Halloween - What Scares Us
Rebecca Clancy
Ruth 2:8-13 Luke 7:1-10
Since Halloween is coming up, I thought it would be fun to watch the movie classic Frankenstein
with the girls -- the 1931 version starring Boris Karloff. I figured that it wouldn’t be too scary for them because of the old, or perhaps better to say, ancient special effects. I figured that the monster would be no more frightening to them than Ming the Merciless was to me when I, at about their age, watched Flash Gordon. The minute Dr. Frankenstein descended to his laboratory; however, they were terror struck and scrambled into my lap. Within minutes they were screaming at the top of their lungs to turn it off. I grabbed for the clicker filled with soothing explanations, but they’d have none of them. That night we all slept together.
Not one to admit defeat readily, I decided to try again. I procured, with some difficulty, the 1910 version of the film. I even previewed it before we watched it together. It was a “silent” movie, but for the ridiculously dramatic piano music pounding in the background. The exaggerated gesticulations and facial expressions of the actors were downright laughable, but the bigger joke was the special effects.
The monster came to life after various ingredients were added to a bubbling cauldron. First his two skeletal arms emerged. You could see them moving up and down on wires. After some more thundering piano crescendos the monster appeared, fully stewed. He looked like the deranged cousin of Gargamel, who, if you don’t recall, was the antagonist on The Smurfs. I judged that no one of any age could possibly be scared of this version of the film. The girls, however, judged differently. They were even more terrified than before. “Turn it off!” they screamed again. It was then that it dawned on me that my plan backfired because I presumed that the old special effects would make the films less scary for them. The old special effects, as it turned out, made it more scary, more real in a way, because it depicted the realm where, their imaginations had taught them, real monsters dwell. Needless to say, we all slept together again, but this time sleep, as Scripture puts it, “fled from their eyes.”
“I am staying up all night,” Avi pronounced. “Why!?” I asked. “Because I am afraid of that monster.” Before I could respond, Gao chimed in. “And I am afraid of earthquakes.” Her orphanage was relatively near the epicenter of China’s earthquake, which occurred shortly before I adopted her. She didn’t experience the earthquake firsthand, but she experienced it through the horror of her caretakers. May then chimed in too. “And I’m afraid something bad will happen to you, Mommy.” I said all the things Mommies say when their children are afraid. Avi then said. “I’m sorry we’re so afraid,” Mommy. “When we’re grownups like you, we won’t be afraid anymore.” When we’re grownups like you, we won’t be afraid anymore.
Then was not the time to explain to her that we grownups have our own fears, fears not unlike theirs. We may not be scared of Frankenstein’s monster, or werewolves, or mummies, or vampires, but we are scared of demythologized monsters like serial killers and shooters and terrorists. We too are scared of natural disasters, whether they take the form of earthquakes or tornadoes or hurricanes or tsunamis, or even whether they take the form of disease, which is a kind of natural disaster if you think about it. And too we are scared that something bad will happen to those we love, especially our children. For me this is my greatest fear. I think it’s every parent’s greatest fear. We may put up a better front than they do; we may employ more mature powers of rationalization; we may be slightly less vulnerable; but we grownups share their fears, especially when the danger that elicits them rears its head.
And you know, I think we grownups actually do children one better on the fear front. We have one fear that they don’t seem to have, at least not my girls -- but I think it holds true for most children. I guess some fears have to be learned, or they grow with us to maturity. We grownups fear that others who are not like us do not share our basic humanity. If others are or a different race, a different culture, a different religion, a different political party, a different sexual orientation, a different national origin, we fear they do not share our basic humanity. And this fear may be, of all the things we fear, most to be feared. This fear may be, of all the things we fear, the most pernicious and destructive, especially when it is, as it so often it has been, co-opted by demagogues who pose as our leaders.
Believe it or not, it is for this reason the book of Ruth was written. It was written to offset the fear that others who are not like us do not share our basic humanity. Ruth, after all, was a Moabite. To put it mildly, the Israelites did not like the Moabites. From the minute the people of Israel took possession of their Promised Land and encountered the Moabites in the vicinity, they did not like them. Why? Because the Israelites had lots of impressions about them, impressions based upon the fact that they didn’t look like them, didn’t talk like them, and didn’t act like them. From what they thought they saw, the Israelites concluded that the Moabites were a dissolute people. They were fast. They were loose. They were low lives.
They were the kind of people who couldn’t be trusted. They were the kind of people who were bad influences, who were threats to good and decent and upright society. In short, the Israelites feared that the Moabites did not share their basic humanity. In fact, aside from the book of Ruth, all other depictions of Moabites in Scripture are negative. There’s even a story in the book of Genesis that the founder of the Moabites was born from a drunken and incestuous union between a father and his daughter.
