The senior sermon of Roger Joslin, Class of 2005 from the Diocese of Arkansas, given on March 31, 2005 in Christ Chapel

Gospel Luke 24: 36b-48

The altar where Dave Darce' celebrated the beginning of each work day was hand crafted of flawlessly sanded, blemish free, hard rock maple. Stripped of the accomplishments of yesterday's work, its smooth surface had been laid bare, awaiting the new day's tasks. With a long exhale of the smoke from the early morning's last Marlboro, he censed the workbench and the liturgy began. Without a wasted motion, his whetstone sharpened chisels lifted onionskin layers of oak and mahogany as he carved mortises, shouldered tenons, and crisply chamfered edges.

Thomas Carlisle one wrote, "Blessed is the man that has found his work, let him ask no other blessededness." Dave, a master woodworker, was one of those fortunate people that had found their work. Yet, had his disciples, the apprentices that watched him ply his trade, ever doubted his humanity, they would have lost those illusions quickly. His wickedly sharp tongue, his impatience with those less skilled than he, his long Saturday nights of bowling and boozing, or his penchant for "the ladies" -- gave substance to the recognition that he was "flesh and bone." He knew God doesn't ask us to be perfect, just perfectly human.

But at the workbench, he might have been mistaken for a ghost. He moved with uncommon grace and dexterity -- pulling a draw knife or pushing a plane, as deftly as chalice and paten. I often thought that to watch Dave work was to watch a man in prayer. Early in our relationship, as his boss, I tried to rush him, but he wouldn't be hurried. I had failed to grasp what Dave intuitively knew, a day's work could not be measured by the amount of sawdust on the floor. Scurrying about, meant nothing. It was attention to the work itself, not a focus on the outcome that determined a day well spent. Over the years we paneled the walls of corporate boardrooms with exotic hardwoods, we adorned the offices of lawyers and lawmakers with power enhancing desks, and we stroked the egos of aspiring politicians, high-tech moguls, and greedy developers with gleaming 30 ft. long boardroom tables. In the shop, amidst the sawdust and the sweat of those engaged in honest work, could be heard the customer's names: Motorola, Dell, IBM, Enron, the United States Mint, the Texas Legislature and, God forgive me, Karl Rove and the Bush campaign.

I was caught up in their ambition, Dave's calling was higher -- he was about the work. The verity of that observation became crystal clear a few years later, when having overreached in a declining economy, I was forced to close the doors to the business.

I went to work for a wiser, and more prudent, competitor. Dave, set up a small shop on his own and I was able to send him business from time to time. One day I received a call from an old friend, an Episcopal priest with a exceptionally unique project in mind. It seems that an Episcopal church in Corpus Christi, Texas had planned to build a labyrinth entirely in wood. The project had been long in the making -- garnering support from the congregation, raising money, determining its feasibility and finding the just the right person -- someone with the skill and passion to accomplish this mission. In the midst of their planning, a tragic event took place. The woodworker that had been commissioned to build the labyrinth had been killed in a car wreck. All involved were shaken by the irony of this occurrence, but the difficult decision was made to go ahead with the project, if they could find someone else capable of doing the work. As my friend Lynn described the task, I could clearly see the possibilities and perils of the undertaking. Maple and walnut were the obvious species, domestic hardwoods with the durability necessary for flooring and with sharply contrasting colors so that the path of the labyrinth would be clearly revealed. I immediately understood the complexity of precisely cutting thousands of pieces of irregularly shaped curved components, every edge machined with a tongue or a groove, so that it fit precisely into the adjacent piece, forming a spiraling path, ultimately leading to the labyrinth's heart. I also was instantly aware that it was Dave Darce's destiny to be offered the challenge.

I assured Lynn that Dave was one of a handful of people in the country capable of doing this work. A series of meetings was arranged and eventually Dave accepted the commission and immersed himself into the venture. As I observed the multifaceted design develop, as I watched Dave do the shop drawings and build the jigs, fixtures, and templates required to do such intricate and precise wood working, I saw a man on a mission. The enormity of the task was only fully revealed as it unfolded. Dave brought to this work the same presence of mind he had always brought to his vocation, but (and perhaps I only imagined it), he now seemed to operate on a higher plane, living into the work as never before, working not only with his hands, but with his heart. Day after day he toiled in his small shop. Stacks of maple and walnut parts accumulated. The summer's heat turned to winter's chill and Dave methodically machined, trimmed, and carefully fit -- part after part. Pilgrimages were made to Corpus Christi -- that Texas city by the sea -- bearing the name of the body of Christ -- to lay the parts out on the concrete floor, insuring that this giant puzzle would ultimately be solved.

