A sermon that wasn't about me
We were away at a family funeral when the news broke about the shooting at Pulse in Orlando. We went through the motions of our last day in Maine—visiting the beach, eating dinner with loved ones—but we carried with us the rising number of deaths we saw in news alerts on our phones.
When we got home the next day, I started doing laundry, far more than the usual post-road-trip amount. I sought out things to wash, gathering new loads as soon as the day’s clothes hit the hamper. When I ran out of clothes I turned to sheets, towels, bath mats, dishcloths. Each load is finite and satisfying, but every day more things get dirty. It’s the perfect balance of completion and infinity for a person who is trying to gain a sense that life is not out of control but who is not yet convinced.
We preachers may not be able to control the world, but we do want to make theological sense out of things. If we can’t do that, we at least want to offer some comfort. I have spoken about current and past tragedies; I have rewritten sermons at the last minute. I’ve even been the one to bring the news to the less plugged-in members of the congregation. Trayvon Martin, Gabby Giffords, Michael Brown—I have embraced the freedom of the pulpit and spoken my conscience about racism and white privilege, about American violence and the over-availability of guns.
