Rev. Anthony David
April 1, 2007
This is a story about a community of monks, down on its luck. A monastery that’s shrinking in terms of numbers and also in terms of spirit. Depressed.
Now the leader of this monastery, the Abbot, was frustrated with his fellow monks. He would bring them to his mind’s eye, one after the other, to count their flaws and failures. None were getting with the program. All wore robes that signified spiritual commitment and discipline, but as for what was underneath those robes, well: shallowness. Selfishness. Because of them, the monastery was dying.
This was what was on the Abbot’s mind and heart when, one day, he left the monastery to go over to the nearby Jewish temple, to visit with his good friend the Rabbi. The Abbot just couldn’t carry the burden of these thoughts and feelings anymore, all by himself. So he poured out his heart to his good friend the Rabbi, and then he started crying.
At this point, the Rabbi handed him a tissue and comforted him with a hand on the shoulder. And then said this: “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. In the community I lead, we have long known something about your monastery. It’s this: that the Messiah is one of you.”
That’s what the Rabbi said, and at first the Abbot thought he was joking. But there was no smirk on the Rabbi’s face, and no mischievousness in his eyes. The Rabbi meant it. And the Abbot, tears in his eyes, started to laugh. “The Messiah is one of us? Listen, I know a thing or two about Jewish theology. The Messiah is supposed to be a hero who restores justice and peace to the world. And let me tell you, I know my fellow monks, and none are hero material. Besides, we’re Christians, not Jews, and isn’t the Messiah supposed to be Jewish?”
The Rabbi listened carefully to every objection the Abbot raised, but he nevertheless kept on insisting that the Messiah was one of the people in the monastery. He also pointed out that there were, in truth, different ways of interpreting the Messiah idea, which he had learned from another friend of his, who just happened to be a Unitarian Universalist minister.
The Rabbi was firm. He said to the Abbot, “The Messiah is one of you. I don’t care how unlikely it seems. Believe it.” And with that, the Abbot went back to his monastery, wondering and praying, comforted and excited. Once there, he was amazed with how light and free his spirit felt, as well as with how the sights and sounds of the monastery had come alive with new possibility. Walking down the halls, walking the courtyard, he would pass by a monk and wonder if he was the one, the Messiah who would restore justice and peace to the world. Sitting in chapel, praying, he would hear a voice and look intently at a face and wonder if he was the one. Soon enough, he was treating all his brothers with respect and kindness and awe and reverence.
And it did not go unnoticed. Eventually, one of the brothers came to him and said,
“Sir, what has happened to you? You are so different….” It took a bit of coaxing, but his fellow monk persuaded him to share his experience with the Rabbi, and the revelation was contagious. The monk caught “the Messiah is one of you” vision, and soon enough, he started wondering about every brother he saw. Could he be the one? Is he the one?
The good news simply could not be contained. It was contagious. The Messiah is one of us. And soon enough, the entire community glowed with kindness and grace. The prayer life grew profound and deep; the worship services vibrated with an energy they had never known before. And like a magnet, it drew villagers from the surrounding town to the monastery. They couldn’t help but feel the amazing spirit of the place, and they wanted to be a part of that. In fact, requests to actually join the monastery rose to a number the Abbot had never known before, and he rejoiced. He had come full circle, from despair towards a community that felt like it was dying, to amazed joy at how it had turned right around and discovered abundant new life. All because it believed and lived a simple vision: that the Messiah is one of us.
I come before you this morning with a great sadness. I am leaving home. When I began this ministry in 2003, Pathways was not yet born; and since then, we have worked together to make it real, until now. Now you must forge ahead, continue building this spiritual community that changes lives and has changed mine; and I am leaving it, leaving home, the life changes I have experienced here leading me to a different place, to another church where your lessons and your love will give me the strength I need to go to the next level in my ministry, to follow my call.
