Pentecost

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

Take my lips and speak through them; take our ears and hear through them; take our hearts and set them on fire with love for thee. May I speak in the name of the Living God.” Amen.

When the day of Pentecost had come the disciples were all together in one place: attentively, watching and waiting for whatever it was that Jesus had said would happen to happen. Without warning seemingly out of nowhere came the sound of a roaring wind. It filled the entire house where they were sitting. Then the Holy Spirit swept through their ranks like wildfire. Suddenly they were all speaking at once about God’s deeds of power—and they were speaking in all the languages of the world.

Devout Jewish pilgrims from all over the world were staying in Jerusalem at the time. They came running at the sound, thunderstruck. Aren’t all of these who are talking Galileans? How can we hear them proclaiming God’s deeds of power each in our own mother tongue? What is going on here? How can this be?

It was a singular moment yet to a lesser degree we know this miracle of speaking and hearing in our own experience, times when someone seemingly ordinary says something to us that blows us away as, again, seemingly out of nowhere a connection is made, a freeing insight gained, healing happens. We hear a sermon or a song and think: It’s as if they’re speaking directly to me! And, indeed, the Holy Spirit does speak to us every day many times a day if only we will listen. Fifty years ago a friend is given a passage of scripture; he credits it with saving him from a nervous breakdown. A friend tells another friend: “you are loved, so loved” and she hears the voice of God. Someone in a grocery store smiles handing a woman back a dropped can of peas and hands her back her self-respect.

We’re here because, miraculously, over the course of our lives we’ve experienced “God’s deeds of power” spoken to us in a language we can understand, a language that calls to us like our mother tongue in a foreign land, irresistibly drawing us in love, by love, for love. Like the Jewish pilgrims before us we’ve gathered at the sound. People being people—both then and now—continue to draw varying conclusions about the evidence: “It’s God,” cries one. “You’re kidding yourself,” mocks another. “They’re drunk on cheap wine,” some sneered at the disciples.

Something happened in that movement of tongues and wind and fire because from that moment everything changed. In the words of Barbara Brown Taylor, “The followers became leaders, the listeners became preachers, the converts became missionaries, the healed became healers. The disciples became apostles, witnesses of the risen Lord by the power of the Holy Spirit. Surprising things began to happen. They began to say things that sounded like him, and they began to do things they had never seen anyone but him do before.” (Gospel Medicine, Cambridge: MA; Cowley Publications, 1995, p. 77-78).

For one thing instead of denying he even knew Jesus Peter stepped up on Pentecost with boldness: Friends, we’re not drunk. It’s only 9 o’clock in the morning. But it is intoxicating—this mind blowing, heartwarming, life changing power of God that connects us to each other and the world in love and service. Listen up and get this story straight. This is just as the prophet Joel announced: God has poured out God’s Spirit “upon all flesh” upon all kinds of people, not just on prophets, priests and royalty, but on our sons and our daughters, on male and female slaves, on the lost the lonely and the left behind, our young see visions and our old dream dreams.

The Spirit of Truth is here to lead us into all truth: the truth about ourselves, the truth about Jesus Christ crucified and Risen, the truth about whose world this is and how we can help one another. God is calling us all in the language of passion and love—a language each of us can understand. It brings courage out of fear, life out of death, community out of chaos, saying: Step out in faith, I will meet you with power. If you want to walk on water you got to get out of the boat! “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

“When the day of Pentecost had come” the community consisted of 120 people. By the end of Peter’s sermon 3000 people were baptized. (O to preach like that!) “When the day of Pentecost had come” all Christ’s followers were all together in one place, by the time the sun had set they’d been blown out over the known world. Without the power of the Holy Spirit the disciples would have become life-less and scattered like Ezekiel’s dry bones BY it they came together bone upon bone into a living Body, the living, breathing, transforming Body of Christ. The Church was born. We’re still here.

With the events of this day the Easter season comes to an end. The Paschal candle which has burned in our midst since the Easter Vigil will be extinguished—the presence of Christ no longer signified by its presence in our midst but by his presence in US. With the Feast of Pentecost the flame of love that burned in Christ alone, now burns in us by the power of the Holy Spirit. It has the power to transform and transfigure us as it did the disciples if only we’ll allow it. It comes to warm and comfort us. It comes to guide us in places of risk and uncertainty—where life has broken us open and we are not in control. It comes to strengthen and empower us, to equip us with patience and courage we did not know we had, for struggles we could not have imagined, for glory yet to be revealed. When we find ourselves with speech beyond our reasoning, faith beyond measure, love beyond thought, we know the Spirit has caught hold of us.

