A sermon about Martin Luther King Jr.

(I preached this years ago--but, unfortunately, it still rings true.)

1/14/07—Cana and King

 

 

Listen to the Promise of God from today’s reading from the Prophet Isaiah: “You shall no more be termed FORSAKEN…but you shall be called MY DELIGHT IS IN HER…for the Lord delights in you….”

 

      “There’s a lack of something there.” That’s a saying I remember from my childhood. I don’t know if it’s a regionalism or just something people in my family would say—but I grew up hearing the term a lack.

      My grandmother would ask me to taste something she was cooking and say, “Jimmy, tell me if this has a lack of salt….”

      My uncle Del, the auto mechanic, would listen to a car motor that wasn’t running smoothly and say, “there’s a lack of something there.”

      My uncle Russell, who ran the grocery store, would look over the receipt from a delivery of meat or canned goods and say, ‘we’ve got a lack of two boxes of green beans.”

      A LACK is something missing, not there, needed, required. Having a lack meant something had to be done, corrections must be made, action must be taken.

      So at the wedding in Cana, a small town in the hills above Nazareth, Mary comes to Jesus and says to him, “Jesus, there’s a lack of wine. Do something about it.”

 

      And when the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King looked around at the society he was living in, he recognized that there was a lack of ‘freedom’ and a lack of equality and a lack of justice. Dr. King realized someone had to DO SOMETHING to supply ‘what was lacking’—to provide freedom and justice and equality where there was a lack of it all.

 

      The thing I love about the story from John of Jesus’ first miracle is how terribly human Jesus’ initial reaction was to the lack of wine. Trying to recognize and define WHO JESUS WAS consumed the first four centuries of Christian history. That argument revolved around trying to determine how the balance the ‘human’ nature and the ‘divine’ nature of Jesus. There’s a fancy name for the conversation about the identity of Jesus—theologians call it “Christology”. And the struggle with “Christology” goes on even today. Was he God? Was he a human being? What is the nature of Jesus’ identity?

      More often than not, it seems to me, we tend to come down on the side of ‘divinity’ and short-change the ‘humanity’ of Jesus. But in today’s gospel story, Jesus’ human nature is writ large in capital letters.

      When Mary tells him there’s “a lack of wine”, he reacts in the way most every son sometimes reacts to his mother—with petulance and impatience.

      “Why are you bothering me about this, Mom?” he asks. “Can’t you just leave me alone with my friends?”

      Then, in my imagination, Mary gave Jesus one of those withering looks only a mother can give a son. Just that look—then she walks away.

      Jesus must have shrugged his oh-so-human shoulders and rolled his oh-so-human eyes, taken a deep breath and said, “O…K…., let’s make some wine….”

 

      The human side of Jesus shows itself clearly here. Because, like all of us human beings, when ‘a lack’ is pointed out, we want someone else to handle it. We don’t want to be bothered. It’s too much work and will take too much commitment and energy. And sometimes, trying to fill ‘a lack’ is dangerous.

      It was no different with Jesus. And it was certainly no different with Martin Luther King. Dr. King was a successful clergyman. He had a family to worry about. He had his own life to lead. So, when he realized there was ‘a lack’ of freedom and justice and equality, he initially resisted the work God had given him to do. He agonized over it, prayed that ‘the cup’ might pass him by, tried to avoid ‘getting involved’ and waited for someone else to act—to step into the breach, to be the ‘leader’, to take on the task of turning the water of injustice into the wine of freedom.

      And that is what I admire most about the life of Martin Luther King—that he was so terribly HUMAN—filled with all the anxiety and reluctance we are all filled with—and yet God would not leave him alone and he stepped into midst of a crusade for freedom that would cost him his life.

      It was this simple, this is how it happened. A woman named Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, where King was a pastor. It was like Rosa Parks said to Dr. King—just as Mary said to Jesus—‘there’s a lack here, Martin.’

      All the rest is history.

      However, any celebration of the courage and astonishing work of Dr. King must stop short of unbridled jubilation. The work he began is not over. The ‘lack’ he sought to meet is far from fulfilled.

      *African Americans still do not share equally in the freedom and wealth and abundance of our country.

      *neither do Hispanics and Latinos…

      *neither do women of whatever race or ethnicity….

      *neither do gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people….

      *neither do disabled Americans.

    *and many people and children...children go hungry each day.

      There are many in our midst who are still called “Forsaken”. There are many for whom freedom and equality and justice are still a ‘dream’. And that dream, the dream of Martin Luther King, can only be fulfilled through the courage and commitment of human beings.

      It is the humanity of Christ and the humanity of Dr. King that can inspire us to dream dreams and to give ourselves to make those dreams realities.

