St. Andrew's-Wesley United Church

Rev. Gary Paterson

June 28, 2009

I am old enough to have attended school when religious education was still permitted; in fact, during seventh grade, as I recall, it was required, unless you had a signed note from home. Not always the most popular of classes - I remember one time when our teacher, Mr. Bowra, tried to spark some interest by asking, "What is the shortest sentence of the Bible?" Not a great winner of a question, and there was lots of "Who cares?" eye-rolling; and really, none of us had any idea what the answer was, but we were game to throw out some suggestions, hauling out those few snippets that we had committed to memory. Someone called out, "The Lord is my shepherd!"; another person tried, "In the beginning!"; then the class wit shouted out "Thou shalt not!" Mr. Bowra smiled, with a combination of predictable disappointment and a certain delight in stumping us.

"Turn to your Bibles…" -- yes, they were still floating around in public schools back then. "Find chapter 11 of the Gospel of John" - mind you, he had to give us the actual page number. But we were intrigued, wondering what the shortest sentence actually was, and so we were willing to work our way through the story of Jesus and his best friend Lazarus. Who had died… suddenly, before Jesus could get there. So, when Jesus finally arrived at Lazarus' home in Bethany, he was met by his friend's sister, Martha, who burst into tears, crying out, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died." And there it was… the shortest sentence… verse 35; two words… subject and predicate; noun and verb: "Jesus wept!"

Which was a bit of a shocker. Not quite the picture I had of Jesus… I mean, none of us is at our best when weeping… eyes going red and puffy; mucous running every which way; face blotchy. No, this is not the heroic Jesus. On the other hand, why not a crying Jesus? If he were truly human, like the rest of us, then surely he would have known a lot about tears.

Did you know that we are one of only two species that can cry… humans and, get this, elephants (though I swear I know some dogs that understand all about crying.) But we humans seem to spend more time with tears than any other creature. Often we start life off with a good cry; they say it's to get our lungs going, but I'm not completely convinced. We cry over scraped knees and hurt feelings; sometimes tears can be our best stress-buster at the end of a terrible, no-good, awful day. At other moments, we shed tears of joy… why just yesterday I was celebrating a marriage, and this very cool groom lost it while listening to his bride tell him how much she loved him; as this beautiful young woman spoke her vows… for better for worse, for richer, for poorer… well, tears welled up in the corners of her beloved's eyes, and then started streaming down his cheeks -at which point she started crying. Fortunately a thoughtful bridesmaid had stashed away a kleenex - now talk about a moment of intimacy… one kleenex for two runny noses. They're going to do well, those two.

But most often tears come when our hearts are broken, when we are overwhelmed by loss, grief, death…. the inevitable pain that life brings. Count on it - your heart will be broken in this journey, not just once, but many times. And you will cry - silently, inside; or with wracking sobs that leave you exhausted.

There's a lot of weeping in the Bible. I am sure that Adam and Eve were crying as they left the Garden of Eden. The great story of Exodus, the liberation from slavery, it begins with the tears of the Israelites, as God declares, "I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmaster. Indeed, I know their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them…." Or remember the time of exile, when the people of Israel were taken from their homes, dragged across the deserts to Babylon: Psalm 137 -- "By the waters of Babylon, we lay down and wept… and wept … and wept …." Indeed if you were to drift through the Book of Psalms you'd discover that over fifty of them are laments, both personal and community - people crying in their grief and despair. I mean, there's even an entire book in the Bible entitled "Lamentations" of all things… five little chapters tucked away between Jeremiah and Ezekiel; though it only gets mentioned once every three years if you're following the Lectionary. We're not keen to highlight grief except on Good Friday… and even then lots of folk would rather give that day a miss, and show up on Easter Sunday when we're back to happy times.

And of course, there's today's Scripture reading, David full of lamentation, proclaiming his grief for the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, giving voice to the despair of his people after their terrible defeat at the hands of the Philistines, bodies strewn all over the slopes of Mount Gilboa. "Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places! How the mighty have fallen!" he cries out. That's how David begins. "You mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew or rain upon you…" Let the whole world echo the desolation that comes with war… any war.

And then David gets more specific, and weeps for King Saul and for his son Jonathan. A bit strange that, crying for Saul. Because you will remember that David and Saul had, at best, a strained relationship. Saul saw the young man as a political threat, too popular a military leader by far, and so he had often tried to kill David, who had been forced to take to the hills, living as a wanted man, a refugee. One might have imagined David being delighted that Saul had been killed, for now his way to the throne was that much easier. A little dancing rather than lamentation. But what we get are tears… "O daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in crimson… [oh] how the mighty have fallen in the midst of the battle!" It's almost as if David were using this time of lamentation to re-imagine his relationship with Saul. Often when death strikes, we find ourselves saying, "I wish I had said… done… spent more time with… let her know… told him how much I loved him…." You know what I mean. But it seems to me that in the offering of tears, we have an opportunity to work on unfinished business; we can re-create our relationship with the dead; we can find forgiveness, peace, acceptance, resolution. Maybe that's what David was doing; maybe that's an invitation for all of us.

That's not where David finishes, of course - it is Jonathan who calls up his deepest grief:

Jonathan lies slain upon your high places.

I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan;

Greatly beloved were you to me,

Your love was wonderful,

Passing the love of women.

Some scholars have suggested that David and Jonathan were lovers; very possible. At the very least, they were the deepest of friends, and David's heart is broken. And he weeps. What else is there to do, really?