It is, my friends, the greatest unharnessed power in the world. What might we do if we understood, believed in, experienced the power working in us through the Holy Spirit! If we opened ourselves to it, decided to work with it? It may come more like a whisper than the rush of a violent wind in our lives but by our baptism we have been given the gift of the Holy Spirit. We may speak with an eloquence that converts 3000 in a day or find ourselves unable to utter a word—even so, as the alternate reading for this morning asserts, the Holy Spirit is there interceding “with sighs too deep for words.” Receiving the Holy Spirit doesn’t make life easy for us. It aligns us with God’s plan for our lives. It isn’t that life gets easy, but that important things begin to happen. We become part of something great.

Wherever we find ourselves today God is at work in us. Maybe we are lying on the ground like dry bones. God asked Ezekiel, “Mortal can these bones live?” I answered, “O Lord God you know.” Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the bones.” And Ezekiel prophesied. “Prophesy to the breath.” And Ezekiel prophesied and the Spirit of God came into those very dry bones and they lived. I’m struck—on this birthday of the church—by the power of community. The bones—and God—needed Ezekiel. The crowd needed Peter. We’re all in this together. The bones in the valley weren’t just disconnected they were “very dry.” But through Ezekiel the Spirit entered into that place of desolation and death and brought life. The disciples had been waiting and praying and praying and waiting but they didn’t give up. They encouraged one another and the breakthrough came as it always will because God is bigger than the wait or the confusion, or the risk or the fear or the uncertainty or the loss. The Holy Spirit is the greatest unharnessed power in the world.

Pentecost marks an end and a beginning—which seems fitting as our sabbatical time draws to a close. For one thing it marks the end of the disciple’s life with Christ as they had come to know it—just as it does for us. Like the disciples we’ve shared the last supper, endured the cross, rejoiced in the resurrection and encountered the Risen Christ in people we mistook for strangers and friends until the day he was taken up from us in the Ascension. We puzzled over his parables, washed each other’s feet, and pondered the meaning of his sacrifice. We shared insights and conversation, compassion and support. Like the disciples we laughed and cried and planned and prayed. We celebrated our beloved-ness, received the gifts each other had to give, kept an eye skinned for the Spirit. In short, we’ve been the Body of Christ.

It’s been a privilege to have served among you—beside you. Never have I had the pleasure of working with a team so caring and competent, spirited and supportive: from the wardens—Tom and Cheryl; to the clergy—Chris Carroll for her teaching and pastoral visits and Chris McCloud for support above and beyond the call of duty—liturgical, pastoral, personal (I could NOT have done this without you!); to Karen, parish administrator extraordinaire, to Mary our wonderful seminarian and her gift of Taize; John, our joyful and talented organist and the choir who not only processes in a reverential dance but sings when they get here; to Ulysses and the altar guild—gracious, collegial and kind, all; to Dan in charge of acolytes (and great help to me and Deacon Chris especially at Holy Week); to Roland and his healers; Nina and Kirk, masters of the gospel on the web; Clarence and newcomers, George in charge of readers (no small feat today) ; to Jane worker-of-wonders Cates in charge of our children; to Jane who covered our Confirmation Class; to the family service musicians; to ushers and greeters to all of you who “gather at the sound.” You have spoken to me for 14 weeks in a language I can understand. God is good, all the time. I thank God for you all. What a gift! What a blessing! What a parish!

Pentecost marks the beginning of a new Spirit in Christ. “I tell you the truth:” said Jesus, “it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.” Fourteen weeks ago the Holy Spirit blew Bernie to South Africa and me into your midst. Now the Holy Spirit is blowing Bernie home and us apart. In true Pentecost fashion you and Bernie are coming together in a new spirit because the community has not been just sitting here marking time. The Holy Spirit has been at work. Bernie’s been changed. You’ve been changed. I’ve been changed. How will God knit together these living bones into a new reality I wonder? It must be a new reality because there is no going backwards in Christ. God always moves forward, melting us, molding us, leading us on.

That first Sunday I quoted Marcel Proust: the real voyage of discovery lies not in seeing new landscapes but in having new eyes. I wonder with what new eyes you will see yourselves and Bernie as the future unfolds. One thing is for certain God will be speaking We only know that God will be with us all speaking the language of love and grace and transformation in a way each of us will be able to understand and that the power of the Holy Spirit—the power of the invisible God is constantly at work beneath the surface of things.

