Pentecost
May 23, 1999
In this week’s paper, Tucson was listed as one of the ten model cities for retirement. I’m not quite sure how we were chosen, but it’s a good exercise to ponder what the marks are of being a model community.
A few years ago, Neil Postman wrote a book about communities. He speculated how the model of top cities changed depending on what Americans think is important.
“In the late 18th century,” Postman said, “Boston was the Model City for it reflected the values of freedom and decency.” In the mid-1901 century, New York became the model, for here was the center of commerce. Later on, the model became Chicago. Here, the spirit of building and inventiveness seemed to reside, and it was the center of new wealth and was westward-looking. And now, Postman wrote, the model community for America is Las Vegas. A community devoted almost entirely to entertainment, where the expectation is to have fun and feel good. I don’t know what you want to make of his analysis, but it does speak to how communities change when our values and expectations change.
But today, Pentecost, we’re here to focus on the church as a community, and I would ask you to focus on how the model has changed through the years for churches. In the early days, the model community was the gathering at the first Pentecost (about which we just read). The characteristics of that community were diversity, chaos, and anticipation. We are told there were people of different ages, different countries, and different languages. And the service, if we can read between the lines, was messy and didn’t go according to any set plan. And finally, we read that there was a sense of anticipation. Everybody there anticipated that something momentous was going to happen – and so it did.
Later on in history, the model church was the great architectural giant of a cathedral. Here, the model was more of a place, a place of majesty where pilgrims found hospitality, and magnificent liturgies were performed, with great preachers and fabulous choral works. Today, the model community is of a parish church. Maybe a mega-church, but still much smaller in size from the first two models, influenced by the Las Vegas model of entertainment, more staid and predictable. We’ve replaced excitement with predictability, chaos with order, and anticipation with routine. We come knowing what to expect on a Sunday and are rarely disappointed. We go there to feel good and usually do.
The wonderful message of this day is that God’s spirit can somehow slip in unannounced and change our models. God’s spirit can move us closer to the original community, even when we insist on holding on to our comfortable model. I don’t know whether the spirit can transform Las Vegas into Boston, but this I do know that the spirit can change a parish church into something like the original Pentecost community.
I would like to tell you a story of one such small change. It may not be as dramatic as Pentecost, but it speaks to what the Holy Spirit can do on a very small scale, and how the unexpected can sometimes be a vehicle for change.
The church was in a large city. It was directly across from one of the campuses in that community. It had a very well-dressed, conservative congregation. They always wanted to develop a ministry to the students, but were not sure how to go about it. One Sunday, a student by the name of Bill decided to go there. Bill had become a Christian while attending college, but had never been to a regular church service. So, Bill walked into this church. Now, I forgot to mention Bill looked a little different than the average person. He didn’t wear shoes. He was dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt with holes. His hair was wild, he didn’t shave, and if you got close to him, you could tell he hadn’t bathed in a while.
Bill came in late, and the church was fairly packed. He went down the center aisle, but couldn’t find a seat. By now, people were looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one said anything. As the Gospel was read, Bill walked closer and closer to the pulpit. When he realized there were no seats, he just squatted down on the carpet. (Although this was acceptable in college, it had never happened in this congregation.) By now, the people were really nervous. The tension in the air was thick.
About the time the minister got to the pulpit, he realized that from the back of the church, an usher was slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the usher was in his eighties, his silver gray hair, his suit, and pocket watch all proclaimed him one of the old guard, and he was walking with a cane. As he started walking toward the young man, everyone was saying to themselves, “You can’t blame him for what he’s going to do. I hope he doesn’t swing the cane. How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor?”
It took a long time for the old man to reach the boy. The church was utterly silent except for the chinking of the man’s cane. All eyes were focused on him. You couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. The people were thinking, “The minister can’t even preach the sermon until the usher does what he has to do.”
As they watched, this elderly man dropped his cane on the floor, and with great dignity lowered himself and asked, “May I sit with you?” And he sat next to Bill and worshipped with him, so that he wouldn’t be alone on the floor.
When the minister gained control, he said, “We’ve just had an experience of the early church. What I’m about to preach, you’ll probably not remember. What you have just seen, you will never forget.
The spirit of God happens in surprising ways. But it’s the spirit that can transform us. Even St. Philip’s can be like the early church. Expect Pentecost to happen. Expect God’s spirit to touch us, and God willing, we too shall be transformed.
Amen.
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Whitsunday 1977
May 29, 1977
One of the non-essential bits of reading to which I often draw back is the Personal Section of the Sunday Times. It’s good fun to browse and imagine what lies behind the short cryptic messages. Here’s a fascinating one I read a while ago. Let me share it with you, Gladys W. Happy Anniversary. Thank you for 14 wonderful, 4 so-so, and 2 rotten years. Signed, Bert W.
