Forty Shades of Purple

FORTY SHADES OF PURPLE Love hurts. At least that seems to be the message of the day. As I write this column the culture is being inundated by a film based on a book that’s subject matter a decade ago would have rarely seen the light of day much less the top of the New York Times Bestseller list. The media frenzy surrounding the film’s release has meant that watching the Today show in the presence of your mother isn’t advisable. A British hotel recently replaced their Gideon Bibles with the bestseller as more suitable reading for their guests because quoting the manager “What ’s the sense of providing a book that no one likes and no one reads.” Underneath this “phenomenon” are deeper issues. In a world daily marred by brutality and violence, we are increasingly numb and desensitized. Violence has become the new pornography in our terror torn world. Those who terrorize us heap upon us that which we seem to pleasure ourselves with the most. “Love” has taken a brutal battering in this society and tragically the very people who bear the scars for it just can’t seem to get enough. Perhaps this is a teachable moment that the Church must not ignore. The love at the heart of the Christian faith has many shades, but none of them are inclusive of domination and violence. Even as the misuse of religion throughout the world’s history and unto this day is obvious, the way of love as seen in Jesus is the way of true liberation. As Christians who have marked the beginning of the season of Lent this week, let us remember that Jesus’ death and passion are not at the hands of an abusive Father/Creator God, but are reflective of God’s giving up of his own heart for the loveless and the unloved. The excesses of violence that debased the truth of Jesus’ death in Mel Gibson’s The Passion of Christ graphically proclaimed that love hurts. This grace through gore approach is not unlike the love through pain message currently being embraced. The theologian Jurgen Moltmann reminds us ” by the cross of Golgotha, God’s being and God’s life is open to we the human.” So to love as Christ loves is never about diminishing another but liberating and elevating the other. The power of this love is the power of new life. To embrace domination and brutality is to dishonor that love and sicken the soul. Lent, the forty days prior to Easter has historically presented the believer with a season of reflection and self discovery in the context of Jesus’s journey to the cross. Lent from an olde English word meaning “spring” corresponds to the forty days of Jesus’ trials and temptations in the desert prior to the beginning of his ministry. Traditionally the season is marked by devotion and fasting. Perhaps the best fast for many of us is a fast from all depictions of brutality and violence. To turn away from viewing violence is not to deny its reality but to deny its power to shape the way we see others and the world. Not coincidentally these forty days have their own palette :The grey of winter gradually gives way to the profusion of spring’s brilliant hues. While we wait in the mean time, purple and its many shades might best color our point of view. You see the color purple has traditionally been associated with mourning and royalty. And it was the color that the Romans dressed Jesus in with their attempt to mock and humiliate him. But, it certainly makes for a better statement than grey.

THE ART OF ADVENT There is an art to Advent: to keeping it. Advent means : “to come” and thus implies “not yet.” The four weeks of Advent are counter-cultural. We don’t do well with the “not yets,” or longing for what we want: we want it now. Longing takes a back seat to wish fulfillment. It is rather ironic that keeping Christ in Christmas has become the rallying cry for those who fear its many secular expressions, because there is no Christ in Christmas without the Christ of Advent. Even in the heyday of Christendom before the secular age, those who depicted the story of the coming of the Messiah in art encoded their images with the longing of Advent: for Christ’s ultimate coming and not just his birth. Longing infuses their images.These visionaries were painting the story of Christ’s first coming with a longing and sense of urgency for a kingdom not of this world because of the rampant injustices of their day. The magnificence of these images lies not only in the technique and the perspective of the artists, but in the way the paintings were grounded in the real stuff of human experience. Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting Virgin of The Rocks in not only considered Da Vinci’s greatest masterpiece it is also one of the most mysterious of paintings. Choosing to present Mary not with The Christ Child seated in her lap, he instead gives us a Madonna enraptured with two infants. Her right arm enfolds a child who is focused not on her as one would expect, but instead who kneels in adoration of the other infant. And with equally intensity that infant’s gaze is directed toward him. The dynamic rapport is natural between the two: the infant John the Baptist under Mary’s right arm knows the one he gazes upon is the one longed for, The Christ. And Christ in turn blesses John. This mystical fellowship is presided over by an angel whose gaze is directed to us as she gestures toward John as if to say to us “do as he doing: kneel in adoration.” And where does Da Vinci depict this divine fellowship? The landscape reflects the drama of the figures. Neither prettified nor softened ,the jagged rocks and craggy formations cloister them while also capturing the whole of creation’s longing. We can almost hear The John the Baptist we will hear from on the Sundays of Advent reminding us as he quotes the prophet Isaiah: “Every Valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made straight….” (Luke 3: 5). Perhaps so many have become so disillusioned with Christmas not just because of its blatant consumerism and profit driven impulses but because we have lost the ART of ADVENT- the art of longing. Recovering its meaning might well mean opening our eyes to the truth of our own longing….”O COME…O COME EMMANUEL…..”

