I was ordained to the priesthood on February 5, 1994, the
Feast of the Martyrs of Japan, at Christ and Holy Trinity Church in Westport,
Connecticut. That night was chosen for the same reason that most of you were
ordained when you were, and it was not because I had any particular
affinity for the martyrs of Japan. It was simply when Bishop Clarence Coleridge
was available.
I am not big on thinking of ordained ministry as the
path to martyrdom. Even so, over these past twenty-eight years, I have grown to
appreciate those Franciscan and Jesuit missionaries who made the ultimate
sacrifice for the sake of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. They were crucified,
literally, for being courageous and faithful. They remind me in this difficult
work of ordained ministry that we are called to be faithful, not necessarily successful.
Since that February night, I have not missed a Renewal
of Vows service in Holy Week, first in Connecticut and since 1998 in this
diocese. Today is #25 here in Western Mass. I know this is a busy week and I
remember that it was much busier for me when I was a parish priest than as a
canon. So I am grateful (as I know our Bishop is) that you have carved this
time out not only to remember your own vows, but also to help the rest of us
who are needing you to be a faithful colleague today to be there for us as
well.
It is worth remembering today (especially if we are
feeling overwhelmed about the work that lies ahead) that we get to do
this holy work in this holy week. What a privilege! We get to wash feet as
servants of the one who comes among us to serve. We get to remind ourselves and
those among whom we serve of a new commandment: to love one another. We get to
proclaim the mystery and scandal of the Crucified God, with arms outstretched
on the hard wood of the cross to embrace everyone. No exceptions. We get to
sanctify the new fire and proclaim God’s saving deeds in history, even as we
pray for the fullness of our own redemption. We get to make our song again, even
at the grave. We get to carry each other.
Elijah the Tishbite. If
you followed Track I of the Old Testament this summer, you got the whole cycle.
When First Kings begins, David is old and dying and cold. He’s followed by Solomon
who is wise, at least until chapter 11 when we get Solomon not-so-wise. And
then it all comes unglued and a series of kings in a divided kingdom. And then,
in chapter sixteen: Ahab. Jezebel. God’s people worshiping Ba’al.
That is the context for Elijah the Tishbite’s ministry.
Oh, and did I mention that it’s a drought? But like John the Baptist and Jesus
of Nazareth (who will come many centuries later and remind folks of Elijah) Elijah
is a prophet who knows there is enough bread, and who is willing to confront
power with truth. That work is costly and hard. Feeding widows may sound more
glamourous than taking on false prophets, but ministry is all hard, and
it seems for every widow you feed, there are at least ten more still hungry. So
it can get pretty discouraging.
I remind you of this context on this day in this holy
week because I think we are not so different from Elijah. But also because I
get a little queasy when we Episcopalians take Scripture out of context. We are
supposed to know better. We pray that we might read it and mark it and learn it
and then inwardly digest it so that it will sustain us for the journey. We took
vows to do that as you surely remember: “to be diligent in the reading and
study of the Holy Scriptures…to make us stronger and more able ministers of
Christ.”
And yet, if we are not careful we get to the cave out
there at Horeb and we get all tingly proof-texting about the “still small
voice.” That sound of sheer silence. That
matters. But it matters, I think, why
it matters. It matters because if ever there was a burned out, disappointed
cleric in need of a sabbatical it was Elijah the Tishbite. He’s out there just
beyond Beersheba because he is afraid and exhausted and isolated. He asks, as
we heard, that he might die. That’s serious stuff.
And the angel shows up and tells him to eat something.
In CREDO they talk about emotional work. About how, like flight attendants, we
have been carefully taught to smile around people who are scared and even
sometimes rude. So we need to learn and re-learn and remember how to put on our
own oxygen masks if we are going to be any good to the people among whom we get
to proclaim all that good news.
The angel tells the prophet to eat something. And
drink something. Not a martini, to be clear. Just some water. He needs to
hydrate. And get some sleep. Elijah is exhausted. He needs to eat, drink some
water, and take a nap And then he needs to repeat. The angel says that he needs
to do these things for the journey that lies ahead. He needs to get his
strength back.
Eat.
Hydrate. Sleep. That doesn’t sound spiritual enough does
it? Can’t we just jump to the still small voice? It doesn’t sound spiritual
enough, except here is the thing: we are not Gnostics. We proclaim that the
Word-became-flesh and dwelt among us. We have beheld his glory! We have been
reflecting for the past month on the truth that we are dust and to dust we
shall return. (Sooner than necessary, by the way, when we forget to eat,
hydrate, and rest.)
