Feast of All Saints
November 1, 2011
I have a new friend who is a priest in the Anglican Church of New Zealand. He is a member of the Māori, the people who were living in the land of Aotearoa, as they name it, when the first British ships arrived in 1642. When he introduces himself to non-native people, he says, “Hello, my name is ...” But when he introduces himself to a member of his own people, he says something very different:
My river is Mangaorua.
My ancestral canoe is Tanui.
My tribe is the people of Raukawa.
My family are Ngati Huri.
Our ancestral house is Huri.
He recently wrote to me about this special form of introduction, and I’d like to share some of the reasons behind it with you:
For me, this is how I introduce myself. My name is not what is important, nor is anything that I may amount to; for I am only here by the grace of God and the work of my ancestors. By introducing myself in this fashion I tell people who I am without mentioning my name. As I do this, I unfold a theology that is based on geography—on physical facets of the land.
The Māori word for land is whenua. This word has other meanings, namely that of the placenta which feeds and sustains an unborn child. In that light, land is not a commodity. It cannot be sold or treated as a possession. Land is sustenance; both physical and spiritual. My spiritual journey begins with my land. This is the land the sustained my ancestors, and the land that they have left in my temporary care. It is my duty to ensure that this land will sustain my children.
My mountain, Wharepuhunga, is a place of deep spiritual significance to me. From here you can see across that land that has shaped my being. In Matthew chapter five, we read of the Sermon on the Mount—a sermon that declares that among the meek, the merciful, the poor in spirit, the pure in heart, are blessed children of God. This important event happened on a mountain. While many scholars seek to understand the meaning of Jesus’ words, I seek to understand His choice of location. An obvious point is that He went up the mountain to be seen; which may seem a simple thought and gesture. But there are deeper implications of revealing oneself, of being seen. My mountain serves as a revealing symbol of my people, and it also reveals who I am. I think, in Jesus’ simple action of going up a mountain, we can begin to explore why He was concerned with ensuring He could be seen and heard.
As my mountain stands proudly as a symbol of my people, so too does my faith in Jesus Christ. [excerpt from an email received from my new friend]
On this All Saints Day, we hear the reading of Matthew’s version of Jesus’ preaching, which we call the Sermon on the Mount. Every time I have ever preached about this passage, I have concentrated on the words that Jesus spoke, their meaning, and their application to our lives today. I will still do that somewhat, but my new friend's words have drawn me to focus our attention this time, not so much on Jesus’ words, but on his location—on a mountain.
I have lived in the Allegheny or Appalachian Mountains for almost 20 years. I grew up in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. I think I have always been drawn to mountains as a special place—one where I feel most at home. I love the ocean and enjoy every visit, but I cannot see myself ever living there permanently. The mountains call to me; they feel right to me.
A mountain is a special place for me. As my friend says, “you can see across that land that has shaped [your] being.” Jesus “went up the mountain to be seen; which may seem a simple thought and gesture. But there are deeper implications of revealing oneself, of being seen.” Many events in salvation history have taken place on mountain-tops. Abraham took Isaac up a mountain, thinking that God wanted him to sacrifice his son there. Isaiah hid in the cleft of a mountain as God the Omnipotent passed by. Moses met Yahweh in the burning bush on a mountain. He later received the Law from God on Mount Sinai. David and Solomon build God’s Temple on Mount Zion. Satan took Jesus to the top of a “very high mountain” [Matthew 4:8] and showed him all the kingdoms of the earth in order to tempt him. Jesus in turn took Peter, James, and John to a mountaintop where they witnessed his Transfiguration. And Jesus was crucified for us on the mount called Golgotha.
It is no surprise then, that Jesus would go up a mountain in order to teach this important lesson to his followers. From the mountainside, all could see farther and better than when they were down below. One of the things that I most love to do at my home in the mountains is to stand on my deck in the morning and watch the light arrive in the valley below. It starts at the top of the mountains on the opposite side, revealing the trees and rocks. It creeps slowly but surely down the slope, shining God’s light on everything. Finally, it fills the valley and begins to warm and nourish all living things.
God’s light and love work a lot like that, too. That’s why I like to be on the mountaintop to experience it. Then I can carry it down as I go, deeper into a world of woe and sorrow.
Jesus’ words took a similar path. Looking out at the crowd that had followed him up that mountain, he saw their suffering and felt their pain—and he told them, “Blessed are you poor in spirit; and you who mourn. Blessed are you who are meek, who hunger and thirst for God’s righteousness. All who are merciful, peacemakers, and pure in heart—you, too, are blessed. And blessed will you all be when people persecute you and revile you for your faith in Jesus.” [Matthew 5:3-10, paraphrased]
How could Jesus promise such things? Was it because, from his vantage-point on the mountaintop, he could see more clearly than we who are stuck in the mire at the bottom? Could he rise above the things that distract us, the pettiness, the jealousy, the fear, the discrimination—and teach us to do likewise?
The Māori people have always had a close association with mountains; as my friend's words show, each has his own “family mountain.” It grounds and roots him in his personal history and the history of his people. In the same way, we all have the mountain on which Jesus preached. It roots us in the truth of our faith, whenever we face opposition and even death. It grounds us in the long history of our brothers and sisters in Christ, going all the way back to Jesus’ very words. It raises us up so that we can see above the things that seem to separate us from the love of Christ – which Paul assures us can never really happen.
But we can’t stay up on the mountain and hide. We go there as much to be seen as to be refreshed. A lamp on a stand shines brightly; one hidden under a bushel basket is wasted. [see Matthew 5:15-16] Jesus didn’t preach there on that mountain and then never leave. He used his time on the mountain to fortify himself and his followers, and then he led them back down into the “real world” where there was much work to do.
With all the saints, you and I can enjoy our time alone with Jesus, our breaks from the challenges and struggles of this world, including poverty, mourning, feelings of powerlessness, the hunger and thirst for righteousness that seems to never be fulfilled, and the persecution and rejection of ourselves, our faith, and our values by a secular, selfish world. But that is not where Jesus stayed, nor can we. Saints and sinners, we must live in the world and bring the light of Christ to it. Until we “from our labors rest,” [The Hymnal 1982, #287, vs. 1] we must do the work that God has given us to do. And we know that we are not alone. We are knit together “in one communion and fellowship in the mystical body of [God’s] Son Jesus Christ our Lord.” [The Book of Common Prayer, Collect for All Saints Day]
May God continue to give us mountains of our own – places where we feel inspired and connected to God and one another, places that we call home, and places from which we can be seen and go forth to love and serve the Lord, and God’s people.
Amen!
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