Sermon for October 28, 2018

The Way of Exclusion

They spent some time in Jericho. As Jesus was leaving town, trailed by his disciples and a parade of people, a blind beggar by the name of Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, was sitting alongside the road. When he heard that Jesus the Nazarene was passing by, he began to cry out, “Son of David, Jesus! Mercy, have mercy on me!” Many tried to hush him up, but he yelled all the louder, “Son of David! Mercy, have mercy on me!” Jesus stopped in his tracks. “Call him over.” They called him. “It’s your lucky day! Get up! He’s calling you to come!” Throwing off his coat, he was on his feet at once and came to Jesus Jesus said, “What can I do for you?” The blind man said, “Rabbi, I want to see.” “On your way,” said Jesus. “Your faith has saved and healed you.” In that very instant he recovered his sight and followed Jesus down the road.

Where do you feel safe? Or, maybe I should ask, where should you feel safe? Your home should feel safe. Walking down the streets in your own neighborhood should feel safe. Going to school -- sending your kids to school, should feel safe. When you are with your faith community, you should feel safe.

Now, imagine what it would be like if none of those places felt safe. Imagine if every night as you fell asleep in your home you faced the possibility that someone might bomb your house and hurt your family. Imagine if, every time your child or grandchild went to school, you had to worry about them coming home with a bloodied face or maybe never coming home at all. Imagine if every time you stepped out of your residence you risked a real chance of a violent attack by random strangers. Imagine that just simply going to worship and expressing your faith behind closed doors makes you a target for a mass murder.

You don’t have to imagine at all, because we have seen each of these scenarios carried out this past week.

Pipe bombs are mailed to prominent Democratic politicians and leaders by a citizen who sees himself as a political enemy.

In Kentucky, witnesses watch a man bang on and pull the door of a predominately African-American church, trying to get inside. Unable to enter the church, the man goes to a nearby grocery store and opens fire with a gun, killing two African-American men. The shooting is being investigated as a hate crime in a case of what White supremacy looks like in its most lethal form.

The Jewish community of Pittsburgh experiences the travail and devastation of anti-Jewish hate from yesterday’s synagogue shooting by a man who told police, “"All these Jews need to die." Entering a house of worship and murdering others based on their religious beliefs – it doesn’t make sense.

These past several days have proven to be a true test of our humanity. Vile hatred has reached epidemic proportions. Our country has been stabbed by a three-pronged trident of hatred, racism, and terrorism. We are angry. We are confused. We are afraid.

We might imagine fears like these would exist in a war zone. Fears like these prevent a society from functioning. They keep people from speaking their opinions or cooperating with their neighbors. Fears like these make people not want to go out and vote. 

A good society cannot function on fear. We need some confidence that those who are not in the majority will not be attacked. We need to know that our communities, our public gathering places, our schools, and our houses of worship are safe places. 

Each of the crimes committed last week is a hate crime. The purpose of a hate crime is to intimidate a whole group of people because of their race, religion, disability, ethnic origin, sexual orientation or gender identity. While a hate crime might target a few individuals, the point is to make a whole group of people feel unsafe in the safest of settings, to make them feel that at any moment they could be the victims of harassment or violence. The point is to target people and make people afraid to participate in society in the same way as the majority.

As the church, I like to think we stand against hate crimes. It seems like an easy, basic affirmation. We worship a God who stands in solidarity with the victimized and the hated, who demands that we stand against evil in the world, and who judges us by how we treat one another. If the church stands for love, then we must also stand against hate. If love is our business, then hate is too. Hate crimes are our business.