Therein – I bet – hangs a tale,
Today is the Feast of Pentecost – or what is generally called Whitsunday- it is the celebration of an anniversary, a time when we remember that God entered into a special relationship with a group of people. A time when God infused Himself – through His spirit – to form a unique community, which we call – The body of Christ, or the bride of Christ, or the spirit-filled community, or simply the church.
On this day, can you imagine, reading in the Tucson paper Personal Section these words? To the Church. Happy Anniversary. Thank you for 1400 wonderful, 400 so-so, and almost 200 rotten years. Signed, God.
Therein also hangs a tale
The church has had some wonderful years. Years where the community has been so caught up, so connected, so spirit-filled – that no one could possibly doubt that these were the people of God.
The wonderful years were the periods in our history, where love, sacrifice, caring, rescue and reconciliation were the principal characteristics of our community. And don’t think that the early church had a monopoly on these characteristics. The vision of the first church at Pentecost has been confirmed.
One of the most stifling factors in the churches growth process is our tendency to sing that old song, ‘ Those Were the Days, with Archie Bunker. Those were wonderful days , to be sure, but they were certainly not the only times. There have been many periods of history where the church has emerged as the healing-saving instrument of God – to a broken, lost world, and it’s been a magnificent sight to behold.
But in the past as well as in the recent days, there also have been so-so and rotten years, Years where, as I heard a preacher say recently: 11Any relationship between God and the Church is purely coincidental.
That the problem exists in recent years as with the good ones. Certain periods of history don’t have an exclusive monopoly on being rotten. The tendency, for instance, is to focus on the Spanish Inquisition, and this blinds us to seeing that other times can be just as rotten, even though they are not as dramatic.
Ted Wedel, the late , great warden of the College of Preachers in Washington, once told a parable that explained how the church moved so easily, from the wonderful to the so-so to the rotten years. Here is a paraphrase of his Story.
Picture, Wedel said, the church as a coast-guard or life-saving station on some lonely and dangerous coast. We’ve probably all seen one. The coasts of New England abound with similar types. This particular one has stood for many years, and tales of its rescue service are preserved by the successors of the original members. Stained glass windows in the life-saving station honor the heroes of its golden years.
Over time, those who manned the rescue service turned to expanding and beautifying the station itself. Do not life-savers deserve comfort and rest to fit their difficult job? Isn’t our job so important that we ought to, as honorary members, keep adding
more and more to our ranks?” Shouldn’t we spend more and more time discussing who we will take into our ranks?
The problem was that in time, station building and discussing became such an absorbing activity that the rescue service itself was increasingly pushed aside. Sure, traditional rescue drills and rituals were carefully preserved
But as things went from bad to worse, more and more energy was spent in arguing over the proper method of rescuing, and who was qualified to be leaders of the work, Many times in the history of the station – things got so rotten that the actual launching out into ocean storms became a hireling vocation – or one left to a few dedicated volunteers, And when people came in, they were ignored or barely tolerated.
Dr Wedel’s analysis in parable form shows us the process of how we slip from the golden into the rotten years. And this process always lurks in the background of our life together. To be warned of the possibility is to be armed against it.
But to us – on Pentecost Sunday – The Sunday, when we rejoice in our relationship to God, The Sunday when we read of the Original Founders of our life-saving station, The Sunday when we act out our liturgy in the spirit of the early church: We might raise the Are we moving into the good years or the rotten times? Where are we at St. Philip’s?
I have been going around the parish for the past month and hope to continue for the next
five months, having coffee. And I have learned a great deal about your visions and dreams. You’ve shared with me your priorities for St Philip’s, and I’m grateful. Grateful for the opportunity to become closer to many of you.
And grateful for the opportunity to follow up ,- ”I’ll tell you my dream – you tell me yours, 11
The writer of Proverbs said, That without dreams, the people perish. And I would add that after eight coffees, I am even more convinced that without visions, without a vision of the golden years, a parish can slip into the SO-SO years quickly.
It’s so easy to have this life-saving station on Campbell and River road become a beautiful mausoleum rather than a welcoming, inclusive, vibrant home for all people.
On Whitsunday 1977, I want to declare to you that the wonderful Golden Years are ahead of us. All we need to do is learn to dream dreams and act out our visions.
I would like to end this sermon by sharing with you the vision of one of my heroes of the faith. It is a vision he presented to his congregation in England many years ago on Whitsunday and it was the beginning point in the process of transforming a very staid, old, worn-out congregation to a living, vibrant, exciting parish. Here is Dick Shepherd’s vision for his parish in England:
“I saw a great church standing by a square in the great city of the world-‘ Into its doors passed hundreds and hundreds of all sorts and conditions of people going up to the temple of their Lord with all their difficulties, trials, and sorrows.
And I said to some of these as they passed Where are you going? And they said: This is our home. This is where we have been made to feel welcome. . where we have learned of the love of Jesus Christ.
