Believe me
John 20: 19-31
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
April 19, 2020 – Holy Humor Sunday
Have you ever tried to convince someone? Each of us is a witness to our own experience. One of the hardest, most frustrating, alienating, lonely truths about being human is that no one really knows what it’s like to be us—to view the world, experience life the way we do. And yet being understood, being known and believed is a big part of what gives us a sense of belonging and connection. This is especially true when we experience pain and grief and fear—emotions that we all have in common that can bring us together but also make us feel the most isolated and alone.
And yet there are whole communities of people who are expected to show us their wounds, prove to us their pain before we will believe they are telling the truth of their experience.
Transgender individuals when they are misgendered, who can’t use the bathroom or locker room they feel comfortable using.
Women who have been sexually assaulted or harassed. Men too.
People of color.
Indigenous people.
The gay community during the HIV pandemic and the fight for marriage equality.
Children are often still humored and not believed.
People with disabilities, especially those with an invisible disability.
Immigrants, asylum seekers, and refugees.
When we do not believe someone else’s witness to their wounds, to their own experience, we dehumanize them. We are our stories. It’s what makes each of us who we are. When we group people together, when we essentialize others, reduce their qualities to a stereotype—“Covidiots”, trolls, deplorables, libtards—we can forget that even those we vehemently disagree with have wounds of their own and hopefully people who love them.
Even if we are open-minded, open-hearted, we trust science and experts, there are times we have difficulty taking someone at face-value. We want proof, evidence, confirmation so that our nagging doubts and fears of being taken will be relieved.
Ironically, the author of the gospel of John is guilty of the same behavior of which he unfairly accuses Thomas. Adele Reinhartz, a Jewish scholar of John’s gospel, writes, “Although he presents an exalted vision of life and faith, he is also dogmatic, dismissive of those who disagree with him, and incapable of seeing things from a perspective different from his own.” Doesn’t that sound familiar? Perhaps Thomas and the author of the gospel share something in common: they’re wounded too.
So when people talk about re-opening the country, they’ve bought into the gaslighting; their vision has been narrowed to the harm to their own lives; they’ve dehumanized health care workers and the anonymous dead because no one is offering anything else that gives them hope or courage.
When people protest stay-at-home orders and compare themselves to Rosa Parks, they’re conflating life-saving restrictions with oppression because once again they think whiteness is endangered; because now they’re getting a small taste of how the movements of people of color, immigrants, and indigenous people have been severely limited for centuries; because it obscures the racial and economic injustices exacerbated by this pandemic.
When men show up to a protest heavily armed, it means that whether their complaint is valid or not, they would rather intimidate rather than convince; they would rather trigger or induce trauma than communicate their wounds, their pain. They would rather be bullies than appear vulnerable and powerless in the face of a pandemic because they believe that’s all they have.
It’s never easy waiting for resurrection. Even then it’s not like a light switch or a door opening or the sun coming up. Thomas and the rest of the disciples are all feeling pretty fragile, Thomas out by himself, the rest of them huddled together with the doors locked. And so Jesus is gentle with them. He brings them peace. He reminds these ones who deserted and betrayed him that forgiveness and grace can be the beginning of resurrection.
Jesus offers up his wounds, the memories of his trauma, on his own terms. We cannot demand that others help us understand what it’s like to be them. What we can do is make a courageous space where we can listen and bear witness to their experience. Those of us who have survived and made a life not only despite our wounds but as seeds of healing, the journey of resurrection is made known through you. I’ve heard some of your stories, I’ve journeyed with some of you through your wounds, and I’ve witnessed the power of resurrection through you. Simply put, each you, you are amazing people. Which makes you an amazing Church.
Our lives, our wounds, our stories, our witness to our own experience is a sacrament—something to be opened and shared but given as self-gift, when we are ready, when community is hungry for a new way of being.
We will have wounds from this time. We each will have our own stories, our own experiences, perceptions, emotions. We need to make courageous space even now to bear witness to one another, even as awkward and uncomfortable and vulnerable as it is. When we unlock the door, we let Jesus in and all that comes with him: peace and forgiveness, hope and resurrection, courage and purpose.
It won’t be easy waiting for resurrection. Yet even now the seeds are being planted in what we do, where we focus, what we value. Can we believe without seeing, can we hope one step at a time, can we shape the future by the way we are Church now, by the way we are human now?
