What I can't unsee tonight

Went down south from Richmond to enjoy dinner tonight after the day's activities. Making my way home traffic on Huguenot/River/Cary Street Road; the traffic unexpectedly comes to a near-standstill. 

Soon, it becomes clear; a law enforcement vehicle is sitting in the right lane ahead, lights flashing. I need to merge into the left lane. Fortunately it doesn't become a contentious thing, and I am able to get over, and eventually to creep ahead. 

Finally alongside the law enforcement car, I can see what has happened. A deer has apparently been struck by a vehicle. The deer is stretched out across that right lane. The officer is standing between his car and the deer, looking on helplessly.

This is a bad enough sight, but that's not the worst thing.  

The deer is not dead. 

He's trying to lift up his head and look around, maybe even trying to get himself up, to no avail, but trying anyway.

I'm pretty sure I swore every swear word in existence for the next ten minutes of the drive.

Nature really cannot survive us, can it?

Sermon afterthoughts: the "Get Out of Hell Free" card

 There's a lot of stuff to think about in Mark 10:35-45, and especially in that last verse. It's a verse that has been appropriated for the development of a theology of atonement, even substitutionary atonement, in a way that doesn't really work with the material Mark has given us here.

The sermon for this scripture explores this challenge to a degree. Much of that atonement talk hinges on how modern users ("modern" here applying to several centuries' worth of interpreters, not just us "modern" American types) apply a definition of "ransom" that doesn't really fit. The "ransom" in Mark's usage doesn't imply anybody getting paid for the release of those held captive, which doesn't fit with the notion that some price had to be "paid" for our release from sin, that price being Jesus's life in such theology. (Really, though, would not Jesus's resurrection somehow equate to a breach of contract in such a theology?) 

An awful lot (yes, there are two possible ways to interpret that, and both are valid) of theology has been spilt trying to fit this passage with other bits of scripture, such as some of the "suffering servant" verses from Isaiah, to flesh out this theology of a price to be paid. I'm not sure, though, that it's this bit of interpretation that causes the most damage. 

It's possible to be incredibly narrow in defining the word translated "life" in this verse. As noted in the sermon, the word in question (ψυχην, "psuxen") goes far, far beyond any definition of "life" that can be reduced to "not death." The word wants to embrace all the stuff of living, not just a biological definition of being alive. And this is the biggest problem for a lot of theologies out there.

Like John and James in this passage, it's easy to talk tough. When Jesus challenges their seating request, asking if they can really endure all the suffering he's about to endure, they have the cheek to respond "we are able." Were they counting on some kind of divine intervention to head off the very suffering and death Jesus had tried to teach them three times now? Were they just stupid? What is it? 

Like many of the January 6 insurrectionists, who are now sounding a lot less brave with prison time looming as a real possibility, one can't help but notice that these two brave-talking disciples have, later in this gospel, bolted and deserted Jesus by the time he is nailed to the cross. Eventually the book of Acts reminds us that James, willing or not, did eventually drink from this cup of suffering; he is noted as the first of the twelve to be martyred (of course Judas died first, but not a martyr's death). John apparently doesn't die such a death, but the tradition that he spent years in exile does suggest suffering did come his way. 

Even so, for an awful lot of human beings, giving up being alive is a far easier promise to make than giving one's life, particularly in the way Jesus gave his life, particularly in the way Jesus came to serve and not to be served. Being "manly" or "tough" or a "warrior" has become the default way of being "Christian" for an awful lot of men who claim that name. (Many, but not all, of such men are affiliated with church traditions that can be described with a five-syllable word starting with "e".) If you're willing to twist your brain enough I suppose that can be passed off as a kind of "service," but let's get blunt: there's nothing Christlike about it. 

Right there is a word - "Christlike" - that needs to be recovered and put to work a lot more than it typically is in the church of whatever stripe these days. In the current state of society, where the word "Christian" as adjective has been so stretched and distorted as to be nearly useless for anything meaningful, I still say it's worth breaking out "Christlike" in its place and seeing just how much of what we describe as "Christian" really measures up. 

