Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird,
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
It takes courage to see what is purposefully held out of view.
In addition to making targets out of particular human beings, abusive, unjust systems have ways of keeping that harm out of view. Very often, the broader community is kept from knowing that harm, either because it is held in secret, or because it is removed quite purposefully from the rhythms of their daily lives.
This week, I’m reading Just Mercy: A Story of Justiceand Redemption by Bryan Stevenson. It’s difficult, powerful, beautiful, and challenging at once. As I read this, I recognize how much I am not seeing. And I know I do not look often enough or advocate enough.
I would like to share some quotes from this book today. These are found on pages 15-16:
“When I first went to death row in December 1983, America was in the early stages of a radical transformation that would turn us into an unprecedentedly harsh and punitive nation and result in mass imprisonment that has no historical parallel. Today we have the highest rate of incarceration in the world. The prison population has increased from 300,000 people in the early 1970s to 2.3 million people today. There are nearly six million people on probation or on parole. One in every fifteen people born in the United States in 2001 is expected to go to jail or prison; one in every three black male babies born in this century is expected to be incarcerated.”
“Some states have no minimum age for prosecuting children as adults; we’ve sent a quarter million kids to adult jails and prisons to serve long prison terms, some under the age of twelve. For years, we’ve been the only country in the world that condemns children to life imprisonment without parole; nearly three thousand juveniles have been sentenced to die in prison.”
“We have declared a costly war on people with substance abuse problems. There are more than a half-million people in state or federal prisons for drug offenses today, up from just 41,000 in 1980.”
“Finally, we spend lots of money. Spending on jails and prisons by state and federal governments has risen from $6.9 billion in 1980 to nearly $80 billion today. Private prison builders and prison service companies have spent millions of dollars to persuade state and local governments to create new crimes, impose harsher sentences, and keep more people locked up so that they can earn more profits. Private profit has corrupted incentives to improve public safety, reduce the costs of mass incarceration, and most significantly, promote rehabilitation of the incarcerated. State governments have been forced to shift funds from public services, education, health, and welfare to pay for incarceration, and they now face unprecedented economic crises as a result. The privatization of prison health care, prison commerce, and a range of services has made mass incarceration a money-making windfall for a few and a costly nightmare for the rest of us.”
Of course, we can say that it takes courage to see what is purposefully held out of view, but the greatest courage is found among those who are directly impacted and those who are pushing for criminal justice reform and abolition.
What is being kept from view among us? Can we see it? Can we see the human beings impacted by it? Can we welcome this vulnerability? Can we make ourselves vulnerable to change?
Over the weekend, a friend of mine shared this image from Matt McGorry’s Instagram. I screenshotted it and have since shared it in a few places as well. These words ring true as an experience, and perhaps also, they summon hope and an invitation to welcome.
An invitation to welcome your body… An invitation to love your body… An invitation to befriend your body…
“and I said to my body, softly. ‘I want to be your friend.’ It took a long breath and replied, ‘I have been waiting my whole life for this.‘” — Nayyrah Waheed
Yes!
Our bodies are gifts.
They allow us to do and experience so very much.
We experience the world through our bodies.
Our bodies are particular.
They are a part of our unique identity.
We are always embodied.
Our bodies are vulnerable.
They change, they grow, they struggle, they carry challenges.
They carry the stories of loving, of entering the beauty, complexity, and messiness of relationships.
Surely, the journey of befriending our bodies involves all of these — recognizing our body’s gifts, particularities, and vulnerabilities, and embracing them. This is an act of embracing ourselves.
Some of of us have been socialized away from this. Befriending our bodies is then a counter-cultural, radically loving act, for sure!
Befriending my body has been a large part of my life journey, and I’ve been on that pathway long enough to share that an embrace toward our bodies is an experience of wholeness.
That invitation is always there for us.
No one can befriend our bodies for us. We make that embrace. But I don’t think any one of us can do this alone. For instance… Think about all the people who mirrored our worth to us… Think about the people who invited us — yes, in vulnerability — to try something physical or emotional that we’ve never done before… Think about doctors, therapists, and coaches who have helped us gain knowledge about ourselves… Think about the ones we’ve loved most deeply, and how they have expanded our body’s capacity to love.. Think of… Think of.. Think of…
This act of befriending is ours, but there is always a community behind it. We’ve been loved as embodied people.
