lament

Sunday’s Sermon – Waiting Rooms – Psalm 27; Luke 13:31-35

March 17, 2019 Leave a Comment

Think about the last time you were in a waiting room. Maybe it was a doctor’s office, or hospital or surgical center. Maybe it was a car dealership or the DMV. Often times, they have a similar feel to them: rows or groupings of identical chairs, bad lighting, stacks of dated magazines. Instead of bad elevator music, there is often a television set to a never-ending stream of home improvement shows. We scan the room to find a seat and generally hope that whatever we are waiting for won’t take too long. Sometimes, we know it’s going to take a while, so we bring some provisions. Generally speaking, there are about a million other things we would rather be doing, or places we would rather be.

Waiting can be tedious and boring. The longer the wait is drawn out, the more restless we can become, and irritation begins to set-in. Waiting rooms can even breed anxiety, particularly in the face of fearing the unknown. Our time in waiting rooms, then, becomes give and take between hopeful anticipation and wrestling with the unknown. What a clever parallel to these 40 days of Lent for us. Lent is a time of waiting, where we are left to sit with our thoughts and ask deep questions about faith, even when we know we may not get clear or final answers. It is a time to have focused, intentional conversation with God, and to grow in our understanding of God’s presence in our lives and in our world. In Lent, we are bold enough to confront the gritty parts of our lives and world and try to make sense of it all in light of our faith.

That, in a nutshell, is the journey of the Psalmist in Psalms 27. Perhaps more than any other book in the Bible, Psalms speak to the experience of our lives with the full range of human emotion. This book of 150 includes joy, sorrow, anger, confidence and hope, confusion and despair. Its wide diversity is a powerful testament that we can talk to God under any circumstances. In our text for today, the psalmist balances fear and trust with a gritty honesty that speaks to our Lenten experiences.

The Psalm is bookended with affirmations of faith and trust in God. This is where the writer begins and ends. On their own, these verses “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (verse 1) and “wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage;” (verse 14) make for comforting phrases. But their true power comes by examining the verses in between. For the journey of the psalmist does not ignore the pain and challenges in his own life. In fact, it does quite the opposite, as the struggles are laid out before God in a lament.

The psalmist doesn’t ignore his suffering or minimize it. He does not check it at the door so to speak as he comes before God . . . Rather, he tells his story. He speaks of his pain. He calls out to God with all the rawness and honesty of someone who has been pushed to the limit. He doesn’t hold back. He pours out his complaint to God, not to push God away but rather, to plead for more, more of God’s presence, more of God’s instruction, more of God’s protection[i].

This week, the popular Tuesday night drama, This is Us featured an entire episode set in the waiting room of a hospital over the span of 26 hours or so. The tension was palpable throughout the episode, with each character responding to the events in their own way. One attempted to lighten the waiting with a game: name a food that is not improved by either chocolate or ranch. But it didn’t take long for their own life issues to come pouring out. Conflicts were sparked and the precarious nature of their relationships were on display. Stories of truth were spoken.

This is the work of Lent, as we lift up the struggles our lives into God’s light. In this 40-day waiting room, we identify our own shortcomings and challenges, whether it is a broken relationship with a friend or coworker or those things about ourselves that we long to change but just can’t seem to figure out how to do it in ways that stick. Lent is a time for beginning to sort it all out, within ourselves, with each other, and even with God. And, going further, Lent is also a time when we are painfully aware of the hardships and brokenness that exists in our world. It doesn’t take long to find these examples, either. This morning, we might name those in Nebraska and other parts of the Midwest who are literally underwater; for farmers whose crops are gone, for those trapped on rooftops, and those who have now lost everything. We acknowledge the horrors experienced in a mosque during prayer on Friday in Christchurch, New Zealand, an act of terror that led to the death of 50 of God’s children. We lament the ways in which hatred takes hold and intolerance and fear become driving forces. Both in our world and our nation and our communities, there is much to call attention to.

