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Baccalaureate Address – Sense(s) and Sensibility
Sayre School, May 26, 2010
Look. Look around you. We are gathered here together as part of something called the
Baccalaureate Service: this service derives from the medieval European custom of presenting
the candidates for the degree of Bachelor (bacca) with laurels (lauri) of oration – reaching back
into the classical times of Greece and Rome when the great thinkers, musicians and athletes
were given crowns of laurel leaves in honor of Apollo and Daphne. The Baccalaureate ceremony
is a service of worship in celebration of lives dedicated to learning and wisdom. The first one
was at Oxford University in the early 1400s. In the medieval university, each graduate was
required to deliver a sermon in Latin as part of the final academic requirements – but we won’t
be asking that of you today. So, look at this strange clothing that makes us look so different:
academic regalia generally consists of a gown (also known as a robe) with a separate hood, and
usually a cap (generally either a mortarboard, a tam, or a bonnet). First created to differentiate
students of a college from those of a grammar school, the academic gown became a symbol
bestowed only upon those deserving it by academic progress and moral character. In many
ancient universities in Europe today it is worn on a daily basis. The University of the South, a
student organization called the Order of Gownsmen still wear their gowns every day. At
Sewanee, they believe that the wearing of the gown should not be seen as a form of arrogance
or of intellectual snobbery, but rather as a sign of achievement, a responsibility to the traditions
of the past and a promise to the continuance of their ideals. Upon graduation, all students are
gownsmen; and when you wear the gown this Saturday, it is a pledge to continue in your
lifelong academic leadership, community awareness and moral accountability.
Listen, O My Best Beloved. Listen, and I will tell you a story
about the power of words, the beauty of giving of one’s self
to others in need and the interconnectedness of us all. This
is a story handed down through the generations from
mother to daughter and finally written down in a book,
Gittel’s Hands, by Erica Silverman.
“Long ago, there was a man known as Yakov the
water carrier. He lived with his daughter, Gittel, in a little
house in a small village at the foot of the Carpathian
Mountains. Yakov loved to talk, and Gittel, being a good
daughter, knew how to listen. She listened as she cooked
and baked, embroidered and sewed. Gittel was always
working with her hands. From rags and scraps, she made toys for the orphans and scarves for
the beggars.
“Everything Gittel did was a wonder in her father’s eyes. Yakov the water carrier
boasted and bragged about her to everyone he met. “My daughter made me a prayer shawl
good enough for Elijah the prophet!” Yakov told the shoemaker. Gittel blushed. “It’s a plain
prayer shawl, Papa,” she said quietly. He greeted the rabbi’s wife. “Have you seen the work of
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my Gittel’s hands?” Gittel whispered, “Papa, please.” Yakove raised his voice, “Her
candlesticks are like nothing you’ve ever seen!” “Such talk!” The rabbi’s wife wrinkled her
brow. “Be careful with your words, Reb Yakov. Don’t you know that boasting brings bad luck?”
The rabbi’s wife wagged a finger in warning. “Words like that once spoken are like little
mischievous devils. They dance around. They cause all kinds of trouble.” Yakov laughed. “Such
foolishness! I am not afraid of words.”
“That year, winter lingered. Snow clung to the ground even as Gittel began to prepare
for the spring holiday of Passover. Shivering beneath her shawl, she scrubbed the special plates
and utensils used only during Passover. She prepared dough for matzo and brought it to the
baker’s oven in the village. One day she was embroidering a matzo cover when her father came
home for his midday meal. “The winter’s hay is gone,” he said sadly. “And the hay merchant
demands that I pay him the forty rubles I still owe.” Gittel asked, “Couldn’t we pay him in some
other way? The apple vendor once paid you with apples.” Her eyes searched the sparsely
furnished room. Yakov hung his head. “What do I have that Reb Raya would want?” Suddenly
his eyes lit up. “Child, come with me.”
“Yakov harnessed his horse to the wagon and took Gittel to the grand home of Reb
Raya, the hay merchant. “Be silent,” he commanded. “Let me do the talking.” Reb Raya
opened the door. “Good day, Reb Raya,” said Yakov. “When you see the magnificent work of
my daughter’s hands, you will be pleased to have her sew for you. In this way will we pay for
our hay.” Reb Raya replied, “I employ the services of a superior seamstress.” “But Gittle is
even better,” insisted Yakov. “From nothing more than an old rag and a piece of thread, she
can embroider a perfect matzo cover.” Gittel tugged at her father’s sleeve. She knew that
words, once spoken are like little mischievous devils – they dance around – they cause all kinds
of trouble. “Better?” said the hay merchant. “If what you say is true, your daughter can
certainly work for me. If not, I will take your water barrel. That will pay for some of my hay.”
