Advent 1 | Scottish Sunday 2001

*Preached at Grace North Church December 2, 2001.*

If you would permit me to recycle an old Cal Baptist story, I would remind you of the time when I was sitting in class, waiting for the teacher, and listening to this ditzy Baptist chick agonizing over whether or not it was God's will for her to go to the prom.

She wailed about how marvelous her dress was, and then shifted gears and moaned about her fears of igniting the divine anger towards her. Back and forth, "I want to go to the prom" "But does God want me to go to the prom?"

I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and shout "I don't think God gives a damn whether or not you go to the prom!" but I restrained myself and went to the bathroom instead. It's not like this girl was a prime candidate for a theological discussion or anything. At the time, I felt that God really didn't CARE whether she went to the prom or not; God was only concerned with how she conducted herself, regardless of what she chose to do.

Time has tempered my response, I must say. While I still think it's true that God was going to be okay with whatever she decided, I'm no longer so sure that he didn't have a preference. And discovering that preference, was indeed what she was concerned with. I should have been a little more compassionate, for although she presented it in the most shrill, annoying way possible, her dilemma is as old as humankind.

What does God want? This is THE question that has been asked by human beings for thousands of years, and we have devised an amazing assortment of methods to determine this. From the Urim and Thummim, the divine dice in Aaron's breastplate that revealed God's answer to the priest, to the Oracle at Delphi, from the mushroom-guzzling Shamans of Siberia to the straws of the I Ching in China, humans have always sought to know the divine mind. And, although it has taken me 20 years to come to this opinion, I'm not sure that's such a bad thing.

It is, however, dreadfully difficult at times to determine, and not always easy to deal with once that has been done. You might knock yourself out trying to figure out what God wants, only to discover that you and God don't want the same thing at all, and so NOW what do you do? On the other hand, sometimes what God seems to want appears to us to be the easy way out, and we don't feel worthy of such a gift.

This, then, is the real meaning of Judgement: discernment. It is weighing all the factors and determining what God wants. Does God want that thing that seems impossible and makes us quail, or does God want that which we hold secret in our heart of hearts?

One man who knew intimately both poles of this question was Columcille, the man who brought Christianity to Scotland.

Now it's true, there had been Christians there before him, but not until Columcille did the Christian faith really take hold and thrive in that austere environment.

Columcille, whose name means "Dove of the Church," was a monk in Ireland, and as it turns out, a great lover of books. Now books were rare in those days and he was especially taken with a beautifully illustrated Psalter that belonged to his teacher.

A simple monk could not hope to procure such a treasure, so Columcille resolved to make his own copy. By night, he snuck into St. Finian's church, and painstakingly copied the Psalter by hand. According to legend, he had no candle, but the tips of his fingers glowed, and he worked by that light alone.

Long before he finished, however, he was caught and dragged before the King. The King was surprisingly lenient, declaring, "To every cow her calf; to every book its copy." As historian Thomas Cahill remarks, this was history's first copyright case.

Once his copy was finished, however, Columcille was forced to leave it in the possession of Finian's church. Now, say what you will about the sanctity of the ancient saints, but Columcille was not one who lived by the dictum "forgive and forget." He did neither.

When the King later had a fellow monk put to death, Columcille's wrath was fueled anew. God's monks must be avenged, he declared, and calling on his clansmen, he led an army against the King. When the battle was over, 3001 of the King's men lay dead, while only one of Columcille's kinsmen was killed. Columcille marched into Finian's church and took BOTH copies of the Psalter home with him.

His victory was as bittersweet as it was petty, however. The punishment for monks who bear weapons was excommunication. He was later readmitted, but for his penance he was exiled from his beloved Ireland, and ordered to save as many souls as he had taken in battle. With great sadness, Columcille set out in the year 564 with 12 companions, and settled on the Scottish island of Iona, where, he insisted, he could see Ireland no more.

Now Scotland in those days did not have much of a nightlight, and there wasn't a whole lot going on. So Columcille's monastery became a bit of an attraction for seeking souls and pilgrims alike. Before long, it was bursting at the seams, and more prospective monks were arriving every day.

He set the limit for any one monastery at 150 monks, and whenever that number was reached, twelve and one monks were sent out to found a new community.

Columcille worked tirelessly, eventually founding over 60 monasteries, and almost single-handedly oversaw the conversion of Scotland. By the time of his death he had more than fulfilled his penance of 3000 and one souls.

As he felt death approaching, the story goes that he set himself one last arduous task, to write out yet another copy of the Psalter. He worked diligently night and day until he came to the words in Psalm 34 which say, "But they that seek the Lord shall not want for any thing that is good." At these words, something moved within him. Maybe God's will for him was NOT to suffer any more. Maybe God's will for him was simply to rest in God's love from here on out. So he set his quill down, and announced, "You know, I think Brother Baithene can write the rest."

That night the brothers arose for the midnight office, and found Columcille in ecstasy before the altar. He blessed them, and then he died.

