Thursday, September 19, 2024

Gentle Souls with Fighting Spirits, A Hymn

Notes:

Reverend Paul Powell and Bob Marye were two men who had a great impact on my life and my theology. Both looked at the world with possibility, whether it be as a woodworker turning a beautifully layered piece of wood, a cook tasting the possibilities while surveying a pile of food, or as an ethicist challenging a social system. They wanted the world to be better, for the Church to be better, and for all to feel and to be welcomed to the table.

Paul gave me a book, Saved By His Life, by Theodore R. Clark, that gave me language for how I was beginning to see Jesus in my beginning adult years. I still refer to it from time to time and marvel at how “progressive” Clark was for his time. Every time I re-read it, I think about Paul trusting me, guiding me, and taking me in—a Baptist stuck in a bit of Protestant purgatory—no judgement, just open arms.

Bob gifted me a handmade wooden box when I moved back to Georgia from New Orleans. It holds an assortment of tea bags, so every time I take the time to sit and drink a hot cup, I remember his soft voice, laugh, and wise words.

I chose the hymn tune BEACH SPRING because a favorite hymn of mine, “The Servant Song,” is set to the tune. I can think of no better servants than Paul or Bob. Their footsteps were as steady as the hymn’s meter. They marched, but not intent for war; they were bold, but not overwhelming.

I could think of no better way to honor Paul and Bob than to do something connected to music! Both loved Creativity herself and loved dancing to her divine melodies and purposeful lyrics. The first four stanzas speak to their talents and the ways in which they used their gifts to bring goodness to the world. The “calls to” in each verse are for both the individual and the group, for as remarkably capable as each man was on his own, both strongly encouraged those around them to join any movement connected to God’s love coming down.

The fifth verse, set apart by italicized text, is written in direct gratitude for Paul and Bob and for all those saints who have let the God-image within them shine upon us.

I loved these two gentle-men and equal parts grief and fondness wash over me when I think of them and the wonderful people I love at St. Charles Avenue Baptist Church. You all are always, always with me.

Peace Be,

Reverend Stephanie Coyne


Gentle Souls with Fighting Spirits                                                                                 Stephanie Little Coyne

Sung to Tune: BEACH SPRING

1.      Gentle souls with fighting spirits,

champions for civility,

lift your voice and lift your neighbor, 

fight for God’s humanity.

At the frontlines of our battles,

sharpened swords so often win.

Who will advocate for freedom?

Who will liberate with pen?

 

2.      Artists who compose with purpose,

shape the tree and guide the sound.

Lend your gifts for Holy causes.

Feed the hungry who gather round.

God calls out, “Creators join me!

Who will make and make anew?

Carve and sing and stitch and fashion.

Restoration rests with you.”

 

3.      Prophets who are willing students, 

teach with words both new and old.

Challenge those whose speech discourages.

Words of peace are ever bold.

Who will wake when morning calls out,

“Come, meet Jesus at the well?”

Trust that bread will be provided;

trust the jar to never fail.


4.      Gentle souls with fighting spirits,

champions for civility,

lift your voice and lift your neighbor, 

fight for God’s humanity.

When you cry out in fear and longing,

overcome by brokenness,

God’s good earth will keep you grounded

in this sacred wilderness.

 

5.      We give thanks for those among us

who so simply shared God’s way.

Driven by a hope for freedom,

They all marched non-violently.

Not with thunder or in earthquakes,

but they guided with gentle breeze.

And as Christ, they displayed mercy,

Now with God, they dwell with ease.

 

 

 © Copyright 2024. All rights reserved.



When Silence Tells the Story

When Silence Tells the Story

A Sermon Given to Milledge Avenue Baptist Church

1 Kings 17-19; Jeremiah 17:5-8

By Stephanie Little Coyne

 

It is interesting to me that Pastor Nathan would pass along 1 Kings 19 to me for the lesson today. Any woman teaching from a text that begins with Jezebel has to be a little curious… To use his own words against him, a quote from his sermon last week: “Jezebel’s name has become a derogatory label for women considered to be too self-assured, too seductive, too promiscuous, too ruthless, too manipulative, or too controlling.”

Let me assure you that as I continue to roll along into my middle ages, I am not “too” anything. With my roles as hospital chaplain, mother to both human and canine children, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, and long-lost friend, the only adjective that might describe me that begins with “too” is “too tired.”

I genuinely believe that Nathan did not set me up for this passage, and truly, I am greatly pleased to have been involved with this part of scripture the past couple of weeks. I love preaching from the Old Testament. Maybe it excites the (long-ago) literature major in me. I do love metaphors and imagery. I also love a good story filled with rich character development.

