Untitled

September 24, 2023
by Sara Baron

“Grieving Jesus” based on 2 Samuel 1:17-27 and John 16:16-22

This week I found myself in multiple conversations about “the day the church died.” That was February 26, 2019, and the following day the Love Your Neighbor Coalition held a worship service that was a funeral for The United Methodist Church.

Now, let’s assume that if I found myself in multiple conversations about this, I may have been the one bringing it up – although I’m not actually sure that’s the only truth. But we can go with it. It has led me to wonder why: why, 4 ½ years later, this is coming up.

However, some of you may be lucky enough not to know what I’m talking about, and I don’t like leaving people in the dark. In 1968 The United Methodist Church was born when the Methodist Church and the Evangelical United Brethren Church merged. Both churches had powerful histories with social creeds, and at the birth of the church a study commission was created to write a new set of “Social Principals” to guide the newly formed church. The study commission brought its recommendations to the 1972 General Conference. They did a nice job. They included in their recommendation, in a piece about human sexuality, “Persons of homosexual orientation are persons of sacred worth.”

Now, that phrase isn’t exactly a bombshell, right? I mean, DUH, “Persons of homosexual orientation are persons of sacred worth.” But when I think about the Queer and Trans justice movements in the USA, the 1972 church study commission offering the words “Persons of homosexual orientation are persons of sacred worth” was a good start.

Today we’re talking about grief – because the scriptures handed us those topics on a platter – and when I think about the church’s failures to LGBTQIA+ people, my grief starts escalating at this point in our history. With those decent words “Persons of homosexual orientation are persons of sacred worth.” on the table in front them, along with A WHOLE LOT OF other words about a WHOLE LOT of other topics, some people decided that those words were too strong and required caveats. Terrible ones. So they changed it, and eventually the 1972 Book of Discipline would read “Persons of homosexual orientation are persons of sacred worth. We do not condone the practice of homosexuality and consider it incompatible with Christian teaching.” They also added, "We do not recommend marriage between two persons of the same sex,” although I think the greater gut punch was in the first addition.

People of good faith in The United Methodist Church have been trying to remove those words ever since. While there were setbacks along the way, for a while there also seemed to be movement towards inclusion of all of God’s people. The people committed to exclusion seemed to be losing the battle, until they weren’t. By 2016 it was clear that the movements for inclusion had reached a series of dead-ends: General Conference was not going to change the church’s stance, the Judicial Council was going to uphold it, the Bishops en mass were not going to stand against it, and the capacity to fight things on localized levels was extremely limited. Based work in the first week of General Conference, it was clear that The UMC was about to enact a series of changes that would decimate its LGBTQIA+ community, one that was already experiencing a spiritual and literal bloodbath.

Good students of nonviolent social action know that when all the other avenues are closed to you, you raise the temperature in the room, in hopes of motivating change. Good students of nonviolent social action were in that room, organizing. The United Methodist Church was about to face two horrible options: mass arrests of nonviolent protesters, or protesters shutting down the floor of General Conference preventing their work from being completed. (I’m so thankful for good organizers, aren’t you?)

The Church choose a third option. They created another study commission (I’m barely refraining from extensive commentary on study commissions and the church) “The Commission on a Way Forward” that was to bring to a SPECIAL SESSION of General Conference – 2019 – a way forward that would …. well, let’s be honest… they wanted a way forward that would keep Queer and Trans people and their allies form making the church look bad while appeasing the conservatives. But, at that point, ANYTHING looked better than where we were headed, and forcing some new thinking on the topic felt like a victory.

When 2019 came the “Way Forward Commission” put forward a very milquetoast proposal “The One Church Plan”, the Queer Clergy Caucus put forward a truly excellent proposal called “The Simple Plan,” and the conservatives put forward a scare tactic they called “The Traditional Plan.” Confession time: I didn’t think the Simple Plan (which was hands down the best plan) could win, so I put my energy on to passing The One Church Plan which was a horrible compromise that I justified as being a step forward we could pass. Turns out I was wrong all over the place, and we couldn’t pass it – AND the support for the Simple Plan was almost exactly as high as The One Church Plan. Turns out, the votes went to The Traditional Plan which was simply so horrendous it didn’t seem possible it could ever happen. It felt like a caricature of itself, like what a satire magazine would produce as a conservative think-piece.

When it passed, the denomination lost any remaining integrity, and any claim on Godliness. As a clergy person I have made commitments not only to God but also to THIS denomination. I’d experienced the Divine through the UMC, I loved it, I wanted to make it better, and I wanted to work in it to make the world the kindom of God. On that day, I no longer saw a connection between God and the church.

Now, it always needs to be said, I wasn’t the primary one harmed by The Traditional Plan. It set out to harm Queer and Trans people, and it did. Any damage to me, and others who know a God Who Celebrates Diversity, was mere icing on the cake. And yet, to be in a denomination that does harm like that ON PURPOSE, wrecked me. It was some of the strongest grief I’ve ever experienced.

