Wilderness: Walking through Grief

John 14:1-3

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.

I don’t know if I’m here tonight because of a wilderness or because I’m bewildered. And maybe it doesn’t matter. O those wildernesses. Scripture says Elijah RAN to his, and even Jesus was LED to one. I was DROPPED into my wilderness last year, first when Susan died, and then deeper into it just a month later when Mary died. Susan and Mary didn’t know each other, but it looked like they planned their exit strategy together. I had texted Susan multiple times without a reply. My last text cheerfully said, “Susan, are you there?” She no longer was. Mary and I were arranging lunch for a Tuesday, but on Sunday Mary died in her kitchen. Without warning, they just disappeared. I was and still am bewildered.

Of the many synonyms for “wilderness,” I chose the word “empty.” The deep, decades-long, trusted friendships I had with these women each ended so abruptly, they left me lost in an emptiness, of grief. I love them still and will always be homesick for them, even as my grief changes, because being in their lives was anything BUT empty.

Susan was warmth and lofty ideals, gentleness, calm, and refinement. Living in a tiny traditional home with her tapestries, carvings, music, books, and friends filled with life, it’s no wonder I thrived on her laughter and her bright conversations, about faith and justice, about love and deep soul-searching, about the heart stuff and hard stuff of life. Ever caring, she Facetimed her grandchildren when they came home after school to their empty house, faithfully grandparenting from 200 miles away. I especially loved that she watched Cross of Grace services on YouTube so often that she even knew some of you who served by name. She loved people tenderly, including me…and you.

Mary, on the other hand, was everything earthy and creative, funny, colorful, and outrageous! Her small double-wide home in the country overflowed with rescued dogs, cats, and grown kids. I cherish the way she usually started our conversations with an abrupt, “Hey, DK, I have an idea.” And she always did. Her friends still talk about the time she was in the bar where her son was a bouncer, and a wild brawl broke out. Mary suddenly rushed into the middle of it, (and Mary was not one to rush anywhere,) and began pushing drunk guys out of the way to get to her son, all the while shouting to him, “Are you ok?!? Are you OK?!?” She never once considered that her son was a Green Beret in the military and probably didn’t really need her help. Mary loved fiercely. She would have rescued just me the same.

Maybe you can see my empty holes no one will ever fill the same way. I tell you all this tonight, not about grief especially, but wondering if maybe you have been bewildered and lost in a wilderness too. If not in one of grief, then maybe in a loss of another relationship, or one lacking, of health, a job, a loss of a home, a dream, of time passing, a loss of purpose, or the road not taken. Maybe it’s a longing for an undefined something missing. If you don’t have a story to tell yet, you probably will. Together in this world, it’s hard to have a life without a wilderness, eventually.

My wilderness felt like this picture behind me. * Our baptismal fount at CoG, is usually filled with fresh, life-restoring, touchable water, but looked like this last Lent. Could it have been any drier, or less nourishing, or less life-filled? I mean, Jesus was there, in the middle of my wilderness, just like the cross is in the photo. No one had to say to me, “Have hope in the resurrection.” That wouldn’t help. I knew that. I never doubted it in my head ever, but I was achingly sad anyway. I noticed more of the cold, hard stones, than the warmth of grace and love I knew was there. I was empty. I felt like Elijah in the lesson, looking for God in multiple places, certain God would show up, but not quite finding Him like I hoped. A wilderness can be a lonely place. Can anyone ever really know exactly what you are missing? Really?

The coldest time in my wilderness was during Advent, hearing a Wednesday message about how a different Mary, pregnant mother of Jesus, went to her wonderful, wise Aunt Elizabeth for support and love. Imagining that relationship, my tears ran. I hurt. I needed my go-to Aunt Elizabeths for ideas and creativity, for memories made together, and the joy of long-time belonging. I would have cried with Mary about Susan, and with Susan about Mary, but I could do neither. I needed my Aunt Elizabeths. Do you know what that longing is like, no matter your wilderness?

All that made the late Christmas Eve service sermon especially touching, reaching deep within my being, and settling there. That night, the reason for Christmas all sounded different. Compassion as I saw it on the video that night looked different. Things changed.

• I understood why Jesus actually WANTED to live in the same kind of vulnerable human mess I was In…..so that He could recognize and be the compassion I needed. He could say, “Dianne, I’ve been there too. Really.”

• I understood that Jesus experienced courage, in order to give ME courage…. so I could be courageously compassionate to others. He could say, “Go ahead and try it, Dianne. I’ve done that too. Really.”

