Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

We Could Have Had It All

 A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC, April 14, 2019, Palm Sunday.

Text: Luke 19:28-48

 

Anthony and I recently spent a few days in Philadelphia, the fulfillment of Anthony’s Christmas gift—he, as a history buff, wanted to explore the Museum of the American Revolution, visit Independence Hall, and soak up the American history that lives everywhere in the old city. I was interested, too, though I must admit that a more contemporary piece of history made me giddy: getting to traverse Rocky Balboa’s triumphal steps and experience that iconic view from the top of the Philadelphia Art Museum steps in person.

 

A number of things struck me as I took in the history of how we came to be a nation. I noticed that debates then and now are the same: big or small government, state’s rights and individual liberty relative to federal laws, tensions between those in industrial, urban centers and rural, farming communities…I was sad to see how opportunities to do right by Native American communities and enslaved Africans were either not recognized or dismissed, how the manners and customs and culture of the day were so ingrained that even in a time of great upheaval and revolution, some things were placed outside the bounds of what might be even discussed, much less changed.

 

The critical questions of the American revolution also sound very familiar to me in the context of what is happening in the United Methodist Church. My colleague, James Howell, made the connection between the American Revolution and our current church struggle explicit in a recent article in The Washington Post as he spoke of the current increase of sacred resistance and protest against the exclusion without representation forces as our “tea party moment.”[i] He says this moment is just beginning.

 

Like the days in this country following the “Boston tea party,” we United Methodists find ourselves in a moment of new creation, of radical change, of looking toward forming a new expression of Methodism for the future that might offer an inspiring opportunity to be the church we believe we’re called to be, a new way of living together that is more inclusive and just, and that can potentially encompass all those who, for whatever reason, stand against the action of General Conference. Just as those debating how to create something new at the beginning of these United States, I’ve heard the following questions arise:

• Who is included in the conversation and in leadership?
• Who’s writing the story? Who is controlling the narrative?
• Will we be loosely affiliated or centrally governed?
• What will our relationships be internationally?
• Who are our allies? And are we using them or truly engaging as mutual partners?
• If we become a new entity, what current practices will we want to change?
• How do we care for those who have been abused? Will we recognize and honor the full humanity of all people?

 

How these questions get answered makes a difference not only in the moment they are initially asked, but in all the days to follow. The weight of our decisions lands heavily on generations to come—for better or for worse.

 

Some of you may be wondering what any of this has to do with Palm Sunday. Well, it occurs to me that Jesus came into the world—and into Jerusalem on this day—because some things needed to be different. Jesus came with a vision for how to live together in peace with justice, a vision that challenged the status quo, a vision that was revolutionary in its emphasis on humble service, mercy, solidarity with the poor and oppressed, and liberating love. The Jesus movement was always a peaceful resistance movement, a sacred resistance movement, a movement focused on the real human lives encountered at any given moment; a movement that challenged the power-mongering, cruel, dehumanizing, greed-serving policies of imperial Rome and also challenged a religious institution that seemed to focus on human rules and hierarchies in such a way that it brought harm to the vulnerable and ignored the cries of the needy.

 

Jesus came preaching good news of God’s Kin-dom. And at the center of that good news is the “omni-vulnerable” love of God (as Bishop Robinson preached several weeks ago)—a love that is so vulnerable and so steadfast and so determined to never let us go, that God will suffer disappointment after disappointment—really will suffer anything—to stay close to us. And Jesus shows us this in person.

 

In two places in the book of Luke, we hear Jesus lament over Jerusalem. The first is found in chapter 13, where Jesus says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!...And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’” (Lk 13:34-35)

 

Today, the crowds cry out this refrain—Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!—but Jesus knows that he is still entering a community unwilling to receive what he offers. He weeps over the city saying, “If you… had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes… you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.” (Lk 19:42-44, excerpt)

 

When Jesus came to Jerusalem it was a moment of decision, a time when those in power, those doing harm, those not paying attention, those sitting on the sidelines—when those and all people could have turned toward Jesus with open hearts and minds and arms. It was a revolutionary moment, a moment when something different could have happened. A new creation was being offered. A new vision of loving and just community was revealed. Jesus offered us the very heart of God. We had it all in that moment. And we didn’t recognize it. We weren’t willing to receive it. Long before he entered the city, Jesus knew what he was walking into, knew the outcome. I wonder, though, if he kept hoping that he might be wrong, kept hoping that maybe people would finally see that money and violence and status and control were truly no match for the power of love and mercy and humble service and friendship. // Any hope Jesus may have held seems to dissolve when, as he rode into town, some of the religious leaders demanded that he silence the cries of hope rising from those on the margins… It was after that, we’re told, that Jesus wept.