Amen -
Pentecost
John 14: 8-17
May 30, 1993
We are here today to celebrate one of the three great holidays (holy days ) of the Christian religion, Each of these major days are represented by an image, a symbol, a representation, an icon of God, The images are: a pregnant woman, a broken man and a community of persons, These icons are not God, but ways to discover God, They are first steps, And therefore, the church has said, at Christmas, first look at the pregnant woman to find God, And, at Easter, first look to the broken man on the cross, And on this day, Pentecost, the church says to first look to the community, This is the day that we acknowledge that God in found in community, This is the day we celebrate the coming together – – the joining — the infusing of a holy group into the body — the church — the people of God.
But I must admit to you that this is a terrifying day for me, it is a day on which I am forced to raise certain questions, questions I don’t want to consider, Questions like: “Where on earth would I be without you? ” Part of me quickly answers: “I need you to complete me, I need you to find God, I need you to be whole or holy. ” Part of me says that, but another part says: “Where would I be without you? I’d be just fine, thank you very much, I don’t need you, any more than you need me, I can find God very well on my own.
Let me be even more honest, I am filled with panic today. Panic because my security is threatened. Am I really at my best– most free — most creative — most whole — most able to discover God when I am joined in community? Do I really need others to find God? Are we really made for each other? Wouldn’t I prefer some other alternative? I’m not sure the Pentecost is good news, particularly when I look about me on Sunday,
There was a delightful Garfield cartoon I cut out of the paper a while back. It says it all for me. Garfield is dressed as a freedom fighter, with a bandanna around his head. He enters a pet shop and begins zipping through it, opening all the cages. As he opens them, he yells: “You’re free! You’re free! ” But all the animals cower down in their cages and won’t move. Garfield says, “Huh, so you’re not into freedom. ” So he closes all the cages and shouts: “You’re secure! you’re secure! ”
Many are fearful of freedom because deep down inside we realize we can only be free — be whole — be saved — if we are in community, We are into security, though for security means we can stay in our cages, We don’t have to acknowledge we’re part of each other, That, at best, we are connected, No, we fear that answer– so all we need concern ourselves with is how to build a strong enough cage to keep people out,
One of the hardest myths to overcome, as a minister of the Gospel in America, is the American view of Christianity. This myth is insidious because it equates Christianity with the American illusion of rugged individualism. This cult of individualism views the Christian faith as a personal adventure into morality, and salvation is something attained by personal piety, and if there is any coming together, it’s simply out of weakness, and we had better be prepared to exclude those hypocrites. Those sinners who could interfere with our road to finding God. This exclusive view of the Christian faith that lifts up the individual and downplays the community has a lot of supporters today. You can find them on television as well as in churches. There is even some socialized justification for this point of view -the point of view that downplays community.
I recently read one explanation of how the community happened. There once was a tribe, this writer speculated, that was unable to do anything together. They were locked in a deadly rivalry, as most people are. Cooperation was impossible: Finally, I two of them agreed on one thing, and that was to kill someone else. The first moment when the community was formed, according to this writer, came when two people came together to exclude a third,
The first community was a lynch mob, and the community has never really progressed much past that state. If you believe this and you subscribe to American rugged individualism, it’s easy to see why this holiday produces in many of us a sense of angst,
But the historic Christian faith would have us look beyond these myths, beyond our cultural bias — beyond popular Christianity,
I have a friend who calls the historical Christian faith a great transcendental soap opera, A soap opera with a story line that reminds us that God comes to us when we are in community, and that the lynch mob formed at the crucifixion was transformed by the broken man on the cross into the people of God,
Connection is the primary motif of the soap opera, and inclusion, rather than exclusion, becomes the central theme. The terrifying message of the day – – the denouement of the soap opera — is when I finally realize that I can’t be whole without you being whole. I can’t find God without you finding God. Alice Walker ( of Color Purple fame ) put it so well that I hesitate saying it any other way. She said: “We can only be healed in our community- and everybody is our community.
We begin our Pentecost celebration this morning by baptizing these youngsters. It is our custom before baptizing a child to spend some time with the parents, and I usually ask the parents what they think baptism is all about. They usually say something about it, meaning that their child will be admitted into heaven, or their answers remind us of someone who thinks that baptism is comparable to a supernatural inoculation- but instead of keeping us from catching the measles, it keeps us from catching sin
But today we are proclaiming an extraordinary event- that these youngsters have been joined to a community. These children have been marked as Christ’s own forever, and the most real thing about these youngsters is that they are part of the people of God.
The analogy sometimes used — when talking about baptism — is that of being born into a family And the terrifying thing about the analogy is that once you are born into a family, you’re Stuck You can change your name, change your address, turn your back, but you can never get away from being a part of the family, And so it is with baptism — once we’re made a part of the community, we know that wholeness is found, God is found within the body.
