May 5th … You did not choose me… but…
One of the many security tests Jeanine and I encountered on our trip to the States was that we had our fingerprints taken, both going in and leaving the country.
We were tired, jet-lagged, bemused and fraught by it all, but we were not going to argue with the really big guys with the really big shiny badges and the really big guns. Oh no sireee! We swiftly did as we were told and looked forward to that moment when we made our way to the luggage carousel, then to Jacky and David, then to a taxi and then to a shower.
I offer this little memory because it should remind us that each and every one of us is completely unique. No two people have exactly the same fingerprints. No one has exactly the same set of fingerprints as you and some really clever people could probably use other body bits and pieces to make the same scientifically provable fact. It is also true that no one else has exactly the same set of memories and combinations of perceptions as you. You are marvellously unique and that is a wonderful and exciting reality to try and hold onto and get your head around … if you can.
That's the good news.
The flip side of this glorious truth is God knows your blueprint. He designed it specifically and he knows your every wrinkle, your every gift, your every flaw, and he knows exactly what you are really, really good at and what you enjoy.
This means that he will specifically choose you, has specifically chosen you for this particular point in history in this particular place to do some particular work.
Hence the haunting line “You did not choose me … but I chose you” from the gospel today.
Clergy I am first to admit, are particularly good at kidding themselves that God has chosen them to do fantastic wonderful whizz bang sparkly things and to go to the plum parish St. Swithens in the bog.
If only they knew.
God always takes the initiative, God always does the calling and sometimes we discover to our dismay that it is not altogether to our liking.
I could point you to any number of your favourite biblical characters who found themselves called by God to a position that they did not want, or like, or ask for.
Consider the Blessed Virgin Mary who did not send a welcome email to the Archangel Gabrielle to apply for the job.
Or Joseph who had to spend some time in Pharaoh's prison wrongly accused of an improper relationship with Pharaoh's wife. Or Moses, or the disciples.. and you can probably think of lots of others.
But what about a modern-day 21st-century example?
Glad you asked.
Bishop John Stewart was Bishop of the Eastern Region of Melbourne. One of his roles was to attract vital, young, intelligent, witty, geeky, holy clergy to the Eastern parishes of Melbourne. Not an altogether easy role but there you have it.
Perhaps as a sweetener to this role or perhaps to raise his blood pressure even further, Bishop John was given the role of administrator of the diocese. Ah, now here is a better gig. You simply step into the Archbishop's role whilst he’s on holiday or in Lambeth or whatever it is that Archbishops do when they are not in the office and, maybe flex a bit of muscle, send out for pizza for the office staff and anything too thorny you say ‘Thats an archbishop's decision and you’ll have to wait until they return from the Bahamas.’
Bishop John was doing a fine job as administrator in October 1989 when Archbishop David Penman was on leave. All was going swimmingly well when Archbishop David died just as arrangements were being made for a heart transplant.
All of sudden Bishop John is ‘It’. For an unknown period of time he’s now Number One and all of a sudden the job isn’t so much fun any more. You can’t just go down to the local supermarket and see which Archbishop is on special this week. This process takes time and no one knew it better than Bishop John.
Bishop Johns's fervent prayer as he entered the office each day was a simple and profound prayer and one that I am tempted to offer from time to time.
“Dear God, please don’t let anything happen today.”
It was years later that I got to know Him better. He and his Janine had a holiday house to the north of St. John’s Soldiers Hill and whenever he was there for the weekend he would graciously come and preach for me. A different flavour, a different voice and fresh sparkling insight. He was a treasure and would take me out to ridiculously long lunches and enlighten me with hysterical tales of recalcitrant clergy the names of which for some reason I cannot now remember. We were just what each of us needed at that point in time, in that place, each with our own particular talent for chattering and listening. Bishop John needed to savour his stories and reminisce. I needed to learn what not to do… again! Each of us, with our own frailties and foibles.
I’m typing this within 24 hours of learning of his death. The fruit of his conversations are made all the more likeable because of the fruit of the vine is still abiding and still lasts and will continue to abide, until I see Him again.
You did not choose me … no I chose you and commanded you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.