Surprising Vision

  

That sharp-tongued genius G. K. Chesterton once said, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult and left untried.”[1]

Well, not quite. There are a few who have actually tried it, but such a few it should make us blush to celebrate the feast of All Saints. So what is a saint and what manner of people are those we call saints?

First is the way that we speak of exemplary people of faith. In the strict sense, “saints” as the Christian Church uses the term, are those people who have been exemplary in the way they have lived the Christian life. They are the people that have believed when it would have been easier to lose faith, those who have persevered when it would have been easier to give up, who have loved when it would have been more natural to hate, who have given generously when everyone said it was foolish, who have risked life and limb when it would have been easier to run for safety, who have stood for justice when the mass of people cried out for vengeance, who have been cheerful when everything in them knew that their situation was desperate, and who have never asked for credit, who have seldom been recognized as particularly good until they were dead, and who have honestly thought of themselves as quite ordinary people following a quite extraordinary God. It has never been easy and it still is not.

Dancing Saints
Church of St. Gregory of Nyssa, Episcopal
San Francisco

A second use of the word saint is associated with persons who have endured great suffering. The Book of Revelation, reflecting an age of persecution in which it was composed, speaks of “those who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” In that sense, saints are martyrs, and martyr means “witness.” They have borne witness to the Power of the Crucified Lamb of God, and they have paid for their witness with their lives. So they are before the throne of God and worship God day and night with palm branches of victory in their hands. Indeed they are a polyglot bunch, from every family, language, people and nation.

And a third use of the word “saints” or “holy ones,” the ‘αγιοι of the New Testament, is to denote the entire people of God. You see this usage when St. Paul, for example, begins an epistle by saying, “Paul…to all the saints who are

Church of St. Gregory of Nyssa

at Ephesus,” or some such place. He means the entire assembly of Christians there.

It is pretty clear that All Saints celebrates all three categories of persons. But precisely because saints are seen to be moral and religious exemplars, most of us are generally uncomfortable with the idea that we could seriously think of ourselves as saints. And perhaps that is not altogether bad. Because if we walked around thinking of ourselves as any more exemplary than we already do (in some cases, not in all), we would have one huge problem of a world even fuller of inflated egos.

Yet there is a great big fly in the ointment. The irony is that the more reticent we are to see ourselves as holy, the more likely we are to give ourselves permission to oppose not just holiness but goodness as well. Drink that in for a moment. The more reticent we are to see ourselves as saints, as holy people, the more likely we are to give ourselves permission to oppose not just holiness but goodness as well.

How so? You and I both know that we have seen individuals, including our very own selves, who can be shockingly insensitive, downright mean and nasty, perfectly hateful one minute, and turn around the next and do something generous or nice or helpful. One of the mysterious qualities of many of us is that we can be as sweet as pie on an individual level—never coming close to doing something cruel or unkind to a person we can actually see—but then turn out to be virulent haters of people who are different from us that we deem unworthy of ordinary human decency, let alone mercy. We continue to imagine that people who are personally congenial and polite to friends and close associates wouldn’t think of lying or cheating or stealing or taking advantage of the vulnerable or powerless. The truth of the matter is that much of the time good behavior is popular because it is socially approved, not because of some notion that it is connected with holiness or sanctity. We are good generally because it pays to be good, and we get complimented when we are. We are trained to be good and most of us are—to a point. More bluntly, we are ready to be good when it suits us to be, but ready to excuse ourselves from goodness when we find it inconvenient or taxing.

But are we saintly? Holy? Not only are we reluctant to see ourselves as either of those things, but few of us aspire to be much different from what we already are. Unless, of course, what we are is so uncomfortable for us that improvement seems to be the better course. What would it mean to be saintly? To be holy? To take seriously our vocation to live—dare we say it?—as the baptized persons we actually are?

Christ dancing, Church of St. Gregory of Nyssa

That is actually how saints are made: by baptism. But not because baptism is something magical that transmutes common people immediately into examples of holiness. It is because to be a baptized person is to be on a lifelong pilgrimage to explore what the Life of God is all about and how we can embody that life as Jesus did. You see, Jesus was not about pointing to himself as an object of worship, but rather modeling for humanity what a life lived in union with God is truly like. That is what holiness or sanctity really is: taking on the characteristics of the heavenly One, and living as nearly as possible as God is. That is why, by the way, that Jesus is so indispensable to the would-be lover of God sharing God’s life: he demonstrates in his words, life, and death just what it is for a human being to embody God. Impossible? Of course. But in and with God, all things are possible, even the transformation of quite ordinary people into very extraordinary human beings.

In the Baptismal Covenant we answer five questions after we have confessed our faith.

