe. You are a liberal. You are a conservative. You are not real; you are a fairy sky God. You’d vote for the person I voted for. You love America the most of all the countries. You’d judge this war just. You wouldn’t want gay people to have cake. You’d approve of this immigration policy. You hate the people I hate. You love the people I love.” Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” And people fill a vacuum with words. They say so many things that we wish they wouldn’t say in answer to that question. And yet, it matters how we answer that question. It matters what we tell the children. Who do you say Jesus is? ...............................................(pause for answers)......................................................... "Who do you say that I am?" I’ve preached this text several times with answers to that question that point back to Love. Who do you say that I am? I try to answer that question every day of my life. But the part of the Gospel that stood out to me this week as I meditated on the text was not the question, and not the answer, but the silence that followed.: Jesus asks the question. Who do you say that I am? Simon Peter answers him the “right” way: “you are the Messiah, Son of the Living God.” Jesus says, “Yes! Now build my church.” 'cause he knows Peter gets it, you know? And then he says something curious: he sternly warns the disciples not to tell anyone. Who do you say that I am? Maybe sometimes the correct answer to Jesus’ question is silence. “It’s dangerous talking for Jesus,” our poet says. “You get carried away almost immediately.” I stood in the spot where He was born. I closed my eyes where He died and didn’t die. Every twist of the Via Dolorosa was written on my skin. And that makes me feel like being silent for Him, you know? A secret pouch of listening. The Via dolorosa is the path that Jesus walked to his death in Jerusalem, bloodied and beaten, carrying a heavy cross. Via dolorosa means way of grief, way of sorrow, way of suffering, the painful way. You and I may never have traveled to Jerusalem, but we have walked the way of sorrow if we have known suffering. The way of sorrow is written on our skin. It makes me feel like being silent for Jesus. It makes me feel like being silent for all of us. At the end of the via dolorosa, Jesus stood before Pilate. Who do you say that you are? Pilate demanded at his trial. Jesus himself didn’t answer that question. Frederich Buechner, in his book Telling the Truth, writes: A particular truth can be stated in words – that life is better than death and love than hate, that there is a god or not, that light travels faster than sound and cancer can sometimes be cured if you discover it in time. But truth itself is another matter, the truth that Pilate asked for, tired and bored and depressed by his long day. Truth itself cannot be stated. Truth simply is… And in answer to Pilate’s question, Jesus keeps silent, even with his hands tied behind him manages somehow to hold silence out like a terrible gift. We, all of us, are Pilate in our asking after truth, and when we come to church to ask it, the preacher would do well to answer us also with silence, because the truth and the Gospel are one, and before the Gospel is a word it too like truth is silence – not an ordinary silence, silence as nothing to hear, but silence that makes itself heard, if you listen to it the way Pilate listens to the silence of the man with the split lip. We’d do better listening more in silence—the kind of silence that makes itself heard. This week on the 5th of July, I got a phone call early in the morning from our beloved Judy Conway. I could barely make out what she was saying to me through her sobs. Her 16 month old baby granddaughter, our Becky’s daughter, our Charlotte, was rushed to the hospital early that morning, unresponsive. She had gone limp, had labored breathing and was paralyzed from the neck down, and no one knew why. (The family still sits vigil by her hospital bed as we speak, she was diagnosed with swelling of the spinal chord and brain, and she continues to make small improvements with steroids.) When I talked to her, Judy was speeding home from her vacation in New York to go to UMass University Hospital. Judy said she and Jim drove like bats out of hell in utter silence, held out like a terrible gift. She used that time to pray. I was in New Hampshire at the time, and told her I would be at the hospital as soon as I could get there. Those of you who are parents probably know what its like to parent young children under stress. I drove all three kids by myself in the car for three hours, mostly in silence, keeping vigil in my head for that baby girl, as if my mind could cure her if I was quiet enough. Meanwhile, my youngest is yelling, “Mommy! She won’t stop touching me!” My oldest is belting Broadway tunes. And I was growing more and more angry that their lives were going on as if there wasn’t tragedy in the world—a completely unfair maternal reaction, of course, so I stayed quiet, turning down the radio as I drove. My response to the chaos in my car was silence, held out like a terrible gift. I prayed, too. But if I’m being honest, half of my prayers were for myself, to show up the “right” way. Like so many similar via dolorosas I have traveled, I rehearsed over and over again what I might say, and pray. I practiced what words I might use on behalf of Jesus in the hospital. I feared my insufficient offering; my utter helplessness. And I remembered my chaplain