      Like Dr. King, I have a dream. I dream of the Promise of God for all people: “You shall no longer be termed Forsaken…but you shall be called My Delight Is In Her…for the Lord delights in you….”

 

Anawalt

I've discovered a treasure trove of videos on You Tube about McDowell County, West Virginia. I watched 7 or 8 of them before feeling tears I didn't know I was crying on my cheeks.

If you are from there, you say MACK-Dowell.

If you aren't, you say Mc-Dowell.

I grew up there decades ago. It was a very different place then than it is now.

When I was a child, the population of the far flung county was 100,000 or so and coal was king. My father and his brothers were among a few of the men who didn't work in the mines. My father did, before WW II, but after he served he didn't go back. Uncle Russell ran a grocery store and a dry goods store (that's what we called 'department stores' in Anawalt). Uncle Del owned an Esso station, before it became Exxon. Uncle Sid lived 30 miles away and was an insurance agent. My dad ran a bar after the war until he had to draw a gun on a friend who was drunk. Then he worked for Uncle Russell, then drove a dry cleaning truck, then was the only insurance agent in town.

Anawalt had a population of 500 or so, with about 40% black and two Italian families.

I just looked Anawalt up on Wikipedia and found out the 2019 estimated census was 179.

Which almost matches the county's drop from 100,000 when I was a kid to about 27,000 today.

Coal is no longer King. Mines that are still open, not many, have machines to do the work of 100 men.

The county of my birth and life until I went to college is a shadow of it's former self.

I have such joyous memories but if I went back to visit I would be devastated. 

I'll hang on to the memories and not go visit.

 

 

 

I didn't go to church today

For the first time in who knows how long, I didn't go to church.

For months I've been going to zoom church every Sunday--and that's 'going to church'.

But I left my role an interim missioner to the Cluster of churches I've served for seven years--so no church for me today.

It was odd.

I'll watch the service on line tonight sometime, but it won't be 'going to church'.

Plus, I don't know when I'll go to church--zoom or in person again. No offers given and no 'supply' work during a pandemic.

We shall see.

I miss those three little congregations fiercely.

 

Children's Sabbath

 

CHILDREN’S SABBATH 2001

      Today’s lesson from Genesis tells the story of Jacob wrestling with an angel.  All through the night, Jacob holds on for dear life in his wrestling match. As dawn breaks, the angel damages Jacob’s hip, but still Jacob will not let go. He demands a blessing from his enemy and adversary, instead he gets a new name. Jacob becomes known from that day and forever as ISRAEL.

      And besides a new name, Jacob—now known as ISRAEL—will always walk with a limp.

      A new name—a new lease on life, a new identity, a new start—none of that comes cheap or easy.  To be born again requires a death. A new name brings with it a limp.

      When my children were very small—Josh was 6 or 7 and Mimi was 3 or 4—we would end many of our days with a wrestling match in our living room at 612 Chapel Street in New Haven. We lived in a huge house that had lots of room for wrestling and we took advantage of the space.  I would always be Andre the Giant and Josh and Mimi would be Spaghetti and Meatball. Josh was Spaghetti because he was long and lean and Mimi, who has grown into a beautiful woman, was Meatball because she was short and round as a child.  And we would wrestle for an hour or so, until I was gasping for breath and the children were worn out and ready for bed.  Often, because they were so energetic and I was so much bigger than them, one or the other of them would get hurt—they would get a limp. But they wouldn’t stop. The wrestling itself was worth the pain it inadvertently caused.

 

      One more story before I try to make some sense of all this. And the story is this—it is one of my earliest memories, perhaps my earliest memory.  My father and mother and I were out in the yard of my Uncle Russell’s house. My father was lying down in the grass with me when a stranger came running across the yard toward us. My father leaped up and ran toward him. The two men—my father and the stranger—grabbed each other and wrestled. I wasn’t yet two years old, but the image of the two men struggling terrified me. I started crying and my mother rushed to pick me up. But she was crying too, just like me, and my father and the stranger fell onto the ground, wrapped in mortal combat. I clung to my mother in great fear.

      It wasn’t combat at all, I was seeing. And my mother’s tears were tears of joy, not fear. The stranger who was wrestling with my father was my Uncle Del who had been away for a long time. And they weren’t wrestling at all—they were embracing, but the exuberance of their hug caused them to rock back and forth and then fall on the ground.

      Today is the Children’s Sabbath.  For years now, we at St. John’s have celebrated this Sunday of the year as the Children’s Sabbath.  And never before has observing a Sabbath for Children been so important, so vital, so necessary, so appropriate, so needed….

