Bearing One Another’s Burdens
Empathy is an important gift we give to our kids. It’s more than just understanding how another person might feels–it’s sharing in their feelings too. But last week, I learned the lesson of empathy from my daughter.
My daughter heard a kitten crying in the back yard. She followed the sounds of this kitten’s cries, while she herself was crying with compassion. When she finally discovered the kitten, it was trapped between our fence and our neighbor’s fence. We couldn’t reach the little thing. “There’s nothing we can do,” I said flatly, and returned to making dinner.
But that answer was not good enough for her. She dragged me back outside.
“Try again,” she said. “Find another way.”
By the time we had tried every possible way to free the kitten, we realized that she had freed herself. She managed to get out from between the fences, and was curled up in the backyard again. My daughter went to the kitten and was able to pick the little thing up. Her mother was nowhere to be found.
We both immediately knew that something was wrong.
We tried to feed the kitten and she couldn’t make her way to the food. When she tried to walk, it seemed as if she was unable to walk. I was convinced this kitten was disabled and would die.
I tried to prepare my daughter. “This cat may die, honey, but we’ll do the best we can. And even if it lives, we can’t possibly keep her.” The two cats, turtle, partner, son and grandmom would have a fit if we added another living thing to the household.
I was stunned by her tears and her empathy. And I was embarrassed by them too. Because I realized that I didn’t care about this cat. I was jaded by the cries of the kitten, and the possibility that she might die. I was just trying to make dinner–I did not have time or energy to care for another living thing.
But, my daughter’s empathy was transformational. I felt that I understood again–through the tear filled eyes of my daughter–what empathy was all about. I understood a little more about “bearing one another’s burdens”. Bearing the burdens of others is not always convenient, it doesn’t often fit in with our own timeline or agenda, but it’s our call as part of our community.
Sometimes our children understand this better than we do.
Their hearts are open to the needs of those around them, and their arms are open to love. So open, in fact, that we now have a 3rd kitten named Lucky. And every one of us in the house is smitten by her. After a few days of feeding her with a eye dropper, she was able to eat on her own. She’s now strong, playful, and sweetness personified. My daughter named her “Lucky” because she’s a black cat, and they have a reputation for being unlucky. I like the name, because I feel lucky to have her in my life, a constant reminder of the unexpected joys of bearing one another’s burdens.
Clothed and in his right mind
This sermon borrows heavily from the work of James Alison in his essay, titled, “Clothed and in his right mind.” I’m deeply indebted to Ailson for his insight.
Luke 8:26-39
In many of the local schools, there is a campaign called “No place for hate.” It’s a program sponsored by the Anti-Defamation league, and it serves to challenge racism and bigotry in schools. Every year at my daughter’s school there is a big rally, the kids learn about bullying and bigotry, and they are empowered to work at changing how they treat each other.
My daughter’s school gets into it. They have chants and t-shirts and big projects around this theme every year. She comes home saying the right things–things that all adults love to hear–don’t be mean, don’t hate, don’t call people names. Be kind, be considerate, be compassionate.
I think programs like this make strides in working with hate speech and bullying. But there’s something that is missing in all these anti-defamation programs–that since the dawn of time, we have needed scapegoats to empower us to be the good people we want to be. We need the bullied to justify who we are.
And the truth of the matter is, the community is no different from the person or group being bullied. The group is just stronger than the one being bullied, or haven’t done anything to be noticed. The weakness of the victim allows the others to have differentiation, to be the strong ones, to be the sane ones.
The Garesene demoniac–our story from Luke–is a perfect example of this. Here Jesus was approaching the town, but before he could even get there, he met the town crazy person. The guy who was not like everyone else–he walked around naked, and he lived in and among the graves on the edge of town. He was not like the other people in the town.
And because he was not like the other towns people, the people kept him at a distance They would often restrain him to hold him back, but this man had a strength that allowed him to break those bonds. And notice, that in the text it never said that the people were afraid of the crazy man. They just needed to put him in his place. It was his role in the community to be bound up and excluded.
And because this is how it goes in the gospel stories, the folks in the community who are weakest recognize Jesus’ strength first. The town crazy man, clothed only in his birthday suit, approached Jesus and begged for Jesus’ mercy. “I beg you Jesus, do not torment me!”
Jesus asked this man’s name, and evil spirits within him replied, “Legion for we are many.” This word “legion” refers to a Roman military unit. That’s a large number of soldiers–about 6,000. This man wasn’t possessed; he was occupied by an army of demons.
