If you bring forth
what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring
forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.
-
The Gospel of Thomas
This past week I had the privilege of attending a
three-day preaching symposium led by our bishop, Marc Andrus, along with Bishop
Michael Curry of North Carolina and Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde of Washington,
D.C. All three bishops are among the
very best preachers in the Episcopal Church, and it was a rich experience. But Bishop Marc shared one story that was
especially powerful for me and, I think, relevant to today’s Gospel reading.
Several years ago, Bishop Marc led a mission trip to the
Diocese of Haiti as part of the Episcopal Church’s deep and ongoing commitment
to help rebuild that country following the devastating earthquake there in
2010. As an aside, note that the
Episcopal Church consists of 16 countries; not just the United States. The Diocese of Haiti is our largest diocese
in terms of membership, as well as being among the poorest and most
vibrant.
The delegation from our diocese was received with great
hospitality, and was taken to see many of the projects supported by the
Church. While all of them are wonderful,
St. Stephen’s School particularly captured Bishop Marc’s attention. St. Stephen’s is a school for children and
youth with disabilities. It welcomes
children on the autism spectrum, the blind, the deaf, and the lame. Unlike developed countries with greater
resources, where each of these disabilities would be treated in isolation at a
specialized center, St. Stephen’s has created a diverse community of special
needs children of all kinds.
As Bishop Marc moved through the center he noticed how
the children worked together to meet each other’s needs. They even learn each other’s languages so
that they can communicate. Everyone at
St. Stephen’s learns sign language and braille.
Children at St. Stephen’s learn many things, but the most important
thing they learn is how to be a Christian community.
The delegation eventually was brought to a room that was
electric with energy, where students and teachers were gathered together. At the center of this gathering was a man in
his mid-thirties sitting on a stool. He
had no arms below his elbows, and no legs below his knees. His name is Jojo.
Jojo was the source of the dynamic energy that filled the
room. It emanated from his being. After being introduced to Bishop Marc and the
others in the delegation, he told them his story. “I was born without arms and legs. My family brought me to St. Stephen’s when I
was seven years old. Here, I discovered
that I could paint by holding a brush in my mouth. Eventually, I became proficient enough that
the school raised money to send me to Switzerland for formal training, and I
returned here to teach.”
Bishop Marc observed several examples of Jojo’s art on
display in the room. They were stunning. He thought to himself, “This guy is a
prodigy, he could be painting anywhere.
What is he doing here?” As if
reading his mind, Jojo said, “I am here because so many children lost limbs
during the earthquake, and they are very sad.
I want to show them that there is more in them than just their sadness. St. Stephen’s is a temple where God makes all
things well.”
If you bring forth
what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring
forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.
With the help of St. Stephen’s, Jojo was able to bring
forth both his suffering and his creativity, integrating them in such a way
that his wounds became a source of tremendous healing power for other children
with disabilities. And not only
that: as Haiti’s Bishop Ogé
Beauvoir said later to Bishop Marc, “St. Stephen’s is transforming Haiti.”
Before it became an instrument of torture and death, the
cross was a symbol of wholeness in the ancient world. When Jesus invites us to deny ourselves, and
take up our cross and follow him, he is not asking us to pick up a heavy piece
of wood. He is asking us to let go of
the false self, the partial self, the limiting self-image we’ve internalized,
and follow him on the path of integration that leads to wholeness. Jojo could have remained a victim, a cripple,
and nothing more. But with the support
of a community of disciples following Jesus on the path of integration, he
could bring forth all that is in him, and discover that he is not a cripple: he is an artist. His very wound could become a source of
power.
Jojo may seem like an extreme example, but his particular
wound is different only in degree, not in kind, from the wounds that we all
experience. We are all the walking
wounded. But we can become the running
wounded and even, like Jojo, the flying wounded. If we are willing to bring forth what is
within us, we can soar together and join with Jesus in the healing of the
world.
We need the help of others to break free from our
limiting self-images and bring forth what is within us. Do you remember the movie The King’s Speech? It tells the story of Albert, later known as
King George VI, who after the abdication of his older brother, Edward, assumed
the throne of England on the eve of the Second World War.
Albert is defined by his wounds, the second son ignored
by his father, bullied by his older brother, continually reminded just how
stupid he is by nearly everyone. His
insecurity and self-doubt manifests as a terrible stutter. And so he faces the prospect of becoming King
with dread, as the shame of his stutter will become public.
At the urging of his wife, Elizabeth, he is finally
convinced to seek the help of an unorthodox speech therapist named Lionel
Logue, who not only lacks medical credentials, but is an Australian to boot! During their first meeting Albert lights up a
cigarette. Lionel berates the Prince of
Wales, “Put out that thing, don’t you know it is bad for you!” Albert replies, “All of my doctors tell me it
is healthy.” “Your doctors are idiots,”
says Lionel. “But they are all knighted!”
“Well, that makes it official.”
Lionel uses many novel techniques to help Albert, whom he
presumptuously refers to as “Bertie,” overcome his stammer. But what he really seeks to do is to expose
the wound to Albert’s soul that is inhibiting his power of speech. In the film’s climactic scene, the two are
alone in Westminster Abbey rehearsing for the coronation ceremony. Bertie is despairing, afraid, and accuses
Lionel of being a fraud. Lionel refuses
the bait, and simply sits down on the historic throne of Edward the First and
lazily dangles one leg over the armrest.
Now Albert is furious, and haltingly demands that Lionel
vacate this sacred chair to which he has no right. Lionel nonchalantly replies, “Why should I
listen to you.” Then, with utter clarity
and confidence Albert cries out, “Because I have a voice!” In that moment, Bertie became King George VI,
the symbol of unity and voice of resistance that sustained England through the
dark days of World War II. He was no longer
defined by his wounds.
It is tempting to cling to our wounds – and to the wounds
of others. They can become our shield
against taking responsibility for our lives.
In a telling scene early in the film, Albert is in tears, telling his
wife, “I am no king, I am no king.”
Elizabeth says to him, “Bertie I refused your proposal to marry the
first two times, not because I didn’t love you, but because I couldn’t bear the
public demands of royalty and feared the loss of privacy. But then I realized that your perfect stutter
would protect us from all that.”
Following Jesus on the path of integration sometimes
means refusing to protect our wounds (or hide behind their protection);
choosing instead to accept them, learn from them, and move beyond them to find
our voice and embrace our power. Now,
some wounds are just too fresh for us to work with them. They simply have to be borne, but we do not
have to bear them alone bring. We can bring
them to Jesus and to the Church, asking to be held until we can see beyond the
wound to a larger wholeness.
Some wounds have so defined us for so long that we resist
embracing a larger identity. Simply
noticing our resistance may be the first step toward a deeper integration and
healing. We are all wounded, but we are
not our wounds. There is so much more to
us.
If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring
forth will save you.
The source of this saving power is Christ in us, our
Christ nature, if you will, that deep place within us, deeper than our wounds, where
the soul touches the divine. We take up
our cross and follow Jesus so that we can obtain the fullness of Christ. The self-denial of which Jesus speaks is the
denial of any identity that obscures our Christ nature. In the words of the
Celtic inspired prayer:
Christ be in my mind that I may see what is true.
Christ be in my mouth that I may speak with power.
Christ be in my heart that I may learn to love and be
loved.
Christ be in my hands that I may work with tenderness.
Christ be in my soul that I may know my desire.
Christ be in my arms that I may reach out without fear.
Christ be in my face that I may shine with the divine.
If you bring forth
what is within you, what you bring forth will save you.
We can become the flying wounded. St. James can be a temple where God makes all
things well. Amen.
