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jesus_wept
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stork daddy
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people sent cards
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Rev. C. Irving Cummings
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Let Speak the Poetry
A Sermon preached from the pulpit of Old Cambridge Baptist Church, Harvard Square, by the Rev. C. Irving Cummings, Pastor, on March 13, 2005
Lent V, Cycle A
Text: John 11: 1-44
ÒWhen Jesus wept, the falling tear
In mercy flowed beyond all bound
When Jesus groaned, a trembling fear
Seized all the guilty world around.Ó
If thereÕs anything that befuddles us sophisticated Cantabridgian Christians, in these latter days of Lent, itÕs the business about resurrection and resuscitation.
For some reason, the healings and the walkings on water are things with which we can live. But, raisings from the dead are matters that stop us cold.
Such troubles, however, are inventions of the modern mind. To the hearers of the gospels, as they were first writ, no big deal—there were plenty of rumors of raisings, lots of gods who died and lived again. Such matters made sense to them in a way they hardly can for us.
At my ordination interview, twent- two years ago, a clergyman who should have known better asked me if I thought that the resurrection was a photographable experience. If I remember correctly, my response was that I donÕt know—I wasnÕt there. The question, while not exactly malicious, was meant to cause trouble for me with the assembled, most of whom were not as theologically adventurous as I, but, somehow or other, it didnÕt and I got through. (Maybe itÕs true what they say about the U.C.C.: we are Unitarians considering Christ !)
But, for GodÕs sake, as we walk into the last days of Lent and Holy Week and Easter, this year, let us get away from the quibbling about these tales in whose shadow the Christian tradition has lived for two thousand years. ÒWe are the Easter People,Ó writes theologian Hans Kung, Òthe people on a journey, the people of the Now and the Not Yet.Ó
And so, we look today at this tale that prefigures the raising of Jesus, himself, in the Fourth Gospel. One of the things we know is that The Fourth Gospel was written backwards. It starts with the Empty Tomb and the rest is written as a justification for that. So, we might ask, with the Empty Tomb story already there, why does the author of John bother with this other tale of raising?
Maybe we have a clue in some of the conversations that have been going on in this church, lately, about the relationship of our cosmic theologies to the personal matters of our lives, the relationship of the eternal message of the prophets to the messy realities of each of us, our friends, our families, the workaday world of our lives. Yes, letÕs look at it.
John, that most overtly theological of our four gospel stories. John, the one who begins, not with a genealogy that depicts the Christ in a royal line, not with a baptism by a scary, hairily clad crazyman, not with a young, Jewish peasant woman and her encounter with the divine, but with a new ÒtakeÓ on Creation, itself: ÒIn the beginning was the Logos.Ó (Among Baptists, I donÕt ever want to use the normal translation, ÒThe WordÓ because some of us were taught by badly-trained Sunday School teachers that this means Òthe printed page,Ó which is ridiculous.) But, Òin the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God and the Logos was God, Ó that Logos, life force that predates Creation itself, that eternally present movement from fear and darkness and death into fuller and fuller manifestation of life, life, in this sphere of the world as we know it, and, is it too much to presume, life beyond here? All we know is, that the movement is from the inert, the dead, the formless void into form and light and glory.
And so, here we come to the eleventh chapter of this, most theological of the stories of JesusÕ life, this tale, so different from the others, so distant in time from the life it remembers, so changed and muted by the life of the community from which it emerges, and we come to its very heart.
Take out your Bibles. Find chapter 11. Count the number of pages before chapter 11 begins. Count the number of pages after it ends. It is its very heart, its very center.
And what do we find in it? At the very heart, at the very center of all this theology, of all this grand narrative, of all this intellectually removed discourse? We find the most intimate story that remains to us of JesusÕ personal life. And we find evidence of a grand mistake.
