by Fred G. Garry - March 19, 2000
Texts: Psalm 23 and Mark 8:31-38 A number of years ago I was working
in a residential facility for troubled teens. It was a summer
job between programs at Princeton. I had only been there a few
weeks, and yet word had gotten about that I was religious. While
I had not taken to prostrated prayer or morning chants it was
not a large organization and word spread quickly.
One evening I came to work an overnight.
I would be watching ten young men sleep and keep the peace if
any were to have a hard night. On this particular evening I was
joined by another supervisor. We would be together for the better
part of eight hours as this cottage had had some problems recently
and so there was a doubling of the guard. After everyone was
tucked away and settled, I made a pot of coffee. As the coffee
dripped and the clock said ten my fellow worker approached me
and introduced himself. Up to this point we had worked independent
of each other.
After telling me his name and shaking
hands he began. "I heard you're religious. Went to seminary?"
"I'm not sure religious is what
I would call myself," I answered, "but the seminary
part is true."
"Well," he said, "since
we are going to be together all night, I thought I would just
get things cleared up from the start and tell you I'm an atheist."
Pouring a cup of coffee I said, "that's
a shame."
"A shame? Why a shame?"
There was a kind of tense excitement
in his voice. "It's a shame you're a coward."
"A coward? How do you figure that?"
"Well, I can't think of a more shameful
act of cowardice than to be atheist. And here I am going to have
to spend all night with you to boot."
It would be fair to say the look on his
face was one of shock. After he scooped his chin off the floor
and pushed his eyes back in a bit, we started a conversation
that lasted until the sun came up. The long discussion had three
parts. First, I was able to convince him that he believed more
than he knew. Faith is a natural part of life, all people believe.
And if he counted himself as a person, there were undoubtedly
many things he believed in, and God was one of those things.
Second, that God is an invisible presence
manifest in everything that is good and just, and that this presence
follows us whether we know it or like it. Moreover the presence
of God had followed him before and would until the end. Finally,
or third, we parted as friends.
I don't make a habit of calling people
cowards. This sort of claim can often lead to fisticuffs or the
pleasure of. walking by yourself. There was just something in
his voice. And as the conversation went on hour after hour I
saw some of the reasons. He was an unhappy person who was unwilling.
to risk being loved, being honest, being the daring person he
hoped he would someday become. And deep beneath all of this unhappiness
was a lack of courage.
During our conversation I can't claim
any moments of brilliant rhetoric that convinced him of God's
presence. What I did, though, was talk about Psalm 23. I never
quoted it, or recited any part of the poem. We just kind of moved
through it. We went to the pastures and green valleys of life.
From there we ventured into the shadow of death, the place where
our souls yearn for strength and comfort. We sat at tables before
our demons and toasted the good things of life. Finally we stopped
before the great hope that lies within every heart: the hope
of blessing, happiness, and rest.
As we moved from place to place there
would be moments where I could interject the insight of the psalmist.
In all places God is there, leading, supporting, healing, reveling,
and, even, waiting. In peace and fear, in joy and sorrow, in
this life and the next the invisible presence of God is working
and willing a way for us to live and become truly human, the
amazing creation of God. Sometimes it takes a moment of shock
to see this presence. Sometimes the inspiration to see the hand
of God in life comes more gently. I was glad that by the end
of the night both were see seen and heard.
Psalm 23 is a kind of capsule or kernel
of life. It is the comings and the goings of our days under the
sun. The twenty-third psalm is also the essence of the Old Testament.
As if the whole story of Israel was reduced, the life of Abraham
condensed, and David's travails refined into three stanzas. I
believe that is why at the passages of life it is so comforting
and soothing. For in many ways it contains not only the great
moments of life, but also the revelation, that in each one, God
was there: guiding, walking, rejoicing with us. The psalm gently
uncovers the mysterious presence of God in our life. This is
a great comfort when we lose someone to see God was there all
along.
Greater still though is the last line:
this life is only the beginning of God's love.
If Psalm 23 is the core or essence of
the Old Testament, a kind of encapsulated, concentrated snapshot,
then I would have to say that our second reading is the same
for the New Testament. The call to discipleship, to pick up the
cross and follow, to deny oneself. And perhaps the greatest mystery
of the life of faith, you save your life only if you are willing
to lose it for others.
In a strange way these two passages form,
in my mind, the greatest compliment of scripture. They are opposite
in a sense, the first talks about what we are given, the second
what we give away. The old speaks of God giving us all goodness;
the new speaks of giving all goodness away. Yet in spite of their
opposition they form the most powerful of compliments.
The compliment can be seen if you put
them together. Psalm 23 - I shall not want for I am given rest
and peace and beauty; Mark - deny yourself for others. I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death; pick up a cross. Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; follow
me. I shall dwell in the house, my cup will over flow; if you
would save it, you must lose it. It is as if Jesus took the life
described in Psalm 23 and said, this is God's gift to you: the
green valleys, the still waters, rod and staff of comfort, the
table, the cup, and the house. All of this is God's gift to you.
