Sermon, Sunday 1 July: 'The jewel in the crown'

READINGS: Lamentations 3:17-33; Mark 5.21-43

This morning, a little bit of drama to help explore themes arising from our readings, particularly Mark. There was a whimsical piece of wondering, as seen, through the eyes of a funeral director who runs into an unexpected glitch, followed later by two reflections from the point of view of Jairus, and the woman in the crowd. After the readings and reflections, we stayed seated to sing 'We cannot measure how you heal', using it as a form of prayer. Thereafter, the sermon...
After worship this morning, we held our Annual Stated Meeting and approved the accounts.

SERMON
Let’s pray:
May the words of my mouth and the thoughts of all our hearts, be acceptable
in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer. Amen.

Lament.
There is a long, strong, and very powerful tradition of lament within scripture:
to lament, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is to make
‘a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.'
Alternatively, a lament is:
'A song, piece of music, or poem expressing grief or sorrow.'
Or, a lament can be a complaint.
This last, well, the children of Israel, having won their freedom from Egypt,
spend quite a considerable time lamenting their fate as they wander in the desert;
the Psalms – the song book of the Bible –
has songs of rejoicing and praise,
but also a goodly share of lament and sorrow;
and, dotted throughout the Bible we find many stories, many situations
in which there are powerful expressions of grief and sorrow –
we even have a book of Lament,
in which are gathered up poems and songs of unassailable despair and sadness.

This book is written around the time of the Babylonian Empire –
and Israel has been utterly crushed under the heel of Babylon.
So much loss:
there has been exile of quite a substantial number of the population –
we have the Psalm ‘By the rivers of Babylon’
expressing the sadness of not being able to sing the Lord’s song in a strange land [Boney M song!];
the temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed;
the city, left ravaged and pillaged and ruined;
no one to lead those left behind;
no sense of hope –
no sense of rising from the ashes.
Out of this experience comes the Book of Lamentations –
a profound expression of grief and sorrow.
Traditionally, its author was reckoned to be the prophet Jeremiah:
called to preach God’s message to the remnant left behind.
It was no easy task:
he was unpopular – so much so, that his life was threatened:
at one point, he was tossed down a well by the people.
And still, he proclaimed the word of the Lord:
he knew about suffering,
he had cause to lament,
and he also knew about hope –
and of God’s unfailing goodness.
No matter how dire,
yet, God was with him,
as God was with the people... even if it might not have felt like it.

Oddly, for a book with such seemingly depressing subject matter,
the Book of Lamentations is one of my favourite books in the Bible –
because right there in the very middle of it,
sitting between laments,
there’s the passage we heard earlier from Chapter Three,
and those words from verses 21 through to 26:
Yet this I call to mind
    and therefore... I... have... hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for him.”
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
    to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.

There, in the bleakest of bleak places...
there it is, the shining jewel in the crown of this book: 
hope.
A calling to mind of God’s great love;
of God’s faithfulness –
hope in him, says Jeremiah –
or, whoever it was that wrote it.
Hope in him –
he is with you,
he will get you through:
you will not be consumed.

Lament.
Our older lady in the gospel passage had cause to lament.
12 years of ill health and all that came with it:
her illness meant not only pain and discomfort,
it meant social exclusion –
she was seen as ritually ‘unclean’
if anyone touched her,
or she them,
they, too, would be ‘unclean’ by association.
She was ill, isolated, impure:
A bleak and seemingly hopeless life situation.
Are there any last straws to clutch at,
or, should she just turn her face to the wall?

Lament.
Jairus, for all his wealth,
for all of his social and religious standing,
also knew the painful song of lament rather too well.
He loved his wee daughter –
at 12, she is on the traditional cusp of adulthood,
and he watches, as the future is being taken from her before his eyes.
All the promise of laughter and life;
of potential...and of building new stories,
creating new memories as the years roll by, is fading fast.
If there’s any straw to clutch at,
no matter how unlikely,
or seemingly unorthodox,
or, possibly scandalous,
well, Jairus will grab it if he can with both hands.

Lament.
The crowds are ever-present.
A sea of need,
of pain,
of desperation...
so many wanting their own particular straw to take away:
to see healing,
or new life,
or a new way of being,
or a once-proud nation rise again.
And there, right in the very middle of it all:
as a desperate woman breaks with religious proscriptions,
as a desperate father races to find help,
as so many gather...
there he is...
the shining jewel in God’s crown –
the beacon of God’s love,
the beacon of light in the darkness,
the beacon of hope
who is the Word of life –
in flesh and in blood
showing God’s great love,
demonstrating in word and in action
God’s faithfulness –
hope is found in him.
And, on that day, a woman goes home rejoicing;
and a father witnesses the unthinkable,
and the kingdom of heaven continues its quiet work of transformation.

Lament.
We, all of us, go through our own seasons of rejoicing and sorrow;
times of abundance and loss;
times where we look back to times past and think of what we had,
and struggle to find a way forward –
because we know there may be change,
and we are ever creatures of habit.
Sometimes, we find ourselves looking for straws to clutch at:
crumbs of comfort.
Sometimes, we’re tired of clutching at straws that feel well worn.
We lament.
And as we do,
and as he always does...
there in the midst,
there... he... is –
Jesus, the jewel in the crown,
the One who walked among us;
the One who, through the Spirit, is still with us;
the One who hears our songs of lament;
the One who feels the fear and the pain;
the One who turns hopelessness into hope,
for he is the One who will get us through:
the One who will make sure that we will not be consumed ...
the One who asks us to follow him out into a broken world to share that hope;
who invites us to move from mourning, into dancing...
and who calls us his friends – this day, and every day. Amen.