So we met this morning at Rico's. I'm not sure what I expected. My friend is a lifelong activist, committed to the cause of justice in all its kaleidoscope forms, and to creating a more diverse community. Perhaps we'd talk about concrete actions to take: writing letters to members of Congress urging them to both enact more secure gun safety laws, while at the same time increase funding for Planned Parenthood. Or maybe it would be more local: rallies on the steps of City Hall, speaking out at City Council meetings for the need to end the open carry gun laws that threaten the sense of safety and well-being of the citizens of Colorado Springs.
It was neither of those things. Instead, it was a meeting of two women who feel daunted and overwhelmed at the never-ending story of gun violence in our town, our nation, our world. It was a meeting of hearts that were broken over the continued devastation of our society. It was a sharing of stories of hope and hopelessness and finding hope again.
What can we do? We asked one another. We ended up deciding that maybe just gathering as moms and activists once a month to cry and laugh together might be the best thing we could do. As we were preparing to leave, I noticed a card on the rack. Maybe that's the secret, I said, pointing to it. Maybe we just need to remember that. Filled with hope that the card gave me, I bought it.
I returned to my office and turned on the computer to the news that another active shooting event was in progress. This one was in San Bernadino, CA, with estimates of at least 20 people being shot.
Another friend and colleague texted me to say that she was convening a gathering on Skype so that we could cry together. I joined in; it was a small group-- maybe ten people or so-- crying over this latest violence unfolding in San Bernadino. There was a pervasive sense of deep grief and hopelessness over the state of our nation, the rampant gun violence that takes aim at all of us.
It was a brief conversation and when it was over I thought again of the card I brought home from Rico's. I thought about having to preach on Grace the day after the shootings here. I decided once again to turn to Grace, to Hope, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. What else can I do? What else can you do?
Here is the text of my sermon from this last Sunday, entitled What's So Amazing About Grace?
May we all keep remembering.
What’s
So Amazing About Grace?
This
service theme, as all service themes, was planned months in advance of today. When
we chose this theme--myself and my intrepid music and worship team--I don’t
know about them, but I was imagining a Lifetime
Movie of the Week sort of service; maybe--at worst--a Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day service where we could each
think about My Problem and How I Solved It--one
of the favorite columns I used to read in some teen magazine back when problems
centered around your boyfriend cheating on you, or an outbreak of acne just
before the prom
(which
is almost worse.)
But
life doesn’t work that way, does it? Instead we got bombarded with Real Life Opportunities to wait on grace
to find us, to unblind us, metaphorically speaking, to lead us home. But what
do we do when we no longer know where home is? And how will we know when
we’ve found it?
Don’t
worry. That’s where grace comes in.
Grace
is our tour guide through devastation. Through loss and overwhelming grief. Grace
is the voice of Siri guiding us through the unforeseen detours, the road
hazards, the sinkholes that threaten to swallow us whole.
Grace
is Siri saying, in that slightly annoyed voice, recalculating, when we didn’t follow her instructions the first
time and she has to find a new route for us to get home. And she always does. She
always does.
So…how
about that Grace? What is it that makes her so amazing?
First,
maybe I should introduce you all proper like. The dictionary’s definitions are
simple:
Moving
with elegance and grace; a prayer of blessing said before or after a meal--and
that’s the riff I was going to take for this sermon, in the wake of
Thanksgiving when many of us gathered
in
large or small groups and reflected on what we had for which we were grateful.
In
a Christian sense, Oxford has this to say: Grace is the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the
salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings. Guess that last one is great if you’re a Christian, but
what about for us wild and crazy Unitarian Universalists? What’s so amazing
about grace for us?
When we step out of the pages
of the dictionary and into lived experience,
Grace has so much more meaning; it means blessing and gratitude, and
forgiveness and redemption. Grace means getting a do over. Grace means, as
the chalice lighting suggests, a fresh start at life with each dawn; not on a
perfectly cleaned chalk board-- the past lessons and grace given show in bas
relief against the study green of the day—but clean enough. Fresh enough. Hopeful
enough
to get us out of bed and into our world, even on the bleakest of
mornings.
And if we look even at the Christian definition--through our
Unitarian and Universalist lens there is something for us. Just this morning
someone posted on our Facebook page, What
do you believe about heaven? And Jo Winn, our resident scholar and lifelong
Unitarian Universalist, said “I can’t speak for everybody but the universalist
side says that God welcomes all into heaven.”
And this is indeed what we believe. So when we look at this Christian
definition through our Unitarian Universalist lens we can find something for
us.
We can say Grace is the free and unmerited favor of the holy, of that which we name as sacred in our lives-- whether that’s human nature, the universe, God,
Nature--as manifested in the wholeness, which is one of the meanings for the
word salvation in Christian scripture, and redemption
--the reclaiming –of blessings. So grace is the free and unmerited
favor of the holy as manifested in the wholeness of humanity and the reclaiming of
blessings.
Now Grace may be amazing, but let me tell you: She’s no cheap
date. As Herman Hesse says in Siddarhtha, “I have had to experience so much stupidity, so many vices, so much
error, so much nausea, disillusionment and sorrow, just in order to become a
child again and begin anew. I had to experience despair, I had to sink to the
greatest mental depths, to thoughts of suicide, in order to experience grace.”
Hopefully
his is a more extreme experience than ours but it is true that Grace shines her
light in the deepest shadows of our lives. When we are lost in the corridors of
pain, or grief, or loss Grace comes in, swinging the lantern of hope to guide
us home.