And maybe this week proved, it still is. The unfortunate reality is that while many of us were grieving The United Methodist Church, things were also really hard around here in this local church, and things were pretty bad in the USA and sometimes the world, and the grief probably didn’t get the time or space it needed. And then there was COVID, and the time to grieve simply dissipated. That’s actually my working theory on why this is coming up again – the grip of COVID has finally lowered enough that there is space for the stuff we were working on before it started.

You’ve heard me reflect on a really non-traditional grief so far today. We most often think of grief as relating to the loss of a person, and I think we make the most space for that kind of grief. But we miss a lot when we limit it that way. The Dictionary of Pastoral Care and Counseling says grief is “The complex interaction of affective, cognitive, physiological, and behavioral responses to the loss by any means of a person, place, thing, activity, status, bodily organ, etc., with whom (or which) a person has identified, who (or which) has become a significant part of an individual’s own self.”1 (emphasis mine)

So to keep going with this truly uplifting sermon 😉 I want to talk about some significant communal grief that I have seen in our community. It may be that some of us don’t feel some of these, but I think all of them are in us together. And, because I think there is some power in it, we’re going to try this as a liturgy, after I say each piece, I invite you to respond, “Holy One, help us hold our grief.”

For the ones we have known, and loved, and lost – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the ones we thought we had time to get to know and love – and lost – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the church that we thought would become open to people of all ages, nations, races, genders, and sexualities – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the community that we hoped would welcome vulnerable immigrants with open arms – – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the nation that we thought would prioritize the vulnerable – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the world that we thought would work more on climate change than on enriching the already rich – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For this local church that we hoped could be free from the anxiety in each of us and around all of us – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For the people and places we trusted, who ended up having different values that we do, and it felt like betrayal – Holy One, help us hold our grief.
For who we thought we’d be, but we aren’t – Holy One, help us hold our grief.

Amen

If we take that definition of grief seriously, then grief is the response to the loss of something a person identifies with. It is a loss of a part of ourselves. In some of what we said above, I think it is the loss of hope. That’s a really serious loss, one that may characterize our age.

The work of grief is the slow work of creating new identity in a new reality. Where one might have identified as a spouse, one now has to figure out what it means to be a widow or widower. Where one might have identified with a strength, now there is a need to identify with a weakness. Where one might have chosen hope, one now there is a need to identify with the experience of hopelessness.

It is clear why grief takes a while, and why the more strongly one identifies with someone or something, the longer it takes to form a new identity, and why one might not want to!

I’m really struck in the gospel by the idea that the disciples started grieving the eventual loss of Jesus while he was still with them. I’m annoyed by it. I want it to be untrue. But I think that probably was the case. The disciples probably could see where Jesus’s ministry was heading, and while they may have been in denial about it, it was still there pressing on them. Even during the life and ministry of Jesus there was grief pushing around the edges that they were going to lose him. I can’t think of much more of a human reality than that one.

The reading from 2 Samuel is almost too much to hold. The depth of David’s grief feels so vulnerable that my instinct is to look away because I don’t know him well enough to be privy to it. That said, it is written in Bible, and you might not have heard it, so let me summarize. David is grieving Saul who was his king and adversary (#complicated) and Saul’s son Jonathan who was at least his best friend and probably lover (#alsocomplicated).

Don’t go around sharing that the mighty have fallen –

I don’t want our enemies to rejoice at this heartbreak.

Let those who failed to support Saul struggle, as payback.

Saul and Jonathan weren’t weak, don’t say they were weak, they brought others down with them.

They were together in life, and they are together in death.

Women, weep – these were the ones who took care of you.

My love has been killed, and I grieve.

He was my delight, his love gave me life.

The mighty have fallen, and I grieve.

My word for you today is an odd one. Traditionally speaking, I should turn this sermon around and end on an up-note, but that feels trite. I can say that the things we grieve are most commonly things we loved, and the grief is a reflection of that love. That’s good. But really, my point today is this: grief is imperative and hard work. There is no way through it except through it. It doesn’t go away because we don’t like it, or we deny it, or we can’t handle it. Like many things based in our bodies or emotions, either we make space to grieve or grieve will make space in us to come out – usually in ways we’ll hate.

And yet, God is with us. God is with us, holding us when we grieve. We are not alone, even when we feel the most alone. We are not lost to God, even when we don’t know who we are anymore. For me, that’s good news. In fact, it is enough. Thanks be to God who holds us when we grieve. Amen

1Rodney J. Hunter, general editor, Dictionary of Pastoral Care and Counseling (Abington Press: Nashville, 1990), page 472.

Rev. Sara E. Baron
First United Methodist Church of Schenectady
603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305
Pronouns: she/her/hers
http://fumcschenectady.org/
https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

September 24, 2023

Uncategorized

“Grieving What We’ve Lost” based on Psalm 69: 1-3,…

July 3, 2022
by Sara Baron

I don’t even know where to begin.

There are so many layers of lament.

