Singing Hope

Sermon: Psalm 146

In 2001, over 57 members of the Meredith College community gathered to participate in Take Back the Night. They gathered at the college, lit their candles, and marched to the capital steps in downtown Raleigh, in an effort to break the silence about violence against women. Half way through this march, they met up in the streets with groups from Peace College, NC State, and Shaw College.

Thought there were allies in the group, the majority of people marching were women against whom violence had been perpetrated – both women who had survived violence and women who were living it daily, women who had left violent relationships, women who had been attacked walking home from class, and women who were struggling to leave abusive partners. These women told their stories as they walked. They told stories of husbands who had thrown glass jars at them. They told stories of being attacked on their way from the library to their dorm rooms. Men told stories of caring for loved ones who had been attacked. Allies told stories of sisters, mothers, cousins and aunts who had been devastated by violence. Stories were sung out that echoed pain and violence that has been pervasive since biblical times. Stories of lament, shame, and violence – these are to be expected at a gathering such as this, when we seek to break the silence.

There was another voice though, an unexpected voice, a voice that sang out:

Praise Adonai!


Praise Adonai, O my soul! 


I will praise Adonai as long as I live;


I will sing praises to my G…d all my life long.

Do not put your trust in princes,


in mortals, in whom there is no help. 


When their breath departs, they return to the earth;


on that very day their plans perish.

Happy are those whose help is the G…d of Jacob,


whose hope is in Adonai their G…d, 


who made heaven and earth,
the sea, and all that is in them;


who keeps faith for ever; 


who executes justice for the oppressed;


who gives food to the hungry.


Adonai sets the prisoners free;

Adonai opens the eyes of the blind.


Adonai lifts up those who are bowed down;


Adonai loves the righteous. 


Adonai watches over the strangers;


upholds the orphan and the widow,


but the way of the wicked Adonai brings to ruin.

Adonai will reign for ever,


your G…d, O Zion, for all generations.


Praise the Adonai!

It wasn’t these exact words, but the spirit of the psalmist was there. In the midst of anguish, injustice, and violence, songs were sung of hope. Songs of peace, of love, of forgiveness. Songs of justice and songs of liberation. In voices wracked with tears and pain, the people gathered spoke of those who had cared for them, of healing and health, of the love of G…d in their lives. Praise was sung along side of pain.

I imagine that this must have been the scene when the psalmist wrote these words. This psalm, written after the end of the exile into Babylon, would have been sung as Israelites made the march up to Jerusalem for festival days. Families from villages would gather together with their children, their cousins, their neighbors, and their friends. They would pack the necessities of their trip – bread and wine and water – and begin a long, dry trek through the mountains up to the holy city. It was a long and hard trip, and to pass the time, families would sing, much as families today sing with their children on long car rides.

They sang songs of liberation and justice. They sang to thank G…d for the ability to walk, once again, to Jerusalem, for the freedom from captivity that had been both promised and fulfilled. Families raised their voices together, off key and cracked from the heat and the pain and the tiredness, and they sang:

Praise Adonai!


Praise Adonai, O my soul! 


I will praise Adonai as long as I live;


I imagine that some sang praises because they had found their way home. Some sang because their families were returned to them. Some sang only because they were walking to Jerusalem. Those who were oppressed sang with those who were not. I picture that the poor and the rich all sang the same songs, in the same keys, and for a little while, those who had none were united with those who had a lot – united in praising G…d for liberation.

Psalm 146 asks us to do something complicated – It asks us to celebrate the prisoners who have been set free, those who have been unbowed, the care of the widows and orphans. No matter when this psalm was read, during the period after the exile or now, there are still widows and orphans. Women are still bent over from abuse and neglect. Prisoners are still wrongly incarcerated. How, then, do we begin to take seriously this call to praise?

We cannot deny that women are beaten. We cannot deny that female students are afraid to walk across their own campuses at night. We cannot deny that in our congregations, our communities, our divinity schools there are women, children and men in danger of domestic violence. We cannot be blind to the need for justice in the world. What we can do is recognize our roles in bringing G…d’s justice to the earth.

In Genesis we are given dominion over the earth – not ownership, but care and stewardship. The books of the Law give us rules and regulations for the right treatment of the orphan and widow. The Prophets call us again and again to care for the poor and the needy. These biblical imperatives are part of what Rabbi Heschel posits are our inalienable rights and inalienable obligations.

We are created in the image of parent G…d with the inalienable rights to safety, care, food, and relationship. We are also created in the image of G…d who brings justice to the world, and with this comes the inalienable obligation to act.

As a covenant people, regardless of whether we believe that covenant to be fulfilled or not, the obligation to act lives throughout scripture. Both the law codes of the Torah and the Gospels of Jesus carry through them imperative calls to care for and sustain those who are oppressed, those who are in need. We are given free will, and then given guidance about what to do with it. Love the Adonai. Walk rightly with G…d. Live with compassion. Fight for justice. We can and should do these things, and we can and should do them things while we praise.

