N I G H T I I I
For the past two nights,
we have been contemplating the language
of sacraments and sacramentality.
On Sunday evening I suggested
that anything in this world --- anything in creation ---
has the power to become a sacrament;
anything from the night sky, to the birth of a child,
anything that inspires awe and reverence in us,
anything that puts us in mind of God
can be considered sacramental.
But for Christians, to whom the word ‘sacrament’ is native,
the ‘ultimate’ sacrament,
the measure and the ‘fulfillment’ of all sacraments
is Jesus Christ himself ---
because he is the ultimate and most perfect revelation ---
on this side of the grave ---
of who God is, and what God does.
So last night I attempted, in my own words,
to express my answer --- or answers ---
to the question that Christ asked his disciples ---
“Who do you say that I am?”
I contended that Christ was ever-obedient to his Heavenly Father,
and ever-faithful to the poor, the hungry and all those who suffer.
I further suggested
that his mission could be summed up in the one word, “mercy,”
and that Christ was impelled, across the gospels,
to forgive and forgive and forgive --- seventy times, seven times.
Even from the cross, he said,
‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
Only the spiritually naive would think he meant only his executioners.
Finally, his cross, itself, perfectly expresses his perfect selflessness.
~ Obedience.
~ Service.
~ Mercy.
~ Humility.
Four virtues of Christ that I would highlight
as being perfectly expressive --- perfect revelations ---
of who God is, and what God, in his mercy, does.
This evening we turn to the sacramentality of the Church,
which is just a big-shot way of saying
that we are all, now, meant to be sacraments;
that we are called to reflect the light and truth and goodness of Christ
by imitating his virtues, and following him in holiness.
It is through the Church that ‘the Christ-Life’ is sustained in us,
and offered, in love, to the world.
I said as I began
that a Lenten Mission is not the same
as a theology lecture, or a theology course;
that a Lenten Mission is supposed to be a spiritual journey,
a sort of ‘little retreat,’ intended to help us apprehend and appropriate
the meanings of this holy season.
I say this as a way of explaining
that I won’t be walking us through
each of the seven sacraments of the Church,
explaining its history, theology, and ritual symbolism.
Instead I’d like to talk more broadly
about how the Church itselfis a sacrament ---
or, is meant to be, by Christ ---
a living breathing revelation, across the generations,
of God’s presence in our world.
Jesus says, in several places in the gospels,
that anyone who would be his follower
‘must take up his (or her) cross each day, and follow in his steps.’
That gives us a clue
as to how we are meant to be sacraments, ‘imitators’ of Christ,
and reflections of God’s self-emptying love.
Christ further says, in answer to Peter’s question,
that we must forgive one another, from our hearts,
as frequently as ‘seventy times, seven times,’
which is a sort of poetic shorthand for, ‘as often as it takes.’
Before we can find communion with Christ ---
before we can be in communion with our Creator and his creation ---
we must submit to being in communion and love with each other,
even our ‘enemies.’
Every act of forgiveness, then,
becomes a ‘sacrament,’ a revelation of Christ in our midst.
In the same line, early in St. John’s gospel, Christ says:
“This is how the world will know you to be my disciples;
by your love for one another.”
When the Church descends into internal bickering and self-interest ---
when what the world sees in us is division and accusations ---
we are not only failing Christ individually,
but we are failing him as ‘Church,’
which he meant to be a sacrament of himself.
The harmony and unity of Christians with one another
is meant, by Christ, to be a sacrament of ‘communion,’
that is, a revelation of the communion that Christ offers us
in the eucharist --- with himself, and with the Father and the Holy Spirit.
It’s helpful here to remember that the Church speaks of the eucharist
as a ‘foreshadowing,’ a ‘sacrament,’ of the heavenly banquet.
Just as it’s hard to imagine ‘food fights’ at the heavenly banquet,
so any disharmony or division in our own eucharists
undermines their ability
to serve as a sacrament or revelation of God.
In fact, each of the seven sacraments of the Church
is meant, by Christ, to sustain, across the generations ---
until he comes again ---
the manifold expressions of his mission and ministry
while he walked the earth.
Baptism offers us entry
into his own self-giving death and resurrection,
when, from the font we are re-born
as God’s own beloved sons and daughters.
Confirmation includes us
in Christ’s outpouring of the Holy Spirit,
to inspire us with his gifts, and impel us on his mission.
