The Winning Team of Losers
Commentary
Ernest Gordon’s book To End All Wars (Zondervan, 2002) is the true tale of what took place in the Japanese prison-of-war camp made famous by the movie The Bridge over the River Kwai. The camp stood at the end of the Bataan death march that brought Allied soldiers deep into the jungles of Asia. Few would survive, and everyone knew it. To make the best of a terrible situation they teamed up in pairs, each watching out for a buddy.
One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron. If any could come out of this alive, all felt he would. That was before his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker, and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness, so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a “hot house” until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems.
The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly, he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night his strong buddy sneaked from the prison barracks, braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to talk about it. His buddy, however—the strong man all thought invincible—died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend.
The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp, with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday, and the death toll was far lower than any expected. All this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death.
Only those who have been loved much can express it to others. This we see in each of our readings for today.
1 Samuel 8:4-11 (12-15), 16-20 (11:14-15) and Psalm 138
There are several key issues which emerge through the first half of 1 Samuel, as this new figure takes center stage. For one thing, the covenant theocracy with Yahweh as Israel’s unseen king begins to seem inadequate to the people. This is so for at least two reasons: on the one hand, Yahweh’s voice is hard to hear, unlike the days of Moses and Joshua, when it was quickly apparent what God desired or decreed. On the other hand, the urgent military threats from neighboring nations seem to demand a readily visible and immediate leadership that is not dependent on lengthy rituals of ceremony and sacrifice before Yahweh might or might not appear. Precisely because of these concerns, Samuel stands as the transition figure between the judges (who gave quick military leadership and then faded away without establishing ongoing royal courts or dynasties) and the monarchy, as it will emerge in part through Saul and to its full extent by way of David and his family. Samuel, as his name indicates, was a new communication link between the people and their God, and a mighty general in battle. But his appearance on the scene was too brief to nurture public confidence in long-range national stability without a clearly identified temporal rule and an expectation of solid succession plans.
When the Israelites finally grow bold enough to demand a human king, Samuel is the one who must mediate between Yahweh and the people until each party understands the consequences. Then Samuel anoints both first kings of Israel, the obvious leader who turns out bad, and the overlooked runt who turns out great.
Saul, also, is a transitional figure. He expresses both what the monarchy can be and what it should not be. In this sense he is flawed and expendable. David, on the other hand, becomes the paradigmatic king against whom all other rulers will be assessed. Therefore, an everlasting covenant (royal grant) places his family on the throne forever (2 Samuel 7). Throughout the Old Testament, this covenant is a source of hope for Israel (and later Judah), particularly during times of foreign oppression and alien occupation of the land. With the dawning of the New Testament era, the promised Davidic kingship feeds apocalyptic fervor and shapes messianic prophecy. When Yahweh fulfills the promises made to Israel, according to all religious and national expectations, it will take place through a descendant of this royal family.
2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1
The letter we call 1 Corinthians was not well received by its original readers. Their relations with Paul apparently deteriorated rapidly after it arrived, and many more among them began to call into question Paul’s presumed ongoing authority. In response, Paul decided that he needed to make a personal visit, both to address the immoral behaviors to and renew his pastoral ties with the church. Paul’s return to Corinth was anything but triumphant, however, and turned out to be a bust. Later he would call it a “painful visit” (2 Corinthians 2:1).
After this debacle, Paul limped back to Ephesus confused and hurt, and wrote a severe letter of reproof that later caused him regret because of its caustic tone and content (2 Corinthians 7:8). Although we might wish to know more specifically what Paul said in that correspondence, no copies have survived. Still, Paul’s strongly worded pastoral medicine apparently worked, at least to a degree, for when Titus made his report after delivering the letter, he told of great and pervasive repentance and sorrow among the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 7:6–16). Humility was breeding healing and hope.
About the same time that Titus was back in Corinth, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1–2). This scare seems to have been the trigger which initiated Paul’s fourth letter, a letter of comfort and tenderness to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently Paul needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be pain and conflict. Paul’s last letter to Corinth survives as our 2 Corinthians.
It is a passionate, tender, personal and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word “comfort” often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3–7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over the years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that motivates him (2 Corinthians 1:12–7:16).
