Sermon by Rev. Deborah Hannay Sunoo
Since this was my first full week back, following my sabbatical, today’s sermon title – “Come from Away” – might sound like a reference to my own status as a recent returnee. After all, I have been away, and now I’m here.
As it turns out, “come from away” does relate to my sabbatical, though not primarily in that sense. But we’ll get back to that in a few minutes. First, let me tell you about “Come from Away,” the Broadway musical. (Has anyone seen it? Or heard the soundtrack?)
I’m indebted to my 18-year-old daughter Alina for introducing me to quite a lot of musicals this summer. She is an absolute Broadway fanatic these days, so anytime we were driving around in the car, or hanging out at home, there’d be a soundtrack playing. She’d show me video clips of her favorite songs online too, whenever she managed to find one performed live at the Tony awards, for instance, or on a morning news program. So let me just say: if there are other Broadway fans out there, I speak your language now; let’s talk!
At any rate, one of the shows getting a lot of attention this year has been “Come from Away.” It’s based on the true story of an important moment in time when the isolated community of Gander, Newfoundland played host to the world. What started as an average day in a sleepy town turned in to an international sleep-over when 38 planes, carrying something like 7,000 people from all across the globe, were diverted to Gander’s air strip on September 11, 2001. Undaunted by culture clashes and language barriers, the people of Gander not only fed, clothed, and housed the stranded travelers for close to a week, but offered them compassion, friendship, humor, music, and other comforting reminders that we’re all part of one global family.
Hard as it is to resist playing you the entire soundtrack right now, I’ll do my best to convey the gist here (but please listen to it yourself as soon as you can). The opening song sets the stage, as a narrator begins:
On the northeast tip of North America,
on an island called Newfoundland, there's an airport.
It used to be one of the biggest airports in the world,
and next to it is a town called Gander.
And then the whole cast starts singing:
Welcome to the Rock, if you come from away,
You'll prob’ly understand about half of what we say.
They say no man's an island but an island makes a man,
Especially when one comes from one like Newfoundland.
Welcome to the Rock
(“The Rock” just being their nickname for their island.)
Various characters then take turns telling us what they were doing when they first heard the news about the Twin Towers in New York, and when they first saw those planes touching down on their air strip, and in between each introduction, the group sings together a powerful refrain:
I’m an islander, I am an islander. I'm an islander, I am an Islander.
We soon find out what it means to be an islander as they add:
Welcome to the land where the winters tried to kill us
and we said, "we will not be killed."
Welcome to the land where the waters tried to drown us
and we said, "we will not be drowned."
Welcome to the land where we lost our loved ones
and we said, "we will still go on"
Welcome to the land where winds tried to blow, and we said "No!"
This is an incredibly resilient bunch. Not much would normally faze them. But even they are thrown by the magnitude of the challenge that’s suddenly before them. 7,000 terrified passengers on 38 jumbo jets, all suddenly grounded…in an airport that normally sees maybe 5 or 6 planes a day… and all those stranded people, from all around the world, are here in their small Canadian town for who knows how long. American air space was entirely shut down, as you may remember. Yet they sing on:
If you're hoping for a harbor then you'll find an open door.
In the winter, from the water, through whatever's in the way,
to the ones who have come from away,
Welcome to the Rock!
The town of Gander’s hospitality, their immediate, massive, all-embracing welcome of those “from away,” then forms the storyline for the rest of the musical. Toward the end, in a scene set years later, one of their 9/11 guests -
one of the “plane people” as the locals call them - asks a Gander native who has become a good friend: “Why are Newfoundlanders terrible at knock knock jokes?” “I dunno, Hannah.” Why? “Well, try it – I’ll be a Newfoundlander.” OK… “Knock Knock.” “Come on in! The door’s open!” (The normal “who’s there?” response being entirely unnecessary for these folks, right?)
“I’m an islander, I am an islander” they sing, and they know just what that means. It means resilience, and hard work. It means hospitality and welcome, and a healthy sense of perspective. It means if someone needs help, you simply help. And on September 11, 2001, that communal identity allowed regular, down to earth folks from Gander to welcome thousands of tired, terrified, frightened airline passengers with open arms.
