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

Maundy Thursday

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

I have to chuckle to myself, stepping into this pulpit tonight. The irony here is almost laughable, and I have to tell you why. Maundy Thursday is my favorite liturgy of the entire church year. The intimacy of our movements during this service touch every one of our senses – we hear the scripture readings which compel and command us to love one another, we smell and taste together the Eucharist or Last Supper, we hear the sacred silence and see the darkness and desperate stillness which follow the stripping of the altar – all of it, for me, is a present and lived expression of our life with Jesus. It is very real, tangible and experiential. Maundy Thursday wraps us and encircles us, as 21st century Christians, and mysteriously links us to the 1st century disciples, and to Jesus in their midst. I long for this experience every year; even though I know that it comes with a heavy and painful price; and, that price, I know, is paid tomorrow on Good Friday.

All of that being said, [and here’s where my nervous chuckle comes in] there is one part of tonight’s service which I have always kept at a distance. And that centers around the sense of touch in the foot washing ritual. Last year, as a matter of fact, when we participated in the foot washing together with the congregation from St. Andrew’s and Holy Communion, I sat there, startled, yet firmly planted in my pew. My only movement was shifting in my seat to allow those near me, who wanted to participate, to pass by. So don’t think that I’m oblivious to the irony that tonight, here I stand to preach about it.

Foot washing. Somehow, in my gut, I knew it was loaded, far deeper than my surface level embarrassment about the condition of my feet. I always told myself, ‘it’s ok, I have runner’s feet – (you runners out there know what I’m talking about!) blackened toenails and heavy calluses – there’s really no need to subject myself, or the washer, to that.’ But my level of discomfort told me that my skepticism surrounding this sacrament goes far deeper than just the cosmetic appearance of my feet.

So I began to research. I discovered that the act of washing feet goes back to ancient times, an act of hospitality. In Genesis 18:4, for example, Abraham welcomes his trio of holy visitors and says, “Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.” We also know that the ritual was first part of the Temple tradition, and then, thanks to Augustine’s writings in the 4th century, we know that it moved into the early, and still developing, Christian Church. And by the 7th century in Spain, foot washing had become a vital part of the Maundy Thursday liturgy. So here we are tonight, centuries later, still living out our biblical heritage, “bound together with the company of heaven, the apostles and martyrs and the faithful of all ages” and encountering Jesus ourselves in the process.

The mystic Rumi once wrote, “If words do not reach the ear in the chest, nothing happens.” Tonight, we aren’t just witnesses to Jesus sitting at table with his disciples, we are actually entering into an experience with him, rattling that “ear,” both in our individual and communal chests. Jesus speaks to more than just our intellect or our minds today. His humility, though extraordinary, seems pretty clear on one level. One might expect, and in fact, many did expect Jesus, who knew his glory in God, to put on a fine robe as they gathered, and bid others to pay him respect. But instead, Jesus wraps a lowly towel around his waist and washes the disciples’ feet. We learn in 1 Sam 25:41 that the lowest of the low servant positions was the one who washed feet. Jesus turns the established order upside down and he turns our views of self-importance inside out. He lays out a moral example of, what theologians Jean Vanier and Henri Nouwen both call, “downward mobility,” that is, turning away from the things that pull us up on the rungs of social status, and intentionally walking down the path to service and humility. This is what Jesus calls us to do when he instructs us to wash one another’s feet, following his example of humility.

I hear all of this in my head, but this is not what rattles the “ear” of my heart, and this is not why I have resisted participating in the foot washing ritual all these years. My academic self loves to study the intellectual definitions and expressions of humility. And the part of me called to the service of others hears and digests this story loud and clear. But it’s more than that. Jesus washing his disciples’ feet is more than just an exercise in humility! It’s more than teaching us a virtuous way to live! The fuller truth of Jesus’ act in washing the disciples’ feet, which included Judas’ feet as well, is that Jesus’ act was not just a virtue, but the very embodiment of grace. And by participating in this ancient ritual today and sharing in it with one another, we are becoming Christ to each other, offering an experience of God’s grace, amazing evidence of God’s love for us! This ritual offers that assurance to you, and this ritual offers that assurance to me. But here’s the catch, at least for me. . .

As many of you know, I went on a pilgrimage last summer to Taizé, which is an ecumenical monastic community in France. One of the images that struck me with power then, and has stuck with me to this day, even now, almost a year later, was that I was surrounded by Brothers (or monks) who had dedicated their lives to God’s service in the world, and their posture was proof of their devotion and dedication. When taking their vows to the order, and at other times in worship, they would lay prostrate on the floor, kneeling, with both arms spread out, fully extended in both directions. It looked, to me, like Jesus’ frame on the cross, and this was a Brother’s expression of submission, a full offering of self to God. I took that posture seriously, yet knew that I could not offer up such a posture. I could get on my knees, sure. I could even lie down and stretch out one arm, as an offering to God. [demonstrate] I was one arm short, so to speak. To fully extend my second arm into a full posture of surrender to God took more than I was willing to give.

This is where the foot washing comes in. God’s grace is offered to us, through Christ, who knows us completely and fully. It’s about knowing Jesus, and at the same time, it’s about being known. Fully. This was Peter’s protest. “You will never wash my feet,” he says. Peter was willing to offer his confident self. His leadership abilities. His rock-like self-assured qualifications. It was as if he was saying, ‘I’ll offer you some of myself, but not everything. Not all the way to my feet. Not my hidden self, not the one that feared walking on the water, not the one that questioned your teaching, not the one who succumbs so easily to sleep over prayer, and certainly not the one that will deny and then desert you, Jesus.’

Jesus made no distinction, and he instructed his disciples to do the same. Jesus’ radical message of love, in fact Jesus’ new commandment to love, is a love with no distinction, a love which calls us away from the path of increase. There is nothing or no one that Jesus does not love. And that can be scary stuff. Think about it, if we only bring the “clean” parts of ourselves to God, we cannot fully know Christ. “Unless I wash you, you have no share in me,” Jesus says in the Gospel tonight. Christ calls us to follow him, that’s all of us, our dirty feet, the feet with calluses of judgment, of fear, of guilt and pain, and Jesus washes it all clean. My places of shame and doubt, fear and resistance still remain, but they are not hidden from the love and grace of our God.

The definition of a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace.” In the foot washing ritual – in fact, in this very foot washing tonight, Jesus isn’t just being a moral teacher, leading by example a life of humility (though he’s certainly doing that). In addition, Jesus’ virtuous humility is the very expression of grace itself. Maundy Thursday is sacramental, experiential grace, evidence of God’s love for us, all of us, bystanders - believers, betrayers – deserters, everyone. John refers to Jesus in his Gospel as “full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) Jesus offers us this fullness of grace, and this divine action redeems us. Tonight, as in the ages past, we follow Jesus’ commandment to love one another, and God’s powerful and perfect love is made alive in us through one another, a corporate expression of grace. This happens simply because we breathe – regardless of title, gender, race, age, or economic status. The list goes on, but it doesn’t matter, the transformational truth is that God’s grace is offered to all. We “share life with God” which is “free, historical, and graced.” Even me, down to my appalling feet. Even you, down to what ever it is you like to hide. Amen.