These are also the cries of Jesus over Jerusalem in our gospel text, and his longing for wholeness in the midst of heartbreak. Jesus uses the image of a hen, gathering her brood under her wings, as an image for a God who longs to take this brokenness and pain and offer shelter and protection.

And while the gospel text has the children denying such an opportunity, the Psalmist finds a place in God’s shelter. The Psalmist is insistent on God’s presence in the midst of all that scares him. This psalm, then, “shows a courageous life lived amid the onslaught of bullies described as oppressors, enemies, and false witnesses[ii]. It dares to name the challenges and struggles of the world and then proclaim that they will be no match for God, and at the same time let surface those doubting questions of how that can be true. For the psalmist, faith and doubt become intermingled in the very real wrestling with what it means to live in God’s light and at the same time, the unknown of how or if things will go from there. Amanda Benckhuysen notes:

Confidence in God’s ability to overcome the darkest of evils does not require holding back our tears, our disappointments, our deep longing for more of God. Faith does not rule out doubt. Both trust and lament are proper expressions of faith in the context of hardship and suffering and often they go hand in hand. What they share in common is an unwavering conviction in the reality, the goodness, and the power of God, who is both worthy of our confidence but also attentive to our cries for help[iii].

In the end, the psalmist has a choice in the face of his fears. And rather than give into them, and into the spiral of reactionary choices made out of fear, the psalmist chooses to trust instead. And little by little, this choice builds into a renewed confidence of who God is, even as the psalmist begs for confirmation to be revealed. Richard Stern describes this as a psalm about when our intentions are put under pressure, and he leans into the ambiguity of how it ends, noting:

This is not a psalm about how God answers our prayers. It is a prayer, even a plea, for patience, for trust, for the ability and the endurance to wait for the Lord, even when there is no sign that prayers may be answered, when the Lord’s arrival is a long, undetermined way off[iv].

This Psalm tells the truth of life as we know it: even in the midst of deep faith, there are deep questions and many unknowns. Our lives, particularly in these Lenten weeks, are living in this tension, in the waiting room of what is and what will be. Here, may we name the things that are real. Here, may we trust in a God who walks in the grittiness of our lives with us. Here, may we find a way in the wilderness. Here, may we wait for the Lord, with a hopeful anticipation that lets go of our fears and trusts a new ending to God, who is our light and our salvation. Be strong, and let your heart take courage, for these 40 days and beyond. Amen.

~Sermon by Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford, Heritage Presbyterian Church, March 17, 2019

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[i] Amanda Benckhuysen, “Commentary on Psalm 27,” Working Preacher for March 17, 2019, https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3994, accessed 3/16/19.

[ii] Robin Gallaher Branch, “Exegetical Perspective: Psalm 27,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Volume 2, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009).

[iii] Amanda Benckhuysen, “Commentary on Psalm 27,” Working Preacher for March 17, 2019, https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3994, accessed 3/16/19.

[iv] Richard C. Stern, “Homiletical Perspective: Psalm 27,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Volume 2, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009).

Sunday’s Sermon – Snakes in the Wilderness – Numbers 21:4-9; John 3:14-21

March 11, 2018 Leave a Comment

What are you most afraid of? Depending on the context and your frame of mind, the answer may vary. One poll from about ten years ago now indicates that 36 percent of all adults in the United States listed the same number one fear – snakes[i]. The clinical term for this is Ophidiophobia, which affects around 49 percent of women and 22 percent of men. It’s a fear that has been highlighted by movies like Snakes on a Plane, whose very premise makes my skin crawl a bit. And, of course, the character Indiana Jones is notorious for his fear and dislike of snakes, which seem to slip into many a scene in the classic trilogy. And while some of you might not be particularly wary of these cold-blooded creatures, my guess is few of us want to meet them in unexpected ways.

