There is a Peruvian musician
who plays on the Halifax waterfront. He wears traditional Peruvian clothing
with added jingles on his pantleg. He plays a harp and a large multi-tiered pan
flute. Perhaps you have had the pleasure of hearing his music. He is an amazing
pan flute player.
Pan flutes are an instrument
handmade from reeds. Modern pan flutes have two or more rows of reeds that make
a complete musical scale and then some. A person can play a whole musical
selection on their own. But I heard a story this week of pan flute makers in
the Andes – in the 14th century, pan flute makers made a single row
of reeds. No pan flute contained all the notes. Two flutes were required to
make music. Pan flute players had to work with each other, as a back and forth,
conversation of pan flutes. It was a call and response. There was a give and
take relationship of the players and their energy. This created the sound,
volume, and speed that created music. It was like a spoken litany where each
had to listen to the other, feel the spaces, fill in the blanks, and grow the
music together.
The pan flute story is a
parable for this All Saints’ Sunday.
The modern pan flute mirrors
cultures that encourage individualism. A consumer culture seduces us to believe
that ‘I’ can have it all, on my terms, with my own effort. “I” can do it all
alone. I can march to my own drum, play the jingles, the harp, and all the
notes on a flute at the same time…by myself. ‘I’ deserve more and can take as
much as I want; the more tiers on the pan flute the better. It is with a self-centred
and self-absorbed attitude, that ‘I” face -conquer- the world. I make noise
alone.
In contrast the 14th
Century understanding of pan flutes is what is happening here on this All Saints’
Sunday. We confess that: No one has all the notes. No one has it all figured
out, especially in matters of death and grief. Both death and grief are
isolating. We feel alone. Today we acknowledge that we are only one tier of a
pan flute. We can not heal alone. To make music, to bring wholeness, it takes
people. It takes at least two pan flute players; listening, responding; holding
each others’ notes and adding to the conversation. The service today is an
affirmation of needing community.
For those paying attention
to the scripture readings, you will have noticed the emphasis on community.
They, those; multitude, every nation, every tribe, people, languages; children
of God. There is no I or me, single child, or one alone on the margins. Every
reading reflects on community.
A liturgist described All
Saints’ Sunday as the church, a community of faith doing memory work together. This
work has been done for centuries through continual use of ancient liturgies,
the re-telling of stories, the repetition of scripture and creeds and sayings
that give comfort and hope. It is a community who invites all who are grieving
to come along. It welcomes those with tears and sadness, the feeling of being
lost, those with anger and guilt. The community welcomes, embraces, and
listens. We sit side-by-side in a shared understanding that we are broken and that
is okay. We sit together, not running away from suffering or pushing down
feelings. We do not try to be okay – and especially not on our own. Together we
name those we love whom we have lost; by resurrecting their names their memory
has life. We stir the great cloud of witnesses with honour and remembrance and
overall gratitude for love experienced, love that lives on. Love that outlasts
death, that will outlast grief, love that continues beyond our tears. Love that
never ends.
Today we are reminded that we are connected to
a great company -- those past, present, and yet to be. A host of people from
age to age, a great cloud of witnesses, and being called children of God - part
of a family.
The apocalyptic scripture
texts, like those read earlier, often distract us because – self-centred as we
are- we start imaging what the afterlife will be for ‘me.’ For my loved ones. What
I want it to be. The point is missed if we go no farther than the mechanics or
the physical whats of the next life. Listening more deeply we are invited to
hear that everything is written in the plural; no one is alone or
isolated in God’s time.
In Revelations the author
conveys that there is a place of blessedness and hope – beyond the ordeals and
circumstances of human experiences, beyond suffering and grief. This text was
written as the Roman Empire was oppressing subjugated peoples and severely
persecuting followers of Jesus. Matthew too, wrote under the oppressive rule of
Empire, where the Empire had destroyed the Temple – the place of God and of
gathering for a whole people. In the midst of chaos, the texts were written as
hope for scared, suffering, persecuted, and grieving communities.
People gathered in Synagogues.
Jesus’ communities met in upper rooms, courtyards, peoples’ homes. People didn’t
have Bibles, rather, the gospels and letters were read to gathered groups of
people; copied and passed on to other communities. People prayed together in
prison, accompanied each other on journeys, and as groups continued to feed and
serve the marginalized.
The Beatitudes of Matthew’s
gospel are part of his continued emphasis of God’s kindom. Kindom is everyone
living in shalom, peace – where no one has too much and no one has too little.
Power is shared. Mercy and justice flow. All are in relationship with God, each
other, and creation. In past weeks we have noted Matthew’s world view that this
kindom, God’s kindom, has come near. Christ is present and incarnate. The
kindom is already here, but we still find that we live in the ‘not yet.’
Matthew articulates the reality of everyday life. Life is full of paradox.
Author Parker J. Palmer wrote: The deeper our faith, the more doubt we
must endure; the deeper our hope, the more prone we are to despair; the deeper
our love, the more pain its loss will bring; these are a few of the paradoxes
we must hold as human beings. If we refuse to hold them in the hopes of living
without doubt, despair, and pain, we also find ourselves living without faith,
hope, and love.
Theses words are worth
repeating: The deeper our faith, the more doubt we must endure; the deeper
our hope, the more prone we are to despair; the deeper our love, the more pain
its loss will bring; these are a few of the paradoxes we must hold as human
beings. If we refuse to hold them in the hopes of living without doubt,
despair, and pain, we also find ourselves living without faith, hope, and love.
The beauty of community is
that on the days I have faith, hope, and love – I have faith, hope, and love
that I carry with me and offer here, with others, for everyone. On the days I
have doubt, despair, and pain – I come to community – and find in the community
enough faith, hope, and love for the moment. Its as if each of us were given only
a few reeds on our pan flute. The Greatest Pan-flute Creator understood that we
would try to live life’s paradoxes by ourselves. Here in our responses back and
forth, our singing in different voices, our hearing holy words and making
response, our coming to the table and receiving and going, conversation over
coffee, a knowing nod, an elbow touched, a weary smile, an understanding look,
space to allow for silent sorrow, a listening ear … in this God’s kindom draws
near. It is in this that faith, hope, and love are made into music that fills
and satisfies our hearts, embraces and engages a community, and makes us whole
despite being broken. And we have courage to risk experiencing doubt, despair,
and pain – because to be whole is to live into faith, hope, and love.
Source of the Springs of the
water of life, come wipe away every tear from our eyes. Embrace us as we
embrace each other. Give us courage to listen and bear each others brokenness. Christ,
heal us through community as we live and share the paradoxes of life. And grant
us the music of faith, hope, and love. In your holy name, Amen.
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