Sermons by the Rev. Anne O. Weatherholt, Rector
Date: February 2, 2008
Liturgical Day: The Ordination of The Rev. Anjel Scarborough to the Priesthood
Propers: Isaiah 6:1-8, I Peter 5:1-4, John 6:35-38
Title: The “what” of the waiting.
“So, what are you waiting for?” You remember, Anjel, when you were in my office, fixing my computer more than seven years ago. I asked you what had become of your earlier flirtation with a calling to the ministry. You confessed that it was still hovering in your heart, and I blurted out: “So, what are you waiting for?” And you went. Before long, you had begun the process of selling your business and enrolling in seminary. Before long, you entered the discernment process of the Diocese, attending retreats, reading books and exposing the depths of your heart, soul and psyche to the examination of others. And now, here you are, ready to fulfill a prophecy spoken on your behalf by an Anglican priest from Japan who once said that he would see you become a priest one day.
“What are you waiting for?” Most of the time when we hear that phrase we stick on the “waiting” part, like waiting upon the grace of God or waiting for Christmas to come. But the “what” part of the question is equally as intriguing. The “what” of ordained ministry is a mystery that even those of us who have been ordained more than half of our lives are still “waiting” to uncover and grasp. When Anjel asked me to preach for this service, I began looking around me and asking God to point out what might be a kernel, a core for this sermon.
Just a day or two before that, Barbara Forsythe, St. Mark’s faithful and tireless Altar Guild director had set about making ashes for Ash Wednesday. Bringing bucket, lighter fuel, long-stemmed matches and more than a bit of courage, we set out for the gravel parking lot to burn last year’s dried palms. Making the proper ashes is an art that Barbara has mastered. First the burn, then gathering the blackened palms reduced to large clumps, then grinding them by hand in an old-fashioned mortal and pestle, and finally spooning them through a sieve until they are like black dust. Once done, she presented me with an extra bottle of ashes and said, “These are for Anjel to use.”
I have kept that bottle on my desk until today. As we all know, this Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, and I will give these to Anjel for her to use this year and as many years as she wishes, mixing them with ashes from the palms that she will bless this coming Palm Sunday. “Why ashes?!” I asked God. Why put this bottle of ashes on my desk as I am preparing an ordination sermon? Believe me, I have been asking this question for quite a while! And in the waiting, I have begun to realize some of the “what” of ordination.
There is a burning that takes place in every Christian life but even more so in the lives of those who willingly offer themselves to be sacramentally set aside for the sake of others. Each of us, the people of baptism, was burned with the brand of the Holy Spirit and “marked as Christ’s own forever.” Each of us, people of bread and wine, takes into our bodies elements that have been baked and brewed with heat and fire. Each of us, faithful seekers of the truth of Christ’s Gospel, has known the moments of burning when, like Isaiah, we know we are people of unclean lips, and yet the live coal of the Holy Scripture is placed on our lips as we proclaim Jesus Christ. In each of these encounters with the holiness of God, we are burned, and there is ash that is left.
This burning and ash are more pronounced, though, in the life of the ordained. For through us pours the hot burning grace of the Holy Spirit to baptize, to bless, to proclaim the Gospel, to pronounce absolution, to consecrate, to confirm and ordain. When we are sacramentally “set apart” in ordination, we give up many of the rights that others enjoy, and we receive a heavy load of responsibilities others do not want. We give up the right to privacy, the right to think and act only for ourselves and those closest to us. We give up the right to speak off-hand, the right to escape responsibility and the right to indulge our habits and weaknesses. Although we may still act and behave in ways that we always have, the right to remain as we have always been is withdrawn as we truly become “examples to the flock.” I would guess that every minister, pastor, deacon, priest and bishop present have heard many of the lay ministers in this room say, “I don’t know how you do what you do.” And each of us in that moment has no answer to that “what” other than grace.
