Shelter, strength, and calm
1 Peter 4: 12-14; 5: 6-11
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
May 24, 2020
Today marks our 11th worship service online—10 weeks. If you want to get biblical about it (or Star Trek) you could say it’s the 10th week of our exile. Ten weeks since the church has left the building for not only our own good but for the good of our families and communities. So I invite us to take a moment, a deep breath, remember our blessings and give thanks.
I know it hasn’t been easy. For some of us it’s been a downright struggle with our bodies, our demons, the hard we were already living with. On the whole we’re doing alright. I’d like to think that part of the reason we are adapting as well as we are is because this church began without walls, without a physical space of its own, in private homes and borrowed spaces. Early on we began our network of calling and checking on each other. When callers check in with each other on Zoom, they refer to “my people” and I hear echoes of scriptures in which God says “and you shall be my people”—which is all about relationship and care and a deep love. You’re giving the care of God to each other. You’ve been grocery shopping for each other, doing errands, bringing meals, helping when and where you can, all while maintaining your own safety as well as the safety of those whom you’re helping. Some of you have been pulled reluctantly onto the internet, onto Facebook and Zoom and YouTube. You are shelter and strength and calm for each other. You are Church.
All of this we do as act of solidarity and love not only for the most vulnerable among us but for everyone who is at a higher risk, especially those who are disproportionately affected by this virus: healthcare professionals; essential workers—including migrant workers and all those in our food supply chain; prison, detention center, and nursing home populations; communities of color; Indigenous people; people with disabilities. We recognize that our ability to physically distance ourselves is a privilege that the poor do not have. We have a moral responsibility to not only reduce the risk but to also lead the way in this long-distance marathon.
Ten weeks ago 53 people in the U.S. had died from COVID-19. As of this morning, over 98,000 people in the U.S. have died—342,000 worldwide. So let us now take a deep breath and join our hearts in a moment of silence to acknowledge the empty spaces they leave behind and to pray for those who grieve their loss.
Perhaps now we see that this fiery ordeal has only just begun. And yet we can only do this long-distance marathon one aching, beautiful, painful day at a time. It may sound repulsive to our post-modern minds and hearts to rejoice in suffering like Christ, but these early followers did not in any way want to distance themselves from the one who though he was innocent was put to death for crimes against the state. In the Catholic tradition when Peter was put to death he requested to be crucified with his head downwards, not only because he did not think himself worthy to die in the same manner as Jesus but also because he embraced suffering.
The willingness to suffer is an act of resistance. It is redemptive when it enlarges our capacity for compassion and our hunger for justice, when it contributes to the end of suffering for others, especially those who are systemically oppressed and marginalized. And yet the innocent continue to suffer and die not only because of that system but so that the privileged benefit from that system—this is the white patriarchal system working exactly as it was designed to do.
Almost 37 years ago, Archie Williams was convicted of a violent crime he did not commit and was sentenced to life plus 80 years in Angola State Penitentiary without the chance of parole. A year ago he was exonerated with the help of Innocence Project New Orleans, a nonprofit that frees innocent, life-sentenced prisoners in Louisiana and Mississippi. It’s an evil painful racist old story that has been told too many times, repeated throughout our nation’s history. A white woman was raped and stabbed; Archie was a poor black kid. None of the evidence pointed to him but somebody had to pay for this crime.
His days turned into weeks, into months, into years and decades. Archie was asked how he got through. He answered, “Freedom is of the mind. I went to prison but I never let my mind go to prison.” To get through the hard times, to find some peace, he said he would pray and sing.
On Friday Archie’s audition on “America’s Got Talent” was released on the internet. He told his story in front of four celebrity judges and a crowd of 3,500 and then he sang these words:
I can't light no more of your darkness
All my pictures seem to fade to black and white
I'm growing tired and time stands still before me
Frozen here on the ladders of my life
Don't let the sun go down on me
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see
I'm just another fraction of your life to wander free
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me
Don't let the sun go down on me
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see
I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me
And so they became shelter and strength and calm for each other, so they could embrace suffering, so they could be in solidarity with the poor and oppressed and marginalized. Author Rachel Hackenberg paraphrased Jesus this way: “You have heard me say, ‘It’s going to be bad’. I’m telling you again—it’s going to be bad—so that when the bad begins and when the bad overwhelms you, you’ll be prepared to hold on to love and remember that you’re not alone.”
Hold on, beloved, hold on. Not only for ourselves but so that the world will change.
Amen.
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
May 24, 2020
Today marks our 11th worship service online—10 weeks. If you want to get biblical about it (or Star Trek) you could say it’s the 10th week of our exile. Ten weeks since the church has left the building for not only our own good but for the good of our families and communities. So I invite us to take a moment, a deep breath, remember our blessings and give thanks.
All of this we do as act of solidarity and love not only for the most vulnerable among us but for everyone who is at a higher risk, especially those who are disproportionately affected by this virus: healthcare professionals; essential workers—including migrant workers and all those in our food supply chain; prison, detention center, and nursing home populations; communities of color; Indigenous people; people with disabilities. We recognize that our ability to physically distance ourselves is a privilege that the poor do not have. We have a moral responsibility to not only reduce the risk but to also lead the way in this long-distance marathon.
Ten weeks ago 53 people in the U.S. had died from COVID-19. As of this morning, over 98,000 people in the U.S. have died—342,000 worldwide. So let us now take a deep breath and join our hearts in a moment of silence to acknowledge the empty spaces they leave behind and to pray for those who grieve their loss.
