walkingwithclare

This sermon was offered by the
Rev. Cn. Beth Tjoflat at St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, Jacksonville, FL,
on the Second Sunday in Lent
(March 17, 2019).

Lessons:
Genesis 15:1-2, 17-18
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35
Psalm 27

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable to you O Lord our strength and our redeemer.
Amen.

In this morning’s Gospel from Luke,
Jesus does not mince words as
he calls out Herod and the Pharisees,
who pretend to come with good intentions.

His words “You tell that fox for me,
‘Listen, I am casting out demons and
performing cures’” indict Herod and the
Pharisees who are acting on his behalf.
Better to run Jesus out of town than
to have to deal with the whole mess.

This brief Gospel lesson is steeped in conflict –
an essential component of any abiding story.
Jerusalem – a city that is grounded in holiness –
is at the same time a city with an earned reputation
for killing those sent by God.

When Jesus speaks tenderly and longingly
of gathering the children of Jerusalem
as a hen gathers her brood under her wings,
he speaks with the love and care of a devoted mother.

When he is confronted with violence
— with certain death —
his response is love.

This past week has brought senseless violence
to the forefront of our concerns once again.
On the global stage, we learned with horror
of the massacre of 50 Muslims in New Zealand,
faithful people gunned down while at prayer.

This violence was perpetrated by a man
|steeped in extremist, racist ideology.
Our hearts are heavy.
It is tempting to shut down in the face of
one more display of evil and hate.

Closer to home, Sherry, a dear member of our
Church Without Walls community was killed
by her boyfriend.
Our community is visibly shaken.
Hopeful hearts are broken.

We had watched Sherry and walked with her
as she struggled with addiction,
as she struggled to find solid footing
for building a life.

I remember one Sunday, some months ago,
after another friend had died from an overdose,
Sherry came to see me.
“I don’t know if I can take any more of this,”
she told me.

I know Sherry is not alone in that sentiment.
I have heard it time and again.
I have felt it myself and
know that you have, too.

Church is meant to be a sanctuary –
a safe place.
With the help of the Holy Spirit,
we create a space that is strong enough and
resilient enough to hold all that affects us:
the challenges and struggles;
the pain and confusion;
our hurts and our regrets;
as well as our hopes and dreams
for renewal and transformation,
not just for ourselves
but for our world.

No matter how we do the math,
the answer is always, always love.
Jesus embraces and loves those who
in a heartbeat would kill him.
He sees beyond hate.
He sees beyond fear.

He knows and loves each and
every of us –
whether perpetrators or victims
or bystanders –
because he created us all.

When terrible things happen,
look for the love.
That is where you’ll find Jesus.

Yesterday I read a column written by
Molly Pascal, a member of the Tree of Life
synagogue – the Jewish congregation
in Pittsburgh that fell victim to a
hate crime less than six months ago.
Eleven congregants were killed.
Several others were wounded.

Molly wrote about the immediate outpouring
of support from the Muslim community.
More than $240,000 was raised in days
to help survivors and the families of victims.

Members of the Muslim community led a
peaceful patrol in the streets,
helping their Jewish brothers and sisters
feel safe enough to walk to worship in the
aftermath of that tragedy.

And that’s what we are – brothers and sisters.
The Jewish, Muslim and Christian faiths –
we all descend from Abraham.

As Christians, our mission is to show people Jesus.
We do that most palpably and most
effectively through love.

Several years ago, I visited a large Episcopal
church in downtown Boston.
Shortly after the Boston marathon, that
congregation did what some thought
was radical – they opened their basement,
so a nearby Muslim congregation could
meet and worship there;
they were desperate for a place to meet and pray
where they could feel safe.
This gesture was offered quietly,
without fanfare or publicity of any kind,
because that is what was needed.

It is this kind of “throw caution to the wind” love
that gives us the strength and courage to
move forward from difficult, even tragic, situations.

This is just as true for personal life events
as it is for happenings that affect the
wider community.

In her book Rising Strong, about how we find
the strength to get up after being knocked down
by life, social researcher Brene Brown said this:
“We move what we are learning
from our heads
to our hearts
through our hands.”

Here at St. Mary’s, we are writing a new story.
It gets messy sometimes, but it is
beautiful and holy.