Following a Savior who steadfastly refused to rack up power on earth loses its luster real fast for a great many people. Signing up for a fight sounds better. Even better is the promise of being "ransomed" - getting the great "get out of Hell free" card - without having to follow the example of Jesus, to give your whole life, your inner self, your soul, your everything. Talking as if your "salvation" is in the past tense is a lot easier and more fun than talking about your service, your following Jesus, as an ongoing everyday thing. 

Resist this. 

It might just be that the allure of the "get out of Hell free" card is the biggest problem with the misuse of verses such as this one. Anything that implies that the Christ-following life, or any part of it, is an over-and-done thing is a disaster for actual discipleship and Christ-following. And it's not just those e-word people that are the problem; all corners of Christianity, including the mainline, have severe problems grasping all this. 

The call is not to volunteer to die; the call is, like Jesus, to give your whole life, your inside and out life, all of you. And that goes on every day of your life. 

And that's really hard.

Ugh.

A sunrise

Morning is not my time. It is usually the time that sleep, which ordinarily spends the full night taunting and then eluding me, now attempts to ensnare me at that moment I need to quit purusing it. But when one is staying at a resort directly on the beach, one is obligated to get up early enough to go out to that beach and watch a sunrise. Today was that day.

The sky had already begun to lighten well before I arrived, and darkness itself had been well and truly vanquished long before I took up my post on the corner of the walkway overlook, not wanting to sacrifice my ankles to the demon beach sand. This day was simply and only for watching the sun rise. No pictures or video clips. No distractions. Only a drink to sip on, and eyes peeled to the east.

A few people were about; a smattering of morning walkers on the beach, including the ubiquitous older fellows with their metal detectors and at least one man toting a surfboard; one or two on other parts of the walkway overlook, cameras or phones at the ready; one couple in conversation with another woman, the only disruption of the beachside pseudo-silence.

Of course, it is no silence, not truly; nature has more than enough to say if one listens in such a setting. On this day it is the waves on the beach generating the most chatter. They have been stirred up by an extremely sizable hurricane in the Atlantic, one that has had the nickname "large Larry" attached to it since one of the earliest advisories on the storm in its hurricane shape began with the alliteration "Large Larry lumbering...". Large Larry has been kind enough to steer its major-storm winds well clear of land masses or populated areas to this point. Bermuda may yet be affected by the storm, and the extreme outer fringes of Newfoundland may get brushed by it much later. But for now, it is merely a large storm with high winds and enough force to generate substantial waves and swells as far as the eastern coasts of the US, including this outpost in Florida.

And those waves clamor for attention. Look at me, they say. Listen to me. I am far more interesting than that big gas ball in the sky. Look how large I am. Listen to how fierce I am. See how I am stripping away the sand from this beach. Pay attention to me. 

And of course, they are fascinating in themselves. They are large for this location. They are generating a great deal of noise. They are indeed stripping away sand from the beach. I am here just as high tide is wrapping up. The waves make it clear that it is not their choice to pull back. I'll be back, they say. I may be pulling back for now, but I will be back. I promise you that. 

They are most distracting in themselves. However, they cannot claim main-attraction status for this moment, for just when one is almost ready to forget the reason for being out on this beach before being fully awake, the tiniest of orange slivers has appeared on that horizon, slightly south of due east.

More observers have accumulated on the overlook and the beach itself by now, just in time for the main attraction from which they seem rather distracted. The sun is booking it this morning. That tiny orange sliver is already growing into a quarter-, third-, even half-sun. Before one can even calculate how long it will take, that sun has overtopped the horizon, perched like a child's favorite ball waiting to be kicked or tossed or picked up and lumbered around.