I love a good storyteller! I have always loved reading, but in adulthood, I have figured out that I love audiobooks. Maybe it is the time spent commuting to and from work. Maybe it’s the full-of-sound house that necessitates the use of headphones in order to absorb meaningful words from rich texts… I do appreciate an enlivened narrator who is able to make a story come alive!

Nathan has led you into Elijah’s life in his Old Testament series. Let me join you as we return to the fractured kingdom of Israel together this morning. I will begin with verses you have heard before in order to set up our texts for today.

Based on 1 Kings 17-19:

It is the time of kings and queens and prophets, of power and foretelling. War and destruction are always a threat and generations of people have lived through extremes—prosperity, exile, and enslavement. While musicians may entertain self-centered royalty, no sweet melodies are heard from the people terrorized in their own promised land. Perhaps their cries form into a raw hum as they mourn.

People groups live divided by tribes or gods or race. Even the land itself marks these divisions through rivers, mountains, and valleys.

In this setting of intense turmoil we add to it severe famine. Drought itself is a key player in this story. Water, for the third year, is scarce. Dynamic green has given way to wasted brown. Any clump of dirt you might pick up crumbles in your hand and falls down to the ground.

And there is dust everywhere. It rises up as you walk barefooted or in sandals, invading the spaces between your toes and clinging to the sweat on your body. Any wind that blows by picks up the dust and distributes it all around in such a way that you can never forget that all is parched.

The land is withered.

And who do the people of Samaria have to guide them through this famine? A kind king, like one from a Disney fairytale? A trusting king who sits on his throne and lets his people run the kingdom peacefully?

Not at all. They have Ahab. And is he evil, ruthless, the king who “did evil in the sight of the Lord more than all who were before him.” (1 Kings 16: 30)

Ahab, in every sense of the phrase is a very, very bad dude.

And he is now the earthly ruler of Israel in Samaria, holding the beliefs of his wife, Jezebel, and her god “Ba-al, the god of fertility and the god of rain,” above the God of Israel.

But—it is not a time of rain or fertile ground. Drought is a bold, in-your-face, will-not-be-ignored character who has been written into the story by God’s command.

Elijah appears in the story as an immediate contrasting figure to Ahab. The first words he speaks in this story are prophecy from Yahweh to Ahab: “As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.” (1 Kings 17:1)

And the Lord who speaks to Ahab through Elijah also directs Elijah away from Ahab to food and water and safety: “Go, hide, drink from the waters east of the Jordan and be fed by ravens.

And when that dries up, go. Go and live with a widow and her household. Whereas Ahab is housed with bold Jezebel, surrounded by riches, you, Elijah and the widow, along with her son, and her household will be fed aplenty by unimaginably small amounts of food and water.”   

The widow’s son becomes severely sick, a reminder that these are fragile times. God’s deliverance is present, but the infinity button has not been activated! The illness draws out the son’s last breath, Elijah cries out to the Lord who returns life to the boy.

Ahab and Jezebel have little concern for the lives of prophets or priests, let alone the son of a poor widow. They do not, nor do their prophets have the power to restore life to a living being; they have no power bring water to dusty land.

God speaks again to Elijah, the discerning intermediary:

“I will send rain.         

I will send rain, Elijah. I will send rain if you present yourself to Ahab.”

Elijah makes his way.

Meanwhile, Ahab is scrambling. Just as Jezebel is killing prophets, the drought is killing the land. Animals are dying and food is becoming scarce. Ahab sends Obadiah in one direction and then he goes in the other.

On the way to find water, Obadiah encounters Elijah, bows down, and with some protest, agrees to tell Ahab that Elijah wants to see him. Obadiah has the right to fear for his life if he becomes the go-between of Elijah to Ahab. Up until this moment, Obadiah has kept his faithfulness to Yahweh a secret from Ahab and Jezebel, guiding endangered prophets of the Lord to a cave and providing them with bread and water. If Ahab has any inkling that Obadiah might not be quite the devoted servant to the King as he believes him to be, then Obadiah’s fate will be the same of the prophets of the Lord. The precedent is set already.

Obadiah remains faithful and Elijah and Ahab meet. As you have heard before, the story goes up in volume and in action. At Elijah’s direction, Ahab gathers the 450 prophets of Baal, the 450 prophets of Asherah, and the Israelites to Mount Carmel. Elijah challenges the prophets to a game of “My-God-is-better-than-your-God”. Two bulls are gathered, along with firewood enough to make quite the show when lit, and then Elijah declares how the game will be won. Whichever God sends fire does in fact, control the fire…the fire and the rain.