So the Word of the Lord comes to Elijah and asks,
“what the hell are you doing Elijah?” (Check the Hebrew!) And Elijah answers (as
I must confess I have answered God once or twice in my own ministry) I alone
am left. I’m the only faithful one. Everyone else is either worshiping Ba’al or
headed to their second home or too busy to serve on vestry. I, I alone, am
left.
And although it’s not in our text, I think the most
ancient translators inserted an emoji eye-roll right there on the oldest manuscripts.
I’m no angel of the Lord. But as Canon to the Ordinary
I hear it from time to time: the vestry are all against me. The congregation won’t
change. I, I alone am left. I just want to hide out in a cave for a while! The
best advice I know is to remind you, in those moments, to eat something. And
hydrate. And get some rest.
So, okay, let’s go there: God isn’t in the wind or the
earthquake or the fire but in that still small voice. But here’s the thing:
Elijah won’t hear it if he doesn’t first eat, hydrate, and get some rest. And
neither will we. Elijah has more work to do. So do we, my friends. Elijah needs
to go anoint a new king and he needs to appoint a successor. He is not, in fact, alone. But he needs
(with God’s help) to identify who will take over from him. He needs to do more
than put a desperate plea in the bulletin. He is not alone, but he has not yet
asked the right person for help.
If I’ve learned one thing at all in the part of my
work that involves transition ministry it’s that none of us are indispensable
and it’s way beyond hubris to think we are. We are not called to be the Savior
of the world or even of our little part of the world; that job is taken. And
thankfully most of us are not called to be martyrs. We are simply called to be
Jesus’ friends and to follow him. We are
servants of the Servant. We walk with our people and remind them that
sometimes God is in the wind and sometimes God is in the earthquake and
sometimes God is in the fire. But always always always God is as close to us as
our breath. So eat and hydrate and rest and then stop and listen to the sound
of your own breathing. And know that God is here. Now. Still. Always. And to
the end of the ages.
Always there is someone out there waiting to be asked
to take up the mantle, in need of a double-portion of whatever we have to offer
them, whenever we are ready to stop acting like the little red hen. They just need
to be asked. They need to feel called, themselves, just as we have been. Keep
your eyes open for Elisha.
Most of us serve among a people (even the most
faithful of whom) are sometimes a bit hard of hearing and a little bit
blind and sadly sometimes even a little hard-hearted. I attend a lot of vestry
meetings in a year, my friends. I get it. This work has always been hard but in
my three decades of ordained ministry I can tell you this: it’s never been
harder than it is right now. And, it’s also true, that sometimes our people
have way more faith and trust and wisdom than we do and we need to remember
that ministry is not a spectator sport but a team sport. Find those who are
willing to share the work.
When we come up against the same issues that St. Paul
had to deal with in Corinth, we do have choices. We can infantilize and enable God’s
people and never challenge them to do more. We can create or reinforce systems
of codependency. Or we can hate them for not being what we thought they should
be, as we come face-to-face with what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called our “wish
dream” for the Church. And in our disappointment and grief and resentment that
God’s people are so fickle so often, we can inflict pain on them and on their
children and their children’s children. I’ve been there to clean up the messes
when that happens; it ain’t pretty. Lord, have mercy.
But there is a third way, a more excellent way: the
way of love. Before our presiding bishop discovered it, St. Paul was writing
about it to the Corinthians. You remember. Patient. Kind. Not arrogant. Not
rude. We can love them and we can let them love us back. Love (you don’t need
me to tell you this) can literally break your heart. People will let you down. Count on it. Your
bishop and this canon and your vestry and your people will all disappoint you
from time to time. But worst of all, you will disappoint yourself.
The
question in those moments is this: what to do with our disappointment? What
to do with your hurts, both real and imagined? Let them go. Here, and now. Let
God melt you, mold you, fill you, and use you again. Eat something. Drink some
water. Take a nap. And then repeat. You need your strength for the journey that
lies ahead. We need you, healthy as we walk again the way of the cross, and
sing again at the empty tomb.The living God who called you to this work needs
you. Let this day and this week and the fifty days of Easter be a time to hit
“re-set.
May it be a season to listen again for that true voice that claimed you by water and the Spirit and marked you and sealed you forever, long before any bishop ever laid a hand on your head.
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight.
The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.
Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.
The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.
You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken in the race of days.
At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.
You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the rain.
When it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.
Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until it’s calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself. (Be excessively gentle with yourself!)
Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.
Gradually you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time
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