Abide

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC, May 2, 2021, the fifth Sunday of Easter.

    Text: John 15:1-8

Her name was Grace.  She was one of the first folks I met as I arrived with my friends in the small village in Tamil Nadu, South India. Though I imagine Grace may very well have died long ago, I’ve thought of her often as I take in the horrific headlines and images from the toll COVID is taking in India right now. In the caste system of India, Grace was an “untouchable.”  She was poor, her skin a deep ebony, and she was literally “out-caste”—out of the caste system…beneath it. Grace also had the unhappy circumstance of being unmarried; her family had no money for a dowry and, as a result, Grace was destined to be on her own, with little or no support from anyone else.  But we learned as we talked with her—in broken English—that she made a way for herself by doing sewing for folks in the village. She shared her home, a ten by ten foot cement dwelling, with six other family members.

In 1994, our Liberation Theology seminar group from Yale Divinity School went to this village to experience an Indian community that was predominantly Christian—a rarity in a country that was at least at that time only 2-3% Christian (and this one was also a community of “untouchables” or “Dalits”).  We were planning to stay overnight in the church building that was on the small dirt square of the community. But late in the day, after we had worshiped at an evening Bible Study, Grace approached me with an astonishing offer. This woman who barely had enough to feed and care for herself, invited me into her home. She invited me to stay with her for the night. And so I did. She gave me tea and shared stories of her life. And that night, I slept on the hard dirt floor of that ten by ten room, with 7 other people and a chicken. In the morning, Grace boiled water (a rare and precious commodity!) for me so that I could brush my teeth. I don’t know that I’ve ever received such an invitation before or since or experienced such sacrificial hospitality and care.  

Grace invited me into her home, into her life. And as I left, she called me “sister.”

Today, Jesus invites us into his life. Jesus says, “Abide in me.”

We learn today that Jesus is like a vine, green, full of life, reaching down into the depths of the earth and soaring upward toward the light of the sun. Jesus is like a vine and we are like branches of the vine. When connected to that strong, green, vital stem, we flourish and grow. We produce fruit. But we know that the branches only bear fruit because they receive nourishment through the stem, through the vine.  If they are cut off from that source of life and strength, they grow dry and lifeless; they die; they produce no fruit. And sometimes, branches need to be pruned—things need to be let go, cleared out, in order for that branch to produce fruit at its full capacity.

This powerful image teaches us about what it means to abide in Jesus Christ.  “Abide” is not a word that we hear that often these days.  And because of that; some modern translations of scripture choose to use other words instead.  But this word “abide” is a great word, a rich word.  To “abide” means more than to “be with,” it also means to “stand with,” to be “faithful to,” to “stand firm,” and “never to leave.” And in the image of the vine and the branches, we hear Jesus’ words to us as an invitation. “Abide in me” and receive everything you need for life and for growth and for fruitfulness. Stand with me, be faithful to me, never leave me, because, if you do, you will cut yourself off from the gracious gifts of God that are your source for strength and life. Stay connected to me, trusting my life-giving support and love even in the midst of change, when you need to let things go.

While it is our choice whether to accept this invitation to stay connected and receive grace and life in Christ—we also learn today that Jesus in

Foundry UMC Earth Day 2021

The Reverend Jenny Phillips is Senior Technical Advisor for Environmental Sustainability at Global Ministries in Atlanta, GA. Her work integrates sustainability practices into every aspect of mission. She has a Master of Divinity from Union Theological Seminary in New York and is an ordained elder from the Pacific Northwest Conference of The United Methodist Church. 

Sermon Text:

Matthew 25:14-30

Less than Zero 

Please pray with me: Creator God, all of creation sings your praise. Open our hearts that we may hear your call to protect all that you have made. Amen.

I’m so very happy to be here with you today. As Ginger shared, I serve at Global Ministries, which is the worldwide mission and development agency of The United Methodist Church. Global Ministries supports more than 200 missionaries, and has personnel, projects and partners in 115 countries. As a part of Global Ministries, the United Methodist Committee on Relief (UMCOR), is the global humanitarian aid and development arm of The United Methodist Church.  

