Hannah: Prayer for Justice

1 Samuel 2:1-10

Hannah prayed and said, “My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exalted in my God. My mouth derides my enemies, because I rejoice in my victory.

“There is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God. Talk no more so very proudly, let not arrogance come from your mouth; for the Lord is a God of knowledge, and by him actions are weighed. The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength. Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil. The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn. The Lord kills and brings to life; he brings down to Sheol and raises up. The Lord makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts. He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor. For the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and on them he has set the world.

“He will guard the feet of his faithful ones, but the wicked shall be cut off in darkness; for not by might does one prevail. The Lord! His adversaries shall be shattered; the Most High will thunder in heaven. The Lord will judge the ends of the earth; he will give strength to his king, and exalt the power of his anointed.”

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It wasn’t intentional that we saved Hannah’s prayer for the week of International Women’s Day, which was this past Sunday, but sometimes happy, holy accidents just happen. So it’s good and right that we hear a prayer for justice from one of our ancestors – a woman – who prays a beautiful, bold, faithful, full-throated appeal like what we just heard; and another, which we’ll hear shortly.

Hannah, we know, was the mother of the prophet Samuel. And it’s knowing that Hannah was one of two wives to a guy named Elkanah. Elkanah’s other wife was a baby-making machine – she had sons and daughters aplenty, though we don’t know how many. And Elkanah’s other wife, described as Hannah’s “rival,” was terrible about it. According to the story, she “provoked” and “irritated” Hannah, which I imagine means she mocked her and made fun of her and shamed her for not being able to have children as easily or as prolifically as she could.

And, as Pastor Cogan reminded us on Sunday, in teaching about that un-named woman at the well who’d had five husbands by the time she met up with Jesus, having children – back in the day – was confirmation of your worth as a woman; it assured your status and place in a family; it was a very practical source of security (you’d have people to protect and provide for you, should you ever be widowed or alone); it was how you mattered as a woman in a misogynistic, patriarchal, man’s world.

So Hannah may have wanted a child because her mothering instincts were in full effect. She may also have wanted a baby because she wanted to make her husband happy. (The Bible tells us that Elkanah loved Hannah, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t given him a child, yet.) But Hannah may have wanted a child – and a boy, in particular – simply because she longed for affirmation of her worth, of her value, of her esteem, in her own eyes, in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the world … and maybe so she could tell that “sister wife” of hers … Elkanah’s other wife … to take a hike – or something similar.

That’s why Hannah prayed to and bargained so intensely with God. She promised she would commit her baby boy to a life of sacrifice and service to the Lord. And then it happened. God delivered. And Hannah delivered. And she kept her promise, too. She loved, cared for, fed and nurtured her little boy Samuel until she handed him over to the Lord; to live in the house of the high priest, Eli, and to become one of the greatest prophets in all of Israel’s history.

And Hannah’s prayer for justice that we heard was prayed in celebration and with thanksgiving for God’s answered prayer … for the gift of her baby boy. And Hannah’s song sounds like the original to the Virgin Mary’s cover version, so many generations later, in the Gospel of Luke – the Magnificat – which gets a whole lot more air-time because … Jesus.

See, in Hannah’s song, her heart “exults in the Lord,” she “smiles at her enemies” because she “rejoices in God’s salvation.” Likewise, Mary’s soul “magnifies the Lord” and her spirit “rejoices in God her savior.”

Hannah says, “the bows of the mighty are broken,” and “the feeble gird on strength.” Mary says “the mighty are cast down from their thrones” and “the humble in heart are lifted up.”

For Hannah, “Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil.” Mary says the same, just more simply, “God has filled the hungry with good things.”

You get the picture.

The undeniable similarities between Hannah’s prayer, like Mary’s, show a profound theological understanding about our God. A God who treasures and cares for the least among us. A God who protects the vulnerable and who challenges the powers that be. A God who listens to and uses the least likely suspects to bring justice, to provoke peace, to proclaim grace, to practice mercy, to do hard, holy, brave, beautiful things for the sake of the Kingdom.

Of course, justice of all sorts is worth praying about and working for in the world today. And since, as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” because it’s International Women’s Month, and in honor of our ancestor Hannah, I found some things we could pray about, very specifically, where justice for women is concerned, and that impacts us all – or should:

• Did you know that every year more than 2 million girls are subjected to female, genital mutilation?

• Also, every year, 12 million girls in the world are married before their 18th birthday.

• 3.9 billion women live in countries with at least one law restricting their economic opportunities or access to the same justice as men.

• 90% of the world’s current billionaires were born before women could even get a line of credit.

• In the US, women get paid something like only 81-85% of what men do.

• Still, 6 in 10 Gen Z men believe/agree that we – men – are being expected to do too much to support gender equality. (For what it’s worth 4 in 10 Gen Z women believe the same.)

So, not only is there plenty to pray about because there’s plenty to be mad about, too. Which brings me to my last point for tonight. And that is the righteous anger I hear in the spirit of Hannah’s prayer, as much as all the rest. It’s what I hear when she prays that the lord “cuts off the wicked,” “shatters the adversaries,” and “thunders in heaven,” too.

