A Peculiar People

1 Peter 2: 4-12 Rev. Marianne Niesen May 22, 2011

I begin with a story. In 1957, some Buddhist monks in Thailand had to relocate a large heavy clay statue of the Buddha to make way for a new highway that was to be built through Bangkok where the monastery stood. A large crane was brought in and the moving of the Buddha began. Suddenly, a crack was heard and, on top of that, it started to rain. The head monk, fearful that the Buddha would be completely ruined, had it lowered to the ground and covered with a canvas tarp. Later that evening, he went to check on the precious statue, to make sure it was dry and protected. But, when he lifted the flap and shone the beam of his flashlight on the statue, his eye caught a curious gleam. He moved in for a closer look. Was there something inside? He got a chisel and hammer and began to tape gently at the clay. What he discovered, after hours of painstaking work, was a solid gold Buddha – ten and a half feet tall – weighing two and a half tons! After some research, the monk uncovered the secret. Centuries before, as an enemy army drew near the country then known as Siam, some monks, in order to protect their golden Buddha covered it with clay. Apparently, the army murdered all the monks and the strangely heavy clay Buddha protected his secret identity until moving day in 1957. [1]

There’s something universal about that story. We know that every human being is precious. Life is a gift and it is good. But things happen – to us and around us. We learn to protect ourselves from invading armies – like childhood messages of judgment or shame or inadequacy; like broken trust, shattered dreams, illness or pain or tragic death. We struggle to cope with the images of thousands of refuges whose faces look a lot like ours. We ache over stories of women and children raped and killed for no reason except that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We hear of school shootings, relentless bullying that leads to tragic outcomes. We feel ourselves overwhelmed as we wonder how such things can happen and little by little we build emotional and spiritual walls. Protection. The clay and dust and dirt of ordinary life do a number on all of us. How do we uncover the gold again? How do we live lives of faith and grace in the chaos? Is a good coating of clay the only answer? It certainly seems like it . . . cynicism, anger, fear and indifference abound.

Years ago, an unnamed disciple of the Christian movement wrote to a newly formed community of newly baptized Christians living somewhere in Asia Minor. Sociologists and Biblical scholars suggest that these folks were outsiders in the community in which they lived. They were foreigners, aliens, slaves, common laborers, the poor. Many were women, probably the wives of men who did not convert and who were therefore, doubly estranged – from their husbands as well as their social circle. Indications are that these Christians endured ridicule and harassment for who they were, how they worshipped and what they believed. It was to this community that a man known as “Peter:” wrote . . . (1 Peter 2, focusing on 4-5, 9-12)

In the older King James translation of this text the phrase ‘God’s own people’ is translated as ‘a peculiar people.’ And, I admit, that while I mostly like the newer more accurate translations of the scripture, this in one exception. I think the King James folks captured something we ought not miss. We are God’s own people and, as such, we ought to be ‘peculiar.’ After all, to be messengers of grace in a world of judgment is odd. To be practitioners of forgiveness in a society that calls for punishment is strange. To be generous and see abundance in a culture of hoarding amid fears of scarcity isunusual. To gather in community, to admit our need for one another and for God, is curious indeed. And, overall, we don’t wear peculiarity easily. We’d rather fit in, blend with the crowd, be ‘one of the folks.’ And, quite frankly, 21st century Christians have more or less done that. But those people to whom Peter wrote could not and his words to them were encouraging. To us they are more a challenge. Dare we aspire to the peculiarity of gospel living?

One of the things I have loved about St. Paul’s ever since I came here is that we at times get accused of peculiar things. Like ‘letting anybody in.’ Like not preaching enough about sin and judgment. Like bringing in radical speakers who say things that others find controversial. I’ve had phone calls from people who ask how we can call ourselves ‘Christian’ because our radio ad had a female voice speaking a message from God. Of course, I don’t, for a minute, think we do everything right. But, I do think we’re pretty good on the ‘peculiar’ scale of things. Of course we are! For 25 years we were led and for 25 years encouraged by a most peculiar pastor named George Harper. Consider the fact that the thing we loved most about George – and the thing that so touched people within St. Paul’s and the community – was that he ‘did’ church, ‘preached’ faith in surprising, different ways. From pulpit to pole vaulting, from Bible study to basketball, from gifted teaching to girls track – George was peculiar in a most wonderful way. And while there may have been people who disagreed with him, no one with integrity could question his commitment to his church or his faith. He became one of those ‘living stones’ Peter talked about, one of God’s own peculiar people, who dared live from the gold within. And it made a difference. It always does.

It was Flannery O’Conner who once said you shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd! The job of a Christian is not to blend in – it is to be willing to be odd for the sake of the gospel. It is to preach a message of cooperation in a world of competition. It is to live with hope despite rampant fear. It is to listen respectfully even to those with whom we disagree. Imagine how peculiar that would look in the halls of congress today! In her book Amazing Grace: a Vocabulary of Faith, author Kathleen Norris described her first visit to a monastery. She wrote, Consider this:

The person you’re quick to label and dismiss as a racist, a homophobe, a queer, an anti-Semite, a misogynist, a bigoted conservative or a bleeding-heart liberal is also a person you’re committed to live, work, pray, and dine with for the rest of your life. Anyone who knows a monastery well knows that it is no exaggeration to say that you find Al Franken and Rush Limbaugh living next door to each other… Barney Frank and Jesse Helms. Not only living together in close quarters but working, eating, praying, and enjoying (and sometimes enduring) recreation together, every day. [2]

It is a peculiar image. But before you dismiss it as interesting but rather irrelevant since, after all, you have no intention of joining a monastery, let me suggest that this is also a good description of what the church is meant to be. Far from being a place where we ‘get away from it all,’ the church ought to be a place we immerse ourselves in God’s reign on earth as it is in heaven. Here we get to practice being with other odd people who dare join in the precious peculiarity of following Jesus.