Now, if anyone knows anything about judgement, it was St. Columcille. He knew the judgement of the King, the judgement of his order, he knew his own bad judgement, and in a moment of grace, he knew the judgment of God.

Discernment, one very important aspect of judgement, was not, perhaps, Columcille's long suit as a young man. But if they legends can be believed, it was a wisdom he grew into.

He was a man who knew great hardship, and bore great hardship for God, and yet at the end of his days, he discovered that God did not always desire hardship, that sometimes kindness towards oneself was the highest good possible. No doubt, this was a hard lesson for an ascetic, but no less true for all of that.

It is a lesson for us today as well. Jesuit writer Bill Barry tells the story of a young woman who had come to a retreat he was leading a few years ago. She hated retreats, but had to go because she worked for the church, and church employees were required to make an annual retreat. She felt claustrophobic spending long hours in prayer, and bored by the guided imagery sessions. To the woman's credit, she admitted this to Barry during their spiritual direction session. Barry asked her what she would LIKE to do on retreat. She answered that she'd like to walk in nature, read novels, and maybe do a jigsaw puzzle. Now, William Barry is a wise man, and he suggested that instead of following the program schedule for the retreat, she make her own schedule of walking in the forest, reading, and doing puzzles. He asked her if she felt like she could do these things in mindfulness of God's presence. She said she could, but that she would feel guilty doing those things on retreat. As her spiritual director, Barry insisted that she follow this new rule.

A couple of days later they had another session. He asked how her retreat was going, and she practically bubbled. It was going great. She felt relaxed, prayerful, and best of all, she was enjoying her retreat. But, she protested, she felt guilty. She wasn't supposed to be doing jigsaw puzzles on retreat. Wasn't God going to be mad at her?

Barry asked if she was able to do the things she was doing prayerfully, was she mindful of God's presence with her while she was doing her puzzle. Yes, she was, but that still didn't make it right. So Barry asked her what she thought God would prefer: Did God want her to do the "right" things and hate it, or did God want her to do the things she enjoyed, with her enjoying God as well?

It was a tough question for her, and Barry came to the realization that judgement-discernment-often required a leap of faith.

I discovered this myself just before Thanksgiving. I was scheduled to get on a plane for LA to spend Thanksgiving with my grandmother and my aunt and uncle. The line was strung all around the outer walls of the baggage claim section of the Oakland airport, out the door and into a tented pavilion filled with corrals like the lines at Disneyland. After waiting in that line about an hour, I began to lose it. I felt claustrophobic, I began to sweat. I felt faint. I panicked and started crying. I simply could not make myself get on that plane.

And yet, I felt so guilty. I had not visited my grandmother in nearly a year, and I felt obligated. So I did what any tearful and conflicted man always longs to do. I called my mother. As usual, she was a font of common sense.

"Don't be an idiot," she told me, "nothing is on the line here; your grandmother will still love you. Go home, take a Valium, and get into the bathtub."

And then, of course, I was faced with a very difficult discernment to make. To should myself onto that plane, or to honor my feelings, however irrational, and go home. What did God want me to do? I asked myself. But I was in no shape for a logical theological inquiry. I had to make a leap of faith. I went home, took a Valium, and got into the bathtub.

It was a very difficult leap of faith to make. Does God always want us to do the hard thing? Or does God sometimes rejoice in our comfort and joy?

I must conclude that yes, sometimes God DOES want us to go to the prom, sometimes God DOES want us to go for walks in the woods and do jigsaw puzzles; sometimes God DOES want us to just go home and take a bath; sometimes God DOES just want us to put down our quills and rest in him.

Sometimes making that leap of faith is harder than the task we feel obligated to do. But true discernment often asks difficult things of us. And sometimes that difficult thing is NOT doing the difficult thing.

Without hardship, Christianity would perhaps have taken much longer to find a home among the Scots. All of us are called to do difficult things, and with God's help, we do them. But sometimes what God calls us to do is simply to enjoy our life, our relationships, and yes, to simply rest. But this takes judgement, it takes discernment. Let us be kind to ourselves as we begin our Advent journey this week. Let us weigh fairly what God would have us do, even if it is easy, and even if that is hard. Let us pray

For our meditational prayer, I offer a famous grace said over meals in the Celtic Church to which Columcille belonged. It is attributed to St. Brigid, and I offer it here in preparation of our holy meal of Eucharist. Let us pray:

I should like a great lake of finest ale
For the King of Kings
I should like a table of choicest good
For the family of heaven.
Let the ale be made form the fruits of faith,
And the food be forgiving love.

I should welcome the poor to my feast,
For they are God's children.
I should welcome the sick to my feats,
For they are God's joy.
Let the poor sit with Jesus at the highest place,
And the sick dance with the angels.

God bless the poor,
God bless the sick
And bless our human race.
God bless our food,
God bless our drink
All homes, O God, embrace. Amen.