Preached on Sunday, August 27th, 2017
at First Church in Sterling, MA
by Rev. Robin Bartlett
Sermons are better seen.
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I have a simple message this morning:
It matters what we say about Jesus. It matters what we teach the children.

If we don’t teach them what we believe about God, someone else will. As Aristotle reminds us, nature abhors a vacuum. Someone will fill it if we don’t. 

Plenty of us are uncomfortable teaching our kids about God. We aren’t sure how to explain such an unexplainable topic. We aren’t sure what WE believe about God. We aren’t sure we can explain what we believe in kid-friendly terms. We want our kids to be able to decide for themselves. Some of us are still angry and reeling from childhood religious trauma, and don’t want to inflict that on others.

When my mom was three years old, her sister tragically died of meningitis. Kate was only six years old when she died. Her mother, my grandmother, Margot, was understandably never the same after that. 

My mom wasn’t either. She became an only child. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer every night before bed for years after Kate died, and her prayer to God was for a little brother or a little sister. My grandmother got pregnant three times, and three times she miscarried. After the third time, my mother stopped praying the Lord’s Prayer altogether. She raised me an atheist and didn’t teach me to pray because she didn’t want me to suffer the same crushing disappointment she did in a God who doesn’t listen, or worse, a God who doesn’t care.

It matters what we teach the children. It matters what we say about Jesus.

My dad wasn’t scarred in the same way as my mom by God…he just stopped believing in college. He always used to say to me that he “believed in science.” As a kid, I always thought you had to pick one or the other: God or science. Like my dad, I chose science. But science doesn’t love, or forgive, or ask you to follow.

It matters what we say about Jesus. It matters what we teach the children.

I tried to pray occasionally as a child, but I never knew who or what to address my prayers to. I needed a moral compass with a human face. Evolution is magical, but devoid of heroes, as the poem says. 

Despite my mother’s desire to keep me spiritually safe and my father’s desire for intellectual integrity, I needed some sort of human way of connecting with that which is ultimate and transcendent. You can’t teach disbelief to a child, only wonderful stories.

It matters what we teach the children. It matters what we say about Jesus.

Who do you say that I am? Jesus asks this question of his disciples in our scripture text from Matthew. “You are the Messiah,” Simon Peter answers, “Son of the Living God.”

Who do you say that I am? We, too, need to answer this question because it matters who we say Jesus is. We need to occasionally stand up for Jesus.

I know. Jesus can stand up for himself. But we need to stand up for Jesus not for his sake, but for ours’.

Right now, most of the people I see standing up for Jesus don’t have his best interests in mind. 

Look, I know it can be uncomfortable and complicated to say you’re a Christian right now, or to say that you go to church. People start looking at you sideways and making assumptions about what that means. I’ve heard so many stories about that lately from you that I’m thinking about making you all t-shirts that say “First Church in Sterling: not that kind of church.” (When people ask me what I do for a living on a plane or in a bar, I tell them that I run a small non-profit.)

But our kids are about to start school on Tuesday. Before they do, let’s stand up for Jesus before someone else does. Before someone on the playground says that Jesus deems gay and trans people an abomination. Before someone in their classroom tells them that Jesus judges people worthy or unworthy based on sin. Before someone in their classroom tells them that women should be silent in church, or that God favors and blesses the rich. Before a parent tells them there’s a war on Christmas just because the Jewish and Muslim kids want to feel included in the classroom, too. Before someone on the bus tells them they are going to hell. Before they see Westboro Baptist picket signs announcing who God “hates” on TV.

It matters what we say about Jesus. It matters what we teach the children.

“Who do you say that I am?” Jesus asks.

We need to answer that question for our kids, unequivocally, with the word “Love.”

Because nature abhors a vacuum. And that vacuum is being filled with the weak and the vulnerable.

Brian McLaren, who was among the clergy in Charlottesville three weeks ago, writes in Time Magazine:
​
“After returning home from the Charlottesville protest, I came across an interview with Christian Piccolini, a former white supremacist. As a teenager, Piccolini was recruited and radicalized by an extremist group. “There are so many marginalized young people, so many disenfranchised young people today with not a lot to believe in, with not a lot of hope, so they tend to search for very simple black-and-white answers,” he explained. Savvy extremists ready to dispense those easy answers have no shortage of potential recruits, easily accessible through the Internet.