Much of the work of contemporary mission focuses on addressing problems caused by the broken relationship between God, humans and the earth. We support sustainable agriculture in places that are food insecure and that have histories of conflict and oppression. We provide healthcare in places with deep infrastructure challenges. We provide services for people experiencing forced migration from their homelands. We respond to disaster and support recovery in places hardest hit by weather events exacerbated by climate change. We seek to alleviate suffering. 

Our creation story says that human suffering is rooted in the distorted relationship between God, humans and the earth. In Genesis, God offers the first humans food from an abundant garden. God says they can have as much as they could possibly want to eat from the garden of Eden. But God also sets a boundary. God says to not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

 

Well, you know what they do. They cross the boundary God sets--a boundary meant to limit their consumption of the earth’s resources. In doing so, they break our relationship with God. Now pay attention here. That first rupture in relationship, that SIN is not just any kind of sin. It is the sin of overconsumption. God tells them to eat their fill and they say great, thanks very much, and now I’ll have what’s over there. They take more than they need. They take more than God wanted them to have.

Then, even as they are cast out from the garden, their children learn that natural resources are a source of power among humans. They raise generations of humans obsessed with controlling food and land and lives, even as the earth cries out when their blood is spilled and their habitats are ransacked. The shards of colonialism and plunder and racism are embedded in the lattice of our spiritual DNA.

Those of us who are white come from people who have leaned way too hard into that aspect of our spiritual histories. We have built our communities and our wealth and even our churches on the backs of Black people, Indigenous people and People of Color. And we have built our communities and our wealth and our churches on the groaning lands and seas of ravaged ecosystems worldwide. Some of us here today benefit from the fruits of that exploitation. And now we are resistant to breaking the cycle, lest it cost us our places in the world as we know it.

 

But of course, the world as we know it is no Eden. Colonialism left generations of many humans and other creatures poorer, sicker, and weaker. Then exploitation of people and the earth went into hyperdrive with industrialization. And with industrialization came human-induced climate change.

 

Let me take a detour here to tell you how climate change works. When we look up at the sky, it appears to be a limitless expanse. But between us and outer space is a thin blanket of gasses surrounding the planet. This is called the atmos

Have you anything here to eat?

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 18, 2021, Third Sunday of Easter, “Give Me A Word” series.

            Text: Luke 24:36a-48

“The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.” This line from Native American poet, Joy Harjo, came to mind as I pondered Jesus’ question in our text today: “Have you anything here to eat?” As a member of my Bible Study said this week, these words are so wonderfully human. 

The Jesus we meet today has been through so much—life, friendship, struggle, suffering, death on the cross, time in the tomb, and resurrection. He has walked the seven mile stretch from Jerusalem to Emmaus and shared a meal with some disciples who only recognize him when they’ve all sat down at the table to share a meal. 

Jesus promptly disappears from that table—and while off camera—he appears to Simon Peter. (Lk 24:34) And then, in our text today, Jesus shows up among the disciples in Jerusalem who are busy sharing stories of these encounters.

They were literally talking about having seen Jesus alive and yet, in this moment, they still can’t perceive who is with them. There might be any number of reasons for this—things happening too fast, emotional whiplash, being caught by surprise, seeing someone you’re not expecting in a time or place or way that is out of the ordinary… But whatever the case, Jesus makes very clear that he is really there, no mere apparition. He’s there in the flesh. Just as in the story last week from John, Jesus invites them to see and to touch the wounds in his flesh. And, oh, by the way, do y’all have anything around here to eat? 

