We hear these words of Isaiah promising a beautiful future, one where predators and prey will befriend one another, but we must put this into context if we are to hear the fullness of this vision. It did not come to Israel during calm periods of peace, but during interesting times. It came to Israel during times when alliances with outside forces threatened the sovereignty of the state. It came to Israel during times when the economic systems promoted the wealthy and devastated the poor. It came to Israel at a time when, as Isaiah put it, “Your hands are full of blood” and there was no justice for the oppressed, poor and marginalized. It came to Israel during dark and frightening times.
I wonder if it might almost be heard as a parent comforting a child about to undergo surgery, yes honey, this will hurt, but one day you will walk again, one day you will play again, but yes, it will hurt. Our lectionary this year is insistent that we look at the darkness and brokenness within us. It’s terribly difficult to do and honestly, I was looking for a more upbeat and inspiring message today. One that would fill us all with hope, love and joy, But first, our scripture tells us, repent. The scripture from our lectionary that I didn’t read today was the one with John the Baptist yelling at the pharisees, repent you brood of vipers. I really wanted something more upbeat than that, but here it is again, Isaiah only a few chapters from yelling at Israel saying, God hates your worship, God won’t listen to your prayers, not when your hands are full of blood. We are reminded that advent is not only a time of anticipation but of preparation. Be gentle with yourselves this advent, but be persistent too. Take up your cross and be a part of the healing that this nation, this time, all of us, so need. We are the people who have been called to this moment, to be peace in the world, to bring healing, to speak the gospel word.
Oh, it’s a hard word today! A few days ago someone asked me how there can be so much darkness, so much pain in the world. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, who became famous for documenting the stages of grief, once toured concentration camps in Germany. She was met there by survivors who had returned to the camp to tell their stories. Stories not only of loss, despair and death, but stories of redemption, of finding meaning and purpose in caring for one another, of finding hope in the midst of this most painful situation. As she toured the camp she began to notice that there were images of butterflies carved and scrawled in corners and over beds, in midst of these horrible living conditions, images of butterflies and she asked her tour guide about this. Her guide responded, “We knew we were in hell, that all we knew was gone and that everything was falling apart. Some of us believed that God was still at work in the midst of this, that God would triumph, even if we didn’t know how. We believed that God was remaking us and that in the end, God would be triumphant.”
So we turn to the hope, the promise, yes, the chrysalis looks like death, but something new is being born and we must stay faithful and stay present to this. Reverend Yolanda Norton, an assistant professor at San Francisco Theological, described it this way: “In Isaiah 11:1-10, the prophet finds himself in a season of despair. He writes in the interstitial space between destruction; a time that has seen and is anticipating devastation at the hand of the Assyrian empire. And yet, the prophetic speech of Isaiah is filled with a persistent hope that God will bring peace, order, and love in the midst of chaos and ruin.”
She goes on to remind us that while Isaiah is promising us that the end is secure and that God will not now nor ever abandon us, God does work through us and insists we participate in the healing of the nation. This is not a suggestion that God will magically make everything better even if we persist in tearing things down. Isaiah spoke truth to power, and that power was involved in tearing things down, in oppressing and hurting people. Get right with God, he said, do it now, but to the people he spoke words of peace, of promise.
This is the promise, that we have a savior and he will judge with righteousness, and his justice is restorative. Even the most venomous among us will be made whole, will be made well. Nature, red in tooth and claw, will become peaceful and a new paradigm will reign. And we are called to participate in this transformation. In the first chapter of Isaiah we are told what this will look like, “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”
Christ is constant, God’s mercy and justice are constant, but we are not. So in the season of Advent we are called again to the paths of righteousness and of hope, of mercy to those who are vulnerable and justice for those who are oppressed. We are called to be a living witness to the hope we find in Jesus Christ. To live each day with the intention of lifting up those who are beaten down by life, who struggle and who are hurting. We are called to stay present to all the pain and loss in the world and to see it through eyes of compassion and not grow weary but abide in the promise, gain sustenance from the love and mercy of God.