At the heart of is all is our reading for today. Paul’s weakness unleashes Jesus’ strength. The gospel of the outcast is destined to re-create the world.
Mark 3:20-35
Paul S. Minear served us well when he penned his famous study years ago, Images of the Church in the New Testament. After identifying a variety of what he termed “minor images,” such as “salt,” “letter,” “fish,” “boat,” “net,” “loaf,” and a dozen or so more, Minear went on to focus a chapter each on the “major images” of “people of God,” “new creation,” and “fellowship in the faith.” But all of these were still preliminary to the towering image that drew the rest into itself. If there is one idea about the church in the New Testament, said Minear, that captures the essence of every nod and note and nudge in its direction, it is the grandiloquent concept of “Body of Christ.” Here the rest of the images come together and make sense. Here the whole becomes larger than the parts, and inanimate theology puts on flesh and moves.
The body image affirms individuality, while it pulls everyone up into community. There is both independence of self and dependence of organism which stream together into a more comprehensive interdependence. Moreover, the head remains that of Christ, giving shape to the rest of the being as a reflection of divine intentions and purposes. Few theological descriptions are as pervasively significant and as inherently usable as that of the church as the Body of Christ.
Perhaps the greatest expression of what the Body of Christ means is community. In his book on civility, A World Waiting to Be Born, M. Scott Peck mused that community was lacking in our world and hard to recover. Perhaps, because of the time that we are forced to spend with one another at work, we might bring about a little of it there, he said. Maybe even in marriages and families -- if we count the true cost of divorce. But Peck was quite certain that community could never happen in churches. After all, he said, community requires that we spend time together and that we choose to work through our differences with one another. But church life in North America, according to Peck, had become another consumerist enterprise with little corners of the Sunday cafeteria serving up differing musical and message morsels to taste, and Christians grazing briefly in politeness before they re-isolated themselves from the threat of community.
This is a harsh assessment, isn’t it? Unfortunately, we fear it might be true. We may be card-holding members of the same congregations, but we are too often not on the same page with one another. Politics divide us. Socio-economic situations separate us. Races split in the church as well as elsewhere in society. Somehow the one Holy Spirit of Jesus does not seem to breathe the same way in all of us.
One of M. Scott Peck’s earlier books, The Different Drum, analyzes community and how it evolves. There are four stages to developing deep community, according to Peck: pseudo community, conflict, chaos, and true community. The first is our surface friendliness in group settings because we are nice people. Most churches are probably at least an expression of this. But bring any conflict, and tensions flare. At this point, according to Peck, we have the options of staying together and working things through or going our separate ways. God and the Bible point in the former direction, but our experientialist society mostly push us the other way, because we want pleasure, not pain.
The committed few who grapple with conflict and come out the other side often suddenly experience chaos. We’ve stayed together, but what’s the point? Who’s in charge around here anyway? Who will validate our raggedy band? And without clear lines of authority or comforting leadership, too often “things fall apart,” as Yeats said in his famous poem and Achebe diagrammed in his novel.
But if community is a divine gift, something profoundly wonderful can happen to and for those who cling and hope and pray. This beautiful outcome is the church, the Body of Christ, the family of faith, the people of God, the year of jubilee in all of its fullness.
This is what Jesus is trying to explain to the crowds, to the disciples, and to his own biological family in today’s gospel reading.
Application
One of my favorite stories about community comes from eastern Europe. In a small town on the edge of a large forest, the main worship center was a Jewish synagogue. Just outside the town stood a monastery, old and run down, with only five brothers still puttering around grounds too extensive for them to care for.
It had been a great spiritual center at one time, with dozens, sometimes hundred, of monks and seekers and spiritual men. But that was long ago. Now the abbot wondered what would happen if another monk died. There seemed to be no meaningful future for the few who remained. Not only that, but these were folks who were not growing old gracefully. When they went into town for supplies, the local shopkeepers sighed. The guys were grouchy and complained about everything. They wanted discounts the sellers could not afford. They expected special treatment, since they were “men of God.” Nobody liked them.
