This beautiful, messy us [Independence Day - Matthew 5:43-48]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Matthew 5:43-48

 

This beautiful, messy us

 

There are things that I cannot say to members of my own extended family, topics I do not broach, conversations I do not have.  I suppose part of it is that I don’t love conflict. I put up with it, it is, at times, an occupational hazard, but I don’t enjoy it.  And if I am being honest, I guess that is part of the reason why I avoid certain subject matter.  But more than that, it seems to me that we no longer speak the same language. And of course we don’t.  Because while we live in the same nation, we inhabit different worlds.  The clever algorithms and curated feeds and news media are intentionally designed to reinforce our echoing silos and limit our perspectives.  The lines drawn cut through cities and neighborhoods and churches and families and friendships.  And people drift into clans codified by shared stories, mythologies, and, of course, tribal language.  And because of that I am not convinced the conversations – about politics, about religion, about things that live close to our hearts – can be truly productive.  And even though I contribute to this tragic reality, and to these silent, barren spaces, it all still makes me sad.

 

I speak in public for a living.  Of course, there are many other aspects of this vocation – many of them done in an office, away from crowds of people and listening ears.  But preaching holds a special place – not just in my vocation and life, but in our relationship.  It is one of the last places in which a person stands before an attentive crowd and offers an uninterrupted monologue.  And that unique exchange it is only possible if and when we trust each other.  From this pulpit I trust you with this vulnerable product of prayerful discernment, with this work of art that I have carefully crafted over many hours, with this presentation that I hope you find meaningful or beautiful or evocative.  And you trust me with what you bring into this house of worship: your bruised heart and your tender feelings and your fragile faith.  You trust me to love you from this pulpit – even if at times that love feels challenging. 

 

Often, and especially on days like today, when we celebrate a national holiday that, in our tradition, also happens to be a Church holiday, this pulpit feels like an especially tender place.  Because in these times words create the highest stakes.  And I am preaching in a nation of fractured language and broken pieces and damaged relationships.  And I am preaching to a congregation that dares to sit in that rare kind of space that attempts to transcend the partisan climate that dominates our country. 

 

From this pulpit I look out and I see Republicans and Democrats and folks who are fed up with both parties. I see liberals and progressives and conservatives and really mostly folks who are a jumbled mix of all of those labels – depending on the topic.  I see a collection of people who sometimes feel like they are winning in this nation and sometimes like they are losing – at times during the same day.  I see people, good and earnest people, who want to burn the system to the ground and others, good and earnest people, who are holding on tight. 

 

Mostly I see people who are trying mightily to figure out how to be faithful in conflicted times.  I see people who are holding onto hope and fighting off despair.  I see people trying to love a God they cannot see and love people they cannot understand.

 

I see you.  I see you in this beautiful, messy us.

 

And I know this beautiful, messy us – with our strange mix of views and ideologies and politics – is a fragile thing, a delicate experiment.  And I hope we can hold that together.  I hope we can have the hard talks and love each other through all our many differences. 

 

But I’m not naïve.  I know the culture is stacked against us.  I know there will be times when my words will hurt you and your words will hurt me.  I know there will be times when you wish we agreed and we don’t.  I know this precious community of faith will clatter and clang with the issues of the day.  But I wonder if we will have the strength and courage to push through to reconciliation, to believe more in the mission of God, to forgive each other when the walking away is so much easier.

 

Because I think if we can keep this thing together, we will catch a rare glimpse of the Kingdom of God – a kingdom come in our commitment to diversity and inclusion and humility.  We are like puzzle pieces: the more pieces we fit together, the more complete the picture of God we form.

 

I think the Kingdom of God will come not from the skies but like tender sprouts from the soil.  I think it grows up in us.  Peace and Justice springing forth from hearts that are being converted, ever converted, to the Gospel of Jesus – a Gospel of love that crosses aisles and transgresses boundaries and refuses to name enemies. 

 

This Kingdom, the one for which we pray, is not a dominion imposed by Christians.  It is a Kingdom that reflects the gentle beauty of Christ.  A kingdom that spreads like a delicate, holy contagion – one that heals us even as it transforms us.  It floats, like a Holy Ghost, like an intoxicating perfume, on the breath of our prayers.  But it can only spread if we stay together, if we stay close, if we refuse to keep our distance.  

 

Perhaps this is the gift we can offer our nation this weekend, as we celebrate her birth: an unflagging promise of peace, a compelling vision of justice, a reason to hope, a glimpse that a future beyond the broken pieces is possible.