I've Been Meaning to Ask: Where Does it Hurt?"

 The First United Presbyterian Church of Loveland

“I’ve Been Meaning to Ask: Where Does it Hurt?”

Rev. Amy Morgan

July 11, 2021

1 Samuel 1:1-18

There was a certain man of Ramathaim, a Zuphite from the hill country of Ephraim, whose name was Elkanah son of Jeroham son of Elihu son of Tohu son of Zuph, an Ephraimite. 2 He had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children. 3 Now this man used to go up year by year from his town to worship and to sacrifice to the LORD of hosts at Shiloh, where the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were priests of the LORD. 4 On the day when Elkanah sacrificed, he would give portions to his wife Peninnah and to all her sons and daughters; 5 but to Hannah he gave a double portion, because he loved her, though the LORD had closed her womb. 6 Her rival used to provoke her severely, to irritate her, because the LORD had closed her womb. 7 So it went on year by year; as often as she went up to the house of the LORD, she used to provoke her. Therefore Hannah wept and would not eat. 8 Her husband Elkanah said to her, "Hannah, why do you weep? Why do you not eat? Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?"

 9 After they had eaten and drunk at Shiloh, Hannah rose and presented herself before the LORD. Now Eli the priest was sitting on the seat beside the doorpost of the temple of the LORD. 10 She was deeply distressed and prayed to the LORD, and wept bitterly.

 11 She made this vow: "O LORD of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me, and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a male child, then I will set him before you as a nazirite until the day of his death. He shall drink neither wine nor intoxicants, and no razor shall touch his head."

 12 As she continued praying before the LORD, Eli observed her mouth. 13 Hannah was praying silently; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard; therefore Eli thought she was drunk. 14 So Eli said to her, "How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine. 15 But Hannah answered, "No, my lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the LORD. 16 Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time." 17 Then Eli answered, "Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him."

 18 And she said, "Let your servant find favor in your sight." Then the woman went to her quarters, ate and drank with her husband, and her countenance was sad no longer.

I thought it would be safe to tell people. And I figured folks would guess soon anyway. I was sick and gaining weight. Some people said I was glowing. I was on a retreat with our youth group, and I decided it would be special for them to be the first to know. So on Saturday, I let it slip that I was 11 weeks pregnant. 

And then, at my doctor’s appointment on Wednesday, there was no heartbeat. 

I would never have wished to lose a pregnancy in such a public way. But the church rumor mill had already been set in motion. I took the next Sunday off, and the church email listed our loss under the prayer concerns. 

Nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Over the following weeks, it seemed like every woman I encountered at church shared with me her story of pregnancy loss or infertility. It was like my loss had opened up a floodgate of pent-up pain. It was hard and horrible for me to absorb at the time, but it was also one of the most important lessons of my ministry. 

As pastors, we are taught to set careful boundaries around our personal lives and our pastorate. If I hadn’t already broken the news, I’m certain no one in my congregation would have known about my miscarriage. I would advise other pastors not to share a story like I just have. “It’s not about you,” pastors are reminded. It’s about the gospel, about the congregation, about what others need. 

And that is all true. But sometimes, what the gospel needs, what the congregation needs, what others need – is to know that we are human, we carry our own hurts, we can empathize with what others carry. That is why the flood of stories poured out to me when the congregation learned about my loss and pain. Sharing our hurt, our vulnerability, provides an opening for others to share their hurt as well. That is why support groups like Alcoholics Anonymous are so effective. Everyone is invited and encouraged to share their hurt. They all know they are in the same boat. 

But there are not many spaces in our society where it is really safe to share our hurts openly and honestly. And there are some hurts that remain hidden because of shame or a sense that it’s not as bad as what someone else is going through or because we’ve been judged or ignored. Our culture prides itself on strength and resiliency, and so much of the time, we hide our pain and project perseverance and grit instead of allowing our pain to be visible to others. 

Hannah was harangued for years about her inability to bear children. Adding insult to the great injury of infertility, Peninnah would provoke Hannah. And her husband would tell her not to be sad, to be glad she had him. People in Hannah’s life knew what the source of other pain was. But they delegitimized her suffering. 

Finally, Hannah opens herself up to the only one who might truly hear her pain, see her suffering. But even as she prayed to God, weeping and making bargains with the Almighty, she could not bring herself to give voice to her pain. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. 