© 2009 Mary Davis

Jesus says, “Come!”

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 14:22-33

It’s been a strange year for me, this year, here at St. George’s, because so much of it has been about “Peter.” I resonated with Peter in our Good Friday service back in March, and now, here I am again, resonating with Peter in our Gospel lesson today, as he steps out onto the water, in faith. I lived this story of faith during the past few weeks, so coincidently or not, here I am to preach about it today.

I stepped into my own boat, heading for the “other side,” though my boat was actually an Air France flight heading to Paris. I was on a pilgrimage to Taize, France, where an ecumenical group of approximately 100 brothers live and worship – it was a 12-day journey into the monastic life of simplicity and silence. Being completely honest, there was really nothing about this trip that I wanted to face and I had times when I seriously doubted whether I’d actually get on the plane or not. I didn’t like the idea of being away from my family for so long. I knew that traveling in a group of relative strangers would test my limited stores of patience. And I was afraid to face the mysterious unknown of the monastic spiritual life. But this trip was a requirement for my Master’s degree at Drew University, I had paid my money and lined up babysitting coverage at home – so off I went. Though very reluctantly.

When we arrived in Taize, the storm clouds gathered very quickly, and the metaphorical waves began to kick up. I quickly discovered a life unlike anything I’ve ever known here in the states. Life was hard – the meals were meager, the lodging was rustic, and the showers, at least on that first day, were ice cold.

And as you might imagine, a monastery which is flooded by 5,000 pilgrims every week during the summer requires every hand to help with the chores around the property. So we pilgrims, all 5,000 or so, were divided into smaller groups, and group by group we functioned both as a bible study group and as a work team. Some groups served the meals, while other groups cleaned the dishes, and still other groups helped out during our 3-time-a-day worship services. Imagine my horror when my particular group’s daily work assignment was to clean the bathrooms!

I had been somewhat deflated by the food situation. I was dispirited by the cold showers. And I was downhearted by my bunkmates’ night time snoring which kept me awake all night - - but the bathroom duty depressed me to no end. So I did what any self-respecting 42 year old seminary student on a pilgrimage away from home would do – I started to whine. To anyone, and everyone, who would listen.

I took my despair to our Drew group leader who also served as our resident spiritual director. He was obviously blessed with a much deeper spiritual well than I, and he responded with what I started calling one of his “Jesus answers.” He told me a brief story about humility, and then said, “Mary, there is grace in cleaning the toilets. You will see.” Clearly, this was not the answer I was looking for, and I had serious serious doubts. As it says in today’s Gospel, my boat was not just being rocked by the waves, it was being battered by the waves!

The next day, time came for our group’s cleaning duty, and I showed up at the appointed time to face my fear and despair. I was tempted to show up, wearing my ipod, cleaning in as detached a way as possible, but then decided that would be the same as if Peter had climbed back into the boat cowering with the rest of the disciples. So, I arrived for duty, along with five other women who had been assigned to the job, and we began to organize ourselves. We quickly tripped over a major problem. There was a huge barrier between us - language. I had been grouped with 3 Portuguese women and 2 other British women, and it quickly became clear that these two camps did not share one word in common. Just like Peter, I was beginning to sink deeper and deeper into my well of fear and doubt. I thought, could things get any worse?

But just then, another woman arrived, and she stepped in, almost miraculously, and eagerly and capably translated instructions and strategies for cleaning amongst our two linguistic subgroups. And with that, the 6 of us began to connect. Walls broke down between us, and my wall of disgust for the job which we had been assigned began to melt away as well. We worked together - all of us, so different and yet all of us very much the same - all on a pilgrimage to find Christ in a foreign land. And believe it or not, the work turned into a service of joy, not just an obligation or a duty – but an expression of love, through service. Truthfully, if I hadn’t been a part of it, I never would have believed.

As we finished mopping and squeegying the floors, took off our gloves and put our brooms away, I asked my newfound interpreter and friend, “Oh and by the way, what is your name?” To which she responded, “My name is [gratie]” “[gratie]? I asked,” not wanting to mispronounce her name, and she said, “Yes, it’s spelled G-R-A-C-E.”

Just like Peter walking out onto the water, full of faith yet at the same time, full of fear and doubt, I walked out onto the choppy, and dirty, waters. And I discovered that Jesus had extended his hand to me, even in the midst of my whining doubts. I found grace in cleaning those toilets and I realized that service can and should come from a place of joy, joy which can only be found in God’s love for us and shared with each other through Christ’s embodied extended hand which we can experience in and through our fellow human beings.

But this was a daring gamble. I wanted to stay home on the front end. And even after I arrived, I still wanted to run home. But I stepped out of the boat in faith, dared to trust, and truly found grace in the process.

Several times last week, we sang a Russian chant during worship in Taize. It read, “Bog jest miloscia.” The English translation of the entire chant reads: “God is forgiveness. Dare to forgive and God will be with you. God is forgiveness. Love and do not fear.”

So the message I bring home from Taize is the same message that Peter might have preached to the crowds on the shoreline. Dare, today and in the days to come, to walk out on the water, answering Jesus’ call to “Come.” Dare to include and extend yourself to those who are different, perhaps those who speak a different language – even if you share the same English dialect. Dare to listen to others. Even more than that, dare to be silent and listen for ways God speaks to you. Dare to reach out for Jesus, and the living Christ will extend his hand to us, and to you, in love. I experienced this many times over during the course of my trip. And each time, Christ reached out and touched me in love through someone or something in my path. The whole week, I kept asking God, just to make sure, “Are you still there?” “I’m here” was God’s answer.

Dare to believe it in your own lives. Then, better yet, dare to step out onto the water and live it as well.

Amen.

© 2008 Mary Davis

The Wheat and the Weeds

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 13:24-30; 36-43

There really ought to be an ecclesiastical law that says, ‘thou shall not read scriptures which reference “weeping and gnashing of teeth” on Baptism Sundays!’ And yet, this reading from Matthew is our appointed Gospel lesson for today, and I’ve wrestled with it a great deal, knowing that today is Will’s and Lilyanna’s baptism day. The author of Matthew uses this, his favorite expression of judgment and punishment - “weeping and gnashing of teeth” - no fewer than 6 times in his book, and this particular reference, as we heard this morning, is included inside the explanation for the parable of the wheat and weeds.

