There’s Tenderness in Wisdom Preached for Wollaston Congregational Church on September 12th, 2021 Scriptures: Proverbs 1:20-33, Mark 8:27-38 There have been many stories told this past week or so, and most of them begin something like this: “there was a clear blue cloudless sky, that September morning…” Some of us remember it, others are too young, still others were not yet born. Twenty years ago yesterday the events in the United States … in Boston Logan Airport, the twin towers in New York city, Newark Airport, Somerset county Pennsylvania … these events created a new chapter in the history books. And now we live in a post-9/11 world. September weather, the return to work and school, the beginning of the church program year have always felt so very hopeful to me. I love beginnings! It used to be that my parents from the UK would come and stay with us during September. It was their favorite month to be in New England too. It also used to be that my husband, Simon, would resume frequent business travel, following the hiatus of August. Although he was not out of town every week, waking early and heading to the airport felt routine. That September morning with so many others, he got up, showered kissed me good-bye, grabbed his bag and left for the airport. It looked like a beautiful morning for a flight. A little later I got the older children on the school bus. I would be taking our youngest, Chloe, who was 4, for a play date on the playground later. My parents were packing bags to take a little road trip and explore Connecticut. While Chloe was still watching “Blue’s Clues”, the phone rang and when I answered Simon said “It’s me … I’m here in New Jersey … I’m OK.” I had not reason to think otherwise, and wondered why he’d taken the trouble to call. It’s a short flight from Logan to Newark, no reason to call and check in. He should have been busy in his meeting, not wanting to talk. “I think you need to turn on the TV and see what is going on,” he said, “everyone is watching the news here. I’m going to call right now and get a rental car. I will need to drive home tonight. There won’t be anymore flights today.” I turned on a small TV in our bedroom as he told me what had happened. It took a while to absorb the news, the first plane had already hit the twin towers and while I was watching a second plane hit the other tower. This would be the rest of the day for many of us, trying to process what had happened. Trying to grasp the enormity of it. Trying to understand the implications. I think we are still doing that 20 years later … twenty years of changed behavior in which we try to avoid the thing that has already happened; twenty years of “war on terror” as if terror was an enemy we could find and stamp out. In days and weeks that followed 9/11 perhaps you remember the tenderness. There was tenderness in strangers’ eyes, at the grocery store, on the road, in the eyes of the few people who were out and about. It seemed that with the collective understanding that people were grieving, we were giving one another grace. My parents returned from their road trip prematurely “we felt as though we were intruding on their grief,” they explained. This was a tender time. I asked my friends, “how long do you think this tenderness will continue?” Some said that this was how it would be from now on, but I was cynical. I didn’t believe it. I knew that we would return to “normal” hustle and bustle, aggression, and disregard. It felt inevitable. The Sunday following 9/11, our UCC church was packed. It is was the only Protestant Christian church in town, the place most people would turn in times of crisis. It seemed that Sunday everyone in town needed something from our church. Gallup reported that following 9/11 churches, and other places of worship, experienced a rise in attendance, but by September 2003 there was a return to the earlier levels.[1] I’ve often wondered what those who returned to church following 9/11 were seeking and whether they found it. And I’ve wondered why they had drifted away again by 2003. Of all the possible reasons, I’ve come to think it is basically a matter of tenderness. People were tender in the aftermath of 9/11. And tenderness is not easy to sustain. Tenderness means you are open to pain, and mostly people are not willing to deal with that. They did not change their busy lives to make time for church for very long because it was too painful to do so. And yet, there is wisdom in tenderness. This morning we begin a series of readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. The Lectionary provides us with a 3-year cycle of readings from the scriptures that follow the liturgical seasons, the feasts and festivals. We are currently in the very long season after Pentecost known as Ordinary Time. This season provides a time for us to explore the scriptures without focusing on holidays like Easter or Christmas. It happens that over the next few weeks the Old Testament passages will be taken from the Wisdom Literature or Writings. We rarely