It begins.

Ba-al’s prophets cry out for hours—"Send your fire! Answer us!”

But no answer comes. They cry on until sunset, “but there was no voice, no answer, and no response.” (1 Kings 18: 29)

The prophets “limp” out of this fight just as they “limped” onto the scene and then begin to lash themselves bloody in a scene described as “a violent, prophetic frenzy.” [i]

It is then Elijah’s turn. He begins by adding the elements of earth and water to the broken tree and broken animal and calls out to the God of old, the God of Israel, of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and Rebekah, “O Lord, answer me so that this people may know that you have turned their hearts back.” (1 Kings 18: 37) God answers with that “all-consuming” fire, so much so that the earth’s dust, rocks, tree, animal, and poured water are obliterated, gone, done with, destroyed.

But it is not yet quiet or finished. Ba-al’s prophets are rounded up and are too drained of life. Death is all around.

Ahab survives and is told by Elijah to follow the sound of rushing rain so that he can eat and drink. Elijah goes to the top of Mount Carmel, bows down and waits for the promised rain.

Elijah’s servant becomes his informer and after a total of eight times, reports to Elijah that the smallest of clouds is coming up out of the sea.

Does this little cloud hold hope? Could it soon begin to develop a color of compressed water and a weightiness of relief? Would the cloud signal to the wind to stir as further sign of rain?

Elijah needs no further indication and he sends his servant to Ahab to tell him what the wind has not yet announced, “a storm is coming—go! Take your chariot and return to your home.”  

Sure enough, the heavens begin to do their own crying out. Bigger clouds join the sky, the light of the sun is shielded from the ground, thunder begins to clap, lighting begins to clatter, and the air announces to the land: rain is coming.

It begins to pour.

The God who created the marvelous, nourishing, powerful water has lived up to the promise made to Elijah—rain has returned to the land. The possibility of living and of new life is all around.

God then races Elijah ahead of the fleeing Ahab and we find ourselves at the entrance to Jezreel and the beginning of Chapter 19.

What a story!

As hear-ers of this story, our ears might have perked up at familiar phrases—Elijah is sent to Ahab, an evil King. Elijah sends Obadiah. Haven’t we heard that before? Moses, go to the hard-hearted Pharoah. Jonah, go see the wicked people of Nineveh. David, go fight the giant Goliath. Nathan, go tell David that he is more than a stone’s throw from being a righteous king.

Whether they protest God’s direction or seem to go along with it, those who hear the voice of the Lord calling out for them to “GO,” have some cause to be hesitant.

Not only do we hear repetitiveness in God’s call to Elijah, there are other familiar themes in the chapters of this story: Famine, fire, drought, and destruction. Bread and water. Poor widows and dying sons. Jars and jugs that neither empty nor fail.

We’ve heard of caves before. Caves provide hiding spots and refuge. Caves are burial grounds. Caves are often places of mystery and darkness.

We’ve heard of people meeting powerful figures as they travel on their journeys, some who have been blinded by a great light, some figures who are cloaked in disguise, some strangers in need of help, some strangers who are not recognized for their divinity.

And yes, we’ve noticed the poles of extremes in scripture. Darkness and light. Floods and dry land. Famine and manna from heaven. Mustard seeds and mountains.

As we enter chapter 19, what repeated imagery might we hear next?

Elijah experiences another kind of extreme. Elijah goes from being fed, from being a restorer of life, from being a bold prophet, a director of God’s fire, and an executioner of God’s plan—from being a pursuer of a king in his chariot—to being pursued.

He is afraid. He is alone. He is without powerful speech. It is as though God has removed a cloak of protection from him, as though Moses’ staff might have been taken away.

He finds rest underneath a solitary broom tree. Can you see it? Look around you. Desert, wilderness, land that has only recently found relief with water. A solitary broom tree sits, just as alone and as set apart as Elijah.

Is there a distinction to be made about this tree as did both the Psalmist and Jeremiah? Is this tree a shrub in the desert or one planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream, sending out its roots by the stream, not fearing the heat, its leaves shining in the light?

It is shelter enough to provide space for Elijah to speak his worst fear: “let me die, Lord. I am scared. I fear that I am a failure in your sight. I am afraid, but I fear death less than I fear life, Oh Lord.”

He falls asleep with little possibility for beautiful dreams of restorative rest.