The humble Confession of our sins, and Penance
offer us, and reveal to the world, a share in Christ’s unfailing mercy.
And in the Eucharist,
Christ’s abiding presence in our world is sustained;
Christ’s self-emptying love is offered to us;
Christ’s communion with the Father now forever incorporates us;
and we are made, ‘one body, one spirit, in him.’
But beyond the ‘Seven Sacraments,’
I believe that every dimension of the life of the Church,
and every detail and footnote of the Church’s ‘ordo’
is intended to be ‘sacramental;’
is intended, that is, to reveal the presence of God in our midst.
Take, for example, the Liturgical Year.
The Church Year cannot, itself, be considered a sacrament,
insofar as, by its nature, it happens ‘across’ time.
Its meaning cannot be absorbed in an instant,
but only unfolds across months and years.
But in that very ‘unfolding,’
as we absorb the lessons of the scriptures across the year,
and follow Christ ---
from Bethlehem to Golgotha, and to the Empty Tomb ---
God’s presence within history, and God’s providence over history
are revealed, remembered and sustained.
The Feast Days of the saints
are also integrated into the liturgical year,
so that we may be inspired and strengthened in our faith
by the example and intercession of men and women of heroic virtue,
who have trod this path before us.
Holy Mary, Mother of God;R/ pray for us.
St. John the Baptist;R/ pray for us.
You holy apostles, and glorious martyrs;R/ pray for us.
St. Gregory the Great;R/ pray for us.
In our prayers to them, and their intercession for us,
another form of ‘communion between heaven and earth’
is accomplished and expressed.
And then there are our church buildings themselves,
these shelters where we stand ‘on holy ground.’
St. Gregory’s is blessed with a church
that fairly shouts of sacramentality.
Every nook and cranny is packed with symbolism and beauty.
It is a perfect balance of warmth and grandeur,
a singular harmony of intimacy and awe.
This building itself offered the inspiration
for our ‘Evangelization through the Arts’ initiative.
Rooted in the conviction that beauty itself is ‘sacramental,’
and that human creativity is a reflection of the Divine Creator,
and that the gospel can sometimes be more effectively preached
in images than in words,
we have tried to make a home here for artists,
so that our stewardship may include more than our ‘bottom line.’
Since we first launched this initiative,
we have received occasional complaints that artists are an extravagance.
Throughout the history of the Church
there have always been those, who, quoting Judas,
complain that ‘this money might have been spent on the poor.’
But charity and beauty are sister-graces,
and ought not to be set to bickering
over the prerogatives of each other.
If I may, I’d like to offer a personal example
of how art helped to illuminate my faith.
It has nothing to do with our Evangelization through the Arts program,
but I hope it helps to illustrate
why I am personally supportive.
Many years ago --- I think I was still in high school ---
I reported at the dinner table
that we had been studying evolution.
I was finding it fascinating,
and I suspect that my reporting of it expressed my excitement,
as well as my unquestioning acceptance of what I was learning.
A look of puzzlement and concern came over my father’s face,
until finally he interrupted me softly to ask,
‘But Brian, if man evolved from the animals,
at what point did man’s soul evolve?
Even as a boy, I had the impression
that it was a question that he had struggled with himself.
And I suspect that his question probably reflected
the religious education that he had received, a generation before.
But his question nagged at me for many, many years.
The Church has long since accepted the theory of evolution,
so long as we preserve God’s role as ‘Creator,’
but I don’t recall ever hearing any churchman or churchwoman
attempt to answer my Father’s question.
‘Brian, if man evolved from the animals,
at what point did man’s soul evolve?’
But many years after that, shortly after I was ordained,
a parishioner gave me a volume of the poetry of Wendell Berry.
I know I’ve cited his poetry before,
but I can’t remember whether I’ve ever quoted this one.
Before I read it, I should say that Mr. Berry is a believer;
I’m not sure what church he belongs to,
but one can’t read his poetry and fiction
without recognizing him as a believer.
He lives in Kentucky, and he’s in his eighties.
If you’ve never read him, I’d recommend that you give him a try.
So often these days, I abandon books before I’m halfway through,
because there is not a single character whom I like.
I say to myself, “I don’t care what happens to any of these people!
Every character is loathsome.”
But Mr. Berry creates a world
where his own love for --- or, at least, his patience with ---
every character is transparent.
So please allow me to share one of his poems with you,
that, as I say, helped me get my mind around the question,
“Brian, when did man’s soul evolve?”
