For Grandma Punky.

Photo Credit: Karen Smith

2 Corinthians 12:1-13

...My power is made perfect in weakness...

 Yesterday, I said a silent prayer. It wasn’t to God. Not really. It was to Dan’s Grandma Punky. She turned 100 years old this past March. And yesterday we got news that she’s not doing too great. She has a hospice nurse. She’s on pain meds. She fell the other day. And she’s been sick to her stomach for a few days now. On her 100th COVID Zoom birthday celebration, her whole family gathered together, through the magic of modern technology, to wish her a happy birthday. I asked her if she had any words of wisdom for us now that she’s 100. And with her no-nonsense, humorous, anti-sentimental perspective that she has had at least ever since I have known her she’d said, “Yes. Don’t live this long! It’s exhausting!” We all laughed that awkward laugh that you laugh when you hear something that is all the things: hard and true and funny and heartbreaking. She’s ready. She misses her husband terribly. It’s time. I think, maybe. Or, at least, it’s time as long as she gets to make the choice. So I said a little prayer, hoping that it would travel the 2,000 mile distance between us. “Hey Grandma. It’s just Jenn, your somewhat estranged granddaughter-in-law. You’re probably really angry at me still, and I don’t blame you. But maybe you can still know that I love you, and if it means anything to you at all, I want to tell you that it’s ok, you can go now. We are gonna be ok. Dan and I are gonna be ok. 

Of course. You don’t need my permission. You’ve always done whatever you’ve wanted - in that good sort of self-assured-but-not-abusive sort of way. And I love you for it. So whenever you choose to let go, I will love you still. I just wanted to say that to you.”

I mean, who knows. Grandma Punky may still outlive us all. She’s always been so strong. So self-assured. So independent. The fullest embodiment of the matriarch of the family. I wonder what she is thinking now, as she looks back on all the little and big deaths she has endured that have brought her to this moment, as she looks back on all her blessings and the sheer luck that she’s been given. I have only known her for 1/5 of her life, but from what little I know about her, she doesn’t need my permission to do anything. So I think I was probably giving myself permission in that little prayer. “God, it is going to bring me to my knees to live in a world without Grandma Punky. So here I am. On my knees.” I’m too weak to survive her absence, but I’m going to lean in to that weakness, because I love her, because she deserves to make her own choices and not stick around just because we’re all so scared and sad and broken.

So I am going to boast about that. I am going to boast that I know a woman who had five kids, and a husband who fought in the war. And those five kids are as different from each other as five people can be. And yet they love. They agree to disagree. They agree to eat at the same table without mentioning religion or politics. I’m going to boast that she hiked the Grand Canyon in her late seventies, simply praying to God, “You pick ‘em up, and I’ll put ‘em down.” I’m going to boast that she took us out into the desert in her Geo Tracker to search for turquoise, and she was there the first time I’d ever eaten lobster tail. I’m going to boast that she is still reading new books even as she turned a hundred years old. I'm going to boast about her incredible memory and how she looks back on her life with gratitude. I am going to boast about her almost seventy year long marriage. About how, when Stew died, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, she’d said she felt like she’d gotten him back somehow. About how, when my own marriage was falling apart, I looked to her example, how I still wanted what she had. I’m going to boast that I could talk to her about Madeleine L’Engle and grace-filled theology and backyard roses and climbing Mount Baldy. I’m going to boast that she liked my sermons. That she encouraged me. She called me “dear.” I’m going to boast that even though I can’t say that I knew her all that well, I can say that I knew her. I’m going to boast that her death, whenever it happens, is going to bring me to my knees.

How lucky am I that I got to marry into a family that has a Grandma Punky? 

I’m going to boast that because I could always see a little bit of myself in her, and I could always see a little bit of Dan in Stew, that somehow, because they’d made it so long, I could look to them and believe that marriage was true and good and possible, even after heartbreak and brokenness and betrayal. I could look to Punky and Stew and say, “That’s what I want. I’m not ready to give that up yet.” 

I look to her, maybe a little bit like Paul looks to this unknown person who was “caught up to the third heaven” and was told a secret that they can never share, but a secret that is accessible to everyone. I look to her. I’ll boast about her. Because I think she knows the secret. She knows she can’t tell me the secret, but she gives me little hints every day that she lives her life.

I may never know the secret. But I get to know someone who does. And I’m not ashamed to boast about that. 

I’m going to boast that I need Grandma Punky in this world. And then, when she is gone, I’m going to boast about how her presence forever changed me, and about how her absence is going to leave a wound that I will never recover from. I need Grandma Punky. In that I will boast. I will lose Grandma Punky. And in that, too, I will boast.

