Sitting in Trees at the Witching Hour

Sitting in Trees at the Witching Hour

A Sermon preached by The Rev. Dr. Steven L. Thomason at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, on October 31, 2010.

The Scripture Texts for Proper 26 Year C are:

Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
Psalm 119:137-144

2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Luke 19:1-10

Luke 19:1-10

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today." So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, "He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner." Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much." Then Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost."

In economics they call it the triple witching hour—the time when three important economic indicators are released, and everyone holds their collective breath for a few hours to see what the market is going to do. There is always a measure of fear that pervades the air on these days—what is going to happen, and how bad might it be? Well, today the Church has its own version of a triple witching day. Of course, it is Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, when we dress up and adorn our surroundings with those things that represent what we fear most. It is fun, a little scary, and we in the Church revel in the promise that God’s saints are with us even on this dark night when ghosts and goblins roam the earth.

October 31st is also Reformation Day, marking the anniversary of Martin Luther’s posting of his 95 Theses on the doors of the Wittenburg Cathedral in 1517, triggering the largest shift in church polity in our 2000 year history. The reverberations of that event are felt even today, even in this place, and so we claim our heritage in the reforms made by the men and women who shook off their fear of reprisal to do what they knew to be right and good for the church, even if it cost them dearly.

And then it is a Sunday that falls in the midst of our stewardship season at St. Paul’s. I have yet to meet a person who does not squirm at least a little when the Church talks about money. For most of us, money represents the lives we give up—the dollar in our purse or pocket represents the choices we make. We gave up something to be able to hold it in our hands, and that choice is something like crossing a Rubicon—we can’t go back. Similarly, once we give money away there is no getting it back, and such decisions make us uneasy.

And so we have a triple witching hour this day—October 31^st—when fear is the common factor in all the equations. So what are we to do? Well, when in doubt, look to the gospel.

Zacchaeus, we are told, was a wee little man, but the hatred hurled at him by his people made him no small target. You may know him as a cute little man whom Jesus sought out, telling him that salvation was his and that he would be his guest for dinner this day. But this is an incredible story of gluttony, hatred, and fear. Zacchaeus, a wee little man was, to put it mildly, not a likeable man. He was a chief tax collector, a rich man who ruthlessly made his money at the expense of the poor; he was a traitor, a crook, a hated man for stealing from people and living on the largesse of the empire.

And yet something was missing for Zacchaeus—something his money could not buy, something his power could not appease. And so he goes to see this man Jesus whom people are raving about. Only he is not welcome on the road side. People know who he is, they despise him, and they refuse to step aside even a little so this diminutive man can see. So he goes and climbs a tree. Do you catch the humor hear—a rotund man climbing a tree?

But then the humor turns to crisis. Zacchaeus watches Jesus walk past the others standing on the roadside…he walks right up to the tree and says Zacchaus, you come down. What fears struck at Zacchaues’ heart at that moment. Was he being condemned by this man of God… would he be lynched…what does this holy man Jesus want with me? Leave me alone.

Only Jesus had a different plan. He looked straight into Zacchaeus’ heart and knew that he wanted out of the hell he had created for himself. He knew about the demons that roamed his world and tormented him. He knew of Zacchaeus’ desire to reform his ways. And so he says, Come down. Fear not. I bring you good news. Salvation is yours. I will come to your house and we will talk more. We will eat together which, for Jews, was the quintessential act of honor and acceptance. And Zacchaeus heart is opened, and he responds by resolving to give to others.

Bennett Sims, the late Episcopal Bishop of Atlanta and a proponent of the Servant Leadership movement we now sponsor here at St. Paul’s, once wrote: “The girding truth is that the human soul is built to give. We are fashioned in the image of the Giver of all life, and nothing proves this more dramatically and repeatedly than the glow of fulfillment that accompanies every act of generosity.”

Now having said that, I want to also say that your salvation is not dependent on how much money you give to the Church. Zacchaeus was offered salvation that day before he declared that he would give away a dime. Giving his money away was a response to his experience of meeting Jesus. God will not love you any more or any less whether you give to the church or not. So let’s throw the guilt card in the trash for this hand.

And what about fear, which is so often the prevailing motive for our behaviors? The beauty of Halloween is that we get to name our fears today. So often we are just told to suppress them, but can you see how the costumes, the blood, the haunted houses, the things that go bump in the night are all playful ways of accomplishing a very serious and necessary thing—naming the things that wrestle us to the ground and incapacitate us with dread and fear. But we do so as we also turn into the Feast of All Saints’ Day, when we are invited to take our seats at the festive celebration.

Have you ever noticed that at Holy Communion the alms plates are presented and placed on the altar—alongside the bread and wine. They are presented as gifts which are received and used for God’s glory. These offerings are part of the economy of God where there is no need to operate out of a sense of fear and scarcity. It is out of God’s abundance that we present our gifts, and it is to God that we return them with thanksgiving.

So let us celebrate this day as we hear the good news that Jesus has called us to come down from our trees of fear and isolation, and he has invited us to join him in a meal in which we are honored and accepted by the very Son of God. Salvation is ours today, and what great news that is.

References

Sims, Bennett J. Servanthood: Leadership for the New Millenium. Boston: Cowley, 1997.