Viktor Frankl was a psychologist who was interned at the concentration camps. He stayed present, he observed, and he noted what it was that made a difference, what it was that helped some survive while others, seemingly strong and healthy succumbed. He said later that what made the difference was the act of reaching out to others with love and compassion. In a vivid example of this a survivor recounts how, as a young man he and most of his neighbors were herded into a cattle car to be transported and on the way the cattle car was left on the side of the tracks in bitter, freezing cold. He noticed that one of his neighbors, an older man, was shivering violently and he went to him. He sat with this man all night, rubbing his freezing feet, holding him, keeping him warm and alive. When the dawn broke only the two of them were left alive, their act of solidarity, of keeping one another warm through the bitter night had saved them.
We are called to just such acts of solidarity. We are called to the audacious hope and conviction that even when things seem to be at their darkest, that God is still working a great good in us. We are called to righteousness, yes, but also a stubborn faith that even when the world seems to be tottering on its axis that God is in control, that God has good in mind for us and not evil. So we step bravely into this future, this incredible belief that we can stay present to the pain of the world, that we can have compassion for one another, and that love will win.
36 “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. 37 For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. 38 For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, 39 and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man. 40 Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. 41 Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. 42 Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. 43 But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. 44 Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.
Decide now how you will live your life. What matters most to you. Where do you want to put your energy. Make that decision now. You don’t have much time. You think you have time, but you don’t, so decide now, act now, be the person you want to be now. You don’t have much time, don’t be fooled, don’t put it off. Be who you want to be right now.
If the word apocalypse literally means removing the veil of all our illusions, of coming face to face with the truth, then perhaps we can live an apocalyptic life every day, shredding our illusions and facing the reality, the difficult truths, the beautiful truths, every day. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? that our lectionary has this apocalyptic warning for the first Sunday of advent. Advent is that time of waiting, of anticipating, it’s a pregnant time, dark and hidden, waiting for new light, new birth, new life, the hope of a new future and kingdom here on earth, and the whole world groans for this, we long for redemption, for this new thing to come, for justice to come down like a cleansing rain, washing away all injury, all wounds cleansed and healed, we long for this!
But fear does drive us now and then, it causes us to pull back from our dreams, our best intentions and asks us to live a life that is small and safe. It insists we can try and live out our dreams another day, another time, but not now, not yet, we’re not ready, and so we play it small. If the owner of the house had known when the thief was coming, he might have realized the thief is the fear that lives in his own heart insisting that he lock all the doors, put up a fence and keep a safe distance from anyone who might want his things. The thief is the promise that he can make it alone and doesn’t need anyone so why take a risk? Why answer the door and risk meeting someone who might hurt your heart, disappoint you, abandon you.
“We want to love people who won’t hurt us, let us down, or betray us, but there are no other people.” Everyone we meet is fighting a battle with their own wounds, their own brokenness and sometimes it spills over and we get caught in it; the closer we are to that person, the more we feel, the more likely we are to be hurt, but the alternative, shutting down, closing our hearts, pulling away from love, is far more painful. Fear says it’s not worth the risk, love says we are strong enough to take it all in stride, feel the pain of our best intentions falling flat, our expectations unmet, failure to communicate, and still love. Love says we have plenty of room and lots to give and we can live our lives out loud.
And so a part of us wants to avoid living fully, loving fully. We want to lock ourselves away from any vulnerability or risk, but we cannot live that way. Brene Brown is a researcher based in Houston Texas and a several years ago she began researching whole heartedness. She wanted to know how it is that some people are able to live these rich, full lives, lives that we all look at with a little envy. In her now famous TED talk (https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability#t-9445) Brene admitted that when she discovered that the difference between these whole hearted, delightful folk and those who lived much more cautiously and fearfully was accepting vulnerability she experienced a bit of an existential crisis. She had been looking for the perfect life hack, how to have it all, to win at the game of life, and the answer came back, be vulnerable, accept that you will be hurt, you will lose, and decide to love anyway.
I’m with Brene in that deep down desire to find an easier way! And there is a big part of me that wants to put my life on hold until this better way shows up. I want promises and certainty, but our text reminds us vividly today that only one thing is certain, we aren’t promised tomorrow. We are not given the perfect life hack, but invited to consider how we are living with what is. Are we keeping our lights lit, our lamps full of oil as we wait for the bridegroom? Are we saying the things we most need to say, the I love you’s, the I forgive you’s? Are we offering our hearts and our full attention to those we love the most? Or are we withdrawing and distracting, promising that another time, another place we’ll show up more fully.