That’s a great vision, That’s what this day is all about, The image of the community of persons, The Christian faith — the transcendental soap opera — with three icons: the pregnant woman, the broken man, the community of persons -three ways in which God comes to us -three pictures of God.
Amen -
Pentecost
II Corinthians 4: 5-10, John 14: 8-17
May 30, 1998
I’m pleased to report to you that the religious faith of 70 million unchurched people residing in the United States is alive and well.
Polls have shown us that 70 million people pray, occasionally read the Bible, and embrace many teachings of Christianity, and yet have chosen not to belong to the church.
It’s not that they are against the church. It’s just that they see no reason to affiliate with a dead organization. Many of these 70 million are what Bishop John Spong has called the growing number of the “Church Alumni Association.” They’ve been there, done that, and describe themselves as “Recovering Methodists, Lapsed Catholics, and Burned-Out Baptists.
Their theme song is the same as Frank Sinatra’s, I’ll Do It My Way Who can blame them when you see the glaring hypocrisy of church people? Members who profess one thing and usually do something else.
Who can blame them when you look at the low level of clergy leadership? When I was younger (before I was ordained) we used to say clergy are like manure. They are sometimes useful – if they are spread out. But if they congregate together, there’s an awful stink.
Who can blame them when you think of how badly the church has performed? The mainline churches are now, at best, considered sideline institutions.
Who can blame them when you look at the record, and / view the poor quality of even the so-called Saints? Who can 7 blame them for saying, “I’ll do it my way”?
Several years ago, I ran across a memorandum to Jesus as a management consultant Erm might have written it. It’s an analysis of the original members; those eleven disciples who made up the first church of Jerusalem. Here’s what it said:
“It is the staff’s opinion that most of your people are lacking in background, education, and vocational aptitude for the type of enterprise you are undertaking. They do not have the team concept. Simon Peter is emotionally unstable and given to fits of temper. Andrew has absolutely no qualities of leadership. The two brothers, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, place personal interest above company loyalty. Both Thomas and Philip demonstrate questionable attitudes. At best, they undermine morale. We also feel it is our duty to tell you that the greater Jerusalem Better Business Bureau has blacklisted Matthew. Thaddeus had definite radical leanings, and James registers high on the manic/depressive scale.”
This imaginary assessment is close to the picture we find in the Gospel record. Is it any wonder that 70 million people have taken a long look at the church, and concluded, “I’ll do it my way?
Yet here we are celebrating the birthday of this community. This community that has questionable founders, incompetent employees, and half-hearted supporters. Here we are, some wearing red, all affirming our loyalty to an old institution that my wife often points out, “Should have been bankrupt and deep into Chapter Eleven many years ago.” Why are we here? Why do we celebrate this birthday? Why don’t we throw in our membership cards and join the 70 million member church alumni association?
If I were God, I certainly would have done it differently. I would have created a better organization. I would have made more stringent membership standards. But God didn’t. Instead, God entrusted the mission to earthen vessels, meaning clay pots, occasionally meaning cracked pots. He/she entrusted the pots to the fine wine of the Gospel, What a strange way to run an institution.
And what seems even stranger is that we come together to acknowledge that the spirit has come to this motley crew. And that God has entrusted us with His mission. Amazing, surprising, madness; but it’s the madness of God who tells us that, “My spirit will be with you till the ends of the earth.”
Earthen vessels, clay pots; why is it that God has chosen to entrust the store to the likes of us? I don’t know. All I can do is to be thankful and celebrate this day with a group who is trying “To do it God’s way.”
There’s an old legend that has Jesus meeting an angel on the front porch of Heaven. It is said their conversation went like this:
Angel: “We’ve missed you. Where have you been?”
Jesus: “I’ve been to earth.”
Angel: “Were you gone long?”
Jesus: “I suppose you could say that I died rather young.”
Angel: “How did you die?”
Jesus: “Martyrdom by crucifixion.”
Angel: “Oh, you must have had great influence dying in that way.”
Jesus: “No, I ended with eleven friends.”
Angel. “How then will your work continue?”
Jesus: “I left it in the hands of my friends.”
Angel: “And if they fail?”
Jesus: “I have no other plans.”
Today, we celebrate that the treasure of God has been placed into these earthen vessels. For “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed. Perplexed, but not driven to despair. Persecuted, but not forsaken. Struck down but not destroyed.” And so, we will continue because God’s spirit is the lifeblood of this community. And God has promised that He will be with us forever.
Amen -
Lessons Learned from the Acts of the Apostles
Act 6: 1-9
May 10, 1998
Sometimes, preaching can get you in a whole lot of trouble. I’ve never stirred up a group of people to the point that they wanted to do away with me. (The best I’ve managed to do, on rare occasions, is have someone cut his pledge, or walk out of church shaking his head.)
But on that day, many years ago, it was a different story. The young preacher began to hear murmurs of blasphemy, which escalated into a bloodthirsty mob. Finally, they chased him from the pulpit, and in a rage, they began to throw rocks. (Now that’s feedback the likes of which I have never experienced.)