Jesus knew a little something about wheat and weeds, and the particular weeds Jesus was speaking about in this parable, were not dissimilar to the weeds growing up in my own yard, fed by water, sunlight and soil, same as the healthy seeded grass. They exist side by side and at times compete for space. Truth is, evil exists and just as there are individuals, institutions and establishments that feed and sustain us just like wheat, and there are also individuals, institutions and establishments that drain the life out of us just like weeds.

Our human inclination is to sort and categorize people, just as the slaves in Jesus’ story wanted to gather up the weeds and pluck them out. Although I do not know much, if anything, about the organic nature of wheat and weeds, (and if I did, I probably would not be standing here right now), I do know a little something about wheat and weeds in the figurative sense. I grew up in Texas, well, actually, I moved to Texas from the coal-mining hills of Kentucky when I was 9 years old. And my transition to life in Texas was not an easy one. There was much to learn, and in fact Texas offered me an entirely new culture and they spoke a different language. I learned that you either wore the burnt orange of the Texas Longhorns, or you were a die-hard “gig ‘em” Aggie fan. I learned that you were either “From” Texas (meaning, you were born there) or you were not. And I learned that you were either a bible-believing Christian from a so-called “Bible Church”, or you were not. Even though I converted into a Longhorn fan, most of the time, I fell into the “not” categories in Texas – I was not “From” Texas, born and bred there, and I was not was I from a ‘true’ Bible church, but instead I was from a strange Protestant liturgical and sacramental church, the Episcopal Church. I was an outsider, and I must say, it was not uncommon for me to be lumped into the category of weeds or to hear references to “weeping and gnashing of teeth” applied to outsiders such as me.

Now, in order to understand this story further and on a deeper level, apart from the experience of wheat and weeds, we also have to look closer into the world of the parable, which is the container, the structural Tupperware, if you will, of the wheat and weeds. To appreciate what a parable is, first of all, let’s look at what a parable is not. A parable is the opposite of a myth. A myth serves to resolve contradiction and paradox, and assumes that reconciliation is not only a possibility, but a reality. [1] In this summer season full with vacations and travel, the myth of Disneyworld, comes to my mind. I’ve been there a couple of times with my family and noticed that there’s no doubt or subtlety to the mythic spirituality at Disneyworld which is made complete each night with a Jiminy Cricket led meditation of fireworks and the assurance that indeed “all of your dreams will come true.”

Parable, on the other hand, is not about covering up contradictions or blemishes or paradoxes, but instead it is all about those contradictions. For example, Jesus tells parables about a world where the “first will be last” and the “meek will inherit the earth,” as well as where, as today’s text reads, “an enemy [will] sow weeds among the wheat.” We live in a parabolic world where yes, wheat and weeds do exist side by side, though we crave and hope for a mythic world where neighbors live in peace and treat each other with respect.

Contextually, when Matthew’s Gospel was written, around 85 AD, the tensions between the Jewish establishment and the newly emerging Christian Church were particularly bitter, and Matthew’s harsh words for those who questioned Jesus’ legitimacy and wisdom came out of that parabolic community existence. Clearly, in that time, the notion of community was a parable, a contradiction and competition between wheat and weeds, and I’d like to suggest that today, we too experience the same thing, community as a parable in action.

So what does this mean, a “parable of community?” I first tripped over this idea while doing some background reading in anticipation of my upcoming 2 week pilgrimage to Taize, France. I am heading to Taize this Thursday, which is an ecumenical religious community 300 miles south west of Paris. It was founded in 1940 by a Swiss Protestant by the name of Roger Schutz, or Brother Roger, as he was known. The monastic life at Taize includes Catholic, Lutheran and Anglican members, and their meditative worship style is based on the notions of forgiveness, reconciliation and God’s presence. These primary ‘sources’ or monastic rules – which are what life at Taize is built around - structure everything the brothers do at Taize and as well as in their missions around the world. But Taize is not an example of a mythic community, isolated from the world in some picture perfect holy existence, “where all your dreams come true” – the Brothers there live the life of the parable, just like you and I do. They live out the Henri Nouwen’s definition of community – “As soon as you have community, you have a problem. . . ‘Community is the place where the person you least want to live with always lives.’” [2] And, when my pilgrimage leader once asked one of the Taize brothers how it is possible for all of the brothers at Taize to live in community, one of the brothers responded with a wise smile, “If we didn’t have the Prayer three times a day, we would kill each other.” [3] To live in community means that we are dependent on the very thing that causes us stress, the wheat and the weeds together. Since no one is a Christian alone, this is the parable of community.

Today’s baptismal celebration fits right in with today’s Gospel parable, because not only does this ritual mark these children as “Christ’s own forever”, a promise of God’s never-ending presence, and initiate them into both the St. George’s and the worldwide Christian community of faith. Baptism also marks Will and Lilyanna with the sign of the cross – which is a sign of contradiction that reminds us that we must die to live - and that even as much as we love and protect our children, their growth and development - physically, emotionally and spiritually - involves letting go.

Our wider Christian community is certainly not immune from the parabolic nature of life either. We need not look any further than our own Episcopal Church and our anticipation of The Lambeth Conference as on-going evidence of this. Our communion is united by our marks in baptism as “Christ’s own forever” and yet, we are divided by human judgment and an almost innate drive to separate the wheat from the weeds. Reading a quote this week by Bishop Robinson gave me some honest and true perspective, and some hope. He said, “I believe in my heart that God’s love is not only inclusive, but also extravagant” and it seems to me that only a God-given extravagant love can create communal unity; unity as a divine gift, not a human creation.

So, the beauty of reading this Gospel lesson today, on this baptism day, is that it is symbolic of our lives as a parable. We live the tensions and questions of our individual lives inside community, and within our community exists yet another set of tensions and questions. Our lives in community mean that on some days we are like the weeds in the garden – masquerading as wheat and drawing life from others – while still, on other days, we are the ones who support and sustain others in our community. Judgment should not come from our human desire to categorize and exclude, but only through God’s extravagant love, which can and will feed us completely and eternally, turning our communities into places of forgiveness, reconciliation, and God’s presence.

Amen.

[1] Anderson, Herbert and Edward Foley. Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals (John Wiley and Sons: San Francisco), 1988, pp. ix-xv.
[2] Nouwen, Henri J.M. with Michael J. Christensen and Rebecca J. Laird, Spiritual Direction:Wisdom for the Long Walk of Faith (San Francisco: Harper Publishers) 2006, p. 113.
[3] Rev. Jeff Markay, email correspondence, 7.10.08.

© 2008 Mary Davis

People of the Resurrection

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

I grew up in the Episcopal Church, and as far back as I can remember, I've known this Sunday, the Sunday after Easter, by its informal name, "low Sunday." And this year, my peers at General Theological Seminary have taught me another name for this Sunday - "Seminarian Sunday," for the large number of seminarians who are preaching this week while Rectors catch their breath and energy following Holy Week and Easter. It all sounds pretty dreary, doesn't it? But frankly, this year, I have welcomed the opportunity to learn more about this "low Sunday" and found out that this is not the official name for the drop in attendance following Easter Sunday. But in fact, the word "Low" is a derived from the Latin word "Laude", which means "praise," and the Sequence hymn of this day once read, "Let us sing praises to the Savior with humble voice."