We part ways. It is not immediate. I am here until the end of June, and there is still much yet to be done. Above all, the task ahead for both of us shifts into that of leavetaking. I will be available to each and every one of you so we can share in each other’s presence. It will be a time for tears. It will be a time for laughter. It will be a time of remembering all that we have gone through together, all that we have accomplished. Above all, it will be a time of learning how to say goodbye, which is something life challenges us to do over and over again. So, how can we say goodbye to each other with authenticity, and acceptance, and gratitude? How can we learn this in a way that blesses all our relationships, and our entire lives? Unless we learn how to say goodbye in healthy ways, we will have a hard time saying hello to the new opportunities and people that come our way. Goodbyes and hellos are like two sides of the same coin. Let’s be especially mindful of the opportunity that is before us, right now, to learn a profound life lesson together about what it means to be human—all the comings and goings that it involves—and how to find peace and gratitude in the midst of it all.
To do this changes lives. And there are many parts to it. Hard to know where to begin. So I propose we begin at the beginning, and see ourselves where we are, right now. We are the monastery of Rob’s reading from earlier—four years later. Four years after the Abbot introduced the vision of “the Messiah is one of us” to the community, helping to transform it, causing it to rise phoenix-like from the ashes and take on new spirit and new life. We revisit the monastery four years later, because that is when the Abbot announces he is leaving. Sometimes fiction is the best vehicle for truth. Let’s see how it helps us to understand where we are today, and where to go from here.
So let us imagine that monastery, especially the small rooms in which each of the monks resides. Unexpectedly, one day, each monk finds a note slipped under his door. From the Abbot. The note reads, “Beloved brothers in the Spirit, we have shared so much in the building up of this spiritual community. Truly, the Messiah is one of us: sometimes you, sometimes me. We have all shared in the ministry here; each one of us has carried and championed a vision of changed lives changing the world. Each one of us has loved this place and found a way to give into it with all that they have and are. Each one of us has learned to trust that the leaders we have been waiting for—are already here among us. The Messiah is one of us.
“Therefore I make this announcement with no fear for the future of this place: I am leaving. I have heard a call to a different ministry, and I must go. I go only with love in my heart for you, and immense pride in all that we have accomplished. I go because there is a restlessness in me that I hardly understand, and yet points me onward, to the next step in the unfolding of my life.
“So be blessed. Live in blessing. The Messiah is one of us. I leave you with peace and grace. Signed, the Abbot.” This is the note that each and every monk in that monastery found underneath their door, waiting for them, in completely unexpected fashion.
And here is what happened next. The Abbot had hoped to leave his people with peace and grace, but who was he kidding? Was he on drugs? They were in an uproar! Hearts broken. His people—most of them—loved him and had established personal relationships with him. When deepest despair or trouble overwhelmed them, they went to him, trusting in the ministry of his presence. Plus he was real with them. They liked that. They liked his fire in the pulpit, because it was part of who he was. They liked his sense of humor—it was part of who he was. And they liked his sense of humility. It meant he paid attention to them. It meant he listened. Perhaps it was because of this humility that the Abbot thought he could leave his people just with peace and grace. Perhaps he did not accurately estimate how much he had meant to them personally.
I mean, was he on drugs? Besides the personal connection, there was also the institutional connection. He was a leader, a facilitator. His job was to gather and rally the people. He was the one who preached the vision of the “Messiah is one of us,” who sparked the whole thing and got the ball rolling. Yes, the “Messiah is one of us,” but what if some of us are more equal than others? What if some of us are more the Messiah than others? And so the monks were in an uproar. Who can fill his shoes? What happens next? How can we go on without him—he IS the monastery! Where do we go from here?
In short, it was not peace and grace that the Abbot left people with; it was sadness, shock, anger, anxiety, suspicion, bitterness, feelings of abandonment, feelings of fear. And that was what he heard, shortly after his letter went out. Some saying, “I knew something was up!”; others saying, “I had no idea!”; still other saying, “There’s more to the story than we’re being told.” Some angry at him for leaving; others happy about the new opportunity before him; and still others all confused and mixed up: proud that he’s following his big call AND angry at him also. All at the same time, people wanting to wring his neck and give him a great big hug.
