March 25, 2007

Glynn Cardy

Lent 5

There is an episode in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn where Huck is deeply uncertain if he should tell Miss Watson where her runaway slave Jim is located. His uncertainty is magically overcome when he realizes that the ‘plain hand of God’ requires that he turn Jim in. Everything he has learned in Sunday School, everything his mother drummed into him, points in that direction. He writes the letter of betrayal to Miss Watson, feels all clean and pure, and is able to pray. But then he thinks some more, thinks of his love for Jim and the laughter they have had together. He finally tears up the letter, says no to god, and declares, “All right, then, I’ll go to hell.”

Welcome to hell! When your passion and commitment to justice, to doing what is right, leads you beyond the conventions of society and religion it won’t be long before someone damns you to hell. When you get to that place, be assured you’re not alone.

Sometimes in life we come to a chasm. Behind us is all we have known, including god, mother, and morality. Ahead of us is the unknown: godless, motherless, and immoral. And breathing deeply, letting the visionary within us feel, the fool within us act, saying no to fear and yes to courage, we jump...

One of the working definitions I have for faith is ‘the courage to jump’. The opposite of which is not unbelief, but fear. Fear is a natural reaction to seemingly insurmountable challenges. Fear is also a natural reaction to circumstances beyond our control. We fear failure. We fear the cost of failure. We fear that too much is being asked of us. The chasm before us is too wide to jump.

Giving in to fear involves a closing down. The hatches are battened down and the individual withdraws into what is safe, shutting off that which is threatening. The so-called ‘security wall’ that the Israeli Government has built to fence itself off from possible Palestinian attacks is a good case in point. The wall pretends to offer security. In fact it does no such thing. It serves merely as an affront, another obstacle on the difficult road to peace.

Giving in to fear is a retraction. In retracting mobility and flexibility suffer. It is very sad and tragic when a person or community live their lives in a state of fear. Their spirit shrinks. Their movements shrink. Their ability to create or entertain anything new shrinks. Their ability to risk becomes severely limited.

There is a time to feel fear, to feel its power. There is a time to feel what it is like, to wrestle with it, and understand a little of how it captivates and imprisons so many. But there is also a time to act, move, and jump. Indeed fear will not be overcome unless one jumps.

The cross for the early Christians was a symbol of what they feared. It was an instrument of torture well used by the Roman occupiers of 1st century Palestine. It was the means by which Jesus was taken from them, and their messianic hopes killed. The first disciples spent the post-crucifixion time wrestling with and eventually overcoming their fears. The power and potency of the dead Jesus visited them, passing in and out of their collective consciousness, encouraging and exhorting them. But these Jesus ‘appearances’ did not excuse the early church from facing their fears and finding the courage to live the Jesus message. Facing fear and finding courage is the resurrection story of the Church.

If fear leads to immobility, inflexibility, and a fencing of the boundaries, then courage leads to hospitality and an opening of the boundaries. Hospitality is courage in action. It is about embracing difference. It is the attitude of being open to the world and all that the world brings – open to saint, sinner, and all shades in between. Hospitality is about ignoring the walls that are said to divide.

The faith metaphor of ‘jumping’ then needs to be understood in this context of hospitality. Faith means taking the risk to embrace the strange and foreign.

What we often fear is difference, and how that difference may adversely impact upon us. Negative impact can be irrational. It can be based on prejudice rather than experience, on suspicion rather than knowledge. At other times fear seems eminently rational and logical. Many individuals and societies understand embracing difference to be contrary to self-preservation and security. Attitudes towards immigrants, and immigration policies often reflect this.

The challenge is to face our fears and not avoid them. To face our fears not so they dwarf us, or reduce us, but rather in order that we can through struggle learn to tolerate and live with difference. The challenge is to put our fears in their rightful place, and then take the courageous risk to offer love and hospitality to all.

Faith has long been talked about as a journey, a pilgrimage. Fear and courage have been a part of those conversations. Yet there has seldom been the recognition that faith may require one to leave the certainty of one’s beliefs and other securities and like Huck Finn take the huge leap of going into a seemingly godless future.

Robert Fulghum tells the story of Hans Ludwig Babblinger of Ulm, Germany, who in the late 16th century imagined he could fly. He constructed wings and, as fortune would have it, he chose to try his wings in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps where up-currents abounded. One day, one wonderful day, in the presence of reliable witnesses, Hans jumped off a high hill and soared safely down. Sensational! Babblinger could FLY!

In the spring of 1594 King Ludwig and his court came to Ulm. The city leaders, wanting to impress him, insisted that Babblinger fly. Unfortunately, because it suited the convenience of the king and townsfolk, Babblinger chose the nearby bluffs of the Danube for his demonstration. The winds there are down-currents.

The great day arrived – musicians, the king and his court, the town fathers, and thousands of ordinary folk, all gathered at the river. Babblinger stood on a high platform on the bluffs, waved, crouched, and threw himself into the air. He went down into the river like a cannonball.

The next Sunday, from the pulpit of the great Ulm Cathedral, the Bishop named Babblinger during the sermon and shamed him for the sin of pride. “MAN WAS NOT MEANT TO FLY” thundered the prelate. Cringing under the accusing wrath of the bishop, Babblinger walked out of the church never to appear in public again. Not long after, he died, with his wings and dreams and heart broken.

Today the few solemn folk who sit beneath that ancient pulpit Sunday by Sunday are far outnumbered by the hang-gliders flying in flocks off the Bavarian foothills in the great cathedral of the world.

For too long religion, and its pulpits, have sanctioned safety. Religions have created gods who have endorsed what is, and curtailed what could be. Holy texts that confirmed the practices and prejudices of old were read in preference to anything that questioned the foundations of religion. Religions bred ministers to manage their safety requirements and stifle unauthorized innovation. Faith was interpreted as individuals accepting the teachings of old and applying them. Faith meant believing in a god who was unchanging. Faith did not mean courageous risk taking, embracing difference, dreaming, or jumping. Religion has largely been captured by fear, and has institutionalised it.

Who will save us from that small god, made in our image? Let us pray we may have the courage to take leave of restrictive religion and jump into the vastness.