Sermon "The Long Road Home" preached December 7, 2014 at Throop UU
We just walked through another week of heartbreak.
Which followed another week of heartbreak.
And in my two and a half years with you,
I’ve started too many sermons in this exact same way.
Lifting up the collective pain and anger of a country that strives - and sometimes fails at proving - that “diversity need not mean divisiveness.”
(quote from the morning's reading from Rev. William Schultz).
The dark is not yet done,
we search for a road that will lead us home.
Two years ago the tragic news of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting ushered in this season of celebrating light and life in the midst of darkness.
We struggled to hold a container for our grief that would also allow
room for joy and connection.
This December we light our candles and sing our glory alleluia’s, tinged once again with anger, regret, sadness, disbelief over the most recent decisions to
not indict police officers who killed unarmed black men,
Michael Brown and Eric Garner.
Our worship theme this month is “simplicity.” But there’s nothing simple about the continued discrimination and disregard and dis-valuing experienced daily by people of color in the United States.
There’s nothing simple about the privileged response of the dominant white culture,
when the conversation turns away from the very real hurt and pain and indignation that exists in black communities.
And turns toward a conversation rationalizing the actions of police officers and the policies of the institutions they work for.
These murders remind us that the more beautiful world we dream of ... is still so far away.
If you have spent the past two weeks, feeling as if these events plunged you into a darkness mirroring
the longer nights settling upon us, you are not alone.
If you have no idea what you can do to hold the world a little more gently in your hands, you are not alone.
The dark is not yet done,
we search for a road that will lead us home.
We so desperately want and need love and belonging in our lives.
We need to know we matter.
This is at the core of our Unitarian Universalist faith.
That every person means something.
That every person carries an inherent worth and dignity.
The spark of the divine is alive in each one of us.
In each one of you.
The continued violence against African Americans in the United States sends a different message,
one that contradicts our central belief.
This condoned violence sends the message that black lives in this country don’t matter.
And a through-line running amidst all the emotions we carry is the question:
How do we move forward?
What can I do, How can I be, What might I say that will make a difference,
that will put us squarely on the road toward Beloved Community?
We wonder, how much longer must we wait before the beautiful world we dream of is our lived reality?
In the Christian liturgical calendar this is the second Sunday of Advent.
A time of waiting.
As a spiritual practice, Advent is not a four week indifferent, numbed-out, passively waiting for Christmas Day
to finally come so we can open up presents type of observation.
Advent is an intentional, expectant time of spiritual preparation.
A passage from the Book of Isaiah says:
They who wait for the LORD
shall renew their strength
Perhaps the question isn’t “How much longer must we wait?”
That question breeds more frustration, because there is no clear, easy, measurable answer.
We can’t get there soon enough.
But “How will I use my time of waiting to strengthen my heart and mind, my sense of love and belonging,
my commitment to ensuring all lives matter, including black lives?”
That’s something each of us has the power to do something about.
Turning our own hearts and minds closer toward the divine, closer toward our values.
As stark as the recent events have been ... we can see a flicker of hope.
One found in the incredible mosaic of people who are voicing their outrage and disappointment.
Hope is felt when we see it is not only African Americans who are engaging in this conversation,
but people across all demographics, across faith lines and racial divides and socioeconomic boxes.
We are raising our voices.
Hungry to engage in some meaningful way.
People have stood and sung and shouted.
They have prayed and witnessed in silence,
with candles or with signs proclaiming “Black Lives Matter” “I Can’t Breathe.”
Roads toward home and Beloved Community are being built.
But before we rush into a hopeful optimism.
Before your minister gives you homework to do,
or asks you to join her out on the streets, raising our voices against injustice,
all wearing our green Throop t-shirts and proclaiming that we stand on the side of love.
Because I will do that and I expect you to be there with me.
But before we rush into hope and action.
In the spirit of the Advent season,
I welcome you instead into an uncomfortable place of waiting.
Soon enough the menorah candles will be lit.
Soon enough Winter Solstice will come and the days will grow longer once again.
But until then - let the darkness of this particular time of year embrace you.
Let us find a place where we might ask hard questions of ourselves,
of our God,
of our community,
and in the place of quiet waiting,
hear the still, small voice,
guiding us on our way.