But wait; there is a challenge yet coming. The luminous orange disk is encountering a small cloud. Just as it had so quickly cleared the horizon it now slipped hastily behind the small cloud. It isn't a solid cloud; the sun can still glimmer through its thinner places, not with the vivid orange glow of its first appearing, but now brightly spreading its illumination from behind the cloud. 

The cloud is small, and the sun does not take long to surmount it as well. It is not the same sun as before; the orange luminescence is now transigured into the diffuse yet illuminating yellow that we know from our daytime hours. It is shining now, and ready to claim its rightful place of importance in a sky that has few other obstacles or challenges to offer. 

And it is done. A sunrise has been completed. The day is on.

Sermon afterthoughts: Childish

The week was spent preparing a sermon on Ephesians 4:1-16. Two verses in particular from the text just kept jumping out at me all week, to the point of almost preventing a sermon from happening. Check out verses 14-15, here as in the Common English Bible:

 As a result, we aren't supposed to be infants any longer who can be tossed and blown around by every wind that comes from teaching with deceitful scheming and the tricks people play to mislead others. Instead, by speaking the truth with love, let's grow in every way into Christ...

It doesn't take a whole lot of effort to find in your average batch of weekly headlines a slew of examples of folks who present themselves as "Christians," for whom the scare quotes seem especially necessary when viewed in the light of this passage (or, say, Philippians 4:8, or 1 Corinthians 13, or Galatians 5:22-23, or most anything about Jesus in any of the gospels). There isn't a whole lot of good witness in the behavior of such leaders as the pastor who threatened to throw out anyone wearing a mask in *his* church (emphasis on his). 

It is, in short, childish - a childishness made all the worse by its continued insistence on posturing as "masculine" or "manly" or some such business. It is whining posturing as leadership. It is those who "teach with deceitful scheming" preying upon infants who can be tossed and blown around by all the wind. And frankly, it is gross. 

I suppose the confluence of headlines and lectionary scripture have pushed this one forward in my mind, but it checks out nonetheless. The "Christianity" that preys upon our headlines and draws attention to itself (as opposed to, oh, I don't know, Jesus?) is a culturally shaped "Christianity" that has no spiritual maturity about it, that demands benefits and privileges for itself and its chosen few, with the rest of the world either ignored or actively vilified. 

I have in the past argued that the word "Christian" should be abolished as an adjective. Four years later, I'm more convinced of this than ever. What I'm seeing more and more is how much of this usage of the word seems to be deeply bogged down in a rampant spiritual childishness laced with heavy doses of fear, fear of "the other," fear of losing one's status and privilege and power, fear of anything that challenges our comfort and splendid isolation and imagined benevolence toward the lesser people around "us" (this one got totally ramped up by the pandemic).  

The aforementioned 1 Corinthians 13 contains, besides all the description and exaltation of love, this telling bit in verse 11: 

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a adult, I put an end to childish ways.

It's telling indeed, and yet how many have not put aside such childish ways? What might be some "childish" ways that need to be put aside? Things like selfishness ("if you have enough, then I can't have everything I want" is a pretty good summary), name-calling (have you had enough of the word "socialism" these days?), projection (accusing others of that of which you are guilty - every sibling has experienced that even if they don't realize it), avoiding responsibility ("it's not my fault if those people are [something they are actually not]"); it's a long list, and an awful lot of public-facing self-identified "Christians" indulge these and too many other traits of childishness with little pushback from, well, anybody. 

The title of the sermon that eventually resulted from the week's wrestling with these verses was "Grow Up." You'll see an amusing illustration with it (also reproduced it here - if anyone knows who created it I'd love to give them credit and maybe buy them dinner, even if it might be slightly unfair to a lot of adolescents I know). The illustration isn't limited to the church, to be sure, but boy howdy does it apply here. 

