The Reverend John Ames, the main character of Gilead, the book by Marilynn Robinson that was the basis of this year’s Lenten book study, is an old minister who had been married as a young man, but whose wife and infant daughter died in childbirth. For many long decades, Ames lives alone, burning candles late into the night, writing sermons and eating, by himself, the meals that the concerned church ladies leave quietly on his table. He ages, in this way, unaware of any need beyond the quiet sufficiency that God has provided for him, in that little Iowa town.
And then, when he is in his seventies, circumstances (or providence, depending on how you look at it) gives him a second chance, in the form of a Lila, a middle-aged woman who comes to his church seeking solace. After a long and delightfully innocent courtship, the two get married, and soon there is a son – a boy. Ames never imagined that he would be a parent again… and here, near the end of his life, he is given this last, most gracious gift.
Aware that he will not live much longer, Ames sits down to write a letter to his young son. The book itself is this letter – a deeply felt tale that tries to give the boy a textured understanding of his heritage, and offers advice that the old man would give, if he could only be around to give it. There is some other drama as well, but I won’t spoil that for you. If you haven’t read Gilead, I recommend it heartily – and I feel confident that my colleagues in the book discussion would agree.
One of the last things that we discussed when we finished the book, was whether or not it was plausible that the old man would have woven so much theology into the advice he was giving his kid. We all agreed that it was not too far of a stretch to imagine the old man using a lot of pulpit speak in his letter because, after all, he’d been writing sermons all his life. This is what he was used to.
I have some insight into this particular line of reasoning because, of course, I spend a lot of time writing sermons myself, and I have noticed that the pulpit does have a way of sneaking into other parts of my life, especially when it may involve writing.
This question also gave me an opportunity to think, again, about how I write sermons, and what I try to achieve when I sit down.
A successful sermon achieves two things. First of all, it worships God through the interpretation of the scriptures – in particular the gospels. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, a good sermon responds meaningfully to the needs of the community. In this task, the minister has some tools of the trade. One, of course, is scripture itself. Another is what is going on in the world. Finally, one can draw from, and reflect on one’s own personal experience.
This sounds like a bit of a trick to pull off every Sunday, and I admit to you that I am not entirely sure how it happens. What I can say is that I have a great deal of faith in the process of writing itself. Most people assume that writing is about making a record of what you believe. I assume something very different. For me writing is about discovering what I believe. So I follow the process until it reveals something to me. Everytime I write, I discover something. It usually isn’t what I thought I was going to discover… and sometimes this can be frustrating, but more often than not, it is surprising and miraculous.
But even though it takes a long time and effort, the hardest part of producing a sermon is not the writing.
The hardest part, unfortunately, is the most important part. The hardest part is knowing how best to serve the community. In order to meaningfully pull this off, a minister must have a finger on the pulse of the community – recognize the weight that they are carrying, and know the joys that give them comfort.
A good sermon anticipates the needs of the community. If it does this, then the little kernel of truth that it leaves in the minds of the people, will nourish them as they go about their lives.
And this kernal of truth… it can’t be fake.
It has to be real.
Recently – since January when my friend Harriet died – my personal understanding of what makes something real, has changed. I don’t exactly know how this conclusion connects with my experience of Harriet’s death, but I now measure the realness of something – that is, I know that there is nothing fake about it – when I know the truth of that thing is something I determine not only with my mind – but also with my body. I know something is real when the truth of that thing is something I know not only with my body – but also with my spirit.
Today is Palm Sunday.
On this day, each year, our worship of God centers around this moment, in Christ’s life, when he enters the gates of Jerusalem for the last time.
Since we know how the story ends, we cannot call this a “triumphal return” without a feeling of remorse.
We know that the same people of Jerusalem who are crying “Hosanna” and covering the ground with palms today, will be the ones shouting “Crucify him” tomorrow.
Since we know this, and we believe that Jesus probably knows it too – we share with Jesus an “inside knowledge” about the nature of this threshold that he is about to pass through.
It looks, and sounds, and feels like a triumphal gate, but this threshold – the gates of Jerusalem – marks, for Jesus, the end of his Galilean ministry and the beginning of that dark spiral of betrayal, trial, flogging, and crucifixion that describe the end of his earthly life.
In this story, Jesus faces something that we are all familiar with. Each one of us, like Jesus, have found ourselves facing moments in our lives when we know everything is going to change forever.
Such thresholds – such moments of dramatic and irreversible change – are fearful moments.
Such thresholds – moments of dramatic and irreversible change – are moments that we recognize, not only with our minds, but also with our bodies, and our spirits.
Having a child.
Moving to a new community.
Retiring.
Getting married.
Getting divorced.
Having an operation.
If there are any moments in our lives that are about as real as they get – it is such threshold moments.
The last year has been hard on us.
It wasn’t that long ago that Tina died.
In quick succession, we lost Linda Wilson and Elsie Elliot – the two steadfast ladies of our back pews.
Some of us have had major medical setbacks – diagnosed and undiagnosed.
Some of us have been to, or are about to go to, the hospital for surgical interventions to alleviate chronic pain.
Some of us are caring for seriously ailing spouses.
Some of us have lost dear friends.
Some of us have lost parents, or in-laws.
These are thresholds moments.
For the individuals who are in pain or feeling confusion or loss, these times are about as real as they get.
For our community, too, these are threshold moments… very real moments.
Moments of truth.
God knows us at these times.
These times, like the time when Jesus went through the Jerusalem gate, are times when we recognize the reality of pain and loss – and at the same time recognize the presence of God.
This morning, on Palm Sunday, it occurred to me that, with all the pain we have been experiencing, as people and as a people, it would be meaningful be with, and bless each of you.
Not all of you at once.
But each of you…
one at a time.
Through blessing we seek God’s presence, not only with our minds, but also with our bodies, and with our spirits.
Through blessing we invoke God’s presence, through the intention of intimacy and connection.
This Palm Sunday, we use the gates of Jerusalem as a way to recognize our common experience of threshold…
Our common feeling of fear.
This morning, we use the gates of Jerusalem as a way to invoke blessing.
A blessing at the threshold.
On Palm Sunday, this is how I have chosen to serve your needs, my beloved community.
Amen.