Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve, OHC
RCL - Proper 16 A - Sunday 24 August 2008
A few months ago at Sunday dinner we had cherry pie for dessert - with ice cream, if I recall. It was good; really good. Some was leftover, so I mentally made plans to have another piece for supper that night. The anticipation stayed with me all afternoon. After Vespers I went to the pantry to be reunited with my treasure. I opened the refrigerator - nothing. I checked the walk-in assuming that someone had stashed it downstairs - nothing. It was gone. Someone had eaten MY cherry pie! How could these people do this to ME? What selfishness! What gluttony!!
Monastic life is not immune to the influence of a culture of materialism and instant gratification. Part of our witness to that culture is the hard work of purging ourselves of the illusion of possession. When we are formed in the game of what I can get, what I can keep, what I deserve, now not later, the realization of how easily we lie to ourselves is startling and humbling and must drive us to our knees. The word MINE is the four-letter word that brings the most destruction and chaos to Christian communities - be they monasteries or churches or denominations. It is the word that reveals the depth of our arrogance and illusion. It distracts us from our mission, dissipates our energy, and divides our commitments. It is a lie because the reality is that things come from God, belong to God, and will return to God. It is a dangerous illusion because the drive to possess creates walls of greed and protection and security between us and God and between people. If possession is our game of choice, then life becomes acquiring, keeping, and protecting instead of living and sharing and relating.
In today’s Gospel, our Lord asks the disciples who the people and they themselves believe he is. Peter’s Confession that Jesus is the Christ becomes an opportunity for the unveiling of Christ’s intent to build Church upon the rock of Peter and to continue to build upon it through each generation until His return. The only pronoun Jesus used to describe the Church is mine - “upon this rock I will build my church”, He says. This is the most important pronoun in the New Testament. The creedal proclamation that we believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church is summed up in this one word. My fallen desire toward possession and control and power may not, cannot include Church. As much as I believe that if it were mine I could fix it, I could get it to more closely match what I believe Christ had in mind, it is not my church. It is not your church or your monastery or your order, - they are Christ’s. The Collect for today reflects this emphasis as it very intentionally begins “Grant, O merciful God, that your Church…”
If we are not the owners, if the community does not belong to us, then what are we? Are we passive observers free from any responsibility, helplessly watching events unfold around us? No. We are in fact something more than owners - we are stewards. Just as we are formed by those who have loved and taught us, our calling is to receive the tradition, the Christian story, tend it, and pass it on to those who come after us. We are better than merely mine. The story is bigger than us. The Gospel reaches before us and through us and beyond us. The building is still in progress. To be a steward is to allow room for the other, for the whole amazing communion we call Church, to receive the gift of generosity and freedom from the prison of possession. As Br. Scott often says, these things, these institutions, are for “our earthly use” - nothing more, but nothing less either. To become stewards we must have both historical and practical aspects in mind.
Historically, the writings that most powerfully remind me that I am a steward, that the church is not mine, are those of the first five centuries of church history. Our own world is not unlike theirs; materialism and skepticism the dominant religions, historic institutions in turmoil, competing truth claims, struggles to understand the nature of God’s justice in a world of war and evil, anxiety about the direction of country and planet. Within a hostile culture and within a community torn about how to understand and define Christian truth, the early saints and prophets speak with bold clarity about how the Church matters precisely because it does not belong to them. They got that their job was to preserve the Gospel from forces within and without that would compromise it and warp it. They see no contradiction between absolute truth and incomprehensible mystery, between doctrine and wonder. Let us heed their words and examples in our own community and time as we strive to preserve a discipline of simplicity, generosity, and faithfulness with all that God has entrusted to us.
On the practice side, the rejection of possessiveness and the work of stewardship happens in the small movements of everyday life. In believing that that pie was mine, in believing that I had a right to it as my possession, I became angry at my brothers and put my own desire ahead of our common commitment to one another. I forgot what I was called to be and do because of something as silly as pie. Church is not some theoretical concept but loving our brothers in the here and now. The here and now is what leads to conversion. We must cooperate with the small invitations and reminders of daily life form and shape us into stewards.
So, we will grow and thrive as individual monks and as a community to the extent that we open our hands to God and each other. Only as we build on today that those who come after will have a place to stand. To what are we clinging - things, thoughts, habits - that we are willing to give to God? Are we looking for ways to serve rather than be served? Are we looking for ways to share rather than demanding our fair share? Let us resolve that as stewards we will create a community where all is in our care but nothing belongs to us, not even cherry pie.