Of course, part of being able to avoid being tossed and blown around by the deceivers is being well-rooted enough to spot deception when you hear or see it. Being grounded in scripture would be a good start, but how many adults at your church have any tolerance for doing Sunday school? In addition, I'm going to list a few books at the end of this blog for getting acquainted with how the deceivers among the church get traction; two of them lay out in stark detail how powergrabbers replace genuine Christlike teaching with deeply unchristlike cultural norms prettied up with a thin veneer of churchy talk, while the third helps demonstrate how those norms-disguised-as-faith get spread around so profusely. The mainline church of which I am a part has a tall task ahead of undoing the damage done, but the task can't be avoided or brushed off no matter how much such churches seek to do justice and practice righteousness. The childish church is eventually going to have to be named and called out, no matter how unpleasant it will be, or else God's gonna have to tear it all up, roots and everything, and plant anew. 

Or maybe that's already happening.

Suggested reading:

Du Mez, Kristin Kobes. Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation. 

Barr, Beth Allison. The Making of Biblical Womanhood: How the Subjugation of Women Became Gospel Truth.

Vaca, Daniel. Evangelicals Incorporated: Books and the Business of Religion in America.

Sermon afterthoughts: Preaching an epistle I never wanted to preach

Back in seminary, if you had told me I would turn to the epistles of the New Testament for preaching material as often as I do, I would have probably laughed and said something clever like "yeah, right." I knew I was going to do a Romans series as soon as I had the chance, and I did exactly that. (It starts with this sermon and goes forward for a few months, by the time all is said and done.) I figured 1 Corinthians 13 would happen eventually, and there were a few other spots here and there that would happen.

It wasn't something I figured would happen all that often, though. I certainly didn't expect to preach from the epistles more often than from the Old Testament, for example, with all the good stories from Genesis to work from. I still tend to stick to the gospels as first choice, for the most part, but darned if the epistles don't turn up and grab my attention more often than I'd ever have planned.

And I certainly didn't expect to preach much at all from what are sometimes called the "deutero-Pauline" epistles. These are the letters which have Paul's name attached to them (sometimes quite loudly) but do not really appear to have been written or dictated or anything by Paul himself. Sometimes it's the subject matter, something that clearly wasn't an issue in Paul's time (imagine reading what purports to be a letter by Abraham Lincoln that somehow discuss the Spanish-American War). Sometimes it's the writing style; imagine you were reading something by C.S. Lewis and suddenly coming upon a passage by Ernest Hemingway that someone had snuck into your reading material unawares. And sometimes the book just flat says things that Paul wouldn't have said. 

Frankly, I just didn't want to deal with the fuss. I didn't want to deal with explaining biblical ghostwriting, or how sticking a bigger name on what you've written didn't carry the stigma of violation that it would today. (I am mindful of how many pieces of music of the late 18th century got passed off as having been composed by Haydn simply to sell more copies.) I certainly didn't want to deal with the not-very-Paul-like things those epistles say.

Perhaps chief of all of these was the epistle given the name "Ephesians." Even that title is a little hinky; most of the earliest manuscripts don't have that inscription "at Ephesus" in the greeting, suggesting at minimum that this was probably a circular letter with no particular congregation as its target. The extremely general nature of the letter's content also lends to this doubt; the way Paul is described in his farewell to the elders of Ephesus in Acts 20 stands in blazing contrast to the utterly impersonal nature of this letter. 

And no, I really didn't want even to come near the household codes of Ephesians 5-6. Greco-Roman boilerplate social mores, dressed up with some attempted churchy talk, that has become the basis for centuries of oppressive mumbo-jumbo about "biblical womanhood" and the whole business of "complementarianism" that shackles evangelicalism to some decidedly unchristlike standards of behavior and doctrine? Miss me with that, hard.

And yet, this morning, I just preached my third sermon from Ephesians based on this year's cycle in the Revised Common Lectionary. I'll preach from the book for the four further weeks as the lectionary offers. And then, when the lectionary's offered cycle is completed, I'll go back and slip in one more sermon based on the book, dealing with exactly those Greco-Roman household codes and what we Christ-followers nowadays should actually take from their presence in the New Testament. 