• I understood how Jesus came to love people through all their wildernesses… so we could love a person through a wilderness too. He could say, “Yep. I’ve shown you how. And still do. Really.”

Jesus was replacing this cold stone * cross with His warm Presence again. I surely don’t know how it was happening, but it was. Really. I knew Jesus lived with MY particular grief, MY experiences with MY special friends, MY emptiness too. My very real compassionate Jesus knew what I was missing and was sad right along with me the whole time. He could say, “Dianne, I get it. Really.” and totally mean it. Mary and Susan left, but Jesus never did. I didn’t know it while in my wilderness, but I was being cared for.

I wonder, when Elijah ran fear of his life, did he realize how he was also being cared for? Or did he see it in HINDSIGHT? He was given courage, direction, and support while he was trying to find home again. He found Grace in his wilderness. In HINDSIGHT, I know Grace was always there for me too. Like our Lenten song has said repeatedly, more or less, ´Elijah and I may have had to wait, may have had to pray more than we usually do.” No voice or manna or burning bushes came to me in my wilderness. I wish. But there WERE words, emails, hugs, and conversations. Earthly ones. There was Grace when I realized, in HINDSIGHT, that in my Stephen Minister training, I had already heard about, read about, and practiced grief situations and had been given the privilege to walk it with others BEFORE I was dropped into my own. Jesus led me gently into my grief and I didn’t even know it. There were lovely souls around who were sad with me, and said so. People gave me God’s Word and their words. People sang song lyrics, even sad ones, and served me bread and wine, and did some serious listening that I’m sure Jesus overheard. Some people were put in my path, or on YouTube, authors and teachers, friends and strangers alike.

In HINDSIGHT I think Jesus knew I had to walk differently with Him for a while, before I could see His invitation to take His hand again. And so He gave me PEOPLE. I was tended to, held up, and provided for in my wilderness, by the warm love of Jesus, through people. It took time, and listening. ”I may have had to wait. I may have had to pray more that I usually do.” When I thought the happy Jesus of Christmas and Easter sometimes looked pretty puny in my wilderness, I was sustained and tended to anyway. Really. How cool is it that our God loved me enough to provide, and provide and provide, even when I wasn’t ready to see it.

Exodus 15: 13 says about our Lord, “In your unfailing love, you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength, you will guide them to Your Holy Dwelling.” I believe that. And more.

In His unfailing love, I believe God leads and guides us to emerge differently from our wildernesses, no matter our wilderness, no matter how long it takes.

I believe God’s love and strength provided Jesus with the vulnerability, courage, and compassion He needed just to get through His own life, death and resurrection. And He emerged differently, for us.

I believe Jesus left all that behind in each of us. Vulnerability, courage and compassion, is in, us. I am reminded about that often at Cog, even this Lent.

I believe we need that vulnerability, courage, and compassion to walk with each other in the wilderness, as we are called to do.

I don’t believe it looks the same for everyone or happens in the same timeframe. In fact, sometimes I wonder if maybe we are ALL in a wilderness ALL the time and maybe don’t see it; all the time maybe searching for a way to fully live as God intends. Maybe we are ALL still aching for some holes in our lives to be filled…mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual. While in Our own daily wilderness, we are called to walk with others, as much as we are able, anyway.

I believe God has called me to walk with others through their wildernesses and I’ve missed the opportunities.

I believe we each are to look for them, and when we find them…. I believe we are called to love through those hard times, love through it all, through messy empty places. Just keep loving.

Because I believe that when one of us walks another through a wilderness, every single time that happens, we are ALL, ALL of us, a step closer to being, led, home…… through the love of God and Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen

Can't Help Myself - Blue Christmas

John 1:1-5, 10-14, 16-18

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

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I want to tell you about and show you a piece of art I learned of recently. It was created by two Chinese artists named Sun Yuan and Peng Yu, who first had this particular work installed at the Guggenheim and later at another museum in Venice. This work of art is an “installation,” really, that includes a robotic arm, confined behind glass walls, like a cage, some say, and programmed to contain and clean up a constant flow of fluid that spills out from – and all around – the machine itself. Here. It’s better if you just see it for yourselves…

This robotic arm is “artificially intelligent” enough so that when it senses there are enough spectators around watching, it will take a moment or two to dance for those on-lookers. Like, it knows how to “shake its booty,” “scratch an itch,” and “bow and shake.” (Those are the actual names of the dance moves the artists taught the robot.) And it does all of this in ways that look surprisingly human – for a robotic arm anyway. If I understand correctly, I believe it will also stop and dance – celebrating, perhaps – at times when it senses that the fluid is appropriately under control. But then it has to get back to work, of course. It never stops for long.