The hospice caregiver Stephen Levine participated in a one year thought experiment which he documented in his book A Year to Live. He decided to live one year with the thought that this year might very well be his last. He wanted to get that incredible benefit which he saw many of the dying people he accompanied receiving as they approached their death. Why wait, he thought, until the diagnosis was for real. Tomorrow is never promised us, he figured, so why not assume that I will not be here next year. Every time he began to disengage with life, he would remind himself that this was his last experience of this day. He practiced embracing each and every day, each and every experience. It is not that he had not known that he ought to be fully open, fully present, but knowing this and actually practicing it are two different things.
So we begin our period of advent, this pregnant time, with the reminder that this is precious, precious time. This is one more incredible opportunity to open our hearts, to stay present with all that pains us, to forgive, to love, to worship, to create space in our every day busy-ness for joy.
“In the end
these things matter most:
How well did you love?
How fully did you live?
How deeply did you let go?”
So having gotten just this far into my sermon I was personally confronted by the fact that I have not been living this way. I know the importance of being present in each moment, cherishing each relationship, but doing it, actually putting these thoughts into practice isn’t something I’ve been very good at. I get busy, just like all of you and I get tired and it always seems like there will be another day, another time.
In June of this year I drove through Minneapolis, anxious to get here I failed to make adequate preparations to connect with people there whom I dearly love. I told myself that there will always be time, I could come back up later, but six months down the road I just never had. It’s hard to convey simply how important these people are to me; people who helped me find courage and conviction when it would have been easier to simply quit. People who offered me many and various ways to participate in the life of the church and encouraged me. People who had become a new family to me, yet I had gotten busy and failed to connect.
Short story long, I was in Minneapolis by 1:30, eating tomato basil soup at Turtle Bread Bakery, relishing the sights, the tastes, the sounds of a city that had been home to me for four years. At 4:30 I was sitting on the steps of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian watching members of my church family begin to filter in. I hadn’t been there in nearly four years, Bill has a full beard now, I almost didn’t recognize him. Lisa has lost weight and was looking all fine and trim. The Root kids had grown! Oh my gosh, but Owen is as tall as I am now! My two Sue’s and Kara, women who have been like sisters to me, were all there.
Yesterday I stopped denying myself the joy of reconnecting with these lovely and beloved people. Yesterday, a few of us gathered around a table and shared a meal. Yesterday I was able to wrap my arms around dear friends and give them long overdue hugs! Yesterday I remembered that I am not promised any more time; I am not promised second chances or second Christmases,
How well do you love, how fully do you live, how well do you let go of things not meant for you? The problem is, we think we have time and we put off our joy, we tell ourselves that we can connect with loved ones later, we can say the words that we long to say, later, we can find joy, later.
Do not wait, my friends, we are not promised later. We have the incredible gift of now. Do not withhold yourself from joy. Cherish each relationship, treasure your conversations, give yourself fully to each moment, for tomorrow isn’t promised. Two will go into the field, but only one will come back; so love and live as fully as you can, cherishing this moment, this time, this person with you now, and do not withhold yourself from joy.
A reflection on Luke 10: 1-20
Click here for audio~06020102
When I was a young newly married woman I lived in Germany on a military post. At first blush it appeared that I was off on an incredible adventure, living in a foreign land but in military housing we had enclaves of Americanism. There were residents there who never ventured off post. They stayed where the language, the customs, the community, especially the food, were familiar. Others of us dared to venture out into the unknown, to be greeted with strange sayings such as Gruss Gott and to be eyed warily as foreigners. A few brave souls learnt the language and moved into the community, taking jobs and finding housing off post, but most of us would spend most of our time on post, resting in familiarity. Anywhere where a group of immigrants, or transient workers, which I guess in a sense is what military families overseas are, live there tends to arise a pocket of home, a neighborhood that remembers and sustains the culture of home.
