I put the finishing touches on this sermon close to 11 last night and then turned on the tv only to learn of George Zimmerman’s acquittal. I was tempted to throw out my sermon, but I don’t think you would be well served by my unfiltered, extemporaneous feelings and thoughts on the situation. I do offer these words from Richard Cohen, president and CEO of the Southern Poverty Law Center. And perhaps my sermon about the sustaining power of liturgy may offer some comfort and sustenance at this time.
“Op-Ed
Richard Cohen: Southern Poverty Law Center Response to Verdict in State of Florida v. George Zimmerman
Author: Southern Poverty Law Center
Published on Jul 15, 2013 – 9:18:38 AM
July 14, 2013 – The following statement was issued by Richard Cohen, President and CEO of the Southern Poverty Law Center, following the verdict in State of Florida v. George Zimmerman:
“They always get away.” These were the words George Zimmerman uttered as he followed and later shot Trayvon Martin — words that reflected his belief that Trayvon was one of “them,” the kind of person about to get away with something. How ironic these words sound now in light of the jury verdict acquitting Zimmerman.
Trayvon is dead, and Zimmerman is free. Who was the one who got away?
Can we respect the jury verdict and still conclude that Zimmerman got away with killing Trayvon? I think so, even if we buy Zimmerman’s story that Trayvon attacked him at some point. After all, who was responsible for initiating the tragic chain of events? Who was following whom? Who was carrying a gun? Who ignored the police urging that he stay in his car? Who thought that the other was one of “them,” someone about to get a away with something?
The jury has spoken, and we can respect its conclusion that the state did not prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. But we cannot fail to speak out about the tragedy that occurred in Sanford, Florida, on the night of February 26, 2012.
Was race at the heart of it? Ask yourself this question: If Zimmerman had seen a white youth walking in the rain that evening, would he have seen him as one of “them,” someone about to get away with something?
We’ll never really know, of course. But we can seriously doubt it without assuming that Zimmerman is a racist in the conventional sense of the word.
Racial bias reverberates in our society like the primordial Big Bang. Jesse Jackson made the point in a dramatic way when he acknowledged that he feels a sense of relief when the footsteps he hears behind him in the dead of night turn out to belong to white feet. Social scientists who study our hidden biases make the same point in a more sober way with statistics that demonstrate that we are more likely to associate black people with negative words and imagery than we are white people. It’s an association that devalues the humanity of black people, particularly black youth like Trayvon Martin.
George Zimmerman probably saw race the night of February 26, 2012, just like so many of us probably would have. Had he not, Trayvon probably would be alive today.
The jury has spoken. Now, we must speak out against the racial bias that still infects our society and distorts our perception of the world. And we must do something about it.
The Southern Poverty Law Center, based in Alabama with offices in Florida, Georgia, Louisiana and Mississippi, is a nonprofit civil rights organization dedicated to fighting hate and bigotry, and to seeking justice for the most vulnerable members of society. For more information, see www.splcenter.org.
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These words particularly resonate in light of today’s Gospel in which Jesus reminds us who our neighbor is and how we are called to treat each other.
From today’s Hebrew Scripture reading: “Surely, this commandment that I am commanding you today is not too hard for you, nor is it too far away.
30:12 It is not in heaven, that you should say, “Who will go up to heaven for us, and get it for us so that we may hear it and observe it?”
30:13 Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who will cross to the other side of the sea for us, and get it for us so that we may hear it and observe it?”
30:14 No, the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart for you to observe.” No, the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth in and in your heart for you to observe.
You’ve probably noticed that for awhile now we’ve been introducing the mass with words to the effect of “Welcome! If you are not used to the Episcopal liturgy, please don’t let it be a hindrance to your worship. We invite you to let the liturgy carry you; we’re glad that you’re here.”
Of course these words are intended to help make newcomers feel more at home, more welcome, into what at first may be a confusing worship experience. “When do I stand? When do I sit? What is that smoke coming down the center aisle? Why is everyone dressed in a long white dress? Why does everyone know what to say except, it seems, me?” And so on.
