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Finding Joy in WorshipNovember 19, 2006 Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost This morning I want to talk about a woman named Hannah. When we first meet her in scripture, she is on her way to worship in the Temple at Shiloh. Her husband loves her but she is unable to bear children. One might say that her life is a wreck. The deep longing for children, the pain of watching others bear one child after another, the anguish of seeing a mother kiss her baby’s face are her constant friends. And to make matter worse, her husband has another wife who is able to do for him the one thing that Hannah cannot do. The other wife, Peninnah, is able to bear him sons and daughters. And Peninnah understands her status; she took great delight in Hannah’s sorrow. Each year, as the family would set out on the pilgrimage for the Temple, Hannah was reminded of her barrenness. And, her adversary would provoke her, tease her, taunt her, and irritate her so much so that Hannah’s eyes were filled with tears and she would not eat. Isn’t it amazing the ways we deal with our pain? Hannah’s bed was a bed of tears and she did not eat. Sometimes we do the reverse, don’t we? We overeat. Or over-drink. We become compulsive and act out in unsavory ways. We do all sorts of things to mask the pain we feel inside. Or the pain we feel in our world. And then, there is that pregnant pause: those moments of silence and introspection where the world seems to stand still and we wait to sense God’s presence. Those moments of invitation where we not only confess our sins, but also our needs: the need for love, the need for affection, the need for support and attention, the need to be affirmed and validated. Those are precious moments where we confess our needs and also our fears: the fear of failure, the fear of criticism, the fear of not being good enough, the fear of living in a world polluted with violence, war and disasters. Those moments so often clouded with darkness, yet pregnant with new possibilities, suddenly give birth to fresh grace. And then it comes: “God is merciful and gracious, endlessly patient, loving and true, forgiving and granting pardon. In the name of Jesus Christ, we are forgiven!” I suspect for some, it might seem odd to begin worship this way. It might feel like we are going in the wrong direction. I mean who wants to start off Sunday morning being reminded of our shortcomings, our needs, our fears? But, each week, I’ve grown to appreciate it more and more. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize that I need to hear God’s forgiveness right up front. I need to clear the air. And it is as if God says, "Welcome back, you are forgiven. I know all about last week. I know what you did; what you didn’t do. I know what you said; what you didn’t say. I even know your thoughts. I know all about it, but welcome back anyhow. You are forgiven." Somehow, the shock of it startles us into an honest appraisal of things. The audacity of God’s love invites honesty into our lives; admitting that we do not always get it right, that we do not always have it all together. Some weeks are better than others; we are right a whole lot of times but not every time. It allows us to admit that sometimes no matter how hard we struggle, we sometimes fail. Those moments allow us to hear God’s welcome, allow us to begin anew. And God says something unambiguous. God says, "I forgive you. I love you no matter what. I see it all and I love you still. I see it. I know it. I heard it but I love you still.” I think that’s really what it means to be in community. To be wrapped up into this knowing, seeing, hearing… and yet be able to say to one another: I love you no matter what. This is the mystery of God that connects us with other human beings; where we give birth to a new kind of reality and we do for one another what God does for us: I forgive you. I know what you did, what you said. But I love you still, no matter what. This Thursday has been marked as a day of Thanksgiving and it will be celebrated around the world. Most likely, most of you will gather with family and friends, as I will. But we really do not need to limit our thanksgiving to only one day. Every day is a day of thanksgiving. Sometimes we are so preoccupied with what is wrong in our lives, in the world, so preoccupied with what we do not have, that we forget how good things still are. I dare say that there are few human acts that serve more to deepen human relationships than the expression of thanks. Just try it sometimes. Just decide to develop an attitude of gratitude. For you see, “expressing thanks declares one’s [joy] for what someone else has done.” [1] When we say “thank you” to God or to another, we are reminded that we are not autonomous. We are not self-sufficient. We cannot run the race alone. Someone has helped us, some way, some how. Therefore, we are compelled to help somebody else. Before I take my seat, I want to tell you the rest of Hannah’s story. When we last saw her, she was in worship praying through her tears. Her lips were moving but no sound was heard. The Day of Atonement has become an important space in her spiritual journey because it was in this space that she has become transparent. It was in this space that she unveiled her shortcomings, fears, and needs. It was this space that she felt exposed, compelled to pour out her soul, her deepest desires and hopes. She utters her lament until, finally, she hears the words of the priest: "Go in peace and may the God of Israel grant your petition." I don’t know what else happened that day. I don’t know why that day was different from so many other days. Year after year, Hannah had been asking God for a male child. But something happened. There is no child yet. She is not pregnant yet. But her whole being has changed. Her entire demeanor has shifted. We are told that when Hannah came up out of the Temple, her countenance was no longer sad and she sat down to eat. And, early the next morning, she and her husband returned to their home and, after a while, and by and by, she conceived in her womb and bore herself a son. And not just any boy child -- his name was Samuel. And Samuel would grow up in the Temple and would become the future prophet and last judge of the nation. And Hannah bore other sons and other daughters. And so what does all of this tell us? Well, I think it is simply this: Hannah’s story of barrenness is a metaphor for the human experience that refers to a state of loss and hopelessness and God’s constant presence. Into this barren place God has spoken: "And the Lord remembered her…." It was the word of hope and grace. It reminds us that though life is fraught with change and loss; though danger and darkness seems to pervade our lives, though chaos abounds, despite all appearances, God has already intervened and God is actively transforming the world. That is the good news that we keep clinging too. And some years later, we hear Hannah’s song of praise for the things that God has done. For God has done the impossible, and the response demands a song. To sing in the face of barrenness is an act of worship. It is a sign of confident anticipation that leads to courage, assurance, and hope. The song is a sign that there is a new reality that rises out of God’s vision for the world: where the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are fed, the blind see, and the barren becomes the mother of many. Oh, I tell you, Hannah’s joy cannot be contained. Her song is echoed down through the years and we hear it again in Mary’s Magnificat. Human impossibilities becoming God’s possibilities. So, let us give thanks for the songs our ears have heard: the beautiful music of Hannah and Mary, Bach, Mozart, and Handel, songs by Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, the African slave songs and the Black spirituals – let them break forth and fill our hearts. May they never be silent. For in these songs God gives us the final word. “And he shall reign forever and ever and ever and ever.” Hallelujah! Amen. _____________________ Previous sermon: For Now, All We Have is the Present Moment • Next sermon: Humble Thanks All past sermons |
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