"...that these dead shall not have died in vain"
What to say on the Sunday after a mass shooting
Here’s my June column for the Holland Sentinel, which the Associated Press this year called the “best newspaper” in Michigan:
Ever hear a good sermon? I hope so. You should know that preaching, giving the homily, bringing the message, or whatever you prefer to call it, is far harder than it looks, especially in the aftermath of another mass shooting.
Some pastors know their congregations well and can somehow sense what they most need to hear. Others have a remarkable ability to blend empathy, warmth, vulnerability, and biblical insight into one sermon. It’s not an easy job, and not all pastors can do it every week, which is about how often the national (and international) news has been intruding into our lives of late.
I heard one of those good sermons last Sunday, and (if you went to a church) I hope you did too. The people who gathered—on a holiday weekend, no less, soon after the killing of 19 students and two teachers in Uvalde, Texas—were hoping to hear something, anything, that would make sense of what had happened.
But the truth is that there is nothing that will make sense of those things. The idea that an authority figure up front (if that is what pastors still are) can explain evil to us in ways that will comfort and soothe is, well, preposterous. My seminary degree has never been of much help in making sense of evil.
I remember standing in front of my congregation on the night after four airliners were hijacked and three of them were crashed into well-known buildings on the east coast. That night might have been the first time in my life as a pastor that I couldn’t avoid politics, the one topic I had always been taught to avoid.
The thing is, people came that night and filled my church to hear something, anything, that would help. Or maybe they just needed to be together in a familiar place, surrounded by familiar faces. Looking back, the words I spoke were probably secondary to the comfort we found in the space and the people and the shared experience. Still, I did my best.
I’m glad I wasn’t expected to preach last Sunday because I’m not sure what I would have said. As I mentioned, maybe the words we speak in those circumstances are not as important as other factors, such as being with people we care about, or hearing familiar words and singing familiar songs.
But I thought about what I would say, anyway, because old habits die hard. I would have wanted to be profound, of course, but profundity isn’t something that comes easily.
Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address was profound partly because it followed Edward Everett’s address. Everett was the paid speaker, and people expected him to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Lincoln used only 271 words, compared to the 13,607 used by Everett, and Lincoln’s address didn’t attempt to make sense of the bloody battle that had just been fought on that site.
What’s memorable about Lincoln’s address—in addition to its startling brevity—is its call to action: “…that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
If people came to be comforted and soothed, maybe they were a little by the time Lincoln was finished. But mostly they were challenged to do something, to make sure something good would be salvaged from the unimaginable loss of life.
I have lots of opinions, as you might expect, about gun laws and the state of mental health in this country. I have been tempted more than once over the years to let loose with those opinions in a sermon, because who can resist the temptation provided by a microphone and a crowd of people. Mostly, though, I hope I was able to keep before my people a vision of who we are called to be.
Frankly, I would like to hear less right now about congressional inaction and more about the vision, more about what our country could and should be. In all the pain and sadness there must be something to rally around that would be compelling to all of us.
Otherwise, those who died in Uvalde will have died in vain.
Photo: At the church I once served in Ann Arbor, Michigan, 21 empty chairs were placed on Washtenaw Avenue last Sunday morning in memory of those who died in Uvalde, Texas. Courtesy of friend and church member Karen Walter.