A sermon preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, October 28, 2012
Show me … where it hurts.
If there is ever an invitation we both long to hear and fear to hear, it is: “Show me where it hurts.”
We long to hear it because it is the voice of care and compassion. It’s the loving parent kneeling down to meet the gaze of that tearful child that lives inside each one of us. That lives inside you and that lives inside me.
Show me where it hurts.
We long to hear it because it tells us that maybe someone not only cares but can actually understand. That someone will meet us where it hurts. Hold us where it hurts. Kiss us where it hurts. And somehow make it better.
At the same time … we fear it. We fear it because it is an invitation to be vulnerable. To let someone see something in us that they might think is wrong or weak or bad. Maybe they will think less of us? Maybe they will say, “Pffft. That’s nothing.” … even though to us it feels like everything.
Maybe when we show them, they won’t be able to see it or they won’t believe us at all?
Show me where it hurts.
But we also fear it for some of the same reasons we long for it.
As strange as it sounds, we fear “show me where it hurts” because someone might actually meet us where it hurts. Someone might actually hold us where it hurts. Someone might actually kiss us where it hurts and somehow make it better. We fear it because sometimes where it hurts has become such a big part of us that we aren’t sure who we would be without it. We aren’t sure how to be without it. We don’t know if there can be an us without it.
One of Robin Williams’ first movies about 30 years ago was called Moscow on the Hudson. He plays a Russian saxophone player visiting New York City with a touring group. And just before the group is about to go to the airport and back to the Soviet Union, he realizes he can no longer live the life he has had to live behind the iron curtain … and so he defects … right in the middle of Bloomingdale’s.
His new life in America is hard. Even though there is so much that is better, so much freedom he has that he didn’t have before, so much that is what he dreamed for, it is all so different. He doesn’t know who he is in this strange country. The life he had before was awful, but at least he knew who he was. Now he is having to find out who he was all over again in this strange place. And that is really, really scary.
At one point, he is crying with a friend, trying to help him understand why part of him still wants to be in Russia, as bad as things were. And this is what he says:
“When I was in Russia, I did not love my life, but I loved my misery. You know why?
Because it was my misery.
I could hold it.
I could caress it.”
As strange as it sounds, “Show me where it hurts” is scary because someone might actually kiss us where it hurts and somehow make it better. Because even though we might not love our lives, sometimes we do get pretty attached to our misery. Because it’s our misery. We can hold it. We can caress it. We know who we are with it and maybe we aren’t sure how to be without it. Maybe we aren’t sure if there can even be an us without it.
And yet, “Show me where it hurts” is exactly what Jesus asks us. He asks it so he can meet us where it hurts. So he can hold us where it hurts. So he can kiss us where it hurts and make it better. And then walk with us and help us walk with one another as we learn how to be and who we are without it.
If … we let him.
Bartimaeus is an outcast, and he knows it. His identity is rooted in what he lacks – sight and money. He is a blind beggar. He is his pain. He is his misery.
But this blind man has a vision. A vision that maybe things don’t need to be this way. That maybe there is a life beyond the misery. And that maybe this Jesus is the one who can make it happen. So screwing up all the courage he has, as Jesus walks by, he shouts “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
The disciples and others tell him to just… shut… up! After all, all they see is this man of misery. A blind beggar. What use could he be? But for some reason, Bartimaeus won’t be denied. He cries out all the more “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”
And Jesus stops in his tracks and says:
“Bring. Him. Here.”
And so here is Bartimaeus, face to face with Jesus. Now he’s blind, so he can’t see Jesus, but he knows he is right there. And all he hears is this voice in the darkness. And the voice says:
Show me where it hurts.
It is the moment of truth for Bartimaeus. These are the words he has longed to hear from the one from whom he has longed to hear it. But his answer means everything. Because in front of him is the one who has the power not just to see where it hurts but to heal where it hurts. And then his pain, his misery will be gone.
But who will he be without it?