GREAT BOOKS PREACHING SERIES THIS FALL I cannot imagine preaching without reading and I cannot imagine preaching from Scripture without the Great Books. Reading has shaped my life journey. The word disciple best translates “learner” and my spiritual journey is daily interwoven with my being a “life learner.” The classics owe a massive debt to the Bible yet we seldom hear this from the pulpit or otherwise. Biblical illiteracy is at an all time high thus resulting in the Bible fading from our cultural life as well. There can be no real study of the Western Canon of literature without reading the Bible just as Shakespeare and The King James Bible should be read side by side. Nearly every work of great literature is filled with references to Scripture. Adam Nicolson in THE BIBLE OF KING JAMES reminds us: “First printed 400 years ago, it molded the English language, ‘buttressed the powers that be’-one of its famous phrases- and yet enshrined a gospel of individual freedom. No other book has given more to the English-speaking world.” On Sunday September 14 with BIBLE SUNDAY I will begin THE GREAT BOOKS PREACHING SERIES with a sermon on the role of THE KING JAMES BIBLE in culture. We will then be looking at CLASSIC BOOKS throughout the year that reflect the link between THE BIBLE and THE GREAT BOOKS. We will begin with Saint Augustine’s Confessions on September 21. I hope you will join me in this journey and invite others to be a part of our celebration of these GREAT BOOKS that as the writer Marilynne Robinson has reminded us “put flesh on Scripture and doctrine.” Grace and peace, Sonny

Doc's Hands

“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” James Herriot, ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL Knowing my Daddy as I do, if the Heavenly Hosts are not inclusive of “all creatures great and small,” he might ask for a ticket to the other place. I hope this past Monday dispelled any doubts he could have had. Mine certainly were as my family met me at the entrance into The Georgia War Veteran’s Home here in Augusta so that “Doc” as my Daddy has been known in his hometown of Swainsboro, might enter a new phase of his life journey. It was no small “God Thing” that as the caring nursing staff were helping my Daddy out of his vehicle, a happy parade of dogs of every sort were heralding “Doc’s’” arrival. The word of this new resident’s fifty years plus of attending “creatures great and small” obviously had gotten around. As my mother, brother and I wheeled my daddy through the portals , I watched his hands reach out to stroke the coat of yet one more canine. You see as the Creator would have it, Doc’s arrival coincided with the very day that pet therapy is scheduled at The Georgia War Veteran’s Home. Watching my Daddy reach out to stroke a new found friend on Monday is not the first time I’ve seen his hands graciously at work. His 58 year old truth seeking son has held a holy curiosity all of his life and sometimes I might add to my detriment. On a family vacation to St. Augustine, Florida ten year old me had narrated our journey by reading aloud every billboard advertising a road side zoo that would soon be conveniently stationed up ahead. As soon as the station wagon pulled into the zoo’s parking lot ,my car door opened wide and I dashed toward the elephant’s cage that beckoned beside the entrance into the menagerie. The elephant’s trunk was eagerly extended to me and supposing he was extending an invitation for me to take it in hand, I did as he did me in a like manner, but without the intention of letting me go. I can still see my Daddy’s hands coaxing the elephant to let go of his little boy: unwrapping with dexterity yet with strength and tenderness the elephant’s long snout from around my lanky arm. The hands of the country vet were put to good use that unforgettable day. Through the years when my life has been held in the grip of what seemed insurmountable, I haven’t forgotten how I was set free. And on a more difficult day as we waited for all the paper work to be filled out and the meeting with the team of nurses and doctors to take place , we the anxious had our own doubts and fears calmed as we witnessed the mystical communion taking place between the residents and the dogs nestled in their laps and eagerly standing guard by their wheel chairs. We’d seen this before, but yet somehow never in this way. On this day my daddy was joining the rank of this remnant of The Greatest Generation who has guarded our freedoms and preserved our liberties and were now making this place home. And I realized that day that while Doc’s hands might not be utilized in the practice of veterinary medicine, their strength and lovingkindness would be no less. Even now it’s proven to me as he reaches over to pat me on the leg to make sure I am alright. I’m that lanky little boy with the holy curiosity all over again and it couldn’t be more obvious that Doc’s hands haven’t lost their touch . (In honor of my Father, Dr. Raymond H. Mason, DVM)