Because of this response, our scripture text from Numbers reads almost like another chapter in a story of suspense. The setting is the dry, hot desert, years into the Israelite’s journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. This story is the end of a series of “murmuring stories” where God’s people wonder if God is really leading them at all. They are tired and cranky, and become impatient about their destination. Their journey has seemed to cause them nothing but trouble, with one thing after another that makes things difficult. The deeper they get into the wilderness, it seems, the more romanticized memory they have of their lives as slaves in Egypt. Since chapter 11 they have longed for the “good ole days” when they at least had food to eat, like cucumbers, fish, melons, leeks, onions and garlic (see Numbers 11:4-6). Not mentioned, of course, was the oppressive rule and the demands for increased hard physical labor of building bricks and other abuse they endured as slaves (see Ex. 5:10-14). Instead, the focus becomes on the sparse supplies and jeopardy they seem to be in traveling across the desert. As one commentary notes:

Characteristically, in this unhappy situation, reinforced by the romanticized memory of how good it used to be, they quarreled, accused God of infidelity, and accused Moses of poor, failed leadership. (That is what people do when the economy fails)[ii].

The scene is set. Times are hard. The people are on edge. They are at odds with one another and with their leaders. You can imagine the soundtrack’s creeping music in the background, alerting us it’s about to get even worse. Cue the snakes.

If I were watching this film, I would want to fast forward past this part to get through the scary stuff. Or at the very least, I would cover my eyes and ask the brave person next to me to let me know when the bad parts were over. I’m guessing I’m not alone. Whether it’s snakes or some other fear, our tendency is to grit our teeth, hold on to the armrests, and make it through as quickly as possible, hopefully emerging on the other side without too many scratches on us. Perhaps this is how the Hebrews started their journey, in those harrowing moments as they passed through the waters of the Red Sea. But eventually that adrenaline wears out, and as they discovered, God was not always a safe and comfortable companion in the wilderness. In the midst of their journey, things literally jumped up and bit them.

Unfortunately, this is a fairly true reflection of real life. Hardship and difficulty sometimes spring up when we least expect it. Consider Kate Bowler, professor at Duke Divinity School, who recently published a book Everything Happens for a Reason, and Other Lies I’ve Loved. The book is a memoir about her journey as a 35 year old who appeared to have everything going for her – a thriving career, married to her high school sweetheart with a newborn son – all jarred by an unexpected diagnosis of stage IV colon cancer. In the midst of wrestling with her own mortality, she goes to Texas to hear an inspirational speaker during Lent, who confessed she didn’t like to deal with the heavy stuff, and was afraid of death and would rather not you talk about it either. Bowler, upset by this, said to a friend, “Everyone is trying to Easter the crap out of my Lent.” PCUSA Co-Moderator Jan Edmiston reflected on this quote from Bowler in a recent blog post. She reminds us that:

Lent reminds us that there is a world of suffering out there. . . . This is the season when we remember that death is part of life and we are called to notice it. We are called to face it. We are called to let the reality of death re-prioritize our lives[iii].

That is why we begin this season with ashes on our foreheads, hearing the line from Genesis “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Our text from Numbers returns us to this aspect of our Lenten journey. It reminds us that we live in a world that is dangerous and often unpredictable. It gives us permission to not just rush into resurrection, but name the “snakes” in our own wildernesses. The things that strike fear in us. The things that are like poison to our bodies and our relationships. The Hebrew word to describe the snakes is often translated as “poisonous,” but literally means “fiery” or “burning.” The story asks us to consider the things that seem to bite us and leave a sting.

Jan Edmiston offers us some suggestions, reminding us that with these snakes comes a healthy “shaking-my-fist-like-the-Psalmist” anger tied to lament. She writes:

I am angry that my friends’ child is tortured by cancer. I am angry that 18-year-olds in Florida can buy assault weapons and shoot other teenagers with them. I am angry that the world has forgotten Syria. I am angry that there is still no power in every corner of Puerto Rico[iv].

