I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

He will not let your foot be moved.
Except for the times that he does let your foot be moved.

The Rev. Kathi Johnson

B Lectionary 17 – July 26, 2015

Text: John 6:1-21

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

+ INJ +

Last Wednesday afternoon, I went down to the grocery store to buy some bread for us to use for Communion that evening. I strolled into the store, found the bread I wanted, and then decided I wanted to buy some cashews, too. So, I went up and down several aisles, looking for the canned nuts. I was walking down Aisle 2, when – BLAM! – I hit a spot of water on the floor and have never fallen so quickly.

My legs went out from underneath me and I crumpled to the floor. My feeling of humiliation was quickly taken over by pain – my knees hurt, my left foot hurt. And…there was no one around to help. I was sitting on the floor of a store full of people, and yet I was completely alone. I couldn’t get myself up safely, and so I waited for someone to walk by the aisle, or come into the aisle. Finally, a woman with two children walked past the end of the aisle. I hollered out to her, and she got me some help.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by concerned employees and customers. They were asking what I needed – a chair? some ice? Honestly, in that moment, I didn’t know – except I knew I wanted the pain to stop. Finally, they helped me up to my feet, and helped me hobble to the in-store Starbucks. I propped my foot up on a chair, they brought me ice, and the manager came over to fill out the accident report. (She also bought me a cappuccino and brought me those stupid cashews, which were located on some non-aisle of the store.)

The paperwork completed, I made my purchases and the manager helped me hobble out to my car.  I got back here, I hobbled into the building, plunked my foot up on a chair with the ice, and I cried. I snuggled the teddy bear that I keep in my office for you all to snuggle with when you come in to talk to me. I called Steve. I whined on social media and in text messages, and I got sympathy and advice in response.

After I’d calmed down, I decided to look over the bulletin for Wednesday night to get into the worship-leading frame of mind. As I looked over the lessons, the psalm jumped out at me – I had selected Psalm 121, which is a psalm praising God for God’s protection, and verse 3 of that psalm reads: “He will not let your foot be moved.”

Respectfully, I disagree with the psalmist. Maybe that psalm writer never slipped and fell. Whatever the case, I have had a different experience with God than the psalm writer.

My experience with God is more like the disciples in the boat in today’s Gospel lesson: rowing away in rough seas, finding Jesus in my moments of great fear, and hearing Jesus say, “It is I; do not be afraid.”

We hear John’s version of this story today, but in the story as it’s told by Matthew, we hear that the disciple Peter actually gets out of the boat to walk to Jesus out on the water. He’s strolling along, and then he notices the strong wind, he becomes afraid, and begins to sink down. Peter’s experience of God is different than the psalm writer, too. His feet are also moved - moved down, into the water, and he has no choice but to call out to Jesus for help. The story says that Jesus immediately reaches out to lift him up, and so, of course, there is no reason for Peter to be afraid.

So this story of Jesus walking on the water can teach us two important things: the first, about our need, and the second, about God’s response.

Our need for God is great. St. Augustine wrote this words to God: “You have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” We are restless, like Peter, and we are drawn out of the boat to walk on the water toward Jesus. Then we begin to fear and, as we fear, we sink, and as we sink, we cry out for God to help us.

The psalms are full of these cries - if you ever need the words to cry out to God, turn to the psalms: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” says Psalm 22 – which are the words that Jesus cries out from the cross.

       “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” says Psalm 13.

·      “Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” says Psalm 10.

Or, put another way: “Lord, my foot has moved. Help me!” Or like an old commercial says, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

The disciples in their storm-tossed boat are afraid because of the weather and because they see Jesus and think he is a ghost. And Jesus, showing the same compassion to them that he has just shown in feeding the five thousand, reassures them, “It is I; do not be afraid."

Let us remember that God responds to us in love, whatever our need. Even if we cannot see the love of God because of our focus on the storm going on around us, that doesn’t mean God’s love isn’t there. Even if we cannot see the love of God because of our fear, that doesn’t mean God’s love isn’t there.

Even when we have fallen and we can’t get up, God’s love is still there. Our feet may slip, we may sink down, but God’s love is still there.

Amen.

