Wander to Be Found

 My dad’s whistle was notorious in our neighborhood. He can do one of those really loud whistles, you know, the kind where you put two fingers in your mouth and blow like when you’re at a Neil Young concert and you don’t want to shriek “whoo hoo!” like a little girl, not that it’s bad to sound like a little girl, but anyway, he doesn’t even need his two fingers. Somehow, he just magically curls his tongue in just the right way, blows, and out comes a piercing sound that bounces off of the building of the grade school across the street from our house. Everybody knew the Frayer whistle, and so, everybody knew when we were having dinner, or when it was time for our baths, or when we hadn’t finished all of our homework. And we Frayers knew that if we heard that whistle, we had about two minutes to race home, or face the consequences. 

But as long as we were in earshot of that whistle, the neighborhood was fair game. We raced our bikes through the streets, we climbed trees, we played kickball in the parking lot. We performed dance routines on the steps of the grade school, dug in the dirt underneath the giant oak, and searched for buried treasure and dinosaur bones among the weeds and wild onions next door.  After a brief lecture about avoiding windowless vans and never taking candy from a stranger, we could wander and roam all day. We were free. And that whistle was our tether that brought us back home. We were the sheep. And Dad, or maybe Dad’s whistle, or maybe my mom’s homemade Mac and cheese was the shepherd.

There are some pretty funny stories out there on the internets about sheep that have gone astray. There was “Shrek,” who hated getting sheared so much that one day he just up and ran away. On shearing day, when all the other sheep were lining up for the shearing shed, Shrek was nowhere to be found. Somehow, no-one knows for sure, he got out of his pen and went to live alone in a cave in the nearby wilderness. I suppose, he’d just had enough of flock life, and wanted to see what the great world out there had to offer. He escaped capture for six years, until his owner came upon him one day. At first, he didn’t even realize that Shrek was a sheep, let alone his sheep. But maybe it was the look in Shrek’s eye, or maybe it was Shrek’s response to the sound of his shepherd’s voice, but somehow he finally recognized this sheep as his. He took him home and finally had him shorn. They took over sixty pounds of merino wool fleece off of him, enough to make twenty men’s suits. Shrek had so much wool surrounding him that there were old wives tales going around that he’d carried evidence of wolf attacks, but never got a scratch. He became an icon, renowned throughout the land, and even got to meet the prime minister. Then there was Baarack (get it?!) who also ran off from his flock, and when they found him, he could hardly see, he was covered in so much overgrown fleece. And of course there was Shaun and Ewenice (get it?!) And Pickles, all domesticated merino sheep who wandered from the fold and were eventually found, carrying massive amounts of wool on their bodies. All of these, of course, pale in comparison to Chris, who wandered on the lam (get it?!) In the wilderness for over seven years. When they finally found him, they had to give him a sedative so that they could shear off over ninety pounds of fleece while he slept, enough to put him in the Guinness Book of World Records. He was terribly weighed down by the stuff, he could hardly see for it covering his eyes, and he would walk with a limp in his back legs for the rest of his life because he carried all that wool on his back for so long. 

There’s not much difference between kids and sheep. Or adults and sheep. Prone to wander, lord, I feel it.

But see, I think we need both the sheep and the shepherd. The sheep aren’t much without the shepherd. And the shepherd needs his sheep. We need the adventurous spirit of the fifth grader testing her boundaries, streamers flying from her handlebars and glow-in-the-dark spokey dokes clicking on the rims of her tires, and we need her dad with his special whistle to tell her when it’s time to come home. We need the adventurous spirit of Shrek or Pickles or Chris, so that we can break out of our pens and take our chances in the wild wild world. And we need to be found so that our good shepherd can finally take some of that weight off of us that we’ve been carrying around for so many years. I mean, it’s heavy and we’re starting to limp and bump into trees, after all. We need a shepherd who can recognize us when we’re filthy and full of sticks and shards and shreds from years in the woods, when we’re so covered in our own wool and muck and grime that we can’t even see straight. And we need to listen hard for the sound of his voice so that we can trust that he is here and has come to take us home. We might even need a mild emotional or spiritual sedative so that the shepherd can do his work to free us from so much junk so we can frolic and play in the pasture with our friends once again. 

The point is - where can we go from God’s spirit? Where can we hide from this Shepherd? We can come to him. He can track us down.