This is what the Abbot heard, after the letter went out. Also this: people afraid that all the good energy and momentum that had been building up within the community would suddenly disappear—that its grace and glow would go away. And in response to this: some people immediately rallying to the support of the monastery; others intending to leave and go somewhere else or just to quit all monasteries altogether. Some people doing a shortcut through the grief process and going straight to an uptight happy happy joy joy affirmation that it’s all gonna be OK; others buried under the weight of gloom and doom and permanently shutting the door to better possibilities ahead; and still others knowing that everything is going to work out for the best—knowing that the transition to another Abbot will only make the monastery stronger—but right now they just couldn’t give a crap about all that. Right now, they just need to feel what they are feeling. They just do.
All this is what the Abbot heard. He heard all of it, felt all the weight of it. So he decided to gather the monks into a great assembly, and say a few words. Address what was happening. Talk about where to go from here. Hope to God he could say something worth listening to.
So all the monks at that monastery were gathered together, and the Abbot came before them, to address them. This is what he said. He said, first of all, “I am leaving home. There is no rest of the story to this, no hidden underside. To experience further growth and maturity as an Abbot, I must go. And I go with gratitude. Thank you for changing my life. I love you, and I believe in you.” He said all this with his customary graciousness; and then suddenly his guard dropped, and he just started babbling: “Holy moly, this is hard. Wow. It sucks big time. I‘m just exhausted. Twisted up in knots. How do you do this with people you love? How do you do this with people who have been home to you? They didn’t say anything about this in seminary….”
That’s what he said. Then he coughed a bit, to cover up his embarrassment at his self-indulgence at a time when so many were afraid, or hurting. He paused for a moment, collected himself, and then started over, saying, “Friends, the word about my leaving has only gone out, and we are only at the beginning of the process of saying goodbye. This is not the time for instant decisions, or instant solutions. Nothing I or we say right now can clear up the messiness that we all feel. Yet perhaps there are a few things I can say right now that will help us do what we need to do, which is to give ourselves fearlessly to the flow of life here and now. To trust the process.
“Part of what I want to say right now has to do with me—what I am among you, as your professional leader. We have worked together for so long, and it has felt so seamless, that perhaps now is the first time you have had occasion to stand back and wonder about my role in your lives and in the institution. What am I among you?
“As I see it, to be an Abbot is to take on a blessed and privileged role that is nevertheless fraught with complication and difficulty. For example, there are different loyalties that at times conflict. There is loyalty to personal and family need, and then there is loyalty to the need of the monastery. There is loyalty to the religious community here, and then there is loyalty to the world, the effort everywhere and always to build up communities of faith that change lives, called by many names: church, mosque, temple, sangha, congregation. These and other loyalties make me into a tightrope walker among you. And so from one perspective it can look like I am being disloyal, a traitor; from another I am only doing what loyalty demands. There is no easy solution. There is no easy way to walk a tightrope.
“My role among you is complicated, which is part of why things feel so messy right now. Yet another factor in this is how the person who inhabits the role of the Abbot can never be more than an honored guest among you. You invite this person into your life; you invite them into your highest joys and deepest despairs; and in doing this, hopefully you are blessed beyond measure, hopefully your cup overflows. Yet always there comes a time when this person leaves, and another person steps into the role. When a time like this comes, and if the person leaving has been beloved, it can feel as if the very role itself is leaving. But the two are not one. The person and the role are separate. The person leaves, but the precious role is permanent and remains, and there truly are others who will come and make that role sing again.
“Which leads to yet another way in which the role of Abbot is complicated. A person inhabits this social role, and he or she brings to it a unique set of talents, interests, passions, limitations, blind spots, and hopes. They bring all of who they are. Yet an interesting thing happens. A role like that of Abbot invites projections from others that might have little to do with the person inhabiting the role. And it’s a very natural thing. I’m not criticizing it. It’s just how people work, how people grow. Some project God or Miracle Worker on you, and they expect you to walk on water. Others project a God that they no longer believe in, or feel abandoned by, so from the first they dislike you, or are expecting you to screw up. These and others will no doubt project every religious leader they have ever known before on you, together with authority figures like parents or teachers or mentors. One consequence of all this is that if you inhabit the role of the Abbot, who you are can get lost in the shuffle. People love you, people hate you, people struggle with you, people want to suck you into their family dynamics—and it can be hard to remain calm and centered in this vortex. For what happens, you get too much credit, and you get too much blame. You just try to remain calm, you just keep on praying “Help me find my way.” You just do your best.
