Comfort for the Mourning

Matthew 5: 1-12

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

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Say the name, toll the bell, light the candle. It may seem like a strange tradition, at least from the outside. But the church has been celebrating this day, in some way or another, for over 1700 years. Meta Herrick Carlson writes movingly about this day in her book Speak it Plain and I share her words, call it a prayer or poem, with you this morning.

She writes,

“I listen for it tolling from steeples in the sky. The bells stir the air between here and heartache. For a moment, the mystery satisfies, and we are all together.

I hang onto memories and promises with my fingernails just barely - not because I am certain, but because it is all that’s left. Because if I let go, I will fall and break apart.

Perhaps, someone will speak of my Beloved today and then I will not be so alone. Hearing the name aloud makes it real, shares the weight like a new song I think I’ve always known.

There are candles to light, the quiet resistance of remembering.”

It is comforting to hear something so accurately describe what or how you feel. Carlson does that for me with her description of mourning: it’s sad like heartache, it's a heaviness that weighs on you until tears or tiredness take over; its the griping of memory for dear life, its a loneliness we can’t quite shake.

Yet Jesus says blessed are those who mourn. That’s the thing about a beatitude… it's contrary to what we think its going to say or should say. Blessed are those who mourn is not what we expected.

Mourning doesn’t feel like a blessing. You don’t need me to tell you that. You have lost a loved one before, maybe it was this year or the last or 20 years ago; regardless of when, the mourning is still there. We all mourn but we might not all mourn the same. Maybe you’ve been on the receiving end, hopefully not here, of someone saying “its been x number of years, don’t you think its time for closure?” But that's not really how it works is it? The feeling of loss may not ever leave.

Today though is about the promise of comfort Jesus talks of. Today is a day set aside to speak about your beloved, to remember them, and by doing so, receive a little bit of comfort in the midst of mourning. Remembering may seem insignificant, a way of living in the past and not present in the hear and now.

Frederick Buechner says there are two kinds of remembering. “One way is to make an excursion from the living present back into the dead past.” Like a longing to live in the days already gone.“The other way is to summon the dead past back into the living present. The young widow remembers her husband, and he is there beside her.”

That’s the kind of remembering Jesus had in mind when seated at the last supper, he said to his disciples and to all of us, do this in remembrance of me. In our remembrance of that night, of that meal, Jesus and all the company of heaven, all those we have lost, including your beloved, are right beside you at this meal.

That’s the kind of remembering we are doing today when we say their names, ring the bell, and light the candles. So often we don’t ask about someone else’s beloved, the people or person they’ve lost because we think it’ll make them upset, that it will draw back unwanted memories, that it's salt in a still healing wound. But here, in this community, on this day, to speak the name is not salt but a soothing salve. Because when you say to someone, tell me about your beloved, and a story is shared, we who mourn are less alone. When you say, I remember when they did that or when they said this, you help the weight of grief be shared with another set of shoulders.

“Perhaps, someone will speak of my Beloved today and then I will not be so alone.”

That’s one of the reasons I find funerals so moving. This may sound morbid, but I don’t intend for it to. Some of the most formative, insightful, grace-filled moments in my first year here at Cross of Grace have been the funerals and memorials. I never met Jim Smith, or Chuck Hershberger or Janis Janelsons. And I met with Bev Bancroft and Mike McCoy too few times. I did not have the pleasure to know them as many of you did. Yet, leading up to and at their funerals, I heard many stories and memories, about when they were a child or a young adult, about what led them here and what they did for work, what and who they were proud of.

It gave me a fuller picture of not only that person, but of those who loved them and a deeper understanding of this community. On those days we are unafraid to speak their names and share their stories. And those gathered were comforted.

That's the promise; blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Of all the beatitudes, this is one where you can make that promise happen, here and now.

You can help give someone else that comfort, if even for a moment, simply by speaking of their beloved.

So today ask someone else about their beloved. Invite someone to share that memory they are holding onto with just their fingertips, and share the weight of mourning. Even better, make this a practice throughout the holiday season. It may seem early to talk about the holidays, but don’t act like some of you don’t already have your Christmas decorations out. You know who you are (we do too).