Psychologist Bruce Perry shares a particular adage in in some of his books which may seem a bit pithy, but there is a lot of wisdom and thought behind it too. He says,
So often,
“We prefer the certainty of misery to the misery of uncertainty.”
There are times when we assume that pain, chaos, or conflict are going to be constant. Maybe not in every situation, but at least, in particular ones.
There are times when harmful rhythms, patterns, and practices (our own or others) become normalized to us, even though they are causing great difficulty.
There are times when we come to expect very little with resignation or cynicism.
These cause misery, but we feel settled in their sense of certainty. Rather than risking uncertainty, we sometimes prefer what we have become accustomed to because goodness knows,
uncertainty is vulnerable.
Risking hope is vulnerable.
Saying, “No More,” is vulnerable.
Cultivating new possibilities is vulnerable.
It really is vulnerable.
And if you’re doing anything of these things, or if you want to do these things, give yourselves a lot of gentleness and grace. But also give yourself hope and trust. Uncertainty requires risk, but it is generally the pathway by which newness comes.
“Since we have received such a great peace, let us also share peace with one another. The peace of Jesus Christ be with you,” I say.
“And also with you,” they say back.
This is a ritual that I experience, and very often, initiate on Sunday mornings. I frequently travel to many different congregations to lead worship, and most of them include what is called The Passing of the Peace. After saying these words together, we then travel around the room to greet one another, saying, “Peace be with you,” and sometimes, “Good morning.”
Most of the time, we shake hands.
But yesterday, when I was at Kirk of Our Savior Presbyterian Church in Westland, Michigan, I had an experience that was especially lovely. It was just different enough that I will remember it for a long time. And in the midst of it, I felt genuinely and deeply welcomed.
It’s been a while since I’ve been present with this congregation, so I forgot that they do this a little bit differently. Rather than shake one hand, when people greet each other, they place both hands before each other — one person palms up, and the other, palms down. People clasp their hands before each other, look each other in the eye, and say those words.
“Peace be with you.”
And though this is different, it doesn’t feel forced. In this congregation, it feels so authentic. As a guest, not unknown but still relatively new, I felt so welcomed.
The feeling of welcome wasn’t ultimately in the method of greeting — the clasping hands in this way — but it was in the sincerity behind the words, as folks intended them specifically for the people in front of them. For somewhere between three and five minutes, I experienced this repeatedly, and it filled me.
Then when I walked back to the chancel, I heard, “Renee!” as an invitation to come over there for this greeting. It’s been a long while, maybe even a year, since I’ve been present in this congregation, but though a guest, I’m not a stranger either. The people in the choir greeted me too.
“We’re behind you today! Whether you know it or not!” someone said.
He wasn’t talking ultimately about location (nor was it a creepy, “We’re behiiiiiind you” — ha!) but instead, this was a play on words to say they’re cheering me on before the sermon. This too was so sincere and encouraging.
And then, without them knowing this is where I was going, my sermon was about welcome.
This photo is from the shore of Lake Michigan in Racine, Wisconsin.
This sermon was preached at Kirk of Our Savior Presbyterian Church in Westland, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in Mark 9:30-37. The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
“What were you arguing about on the way?”
Silence lingered in the room once Jesus and his disciples had settled into the house in Capernaum.
“What were you arguing about on the way?” That’s what Jesus asked them.
There was a long pause, and none of the disciples spoke up.
I wonder, what did they think and feel during that silence? Did they suddenly feel shame, exposed in some way, recognizing that Jesus had at least partly overheard them? Did they feel frustration, remembering that one particular comment or that one particular person that irritated them the most? Did they make their case inside themselves internally, prepared to bolster themselves should someone speak up, but this time in front of Jesus? Did they feel anxiety about speaking? Who was actually going to answer this question?
They never did answer. They sat there in silence, knowing what had happened before.
The story says, “But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another about who was the greatest.”
It was a foolish argument in many ways, but it might have been reactive. Maybe it was born out of deep anxiety. . . As they were passing through Galilee, Jesus was teaching his disciples, and he kept returning to something difficult, something profoundly challenging for them to even take in. He said, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” They did not understand this. They knew it was important, but they couldn’t comprehend him. Maybe they felt afraid to even ponder the implications of what he was saying. They were certainly afraid to ask him to clarify.
This was actually the third time recently that Jesus had spoken in this way, and each time, the disciples demonstrated that they didn’t understand. That might have made Jesus feel very alone.
