11/13/16 “The Sunday After” by Nancy Petty
Texts: Isaiah 65:17-35, Jeremiah 17:7-8
When through the deep waters I call you to go,
the rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;
for I will be near thee, thy trouble to bless,
and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
Like so many of my colleagues, I have struggled this week with what to say this morning. Today, I believe, calls for both a pastoral word as well as a prophetic word. And while that sounds like the right thing to do as a pastor, it has been a struggle to discern how to balance the pastoral with the prophetic and the prophetic with the pastoral. In writing this sermon I have called on the saints of Pullen to guide me; the likes of Bill Finlator, the former and sometimes (most often) beloved pastor of this church. I have thought a lot of Bill this week—the way he could hold the tension of being both prophet and priest. Bill had a way of disturbing the comfortable while comforting the disturbed. Today, I imagine, we are the disturbed who need comforting and we are, still in many ways, the comfortable who need disturbing. I imagine you understand. The balance is delicate and dangerous—much like walking a tight rope. And while I want to be true to my own conscious and convictions in what I say this morning in the wake of our presidential election, I also want to be compassionate. While I want to offer a word of comfort, I also want to stand with the prophets and boldly proclaim what happens when God’s people turn from God’s ways—from God’s justice-love. But honestly, what I want most in these moments is to be with you, and for us to be together and affirm boldly and courageously our commitment to being a community where all are welcome; and a people who are committed to making a difference in the world.
Yesterday, I received a text from a colleague who wrote: “I have been quietly praying all week asking God, ‘What do I say to your people?’ I know there is always a word from God but truth be told, I am heartbroken. How can I get over it…I am still a black woman in the 21st century being reintroduced to my grandmother’s bondage. I know how to preach through pain; trust me I do. But today, I have no words. I hear no words yet.”
Another close colleague of mine sent this text: “For those who prioritize ‘getting over it’ and coming together for the sake of unity, consider the following from Allan Boesak and Curtiss DeYoung’s book Radical Reconciliation.
‘The temptation of a politically pietistic reconciliation is [that it is] a form of cheap reconciliation…it is not biblical reconciliation but indeed political accommodation that becomes a holy grail being pursued at the cost of justice, at the cost of the poor. Like Christian quietism, it appropriates the language of reconciliation, speaks of political forgiveness, social consensus and social contracts, civility and political correctness. But devoid of justice, equity, and dignity it remains an exclusionary pact amongst the powerful, not seeking genuine transformation derived by justice and in the process becomes the embodiment of the very contradictions it accuses Christian reconciliation of obfuscating and denying.”
And yet another colleague texted: “It may seem like the end is near. It is not. There will be much to endure. But what will be tried has been tried before. The evil that will be wrought has been wrought before. There will be days when it may feel as though all hell has broken loose. But in the final analysis, what will make the difference is our witness in the middle of the rubble…a witness that will still bring life…as long as we stand firm.”
Maybe you find yourself in one of these texts. Honestly, there have been moments throughout the past days that I find myself in all of them. One minute, I am sad and grieving, with tears coming at the most unexpected times. The next minute, I am angry, screaming at every driver in front of me for no good reason. At other times I am in total disbelief of what our nation is going through. Emotion regulation has been somewhat of a challenge in these past few days. But slowly, with each passing moment, I feel that I am moving closer to finding my center again, to that which grounds me, and to a sense of clarity about how my faith informs my response to these uncertain and anxious times.
I begin with the prophet Jeremiah. “Blessed are those who trust in Yahweh, whose trust is Yahweh. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.”
Jeremiah’s words echo that of the Psalmist: “Those who trust in Yahweh are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abides forever.” Theologian Martin Laird in his book Into the Silent Land, writes about the Psalmist’s metaphor. He writes, “We are the mountain. Weather is happening—delightful sunshine, dull sky or destructive storm—this is undeniable. But if we think we are the weather happening on Mount Zion…then the fundamental truth of our union with God remains obscured and our sense of painful alienation heightened.”
Martin Laird’s metaphor “I am the mountain, not the weather” is important to remember in these days. “Our identity—the grace of Being, of being loved—if we allow it, is as solid as a mountain. All else, the array of thoughts and feelings, come and go like the weather.” (Mahan Siler) We are the mountain, not the weather. And it is in this awareness that we stand together and sing boldly and courageously that old marching for justice song:
We shall not, we shall not be moved. We shall not, we shall not be moved. Just like a tree planted by the water, we shall not be moved.
