Sermon for Advent 4: In Memory of Mary (The Eulogy), Dec 23, 2018

Sermon: In Memory of Mary (The Eulogy)

Introduction:

When I was preparing this Sunday’s sermon, I decided to continue an exploration of the theme of remembering through this advent at Immanuel, and so I would write the eulogy in memory of Mary, in my style.

Our memories of Mary are mostly confined to or focused on the nativity story, the birth of Jesus. (Most women in Bible stories disappear after they give birth to the male heir.) But it is also true that we have a few more surviving, fragmented memories of Mary in the Gospel of John & the Acts. My point would be that only when we understand those memories - what was really going on in those later parts of her story, together with the stories of the Angel’s visit, her pregnancy, the holy night of giving birth and the communities which gathered around the humble stable (animals, shepherds, Magi, perhaps BNN reporters, too) can we have the fuller picture of Mary, what was truly revolutionary about her individuality, and of the Kingdom of God movement.  

I hope that we will gain a new understanding of Mary’s loss and faith from the traditional Buddhist teaching of A Life of Non-possession.

This eulogy of Mary, in her memory, will be the finale of our Advent theme series of remembering, resilience and revolution.

Sermon:

In this fourth Advent worship, I would like to celebrate the memory of Mary. Here’s my eulogy…

Mary is my ancestor. As I have never had a personal encounter with Mary, this eulogy is primarily memory work, which depends on memories from the past, as they were told and shared and written in the Gospels, mostly by the men of 2000 years ago. However, even if our recollections of Mary, as they are, have been produced by the writings of men, it is also inspired by God and the courage of outstanding women, so it is also faith work.

Memories of Mary survived in the men’s world, because she became the mother of God, Emmanuel, because of her son who we confess as our Saviour, but I believe that was not the only reason. Mary’s memory survived not as a leader nor a prophet; she was remembered as “woman” and “mother” as most of her own Jewish foremothers had been before her. And that is so important. Her memory survived because she said yes to God’s dreams, and through God’s dreams, she lived her dreams, not nightmares.

Mary was not the victim of the story; she was a survivor. We know a lot of ink has been spilled to determine what the improbability of her pregnancy by the Holy Spirit might mean in our faith. Mary was a survivor like many of her Jewish foremothers — the women prophets, wives and mothers, like Miriam (the name Mary originates from Miriam, the contemporary prophetess of Moses), Sarah (who had an improbable pregnancy in her elder years), the young girl Dinah (who was raped), Ruth (who seduced Boaz into a marriage agreement in order to insure survival and protection for her and her mother-in-law Naomi). These extraordinary women who chose to live dreams, not nightmares, are the ancestors in the long genealogical list that begins with Adam and Eve, runs to David, then goes all the way up to Jesus. In the ancient Jewish time and tradition, Mary was not just an individual. People thought in collective terms. Mary represents all women, all mothers, all foremothers, all women prophets, even though all celebrate their unique contribution to the history of awaiting the Messiah. They all survived silence (or being silenced), when Mary sings, “My soul proclaims your greatness, O God, and my spirit rejoices in you, my Saviour.” In other words, “My soul magnifies God’s goodness and love”. We understand that, through Mary, the promise from the ancient time was fulfilled, “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means God is with us.” We don’t need to look outwards, always to see who those “we” are. We look in among us and see many Dinahs. Many Ruths. Many Marys.  

We have memories of Mary, that have survived, that have been fragmented. Many have seized onto the image of Mary on that holy night, and this fragment of her story really tells us who she was. Mary held in her heart and bosom her helpless newborn son. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him on animal straw “Because there was no room for them at the inn.”

Mary “treasured” all these things in her heart.

Most of the Bible’s stories centre on men. The matriarchs appear at key points, (like the East Star), in the patriarchal sagas to assure that God’s promises are passed on to the rightful male heir. Then after they have served their purpose, they disappear from the story. But Mary didn’t disappear. This young woman (called “virgin”) grew old, (She was a year shy of 50 at the crucifixion, if she gave birth to Jesus at 16.) and lived the fulfillment of the prophecy of Simeon to experience “The sword piercing her soul also.” But, (and this is the important But) I would like to remember and celebrate with you one unusual fact about Mary: she did not seem to experience the departure of Jesus as “ her loss.” This understanding was inspired by a time when Gerry (the partner of Linda Murray whose health was in a critical state about this time last year after Christmas; she died in January.) came to church last Sunday.

