FIDELITY IN THE FACE OF DARKNESS

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at The First Religious Society in Carlisle, Massachusetts
Sunday October 19, 2003

Like a lot of other Americans these past few days, I’ve been reflecting quite a bit about the fate and the destinies of the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago Cubs, wondering whether or not there may really be something to the “Curse of the Bambino,” or the “Curse of the Billie Goat,”and once again speculating about what might have happened, on a cosmic level, if and when these two star-crossed teams had actually met in the World Series. My father-in-law, who grew up in Chicago (and is now in his eighties), had actually flown out to Portland, Oregon so that he could watch the Series with his daughter and grand-daughter, neither of whom were even born the last time the Cubbies appeared in the Fall Classic. His disappointment, as you might imagine, is nearly inconsolable.

As for the Sox, what can I possibly say? At least they lost in a conventionally tragic fashion; having bravely rallied to force a Game Seven in Yankee Stadium, and with a comfortable three-run lead going into the eighth inning, they chose to stick with Pedro Martinez, the star pitcher who had carried them so far, rather than trusting to an at-times inconsistent and unreliable bullpen, and the Yankees...those damn Yankees... took advantage of the opportunity to tie the game, and later won it in the eleventh inning with a first pitch, lead-off home run off of Tim Wakefield, who had successfully confounded the Yankees with his knuckleball in his two previous outings as a starter.

But how can this possibly compare to the fate of the Cubs? With three chances to put away the Marlins, two of them at home in Wrigley Field, and a mere five outs away from their first pennant since 1945, one of their own fans reaches out to catch a foul ball hit into the stands, unaware of the fact that left fielder Moises Alou was about to make a spectacular, leaping over-the-wall catch for the second out of the inning; they bump hands, the ball squirts away...the Cubbies fall apart, the Marlins score eight runs, and are now they are the ones playing (and winning) in Yankee Stadium. This is well beyond conventional tragedy; clearly some sort of supernatural force is at work here. And my heart goes out to all Cubs fans, and especially to the fan who tried to catch the foul ball, 26-year-old Steve Bartman, who was pelted with beer-cups and other garbage as he was escorted from his seat for his own safety, and has now even been offered asylum at a waterfront Pompano Beach condominium by Florida Governor Jeb Bush.

I suspect that Cubs fans will eventually forgive young Mr. Bartman; he’s part of the legend now, and besides, they all know in the bottom of their hearts that any one of them would have doubtlessly done the exact same thing if they had been in the same situation, just like they all know that it takes a lot more than just one missed out and one bad inning to lose three straight games and a chance at World Series glory. But if you’re Steve Bartman, how do you forgive yourself? How do you get over that sinking, sickening feeling that your momentary, instinctive action may well have cost your beloved team their best chance of playing in a World Series in your lifetime?

Of course, my feeling is that we should just let the Cubs and the Red Sox go ahead and play anyway. I mean, who really cares about what happens in New York, much less Florida? Something far larger is clearly at stake here; it’s a matter of principle...so lets just ignore the actual scores and watch the two teams that everyone else in America really wants to see play anyway. Call it the “End-of-the-World Series;” I’m certain that we can find some TV network that would be willing to broadcast it, and I suspect that the games will all be sell-outs too. Major League baseball owes its fans an additional Fall Classic, to make up for the one that was canceled because of the strike in 1994. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no time like the present. And who knows? -- when Game Seven is still tied in the bottom of the twenty-eighth inning, and even Pete Rose is afraid to bet money on the outcome, maybe the clouds really will part, and a light shine down from heaven, and the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, and a new age of peace and harmony shall begin. Or maybe there will simply be another flood, the mother of all rainouts, and justice shall literally run down like water, and righteousness like a might stream. Or maybe Bud Selig will simply declare a tie, and send everybody home. It’s just a thought. Stranger things have happened...

***

One of the things I have always appreciated about being a Preacher, especially when I compare it to some of the other kinds of writing I have done, is that Preachers generally get to hear and know immediately what their audience thought and felt about whatever it was they had to say. We don’t have to wait around for the reviews, or even the overnight flash polls; people come right up to us on their way to the coffee pot and tell us exactly what is on their mind. Instantaneous, thoughtful, heartfelt feedback; it’s a rare gift for a writer, or for any kind of public speaker really. Last Sunday was no exception, of course. There were people who liked what I had to say, and who felt reassured by my willingness to say it; there were others who basically agreed with what I said, but questioned whether I should have said it quite so forcefully; there were people who DIDN’T agree with what I had to say, but who appreciated my boldness in speaking out; and there were people who strongly disliked what I said, and who felt very strongly that I shouldn’t have said it at all. Which is pretty much the full range of reactions I would have expected, especially when speaking out in a timely fashion about controversial issues of broad public concern. (And I suspect there are even a few people here THIS morning who WEREN’T in church last Sunday, and who are wondering now what I possibly might have said, and maybe feeling a little sorry that they missed it). And I didn’t try to count noses, because that’s really not what this is all about, but the one piece of feedback I remember most vividly came from Steve Kirk, who simply shook my hand as he came through the line and asked “When are you going to tell us what you REALLY think?”