Piccoloni’s words seem equally relevant in Afghanistan or Syria, Virginia, Ohio or Arizona….
Terrorism has many faces, and no lack of vulnerable young people, and easy ways to recruit.
….The draw is “not necessarily because of the ideology. I think that the ideology is simply a vehicle to be violent,” Piccolini explains. “I believe that people become radicalized, or extremist, because they're searching for three very fundamental human needs: identity, community and a sense of purpose.”

McLaren talks about an interview he read with Richard Spencer, an acclaimed white supremacist who counted Charlottesville as a religious experience. Spencer gushed about the torch-lit neo-Nazi march in Charlottesville in religious terms: "I love the torches. It's spectacular; it's theatrical and mystical and magical and religious, even."
McLaren writes that “White nationalism isn’t simply an extremist political ideology. It is an alt-religious movement that provides its adherents with its own twisted version of what all religions supply to adherents: identity, a personal sense of who I am; community, a social sense of where I belong; and purpose, a spiritual sense of why my life matters. If faith communities don’t provide these healthy, life-giving human needs, then death-dealing alt-religions will fill the gap.”
It matters what we say about Jesus. It matters what we teach the children.

So when Jesus asks: “Who do you say that I am?” Our answer must supply a personal sense of who we are, a community: a social sense of where we belong, and a purpose: a spiritual sense of why our lives matter. We need to answer this question as a community; as a church. We need to answer this question, and then provide opportunities to live the answer. Death-dealing alt-religions will fill the gap if we don’t.

So if Jesus asks me, “Robin, Who do you say that I am?”

I think I’d say this:

Jesus,
You are love. You are born of God, who loves all people on all of the earth, even me. You were sent to show us what God’s love is like because love is a slippery word that means so many things. Your love surprised us when it came in the form of healing, forgiveness, grace, truth, challenge, freedom, unity, miracle, and plenty of chances to begin again. 

Jesus, you are king. Of your upside down kingdom, the last are first, the lost are found, the least are favored. We know we are acting in your name every time we get up the courage to do something right, especially when we are afraid, or when what’s right is hard to do. 

Jesus, you are a teacher. You teach us that we belong to each other. You give us this sacred place to show up to every week so that we might be known by the name Beloved. So that we might be blessed to use our gifts together in service to our community and the world.

Jesus, one more thing. You are truth. Your Love involves turning over tables and chasing people with a whip sometimes. There is injustice and hypocrisy and greed happening in the world every day, and your response is righteous anger, which is a form of Love. This is the kind of Love that that resists hate, that brings the marginalized into the center, that defies fascist governments like the one that killed you. You came to loose the chains of injustice, on earth as it is in heaven. We came for that, too. You taught us that we can do hard things.

I hope the children will know you the way I know you, as a nemesis and friend. Because, Lord, the earth needs a nemesis and friend like you right now.

Thank you, Jesus: our love, our king, our teacher, our truth, our friend.

Amen.

Preached on August 13, 2017
on the Sterling, MA Town Common
by Rev. Robin Bartlett

POEM         “A Morning Offering” by John O’Donohoe 
I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free 
Into the flow and figure of dream 
That went to harvest from the dark 
Bread for the hunger no one sees. 
All that is eternal in me
Welcomes the wonder of this day, 
The field of brightness it creates 
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate. 
I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter, 
Waves of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye. 
May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays, 
To risk being disturbed and changed. 
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for 
And waste my heart on fear no more. 

GOSPEL READING             Matthew 14:22-33
22Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. 23And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, 24but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. 25And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. 26But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, “It is a ghost!” And they cried out in fear. 27But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” 28Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” 29He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. 30But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, “Lord, save me!” 31Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” 32When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. 33And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.” 

MUSICAL MEDITATION    “All Will Be Well” by Rev. Meg Barnhouse    
Julian of Norwich was a Christian mystic and theologian from the Middle Ages. She wrote a book called “Revelations of Divine Love” following a near-death experience at age 30 when she saw visions of Jesus Christ when she was given last rites. She lived for twenty years afterward. Written around 1395, it is the first book in the English language known to be written by a woman. In her visions, Jesus appeared to Julian tenderly telling her it was necessary that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” It’s her most quoted wisdom. This song is written by my colleague, The Reverend Meg Barnhouse, and it is a conversation--at times even an argument--with Julian of Norwich.

