Since I had my cochlear implant surgery eight weeks ago, I have been writing a poem a day to help me reflect on what is happening to me and my hearing. This is today’s poem.
cartography
we forget
the word map
is short for
mappa mundi
map of the world
or perhaps
map of a world
since no cartographer
can cover it all
my audiologist
uses the word map
to describe
how she programs
my cochlear implant
the longitude
of volume
the latitude
of frequencies
she tested how
I am navigating
my new world
with sounds
and sentences
expanding the map
expanded my horizon
by a factor of ten
is what I heard
leaving me to dream
of places to hear
and songs to sing
of words on the tip
of the universe’s tongue
Everything that is going on in the Brasher-Cunningham household alongside of Advent beginning before we were finished with Thanksgiving leftovers mean I am a day late beginning my annual Advent Journal, which starts this year with my sermon from yesterday, “Mooing at Kyle.” I hope your Advent is full of hope and wonder.
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We have had a two-year-old at our house these past few days—and me made me think about angels.
This Thanksgiving, Ginger and I were fortunate to have a table filled with people we think of as chosen family—nine in all. Among them was our former foster daughter and her wife and their son, Rafa, who is two. He is bright and curious and in love with the world. He brought so much joy to our time together.
When it came time for pie—and the rain had stopped—we all went out to our barn to have pie together. When we got to the barn, Rafa said, “Where are the cows?” Kyle, one of our other friends (who is also a great father) responded with a really good cow impersonation that both startled and scared Rafa.
Over the next few minutes we watched and listened as his mothers helped him get beyond his fear. Neither of them said, “Don’t be scared,” or “It’s no big deal.” They asked him questions about what he had heard, they identified Kyle as the one who had made the sound so Rafa would know where it came from, and they helped him form a response: “Go moo at Kyle.”
It wasn’t too long before Rafa had walked around the table to where Kyle was and boisterously shouted, “Moo!” And we all laughed.
Here’s where the angels come in.
One of the hallmarks of the story of all that leads up to Jesus’ birth is the messenger who brings the news, and pretty much every time they show up they offer the same greeting: “Fear not!” or “Do not be afraid,” depending on the translation.
I’m not sure that is the most helpful thing to say, when it comes to fear.
Maybe it crosses some sort of line to critique a divine messenger, but bear with me. Fear is not a choice; it’s a reaction. A response. If something frightens us, we get scared. That’s not a flaw, or a mistake. Life is populated with frightening things and scary situations. Being afraid is not a flaw.
The task is to do what it takes to get through or beyond our fear, to not be paralyzed by it. We have to learn how to moo at Kyle, if you will. And that is often a big task, depending on the moment. When we look at the story unfolding in front of us during Advent, we can see how Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, Zacharias, and others did more than simply not be afraid when they heard a voice they didn’t recognize. They figured out how to moo at Kyle, to get to what comes after fear.
Hope is what comes after fear. Love is what comes after fear. Laughter, often, is what comes after fear. So are rest and peace and growth. Fear is not the last word, in part, because fear is a response not a choice. Love and hope are choices.
We can hear overtones of that in the passage we read this morning. Paul wrote to the young congregation in Thessalonica, which was a diverse group of people trying to figure out how to live together, and said he prayed they would have overflowing love for one another—that they would choose to grow together, to grow with and toward each other.
Perhaps that’s what the angel was trying to get at as well, if we look closer, or translate it differently. Maybe “Fear not!” was intended less as a divine imperative and more in the spirit of Rafa’s moms helping him figure out how to make fear a temporary place rather than a full stop.
At the heart of Jesus’ story is that God poured God’s self into human skin and became vulnerable. To be human is to be vulnerable; neither of those are choices either. Jesus did what the angels could not. He walked the earth as a living, breathing, fearing, loving person. He was vulnerable, too. He understood grief and pain and loss and joy with those understandings called us to live like the lilies and birds we talked about last week, to choose to live through and beyond our fear and to grasp, as poet David Whyte says, “the essential, tidal, and conversational foundations of our identity.”
