Matthew 18:10-14

‘Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven.* What do you think? If a shepherd has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. So it is not the will of your* Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.

Have you ever made rock candy? I have not. But the process isn’t that hard. [Start video] To make rock candy you wrap a piece of string around something and let some of it hang down. Then you take a glass, combine water and sugar until it makes a thick solution, and then you drop that string down into the water. For a while nothing happens, a day, two days go by and you don’t notice a big change. But then all of a sudden, when the saturation point is reached, the sugar molecules begin to crystallize around the string. More and more crystals form, making the string harder and harder. Eventually, the string is completely calloused over with these crystals. That is how you make rock candy and it’s how shame works.

Over the past many weeks we have journeyed together through different forms of grief or different ways we experience grief. Some were obvious and common. Others were nuanced and unexplored.

Tonight we have one more kind of grief and it is perhaps the one many of us least want to address: grief for the places that have not known love. As Francis Weller explains, “These are profoundly tender places precisely because they have lived outside of kindness, compassion, warmth, or welcome. These are the places within us that have been wrapped in shame and banished to the farthest shores of our lives. We often hate these parts of ourselves, hold them in contempt, and refuse to allow them the light of day.”

We all have these parts of ourselves. It might be one’s body or a part of it that you loathe or won’t look at in the mirror, bringing about the self-image you’ve struggled with all your life. It might be the neglect you endured growing up or face now, leaving you feeling rejected and not just that you did something wrong, but feeling that something is wrong with you.

It might be abuse, physical, mental, or sexual, that you survived but have locked away hidden in the dark out of fear of judgment or reliving the trauma.

It might be one’s sexuality, the realization of who you were made to love, and at the same time rejecting that with all you can, afraid of rejection from family, friends, even your own faith.

And here is how shame is like making rock candy. We can endure some neglect or hurt. We can withstand some berating, self-criticism, and disappointment. But then there comes a point when we can’t. And with enough repetition, by staying in that solution too long, crystals grow around that thing and we become hardened. The internal stories associated with those events reach their saturation point and the fictions, the lies, the hurt crystallize into things that feel like truths we cannot break.

What is the thing in your life, in your very soul for which you are ashamed. We all have this and we all do our best to cast it out to the deepest, darkest parts of our souls where we hope it goes to die. But it doesn’t. Instead, we end up carrying around this shame, and it separates us from others and ourselves, bending us over, pulling us down so that we no longer gaze into the eyes of others, because the last thing we want when we feel such shame and self-doubt, is to be seen.

So like the sheep in the parable, we try to run off, to hide, to go astray. That is what shame does: it makes us think it’s better to be alone because at least then no one will know my shame.

Yet, that’s not how Jesus, our shepherd, works. The catch in the parable is that if one sheep goes astray, no shepherd in their right mind would leave the other 99! But this shepherd does. Here the words of the Psalmist as if Jesus, our shepherd, is saying them to you: “I have searched you and known you… I have discerned your thoughts… I am acquainted with all your ways… I know you completely. I surround you and protect you.

There is no place where I can’t find you or won’t go to save you. In your joyous moments and when shame has you in the pit of hell, I am there. You say you dwell in the darkness, but that’s where I do my best work. For only in darkness can my light shine through.”

Shame hardens our hearts; it makes us feel as though parts of us are outside of God’s reach, as if we are unloveable. But that is a lie. You are sought out, you are known, you are loved. In Jesus, God takes all our shame and the sin that caused it, and puts it to shame on the cross. We need not carry it anymore.

But what can we do? Is there anything, other than hearing this good news, that helps us address the shame that's hardened within us? And this is where grief comes in. “what we feel ashamed of, what we perceive as defective or flawed about ourselves, we also experience as loss. And the proper response to any loss is grief.”

So what can we do to move from shame to grief?

Here are three things: One, we begin to see ourselves not as worthless but as wounded. Because, if we are honest, that’s what we are. We have been wounded by ourselves, by others, and by a society that feeds off of shaming. And yet you have worth! You are made worthy through the grace and love of Jesus. It has been bestowed to you, given to you, and nothing can ever take that away from you.

Second, once we recognize our hurt, we can begin to see ourselves with compassion rather than contempt. With less condemnation and more understanding. The samaritan looked upon the stranger and had compassion. Out of compassion, Jesus fed the 5,000, gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, and forgave those who put him on the cross. The path to forgiveness for others and healing for yourself begins with a posture of compassion, never scorn or disdain.

Lastly, move from silence to sharing. This is nothing new. Over the last few weeks, we’ve heard the importance of sharing our grief. And The same is true for our shame. When we share it, all that pulls us down or keeps us away is lifted and we can begin to grieve the loss we’ve experienced. So share it with a trusted friend, with a trusted therapist or counselor, or with a trusted pastor. Most of all, share it with God and hide it no longer.

