Sermon: Altar of Lament
Peace be with you. My name is Danny Bradfield. My pronouns are he/him/his, and I’m the pastor of Bixby Knolls Christian Church.
Today is March 14, 2021. It is the fourth Sunday of Lent. And it also marks one year since the pandemic interrupted our lives in so many ways.
One year ago was the last time we were able to gather together here in our sanctuary for worship. And even on that day, many of us chose to stay safely at home.
Thinking back to that day brings up all sorts of emotions. What I remember most is that, as I said the words of the benediction at the end of the service, I began to cry.
You probably didn’t see it - I mostly kept it inside. But I knew that those were the last words I’d be speaking to you face-to-face, in worship; the last time we’d be together, all in one place, for a long time...
I just didn’t realize how long.
We were told maybe six weeks. President Trump said we’d be back in church by Easter...
Well, we knew better than that. We knew that it would be months, not weeks; but I don’t think we could have imagined that it would last over a year.
Maybe it’s good that we didn’t know, then, how long it would last, or how drastically our lives would change, or how many lives would be lost, or how much we would miss out on…
But now, a year later, we do know. We do know the effect this pandemic has had on us, and continues to have on us. We do know how much life has changed. We do know just how much we have had to give up.
There are some parallels between our situation, and the situation of the Hebrew people on their journey through the wilderness; their journey toward the Promised Land.
When they began their journey, I’m sure they knew it would be challenging. For generations, they had lived in Egypt, but they had packed up with a moment’s notice - they didn’t even have time to bake bread for the journey. They packed up and headed out, escaping Egypt, being chased by Pharaoh’s army, crossing the Red Sea…
They knew it was going to be challenging; but I don’t think they imagined just how challenging their journey would be. I don’t think they imagined how incredibly long it would take.
When later generations told the story of the Exodus, they would explain that God had a reason for making it take so long. God led them through the wilderness for forty years, because it would take that long for them to mentally be ready to form a new nation, a new kingdom. There was a purpose to it. It was all part of God’s plan, for their own good.
The way I understand the world - and the way I understand God - I can’t quite say that God had a reason for sending us into a pandemic, and for making it last as long as it has. I don’t believe God works that way. God doesn’t cause misfortune or calamity to come upon us.
But I do believe that God can work through whatever situation we face - God can use whatever we’re going through - to teach us, to help us learn and grow and become better people.
I fully understand why the Hebrew people grumbled with impatience along the way. What they wanted, what they hoped for, what they prayed for, what they envisioned… wasn’t coming. At least, not when they wanted it to.
They just kept wandering. Year after year.
It was taking too long.
And they had given up so much.
We don’t think about it much, but people died during the exodus. In fact, the journey was so hard and took so long, that the generation that left Egypt was not the generation that finally entered the Promised Land. That was a whole new generation.
The hopes and dreams of those people who spread the blood of the lamb on their doorposts; who ate their lamb chops and unleavened bread and bitter herbs; who listened in silent terror as the Lord passed through Egypt, killing every firstborn of the Egyptians; and who led their families out of Egypt… their hopes and dreams would not be realized in their lifetimes, but in the lifetimes of their children.
I don’t think they knew this at the time. And I don’t think they knew how difficult the journey would be. Because, along the way, there was much grumbling on account of their impatience… as we heard today.
Their grumbling and their impatience didn’t help things. In fact, it made things worse. It led to all sorts of additional problems for them. Problems involving snakes.
So I don’t think grumbling and impatience is going to help us, either. Not if we want to avoid the snakes.
The Bible does give us a better way to respond. The Bible does show us how to respond when things don’t go our way; how to respond when the things we’re waiting for don’t seem to be coming, or seem to be taking too long. The Bible shows us how to respond when people are dying and we’re missing so much the life we once took for granted.
The way to respond is not with grumbling and impatience.
The way to respond is also not with fake smiles and pretend cheer.
The way to respond is with lament.