I know this is why I love Scripture so much - its absolute honesty; its willingness to talk about all parts of our human experience - illness, pain, age, suffering, death and loss. It has been said that in North American culture there are only two basic religions: optimism and denial. You understand what I'm saying? But that's not what happens in the Bible - "For everything there is a season, a time for every matter under heaven," writes the author of Ecclesiastes - a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to laugh and a time to cry; a time to dance, and a time to mourn. Not optimism; not denial - but an open acknowledgement of life's joy and pain; its delight and struggle; our laughter and tears.

A modern poet helps us catch a glimpse of life's ambiguity, this weaving together of joy and sorrow. It's an autumn poem, really, where the very season highlights our transience and mortality, with the inevitability of tears… "In Blackwater Woods" by Mary Oliver:

Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light, are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment.

The long tapers of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss,

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things;

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes, to let it go,

to let it go.

I think this is what David was struggling with in his lamentation: he had loved what was mortal, and he had held it against his bones, knowing his life depended on it. But when the time came to let it go - well, that's hard.

In fact, in our modern lingo we talk about "grief work" - and I think the word "work" is well chosen. It takes time; and attentiveness as we find ourselves working through the stages of grieving… denial, bargaining, anger, despair… and finally, with courage, grace and luck… we touch upon acceptance. It is so important to give voice to our grief; to speak the pain that we are feeling. It doesn't have to be public tears; I'm not suggesting that "non-weepers" are not truly grieving. But I do resist our culture's insistence on stiff upper lip, quick recovery, just get over it. I knew a man who, when he lost his wife, started coming back to church. He sat at the back, and every Sunday for six months he cried his way through the service; and then, it was as if his reservoir of tears was empty. Something shifted; his grieving wasn't over, but it had changed; there was space for something in addition to sorrow. Like David, we need to speak our grief.

And we need at times to do this in community, with other people. Yes, our grief is unique to us; but remember that everyone in the world knows something about tears. Maybe we need to cry together, letting ourselves be vulnerable; letting others see our blotched and puffy faces, our broken hearts. There is something disturbing and heart-wrenching about another person's tears; there is almost an instinctive reaction, where we want to offer comfort, wrap our arms around the other, and simply hold them, not saying anything other than perhaps, "There, there; I know; I know; it's okay." Crying together opens up the possibility of find comfort, of offering compassion. It's what we humans are called to do.

Sometimes it helps to turn to ritual or art or music - a memorial service; black arm bands; an ancient hymn. We need structure - it helps us hold the grief so that it does not overwhelm us, even as we create a space and a time where we can feel and express our pain. Music especially cuts through false optimism and denial; it goes right to the heart. I was reading an article the other day (a welcome address to freshmen at the Boston Conservatory, given by Karl Paulnack, pianist and director of the music division at Boston Conservatory) where it was said that,

The first people to understand how music really works were the ancient Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you; the Greeks said that music and astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us.

I think it helped that David was a musician, a composer of psalms; a man who played his sorrow out on the harp. "How the mighty have fallen… Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lively! In life and in death they were not divided; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions… weep… weep." Let the music re-arrange the big, invisible moving pieces inside your heart and soul, helping you figure out the position of things inside you; let the music help you cry.

For grief will eventually bring gifts. Not that you would have chosen the path of tears… but when it comes, don't stop walking… and working. Since this is what will happen on occasion, for there comes a time for every matter under heaven, then let sorrow be sorrow, and trust that you will come out on the other side, changed, different… and perhaps you will discover a new wisdom and a deeper joy. The writer Annie Lamott in her book Travelling Mercies says this well:

Don't get me wrong: grief sucks, it really does. Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of the living spirit. Mostly I have tried to avoid it by staying very busy, working too hard, trying to achieve as much as possible. You can often avoid the pain by trying to fix other people; shopping helps in a pinch, as does romantic obsession… too much exercise works for some people…. martyrdom can't be beat. But the bad news is that whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life has not fallen apart. But since your life may indeed have fallen apart, the illusion won't hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave, you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and write, and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.

Softness and illumination… tears can be an experience of grace. Tears can melt the hard crust we use for protection; they crack us open… and create an opening for the Spirit to come slipping into our hearts. We are not alone in our grieving… God is with us. Not fixing, rescuing… but sustaining, comforting, strengthening. Let me take you back to the beginning of this sermon… to Jesus weeping on hearing the news of his friend's death. If Jesus is the lens through which we see and comprehend the nature of God, then perhaps we can be audacious enough to suggest that, like Jesus, God also weeps in the face of our human grief and loss. Not a fix-it God, but one who cries with us.

If we can trust this presence, then we are able to look to the past, and remember what God has already done "back then". We use our experience, both personal and communal, of God's actions, presence, sustaining power… the God who creates, who renews, who indeed has restored our spirit after previous crises. It has been said that faith is remembering what God has done in the past and trusting that God will do it a gain in the future although that seems almost unbelievable in the present moment. I think that's why over and over in the Bible you will hear a recounting of God's actions in the past, almost as if the writer is saying, "Although you feel overwhelmed and abandoned right now, remember how God has brought you through previous troubles…. and trust that your present situation is no different. Even in the face of death."

And then, we can turn our faces into the future, and re-discover hope. We can be like the Psalmist… was it David?... and cry out, "My hope is in the Beloved, my strength and my joy; O my soul, open the door to Love." In faith, then, our tears are the way to open that door, the door to Love; softness and illumination… the Beloved, our strength and our joy.