Life is not about being fearless, it’s about being together, about sharing our griefs and losses, about honoring the details of one another’s lives, about investing in a legacy of love that makes us all better at mooing at Kyle.
So, be afraid. Life is often scary. And then listen for the voices of love that call us to what lies beyond fear, what will get us through our fear, what reminds us love is stronger than fear. Amen.
It’s been a while since I posted a sermon, mostly because all of the medical stuff I have been dealing with has made what I have offered from the pulpit less than postable. But I’m back and talking about the birds and flowers that Jesus pointed to as examples of how to be human.
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Ginger and I went to breakfast after one of my recent doctor visits and from the window of the coffee shop we could see these small black birds sitting on the cable that ran above the street. I don’t know what kind of birds they were. Sparrows, maybe starlings. Every so often, based on some signal we could not discern, they flew off the wire in formation and then swirled and darted and banked all together until they returned to their perches. They would sit quietly for a few minutes and then they did it again.
It was amazing to watch the skill and whimsy of the little creatures as they zigged and zagged across the sky, accomplishing nothing specific other than being themselves, which is what every last one of us, from starlings to stars was put here to do: to be ourselves and to be together. It’s right in Jesus’ words that we read a few minutes ago:
Don’t worry about your life, what you’ll eat or what you’ll drink, or about your body, what you’ll wear. Isn’t life more than food and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds in the sky. They don’t sow seed or harvest grain or gather crops into barns. Yet God feeds them. Aren’t you worth much more than they are? Who among you by worrying can add a single moment to your life?
I learned this week that the root of both the words worry and anxious has to do with choking or strangulation. When anxiety takes hold it constricts us. Gratitude, on the other hand, puts air in our lungs; it is expansive. Listen to the words of poet David Whyte:
Gratitude is the understanding that many millions of things must come together and live together and mesh together and breathe together in order for us to take even one more breath of air, that the underlying gift of life and incarnation as a living, participating human being is a privilege; that we are miraculously, part of something, rather than nothing. Even if that something is temporarily pain or despair, we inhabit a living world, with real faces, real voices, laughter, the color blue, the green of the fields, the freshness of a cold wind, or the tawny hue of a winter landscape.
He closes by saying, “Thankfulness finds its full measure in generosity of presence, both through participation and witness. . . . Being unappreciative might mean we are simply not paying attention.”
Gratitude finds its full measure through participation and witness. I love that. And I needed that word this week. As many of you have experienced, one of the hardest part about being sick is it makes us self-focused. That is not a bad thing in and of itself—sometimes we need to pay attention to ourselves—but when we turn inward we can lose sight of all that connects and supports us. We can’t see beyond ourselves. Our view of the world and who we are in it becomes constricted.
One of the definitions of depression I learned early on was that it was “anger turned inward.” I would add that I think it’s just about everything turned inward. When I am depressed, I can’t see beyond myself.
Illness is not the only hardship that can alter our perspective. Sometimes it’s just life. Do you ever catch yourself thinking, “I just have so much to do?” And you’re telling the truth. Life is hard and demanding and exhausting and even constricting. And so, Jesus said, consider the starlings and the lilies.
The root of the word consider means “observe the stars.” Look up at the heavens. Instead of focusing on all that feels like it’s going to strangle us, consider the universe, from flowers to galaxies far, far away.
To live in a spirit of gratitude—to pay attention—is to actively point our minds and hearts at something: to look up, look out, look for, look beyond individual selves and see the ways in which everyone and everything is essentially connected.
We sit here this morning in a building constructed by our forebearers, a tangible reminder of what has been handed down. Look out the window and we see cars that belong to Quinnipiac students and the staff from the restaurant across the street, as well as the beginnings of the Boy Scout troop’s Christmas tree lot. We will share coffee and snacks together in a building that will house people this week for twelve step groups, Jazzercize, contra dancing, and several meals. The fruit and vegetables that adorn our Communion table this morning will go, along with the bags in the parish house, to feed people across Hamden this week.