Life Connected

It began as a glimmer,

his eye catching an extended glance

in her direction,

not long enough to leer,

nor that pernicious,

but a turn of the head

met by reciprocated interest

that reoriented everything

to the magnetic core

of enlightened connection

that fused their worlds together that day

and caused them to quiver

with newfound energy,

such that nothing henceforth

would ever be the same.

The nervous laughter

of newfangled fascination

turned in time

to interested listening

and learning how,

precisely,

they each had navigated

the seemingly disconnected trajectories

of oblivious coexistence,

to arrive at this very moment,

as if all that had come before

had somehow been preparation for it—

as if all that had come before

made sense in light of this moment,

when life would adorn

its full regalia

of happy connection.

And then,

in the fullness of time,

the creative math

of blessed union

would define

two equals one

as at once being both

true,

and illogical,

as though one could not

comprehend its essence

by rational deduction alone,

but only in the calculus

of a beloved’s heart

could the full expression of it

be derived,

and integrated,

into Understanding,

which is the catalyst

for connection

in the first place.

And when Understanding

infuses the conjoined lives

with satisfied mutuality

then the Janusian god

arrives unceremoniously

at the hearth

of this life connected

and offers the gift of Empathy

to them,

and they gladly accept,

knowing full well

that this is a two-headed guest

with a two-sided gift to give—

that gifted, they celebrate

each other’s joys and triumphs,

but they also anguish together

when one suffers

the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune,

which is, after all, the meaning of

Compassion—

that they suffer together—

and that changes everything again,

a new variable inserted into the equation

that causes their fused world to erupt

with abundant connection

but in doing so,

ensures the beloved’s heart

will be broken, too.

I suppose one might ask why—

why would anyone choose this lot in life,

if it necessarily means that

quiver turns to quake,

and happy heart is ruptured

by the vicissitudes of interdependence.

To which I say gladly and gratefully:

It is the contour of life connected,

textured with molten meaning

created by the flow

of common affection

and slagged pain, to be sure,

but engaged deliberately,

with enthused awareness

that the shared odyssey

is immensely more interesting

than the doldrums of disconnected solitude.

And, ultimately,

when I stand before the scales of life

measuring its meaning,

each memory pulsing

with an embodied sense of belonging,

hopeful that each unforgiving minute

will have been filled with

sixty seconds of

requited love,

which in my estimation

is life worth living,

then will I know the fullness of life connected,

and I will not find it lacking.

James Hannington and the Ugandan Martyrs

James Hannington was a 19th Century Anglican priest who was inspired to join the Church Missionary Society, the evangelical mission of the Church of England (and later the Anglican Communion) which took the faith around the globe as the British Empire expanded. He was particularly taken with the work in Africa, and he went there in 1882, leading a group of six missionaries in what is now Tanzania. He quickly fell ill with a febrile illness (probably malaria), and was forced to return to England to recuperate.

In 1884 he was ordained Bishop of East Equatorial Africa and set sail again, this time entering Kenya, but rather than staying there, where there had been significant conversion and a growing base of Christians, he chose instead to enter what is now Uganda and the realm of King Mwanga, who was on record as having said that the greatest threat to his power was Christian missionaries.

Bishop Hannington and his party were captured and tortured for eight days before being executed. Recognizing that martyrs often achieve great gains as a result of their sacrifice, Hannington's last words before his death on October 29, 1985 were: "Go tell Mwanga that I have purchased the road to Uganda with my blood." It was a prophetic statement that has proved true.

The Anglican Communion has some 100 million members worldwide today, most in equatorial Africa where the Church has flourished in the last century. The Church of Uganda has nearly 10 million members alone, and counts the martyrdom of James Hannington and his missionaries as having been a chief inspiration for the conversion. Peace, however, is still an elusive goal in this country that continues to struggle with the residual effects of colonial domination, tribal tensions, and economic and social woes.

The Collect for the Day:
Precious in your sight, O Lord, is the death of your saints, whose faithful witness, by your providence, has its great reward: We give you thanks for your martyrs James Hannington and his companions, who purchased with their blood a road into Uganda for the proclamation of the Gospel; and we pray that with them we also may obtain the crown of righteousness which is laid up for all who love the appearing of our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, on God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Returning to Subiaco Abbey on a Stormy Night, October 25, 2010

Beneath the cherub face
of a harvest moon,
with its dreamy host of distant stars,
demured of its self-delight
by cumulus wisps in the rising wind,
the trees testified to the coming storm,
their leafy chorus whispering
to one another
to hold on,
to maintain their positions
in the dappled array
of their autumn struggle,
sensing as I did
that tonight many would surrender
to their auxin-induced abscission
and descend into the
valley of dry bones.

And in the wee hours
I walked among them
in this holy space
where they continued to speak to me
in hoarse voices,
synchronized with my step,
inviting me to join their cadenced song
of resurrected hope
that this would not be the end,
but a new beginning,
a little gidding in their own right,
part of the whole,
when in the fullness of time
they would hearken to Ezekiel’s voice
and entrust themselves entirely
to the soiléd substrate of disintegration
that is death,
so that, as promised, their letting go
could find meaning in
a new and fleshy integrity
more magnificent than moon and stars
and loud rushing planets,
and then—then they will take their place
in the chorus of a new creation
singing its vernal hymn
of nascent and luscious
hallelujahs.