The congregation at the synagogue was aging and shrinking as well. Young people went to the cities for work or school, and they did not come back. The young families became middle-aged, and the middle-agers retired and got old and died. Two dying communities. Perhaps it was their precarious outlooks that brought the rabbi and abbot together. Over time, they became friends, in part because they seemed to be the final leaders of end-of-life spiritual centers.
Each Friday, before shabbat began, the rabbi and the abbot would walk for a while in the woods. They would laugh. They would feel the cool breezes and enjoy the songs of the birds. Of course, they would also commiserate about the people under their care.
One Friday, when the abbot got to the forest, the rabbi was waiting for him, and rather impatiently. “I have to tell you something,” said the rabbi in nervous and excited tones. “I don’t know really how to say it, but here goes. Last night, the Holy One (blessed be his name) came to me in a vision. He said to me, ‘I want you to give a message to the abbot when you meet him tomorrow. I want you to tell him that one of the brothers is the Messiah.’”
The abbot was dumbfounded. So was the rabbi. The whole vision thing made no sense. For one thing, the rabbi was sure that when Messiah came, he would be a Jew. Certainly, Messiah would not be one of the cantankerous old guys at the monastery. Similar thoughts flowed through the abbot’s mind. He had been worshipping Jesus all his life. Jesus was the Messiah, and none of the men at the monastery was Jesus. This was strange. This was ludicrous. What was going on? The rabbi swore he had seen the vision, and that it was true. But how could it be?
When the abbot and the rabbi parted ways after their walk they were no longer talking. Both were troubled and concerned. Each believed God could speak in visions and dreams. But why this vision? And why bring it to the rabbi instead communicating directly to the abbot? Nothing about this made sense.
The rabbi headed back to the monastery. That evening, when the brothers were gathered for dinner, he decided to tell them about it. “The rabbi told me something very strange today,” he said. “The rabbi had a vision last night. God came to him and commanded him to tell me that one of us here, at the monastery, is Messiah!”
All four brothers stopped eating in mid-bite. All turned to stare at the abbot. No one moved or said anything for a long moment.
Then they began to chuckle. And laugh. Great belly laughs. Soon they were in tears with hilarity.
When they returned to their small rooms for evening personal devotions, everyone was in a good mood. Chuckle medicine had lifted their spirits.
But then the wondering began. Certainly, the rabbi was wrong. Certain Messiah had come long ago. Certainly, none among them was Messiah come again. Of course not!
Yet, what if it were to happen like that? What if Messiah decided to come to earth again? Would Messiah show up here? Could Messiah be found in this place, among these brothers?
The nagging obsessions lingered. It was not the case, of course, but if.. If Messiah were to be one among them, who might it be?
Certainly, the rabbi himself would be a good choice. He was, after all, their leader, and their spiritual director. Maybe…
What about Brother Elred? He did not speak much, hardly ever said anything to anyone. But when he sang, it was like the voice of an angel! His face glowed, and all heaven shone around him!
Could it be Brother John? Yes, he was gruff. But he was also kind. Would give you the shirt off his back. Helped everyone anytime.
And what about Brother Joseph…? The musing and the mulling continued long into the darkness.
When dawn broke the next day, the brothers gathered, as usual, for morning prayers. They all looked the same, but it was actually a new group of people. Something happened during the night, and each was now a bit of a different person. Nobody said anything about it, but they began to treat one another with greater kindness. Cross stares and gruffness were gone. There was more smiling, more laughter. Work was finished more quickly, and with less complaining.
Even the people in town noticed the change. Shopkeepers no longer feared having the brothers around. In fact, on weekends, some families would pack picnic lunches, and head out to the monastery lawns, hoping a brother might come over an join them. Sometimes a brother would sing a song with a child. Sometimes a mother would ask him to pray for her family.
And then, one night, two young men knocked at the abbot’s door. They had been traveling for days, they said. The reputation of this place was wafting out. People knew that these were spiritual men, close to God, strong in faith. The young men wanted to live for a while at the monastery and find out whether they were called to ministry.
Others trickled in, and then the guests and spiritual apprentices and monks-in-training multiplied. Soon they had to repair old buildings and build new accommodations. Eventually they pushed back the boundaries of the place and reworked the entrance and road in. Some enterprising monks crafted a large arch that welcomed people to this place of grace. It had two words on it: “Messiah’s Community.”
