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 ...
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.
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.
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.