On Retreat

The Executive Team of our Hospice is meeting in retreat today and tomorrow at Subiaco Abbey, a serene and holy place in the valley between the Arkansas and Petit Jean Rivers. It is a special place for me, and I am delighted to have the people with whom I work on a daily basis join me here. We are in the retreat house next to the Abbey Church, which is a grand building to which my family makes an annual pilgrimage for Choir Camp each summer. We come in July for the closing worship service and Broadway show in which I participated as a young camper, and more recently my two daughters have honed their vocal, handbell, and thespian talents.

The Abbey Church is a Gothic stone edifice, drawing on the European medieval architecture which inspired the first monks to move here from Germany more than a century ago and dream of of Benedictine abbey in this rural part of Arkansas. Its vaulted ceilings, stone walls, and terrazo tile floors allow its acoustical grandeur to match its facade in sublime inspiration. The bell calls the monks to prayer several times daily, and I was delighted when Brother Francis, who serves as Guestmaster for the abbey, invited me and my counterparts to prayers this evening.

There is something deeply moving about participating in the ancient practice of chanting--something I do on Sundays in Anglican chant for the Eucharistic Prayer at St. Paul's, but this is Gregorian Chant--more ancient, lovely and simple, yet mesmerizingly communicative of the monastic tradition spanning time and space--it is an invitation to participate in the mystical communion of saints. And the fact that the brothers here are so welcoming and attentive to their guests is deeply cherished, even if it is simply the Benedictine way.

And so, tonight, as the bell in the Abbey Church rings outside my window, I am grateful for the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church of which I am a part, and within which the prayers are lifted up in the monastic tradition that spans the centuries by faithful men and women whose vocation is to pray and work, to the glory of God.

God's blessings and peace,
Steve

Prayers for a democracy

I must admit that I have become rather frustrated with the tenor of this campaign and election season, and I was pondering this morning how I have been sensitized by the polemic and vitreol to the point of desensitization, that I risk just tuning out because it all rings so hollow when the one who wants to be victorious somehow measures victory by the degree of wounded pain inflicted on the opponent. I do not want to "check out" nor do I want to be seduced into believing that this is the truest manifestion of democratic polity. I suspect there are others who are grappling with the same crisis of confidence in our system, and are tempted to orient toward cynicism.

As one whose frame of reference for all of life, including political and social integrity, is grounded in the divine narrative of creative, freeing and sustaining relationship, I turned to prayer this morning, and I offer here a few prayers from the Book of Common Prayer, thinking perhaps others might choose to offer these prayers in the coming days as well. It reframes the conversation: not that one person wins or one party triumphs over the other as a win-lose proposition, but in earnest hope that wisdom and grace will prevail in both those voting and in those who are elected to serve.

A Prayer for those who Influence Public Opinion

Almighty God, you proclaim your truth in every age by many voices: Direct, in our time, we pray, those who speak where many listen and write what many read; that they may do their
part in making the heart of this people wise, its mind sound, and its will righteous; to the honor of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A Prayer for an Election

Almighty God, to whom we must account for all our powers and privileges: Guide the people of the United States (or of this community) in the election of officials and representatives; that, by faithful administration and wise laws, the rights of all may be protected and our nation be enabled to fulfill your purposes; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And, lastly, here is a brief litany for Sound Government, holding those who are currently serving in our prayers:

O Lord our Governor, bless the leaders of our land, that we may be a people at peace among ourselves and a blessing to other nations of the earth.
Lord, keep this nation under your care.

To the President and members of the Cabinet, to Governors of States, Mayors of Cities, and to all in administrative authority, grant wisdom and grace in the exercise of their duties.
Give grace to your servants, O Lord.

To Senators and Representatives, and those who make our laws in States, Cities, and Towns, give courage, wisdom, and foresight to provide for the needs of all our people, and to fulfill our obligations in the community of nations.
Give grace to your servants, O Lord.

To the Judges and officers of our Courts give understanding and integrity, that human rights may be safeguarded and justice served.
Give grace to your servants, O Lord.

And finally, teach our people to rely on your strength and to accept their responsibilities to their fellow citizens, that they may elect trustworthy leaders and make wise decisions for the well‑being of our society; that we may serve you faithfully in our generation and honor your holy Name.
For yours is the kingdom, O Lord, and you are exalted as head above all. Amen.


Blessings and peace,
Steve

A Reflection: Holy Honeybee, Batman!

The scripture readings for 20th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C are:

Joel 2:23-32
Psalm 65
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18

Luke 18:9-14

Luke 18:9-14

Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, `God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, `God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."

And the Collect appointed for today is:

Almighty and everlasting God, increase in us the gifts of faith, hope, and charity; and, that we may obtain what you promise, make us love what you command; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

A few years ago Kathy and I spent a week in a rustic cabin perched above a remote stretch of the Buffalo River. It was summertime, and so we began our daily walks early in the morning to beat the heat. After a time we came to an old logging trail that was still in good enough shape to run without turning our ankles, and so we turned the stroll into a workout.

When we got to a part of the trail that led us up a gentle incline, Kathy, being the runner in better shape, took off ahead of me. I continued my pace, but by now, the sweat was rolling. I recall I was wearing light colored shorts and a white t-shirt, and it was not long before two large bees were aggressively buzzing around me.

I thought at first they were upset at my being there—maybe I had posed a threat to their nest, but then they kept trying to light on my head. Attempts to gently shoo them away with my hand were unsuccessful—it was my sweaty head they wanted. If I ran faster, they were there; if I stood still, they were delighted. I even took off my shirt at one point to swat at them—oh, that was a sight not worth seeing—but it did the trick because they finally left me alone to finish my trek up the hill.

