The Sound of Silence
Let us pray:
Holy One
untamed
by the names
we give you,
in the silence
name us,
that we may know
who we are,
hear the truth
you have put into us,
trust the love
you have for us
which you call us to live out
with our sisters and brothers
in your human family. 1
This prayer by the late Ted Loder,
long-time pastor of First United Methodist Church in Philadelphia, speaks of the gift of silence.
As Elijah learned,
we are named by God in silence
so that we may know who we are
and what we are called to do.
For most of us, daily life is busy –
filled with people, places, meetings, errands, and chores.
It also is filled with lots of noise –
traffic, radio, podcasts, social media, television, voice mails, computer games, political punditry,
construction, and conversation, as well as the sounds of nature.
It is hard to find quiet.
Even in the wee hours of the morning,
when nobody is awake,
the ocean roars,
the wind howls,
the leaves rustle, and
the birds sing.
Noise is part of our built environment and our social construct.
It is also part of God’s creation.
We can’t really escape the noise of the world.
But, according to Holy Scripture,
In silence, we actually can hear God.
In the 19th chapter of 1 Kings,
after confronting King Ahab and Queen Jezebel
the prophet Elijah fled to the mountains
for fear of his life.
He “sat down under a solitary broom tree…and
asked that he might die.”
Elijah who was faithful, true and bold
felt utterly finished and defeated.
And so, he pleaded that God would end his misery.
However, God was clearly not finished with Elijah.
After feeding his hunger and quenching his thirst,
an angel of the Lord sent Elijah to the sacred mountain of Horeb.
There, standing out in the open,
Elijah waited for God to “pass by.”
First, he looked for God in a fierce wind,
but God did not pass by in the wind.
Then, he looked for God in a great earthquake,
but God was not in the earthquake.
Then, he looked for God in a fire,
but God was not in the fire.
And then, the sacred text tells us that
Elijah heard God in
the “sound of sheer silence.”
For millennia, prophets, poets, philosophers, and physicists
have considered the concept of silence.
At the age of twenty-one,
Paul Simon composed “The Sound of Silence.”
In an interview with late-night talk show host Johnny Carson,
Simon said that his famous song was about
the inability of people to communicate with each other.
People talking with without speaking
People hearing without listening…
silence [that] like a cancer grows.
Simon’s words remind me of
standing in an airplane terminal with
CNN blasting on huge television screens
and nobody listening.
The sound of silence is also
when our civic, religious, and political leaders
refuse to address systemic injustice, executive misconduct, sexual abuse, gun violence, or
reproductive choice.
But that’s not the sound of “sheer silence” that Elijah experienced.
“Sheer” is an adjective meaning
“nothing other than,” or “unmitigated.”
When referring to a cliff or a wall,
“sheer” means “perpendicular” or “nearly so.”
When describing a fabric, it means “very thin.”
In the 16 th century,
The word “sheer” was used to describe “clear, pure” water.
“Silence” is a noun meaning “the complete absence of sound.”
Thus, “sheer silence” means
the unmitigated, very thin, clear, pure absence of sound.
Is there really such a state as “sheer silence?”
Based on an informal survey of friends and acquaintances, “the sound of sheer silence” can be
heard:
Lying in bed in the middle of the night
Sitting in a cathedral during a weekday afternoon
Reclining on the dock of a lake looking up at the stars
Climbing mountains in the Northwest
Standing on the edge of a frozen lake when there is no wind
Sitting at home after kids have gone off to camp or college, or
Pulling in the driveway and turning off the engine
The people I have talked to about this subject agree that silence is:
Something elusive in our busy world,
Something we crave, and yet,
Something from which we flee.
Since researchers estimate that,
the majority of the population are extroverts,
Most of us (myself included)
have a “come close – go away” attitude toward silence.
For some, silence can be frightening.
When we think about going into silence,
we are afraid that we might miss something, or
we are afraid to be alone with our thoughts.
So we have a tendency to avoid silence,
At best, we try to manage it –
like every other aspect of our busy lives.
And yet, when
we’re finally able to settle into the silence,
there’s a profound sense of relief and humility.
Silence actually has the ability to communicate through
disagreement, confusion, chaos and conflict.
Ed Bacon, the retired rector of All Saints Church in Pasadena, CA, speaks of silence as
a “sacred pause.”
He suggests that whenever we’re about to have
a difficult conversation or meeting,
we should center ourselves in silence.
I’ve called for silence in the middle of a heated meeting,
and it’s made a difference in the outcome.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if
Congress were to use
what my friend Mark Beckwith calls
“the universal language” of silence
during its debates.