What might we add to this list? Perhaps the opioid epidemic across our country that strikes close to home here in Georgia. The CDC released a report this past Tuesday that indicated in just one year, overdoses from opioids have jumped by about 30 percent[v]. Or we might think about the accidental shooting during dismissal at Huffman High School in Birmingham, Alabama on Wednesday afternoon that killed a 17-year-old young woman. Or perhaps Thursday’s commemoration of the “International Women’s Day” would prompt us to consider the places of inequality that still exist in our world and the disproportionate violence committed against women. Whether globally, nationally, locally, or personally, we are surrounded by snakes. Naming them, though, is just the start. Jan Edmiston challenges us to do more than just lament; in Lent especially, she says, we are called to ask:

How are we offering ourselves to stand with those who suffer?[vi]

Our time in the wilderness is meant to remind us that our lives are more than just about us. And if we look around and discover that those with us on the journey have been bitten, we might want to try to do something about it; something more than just lament.

Looking back to the Israelites, we discover that, despite their complaining and perhaps doubts, they turn to God. They bring the brokenness of their experience, including the snakes, and beg for them to be removed. And God responds with an act of solidarity.
“It is notable that God does not remove the snakes, but provides a means for healing in the midst of danger. God brings healing precisely where the sting is the worst.”[vii].

God instructs Moses to take the poisonous serpent, the ones who have caused the people such pain, and set it on a pole that people might be healed. Elizabeth Webb suggests that this passage tells us a lot about the character of God:

Even in our worst failures and disappointments, God provides. God offers healing for our wounds, relationship for our loneliness, and faithfulness for our faithlessness. God doesn’t remove the sources of our suffering, but God makes the journey with us, providing what we most deeply need, if we but look in the right direction.[viii]

The staff of Moses provides the Israelites with a direction to look. Although we learn in later history it becomes an idol for them that must be destroyed during the temple reform of King Hezekiah (see 2 Kings 18:4), it is meant to be more of a sign and seal of God’s transforming power over anything, even death. Like our sacrament of communion, it could have been a reminder to the people to “lift up their hearts to the Lord,” to the one who was their salvation. In Jordan there is a metal sculpture, the one pictured on your bulletin cover, meant to represent this pole intertwined with a serpent, placed at Mt. Nebo, the final destination for Moses, who was able to look over the Promised Land, but not enter it. The Florentine artist, Giovanni Fantoni, intentionally crafted the design to also connect to the reference to this story in John’s gospel, with the upper arms of the staff extending horizontally, almost like the cross.

Like the staff, the cross proclaims God’s solidarity with a suffering world. To hear those familiar words from John’s gospel in tandem with this referenced text in Numbers enriches its meaning. It reminds us that God loved this world, this messed up, full of snakes, suffering world with all of its sin and pain. That it was to this wilderness of a world that God sent Jesus Christ, that we might lift our eyes and see love. And indeed, our Lord even spent time in the literal wilderness. 40 days in fact. Which means that even if we are in the midst of a pit of snakes, or worse, find ourselves bitten, we know that we do not have to travel this desert road alone. For we travel with one who has been lifted up and who indeed overcomes all evil with good. That, in the midst of the wilderness, is good news. Especially when snakes are involved. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford
March 11, 2018

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[i]Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective: Numbers 21:4-9,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 2, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008). In reference to a recent Harris poll on “What We Are Afraid Of”.
[ii] Walter Brueggemann, Charles B. Cousar, Beverly R. Gaventa, and James D. Newsome, “Fourth Sunday in Lent,” Texts for Preaching: A Lectionary Commentary based on the NRSV – Year B. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1993).
[iii] Jan Edmiston, “Don’t Easter My Lent,” blog post dated February 22, 2018, https://achurchforstarvingartists.wordpress.com/2018/02/22/dont-easter-my-lent/, accessed 3/8/2018.
[iv] Jan Ediston.
[v] Rob Stein, “Jump In Overdoses Shows Opioid Epidemic Has Worsened”, National Public Radio, All Things Considered, march 6, 2018, https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2018/03/06/590923149/jump-in-overdoses-shows-opioid-epidemic-has-worsened, accessed 3/8/2018.
[vi] Jan Edmiston.
[vii] Elizabeth Webb, “Commentary on Numbers 21:4-9,” Working Preacher, March 18, 2012, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1225, accessed 3/8/2018.
[viii] Elizabeth Webb.

