First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: II Kings 5:1-14
February 23, 2003
“Blessed are those who go round in circles, for they shall become known as wheels.” I don’t know who said that. Trust me, it wasn’t Jesus.
Generally speaking, “going round in circles” is not well thought of. As activities go, it sounds aimless and pointless. All of us have known the frustration of trying to find our way in a strange forest….or in a strange city….only to circle back upon the same tree (or the same gas station) we passed twenty minutes ago. Life is linear, we think. Or if not, it should be. “Blessed are those who toe the line,” someone said. Again, not Jesus. Although he could have.
If you believe that life is linear….and there is nothing wrong with believing that….this sermon is likely to annoy you. Because it is going to go in circles. Like my life seems to be going in circles. Starting in San Francisco when I walked the labyrinth.
The month was January. The day was Monday. The setting was a sanctuary. Kris and I had spent the weekend with Julie. Now she was back at work and we were downtown having breakfast at Lefty O’Doul’s. Kris said she wanted to do some shopping (for fabric, as I recall), but said “You don’t necessarily have to go.” After 36 years in husband school, I still don’t know whether to trust the words “You really don’t have to go.” But, having a door opened to me, I figured I had better come up with a plan. So recalling that I had never been inside Grace Episcopal Cathedral on Nob Hill, I said: “I think I’ll walk over there.” “Go for it,” she said. What she should have said was: “Are you up to it?” For “up” was the operative word.
The journey from Union Square to Grace Cathedral is but six blocks. But every one of the six is long. And every one of the six is up. Those blocks were so steep, they had steps cut into the sidewalk, without which even the sure-footed would stumble. Six times, at the end of each block, I found myself stopping to turn around and admire the magnificent view my climb was affording. At least, that’s the image I tried to portray. My real reason had more to do with breath-catching than sightseeing. Suffice it to say that by the time I reached the cathedral, I thought I was halfway to heaven, and was unable to shake that wonderfully-descriptive phrase from the Sermon on the Mount about “not being able to hide a city set on a hill.”
Once inside, I was able to admire the view without using it as a breath-catching excuse. And the view was magnificent. Truly magnificent. As cathedrals go, this one was big….long…. vaulted….imposing….dark. Yet there was lots of glass reflecting lots of color. Not many surprises, really. Having seen a bit of the world, I know what to expect from great church architecture. And Grace Cathedral did not disappoint.
What was new was the labyrinth. They had removed enough pews to open a significant expanse of floor. Then, with carpet strips, they had outlined the interlocking circular pathways that would take the walker from the outside, in….then from the inside, out. Many have called the labyrinth a “maze,” but the words are not interchangeable. For the purpose of a maze is to confuse, while the purpose of a labyrinth is to clarify. A maze has more to do with losing one’s way. A labyrinth has more to do with finding one’s way.
There is no correct way to design a labyrinth. Generally speaking, the path is narrow….the path is singular….the path is circular….and the path leads toward a center (and back). The way you go in is the way you come out. Which means that meeting someone head on is not a matter of if, but when.
What does the center represent?
No one says.
What is the purpose of walking toward it?
No one says.
How fast should you proceed?
No one says.
What should you do if you overtake or confront somebody?
No one says.
How long should you be at it….on it….in it?
No one says.
But people have been walking the labyrinth for centuries. Did they really start doing so in 4500 BC in Egypt or Ertruria (now Central Italy)? Maybe. Was the first Christian labyrinth built into the floor of the Church of Reparatus (Algeria) in the fourth century? Maybe. Does the word “labyrinth” come from the word “labrys,” the sacred double-headed axe associated with the Minoan Palace of Knossos on the Mediterranean island of Crete? Maybe. But whether the origins of the labyrinth be pagan or mythic, do many great cathedrals in Europe have them? Certainly.
My only previous experience walking the labyrinth was in Adrian….at the college….in the gym….on a canvas….rolled out on the floor….with guys shooting basketballs at the other end of the building. Needless to say, it was far from revelatory or enlightening. I did it….but the labyrinth is more about being than doing. And I finished it….although the labyrinth is more about experiencing than completing. I envision a group of middle school boys emerging from a labyrinth, arguing about who finished first or who knocked over the most girls.