In the final verses of the last chapter of John, Peter, always the asker of importuning questions, is reported as having seen the disciple Jesus loved following them, and asks Jesus, ÒWhat about him?Ó and with what looks to me like some annoyance, Jesus responds, ÒIf it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?Ó
So, who is this mysterious one whom Jesus loved? Of course, tradition tells us that itÕs John, but thereÕs nothing in the whole twenty-one chapters of John or in any other tradition of the Bible to support that. Look instead to the heart of the work, look instead to chapter eleven: verse 3, ÒLord, he whom you love is ill . . .Ó, verse 36 Òsee, how he loved him . . .Ó, and, then, of course, as every Baptist Sunday School kid knows,
ÒWhen Jesus wept, the falling tear
In mercy flowed beyond all bound
When Jesus groaned, a trembling fear
Seized all the guilty world around.Ó
The story is told like the Exodus story itself, to betray the power of God, to show GodÕs will that death should never seize the day, to prefigure the raising of Christ, himself, to demonstrate that GodÕs will is eternally: life.
But it is told in the most intimate, personal glimpse we have of the Christ, in all the Gospels. It is the only place we see Jesus weep it is the only place in which personal love is attributed to him. Any who have ever loved could never wish the death of a friend. In fact, any who have ever loved can hardly bear it. So, is it any wonder that the eternal Logos, thus portrayed, should summon all the power of the universe to bring the beloved out from the moldering darkness and damp of the tomb into the fullness of day? If you had the power to do that, would you not do it for one whom you love? Would you not do whatever you could do to unbind your friend? To remove all vestiges of death, destruction and despair? To set your beloved into freedom?
The poetry is that this is GodÕs will for the world. We seem, somehow, inexorably bent toward the damp despair of the tomb. Whether it is our grasp for power, whether it is working out the stuff of unhappy childhood, whether it is living out the pathologies we have inherited from God-knows-how-many-generations of forbears, we seem always to drift toward the tomb. But God, in mercy and pity, calls to our hearts, and calls us forth.
ÒWhen Jesus wept, the falling tear
In mercy flowed beyond all bound
When Jesus groaned, a trembling fear
Seized all the guilty world around.Ó
But the story does not end with JesusÕ tears. This story ends with Jesus calling, ÒCome out! Unbind him; let him go!Ó
Old Cambridge Baptist Church Contact Us
Copyright © 2004 by Old Cambridge Baptist Church. All rights reserved.
Revised: Monday, September 13, 2004
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from gangstyle.com ya heard!?
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Last week, fam, we got a glimpse at the heart an' soul of Jesus' homegurl, Mary, az she fell at His feet, in a turgid mix of grief an' relief, being "honest to God" in her aching affirmation: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." Word.
N
ow, we check Jesus response to dat, an' tha whole wack impact of His homebwoy Lazarus' death--upon Him. An' we must dare to go therre. We mus step reverently up into this. We need to dump our foot gear, cuz we are on holy ground. We gonna peer into tha heart of Jesus of Nazareth—Jesus Christ—in a time of deep personal crisis. Yo, we gonna peep tha very heart of God…Himself.
At dis point in his Gospel narrative, Jesus' bwoy John pauses to drop some helpful 411 datz important to grasp an' marinate on, in order to clearly understand where Jesus iz at:
"Therefore when Jesus saw her (Mary) weeping, and the Jews who came with her weeping, he groaned in spirit and was troubled."
I wanna focus on two thangs happenin' to Jesus right here: he "groaned in spirit" and "was troubled."