Julian, you are holy, you are holding my hand and Julian, you are holy, you are holding my hand.
She said, "All will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."
I said, "Julian, do you not know, do you not know about sorrow and Julian, do you not know, do you not know about pain?"
I said," Julian, do you not know, do you not know about hunger and Julian, do you not know, do you not know about shame?"
She said, "All will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."
I said, "Julian, do you not know, do you not know about loneliness, and Julian, do you not know, do you not know about disease?"
I said Julian, do you not know, do you not know about cruelty?"
I said Julian, it's too much. It brought me to my knees."
She said, "All will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."
She said, "No one does not know, does not know about sorrow and no one does not know, does not know about pain."
She said "No one does not know, does not know about hunger and no one does not know, does not know about shame."
She said, "All will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."
She said, "No one does not know, does not know about loneliness and no one does not know, does not know about disease."
She said, "No one does not know, does not know about cruelty."
She said, "I know, it's too much. It brought me to my knees where I heard: 'All will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well.'
She said, "Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about tenderness and Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about friends?" She said, "Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about the Spirit?"
She said, "Babygirl, do you not know, it's only love that never ends and so, all will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."

SERMON

"May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for 
And waste my heart on fear no more." 

As a teenager, my friends flirted with risk the way only people who aren’t afraid to die do because their frontal cortexes aren’t fully developed yet. So weekends consisted of finding terrifying things to do to test the limits of their faith. In New Hampshire, that usually meant finding a very large height to jump off of into a body of water after drinking too much beer under the cover of night. And so my friends found half bridges over the river and abandoned spray painted granite quarries and even rickety old rope swings over the dark silk of the cold body of water below. And they jumped, and jumped, and jumped again, thrilled screams penetrating the quiet night.

I always stayed on shore with the beer, too afraid to even stand at the edge and contemplate jumping. I had no faith in my ability to survive the jump. I did not trust the water to not swallow me up. I certainly didn’t trust my drunk friends to save me. And so I spent those years watching others experience the wild joy and abandon of taking risks, not necessarily content to just sit and watch, but not brave enough to do anything else.

My fear is probably the reason why I’m alive today, and also why I have so many regrets. I have always been cautious—with my body, with my mind, with my heart. I have guarded so carefully my own life that I have failed, at times to live it. Fear keeps us small.

You of little faith, why do you doubt? 

Jesus hurls this accusation at Peter when he becomes frightened and begins to sink trying to walk on water in a raging sea. But all I can think is that I wouldn’t have had enough guts to get out of the boat when Jesus says, “come!” to begin with. Peter’s faith can’t be that little if he tried to walk on water in the midst of a terrifying storm, trusting that Jesus would pull him out. When he begins to sink, I don’t blame him for doubting. Do you?

I read this wonderful excerpt from a book called “Dying, a Memoir” by Cory Taylor, in the New Yorker this week. I commend it to you, it is stunning and simple prose. She is an atheist, and yet her reflection on dying is what I can only describe as faithful and religiously profound. Cory Taylor was dying of cancer as she wrote, and she agreed to answer “questions you were too afraid to ask someone who is dying.” In her answer about whether people who are dying are willing to take more risks she says this:

No, I’m not likely to take more risks in life, now that I know I’m dying. I’m not about to tackle skydiving or paragliding. I’ve always been physically cautious, preternaturally aware of all the things that can go wrong when one is undertaking a dangerous activity. Paradoxically, it was Dad, a peripatetic airline pilot, who taught me to be careful. I don’t think he was temperamentally suited to flying; the risks played unhealthily on his mind and made him fearful, tetchy, depressed. At the same time, he was addicted to the thrill of flying and couldn’t give it up.

His ambivalence about danger confused me while I was growing up. He never discouraged me from taking up risky activities; instead, he filled me with fear about the possible consequences, with the result that I was never any good at them. When he taught me to drive, he made sure to emphasize the fallibility of the machine, something he would have learned during the war, at flying school, where mistakes could be fatal. He liked to open the bonnet of the car before we set off, and run through a sort of flight check with me to make sure everything was hooked up to everything else. These were good lessons and they’ve served me well, but I wonder if a certain enthusiasm for risk drained out of me as a result of his teaching methods, and whether that wasn’t his intent. It strikes me that I might have turned out differently if he’d taken me for a spin one day in one of the Tiger Moths he loved so much, shown me what had turned him on to flying in the first place, emphasized the mad joy rather than the danger.

The irony is that, despite my never having tempted death the way daredevils do, I’m dying anyway. Perhaps it is a mistake to be so cautious. 