So, I’ve asked Mallory to read again … something I’m taking liberties to call a modern-day protest prayer – not for babies, or for value that’s found in men’s approval, or for worth by way of society’s unfair standards – but a prayer for freedom and justice, generally, for women. It’s a poem by the play write and feminist Eve Ensler. (You might remember her as the creator of “The Vagina Monologues” from back in the day.) This is a slightly abridged piece, minimally edited for content that’s safe for worship.

I Am Leaving My Father’s House by Eve Ensler

I am leaving my father's house.

Stepping out, stepping off, free falling outside the confines of what is acceptable and known.

I am leaving this cage which suppressed me, depressed me, made less of me so thoroughly I came to call it my legacy, my country, my home.

I am leaving those angry men whose broken hearts and wounds became more painful and urgent than my own.

I'm not going to be sorry anymore or responsible or wrong.

I'm going to stop believing I can wake you up or break open your shell or get you to feel your grief, your tenderness.

I'm going to stop mainlining my life force into your self-esteem.

Air pump girl blowing up boy rubber ball. You can stay flat and go nowhere by yourself.

I am leaving my father's house.

I'm not going to whisper anymore or tiptoe or lay flat on my back.

I'm not ducking, flinching, waiting till you finish or whimpering in the dark.

I am moving out. I'm not going back.

I am leaving my father's house.

Because I no longer believe your lies about freedom and democracy – that it hurts you more than your whips or words or policies hurt me.

I'm going to believe what I see: bruises on my neck, Iraqi women with their voting fingers chopped off, emaciated polar bears in the Arctic melting from corporate greed.

I'm fleeing your disguised terror of my bigness, my hunger, my vagina, my tongue.

I am leaving my father's house.

I don't want a position there.

I'm not going to leash your prisoners.

I'm not going to starve your workers, organize your lynch mobs, or camouflage your crimes.

I'm not going to be a trophy on your arm or smile till my face breaks off.

I am leaving my father's house.

Corporate towers, cathedrals, mosques, and synagogues, picket fence houses and pentagons.

I'm going out.

Past the neighborhoods, past nations, fundamental doctrines and misinterpreted laws, past the reach of your fist, past the fire breath of your rage, past the tentacles of your seductive melancholy or your unspoken promises to change. I am willing to be alone, disliked, slandered, and misconstrued, because my freedom is more important than your so-called love.

Because my leaping will be the ultimate jumping off, will be the new beginning where we all get to start without a daddy in charge, on top, in control of all the goods, ideas, interpretations, and cash.

I'm going out there by myself.

But I know I will find the rest of you there waiting, ready, knee deep in the garden, hands raised in the water, way, way out past my father's house.

So, many thanks to Hannah tonight for her patient faithfulness, for her selfless sacrifice, for her powerful proclamation;

…for professing her faith, for promising justice, for proclaiming hope;

…for pronouncing God’s good news, mercy, abundance;

…and for her righteous anger, too, that should stoke and give permission for our own.

May we all pray in similar ways … for us and for others … until “the moral arc of the universe,” as the saying goes, “bends towards justice” … until righteousness and peace kiss one another … and until all of God’s people – men, women, and everyone in between – a re found ready, waiting, and knee deep in the garden, hands raised in the water, and moved beyond the house of the world’s patriarchy.

Amen

(The “Not Safe for Worship” version of Eve Ensler’s poem can be watched below.)

Look and Live

John 3:1-17

Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews, who came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God because no one can do the signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” Jesus answered him, “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus said, “How can one be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”

Jesus answered him, “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the Kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh and what is born of the Spirit is Spirit. Do not be astonished that I’ve said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind blows where it chooses and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?”

Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel and yet you do not understand these things? Very truly I tell you, we speak about what we know and we testify to what we have seen and yet, you do not receive our testimony. If we speak to you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe when we tell you about heavenly things?

“No one has ascended to heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up a serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that everyone who believes in him may not perish, but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

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I heard about the shoes long before stepping foot into the Holocaust Exhibition yesterday in Cincinnati with the group of Cross of Gracers who made the trip there. Not only had I heard about the shoes, but I’d seen something similar at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. several years ago. In Cincinnati there were pictures and a couple of stories about individual shoes from murdered Jews. D.C.’s museum hosts an exhibit of actual shoes, though, piled several feet deep – hundreds of them – men’s shoes, women’s shoes, the tiny shoes of children – stacked, like bodies you might say, as a grisly reminder – not just of the number of lives destroyed by the Holocaust, but the very simple, profound, fairly universal symbol of humanity that was lost in those years.

What’s also sobering to realize is that there are museums and memorials around the world with equally large and disturbing piles of shoes of their own. Which makes sad, terrifying sense of course. More than six million murdered Jews leave behind plenty of shoes to go around. (And let us not forget the queer folk, the Roma people, those with disabilities, and thousands of others who were also murdered as part of Hitler’s Holocaust and Final Solution.)

