1 Epiphany 13 January 2002
Whether we like or not, or whether we agree with it or not, it
is true that our behaviors toward self and neighbor are often
influenced by the "names" we call ourselves or others.
If I have been told that you are stupid or simple or not very
bright, I am likely to treat you that way. If I have been told
that I am stupid or simple or not very bright, I am likely to
live down to those labels. On the other hand, if I have been told
that you are extremely intelligent, and quick, or if I have been
told that about myself, I will behave far differently toward you
and toward myself.
Of the many lessons to be learned, of the many mysteries to be explored in the Baptism of the Lord, I want to focus on the voice from heaven: "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased." Jesus, the very son of God, Jesus, the beloved of God, Jesus, a man pleasing to God — no matter what else may happen, this moment, this truth, cannot be taken away. And I suggest that as brothers and sisters of the Lord, these words heard by our brother and Lord are directed at us as well.
As we really begin to believe this, the most amazing and wonderful things become possible. When I hear the story of Jesus' baptism, and hear again the words from heaven, I think of a story shared not too long ago by Scott Peck. The sacred story of the Baptism of Jesus and the story of five monks and a rabbi, lead me to believe that the more deeply we believe ourselves to be brothers and sisters of the Lord, the more surely our behaviors will become a light shining in the darkness, or good news in a world of bad news.
Our story opens with a monastery on the brink of extinction.
Once a great order, cultural changes over the past few hundred years had sapped its strength. All of its branch houses were closed and there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over 70 years of age. Clearly it was a dying order.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a hermitage. The monks could always sense when the rabbi was in the woods, and during one such visit it occurred to the abbot to pay the rabbi a visit, and to ask if he might have some advice that could save the monastery.
The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. "I know how it is," he said. "The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore."
So the old men wept together. They read parts of sacred scriptures and spoke quietly of deep things. When the abbot finally rose to leave, they embraced, and he asked again: "Is there nothing you can tell me to help me save my dying order?" "No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded. "I have no advice to give. The only thing I can say is that one of you is the Messiah."
When the abbot returned to the monastery, his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, "Well, what did the rabbi say?" "He couldn't help," the abbot answered. "We just wept and read holy scriptures together. Although, just as I was leaving, he did say something rather strange. He said that the Messiah is one of us. I don't know what he meant."
In the days and weeks that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi's words.
The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly
have meant one of us monks here at the monastery?
If that's the case, which one?
Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man.
He surely could not have meant Brother Eldred! Eldred is always so crotchety. Though, come to think of it, Eldred is virtually always right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Eldred.
But certainly not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there for you when you need him. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.
Of course the rabbi didn't mean me, each of them thought in turn about themselves. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person. Yet suppose he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O, God, not me, each thought. I couldn't be that much for the others,
Could I?
As they each contemplated in this manner, the
old monks began to treat each other with
extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might
be the Messiah. And on the off, chance that each monk himself
might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary
respect.
It so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery, to picnic on its green lawn, to wander along its many paths, even to sit in the old chapel to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place.
Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray.
They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends. Then it happened that some of the younger visitors started to talk more and more with the old monks.
After awhile, one asked if he could join them — then another, and another. Within a few years, the monastery had once again become a thriving order and thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant community of spirituality and light.
Ours is not a fictional story. Our story is intimately connected with Jesus who chose to go to John and be baptized by him in the Jordan. We are not possibly the messiah, we are sons and daughters of God. We are beloved of God. We are men and women pleasing to God. Perhaps we, like the monks, will begin to believe this about ourselves and about those around us, with our behavior following along.
But no matter what we may or may not do in our lifetime, we are always going to be sons and daughters, beloved children of our Father in heaven. This is the good news we have to offer everyone coming through these doors. Our smiles and words of welcome to each other are smiles and welcomes given to the sons and daughters of God, beloved children coming for the family meal. It is good to be together, to remind each other that we are pleasing to God.
That we are beloved sons and daughters of God, that we are pleasing to God, is the good news to sustain us through difficult moments as we leave this place to work and live in the world. And when we leave, and when we are alone, let us never forget that we are always and everywhere beloved of God, pleasing to God, it is our inheritance through Jesus Christ, our Lord, our brother.
The more deeply we believe ourselves to be brothers and sisters of the Lord, the more deeply we believe those around us to be brothers and sisters of the Lord, all of us beloved children of God, the more surely our behaviors will become a light shining in the darkness, and the more certainly our God will be glorified.
Then with the Apostle Paul we can proclaim: "Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen." (Ephesians 3:20-21) (2)
(1) This version of "The Rabbi's Gift" appeared in Peck,
MS. The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace. New
York, NY: Simon & Schuster; 1987:13-15.
(2) The New Revised Standard Version, (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson Publishers) 1989.
The Rev. Daniel Rondeau
drondeau@stmargarets.org
13 January, 2002