Monastics know a lot more about silence than the rest of us.
They live in the daily rhythm of silence,
often keeping silent from 9 in the evening to 9 in the morning,
and not wasting words during the day.
Most monastics know the truth about silence:
it is both a “killing and life-giving experience.”
It’s in the silence that
the dying to self and rising anew happens.
As the desert fathers and mothers
and monastics and mystics of all faith traditions
down through the centuries have taught,
without facing the silence,
the noise of the world can crowd out the voice of God.
In the silence,
the prophet Elijah had to let go of his ego-directed zealousness,
even on behalf of God.
I imagine it was terrifying all alone on that mountain top experiencing the “sheer silence” of
God.
Matthew Kelty,
a monk who has practiced silence at Gethsemani for 35 years learned that silence forces one to
confront
“the messy side of your life.”
In the silence,
Elijah had to confront
his exhaustion, his frustration and his own mortality.
Thomas Merton wrote that,
“Life is not to be regarded as an uninterrupted flow of words,
which is finally silenced by death.”
Instead, Merton explains that,
life bobs and weaves through periods of silence and necessary expression until the “final
declaration” and entrance into
the “silence of Heaven which resounds with unending praise.”
Merton, a great lover of both people and silence,
maintained that individuals who do not believe in a life after this one will resist silence because
it ultimately confronts death.
In No Man is an Island, he wrote:
The reason for their talk is: death.
Death is the enemy who seems to
confront them at every moment
in the deep darkness and silence of their own being.
So they keep shouting at death.
They confound their lives with noise.
They stun their own ears with meaningless words,
never discovering that their hearts are rooted
in a silence that is not death but life.
Alone, on a mountain, standing in silence,
Elijah had to face the inevitability of his own death,
and in doing so,
he rose to a new life.
Jesus clearly understood the importance of silence:
he sought out silence for his prayer life;
he silenced the crowds; and
he silenced the stormy seas.
In this morning’s gospel lesson,
Jesus silenced the demons,
sending them into the sea.
In the country of Gerasenes,
Jesus silenced the crazy-making legion of noise that kept a decent man naked in chains and
fetters,
roaming among the dead in the cemetery,
isolated and removed from family, friends and society.
Silence is hard for me to talk about.
I used to feel like a fraud preaching about
the spiritual practice of silence.
As many of you probably know,
I am a major extrovert, and thus, not silent by nature.
When I was in elementary school,
teachers often wrote on my report card:
“Tracey talks too much.”
Silence has been something I’ve always known I needed,
and when in the course of my busy and noisy life,
I didn’t get enough of it,
I got into trouble.
But the gift of silence remained elusive –
something that would find me rather than me finding it.
As I reflect on these two stories from scripture,
and their meaning in my own life
I realize that for me, entering the silence
so that I may find and be found by God
is about removing
the clutter, noise, chains, fetters and fears of my own life.
I’ve learned and forgotten this lesson over and over again.
I recall one particular day off,
when I didn’t have anything to do.
I phoned all my friends and everyone was busy.
Eventually, I gave up and went for a walk in the woods
As I was walking in silence,
I heard a voice say:
Well Tracey, it’s about time you showed up.
Where have you been?
Why has it taken you so long to join me?
I’ve been waiting for you.
In the silence, I realized that I wasn’t alone.
God was there and waiting for my attention.
I would hold onto this sacred learning for a while,
And then it would slip and slide away.
In late 2016,
when I was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Degeneration,
the doctors told me that if my condition
followed its usual trajectory, over time,
I would probably become unable
to speak, write and understand language.
Informing my congregation of the diagnosis,
I joked that, thanks to FTD,
I would finally be able to attend a long, silent retreat.
However, in my own ruminations,
I imagined that I would be imprisoned in a world of silence,
and I didn’t like that thought.
In fact, I was scared to death.
So after retiring from full-time cathedral ministry,
I ran around the world preaching and teaching
until I became utterly exhausted.
Then COVID arrived, and like the rest of the world,
I was grounded and confined to home.
Following weeks of avoiding isolation and loneliness by
watching television,
talking on the phone,
meeting on zoom, and
listening to music and podcasts,
I found myself seduced by silence.
I felt drawn into her presence.
I accepted her invitation and started intentionally
sitting in silence for a period of time every morning.
In doing so,
I began to discover a sense of rest, relief and wonder.
Slowly, my soul was finding its way to a place of peace.
And my brain started to heal –
or at least,
the degeneration seemed to be slowing down and stabilizing.
As the world began to reopen,
I found myself both relieved and reluctant,
filled with bittersweetness for
I now knew that
I need silence, and I have to make the time and space for it.