Now, while this word-play exercise excuses some of the let-down of this day, I still find myself wondering why, in this season of the Resurrection, do we not joyously celebrate Christ's victory over death with more vigor and passion, with crowded pews of energetic believers? Surely, Christ's resurrection is worth more than one week's celebration, since it's ultimately the foundational message on which our church is based. As such, our Church, complete with its liturgical seasons and calendar, devotes 50 days to Easter, the time of Revelation in the form of Christ's appearances to his disciples following his resurrection, leading up to his ascension and then the day of Pentecost. We call it the "Great 50 days!" Yet it seems like the churches I've always been a part of pay an awful lot of attention to Lent: the self-examination, the self-reflection, Lenten studies, Lenten suppers, Lenten retreats. Among other things, Lent is the season we connect with the humanity of Jesus. But it's in this Easter season, all 50 days of it, that we connect to and celebrate the divinity of the risen Christ.

This second Sunday of Easter is also important because, in spite of our 3 year lectionary cycle, every year, today's Gospel reading re-introduces us to the disciple, Thomas. Thomas is forever known as "doubting Thomas," as if that's a bad thing. Frankly, Thomas should be the patron saint of those of us here in the pews today, the patron saint of modern people, people of both reason and faith. Thomas, who is remembered for saying that "unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe" (John 20:25) should not be a figure that we pity for his weaknesses, but instead, he is a disciple who teaches us a way to live into these 50 days of Easter, living into Christ's Resurrection.

I remember feeling quite prideful after hearing this Gospel lesson, when Jesus answers Thomas' doubt by saying, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." (John 20:29) Yep, that is me, I'd think, better than the disciples. I wasn't there at the empty tomb. I wasn't there in the upper room, nor was I there on the road to Emmaus. And yet, I believe.

You know, it's funny, because the disciples are portrayed, at times in the Gospels, as being somewhat dense. It's almost easy to poke fun of them. But, recently, I have to admit, that the more I look at my own life and my own faith, being honest with myself, I have come to see myself in their folly more often than I'd like to admit. I came to identify with Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane on Good Friday, and now I realize that I identify with Thomas as well.

My experience on 9/11 is a prime example of this, one that allowed me a much better understanding of the disciple Thomas, and his doubting side. On September 11, 2001, my husband left for work in the usual way, taking the train into the city, and was headed for his office on the 62nd floor of the World Trade Center. He worked in the South Tower. But because he was scheduled to leave on a business trip later that day, he left home a little later than usual, carrying his luggage with him. On the way to work, a picturesque early fall day, he decided to take the ferry across the river, and when he did, he saw the plane fly into his building. At some point in the hours that followed, my husband was able to reach out to me by cell phone and assure me that he was safe, and headed for home. Sure, I heard his voice, but I also heard and saw everything else that was unfolding that day, and I needed more than that. I needed proof. I needed to be sure. "Until I see him," I thought to myself, I will not believe. And it was so – hours later, he finally made it off the train in the New Providence station, and it wasn't until then, when we were in full embrace, that I had my proof, knew he was alive, and my doubt for his safety dissipated. So much for faith without proof.

I now hold a whole new respect for Thomas and his powerful doubts, and I've realized that my doubts extend infinitely further than just that day of 9/11. Thru this and other life experiences, I have realized that my faith is far from some neat and tidy package. I have loose ends hanging out all over the place. These are my places of my doubt, my bundles of fear, and my collections of conflicting information. It's a messy container which makes for an uncomfortable faith at times. But, just the same, I have also experienced times of great Revelation, fleeting but still very real, and Jesus reveals himself to Thomas in this very way; not in a blaze of glory or with flashes of light or sounds of trumpets, but as the wounded and loving savior. This love accepts Thomas' doubts, and accepts my baggage of loose ends as well, and Jesus reveals himself to us and brings us peace in that act of Revelation, enabling us to see.

While I'm sure that it would have been easy for the disciples, Thomas included, to hang out in that upper room and wait for Jesus, their beloved teacher and Lord, to appear time and time again, they did not. In fact, the disciples with Jesus at the Transfiguration wanted to hang out there too. Jesus' appearances were brief but powerful, and the strength of these encounters empowered and compelled the disciples to tell about their encounters with the Risen Christ. Thomas, after he reaches out and experiences the Risen Christ, boldly proclaims, "My Lord and my God!" This was his Christ-experience, his name for the Easter Revelation, his statement of faith.

Thomas' bold proclamation, which sprung up out of his places of both doubt and faith, invites us to ask ourselves, what is it about our own Christ-experience, including both places of doubt and places of faith, about traveling this annual road to the cross and then finding the empty tomb at Easter, which enables us to discover new life? What is it?

In my family, we have a saying, which comes out of military service, "RHIP" – Rank Has its Privileges. Usually this applies to the one who has to clear dishes from the table, or who gets to sit in the front seat of the car. But right after "RHIP" comes "RHIR" – Rank has its Responsibilities. So along with the front seat on the car ride, comes the obligation to help me out with various chores and errands along our way. We learn from the disciple Thomas that his experience of the Risen Christ comes with a responsibility to proclaim. He tells his story of the resurrection, his story of faith when he says, "My Lord and My God!" What can we proclaim about the risen Christ? We aren't meant to remain here, huddled closely within the walls of this church, reveling in the power of Christ's resurrection. No, we are to tell the story to those outside this place, tell what it is about the Easter celebration that keeps us coming back year after year. But before we can tell a story, or before we can tell THE story, we have to think about what it is that is important to us. Why is Christ's resurrection so meaningful for us? To what situations does Christ's life bring new life? In what ways are we strengthened by our experience of the risen Christ?

So, let these Great 50 days of Easter be a time of examination, transformation and then proclamation. The power of Christ's resurrection will transform us, just as it did Thomas, and allow us to move in rhythm with our questioning selves, pushing our faith in new directions. Our transformation is the living part of us which makes us alive in Christ and our call to live into that resurrection is to tell that story. Live this story of resurrection during these 50 days, and when we greet the new season of Pentecost, we will be just like the disciples who were empowered to proclaim in every language their powerful Christ story. We too, will be able to share, each of us, in our own language, words of hope, grace and love with the world. We thank God for Thomas today, our patron saint of this Sunday after Easter, who reminds us that we are real people, people of faith and doubt, who can touch the marks of pain, grow in love and service in the name of Christ, and then boldly proclaim that we are people of the Resurrection. Amen.

