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 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. 
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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