Sunday’s Sermon – How Long? Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; Isaiah 64:1-9

December 3, 2017 Leave a Comment

I don’t mean to alarm you, but it is now December and Christmas is in 22 days. Chances are, this fact hasn’t escaped you too much. There are numerous ways to count down the days, from functional décor to chocolate filled calendars to large placards at the entrance of a store. As an adult, time seems to accelerate during this month, which is extra full of activities and things to do. But as a child, I remember feeling like Christmas was never going to get here. It couldn’t come soon enough, and I, like many children, would repeatedly ask “how much longer?” We have entered into a unique time of waiting in the next few weeks.

In the church year, this is the season of Advent, a time marked by wonder, and expectation. It begins on the third Sunday before Christmas, and is a time set apart for anticipation of the coming of Christ, both the celebration and commemoration of his first coming with his birth and the anticipation and longing for his second coming which has not yet happened. These two Advents are both marked by the common factors of waiting and anticipation. It is a season in which we ask “how long,” as a sign of our deep yearning for God’s to be with us. And each time we ask this question, we voice our faith, and join God’s people throughout the ages who have longed for God’s presence.

This is the setting for both of our texts today, which begin on a more sober note than the twinkling lights, tinsel, and Christmas parades. Psalm 80 and Isaiah 64 voice serious lament and anxiety about the state of the world. With this,

Advent begins not on a note of joy, but of despair. Humankind has reached the end of its rope. All our schemes for self-improvement, for extricating ourselves from the traps we have set for ourselves, have come to nothing. We have not realized at the deepest level of our being that we cannot save ourselves and that, apart from the intervention of God, we are totally and irretrievably lost. . . . The season thus attempts to capture that spirit of hope in the midst of hopelessness, a spirit of yearning for that which would be too good to be true: some new and unique expression of God’s intention to save a world gone wrong[i].

The traditional theme for this first Sunday of Advent is hope, specifically recalling the hope of the prophets. For Isaiah, we hear it in chapter 64, which comes almost at the end of the book after the Israelites have returned from exile. All should have been restored, but the reality doesn’t reflect that. There is still intense oppression and struggle; a life fraught with challenge. The verses we read today are a prayer for salvation that express two components of true Advent hope:

on the one hand, a deep sense of desperation about a situation out of control is sounded. On the other hand, a bold and confident trust in God is voiced, addressed to a God who can intervene (if God will) to make life peaceable and joyous. Life without God is unbearable. That is the present tense. Life with God can be completely transformed. That is the urgent hope of the prayer[ii].

As our call to worship said this morning, this is not a naïve hope or wishful thinking, but one born out of deep conviction and trust. It is, as Vaclav Havel called it, an “orientation of the spirit,” distinct from optimism, in that “it is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense regardless of those it turns out[iii].” Advent is about this kind of hope, a conviction held even in the face of adversity, made possible by faith in God.

In a similar way, Psalm 80 voices hope as well. Its setting is similar to Isaiah, with subscript notes that it is a Psalm of Asaph, which puts it among twelve other psalms (50, 73-83) that are a collection “likely of northern origin, reflect[ing] a strong interest in divine justice, Israel’s history from exodus to exile, and Zion[iv].”

The Psalm expresses a deep desire to figure God out as the people wait to see signs of God’s presence. The Psalm gives voice to the grief of the people over the impression that God has disappeared. Rather than remain paralyzed and silent, the Psalm gives the voice to move the people from despair to hope. This movement is found in the question “how long?” that breaks the silence and creates a space for truth telling and discovery among the people. The Psalm demonstrates a deep faith, marked by a questioning of God’s purposes that coexists with the affirmation that God is the one who offers salvation and deliverance. As Talitha Arnold notes:

Psalm 80 is an incredible confession, not of sin, but of faith. It confesses the people’s trust in a God who is big enough to hear their hurt, strong enough to handle their anger and pain. It also identifies the congregation as a people who, even in their suffering, have the courage to call on the Lord God of hosts to help them[v].

