Rev. Joseph Boyd

As Erica Roberts clung to a tall mango tree, the winds and sea water

 churned up by hurricane Dorian pounding her face, a single thought ran

through her head: “I will not die like this”.

 

Her home, in the small town of High Rock on the eastern side of Grand

Bahama Island, had already been swept away. Her 24 year-old daughter

Natori, was alongside her clinging to branches as well.

Her face and arms still bear the dry, bloody cuts of her hours

exposed to the 185 mph winds. The pair eventually lost their grip but were

swept close to a nearby home that had withstood the hurricane’s

devastation. They got inside. This was a story told by the Guardian in the

aftermath of Hurricane Dorian.

Many times we can feel like captives. We can feel like a captive

audience. We can feel like we are watching our life go by in front of our

eyes. Water takes many surprising forms. Water can bear down on us, and

whip our battered grip. It can put us in danger, and alienate us from that

which makes our life secure and meaningful.

Water can remind us of places we’ve been, places we treasure or places we

wish we were. Water can remind us of the precariousness of being where we

are, especially when help feels far and distant. Water reminds us. It

reminds us of New Orleans. It reminds us of oceans traveled, homes built,

destroyed, and built again.

This is homecoming Sunday. This time of year, I reflect on what it

means to come home. This year I have been thinking of the captives in

Babylon, the captives in the Bahamas, the captives in our midst, captivated

by life that seems to keep happening to them, for better and for worse.

I’ve been thinking of the life that runs through us. I’ve been thinking

of the thirst we yearn to quench. I’ve been thinking of rivers that bring us

home, and remind us who we are in moments of felt captivity.

This homecoming Sunday is about saving the captives in our midst.

We save the captives by doing something very simple and very profound.

We bring water into this sanctuary. We bring most of it in this vessel of

skin, and we continually ask ourselves what it is we’re holding. We may not

know what it is, but we sense it is precious.

We save the captives by doing something strange. We pour out the water.

For some, it pours like a waterfall. For some, like a leaky faucet. We pour it

out.

Saving the captives involves nothing more and nothing less than

sharing our entire life with all the captives in our midst. We pour out our

grief, we pour out our yearning, we pour out satisfaction. We pour out joy.

We pour out memory. We pour out hope. We pour this water out for those

who have lost their homes and loved ones in the Bahamas. We pour out

water in remembrance of New Orleans, of places flooded, and places in

drought. We pour out a little bit of water to connect us to those who are

weary, those who feel alienated, and those who feel help is far off. We pour

out this water for those who immigrated from distant rivers, and find

themselves in a strange land, a hostile land, and those who were born and

live along the Mahoning. We pour out this water for those who have had

their water shut off. We pour our little bit of water to save ourselves from

captivity. We pour out this water to save ourselves from a limited idea of

pain and feeling trapped, a limited idea of what might be possible.

We don’t have to pour everything out. Just a little bit. We pour our

captivity into something that is larger than our captivity. We yearn to go to

that place where we are truly free, that place beyond fear and mourning. All

it takes is a little bit of ourselves we’re willing to pour into a world thirsty

for freedom. This Sunday, in this sanctuary we will quench this thirst. We

will pour a little bit of who we are into what we might become. We will save

ourselves from captivity by pouring out our life, and in so doing, save the

captives in our midst.