“I’m an islander. I am an islander.” They sing it over and over again, with a steady Celtic drum beat in the background. “I’m an islander. I am an islander.” And you can’t help but understand that each time they say it, what they’re really saying is, “This is who we are. This is what we do.”
When Alina played the soundtrack for me for the first time this summer, I literally got goosebumps. Because, I thought, they’re singing about the Church! The Church at our best, I mean. In the moments we get it right. On the days we know that one of the most important things we can do is to extend to anyone who “comes from away” our most generous hospitality and welcome. We too know about sharing music and friendship and humor here in our little community, both in good times and when the storms of life are raging, and we know how to roll up our sleeves and get to work helping those who need help. We too know how to convey “who cares where you’re from; we’re all family here.”
“I’m an islander, I am an islander.” I like to think that we as people of faith can draw on a strong sense of our identity, just like those folks from Gander. For what are we doing here every Sunday if not reminding ourselves who we are and what we’re here for? We are a loved, flawed, and forgiven people, part of a wonderfully human, down to earth community of our own, called and sent by our amazing God to show his love - not to keep the rest of the world out, but precisely to invite them in. When we own what it means to be followers of Christ, and regularly practice our parts, we too can be ready at a moment’s notice to lend a hand.
Now I promised I’d tell you how today’s sermon title was actually connected to my sabbatical after all. And it’s pretty simple, really. My daughter Alina and I, who for so long had played hosts here on Sunday mornings, had all these opportunities to be guests in worship in other places over the last few months. It threw us off a little at first; we’d laugh about how during the passing of the peace (the part of the service where we all shake hands and greet each other) we had to remember not to say “welcome!” to unfamiliar faces – after all, they were probably longtime members of their respective congregations, and we were the ones “from away.” And admittedly it can be a little awkward at times to be the stranger, even when all you’re doing is visiting a new church.
But I am happy to report that the spirit of hospitality is alive and well in congregations around our city and across the country – as is a broader sense of welcome, of being helpers and do-ers and problem-solvers, and reaching out in all kinds of creative, meaningful ways to those in need. For all that we hear in the news these days about those who want to chase outsiders away or keep them out, there really are an awful lot of people who know how to welcome, and to welcome well, those who “come from away.” It did my heart good to see it, everywhere we went.
We have some beautiful vocabulary for this in the Church, don’t we? In fact, it’s a unified, consistent message across both testaments, Old and New. Back in Deuteronomy, the Hebrew people were commanded by God to “love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19) In Leviticus they were reminded: “When a foreigner resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the foreigner. The [one] who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love [him] as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:33) Later on, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” says Jesus in the gospel of Matthew; “as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:35, 40) In this morning’s text from Ephesians, we find a reminder to the early church that Gentile Christians, who at that time had been feeling like outsiders, were just as much a part of God’s family as those of Jewish background: “you are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.” (Ephesians 2:19) And of course in our reading from Hebrews, “do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it,” or as the King James Version puts it, “for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2)
“Come from Away” was written about a powerful experience 16 years ago, but with refugees from so many places here in the US today, it’s timeliness is deeply moving as well. In response to these newcomers, how do we as the Church show the world who we are and what we’re made of? Are we making the same kind of impression as the good people of Gander, Newfoundland?
Even in a more symbolic sense, there are an awful lot of weary travelers outside these walls who could use a warm welcome. Let’s celebrate our identity as people who know what it means to welcome those who “come from away.”
I invite you to listen to that powerful refrain again, from the opening song of this memorable musical, and this time try to imagine yourself as one of those ordinary folks from Gander, watching 38 planes touch down on your doorstep.
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“Love the stranger, for you were once strangers in Egypt.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so, some have entertained angels unawares.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“You are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.”
Welcome to the Rock… an islander, I am an islander.
I’m an islander, I am an islander.
Welcome to the Church.
This is what we do, people of God. This is who we are. Amen.
