2nd Corinthians 4: 8-9
“After Orlando: Hard Pressed, Perplexed, Persecuted, and Struck Down. But…” June 25, 2016 Sermons from Park Hill Congregational UCC Denver, Colorado The Rev. Dr. David Bahr Once, two Buddhist monks were on a journey to a distant monastery when they came to a river. Like a rushing Colorado stream in early summer, despite the water’s depth, the current was quite strong. A young woman sat on the bank and said, “I’m afraid I might be swept away. Could one of you carry me across?” The first monk didn’t even acknowledge her and walked right past. He had taken vows to never look at let alone touch a woman. He simply walked into the rushing waters and pushed through to the other side. The second monk bent down so the woman could climb on his back. She wasn’t heavy, but the rushing water and the rocky bottom made for a precarious crossing, the potential to topple at any time. Once they reached the other side, he let the woman down and hurried on to meet up with his traveling companion. After some hours walking in silence, the first monk could no longer contain his anger. Irate, he burst out, “How could you touch that woman? Don’t you know our vows forbid it? You’ve put both our reputations at risk.” The second monk smiled and looked at his companion. “I put that woman down way back there on the river bank. But I see you’re still carrying her.”[1] The news media has largely moved on, but the shooting in a gay nightclub in Orlando is still very much on my mind. Gay nightclub. A place of sanctuary for LGBT people and straight friends – the queer community. Growing up, “queer” was a derogatory term. But younger people have embraced it. Unless it’s said by a bigot or a homophobe. And yet, it’s still not a term I’m particularly comfortable with or readily use to describe myself. The argument is that it’s more encompassing and certainly much easier to say than the LGBTQQIAA community – lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex,[2] asexual, and allies community. And so, the queer community was attacked. We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down. The queer community was attacked, on Latin night. The overwhelming preponderance of the 49 dead had Spanish surnames. Young people who were Latino, Latina, and Latinx.[3] Latinx, I learned only after the shooting, is a more gender inclusive term than the binary limitations in Spanish of male and female. A broader representation, sort of how queer is more encompassing. But, like the fact that it was a gay nightclub, it is important to name that young queer people of color are an especially vulnerable group, particularly in the trans community. 21 trans women were murdered last year.[4] Twenty year old Goddess Diamond in New Orleans was the 14th victim already this year. We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down. Naming is important. As president, Ronald Reagan refused to utter the word AIDS before 36,058 people had already contracted the disease, with over 5,000 dead.[5] Thank God for the kind of leadership today that speaks our names. Like Loretta Lynch who said, your government sees you. In the aftermath of Orlando, there were those who celebrated that the victims were queer;[6] sad but not surprising. I expected it. We know hatred and violence. But too many more, in churches and elsewhere, made no mention of who was at Pulse that night. Their silence is further victimization. But also still very much on my mind are the members of Mother Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Rev. Clementa Pinkney, Cynthia Hurd, Ethel Nance and six more.[7] African Americans know hatred and violence. Charleston was only one of many churches that has been targeted, burned and/or bombed, members killed and then ignored. We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down. Ethel Nance’s daughter, Nadine, famously, shockingly told the killer two days later, “I forgive you. You took something very precious away from me. You hurt me. You hurt a lot of people, but God forgives you, and I forgive you.” On the spot, perhaps ready or not, members of the other 8 families followed her example. We all listened, stunned. Yet one year later, Nadine’s sister, Rev. Sharon Risher, said she still isn’t ready to forgive. “I’m not bitter, but I can’t.” The shooter doesn’t even act like he wants to be forgiven. Risher had to leave her job, finding the demands of her employment as a hospital chaplain too emotionally draining as she still grieves her mother. Rev. Anthony Thompson’s wife Myra was killed, but he said he won’t let the shooter control his life. He said he began to heal the moment he spoke the words of forgiveness. Alana Simmons, whose grandfather was among those murdered, gave up her job as a middle school music teacher to run a non-profit called the Hate Won’t Win Movement. That’s the way she copes – focusing on the potential for good. She said, “I couldn’t harbor hate in my heart and then go out and preach love.” But Arthur Hurd, whose wife Cynthia died, said that the only thing that will bring him joy again is to be the one who pulls the switch that ends Dylann Roof’s life.