But he is awakened. “Eat. Drink, Elijah.” He does so and then returns to the firm ground.

Again, “Elijah. Wake up. Eat this stone-cooked cake and drink this water and be filled with strength enough for your journey.

He travels for forty days and nights (yes, we’ve heard that before too!), and comes to Horeb, the mount of God. (1 Kings 19: 8) This place is Mount Sinai, the very place where Yahweh meets Moses in a highlighted moment of the Exodus.

Elijah, assuredly in a significant location, finds himself on Mount Sinai in a cave. God speaks to Elijah that seems to be in the parental tone of “I already know the answer to this question but let me ask if of you to see if you know the answer.”

Why are you here, Elijah? Tell me the story of your silence.”

Well, God, I have been working for you, speaking for you—faithfully! I have upheld your covenant and pointed out to the limping Ba-al followers that they have not been doing so! Lord, I have been bold in my language and actions to Ahab and Jezebel. I have seen a lot of bloodshed, Lord. I have seen so much violence. I have taken part in so much death. And I am scared. I am scared for my life.

Yes, Elijah. Go. Go out to the mountain and look for me.

Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.

And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake;

And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire;

And after the fire, a sound of sheer silence. (1 Kings 19)

In the sound of utter silence, Elijah recognizes his Lord’s presence and once again, but in a totally new way, hears a familiar voice. The voice calls to him, “Elijah. Elijah. Why are you here?”

And then, “Go. You have rested. You have been fed. Go and return and see who I have anointed to help you on this journey.”

It is a quiet moment of thin, sacred space. Elijah, on the run from a beast of evil, now gently rests with a still, small, mindful voice of peace.

Could it be that the Lord has given us yet another instance of contrasting circumstances? Does God have an inside voice and an outside voice? God is not only in the fire, wind, and water, God is also in the loud and in the quiet. Not only does God balance the imbalanced world, God balances Godself, not to show off for an egotistical king, but to meet a scared prophet on the edge of a mountain…on the edge of a mountain.

Not only do I love a good story, I love the picture of two beings sitting—portrait-style—together. All is blurred around them and the focus is the relationship between the two because of the faithfulness of the two to each other. Put another way, is not any space sacred and safe when all involved have both time to hear and to be heard?

What stands out to you in this story? What do you hear? What causes you to pause, to want to read more, to want to meditate or think about the way it made you feel? I truly believe that at the heart of these Bible stories is in the power of the words themselves to bring about it us feelings that connect us to the divine in a completely unique way.

Perhaps you hear God’s voice with a little more impatience—“Where are you, Elijah?” I fully admit that my applied tones to the words and voices in this story are from my own reading of how it all comes together. I also come to the text with the voice of the poet Wendell Berry in my ear:

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come to Elijah’s story, energized by his faithfulness, amused by his snarkiness, and identifying with his fear that he has not lived up God’s expectations. Elijah is malnourished and dispirited. I deeply feel that hunger and hopeless. Have I heard God’s voice correctly? Could it be that God has withdrawn from me because I have withdrawn too far from the path set out before me? I have worried that my words have fallen flat, have been less than genuine, have been selfish, have been too many.

While I have never challenged an evil king and queen who could have ended my life, I have heard some painful statements and I have prayed for protection for my family. And surely, I have gotten to the place of grief and despair more than once in my life. I have lost confidence in my calling and in my ability to walk the journey of my calling.

And then I remember bread and water and hope—the divine trinity of all good restoration stories—and I feel the revitalization that begins to make its way through Elijah. I remember and recognize the family members, friends, colleagues, and even strangers, who have looked me in the eyes, perhaps cooked me a home-made meal, and undoubtedly heard me recite my worries and fears. I’ve heard a few say, “get up and keep going.”

Throughout my time with this verses, I have kept feeling and hearing the push to “tell the story.” Tell the story of trauma experienced and of life continuing to hold on.

In his groundbreaking book, The Body Keeps the Score, Bessel A. Van der Kolk, convincingly teaches that trauma we experience in life is held in our bodies in brutally evident ways (The biblical evidence of this is found in Exodus 32: 31-32, “Jacob is struck on the hip.”) as well as in the hidden, less obvious places of our minds—in the recesses of our souls, covered up with the Weighted Blanket coping skill.