And so it might be with you.
You who are extroverts might have a hard time quieting
your external conversations.
You who are introverts might have a difficult time quieting
your internal conversation.
The challenge for most of us in this busy and noisy world is
to make room for the silence:
So that we may find God in the silence,
or more importantly,
So that we may be found by God in the silence.
As we enter the summer months,
There will be the temptation to fill our waking hours with
people, activity and noise.
So, let us remember the words of the Taoist
Seek silence
Gladden in silence
Adore silence
For in the silence, if you listen close enough,
you might just hear the voice of God.
1 Ted Loder, Guerillas of Grace, 1984
A Sermon Preached on the Feast of St. James the Fisherman
Sunday, July 25, 2021
The Chapel of St. James the Fisherman
Jeremiah 45.1-5 • Matthew 20.20-28
Thus says the Lord: “I am going to break down what I have built, and pluck up what I have planted.” (Jer 45.4) And, thus says Jesus: “Whosoever would become great among you shall be your slave; and whosoever would be first among you shall be your servant.” (Mt 20.26-27) These texts might seem somewhat depressing for the celebration of our annual feast day. However, I think they both offer hopeful wisdom for this summer chapel on our 68th anniversary.
Jeremiah spoke to an exiled Jewish community some 2500 years ago. It was a time of displacement and despair. Those of former position and power had lost their privilege and certitude. The familiar was no longer, and security was a faint memory. With words of imagination, the prophet Jeremiah, described how God brought to an end what had been most valued and gave new hope that was beyond expectation and explanation.
Toward the completion of his earthly ministry, Jesus spoke directly to his closest disciples. Even though they had been told repeatedly that their leader was going to suffer and die, and despite the fact that they were now in Jerusalem and Jesus’ words were coming to fruition, James and John, the Sons of Thunder, saw only glory ahead. And they wanted in on it. They (and their mother) wanted the best seats in the house of the Lord. Jesus put them in their place. You want to lead; you want to be first; get ready to serve and to follow.
Why do we need to hear these words at the Chapel today, and what wisdom and guidance do they offer to us and this place that we love?
For the past few summers, I’ve been reading literature, poetry and history of the Outer Cape. My reading list has included some classics, such as, Thoreau’s Cape Cod and Henry Beston’s The Outermost House. I have read current fiction by local authors, including this summer’s New York Times bestseller The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller. I’ve read volumes of Mary Oliver’s poetry (who I think might be considered the psalmist of Cape Cod) and re-visited old favorites like Marge Piercy’s Summer People, Mary McCarthy’s A Charmed Life, as well as essays by Edmund Wilson and Robert Finch. This summer, I’ve read some interesting memoirs set in Wellfleet as well as a few histories of Provincetown.
In all of my summer reading, I’ve concluded that nearly everybody who has lived out here — from its earliest days to the present — has staked claims of identity, entitlement and ownership of this place. For a strip of land so narrow; for a landscape that is primarily swamp, sand, grasses, scrub, and standing water infested by mosquitoes, flies, and ticks; and despite weather that is unpredictable, roads that are often impassable, and housing that is becoming inaccessible and unaffordable to most of us, there is something magical and seductive about the Outer Cape. Is it the tides, the light, the breeze, the humidity, the flora, the fish, the insects, or the sand itself that makes the Lower Cape an extraordinary place people want to claim, own, and protect from outsiders.
Is it the rebellious history of the Outer Cape that has helped establish its unique personality? From colonial times, this liminal place, where the land meets the sea, has been home to rugged and yet refined, individualistic and yet tribal, profound and yet profane, rebellious and yet ritualized individuals and communities in search of beauty, pleasure, creativity, and freedom.
The Outer Cape, accessible only by air, sea and one highway has also been a place of both escape and refuge. As Thoreau once observed: “One may stand here and put all of America behind him.”
As early as the 1630’s, Provincetown was a “haven for the lawless.” In his exposé entitled PTown, Peter Manso writes: “The inhospitable terrain and distance from the mother colony [of Plymouth] made it a locus of transgression, where outlaws, deviants, and Indians could mingle freely in pursuit of those vices the Puritans proscribed.”
At the beginning of the last century, the Outer Cape became home to artists, actors and writers who needed space to create. During the 30’s and 40’s, it became a place of welcome and refuge for those escaping facist Europe. In my own lifetime, the Outer Cape, especially Provincetown, has been a place of safety and acceptance for LGBTQ folk from all over the world.