I don’t
know about you, but in these past few days I have felt the temptation to become
lost, myself, in the darkness of despair and helplessness, in the jaded fear
that we--as a nation, as a people--have peered too far over the abyss of
violence and can only tumble over into it, falling forever into its vast chasm
of pain. And it was grace that pulled me back; Grace in the sharing of that
pain with others.
First—because
this is 2015—individually, or in groups on fb. People texted or emailed or
called me
asking me: Are you safe?
Are you ok? And I felt that grace in this gathering clan of concern, of
love, of presence. Then corporately, as I worked with a fine group of people dedicated
to peace, to healing, to wholeness, to plan a vigil that would both honor our grief and call us to action.
In so many
of the pictures from the vigil yesterday that showed our speakers, the light
from our windows cast an aura of gold around them, and so many people exclaimed
about that. I like to think that was grace enfolding us, holding us, reminding
us we’re not alone.
Grace is
not only being pulled back from the precipice, Grace is also the act of letting
go of what was, of what could have been, of what was hoped for, and
surrendering to the reality of what is.
Grace
comes, in the wake of Friday’s tragedy, when we can stop asking why? and start asking what now?
What now?
Grace comes
when we stop shaking our head in denial and saying I can’t believe this happened—again--just weeks after the last vigil of
three people killed in our city as a result of gun violence. It comes when
we stop shaking our heads in denial and instead bow our heads in sorrow, and
give in to the grief, and shock, and the anger.
“Un-winged and naked,
sorrow surrenders its crown
to a throne called grace.”
―
Aberjhani,
says in The River of Winged Dreams―
That’s
Grace.
Do
those of you who are parents remember when your child was very little, and
throwing a tantrum, and struggling against your arms as you attempt to soothe
them, saying, “Get away from me! I hate you!” and then suddenly they would just
burst into tears, snd throw their arms around your neck as they sobbed? That’s Grace.
Grace happens when we stop struggling against our pain and acknowledge it.
Grace
is amplified when we can acknowledge, and seek solace with others, rather than
isolating ourselves. Yesterday a couple hundred of us came together in this
room to acknowledge our anger, and grief, and bewilderment. And we felt such
grace.
As
Rumi said:
“You are so weak.
Give up to grace.
The ocean takes care of each wave till it gets
to shore.
You need more help than you know.”
Grace takes care of us and makes sure we get to shore. When we feel like we’re floundering, Grace comes along in the form of a friend, or stranger, or sunrise, or our dog, and holds us until we get the next wave closer to shore.
The
good thing about Grace is she’s patient. She knows how unruly we humans are, how
insistent that we can find our own way. We shout out, I can do it myself! And Grace
doesn’t even roll her eyes; she just waits. She smiles and waits. She waits for
us to have our spiritual eyes opened to see her. There is no expiration date on
Grace, no set point at which she will say
Time’s up!I gave you a chance and you
blew it! She’s always there.
And
Grace reminds us we’re not alone. Ironically, of all the media outlets I made
yesterday, the one that drew the most attention and praise was from The Blaze. Scores
of my friends posted that
and
said Way to go! Calling it like it is! I
have to say it was my favorite headline, too.
The
irony is that The Blaze is a website run by ultra conservative Glenn Beck. The comments
are horrifying! I hope my mom doesn’t read them! But I love how something sent
out as a slam was so well-received by my activist friends Don’t you just love
the irony of that?
And
then when I started getting hate tweets from followers of The Blaze, my friends started sending love tweets to me. Which means I suddenly have a lot more followers on
twitter and better do something more than post quotes from the latest Dean
Koontz novel I’m reading.
Perhaps
the most amazing thing about Grace is that when we silence the critic in our
brains; when we take the gavel away from the cruel judge in our hearts; when we
turn from that hatred of those who are threatened by us, and look instead to
those cheering us on, we discover that Grace has led us home.To the very center of our own being. To the core of
who we are. And there we do find wholeness. We reclaim blessings we thought we
lost. We stop fighting within ourselves and extend our love to our very souls,
freely, and without fear.
Anne
Lamott once said: “I believe that against all odds, grace bats
last, and that little by little,
in ways
that may not be visible for awhile, this polarization will heal. For my part, I
pray not to be so self-righteous, and to keep remembering that we are all one
family.”
I like
that image, that reminder that we’re all one family—the shooter and the shot, Planned
Parenthood and Bill Carmody—we’re all one family. Grace reminds us of that.
And Grace
reminds us no matter how many times we strike out, or get fouled out, or have a
pop ball caught right when we’re rounding first, we can look back at the batter’s
box, and there is Grace, grinning and rubbing dirt on her hands before
clenching the bat, and winking as if to say
No worries! I got this
. And she does. She always does. She’s the
cleanup batter; she brings us all home. And, where once we were parched, our
thirst is now slaked. And where once we couldn’t see where we were going, we
clearly see the path we’re on. And then, in some mystical, alchemical transformation, we hear another voice calling out in the wilderness, lost and bewildered and alone, and we surprise ourselves when we reach out to take their hand, and become even more surprised--though in some ways, not surprised at all--when that person clutches our proffered hand, and calls us Grace.
And we respond, Come, follow me; I can help you find your way home.
That is perhaps the most amazing thing about Grace: how we are that to one another, how we can’t exist if we don’t offer that to one another, how, to paraphrase the words of William Blake from our opening hymn, Pity, Mercy and Love are in human dress. Home is in the reaching out to be a light for others as some were for us.
That’s what is so amazing about Grace, that’s what is so amazing about this congregation--the many ways we are grace-- to ourselves and one another. That’s something I could easily do, hand in hand with you, for at least 10.000 years.
That
is so much more than a prayer before dinner. This is so much more than a
lifetime movie of the week.This is, indeed, life. And I think that’s pretty
amazing. Amen.
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