Amen.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
On the occasion of Br. Bernard Van Waes' funeral
Mount Calvary Retreat House & Monastery, Santa Barbara, CA
Homily for the Funeral of Br. Bernard Van Waes, OHC
by Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC, Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross
Monday 14 July 2008
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke
Anton Henry Carter
Carter Van Waes
Br. Bernard
These are the four names by which our departed brother and friend was known. And though those of us gathered here today knew him only by the last two, all four names made him the man he was, were part and parcel of his story, his journey. No doubt there were other names as well…a family diminutive, possibly, or various nicknames given by friends or brothers. I know at least one former Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross who referred to him lovingly as Bern-tooth. Others of us just called him The Bern. He himself was endlessly creative in bestowing such names on friend and foe alike. Alas, I never found out if he had one for me. But afterwards, I’d be happy to share with you some of his choicer creations.
Why so many names?
Perhaps because our Br. Bernard’s whole life can be understood as the search for his true name, his true identity…and the same might be said of all of us.
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke was born in 1921 in Flint Michigan to Maria Bachmann, a young German immigrant who in 1901 came with her parents to the United States, and to Edward Gaedke, a traveling salesman. The story is not unusual: the father disappears and the young mother, feeling trapped and overwhelmed by poverty and desperation, leaves young Henry to be raised by her parents, an immigrant couple who ran a bakery in Chicago. Her visits home become less and less frequent over the difficult years of the Depression, as these grandparents, though themselves desperately poor, offer Henry a home. Whatever their limitations, they instill in their grandson two great values…a Teutonic love of order and an appreciation for education, something that they had little opportunity for in their native land. School and work were the twin poles of the boy’s life.
After high school, young Henry worked in his family bakery and in a bookbindery. But already a love of learning and a yearning for something different, something more, had taken hold. Henry dreamed big dreams for himself, dreams that went beyond the ability of his grandparents to provide. Listen to his description of this period as related in his application to join the Order of the Holy Cross:
Further education was out of the question, and so I worked in a bakery twelve hours a day, six days a week. My one day of leisure, after Church, was spent in Museums, Art galleries and musical events, for—somehow I felt the keen desire to go on. I became an avid reader—anything seemed to capture my fancy, but, in particular, volumes on Philosophy, history, and theology. Most of these were completely beyond my ability to read, let alone absorb. Nevertheless, I carried them with me on the bus to and from work—even to church, when on occasion I opened a book when the sermon, too, became incomprehensible.
This established a ‘pattern’—the love of books and what they revealed led me to include in my itinerary of museums, etc., a college campus. I liked to think of myself as a student as I walked the paths and building of the University of Chicago. My interests soon focused on ancient Egypt and my ambition was to one day be an Orientalist specializing in Egyptology. The one outstanding man of that field at the time was Professor James Henry Breasted, head of the Oriental Institute at the University. I was determined to see this great man. With the impetuousness of youth, and being ‘armed’ with the whole armour of grit I presented myself for an audience with the sage and dean of Egyptologists. My complete lack of tact and/or reverence for protocol must have taken all by surprise and I was humored and ushered into the great man’s presence. He was kind, affable, and listened to my plans to one day be his successor. I recall only one small part of that conversation: Dr. Breasted said, “The field is already overcrowded.” My replay was: “But, sir, there’s always room for one more good man, isn’t there?” He smiled benignly, patted my head and replied, “To be sure.”
Yes, there is always room for one more good man…but unfortunately not for Henry, not in Chicago, not then.
So he did what many young men did who sought a way up and out. He enlisted in the Navy in August 1941, under the name Anton Henry Carter. We know of course what happened only a few months later on December 7, 1941. And for the next six years, Anton was thrust into the belly of the beast that was World War Two in the Pacific Theater. He served with great valor, receiving the right to wear countless battle ribbons and serving in the very critical position of Chief Signalman.
Much happened during these fateful years. I mention but two significant events.
The first was an event of deep loss and trauma. On the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 1945, a Kamikaze pilot crashed into Anton’s ship, The USS New Mexico. Anton lived, but over a hundred of his mates died in the horrible wreckage that surrounded him, burned alive, mangled, obliterated. These included Anton’s best friend, a Marine named Bill. Shell shock, battle fatigue, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—call it what you will—the loss was overwhelming, the wounds deep. Anton was left with that most haunting of human questions: “Why did I survive while all my friends perished? What does this mean? Who am I?” It was a question that was to mark him, resurfacing year after year. Only now can we see how rich and incredibly brave and creative was his response to this event. Whatever the wounds, whatever the long-term consequences, he was never defeated by them.