From time to time, I remember Linda. She was the first person I had met who made me think, “Wow, she’s like me!” At our third meeting in person, she made me think, “Wow, I feel that this person really gives me unconditional love.” Then, I was so excited about the possibility of a good friendship. After she died, I considered her death a deep loss.

Then, this week, I asked, “What is loss? If that means, we have ‘lost' something or someone, we define the relationship in light of ‘possession', like 'I’ve lost the coin, I’ve lost the chance.' In other words, 'I’ve lost something that is my possession, that is supposed to be my possession, that could be my possession.' And such a sense of loss defined by the absence of the possession can beget feelings of bitterness and aching pain.

At this point, I was, then, reminded of my past learning from Zen Buddhist tradition, especially the teaching of A Life of Non-possession.

In the English-speaking world, we don’t seem to question how our mind is so used to understanding loss, (and how this cultural understanding of loss is already linguistically defined), in terms of possession. For example, if we look at the expression, “I lost my mom,” I wonder if we may translate it to mean: "Someone who was like ‘Eden’ ('everything or the great source of comfort and love') to me does not exist any longer in the world of mine, in the manner that I used to have had.”

In the Korean language, (and all languages reflect their culture) traditionally, when we explain a sad situation and express grief, we seem to say more predominantly, “After my brother departed from us,” or “After (I/we) sent him back”, rather than “I lost my brother, or “since the loss of my brother.” In the Korean language, I don’t think that ‘loss’ is the primary description, at least traditionally, at least for the older generations who have been less influenced by Western individualism - in which we are so obsessed with possession. When Koreans refer to the matter of life and death and loss, the religious view of non-possession is profoundly in our language: that when we are born, we come to this world with empty hands. When we depart from the world, we go back in the same way - empty hands.

I wonder if moving away from a structure where we are so used to defining any kind of relationship in terms of ‘possession’ (i.e. wealth, power, ministry, intimacy, love, friendship) — to understand and be in relationship with others or things in light of non-possession, what that would be like. I imagine that the spirituality of non-possession and non-permanence would show us that we all are guests in this world, therefore, we are called to practice hospitality, welcome, open doors, all of that., in the belief that we are all part of a whole. Person by person, we are each one part of a greater world, intimately intertwined.

Now let’s go back to the memory of Mary. It seems to me that Mary “treasured” her relationship with her son not in terms of possession, as “her” son, as very clearly from the beginning, Jesus is the son of “the Most High.”:

Then the angel said to her, "Do not be afraid, Mary, for God has been gracious to you; you will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called Son of the Most High.” (Luke 1)

Another memory from the Gospel of John is that Mary stood beneath the foot of the cross at Jesus’ death, and Jesus said to Mary, pointing to his beloved disciple, “There is your son,” then said to the disciple, “There is your mother.” The kinship relationship was rearranged in light of faith, rather than blood.

We do not have the memory how, when, where or with whom Mary died. But the Acts tells us the last memory of Mary, as part of the group of followers in a new church. Mary was a dreamer, but not a leader. Mary did not claim her status among the followers as Jesus’ mother, but “Treasured all these things” and understood the revolutionary aspect of the “new kinship” of Jesus’ Kingdom of God movement. She was the mother, but was not powerful. She chose to be with the group gathered together in Jerusalem, following the departure of Jesus, as a lay participant. She was with her new kinship group on whom the Spirit came at Pentecost, which included, then, female and male disciples, with the companions of Jesus, the new kinsfolk of faith, beyond the death of Jesus. In my memory, Mary was a scandalously courageous woman of inspiration, but because she “treasured all things” in the faith and light of non-possession, her love of God, her love of Jesus, her love of the world, her love of herself was resilient and revolutionary. She didn’t just survive the loss of her son. 'Loss' was not the right term to describe the end result of  her revolutionary love and faith. This Advent, I pray that we remember Mary.