If I were in an evangelical church I'd get fired for sure. Even in my mainline church I might be in danger. But, unless God slaps me around a bit and says "child, what is with you?", that's how August is going to go. 

If I had never come off this, I'd have missed out on that giddy opening of the letter, one of the best run-on sentences in scripture (it really is all one sentence in Greek), a big exuberant blessing that doesn't know when to stop. I'd have missed on today's reading, a benediction on the letter's readers that pushes the boundaries of our understanding of Christ's love and leaves us gobsmacked. I'd have missed on chapter four's gifts for building up the body of Christ, chapter five's mini-echo of Colossians 3:16, and the chance to break down chapter six's "armor of God" passage. All of that would have been a shame. 

So Ephesians it is, ugliness and all. I suppose there's a point in all this. Maybe "never say never"? Or maybe it's something related to that increasingly famous prayer of Thomas Merton, the one that starts "My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going...". Or maybe I'm just getting to the end of my tether. 

Whatever may be the case, the quote that actually sticks in my brain at this point actually comes from Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring: 

The road goes evern on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can, 

Pursuing it with eager feet, 

Until it meets some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

And so the fool's errand goes.

Sermon afterthoughts: Who you callin' a weed???

 I am not a gardener, and I never will be. 

I have not nearly enough patience for that. I'm pretty strongly opposed to being out in direct sunlight for that long with no hope of shade. I'm clumsy. There are a lot of reasons for it. 

One of them, though, is I've gotten to be uncomfortable with the whole idea of how exactly one defines a "weed."

All of this comes on the heels of dealing with Mark 4:26-34, today's gospel reading in the lectionary, and in particular the seemingly familiar Parable of the Mustard Seed. We know that one, right? It's the tiniest seed in seed-dom, and yet it grows into this massive growth that produces large branches in which birds can build their nests and take shelter. We have, in the church-popular imagination, made that into a parable about how what seems small and insignificant can become great and mighty, or something like that. 

That really isn't the point.

After all, the parable is introduced with Jesus's words, "With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it?" (NRSV) Jesus's words make the link explicit: "It is like a mustard seed...". The point of the parable isn't to tell a small or frail child that they can grow up to be big and strong, or that whatever endeavor we've decided to take up will blossom and flourish like that tiny seed. The point of the parable is that the kingdom of God is like that shrub that spreads out and grows and has the big branches to nest in.

And then there's that word "shrub." (Ed.-Allow me a moment for a Monty Python reference that won't go away...)

(There, that's better.)

Jesus calls it a shrub, as the NRSV translates it. Am I wrong, or is that a word that doesn't necessarily conjure up grand and mighty? I mean, it's the root of the above Monty Python joke, or how Molly Ivins brought George Bush the Younger down to size. It ain't the cedars of Lebanon, that's for sure. 

Furthermore (as noted in today's sermon), this particular shrub wasn't exactly super-desirable. It did have some medicinal properties, but that wasn't a thing you went and cultivated that shrub to get - there was plenty of it available in the wild. Worse was that if this shrub got into whatever you were cultivating, your harvest was quite likely in some trouble. It wasn't perhaps quite as pernicious as kudzu - the Vine That Ate the South - but it did invade and crowd out other plants in its path. You wanted it to stay out in the wild, not in your fields. 

Oh, and those branches that birds can nest in? The same birds that were plucking away the seed scattered by the sower earlier in that chapter, in Mark 4:4? 

And this is what Jesus chose to compare with the kingdom of God?

Yeah, it fits. The stuff that grows into our lives and crowds out our neatly laid-out plans and boundaries we'd just as soon stay out in the wild, right? We're not keen to see our best-laid plans disrupted or uprooted in any way. We don't like it, and we want to root it out and toss it in the trash. 