Hear the words of David Whyte again: “Thankfulness finds its full measure in generosity of presence, both through participation and witness.”
I think thankfulness also finds its full measure in the temporary. By that I mean, the fact that we aren’t here forever can be an expansive truth rather than a constrictive one, if we so choose.
Do you know how long a starling lives?
I had to look it up. Two to three years. A sparrow can live up to five. Lilies bloom only a few weeks out of the year. We don’t last that much longer. Writer Amy Leach says, “Our transience is our tragedy but also our beauty, because when you don’t have forever, intensity is imperative.”
The writer of Ecclesiastes said, “I know there is nothing better for us than to be joyful and to do good throughout our lives; to eat and drink and see the good in all of our hard work is a gift from God.”
And it’s in the last verse of the hymn that will close our service this morning (which you’ve heard me quote several times because it’s one of my favorites):
For the harvests of the Spirit, thanks be to God. For the good we all inherit, thanks be to God. For the wonders that astound us, for the truth that still confounds us, Most of all that love has found us, thanks be to God.
May be we stargazers and starling watchers; may we pay attention to all that swirls around us; may we breathe deep the breath of God and choose to be intensely grateful for these days that we share together. Amen.
Peace,
Milton
PS—my sermon reminded me of this wonderful Bill Mallonee song.
My sermon is only a few days old, but it feels like a lifetime ago, thanks to my implant surgery. I finally felt up to doing some work today, so here you go.
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One of the many joys of being in New Orleans last week was I had the chance to see our nephew’s children. (Well—we got to see the parents as well.) Ben and Jenny, his wife, have three kids: Gabriel, or Gabe; Galena, or Lena; and Anastasia, or Ana. They are six, four, and one.
We met at a Cuban restaurant that had a big outside play area so the kids could run around when they got tired of the adults talking. Ana was quite the explorer, but a pattern quickly developed: when she came back to the table, she came to me, arms raised, ready to be picked up, and she would sit in my lap until it was time to get down again. As the afternoon passed and she got tired, she put her head on my shoulder. I sang softly to her and she began to pat me on the back.
She had never seen me before, but somehow knew I was someone who loved her.
As I turned to the scripture this week and read Mark’s description of the children coming to Jesus, I couldn’t help but see Ana running to me, so trusting and joyful. She didn’t have to know me, she trusted the love that she knew connected us.
I don’t mean she went through some logical, philosophical thought process. I mean she trusted the love that has not yet been taught not to trust. She knew that she and I were connected. She knew if she put her hands in the air, I would pick her up. And I was offered the gift of affirming what she knew by pulling her up in my lap.
I got to reinforce the love that connects us.
When I first read our passage for today, it felt like a bit of an odd choice for World Communion Sunday, but as I thought about Ana and I reflected on the scene Mark described where the disciples scolded Jesus for playing with the children instead of doing whatever adult thing was more important, I changed my mind. This is a beautiful text for today.
If you grew up in church, you may have heard some version of this story: God created the universe and then created human beings. What is often underlined is humanity is sinful from the start. They couldn’t stay away from the fruit they weren’t supposed to touch and sinned by eating it, damning all of humanity who came after them, which is why Jesus had to come and die to pay for our sins.
That story has had a great deal of influence, but it’s not true—at least, not according to Jesus and Ana.
The first words God said about every aspect of creation—including humanity—were, “That’s good!” We were born in original love, not original sin. It is life, not God, who too often teaches us otherwise.
Love is intrinsic. Love is where we start and where we are going, if we follow God’s story. We learn division and separation. We learn prejudice. We learn selfishness. We learn fear. We learn shame. And so, Jesus said, we have to re-learn how to welcome love like a child, arms up trusting that love will embrace us.
We can’t do that work alone. We need each other to find wholeness, to remember that we are made for love.