The churches out here, including this summer chapel, have been central to the life of the Lower Cape. When the Chapel of St. James the Fisherman was established in the late 1950’s, it was because a group of clergy and laity decided they wanted to have Episcopal worship in Wellfleet during the summer months. A few years later, they built a structure that would reflect the Christian ideal of participatory worship in the round — where clergy and choristers would sit among the congregation to lead in prayer and song. It was intended to be a sanctuary with God’s holy table at the center. The exposed timbers and unfinished walls, small windows reminiscent of the hull of a ship subliminally invite us to recall life on the sea. Last week’s preacher, Callie Walpole, from the Deep South suggested that, if we allow ourselves, this sacred architecture might remind us of the arduous and awful “Middle Passage,” which brought many enslaved Africans to this continent.
Over the past sixty years, the walls of our hillside chapel have witnessed a lot of life and death — both on land and sea. However, this generation of St. James' members have been the most secure and prosperous in American history.
Over the past few years, all of that has changed and continues to do so. The stress of housing, food, health and environmental insecurity has come to Wellfleet and the rest of the Outer Cape, and with it a new wave of entitlement and self-protection — some might even call it NIMBY, short for “not in my backyard.” If you don’t know what I’m talking about — think bike paths, hiking trails, beach access, parking, cell towers, erosion protection, mosquito control, and affordable housing. These issues are reflected in yard signs and bumper stickers around town that read: “Sustainable communities need year-round housing;” “Free the Swap Shop;” “Protect the Herring River,” and “Black Lives Matter. Even Here.”
In the books about Wellfleet and the Outer Cape that I’ve been reading, I’ve found an uncomfortable tension that is reminiscent of Jesus’ parable about the Laborers in the Vineyard where the first employed resent the last hired. It’s the age-old tension between us and them: resident vs. non-resident; fishing and hunting vs. wildlife protection; oversand vehicles vs. piping plovers; surfers vs. sharks; national seashore vs. private property owners; year-rounders vs. summer people vs. tourists vs. daytrippers. It’s the ownership expressed by the residents of the Woods for “my pond,” residents of the Bay for “my beach,” or residents on the ocean for “my shoreline.” It’s the one-up-man-ship of who got here first and thus, who really belongs here, who establishes the rules, and who defines the customary. In short, it’s about who is the greatest among us?
During this COVID pandemic, these tensions have become more acute. I actually heard a friend suggest that the time is coming when the Outer Cape might no longer be able to welcome tourists and accommodate vacation home owners. As Brent Harold, author of Wellfleet and the World wrote: “This is the kind of place where place, and threats to place, are a big story.”
Even we who worship at the Chapel get caught in the trap of “us and them” — an expression of privilege, entitlement and scarcity in the midst of abundant grace. Over the years, I’ve had several people tell me that they don’t feel welcome at the Chapel because we’re too busy catching up with each other to really greet the stranger in our midst. Others have admonished me about the way things have always been done at the Chapel, resisting change in a church that was actually intended by its founders to be innovative and even radical. While I think we’re getting better at welcome and hospitality toward strangers, sojourners and seekers, it’s an ongoing challenge. Jesus taught and lived a very different message, and our patron James learned it the hard way.
Biblical scholar Walter Bruggemann has written that, “We are watching the termination of the world we have loved too long and lost, a world of Western, white, male, heterosexual domination, privilege and certitude. It has evaporated before our very eyes. Its loss creates acres of rage and anxiety.” We are lacking what he calls “the script for truth-telling about the abyss, the loss and the possibility.”
According to Bruggemann, those entrusted with the scrolls of the prophets and the Gospel of Jesus are commissioned with truth-telling. At the center of the truth to be told is that God expects and delights in justice, love, and righteousness. Without a telling and re-telling of this truth in word and action, we may have to settle for power, wealth and entitlement.
The truth of it is that none of us can claim true ownership of the Outer Cape. All of us are merely guests and stewards of this place. This vulnerable spit of land really belongs to the mosquitoes, flies and ticks; the bluefish, tuna and striped bass; the lobster, clams and oysters; the seals, sharks and whales; the turkeys, crows and osprey; the tidal, salt and kettle ponds; the marshes, bays, and yes, the ocean itself.
Ironically, as this fragile ecosystem faces a constant threat from humanity, nature is reclaiming it — one dune at a time. Moreover, none of us can claim true ownership of the Chapel of St. James the Fisherman.
This simple building on this vulnerable hillside belongs to God, and the Eucharist, our weekly meal together, belongs to Christ. We are merely guests, stewards and servants. And, everything we do must reflect this truth.
So what do Jeremiah and Jesus have to teach us in a summer chapel named for James the Fisherman?