No longer in the mood to run, I was walking when it hit me—Holy Honeybee, Batman! They thought I was the biggest damn flower they had ever seen—white body, and a fuzzy stamen (the size of my head with a rim of hair) just dripping with sweet nectar of the gods….They had hit the motherlode!

I was laughing out loud when I came around the bend where Kathy was waiting for me. I shared the experience with her, and I promise our bellows of laughter echoed all the way to the next ridge over.

Now, hold that image (scary as it might be) in your mind for a moment, and then paint alongside it the image of the two men from the gospel this morning…two men praying in the synagogue. I know it sounds crazy, but I think there is a connection between the two images that involves authenticity. In my estimation the Church has largely missed the boat when we try to make this parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector into a black and white tale of judgment against the Pharisee.

The Pharisee is not the bad guy here despite what Christians have often been told for two millenia. He is, in fact, the good guy—it’s just that he has lost perspective in his attempt to live life on the straight and narrow. In trying to be righteous, he has become inauthentic. In trying to present himself in a certain light, he is being dishonest with himself, with those around him, and especially with God—as if God can be duped by putting on such airs.

Authenticity is a difficult thing these days—we are barraged by all sorts of prompts to be who we are not. We know it as peer pressure in adolescence, but make no mistake, it is a very real issue for adults as well. Keeping up with the Joneses is a dictum that lays down many subtle but powerful tendrils in our lives. The right house, the perfect family, the right clothes, the right haircut, invitations to the right social affairs, even going to the right church, as ludicrous as that sounds.

But with each of those, it is like we put on garments that make us appear to be that which, if we are really honest, we are not. And Jesus rises and tells a parable with a hint of judgment about that behavior, but underneath it is a plea really—be authentic to who you are. Stop putting on airs, and just be honest with yourself, with others, and most especially with God.

And so just who are we--honestly? Well, if we take our Christian identity seriously, then we would talk of humility as the undergarment that reminds us that we are broken and we cannot do this alone. And, as our collect today encourages, we would then clothe ourselves in faith, hope and charity. Those are the clothes of authenticity--they deal with the true self who is made in the image of God and claimed as good, as beloved.

Our appearance, as well as our actions, would declare that we believe that God is working even now, that we are a hopeful people anticipating God’s kingdom in which relationships are made whole, and that in our charitable actions we have cast our lot with God rather than with self-righteous inauthenticity.

Adorned in such garments, there would be no mistaking who we are, or what we are about.

Joy

Awaking to a gilded morn

to find the hardened scorn

of a stone-cold heart

has been rolled away,

and the shackles of

somber dismay

and despair

have been loosed

and lost

in this nocturne

of chrysaline momentum ,

setting one free

to arise

and address

the new day,

as one inspired

with a replete

and fulfilled

destiny

realized in this resurrected moment,

when all that had come before

is not forgotten

nor forsaken

but rests in the crux

of divine memory,

to be eternally referenced

from this dawning reality,

a newfoundland

brimming

with broken purpose

and meaning

shaped by a sense

of utter joy,

certain that this is how

the world

was meant to be.

Water

It is the substance of my dreams,
percolating up from oceanic caverns
of subconscious depths,
fresh water intermingled with
the brine of life,
an estuary of fecund thought,
where water quenches
the thirst of unknowing,
and one comes to understand
how everything--
from primordial soup
to sapient being--
owes its existence
to its aqueous effervescence.

It strikes the balance in life--
too little is parched desolation,
and too much crushes the spirit
under its weighty columns,
but in its fullness,
its waves move me,
and I bear witness
to its riverine life-force
sculpting arcs of fertile loam
pushed up by the relentless flow of ideas
into fluvial wetlands where
the osmotic dance
of new and old
is incessantly remodeled
by its fluid chisel.

From the moment my amniotic bath
was emptied,
when I was plucked
from the familiar, if dark, silence
of a warm, wet, womb
and thrust into the din of a dry world--
I have yearned to
feel the weightless peace
of immersed meaning
found innately
in its isotonic union.

It is into this medium
that I was baptized,
taking my place in the
hydroponic tradition that binds
one to many
in the mystical communion
that comes
when hydrogen
and oxygen
molecules
bind, and bond
with one another
to form something Other,
something more
than self can surmise alone,
synergistically more
than the sum of the parts,
and the miracle of water
takes shape
as an embodied grace
to be given
and received.

And so, still seeking new ways
to experience union,
the swimmer disrobes
in the misty twilight ofa cool autumn morning
on the shore of a small lake,
dropping my belongings in a pile--
as if they might be lost if strewn
in more haphazard fashion--
a cairn of fleece
marking my point of entry
into the dark abyss before me.
I know these waters,
but there is an unknowing that comes
from plunging into that which one
cannot see.

Come, Holy Spirit

Yesterday Kathy and I traveled to Little Rock to take part in the ordinations of two people whom I have come to know during the last couple of years. The service was held in Trinity Cathedral, the same space where (as I have mentioned before) I was baptized, confirmed, married and ordained. It was a beautiful service, with great pomp and circumstance, tradition, a wonderful sermon delivered by a dear friend, and it conjured up memories of my own ordination day nearly seven years ago. I smiled alot yesterday.

