Readings: Psalm 19:1-6; Matthew 21:33-46
The choir has various pet names for some of the music they sing. Some names are clever; some insightful and, of course, some don’t bear repeating. One I particularly like refers to this morning’s anthem: that marvellous hymn of praise based on Psalm 19 from Haydn’s oratorio The Creation. While our order of service uses its proper name “The Heavens are telling the Glory of God”, I think you’ll find that several, if not all the choir, fondly refer to it as “the heavens are yelling”. And, isn’t that just so appropriate! The psalmist was convinced that we would best understand the glory of God, if we were to open ourselves to the splendour and grandeur that surrounds us every day of our lives. As we acknowledged in our call to worship:
“God’s glory is declared in the holy silence of the heavens
and told in the silent succession of day and night.
No speech, or word or voice is heard;
yet they speak to all the world,
and their words reach to the ends of the earth.”[1]
Yes, the silent heavens and earth are indeed yelling the glory of God.
But, how do we respond to this dramatic declaration? I fear, that for many, our response might be, in the language of our popular culture ‘whatever’. There has been a strong tendency in western expressions of Christianity to turn away from any emotive, experiential relationships with the Loving Mystery, whom we call God; we’ve resisted allowing our hearts to be stirred to their depths. We’ve put in place some powerful protective mechanisms. We’ve rightly valued our logical rationality; but sometimes, this valuing has come at great expense. In confining our faith expression only to that which we can explain; in refusing to pull out all the stops, possibilities for flourishing fullness of life are short-changed. Systems and structures of words, which announce what we believe and how we must behave (and especially the corollary of what, therefore you must believe and how you must behave) provide a narrow and sterile framework for what we claim to be the heart of our living. And yet, this vibrant amazing cosmos is yelling a song that has the capacity to stir us and to effect amazing transformation, if we would only listen.
Over recent years, there have been many movements which have sought to open our eyes to a bigger picture, which engages our hearts. Some have gone overboard, dropping off their rational minds, wandering into the abyss of warm fuzzy meaninglessness. Others, without discarding logic and reason, have turned towards Celtic spirituality, where they have found an exploration of the ordinary to be the place of revelation of the extraordinary.
At the heart of Celtic spirituality is the awareness that every single part of our life spells out for us – tells – yells – the glory and truth of God-ness, that which is the horizon of our longing. Irish writer John O’Donahue writes of how the perfect silence of stone holds a “tabernacle of memory”. “Though largely unnoticed,” he writes, “the earth is always faithfully there. Its silent attention takes in the diverse continuum of every life; and its memory holds and preserves it. The earth is ancient memoria. It holds within its layers every happening that ever was. ... The stillness and endurance of stone focuses in an intense way the unobtrusive eternity of the earth.”[2]
Celtic spirituality offers prayers, stories and music based in the everyday lives of everyday people, providing a window into a bigger story where we hear not only the silent yelling of the whole of creation, but also where the explorer finds themselves participating in and learning from that whole evolving, transforming cosmos in which we dwell.
“Listen to another parable” our Gospel reading began. So, let’s now listen for another – this time, a Celtic parable from the Irish tradition.
After Patrick had visited the village of Cong to preach the gospel, he went out of the village to pray. He knelt down beside a large boulder; and after he had finished praying, he went to sleep, using the boulder as a pillow. The boulder became known as the Stone of Truth; and people never dared to tell lies if their hands or head were placed on the stone.
Many years later a man called Kerwin lived in Cong. He did not believe in God; and he despised all talk of love, peace and honesty. In his view every person should gain whatever wealth they could, and enjoy it. He lived faithfully by his own creed, stealing and cheating at every opportunity.
One night he was returning to Cong after visiting another village, where he had stolen a bag of gold. There was no moonlight, and he tripped on the Stone of Truth. The bag of gold flew out of his hand, and his head came crashing down on the stone. There was a huge gash from one side of his forehead to the other. He ran home, cursing and swearing that he had lost the gold. He put a bandage on the wound. But in the following weeks and months it never fully healed; it left a scar – a long line across his forehead.
A year later the same thing happened. But this time the wound ran from the crown of his head down to the top of his nose. And it too did not heal; so he now had a cross on his forehead. The people in the village began to mock him.
‘The man who doesn’t believe in God has the cross of Christ on his head,’ they jeered.
Kerwin hated this mockery, and he hated the Stone of Truth that had made this cross. He decided to bury the stone digging a deep hole beside it; but the stone was too heavy for him to push into the hole. Then he covered the stone with earth. But the sheep grazing nearby scraped the earth off with their feet. In utter despair he sat down on the stone and wept.
‘O God,’ he wailed, ‘what can I do? I’m in utter misery.’
At that moment a beggar dressed in rags passed by.
‘Why are you crying out to God?’ this beggar asked. ‘Perhaps I can help.’
‘Go away, you wretch,’ Kerwin shouted.
But the beggar refused to go. He sat down a short distance away, and took out a large crust of bread. He broke the bread into two, and handed one half to Kerwin. Without thinking what he was doing, Kerwin took the bread, and they both started to munch.
‘Well,’ said the beggar, after they had finished eating, ‘you’ve called out to God for help, and you’ve taken bread from a beggar. So you can’t be proud. You must be a true Christian.’
At that the beggar went on his way. Only then did Kerwin realize what had happened. From that moment onwards he gave up stealing and cheating, and devoted himself to serving the needs of others. He lived to a great age. Most of the people who knew him in his evil days died; and the young people saw the cross on his forehead as a sign of his saintliness.
Shortly before he died he invited some young people into his hut, and he told them the story of how he became a Christian.
‘That stone which I stumbled on,’ he concluded, ‘saved me. And that beggar gave me my first communion.[3]
‘A pious race is the Gaelic race” writes Douglas Hyde. The Irish Gael ... sees the hand of God in every place, in every time, in every thing.’[4]
My friends, here in this place – and in every place, in this time – and in every time,
“We turn aside to see
the beauty of each other,
the goodness of this life,
and the truth of sacred wisdom that knows:
Earth to be holy;
all creatures to be kin;
the universe to be One;
and Spirit to be a flaring presence,
for all who turn aside to see.[5]
The heavens are indeed yelling, the stones are crying out, the bread will be broken, the wine poured and our lives are being transformed. Thanks be to God.
[1] Paraphrase of Ps 19, Jeff Shrowder, 1999
[2] John O’Donahue The Four Elements: Reflections on Nature 2010, p.158.
[3] “The stone of truth” from Celtic Parables: Stories Poems and Prayers, Robert van de Weyer, SPCK, 1997, p.12-14.
[4] Quoted in Celtic Parables, Robert van de Wever p.3
[5] Excerpt from “Turning Aside to See” in If Darwin Prayed, Bruce Sanguin p.148
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