Hallowing:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

Who are you, Guadalupe?
Who are you to me?
And who are you to us?

Legend has you coming to the poor peasant Juan Diego.
Accompanied by heavenly song, 
You meet him on the desert mountain they call Tepeyac.
You call him, challenge him, and send him on a mission.

What a mission that is!
Sending a poor brown peasant 
   off to the halls of power
   off to the courts of those who persecute him
   off to the people hell-bent on obliviating all that he comes from, all that he is.

What were you thinking?
What were you hoping?

Legend has it, the Spanish bishop left Juan Diego cooling his heels all day long.
Legend has it that it wasn’t until long after dark that the bishop 
even deigned to see Juan Diego.
I can imagine the well-clothed, well-fed,
heavily perfumed courtiers 
snickering at Juan Diego
making him feel even more out of place, even more out of power.

Did he look around betraying his nervousness with quick jerks of his neck?
Did he spend the time shrinking down into a cloak of invisibility?
Or did he simply sit quietly in resignation and despair saying to himself,
“Nothing good can come of this.”

I can imagine the bishop receiving him with weariness and with dread.  
“Another blasted Indian begging for reprieve.”

I doubt Juan Diego was surprised when the bishop asked for proof.
After all—no European ever took the word of a poor native peasant.

What were you thinking, Morenita?
What were you hoping for that day?

No wonder Juan Diego gave you wide bearth when he passed your way again.

I would too.

Truth be told, you frighten me, Guadalupe.  Who knows what you might ask of me 
coming as you do in the squalor of my life.  
meeting me when I am most afraid.
greeting me by name in the moment of my deepest shame.

Who are you and who are you to me?
There are times when I wish that you would just let me be.

But that’s not in your nature--
you’re not made to let folks be.
not Juan Diego
not the bishop or his minions
not me
not us.
Guadalupe, you’re not made to let folks be.

You keep on hoping, Morenita, you keep on hoping.
And in your hope, you hallow.

That’s what you were up to that day at Tepeyac.  The work of Hallowing.

Hallowing a scruffy desert hill filling it with flowers and with song
hallowing an indian peasant making him a bearer of God’s word
even hallowing a bishop and the sycophants surrounding him 
that they might learn to love as they are loved.

That’s your work—the work of hallowing.
Hallowing the desolate places in our lives
Hallowing people others overlook
Hallowing the poor and the powerful
the strong and the weak
hallowing outsiders and insiders too.

I wonder, Guadalupe, is that the work you call us to—the work of hallowing?

Could that be your hope for us?

The Bible is full of hallowing—the hallowing of the lowly ones, the outsiders, the defeated and the despairing; the hallowing of people others overlook, the hallowing of the land and all that dwells therein  .  

Hear the prophet Baruch tell of God’s hallowing the people of Jerusalem—a people besieged, defeated, occupied.  A people who witnessed family and friends—husbands, wives, sons, daughters taken captive.  A people cut off from all that sustains.  A people not unlike Juan Diego and his people.  And yet the prophet Baruch says to them, 

Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on 
forever the beauty of the glory from God....For God will give you evermore
the name, “righteous Peace, Godly Glory.”  Baruch continues, “For God will lead Israel with joy, in the light of his glory, with the mercy and righteousness that come from him.

Hallowing—could that be God’s hope for us?  

Not long ago, a member of the congregation of St. Martin’s came up to me with an urgency I’d not seen in him before.  He rarely talks to me.  When he does, he always prefaces what he says with the words, “Sister, I don’t want to take up your time.”  But this day he was determined to have a word with me.  The conversation started abruptly.
“They trusted me,” he said as he opened up our conversation.  “They trusted me with money.”  “Can you believe it—they trusted me a homeless man with money!” 

Imagine it.  A little thing.  Probably not even a given a second thought.  Just a simple request.  “Can you hold this money for me?”  That’s the work of Hallowing.

Hallowing—it happens at the food pantry every single Tuesday.

Hallowing—it happens when folks listen deeply to one another.

    —It happens in the little things in life.

Hallowing—it happens when we see, respond and acknowledge God in the one and the world before us.

May the hallowing of God’s name echo through the universe.   Amen 

In Her Wake:
A sermon on the Feast of Guadalupe preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

There she is—La Virgen de la Guadalupe, Mother of the Americas.  There she is, standing in front of the sun and on top of the moon.  There she is—a black band around her waist signifying that she is about to give birth. There she is—surrounded by flowers, accompanied with music.  “Flor y cantu,” I think they say.

Whenever I see her image, I’m reminded of the day I walked in her wake.  At the time, I didn’t really get what was going on.  I was just taken up in the moment.  Thousands and thousands of people crowded between the buildings lining Market Street in San Francisco.  Chants of “Si! Se Puede!” echoing through the crowd.  Helping my friend Eddie hold up his banner of Guadalupe.  People waving from second story windows, pointing to the banner and smiling.  Others coming up to the banner, kissing their fingers and then touching the image of Guadalupe.  A crowd of people—brown and black and white—marching in her wake.  There, standing out amidst all the signs and banners, the image of Guadalupe still drawing people in.  Still giving people hope; still giving people life.

What is her lure?  What draws folks to her?  For some, like Juan Diego, it’s the way she sees him and the dignity she offers him.  Imagine it!  A poor peasant, an Indian, a native, one scorned by the rich and powerful, chosen to be her trusted messenger.  She sees him as he is—a beloved and beautiful child of God—and she trusts him to carry her message to the seat of power.  For others it’s the hope she offers—hope of a new beginning, hope of a new life.  Still others turn to her for comfort and compassion knowing that they are held in her loving embrace.  

It’s not only Juan Diego who is changed by this encounter with Guadalupe.  The bishop is changed as well.  Imagine the times he walked past Juan Diego—not even seeing him or dismissing him with a wave of a hand.  The indifference, the arrogance the bishop showed.  Yet he, too, is changed.  Remember his words after he sees the image on the cloak and the flowers falling to the ground.  He bends down and kisses the ground and prays to the Virgin for forgiveness “for not believing her will, her heart and her word.”

That’s what draws me to Guadalupe—the gifts she offers both to Juan Diego and to the bishop.  To one the gift of dignity and affirmation; to the other the opportunity to repent and to join in the building of a place where all are welcome and all are loved and all are raised up to new life.  What I love about the story of Guadalupe is that all are changed and that no one goes away empty.  

What is our path when we walk in her wake?  Yours and mine and ours together. What is our path?  Perhaps it is to join in the birth of something new, a new creation, a new people—people who come together across traditions to worship God and to experience God’s deep love for her children.  Perhaps it is to work together to build a place where all are welcome, all are known and all are valued for who they are.  Perhaps it is to live each day confident that no matter what else comes our way we can be sure of one thing—that we are deeply loved by God.  That’s no small thing.  That’s the kind of knowledge that can change a world.

The protestant theologian Maxwell Johnson tells the story of the December day when a Latino pizza man came to his house.  It was Advent and on his front door, Johnson had draped a banner of Guadalupe.  As he was leaving, that young delivery man nodded to the banner and said, “It’s beautiful.”  Then he added, “She’s my mom.”1  Mom—the one who gives us birth, the one who gives us life, the one who ushers us into a new world—the world Christ calls us to, the world of the reign of God.  


1Maxwell Johnson, American Magnificat:  Protestants on Mary of Guadalupe, p. 3.