Yo, the verb "groaned" in New Testament Greek is a compound verb made from the words for "in" and "strength."* The idea bein' that Jesus wuz deeply moved, emotionally and painfully. Jesus felt—deeply felt--Mary's pain, an' the mourners' pain, an' it worsened an' ill amplified His own pain. In fact, itz all good to spit dat--of all tha peepz on tha scene, Jesus' ill hurt an' grieved tha most. *Vine's Complete Expository Dictionary of Old and New Testament Words
An' check it: Gospel man John don't jus stop at "groaned." He goez on an dropz the adjective "troubled," too, to madd emphasize the crazy state of Jesus' intense personal emotional turmoil. In fact, John's narrative can be rephrased to read: "…He troubled Himself…" Tha point? Jesus did not spare Himself from completely feelin' the Pain of losin' a homie. Yo, He fully embraced the aching, dislocating, inner agitation of soul an' spirit, that death of a loved one causes. He spared himself none of death's wackness. Furthermore, it is not until the garden of Gethsemane--when He faced the Cross in all it'z agony an' soul-crushing horror--that we see Jesus all worked up like dis.
So, not only wuz Jesus madd hurtin' over his homiez' drama, he be hurtin' infinitely more than they be. "But whatz up wit dat ?!" one might axe. "Why He bustin' an aorta over katz like Mary, Martha an Lazarus? They weren't celeb'z, mang. They wuz "nobodies!." An' that'z the point. Yo, Jesus' din't navigate the "best circlez" of Judea, nor crack tha Galilee Blue Book to pick peeps to form His Set. God—the God of the Universe--picked His homiez from tha "ordinary, erryday" peeps of his day. Peep dis: God'z wayz ain't our wayz. Hiz thotz ain't like our thotz. God don't look at all tha floss, at whatz bumpin'on tha outside. He focuses str8 up on what goin' on tha inside--in tha inner person. He always go fo' substance over style. Jesus Christ condescended to care for, hurt wit, grieve over, and mad love His fam--fam like you and me. And He madd Loves His fam that same way…today.
So, to get back to our story, Jesus, completely wracked wit inner trauma, axes Mary an' her sobbin' posse:
"Where did you put him (Lazarus)?" An' they replied: "Lord, come and see."
And His response? "Jesus wept."
How hallowed. How human.
Yo, it's that simple. But, it's also profound almost beyond understanding. The shortest verse in the Bible concisely captures the very Heart of God.
Jesus wept. Jesus…wept.
A
nd, fam, I believe Jesus weeps still. I believe He wept for erry one of tha 2,462 homiez posted on Gangstyle'z Remembrance Page since our syght first dropped. I believe He ill wept fo the survivin' fam who lost they homiez. He wept fo' the 5000+ peeps destroyed in gang violence in L.A., since 1981.* He wept fo' the 30% of those 5000 who died as innocent bystanders. And…He weeps wit erry one of us in all of our life's losses. Only a heart az great az Jesus Christ's could ill bear this monstrous Pain. An', because His Heart is that great, He can share an' bear our pain, as well. *www.whywebang.com
Jesus wept. Jesus weeps. Jesus loves. Jesus…cares.
Peace. I'm out.
ONE
sun
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ugh! but uh...PTL though anyway
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"...and ill ampified His own pain?"
gang argot and seminarian discourses dressed up in the drag of sermonizing to the street ya'll..is just brutal.
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Michael Chitwood
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MICHAEL CHITWOOD
The Saved
From cutting the nuts out of a bull calf's bag with a Barlow,
from laying case knives on a dress pattern,
from running a trotline and baiting the hooks with gone liver,
from mashing a tobacco worm into a green blot,
from crimping dough at the piecrust edge,
from whisking an egg,
from whipping a boy with a switch he fetched,
from doffing a bolt of taffeta,
from working the one arm of the adding machine,
from beating the answers out of the erasers
Oh Lamb of God, they come.
If you
would be
born again,
if you
would purge
your sin
in the scalding
blood, the blood
shed for you,
if you
would accept
the death
into the water
and the life
rising out,
come.
Three stars inside the moon's halo three nights in a row.
When a snapper latches on, he'll only release if it thunders.
Maud Brown could blow thrush from a baby's mouth.
Phillip Amos would take fire out.
Shirleen Anderson could speak warts away.
To bring someone home, take a lock of their hair and walk backward to their door and in over the threshold.
Lard rendered on the wrong side of the moon will go rancid.