We invite others to join us,
to live out the gospel through study,
prayer and worship that leads to
tangible action, caring for each other
and for those who are struggling.

My experience is that this kind of ministry
feeds us and blesses us in the best of times.

Yet when the going gets tough,
we having meaningful work to do.
We can lean into ministries, dedicated
to the lost and the forgotten.
This grounds us and anchors us.
As we work together, we discover and
remember that Jesus is alive.

We are assured that, even in the darkest of times,
love prevails.
Love prevails.
Amen.

(Photo taken while hiking the Rockdale River Trail near Conyers, GA.)

The events of the day and the brutal culture we live in make my heart feel heavy and sad. What is played out in the media and in our communities and institutions makes me angry for what has been and what is and at the same time hopeful for what can be. I pray for anyone who has felt dismissed or silenced in any way, who has been trampled or trod upon by unchecked power.

My mother was a brilliant woman. She graduated summa cum laude from Duke University. She was also a product of her generation and of the South.  From an early age I learned, often just from her posture or expression, that women who spoke up for themselves or fought for themselves were diminished in some way. It felt nearly as punitive and costly as being a “loose” woman.

I remember watching as a female member of our congregation – a friend’s mother and a prominent lawyer’s wife – was shunned when she took a stand for equality for women. That’s when I heard my mother say under her breath: “She’s so hard.” The stakes seemed so high that I felt terrified for this woman. I watched as she stood tall and made her way to the communion rail with dignity, while people looked on with dismay. I was in awe of her courage and fierce determination.

By the time I was 29, I sat across from my mother in a local restaurant. I was in the scary and exhilarating process of making significant life changes. Newly divorced, I would be moving across the country to pursue my dream of being a writer. It felt incredibly risky. The costs were high. If not for the adrenalin-infused excitement of pursuing a dream, I likely would have succumbed to self-doubt, to shame, to the real or imagined judgements of other more restrained and reasonable folks.

Before we ordered, my mother lowered her menu and caught my gaze with a directness that was unsettling. “I’d give anything if I’d done at your age what you are doing now.” She spoke quietly but clearly.  And then she raised her menu back up and said no more about it. It was a quick but powerful gift, an assurance that honoring myself was not just important but essential. My mother helped me gather a sense of myself that perhaps eluded her. My prayer, now that she’s gone, is that she too found a semblance of healing and wholeness in that moment.

Since that time, my mother’s words “she’s so hard” have been reframed from a place of judgement (harsh, severe, unfriendly) to one of strength and resilience. Being a hard woman today requires perseverance and effort. It requires persistence and the companionship of other human beings who can identify with being dismissed or diminished for simply honoring who they are.

My friend Spencer taught me something invaluable. Whenever someone would ask for his listening ear, he would stop them at the beginning and say: “Did you want feedback, or did you just want me to listen?”

I have stolen this from my friend and find that 80-90 percent of the time, folks just want me to listen, without judgement or advice-giving. This shouldn’t surprise me.

In my experience as a chaplain and spiritual director, this is the gift folks crave so deeply, especially in our culture of constant feedback.  I appreciate so much the chance to let you know what I need.

Unfortunately, too often lately I have encountered people who feel the need to tell me what they think I should do or, even more jarring, who they think I am. As a priest of 2 congregations and a single-parent of a very complex, mostly delightful but not infrequently challenging 7-year-old boy, I make this simple request: Please stop. What you perhaps mean to be helpful actually hurts.

Stop with assuming that you have a clue about what my motives are, what I may be thinking, or what my son may need. Especially if you have never had so much as a cup of coffee with me. Or with my child. Same goes if you have never attended a worship service with us. Or walked alongside me in my work, when I am tending a victim of domestic abuse or one struggling with addiction. Or when I’ve had the holy privilege to hear a murder confession. Please stop insisting I be in my office, behind my desk, always at the ready for you to pop in and give me your 2 cents worth. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a visit. But there may be more pressing work to be done.

On the other hand, if you feel called to reach out, if you are looking for a patient, nonjudgmental presence, I may be your gal.

I’m sorry if my “tone” seems too caustic or harsh for your liking. Thank you for indulging my venting – I’ve been carrying this for a while.   Pray for me and forgive me if that is what is indicated for your spiritual health and the well being of our relationship. We are all human beings in need of love and grace. No exceptions here.