Actually, churches already speak out on the issue of hate crimes in a big, loud way. Those speaking out are the voices of Christians who oppose hate crime legislation. That’s right. I said oppose hate crime legislation. The loudest voices from the church are against government protections for victims of hate crimes. The loudest voices think hate crime legislation is a way to punish religious freedom of speech. Some powerful Christian organizations claim if a pastor preaches against homosexuality, that pastor can be arrested for a hate crime. Here is a quote from a group called Family Watch:

“Hate crimes legislation is just a small step away from criminalizing speech … that criticizes sexual behavior. There is growing concern that those seeking to add ‘sexual orientation’ or ‘gender identity and expression’ as protected classes under hate crimes legislation are trying to broaden the measures to use them against those who criticize or express a religious belief against the homosexual lifestyle”

There is so much wrong with that statement. I think it all boils down to one issue. Fear. Fear is the reason many organizations that call themselves Christian oppose expanding hate crime legislation. And that which they fear is just not true. The ONLY speech considered a hate crime under law is speech that advocates or conspires to commit a violent crime. 

I cannot fully express to you how ashamed I feel when I learn what some churches are telling people who come to them for truth. I cannot tell you how angry I get when the loudest Christian voices respond to hate crimes by demanding that their pastors retain the right to incite and conspire for violence against oppressed groups. Is that what we stand for? Protecting our rights to incite violence against oppressed groups? Is that what we followers of Jesus Christ stand for? Is that what we care about? No wonder so many spiritual seekers stay away from the church. 

Do you think this is what Jesus stood for? Imagine a man– a blind beggar sitting beside the road. His name is Bartimaeus. His name means Son of Timaeus. People know him. They walk by and whisper, “Look, there’s Timaeus’ son begging by the side of the road again.” The might blame Bartimaeus for his blindness. In fact, Bartimaeus could be translated something like Son of Poverty or Son of the Unclean. I can just hear the people talking. “He must have done something wrong to deserve his blindness and his poverty. There must be some sin in his life or in his family. Well, we can’t help sinners. If we do that, Bartimaeus will never take responsibility for his actions. He’ll just have to lay in the grave he dug for himself.”

One day Jesus walks by, and Bartimaeus recognizes him. “Jesus, help me,” he calls.

Some people say, “Bartimaeus, be quiet. Stop bugging people.”

“Jesus, save me!”

“Seriously, Bartimaeus, stop. You’re irritating people.”

“King Jesus, have mercy on me!”

“Bartimaeus, shut up!”

Thank God Bartimaeus did not keep quiet. At the end of the day, there is only so much a person can take. There is only so many times that someone can say, “Be quiet,” before you say “No. I cannot be quiet. I will not be silent. And don’t you dare try to silence me, to shut me up!”

How often do we silence others, convinced that their cries for mercy are not worthy of attention? Or maybe you are the one who has been silenced or harassed. What is your breaking point? How many of us have been like those people who travel down the road and pass people like Bartimaeus every day and do nothing. We see injustice. We hear the cries. We keep silent and we want the wounded to keep their pain to themselves. We don’t want people to shake up our carefully constructed lives. We don’t want them asking anything of us. We don’t want the pain of others to make us uncomfortable.

One traveler on his way to Jerusalem stops. One person listens. With a touch, one person restores Bartimaeus. But it’s more than a single healing. With a touch, Jesus protests a religious and political system that excludes and dominates other people. He protests a social system that blames and shames survivors. With all eyes on him, Jesus engages in subversive public action. He restores Bartimaeus to wholeness. When Jesus heals people, he challenges the authority of the establishment. Every time he heals, he symbolically calls for an end to a corrupted religious system that segregates, stigmatizes, and subjugates people. Jesus calls his community to a pure understanding of mercy. Healing is an act of protest. And protest is a form of healing.

I don’t know about you, but I am impatient with politicians who use fear and coercion to demand loyalty and silence the voice of dissent. I am sickened by religious leaders who defend exclusion. And, honestly, I am less than pleased with myself when I give into the fear – when I find myself making excuses, or  falling back on worn but comfortable doctrine, slipping into a default position that maintains the status quo. I’m ashamed when I’m silent and I know I’m supposed to speak. To proclaim. To act.

