Proper 16 B 2009
1 Kings 8: 22-30, 41-43; Ps 84; Eph 6: 10-20; John 6: 56-69
Going through my files, I found this story—it still speaks.
There was a train running through lovely rolling countryside. The train was well-kept, efficiently run, with confident staff, good food in the dining car, and comfortable seating. The passengers were used to how good was the train, and so assumed that the train had always run this way and always would. The train’s name, oddly enough, was “the church.”
But as time went on, things seem to change—at first so gradually that it was easy to ignore or explain away. The train began to run a little late sometimes, and once in awhile it ran very late. The interior of the cars seemed to become a little more worn, and little problems like a small tear in the upholstery was not fixed right away, then was not fixed at all. The food was not the same—new recipes, and the old selections did not seem as good. The conductors and other staff seemed to be hiding anxiety behind their professional smiles, and could be seen to gather in small groups discussing things in quiet urgent tones. And the scenery outside the windows was different than people remembered—an unfamiliar route, through country with different trees and animals, becoming slowly more desert-like.
Some passengers seemed oblivious to the changes. Others noted the changes but kept their thoughts to themselves. Still others began to speak with each other—a few seemed glad of some change, but most were anxious or even angry that life on the train was different than before. Those who were angry blamed new passengers, or blamed the staff, or blamed those who owned the railroad.
One day, to everyone’s shock, the train slowed abruptly, then came to a sudden, lurching halt! The staff almost ran through the cars in near-panic and got off without giving any explanation or instruction. The passengers arose and most but not all climbed down the steps of the cars and gathered outside.
The train was in a barren desert landscape. Those who walked to the front of the train saw the reason why the train had stopped. The tracks actually seemed to slowly disappear in the sand in front of the engine, and were invisible as far as the eye could see.
The staff had no explanations and seemed as shocked as the passengers. Some, passengers and staff, walked apart from the larger group and stared into the distance in silence. Some were seen to cry. The rest all talked at once in disbelief. Those who were angry before were angry again, and blamed the staff and the railroad. Others said that some sort of conspiracy must have buried the tracks. A few people abandoned the train and the group and wandered off in various directions. People proposed first one solution, then another. A very vocal group advocated putting the train in reverse and backing down the way they had come—after all, they reasoned, at least those tracks were known to exist.
But then a couple of sharp-eyed people called the others to the front of the train. Wordlessly they pointed to the sands ahead. There the astonished people saw that the sand was without train tracks, but was not without tracks of any kind. Staring, the people saw one track leading into the heart of the desert. It was footprints, and those who bent over to examine the prints reported that it looked as though the person who made the prints was wearing sandals.
After a long time of staring, the passengers and the staff of the train walked into the desert, following the footprints.
That tale was written by a Roman Catholic in the Catechumenate movement, sometime back in the 1970’s. The storyteller had some clear sense of things to come.
The story can apply to a larger church on the whole—Episcopal certainly, but I hear from my friends in other polities that everyone has a version of the train. The story can apply to a congregation such as ours. Or it can apply to our own individual lives of faith.
Together or alone, we are all led to the desert, where what we expected and how we were used to live no longer applies. Usually this comes about through forces and realities larger than ourselves. Transitions good or painful put us in the desert. And once we’ve worked through all our emotions and fears and anger and wonder, we’re left gazing into the desert. Faith says that the desert is not just a waste of sand. Eyes of faith can see the path that has been made by the One who always goes before us.
The Gospel speaks of this. All the Gospels were composed when the early Jesus movement was fragile and there was no train, no routine, no long-established way to do things or run the railroad. Today we hear Jesus saying just how outrageous his path is. Share my life fully, be in me and let me be in you, flesh as food and blood as drink. It was a desert track way too stark and shocking for many who were following him up until then, who probably wanted their new faith presented in well-established Jewish categories. But that train had come to a stop in the sand, at least for those who had taken a chance on the strange compelling new rabbi who called them to follow him into the desert of faith and a new life.
It’s OK to love the train, it’s OK to love where the train has been. It’s OK to tell stories of how wonderful the journey has been up until now. It’s even OK to want to back the train up along the track we know.
But there is more ahead. There is a journey to walk. There is new life in what seems to be bleak and desert. And there is one who walks that path already, who asks us to follow him into what waits for us—food in the desert, unexpected water, a new journey to be blazed.
archived musings and preachments
Monday, August 24, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
God-bearers
Mary the God-Bearer 2009
Isaiah 61: 10-11; Ps 34: 1-9; Galatians 4: 4-7; Luke 1: 46-55)
God can take flesh in our lives.