Evidently, ushering in a whole new world makes a person hungry! Or perhaps, in his wisdom, Jesus realizes that, as in Emmaus, the way to open eyes and minds is to share a meal together. Isn’t this also wonderfully human? Not only sharing a meal with others, but talking about food helps us know and understand one another in deep ways. It opens up conversations about culture and values and family rituals. Who has the best BBQ? What is appropriately applied to grits? Where can you find the best tamales or dim sum or bulgogi or fried chicken or jollof rice or palm butter? Is lettuce technically “food?” Food is so elemental and formational in our lives. In so many ways “the world begins at a kitchen table”—or its cultural equivalent. Jesus did, in fact, show up at table after table and showed how to make a feast for thousands out of a bagged lunch. Food is key. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised to hear Jesus ask, “Have you anything here to eat?”

It’s the question that sticks out of the story in a way that I can’t help but believe is intentional. It seems that resurrection life is not only a head trip or a spiritual experience in some disembodied way. It seems that resurrection life is not something that is experienced only in the hereafter when we have shaken off “this mortal coil.” We so often think of resurrection as only about what happens after physical death. And certainly the life with God and loved ones that awaits and the assurance that we need not be afraid of death are beautiful parts of the resurrection promise.

Yet in our story today Jesus reveals that resurrection life is also experienced in this world and is connected to bodies, to the needs of bodies, to the human lives and everyday concerns of bodies. Flesh and bone need care, need food. Consistently, the Jesus revealed in Luke is clear that the hunger and thirst in the world is not for righteousness, sustenance, and peace only in the next life but for those good gifts in this one. 

Remember it’s in Luke where we find Jesus’s first recorded sermon. He took as his text the words of Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,    because he has anointed me        to bring good news to the poor.He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives    and recovery of sight to the blind,        to let the oppr

So That You May Have Life

John 20:19-31

Will Ed Green—Sunday, April 11th, 2021—Foundry United Methodist Church

Good morning, friends. My name is Will Ed Green, and I serve as one of Foundry’s Associate Pastors and our Director of Discipleship. As we move into a time of reflecting on Scripture together we are so glad you’re with us. For those of you who are just tuning in, you’ll find links for fully engaging in our service in our Facebook and YouTube comments or on our website www.foundryumc.org. If you are in need ASL interpretation, we invite you to join us at www.foundryumc.org/asl.

So I want to begin this morning by talking about the “Apophthegmata Patrum,”—no, that wasn’t a sneeze, I said “apophtegmata patrum.” They are the recorded sayings of a group of monks and nuns known as the Desert Mothers and Fathers. They lived in caves, mud huts, and even holes they dug in the ground in the deserts of Egypt, Syria, and Palestine; sometimes in small communities but, more often than not, alone. There, in the desert, with the busyness of life and the clutter of consumption cleared away, they embarked upon a bold endeavor: through prayer and contemplation, to live more humanely, to become—in modeling their life after Jesus—more human, and thus to become truly alive in the love of God.

The “Apophthegmata”are snippets of stories and parables—preserved from the their own self-reflection, or offered to their disciples and visitors, that often begin with the question: “Amma, Abba, give me a word.”

Their responses are not theological treatises or Christian self-help one-liners. They are plain and practical; unconcerned with right belief or theology and focused on matters of the heart. This simple wisdom cleaves performative spirituality and self-righteous theology from the practical matters of daily discipleship.  And because of this, they force us to address the ways what we profess is actually transforming our hearts and lives. Something John Wesley might have called “personal holiness” or “sanctification.”

During these Great 50 Days—or the 50 days between Easter and Pentecost—our new sermon series invites us, like the Desert Mothers and Fathers, to focus our attention on the work of being and becoming alive. To receive in the fullness of its power the hope of the resurrection we proclaim. To embody, not just in right belief, but in the daily rhythms of our lives the freedom and abundance of life available when we live as those who believe that Jesus IS risen.