This needing of each other is such a weakness, isn’t it? We especially don’t like to think about it on Independence Day. But on this our nation’s Independence Day, Paul is proudly proclaiming that he is far from independent. In fact, he is passionately pleading with the Corinthians that they need him, and that he needs them. He can’t do this alone. He can’t spread the good news of Jesus Christ all by himself. He can’t be himself without them. They cannot be themselves, without him. Call it codependency or disordered attachment, but none of us can be who God made us to be without the fullness and freedom of others being who God made them to be. This is a communal effort, this living life thing. The Corinthians have broken his heart, again and again, over and over again, and still, he fights for them, still, he needs them. He is calling them into their better selves. He knows that they are calling him into his better self. But he also knows that we call each other into our better selves, not by boasting about all the things we can do well, or all the things we know, or all the things we’ve accomplished, but by sharing all those vulnerable spaces, places where our hearts have been broken, places where our stories intersect, places where we need each other. Places where we’re not enough on our own. 

Unlike the so called “super-apostles” who have so much to offer and have caught the imaginations and the purse strings of the crowds, who have all the answers and all the resources and all the other worldly visions and all the community development skills and the perfect antiracist answers, Paul, even though he, too, probably has all of those things, and the certificates and diplomas and graduation tassels to go with it, Paul is going to boast in his weakness, in those empty places, in those spaces of need, in those questions and hurts and beatings and little crucifixions that life has brought him. This is no exchange economy where he gives and they get. He brings them his nothing.  He boasts in this mysterious “thorn in his side” that has perplexed scholars for two millennia. He makes himself a “fool” for the Corinthians. Because he loves them. Because he needs them. Because he will fall to his knees and be forever broken when he is separated from them. Does he boast in his loneliness? Does he boast in his disagreements with Peter? Does he boast that he had it all wrong for so long and it took him going blind to finally figure it out? Even now, even today, as he himself is caught up in his own third heaven, does he boast that maybe he didn’t get everything right in all of his letters, or that maybe his words have been misconstrued and misinterpreted? That maybe people have twisted his words and that has hurt people? But also that these broken words, through the power of God, have put some people back together again. Does he boast that he tried, he showed up, and because of that, because he’s “just" a human, in some ways, he failed, but, because of Christ, that’s exactly where his power is? 

He failed just as Jesus failed. According to the powers and principalities that rule our world Jesus was an absolute failure. An “L7 weenie.” He didn’t lead an army. He didn’t overturn the government. He didn’t give everyone healthcare and a two car garage. He didn’t ride his horse in the middle of the night to warn that the British are coming. He got himself killed. Killed on a cross. Horrific. Embarrassing. Shameful. Even his best friends betray him. Even those whom he has loved with all of his heart abandon him when he needs them most. He gets shoved into a borrowed tomb while peasant women weep at its door. And Paul, and Peter, and the other disciples, and the women, and the early followers of Christ, and all of us who profess that Jesus Christ is Lord, will follow in his footsteps. Not as perfectly. Not as dramatically. Not with such holiness. But still. In our weakness. In our brokenness. Just like Christ’s.

But this is power, Paul says. This is a different kind of power - the power of Christ dwelling in him. The power of weakness. The power of need. The power of what it means to love something so much that you would sacrifice anything, you would lift cars, race into burning buildings, hand over both of your kidneys and stand in front of bullets just so that this other can be, just so that this other can survive. 

It’s the kind of power that has you weeping in a crappy apartment, calling out to God because you have nothing left, and you can’t bear to lose even that. It’s the power of the pleading mom at the hospital bedside. It’s the power of the seed that’s dying so something new can grow. It’s the power of those pinecones that need the heat of a forest fire in order to open up and let their seeds go. It’s the power of empty hands and open hearts. It’s the power of facing that you’ve really screwed up. It’s the power that comes from loving someone so much and so hard that you will never ever fully heal when they have to leave you. It’s the power of walking with a limp. It’s a blessing, this weakness. It’s power.

So, Grandma Punky, this sermon is about you, sure. But it’s also about all of us. It’s about how we will love and love and love and love until it kills us. And that, my friends, is the power of Christ. 

So when you are mourning someone you love. When you are regretting your decision. When you are beating yourself up for those choices you’ve made. When you are terrified about your next steps. Recognize that that is the exact place where you need Christ. Where Christ needs you. The exact place where Christ has come and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth. God tells all of us, in all the little and big concrete ways of our lives, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” So we will boast all the more gladly in our weaknesses, in our need, in our relationships that make us so very vulnerable, so that the power of Christ may dwell in us. Therefore, we are content with weaknesses, with insults, insults, hardships, persecutions, calamities, deaths, separations, and all those places where we gave our hearts and they got broken, all for the sake of Christ; for whenever we are weak, then we are strong.

I love you, Grandma Punky. Whenever it’s your turn, whenever you’re ready, I’m going to be strong enough to fall apart.