We’re given freedom to wander, and freedom to be found.

It’s been a long pandemic. It’s been a long winter. And it keeps coming back for more. It snowed on Wednesday and Covid keeps coming at us with new variants. And it occurred to me that I think I’ve preached 41 sermons in a row. I’ve talked and talked for 41 Sundays straight. And I think maybe it’s time I shut up a little. I think maybe it’s time we ventured out into the wilderness and out into our neighborhoods and wandered around for awhile. It’s time for me to set you loose. You don’t always need a lowercase s shepherd to show you where to go. Jesus the big S Shepherd will find us. We can explore and take risks and eat what’s provided and sleep when we need to and even find ourselves a little bit lost for awhile. We can do this because we know the Good Shepherd’s voice. We can hear him when he calls. Or, at least, we can know that when we hide in caves and in layers and layers of our own protective but heavy wool, when we climb trees and scrape our knees, even when we ignore the whistle to come home, there’s someone out there looking for us, and he will come to us. It may take awhile. But he’s out there looking, always searching, and will give up his whole life searching for us, if that’s what it takes. So I guess today I just want to invite us to play, to explore, to take risks, to wander into the forest, to grow our fleece thick and see what we can see. Jesus will send his shrill whistle when it’s time to come home. Jesus will find us as we’re caught in our own brambles and thorns, and he’ll gently lift us out and take us home where he can tend to our overgrowth, relieve us of our burdens, and free us to run freely once again. 

So today I want us to try something a little strange. Or maybe it will at least feel strange to us. It’s actually pretty deeply rooted in our Christian tradition. Rather than sit and listen to me talk and talk, I want us to break out of the pen and go on an adventure. I want us to take a moment, or rather three, and listen hard. I want us to take three minutes and just listen for Jesus’s voice. I want us to listen for that whistle telling us that it’s time for dinner or we have long division to finish or that our bath is ready. But in the meantime, I want us to stretch the limits, explore the caves, let our hair go flying behind us as we try to petal our legs as fast as we can down the neighborhood streets. It’s going to be awkward. It’s not easy to sit still for such a long time with nothing else to do other than just listen, and breathe, and listen again. But I want us to try. Go wherever your mind takes you, whether that’s serious or silly, adventurous or safe as a warm quilt. Just sit for a while and listen for Jesus. Maybe you will hear his voice. If you do, you will surely recognize it. What is it saying to you today? Did he remind you of something? Did he show you something new? Is it time to come home? Or is it time to break free? Is it time to let go? Or is it time to keep going? 

Let us listen now. If you fall asleep, listen. If you get anxious, listen. If you get distracted, listen. If you get lost or scared, come back and listen to your breath. If you want to get up and walk around, go for it, and listen to each step you take. If you hear something, follow where it leads. If you hear nothing, let it be. There is no doing this right. There is no doing this wrong. Let us listen now.

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The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside still waters;

He restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil.

For you are with me; your rod and your staff — they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

Thanks be to God.

By These Wounds

  There’s a meme going around Facebook. It comes from a series of tweets. First, the meme started with “We interrupt this coverage of a police officer’s trial for the killing of a black man to give you news of a traffic stop shooting of a young black man by police.” Then, this meme was adapted to “We interrupt this coverage of a a traffic stop shooting of a young black man by police that interrupted the coverage of a police officer’s trial for the killing of a black man to give you news of the coverage of the shooting of a 13 year old boy of color who was shot by police.” And then the meme was changed to say, “We interrupt this coverage of the police shooting of a 13 year old boy of color that interrupted coverage of a traffic stop shooting of a 20 year old black man that interrupted coverage of the police officer trial for the killing of George Floyd for news of eight people killed in a FedEx facility in Indianapolis.” And I am just done. 

I am done, and I’ve never even been a victim of gun violence, I’ve never known anyone who has been a victim of gun violence, I don’t have to worry when my boys play with their nerf guns in the front yard, and all I have to do is tell them the stories about it and try to explain racism to them at the dinner table while they eat their buttered noodles and chicken nuggets. 

And they sigh as I tell them yet another story of an African American who has died at the hands of ones who are sworn to protect them. They say, “Ugh, mom. Not again. Didn’t we have this talk just a couple of months ago?” And I am just done. I am done. And it doesn’t have any real direct, immediate impact on my life. I am done, and the only thing I can think to do is write another sermon about it, and I know it’s totally not enough, but I’m so done with having to do even that. 