The second event is happier. Anton’s grandparents both died within six months of his enlistment into the Navy. He was essentially left without a family. But a family was provided for him nonetheless through his great good fortune in meeting up with Robert Van Waes, a fellow seaman and dear friend from Illinois. Bob along with Bob’s parents and later Bob’s wife Barbara became Anton’s surrogate family, a reality Anton acknowledged by legally changing his name to Carter Van Waes. We are honored to have his namesake, Bob’s son, Carter Van Waes, here with us today.
So it is now Carter Van Waes who, after his naval discharge moves to Boston and attends Boston University to begin the undergraduate education so long desired and delayed, only to have it interrupted by recall to further active service in the Navy during the Korean conflict. Again, with single-minded service and focus, Carter served his country and then returned to Boston to complete his bachelor’s degree. It was also during this time that he came to know the Episcopal Church in Cambridge, MA and felt called to the ordained ministry. Attendance at CDSP in Berkeley, CA; a pastoral position in Alaska; ordination there; parish ministries in the San Francisco Bay Area; a falling out with the Bishop; a move to Texas; further pastoral work in parish and military base there; a Masters degree in Literature and History from the University of Texas; work as a teacher…and always, always that old question: “Why did I survive? Who am I? What now?”
It is from this question that his fourth name--Br. Bernard--emerges. He was at one of those points in life—we have all had them—when while experiencing a certain desperation, a certain profound dissatisfaction with the status quo, that he remembered his visits here to Mount Calvary Retreat House during his seminary days. He remembered the peace he experienced here. And then…well let him describe it.
When I had finally ‘come to myself’ I discovered, quite by accident (or WAS IT?), a copy of the Holy Cross magazine issue for the summer of 1973. I flipped open to page five, which pictures Novice Fr. Roy Parker quietly pondering his Hebrew studies. I do not wish to be either dramatic or equate this with Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus—however, at that moment my years of desperation and search for my real vocation were ended—and I literally said: “This is where God wants me.” I will not belabor the point.
Nor will I… other than to concur that it was where God wanted him.
These years as a monk were fruitful years and as well as years of struggle. That is the nature of monastic life, maybe of all life. They were years of scholarship and of hard manual work in kitchen and sacristy. Years of spiritual direction and companionship and the daily round of worship. Years of health crises and sometimes emotional crises. Years marked by a fascination with and deep appreciation of the genius of Trappist monk Thomas Merton. Years of art--watercolors and sketches--and breathtakingly beautiful Japanese style flower arrangements appearing as if by magic in the chapel long before the dawn service. Years of gingerbread houses at Christmas and exotic cookies and always, always a wonderfully wry sense of humor, summarized by his favorite needlepoint pillow that says, simply, “Bah, humbug.”
What an amazing man!
It strikes me now that as the years went by, his name got simpler: from Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke to Anton Henry Carter to Carter Van Waes to simply Bernard. And as his name got simpler, so did he. Those of us who shared the privilege of being with him in the last six months of his life saw a transformation take place that was profound, a simplification, a transparency that was unmistakable. Maybe it was those clear blue eyes or that warm smile. But as he decreased physically, he increased spiritually in peace, joy, trust, honesty. He was at the end the monk he had always hoped to be. It was a gift to know him, a gift to us all.
There is a mysterious passage in the Book of Revelation that says:
“To anyone who is victorious I will give some of the hidden manna; I will also give him a white stone, and on it will be written a new name, known only to the one who receives it.” (2:17)
A white stone with a new name, our true name, written on it.
Bernard now has that white stone. He finally knows his true name, the name written from all eternity at the heart of God.
I pray that he’s there when you and I get our white stones as well. When we, with him, with all God’s children, discover our true name, our true and everlasting identity as sons and daughters of the Most High.
What a happy, what a holy, what a joyous day that will be!
No more “Bah humbug” then! This finally will be the real thing.
Amen.