So now, as we turn to the words of the Living Word, Jesus, and ask of them as those who traveled to the desert so long ago: “Give us a word” let us pray:

Order our lives in your Word, O God, that everything we do may bear witness to your resurrection life.  Order our words in YOUR word, O God, that everything we say may bring life into a worry-weary world desperately in need of hope. Breathe the anointing of your Holy Spirit upon all those in the sound of my voice, that in this sacred space we now share together we might be transformed by your Living Word, and in that transformation might take our place in kin-dom work to which you’ve called us. And now may the words of this preacher, faulty and fleeting though they may be, fade into the background of the Word which you would have us receive this day. Amen.

I want to begin this morning by acknowledging  that is a sermon about Jesus’ body and our bodies and the way they experience and express trauma. There may be moments when previous experiences of your own trauma rise to conscious awareness, so pay attention to your body. If you find yourself feeling anxious step away or pause and take a break, please know that’s ok.

Today’s reading begins with the disciples in the throes of collective trauma. Their doors are barred in fear of what terror may yet occur. Just days before they witnessed their rabbi ruthlessly murdered, were denied by the disappearance of his body the familiar rhythms and rituals of mourning, and are ce

Sing a New Song

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 4, 2021, Easter Sunday, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

                Text: Mark 16:1-8

Early yesterday morning, as I climbed the stair to my writing chair, the light of a waning moon shining brightly, a single, solitary bird’s voice sang: sing it out, sing it out, sing it out, will you? The melody is familiar, though one I’ve missed. It hibernates, or migrates—I don’t know birdsongs well enough to know which bird was belting out her bright song in the dark—but it appears this time of year, a herald of spring in its fullness, announcing a new moment, a passage from one season to another.

This image reflects my experience through this year of pandemic, singing my song in a defiant, determined commitment to hope in a new moment, new life—all the while, surrounded by the night and shadows, within and without. It may come as a surprise to some, but my cynicism can be as sharp as any. I call my cynicism Shirley (not referencing anyone except the play on words: as in, “surely, you don’t believe that.”) And with each new reflection gone viral on the interwebs early in the pandemic about how we were going to come out of this thing renewed, changed, chastened, wiser and better, I found myself in a near-constant dialogue with Shirley. She really is a broken record of “don’t get your hopes up” ditties. On days when I’m caught between my hope-filled, prophetic self and my Shirley self, I simply flip on autopilot, put up buffers and compartmentalization systems for grief, uncertainty, and trauma, and try to just get through this thing unscathed and doing as little damage as possible.

With each new challenge, each new loss, assault, tragic headline, new number of cases, deaths, shootings, each new instance of injustice over the past year…with each new revelation of how truly broken things are in our lives and relationships and churches and institutions and nations and world, whether I’m in “God’s up to something good,” “we’re doomed,” or “put your head down and get through it” mode I still root about trying to discover what Spirit wants to share. It’s kind of a habit. This past year, a consistent theme is summed up in John Wesley’s last words: “Best of all is, God is with us.”

Some may roll their eyes at so simple a statement, because, after all, what difference does it make for God to be with us when things continue to be so jacked up? Shirley asks that question on the regular, joining the chorus of the Israelites in the desert who complained saying, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness?” (Numbers 21:5) Shirley sings alto in the chorus of the disciples who woke Jesus from his sleep on the boat in the storm yelling, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mk 4:38) And she would have wondered the same thing as the Marys and Salome that early morning in the cemetery—“Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” (we’re probably on our own!)

Of course, in each of those jacked up moments of wilderness, storm, and the heaviness of death, God was there, leading out of slavery, providing manna and wellspring waters from a rock, soothing the storm with a word, and rolling the stone away so that life might emerge. That’s the story we tell, anyway. Are you buying it? 