When we put our trust in God, we are the mountain, the tree planted by the water that shall not be moved. We are not the weather that swirls around us.
Allow me now to take us from the Biblical text to Houston, Texas, and a story that Karla shared with me this week. This week Karla was in a bilingual elementary school in Houston with some of her colleagues convening a student focus group. They were meeting with 5, 6 and 7 year-olds asking them questions about how they experience their school. Toward the end of their time together, one of Karla’s co-workers asked the kids: What do you think of the election? Karla noted that the kids’ mood immediately changed. There was a lot of silence. Then one kid said, “I’m scared.” Another echoed, “I’m afraid.” Another said, “My mom and dad are from Mexico, and I’m afraid they will have to go away.” At which point another kid said, “I’m scared because Donald Trump won.” Karla’s colleague followed-up: “And what gives you hope when you are afraid?” One little boy, who was struggling with his English, looking to his principal for reassurance, said clearly but with his little voice shaking: “I breathe in, and I breathe out, and my breath calms me down.”
Sometimes the most we can do, and the best we can do is to remember to breathe—breathe in and breathe out. Intentional breathing centers us and calms us down and it slows down our anxious thoughts and feelings. It reminds us that as long as we have breath, we have life. And as long as we have life, we can make a difference.
Early Wednesday morning I received a text from one of our college students away at school. Her text read: “What do we do now?” As I contemplated this week the question, “What now? What do we do now?” I was taken back to an experience in my own journey. In the process of being voted on to become your pastor, Yanot Shimron, who at the time was the faith writer for the News & Observer, interviewed me. In that interview she asked me a curious question: What do you think will define your ministry as pastor of Pullen Church? She noted that for Bill Finlator it was civil rights and his opposition to the Vietnam war. For Mahan Siler it was the issue of homosexuality and the church. What issue will define your pastoral ministry, she asked? For a split moment, I thought, “Oh my god, I don’t know. I’m suppose to have an answer to this and I don’t know.” But instead of trying to make something up, which is always a temptation, I answered honestly, “I don’t know. I guess if I stay open to God, it will find me. All I can do is be me and keep an open heart to God.”
In the days to come, there is no way for us to know specifically how our ministries will need to take shape to stand against the racism and hatred and bigotry and xenophobia that is tearing our nation apart. But this we do know: Isaiah’s vision for a peaceable kingdom is clear, and it is our work to make it real. In ways we have been doing for years and in new ways, we will need to stand up to the racism and classism that is deeply rooted in our social systems—that give a few the power and exclude the many. This we know: Jeremiah’s call to stand firm, to be the mountain is clear, and it is our work to do. In ways that we have been doing and in ways yet to be imagined, we will need to show up and stand in solidarity with our brown and black brothers and sisters – immigrants, and Muslims and sixth generation Americans of African descent. This we know: Micah’s mandate is explicit: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, and that is our work to do. This we know: The Torah is unequivocal in its instruction: love God with all you heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength; and your neighbor as yourself. The biblical doctrine we can debate, but this we know: Matthew tells us what we are to practice in words that are plain: feed the hungry, give the thirsty a drink, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the prisoner, and welcome the stranger.
Now is the time for Pullen to be Pullen at our very best and to keep our hearts open as wide as we have ever opened them. Now is the time to come together as a community—to make deeper sacrifices of our time and talent and financial resources—to make a difference in our community, in our nation, and in our world. To make sure that child’s fear of her mom and dad being taken away never comes true. To make sure that little boy is safe and that his breathing in and breathing out doesn’t have to come from fear but from the re-assurance that he is safe and loved and valued. Now is the time for us to stand firm in our convictions that we are ALL the beloved children of God – we ALL deserve to be safe in our homes, in our streets, in our communities. We ALL deserve to make a living wage, to feed ourselves, to nourish our families, to throw down our roots and to thrive. Now is the time to go deeper with our understanding that we are ALL welcome at the table, in the sanctuary, in the town square. I can’t tell you this morning how you or we will be asked to stand for those sacred beliefs, but I can tell you that each of us will be given opportunities to be the change we hope to see in this world. And thus, it is my prayer that we may know ourselves as the mountain, as the tree firmly planted, and that we may act out of the deep conviction of our own safety to offer safety to a world besieged with bad weather and in dire need of comfort.
It is my prayer that we will stand together and sing boldly:
We shall not, we shall not be moved. We shall not, we shall not be moved. Just like a tree planted by the water, we shall not be moved.
