Todays sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on the 8th Sunday after Pentecost, July 14,  2024

“The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her.”  ~an excerpt from Mark 6:14-29 

It sounds absurd, doesn't it? A woman is offered anything she wants by a powerful man. 
Of all the possibilities, she chooses to have another man beheaded. The powerful man, in a moment of bacchanalian distraction, has vowed to honor the woman's request in front of a room full of guests...so, rather than have the guests think poorly of him, he has another man beheaded. Surely this story has nothing to do with us, right? Except political violence explodes every day in our world, including at yesterday’s political rally where shots rang out, injuring Donald Trump and killing a bystander.  The shooter, now identified as a 20-year-old, was also killed. What are we supposed to do with these images of violence, besides observe with horror and disgust?  What did the guests at Herod’s birthday banquet do, do you suppose? 

Why do those in today’s gospel behave as they do?  Does the devil make them do it?  

Well, maybe.  But it seems to me fear, not evil, rules their hearts and minds....and that’s the tie that binds us to them...and us all to the Good News.  Herod is afraid of public opinion because public opinion is tied to his ability to govern; Herodias is afraid of losing power without her marriage to Herod; and the dancing daughter is afraid of her mother.  Together, the fearful trio is capable of great evil.  We are, too, when we allow fear to rule our hearts and minds.  Fear is loose in our world today—at a rally in Pennsylvania, in Sudan, Ukraine, Gaza…and sometimes in our own hearts and minds.  What can we, as a people of faith, do to neutralize hatred, fear and the violence they beget?  Are we helpless bystanders? Can we have peace in our own lives?  If by peace we mean a restful contentment with the way things are, then we probably have missed the point of Jesus’ life and teachings.  What if, instead, Jesus means something like these words written by Catholic priest and activist, Oscar Romero: “Peace isn’t the product of terror or fear, nor the silence of cemeteries.   Rather, peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all.  Peace is generosity.”  Jesus knew this kind of peace and lived it, even unto death on a cross.  He insisted with the full force of his life that this kind of peace is central to the peace of God.  Giving generously of ourselves isn’t measured by outward behavior only, though. Instead, spontaneous giving comes from an inner place of selflessness.  That’s the kind of peace Jesus gives us.   

It’s the kind of peace Joy Albert gave to our small group the night it seemed the world had gone mad.  No one was feeling very generous that night.  I was the chaplain-on-call when it all started.  Most anything can happen in a large, inner city hospital emergency room.  Grady Memorial, in inner city Atlanta, is where I learned that first-hand.   Still, some things startle the soul, even if you think you’ve seen it all.  I was asleep in the chaplain’s duty room when my beeper went off.  It was the ER.  I called.  An agitated nurse answered, “Come now.  Hurry.”  You sleep fully clothed when you’re on duty.  As I sprinted down four flights of steps to the ER, I wondered what I’d find.  Nearing it, I could hear shouting and then gun shots.  For a brief moment, I wished I could just go back to the duty room.  But then, I was in the midst of it—a full-blown gang fight in progress in the waiting room.  Atlanta police officers had been summoned I was told...but at that very moment there were only two Grady security guards trying to contain 8 or so very agitated members of opposing gangs.   The waiting room had been cleared to avoid injury to innocent bystanders.  The guards had their weapons drawn as did four gang members.  Several of the gang members were bleeding.  I didn’t see how this could end well.  When the Atlanta police would arrive, the tension would only escalate and result in more violence.  The conflict was well beyond the let’s-sit-down-and-work-this-out stage. I felt helpless—an impotent witness to the violence of the human heart.   What would Jesus do in a situation like this?  Was peace, of any kind, possible? 

