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Isaiah 40: 21-23; 54:
2 June
13, 2010 TENT
CONVERSATIONS: This morning we continue our series of sermons on St. Paul, picking up where we left off a couple of weeks ago. St. Paul, originally known as Saul, before his transformational experience on the Road to Damascus, was from the City of Tarsus, which is now in the Southern part of Turkey, not too far from the Mediterranean Sea. Thus, Saul of Tarsus, as he was called. Although we don’t know for sure; there’s a good chance that Saul’s family business, maybe going back a number of generations, was that of tent making. Be that as it may, we do know that this is the way in which St. Paul supported himself throughout his life, by the making and selling of tents. We learn this from our scripture lesson this morning from the Book of Acts, where it says that he went to see a couple by the name of Aquila and Priscilla, and, as it says, “as he was of the same trade, he stayed with them for they were tentmakers.” Now, this must have been a fairly lucrative business in those days as there were many people for whom a tent was their only form of habitation. Even to this day, there are those throughout that region – Bedouin – as they are known, who live a nomadic life style not unlike that of the Lakota Sioux out in the Dakotas. The Bedouin live in long narrow tents, made out of camel hair, and as you may recall, we had a small version of one of those tents on the front lawn of our Meetinghouse back in November during our Tree of Life Conference. I like to think of St. Paul after a long day of preaching and teaching, sitting down by the light of an olive oil lamp and piecing together one of those tents, maybe using a wooden needle for his work. I would be interested to know what sort of tools he may have used, but I can easily imagine St. Paul and Aquila and Priscilla sitting down by the fire and maybe sharing some tea and conversation as they worked together on their tents. As I read this passage this week, my mind wandered back to when I was child and how at this time of year, near the end of school, my family would have been getting ready for one of our many long camping trips across the country. With the station wagon stuffed with all manner of things for our journey, not the least of which would have been our large canvas tent, we would set off from our home in Indiana for some great adventures and misadventures. I remember camping up on the north shore of Lake Superior where the mosquitoes were as large as helicopters, and I remember tornado force winds nearly blowing us off the one and only cliff there is in all of Kansas. The couple next to us were on their honeymoon, and the storm completely destroyed their tent poles and that might have put an early end to their travels, and maybe their marriage as well, were it not for my parents, being the veteran campers that they were, always brought along some extra poles which they gave to this couple, and I remember some 3 or 4 months later we received a package from this couple, returning our poles and thanking us for salvaging their honeymoon. And then, later in life, I remember trying to put up the aluminum frame for our tent in a lightening storm out in New Mexico – not one of the smarter things I have done. I also remember Corinne and I camping with a very leaky tent – where was St. Paul when we needed him! – up at Seawalls Campground in Acadia National Park in Maine. After a glorious day harvesting wild blueberries up on Sargent Mountain, and then tea and popovers at the Jordan Pond House, that night it poured with rain, and so we endured a long, long night with soggy sleeping bags and pillows. Meanwhile, our Irish Setter, who would have nothing to do with camping in a tent, was high and dry, sleeping inside our car. Whoever said that Irish Setters were bred for stupidity! Now, lest I completely destroy a major part of the business of LL Bean and North Cove Outfitters, I should also say we’ve had some glorious camping experiences as well: waking up early in the morning and looking out from our tent, high up in the San Juan mountains of Colorado, and out in front of us, an Alpine meadow of Columbine, Flax and Indian Paint Brush, where there was a herd of Elk, not more than 25 yards away. … Or stepping outside up in Canada, in our campsite overlooking Northumberland Strait and seeing the dazzling lights of the Milky Way, or sitting outside our tent and watching Mountain Blue Birds in the Quaking Aspen along the South Fork of the Shoshone River in Wyoming, not too far from where my Grandfather built a log cabin for his young bride in the early 1900’s. Sleeping in a tent can be a wonderful experience, but it can also be a reminder of how fleeting and transitory life really is. And, it was this thought that led me to imagine a conversation between St. Paul, the prophet Isaiah and the New England poet, Robert Frost. That’s the nice thing about the imagination; you can bring together people of different times, separated by thousands of years and a different language and a different culture, and you can put them all inside the same tent and have them engage in conversation. And so picture, if you will, these 3 notables – Isaiah, Paul and Robert – on a camping trip. No doubt you noticed the small tent on the front lawn of our Meetinghouse this morning. Let’s imagine that this is a tent made by St. Paul himself. Isaiah was probably too nice to say anything, but Robert Frost, known for being a New England Yankee and somewhat gruff, no doubt said, “Hey, Paul, do you think you could have made this tent a little bigger?” Nevertheless, after supper, it started to rain; there was a strong wind and lightning, and so they all squeezed inside the tent. They were crowded but they were protected from the storm. Being the gentleman that he was, Isaiah complemented St. Paul on the quality of the tent, and indeed, it was true; Paul was a master craftsman, a perfectionist, and the quintessential Type A personality. No doubt he was rightfully proud of his tent making abilities, something he had learned from his parents and his grandparents back in Tarsus. Nevertheless, he also knew that no matter how good his craftsmanship may have been, a tent always is and always will be only a temporary shelter, and being the thoughtful student of the human condition that he was, I can easily imagine St. Paul saying to the others, “You know, this tent, as strong as it is, and thank you for your complement, but it reminds me of ourselves and it reminds me of what I tried to say to the Corinthians: For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens… So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day. This