There is a town in east Texas named Weeping Mary. This town is a former freedom colony, settled when land was given to freed slaves following the Civil War. No one really knows how this small town––a town without much more than a small fix-it store on Main Street—got this name. Some say that it was named for Mary Magdalene, weeping over Jesus feet as she wiped them with her hair. Some say it was named for Jesus’ mother, weeping as her son lay dying on the cross. Another story was told to photographer O. Rufus Lovett, who spent four years in the late ‘90s photographing life in Weeping Mary. He tells NPR’s Teri Gross:
“There was a lady named Mary who lived there and folklore has it, anyway, that a white man wanted to purchase her land. And she did not want to sell it to a white man,”…The man in question persuaded a black man to purchase the land for him instead.
“So Mary was tricked out of selling her land to another African-American,” he says. “She became very distraught over this and wept and wept.”
She became known as “Weeping Mary,” and the community later adopted the name.1
There are times when our response names us. Whether we are weeping for a dying son, for our own sins, or for a grave injustice, our response identifies us. It says something about who we are, what we believe, and to whom we relate. It says what we value. It speaks to the state of our hearts.
Emotional responses are not confined to tears. Our text for this morning tells a story of a laughing Sarah, who couldn’t contain her reaction when told, once more, that she would give birth to a son. She had heard it all before. Through her husband’s offspring, God would make nations. They would be as numerous as the stars—too many to count. This was supposed to include her, she thought. But years passed and not one child was born. She lost hope. She looked for other options. She offered her maidservant Hagar as a surrogate, only to find herself bitter with envy when Hagar had Abraham’s son Ishmael, and was told, again, that this was not to be the plan.
Then three strangers arrive outside of their tent, and the text tells us right away that through their arrival, God was the actual guest. Abraham greets God with a broad welcome and he and Sarah prepare a feast. These guests know of Sarah, who remains inside of the tent, and say once more that she will bear a son. But she is old and this is impossible. Hearing this talk of God’s promised plan, Sarah cannot help but laugh. It is ridiculous. Sure, it sounded great when God first mentioned it to Abraham back in the day, this promise is more like a dream deferred. She has tried to accept the fact: that ship has sailed. She had been waiting. And waiting. And all she knows is that she is a barren woman with no claim to security if anything should happen to her husband, and pregnancy is not possible at this stage of her life anymore.
So she laughs.
She laughs the laugh of a skeptic. She laughs the laugh of the wounded. She laughs the laugh of someone who is so distraught that if she didn’t laugh she might start crying.
Into her laugh God speaks a timeline. God will return next year and Sarah will have a son. And this son will be named Isaac, which means laughter. Sarah’s response names the promised son she will bear, and reminds us all of God’s promises come to life.
The world in which we live today is filled with circumstances that generate an emotional response. They impact our private lives and our communal identity. So much in our lives seems out of our control. From deadly viruses to systemic racism, we are often overwhelmed by the forces in our society that on a good day do harm and on a bad day kill. We do our best to keep a safe distance from others and have necessary talks with our kids, but like Sarah, we are aware that we are at the mercy of forces beyond our control when we wake up and roll out of bed each morning.
So what do we do? Do we laugh with exasperation or cry out to lament an unjust and needless death? Do we scroll through our newsfeeds in silence or do we join our voices with others to tell the truth about our nation’s history and decry the racism embedded in our collective story?
See, how we respond says something about us too. What we speak for or against, what we say or don’t say, how we spend our time and how we spend our money… lets others know who we are: what we believe, what we value, to whom we relate. Our responses tell our story. They tell where we’ve come from and name where we are heading. Our responses claim who we are and whose we are.
A powerful sign seen in protests over the last two weeks said:
When George Floyd cried out for his Mama, all Mothers were summoned.
George Floyd’s dying words cried out for the love of his Mama and stirred the hearts of not only mothers but persons from across all walks of life who recognized the imperative that they would cry out to say that George Floyd’s life mattered and that Black Lives Matter. As he cried out, “I Can’t Breathe” he summoned the stories of the unjust murders of Eric Garner and others murdered at the hands of police. His cries did not end with his death, for people continue to cry out against the racist injustice that claimed his life and the lives of many, demanding change, challenging authority. Cries go out reminding us that George Floyd is and was a beloved child of God—a God whose kingdom comes only when the oppressed are free, the vulnerable are lifted up and justice is for ALL.