But let’s start the story from the beginning. For there is a lot here from which we might benefit.
It began with another type of feedback. The feedback came to the Apostles soon after the church was established.
The Apostles were being hassled by some young, come-lately, out-of-towners – church members – Greeks, who were upset over the distribution of food. It seems, or should I say, the Greeks perceived that the locals were getting more, or better food, at the common meal. And when these complaints became a groundswell, the Apostles set a new pattern for church life. One that has been followed in every generation. They formed a committee and found someone else to deal with the problem.
It was this feedback from the Greeks that encouraged them to have a reorganization. And the solution was to invent a new order of ministry – the role of the deacon. This new grouping had as its job description to look after the food distribution. Some of you may recall when we last had a deacon present, that he wore his stole over one shoulder. This was to symbolize the way a waiter might wear a napkin for serving. I think it was also implied that these new deacons would look after the widows and orphans. This was done this re-organization – so that the Apostles, the really important ministers, would not have to do the pedestrian tasks, like calling on shut-ins and being concerned over administration. A tradition that also seems to have continued to this day.
One other thing we might learn from this story is that the new deacons were all Greek, establishing another well-honored principle of church life. The ones who complain the most, are the ones who get the job of solving the problem. In those days, there didn’t seem to be any lack of volunteers. And the Greeks, being the newest group to be converted, were also the most eager to step forward when volunteers were needed. They hadn’t yet learned to say, “Oh, I’ve done that all before. Let a younger person take over.”
Among the number of Greek deacons was a youthful, eager beaver named Stephan. We really don’t know much about him, except that he was filled with the enthusiasm of youth. He also felt that serious changes were needed right now. (It’s always interesting when a new deacon comes on board. Immediately, they want to make changes. And the changes usually are to the time-honored traditions.)
Well, a group from this one congregation began to feel threatened, and they started to argue over the changes. We are told that they had a public discourse and began to be angry with Stephan. Finally, a group began to say, “This guy has to go.”
In those days, there wasn’t any such thing as a golden handshake, pension plans, or IRAs. The method of getting rid of the preacher was through stoning. (Congregation, do not take notice of this fact.) And stoning was hard work. It was not everyone scrambling for a baseball-sized rock and throwing it. Or, some disturbed people hurling insults. What happened in the stoning was that someone dropped a very large stone, which immobilized the victim. And then the others finished the job by dropping huge bone-breaking rocks on top of the person. It was hot, hard, difficult work. And the people needed to take their coats off to do it. And then we read that they wanted to leave their coats with someone trustworthy, in order that they would still be there when they returned. In short, they needed a “coatholder.” And we read that the participants found someone named Saul to do the job.
Now let’s take a moment and look at what a coat holder does. For this, too has become a time-honored tradition in the church. A coatholder is someone who stands away from what is being done, but holds the coat of someone doing the job. A coatholder is, therefore one who makes it possible for someone else to do evil. It is someone who participates, but doesn’t get their hands dirty.
The church is full of coatholders. They occupy a special place on the moral landscape. It is a particularly dangerous place because coatholders fool themselves into an assumption of innocence. They convince themselves that they are not actually doing anything wrong. Paul could have said at the end of the day, “I did not stone anybody. I merely stood around and watched.” It’s the same way we often say, “I did not tell the joke. I just laughed to be polite.” Or, “I do not hate anybody. I just don’t have the time or money to spare for those in need.” Or, “Certainly, I did not agree with that direction. I just did not want to get involved.”
All of us are coatholders in one way or another, making it possible for others to do evil. Some play an obvious role at home, or work, or at church. Others of us have simply made peace too easily with racism, poverty, injustice, and corruption.
But all of us are coatholders to a certain extent.
In our complex society, where it’s so easy to be uninvolved and feel impotent, where we seem to be unable to make a difference, it is easy to look clean and be dirty by association, to look innocent, and at the same time be guilty. Coatholders, that’s what most of us are. And it’s because of that that martyrdoms take place.
We return to the story. Stephan, even when he was being stoned, managed to forgive his murderers. His last words were, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
People outside the religious establishment often tell me that the church is made up of hypocrites. I usually don’t argue with them, for I know better than most what lies underneath our masks of respectability. But I also know that God doesn’t hold that against us. That we can rise to great heights.
GK Chesterson once said, You can look at a thing nine-hundred and ninety-nine times and be perfectly safe. But, if you look at it the one-thousandth time, you are in danger of seeing it.” Pray God that we may have the one thousandth look and see lessons for life in the story in Acts.
Amen -
Do you really believe the stories in the books of Acts and in Genesis that we have just heard? Do you think they really happened? A tower – an unbelievable tower – was raised up, but the venture ended in disaster. The builders were scattered to the ends of the earth. Is this not a crude story, attempting to account for why diverse people speak different languages?
