When The Wailing Ends
Sermon
Hope For The Weary Heart
Second Lesson Sermons For Lent/Easter Cycle C
No cavalry rode to the rescue; this time the savior was technology. Here is how it happened. Longing for more intimate communication between preacher and congregation, the church purchased and installed a wireless microphone system. With an FM receiver in place and wearing a lapel microphone, the preacher could get out from behind the pulpit or lecturn and roam about, even into the midst of the congregation. All worked well until one Sunday morning, while offering the Pastoral Prayer at the altar, over the pastor's voice came a distinct wailing: the whimpering cries of an infant, eerie and disembodied. Suddenly it vanished, only to return later during the sermon. For three weeks in succession this happened, with the congregation becoming more spooked than annoyed. Then it became known what the origin was of these mysterious sounds of anguish. Near the church was the house of a family with a small infant. To monitor the baby while it was in the crib, Mom and Dad had installed -- you guessed it -- an electronic device that operated on the same FM frequency as did the church's wireless microphone system. The wailing, however, wasn't nearly as interesting as the conversations of truckers also picked up by the system. Words were then heard in church unlike any in Holy Scripture! All, however, was laid to rest -- the whimpering, the wailing, and the cursing -- by the simple flick of a switch and a higher tech sound system.
Don't you wish it was that easy for us? You and I both know it doesn't work that way. It doesn't work that way because of what starts the wailing in the first place. And it isn't a baby in a crib. No, its closer to home than all of this; it is intensely personal; it is us, in the midst of our own living. Our cries of despair and anguish are born from the emptiness of our weary days. The wailing rises from our inability to discover any real sense of meaning and direction in our own living. We wrestle with it, searching for something that will bring us purpose; something that will bring us joy; something that will liberate us from our own isolation, help us to connect and feel we count as persons.
Then, if we really do begin to get ourselves together, to penetrate what really does count in living, when we finally do see the path clearly, we wail because of the wrong turns we make. Sometimes they are turns away from others, away from reaching to someone else, loving someone else -- and we turn into ourselves and care only for ourselves. Sometimes the turns are toward destructiveness -- of ourselves and those around us. These are turns of addiction, of abuse, of acting out. It's not that we don't know better; we do! We just don't do better!
And the wailing, the cursing starts. Our cries well up from failure, and the hurt we've caused -- as well as known from others. Disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, dashed hopes -- all of it -- starts the wailing, and we long for it to end. We long for new opportunities, for the healing of our broken hearts and battered spirits. We long for new directions in living. We long to make sense out of what sometimes looks so senseless. We long for hope and courage. In the struggle of our days, we long for some reason to stop wailing and start living.
Rising above our cries of anguish God speaks the word of hope and courage. Hear it with joy: whatever cries of disappointment and anguish well up within us over misdirected and empty living, over choices made and consequences suffered, Christ ends the wailing! Bringing grace and peace, the way of hope and renewal, Christ is always coming to those who dare to look for him.
This is what makes the difference. It has always made the difference for the Christian community, but seldom has it made more of a difference than it did to those to whom John the Seer first wrote. This strange piece of writing we call "the Revelation to John" comes to us from the time of the close of the first century. As does all apocalyptic literature, it had its birth in the crucible of extreme persecution, real doubt about the future, and deep anxiety over the present. John's church was at the mercy of a madman. Domition, Emperor of Rome, claimed divinity for himself and the brutal oppression and execution of all who did not bow to his sway. Caught squarely in the middle were the Christians. Their calling was to worship God alone; their way was the Way of Jesus, the Way of the Cross, not the way of violence. And caught in the middle, it was a profound crisis for their faith. "Where is God in the midst of all of this?" they questioned. "If God is in charge -- or even cares -- why is this happening to us?" they wondered. "Is faith -- faith in God, faith in Christ -- is it possible in a world like ours?" they wailed.
Hearing their wailing and cursing, John wrote words of faith and hope: "Grace to you and peace...." Really? "Grace and peace" in the face of all we are facing? "Grace and peace" in the midst of our shattered lives? How can this be? Where is there any grace, any peace?
It can be and is found because John knew the truth of it all; it had been revealed to him! John knew that God was in charge, and that God was and is a God of history, always coming to enter the history of God's people with renewing love. Yes, God's purposes can be opposed. God's purposes can be slowed down and sidetracked; but they cannot be defeated, because the victory of love has already been won! When Jesus died on the Cross in absolute faithfulness to the Way of love, and when God raised him to life through the power of God's love, the victory was won!
This is God's statement about life! Love triumphs, not hatred and violence. Life triumphs, not death. This is the gift of grace and peace John sent to his beleaguered church, from "Jesus, the faithful witness (read "martyr" and "victor"), the firstborn of the dead," whose victory they also would inherit upon his coming. Hearing this made a huge difference to John's people in the midst of their weariness, in the crisis of their faith, when all hope was challenged, and all that could be heard was the wailing of God's struggling people.
