Tag: honesty

Sorry, Not Sorry, Amen

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Non-Lectionary2 Comments

I don’t know about you, but it seems like the older that I get, the more honest and forthright I become. The filter with which I was taught to cover my mouth doesn’t work as well as it once did.

For example: When any person says that gender is a binary, black and white issue, they are not just being unkind, they are being stupid!

Did I say that out loud?

And when a preacher says it, they are not just being stupid, they are being cruel. And when the President of the United States says it, they are not just being cruel, they are being wicked!

I’m just honestly telling it like it is. Sorry, not sorry.

I used to admire older people who unapologetically told it like it was, affirming their boldness by saying: “Well, at your age, you’ve earned the right to just come right out and say it!”

Now that I am older, I am thinking that it wasn’t so much that they had earned the right to lose their filter as much as they had become aware that their time on this earth was limited.

We just don’t have the time anymore to beat around the bush, to waste precious time mincing and sugar-coating our words. There’s no time to “diddle-daddle around,” as my grandmother used to say.

Or it could be that with age comes wisdom, and we realize that harsh honesty is always better than soft BS!  Speaking a truth flat-out is always better than tiptoeing around that truth, even if the truth makes those around us squirm.

This seems to be the wisdom of the writers of those Psalms we call the “Lament Psalms” which make up about one-third of all the Psalms.

I love these Psalms for their sheer honesty. They are unashamedly real. They openly speak to the reality of our pain, frankly speak to our frailty, and candidly speak of our failures. They also speak straight to the reality of the pain of our world: the plight of the poor; the despair of the displaced, the fears of the vulnerable, the evil of war, and the scourge of disease.

And they hold nothing back when they speak to the wickedness of those in power, and the injustices that ensue, economic and social.

And they speak of the reality of what sometimes seems like God’s apathy or even absence in the world.

In the tenth Psalm, we read the Psalmist honestly questioning:

Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?

These psalms sometimes speak the truth of what seems like the cruelty of God. In the sixth Psalm, we read:

O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger, or discipline me in your wrath.”

Professor Walter Brueggemann writes that the Lament Psalms “break the force of denial” teaching us the importance of telling it like it is. They teach us the importance of declaring out loud that things are bad when things are bad. And they teach us to honestly say that when it comes to God, and God’s relationship with the world, even on our best days, we have our doubts.

However, that’s not our tendency, is it? Many of us were brought up to believe that any amount of crying, complaining, protesting, or lamenting means that our faith is weak, that we are being immature, “whiny little babies.” And to ever question God, well, that is simply out of the question!

However, the Lament Psalms move us in the opposite direction. They persuade us to not only tell it like it is, but to publically tell it like it is to God.

And these Psalms teach us that it this kind of truth-telling, that is the key to experiencing the hope we desperately need.

The thirty-second Psalm speaks to the danger of keeping silent:

While I kept silence, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long…my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.

In other words: “For fear of offending someone, I didn’t speak up, I didn’t tell the truth, and it nearly killed me!”

Psalm 6 is one of my favorite Psalms. For here the Psalmist tells it like it is to God like none other.

2 Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing;
O Lord, heal me, for my bones are shaking with terror.
3 My soul also is struck with terror,
while you, O Lord—how long?
6 I am weary with my moaning;
every night I flood my bed with tears;
I drench my couch with my weeping.
7 My eyes waste away because of grief;
they grow weak because of all my foes.

 Here the Psalmist tells the truth, the whole truth, to God. There is no holding back, no pretending to be strong because others will think they are weak. There is no denial. This Psalmist keeps it very real. And notice what happens next! Look at what happens somewhere between the verses of seven and eight.

Somewhere between the verses, God shows up. Peace comes. Hope happens. Life is restored. Thus, in verse eight, the Psalmist is able to confidently proclaim:

8 Depart from me, all you workers of evil,
for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my supplication;
the Lord accepts my prayer.

Now, we don’t know what exactly happened between verses seven and eight. We just know that something happened, and that something was Divine. Somewhere between the verses God breathed new life on the Psalmist. When the Psalmist told it like it was, God showed up.

