This is Christian Living

A sermon preached on June 21, 2020 via Zoom with St. James Episcopal Church in Arlington, Vermont. 

A video of the sermon is available on YouTube.

In this morning’s reading from Genesis, we jump into the complicated family dynamics of Abraham, Sarah and Hagar. Hagar, an enslaved foreign-born woman, served as a surrogate for Abraham and his wife, Sarah. She bore a son named Ishmael. But, as we heard last week, Sarah then unexpectedly became pregnant, and also bore a son, Isaac.

This week, we find the family celebrating baby Isaac being weaned. During the party, Isaac’s big brother Ishmael began playing with him. It is a tender, innocent scene in my imagining.

But Sarah came upon the boys enjoying one another’s company and became furious. “Cast out this slave woman with her son,” she said to Abraham. “For the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.” And that’s exactly what Abraham did. He sent them into the wilderness. This could have been a death sentence for Hagar and Ishmael. I thank God it was not.

This past Memorial Day, a Black man named Christian Cooper was enjoying his favorite pastime, bird-watching in New York’s Central Park. A white woman named Amy Cooper was also enjoying the warm day, taking her dog for a walk in the same area. When Christian asked Amy to leash her dog, as per park rules, Amy became furious and another innocent scene took a horrifying turn.

Based on a simple request to comply with park rules, Amy dialed 911 and told the police she was being threatened by an “African-American man.” “Please send the cops immediately” she said breathlessly. This could have been a death sentence for Christian. I thank God it was not.

When I was a teenager growing up in New York City, I took a taxi to an appointment after school one day, and realized too late that I didn’t have my wallet with me. I told the driver — a man of color — I would run inside and get some cash, but he got angry and said I couldn’t get out until I paid. I started crying. Within seconds, out of nowhere — like an apparition — an NYPD officer tapped on the window. The driver rolled it down and the white officer looked toward the backseat at me and said, “are you okay?”

I unleashed a breathless cry: “no I lost my wallet and now he won’t let me out!” In an angry tone, the officer admonished the driver and ordered him to let me out. I told him I would be right back with the money, but the officer told me “no, just run along.” This occurred in the middle of the biggest city in the country on a busy afternoon — but a young white girl crying in the back of a taxi driven by a man of color was enough to draw the attention of the authorities. This could have been a death sentence for this man. I thank God it was not.  

I don’t think I would have been able to articulate it this way back then, but that was the day I learned how protected my young, white life was — how much perceived value it had, and the strange power my tears seemed to hold with the authorities. Enough power to get me out of paying for a taxi ride. Enough power to get a driver in trouble — real trouble — with law enforcement. It’s like remembering the day you were issued a weapon you’re allowed to carry and use at any time. I know that I can wield the violent and deadly power of the state against Black and Brown people. I know it. This may be why this particular shameful video documentation of racism in America has been running on repeat in my mind for weeks now – because the image of Amy Cooper threatens to be a mirror rather than a window.

I wonder if Amy remembers the day she found out she carried this weapon. I wonder if Sarah remembered the day she found out she carried it around. Amy and I, and Sarah before us, are unquestionably caught up in multiple sinful systems of oppression. We surely can find ourselves on the oppressed side of a system of patriarchy, but make no mistake – when we wield the deadly weapon of our fury and tears against people who do not hold our privilege of dominance, we are participating in and benefiting from the very patriarchy many of us claim to object to. If our advocating with and for women is focused on and informed by the interests and voices of white women only; if our project is not to ensure the safety of all women, everywhere; if we do not protect the lives of Hagar’s son as fiercely as we protect the lives of our own sons – what we are engaging in is not actually feminism, and certainly not Christian feminism.

In this morning’s reading from Matthew, Jesus tells us “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” These words used to be hard to hear — confusing, even. This year though, I hear Jesus loud and clear. Jesus is saying our work is to love God, above all else – even above our own family members and those closest to us. Those most like us. The work of loving God is operating in such a way that we show God’s love for all people. And this sounds like happy-go-lucky peaceful work, but it is far more difficult than that – far messier and far more dangerous. Because this work involves dismantling systems of oppression that reflect the work of the devil – work we may benefit from. Doing the work of the love of God may put us at odds with friends and family members, with people we work or worship with. It may put us, for the very first time, at odds with the authorities in our lives.

Right now we are watching this kind of work of the love God take place in our country. People are taking to the streets to pronounce the good news that Black Lives Matter and monuments to our racist history are coming down. And it is not all nice or polite or peaceful. It is hard and it is uncomfortable and it is sometimes frightening. Right now, white allies are energized and motivated to be a part of this movement. I wonder, though, how long will this last? It is a mark of privilege that we white people can choose to put down this sword of love for all of God’s people when we get tired or scared. We can retreat any time, because our very bodies do not demand our participation in this struggle every single day. We can even, after putting down the sword of God’s love, pick up the deadly weapon of whiteness — always waiting for us, ever-patient. 

But we Christians are being told this morning that this work of the love of God is to be our priority above all others. We are being told that God sends God’s angels for Hagar, for Christian Cooper, and for all people marginalized by sinful systems of injustice. Jesus is calling us to take up the cross and follow in this work. Not for a few weeks. Not while this is still in the headlines. But always. Because this is Christian living.

The kind of Christian living that moved me to preach this sermon instead of what I really wanted to do: spend 10 minutes telling you all how much I love you, and how much I will miss you and how supported and cared-for this community has made me feel. The kind of Christian living I learned from you, the people of St. James:  at Sunday school and VBS and Bible Study and prayer circles and discernment meetings and service to the community and parties and protests and visits in homes and hospital rooms and out on the lawn, through conflict and hard conversations, through triumphs and tragedies — I learned so much about Christian living here in this place, with you.

You taught me to preach the Gospel. You taught me about the love of God. You taught me to look outside myself to the concerns of the world around me. I hope I have done some justice to your teaching in my ministry here, and I hope I will continue to do so in my ministry to come.

You are always in my prayers. I hope I will continue to be in yours. Amen.

*Note, this sermon was largely influenced by the work of the Rev. Dr. Wilda C. Gafney and her book Womanist Midrash: A Reintroduction to the Women of the Torah and the Throne.