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Sermon Index

SURROUNDED BY GIFTS

by the Reverend John Parker Manwell
and the Reverend Phyllis L. Hubbell
at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore
on the 10th of September 2000

READING

The Rabbi's Gift
As told by M. Scott Peck in
The Different Drum (1987)

There is a story, perhaps a myth ... I cannot remember whether I heard it or read it, or where or when ... All I know for certain is that this version came to me with a title. It is called The Rabbi's Gift.

The story concerns a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once a great order, as a result of waves of antimonastic persecution in the 17th and 18th centuries and the rise of secularism in the 19th, all its branch houses were lost, and it had become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over 70 in age. Clearly it was a dying order.

In the deep woods surrounding the monastery, there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a hermitage. Through their many years of prayer and contemplation, the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was in his hermitage. "The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again," they would whisper to each other. As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one such time to visit the hermitage and ask the rabbi if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.

The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. "I know how it is," he exclaimed. "The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore." So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. "It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years," the abbot said, "but I have stilled failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?"

"No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded. "I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you."

When the abbot returned to the monastery, his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, "Well, what did the rabbi say?"

"He couldn't help," the abbot answered. "We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving¾ it was something cryptic¾ was that the Messiah is one of us. I don't know what he meant."

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi's words. The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that's the case, which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light. Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people's sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. Often right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred. But surely not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah. Of course the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? Oh God, not me. I couldn't be that much for You, could I?

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery¾ to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends. And their friends brought their friends.

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. So, within a few years, the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.

SERMON

Rev. Manwell: Six years ago, when we came to Baltimore, we used our first several months with you to continue a process of developing a shared vision of our mission as a congregation. Over that time, we jointly committed ourselves to a dream of building a church that reflects the diversity of this city. We dreamed that together we might make a difference in this city.

We celebrated the commencement of our ministry together that spring, in gala fashion, with a full house, here in this historic space. Part of what we did that Sunday was to offer to each other gifts, symbolic of the glimpses of the sacred that we find in one another.

African American members presented us with this jar of multicolored beans. The gay/lesbian bisexual/transgendered community presented us with this rainbow flag. The women of the congregation gave us this goddess figurine. The children gave us a chalice, of handmade pottery, which in the course of frequent use has disappeared, and also this colorful tablecloth as a setting for the chalice. The congregation gave us two wonderful pictures drawn by Claire Brown and Anna Dean that put in picture form our opening words, "Come, come, whoever you are." Anna's drawing is reproduced on the cover of your Order of Worship today. And we, in our turn, presented to you, in calligraphy, this saying from the story of The Rabbi's Gift: "One of you is the Messiah."

Rev. Hubbell: It is six years later. We are more diverse as a congregation than we were then. Many of our long-time members are still active. But a richly diverse group of around 200 new members has joined since then. Of course, not all of them have stayed. People move from the city or simply move on. Still, we have also more than doubled the number of gay, lesbian, and bisexual members, and have taken in some transgendered ones. We are younger. We have quite a few more people of color. We have several active members who could not have worshiped with us six years ago because we had not provided for their differing needs. My guess is that we also represent a broader economic and educational spectrum.

Living with change and diversity is not easy. The late David Eaton, the first African American minister at All Souls in Washington (and perhaps in our denomination), recalled one member who came to him shortly after he arrived in 1969. She said she was moving to a suburban church. She was ashamed because she considered herself a liberal. But she just wasn't comfortable having an African American as her minister.

We, too, have experienced some tensions. But these last years have been filled with gifts. I'd like to share a few of the ones I've received.

Sometimes I take for granted the gifts of the long-term members, members with whom I more quickly identify. I was touched to find that many of the old timers here were long time fighters for civil rights, among the myriad of causes they have championed. Several of them are still going, now making calls to legislators in support of equal rights legislation for the gay/lesbian bisexual/transgendered community.

I was touched by the care lavished on this building, even in hard times, but now continued by some of the younger generation. You have heard us worry about not having enough volunteers, and especially not enough leadership, but I confess today, I am humbled and amazed by the amount of volunteer time some of you put in¾ hours and hours of your skills, from computer savvy to getting out mailings to building repairs to fundraising.

Does it seem odd to you to hear me say that I consider being stretched to be a gift? I was not seriously involved with gay/lesbian bisexual/transgendered issues before I came to this church. It has changed my life to listen to people in love worry with me about whether they will be able to wear their wedding rings at work. I'll never forget the moment a mother stood up at an informal wedding of her daughter to another woman. She said she almost hadn't come and now was so thankful she had. Or the time a new member of about 70 years came out for the first time at a new member potluck. Or the time a transgendered woman wept in our congregation over feeling free for the first time to wear a woman's clothes. Those memories have changed my heart. I am so proud of the witness this church and our movement makes by its strong support on these issues.

The ministry to the deaf has been an unexpected gift. When I learned that the Worship Committee had decided to start having our services American Sign Language-interpreted, I was a little taken aback. When I did my internship at Oakland, Rob Eller Isaacs told us that we should focus on one group at a time. We were already trying to work on both gay/lesbian bisexual/transgendered and race issues, how could we take on another?

But injustice doesn't arise one group at a time. Opening up to the deaf community has been the most incredible experience for me. I love to watch sign language. It is like watching language set to music or dance. It makes the words come alive. Learning even the most rudimentary signs, however, has been a real challenge, as much in finding the time as because it doesn't come easily. But the more important gifts have come in the time I have spent with the deaf, learning about a culture that I was only dimly aware existed. How can I explain what a gift it has been to begin to learn both the trials, which are many, and the joys, which are also many, of being deaf?

So many of the gifts I have received in these past years have been about learning hard lessons about myself. I remember one young African American woman pointing out to me at the Journey Toward Wholeness workshop on race that I spoke of "you" when I spoke about blacks and "we" when I spoke about whites. But if we want to become truly diverse, I must learn to think "we." I remember discovering how impatient I have been all my life with people who do not speak clearly. How mortified I was at my own easy acceptance of the grace that allows me to speak without effort.

Yes, mortification was a gift. Learning about my failings is a gift. My passion is to be a healer. When someone shows or tells me how and where I fail, that is an incredible blessing. But perhaps the most important gift is that all this diversity allows me to feel that I am living, however imperfectly, the things I believe in.

Rev. Manwell: To Phyllis' list of gifts I can only add, "me too." I have preached before about the gift of being stretched. It is scary. It is incredibly rewarding. In my book, it's why we come to church. At the core of our religion is the teaching that, in Black Elk's words, "all over the earth, the faces of living things are alike." In everything, we are called to see the spark of the divine, or in the language of our seven principles, an "inherent worth and dignity."

Attracting a diverse congregation, then, isn't just a trendy thing to do. It's not just politically correct. A potter needs clay. A swimmer needs water. We need each other, in all our diversity, to practice on, as we learn. How can we share our wealth if we cannot even share where we worship? How can we hope to share schools and workplaces and swimming pools, if we cannot share our churches? Where will we find the passion to act, if we do not know and love our neighbors? How will we know what action is needed, if we have not heard each other=s stories?

Once, long ago, we asked if you really meant it. The work of justice is demanding work. Feelings will get hurt. Now we add, we will learn things about ourselves that will dismay us. But the rewards are so great. We will meet fabulous people. We will sometimes get a chance to feel proud of ourselves. We will make a difference in this church, in this city, in the world.

This church is a sacred place. People have come here for nearly 200 years in search of hope, dreaming of a better world. May we honor these walls with lives dedicated to justice. May we choose the struggle, knowing that this is the only path to peace.