Homily for the Funeral of Br. Bernard Van Waes, OHC
by Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC, Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross
Monday 14 July 2008
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke
Anton Henry Carter
Carter Van Waes
Br. Bernard
These are the four names by which our departed brother and friend was known. And though those of us gathered here today knew him only by the last two, all four names made him the man he was, were part and parcel of his story, his journey. No doubt there were other names as well…a family diminutive, possibly, or various nicknames given by friends or brothers. I know at least one former Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross who referred to him lovingly as Bern-tooth. Others of us just called him The Bern. He himself was endlessly creative in bestowing such names on friend and foe alike. Alas, I never found out if he had one for me. But afterwards, I’d be happy to share with you some of his choicer creations.
Why so many names?
Perhaps because our Br. Bernard’s whole life can be understood as the search for his true name, his true identity…and the same might be said of all of us.
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke was born in 1921 in Flint Michigan to Maria Bachmann, a young German immigrant who in 1901 came with her parents to the United States, and to Edward Gaedke, a traveling salesman. The story is not unusual: the father disappears and the young mother, feeling trapped and overwhelmed by poverty and desperation, leaves young Henry to be raised by her parents, an immigrant couple who ran a bakery in Chicago. Her visits home become less and less frequent over the difficult years of the Depression, as these grandparents, though themselves desperately poor, offer Henry a home. Whatever their limitations, they instill in their grandson two great values…a Teutonic love of order and an appreciation for education, something that they had little opportunity for in their native land. School and work were the twin poles of the boy’s life.
After high school, young Henry worked in his family bakery and in a bookbindery. But already a love of learning and a yearning for something different, something more, had taken hold. Henry dreamed big dreams for himself, dreams that went beyond the ability of his grandparents to provide. Listen to his description of this period as related in his application to join the Order of the Holy Cross:
Further education was out of the question, and so I worked in a bakery twelve hours a day, six days a week. My one day of leisure, after Church, was spent in Museums, Art galleries and musical events, for—somehow I felt the keen desire to go on. I became an avid reader—anything seemed to capture my fancy, but, in particular, volumes on Philosophy, history, and theology. Most of these were completely beyond my ability to read, let alone absorb. Nevertheless, I carried them with me on the bus to and from work—even to church, when on occasion I opened a book when the sermon, too, became incomprehensible.
This established a ‘pattern’—the love of books and what they revealed led me to include in my itinerary of museums, etc., a college campus. I liked to think of myself as a student as I walked the paths and building of the University of Chicago. My interests soon focused on ancient Egypt and my ambition was to one day be an Orientalist specializing in Egyptology. The one outstanding man of that field at the time was Professor James Henry Breasted, head of the Oriental Institute at the University. I was determined to see this great man. With the impetuousness of youth, and being ‘armed’ with the whole armour of grit I presented myself for an audience with the sage and dean of Egyptologists. My complete lack of tact and/or reverence for protocol must have taken all by surprise and I was humored and ushered into the great man’s presence. He was kind, affable, and listened to my plans to one day be his successor. I recall only one small part of that conversation: Dr. Breasted said, “The field is already overcrowded.” My replay was: “But, sir, there’s always room for one more good man, isn’t there?” He smiled benignly, patted my head and replied, “To be sure.”
Yes, there is always room for one more good man…but unfortunately not for Henry, not in Chicago, not then.
So he did what many young men did who sought a way up and out. He enlisted in the Navy in August 1941, under the name Anton Henry Carter. We know of course what happened only a few months later on December 7, 1941. And for the next six years, Anton was thrust into the belly of the beast that was World War Two in the Pacific Theater. He served with great valor, receiving the right to wear countless battle ribbons and serving in the very critical position of Chief Signalman.
Much happened during these fateful years. I mention but two significant events.
The first was an event of deep loss and trauma. On the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 1945, a Kamikaze pilot crashed into Anton’s ship, The USS New Mexico. Anton lived, but over a hundred of his mates died in the horrible wreckage that surrounded him, burned alive, mangled, obliterated. These included Anton’s best friend, a Marine named Bill. Shell shock, battle fatigue, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—call it what you will—the loss was overwhelming, the wounds deep. Anton was left with that most haunting of human questions: “Why did I survive while all my friends perished? What does this mean? Who am I?” It was a question that was to mark him, resurfacing year after year. Only now can we see how rich and incredibly brave and creative was his response to this event. Whatever the wounds, whatever the long-term consequences, he was never defeated by them.