Maybe God came through a still small voice, or through a wave of peace beyond their understanding. Or maybe God came through love expressed by a friend, or through a visit from a concerned neighbor. Perhaps someone cooked supper and brought it over, or simply offered a listening ear or an empathetic embrace. We just know that somewhere between the verses, God, in some inexplicable yet certain way, came.

We witness this while reading nearly every lament psalm. Whether the lament is honestly expressing personal pain, or the corporate pain of a nation. Listen once more to Psalm 10. The truth the Pslamist speaks is so real that it is still true today, 2500 years later. Listen again to the timeless lament:

2 In arrogance the wicked persecute the poor—

3 For the wicked boast of the desires of their heart,

   those greedy for gain curse and renounce the Lord.

4 In the pride of their countenance the wicked say, ‘God will not seek it out’;

   all their thoughts are, ‘There is no God.’

5 Their ways prosper at all times;

   your judgements are on high, out of their sight;

   as for their foes, they scoff at them.

6 They think in their heart, ‘We shall not be moved;

   throughout all generations we shall not meet adversity.’

7 Their mouths are filled with cursing and deceit and oppression;

   under their tongues are mischief and iniquity.

8 They sit in ambush in the villages;

   in hiding-places they murder the innocent.

Their eyes stealthily watch for the helpless;

9   they lurk in secret like a lion in its covert;

they lurk that they may seize the poor;

   they seize the poor and drag them off in their net.

10 They stoop, they crouch,

   and the helpless fall by their might.

11 They think in their heart, ‘God has forgotten,

   he has hidden his face, he will never see it.’

12 Rise up, O Lord; O God, lift up your hand;

   do not forget the oppressed.

13 Why do the wicked renounce God,

   and say in their hearts, ‘You will not call us to account’?

 And then, it is here, somewhere between verses 13 and 14, that something happens, and again, that something is Divine.

14 But you do see! Indeed, you note trouble and grief,

   that you may take it into your hands;

the helpless commit themselves to you;

   you have been the helper of the orphan.

15 Break the arm of the wicked and evildoers;

   seek out their wickedness until you find none.

16 The Lord is king for ever and ever;

   the nations shall perish from his land.

17 O Lord, you will hear the desire of the meek;

   you will strengthen their heart, you will incline your ear

18 to do justice for the orphan and the oppressed,

so that those from earth may strike terror no more.

Again, we don’t know how it happened, we just know that something happened. Somewhere between the verses, God showed up, as the Psalmist becomes convinced that God who once seemed to be blind to the injustices of the wicked does in fact see!

When the Psalmist honestly and publicly laments: This is not right. This is not fair. This is unjust. This is mean and cruel and evil and stupid. This is wicked. When the Psalmist courageously calls out injustice, calls a spade a spade, a crook a crook, despair is suddenly transformed into hope and sorrow into joy, as somehow, someway, somewhere God comes.

Perhaps someone, having listened to the cries of the powerless, courageously, unapologetically, and yet, graciously, stood up, looked the wicked ones in the eyes and honestly spoke truth to power, pleading for mercy on the behalf of the powerless, making the wicked the squirm in their pews.

Perhaps someone spoke up at a meeting of the city council, wrote a letter to the editor, or honestly corrected a misguided friend or family member who had been brainwashed by lies and misinformation.

Maybe it was something like a group of interfaith clergy who got organized, and in a sign of prophetic solidarity exchanged pulpits to honor a truth-telling prophet named Martin Luther King Jr.

Maybe this small act of solidarity grew into a mighty movement as the group of clergy, who honestly and publicly called out the injustices in the land, the evil of sick religion and the wickedness of greedy politics, began working together with their congregations to feed the hungry, to shelter the homeless, and to defend the marginalized—to stand up for the sacred value and dignity of all persons.

The courageous group of clergy never held back for fear of offending someone, for fear of losing a congregant or a big donation, as they unapologetically renounced the spiritual forces of wickedness in the land and unashamedly resisted evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they took.

Then, their public faithfulness began to inspire others. People throughout the region became more aware, and more wise, knowing that they no longer had the time to diddle-daddle around with their faith. Their time was too short, and the times were too serious.

