A sermon delivered in Christ Chapel on October 7, 2003, by the Rev. Charles James Cook, Professor of Pastoral Theology

There is a wonderful story about Dorothy Day, one of the founders of the Catholic Worker movement in this country. At the time of this event, Dorothy had achieved a status among her followers that could only be described as holy reverence -- respect given only to saints or legends in their own time. Her works of mercy were well-known and documented; her courage, in defending the rights and dignity of the poor -- often in the face of strong opposition -- inspired a loyal and devoted following.

As the story goes, word arrived at one of the Catholic Worker houses in New York City, that Dorothy Day would be paying them a personal visit, set for a particular day. You can just imagine the care and hard work that went into preparing for her arrival -- everything had to be just right. It took two full days to get things in order. Finally, the day of the grand visitation arrived and all the workers and volunteers looked anxiously, counting the moments, when this "living saint" would walk through the door.

Well, morning came and quickly dissolved into noon, and there was no sign of Dorothy Day. Work went on as usual -- but everyone thought -- maybe she's coming for lunch.

As the volunteers cleared the dishes from the tables, and the hungry souls who had dined there were ambling back onto the streets, it became clear that Dorothy had as yet to make her appearance. But, after all, busy and important people are always delayed.

The afternoon sun began to fade, and the early evening shadows made their way through the windows, and still no expected visitation. By now, no one said much -- silence among the workers betrayed their deep sense of disappointment -- the kind that only comes with a broken promise; a wish deeply unfulfilled. It was almost six o'clock -- the end of the day for most -- and there was only one client left in the reception room -- waiting to be seen -- a recipient of one of the works of mercy -- a grateful heart for any gift of charity. She had been there, with all the others, for most of the afternoon -- sitting quietly and patiently for her turn. Nothing about her appearance distinguished her from the rest of them -- a old brown coat, worn shoes, the hat that made it difficult to see her face. At last, when she was summoned to the desk by the volunteer -- she moved quietly across the room, taking her place in the appropriate chair -- just like those before her. She waited for the standard question:

The volunteer asked, "Name, please."
In almost a whisper, she replied, "My name is Dorothy ... Dorothy Day." It is difficult to adequately describe a moment such as that one. The surprise, the utter shock of it all, the incredible disbelief. For our purposes, we might define it as a bit of realized eschatology. The punctuation of that moment occurred when a young child, belonging to one of the volunteers, who had witnessed it all, went running up the stairs yelling, "Dorothy Day is here ... Dorothy Day is here ... and you won't believe it ... she just a old woman ... she's, she's just like the rest of us!" She had made her point.

"When Dorothy Day died in 1980, at the age of eighty-three, David O'Brien, writing in Commonweal, called her 'the most significant, interesting, and influential person in the history of American Catholicism.' Such a statement is all the more extraordinary considering that it refers to someone who occupied no established position of authority, and whose views, after all, met with virtually universal rejection [by recognized authorities] throughout most of her career." [By Little and By Little. Robert Ellsberg. p.xvii.]

Saint. Crusader. Revolutionary. Peacemaker. She was called all of these things -- from all sides and from all persuasions. But if she was anything, Dorothy Day was authentic -- down to the core of her being. She knew that she was a child of God -- a bearer, in some mysterious way -- of the Divine image - and to embrace such an understanding, she believed, makes us all want to love more. In each and every encounter, as awkward and fragile as they might be, there is the strong possibility of engaging the presence of God. Thus, she was as comfortable sitting with the homeless in a shelter as she was arguing with the Cardinal over matters of polity and politics. Live into the fullness of your being and God will provide the next steps.

In Luke's narrative, we hear the story of Jesus performing another miracle -- this time raising a grieving mother's son from the dead. The crowd responds with awe and wonder -- he is now not only a teacher but a prophet -- one worthy of adoration, praise and obedience. Word of his skill makes its way throughout the community and the countryside. There had been similar demonstrations before this one and there would be others to follow. Signs and wonders to solidify the faithful and to convert the doubters. Not long from this moment, he would answer John's question with a verbal rehearsal of his behavior:

"Are you the one who is to come or shall we look for another?"
"Go and tell John what you have seen and heard ... the blind see, the
lame walk, lepers are made clean, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the poor are hearing the good news ... " All works of mercy to be sure; but also works of wonder. If the truth be known, it's easier to relate to the works of mercy -- which if Dorothy Day is correct -- can emerge from all of us -- as children of God, each uniquely bearing God's image -- it's easier to do that than live into the realm of signs and wonders, as extraordinary and impressive as they might be.

As church leaders, I'm afraid, we've decided to embrace the latter rather than the former -- signs and wonders become the instrument by which success in ministry, and even mission, will be gauged. While raising the dead and healing the sick may be beyond our capabilities, there are contemporary illustrations to be sure. A few examples -- the priest as entertainer, ring-master of a Sunday morning, choreographing the best show in town, making sure that the audience is well satisfied and pleased. A heavy dose of social awareness; a little light on the gospel -- just enough for flavoring. Marketing language and techniques often form the foundation upon which such a community is built. The pay-off can be considerable -- the crowds return, time and again, to receive a charge, a boost, from the signs and wonders.

Or there is the priest on the other end of the spectrum, whose sense of self can only be defined with terms such as importance and absorption. In attempting to be faithful, this leader has tragically taken on the burden of believing that people would not be there if he was not there. "I am the real reason they are here; without my presence, this community could not survive." And so, this priest moves from moment to moment, driven to produce the signs and wonders that he or she expects -- one more perfect sermon, one more pastoral call, one more meeting, one more building, one more committee, one more, one more, one more ... and the kingdom still waits for a chance in some far distant future.

We can produce the signs and wonders to please and draw the crowds. We can produce the signs and wonders to please ourselves. The first approach will work for a while but the day of reckoning will eventually arrive -- entertainment is simply that -- for the moment -- it never lasts and must be continually replenished. More importantly, it only gets you through the moment. At its core, and in theological perspective, entertaining does not prepare people for life -- especially the inevitable moments of pain, grief, and loss. The second approach is equally flawed for it will surely lead to burnout and exhaustion, eventually fueling feelings, within the leader, of anger, fear, and perhaps cynicism. Parker Palmer refers to this as a state of "functional atheism" -- when it all depends on me; there is no room for God.

The corrective may well be in looking again at a person like Dorothy Day. Her beginning point had to do with her own authentic sense of herself. In other words, she knew exactly who she was -- a child of God, created in God's image, and needing the support and love of others -- who also were the bearers of that same Divine Mystery. Perhaps that's not a small starting point in creating a model for church leadership -- mutual understanding and respect -- between leader and congregation; between congregation and neighborhood; even between leaders and other leaders. If we operate out of that understanding, then if she's right, it will make us love more. For her, the works of mercy were sufficient; better to leave the signs and wonders to a greater power. And the same is true for us.