No one ever identified which among the original five brothers was Messiah. In fact, it did not matter. For when they remembered who they were, when they reconnected with Jesus by the Holy Spirit, Messiah lived in and through all of them.
And everyone knew it.
Alternative Application (2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1)
Paul’s upside-down reality of personal weakness made strong in Jesus is well-described in a doctor’s memoir. A.J. Cronin was a surgeon who worked in England in the 1920s and saw this well. In his autobiography, Adventures in Two Worlds, he described working in the hospital of a poor northern mining district early in his career.
One evening a boy dying of diphtheria was brought to him. The hospital was dirty and poorly equipped, with no trained help. Still, Cronin had no alternative but to cut a hole in the boy’s throat and insert a breathing tube in his windpipe. Only this emergency tracheotomy saved the fellow’s life.
Exhausted, Dr. Cronin left the room. He called a young nurse to sit by the bed. She was only a wisp of a girl, and half starved, but she was a nurse, and she would have to do. “Make sure the tube stays clear, and don’t take your eyes off of him,” he told her. Then he lay down in a corner and slept.
Suddenly the young nurse was shaking him. She had fallen asleep too, and the tube had shifted. The boy had suffocated; he was dead.
Dr. Cronin’s eyes blazed in anger. He told her that he would report her, that she’d never work as a nurse again. Standing in front of him, frail, timid, and shaking like a leaf, she mumbled something under her breath. “What’s that you’re saying?” he demanded.
So she said it a little louder: “Please give me another chance!” But he was furious that she dared ask such a thing. “You’re finished,” he said. “There will be no more chances for you!”
He stormed away and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come because her words echoed through his mind: “Give me another chance. Please. Give me another chance!”
In the morning he tried to write the letter of discipline, but the picture of her pleading face wouldn’t leave him. Finally, he tore the letter up.
But that was not the end of the story. That poor, feeble creature, more child than woman, went on to become the matron of one of England’s greatest children’s hospitals. In her later years, she was known throughout the nation for her wisdom and devotion.
You see, she never forgot what happened that night. She never forgot her failure; but neither did she forget the grace that had given her a second chance. She carved her future out of her past, based upon one slim vision of eternity. She saw a new future. God’s future. And she became part of it.
One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron. If any could come out of this alive, all felt he would. That was before his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker, and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness, so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a “hot house” until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems.
The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly, he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night his strong buddy sneaked from the prison barracks, braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to talk about it. His buddy, however—the strong man all thought invincible—died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend.
The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp, with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday, and the death toll was far lower than any expected. All this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death.
Only those who have been loved much can express it to others. This we see in each of our readings for today.
1 Samuel 8:4-11 (12-15), 16-20 (11:14-15) and Psalm 138
There are several key issues which emerge through the first half of 1 Samuel, as this new figure takes center stage. For one thing, the covenant theocracy with Yahweh as Israel’s unseen king begins to seem inadequate to the people. This is so for at least two reasons: on the one hand, Yahweh’s voice is hard to hear, unlike the days of Moses and Joshua, when it was quickly apparent what God desired or decreed. On the other hand, the urgent military threats from neighboring nations seem to demand a readily visible and immediate leadership that is not dependent on lengthy rituals of ceremony and sacrifice before Yahweh might or might not appear. Precisely because of these concerns, Samuel stands as the transition figure between the judges (who gave quick military leadership and then faded away without establishing ongoing royal courts or dynasties) and the monarchy, as it will emerge in part through Saul and to its full extent by way of David and his family. Samuel, as his name indicates, was a new communication link between the people and their God, and a mighty general in battle. But his appearance on the scene was too brief to nurture public confidence in long-range national stability without a clearly identified temporal rule and an expectation of solid succession plans.
When the Israelites finally grow bold enough to demand a human king, Samuel is the one who must mediate between Yahweh and the people until each party understands the consequences. Then Samuel anoints both first kings of Israel, the obvious leader who turns out bad, and the overlooked runt who turns out great.