As I said earlier, we give up rights in ordination, but we also receive a heavy load of responsibilities that others don’t want, even responsibilities that are unreasonable and irrational. We are responsible for tending the sick and visiting those confined to bed and in their homes. We are responsible for tending to those who are racked by grief in the sudden, terrifying loss of one they love. We weep healing tears with those who come to us in despair, looking for hope. We are responsible for producing a message of love, grace and hope every Sunday or every occasion where we are the preacher and for feeling the strength drain from us as we preside at multiple Eucharists and teach multiple classes each week. We are responsible for guarding the fragile trust when others open the dark places of their hearts to us, hoping that we will understand, soothe and strengthen them. We are responsible for the myriad of details from bulletins and books and banners to parochial reports, parish finances and personnel that all go along with running a parish or a non-parochial ministry, chaplaincy or mission. And we are often held responsible for the hurt feelings, the unity, discipline and chaos of systems made up of people whom we love. The “what” of ordained ministry often feels like it is burning us to ashes.
There is another object, though, that came into my mind and heart as I was contemplating this bottle of ashes. Those of us who are familiar with Harry Potter and his adventures might recognize this passage from the second book of the series. Harry has been called to the headmaster’s office because of his apparent involvement with the enchantment of various students at school. With apologies to Father Dunnan, whose headmaster’s office is a haven of hospitality and light, Dumbledore’s office is full of “funny little noises,” portraits of past headmasters, books, magical objects and something making a strange “gagging” noise. We pick up with the narrative:
“Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking
bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it, and the bird
looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry thought it
looked very ill. Its eyes were dull, and even as Harry watched, a couple
more feathers fell out of its tail. Harry was just thinking that all he needed
was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it,
when the bird burst into flames. Harry yelled in shock and backed away into
the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water
somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird meanwhile had become a fireball;
it gave out a loud shriek, and next second there was nothing but a smoldering
pile of ash on the floor. The office door opened. Dumbledore came in,
looking very somber. “Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird—I couldn’t do
anything—he just caught fire—” To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore
smiled. “About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days;
I’ve been telling him to get a move on.” He chuckled at the stunned look on
Harry’s face. “Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry; Phoenixes burst into flame
when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him…”
Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its
head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one. “It’s a shame you
had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating himself behind
his desk. “He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and
gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry an immensely
heavy load, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets.”
Along with the bottle of ashes, I am going to give you a phoenix, one that I have had since childhood along with a large collection of glass animals. As told by Professor Dumbledore, phoenixes are fascinating although mythical creatures. They have been a part of the lore of many cultures even in times before Jesus walked this earth. In the second century, however, St. Clement recognized the power of this symbol to represent the resurrection of Jesus Christ. For those of us who know the Easter feast, coming as it does after the 40 days of Lenten ashes, we quickly grasp the meaning of this symbol. Ashes are the end only of the old things that pass away. New things are created by the grace and love of God who creates everything from nothing. Jesus is the phoenix rising from the ashes of death, the ashes burned and ground into dust from the palms of hope that we throw in the path of our Lord. Jesus carries the heavy load of our sin and weaknesses; his tears heal our wounds; his faithfulness sustains us.
All of us know this story in our lives, but those of us ordained know this story magnified in our lives as we open our hearts and souls to serve Christ’s people, Christ’s church. Some days it feels like the ashes are the end. Then come those shining moments of flame when Jesus’ presence burns with new fire, the fire of the Holy Spirit that burns but does not consume—like the burning bush of Moses’ revelation—and we find we can carry the heavy load of another’s burden, we can weep tears that heal the wounds life inflicts, and we can be faithful servants for the church we love so dearly.
Anjel, my sister in Christ, along with other gifts that you will soon receive, I give you this bottle of ashes and this glass phoenix. From time to time, it will feel as if your life will catch fire and burn to ashes. >From time to time, the “what” of ordained ministry that you have been waiting so long waiting for will surprise you with its demands and extraordinary responsibilities, and the loneliness of that moment will threaten to consume you. Remember that rising up from ashes, being made new in God’s love, is the gift of Christ’s resurrection power, given to all who claim his name. And when someone asks you, if they haven’t already, “How do you do what you do?” you will smile gently, think of the ashes and the phoenix and say, “grace.”