It makes a huge difference for us. To be sure, no mad emperor threatens our life; no arena of death, filled with wild beasts, waits for us. The crisis is more subtle than this; the wild beasts, though every bit as real, are less obvious. We wonder if God is real and really in charge. We struggle to know if living has any meaningful direction; we wrestle with the meaning of our own suffering. Not those in Asia or Rome, but here, we long to be those who know the victory and receive the gifts of grace and peace from the One who shall bring them when he comes.
Listen, then, and hear the promise again: Christ not only came; Christ not only will come, but Christ is always coming with hope and renewal; Christ is always coming to those who have the faith to receive him. This is what ends the wailing, whether it started because of our confusion about where the truth of living is really found, or whether the wailing wells up within us because we weren't confused, just plain wrong, and we, like those in John's time, have been the ones who pierced him -- whatever started the wailing, Christ's coming to us ends it!
The challenge, of course, is to live in that kind of expectancy, to see and welcome his coming. If Christ really is coming, always coming with hope and renewal to those who dare to look for him -- and looking, see both him and the truth he brings -- where, then, do we need to look?
John says, "In the clouds." I think it's closer at hand, as close as your own life, your own lived experience. Look, then, with me; look -- not up -- but within. Look and see when the wailing, loud as it may have been, ended for you. I can tell you when. It was when someone embraced you, taking your pain upon them. It was when a word of encouragement gave you new hope. It was when forgiveness healed the hurt you caused. The wailing, your wailing, ended when your sense of isolation and alienation were overcome, and someone accepted you just as you are, just for who you are. In a word, your wailing ended when you felt loved. That was Christ coming to you, for this is how, when, and where Christ comes in the gentle touch and warm embrace of love given to you -- not deserved, but simply given. As Scripture says, it is how the renewing, life-giving power of the Almighty has come, does come, and will come: in a person. So when love has come to you, know the truth of it: it was, and is, and will be Christ coming to you.
How can we be so sure? Because Jesus said it himself. Hear his words as the Fourth Gospel records them: "I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you. The one who knows and keeps my commandments, I will love that one, and my Father will love that one, and we will come to that one" (John 14:18ff). What is the commandment that makes the coming possible? Why, it is the only commandment Jesus ever gave! It is to love one another.
This is not something way up in the clouds; it is right here, down to earth, where you and I live. Neither is it something pushed off into a remote and distant future. It is here and now: When we love, Christ comes! When we venture out of ourselves and into the lives of others; when we love enough to confront this culture around us with the truth of Christ, the truth about living; when we work for justice and an inclusive society, building bridges that unite and overcome alienation; when you and I pour out our lives, even as did Christ; when we love, Christ comes, Christ really comes, and every eye shall see him.
If his coming is obscured, if still we cannot see him, it is not the clouds we need to see beyond -- it is ourselves; it is not our eyes we need to open -- it is our heart.
Don't you wish it was that easy for us? You and I both know it doesn't work that way. It doesn't work that way because of what starts the wailing in the first place. And it isn't a baby in a crib. No, its closer to home than all of this; it is intensely personal; it is us, in the midst of our own living. Our cries of despair and anguish are born from the emptiness of our weary days. The wailing rises from our inability to discover any real sense of meaning and direction in our own living. We wrestle with it, searching for something that will bring us purpose; something that will bring us joy; something that will liberate us from our own isolation, help us to connect and feel we count as persons.
Then, if we really do begin to get ourselves together, to penetrate what really does count in living, when we finally do see the path clearly, we wail because of the wrong turns we make. Sometimes they are turns away from others, away from reaching to someone else, loving someone else -- and we turn into ourselves and care only for ourselves. Sometimes the turns are toward destructiveness -- of ourselves and those around us. These are turns of addiction, of abuse, of acting out. It's not that we don't know better; we do! We just don't do better!
And the wailing, the cursing starts. Our cries well up from failure, and the hurt we've caused -- as well as known from others. Disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, dashed hopes -- all of it -- starts the wailing, and we long for it to end. We long for new opportunities, for the healing of our broken hearts and battered spirits. We long for new directions in living. We long to make sense out of what sometimes looks so senseless. We long for hope and courage. In the struggle of our days, we long for some reason to stop wailing and start living.
Rising above our cries of anguish God speaks the word of hope and courage. Hear it with joy: whatever cries of disappointment and anguish well up within us over misdirected and empty living, over choices made and consequences suffered, Christ ends the wailing! Bringing grace and peace, the way of hope and renewal, Christ is always coming to those who dare to look for him.