Because demons are worthless unless they have a host, the demons asked that Jesus not cast the legion in nothingness, into the abyss. So, Jesus sent this army of demons into a herd of pigs, and they jump off a cliff and died. The demons had their way, but only for a moment. But Jesus was clear here, the cycle needed to end. These demons had to go.
And it’s only then that the people of Garesene became afraid. They were not afraid of what Jesus did to the pigs. They were afraid of this man who was now clothed and in his right mind. They had not been afraid of the man before. They were simply abusive of him. Now that this man was clothed and in his right mind, the people were afraid. And they politely asked Jesus to leave.
And Jesus did leave. He quite simply got in the boat to go back where he came from, without even as much as a rebuke to the people. But before Jesus could leave the region, the formerly possessed man came to him and asked to follow him.
With any other person at any other time, Jesus would have opened up the boat for another passenger. But not to this man. He said to him, “Go back to your home, and tell them what God has done for you.”
This man didn’t argue or make a case for why he should be going where Jesus was going–he simply went back to that town and told the story.
This is much more than a story of healing. This is about more than the occupied man being un-occupied by thousands of demons through the power of Jesus. This is a story about what Jesus was asking this man to do.
Jesus asked this man to go back to his abusers, to those who had offended him, restrained him, bullied him, and bound him up. Go back to his people in Geresene and tell them what God has done.
Following Jesus is hard but going back to the offenders and telling the story, that may be even harder to do. This return was going to be difficult for this healed man, and it was also going to be difficult for the townspeople to see him as anything but the crazy naked guy who lived in the cemetery. Because without him, who were they?
Once upon a time, there was a kid that everyone called the “class fairy.” He wasn’t like the other kids, and for that he was perceived as weak, so he was bullied and picked on mercilessly. It became so awful, that he asked to be transferred to another school.
But something strange happened when he left the school, not to the boy they called the “class fairy”, but to everyone else.
The kids in the school didn’t know how to play any more. They appeared off kilter for about three weeks, until they found someone else in their class to pick on, someone else to “other”. It appeared that among this group of kids the displaced other became the anchor for the well being of the group. The class fairy became the person that helped the group know who they were. Without the scapegoat, they didn’t have an identity, and the social order depended on having someone to pick on.
Imagine the shame of this class scapegoat. He is forced by these children to have to find a safe place to learn and socialize. He was not strong enough to fight off the threats and name calling. That school was toxic for him and he could no longer inhabit that toxic space.
Now imagine that this child returned to this school after a time. Those children that once bullied him would probably expect him to return the same ashamed child he once was.
But what if he didn’t come back ashamed? What if he returned to inhabit the same toxic space, but the people that once shamed him no longer had that kind of power over him? What if he went to the children that had bullied him, but showing love, said to them, “let’s play together, but let’s play a different way.”
With this formerly bullied child being clothed in his right mind, not playing the role of the shamed and defeated victim, he is not thrown off, but the other children would be. The identity of the group is compromised when victim no longer acts like a victim.
This is what Jesus asked of the Geresene demoniac–that he return to the bullies, to the toxic space, clothed and in his right mind, inhabiting the toxic space with love, telling the story of what Jesus did for him, and saying to them, let’s live together differently.
Our text from Galatians affirms the work of the recovered demoniac. Clothed in Christ we come together. And clothed in Christ, we are one. We are all one in Christ–that means, that as baptized believers, clothed in Christ, we do not scapegoat or shame or isolate, or bind up. We are one in that our identity is in all of us, not in us over and against the weak ones.
In our society, in order for us to feel safe, we need to imprison the people that have taken things from us, or hurt the people we love, and their chains are supposed to make us feel stronger and safer and superior. In our churches, even the progressive liberal ones, we have to have people to bind up and restrain, so that we can have power and appear strong.
Jesus came to smash that model to pieces. He sent the man back to Geresene to destroy this scapegoating pattern. Jesus himself, in his resurrection, occupied the space of death, and came back with love to tell the story. He occupied the space of death–that toxic, frightening place–and came back to say to people, “Do not be afraid. Peace be with you.”
These stories are 2,000 years old, but are no less radical today than they were then. Jesus’ resurrection story shows us what he called the Geresene to do–to come back, after inhabiting fear and death, and to say, “It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to live like this.”
Jesus is calling us to bold action, to creative action. Clothed and in our right mind, are called to be part of a community where we see our chains, and we face them with freedom and fearlessness. And with our prophetic voices we have power, but we do not use that power to hurt or demean anyone. We are all part of the body, and we have consideration for each other equally.