[8] I really like the wisdom of the story I read at the beginning about two monks and its lesson about hanging on or letting go. But I’m not sure I could do that in the face of the violent death of my loved one. In fact, it’s pretty likely that I would be quite angry at anyone who told me that story and suggested I do the same. Because even now, when people have already moved on from Orlando, I get angry that the victims can be so easily let go. These are my people. Inside I think, can’t you see that this was not an isolated incident? We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down. The hard fought gain of marriage equality in many ways has only emboldened opponents to find more insidious forms of violence and hatred. The end of slavery brought us Jim Crow laws. The election of an African American president brought us birthers and obstructionists. The beginning of marriage equality has brought us bathroom laws and the BS otherwise known as “religious liberty.” Will not even the violent deaths of 49 make this climate of hatred obvious? Or 35 trans women murdered in 18 months? Yup. I’m angry. And frankly, I’m not sure what I would do with all this if I didn’t have a church to return to week after week. A place to put all of these conflicting emotions into context. Scripture has something to say about his moment: We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. (2nd Corinthians 4: 8-9) Not much has been said about the domestic violence that the Orlando shooter’s first wife and tens of thousands of women experience every day. The targeted hatred against Muslims. Hate speech directed at Mexicans. Scapegoating of refugees and immigrants. How do we process such helpless realities and the multitude of suffering experienced in our homes, and in our neighborhoods, our cities, and countries around the globe? How? Through the practice and pattern of worship.[9] Generations upon generations of people have made their way through life’s joys and all its sorrows through worship. As we enter the sanctuary we are immediately made aware that we are part of a community, a people that transcends labels and categories and divisions that are used to separate us during the week. By gathering to worship we choose to proclaim that there is another truth beyond that which we hear all week – that we are the center of the world, that we are individuals who make our own destiny. That hate wins. That nothing can be done. Outside of church, we’re expected to answer “I’m fine.” But in our prayers, we can say to God and to each other, “I need you to survive.” In this safe haven, in silence here with God, and sometimes in words with others, we can confess that not all is right. And in it we have permission. We can stop hiding, we can stop pretending, we can stop denying the brokenness of our world and of our lives. Week after week God speaks what we need to hear through song and prayer and sermon. Whether we hear it or not, it’s there – love and grace abundant. In scripture each week we hear an alternate reality; a wisdom, assurance, and challenge that sends us back out of these doors to think and act differently. Perspective gained. Gratitude expressed. In the sacrament of communion we remember, we re-enact, a human body broken, one’s life blood poured out. God’s solidarity with humankind. A ritual act of our being in this together. It’s in the practice and pattern of worship that God accepts my anger, our grief, why have you forsaken us, and my inability to articulate clearly because God listens to what is underneath. I need that to survive. I’m not sure what I would do without it. Thank you for being my church – and for being here today. Any time we may think, “I’m not sure if I want to go to church today,” think of all the people who need you to show up for them. Mary Luti said, “The truth about human beings is that we're all broken. The larger truth is that we heal. And we heal each other. We have the power, often by the simplest of acts, to help each other heal.”[10] And today, especially, with each of us in our own way, with our own griefs and losses, our own fears, in our own families and communities, we can remember that we are not alone: We may be hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. For that I say, Amen! [1] Each Sunday this summer we are reading a wisdom tale. This is a Zen tale in Doorways to the Soul: 52 Wisdom Tales from Around the World, edited by Elisa Davy Pearmain, Pilgrim Press, 1998, p. 121 [2] “Intersex” is a general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a reproductive or sexual anatomy that doesn't seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male. See more at http://www.isna.org/ (Intersex Society of North America) [3] Pronounced La TEEN ex. To learn more, http://www.pri.org/stories/2016-06-21/writer-jack-quemi-explains-meaning-latinx [4] http://www.advocate.com/transgender/2016/6/03/these-are-trans-people-killed-2016 [5] http://www.sfgate.com/opinion/openforum/article/Reagan-s-AIDS-Legacy-Silence-equals-death-2751030.php [6] http://sacramento.cbslocal.com/2016/06/13/sacramento-baptist-preacher-praises-orlando-gay-nightclub-attack/#.V2BN8CAZOxY.facebook [7] http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2015/06/18/415539516/the-victims-9-were-slain-at-charlestons-emanuel-ame-church [8] http://www.reuters.com/article/us-south-carolina-shooting-idUSKCN0Z21NG [9] Thanks to Rev. Erin Gilmore of Loveland UCC for this [10] Mary Luti, Still Speaking Devotional, June 24, 2016
2 Comments
Sermons from Park Hill Congregational UCC Denver, Colorado Rev. Dr. David Bahr [email protected] June 5, 2016 “Allies and ‘The Other’” Psalm 15 – Common English Bible “Who can live in your tent, Lord? Who can dwell on your holy mountain? 2 The person who lives free of blame, does what is right, and speaks the truth sincerely; 3 who does no damage with their talk, does no harm to a friend, doesn’t insult a neighbor; 4 someone who despises those who act wickedly, but who honors those who honor the Lord; someone who keeps their promise even when it hurts; 5 someone who doesn’t lend money with interest, who won’t accept a bribe against any innocent person. Whoever does these things will never stumble. [1]Once, long ago in a distant land, a prince was riding through a deep forest far from his home with his company of soldiers, looking for new lands to conquer. Quite suddenly he came upon a clearing in the trees and there before him stretched a meadow leading up a hill. The meadow and hill were gloriously covered with wildflowers and blossoming trees. But even more stunning, at the top of the hill was a castle that seemed to be made of pure gold. It sparkled so brightly in the sun, the prince was nearly blinded. Fascinated and curious, the prince signaled to his regiment and they raced up the hill toward the castle. As they drew near, he saw a face appear through a window – a face that shone more brilliantly than the sun. And then it was gone. Instantly he fell in love. He knocked upon the castle door. “Who is there?” came the most wonderful sounding voice. “It is I, Prince Rindleheart. I am known throughout the land for my bravery. My armies are the strongest. My wealth is vast. Would you like to meet me?” “There’s only room for one of us in here.” The prince rode away in shock. “Obviously, I’m going to have to do something even more impressive.” So he traveled through seven kingdoms, fighting dragons, escaping dungeons, taking land. Everywhere he went he was proclaimed a hero. And yet, the only thing he wanted was to meet the stranger behind the window in the castle on the hill covered in glorious wildflowers and blossoming trees. The words “There’s only room for one of us in here” kept ringing in his ears. He sought out the wisdom of a wise woman. “Perhaps your armies are too intimidating.” Of course, he thought. He returned on a single horse to the castle alone and knocked on the door. “Who is there?” spoken in that voice that touched something in his soul. Humbly, this time, he replied, “It is I, the prince, alone.” “There’s only room for one of us in here.” He backed away. Confused. Dejected. He spent the next several years roaming the wilderness, unable to conceive of why he wasn’t invited inside. Along the way he met another wise woman who suggested, “Perhaps the ‘real you’ cannot be known when covered in armor and weapons.” “Of course!” said the prince. So he returned to the hill that was covered in glorious wildflowers and blossoming trees and more thoughtfully climbed toward the castle and its frustratingly impenetrable door. He knocked quietly. The voice replied “Who is there?” Oh, that voice… “It is I, your humble servant. Not a soldier. Just me.” “There’s only room for one of us in here.” He was crushed. He was crippled by dejection. For seven more years he wandered alone in the forest. Eventually he gave up his kingdom, too overcome with grief thinking only of the one whom he had not even yet met. One day while wandering he found himself right there at the bottom of the hill covered in glorious wildflowers and blossoming trees. He slowly walked up the hill toward the castle. No armies. No armor. No more wealth. “Who is there? The prince took a breath. “It is thou.” And the door opened. Who is there? (boisterously) It is I. (less confidently) It is I? (calmly) It is I. Still not enough? What am I missing? (humbly) It is thou. I don’t know if the storyteller meant it, but I can’t help but make a connection to the famous work of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber. “I and thou.” A little about Buber:[2] he had been deeply involved in the study and practice of mysticism – a mysticism that stressed the surrender of one’s individuality, a loss of self. But he came to reject this, and here’s why. One day in 1914 a young man came to see him, asking for guidance before entering the army. Buber answered all his questions and felt happy about being able to help the young man. But after he left, Buber was troubled. He realized he hadn’t really listened to what lay under the questions the man was asking; questions, in fact, he didn’t even know to ask, let alone, how to ask. The unarticulated were the questions that really troubled the young man. Sadly, the young man died in battle shortly after that. You might think, I would have thought, that the very answer to Buber’s experience would be the surrender of his individuality, his pride, the loss of self in order to truly hear the unarticulated questions of the young man. Rather, his experience led to Buber’s life’s work: that a human being becomes a person in the face of the Other. “No matter whether spoken or silent, there is only genuine dialogue when each of the participants really has in the mind the other or others in their present and particular beings and turns to them with the intention of establishing a living mutual relation between him or herself and them.”[3] Or more simply, we don’t become human beings by giving up our self. Then we have no way to relate. But relating to the Other happens not just as I and Thou. Buber also identified the I and It relationship. And too much of our relating to the other happens in the form of the other as object. The “It” can be about things, possessions and the like. Our striving. We can, in fact, equate ourselves, our sense of self-worth, to how many things we have, or how much money we have to obtain those things we think are necessary for a happy life. Yes. But too often it’s also how we relate to other human beings. The blacks. The gays. The Muslims. The Jews. The homeless. It’s not always bad. The motives don’t have to necessarily be bad. Well-meaning people have often been moved to say, “We need to help those people.” “Let’s do outreach to them.” “They need us.” “It is I, here to help!” It starts out innocently enough, with no malicious intent. But the frustrations of those being “helped” can rise and rise. Finally, the question our allies ask: “Is it better to be ignored or to be helped?” In his Letter from Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr., wrote “I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that [our] greatest stumbling block in [the] stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate,” our friend until trouble arises and then they become “more devoted to “order” than to justice…” Then where are our friends?[4] When questioned, however, goodhearted, sincere people have often felt hurt by what feels like rejection. But it only happens when first we, perhaps unknowingly, relate to others as “It” instead of “Thou.” Lila Watson, an Australian aboriginal woman, once famously said: “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. [Go home.] But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”[5] Knock knock. Who is it? It is I. Knock knock. Who is it? It is I. Knock knock. Who is it? It is I. Knock knock. Who is it…? It is Thou. You may enter now. A story of personal connection from Roshan Kalantar[6] [1] An original tale, “The Castle Door,” in Doorways to the Soul: 52 Wisdom Tales from Around the World, edited by Elisa Davy Pearmain, Pilgrim Press, 1998, page 56. The use of the ideas such as princes and castles and so forth almost caused me to pass on this story, but its overall message is worth it. I changed language about the object of the prince’s interest to non-gender specific. [2] Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel, “How does one build an “I and Thou” relationship?” http://rabbimichaelsamuel.com/2008/06/how-then-does-one-build-an-%E2%80%9Ci-and-thou%E2%80%9D-relationship/ [3] ibid [4] For an excellent example read Marchaé Grair’s blog post in the UCC’s New Sacred entitled “So you say you’ve got white privilege. Now what?” http://newsacred.org/2016/06/so-you-say-youve-got-white-privilege-now-what/ [5] This quote has served as a motto for many activist groups in Australia and elsewhere. A possible origin for the quote is a speech given by Watson at the 1985 United Nations Decade for Women Conference in Nairobi. Watson has said of this quote that she was "not comfortable being credited for something that had been born of a collective process" and prefers that it be credited to "Aboriginal activists group, Queensland, 1970s." [6] Each week this summer someone from the congregation will offer a story of personal connection to the wisdom story that week. If you’d like to be considered, ask for a copy of the book and let me know which stories you could tell a story from your own life. |
AuthorI love being a Archives
March 2024
|