For many years, I have regularly advocated for
Reproductive Justice at the New York State Capital, with both Planned
Parenthood and Clergy for Reproductive Choice. Often, one of the
older women in the groups I was advocating with would wear a hanger –
a hanger necklace, hanger earrings, or carry one with them.

Confession: I thought that was sort of tacky.

Especially before 2016, I didn’t think Roe v. Wade could
really fall, and the reminder that people die from illegal abortions
felt like a narrative from another era.

So, once again, I feel the need to apologize to my
elders for not heeding their wisdom. As I remember those moments
with other advocates, I’ve been considering their ages, and noticing
that they were of reproductive age before 1972. They KNEW the impact
of those hangers. It wasn’t just a part of history to them, and I
think that’s why they KNEW better than I that it could become a part
of the present as well.

That’s one part of it all.

I want to acknowledge that not just women can get
pregnant. There are men and non-binary people who are also at risk.
And for the sake of this sermon, I am going to say “women” and
“mothers” sometimes. These words doesn’t encompass men and
non-binary people, but women are the broadest category of affected
people, and I am going to acknowledge that by using the words “women”
and “mothers.”

Another piece of it all is the is the awareness of how
unequal the impact of this decision will be. Not just in terms of
red states and blue states, although that’s a big deal. But also in
terms of socio-economic status – people of means have ALWAYS had
access to safe, medically appropriate abortions, even if they had to
fly to Europe to get them. As per usual, those who live in poverty
will pay a higher price. AND, it is impossible to ignore that
maternal mortality is abominably high in the United States, and most
of the deaths are black women*¹,
followed by other brown women*, while WHITE women* have pretty
reasonable maternal mortality rates. Which is to say, in stark
terms, that an impact of this decision is that more black women* are
going to die.

To make this even move problematic some of the unspoken
and underlying motivation for abortion bans is white supremacy –
whereby there is a desire to prevent white women* having white babies
from ending those pregnancies, and a willingness to end all abortion
access to keep white women* pregnant with white babies. So that
motivation then ends up killing black and brown women.* There was
Freudian slip this week when a congresswoman called the Supreme Court
decision “a historic victory for white life.”²
It was odd to hear it stated directly instead of just being implied.

That’s a part of it all.

Then there is the normal, obvious part of grief around
this decision: the impact on those who are pregnant and don’t want
to be, and the incredible variation of how that came to be and what
impact it will have on them. Earlier this month The Atlantic
published an article entitled “The Most Important Study in the
Abortion Debate” which reports on the research of Diana Green
Foster looking the difference between what happens to women* who were
or were not able to access an abortion.³
They study lasted for 5 years, and included 1000 people seeking to
end pregnancies. They found that those who were denied an abortion:

were more likely to end
up living in poverty. They had worse credit scores and, even years
later, were more likely to not have enough money for the basics, such
as food and gas. They were more likely to be unemployed. They were
more likely to go through bankruptcy or eviction. “The two groups
were economically the same when they sought an abortion,…one became
poorer.”⁴

Also, those who were denied an abortion were more likely
to be with a partner who abused them, more likely to be a single
parent, had more trouble bonding with their child, felt more trapped,
had more anxiety, had lower self esteem, and were less likely to even
have aspirational life plans. They were sicker. Additionally, two
of the pregnant people denied an abortion died from their pregnancies
(none of the people who had abortions died.)

Since most people seeking an abortion already have kids,
the research was also able to study the impact of not being able to
access an abortion on the existing kids. That is, they were less
likely to hit developmental milestones and more likely to live in
poverty. This truth ALSO applied to children born after the abortion
or lack of one.

And, of course, there
were emotional impacts. “Afterward, nearly all said that
termination had been the right decision. At five years, only 14
percent felt any sadness about having an abortion; two in three ended
up having no or very few emotions about it at all. “Relief” was
the most common feeling, and an abiding one.”⁵

This decision made by the Supreme Court condemns
impoverished women* and families to harder lives, because – as we
know – the ones who are pregnant are the ones who know what is best
for them and their families. The data backs it up. They know when
they can’t adequately care for a child or another child.

So, that’s another part of it.

And also, there are the
pieces where some states are having FULL bans on abortions, without
exceptions for the life of mother**⁶
nor for rape nor incest. Now, I have major concerns about the impact
of having to convince someone you were raped or experienced incest in
order to access healthcare, but nevertheless, the impact of being
forced to carry that child to term is enormous. And, many people
will die simply because of the lack of exception for the life of the
mother**.

So, that’s another part of it.

I’m hoping breaking this up actually helps a little. I
mean, it is depressing, I know. But when all of it swirls together
into one huge overwhelming grief, it feels even more out of control.
Knowing there are layers helps me distinguish between them.

I am now at the personal layer, the place where grief is
for me. Not just for me, but for me. The decision tells me that I
do not have authority over my own body. I don’t have a right to my
own body. “Big brother” has the right to tell me what I can and
cannot do with MY BODY.

