Sermons from Park Hill Congregational UCC Denver, Colorado Rev. Dr. David Bahr [email protected] July 3, 2016 “Delores the Messiah” Psalm 82: 3-4 – Common English Bible 3 Give justice to the lowly and the orphan; maintain the right of the poor and the destitute! 4 Rescue the lowly and the needy. Deliver them from the power of the wicked! [1] Once there was a monastery so beautiful and peaceful that people drove way out of their way just to wander around and sit on its lush green lawn under the big cottonwood trees. The monastery had gained a reputation among people who were always feeling frenetically hurried and perpetually stressed. Go there and you will find relief. Grieving people came to sit under the gently swaying weeping willows to experience hopeful quietness, not just the quiet of loneliness. But the monastery fell upon hard times. Many of the monks left in dissatisfaction. Soon, only a handful of them and their leader, the abbot, remained. They were constantly fighting among themselves, each blaming the hard times on the faults and failings of the other. Such an atmosphere overtook the grounds. There was something different in the air and, slowly, people stopped visiting. One day a travelling rabbi stopped at the monastery to rest for the night. He ate and prayed alongside the monks. The next day, as the rabbi prepared to continue on his journey, the abbot drew him aside. He told him of the problems of his monastery and asked for his help. Tell me your observations and please give me some advice to share with the other monks. The rabbi was quiet. The abbot begged. “Can’t you give me any advice to help my monastery thrive again?” “Well, I did discover that the Messiah lives here at the monastery.” The abbot was astonished. “Where? There’s nobody here but us.” “Well, I’m not sure who,” said the rabbi. “But tell your monks to be on the lookout. One day you’ll know.” The abbot was frustrated that the rabbi had no real advice but thanked him and wished him well on his way. He then gathered the monks together to tell them. As they looked at each other, they were genuinely skeptical. There’s no one else here but us. No one said it, but each thought, and there’s certainly no Messiah among this bunch of SOBs…sad ornery brothers. Certainly not Brother Henry. He could find the downside of the sun rising in the morning. He was such a pessimist about everything. Certainly not Brother Thomas. He never shut up. Always going on about one thing or another, getting into people’s private business. Or Brother Michael either. He’s too quiet. We never even know what he thinks. But, maybe… And certainly not Brother Robert. He’s so gruff and disagreeable. He never, ever has a smile on his face. Or maybe that’s just a disguise. Maybe it’s the abbot. Eventually each of them got to the thought – uh oh. Maybe it’s me. As Brother Clarence thought, my attitude often makes me the least likely of any of us. But, what if I’m the Messiah? After a few months, Brother Michael asked the others: “Doesn’t it seem like every day there are a few more people wandering around, sitting under the cottonwood trees?” Brother Adam agreed, adding, “It seems like every week there are more cars here than the week before.” The atmosphere had, in fact, become palpably different as each of the monks began to see the potential that one of them might be the Messiah – even themselves. In time, some of those wandering the grounds asked about joining. In time, every room in the monastery housed a new monk. And once again it was a thriving community. The Messiah lived across the street from the church until a week ago Thursday, or at least, she might have been the Messiah. Delores was difficult, as one of her granddaughters told me a few days ago. She was one of those people whose Messiah-potential might have been hard to see under a proud, independent and gruff exterior. But for whatever or no reason at all, her children came to see her less and less. And so, for whatever or no reason at all, none of them saw the notices in the mail that she hadn’t paid her property taxes for three years. Defiantly independent, stubborn, hard-headed, she wouldn’t tell anyone she needed help. So eventually, people stopped offering to help. Tammy and I watched helplessly as four squad cars of Sherriff’s deputies moved in. Soon a fire truck arrived and then an ambulance. Delores was removed on a stretcher, yelling “Call the media, call the media.” Once she was out of the house, a half dozen men waiting on the back of a pickup truck moved in and carried her three or four decades-worth of belongings out onto the front lawn, upon which a few hours later, came a heavy afternoon downpour. The social dynamics of the situation were striking and clear. White officers enforcing the law, removing an 80 year old black woman, while a group of Hispanic men came and did the work of emptying the house of her belongings. One of those men felt sorry for her so he went