A medieval abbot shocked his monks. He taught that we are supposed to be so radically open to the presence and action of God that the Word can take flesh in us just as the Word took flesh in Mary of Nazareth long ago. Within the last year a “supportive spouse” who does not come to church heard of our name for today’s feast—Mary the God-bearer—and said “But we’re ALL God-bearers!”
Ironic, don’t you think, that a medieval monk and a post-modern de-churched Portlander would be on the same page?
But maybe it’s not so ironic. Maybe the hunger of Saint Bernard in the 11th century and an intelligent, well-educated Northwesterner is the same—deep, universal, and always new. Every searching heart wants to know that we are not alone, that there is a loving will that threads its way gently yet powerfully through our lives, that we simply do not live, breathe, love, suffer, and die with no one to mark our coming and our going. We want to know, we want to trust that in our lives, in our searching, in the cries of the suffering and the poor especially, there is an echo in the divine heart. And the answer of the divine heart to these questions and these cries is not to manufacture answers for the head, but to birth new and astounding life in our bodies and in our souls.
It’s a tender and audacious faith. Tender and audacious hearts are the favorite dwelling place of God.
Mary of Nazareth was such a tender and audacious heart. I was taught a sweet piety about Mary that got pretty sticky at times. “Gentle lady, meek and mild…”, and the old Church held her up as a role model for obedient children and submissive women.
It’s a good thing we read the Bible with clearer eyes today. Mary was one in a line of outrageous women who let themselves be changed by the divine fire. Miriam prophet-sister of Aaron, Deborah the Judge, Judith the warrior, Hannah who never lost faith or hope—all were powerful and all were chosen by God to make a radical change for the better. One of my first Bible teachers said, “When the God of the Bible wants to flip things upside-down, God looks for a woman.” Taking on the frightening news of the Incarnation, and facing the scorn and possible violence of an outraged religious population, was not the act of a weak or passive person. Gentle yes, but the gentleness is of someone who is empowered to be gentle from a deep place of peace and trust. Think Desmond Tutu gentle…
She wears so many faces, does Mary the God-bearer. All those who are in deep need take her as their own. Medieval peasants made her their great Lady, more beautiful and powerful and kind than whoever was Queen reigning on the local throne. On the image hanging in our kitchen at home her skin is a deep black, as is the skin of her holy Child. Our Hispanic fellow-parishioners see her with rich brown skin and glossy black hair like an Aztec princess.
We all see her as our own, because she is our own. She is one of us and among us, and the “yes” she said to God is the “yes” she assures us we can all say to the transforming power of God in our lives. The “yes” we say together with her as the Church is the “yes” to God’s tender care for all those poor, all those abused, all those ignored or most forgotten.
Mary’s “yes” to God is always fresh and always new. Fresh and new is her invitation to us to join her in saying “yes” to God.
Isaiah 61: 10-11; Ps 34: 1-9; Galatians 4: 4-7; Luke 1: 46-55)
God can take flesh in our lives.
A medieval abbot shocked his monks. He taught that we are supposed to be so radically open to the presence and action of God that the Word can take flesh in us just as the Word took flesh in Mary of Nazareth long ago. Within the last year a “supportive spouse” who does not come to church heard of our name for today’s feast—Mary the God-bearer—and said “But we’re ALL God-bearers!”
Ironic, don’t you think, that a medieval monk and a post-modern de-churched Portlander would be on the same page?
But maybe it’s not so ironic. Maybe the hunger of Saint Bernard in the 11th century and an intelligent, well-educated Northwesterner is the same—deep, universal, and always new. Every searching heart wants to know that we are not alone, that there is a loving will that threads its way gently yet powerfully through our lives, that we simply do not live, breathe, love, suffer, and die with no one to mark our coming and our going. We want to know, we want to trust that in our lives, in our searching, in the cries of the suffering and the poor especially, there is an echo in the divine heart. And the answer of the divine heart to these questions and these cries is not to manufacture answers for the head, but to birth new and astounding life in our bodies and in our souls.
It’s a tender and audacious faith. Tender and audacious hearts are the favorite dwelling place of God.
Mary of Nazareth was such a tender and audacious heart. I was taught a sweet piety about Mary that got pretty sticky at times. “Gentle lady, meek and mild…”, and the old Church held her up as a role model for obedient children and submissive women.