Anyway, and of course, we also saw, yesterday, plenty of pictures, video footage, and so many living, personal testimonies about the horrors of that regime, and of those days, and of that sinful stain on humanity’s history. And they are difficult to see – sad, shameful, and scary – but necessary, to look at, in my opinion; as people of faith, as responsible citizens, as human beings on the planet, as children of God.

And, for so many reasons, I thought of these things when I thought about this morning’s Gospel.

See, when Jesus reminds Nicodemus about that time in Israel’s history when “Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” he’s recalling that strange story from the book of Numbers when God’s people had lost faith and had been disobedient and doubtful of God, so that poisonous serpents showed up to bite them as punishment, so the story goes. When they realized the error of their ways and asked for help, Moses – at God’s direction – put a bronze serpent on a pole, and set it up so that God’s people could look at the serpent – like some sort of sacred, spiritual anti-venom – and be healed from the poisonous of those snakes that had plagued them. They were called to look back; to face their fear; to stare their struggle, their sadness, their sin – the source of their pain and punishment – in the eye – in order to be healed of it.

And isn’t that, a lot of the time, the very last thing we are inclined to do – get close to and look at the source of our struggle and sinfulness, I mean? Isn’t it hard and scary, sometimes, to look our fear, our shame, our guilt, and our greatest threat in the eye? Aren’t we pretty good at – if not inherently wired for – avoiding so many of the difficult, scary, broken parts of our lives and of our history, rather than face them, admit them, let alone engage and get close to them and expect good things to come of it?

And it’s no wonder, really. Our world is an unforgiving, judgmental, punishment- seeking, vengeance-hungry, score-keeping, death-dealing kind of place to live in. Admitting mistakes is bad for approval ratings – just ask a politician. Failure is to be avoided at all costs – just ask a student or a young athlete in your life. Admitting sin and seeking forgiveness feels like weakness – just look in the mirror.

But this is what I hear Jesus ask of us in this morning’s Gospel. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up” … on a pole… on a tree… on a cross for all the world to see, so that we might look at him, so that we might look to him for deliverance from that which we fear threatens us most – our greatest mistakes, our deepest guilt, our darkest shame, our unfathomable brokenness, our Sin – with a capital S – heaped upon God, in Jesus, and left to die on a cross.

And that’s the power – and the practical, holy importance – of museums and memorials that point to and remind us of our history, and that force us to look it straight in the eye, even when, especially when, it’s terrible and terrifying – like any Holocaust exhibit, like the Lynching Memorial in Montgomery, Alabama, like the Vietnam Wall, the 9/11 Museum, the Stonewall National Monument in Greenwich Village, New York.

These are hard, holy reminders of humanity’s capacity for inhumanity. But there is also warning and hope and potential for transformation when we dare to confront, study, learn from, and be changed by what we’ve done.

- I don’t know how anyone could spend 5 minutes in that Cincinnati exhibit and deny the atrocities of Hitler’s regime – but there are too many who still pretend it didn’t happen or that it wasn’t as bad as it was, and who refuse to believe what their eyes could see if they’d just look.

- After learning that some of the Nazi’s first sinister steps toward “Making Germany Great” included very deliberately “Germanizing” the names of towns, villages, and streets, I’ll think even harder every time I hear or see someone refer to “The Gulf of America” on a map.

- And when I hear about innocent US Citizens being unfairly, unjustly detained, imprisoned, and deported, I’ll remember the way that happened to innocent Japanese Americans once before, too, while we were simultaneously, ironically, fighting to liberate Jews from similar tyranny in the same damn war.

We need all the reminders and reality checks we can get, people. Because, as Maya Angelou used to say, something with which I believe Jesus would agree: “When you know better, you do better.”

That’s why yesterday – and all of this – is more than a history lesson for me. It’s an exercise of faith because these Lenten days are all about doing this work – looking back, acknowledging, admitting, confessing, repenting of our sins – working to change and be changed because of them – and extending mercy, grace and love to the world of God’s children as a result.

Because “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might have eternal life.” And because “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

It’s hard to look at what hurts, horrifies and threatens to kill us – at what has killed too many of us – and trust that, in doing so, we can be saved. But that’s Jesus’ invitation today, nonetheless… “to look and live” like those Israelites were commanded to do, way back when. To look at the Sin that has bitten us and that bites us, still. To see, repent for, and change all the ways we manage to break the heart of God; not avert our eyes, not run from, not pretend or deny the fullness of our Sin – and to not be fooled into believing God can’t redeem it, either.

And that’s why we look to the cross … so that we might stop hiding from the sins that hang there – all the things done, left undone, and yet to be done – so that we might look full in the face at our greatest shame and our deepest fears and into the threat of our own brokenness – into the face, even, of death – and to see God’s promised salvation in spite of it all.

Because when we see the whole of our SIN crucified and killed … then forgiven and raised to new life … it can’t bite, burden, or betray us any longer. And when we receive and accept the fullness of this grace, we can learn to walk in the shoes of our neighbor and live transformed lives in return – asking for forgiveness, extending mercy, and loving one another – wholly – the way we have already been loved, by God, in Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Amen