2023-02-13
Brooke Strong
Sermon Text...
February 12, 2023 Hamilton Coe Throckmorton
Matthew 5:21-37 The Federated Church, UCC
Sermons are funny things. And maybe you nod your head and say to yourself, “They sure are!” When Betsy, Joshua, Kristin, and I plan worship, we do so keeping a number of factors in mind. We seek, first, to keep scripture and God front and center. This isn’t just a random speech I’m making or reflection I’m delivering. It attempts to be moored in the God who is all in all. In all our sermons, that rootedness in God is first and foremost.
As our worship team ponders how God moves in our midst, we’re also cognizant every week of a number of other factors. So, for example, today we’re aware that this is the season of Epiphany, the church season in which we explore the myriad ways in which Christ is made manifest in our common life. Then, too, we are mindful that Valentine’s Day is a mere two days away—spouses and partners, take note. Not only that, but we’re attuned to the fact that, in the UCC, today is Racial Justice Sunday in the month of February, which is Black History Month, reminding us of the strong call we have to tell and celebrate the stories of people of color. Not to mention there’s been a terrible earthquake that has leveled such a big swath of Turkey and Syria and killed over 28,000 people. And of course, today here at Federated, we receive new members into this beloved congregation. A worship team and a preacher seek to be present to all that, and to let scripture illuminate the fullness and complexity of the world in which we live.
And then there’s the preacher’s life, which is also a big part of the equation. Today, an event in my family’s life has exerted an uncommon pull for this preacher. Some of you know that two weeks ago, my niece Hillary’s husband, Billy Selmon, died suddenly without our knowing what caused it. Early one morning, I got a call from my brother, Tim, saying that his son-in-law Billy had gone into the hospital with abdominal pain, and then had just died. To say it was a shock is an immense understatement. Billy was twenty-nine and as fit as could be. A former college athlete, he continued to work out and play basketball several times a week. When older people die, even though it often rocks us to the core, it seldom shocks us. But when someone is twenty-nine and apparently in peak health, the question we ask over and over again is, “How could this possibly be?” Billy’s death is out of season, so it’s deeply wrenching.
Adding another level of pain to this is the fact that my niece Hillary is pregnant and expecting their first baby in May. So she will be left to raise this child without her partner in life, without the beloved father with whom she had been so looking forward to parenthood. I have loved Hillary since the day she was born, and officiated at their wedding seventeen months ago. So along with our entire family and Billy’s, I am left bereft. Tears come regularly. The doldrums shadow my days. In my grief, I find myself feeling more deeply the agony of people in Turkey and Syria searching desperately for survivors of that earthquake. And I weep with them in their grief. Billy’s death simply doubles and triples my sorrow on behalf of people everywhere who have lost someone precious.
Though the funeral was in Billy’s family’s church in Atlanta, Hillary asked if I would offer a eulogy, as well. I think you’ll understand if I tell you how she put it to me. She said, “I know the people of Federated need you. But this week, I need you more.” I got it. And I know you do, too.
Billy was a light in our family and to the 700 or so people who came to his funeral a week ago yesterday. I think you will not mind if I tell you a little about him. He and I would occasionally trade texts when our Cleveland Cavaliers would play his Atlanta Hawks. And with me, he had this uncanny ability to trash-talk in a gentle, respectful way. He’d say how much he hoped the Hawks would win, and then follow it immediately with, “And good luck to your guys, too!” Who does that!
Billy had a wry sense of humor. Once, he and Hillary went for a visit to Hillary’s dad Tim and his wife Emilie. They had gotten in late the night before, and when they got up the next morning, they were just chillin’ out on the deck enjoying the sun. Emilie asked if they wanted to go for a hike, and Billy said, with mock indignation, “We just got up!” He thought a hike was a bit much first thing in the morning. A week or two later, Billy sent Emilie a meme that said, “Just be sure not to marry into one of those families that runs a 5k on Thanksgiving morning!” Which was, of course, just the family he had married into.
Billy had something of a quietly bold streak in him. When he and Hillary were at Bates College, they had a longtime friendship, and they kind of wondered what the nature of the relationship was. By the time senior year began, Hillary said to Billy that she thought they should both kind of do their own thing and not be tied down. Billy agreed. But a few hours later, he had changed his mind, and he texted her to say he thought they ought to date. And Hillary said, “You gotta show me something.” He didn’t answer her, and a week or so went by. And then, at a big party, with lots of their friends present, Billy turned the music down, climbed up on a platform, and boldly announced to the crowd, “I just want everyone to know that Hillary is my girlfriend.” I think that showed her something! And it led to their dating and then to marriage.
On YouTube, there’s a short video of Billy playing basketball in a Bates College game. There, you can see him making nine of eleven 3-pointers in a single game. As I watched, I was struck by two things. First, that Billy wore #23, which was, of course, the number worn by Michael Jordan and LeBron James early in his career. And then I was astonished by his effortless shooting. As I watched I couldn’t help but be struck by the symbolism of Billy shooting the game’s most difficult shot with such ease and grace, making the difficult look easy, and of his wearing the number of those two GOATs, the Greatest of All Time. For us, his family and myriad friends, that was Billy. The poet Mary Oliver once asked, “Tell me: what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (“The Summer Day”). I know what Billy did with his. He lived it with a simple and sublime ease and grace. A radiant shooting star, he was #23—his own unique Greatest of All Time.
