The Power of Telling Stories in the Dark

Advent always begins with the command for us to “watch,” to remain alert to God’s action in our world. In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus rather mysteriously adds, “So be on your guard; I have told you everything ahead of time.” What does he mean? I certainly wish that I knew what is in store for our world. I don’t remember Jesus giving me any details, though?! And what does it mean to “be on our guard?” Surely, it doesn’t mean to look for signs of the end in all of our newspaper headlines? Surely, we’re not supposed to stir up fear in the guise of Bible study, like the preachers on those early-morning cable shows do?

Since I used to be a French teacher, I sometimes amuse myself by reading the Scriptures in French. This week it paid off! The French command to “watch!” in Mark 13 is “Veillez!” That verb jumped out at me, because it is related to the noun for a special kind of vigil. Down in the South of France, near where I used to live, villagers meet at night in each other’s homes for what is called a “veillée.” Men and women, old and young, grandparents, sleeping babies and little children, gather in an old farmhouse kitchen. In front of a cozy fire, they roast chestnuts and tell stories into the night. This is a remote, desolate region of France, high on a windswept plateau, far removed from the prosperous cities of the Mediterranean coast. The land is poor and arid, and the cliffs and caves of the countryside resemble the rugged landscapes here in parts of Colorado. It’s a land full of hardships and isolation. That’s why the people gather at night for a vigil. They gather together to “watch” over the night. They tell ancient stories of the imaginary ghosts and werewolves that fill the dark hollows of their landscape. The stories allow these farmers to talk about their fears and to try to explain the difficulties of their lives. Their gatherings give them a sense of family and community in the midst of a poverty and loneliness that would otherwise crush their spirits completely. These people know what it means to have to stay alert, to watch, to be on their guard.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, a bit to the northeast of these villages, there is another village called “Le Chambon sur Lignon.” Le Chambon, too, is isolated on one of those cold, windswept plateaus. It, too, is a community of subsistence farmers. But Le Chambon has been the object of books, studies, and even films. It became famous for its “watching.” Instead of stories about ghosts and werewolves, villagers in the mostly protestant town of Le Chambon would gather in the evenings to tell stories of their Huguenot past: Stories of resistance in the midst of hundreds of years of violent religious persecution; stories of steadfastness in the face of intolerance; stories linking them to their heroes of the Protestant Reformation. 

During the troubled times of the Second World War, a young, idealistic pastor was sent to care for the people of Le Chambon. His new post was a punishment by the church authorities. He had dared to proclaim pacifism in the face of world war, so he was shuttled off to desolate Le Chambon. This pastor, André Trocmé, joined in the nightly vigils. He added Bible study to the local stories, spending days and hours examining the words of Jesus with his small community, studying those words that will never pass away.

Slowly, imperceptibly even, Jesus’ words became part of the hearts and minds of these ordinary villagers. And then, one day, strangers started to straggle into the village, knocking on farmhouse doors and asking for food, shelter, and refuge. They were Jews, hounded by their own government, fleeing transport and death in concentration camps to the east. The villagers of Le Chambon took them in. Working together, as a close community, the villagers hid these Jewish families, hundreds of them, in their homes. They shared their meager food with them. They provided them with false identity papers. They secretly filled their local school with their children …. For years, they did all of this without hesitation, disobeying the laws of their own Vichy government, helping perfect strangers very different from themselves. They even risked imprisonment and death for them. 

The people of Le Chambon were interviewed after the war by journalists eager to make heroes out of them. But the villagers couldn’t explain their actions. In a documentary, some of them say things like:

 “We did it ‘just because.’” 

“It was the normal thing to do.” 

“We didn’t have any theory. We just did what had to be done.” 

“People came to our doors and asked for help. How could we not open them?”

The people of Le Chambon, during the long winter nights of vigil, had huddled together sharing the transforming words of Jesus. Without realizing it, they had learned how to be on their guard. They were alert, when history knocked on their doors and called on them to act. They knew from the history of their own religious persecution and from the stories of the Scriptures, what was expected of them as Christians. Together, they were ready to face trials and tribulations. They didn’t spend their time searching the heavens for signs or clamoring for control over the future—or even for control over their own lives. As their pastor himself wrote, “in times of crisis … Predictions are a refuge for cowards … There are dangers involved in trying to predict the effects of your actions on your own life, your family’s lives, the lives of your parish, and the lives of your countrymen." [1] Instead of making predictions, this pastor and his flock chose to follow the words of Jesus, to love their neighbors as themselves, and to help the unjustly persecuted innocents around them.

In the words of our Scriptures, Jesus has truly “told us everything ahead of time.” It’s all there, as it has been for 2000 years: the good Samaritan, the woman caught in adultery, the prodigal son, the woman at the well, the healings, the resurrection encounters, the passion and Cross … “Heaven and earth may pass away, but my words will never pass away.” 