This gives me pause. In the face of such a passage, I am charged to wonder what God sees in a thing I might regard in the way Jesus's audience likely viewed that mustard-seed shrub. Is there some redeeming quality in that thing that is getting castigated as a "weed" that I'm not seeing? Or let's get more directly spiritualized about it: am I going to fail to recognize the moving, spreading, in-crashing kingdom of God because it looks like an invasive shrub messing up my just-so life-garden? 

This comic also comes to mind:

Image credit unknown, which is too bad because this is really good.

To abstract some point out of all of this, we are (I fear) too often or too easily conditioned to equate the good (or dare I say the holy?) with the pretty. We also tend to want to equate the good with the orderly, despite how often and how readily order (even "law and" order) becomes an excuse to perpetuate all manner of evils upon those not like us. When we let the quest for the pretty and orderly and beautiful-by-human-standards take over all of our perception, we are flat-out going to miss the in-crashing, invasive kingdom of God. What we call a weed or an invasive species may well be where the Spirit is moving. At this stage of my life, I really don't want to cultivate any habits that might make me miss that.

Thanks be to God, I think.

Sermon afterthoughts: Disney/Pixar family values

 The latest reincarnatin of this blog that will never die: an occasional place for sermon thoughts to go when they don't quite make it into the sermon.

So today's sermon, on Mark 3:20-35, tries to grapple with one of those sayings of Jesus which we'd prefer Jesus hadn't actually said. His family has come to get him, and not necessarily with peaceful intent, and when the crowds tell Jesus that they're outside calling for him, Jesus drops this backhanded bombshell on them: 

Who are my mother and my brothers?

Here are my mother and my brothers! 

Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.

*Smack*.

We don't really handle this one very well, even failing to realize that in many cases this rejoinder is good news, for those for whom what our society worships as the "nuclear family" is not at all a place of refuge or safety. The reasons can be more numerous than the stars: abuse of many different kinds from physical to emotional, of every horrifying type; parental or familial rejection for such "sins" as having the gall to come out or to vote for a Democrat or to choose to take a job far away from the old home place (I have known people who have suffered all of the above, fwiw); parents incapacitated by drug abuse or alcohol abuse or mental illness or again, a wide variety of things, and simply incapable of caring for a child; fights or disputes over a girl or a job or a house or who knows what; the list can be frankly endless of things that can irreparably split a family. For a person caught in any of those forced isolations, Jesus's declaration is a message of hope indeed.

Still, the rest of this particular society doesn't particularly warm to this bit of instruction. To be sure, enough politicized verbiage over "family values" has been shoveled upon us over many decades now, and it would be hard to blame anyone for feeling that, contra Jesus's words, "nothing's more important than family."

Hmm. I've heard that phrase, but not from a politician. Actually, I heard it from Coco.

Coco, in this case, is the 2017 Disney/Pixar animated film about a young boy, wanting to be a musician but ferociously opposed by his family, who blunders into the land of the dead of Mexican tradtion to seek the great-great-grandfather who is his musical inspiration/aspiration. Miguel finds out things were not what he thought, but suffice to say that in the grand tradition of such animated fare everything does work out in the end, despite his family threatening his music even as it is the only thing that can prompt his great-grandmother, the titular Mama Coco, to remember that great-great-grandfather and thus preserve his existence in the land of the dead. (The power of music to affect memory is, of course, something any good music therapist could have suggested.)

And it is in such a context that Miguel utters the line noted above, "nothing's more important than family." Even as his family (in both the realms of the dead and the living) are doing all in their power to prevent him from learning and setting right the wrongs of their family's past, "nothing's more important than family."

Don't get me wrong, I love this movie, and its dramatic climax as he finally plays for Mama Coco was literally breathtaking - I actually forgot to breathe during it, in the midst of all the ugly-crying and nose-running. But that line is grating on me more and more every time I hear it.