Perhaps the most poignant moment in the entire service, save when the Bishop lays hands on the ordinand and prays for the person, is the ancient chant just prior to that moment in which we ask the Holy Spirit to come among us and inspire all of us. The words were written in the 9th Century (in Latin, of course, Veni Sante Spiritu), translated into English in the 1500s and set to music by John Henry Hopkins, who was Bishop of Vermont in the 19 Century (slight digression: his son also wrote the words and music to the popular Christmas song, We Three Kings). At any rate, the words are themselves inspiring, the plainsong chant is evocative, and the idea that this same practice of invoking the Spirit in this way has been in use the world over for much of the last millenium is sobering to me.

But enough of my words describing it. Here are the words of the translation:

1. Come, Holy Ghost, our soul inspire,
And lighten with celestial fire;
Thou Thee anointing Spirit art,
Who dost Thy sevenfold gifts impart:

2. Thy blessèd unction from above
Is comfort, life, and fire of love;
Enable with perpetual light
The dullness of our blinded sight;

3. Anoint and cheer our soilèd face
With the abundance of Thy grace;
Keep far our foes, give peace at home;
Where Thou art guide no ill can come.

4. Teach us to know the Father, Son,
And Thee, of both, to be but One;
That through the ages all along
This, this may be our endless song:

Praise to Thy eternal merit,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Ayehka and an Answer

The Old Testament and Gospel readings appointed for this Sunday is:

Genesis 32:22-31

The same night Jacob got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything that he had. Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob's hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, "Let me go, for the day is breaking." But Jacob said, "I will not let you go, unless you bless me." So he said to him, "What is your name?" And he said, "Jacob." Then the man said, "You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed." Then Jacob asked him, "Please tell me your name." But he said, "Why is it that you ask my name?" And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, "For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved." The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.

Luke 18:1-8

Jesus told his disciples a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, "In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, `Grant me justice against my opponent.' For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, `Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.'" And the Lord said, "Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?"

A homily entitled: Ayekha and an Answer

In most of the parables recorded in the gospels, Jesus does not “explain” himself by offering an interpretation of the story. Parables are stories designed to have multiple layers of meaning, and Jesus is content to let us wrestle with his words, chewing on each morsel to experience the fullness of flavors contained in them. So I find it curious that in the parable of the widow and the unjust judge—here with this parabolic teaching Luke has inserted bookends that serve as a frame of reference for the story: the disciples (and we) are told of our need to persist in prayer and not lose heart even in the face of discouragement or uncertainty. So it is natural to place our identity with the widow, whose petitions to the judge are not unlike our petitions to God—we are encouraged to persist in our pleading with God until our prayers are answered. We know, of course, that God is not like the unjust judge, whom we are told not once but twice had no fear of God and no respect of anyone—but if justice is served even at the hands of such a nefarious character, how much more will be the case with God who operates out of a sense of steadfast love and mercy with everyone, always.

But since every one of Jesus’ parables are like an onion, where we peel away one layer only to find another layer of meaning and another, what if we were to ponder this parable from a different perspective? What if God was the widow who persists in the search for justice, and we are like the judge, who so often goes about his work with neither a sense of who God is nor with a sense of respect for those who bring their petitions to him? Is it possible to imagine that God might just be the one who continually calls out to us, who incessantly pleads for us to hear the cause of God, who won’t let us rest until we heed what God is saying?

Elie Wiesel is a prolific writer, but one of my favorite books by him is entitled And the Sea is Never Full. It is essentially the memoirs of a man who survived the death camps of the Holocaust and has been striving ever since to make sense of his life as a survivor and a victim. He opens the book with a story about a rabbi who is imprisoned in Russia during one of the many episodes of oppression of the Jews in that country. One day the warden came to see the rabbi in his solitary cell, and he challenged him with this question:

“It says in the book of Genesis that, after having bitten of the forbidden fruit, Adam fled, so that the Lord had to ask him ‘Ayekha, where are you?’ Is it possible, even conceivable, that the Creator of the world did not know where Adam was hiding?”

The rabbi smiled and responded by saying: “The Lord knew; it was Adam who didn’t know.” And then he continued, in true rabbinical form, by asking the warden a question in return. “Do you believe the Bible to be a sacred book?”

“Yes,” answered the warden.

To which the rabbi queried further: “And that it speaks to all mankind, of all times, therefore also to ours?”

“Yes, I believe that.”

“In that case,” the rabbi continued, “I shall explain to you the real meaning of the question God asked of Adam. Ayekha signifies: Where do you stand in this world? What is your place in history? What have you done with your life, Adam? These are fundamental questions that every human being must confront sooner or later…“For every one of us, the book of life goes back to Adam. It is he who embodies the mystery of the beginning. But it is to each of us that God speaks when He says Ayekha.”[1]

It is a worthwhile endeavor to ask ourselves regularly how do we live into God’s story, into the story of God's Salvation History—how God has been at work of salvation since the beginning of time, how God has been continually striving to call out to humans who have gone and hidden ourselves from God. We know the pivot of this saga in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, but we claim that God has been about the work of calling people back to the purposes we were created for—God has been about this work always—before Jesus and ever since. God is about this work even now—even here, even with you and me.

