the hands of the dervish

                                                                                                                                                 photo: public domain

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Theme: Unbound and Set Free

Texts: Isaiah 6:1-13 and Luke 7:36-50

Eric Massanari

“the hands of the dervish”

I hear these two passages of scripture

as stories of grace.

Isaiah finds himself in a rather humbling

position, standing before the throne of God.

And, understandably, his conscience is pricked.

“Woe is me Lord, I don't deserve to be here,

I am a man of unclean lips.”

Which is to say, "I've been a hypocrite.
I've professed faith with my mouth,
but not with my life and my actions."

But rather than shame, blame, or guilt

being imposed on Isaiah, the angel touches

his lips with a hot coal and proclaims

him forgiven, and now called

to be a messenger of God.

Grace flows through Isaiah.

The woman in Luke's gospel,

who enters a Pharisee's home uninvited

and weeps on Jesus' feet,

dries them with her hair,

anoints them with costly oils,

should be ashamed of herself,

according to her host and many guests.

However, Jesus welcomes her,

proclaims that her faith has saved her,

and sends her with a blessing of peace.

Grace flows through this woman.

Grace is another one of the big words

we frequently use in the church.

Sometimes we toss it around haphazardly,

peppering prayers with a dash of grace-talk.

Sometimes we use the word “grace”

when we try to describe very real

and deeply transforming experiences

on the journey of faith.

We use it to speak of things like:

forgiveness,

mercy,

unconditional love,

unexpected epiphanies,

long-awaited healing,

newly found hope,

or the simple, blessed moments when we say “yes,”

and sense that with our “yes” we are somehow

living in harmony with the natural flow of Life.

Grace.

We all stand in need of grace—amazing grace.

In scripture and in the traditions of the church

we speak of God's grace,

and we also speak of grace as

something that we share in as well.

Human beings can be grace-full;

we can live with a spirit of grace

pervading our being and our doing.

Grace is one of those elemental powers

of living and loving that defies

rational explanations.

We cannot grasp it for safe-keeping.

It cannot be conjured up on demand.

it seems that grace is more often found

when we do not go looking for it,

and it becomes ours when

we cease trying to realize it.

And when we do encounter grace,

there is that strange sense

that it has been there, ever-present, all along.

Poets probably do a big word

like grace far more justice than

the preachers and the scholars.

Here are a few poet's voices on the flow of grace ...

• Psalm 131

          O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,

          my eyes are not raised too high;

          I do not occupy myself with things

          too great and too marvelous for me.

          But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

          like a weaned child with its mother;

          my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

• William Stafford's “Yes”

           It could happen any time, tornado

          earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.

          Or sunshine, love, salvation.

          It could, you know. That's why we wake

          and look out—no guarantees

          in this life.

          But some bonuses, like morning,

          like right now, like noon,

          like evening.

• Rumi's “I am the guest”

          For sixty years

          I have been forgetful 

every moment, but

not for a second

has this flowing

toward me

stopped or slowed.

I deserve nothing.

Today I recognize

that I am the guest

the mystics talk about.

I play this living music

for my Host.

Everything today

is for the Host.

The poets capture the truth that

the flow of grace has as much to do

with what we receive as it does

with what we give and pass along.

We become conduits of grace.

Rumi, the Persian poet and Sufi mystic

who wrote that last poem,

offered the world a beautiful, physical

image for the flow of grace through our lives.

The story is told that one day

when Rumi was walking through a village

when he became captivated by the sound

of the workers hammering out gold.

He heard in the rhythmic pounding

the ancient prayer of his people:

la elaha ella'llah

“there is no god but God alone”

And with the rhythmic hammering,

and that prayer echoing in his heart,

Rumi began to turn, and spin in a circle,

one hand open and raised to heaven,

and one hand open and turned to the earth.

This turning became a prayer practice

of the Mevlevi Order of Sufism,

the mystical stream of Islam.

More commonly, the practitioners of

this form of dancing prayer have

been referred to as the “whirling dervishes.”