This is a fairly recent example of a strong tendency in this particular animated tradition (others can talk up the live-action films like the various Mary Poppinses), taking in both classic Disney animation and more recent Disney and Pixar contributions to the genre. Perhaps one of the most extreme examples might be Cinderella (in whichever version), which draws on an old fable to play up the horrors visited upon the title character when she loses her parents and is forced to live with the prototype wicked stepmother and stepsisters. This bit of suffering from lack of family is only fixed (as is so often in these things) by Cinderella's rescue by a hansome, charming prince, which opens up a whole other can of worms. 

To be honest, the phenomenon of missing mothers (or sometimes fathers) in especially the classic Disney animated fare is awfully prolific. Think of orphans or otherwise parentless figures such as all those Lost Boys in Peter Pan, Arthur in The Sword in the Stone, Penny in The Rescuers. Add those who are prominently missing one parent; Belle in Beauty and the Beast, Nemo in Finding Nemo, even Pinocchio being "raised" by the "single parent" Geppetto. Throw in those actually lose parents as part of the film; Tod in The Fox and the Hound, Mowgli's mother in The Jungle Book, Quasimodo's mother in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Mufasa in The Lion King, and both of Elsa and Anna's parents in Frozen (and Kristoff is somehow an orphan too). Plus, do I even need to mention Bambi's mother?

Throw in wicked stepmothers and -others (besides Cinderella, you can also point to the Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Mother Gothel, Rapunzel's kidnapper-cum-"mother" in Tangled) and you've got a long list. Source material in fairy tales and fables contributes to this a great deal, of course, but you know, you could look at other sources after a while. Even then, though, the single-parent theme seems awfully persistent: Tiana's father was a WWI casualty in The Princess and the Frog, and where is Andy's father in the Toy Story movies? Coco is almost an outlier for having such a prolifically present family. 

Rescue by a handsome prince still crops up an awful lot in such cases where princes make any sense; even as late a contribution as The Princess and the Frog throws in a handsome, charming playboy prince, and of course princes abound in the classic fare. Rapunzel is ultimately restored to her parents in Tangled; Mowgli gets adopted in a Jungle Book sequel; Simba mates with Nala in The Lion King. 

In short, there aren't many such movies in which some form of family restoration (either marriage or finding parents or adoption) is not the ultimate solution. Frozen can count as one, although Frozen II suggests that Anna and Kristoff do finally get together. Marlin and Nemo muddle through in Finding Nemo. I think the ultimate example of family resilience, as opposed to family restoration, in the Disney corpus is probably the least Disney-ish Disney animated film of all: Lilo & Stitch.

When the destructive little alien Stitch crash-lands on one of the Hawaiian islands and gets "adopted" by young Lilo, much against older sister Nani's wishes, a family, however unwitting, is "made," even if it takes a while to set in. Stitch (originally no name, just Experiment 626) has no real capacity for anything like "family" relationship - the only purpose built into him was to destroy. Lilo and Nani are orphans; their parents' death is described by Lilo barely in passing - "it was raining, they went for a drive." Nani, only a teenager herself, is losing her grip as Lilo's guardian, constantly on the verge of losing her to state guardianship. Yet after many misadventures (no point in spoiling the film), the three are finally a family, as claimed by Stitch himself as he is about to be taken into intergalactic custody: 

Grand Councilwoman: Who are you?

Stitch: This is my...family. I found it,...all on my own. 

It's little...and...broken...but, still good. Yeah. Still good.

Folks, that'll preach. 

Finding a family, when there's no such thing as family, must feel like a miracle. When Jesus turns to the motley crowd in Mark 3 and says "these are my mother and brothers!", who knows what kind of flabbergasted and amazed reactions that received - not from the disdainful biological mother and brothers or the bullying religious authorities, but from the crowd itself. The level of grace in such a claim overwhelms. There is the following statement that "whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother." 

Respect those families made from grace, when all hope for that place of belonging seems lost. Respect those families made from struggling together. Respect those families that are made, the way Jesus made one.