+ SDG +

When Weeping Lingers for More Than One Night...

Weeping may linger for the night,

but joy comes with the morning. 

Psalm 30:5

When I was a little kid, I thought that mourning doves were actually "morning" doves. I remember one afternoon, visiting my grandparents in their New Jersey home, I heard a "morning" dove and I asked my Granny why I was hearing a "morning" dove in the afternoon. After she figured out what I meant, she explained that the bird was called a "mourning" dove because the sound it makes can be so sad.

This entire week, I've been staying at the home of some relatives while they are out of town. I came here for a couple of events and, at least when I planned this trip, I decided the time here alone would do me some good. A retreat, of sorts.

All week long, I've heard the sound of many mourning doves outside: on the roof, right by the chimney, next to the window, on the fence, in the trees. I hear one now, sadly calling, again and again. And this sound has been an appropriate backdrop for the sadness I have felt all week.

I came here already sad. Our beloved schnauzer, Max, died last week, and so it was with a heavy heart that I came on this trip at all. I was terrified to be alone with my grief - so very scared to face alone the gut-wrenching sobs that I knew would come. And they have come, and they have gone, and then they've come back again. Joy may come in the morning, but sometimes, weeping lingers for more than a night.

And then there came Charleston, and deaths so horrific that I spent my alone time in stunned silence, with silent tears, not knowing what to say or do, only knowing that there would be another night wherein weeping would linger, and another morning with no joy.

All week long, I've watched my social media feeds blow up. I've read horrible words that those with racist hearts have said about others. I've seen quote after inspirational quote by Dr. King and I've even posted a few myself because his words have always been anchors for me in trying to understand - as a white person - the racial tensions we face as a nation.

It has all felt empty to me.

And I think that, for me, anyway, the emptiness stems not from a lack of caring - I do care, very much. The emptiness stems from having to stare at this ugliness once again - this particular form of evil, that cloaks itself in righteousness and calls itself holy. For racism is evil, and particularly so when it drives someone to destroy life. The emptiness I've felt this week has come from knowing that there are no quick solutions, there are no easy answers, and there is no way we are getting out of this without more meaningless rhetoric from our politicians and more anger spewing from all sides.

And all I can do is what I can do.

All I can do is speak against racism when I see it and hear it, whether it is an attitude in my own heart or something I witness in someone else's. All I can do is pray unceasingly for those who have no peace, either because of the color of their skin or because of the insidious hatred in their hearts. All I can do is reach out to those I know who suffer because of racism. All I can do is weep for those who have died and mourn for our world which is so very broken.

And all I can do is remember for myself and say again to others that the love of God is greater than our hatred. The love of God is greater than our sin. All I can do is remember again and again that the love of God encompasses us all, so that while weeping may linger for a night or more, joy will - eventually - come again in the morning.

What Does Forgiveness Look Like?

14 September 2014 – Year A, Lectionary 24

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

+ INJ +

Grace and peace is yours, from God our Father and from the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I’m going to start today with a question: What does forgiveness look like?

I’m starting with this question because that’s the question at the heart of Peter’s question to Jesus: “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” In other words, Jesus, what does forgiveness really look like, anyway? How abundant is forgiveness?

Well, Peter should know by now that when you ask Jesus a question like this, you’re typically going to get an answer that’s all about the kingdom of heaven – an answer that makes perfect sense in God’s kingdom, but to us, sounds a bit “out there.”

Jesus answers with what we call the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. I’m going to tweak it a bit to fit it into 2014:

There’s this man who owes a bank a lot of money – about six hundred thousand dollars – an impossible sum of money for him to repay on his salary. Since he cannot pay, the president of the bank orders that he and every family member – even the children - have to work extra jobs in order to earn enough to pay off their debt. One day, the man goes to see the president of the bank and he begs for freedom from the impossible debt. The bank president has pity on the man and his family, and he relents, and forgives the entire debt.

The man leaves the bank and is heading home to give his family the good news. While walking home, he sees a coworker and he remembers, “Wait a minute – he owes me fourteen thousand dollars!” The man proceeds to rough up his coworker in order to collect what’s owed him. The coworker begs for more time to repay his debt; instead of being merciful, the man has his coworker thrown into jail.