Van de Kolk recalls a group therapy session in which he, along with a group of women who had experienced deep trauma, all sat together in silence and as he watched, he too “felt a familiar sense of helplessness, and surrounded by collapsed people, I felt myself mentally collapse as well. Then one of the women started to hum, while gently swaying back and forth. Slowly a rhythm emerged: bit by bit other women joined in. Soon the whole group was singing, moving, and getting up to dance. It was an astounding transformation: people were coming back to life, faces becoming attuned, vitality returning to bodies.”

The doctor adds: “Just like you can thirst for water, you can thirst for touch.”  

While I do not believe that I can assign modern psychological diagnoses to Elijah or the ancient kingdom of Israel, nor do I assign the word “traumatic” to their circumstances, I can see the despondency on their faces and hear their slow hums that echo with grief and accord. I feel their thirst, I feel their desire to see God, to hear God’s guiding voice.

But it is loud. Raised voices are as fired artillery and the barrage is soul-invasive.

I feel their desire to escape into wilderness and hear from the birds and the wildflowers. To finish Mr. Berry’s poem:

              I come to the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

It was quiet. And then, God spoke creatively. God spoke life from silence.

Barbara Brown Taylor writes in her book, When God is Silent:

How shall I break the silence? What word is more eloquent than the silence itself? In the moments before a word is spoken, anything is possible. The empty air is a formless void waiting to be addressed.

Anything is possible until God exhales, inspiring the void first with wind and then with the Word, which is both utterance and act, which makes something out of nothing by saying that it is so. All by itself it is no more than a pile of dust…but God sifts divinity into that dust. When God is through with it, this dust will bear the divine likeness.[ii]

This dry dust is divine. God takes the dust and turns it and molds it into beautifully formed pottery.

It was February 20, 2013. The day had come for the scheduled C-section of a certain birth mother. She was with her father who up until delivery time, had remained in the hospital room, a source of loving support for her. I asked if she wanted me too to step outside and she quickly replied, “stay, please.”

It had been a long few months for us. Jesse and I had made the decision to adopt a child and the emotional stress was intense. I suppose that every decision to bring a child into one’s home should be filled with some stress, however the child is to arrive at a home! With adoption though, there are many more people involved than two loving parents and medical personnel. Lawyers, social workers, counselors, judges—not to mention other family members—are all members of your support team but they are also involved in the process.

I lived with constant questions. Some were lighthearted, although practical: Are we really bringing another child into this small, married housing apartment? Most were more intense: Are we prepared for this financially, emotionally, mentally? What will it be like to have an adopted child and a biological child? There was also the question all adopting parents feel: What if it doesn’t happen? What if we have prepared so long for this—financially, emotionally, mentally—and it doesn’t happen? Can we handle that grief? How will we protect our sweet 2-year-old Annie? She has asked for none of this!

There I was, alone with Logan’s birth mother in the delivery room and for such a place, it was calm and quiet. There were only a couple of nurses, the doctor made her very quick entrance, delivered the healthy baby boy who cried a very normal first cry, and the nurses wrapped him up and showed him off to both of us.

At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought that I might be seeing what I wanted to see and tried to compose myself. But in a few minutes, as I was invited for his initial care and evaluation by the staff I heard the nurses whisper to each other, “he has red hair!”

He had red hair. And in those moments, all the hospital noise faded, Logan snuggled into his swaddling blanket, and every other sound and sight blurred in the background. All the stress and fear fell off of my shoulders as I leaned into the silence of God’s voice. Silence brought peace. Silence brought God’s face into view and I knew in my heart of hearts that God was with me and with Logan, with Jesse and with Annie. God was with this loving, young birth mother. God was with her nervous father. God was with the tenderhearted, respectful nurses. Though his red hair turned fairer and fairer to blond, and now, as it is a very, in the fullest, 11-year-old-boy-sense of the term, “dirty blond,” I will never forget that in silence, God emptied the chasm full of fear, and filled it with most blessed assurance.

When has silence knocked you down? When has silence helped you tell your story? When has despair brought you to the tree that held Jesus—the tree that was broken, the body that was broken—a marker of death and ending, only to replanted for life, flourishing life, everlasting?

Let us pray.

 

Wild Geese, By Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.


Whether they be geese or ravens, rushing rivers or small wells, may you too be fed in the wilderness. And whether you hear God’s peace in the grand concert hall or quiet sanctuary, in the song of the sparrow or in the hum of the earth, fall down, let the sounds reverberate until they are no more, and rest under the shade of the tree and be made whole again. Shalom and amen.
















Yes, God is in the fiery furnace, the parting sea, the swarms of pestilence and plague. And God is in the loud beginnings of creation, the voice of the one, crying in the wilderness, and the voice of the rocks, splitting in grief.