And what about that post-Resurrection experience? Do you really believe that people gathered together – people who were of different languages and different cultures – and suddenly communicated in a common tongue? is this not simply a crude attempt by the early church to express the hope for unity?
You’re right, in part. The story of Babel is a myth. The story of Pentecost is probably a myth. But you’re wrong if you reject it and forget the truth of a myth. As Thomas Mann once said: ‘Myth is a truth that is and always will be, no matter how much we try and say it was in the past.”
Did those people really think they could build a “from here-to-eternity” edifice? Did they think they could defy gravity, chance, human error, human sinfulness, God himself? Did they believe that by their furious activity, they could achieve everlasting security?
They did, and if so, are they any crazier than we are? We who keep coming up with new schemes for personal and national security. We who keep inventing what we call new paradigms – new ways, new values for handling life.
Personally, I am fascinated by the Babel building. Without their kind of self-deception – their kind of denial that often accompanies ambition – we would have no pyramids, no world trade centers, no magnificent art, no breathtaking symphonies. Only those who are crazy enough to push beyond the edge, only those who are willing to take risks, who dare to dream, who maintain visions, can wear the label of Babel.
“Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and make a name for ourselves.” Those are the words of an ambitious people – people who are success-oriented. They don’t want to just fake it, they want to make it, to be ”numero uno,” as a people and as individuals. And that’s not all bad.
How many of you would like to be operated on by a doctor who said, “I am just a run-of-the-mill surgeon. I’ll do an average job on you.”? Or how many of you would be comfortable flying on an airline on which the pilot announced: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll try to get you to your destination, but I’m not the best pilot in the sky.”? No way. We want – we expect – the very best. We want the person who expects to be the top of his field – nothing less. We want an ambitious person, not one who has settled for being average
Before turning to the New Testament story of Pentecost, let me point out that the two characteristics of youth are ambition and idealism. When we are young, the world is our oyster. We want to be the very best we can be. We want to succeed in ways beyond anything that has happened before. And we want to do all this for the sake of or for the good of humanity. We don’t just have a job – we have a career. We’re not concerned with doing our task until retirement. We have a vocation, a calling, a commitment that is forever and will make an impact on future generations. And we believe we can do it – “Save the World,” “Convert the Heathen,” “Discover the Cure.” Ambition and idealism – they are the stuff of youthful dreams.
Now let’s turn to the picture of Pentecost. It is an idealized picture where people of many languages come together and are able to communicate – where a sense of wholeness overcomes natural separations – where the spirit speaks a heart language that breaks down the walls of class and nation, where no one is an “ethnic” and all are one.
Now you and I know this vision is simply an illusion. As Americans, we hope that all those people on this first Pentecost spoke English or we’d be lost. You know the old joke: ‘What’s a person who speaks three languages called? Trilingual. What’s a person who is fluent in two languages called? Bilingual. What’s a person who can only speak one language called? An American.
But Pentecost, that’s an idealized picture. I doubt if there were Americans present. Suddenly, everyone spoke the same language – or to put it in terms we can grasp, everyone communicated. All of God’s people spoke the language of the heart. I think this is what is meant when we say we may not be of one mind in the church (language is the vehicle of communication of the mind), but, God willing, we are all of one heart (the spirit is the vehicle of the heart). Pentecost – where suddenly separated people were transformed and an idyllic situation was created.
Babel and Pentecost – they are myths – idealism and ambition, parts of the youthful condition. What really happens as we get older is that idealism is the first to be dropped. We talk of idealism as the illusion of youth. We quickly become cynical as we experience frustration. And then we forget the youthful ideals. But we still hang on to part of our ambition – when, in fact, we should abandon the ambition and hold on to the idealism
It’s easier to build a tower than to break down barriers and speak with one voice. When we are young, we want to do something great for the world. When we get older, we settle for doing something good for ourselves. When we are young, we want to give of ourselves for humanity’s sake. When we get older, we simply want to prove to others that we have something to give. mellow, in the process of aging, we forget – we have amnesia. The idealism of youth departs. The ambition of youth is scaled down. We no longer remember as we face the reality of “getting older.”
It is our task this morning to remind ourselves of the traditions of Pentecost and Babel. These are traditions that we have put aside as we’ve gotten more cynical and skeptical. These are traditions that are rich and important for the people of God.
There is a wonderful Hasidic story about a man who received news that a relative had died and had left him a substantial piece of property. All he had to do was contact his rabbi to receive the inheritance. So he went to see the rabbi, who told him: ‘You’re absolutely right. Your relative is the prophet Moses. And the treasure is the Jewish tradition.” The story ends with an analysis and an admonition. The man was woefully ignorant of his own inheritance. Don’t let us be. Often, we are like that. We sit on enormous treasures without realizing their worth. We have the traditions of Pentecost and Babel. The Babel custom needs to be monitored, with boundaries set upon it. The Pentecost needs to be remembered.