Since this was my first full week back, following my sabbatical, today’s sermon title – “Come from Away” – might sound like a reference to my own status as a recent returnee. After all, I have been away, and now I’m here.
As it turns out, “come from away” does relate to my sabbatical, though not primarily in that sense. But we’ll get back to that in a few minutes. First, let me tell you about “Come from Away,” the Broadway musical. (Has anyone seen it? Or heard the soundtrack?)
I’m indebted to my 18-year-old daughter Alina for introducing me to quite a lot of musicals this summer. She is an absolute Broadway fanatic these days, so anytime we were driving around in the car, or hanging out at home, there’d be a soundtrack playing. She’d show me video clips of her favorite songs online too, whenever she managed to find one performed live at the Tony awards, for instance, or on a morning news program. So let me just say: if there are other Broadway fans out there, I speak your language now; let’s talk!
At any rate, one of the shows getting a lot of attention this year has been “Come from Away.” It’s based on the true story of an important moment in time when the isolated community of Gander, Newfoundland played host to the world. What started as an average day in a sleepy town turned in to an international sleep-over when 38 planes, carrying something like 7,000 people from all across the globe, were diverted to Gander’s air strip on September 11, 2001. Undaunted by culture clashes and language barriers, the people of Gander not only fed, clothed, and housed the stranded travelers for close to a week, but offered them compassion, friendship, humor, music, and other comforting reminders that we’re all part of one global family.
Hard as it is to resist playing you the entire soundtrack right now, I’ll do my best to convey the gist here (but please listen to it yourself as soon as you can). The opening song sets the stage, as a narrator begins:
On the northeast tip of North America,
on an island called Newfoundland, there's an airport.
It used to be one of the biggest airports in the world,
and next to it is a town called Gander.
And then the whole cast starts singing:
Welcome to the Rock, if you come from away,
You'll prob’ly understand about half of what we say.
They say no man's an island but an island makes a man,
Especially when one comes from one like Newfoundland.
Welcome to the Rock
(“The Rock” just being their nickname for their island.)
Various characters then take turns telling us what they were doing when they first heard the news about the Twin Towers in New York, and when they first saw those planes touching down on their air strip, and in between each introduction, the group sings together a powerful refrain:
I’m an islander, I am an islander. I'm an islander, I am an Islander.
We soon find out what it means to be an islander as they add:
Welcome to the land where the winters tried to kill us
and we said, "we will not be killed."
Welcome to the land where the waters tried to drown us
and we said, "we will not be drowned."
Welcome to the land where we lost our loved ones
and we said, "we will still go on"
Welcome to the land where winds tried to blow, and we said "No!"
This is an incredibly resilient bunch. Not much would normally faze them. But even they are thrown by the magnitude of the challenge that’s suddenly before them. 7,000 terrified passengers on 38 jumbo jets, all suddenly grounded…in an airport that normally sees maybe 5 or 6 planes a day… and all those stranded people, from all around the world, are here in their small Canadian town for who knows how long. American air space was entirely shut down, as you may remember. Yet they sing on:
If you're hoping for a harbor then you'll find an open door.
In the winter, from the water, through whatever's in the way,
to the ones who have come from away,
Welcome to the Rock!
The town of Gander’s hospitality, their immediate, massive, all-embracing welcome of those “from away,” then forms the storyline for the rest of the musical. Toward the end, in a scene set years later, one of their 9/11 guests -
one of the “plane people” as the locals call them - asks a Gander native who has become a good friend: “Why are Newfoundlanders terrible at knock knock jokes?” “I dunno, Hannah.” Why? “Well, try it – I’ll be a Newfoundlander.” OK… “Knock Knock.” “Come on in! The door’s open!” (The normal “who’s there?” response being entirely unnecessary for these folks, right?)
“I’m an islander, I am an islander” they sing, and they know just what that means. It means resilience, and hard work. It means hospitality and welcome, and a healthy sense of perspective. It means if someone needs help, you simply help. And on September 11, 2001, that communal identity allowed regular, down to earth folks from Gander to welcome thousands of tired, terrified, frightened airline passengers with open arms.
