Aaron here: Dear friends, One of the first sermons I ever preached in Santa Barbara was entitled, “Another Shooting.” I scrapped my original sermon when news broke that a deranged man with a gun had forced his way into our sister church in Knoxville, Tennessee, and started shooting. At first I could keep count of the number of mass shootings, mass murders, mass tragedies that have occurred since I have been your Minister. But to be honest, somewhere along the line the number grew to big, too fast, and I have lost count. And every time another shooting like this happens, I swear to myself that this will be the one that wakes us up – and that I, We – will rouse ourselves and somehow figure out whatever it is we can do to make our heart-cries of “Never Again” - real. And every time, I am not only confronted by fresh grief at yet another tragedy, but by my own recurring feelings of helplessness and despair that seem to come around and around like pale horses on a carousel. And here we are again. Watching yet another awful, tragic, maddening and needless story unfold – except this time it is close to home. Close to the bone. Right. Here. It has been less than 24 hours since a very sick young man drove through Isla Vista, shooting. Less than 24 hours since seven innocent people had their lives taken from them, less than 24 hours since seven families began grieving and less then 24 hours since seven more families began bedside vigils in local hospitals. I sit here at my keyboard and I want to say something to you, or at least something to myself – not to make us feel better, because this is not yet the time for feeling better. I would like to say something to you to make sense of this madness, to give it shape and form that we can work with, or put up on a high shelf or break into a thousand pieces on the ground. I would like to say something wise. But I don’t know how. Or even that the word, “wise” means at a time like this. So instead I hope you can feel my sorrow meeting your sorrow, my despair meeting your despair, my feelings of infuriating powerlessness brushing up against yours. When we meet, any of us, in sorrow – we may not have any new answers – but we are at least reminded that we are not alone. Come to church tomorrow. Be together. Hug someone. Give thanks for life even as we rend our garments. Hug someone right now if you can. Feel a heart beat, and give thanks for its wild beauty. Here are words (for I am fresh out of words) by John O’Donohue, a blessing for times of grief: When you lose someone you love, Your life becomes strange, The ground beneath you becomes fragile, Your thoughts make your eyes unsure; And some dead echo drags your voice down Where words have no confidence Your heart has grown heavy with loss; And though this loss has wounded others too, No one knows what has been taken from you When the silence of absence deepens. Flickers of guilt kindle regret For all that was left unsaid or undone. There are days when you wake up happy; Again inside the fullness of life, Until the moment breaks And you are thrown back Onto the black tide of loss. Days when you have your heart back, You are able to function well Until in the middle of work or encounter, Suddenly with no warning, You are ambushed by grief. It becomes hard to trust yourself. All you can depend on now is that Sorrow will remain faithful to itself. More than you, it knows its way And will find the right time To pull and pull the rope of grief Until that coiled hill of tears Has reduced to its last drop. Gradually, you will learn acquaintance With the invisible form of your departed; And when the work of grief is done, The wound of loss will heal And you will have learned To wean your eyes From that gap in the air And be able to enter the hearth In your soul where your loved one Has awaited your return All the time. With love, Aaron
Posted on: Sun, 25 May 2014 01:18:47 +0000
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