February 17, 2008 Des Moines
2nd in a series on Take
Time to be Holy
Psalm 1, Psalm 119:105
Taking
the Time for Learning
I suppose that's partly because it sounds a little
geeky. We have been trained to admire
the sweaty, thick-muscled, testosterone charged tough guys, not the pale,
bookish wordsmiths. Think, for example,
of that classic tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, the brilliant but facially grotesque
French poet who finds himself deeply in love with his beautiful, intellectual
cousin Roxane. Roxane, of course, is inconveniently in love with a young
nobleman named Christian, who though handsome, is utterly incompetent when it
comes to sharing his thoughts. So it is
that through a convoluted series of turns, Cyrano volunteers to ghost write
love letters – writing the poetry at which he is gifted, while signing
Christian's name.
And it works! At one
point Roxane confides in Cyrano that she thinks Christian is the most ravishing
poet in the world. Cyrano’s disguised letters have moved her
inexpressibly. In one classic scene,
Cyrano stands Christian in front of Roxane’s balcony so that he can speak to
her while Cyrano stands under the balcony whispering to Christian what to
say.
Eventually – and much to the heartache of Cyrano -- Roxane
and Christian secretly marry. But as is
so typical in such stories, it all ends badly.
Christian is ultimately shot; Cyrano falls out of a window and is
mortally injured; and Roxane lives out her days in a convent, bereft of the man
she loved to look at, and also the man she loved to listen to. Alas. [1].
But
even with all that, words don't finally enjoy a very positive reputation. “Sticks and stones,” we've grown up
sing-songing, “can break my bones, but words can never hurt
me.” “Talk,” it is commonly believed,
“is cheap.” Think of all the reticence
and suspended judgment in this political season. We hear all these speeches, but distrust mere
rhetoric. It's only words. As an electorate, we find ourselves echoing
Eliza Doolittle, of My Fair Lady fame, spewing exasperation to Henry
Higgins,
Words! Words! Words! I'm so
sick of words!
I get words all day through;
First from him, now from you!
Is that all you blighters can do?
Don't talk of June, Don't talk of fall!
Don't talk at all! Show me!
Never do I ever want to hear another word.
There isn't one I haven't heard.
Please don't explain, Show me! Show me!
Show me now! [2]
But I am not altogether alone. Words do have some troubadours and defenders. In the closing, almost anthem-like song that
climaxes the Tony Award winning musical Ragtime, which explores the turn
of the 20th century struggles for racial and social and economic
justice, the defiant singer urges his listeners to:
Go out and tell the story to your daughters and
your sons.
Make them hear you.
And tell them, in our
struggle, we were not the only ones.
Make them hear you.
Your sword can be a sermon
or the power of the pen.
Teach every child to raise
his voice and then, my brothers,
then will justice be
demanded by ten million righteous men.
Make them hear you. [3]
The
power of words to bring about change.
Or to elicit beauty.
Perhaps you remember that riveting scene in the movie, The Dead Poet
Society, when the new English teacher at a conservative boys school in
Vermont, John Keating, played by actor Robin Williams, began his poetry class
one day by calling his students' attention to the dry prose of the introduction
in their textbook. Read glumly and
dispassionately by one of the students, the words themselves seem flat and
tasteless. Suddenly, Keating bursts out,
“Excrement! That's what I think of James
Evans Pritchard, PhD's introduction to poetry.
We are not laying pipe. We are
understanding poetry. I want you to rip it out. And while you are at it, rip out the whole
introduction. Just rip it out.”
The students aren't sure how literally to take their
teacher, but when it becomes obvious that he is serious, they begin tearing out
the pages from their hardcover texts.
“This is a battle – a war!” Keating announces to his class. “And the casualties could be your hearts, and
souls. Armies of academics going forth,
measuring poetry. But this will not
happen in my class! You
will learn to savor words, and language.”
Savoring words, and language. That, I think begins to sound like the hymn
writer in the old, old song that is guiding our spiritual discipline throughout
this Lenten season. If you missed the
first installment of the series last week you can catch up by reading or
listening to it online at the church's website.
