Abram left his
homeland on a promise. God called. Abram went. The Biblical text makes it seem
so simple. There are no signs of struggle or doubt. There is no grief over what
is left behind, only the forward look toward a new land and a new future.
Leaving home for Abram seems so easy. So
what would it be like for him today?
That land from which Abram came and through which he journeyed is today
Iraq and Syria.
Iraq and
Syria. War-torn lands to say the
least. And as with any war-torn land,
stories abound of refugees who have left their country and their kindred to
find a place of refuge. Unlike Abram and
his wife Sarai, these Syrian refugees do not leave on the promise that they
will become a great nation.
They leave
because bombs have fallen on their houses…
They
leave because food has become scarce…
They leave because they have watched their
loved ones die in the rubble as buildings have fallen to the ground.
As
we enter into this season of Lent, it is fitting for us to pause and listen to
their stories.
Remembering
Christ’s suffering is more than an exercise in gratitude.
It is a chance for us to stand in solidarity with those
around the world who suffer each day.
It is a challenge for us to take our own
suffering (be it large or small) and connect it to the suffering of others and
to the suffering of Christ on the cross.
As
we seek out this sacred space of solidarity, the cross of Christ becomes a
powerful connector across time and space. When we look to Christ’s cross, we
see echoes of the same injustices that exist today. People still live under the
yoke of poverty and oppression. People’s lives are still sacrificed on the
altars of political ideologies — whether it be bombs in Syria or the war over
minimum wage in this country. The same violent power that nailed God’s Son to a
cross still crucifies the least and the last of this world.
And
yet in some strange way, the cross of Christ offers a place where the suffering
of the whole world is connected. “For God so loved the world that God gave his
only son … ” The Greek in this verse
from John’s gospel cannot be any clearer.
This sentence is literally translated, “For God so loved the entire
cosmos, that he gave his only son”. Even the Greek word for love, “agape” refers
to the kind of love in which one’s life is poured out selflessly and completely
for the life of another. What this one
famous verse tells us is that when it comes to love, God holds nothing back –
not a single fiber of God’s being.
If
we as a church would claim to love what God loves, then we must love
everyone.
If we as a church would claim to love what God loves,
then what happens to our sisters and brothers in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan,
South Sudan, and Rochester happens to us.
If we as a church would claim to love what
God loves, then what happens to you happens to me.
After
the bombing at last year’s Boston Marathon, a photo emerged of Syrians holding a banner showing their
solidarity with us in the wake of this tragedy. The banner read, “Boston
bombings represent a sorrowful scene of what happens everyday in Syria. Do
accept our condolences.” What a powerful
reminder of the connectedness of all suffering.
In
the cross of Christ, not only are we connected to his suffering, but to the
suffering of those around us.
In the cross of Christ we are called to dig up the roots
of injustice and to prepare a place for the in-breaking of the kingdom of God.
The
kingdom of God: Not some great
nation bound by borders, but a communal space of safety where we can imagine
human flourishing.
The kingdom of God: A place where we learn to
remember that because “God so loves the world” God enters into its places of
suffering and death offering healing and eternal life.
Like
Nicodemus in this morning’s gospel story, we are offered a chance to be born
anew…
to take on the imagination of a child and dream God’s
dream for a just world.
A world in which a vision of justice acts as
a wrecking ball, tearing away what should not be, creating a place for safety,
peace, and abundant life.
During
this Lenten season, as we connect the suffering of our world to Christ’s cross,
we are invited to become the hands and feet of Christ remembering all the while
that his hands and feet bore the suffering of the cross. In other words, these
are wounded hands, wounded feet, with which we love this world.
In
the cross of Christ, God is with us.
God is with us in the rubble of our lives,
God is
with us in the debris after the bombs have fallen.
But
God is not content to leave us there or even simply to bring us out. The call
of the kingdom of God is a call
to rebuild in the midst of all that is lost,
to bring peace where
there is war,
to do justice where there is oppression.
The
season of Lent calls us to make room for Christ to enter our lives. As you look
to the cross I invite you…
to stare suffering in the face,
to sit
with it,
to experience it,
to not ignore it, as we are so prone
to do.
As
you remember the suffering of Christ in this season of Lent, remember also the
suffering of the world – of the entire cosmos.
As you draw near to the cross in this season
of Lent, sit with stories from Syria, or from the Ukraine…
Listen to stories of economic refugees in this country who
have lost their homes due to foreclosure or who work multiple minimum wage jobs
but still cannot afford to feed their families.
As you draw near to the cross in this season
of Lent, cry with the mothers in this city who have lost their children – their
babies - to senseless gun violence in
our streets.
But
whatever you do, don’t turn away. Dare yourself to sit with suffering. And when you do, look for God there. God is
always there in the midst of broken bodies and bruised dreams.
But
let us not just sit with this suffering, let us be challenged as to what we
might do as a congregation to not simply apply bandaids to the wounds, but to dig
up the roots of injustice and rebuild the kingdom of God in our midst creating a sacred space of refuge and peace.
Creating a sacred space of refuge and peace.
This is not only the call of the cross…
but
the call of the Church which stands underneath that cross.
So what shall we do with these wounded hands
and feet?
I
have an idea…
Let’s be the church!
