St. Paul’s Church in
Bergen, Jersey City NJ
October 2, 2016
Year C, Proper 21:
The Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
Lamentations 1:1-6
Lamentations 3:19-26
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10
Lamentations
I’ve
mentioned to you before that for the past couple of years some of us local
clergy have been gathering to pray at the site of each homicide in Jersey City.
We
go one week after the tragedy, when, maybe, attention has turned elsewhere, but
the loss is still very fresh.
It’s
become my job to send out an email to the clergy each time there is a murder,
so, unfortunately, quite a few of my colleagues know me only as a bearer of
very bad news.
I’ll
admit, all of this takes a toll: sharing bad news over and over – eighteen
times already this year – and gathering at these places of senseless death a
couple of times a month – all of this tragic suffering and loss can easily lead
to despair, or even numbness and indifference.
In
fact, earlier this year I started to notice some disturbing changes.
Before,
almost always, we’d go to pray and, even a week later, there would be elaborate
shrines marking the place of death: balloons, posters, t-shirts covered in
messages of love, votive candles, and empty liquor bottles.
But,
for months this year, we’d go to these places and there was nothing – nothing –
no sign that a beloved child of God had lost his (they’re almost always men)
had lost his life on this very spot just seven days earlier.
It
was as if the homicide had never happened.
Meanwhile,
fewer and fewer clergy were showing up for these services, for these vigils at
places of death.
Gary,
Laurie, and I are almost always there, along with a couple of others, but most
everybody else has fallen away.
All
of this has been bothering me – and has gotten me thinking and praying.
I
wonder, have we, not just the clergy, but most of us, have just gotten used to
it all?
I
wonder, have we really have become numb and indifferent?
For
the past fifteen years, our country has in some ways been on a war footing,
shocked at first by a bold terror attack on a beautiful September morning, but,
have we gradually gotten used to the idea that a random bomb may go off as
we’re crossing 23rd Street and 6th Avenue, or running a
marathon, or taking the train to work?
Have
we gotten used to the fact that, from time to time, an armed-to-the-teeth
lunatic will open fire in a school, or a movie theater, a nightclub, or some
other public place?
Have
we gotten used to the idea that little wars will continue to smolder in faraway
places like Afghanistan, Yemen, and Somalia – wars that we don’t hear about
even if we pay close attention to the news.
Have
we gotten used to the millions of refugees risking their lives and the lives of
their children, desperately seeking a way out of their shattered and starving
homelands?
Have
we gotten used to the mutual hostility and mistrust between the police and
people of color?
Have
we gotten used to stepping over homeless people as we make our way to work or
school or to the store?
Have
we gotten used to an election campaign marked by accusations and insults but
precious few answers to our many problems, and so very little poetry or hope?
Have
we gotten used to the bloodshed on our streets, gotten used to hearing in
church the names of the slaughtered, gotten used to all of the bloodstained
corners throughout Bergen-Lafayette and Greenville?
Have
we really become numb and indifferent, retreating into our own little worlds,
putting in our earbuds, staring at our phones and TVs?
And,
sometimes as people of faith, we think that we really shouldn’t despair about
all of this suffering – that somehow being sad about all of this shows a lack
of faith. Instead, in the face of fear, loss, and grief, we fall back on easy
answers and catchphrases, saying to the bereaved “He’s in a better place,” all
the while looking away from, desperately trying to ignore or escape from, the
pain that surrounds us.
But,
you know, there is a long history in our faith tradition of facing the sadness
head-on, grieving for all that has been lost.
Today
we heard two passages from the Book of Lamentations, an Old Testament book that
consists almost entirely of sad poems lamenting the destruction of Jerusalem by
the Babylonians back in 586 BC.
The
author of Lamentations writes, “How lonely sits the city that was once full of
people…”
A
whole book of the Bible devoted to lamenting!
Lamenting
loss is important because numbness and indifference are dangerous.
As
we’ve so often seen, it’s a short and tragic road from numbness and
indifference to easy answers, mockery, cruelty, hatred, and even more suffering
and death.
And,
on top of all that, numbness and indifference make God’s job much more
difficult. Even for God, it’s hard to touch someone who no longer feels, it’s
hard to break through to someone who no longer cares.
But,
when we face it, when really keep looking at the sadness, when we really
grieve, when we allow ourselves to feel, when we really lament, then we give God maybe just a mustard seed-size opening,
and God is more able to touch our hearts and break into our lives.
And,
sure enough, we hear God’s touch, God’s breaking through, in today’s second
passage from Lamentations, the one we said together:
“The
thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul
continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But, this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his
mercies never come to an end.”
A
couple of weeks ago I was the first to arrive for our prayer service at the
spot on MLK Drive where Jensen Purnell, 28 years old, was fatally shot.
And,
to my surprise, for the first time in a long time, there was a shrine there, a
big one, with blue balloons, autographed t-shirts, candles, and lots of empty
liquor bottles.
There
were also a couple of guys hanging out on the corner. I could see that they
were eyeing me – and, I guess, I was eyeing them, too.
So,
I worked up a little courage, walked over and asked if they had known Jensen.
They said, yes, but laughed because they had never known that was his real
name, had only known him by his nickname.
One
of the guys asked if I was a minister and what I was doing there.
After
I explained how we pray each time there’s a murder, one of the guys looked at
me with great seriousness and asked, “Then why do people keep dying?”
I
wasn’t sure what he meant so he asked again, “If you’ve been praying, how come
this keeps happening?”
It
was a really good, honest, thoughtful question, right?
I
said something about it taking time to change people’s hearts, which I think is
true, but really isn’t the truest answer.
By
then, Gary had arrived and we invited these guys to join us for the prayer
service. They all took a bulletin but pretty quickly all but one drifted away
to get back to whatever they were doing on the corner.
But,
one of those young men stayed with us the whole time, saying the prayers with
us even though he had sheepishly admitted that he hadn’t been in church since
he was a little kid.
But,
that question haunts me: “If you’ve been praying, how come this keeps
happening?”
Maybe
the most honest answer is we haven’t really been praying all that hard. Maybe
we really have grown numb and indifferent to the suffering around us.
So,
at least sometimes, let’s take out our earbuds, put down our phones, turn off
our TVs.
And,
let’s feel again. Let’s feel together, let’s grieve together, let’s lament
together, let’s pray together.
Let’s
give God even just a mustard seed-sized opening, allowing God to touch our
hearts and break into our lives, transforming us, transforming our city and
transforming our world.
After
all, as the author of Lamentations writes, “The Lord is good to those who wait
for him, to the soul that seeks him.”
Amen.
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