A week and a half ago, on Wednesday, April 17, before going to bed, Mark and I noted that someone had posted on Facebook a picture of a fire in the town of West,
a town of just 2,800 people 18 miles north of us. Neither of us was too concerned. Fires happen all the time, after all, and they are usually quickly contained.
We never imagined we would awaken the next morning to the nightmarish aftermath of that fire.
The West volunteer fire department rushed to the scene of the fire, a fertilizer storage and distribution facility. Knowing that the inferno was nothing more than a ticking time-bomb,
the firefighters continued to douse the flames in an effort to postpone the inevitable explosion – all in an effort to buy time for the evacuation of the residents
of the nearby Rest Haven nursing home. At about 8:00 p.m. the facility exploded, registering 2.1 on the Richter scale and taking the lives of 14 people,
most who were first responders. Many of the nursing home residents were able to be evacuated before the explosion. One of them died later that evening from a heart attack.
That night, hospitals were faced with about 200 injured people – people who survived bodily damage only to learn that they were now homeless.
By Friday, nearly 1500 volunteers were signed in at a donation sight to help and donations were pouring in from people just like you.
But soon funerals would begin. It’s hard enough to deal with the grief that comes with the loss of a loved one. But the tidal wave wash of grief from a town, a state,
and a nation that accompanies a catastrophe such as this one is almost overwhelming. Add to that grief the cruelty and hatred of
the members of Westboro Baptist Church who made plans to picket the funerals, and the pain becomes unbearable. Many people ask why this small church, headquartered in
Topeka, Kansas, would want to picket funerals. Well, they are convinced that when disasters occur in the U.S., it's God's punishment for our country’s tolerance of gays and lesbians.
In fact, their website's name says it all. Their whole reason for being is to spew as much hate, venom, and evil as possible upon those who are already suffering.
And in the midst of all this pain and horror, we hear words which paralyze our spirits: "love one another. Just as I have loved you, you should love one another."
And we wonder how in the world we can think about love in a time such as this? But let's just pause for a moment. Breathe, and take a look at our scripture passage.
Jesus' own world was about to go up in flames, too. He has just finished washing the feet of his disciples in an effort to give them a visual
of what it means to be a servant to others. He sits down to dinner, knowing it's the last meal he will ever eat. The tension in the air is thick.
Jesus knows Judas will betray him to the authorities. And that betrayal will unfold into a nightmarish series of events of torture and humiliation and mockery
much like that of the members of Westboro Baptist Church, and ultimately ending in his death. You see, Jesus had his own Westboro Baptist Church in the person
of Judas and the crowds who would cry out for his death. And what does he say in the midst of it all? What is foremost on his mind? What does he want to make sure
the disciples never forget as long as they live? Love. In the face of evil, love any way. Continue to love one another. Love like you've never loved before.
Love with every fiber of your being. And why? It’s because love wins! In fact, it's the only thing that can beat out hate and fear and vengeance and evil.
Love wins. Love won with Jesus. Death didn't win. It couldn't kill the love that Jesus embodied. And consequently the spirit of that love,
that which we call the Holy Spirit, embraces us even today. It guides us and comforts us and whispers sweet nothings to our troubled souls. Love wins.
Last Wednesday I had the honor of seeing love win. Westboro Baptist Church had posted that they would picket the funeral of Captain Kenneth "Luckey" Harris. Luckey, age 52,
lived in West, but spent the last three decades as a Dallas firefighter. Last Wednesday, 3200 people poured out their love at the funeral.
There were more people at the funeral service on that day than there are residents in the town of West. Among those people were a group of citizens in red T-shirts
determined to form a human wall between the pain and grief of those attending the funeral and the venom and hatred of any members of Westboro Baptist Church.
And guess what? Love won out. There was so much love in that city, so much love surrounding those people who were paying their last respects to a hero,
that there wasn't even any room for hatred. And that's how it works. When we love one another as Jesus said on that fateful night prior to his death,
then love actually crowds out any hatred that may be trying to creep in. I had the honor of being a part of that red wall of people at the burial site.
And although there weren't as many people at the burial as there were at the funeral service, there was just as much love. I thought of our own CJ Myers
who played the bagpipes for us on Easter morning as I watched pipers and drummers from fire stations as far away as Albuquerque march and play in the blue and purple fields of
bluebonnets and wild verbena. And in the beautiful, mournful sounds of those pipes, I heard love. I saw members of the Patriot Guard Riders roaring onto
the scene on their motorcycles. For those of you who don’t know, the Patriot Guard Riders is an unchartered motorcycle club who attend the funerals
of U.S. armed forces members, firefighters, and police at the invitation of the deceased's family. Like those of us who formed our human wall,
they position themselves to physically shield the mourners from the presence of the Westboro protesters by blocking the protesters from view with their motorcade,
or by having members hold American flags. They also drown out the protesters' chants by singing patriotic songs or by revving motorcycle engines.
As I watched 36 U.S. flags flying in the air that day, I saw love. And as I took my place along the fence with people that I knew
and people I didn't know – people from Waco, nearby towns, and even from San Antonio. As each of us in our red T-shirts shared the passion and respect
at the funeral of someone we didn’t even know, I felt love. And at that burial, there was so much love that, once again, there was simply no room for anyone
who might even think about approaching us with hatred. And that's how it works. Hatred and evil do their best to divide and separate,
while love binds up and draws us together. Regardless of our circumstances, our beliefs, or our faith, love binds us together. And when it does, it wins.
Love beats out hatred every time. And if hatred takes its toll on us, if it tears us down, it will only be for a moment. Because when love enters the scene,
then it dwells with the victims and survivors as our first reading says: "God will dwell with them; they will be God's peoples, and God will indeed be with them;
God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away."
Love wins. So let us love one another. When we are faced with evil, then love anyway. Love one another and lift each other up, even in the face of hatred.
And may God give peace to the families and rest to the souls of Morris Bridges;
Perry Calvin;
Jerry Chapman;
Cody Dragoo;
Kenneth "Luckey" Harris, Jr.;
Adolph Lander;
Jimmy Matus;
Judith Monroe;
Joey Pustejovsky;
Cyrus Reed;
Mariano C. Saldivar;
Kevin Sanders;
Robert Snokhous;
Doug Snokhous;
and Buck Uptmor. Amen.