Worship
Sermon Teachings
2 Kings 2: 1-2, 6-14
Luke 9:57-62
In the Old Testament story today Elijah is coming to the end of his life and he knows it. His apprentice, his friend Elisha is there with him. They set out together to go to all the big shrines, showing him all the great works like a last hurrah. Each time they arrive somewhere new, Elijah tells Elisha to leave and each time Elisha stays. And in each place they arrive the townspeople point out what Elisha already knows, that Elijah's going to die and Elisha says, yes, I know, just be quiet about it.
Finally Elijah takes his mantle (that is his cloak, his wrap) he rolls it up and he parts the red sea, which seems to happen a lot in the Old Testament. When Eiljah asks what he can do for Elisha, Elisha asks for double his spirit. I'm sure Elisha feels like half the man and prophet Elijah was and asks for twice as much to help bring him up to par. Elijah responds by saying, if you are there to witness my death it will be granted. “If you see it, if you are here...” So after Elijah asks him to leave three times- he also tells him he has to be there to witness his death if Elisha wants his wish. And Elisha stays, and he does in deed inherit Elijah's spirit as is evidenced by his own parting of the sea. (see what I mean?)
But what happens next I think is important. He tears his own clothes in two. That's a sign of grief. We can assume its grief that his friend and great prophet Elijah has died. But perhaps it's also an expression of grief as to what's ahead of him. The responsibility he has just inherited. Because just as Elijah is taken off by the chariot he drops his mantle, his cloak. Elisha could have changed his mind. He could have left the mantle on the ground. But he didn't. He picked it up and went on to continue the work of the great Elijah who came before him.
That's our story this morning. It's a complex story that leaves many questions, but it's not an unfamiliar story. A mentor, a great person, a friend in your life is dying. (Literally or metaphorically) You stay with them, no matter how much they ask you to leave, maybe because they want to spare you having to witness their death- or more likely because having you there is a reminder of what they are going to miss. Either way, you stay. And you don't talk about it, because you don't have to. There's a profound understanding in the silence because of what happens while you are together, though neither of you will be able to put it into words. Something will be left behind and something will be picked up. But what happens next? Will double the spirit be enough for what happens next?
As some of you know my father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease 17 years ago. The disease has progressed but we're grateful for the things he can still do. He walks mostly with a cane or walker, can sit at the table to enjoy meals and gets out of his NYC apartment daily with Winston, a lovely man who is employed to be with him while my father's wife is at work. My father needs around the clock attention and can no longer get on airplanes so I make it a point to get out there. Last year I got a call from my stepmother asking for a favor. My father it seemed over the past few years had become consumed with the fear of dying. It had gotten especially bad when he started complaining that he had made no lasting impression in this life. That he was a terrible father and a mediocre lawyer and what he was leaving behind, amounted in his mind, to nothing. He was questioning the value of his own life. So my stepmother asked me to write a letter letting him know what he has meant to me. “Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”
I had no idea what I was going to say. He was not a very good father and I couldn't lie. He was critical, had a temper, the glass was always half empty and everyone was out to get him. But could I find a few nice things to say to an old guy who was suffering a terrible disease? Sure I could. When I sat down to write, what came out was a bit unexpected. It seems the things I am most grateful for, the things I find most impressive are the qualities in him that came from having this awful disease. Having Parkinson's changed him from the critical angry father I grew up with, to a gentle and kind grandfather for my own children. The more that terrible disease (we are all so angry at) progresses the more patient and happier my father seems to be.
So when I sat down to let him know what he was leaving behind, a small portion of what written was the following…
“You can't imagine what you've done. You have taught our family and most importantly your grandchildren what it means to have resilience over self-pity, to have strength over weakness. You've taught humor over despair, perseverance over complacency. You hate this disease; I get it, so do I. But what you've done with it, how you've handled it, in my eyes and in the eyes of my children have taught us more about life than a lifetime of pat advice or vocational accomplishments. It's as if in the face of your own mortality and suffering you have embraced the many pleasures of life and life itself.”
He has never mentioned that letter, and that's ok. I will go in a few weeks to see him again. Neither of us will say anything profound, we'll do nothing profound; we will walk very very slowly together to our favorite French bakery where we will stuff our faces with chocolate and almond croissants. We will probably pet a dog, point to few things in a store window, stop in a small neighborhood bookstore where he will try to stand still from shaking just long enough to open a book and glance at what's inside. We'll walk out of the bookstore and step down the city curbs carefully, counting 1, 2, 3 to help his feet from freezing up. We will not talk about the Parkinson's and we will not mention death. We will tell those voices in our heads to be quiet the same way Elisha told the towns people to be quiet. But I'll show up and stay long enough for him to teach me again and again how to slow down and appreciate the life that stares me in the face. And this ability of appreciating life in it's simplicity will have come out of the unexpected ugliness of a disease no one should ever have to suffer. Yet there it is. He will have passed on an ability to embrace life in the face of illness. Is it a mantle in the traditional sense? One you leave behind? I suppose that depends on what's next?
When he passes, I will find the nearest French bakery and eat a chocolate croissant like it's my first and my last. I'll probably walk slower than usual and I'll take time to point to things in the window. After that, I have no idea. What I do know is that he will have left the world a better place because of the way he lived his life in his final years. He will have influenced a younger generation to continue living that same way, and all of it will have come from the unplanned and unexpected and none of it will have been discussed, because what filled the silence is enough.