Believe me when I say, I believe in you, Church.
Amen.
Benediction—© 2020 enfleshed.com
Beloveds, God sends us as witnesses.
The presence of Christ rises again
wherever healing is sought.
This is a hope that does not minimize pain, but honors it.
This hope does not erase the past,
but knows it transforms our collective future.
This hope does not cower under that which wounds,
but builds community to rise before it.
In the company of the Spirit, let us go
and live what we believe.
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
April 19, 2020 – Holy Humor Sunday
Have you ever tried to convince someone? Each of us is a witness to our own experience. One of the hardest, most frustrating, alienating, lonely truths about being human is that no one really knows what it’s like to be us—to view the world, experience life the way we do. And yet being understood, being known and believed is a big part of what gives us a sense of belonging and connection. This is especially true when we experience pain and grief and fear—emotions that we all have in common that can bring us together but also make us feel the most isolated and alone.
And yet there are whole communities of people who are expected to show us their wounds, prove to us their pain before we will believe they are telling the truth of their experience.
Transgender individuals when they are misgendered, who can’t use the bathroom or locker room they feel comfortable using.
Women who have been sexually assaulted or harassed. Men too.
People of color.
Indigenous people.
The gay community during the HIV pandemic and the fight for marriage equality.
Children are often still humored and not believed.
People with disabilities, especially those with an invisible disability.
Immigrants, asylum seekers, and refugees.
When we do not believe someone else’s witness to their wounds, to their own experience, we dehumanize them. We are our stories. It’s what makes each of us who we are. When we group people together, when we essentialize others, reduce their qualities to a stereotype—“Covidiots”, trolls, deplorables, libtards—we can forget that even those we vehemently disagree with have wounds of their own and hopefully people who love them.
Even if we are open-minded, open-hearted, we trust science and experts, there are times we have difficulty taking someone at face-value. We want proof, evidence, confirmation so that our nagging doubts and fears of being taken will be relieved.
So when people talk about re-opening the country, they’ve bought into the gaslighting; their vision has been narrowed to the harm to their own lives; they’ve dehumanized health care workers and the anonymous dead because no one is offering anything else that gives them hope or courage.
When people protest stay-at-home orders and compare themselves to Rosa Parks, they’re conflating life-saving restrictions with oppression because once again they think whiteness is endangered; because now they’re getting a small taste of how the movements of people of color, immigrants, and indigenous people have been severely limited for centuries; because it obscures the racial and economic injustices exacerbated by this pandemic.
When men show up to a protest heavily armed, it means that whether their complaint is valid or not, they would rather intimidate rather than convince; they would rather trigger or induce trauma than communicate their wounds, their pain. They would rather be bullies than appear vulnerable and powerless in the face of a pandemic because they believe that’s all they have.
Jesus offers up his wounds, the memories of his trauma, on his own terms. We cannot demand that others help us understand what it’s like to be them. What we can do is make a courageous space where we can listen and bear witness to their experience. Those of us who have survived and made a life not only despite our wounds but as seeds of healing, the journey of resurrection is made known through you. I’ve heard some of your stories, I’ve journeyed with some of you through your wounds, and I’ve witnessed the power of resurrection through you. Simply put, each you, you are amazing people. Which makes you an amazing Church.
Our lives, our wounds, our stories, our witness to our own experience is a sacrament—something to be opened and shared but given as self-gift, when we are ready, when community is hungry for a new way of being.
We will have wounds from this time. We each will have our own stories, our own experiences, perceptions, emotions. We need to make courageous space even now to bear witness to one another, even as awkward and uncomfortable and vulnerable as it is. When we unlock the door, we let Jesus in and all that comes with him: peace and forgiveness, hope and resurrection, courage and purpose.
It won’t be easy waiting for resurrection. Yet even now the seeds are being planted in what we do, where we focus, what we value. Can we believe without seeing, can we hope one step at a time, can we shape the future by the way we are Church now, by the way we are human now?
Believe me when I say, I believe in you, Church.
Amen.
Beloveds, God sends us as witnesses.
The presence of Christ rises again
wherever healing is sought.
This is a hope that does not minimize pain, but honors it.
This hope does not erase the past,
but knows it transforms our collective future.
This hope does not cower under that which wounds,
but builds community to rise before it.
In the company of the Spirit, let us go
and live what we believe.
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