Half the psalms in the Bible are psalms of lament; in addition, there’s a whole book of the Bible titled Lamentations.
Lamentations is a book of poetry, and the introductory notes in my Oxford Annotated Bible point out that every chapter in the book of Lamentations is written in a limping 3:2 meter that is recognizable even in translation, and that every chapter takes the form of an acrostic: the poet wrote down the left side of the page every letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and then wrote a verse of poetry for each letter. (Well, actually, they wrote the letters down the right side, since Hebrew is read right-to-left, but you get the point.)
How much sorrow, how much sadness, must that poet have been feeling, to write so many lines, lamenting what had been lost?
The opening lines of Lamentations read: “How deserted lies the city, once so full of people!
How like a widow is she, who once was great among the nations!
She who was queen among the provinces has now become a slave.”
The poet knew that there is power in naming what has been lost. There is power - there is healing power - in naming what we’ve lost.
Richard Rohr - author & Franciscan priest - has said that “If we don't transform our pain we will most assuredly transmit it.”
If you watched WandaVision, you know that Wanda Maximoff wasn’t able to transform her pain, and she ended up transmitting that pain to others. She wasn’t able to deal with all the grief and sorrow within her. She wasn’t able to lament, and therefore she wasn’t able to heal.
Likewise, the Hebrews didn’t lament, they didn’t acknowledge their pain, and thus they weren’t able to transform their pain into something healing. Instead, their pain turned into grumbling and impatience, and led to even more pain, which in their case came in the form of deadly snakes.
Lamentation leads us to the source of our pain, which can be hard. Both Wanda Maximoff and the Hebrews chose to avoid their pain. And, as a result, things went from bad to worse. Too often, we do the same.
When someone we love dies, a brief period of mourning is acceptable; but after a few days, we’re told - or we tell ourselves - it’s time to move on.
So from then on, we keep our grief to ourselves. Grief never really goes away, so we suppress it. We avoid the pain. But when we suppress grief and avoid the pain, it can turn into something else. Something worse. Grumbling. Complaining. And worse...
Over the past year, I’ve been trying to provide space for us to lament. Some weeks I do it better than others; but I know we need space to lament. We need space to grieve. We need permission to weep and cry.
Because, friends: we’ve been through a lot. And you need to know: it’s OK to grieve. It’s OK to weep and cry.
I’ve invited you to have a rock with you today. These rocks that we have are going to be our rocks of lament.
Think of one thing you’ve had to give up during this pandemic. One thing you’ve lost. One thing you’ve missed.
It could be going out with friends. It could be seeing smiles and receiving hugs. It could be holding your grandchild or great-grandchild. It could be singing songs in worship. It could be a loved one who died, who you didn’t get to say goodbye to. It could be something that is unique to you and your life, your situation.
As long as it’s something that you’re sad about in this season of pandemic, let your rock represent that sadness
Holy God, these rocks are a reminder to us of all we have lost, all we mourn, all we grieve - especially during the past year, this year of the pandemic. Let these rocks be a reminder to us, to acknowledge our sadness, to ourselves, and to you; and to lift up to you all our sorrows. For we know that you hold every aching thought of ours, and you long to wipe every tear we shed.
Thank you, God, for your love, your compassion, and your faithfulness. Amen.
I want you to keep your rock. It’s OK if you find a better rock, but keep a rock and have it with you next time we worship.
And when we are able to once again gather together in our sanctuary for worship, I invite you to bring your rock with you. We’re hoping to start in-person worship again in April, but I know not all of you may feel comfortable or ready yet - that’s OK. You can continue to join us online until you feel ready.
Just keep your rock with you until the day you do make your way back here to our sanctuary. We’re going to place our rocks in a pile as a sort of altar - what the Bible calls an ebenezer - a way of remembering something significant.
It will be our altar of lament.
It will remind us of what we’ve been through.
It will remind us of the grief we share.
It will remind us to grieve, and to receive the healing that comes through grief.
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