What mantles do we leave behind? Where do they come from? And do we even know that we have left them?
This is the season of graduation and commencement speeches. They are everywhere. The NY times publishes excerpts each year and I love reading them. Most of them are the same. Follow your dreams, stay true to yourself. The world is before you, what mantle will you take up? This year my favorite was the rock star Patti Smith who told the graduating class at Pratt “the thing you want keeping you awake at night pacing the floor is the passion inside you to finish the canvas or help your fellow man. What you don't want keeping you awake is the need for a root canal. So floss, use baking soda and take care of your teeth.”
Most commencement speeches can't talk about what the graduating class has ahead of them without talking about what generations before them have accomplished. Elisha asked Elijah for twice his spirit because he knew firsthand the greatness of the man who came before him. We must know what came before us in order that we might make a difference in what's ahead of us.
But knowing it, being aware of what came before is quite different from dwelling in it. Which brings us to our Gospel reading. Jesus is speaking to those who want to follow him, to literally walk with him- but first they want to say goodbye or bury their dead. Jesus makes this very clear. “Let the dead bury their own dead… but you go forward and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Move forward, don't look back. Take up the mantle and keep going. Elisha picked up the mantle from Elijah. We get to pick up where Jesus left off. In this life with purpose, we pick up the mantle left to us by Christ, we don't look back and what happens next? Lift it up and find out for yourself.
It may not be easy. Elisha knew it wouldn't be easy. And Jesus' disciples were told it wouldn't be easy. Being called into some purpose greater than ourselves never is. It requires us to get out of the way so that we might honor the cause at hand, not just achieve greatness for greatness sake. If I were writing the commencement speech for my own kids I would tell them you can never seek only to achieve greatness for greatness sake. What you can do is to wake up and be fully present. You can only do the work and listen. And hopefully you can do something you love. But what you “do” is quite different from doing something with a larger purpose behind it. What you do and taking up a mantle are two different things. One is a vocation the other is a calling.
Some of us are called into something we never expected. If you ask people who have been “called” to do something, how that calling manifested itself, they will often tell you it's more of a nagging feeling they can't shake. Most ministers I've spoken to will say that. They set out with another plan. And once they enrolled into seminary they will tell you they never planned on ordination, they certainly never planned on having their own church and Preacher's kids will tell you they swore up and down they would never follow their parents footsteps. It's as though what went before them and the impression that was made on them was greater than themselves and their own plans.
On Weds there was story of a farm being built solely for the purpose of providing people healthy food in the south Bronx. At the end of that article the man responsible describes the various solutions to the problems like spaghetti. He said, “You know how you throw spaghetti against a wall to see if it sticks? We throw all these possible solutions out there to see what sticks. Because the problems are so serious it's unconscionable to not try everything.” That's a calling. I'm sure that Dennis Derryck, the man responsible; a 70-year-old mathematician didn't sit at graduation from college setting out to build a farm for the south Bronx. It happened because for him somewhere along his journey, it was unconscionable not to try. As though he had no choice. As though something greater than himself led him to that place. And what was unconscionable for him will be different than what is unconscionable for you and for me.
Nicolas Kristoff wrote an article Thursday about a Manute Bol, a basketball player I had never heard of but my husband John would tell you that's no surprise. He grew up as a cattle herder in Sudan dreaming of an education and being an NBA star. And he made it. At 7'6” he set the rookie record for blocking shots. That's the commencement speech promise. Set out against obstacles and achieve greatness. Only for Bol that wasn't Bol's purpose or calling. Bol was influenced and nagged and troubled not by what was ahead of him but instead from what he left behind. While he as playing for the NBA, violence erupted in Sudan. Some 250 people in his extended family were killed. Many were killed by Sudanese soldiers from Darfur, yet when the Sudanese army turned on Darfur, he was there protesting the slaughter. He started with congress and his own NBA dollars. He envisioned multifaith schools where Christians in southern Sudan studied along side Muslims from Northern Sudan. The place where the first school was to be built? His hometown of Turalei. A town that's a two and half day drive from the nearest paved road. And the people of his hometown worshipped him not for his NBA status but because of what they called “his heart of gold” and his commitment to building a school where they lived. Critics loved to make fun of Bol's fundraising efforts (like celebrity boxing) but he would shrug them off saying he cared less about his dignity than he did the schools. He cared less about his dignity because the task at hand was bigger than just himself.
Bol died on Saturday and he won't see his dream of cutting the ribbon for the opening of that school. But someone will read Kristoff's article and someone will get that nagging feeling and someone will ask “what's next?” and someone will pick up the mantle that was left, and someone will cut that ribbon on the opening day of that school.
And they will do it because for them it will be unconscionable not to try. As though he or she has no choice. That's the beauty in it. That with mantles, the ones we leave behind and the one's we take up, they come from something larger than ourselves and sometimes defiantly larger than our plans.
There is a sweet mystery in it all. This walk we have with God. The two of you, together, without any words. God puts something in our path and we either jump over it, step around it or pick it up. And when we pick it up, get ready, because no matter how we think we might be prepared, the rest of the walk and what happens next, may no longer be what we expected.
Let us pray- Dear God, “Take our lips and speak through them, Take our eyes and see through them, Take our hearts and set them on fire. Help us to be the master of ourselves that we may be the servants of others. Amen.”
Hear the Latest Sermon
Listen online or download to your MP3 player!