A pregnant woman should not look at the full moon or even the full moon's reflection.
He cried out
and asked
his father
why he was
forsaken.
I want you
fathers and
you mothers
to think
on that,
your only child,
nails tearing
his hands,
those hands
you held.
Spikes driven
into those feet
you washed
and kissed
when they
were dry,
think on
this gift
you fathers
and mothers.
Mud randy as a ripe corpse.
River thick brown, a liquid road, going on its own dirt and taking its path as it goes.
A canopy of green, a living, breathing roof and the light through it green.
Mockingbirds splash. Amble of the opossum. Cardinal a red thread run
through the green warp.
Moccasin a muscle brown and blunt.
Frog all fart, all ja-rump, all slap and not a bad meal if you have a mess.
Carp nudge a drowned cow and sup.
The green buzz and crawl of it all.
Take His hand.
Come down
this aisle
tonight. Name
Jesus as your
Lord and
Savior.
Hold those
bleeding hands.
He died
that you
might live,
that you
might not
know the Devil's
breath on
your neck,
a breath
like sour milk.
He feeds
on flesh,
the maggoty
flesh of
this world.
He died
that you
would not
feel the Devil's
claws in
your soft skin,
those claws
crusted and brown
with old blood.
I'm holding
the Devil off
right now,
but Old Scratch
wants you.
He wants
you to stay
in your pew.
He wants you
to think about
a new car,
that TV show,
that baseball glove,
that Barbie.
Are you thinking
about them?
If you are,
the Devil's grinning.
Poplar and gum. Some oak and maple. Sassafras and dogwood in the
understory.
Blackberry bramble white in May with blooms that by July will be fat drops
of sweet ink.
Whippoorwills address the evening in our tongue.
And bobwhites the day. Crows laugh. Terrapins hiss. Squirrels bark and dogs bark and the groundhog whistles a tune, a tune from roots, a tune fed by timothy and purple clover, a tune from fur and yellow ever-growing teeth, a tune from sturdy little hands and their dirt-polished claws, a tune most local, a sinful tune if this world is sin.
Don't you
see him
grinning?
Don't you
see his sharp
yellow teeth?
Don't you
hear him whistle
that little tune
for dancing
in the sulfurous fires?
Don't you
hear that tune,
that beautiful
little tune,
he whistles
just for you?
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Michael Chitwood
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MICHAEL CHITWOOD
The Saved
From cutting the nuts out of a bull calf's bag with a Barlow,
from laying case knives on a dress pattern,
from running a trotline and baiting the hooks with gone liver,
from mashing a tobacco worm into a green blot,
from crimping dough at the piecrust edge,
from whisking an egg,
from whipping a boy with a switch he fetched,
from doffing a bolt of taffeta,
from working the one arm of the adding machine,
from beating the answers out of the erasers
Oh Lamb of God, they come.
If you
would be
born again,
if you
would purge
your sin
in the scalding
blood, the blood
shed for you,
if you
would accept
the death
into the water
and the life
rising out,
come.
Three stars inside the moon's halo three nights in a row.
When a snapper latches on, he'll only release if it thunders.
Maud Brown could blow thrush from a baby's mouth.
Phillip Amos would take fire out.
Shirleen Anderson could speak warts away.
To bring someone home, take a lock of their hair and walk backward to their door and in over the threshold.
Lard rendered on the wrong side of the moon will go rancid.
A pregnant woman should not look at the full moon or even the full moon's reflection.
He cried out
and asked
his father
why he was
forsaken.
I want you
fathers and
you mothers
to think
on that,
your only child,
nails tearing
his hands,
those hands
you held.
Spikes driven
into those feet
you washed
and kissed
when they
were dry,
think on
this gift
you fathers
and mothers.
Mud randy as a ripe corpse.
River thick brown, a liquid road, going on its own dirt and taking its path as it goes.
A canopy of green, a living, breathing roof and the light through it green.