I understand how even in a liberal denomination such as ours, which essentially idolizes the Right of Conscience and Freedom of the Pulpit, there are people who feel uncomfortable when a minister articulates strong political opinions on a Sunday morning, even if they happen to agree with those opinions. The Sabbath, after all, ought to be a day of rest, and Church a place of Sanctuary -- a place where we can come to feel sheltered and healed and inspired, rather than harangued by a ranting, outspoken radical. I understand that, and believe it or not, I even sympathize...to a point. This is, after all, a pulpit and not a soapbox. So I just want to make it perfectly clear that unlike those conservative churches in the Bible Belt I spoke of last Sunday, where the distinction between religion and politics is not nearly so clear-cut or well-defined, I don’t really expect everyone here to agree with my point of view, nor am I trying to persuade you to see things my way. I’ll even go one step further; I don’t really expect ANYONE to see things exactly the way that I do, nor to share my opinions in every detail. Because that’s not really what this is all about either. My job (or at least part of my job) is simply to sometimes challenge your complacency; to get you to look again, closely, at things that you have come to take for granted, maybe even at things that you would prefer to ignore.

And this is not only my prerogative as a minister, it is also my duty. Because I’m not a government official, or an elected politician; I’m not even a professional journalist...I don’t have to worry about setting public policy, or deciding whether or not to put soldiers in harm’s way; I don’t even have to worry about maintaining the illusion of “fair and balanced” objectivity. As a spiritual and religious leader, I am called to be a zealous and outspoken advocate of Peace and Justice, of honesty and integrity and compassion; to speak up for people who are not able to speak for themselves, to preach the truth in love, and to speak the truth to power. And I recognize that there is a difference between condemning deceit and hypocrisy and corruption and oppression in the abstract, and actually pointing fingers and citing examples and naming names. And I hope that you will learn to recognize, as we get to know one another better, that I’m only human, and that I have strong opinions about some of these issues, and from time to time I will indeed rant...ranting is, after all, a time-honored tradition in my profession, going back to before even Biblical times. But you also need to take that ranting in the spirit in which it is offered, take from it what you need, and write the rest off to “that’s just Tim, ranting again.” Because at the end of the day, my responsibility is to “call ‘em like I see ‘em,” to say my piece, and then to listen to your responses. And if I tried to do it any other way, I wouldn’t be able to do my job at all. Because not only can you not fool all of the people all of the time, you can’t please all of the people all of the time either. But TRYING to is a sure-fire formula for making yourself crazy.

***

There were quite a few other things going on in the world of a theological nature this past week, but the one thing that I really wanted to draw to your attention to is that this week marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of the election of Pope John Paul II as leader of the Roman Catholic Church. And to commemorate this occasion, this morning before an audience of 300,000 in St. Peter’s Square, he formally beatified Mother Teresa of Calcutta, which is the next major step before her eventual Canonization (or the official recognition of her Sainthood). Beatification is not a process I know too terribly much about, other than that there is normally a five-year waiting period, which in Mother Teresa’s case has been partially waived. But I suppose if anyone can make an exception to their own rules, it would be the Pope.

I was still in seminary when this Pope was elected by the college of cardinals, and I still remember the process quite vividly: the first non-Italian Pope since (as I recall) from before the Reformation, from a country behind the Iron Curtain, who took the same Papal name as his immediate predecessor, who had in turn only served a mere 33 days before dying unexpectedly of a heart attack while reading in bed. And now, looking back, I find myself reflecting upon upon how much my own life has changed in the past quarter of a century, and how much has changed in the world, and in the church, and how much hasn’t changed as well. For example, there is no longer an “Iron Curtain;”Communism as we once knew (and feared) it during the so-called “Cold War” is pretty much a dead issue now. But neither do we hear much these days about “Liberation Theology,” the (some would say) Marxist-inspired Latin American theological movement which was all the rage when I was a divinity student 25 years ago, but which now (others would say) has been pretty thoroughly suppressed by the Vatican. Throughout his tenure, John Paul the Second has been an outspoken supporter and defender of human rights, and he has also been unwaveringly conservative around issues such as Abortion and Birth Control, or the ordination of women. And having now appointed the majority of the College of Cardinals, he has pretty much put his mark on the church for the next generation as well, since his hand-picked advisors will likewise hand-pick his eventual successor.