They teach us to mend the broken nets of our world, fish for God’s lost and despairing, care for the vulnerable, stand up for the oppressed, transform well-meaning naivete into faithful hope. They also teach us to move from dismissive arrogance to self-denying service, and from entitled ownership to genuine hospitality. If we heed their wisdom, Jesus and Jeremiah can help us do hard but necessary work of being gracious guests, faithful stewards and humble servants of this place we love.
We are Called to be Brave in our Resistance
Tracey and Emily visit The Gut beach after tropical storm Elsa came through Wellfleet, MA on July 9, 2021
This post is exerted from The Very Rev. Tracey Lind’s sermon at The Chapel of St. James of the Fisherman in Wellfleet, MA on July 10, 2021 — Proper 10B 2021 - 2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19 - Psalm 24 - Mark 6:14-29
Violence is an everyday occurrence. A man murders his wife. A woman kills her newborn child. Students kill classmates. Angry employees kill co-workers. Rebel armies and government troops kill both enemy soldiers and innocent civilians. Suicide bombers and mass murderers kill random individuals. Gang members kill sleeping infants. Police kill unarmed men, women and children. There’s a lot of killing in this world.
Violence doesn’t have to involve murder. Drivers display road rage.. Athletes start fist fights on the field. Teenagers beat each other up. Women are raped by angry men. LGBTQ folks are attacked by those who don’t like or understand us.
Violence doesn’t have to be physical. Parents yell at their kids. Kids yell at their parents. Couples yell at each other. And, strangers yell at whoever will listen.
Violence is as old as the Bible. Cain killed Abel; Sarah wanted to kill Hagar; Judah raped Tamar; and the sons of Jacob tried to kill their youngest brother Joseph. Even King David, who in this morning’s Hebrew Scripture passage danced before the Lord, was said to have killed “tens of thousands.”
Violence is a cycle of anger, frustration, misunderstanding, hatred, fear, ignorance, superstition, bigotry, and scapegoating. Violence is at, or close to, the heart of human nature, and we never seem to overcome it.
Today’s gospel lesson is a tale of violence carried out as a spectacle for the display of power and expediency. King Herod gave a birthday party for all of his cronies. His daughter entertained the guests. Her father responded by offering her whatever she wished. The daughter turned to her mother for advice. The first lady of Judea asked for the head of John the Baptist to be delivered at the banquet on a silver platter.
This violent act, reminiscent of scenes in the television series House of Cards, was a foreshadowing of things to come. It was a preview of what would happen to Jesus when he was betrayed by his disciple Judas and handed over to the will of an angry crowd by Pilate, another cunning and spineless politician.
This is a particularly insidious form of political violence called expediency. Herod, Pilate, and yes, good old King David (who arranged to have his lover’s husband killed in battle) were pros at a game that is all too familiar in today’s political landscape.
We witness political expediency all the time, and it often goes unstopped. It’s a third rail that nobody wants to touch. Consider for instance: the NRA, white supremacy, the Palestinian situation, the immigration crisis, COVID, abortion, and in many states, school funding, voting rights and the death penalty.
Often, those in leadership - political, corporate, civic and even religious - throw up their hands and say, “I’m powerless. I can’t do anything about this or that; if I do, I’ll lose my base of support. Sometimes they say, “The timing isn't right; or this issue will be too divisive.” And often, we respond, “Oh well.” It’s so pervasive that many of us have become numb to the violence of political expediency.
I live in a state with both “open carry” and “stand your ground” laws and a gun lobby that is really powerful. There are a ridiculous number of fatal shootings in my hometown of Cleveland (68 homicides so far this year, which translates to nearly 3 every week). It has become so commonplace that, in early June, I actually missed the news of a mass shooting at a high school graduation party, killing three and injuring thirty-five.
My state has an energy lobby that is both powerful and corrupt, but our state legislature won’t stand up to it. In what has been called “an unholy alliance,” some of our legislators, including the recently indicted and removed house speaker, have lined their pocketbooks with substantial pay-offs. Ohio is a state where COVID became a political football. It’s also a state with gerrymandering and legislative attempts to suppress voting. It’s so overwhelming that some days I don’t even want to read the newspaper.
What should be our response to the violence of political expediency? Should it be one of flight or fight? Should we express outrage and anger with more violence — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth — leading to violent protest, uprising and insurrection; or should we passively ignore, overlook, and accept violence, becoming or behaving as if we are numb to it?
According to the teaching of Jesus, the Christian response to violence, including that of political expediency, must be non-violent resistance. As Walter Wink, one of my seminary professors, taught: nonviolence is a third way, Jesus’ way - what our Lord called the “narrow path.”