 

I have this fantasy of Jesus lamenting for a third time, a lament that emerges as he remembers what happened on that day he rode a donkey into Jerusalem and in the week that followed, as he remembers those who claimed to love him and yet turned away and denied him, those to whom he had entrusted the most who fell away and fell asleep… And I hear him in my mind picking up the broken-hearted words of Adele and making them his own: “The scars of your love remind me of us / They keep me thinking that we almost had it all / The scars of your love they leave me breathless, I can’t help feeling / We could have had it all / Rolling in the deep / You had my heart inside of your hand / And you played it to the beat”[ii]

 

This imaginary third lament is, in some ways, even more heartbreaking than the first two because it is not only directed toward those days we read about in the Bible, but continues right up until today.  Because imperial values of money, violence, status, and control are still seen as the superpowers in most quarters. Because religious institutions continue to do harm to the most vulnerable and ignore or try to silence the voices of those on the margins. Jesus’ third lament continues because, even though we know all that transpires during Holy Week, even after thousands of Easters, we still find ourselves in moments of new creation and revolution and sacred resistance—in the church and in society—having to wonder whether we will finally this time recognize the visitation of the Lord, whether we will perceive God’s alternative vision for a new thing, whether we will honor the full humanity of all God’s beloved children, whether we will do things not just differently, but more justly and thoughtfully and lovingly than we have done in the past, whether we will stay awake and not fall away from the vulnerable and the brave or from the hard task to which we are called, whether we will encourage rather than silence those whose voices have not been heard, whether we will risk following Jesus even into the most dangerous places of confrontation because God has put God’s own heart inside our hand and it’s up to us to hold it with tenderness and fierceness and courage.

 

We are in a moment here at Foundry and in the UMC and really in the nation, when we are being confronted with the brokenness of our world in very clear ways—we’re being challenged to grapple with the ways that religious institutions have driven people away from God, with the continued scourge of white supremacy, with the apathy toward the plight of the poor and of the creation gasping for air, and with the determination of well-funded hate-mongers to deny and punish the beautiful created nature of LGBTQ people.  I believe God is up to something in this crucible time… In moments like the one we’re in, we have a beautiful possibility to participate in God’s loving and saving work of mending and making new. We—collectively—have a history of blowing it.

 

The good news, however, is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow: no matter how we falter and fail, God’s love, revealed to us most fully in Jesus, remains steadfast. God is going to keep loving us and reaching out to us and trying to get through to us until Christ comes again in final victory, love, and justice and we truly “have it all.”

 

We hold God’s heart in our hands. What are we going to do with it this time? I pray we don’t crucify.

 

 

[i] https://www.washingtonpost.com/religion/2019/03/29/us-methodist-leaders-lay-plans-resist-anti-gay-marriage-vote/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.3afdcfb60e9f

[ii] Adele Adkins, Paul Richard Epworth, https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/adele/rollinginthedeep.html

Rev. Jesse Jackson and Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC, April 7, 2019

"The Road Too Often Taken," Rev. Mark Schaefer at Foundry UMC, March 31, 2019

" 'I Am' Sent Me to You," Bishop Eugene Robinson at Foundry UMC on March 24, 2019

Brought Through A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 10, 2019, First Sunday of Lent

Brought Through

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 10, 2019, First Sunday of Lent. “Traveling the Redemption Road” series.

Text: Deuteronomy 26:1-11

 

Where have you come from?  Where are you now?  And what have you come through to get there?

 

And as we begin this season of Lent, our focus is on the journey. We are traveling the redemption road, seeking to move from one place to another.  We’re all at different places along the way. We have a variety of challenges, broken places, regrets, and more from which we hope to be redeemed—which is to be released, set free. 

 

There are times when we may struggle to see how we will ever get free of the things that weigh us down and keep us stuck. It may be difficult to imagine a life free of guilt, free of destructive behaviors—or free of abuse and oppression that we experience from others. It will sometimes be hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel or to hold fast to the promise on the other side of the wilderness or the new life on the other side of the tomb.

 

This isn’t only true for us as individuals, but also for us as communities—our churches, cities, states, and nation have much from which we need to be redeemed. We have sinned and done great harm over the course of history.  Sometimes we have knowingly done hateful, exclusive things and sometimes even our good intentions have brought about suffering and death for others.