      The English word Sabbath  is derived from the Hebrew noun Shabbot and it means, literally, REST.  The Sabbath is the “day of rest.” It is the day reserved for God and God alone. Orthodox Jews refrain from any “work” at all on Shabbot—they do not drive cars or operate machinery or cook or even turn on light switches. The food for Shabbot must be cooked before sunset. The lights must be left on. The family must walk to the synagogue for the prayers. The day belongs to God and God alone.

      The Children’s Sabbath is meant to reflect that commitment to God.  This day must belong to the children and to God—to the children and God alone.

      There are a multitude of children we are called to remember this day. The children of our world are not responsible for the crises that surround us. Today we must find a pray that  all  children find REST from the weariness of the world.

      When thousands died on September 11 it left a multitude of children without a mother or father or both.  The  September 11 orphans need  rest from their mourning and loss—a time for God to heal them and open our hearts to them.

      There are tens of thousands of children living in poverty and war in Afghanistan.  Those children are not responsible for the decades of fighting or the numbing poverty of that land.  They need rest from their senseless suffering—a time for God to strengthen them and open our hearts to them.

      Hundreds of thousands of Muslim children living in the West—in our nation, in our community—are suffering ridicule and violence merely because of their ethnicity and faith. They need rest from their torment—a time for God to guard them and open our hearts to them.

      The events of the past 6 weeks haunt the dreams of millions of children in this country—their world has been invaded by violence they’ve not known before. They need rest from their fears—a time for God to comfort them and open our hearts to them.

     

      Our culture romanticizes childhood in a remarkable and dangerous way. We tend to think of the years of childhood as simple and carefree and happy. For the most part—and for most children—that is not true.  For the most part, CHILDHOOD IS A NIGHTMARE.  Children have no power, no control—children are innocent victims of a Grown Up World. 

      Children did not pilot airplanes into buildings.

      Children do not make war and cause poverty.

      Children do not abuse and neglect adults.

      The night terror of children is all our doing—the result of the actions and decisions of adults.

      CHILDHOOD IS A NIGHTMARE. That is why fairy tales speak so powerfully to children. In fairy tales there is a struggle between Good and Evil. In fairy tales, the weak and defenseless triumph over Monsters and Giants and Ogres.

      (You know, don’t you, who the Monsters and Giants and Ogres are?  They are the “big people”—the adults who have absolute control over children…the adults who create the terror of children’s nightmares.)

      Sabbath is a time for “rest”, a time that belongs to God alone—and to God’s precious children.

      This holy Shabbot—this holy Children’s Sabbath—speaks to the “big people”, to the Monsters and Giants and Ogres, to the ADULTS of the world. And this holy, sacred time that belongs to God and to children calls us to open our hearts to the children in our family, in our church, in our community, in our world.  They are OUR RESPONSIBILITY.  It is our “job”, our sacred duty to teach the children to ‘WRESTLE’. 

      Spaghetti and Meatball ALWAYS defeated the awesome Andre the Giant. Just like in Fairy Tales, Josh and Mimi ALWAYS won, against all odds.

      That is part of what we must teach our children—that God is on the side of the underdog, the weak, the powerless. And we must teach them that the Cross of Christ is the ultimate example of how POWERLESSNESS wins out in the end.

      We must teach our children that wrestling with God will give us both “new name” and a limp. That life is confusing and painful, but that God is finally on our side and that God will not only guard us from harm, God will give us new life.

      And we must teach our children that what sometimes looks like conflict and wrestling might just be a dance of joy. We must teach our children that true maturity is being able to live with ambiguity and confusion.

 

      This is the Children’s Sabbath. Today belongs to God and the Children alone.  And EVERY DAY must be the Sabbath of the Children. They are our only True Gift to the Future. We must wrestle with them and dance with them and hold them ever close.  As if our very lives depended on it.  Because our very lives DO depend on that.  Our lives truly depend on wrestling with and dancing with and holding our children close.

      That MATTERS MOST. And it may be all that matters.

 

Finished my Christmas Cards

 (Well, not really, but I've addressed the envelopes.)

I never send Christmas cards before Christmas. This year I planned to get them out on the Feast of the Epiphany (Jan. 6), just at the end of the 12 days of the Christmas season.

But what happened in Washington, DC on Epiphany shocked and angered me so much I couldn't do anything but watch the crowds committing sedition on TV. 

And it's been so upsetting I couldn't calm down and write the cards until now.

I don't send many--two dozen maybe, to family and old friends.

I'll get them finished tomorrow.

Nothing like a Christmas greeting in mid-January!

my DNA

Bern and I were just watching the Louis Gates show about Ancestry. One of the guests was 100% Ashkenazi Jew and I told her I has ashkenazi blood.

She didn't believe me so I went on line and got my ancestry results.

I am:

49.3% French and German

48.7% British and Irish

0.8% NW Europe

0.6% Ashkenazi Jewish

and the rest hard to know.

So there, Bern!