The second event is happier. Anton’s grandparents both died within six months of his enlistment into the Navy. He was essentially left without a family. But a family was provided for him nonetheless through his great good fortune in meeting up with Robert Van Waes, a fellow seaman and dear friend from Illinois. Bob along with Bob’s parents and later Bob’s wife Barbara became Anton’s surrogate family, a reality Anton acknowledged by legally changing his name to Carter Van Waes. We are honored to have his namesake, Bob’s son, Carter Van Waes, here with us today.
So it is now Carter Van Waes who, after his naval discharge moves to Boston and attends Boston University to begin the undergraduate education so long desired and delayed, only to have it interrupted by recall to further active service in the Navy during the Korean conflict. Again, with single-minded service and focus, Carter served his country and then returned to Boston to complete his bachelor’s degree. It was also during this time that he came to know the Episcopal Church in Cambridge, MA and felt called to the ordained ministry. Attendance at CDSP in Berkeley, CA; a pastoral position in Alaska; ordination there; parish ministries in the San Francisco Bay Area; a falling out with the Bishop; a move to Texas; further pastoral work in parish and military base there; a Masters degree in Literature and History from the University of Texas; work as a teacher…and always, always that old question: “Why did I survive? Who am I? What now?”
It is from this question that his fourth name--Br. Bernard--emerges. He was at one of those points in life—we have all had them—when while experiencing a certain desperation, a certain profound dissatisfaction with the status quo, that he remembered his visits here to Mount Calvary Retreat House during his seminary days. He remembered the peace he experienced here. And then…well let him describe it.
When I had finally ‘come to myself’ I discovered, quite by accident (or WAS IT?), a copy of the Holy Cross magazine issue for the summer of 1973. I flipped open to page five, which pictures Novice Fr. Roy Parker quietly pondering his Hebrew studies. I do not wish to be either dramatic or equate this with Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus—however, at that moment my years of desperation and search for my real vocation were ended—and I literally said: “This is where God wants me.” I will not belabor the point.
Nor will I… other than to concur that it was where God wanted him.
These years as a monk were fruitful years and as well as years of struggle. That is the nature of monastic life, maybe of all life. They were years of scholarship and of hard manual work in kitchen and sacristy. Years of spiritual direction and companionship and the daily round of worship. Years of health crises and sometimes emotional crises. Years marked by a fascination with and deep appreciation of the genius of Trappist monk Thomas Merton. Years of art--watercolors and sketches--and breathtakingly beautiful Japanese style flower arrangements appearing as if by magic in the chapel long before the dawn service. Years of gingerbread houses at Christmas and exotic cookies and always, always a wonderfully wry sense of humor, summarized by his favorite needlepoint pillow that says, simply, “Bah, humbug.”
What an amazing man!
It strikes me now that as the years went by, his name got simpler: from Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke to Anton Henry Carter to Carter Van Waes to simply Bernard. And as his name got simpler, so did he. Those of us who shared the privilege of being with him in the last six months of his life saw a transformation take place that was profound, a simplification, a transparency that was unmistakable. Maybe it was those clear blue eyes or that warm smile. But as he decreased physically, he increased spiritually in peace, joy, trust, honesty. He was at the end the monk he had always hoped to be. It was a gift to know him, a gift to us all.
There is a mysterious passage in the Book of Revelation that says:
“To anyone who is victorious I will give some of the hidden manna; I will also give him a white stone, and on it will be written a new name, known only to the one who receives it.” (2:17)
A white stone with a new name, our true name, written on it.
Bernard now has that white stone. He finally knows his true name, the name written from all eternity at the heart of God.
I pray that he’s there when you and I get our white stones as well. When we, with him, with all God’s children, discover our true name, our true and everlasting identity as sons and daughters of the Most High.
What a happy, what a holy, what a joyous day that will be!
No more “Bah humbug” then! This finally will be the real thing.
Amen.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
RCL - Proper 10 A - 13 Jul 2008
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve, OHC
RCL - Proper 10 A - Sunday 13 July 2008
Genesis 25:10-34
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
The Parable of the Sower
First off, and we’ll get it out of the way, your homework assignment: the next time you read a passage of Holy Scripture, especially a Gospel passage, take note of your first reaction to what is said. Before you have time to think about the “right” answer, before what you already know starts to clean up what you hear, read in such a way that you can catch the reflex that the tap of the passage brings out from your inner spiritual muscle.