“Reb Raya led Gittel to the parlor. He gave her a piece of cloth and a spool of thread. “I
will return in one hour.” Gittel pleaded, “Please, may I have a needle for sewing?” “Your father
said nothing of needles,” he replied. And he locked the door. Gittel searched the parlor, but
she could not find a sewing needle anywhere. The sound of wings flapping frantically inside the
chimney startled her. Looking up the flue, she saw a trapped dove. She reached in and very
gently pulled it out. Trembling, the dove nipped at its oily feathers. “Little dove,” said Gittel, “I
cannot make a matzo cover without a needle, but at least I can help you.” And she wiped its
feathers clean of soot and ash. Then she held open a window, and as she watched the dove fly
off, she thought she saw something moving in the courtyard. “Who is out there?” she
wondered.
“Suddenly the parlor door opened. In strode Reb Raya, followed by Yakov. “Aha! Just as
I thought,” said Reb Raya. “There is no matzo cover! The barrel is now mine.” “How can this
be?” Yakov cried. “Papa, let me explain!” pleaded Gittel. “Sha! Be silent!” said Yakov. “I will
take care of this.” He turned to Reb Raya. “Never mind the sewing. My daughter can cook!”
Reb Raya rolled his eyes. “I have the best cook in town.” ‘Gittel is better,” insisted Yakov.
“From a few table scraps, she can prepare a holiday feast!” Gittel tapped her father’s shoulder.
“Papa…” she whispered. But words once spoken are like little mischievous devils. They dance
around. They cause all kinds of trouble. “If she cannot do as you say, I will take your wagon.
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That will pay for some of my hay.” In the kitchen, Reb Raya gave Gittel one egg, a half cup of
milk, and a small chunk of cheese. “I will return in one hour.” “Please, may I have firewood for
cooking?” asked Gittel. “Your father said nothing of wood.” And he locked the door. Searching
for firewood, Gittel heard a whimpering noise. A cat, thin as a stick, climbed onto the window
ledge. “Little cat, I cannot cook without firewood,” she said. “But at least I can feed you.” She
set the cheese, the milk, and the egg before the cat and watched it eat. From somewhere
outside, Gittel heard footsteps. “Someone is out there,” she said to the cat. The cat blinked its
green eyes at her.
“Just then the door opened. In strode Reb Raya, followed by Yakov. “Just as I thought!”
said the hay merchant. “The wagon is mine!” Yakov ran after him. “Please, give us one more
chance.” “Papa, I must explain,” said Gittel. “It is time for you to be silent.” Yakov turned to
Reb Raya. “Perhaps the cooking did not go well. But my Gittel makes cups and plates and
candlesticks. In fact, she could even make a silver Elijah’s cup if she had some silver!” “Papa,
please,” murmured Gittel. But words once spoken are like little mischievous devils. They dance
around. They cause all kinds of trouble. “Fine,” said Reb Raya quickly. “If she can do as you
say, she may work for me. If not, your horse will be mine. And my hay will be paid for.” Reb
Raya led Gittel to the cellar and handed her a silver coin. “You have until the sun sets.” Gittel
paced back and forth. “Without his wagon, his barrel, and his horse, my father will have
nothing. If only I could help him…” She stared out the window.
“Suddenly from out of the shadows of the courtyard stepped an old beggar, shivering
with cold. “I can’t seem to help my father,” said Gittel, “but at least this might give you
warmth.” And she offered him her shawl. The beggar took it. Then with a wave of his hand…
he was standing before her in the cellar. The green-eyed cat circled his feet. On his shoulder
perched the dove. Suddenly a workbench appeared – and tools – and bars of pure silver.
Flames flickered in the hearth. Outside, the sun stopped in its path. The beggar showed Gittel
how to make candlesticks and plates. And he watched in silent approval as she made a graceful
Elijah’s cup. The beggar looked deeply into Gittel’s eyes. Never had she seen such compassion.
And she knew then that she stood before Elijah the prophet, a loving spirit who helps kindhearted people especially in time of trouble. She trembled. “How can I ever thank you?” she
whispered. Elijah smiled. “With the work of your hands, with the goodness of your heart, and
with the wisdom of your words.” Then he disappeared. Where he had stood, the air still
shimmered. In the hearth lay one silver coin.