This time, reactive in their anxiety, they began to argue with one another about who was the greatest. In the chaos of what Jesus was implying, they began to turn against one another. They began to posture themselves in the presence one another. They fell all over themselves with dominance. Who was the greatest? What a foolish argument… But what a human argument.
How did they seek to determine this — who was the greatest? Was it about who could speak and lead? Was it about who had possessions? Was it about who held power? Was it about who was closest to Jesus — who had the closest proximity to what he said and did, or who was closest personally to him in relationship? What was their benchmark?
Did that even matter? The result was the same. Rather than choose to be present with one other, and care for each other in their collective confusion and anxiety, they chose the pathway of dominance. They sought to be the greatest.
“What were you arguing about on the way?”
That question lingered as they sat in the house together. And after a time of silence when none of the disciples spoke, Jesus answered his own question. He answered it in a way that the disciples did not expect.
Jesus sat down and called the twelve to him. In sitting down, they knew he was about to teach them. Then Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Jesus turned everything upside down in this way. He inverted first and last. But he actually did more. In saying this the way he did, he created a paradigm shift. In this statement, Jesus turned them toward each other. This statement has care and relationship in it. “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”
And then Jesus said and did even more. He found one of the children in the house and placed that child front of them. We don’t know who this child was, or how old the child might have been. But because they were gathered together, staying in a house in Capernaum during their travels, this might have been a child of one of the disciples.
Jesus took this child in his arms. He embraced this child and said, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
I wonder if there was then another silence, if the disciples sat there and watched Jesus and this child interact with one another. It was joyful. And care and relationship were a part of this moment.
And a conviction must have lingered in the room. In the silence, the disciples must have felt it internally.
Jesus had placed a child before them, one who did not typically speak and lead, one who had no possessions, and one who held no power. More than just about anything, this child had vulnerability. And along with it, and precisely in it, this child had care and relationship. This child had worth and value apart from anything these disciples argued about on the road.
In the silence, the teaching was clear. Not easy, but clear. Jesus was teaching them to travel in the pathway of vulnerability where they would find care and relationship. Jesus was teaching them to relinquish the pathway of dominance, because the most vulnerable of this world have the greatest proximity to Jesus. Jesus is calling us to that same proximity. Jesus is calling us to be the Church among the most vulnerable.
What would happen — what could happen — if the Church followed even more in this direction?
What would happen — what could happen — if the Church really lived this way?
We might ponder the disciples’ argument on the way to Capernaum and recognize that it was foolish. But we also know it is so very human… We carry our own anxieties too. And collectively, the Church in North America, and many of our own Presbyterian congregations too, face decline. And in the midst of our own anxieties about that, there are times when we value dominance.
Sometimes, congregations complete with one another for members and for resources.
Sometimes, congregations seek to align themselves fully with those in power, and then become so enmeshed with their dominance that they refuse to hold people in power accountable. Churches can align themselves fully with those who have wealth, those who have influence, or those who represent political parties.
Sometimes, congregations can become obsessed with building themselves up — what program do we need to create to ‘get’ more people? (Notice how we use language of acquisition sometimes to talk about our neighbors.) And how do we get them to pledge? While this can involve a lot of language about neighbors, and there is certainly nothing wrong with invitations in these directions, a process that talks about ‘getting’ and ‘acquiring’ can become easily quite insular and self-focused.
Sometimes, congregations can place certain pastors on pedestals. They participate in the creation of celebrity pastors, who are placed above accountability, who are viewed as being “too big to fail.” But people can easily abuse that power — any of us can abuse that power — when given so much of it.
But what would happen — and what could happen — if the Church followed Jesus more and more in this direction toward vulnerability… in the proximity of those who are most vulnerable in our world?
Yes, often, children… children who don’t know where their next meal is coming from… children who are abused and neglected… children who are orphaned and separated from parents… children who are incarcerated… children who live in poverty… children who have chronic illnesses… children who are grieving… children who know violence in their nations and in their homes…
And… all the adults around us who were children just like these. Yes, all the children of God, whatever their age, who know vulnerabilities like these. And yes, maybe we ourselves — children of God — who have known vulnerabilities like these.
I wonder what could happen if the Church gave up its desire for dominance and moved toward the proximity of these neighbors. I wonder what could happen if the Church placed these neighbors at the center, including the center of leadership. I wonder what could happen if the Church turned even more toward one another and toward neighbors in care and relationship.