When this decision came out, I became a second class
citizen. SOME PEOPLE in this country have rights over their body. I
am no longer one of them. SOME PEOPLE have bodily autonomy. I am no
longer one of them. SOME PEOPLE have a right to life-saving
healthcare. I am no longer one of them.

To go back to The
Atlantic, “The legal and
political debate about abortion in recent decades has tended to focus
more on the rights and experience of embryos and fetuses than the
people who gestate them.”⁷

My body, in this country, has more value as a womb for a
future human than as an existing human.

The Supreme Court gaveth, and the Supreme Court tooketh
away.

The history of women* as being property of men is still
present, and still having impact. We are now, it seems, property of
the state who can tell us what we can and cannot do with OUR BODIES.

That’s another part.

And, a friend on FB this week put things into some
context. She is a person of color. She said, “If they’re willing
to do this to white women, I shudder to think what they’re willing to
do to us.” I’m aware that some of the strength of my horror at
having bodily autonomy taken from me comes from the fact that I
thought it was mine to begin with. Which has a lot to do with my
places of privilege in society.

That’s another part.

And along with it, is the fact that I live in New York ,
which not only protects the right to abortion but isn’t even one of
the border states people will flock to when they lose privileges in
their own state. (OK, fine, I hope. May my birth state of PA hold
strong.)

What I’ve lost is more theoretical than for those who
have actually lost the rights to their bodies in their states, and I
have to hold that in tension too.

That’s another part.

Those are many of the pieces of grief and tension I’ve
been experiencing. These are my current lament, and I think the
Bible shows us that lament is important.

But what do we do NOW?

Where is that good news God appointed Isaiah and Jesus
to share? Where is the good news for the POOR? For the captives in
their own bodies, the oppressed?

I may be stating the obvious, but it isn’t here yet.

But, we don’t stop there.

We also do what we’ve done today. We grieve, because
there has been loss. AND, we deny the narrative. The state has said
I don’t have authority over my body, and many of the rest of you
don’t too.

That may be LEGALLY true, but it is morally and
ethnically bankrupt. The state cannot take away the sanctity of
bodily autonomy, the value of human rights. We deny the power of the
state to bureaucratically take dominion over human bodies, and we do
so in whatever means necessary. Because GOD is the one who said we
are created in the image of God, and our lives are sacred, and the
state can’t take away what God has endowed.

There is a wonderful tradition of progressive Christian
activism to support those in need of abortions, and the strength of
that tradition will be a part of what guides us now. There are
amazing new leaders emerging, and part of our work is to listen for
great ideas and support them. There are groups led by those who know
EXACTLY what to do to support the most vulnerable, and we support
those groups.

In the meantime, I suggest we all take some inventories
of the spiritual and physical resources we have available to us
(communal and individual) so we know what we have to offer when
support is asked of us.

God doesn’t let oppression stand. We’re working with
God towards justice, and listening to the urgings of the Spirit and
the wisdom of those impacted as we find our ways forward in this new
(and old) struggle. Amen

1*women,
girls, and people who can get pregnant.

2 https://www.npr.org/2022/06/26/1107710215/roe-overturned-mary-miller-historic-victory-for-white-life

3Annie
Lowry, “The Most Important Study in the Abortion Debate”
published in The Atlantic on
Jun2 11, 2022. Accessed June 30, 2022.
https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/06/abortion-turnaway-study-roe-supreme-court/661246/

4Lowry.

5Lowry.

6**Mother
or parent.

7Lowry.

Rev. Sara E. Baron
First United Methodist Church of Schenectady
603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305
Pronouns: she/her/hers
http://fumcschenectady.org/
https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

July 3, 2022

Uncategorized

Untitled

November 28, 2021
by Sara Baron

“The Future. The Past. Grief.” based on Jeremiah 33:14-16 and Luke 21:25-36

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

I can just HEAR the me from two years ago whining about the weird Advent passages, and how dark and gloomy they are, and can’t we have a more thematic set of readings. I can hear her, but I’m NOT her anymore.

The 2021 version of me reads these passages with relief, glad that the dystopian realities of the past two years have expression in our Holy Scriptures. Because, truly, people have fainted from fear – and with good cause. The powers of heaven and earth have been shaken. Foreboding has become normal, and all the nations of the earth are distressed.

YES, thank you Luke for putting it words.

I almost wish he hadn’t switched topics quite so quickly. I find I’m not quite ready to believe that all of this is going to be fixed by Jesus returning on a cloud, and there have been far too many metaphorical green leaves sprouting without metaphorical figs arriving for me to read the signs quite like that anymore.

However, when the passages ends with Luke suggesting, “Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place,” I do find that wish I’d heeded that advice, because strength has sure been needed, and I wish I’d prayed more to find it before everything came to pass.

Now, of course, unlike the first generation of Christians, I’m not expecting the end of the world imminently, nor expecting that the signs I see today suggest that’s coming. However, I believe we have all lived an end of the world as we knew it, and that requires some time to process and accept it.

