Sermon Gary Jones Church of the Holy Communion

SUNDAY SERMON

September 7, 2003
Proper 18, Year B

Church of the Holy Communion
The Rev. Gary D. Jones

A month or more ago, I was greeting parishioners and visitors at the door after the 10:00 service, and I met a man who lives in Michigan and who is a widower and the father of a long-time parishioner here. We exchanged greetings, and upon asking him about himself, I discovered that he is a retired psychiatrist who continues to see patients from time to time. Something he said made me probe a bit more, and I asked him to tell me about his work. What he said, and the way he said it, fascinated me.

"I spend a good bit of my time," he told me, "retraining my patients."

"Retraining your patients?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

He explained, "Every time I get a new patient, I have to spend session after session, hour after hour, trying to convince them that I will not judge them. I try to convince them that they can tell me anything - they can tell me about anything they've done and even anything they've ever thought, and I will not judge them; they are safe with me; I accept them as they are; nothing is too awful or outrageous to speak about with me.

"It's the hardest thing in the world for people to accept," the psychiatrist told me. "Everything in our life experience teaches us that this cannot be so, that revealing the complete truth is too risky, that we must speak and behave in ways that we believe others will accept. And because most of us live with the constant fear of judgment, we hide our truth. Sometimes, we hide our truth even from ourselves.

"So you see, my job," the psychiatrist told me, "my job is to retrain my patients, to help them realize that there is nothing to fear when they are with me; there is no judgment; there is only acceptance. Some patients are never able to believe this could be true. But when a patient finally does believe and accept that he or she is safe in my office, that's when the healing begins."

Well, I was fascinated by this brief conversation at the church door, and I realized that the psychiatrist was talking about something truly profound. I told him I hoped one day when he was back in Memphis, we would be able to talk again about his work.

Then, weeks later, I read this morning's Gospel lesson again. "They brought to Jesus a deaf man who had an impediment in his speech…. And Jesus took the man aside in private, away from the crowd, … and he put his fingers in the man's ears, spat and touched his tongue, looked up to heaven and said, 'Be opened.' And the man's ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly."

And then I realized - this is what the psychiatrist was talking about. This is what he does for a living (not sticking his fingers in peoples' ears and spitting and touching tongues…). But in essence, this miracle that Jesus performs this morning is what the psychiatrist does with patient after patient in his office.

So I called the family of the psychiatrist and got his cell phone number. I called him last week, and he answered his cell phone on the porch of a house he had rented by himself on Cape Cod. He was sitting on the covered porch, working a crossword puzzle on a rainy day when I called.

I reminded him of who I was and of our conversation some time ago at the church door. Then I told him about this week's Gospel lesson and said, "this is what you do for a living, isn't it? You take people aside in private, away from the crowd, and over a number of sessions you say, 'Be opened.' You take people who are walled off from the world and sometimes even from themselves, and you make it possible for them to open their ears and to speak freely."

And the psychiatrist said, "That's right. That's exactly what I do. And when it works, it's like a plant that has been covered up for a long time in a very dark place. When the person really believes she can bring forth the truth that is in her, without fear that she'll be judged, she blossoms and flourishes in ways that are extraordinarily beautiful."

And isn't this one of the fundamentals of the Christian life? Isn't this exactly the miracle we are called to do for each other? Isn't this why Jesus was so concerned that we not judge each other - because this will have everything to do with whether or not we are able to trust each other?

The point is that we, too, must care for each other apart from the crowd and do what the psychiatrist does in his practice - to provide the kind of friendship and environment we all need, if we are going to learn how to trust. Faith, remember, is not merely the acceptance of religious teachings. Faith is simply another word for trust. And our lives, how we treat each other, will either encourage or inhibit this trust, this faith.

And so we might ask ourselves, what can I say or do that will allow another person to hear clearly and speak plainly? And what can I say or do that will cause a person to shut down, to turn a deaf ear and be unable to speak? It's not just about sticking fingers in ears and spitting and touching tongues … what kinds of behavior lead us to be opened to each other, and to God?

It's not a secret that we live so much of our lives closed. The protective shell, the defensive wall, the mask of disguise - these are ways we all seek to protect ourselves. And it starts so early. One of the first lies we innocently learn as children is a lie that becomes a mantra and song for generation after generation:

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

The truth is that although words don't break bones, they break hearts. Words do more hurtful damage on the deeper level of our souls. And once these hurtful words have done their damage, then they simply contribute to the building up of walls around our hearts.

We close ourselves off to such an extent that we can even lose touch with our own truth. Not only are we unable to speak plainly to each other for fear of judgment, we also have trouble articulating the truth of our lives because we have become strangers to ourselves.

Modern poetry and popular song are full of images that convey this reality - that we are heavily disguised and defended not only from each other but from ourselves. Lennon and McCartney struck a chord with their song "Eleanor Rigby," because Eleanor Rigby is not the only one who "stands at the window, wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door." And Paul Simon's song, "Something so right" says it well:

Some people never say the words I love you.
It's not their style to be so bold.
Some people never say the words I love you.
But like a child they're longing to be told.

They've got a wall in China;
It's a thousand miles long…

And I've got a wall around me
That you can't even see

"Be Opened," Jesus says. And what we see in this Gospel lesson is not just the story of an extraordinary miracle but a depiction of the ministry to which all Christians are called.

"You will do greater things than I have done," Jesus says. And this is one example. We can do what Jesus did on that day when he was traveling from the region of Tyre and going by way of Sidon towards the Sea of Galilee. We have the ability and the calling to take time out from our life's journey, to join with each other apart from the larger crowds, and in the safe and more private setting of trusting, small groups to say to each other what Jesus said, "Be Opened."

Is there a greater gift we can give to each other? Wounded souls need to be uncovered - like other physical wounds, these wounds of the heart and soul need to be brought out in open air and light, in a safe place, in an environment not sterilized with alcohol such as our physical wounds need, but an environment made pure by unconditional love - this is the healing place where one realizes there is no judgment, only love, and it is here that abundant life begins.

This dynamic of soul healing is one of the reasons some people find the sacrament of private confession so important to them. Every human being carries inside him or her some guilt or shame that weighs us down. Something we perhaps said or did a long time ago. It can't be undone now, the damage is done, and we simply hope we can keep the deed buried, along with our shame, and get on with our lives.

But shame is insidious. And although the deed may be hidden or buried well, the associated shame imperceptibly eats away at our joy, it dismantles our inner peace, and it corrupts our ability to love.

But to bring that buried guilt out of its hiding place, to reach down deep where we had hoped we would never have to go again and speak to another human being the truth that has haunted us, to "be opened" in a safe environment and confess, knowing that all you are going to hear in return is this:

You are forgiven. That thing you had buried inside you is now gone forever. Beginning right now, you have a new life.

This is resurrection. This is the Christian life.

In a similar way, one of the primary emphases of this parish church is the important ministry of small, supportive groups. Parishioners covenant to meet weekly for study or for prayer or for theological exploration … we meet together away from the larger crowd for a wide variety of purposes, but always to grow in awareness of what Jesus intends for our lives when he says to us, "Be Opened." In a sense, we meet together, as the psychiatrist said, to retrain each other.

Do my words and deeds help to open the lives of people around me, or do I tend to close them down? Am I helping to build more walls, or is my life one of those that makes walls no longer necessary for the people in my daily life?

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