“I’m an islander. I am an islander.” They sing it over and over again, with a steady Celtic drum beat in the background. “I’m an islander. I am an islander.” And you can’t help but understand that each time they say it, what they’re really saying is, “This is who we are. This is what we do.”
When Alina played the soundtrack for me for the first time this summer, I literally got goosebumps. Because, I thought, they’re singing about the Church! The Church at our best, I mean. In the moments we get it right. On the days we know that one of the most important things we can do is to extend to anyone who “comes from away” our most generous hospitality and welcome. We too know about sharing music and friendship and humor here in our little community, both in good times and when the storms of life are raging, and we know how to roll up our sleeves and get to work helping those who need help. We too know how to convey “who cares where you’re from; we’re all family here.”
“I’m an islander, I am an islander.” I like to think that we as people of faith can draw on a strong sense of our identity, just like those folks from Gander. For what are we doing here every Sunday if not reminding ourselves who we are and what we’re here for? We are a loved, flawed, and forgiven people, part of a wonderfully human, down to earth community of our own, called and sent by our amazing God to show his love - not to keep the rest of the world out, but precisely to invite them in. When we own what it means to be followers of Christ, and regularly practice our parts, we too can be ready at a moment’s notice to lend a hand.
Now I promised I’d tell you how today’s sermon title was actually connected to my sabbatical after all. And it’s pretty simple, really. My daughter Alina and I, who for so long had played hosts here on Sunday mornings, had all these opportunities to be guests in worship in other places over the last few months. It threw us off a little at first; we’d laugh about how during the passing of the peace (the part of the service where we all shake hands and greet each other) we had to remember not to say “welcome!” to unfamiliar faces – after all, they were probably longtime members of their respective congregations, and we were the ones “from away.” And admittedly it can be a little awkward at times to be the stranger, even when all you’re doing is visiting a new church.
But I am happy to report that the spirit of hospitality is alive and well in congregations around our city and across the country – as is a broader sense of welcome, of being helpers and do-ers and problem-solvers, and reaching out in all kinds of creative, meaningful ways to those in need. For all that we hear in the news these days about those who want to chase outsiders away or keep them out, there really are an awful lot of people who know how to welcome, and to welcome well, those who “come from away.” It did my heart good to see it, everywhere we went.
We have some beautiful vocabulary for this in the Church, don’t we? In fact, it’s a unified, consistent message across both testaments, Old and New. Back in Deuteronomy, the Hebrew people were commanded by God to “love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19) In Leviticus they were reminded: “When a foreigner resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the foreigner. The [one] who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love [him] as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:33) Later on, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” says Jesus in the gospel of Matthew; “as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:35, 40) In this morning’s text from Ephesians, we find a reminder to the early church that Gentile Christians, who at that time had been feeling like outsiders, were just as much a part of God’s family as those of Jewish background: “you are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.” (Ephesians 2:19) And of course in our reading from Hebrews, “do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it,” or as the King James Version puts it, “for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2)
“Come from Away” was written about a powerful experience 16 years ago, but with refugees from so many places here in the US today, it’s timeliness is deeply moving as well. In response to these newcomers, how do we as the Church show the world who we are and what we’re made of? Are we making the same kind of impression as the good people of Gander, Newfoundland?
Even in a more symbolic sense, there are an awful lot of weary travelers outside these walls who could use a warm welcome. Let’s celebrate our identity as people who know what it means to welcome those who “come from away.”
I invite you to listen to that powerful refrain again, from the opening song of this memorable musical, and this time try to imagine yourself as one of those ordinary folks from Gander, watching 38 planes touch down on your doorstep.
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“Love the stranger, for you were once strangers in Egypt.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so, some have entertained angels unawares.”
Welcome to the Rock … an islander, I am an islander.
“You are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.”
Welcome to the Rock… an islander, I am an islander.
I’m an islander, I am an islander.
Welcome to the Church.
This is what we do, people of God. This is who we are. Amen.
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