Psalm 46. 1-7 and Matthew 6. 19-21
We gather together this morning, many of us haunted by the memories of 9/11/01 and now with raw, new images of a deluged New Orleans; images of tens of thousands of suddenly homeless Americans; images of rescuers and the rescued; images of an America divided by race and class; images, too, of evacuees still damp from their ordeal, airlifted and deposited on Cape Cod with virtually no possessions and utterly dependent on the kindness of strangers.
It is precisely into the midst of such images and stories, such calamity and trouble that the psalmist proclaims a living faith in a God who will not let us go, who does not abandon us.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change. (Psalm 46)
The psalmist reminds us that, despite our most cherished hopes, the earth does change; it changes right beneath our feet. It is changed by tsunamis and hurricanes, by drought and disease, by wars and global warming,Even so, it is almost impossible to comprehend that one hurricane has so changed the earth: rendering an entire city uninhabitable, as well as much of the surrounding area. The devastation is vast.
Yet, even as the winds began to subside, even as the levees were breaking and the water still rising, even then the storm’s victims each began to take their first halting, tentative, dazed steps on a new journey. This is a journey none of them asked for or anticipated. It is a journey taking them through the valley of the shadow of death. Yet it is and must be a journey toward new life and new beginnings.
What’s more, those of us who watched helplessly from a distance, we who are neighbors to these victims (people across America, in Massachusetts and around the world), were also moved to embark upon a journey … a journey ensure that they are not abandoned, not left alone to fend for themselves.
Taking journeys is a characteristic human activity. This summer my husband and I journeyed to England. Unlike the hurricane victims, it was not a journey we had to make after the loss of our homes and all we hold dear. This was a journey we had planned and looked forward to. Yet, every journey represents some measure of risk, some element of danger.
It was in the simplest act, one that we faced many times a day that I felt the greatest peril: the act of crossing the road as a pedestrian. As a pedestrian in the US, I instinctively know which way to look when crossing.
Not so in England. In England they drive on the wrong side of the road! Every crosswalk is perilous. One has to think hard, think twice, look both ways (even on one-way streets) to assure oneself of the direction from which the small, but ever hurtling, English cars are coming.
But – and this is a gift that never fails to surprise me – at almost every pedestrian crosswalk, in large white letters, are words that read “LOOK LEFT” (with an arrow pointing left) or “LOOK RIGHT” (with an arrow pointing right). I can’t tell you how helpful and comforting that is. At every crosswalk, there is a helpful directive to the stranger, the visitor, to assist them to take the next step in their journey and to cross the road in safety.
The victims of Hurricane Katrina have many dangerous and difficult roads to cross. They are out of their element, in unfamiliar terrain. They are tired and they have lost so much. Through our relief and hospitality efforts, we are offering direction and companionship as they venture to take each new next step in an unfamiliar environment … upon an earth that has changed and betrayed them.
In Massachusetts, Old South clergy are part of the support network that is surrounding the evacuees at Camp Edwards with hospitality and with help. When the evacuees stepped off the airplane, even those who arrived at 3:00 A.M., they were greeted, applauded and embraced by a crowd of volunteers and rescue workers who refused to make them cross that road alone.
The flight crew who came with the first planeload said that, of all the places they had airlifted people to safety it was in Massachusetts that the evacuees received the warmest and kindest welcome.
So, yes, it is a time of mourning; it is a time to find and bury the dead. It is a time to grieve over the loss of lives, of homes, of whole parishes, of precious institutions, and over the irreparable loss of a unique and colorful city. But it is also a time of hope. A time of new beginnings. For we are a people of new beginnings. We are a people acquainted with death and resurrection. We are forever starting over. There are new streets to cross. And, if we each do our part, there will be signs and arrows and guides to help everyone take the next step.
Over the course of this summer, each of us, each of you, has journeyed, literally and figuratively. You and your families have crossed roads, and each has experienced endings and beginnings, something of death and something of resurrection. Individuals and families have experienced illness and surgeries, healing and recovery; you have endured the death of loved ones and celebrated the marriages of others; you have moved houses and moved jobs; you have experienced the birth and the adoption of children and sent others out into the world; you have ventured into new schools and new classes; you have addressed the needs of aging parents and of retirement; you have known accidents and injury, promotions and demotions.
As you have crossed roads in unfamiliar terrain, I have heard stories of the comfort and guidance of those who have provided helpful direction, reminding you to LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT. In the end, we each have to decide to step into the road to cross it, but risk is minimized and the fear is diminished in the company of others who have crossed those very roads before us, who are there to help and guide us. Each road we cross represents a little dying; something is over, passed and gone. Something new lies ahead.
Old South also crossed some new roads this summer. We experimented with new worship services, and with them, we welcomed a surprising and marvelous infusion of new people. Working with Japanese Americans we hosted a deeply moving service in memory of the victims of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the 60th anniversary of dropping the Atomic Bomb. We welcomed Rev. Hurmon Hamilton to our pulpit and raised $10,000 in support of his church’s ministries to families in Roxbury. We raised another $10,000 in support of the victims of Hurricane Katrina and continue to be engaged in responding to that tragedy. We reorganized our administrative staffing and hired new musicians. We called Quinn Caldwell as our new Associate Minister and we received Jennifer’s news that she, in her turn, has been called to a new ministry.
Such is our life together: a life full of endings and beginnings, of deaths and resurrections, of landscapes that constantly change.
Earlier in the service we participated together in a litany concerning the teaching and learning ministries of Old South Church. To enter this community of faith is to discover a congregation seriously committed to learning and growing. With the psalmist, we recognize that the world keeps changing. To serve God in this changing world, we too, must change, grow, adapt and continually refresh ourselves.
Perhaps some of you will remember a book called Zorba the Greek, by Nikos Kazantzakis. Zorba is a man who has lost his son in death. As he tries desperately to find a way to cope with his son’s death, he has cried and cursed and yelled and even danced. At one moment he turns to his boss and he asks, “Why do the young die? Why do the young have to die? Why does anyone have to die?” And his boss says back, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” In his anger Zorba says, “Well, what’s the use of all your books then? If they don’t tell you that, what do they tell you?” And the boss says, “They tell me of the agony of people who can’t answer questions like yours.”
Living honestly with the most painful questions of our lives is a sign of a community that can learn together … a community accustomed to both death and resurrection.
In this world that will not stop changing – a world of storms and terror, of wars and disease, of catastrophe and agony – God promises to accompany us as we seek to grow in faith and hope, in our capacity for generosity and empathy; and as we endeavor to grow wiser, kinder and more deeply human with each passing year.
As we embark upon this new beginning, God is with us. Though the earth should change – and it has and it will – even so, God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
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