8/13/2017 0 Comments Waste Your Heart on Fear No MorePreached 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.
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AuthorRev. Robin Bartlett is the Senior Pastor at the First Church in Sterling, Massachusetts. www.fcsterling.org Archives
February 2021
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