The Body hasn’t stopped growing or the wind blowing since. In fact, it blew mightily during the silence of our 10:30 Taize service two weeks ago. After the whir of the siren, after the barking of the dog into the silence there came the rush of a mighty wind and it shook the roof of the house, this house, where we were sitting. Did you hear it? What a marvelous sign. Pentecost wasn’t only “back then” it is here and now. Come to make all things new—even me and you. Thanks be to God.

Come, Holy Spirit, come!

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Memorial Day

By The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

“As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.” May I speak in the name of the Living God. Amen.

The soldier had what looked like a quiver of them on his back: American flags on small dowels and he solemnly stood them upright one after another with military precision in front each headstone in what turned out to be rows and rows and rows of headstones at Arlington National Cemetery. On this Memorial Day weekend we remember those who have given their lives in the service of their country; who like the disciples in the gospel this morning were sent into a world hostile to them and laid down their lives in the service of a mission larger than themselves.

Are there any in our midst who have served in our nations’ armed forces? Could you please stand. The most cursory student of history knows we owe you a debt of gratitude. On behalf of the rest of us, I’d like to give a special word of thanks to those of you who were willing to be sent—they aren’t called “orders” for nothing, are they? Are there any who supported a family member who served? I’m glad Michele Obama has made the support of military families one of her main concerns because Lord knows the families of our service men and women bear a great part of the unseen cost of our nation’s defense: long deployments, fear for loved ones, the sometimes dangerous transition to peacetime life after war, the reality of post traumatic stress. These things are better understood now though still difficult to deal with in the suck-it-up stoicism of military life. My dad dealt with a lot of it: “I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one.”

I grew up in the military. My dad was a naval captain and chaplain. Church wasn’t in parishes but on naval bases with military personnel. My dad served for 36 years: 20 active, 16 reserved. We knew about being “sent.” Some of the places my dad was sent were to the S. Pacific in WWII, to circumnavigate Africa when I was 4, to be the chaplain of a Marine infantry battalion in Vietnam when I was six in 1966-67—and where he earned the Bronze Star with Combat “V” for valor. As a family we were sent from Indiana to RI to MA to Virginia to Newfoundland—which necessitated breaking out a map—then back to RI where my folks retired and still live. My older brother was ROTC in college, serving 20 years in the marines: 12 active, 8 reserved retiring as a Lt Colonel. He was married for 20 years to a naval pilot. She flew C130s those big huge cargo planes.

We knew from military. I was never cut out for it myself, disagreed with my brother about it in college but at its best there is little like it. The military we knew was a community of dedication, commitment and self-offering that ran in illustrated parallel to the gospel in our house. We heard the gospel themes of costing love, danger, sacrifice and courage in the sea stories that riveted us. Countless evenings were spent regaled at the dining table or sitting at the feet of guests in the living room listening to stories in which our parents saw and taught us to see the great realities and truths of the gospel enacted in real time and with power.

Stories like the precious water from a canteen poured over a wounded comrade’s head in the Vietnamese jungle, “It is like the precious oil on the head, running down upon the beard,” wrote my dad in Vietnam, quoting Psalm 133, “on the beard of Aaron, running down over the collar of his robes.” Stories like the nun cutting the bloody boot off a wounded soldier told, “I wouldn’t do that for a million dollars” who replied: “neither would I.” The family friend in the Coast Guard, commander of an 83 footer search and rescue boat that was one of the boats that responded to the destroyer the USS Turner that blew up off the coast of NY. Another boat returned first and was given quite a bit of press. Peter’s ship didn’t come in for 18 hours. He was credited with saving 49 members of the crew, the majority of those who were left, heroically pulling up alongside the burning ship and not giving the order to abandon ship until all the officers were accounted for as wounded or dead. To our parents these were signs of the power and presence of God alive and at work,” the God who seeks until he finds, the God who bears what cannot be borne for love of us.

We were raised on mission: “The mission of my letter.” “The mission of my phone call;” my dad literally talks like this. The gospel wasn’t long ago and far away it was unfolding right now in our lives with passion and purpose. It was our mission. Military people understand mission. We understand being a part of something larger than ourselves being under authority greater than our own. It was a military man who said to Jesus, “I am a man under authority with men under me. I say to one, “Go” and he goes, to another, “Come” and he comes, to another “do this” and he does it. Only say the word and my servant will be healed.” Jesus marveled at the man’s faith in Jesus’ power over demons and disease: “Never have I seen such faith,” said Jesus, “even in all Israel.”