Can you imagine, for just a second, the done-ness of those whose lives have been directly impacted by this violence? Can you imagine the frustration and the heartache and the despair and the absolute anger of those who live in fear, everyday, that they or their children will die at the hands of a gun, maybe even at the hands of a police officer with a gun?

An African-American father posted his thought process about how he has to plan his day with these concerns as a very real reality. He lists all the things he has to do in a day, followed by the names of people who have died doing those exact same things. He says, ”I need to drive my two-year-old to daycare tomorrow morning. To ensure we arrive alive, we won't take public transit (Oscar Grant). I removed all air fresheners from the vehicle and double-checked my registration status (Daunte Wright), and ensured my license plates were visible (Lt. Caron Nazario). I will be careful to follow all traffic rules (Philando Castille), signal every turn (Sandra Bland), keep the radio volume low (Jordan Davis), and won't stop at a fast food chain for a meal (Rayshard Brooks). I'm too afraid to pray (Rev. Clementa C. Pickney) so I just hope the car won't break down (Corey Jones). When my wife picks him up at the end of the day, I'll remind her not to dance (Elijah McClain), stop to play in a park (Tamir Rice), patronize the local convenience store for snacks (Trayvon Martin), or walk around the neighborhood (Mike Brown). Once they are home, we won't stand in our backyard (Stephon Clark), eat ice cream on the couch (Botham Jean), or play any video games (Atatiana Jefferson). After my wife and I tuck him into bed around 7:30pm, neither of us will leave the house to go to Walmart (John Crawford) or to the gym (Tshyrand Oates) or on a jog (Ahmaud Arbery). We won't even walk to see the birds (Christian Cooper). We'll just sit and try not to breathe (George Floyd) and not to sleep (Breonna Taylor).” 

These are things white people simply do not have to think about, these are things that I simply don’t have to think about. 

And yet. And still. I’m done. If it were my child gunned down by police, if it were my father held to the ground with a knee to his neck, if I were my son pulled over and then subsequently killed because he was scared and he panicked, I would absolutely want to burn it all down. I would want to break the windows and loot the stores and shout in the streets. Calm dialogue hasn’t worked. Asking for justice is simply ignored. Demanding that the system fix its own broken system is not only illogical and laughable, but about as effective as banging your head against a wall. No wonder folks are fed up. 

I’m amazed that the streets of Chicago are burning as we speak.

How do we come back from this? Are we, as a society, lost forever? Are we destined to keep repeating history over and over and over again until we finally destroy ourselves? I’m seeing a lot of crucifixions. But not a lot of resurrections. 

I have no answers today. All I have to offer today is this story of Jesus who comes back.  And I think that if we really look closely at how Jesus comes back, we’ll find some hints about how we can move forward. 

We need these fifty days of Easter, we need these stories of Jesus’s resurrection and the subsequent disciples’ disbelief, we need to soak them in, we need to savor them and sit with them and tell and retell them because they show us what resurrection really looks like. And, you know, we could really use a little bit of hope right about now.

Often, I think, we think of resurrection or salvation as this happily ever after story. The prince wakes the princess with a kiss and he puts her on his horse and they ride off into the sunset. We think of resurrection and we think that the bad guy finally gets what’s coming to him and everything gets fixed and it all goes back to the way it was before. We tend to think that it’s just like rewinding the tape and coming up with a different outcome, one where loved ones are returned to us and the storm never comes and everything is finally made perfect. 

But that’s not the resurrection story we get. 

Jesus comes back to us, not in a shining, polished suit of armor, not with the devil in a cage, or with all the isms and phobias and stereotypes of our world defeated, but in the form of a man, a man who still hungers, a man who is still a little bruised up, a man with holes in his hands and a big gash in his side. 

If we believe that Jesus came back to us again, if we believe in the resurrection, if we trust in the miracle that happened on that third day, we must ask ourselves, “If Jesus can be resurrected from the dead, why isn’t he also, you know, healed? Why can’t they fix him up a little? Polish him up? Make him clean and shiny?" Why not close up those wounds, stitch up his side, and fill his stomach and maybe even correct his astigmatism while they're at it? 

Why does Jesus still carry the scars of his death after the miracle of his resurrection?” 

