May I ask you to begin this reflection for this day by thinking of the associations you have with the word “medieval”? Kathleen Norris in a recent book talked of her annoyance when people use the word medieval to mean “old-fashioned” or “narrow minded.” She says we could all benefit from a medieval view that sees poetry, religion, medicine and natural sciences as disciplines having more in common than not. She also says that the contemporary passion for polarizing people, putting them in tight categories, would strike the medieval mind as pathetic. She wonders if future generations will chastise us for using resources in so profligate a way that we negate the potential of a vast majority of the people of the world. In other words, she asks if there might be wisdom in asking that we become more medieval in our thinking, not less.

Ms. Norris might be pleased to see today’s bulletin and discover that we observe a feast that came to rise during the medieval age: Rogation Sunday. Rogation comes from the Latin “rogare” which means “to ask.” Rogation Days began in the early centuries of the church, borrowed from pagan customs of praying to the god who protected crops.

They grew through the medieval age to become days of fasting and prayer, asking for God’s blessing on the harvest. They included processions devoted to specific concerns about the work people were doing, like praying that cornfields be protected from mildew. They gained special urgency in one region that was troubled by earthquakes and volcanoes.

The tradition was picked up by the Church of England so that Rogation Days were observed with a procession around the perimeter of a parish, not the parish as the church grounds, but the parish as the whole neighborhood to be served by the church. This was called beating the bounds. People would walk around the boundaries of the parish, praying as they went, thanking God for the gift of the area, asking God to bless the work done there, claiming it for God.

It might be hard to relate to the idea of praying in this specific way—for instance, that a cornfield be preserved from mildew. But if we can all get a little medieval in our imagination, we can see that these days have a lot to teach us about putting faith to work in our lives, about what we do with what we’ve been given by God, about finding the strength to do that, doing what Jesus asked his disciples to do in today’s gospel, which is to abide in him and to bear fruit.

I found myself wondering what one of these processions would look like in midtown Manhattan. If we were led on a procession outside of this building, down the steps onto Park Avenue, it would be anything but narrow or parochial. It would quickly become clear that there was a lot of work to be done, a lot to give thanks for, a lot to pray for. We’d pass by many fields that would call for our prayers. There’s plenty for us to do. Many ways we can grow. And Lord knows we need God’s help to do it.

We would only be a couple steps outside the door, as the procession would take us past people who need food and shelter, who need to hear the good news of Jesus shared with them not so much in word but in action. We would give thanks for those people, not for their difficult station in life, but for the gift they are to us as God’s children, and as the presence of Christ. We would pray for ways to continue to help them, in word and action as this community has been doing for so many years.

As our procession moved on past office buildings, we’d find great fields in which to work. Offices filled with people who may look like they have it all together, but whose hearts are breaking, people who seek a deeper meaning in their lives. People who have been bruised by encounters with religion. Folks who need to know that it’s okay to ask questions in church. We would give thanks for them, and for how many of them are joining us for worship, seekers and believers. We’d ask for grace to be their servants and friends.

Our procession would take us all over this city, to neighborhoods that reflect the diversity of our city, a city for which we give thanks, because in its diversity it reflects the kingdom of God. But we would also have to pray for a city with needs for healing of those things that divide us, so that what happens to Amadou Diallo and to Abner Louima happens to all of us.

We might cross the city’s bridges on this procession, and as we looked at the rivers that surround us, and did our best to breathe that air, we’d give thanks for the beauty of creation, which impresses us even when we’re surrounded by concrete. Karl Barth, the great Swiss theologian, came to visit New York in the 60’s. His hosts asked him what impressed him most about the city. He craned his neck, his hosts thought he was marveling at the skyscraper, sand he answered, “The clouds.”

We give thanks for God’s creation. That’s clear in our hymns this morning. And we pray for what we are doing with the creation God has given us, and given to the generations to come.

And as we moved on this procession beyond city limits, we’d see that St. Bartholomew’s has a metropolitan ministry of invitation, marked by the gift God has given us in this special place which we call the crossroads. We’d keep walking and because of our global family, the world wide web which God has allowed us to imagine and create, we are tied to the whole world, so that what happens in Oklahoma or Colorado or Kosovo is in some way within our parish bounds.

God has given us, and is calling us, to a big ministry. A ministry that begins on our doorsteps, moves throughout this city, winds throughout the world, a ministry of hospitality and welcome to the poor, to the broken-hearted, to the skeptics. How will we do this ministry that is before us? Does it sound like too long a procession? Too much to do? How do we find the power to make this garden grow? We can learn a couple things from these medieval rogation processions.

First of all, these processions are about giving thanks. One of the reasons we hold onto them in our tradition, even though we’re far removed from cornfields plagued by mildew, is that they remind us to give thanks for creation, for all that we’ve been given. That’s why the consistent theme of today’s hymns celebrates the beauty of creation, as a gift from God. When we sing these hymns in praise of creation, they remind us that the world in which we work is a grace. They remind us to give thanks.

We abide in Christ, we abide in God’s love as we remember to give thanks. That’s what we do each week when we gather for Eucharist. That’s why we say worship is at the center. We can only do the work before us if we begin by saying thanks.

These rogation processions were also about offering what we’ve been given back to God, committing that field of endeavor to God. That’s another thing we do in the Eucharist each week, take what God has given us and offer it back to God, to be used by God.

Finally, Rogation Days remind us that to do the work that we are called to do, we need God’s help. As I mentioned earlier, Rogation Days grew in significance when times got tough, when people faced the life threatening and mystifying power of earthquakes and volcanoes. For all the advances in science and learning since that time, we still face that awesome, awful mystery, as we saw when storms barreled through the Midwest this week. It was a great irony to be focusing on praise of creation and then to consider those photos, graphic illustrations of the randomness of suburban subdivisions completely obliterated.

Heather Dawkins, a 27-year-old mother of three who lives in Oklahoma, talked to a reporter as she stood in what had been her home and looked at the blue sky where there had been a roof. She said the storm that ripped through her home and took all her possessions had not taken away her faith. She said: “I can look at this and still have a smile on my face, because I know who’s in control of things even when a whole town gets blown away.”

I don’t know if I could say what she said, and I don’t think I’d ever tell anyone in her spot that that’s how she should feel. If she asked me why that had happened, I’d say I have no idea. But she is a powerful witness on a Rogation Day because she points to a confidence in a greater power. She looks to that power for help. Rogation days do not just celebrate the beauty of God’s creation. They are there to remind us that we live in face of powers greater than ourselves.

We may or may not have ever been victim of a tornado, but we have each been victims of storms that have blown through our personal lives. They remind us that we live in the presence of mystery. They remind us to ask for help from a power greater than ourselves. They remind us that God is there for us in it and through it. It is something the disciples needed to hear as Jesus spoke to them in today’s gospel, as he told them he was going away, as he was headed for the cross, as he told them to abide in him, to stay connected. We need to hear it as

I recently heard about a nun teaching a dozen three-year-olds in a Chicago inner city school. It was the first week of pre-school and the children were bouncing off the walls. The nun said, “Children,” and she put her hands together in prayer. “Children, sit down and find your power.” Two or three kids understood immediately, sat down and put their hands together. The others still raced around the room. The nun repeated the request. Several other children sat down and gradually even the most unruly children began to sit with their hands in front of them. Finally the room was silent. The stillness was something many of those kids had rarely experienced before. Then with the room quiet, the nun began to teach them the alphabet.

This Chicago teacher presents a parable for our own lives, which may seem as frenzied as those three-year-olds. Finding our power is something we need to do in our own journeys of faith. It is something we need to do together as a community. It is something that we can learn about by thinking about translating this medieval custom into our own lives.

How can we make that translation? Rogation Days remind us that only a small part of what we are called to do as people of faith takes place in a church building. Most of it will take place out in the world, where the church can be reminded that all of creation belongs to God. It can all be the place where God’s work is done. It comes to us as a gift to be used. And we need God’s strength to do it.

So let me make this medieval and parochial suggestion, once we have imagined this rogation procession. Rest assured we do not plan to make you march in the city streets today. But actually, every week we ask ourselves to do something like it. At the end of each Eucharist, we ask God to send us into the world in peace, to love and serve with gladness and singleness of heart. That sounds a lot like a rogation procession.

As we leave this place today, what would it take to envision our own journeys as something like these processions? What would it take to go from this place into the world that God sends us in a spirit that remembers to give thanks for all God’s gifts, in a spirit that says what we have can be used by God, in a spirit that asks for God’s help?

What would it take to go to work tomorrow, or to begin the week in your home, your neighborhood, seeing it as a place where God is at work, asking for God’s help in helping that garden grow? What would it take to move forward and outward in celebration of God’s gift, even in the face of storms?

If we can do that, we’ve made a medieval and parochial practice bloom and grow, in ways that are expansive and filled with hope for each of our lives, and for our lives together.

  © 1999 by St. Bartholomew’s Church in the City of New York.

For information about St. Bartholomew’s and its life of faith and mission at an important American crossroads at Park Avenue and 51st Street, write to the parish office, 109 East 50th Street, New York, New York 10022, or call 212/378-0201.