I mention this activity because in my own sermon preparation while my head wants to go in one direction with the text, more and more some other angle or theme begins to gnaw at me and nag for attention. Sometimes I charge ahead and say what I want to say. Lately, however, I’ve experimented with saying to that other voice “O.K. Let’s see where this goes…” This inner struggle between my own ego and the Holy Spirit is the soil from which an edifying word to me, the community, and our guests can come.
My first unfiltered and unedited reading of the Parable of the Sower brought to light some of my own struggle and shadow. I said to myself “I’m good soil. The seed of God’s word, God’s self, has taken root and grown in me. After all, I’m a monk, right? Pretty good fruit. I’ve devoted my life to the service of the Church and to living and teaching the Gospel. Check plus for me! On to the next chapter!” After I had worked myself up into a pretty good lather of pride and self-satisfaction, this nagging voice shows up… “Oh, really? Is all of you good soil? All the time?” And then I’m brought back into reality and reminded, not in a condemning or judgmental way, but gently and persistently, that in fact the places in me God wants to seed are not all open and available all the time.
Also, while the Lord describes these grounds as different persons, perhaps what He was talking about were not separate individual persons but the selves that live in me, in each of us. We have been and are capable of choosing to be hard to God’s voice, shallow when consumed by our desires for gratification, and knocked off track when the cares of this world strangle the tender and vulnerable sprouting of virtue.
The symbols of the parable are rich and universal - seed, ground, soil, growth, plant, fruit, and harvest. In farming and gardening, cultivation is the key. For seed and soil to have a successful meeting, planning and preparation are in order beforehand and careful care during the growth process. Hazards and dangers are always present to prevent the fruit from coming to full ripeness. Too much or too little water, insects, and weeds can wreak havoc. If the soil is determined to be good for growing, it still must be given the best chance for producing the desired flower or fruit. An apt analogy for the spiritual life. Our good, real self is present but must be tilled and tended in order to breathe and flourish. The soil is the stuff that makes us us - the divine image that can become hard through selfishness, shallow through arrogance, and chocked through greed.
The image of soil has stood out for me in my reflection and led me to the word humility. The Latin for humility is humus, earth, and is, as we know, the central virtue proclaimed by St. Benedict in chapter 7 of the Rule. The association is important to the parable because humility for Benedict is the virtue that loosens the soil, breaks up the hard ground, clears the weeds and digs deep, preparing the seed to find a welcome home. Humility is essentially a grounded and real understanding and acceptance of ourselves and God. It is the acceptance of gratitude and service that flows from the truth that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, and that while we fall short in our call to love one another, Christ never ceases to love and forgive us. Humility is living from the unshakable truth of that rather than who we are, what we’ve accomplished, how we feel, or what spiritual experiences we have or have not had. When our hearts are hard and the seeds are choking and dying, it is not because we have lost our value to God, but buried our true selves, our deep soil, to the distraction and allure of easy shortcuts and instant gratifications. Humility is the key to finding it again and remembering what’s real and important. In New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton says faith and humility are inseparable and: “humility alone can destroy the self-centeredness that makes joy impossible. If there were no humility in the world, everybody would long ago have committed suicide.” (p.181)
The Lord is inviting us to clear and till the ground so that as much of the seed as possible can fall on the best ground possible in us. Our spiritual lives are our willingness to be cleared and tilled so that God can dwell within our whole selves. This parable invites the question: Into what kind of soil does God’s voice fall in me and what am I called to do about that? What kinds of seeds am I allowing God to plant in me today that will grow into a crop at God’s bidding?
Humility reminds us that the seed and therefore the fruit, does not originate in us. In humility we become passive to a process taking place within us that we cannot define or control, allowing God to work rather than dictating to God what our lives will become. We give ourselves over to the work of God. The most difficult part of my spiritual growth is not the part that I can do myself, but the surrender to God of what only God can do in me. The work is to exclude self-consciousness and simply focus on God rather than myself.
Whenever we remember to thank God with our whole hearts, whenever we serve the needs of others with no regard for recognition or reciprocation, whenever we deeply desire for God to soften us and make in us a growing place, then we are tilling the soil and preparing it for the seeds of God’s word to take root and flourish into everlasting life.
Amen.
Br. Randy Greve, OHC
RCL - Proper 10 A - Sunday 13 July 2008
Genesis 25:10-34
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
The Parable of the Sower
First off, and we’ll get it out of the way, your homework assignment: the next time you read a passage of Holy Scripture, especially a Gospel passage, take note of your first reaction to what is said. Before you have time to think about the “right” answer, before what you already know starts to clean up what you hear, read in such a way that you can catch the reflex that the tap of the passage brings out from your inner spiritual muscle.