It’s a good thing we read the Bible with clearer eyes today. Mary was one in a line of outrageous women who let themselves be changed by the divine fire. Miriam prophet-sister of Aaron, Deborah the Judge, Judith the warrior, Hannah who never lost faith or hope—all were powerful and all were chosen by God to make a radical change for the better. One of my first Bible teachers said, “When the God of the Bible wants to flip things upside-down, God looks for a woman.” Taking on the frightening news of the Incarnation, and facing the scorn and possible violence of an outraged religious population, was not the act of a weak or passive person. Gentle yes, but the gentleness is of someone who is empowered to be gentle from a deep place of peace and trust. Think Desmond Tutu gentle…
She wears so many faces, does Mary the God-bearer. All those who are in deep need take her as their own. Medieval peasants made her their great Lady, more beautiful and powerful and kind than whoever was Queen reigning on the local throne. On the image hanging in our kitchen at home her skin is a deep black, as is the skin of her holy Child. Our Hispanic fellow-parishioners see her with rich brown skin and glossy black hair like an Aztec princess.
We all see her as our own, because she is our own. She is one of us and among us, and the “yes” she said to God is the “yes” she assures us we can all say to the transforming power of God in our lives. The “yes” we say together with her as the Church is the “yes” to God’s tender care for all those poor, all those abused, all those ignored or most forgotten.
Mary’s “yes” to God is always fresh and always new. Fresh and new is her invitation to us to join her in saying “yes” to God.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
He's changed, we're changed
Transfiguration 2009
Exodus 34: 29-35; Ps 99: 5=9; 2 Peter 1: 13-21; Luke 9: 28-36
A tired, discouraged people gathered at the foot of the mountain. They had been abused, demeaned, and hunted. They had run from their enemies into the desert, the one place where their enemies would not want to follow.
They had almost died from starvation and thirst. They had to trust that their survival was not due to luck, but was a gift from an unseen, nameless God. This God spoke through the mouth of a man with a speech impediment. This man led them to an isolated mountain, told them to wait for him, and disappeared on the mountain for days at a time.
What passed through their heads, what words passed their lips, while they were waiting? Did they speak about how crazy this whole trip was? Did they talk about the absent leader as a religious fanatic, a dreamer? Did the practical ones among them say that they should return to where they had come from, where there was food and shelter and where they knew their place? Did they want to trade uncertainty for certitude, return to a world that was small and safe?
But they were given a gift. They were shown the deep truth about who they were and who was speaking to them. When he returned the man’s face shown with dazzling divine light. As they saw the light and heard his words, they too were changed—changed from frightened individuals into a people-- a just people, a people bonded to one another and to their God. They knew who they really were and who they were empowered to be. And they could take the next step on their pilgrimage, the next step with their pilgrim God.
Who are we as we hear this story today? Are we also tired, hungry, thirsty, looking? Do we wish we could turn back the clock and go back to what we knew or thought we knew?
The brilliance of God shines forth today as it shone from the face of Moses. Today we too know that we are chosen, loved, and are never alone. We know that God is glory and that we too are filled with glory. The curtain is pushed aside, and we know that we are called and empowered to be a glorious people, to be a people bonded to one another and to God.
Tired men stressed out from constant contact with needy people, weary from travel, filled with wonder and questions, climbed another mountain. Their teacher was with them, the teacher who fascinated them—they did not know why. Their wonder and their questions did not vanish that day of mountain glory—they deepened and were changed. Glory, light and transformation, long-dead prophets alive. And the voice—“My son, I love him, listen to him.”
They lifted their eyes and they saw Jesus alone. But he had been changed, and so had they. Their questions—who is this? Who are we called to be? How does God give us hope?—were all changed. The question was not “will God free us?” Instead, it was “how will God free us, and how shall we follow?” Peter and John and James had been changed as their Master had been changed.
We are them—Peter and John and James. We climb the mountain today and see God’s glory in the face of Jesus. We have heard the story and the story brings us to the light. And today, the questions do not go away, but they too are different. Not “where is God?” but “where do I find this God most deeply?” Not “does anything mean anything?” but “what do I do with Meaning itself—how does it make my own life shine with meaning?” Not “do I have any power?” but “how does God’s power shine forth in me?”
We are bonded as a people and we are changed.
Exodus 34: 29-35; Ps 99: 5=9; 2 Peter 1: 13-21; Luke 9: 28-36
A tired, discouraged people gathered at the foot of the mountain. They had been abused, demeaned, and hunted. They had run from their enemies into the desert, the one place where their enemies would not want to follow.
They had almost died from starvation and thirst. They had to trust that their survival was not due to luck, but was a gift from an unseen, nameless God. This God spoke through the mouth of a man with a speech impediment. This man led them to an isolated mountain, told them to wait for him, and disappeared on the mountain for days at a time.