Thanks be to God.

Wide Open.

2 Corinthians 6:1-13 

So, to this day, my husband doesn’t believe me when I tell him that I ran cross country. I really did. I promise. It was in high school and I ran for three years. It was intense. We ran every day, sometimes twice a day, before school and after school, before our jobs at pizza parlors and ice cream shops, in the rain, in the heat, on weekends, and on vacations. I remember one Thanksgiving I’d just gorged myself on turkey and oyster stuffing and that cranberry sauce in a can, and then I tied up my running shoes and ran a straight lin
e down the Grant County roads, past nothing more than corn and soybeans and more corn.  I came back and it was time for pumpkin pie.

And when it came time for a meet, when it was race day and we’d warmed up and eaten our bagels and drank our water and stretched our calves, we’d line up at the starting line, our fingers on the start buttons of our watches, and wait for the gun. We were a line of anxious, nervous, overly-carbohydrated girls, ready to endure the pain of the next seventeen to twenty-four minutes. And the gun would go off and we’d run. We’d slap through mud and up hills, cut each other off at the turns, stick our elbows out to catch a competitor’s rib or two. And then, after the laps around the baseball fields and through the narrow trails between cheap high school landscaping, we’d see it. The finish line. And with our lungs on fire and sweat dripping behind our knees, we were then expected to kick it in to high gear. Give it our all. Accelerate through the pain, even though our tank was on empty, and pass one more girl, shave off one more second, “leave it all on the course,” as we used to say.

And yet, it was such a fine line between keeping a little bit in reserve, just in case, and then having that to accelerate to the finish line, and finding that extra something that you didn’t know you had to push you to the end. 

Do you pace yourself? Or do you go all out, right away, and hope against hope you get to the finish line before you collapse?

Were you doubting your workouts, your strength, your preparation, your very self so much that you felt like you had to be conservative, pace yourself, take it easy in the beginning, just in case you tripped on an exposed root or got a cramp in your side or spent too much energy in the beginning and had nothing left at the end? Or do you start the race with your whole heart, with the throttle wide open, with only the hope that somehow you can sustain it, somehow you can make it to the finish line before you collapse from exhaustion?

Do you keep some in reserve?

Or.

Do you let it all go and hope that somehow you’ll still have enough to make it through?

Do you keep your heart tucked safely behind your ribs, or do you wear it on your sleeve, vulnerable to anyone with a knife or a stick or an active email account or a twitter handle or just a really sharp pencil?

In our reading today, Paul has opened his heart wide. He’s risking making a fool of himself, resorting to begging, and even violating societal rules of boundaries and humility. One commentary says, “Whatever may be his fear of appearing foolish, of violating decorum and going “too far” [Paul] does not scruple to open his heart wide.” In the words of my therapist, he is “oversharing.” In this pleading, vulnerable petition to the Corinthians, Paul doesn’t have anything left in his tank. He gives them everything he has. He leaves it all on the field. A wide open heart.

I think this text makes us a little squirmy. A little squeamish. Seeing Paul be this emphatic, this emotional, this over-the-top. It’s like you’re eavesdropping on your neighbors’ domestic dispute, or watching the nerd profess his love for the cheerleading captain. It’s like you’re in the next aisle while a bewildered and exhausted mom is doing everything she can to appease her temper-tantrumming two year old so she can grab the groceries and go. It’s like Paul is on the Maury Povich show trying to woo his girlfriend back and convince her that even though it’s not his baby they can still be a family, they can make this work.

Paul is almost boasting about how much he’s given up for this community. Boasting about how humble he is. This isn’t the clearly articulated argument Paul. This isn’t the logical, reserved, pharisaic Paul. This is a passionate, wild, no holds barred, everything but the kitchen sink Paul. Paul at his wits end. Paul throwing everything he has at the church in Corinth to make them understand, to help them “get it.” Paul with his heart, open wide.

And I think we’re all a little scared of passion. We’re all a little scared of emotion and vulnerability and revealing our need. We want to keep that in reserve. We want to put it in canning jars and keep it in the basement just in case we need it someday. We want to be sure we have enough to get us through retirement. We want to be careful, practical, never, ever wasteful.

And I think that’s ok. It’s good to plan. It’s good to conserve and be frugal and not waste. It’s good not to spill your messiest, germiest, deepest darkest slobbering feelings all over everyone you meet. I mean, we don’t want to scare them away. But most of the time, I don’t think that’s the reason why we hold ourselves back. I don’t think that’s the reason why we hide from each other.  I think we close our hearts because we’re embarrassed by our passion, by our hearts open wide. We don’t trust that we’ll still be loved if we reveal all that mess inside of ourselves. And we’re worried that if we do, if we give it all away, if we open our hearts wide, we’ll have nothing left.