In this season the weight and loneliness can feel acute and overbearing, but you can be the promised comfort Jesus speaks of to someone else. In doing so you too will get a fuller picture not only of that person, but of those who loved them. And if that sounds like you receive a lot of joy in being that comfort for someone else, consider being a Stephen minister. If you need that comfort, consider getting a Stephen Minister, thats what they do!

And while that comfort may only be temporary, today is also about holding on to the promise that one day, we will receive the full comfort of being reunited with all our beloved ones, forevermore. As Meta wrote, our quiet resistance to death is remembering. But Jesus’ quiet resistance was his work on the cross, where, as the spiritual reminds us, he never said a mumblin word. And it’s through his work that we are forgiven and the promise to be with God and loved one’s is made ours.

Receive that promise as a gift this morning. That your beloved is a saint, not because they lived a nearly perfect life, but because as Luther liked to say they are a forgiven sinner. In our tradition that’s what makes a saint, and we can trust that all saints now rest with God and one day so will you. That too is the promise of comfort Christ makes to us in this beatitude.

Today is not simply saying the name, tolling the bells and lighting the candles. It’s much more than that. It’s holding on to our memories, to our beloved, and to Christ’s promise with all we have, if even by the tips of our fingers. It is the practice of quiet resistance to death and all that separates us from God and one another.

So I invite you to practice the quiet resistance of remembering. Who is your beloved? As we sing our hymn of the day, come light a candle for them, remember them, and be comforted by the promise that you, dear saint, will be with them once again.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Feast for a Weary World

Isaiah 25:1-9

On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
   a feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines,
   of rich food filled with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear.
And he will destroy on this mountain
   the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
   the sheet that is spread over all nations;
he will swallow up death for ever.
Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,
   and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,
   for the Lord has spoken.
It will be said on that day,
   Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.
   This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
   let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

O Lord, you are my God;
   I will exalt you, I will praise your name;
for you have done wonderful things,
   plans formed of old, faithful and sure.
For you have made the city a heap,
   the fortified city a ruin;
the palace of aliens is a city no more,
   it will never be rebuilt.
Therefore strong peoples will glorify you;
   cities of ruthless nations will fear you.
For you have been a refuge to the poor,
   a refuge to the needy in their distress,
   a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.
When the blast of the ruthless was like a winter rainstorm,
   the noise of aliens like heat in a dry place,
you subdued the heat with the shade of clouds;
   the song of the ruthless was stilled.

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It was Friday, July 17, 2015. I was in Chicago, Little Village if you know the neighborhoods. Every Friday I went to the Marie Joseph’s house of hospitality and spent time with the men who lived there. All of them were immigrants awaiting court dates and paperwork, waiting for the right kind of visa or documentation. Some had lived in the house for a couple years, waiting; others just a few weeks.

When I walked into the house on that Friday, my mouth watered at the smells coming from the kitchen. This was a regular occurrence; Food was always being made and shared. I followed the delicious scent of spices and smoke coming from the kitchen that filled the house. Habbi, who is from Rwanda, was standing over a hot stove. I asked how I could help and the only thing he wanted me to do was test the food, which was fine by me. I started to realize, though, the vast amount of food Habbi was preparing; pounds of chicken, a giant pot of beef in a thick stew, multiple pots of rice, salad with vegetables from the garden out back. Habbi was a big man, but there was no way that was all for him!

So I asked him, “Habbi, what’s all this for?” With sweat gleaming from his brow he told me that today was the beginning of Eid, the celebration that occurs at the end of Ramadan, a month of fasting and prayer for Muslims. He continued, “many in the house went downtown to pray and they will be hungry when they return.” The food was almost complete when the men who were Muslim in the house came back, drenched in sweat, and in obvious need of water and food. To their surprise, Habbi, a Christian from Rwanda, had prepared a feast big enough for the whole house to join.

I sat at the table with 12 or so men from at least 10 countries: Every shade of brown; Christian, Muslim, Buddahist, and nothing. All sitting around the table, enjoying a feast I won’t forget.

