A sermon on ancient rituals, evolution, and bumping into each other

A few weeks ago, I ran across an ancient legal text that was referenced in a book I was reading. It was captivating (I know, legal texts are often captivating. There’s nothing quite like settling down in the evening with a nice cup of tea to read a cell phone contract or HIPPA disclosure…)

This particular ancient rabbinic legal teaching from 2,000 years ago spelled out the details of a particular Jewish pilgrimage ritual.  

As the story goes, thousands of years ago, folks would travel to the temple in Jerusalem.  If they were to travel for one of the big religious festivals, they would be in the company of hundreds of thousands of people and the city would be uniquely alive with celebration.  Imagine, in this case, a pilgrim arrives in the city and eventually heads to the temple mount.  They would climb this grand staircase, pass through an arched entrance with elaborate, decorated porticos and stunning ceilings.   We may not think of it this way, but the temple complex was very big--probably over 35 acres in size.

Upon entering, the crowd would flow into something like the courtyard, and the people were to turn to the right and begin a processional around the entire temple complex counterclockwise.   (This would keep everyone moving in sync: ancient crowd control at it’s finest!) After processing around, folks would then exit close to where they had entered.    

But there was a twist, the text goes on. If you happened to be a person who was suffering, a person who had experienced something awful, someone who was brokenhearted, or in pain, then you would walk through those same porticos, but instead of turning right with the masses, you would turn to the left and then process. As you walked against the current, people would meet you; and each person who passed would ask, “what happened?” 

You can imagine the counter-current folks answering things like: “I lost my sibling, I miss her so much.” Or, “my wife left me.” Or, “the doctor called with bad news.” Or “my kid isn’t doing well and I’m worried.” Or “I just feel so lost—I can’t seem to find my way.”  

Folks would look into the eyes of the broken and bereaved, the lost and the lonely and, according to this legal mandate, they would say, “may God comfort you.” Perhaps, they would add more to their conversation and say things like, “may you know the love of this community that surrounds you.”

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There is something profoundly insightful in this ancient wisdom.  Rabbi Sharon Braus explores it as she explains this ancient ritual. How many times have you experienced some sort of grief or pain or suffering and really, what you want to be able to do is hole up or retreat and not tell anyone about it?

After all, what is there to say when the one you love is in hospice hovering between life and death? What is there to say, when you feel lost and trapped and it takes all the energy you have just to get up each morning? 

According to the ancients, you entered this sacred circle knowing that you would be cared for and seen and loved.   In this pattern, one person’s humility and brokenness bumps into another person’s love. One person’s vulnerability bumps into another’s person’s sacred responsibility to care for them. Both sides show up in the sacred circle.

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Now, let’s fast forward a couple of millennia: Charles Darwin was beginning to explore the mystery of science.  While Darwin was at odds with traditional, literal views of creation, something about him was impressively in sync with these ancient rabbis.  He wrote that sympathy (what we would today be called altruism, empathy or compassion) is our strongest instinct. He wrote that sometimes this instinct is even stronger than self- interest.  

Think about this: our human babies are very dependent on us. They are born very early compared to other animals.  Chimpanzees can sit up when they’re born. Horses can stand.  Our babies are so physically vulnerable and if we don’t take care of them, they won’t survive. Over time, our need to care for them has rewired us toward compassion.  Our need to nurture our babies and children has actually formed our brains and rearranged our nervous systems towards caretaking. 

Neuroscientists show that if I see you stub your toe, the pain center of my brain will light up. I actually feel your pain—ouch!--and I wince. There’s also a deeper, older part of our nervous system that lights up way down in the center of our brain that is associated with nurturing. I want the pain in your foot to go away—is there something I could do to help this? 

It turns out that we are hardwired to care for each other.  

A few years ago, I read a book called “Awe” written by neuroscientist, Dacher Keltner.  (Keltner is the neuroscientist who consulted on the Pixar “Inside out” Films.)

Keltner has collected and studied the data over the course of decades and he says that, “we are born to be good to each other.”   I imagine God, that life animating force, looking down at us right now and winking: Yes, dear children, you are wired to be good to each other. God, our Great Electrician!

So, why aren’t we good to each other? Why don’t we run toward that sacred circle? 

