Mourning Into Dancing
(Beginning next week, these things will actually get posted in order. This one came from the beginning of the month.)
Text: Matthew 5:1-10; Psalm 30
October 1, 2006
About six years ago I was fired from the first church I served. Of course, church circles are too polite, and Presbyterians, in particular, too decent and orderly to call it that. But on the Saturday morning when the church’s personnel committee asked me to “dissolve the pastoral relationship” we all knew what was really happening.
It was not unexpected, and a part of me actually longed for it. It was, nonetheless, a shocking plunge into uncertainty, so I reached out to one of my mentors for advice and support.
Advice, I received. As for support, well the first words out of his mouth when I shared the news were these: “David, if we are doing our jobs there will be scars.”
Indeed. And, oh yea, thanks for the pastoral support!
If we are doing our jobs, there will be scars.
Sounds a bit like my favorite line from The Princess Bride, “life is pain, princess. Anybody who tells you otherwise is selling something.”
If we are doing our jobs, there will be scars. Reminds me also of that famous scene from Jaws where Robert Shaw and an very young Richard Dreyfuss are drunkenly comparing scars from various encounters with big fish until the Dreyfuss character points to his chest, mentions a girl’s name, and intones, “she broke my heart.”
Scars. Pain. Broken hearts. These are ours if we are doing our jobs; if we are living into our truest calling. That is to say, if we are human beings, fully alive and engaged in the vocation of human life, yes, there will be scars.
As my pastoral notes of recent weeks underscore, we are living through a particular season of scars these days at Clarendon. The death of Hal’s mother, the illness of James’ sister, the illness of Jim Hewitt’s mother and Reg Mitchell’s mother, and the other places of pain and brokenness that we have lifted in prayer these past few weeks and months – there is a heaviness to our lives together just now.
The wisdom of Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for this: a time to mourn; a time to rejoice; a time of birth and one of dying; a time to dance and a time to weep; a time, indeed, for every purpose under heaven.
Ecclesiastes teaches us that all of this is blessed, and that God’s purposes can be worked out through every season – even through seasons of broken hearts and dreams and lives. Of course, it doesn’t always feel as if any purpose can be worked through our suffering.
Mourning, grief, deep sadness – no matter the source or even its severity – often feel utterly empty and isolating. Whether we are mourning the loss of a loved one, of a relationship, of a job, a dream, a home – whatever the loss and whatever its cause, we suffer along. At least, that’s what if feels like.
We’ve moved around enough as a family – more than enough if you listen to the rest of the family – but enough to have experienced a lot of loss, of moving on, of interrupted or lost friendships. One of the most heartbreaking images for me in all of that loss was of Bud, as a second-grader entering a new school in midyear, spending recess during the first few days standing all alone leaning against a light pole in the middle of the playground.
It was, and still is, for me a perfect visual metaphor of mourning. Life goes on in a swirl of activity all around you but you stand alone, separated from life itself, so it seems. And the laughter of the living can feel like an affront to your sorrow.
At such moments – whether they come in the midst of losses staggering or somewhat smaller – we want to shout out to the swirling world, “Stop! How can you find light in the world when it feels so dark to me? How can you go on living when there is so much to grieve?”
Our own loss feels so heavy and so deep sometimes that it is unfathomable that others might not feel it, too.
Of course, that little boy leaning on the light post, though he bears the memory of painful loneliness, was soon swept up in the joy of life once again. Young children have an emotional elasticity that grown-ups lose; and certainly there is deeper pain that being a new kid at school. Still, no matter the losses we endure, even as we suffer alone life beckons out of isolation and into community.
Into this reality Jesus says, “blessed are those who mourn.” The words are not a denial of death or pain or sorrow. In fact, they suggest that the blessing of life fully lived will include mourning and sorrow.
If we are doing our jobs – if we are human beings fully alive – there will be scars. The wounds that leave these scars are real.
Nevertheless, the psalmist celebrates a time when after the lingering night time of mourning, joy will break forth with the dawn. Indeed, the Hebraic sense of time itself – with day beginning not at dawn but at dusk – suggests that the very movement of time is from mourning into joy, from darkness into light. Mourning turns to morning, dusk turns to dancing, and we who grieve find blessing through our mourning.
I have done more than a few graveside services over the years and had families ask if their young children should attend. I always say, “yes, please, bring them for their very presence reminds us that life goes on and that it is good.”
After all, we are a resurrection people. We know that we cannot get to Easter except by way of Good Friday, but we trust that God is everywhere at work in the world calling us through the cross into the garden of the empty tomb, through our mourning into the fullness of abundant life, through our suffering isolation into the beloved community of compassion – of suffering with one another, binding one another up and bearing one another’s burdens.
None of this reduces the mystery of death to something easily domesticated. None of this explains away our suffering. None of this erases the pain of broken bones or wounded hearts.
But it does create in us a deep capacity for incredible strength precisely in the places of deepest woundedness. Only those who have known rejection can know the unsurpassed beauty of hospitality. Only those who have known painful isolation and loneliness can know the life-giving power of community. Only those who have known the passion unto death can know the compassion that leads to life abundant.
Yes, if we are living the lives we are called to, there will be scars. But from the memory of the wounds themselves grows a wellspring of life and a capacity for compassion that is and ever shall be the mark of the community that gathers round the table of the crucified Christ. Let us be that people – blessed even and, perhaps, especially in this season of scars. Let us gather at table. Amen.
