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Years ago I went to a theological conference. Two writers – one Catholic, the other Presbyterian – read to us from their new books. It was interesting and inspirational to hear them. Then the third speaker came to the podium. She opened her mouth and just sang. For about three minutes, with no accompaniment. It was an old tune, what we’d call a spiritual. When she finished, Maya Angelou smiled and spoke: “I can’t help it, if I’ve got the glory!” No wonder her first book was called I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Our gospel story today begins with some Greeks wishing to see Jesus. We don’t know if they ever did, because the story is about what Jesus says to his friends. “The hour has come,” Jesus tells them, “for the Son of Man to be glorified.” Jesus is ready to set his face toward Jerusalem and the things that will happen on Calvary. The time has come, he says, for glory. But what IS glory? Fame? Fortune? Something else? I came home yesterday from a Lenten retreat at a monastery in Alabama. Sacred Heart is a convent of Catholic sisters who practice a way of life commonly called Benedictine. St. Benedict lived in the 5 th century and started a monastic movement that persists to this day. All the monks and nuns around the world, whether they are Catholic or Anglican or whatever tradition they claim, all trace their history back to the Benedictine way. Benedictines, like most other monastics, live a relatively simple and modest life. There’s not much fame or fortune. They pray several times a day, typically live together under one roof and often have jobs in schools, hospitals, churches and other places where people are helping people. They are often trained to offer spiritual direction or one of the healing arts. And they are very good at hospitality – welcoming their guests as they would welcome Christ. When I arrived, Sister Mary welcomed me warmly. She also suggested that I slow down. I wonder: did I look like I was going that fast? Even if I found myself just staring out the window, she said, that was fine. So, I took her at her word. I slept, prayed and rested. I discovered I was more tired than I thought. One day, I took a walk down to the cemetery where, eventually, every Benedictine nun who ever lived there is buried. I moved for awhile among rows and rows of gravestones, marking the final resting place of dozens of nuns who have lived out long and faithful lives in that place. After awhile, I sat down on a bench. I looked at the ground. And there, I saw God’s glory. I want to tell you what I saw. But first, I want to remind you of something. The word Lent comes from an old word that means “spring.” All through Alabama, spring has sprung! Cherry white, redbud purple, forsythia yellow. Everywhere I looked. The dogwoods and azaleas aren’t far behind. But when I stopped looking up, when I sat, when I looked down, I saw another kind of glory. Everywhere, it seemed, there were hundreds of acorns, with a hickory nut mixed in, here and there. And all of them were in different stages of the same state: death. They had all fallen to the earth, and all of them were dying. Their old way of hanging on a tree had come to a natural end. And though to the casual eye it might have seemed that they had given up the ghost, they weren’t dead yet. Something new was happening. Each one had some kind of little crack or hole or opening. Each one had some kind of life inside, trying to get out, like a bird wanting to escape its cage, like a tree waiting to bud, like new life that was longing to be born. Jesus said, “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24). Unless a grain of wheat…or a seed…or a kernel…or an acorn falls and dies, there is no glory. But when it falls, it cracks open, breaking into glorious song. Just like a heart. Not a heart broken apart into a thousand little pieces, never to be put back together again. But a heart broken open, broken wide open, with a song that it can finally sing, so it can receive all the light and love and everything else it needs to live its own life, and to live it abundantly. Yes, Lent means spring. And it’s still Lent, so don’t forget to look up and see all the spectacular, joyous beauty that’s coming our way. But remember this: don’t forget to look down, too, and see all the hidden glory under your feet. Because, it seems, real glory, God’s glory is in whatever is low that our loving God lifts up higher. God’s glory is in the child healed from the heartbreak of years of abuse, now lifted and lifting others with her song. God’s glory is in the woman celebrating fifty faithful years of monastic life, full of her own share of broken-heartedness. God’s glory is in the man who is lifted high upon a cross, having chosen a heart-breaking death – a death that is open to God’s new life, instead of a life that might never have broken open and loved the whole world. What is glory? Where can we see Jesus? Take a look, open your eyes to the glory being revealed all around us. And if you can, come back next week. It’s the beginning of Holy Week, the day we call Palm Sunday. And it’s the beginning of the most heart-breaking, beautiful story of glory we have ever known. The Rev. Thomas A. Momberg |
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