What do you do with all the grief? How do you hold your community’s grief, the world’s grief, your own body’s grief? Womanist theologian Rev. Dr. Wil Gafney explains:
« In the ancient Near East there was a profession that was passed down from woman to woman…They were trained and paid to perform the public ritual of funerals; they were funeral directors and grief counselors. These women walked with the body, wept and wailed with the family and sang and chanted hymns, psalms and laments composed for the occasion. They created space and community for the family and friends to grieve without embarrassment, and never be alone…the professional mourners were usually women. »
We are desperate today for the sisters who will create this space. Escapism is so alluring but respite is found in lament: naming the pain that is, crying out to Creator who can do something about, and placing hope in Creator.
Today, siblings, I offer us
A Lament With, For and Through Creation
How do you recover from the grief of death of dear friends, mothers, mentors, co-ministers, fellow sojourners, sources of joy and hope? It’s like losing your childhood apple tree in the backyard, a hospitable and welcoming tree, that was first weakened by disease, then could not weather its final storm. It is living the silence of Easter Saturday, urging you to flee to Horeb, hoping Creator will supply a broom bush and a cave.
How do you recover from the grief of an aching and tormented body, living fatigue like a garden in winter, brain fog like a leaf deprived of sunlight, energy levels like anemic soil, hoping and praying for nutrient dense amendments? The body cries out from having suffered under the yoke of productivity. She is tender and tired, and trying to get our attention. She says,
Keep moving, and you would you please do so gently? She says: Nourish yourself, and would you please stop restricting? She says: Please yourself, and would you please do so without shame?
It’s a big ask but turns out, you can slow down in spaces that understand rest and care over the bottom line, like walking through the fields of biodiverse farming, full of pollinators, rich soil, and thriving ecosystems.
Our bodies are not independent from the world, the body lives in the world. We are not a cut bouquet of flowers safe on the table, shielded yet already dying. Rather, we are rooted in the ecosystem, vulnerable to all the elements while also dependent. We are, after all, part of the community of creation. Confession: we are not just passive objects. We are contributing subjects.
So Creation groans, I hear her, creation groans and I join her as there is silence at the pulpit about this climate crisis.
Creation groans, I hear her, creation groans and I join her as there is silence at the pulpit about xenophobic leaders, denying the presence of systemic racism1.
Creation groans, I hear her, creation groans and I join her as there is silence at the pulpit about Palestine.
Creation groans, I hear her, creation groans and I join her as there is silence at the pulpit about a housing and food security crisis, as neighbours wonder how to pay rent and buy groceries. Confession: I am happy to go home to my affordable apartment and full fridge.
Creation groans, I hear her, creation groans and I join her as there is silence at the pulpit about capitalism, because the pulpit is in bed with it.
In the middle of the city, we plant sunflowers and the three sisters, with our Indigenous kin. A second later, the plants are stolen. Each sunflower just like a murdered and missing Indigenous girl and woman.
We then plant a garden with children, potatoes from the palm of the babe into the soil, only to the harvest crack pipes and syringes, baggies and trash.
Can the soil compost all that? When did we veer so hard away from creativity, and put the pedal to the metal towards destruction?
Go to the garden to find respite, greenery, peace, a marmot, a bunny. Confession: the fence around the garden sure helps me feel safe – I’m not the one it’s trying to keep out.
Creator sat back to behold all of creation and declare it all so, so good. I sit back to behold something that which looks more like a dumpster fire, wondering when that garden city will bloom. I dream of those streets of gold, made of marigolds and mums, yellow pear tomatoes, calendula and golden rod. These tears that form a river that makes glad the city of God, a river sprouting salicornia and sea peas. A river that rolls justice down, an overflowing stream of righteousness. It teems with life. By the river is the mother hen, welcoming her chicks, providing housing under her wing. The chicks peek to watch the eagle rising, majestic. The lion lays down by the stream with the lamb.
We can see the king, seated on the throne: she’s a gardener, with ploughshare and sickle in hand, and the throne like a farm. Because of the gardener’s great love, we are not consumed, for her mercies never fail. They are new every morning, (like the morning dew), great is the gardener’s faithfulness.
————————————————————————————————-
References
Gafney, W. PhD. (2016, March 24). Call the wailing women to weep for US. The Rev. Wil Gafney, Ph.D. | Womanists Wading in the Word. https://www.wilgafney.com/2015/04/28/call-the-wailing-women-to-weep-for-us/
havasDev. (2020, December 5). Does systemic racism exist in Quebec, Manitoba and New Brunswick? don’t ask their premiers. Indigenous Watchdog. https://www.indigenouswatchdog.org/2020/12/04/does-systemic-racism-exist-in-quebec-manitoba-and-new-brunswick-dont-ask-their-premiers/
Leave a Reply