Nothing provides comfort or gives us hope, even, like a feast. They help us celebrate major holidays, weddings, funerals and everything in between. What was the last feast you had? What was served? Who was there? What was the celebration? Yet there doesn’t feel like too much to celebrate these days. If you haven’t seen the images and heard the reports about what’s happening between Israel and Hamas, it’s harrowing.

The brutality is unforeseen in the region. Hamas using hostages of all ages as shields and bargaining chips, the indiscriminate killing, the lack of concern for civilian life is nothing short of evil. The blockade on water/electricity/food is inhumane. Israel will continue to be relentless in their response, as a ground invasion is prepped at the Gazan border. The pictures I can’t get out of my head are of parents, tears streaming down their faces, wondering where their children are and if their alive.

And because of this, all week I’ve struggled with the violence that abounds in this text. Isaiah praises God for laying waste to a city, destroying it till it’s a heap, never to be rebuilt. Undoubtedly many have tried or will try to make a connection between this text and the strife in the Holy Land. Some even will say this is good news.

Yet, context is always helpful. This passage is often called an apocalyptic text, meaning it deals with the end of time, because it doesn’t refer to a specific event or moment in time. And while there is no explicit reference to what city is laid ruined, the text is clear; it was one that was ruthless against those who were weak, poor, and vulnerable. That’s why God stepped in, to shelter those who needed refuge.

However, what follows the destruction is the vision of hope and promise of peace our weary world needs now more than ever. After God brings low and humbles the ruthless and proud; God also raises them up to the mountain top, where God has prepared a feast. “On this mountain” Isaiah says, “The Lord will make for all peoples a feast” full of the best food and drink imaginable.

But if it's a feast, what's the celebration? It’s that War, violence and death are no more! The veil of mourning that weighs down all people and nations, God has finally removed. And while guests open wide their mouths to eat the finest of food, God does the same, swallowing up death forever. And those same people with tears streaming down their face because they don’t know if their child, spouse, or loved one is dead or alive, God sits beside them at the table, wiping the tears until they fall no more.

It is this promised feast that gives us hope in such times of unthinkable violence. You might say “that sounds too good to be true! It’ll never happen.” And in our lifetime it may not.

But I know for certain that hospitality and fellowship between radically different people is possible; Habbi’s feast showed me that. We all know that true acts of love and forgiveness are possible through Jesus Christ; we’ve seen and experienced them firsthand. So I have to believe that somehow, the grace and love of God, made known to us in Jesus Christ, will one day bring together Israelis and Palestinians, Russians and Ukrainians, people of all nations at a feast where food and fellowship abound and tears and death are no more. It seems too good to be true, but it’s that how the grace and love of God work?

So until that day, what can we do over here, in the safety and privilege that we have. I can think of three things:

First, as Paul suggests, in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God: requesting an end to the violence, liberation for those held in bondage, and justice for all. In the words of Rabbi Sharon Brous, we must “dare to hold the humanity, the heartache, and the need for security of the Jewish people while also holding the humanity, the dignity, and the need for justice of the Palestinian pe

ople. For too long, these two have been set up as incompatible, but this is a false binary. The only liberation will be a shared liberation. The only justice is a justice for all.” So for all of that, we pray.

Secondly, give to Lutheran World Relief or Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services. Aid is needed and the need will grow. People will flee from both Palestine and Israel and need a place to go. These organizations help in both those areas.

And lastly, protest all of this violence and war with a feast! Practice what it will be like at that great banquet on the mountain. Invite and sit with people who are different from you. Make lavish meals full of good food as signs of hospitality and abundance. Come to this feast that Christ has prepared for you in which we experience the fullness of his grace and receive a foretaste of the feast to come.

There are too few feasts and far too many wars. And had it not been for that feast in Chicago on a hot Friday afternoon, I would say the promised feast in Isaiah is too good to be true.

But there I experienced a portion of what it might be like when God makes that feast for all people and we sit together in peace with tears wiped away saying, “this is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

Amen.