Maybe that’s Jesus’ lesson. Even though risks make us fearful, tetchy, depressed, playing unhealthily on our minds, maybe we still need the thrill of flying. Maybe Peter steps out of the boat because he knows it is a mistake to be so cautious. What do we have to lose? We’re dying anyway. We need to do what we’ve come here for, and waste our hearts on fear no more. 

“Why love what you must lose?” Louise Glick asks. “There’s nothing else to love.”

Perhaps having faith means loving what you know you will lose, even if what you will lose is life as you know it. Perhaps that’s what Jesus means when he says that you have to lose your life to save it. That if you try to save your life, you will lose it. Maybe we are to emphasize the mad joy associated with the risk of loving rather than the danger of losing our lives in the process.

This seems like an impossibly naïve thing to say today, because we are living with very real fears of death right now. There is the very real fear of threats to our planet, fear of losing our livelihoods, fear of one another, fear for our children’s lives, fear of war and rumors of war.

This week, a report came out saying that climate change will hit New England much harder and faster than was originally predicted. Boston may be under water by the time our grandchildren are middle aged.

This week, Hawaii and Guam are preparing the populace for nuclear attack from North Korea by telling them they have around 15 minutes from the launch of nuclear missiles to find cover, preferably inside a concrete building. Our president is promising fire and fury unlike the world has ever seen. 

And speaking of fire and fury, there was a white supremacist, neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia this weekend. Angry, mostly white men with Nazi flags and confederate flags and torches flooded the UVA campus chanting “you will not replace us” and “blood and soil” and “white lives matter.” Their rhetoric promotes violence, and not surprisingly, violence erupted. One man drove a car into a sea of counter protestors, over 20 were injured, one woman was killed. Two police officers surveying the scene in a helicopter tragically crashed to their death, as well. Charlottesville had to declare a state of emergency and call the national guard. A large gathering of people of faith praying inside a church that love would overcome violence were surrounded and trapped inside by the torch bearing mob on Friday night.

This fire and fury is not unlike the world has never seen. In fact, we’ve seen this all before. The difference is, these white supremacists are no longer wearing sheets over their heads. They have been emboldened and normalized. They are buying their tiki torches from Walmart’s backyard section. And they are not just from the south. They are coming to a town near you soon. Our president said that there are many sides to what happened in Charlottesville. I only see two sides: the side of love, and the side of fear. Jesus stands on the side of Love, and is calling us to get out of the boat before the tides of hate sink us. He will hold us up. "Take heart," he is saying. "It is I. Do not be afraid."

The country and this world are alive with danger: nuclear anger—the kind of rage that poisons the people and the earth irreparably. We are dying. Perhaps it is a mistake to be so cautious.

Our president missed the opportunity to say this yesterday, so I will. This is not who we are. We are children of God. And you and I were made for such a time as this. The church was made for such a time as this. The most hopeful footage from Charlottesville yesterday was my interfaith clergy colleagues, linking arms standing between the armed white supremacists and the counter-protestors, praying and singing this Little Light of Mine. Let it shine. We follow a savior who reminds us whose we are; to whom we belong: a God so loving that she draws all of us home. We may be fearful, but we were made to fly.

So let us do at last what we came here for. Jesus says to us, “take heart, it is I, do not be afraid. Get out of the boat and follow me. If you sink, I will pull you up.”

I have told you this story before: writer Glennon Doyle Melton was watching footage of the Civil Rights era with her young children. One of them asked her, “Mama, if we were around then, we would have marched, right?” And before Glennon could answer in the affirmative, her other daughter said, “I don’t know. I mean, we are not marching now.”

So beloved, if you and I are not marching now, it’s time to march. In the midst of this fire and fury, we must risk it all for love. We must show up to fight against white supremacy with the power of God’s love. We must risk putting our bodies on the line: standing with arms linked, singing This Little Light of Mine. We must risk loving this earth and the people in it. We must risk jumping off of the cliff in the dark trusting the water will hold us. We must risk getting out of the boat and walk toward Love. We must stop being cautious with our love, and lavish it on stranger and enemy. Let’s do, at last, what we came here for. 

We must love this broken terrifying world with mad joy and wild abandon.

Why love what you must lose? There is nothing else to love. 

When my colleague Meg Barnhouse asks Julian of Norwich how the heck she can say over and over again that all will be well when there is disease and cruelty and loneliness and pain and sorrow and war and hunger and shame, she imagines Julian saying, “I know. It’s too much, it brought me to my knees when I heard all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well.”

“Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about tenderness and Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about friends?" She said, "Babygirl, do you not know, do you not know about the Spirit?" She said, "Babygirl, do you not know, it's only love that never ends and so, all will be well, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well."

Waste your hearts on fear no more. It’s only love that never ends.

Amen.

A sermon by Rev. Robin Bartlett
preached August 6, 2017
at First Church in Sterling, MA 
watch this sermon here.

READING FROM THE HEBREW BIBLE            (Genesis 32: 22-31)    
22 The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. 23He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything that he had.24Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.25When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. 26Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ 27So he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ 28Then the man* said, ‘You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel,* for you have striven with God and with humans,* and have prevailed.’ 29Then Jacob asked him, ‘Please tell me your name.’ But he said, ‘Why is it that you ask my name?’ And there he blessed him. 30So Jacob called the place Peniel,* saying, ‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.’ 31The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.
            
READING    “Beatitudes” by Nadia Bolz-Weber, from Accidental Saints: Finding God in All the Wrong People.  

SERMON         
Sometimes we need to wrestle ourselves a blessing.

The scripture we read today from Genesis tells this story: By himself at night on the bank of the Jabbok, suddenly and unexpectedly, Jacob is wrestling with a strange man all through the night until dawn. 

The scripture doesn’t give us much information about it, but the fight was serious enough that “When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him.” 

But Jacob does not give up, despite his hip injury. The fight goes on until Jacob’s opponent says, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.”  But Jacob says, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” 

The stranger responds by asking Jacob’s name, and then says, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed (Gen 32:27-28).” 

The name change from Jacob to Israel confirms that the figure with whom Jacob has been wrestling is not simply a “man.”  

Jacob has spent the night wrestling God. He demands a blessing from God before he lets go. God concedes that Jacob has prevailed, and blesses him by giving him a new name: Israel, which means “triumphant with God.” Jacob walks away from the fight with a blessing and a limp, triumphant.

You and I sometimes wrestle with God, when our world is the darkest.

In the darkest nights of my life—when depression and disconnection threaten to crowd out both feeling and faith, I have always fought with God.

Yelling at God is an ancient spiritual practice, and a common theme in the holy scriptures. It is, perhaps, the holiest form of prayer. The psalmist cries, “Lord, How long will you hide your face from me?” Jesus himself cries out from the cross, “Why God, why? Why have you forsaken me?”

So I yell at God a lot. When I’m done yelling, I demand a blessing. And I won’t let go until I get one. 

I am one of those people who attempts to make meaning of every personal tragedy, and fast. The idea of meaninglessness was always more terrifying to me than suffering. And though I counsel against this cliche in my ministry, I am quick to try and find a lesson in my pain. 

We need our pain to be of use. We need it to make sense. That’s how we exert the illusion of control over the uncontrollable. 

Whenever I was betrayed, I thought, “well, it’s a blessing to know at an early age that trust is illusory.” 

When I divorced my first husband I thought, “It’s a blessing that this will make me a more empathic, less holy-than-thou minister.” 

When I suffered depression, I thought, “well, it’s a blessing that I am in touch with the existential doubt inherent in the human condition.” 

There’s a blessing in everything, I’d think to myself. But underneath all those introspective life lessons was always anger. 

And so I wrestled. I angrily, stubbornly refused to let go of God during my moments of deepest suffering. I would shout, like Lieutenant Dan yelling at the storm on the shrimp boat in Forest Gump: “You’ll never sink this boat! … Come on! You call this a storm?”

“Hey God, if it’s true that you give people only what they can handle, you must think I’m pretty AWESOME!”

The word “blessed” means divinely favored; or “made holy.” And right now, it is the most over-used term I can think of: the kind of over-use that changes the definition of a term altogether. 

We use the word “blessed” to talk about things we are just lucky to have. We use the word “blessed” to talk about things that we worked hard for and received because of a combination of luck and merit, not because of God’s special favor. We say things like “I have been blessed with children”, or “I was blessed to get a promotion at work.” 

Most ubiquitous in popular culture, the word blessed is used to humble-brag on social media. 

Most of you know what a hash tag is. For those of you who don’t, a hash tag is a number sign used on social media sites to categorize posts, so that you can search for topics with the same theme. 

The hash tag “blessed” is one of the most popular hash tags on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. Folks post pictures of their vacations, their meals, and their cars…together with the phrase #blessed, as if God must love us so much that he has personally purchased us a trip to the Caribbean complete with expensive wine, filet mignon and handsome, chiseled and tanned date.