Advent is a time of longing, and waiting, and hoping. It is a time when we acknowledge how broken things are, and how desperately we need God’s help to make them better. It is a time when we join in the yearning of people of faith throughout the ages, waiting for righteousness and justice and the kindom of God, and noticing that IT IS NOT HERE YET.

Friends, it is not here yet.

It doesn’t feel very close.

It feels further away than ever.

And I don’t even want to tell you all the reasons why, because I know your hearts are already broken, and I don’t think they need any additional burdens.

So I’m not going to. I’m going to trust that you’ve noticed that things are NOT RIGHT, and VERY BROKEN, and it is NOT OK.

And now I’m going to ask you to do something that you may not want to do.

I’m going to ask you to stay with the brokenness, and how much it hurts, and how awful it is, and all the emotions that come with it. I’m going to ask you not to think of ways to fix it, or what books or articles to read about it, or what music or game could help you forget about it, or what little unrelated thing you could try fix just to feel like you still have some power in the world. I’m going to ask that you just let it hurt.

I’m going to ask that you let yourself hurt, let yourself grieve, let your spirit wander around lost – and sad – and angry – and confused – and … most of all that you let it be without trying to fix it or ignore it.

This, dear ones, is the Advent I think we need.

Because we lost the world as we knew it, and it has been so scary and awful and disconnected that we’ve just tried to keep on keeping on, and so we didn’t ever deal with it. And so it has been dealing with us.

When I sit with people who have lost dear ones, I advise them that their job is to sit on the couch and cry. I worry that if people don’t sit on the couch, stare at nothing, and cry intermittently, that the grief will just ache harder and longer.

I want us to do that. To be with the pain, like God is with us. Emmanuel is one of the words we come back to every Advent – “God with us.” God is with us, and we need to be with ourselves as God is with us.

Over the course of my leave, I found myself coming to the song “Come and Find the Quiet Center” again and again, and its wisdom deepened in me as the weeks past. This week it is the second verse that is speaking most strongly to me:

Silence is a friend who claims us, cools the heat and slows the pace, God it is who speaks and names us, knows our being, touches base, making space within our thinking, lifting shades to show the sun, raising courage when we’re shrinking, finding scope for faith begun.

I’ve chosen this hymn as our Advent song, hoping that some silence and slowed paces might be gifts to all of us (and not just me.) I don’t want us to rush to Christmas this year, I want us to slow down the pace, listen to ourselves, and listen for God. I believe that grief takes TIME, and we need to give that time.

I think of what it takes for wounds to heal: they need to be clean, and dry, and protected. They can’t continue to be agitated and still heal. And even when all those factors are taken care of, it just takes time. That’s true in bodies, but I think its true in our spirits and souls too.

It is EASY to feel anxious and act out in unproductive ways, trying to change that feeling. It is hard to sit with our anxieties, and listen to them.

God calls us to do it anyway.

So I ask you some questions for this Advent:

What grief needs time to be heard?
Where is it that we are waiting for God to break in?
Where do we see God with us?

And, I invite you into a time of waiting, in the midst of brokenness, of silence and stillness. I welcome you to Advent.

Amen

–

Call to Advent

Siblings in Christ,

I call you to seek quiet, to seek God,

To let pain be.

To name what you’ve lost, and what we’ve lost,

To name what is broken (at least for yourself)

To let God into the tender-most parts of your being,

to make space for darkness, and allow pain and darkness to set the pace.

God is with us, Emmanuel,

may we take the time to be with God. Amen

Rev. Sara E. Baron

First United Methodist Church of Schenectady

603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305

Pronouns: she/her/hers

http://fumcschenectady.org/

https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

November 28, 2021

Uncategorized

“Giving Thanks – 2020 Style” based on Deuteronomy 8:7-18…

November 22, 2020
by Sara Baron

Growing
up, we had big Thanksgivings. It was the holiday set aside for my
mother’s side of the family, and she is one of 5 siblings who have a
combined 11 offspring. The holiday moved around between their
houses, with 20-30 of us gathered however we would fit. There was
definitely a kid’s table, and I was always at it. It was loud,
chaotic, and intense. As a child that meant a lot of play, a lot of
playmates, and a lot of fun. I’m told there were also a lot of
dishes. Because it was the only time we got together, there were
Christmas presents too, and because it was the only time we got
together, there was plenty of family drama too.

I loved
those big Thanksgivings.

My
first year of seminary, in California, I decided not to fly home for
the short break. Instead a dear friend from college – also from
the northeast, also living in California, came down to be with me.
The two of us stayed in pajamas all day, read for pleasure, and ate
what we wanted when we wanted to. There was no turkey, because she
was vegetarian. I was happy to cook. She was happy to clean up. We
grazed on pies, side dishes, laughter, and books all day.

That
was the day I learned that holidays don’t have to be stressful.

This
year, a lot fewer people are going to have the big, loud, messy
Thanksgivings. I hope this year more people will have surprisingly
lovely small, quiet, unstressful ones.