We tend to think of Bartimaeus’ voice was full of relief and joy when he answers , but I have to believe it was also full or fear and trepidation. I have to believe that maybe a cold sweat broke out on Bartimaeus’ brow when he heard Jesus say, “Show me where it hurts” … because sure, life before he gave his answer was miserable, but it was familiar.
Life after that answer … who knows?
I have to believe it took even more courage for Bartimaeus to answer “My teacher, let me see again” than it did to keep shouting Jesus’ name even when the crowd was telling him to be quiet. Because in Jesus’ question was an invitation not just to name his pain but to let go of his pain forever … and to join him in a new and utterly unfamiliar life on the other side of that pain … a life that he could only guess at.
When we come to Jesus, he asks us just three things:
Show me where it hurts.
Let me heal where it hurts.
Follow me to a new life.
That’s it. Just three things:
Show me where it hurts.
Let me heal where it hurts.
Follow me to a new life.
What Jesus is asking us to do is pretty scary. Jesus is not just asking us to be able to name our pain – and that can be challenging enough sometimes -- but to take that pain, that pain that is ours. That pain that we can hold. That pain that we can caress. To take that pain and let … it … go. Let it go so we can follow him to a new life. A life where we are not known by our pain. A life where we are known by who we really are … beloved children created in the image of a infinitely loving God.
I think it was Abigail van Buren who said, “Churches are hospitals for sinners, not museums for saing.” I think she’s right, churches are hospitals for sinners. But I would put it slightly differently:
“Churches are hospitals for sinners, not hospices for sinners.”
We aren’t here because we are perfect. We are here because part of us is just like Bartimaeus. Because Jesus calls us here in all our pain and imperfection and weakness and says “show me where it hurts” so we can lay it down and let it go.
Jesus calls us together at this time and place not so we can die holy deaths from our wounds but so together we can be healed from them and follow him into new life. A new life of loving extravagantly out there because we know Jesus love for us in here (the church) and in here (our hearts). A new life where we know we are neither blind nor beggars but beloved children of a loving, living God.
A new life where we are the ones going out into a world that is just as longing and just as terrified as we once were and maybe we are now. Going out into the world and asking them:
Show me where it hurts.
Show me … where it hurts.
If there is ever an invitation we both long to hear and fear to hear, it is: “Show me where it hurts.”
We long to hear it because it is the voice of care and compassion. It’s the loving parent kneeling down to meet the gaze of that tearful child that lives inside each one of us. That lives inside you and that lives inside me.
Show me where it hurts.
We long to hear it because it tells us that maybe someone not only cares but can actually understand. That someone will meet us where it hurts. Hold us where it hurts. Kiss us where it hurts. And somehow make it better.
At the same time … we fear it. We fear it because it is an invitation to be vulnerable. To let someone see something in us that they might think is wrong or weak or bad. Maybe they will think less of us? Maybe they will say, “Pffft. That’s nothing.” … even though to us it feels like everything.
Maybe when we show them, they won’t be able to see it or they won’t believe us at all?
Show me where it hurts.
But we also fear it for some of the same reasons we long for it.
As strange as it sounds, we fear “show me where it hurts” because someone might actually meet us where it hurts. Someone might actually hold us where it hurts. Someone might actually kiss us where it hurts and somehow make it better. We fear it because sometimes where it hurts has become such a big part of us that we aren’t sure who we would be without it. We aren’t sure how to be without it. We don’t know if there can be an us without it.
One of Robin Williams’ first movies about 30 years ago was called Moscow on the Hudson. He plays a Russian saxophone player visiting New York City with a touring group. And just before the group is about to go to the airport and back to the Soviet Union, he realizes he can no longer live the life he has had to live behind the iron curtain … and so he defects … right in the middle of Bloomingdale’s.
His new life in America is hard. Even though there is so much that is better, so much freedom he has that he didn’t have before, so much that is what he dreamed for, it is all so different. He doesn’t know who he is in this strange country. The life he had before was awful, but at least he knew who he was. Now he is having to find out who he was all over again in this strange place. And that is really, really scary.
At one point, he is crying with a friend, trying to help him understand why part of him still wants to be in Russia, as bad as things were. And this is what he says:
“When I was in Russia, I did not love my life, but I loved my misery. You know why?