We never understood comments like you can’t expect too much from church members—after all they’re volunteers. Volunteers? What are you talking about “volunteers”? We’ve been baptized, confirmed and commissioned. “You did not choose me but I chose you,” Jesus said in the gospel last week. “I appointed you to bear fruit, fruit that will last.” “Love one another as I have loved you.” “Go into all the world baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” says Jesus at the end of Matthew’s gospel. It’s not called the Great Suggestion. It’s called the Great Commission. “As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.” Friends, we’re not volunteers. We are on a mission.

How might our lives be different, I wonder if we saw them this way? Not as the center of our universe but claimed by something larger—our God, our nation, this person in need whom I am in a position to help. Love claims us—God’s love, love that that makes the soul expand, love that causes us to forget ourselves, take risks we wouldn’t ordinarily take. Share our time, our money, our canteen and our lives. By all logic there ought to be less of us but instead there is more. We lose our lives and so find them. We die to ourselves and learn how to live at last. We find that all Jesus told us is true—not that it’s easy.

We don’t like to talk about war, about conflict, in polite company, certainly not in church. It’s another way we try to be more spiritual than God. But Jesus meets it head on in the gospel. “I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one.” Guard them. Protect them. “Sanctify them in the truth. Your word is truth.” Jesus is telling the truth in this passage. There is no way we can look at the world with its genocide, murder, poverty and violence and say there is no evil here. There is no struggle going on here. There is nothing to fight against here. Read the gospels. Jesus came among us healing, preaching good news to the poor, forgiving sins, searching out the lost, the lonely and the left behind and he was opposed almost every step of the way. He came in love, by love, for love and he was challenged and resisted: Get behind me Satan. We said “No” to him and the life he offered on Good Friday. On Easter Sunday he fought back: “Yes.” Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

Jesus never raised a hand in anger but he was in every way a warrior. So were Buddha and Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. They were spiritual warriors who faced off with Satan in the wilderness, temptation under the Bo tree, waged war with hunger strikes and peace marches. They fought to the death with a weapon called love. Love is not in the gospel sense, primarily an emotion. It is not a soft focused Hallmark card—ever. It is an act of will, an inclination of heart and mind and strength toward a purpose larger than us, a good greater than our own. When Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery, “Neither do I condemn you,” when he stood his ground before Herod and Pilate, when he took a child and put him in the midst of them, when he “stretched out his arms on the hard wood of the cross” he was showing us what love looks like, the love to which he calls us, the love with which he sends us.

Christianity is not bland, boring, passive and inept—though we often make it seem so. God has enlisted us in a cause. We all signed on at our baptism: to renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God; to renounce the evil powers of this world that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God; to renounce sinful desires that draw us from the love of God” and to “turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as our Savior; to put our whole trust in his grace and love; and to promise to follow and obey him as our Lord.” These are our marching orders. They are dynamic and powerful and life giving for ourselves, for one another and for our world. What life might be possible if we lived into them with soldier dedication? What seeds could such love plant?

This vestment used to have—if you can imagine it—gold orphreys, these bands were glittering gold: “I felt like target practice,” my dad said of wearing it in the Vietnamese jungle glinting in the sun. The local nuns replaced the gold with green velvet. God bless them. He loaned it to me when I was doing an interim at Holy Spirit, Verona, about 10 years ago. They had no green chasuble which I happened to tell my dad: “Oh, I’ve got one you can use, Annie.” “Great,” I say. He sends me this one. “How’s the chasuble, Honey?” “Uh, it’s great dad. But it’s camouflage. It’s practically brown.” “Well, that’s from the heat—hotter than hell in the jungle.”

Christ was with my dad when he sent him to celebrate the Eucharist on the front lines, on the hood of a jeep in the mud with the marines in Vietnam. Christ was with me when he sent me to Verona. Christ is with us now in all the places to which he sends us: to work, to school, to family, to growth personal and relational, to kindness, compassion and love. When he ascended into heaven it wasn’t the end of him being somewhere. It was the beginning of him being everywhere. “As you sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.” Lead on O king eternal till sin’s fierce war shall cease and holiness shall whisper the sweet “amen” of peace, for not with swords loud clashing, nor roll of stirring drums but deeds of love and mercy the heavenly kingdom comes.” (Hymn 555 v. 2)

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Taizé

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Good morning, and happy Mother’s day. This is a perfect day for me to be preaching specifically about Taizé, because I can honestly say that the best gift I have ever received from my children and husband was the freedom and space of 12 days last summer to experience Taizé.

