Holmes Convocation Center, Boone NC | July 14, 2012
Psalm 139
We shouldn’t be here.
We should be doing usual summer Saturday afternoon things -‐-‐
washing the car, mowing the yard,
We should be at home on the couch and watching the game
working on base or out in the yard,
We should be on a beach or out hiking the Parkway.
Wherever else we might be, we should not be here.
But here we are.
Here we are, because sometimes life gets interrupted in the saddest of ways.
Here we are because pounding on a door and tearful phone calls
Psalm 139
We shouldn’t be here.
We should be doing usual summer Saturday afternoon things -‐-‐
washing the car, mowing the yard,
We should be at home on the couch and watching the game
working on base or out in the yard,
We should be on a beach or out hiking the Parkway.
Wherever else we might be, we should not be here.
But here we are.
Here we are, because sometimes life gets interrupted in the saddest of ways.
Here we are because pounding on a door and tearful phone calls
can shake us awake in otherwise ordinary nights;
because an email or a text message or a Facebook post
can upend the most ordinary of days.
Here we are
because life can be shaken to its foundations by news that no one wants, no one expects.
Here we are,
because our husband, our brother, our son, our father, our friend
our Ryan is gone.
And when we find ourselves here,
we are confronted with some of the most difficult questions of life.
It’s times like these that make philosophers out of all of us,
because down deep, there’s a part of each of us that wants to know why.
Why did this happen?
And it’s not just that we want to know
why a plane fell from the sky. It’s deeper than that.
We have a sense of how the universe should work and this isn’t it;
we shouldn’t be here and yet, here we are.
It’s times like these that make us philosophers,
but theologians, too, because times like these
make us ask questions about God.
Way down deep, we may wonder if this was the work of God,
if this was God’s plan, God’s will.
We may ask why bad things happen
to good men with infant sons,
We may wonder if we can ever believe that God is good again.
It’s times like these that make philosophers and theologians of us all.
And the difficulty is that the usual answers to these questions -‐-‐ the most repeated answers -‐-‐
the things we find ourselves saying because we don’t know what else to say -‐-‐
because an email or a text message or a Facebook post
can upend the most ordinary of days.
Here we are
because life can be shaken to its foundations by news that no one wants, no one expects.
Here we are,
because our husband, our brother, our son, our father, our friend
our Ryan is gone.
And when we find ourselves here,
we are confronted with some of the most difficult questions of life.
It’s times like these that make philosophers out of all of us,
because down deep, there’s a part of each of us that wants to know why.
Why did this happen?
And it’s not just that we want to know
why a plane fell from the sky. It’s deeper than that.
We have a sense of how the universe should work and this isn’t it;
we shouldn’t be here and yet, here we are.
It’s times like these that make us philosophers,
but theologians, too, because times like these
make us ask questions about God.
Way down deep, we may wonder if this was the work of God,
if this was God’s plan, God’s will.
We may ask why bad things happen
to good men with infant sons,
We may wonder if we can ever believe that God is good again.
It’s times like these that make philosophers and theologians of us all.
And the difficulty is that the usual answers to these questions -‐-‐ the most repeated answers -‐-‐
the things we find ourselves saying because we don’t know what else to say -‐-‐
those answers are simply too easy.
At the end of Shakespeare’s King Lear,
Edgar, the one who actually survives the tragedy to become king, says this:
the weight of this sad time we must obey, speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
We shouldn’t be here. But here we are -‐-‐
grieving a tragedy and a future we had imagined.
And the weight of this sad time we must obey, speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
It’s harder but much more honest that we today sit with our questions, that we feel our grief, that we honor our pain.
There will be time in seasons to come when we will have lived beside the questions long enough
that we will find peace even in their presence,
but today, we are too raw.
This tragedy, this reality is still too new for us.
And so, today is not about the answers to the questions we carry, but about a simple promise
that we are never alone.
The United Church of Canada puts it this way -‐-‐
in life, in death, in life beyond death, we are not alone. God is with us.
Quite simply, God loves us too much to leave us alone.
This is the promise that the Psalmist gave voice to -‐-‐ If I take the wings of the morning
and settle on the far side of the sea, even there, you are with me,
even there, your hand shall hold me fast.
Thirteen days ago,
when the C130 that was carrying extraordinary men
who were doing extraordinary and heroic work
crashed back into the Black Hills,
they found the promise was true:
They were not alone.
As the news spread
and life-‐after-‐life-‐after-‐life
was shaken in the saddest of ways, none of us were alone.
As we imagine what life will look like now,
as we wonder what we will do without
this loud, funny, playful Ry, we are not alone.
At the end of Shakespeare’s King Lear,
Edgar, the one who actually survives the tragedy to become king, says this:
the weight of this sad time we must obey, speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
We shouldn’t be here. But here we are -‐-‐
grieving a tragedy and a future we had imagined.
And the weight of this sad time we must obey, speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
It’s harder but much more honest that we today sit with our questions, that we feel our grief, that we honor our pain.
There will be time in seasons to come when we will have lived beside the questions long enough
that we will find peace even in their presence,
but today, we are too raw.
This tragedy, this reality is still too new for us.
And so, today is not about the answers to the questions we carry, but about a simple promise
that we are never alone.
The United Church of Canada puts it this way -‐-‐
in life, in death, in life beyond death, we are not alone. God is with us.
Quite simply, God loves us too much to leave us alone.
This is the promise that the Psalmist gave voice to -‐-‐ If I take the wings of the morning
and settle on the far side of the sea, even there, you are with me,
even there, your hand shall hold me fast.
Among the things found at the crash site that belonged to Ry,
there was a necklace that Jenny had given to him years ago
for him to wear while flying.
Engraved on that necklace is this promise -‐-‐
You are never alone. I am with you.
Thirteen days ago,
when the C130 that was carrying extraordinary men
who were doing extraordinary and heroic work
crashed back into the Black Hills,
they found the promise was true:
They were not alone.
As the news spread
and life-‐after-‐life-‐after-‐life
was shaken in the saddest of ways, none of us were alone.
Today, as we grieve the loss of Ryan,
as we celebrate his life and mourn his passing,
as we celebrate his life and mourn his passing,
as we hold back tears, as we break down sobbing,
none of us are alone.
As we imagine what life will look like now,
as we wonder what we will do without
this loud, funny, playful Ry, we are not alone.
As we think about six-‐month-‐old Rob and his future,
as we think about what he will learn about his father
and what he will never know, we are not alone.
Even if we took the wings of the morning,
and settled on the far side of the sea,
even there, we are not alone.
God is with us.
We shouldn’t be here today.
We should be doing the usual summer Saturday afternoon things,
but here we are.
But we are not alone. Amen.