Casey Gerald, in his beautiful, painful, artful memoir, There Will Be No Miracles Here (a book I read at some unidentifiable moment in the haze of the COVID pandemic) shares this:

It’s hard enough to get used to a crappy life. But once you do, you see that even crap can be cozy and the coziness becomes important to you. And even the slightest change—in the name of progress or healing or uplift—feels like a threat to your existence, so you ignore it as long as you can…The story has to change, you see, and that’s not only a great deal of work to undertake, but also a real risk, as the new story might not be as

Lonely Lament 

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 28, 2021, Palm Sunday, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

              Text: Mark 11:1-19

Oh, we do love a parade! We do love a rally! And even those who dislike crowds can be stirred to join the throng by the right cause or person as the draw! Give me something to wave, teach me the chant, “hey hey ho ho-sanna!” and let’s march! And when we gather for the annual Palm Sunday parade, we are traditionally given delightful images of children—in various states of confusion, disarray, or glee—being shepherded into sanctuaries with palms; and even in this virtual space, there’s a sense of playfulness and hope and anticipation as Jesus enters Jerusalem, as we ourselves enter Holy Week. 

The original parade on this day, best we can tell, is what advocates call a public action. And our story begins by detailing preparation for the event, including securing Jesus’ ride and marking the parade route with cloaks and leafy branches. The chant was taken from an old favorite, the victory song we call Psalm 118: “Hosanna—Save us! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” The parade was carefully planned, the allusions to Zechariah’s prophecy of a new king riding a donkey, humbly bringing peace in a time of war were deliberate and provocative. Its route led to the temple, the power center of Israel’s religious and political life. And all this energy culminates with Jesus entering the temple and then…“when he had looked around at everything” he left. (?? Wah Wah…) And, according to the lectionary, the story for today ends right there. 

But the so-called “Triumphal Entry” into Jerusalem wasn’t just that day. The point of the palm Sunday public action wasn’t just to have a parade and “look around” as if on a fact finding mission. Though evidently what Jesus perceived in church policies and behavior, in congress and state legislatures and courts and precincts, triggered a nasty mood. Because on the way back to Jerusalem for day two of the action, Jesus takes out his frustration on an unsuspecting fig tree that had the audacity to not have figs available in the off season. Jesus returns to the temple and this time it’s about more than taking a look. 

Jesus comes in hot to disrupt the system, overturn the status quo, dismantle tools of injustice, reveal how things are chatá, Hebrew for missing the mark. Jesus speaks words of scripture, runs people off who aid and abet an unjust system, and flips the money tables—all to challenge and reveal codified systems that benefit the few and marginalize and disenfranchise the many and the most vulnerable. (e.g. Mk 12:38-40) Jesus’ palm Sunday action was not a fact finding mission but a life-saving mission. And its procession route led him to reveal in no uncertain terms how religion was missing the mark, how politics was missing the mark, how economics was missing the mark. Because all of these things were failing to produce the fruits that sustain life for ALL in and out of season. And that is what they are supposed to do. No excuses. //

Our tendency in the American Church is generally to jump from Christmas to New Years Eve to Super Bowl to Palm Sunday to Easter (a few of those are not officially in the liturgical cycle, FYI). We jump from celebration to celebration, big day to big day. And it makes sense, of course. Life is hard—and we all need things to look forward to. 

But here’s the thing: the things we look forward to can become nothing more than distractions and props for the status quo if we fail to attend to what happens in-between. For example, if we’re not careful, Christmas can become about how to pile more money on the tables of the rich while making the poor feel guilty that they can’t do more for their children—and this for a story about a child who came into the world to turn those tables (and more!) upside down and to bring relief to the poor. If we take a short cut

Lament as Prophecy

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 21, 2021, Lent 5, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

                  Text: Psalm 10

Why, O Lord, do you stand far off, allowing the proliferation of hate, hate speech, hate crimes, champions of hate spouting hate and violence, spewing bigotry and hatred through airwaves that flow into living rooms, limousines and dive bars, the hateful rhetoric seeping into minds that move bodies to do more violence? 

Why, O Lord, do you stand far off, allowing the proliferation of legislation and legislators that do harm, that redline and manipulate, that pander to profit margins and power brokers, that ignore what makes for peace and instead rally around the worship of weapons, that make it possible to buy a gun and use it for murder that same day, but impossible to register and vote on the same day?

