Come home to the Jubilee

Levites Sound the Trumpet of Jubilee (1873)

A Sermon Preached on Facebook Live 

Easter V - Year A - May 10, 2020

This morning, we hear Jesus say, “In my father’s house there are many dwelling places (or, rooms)”. (John 14:1-14). I can’t remember how many times I’ve preached on this passage – mostly as the text chosen by grieving relatives at the funeral of their loved one. 

This week, I’ve been thinking about this passage from John’s gospel very differently. Maybe it’s the time of pandemic. Maybe, as one of my friends recently suggested, we’ve all got too much time to think. 

There is something compelling, however, during this time when we’re virtual prisoners in our own home, and the death tolls are reported daily as a somber journalistic obligation, to think about ‘home’.  

When the character ET croaked out the words, “ET phone home,” most of us looked past the full moon and starlit sky to which he was pointing and intuitively knew the emotional significance of those words. 

When ET and Elliott have to say their final goodbyes before ET has to board the Mother Ship. ET’s heart glows and he points to his temple and touches Elliott's forehead saying, “I’ll be right here.” 

In that moment, no matter how many times I’ve seen the movie, a lump forms in my throat and I start to get all gurly-burbly. I’m confronted by the eternal truth that for many of us, there is “home” and then there is “home.”

For many people "home" is a word jam-packed with emotion – good and bad. Robert Frost famously said, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” 

And, for many of us, that’s true. We hold onto the belief that, even if we err and stray like lost sheep, our parents will take us in. Or, for some adults who have had a difficult row to hoe in life, that their children will forgive them.

Today is Mother’s Day – a date on the calendar that is as jam-packed with emotion, good and bad, as the word “home”. For many, the two are inextricably linked, providing a double whammy of emotional punch. 

Over the thirty-plus years I’ve been privileged to be a priest and pastor, I’ve heard lots of stories, many of which are wonderful and inspiring. I’ve sat with men and women grieving the loss of their mother, sometimes weeks after her death and others for whom the grief is decades old but almost as fresh as the day their mother died. 

I’ve also sat with men and women who are grieving that they aren’t grieving their loss of their mother, a woman who fell short of their expectations or could never have lived up to their expectations or failed so miserably at her role that their sorrow is that they can’t simply ‘forgive and forget’ and so the emotional pain continues unabated. 

And, as the saying in my business goes, "Hurt people hurt people."

On the other side, I’ve sat with mothers who are filled with guilt and regret and remorse that this day on the calendar is filled with paralyzing dread. 

+ Mothers who were never able to carry a child to term.

+ Mothers who placed their child for adoption. 

+ Mothers who miscarried or aborted their pregnancies. 

+ Mothers who fell into drug or alcohol addiction or became mentally ill or incapacitated and had their children taken from them. 

+ Mothers who discovered themselves to be lesbian after having children, only to have a court deny custody of them during a horrific divorce battle. 

+ Mothers who had to be both mother and father and found the task overwhelming and feel a total failure.

At one point in our early years together, when we lived in Maine, Ms. Conroy and I took in foster children. 

We did so because we felt a large part of our vocation – our calling – was to be mothers. More importantly, we felt a strong vocation to family. 

Always have. Always will. 

I wish I could say foster care was a wonderful experience. Oh, there were moments for which I will always be grateful but the overwhelming emotion of trying to provide a home for children who only want home to be wherever their mother is proved to be what John Snow called ‘an impossible vocation’ -  heartbreakingly impossible. 

You know. Like being a mother. Only even more difficult.

There was this one call that came right after supper on a Friday night. The social worker called us from the ER at Mercy Hospital. A little boy. Christopher. Eighteen months old. Mother was 17. Boyfriend had abused her and sexually abused the baby. He needed medical care. The mother had no place to go, having been kicked out of her home by her mother when she was pregnant. 

So, she was scared. Very scared. She was insisting that this was all a mistake. Just a big misunderstanding. Please, just let her go back to their apartment. It would be okay. It always turned out okay. She would apologize to him. He would take her back. It would be okay. Honest. 

The social worker was placing the mother in a woman’s shelter while the police searched for the man who abused her and sexually abused their son. Would we take the baby? Just for the weekend? Please? We have nowhere else to place him? He needs a ‘home’. Please?

Of course, we took him in. Turned out, Christopher stayed with us for almost a year. In that time, we also worked with his mom. So did the social worker. And, lots of childcare workers. 

It was hard work. It was some of the hardest work we’ve ever done. 

Eventually, she reconciled with her mom and arrangements were made for her to take Christopher “home”. Back home. To make a new home with her mother and her and this absolutely adorable little boy. 

The day we brought Christopher to his new ‘home’, he cried. She cried. We cried. It was wonderful. We had achieved what we had hoped for and dreamed about and worked hard to achieve. 

And, it was gut-wrenchingly awful to let Christopher go. 

Which, of course, is the real stuff of miracles, not one of us thought possible. 

After Christopher had gone into his new home with his grandmother, Christopher’s mother thanked us, gave us a hug and then presented us with a single red rose, saying, "I'm finally free to be a better me. I am free to be a better mom. And, I'm free to be a better daughter."  

It was a holy, sacred moment. 

As I look back on that memory, that death and resurrection moment, I hear the words of John’s gospel in a new way. I hear all of the nuances of ‘home’ and how important that is to all of us. 

I hear that there are many different kinds of “homes” and God makes room for them all, if we are open to entering them.

I hear that sense of home being “when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” 

And, I hear Jesus say, “. .  . the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.”

Miracles. Miracles are absolutely possible. 

Jubilee is not just a scriptural or theological concept. The captives are set free. We do find our liberation in Christ.

As I look back on that moment, I also hear the words to a song written by Mary Chapin Carpenter called Jubilee.

And I can tell by the way you're talking
That the past isn't letting you go
But there's only so long you can take it all on
And then the wrong's gotta be on its own

If you are struggling this Mother’s Day – as a daughter or a mother or a son or a father who also had to be a mother– I hope you find some comfort in today’s Gospel. 

I hope you know that, with lots of work and equal large amounts of emotional equity, miracles can happen. 

I hope you know that there are many places in which to dwell in the Household of God – some of them just don’t look like what you had expected and the road to get there is far from the beaten path. 

Sometimes, you just have to admit that you can’t take it all on and let the wrong be on its own. 

You are not alone in that work. I know that because I know I’m not alone in that work. And, I know that God in Christ Jesus loves you – loves us – more than our wildest imaginings. 

So, I’ll leave you with the last words from Jubilee:

And I can tell by the way you're searching
For something you can't even name
That you haven't been able to come to the table
Simply glad that you came

When you feel like this try to imagine
That we're all like frail boats on the sea
Just scanning the night for that great guiding light
Announcing the jubilee

And I can tell by the way you're standing
With your eyes filling with tears
That it's habit alone that keeps you turning for home
Even though your home is right here

Where the people who love you are gathered
Under the wise wishing tree
May we all be considered then straight on delivered
Down to the jubilee 

Because people who love you are waiting
And they'll wait just as long as need be
When we look back and say those were halcyon days
We're talking about jubilee.

Amen.