In one of her books, Madeleine L’Engle tells the story of her young granddaughter who, when her new baby brother was brought into the house, was determined to get close to him, so much so that one afternoon she climbed up into the crib as the little one was sleeping. The little girl was about four. Her mother saw her go into the room and stood at the door for a moment before she intervened. The girl stroked her brother’s head and said, “Tell me about God. I’m forgetting.”
Each time we come to this Table together we repeat Jesus’ words to his loved ones: “Whenever you share this meal, remember me.
We are saved, made whole, not as individuals but as a collective community, a body imbued with a living Spirit of life, the pulsating energies of love. . . . The universe is unfinished, we are unfinished, the earth is unfinished, and, much to our amazement, God is unfinished, as well. . . . We are saved by our reconciliation with God within and without, by making a conscious option for the whole. As we are brought into wholeness, God, too, is made whole.
A couple of Thursdays ago, the most important thing I did was attend to my grandniece. It may seem like the world was not changed by what we did together, but Jesus would say otherwise.
We call today World Communion Sunday because several denominations agreed to mark the day together. The name is a bit audacious because only a small fraction of the world’s population will take part. Our sharing the meal together, may also seem like the world will not be changed, but—again—Jesus would say otherwise.
As we prepare to feed one another from God’s Table, we are going to sing the song I wrote this summer, “The Belong Song.”
you belong and I do too we belong yes me and you everybody sing the song everyone belongs
take a look around this place we’re short on shade and we’re long on grace risking hope with open hearts that’s how revolutions start
you belong and I do too we belong yes me and you everybody sing the song everyone belongs
we are not alone we are not alone we are not alone
our hurt has helped shape who we are but we are more than battle scars our broken-hearted harmony unleashes love and sets us free
you belong and I do too we belong yes me and you everybody sing the song everyone belongs
Though I didn’t write it as a Communion hymn, it works pretty well. Some of you asked to sing it; thanks for the suggestion. We are here today to remember ourselves in Jesus’ name, to help each other not forget that we are all wonderfully and uniquely created in the image of God and worthy to be loved, to continue becoming the people we were created to be when we were born in original love. Amen.
When I got my Honda a couple of years ago, it was my first time to have a screen and easy access to a GPS. When I tell it I want to come here, it says the quickest way to get from Guilford to here is to take I-95 to I-91. It is (usually) quick, and mostly uneventful, but it is also rather bland. But when I take that route, I feel like all I really see is the highway.
As I result, I have made it a habit to plan my time so I can leave a bit earlier and wander on the small roads through North Branford, which winds through farms and houses. It takes about ten minutes longer, but I see more than the road when I go that way.
I also go around the traffic circle in Branford, or the rotary, as many of us say, though my first inclination is to call it a roundabout because that is what they were called in East Africa, thanks to the British influence. When I lived in Nairobi, the city had a million people and only one traffic signal. All the other intersections were either stop signs or roundabouts.
As you know, the key to a working traffic circle or roundabout is recognizing who has the right of way—that is, who gets to go first and who has to wait. I was learned about driving in Nairobi, where they drive on what we call “the wrong side” of the road, and the car to the right was the one who go to go first, so I thought “right of way” meant being on the right. I was surprised to learn that even when you are on the left, you have the right of way.
Before cars, the term meant the right to cross or pass through someone else’s property. When cars made traffic a reality, the phrase came to mean who gets to go first. To remind ourselves of that, we put up the signs that are upside down yellow triangles: the YIELD signs.
Yield is an interesting word because it carries more than one meaning. Though we may not think about it when we are sitting in traffic, it’s a word that carries a history steeped in power because it can mean to give in or submit or surrender to a stronger force or person. The problem is the interaction assumes hierarchy and conflict, which doesn’t make for a great metaphor when it comes to relationships.
Yield can also mean a return on investment, or the harvest of a crop—the yield of a farm. It is the reward of our actions, if you will.