Let the love of Jesus break through the hardened lies that shame has formed inside our souls, giving light to our darkest parts.

Tonight we will practice exactly that. On your chair you have a candle. As Jeannie plays this next hymn, share your shame with God in prayer. Tell God of the parts of you that have not known love, the parts you’ve tried to hide. Invite God into those very places, to heal our wounds, move us to compassion, and soften our hardened hearts. Then, when ready, light your candle and place it on the way. And together we will see that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.

Matthew 2:16-18

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

I’m not sure how much my dad was paying attention to our midweek Lenten plan from one week to the next. I wonder, for example, if he cared what tonight’s theme was going to be, since he’s on a flight to Phoenix right now. But yesterday, he stopped by the office when I wasn’t in and left this picture in my tray, without much explanation. It’s just something he does.

Anyway, it’s a picture of my grandfather – my dad’s dad – on the steps of what used to be the library at Capital University, in Columbus, OH, back in June, 1942. Capital University, is where my grandparents, parents, a handful of my aunts and uncles on both sides of my family, my wife and I, and now Jackson, our son, have all attended. So, of course this picture struck a chord, as I was already wondering about this thing we’re calling “generational or ancestral grief” for the sake of our Lenten walk this week.

See, I never knew this man, my grandfather, Jerry Havel. He died about 7 years before I was born, in 1966, when he was just 46 years old. He had cancer that migrated from his throat and sinuses into his brain, thanks to a pretty serious smoking habit. My grandmother would talk about how he would “French inhale,” breathing the smoke into his nose as he exhaled with his mouth. She seemed to be equally impressed as she was disgusted by it.

Anyway, by grandfather’s legacy looms large in our family and in my life, even though I never met him. A super-sized, professional portrait of him hung above my dad’s home office desk for years in the first house I ever remember living in. My grandmother sang his praises whenever she got the chance – he was a Marine in World War II, on the island of Iwo Jima when that famous photo of the flag-raising was taken, even; he was a successful business man, an exceptional father, a loving husband, a faithful churchman, community leader, and so on.

More on Jerry Havel in a minute. Please shift gears with me for a moment.

I read some time ago about a scientific experiment using mice back in 2013 that some say shows how something like trauma – and I would contend, then, something like grief, too – might be passed along, genetically, to offspring, by birth., from parent to child.

I won’t get too into the weeds about this, because I’m not a scientist, but the nuts and bolts of the experiment are fascinating. Scientists took some male mice and wafted the scent of something like cherries into their environment while at the same time administering electric shocks, to the point that the mice began to respond with literal fear and trembling whenever they simply smelled the cherry scent, even absent the electric shock. Now, all of that’s nothing, really. It’s just the stuff of Pavlov’s Dogs that most of us learned about in high school, right?

In this experiment, with the mice, though, the scientists took all of it another step or two further by learning that the offspring of these male mice would also shudder with fear and trembling at the mere whiff of cherry scented air, even though they, themselves, had never smelled that scent before, let alone experienced an electric shock along with it. Even more surprising, the grandchildren – a second generation removed from the original mice – also experienced the same physical, fearful reaction to the smell of cherries, as did mice born by way of in vitro fertilization, using sperm from the original male subjects.

Again, none of these second and third generation mice had ever experienced the electric shock their ancestors had received in connection to that smell – yet they still showed physical signs of fear and trauma.

All of this is to say, it seems mice – and perhaps, then, humans – have the capacity to pass along, genetically, emotional responses and spiritual experiences like fear, trauma, and I have to wonder, then, maybe grief, too.

And we can quibble – and even disagree – about the “nature” and “nurture” of it all, but the spiritual and faithful proposition in all of this, for me, is to say that the grief we hold and the sorrow with which we wrestle, isn’t always ours alone. It’s not always isolated to our own experience. We are also impacted by those who’ve gone before us – sometimes, directly, by the ways our lives intersect, and sometimes by the ways our history as a family or as a people are tangled up on this side of heaven.

Where my grandfather is concerned, it’s clear that a measure of grief over his untimely death – it’s impact on my grandmother, my dad, our family – and the sorrow in the groundwater of my own life has always been a thing. It’s never been debilitating for me, but grief over never having met him has always been present in my life and in our family’s story, nonetheless. (And that experiment with the mice makes me wonder if his cigarette habit was the source of my own penchant for Camel Lights, back in the day, too!)

And, other than the smoking thing, Jerry Havel’s influence on our family was nothing but positive as far as I know. (It’s why I wear his ring on my right ring finger.) But I think it also must be true that there is real grief for ancestors who were hurtful or harmful or otherwise unhealthy branches on any given family tree, just the same. We grieve abuse, addictions, absence, infidelity, and more.