What passed through their heads, what words passed their lips, while they were waiting? Did they speak about how crazy this whole trip was? Did they talk about the absent leader as a religious fanatic, a dreamer? Did the practical ones among them say that they should return to where they had come from, where there was food and shelter and where they knew their place? Did they want to trade uncertainty for certitude, return to a world that was small and safe?
But they were given a gift. They were shown the deep truth about who they were and who was speaking to them. When he returned the man’s face shown with dazzling divine light. As they saw the light and heard his words, they too were changed—changed from frightened individuals into a people-- a just people, a people bonded to one another and to their God. They knew who they really were and who they were empowered to be. And they could take the next step on their pilgrimage, the next step with their pilgrim God.
Who are we as we hear this story today? Are we also tired, hungry, thirsty, looking? Do we wish we could turn back the clock and go back to what we knew or thought we knew?
The brilliance of God shines forth today as it shone from the face of Moses. Today we too know that we are chosen, loved, and are never alone. We know that God is glory and that we too are filled with glory. The curtain is pushed aside, and we know that we are called and empowered to be a glorious people, to be a people bonded to one another and to God.
Tired men stressed out from constant contact with needy people, weary from travel, filled with wonder and questions, climbed another mountain. Their teacher was with them, the teacher who fascinated them—they did not know why. Their wonder and their questions did not vanish that day of mountain glory—they deepened and were changed. Glory, light and transformation, long-dead prophets alive. And the voice—“My son, I love him, listen to him.”
They lifted their eyes and they saw Jesus alone. But he had been changed, and so had they. Their questions—who is this? Who are we called to be? How does God give us hope?—were all changed. The question was not “will God free us?” Instead, it was “how will God free us, and how shall we follow?” Peter and John and James had been changed as their Master had been changed.
We are them—Peter and John and James. We climb the mountain today and see God’s glory in the face of Jesus. We have heard the story and the story brings us to the light. And today, the questions do not go away, but they too are different. Not “where is God?” but “where do I find this God most deeply?” Not “does anything mean anything?” but “what do I do with Meaning itself—how does it make my own life shine with meaning?” Not “do I have any power?” but “how does God’s power shine forth in me?”
We are bonded as a people and we are changed.
Monday, June 29, 2009
abundant universe
5th Sunday after Pentecost/Proper 8 B
2 Samuel 1:1,17-27; Ps 130; 2 Cor 8:7-15; Mark 5: 21-43
I think today’s readings are out of order.
To me, the Gospel should be first. I need to hear the promises of Jesus first. To live my life each day I need the promise and the presence of the living Jesus who brings hope and life.
The crowd felt that. Today everyone looks for Jesus, everyone knows that God is doing something extraordinary in and through this man. Later will come abandonment, doubt, and fear. Now there is wild hope and the baring of wounds.
The wildest hope of all is beating death.
No despair is so deep, no hope is so desperate as a parent’s hope when their child is near death. Down into the dust goes that good religious man, pillar of his community, down go his inhibitions and status in this desperate thought—is God so great in this man Jesus that there is hope in the face of death?
As a parent, I am moved to tears that Jesus does not question or wait—he simply goes to the man’s house.
God’s power is abundant and God’s hope is so wild and free that it cannot be contained. All my life I have struggled to do one thing at a time, to stay focused, to not dilute my energy. But God’s energy doesn’t get diluted with all our needs—it expands. On the way to the man’s house a woman waits. She has lived with illness and weakness and shame and despair—remember that her “hemorrhages” kept her ritually unclean. She dares to hope that God’s power is abundant and free to anyone who ask. She reaches out, she touches, she is healed. “It’s your faith,” says Jesus. Believe abundantly, receive abundantly. It is not magic thinking—it’s not “believe hard enough and in the right way and you’ll get what you want.” No, it’s like this—we live in an abundant universe, loved by and filled with an abundant God. Invite, accept, ask, breathe…and we live in that abundance and trust the God who is abundance.
Jesus gets to the house, and he enters and takes the hand of the dead young woman. Touching the dead made you unclean, and remember that this girl was 12 and of marriageable age. Jesus set aside all taboos by taking the hand of that young dead girl alone. His words in Aramaic are tender and intimate, “Talitha cum.” And hope and God’s abundance are born again into the world. There are no barriers to the love of God.
Some people ask, “Are you saved?” or “Have you accepted Jesus Christ?” I do not despise any question that might move someone into new life. But the question that speaks to me is, “Do I wish to live in an abundant universe?”
The answer to that question isn’t easy. We get used to our lives being small, risk-free, and predictable. If we expect the big bad to come down, we’re set for it when it does.
But the abundance of God frees us to live with passion even in the face of death.