Taizé, as you may or may not know, is the name of a monastery in the Burgundy region in France, founded in 1940 by Brother Roger as a place of refuge during World War II. It is an ecumenical monastery, which means the brothers (or monks) are from differing Christian traditions, both Catholic and Protestant, and people – pilgrims – up to as many as 6,000 a week come from all over the world to learn, worship, and experience Taizé.

Now as I’m sure you’ve noticed week by week, these candles, which represent the weeks of Father Poppe’s sabbatical journey, are growing closer and closer to being fully illuminated. And because 11 candles are lit, we know that he has already completed the first two legs of his journey, first to South Africa and next in England, and now he is heading into Europe for his final sabbatical month. The monastery at Taizé will be one of his final stops. And because we, here at St. George’s, have intentionally mirrored pieces of his journey, next week at this 10:30am service, we are going to participate in a Taizé worship service of our own. So today, this sermon is part of our preparation for that worship experience.

I went to Taizé because it was one of the “cross-cultural” courses offered by my seminary. Taking a “cross cultural” course is a requirement for my MDiv degree at Drew, and believe me, Taizé was very “cross-cultural.”

Let me attempt to paint a picture for you of life at Taizé. First of all, Taizé, though very isolated geographically and surrounded by rolling hills and fields of wildflowers, is packed with pilgrims who flood the monastery every week, speaking every imaginable language. The people bring with them their theologies, their understandings, their life experiences and of course, their questions, and they also bring with them tents – yes, tents - and only the bear necessities. Most of the pilgrims are between the ages of 16 and 35, but for those older pilgrims, of which I was no doubt one, there are rustic cabins with bunk beds that sleep between 12 and 14 adults. Needless to say, until Taizé, I didn’t know sleep was such a luxury.

There was always enough food, but it was just enough. Two chicken nuggets, a roll, a spoonful of vegetables or a piece of fruit, for example, was one meal. We ate out of a bowl with only a spoon. No forks. No napkins. And although there were a few circles of folding chairs, and a few sets of boards, or planks, set out on crates where people could sit, most of us sat on the ground to eat our meals.

Also, as you might imagine, with so many people in one place, communal living means that every person who arrives is put to work. At Taizé, chores range from the innocuous - serving meals or handing out songbooks during worship, to the distasteful – like cleaning the toilets and showers, for example. I preached about it here at St. George’s last summer, but for those of you who missed that sermon and are curious, yes, my small group’s chore for the week was to clean the bathrooms. And then there’s the central structure of Taizé, the Church, which is named “Church of Reconciliation.” The structure has had to grow over the years, so several periods of renovation allow it to accommodate all 6,000 people at once. Before worship, young people are stationed at each of the doors to the church, holding signs with “Silence” written in many languages, reminding the hordes of people to enter silently. I would be remiss if I led you to believe the chapel at Taizé was some grand structure. It is a carpeted warehouse. Truly. Dimly lit, sponge painted walls, and an understated altar with some icons, greenery and many candles. There are a few benches along the side walls of the church, but virtually everyone sits knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder on the floor during worship three times a day.

So are you getting a picture in your mind yet? Rustic, diverse, and oftentimes, downright uncomfortable are some of the ways I’d describe Taizé. And yet, I stand here today to say that it was the most powerful spiritual experience of my life. Everything I held on to –

my love of architectural beauty in worship,

my saturation with the English, Episcopal liturgy,

my love of food,

my desire for comfort,

my ease with language –

all of it was stripped from me within the first few days. And once I got over my desire to constantly whine about all of this to anyone who would listen, I realized that this stripping, this pruning – using language from the Gospel lesson today - was the whole point. I was living today’s Gospel lesson, being pruned and cleansed, and in the process, learning that the absence of so many outward distractions allowed me to lean on God as my only sustenance, the vine which enables me to live, and live fully. Suddenly, God was beyond language, beyond liturgy, beyond sleep or even beyond bodily comfort. Taizé is a place where, in my experience, everyone brings with them their diversity and their humanity, while at the same time, we stop arguing or debating about the divine mystery, and just give into it, becoming one with each other and that divine mystery.

Worship, which happens 3 times a day at Taizé – morning, noon and night - begins with the call of the bells. Bells ring, telling everyone on the hillside to put down whatever it is they are doing and head to worship. We will begin our own worship here at St. George’s next week with a simple ringing of bells, which invite us to enter, still our minds and our bodies, and focus on worshipping God. Don’t worry, there will be plenty of time to greet your neighbor later on, perhaps during the Peace, or after worship at coffee hour.

As soon as the bells quiet and everyone has gathered, the service begins with a simple, sung, chanted song. These songs, or chants, repeat themselves, over and over again, using simple lyrics and simple tunes, and they are often taken from scripture. The point of these chants is that their simple melodies and lyrics are easy to learn, and by singing them over and over, and over and over again, you no longer have to focus so hard on the words or the music, and before long, the song becomes a prayer. These prayers then stick with you, and pray themselves in you throughout the days and nights.

Because people from all over the world visit Taizé, worship is a multi-lingual event, a true expression of hospitality for those who have come from so many different countries and continents. Though most of our service will be in English, we are going to have the Gospel read in several languages. And several of the songs, or chants use Latin words. Latin is used in a large number of Taizé chants. It is a language claimed by no one country or people, and so it’s considered a ‘universal’ language. Again, going back to that Taizé notion of hospitality.

One interesting, and unique, thing about Taizé worship is that instead of preaching, there is an extended period of silent reflection during the time when a sermon would ordinarily take place. This is why I am here today, a week before our actual Taizé worship, doing my talking and teaching now.

Try to imagine, if you will, 6,000 people, from all over the world, in an extended period of silent prayer. At the beginning of the week, as the pilgrims all arrive and adjust to monastic life and pace, there is certainly a struggle for the crowd to settle down. Bodies shift and papers shuffle. There’s reflexive coughing, because our vocal chords can hardly settle down and believe that there’s an extended period of silence. Ten minutes feels like an eternity. But by the end of the week, the shuffling and noise all take a back seat to silence, and silence is allowed to penetrate even our densest layers of protection. Silence transcends both liturgy and language itself.

I’m sure this is not news to you, but our human appetite for making noise, at least according to my experience, is evidenced by so many for whom virtually every day passes without even one moment of silence. The television is turned on at the first waking moment. The television is the mechanical lullaby at night. Car radios, MP3s, iPods, and cell phones all contribute to our world of noisy bombardment, and even our corporate worship experience seems to parallel this reality. Have you ever noticed silence in worship? Heads, bowed in prayer, suddenly pop up, and begin looking about . . . what is this thing, silence? Silence in worship is often considered a ‘mistake,’ an awkward and stressful pause that must be rectified and stuffed, as quickly as possible, with ANYTHING - sweet relief from words or music, or even movement. We begin our lives in silence, noise being virtually beat out of us at birth, and we end our lives in silence, and every moment in between seems to be ‘plugged in,’ an expression of the collective fear of silence in our lives.

The silence at Taizé helped me acknowledge the fact that we actually have a choice to participate, or not, in this worldly echo-chamber. Choosing silence, in fact, is a first step in discovering the religious power of silence. It is a learned skill, something we actively choose to do, and it’s a skill we can develop. Our Gospel lesson today, in fact, reads, “Abide in me, as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.” Silence clears out some space, prunes the branches which bear no fruit, and opens up life from the vine – silent space for God.

But what exactly is silence? Is it really the absence of noise? Is it absolute stillness? In a crowd of 6,000 people, is silence even ever possible? I’m here to tell you no, that is not the silence I’m talking about. In fact, my very definition of silence was changed because of Taizé. One afternoon, my group of 12 pilgrims from Drew’s seminary, had the privilege of speaking with one of the Taizé brothers, Brother John, for a Q&A session. He was originally from the US, [Brooklyn, I think] so the conversation flowed easily. One member of our group asked him, “So, what do you do during the silence?” We all eagerly waited for his response, knowing it would be profound and insightful, since not only had he devoted his life to poverty in this monastic order, but he had also, in large part, devoted much of his life to silence. Again, I hung on his every word, especially since I was about to enter 3 days of silence myself. He said, “I do what everybody else does, I wait for it to be over.” At first, I thought, what an odd response. I was really disappointed. But the more I reflected on those words, I realized how profound his words really were. Brother John was no different than me, and no different from the 5,999 other pilgrims journeying at Taizé. He was saying that silence does not have to be some profound experience of divine presence. It doesn’t have to be a time of blessed revelation. And silence certainly doesn’t have to be a time where all noise and movement cease – of course, it certainly can, and has been all of those things to me! But Brother John took the pressure out of and off of silence, and stripped it down to the very basics. The strength and power of silence that I found in Taizé was an inner silence, a quieted soul, an inner stillness found in spite of outside noise or movement. And when it’s over, it’s over. It’s not a magical moment of revelation or rapture. Silence at Taizé enabled me to live more fully into today’s Gospel lesson: Silence was God’s tool to prune and cleanse me of so many outward distractions, and in that process, I discovered that God was my sustenance, the vine which gives me life.