And God is also in the tiny speckly of sand in the desert, the droplet of water in a mighty river, and the free-flowing butterfly who flies in and around the vast valley.

God is with the elated and the disheartened, the whole and the parts.

 

 



[i] (Iain W. Provan, 2001, p. 524)

Monday, December 12, 2022

"Good Death" Forum, November 2022


Early American writer Mark Twain borrowed words from fellow writer Robert Richardson for his daughter’s headstone, words that I also borrowed for my Grandmother’s eulogy: “Warm, summer sun, shine kindly here. Warm, southern wind, blow softly here. Green sod above, lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, good night.”

I have served as a hospice chaplain, a minister in several churches, and as a hospital chaplain, and traveled for those jobs across middle & north Georgia and in New Orleans and surrounding parishes. There are those patient and congregant deaths that quickly come to mind: the teenager who suffered for so many years with Cerebral Palsy only to be diagnosed with a brain tumor during year 16. I met him as a young chaplain resident at this hospital, cared for him at his home and at a hospice inpatient unit, and then led his funeral at the end of his 17th year.

A woman who lived in a FEMA trailer with her grandson in the middle of crawfish territory who was still feisty enough to make a weekly trip to a nearby casino. Truth be told, she would’ve like to have her death there than the old trailer that wasn’t good for anyone’s health.

A 50-something year old man who, having been diagnosed with ALS just a few years prior, refused to be on his vent anymore & decided to withdraw himself from all supportive care.

And more recently, a young child who died in our ICU, without family. Be he didn’t die along; rather, in the arms of PICU nurses and staff who, without a doubt, loved that boy through his last breath.

It was the death of my grandfather when I was a middle-school student that has impacted me and parts of my life the most, even to this day. I met him once. And I met him only once because after he and my Grandmother divorced, he and his son—my father—rarely spoke again. As a wife, mother, daughter, chaplain, a person of faith, and as a general human being, I work from a bridge. I work hard for reconciliation, though I admit I have caused the trouble to begin with a time or two. I believe, I have to believe, in a God whose love is everlasting and strong enough to always be working for reconciliation.

And I believe strongly that reconciliation is a part of the peace that I hope is present for every death. I want love nearby. I want clarity of mind for all. I want free, sacred space for feelings to be shared.

I think a good death allows for stories to be told, for there to be tears and laughter, for a good death gives some time to remember a good life.

I also recognize that a good death for patients and their families often means that they are difficult ones for staff. When staff takes time to invest and hear and learn and see and meet…to become a loved one, a part of the family, then they, we, become another griever. Our hearts break too. And it is good to hear from colleagues and loved ones, “I know that patient meant a lot to you. What do you need?”

Breath. We need a breath. They family needs a breath. And a pause. Let sacred spirits have time to move—to calm, to bring any aspect of that peace for which we search.

 

 

 

 

Friday, August 19, 2022

Hope is Up to the Challenge, A Sermon Given to Milledge Avenue Baptist Church

 (36) Service of Worship June 26, 2022 - YouTube


Sermon for Milledge Avenue

June 26, 2022

“Hope Is Up to the Challenge”


It is good to be in Athens. It is good to be in Athens, even if it is not a day in the fall, fresh off an impressive win. Even as the landscape changes, as businesses come and go, and as the people I have known and loved have moved as I have moved, as my family has moved, it is good to be home. And though we have not lived here for years, I know that some of you may know more about me than should be shared with those who do not know on this Sunday morning!

It’s good to know that in the surrounding neighborhood, old azaleas peaked with blooms anew a few weeks ago & that were it not as hot as it will be today, picnic tables aplenty would be available for lunch just a few curvy streets away. I like to think about the fact that also nearby, a sleepy bear, several roaming deer, too many inquisitive reptiles, and a few screeching owls serve as good representatives of the human population in this city.

It is good to be in this place. It’s good to remember the 3-on-3 basketball tournaments in which my Dad and Franklin Scott, both campus ministers at the UGA BSU/BCM, and your former, former pastor Buddy Revels competed against more fit and agile, but also more cocky and unwise college students. I think those three referred to it as their “Ministry of Teaching Humbleness.”

It is good to be in this place too because I need to say thank you. Thank you for being a sanctuary for many in this town. Thank you for being a sanctuary for me as I grew up, but also when I was in college. I grew up at First Baptist Church, but I knew that Milledge Ave, a sister church, would be here for me if I needed your people. Thank you, today, for giving me a chance to come home. 

