Last Sunday's sermon was anchored in Psalm 30:
I taught the congregation to declare it over and again, "But joy comes with the morning." It's Easter after all, the season of resurrection and new life. It's time to move beyond old laments to the new songs of praise. It's time to put away the sad, heavy dirges and sing for joy. Alleluia!
That was Sunday . . . then came Monday, with two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. A day that began with glorious, beautiful morning turned to tragedy in the afternoon. I sat at a table and prayed at the opening of a meeting, oblivious to what had happened in Boston and to what was happening in the hearts of those who prayed beside me. They had received the terrible news as they arrived. I had not yet heard it. The deeper prayer happened in the silence after the spoken prayer. We were carried back to other tragic times. We went all the way back to Holy Week, from Sunday to Monday to Friday all over again. "But joy comes with the morning." It's morning? Really? Where?
Then came Wednesday with its news that our elected leaders had rejected an opportunity to speak and act to limit gun violence in our society. It was not even a bold bill that was before them. Could they not remember what had happened on Gibson Avenue to little Christopher Harris so many years ago? He would have been nearly fifty now. His life was taken by a culture saturated with guns, drugs, and violence. His life was taken away. Day became night. Could they not remember what had happened so recently in Columbine and Aurora, and so recently in Newtown? All those precious lives taken away. "But joy comes with the morning." It's morning? Really? How?
Then came Thursday and the news of an horrific blast in the night in West, Texas. Volunteer firefighters rushing to save a burning fertilizer plant . . . to save their town. Lives taken in a flash, given up in the service of others. A town destroyed, left in broken pieces. Where are the lilies, the trumpets and the echoes of the alleluias now? "But joy comes with the morning." This is morning?
I wonder, in light of all that has happened in but one week--this week--how I would revise my Sunday sermon were I preaching this Sunday--the Fourth Sunday of Easter. "Weeping may linger for the night; but joy comes with the morning." I still believe it to be a word of God for the people of God. I still anchor my soul in this hope: God's righteousness and love will prevail. Christ's resurrection will be our reality. For now, I will stretch myself toward Sunday, longing for the dawning of God's new day. I will sit with the silence. I will pray for all those whose lives are have been changed and taken. I will cry out for justice, for shalom in this society. I will pray for the dawn yet again; and I will continue to be confident in the refrain of an ancient poet: "But joy comes with the morning."
O God, through my tear-filled eyes and my broken heart, give me but a glimpse of your dawn. Grant us all wisdom and courage. Bless all people with your joy. Alleluia!
Weeping may linger for the night;
But joy comes with the morning.
I taught the congregation to declare it over and again, "But joy comes with the morning." It's Easter after all, the season of resurrection and new life. It's time to move beyond old laments to the new songs of praise. It's time to put away the sad, heavy dirges and sing for joy. Alleluia!
That was Sunday . . . then came Monday, with two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. A day that began with glorious, beautiful morning turned to tragedy in the afternoon. I sat at a table and prayed at the opening of a meeting, oblivious to what had happened in Boston and to what was happening in the hearts of those who prayed beside me. They had received the terrible news as they arrived. I had not yet heard it. The deeper prayer happened in the silence after the spoken prayer. We were carried back to other tragic times. We went all the way back to Holy Week, from Sunday to Monday to Friday all over again. "But joy comes with the morning." It's morning? Really? Where?
Then came Wednesday with its news that our elected leaders had rejected an opportunity to speak and act to limit gun violence in our society. It was not even a bold bill that was before them. Could they not remember what had happened on Gibson Avenue to little Christopher Harris so many years ago? He would have been nearly fifty now. His life was taken by a culture saturated with guns, drugs, and violence. His life was taken away. Day became night. Could they not remember what had happened so recently in Columbine and Aurora, and so recently in Newtown? All those precious lives taken away. "But joy comes with the morning." It's morning? Really? How?
Then came Thursday and the news of an horrific blast in the night in West, Texas. Volunteer firefighters rushing to save a burning fertilizer plant . . . to save their town. Lives taken in a flash, given up in the service of others. A town destroyed, left in broken pieces. Where are the lilies, the trumpets and the echoes of the alleluias now? "But joy comes with the morning." This is morning?
I wonder, in light of all that has happened in but one week--this week--how I would revise my Sunday sermon were I preaching this Sunday--the Fourth Sunday of Easter. "Weeping may linger for the night; but joy comes with the morning." I still believe it to be a word of God for the people of God. I still anchor my soul in this hope: God's righteousness and love will prevail. Christ's resurrection will be our reality. For now, I will stretch myself toward Sunday, longing for the dawning of God's new day. I will sit with the silence. I will pray for all those whose lives are have been changed and taken. I will cry out for justice, for shalom in this society. I will pray for the dawn yet again; and I will continue to be confident in the refrain of an ancient poet: "But joy comes with the morning."
O God, through my tear-filled eyes and my broken heart, give me but a glimpse of your dawn. Grant us all wisdom and courage. Bless all people with your joy. Alleluia!
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