Reflections in Exile

(Holy Thursday, 1998)

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

Those are the opening words of Longfellow's epic poem, Evangeline, the story of a people uprooted from their land and forced into exile, scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

The year was 1755, and the French-Catholic people of Acadia, now called Nova Scotia, were scattered because they would not swear allegiance to King George II of England. Their homes were burned; families were separated and put on ships destined for different parts of the world. Some ships were lost at sea. Some individuals escaped into the woods and were hunted down, killed, and scalped. Or imprisoned. Many starved or died of illness.

Naught but tradition remains, said Longfellow—nothing but a memory, a story passed down by their descendants in Canada, France, New England and Louisiana. But the story is told, and that keeps the memory alive for today's Acadians. The very telling of the story today gives meaning to the sufferings then. It gives the Acadian people strength to go on, and to face the trials of today.

But what would happen if that memory died? What if a generation was born that was cut off from the past? What if two or three generations were to pass who had not heard the story? That's what happened to my family. We forgot the story. We forgot about Claude LeBlanc, my 6th great grandfather, who died an exile in France. We forgot about his son, Joseph, who spent years imprisoned with his wife in what we would call today a concentration camp. We even forgot the Catholic faith for which they suffered. My great-grandmother, Domithilde LeBlanc died as Matilda White far from her New Brunswick home. She was 35 when she died in 1898; my grandfather was three, and was raised in an orphanage—and he died before I was born. We had no one to tell the story. No one remembered.

But in the last few years, through luck and hard work, my mother and I have rediscovered the past; now we can tell the story to ourselves, and to our children. We've found ourselves reunited with separated family, and this week found out about plans for a great family reunion, in August 1999, in Lafayette Louisiana. With thousands of other Acadian descendants, we'll sit around and share stories, we'll eat jambalaya and etoufee and dance a fais-do-do. And we'll tell the story. The story that unites us. The story of exile, separation, and suffering—and of survival and hope. We will say with a mix of pride, sadness, and determination: "Je me souviens. I remember."

That's the essence of the meal we shared earlier this evening, the Passover Seder. "You will keep this festival," God told Israel, "to remember. You will eat this bread, and taste these bitter herbs, and you will tell the story. When your children ask, 'Why is this night different from all other nights?' You will tell them, 'Because God freed me from slavery in Egypt. I was there. I suffered. But now I am free.'"

It was a Passover meal at which Jesus broke bread with his disciples. They told the old story, but now imbued it with greater meaning. The God who brought Israel out of Egypt, sent his Son, to be the Passover lamb, sacrificed for us, for our sins. He took bread and said, "Take and eat, this is My Body, given for you. Do this to remember me."

We do this each Sunday. We do this each day. We gather around this table, we tell the story, we break the bread, and we remember. More than that, we make the past present. Jesus is not long gone—he is here with us. He gives himself for us. We eat the Passover lamb, and so are joined to the sacrifice.

But on this night, this Holy Thursday, we do one thing a little differently. We take off our shoes and our socks, and we come forward, in barefoot humility, and we stoop and we wash one another's feet. John's gospel, which we read tonight, doesn't talk about the breaking of bread and the sharing of the cup; John tells us the story with a twist. Jesus gets down on his hands and knees and, in spite of their protests, washes the feet of his followers.

"Remember," he says, "my love for you. Remember my gift of myself. Remember that I knelt down and washed your feet before giving my life for you."

"Do this for one another."

The telling of the story could become an occasion for pride. "This is what God did for us!—He didn't do it for you! We're somehow special! We're a chosen people!" The telling of a story could become an occasion for gloating—"They got what was coming to them!"

That's not what God intended. In the Seder, we spilled ten drops of wine from our cups, a sign of compassion for the Egyptians who suffered under the plagues. And after the Exodus, Israel was told to remember how they were strangers and aliens in a land that was not their own, and so they were to look with compassion upon the stranger, the alien, the widow, and the orphan. "Remember," God says, "who you were, and what I did for you."

And so Jesus says to us tonight—as we remember his passion, as we prepare to receive his Body and Blood— "Remember. Remember what I have done. Remember my love. And love one another. If I your Lord can wash your feet, you should wash one another's feet."

On this night when we recall Christ's institution of the Eucharist, these words of Saint Francis of Assisi seem especially appropriate:

Let the whole of humanity tremble, the whole world shake, and the heavens exult when Christ, the Son of the living God, is present on the altar in the hands of a priest. O admirable heights and sublime lowliness! O sublime humility! O humble sublimity! That the Lord of the universe, God and the Son of God, so humbles Himself that for our salvation He hides Himself under the little form of bread! Look at the humility of God and pour out your hearts before Him! Humble yourselves, as well, that you may be exalted by Him. Therefore, hold back nothing of yourselves for yourselves, so that He Who gives Himself totally to you may receive you totally."