Rev. Dr. David Ensign
Text: Matthew 5:1-10; Psalm 30
October 1, 2006
About six years ago I was fired from the first church I served. Of course, church circles are too polite, and Presbyterians, in particular, too decent and orderly to call it that. But on the Saturday morning when the church’s personnel committee asked me to “dissolve the pastoral relationship” we all knew what was really happening.
It was not unexpected, and a part of me actually longed for it. It was, nonetheless, a shocking plunge into uncertainty, so I reached out to one of my mentors for advice and support.
Advice, I received. As for support, well the first words out of his mouth when I shared the news were these: “David, if we are doing our jobs there will be scars.”
Indeed. And, oh yea, thanks for the pastoral support!
If we are doing our jobs, there will be scars.
Sounds a bit like my favorite line from The Princess Bride, “life is pain, princess. Anybody who tells you otherwise is selling something.”
If we are doing our jobs, there will be scars. Reminds me also of that famous scene from Jaws where Robert Shaw and an very young Richard Dreyfuss are drunkenly comparing scars from various encounters with big fish until the Dreyfuss character points to his chest, mentions a girl’s name, and intones, “she broke my heart.”
Scars. Pain. Broken hearts. These are ours if we are doing our jobs; if we are living into our truest calling. That is to say, if we are human beings, fully alive and engaged in the vocation of human life, yes, there will be scars.
As my pastoral notes of recent weeks underscore, we are living through a particular season of scars these days at Clarendon. The death of Hal’s mother, the illness of James’ sister, the illness of Jim Hewitt’s mother and Reg Mitchell’s mother, and the other places of pain and brokenness that we have lifted in prayer these past few weeks and months – there is a heaviness to our lives together just now.
The wisdom of Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for this: a time to mourn; a time to rejoice; a time of birth and one of dying; a time to dance and a time to weep; a time, indeed, for every purpose under heaven.
Ecclesiastes teaches us that all of this is blessed, and that God’s purposes can be worked out through every season – even through seasons of broken hearts and dreams and lives. Of course, it doesn’t always feel as if any purpose can be worked through our suffering.
Mourning, grief, deep sadness – no matter the source or even its severity – often feel utterly empty and isolating. Whether we are mourning the loss of a loved one, of a relationship, of a job, a dream, a home – whatever the loss and whatever its cause, we suffer along. At least, that’s what if feels like.
We’ve moved around enough as a family – more than enough if you listen to the rest of the family – but enough to have experienced a lot of loss, of moving on, of interrupted or lost friendships. One of the most heartbreaking images for me in all of that loss was of Bud, as a second-grader entering a new school in midyear, spending recess during the first few days standing all alone leaning against a light pole in the middle of the playground.
It was, and still is, for me a perfect visual metaphor of mourning. Life goes on in a swirl of activity all around you but you stand alone, separated from life itself, so it seems. And the laughter of the living can feel like an affront to your sorrow.
At such moments – whether they come in the midst of losses staggering or somewhat smaller – we want to shout out to the swirling world, “Stop! How can you find light in the world when it feels so dark to me? How can you go on living when there is so much to grieve?”
Our own loss feels so heavy and so deep sometimes that it is unfathomable that others might not feel it, too.
Of course, that little boy leaning on the light post, though he bears the memory of painful loneliness, was soon swept up in the joy of life once again. Young children have an emotional elasticity that grown-ups lose; and certainly there is deeper pain that being a new kid at school. Still, no matter the losses we endure, even as we suffer alone life beckons out of isolation and into community.
Into this reality Jesus says, “blessed are those who mourn.” The words are not a denial of death or pain or sorrow. In fact, they suggest that the blessing of life fully lived will include mourning and sorrow.
If we are doing our jobs – if we are human beings fully alive – there will be scars. The wounds that leave these scars are real.
Nevertheless, the psalmist celebrates a time when after the lingering night time of mourning, joy will break forth with the dawn. Indeed, the Hebraic sense of time itself – with day beginning not at dawn but at dusk – suggests that the very movement of time is from mourning into joy, from darkness into light. Mourning turns to morning, dusk turns to dancing, and we who grieve find blessing through our mourning.
I have done more than a few graveside services over the years and had families ask if their young children should attend. I always say, “yes, please, bring them for their very presence reminds us that life goes on and that it is good.”
After all, we are a resurrection people. We know that we cannot get to Easter except by way of Good Friday, but we trust that God is everywhere at work in the world calling us through the cross into the garden of the empty tomb, through our mourning into the fullness of abundant life, through our suffering isolation into the beloved community of compassion – of suffering with one another, binding one another up and bearing one another’s burdens.
None of this reduces the mystery of death to something easily domesticated. None of this explains away our suffering. None of this erases the pain of broken bones or wounded hearts.
But it does create in us a deep capacity for incredible strength precisely in the places of deepest woundedness. Only those who have known rejection can know the unsurpassed beauty of hospitality. Only those who have known painful isolation and loneliness can know the life-giving power of community. Only those who have known the passion unto death can know the compassion that leads to life abundant.
Yes, if we are living the lives we are called to, there will be scars. But from the memory of the wounds themselves grows a wellspring of life and a capacity for compassion that is and ever shall be the mark of the community that gathers round the table of the crucified Christ. Let us be that people – blessed even and, perhaps, especially in this season of scars. Let us gather at table. Amen.
Rev. Dr. David Ensign
posted by David Ensign at
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