It is about more than being nice to each other, nor not calling each other names–that’s the stuff of elementary school pep rallies. This is about ending the need for scapegoating, it’s about understanding who we are without needing someone that we can define ourselves over and against
This is one of the hardest things we could ever do as people of God. To return to the space we once inhabited, clothed and in our right mind, and to demonstrate the love of God, the peace of Christ, and the unity of the spirit, even in the toxic spaces. God, give us the vision to live this radical call. Give us the hands and feet to live it. Give us the voices to proclaim your story. AMEN.
The Meek
The Meek
A sermon based on Luke 7: 11-17
If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.
It’s a popular bumper sticker here in liberal Northwest Philadelphia. If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention. It’s so true. But here’s something the bumper sticker doesn’t say–if you are paying attention, it’s pretty easy to feel like the life is being sucked right out of you. The news we hear is sad and overwhelming. All that information overload can lead to call despair, or apathy, or compassion fatigue.
I’ve been suffering from a good dose of despair, apathy, and compassion fatigue lately. I can’t bear to look at my twitter or facebook feeds to see what the state and city aren’t doing about the educational crisis. It just breaks my heart to know.
My heart breaks to see what’s happening in public education in Philadelphia, to hear the children in this church and in this city express anxiety about their school’s prospects next year.
You’ve probably heard me talk about this before. I know–I’m a broken record. I own it. I’m tired of talking about the schools too. But it angers me that something so basic is at risk.
I’m outraged, I’m paying attention. And I’m despairing.
We meet Jesus today as he is about to enter the town of Nain. And as he approached the town, he saw a funeral in progress. A widow was burying her only son. Funeral’s are sad, but just the visual of this funeral creates an image of an unjust situation. This woman, who’s husband was dead, now buried her only child–a son. Which means she was destitute. This might as well be her funeral too. This was the end for her.
Jesus saw this scene, and was filled with compassion. The inclusive text in the bulletin says that Jesus was filled with pity, but that’s not quite the right word. Jesus was full of compassion. And that compassion moved him to respond.
Jesus entered the funeral procession–and touched the body of the dead son. He touched the son’s body, looked at the widow, and said, “Don’t cry.”
Jesus can get away with this momentary lapse in social propriety–the whole touching the body thing, and then telling the woman not to cry–he can tell her this because of what he did next.
He spoke to the corpse of the dead son and told the son to get up–and the son got up. The dead youth sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him back to his mother.
Jesus did more here than give this woman her child back. He gave her hope and justice and a way to stay alive.
This story comes just a few chapters after Jesus declared his ministry in the temple. Jesus said in the temple,
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
And since Jesus’ declaration in the temple, he had been doing that very thing–proclaiming good news, freeing prisoners, healing the sick, setting the oppressed free, and declaring jubilee.
This act of healing at Nain was an act of physical healing for the song, but it was not a healing directed toward the son. Jesus had compassion on the widow, and his compassion moved him to heal the son. THis healing would in fact ensure that she was treated justly and fairly by family who loved her and were committed to looking after her.
I’m drawn to the compassion of Jesus here, for his willingness to enter into her story unsolitited, and change it without any faith on her part, or without her even asking her permission.
And while I’m drawn to this story, I’m also rather mortified by it. Jesus entered right into the drama of a very personal funeral. He walked right into the middle of the processional, and stopped it. Where does that drive to enter into people’s most painful moments come from? How did Jesus do this? How did he continue to engage people in their pain, even if their pain and injury would never have any direct impact on his life?
I heard a definition of the work “meek” this week has informed the way that I’ve read this text. In the greek, meek means, “rage and control combined with love and compassion.” It’s a crazy combination of concepts wrapped up in one word. We think of meek as a passive attribute–meek means weak. But, when you think of meek, think of Jesus and the money changers. Jesus used his anger with control, and overturned the money tables out of love and compassion for the people who experienced the injustice of the temple sacrifice system. Jesus in the temple was meek.
Jesus in this story of the widow and her son was also exemplifying this idea of meekness. Jesus was moved by compassion towards this woman, but within this compassion, I believe there was anger too. Anger at the unjust system that would allow a widow with no children to die alone. Jesus’ compassion and anger moved him to boldy insert himself into this woman’s life, and change her life for the better.
This story is a story about Jesus. But it’s a discipleship story for us too. We are called to enter into people’s lives and stories, and be present with them, be angry with them, to show compassion to them. But we don’t enter their stories because it is like our story, or because our lives will benefit from entering in. We simplyenter into people’s stories. We balance our love and compassion for our neighbors in need with our anger at the injustice of their situation.