There are so many reasons.  Here’s a few: 

First off, I’d say that sin breaks us and disconnects us. In our confirmation class a few days ago, we talked about all the things that captivate us like money, body image, grades, popularity—even resentment can magnetize us. All of these things pull us away from God’s goodness and from each other. 

It’s not only material things that pull us apart. A love of power also breaks us and makes us not care for each other. Researchers have shown that the brains of people who are under the influence of power are actually remade  to be less compassionate. When folks are intoxicated with power, They act like they’ve had some kind of traumatic brain injury. Something in their heads is actually remapped away from compassion and empathy and they became less able to see things from other people’s point of view.  

Why else don’t we care for each other?

I’d also say we have a cultural tendency to self-isolate.  You know that idea of rugged individualism?  This is in the air we breathe. I get this. I relate with this!  My go-to is not reaching out and sharing or letting people take care of me.  We curve inward on ourselves and the “blessed ties that bind us” weaken under the weight focusing on ourselves.
  
Our religious traditions push against those tendencies. In fact, there is a spiritual mandate—or call it a moral command--that is built into so many of our faith traditions including, most certainly the Christian tradition, to take care of each other.  

Look at our bible stories today: 

Job had lost everything, his wife, his children, his livelihood, even his home. When his friends heard about this, they showed up, tore their clothes and sat with him in the ash heap.

Look at Paul, reaching out from prison to his friend, Timothy, he writes: I need you. don’t forget to bring me my coat I left at Carpus’ house, my books, and some more paper for writing. Also, bring my friend Mark. I need that friend. 

Look at the bleeding woman last week who reached out her hand to touch Jesus’ cloak, she needed him and the people were stunned when Jesus turned around and saw her.

It’s built into our tradition. And it guides us to care when so much around us says not to. And we live it out—or do our best to live it out in real life today:

Look at the community meal here at church where folks show up and share in some laughter or explain what has been going on with them.

Look at the groups of musicians or youth who showed up for each other week after week to be together and hear about life and talk about God.

Look at those of us who show up to work as teachers or health care workers or in all sorts of professions and care about the folks we interact with.

Look at this congregation who, while walking counter clockwise with the masses around the courtyard last year, bumped into three migrant families in the police station walking the other direction who spoke and said: “We’re exhausted, we need help.” And we brought them home to church here where they could get their feet on the ground, register for school, apply for work permits and asylum and drivers licenses—little did we know how these folks would change us.

There is a timeless wisdom of entering the sacred circle.  

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You might default to walking counterclockwise with the majority. You might be most comfortable holding your grief close or trivializing the hard things in your life.  

Or, on the other hand, you might default to that position of walking against the grain lost in pain, and you find a hard time turning your direction around to care for someone else.

What happens if you turn against the direction you are most comfortable with?  

We all need in turn to say, “I am broken.” And then, we all need a turn to say, “I see you. May God comfort you.” This is what it means to be human. 

St. Francis of Assisi said that our highest mission is to be of service to one another. 

But Why? 

Why do we do this as people of faith? Why do we do this as a congregation? Why do I teach this to my kids? Why do I feel this Godly pull to teach them to look at others? Why was this so important that Jesus came to illustrate this for us in full, vivid color?

It’s not a novel comment, but it’s true to say that our world is broken. Our world is a little disoriented. And knowing that, I say that the healing of our broken world, and of our broken society begins here.  

You may have chosen to join this church, but you don’t necessarily chose every member in here, (that’s how chosen family works, right?) but we reach out to one another.  

Here, we train our hearts to step towards pain, not away from it.   The healing we need so very much begins right here between you and me, between you and the person down the pew from you. The redemption of creation begins one relationship at a time. And then it spreads out of here, And works its way into the overculture: a balm in Gilead. 

To be religious doesn’t mean to pray all the right prayers or sing a lot of praises.  It means to emulate the heart of God, or try to! To step into the circle. To comfort the grieving, to clothe the naked, to feed the hungry, to visit the imprisoned, yes, of course to celebrate with one another. it means to abide with God together to turn towards one another. to open our hearts to each other.

Life is so fragile and so precious and we were created to be good to one another. We were created to walk this road together.