My thoughts were stopped short by her voice. It boomed through the hallway announcing her arrival.  “Let me through” I could hear her saying.  And then her petite frame entered the doorway to the waiting area.  A gray-haired African-American woman wielding a cane in her hand marched herself into the middle of the mayhem and planted herself firmly between the two gangs.  Waving the cane in the direction of the security guards she said, “Put your guns away.”  Surprisingly, they did.  Then with hands on her hips she called each gang member by name and then said, “I know you and you know me, so you listen real good to what I’m saying.  Dr. King did not give his life for this.  Shame on you!”  “Stay outta this, Mama Albert,” one of the young men said.  “This ain’t none of your concern.”  Enraged, the elderly woman marched herself up to the speaker. Looking into his angry face she shook her cane and said through gritted teeth, “That’s where you’re wrong.  This is about all of us.  If it was just about you, I’d let you shoot each other until all of you were in a heap dead and your mamas would cry at your funerals and then we’d be done with you.  But it’s not just about you.  It’s about us--all of us.   Ain’t gonna be no-peace-no-where until you can get that into your heads and hearts.  You hear me, boy?  I mean, do you really hear me?”   The young man nodded, and began to put his weapon in his jacket pocket.  Her cane was lightning fast as it  struck his hand.  “Weapons on the table...all of you...do it now.  Then get out of here...the sirens are close.”  Eight guns were placed on the table.  The young men exited out the side door right before the police came in the front door.  Mama Albert said to no one in particular, “I’m getting too old for this,” and then looking suddenly tired, she slumped into a chair.  I asked for a nurse, who took her charge into a room for observation.  Joy Albert died that night from what was termed a massive heart attack.  Her funeral, held at Ebenezer Baptist Church, was filled to capacity with those honoring her life. 
​
Is peace possible in the midst of our world today?  It is if you’re Joy Albert.  She insisted on it, with the full force of her being.  Her spirit overflowed with a peace that passes understanding.  She was brimful with the kind of generosity that births the peace of God anew in our world.  She rests in peace now; but she lived in peace while here.  We’re called to do likewise.  It’s about us—all of us.  Christ is risen indeed when we live our lives in this way.  May the peace of the Lord be with us all, that we might be conduits of peace for a world sore in need.  As followers of Jesus, this is our legacy and our sacred calling.  Amen.     
©   Marion E. Kanour 

Todays sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on the 7th Sunday after Pentecost, July 7,  2024

“Fear not, I am with thee; O be not dismayed!  For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid.”  ~verse 2 of the hymn “How firm a foundation” 

The choir is singing this beloved hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” as our Offertory anthem today.  In our current hymnal it has two musical settings, found as hymns 636 and 637.  It first appeared anonymously in 1787 in John Rippon’s popular hymnal. Some have speculated his friend Robert Keene assisted, but no definitive evidence exists. The original lyricist’s identity has been lost to history, though the hymn lives on.  

How many times since 1787 have our shared foundations been shaken?  Surely, every generation can claim more than one such pivotal experience. Some might even include the present moment in our nation’s history.  Families and individuals have foundation-shaking experiences as well.  Death, divorce, and life-changing illness readily come to mind.  At such moments, the faithful hope the words of the hymn are true—that whatever God may be, will be there for us.   So, is that your experience?  Think back on your own foundation-shaking moments.  Are the words of the hymn true, or is it just pretty to think so?   

We don’t always think about the words of the hymns.  As my mother used to say, “Just sing the hymn and stop thinking so much.” But then, my mother, as some of you know, was a person of unexamined faith.  Generally-speaking, she believed simply because she believed.  My father was a skeptic, but secretly a “believer wannabe.”   So, most of his questions of faith had a kind of “show me” quality to them.  Daddy wanted to believe; but he wanted proof, real proof not imagined proof, that God’s love still animates the world.  Mother never needed proof.  When asked how she knew with certainty that God was there, she’d respond with an exasperated, “I just know, that’s all.”     

Normally my parents stayed in these predictable roles; so, exceptions to the rule stand out in my mind’s eye.  The most noteworthy occurred at the time of a grouping of deaths in our family.  It seemed there was a funeral every other month for awhile.  First my mother’s mother; then my father’s father; then one of my father’s sisters.  I was eleven—old enough to understand what was happening, but young enough to be of little comfort.  
 