Thank you for giving space for Ginny Dempsey to minister. She preached at First Baptist as a graduating high school student and I’d like you to know I listened to her as the YOUNGER student. No matter the number of years ago, I still remember her sermon: “A Childlike Faith.” With those words, I have never forgotten the freedom she gave me to approach God with the confidence that it was okay for me to make that approach.

Thank you for giving Nathan Byrd a pulpit. He has always had plenty of words to share. As a child, I remember that he too, let me know that I mattered to God because Nathan Byrd has that way of talking to you as though you are the only one in the room and that for whatever amount of time you found yourself in conversation, you were who mattered to him the most.

Thank you for allowing them time to be with friends in ministry. Being a minister in ANY church is hard right now and it is good to share the joys, stresses, and griefs with those who care in the same way.

———————

Kate Braestrup is a chaplain for the Maine Warden Service, and for those of you who do not know why a chaplain would work for a fish & wildlife warden, (I only now know because of finding her story,) a chaplain for a warden service responds to outdoor events where tragedy has occurred.

In her story, “The House of Mourning,” Braestrup tells two narratives about deaths in which she was involved. The first death is her husband’s. He was a police officer killed in the line of duty. She shared that while the instinct of those around her was to protect her from seeing his body, she recalls a sense of urgency to tend to him, to clothe him, but she’s met with a great deal of resistance. So she reminded for her cautious colleagues the story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus saying, “Mary Magdalene didn’t have to overcome the protective skepticism of the disciples in order to [see and touch and anoint him].” Braestrup also notes, “nowadays we’re persuaded that it’s the presence of the body, not its absence, that is most distressing.”

Her second story is even more heart wrenching. It is a parallel story of a child wishing to see the body of her young cousin and best friend after an ATV accident. After careful thought and discerning from Chaplain Kate and the child’s parents, the unfolding of the decision to allow this to happen is a beautiful story. Braestrup shared her final thoughts: “You can trust a human being with grief. Just walk fearlessly into the house of mourning, for grief is just love squaring up to its oldest enemy. And after all these mortal human years, love is up to the challenge.”

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Grief, like the word love, has many forms. And like love, it is defined by time and place and relationship. Grief gets complicated because it also has tag-along emotions like anger, loneliness, and regret. Grief has stages. 

As a hospital chaplain, grief floats around regularly and in many of its different forms: Grief of tragic loss, grief from the anticipation of a death that will be—those are pretty obvious to identify. But there is also grief around loss of time, the loss of a child’s naivety, the loss of someone’s ability & autonomy. Grief also arises when a family realizes that people who they thought would offer support and comfort do not do so. Grief accompanies the joys of healing.  On the path of recovery, families discover that their lives will not be what they once were and that the family will need to find a new way in order to make way for the rehabilitation and care of one who has suffered injury.

A few weeks ago, when I read the lectionary passages for this Sunday, I felt the grief in the verses. You might say that my job would set me up for such an interpretation, but I do believe that we—the collective, worldwide, human “we”—are grieving in many ways right now. We are not all in the same stages, and many of us are in a stage of anger, but grief is fresh within us right now. If we love, we grieve. If we care, we grieve.

Can’t you feel the building emotion in the story of Elisha and Elijah? “Shh,” Elisha says to the companies of prophets. “ShhI know it is coming, but shh, leave me be so that I can be with him in peace. And when the moment finally comes, there is no more quiet. Waters are parted, the movement of the pair is halted, and in a fiery whirlwind, a chariot pulled by horses swoops down and carry Elijah away. With palpable emotion, Elisha tears off his clothes and cries out in mourning.

The story from Luke’s gospel this morning gives us a four more “grief settings,” with foreshadowing of a fifth. There is grief in rejection, grief in home-less-ness, grief in death, grief in saying goodbye. And in Jesus’ face, set to Jerusalem, the place where it will end before it will begin anew, there is grief of what-is-to-come—anticipatory grief.

But Jesus doesn’t give us what we want, does he? We want fire for our anger from rejection. We want to hear words of gladness from our commitment; we want time for ritual; time for goodbye. Jesus doesn’t pay attention to our feelings, he doesn’t acknowledge our “shh-es.”

Instead, Jesus responds with rebuke and parabolic statements that incline us to think we should be learning something big here. “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head; let the dead bury the dead; no one who looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

I am not sure how many emotions Jesus felt. Did Jesus ever crave a sweet treat? Without a doubt, I know that Jesus experienced grief: Jesus weeps at the death of Lazarus. Without a doubt, I know that Jesus cared for those who were grieving: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” (Matt 5:4) And I believe that a grieved Jesus flipped over some tables, pained from seeing the People of God misuse the Temple of God.

