Native Liturgies Teach Old Lessons in New Ways

Yesterday morning five people gathered on a quiet point overlooking a pond in Delaware. As the sun rose over the salt marsh, a 180 degree panoramic view of the marsh, the spillway, the trees and fields, and more of the pond came into view. Geese and birds honked and sang in increasing numbers. Music from a CD of ancient Native American voices played in the background.

Our Native American Service of Holy Communion began with the five of us facing the four directions: Facing East and the gold of the morning star, we prayed for balance of mind and far-sighted vision.

Turning to the North we prayed for balance of our bodies, a good sense of humor, innocence, trust and love. We prayed that we might behold the sacredness of every living thing.

Facing West we prayed for balance of our emotions in the spirit of Gentleness and Honesty.

Turning South we prayed for the balance of our spirits in harmony with our brothers and sisters.

Finally, we turned to complete the circle and to imagine God's love and mercy in all things. We learned that many native peoples did not resist newcomers from Europe when they first arrived centuries ago; they adapted native beliefs with what non-native peoples taught them. What emerged was the image of a loving God, a God who bent the earth like a bow until it was one, round, shining planet. God's word became the land: mountains, deserts, forests and plains. God gathered waters into rivers, lakes and seas. God's creation was sacred, and people lived in harmony with creation. Non-native people crossed the sea in hopes of settling the already settled land. These pioneers broke the circle of God's creation by their greed and violence, and even though they sometimes shattered the lives of native peoples, God renewed the circle of the earth and turned the hearts of native and non-native toward one another.

One student read a story from the Gospel of Luke. It was the story of Lazarus, a rich person who did not pay attention to those less fortunate than he, not even when their deep suffering was right at his door. When Lazarus died, he was confronted by Father Abraham for his lack of compassion on those who suffered at his door. Abraham was unable to offer Lazarus any comfort, even though Lazarus was now suffering. Basically he said that it was too late to save those who had used up their chances to heed the warnings of the prophets who came before.

The young woman who read the passage became upset by what she read; she could not accept the idea that Lazarus would be condemned to eternal suffering.

Quietly, the five of us began to talk about the story in the context of what our Native American ancestors had to say about living together in harmony, about honoring the Great Spirit, about looking towards Grandmothers and Grandfathers for inspiration and guidance as to how we should be treating the earth and all that lives upon it, and also one another.

We began to imagine that the story of Lazarus is not unlike what our ancestors pointed to as "the ancient way," and we began to wonder if the story did not parallel what could be the end result of our way of life if we do not begin to take better care of the earth and all that live upon it. Perhaps God is calling us, we wondered, to listen to the oceans, the land, the mountains, and the wild animals, birds and fish who say, "Pay attention, brothers and sisters, before it is too late."

We prayed. And the sun rose golden. As we broke bread together, the words of an Ojibway prayer came to mind:

Grandfather, look at our brokenness. We know that in all creation only the human family has strayed from the Sacred Way. We know that we are the ones who are divided, and we are the ones who must come back together to walk in the Sacred Way. Grandfather, Sacred One, teach us love, compassion, and honor that we may heal the earth and heal each other.

Releasing the Character Within

In looking at a chunk of granite or a block of ice, what do you see—an obstacle or an opportunity?

In sculpting marble it is said that Michelangelo sought to release the figure trapped within. My friend and colleague John McGiff says that Michelangelo looked at a block of marble and saw how the sunlight pierced the stone. Only then would he make a cut in order to free the figure imprisoned within.

I admit to being confused as to why the master commends the steward in today’s Gospel story. After all, he had misused his position and neglected his responsibilities. Hearing this about his steward, the master, at first, views him as a useless block of marble, an obstacle and a dead weight. Only later, when he learns that the steward has been prudent and has willed himself into the lives and struggles of others, does the master seize an opportunity.

What the master does is what a teacher does: He seeks to release the gift that lies within the steward; in his case it is in being prudent. Ignoring gifts and talents, the pessimist flunks the steward and replaces him with another. Assuming gifts and talents, the optimist encourages and commends him.

A question we ask ourselves this morning is: Are we optimists or pessimists? Are we looking to inspire others or to vilify them?

When Mr. duPont founded St. Andrew’s in 1929, he envisioned a place where bricks and mortar, fields and ponds, books and teachers, classmates and roommates would wrestle with complex ideas and life issues and come out on the other side having developed moral strength, self-sufficiency, an ability to do and think for themselves.

Like Michelangelo, Mr. duPont hoped to take the outwardly rough teen, and release into society a confident and morally courageous college-bound young adult. He hoped you would release some of your character by chiseling off the things that entrap it.

That is why I loved Mr. Roach’s expression when he said a few days ago that ultimately the pursuit of material things, like popularity, pleasure, self-indulgent pleasures and egotism is essentially like trying to chisel away the cover from a hollow stone. What remains is emptiness.

Moreover nothing solid can stand on such a foundation for long.

Asked in a slightly more focused way, the question for us this morning is this: Are we willing to dig deep, search within, and allow our best selves emerge?

In today’s troubled and confused world, too few are able to measure up to the standards we set at St. Andrew’s. Nonetheless, success and happiness can only be gained in the giving of ourselves to something that will endure beyond our brief existence. Here, in a place set aside for the pursuit of faith and learning, we find ourselves being chiseled with such skill, and polished with such delicacy, that what emerges is nothing less than a proper balance between what is good for the self and what is good for the community.

If St. Andrew’s is about anything, it is about acknowledging then releasing our best selves. That is what education means: to lead out. Our teachers seek to draw out from us our humanity, understanding, and humility. In that sense, St. Andrew’s remains a garden in the middle of an unsteady and confusing environment; a very special community where, if we allow our best selves to emerge in everything we do, we cannot help but practice good and decent habits so naturally that others stop and say, “There goes someone with character!”

Mr. DuPont is no longer alive, but the way of life he envisioned lives on in our mission. It remains for each of us to grasp its standards. In this metaphor of releasing a character from blocks of stone, we are reminded of Robert Frost’s wonderful poem Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

Outwardly, a frozen block is just a block, and when fire meets ice what remains is water. Pure or putrid, fit or foul, which is it going to be for us? There are some who say if we do not live up to our best intentions the world will suffer unimaginable devastation due to the simple lack of clean drinking water. Could this be what Frost had in mind when he suggested that selfish desire is as much a threat as selfish hate? Both will be our undoing in the end unless we make some changes.

This chapel talk has asked you to consider yourself a block of something; perhaps it is ice or marble. Now that we have spent two weeks together in classes, at meals, on weekends, and in chapel, we have to ask ourselves: Are we made of the good stuff: clean, strong, pure, honest and caring; and, if so, are we committed to the work of setting a better example for others in a world that seems sick and getting sicker every day? If our answer is “yes,” are we willing to remain steadfast in our pursuit of what is best about ourselves, to stand for the hard right against the easy wrong, and let honesty, compassion and understanding be the substance of our character?

The master commends the steward because he sees in him a transformation and a willingness to develop, in some small way, his potential for improving the lives of others and his own at the same time. This is a step in the right direction.

Suffice it to say, St. Andrew’s, as a school, has inclined in new and more welcoming directions since 1929. It remains for us to meet her great demands and challenges—to understand them, to live them, and to preserve them for all who come after us.