Why, O Lord, do you stand far off, allowing your beloved, vulnerable children to be objectified, terrorized, marginalized, demonized, stalked, targeted, assaulted, and killed? 

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

In arrogance the wicked persecute the poor—…

Their mouths are filled with cursing and deceit and oppression;    under their tongues are mischief and iniquity.They sit in ambush in the villages;    in hiding places they murder the innocent.

Their eyes stealthily watch for the helpless;    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. (Ps 10: 1-2a, 7-9)

Our human capacity for oppression and violence knows no boundaries; it exists in multiple forms and falls upon persons of every kind and color. Each country, culture, or community will have its own flavor or nuance of oppression based on all sorts of factors—from Myanmar to Israel to Zimbabwe to the U.S.—from kitchen table to board room table. But some common threads, clearly identified in our scriptures, appear wherever humans are found: those upon whom violence falls are consistently the vulnerable, those on the margins of mainstream, white-bread, fit-in-a-box society, the poor, the outsider, the person who looks, sounds, or acts outside of any culturally, socially constructed “norm.” Oh—and also women and children. Basic rule of thumb for oppression: if the person can be used, abused, or taken advantage of, they’re fair game.

 

Our own country and culture continues to be exposed for the tapestry of human cruelty, neglect, and injustice that mark both our history and our present moment. This past week we’ve been reminded, through deadly attack, of the anti-Asian bigotry that is part of that tapestry. The ongoing push in so many states across the country for legislation that suppresses voter access is part of that tapestry. The litany of strands that make up the blanket of injustices covering our land could stretch from the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans, white with foam. 

Injustice is not all of who we are, but it is part of who we are. Denial of this doesn’t make anything better. It makes things worse. And so prophets through the ages cry out in lament, naming the pain and injustice in their context in order to wake people up. And we need prophets because from age to age those crying out from the margins or gasping for breath under the boot of the oppressor are ignored, devalued, or dismissed as the noises of ingrates, traitors, whiners, weaklings, slackers, or criminals.

We know how easy it is to ignore or make up excuses to dismiss injustice when we’re not directly taking the blows. And the whole system in which we live is designed to help us do just that. Walter Brueggemann’s scripture-based definition of empire describes our context in the U.S.: “rule by a few, economic exploitation, and religious legitimation.” This reality leads to a “numbed consciousness of denial.” Even if we don’t mean to, everything around u

Lament as Release

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 14, 2021, Lent 4, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

                  Text: Psalm 22

Many things look different today than they did this time last year. One of those things is our basement. In the midst of a major overhaul and repurposing of the space, I’ve learned more about BTUs and the need for outside air than I ever cared to know. Evidently, for someone to safely sleep down there, we need to install an air vent valve. If this isn’t cared for, toxic fumes can build up and do damage to human bodies!

This came to mind as I thought about the spiritual practice of lament as “release.” It’s common these days to hear someone say, “I just need to vent!” There are times when we need to get energy or feelings or frustrations out so they don’t do damage to our bodies and spirits! A good “vent” session is appropriately shared with someone trustworthy who understands you need to get something out of your system. And venting is not an edited essay, but rather flows unfiltered right from the place of pain. 

Psalm 22 and all Psalms of lament are like that; sharing with God what we need to get out of our system—when something is not right, when there is pain, grief, injustice, fear, persecution. And, as we’ve been learning, the practice of lament invites us to speak freely to God, literally to liberate ourselves from any pretending. 

When we speak freely with God, not controlling everything in an attempt to feel, sound, or appear “together,” then our words are no longer held hostage and can begin to name things that shift our trajectory. Perhaps you have experienced something like this; when you let go of your politeness with God and allow your words to flow unhindered, sometimes new insight or forgotten wisdom emerges and you catch at least a glimpse of hope or new life.

