Thurs., September 19, 2024
The Rev. AARON B. JENKYN
The Things We Don't Talk About
The full text of the homily preached at today's Healing Service on the readings assigned for today: John 12:27-36a and Acts 16:25-40.
September is a season of transitions - kids are going back to school, meeting new teachers and classmates. Many of us are settling in after summer visitors and travel. The rhythm of the season shifts, and with it, our days.
The falling leaves and brisk mornings stir something in us and we begin to prepare for the long winter ahead. We take stock of the tasks before us: stacking firewood, checking boilers, bringing in deck furniture, swapping out t-shirts for turtlenecks. In store windows, we see reminders of the upcoming holidays—Halloween candy, Thanksgiving decorations, and even Christmas trees for sale. For some, this time of year brings a welcome rhythm of family gatherings and celebrations. We anticipate the holidays with joy, planning, and counting down the days.
But for others, the shift in weather and change in seasons brings a different kind of anticipation—one filled with grief, loss, and unmet expectations. The upcoming holidays can be a lonely time, full of reminders of who is missing and what hasn’t been resolved.
Some of us are grieving the loss of a loved one, and the holidays mark another painful moment without that special person by our side. And though it doesn’t make it any easier we as a community, as a culture, have a language for this kind of grief, a way to navigate that sorrow.
But there’s another kind of loss and pain that comes to the surface during this season—one that we don’t talk about. I’m speaking of fractured friendships, family arguments, loneliness, and isolation from community. The weight of unresolved conflict and divisions sits heavy on our hearts and often can affect every part of our lives.
I suspect many of us carry some of that anticipatory grief into this season—the fear of loneliness, the longing for relationships to return to what they once were because conflict, fracture, and loneliness are part of being human, part of being in community.
And yet, we often shy away from talking about it. Even now, I feel vulnerable sharing that I too know this pain, that I too have experienced fractured relationships and loneliness, as if admitting I’ve been hurt or made mistakes in my relationships somehow makes me weaker, somehow makes me less loveable.
Yet, I believe, I know, that when we talk about these things, when we name them, when we share our experiences, we begin to create space for God’s reconciling love, for God’s presence in our lives and in our relationships.
The truth is, we’ve all been there. We’ve all experienced moments when relationships fracture under the weight of misunderstanding, hurt, or betrayal. The silence after a heated argument, the distance that grows from unresolved conflict, the pain of losing connection with someone we love—it can feel like being trapped in an emotional prison, one that becomes harder to escape as time passes
This morning’s scripture, though different in context, speaks to these very human experiences of conflict and loneliness and I think we can learn from them.
In the Gospel reading we encounter a powerful moment where Jesus faces deep internal conflict. His soul is troubled as he contemplates the reality of the cross—a moment of profound physical and spiritual isolation. Yet, in the heart of this loneliness, Jesus doesn't turn away or seek self-preservation. Instead, he reaffirms his purpose: to glorify God and draw all people to himself.
This struggle reveals something deeply human in Jesus—he feels the weight of what’s ahead, but he chooses the path of self-giving love over self-protection. His loneliness becomes the place where the divine and human meet, showing us that reconciliation often begins with vulnerability.
The pain of conflict, whether within ourselves or with others, can isolate us. But in Jesus’ response, we see a truth: even in our deepest loneliness, God is present, inviting us to move toward a greater purpose—one of unity and restoration.
Similarly, in Acts we see another powerful story of conflict and reconciliation, but this time through a different lens. Paul and Silas, unjustly imprisoned, find themselves in a moment of deep suffering. Yet, even in their confinement, they are not alone. Together, they sing hymns in the night, their voices lifting up in faith, drawing the attention of the other prisoners. When the earthquake shakes the prison, it feels like divine justice is breaking through—walls crumbling, chains loosed.
But the true miracle is not in the shaking of the earth; it’s in what happens next. The jailer, who just moments before had been their oppressor, is now the one in a place of vulnerability, so distraught that he is ready to take his own life. Instead of seizing the moment to escape or seek retribution, Paul and Silas offer him something far more radical—mercy. They choose to stay, ensuring his safety, and in doing so, the relationship between them is transformed. What was once marked by conflict and oppression now becomes a moment of compassion and brotherhood.
This story shows us that true reconciliation is not a matter of divine intervention outside of our control. Divine reconciliation happens in those moments of vulnerability, when mercy triumphs over vengeance, and healing begins where enmity once thrived.
And so, as we reflect on these stories, we are invited to consider our own moments of conflict and isolation. Perhaps you have found yourself locked in the emotional prisons I spoke of earlier, weighed down by fractured relationships or painful disagreements. Maybe you’ve experienced the ache of loneliness, the kind that seems to grow in the quiet spaces of our lives as the holiday season approaches. These stories remind us that we are not alone in this pain, and more importantly, they show us a way forward.
In both Jesus’ experience in the Gospel of John and Paul and Silas’ story in Acts, reconciliation begins not with a dramatic display of power or a quick fix, but with vulnerability, humility, and mercy. Jesus, in the depth of his troubled heart, chooses to stay faithful to his purpose and trust in God’s presence. Paul and Silas, in their unjust suffering, choose not to take advantage of an opportunity for vengeance but instead offer mercy to the jailer. In both cases, healing happens when someone steps out of their pain and into the space of grace.
It’s tempting to think that reconciliation is beyond our reach, especially when the wounds run deep or the conflict has lasted so long. But these stories remind us that even in our darkest moments, there is always the possibility for healing. It starts with the smallest of steps—acknowledging our hurt, being willing to forgive, offering kindness where it’s least expected, or simply staying present when it would be easier to walk away.
As we move into this season of transition—preparing our homes for winter, navigating the rhythms of school, and looking ahead to the holidays—I invite you to also take stock of your relationships. Where is there room for reconciliation in your life? Where might God be calling you to step out in vulnerability, to offer mercy, or to seek healing?
It won’t be easy, and it may take time. But remember that, like Jesus and like Paul and Silas, you are not alone in this work. God is with you, present even in your deepest loneliness, guiding you toward a greater purpose of unity, compassion, and restoration. As we prepare for the months ahead, may we also prepare our hearts for the work of healing and reconciliation that God invites us into—knowing that, in the end, this is the path to peace. Amen.
Email: associate@stjohnsnh.org