I mention this activity because in my own sermon preparation while my head wants to go in one direction with the text, more and more some other angle or theme begins to gnaw at me and nag for attention. Sometimes I charge ahead and say what I want to say. Lately, however, I’ve experimented with saying to that other voice “O.K. Let’s see where this goes…” This inner struggle between my own ego and the Holy Spirit is the soil from which an edifying word to me, the community, and our guests can come.
My first unfiltered and unedited reading of the Parable of the Sower brought to light some of my own struggle and shadow. I said to myself “I’m good soil. The seed of God’s word, God’s self, has taken root and grown in me. After all, I’m a monk, right? Pretty good fruit. I’ve devoted my life to the service of the Church and to living and teaching the Gospel. Check plus for me! On to the next chapter!” After I had worked myself up into a pretty good lather of pride and self-satisfaction, this nagging voice shows up… “Oh, really? Is all of you good soil? All the time?” And then I’m brought back into reality and reminded, not in a condemning or judgmental way, but gently and persistently, that in fact the places in me God wants to seed are not all open and available all the time.
Also, while the Lord describes these grounds as different persons, perhaps what He was talking about were not separate individual persons but the selves that live in me, in each of us. We have been and are capable of choosing to be hard to God’s voice, shallow when consumed by our desires for gratification, and knocked off track when the cares of this world strangle the tender and vulnerable sprouting of virtue.
The symbols of the parable are rich and universal - seed, ground, soil, growth, plant, fruit, and harvest. In farming and gardening, cultivation is the key. For seed and soil to have a successful meeting, planning and preparation are in order beforehand and careful care during the growth process. Hazards and dangers are always present to prevent the fruit from coming to full ripeness. Too much or too little water, insects, and weeds can wreak havoc. If the soil is determined to be good for growing, it still must be given the best chance for producing the desired flower or fruit. An apt analogy for the spiritual life. Our good, real self is present but must be tilled and tended in order to breathe and flourish. The soil is the stuff that makes us us - the divine image that can become hard through selfishness, shallow through arrogance, and chocked through greed.
The image of soil has stood out for me in my reflection and led me to the word humility. The Latin for humility is humus, earth, and is, as we know, the central virtue proclaimed by St. Benedict in chapter 7 of the Rule. The association is important to the parable because humility for Benedict is the virtue that loosens the soil, breaks up the hard ground, clears the weeds and digs deep, preparing the seed to find a welcome home. Humility is essentially a grounded and real understanding and acceptance of ourselves and God. It is the acceptance of gratitude and service that flows from the truth that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, and that while we fall short in our call to love one another, Christ never ceases to love and forgive us. Humility is living from the unshakable truth of that rather than who we are, what we’ve accomplished, how we feel, or what spiritual experiences we have or have not had. When our hearts are hard and the seeds are choking and dying, it is not because we have lost our value to God, but buried our true selves, our deep soil, to the distraction and allure of easy shortcuts and instant gratifications. Humility is the key to finding it again and remembering what’s real and important. In New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton says faith and humility are inseparable and: “humility alone can destroy the self-centeredness that makes joy impossible. If there were no humility in the world, everybody would long ago have committed suicide.” (p.181)
The Lord is inviting us to clear and till the ground so that as much of the seed as possible can fall on the best ground possible in us. Our spiritual lives are our willingness to be cleared and tilled so that God can dwell within our whole selves. This parable invites the question: Into what kind of soil does God’s voice fall in me and what am I called to do about that? What kinds of seeds am I allowing God to plant in me today that will grow into a crop at God’s bidding?
Humility reminds us that the seed and therefore the fruit, does not originate in us. In humility we become passive to a process taking place within us that we cannot define or control, allowing God to work rather than dictating to God what our lives will become. We give ourselves over to the work of God. The most difficult part of my spiritual growth is not the part that I can do myself, but the surrender to God of what only God can do in me. The work is to exclude self-consciousness and simply focus on God rather than myself.
Whenever we remember to thank God with our whole hearts, whenever we serve the needs of others with no regard for recognition or reciprocation, whenever we deeply desire for God to soften us and make in us a growing place, then we are tilling the soil and preparing it for the seeds of God’s word to take root and flourish into everlasting life.
Amen.
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