Some of you may remember a couple of weeks ago when we discovered in Jeremiah 20 one verse of “praise chorus” (verse 13) sandwiched between two absolutely brutal laments of complaint. I suggested that in giving voice to our pain without trying to clean it up, our speech might turn from complaint to praise. And biblical scholars say this is not at all unusual. The lament prayers in scripture consistently make such a turn. Most Psalms of lament include not only complaint and pleas for help but also words of trust and praise. 

Psalm 22 may be one of the best-known Psalms of lament, because it’s quoted by Jesus from the cross (Mt 27:46, Mk 15:34): “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The opening complaint in the Psalm is followed in verses 3-5 with words of trust. This pattern of complaint then trust repeats in verses 6-10. In verse 11 we receive a petition for help: “Do not be far from me.” Then back into complaint (verses 12-18) followed by another petition “But you, O Lord, do not be far away!...Deliver my soul…my life…Save me!” (19-21a)

Then there is a final turn in the prayer. Beginning in verse 21b, the psalmist breaks into a song of praise that carries the prayer to its ending. Notice that the praise is not because all things have been made well. Most of the language is future oriented—things that “will” happen. And a key word is “remember.” People will remember God’s mighty acts of salvation and “future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.” (Ps 22:30b-31)

Memory and hope are intertwined here. Some of you have heard me say before, “in the present we can hope for the future because we know what God has done in the past.” This memory of God’s activity liberates us in the present moment. It keeps us from being bound by despair, from becoming stuck in pain and resentment. 

But sometimes we may need to rattle our cage in order to shake loose memory that’s been crusted over with pain, humiliation, or rage. The Psalms of lament show us how. They illustrate that to get

Lament as Confession

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 7, 2021, Lent 3, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

              Text: Psalm 51:1-17

Lament is what we do when bad things happen to us or those we love. We’ve been focused on that kind of lament the past couple of weeks. But what about when we do bad things to ourselves or to others? This also inspires lament, when guilt at the damage we’ve done causes us to experience anguish, that terrible weight of realization that you can’t undo the thing, that it’s just out there in the world. It might be public. It might be just between you and the person you’ve hurt. It might be secret. But in any case, it’s happened and it’s in you. What will you do with it? As with any suffering, difficult emotions, or reality, we are invited to bring it to God in prayer.

The so-called “penitential psalms” of lament are models. Today we received Psalm 51, the Psalm traditionally included in the Ash Wednesday liturgy. Every year these lines land in my being with a thud:

…I know my transgressions,    and my sin is ever before me.Against you, you alone, have I sinned,    and done what is evil in your sight,so that you are justified in your sentence    and blameless when you pass judgment.Indeed, I was born guilty,    a sinner when my mother conceived me. (Ps 51:3-5)

Another, perhaps less familiar prayer, Psalm 38, includes these lines:For my iniquities have gone over my head;    they weigh like a burden too heavy for me.

My wounds grow foul and fester    because of my foolishness;I am utterly bowed down and prostrate;    all day long I go around mourning.I am utterly spent and crushed;    I groan because of the tumult of my heart. (Ps 38:4-5,8)

These lament prayers in scripture give us words that viscerally describe the experience of suffering both the guilt and consequences of our own iniquity, sin, and “foolishness.” In that often railed against verse, Psalm 51:5—the verse that makes it sound like babies are horrible sinners—what we receive are words of pain and grief at the unavoidable participation in sin even from our earliest moments of life; because none of us, even as children, are free from the capacity for self-centeredness and ignorance and doing harm. 

There is a difference between such awareness of human sin, true remorse, and confession and words spoken or actions taken in an attempt to evade responsibility or do damage control. For some, what really makes them upset is not that they’ve hurt someone, but getting caught in their wrongdoing. They may do a press conference or release to issue a public apology to try to cover their backsides. But at the end of Psalm 51 it says:

For you (God) have no delight in sacrifice;    if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;    a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (51:16-17)

Going public with your transgression will be deeply painful, but notice here that the public act of making a sacrifice is nothing more than hypocrisy unless that public act is attended by a true acknowledgement of the harm done and a heart broken by the pain of it. 

