The Holy in the Familiar

A year or so ago, I was in the BWI airport waiting to catch a plane with Heather. A man came up to us asking if we had seen his cell phone case. He was wearing converse sneakers, a pair of bright red jeans, a loose olive sport jacket, and a pencil-thin mustache. We hadn’t seen the case. He seemed anxious about finding it. As he walked away to get an airline employee to make an announcement, I realized that he looked a little familiar. In fact, he was dressed in kind of an arty way. I took me several more minutes to realize that we’d just seen native Baltimore movie director, John Waters. I’d seen him a few times on TV, but never before in person.

Please don’t think that I am trying to make a strong association between Jesus and John Waters, but I think there is a little parallel in our Scripture today with my experience at the airport. Being there at the airport made it harder for me to recognize John Waters than, say, being at the premiere of his newest movie. In the same way, the people from Jesus’ hometown are not expecting to see a hometown boy be the source of tremendous spiritual power, or great new gifts from God. They recognize Jesus as the guy they watched grow up, and who’s supposed to know his place. And that’s all they can see. They don’t recognize Jesus on a deeper level as someone capable of teaching them something new, and they don’t recognize that he may be something more than the person they thought they knew. They certainly don’t see him as the Messiah, the Son of God.

To be fair to these hometown folks, we should ask ourselves the question: if Jesus grew up in Morrell Park, and showed up at church to teach one Sunday, would we recognize him as Messiah? Can you imagine yourself saying, “Well, that’s nice, but it’s Jimmy’s kid, after all.” Or, “I knew her when she was a baby – she can’t teach me anything,” well, then you know where those townspeople of Nazareth are coming from. But on the other hand, what if you were able to see the holy in the familiar?

Seeing the holy in the familiar is a hard thing to do. The routine of our day-to-day lives can numb us to God’s presence. It’s easy to get comfortable with routine, and then to be upset by any changes in it. But it’s also easy to feel like, in the midst of repetitive work, that God is nowhere in sight. In the middle ages, there was a monk named Brother Lawrence. Brother Lawrence had managed to find the holy in the familiarity of his work. Life in a monastery was very routine. Prayers were said at certain hours, and the work of keeping things running – cooking, cleaning, tending to animals, caring for the crops, all had to be done day in and day out.

Brother Lawrence found a way to practice the presence of God in all he did. If he was baking bread, he made it into a prayer. If he was cleaning the kitchen floor, he made it into a prayer. After a while, his prayer times almost felt less prayerful than the times he was doing his work. Brother Lawrence found a way to see the holy in a familiar routine.

We can also lose sight of the holy in the familiar when we think that God will speak to us and care for us in miraculous and unexpected ways. Sometimes that happens, but many times God works through the people around us.

There’s a story about a man whose house is beset by floodwaters. As the water is just at his front door, his neighbor drives up in a big, sturdy pickup. He calls out, “Hurry, Jerry, get your things and let’s get out of here!” Jerry responds, “No, I have been praying about it and I am waiting for God to rescue me.” The neighbor tries to argue, but Jerry won’t budge, so he drives away.

A few hours later, Jerry is packed into his second floor because the floodwaters have risen 8 feet. A boat drives by and the national guard officer calls in the window, “Get in the boat, sir – let’s get out of here!” Jerry responds, “No, I’ve been praying about it and I’m waiting for God to rescue me.”

A few hours after that, Jerry is sitting on his roof with the water lapping at his feet. A helicopter flies over and a ladder descends. “Climb the ladder!” a voice calls from above. “No!” shouts Jerry, “I’m waiting for God to rescue me.”

A few hours later, Jerry is in the afterlife. He’s feeling upset so he goes to God. “God,” he says, “I prayed and prayed. Why didn’t you rescue me?”

God says, “I sent you a truck, a boat and a helicopter. What were you expecting?”

Finally, we can sometimes lose sight of the holy in one another. I’d like to close with a story that I first read in M. Scott Peck’s book called A Different Drum. I’ve modified it a little bit. It’s called the Gift of the Rabbi.

There was once a thriving monastery, but after many years of service it began to decline. By the early 1900’s, it was so diminished that only five monks were left in the crumbling main residence. This group included the abbot and four monks, all over 70 years old. Very clearly a dying order.

The abbot, tormented by the imminent demise of his order, decided to visit the nearby hermitage of an old rabbi and ask him whether he might have some advice on how the monastery could be saved. As the abbot was explaining the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only express his sympathy.

“I know how it is!” he cried out. “The spirit has left the people. It’s the same in my congregation. Almost no one comes to the synagogue any more.” And so the old abbot and the old rabbi cried on each other’s shoulders. Then they read passages out of the Torah and talked together on profound matters. The time came for the abbot to take his leave. They embraced each other. “It was wonderful after such a long time that we’ve come together again,” said the abbot, “but still, I haven’t achieved the aim of my visit. Is there nothing that you could say to me, no advice that you can give me, which could help me save my dying order?” “No, I’m sorry,” answered the rabbi. “I have no advice to give. The only thing that I can say is that the Messiah is one of you.”

When the abbot returned to the monastery the brothers circled all around him, clamoring: “Well, tell us, what did the rabbi say?”

“He couldn’t help me,” answered the abbot. “We just cried and read the Torah together. The only thing that he did say, though, just as I was about to leave – it was rather mysterious – was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

In the following days and weeks and months, the old monks brooded over this, and asked themselves whether the words of the rabbi could possibly have some kind of significance.

The Messiah is one of us? Could he have possibly meant one of us monks here in the monastery? If so, then which one of us could it be? Do you believe he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant one of us, then presumably the abbot. He’s been our spiritual leader for more than a generation.

On the other hand, he could also have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.

Certainly he couldn’t have meant Brother Elred! Elred with his bad moods. But looked at more closely, even if he’s a thorn in the side for people, Elred is practically always right. Often quite right. Maybe the rabbi actually did mean Brother Elred!

But surely not Brother Philipp. Philipp is so passive, a real nobody. But, on the other hand, almost in magical fashion, he has the gift of always being there when you need him. He simply appears at your side, as if by a miracle. Maybe Philipp is the Messiah!

Of course, the rabbi didn’t mean me. In no way could he have meant me! I’m just a very ordinary person. But, assuming he meant me - assuming I’m the Messiah? Oh God, not me! I really couldn’t be so much for You, or could I? -

As they began reflecting in this manner, the old monks began to treat each another with extraordinary respect, just in case one of them really was the Messiah.
And for the most improbable case of all, that each one of the monks himself could be the Messiah, they also began to treat themselves with this same extraordinary respect.

The rare visitors to the monastery, began to sense this exceptional respect which had begun to surround the five old monks, and which seemed to have penetrated the entire atmosphere of their home. The place began to have something oddly magnetic about it. Indeed, it took on an almost irresistible quality.

And so it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise that eventually novices began to ask for admittance, and that thanks to the rabbi’s gift the monastery awoke to a new and vibrant life.

Today in our communion, we have the chance to look for the holy in familiar elements of bread and juice. And we have to chance to look for the holy in each other and the people of our communities. May we seek God in the familiar, and may we find. Thanks be to God, Amen.