“Outside, the sun sank behind the hills. The cellar door opened. In strode Reb Raya,
followed by Yakov. Reb Raya’s eyes opened wide when he saw the beautiful things she had
made, and Yakov boasted: “I told you she’s capable. Why my daughter can –“ “Your daughter
can work for me,” said Reb Raya. “Starting today! She will make silver goods, and I will sell
them.” He held out his hand. The water carrier reached to shake it. “My daughter will be
happy to work for you!” “Papa, stop!” cried Gittel. And she stepped between them. “I have
listened well. Now, with your permission, I will speak.” The water carrier stared at his
daughter. “Because I had neither needle for sewing nor firewood for cooking,” said Gittel, “this
man cheated you out of your barrel and your wagon. I could never work for him.” She
gathered up all that she had made and headed outside. Yakov followed. “Wait, please!” The
hay merchant ran after them. “You can have your barrel and your wagon. And here is some hay
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for your horse.” He added, “My dear Reb Yakov, you are the girl’s father. Tell her she must
work for me.” Yakov smiled proudly. “My daughter speaks for herself,” he replied. “And she
does it better than anyone else.”
“From that time forth, people came from miles around to admire the work of Gittel’s
hands. They bought her finely wrought candlesticks, her intricate places and especially her
graceful Elijah’s cups. It was whispered that Elijah himself had been her teacher. But don’t you
repeat it. For words once spoken are like little mischievous devils. They dance around. They
cause all kinds of trouble.”
********~~~~********
Stories have the power to fill our lives with moments of great
pleasure and deep meaning. They connect us to ourselves and
to the world outside ourselves. Now I ask you to consider a
time when you may have boasted about something, or started
or heard a rumor that ended up causing trouble. Certainly this
conjures in your memory a negative emotion, and not
something you want to take with you for very long in life. So,
humor me. Close your eyes and imagine now the rich, thick smell of late spring in Kentucky - in
the early morning - a few minutes before dawn. Smell it? Perhaps you’ve not been there, but
go with me as I climb the paddock fence and walk out into the fields looking for our Jersey cow
to milk. The other cows are lowing gently to their calves, and just as the sun begins to rise, I
reach the pond. There I see the water lilies begin to open. Ah, the lotus. Pure, eternal, calm
and immortal, the Lotus is regarded as the “emperor of all flowers,” even in a muddy Kentucky
pond, it is a signature of peace and prosperity. The scent of the lotus has a rich, intoxicating
quality that evoke the warm, misty, and voluptuous atmosphere of some tropical forest or
ancient Indian gardens. It has an almost hypnotic effect on the senses, transporting us beyond
the realm of worry and fear. Lotus fragrances and essence of lotus oils are used by spiritual
women like my daughter Rudo in rectifying negative emotions and transforming them into
positive waves. Buddha was said to sleep on a lotus six months of the year, and Shambala
(Buddhist heaven) is sometimes represented as a field of flowering sacred lotuses. The idea of
Buddhist enlightenment is symbolized by the life cycle of the sacred lotus plant because it
begins its life humbly in the mud of ponds but soon grows and sends stems and flowers well
above the surface of the water, thus showing the path of spiritual enfoldment. The roots of a
lotus are in the mud, the stem grows up through the water, and the heavily scented flower lies
pristinely above the water, basking in the sunlight. This pattern of growth signifies the progress
of the soul from the primeval mud of materialism, through the waters of experience, and into
the bright sunshine of enlightenment. According to the Lalitavistara, a Sanskrit Buddhist text of
great importance, “The spirit of the best of men is spotless, like the lotus in the muddy water
which does not adhere to it.”
The image of Buddha seated upon an opened lotus flower represents Buddha's mastery
over the intellectual and philosophic world. Now the fourth largest world religion, Buddhism
was founded by an Indian prince named Siddharta Gautama around the year 500 BCE. Shocked
and distressed at the suffering in the world, the prince left his family to seek enlightenment.
After a long journey and many trials, Gautama sat beneath a tree and vowed not to move until
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he had attained enlightenment. Days later, he arose as the Buddha - the "enlightened one." He
spent the remaining 45 years of his life teaching the path to liberation from suffering (the
dharma) and establishing a community of monks. In the earliest centuries of Buddhism, images
symbolizing the Buddha and his teachings, such as the lotus. Hand gestures or mudras are used
in ritual meditation, especially in Tibetan Buddhism, to generate forces that invoke a particular
form of Buddha. One you might recognize is Dharmachakra, which in Sanskrit means 'Wheel of
Dharma'. This mudra symbolizes one of the most important moments in the life of Buddha, the
occasion when he preached to his companions the first sermon after his Enlightenment in the
Deer Park at Sarnath. This event is often referred to as the setting into motion of the Wheel of
the teaching of the Dharma.