The willingness to suffer is an act of resistance. It is redemptive when it enlarges our capacity for compassion and our hunger for justice, when it contributes to the end of suffering for others, especially those who are systemically oppressed and marginalized. And yet the innocent continue to suffer and die not only because of that system but so that the privileged benefit from that system—this is the white patriarchal system working exactly as it was designed to do.
Almost 37 years ago, Archie Williams was convicted of a violent crime he did not commit and was sentenced to life plus 80 years in Angola State Penitentiary without the chance of parole. A year ago he was exonerated with the help of Innocence Project New Orleans, a nonprofit that frees innocent, life-sentenced prisoners in Louisiana and Mississippi. It’s an evil painful racist old story that has been told too many times, repeated throughout our nation’s history. A white woman was raped and stabbed; Archie was a poor black kid. None of the evidence pointed to him but somebody had to pay for this crime.
His days turned into weeks, into months, into years and decades. Archie was asked how he got through. He answered, “Freedom is of the mind. I went to prison but I never let my mind go to prison.” To get through the hard times, to find some peace, he said he would pray and sing.
On Friday Archie’s audition on “America’s Got Talent” was released on the internet. He told his story in front of four celebrity judges and a crowd of 3,500 and then he sang these words:
I can't light no more of your darkness
All my pictures seem to fade to black and white
I'm growing tired and time stands still before me
Frozen here on the ladders of my life
Don't let the sun go down on me
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see
I'm just another fraction of your life to wander free
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me
Don't let the sun go down on me
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see
I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me
I want us to come out of this singing.
I want us to come out of this as resolute in the ways we are shelter and strength and calm for each other and for the vulnerable in our communities.
I want us to come out of this with a moral reckoning about what it means to be a person of color in this country, to listen and learn, and to be more determined to be an anti-racist. How many people of color have died in this country as a result of the pandemic called racism? And will we ever see their names and their lives printed on the front page of the NY Times?
I want us to come out of this with a renewed sense of what it means to work for a just world for all and what really matters to us as a church.
I want us to come out of this as a people who are shelter and strength and calm for those who will be suffering trauma from this for years to come.
I want us to come out of this. I want us to come out of this together.
Today is Ascension Sunday, to me the most ironical liturgical day, when Jesus promised to be with us until the end of the age and then left. I think of those early disciples and how frightened and confused they must’ve been, with no clue what they were doing. No idea what this Church would look like, what their future would be, and yet they were to lead the way. And they were in it for the long haul, for the rest of their lives.
I want us to come out of this with a moral reckoning about what it means to be a person of color in this country, to listen and learn, and to be more determined to be an anti-racist. How many people of color have died in this country as a result of the pandemic called racism? And will we ever see their names and their lives printed on the front page of the NY Times?
I want us to come out of this with a renewed sense of what it means to work for a just world for all and what really matters to us as a church.
I want us to come out of this as a people who are shelter and strength and calm for those who will be suffering trauma from this for years to come.
I want us to come out of this. I want us to come out of this together.
Today is Ascension Sunday, to me the most ironical liturgical day, when Jesus promised to be with us until the end of the age and then left. I think of those early disciples and how frightened and confused they must’ve been, with no clue what they were doing. No idea what this Church would look like, what their future would be, and yet they were to lead the way. And they were in it for the long haul, for the rest of their lives.
And so they became shelter and strength and calm for each other, so they could embrace suffering, so they could be in solidarity with the poor and oppressed and marginalized. Author Rachel Hackenberg paraphrased Jesus this way: “You have heard me say, ‘It’s going to be bad’. I’m telling you again—it’s going to be bad—so that when the bad begins and when the bad overwhelms you, you’ll be prepared to hold on to love and remember that you’re not alone.”
Hold on, beloved, hold on. Not only for ourselves but so that the world will change.
Amen.
Benediction – Rachel Hackenberg, “More Love”
There is not enough.
Let there be more.
Bring about more, O God.
More love.
Like rain for the desert: more love.
Like salve for the wounded: more love.
We are thirsting
and hurting.
More love, O God.
Love to wash away the fear
that hides in our eyes;
Love to dissolve the doubt
that lodges itself in our hearts;
Love to break down the walls
that prevent hands from holding
and from being held.
Just more.
We have been so afraid that love
would change our course, erode the path
most familiar to us, but see:
we are lost anyway.
Overflow with more — so much more
from that eternal spring of yours.
Well up love
that cultivates insight
curates stories
makes new memories
burns for deeper knowledge
softens for greater grace
puts down roots in possibility
and travels with joy.
Let there be much more love,
O God Eternal.
We need it.
There is not enough.
Let there be more.
Bring about more, O God.
More love.
Like rain for the desert: more love.
Like salve for the wounded: more love.
We are thirsting
and hurting.
More love, O God.
Love to wash away the fear
that hides in our eyes;
Love to dissolve the doubt
that lodges itself in our hearts;
Love to break down the walls
that prevent hands from holding
and from being held.
Just more.
We have been so afraid that love
would change our course, erode the path
most familiar to us, but see:
we are lost anyway.
Overflow with more — so much more
from that eternal spring of yours.
Well up love
that cultivates insight
curates stories
makes new memories
burns for deeper knowledge
softens for greater grace
puts down roots in possibility
and travels with joy.
Let there be much more love,
O God Eternal.
We need it.
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