* * * * * * * *

In Take Back the Night celebrations, we find one example of how to do this. People gather. They tell stories that are intensely painful. They make themselves vulnerable to old wounds and current pains. They make themselves vulnerable to attacks as they walk down the streets at night. They bring justice into the world by breaking a deep and deadly silence. In the midst of these stories they sing:

Praise Adonai!


Praise Adonai, O my soul! 


I will praise Adonai as long as I live;


I will sing praises to my G…d all my life long.

I imagine that some sang praises because they had found a voice to tell their stories. Some sang because their families were united in their pain. Some sang only because they were walking in the night. Those who were abused sang with those who were not. I picture that the beaten and bruised, the allies and the friends all sang the same songs, in the same keys, and for a little while, those who had found the voice to tell their stories were united with those who had come to bring justice through hearing. They were united in praising G…d for safety.

* * * * * * * *

Hendy David Thoreau said once that “it takes two people to speak the truth: one to break the silence and another to hear.” In this hearing and listening, we begin to create justice. Every time we tell our stories. Every time we listen to the stories of other. Every time we pass these stories along to other people, to other ears, we bring justice into the world. More than this though – every time we sing the praise of G…d, every time we remind people that justice is G…d’s will for the earth, we make this justice more real. We remind people that there is more to life than suffering, more to life than oppression. We remind people that it can be better than it seems right now.

This too, is one of our inalienable obligations. Not just to raise our voices and tell our stories, but also to listen.

To hear.

To deeply and truly open ourselves to the pain of others.

To be among women who have been taught by blows that there is no hope, and to remind them that there is.

To stand up and say, in the face of fists, that there will be an end to this agony. To be strong in the face of violence, and say unequivocally that this will end.

There can be no justice without the belief that justice is possible. There can be no hope for a better, less violent life without someone to remind us that this can exist.

We have all gone through unimaginable grief, and we have all had someone tells us that ”it would get better with time”. It seems trite and cliché. But can you image what it would be like if no one said this? Imagine the silence. Imagine the alternative response.

We need the reminder that our grief will ease, that our pain will subside. We need the reminder that there is more to this life than the agony of heart wounds.

We stand consistently in the face of injustice. We must fight this injustice with every story, with every chance to break the silence. We must also remind the world that there are breaks in the injustice. There are people who gather to speak the truth. There are people who gather to listen. These are moments of justice. These are moments when we live into the image of G…d truly and fully, acting to create justice in the world. These are the moments in which we must pause, praise the Adonai, and celebrate the justice that we find on earth.

The Indwelling Dwelling Place

Sermon: Exodus 35:1-29

We all have passages of scripture with which we fight. Relevancy is often hard to find. For me, this passage is one of those. Unlike much of Exodus, this passage is one that forces us to pull meaning out. It isn’t easy and it isn’t given. On the surface, it is a list of items to be used to make the Mishkan, the dwelling place of G…d. Chapters 25-40 of Exodus form an instruction manual about how to make the Tabernacle – a Tabernacle we don’t have. A Tabernacle we aren’t sure ever really existed. In order to find meaning we have to re-imagine, reinvent, and rediscover. This reimagining starts with a story.

Imagine we are a father, a mother. Imagine our baby. Imagine Egypt – dry and hot, sand blowing with every breath of wind. We hold our child close as a slave driver cracks a whip, yelling for everyone to get back to work. We quake, bent over, sheltering the baby as blows rain down. The labor is backbreaking. The work is impossible. The demands for perfection are unreachable.

Our leader has promised us freedom, and we know that the time is coming. The rivers of blood have flowed through the land. The darkness has come. Tonight, we will smear blood on our doorposts, and we will be safe. Our leader has promised.

Imagine, now, the call has come. Moses has told us that G..d has spoken. It’s time to run. From Ramses to Succoth, across the desert – heat beating down on us and our families. No water. No plants. No way to feed our baby. We hurl ourselves cross the Red Sea, surviving only by miracle. Then the Sinai Peninsula, living only on the gifts that Our G…d has dropped on us from heaven. Thirsty and tired, scratched from brambles, sore and stiff, bruised from falling from exhaustion. The babies are screaming; the young ones are too tired to walk anymore, and our backs are bent from the weight and ache of carrying them. We stop, as a people. Gasping, panting, wiping sweat from our eyes, praying that this break will last more than the single nights the other breaks have allowed us.

Moses calls us to gather. Again. All we want is to breath. To rest. We aren’t interested in another message from Moses telling us what to do. We want to focus on the air inside our lungs, hold our babies and pray that the Egyptians stop chasing us for just one day. One blessed day of peace and rest.