And this “ancestral, generational grief” is bigger than our personal lives and it grows beyond the boundaries of our respective families, too. Sociologists, psychologists and theologians suggest that we grieve the loss of our history, traditions, culture, and faith practices, too – all of which are supposed to be OURS, though we’ve lost a lot of that for a lot of reasons.

For most of us, from what I can tell – and what I’ve learned through the study and work of racial justice – our white culture, history, tradition, and even faith practices – have been whitewashed by a culture that has so desperately and so deliberately worked to lump anyone who is not “of color” into the same bucket or category of humanity. It’s one of the most ignorant, evil things about living in a white supremacist world.

What “whiteness” means is that Germans and Scotts and Irish and Norwegian people – and anyone who looks like me on the outside? – we’ve lost a lot of our ancestral heritage when it comes to the ways we eat, drink, sing, pray, worship, celebrate and hold space in the world. We don’t know or notice that all of the time, but it operates as “lack” in our lives. It’s something we’re missing, and missing out on, that impacts our psyche and our spirit.

The most telling way this was first shown to me was in a race workshop where a sizeable group of racially diverse people was asked to share, in small groups organized around our respective racial identities, what it was that we liked about being Black, Asian, Latino, or white, for example. For the most part, the white people were hard-pressed to answer the question. While Blacks were proud of things like hip-hop culture, music, and dance, for example; and the Asians and Latinos loved, among other things, their food; and while all those groups of color celebrated their resilience and strength – as a people – in the face of racism and oppression in the world; there wasn’t much that was uniquely “white,” for the rest of us. Because so many cultures have been poured into the “white” bucket, the good, beautiful things that once distinguished us, one from another, are hard to identify – let alone celebrate – any longer. And we are lesser for it. It is worth our grief and sorrow.

And there is yet a third form of this ancestral and generational grief for people who’ve had their ancestors and their history literally, deliberately damaged or destroyed by violence, oppression, and genocide. Most of us can’t know the personal sorrow of something like the holocaust for Jews, or of chattel slavery for Blacks in this country, or the genocide of indigenous peoples in north America and Australia. But for those whose people have suffered such grief, its sorrow lives on in their descendants.

And for the descendants of those who perpetrated such atrocities and evil, I wonder if it would behoove us to experience the Truth of that history as GRIEF, moreso than merely GUILT, so that we might be changed and make change in light of it, in a way we still haven’t figured out after all these years.

Which is where I think our life and our faith can come together around all of this grief tonight – the personal, communal, historical and cosmic nature of this generational/ancestral grief.

I wanted to hear those words from Genesis about Abraham, the first patriarch of our faith, and of God’s promise to build and bind the generations together through him – as the father of many nations, with “descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as plentiful as sand on the seashore,” we’re told. When we see ourselves in that light, as intimately and intricately connected with all of God’s people, their grief might become ours and our grief might become theirs, even though our experiences may be so vastly different and disconnected at times.

And it made me think of that bit we heard from Matthew’s Gospel, too, where he invokes Rachel … who lived generations before the days of Jesus arrived on the scene. Rachel was one of the matriarchs of Israel, whose grief and sorrow cried out from the ground of her grave, as her descendants and our ancestors in the faith were banished into exile and captivity. Rachel’s grief was alive and well then – long after she lived and moved and breathed in the world. And it is alive and well, still, in the world, and in our own hearts, minds, and lives, it seems to me.

So tonight, our invitation is to acknowledge yet another experience of grief in our heart of hearts – that which comes from those who’ve gone before us. Some of this grief is individual to our experience and grows from the lives we share in our families. (Sorrow, regret, and sadness for the those in our family tree.) Some of this grief is communal, in that we have lost touch with our ancestors’ deep, meaningful history, tradition, and culture in too many ways. And some of this grief is cosmic and comes from the damage done by one branch of the human family to another branch of God’s people – for those who received that violence and for those who perpetrated it, too.

Whatever the case, our ritual for this evening is a nod to the faith practices of our own spiritual ancestors. We will light sticks of incense and leave them burning at the wall. Their scent and smoke are meant to rise up like so many prayers of repentance… regret, maybe… some gratitude, I hope… and grief, of course.

And it’s also an invitation, to the ancestors who’ve gone before us, whose sorrow we share – and whose hope is ours, just the same – that they surround us like a great cloud of witnesses … like a communion of saints … on the other side of God’s eternity, where all of this grief – our mourning and crying, our pain and death are no more, thanks to the love that’s promised to all the world, from generation to generation, in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen

Grieving Well - Places That Have Not Known Love

Grieving Well - Ancestral and Generational Grief