Read the commencement address delivered by Professor John Sullivan on Saturday, May 25...
Elon University Commencement Address
By Professor John Sullivan
A STORY WITH THREE LESSONS
Mr. President, members of the Board of Trustees, honored guests, faculty, staff, students of Elon University and a very special congratulations to you — the graduating class of 2002.
Well … it’s been a long time coming. For you, for me, for Elon. You are the first class graduating from Elon as “Elon University.” The change happened officially last year, June the first. Most of you know that I have been “backup speaker” for about as long as you have been alive. And during that time, Elon itself has felt at times like a backup college — a backup to other colleges, a backup to other universities. But here and now, as I stand with you, and you stand with me, in the power of this family, I say: “Backup no more! We’re the A-Team now!”
In the ancient traditions, guidance is given through stories. The stories seem to be about warriors and sages, kings, queens, commoners — and yet they are really stories about you and about me and about every person — stories about a time that is always present. So will you listen to such a story this morning? Please say “Yes!” Thank you.
Once upon a time, in a time before time was worn on watches, on wrists, in a time out of time, in a kingdom far away, there was this unusual custom.
Now in most kingdoms, when the ruler dies, his or her son or daughter succeeds to the throne. But in this kingdom, when the ruler died, a magical, powerful bird was released. (Perhaps a phoenix, who knows?) The bird would fly around in the air above the subjects and it would alight on one of them. That person would be the next queen or king.
In this realm, there was a slave who worked in the palace. He was a musician. He dressed in funny clothes — a cap made of chicken feathers and a raggedy belt — and he played music on a drum. The slave was not happy with his lot. He felt that it was degrading. He prayed to be free.
Now, it came to pass that one day the king died, and the magical bird was released. It circled the sky for some time. All watched in anticipation. Finally, it came to rest on the head of the slave, nesting itself in the cap of chicken feathers. Immediately, and to his great surprise, the slave was declared the ruler of the entire kingdom. In one instant, the slave was transformed into a powerful sovereign.
So the new monarch moved into the palace, donned royal attire and took his place upon the throne. As his first royal decree, he had a tiny hut built next to the palace. The only furnishing in this hut was a large mirror. Early every morning, the new king entered this little shack, disappearing behind the door for a short time. Then he would emerge, lock the door behind him, and return to the palace. Well, his ministers and advisors thought that this was very peculiar behavior, but after all, he was the king now, and who would question the king?
As the years passed, the sovereign passed many laws aimed at reducing and finally eliminating all slavery and much suffering. But the changes were made so gradually that no one seemed to notice. The king was known to all for his kindness, his justice, his compassion, as well as for his very strange habit of visiting the odd little hut early every morning.
One day, his closest advisor asked, “Your Majesty, what is it that you keep in that hut?”
The king led the advisor into the hut and showed him a burlap sack containing the chicken-feathered hat and the ragged belt and the drum. “These,” he said, “are my most treasured possessions.”
“But these are reminders of slavery!” the advisor said in disgust. “These are not the possessions of a king, Your Majesty!”
“Ah, but they are,” replied the king. “You see, once I was a slave and now I am free. When you made me your king, I made a promise to myself and God. I promised that I would never forget that I was once a slave, lest I grow arrogant and haughty, and treat others as I was once treated. So every morning, I come here and dress as I was once forced to dress — as a slave. I stare at myself in the mirror until tears come to my eyes, and only then am I prepared to leave this hut and rule as a good king should. It is this memory which makes me the king I am. These are my most treasured possessions.”(1)
It’s a wonderful story, don’t you think? And what makes it even more wonderful is that it is a Passover Tale told by Iraqi Jews. It echoes the great experience of Judaism — passing over from slavery to freedom. It echoes the Christian experience of passing over from death to life. It echoes the American experience of passing from tyranny to liberty.
We were slaves and now are free. But this is not a process over and done with. This is our daily work.
From this story, I offer three lessons, or perhaps better, three ongoing tasks.
First, there is the ongoing task of going from being a slave to being free. On the outer dimension, going from slave to free is a story of growing up, the story of going from dependence to independence. Going to college, graduating from college, these are moments when both you and your parents may want to say with Dr. King: “Free at last. Free at last. Lord God Almighty, we’re free at last.” Yet even on the outer plane, things are not that simple. And on the inner plane, we are beginners indeed. For if we are honest, we know we are not free. We are enslaved by old habits, old ways of relating. Enslaved by constrictive stories and destructive roles. We are enslaved by patterns of blaming and complaining, arguing and “having to be right.” So the first task is to be aware of how we restrict ourselves and others. To be aware, and then to learn how to drop these patterns. To drop them and recover ways to come to life more fully. And in this daily work, we are aided by our deepest desires because we want to be free. We long to be free. We yearn to be free.
In our story, the slave took two steps simultaneously — becoming free and becoming king. We can separate these steps because after becoming free, one steps up to service, steps to care for the community. You become free in order to serve units larger than yourself — families, institutions, nations and the good earth itself.
You arrive at university caught in conversations about what others, what the college, what the university can do for you. If your education is truly liberating, you begin to see that we are co-responsible to make Elon and the world what it is and can be — Phoenix rising!
In the mythic sense, to be a sovereign means to care for a sphere of life larger than yourself. And you do this by bringing order into life, knowing how to put first things first. By encouraging creativity and by blessing the young. You become free in order to serve.
The third challenge of the story asks how to handle adversity. Do you translate your experience of adversity into victimhood, or do you use adversity to open your heart and to deepen your life? In the words of the story, what do you make of the hat and the belt and the drum? Here is what I say:
Learn to see the hats of chicken feathers as crowns in disguise because you are of royal lineage and you are meant to be co-responsible for all that concerns our common life.
Let the raggedy belt remind you: You are one person above and below the waist — one person linked — like these oaks — to the earth below and the sky above.
Let the drum remind you of your own heartbeat. Feel this heart beat this day and know the gift of the life we share. This is the rhythm by which we work, we love and we tend all.
So these insignia cause us to stand in the place of the least of the brethren. Remind us to be compassionate to all, to stand with our brothers and sisters, to act with them for the common good.
There is an old story of a monastery where monks were constantly quarreling, and a wise old monk was asked what to do. He said: Tell them that the messiah is one of their number. This is a true secret of the hut and the mirror, the hat and the belt and the drum — to see the kingly, queenly, sagely dignity in everyone you meet.
So this day and tomorrow and all the tomorrows given to you — may your heartbeat remind you of your most treasured possessions: to be free, to be of service, not to forget where you came from so that you can meet everyone with a compassionate heart.
God speed. And, may the Phoenix that each of you is — Catch the Fire!
Thank you.
John G. Sullivan
Elon University
May 25, 2002
(1) A Passover Tale told by Iraqi Jews. I heard the story from my friend, Arthur Z. Steinberg, rabbi of Temple Sinai in Portsmouth, Virginia, who used the story at a congregational seder in April 1997. He says the source is lost from memory so I am crediting him for preserving the story in oral tradition.