© 2008 Mary Davis

Good Friday

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Good Friday has always been a tough day for me. I think Bernie smelled my fear when he asked me to preach tonight. It comes on the heels of my favorite service of the entire liturgical year, Maundy Thursday, and takes me to a place where I'd really rather not go. Things go from bad, in the silent darkness at Tenebrae, to worse, during the solemn stripping of the altar last night, and just when you think things can't get much worse, they really do. And now, with it so early in the calendar year, it seems like we've raced from the cradle to the cross at record speed. I'm not sure that I'm really ready for it, and I would much prefer to tiptoe around this Friday night, pretending that it's just another Friday, a day to dye Easter eggs with my boys and dream of some early warm spring weather. Trouble is, ready or not, Good Friday is here, and the heaviness of this day, the sorrow of Jesus' painful and lonely death, always call out to me; So, like it or not, Good Friday is a day that we, as Christ's followers, cannot ignore.

One of the major problems I have with Good Friday is that there is so much mystery wrapped up into this one day. I've researched and read volumes on the meanings behind Jesus' death on the cross, yet still, I can't make any sense of it. Some sources hold to the belief that Jesus' suffering and death were offered as a sacrifice for the sin of humanity. Others say that we are "saved" through the example of Jesus' life without sin, and still, there are others who suggest that Jesus' life and death were God's subversive attempt to outmaneuver or outsmart the devil. I just can't seem to wrap my head around any one of these ideas, no matter how many scholarly books I study or how many years I experience this Good Friday liturgy. But, as Bernie so often reminds us, when a biblical reading or theology leads us into a difficult place, a place of discomfort or confusion, we are best served by moving directly into the storm, as disciples who wrestle and struggle with the discomfort.

So, move we do, into this night of Good Friday. Now, I don't know about you, but as a child, I remember wondering, why the word "good" in front of this Friday. As a matter of fact, my own children have asked me that very same question. I have never really heard a satisfactory answer to this question either - some sources say that perhaps it was once called "God's Friday," and the word "good" is morphed out of the word "God," but that explanation doesn't do anything for me. So, regardless, insufficient explanations aside, the title "Good Friday" has stuck, and perhaps we should search for the "good" which lies in the midst of all this unexplainable, unfathomable mystery.
Certainly, at first blush, there's not too much "good" about it: Jesus' betrayal by Judas first, and then by Peter, Jesus' lonely walk to Golgotha and his agony in the crucifixion. Even though John's passion narrative, which we heard today, presents Jesus as being in calm control, all of us have probably heard other Gospel accounts of Jesus' crucifixion, which paint quite a different picture, one of despair, abandonment and suffering.

But in spite of Jesus' agony, we do, find a Jesus portrayed in John's Gospel, that loves right up until his last breath. Jesus never betrays his mission of love, even in the midst of questioning and torture by the High Priest, by Caiaphas, by Pilate or even by the mob of people calling for his death. Jesus' unwavering and radical love, now this is "good." Additionally, even while on the cross, Jesus sees his despondent mother and deeply loves her, placing her in the care of the "beloved" disciple. This unending and caring love, again, this is "good."

The revelation we find through the cross is that God's love is radical, eternal and mysterious. Jesus' life was ultimately a life of radical love, and His love was so pure and boundless that the world couldn't possibly allow it to continue. This perfect Love, which was nailed to the cross, beckons to us today, and calls us in, as disciples.

Now, as you know, a disciple is a student, a follower, a believer. One seeking to learn, but far from one who has it all figured out. We are disciples, called as believers just like Peter, who was unquestionably one of Jesus' closest friends and in Jesus' innermost of inner circles. But, the same disciple Peter, who dropped his fishing nets to follow Jesus, who stood on the mountaintop to witness Jesus' transfiguration, was the same disciple that was so consumed by discomfort and fear that he denied even knowing Jesus, three times, a betrayal of (as we say) biblical proportions. We, too, are disciples of Jesus, and we, too, come to this day of Good Friday as both believers and betrayers. [1]

The fact that I am in seminary, right now, might suggest to you that I can easily claim the title of "believer." But in fact, my call to ministry has certainly not shielded me from deep suffering. And in the midst of my distress, I have to admit that I quickly settled in as a "betrayer." A little over a year ago, my youngest son, then almost 6 years old, was diagnosed with a form of autism. This was coupled with the fact that my 15 year old son already suffers from the disorder. Because of this diagnosis, I experienced the effects of grief, and almost literally heard the window of hope for my son slam violently shut.

So, I, being a "believer," went to the seminary chapel. I was searching for God and for a source of hope, but could find nothing. Instead, I was greeted by what I took to be a rather glib recitation about how good God was all of the time, and how all the time, God was good. I wasn't so sure. Then, during the prayers of the people, the worship leader invited members of the congregation to call out attributes of God, which they were feeling at that moment. So from the chairs came words like "awesome!", "holy!" and "loving!" All of a sudden, up from my gut, probably the same believer's gut which forced the words of denial out of Peter's mouth, came the word "mean". I shuddered, did I really just say that??? I had, and it was precisely how I was feeling. At that moment, my suffering made me wonder, "My God, My God, have you forsaken me?" I had, so quickly, turned from a believing disciple into a betrayer, just like Peter.

The good news in all of this unsettling irony lies yet another mystery. The mystery of God's love. The power of my pain, which had enough strength in it to snuff out my awareness of virtually everything else, was met by God's love. My suffering was not some evil from God's hand, not a test of endurance, and certainly not sanctioned by God. Instead, I was held by God, even as a disciple so quick to betray this very love, and God loved me. God did not turn away from me; just the opposite, Perfect Love kept calling me back. And that, again, on this Good Friday, is "good."

This evening, as we come up in a moment to venerate the cross where Jesus held the sin of the world in love, we stand before the cross as disciples; disciples who can't completely understand, but are on a journey nonetheless. We are participants in this never-ending story of Christ's death and resurrection, drawn year after year to this day of "Good Friday." No, it's not just another Friday, not just a day of dyeing eggs and enjoying the coming of Spring. It's a day when we come to the cross, questioning, not just as believers, but also as betrayers, trying to make sense out of the perfect Love that suffered on the cross. And in the presence of that perfect Love, we meet a God who, through the presence of Jesus, loves us all unconditionally.

So, come to the cross today, seeking the fullness of this unconditional love, which holds us in our suffering, overcomes death, and offers us life. The mysterious fullness of God's love is here today, love both human and divine, and that love is offered today to us, all of us: seekers, believers and betrayers. Jesus, who shows us that a life of love is not out of our reach, is calling us on a journey to life. And that way to life is Love. And that Love is very "good." Amen.

© 2008 Mary Davis

[1] Rev. Dr. William Danaher, General Theological Seminary Ethics Professor.

