Sermons

A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Jamie Lynn Hamilton
Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio
October 7, 2007
Habakkuk 1:1-6 (7-11) 12-13; 2:1-4;
2 Timothy 1: (1-5) 6-14; Luke 17:5-10;
Psalm 37:1-18

Let us Pray: Dear Lord, we stretch across the continents and the centuries to ask for blessings from Lois, Timothy's grandmother and Eunice, Timothy's mother, as foremothers of our faith; that our time together may be inspired by their witness in our Savior Jesus Christ who has broken the power of death and brought life and immortality to light through the Gospel. AMEN

I am a teacher. I spend my days with adolescents, teaching them religion: Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Philosophy, Bible as Literature, and Ethics. I also spend my nights with adolescents. I am the Dorm Head of Dunbar, the largest dorm on campus. I live with 63 girls, ages 14-19. My colleagues call me "Mother Dunbar." And if I may so boldly claim, there is a special place in heaven for me.

Let me begin with a story about teaching

I was living in New York City at the time, and I had just landed a great teaching job at Trinity, a prestigious Episcopal day school. I was nervous and apprehensive. I wanted to succeed, afraid I wouldn't. I was afraid of listening to my own pain, my own anxiety, even my own suffering. I was afraid that if I really attended to those fears, I would not have a container large enough to house them, and then chaos would reign and all would be out of control. And I would be lost. I was teaching seniors an introductory course to the Bible--a class no one wanted to teach and no one wanted to take. ("Last elective, open, Ms. Hamilton.") I was new on the faculty at Trinity, and as the last hire, this Bible course was mine to tackle.

It was a hot September day. School had only been in session a couple of weeks. It was near the end of the day. My voice was tired; I was feeling drained; I didn't know my students very well; and the air conditioning wasn't working. I was writing some notes on the board about Abraham and Sarah and the birth of their son Isaac when the students started to give me a bad time. My back was to them.

"You don't really believe this stuff, do you Ms. Hamilton? My God, they were over 90 years old." "Yeah right, they had a kid, what a stupid miracle anyway." "Who cares- just two tired, dried up people, in a dried up desert, having a dried up kid." "What's the big deal?"

I tried to ignore their comments, but I could tell they were getting at me. I was feeling vulnerable, and becoming a victim to my own cynicism. Their questions felt like cackles. They were the witches of doubt against my saint of faith, who was quickly dissolving into a pool of water. Like Habakkuk, I was drained by the agonizing question: "How long, O Lord, have I cried to Thee, unanswered? I cry, 'Violence!' but thou dost not save. Why dost thou let me see such misery? Why countenance wrongdoing?"

Yes, Evil has a face. Of course, not the students. But I had just spent a year working as a chaplain in the hospital, tending the sick and the dying as a spiritual guide, who often felt more like an imposter than a genuine person of faith, as it was difficult for me to reconcile a justice, as Habakkuk reminds us, that comes out so perverted, and suffering which is so unredeemed. I was now teaching and trying to discern whether or not I would enter into the process of becoming a priest. The students were asking a fair question: "How much of this did I believe in anyway? How did I understand the Bible in terms of my own faith? What was real?"

"No wonder no one wants to teach this class. What was I thinking of to expose my faith to a bunch of smart adolescents." I kept on writing. Finally, a student asked me, "Do you believe in miracles, Ms. Hamilton?"

"Yes, I do," I answered with my back still to the class as I continued to write on the board.

"How can you believe in miracles?"

With my back to the class, I hid my fuming. My heart or mind or soul was not thinking of my charges, "my little ones, who may stumble," who needed my guidance. And I was definitely not thinking about any millstone wrapped around my neck and being thrown into the sea because of my inadequacies. I wanted to get through the class period and go home. And so I talked to the chalkboard, albeit loudly, but to the chalkboard,

"Anyone who has worked as a chaplain on the Burn Unit at New York Hospital as I have, has seen miracles." The room was silent. I was relieved.... I had just scored a "gotcha" kind of win. I continued writing. But then, by the grace of God, I realized that it was too quiet. I turned around and faced the class for the first time that day, "What's up? Something just happened?"

Silence.

I waited. Partly out of weariness, confusion, and a need for a rest, I stood still.

And then a student who hardly had spoken a word in class for two weeks said, "I have been burned. I lived on that burn unit for 9 months."

For the first time, I realized he was the only one in the room with a long sleeve shirt on, all buttoned up. "Nine months-- you were burned badly."

"Yes, most of my chest, and arms and thighs. I was caught in an explosion on the street."

"How old were you?"

"Eleven"

"Seven years ago?"

"Uh huh"

"God, you have been through hell and back again. May I see the work done on your hands?" And with that he began to roll up his sleeve and we talked about the grafts, and the pain and the nurses and his surgeon, Dr. Madden, who was also called Dr. God. While we talked, I ran my hand over his arm admiring how well his body had recovered and the beautiful work done by his surgeon.