With the reading from Deuteronomy today being God’s promise to us that God’s law, God’s covenant, God’s word to us is not far away and distant but rather very near to us — in our mouths and in our hearts — it seems an opportune time to dig a little deeper into what we mean when we say “just let the liturgy carry you.”
First, the word itself, “liturgy.” As those of you who have heard me take words apart before can almost predict, the word liturgy comes from the — wait for it! wait for it! — Greek. The word “litourgea” actually meant the “works of the people — things like sewers and roads and garbage removal — works of the people to enhance the life of the community. For the religious application we turn to Wikipedia, source of all knowledge (remember when accessing such information meant looking it up in a book? Wow, how backward… Wikipedia, hmmm, by the ancient Greek understanding would certainly qualify as a “litourgea,” work of the people.!) But I digress.
In religious terms, according to Wikipedia, “Liturgy is the customary public worship done by a specific religious group, according to its particular traditions.
The word, sometimes rendered by its English translation “service”, may refer to an elaborate formal ritual. As a religious phenomenon, liturgy is a communal response to the sacred through activity reflecting praise, thanksgiving, supplication or repentance. Ritualization may be associated with life events such as birth, coming of age, marriage and death. It thus forms the basis for establishing a relationship with a divine agency, as well as with other participants in the liturgy. Methods of dress, preparation of food, application of cosmetics or other hygienic practices are all considered liturgical activities.”
Liturgy the works of the people offered up in a ritualized way to the glory and worship of God.
Ritualized way. Hmmmm — that brings me to something I have to confess I wrestled with for quite awhile. Maybe because I was raised in a “low Episcopal church tradition” where we only had communion once a month (and that could only be received by people who had been confirmed — not baptized, mind you, but confirmed — usually at age 12 or so). The services in the church I grew up in always seemed to be pretty much the same and the main focus was always the sermon. This took place in the context of something called “Morning Prayer.” Every Sunday I would pray that we would be late enough to miss the long, (llllooooonnnnngggg), mostly boring sermon but because the sermon comes almost at the end of Moring Prayer my prayers mostly went unanswered.
And even when we did have communion (which, before 1979 was held in the language of Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare which was a struggle and a tedium for my young brain) it always seemed so repetitious. Same thing, more or less, each time. Why can’t they mix it up and make it more exciting, I kept wondering.
After my almost obligatory hiatus from church in my late teens and early twenties, as many of you know I returned to church in the context of a generic “Protestant” military chapel setting. The service was quite different from what I had grown up with — the minister picked which Bible passage he would preach from each Sunday (instead of having them prescribed by a set “lectionary” — or calendar of readings we follow). He would also pretty much have to design the service anew each Sunday, with a long introductory prayer he had written himself as well as other elements that I no longer recall (except for communion, which came once a month — the lower five rungs of a circular tray being filled with little plastic beakers of grape juice and the upper two with little plastic beakers of white wine so the Episcopalians and Lutherans could tell the wine from the grape juice. I can so relate to confusion among new-comers — the first time I took communion at the Camp Darby Protestant Chapel I took the grape juice beaker because no one had explained to me that the top tiers were wine; by the color I had thought they were apple juice! Oh dear…!)
It was through that experience — somewhere around 3 or 4 years’ worth of experiencing a different service every week that I began to appreciated the ritual of the liturgy I had grown up with (plus having an Episcopal church in not-too-far-away Florence to go to periodically which also helped deepen my appreciation of the liturgy). The words of different preacher-written prayers each week (and during my time there I saw three different preachers come and go — one of them great, one of them good, and one of them no-so-much…) I would either think “hmm, that’s interesting” or “I may just get up and leave right now” or something in between — but within a fairly short matter of time the words would leave me. I contrasted that to words with sticking power, such as:
“… to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid…” or:
“…thanks be to God!” or:
“…Lord hear our prayer” or:
“…we have not loved you with our whole heart, we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves…: or:
“Go in peace to love and serve the LORD!” or the ever-popularL
“The Lord be with you!” (how many times during a Star Wars movie have you answered either silently or audibly to “May the Force be with you! … And also with you!”