With hearts wide-open to the honest cries, to the pain, and to the needs of others, especially the most vulnerable in their midst, they understood that they must honestly and publicly take a stand and work somewhere between the verses of lament and the verses of hope, until all of God’s children are able to get those verses where they are able to confidently sing:

O God, you do see! You do hear!  And the arms of the evil doers will be broken. The Lord will seek out their wickedness until there is no more. The Lord will be king forever and ever! Justice will be done for the oppressed. And the wicked will strike terror no more!

Sorry, not sorry, Amen.

Christmas in the Boondocks

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Advent and Christmas, Sermons Year C1 Comment

Luke 3:7-18 NRSV

As a preacher, I often wonder about this thing we call a sermon. Like, why do we do it? Why do preachers prepare and deliver them, and why do you sit and listen to it?

I tend to believe that you are here for the sermon because need a little encouragement. In a world that can be dark and despairing, you need to hear a word of light and hope. In a world that can be sad and chaotic, you need to hear a word of joy and peace.

On top of all the problems in the world, war in Ukraine and in the Middle East, the acceptance of fascism throughout the world, including in our own country, you have all kinds of stress in your life. Some of your children are not doing as well as you would like. Some of you are having a difficult time taking care of aging parents. And some of you have your own health worries. Some of you are still dealing with grief over the loss of a loved one. And you are still struggling with forgiving that friend who let you down or loving a neighbor who betrayed you. So, you come to this place every to sit in a pew to get a little inspiration, to find a little peace.

So, I, along with hundreds of other moderate, educated, mainline preachers in our pretty, city pulpits, seek to give you a dose of what we think you want on Sunday mornings. Instead of saying anything that might add to the stress in your life, we try to say something to fill you with such peace, that when the time in the service comes when we pass the peace, you actually have something to pass. During the sermon, we seek to metaphorically pat you on the back on Sunday mornings assuring you that everything is going to be alright.

I am very tempted this morning to talk about my new granddaughter and how the birth of a little baby can change our world; then somehow compare that to the birth of Jesus peaching a soft, sweet, sentimental sermon of comfort and peace.

But then I encounter a text like this morning’s gospel lesson and read the account of a preacher who doesn’t remind us of any grandfather we know whose heart has been softened by the birth of a baby. His name is John, and he’s also a far cry any educated, moderate, mainline preacher in a pretty, city pulpit. He’s a harsh man with a harsh voice crying out in the boondocks far from the lights of the city.

No one ever called John “moderate.” And no one ever called him “mainline.” And there was seemingly nothing peaceful, about his message of hell, fire, brimstone, and impending judgment.

When John stood in the mud of the Jordan River and looked out in the congregation, he didn’t seem to see what I see when I look out on Sunday mornings. I see mostly good people who truly want to be better. John saw a snake pit. He preached: “You bunch of poisonous snakes! There’s a bunch of dead stones in this muddy river, but God is able to raise up a family out of these stones. There’s a heap of dry chaff, mixed all up in with the wheat, and you know what God’s going to do? God’s coming with fire to burn off the chaff. I wash you with water; and if this water is too cold for you… there is one who’s coming right behind me who is going to scorch you with fire!”

“You better get washed. You better get clean!  If you haven’t treated someone right, go make it right. If you have something you can give to those who have nothing to give, give it. If you have any prejudice in your heart, you better get rid of it. This may be your last warning. Today is the day. Now is the hour, for the ax and the fire are surely coming!”

Now I think, who wants to listen to a sermon like that? As it turns out, lots of people. Luke says: “multitudes” came out to hear him. And genteel, educated preachers in our nice city pulpits everywhere, scratch our heads and ask: “why?”

Perhaps you don’t come to church to listen to a sermon solely to be encouraged. Perhaps you also come to hear the truth.

Multitudes travelled way out into the boonies because that redneck preacher who looked like he could handle a snake or two named John was telling people the truth.

And perhaps that is why we are all here this morning. In a world where we are bombarded with lies…in a world in which we are overwhelmed with deceit, disinformation, propaganda, gaslighting and indoctrination… in a world where people make up stories to control us, using us for their selfish and greedy purposes…in a world where the rich and powerful control the media and malign the media they don’t control…and in a world where money is always the objective, we need to hear someone who will unashamedly speak to us, honestly and truthfully. We come here out of a deep yearning to hear a word of truth from God, because we know deep in our hearts that it is only that truth that will set us free and give us the peace we all desire.