We take great comfort in familiarity. It connects at some deep visceral level and assures us that we do, in fact, belong. We know the social contracts that are implied and not spoken. We know the social customs and the familial ties that pass unseen to visitors. Here in church we know when to stand, when to sit, which version of the Lord’s prayer to recite—and we can recite it by memory. I remember that moment when, as a child, I realized I had it fully memorized. I began to recite it looking around to see if anyone noticed that I could recite it by memory and silently judging those who were reading it off the page. Knowing the Lord’s prayer by memory was sort of like my membership card, proving I was an insider. Today I’m back to reading the various prayers and creeds as different versions compete in my mind, is it debts and debtors, is it sins and transgressions, is it trespasses? Are we using inclusive language? But I still have that insider, I belong, familiarity. I mean doesn’t everyone, everywhere stand for the Gloria Patri? And does anyone need to see the music anymore?
But then I venture into another church, something different and I experience my first altar call. I find myself surrounded by people who can’t sit during a song and they simply must wave their hands in the air. And I am reminded that our ways of being are just as strange, just as foreign and unknown to those who visit us. One church I visited introduced me to prayer stations. The pastor stating, “there are many opportunities to respond to today’s message, you might want to light a candle over here, draw or write a prayer on the grafitti wall back there, write a confession on rice paper and release it into the baptismal waters knowing that just as it dissolves there so your sin is absolved,” he went on, and I sat there stunned. He wanted me to do what? But over time as I surrendered my preconceived ideas of what church has to be, must be, in order to be real church my experience was transformed, was widened and I began to see the Holy Spirit moving and shifting through each of these experiences.
In our scripture today we hear Jesus sending the 70, or 72 depending upon the version you read, out into foreign areas, strange new places, where they were to abide and dwell with the first peaceful resident who would take them in. They were not to seek a familiar enclave or to search for the best possible experience, “I’m going to stay with Sam because he has a hot tub!”And they were not to take their own sustenance or means of sustenance along with them. Leave your spare clothes, your extra cash, your comfy slippers, and don’t stop to chat with people on the way, get moving! Go, go now, into the strange new places and meet those who are unlike yourself.
I think Jesus knew that our human tendency is to stay with those most like ourselves and when possible to avoid being dependent on others. I think he knew that if his disciples were to truly meet others, to get to know them, to know their stories and their lives, that they had to live together. They had to ask for what they needed. They had to meet these people right where they were if genuine, authentic relationships were to be formed. I think Jesus knew that our human nature is to avoid vulnerability, is to avoid change, is to protect and defend and be self reliant, but this is not the gospel way.
Oh, and how we want to make it that sometimes! We want promises and assurances and we want to be right and certain. We want to bask in the security of what is familiar and routine. But God asks us to grow into something new. God asks us to allow ourselves to be transformed and made over, the old is passed away, behold I do a new thing!
But that middle bit, the part where transformation takes place, it’s messy. No catepillar ever became a butterfly without going through the chrysalis. I can imagine a hundred awkward scenarios as the 70(2) went out. It seems like it’s always the simple things that mess us up. Do I take my shoes off or keep them on? Where is the bathroom? Do I stand or sit? When we come together as church here we, as the insiders, know all of these things.
Jesus’ invitation to us, today, is to set aside our expectations and enter fully into relationship with all people, those who may enter this sanctuary, and those who may never do so.
We are to set aside that which is familiar so that we might meet people right where they are. Parker Palmer, who wrote a wonderful book called, Let Your Life Speak, reminds us that the soul is a quiet and shy thing. It does not like to be pushed out into the open and force will cause it to disappear like water from a tight fist, but if coaxed with promises of welcome, of hospitality and gentleness, it will show up. When we put aside our way of being in order to meet others right where they are, we become a welcoming, hospitable church that invites others to be fully present, with all their crazy ways of being, and all of the gifts that God has given them to give.
In the 1950’s just after the second world war a Japanese woman petitioned a presbyterian church for membership. They said no. No they didn’t need nor want any of her type there. With incredible grace and humility she continued to attend anyway. It is not unusual today to see the sanctuary decorated in hundreds and hundreds of origami cranes, because as she sat in the pews with the restless children, she would teach them some simple origami to keep them quiet. Eventually their heart was softened and she was granted membership. She has long since passed away, but that church was gifted great kindness and humilty through her witness.
We are called not only to meet others where they are but to welcome strangers with such a full and gracious hospitality that they will be empowered to give of themselves and all that they are. We are called to enter into relationship with all who come, allowing them to change us as much as we seek to change them. Each and every time we seek to witness to Christ’s love for the other and we seek to see Christ’s image in the other, we risk becoming a new creation, transformed, made new. No outward sign will do, only a change of heart will suffice.