At this point, some of you may be tempted to check out of this conversation, turned off by all this sin and guilt stuff. So let me acknowledge that, for ages, there has been an unhealthy and unbalanced emphasis on sin and judgment in Christian preaching and teaching. Whether intended or not, the message received by thousands upon thousands of the faithful is that we are born bad and that God is mostly interested in judging us, giving us grades based on performance, and deciding who’s “in” and who’s “out” of heaven. As a result of this long imbalance, lament as confession will likely feel much more familiar and “traditional” than the rage and searing accusations against God we’ve encountered from Jeremiah the past couple of weeks. 

Wanting to balance “original sin

Lament as Trust

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, February 28, 2021, Lent 2, “Learning to Sing the Blues” series.

            Text: Jeremiah 20:7-18

If you were to flip through the pages of the Bible I was given by my church in the 3rd grade, you’d see that I spent some time as a child, marking passages I thought were especially important. Some I remember in particular are from Proverbs, and the topic is anger and how important it is to speak “pleasant words” if you speak at all. For example, Proverbs 29:11 says, “A fool gives full vent to anger, but the wise quietly holds it back.” 

I was determined to try to be patient and wise and to speak pleasant words, kind words, gentle words. I was what? 8 or 9 or 10 years old? Since those early days of my life with God, I’ve come to understand that holding back quietly isn’t always the way of wisdom. There “is a time to keep silence and a time to speak,” (Ecclesiastes 3:7) a time for anger and for peace. Last week, we began to explore the spiritual practice of lament and were reminded that we are not limited to only “pleasant words” when we speak to God. We are free and, in fact, encouraged to bring it all—and that includes our most raw expressions of pain, rage, and grief. The encouragement is simply to be honest. Though it isn’t always simple or easy to do that.

Just this past week, I spent time with a beloved friend who is experiencing a time of deep suffering. Significant losses and challenges in his life have left him feeling alone and deeply depressed. Through his tears, he talked about how he wears masks every day, never letting others see what he’s feeling. He has always been the one to take care of things, to manage the details of life for himself and his loved ones, to be strong and confident. He feels like a failure right now. This is an all-too-common experience for men in particular, though of course “fake it ‘til you make it” is a sometimes dangerous strategy employed by persons of any gender identity. Thank God, my friend found it within himself to trust me enough to reach out and say he needed a hand. But here’s the thing: if no one teaches you or gives you resources to ask for help—or to tell you it is allowed!—then tragedies of all kinds can and do occur. Many people literally do not have the language to give voice to their pain or know how to ask for help. 

This is one reason it is such a gift that the prayer and practice of lament is part of our faith tradition. When our congregations utilize the language of lament in prayers, sing words of lament in Spirituals and other sacred music like we’re receiving today in worship, and create the kinds of brave spaces in which people feel free to be honest, we collectively learn the language of pain and can practice naming the pain and suffering in our lives and the pain we observe in the world around us. And we also learn that it is OK to bring it all to God.

Last week and today we have received words of lament from the prophet Jeremiah. In chapter 1 of the book, we are told that Jeremiah’s calling as a prophet was upon him “in the womb.” When Jeremiah becomes aware of this call, he protests that he’s too young for the task. And, in response, God promises to be with him, tells him not to be afraid, puts God’s words in Jeremiah’s mouth, and appoints him “over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow…” (Jer 1:10) Yeah, that always goes well… There’s a reason for the  saying “don’t shoot the messenger…” Jeremiah sets about speaking truth to power and calling the people out for their idolatry and breach of covenant with God. Persecution ensues.

One example is found just prior to our scripture passage for today where we are told that Pashhur, a priest in charge of the temple police whose job it was to keep order in the sacred space, had arrested Jeremiah, beaten him, and put him put him on display in stocks. (Jer 20:1-2) // Jerem