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Sermon Blog
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This sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour preached at Emmanuel on October 8, 2024
“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” ~an excerpt from Mark 10:2-16 Today’s reading from Genesis concerning marriage and from Mark concerning divorce are given a culmination in this reference to receiving the kingdom of God as a child. There are countless opportunities over the course of a lifetime both to marry and to divorce ourselves from people, ideas, social groups and vocations—all things we can hold dear and equally can estrange ourselves from. Through all of life’s changes and chances, the vulnerable child within each of us seeks nurture and yearns for reassurance. Sometimes, to that child, the world can seem so lacking in both. And yet at other times, our world can seem to overflow with goodness and compassion. Hurricane Helene’s devastation has given us cause and opportunity to see how caring and giving we can be when the need is so compelling. Heroic rescue efforts, heartwarming feeding programs and support for those grieving the loss of family abound just now. Yes, there are also reports of scams, but they’re few in comparison to the overall outreach for good. The reports of people helping people can move us to tears. Equally moving, though in a different way, is the political discord so evident in our nation. We’re torn down the middle at the moment. Surely, it’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But when our divisions as a nation become this palpable, the child within each of us has cause for concern. The hopeful part of our dilemma right now, at least for me, is that we’re still talking to that vulnerable child within, reassuring him or her that it’s not only normal to feel anxious concern, it’s also healthy. It’s healthy to want a better world for us and our posterity. Jesus teaches we should love God with our whole heart, mind and soul; and that we should love our neighbor as our self. While these are challenging teachings to follow, they’re consistent with how most of us think the world should be. We’d like to live in that kind of world and be that kind of person. And yet, throughout human history, we seem perpetually torn between a desire to subdue and conquer on the one hand, and a hope that equity, justice, mercy and love will prevail, on the other. Are we caught in a no-win dualistic dilemma? Is there more than palliative relief from this relentless, conflicted drama; or, is this our destiny while here on earth? It’s the question that, intentionally or unintentionally, we answer with our lives. We can’t rise above the conflict. We only can go through it. It’s tempting to think we can avoid conflict. You’ve probably noticed, the more you try to avoid it, the worse it becomes. Jesus doesn’t avoid conflict. He deals with it directly; and, he calls us with his life to do likewise. We can skip it if we choose. But the conflict will still be there…waiting…whenever we’re ready for it. The small child within waits as well, hoping love will prevail. Billy Thompson gave that drama voice in a public way as a child. Billy’s way of protecting his hope that love would prevail was to avoid a conflict with his father. Admittedly, a poor strategy…but he was a child, afterall, with little experience about options to avoidance. The neighborhood of my childhood was well-aware of that strategy, because after Billy’s parents divorced and his father was awarded twice monthly visitation, Billy would run away from home the night before he was supposed to be with his Dad. Catharine, his mother, would begin the phone tree through the neighborhood to alert us to the absence of her 10-year-old….and folks would begin the search for him in their sheds and playhouses—hiding places where he was usually found, asleep in his sleeping bag, snuggled next to a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. Catharine and her ex-husband, Todd, tried to get their son to talk about why he wanted to avoid his father, but he wasn’t talking. Catharine said Todd worked hard to create enjoyable activities for the times he shared with his son; and, the couple had afforded counseling for Billy around the time of their divorce, to help him deal with his thoughts and feelings. Neighbors finding him asleep in their sheds and playhouses tried to talk with him, as well, hoping to understand his pain. But Billy wasn’t talking. As he got older he stopped physically running away, though emotionally he kept his distance from his father. But then something happened to change the unspoken conflict between father and son. Catharine was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer. Billy was sixteen. Catharine’s spinster sister, Helen, came to live with Catharine and Billy during that time to help with all that needed to be done. Helen would pick Billy up after school and drive him to the hospital to be with his mother, where he would sit by her side, holding her hand, until it was time to go home for the evening. Catharine fought a valiant fight; but, when it became obvious she was losing the battle, she asked to come home with hospice care. Near the end of her struggle she asked to see Todd to say goodbye. The afternoon Todd arrived, my mother and I were visiting with Catharine and Helen and Billy. Mother stood to leave when Todd entered the room, realizing the need for a private goodbye. Billy stood as well; but Catharine said, “No one needs to leave. Sit down.” Her voice, which to that point had been barely above a whisper, was now strong and purposeful. Everyone sat. Looking evenly at her son she said, “It’s time for you to stop running.” Billy looked a lot like a deer caught in the headlights at that moment; he sat paralyzed by her words. “Tell your father what’s on your heart.” Todd said, “Oh, Catharine, we’ll work that out…not now…” But Catharine countered, “No, Todd. Now. I’m out of time. Now.” We sat in awkward silence. Mother said softly, “Catharine, I really believe we should be going. This is a family matter.” Catharine smiled broadly saying, “Mildred, this has been a neighborhood matter since the first night you found Billy sleeping with a peanut butter jar in your tool shed.” Everyone laughed. Except for Billy. It was then that Billy Thompson faced his demon in the wilderness of his soul. He stood, walked over to his father and said slowly, “I need for you to love me. But, I’m afraid you might leave me like you left her.” Catharine said quietly, “Love is always worth the risk, Billy.” And Todd wept, burying his face in his hands. It was then that the small child within Billy Thompson saw what he’d missed. Billy stared at his weeping father and said through tears of recognition, “You never left me did you? I left you before you could leave me. But you never left.” Catharine smiled and said, “At last….” and closed her eyes to rest. She died several days later. There’s a Billy Thompson within each of us, yearning to be loved, afraid to be loved, or perhaps more accurately, afraid we’ll be hurt. As we’ve all, by now, likely noticed, hurt, and all that goes with it, is part of the human experience. It’s how we respond that makes all the difference. The kingdom about which Jesus taught, the kingdom of Love, is here, now, in our midst, for those with eyes to see it. We can either camp out in the toolshed with our peanut butter jars, or we can get on with it. May we have the courage to choose love as often as we’re able. It matters more than it may seem, especially just now. Amen. © Marion E. Kanour Comments are closed.
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AuthorThe Rev. John Thomas is Rector of Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood Archives
October 2024
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