Let me state the obvious this morning: God does not give us lives that are easy or comfortable. Our current context and reality should be more than enough to underscore that truth. No, our lives are messy, often difficult, and filled with plenty of sorrow and suffering. A coping mechanism for many of us in times of trouble is to go into denial, to sweep our troubles and the world’s troubles under the rug. But for us to deny or ignore these realities runs in direct conflict to the kind of life Jesus lived and calls us to live. A life in God is one that affirms God’s presence in every circumstance. A life in God affirms the heights and depths of the human experience.
The people that the prophet Jeremiah spoke to were much too familiar with sorrow and suffering. They were an exiled people, in a foreign land, their homeland plundered and destroyed. They were people held in captivity, living in misery, yearning for home. Surrounded by turmoil and tragedy, Jeremiah must’ve been tempted to preach a sort of prosperity gospel that would gloss over their suffering and promise a utopian future to an audience that had every reason to be discouraged, angry and hopeless. That’s exactly what his counterpart, the false prophet, Hananiah does, “God is going to bring back everything we have lost, and we will be great again.” Hananiah take advantage of the peoples’ hopelessness, ignoring their real struggle and instead promising a nostalgic vision of victory and prosperity.
Jeremiah doesn’t fall into this trap of religiously pleasing but false words. Instead, Jeremiah acknowledges the people’s suffering, promises God’s continued presence with them, and urges the people to get to work, rebuilding their lives in peace.
I often hear the voice of Hananiah these days when I hear that the coronavirus will “just disappear” or that “this country doesn’t have a race problem.” These are pleasing words but they are false words. Unfortunately it seems to have taken a white man’s knee on the back of a black man’s neck, suffocating him to death, despite his cries, “I can’t breathe,” for white people, myself included, to wake up and call out this deception for what it is. Black and brown Americans have been shouting “we can’t breathe” for four centuries, but America hasn’t been listening. Do we really think that there isn’t a problem? Do we really not see systemic racism and social injustice? I think, like the prophet Hananiah, we choose not to see it. We choose to ignore it. We cry, peace, peace, when there is no peace. Our choice to ignore it is a choice born out of centuries of privilege. Yet the suffering is all around us: in the criminal justice system, the killings that we’ve seen and not seen on cell phones and body cameras, the denial of economic and educational opportunities for the black community, the denial of healthcare. I know that the phrase Black Lives Matter has become a political weapon, but it’s not a political statement. It’s not an either/or statement. Of course white lives matter. Of course all lives matter. But for once, this isn’t about white people. This is about standing with and supporting our black and brown siblings in Christ and saying “enough.” This is about affirming that people of color are wonderfully created in God’s image, too. As self-proclaimed disciples of a man of color who was murdered by keepers of the law, as Christ-followers, we can say with conviction that black lives matter.
I came across an article in The Christian Century recently with the provocative title, “Why are so many white Christians suddenly standing up for racial justice?” It’s a fair question. An even more troubling question is why did it take a string of brutal black killings? This moment in history that we are living in right now—a moment of worldwide pandemic that has disrupted the lives of people in every corner of the world—is also a moment that has created a heightened awareness of sorrow, suffering and injustice, and given us more time to listen, learn and act. And maybe, the author suggests, this is due primarily, at least in the US, to altered schedules and closed buildings—schools, offices, and yes—churches.
In John’s gospel, the disciples are waiting, locked in a room holding vigil after Jesus’ death. In Acts, the room is empty. The doors are open. The disciples have “poured out into the city to find that this is where people are speaking new languages, dreaming new dreams, and standing up to proclaim the world as it can yet be and should be.”
Could we be witnessing an “Acts” moment here in the United States? Our buildings are empty. And people of faith have poured out into cities and towns around the country to find people out in the streets speaking new languages, dreaming new dreams, and standing up to proclaim the world as it can be and should be. The Black Lives Matter movement and other coordinated protests have given us new language to call out and reject systemic racism and white supremacy. They have given us new dreams of a more just and equitable society, a society in which black and brown lives matter as much as white ones. They have provided a unique moment for white Christians to get out of the way, listen, and stand up and with people of color, proclaiming yet again a vision of the world as it can and should be.
If we truly believe that God is just as present in suffering as in joy, we might understand this unique time of suffering as a Spirit-filled moment that has ushered in a sacred movement, a holy movement in which we as a society are finally peeling back the blinders and naming the reality of and our complicity in suffering, sorrow, and systemic sin. Faced with a worldwide pandemic that has emptied our buildings, our gaze has turned outward into the messy realities of the world, more fully stepping into a Christ-centered life.
The few verses from Matthew that comprise the gospel reading this week are packed with meaning. Jesus is issuing his final directives to the disciples as they prepare to go out into the world to preach, heal, and cast out demons. And some of his last words of advice are about welcome in a world that will be hostile and won’t always be welcoming. Jesus adds an interesting directive about giving just a cup of cold water to a “little one.” It’s an important part of his blueprint for welcome—it shouldn’t just be extended to the great or well-known or highly respected. Welcome should be extended equally to the vulnerable and the voices most often ignored. It’s a foreshadowing of his famous sermon later in Matthew about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and visiting those in prison, “just as you do to the least, you do to me.” As people of faith who have left our buildings behind, at least for the moment, it is time to dream and re-imagine what welcome looks like and who are the ones we are called to welcome.
Dear people, working to dismantle systemic racism, re-imagining a Christ-centered welcome, all in the midst of worldwide pandemic—this is hard work. It is uncomfortable work. Such is the life of a Jesus-follower. Thanks be to God that we are no longer slaves to sin, wickedness, suffering and death. For we are not under the law, St. Paul writes, but under grace. Amazing grace. Grace that will see us through this moment in history, grace that will help us overcome our wrongs, grace that will remind us that we are only human after all, grace that proclaims to us that we are loved children of God, grace that will accompany us through times of sorrow, grace that will lift us in times of joy, grace that will eventually lead us home to eternal life in Jesus Christ our Savior. Amazing grace. How sweet the sound.