Deeply Rooted Preached on February 17th, 2019 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Jeremiah 17:5-10 Our passage from the writings of the prophet Jeremiah this week is a psalm or a song. It is a refrain, sung to and by a people in trauma. Jeremiah writes in the midst of the great exile, of the people of Israel who are captured and taken to Babylon. Babylon is a foreign nation whose customs, beliefs and practices are quite different from the Israelites’ own. They fear that their identity and their relationship with the one-God, YHWH, will be erased. They fear that their children will be seduced, drawn in by the worldly wealth and power of Babylon. In the book “Inspired …” Rachel Held Evans claims: “One cannot overstate the trauma of this exile … in the sixth century BCE, King Nebuchadnezzar laid siege to Jerusalem, destroying both the city and its temple. Many of the Jews who lived there were taken captive and forced into the empire’s service … If the people of Israel no longer had their own land, their own king, or their own temple, what did they have? They had their stories. They had their songs. They had their traditions and laws.” [1] And so, in the midst of this trauma Jeremiah calls out the words of a song: “ Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the LORD. They shall be like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see when relief comes. They shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land. Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:5-8) Jeremiah’s song reminds the Israelites to trust in God and maintain their community. This way of trust and loyalty was difficult in the seductive culture of the empire. But they would be blessed, like the ones of Jesus’ beatitudes we read today from the gospel of Luke. They would draw on a deep well of hope like those trees planted beside water. This resource would be readily available for those who planted themselves in the community of their one-God. The song gives a warning, too. Those who do not trust in God will be like a shrub in the desert. Desert shrubs have some impressive adaptations, they survive. Their skins are thick, to minimize the evaporation of scarce hydration. They have prickles and spikes, to resist the attacks of predators. They remain small and stunted, they do not bear fruit, their surface area of their leaves is optimized for photosynthesis and minimal water loss. Both the tree and the desert shrub survive. They are each resilient in their way. And yet there is no doubt which one Jeremiah’s song lifts up, which one is blessed by God. The exiled Jewish people keep themselves rooted by coming together and maintaining their community. They tell stories and sing songs to remind one another that ultimately all creation belongs to God. Their trust and rootedness is secured in that truth. ------------------- We – here are Wollaston Congregational Church - do not always acknowledge that we are an exiled people in our current day world and culture. The surroundings, the neighborhood, the city, look familiar. Some of us have lived here for many years, even many generations. And still, we are living in the same kind of exile the people of Israel experienced so long ago. There is a difference between those of us here in this place, and those who are out alone in the community. We have a story that tells us that this is a strange and sometimes inhospitable world. We notice that our culture is seductive, offering opportunities for wealth and prosperity, celebrity and popularity. We notice the “quick-fix” routes to happiness and the things that distract: the entertainment industry, the diet culture, addictive drugs and other substances, the hookup scene. And also recently I’ve also noticed what I describe as an “epidemic of trauma” in our communities. I see it in the church members and others who come to me to talk. When I use public transportation, stop by a coffee shop, or go to buy groceries, I invariably find someone who needs to talk about the trauma in their lives. These people are often caregivers for others who are experiencing trauma: they are parents, teachers, nurses, caregivers, adult children of elders. And I notice the same trauma in the social media community I belong to. My fellow clergy members post a constant stream of prayer requests for sick or dying spouses, parents, friends, and congregants. There are the children who are addicted, have suicidal thoughts, or have even died by suicide. I hear of loved ones, or my colleagues themselves, in the grip of anxiety and depression, a troubling medical diagnosis, or simply exhaustion. These tragedies seem to group themselves, snowballing in many families and systems. I was trying to understand why so many caregivers seem to be suffering too, when I came across a book: “Trauma Stewardship” by Laura van Dernoot Lipsky and Connie Burk. These authors have identified “secondary trauma.” This impacts anyone who gives care in their family or community: from police officers, social workers, medical care providers, correctional officers, to those who work helplines or staff resource centers. [2] I’m sure that this describes many of us here today. Even if you do not have one of those specific titles, you who come here to church are engaged every day in caring in your families, your circle of friends, your communities. And that work must be taking its toll on you. One response to this assault of trauma is to become like the desert shrub of Jeremiah’s song. We isolate, hunker down, grow prickles and spikes and develop a thick skin. We can try to be impervious to hurt and pain, in order to survive this time of drought. Some years ago, I was providing spiritual care for some very elderly residents of a nursing home. A number of “my” residents were living in the exile of dementia. Some were afraid of me because I was a stranger. They lashed out, when I visited, cursing and sending me away. I knew it was only their disease speaking and still I wanted to protect myself from their disorienting world. I looked for excuses to avoid them in the future. Others had physical disabilities, loss of mobility, hearing or vision. I worried for their frail limbs, when I pushed them in their wheel chairs. I was afraid I would be clumsy and catch an arm or foot and I flinched every time I had to negotiate a doorway or elevator. And then a number of my residents were in the final stages of life. If I was afraid to get close to them, because that would mean I would grieve them when they were gone. During my first few weeks at the facility I was not sleeping well, worrying about the residents and the ways in which I might fail in caring for them. My usual coping mechanism for a situation like this would be to grit my teeth and get through it. It would be over in a few months, and then I could put the experience behind me and get on with my preparation for ministry. My supervisor wasn’t going to let me off the hook, though. When I admitted to her that I was having trouble sleeping, she smiled and told me that it was time to make a new learning goal. I was to find a way to let go of my residents at the end of each work day. I was not to bring them home with me, and into my nighttime routine. That way I would be well rested and better able to care for them when I came to work the next day. First I tried visiting the synagogue in the facility, for a time of reflection at the end of each day. It was a peaceful place, subtly lit by tiny lights set to come on in remembrance of those who had died on a given date. By the end of the day the space was empty of services and concerts, the prayer shawls had been returned to their basket. I could find a few moments of silence there. But it was not effective, the worries and fears still returned later. My next attempt was more successful. I realized that I could take my lunch break in the arboretum next door to the facility. I could slip out and walk in the fresh air, among the sturdy trees. I could experience the brilliant colors of the deciduous trees in the fall, the white snow against the evergreens in winter, and the splashes of yellow forsythia and fragrant lilacs in the spring. Breathing the air and walking among these trees rooted so close to life-giving water enabled me to let go of my charges. It reminded me that I had to trust my residents to God’s care, I was not responsible for them. I was reminded that my own rootedness was in my church, where I would be made resilient by the life-giving water of community, story and song. I was reminded to be a tree rooted beside water ready to grow, rather than prickly and isolated desert shrub that was simply surviving. The authors of Trauma Stewardship list the warning signs of secondary trauma, these include hyper-vigilance, chronic exhaustion, guilt, anger and cynicism, addiction and grandiosity. They recommend self-care and following five directions. North, East, South and West, each represent a different aspect of self-care. South is the direction of “compassion and community” – what a great description of church! And then there is a fifth direction, the daily practice of centering oneself: our personal spiritual practices. So it seems Jeremiah, or the people who sang the songs in exile in Babylon, were onto something. In times of trauma we are to remain rooted in God, connected with this our community, the church. So let’s remind one another, this and every week, not to isolate, not to stay away, but to return. And then this place, in these times of trauma, will flow with the life-giving waters of story, song and connection with God. May all God’s people say, Amen [1] Evans, Rachel Held. Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again, (Thomas Nelson. Kindle Edition.), 7, 8-9 [2] van Dernoot Lipsky, Laura with Burke, Connie, Trauma Stewardship: An Everyday Guide to Caring for Self While Caring for Others, (San Francisco, Barrett-Koehler, 2009)
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