In this time when we are speaking so much about China and disease, I’d like to turn the dial back to before Covid-19, to ancient China, at least to ancient China as understood through the very Western eyes of Benjamin Hoff and mapped onto a classic literary character in the 1982 bestseller “The Tao of Pooh.” Well into that book, we find this paragraph:
A saying from the art of Chinese medicine would be appropriate to mention here: “One disease, long life; no disease, short life.” In other words, those who know what is wrong with them and take care of themselves accordingly will tend to live a lot longer than those who consider themselves perfectly healthy and neglect their weaknesses. So, in that sense, at least, a Weakness of some sort can do you a big favor, if you acknowledge that it’s there. The same goes for one’s limitations, whether Tigger knows it or not – and Tiggers usually don’t. That’s the trouble with Tiggers, you know: they can do everything. Very unhealthy.
There is another whole sermon in that last bit, about Tiggers, and possibly politicians, who don’t know their own limitations, a homily about hubris and humility. But we’re going to focus on that ancient Chinese saying about disease and attention, for in the end, it is attention that makes the difference. The person who is aware of their vulnerability pays more attention.
I have way more than one vulnerability, so I should be golden, as they say. Among my many lapses is not knowing why the Dicken’s I picked today’s passage from 1st Peter all those weeks ago when I gave the staff a worship plan. It is a problematic text even on a good day. I suspect I may have been thinking about the idea of Jesus as the foundation of our faith, the cornerstone, something solid in a time when things don’t feel so solid. Besides, the other choices for today weren’t much better, the stoning of Stephen, or a long rambling teaching from John that would have been way too traditional for some in our diverse faith community. Or maybe I just had quarantine brain. Still, 1st Peter?
We’re pretty clear that Peter didn’t actually write this text. Doesn’t fit his time, his place, or his occupation. The text claims to have been written from Babylon, though it was not uncommon for early Christians to use Babylon, that ancient enemy of the Hebrews, as a code name for Rome, the later enemy of the Hebrews and the context in which the weird little cult of the Galilean rabbi found itself. Tradition tells us that Peter lived in Rome at the end of his life, though there isn’t any proof. The anonymous author wrote pretty sophisticated Greek and was trained in rhetoric.
The passage we read this morning is an analog to countless other passages that portray faith as a source of stability and structure. Remember Matthew’s house built on solid rock, withstanding the storm, while the house built on the sand collapses?
And maybe, just maybe, this is what I saw. We are in a storm. Solid is good. Cornerstone. Foundation.
But what will you build on top?
And this is where I ask you to forgive me for mixing my metaphors, for I am thinking widely about stability and order, about structure in a time of chaos, and the bigger question of why so many people have historically chosen to follow a spiritual discipline, a path, for the thing that the anonymous author of 1st Peter was promoting and practicing was still called the Way by many, the term “Christian” just emerging at the end of the New Testament period. The Way of Jesus was understood to have requirements, to make demands, to be something solid and structured in a time of chaos and death.
In a time of chaos and death.
In truth, every time is a time of chaos, for there is so much in creation we cannot control, this system that is complex, chaotic, self-organizing, mysterious, filled with terror and beauty and this thing called life that reinvents itself constantly like that sourdough starter you thought was a good idea six weeks ago. And that beautiful miracle, that spark of life, flames out oh so quick, so that every time is a time of chaos and questions.
Most of us are conscious enough to live in a constant quantum spiritual state that is at once “Wow!,” and “What?,” and “Doh!,” all at the same time, mostly hairless primates, though a bit more hairy than usual these days, scared animals with a spirit bigger than our bodies, and we sometimes dare dream, more permanent than this body as well.
Our minds ping about like so many pinballs, and our spirits reach, reach out in love, reach out in art, reach out in song, for we long to connect to more, to be more, to make more, to love more, even as the scared little animal inside seeks to have more, a weight dragging down the best in our spirits.
Construct comes from Latin root words that mean to build together, the together usually more than one person, the together more than one thing, sticks and straw and mud, steel and concrete and glass, we construct what gives us shelter, building what fits our time and our place. We follow a path because that is the fastest way to get where we are going, the highway to the Washington Island Ferry, to Green Bay, to parts beyond.
Spiritual disciplines, religious traditions, ancient texts, are not meant to shackle us. We think of that Divine Mystery we name as God as a Creator and as an Artist and as a loving Parent, the Mother-Father of a universe and maybe a multiverse, and we are called to co-create and co-nurture. But Monet’s creativity was built on a history of exploration by earlier painters. Mozart did not invent new notes, he stretched and re-configured a tradition that stretched back to primeval fires. Zora Neale Hurston did not invent narrative, but she pumped it full to overflowing with the vernacular and experience of her culture, of Black American culture.
We don’t tear it all down, burn it all down, tabula rasa. We couldn’t if we wanted to, for while today is filled with choices, it sits on the shoulder of yesterday.
We build what is new because we have taken time to learn from our past. We can start on a new path because someone blazed the trail that got us this far.
We build and explore and reimagine, but we start with a strong foundation, the story of Jesus and the Hebrew People, of Sarah and Abraham and Miriam and Moses and David and his beloved Jonathan, and we re-use the best parts of that story, the best parts of our Christian tradition, while adding new ideas and new voices.
Or do we? For I fear we have gone so far down the road of celebrated ignorance, of hubris and “me first,” that we have lost our connection with the path, are no longer on any foundation at all.
And it is a time of chaos and of death.
And we have more than one disease.
But we have a foundation. We have awareness. We have our call to be co-creators with the Eternal Artist. We have a path and a structure, a compass and a saw, to build and to change and to add. But we start somewhere. We build on something.
What are the structures in your life that are working? What is the path that feels like you might be getting somewhere? Where does it feel less like a strong foundation and more like a heavy rock pulling you under?
God is good, even in a time when we see chaos and death. Jesus is here, standing on the balcony applauding, with bruises on her face from a full shift wearing an N95 mask that is wet with tears. The Spirit is with us, singing with us when we cannot sing together. Believe, build, and keep moving, this day and always. Amen.