Martin Luther King claimed nonviolent resistance as both a value and strategy of the civil rights movement. In a Christmas sermon delivered at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, Dr. King preached::
To our most bitter opponents we say: We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you….But be assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom, but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process, and our victory will be a double victory.
Think about the 600 men, women and children led by John Lewis and Hosea Williams, who on March 7, 1965 peacefully marched into Selma on what became known as “Bloody Sunday, ” or those who sat at lunch counters and those who integrated schools. While the struggle to end racism and white supremacy still goes on, over time, Dr. King’s commitment to nonviolent resistance has moved the arc of the moral universe towards justice.
Other great justice movements have also been grounded and empowered by nonviolent resistance. Remember the 60,000 men (and a few women) who were beaten and arrested as they joined Gandhi on his 1930 march to the sea in protest of British rule in India. Let us not forget the women suffragists who in the mid 19th to early 20th centuries were arrested, beaten, imprisoned and force-fed as they sought the right to vote.
I vividly recall the early years of LGBTQ Pride Parades. As we held hands and marched down city streets, angry “religious” folks yelled condemnations in our face. During those marches, wearing a black clergy shirt and collar, I and other gay clergy would respond: “God bless you.”
Nonviolent resistance is more than just marching in the face of evil. It is also speaking out against evil. And that too is as old as the Bible. Think Moses, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Amos.
Jesus, following in the prophetic tradition, spoke directly with love to the rich and powerful. He condemned hypocrisy, selfishness, and deceit. He repeatedly named the elephant in the room.
Speaking out is a form of discipleship. It is a way of going forth in Christ to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Speaking out is a way of repairing the world for God’s sake.
In the news this week, we heard from a woman who has spoken out about the violence of political expediency when it would have been easier to keep her mouth shut. Award-winning journalist Nikole Hannah-Jones, creator of the 1619 Project, recently declined an offer of tenure from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill after learning that a powerful board member lobbied against her, using his wealth to influence the hires and ideology of the journalism school. In a public statement, Ms. Hannah-Jones writes:
Why would I want to teach at a university whose top leadership chose to remain silent, to refuse transparency, to fail to publicly advocate that I be treated like every Knight Chair before me? Or for a university overseen by a board that would so callously put politics over what is best for the university that we all love. These times demand courage, and those who had held the most power in this situation have exhibited the least of it.
Kudos to Hannah-Jones for following the narrow way of nonviolent resistance. It’s not easy being brave. It can be downright scary and costly. Many times, as a rector, cathedral dean and nominee for bishop, when I spoke out for the cause of justice, I got hammered. When I named racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-semitism, or xenophobia from the pulpit; or when I blessed an abortion clinic, a community of commercial sex workers, and a sanctuary for the undocumented; I got attacked as pushy, arrogant, disloyal, uninformed, unorthodox, and even unfaithful. Sometimes, my credentials were challenged, and I was even threatened with ecclesiastical discipline and physical attack.
During the heat of the 1995 heresy trial over gay ordination, when I preached about being gay and was really under attack from some colleagues and parishioners, a friend said to me: “What do you expect? You follow a man who was crucified.” Yes, we follow a man who was crucified. Let us never forget that truth.
Prophetic words and action can get one in trouble. But, this is the work of discipleship. This is what Jesus calls us to do — to get up and go forth — empowered by God’s grace, walking two-by-two, carrying just what we need as we face violence, confront political expediency, speak truth to power, look in the eye of our enemies, and bless them with God’s love.
Battered, Beautiful, and Brave: Let's Emerge
Panoramic view of a freshwater kettle pond in Wellfleet, MA
This post is an excerpt from The Very Rev. Tracey Lind’s June 27 sermon at The Chapel of St. James the Fisherman in Wellfleet, MA. — Proper 8B 2021
And when this ends we will emerge, shyly
and then all at once, dazed, longhaired as we embrace
loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those
it gathered in its shroud. A kind of rapture, this longed-for
laying on of hands, high cries as we nuzzle, leaning in
to kiss, and whisper that now things will be different,
although a time will come when we’ll forget
the curve’s approaching wave, the hiss and sigh
of ventilators, the crowded, makeshift morgues;
a time when we may even miss the old-world
arm’s-length courtesy, small kindnesses left on doorsteps,
the drifting, idle days, and nights when we flung open
all the windows to arias in the darkness, our voices
reaching out, holding each other till this passes.
For months, I’ve dreamed about standing in the pulpit again at The Chapel of St. James the Fisherman and sharing these words from the Irish poet John O’Donnell. How good it is that we are beginning to come together again, some of us dazed and long and grey haired as we emerge from a long COVID season, coming together to “embrace loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those it gathered in its shroud.”