To really know and understand something, we must move into action, our thoughts and our best understanding must flow through our hands and out into the world where we can see them. The seventy (two) who were sent to all nations, were asked to be act as/like Jesus, to put into action that which they had been taught. Is it ever enough to to simply know? To know and refuse to act, is much the same as not knowing.
Jesus invited the seventy[two] and us! to do something very Christlike, to empty ourselves of all of our preconceptions and right answers, to meet those who so desparately long for connection right where they are, and to love them, just as they are. The seventy[two] had learned this way at the master’s knee, but to fully realize what they had learned they needed to put it into action. And they returned with incredible joy! Love, community building, salvation, restoration, healing! It had all happened for them just as they had seen it happen for Jesus. And Jesus reponded, “I saw the adversary fall from heaven like lightening!
We have only to give up our desire to seek safety and familiarity, to go, go now! Trusting that God will go with us, and risk a little vulnerability, risk making a mistake or two, and meet others, right where they are.
It matters because the tomb is empty. This Easter uprising. There are different versions of the story in our scriptures. We have these different versions because it is not meant to be taken literally as if we could go back and video tape it. Something would be lost if we could. The resurrection will not be filmed. It will not be captured or made to fit in tidy boxes. It is something else, outside our paradigms, outside our understanding. It is new life, new hope, new possibilities, and so much more. It is the greening of the springtime and a remembrance that this too will end. It is the eternal call to life, to come out of the tombs, the shadows, the depressions, the lostness, the pain, the grief, come out and live again!
It is more than the knowledge that we are never alone. That Jesus has come into all depths, all darkness. That Jesus has gone up the chimneys, down into the mines, into the gas chamber, so that we might make it out. Making it out, simply surviving, is not enough. Such an answer is too small, too simple. We are called to so much more than simply survival. Survival is a task for those who live with pain, loss, degradation, poverty. Resurrection speaks a new word into our survival minds. It is a new way of being that goes way beyond simply surviving to thriving.
Being about God’s work is to be about bringing life where there is death, joy where there is sorrow, repair where there is injury, hope where there is despair, it is about bringing resurrection.
Resurrection happens. It’s that moment when your heart begins to heal from a massive rejection or loss and you begin to look at the future with hope instead of looking at the past with regret. It’s that moment when familiar patterns of abuse begin to show up in a new relationship and just when you’re tempted to say, “I guess it will always be this way,” something inside you begins to whisper, then shout, then demand, “NO” and things change. It is that moment when lost inside the darkness of depression, when some internal pain has riveted you, has fixed you permanently within its grasp, and some light begins to break in, finds a crack in the hardness, the seemingly impermeable shell, offering a slender chance and something in you grabs hold of it.
Our desire for death, for the finality of it, the letting go and the promise that you don’t need to feel anything anymore, is a reality recognized in some psychological theories. Something in us looks back and back and back like Lot’s wife, not wanting to move on, dissolving in despair and loss, weeping inconsolably, and turning bitter. There is a refusal to look to the future, to let go of what was and hope again. But I don’t want to be harsh with Lot’s wife. I suspect that her weeping and her bitterness came from a deep love of her home town, of the people, perhaps her gardens, her home, her friends. If her hometown had been inhospitable to strangers it had still been her home, her town, where she belonged and lived. It was hard to move on. It was hard to let go, to let the past die and keep on living.
It was hard for the disciples to witness the death of Jesus. Some couldn’t bear to watch and left. The crushing pain of irredeemable loss was hard to bear. It took time for the disciples to realize that Christ was still with them. That although he had surrendered to the laws of physical reality there was something deeper going on. They began to recognize that in a very real way, nothing could separate them from him, or him from them. That he had become a part of them, that he was and would always be with them, that not even death could come between them.
When we reduce the event of Easter to some mythic, magical event, dead man walking, we relieve ourselves of the need to be resurrection people. We turn the responsibility for healing, for loving, for transforming our lives over to God and then we wait for the magic. God asks us to be resurrection people, not passive recipients but to actually be the healing and loving and transforming in the world. We are not to wait passively for some magical event to come, but to pick up our crosses and follow Jesus. The belief in a literal magic events leaves us waiting powerlessly, the belief in a poetic miraculous narrative invites us to participate, to be part of the process and to be changed by the process, not passive recipients but participants.