This is what makes the difference. It has always made the difference for the Christian community, but seldom has it made more of a difference than it did to those to whom John the Seer first wrote. This strange piece of writing we call "the Revelation to John" comes to us from the time of the close of the first century. As does all apocalyptic literature, it had its birth in the crucible of extreme persecution, real doubt about the future, and deep anxiety over the present. John's church was at the mercy of a madman. Domition, Emperor of Rome, claimed divinity for himself and the brutal oppression and execution of all who did not bow to his sway. Caught squarely in the middle were the Christians. Their calling was to worship God alone; their way was the Way of Jesus, the Way of the Cross, not the way of violence. And caught in the middle, it was a profound crisis for their faith. "Where is God in the midst of all of this?" they questioned. "If God is in charge -- or even cares -- why is this happening to us?" they wondered. "Is faith -- faith in God, faith in Christ -- is it possible in a world like ours?" they wailed.
Hearing their wailing and cursing, John wrote words of faith and hope: "Grace to you and peace...." Really? "Grace and peace" in the face of all we are facing? "Grace and peace" in the midst of our shattered lives? How can this be? Where is there any grace, any peace?
It can be and is found because John knew the truth of it all; it had been revealed to him! John knew that God was in charge, and that God was and is a God of history, always coming to enter the history of God's people with renewing love. Yes, God's purposes can be opposed. God's purposes can be slowed down and sidetracked; but they cannot be defeated, because the victory of love has already been won! When Jesus died on the Cross in absolute faithfulness to the Way of love, and when God raised him to life through the power of God's love, the victory was won!
This is God's statement about life! Love triumphs, not hatred and violence. Life triumphs, not death. This is the gift of grace and peace John sent to his beleaguered church, from "Jesus, the faithful witness (read "martyr" and "victor"), the firstborn of the dead," whose victory they also would inherit upon his coming. Hearing this made a huge difference to John's people in the midst of their weariness, in the crisis of their faith, when all hope was challenged, and all that could be heard was the wailing of God's struggling people.
It makes a huge difference for us. To be sure, no mad emperor threatens our life; no arena of death, filled with wild beasts, waits for us. The crisis is more subtle than this; the wild beasts, though every bit as real, are less obvious. We wonder if God is real and really in charge. We struggle to know if living has any meaningful direction; we wrestle with the meaning of our own suffering. Not those in Asia or Rome, but here, we long to be those who know the victory and receive the gifts of grace and peace from the One who shall bring them when he comes.
Listen, then, and hear the promise again: Christ not only came; Christ not only will come, but Christ is always coming with hope and renewal; Christ is always coming to those who have the faith to receive him. This is what ends the wailing, whether it started because of our confusion about where the truth of living is really found, or whether the wailing wells up within us because we weren't confused, just plain wrong, and we, like those in John's time, have been the ones who pierced him -- whatever started the wailing, Christ's coming to us ends it!
The challenge, of course, is to live in that kind of expectancy, to see and welcome his coming. If Christ really is coming, always coming with hope and renewal to those who dare to look for him -- and looking, see both him and the truth he brings -- where, then, do we need to look?
John says, "In the clouds." I think it's closer at hand, as close as your own life, your own lived experience. Look, then, with me; look -- not up -- but within. Look and see when the wailing, loud as it may have been, ended for you. I can tell you when. It was when someone embraced you, taking your pain upon them. It was when a word of encouragement gave you new hope. It was when forgiveness healed the hurt you caused. The wailing, your wailing, ended when your sense of isolation and alienation were overcome, and someone accepted you just as you are, just for who you are. In a word, your wailing ended when you felt loved. That was Christ coming to you, for this is how, when, and where Christ comes in the gentle touch and warm embrace of love given to you -- not deserved, but simply given. As Scripture says, it is how the renewing, life-giving power of the Almighty has come, does come, and will come: in a person. So when love has come to you, know the truth of it: it was, and is, and will be Christ coming to you.
How can we be so sure? Because Jesus said it himself. Hear his words as the Fourth Gospel records them: "I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you. The one who knows and keeps my commandments, I will love that one, and my Father will love that one, and we will come to that one" (John 14:18ff). What is the commandment that makes the coming possible? Why, it is the only commandment Jesus ever gave! It is to love one another.
This is not something way up in the clouds; it is right here, down to earth, where you and I live. Neither is it something pushed off into a remote and distant future. It is here and now: When we love, Christ comes! When we venture out of ourselves and into the lives of others; when we love enough to confront this culture around us with the truth of Christ, the truth about living; when we work for justice and an inclusive society, building bridges that unite and overcome alienation; when you and I pour out our lives, even as did Christ; when we love, Christ comes, Christ really comes, and every eye shall see him.
If his coming is obscured, if still we cannot see him, it is not the clouds we need to see beyond -- it is ourselves; it is not our eyes we need to open -- it is our heart.