May we remember to watch with these words. To gather together in a dark, stormy world, to share the burdens of our worries and fears, and to listen to the stories. To teach them to our children. To pass them lovingly from hand to hand, like we pass the chalice and paten. We may not be able to share Eucharist in our own troubled, Pandemic times, but we do still share the Word. The words of Jesus are food that is just as nourishing, just as necessary, as the Body and Blood of Jesus. He gives them to us to “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest,” as it says in one of my favorite collects. I don’t think that we can be the courageous people that Jesus calls on us to be without making our Christian story a deep part of who we are. 

This Advent and beyond, I hope that we will make an effort at St. Ambrose to read and study Jesus’ words: at home, on Zoom, or in someday soon, in person. With the words of Jesus embedded in our minds and hearts, united as a Christian community with a story, we are awake to truth. We will not be sleeping when it is our turn to act responsibly in the turmoil of this world. Let us keep the “veillée,” the vigil. Let us watch together!

[1] Philip Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood be Shed: The Story of the Village of Le Chambon and How Goodness Happened There, 1994.

Light and Life: Not Threat or Condemnation

Proper 28A

Matthew 25:14-30

 

I can still remember the sermon on today’s parable from a chapel service at my Episcopal prep school so many years ago. The preacher explained that we had been showered with gifts by parents, teachers, and even by God. And now God, in return, expected a great deal from us in our adult lives. I can still remember the feeling of 100-pound weights falling on my skinny shoulders as he continued: God expects talented young people to grow up to be leaders, he lectured us. We must become the movers and shakers in the community, important and influential people. The implication that rang in my ears that day was that, without extraordinary accomplishments, I would stand before God as the third slave in our parable—lazy and worthless. Later, as an adult, stewardship sermons only reinforced my despair. I would often hear from the pulpit that it is a terrible sin to waste the gifts that God has given to you. If you have received much from God, then you are expected to give back even more. As the years went on, I felt my unrealized talents multiply, and I shivered, surely bound for that outer darkness.

If my younger self had heard our first reading from the prophet Zephaniah, I can only imagine what a mess I would have been. Luckily, mainline preachers don’t often touch this one with a ten-foot pole! The prophet’s words are harsh. But I have good news for us today. Zephaniah is not “predicting the future,” and Jesus’ parable of the talents is not an allegory. Bear with me as we take a look at these two texts together:

First, for Zephaniah. His words are not—and were never meant to be—a prediction of the future. They are not literal. I don’t care what the televangelists say. The prophet is using loudly emphatic words of poetry--poetry that is meant to stir the people of Israel from the injustice that is going to lead to their destruction as a people. Prophets are not fortune-tellers. They are preachers with one eye on society and one eye on God. Their job is to speak words that will get us to change when we are destroying ourselves, when we are ruining our relationship with God. Their job is to root out injustice and stir us out of complacency. Their job is to wake us up, whatever it takes.

Think of Zephaniah as a parent, afraid that his children are doing something that is truly going to harm them. When your toddler was determined to chew through every electric cord in the house, you might have hollered loudly at him, right?  When your teen stayed out all night, you just might have told her she was grounded for the rest of her life. When we are afraid for someone we love, we exaggerate with our language in response to their actions. We are so desperate for them to listen to our wisdom that reasonable language is no longer enough.

Apparently, milder words have not worked on the people of Israel, and so Zephaniah is pulling out all of the stops in the poetic vision that we hear today. Fierce language is not pleasant to hear. But sometimes change requires a bit of heat before it can kick in. Zephaniah is more about divine urgency than divine wrath.

And now for Matthew:

Jesus’ parables are more like Zephaniah’s prophecy than we might imagine at first. They are meant to turn us inside out and shake us up! Parables are also like poetry. They show us truth in a slanted way. They are stories of normal, everyday things, but they have elements that mess with our logic. In a parable, the weirdness of the story is supposed to shake up the way you see things, so that you can see God’s hidden Kingdom inside the everyday world.

Also, like the “Day of the Lord” in Zephaniah, today’s parable is “eschatological.” It is seeped in thought about the end times. This particular section of Matthew’s Gospel is full of Jesus’ words about his return to earth. Like all talk about the end times, our parable includes words about God’s judgement. Jesus, like Zephaniah, is trying to talk in such a way that the hard of hearing will hear. He wants to help us not to waste time as we wait for God’s Way to be fully revealed on earth.