Advent - Joy - Remembering (3): To Blow God's Bamboo Flute (Dec 16, 2018)

Advent 3 -- Remembering (3)

             To Blow God's Bamboo Flute

Joy is a dominant theme in the celebration of Christmas. The stories of the first Christmas are filled with joy. They express unmistakable joy. 

Mary sings (the Magnificat), I magnify God because of what God is doing in me! 

Zechariah sings (the Benedictus), Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who has visited and redeemed his people. 

Simeon sings (the Nunc Dimittis), Now I can depart in peace for I have seen your salvation.

They are, all of them, songs of joy. 

So also the angelic message to the shepherds is filled with joy: “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all people…” 

And then: 

Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, 

and on earth peace among those whom he favours.” 

Just like the story of the first Christmas back then, (Christmas past), the celebration of Christmas now, (Christmas present) is filled with joy. Hear the opening lines of a few familiar Christmas hymns (which means Let’s have some sing alongs!) (Laugh…) 

Joy to the world, the Lord is come! 

Let earth receive her King!

O come, all ye faithful,

joyful and triumphant. 

Hark! The herald angels sing,

Glory to the newborn King! 

To be honest, the stories of the first Christmas are not only filled with joy, but also with conflict. There’s glory in the skies, but there’s an equally unmistakable ominous emotional tone on earth. Herod plots to kill Jesus; this undercurrent to the story is dark. The aged Simeon warns Mary immediately after he has sung the Nunc Dimittis (“Now I can depart in peace for I have seen your salvation.”):

This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel and to be a sign that will be opposed, so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed — and a sword will pierce your own soul also. 

This final phrase refers to the pain and grief that Mary herself will face because of the destiny of her son. 

Christmas brings joy and conflict. It did so then, (Christmas past), and it does so now (Christmas present). At home, in the Christmas present of ours; and everywhere, Christmas present in the world. 

This Advent season, we’ve been reflecting on the meaning of remembering. Now, moving from the past to the present, it is not just about remembering, but reliving: to bring the past into the present.

The Latin root of Advent is a word that means “coming.” Advent thus means “toward the coming.” Advent is preparation for the coming of Jesus into the world - then, in the past; now, in the present; and, later, in the future. Christmas past, Christmas present, Christmas future. 

At this point, I would like to invite everyone to ask a few questions: 

If we are the Israel of the present, Christmas present, how will we imagine a Christmas future? How would we use “remembering” as leverage that will lift us up to resilience, a state in which we are able to be joyful, in which we do not let go of anticipatory joy, even while acknowledging  the great “in spite of”… In spite of distress, in spite of conflicts, in spite of grief, in spite of injustice… How is joy compatible with that great “in spite of”, knowing the bad news that is piling up around us, feeling an anticipatory grief and lamentation for the destiny of our suffering Mother Earth. What are your great “in spite of’s”?

To do this work well, remembering to be resilient and rejoicing even in the great ‘in spite of’, I introduce the work of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha to guide our questions. Piepzna-Samarsinha’s book, Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice, was published just this November. It didn’t take a second for me to press “Buy now with 1 Click” (Amazon) to read this book right away on Kindle. She’s a disabled, of South Asian/Sri Lankan descent (from her immigrant mother) queer writer and educator. Her work centres on disability justice and the stories of sexual abuse or other trauma survivors. Reading Care Work, what struck me and moved me up to a whole new plane of understanding was the chapter: Not Over It, Not Fixed, and Living a Life worth Living: Towards an Anti-Ableist Vision of Survivorhood. 

This chapter began with a conversation she had with her new therapist who, during the intake interview, asked her in all sincerity, “So, do you think the therapy you got in your twenties resolved your childhood sexual abuse?” She stared at her with her mouth open for a solid thirty seconds. 

Piepzna-Samarasinha recalls, “As it turned out we had some really different understanding of trauma, healing and survivorhood. She really thought that childhood sexual abuse was something to manage, something you could get over and ‘move on’ from, a cut you stitch up with butterfly bandages.” 