Both of these texts remind us that Advent is more than just a counting down the days until we get to sing silent night and remember a sweet baby in the manger. Advent is about a deep longing for God’s presence in the world, one that extends to our lives today. Advent ushers us into a season of communal prayer and petition along with the prophet Isaiah and the Asaphites and God’s people throughout the years who have hoped and called out for God to come into our lives yet again. We do this by offering our earnest cries of “How Long?”

How long will it be before things feel “normal” again after we have lost a loved one? How long before we will have a child after several miscarriages? How long will I be out of work? How long until I am able to do the things I love after a surgery or series of treatments? How long until a memory is no longer painful? How long until I am taken seriously or respected? How long will my prayers go unanswered?

And, as many “how longs” as we have in our own lives, there are just as many if not more in our own faith community and in the world. How long until we are on solid financial footing and are no longer laden with debt? How long until our pews are again overflowing each week? How long until the need is gone for something as basic as food? How long until our elected leaders can work together without letting political bias and lobbyist agendas set the tone? How long until young girls are not coerced into sex trafficking? How long until “mass shooting” is absent from our news cycle? How long until all women and men are safe from harassment and misconduct in the workplace? How long until troops come home to their families because there is no longer a risk of war and conflict has ceased?

How long? How long? We cry out to God, over and over again, how long? And then, as the Psalmist does three times, we ask for God to deliver us from the state that we are in. “Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved.” It is a call for a blessing, a longing to receive something only God can offer. It echoes the Aaronic priestly blessing from Numbers 6:22-27, “may the face of God shine upon you” in ways that are only possible for those who are in the presence of God. And the grammar of this request for blessing is both “wish and declaration,” something we hope to happen and something we already know to be true[vi]. This is the posture of living in between the two Advents of God’s coming.

We know God’s presence coming to us is within God’s ability and the way God has engaged with the world, made manifest in the incarnation of Jesus Christ. And, at the same time, it is a hopeful orientation to the world of what is still possible, of trusting that God can, at any moment, break into our difficult and heavy experiences of longing with a fresh vision and presence.

Advent is about being bold enough to ask God to do just that. It is an expression of hope, based on a deep seated belief that what God has done before, God can and will do again. It’s about adopting a posture of expectation and anticipation of God bursting on the scene. It is about watching and waiting, yes, but also actively engaging in dialogue with God marked by our hope in what God can do. It is about making the active choice to hope, even when that looks like cries of “how long”? May this be our approach to the next 22 days. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford
December 3, 2017

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[i] “First Sunday of Advent,” Walter Brueggemann, Charles B. Cousar, Beverly R. Gaventa, James D. Newsome, Texts for Preaching: A Lectionary Commentary Based on the NRSV – Year B, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1993).
[ii] Ibid.
[iii] Vaclav Havel, as quoted by David LaMotte in Worldchanging 101: Challenging the Myth of Powerlessness, (Montreat, NC: Dryad Publishing, 2014), 28.
[iv] William P. Brown, “Book of Psalms,” in The New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible. ed. K . D. Sakenfeld (Nashville, Abingdon, 2009), 4:673, as quoted by James K. Mead, “Commentary on Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19,” Working Preacher, December 3, 2017, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3484, accessed 11/30/2017.
[v] Talitha Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective: Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 1, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008).
[vi][vi] Rolf Jacobson, Karoline Lewis, and Matt Skinner,“Sermon Brainwave, #572 – First Sunday of Advent” Podcast by Working Preacher, Posted November 25, 2017, http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=950, accessed 11/30/17.

Sunday’s Sermon – Waiting Rooms – Psalm 27; Luke 13:31-35

Sunday’s Sermon – Snakes in the Wilderness – Numbers 21:4-9; John 3:14-21

Sunday’s Sermon – How Long? Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; Isaiah 64:1-9

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