·      Will we continue in that faith, the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers of the Church?

·      Will we, whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

·      Will we proclaim not only by word but also by example the Good News of God in Christ?

·      Will we seek and serve Christ in all persons loving our neighbors as ourselves?  

·      Will we strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being?[2]

Baptized in the River Jordan

If you want to know what being a Christian is, there is your answer. Do those things and you will be following Christ. Do those things and you cannot help but move in the direction of becoming more and more like the God who created you. Do those things and you will find that your false self, the ‘you’ that fears letting go of control, the ‘you’ that worries about whether you are enough and whether you have enough, the ‘you’ that is never really sure that you are worthy of love will slip further and further away. Instead there will be born in your body a new person who trusts more easily, frets less, quarrels less viciously, speaks the truth, and takes up causes like justice for the powerless that once frightened the starch out of you. Do those things and you cannot avoid becoming more and more holy. Indeed you will be on the road to sainthood though you may know nothing about it and in fact never have believed it possible. Faith is not about believing the possible. It is about trusting that the glorious impossible is worth giving one’s life to.

St. Dallán Forgaill

One way to put it is to let the vision of God be your vision for yourself. That is far from having an ego two sizes or more too large. It is indeed a way of losing your life—that is your cramped, false self—in exchange for the true Self that amounts to becoming the Christ who already lives within you. There once was a man known as a saint who left the world some words that have inspired thousands since they first were spoken and written in the 8th century, or maybe as early as the 6th, and translated into English and other languages in the early 20th century. Their supposed author is Saint Dallán Forgaill, who was said to be have been blind, which would make them even a more powerful prayer, since they are about true vision.

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,

Naught be all else to me, save that thou art,

Thou my best thought by day or by night,

Waking or sleeping they presence my light.

Be thou my wisdom, and thou my true Word,

Thou ever with me and I with thee, Lord,

Thou my great Father, thine own may I be,

Thou in me dwelling and I one with thee.

Be thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight,

Be thou my whole armor, be thou my true might,

Be thou my soul’s shelter, be thou my strong tower,

O raise thou me heavenward, great Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor the world’s empty praise,

Be thou mine inheritance now and always,

Be thou and thou only the first in my heart,

O Sovereign of heaven, my treasure thou art.

High King of Heaven, when victory is won,

May I reach heaven’s joy, bright heaven’s Sun.

Great heart of my own heart, whatever befall,

Still be thou my vision, O ruler of all.[3]

Eastern Orthodox Baptism: candidates are naked and fully immersed
symbolizing union with Christ's death, burial, and resurrection 

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[1] Quoted at https://www.crosswalk.com/faith/spiritual-life/inspiring-quotes/20-wise-quotes-from-g-k-chesterton.html, accessed November 4, 2017.

[2] The Book of Common Prayer (New York: Church Publishing Company, 1979), 305-306.

[3] “Be thou my vision,” Irish ca. 8^th century, translated by Mary Byrne (1880-1931), versified by Eleanor Hull (1860-1935), as found in The New English Hymnal (Norwich: The Canterbury Press, 1986, 1997), 339, and adapted by comparison with the text in The Hymnal 1982 (New York: The Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982), 488, and other translations. A history of the text may be found on the internet at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Be_Thou_My_Vision, accessed November 4, 2017.

No Use Trying

 

 Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

            He was an earnest boy.  Parents punished him for being sassy, and he took their disapproval seriously, little by little conforming to their expectations.  Teachers praised him for his astuteness and studiousness, yet found him irritating in his talkativeness.  He tried to please.  He was pleased when they were pleased.  Peers alternatingly teased and admired him.  He learned to win them over by making them laugh.  If adult voices suggested that he could be patriotic, he set out to be a patriot.  When teachers held out the ideal of being a serious scholar, he vowed to be one.  And preachers, articulating the virtue of goodness, inspired him to be good. 

            Mistakes he made.  On occasion he cheated and lied.  His stubborn streak accounted for his perseverance but also for his pigheadedness.  Anger stored up from childhood sometimes erupted, frighteningly so.  In midlife he came to a crossroads in the midst of a thick, dark forest.  Three things he had become had joined to form a life path which abruptly came to a place where he could not see any road ahead of him but for a pace or two.  Paths diverged.  If he took one, he was sure to lose his career.  If he took another, he was sure to lose his family.  If he took a third, he was sure to lose himself.  So he stood, sweating, staring, remembering all the things he had ever been told, and tried earnestly to choose the right way.  But there was no right way. 