Today David lamented over Saul and his son Jonathan. The love between these three broke all sorts of barriers and tradition and politics and reason. David and Jonathan loved each other “like their own souls,” and David’s other loves after Jonathan never seem to work out well. As for Saul, even when he turned to madness and violence David remained his wounded but loving foster-son. I really don’t think David was ever the same after the death of these two men that he loved so much—there was a shadow over his life and his family that emerges over and over. But David had this great gift—to embrace hope and an abundant God. David re-invented his own life and faith many times, and so he is free to mourn because he holds to hope.
When we mourn and lament, are we open to the new thing that God will do in our lives and in those around us? Do we cry because once again the world has proved to be as disappointing as we expected? Or does God hear our every cry and cries with us, and in God’s cry a new creation is born in ways we cannot understand?
Paul says, Christ who was rich became poor for us, so we may become rich.
We feel the pinch of loss and fear these days—downsizing, layoffs, fear, more impoverished people coming to us. The abundance of God is strange news at such times. But the abundance of God is always strange, and Paul asks the community to follow through with their promise to finish the collection for the poor community in Jerusalem. There was a recession in those days too. But finish your generous plan, says Paul, not with what you don’t have, but with what you do have. It will be enough. God will make sure that it is enough.
Do we wish to live in an abundant universe? Do we love and seek an abundant God? Do we think that this church community is a community of abundance? Is the God we worship in many voices an abundant God?
2 Samuel 1:1,17-27; Ps 130; 2 Cor 8:7-15; Mark 5: 21-43
I think today’s readings are out of order.
To me, the Gospel should be first. I need to hear the promises of Jesus first. To live my life each day I need the promise and the presence of the living Jesus who brings hope and life.
The crowd felt that. Today everyone looks for Jesus, everyone knows that God is doing something extraordinary in and through this man. Later will come abandonment, doubt, and fear. Now there is wild hope and the baring of wounds.
The wildest hope of all is beating death.
No despair is so deep, no hope is so desperate as a parent’s hope when their child is near death. Down into the dust goes that good religious man, pillar of his community, down go his inhibitions and status in this desperate thought—is God so great in this man Jesus that there is hope in the face of death?
As a parent, I am moved to tears that Jesus does not question or wait—he simply goes to the man’s house.
God’s power is abundant and God’s hope is so wild and free that it cannot be contained. All my life I have struggled to do one thing at a time, to stay focused, to not dilute my energy. But God’s energy doesn’t get diluted with all our needs—it expands. On the way to the man’s house a woman waits. She has lived with illness and weakness and shame and despair—remember that her “hemorrhages” kept her ritually unclean. She dares to hope that God’s power is abundant and free to anyone who ask. She reaches out, she touches, she is healed. “It’s your faith,” says Jesus. Believe abundantly, receive abundantly. It is not magic thinking—it’s not “believe hard enough and in the right way and you’ll get what you want.” No, it’s like this—we live in an abundant universe, loved by and filled with an abundant God. Invite, accept, ask, breathe…and we live in that abundance and trust the God who is abundance.
Jesus gets to the house, and he enters and takes the hand of the dead young woman. Touching the dead made you unclean, and remember that this girl was 12 and of marriageable age. Jesus set aside all taboos by taking the hand of that young dead girl alone. His words in Aramaic are tender and intimate, “Talitha cum.” And hope and God’s abundance are born again into the world. There are no barriers to the love of God.
Some people ask, “Are you saved?” or “Have you accepted Jesus Christ?” I do not despise any question that might move someone into new life. But the question that speaks to me is, “Do I wish to live in an abundant universe?”
The answer to that question isn’t easy. We get used to our lives being small, risk-free, and predictable. If we expect the big bad to come down, we’re set for it when it does.
But the abundance of God frees us to live with passion even in the face of death.
Today David lamented over Saul and his son Jonathan. The love between these three broke all sorts of barriers and tradition and politics and reason. David and Jonathan loved each other “like their own souls,” and David’s other loves after Jonathan never seem to work out well. As for Saul, even when he turned to madness and violence David remained his wounded but loving foster-son. I really don’t think David was ever the same after the death of these two men that he loved so much—there was a shadow over his life and his family that emerges over and over. But David had this great gift—to embrace hope and an abundant God. David re-invented his own life and faith many times, and so he is free to mourn because he holds to hope.
When we mourn and lament, are we open to the new thing that God will do in our lives and in those around us? Do we cry because once again the world has proved to be as disappointing as we expected? Or does God hear our every cry and cries with us, and in God’s cry a new creation is born in ways we cannot understand?