In so many of the stories of healing, there is a sense that Jesus recognized the grief of those who have come to him. I think of the men lowering their friend through the roof, of the woman who reached in desperation for Jesus’ cloak, even the woman who approached Jesus for her dying daughter. Jesus acknowledges their faith, yes, but he also seems to understand their varying burdens of grief, doesn’t he?

The pairing of this story of Jesus and the story of Elijah and Elisha is easy to see because the parallels between Jesus and Elijah are easy to draw. Remember, some even think Jesus to be the returned Elijah. But there’s another text with Elijah and Elisha in 1 Kings that also pairs well with this text.

It’s when Elijah first approaches Elisha. Elisha is at the plough, working in the field with 12 yoked oxen. Elijah places his covering—his mantle—over Elisha and Elisha drops his plough and rushes to greet and kiss Elijah and tells him, “I’m going to follow you.” But first, Elisha says, let me just go tell my mother and father goodbye. He does so. He slaughters the ox with the hardware of the yoke and they all eat, along with a group of other people.

Elisha commits to following Elijah. The plough disappears. The oxen and the yokes disappear. The burden is lifted and the path has changed. The connection points between Luke’s passage are there But, it’s differenta goodbye occurs.

The later passage also includes time for Elisha to express his grief, through denial and in loud angst.

Why has Jesus ruined this parallel? Why does Jesus seem so contradictory in the story in Luke? Has Jesus changed?

I don’t believe that Jesus has changed, but it is clear that his direction has. His face is set to Jerusalem. In this passage, we are made aware that Jesus is aware of time. Jesus understands and will teach, and is teaching us, that not all of our grief will be healed on earth.

Elisha picks up the mantle of Elijah and crosses back through the parted waters of the Jordan. He does more than look backhe goes back! But he doesn’t return to the plough or to the yoked oxen. His path is different and he carries with him the mantle of Elijah passed to him. God’s breath, God’s spirit, or as defined by the Hebrew word, “ruah,” is now within Elisha.

Jesus didn’t ruin the parallel, he carried it to the cross. By his death, and in the difficult passage of time until his resurrection, Jesus acknowledges that there will be moments of immense sadness, darkness, heavy clothes-tearing grief. There will be times of grief from divisiveness. And we will cry out in palpable devastation: “Come now, oh Lord.”

“Have you forgotten me? Can you hear me? Do you reject me?”

We will cry out, “Come now, Jesus.”

But by his resurrection, we are filled with Gods spirit, and we recognize that there is hope for our mourning. There is hope for our anger. There is hope for our loneliness, our regret.

God’s kingdom and our hope is in and among the weaving, through Old and New, through the Now and the What-Is-To-Come. And grief is a kingdom-thing: “Blessed will the mourners be when they enter the kingdom of heaven.”

It is as Henri Nouwen says, “Ultimately mourning means facing what wounds us in the presence of One who can heal.”

We have hope for an end to our grief because we have hope for reunion. We also have hope for an end to our grief because we have hope for reconciliation. We have hope for the healing of all that wounds us.

And this lesson in Luke is not “Thy Kingdom Come so that we don’t have to do any hard work on earth as it is in heaven.” By his life, Jesus teaches us just how to go about this work. And Luke is about to share with us the biggest gut-punch of a love-your-neighbor lesson in just a few more verses. (A certain Samaritan is about to perform an incredible show of radical hospitality. It’s titled: “A good neighbor relieves grief and restores hope.” The subtitle is: “Why Jesus didn’t want you to set the village of Samaria on fire, James and John.”)

There are many in this world today who ask as Job asked, “Where then, is my hope? Who will see hope for me?” We will see hope for you, Job. We will see hope for you, neighbor.

We still have work here. We still have to walk into houses of mourning, but fear not: it’s just love squaring up to its oldest enemy. And love, and hope, are up to the challenge.

Let us pray.

Oh God, there are many who are hurting. And God, the burden some days seems so overwhelming that we just stay where we are because we don’t know where to begin. God, you are where we begin. Remind us of your constant love, your covenant. Remind us that your kingdom can be here on earth if we just try, if we just love, if we just show a little more kindness. God, let us impart hope into this world, because it is as your kingdom will be. Oh Lord, we are grateful for the hope that you give us in this today and in our tomorrows.

In your name we pray, Amen.

 


 

Thursday, September 10, 2020