When her mother died, my mother didn’t come out of her bedroom for 3 days.  The funeral brought her back to the world; but, even so, she was clearly depressed.  Then the other deaths occurred.  I went to Pennsylvania with my father for the two funerals there; but, mother couldn’t bring herself to attend.   My father arranged for my mother’s sister to stay with her while we were gone, out of concern for her emotional welfare.   

It was an odd time for our family.  Usually, we spoke of everything so directly, but not this time.  Clearly death had everyone running scared.   

Finally, when it seemed the deaths had ended for awhile and Mother was beginning to seem stronger again, I took up the subject at the dinner table.  If you brought up a subject at the beginning of the meal, everyone knew you were serious about it, and it stood a good chance of getting an answer.  As soon as grace was ended I began, “Mom, how come if you believe God is with you no matter what you got so sad when everybody died? Did God mess up?”  My father got that “you go, girl” look on his face, so I knew I was on firm ground.  At first she tried the, “I was sad because I missed them” response, but the look in my father’s eye told me to press her further.  “But you stayed sad,” I said.   She could’ve dismissed the comment, but instead chose to tell me the whole of it.   She said she’d lost her sense of herself for a while—that everything she thought she knew about life suddenly seemed to be on shaky ground—that she’d been afraid of losing herself entirely—and that no matter how hard she prayed, God seemed absent.  That firm foundation we’re singing about today was missing altogether for a woman who’d never doubted its existence. 

Even at eleven I realized just how frightening this must have been for her.  Then she said something I’ve never forgotten.  She said it was my father’s faith that pulled her back to herself.  My shock must have been evident because my father smiled wry acknowledgement.  He said, “When I saw your mother like that, at first I was scared for her.  But then one night, I realized she was going to be okay, even though she didn’t know it yet.  I woke her up to tell her.  And then your Mama and I did what we don’t do very often. We prayed out loud together—actually I prayed—prayed that your Mom would know in her heart how much I loved her.  I prayed she’d know that love can only be shown in human form.  So, she was waiting for God to show her love, when God was already doing that—through my love for her.”  He smiled and then asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”  I nodded, but I was absolutely speechless.  Suddenly my world was disordered.  My faith-questioning, stoic father had helped my mother through a major crisis in her spiritual and emotional life through his faith and emotional accessibility.  I couldn’t have put those words to it at eleven—but I got the picture enough to be stunned by it.  
 
We didn’t speak of that event again until 22 years later as my father lay dying in a hospice room.  My father was having a bad night and was afraid, a feeling he rarely showed anyone.  Mother got in bed next to him and held him.  At first he pulled away, but then she said softly, “I’m returning the gift you gave me when I was so afraid—do you remember?”  My father smiled, nodded, and relaxed in her arms. 

“Fear not, I am with thee; O be not dismayed! I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand…”  We do this for one another.  We do this in places where Love can seem so absent—in refugee camps, in war zones, in prisons, in homes where violence prevails, for friends who are depressed, when we lose loved ones, for those in the grip of drug addiction.  In a myriad of places in today’s seemingly ever-shifting sands, we provide that firm foundation for one another…or not.   

Today’s gospel (Mark 6:1-13) shows Jesus is powerless where people won’t receive him.  His own hometown discounts him and are untouched by his healing message.  But, in the next village, they receive him and so he has the power to heal there.  Love will make a way, if we let it.   It’s the substance of that firm foundation we all seek.  That firm foundation of Love is within us as individuals and, I believe, is within the fabric of our nation as well. Because we are the nation.  May we remember who and whose we are, called by our baptismal vows ​to be that foundation for one another, that insofar as it depends on us, Love might prevail in our hearts and minds and our world.  Let it be so. Amen. ©  Marion E. Kanour