But all wasn't well. The work was taking longer than had been planned. Deadlines were being missed. Congregants were growing anxious. But through it all, Dave worked. Clergy and staff scurried about, fretting. Dave breathed deeply, and tapped each individual piece into place, ensuring a perfect fit. The date for the opening and dedication was nearing. A chorus in the background cried, "The Bishop is coming, the Bishop is coming." Dave moved at the pace the work required and asked innocently, "What's with you guys and Bishops?"

Eventually, however, it became apparent to Dave himself that the work was taking too long. He had initially thought that it was the long hours of working with his hands that was causing the numbness, but when he began to fumble with his tools and loose his grip he went to the doctor. After a series of tests and missed diagnoses, the truth was revealed, "Dave had ALS, Lou Gehrig's Disease" -- a progressive neuromuscular ailment that weakens and eventually destroys motor neurons. In Dave's case, the disease first weakened and then disabled his left hand. Dave thought this rather fortunate, since he was right handed, he could still work.

Friends, family members, and fellow woodworkers pitched in to help, but the bulk of the work remained his. Troubled, sometimes angry at a profit driven medical care system that allows the underinsured to suffer and die, Dave continued to do the work he was called to do, until it was, finally, complete. The labyrinth was, and is, a singular work of art. Few could have accomplished it. Yet Dave had no high minded, sweetly spiritual conception of what his mission was about. He had been given important work to do and he built the labyrinth with the same sense of presence he brought to building a bird house. At the dedication, people walked the labyrinth, many in tears. Lives were changed through an encounter with the Divine along the labyrinths maple path. I overheard a deeply moved parishioner tell Dave about the way in which God had spoken to him as he followed the labyrinth's winding course. In his typically grounded manner, Dave responded, "Hmm…when I walk the labyrinth, I'm listenin' for squeaks."

The work completed, Dave eventually lost the use of both hands, his feet, then his lungs, and he was soon dead. There seems to be sense of paradox in Dave's story. Here is a man finally using his unique gifts for a "holy purpose" -- doing "the Lord's work" and in the midst of that work, he is struck down, loses the use of the hands that defined him, suffered and died. Hardly a resurrection story or a suitable Easter message.

Unless, that is, we move beyond defining ourselves as Christians who only celebrate the resurrection once a year. Resurrection doesn't just occur on Easter morning. The opportunity for resurrection presents itself with each day break. Easter Day doesn't just happen on the first Sunday after the full moon that falls on or after March 21st. It happenings when we wake up to our calling. It happens every morning when we engage our hearts, our minds, our hands, our feet in the work we are called to do. When we can bring to our work the presence of being, brought by a master woodworker, we know about resurrection. We walk -- with the flesh and bones of our legs and feet -- in the shadow of the cross - we don't simply bask in the glory of the resurrection.

Everyday, Christ shows us his hands and his feet, lets us know that he is flesh and bone, and asks us for something to eat. Our salvation, our resurrection, depends on how we respond to that plea. We have been chosen to do very special work. We have been given the chance to do it. If we find ourselves lucky enough to be doing the work we are called to do, we must do it with our whole being.

Among the atrocities that came to light during the hearings of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission was the story of a mother whose son had been arrested for subversive activities aimed at the overthrow of the apartheid government. The mother had learned that her son's hands were being kept in a bottle on the police captain's desk. It seems that prior to his execution, so that his body could not later be identified, the son's hands were cut off. The police captain wished to be able to "display the hands of a criminal". The mother, in anguish, pleaded with the commission, "Give me back my son's hands, so that at least I can bury them."

I am compelled to ask, "Is the work of our hands such a threat to the established order, that they would serve as a suitable trophy on the desk of the authorities?" Are our hands and feet of such service to God's Kingdom, that it would be in the interests of the present kingdom to cut them off? We must remember that just because it is the work that we are supposed to be doing, just because it is God's work, doesn't mean it won't be filled with pain, anxiety, hardship, and end in death. Would that we were so engaged in the work we were chosen to do that our mothers were compelled to plea, "Give me back my son's or my daughter's hands, so that I might bury them?"