On Wednesday morning, my husband, James, and our two young sons, Canon and Theo, along with the new pandemic puppy, Rufus Lucky Meredith, gathered together on the couch with our coffee and our bowls of cereal. All five of us were glued to CNN, ready to usher in a new President, as well as the newest Madam Vice President.
I remember how my eyes filled with tears, time and time again, how my husband let out multiple yeses and amens, how our six-year old whispered, “I hope I lose my front tooth today, Mama, because wouldn’t that just make it the best day ever?” It was an emotional morning, to be sure, but the scene I’ve come back to again this week was not the swearing-in’s or the hallowed singing or even the recitation of prayers: but it was words of hope and community and healing spoken by the young inaugural poet, Amanda Gorman. And call me crazy, but it’s like she wrote her poem with today’s lectionary readings in mind:
We’ve braved the belly of the beast,
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions
of what just is
isn’t always just-ice.
Now, maybe I’m putting on my former English teacher hat (true story), but when Gorman said, “we’ve braved the belly of the beast,” even though she was speaking of the pain of a nation, I couldn’t help but see that her words are a reflection of today’s reading in Jonah, of a man named Jonah, whom a whale swallowed just two chapters before God came to him with a message for the people of Nineveh. And when she then said, “We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always just-ice,” I thought about today’s psalm, how it is one of lament and praise, thanksgiving and wisdom and exhortation too. It is, thoroughly a psalm that leans into the God who is our refuge, our safe place, our dwelling and our comfort. And then, of course, we have our gospel reading, which starts with a couple of announcements. John the Baptist has been arrested (because he opposes King Herod marrying his brother’s wife), but we are not to worry, because in the next breath, Jesus declares the good news of God. He says, “The time has been fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (v. 15). It’s not until next section, which is almost entirely action-oriented but for a single sentence – “Follow me and I will make you fish for people” (v. 17) – that we begin, maybe, to connect WHO Jesus is with WHAT he just said. Because when Simon and his brother Andrew, and James, son of Zebedee and his brother John, say YES to this invitation and leave everything they’ve ever known to follow the God-man, real change begins to occur. After all, invitation is at the heart of this passage – just as invitation to embrace hope and community and healing, no matter WHERE you stand on the political spectrum, lives at the heart of Wednesday’s poem.
If we’re to live up to our own time,
then victory won’t lie in the blade.
But in all the bridges we’ve made,
that is the promise to glade,
the hill we climb.
If only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it.
And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to say yes to an invitation of healing and repair, which is not all that different from the invitation Jesus extended to a bunch of stinky, smelly, everyday fishermen. As one theologian said about this passage, here “Jesus is inviting common folk to join him in his struggle to overturn the existing order of power and privilege” (link here). To put it in layman’s terms, Jesus is inviting us to notice the poor and the dispossessed, to open our eyes to really begin to see those whom we’ve excluded and those who’ve been rendered invisible.
Jesus’ invitation, after all, is an invitation to see …and I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for you and me.
About The Author
Harrison Okafor
editor
Judith is a believer, a lover of Christ and a Gospel freak person. A passionate gospel blogger and press writer. I work with GospelHitsNaija.net Media, no 1 Gospel music platform.