However,
I know there is a lot of real grief in being separated from those we
love. This has already been a difficult year, and coming into the
holiday season, it is especially difficult. When we stopped having
in person worship in March, I wasn’t able to REALLY believe we’d have
to do Easter from our homes. You may remember that we decided to
“just wait until we could be in person” to do the Easter
photoshow. (Submissions are still being received on that basis.)

As time
went on, I became aware we weren’t going to get back together before
I went out on Family Leave, and started to hope to be together for
Homecoming.

Now it
is November, we aren’t having worship in person again in 2020, and
people are figuring out how to celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, and
New Years over zoom. Christmas worship planning involves a lot of
pre-recording. The church’s advent wreath is staying upstairs this
year, while the amazing Altar Guild made us at home ones so we can
wait in hope together … but apart.

Now it
is Thanksgiving week and giving thanks has gotten a lot more
complicated than we’d like.

I’m not
sure we identify with the leper who gave thanks nor the lepers who
don’t. As a society at least, I think we feel like the lepers who
weren’t healed, the ones not in the story, the ones who didn’t happen
to meet Jesus that day.

Or, in
the metaphor of the Hebrew Bible Lesson, it doesn’t feel like we are
living in the goodness of the Promised Land. Perhaps it feels like
we’re still wandering in the desert, perhaps like we’re still living
in oppression in Egypt. Maybe like we lost the promise and are in
exile.

The
opening words of Psalm 137 may meet us in this moment:

By the
rivers of Babylon—
   there we sat down and there
we wept
   when we remembered Zion.
On the
willows there
   we hung up our harps.
For
there our captors
   asked us for songs,
and our
tormentors asked for mirth, saying,
   ‘Sing us
one of the songs of Zion!’

How
could we sing the Lord’s song
in a foreign
land?

How can we sing praises
when things are so HARD?

How can we celebrate
Thanksgiving when fear, death, and destruction surround us?

Sure, we can participate in
Advent, and name how much we NEED God, and how much we are WAITING
for things to be better.

But, how can we celebrate
God’s breaking-into-the-world (Christmas) when we are still in the
yearning?

And, dear ones, if you are
overwhelmed, sad, grieving, weary, lonesome, annoyed, or exhausted, I
don’t think you are over-reacting. Things are HARD, and there is no
end in sight.

By the rivers of Babylon
(which, it is clear, are the WRONG Rivers, they are not the River
Jordan), there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered.

These words may be a model
for us. It is OK to sit in grief and remember what was. It is OK to
be horrified by what is. It is OK to not like any of this, at all,
and be angry to be stuck in it. It is OK, even to be sad that “at
least the exiles got to cry TOGETHER, we have to cry apart.”

That’s fair.

It cheapens gratitude to be
forced into it, and it cheapens gratitude to come to it without also
naming the things that are broken and hard and awful. It cheapens
gratitude to tell ourselves that others have it worse, so we don’t
get to be sad or mad. It isn’t a competition. The pandemic is
allowed to be hard for everyone.

So, this is my proposal, my
suggestion, my “means of grace for this week.” I invite you to
take an HOUR to sit down with your accumulated grief from this year.
You may want to write it out as a long list, you may want to journal
it, you may want to draw it, or paint it, or play it on the piano,
walk it out, or just sit with it. Do this on or by Wednesday. If
you can’t get an hour, take 6 minutes. If you complete and hour and
you aren’t done, give yourself more time.

But, BE WITH your grief.
Let it live and breath and exist. I know for some of us, it is scary
and it feels like we will break if you even start to let it out, but
you won’t. You are stronger than you think and you are held up by
the God of Love. (How else would you have made it this far?)

Then, and only then, I
invite you to spend some time on Thanksgiving reflecting on what you
are grateful for. Ideally, I’d say give this an hour as well, but
maybe only 6 minutes can be found, and maybe it will take all day.
Don’t skip this part though. Some of the things we are grateful for
are sly – and if we don’t look for them, we might miss them. This
process won’t work unless you can name your grief, but it also won’t
work if you ONLY name your grief.

I know and trust that God
is with us, that God is doing amazing things, that God is at work to
make things better. But I don’t believe in cheap grace. We can’t
pretend the hard away, and we can’t keep pushing through it. We may
be a resurrection people, but that requires acknowledging the things
of death first.

THEN we get to notice the
amazing power of life.

So, I wish you a wonderful,
if unusual Thanksgiving. And, because of that I wish you an hour to
grieve and an hour to be grateful. May you feel God’s presence in
both times of prayerful reflection. Amen

–

Rev. Sara E. Baron
First United Methodist Church of Schenectady
603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305
Pronouns: she/her/hers
http://fumcschenectady.org/
https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

Sermons

“The Kindom of God”based on Psalm 42:1-6a, Luke 8:26-39

June 19, 2016February 15, 2020
by Sara Baron

I spent a large portion of my seminary years at a gay nightclub called Oasis, which, as it was located in “The Inland Empire” in Southern California was largely populated by Latino men. Being a pastoral intern and learning how to be a pastor often felt like walking on a tightrope. Being a seminarian felt like being a head without a body. I went to the club to hang out with my friends. I went to the club to dance. I went to the club in defiance of what everyone expected me to be doing in seminary. I went to the club because it was so much nicer than going to straight clubs and being creepily hit on.