supervisor’s words to me years ago when I was absolutely panicking about going to the Pediatric ICU because I was a young mother and I thought I couldn’t possibly “handle it.” “This isn’t about you. That’s not your child in the hospital bed, Robin.” she said. “It could be someday, but it isn’t today. So with all due respect, suck it up and go.” When I finally arrived at the UMass PICU, I still didn’t know what to say. But I did know what to do. I held Judy’s hand. I gave hugs to the family. I listened. When it was time to pray over Charlotte—attached to a ventilator and sleeping peacefully— I stroked her warm forehead. We sang “You are my sunshine” and I prayed, “God, sometimes there are no words.” I was silent for a long time before finding something else to say. So much of life is just about showing up; it’s not about knowing what to say. After I left the hospital, I drove in silence to visit with Rollie, who had just lost his wife of 58 years, Mary Ann. Again, I prayed: “What will I say? What does one say to someone who is grieving the death of the only life and love he has known for 58 years?” I imagine the stream of mourners from First Church driving to the funeral home to hug Rollie, to look him in the eye. Praying the same thing: “What do I say when I see him?” The words ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ seem so insufficient because they are. We didn’t know what to say, but we did know what to do. We showed up. Rollie was so appreciative. It meant so much. You showed up. So much of life is just about showing up; it’s not about knowing what to say. Because so much gospel truth simply can’t be spoken. But it can always be enacted. “Do this in remembrance of me,” Jesus says at the communion meal. “Go and do likewise” Jesus says of the Good Samaritan. Do this. Go and do. Saint Francis said: “Go and preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.” There are lots of scholarly reasons I have been given in New Testament classes about why Jesus is always telling people not to tell anyone about who he is, based on the communities these texts were written for. But today I want to imagine this: Jesus telling us with silence that it is better to live the Gospel than it is to try and speak for him. As if we can have any idea about what he would say about gay people eating cake, or capitalism, or a natural disaster. Maybe Jesus wants us to just shut up about who he is so that we can listen more. Maybe Jesus wants us to show up more on the via dolorosa, and say a whole lot less. See? I’m talking like I know. Once people start talking like they know, think hard. Stop, be silent, and listen. Who do you say that I am? Jesus asks. Answer that question with a silence that makes itself heard. Answer that question with your actions, not just your words. Answer that question with presence. Answer that question with humility. Answer that question with service. Answer that question with Love. Amen.
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7/1/2018 0 Comments Get Up!A sermon by Rev. Robin Bartlett
preached on Sunday, July 1, 2018 at the First Church in Sterling, MA There was a call for people who were coming to the border to protest immigrant children being separated from their families last week to stop yelling and screaming and waving signs. A large crowd of adults yelling and chanting in a language they don’t understand just terrifies them, they said. What they need is quiet and calm. What they need is adults who are not angry and afraid. If you’re going to come to the border, sing the kids lullabies. And so protesters learned one of the lullabies that my own daughters’ Colombian immigrant father used to sing to them when they were babies: A la nanita nana nanita nana nanita ella. Mi niñ(a) tiene sueño, bendito sea, bendito sea. (My little child is tired, may she be blessed, may she be blessed.) They went to the border and just calmly sang that song, into the detention camps. These days I hear a whole lot of adults yelling. We rarely take time to quiet ourselves enough to listen for the still, small voice that reminds us who’s in charge. Lord, we are tired. May we be blessed, may we be blessed. America sounds a little unhinged to me right now. We are more than just clumsy in our relationships with each other and with God, we are destroying our relationships with each other and with God. We need a healing. Distracting us from the terrorized children who still haven’t been returned to their deported parents, our fight with one another has reached a hot fever pitch. Liberals and conservatives are each accusing the other of at best, incivility, and at worst, evil. Neither has cornered the market on sainthood, though. While liberals cheered the Red Hen’s decision to refuse to serve Sarah Huckabee Sanders in it’s restaurant, chicken manure was dumped on its steps by conservative activists. “Make America great again!” the man shouted as he covered the restaurant in poop. We need a healing. Make America Love again. Meanwhile, there is a pronounced and rising fear of those who are different than us, particularly those who worship differently than we do. This week, there was a decision to uphold the Muslim ban by the supreme court. Our fear of the other has replaced our faith in God. We need a healing. Meanwhile, there was another mass shooting, this time at a newspaper. Wendi Winters, one of the beloved lay leaders in my colleague and friends’ UU congregation in Annapolis was one of five killed at the Capital Gazette. The