Yolanda and I were given

an opportunity to practice this form

of praying a number of years ago

when the retreat center we were working at

hosted a week-long retreat for a

Sufi community in the Pacific Northwest.

The Sufis are a very ecumenical tradition,

and would see themselves as our

sisters and brothers in faith in the One God.

They openly welcomed us to join them

in their worship and prayer life

which included group circle dances—

“Dances of Universal Peace” they called them—

and the turning, whirling prayer of the dervishes.

Beyond fighting initial dizziness

I remember being struck at what

a beautiful image this turning

is for the journey of life:

our constant turning into change,

the ongoing, unfolding path of

birthing, dying, rebirthing,

wounding, confessing, forgiving,

suffering, living, hoping,

receiving, holding, and giving.

For me the image of a dervish

spinning in prayer embodies

the path Christ calls his followers to:

the path of becoming a channel,

a living conduit for the flow of God's grace.

Grace allows us to risk stepping into

life with a “yes” on our lips,

to trust God more and more,

not only in the parts of life

where we are competent and successful,

but in those places where we truly

step into the unknown, where we are vulnerable,

and where we risk something in love.

The woman who stepped into the house

of Simon the Pharisee was risking a great deal;

she was not welcome there.

It was not a place for the likes of her.

The story reveals the personal thoughts

of the Simon, who says to himself,

“If Jesus knew what kind of woman

this is he would have nothing to do with her.”

In fact, according to custom, no woman

should have approached a man in

that setting, and certainly not in such

a provocative and suggestive way.

She should be ashamed of herself.

Jesus should be ashamed of himself.

He's no prophet,

no rabbi.

The woman becomes Simon's teacher

on the flow of grace.

Jesus points to the risk she has taken,

and the gift she has shared,

and holds it in the light alongside

the things that Simon has withheld

in his fear and his judgment.

She is our teacher.

Her posture, kneeling at the feet of Jesus

and anointing his feet with her

tears and the ointment of nard

is, like the whirl of the dervish

with hands open to heaven and earth,

a posture of pure openness and grace.

And Jesus makes this curious statement:

Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven;

so she is now able to show great love.

But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little. (v.47)

Jesus' words suggest that our need for forgiveness,

and our capacity to share love in this world are linked.

If we are not willing to humbly acknowledge

our own need for forgiveness, our own need

for mercy and grace, then our ability

to live with love and openness to life is diminished.

We are less grace-full.

We can love more fully

when we remember that we, too,

stand in the need of grace.

I remember, years ago, when our congregation

was faced with a very difficult decision

about whether or not we would be able

to welcome into this fellowship a man who

had hurt others—hurt children—very deeply.

For many important reasons,

he and we needed to struggle

with what it would mean for him

to be part of our community of faith.

Much was risked in that time of discernment,

much grace was needed, and much expressed.

I remember one day, months into

our congregation's journey with this man,

sitting at a restaurant with him for lunch.

During our conversation he confronted me,

letting me me know that I had violated his trust,
I had shared something with someone
that he had told me in confidence.  

From the moment I met him and heard

the story of the violence he had done to others,

I had felt many things about this man,

many of which were not very pastoral or compassionate.

I believe I had largely viewed him through the same eyes

that Simon the Pharisee viewed the woman

anointing Jesus' feet at the dinner table.

And here he was holding me accountable,

honestly pointing out my sin.

In that moment in the restaurant he became my teacher,

and I needed to ask him for forgiveness.

And when I asked for it, he freely, graciously offered it.

He taught me in that moment

that we each stand in need of grace,

we each need to receive the gift of

knowing how we are truly seen

through the eyes of the God who loves us

and who longs for us to be freed

of the blame, shame, fear and guilt

that hold us in bondage.

And when we get a glimpse of this, of the way God sees us,

we are able to turn and offer that love back into the world.

We are all created to be

conduits of God's grace,

and channels of Christ's peace. Amen.