Amen.
Which followed another week of heartbreak.
And in my two and a half years with you,
I’ve started too many sermons in this exact same way.
Lifting up the collective pain and anger of a country that strives - and sometimes fails at proving - that “diversity need not mean divisiveness.”
(quote from the morning's reading from Rev. William Schultz).
The dark is not yet done,
we search for a road that will lead us home.
Two years ago the tragic news of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting ushered in this season of celebrating light and life in the midst of darkness.
We struggled to hold a container for our grief that would also allow
room for joy and connection.
This December we light our candles and sing our glory alleluia’s, tinged once again with anger, regret, sadness, disbelief over the most recent decisions to
not indict police officers who killed unarmed black men,
Michael Brown and Eric Garner.
Our worship theme this month is “simplicity.” But there’s nothing simple about the continued discrimination and disregard and dis-valuing experienced daily by people of color in the United States.
There’s nothing simple about the privileged response of the dominant white culture,
when the conversation turns away from the very real hurt and pain and indignation that exists in black communities.
And turns toward a conversation rationalizing the actions of police officers and the policies of the institutions they work for.
These murders remind us that the more beautiful world we dream of ... is still so far away.
If you have spent the past two weeks, feeling as if these events plunged you into a darkness mirroring
the longer nights settling upon us, you are not alone.
If you have no idea what you can do to hold the world a little more gently in your hands, you are not alone.
The dark is not yet done,
we search for a road that will lead us home.
We so desperately want and need love and belonging in our lives.
We need to know we matter.
This is at the core of our Unitarian Universalist faith.
That every person means something.
That every person carries an inherent worth and dignity.
The spark of the divine is alive in each one of us.
In each one of you.
The continued violence against African Americans in the United States sends a different message,
one that contradicts our central belief.
This condoned violence sends the message that black lives in this country don’t matter.
And a through-line running amidst all the emotions we carry is the question:
How do we move forward?
What can I do, How can I be, What might I say that will make a difference,
that will put us squarely on the road toward Beloved Community?
We wonder, how much longer must we wait before the beautiful world we dream of is our lived reality?
In the Christian liturgical calendar this is the second Sunday of Advent.
A time of waiting.
As a spiritual practice, Advent is not a four week indifferent, numbed-out, passively waiting for Christmas Day
to finally come so we can open up presents type of observation.
Advent is an intentional, expectant time of spiritual preparation.
A passage from the Book of Isaiah says:
They who wait for the LORD
shall renew their strength
Perhaps the question isn’t “How much longer must we wait?”
That question breeds more frustration, because there is no clear, easy, measurable answer.
We can’t get there soon enough.
But “How will I use my time of waiting to strengthen my heart and mind, my sense of love and belonging,
my commitment to ensuring all lives matter, including black lives?”
That’s something each of us has the power to do something about.
Turning our own hearts and minds closer toward the divine, closer toward our values.
As stark as the recent events have been ... we can see a flicker of hope.
One found in the incredible mosaic of people who are voicing their outrage and disappointment.
Hope is felt when we see it is not only African Americans who are engaging in this conversation,
but people across all demographics, across faith lines and racial divides and socioeconomic boxes.
We are raising our voices.
Hungry to engage in some meaningful way.
People have stood and sung and shouted.
They have prayed and witnessed in silence,
with candles or with signs proclaiming “Black Lives Matter” “I Can’t Breathe.”
Roads toward home and Beloved Community are being built.
But before we rush into a hopeful optimism.
Before your minister gives you homework to do,
or asks you to join her out on the streets, raising our voices against injustice,
all wearing our green Throop t-shirts and proclaiming that we stand on the side of love.
Because I will do that and I expect you to be there with me.
But before we rush into hope and action.
In the spirit of the Advent season,
I welcome you instead into an uncomfortable place of waiting.
Soon enough the menorah candles will be lit.
Soon enough Winter Solstice will come and the days will grow longer once again.
But until then - let the darkness of this particular time of year embrace you.
Let us find a place where we might ask hard questions of ourselves,
of our God,
of our community,
and in the place of quiet waiting,
hear the still, small voice,
guiding us on our way.
Amen.