Saul, also, is a transitional figure. He expresses both what the monarchy can be and what it should not be. In this sense he is flawed and expendable. David, on the other hand, becomes the paradigmatic king against whom all other rulers will be assessed. Therefore, an everlasting covenant (royal grant) places his family on the throne forever (2 Samuel 7). Throughout the Old Testament, this covenant is a source of hope for Israel (and later Judah), particularly during times of foreign oppression and alien occupation of the land. With the dawning of the New Testament era, the promised Davidic kingship feeds apocalyptic fervor and shapes messianic prophecy. When Yahweh fulfills the promises made to Israel, according to all religious and national expectations, it will take place through a descendant of this royal family.
2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1
The letter we call 1 Corinthians was not well received by its original readers. Their relations with Paul apparently deteriorated rapidly after it arrived, and many more among them began to call into question Paul’s presumed ongoing authority. In response, Paul decided that he needed to make a personal visit, both to address the immoral behaviors to and renew his pastoral ties with the church. Paul’s return to Corinth was anything but triumphant, however, and turned out to be a bust. Later he would call it a “painful visit” (2 Corinthians 2:1).
After this debacle, Paul limped back to Ephesus confused and hurt, and wrote a severe letter of reproof that later caused him regret because of its caustic tone and content (2 Corinthians 7:8). Although we might wish to know more specifically what Paul said in that correspondence, no copies have survived. Still, Paul’s strongly worded pastoral medicine apparently worked, at least to a degree, for when Titus made his report after delivering the letter, he told of great and pervasive repentance and sorrow among the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 7:6–16). Humility was breeding healing and hope.
About the same time that Titus was back in Corinth, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1–2). This scare seems to have been the trigger which initiated Paul’s fourth letter, a letter of comfort and tenderness to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently Paul needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be pain and conflict. Paul’s last letter to Corinth survives as our 2 Corinthians.
It is a passionate, tender, personal and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word “comfort” often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3–7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over the years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that motivates him (2 Corinthians 1:12–7:16).
At the heart of is all is our reading for today. Paul’s weakness unleashes Jesus’ strength. The gospel of the outcast is destined to re-create the world.
Mark 3:20-35
Paul S. Minear served us well when he penned his famous study years ago, Images of the Church in the New Testament. After identifying a variety of what he termed “minor images,” such as “salt,” “letter,” “fish,” “boat,” “net,” “loaf,” and a dozen or so more, Minear went on to focus a chapter each on the “major images” of “people of God,” “new creation,” and “fellowship in the faith.” But all of these were still preliminary to the towering image that drew the rest into itself. If there is one idea about the church in the New Testament, said Minear, that captures the essence of every nod and note and nudge in its direction, it is the grandiloquent concept of “Body of Christ.” Here the rest of the images come together and make sense. Here the whole becomes larger than the parts, and inanimate theology puts on flesh and moves.
The body image affirms individuality, while it pulls everyone up into community. There is both independence of self and dependence of organism which stream together into a more comprehensive interdependence. Moreover, the head remains that of Christ, giving shape to the rest of the being as a reflection of divine intentions and purposes. Few theological descriptions are as pervasively significant and as inherently usable as that of the church as the Body of Christ.
Perhaps the greatest expression of what the Body of Christ means is community. In his book on civility, A World Waiting to Be Born, M. Scott Peck mused that community was lacking in our world and hard to recover. Perhaps, because of the time that we are forced to spend with one another at work, we might bring about a little of it there, he said. Maybe even in marriages and families -- if we count the true cost of divorce. But Peck was quite certain that community could never happen in churches. After all, he said, community requires that we spend time together and that we choose to work through our differences with one another. But church life in North America, according to Peck, had become another consumerist enterprise with little corners of the Sunday cafeteria serving up differing musical and message morsels to taste, and Christians grazing briefly in politeness before they re-isolated themselves from the threat of community.
This is a harsh assessment, isn’t it? Unfortunately, we fear it might be true. We may be card-holding members of the same congregations, but we are too often not on the same page with one another. Politics divide us. Socio-economic situations separate us. Races split in the church as well as elsewhere in society. Somehow the one Holy Spirit of Jesus does not seem to breathe the same way in all of us.