We have lost friends, colleagues, neighbors, acquaintances and loved ones. We have longed for hugs and kisses, handshakes and high-fives. We have read the morning papers and watched the evening news in both horror and hope. We have sanitized our hands, our groceries and nearly every surface of our homes in an attempt to protect ourselves and our families from a deadly virus. We have worked and worshipped on zoom, visited with loved ones on computer screens, and had cocktails on FaceTime. We have applauded first-responders, health care professionals, restaurant workers, and delivery people. We have protested racism, police violence and criminal injustice, And, we have prayed that “now things would be different.”
But are they?
What's changed since that fearful day in March 2020 when we were all told to stay at home, wear masks when we go out, and wipe down packages when they come in? What’s changed since that awful day in May 2020 when a black man was murdered by a white police officer who knelt on his neck for nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds? What’s changed since that unbelievable day in January 2021 when angry mobs, incited by an outgoing president, rioted and attacked our nation’s capital? What’s really different since we last gathered in this sacred space? A whole lot and nothing at all.
One thing is for certain: our individual lives and the life of our church, our nation and our world has been interrupted, and we’re all in need of healing.
Last week’s appointed gospel reading (Mark 5:21-43) speaks of both interruption and healing. Jesus, with a crowd gathered round him, was interrupted by a leader of the synagogue, begging him to heal his dying daughter. On his way, a woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years - for as long as the little girl had been alive - interrupted Jesus by reaching out and touching his cloak.
Throughout the gospel accounts, Jesus was interrupted by people in need of healing: a leper, a paralytic, a demonic and a blind beggar: an impoverished woman begging for crumbs, a Roman centurion, and a rich young ruler; disciples, soldiers and crowds. And at the end of Jesus’ life and ministry: a woman with a jar of costly ointment interrupted his last meal, and two men hanging on nearby crosses interrupted his execution.
Did Jesus ignore or refuse these interruptions? No, he saw God’s people as an interruption to be welcomed and as an opportunity to teach, heal, and proclaim God justice, love and mercy for all creation.
Moreover, Jesus was an interrupter himself. He interrupted fishermen, tax collectors, and unclean spirits as well as corrupt politicians, clergy and religious institutions. He even interrupted mother nature herself. As recounted by tradition and understood by faith, both the incarnation and the resurrection were divine interruptions in the earthly realm. Christianity really is a theology with interruption at its core, asserting a different, unexpected and unpredictable future that is not under human control.
This morning’s gospel reading reminds us that we can’t claim this theology of interruption without encountering and confronting the powers and principalities that seek to silence it. The bleeding woman couldn’t be healed without having the audacity to break convention, push through the crowd, and touch Jesus’ garment, believing that in doing so, she would be made whole. Jairus’ daughter wouldn’t have been healed had her father not interrupted Jesus, begging him to stop what he was doing and come to his aid.
The same is true for us. We can’t get sober if we don’t admit we have an addiction; we can’t repair a relationship that we don’t acknowledge is broken; we can’t get out of a professional rut that we can’t face.
We can’t heal what ails our nation and our world without the same desperate and hopeful audacity. We can’t rid our communities and institutions of racism without acknowledging the racism within ourselves; we can’t eradicate COVID without listening to the science; we can’t alleviate climate change if we don’t accept our part in its cause; we can’t end gun violence without gun control; and we can’t be a democracy without voting rights.
The confluence and intersection of recent events – a multi-layered pandemic, if you will – has served as an alarm clock, perhaps, even a divine interruption, telling us to stop and pay attention. On the one hand, the COVID shut-down offered a pause that allowed many to rediscover what’s important in our lives - a chance to re-set, re-prioritize and re-calibrate. On the other hand, as Dr. Anthony Fauci recently observed, “COVID-19 has shone a bright light on our society’s own failings.” A friend of mine put it this way: The intersection of COVID-19 and its economic fall-out, the murder of George Floyd and the response that Black Lives Matter, the presidential election and insurrection at our nation’s capital gave us the gift of sight. As she said, “We needed to see the ugliness of it all.”
What some have termed “a double pandemic” has awakened us to become aware of our surroundings and has challenged us to look around and engage - really engage the reality we face in order to be agents of healing. Mahogany Browne reminds us in her preface to Woke: A Young Poet’s Call to Justice, that, “The idea of being aware of your surroundings, especially in a time when we are taught to be quiet and not rock the boat, can be difficult to embrace...” As the woman who stopped bleeding after twelve years and as the father of a twelve-year-old girl who “got up” out of a sleep perceived to be death, “this is where freedom begins.”