Those people walking down the road, ignoring the cries of Bartimaeus, they were supposed to stop and help. They were supposed to help restore him. That’s what we do in the beloved community. We are supposed to speak up when those who need to cry cannot. Today, there is a person in your life who needs you to come alongside them and say, “Speak your truth. I am listening. Speak so that your voice is louder than the voices of hatred and exclusion. I am listening. Speak up until you can no longer be ignored. Speak up, and I will add my voice to yours, so you are not alone. I am listening. I am listening, and I will bring you to the One who can restore our brokenness.”

This is the hour for boldness and courage in solidarity. Together, we speak a loud truth: every time hateful, sexist, racist, homophobic, prejudiced speech is uttered, every time a crime is committed that intimidates a whole group of people, God stands with the hated, not the haters. God stands with the hated, and so must we.

I took the opportunity to attend the service of Thanksgiving and Remembrance for Matthew Shepard at the Washington National Cathedral last Friday. 20 years ago, after Matthew Shepard’s killers drove him to a quiet development on the eastern edge of Laramie, Wyoming, they repeatedly struck him with a .357 Magnum pistol, robbed him and left him to die. It took 18 hours for someone to find him. Matthew was gay. His attackers tortured and killed Matthew because he was gay. More than a decade passed before the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act was passed in 2009, expanding federal hate crime law to include crimes motivated by a person’s sexual orientation, gender, or disability. Five states — including Wyoming — still don’t have criminal hate crime laws.

Sitting in the packed Cathedral, watching Matthew Shepard’s ashes processed in, reflecting on his story once again, watching his family still mourning, knowing that Matthew’s remains are now in his new home was horrible and wonderful, outraging and inspiring. I’m still taking it all in. One thing I know. Matthew is safe. Matthew is safe, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. When you come to church, you should feel safe. Safe from hate. Safe from violence. Safe from bigotry. Safe from harassment.

My prayer, and my action, is to help make sure that one day, when someone who has been wounded and scared by violence looks for what the Christian God has to say about hate, that person will find, not fear, but the good news that the church offers comfort and love, and justice and courage.

After Matthew’s service, after the family recessed to prepare for Matthew’s private inurnment, I lingered in the nave with a pastor friend I had just met that day. As we listened to the music and tried to understand what we were just part of, a woman approached us carrying a zip lock bag full of dirt. She invited us to reach in and take some. She was from Wyoming and offered some of the soil of her home, the State soil that received Matthew Shepard’s blood. Holding the gravelly, dusty soil in my hand was a sacramental moment -- a reminder that haters should not get cleanse us of that which they think is impure. Soil is like God whose love and mercy are big enough to absorb our wounds and transform our pains. Hatred does not get the last word.

My prayer, and my action, is to help make sure that a young man like Matthew Shepard can be who he is created to be, and love who he is created to love, and serve those he is created to serve. My prayer, and my action is that whether Black, Brown and White, Jewish and Muslim, transgender and cisgender, LGBTQ and straight, I as your pastor and the Christ Congregational Church community stand with all who are under siege in this very present hour. We hear you as you speak. Hatred will not have the last word.

This is our declaration.

This is our vow.

This is our action.

This is our faith.

We are all in this struggle together.

Sources:

http://www.workingpreacher. org/craft.aspx?post=3707

http://www.westernpresbyterian. net/what-do-you-want-me-to-do-for-you/

http://day1.org/1871-the_true_universal_health_care

https://youngclergywomen. org/sermon-on-hate-crimes/

https://www.coloradoan. com/story/news/2018/10/03/matthew-shepard-murder-became-americas-window-into-hate/1438415002/

http://familywatch. org/fwi/book_excerpt_on_hate_speech.pdf

https://www.bbc. com/news/world-us-canada-46001617

https://www.cnn. com/2018/10/27/us/pittsburgh-attack-timeline/index.html