“It’s just complicated, the role of Abbot. It’s messy. I am leaving, and because of who I am among you, my leaving might strike you as disloyalty. It might strike you as far more than the loss of a person. It will definitely come as a kind of disillusionment, as the projections that have very naturally accumulated on me start falling away, one by one. All this makes for a truly messy time, but it can also be a time of higher awareness of the of role of the Abbot among you, as well as a time of greater authenticity between you and me, in my leaving.
“It is a messy time. Part of it has to do with the role of the Abbot, but another part of it has to do with you, the gathered community. Right now, let’s shift our focus to this.
“Please hear me. Four years ago I brought into this place a vision that made my heart burst: that the Messiah is one of us. Not a scarcity mentality that the Messiah is always something or someone else, so that we are always searching and seeking for something that is beyond us, something that we don’t already have. Not this, and not the idea that there can be only one official Messiah, only one person among us who gets to be brilliant, who gets to have a good news imagination, who gets to do genuine ministry—and everyone else sits and soaks. That’s not the vision I brought here. The vision I brought was, the Messiah is one of us. The work of ministry belongs to us all.
“And when I came with that vision, I was fresh off the apple cart. Wet behind the ears. Playing above what I knew. There I was, straight out of seminary, suddenly an Abbot, with all that that implied. And among you, I have been only as good as you have let me. You gave me big shoes to fill and trusted I could fill them, and I did. You saw me with eyes of wonder, and I saw you with eyes of wonder. When I screwed up, you carried me. We carried each other. Energy went back and forth between us. We created this monastery together. I was only as good as you were and are.
“It means that, if you believe in it and trust it, you will only go from strength to strength. This place will continue changing lives. Plans are in place to ensure a smooth transition. Many resources are available to you. You are in good hands. And above all, always above all: the Messiah is still one of us. I may leave, but the Messiah doesn’t leave with me. The Messiah stays right here. I hope you will hold on to that, even as it’s hard to know what’s coming up. Even as things still feel messy. I was only as good as you were and are. You are strong. You will only go from strength to strength. Believe it.
“A last word to you. In upcoming weeks, please take special care to be the Messiah for each other. Help each other through the shock and the grief. When another is hurting, be strong for them. When you are hurting, don’t run away: allow another to be strong for you. Keep hope and faith alive among you. Come together. Pull together, not apart. I know it’s hard. But if we pull together and not apart, it’s going to be OK.”
And that’s what the Abbot said. And his people heard what he said. The Messiah was still among them. The Abbot was leaving, but it was going to be OK. And in subsequent months, there were some ups and downs. There were. But the monks never forgot the vision at the heart of their community. The Messiah is one of us. And that’s why the entire community never stopped glowing with kindness and grace. That’s why the prayer life never stopped being profound and deep. That’s why the worship services never stopped vibrating with an amazing energy. And that’s why the monastic community never stopped growing. New people kept on coming because they wanted to be part of a place with a resilient heart. A place that doesn’t promise escape from the changes and hurts of life, because then, it would be lying. No. It was a place that grieved honestly and openly but then shook the dust off and got back on its feet, and kept going. It was a place of purpose and vision. A place that never forgot that it existed to serve a higher vision of changing lives. A place that NEVER NEVER allowed a bump in the road to keep them from that. No matter how big that bump felt. Because of all this, people kept on coming. They kept on coming. And the community was blessed. The Messiah was, indeed, one of them.
And that’s the end of the story, and it can be our story as well, here at Pathways Church. Would everyone please stand? Stand up for Pathways. Stand up for the mission of this place. Stand up for your commitment to continue changing lives. You will only go from strength to strength, if you believe. You are strong enough. You can do this. I tell you truly, I was only as strong as you have been and are. The Messiah is one of us. Amen.