We can say, then, that being willing to yield at the roundabout is not so much about giving in to an adversary as it is reaping the harvest of our cooperation and mutuality to get where we are going.
James knew nothing of traffic circles, but he did offer us a “roundabout theology.” Listen to the last part of our scripture again:
You can develop a healthy, robust community that lives right with God and enjoy its results only if you do the hard work of getting along with each other, treating each other with dignity and honor.
“The hard work of getting along with each other”—that’s a phrase worth remembering. Getting along is rich and meaningful—it’s the stuff love is made of—and it’s work. Hard work. We have to mean it. It doesn’t happen by accident.
With that in mind, I want to pass along a couple of things that found me this week as I was thinking about this sermon. One is a quote from Shane Parrish, who writes one of the newsletters I read. He said,
Too often, the people we ask for feedback are nice but not kind. Kind people will tell you things a nice person will not. A kind person will tell you that you have spinach on your teeth. A nice person won’t because it’s uncomfortable. A kind person will tell us what holds us back, even when it’s uncomfortable. A nice person avoids giving us critical feedback because they’re worried about hurting our feelings. No wonder we think other people will be interested in our excuses.
His words may feel odd as we talk about yielding, but I think they help underline that we are talking about investing not giving in. If we are committed to helping each other get where we are going, then doing the hard work of being kind rather than just being nice or polite is a big part of the journey.
The other thought came from a person named Peter who is part of a group of guys I meet every Saturday morning for coffee—at 6:30 am. One of the rituals of our gathering is that one of the others, Bill, always asks, “Milt, what’s the word tomorrow?” I am then expected to give a quick summary of my sermon, which is good for me because I have to make sure I know what the point of my sermon is.
After I talked about the roundabouts, Peter said, “That makes me think of what I learned from my hummingbirds. They are beautiful creatures. I have five feeders set up because I love to see them. You can’t believe how selfish they are. If one bird is at the feeder, another will chase them away to get to the same feeder rather than go to one that is open where they both could eat.” Then he said, “I’ve always thought that would make a good sermon.”
“It will!” I said. “Tomorrow.”
As James said, “Real wisdom, God’s wisdom, begins with a holy life and is characterized by getting along with others.” As we travel together, may we be those who look for ways to yield—to be kind (and nice), to defer, to not have to be first, to look beyond ourselves—to do the hard work of helping each other get where we are going. Amen.
Words take on lives of their own, so what we say and how we say it matters.
I know that is not news, but I repeat it because I saw it happen even as I was preparing to preach today. A friend from Texas, who is a former minister, called to check in this week and asked about my sermon. When I told him we were working through James’ letter for the month of September, he said, “I really don’t like James. He’s too judgmental.” Then last night I got an email note from Leon confirming that he would read this morning, and it began, “I love this reading.”
Words take on lives of their own, whether they are written down or spoken.
To get that point across, James used a whole bunch of metaphors to talk about, well, a metaphor. He wrote about the power—and danger—of the tongue, which is a metaphor for what we say and how we say it: for how we choose our words. In these few verses he likened the tongue to a bit in a horse’s mouth, a rudder for a ship, and a spark that sets off a forest fire, with a couple of other references thrown in.
In his descriptions, he also used rather incendiary and hyperbolic language (talking about sending the whole world up in smoke, for example), which often leads us to think his point was for us to not lose our tempers, but his picture was larger than that.
He wanted his readers to understand what they set in motion when the spoke. Whenever they spoke. He had specific people in mind when he set his words free and, as we said at the beginning, words take on lives of their own.
What do these words have to say to us?
We live in a time when it feels like language is changing a great deal. I don’t know whether that is because language is changing faster now than it has in the past or whether it feels that way because we are the ones having to learn new vocabulary and new definitions. I think it is probably the latter because language is always going through changes. Just pick up a Shakespeare play to see that. He wrote in English, but it is not what an English we easily recognize.