Because it was my misery.
I could hold it.
I could caress it.”
As strange as it sounds, “Show me where it hurts” is scary because someone might actually kiss us where it hurts and somehow make it better. Because even though we might not love our lives, sometimes we do get pretty attached to our misery. Because it’s our misery. We can hold it. We can caress it. We know who we are with it and maybe we aren’t sure how to be without it. Maybe we aren’t sure if there can even be an us without it.
And yet, “Show me where it hurts” is exactly what Jesus asks us. He asks it so he can meet us where it hurts. So he can hold us where it hurts. So he can kiss us where it hurts and make it better. And then walk with us and help us walk with one another as we learn how to be and who we are without it.
If … we let him.
Bartimaeus is an outcast, and he knows it. His identity is rooted in what he lacks – sight and money. He is a blind beggar. He is his pain. He is his misery.
But this blind man has a vision. A vision that maybe things don’t need to be this way. That maybe there is a life beyond the misery. And that maybe this Jesus is the one who can make it happen. So screwing up all the courage he has, as Jesus walks by, he shouts “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
The disciples and others tell him to just… shut… up! After all, all they see is this man of misery. A blind beggar. What use could he be? But for some reason, Bartimaeus won’t be denied. He cries out all the more “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”
And Jesus stops in his tracks and says:
“Bring. Him. Here.”
And so here is Bartimaeus, face to face with Jesus. Now he’s blind, so he can’t see Jesus, but he knows he is right there. And all he hears is this voice in the darkness. And the voice says:
Show me where it hurts.
It is the moment of truth for Bartimaeus. These are the words he has longed to hear from the one from whom he has longed to hear it. But his answer means everything. Because in front of him is the one who has the power not just to see where it hurts but to heal where it hurts. And then his pain, his misery will be gone.
But who will he be without it?
We tend to think of Bartimaeus’ voice was full of relief and joy when he answers , but I have to believe it was also full or fear and trepidation. I have to believe that maybe a cold sweat broke out on Bartimaeus’ brow when he heard Jesus say, “Show me where it hurts” … because sure, life before he gave his answer was miserable, but it was familiar.
Life after that answer … who knows?
I have to believe it took even more courage for Bartimaeus to answer “My teacher, let me see again” than it did to keep shouting Jesus’ name even when the crowd was telling him to be quiet. Because in Jesus’ question was an invitation not just to name his pain but to let go of his pain forever … and to join him in a new and utterly unfamiliar life on the other side of that pain … a life that he could only guess at.
When we come to Jesus, he asks us just three things:
Show me where it hurts.
Let me heal where it hurts.
Follow me to a new life.
That’s it. Just three things:
Show me where it hurts.
Let me heal where it hurts.
Follow me to a new life.
What Jesus is asking us to do is pretty scary. Jesus is not just asking us to be able to name our pain – and that can be challenging enough sometimes -- but to take that pain, that pain that is ours. That pain that we can hold. That pain that we can caress. To take that pain and let … it … go. Let it go so we can follow him to a new life. A life where we are not known by our pain. A life where we are known by who we really are … beloved children created in the image of a infinitely loving God.
I think it was Abigail van Buren who said, “Churches are hospitals for sinners, not museums for saing.” I think she’s right, churches are hospitals for sinners. But I would put it slightly differently:
“Churches are hospitals for sinners, not hospices for sinners.”
We aren’t here because we are perfect. We are here because part of us is just like Bartimaeus. Because Jesus calls us here in all our pain and imperfection and weakness and says “show me where it hurts” so we can lay it down and let it go.
Jesus calls us together at this time and place not so we can die holy deaths from our wounds but so together we can be healed from them and follow him into new life. A new life of loving extravagantly out there because we know Jesus love for us in here (the church) and in here (our hearts). A new life where we know we are neither blind nor beggars but beloved children of a loving, living God.
A new life where we are the ones going out into a world that is just as longing and just as terrified as we once were and maybe we are now. Going out into the world and asking them:
Show me where it hurts.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment