To Be Changed by Splendor

There was a documentary years ago about a photographer trying to take a picture of a man fishing. Johnny Walker wanted a picture of a man fishing for a magazine ad. The image was supposed to convey happiness, pursuit, joy, solitude, nature, that sort of thing. Oh, and it needed to be a nod to Father’s Day.

The documentary recorded the process of the photographer. Day after day he went down to the river and took pictures of people fishing. For the most part he focused on a bend in the river, the trees framing the water and boats. He went down at different times of the day with different qualities light. 

It was amazing to watch the process. Initial photos were much like what you and I might take on a vacation or an event.  We are looking to record, capture what is happening.  Think: this is Uncle Bert fishing at our summer family reunion. Love Uncle Bert.  Yet, as the photographer sought different angles, different subjects, you could start to see the message, the idea the picture was meant to convey. 

              The final photo was almost there. The photographer rose before dawn and got in place just before first light.  It was thrilling to see how the quality of light converged with the angle and subject now in place.  The documentary flashed up pictures, all of which seemed like they were more than good enough for the ad.  And then, to add some drama, there was a conversation with the photographer before the final picture was revealed.  The other photos were good; the last one was stunning, splendid.  The fisherman was standing in a boat with the line and the rod caught in the cast, the water held the first light like a garment, and the man was looking away from the camera as if there was even more beauty he alone could see.

              The point of the documentary could be: great photography is a process, a pursuit, a discipline, an endeavor.  It's not just luck or stopping on the side of the road because the sky is filled with color.  Watching the film I was in awe of the artistic achievement of the photographer.  I remember looking at the final picture and thinking, "art."  Yet I believe there was another point, something more accessible to the average person.  The other point was: the amazing beauty caught in the photo was there, it was the side of a river, a morning just like any other when someone goes fishing.  The beauty captured in art may be exclusive, difficult to achieve, but the likelihood of being the fisherman, being someone out for a walk in the early hours of the morning, this splendor is something of the everyday.

              Such a claim is in the hymn all things bright and beautiful.  Every flower, bird, creature, hill, and valley, all things wise and wonderful the Lord God made them all.  The hymn like the documentary seems to beg us, take a look.  Get up early and walk in the quiet of the day and see the splendor of light overcoming the darkness.  Or as Paul Simon wrote, slow down, you move to fast, you got to make the morning last.  Which morning? Doesn't matter.  Each day has it. 

              Every day can offer splendor.  Yet, there are some days, some mornings more splendid than others.  I remember walking into a remote village, the car could only go so far, and we were greeted by children.  Twenty or so young ones came out to escort the Mzungu to their homes.  As we walked, there was a commotion, shouting, a bit of a scuffle, and then one boy rose from the din.  In his hand, lifted high above his head, like a trophy he held a green bug about the size of a sausage.  Think plump, green, moving sausage. 

              Almost on cue, the children ran ahead with the trophy slug.  They shouted and called out as they ran.  You could tell, mzungus in the village was no longer the highlight of the day.  I turned and looked at our driver and guide, Owen Sangini.  Owen was a man of few, but always well-chosen words.  He smiled and lifted his eyes to say, very rare.  And then he said, tasty. Owen intuited my immediate concern that I the honored guest would be invited to sample such a delicacy.  He just shook his head "no."  I took this to mean it was so rare and wonderful it was not something to waste on the fearful, uninitiated.

              Every morning if you are willing and able to rise before the dawn, every morning has the chance of splendor, just as every evening can offer the same.  True some moments in the dawn and dusk, some moments come with rain or too many or too few clouds.  Sometimes along the riverbank there is no solitary fisherman casting a line in the stillness of satisfaction.  Every day there is wonder, yet the chances of finding the super slug, the thick green tasty bug, is rare. Far from ordinary.

              Between the rare and ordinary one can find the possibility of splendor, the chance of beauty and delight.  If you learn to look, if you have as Jesus will say, eyes to see and ears to hear, if you achieve such a level of attention, life is lived well. That life could be lived well is the purpose of the gospel.  Jesus is ever teaching how to live well, to live a splendid life, here and how. 

              All too often, we are quick to associate our faith with the next life, eternal life, heaven.  But Jesus is not so prone, nor is his gaze fixed upon the life to come. In heaven there is no new wine, no old wine; in heaven there is no need to mend garments.  Hence the teaching of Jesus, here and nearly always, is not about the celestial realm; he teaches us about this life, how to live well.  It turns out, to live this life well, you need know how to eat, how to drink, how to taste, how to mend and sew, how to dress.

              When Jesus is harassed for his dining habits and the lack of moderation, he doesn't argue. Nor does he look for exception.  He does though give a list of rules about finding splendor in life. 

              Usually in a reading from the gospel, there is one lesson, single direction.  The single lesson comes down to a point of discipline.  Do this.  Don't do this.  But in our reading today there are five points, five rules.  That's a lot.

              Rule one: Enjoy the banquet.

              Two: endure times of hunger.

              Next, don't amend what is true.

              Four: never bend the new to the old.

              Lastly: know the taste of splendor.

              Each of these rules are helpful.  Live the day. When you find a sausage-size green slug, rejoice, dine.  Learn to find joy in the day to day, in persistent pursuit, in moderation of scarcity, for sometimes joy is hard to find.  Know the traditions, patterns, definitions of your life and be true to them, be honest.  When the newness of life comes to us, when life begins again, don't force the new into what used to be.  Pass the baton, delight in the young when you are old. But most importantly, if nothing else, know what it means for life to be good and true and beautiful, know the taste of the old wine, for it is better.   

              Each one of these is a life lesson, rule to follow, discipline.  Yet, put them together, string them together like pearls, they become a path of splendor.  Each is good, but together life becomes whole, healing, removing our darkness and evil.  In these five we lose the tendency to hate and shun and disdain.  You are the best version of yourself when you learn to see beauty; and you live life well when you know the taste of splendor. What freedom can be found when the bitter cup is far from us.

              One of the first lessons of preaching is the art of making people cry. Billie Ritchie, a wonderful woman, matriarch and truly good soul, Billie Ritchie taught me this lesson, or her tears did.  Billie sat near the front of the sanctuary, flanked by her husband Bill and their daughter Linda.  I learned that if I told a sweet story, a poignant tale of sacrifice, devotion, usually with a mom or a child, I learned that if my cadence slowed just a bit, and if the pauses lent her emotions some latitude, I could watch the tears form in Billie's eyes. 

              I remember one such story, a mom late at night on a Christmas eve, struggling after a second shift in the cold of the kitchen trying to make something for her young son to have as a present in the morning.  To have a Christmas.  The story relates how the young boy spied her through a door just a bit ajar, how he watched her struggle through the night for him, how her love conquered their poverty and their misery, her love was a light.  He saw the light of love that night, a light he sees now in the world, a light that persists even though his mother has long passed.

              I remember glancing at Billie just as I said, "his mother has long passed" and her eyes were filled with tears.  I will never forget that moment because it was so easy.  A poor mom, a young boy on Christmas eve, the sacrifice, the love, the light, it's hard not to cry.  Seeing Billie's tears, it occurred to me how much of life is just as splendid, but not as obvious, not as easy as a story. 

              When you are at the banquet, when life gives you a wonderful delicacy, enjoy, be glad.  Seems so obvious, yet how often we turn the invitation down, we brood at the banquet, fail to take delight in the celebration.  How true the song, it's my party I can cry if I want to.

              When you find yourself in the ordinary splendor of the day, how easy it is to find a rose, how amazing were the cherry trees and the azaleas and now the perennials are beginning to bloom. Color is all around, yet we are focused on the pollen, our allergies.  The bloom is seen only as the work involved.  How many springs have I missed only to lament in winter.

              When things get torn, when relationships strain, we should repair them.  When the people we are lucky enough to have as a part of our life, when they fall apart, Jesus says, put them back together.  Don't replace them with new cloth, mend them.  Yet we shed the old friend for the new, leave aside tradition for novelty.

              When you are so lucky to see life begin again, when the next generation in all their enthusiasm and novelty emerges, be mindful they need not fit in our box, carry our mantle. Put aside your pride and make the path possible.  Yet, what is our tendency?  Ridicule?  Condescension?  You are not being replaced so much as you are being reborn. 

              Can you see the list now?  These first four, they are like making Billie cry.  It's not hard when things are obvious.  Banquets are not subtle; and tragedies are even less so.  The new and the old come with hope and nostalgia we can all conjure.  But the last one, the taste of splendor, oh, that one is where the true art is found.  Be mindful of the first four, absolutely, life is good with them.  Like the early photos of the river and the fisherman and the better quality of light, all good, maybe even good enough. Good enough but not art, not the undoing of life to its essence.

              You can find the taste of splendor.  Jesus says so.  Amen.