Paul says, Christ who was rich became poor for us, so we may become rich.
We feel the pinch of loss and fear these days—downsizing, layoffs, fear, more impoverished people coming to us. The abundance of God is strange news at such times. But the abundance of God is always strange, and Paul asks the community to follow through with their promise to finish the collection for the poor community in Jerusalem. There was a recession in those days too. But finish your generous plan, says Paul, not with what you don’t have, but with what you do have. It will be enough. God will make sure that it is enough.
Do we wish to live in an abundant universe? Do we love and seek an abundant God? Do we think that this church community is a community of abundance? Is the God we worship in many voices an abundant God?
Saturday, May 30, 2009
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.
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.
Ecstasy
(note--this is a precis of a homily delivered on Sunday May 17/6 Easter--Acts 10: 44-48 was the main text)
Not long ago at a monastery in the Midwest, the novice master in charge of the newbie monks noticed that his guys were looking depressed. He called them together and, after a moment of silence, asked them, "What is it that you love about this life?"
They answered, "The ecstasy we feel when we are in the fields working, late morning or late afternoon. God feels so near, permeating everything--we feel in touch with the divine in all things."
The older monk then asked, "What's the worse thing about this life?"
They answered unanimously, "Standing in church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms, 7 days a week. Then over and over again throughout the day, every day."
The old monk thought for a moment, then said, "Very well. For the next couple of weeks, you do not have to come to church for any of the prayer Offices. In fact, I order you not to come."
After four days the newbie monks came to the novice master and said, "We didn't come here to be farm hands, in dresses." They asked for permission to come back to the daily prayer Offices, 3:00 AM and all.
The novice master asked, "What happened to your ecstasies?"
The young monks replied that they had faded and disappeared after the first couple of days.
The old monk observed, "I can't be sure, but it sounds like your ecstasies in the fields in the sunlight were connected with standing in the church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms."
Ecstasy can be spontaneous. But more often it is the gift of a life lived, a commitment honored.
We all desire ecstasy--it is a hard-wired human need. "Ecstasy" literally means "out of one's being", being taken out of our skin as it were, out of the little bounds of our routine and the ways in which the marvels of the world seem common and dull to us. Somehow we inhabit another place, or perhaps we are seeing the place clearly for the first time. Bliss, rapture, deep peace--this is all ecstasy. The experience can be very personal--one young woman says "dance" in answer to the question of what is her ecstasy, another older woman says "gardening." Any ecstasy has the breath of the divine about it--it is God who draws us out of our own skin and the skin of what we think is the everyday, and calls us into larger vision, larger joy and abandon, larger life.
To ask "What is my ecstasy?" is a spiritual exercise. There we will detect the whisper of God.
A community too can experience ecstasy, and perhaps not in the visibly enraptured ways that we may expect.
We forget that the early Jesus movement was thoroughly Jewish and probably more stern in its observance than the Pharisees. A Jewish Messiah had come to fulfill the ancient promises to Israel. When the expected fulfillment of Jesus' promise did not come and the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, the new movement may well have come to an end, just another enthusiastic little sect disappeared in the dustbin of history.
But the early community chose ecstasy, and this is how. Today's tale tells how Peter and the good Jewish guys from Jerusalem made a journey to talk to some Gentiles, those pork-eating, Greek-speaking, statue-worshipping, sexually randy Gentiles. These folks were off the salvation map, out of the question, despised. But Peter and the boys saw the same ecstasy in them as they knew in themselves. So Peter committed ecstasy--he chose to climb out of the skin of what he thought God was about and who he thought God loved and reached out his baptizing hand to these goyim, these Gentiles. And that is how the Jewish Jesus movement not only survived but spread and grew--an act of ecstasy, climbing out of their own skin of theology and prejudice and narrow imagination to see that God was greater and God was wiser and the people of God were far more diverse and God's desire was outrageous. And they were invited to participate in the ecstasy of God who strains to embrace all people, all the cosmos.
How are we to participate in the ecstasy of God? How are we to be that community of ecstasy, and climb out of the skin of who we think we are and what we think is the plan and desire of God?
Not long ago at a monastery in the Midwest, the novice master in charge of the newbie monks noticed that his guys were looking depressed. He called them together and, after a moment of silence, asked them, "What is it that you love about this life?"
They answered, "The ecstasy we feel when we are in the fields working, late morning or late afternoon. God feels so near, permeating everything--we feel in touch with the divine in all things."
The older monk then asked, "What's the worse thing about this life?"
They answered unanimously, "Standing in church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms, 7 days a week. Then over and over again throughout the day, every day."