 

Lent is the time set apart in our faith tradition to focus on these painful truths—the brokenness of our own lives and the sins of the communities of which we are a part.  We don’t focus on guilt in order to wallow, but rather to get free, to do better, to move along the road toward redemption.  This season is also a time when we are reminded of our dependence upon God to help lead us there. //

 

Our text today from Deuteronomy is toward the end of what is written as Moses’ long farewell speech to the Israelites as he prepared for his death. It is a description of the worship ritual to bless the “first fruits” as a remembrance and thanksgiving for God’s faithfulness. Embedded in the ritual is the ancient core of our faith story:

 

“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.” (Deut 26:5-9)

 

The core of our faith is that when we are lost, wandering, exiled, enslaved, afflicted, hungry, and in despair, God hears our cries and sets us free. God leads us through the wilderness. God wants to get us through the rough places and into a green pasture and beside a still water. God is about bringing life out of death. Of creating new life where we can only perceive decay.  And—don’t we know it?—God has brought you through. God will bring us through. //

 

One of the most important conversations happening right now in the midst of the horrific outcome of the United Methodist General Conference in St. Louis is around intersectional justice and inclusion.  I sense that this is a place that God is determined to lead us to and through.  It’s a messy conversation, but so deeply important as we turn toward the future in our congregation and denomination.  For some, there is concern that, in our denomination’s focus on LGBTQ persons’ inclusion or exclusion, other marginalized persons in our church and society are being silenced and their suffering ignored by the church.  Systemic racism and white supremacy, violence against immigrant populations, poverty, climate change, and devaluing the voices and leadership of our young people are getting named as places where the church is overwhelmingly silent.  Some local congregations and some of our United Methodist agencies focus a lot on these matters.  But some are pressing for more.

 

Generally, folk are so conditioned in “either-or” thinking that it’s difficult to hold the tension of “both-and.”  For example, we’re either engaging the struggle for LGBTQ equity or racial equity.  

 

Intersectionality theory highlights how either-or thinking sets us up to leave people out and even make them invisible. We who want to love as Jesus loves will at least try to figure out how to perceive, include, and honor all among us, those at the margins and those who live at the intersection of multiple margins; might we train ourselves to lift up the sibling who, for example, is black and trans and poor? As I read the Bible, my guess is that’s a person Jesus would see in a crowd when no one else was paying any attention.

 

There are moments when we need to focus on one part of the human family because of acute assault—that’s what drives our advocacy for LGBTQ inclusion in the church right now. It’s also what fuels our consistent focus on racial justice.  But if we’re not careful, we can trample the most vulnerable on our well-meaning quest. That’s the outcry from the margins in this moment of denominational crisis. If we’re going to try to do something for justice and inclusion, let’s really try to do justice.

 

Here at Foundry I am increasingly clear that part of the redemption road we need to travel includes moving toward a much greater understanding of intersectionality—the ways that power and privilege can functionally silence and “erase” partners in the struggle for justice (we’ll talk about that a bit in my upcoming class on Sacred Resistance). And I’m committed more than ever to a vision for Foundry that includes a robust effort to create beloved community—in the Howard Thurman mode. We are a both-and congregation and part of a Wesleyan spiritual tradition that is also both-and. In this moment of disruption in our denomination, I encourage us to move away from any temptation to either-or exclusions and journey toward the place where we acknowledge our struggle to perceive and honor the most vulnerable among us.  This is the time to let go of any tendency to compare sufferings or to think that if we’re oppressed, we don’t oppress others.  This is the time to take up the call to reflect in our membership the full range of beautiful diversity of our city.  This is the time to actively engage in work that presses each of us to confront whatever privilege we have and to be honest about the ways white supremacy, patriarchy, and other systemic oppression functions within our congregation even though we desire that it isn’t so. 

 

I encourage you to read books from our racial justice reading list, to engage in the conversations about LGBTQ inclusion, participate in the monthly Sacred Resistance studies and events, or join in the exciting vision emerging between Foundry, Asbury, and John Wesley AMEZ.

 

This work is so hard and getting free of our stuff is not easy.  We will likely wander in confusion and be held captive by old thinking again and again.  But we’re not on the journey alone.  The redemption road is frequented by a God who wants to take us to a place of freedom, a place of promise, a place where we keep moving but do so with a greater awareness of who’s on the journey all around us and who may need a helping hand to keep moving at various points along the way.

 

The exodus story is a journey story, a redemption story, an Easter story. It’s our story. Thanks be to God.