“The Rabbi’s Gift”

Sunday, 12 November 2006

Rev. Robert M. Hardies

Our reading this morning is by the novelist and poet, Alice Walker. It’s just one line, so I’ll say it twice.

I will rise up and sing from memory songs they need once more to hear.

I never thought I’d forget it, but I did. Some folks say that a new minister spends his whole life preparing for his first sermon to his first congregation. That might be stretching it a bit, but I can tell you that from the moment in May of 2001 when you voted to call me as your minister until that second Sunday in September when I began my ministry with you, all I could think about was what I was going to say in my first sermon. The truth is, I knew little to nothing about ministry back then and all I knew was that on that first day I’d have 20 minutes to try to shape the course of our time together.

Well, September the ninth finally arrived and I do remember the service as hopeful and beautiful. And I remember taking Monday off, as is my practice and coming to work on Tuesday morning, puzzled by the scream of sirens and the plume of smoke that rose above the city. Recently I was telling a friend about my first few months at All Souls. She shared her own story of the Fall of 2001. She wondered what I’d said to the congregation on the night of September 11, what I’d said the first Sunday after. And then she asked me a question that took me by surprise because no one had ever asked me it before. She said, “Rob, what ever did you preach on the Sunday before September 11^th?” And it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten.

In the rush of history that swept us along since September 11, I hadn’t even given another thought to that very first sermon that I’d spent months preparing. That realization, of course, led me to an even more troubling one which was, if I can’t remember what I say on Sundays . . . [Laughter] Well, we’re not going to go there this morning. And thank God for the church website because after just a few minutes searching the internet I found the text of my sermon and read it. The centerpiece of that sermon was an old story that’s been passed down through the centuries, called “The Rabbi’s Gift.” When I reread the story, I was taken aback. And my faith in the power of words to help work a transformation among us, even if we don’t remember them, was renewed.

I’d like to share that story with you again today and see if you don’t come to the same conclusion. For those of you who weren’t here back then, it’s important to set just a little bit of context for the story and the situation, which is that back in 1998, All Souls fired my predecessor. The struggle to let him go badly divided the church. People hadn’t treated each other well and as a result, attendance on Sunday mornings had dwindled to about 150 or so folks. I arrived at the church after three years of interim ministries, and this is the story that I told on that first Sunday.

It begins, as all good stories do: Once upon a time, there was an old, walled city, perched high on a hill. And in the very center of that city, at its highest point, stood a monastery, as old as the city itself, built to be the beacon of that city. And, indeed, for many years the great monastery had fulfilled its role well, serving the city’s poor, providing sanctuary for weary travelers, inspiring all who entered with its beauty and its warm worship. It truly was a beacon of hope and love and justice in the city. But the monastery had fallen on hard times. Slowly but surely, and for reasons no one knows, its light began to fade. Worship wasn’t joyous anymore; it was tired. The monks’ hospitality seemed more grudging than generous. As a result, few people visited the monastery and even fewer joined the monastic order such that now there remained at the monastery only four monks and their abbot, all over the age of 70.

Now there was in that same city, a rabbi who lived in a small house, lit by a small fire, not too far from the monastery. Though neighbors, the monks and the rabbi had never spoken, but one day the abbot of the monastery decided to pay a visit to the rabbi to see if he had any advice as to how the monastery might be saved from its extinction. The rabbi welcomed the abbot into his home and after they had sat down by the small fire he listened to the abbot’s story of the decline of the monastery, but he could only commiserate. “I know how it is,” he lamented, “the spirit, it’s gone from the people. Hardly anyone comes to synagogue any more.”

So the old abbot and the old rabbi sat together by the fire and wept. And then they opened the torah and they read and studied and spoke quietly of profound things. And when it came time for the abbot to leave, he pleaded one more time to the rabbi: “Is there no advice you can give to me to help me save my dying community?” “I’m sorry,” said the rabbi, “I have no advice. All I can tell you is this: remember, the messiah is among you.” And with that, the two old men embraced and parted ways. When the abbot returned to the monastery, the monks were waiting for him on the front step. “What did the rabbi say?” they asked eagerly, hoping for some saving word. “Nothing,” said the abbot. “We just cried and studied torah together. When I left the only thing he said to me was this. He said, ‘Remember, the messiah is among you.’ But I have no idea what he meant by that.”