One of M. Scott Peck’s earlier books, The Different Drum, analyzes community and how it evolves. There are four stages to developing deep community, according to Peck: pseudo community, conflict, chaos, and true community. The first is our surface friendliness in group settings because we are nice people. Most churches are probably at least an expression of this. But bring any conflict, and tensions flare. At this point, according to Peck, we have the options of staying together and working things through or going our separate ways. God and the Bible point in the former direction, but our experientialist society mostly push us the other way, because we want pleasure, not pain.
The committed few who grapple with conflict and come out the other side often suddenly experience chaos. We’ve stayed together, but what’s the point? Who’s in charge around here anyway? Who will validate our raggedy band? And without clear lines of authority or comforting leadership, too often “things fall apart,” as Yeats said in his famous poem and Achebe diagrammed in his novel.
But if community is a divine gift, something profoundly wonderful can happen to and for those who cling and hope and pray. This beautiful outcome is the church, the Body of Christ, the family of faith, the people of God, the year of jubilee in all of its fullness.
This is what Jesus is trying to explain to the crowds, to the disciples, and to his own biological family in today’s gospel reading.
Application
One of my favorite stories about community comes from eastern Europe. In a small town on the edge of a large forest, the main worship center was a Jewish synagogue. Just outside the town stood a monastery, old and run down, with only five brothers still puttering around grounds too extensive for them to care for.
It had been a great spiritual center at one time, with dozens, sometimes hundred, of monks and seekers and spiritual men. But that was long ago. Now the abbot wondered what would happen if another monk died. There seemed to be no meaningful future for the few who remained. Not only that, but these were folks who were not growing old gracefully. When they went into town for supplies, the local shopkeepers sighed. The guys were grouchy and complained about everything. They wanted discounts the sellers could not afford. They expected special treatment, since they were “men of God.” Nobody liked them.
The congregation at the synagogue was aging and shrinking as well. Young people went to the cities for work or school, and they did not come back. The young families became middle-aged, and the middle-agers retired and got old and died. Two dying communities. Perhaps it was their precarious outlooks that brought the rabbi and abbot together. Over time, they became friends, in part because they seemed to be the final leaders of end-of-life spiritual centers.
Each Friday, before shabbat began, the rabbi and the abbot would walk for a while in the woods. They would laugh. They would feel the cool breezes and enjoy the songs of the birds. Of course, they would also commiserate about the people under their care.
One Friday, when the abbot got to the forest, the rabbi was waiting for him, and rather impatiently. “I have to tell you something,” said the rabbi in nervous and excited tones. “I don’t know really how to say it, but here goes. Last night, the Holy One (blessed be his name) came to me in a vision. He said to me, ‘I want you to give a message to the abbot when you meet him tomorrow. I want you to tell him that one of the brothers is the Messiah.’”
The abbot was dumbfounded. So was the rabbi. The whole vision thing made no sense. For one thing, the rabbi was sure that when Messiah came, he would be a Jew. Certainly, Messiah would not be one of the cantankerous old guys at the monastery. Similar thoughts flowed through the abbot’s mind. He had been worshipping Jesus all his life. Jesus was the Messiah, and none of the men at the monastery was Jesus. This was strange. This was ludicrous. What was going on? The rabbi swore he had seen the vision, and that it was true. But how could it be?
When the abbot and the rabbi parted ways after their walk they were no longer talking. Both were troubled and concerned. Each believed God could speak in visions and dreams. But why this vision? And why bring it to the rabbi instead communicating directly to the abbot? Nothing about this made sense.
The rabbi headed back to the monastery. That evening, when the brothers were gathered for dinner, he decided to tell them about it. “The rabbi told me something very strange today,” he said. “The rabbi had a vision last night. God came to him and commanded him to tell me that one of us here, at the monastery, is Messiah!”
All four brothers stopped eating in mid-bite. All turned to stare at the abbot. No one moved or said anything for a long moment.
Then they began to chuckle. And laugh. Great belly laughs. Soon they were in tears with hilarity.
When they returned to their small rooms for evening personal devotions, everyone was in a good mood. Chuckle medicine had lifted their spirits.
But then the wondering began. Certainly, the rabbi was wrong. Certain Messiah had come long ago. Certainly, none among them was Messiah come again. Of course not!
