I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on July 3. The text is Psalm 123; read it here.
Getting from one place to another
requires being in the middle for a little while.
In the middle,
betwixt and between,
neither one place nor another.
It’s a frightening place to be, and over the last few weeks working as a chaplain at the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital I’ve been learning how to stand in that middle place with all sorts of pilgrims traveling on all sorts of journeys.
I’ve read them this Psalm,
this Psalm for travelers,
because so many of them have left familiar shores
to traverse some very deep waters.
I have read Psalm 121
to parents
who’s tiny, premature baby
was facing surgery the next day.
To a daughter
who told me that she was afraid that her aging father
would die alone in the night when she couldn’t be near him.
To a mother who had gone into labor much, much too soon.
To a family of 15, maybe 20,
gathered around their matriarch as she moved slowly and steadily toward death.
This Psalm was written to bring comfort to travelers who are journeying a treacherous and unfamiliar road. It was written for pilgrims journeying the dangerous road to Jerusalem. It was written to remind them that they are not alone as they travel.
God will preserve them from all evil.
I've read this psalm to patients, and it's brought them comfort. But this Psalm has also brought comfort to me. I leave the hospital at night knowing that so many of the people I’ve spoken to will remain there long into the night. And many of them seem very, very alone. Alone in their suffering, alone in their struggle. I can’t stay awake by their side, but I can rest assured that God will. God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps will watch over them.
The people I’ve met during my time at the hospital, are traveling on a very particular, very difficult kind of journey. But we’re all on some kind of a journey, most of the time -- all negotiating some variety of transition, crossing some kind of threshold, making our way from one kind of a shore to another. In this community, we’ve been accompanying Rachel on her journey to the water as she prepares for her baptism. Richard and Kathleen are her sponsors, and take special responsibility for walking with her as she travels, helping her negotiate that tricky space of the in-between.
And Michael and Gihanni are setting out on the first leg of a journey today and in the coming weeks, as they say goodbye to St. Lydia’s and New York, and hello to Ashville, North Carolina, a new church, a new job, new roles, new patterns, new ways of living.
Part of our job as a church is to mark and name these transitions.
To remember that it’s hard to say hello
until you’ve said a proper goodbye.
So tonight we’re saying goodbye, and see you soon,
and blessing Gihanni and Michael,
and thanking them for all they’ve brought to our community.
St. Lydia’s as a church is on a journey too.
It may not seem like a long way to travel over the Brooklyn Bridge, but negotiating the distance between this place and the next place will open us up to being in the middle, to being betwixt and between. To not being quite sure for a while who we are or how we got into this funny place, where we hardly seem to recognize ourselves.
The good news of this text is that,
in the midst of the middle,
we are never alone.
Beside the hospital bed in the middle of a night that seems very long,
we are never alone.
On the way to the edge of waters that seem very deep,
we are never alone.
With all our worldly possessions packed into boxes
and a long road ahead of us,
we are never alone.
Whatever we encounter
in the middle,
we won’t do it by ourselves.
Behold the keeper of Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord will watch over
your going out and your coming in,
from this time forth,
forevermore.
Sometimes we just need to be reminded.
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