So, as Bernie experiences the silence and worship of Taizé, my hope is that we too, here at St. George’s, will open up our own time, space, and hearts in the days and weeks to come, to learn and re-learn about silence for ourselves, and incorporate the language of silence into our worship here as well. Amen.

© 2009 Mary Davis

Door Alarmed 24 Hours a Day

By The Rev. Anne Bolloes-Beaven, Sabbatical Priest

Browning wrote: God’s in his heaven all’s right with the world. Well, it’s true God’s in heaven but all is certainly not right with the world. Honestly. Here we are already dealing as best we can with the war in Iraq, terrorism and clawing our way out of an economic downturn—against a backdrop of global warming, natural disasters and genocide—only to find ourselves gripped by the threat of a flu pandemic: as my husband is fond of saying: if it’s not one thing it’s three others.

And how do we know given the news yesterday that the outbreak in Mexico is smaller than it first appeared, “whether a global illness monitoring system was sensitive enough to save lives, or so sensitive that it alerted the world to a virus no more dangerous than seasonal flu.” Is this a real danger or just one more thing blown out of proportion like: the Y2K bug, Mad Cow disease, Ebola, SARS and brain cancer from cell phones? It gets to be: “Door alarmed 24 hours a day” you know? And this is just the communal stuff not to mention the personal realities that break our hearts and try our souls day to day.

Frankly, I don’t know about you but I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’ve about made up my mind to turn down these seemingly endless invitations to live in fear. I’ve decided fear is its own kind of disease. I just can’t believe Jesus came and lived and died and rose so that we could be alarmed 24 hours a day.

Scripture tells us Jesus looked at the crowds tagging along after him, and had compassion on them for they were, “harassed and helpless” he said, “like sheep without a shepherd.” He could have been describing us. “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” We are not sheep without a shepherd, though sometimes, forgetful, we act like it. The lessons every fourth Sunday of Easter come as a gift calling us to remember who we are and Whose we are. “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”

There’s no more beloved picture of Jesus than the good shepherd. It’s the oldest illustration of him—dates from around 200—a simple line drawing of a man carrying a sheep over his shoulders, found on the wall of the Roman catacombs—where the early Christians were buried. We still hold it before us 2000 years later in the words of the 23rd psalm said at every funeral. God as shepherd of his people is woven throughout the Old and New Testaments. Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah and Jesus all speak of it. In their eyes, to see these weather beaten souls leaning on their staffs keeping watch over their scattered flock 24 hours a day, 7 days a week through all kinds of weather, through all kinds of danger, willing to lay down their life for their sheep was to see the face of God. “The Lord is my shepherd,” sang David, “I shall not want.”

In those days sheep were plentiful and shepherds a common sight. The land in Palestine is rough and rocky better for pasture than for agriculture. Sheep were kept mostly for wool and stayed in the company of the shepherd for years who often named them for things that had happened to them or personalities they had. “Bossy” who was stubborn, “Peg” whose leg hadn’t been the same since she got it stuck in that crevice. “Pokey” who was always lagging behind; it’s humbling to think what nickname God has chosen for us…?

“He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters.”

Well, Jesus wants to make us lie down in green pastures, and to lead us beside still waters, to point us in the right direction. But we are full of our own ideas. Like Adam and Eve we forget to check in. We wander off, nose to the ground, intent on our own way. That’s what sheep do, by the way. They nibble and wander, nibble and wander without looking up, until finally they DO look up they find they’ve wandered acres away from where they started out—lost. Most of us can relate.

My second year of college I decided to take a break from church. I’d just transferred to Barnard and had decided to give it a rest for a while. After all, my dad’s a priest. My mother also has her master of divinity. You know 1010 WINS? All news all the time? Well in our family it was—all church all the time. Undoubtedly our kids would tell you the same thing. What can I say? It’s an occupational hazard. Anyway, I decided to give church a pass for a while. I nibbled and wandered like a sheep without a shepherd and got myself until I was thoroughly lost. I decided: maybe I better head back to the fold and get my bearings. I stopped in to Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC for evensong one Sunday afternoon and didn’t understand a word. The whole service was in Spanish! I had wandered so far that “home” had become a foreign language. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. I was an English major then. I GOT it. God spoke to me in a language he knew I would understand. I recognized the voice. Long story short, it turned out all right in the end. I ended up changing my major to religion, went to service at the campus chapel where I met my husband and ended up up here. Believe me: no one is more surprised about it than me.