man who killed them had a long standing grudge against the paper, a history of stalking women, and consistently re-tweeted tweets about the free press being the enemy of the people. We need a healing. We need a healing because fear is the true enemy of the people. The constant onslaught of moral outrage we have been perpetuating has given way to what I can only describe as catastrophe theater. We need a healing. Here’s what healed people know: we can do hard things with great Love. These are just some of the things healed people can do at the same time: support American troops and care about refugees and asylum seekers. Respect the flag AND those who protest unjust racial discrimination. Love our police departments AND value black lives. Support the second amendment AND want to end school shootings. Care about American children AND care about refugee children. Care about our country, and care about the world. This country has lost its faith in our God. We have developed a scarcity mindset as if Love is a finite resource. When it comes from God, Love is infinite. We need a healing, and God is the only source. Not politics, not government, not war, not the marketplace. Love is the only source. I saw someone wearing a hat yesterday that said “Jesus is my Boss.” Imagine living as though that were true! Justice would roll down like waters, and peace like an ever flowing stream. Love is the boss of us, First Church. The whole world needs a healing, and that healing can only come from Love. We are sick, but our faith can make us well. Our scripture from the Gospel of Mark today features two Jesus healing stories wound together. A large crowd presses in on Jesus, they clamor to get near him, clawing at him. “Save me, heal me!” they cry. A woman sneaks a grasp on his robe thinking that maybe just touching a small piece of love will heal her. Her hemorrhage stops immediately, and Jesus tells her “Your faith has made you well.” There is a father named Jairus who falls on his knees begging Jesus to heal his daughter. “My little girl is almost dead,” he says. “Help me.” Jesus goes to Jairus’ house to see his daughter. “Your daughter is already dead,” the crowd says. “Why are you bugging Jesus with this?”But Jesus says to Jairus, “do not fear, only believe.” He takes the little girl by the hand and says “Talitha, cumi,” which means “little girl, get up.” And she rises up. Do not fear, only believe. But don’t stop there. If your faith has made you well, get up. Healed people heal people. Healed people heal the world. So, in these troubled times, don’t just stand for a political party or a government or a flag, or a protest movement, stand for Jesus. Van Jones says, “I don’t think an authentic stand comes from your head. I think an authentic stand comes from your heart. If your child is sick, right? Something happens in you to make a miracle. It has nothing to do with the facts. And that’s all that’s required is your child, my child, your grandchild, your child’s child’s child – they’re in peril. And if you start thinking about it, you’ll sit down. But if you feel it you’ll stand up! That’s the amazing thing about this thing. It’s that it’s when you stand up you license other people to stand up. Now you standing up by yourself don’t make a dad-gum bit of difference in the rational world. You’re just one fool standing up. But if you’ve ever seen a standing ovation? It starts with one fool standing up. And then pretty soon the whole stadium is standing up. And it’s a different moment!” If your faith has made you well, than get up! Talitha cumi! The power of Love will overcome the love of power, so get up. Do not fear, only believe. Get up! We need to stand for Jesus, so get up. All children are our children, so get up! Do it for Kit’s great promise, of every child’s great promise…the children are sick, get up! Love’s the boss of us, so get up! Hell is here on this earth, and every last person deserves to be pulled out of it, so reach out your hand and get up! Heaven is here on this earth too, so don’t just sit there waiting for it to manifest itself, get up. Keep getting up until all of us have gotten up! Create a standing ovation TOGETHER—fools for Love. Get on up! Mary Pat Bailey loves the scripture reading we heard today from the Gospels, maybe the most. She is always writing “Talitha cum” on my Facebook statuses when she likes what I have to say, which I always take to mean “you go, girl.” She wrote this reflection on the passage last January: Rise up, my little one. Rise up! It is the dawn, And time for waking. Time for walking. Rise up! Little girl, Rise Up! Throw off the covers. Awake from your tomb. Do not be afraid. Rise Up! Your sisters await. One prepares the feast. The other welcomes the stranger. This is not your time for sleeping. Wake up! Greet the Dawn! Arise! Get up, daughter! Take My Hand. Outside they are weeping. They ache for you. Do not be afraid. My Beloved, Walk in Peace. Heal their wounds. Trust in me. Have Faith, My child. You need only cling to The Fringes of My Cloak To be restored. I will walk with you. Fear-less! Into the light, come, Woman, come! It is The Time for rising! In the Mercy of your Womb Grows the Womb of Mercy. Rise Up! It is the Dawn. We are walking. “Talitha Cum!” Be fearless, beloved. Your faith will make you well. Amen. |
AuthorRev. Robin Bartlett is the Senior Pastor at the First Church in Sterling, Massachusetts. www.fcsterling.org Archives
February 2021
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