Like Janice Joplin once sang, “Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose.” When you have nothing left to lose, you’re free to be brave and daring.
As I’ve learned in dealing with the interruption of early onset dementia, and as anyone in a 12-step recovery program will attest, we can’t undo the past. We can’t go backwards; that is wishful thinking. We can’t deny the damage we’ve done to our environment and our own bodies; nor the damning truth of American slavery and Jim Crow. We can’t deny the injustice in our criminal justice system or the inequities in our educational system. We can’t deny the shrinkage of our churches or even the increasing irrelevance of organized religion in American public life. We can only go forward, step by step, examining the root causes of our individual and collective dis-ease and considering radical (that is, root) changes in our individual and collective lives.
For many of us, especially white people of privilege, it would be comforting to go back to the way things were. As Morgan Parker writes in her poem entitled “If You Are Over Staying Woke,” we can choose to sleep in, avoid the news, water the plants, complain about the weather, and “remember what the world is like for white people.” Many of us learned in the early days of COVID that the temptation to stay in bed with the sheets pulled over our eyes can be very tantalizing. It can also lead to a really lonely death by isolation.
At President Biden’s inauguration, the poet Amanda Gorman offered an alternative vision when she proclaimed that we can “raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.” Like the woman who touched Jesus’ cloak and the man who pleaded for his daughter’s life, we can bring about good news into this world by claiming the healing power of interruption.
When we choose to awaken from our collective sleep and interrupt the status quo with our God-given power, Gorman tells us that from “every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country...a people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.” She reminds us that, “When that day comes, we will step out of the shade of flame and unafraid. The new dawn balloons as we free it. For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.”
Yes, like Jesus, if we’re brave enough, we can interrupt the seemingly endless cycle of disease, disengagement and death and help build a world filled with reconciling, repairing and redemptive love.
In his 1965 commencement address at Oberlin College, Dr. Martin Luther King insisted that, “There is nothing more tragic than to sleep through a revolution.” He went on to speak of a great, social revolution, with the winds of change blowing, “sweeping away the old order.” Dr. King told a hopeful and enthusiastic audience, that the challenge facing every individual is to remain awake through such a revolution.
We are called to wake up, rise up and remain awake as we join the great revolution taking place today so that in the words of Amanda Gorman we might “leave behind a country better than the one we were left.” As we begin to come together again this summer, I invite you to ponder two questions. Where do you need healing in your life; and how can you be an agent of healing in the world?
Where do you need healing in your life?
And how can you be an agent of healing in the world?
Having considered these questions, may you have the courage and faith to live into the answers.
Tracey Joins Cleveland Faith Leaders in Advocating for COVID Vaccine
“Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in health care is the most shocking and inhumane. - Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., 1966”
On Friday, I tested negative for COVID-19 as part of my pre-surgical admission testing for a knee replacement surgery that will take place on Monday. A recent stuffy nose had me worried, but thankfully the results were negative and my surgery will go ahead as planned. It’s the first of two knee replacement surgeries I will have over the next few months. Thank you for all of the prayers and support surrounding Emily and me these last several months. I have to admit that the physical limitations of chronic and severe knee pain have been more challenging than coping with my dementia symptoms. Though Emily would probably say differently. We both truly appreciate the tremendous support of our friends, colleagues, and extended community as we face the unknowns and fears of two surgeries and the extended recovery.
The video above was filmed nearly two weeks ago, at Metrohealth medical center, where I was grateful to participate in a community awareness campaign with other faith leaders who received the COVID vaccine. “Roll up your sleeves,” the tagline says, hoping to increase trust and participation in the COVID-19 vaccine distribution. I didn’t experience any significant side effects from the shot (aside from a sore arm) and it brings me so much peace of mind to know that I might be able to interact more in the world again one day soon.
As a person living with early-stage dementia (and a natural extrovert), I sometimes need to be reminded of the habits that keep me safe like handwashing and proper mask-wearing. And I know will have to continue to do these things even after receiving the vaccine. But we wear masks and get vaccinated not just for ourselves, but to keep our friends, family, and community safe, too. Especially those who are most vulnerable and those who may not readily trust the medical system. Even after being vaccinated, research has not yet shown if you still might pass the virus on to other people without experiencing any symptoms yourself. So please join me in helping take care of each other until it is safe for us to hug one another freely again.
Please share this post and video to help others join the effort to combat vaccine misinformation and build trust in this community-wide effort. Those interested in getting vaccinated are encouraged to visit https://www.metrohealth.org/covid-19/covid-vaccine for the latest updates. Because of limited supply, there may be delays in getting vaccinated, even for those in the category of people eligible to get vaccinated.