Yet, what if it were to happen like that? What if Messiah decided to come to earth again? Would Messiah show up here? Could Messiah be found in this place, among these brothers?
The nagging obsessions lingered. It was not the case, of course, but if.. If Messiah were to be one among them, who might it be?
Certainly, the rabbi himself would be a good choice. He was, after all, their leader, and their spiritual director. Maybe…
What about Brother Elred? He did not speak much, hardly ever said anything to anyone. But when he sang, it was like the voice of an angel! His face glowed, and all heaven shone around him!
Could it be Brother John? Yes, he was gruff. But he was also kind. Would give you the shirt off his back. Helped everyone anytime.
And what about Brother Joseph…? The musing and the mulling continued long into the darkness.
When dawn broke the next day, the brothers gathered, as usual, for morning prayers. They all looked the same, but it was actually a new group of people. Something happened during the night, and each was now a bit of a different person. Nobody said anything about it, but they began to treat one another with greater kindness. Cross stares and gruffness were gone. There was more smiling, more laughter. Work was finished more quickly, and with less complaining.
Even the people in town noticed the change. Shopkeepers no longer feared having the brothers around. In fact, on weekends, some families would pack picnic lunches, and head out to the monastery lawns, hoping a brother might come over an join them. Sometimes a brother would sing a song with a child. Sometimes a mother would ask him to pray for her family.
And then, one night, two young men knocked at the abbot’s door. They had been traveling for days, they said. The reputation of this place was wafting out. People knew that these were spiritual men, close to God, strong in faith. The young men wanted to live for a while at the monastery and find out whether they were called to ministry.
Others trickled in, and then the guests and spiritual apprentices and monks-in-training multiplied. Soon they had to repair old buildings and build new accommodations. Eventually they pushed back the boundaries of the place and reworked the entrance and road in. Some enterprising monks crafted a large arch that welcomed people to this place of grace. It had two words on it: “Messiah’s Community.”
No one ever identified which among the original five brothers was Messiah. In fact, it did not matter. For when they remembered who they were, when they reconnected with Jesus by the Holy Spirit, Messiah lived in and through all of them.
And everyone knew it.
Alternative Application (2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1)
Paul’s upside-down reality of personal weakness made strong in Jesus is well-described in a doctor’s memoir. A.J. Cronin was a surgeon who worked in England in the 1920s and saw this well. In his autobiography, Adventures in Two Worlds, he described working in the hospital of a poor northern mining district early in his career.
One evening a boy dying of diphtheria was brought to him. The hospital was dirty and poorly equipped, with no trained help. Still, Cronin had no alternative but to cut a hole in the boy’s throat and insert a breathing tube in his windpipe. Only this emergency tracheotomy saved the fellow’s life.
Exhausted, Dr. Cronin left the room. He called a young nurse to sit by the bed. She was only a wisp of a girl, and half starved, but she was a nurse, and she would have to do. “Make sure the tube stays clear, and don’t take your eyes off of him,” he told her. Then he lay down in a corner and slept.
Suddenly the young nurse was shaking him. She had fallen asleep too, and the tube had shifted. The boy had suffocated; he was dead.
Dr. Cronin’s eyes blazed in anger. He told her that he would report her, that she’d never work as a nurse again. Standing in front of him, frail, timid, and shaking like a leaf, she mumbled something under her breath. “What’s that you’re saying?” he demanded.
So she said it a little louder: “Please give me another chance!” But he was furious that she dared ask such a thing. “You’re finished,” he said. “There will be no more chances for you!”
He stormed away and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come because her words echoed through his mind: “Give me another chance. Please. Give me another chance!”
In the morning he tried to write the letter of discipline, but the picture of her pleading face wouldn’t leave him. Finally, he tore the letter up.
But that was not the end of the story. That poor, feeble creature, more child than woman, went on to become the matron of one of England’s greatest children’s hospitals. In her later years, she was known throughout the nation for her wisdom and devotion.
You see, she never forgot what happened that night. She never forgot her failure; but neither did she forget the grace that had given her a second chance. She carved her future out of her past, based upon one slim vision of eternity. She saw a new future. God’s future. And she became part of it.