Mostly though, I went to the club to be more fully human. The darkened space, the deep pulsing of the bass, the squeals of delight, the sweating bodies, and the freedom to MOVE balanced my life. It got me out of my head, and into the wholeness of my body. It was a sanctuary from TRYING so hard to BE and to BECOME someone other than who I was. It was part of being a whole person, and not just a desexualized, dehumanized, pastoral person. It was fun, it was ridiculous at times, and it was definitely fully embodied.

As a straight, white, cisgender seminary student, the mostly Latin gay club was a sanctuary for the fullness of my humanity. It was safe space to be. For the men I went dancing with, the space was far more important. It was community, it was family, (it was a dating pool), it was space where they were allowed to look at (and often touch) other men without reproach. For the men and women who might otherwise have been closeted, I suspect the space was even more important. It was a place to be accepted as who they were, even if mostly anonymously. For those from families and communities who believed that God’s grace had limits, it was space to shake off those shackles and be free.

All week I’ve heard of the gay club as “sanctuary,” and all the more so on Latin night for people who are Latino, Latina, and Latinx. Personally, I believe it, because on my own micro scale, I’ve lived it. I believe it, because I can imagine a little bit, how much more important the experience of sanctuary has been for those for whom the space was actually made – the very same people for whom most churches are places of violence rather than safety.

As followers of Jesus, our lives are meant to be focused on building the kindom of God. It is the work that Jesus was doing in his life time, and it is the work we continue as the Body of Christ through our lifetimes. The kindom of God is the world as God would have it be: a time when the resources of the world are shared with freedom and all people have enough to survive and thrive. The kindom of God is the time when all people treat each other as the closest of kin, taking care of each other and supporting each other’s needs.

This was the work of Jesus. He found ways to help people connect with each other and support each other even in the midst of the challenges of the Roman Empire’s occupation of Galilee and Judea. This is the work we are still at. Weeks like this past one are ones when we are particularly aware of how far the world is from the kindom.

Like broken Gentile man in the gospel, the brokenness of our world is Legion. Thinking only of Orlando, there are so many ways that the kindom of God was desecrated. The work of the kindom is toward peace and wholeness: violence defiled it. The work of the kindom is toward safety and security: gunshots profaned it. The work of the kindom is to end racism and acknowledge the profound beauty and humanity of people with all skin tones: the kindom was violated when ever more vulnerable brown-skipped bodies were filled with bullets. The work of the kindom is to eliminated xenophobia and acknowledge our shared humanity with people from all nations and ethnicity: the kindom was profaned in the targeted attack on the Latin community. The work of the kindom is to build up the vulnerable and enable all people to live full and abundant lives: the kindom was defaced when the targeted population was the vulnerable LGBTQI community. The work of the kindom is to care for the sick and injured, including the mentally ill and injured: the work of the kindom was dishonored by the ways the shooter failed to be treated.

Friends, a massacre happened at a gay club on Latin night. The horrors are Legion. The world is so broken.

Yet, our question today is the same question we bring everyday: what is our role in bringing the kindom of God today? It seems that there are many ways forward. One is living into the grief, which must be one. Another is in letting the anger within us rise and motivated us to action, which also must be done. But for today, for this one day, my sense is that our role in brining the kindom of God is to at rest and to be comforted. The comfort won’t take away the grief, and it won’t take away the anger. But in the midst of tragedy, one of God’s yearnings is to comfort the people, and one of our responsibilities is to receive the comfort.

In our tradition, even Sunday is seen as a mini-Easter, a day to remember the power of God to bring life into the world. In our tradition, as in many, the space in which we gather to worship is a “sanctuary.” The word itself comes from Latin through French, deriving from Latin “sanctus” for “holy.” Because the law of the medieval church held that no one could be arrested in a sanctuary, another meaning derived as well, one that indicates that a fugitive is safe and immune from those who would harm them. At times, our church sanctuaries still function in that way.

Gathering together in holy space, where all are meant to be safe, to celebrate the work of the Living God over and over again is part of the rhythm and ritual of building the kindom. Our sanctuaries are the places we experience enough safety to be able to connect with God, with each other, and with the deepest parts of ourselves. They are imperative to the creation of the kindom, as they are what the kindom will actually be (just on a bigger scale!) They are imperative to the creation of the kindom because they form us into kindom people.