We go to church week by week, not because it is what we are supposed to do—we will not earn God’s favor by doing so, nor will we win a hearing more successfully in church than elsewhere in the course of our lives. We go to church to hear the story of God’s steadfast love and mercy in order that—in order that we can recognize the story as our own. So that we can live into the story, and in turn tell it to others so that they can make it theirs as well.

The significance of Jacob wrestling with something that had a hold on him in the middle of the night is a rich story. It is fun to hear and fun to tell. But as we peel through the layers of such a story what becomes evident is that when we place ourselves in the story, it is then that we come to recognize that it is we who are wrestling with God in the dark night of our souls—and we are blessed by this spirit who has left his mark on us. We are changed by such experiences—just as Jacob is forever changed and is renamed Israel.

And, of course, we come to understand the gospel story for its true riches only when we are able to position ourselves in that story—marked as disciples by the man who is also God, who comes, like the widow, and persistently cries for justice to be served in this world. Who comes, as one among us, to help us discover the life-giving answers to those questions which reveal the naked truth of our lives—Ayekha. Where do you stand in this world? What is your place in history? What have you done with your life?

And, of course, we come to understand how to answer those questions and others like them by living in a community of faith—it is there, alongside each other that we place ourselves day by day in the story of God’s salvation. We live in the service of such a story—to know it as our own, to tell it as the good news for all people, and to live into it as the story by which we come to know God as the one who is steadfastly loving and merciful in all things.

May God’s holy name be praised.

---

[1] Wiesel, Elie. And the Sea is Never Full: Memoirs, 1969. New York: Random House, 1999.

Teresa of Avila

St. Teresa of Avila, Spain, was a 16th Century nun who is perhaps best known for her contributions to the mystic tradition and for her life of utter devotion. She and her writings have enjoyed renewed popularity in recent years, and there is a great deal of information about her life available on the internet. A brief review here:

She was born into a large family, one of ten children, whose mother died when she was a teenager. She entered the convent, a Carmelite, where she fell ill and was partially paralyzed for some three years, during which she later wrote her prayer practices came to life. She began to have visions about the nature of God and developed a deep sense of the divine presence in her life and in creation.

In 1562 she left her local monastery to form another (still Carmelite, but reformed) where she and other women engaged the life of deep prayer as "cloistered" nuns--that is, they strictly adhered to rules preventing them participating in activities outside the convent, and they engaged in prayer throughout nearly every waking hour. They became known as "discalcids" because they did not wear shoes, symbolizing their extreme poverty, humility and self-denial. She would eventually establish some 15 such convents across Spain.

She died on October 4, 1582, at the age of 67, but her feast day comes later in the month due to a change in the way the calendar was kept. The pope declared (coincidentally) in the same year of her death, that the western world would follow a revised calendar developed by Gregory (replacing the Julian calendar which had prevailed since the days of the Roman Empire).

Her prolific writings have survived the centuries, and can be found readily in many bookstores and on-line. One of my favorite poems is excerpted here:

Christ has no body now but yours

No hands, no feet on earth but yours
Yours are the eyes through which He looks
compassion on this world

Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

Beauty

Some say it follows
the laws of
proportionality,
a golden rectangle
with spirals of
dimensionality
and depth,
chiseled to perfection
by the proteinaceous
expression of genes
destined to dominate
and align together to form
Beauty
by shear mitotic chance.

Others say it is
in the eye of the beholder,
that somehow the character
of Beauty
is bestowed as a gift
given by the Other,
external to one’s
identity,
that somehow it cannot
possibly be true
unless someone else
sees it and says
it is so.

But I say Beauty
arises from a poignant
and generous
spirit
dwelling deep within you,
yearning to be seen
and shared,
so divine that
neither chromosome
nor all creation
can cipher its origin,
but it is yours,
it is You,
and awaking to that sublime reality,
you will know
just how beautiful
you truly are.

Samuel Isaac Joseph Schereschewsky

Today is the feast of one of my favorite saints, Samuel Isaac Joseph Schereschewsky, who died on this day in 1906. His last name is pronounced sheriff--chef--ski, a fact I learned as a young boy attending the Cathedral School in Little Rock on the grounds of Trinity Episcopal Cathedral where I was baptized, confirmed, married, and ordained. It is a holy place for me. In the south transept of the Cathedral is a small stain glass window with the image of Samuel Isaac Joseph Schereschewsky who was the Bishop of Shanghai for a time in the 19th Century.

The Dean of the Cathedral during my childhood was a priest who had served as a missionary in China in the 1930s, then held captive with his wife by the Japanese during WWII. His first son was born in the POW camp, and he would teach us some Church history by telling us about the stained glass window figures following our daily chapel services. I was fascinated by their stories, how their contributions to the Christian tradition had landed them in the immortally fixed position of a window pane, watching over those of us who in our own time were taking our places in the community of saints. The Dean was especially proud of his connection to the Bishop of Shanghai, and I think probably had something to do with this addition to the stained glass collection.

Joseph, as he was known, was born in Lithuania in 1831 and went as a young man to Germany to enroll in rabbinical school, but there converted to Christianity, eventually moved to the US, where he was ordained an Episcopal priest and was sent in 1862 as a missionary to China. He began work on translating the Bible into Mandarin. In 1877 he was elected Bishop of Shanghai and founded St. John's University, the first degree-granting school in China, later dissolved in the 1950s with cultural revolution.