When it comes to those changes, it matters to notice that language doesn’t change. What I mean by that is language is not the subject of the verb, but the object. I know that’s kind of an English teacher moment, but it matters to remember that other forces—and we are one of them—change language. What words mean to us changes because what life means to us changes; how we look at life and describe it changes.
Then we have to remember that those changes don’t happen the same way for everyone. What a metaphor means to you may not be the same to me. How we think we are describing something or someone may not be heard that way, which is another way of saying our words are like the bit in a horse’s mouth, or a ship’s rudder, or the match that starts the fire.
I love the way our translation this morning phrases it: “By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it.”
Let me offer another way to make the same point. By our speech we can restore the world, turn chaos into harmony, raise someone’s reputation, and energize the whole world with the spark of our love.”
What we say and how we choose to say it makes a difference.
This is a good place to point out a change I made in today’s lectionary reading. It was supposed to begin with the first verse of chapter three, but we started with the third verse because the first two talked about being teachers. They say,
Don’t be in any rush to become a teacher, my friends. Teaching is highly responsible work. Teachers are held to the strictest standards. And none of us is perfectly qualified. We get it wrong nearly every time we open our mouths. If you could find someone whose speech was perfectly true, you’d have a perfect person, in perfect control of life.
James’ words make me think he had had a few educational experiences where what he had tried to communicate as a teacher had not been taken the way he intended. That makes me think of how I had to learn that when I said something that I thought was profound to a class full of students it was to everyone’s advantage for me to ask, “Did that make sense?” because they didn’t always get understand what I was trying to say.
His words speak to more than just educators, though we could also hear the word teacher as yet another metaphor in these verses, since we all play that role in some sense at different points in our lives. Part of what I hear in what he said is not to rush to be the expert, to be The One Who Knows, but to teach—or speak—as a lifelong learner.
And what we are trying to learn is how to live lives of integrity, of honesty.
We have spent three weeks reading in James. First, he implored us to listen before we spoke, and then to make our actions match our words, which brings us to this morning and the reminder (as one of Ginger’s seminary professors used to say) that actions may speak louder than words but words speak more clearly.
To drive home his point, James closed with a string of rhetorical questions:
A spring doesn’t gush fresh water one day and brackish the next, does it? Apple trees don’t bear strawberries, do they? Raspberry bushes don’t bear apples, do they? You’re not going to dip into a polluted mud hole and get a cup of clear, cool water, are you?
He knew the answers; we know them as well.
Whatever we have to say will be better understood if we are honest and consistent and humble in what we have to say. Our words and our actions should match. Our words, however they come out, reflect who we are and who we appear to be to others. James’ questions call us to remember that those two views should be the same because the words we say take on lives of their own, so what we say and how we say it matters.
As I said when I began, I know I am not saying anything new, but it’s good to be reminded. Amen.
It was a Communion Sunday at our church this past week, and it was also the Sunday after the shooting in Georgia. Here’s what I said in that intersection. The scripture was James 2:1-8, 14-17.
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Sometimes we speak in euphemisms, that is we say things we mean, but we don’t intend for them to actually be acted upon.
For instance, if someone comes to my house I might say, “Make yourself at home,” I mean make yourself comfortable, but if the person were to begin to rearrange the furniture or take pictures off the walls so they felt more at home, I would probably move fairly quickly to clarify what I meant.
If we were to distill our passage for this morning down to one sentence, it would say, “We can’t live out our faith euphemistically.” We need to live into our words. James offered a couple of specific examples to make his point.
First, he said, don’t say everyone belongs and then be impressed by money and power. Make room for everyone equally. Don’t play favorites. His second admonition is even more pointed: Don’t just say the right words, live them out. If we see someone who is hungry and cold, do more than say, “Be warm and eat well.” Feed them and clothe them.
As our translation puts it, “Dear friends, do you think you’ll get anywhere in this if you learn all the right words but never do anything? Does merely talking about faith indicate that a person really has it?”
We can’t live out our faith in euphemisms.