Jessica Bennett, a style writer for the New York Times, writing about the hashtag “blessed” says:

"Here are a few of the ways that God has touched my social network over the past few months:

• S(he) helped a friend get accepted into graduate school. (She was “blessed” to be there.)
• S(he) made it possible for a yoga instructor’s Caribbean spa retreat. (“Blessed to be teaching in paradise,” she wrote.)…..

……God has, in fact, recently blessed my network with dazzling job promotions, coveted speaking gigs, the most wonderful fiancés ever, front row seats at Fashion Week, and nominations for many a “30 under 30” list. And, blessings aren’t limited to the little people, either. S(he) blessed Macklemore with a wardrobe designer (thanks for the heads up, Instagram!) and Jamie Lynn Spears with an engagement ring (“#blessed #blessed #blessed!” she wrote on Twitter). S(he)’s been known to bless Kanye West and Kim Kardashian with exotic getaways and expensive bottles of Champagne, overlooking sunsets of biblical proportion (naturally).

“There’s literally a (woman) in my Facebook feed right now who just posted a (picture of her backside)— and all it says is ‘blessed,’ ” said Erin Jackson, a stand-up comedian in Virginia. “Now wait. Is that really a blessing?”……. 

…… The Pittsburgh comedian Davon Magwood recently tweeted: “Caught a piece of bacon falling out of my sandwich right before it hit the ground,” It was followed, naturally, by the punch line: '#blessed.'"

The week since I have been home from vacation has been harrowing for this congregation. There have been hospitalizations and terrifying diagnoses and prognoses, job loss, the death of a couple of parents, the death of a son, and a son in law, and a seven year old grandson of a realtor in town in a tractor accident. There have been falls, injuries and chronic illnesses. (I hate cancer so very much. I want to stab it until it dies.)

I have a pretty large care team here that I lean on: it includes the diaconate, the meal-givers, the card-writer and sender team, the caregivers and called to care teams, and the prayer chain. We send each other emails to update each other on folks who need care. This week was an email onslaught. At one point, Heather Cline, who is pretty much on all of these teams wrote to me and said, “Holy expletive, is it only Thursday? This week needs to be over, and start a new one.” 

If God is blessing people with engagement rings and expensive bottles of champagne and graduate school admissions, what is God doing to the folks in our congregation who are suffering under the weight of depression, loneliness, addiction, disease, death, hunger, fear, and mourning? 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t worship a God who favors the happy, the coupled, the strong, the fertile, the healthy, the rich and the well-fed.

The God I worship says this:
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn: for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the earth. 
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled. 
Blessed are the merciful: for they will be shown mercy. 
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they will see God. 
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they will be called children of God. 
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake: for theirs' is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are the ones who love people across borders: of race and religion and politics and lineage, across boundaries of language and culture.
Blessed are the humble.
Blessed are those awaiting diagnosis and prognosis,
Blessed are those who have to tell the children.
Blessed are those who sit in the doctor’s chair, with no one to hold their hand, blessed are the ones for whom no hand holding can protect. 
Blessed are those who burn the clothes they were wearing on the day they heard the news.
Blessed are the betrayed, and the ones who forgive their betrayers.
Blessed are the ones who are not over it yet.
Blessed are the children who are always left out: the weird ones, the ones who don’t get it.
Blessed are caretakers who are ill themselves in body and spirit. 
Blessed are the millions of victims of the opioid crisis and their families and loved ones, and blessed are the victims of the crack and AIDS epidemics who were less visible because of the color of their skin and their sexuality.
Blessed are they who have lost a child, no matter what age. Blessed are they who listen without fixing, who don’t fall apart so that we can.
Blessed are the beaten up and the broken and the lost and desperate to be found. 
Blessed are the wounded, and the healers and the wounded healers.
Blessed are those who have loved enough that they know what loss feels like.
You are holy and Jesus blesses you.

Beloved, you are lucky if you have healthy children and grandchildren and beautiful things and warm memories. You are blessed if you have wrestled with God through the dark night of the soul, and did not give up until you prevailed. You may have walked away limping, but you were given a new name. 

The Japanese have this beautiful practice of mending broken objects by filling their cracks with gold. They believe that when something has suffered damage, and has a history, it becomes more beautiful. 

So beautiful, blessed people, our call is clear. May our broken places call us to revolutionary love. May we go out and help the others who suffer, even though we walk with a limp. We were made not to be blessed, but to be a blessing. May we prevail.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God.

Amen.