This story has me wondering about my own response to the school district’s plight, or to other social justice concerns that anger me. Where does my motivation to engage them come from? I must admit that often it comes from my own self interest. I’m worried about the School District because my kids are part of the district, and I want them to stay there. I worried about immigration because I have friends that are not safe without changes in the law. I worry about gun violence because it’s getting a little close to my own home, and I want to keep my own walls and borders safe. But Jesus healed this woman without knowing even her name and without benefiting from the healing.
Jesus chose to become part of the scene and to offer healing–to fulfill his mission, that which he proclaimed in the temple just a few chapters before.
Jesus the meek one, calls us to feel the anger of the injustice around us, and to respond with love and compassion. THis meek response is active, and hopeful. It doesn’t seem to give up.
If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention. I think we’re all pretty good at the outrage. It’s what comes next that’s more difficult. And our story today reminds us that love and compassion, mixed with our righteous anger and control is what is needed.
I don’t know how to keep those things in balance. I don’t know how to keep myself from slipping into apathy, or despair. But I do know that balance is needed. Hope is needed. Jesus, who barged into a funeral processional to heal a dead man for a destitute widow, heals us, and calls us to that same outrageously meek behavior. Outrage at injustice, balanced with love and compassion.
AMEN.
Who’s To Blame?
In one of the first stories in the book of Genesis, God gave Adam and Eve the garden to enjoy and live in. There was freedom and innocence there. But, it all changed after Adam and Eve became intertwined with the serpent.
When Eve and Adam heard God walking in the garden, they hid, but God went looking for them. God called, “Where are you,” and Adam responded, not by saying, “Here I am!”, but by saying, “I heard you walking in the garden and I was afraid, because I was naked. So I hid myself.”
Instead of answering the question, the first human response to God’s simple question was, “I was scared so I ran away.”
The second and third questions from God were,“Who told you that you were naked? Did you eat from the tree of life?”
And Adam deflected the question again. He said, “Eve, the woman you gave to be my companion, gave it to me and I ate it.”
God then went to Eve, who also deflected, “I was tricked by the serpent, and I ate it.”
No one in this story ever answered God’s questions directly. No one ever said, “Hey God! We’re over here!” or “Hey God, we ate some of that fruit you told us not to eat.”
This spring, there’s been a bout of bad news in my city of Philadelphia. Our education system is being defunded by the state, and the cuts are nothing short of draconian. Twenty three schools are closing, and the remaining schools must cut their budgets by twenty five percent. In my daughter’s elementary school, there will be no art, no music, no secretary, no school counselor, and no lunch aids. There will be no money to buy text books or supplies. The only things that will be left are the teachers and the principal. I have no idea how a school can function with that little staff and resources.
At the same time, the state is embarking on a very impressive prison system project—four hundred million dollars in new construction—about three-quarters of what is needed to fully fund the schools.
The violence in the City of Brotherly Love comes in active and passive forms. And there are a long list of people I want to blame for the failures of our city. I’d like to start with the governor, state senate, the mayor, and city council, for starters.
But it goes deeper than that. I want to blame the mortgage companies and Wall Street for profiting on bad mortgages, and betting against poor people—those things that led to our great recession of 2008, and the current austerity measures.
I want to blame the student loan companies for saddling me and my family with so much debt that their payments rival my mortgage. And those payments keep me working, keep my head down and focused on my own needs and obligations.
I want to blame social media for keeping me informed, but under the allusion that because I’ve ranted about it, I’ve done something to make change with what I know.
There are so many people and institutions for which I carry anger and resentment. There is so much I’m angry about, so many things I want to change. But, the scripture reminds me again—it starts with me. It starts with me answering questions directly, not blaming someone else. It starts with me taking responsibility when things are bad. It starts with me responding as if I can and will change what happens around me by my honest, direct responses.
I don’t want to accept responsibility. I’d much rather watch mindless TV all day, or hide out in a library reading a good book. I want to escape. I don’t want to accept responsibility for anything or anyone. For goodness sake, I can barely keep my dirty socks off the floor, or food in the refrigerator, let alone deal with being a responsible member of society.
But this is where we are called—to bare our souls before God and each other, to be honest and real, and to accept responsibility for what is not perfect and right. And—to be clear—we’re not be asked to bear shame or self-loathing this. We just need to be honest—with God, with ourselves and with each other.
This is far more difficult than blaming. And we do not arrive at this journey towards honesty overnight. This comes with a lot of practice, a lot of failure, and heaping mounds of grace.