It’s called, appropriately enough, “Creation Myth.”
Creation Myth,
by Wendell Berry
This is a story handed down.
It is about the old days
when Bill and Florence and a lot of their kin
lived in the little, tin-roofed house
beside the woods, below the hill.
Mornings, they went up the hill to work,
Florence to the house, the men and boys to the field.
Evenings, they all came home again.
There would be talk then, and laughter,
and taking of ease around the porch
while the summer night closed.
But one night, McKinley, Bill’s young brother,stayed away late,
and it was dark when he started down the hill.
Not a star shone, not a window.
What he was going down into
was the dark,
only his footsteps sounding
to prove he trod the ground.
And Bill, who had got up to cool himself,
thinking and smoking,
leaning on the jamb of the open front door,
heard McKinley coming down,
and heard his steps beat faster as he came;
for McKinley felt the pasture’s darkness
joined to all the rest of darkness everywhere.
It touched the depths of woods and sky and grave.
In that huge dark, things that usually stayed put
might get around,
as fish in a pond can get loose in a flood.
Oh, things could be coming close
that never had come close before.
He missed the house and went on down
and crossed the draw and pounded on
where the pasture widened on the other side,
lost then for sure!
Propped in the door, Bill heard him circling,a dark star in the dark,
breathing hard, his feet blind on the little reality that was left.
Amused, Bill smoked his smoke, and listened.
He knew where McKinley was, though McKinley didn’t.
Bill smiled in the darkness to himself
and let McKinley run
until his steps approached something really to fear ---
the quarry pool.
Bill quit his pipe then, opened the screen,
and stepped out, barefoot, on the warm boards.
“McKinley!” he said,
and laid the field out clear under McKinley’s feet,
and placed the map of it in his head.
~
I came to realize that the answer to my Dad’s question
wasn’t scientific, it was poetic.
The answer wasn’t philosophical or theological,
it was metaphorical.
Our souls were not instilled in us by a thunderclap or a big bang,
but by the breath of God, softly calling our name.
“McKinley!” he said,
and laid the field out clear under McKinley’s feet,
and placed the map of it in his head.
Any questions or observations about the poem?
Do you like it?
For me, the poem is ‘sacramental’
because it reveals something of God to me.
But maybe not for you.
That’s the difference between ‘sacraments’ and ‘sacramentals.’
Sacraments are universal, where sacramentals are more individual ---
or perhaps I should say, ‘personal.’
The rosary might be yourfavorite form of prayer,
but the person next to you is ambivalent about it.
Inside your front door, you may keep a picture of the Sacred Heart;
in the same spot, your neighbor might keep a reproduction
of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
God meets each of us where we are.
It’s vain and far too presumptuous of us
to criticize the piety of others.
Is there anyone who would like to share an example
of a sacramental that speaks to you?
Do you have a favorite image or piece of art
that stirs God’s grace in you?
It doesn’t have to fit tidily into the category of ‘sacred art.’
(Sr. Wendy Beckett)
Thanks again, so much, for coming.
Tomorrow I’d like to speak about the promise of the sacraments,
and the ‘end of all sacraments,’
that is, the ‘sacrament’ of heaven.
To conclude, this evening,
allow me to read prayerfully from a favorite Psalm, Psalm 139.
Psalm 139
O Lord, you search me and you know me,
you know my resting and my rising;
you discern my purpose from afar.
You mark when I walk or lie down;
all my ways lie open to you.
Before ever a word is on my tongue
you know it, Lord, through and through.
Behind and before you besiege me,
your hand ever laid upon me.
Too wonderful for me, this knowledge,
too high, beyond my reach.
O, where can I go from your spirit,
or where can I flee from your face?
If I climb to the heavens, you are there;
if I lie down in the grave, you are there.
If I take the wings of the dawn
and dwell at the sea’s furthest end,
even there your hand would lead me,
your right hand would hold me fast.
If I say, ‘Let the darkness hide me
and the light around me be night,
even darkness is not dark for you
and the night is as clear as day.
For it was you who created my being,
knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I thank you for the wonder of my being,
for the wonders of all your creation.
O search me, God, and know my heart.
O test me and know my thoughts.
See that I follow not the wrong path,
and lead me in the path of life eternal.
Glory to the Father,
and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit;
as it was in the beginning,
is now, and will be forever. Amen.