ACORN SUNDAY 2005

Most of you know that I am very enthusiastic about my hobby. Like most hobbies, I do it not because I derive any financial gain or social prestige, or any other measurable reward, but because I love to do it. For those of you who don't know about my hobby, I sing for two progressive rock bands.

One of those bands, Metaphor, just released our second CD last year. The album was called "Entertaining Thanatos: Seven Cheery Songs About Death," and, indeed, every single song is about death in one way or another. Not long after the CD was released, I mentioned it in passing to an acquaintance, who said she hoped it would be a hit. It didn't sound like a polite aside, and so instead of simply dismissing it, I laughed and said I didn't think that was likely, as the music we play is progressive rock, and there had not been a progressive rock song in the top ten since 1983. If we wanted to make money, there are many more lucrative musical genres we could be working in. And we would also, I hastened to add, probably be singing about love, which is an infinitely more marketable subject to sing about than death. I told her we would be very lucky to make back half of the money we had spent recording the thing.

She cocked her head the way a dog does when it is confused, and gave me a look that very clearly said, "Then why do it?" I tried to explain that we weren't aiming for fame or fortune, but to merely participate in the genre we love more than any other. Making progressive rock music is a way to give back just a little of the joy we have all derived from this music. None of us have career aspirations, our music-making is our hobby, and like a lot of hobbies, it is sometimes expensive; and, to us, worth every penny.

I'm not sure whether this acquaintance ever quite "got it," but the experience caused me to reflect on the tyranny of "success" as an ideal in our culture. Why is it that art is not worth the bother if it is not marketable? Is something valuable only if it yields more or measurable results? Are intangibles such as fun, satisfaction, or even joy not sufficient ends in themselves?

I have a friend who, every time she speaks to her mother on the phone, is met with the same refrain, "Are you pregnant yet?" She doesn't ask, "How are you doing, dear?" or "How is work going?" or even, "How are things going with Jake?", her husband. Her mother suffers under the maddening opinion that her life is only validated by her generativity, as if her marriage-or indeed, the rest of her life-is not a valuable thing if it does not yield children.

I have a similar experience whenever I call my grandmother. She is always asking whether our church is growing, and I usually reply, "We are holding our own," at which point she clicks her tongue as if that's a shameful thing, and then tries to console me, even though I have given absolutely no indication that I am in any way grieving this fact.

The fact is that, yes, we would have an easier time of things, especially financially, if we were about twice our current number. But I think that even then my grandmother would not consider us "successful." In this age of mega-churches, where membership is measured in the thousands rather than in tens, what we have going here would not be viewed by a lot of folks as a viable concern.

But for my part, I could not conceive of being a part of a megachurch, even with the visibility that being a pastor in such a place would bring me. I love our community, and the fact that we are not bursting at the seams does not diminish the joy I receive in being here with you, week after week. Unlike the crowded anonymity of the megachurches, in this place, small as we are, we are a real community. When one of us suffers, we all see the pain, and feel it.

We are small enough that when I was struggling with a new medication last week, I didn't have to hide it in order to preserve the "professional image" of the clergy, as if we haven't all had a family member on Prozac at one time or another. Instead, I could simply walk into church, and say, "Wow, I'm having a really hard time right now, and instead of saying mass, I'd just like to sit in the congregation." No one got mad, no one was ashamed, in fact, I received nothing but love and care from everyone here, and I am so grateful for that.

Where did we ever get the idea that something has to be big to be a success? If something gives us what we need, be it a hobby, or a marriage, or a small church, is it not successful? We can't all be rock stars, or movie idols, or members of megachurches, and if we are honest, most of us don't really want to be. There is a tenderness, a preciousness in the small that no amount of money or glamour or fame or so-called "success" can replace.

The same can be said for religion, as well. I don't need the promise of eternal life in heaven to make my time here on earth meaningful. I don't need this bread to magically transform into the body of God to make the sharing of a meal with my friends a sacred experience. I don't need Jesus to be a savior that comes down from heaven to make him a worthy pattern for my life.

And as for being a priest, if my ministry is anything more than saying, "you matter to me, to God, and to this community, no matter how insignificant or evil you may believe yourself to be," then my priesthood is just another form of witchcraft and I might as well get honest about it and go out and form a coven. Not that there's anything wrong with that-it's just not, from my perspective, what being a minister of the Gospel is about.

Earlier this week, during a break in one of the Chapliancy Institute classes I was teaching, Gina Rose and I were taking a little walk together after moving our cars. I told her how grateful I was that she has asked me to teach three years ago, how I felt that it was one of the things I felt I was here on this earth to do. She stopped for a moment, and with a tear forming in her eye, she nodded and said, "You know, I've been thinking lately, that even if our school never gets any bigger than this, that maybe this is what I came here to do in this life. That my whole life has been leading up to founding and running this weird and wonderful little school. That the few lives I've touched, that our students have touched, that maybe it's enough. That it's not a waste, that it's a good and noble thing just as it is." I kissed her on the top of her head-because really, the woman is only four-foot-eleven, and that is the easiest place to plant a quick kiss-and told her that I thought she was right. "Small is beautiful" is not just a platitude or an empty consolation, it is a truth worthy of scripture.

Today, on acorn Sunday, we inexplicably hand out acorns, and invite you to go home and plant them, apparently in the hope that from tiny acorns mighty oaks may grow. And if you want to plant yours and hope for the best, be my guest. But even if it is never planted, even if it never generates a mighty oak, an acorn is a splendid little thing, and worthy of contemplation and adoration just as it is.

Julian of Norwich contemplated a hazelnut, and saw in it the care and concern of God for all things, both large and small. For whether we are talking about an acorn or the Horsehead Nebula, the Spirit of God made it, sustains it, and loves it, just as it is.

And in case nobody has told you this lately, God loves you in just the same way. Even if you never become more than you are, you are loved beyond measure. Even if you never become a movie idol or a rock star, you are loved. You don't even have to be a good person to be loved. I know a few good people, and they're pretty dull. The people I love most are odd assemlages of darkness and light, of ambition and unfulfilled potential, of selfishness and concern for others; inelegant mixtures of fear and trust, good and bad, doubt and faith.

Really, a church is no place for the perfect or the famous, or even for particularly "successful," as our culture esteems "success." Because then, we wouldn't need each other, would we? And maybe you don't need me, but I sure as hell need you. And I love you. And I thank God for you. And when I look into your eyes and serve communion to you, I hope you hear that, loud and clear. For we are gathered here to share a meal as a small circle of friends. And there is nothing in heaven or earth more sacred than that. Let us pray.

Jesus, you did not come to us as a powerful monarch, or a mighty warrior, or a man of wealth or influence. You showed up in a cave as a vulnerable baby, you toiled as a carpenter in obscurity, spent your ministry as a wandering pauper, and died a criminal. No wonder we love you so much. Help us to value the small things in our lives, and to esteem the insignificant even as you do. For we are all small, obscure, poor in our own way, and guilty of much. And you love us still. There may be a limited supply of money in the world, only so many people can be famous, and there is only so much oil to be had. But, we thank you , O God, that there is no scarcity of grace in the world. Amen.