Sermon Delivered at Church of the Good Shepherd
Fort Lee, New Jersey
Sunday, September 26, 2021, at 8:00 & 10:00 a.m.
By the Rev. Stephen C. Galleher
Everything Is Grist for the Mill
“You have made us but little lower than the angels; * you adorn us with glory and honor.” (Psalm 8:6)
“What we do see is Jesus, made “not quite as high as angels,” and then, through the experience of death, crowned so much higher than any angel, with a glory “bright with Eden’s dawn light.” In that death, by God’s grace, he fully experienced death in every person’s place.”
(Hebrews 2:5-13, Message Bible)
One of the great mysteries, as far as I can determine, is why there is not much more shouting and laughing and weeping with joy in this life of ours. What is with us human beings that we allow ourselves so much sorrow, or why life visits on us such hardship and suffering?
It may not be such a good idea to point fingers here. Certainly God gets a good deal of the blame for our misery, such as it is, for God is, after all, the power that brought us into existence.
Our attitude to hardship has a lot to do our responses to pain and trouble, and we seem, or we are told anyway, that we are pretty much in charge of our reactions. I’m not so sure. Sometimes I do talk myself out of a funk, or I do shift my perspective, which keeps me from thinking dark thoughts. But more often I seem to have little control over my thoughts, moods and attitudes And I sure as the devil had better not judge someone caught in the rut of depression or chronic sorrow. First of all, nobody walks in anybody else’s shoes, and we can identify only to a limited extent with someone else’s situation. And even if we are thoroughly familiar with other people’s circumstance, how dare us think we have the right to judge their attitude or that we have the power to do much more than to be present with those in trouble?
But the disturbing reality is that, as Thoreau mused, “the mass of [us] live lives of quiet desperation.” It is not just when life hits the fan and we are thrown into a slough of despond. This extremity is sometimes only temporay. Others of us carry wounds with us for decades and never reveal the source of our anguish or dare to speak of it from shame or fear.
A lot of this charade of the spirit is cultural. Certain national cultures teach us to avoid expressing our feelings. And in the South, where I grew up, we were taught that grown men don’t cry. My parents, as lovely as they were, were not particularly expressive or effusive in their feelings towards one another. It just wasn’t done, so to speak. And there are so many hidden stories, toxic secrets that shield us from the sunlight of the spirit and prevent us from living the free life that we somehow suspect is ours by birthright.
The psalm this morning says that God made us only a little lower than the angels and has adorned us with glory and honor. “Doesn’t feel that way to me,” we might argue. And unfortunately many of us betray this despair in our demeanor and behavior.
I suppose one thing to notice about whatever life presents, pitches, or slings at us, is that those things are grist for our mill, are opportunities for growth. We can use them to grow or postpone. Like the things we toss on the compost heap in our backyards. Even seemingly useless things can serve to create something healthy and beautiful. As a friend puts it, everything is either a blessing or a lesson, and every lesson can become a blessing.
And our scripture, the seedbed that nurtures our lived faith, provides so much solace. We needn’t listen to all the scolding and judging we find there (these are but projections from our confused and complex human experiences), but we can listen instead to the overwhelming affirmation from the God who created and abides with us.
“Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord,” the Psalmist writes. (Psalm 130) We cry for the voice of the Lord. Are we quiet enough, patient enough, humble enough to expect an answer? For testimony has it from thousands of us that God does answer—often in ways that we do not expect. I’ll bet each of you can point to situations in your life that turned out in a way you did not expect but in time you saw to have been better, sometimes much better, than what you had dreamed.
“God himself is with us.” I love this line from the hymn. God himself—not an emissary, not an idea drummed up by some preacher, but God itself. Imagine that. Can there be a more wonderful visitor? God himself is with us!
And in the Epistle this morning, the Message translation sheds light on one of my least favorite letters, the Letter to the Hebrews. It literally opens a portal to a glorious understanding of Jesus. It reads “What we do see is Jesus, made not quite as high as angels [this marks the great humility of a God who comes into all the places of our lives, however dark and sad and lonely], and then, through the experience of death, crowned so much higher than any angel, with a glory ‘bright with Eden’s dawn light.’ In that death, by God’s grace, he fully experienced death in every person’s place.”
He fully experienced death in our place. Think of this. God enters our death. Now, each of us can be an angel to our neighbor. We can be present in times of fear or grief, but we can never enter as intimately or as closely into anyone’s life as the one who experiences death. God himself is with us and fully experiences each of our deaths. This is the message of the angels at Christmas: “Fear not, for I bring you glad tidings of great joy.” This is the message of the risen Christ: “Fear not, for I am with you always.”
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul…
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Amen.