Now
I lay me down to sleep
I
pray the Lord my soul to keep
Guide
me safely through the night
And
wake me with the morning light.
That
was the prayer I said with my children each night from the day John was born
until Barbra began to stay up later than I did. It is a simple prayer – a child’s prayer –
and yet it expresses the same concern that we adults carry all through our
lives. To say that the violent attacks
on faith communities, our schools, on just our right to get up in the morning
without fear of being shot, have been horrendous – well that is an
understatement. I fear for my eldest son
that he will be isolated because he is gay.
I fear for my second son that some nutcase will shoot him because he is
a police officer. I fear for my
daughter because she is so outspoken in her political opinions that some white
nationalist might run her down with a car at a demonstration. I feel helpless to intervene in the
violence. I suffer and I suspect that we
all suffer - from compassion fatigue.
Our hearts just cannot take much more sadness.
This
prayer that I taught my children is meant to reassure and comfort a child who
after hearing the news of yet one more act of violence wonders what if
something happens to me or to my family – “Who will take care of me?” In the face of this question children and
adults come face to face with the questions of why? Can it happen to me? How could someone do this? Questions for which we adults often do not
have good answers.
The
violence that fills our world today is horrific - yes – but we must not give in
to the uncertainty of life with anger and fear because even in this terror,
God’s love is alive and visible in the compassion of those who come to aid
those who are hurting, those who put their own fear in God’s hands and defend
us, fight fires, do first aid, provide pastoral care and more. And for absolutely sure the church – our
church- steps in to help in sacrificial ways…
but here’s the thing that keeps nagging at me… the language that we use
in our liturgy and in our prayer is often more about Jesus’ sacrifice of his
life for us than it is about the love that he admonished us to give. And I wonder - could that language be shaping
us in ways that romanticize heroism rather than standing against the
violence? Does our focus on the cross
rather than the foot washing make us complicit with our society’s propensity
for violent justice? When did it become
gospel to stand against violence by having a bigger gun or by taking a life to
atone for another life lost? Is it
possible to rethink God’s nature as a God of love and mercy rather than a God
of power and might?
I raise this
question because I think it is important for us to think through what it is we
say we believe about our faith. And for
sure the Episcopal Church pays way more attention to these kinds of conundrums
than the more conservative branches of Christendom. Being ready and willing to question our faith
is at the backbone of our formation. And
I think that is important for two reasons:
one it keeps us from becoming lemmings when some preacher gets up and
using the pulpit for political purposes.
(that works both ways I might add) and two it increases the depth of our
faith – it makes us strong in faith. The
next step is for us as community and as individuals to think through what it is
our faith calls us to do about the violence around us.
I
am always drawn to the Mr. Rogers quote about reminding children to look for
the helpers when something is scary.
Focusing on the good in the midst of the horrible, helps children move
past the fear to a place of assurance and confidence. I have to admit that’s probably pretty good
for adults too. With each violent act we
also see totally ordinary people doing extraordinary acts of bravery and
kindness – radical acts of love. One
thing I learned from Fred Rogers was that when I was sad, or angry or fearful
my children knew it – no matter how hard I tried to cover. And I learned that honesty with them was most
likely the best way, but honesty did not mean explaining all of the gory
details of what it was that made me feel bad.
Sometimes the simplest answer to the questions might be something
like, “I’m sad about the news too, and
I’m worried. But I love you, and I’m here to care for you.”
Today is Good Shepherd Sunday
and the Psalm offered is the 23rd.
A Psalm meant to reassure and comfort us when it feels like the world is
falling apart. To
say the Lord is my shepherd is to say that we live in an unpredictable and
terrifying world. Always aware of the
bad things that might happen in the world around us. So we get up each day aware on some level of
the fragility of life – we can do that with some confidence - because we hold
in our hearts the sense that there is someone in that world who care about us
and wants us to be safe.
Theologians have lofty descriptions,
understandings and mis-understandings about God, but for me when I read this
Psalm I am reassured that God is the presence that makes the world seem less
frightening. I do not think that I will
shock anyone when I say that the primary message of the 23rd Psalm
is not that bad things will never happen to us.
It is that we will not have to face those bad things alone. Psalm 23 is about how God shepherds us – protects us, leads
us to safety and comfort. So we ask if God
leads us to green pastures and still waters why is our world not that way.
I read a blogger somewhere in past meditations saying 23rd psalm is a sort of symphony in a way. It begins in serenity, in a pastoral
relationship with God expressing protection and provision of need. There is a sense of governance, God is in
charge and will lead us, guide us - to places of safety. And then in the second movement there is the
turbulence of life, - dark and stormy – a life that is interrupted by tragedy,
turmoil, loss. Instead of dwelling in
green pastures we find ourselves in the grip of terror and anger. But as that turmoil gives way to
understanding in the third movement, we see that we are not alone in that
turbulence. God is there beside us,
being present, supporting, - we are not isolated or alone. We learn in that moment of darkness that God
is not only the source of the good life, but also the source of consolation and
comfort in times of stress. And
we learn that it is God’s love that leads us up out of the darkness into the
sweetness of light. And then in that 4th
movement - in a sort of return to a place of serenity - we get this promise
from God.
We are invited to dwell with
God in light and life. We are invited to
be in God’s house. In Robert Frost’s
Death of a Hired Man, Frost tells us that “home” is a place that you somehow
don’t have to deserve. “I will dwell in
the house of the Lord forever.” Because
God is our shepherd we have a place to stay in God’s house – unearned, there
for our accepting. To be invited to
dwell in God’s house is an expression of God’s Grace. Open to all, undeserved, abundant.
I
change the wording in the liturgy often.
I suspect you have noticed. But I
don’t do it to be cute or progressive or even inclusive. I change the wording to shift our perception
of God from one of judgment to one of compassion, from one of sacrifice to one
of companionship. I change the wording
in the liturgy in order to consider the ways that God might be revealed in the
life and ministry of Jesus.
In
Michelangelo’s Pieta Mary’s gaze on the broken body of Jesus is tender, loving,
feeling the hurt as if it were her own.
Is that not what God’s love is like?
God whose creation is vulnerable and fragile. God who grieves for each
beloved child when they are cruel to one another, when they hurt and kill one
another, I have no doubt at all that as
the seeds of evil began to grow in the minds of those who would do harm that - God’s
heart began to break. This psalm that we
love so much does not promise us that we will not suffer, does not promise us
that all endings will be happy, instead this psalm promises us that in all of
our life, the good and the bad, God is with us – we are never alone. Amen