Every once in a while, we have experiences that remind us of these myths. Two weeks ago, I attended a multicultural conference on starting and sustaining ethnic congregations. I was there because of San Pedro – our Hispanic congregation, which hopes to enlarge. Each day in the conference, we worshipped in a different tradition – Asian, Native American, African American, and Hispanic. At the end of each worship experience, their leader would invite us to hold hands and say the Lord’s Prayer in our native tongue – Korean, Pakistani, Hawaiian, Navajo, Chinese, English, Spanish. As the words were said, I felt a spirit rise within me. And an amazing thing happened each day – we all ended together, and then there was a silence. And the spirit seemed to whisper to us: ‘We are one! We are one!” And if we were to build on this experience, we could speak the language of the poor, understand the rich, listen to the voice of Koreans and Latinos, and affirm that we are children of a creator who loves us all as if we were one.
May the Lord, on this day of Pentecost, renew in us the idealism and ambition of youth. May the Lord give us a vision where we are one. May the Lord take our minds and think through them, take our lips and speak through them. May the Lord take our hearts and set them free.
Amen -
Saying Goodbye
May 19, 1996
John Hughes, a British psychologist, contends that saying hello and saying goodbye are the two major learning tasks all humans need to accomplish. He states: “I would venture to say that 98% of all people in mental hospitals are there because of a faulty ability of saying hello or good-bye. Some adults have never learned to say goodbye. They continue in their childlike relationship long after they have chronologically moved past that stage.”
And so it was with the first disciples. They had been with Jesus throughout his teaching ministry. They had been with him during the past 40 days of incredible intimacy. And Jesus, who was very conscious of where his friends stood in their understandings, must have watched with growing concern as they slipped back into the old dependent relationships. It’s not hard to read between the lines and hear the disciples, looking for approval, wanting Jesus to control their lives, hoping that he would point them in the right direction, telling them how and when to proceed: But Jesus, I believe, wanted something more from his friends. He wanted to see them grow and move into their potential. And he knew that in order for that to happen, he must first teach them to say goodbye.
Several years ago, I lived in the Berkeley area for a semester, and I discovered a remarkable psychiatrist by the name of Sheldon Kopp. I never met the gentleman in person, but I did get to know him through his writings. One of his books has the intriguing title, If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him. This refers to the advice that if you encounter anyone who begins to solve all your problems, and you find you are constantly looking for his or her approval, the wisest thing you can do is to say goodbye to that person.
‘Many times,” Dr. Kopp writes, “patients come to him the way a little child takes a broken toy to a parent and they say: ‘please fix this for me, or tell me how to fix it. You are big and I am little. You have a direct line, I will do what you tell me to do.”‘ Kopp’s whole book challenges the validity of this kind of relationship. He suggests that if you want people to grow, you have to teach them to say goodbye and to take the risk yourself of severing a dependent connection.
And this is precisely what we find Jesus doing. In the scene that we call “The Ascension”, the disciples learn that Jesus will no longer be around to guide their steps. No longer will Jesus be present, pointing out the pitfalls. From here on out, the disciples were free. Free to choose, free to fail, free to grow.
This, as any parent can attest to is a risky business. Most of us parents are usually plagued by the “what ifs”. What if she forgets what I taught her? What if he is unsuccessful? What if??? But that’s a risk one takes. Most parents know that you can’t protect a child throughout his or her life. I think the popular term is: “You’ve got to give them wings, if you want them to fly.” You’ve got to teach them to say hello to maturity.
So why is it on this special day that we usually see the church stumbling around? Why is it that we usually ignore this key event in the life of Jesus? Why is it that we so often simply argue over the literal interpretation of a very symbolic act?
Is it because deep down we are fearful of the implications of the Ascension? Let’s be honest, most times we are scared to cut the cord, scared that we’re inadequate for what lies ahead. In our religious life, we are scared to say goodbye to our childlike faith and take the risk of a mature religion. It’s so much easier to remain dependent, helpless in our relationship with God- But the Ascension reminds us that Jesus respects us so much that he departs. He gives us space. He lets us stumble & He leaves us with questions rather than easy answers. He lets us wrestle with our doubts rather than spoon-feed our dependencies. J Thomas Merton once spoke of his friend, a Tibetan Lama who had to leave or be killed by the Chinese Communists. A fellow monk sent him a message: “What shall we do now that you are leaving?” The Tibetan Lama sent back this reply: “From now on, brother, everyone stands on his own feet.”
Merton commented, “The time for relying on structures has disappeared.” Structures and people can be helpful, but when they are taken away, you must learn to stand on your own two feet, take the risk of maturity.
The Ascension is one of those essential days when we are challenged to say goodbye to childlike religion. No longer can we depend on the Bible to be our answer book. It suddenly becomes a book that raises questions. No longer can we look to Mother Church for the right response to tough questions. We now have to do our own wrestling with difficult choices in life. No longer can we come on a Sunday just to be fed. From now on, we’ve got to think of feeding others.