THE GOSPEL GOES TO BROADWAY

THE GOSPEL GOES TO BROADWAY The Gospel gets heard in many different places but if you love music like I do you may have heard it in a theater and listening to the music of Broadway. Some of the most beautiful and prayerful words get sung by Maria in THE SOUND OF MUSIC, Tevye in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, and Tony and Maria in WESTSIDE STORY. Hatred and prejudice are confronted in the sermon in song of “You’ve Got to Be Perfectly Taught” from SOUTH PACIFIC. And even the musically inclined flim flam man Harold Hill in THE MUSIC MAN can’t keep from preaching with “Right Here In River City.” I have fond memories of directing a production of the Stephen Schwartz’s Broadway hit GODSPELL starring a group of youth from my home church in Swainsboro during my college years and each performance was like a revival meeting! Sitting in a theater on Broadway in 1985 and hearing “I Dream a Dream” sung in the original production of Les Miserables was one of the most spiritually exalting experiences of my life. The ancients knew the power of theater and their amphitheaters were like temples with the masks of tragedy and comedy donned by the actors reflecting the realities of their life journeys. The earliest dramas were not only depictions of ancient myths but with the dawn of Judaism and Christianity, theater and faith were forever intertwined. The Book of Job is a marvelous example of drama in holy scriptures and it as well as the Nativity and Passion plays were annually enacted beginning in the eleventh century in the churches and city squares of medieval Europe. Music often played key roles in these depictions. The Gospel and stories of faith were proclaimed through theater as indelibly as in the glimmering stained glass of the Gothic Cathedrals. Musical theater’s ties to issues of faith and belief are never far from the surface in many of the great works of Rodgers and Hammerstein and most notably in The Sound of Music. Based on the life journey of Maria Augusta Von Trapp who was born in Vienna , Austria on January 26, 1905, Maria’s life began with loss and tragedy. Her mother’s sudden death when Maria was three precipitated her being placed in a foster home by her father who seemed incapable of understanding let alone caring for the little girl. “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” was thus grounded in a painful reality in Maria’s biography. Sent to live with a distant relative known as Uncle Franz, Maria found solace in hiking and mountain climbing and her true passion- the music she could hear spilling out of Vienna’s churches and echoing amongst the spires and surrounding mountains. One day after her high school graduation, Maria was hiking in the Alps with a guide when God spoke to her as she stood on a peak. In her 1972 memoir MARIA she writes of that moment: Suddenly, I had to spread my arms wide and shout, “Thank you God, for this great and wonderful creation of Yours. What can I give you back for it?” Boarding a train for Salzburg the tomboyish young lady with a backpack and carrying a guitar climbed the 144 steps of the beautiful and baroque Nonnberg Abbey and demanded to see the Reverend Mother Abess. And the rest is not only history as they say, but inspired the glorious THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Rodgers and Hammerstein might not have ever given us THE SOUND OF MUSIC if they had not been compelled to do so by the great Mary Martin who had starred in their SOUTH PACIFIC. Martin was urged by her agent to view Maria’s story as depicted in a German film based on Maria’s memoirs. And as she was later to say, “I was born in Texas and she was born in Austria, but underneath, we were the same Maria.” The musical premiered November 16, 1959 at Broadway’s Lunt-Fontanne Theater and was performed 1,433 times in its first production. In 1965 the beloved Robert Wise directed film starring Julie Andrews became the Best Picture of the Year and Maria’s story of faith now forever lives on in the sound of its music. The Gospel does go to Broadway it seems and because it does I will begin leading a series of services this Sunday inspired by it and other musicals. Let the hills be ALIVE..... Maria’s story of faith now forever lives on in the sound of its music.