If we interpret our parable as an allegory, with a strict correspondence between characters in the story and our reality, then we’re going to misunderstand, like I did as a teenager. The absentee landlord does not correspond directly to God.  God isn’t greedy, fickle, and harsh. God isn’t quick to punish for mistakes and disloyalty. God is “slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.”  That landlord is terrible. The slaves are right to fear him. Jesus just wants to show us where our fear can lead us. Fear leads us to bury what is meant to be shared.

 In the same way, the talents are not symbols of our personal God-given gifts. If we see the talents as attributes like friendliness, musical talent, or brains, then we are creating a nice little lesson about sharing and leadership. Instead, Jesus is using the story to help us understand something important about our role in God’s Kingdom. In the story, a talent has nothing to do with our English usage. It is a simply a first-century weight of measure. A talent of gold or silver was heavy. It weighed about 50-75 pounds. That slave who got 5 talents of treasure would have received about 375 pounds of it! How would he even move 375 pounds of precious metal? Clearly, the landowner has entrusted those slaves with a ridiculously huge gift.  

It’s also important to realize that burying money was the accepted financial practice in Jesus’ day. Historians tell us that the first-century rabbis taught that the best way to guard money for someone was to bury it. If buried money were somehow lost, then the one who had buried it was not even liable for the loss, for he had done the prudent thing with it. (1)The third slave, then, is just being careful with what he has been given! Who among us here today would not likely have done the same?

Our parable helps us realize that gifts from God are strange things. Have you ever noticed how we’re not ever supposed to hoard them? It’s like the manna that God gave to the ancient Israelites when they were starving: If they tried to put the extra pieces in jars to keep until the next day, the food became nasty and inedible. Even though God rained down the manna upon them like crazy, they weren’t allowed to save any for later, for “just in case.” God expected them to trust that God would always send whatever they need. God’s gifts seem to have to flow into us and back out again. God’s gifts are like light shining on us. If you bury light, or as Jesus said, cover it up with a bushel basket, then it is gone. You have to let it shine if you want it to light up the room.

What is this enormous gift that we are given? One that has to be shared, no matter what? Perhaps it is the Light of Christ itself, the unfathomable gift we receive at our baptisms? It is a gift too large to comprehend, a gift that cannot be buried in the ground, a gift of love and grace and forgiveness that is made for passing from hand to hand like the candle flame on Christmas Eve. The Light of Christ must continue to shine, even in a dark, fear-filled world.

         Today’s lessons are neither wrathful threat nor condemnation. They are a frantic wake-up call from a God who loves us. “I will bring justice,” God promises us in Zephaniah. “I hear the cries of the oppressed. Have no doubt that I will respond.” But as we wait for that day, Jesus tells us in our parable, God needs us to share the Light. Urgently. Courageously. In wild and crazy and unexpected ways.

Where have we buried Christ’s Light and freedom in our souls, I wonder? Under a rock of fear or shame? Under a need to conform to what society tells us is important? Under the kind of burdens that pile up so gradually that we don’t even know how heavy they have become? As individuals, and as a parish, this is perhaps a season to reflect on what we might have buried in the ground. Let’s sweep away the dirt, letting the sunny rays of God’s validation and love shine upon it. That spark that makes us all fully alive—we need to let it grow and multiply and escape our careful, worried control. Our scripture speaks with urgency. Do you have a wild idea for sharing our divine spark in these dark times? The world—and Jesus—are waiting.

 ________________

 (1) Bernard Scott, Hear then the Parable, 227.

We're Still Waiting

 

For Americans, this has been a long week of waiting. Now, we have a President-elect … but this season of uncertainty is far from over. For me, it’s the waiting caused by Covid that is most distressing. We wait for a vaccine; we wait for loved ones to recover; we wait for test results; we wait to travel; we wait to be with family again; we wait for the economy to improve; we wait for a job; we wait to go back to school … The waiting goes on and on. Here in Colorado, we are still waiting for enough rain and snow to put out the fires. Will the air clear soon, or will the fires blaze again? We wait. Members of St. Ambrose, you have been doing extra waiting this year. You were waiting for a new rector, waiting and waiting. Now, you have a new rector, but the uncertainty in our parish life is far from over. We are still waiting to get back to the Eucharist, back into our buildings; back to our beloved fellowship. We are waiting to see how to move forward as a parish, how to grow, how best to follow Jesus as Episcopalians in these crazy times. There is so much uncertainty still, so much tiring, tenuous waiting.

          We feel helpless with our lives suspended, our plans upended.  How are we supposed to wait for resolution? How does God want us to wait?

          Jesus was involved in a frightening waiting game of his own when he told the story of the Bridegroom in Matthew’s Gospel. He was on his way with his followers to Jerusalem, and tensions were high. He knew that he was going to be put to death. When and how would it happen, he must have wondered. From Jesus’ words, Matthew put together a version of the story for his Christian community in their own difficult time of waiting. They had long expected Jesus, their beloved Bridegroom, to have returned for them. He was supposed to have come right back to inaugurate the great feast of God’s Reign on earth. Instead, they found themselves to be a struggling and persecuted little community. A community still waiting for Jesus’ return. Both Jesus and Matthew understood what it means to wait in the darkness.