The book of Ruth then advanced a bold and controversial, if not to say downright unpopular, thesis. It advanced the thesis that others who are not like us do in fact share our basic humanity. Sometimes in fact they may even serve as role models for us. Sometimes, in fact, we can even learn from them about how to be better people. Consider Ruth herself. Ruth was a Moabite who married into a family of Israelites. It wasn’t by the choice of the family of Israelites. It was by necessity. There was a famine in Israel and this particular family of Israelites was forced to emigrate to Moab or to starve. They were detained there by the famine for so long that the sons came of marrying age. It was either marry a Moabite or not marry at all, and not marrying at all meant the cessation of the family line. So the family held its collective nose while two Moabite women married into the family, one of whom was Ruth the other of whom was named Orpah.
In a series of coincidental tragedies, all the men of the family died, leaving just the Moabites Ruth and Orpah and their Israelite mother-in-law, who was named Naomi. After the famine ended, Naomi suggested that each return to their familial home. Orpah did, but Ruth declined. It would have been the easier course, but Ruth knew her mother-in-law needed her. As much as Ruth had lost - a husband, Naomi had lost more - a husband and two sons. Ruth couldn’t leave Naomi all alone with no one to care for her. She may not have been much, but she was better than nothing. She could at least tend to Naomi’s basic needs until she saw her safely placed in her familial home. So Ruth opted to accompany Naomi and go live among a people who looked down upon her because she was a Moabite.
When they arrived back in Israel, Ruth provided for them both by gleaning behind some harvesters in a barley field, which was basically an indirect way of begging. The Law of Moses demanded that harvesters leave some of the harvest behind to provide for the poor. When the owner of the field noticed there was a Moabite gleaning on his property, he kept an eye on her. What he discovered was a courageous, selfless, industrious young woman, a woman who so impressed him he eventually took her for his wife. And even after he did, Naomi’s care remained at the forefront of her mind. When she bore a son, it was her greatest joy that she could provide Naomi someone to love again after all the loss she had known.
Yes, the book of Ruth was written to advance the bold and controversial thesis that people who are not like us do share our basic humanity, so much so they could well be our kindred. It was written to advance the bold and controversial thesis that they want the same things we do - to be able to provide for themselves, to care and to be cared for, to belong, to be acknowledged and respected for who they are. And it is indeed a bold and controversial thesis precisely because of the fear that seems to be perennial that those who are not like us do not share our basic humanity.
Jesus too of course advanced that bold and controversial thesis. You tell by the people he gravitated towards, Jesus too of course advanced that bold and controversial thesis. You can tell by the people he gravitated towards, “others” who were not like the rest - lepers, prostitutes, carriers of contagious diseases, adulteresses, tax collectors, and all those vulnerable, marginalized, and scandalous. But he cast the net even farther. Consider the Centurion. He wasn’t vulnerable, marginalized, or scandalous. He was the commander of a hundred in the Roman army. He was, as he put it, a man “set under authority,” and it was the authority of the oppressor, since the Romans then occupied Israel. But Jesus heeded the Centurion’s appeal, and in doing so learned that the Centurion had a deep love for the Israelites, even built for them a synagogue; and that his appeal to Jesus was out of concern for the welfare of a slave. Jesus advanced the bold and controversial thesis that we need not fear others who are not like us because they do share our basic humanity, but even he was surprised by the Centurion the extent to which this is true – “I tell you not even in Israel have I found such faith.” No one sympathized with our common condition better than Jesus; and it was that sympathy that led him to take up his cross.
After the girls finally fell asleep last week, I was wide awake, so I watched my favorite movie, To Kill a Mockingbird. Now that movie is too scary for children to watch, if you recall the near murder of the little girl named Scout. It’s almost too scary for me. In my favorite scene, Atticus defends a black man falsely accused of rape in the Jim Crow South. During the trial, the courtroom is packed, with the black people segregated in the balcony. The black man who was falsely accused of rape is found guilty of course, even though everyone in the courtroom knew he was innocent. As Atticus walks from the courtroom, the black people in the balcony silently rose to their feet to acknowledge the truth that Atticus had attempted to defend -- that others not like him shared his basic humanity. “Stand up,” someone whispered to Scout, who had snuck up to the balcony to watch. “Your father’s passing.”
It is one of our crucial jobs as Christians to renounce the fear that others like not us do not share our basic humanity. And if we do not renounce that fear, both within and around us, we may protect ourselves from many fearful things, but we will never help to make a world that is safe for everyone. Amen.
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