This month I have been reading, The Half Has Never Been Told, a story about the formation of the US on the backs and bodies of black men and women. My heart broke and continues to break as I read the vivid descriptions of the death and despair visited on all those people, as I read how they would sing themselves back to life, dare to hope again and again, dare to see themselves as so much more than what their abusers told them they were. That they were truly beloved children of God, holy and sacred people, cherished and loved.
It’s the image of men and women picking cotton under brutal conditions but nonetheless singing gently, over and over again, to a young girl, a new arrival in the cotton fields, who’s despair at having been sold away from her family, at being brutalized and having no hope of rescue, threatened to drown her under the hot sun. She was more dead than alive. Yet they sing to her, gently, persistently, calling her to come out of the tomb, day after day, until she too sings, a corpse pulled back to life. “Where are you Liza Jane?” they sang, “come back to us, come home Liza Jane.”
This is resurrection. This is new life. The first strangled bits of song to pass her lips, new life, hope, an inescapable freedom, being born again under the unseeing eye of the overseer. And it does not matter if this worldly power shows up as overseer, Roman centurion, ISIS, or SS guard, it is a power that breaks one. It is power over others and it is a power that does not see or recognize the subversive power of love, of Christ and resurrection.
Resurrection is not power over but that gentle, persistent thread of hope that refuses to give in to despair. This is not the walking dead resurrection, an insistence that the body still move and act, but a life fully lived, accepting the fullness of mortality and yes this means saying yes to death also. How many of us live a life half there? How many pull back in fear, in despair, in shock, at the horrors of life? Unwilling to say yes, this too, to all that comes, to all that might be, with a life fully lived.
Last week Humans of New York, a facebook page that in a truly gracious manner sees and recognizes all the incredible people of New York, featured a man who, after the death of his wife during childbirth, became stuck in the horror and fear that he would lose his daughter too. “I was unable to really be with her,” he said. “Every moment of my time with her I was afraid, afraid that I would lose her too and I missed a lot of moments that way.” That is, until he experienced a resurrection himself, till he moved past fear recognizing that his loss, his fear were keeping him from actually being with his daughter and he began to say “yes this too,” to the whole realm of possibility. Yes I may lose my daughter but right here, right now, I will be with her, and I will not allow my fear and my loss to stop that. Resurrection happens. It comes. We are a resurrection people.
If forgiveness releases us from the sting of the past, then resurrection releases us from the sting of the present, the fear of the future. We are released from the destructive power of pain and loss, of degradation and poverty, of isolation and anonymity. If forgiveness releases us from the evils we have done, resurrection releases us from the evils visited upon us through no fault of our own. We are given new hope, new life, that we might be able to continue, to live again. Resurrection looks to the future, to who we might be, to who we are called to be.
It is in recognition that some losses are too great to be compensated for that we turn to resurrection. There is no compensation that will make good some losses, only resurrection, only salvation can redeem these losses. God has promised to wipe every tear and we, as resurrection people, hold God to this promise, that all such loss will be redeemed, not compensated for, but redeemed, made good. This is the glory of resurrection, this is what it means to return to life, to live again, to be freed, not only from all that you have done, but from all that has happened to you.
Resurrection might also be a trembling, initial attempt to live again. Like Etty Hillesum singing on the train as it bore her to Auschwitz, knowing what was waiting at the end of the line. Surely there must have been tears along with the song. In opposition to all the powers of the world that told her she, and those like her, were nothing, she sang. Surely there must have been trembling now and then, but still Etty sang, still Etty dropped that last notecard from the train car as it pulled out, “We left singing” she wrote. Resurrection happens. But I suspect that it is not always the same. It is not always that bright burst of new life but sometimes a trembling, weak kneed step towards new life. It the insistence on being fully alive even through death and loss.
As resurrection people we are not asked to pay in religious dues through our prayers and attendance at church, in hopes of an afterlife reward but to live our lives fully right here, right now, allowing God to bring us back to life, right here, right now! To live as if all that we are and do matters, to live as if death, loss, and pain do not have the last word, because when we live as if it does, then our lives become small and timid, and we are not meant to be small and timid.