So in the wake of Billy’s death, I am left grieving. And also reflecting on his life and the ways God speaks to all the circumstances of this unique day. I am aware, first, of the apparent incongruity of sharing Billy’s story on the same morning that we attend to the rigorous scripture passage we read earlier. There, Jesus holds up a standard for human behavior that, as I said a couple of weeks ago, virtually singes the eyebrows off with its demanding and apparently uncompromising ethic. Not only are we not to murder, says Jesus, but we’re not even to feel angry at people. Not only are we not to commit adultery, but we’re not even to lust after someone else. And, short of a partner’s infidelity, definitely no divorce. I feel fairly confident in saying that there is not a single person in this sanctuary or joining us on our livestream who has passed these tests with flying colors. Not one. Jesus sets an apparently unreachable standard, way more stringent than is actually possible.
At its root, though, these words from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount are not really about establishing a set of requirements that cannot possibly be met. What these words do is convey, in a hyperbolic way, just how utterly crucial are the relationships we have with each other. At their core, Jesus’ words say: don’t let anger get in the way of caring for each other. They say: don’t reduce other people to objects of your desire, when they have hopes and dreams and needs that deserve to be honored. They say: don’t take lightly the promises you make to each other to care for each other “in sickness and in health, in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow, as long as you both shall live.” Our care for and attention to each other, says Jesus, are absolutely crucial as children of God.
It’s that love that is at the heart of everything we’re to be about. I mentioned at the beginning that today, we, as worship planners, attend to a number of different dimensions of our shared life together. Tuesday’s holiday reminds us of the centrality of love. It celebrates a now largely mythical saint who continues to keep watch over various groups of people. You may not know that Valentine is considered the patron saint of beekeepers, which prompts me to tell you a tangential aside. On Mary’s and my drive to Georgia last week, a car passed us that was brightly painted and announced that the occupant was a beekeeper. And on the back of this beekeeper’s car, it said, “If you see me running, try to keep up.” So Valentine cares for beekeepers and also for people who suffer from epilepsy. But of course, Valentine is most known for watching over lovers. When we celebrate on Tuesday, maybe we’ll be reminded that, at the heart of everything Jesus did, love was at the center. So much so that, if anything impedes that love, we are to question it and re-center ourselves. Of course, there will always be anger and lust and divorce, and we need to find healing ways to deal with those realities. We’re reminded, though, when we’re tempted to any of those, that there is a person at the other end of those feelings, a person loved and adored by God, and that our deepest vocation is to put that unrestrained love into practice and to attend to each other’s best interests.
With new members joining us this morning, this is a salient reminder, too, about who we are as a congregation. When irritation with a fellow congregant rears its ugly head, it’s not that the other person hasn’t necessarily done something wrong. In no way would Jesus want us to let cruelty or abuse of power or prejudice be allowed to stand. It’s just that, when anger in us boils over, or, on another front, when lust objectifies another person, or when divorce seems too-easy an option—when any of these feelings or desires erupts in us, the call is not to attempt to squash those feelings—which is, of course, impossible—but to remember that there is a human being with a heart and hurts who’s in need of our blessing.
Remember again our list of the various dimensions of life that crop up on this particular Sunday. Epiphany calls us to remember that Jesus is made manifest in our love for each other. Valentine’s Day beckons us to live our lives with that committed love at our center. The reception of our new members bids us to recommit ourselves to loving each other deeply as a congregation. The huge and sometimes overwhelming needs of the world, such as the earthquake in Turkey and Syria, invite us to share of our resources to make a difference in rebuilding and supporting.
We also remember that February is Black History Month, and that today has been designated by the UCC as Racial Justice Sunday. On the one hand, racial justice may seem far from what has been on my heart and mind in these last two weeks. Here, though, is a picture of my nephew-in-law, Billy, the picture that accompanies his obituary. To me, that picture reveals his heart and his humanity and his joy. It radiates the goodness that all of us who loved him knew so well. That’s the Billy that I and we adored.
And of course, he was Black. To us who loved him, that was not the first quality of his that we noticed. What I remember, as I’ve said, is his humor and his warmth and his graciousness and his spirit and his joy. He was not first of all Black. He was first of all a winsome and grace-filled human being.
He was also, though, unavoidably Black. He lived with all the panoply of factors that comes with that fact. He was part of a cohort of people who are stopped incredibly often by police for “driving while Black.” He was regularly suspect just because of the color of his skin. He would have faced closed doors and reduced opportunity in housing and health care and job prospects. To have attended a prestigious private school, as he did, was a privilege, of course, but it didn’t exempt him from the assumptions and prejudice and dismissal that accompanied the reactions of so many people to this young Black man. So when I’m asked if we should affirm that Black Lives Matter, I remember Billy and the child of his to come, and I say, “Of course we should!” When the subject comes up of whether to teach Black history in schools, I remember Billy and that child-to-be and I ask, “How can we not?” When young black men such as George Floyd and Tyre Nichols are over and over being killed, and the subject of reforming policing comes up, I remember Billy and the child he has sired, and I cry out that it’s an absolute necessity. Rage, said the Rev. Cheryl Lindsay, quoting James Baldwin at a recent worship service honoring the Sacred Ally Quilt Ministry at the Family Life Center, is a constant experience of Black life. And it is imperative that the causes of that rage be erased.
At Billy’s funeral and the ensuing reception, the guests were a striking mix of Black and white, I would guess about half-and-half. The last thing I would want to do is pretend there was no rage at that service or that our presence together in that room solved every problem. At the same time, though, there was something sublimely beautiful about being in this crowd of people who were laughing together and crying together and hugging each other as though our lives depended on it. It was a hint, a foretaste, of the Beloved Community, a vivid metaphor for what is possible in our world. Black people and white people being God’s people. Black people and white people being in love. That sort of shared care is what we want in Turkey and Syria. It’s what we want for Valentine’s Day. It’s what we want for our new members. It was and is magnificent. It was and is God’s gift of love for us and for all people. Thanks be to God.