Nor does it surprise me that he would want to associate the twenty-fifth anniversary of his own election with the Beatification of Mother Teresa. Because Mother Teresa is once again a contemporary religious figure who is at once both radical and conservative in her religious views. And yes, she has her detractors (although not many: her name is already virtually synonymous with Sainthood); people who believe that she might have spent a little more time “afflicting the comfortable” by advocating for systemic reform, rather than simply comforting the sick, the poor, the dying. But what is more interesting to me, personally, is some of the information that has emerged about her interior, spiritual life now that she is no longer alive, and her private papers and correspondence have become more public as part of the Beatification process.

Like anyone else who had probably given it a moment’s thought, I’d always assumed that Mother Teresa was what the sociologist of religion Max Weber would have called a “spiritual virtuoso” -- someone who was truly “inspired,” filled with a profoundly tangible and experiential realization of God’s Presence, and who drew upon that feeling of inspiration regularly in order to sustain herself in the very difficult, even heartbreaking work of Christian Charity to which she had devoted her life. Mother Teresa was someone who spoke with God daily, who was somehow closer, more “connected,” to the Divine than you and I.

And yet now it turns out that this image is only partially true. What is true is that, as a relatively young woman in her early thirties, living as a nun in a convent in Calcutta, Teresa experienced a very profound call to work among the poorest of the poor, a call which (according to her Postulator or Advocate, Fr. Brian Kolodiejchuck), was not merely an “inner prompting,” but in which “Jesus appeared and spoke to her in a series of interior locutions and visions,” -- which is a polite way of saying that she saw things and heard voices that probably would have sent most of us, were we not nurtured and disciplined by our faith community to understand them differently, running straight for the nearest mental hospital. But with the guidance of her spiritual directors, she worked through the radical implications of this call, and eventually left her happy and relatively comfortable life in the convent in order to found the Missionaries of Charity, and begin the work for which she is so well known throughout the world.

And this is where the story becomes truly interesting. Because shortly after leaving the convent in 1947 (almost as long ago as the Cubs last appearance in a World Series), the visions ended. Teresa still talked to God every day, but God never answered. Once again, her Postulator describes it like this: “Throughout 1946 and 1947, Mother Teresa experienced a profound union with Christ. But soon after she left the convent and began her work among the destitute and dying on the street, the visions and locutions ceased, and she experienced a spiritual darkness that would remain with her until her death. It is hard to know what is more to be marveled at: that this twentieth-century commander of a worldwide apostolate and army of charity should have been a visionary contemplative at heart; or that she should have persisted in radiating invincible faith and love while suffering inwardly from the loss of spiritual consolation.” In private, to her spiritual directors, “she disclosed feelings of doubt, loneliness, and abandonment. God seemed absent, heaven empty, and bitterest of all, her own suffering seemed to count for nothing, ‘...just that terrible pain of loss, of God not wanting me, of God not being God, of God not really existing’....” Yet despite these dark feelings of emptiness, Mother Teresa persisted in what she sometimes called “the fidelity of small things,” and became an inspiration to millions of people around the world, even though her own inner, spiritual cupboard was bare.

“Fidelity in the face of darkness,” the ability to “keep the faith” even when things appear bleak and gloomy, and it seems like there is no tomorrow, is more than just the means by which we learn to sustain ourselves when all seems hopeless. It is also our protection against those grandiose flights of inspiration in which we feel that God has called us to subdue the world and remake it in our own image, or appointed us defenders of civilization against the intrusions of the infidel, crusaders against evil-doers who stand in our way. And it doesn’t really matter whether you live in Calcutta or Rome, or Saudi Arabia, or Washington DC (or even Florida or New York, for that matter)...because more often than not, the fruits of the spirit are not triumph, but humility; not victory, but surrender; not glorious exhalation, but faithful service. It is an insight at once both radical and conservative, which comes to us not in visions of angels, but in our own ability to endure and carry on, while we silently wait, listening, for an answer to our prayers.


READING:

Friend, in the Desolate Time

Friend, in the desolate time, when your soul
is enshrouded in darkness
When, in a deep abyss, memory and feeling
die out,
Intellect timidly gropes among shadowy forms
and illusions
Heart can no longer sigh, eye is unable
to weep;
When, from your night-clouded soul the wings
of fire have fallen
And you, to nothing, afraid, feel
yourself sinking once more,
Say, who rescues you then?—Who is the
comforting angel
Brings to your innermost soul order and
beauty again,
Building once more your fragmented world,
restoring the fallen
Altar, and when it is raised, lighting
the sacred flame?-—
None but the powerful being who first from
the limitless darkness
Kissed to life seraphs and woke
numberless suns to their dance.
None but the holy Word who called the worlds
into existence
And in whose power the worlds move on
their paths to this day.
Therefore, rejoice, oh friend, and sing in
the darkness of sorrow:
Night is the mother of day, Chaos the
neighbor of God.

Erik Johan Stagnelius
Translated from the Swedish by Bill Coyle