Though I didn’t do anything with the text last week, I’m still thinking about the question Kathryn Matthews posed in her weekly musings in the United Church of Christ’s Sermon Seeds about the grieving parents in the Passover story. How is this OK? How is any of this OK? How can God come along and strike down the first male child in every Egyptian household? How can we hold that grief now when 189,000 have died in our own country to COVID-19?
It’s a question she repeats in her reflection this week when she asks about the Egyptians swallowed up by the sea. It’s the same question that is stuck in my throat. It’s the grief that feel constant in these pandemic days. So, these prayers might not part any waters but those walls of tears that we are all so carefully holding at bay.
Gathering Together for Worship
A dear friend of mine texted a few weeks ago looking for words of comfort after a death in her family. It sent me looking for some of my favorite poems and reminded me that the early days of the pandemic added to my files with some lovely words that might be just what is needed to part the waters in your worship experience, including If the Trees Can Keep Dancing, So Can I. I also rather like If you had been here, Lord by Mark Goad and Kaddish by Marge Piercy. The last of which really fits well with the Exodus reading.
Call to Worship Inspired by Psalm 114 and Romans 14:1-12 Tremble, O earth, for everything that feels strange and new. It has already shaken you. It has already caused you to wonder. It has shaken your faith because every day feels the same and it is harder and harder to believe that tomorrow will be a better day. Tremble, O earth, feel that shiver down your spine and that stirring in your heart that knows, deeply, we do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. We live in hope. We exist in love. Tremble, O earth, we gather in the presence of God, the God of Jacob, Leah and Rachel, Moses, Aaron and Miriam. We gather to praise God who never stops bringing wonder and new life to the living and the dead. Tremble, O people, let us worship all we wonder.
Gathering Our Grief
I don’t think that there are enough prayers to articulate the tremendous loss that we are experiencing in the global community. There have been several beautifully stunning essays that have appeared upon my screen recently that I could imagine using in worship as sermon fodder or even to read excerpts mingled with scripture as a sort of lessons and carols, including one on collective and personal grief and this one that will just break your heart open again. You’ve made this worship thing happen remotely on the fly for over six month now, dear pastor. You can take a break from preaching. You deserve it. Here is a prayer to speak to the grief we all feel.
O God, there have been six million cases. Over six million people have gasped for breath and lost their sense of smell. Some have recovered by a number that is too hard to account. Others have been on ventilators in Intensive Care Units. They died in sterile hospital beds under the careful attention of nurses and doctors hidden behind masks. They said goodbye to their families at the hospital doors without comprehending that this would be the last time. O God, nearly two hundred thousand lives have been lost. Eight hundred ninety-eight thousand lives around this earth have been lost. It causes us to tremble. It shakes us to the core and so we need you God. We need you to stretch out your hand to offer comfort hope. Bring your full presence into this pandemic moment so that we might feel your grace again. We pray in your wonder. Amen.
Praying Through Rage
Though I knew that the reality of this pandemic was impacting minority and immigrant communities ten times harder than others, I had not imagined how hard until I read about the ministry of this Mexican pastor in New York City. This prayer speaks to the tears I shed reading this story.
I’m not assuming your whole congregation read this story and so you might need to adapt it for your context or headlines that are more familiar to your people. If this doesn’t sound like grief to you, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross thought that the second stage of grief in death is anger. It comes after refusing to believe this thing is real. It’s where I find my current pandemic reality.
Hear Our Rage Inspired by Exodus 14:19-31 Angel of God, move behind us so that we might find ourselves in a protected place away from the corruption of empire and greed, away from the powers that make their own gods. Light up the night for there are things that we need to say that only you can bear, O God. Drive back the seas of polite prayers and get ready for the pillar of grief that has been wedged into our lives since we first heard of COVID-19. Stretch your mighty hand over this fury and rage, O God. Just as it was not fair to drown the entire Egyptian Army that day, it is no more fair to condemn your beloved kin to this virus. On our best days, we believe its not your fault. We know better. We are mature in our faith but it is not OK that a man lies in terror next to his dead brother in a studio apartment in New York City because he fears deportation and lacks the funds for a proper burial for his brother's decomposing body. O God, this is the pillar of our grief. Hear our rage. "Why did you bring him here?" should not be the first words shouted in English to an immigrant who has just rushed his brother to the emergency room. We are all scared of getting sick but a language barrier should not deny anyone care. O God, this is the pillar of our grief. Hear our rage. Our pastors phones constantly rings their email dings every second and their social media is haunted by the doomscrolling of every tender heart in their care. They need a break. They are tired but this virus refuses to retreat. O God, this is the pillar of our grief. Hear our rage. There is no dry ground to stand on. This pandemic rages on our right and on our left. It towers over us. O God, this is the pillar of our grief. Hear our rage. We are spinning our wheels only to churn up mud and despair. We are spinning our wheels only to churn up mud and despair. There is no escape and we fear we might drown in our lack of care for each other. O God, this is the pillar of our grief. Hear our rage. We need your grace to lead. On our left and on our right, we need a waters of love and hope to gently ease us into whatever comes next. Move behind us and before us, O God. Hold us in our fury and help us to discover what good this anger can become. For we know, O God, even when we doubt, that we do not live to ourselves and you will bring new life even out of death. We pray it will be so.
Another Thought
Years ago, I first heard the story of Nachshon who stepped into the water after Moses raised his staff over the water and nothing happened. He waded into the water until it was up to his nostrils and it was only then that the waters split. It didn’t feel like a story for this moment until I read this reflection that concludes:
When Nachshon and his people get to the other side of the sea, what is there to greet them? Not a Promised Land, but a wide, wild desert that will take years to navigate. Just because the sea splits doesn’t mean we know exactly where we are going or how we’re going to get there. But we do know this: The first steps are the hardest ones, and the most necessary. With those steps, with Nachshon, the story really begins.
Rabbi Adam Greenwald
I do not know exactly how this would tie into worship but it feels like there is something there because we are not yet on the other side of this pandemic, as much as we might dream about it. As with grief, we do not know where we are going or how we will get there but there is something about the steps we are taking now. There is something to the lament, the protest and even the dreaming. Something is beginning. I have to believe that.
That’s all I’ve got for you this week. I’ve also shared some ingredients (though maybe not a whole recipe) for stewardship and backpack blessings. This particular Sunday makes me wonder how we will honor the saints on All Saints Day and has me thinking about what Christmas Eve will look like for my family and yours when worship is not in-person. Maybe I’ll start some liturgies for those sooner rather than later. God knows, you are already thinking about those things.
Dear pastors, liturgists and musicians, I’m praying for you, as always.
Cooking with Elsa 