The Epiphany

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 2:1-12

Good morning, and Happy New Year! Today, we celebrate Epiphany, the Christian celebration of God manifested or revealed to humanity; God, the divine, in the person of the blessed Baby Jesus; God living and dwelling as one of us. And, in addition, Epiphany is the day we recall the 3 Magi, or "wise men", who journeyed, following a star, to pay homage to and bear gifts for Jesus in the manger. And, in the Eastern Church, this is the day when they remember and reflect on the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River while still other churches reflect today on Christ's first miracle at the wedding feast in Cana.

With so many interesting and important threads stirred up during this season of Epiphany, it was difficult to decide what to preach about today. Still, I have to confess, for most of my 41 years in the Episcopal Church, I have witnessed an Epiphany Sunday demonstration by 3 congregants dressed up as the three kings, reenacting the parts of Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, but as I understand it, those 3 kings will arrive next Sunday here, bearing their symbolic gifts at the St. George's Family Service!

So my husband and I began to talk about why Epiphany is important, and what about Epiphany relates to us and to our lives today. And something interesting happened during this simple conversation. Rather than the three 'wise men' or that bright guiding star or Jesus' baptism in the Jordan River or Jesus' first miracle jumping to the forefront of my mind, instead, King Herod, the threatening and menacing figure from our Gospel reading today, leapt off the page and came to life for me.

King Herod, in this story from Matthew, is clearly undone by the strange appearance of a previously unidentified star and by the wise men looking for a new "king of the Jews." In fact, the Gospel tells us that King Herod was not the only one who was "frightened" by this news. But "all of Jerusalem with him" were afraid (2:3). Obviously, King Herod was feeling very much like an outsider, someone shut out, like a person not invited to a party. And so, he reacts, calling together his closest allies, the "chief priests and scribes of the people" (2:4) as well as consulting the 'wise men' themselves, and he asks them to let him in on their secret.

Now King Herod, also known as Herod the Great, was a powerful man. He was responsible for rebuilding the second Temple in Jerusalem, but also was well known for his excessive brutality in Judea. What was it that King Herod was clinging to, that caused him to fear the news of Jesus' birth so violently? Could a little baby, born in obscurity to apolitical parents, lying in a manger in Bethlehem mean that King Herod could not or would not be able to carry on with life as usual, maintaining his kingly life of luxury and preserving his dominance in power? King Herod was clinging tightly to his grip on power as we see thru Matthew's description of his efforts to trick the Magi into revealing Jesus' whereabouts.

Herod's desperation in this Gospel story brought to mind a mental image of a story I once read by the Catholic theologian, Henri Nouwen. It is the image of the "Clenched Fist." Nouwen tells a story of an elderly woman, who when brought to a psychiatric center, was wildly swinging at everything in sight. Her vigor and energy frightened everyone so much that, for her own safety, the doctors felt that they had to take everything away from her. But, in her hand she clutched one small coin which she gripped in her fist and refused to give up. In fact, it took two people to pry open her tightly clenched hand. It was as though she would lose her very self along with that coin. If they deprived her of that one last possession, she would have nothing more and she would be nothing more. At least, that was her fear. [1]

Similarly, King Herod was also clinging to his fears, to his greediness, to his control, clutching his "coin" of power.

And in the same way, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not, we cling ever so tightly to our own fears, our own jealousies, our own bitterness. Perhaps you were slighted at some point, disrespected or mistreated. Perhaps your hard work was not acknowledged properly, or worse, attributed to some one else. Perhaps someone seemingly less talented and productive than you received a promotion that you thought should be yours. We cling to these feelings, even though sometimes they are many years old, clutching them as if they give us life.

As Nouwen writes, we say to ourselves and excuse ourselves, this is just how I am, it's me, because it's life as we know it. We justify clinging onto these disappointments and pains, because it's what we know, whether we like it or not, whether it's healthy or not, whether it's painful or not, even when it creates a giant-sized barrier which inhibits us from worshipping the baby Jesus or, even when it hinders our experience of the risen Christ.

All of us here have experiences such as these, although hopefully and certainly not to the same degree as King Herod! But good news is found today in our Epistle reading from Ephesians. It's no coincidence that today's Epistle assures us that all of humankind, Gentiles as well as Jews, are invited to experience and dwell in the "boundless riches of Christ." (Ephesians 3:8) The shimmering star over Bethlehem, the star which calls us all to Jesus, Emmanuel - God with us – is the star that beckons all of us to be insiders. It's so easy to think about Epiphany and focus only on what we, as God's beloved, receive. But it's more than that. First, Epiphany is about what we are able to let go of. We are invited to open our clenched fists, to lay our jealousies, our bitterness, our anger, even our fears at the feet of Christ. Just like the woman in the psychiatric hospital, who had to let go in order to receive beneficial treatment and help from her doctors, we, too, have to open our hands fully in order to receive a gift. The symbolic posture of opening up our hands in order to receive a gift, allows us to be ready for, experience, and receive the freedom and joy that Christ offers us, "the boldness and confidence through faith in Christ." (Ephesians 3) All of us.

The Gospel lessons for the next few Sundays give us a hint, or a glimpse, of what Jesus' wonderful and powerful works are; of the gifts that Christ offers us to place in our unclenched hands. Not to steal Bernie's thunder for the weeks ahead, but we'll hear about how Jesus, anointed at baptism, "went about doing good and healing" (Acts 10:38), teaching, calling disciples, "proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people (Matthew 4:23)." All of this is available to us today as well – being healed, being called as Christ's disciples.

So let us celebrate God incarnate in this season of Epiphany, keeping in mind the words of the angels who proclaimed his presence, "Do not be afraid!" Don't be afraid, like King Herod and the rest of Jerusalem, do not be afraid of a loving God who desires nothing more than to enter your most intimate space and invites you to let go of whatever it is you cling to so anxiously. Do not be afraid of a God who transcends our human realities. We are all invited guests, insiders on this Epiphany journey to meet Christ, but we must first open ourselves, our frustrations, our disappointments, our insecurities, "to the One who is love and only love." [2]

Amen.

[1] www.beliefnet.com; 'First, Unclench Your Fists' by Henri Nouwen, 2006.
[2] Ibid.

© 2008 Mary Davis

Second Sunday of Advent

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 3:1-12

Today's Gospel reading introduces us to the very familiar biblical character of John the Baptist. We meet him every year in Advent, since all 4 Gospels unanimously proclaim John as the official herald to the Messiah, the prophet for whom the prophets foretold would "Prepare the way of the Lord."

But what does this edgy, rough-and-tumble prophet have to say to us today? What is his message for us here, at St. George's, thousands of years later and thousands of miles from the wilderness path about which he spoke? This question made me want to dig for more about John the Baptist, but it also led me to wonder what John the Baptist might look like here, in our context, today. So, imagine with me, if you will, that standing just outside these doors is John the Baptist. Let's go meet him.

John certainly doesn't look like us. He's rough around the edges, just as you might imagine an ascetic from the desert might look (and smell!), but just the same, he is the first bona fide, genuine voice of God that we've heard in years. Hordes of people can't help themselves but flock to him, and we are no exception. But it's kind of like coming upon the scene of an accident, some slow down and look, while others move out of the way. For the words he uses are beyond frank, in fact they're downright scary. Who talks like this today? Says things like "flee from the wrath to come" (3:7) which was in our Gospel reading today, and describes our beloved and tame 21st century Jesus as holding a "winnowing fork" which will separate the wheat from the chaff to be burned "with unquenchable fire?" (7:12) John's words, appearance and smell make me, personally, want to walk a little faster, and not hang around for his message. I consider running to the other side of the street, in an attempt to avoid John's odd behavior and powerfully challenging words. But my curiosity plants my feet firmly in front of him.

Although John's method and message pose danger to him physically, the danger he knowingly faces doesn't seem to altar his message any. His message to us, on this day, is quite clear. He wants us to Repent. "Repent!" he yells, and we all take a step backward. I look around at all the other people, and act as if he were speaking to them, not me. It's hard to look at him, but harder yet, to listen to him. He's surprised at finding us today, so concerned with Christmas gifts, decorating and entertaining and this only serves as fuel for his repeated cries, "Repent!" As I begin to think about my own list-making, my gift-giving, and my entertaining priorities in this busy Advent season, I realize John's calls to repent are aimed at me. My Advent bears little resemblance to John's other cry, "bear fruit worthy of repentance." (3:8)

Some of the people respond, "But it's so easy to be swept up in this gift-giving and gift-receiving frenzy," while some other brave soul acknowledges our temptation to welcome only those whom affirm and love us to our holiday gatherings. Out loud, I wonder, "Perhaps we do have something to repent, but can't we participate in the secular Christmas and still find the Messiah?"

John continues on, undaunted by our skeptical tone and says, "You invite and welcome carefully chosen friends and family to your table this time of the year, but I wonder how many of you are aware of those who are hidden in the peripheries of pews here? Or equally important, have you considered those who are sporadic in their attendance here? Have you thought about who is not here at all, and why? These people, including the ones in your own families, who make you want to metaphorically "run to the other side of the street," are my fellow prophets who often have the most interesting stories to tell and are important voices to hear. They challenge your notions of harmony and peace the most, but also reveal to us a different face of God. Repent that you want to "run across the street." "Repent, and turn to face them," John the Baptist continues. "Your call this Advent is to be peacemakers of the Kingdom and open your hearts and lives to those who challenge you. It's just one more way to "Make the path straight" before being able to embrace our Messiah who comes soon!"

Finally, exasperated by our questioning looks, the Prophet lifts his hands high to the heavens, "We have Abraham as our ancestor (3:9), nothing is impossible for our God. Repent (3:2) - turn back to God, again and again, and again and again, because in order to greet Jesus on Christmas Day this year, you must first turn around and face the messiness in your lives; the messiness which is found in those whose faces are different, who ruffle our outer as well as our inner feathers. Only then can we find the Messiah who promises to baptize us with the Holy Spirit and with fire!

With that, John finishes his teaching, and turns to walk to the other side of the street, approaching those who really did cross over.

So ends our imaginary encounter with this rogue prophet. I understand his message because honestly, there's not much mystery to his words in this Gospel. But this doesn't make it any easier to hear or to follow John's message. And in case you're thinking that the only way we can encounter "John the Baptist" is through our imagination, think again, because, I bumped into my "own" John the Baptist just last month at Drew University. He (John) was a she, in the form of a classmate of mine in my Wednesday class this semester. This class always begins with a few minutes of sharing time. The Professor opens with the question, "how is it with your soul?" And one by one, my classmates share about their weeks, both spiritually and personally.

On one particular week, I was struggling with life at home and the weight of mothering my children with little to no respite help. The weight of my son's unclear future also added to my burden. After sharing this piece of my soul, a woman in the class pointed her finger at me and said, "the reason no one has come to your side to offer help is because of your judgmental nature." My jaw was on the ground. I was impaled, and I found no words for response. Her words haunted me for weeks. I cried because of them and then wrestled with them. I asked myself and others, "Who talks like this today?" "Who really says things like this?!"

Then a few weeks later, our professor opened class again, with the same question, "how is it with your soul?" This time, a different woman shared her present situation. She was confused and conflicted by her roots in the Baptist Church which damned her for questioning her sexual identity. She carefully described her pain, using the words from King David's lament in Psalm 31, "Be kind to me God - I'm in deep, deep trouble again. I've cried my eyes out; I feel hollow inside. My life leaks away, groan by groan; my years fade out in sighs. My troubles have worn me out." Her pain was palpable and her anguish real. Most of us in the room were speechless or simply prayed silently. But then, the same woman who had wagged her finger at me just a few weeks earlier began to speak. She spoke words of comfort and respect, and then said, "no matter what path you take, or whatever you decide, the truth is - God wants us to be free." Again, she repeated, "God wants you to be free!"

This was someone that, weeks before, I had been unable to look at, much less listen to, a person who had basically lumped me in with the Pharisees and Sadducees John described as the "brood of vipers" (3:7). But she was now speaking words of hope, promise and freedom. She was John the Baptist to me. I didn't want to look and I didn't want to listen. Although it was a painful realization, I realized I had judged and rejected well-meaning offers of help. And she spoke the truth.

Jesus' message at Christmas is, in fact, "you're free!" Sit with that today and in this season of Advent. You are free. Free from fear. Free from guilt. Free to love. But in order to find and celebrate this message, we must first face the prophets in our own lives who are like John the Baptist. These prophets make us uncomfortable, but when we listen to them, we are preparing the way of the Lord, and we will be ready to openly greet our Messiah at Christmas. Only then will we be able to live into and celebrate the freedom that Christ brings.

© 2007 Mary Davis

Reversal of Mission

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Good morning. Let me take a minute of your time, and for those of you whom I have not met yet, my name is Mary Davis, and I am a second year theological intern at Drew University in Madison, and on the path toward ordination here in this Diocese. I am spending this year with you here at St. George's as part of my "Field Work" experience, and part of this experience is, of course, preaching.

Today's parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector is a story told only in the Gospel of Luke. This story, along with many of the other stories or parables we've heard from Luke this fall, highlights a theme of "divine reversal" which, if we are not careful to look closely and intentionally at it, it is capable of seeming unreasonable to us.

For the Pharisees were the holy men of their age, and this particular Pharisee presented today in Jesus' parable, was one who had gone beyond the expectation of the law, was adhering to the code of purity, and then some. He was not only fasting once a week as the law required, but twice. And even better, (and I'm not just making a plug here because it's Stewardship season) he tithed on "all" of his income, going yet again, beyond what the law required.