Disappointed, the monks shrugged their shoulders and returned to work, more certain now than ever that their community would soon die. Yet in the weeks and months that followed, the rabbi’s parting words lingered among them. Could the messiah really be one of us, each monk secretly wondered to himself. If it’s true, thought one monk, it must be the abbot; he is such a wise man. On the other hand, he said, it could be Brother Thomas; he is a holy and loving man. It certainly isn’t Brother Eldred, thought another monk as he dusted the abandoned sanctuary; he’s so crotchety and cantankerous. But then again, he does have important things to say. And yet another monk declared to himself, well, Brother Philip is certainly no messiah; he’s so passive and quiet. But then, again, he’s always there for you when you need him.

As each monk wondered to himself if the messiah was among them, a funny thing happened. They started treating each other with extraordinary respect, and each, on the off chance that he himself was the messiah, even treated himself better too. Now, for years, the dwellers of the walled city had passed by the monastery without even noticing. But ever since the rabbi’s advice the townspeople sensed something different going on; sometimes as they passed on their errands, they’d hear laughter coming over the monastery walls, or they’d see a smiling face flash in one of the windows, or they’d hear the monks’ heavenly chanting as they rose from bed in the morning. The old place was beginning to radiate a kind of aura again that people found hard to resist.

Before long, they began coming to worship on Sundays because they wanted to be a part of this loving community. They needed to be a part of that community. And they started bringing their friends, too, and when people came to the monastery they found that they were transformed by being there. Their souls were replenished, their hearts and minds nourished. What’s more, this feeling stuck with them throughout the week and permeated their daily lives. Pretty soon, even the young people in the village were inspired by the monks and one decided to take vows and join them, and then another joined and another. And so it was that, within a few years, the monastery was once again thriving, once again a beacon of hope and love and justice in the city.

That’s the story I told on my first Sunday at All Souls, the story I forgot two days later when I saw the plume of smoke rising over the city, the story I only recently remembered when prompted by a conversation. But friends, this is our story. This is our story. It’s the story we’ve been living for the last five years. There are lots of things we can lift up and celebrate as part of why this community has flourished and nourished us over the last several years. But the most important factor of all is the one suggested by this story. It’s because we’ve learned to respect and love and care for one another again. Not perfectly; no human being loves perfectly, much less a group of us. But still we’ve become a place where people walk in on Sunday mornings and feel the warmth and the love and spirit of this place. And it sustains them throughout the week.

We’ve become a place where, when struggling through difficult times, we know we can count on one another for support, or a much-needed hug or at least a home-delivered casserole. We’ve become a place where we can work out our differences with respect, a place where we welcome our newborns with love and we say goodbye to the departed with great respect and love. It’s a place where the love that we feel here is spilling out over the walls and into the community where we’re working for justice and compassion. In short, friends, we’re learning how to love better. Which is just about the most important thing we’re charged with on this earthly venture of ours. To learn how to love better.

In our reading, Alice Walker says “I will rise up and sing from memory songs they need once more to hear.”

I can think of at least two reasons why today is an appropriate day for us to remember this story. The first is because I’m getting ready to go on sabbatical in the New Year. January 28^th is my last Sunday in the pulpit until mid-August. During that time the church will be placed in the capable hands of Reverend Lyngood who will serve as Acting Senior Minister and Shana will be supported by our outstanding professional staff and by committed and talented lay leaders. In addition, we’ve invited some of the best preachers in our movement and beyond to come and grace our pulpit during that time.

I know that the church will flourish and thrive while I’m away, which is a good thing because we’ve got a lot of work to do when I get back. But the sabbatical is a good time for us to remember the lesson of this story, which is that the church isn’t about its leader. It isn’t about any one person. It’s about all of us and the quality of our love for one another. I’d like us to imagine the time that I’m away on sabbatical as an opportunity to remember that truth and to practice it.

The other reason I think it’s important to retell this story today is because today we celebrate the 185^th anniversary of the founding of All Souls Church. Happy Birthday. We have a tendency when we look back over the history of this church to pick out highlights and milestones. We talk about the stand against slavery.

We remember that the Reverend James Reeb died for his commitment to the civil rights movement. We remember that we hosted a nationwide gathering of religious progressives just last spring, a community who, according to a front-page article in Friday’s Post, now appears to be making some headway in our polity. It’s good for us to celebrate these things, but what makes a church truly great? What is the foundation upon which all of those other things are done? It’s the ability of the people in this church to love and care for one another. A church that doesn’t do that has no business taking up space.

Friends, over the last five years, we’ve rediscovered that the messiah is indeed among us, and that it isn’t any one person; it’s all of us. That faith has served us well for 185 years. May it lead us boldly into the future.

Amen.