Poured Out

2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18

As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

At my first defense no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

We’ve come to the end of our series on the letters to Timothy. And this is a very clear end here— Paul, sitting in this Roman jail, knows his death sentence is imminent. He knows what is in store for him. Unlike other times when he was freed, either supernaturally, or by his own arguments or support from his friends, he knows this is the end of the road for him, and he seems very much at peace with that. He’s “fought the good fight” and his “finished the race,” metaphors for a a life well lived, a righteous  and faithful life, spreading the Good News that saved him from an unhappy and cruel life as an oppressor. Now is the time for the torch to be passed to Timothy—for him to be encouraged, in the face of deeply unfavorble conditions, to continue this difficult, but crucial and fulfilling work.

As I was researching and outlining for this sermon, I couldn’t get past the the first verse, verse 6— “As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come.” I got into a rabbit hole about this metaphor of Paul’s life as a libation poured out, and discovered that this pouring out of strong drink is one of the oldest known rituals, one that is still acted out today in different ways. The Egyptians had a ritual like this; ancient Jews did as well: Numbers 28:6-7 reads, “…a regular burnt offering, ordained at Mount Sinai for a pleasing odor, an offering by fire to [God]…in the sanctuary you shall pour out a drink offering of strong drink to [God].” We’re coming up on the Halloween and the Day of the Dead, (and All Saints, as we’ll observe next Sunday in the reading of the names of those from our community who have died over the past year)—but for the Day of the Dead, altars are made to loved ones who have passed on, and tequila or mezcal are often left on the altar. In Russia, there is a custom of leaving a glass of vodka on the grave of a loved one; in the country of Georgia, a glass of wine. In present-day American hip-hop culture, it’s a common practice to “pour one out” for a friend or loved one who has died.

And of course, in our own ritual when we take the sacrament of communion, the liturgy I read in blessing the drink is Jesus saying “this is my poured-out life.” It’s a sacrifice. It’s a letting-go.

Now, you may have noticed in looking at the verse numbers for today’s passage, we’re missing  9-15. I can understand why the folks who put the lectionary together made this choice, but I do think there’s some needed context there—9-15 reads,

Do your best to come to me soon, for Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens has gone to Galatia, Titus to Dalmatia. Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is useful to me in ministry. I have sent Tychicus to Ephesus. When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments. Alexander the coppersmith did me great harm; the Lord will pay him back for his deeds. You also must beware of him, for he strongly opposed our message.

And then we have Paul following this list of grievences by reiterating that he’s been abandoned by so many of his beloved friends, and yet he prays that God does not hold it against them (except maybe Alexander, he seemed especially angry about Alexander).

At Bible study, Brian and I had the same initial (not very forgiving) reaction to Paul’s listing these grievences and then saying, “May it not be counted against them!” It seemed a little passive aggressive, a little self-righteous. But one of my commentaries pointed out that the “May” here is, grammatically speaking, in the optative mood—which, for the Greek in which this was written, was the absolute strongest way to express desire. So this is not meant to be a passive aggressive dig, or a throwaway line. In spite of his abandonment, in spite of his impending death, he is praying deeply and honestly that these transgressions not be held against his friends.

What this says to me, is he’s at the end of his life, he’s at peace about what he’s done with his life, especially as an evangelist for Jesus, and he’s letting all his grudges and anger go. He’s settling scores in a peaceful and ? way. And even Alexander, whom it does not seem he’s forgiven, he lets that go too, and simply warns Timothy to watch out for him, and trusts that God will do whatever God will do.

We are in a seaon of change. Next week, we gain an hour of time. Halloween is this Friday, followed by All Soul’s day—the time of year where it’s said that the veil between our world in the next is at its thinnest, emphasized by the leaves that have fallen off the trees, allowing us to see new sights in the woods that surround us here in Vermont. Now, in our tradition, we tend to think of our mortality at the beginning of Lent when we observe Ash Wednesday—but it’s easy to think of our mortality now as well, amidst stories of ghosts and spirits and thinning veils. Unlike during the cold of February, when Ash Wednesday usually falls, when we’ve gotten used to the frozen ground and the brisk winds, this time of year brings about a quiet sense of urgency—a need to order and stack our wood to prepare for the cold; to finalize our Thanksgiving and Christmas plans as the holiday seasons winds up; but more than that— this season is a reminder of cycles and life and death, and a reminder that we should get our affairs in order and prepare—not for imminent death, of course… but it’s a time to take stock of grudges, to take stock of old hurt feelings, to take stock of old experiences and traumas that may still be weighing our spirits down, and excise them before they freeze up within us and harden our hearts— it’s a time to prepare for a new, hopefully lighter way to be in the world. The trees have shed their dying and heavy leaves, so must we shed our grudges and cynicsm, that we may be renewed when the time is right.

“Do your best to come soon,” says Paul, in the beginning of the section our lectionary leaves out. This is the first time, in spite of Paul’s being at peace with his life’s journey, they we get any hint of a sense of urgency. Later on, at the very end of the letter, in 4:21, he writes, “Do your best to come before winter.” Yes, Paul is at peace with his life’s work. He is at peace with his journey coming to an end, with his race being finished; but he must see his beloved Timothy before that time comes. He’s letting go of grudges and hate, and holding onto his faith and the love of his friends. He’s figuring out what matters and and what doesn’t, and he wants companionship in his final days, as well, I’m sure, to give Timothy in-person encouragement on path of evangelism that awaits him.

While we may not be experiencing any urgency or need to take stock of our lives in this recollective and truly existential way Paul feels the need to, surely there are things in our lives we would like to let go of. Surely there are things in our lives that are weighing us down. Surely during this time of year, as the veil thins and there’s some quiet before the storm of the consumerist hustle and bustle of the holiday season; as the dark creeps in earlier and earlier, we are reminded, in the quiet, in the crunching of leaves, of things that weigh on our hearts.

So how do we let go? How do we lighten our loads in these, the heaviest of times? I can’t tell you for certain what will or won’t work for you, but I thought we could give something a try… as I wrote in the Thursday email this week, we don’t really practice a lot of rituals in this congregation, apart from the monthly one of Communion; and as someone who grew up in a New England UCC church, I’m not often one to stray from the peaceful and contemplative liturgy most of us have been accustomed to, for better and for worse; but I thought today, we could try a simply ritual of letting go, inspired by one of the oldest rituals in history—pouring one out.

How this will work:

I’m going to pray over and bless this bowl of water; then I’m going to move it to the back of the church. I would ask anyone who would like to participate (this isn’t mandatory), to process down the outside of the pews, fill a communion cup with water, and then come up to the front here, and pour whatever ills or grudges or traumas that water represents for you in this bowl. I’ll then close that ritual out with a prayer once everyone who would like to has poured one out.

Loving God—may this water be whatever it needs to be for those who partake in this ritual today. May it be a long-held grudge against a former friend; may it be an awkward interaction you had that’s still making you cringe; may it be abuse at the hands of someone you thought you could trust; may it be an unfair judgement you’re holding onto; maybe it be a feeling of sadness or despair that lingers, even though you don’t know why it does; during this time of death and change, in preparation for renewal, may this water be what we need it to be on this sacred morning, to lighten our loads. May it be so. Amen.

 *****

God of life, and God of death, God of Jesus whose life was poured out for us—may the liquid in this bowl serve to soften our hearts just a little; may it serve to bring some relief in times of anxiety; may is serve to move us forward to be at peace with whomever and whatever comes our way; may it serve as the beginning of a renewal in your name. Amen.