Then, on the other hand, as you well know, Jesus compares this 'holy' Pharisee to the tax collector. His hated status in Jewish society is well known, since here was a Jew, who was a traitor, at best, by working for the Roman government, and at worst, more like a human parasite, feeding off of his fellow Jews.

Clearly, this is one of those stories, and Luke is famous for this, which presents for us a "radical reversal." Our sensibilities and sense of justice are challenged by the notion that the supposed 'holy man' here, the Pharisee, is not rewarded, while the sinful and parasitic tax collector is in fact exalted. "For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted," says Jesus.

I chewed on this lesson for quite some time, repelled by the Pharisee's self-righteous prayer, yet caught myself, thankful, that I was not like the Pharisee! Interesting, hum? Yet this was not the first time I've caught myself thinking like that. Because, for those of you who don't know me yet, I have three children, three boys in fact, and these boys manage to continually humble me and my assumptions and highlight my own inner "Pharisee."

My oldest child, Ryan, who is now 15, suffers from the developmental disability called Asperger's Syndrome. It's on the Autistic Spectrum, and severely limits his ability to negotiate this social world in which we live. So it's easy for me, and certainly for others in our world, to judge his inadequacies, his shortcomings, and his single minded focus at times. And yet, if this wasn't bad enough (and I'm being slightly facetious here), perhaps the worst thing about his disorder is that he is totally enamored by Japanese Cartoons. You know the type - Yugioh, Pokemon, Digimon, Dragonball Z. If you haven't seen or heard of these cartoons, they are our imported animated figures from Japan, whose eyes are drawn much larger than our American-made cartoon figures, and when their mouths move, it is not in sync with our English words, because originally, Japanese words were scripted. These cartoons are the bane of my existence. Partially, because they are an almost constant source of background drama and noise in our house, but also because I have visions of my son as a 30-year-old, lying on my couch incessantly watching them. But just as I laid out my judgments, looking down upon my son's recreation of choice, one day, he sat up from his cartoon stupor and told me, "You know mom, this cartoon "Twitches" (which is a Japanese cartoon found on the Disney Channel about twin witches separated at birth) is a lot like Jesus and God." Intrigued, the Pharisee, I mean, the dutiful theological student and mother lifted her head from the dishes in the sink . . . "how so," I asked? He said to me, "Yeah, they are the forces that fight the darkness and evil that have filled the world and they want, more than anything else, to bring light to the world."

Now that's humility – there I was with my grand theological thoughts, my judgments, my self-righteous efforts, and all of them were rightfully squashed by my developmentally disabled teenager's insights in to darkness and light. His humble revelation about Jesus' mission to bring Light to the World was not an assessment of me, but rather, a simple statement that pulled me out of my rut of judgment, and allowed me to find the spark of God's grace within Ryan, and at the end of this day, Ryan's Japanese cartoons brought the light of Christ to me.

Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest and author, whose work has spoken to me in many ways, wrote about this divine reversal. He called it the "reverse mission." And this is exactly what this parable in Luke shows us. Nouwen writes, "I have become aware that wherever God's Spirit is present, there is a reverse mission. . . [and] this reversal is a sign of God's spirit. The poor have a mission to the rich, the handicapped have a mission to the able-bodied, the dying have a mission to the living. Jesus shows us that the victims become our evangelists, calling us to conversion." And in that conversion, we humbly become aware that all of our efforts at learning - about ourselves, about others and about God - all of our efforts to do the right thing, and all of our attempts to fix our world, all of them mean nothing without God, without the humble admission that God's life and breath dwell in everyone.

There is another layer of "divine reversal" in this parable which causes me to sit up and take notice, especially during this Stewardship season, and again, it's the Pharisee. Because the title "Pharisee" is derived from the Hebrew verb, "to separate," which is exactly what the Pharisee had done. His prayers and actions, though beyond the code of purity and certainly beyond expectation, were done alone. The gospel reads, "The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus . . . ." And I think that the other piece to this divine reversal draws us to one another, instead of away from each other. We all matter. All of our stories and practices of faith, God's working in our lives, are all part of telling a story of something that can't really be told because it's something that defies explanation, something that exceeds our comprehension. And yet, telling and sharing the story of our lives in Christ, here in this church, in this year, and as this congregation, is exactly what we are called to do.

Some of you might have heard this story before, but it comes to me from a book by Charles Foster, and he took it from one of Elie Wiesel's writings. But it's a story of a Great Rabbi, who whenever he saw misfortune approaching his community, followed the custom of going deep into the heart of the forest, and there he would ask God to save his people. He would go to a sacred place, and he would light a sacred fire, and he would say a special sacred prayer. And sure enough the disaster would be averted.

Well, this great rabbi died at an old age, and he was succeeded by his disciple, who was also a good and holy rabbi, but he did not learn all there was to know from his teacher, and when disaster would approach he would go to the same place in the forest, for he knew the place, and he would light the same sacred fire, for his knew how to make the fire, but he had forgotten the prayer. And so he would just remember that there was a prayer, and that would be enough. Disaster would be averted.

When he died and was succeeded by his disciple, again, the same pattern would play out. Only now, when disaster would approach the village, the disciple would go to the sacred spot in the forest, for he knew where that place was, but he hadn't learned how to light the sacred fire, and he didn't know the sacred prayer. And so he went to the place, and said, "Oh God, I'm here in this place, and I do not know how to light the fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but that must be enough." And it was.

And he lived to an old age and was succeeded by his disciple, yet another generation. By this time, the sacred place in the forest was lost. So when disaster approached the village, this rabbi knelt in his home, and said, "Oh Lord, God, I do not know the place in the forest, I do not know how to light the sacred fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but I know the story and that must be enough." And it was.

These Rabbis didn't pray for their communities and leave. And they didn't just talk about the "good old days" and revel in the past. Instead, they prayed, lighting the sacred fire and finding a sacred place, and then returned to community to embrace the future and teach the next generation. It's so important for all us to remember the story of a living God acting in our midst, but even more important, to live that story now, in community, and incorporate the generations to come into our story with God. Again, we all matter.

Our stories do not live and move in separateness, like the Pharisee. Our connectedness to generations before us – generations of 'tax collectors' and generations of 'pharisees' – allows us all, by the Grace of God, to embrace one another as community. By turning over and over and over and over again, returning time and time again to God, our story becomes one of humility, one which recognizes and values the breath of God that was given to all of us. That holy breath created a story of community, a place where our traditions, both old and new, are shared together - with each other, with God, and with the saints that traveled here before us.

This is true stewardship: offering ourselves and our treasures up to God, by humbly stepping out of the way of our own righteousness, so that all of our stories of faith may be used for God's work in this church, this community, and in the world today.

© 2007 Mary Davis