            In the protracted moment of paralysis, an old friend and guide showed up.  What was the matter the friend wanted to know.  The confused and stymied man tried to explain.  “You are trying to be a saint,” his old mentor said.  “Tell me.  Is sainthood something that you can choose, do, achieve?”  The man stood still, looking blank.

            “No.”

            “Why, then, are you trying to be a saint?”

            “I can’t really say.  I suppose I am just trying to do the right thing and there is no right thing.”

            The mentor pressed him.  “Is sainthood a gift?”  The man said he supposed it was.

            “Then trying to be a saint is like trying to be Einstein when you are only an ordinary Harvard physicist,” spoke the guide.

            The man smiled.  Then he laughed.  He laughed and laughed, louder and louder until the whole forest echoed his laughter back to him.  He was on fire with total joy, which shook down to a sense of deep relief.  It took him awhile to recover.  Then he knew which path to follow, and he took the first step.  In a pace or two there was just enough light to see the trail marker.  It read, “Way to go, bud.”  And the initials, “B. U.”

           

            Maybe you have noticed that the festival of All Saints is a stopping place along a road that leads, as all roads seem to, back to the place where we came from and forward to the place where we are headed.  It is a peculiar spot, All Saints, because suddenly we are attune to memories and voices and the faint sound of heroes we imagine cheering ever louder.  The cheers sometimes come from throats of unlikely persons, none of whom was perfect and few of whom were more than average to good, but all of whom were real.  And they cheer us on, these voices from the past.   “You can do it!”  “Keep it up!”  “March on!”  Like most fans, they can get awfully upset when we do stupid things or blunder unnecessarily.  But they hang in there with us, never stop loving us, though we may not win a Series in a hundred years. 

            By its very nature, All Saints looks at the road ahead of us, not only to that behind us.  As Thomas Merton worded it in a prayer, we have no idea where we are going.  We do not see the road ahead of us.  We cannot know for certain where it will end.[1]  What we do know is that this journey we are taking can be called by either of two names.  We can either name it an exploration of who we are in our deepest selves, or we can call it a quest to find God.  It is all the same thing.  And even if this one journey with two names happens to be two quite different journeys, when we arrive at the destination of either, the end will sit so close to the object of the other journey that we can’t miss it. Search for your deepest Self and you will be sure to arrive at God.  Search for God and you will be certain to arrive at the most profoundly true you. 

            Along the way, we have this thing called baptism that we are living out.  As the author of Ephesians puts it, we “were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit” in baptism, and with that seal God has promised us an inheritance towards redemption.  All of that clearly is about the future.  But the future is also about now. We are constantly being shaped by the forces that press upon us, wear us down, erode our confidence, shake us up.  Yet there are countervailing forces that come from our model, Jesus, who is, as Ephesians says, the one in whom God has put divine power to work.  And we are so connected to Jesus in this community called the Church that Jesus lives in us as much as the blood coursing through our veins.  When we allow ourselves to love our enemies, even imperfectly, we cultivate the Mind of Christ in us.   When we return good for the evil done to us, we foster the Spirit of Christ in us.  By praying for those who abuse us, we follow the model of Christ in us. When we choose to live peaceably, we find like Ghandi and King and all those in the company of saints who disavowed violence and retaliation, the power of Christ in us.  When we give coat, shirt, and everything on down to the pure old naked body, we discover that we have only followed the example of Jesus, who, when he had nothing else to give, gave his own naked body on the cross.  And it really all amounts to living by this simple rule:  “Do to others as you would have them do to you.” 

            The journey is about living, not about claiming.  It is about living out of the wellspring of the Self rather than by the playbook of management through determination, defensiveness, cunning, and sheer willfulness.   So the irony of getting to be a saint is that we don’t get to be what we already are.  We only get to practice being who we are to get better and better at it.  And that, in turn, results in our losing interest, more and more, in preserving our façades in favor of paying more and more attention to the core truth of who we are. 

            In the old days—which means any time in the relatively distant past—writers spoke of “the Church militant, the Church expectant, and the Church triumphant.”  We don’t talk so much in those terms anymore, and that is doubtless a blessing.  Yet All Saints reminds us not only that we are compassed about with a great cloud of witnesses, those mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers who have gone on before us and have now become our own cheering fans, but of all the folks around us who are our fellow pilgrims.  There is no sharp dividing line between past and present.  We are all on the same trajectory, moving and moved like stones and water all carried along in the same streambed by the persistent motion that will bring us all one day to the Great Sea from which we sprang in the beginning.  There we shall be embraced in a love that will not let us go, in whose ocean depths our flow may richer, fuller be.

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2013

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[1] Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude (New York:  Farrar, Strauss, Giroux, 1999), Kindle version, loc. 62.