Four years ago today we experienced one of the worst mass shootings in our history. It was an event that shook almost all of us to the core, and an event that hit me particularly hard given that on that very day when so many first graders were shot in a small town elementary school I had a first grader in a small town elementary school. The Newtown shooting has stayed with me. Even now I can’t help but notice school security and how close my daughters’ classrooms are to the back doors of their school here. Each year I pray through the names of those whose lives were taken so violently, and I do so again this year. Perhaps you will pray them with me. I am also attaching the sermon I wrote two days after this tragedy.
I referenced this in the Living Compass meditation I wrote last year, and it still applies today. I suspect it will apply as long as there is tragedy and violence in our midst. I hope and pray we will never have another day like December 14, 2012.
If you would like to join me in praying for the deceased today, you can find the list of names and reflection on each of their lives here. We remember all victims of violence, but today we remember those from Newtown, CT. Let us also pray that we can all work together to seek a better, safer world for all our children.
Tom+
Loving God, Jesus gathered your little ones in his arms and blessed them. Have pity on those who mourn for the children and teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, innocents slaughtered by the violence of our fallen world. Be with us as we struggle with the mysteries of life and death; in our pain, bring your comfort, and in our sorrow, bring your hope and your promise of new life, in the name of Jesus our Savior. Amen. (Enriching our Worship)
A sermon preached by the Rev. Tom Purdy, December 16, 2012, Advent 3.
None of us has fully processed what took place this week – two separate shootings, first on Tuesday, and then Friday in such an unthinkable and horrific setting – an elementary school. Thirty people dead including the two young gunmen. Although we try to use words, there are few words to express all the emotions that come with watching breaking news updates and reading the names of 20 six and seven year olds.
As a father of a 7-year-old, I have been crying on and off for two days now. I have never been so relieved and so heartbroken at the same time, as when Eva got off of her school bus Friday afternoon. I cannot begin to estimate the grief of the parents who waited all that afternoon to confirm that their children were dead; were not coming home; wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas and Hanukah; that their children would remain in the school building all that night into Saturday. There is no way to make sense of a tragedy such as this one. There are no answers to the “why” questions that haunt our thoughts.
The prophet Isaiah says to us this morning: “Surely, it is God who saves me; I will trust in him and not be afraid. For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense, and he will be my Savior.”
But let’s face it. We may trust in God, but it’s damn hard not to be afraid. In 2006 my hometown community was rocked by the Nickel Mines Amish schoolhouse shooting. I was a part of the prayer vigil that night just miles from the school. It shook us all to our core that such a thing could happen in such a peaceful small community to such peaceful people. When Eva started school, I was amazed that the front door of the elementary school was not locked. This is Poolesville – things like that don’t happen here.
One of the most haunting quotes for me of this weekend is from the fire chief in Newtown, which is a small town about an hour’s drive from a major city. He said he moved his family there because it was a small town known for its safety and its good schools. People in Newtown won’t say that anymore, just like they don’t say it in Lancaster. Here in this small town, about an hour’s drive from a major city, I give thanks for every day we can still say it, but I still worry about my daughters.
The reality is that horrible things happen – and will continue to happen. As we recover from the shock of this event, we will, no doubt, engage in conversation about how to reduce the likelihood that shootings like this will happen again; yet even then, there is nothing we will do that will protect us completely. But those are conversations for another day. Today we are still mourning; still grieving. Every time something like this happens, a piece of our innocence is shattered. The protective shell we create around ourselves to help us tolerate the evils of this world cannot withstand a shock as big as this one. And so we must confront it; we are unable to ignore it or to undo it, no matter how hard we try to do either one.
When we speak of light and darkness in Advent, we usually use metaphor and theology to paint our pictures. Now, Advent has taken on a distinct incarnation, literally in flesh and blood. Events like this week’s shootings – this is the darkness of which we speak. The darkness of death and fear and violence that we long to see come to an end. And it is a longing – we spoke already in this season about Advent being about something more than waiting. I’m not waiting for an end to suffering like the last two days, I’m yearning for it. Three candles in to Advent and I’m ready for that blast of light to make this darkness go away and stay away for good. To quote Isaiah again, we are a people living in darkness.
Fortunately, there is light in the darkness. In Matthew’s gospel, as he begins his ministry, Jesus quoted that very passage from Isaiah: “the people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”
Matthew tells us that, “From that time on Jesus began to preach, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near,’” which sounds an awful lot like the message of Advent. Yes, we are a people who live in darkness, but the darkness will never overtake us, because we know the light of Christ in the world.
Now I broke an Advent tradition this morning. I brought in our paschal candle – the symbol of the light of Christ. We light it during Easter and at funerals and baptism. We don’t use it in Advent, although some churches have Advent wreaths that go around their paschal candle, lighting it on Christmas. But Advent is a season of now and not yet. On one hand, we remember what it is like to wait in darkness. On the other, we know that Christ, the light of the world, is already with us, and I don’t want to sit in darkness this morning. God’s creation has not been fulfilled, but Christ is with us even now as the kingdom unfolds around us. I made a calculated bet that no one would turn me in to the liturgical police on this one. If we ever needed the light of Christ to shine on us, we need it today.
We will continue to grieve this week. We will wrestle with sadness and anger and despair. This is what comes of having hearts that can be broken. But we must also be bearers of the light of Christ. That light reminds us that darkness does not prevail; that death can be overcome. It is because of that light that we mourn and grieve, yet still proclaim our faith in a resurrecting God who makes all things new. And we, who carry that light with us, help make the world new every day. Each day we shine that light into the darkness, we help bring God’s kingdom to bear on a dark and broken world.
As resurrection people, we have to keep on living out of our brokenness. We have to continue to find some semblance of trust to send our children to school tomorrow morning. We must make sane and rational decisions with regard to the welfare of our communities. We must trust in God our stronghold and our defense, in Christ our savior, that at the end of days, darkness will be forever banished. It doesn’t mean we won’t shed tears or that we won’t continue to be afraid in the meantime. We’ll have to keep working at it.
Pray this week, however you are able. Be kind to yourselves and to one another. Be generous with your love. Hug your kids and your grandkids. There is light in the darkness.
A prayer attributed to St. Francis
Lord, make us instruments of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that we may not so much seek to
be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we
are born to eternal life.
Amen.