About two weeks ago, Kimberly Latrice Jones used a Monopoly metaphor to explain the economic legacy of Black Americans fueled by centuries of racial injustice. Her extemporaneous six minute history lesson went viral, and her cries remind us of a history that is conveniently ignored by those in positions of power—and reminders to know the stories of Tulsa and Rosewood. Her cries call us to know our history, to become aware of its impact and to come to a reckoning with how we may be repeating the injustices of our past.
And this past week we recall once more the cries over the years that led to justice in the Supreme Court decision in the case of Loving vs. the State of Virginia, which said that it was unlawful for states to prohibit the marriage of two people of a different race.
We remember this PRIDE month that on that same date, but in 2016, cries went out from an Orlando LGBTQ + nightclub called PULSE when a gunman opened fire, claiming 49 lives.
We remember that cries against injustice, against oppression, against forces that would cause us grief or breed fear in our hearts have gone out since the dawn of time.
And today, cries continue go out.
Yet we worship today, as a people of a God who HEARS our cry.
We heard the words of Psalm 116 in the Spiritual sung earlier this morning who wrote: “I love the Lord who heard my voice, who heard my cry for mercy.” We claim these words as our prayer too, for we worship a God who hears our cries, and by the power of the Holy Spirit, unites them with all cries for justice and peace and love. The psalmist writes that God is a saving God who delivers, a God who is righteous and full of grace— a God who is trustworthy even when worldly lies engulf us. The psalmist writes: “Truly I am your servant, Lord; I serve you just as my mother did; you have freed me from my chains.”
And in the New Testament Lesson we hear words reminding us of the hope we find in Christ—through whom God knows our sufferings, joins in our lament, initiates reconciliation and gives us new life.
See, we live in a moment in which it is clear that these cries are more than emotional reactions we cannot contain. These responses—especially when met with the cries of others—have power to effect change. They ring out across streets and airwaves and even across the globe. They name truths, discern new options, evoke new was to BE as individuals and as a community.
These cries bring change:
They lead to apologies from Roger Goodell and the NFL.
They lead NASCAR to officially ban the confederate flag on all property.
They lead to the removal of statues of historical figures who have fostered the systems of racist oppression to which we still find ourselves bound.
It is true that these are mere gestures, but they point to a watershed current that is reckoning with the lies that have written our past.
Siblings, when the world seems overwhelming, we are reminded that our cries have power to impact the world.
What’s more, Our cries are heard by a God who is with us always. God shows up in our lives—outside of tents and under trees and in our streets and our homes—and speaks possibility into the impossible, justice into injustice, change where oppression has calcified. Through God, the Word became flesh and dwelt among us—and began to dismantle all of the deadening forces in this world—sin, oppression, injustice and even death…for all.
It was the third Thursday of December when I learned that I was going to give birth to a son. I was using the Book of Common Worship’s liturgy for evening prayer each night before I fell asleep. As it was Advent, the words of Mary’s Magnificat were a part of the prayer each night—the words from the first chapter of Luke’s Gospel in which Mary sings a song about the justice and new life God would be bringing into the world through her. Her soul cries out, naming the greatness of God—that God is a God who overcomes oppression, fills hungry bellies, elevates the humble, while scattering the proud.
This prayer took on new meaning as I thought about the son I was carrying and the world into which he would be born. Frankly, there is so much about this present day that I did not foresee as I sat in bed and prayed. Yet I was reminded then, as I am today, that God’s will, God’s initiative, God’s hope for this world is about justice, it’s about toppling systems that oppress, about loving those who have been marginalized, about caring for the needs of all. Mary’s song was not only a song of praise but also a call to action for her day as well as ours.
We are a people who are called to respond: to cry out when we witness or experience injustice; to listen to the cries of the oppressed; to extend our minds and hearts and hands in participating in this mission of God’s to bring justice to this world.
We are the people of a God who acts—who responds to our lament, our fear, our sin, injustice with comfort, reversals and redemption. God calls us to enact the love with which God first loved us.
The question is this:
How will you respond? How will we respond as a people of faith? How will we respond to the cries in our world and the call of our loving God?
My prayer is that, by the grace of God, we will respond with courage; we will respond with love; we will respond with hope; May we might give voice to the needs of the day and respond to the cries of those in need with open ears, open hearts, open minds and open hands so that God’s love might be made visible to us and through us, and reach into this hurting world.
1 http://www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow/2014/04/02/298329027/scenes-and-sorrows-a-portrait-of-weeping-mary