"The doctors said that I would never be able to run again."

"Yeah, and now John is one of the captains of our soccer team."

I looked up. I had been so caught up in examining the work on his hands and neck and arms, I had not noticed that all the students had made a circle around us. Standing, listening and honoring, they stood as witness to his courage and to his suffering; I could tell they loved this boy. The bell rang and our conversation ended.

The next day in the hallway, I ran into the student's mother. She introduced herself to me and said, "My son has never talked about his burns with anyone. He has kept so much within himself. And last night he told me what happened in your class. It meant so much to him that you touched his burns and that you were not repelled by them. For the first time, he told me about how he felt, and we talked late into the night about the whole ordeal we had been through. Believe me, it's a miracle." And with that she began to cry.

"You have been keeping a lot in, too," I said. And with that statement, I began to cry, because, of course, I had been keeping a lot in, too. And so we stood in that hallway crying.

I believe this is what Jesus means when he says that even a little faith, no bigger than a mustard seed, can uproot a sycamore, which has an elaborate root system, and dump it into the sea. Healing is a miracle. And it comes to us, and from within us, in all forms, sizes, shapes and colors. In other words, as Jesus reminds us, we are in God's hands. Don't forget it. And those students who stood in solidarity around John, Lois and Eunice, our foremothers of faith, and even me, a confused and frightened woman are called, invited, forced, reminded and ultimately loved into bearing each other's suffering--to roll up another's sleeve and to exam their wounds, to rub them and to listen and not be repelled. Our touch, no matter how weak we feel, has power.

This past June, I was at an ordination in Los Angeles. For me, one of the most moving parts of the ordination was when Bishop Bruno, a burley mountain of a man, from his chair, kissed each ordinand's hands, reversing, of course, the tradition of kissing the bishop's ring. It was not just a beautiful gesture of love and humility and respect; he also rigorously rubbed oil into each priest's hands, signifying the power of our touch, all of us, as the priesthood of believers has to heal and love. All of this is possible because first Jesus bore all our crosses and brought salvation to the world. Because of his wounds, he is not repelled by ours. And he will rub them, and admire them and love them to glory.

I am a priest, and a teacher, and passionately committed to interfaith work. And this is why: Habakkuk is not just bemoaning his own individual suffering. No, he is crying out for a world caught in excruciating pain. Evil has a face. And as global citizens, we are called, invited, forced, reminded and ultimately loved into bearing each other's suffering, to circle around all the pain in the world, as those students circled around John and me, as a witness to our power to bring healing to our world. What is our faith calling us to do in the 21st century? To form partners, people willing to bear each other's suffering, to touch each other's wounds, who believe in reversals, who will confront injustice and suffocating patriarchy, and to hope for healing, to feed the hungry, to give sight to the blind and rest to the weary. We can no longer build our alliances with Christians, only. I want to be and to know, and to learn and to struggle with Jews, and Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists, poor and rich, men and women, gay and straight, Caucasian and people of color, leaders and servants, with anyone who will commit to community rather than conquest, to reverence rather than violence. There is work to do and we need each other. We need the witness of all faiths to stand in solidarity as we find creative ways to live out Dr. Martin Luther King's hope and conviction that "unearned suffering is redemptive." We need to tell Habakkuk that there is hope. Even a mustard seed of faith can rip out the roots of injustice and toss fear into the sea.

In the spirit of interfaith, let me close with the wisdom of our rabbinical scholars. In the Talmud, the Oral Tradition of the Jews, there is recorded, centuries of debate, argument and commentary on scripture and law. Deuteronomy 6:4 is the Shema, the holy words that command Jews to "Hear O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord alone." The Scripture continues with, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your might. We repeat these words in our own service of worship. The command ends with the phrase, "And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be upon your heart."

Throughout the centuries there has been much commentary on this powerful passage. The Rabbis have asked, "Why is it this way? Why are we not told to place these teachings in our heart?"

The Rabbis answer: "It is not in the realm of human power to place the divine teachings directly in one's heart. All we can do is place them on the surface of the heart so that when the heart breaks they can fall in."

Ah yes, the divine teachings can only fall into our hearts when we enter into the suffering of our fellow companions of the world. This act is a cornerstone of our faith. Let us cross cultures and continents, difficulties and differences and join hands with all the different mustard seeds of faith and life and plant in the wisdom of all our traditions a beloved community which can oppose the forces of death and war and famine and hate.

Jesus says to us "do not be afraid; be servants who embrace duty with love." Enter into each other's suffering. Let your heart be open, let your heart be broken. Do not be afraid of suffering. Embrace it so that the divine teachings can fall into all our hearts so that we can live in the wisdom of touching, witnessing and ushering in The Kingdom of God, no longer hailed by the triumphant victor but rather linked by circles upon circles upon circles of all people of all faiths having the power together, to move mountains.