Pentacost 1995
June 4, 1995
In the name of the living and true God, whose spirit binds all in one body. Amen
Maria Montessori, the founder of a system of education, has been quoted as saying: ‘What children hear, they forget. What children see, they might remember. But what they do – they become.”
You may not have been able to hear the Gospel read in different languages. You may not have been able to see the people who read, with everyone standing. But you have just done something – acted out what is the essence of the truth. You listened in the community to the mighty works of God. Or to quote Gerhard Ebling, you have participated in a “word event.” And so, God willing, consciously or unconsciously, ready or not, you are in the process of becoming the Church.
It seems right and proper on this Birthday of the Church that we probe our understanding of what it means to become “the Church.”
Many people have strange ideas about the Church. I heard of a conversation that took place at a dinner party. They were talking about religion and someone asked: ‘What exactly is the Church?” The reply was: “It’s a big building where a boring preacher – Sunday after Sunday – asks you for a bundle of money.” For others, it’s a private dub with boundaries which keep some people in, and others out – a club with a rigid hierarchy and a set of inflexible rules.
Whatever your definition of the Church might be, let me set the record straight. We are not a group of congenial clones – compliantly heeding a round collar that tells us how to live life. [At least I hope that’s not what you are becoming.]
If we have only learned one thing from our Gospel reading, let it be this. We are a mixed bag – coming from many places, with many points of view.
The best image of the Church that I’ve run across is that we’re all a group of pilgrims from different places. We might say that we’re nomads of the spirit – gathered around a campfire, becoming warm.
[The altar symbolizes that campfire.] And as we become warm, we tell stories and break bread. That’s what the Church is – a group of believers, gathered around a campfire, sharing stories and breaking bread. And the miracle is that around the campfire, we are beginning to understand each other.
There are many kinds of people gathered around the campfire – some who speak Spanish, French, Italian, and English. Many kinds of pilgrims, many kinds of believers. Some know themselves to be God’s nomads, and there are those who aren’t quite sure. There are those who would like to become the Church, and those who just drifted in for a little warmth. There are those who have come along for the ride (out of habit), and even a few lurking in the shadows – hoping not to be seen. We are all here on the Birthday of the Church. A mixed bag at best. But in some way, acting out what it means to be the Church. And, in some mysterious way, becoming the Church.
Looking at the story we read about the early Church, which incidentally was read by Kevin, one of those nomads from Duke, who will be with us this summer. And the first lesson was read by Brian, who will be leaving us after this Sunday. He and his family will be transferring out. But such is the life of a career Air Force officer. Looking at the story, the interesting thing about the Kevins and the Brians, and all who come to this place – they come as strangers, break bread with us, and suddenly we are connected. A family, a community, a body, listening as they tell us “of the mighty works of God.”
So what is the secret of listening? What is it that makes a family out of strangers? Or, as Luke the author of Acts, puts it: ‘How is it that we can hear people who speak different languages, communicating in our own tongue?”
The secret, I believe, is that we have learned to listen, by God’s grace, in a special way. We have learned, or are learning, to listen with our hearts and not our heads.
Our heads tell us that we are different. Our heads analyze and compartmentalize the differences, different accents, different personalities, and different beliefs. More often than not, our heads tell us that we have different stories – and my story is better than yours, and my life is more desirable than yours, and my truth is closer to the ultimate truth than yours.
But when we listen with our heart, we find that it carries a dangerous memory of human solidarity.
The heart tells us that we are all connected. Despite the differences in stories, lives, and truths, we are all of the same body. When we learn to listen with the heart, the words are not important, for it is the spirit that joins us to one another. The words may be different, but the melody is the same. It tells us that we belong together.
Let me share an incident which happened to me my trip to Costa Rica, I have been listening to some video tapes in Spanish. The tapes are about a family, and it’s kind of a soap opera. At the beginning, I was uncomfortable for “Yo no habla bien Español.” The producers of these tapes wisely said in the preface, “Don’t worry if you don’t know the vocabulary. Just let the story of this family carry you.” I was skeptical at first, but as I was drawn into the family’s story, I understood much of what was said. As the characters became real, I began, despite my limited Spanish to understand what was happening in the story.
In some small way, that was an acted-out metaphor for me of what it means to listen from the heart. The secret, you see, is in the relationship. The process of listening with the heart, that transcends language differences, dissimilarities, and disagreements.
What happened a few minutes ago was a microcosm, a little taste, a symbol of what it feels like to listen, to hear, and to become a family. You who have once been strangers are now, by God’s grace, becoming the Church. . .
AMEN.