In this mudra the thumb and index finger of both hands touch at their tips to form
a circle and the three remaining fingers of the two hands remain extended. Try it
yourself. This circle represents the Wheel of Dharma, or in metaphysical terms,
the union of method and wisdom. Put your hands near your heart. This
symbolizes that these teachings are straight from the Buddha's heart. Expressions of the mudra
help human beings overcome the Three Delusions:
1. Ignorance
2. Desire
3. Anger or hatred
Thus, by performing this gesture properly during a ritual meditation one can learn to bring
about a self-transformation, removing from oneself the Delusion of ignorance and transitioning
into the wisdom of reality.
For indeed, it is you who must bring about your own transition from high school to
college and career. It is you who must, even now – try it – Taste the spicy sweetness of
success. Can you taste it? You’ve finished high school and it should taste sweet with just the
right balance of spices and herbs to make it interesting and delicious to
contemplate. Or maybe your taste of success is bitter in someone else’s
mouth? Who can be sure? Either way, just a taste for now – since this is
not graduation, just the baccalaureate service. Like the devout Muslim
fasting and meditating during Ramadan, you are sitting here seemingly
passive but actively listening … focusing inward and tasting this sweet
moment of having finished something momentous.
When my daughter Eliana participated in a celebration of high school graduates at our
church, she chose to read a poem by Li-Young Lee. The members of Christ Church Cathedral
found her reading of this poem “From Blossoms” particularly poignant, and I share it with you
as we contemplate the meanings inherent to our sense of taste:
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
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From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere in the background, from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
So, now, as you participate in this communal effort, this gathering of your classmates and
parents, you have the luxury of time right now to think on the unnaturalness of duality in spirit
and body – of the intermingling of happiness and love, sorrow and death in every bite of life’s
food you take – of your body’s senses and your sentiments, your emotions that are fueled form
your most fervent beliefs. How you act and how you believe need not be two different things.
One last sense – and sensibility – for us to examine today. Open your hands,
and hold them up away from your body, palms up. Do you think your hands
are empty? No. Feel the strength that is in your own hands. This gesture
has long been a symbol used by religious orders as a way to draw upon God’s
grace and accept heavenly blessings. Now, take one finger and trace a heart
shape in one of your palms. Is it there? Do you feel it? The Heart-in-Hand is
symbolic of charity, given from the heart. It is an easily recognizable symbol in
the US and originated with a group who believed they were living during the
age of Christ’s Second Coming. The symbol is a pictorial reminder of the words of Mother Ann
Lee, who they believed was the female expression of Christ. She promoted a simple life of hard
work and spirituality: "Put your hands to work, and your heart to God." Calling themselves the
United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing, they came to be known by the rest of
America as Shakers. Living in communities apart from the world, they believed in the "sacrifice
of self-interest for the sake of community" and they banned lust in any form – sex, money,
material wealth, for example. Celibacy and communalism were important tenets in Shaker
villages, and they seemed even more radical to outsiders because of their belief in the equality
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of both the sexes and races. The communalism of the Believers was an economic success during
the nineteen century, and their cleanliness, honesty and frugality received the highest praise though members of other churches would often harass them during their worship services.
There are only a few members alive today, but Shakers made enormous contributions to the
industrial and cultural development of America. Close your fingers around your Heart-in-Hand,
and remember it is there when next you are challenged to do what you know you should not
do. Think of your heart-in-hand and present it boldly and without fear during those most
difficult of times and when you feel the least charitable to those around you.
So, on Graduation Day this Saturday, we will celebrate you for having achieved an
important educational benchmark, the high school diploma. Baccalaureate concedes that you
really do not know all that you need to know. This is both the beginning of the end and the end
of the beginning; it is nearly all over, but not quite. Listen carefully once more: I will share with
you some words from my father, Kent Hollingsworth, a spiritual person whose religion was
deeply rooted in his moral center. So, let me close with his words, appealing to each of us to
“realize the blessings which have been bestowed upon us:
The opportunity to see, hear, smell, taste, and feel
the wonders about us;
The freedom to live and love, to work and play, to laugh
when and where we choose;
The power to think, to learn, to discern right from wrong,
and to act as our conscience dictates.
[Kent Hollingsworth, Lexington Rotary Invocation excerpt, May 6, 1976]
So when you finish here today, you are still at the beginning. At some point, you know you
must turn and ask your parents, your loved ones and your teachers here at Sayre, “How can I
ever thank you?” And we will answer: “With the work of your hands, with the goodness of your
heart, and with the wisdom of your words.”
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