And then he said, the only way to keep this is to give it away.
The demanding and mysterious words of
Jesus are to the New Testament what Psalm 23 is to the old. The
claim, if you would save your life you must lose it, this claim
is the key, the essence of the new. It is what makes the message
of Jesus Christ radically different from the Old Testament. It
is the daunting message of courage and faith wherein we are born
anew. When this message of offering one's life for others is
heard today, when this is our witness, then we have joined our
voices the faithful of all ages who were courageous enough to
follow with a cross.
I read a story in the paper this week
describing the life of Cardinal Ignatius Kung. Cardinal Kung
was the bishop of Shanghai in 1949, the year the People's Republic
of China was founded.
For five years he fought the emerging
nationalized church and organized what was called the Legion
of Mary. In response to this he was dragged from his home before
a mob where he was given orders to confess his wrongs to the
communist state. Before the angry mob he was said to have shouted,
"Long live Christ the King, long live the pope." He
was then sentenced to life in prison and spent the next 30 years
there before he was released to receive medical treatment in
the west in 1988. As a final note, after his release when being
made a bishop in Rome, he was told given his poor health he could
stand before the pope to receive his orders. Despite is frail
condition it is said Kung fell to his knees as the pope offered
him his biretta, his cardinal's hat.
When I first read of Cardinal Kung's
life I was and still am impressed. 30 years in prison. I have
all confidence there were men and women who found the strength
to continue- to keep their faith- because he was willing to give
up his life. As I read of his life my mind was led to walk through
Psalm 23: the green valleys, the still waters, the freedom to
face life challenges with a rod of dignity, the tables, the cups.
As I walked past each one of these I kept seeing Kung handing
them over to a jailer as if he were emptying his pockets. Cardinal
Kung died this week in Connecticut, yet I do believe his life
had faced many moments of dying before, only to be reborn.
I don't know about you, but stories like
Cardinal Kung inspire me for a moment and then I move on. Chinese
jail cells are far from me, far from my day. Most of the calls
I receive to give up my peace, or my cup are from my kids. If
I pour a drink of pop, my youngest is bound to ask for a sip,
and then for the rest. The green valleys I forfeit are generally
exchanged for the building of Legos or the reading of Dr. Seuss.
The table spread before me is not often a banquet of anointing
but a cacophony of sounds and the assurance that someone will
spill some milk.
In these moments, I have to admit the
jail cell of Cardinal Kung can become somewhat appealing. When
Kathy has resorted to sending a child to time out, I have often
pined with jealousy. Can I go too? In the moments of my life,
shouting before angry mobs in Shanghai is fascinating, but not
close enough. In closing I wanted to tell you of someone, who
had, in my mind, the same courage as Cardinal Kung, but without
the cardinal's hat.
Her name was Irene LeVeck. Irene was
a twig of a woman in her late seventies. Slow, wrinkled from
years in the sun Irene moved with great effort from task to task
until she needed to catch her breath. Irene was a cancer survivor
until a few months ago. More times than I care to recount she
endured chemotherapy and radiation. Quietly, courageously she
would endure great pain and sickness so to extend her life.
Yet the irony of this extension was that
it was never for her. Irene lived each day for others. Sick,
tired, body falling apart she would make her way to houses, to
the church, to the community flower beds she had built and for
as long as she could each day, she would make things beautiful
for others. This was her gift. I would go and sit with Irene
in the afternoons on her porch. I would ask her about her sons
and her grandchildren. If I was patient she would give me a story
about her husband, Jack, who had died not too long ago. When
she spoke of Jack I felt she was offering me a sip of an amazing
cup of joy. For she loved him dearly.
I will never forget one week when Irene
had been asked to decorate the church for a wedding. She was
recovering from another round of chemotherapy and had no business
accepting such a request, but did it. It took her the better
part of the week to hang the vines, ribbon the pews and array
the chancel with flowers. I had watched her each day slowly adorn
the sanctuary with great skill and patience. On Friday the janitor
came and took down all her decorations thinking the wedding had
already taken place, when it was to be the next day. When I entered
the sanctuary I found her pulling the ribbons and sprays from
a garbage sack. All she said was, "I'm sure I can do it
better. This just gives me another chance."
At that moment I knew keenly what it
meant to live life in Psalm 23 and then to give this life for others.
I saw in her what it meant to have courage, to follow Christ
not in the big moments of life, but in the little ones, in the
private ones, the place where everyday life is lived. When Irene
LeVeck died AP and Reuters did not wire her story around the
globe, but they should have. For the world lost a classy lady
who gave her life without fanfare, without grandeur, without
thanks. I thank God I was fortunate enough to bask in the light
of her face, to see her flowers, and know how good it is to follow
Christ, to give one's life for others. Amen.
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