That sounds fairly simple, doesn’t it? Let your actions speak as loudly and clearly as your words. Put your money where your mouth is. Don’t say one thing and do another.
It becomes more layered when we apply his words on more than a personal level, when we look at the systems we are a part of. It matters that we bring food to put in the plastic crates in the Parish Hall so Leon can take them to the Hamden Food Bank. That food feeds people. We are doing more than saying, “I hope you find a good meal.”
And—not but—AND those cans of tuna and vegetables don’t change a broken system that makes it hard for many people to live sustainable lives.
Yesterday, Ginger and I participated in an event for Raise the Roof, which is a nonprofit on the Shoreline that raises money for Habitat for Humanity of Greater New Haven. Each year they have a kind of “Dancing with the Stars” gala that raises the bulk of their money. This is the tenth anniversary of the gala and they have funded over twenty houses in New Haven.
It is a wonderful event and a wonderful organization, and—not but—AND part of the reason they fund houses in New Haven is the land in Guilford or Madison is too expensive and the towns have regulations that make that kind of building difficult, even though actual affordable housing would be both meaningful and beneficial to those communities—to any community.
We have to continue to work to live out our faith on both levels, personal and systemic. We can’t do it all. We can’t meet every need. And we can do something. We can meet the need in front of our faces and we can find ways to do the longer work of changing our systems.
I know a big part of the reason systems have been on my mind is the school shooting in Georgia this week. Once again, we are all disheartened by the horrible news and still as a nation we have done very little to make it more difficult for people—for children—to get assault weapons. As a nation—as a system—our words and our actions don’t match. We could change things, but we keep choosing not to do so.
I know that is a brutal example, and it matters that we figure out how to talk about the systems we are a part of, that we could change. I spent a good bit of time this week deciding, first, if I was going to mention the shooting and second, how to talk about it because I know it’s not an easy fix. I know it means we have to be willing to have hard conversations.
And then I decided to say it out loud as an invitation to hard conversations. We can begin to change systems by learning how to have hard conversations. As I have said before, one of the best ways we can change the world around us is to be willing to really listen and talk to each other right here in this congregation. We don’t all think alike, or feel the same way about what is happening, and yet, we do—if we are willing to listen and risk with one another.
Let me tell you why I feel so deeply about the school shootings. I was a high school English teacher in Winchester, Massachusetts when the shooting at Columbine High School happened. One of my favorite things about my school, which demographically was a lot like Columbine, was the big pile of backpacks in the hallway outside my room. For me, it was a huge monument of trust: no one worried about something getting stolen, no one worried about something bad being in them, they just pulled their books out and stacked them up.
After Columbine, one of the first things my school did was to ban that stack of bags—not because they found anything, but because they chose fear over trust. And the school became less safe and less hopeful.
We are eight weeks from an election that shows deep divisions in our country, particularly if all we are looking for are deep divisions. What if we don’t look for divisions? What if we lean into our shared humanity? Jesus called us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. That means I have to understand that you are as human as I am. We all belong to God.
Saying we are going to agree to disagree is kind of like saying, “Be warm and have a good meal,” to someone who is hungry and cold. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t deepen the trust between us—and the world, our country, our town, and our church need us to grow in our trust and love for one another.
We deepen our trust and love when we bring food for the food pantry, or we trust each other to bring enough lunch for our potluck, or gather to make prayer shawls, or play in the bell choir. We do it when we attend to the details of one another’s lives, remembering significant moments and checking in when we are sick or struggling. We are extending our reach by welcoming the Liberian choir in a couple of weeks.
One of the continuing ways we live out our trust and love, both for God and for one another is sharing this sacred meal together. We pass the bread and the cup from person to person as a clear symbol of our connection to one another in Christ. And so we come once again to the table, bringing our fear and our trust, as we share this meal . . .
For the month of September I am preaching from passages in the Letter from James, a small book towards the end of the New Testament that is an exercise in practical theology. This week’s sermon drew from James 1:17-27.