And my hunch is that it’s because that’s just not how real resurrection works. 

When something bad happens, it happens, it’s done, it cannot be undone. Jesus was still beat up and mocked. The disciples still ran away. Jesus was still nailed to a cross and killed by the powers of Rome. Jesus will always carry that with him. Those scars won’t rub out. Those wounds won’t just disappear. The trauma is still there. Jesus will forever walk with a limp, maybe literally, but definitely emotionally. When something bad happens, it’s still always bad, even if there is a resurrection. 

The mistakes we made are still mistakes. The hurt still hurts. Jesus is still beat up and broken and he still has hunger. He’s still human with all the baggage and pain and trauma that comes with it. Those hurtful stories of his past don’t just disappear. 

But maybe that’s exactly how the resurrection works. “By his wounds we are healed,” not because God needed a punching bag in order to somehow get out “his” anger for our disobedience, not because through some slight of hand we are replaced with Jesus at the end if the executioner’s rope, it doesn’t mean that we go back in time to change the past like some billion dollar budget Marvel movie or a ride in a DeLorean with a retrofitted flux capacitor, it means that we can take those scars and those wounds and those limps and those heartaches and we can understand them and interpret them a little differently, maybe even in a way that brings more life than we originally thought possible. Jesus comes to us, still broken, still wounded, still hungry, and that tells us that we don’t need to be fixed or to be changed or to forget our heartbreak, we simply need to be held, to be fed, to be seen and to be loved and known even as we carry all that evidence that we’ve been beat up and broken along with us. 

Honestly, on the day that I die, when I’m coming to Jesus just as I am, with all my wrinkles and bruises and scars and mistakes and plaque-filled arteries, and having him embrace me in his arms and hold me and know me and see me and be with me, both of us, together, with our battle wounds out for all to see, I would rather be received, be resurrected into that, be transformed into that kind of newness, than to be given wings and a white robe and a harp and to float up on some cloud for the rest of eternity. I want to still be me. And that means all of me, my brokenness included. Resurrection means that Jesus comes to us, still wounded, just like we are, but not defeated. Jesus comes to us, still broken, but with a reinterpretation and a reorientation and a new realization of who he truly is. 

Jesus opens our minds to understand the scriptures, to understand the stories - some really, really horrible stories - that have been a part of our lives, a part of our histories. God is wounded. God stays wounded. And God is re-wounded every time one of God’s beloveds suffers as God has suffered. And God is resurrected. God stays resurrected. God is re-resurrected, every time one of God’s beloveds finds hope in their story, every time they gain a better understanding of what they’ve gone through, every time their sins are remembered but forgiven, every time we find new meaning and new understanding and new hope in our once heartbreaking stories. There’s no going back and fixing it. But there is going forward with new understanding, new experiences of peace, new hope for the nations. 

There’s no magic wand to wave that will bring all these dead boys and men and women of color back to us. They are gone. We, as a society, will carry those wounds with us forever. We should feel those wounds as deeply as we are able, because that is how any of this with be resurrected. By his wounds we are healed.

Maybe the parents will be reunited with their kids, and wives will be reunited with their husbands, and everything wrong will be made right again. But until then, we’ve got to mourn and get angry and do whatever we can to keep it from happening to one more boy or one more man or one more woman. And that means we need to really feel what’s been lost. We need to put our fingers in the holes in Christ’s hands and our hands in the gash in his side. That means we've got to feel it, really feel it, every time someone loses their life because of an unjust system. Because every time one of these little ones is lost, Jesus is pierced, again and again. Until we see the woundedness that this causes to Christ - and therefore, to us - none of this is ever going to change.

And. We have to look for the resurrection that is going on today, right now, in our very midst, even as we carry the pain and the wounds of own own sin. There is still resurrection. There is still new meaning and new hope that can be found.  We can do both. We can touch Jesus’s wounds. And we can say, “My Lord and my God.” We can put our hands in his side, we can be reminded of the horrors of that day, and we can speak to him, feed him, listen to his words. We can have joy along with our disbelief and our wondering. 

We can carry the death of Christ in us so that the life of Christ may be made known, may be revealed, may be resurrected right here, right now, right in our midst.

We can demand justice out of the agony of our hearts. We can be done with it all. And we can wait and work towards and expect the resurrection.

Thanks be to God.