While serving as bishop he developed Parkinson's Disease which rendered him largely paralyzed, forcing him to resign his post, but he continued work on his Wenli Bible (Wenli is the classical Chinese style of writing). His tremors prevented him from writing, so he had a special typewriter crafted with Chinese figures, and using the one finger still functional, he spent the next 20 years of his life typing the final 2000 pages of the Bible which is still used today.

Four years before his death, Bishop Schereschewsky wrote: "I have sat in this chair for over twenty years. It seemed very hard at first. But God knew best. He kept me for the work for which I am best fitted."

A true inspiration, whose name was fun to say when I was a boy, and it is still today. And so I give thanks for the life and witness of Bishop Samuel Isaac Joseph Schereschewsky.

O God, who in thy providence didst call Joseph Schereschewsky from his home in Eastern Europe to the ministry of this Church, and didst send him as a missionary to China, upholding him in his infirmity, that he might translate the holy Scriptures into languages of that land: Lead us, we pray thee, to commit our lives and talents to thee, in the confidence that when thou givest thy servants any work to do, thou dost also supply the strength to do it; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

On the Elevator at MD Anderson, October 13, 2010

I was already on the elevator
when they stepped on,
wife and husband,
gravity having
worked on their
seventy-some-odd year old bodies
till they shortened and sagged
from the relentless downward pull,
but here they were fighting still,
holding hands as a sign
of the covenant
that they were in this
together—
even though it was her cancer,
even though the fear in their eyes
betrayed the uncertain truth
that one might have to live
without the other.

I imagined how her story had taken form—
a lump felt in the shower,
or pain in her abdomen
that led to scans that showed
the lopsided ovary—
either way the profound feeling
of senselessness
that cancer would strike
the organs still held dear
even if long since retired
from their biological duties—
Darwinian deeds that gave life
and nourished its infancy,
so that she might live on
at least in her progeny.

But she wanted more than that,
as we all do,
if we are really honest.
We want more
than to be
brought low
by a tiny oncogene
that goes about its insidious work
silently,
before finally speaking
at a volume to be heard,
and declares its
greedy claim on life,
on the whole of life,
body, mind, spirit, family,
such that nothing,
nothing,
will ever be the same again.

So here she was,
hand in hand with husband,
stepping on the elevator
to rise to the occasion
of the battle before them,
fear in their eyes
yielding to gravity once again,
looking down
in trembling gaze
at the sure footing
of the ground level
they were leaving now,
never to return the same.

And out of the corner of my eye,
in the time it took to get
from first floor to tenth,
to the clinic where they would
start life anew
with this third party,
I watched her husband
breathe in deeply
look up to engage
their Agincourt odds,
with hope and love,
and courage enough
for the two of them,
and gripping her hand tighter,
met the ding of the elevator
as one prepared
for whatever might come,
and led his beloved
into the breach,
less than a fortnight before
St. Crispin’s Day.

With Unfeignedly Thankful Hearts

Each weekday morning at 8am, a group gathers in the chancel of St. Paul's historic church in Fayetteville where I serve on Sundays--they join together to say Morning Prayer, and in doing so, step into the parade of people that spans more than four centuries and the world over who are bound together chiefly by our common prayer. The Office of Morning Prayer concludes with the General Thanksgiving, composed by the Bishop of Norwich in the 1600s but is believed to have been modeled after a private devotion used by Queen Elizabeth I herself.

The prayer has a poetic beauty about it, with several turns of phrase that pierce the heart. It speaks of the “inestimable love” that God has for the world…for the means of grace and for the hope of glory.

And we pray that God may “give us that due sense of all thy mercies, that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful…

To have a heart that may be unfeignedly thankful—pure and sincere in its response to that inestimable love showered upon us.

The lack of inclusive language betrays the prayer’s origins in Elizabethan English, but I hope its poetic beauty might pierce your heart as it does mine, such that you and I can together step into the parade of people whose hearts are indeed unfeignedly thankful.

Almighty God, Father of all mercies,

we thine unworthy servants
do give thee most humble and hearty thanks
for all thy goodness and loving-kindness
to us and to all men.
We bless thee for our creation, preservation,
and all the blessings of this life;
but above all for thine inestimable love
in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ;
for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.
And, we beseech thee,
give us that due sense of all thy mercies,
that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful;
and that we show forth thy praise,
not only with our lips, but in our lives,
by giving up our selves to thy service,
and by walking before thee
in holiness and righteousness all our days;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
to whom, with thee and the Holy Spirit,
be all honor and glory, world without end. Amen.

If you want to listen to a podcast of the full office of Morning Prayer, click either

http://www.missionstclare.com/english/

or

http://www.podbean.com/podcast-detail?pid=55257

Blessings and peace,

Steve

Made Well In The Eyes of God

Each Sunday there are Scripture readings appointed in the Revised Common Lectionary, which is read across the world by Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Disciples of Christ, some Methodists and Presbyterians, and others who choose to follow this liturgical rhythm of congregational life. The gospel reading for this Sunday, the 20th Sunday after Pentecost in Year C is

Luke 17:11-19

On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!" When he saw them, he said to them, "Go and show yourselves to the priests." And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus' feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, "Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?" Then he said to him, "Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well."