The old monk thought for a moment, then said, "Very well. For the next couple of weeks, you do not have to come to church for any of the prayer Offices. In fact, I order you not to come."
After four days the newbie monks came to the novice master and said, "We didn't come here to be farm hands, in dresses." They asked for permission to come back to the daily prayer Offices, 3:00 AM and all.
The novice master asked, "What happened to your ecstasies?"
The young monks replied that they had faded and disappeared after the first couple of days.
The old monk observed, "I can't be sure, but it sounds like your ecstasies in the fields in the sunlight were connected with standing in the church at 3:00 AM chanting Psalms."
Ecstasy can be spontaneous. But more often it is the gift of a life lived, a commitment honored.
We all desire ecstasy--it is a hard-wired human need. "Ecstasy" literally means "out of one's being", being taken out of our skin as it were, out of the little bounds of our routine and the ways in which the marvels of the world seem common and dull to us. Somehow we inhabit another place, or perhaps we are seeing the place clearly for the first time. Bliss, rapture, deep peace--this is all ecstasy. The experience can be very personal--one young woman says "dance" in answer to the question of what is her ecstasy, another older woman says "gardening." Any ecstasy has the breath of the divine about it--it is God who draws us out of our own skin and the skin of what we think is the everyday, and calls us into larger vision, larger joy and abandon, larger life.
To ask "What is my ecstasy?" is a spiritual exercise. There we will detect the whisper of God.
A community too can experience ecstasy, and perhaps not in the visibly enraptured ways that we may expect.
We forget that the early Jesus movement was thoroughly Jewish and probably more stern in its observance than the Pharisees. A Jewish Messiah had come to fulfill the ancient promises to Israel. When the expected fulfillment of Jesus' promise did not come and the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, the new movement may well have come to an end, just another enthusiastic little sect disappeared in the dustbin of history.
But the early community chose ecstasy, and this is how. Today's tale tells how Peter and the good Jewish guys from Jerusalem made a journey to talk to some Gentiles, those pork-eating, Greek-speaking, statue-worshipping, sexually randy Gentiles. These folks were off the salvation map, out of the question, despised. But Peter and the boys saw the same ecstasy in them as they knew in themselves. So Peter committed ecstasy--he chose to climb out of the skin of what he thought God was about and who he thought God loved and reached out his baptizing hand to these goyim, these Gentiles. And that is how the Jewish Jesus movement not only survived but spread and grew--an act of ecstasy, climbing out of their own skin of theology and prejudice and narrow imagination to see that God was greater and God was wiser and the people of God were far more diverse and God's desire was outrageous. And they were invited to participate in the ecstasy of God who strains to embrace all people, all the cosmos.
How are we to participate in the ecstasy of God? How are we to be that community of ecstasy, and climb out of the skin of who we think we are and what we think is the plan and desire of God?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Into the wilderness
5 Easter B 2009
Acts 8: 26-40; Ps 22: 24-30; 1 John 4: 7-21; John 15: 1-8
Yesterday at noon I was drinking beer with Quasimodo.
OK fine, his name is not Quasimodo, he’s not a hunchback. His name’s Parker, but like Quasimodo he’s moved into the stone bell tower of Mt. Tabor Presbyterian Church on Belmont and 55th. He’s there with the blessing of the congregation. And he’s not there to ring the bell. Michelle Harvey, Vestryperson, was with me. Why Parker is in that tower with the congregation’s blessing is a good story.
Mount Tabor Presbyterian Church is an old congregation founded in 1892. In their well-endowed stone church the congregation thrived in the years after both of the two World Wars. But now I’m told the congregation is down to about 40 people at last Sunday’s “traditional” service. They can’t pay their bills, they can’t keep up the large physical plant.
The congregation could have chosen to hang on that way of life to the bitter end, huddling close to one another, telling stories about the “old days”, badgering the central church authorities for more help. Instead they decided that they had to change if they are to have a future and if they are to continue to witness to the love of Christ.
So the congregation took all of their remaining resources and poured them into a new mission. One whole end of the building is being converted into an attractive arts center, coffee shop, and gathering place. They are making themselves an inviting place for post-modern, post-christian, de-churched or un-churched Portlanders to gather and to share faith and meaning and the challenges of their lives. Parker is leading this effort along with one of their younger clergy. When Michelle and I visited, we walked past a group of neighbors strolling around who were pointing and chatting about the work inside. “Yeah, it’s really nice, they call it Tabor Place” I heard one man say. It’s good to hear a non-churched person say something nice about a church in their midst.