So, yes, the man who has just been forgiven this huge, impossible debt - forgiven only because of the mercy of the bank president – he turns the tables of forgiveness over on top of this other guy, and all because of a much smaller amount of money.

But another coworker is also there, and sees everything that happens. He knows the bank president, so he goes and tells the banker what he’s just seen. The bank president, furious, has the forgiven man picked up and thrown into the tiniest jail cell he can find. He’s allowed no visitors, and given one meal a day. And every time the guards walk by his cell, they give him a punch in the gut. His family keeps working all of their extra jobs until they can pay back the impossible debt.

Now, obviously, I changed a few things in this parable – to help us to see that Jesus uses extremes in his parables on purpose: in order to capture the attention of his audience. But there is also in this parable the sense of Jesus wanting to push open our minds, to expand what we think forgiveness looks like, and what unforgiveness looks like. Can forgiveness really look like a king’s or a bank president’s mercy, given to someone who owes an impossible debt? Can unforgiveness really be so harsh – as harsh as torture - for the one who refuses to forgive another?

There are two sides to focus on in this parable: that of the one receiving forgiveness, and that of the one offering forgiveness. On the one hand, the parable reminds us that God forgives us our impossible debt – one which we can never hope to repay. Our sinfulness is ever with us, and we are ever the poor, struggling person, asking for mercy.

On the other hand, the parable reminds us that forgiving others is absolutely vital. When we have been hurt by someone, it is often forgiveness that can move us forward.[1]

Most of us have things we remember our parents (or others) saying over and over again. I remember time and time again, when I’d just related some complaint to my mom about something that someone had done to me, she’d listen, and then simply say, “You sure are letting that person have an awful lot of power over you!”

She was right. I had been wronged, in whatever way, and yet I hadn’t gotten around to forgiving that person yet. I was holding onto the wrong and holding onto the pain or trouble they had caused. As long as I held onto all of that garbage, I wasn’t free to move forward, and so I was, in a way, letting that person hold me back. I was like the tortured servant, doomed to be hurt by my own unforgiveness, again and again.

Like the extreme forgiveness initially offered by the king in the parable told by Jesus – or the bank president in my version - forgiveness may not make a lot of sense to us, or to others, especially when we are looking at someone whom we feel owes us an impossible debt.

And yet this parable has another lesson for us: that our own forgiveness and our ability to forgive others are absolutely bound to one another. What is it that we pray in the Lord’s Prayer? “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” As Luther wrote: “…we ask that God would give us all things by grace, for we sin daily and indeed earn only punishment. So, on the other hand, we, too, truly want to forgive heartily and do good gladly to those who sin against us.”[2]

As we daily receive grace and forgiveness, so we are called to offer grace and forgiveness to others over and over again. I’ve often told people that I don’t think of forgiveness as a once-and-for-all-time thing. Forgiveness is a journey, sometimes made up of a thousand steps – a thousand decisions made weekly, or daily, or hourly to forgive that person who has hurt me or wronged me in some way.

Peter wants a number when he asks Jesus his question: is it seven times I should forgive, Jesus? Jesus’ answer, seventy-seven times[3], shouldn’t be taken literally and we shouldn’t create a tally sheet. Rather, that number is meant to be representative of an overall huge number of times that we are willing to forgive – or something closer to what Martin Luther King, Jr. called a “constant attitude” of forgiveness.

We are closing the sermon time today with a rite that we use almost every Sunday here at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church – the rite of Confession and Forgiveness. On Sundays that we use this rite, we stand and face the baptismal font, as a reminder of our own baptismal identity: that we are washed in these waters and marked as Christ’s own forever. But may we also remember that, in our baptisms, we are called to live as forgiven ones, and as forgiven ones, we are called to forgive.

+ SDG +

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[1] I will note here that this parable has been wrongly used at times to justify someone staying in an abusive situation. Telling someone who is being abused to “forgive and forget” their abuse is neither helpful, nor the point of Jesus’ teaching here.

[2] Luther’s Small Catechism, explanation to the Fifth Petition of the Lord’s Prayer.

