Sermon for March 21, 2021 - The Fifth Sunday in Lent - Year B - The Rev. Jeffrey W. Mello
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Psalm 51:1-13
Hebrews 5:5-10
John 12:20-33
The Rev. Jeffrey W. Mello
There are, in scripture, plentiful images of the Kingdom of God. Throughout Hebrew Scripture and the New Testament the writers of our sacred texts cast visions of what the world might be like when the world is, as Presiding Bishop Michael Curry likes to say, turned from our nightmare into God’s dream.
This morning, I am drawn into the image the prophet Jeremiah casts in this promise God makes with God’s beloved children.
“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. 34No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the Lord,” for they shall all know me.”
Oh, for the day when God’s law -- God’s dream -- is not something for which we are struggling to reach, and constantly falling short of, but something that is written on our very hearts. What a glorious vision of a world in which no one would even have to be taught about God or the Love which God would have rule our hearts because it will be known.
Jeremiah is tired of reminding. Tired of pointing toward God. Tired of responding to the latest example of how God’s people have fallen short. Jeremiah dreams of a day when the people of the world would be so in tune with God’s longings for the world that we would need no reminding.
And so do I.
Lately, it seems that each week brings its own crisis or tragedy, another reminder of humanity falling short. When news of the shootings this week in Atlanta broke, less than 24 hours had passed since the news from the Roman Catholic Church re-affirming their stance that same-sex relationships could not be blessed because, and I quote, “God cannot bless sin.”
It is not my practice to call out other faith communities for differences in doctrine. Lord knows the Episcopal Church has enough work to do on its own shortcomings before it begins trying to shatter someone else’s glass house.
But that statement was an act of violence, and it purported to speak for God, and it cast a limit on God’s grace and love, which I believe, grieves the Holy Spirit.
Less than 24 hours later the news from Atlanta came. And then the narrative war about whether this grotesque taking of human life was racially motivated, or was it sexism, or was it the gunman’s own tortured soul, as if his soul was not being tortured on the rack of anti-asian racism and misogyny.
And, as in the aftermath of all recent tragedies, the statements began to flow, one after the other. Everyone, it seems, had the same thing to say about the tragic events. Everyone, it seems, wanted to make sure the world knew they stood with the Asian American and Pacific Islander community.
The statements all started to blur, and the words became interchangeable. None of them offered any meaningful insight, or course of correction. These statements are written not so much for what they do say, as they are out of fear of what not saying anything might be perceived to say.
Another platitude. Another sign to hold. Another banner to hang up.
The day after the statement from the Vatican, my Facebook feed was filled with rainbow accented affirmations from well meaning clergy allies and statements from Episcopal Bishops around the country.
Another platitude. Another sign to hold. Another banner to hang up.
Of the 111 Dioceses in the Episcopal Church, 3 Diocesan Bishops identify as part of the GLBTQ community. That’s 2.7%. We don’t need another statement. We need systemic change.
I remember a panel the Interfaith Clergy Association put together on racial inequity in Brookline several years ago. There was one representative on the panel from the Asian community who came to talk about how invisible she felt. But she never got a chance to speak.
Here in Brookline, the Asian American and Pacific Islander community makes up approximately 10% of our population, but because of asian stereotyping, is rarely seen when matters of diversity and inclusion are considered in the town.
Until something like Atlanta happens. And then there is a statement. Maybe a sign. Perhaps a banner.
I don't mean to suggest that the statements and the signs and the banners aren’t good things. They can often be the first time that members of a historically marginalized group see someone representing an institution standing on their side, and it can make a difference, even save a life.
I’m just tired of reacting. I’m tired of cleaning up messes after they are made. I’m tired of having to argue for the inherent worth and belovedness of any of God’s children.
I find myself praying that God make good on Jeremiah’s vision. I imagine God putting the law of God’s love for the world in my heart so that I will act accordingly and never need reminding.
I’m tired of reminding. I want the change in this world that will mean we won’t ever need to be reminded of God’s dream for the world around us will be that dream come alive.
I know that my fatigue from the constant reminding is a product of my privilege to forget in the first place.
I know that my longing for a week to go by without a national crisis is nothing compared to those who pray a day will go by when they are not the target of aggression from another white guy like me having “a bad day.”
And I know that the reminding is a step along the way to speaking the truth, which is a step toward repenting, which is a step to repairing, which is a step toward reconciling.
The reminders, the statements, the signs and the banners are important not because they themselves solve the problem, as much as they remind us, and point us towards, the problems that desperately need solving.
It is tempting to want to turn it all off, to explain it all away. “This wasn’t about racism” some will argue. “I’m not into identity politics,” another will say. We want it all to go away. Can’t we just have one week where we don’t have to think about how broken the world in which we live actually is, if it isn’t so broken for us?
In John’s Gospel we heard this morning, Jesus knows the end is coming. He knows that his journey is heading toward the cross. He knows that the cross will break the powers of this world, and it is the only thing that will. He knows his resurrection will break the power of death, and it is the only thing that will.
Jesus is surrounded by his Jewish community as they come together to celebrate the great festival of the Passover. Wouldn’t it be nice to forget about the cross for a bit and just celebrate with his friends and family without the cross’s shadow falling across it all?
And then the outsiders come. They want to see Jesus.
This is it, Jesus thinks. It’s all over. There’s only one way this goes. It would be easier to hide. Easier not to be bothered. Easier to say “no.” Jesus knows it. So do his followers. Jesus tell them, 27“Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour.”
Our souls are troubled. If we are paying attention at all, our souls are deeply troubled. But what should we say? “God, stop bothering us with the news that your children are hurting? Stop making us see what we would rather ignore?”
I long for the day that God’s law of love needs no reminding, but is written on the heart of every child of God walking this earth.
But until it is, what should we say?
The cross beckons, where the powers of this world will lose.
What should we say?
Resurrection beckons, where the power of death will lose.
What should we say?
God’s dream beckons. That is the reason that we have come to this hour.
What will we say?
AMEN.1
1 While all direct and indirect quotes are always cited, there are sources I read regularly in preparation for sermon writing. Chances are thoughts have been spurred by these sources and so I list the usual suspects here: David Lose, In the Meantime, The New Interpreters Bible, Sacra Pagina
© 2021 The Reverend Jeffrey W. Mello