Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Which Way Will We Go?

A reflection on Matthew 2:1-12

Episcopal priest Bob Libby, in his book, “Grace Happens,” tells this story:

“I can’t remember when I first met Maggie. She blended in with the sand and surf. You could see her walking along the shore in white tennis shoes, floppy straw hat, and oversized print dress. She always carried a crumbled brown paper bag that matched the texture and color of her skin. I remember her most vividly at daybreak or in the evening when I went out jogging, but I later discovered that her walks were regulated by the tides, not by the sun or the clock. She came out at low tide when the beach was wide and smooth.”

“Maggie always walked with her head down. She would stop every now and then and pick something up, examine it, and either discard it or put it in the brown sack. I assumed she was collecting shells. We had a nodding and then a grunting acquaintance for many months before I ventured to ask her what kind of shells she was after.”

“Not shells at all,’ she retorted…’Glass.’ She threw away a green pebble that had once been a Ballantine beer bottle. ‘Sharp glass. Cuts the feet. Surfers land on it. It sure ruins their summer.”

A simple gesture, picking up sharp glass in order to enable others to have fun and enjoy life. A simple gesture, thinking about others, caring for strangers. A selfless act of generosity.

On this Feast of the Epiphany we hear the familiar story of the Magi, come to visit the baby Jesus. The Magi travel a great distance, guided only by the trajectory of a star shining brightly in the sky. But these astrologers or astronomers knew the significance of a bright star and its call to them. The Orthodox tradition understands there to be as many as twelve Magi, possibly men and women both, from ancient Persia, or what is now Iraq and Iran.

Although Matthew doesn’t say, our Western understanding of the story tells us that there are three magi, based on the three gifts offered, of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Whatever the number, the Magi represent a universal invitation from God. These Magi are not Jewish, which for ancient Hebrews this means they are not members of God’s chosen people. They point us to the Great Commandment we hear at the end of Matthew’s Gospel, to make disciples of all nations. They represent diversity, an exotic invitation by God; all are welcome.

The Magi travel, at great risk, to follow the star, to bring the gifts. They know the star is significant of something great and they have to be a part of it, whatever it is. Their action is outward focused, beyond their own safety, security, and comfort.

As they travel they have no clear idea where they are going or what it is they will find. Following God leads us on a similar journey into the unknown. Where will it take us? What happens when we move outside ourselves and follow God? The mystery of God, the grace of working with God, is that something will happen. Something that will transform us into better people. Sacred work is like that, it transforms everyone involved.

Herod, though, has other motives. He says one thing to the magi, but intends something else. Herod is focused on himself, his own security and comfort. He is intentionally deceptive in order to serve his own purposes.

Each of us lives with a bit of Herod and a bit of the Magi within us. Each of us lives on the edge between our own desire for security and comfort and God’s call to care for others. Which way will we go?

The Hasidic masters tell the story of a rabbi who disappeared every Shabbat Eve, “to commune with God in the forest,” his congregation thought. So one Sabbath night they assigned one of their cantors to follow the rabbi and observe the holy encounter. Deeper and deeper into the woods the rabbi went until he came to the small cottage of an old Gentile woman, sick to death and crippled into a painful posture. Once there, the rabbi cooked for her and carried her firewood and swept her floor. Then when her chores were finished he returned immediately to his little house next to the synagogue.

Back in the village, the people demanded of the one they’d sent to follow him, “Did our rabbi go up to heaven as we thought?”

“Oh no,” the cantor answered after a thoughtful pause, “our rabbi went much, much higher than that.” (Joan Chittister, “There is a Season”)

God asks us to go outside ourselves and care for others in this world, but God does not ask that our caring take on grandiose measures. Sure, we hear of these great things in the news, people who have done wondrous deeds for humanity. It happens. But the call is not to something grand, but rather to attend to something humble, a baby in a stable.

Isaiah pushes us to toward this idea, we are instructed to “lift up our eyes and look around” – where are the shards of glass in our world that need picking up? How are we being called to be participants with God in bringing forth wholeness to a broken world?

Our readings today point us to places of transformation. God has created this world, bringing order out of chaos. In the process of creating God desires the world to be a place of wholeness. God desires all creation, all people, to be whole. God has chosen to bring wholeness into the world through us, through humans.

But we have a choice. We can choose not to work with God. We can choose the Herod in us and remain focused on our own self interests. Or we can choose the magi in us and venture out of our comfort zones to do God’s bidding.

A young man eagerly described to his mentor what he dreamed of doing for the poor.

The mentor asked, “When do you propose to make your dream come true?”

“As soon as the opportunity arrives.”

“Opportunity never arrives,” said the Mentor. “It’s here.”

The trajectory of our lives has led each one of us to be here in this place on this day. For some reason we are all here, a community of faithful people seeking to know God more fully in our lives, striving to live faithful lives.

Each Sunday we travel near and far from our homes. We come and gather, pray and share a meal. And then what? Do we go home, back into our daily lives, as if nothing has happened? Is there anyway in which our coming here and being together shapes and forms us? Is there anyway that our lives together actually changes the course for us?

In her book, “Listening for God,” Renita Weems describes the people of Israel in the Exodus complaining about the uncertainty of their lives following their release from the Egyptians, fearful of the desert journey before them. There is a conversation between Moses and God, “(Moses) whispers under his breath his own anguished prayer to God for direction. And then comes a voice ringing above the noise, 'Why do you cry out to me? Tell the people to go forward.'

You can be sure that wherever the right place, the appointed place, is, it is forward, one step ahead, where you can't see, out in the deep water. There. See? Of course not. You won't see until you go." (page 121)

Might our coming together also be that which causes us to change direction, to live our lives in a different way, different because we have come here together? And, then, if we are changed, how might we affect change in the world around us?

I know my time here with all of you has changed me. I am not the same priest I was seven years ago. I don’t think you are the same people either. We have come together and lived through the desert, through challenges and death and now, signs of new life. We have struggled between being Herod, focused inward on ourselves, and being the Magi, focused outward. And we’ve done it simply by putting one foot in front of the other and walking. And, we’ve done it by being willing to change course, try something new, and take some risks.

The opportunity to follow the star which leads to God is here, all the time, all around us. Matthew’s story of the Epiphany taps into the voices of ancient Hebrew Prophets, connecting the new to the old, the past to the present, changing the trajectory of the story – a humble birth leads to the greatest change the world has ever known, because people responded to the light and ventured out of their comfort zones in faith.

Epiphany challenges us to embrace a larger vision of the world, what it might look like if we remove the shards that wait to cut people open. If we are willing to do our part to help heal a perpetually wounded world. The Epiphany story reminds us that working with God challenges us to be agents of change, focused on picking up the pieces, striving for wholeness, uniting all of us as a people of God. It reminds us that making an intentional decision for change just might be the most faithful thing we can do. Which way will we go?

in addition the sources cited in the text I also thank various colleagues and preaching friends, especially Laura Grimes, who holds the M.A. and Ph.D. in theology from the University of Notre Dame, specializes in medieval women’s and modern feminist theology. She has worked as a crisis pregnancy counselor, a resident staff member at the South Bend Catholic Worker house, and a postdoctoral research associate at the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies in Toronto. She has taught theology, women’s studies, and history at Rosemont College, the University of Portland, and California State University at Fullerton. Laura is also a spiritual director and creator of expansive liturgical materials; a wife and mother of four; and the founding bishop of Sophia Catholic Communion, an independent Catholic jurisdiction.

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