“I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” God knows us. God knows my name and God knows yours. WE may be surprised by what happens to us, by the things we do, but God isn’t. God has a purpose and a plan and will “revive our souls” and guide us in right pathways for his Names’ sake”—for the sake of who God is. It’s not dependent on us. Whatever we do or fail to do…it’s all compost to God. God uses it all. Nothing is wasted. Though sometimes we resist his voice stubborn as mules, God still calls us, still leads us.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.” It was an actual place by the way, a desolate valley on the way to Jericho full of bandits. It is also the figurative valley we all know. The psalmist is honest, notice it doesn’t say IF I walk through the valley… but “though I walk” and walk we all will. But we will walk through the valley. We won’t take up residence there. We won’t be able to run from it. We won’t escape it. But neither will we lie down there. We will walk through. Evil may be lurking all around but I will not fear it because Thou art with me. Thy rod—used as a weapon against attacking beasts or bandits—and Thy staff, used to guide the sheep, “they comfort me.” Comfort means to console, it’s true. But back then, in a definition now called obsolete it means also to strengthen. Com-fort: with strength.

God the good shepherd comforts--consoles and strengthens the sheep. “You set a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; you have anointed my head with oil, and my cup is running over.” I read a lovely thing once in a commentary that looked on “those that trouble me” in older translations “mine enemies” as being those things about ourselves that trouble us, those enemies in ourselves with which we struggle. God sets the table even in the presence of struggle. God nourishes us in times of trial; heals us “anointing our heads with oil.” Shepherds poured oil over the sheep’s head to keep out nose flies. The flies drive the sheep to distraction once they lay eggs up their noses—hideous thought but true. And a vivid example of what happens to us when we let fears and worries infest our heads—driving us to distraction and worry.

We’ve really got to be careful about what we allow to take root in our minds. Proverbs says, “As a man thinks, so is he.” Where the mind goes the man follows. Worry and fear can’t keep company with faith. We can have one or the other but not both at the same time. Perfect love casts out fear. “Fear not,” is one of the recurrent themes of scripture. Not that we won’t feel fear—but that we ought not to let fear stop us. We need to press through fear. God is calling us to stand in his power, power that he died and rose to give us, calling us to live in open rebellion against death. Isn’t that a great quote? “Faith is life lived in open rebellion against death.” (Jeffrey Studdert-Kennedy—distinguished Anglican priest, chaplain of British expeditionary force.)

We are surrounded by voices. The voices of people we love, the voices of strangers--televised voices, electronic voices, print voices-- voices of advertisers and marketers telling us who we want to be and how to buy it, voices that belittle or befriend us, voices inside of us shaping how we feel about ourselves and what we believe is possible for us. We have to make a decision about which voice we’ll listen to. God is calling us. We need to hear the voice of Scripture—the voice of God—saying: the Lord is my shepherd. Listen to what voices you may, sings the psalmist: the LORD is MY shepherd. We’re to claim it. To live in faith—in open rebellion against death—we need to respond to fear with the word of God. Say it out loud. Let it pour over your head like oil. The LORD is my shepherd. If you feel silly: Try it. If you feel afraid: try it. If you believe it: try it. If you don’t believe it: Pretend you do and see what happens. There is POWER in the word of God. We don’t have to live harassed and helpless like sheep without a shepherd. We HAVE a shepherd. Willing to DIE for us—and rise again. Blessings abound. Claim them.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” I learned a couple of years ago that the word: to follow used here can also be translated “pursue.” Isn’t that great! Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me, run after me, all the days of my life. Lovely! Read over the psalm this week until you find a word or phrase that “lights up.” Let go of the rest and repeat that to yourself whenever you feel afraid. Let me close with poet and scholar Eugene Peterson of The Message who renders it this way:

GOD, my shepherd! I don’t need a thing. You have bedded me down in lush meadows, you find me quiet pools to drink from. True to your word, you let me catch my breath and send me in the right direction. Even when the way goes through Death Valley, I’m not afraid when you walk at my side. Your trusty shepherd’s crook makes me feel secure. You serve me a six-course dinner right in front of my enemies. You revive my drooping head; my cup brims with blessing. Your beauty and love chase after me every day of my life. I’m back home in the house of GOD for the rest of my life.

© 2009 The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven