The Second Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 3A, May 25, 2008

St. Peter’s Church in the Great Valley

The Rev. Nancy Webb Stroud

Isaiah 49:8-16a; Matthew 6:24-34

Over thirty years ago, I spent a week of evenings as many Americans did, watching the TV miniseries Roots. Those of you who are old enough will remember that at the beginning of the story, a young father took his newborn baby out into the starry night, and lifting him up on outstretched palms, he proclaimed, “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!” If you missed it that first night, when the baby Kunta Kinte was presented to God and all the heavenly host, you surely saw it again every night of the week. “Our story thus far. . . “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!” And those of us who love TV have seen it again and again over the years in those collections of TV soundbites that the industry uses to congratulate itself.

“Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!” I thought of that beautiful infant this week, wiggling on his father’s outstretched palms. He had no knowledge. He knew nothing of the joy and heartbreak, the dreadful struggle and the victory, too, that would be his lot in life. Isaiah tells us what God says, “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.” It is as if God is that human father, holding the wiggling infant, holding each of us in the palm of the hand.

Of course, Kunta Kinte was born into an African tribe. If I remember the story correctly, he was a Muslim, not a Christian, although he seems to have made peace with Christianity when we see him as a grown man, a slave owned by Americans, who certainly believed themselves to be Christians. And we see him take his newborn daughter out of the little slave’s cabin where she was just born, and we see him hold her up on his outstretched palms, “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!”

That gesture of the outstretched palms is a gesture of offering that transcends culture and religion. It is a universal human gesture, raising up the hands as a sign of surrender, and vulnerability, a sign of acknowledgement of that which is greater than us. “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.” When we stretch out our hands in submission to God who is greater than ourselves, we remember that we are held in God’s own hands.

It is hard, perhaps even impossible, for us to imagine what life was like for that young African family with the new baby who was born over 200 years ago. And although we have plenty of historical accounts of what it was like being a slave in this country, I doubt if there is anyone sitting here today who can begin to imagine that hardship, and deprivation and cruelty. That was why so many of us were transfixed by that mini-series, Roots, all those years ago. It helped us to begin to imagine. And even knowing the hard life that his daughter had just been born into, the slave was able to hold her up to God and the heavenly host and proclaim: “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!”

The lives of the people who knew the ministry of Jesus are that many more centuries removed from us and from our experience. When he said to them, “No one can serve two masters . . .you cannot serve God and wealth,” he was speaking to people who had nothing. Wealth was measured in the possibility of owning your own animal. Wealth was measured in the ability to feed your family. You were wealthy if you had any possessions to count. These were people who were always worried about whether or not they would be able to make it through to the next season.

And along comes Jesus, and he stretches out his hands, therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life. . . .Huh? Do not worry? How are these people to get through the day? If they do not worry and work and grasp at what they can get—how will they get by at all?

Of course, Jesus understands their worry. He understands it, because he was born into it himself. He knows that people need food and drink and protection from the elements. More than that, he knows that people are prone to worry and to work, he knows that the struggle to get through the day is what gives meaning to our lives.

And so he begs us to consider what our struggle is about. The lilies of the field are given everything they need—just little wild flowers that will be here for a moment and tomorrow will whither away. Isn’t the power and strength within us worth more than that? “Strive first for the kingdom of God,” Jesus tells us. That is what will give us life.

Last week I was given a tour of Daylesford Abbey, the monastery and retreat center in Paoli. It is a quite modern structure, built in the mid-20^th century, constructed mostly of poured concrete and containing many different styles of religious art. Art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And I found some of the paintings and sculpture to be exquisite and others to be less than edifying. I was struck by a lithograph over the altar in a side chapel. It was a black and white depiction of Jesus. His arms were outstretched, as though on the Cross, and yet something seemed not quite right. “That is the resurrected Jesus,” our guide said. “Do you see? There are no marks of the nails in his hands.” “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands,” says the Lord. I did not contradict my guide, but I have to wonder if she doesn’t have it backwards.

“He stretched out his arms upon the cross,” we pray in the Eucharistic prayer. When Jesus was crucified, he held his hands open in that ancient gesture of offering, the same gesture that the young father used when he held up his newborn infant, the same gesture that we use as a universal sign of surrender. When Jesus was crucified, he held his hands out and open, and they drove the nails through them. “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.” It seems to me that the resurrected Jesus, the one who was victorious over death and sin, the one who is no longer bound to the Cross of death, it seems to me that he does indeed have the marks of the nails on his hands.

In the early Christian church, the common posture for prayer was standing up, facing one another, with the hands held open and up. That ancient gesture of offering is called the orans position—which is just a Latin form of the word for prayer. In a few moments, we will gather around the Table, and on behalf of all of us, I will take that ancient orans position, and I will open my hands to that One who is greater than all of us.

When I was a little girl, I was taught to fold my hands to pray, and to kneel down. Folding my hands would help me to concentrate on God being with me, I was told. And kneeling down was a sign that God is much greater than I was. Kneeling is a gesture of submission and vulnerability.

So often when we speak of God we must speak of opposites. Submission and vulnerability is our proper attitude before God, and we show that by standing up with up-turned hands? Or is it by kneeling down and folding our hands? Well, the answer is: both. That is just how big God is: God is that much more than we can ask or imagine. So, whether we pray standing with our hands out and open, or kneeling with hands folded in concentration, God will be with us in our vulnerability.

“Strive first for the kingdom of God,” Jesus tells us. And then he showed us how to do it. Jesus opened his hands for us—first in healing, and feeding, and finally, when he stretched his arms out upon the Cross. He opened his hands in that ancient gesture of submission and vulnerability and they drove the nails in. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.

We who are loved by Jesus are called to live into this great paradox: we are called to open our hands and hearts in vulnerability and acknowledgment of our God who is so much greater than ourselves. And when we do, when we hold our hands and hearts open, we receive the blessing of God’s love and the strength and courage to serve the world in God’s name.