and bought black tarps to cover everything. What a kind gesture, I told him. I kept hoping to see one her children come and, if nothing else, gather up family treasures, like the daughter who was here when she was taken away. But I can’t blame them. I don’t know the situation. When no one came, one of the women on the Black Lives Matter leadership team, which fortunately was meeting here that night, had the idea to rummage around all those piles and rescue photo albums and maybe find some contact information. On Thursday, while I was talking to the man filling the dumpsters, one of her granddaughters drove up and looked horrified. She had no idea. No one told her what had happened. She only had an inkling that she should check on Delores. It had been more months than she could count since she had last spoken with her, but something told her to go visit. She was pained to see the piles of her grandmother’s belongings, now having been on the lawn for a full week. “Nobody much talked to her anymore,” she said. “She was kind of difficult.” My own contact with Delores had already given me that clue. She sent me a letter threatening to call the cops if our members kept parking in front of her sidewalk. It’s not against the law to park in front of a sidewalk. I went over to speak with her about it. A handwritten cardboard sign taped to her front door said “No crackheads, pimps, and hos.” And a list that included a few more. The list ended, “only those who love Jesus can enter this house.” A little alarmed, I hoped I would be judged worthy. I took a chance and rang the bell. No answer. I knocked on the door but to no avail. And so I left. Had I known she might be the Messiah, I might have kept trying. Her neighbors might have kept trying. Her family might have kept trying. About a month ago I met with two women who run a consulting business that works with churches wishing to engage racial justice issues more deeply. Some of you remember one of them, Rev. Dawn Riley Duval, who preached a powerful sermon for us in February. I told them about our passionate history of work in the 1960s to make this a racially integrated neighborhood. And I told them the opposite is now happening, quickly. With every house sale, Park Hill is becoming less racially diverse. Surely our church’s history should inform our concern with this development. What could we do? Then Delores, an elderly black woman living directly across the street from our front door, was evicted over a few thousand dollars in back taxes, her house sold to a flipper for 25% of its value. I can’t tell you how sickened this makes me feel. If only there could have been an intervention. I shared this regret at last Tuesday’s Governance Team meeting. Is there something we can do? That we could have done? We discussed some possibilities, including something as simple as starting with a block party so we can help our neighbors know each other. There might be other things too, if anyone is so inclined to gather and try. After all, one of our core values is: Love of Neighbor, Diversity, and Social Justice. That one statement – a Trinity – is what Delores is all about. I called the executive director of Greater Park Hill Community. GPHC was a group of church and other activists formed in the 60s to facilitate racial integration. I asked whether this was on their radar – do you know we are going backward? She understood but lamented that “We can’t stop the relatives of those elderly black homeowners from selling in this good market.” But she expressed concern too. We need some people on our board who feel passionate about this. She knew a couple of people who had been asking the same thing. I’ve been reaching out to the clergy of the original six churches that formed Greater Park Hill. Is there something we can do together about the re-segregation of our neighborhood? It seems to me that perhaps Delores really was the Messiah. Is. She’s still alive. Under her rough exterior, she is someone who could actually unite us to work together. I mean, how many times have we said that great things can grow out of a tragedy? Haven’t these kinds of things been sparked from your own life of regrets that return as opportunities? Delores the Messiah. The Messiah walks in your own midst too. Here. And at your school. And at your job. And passes by your front door. The one you may least expect. Maybe even yourself. The Psalmist said about Delores the Messiah: 3 Give justice to the lowly and the orphan; maintain the right of the poor and the destitute! 4 Rescue the lowly and the needy. Deliver them from the power of the wicked! [1] Unknown origin, “The Messiah is Among You,” in Doorways to the Soul: 52 Wisdom Tales from Around the World, edited by Elisa Davy Pearmain, Pilgrim Press, 1998.
1 Comment
Sherry Buckner
7/3/2016 05:07:47 pm
Wow...this cuts to the quick! I am struck that it takes REAL work to do the gospel.
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