[3] OK, or seventy times seven. Not the point!

How Social Media Helps Me Mourn With Those Who Mourn

#PrayForWest

Last night, Hubby and I went out for a late dinner, following a powerful worship service that included many prayers for the people of Boston. We got to the restaurant, ordered our drinks, and did what has become fairly customary for us: pulled out our smart phones. I perused Twitter while he looked at Facebook.

I'll note here that, generally, I'm not a fan of sitting and staring at a screen when sitting across the table from someone. But this screen time has helped us become kinda like the couple that sits and reads the morning paper together. We share the stories we are reading on our screens; we talk about things we see; we show each other pictures.

So, last night, pretty quickly, I began to see a number of tweets regarding the explosion in West. The number of tweets grew pretty quickly and became more urgent sounding each time I checked. Pictures started appearing, to the point where our dinner conversation surrounded the event that was unfolding just down I-35 to our south.

We got home, and found a news station that had the story on, and I returned to Twitter, adding Facebook to the mix. What I was seeing was staggering - the destruction, the flashing lights, the people - my God, the people! And I started to tweet what I was seeing, what I was feeling, the horror that was trying to overtake me again - and you know what? Others were doing the same thing.

Hubby fell asleep with the news still on. The news continued...and continued...and continued, and so I continued to post prayers, observations, and reactions on Twitter and Facebook, and others engaged those posts in various ways. 

What emerged for me was the sense that it wasn't just me, sitting there in our house, watching horror unfold in front of me while I faced it alone. What emerged for me was the sense that others were out there too - in some cases, on the other side of the world! - watching the same horror that I was, struggling to make some sense out of it, trying desperately to offer prayer and comfort, too. What emerged for me is something akin to the idea of mourning with those who mourn.

I have done this many, many times through social media. I have cried upon reading about someone's diagnosis or death. I have prayed with and for those who have just lost their job, or have had to put a pet to sleep, or who are struggling to care for an aging parent. I have wept - wept so very hard - in the face of some of the burdens we share with one another through social media. And, last night, I wept again, seeing more destruction, more pain, more shock, more horror. Again.

Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of joys that are shared, too - plenty of times when I have rejoiced with those who are rejoicing. I have celebrated with others about new jobs and new babies, new houses and new cars, newly-found freedom and newly-claimed strength. I have said prayers of thanksgiving for all these things, and more. And I have received many, many well-wishes and congratulations via social media in my own times of joy.

But at times like last night, facing horror yet again, I can honestly say that I am grateful for the connections I've made and maintained through social media. I am thankful we can inform one another. I am thankful we can pray for and with one another. I am thankful that I can mourn with those who mourn.

#PrayForBoston

I heart Boston.

We are hurting once again. We think we cannot possibly take anymore of this - and yet, here it is, in our faces, in our ears, on our minds, in our hearts. The violence. The bloodshed. The disregard for life.

This city that has never been my home, and yet feels like home each time I visit it;

This city with the passion of a thousand suns;

This city with such history, such beauty, such depth;

This city has been shattered, broken, left to bleed.

And we who listen to the news or dare to watch it, we are left bleeding, too, because we ache with them for safety and peace;

Because this city could be our city, our people, our friends, our family;

Because the horror is heavy and thick.

The psalmist wrote these words so very long ago, and here they are, with us today:

"How long must I bear pain in my soul,

and have sorrow in my heart all day long?"

(Psalm 13:2)

It's a fair question, I think, to ask of God - how long? How long must we bear this pain? How long will we be sorrowful? How long?

Is it too soon to speak of hope? As the injured lay in hospitals, as families receive news of their dead - is it too soon to speak of hope? Or is this exactly when we must speak of hope? Is this when hope gives us...hope? Can we, like the psalmist, begin to trust again in the steadfast love of God? Even when horror strikes us and grief dwells with us - again! - can we begin to trust again in the steadfast love of God?

For I am reminded - even in the depths of my own grief and fear and heartbreak - that the steadfast love of God endures forever. Not just when I see evidence of it. Not just when I feel it with me. Not just when days are sunny and free from pain. The steadfast love of God endures forever.

O God of enduring love, dwell with us now. Amen.