That is why more people went out to hear John preach in the boondocks than have ever come here to hear me preach in the comfortable city sanctuaries where I have preached. Multitudes trudged through the briars and dust and went to hear a fire-breathing preacher who stood, not in a beautifully crafted and decorated pulpit, but in the muddy Jordan River, and spoke of axes, judgment, and fire. They went to hear the truth, even though they knew that truth was going to hurt. Because they somehow instinctively knew that it was the truth and only the truth that was going to set them free and give them a lasting peace.

If John was here today, I believe he would tell you that preachers like me often sell you short. And maybe he would be right.

For I have noticed, when every now and again, I unintentionally slip up and step on a few toes, a lot harder than I would ever intend to, inferring that some of you are not right…That some of you could do a little better…That some of you need a bath…That some part of you needs to be cut off, removed; something in you needs to be burned away…When I challenge you by saying something like: peace is only going to come on earth if you do something, that justice is only going to be done, if you use your privilege and power and act…When I explain how, even now, we are participants in the systems of oppression we deplore… you know what happens? Why, people line up after the service to say, “Thank you preacher. I really needed to hear that!” “You really got on top of my feet today! Thanks for being honest.”

I wonder what would happen if preachers all over the world had the gall to discuss all the lies and disinformation in our world today that is behind the growing popularity of fascism. What if we inferred that all of us could do more to stop it, that we could be more vocal in our condemnation of it, that our silence today only helps to normalize it, and such normalization is actually part of the historical playbook of fascism?

 What do we think our congregants would do if we challenged them— telling them the truth that when they hear their neighbors, co-workers and family members say things like: “People are just over-reacting;” “Things will not get that bad!” “The people in power? Why, they’re only talking. They don’t really mean what they say.” Our system of democracy is not fragile”—when they hear that, and then they say nothing, they only help to normalize fascism.

What would happen if preachers made a historical comparison between our silence today and the silence of those in 1860 when their friends defended slavery, saying things like: “We are actually doing them a favor!” What would happen if preachers compared our silence to those in 1930’s Germany when their friends defended concentration camps, saying something like: “Oh, they are just work camps. They are only helping people learn the value of labor and hard work!” What would happen if we compared our silence with those who said nothing when everyone around them was calling Martin Luther King Jr. “a troublemaker?”

Yeah, saying those things will certainly make some people mad. Some may not turn in their pledge cards. It may cause them to leave and never come back. But I have a feeling they’ll be many people lined up in narthexes everywhere to thank us, because people know the truth that before something can be born anew, something old must die. Before love can win, someone must be willing to pick up and carry a cross. Before justice can be done, work must be done. Before peace can happen, sacrifices must be made. Before Christmas can be celebrated, gifts must be given.

That is why people came to hear John preach. They came for the candor, for the honesty, and for the truth. From his prolific sermon illustrations (the fire, the ax, and chaff), we know that what John was preaching was the death of something old and the birth of something new.

This is why the multitudes traveled out into the boonies to hear John preach. Because when John told the people what they needed to change, what they needed to prune, cut off and burn up, the wilderness began to look something like the Garden of Eden. The muddy Jordan became the River of Life. Out of the dry dust, a flower began to bloom. Peace on earth became a little bit more of a reality.

This was the message of John the Baptist. People flocked to hear John, and I believe come to worship every Sunday so they can hear the truth: that none of us are who we ought to be. All of us could do better. We could be better.

We come here to ask God to hold up a mirror in front of us so we can see our complacency and our complicity. We ask God to search us and know our hearts; to test us and know our thoughts, to see if there is any wicked way in us and lead us the way that is everlasting. And having accepted the truth, we come to drop to our knees and ask God to take an ax and cut us down, or kindle a fire and purge us, so we can be reborn, so we can be cleansed and changed, so we can then do all that we can do to change the world. John preached the possibility of such a transformation.

And he’s still preaching it today. We can’t get to Christmas without first meeting him out in the boondocks. Multitudes have. By God’s grace, so will we.[i]

[i] Inspired from a sermon entitled Here Comes the Judge by William Willimon.