I’m journeying today to honestly answer the question God asks. “Where are you?” God asks. “I’m over here, God. And to be honest, I’ve been hiding in the bushes for a long time. Can you give me a hand?”
Unconditional Love
It’s the end of the school year and my middle schooler has checked out. He’s done.
It was made very clear this afternoon when he came home from school, sat down to do a big project, and realized he’d left everything he needed for the project at school. This is not the first time he’s done something like this–in fact I think it’s the fourth time in three weeks.
I made him call his friends, to get the rubric so he could recreate the project. But he couldn’t get enough information. The project wasn’t going to get done tonight, and I couldn’t save him from himself, and from the bad grade he was about to recieve.
I put on my mommy voice–I told him how disappointed I was in him. I told him that I thought he could do better. He needed to accept responsibility for himself, and get his assignments done. And I told him there would be consequences for this.
As I said these much needed, harsh words to him, he began to cry a little. But he wept without reserve when I added my final sentence–.And today’s actions don’t change how I feel about you; I still love you.
That touched something deep inside him. He heard me say–you screwed up and I love you. You can do better, and I love you.
I don’t remember hearing these messages in church as a kid. My love from God was dependent on my grovelling for forgiveness, and constantly trying to be right with God. I had to appease the angry God in order for God to love me. In fact, I remember feeling that way from my parents too, though I think much of that was projection. How I felt about my parents paralleled how I felt about God.
And that’s why I thought it was so important to add to my “you need to do better” speech, not with a “but” but with an “and”. Because, it’s not despite his failures that I love him, but regardless of them. The love is a given. the love is first, always, and without regard for any other idiotic middle school things he may pull (and I’m assuming they’ll be many).
I hope this deep love makes it easier for him to do well in the future, knowing that he has nothing to fear. And because I can articulate that to him, then perhaps I’m learning a little of those lessons about God myself. God loves me unconditionally, and gives me the space to fall on my face, and still receive the love of God, without reservation or boundaries.
I’m thankful for a loving God that models for me the way I need to love those around me, so that they too can feel God’s unconditional love in all they do.
Seeing the Story in Everything
Cross posted at http://practicingfamilies.com/2013/06/03/seeing-the-story-in-everything/
Last night, after a busy day of bike riding in the heat, the family was laying around the living room chatting and having a little “screen time.” My daughter, age 9, found a funny little emoticon—a maniacal smiley face with flames coming out of its head. “Mom,” she said, “use this for Pentecost!”
We laughed together at the silliness of the emoticon, and I thought to myself, “This poor pastor’s kid. She sees something biblical in everything.”
And while this perhaps is a product of being the pastor’s kid—to see biblical references in everything—I really don’t think it is a bad thing. Our story is an extension of the biblical story. And in all stories there are themes that arise, and common threads that hold them together. Hard times and trials in my life bring me back to Job, and Job and I wrestle together with the big question of “Where is God in suffering?” When the bulbs in my front yard bloom and the wisteria resumes her winding trail around my front porch, I marvel at the wonder of nature, and I’m reminded of resurrection. And when I feel the presence of God in the occasional stillness, I think of Elijah hearing the voice of God, not in the wind or fire, or earthquake, but in the stillness.
Phyllis Tickle talks frequently about the need for families to teach the biblical story at home, to incorporate it into our everyday lives. She suggested a daily bible story at mealtime, or colored linen napkins to reflect the season of the church. While those things don’t happen in our home, we do have a tradition of asking questions at meal time. Some of my favorite questions are:
“What is the weirdest story in the bible?”
“What Bible character are you most like today?”
Those answers change and evolve as they learn more about the Bible.
Another thing we do is talk about whatever text I’m preaching on for the week. I ask them what they would do if they were Jesus and someone asked to be healed, or if they were Peter, and Jesus told them to walk on water. The answers often surprise me—they become fuel for my sermons, but more than that, they give me opportunities to marvel at the simple, deep wisdom of my children’s honest answers.
These questions and scenarios keep us talking and engaging with each other at dinner, but they do something even bigger than that—they embody the biblical story. We know the stories because we feel them, we relate to them, we connect them with our own lives. And in sharing these stories, they become more than just a story. They become truth. We have walked down the same paths that the biblical characters have walked, and they are showing us—in their good and bad behaviors—the ways we are called to live. It becomes more than just a nice little story—it becomes a light in the darkness, witness to the goodness of God, as we struggle to make sense of our lives (as adults or children).
In whatever way you can, bless your children with the gift of the biblical stories, so that they can see the work of God in everything, from the silly to the mundane.