As another terrifying day of the carnage presidency unfolded this morning, our rector received applause after a sermon. We don't do applause (except for visitors sometimes) - that's not the point of preaching! - but it's happened once before recently (on Easter), and perhaps for the same reason. Both were characteristically rich and erudite sermons, but I think the applause was for the gift of forthrightly speaking the truth. After an account of the ways our liturgy reminds us that God keeps God's promises, a pause, then this:
It’s intellectually dishonest and spiritually insulting to insist that all is well when all is quite patently not well. Given the destruction all around us I imagine that recently many of us have had some version of a conversation that includes the question, “how do we come back from this.” Understandable. And, with all due respect, our faith urges us to ask something different. Because bad times, good times, times of groovy neutrality - we never go back, ever. So the question before all of us becomes how do we move into something new...
Acknowledging hard truths - not just about the destruction unleashed all around, but about the reality that we can't make it go away - allows of true hope.
And the next question, for people of faith, is how are we being called to go further and faster and more compassionately than we ever thought that we could in order to move with God around a space that provides, insists on, life for everyone?
Out of pain and grief come urgency and resolve. In response to destruction there can only be creation. Yet the work requires more than we think we're capable of. Do not the wicked hold all the cards? But today is Pentecost, and she ended by quoting some words of Annie Dillard's (which an internet search informs me are favorites also of Rowan Williams):
On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us to where we can never return.
Whoosh.
Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters (London, 1984), 40-41