focus on this major component of the Hebrew Bible, which includes the Psalms, Proverbs, the book actually named Wisdom. The Wisdom Literature also includes stories, like Daniel, from the Jewish diaspora. These stories are intended to guide and inspire God’s people when they find themselves living in foreign lands and cultures. This week we began with a passage from the book of Proverbs, which is attributed to King Solomon. We are introduced to the person of Wisdom or Sophia. She is a woman who stands in the bustling marketplace and cries out, if only people will listen to her. The people who hurry past the busiest intersection in the city are unwilling to listen to the voice of Wisdom. They are not prepared to pay attention to her knowledge and learning. Wisdom warns them that they will regret their disregard for her, particularly when disaster strikes and they truly need her. A reading from the gospel of Mark is paired with this reflection on wisdom. In the gospel story, the disciples ask Jesus questions about his identity. The disciples are prepared to tell Jesus who others say that he is: "John the Baptist; or Elijah; or one of the other prophets … reincarnated.” But Jesus isn’t interested in who others say that he is. “Who do you say that I am?” he asks them. He wants them to access their own wisdom, to speak their own truth. Even so, he is annoyed when Peter says “You are the Messiah.” Perhaps Jesus is aware that this is not true wisdom coming from Peter. This as a rehearsed reply or a foolish hope. Perhaps Jesus is upset about the expectations that will be put on him if people begin saying he is the expected Messiah. It seems that he is trying to say that the people’s understanding of the Messiah is not God’s understanding. Steve Garnaas-Holmes writes “The Messiah was a mighty warrior who would liberate Israel from Roman oppression. A kind of Superhero. Jesus might have quoted Princess Bride: ‘You keep saying that word, but I do not think it means what you think it means.’” [2] When Jesus asks the question “who do you say that I am?” it is not a quiz, a question asked during a teenager’s confirmation process to be sure they know the answer. We may reflexively reply “Son of God” but that is not what he is asking. He is asking, who am I to you? Who do you say that I am? Jesus isn’t asking “who do you say that I am on Sunday right here in the church?” He’s asking “who do you say that I am when the terrorist strikes, or the hurricane rages, when you are holding the devastating diagnosis in your hand, when you are faced with mask-wearing and social distancing for just ‘one more month’?” Can you stay in that tender place, long enough to ponder Jesus’s question with courage and wisdom? Wisdom cries out to us in the street, she can be that obvious sometimes. But she also dwells within. She may be our companion while we ask ourselves that question “who do you say that I am?” Later, the Apostle Paul will write to the Colossian church saying that “all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” are hidden in the risen, ascended Christ (Col 2:3). This scene from the gospel of Mark demonstrates Jesus’s earthly wisdom, provoking the disciples to access wisdom themselves. He goes on to predict his own suffering and death, a crisis that is coming and a time when they will certainly need to heed the voice of wisdom. While Peter is hoping for a Messiah who will take power and reign, Jesus is predicting that they will actually be entering a time of great tenderness. In the years since 2001, the number of major national and world events seems to have been accelerating: climate change, refugees, food insecurity, recessions, political instability, most recently the pandemic. When the coronavirus pandemic began we also experienced a time of great tenderness and support for one another and for the medical community. As people became frustrated and exhausted that tenderness seems to have mostly evaporated. Of all things medical science and healthcare became politicized. But I do believe that tenderness can be rediscovered, if we are willing, to open ourselves to the cry of Wisdom; and to access our innermost response to Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?” May all God’s people say Amen [1] “A similar effect was evident with respect to Americans' ratings of the importance of religion in their lives. This increased from 57% before the attack, to 64% shortly after. One year later, 65% said religion was very important in their lives, though this included a short-term spike as the one-year anniversary approached. The most recent data show 58% saying religion is important in their lives, virtually the same as in May 2001.” Jeffrey M. Jones, “Sept. 11 Effects, Though Largely Faded, Persist” posted September 9th, 2003 http://www.gallup.com/poll/9208/sept-effects-though-largely-faded-persis.aspx, (accessed on March 24th 2013) [2] https://www.unfoldinglight.net/reflections/pmfey49pk3wk8hr9znwypd7fbwfnmr
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