was one of the spiritual issues that St. Paul would sometimes address, the question of how we can find permanence in a state of impermanence? How can we find spiritual energy in a state of entropy? How can we find security in the midst of insecurity? How can we not be thrown off our bearings by the storms and vicissitudes of life? And so inside that small tent, Paul and Isaiah and Robert discussed the difference between a house and a tent. A house gives us the illusion of permanence, they agreed. Despite the empirical evidence of tornadoes and hurricanes, fire and mudslides, our houses can give us the illusion of permanence. And nowadays, with foundations that go deep into the ground, with the use of rebar and concrete, with a strong 30 or 50 year roof – “guaranteed” -- we can really kid ourselves into thinking we are secure and we are permanent. But one night in a tent can show us just how vulnerable and fragile we are. Likewise, I always smile to myself when people speak of their financial investments as “securities”; even a cursory look at the vagaries of the stock market of late can show us just how insecure those securities really are. To which, grumpy Robert Frost said, “can you move over a bit; I’m getting a cramp in my leg; this tent is too small!” Isaiah, always the philosopher, said, “that’s the problem with us all, you know, our tents are just too small.” I tried to admonish my people, urging them “to enlarge the place of their tent. To lengthen their cords and to drive their stakes deeper into the ground, so that they could make a larger tent and so make room for more people, but they were reluctant to do so.” Far too many of us live in “tents” that are too small and so there’s no room for anyone else. “You know, my people, the people of Israel used to live in tents, during that long 40 year period in which they wandered through the wilderness, but some never outgrew what might be called a “tent mentality.” Through my prophecies I tried to get them to move beyond their tribalism and nationalism and to think of themselves as being a “light unto all nations” – with an all important “s” on the end -- but it’s a sad and tragic part of our human condition to think that spiritual security can be found only within the narrow confines of whatever our own particular “tent” may be, and our “tents” are just too small.” To which the poet, Robert Frost, said, “you got that right!”, as he stretched out his leg to gain another inch. Paul said, “you know that’s exactly one of the things that I experienced on the Road to Damascus. As you know that was a life changing experience for me. Where before I was a citizen of the town and culture and nation and the faith in which I was brought up, now I find that “tent” to be just too small. In all my travels, I have found myself to be at home with people from all over the world. Where before I had a very narrow definition of my identity and what it means to be a child of God, now I travel all over the world telling people that we are all children of God, all chosen by God for a noble purpose. At that point, they hear lightning not too far away, and the wind is shaking the tent and they wonder how secure it will be, if it gets any worse. And so this prompts St. Paul to say, “In the quest for security, the human spirit sometimes looks in all the wrong places, turning theologies into pathologies. We build bigger and better “tents.” We presume that our “tent” is better than anyone else’s. We drive the stakes deeper down into the ground, staking out our territory. We build empires and stake out the boundaries with fences and with walls. We think that security can be found in having the biggest tent or the biggest house or the biggest bank account. But I have come to realize just how transitory and impermanent all those things are, and I have come to the realization that the only thing, the only thing that can make us feel truly secure is our relationship with God, and so in all my journeys, I have shared with people what I shared with the people of Rome, saying, “there is nothing in life and nothing in death that can ever separate us from the Love of God.” As he speaks, the poet Robert Frost has gotten out a pencil, and feverishly he is writing something on a pad of paper. For a poet on a camping trip, a pencil and some paper are far more important than all the accoutrements of camping. Isaiah and Paul are curious about what he is writing, and the poet said that this tent – too small though it may be – led him to write a poem about this tent and their conversation, and so he shared it with the others. It’s entitled, “The Silken Tent.” She is as in a
field a silken tent Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent, So that in guys it gently sways at ease, And its supporting central cedar pole, That is its pinnacle to heavenward And signifies the sureness of the soul, Seems to owe naught to any single cord, But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To every thing on earth the compass round, And only by one’s going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware. Stunned by the beauty of this poem, there is silence at first, but Isaiah finally says, “I love the dimensions of that tent; I love how seemingly effortless it is in how it is bound by “silken ties of love and thought to every thing on earth the compass round.” And then, St. Paul says, “and, as a tent maker, I really appreciate how you speak of how important a strong pole is to the integrity of a tent, how the cedar pole is pointing toward heaven, and as long as it stays in that position, then the tent can withstand all the weathers, all the storms, all the vicissitudes of life, giving us what you call, “the sureness of the soul.” Suddenly, the storm seems to have blown away, and through the “noseeum netting” they can see that the sun is just beginning to rise on the alpine meadow. In their cross-cultural, transnational, trans-temporal friendship, somehow they had talked all night long, and Robert Frost said, “this is a nice tent, my friend, but it’s much too small”, and with that, they all stepped out and looked up at the canopy of a blue, blue sky, with all the Quaking Aspen, pointing heavenward, were for once in their lives quiet and calm as if they had heard a voice saying, “Be still then, and know that I am God”, and for Isaiah, St. Paul and Robert Frost, the love of God seemed to be evident in all they saw, and so they felt deep within themselves what the poet had called, “the sureness of the soul.” Amen.
David W. Good Old Lyme, Connecticut
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