ANIMAL SUNDAY 2007

Due to our clergy, our parish has a deep and growing connection to the Independent Catholic movement. There have been many luminaries among the founders of Independent Catholicism—most of them have been nuttier than a Mars bar, and many of us who have followed in their wake proudly uphold this tradition of eccentricity.

One of our celebrated founders was a charming gentleman named Ulric Hereford, who lived in Oxford in the early part of the twentieth century. Bishop Hereford was originally a Unitarian minister, who was consecrated to the Catholic ministry by a South Indian prelate, and who worked tirelessly his whole life for the quixotian dream of reuniting all of Christendom. His theory was if you give everyone—including the Unitarians—valid Catholic orders, then everyone would have to recognize the ministry of everyone else, and formal church unity would follow as a matter of course.

Naturally, everyone thought he was nuts. Charming, yes, beloved by everyone who ever met him, yes, but nuts just the same. People spoke fondly of the purple-garbed prelate pedaling his bicycle around Oxford day after day, visiting both his Catholic and his Unitarian parishioners, and routinely showing up at events occurring at Roman, Anglican, and Orthodox cathedrals in full Episcopal garb, in the spirit of hopeful ecumenism.

He was also considered odd because of another fixation of his—a ministry to animals. He was a pioneer in England’s animal rights movement, organizing and giving lectures on the holiness of animals and our responsibility to revere and protect them.

While Bishop Hereford was out and about campaigning for animal rights in the wider world, his Anglican wife provided for their care at home. A young man who had been sent some distance by his community to receive ordination from Bishop Hereford recalled with amused horror that the place was fairly crawling with cats. In his words, “there was not a spot to sit, nor any delectable surface in the whole house that was not occupied by cats.”

If Bishop Hereford’s home—and, one would presume, the tiny pro-cathedral in his garage—were overrun with cats, I like to think that the good bishop would be pleased by the ministry of our parish, which, though not overrun, has more than its share of dogs.

I have met several people who cock an eyebrow and look at me like I’m made of string cheese when I tell them about our canine parishioners, our ministry to animals, and especially our practice of welcoming them to the communion table. But, like Bishop Hereford, I am not opposed to being thought a bit peculiar, especially when it is in service of the Gospel, because part of what we proclaim in this parish is the Good News that ANIMALS MATTER. They matter to us, and they matter to God.

And because of this, we invite them to dine beside us at the holy table, because this feast we celebrate week after week is nothing but a foretaste of the great feast at time’s end, when the lamb shall lie down with the lion, and all creatures shall abide in peace and plenty. The animals will eat with us then—who are we to deny them now? And we do funerals and memorial services for animals when they pass on to their reward, because they are loving members of our families. Funerals do nothing for dead, after all, they are services of healing for living. And those who are left behind by beloved animal companions are in just as much need of healing as they are when human family members die.

But perhaps the most important reason to minister to animals is out of a sense of community, of mutuality, of reciprocity. We minister to animals because it is the right thing to do, yes, because they are beings of infinite value in their own right, yes. But we also minister to them because THEY MINISTER TO US.

Who among us who has ever had a pet can deny their uncanny sixth sense that knows when we are suffering, when we are depressed, when we have had a bad day? Who among us has not experienced comfort from these precious beings? Who among us has not experienced the touch of the divine in the touch of their fur or their wet kisses? They need neither scripture nor tradition, ordination nor vocation to know what to do. By instinct, out of the purest loyalty and love, they know exactly what we need and they give it without reserve. They are the paws of Jesus to us in ways we can only dream about being ourselves.

“But,” I remember one incredulous woman objecting, upon hearing of our ministry here, “It’s not right! They don’t have souls!”

When my ex-wife Cherrisa and I were married and living in Concord, the neighbors decided they could not care for the puppy they had bought for their children, and passed him onto us. The children had named him “Rambo,” and could not understand why Cherrisa and I changed the name of the diminuitive terrier-daschound mix to “Dennis.” I can still remember Dennis crawling up into my lap as a puppy, nuzzling my tummy and vocalizing. He has always been a very talkative dog. I also remember him breaking the skin chewing on my fingers as he was getting the hang of these “teeth” things.

That was almost twenty years ago. Last week I got an email from Cherrisa saying, “I’m not sure how much longer Dennis has. You should come by soon and say goodbye.” When I got to her house I was taken aback by the sight of him. He was bone-thin, almost skeletal. His muzzle was completely gray, and you could tell by the milky film over his eyes that he was almost completely blind. He must have also been suffering from some sort of canine dementia, because whereas in the past whenever I would visit, he would almost wet himself in excitement. But this time, he did not seem to recognize me. I sat crosslegged on the floor, and waited as he teetered over, sniffed at me, and then teetered away. I felt a little hurt, but I was also in a state of shock at how quickly and completely he had declined. It was almost more than I could bear, and I asked Cherrisa to come with me to a nearby restaurant so we could catch up.

When we returned, so, apparently, had Dennis’ memory. Sometime during our absence the connection between my smell and his puppyhood’s Daddy had been made.  When I sat on the floor again to say my goodbyes to him, my heart almost broke as his climed into my lap and nuzzled my tummy with his grey snout. And he didn’t just vocalize like he used to, he cried. Of course, so did I.

And yesterday, Cherrisa did the necessary, compassionate and terrible thing most all of us have to do when a pet’s life has become too painful for them to continue. And Dennis went to his reward.

Dennis is one of the most precious souls I have ever encountered upon my life’s journey. And I use the word “soul” intentionally. Because if we have souls, THEY have souls. And if there is any justice in Heaven or on Earth, then there is every bit as much an eternal reward for them as there is for us. And any god who would say otherwise is simply not worthy of my worship or yours.

In the Mahabharata, the great epic poem of Hinduism, the final scene shows us the hero Yudhishtira, walking to the gates of heaven. It has been a long journey, and he has been accompanied for many weeks by a stray dog who has been his constant and only companion.  When he arrives at the gates of heaven, a great voice booms out a welcome, but also informs him that he must leave the dog behind, because dogs are not allowed in heaven. Yudhishtira looks horrified and grief-stricken and he looks back and forth from heaven to the dog, looking up into his face with love and wagging his tail. Finally, he looks down, and when he raises his face again to speak to the great voice, it is with a look of pained resignation. “Very well,” he says, “If this dog cannot enter, then neither can I.”

At just that moment, the dog is revealed to be none other than Krishna, lord of the universe. It was, in fact, one final test, one that Yudhishtira, in refusing the bliss of heaven for love of his dog, passed with flying colors. How many of us would have passed that test? Well, I’m not sure about people in most churches, but I think in this one, we’d have done all right.

This myth tells us the truth about animals—that they are divine and ministers of the divine; that God ministers to us through them. That THEY minister to us. And that they are worthy of OUR ministry as well. We live with them, they live with us. We are one community together, not only in the world at large, but even in our own homes. And dogs and cats and other domestic animals are metonymous for all of our brothers and sisters in the wild as well. They are, in the words of the Native American prayers, “All our relations” and deserve to be treated as such.

Let us pray….

God of all creation, we thank you for all these our relations.
We remember, on his feast day, how St. Francis used to preach to the birds.
Help us to follow his example willingly, deliberately, and joyously,
As we continue our ministry to the four-footed, the winged,
and every other creature that crawls upon the earth.
And let us work towards that day when all of creation shall be redeemed,
And all creatures shall eat beneath their vine and fig-tree,
At peace and unafraid,
For we ask this in the name of the lion of Judah and the lamb of God,
even Jesus Christ. Amen.