The Messiah is among you

(note--this is a precis of a homily delivered 7 Easter--Sunday May 24. The text references is Acts 1: 15-26)

This monastery had fallen on hard times.

It had not always been this hard. The abbey had once been full of energetic monks, working, studying, praying, laughing. Many pilgrims had come to pray at the shrine of the abbey's patron saint, and pilgrims mean offerings of money and prosperity. The church was full of local people and some who would come from afar to attend the abbey's beautiful Easter and Christmas services.

But that was now long ago, the "good old days." With the years, new candidates for the community had gradually decreased until now, when no one had joined the community for years. The members had dwindled to about 7 faithful grey heads. The cult of the abbey's patron saint had dwindled in popularity, until now no more pilgrims with their prayers and their rich offerings came to kneel and to give. And the great church was empty, even for the major feasts.

The monks tried not to fret about this, because the Gospel says "do not be anxious." But the thought of their future--was there a future?--weighed heavily on them all, from the Abbot on down. Finally the brethren, at the weekly chapter meeting, asked their Abbot, "Why don't you talk to the rabbi?"

The rabbi was the Abbot's oldest friend, a hermit who studied the Torah alone in a hut in the woods. Often the Abbot would visit him, and they would share the simple food that the Abbot would bring or that the rabbi grew in his tiny garden. They would share good talk, or they would share the silence which only very good friends can share.

The Abbot made the journey and found his old friend, who greeted him with delight. They shared food, and some talk, and some silence. The rabbi finally looked at the Abbot with wise old eyes and asked, "My old friend, something troubles your heart."

The Abbot took a deep breath and began to speak. He unburdened himself fully to his friend the rabbi--the gradual shrinking of the community, their increasing poverty, their fear that within a generation they would be too few and too old to even keep the abbey building and so the monastery would close.

After his words had completely run out, the two friends sat in the silence a long time. Finally, the rabbi looked at his friend the abbot, and said simply, "Well, the Messiah is among you."

The abbot knew well those moments when his friend would utter words and would be oblivious to requests to explain them, and this was one of those times. After sharing in the silence for a little while longer, the abbot took leave of his friend.

The monks were all waiting for their abbot and asked him eagerly, "What did the rabbi say?"

"He said, 'The Messiah is among you.'"

"What did he mean?"

"You know better than to ask that!" the abbot replied a little testily. "He's the rabbi, and sometimes he just says stuff and does not explain. This is one of those times."

As the days went on, the abbot and the other monks thought, and prayed, and talked when allowed about the rabbi's words. "The Messiah is among us. Where? What can that mean?"

One afternoon during silent meditation the Abbot sat in the church and rolled the words around in his mind--the Messiah is among us...

Surely the rabbi does not mean me, thought the abbot. I know I am not the Messiah.

And surely he does not mean Brother Egbert. Brother Egbert is a couple of candles short of a candelabra, not the brightest soul.

But, thought the abbot, Brother Egbert always has a smile on his face, and is capable of being cheerful and of raising our hearts even in the gloomiest part of the winter, no matter how hard life gets. If the Messiah were here, that is how he would be--he would spread joy even in our sorrow.

And surely Father Fabian is not the Messiah--Father Fabian is the grumpiest man this side of Saint Peter's Basilica.

But, thought the abbot, Father Fabian is the first to complain, but Father Fabian is also the first to show up and to work at a difficult task, and he never leaves until the job is done. If the Messiah were here, that is how he would be--he would call no attention to himself, but he would work and give where it was most needed.

As the abbot thought about the other members of the little community, he realized that none of them were the Messiah, but each had a part, each had something of the Messiah, if he were among them.

At the next chapter meeting the abbot shared his insight with the monks.

Something changed then. It did not change dramatically, and it did not change overnight. Perhaps it was that the heaviness of their anxiety and their fear of the future lifted. Perhaps it was that the monks recognized that there was more to each of them than met the eye, and they began to treat one another with a little more respect, a little more reverence even. The days did not seem overshadowed with dread.

That Easter, in the great empty church, a little family, poor young peasant couple with their three children, came and heard the great Mass. They shyly escaped before anyone could greet them. But they came back at Pentecost, and they brought their parents.

That summer, during pilgrimage season, the brother sacristan was startled to find a pilgrim, tall and lean, kneeling in the silence and shadows of the church before the shrine of the abbey's patron saint. As he stood, he placed a coin in the offering box, and the solitary "clink" echoes through the church.

And that Advent, during a rainstorm, the abbot himself heard a persistent pounding at the main doors. He opened them, to find a rough-looking young Saxon peasant standing, clothes worn, knife scar visible on his face. "What do you want?" asked the abbot, in some fear. The young man opened his mouth and spoke in Saxon accent the ancient words, "I desire the mercy of God, the discipline of the Rule, and to join your community."

Towards the end of his life, the abbot sat in the abbey's garden and looked out at this community. Strong young monks worked in the field, laughing, breaking the Rule a little, but never mind. They do things differently, they see the world differently, they sing the Psalms with different tones, but they are here and they are generous and full of faith. And the pilgrims come, from different lands than before, speaking in different tongues. But they come full of faith to pray before the shrine of the patron saint, whom they call by a different name in their own languages. As the abbot looked at his community, so different yet the same, he smiled. The rabbi was right--the Messiah was among them.

Well, I have been among you for 14 years now, and I can tell you with complete assurance that I am not the Messiah. But the Messiah is among us. The Messiah is among us, in the gifts of each member whom the Messiah has brought by speaking in their hearts. Long-time member, come just yesterday--the Messiah is among us. The early community of Acts knew this--that is why, after being shattered by the murder of their founder and the betrayal of one of their inner circle, they were able to just roll the dice and choose another as replacement for the leader who had betrayed them. They knew that the gift had been richly given. The Messiah was among them, and would open a rich future for them that they could not even imagine. So it is here, now, among us. The Messiah is among us.