SUNDAY MORNING: REFLECTIONS ON GEORGE HERBERT’S “AARON”
Photo from Unsplash.
“Death used to be an executioner, but the gospel has made him just a gardner [sic].” It’s little gems like this that make me such a fan of George Herbert. Writing in the early 1600’s, he was an Anglican priest to a small rural parish outside Salisbury, England. What I love about his writing is that even though he lived over 400 years ago, his experience of ministry, of the love of God, and of his parishioners feels very familiar to my 21st century ears. The poem “Aaron” is an example of the timelessness of his writing and of our shared reality as clergy.
Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed.
On any given Sunday, during that liminal time while the congregation is still singing the opening hymn and before I begin the opening prayer, I take a moment to pray in front of the altar to ready myself to celebrate the liturgy. I ask God for guidance to lead the people gathered in a meaningful time of praise. I get excited wondering what the Holy Spirit has in store for the morning. Sometimes, when there are several verses left in the hymn and my mind can wander, I think about Aaron, Moses’ older brother and God’s first priest. I think about the long lineage of priests who came before me. It gives me strength. It also makes me smile because as I picture the long line of clergy throughout history they are all men—men who would probably not be happy I am standing there, dressed like them but with earrings and pink manicured fingernails. And I think, “Hello, boys! Here we go!” Thus are true Aarons dressed.
There are so many wonder filled moments in the liturgy. Brief moments of tension wondering if the lector showed up to read the lessons and relief when they stand and make their way to the lectern. Saying the beautiful and ancient words of the Creed and praying for the vastness of humanity in the Prayers of the People. The kids in children’s church come running back into the nave to find their parents, waving whatever craft they made that connects their story with Jesus’ story.
I cherish saying the Eucharist. As Episcopalians our heritage is Elizabethan with its soaring language. Even with a 1979 version, often the words we use are unlike words we use in our everyday conversation: “joining our voices with angels and archangels,” “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving”, “the innumerable benefits procured unto us by the same”. Delectable. The words feel good in my mouth.
I let the music, beauty, warmth, and comfort of the liturgy surround me like my favorite old flannel shirt. Thus are true Aarons dressed.
Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest, thus am I dressed.
There is one moment in the Eucharist, however, that I dread. It is a weird, quirky thing and I don’t know if any other priests feel this way. I have always hated the moment during the Eucharist when I lift the chalice and say, “This is my blood of the New Covenant…” It isn’t that I don’t like the words or question the power of what is happening in that moment.
When I lift a silver chalice I can see a distorted, freakish, fun-house-mirror version of my face.
It is disconcerting, and somehow terribly vulnerable. In that moment when I see my warped face, I feel like the whole congregation can see the Truth about me; grotesque, corrupt, base. It was Aaron, after all, who made the golden calf at Mount Sinai. Faithless. With this aberrant reflection in the polished silver I see all of my flaws on display like a carnival side show. Poor priest, thus am I dressed.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast...
Yet then, in the very next moment, the real joy of my job comes. I have the hallowed privilege of distributing the body and blood of Christ to the true priests of the church. I get to see up close the beautiful faces and hands of Christ in the world. What is so thrilling for me is how different Christ’s hands can look—all of them finding their own way in the world, serving God as best they can.
Hands cupped together reaching out to receive the outward and visible sign: wrinkled and shaky, tiny and new, tan and calloused, missing a finger, boney, fat, colored with markers from Sunday school or a stamp from a bar they were in the night before. Scarred from self-inflicted pain, wedding ring, sticky with jelly, tattoos, painted fingernails and fingernails with dirt and grease caked under them. Hands that are so new to the world they stay in a tight fist, ready to take on the world; hands steady and strong and steeped in life, and hands that are almost done with their work in this world, thin, ghostly, fragile.
As I place the bread in their hands I try to lock eyes with them, just for a moment.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast…
I see in their eyes the redemption, grace, and kindness of Christ. This body, this blood that we share together, that dwells within each of us connects and heals us and we are made one Body.
The closing hymn begins, I gather my things and my thoughts to process out, shake hands, chat during coffee hour and head home for lunch and a nap. The post church nap is the sweetest nap there is. As I change out of my slightly uncomfortable, cute yet sensible shoes, black clergy shirt and white collar to get into my comfies I smile and think about the morning.
So, holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tun'd by Christ (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest),
Come people; Aaron's drest.
