Sermon for Oct. 3, 2021
As many of you know, Ann and I moved last
week – from north Overland Park to the middle of Overland Park. I should say, it was four of us who moved last
week – Ann and me, but also our cat, Maisy, and our dog, Petey. I’m sure the move is as disruptive for the two
of them as it is for the two of us. But
at least they don’t have boxes to unpack.
Among the bittersweet moments with this
move was taking my last walk with Petey around our old block. We’ve taken the same walk for years now. We saw the same houses, day after day. There were certain trees and light poles
where we simply have to stop. Petey was on
his leash, of course; but after all these years, he and I were just walking the
same route together. Sometimes I wanted
to walk faster, sometimes he did. But
really, unless he saw another dog, we were just walking the same path with very
little straining at the leash.
Now, we have to get used to a new route. I
think he’ll like it – there’s a short trail along a creek by the house and fewer
cars whizzing by him. It will take some
adjustment, but I’ll bet before long, he’ll be making turns right along with
me, without having to look up at me to check on the next one. But even so, even
once we find our new route and rhythm, I still wouldn’t dare walk him without the
collar and the leash.
So, today we’re celebrating St. Francis of
Assisi. We remember Francis for being in deep communion with nature, seeing every
aspect of the created order as his brother or his sister. That’s why we’re blessing our pets today: They’re
outward and visible signs of the loving relationship Francis leads us to cultivate
with every aspect of God’s creation. But
Francis was much more than a holy Dr. Doolittle, talking to the animals. Francis teaches us about the value of the things
we value least and the gift of holy limitation.
Francis teaches us about the blessing of the leash.
He was born around 1180 in Assisi in
Italy, the son of a wealthy silk merchant.
He was a young man of leisure – a party animal, a spoiled brat. He became a soldier, longing for military adventure;
but that soon gave way to a conversion process:
He abandoned his old life and took to caring for lepers near Assisi and
giving money to the poor. In a run-down
chapel one day, he had a vision of Jesus asking him to “repair my house.” He took the message literally, sold off some
of his father’s inventory of expensive silk, and gave the money to the church
to repair the building. Enraged, his
father disowned him. So, Francis repudiated
his father’s life and wealth, took off his clothes in the public square, threw them
at his father’s feet, and became a beggar. He devoted himself to voluntary poverty and houselessness;
and he wandered from village to village, serving the poor and proclaiming God’s
power and authority over the powers of the world. He preached always, using words when
necessary – calling us to see ourselves in relationship with the people and creatures
we may see as less important than ourselves and our concerns. Legends began to grow that his connection with
creation was so deep that he could converse with animals, and he wrote poetry about
our connection to Brother Sun and Sister Moon, even seeing “gentle death” as
his brother.1
So, houselessness, poverty, wandering from
village to village, serving lepers – you wouldn’t think this way of life would
catch on. And Francis never intended to
start a movement. But he attracted quite
a following to this life of giving yourself away for people the world would
rather forget. His community of poverty,
proclamation, and service grew large enough that the pope recognized it as a
religious order. Eventually, Francis journeyed
to Egypt, determined to share his faith with the Muslim sultan against whom the
European Crusader armies were battling. Francis
didn’t convert the sultan, but he did establish a relationship; and the sultan
let Francis’ religious order steward Christian sites in the Holy Land. Francis died in 1226, his body broken by a
life of service and poverty, but his spirit united with Christ as an instrument
of God’s peace. Francis understood the
deepest of Christian truths: that it’s in giving that we receive and in dying
that we’re born to eternal life.
More often than not, following Jesus takes
us in the last direction our own wisdom would have taken us. Frankly, Jesus asks a lot of us. After all, this is the Son of God who came
among us in poverty and powerlessness, who washed his friends’ feet and told
them to do the same. This is the king of
all creation who stooped down to our level, emptying himself, taking the form
of a slave, humbling himself and becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross
(Philippians 2:6-8). Honestly, this way
of being might make better sense to those at the bottom of the social scale
than it does to many of us. In the
Gospel reading today, Jesus is ironically thanking God that at least someone
understands what he’s trying to say – not “the wise and the intelligent” but the
“infants” (Matthew 11:25), the folks of lesser status whom Jesus has been
talking about in the readings from the past two Sundays. And continuing the irony, Jesus says that this
path of emptying ourselves, of stooping down to serve people and creation – it doesn’t
just honor God and bless the world. Unbelievably,
it also blesses us.
So, Jesus starts talking to “all who are
weary and are carrying heavy burdens” (11:28). Can you relate? Weary, burdened? Yup, that’s me. OK, Jesus says, here’s the relief you’re
looking for: “Take my yoke upon you and
learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for
your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my
burden is light.” (Matt 11:29-30)
“Take my yoke upon you”? What does that mean? Well, think about oxen yoked together to pull
a plow or a cart. They’re doing hard
work, but they’re not doing it alone.
They’re walking in step, a team much stronger than either one by itself.
Now, it may not feel very comfortable to
think of yourself as an ox. Talk about
low status. But maybe this helps a
bit. Imagine the other ox to which you’re
yoked is God – divinity in the flesh, Jesus himself. Divinity that emptied itself in service to those
unimaginably lowlier. Divinity willing
to die to demonstrate the power of love.
Divinity that washed dirty feet.
Francis is maybe our greatest example of what it means to take on that yoke Jesus was describing – holding our attachments lightly, giving up what possesses us, serving those who need it most. This is not a path of weakness that Jesus is calling us to follow. This is the paradoxical power of God, the power of relationship that puts the other ahead of oneself. When we yoke ourselves to Jesus, we find, counterintuitively, that the way is easier and the burden is lighter than the ways we choose for ourselves. We aren’t trying to prove ourselves all the time, and we aren’t judging ourselves for our failures. We’re simply walking alongside our master, both of us knowing the route. And when we walk that path daily, we come to know it as second nature. We walk it easily and with joy, rather than straining at the leash.
1.
Background
on the life of St. Francis available from Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_of_Assisi)
and the Catholic Encyclopedia (http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/06221a.htm). Accessed Sept. 30, 2021
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