CITY ON THE HILL

CITY ON THE HILL Enter the Chapel at Blenheim Palace birthplace of Winston Churchill located outside of Oxford, England and you get the message. Your eyes immediately focus on its baroque altar that ornately depicts the Churchill family being transported into heaven. And you know in a moment that its not a paradise you are invited into. You feel like an intruder here and you really are because it's a veritable museum now: Sacred space for the elite. We erect our own altars. Connect the dots in our cities and you can trace the abandonment of our inner cities to the mantra, "location ... location." When church gets reduced to real estate isolating ourselves insures that our interactions are with those who "think like us" and "look like us." The “great impostor” who posed as “Clark” Rockefeller wanted to gain entrance into the upper echelons of American society so he skipped the country club and headed right to the church. Not only did he know how to choose the ones that would look good on his resume, charlatan that he was, he knew that churches make for great networking with the "right kinds of people." The insularity of the church is a much more serious issue than those that threaten to divide us and in fact our failure to see one another through the eyes of Christ has put us in this crucible. Our lack of love for one another within our own walls feeds our myopia. Most of our churches are cloistered not unlike the gated communities and secured homes we live in, making it unnecessary for us to encounter poverty, homelessness, and the marginalized. Our churches have developed ministries that pleasure ourselves and insulate us. We the clergy have become in our kept roles , "keepers of the castle." As a sufferer of neuropathy resulting from chemotherapy, I often utilize our transit system and now see this city through different eyes. The route between my home and Mann Memorial echoes the Stations of the Cross : abandonment, indifference, betrayal, compassion, mourning... and down from The "Hill,” a different kind of Calvary. Street after street bears testimony to neglect and poverty. Meanwhile the imposing sanctuaries and ascending steeples of our houses of worship line the way up and down the hill. But are their closed doors and secured gates to let in or to keep out? It would probably be easier to negotiate entrance into The Augusta National than enter therein. John Winthrop in 1630 delivered his famous sermon to remind the early settlers of their covenant with God and with one another: We must delight in each other, make one another’s conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together ... For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill, the eyes of all people are upon us.” In this city on a hill what are we standing guard over? Our church signs proclaim we are here but one has to wonder how much "here" is really "here." John Wesley the founder of my own tradition spent little time in the safety of sanctuaries. Insisting that the "world is my parish" he embraced the coal mines and city squares. Scorned by his own church and the religious vanguard, he made the jails and prisons his cathedrals. His “beloved community” was the world. How can we love the world with the love of God when we who are cloistered and separated from that very world abandon one another? Every mainline denomination today seems consumed in its own internal struggles and many of the issues appear to revolve around the church being open to all persons or not. Caucuses have developed and petitions are being circulated and in the mean time the Kmart bus day after day climbs and descends the hill en route along its own Via Dolorosa and Jesus weeps over this Jerusalem we call Augusta.

EASTER EVERLASTING!

Easter Everlasting! It was a Spring day not unlike recent ones. Taking a turn into piney woods down a dirt road outside of Norristown, Georgia our family station wagon meandered amongst the Georgia pines with wisteria, dogwood, and wild azalea infusing the air and bringing a palette of pastels to the sojourn. We’d come prepared with our rakes , hoes, tools, and scrub brushes to clear out the family cemetery. Looming before us in the clearing before us the tomb stones and graves were cloistered amidst the trees. To me we seemed like intruders in the hush that hung there like the wisteria in the pines. My grandmother was the guide, calling the roll of those who lay there, reconnecting us to our ken. The small graves were the most compelling as she shared that these little ones were victims of an influenza out break. While the others hoed and raked, I lingered there as she knelt with devotion with her scrub brush and she directed me to pour into the tin bucket the concoction that would restore the tombs to their alabaster glory. Gradually with her efforts the inscribed text emblazoned there became legible and I read aloud its words: Behold you who pass by, As I am now so you must be, Prepare for death.... And follow me. This MOMENTO MORI ( “remember that you will die”) is an inscription that dates back to pre-Christian times and throughout the ages served to remind those who read it of the inevitability of death. Here on that spring day of my early youth it seemed unfathomable. But life would instruct me otherwise. Death would come. That cemetery lesson regarding my own immortality would only be “owned” in the context of my faith journey and the sealing of my identity as one who lives as Easter people must live. For Easter people every Sunday is another Easter. We gather every Sabbath because Christ is Risen and it is because He is risen that we worship and “move and have our being.” Without Easter every Sunday would be a MOMENTO MORI... a remembrance of one who had lived and like us met death. Easter people gather because all death has been conquered... not only death as in the end of our lives here, but the death of all the principalities and powers that would rob all of creation of hope and the promise of the everlasting. So much of what we assume will last forever soon comes to an end. Long after the lilies have faded and lost their scent the everlasting in Easter thrives and blossoms forth. The composer Natalie Sleeth gifted the church with her beautiful HYMN OF PROMISE with the publishing of The United Methodist Hymnal in 1989. Composed during the terminal illness of her husband Dr. Ronald Sleeth the hymn beautifully illustrates why Easter is everlasting and why this is a more fitting inscription for Easter people: IN OUR END IS OUR BEGINNING; IN OUR TIME, INFINITY; IN OUR DOUBT THERE IS BELIEVING; IN OUR LIFE, ETERNITY. IN OUR DEATH, A RESURRECTION; AT THE LAST, A VICTORY, UNREVEALED UNTIL ITS SEASON, SOMETHING GOD ALONE CAN SEE. In the summer of 1990 I first heard the glorious hymn sung by a choir of children’s voices at Lake Junaluska as we celebrated that Easter is EVERLASTING. The hymn living in the voices of the children that beautiful summer day has never been forgotten and ever reminds me of the power and promise of Easter. May all our Sundays be everlasting Easters!