“Just Breathe…”
A sermon by Paul Peters Derry on 1 Samuel 8:4-20
May only truth be spoken, and only truth received. Amen
I wasn’t going to be standing here tonight. More specifically, I was to be standing a little to the left. It was going to be a celebration of my ordination to the transitional diaconate. Standing before Bishop Geoff, who would lay hands on me as the continuation of a discernment process begun when I wandered and wondered my way into saint benedict’s table some five years ago.
Si quis has been read the requisite three times. Letters testimonial duly submitted. It seems that God is willing, but alas, COVID-19 is not allowing. My being here (and not there), I am acknowledging in word and in deed it is not happening. At least not yet.
By coincidence, design, serendipity or happenstance, Jamie invited me to preach on a remarkably resonate passage tonight. The people come to Samuel, demanding a king like other nations. “Then all the elders of Israel gathered together and came to Samuel …, and said … ‘You are old and your sons do not follow in your ways.’” That verse in particular, and the overall account, just oozes regret, disappointment, and lament of missed opportunities. It echoes hollow for things we might have hoped to have been, but now, with alarming yet unsurprising clarity, are not yet, and in Samuel’s case, may well never be. A verse later echoed by disciples walking along the road to Emmaus, “But we had hoped …” I imagine Samuel feeling crushed, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. He has counselled the people: you really don’t want a king (like the other nations). Their response, “Oh yes, we do!”
Key to engaging tonight’s scripture is getting a handle on what “a king like other nations” represents. For sure, it denotes political authority: Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. It announces who’s in charge, and on whose desk rests that wooden declaration, “The buck stops here.”
Even more, desire for “a king like other nations” connects with longing to trust in some sort of structure, plan or design. We might call it the “little orphan Annie” lived-theology approach:
The sun'll come out / Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar / That tomorrow / There'll be sun!
Just thinkin' about / Tomorrow / Clears away the cobwebs / And the sorrow
'Til there's none!
As tonight’s scripture reminds us, it’s a temptation ever-present. We like routine. We like knowing what’s happening. We even manufacture, plead for or demand a mindset, a structure, a worldview, a paradigm. We want what we perceive others having: a roadmap or plan that provides a sense of peace as well as a overarching purpose, that reassures us that even with the most unfortunate or tragic turn of events, COVID-19 restrictions or delays, either we, or somebody has it all under control. Adding much longed for imprimatur, we might suggest that it’s all part of God’s plan. Taking the Holy entirely out of the equation, from Kate Bowler’s book by that title, Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved.”
Even when warned – “Careful what you pray for…” – more often than not, we refuse to listen, declaring loudly and boldly, ‘We are determined to have a king over us, so that we also may be like other nations, and that our king may govern us and go out before us and fight our battles.’
The assurance of a plan is as curiously inviting as it is deceptively tempting. Who among is to argue with a plan – a king – that yields results.
This week’s episode of The Handmaid’s Tale has June – previously “Offred” and “Oflawrence”– testifying before the International Criminal Court pre-trial hearing against the most of righteous nations, Gilead’s Commander Fred Waterford. June provides starkly compelling, disturbingly detailed account of her “divinely sanctioned” emotional, physical abuse and rape. With the ensuing cross-examination (pun not intended), Commander Waterford makes an impassioned speech, admitting that while “yes, mistakes were made,” and freedoms were curtailed, even … “We won’t always see eye to eye…” he declares of Gilead’s approach, “It works!” He and Mrs Waterford have been “rewarded by God” with a baby of their own. The Republic (might as well be called a Kingdom) of Gilead now boasts the highest birth rate of any nation.
Success cannot, will not, must not, and shall not be denied.
How possibly argue with a plan that bears fruit? Give us a king like other nations!
I’d love to declare that I never subscribe to that theological end-run around truth.
Sadly, and surely, don’t we all.
After all, there is a payoff for trusting in a plan. Much like the suggestion that a bad decision is better than no decision at all, it can fool us into thinking that everything is settled, and all we need to do is wait. Tonight’s scripture compels us to count the cost of blind, unquestioning, passive obedience.
Paul Matthews van Buren, leading proponent of Jewish-Christian dialogue and crafter of theology in the shadow of the Holocaust, several decades ago remarked, “Most of us hope, wonder, half-believe in a Giver in whom we try to trust... given the horrors of this century, we can walk at best by faith, not by sight.” That was decades before COVID took hold of our lives. I wonder if our challenge involves appreciating faith not as something that fills in the blank, allowing us to quickly proceed to the next existential angst. Faith is not a stop-gap solution, something we use to paper over trauma’s ugly truths or the hard reality that sometimes it – our lives or the world – simply sucks. Faith involves resisting the temptation for a king like other nations, and offers capacity not just to live, but to live and act with integrity and boldness in the midst of ambiguity and uncertainty.
A social worker talks about an investigative visit where authorities suspected a child could be living in an abusive context. Asking the child to identify instances of dangerous touch, the child responded, “You mean, like a handshake or a hug?” In what universe are we to take that response as proof positive that “God has a plan,” or support for the explanatory premise or belief that “The sun will come out, tomorrow, come what may”?
I do not believe that God has a plan, whether in reckoning any of the myriad of griefs, losses, disappointments and delayed or denied opportunities brought about as a result of COVID-19. I do not believe that God has a plan which involves painful, sobering reconciliation of the buried remains of 215 children at the Kamloops Indian Residential School with our national identity, ethos and soul, and how we will need more than a new statutory holiday (September 30th) for even the beginning steps of that part of our individual and collective journeys.
The faith-filled alternative is not to passively wait, patiently attending to its unfolding. That’s having a king like other nations. God does not have a plan, but I believe that God does have a purpose – for love, for justice, for grace, for compassion, for the healing of creation, for life in all its fullness not just for some, but for all. Our role lies in wrestling with the mysteriously unstoppable yet life-giving ambiguity. And hold on to frustrating yet predictable unpredictability, as God partners with us, even if God’s making it up as God goes along.
Last Monday afternoon, I was sitting in my office, working on Supervisor-Educator Summary and Assessments for each of this year’s Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) learners, not an easy or straightforward task. A member of our hospital’s senior leadership appeared at my door, came in and sat down. She was pulling together, compiling sound-bite testimonials for the hospital’s Facebook page, an offering of suggestions for how to cope with changes and chances of working in the current context for healthcare, or for that matter, any challenging context.
Thankfully, she didn’t suggest that I was old, or that my CPE learners might not be following in my ways. Still, she challenged me to express something profound yet pithy, asking for my informed yet articulate advice. She turned on her smartphone camera and pressed “record” …
What I came up with: “Just breathe…”
Just breathe … and take in all that weighs heavy on our hearts, or our shoulders, and gnaws away at our souls. Just breath … and remember that ours is not to complete or perfect the work, any more than it is our place to put it aside. Just breath … and resist any and all temptation for short-circuiting responses of plans that placate, maybe even explain, but most certainly stifles creativity or engagement.
Returning to little orphan Annie, she got it at least partly right. The sun will come out tomorrow. It will shine on our partnership with the Holy One, God’s mending of creation, our work not in assuming or accepting some so-called divine plan, but in aligning ourselves and pairing our discipleship, work and witness with God’s purposes.
Even here. Even now. Even always.