Of course, there are many ways to interpret all of this. And like so many artists it’s hard to know exactly what Sun Yuan and Peng Yu are getting at with this particular work. Some have suggested it’s a commentary on authoritarian political rule, managing borders and controlling people. Others have seen it as a comment on the nature of work in some cultures – that there is always more to be done, that we don’t rest, and that when we do take a breath – to dance, for instance – we just find ourselves pressured to catch up, which is impossible to do.

One interpretation that got my attention was the idea that the fluid leaking from and leaving the robot is also its life-source – that it was no mistake that the hydraulic fluid looks like blood – and that the robot needs to keep shoveling it toward itself in order to survive and that, because it stopped too much or too often to rest, or dance, or show-off for the spectators who came to watch, it was slowly dying as more and more of its life-source was lost.

So I wondered about it in light of Blue Christmas and the grief or hardship or struggle – or whatever it is – that draws us together for a service like this one. That the world, at times like Christmas, especially – but most days, really – doesn’t leave much room or give much permission for grieving, hardship, or struggle. And that leaves so many of us behaving like some kind of robotic arm – our emotions and our fear and our sadness and our grief looking to leak and leave and escape from our very selves, while we work so hard – so fast and furiously – so endlessly and tirelessly – to keep it all so close to the vest.

And on top of it, much like the robotic arm, we do our best to dance, to perform, and to pretend for whoever’s watching, that everything is okay, that we’re fine, that all is well – or at least better than it really feels, deep down. And we never let too much of what we’re really thinking, really feeling, really fearing or grieving or whatever, get too far away from us, too close to anyone else, so as not to make too much of a mess for them to worry about.

Does any of that feel familiar or is it just me?

If so, I wonder what all of that fluid represents for any one of us here, or for anyone watching from home. If that fluid was clear and a little salty, like so many tears, perhaps, what would be its source? What are we trying to keep to ourselves? To keep from escaping? To keep from our family and friends? To protect ourselves from having to share too much of with the world?

I imagine that liquid stands for “fear” or “addiction” or “abuse” for some. I wonder if it means “overwhelmed,” or “secrets” or “doubt” about all of this for others. Does it represent an illness or an injustice? Is it a sadness that’s brand new or one that won’t go away? Is it an anger you can’t quench or a forgiveness you can’t extend or a concern for someone else you don’t know how to address? What is it these days that we may not even have words for – so that we just keep keeping it to ourselves, shoveling it in, pulling it back, never letting it get far enough away so that we might actually let it go?

See, what also got my attention about this unsettling work of art – what really connected it to Christmas for me – is its name. The artists call it “Can’t Help Myself.” And I don’t think it was inspired by The Four Tops. (“I can’t help myself…” “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch…”) No. “Can’t Help Myself,” strikes me as something much more meaningfully connected to what God is up to at Christmas.

Because God knows we’re only fooling ourselves. When we stay locked up and locked away in our grief or our fear or our struggle or whatever it may be… when we keep it to ourselves… when we just keep pulling it in, never letting it get too far out of reach. When we keep dancing and performing as though all is well, we are denying the reality – and missing the chance to see – that God showed up, in Jesus, knowing that we can’t help ourselves.

One of the greatest gifts of God, in Jesus, in the flesh, in the end, is that God reminds us God is not some kind of artificial intelligence and that we are more than robots. And not only are we free to be just who and how God created us to be, but we are free and encouraged to feel just exactly how we are feeling at any given moment – afraid and faithful; lonely and well-loved; angry and forgiving; sinful and forgiven; grieving and hopeful. And that we were never meant to help or to save or to redeem ourselves. Because we can’t.

God shows up, in Jesus, to live this life we live with all of its struggle.

God shows up, in Jesus, to teach us that light comes in the morning; that forgiveness is offered for sins; that what is lost can be found; that life follows death, even.

God shows up, in Jesus, so that we can stop pretending and performing; so that we can stop scrambling for what seems elusive and futile; so we can see in ourselves and each other the face of this Jesus: the common ground of our humanity, the forgiveness of our sins, the light in our darkness, our life everlasting.

So I hope tonight is nothing more and nothing less than a chance for us to stop dancing – to remember that our life’s blood isn’t escaping it is on the way, in fact.

God shows up in Jesus, not to end all of our suffering and struggle, but to show us that we can share it… let it go… expose it to the light of God’s love, and to help us to bear it and to forgive it and to have hope in spite of it, that it will all be redeemed – not by our efforts – but always and only by God’s grace, in the end.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.