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One of the things I remember about the beginning of the pandemic when we were in lockdown was how much I detested being on Zoom. And I couldn’t figure out why. I am an off-the-charts extrovert (you probably didn’t know that), so I imagined having the chance to see and talk to others from our separate isolations would be a good thing, but it wasn’t.
After a couple of weeks, I came across an article that talked about people’s struggles with Zoom and it listed my problem. It said the reason we were having trouble was we were not used to seeing myself on screen. I know didn’t like seeing my facial expressions as I was making them. I felt disembodied somehow, even as I was trying to participate.
In natural conversation, we don’t see ourselves as we talk to others. Our expressions come from the inside out. With Zoom we were, quite literally, beside ourselves—or in front of ourselves, actually—which made us self-conscious; I realized that’s what made me uncomfortable.
It also offered a solution by showing how to turn off “self-view,” so that we only say those we were talking to. That little tip saved me from my frustration. I don’t need to see myself while I’m talking to other people. I do, however, need to remember I’m on camera and that others can see me.
Even though the writer of the letter attributed to James had no concept of being on a Zoom call, he did know something about how we look at ourselves, and he knew that it takes effort and intention for us to remember who we are as we move through the various situations that come our way.
A mirror was technology he understood, when it came to seeing a reflection of ourselves. We don’t have to stand in front of a mirror to remember what we look like; if we did, we wouldn’t get much done. But, he said, someone who describes themselves as a follower of Christ and still lashes out in anger, or makes damaging statements about others, or does things that take advantage of others is like a person who can’t remember who they are if they aren’t staring at themselves.
One of the first thing that comes to mind for me are those moments from time to time when someone in the public eye is caught on an open mic making a racist, or misogynist, or homophobic statement. Almost every time, part of their apology is to say something akin to, “That’s really not who I am.”
And yet, it is in some way. They said and did those things. They need to go back to the mirror and check in.
But let’s not talk about them. Let’s talk about us and how we remember who we are. Theologian Katie Van Der Linden wrote,
When you walk away from a mirror, you can still catch glimpses of yourself in windows and other reflective surfaces. So don’t forget who you are. You are a faithful follower of Jesus, whether you’re stranded on a desert island or you’re in the middle of Manhattan. Faith is about what God sees and what the world sees; they are not separate. Hear the word, do the word, follow the word, alone in your car or on a crowded bus. The journey is yours, but others may notice.
Who do we see when we catch a glimpse of ourselves?
Are we being the people we think we are? Do our lives reflect the image of God that lives in us?
The way to answer those questions affirmatively, our passage says (and I love our translation this morning) is to
Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear. Human indignation doesn’t accomplish God’s justice.
In a way, that sounds like what we learned as kids: stop, look, and listen.
Listen first, then speak—when we have something to contribute—and leave our outrage behind. And hear the last sentence again: “Human indignation doesn’t accomplish God’s justice.”
“My life was changed by someone shouting at me or by a long rant on Facebook” is, I feel fairly confident, a sentence that no one has ever said. Anger is part of who we are, and it is an appropriate response when we have been hurt or someone we care about has been hurt. Outrage, on the other hand, is not useful in building relationships, even when we’re right.
Hearts and minds are changed in conversation, in relationship—by listening and speaking and standing up for and with those who far too often get shouted down. God’s justice is accomplished, our verses say, by reach out to the homeless, lonely, and loveless in their plight, and guarding against corruption.
Listen, then talk. Don’t use outrage as a motivational tool. Take care of those who need to be taken care of. This little letter attributed to James is full of accessible wisdom. It holds a unique place among New Testament books for its practicality. He offers theology with skin in—stuff that changes the way we think about everyday life. We are going to keeping reading this letter throughout September.
This morning, James asks that we look at our reflection to see how much the image of God shines through. We were created to incarnate love to one another. Is that who we see when we look at ourselves? Amen.