And then there are words from the liturgies for life events: the five vows of baptism. “Dearly Beloved, we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony.” Or from the confirmation service: “Strengthen, O Lord, your servant with your Holy Spirit; empower her for your service, and sustain her all the day of her life” — and then we wince wondering how hard Bishop Frade’s little smack on the cheek will be. Or the powerful words from the last rites, “Depart O Christian soul, out of this world…” And finally the Burial Office: “Yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.” My liturgics professor, Charlie Price, was quite intentional in choosing the title of his book Liturgy for Living because truly our Book of Common Prayer, the liturgy — works of the people — we follow is a handbook for our daily, weekly, and lifelong living and how each of these is a potential encounter with God. The ritual words and symbols and gestures we use and make are meant to become part of us — “very near to us,” as today’s words from Deuteronomy remind us, “in our mouths and in our hearts for us to observe.” For us to be reminded daily, weekly, and throughout our lives, of the very presence and nearness of God to us, within us.
Occasionally, over the years, as I have counseled couples for marriage, the request has arisen “could we write our own vows?” Yes, I reply, there is a provision in our prayer book for that, but let’s first go over the words of the words we have in the prayer book. As we do, I point out that these words, or words similar to them have been said by generations upon generations of couples before them and they will continue to be said by generations upon generations yet to come. As we say these words we enter into something timeless, something transcendent, something much bigger than ourselves. And there is strength and assurance in that. I actually have yet to officiate a wedding where the couple writes their own vows — vows which, after all, are fleeting and then gone in that one moment, because ultimately I believe we all have a need to be part of and enter into something timeless, something transcendent, something much bigger than ourselves. We all have a need for the strength and assurance those words, that liturgy, all liturgy ultimately gives us.
Or, to quote the far more eloquent words of Anglican monk and liturgist Dom Gregory Dix in the final chapter of his The Shape of the Liturgy as he describes Holy Communion, aka Holy Eucharist, aka the Mass:
“Was ever another command so obeyed? For century after century, spreading slowly to every continent and country and among every race on earth, this action has been done, in every conceivable human circumstance, for every conceivable human need from infancy and before it to extreme old age and after it, from the pinnacles of earthly greatness to the refuge of fugitives in the caves and dens of the earth. Men have found no better
thing than this to do for kings at their crowning and for criminals going to the scaffold; for armies in triumph or for a bride and bridegroom in a little country church; for the proclamation of a dogma or for a good crop of wheat; for the wisdom of the Parliament of a mighty nation or for a sick old woman afraid to die; for a schoolboy sitting an examination or for Columbus
setting out to discover America; for the famine of whole provinces or for the soul of a dead lover; in thankfulness because my father did not die of pneumonia; for a village headman much tempted to return to fetish because the yams had failed; because the Turk was at the gates of Vienna; for the repentance of Margaret; for the settlement of a strike; for a son for a barren woman; for Captain so-and-so, wounded and prisoner of war; while the lions roared in the nearby amphitheatre; on the beach at Dunkirk; while the hiss of scythes in the thick June grass came faintly through the windows of the church; tremulously, by an old monk on the fiftieth anniversary
of his vows; furtively, by an exiled bishop who had hewn timber all day in a prison camp near Murmansk; gorgeously, for the canonisation of S. Joan of Arc — could fill many pages with the reasons why men have done this, and not tell a hundredth part of them. And best of all, week by week and month by month, on a hundred thousand successive Sundays,
faithfully, unfailingly, across all the parishes of christendom, the pastors have done this just to make the plebs sancta Dei-the holy common people of God.” AMEN.
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