Take time to be holy, speak
oft with thy Lord;
Abide in Him always, and feed on His Word.
If words now seem too ephemeral for food; too airy, for the
most part, to offer much nourishment – high in calorie, low in substance;
fluffy and carrying little weight – know that it hasn't always been the case;
and still isn't, at certain times, with us.
“We'd like to offer you the position.”
“The biopsy report shows some evidence the disease has spread.” “I'm proud of you.” “I'm pregnant.” “I now pronounce you...” Mere words?
Hardly. And if Eliza Doolittle
had had her fill of words and longed for something more, Tevya, that other
Broadway icon in Fiddler on the Roof, longed to hear at least three of
them. Yes, he agreed when he broached
the question to his wife Golde, she had shown her love for him in countless
ways throughout the years of their marriage – cooking and cleaning and bearing
him children. But what he wanted to hear
– couldn't bear not to hear – were three simple words: “I love you.”
“Do you love me?” he musically asked.
“Words,” Lutheran pastor Peter Marty observed in a recent
radio broadcast, “are the medium of human relationship. They are how we make a world, and how we fashion
a life.” [4]
And, we are taught, how God fashioned a world. “Let there be light,” God commanded; and with
the word it was done. “Let there be dry
land,” he said; and it was so.
“Let there be plants and animals and fish and birds, let there be men and
women,” the words rang out, and it was not only so, it was good. Powerfully, creatively, good.
And according to the unfolding story, it was that same
powerful and creative Word that became flesh and dwelt among us – piercing the
darkness with light, to be sure, but exploding the silence, as well, with
truth.
Perhaps it isn't so surprising, after all, that Matthew
would record Jesus offering a blessing on those “who hunger and thirst after
righteousness,” for hadn't Jesus already
made plain in the temptation story that food, as we conventionally think of it,
isn't enough to keep a person alive? We
thrive, Jesus quoted Moses, by feeding on “every word that comes from the mouth
of God.” (Matthew 5:6, Deuteronomy 8:3)
As if to dramatize the idea as graphically as possible, God
said to the prophet Ezekiel, "'Son of man, eat what is before you, eat
this scroll; then go and speak to the house of Israel.' So I opened my mouth, and he gave me the
scroll to eat...and it tasted as sweet as honey in my mouth” (3:1-3)
“Take time to be holy.
Feed on his word.”
But if that sounds unpleasantly literal, understand that the
hymn writer – as well as the prophet – were speaking metaphorically. “Sate yourself,” they are saying, “with the
Word of God.” But be careful to hear in
that the difference between Word and words.
This isn't just a matter of thumbing through the pages of a printed
book, reading and memorizing as many as your brain can hold – although that
wouldn't be a bad place to start. It's
just that the Word of God is larger than the words on the page – even if the
page is from the Bible. The words of
Moses and the prophets, the words of Matthew and Mark and Luke and John and
Paul and all the others represent the best efforts of those attentive and faithful
witnesses to get down on paper the Word, the mind, the inspiration of God's
holy intent. Like listening to a
masterful symphony orchestra performing a masterwork of music through small and
tinny speakers, we must somehow listen beyond the tangible, woefully inadequate
medium to hear and appreciate and comprehend the glory they are, with all their
limitations, trying to convey.
Hungry in so many and deep ways, we must take time to learn
what God would have us do, toward what God would have us reach.
If, as the Psalmist suggests, the Word of God is like a lamp
to our feet and a light to our path, it is likewise our very food. Like trees planted near the stream, he sings
in the very first Psalm, whose roots drink in the water, enabling their living
to be so vital that they remain healthy and supple; their fruit is plentiful
and sweet, so it is for those who consume the word of the Lord. They prosper, he observes, in all they do.
Let us, in the pursuit of healthy and enlivening holiness,
take the time to learn by feeding on...
...by hungering and thirsting for...
...by taking into ourselves...
...instead of all the spiritual junk food
available...
...the very Word of
God.
...taking the time to learn.