Suffice it to say that, for me, Grace Cathedral’s labyrinth was better. The climb to get there gave me the sense of a medieval pilgrimage. Taking off my shoes (as was gently requested by the sign) put me in touch with Moses….to whom God said: “Take off your shoes, because the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” Walking the carpeted pathway, I listened to the organ. I listened to my breathing. And I listened to the random (or not so random) lines from hymnal and Bible that slid in and out of my head (or on and off of my tongue)….and found myself giving thanks for a lifetime of exposure to hymnal and Bible that readily brought such phrases to mind and tongue. Somehow, in the middle of all those sounds, was the voice of God.
I allowed myself to become aware of the other individuals (four in number) who were walking the labyrinth with me. And although I knew them not, I knew that before we were done walking, I would meet them all. The path would bring us (unavoidably) face to face. Then what would I do? Would I look at them? Would I look away from them? And when our journeys required that we pass, would I step aside….would they step aside….would we both step aside….and by what signal would we know?
If, as has been said, we are only six introductions away from meeting anyone in the world, what happens when that person is on my path and our meeting is unavoidable? One of the four was a young fellow suffering from AIDS. Ours was not the same story. But for one hour….for one morning….ours was the same journey.
The center, of course, was both the goal of my walking and the object of my desiring. But when I got there, I couldn’t stay there. Nor did I want to. If, on the pathway, you would have shouted, “Bill, where are you headed?”, I would have pointed to the center and said: “There.” But there was no urge to take a shortcut to get there more quickly. And once there, it was just as important to go away from the center….back to the start….again, with no shortcuts. To whatever degree the labyrinth is about “going home”….and many have suggested it is….home is both ends (start and finish). Home is the place you go back to. But home is also the place you come back to.
I have reached a point in my life where circling back interests me as much as striding forward. I drive out of my way to see places I once lived, worked, studied, played and worshiped. And if I have not yet begun actively seeking people from my past, I sense that the time is coming when I will. For I take increasing delight when someone like Vinco Pogachar’s daughter-in-law (who I met for five minutes, fifty years ago) uses the internet to come looking for me.
Chris Hall read what I wrote about her on the cover of Steeple Notes and told me, out of the blue, of his desire to go back to his hometown. Then Chris added: “I know it will be all changed and I won’t find anybody familiar.” But it really doesn’t matter whether he finds anybody familiar. At least that’s what I told him. Because when I circle back upon my life, the “somebody” I end up finding is me. Thomas Wolfe is right when he says, “You can’t go home again,” if what you want to do when you get there is live there. But if the purpose of going is not living but understanding, you pretty much have to go home again. Or so it seems.
Ultimately, the purpose of all this walking around….through the pathways on the floor, or through the pathways of your life….is not self-enlightenment (good as that may be) so much as divine discovery. Simply put, most of us are looking for God. Never mind, for the moment, the Bible’s contention that God is looking for us. That’s true. But the search is not God’s alone. We are looking, too. Everywhere we go. In this town and that one. In this house and that one. In this church and that one. In this book and that one. Under this rock and that one. Here, there. High, low. Hither, yon. Up, down.
And you never know where, on the journey, God is going to turn up. A Syrian general has leprosy. Tough guy. Tougher disease. It’s eating him up, if you know what I mean. He tries all the local cures….all the proper cures….all the professional cures. Finally, a nameless servant girl….who his army has captured in a previous raid into Israel (and who is now working as a maid servant to his wife) says: “There is one in my land who can help.” “A prophet,” she says. “Named Elisha,” she says.
Which is preposterous. But if you have ever been so sick that nothing else has worked, you will go anywhere. An offshore clinic in the Bahamas. An obscure prophet’s house in Israel. But Naaman doesn’t go empty-handed. He gets a letter of introduction from his king to Israel’s king. Doesn’t need it. And he takes along a small fortune in silver, gold and fine clothing. Doesn’t need it, either.
He gets to Elisha’s house and Elisha doesn’t even come out to see him. Instead, Elisha sends word from behind closed doors (via a messenger) to go dip seven times in the muddy river at the end of the street. Well, he almost doesn’t do it. Why? Because it sounds so ridiculously ordinary, that’s why. I mean, he expects to see a holy man do holy things….say holy words….make holy gestures.…offer holy incantations….dance holy dances….maybe even sacrifice holy animals. What he does not expect is to hear a virtual nobody tell him to go down to the end of the block and jump in the river.
