It was a moving day in worship. The music was lovely. The leadership was gracious. The sermon was relevant, poignant, and powerful. The community was warm. The bread and the wine were a taste of the goodness of God. But those things will not be what I remember. As time will pass, I expect that most of the particulars from this worship will bend and weave their way together with the thousands of other worship experiences from my life. It will, for the most part, become indistinct. I do expect, however, that one thing will remain in my memory to mark this worship as different.
That one thing is a little girl’s question.
Within my half century of life, there have been several events within the public sphere that have been demarcations on the signposts of time. There have been those moments that still now, many years later, I can recall the place where I was and my own visceral response to the news of the day.
I know where I was when the Challenger Space Shuttle disaster happened. I can still feel the unexpected shock, and the almost tangible “punch in my gut” as I watched the unfolding story on live television. The images of the explosion are seared in my memory.
I know where I was and the feelings that came over me when the Berlin wall came tumbling down. I can still feel the energy conveyed through the airwaves as I, along with the rest of the world, watched this crack in history as it unfolded.
I know where I was on 911, and any recollection of that day brings back the horror and helplessness that descended like a cloud.
Then there is last week. A busy time in the height of summer. One teenager away at camp. Another teenager energized by her job. Me - living the routine of parenthood and middle age. And then came the news. A black man shot and killed by police - again. And then, within a day - another one. And then a city on edge amid the assassination of police officers. Social media filled with both cries of enough, and “what do you mean there is a race problem in this country?”
Calls for prayer and peace. Calls for calm. Politicians being politicians. Theologians weighing in.
And I wondered, knowing that the Sunday reading would be the familiar story that is known to many as “The Good Samaritan” - I wondered - what would the preacher preach on Sunday? What would we hear in worship?
The preacher did not disappoint. He named the names of those who had been slain. He named our own fallibility to see and be the neighbor that God calls us to be, and he called us to tangible, real action
All good.
But what I expect I will remember is the hushed question of a little girl - maybe five or six years-old - sitting with her mother in the row to my right, and one row behind.
As the pastor was naming the tragedies of the recent days past, recounting the lives lost by the shootings, the little girl asked, “why is he talking about shootings in church?”
Why is he talking about shootings in church
I could not hear how her mother responded, but her question, though spoken in a whisper, resounded loud and clear. Why is he talking about shootings in church
I suspect that there may have been many across this country who wondered the same thing as pastors sought to speak the Gospel amid our own particular broken times. It seems that we have become accustomed to a detached Gospel - one that keeps anything that might be considered controversial or political at arms length, one that tells us all about “Bible land,” but struggles often to be the prophetic and redemptive voice amid our own lived and broken lives.
But what better place to speak of such things, such horrors, such tragedy? What better place to name the particular sorrows of our world? Because you see, Jesus dealt in particulars. He met the needs of the people in front of him. He responded to the crises that were present around him. He spoke in the language and the images not from another time and place, but from his own time and place.
In words and deeds, Jesus was immersed in the particular brokenness of those he encountered. Lepers. Blind. Diseased. Women. Children. Samartians. Syrophenicians. Tax Collectors. Sinners.
And to those particular people, and amid each particular experience of brokenness, Jesus spoke truth to power. Jesus named the brokenness. Jesus brought new life.
Why is he talking about shootings in church? Because this is the brokenness of this time and place. This is the particular pain of this moment. This is the sorrow of this season of our lives. And we are called to speak truth to power - now. We are called to name the brokenness - now. We are called to bring new life - now.
Why, oh little girl, is he talking about shootings in church? Because in so doing, he is saying the words, naming the sorrows, speaking the truths that God wants him to speak so that we - you and me, all of us - can be filled with the Holy Spirit to bind up the wounds of our broken country, to name - and repent from - the sins that bind us, and to embrace one another as the neighbors God has made us to be.
Calls for prayer and peace. Calls for calm. Politicians being politicians. Theologians weighing in.
And I wondered, knowing that the Sunday reading would be the familiar story that is known to many as “The Good Samaritan” - I wondered - what would the preacher preach on Sunday? What would we hear in worship?
The preacher did not disappoint. He named the names of those who had been slain. He named our own fallibility to see and be the neighbor that God calls us to be, and he called us to tangible, real action
All good.
But what I expect I will remember is the hushed question of a little girl - maybe five or six years-old - sitting with her mother in the row to my right, and one row behind.
As the pastor was naming the tragedies of the recent days past, recounting the lives lost by the shootings, the little girl asked, “why is he talking about shootings in church?”
Why is he talking about shootings in church
I could not hear how her mother responded, but her question, though spoken in a whisper, resounded loud and clear. Why is he talking about shootings in church
I suspect that there may have been many across this country who wondered the same thing as pastors sought to speak the Gospel amid our own particular broken times. It seems that we have become accustomed to a detached Gospel - one that keeps anything that might be considered controversial or political at arms length, one that tells us all about “Bible land,” but struggles often to be the prophetic and redemptive voice amid our own lived and broken lives.
But what better place to speak of such things, such horrors, such tragedy? What better place to name the particular sorrows of our world? Because you see, Jesus dealt in particulars. He met the needs of the people in front of him. He responded to the crises that were present around him. He spoke in the language and the images not from another time and place, but from his own time and place.
In words and deeds, Jesus was immersed in the particular brokenness of those he encountered. Lepers. Blind. Diseased. Women. Children. Samartians. Syrophenicians. Tax Collectors. Sinners.
And to those particular people, and amid each particular experience of brokenness, Jesus spoke truth to power. Jesus named the brokenness. Jesus brought new life.
Why is he talking about shootings in church? Because this is the brokenness of this time and place. This is the particular pain of this moment. This is the sorrow of this season of our lives. And we are called to speak truth to power - now. We are called to name the brokenness - now. We are called to bring new life - now.
Why, oh little girl, is he talking about shootings in church? Because in so doing, he is saying the words, naming the sorrows, speaking the truths that God wants him to speak so that we - you and me, all of us - can be filled with the Holy Spirit to bind up the wounds of our broken country, to name - and repent from - the sins that bind us, and to embrace one another as the neighbors God has made us to be.
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