As a resurrection people we are asked to live fully by taking up our cross, by saying “Yes, this too,” to all the suffering, loss and pain, by singing to the lost souls, “Liza Jane, where are you?” by throwing those bold notes out the sides of the cargo car. We are most fully alive when we live for others, when we love greatly and without fear. When we love until it heals and we don’t stop until it does. We may step toward life with trembling and weak knees but we are called like Lazarus from the tomb to step forward, live more fully, be more alive, do not be afraid, do not withhold your heart. This is resurrection! To be called back to life when hope is impossible! To live anyway, to sing like Liza Jane in the fields or Etty in the cattle car. This is resurrection! To throw off the chains of trauma and pain and loss and live with joy in one’s heart anyway! In the midst of the world with all its difficulties and need, love and live fully, anyway, that we might be true children of the resurrection!
We are a resurrection people! Not the small and timid living in fear of loss and trauma but the radical, wild, unpredictable people of God! No wonder the powers of the world fear us. Those who are not afraid, who are known by their joy and their love, love which is not afraid!
This is the resurrection of our spirits and our hope. Easter invites us to let go of our fear and celebrate a love stronger than hate, a hope stronger than despair, a light stronger than darkness, a goodness stronger than evil.
Created in God’s image we sit here together to give thanks for the greatest of blessings. Created in God’s image we have been shaped and formed by those who have been birthed through us, been born of us. It seems to me that often we mistake mother’s day as being a day that celebrates those capable of birthing children but this is not so. Today we celebrate our inclusion in the mothering work of God. We celebrate that our hearts have been torn open and made tender. We celebrate that we can no longer dwell in the self-centered concern of adolescence or preteen years but that now our hearts and our minds, our very souls have been stretched like weary childbearing bodies to include a fierce and passionate love, a love that is deep and enduring, that changes us, that changes everything.
That we can be so unseated, so knocked off balance by this love is the miracle of motherhood. It is not that we must ourselves bear and carry a child but that we must ourselves allow our hearts and minds to be broken open, to be torn asunder by this love and by the knowledge that it is not safe. It is to remain open and vulnerable to the love of one’s child knowing we cannot keep them safe from the world and we cannot make their choices. It is to remain open and vulnerable knowing that our children must walk their own path, make their own mistakes and find their own way. It is the keeping of our hearts as the open and safe place to which they can return when life has left them bruised and things become uncertain. It is not the easy provision of answers but the uneasy provision of space in our already full and often fearful hearts, the caring without certainty. This is motherhood and this is the love that God, the mothering God of scripture, gives us.
Motherhood is less about bearing and childbirth, although these are tender and sacred things, than about the waiting and the hoping, the longing and the caring. It is to spend hours wondering how one might help one’s child without intruding. It is about listening for the door to open and hearing those glorious words, “Mom! I’m home!” It is about honoring the tears and the pain of one’s child and bearing that pain with them rather than intervening. It is about the waiting through endless days, months, even years to see their hearts open and blossom with the kindness and tenderness that we saw in them as children years ago. To see them become more than they can begin to believe in. This is motherhood. It is to see our children grow into their tall, strong, bodies, their independent, seeking minds, their questing, adventerous spirits, and to know that there is more. It is to hope and to know, to wait longingly, till love infects them too and carries them into their own soul searching, heartrending journey into the heart of the mothering God.
Mothering is to be given a glimpse into the very heart of God. To know, to experience, how power can be given up, surrendered willingly to make space for one who is loved beyond words. It is to know what it means to make oneself completely vulnerable as God has made God’s self vulnerable to us, to be changed and transformed by love. It is to know that all that we are and are not, all that we say and do, has incredible impact on those we love most and it is to be humbled by our inadequacy to this task. It is to know that at some point we must surrender our role as mother to the mothering God, to the one who is up to the task and who will not fail our children but who can meet their every need. And it is to know that we can mother only because God has our back and that the end is secure. It is the love of our mothering God for us that allows us to embrace every moment in its tender fragility and its passing temporality. We love because God has first loved us. We are mothers because God has mothered us and has shown us the way. Mothering is not simply a physical thing or a genetic thing, although these may play a part for some people, it is about loving another so wholly and completely that we give our whole selves to the task and that we allow them to have their own journey. It is to allow another to play with our heartstrings and to know that with the grace of God it will be the sweetest melody we have ever been a part of.