“River,” he fumes, “I’ve got better rivers than this back in Damascus. You call this a river? You call Elisha a healer?” But it was (a river, I mean). And Elisha was (a healer, I mean). You never know, do you….where it’s going to happen in you, to you, for you. The cure, I mean. Or the Physician. Any place can be a holy place (or a healing place) if you’ve got your shoes off and your eyes open. God is not particular about where God shows up.
Naaman the Syrian had to walk across a foreign border (into a land he plundered the last time he visited). While Scott Chrostek just had to keep cruising the same circle. Scott is a son of this congregation. Recently, of the University of Michigan. Presently, of Hartford, Connecticut. More to the point, the insurance business in Hartford, Connecticut. But Scott says: “No matter where I went….no matter what I did….my life kept circling back on a common theme. That theme being God’s call to ministry.”
I have been talking to Scott about this for four years. We wrestle with it. Then he walks away from it. But he keeps coming back to it. Or it keeps coming back to him. Scott’s problem is that he’s so darn competent, he can do any job easily. Unfortunately, none of them make him happy. I suppose it’s easy to answer God’s call to ministry when you’re no good at anything but ministry. But it’s harder when you are good at a whole bunch of things (which might possibly include ministry).
Well, in the middle of all his comings and goings, something happened. I don’t know who caught up with who….Scott with God, or God with Scott. Sometimes it seemed like the game I played as a third grader in gym class, where I’d run around the circle and some other kid would chase me, and then the teacher would shout “Reverse,” and the other kid would run around the circle and I would chase him.
All I know is that God and Scott finally caught up with each other and had it out over this thing called ministry. Which is why Scott is enrolled in Duke Divinity School and plans to enter, come September. Better yet, he’s as comfortable about his decision as I’ve ever seen him.
You know what’s funny, though? I’ll tell you what’s funny. Forty-five years ago, a lady whose name I didn’t know at the time….didn’t know for years, really….gave a hefty scholarship to Albion College specifically to enable my education. I worked a lot of jobs during those four years. But without that anonymous gift, no way could I have stayed there. And no way would I have landed here.
You know who she was? I’ll tell you who she was. Scott Chrostek’s great-grandmother. That’s who she was.
Go figure.
Notes: For her treatment of Naaman the Syrian, I am indebted to Barbara Brown Taylor.
As concerns my reference to the daughter-in-law of Vinco Pogachar, the following reminiscence graced the cover of Steeple Notes on the Sunday of my sermon.
Question: What do the late Vinco (Vince) Pogachar and the carpeted labyrinth in Grace Episcopal Cathedral, San Francisco, have to do with each other? Likely, nothing. But perhaps, everything.
As concerns Vinco Pogachar, he came from Slovenia, one of my ancestral countries of origin. My maternal grandparents sponsored him and his wife in their process of emigration. But unlike my grandparents, the Pogachars settled in Canada, eventually becoming prosperous fruit farmers along Lake Ontario, partway between Niagara Falls and Toronto. As a boy, I made a few visits to the farm, cultivating a love for dark, sweet cherries while savoring the sweet tastes of unrepentant ethnicity.
A few years ago, returning from one of our occasional trips to Boston to see Julie, Kris and I tried to find the farm. But time had scarred something….either landscape or memory….meaning that we were unsuccessful. Not that there would have been anybody home. Vince has been long gone from the earth. And what remains of his family has been long gone from the farm.
But on August 20, 2000, I mentioned his name in a sermon. Don’t ask me why. It would take too long to explain. But a day or so ago, I heard from the woman who used to be his daughter-in-law. She e-mailed me from Vancouver, British Columbia telling me that someone in the family had entered the name “Vinco Pogachar” in a search engine on the internet and up popped my sermon. Now I am in the process of connecting with people I never really knew, while reliving pieces of my past that were slowly slipping from recall. Given the internet, I suppose anybody can find almost anything….and make almost any connection. Remind me to tell you someday about my wife’s surprisingly successful search for relatives in the remote sections of northern Norway (the Land the Midnight Sun).
I am not sure how much conversation I will have with the far-flung members of the Pogachar clan. But I may request more accurate directions to the farm (or what used to be the farm), so that a future effort at search and discovery will bear its own brand of fruit. Perhaps it is my age, but I find myself circling back these days….to places I have been and to people I have known. Not that I have regrets about what I have left behind. And not that I want to replicate prior pieces of my journey. I don’t. But I am slowly coming to understand that life is as circular as it is linear. Meaning that occasionally one must “go home again.”