And so, again, Hannah is disgraced in a moment of vulnerability by Eli, who accuses her of drunkenness. 

The late Molly Davis once instructed her son in an art class to “draw what you see, not what you think you see.” He took this advice to heart through his whole life. For him, this came to mean that we are called to look beyond our own surface interpretations to see what is really happening with people. He gave the example of a man in the grocery check-out line being rude to the clerk. He might think he sees a jerky guy. But what he might really be seeing is a new father who hasn’t had a solid night’s sleep in weeks and has a wife and baby in the car who just need some diapers and formula and his card isn’t working because he’s so tired and worried he can’t remember his PIN. Molly, unfortunately, experienced toward the end of her life many people who didn’t look that closely or deeply at her. When ALS started causing her speech to slur, some friends accused her of day drinking. People would ignore her and talk to whomever she was with. She was written off as disabled and incoherent even though she had every last one of her wits about her to the very end. 

The priest Eli thinks he sees a woman who’s had a bit too much of the ritual wine. What he’s really seeing is a woman pouring out her heart to God. Unfortunately, he reacts to what he thinks he sees. 

Eli’s mistake, his blindness, could have been just one more agony heaped on top of Hannah’s load of grief. She could have taken the blow and walked away, bitter and cynical and still hurting. She could have viewed Eli as God’s representative and his misjudgment as a sign that even God didn’t care about her suffering. 

Instead, Hannah does something truly remarkable and incredibly courageous. She says, “no.” No, Eli’s interpretation of the scene does not get the final word. No, Hannah will not suffer his insult. No, Hannah will not accept Eli’s failure as God’s faithlessness. 

And then Hannah reinterprets the scene for Eli, she helps him to really see. 

And because of her courage, Eli does see her. He really sees her anxiety and vexation, her pain and suffering. And that leads to blessing and peace for Hannah. Though she does bear children after this encounter, the peace she experiences comes from being seen, from her pain being legitimized, not immediately eliminated. 

Sharing our pain with another is a difficult thing to do. We risk not really being seen. We risk people seeing what they think they see, not what is really going on. We risk judgment and ridicule, false hope and empty platitudes. 

But silence carries its own risk. Buried pain compounds on itself and leaks out in all sorts of unhealthy ways. And the barriers we must construct to contain suffering also keep us from being able to stand alongside others who are suffering. As the Rev. Brittany Fiscus-van Rossum writes in her commentary on this passage, “If we are ever to be people who bring peace and healing to this hurting world, we must be willing to pause and bear witness to pain—to our own and others’.”

So we are going to pause now, for some conversation that allows us to bear witness to our pain and others’. Today it is especially important to remember our ground rules so that we can create a safe space for sharing those hurts, anxieties, and fears that are troubling our hearts, so that we can really hear and see each other in ways that are healing and bring peace and hope. So let’s remember to respect boundaries and maintain confidentiality, share what you’re comfortable sharing – there’s always the option to pass -  and listen compassionately and curiously. If you are concerned about someone, circle back and follow up with them. If these conversations open up a tender space in you and you need to talk more later, you can ask for that from your conversation partner, or you can ask for that from me after worship. 

So I invite you now to find a conversation partner or two. Make sure that those around you have someone to talk with, and if they don’t, invite them into your group. The first question is up on the screen, so I invite you to talk about “What is a fear or anxiety that is weighing on you right now?”

Second question: “Share a challenge, hardship, or obstacle you have faced in the past. How has that experience shaped who you are now?”

Closing poem by Sarah Are

When It Hurts

I can tell that you’re hurting.

It’s the way your eyes cast down,

the way you shuffle through the house,

distractedly bumping into things.

It’s the restless sleep and

the quiet space between us which

turns us into icebergs.

We float by, silent in the night,

most everything existing

under the surface.

I can tell that you’re hurting.

It’s the way your prayers were quick

at first, and then—none at all;

your silence challenging God,

daring God to say something to the void.

I can tell that you’re hurting,

but I don’t know what that feels like.

Tell me—

where does it hurt?

I’m not offering to fix the pain,

I’m not that powerful.

However, I am offering to see it.

Show me your scars,

and I’ll show you that

you’re not alone.