Homily from The Rev. 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