Mockingbirds splash. Amble of the opossum. Cardinal a red thread run
through the green warp.
Moccasin a muscle brown and blunt.
Frog all fart, all ja-rump, all slap and not a bad meal if you have a mess.
Carp nudge a drowned cow and sup.
The green buzz and crawl of it all.
Take His hand.
Come down
this aisle
tonight. Name
Jesus as your
Lord and
Savior.
Hold those
bleeding hands.
He died
that you
might live,
that you
might not
know the Devil's
breath on
your neck,
a breath
like sour milk.
He feeds
on flesh,
the maggoty
flesh of
this world.
He died
that you
would not
feel the Devil's
claws in
your soft skin,
those claws
crusted and brown
with old blood.
I'm holding
the Devil off
right now,
but Old Scratch
wants you.
He wants
you to stay
in your pew.
He wants you
to think about
a new car,
that TV show,
that baseball glove,
that Barbie.
Are you thinking
about them?
If you are,
the Devil's grinning.
Poplar and gum. Some oak and maple. Sassafras and dogwood in the
understory.
Blackberry bramble white in May with blooms that by July will be fat drops
of sweet ink.
Whippoorwills address the evening in our tongue.
And bobwhites the day. Crows laugh. Terrapins hiss. Squirrels bark and dogs bark and the groundhog whistles a tune, a tune from roots, a tune fed by timothy and purple clover, a tune from fur and yellow ever-growing teeth, a tune from sturdy little hands and their dirt-polished claws, a tune most local, a sinful tune if this world is sin.
Don't you
see him
grinning?
Don't you
see his sharp
yellow teeth?
Don't you
hear him whistle
that little tune
for dancing
in the sulfurous fires?
Don't you
hear that tune,
that beautiful
little tune,
he whistles
just for you?
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a fan of Robert T. Smith
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Excerpt From Jesus Wept
........by........
....Rodney T. Smith....
When lightning strikes the outhouse it is anointed. Haloed and shaken and char-dark, it is God-glad but not set aflame like the overhang mulberry tree, and from that day it always smells like buttermilk and dead roses. We call it the Light House now and offer up our prayers there because Daddy is full-circle converted. He has nailed up the dump hole and propped in the seat of a 64 Dodge pick up. We keep a Testament on a shelf where the scroll paper was, but the black book isn't much use, as anybody with their mind on the holy can feel the scripture scorched into the boards. That's what Daddy says. The quarter moon slot in the spruce door lets sunlight bleed in, but it's God Redeeming that makes every splinter glow. That's where Daddy's shout sermons come to him in a startle, so he should know. He also has hung up a half-moon hubcap losing chrome, which he says is rusting toward the outline of the Jesus face with its crown of thorns. We'll see.
We is my Daddy John Crow Epps and my brother Jester. Also myself, Dock.
There was never any symptoms of flight in our family before, but now Daddy whose black hair made him Crow hardly scuffs the ground when he steps. He's that lifted.
I wish Jester and me could rise up and float about. We have to work the sunflower rows on normal legs while Daddy preaches around or witnesses down at Sentry Park or some close-by camp meeting. When the spirit is on him, Daddy hot wires the possum-colored rattletrap truck ands gone most all day. It is not so easy for a pair of boys thirteen and twelve to run a flower farm alone. We have to stake some and string them, have to cut the suckers and cull the puny, spray against the aphids, whiteflies and Apollo moths. They are also prone to rust and mildew, so we boys hover close to home, doctoring plants, killing bugs, staying all sweaty and weary while the Word is spread far and wide. Every day here this summer we have to choose what goes to market with El Louise Swofford, who stops by everybody's house who has a whisper crop. The cotton folks with big spreads by the river have their own rigs, and we gawk them whizzing down Governor Toombs Road, which since the lightning Daddy says we should call Miracle Way. When Uncle Pre asks Daddy do you call yourself farming, he says just a whisper. So that's us.
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