Piepzna-Samarasinha continues: 

“The idea that survivorhood is a thing to ‘fix’ or ‘cure,’ to get over, and that the cure is not only possible and easy but the only desirable option, is as common as breath. It’s a concept that has deep roots in ableist ideas that when there’s something wrong, there’s either cured or broken and nothing in between, and certainly nothing valuable in inhabiting a bodymind that’s disabled in any way.” 

Piepzna-Samarasinha challenges our ableism and the ableist society: 

“The ableist model of cure” is that “Cure is healing is elimination.” It is the only model most of us have for having more ease and less pain: “Elimination.” Elimination of illness, elimination of disability, because it is painful to see that they exist… 

“This belief promotes the binary of fixed or broken, and shame. The binary stops us from being able to imagine survivor futures where we are ‘thriving’ but not cured.” 

“When I lead disability justice workshops, one of my toughest teaching moments is always to get people to step out of the deficiency model of disability. When I talk about disabled wisdom and skills, or about disabled people as having histories, cultures, and movements, the blank looks in the room kill me. It’s near impossible for many abled people to think of disability as anything other than an individual tragedy and a state no one would choose to inhabit.” 

In the deficiency model of disability, there’s nothing good about disability, no skills or brilliance. And thus, this belief and practice continue to be persistent. “Cure is healing is elimination.” 

“And, then and today, I see survivors struggling with feelings of deep shame that we are not ‘over it.’ 

Now, the following quote has deeply impacted on my preparation for Advent. This has become the reason why I was so eager to explore the importance and the meaning of remembering with you all in this Advent, centering on the question, What does remembering mean and how is it transformative in faith and spirituality, because I believe, as we become the masters of our own lives, (growing older and more mature), we become survivors and learn to develop our own survivor skills, knowledge and brilliance. Listen deeply: 

“When we are not fixed, nor over it, still triggered, still feeling, still healing in our forties, sixties, and beyond, we are not failing. We are remembering, and we are learning from our survivorhood. We are moving from a model that gasps at our scars to one that wants to learn as much from them as possible. Traditional ideas of survivorhood think of “remembering” as a time-limited process that happens upon recovery of abuse memories and then is over. But in another survivor universe, we are continually expanding — we are always remembering, and remembering again, and thinking about what our wounding means. We are mining our survivor experiences for knowledge.” 

Then Piepzna-Samarasinha quickly asks us, “What would be the model for long-term grief?”, … What if our grief is not the time-limited process that we should and can get over and move on…

(Again, it is the question of remembering, resilience and rejoicing “in the great ‘in spite of’…)

If we are all, in our varied ways and situations, survivors, how do we translate our survivors’ skills, knowledge, faith and spirituality to transformative ministry? 

The most beloved Advent hymn, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, which is more than a thousand years old, tells us that Advent is a time of reliving ancient Israel’s hope, now. (Note: The accompanist plays):

O Come, O come, Emmanuel, 

and ransom captive Israel, 

that mourns in lonely exile here, 

until the Son of God appear. 

We are Israel - in exile, captive, mourning, lonely, longing. 

Then, the end of each verse of this long hymn is marked with a joyful chorus that proclaims fulfillment of the Ancient hope. In contrast to the mournful tone of the verses, the chorus sounds like improbable joy in the face of the great ‘in spite of’s. (Do you remember the chorus? Could we sing it together?) 

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel."

Joy, or rejoicing, is the result of the priceless, magnificent work of love, loving ourselves and loving our people and loving all relations on our precious Mother Earth. True joy is elevated in its brilliance, only when it is inspired by divine courage and human spirit. It is not something that can be prescribed - one cookie cutter to fit all. 

Christmas is the past, which is the present, which is always moving towards the transformative newness of a Christmas future that is yet to come. 

In spite of our imperfection, in spite of the improbability of our dreams, in spite of the worlds’ unreadiness, Immanuel God is already moving us, or blowing us to a new imagined future, as if she blows a cosmic bamboo flute (by the way, have you blown it? I have… Not easy. It needs unbelievable skill.) … to sing… 

Rejoice. 

Rejoice. Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel

(This sermon is based on many great inspirations from The First Christmas by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan.)