And here Paul is, revealing his mess. Laying it all on the line. Cashing in his chips and prying open those dusty jars of pickled cucumbers. 

I think the Corinthians were very comfortable with their 10% tithe. They wanted to love God with 10% of themselves, 10% of their time, 10% of their resources, maybe 10 and a half percent of their love. Any more, and people might look at them like they’re freaks. People will think they’re being counter cultural, they’ll think they’re in a cult and drinking the kool-aid and they’ll have to start letting in the hungry folks from the street and the lonely folks from the retirement homes and the over-sugared kids with ADHD. 

No. 10% is good. 10% is manageable. I can make it to the finish line if I just use 10% at a time. If I pace myself. If I only stay home and write checks to food pantries but don’t share a meal with someone with broken teeth and a stutter. If I only dish out the meals in the kitchen, and never venture to talk to the homeless man in the dining room.

The Corinthians wanted a gospel of reason and moderation. Something logical, practical, reasonable. Something they can put in a box and take out and polish on holidays and pass on to the kids when they die. Something that is orderly and makes sense and is simple and understood and doesn’t ask more from us than we think we can reasonably give. They’re holding back, just in case. You never know.

But Paul says no. Don’t keep it in reserve. Use it. Use it now. Open wide your hearts. Lay it all on the line. Be vulnerable. Be real. Show your mess. Take risks. Let others in.

You know, the whole, “When someone hits you on your right cheek, give him your left also. When someone takes your cloak, give him your coat as well. And when someone forces you to walk one mile, walk with him two.” When you’re asked to run the race, kick it in to high gear as soon as the starting pistol goes off. You may not make it to the end. You might use it all up in the first mile. But do it anyway. See what happens. Trust that you have enough.

Open wide your hearts. 

Start a ministry where you serve free food to anyone, and you worry about funds and sustainability and practicality later.

Open your doors to folks who will probably use your bathrooms to bathe themselves and will fill their coat pockets with sugar packets and steal the toilet paper right out of the dispensers.

Share a story you’ve never told before with someone who feels ashamed all the time.

Go beyond signing facebook petitions and giving lip service to the atrocities of racism and ask hard questions of special interest groups, of our capitalist system, of our white majority. 

Start uncomfortable conversations. 

Refuse to accept that violence is the norm of our day.

Listen to those living on the margins. Try doing something their way.

Let yourself feel the pain of all the really tough things you have suffered in your life. 

And then share that pain with someone else.

Give up your desire to please and to keep this false sense of “peace” and challenge the status quo, explore and learn something new, follow your bliss and do that thing you say you’ll do when the kids are grown, when you retire, when you finally land that job or pay off that debt. Step out of the boat, walk on water. 

Because when you open wide your hearts, then, then you can receive the messy stuff of grace. If you hold back, if you keep some in reserve, you’re never going to need the grace. And grace only comes when you really, really need it. 

And then when you get it, you can give away all that messy, gooey, sticky grace.

Let your heart be a mess of intake and outtake, a traffic jam of inbound and outbound, a thunderstorm of colliding high and low pressures.

Open wide your hearts. Take the risks. Stand up for justice. Demand change. Stand in the line of fire for the sake of another. Be vulnerable. Maybe you’ll see Jesus.

This isn’t efficient. It’s a mess. It’s collision and reaction and explosion and confusion. It’s everyone speaking in different languages and yet still somehow understanding each other. It’s walking around with flames on your head. It’s God making connections and healing hurts and raising the dead. It’s pandemonium and chaos and mystery and connection. 

It’s what grace looks, and feels, and sounds and tastes like. 

Open your heart. That place where arteries and veins come together. Where the blue and the red meet. Where the abundance of oxygen and the lack of it comes back to this muscle of sinew and energy and electric pulses. 

Open wide your hearts. It’ll hurt. Like open heart surgery. But it’s where the life is, Paul says. It’s where Jesus is.

Open your hearts —wide. 

And then get ready for the collision. The collision of human hearts all tangled up and bleeding together. The collision of vulnerability and grace and sacrifice and joy and the messiness of humanity. Get ready for the traffic pile-up of forgiveness and change and transformation.

Get ready for the collision of humanity and deity. Of God, who was made into messy, vulnerable, open flesh, open wide, for all of us. Jesus, who hit the ground running and opened his heart wide even unto death, and then beyond.

Open wide your hearts. Don’t leave anything in the tank. Run the race with wild, persevering, abandon. When you collapse at the finish line, you’ll land among all those soft mushy open hearts. You will have no idea how you made it. You will be completely empty of anything you thought you had left. And you’ll be full of so much grace. You’ll be embraced by the widest, wildest, most vulnerable heart of all. The heart of Christ.

Thanks be to God.