Their story of the Foolish and Wise Maidens can inform our waiting today. First, I need to make sure that we notice that all of the maidens fall asleep while they wait. The clueless ones and the wise ones all doze off. Sure, they are supposed to stay awake and watch, but they don’t. The bridegroom is too late, and they’re too tired. These women fall asleep at the job. They are no better than the disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane, who can’t stay awake long enough to pray with Jesus in his time of need. This part of the story tells me that there is grace for all of my own imperfect waiting. This waiting business is hard! We’re going to struggle. When I get tired, when I lose hope, when I need a break, when I turn inward, when I fail—God understands. It is not my human weakness that keeps me from God’s love. In these difficult days of waiting, may we have the same grace with one another.

          Next, let’s take a look at the wise maidens and the clueless maidens. I don’t like this part of the story.  I don’t like how the wise ones don’t get in trouble for refusing to share their oil with the ones who run out. That’s just not fair. And I don’t like how the clueless ones get the door shut in their faces. That doesn’t fit with my understanding of God. I do, however, know how the foolish maidens feel. And not just in the abstract. One of my worst experiences in seminary had to do with keeping candles lit. I was helping with a big funeral and was asked to light the candles behind the altar during the prelude. In front of a church full of mourners, I trotted out with my brass candle-lighting stick held high. Those 12 big, tall candles on the reredos were brand new and had never been lit. And the little piece of wick in my brass stick was already half burned down. If you’ve ever served as an acolyte or altar guild member, you might guess what happened. But I was clueless. Standing on tiptoe, I held the flame to the first fresh candle, and nothing happened. I tried the second one, and it wouldn’t light, either. I tried one candle after another, but only one or two caught fire at all. My hands started to shake. I frantically kept pushing the lit wick out of my brass stick as it burned shorter and shorter. Then the wick was … gone. As the prelude ended, I flew back into the sacristy and put in a new wick.  Everyone waited in silence. I slinked back out with a newly lit wick, and darned if I didn’t walk so fast that the flame went out before I even got over to the candles. I felt the mourners’ tear-filled frowns boring into my back as I retreated to the sacristy in defeat. The service began, and there was nothing that I could do to fix my mistake.

          It’s true that I didn’t know to check the candles or the wick ahead of time … but here’s the thing. Would I have done it differently if I had known? I can’t be sure. In churches, we have to save money, right? We don’t want to be wasteful. If I had let those expensive tall wax candles burn before the service, they would have been easier to light—but we would also have wasted part of them. Isn’t it more prudent to wait and light them just at the right time? In the same way, if I had changed the wick in the brass lighting stick before the service, I would have thrown out half of a perfectly good wick. Would that be wise? Doesn’t wisdom favor prudence and economy? Aren’t such calculations important? They might be a good guideline in the world of business, but careful measure is not wisdom for Jesus.

          Here’s where we need to remember what Paul writes in 1 Corinthians: "If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools … for the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God." The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. In Jesus’ story, the wise maidens aren’t the ones who measure. They are the ones who bring more oil than needed. During their waiting, they pour out more of themselves than is the rule. They wait extravagantly. In Jesus’ story, it’s the foolish maidens who are the ones who limit their oil and then try to get others to bail them out. Jesus’ Feast—God’s Dream for the World—is a celebration filled with plenty and abundance. Think of the Prodigal Father, who lavishes all that he has on his wayward son. He celebrates his son’s shame-filled return by inviting everyone to a lavish feast. Think of the elder son, who cannot comprehend his father’s indulgent extravagance toward his brother. He elder son’s calculations prevent him from joining in the celebration.

          Now before Beth, Jill, and the Vestry start getting nervous, I’m not preaching that we need to throw money around to follow Jesus. But we do follow a Lord who messes with our math. The last shall be first and the first shall be last, he tells us again and again.  Oil in the Bible is a symbol for good works. In Episcopal language, oil represents what we do to follow the Way of Love. To be wise as Jesus defines it, is to go beyond all zero-sum games. We stop calculating how much grace is enough, how much self-giving is sufficient to get us by. How shall we wait out the trials of 2020 as a community? In Christ, we share all of our gifts, and everyone has enough. We serve wherever we see a need; we give wherever we see a lack; we pray and support one another through the dark night. When we can’t keep going any longer, others will watch over us with grace while God restores us. How shall we wait as a community? In the words of our Lord, we let our light shine before others, so that they may see our good works and give glory to our Father in heaven.