We might look different than we do now. We might be a part of communities with an array of backgrounds and experiences, with a variety of people leading. While our buildings are great gifts and resources, Church might become less defined by the building — “Do you go to Church?” often means, “Do you go to worship in that building?” — but instead, Church might be defined more as an embodied community of commitments toward neighbors.
The Church might come even closer to Jesus himself. The Church might come alive, even experience resurrection, in that vulnerability, and in that care, and in that relationship.
We are invited into this today. This is our sacred calling. This is our welcome and embrace.
May we have the courage, and may we trust the grace of God, to follow in that direction.
I am grateful to the contributions of the Rev. Rolf Jacobson of the Sermon Brainwave — Working Preacher podcast, who spoke this week about “relinquishing dominance.” That influenced my sermon direction.
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”
and
“Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?”
and
“So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”
All of these statements come from the same passage in the Sermon on the Mount — Matthew 6:25-34.
Jesus talks about placing trust in God in the hope that there is ultimately enough, naming that we are seen, cared for, and loved.
Of course, we know that sometimes, people genuinely do not have what they need, and there are times when anxiety emerges from inside the body in ways that can be debilitating. These deserve our attention, compassion, and gentleness, alongside commitments to address the situations that cause them.
Yet also, in the midst of that, and in the midst of many tendencies to ruminate over that which we fear, whether large or small, I think this is genuinely the most practical of advice.
I don’t mean to say that it’s always easy to simply turn worry off, and there are crises that make that remarkably challenging. Maybe even impossible. But in some situations, it is genuinely so very practical to say, “I’m only going to focus on this day.” At least emotionally.
Looking at the larger picture, pondering the bigger pieces, and moving in the longer direction… yes.
But emotionally, focusing on the one day in front of us. Just this one.
“One day at a time,” folks wisely say.
This can be especially practical when large things feel as though they are looming —
deadlines,
medical care,
grief,
crisis,
conflict,
addiction,
moving, or
navigating new contexts.
This is a spiritual practice and orientation, definitely. But it’s also so darn practical.
Each of us is unique and particular, distinct and differentiated,
yes
(and these are great gifts)
But in every moment,
each person is a We.
Every single one of us is a Collective —
we are Plural
not only in a myriad of
thoughts,
feelings,
memories, and
impulses,
each as plentiful and contradictory as the next —
but also
We represent internalized others.
We are a nexus of relationships, embodied.
Who is always rooted in Whose.
Whose —
not possession or ownership.
not fate or determinism.
It’s so easy to get into a rhythm that becomes a rut.
The daily, mundane flow of life can be quite beautiful if we allow ourselves to be present to it. But sometimes, we get in a rhythm where we begin to not expect very much.
I’ve been to Quaker worship a few times, and I find one particular aspect to be quite meaningful. It’s the intention that is built together in community — the expectation that during their time together, significance will be revealed. The Spirit is present, and the people are present, and so everyone sits in silence, waiting for some (and it could be anyone; it could be you!) to feel a certain calling to speak. People contribute wisdom, theological reflection, stories, questions, and occasionally, even a moment of song.
I’m sure that Quakers get in their own mundane ruts too. I’m sure folks come to the Meetinghouse after struggling to get their kids dressed and in the car on time. I’m sure some folks enter the room thinking about irritations they have, maybe even with one another. I’m sure some folks have done this so many times that they come out of a sense of routine, and occasionally, maybe even obligation.
I’m sure all of that is true with Quakers, just as it is with any of us. But I so appreciate — and I see and feel the conviction of this in the room — that Quakers expect worship to lead to moments of transformation.
So today, I’m thinking about worship… what it means… how expansively we might think of it… and what sorts of invitations it brings to us…
In my own Presbyterian context, I confess that sometimes, I forget how transformative worship can be. I don’t mean to say that I simply go through the bare minimum of the motions. It’s not that so much. But sometimes, there are moments when I ponder whether my expectations of meaning, experience, and transformation — in a word, encounter, and sense of calling in that encounter — could be larger and more expansive. I sometimes wonder if I’m in a room with people who could also expect more, which sometimes involves expecting the unexpected… that is, what can happen around us and among us… and what can happen inside us internally.
And then, what if we think about worship expansively? Not only some-odd service at a particular time and place once a week that we do or don’t go to. What if worship is a way of expecting encounter in all things — the Spirit, God, Community, World, Humanity, Larger-Meaning, Significant-Questions, Connection, Care, Solidarity, Joy — in all the mundane, routine rhythms?
Maybe we’re invited in those directions all the time.
Smuggling Grace 