“Simply Loving,” B-Side

Many weeks I feel like the sermons I write need to have a sort of “b-side” to them: a response to what was written, sort of the footnotes of more information that’s in conversation with the original sermon. So here goes:

After looking at the three scriptures in conversation with each other, this story immediately came to mind:

“One time on Hollywood Boulevard I saw a young girl with a baby. It was a crisp winter morning & her hair shone dark purple in the sun. She was panhandling outside the Holiday Inn & the door clerk came out & told her to be on her way & I wondered if anyone would recognize the Christ child if they happened to meet. I remember thinking it’s not like there are any published pictures & purple seemed like a good color for a Madonna so I gave her a dollar just in case.” – “Purple Madonna,” StoryPeople by Brian Andreas

This article provided many of the details of story and also came to it’s own conclusions about the necessity of giving:

Paul Brandeis Raushenbush, “Should We Give a Homeless Man Shoes?”

No Act of Love is Ever WastedAlso, this sermon brought up for me the phrase “no act of love is ever wasted.” “No Act of Love is Ever Wasted,” is also the name of an excellent book by Richard L. Morgan on “The Spirituality of Caring for Persons with Dementia.” If I were to have gone that route with the sermon, there is much to be discussed of how some people with cognitive disabilities are often seen unworthy of the basic necessities of love and relationship simply because of an inability to respond. A perspective that is confronted by this book.

“A Vagabond Song,” by Bliss Carman

“A Vagabond Song,” by Bliss Carman

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood —
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.