Advent sermon: Remembering (2) -- What will we remember?, Dec 9, 2018

The second Advent Sunday sermon

Remembering (2) 

What will we remember?

Celebrating this sacred time of Advent, I have been inviting everyone at Immanuel to think about the ‘three r’s’: remembering, resilience and revolutionary. Last Sunday, we reflected on some aspects of remembering: 

Remembering reminds us of where we came from as individuals and as a people; 

Remembering requires us to be truthful. 

Remembering tells us to go and touch again our foundational experiences, the unbreakable wisdom that has withstood, and will withstand, the test of time.

On this Second Sunday of Advent, I would like to ask, what will we remember?

In the Bible, there are many teachings on remembering. Indeed, the act of remembrance seems to be at the heart of the Torah and the Gospel. In faith, God is the remembering God.

Let’s begin with what Jesus said. Jesus liked to tell Kingdom parables, and one of them is, “The kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (Matthew 13:52). Jesus’ teaching style (“discipleship”) is about learning how to participate in a movement “Of old and new”, learning "An agile process of remembering and forgetting for the sake of obedient newness.” (Walter Brueggemann) 

In the Torah, remembering is, “Remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt.” 

For seven days you shall eat unleavened bread - the bread of affliction - because you came out of the land of Egypt in great haste, so that all the days of your life you may remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt. (Exodus)

What we learn from this passage on remembering the Passover, is that God commands us to remember our deliverance, when we are no longer enslaved, no longer hungry, no longer in need, and capable on our own. God wants us to remember the time of before self-sufficiency, before our autonomy, God wants us to remember the time of “wretched needfulness” which God answered with the free food of manna. The act of remembering is sacred, very appropriate for Advent, the time when we wait patiently for the coming of Jesus, because we are called to remember the wilderness sojourn when we were radically dependent on YHWH. 

Sacred remembrance is not easy. This act of remembering is not like remembering the dates of appointments, marked on the calendar. This remembering is often inconvenient and costly, because we strive to remember loving our neighbours, foreigners, prisoners, widows, the orphans and the poor of our contemporary time, not by lip service, but by daily service, out of love and not because it’s new policy, in our most ableist society, of the empire, of military armaments, of capitalism, of individualism. We remember, because we are called to live as the people of God, to live the oddity, the peculiarity, the costly inconvenience of facing society’s Giants even when they badger us with constant praise and promotion of the “beauty, youth, wealth, control, security, and limitless well-being” of independent selves. 

Here, another important aspect about remembering comes in. In remembering, it’s important to not remember too little, nor to remember too much. 

Remembering is a balancing act. If we remember too little, we lose the past’s reality in a rosy, unrealistic glow. If we remember too much, it feeds grief, and gives the wrong nutrition, the heartbreaking, constant reminder of our losses. If it is nostalgia, if we prefer the past to the future and resist to the newness that we should welcome, we have this obligation to “forget”, for the health of our being, for the health of the whole community. 

I think I might understand where that balance lies. When I was a youth, I was, (I admit that I still am, a little) a person who seemed to always be a little more excited than actually needed, for each new task in front of me. I am someone who is always open to start a new adventure, new approach, new possibility, new challenge. One wise member in my first congregation, who supported me in a very heart-felt way, came to my office one day (It was close to the day of my covenanting), and showed me the picture in this card,

 
and said, “When I first found this card in the store, it immediately reminded me of you, Ha Na. 'Come, come, come. Here. Look at that! I see an amazing thing there. Let’s go, and see,” always ready to move to where the new Sun rises up above the new horizon. New concepts, new knowledge always filled me quickly, my inquisitive mind, while my emotions were much slower to reach the surface of my consciousness, and notify me that they exist too. 