As I was reflecting on this sermon and listening to the news about all of the flooding in the Mississippi River Valley, I thought of a friend of mine. She is deceased now but the pictures in the news – especially those of Memphis – reminded me of Elaine, a Franciscan nun. I met her on my first day of college in 1969 and we kept in touch until her death from breast cancer on December 5, 1998. Elaine was very peculiar. Originally from South Dakota, she came from a large Catholic family of all boys – and her. Her brothers were all ‘jocks’ so she became one too – and was the South Dakota State tennis champion in high school. Things changed drastically however, when she decided to become a nun. Her father was adamantly opposed to the idea but finally gave in with one stipulation. She was to bring her cowboy boots with her and if she decided to come home or if something bad was happening, she was to send the boots home and he’d know to come get her. Of course, this was still in the days of the full long garb so the first thing the head nun wanted to do was send the boots back – after all, “nuns don’t wear cowboy boots.” But Elaine told her the consequences of those boots arriving in South Dakota without her – and so they were made into planters and Elaine stayed in the convent.

I could tell you lots of curious stories about Elaine but the one she would want told began in 1978 when the Catholic Bishop of Memphis asked the Franciscan Sisters of Rochester, Minnesota, the community in which I was a member for 18 years, to set up the first health care facility in Fayette County, TN. In the late 70’s Tennessee’s Fayette County held the distinction of being the third poorest county in the United States and had no health care. Wisely, the Bishop sought help from the group of Franciscans who founded the Mayo Clinic and it was Sister Elaine – my friend – who made the journey to Tennessee. She spent the rest of her life there caring for the people, eventually founding Project Outreach. Her vision was an odd one, however – and ahead of its time. Her greatest desire was to form relationships of caring – to bring helpers and those in need together. To bring black and white together in the deep South. To break down walls of fear and judgment and to help people discover the gold in every human heart. She really did believe that would make a difference. Elaine would accept money but she most wanted people to meet each other as human beings first. That Project started by Sister Elaine – still exists. I checked. It operates now out of the Church of the Incarnation in Memphis. She would be pleased.

I attended Elaine’s funeral. Before she died she made her brother promise to charter a bus to bring her friends from Memphis to her funeral in Rochester, Minnesota. Anything, Elaine . . . as many as you want. She was firm, however. She only wanted one bus because she wanted everyone to ride together – rich, poor, black, white, Catholic and Baptist. I was there when the bus from Memphis arrived. It was a Saturday night. The funeral was Monday. So for two days, that Catholic convent was alive with an array of people – friends, sisters and family of that living stone, Elaine. Doing what Elaine envisioned. Eating, mingling, talking, laughing, crying – together. All amidst a bevy of nuns, many in full habit, who welcomed them in with grace. A very strange but wonderful scene.

I asked one man from Memphis how he knew Elaine. He laughed. You see, I have always had a problem with my mouth. I swear a lot. And every year, during Lent, I try to stop. Every time I say a word I shouldn’t, I put money in a kitty. By the end of Lent, I have lots of money. Fifteen years ago, I was looking for a place to send it and heard about a nun helping the poor. I sent it to her with a note. Ever since then, after Easter, I get a thank you note from Sr. Elaine. She’d always include a ‘ps.’ We couldn’t do it without you. Please keep swearing! Very peculiar encouragement from a nun! His wife was one of the people Elaine chose to lead Project Outreach after her death.

The stories about Elaine kept coming - much like the stories of George continue here. I’ll never forget the imposing Black Baptist preacher who stood up in the convent chapel during the funeral – his voice booming in an environment far more accustomed to quiet dignified reflections. He proclaimed as if to the whole world She was a giant. Our giant. Our sister! Very odd indeed. It was quite a gathering that weekend. Protestant and Catholic. Black and white. Rich and poor. Former nun turned Methodist and her sisters. We sang together and we were, for a few moments a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy – though most peculiar – people. The gold of our common humanity shone through. We were witnesses of power of that living stone whose life so blessed ours.

You are I will not do our lives the way Elaine – or George – did theirs. We are not asked to. But we are challenged to find our own particular brand of peculiarity. We are challenged to shake off the clay that sometimes blinds us – and hides the gold. We too are to become living stones, witnesses to the alterative vision of the reign of God. It is a place where compassion and grace have more power than judgment. Where generosity trumps greed. Where the labels we use to divide us give way to the common humanity that unites us. This week, I challenge you to consider a peculiar action of some kind…something as simple as an undeserved smile or an unmerited act of forgiveness. Challenge a sexist joke. Refuse to participate in racist rhetoric. Do something as grand as making a sacrificial gift to a worthy cause – in the church or beyond. Find a peculiar thing to do and know that, as you do it, you too are becoming a living stone, part of that powerfully peculiar people God has chosen and with whom God is well pleased.

[1] Adapted from Chicken Soup for the Soul, written and compiled by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hanson, Health Communications, Inc., Deerfield Beach, FL Ó1993, p. 69-71.

[2] Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, (New York: Riverhead Ó1998) p. 158.