I think what is happening at Mt. Tabor Pres is one way that today’s story from Acts comes alive. Philip heads out of familiar Jerusalem after that church is shattered by persecution. He runs into an unlikely man, a foreigner, a dark African who is also a eunuch, a rejected sexual minority according to religious law. Philip chooses to enter this man’s world and in turn is invited to share his space inside his chariot. Philip’s message falls on very fertile ground and the Ethiopian is swept away. He asks for baptism, and Philip freely gives him water and new birth. If you go to Ethiopia today you can see the result. You will see one of the oldest continuing Christian communities in the world. There Philip and the eunuch are honored as the apostles of Ethiopia.
Philip went into the wilderness. He did not stay home amidst a shattered Jerusalem church waiting for something to happen. Philip took the risk of trusting God and sharing the Gospel with a foreigner, overcoming whatever prejudice he felt towards dark-skinned folks or despised sexual minorities. He shared the Gospel gladly and the results were two Spirit-filled people and then a whole new nation choosing Christ.
That’s how faith is shared. That is how the church is re-born.
Back in 2007 we took one small step into the wilderness. We invited and welcomed our sisters and brothers of the Hispanic community, and we have been blessed. Today at the 12 Noon Mass we will celebrate our first Baptism. One of the lectors is a high school student preparing for her Quinceanera, who wants to be a communion minister.
How else are we called to be the church of Philip? What other wilderness are we being invited into? Do we see ourselves as struggling to survive, or are we called enter the worlds of more people we do not yet know?
Acts 8: 26-40; Ps 22: 24-30; 1 John 4: 7-21; John 15: 1-8
Yesterday at noon I was drinking beer with Quasimodo.
OK fine, his name is not Quasimodo, he’s not a hunchback. His name’s Parker, but like Quasimodo he’s moved into the stone bell tower of Mt. Tabor Presbyterian Church on Belmont and 55th. He’s there with the blessing of the congregation. And he’s not there to ring the bell. Michelle Harvey, Vestryperson, was with me. Why Parker is in that tower with the congregation’s blessing is a good story.
Mount Tabor Presbyterian Church is an old congregation founded in 1892. In their well-endowed stone church the congregation thrived in the years after both of the two World Wars. But now I’m told the congregation is down to about 40 people at last Sunday’s “traditional” service. They can’t pay their bills, they can’t keep up the large physical plant.
The congregation could have chosen to hang on that way of life to the bitter end, huddling close to one another, telling stories about the “old days”, badgering the central church authorities for more help. Instead they decided that they had to change if they are to have a future and if they are to continue to witness to the love of Christ.
So the congregation took all of their remaining resources and poured them into a new mission. One whole end of the building is being converted into an attractive arts center, coffee shop, and gathering place. They are making themselves an inviting place for post-modern, post-christian, de-churched or un-churched Portlanders to gather and to share faith and meaning and the challenges of their lives. Parker is leading this effort along with one of their younger clergy. When Michelle and I visited, we walked past a group of neighbors strolling around who were pointing and chatting about the work inside. “Yeah, it’s really nice, they call it Tabor Place” I heard one man say. It’s good to hear a non-churched person say something nice about a church in their midst.
I think what is happening at Mt. Tabor Pres is one way that today’s story from Acts comes alive. Philip heads out of familiar Jerusalem after that church is shattered by persecution. He runs into an unlikely man, a foreigner, a dark African who is also a eunuch, a rejected sexual minority according to religious law. Philip chooses to enter this man’s world and in turn is invited to share his space inside his chariot. Philip’s message falls on very fertile ground and the Ethiopian is swept away. He asks for baptism, and Philip freely gives him water and new birth. If you go to Ethiopia today you can see the result. You will see one of the oldest continuing Christian communities in the world. There Philip and the eunuch are honored as the apostles of Ethiopia.
Philip went into the wilderness. He did not stay home amidst a shattered Jerusalem church waiting for something to happen. Philip took the risk of trusting God and sharing the Gospel with a foreigner, overcoming whatever prejudice he felt towards dark-skinned folks or despised sexual minorities. He shared the Gospel gladly and the results were two Spirit-filled people and then a whole new nation choosing Christ.
That’s how faith is shared. That is how the church is re-born.
Back in 2007 we took one small step into the wilderness. We invited and welcomed our sisters and brothers of the Hispanic community, and we have been blessed. Today at the 12 Noon Mass we will celebrate our first Baptism. One of the lectors is a high school student preparing for her Quinceanera, who wants to be a communion minister.
How else are we called to be the church of Philip? What other wilderness are we being invited into? Do we see ourselves as struggling to survive, or are we called enter the worlds of more people we do not yet know?
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