Lately, I’ve begun to more fully understand how my whole being is composed. Not just by getting older, but more importantly by experience, I begin to rediscover how deeply my birth culture is imbedded in my soul, something I devalued, because I didn’t like it and, later, I “disidentified” with it. Korean culture has meant ‘the patriarchy’ to me for a long time, and it still does. If you take an X-ray of Korea, the picture you get is the patriarchy, its backbone in black and white. These days, though, I have just begun to develop a new appreciation of the treasures in my culture. I have become the “master", like in today’s Gospel reading, who brings the “treasure", out of Korean culture and sees "what is new and what is old." What is old, very old, is that my Korean culture is a profoundly emotion-based culture. The root of all our speeches, the root of all our actions, the root of righteousness, benevolence, propriety, and intellect (those four primary virtues of our traditional religions) are emotions: joy (like blissful happiness), anger, deep grief/sorrow, and pleasure. The religions teach that the mind-state before these root emotions arise from within is Benevolence - the ground of love. 

The act of remembering is spiritual, because it involves our deep emotions. We understand ourselves through emotions. We understand others through emotions. Emotions are the root of our true knowledge. 

As we get older, we appreciate things more. We know that nothing happens by coincidence; everything, every matter is in the delicate, interconnected web of relations. Through life experience, we also learn how we can better appreciate the treasures of life, how to welcome them better, how to manage them, like relationships, friendships, traditions (which are more splendid than gold.) Then, as we mature, we begin to see that the treasures are not always abundant. We lose them. We lose friends. We lose loved ones. Then, because of our understanding that our losses are not always replaced, when we lose one, it can affect our happiness entirely, and sweep away our joy. We grieve. We are heart-broken. We know we can’t go back to where we originally were, where it seemed everyone was happy, where all was better, than … now. 

When we remember, we remember our emotions. What we knew by heart. What we felt at that time. It’s natural to remember both happy moments, and hurting ones. Sometimes we may not be sure what to remember, what not to remember, what to forget and what not to forget. They are not just remembered, they are not just forgotten. When we grieve, we rollercoaster between the temptations of amnesia and nostalgia. 

Here, I don’t want to suggest to you that we should move away from nostalgia and amnesia, that we should depart from “remembering too much” or “remembering too little”. My hope is to ponder the questions together, in this Advent season: what will we remember? What will we forget? If our grief is a long-term affliction, if we can’t go back to Eden, the original state of being able to be happy without worries, if we can’t just bring back our lost treasures to the present, with a magic wand, what would be the spirituality of remembering and the gifts of forgetting we need to learn? If we are facing our Giants right now, like trauma, oppression, injustice, how will we harness remembrance to help us be resilient, therefore revolutionary, transforming the act of remembering to be both a personal and political ceremony?  

Because God is the “remembering God”, we are remembered. Our wilderness is remembered. Our communion is remembered. Jesus said, “Do this in remembrance of me,” remembering his death, proclaiming his resurrection, awaiting his coming in glory. It is remembering that makes possible proclaiming and waiting. Therefore,

How will we not forget? If we forget, we will invite the myth of self-sufficiency. If we forget, we will erase our memory of the wilderness, and replace it with something other than daily manna, our radical dependence on God.  

At the same time, we need to remember that God forgets, too. In Isaiah 43:18, God says via the poet, (the prophet), 

“Do not remember the former things, 

or consider the things of old.”

Surprising, and interesting! Because God says them to a displaced people in their deep distress, in exile. (Exile is a troubled time of turmoil with an unsorted mix of remembering and of forgetting, of remembering too little or too much.) God speaks, “Do not remember!” Do not cling to the past. Because if you cling excessively to the past, you will miss the newness being enacted before your very eyes! 

God continues, 

“I am about to do a new thing; 

Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

I make a way in the wilderness

and rivers in the desert. 

The wild animals will honour me, 

The jackals and the ostriches, 

For I give water in the wilderness, 

rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, 

the people whom I formed for myself

so that they might declare my praise.” (43:19-21)

In this proclamation, God is telling the desperate people who remember too much, too long, too well, “Not to remember”. That is God's love shout to God’s people to not miss the newness She is about to perform among them. 

In this second week of Advent, what will we remember? What will we forget? How will we remember and how will we forget, as the people of God, as a communal task facing forward to the future, taking a bold departure both from nostalgia and amnesia? How will we face our own giant contradictions and crisis? How will we face the future?

In this Advent time, let us ponder God’s call to remember and to forget. Open the treasure, and ask yourself… What is new? What is old?