A homily offered for reflection:

Have you ever stopped to think about how many miles Jesus must have walked during the three years of his ministry? He seemed to be on a journey from the moment he came out of the water at his baptism and walked into the wilderness for forty days. His journey would ultimately take him to Jerusalem and to death on the cross, but in the interim he zigzagged his way across Judea, Galilee, and Samaria and beyond—constantly traveling from one place to the next, meeting people at every turn. I often wonder what Jesus must have thought as he set out on any given day—Hmm, I wonder whose path I will cross today? Whose life will I engage today? Who might be healed or encouraged by our encounter today?

It is difficult to reconstruct the exact itinerary of his ministry, but the geographic setting for each encounter with people adds a bit more three dimensional taste to the story. We can often glean a great deal from the details supplied, especially in Luke’s gospel, where the information about location is frequently elaborate. For example, in our passage for this morning, we are told straight off that Jesus was “on the way to Jerusalem” as he traveled through the region between Samaria and Galilee. It appears that Luke wanted us to hear this story with at least two points of reference in mind:

First, that although he was still at some distance from the holy city of Jerusalem, that was Jesus’ final destination. And, of course, we know the pain and suffering that await Jesus after his arrival. I suspect that Jesus probably had a sense of them, too. So our knowledge of his passion informs our understanding of this encounter and all that follows.

Secondly, this area is borderland which did not enjoy the best of reputations. It would not have made any magazine’s list of Best Places to Live. Galilee is to the north, and Judea is to the south, but this region was mountainous terrain west of the Jordan River where eking out a living was tough. It is here, in this borderland that the outcasts and despised of Jesus’ world reside—Samaritans—people who, in the opinion of Jews, had forsaken the truth of the Jewish traditions and therefore had forsaken the truth about God. But because of its location, between Galilee and Judea, people had to travel through this borderland, and because people frequently visited Jerusalem in the south, it was not uncommon to cross paths with other travelers.

Lepers, because of their infection and the frightening disfigurement that resulted from their affliction with leprosy, were rendered unclean. Indeed, they were rendered uncleanable by the religious system because of their disease, and if uncleanable then banished from society altogether. They were forced from their homes and their families and left to beg at the edge of villages where these travelers might throw them a bone as they passed by. People were afraid that if they got too close, their disease might spread, so they were forced to stay at some distance.

And so it was as these ten lepers approached Jesus but kept their distance. They cry for help, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Nothing here explicitly says they were asking Jesus to cure their disease. As beggars, they may have been asking for the mercy that comes in the form of a gift of food or clothing, or a few small coins. Not unlike how we might engage a homeless person today who panhandles on the street corner. But Jesus, traveling toward Jerusalem and toward his own suffering, offers more than a few small coins. He does see them—not in the way we often avert our eyes from the homeless and the unlovely, pretending not to see, but in a way that lets them know that he indeed has seen the sickness of their skin. He sees their affliction with a compassionate eye. He offers them the gift of a cure with little fanfare really, and then he tells them to go show themselves to the priest—a command that only makes sense if their affliction has been removed, and they can be declared by religious authorities to be clean and adequate to reenter society. Jesus’ journey has taken him to the borderlands where he has crossed paths this day with ten lepers who cried for mercy, and he has heard them, and they were cured of their illness.

But there is one who notices that his disfigured body has been made whole again, and he returns to Jesus to give thanks. For him, for this one man who was thankful enough to return to Jesus, was a gift far greater than the cure offered the other nine. Skin can be made clean again, diseases can be cured, but for this man, Jesus offered the additional blessing of being made well. It is interesting here, in the Greek text, that this verb translated, “Being made well,” is the same verb used elsewhere that is translated “saved.” This man, because of his faith, and because of his response of thanks and praise to God, has been saved. Ten lepers are cured; one is saved—and this one is an outcast, a Samaritan, a religious heretic, and a leper, rendered uncleanable by the system yet declared by Jesus as one who is not only made clean but is saved. He is made whole in the eyes of God.

My friends, if we reflect even a little on the geography of our lives we will find that we spend much of our time traveling through the borderlands of life—where we cross paths with people who have been rendered uncleanable by the systems that drive our social structures. I think as followers of Jesus we are given the task of pondering each morning what today might hold for us—Whose path I will cross today? Whose life will I engage today? Who might be healed or encouraged by our encounter today? And we ask these questions as part of the conversation we have with God. They are prayerful questions. Whose path will I cross today? Whose life will I engage today? Who might be healed or encouraged by our encounter today?

Sometimes it is the other person who desperately needs us to cast a compassionate eye on their affliction as they cry out for mercy. And, of course, sometimes it is we who are in need of the merciful attention of another who might tend to us in our time of need. We are all travelers on the road, and we are all lepers, broken and disfigured in our particular ways by a system of power that says no matter how good you are, you will never measure up. You will never be clean enough to be made acceptable to the authorities—whether that authority comes from a teacher, a parent, a politician, a priest, or even from God.

And then Jesus shows up on the road, and standing there in the middle of the dusty dirty road, he offers to any who might respond with a thankful heart, the gift of being made well, of being saved, of being made whole in the eyes of God. Not through our own doing, but by the grace of a God who created us and who loves us with such abundance that no one—no one—is rendered uncleanable in the eyes of God. That is the good news of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ—that no one—no one—is rendered uncleanable in the eyes of God. This verb, this being made well, being saved, this verb is God’s verb. We are simply to respond in faith that God has acted in this verb, and with thankful hearts, we praise God for such a gift of grace. Amazing grace that saved one such as me.

Reference

Craddock, Fred. Interpretation: Luke. P.202-204.