But we gather, because Moses is our prophet and we do what he tells us. He will lead us to safety. Here is what he says: We will be safe. Our G…d is with us. Our Sustainer, the Creator, has promised us life and peace, a nation and prosperity. He knows we are tired. He knows we are thirsty. He knows our babies are dying of hunger. But we are here. We are at Sinai and we can rest for a while. Not only can we rest, but G…d has given us instructions. We are to build a tent, a meeting place – a tent gold and silver, blue, purple, and crimson; linen, goats’ hair, fine leather and acacia wood. We will give all we have to this tent, everything we brought out of Egypt, everything we have struggled to carry.

It sounds ridiculous, but Our G…d has commanded it and he has promised that in this tent, in this sacred place, we will always know that G…d resides. Ours is a covenant and G…d is looking to uphold his side of our bargain. We are Adonai’s people and Adonai is going to live with us. For always. Reside and protect. This tent will move with us on the rest of our journey, and that means that G…d will follow us on the rest of our journey. We will never be alone again.

This is the importance of the Tabernacle, the importance of the Tent of meetings. It is a promise. We will never be alone again.

Now imagine another story. Twenty years ago. A woman. Battered and bruised, shades of black and blue that aren’t meant to be on a child of G…d. Three ribs broken. In the hospital, she tells the nurse she fell, but he doesn’t believe her. He holds her hand as she weeps, tells her that his strength is there if she needs it. They sit, not speaking, not praying, but it is enough. She goes from the hospital, not home, but to her sisters and a support group. The silent nurse has saved her life.

Another. A fifteen year old boy, homeless, hungry. Lost from his family, wandering in his own wilderness. Sleeping on the steps of any church in any city, because every city has lost ones. Imagine the pastor who finds him there in the morning, takes him in, makes him coffee, gives him breakfast. It is the first meal he has had in three days. He will never forget the taste or the kindness. Six months later, he is running the meal program out of that church, giving other lost ones the same first taste of safety that he was given.

Another. A celebration. A new baby, a gift to a family. Three women stand together, two in their late thirties, one only 14. She loves her baby enough to give it a safe home. They love her baby enough to bring him into their family, cherish him. They know that he is their own, and the young girl knows that he will be loved.

Another. A widower, after only four short years of marriage. Left behind, alone, the man he loves gone. Turning to the words of another great widower he finds solace. In the midst of platitudes and condolences, in the midst repeated “it will get better with time”s, he finds an author and, not peace, but understanding.. The words of one man, lost in grief, reaching out through time to another in grief. Together, they can stay alive, make it though their agony.

The nurse. The pastor. The mothers. The writer. The battered woman and the homeless boy. Hold them in your hearts as we turn back to Exodus. Hold them in your hearts, because these are the people about whom the text is written.

Moses calls the people of Israel, the children of G…d, to bring everything they have to offer to the Tabernacle. Our gold and silver, our yarn of the highest quality. He calls us to bring our skill and our talent, to build the Tent of Meeting. There is much to be done. The Tent needs clasps and frames, pillars, bars, poles, curtains. We have to create tables, lamp stands, lights and incense burners. Our carpenters build altars and the seat of judgment. Our weavers create tapestries, coverings, and altar cloths. Moses calls everyone with a willing heart to bring everything we have to create the dwelling place of G…d on earth.

Over 2000 years have passed since the Exodus from Egypt and the building of the Tabernacle. The dwelling place of G…d has changed. What if we imagine a new kind of tent? An Indwelling dwelling place. What if we are the tables, the tent poles, the altar clothes and the incense burners? What if we are not only the skilled craftspeople who build the tabernacle, but also the craftswork that is being built? What if our nurse is a tent peg holding up the dwelling place of G…d? What if our battered woman is echoing in her bruises the colors of the cloth on the altar?

Exodus calls us to build the dwelling place of G…d. We build this dwelling place by embodying the G…d in all that we do. Each of us, in each of our actions, are tent peg in the dwelling place.

What an awful responsibility.

Charity, justice, kindness, compassion. These are the corners of the dwelling place of Adonai. The nurse, the writer, the mothers, the widower – bruised and broken, strong and healing – we embody the Tabernacle. Every relationship we participate in, every action we perform, a chance for us to contribute to the building of this dwelling place, and this means that we are responsible for the ways in which the dwelling place is built. Will we be, as Moses calls for, people with willing hearts who bring what we have to the Tabernacle? Will we be the nurse, the writer, the pastor who feeds? Will we be both builders and tent pegs, embodying the Tabernacle, or will we shut off our hearts and close our eyes to the needs of the world? Will we feed? Will we love? Will we embody G..d and assure that no one wanders through the wilderness alone?

Exodus is a call. A call to justice and kindness. Compassion and mercy. A call to relationship and awareness of the indwelling dwelling place of G…d. We all have strengths and skills. We all have gifts of gold and find yarn. Our words, our soothing hands when someone is in pain. Our willingness to invite just one more person to dinner, to fit one more mouth at the table. We all have strength to hold the tent up. The question in Exodus is: Will we stand up and answer the call?