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As we observed a couple of weeks ago, there is a lot of bleeding in the world today. All one needs to do is read this morning's newspaper to know that there is much bleeding in the world at large, and the ongoing troubles within the Anglican Communion and other churches continue to testify to more than a little bleeding within the Body of Christ itself. And this morning it is out into this bleeding world and into this bleeding Church that Jesus sends his disciples to preach repentance and to heal the broken of body and mind and spirit, much as, centuries ago, the Lord sent Amos, that ordinary shepherd from Tekoa, and Ezekiel, that visionary from among the exiles on the River Kebar, to take a word from God to the people, "whether they hear it or not." And just how are ordinary people - people like Amos, the ordinary tree trimmer from Tekoa, and people like Robert or Susan from Topeka or Colorado Springs, ordinary disciples of Jesus - just how are you and I to take a message of healing from Jesus to a Church and a world in turmoil, amongst the chaos of the world and the spiritual captivity of the Church, in the Year of Our Lord 2006? With the world and the Church in the state they're in at the moment, just how can it be done? Well, all this, and especially this question, made me wonder if it may be time for us to remember the rabbi's gift once again, or, if you haven't heard it before, to receive it for the first time. "The Rabbi's Gift" is a once-upon-a-time story, a story of the Church in decline and trouble, in times that might have been very much like our own. Once upon a time there was a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. In earlier days it had been part of a great monastic order with several branch houses, and with many monks committed to prayer and study and ministry. A successful monastery. But people everywhere had become less and less interested in the Church; they had turned their attention more and more to the concerns of the world, and they were not much interested any longer in religion and matters of faith. They especially weren't interested in monastic orders , so the order no longer attracted young men to its life and work. By the time our story begins, all the branch houses of the order had been closed, and there were only six monks left in the decaying mother house. There were the abbot and five others, all of them over seventy years of age. Clearly, it was a dying order, a dying way of life and faith. In the deep woods surrounding the monastery, there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby village occasionally used as a retreat for his own study and prayer. The monks were usually aware of the rabbi's presence when he was there, but even after all these years they had never got to know him. But one day the abbot, Brother Thomas, came in from his work in the fields and whispered to the others, "The rabbi is in the woods again!" And as he agonized over his dying order, the abbot thought that perhaps he might visit the rabbi and ask him if, by some chance, he might offer any advice that would help save the monastery. So the abbot went through the woods to the rabbi's hut, and the rabbi welcomed him warmly. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi only shook his head sadly. "I know how it is," he said. "The spirit has gone out of the people. It's the same in my village. Few these days want to know God. Almost no one comes to synagogue anymore." So the abbot and the rabbi wept together, and they read parts of the Torah together, and they spoke quietly of holy things, and of the way things used to be. When the time came for the abbot to leave, he and the rabbi embraced each other, and the abbot said, "It has been wonderful that we should meet after all these years, but I still have failed in my purpose for coming here. Isn't there anything you can tell me, some piece of advice, some blessing or gift that would help me save my dying order?" "No," said the rabbi. "I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you." When the abbot returned to the monastery, his fellow monks gathered around him and asked, "Well, what did the rabbi say?" "Oh, he couldn't help," said the abbot. "We just wept together, and read the Torah together, and prayed. The only thing he did say - and it was a strange thing indeed, just as I was leaving - he said that the Messiah is one of us. But I don't know what he meant." In the days and weeks and months that followed, the monks pondered this. And they wondered whether there was any significance in the rabbi's words. "The Messiah is one of us?" they wondered. "Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? But if that's the case, then which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone in particular, he must have meant Father Abbot. After all, Father Abbot has been our leader for more than a generation." "On the other hand, Father Abbot is very old. He couldn't have meant Father Abbot, because, of the six of us here, Father Abbot probably has the least time left to him in this life." "But he might have meant Brother Matthew. Certainly, Brother Matthew is a holy man. Everyone knows that Brother Matthew is a man of light and truth and love." "He certainly could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred is a thorn in everyone's flesh. He's a crotchety old man who has an opinion about everything and who irritates the hell out of everyone, always telling all of us what he thinks, whether we ask him or not." "On the other hand, even though Elred's a pain in everyone's neck, when you look back on it, Elred is almost always right. Often very right! Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred." "But surely not Brother Michael. Sometimes Brother Michael seems hardly to be a Christian at all. Michael is as wrong as Elred is right. The way he talks about the Creed sometimes makes you think he doesn't believe a word of it. He sure doesn't think the theology of the Church is very important. And he drinks like a fish." "On the other hand, Brother Michael is the most generous person in the world. He'll give you the shirt off his back and never expect anything in return. Perhaps the rabbi was thinking of Brother Michael when he said that the Messiah was one of us." "He most certainly couldn't have meant Brother Philip. Philip is so passive, a real nobody, a Casper Milquetoast who can hardly buckle his sandals without begging your pardon." "But then, come to think of it, when anyone needs help in any way, Brother Philip seems to have a gift for being there with a comforting word just when you need it most. Maybe the rabbi did have Philip in mind when he said that one of us is the Messiah." "Of course, the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person, and not even a very good monk. I'm just the cook and dishwasher here. Yet, supposing he did! Suppose I am the Messiah! O Lord, not me! He couldn't have meant me, could he?" Well, as the weeks and months passed and as the monks thought about what the old rabbi had said, they began to treat each other with extraordinary respect and consideration. All of them took each of the others more seriously than before, on the off chance that one of the brothers among them just might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that he himself might be the one the rabbi was talking about, each one began also to treat himself with extraordinary respect as well. Now the monastery was situated in a beautiful forest. And even though the monastery itself was almost in ruins, people from the nearby towns still occasionally came to visit its quaint buildings and lovely surroundings, to picnic on the monastery's lawn and to wander along its wooded paths. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, the visitors began to sense the aura of extraordinary respect that began to surround the six old monks, a palpable climate of love and concern for each other that seemed now to radiate out from them and to permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, winsome, even compelling, about it. And, hardly knowing why, people began to come back to the monastery more frequently, to picnic and to play and to pray. And they began to bring their friends, to show them this special place. And their friends began to bring their friends. And then it happened that more and more often some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery took time to talk and visit with the old monks. And after a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. And, within a few years, the monastery had once again become a thriving order, a living center of faith and ministry and life for all who lived nearby. And all because of the rabbi's gift. May the peace of him who is Messiah, who is here with us this morning and who sends us out to heal amongst a world and a Church that is bleeding, be with us all - and with those to whom Jesus sends us to share the rabbi's gift. In the Name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. |