Gathering in this space today, we bring with us grief, anger, confusion, and fear – at least. In this sacred space I hope we are able to let go of our grip on each of those and let God’s love and hope find a home in us again. We gather in this space, letting God comfort and heal us, resting in faith that God’s comfort and healing will be with all those who need it.As one scholar reminded me this week, “the words ‘heal’ and ‘save’ are the same in Greek.”¹ That’s a fact to put in your memory bank and keep the next time someone says something theologically stupid. It will keep your head from exploding. 😉 One of the most consistent messages of Christianity has been “Our God saves.” When translated to “Our God heals” this is a message to soak in. In the Gospel lesson, God working through Jesus heals a man whose harms are “Legion.” In and through us, and others, God is at work to heal the world’s Legion harms as well.

Some of our response requires us to pay attention to grace, wonder, and beauty around us. Today we had the opportunity to participate in the sacrament of baptism, officially welcoming Kate Rosemary into the Body of Christ, and promising to teach her how to love God and God’s people. What a source of wonder she is! What a joy it is to see her thriving! What a source of life renewal and energy she is! This beautiful, happy baby and her loving wise parents remind us of the goodness of life. The wonder of baptism reminds us all that we are welcome among God’s people. There is a lot to be grateful for.

Today we also have the opportunity to celebrate the High School graduation of Chris Rambo Jr. As many here remember, Chris Jr. and his faith Chris Sr. came to this church when Chris Jr. was young and many pieces of his soul still hurt. Chris Sr. was in the process of adopting him, a call he had known for many years. This church baptized Chris Jr., and confirmed him, has celebrated him and occasionally scolded him, loved him, and expressed how proud they are of him.

I don’t know what Chris Jr.’s live would have been like without Chris Sr., but I imagine most of his achievements would not have been possible. He would not have been on the Academic Honor Roll at the Capital Region Career and Technical School in his Junior and Senior Years. He would not have volunteered for the Crop Walk, fundraised for the BOCES Christmas Toy Drive, packed Thanksgiving dinners, insulated homes for Habitat for Humanity and Global Volunteers, walked dogs at the Damien Center, performed hurricane relief in Schoharie County, sang Christmas carols to shut-ins, performed maintenance at Sky Lake Camp & Retreat Center, and served many breakfasts and dinners at First United Methodist and Schenectady City Mission. He would have not become a volunteer fire fighter, nor a certified scuba diver, nor Red Cross certified in First Aid and CPR for Adults, Children,

and Infants. He likely would not have been able to play volleyball, wrestling, and basketball for Guilderland. And quite likely his life would not have made it possible for him to enter the Automotive Technology Program at Hudson Valley Community College this Fall.

God’s love has been the motivating force in Chris Sr.’s life for a very long time. God nudged Chris to become a father to someone who needed him, and Chris to the call very seriously. Chris Jr. was a hurting, struggling kid whose life has been transformed by his father’s love and by the love of the adults he has come to know through his many activities and this church. His life and his successes are proof of the power of the love of God in the world. Healing has come. Life is good. There is much to be grateful for.

Friends who went to Orlando this week reported the existence of dance parties. The LGBTQI community was healing itself through dance. The Latino/Latina/Latinx community was healing itself through dance. The same experience that had been violated with horrific violence was reclaimed to continue its work of healing. There are many too deep in grief to dance. There are may too profoundly wounded to dance. There are way too many who will never dance again. Yet those who could and would, danced. The life-force in them required reclaiming their bodies, their anthems, their lives, their space, their sanctuaries.

It is time to reclaim sanctuaries. I say this as act of defiance. Acts of terrorism and violence, particularly mass murders in communal spaces are intended to make us afraid. Sanctuaries have been violated, but they must be reclaimed. Fear has been poured into the water of our country and our world, but we cannot continue to drink from it.

We must reclaim sanctuary in this space and for the world for the sake of the kindom. We be formed into full expressions of God’s love while we live in fear. So, our work is to make space for the wonder: for Katie Rosemary, for Chris Jr, and for dance parties. Our work is to attend to the goodness along with the horrors. Our work is to find space and people among whom we feel safe and to soak in the goodness. Our “work” is to let God comfort us, and bring us rest. Having hung with God before, I suspect this work will transform itself soon enough! We might as well enjoy Sabbath, Sanctuary, rest and comfort for now – for the sake of the kindom. Amen

Sermon Talkback Questions

What emotions did you bring with you today?
Are there other aspects of the Legions of horrors that need to be named?
When have you experienced sanctuary most profoundly?
What do you sense God calling you/us to today?
What else is necessary in you/us to feed us for the building of the kindom?
I listed Kate’s baptism, Chris Jr’s graduation, (really, Chris Sr’s adoption of Chris Jr), and dance parties in Orlando as signs of hope. I really wanted to add the “act of nonconformity” passed by the New England Annual Conference. What else did you want to add?
How else do we reject fear?
Where and how else can we work to reclaim sacred space? (Dancing works for me, what works for you?)

1 James W. Thomas “Exegetical Perspective on Luke 8:26-39” , p. 171 of “Feasting on the Word Year C Volume 3” edited by Barbara Brown Taylor and David Bartlett (Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville Kentucky, 2010).

–

Rev. Sara E. Baron

First United Methodist Church of Schenectady

603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305

http://fumcschenectady.org/

https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

June 19, 2016