Several weeks ago, I scheduled an all-day Saturday meeting of the Quest group. When Saturday came, I was embarrassed. I had forgotten to put it on my calendar. Near the end of the morning, I came home and found this message on my answering machine. “Where are you?” I was totally shocked. But when I arrived at the meeting, much to my surprise, they had organized themselves and had grown in the process. This unplanned event was a key event in the maturity of this group of people. Brothers and sisters, everybody stands on his or her feet.”
I have a friend who has made a promise to any rector that he will give $100 to a church that will set off firecrackers on Ascension day. And one of these days, I intend to collect that money. But I hope we will see the fireworks not as symbolic of Jesus going to heaven, but rather as the time that we celebrate Jesus’ trust in us, for he was willing to leave, to say good-bye, so that we could learn to say hello, and grow in a mature relationship to God.
Amen -
Family Connections
Acts 2: 1-11
May 11, 1997
I once had an Uncle, Uncle Donald. Uncle Donald was my mother’s brother, but more than that, he was the black sheep of the family. I don’t think he ever did anything very wrong. He was just a wanderer, a dreamer who borrowed a lot of money for get-rich schemes that never quite worked. Uncle Donald married a succession of women and fathered a number of children around the country. The last I heard of him (30 years ago), he was about to set sail for Australia to start a new life as a sheep rancher. All I can remember about Uncle Donald was my mother’s constant admonition: “You certainly do not want to grow up to be anything like your Uncle Donald.”
I suspect most of us have one or two Uncle Donalds in our family trees. Those black sheep whom our mothers said, “Watch out, you might grow up to be like Uncle Donald.”
And furthermore, I suspect if we have family pictures in an album or on a wall, someone will ungraciously say to us, “You certainly look a lot like your Uncle Donald.” Or maybe even hint that you often act like the black sheep. My point, and I don’t want to press it too hard, is that often to our dismay, the family connections seem to stick. Our connections to the so-called black sheep are sometimes painfully evident.
One of my favorite novels is William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom. In the novel, Quentin, the main character, flees from his native Mississippi to Harvard in a desperate attempt to rid himself of his history. He can’t do it. Alone in his room overlooking Harvard Yard, voices from the past come back to haunt him. Dead ancestors from a dark Mississippi era seem to stalk him. Eventually, Quentin takes his own life. Just before dying, he says, “You can’t escape the ghosts.”
Today we are celebrating Pentecost. It’s an ancient Holy Day intertwined with the ghosts of Israel’s past. For Jews, it’s the festival where they come together to give thanks for the gifts from God, which unified the Hebrew people. For some, it’s a time when they gather and thank God for the harvest, which allows them to continue as God’s people. In ancient times, pilgrims from all over the world used to come together in Jerusalem to celebrate what God had done for them and for their ancestors.
The author of Luke uses this celebration as a basis for telling a story – a story of the beginning of the Church. Because it’s Pentecost, it seems natural that there would be pilgrims from all over the world.
One of the principal emphases in Luke’s narrative is that every nation on earth is represented. Even some really strange places with hard-to-pronounce names like Mesopotamia and Cappadocia, and Elamites and Medes. Places most of us haven’t ever heard of, but places that tell us Luke believes that whatever it was that happened, happened to people of every tribe and tongue. The point that he is attempting to make is that every ethnic group, every religious background, was represented at the beginning of the Church. In present times, we often try to make the same point by inviting people to read in different languages. I’ve got to admit that if we were really going to understand Luke’s point, we ought to have a Hindu from India, a Buddhist from Tibet, and a Muslim from the Middle East participating in the service.
Getting back to the story, it seems to me that Luke has more at stake than ringing the bell for an ecumenical gathering, even if it were a worldwide celebration.
One of the scholars I read in preparation for today made this observation. The Pentecost story not only contains a diverse ethnic grouping, Medes, Elamites, Cappadocians, but it was also a historical impossibility. For example, the Medes would have had a tough time traveling to Jerusalem from Mesopotamia. Not only because of the hundreds of miles, but also because they would have had to travel hundreds of years forward in time. The Medes, we are told, had been extinct, long gone, from the face of the earth. They had ceased to exist at least two centuries before the story was told. And then there were the Elamites. They are only mentioned in the book of Ezra and are never heard from again. Elomites are somehow lost in antiquity. So you see, Luke’s Pentecost story is not only a gathering of people from all over the globe, but he also has people living and dead, the present and the past represented.
What then can we say as we read the story of the first Pentecost? It seems to me that this is Luke’s way of declaring that God’s spirit is poured out, not simply to those who speak Hebrew and who were living in the first century – the Holy Spirit comes to people living in every generation and every place. Fast and present, Hebrew and Christian, living and dead, American and Bosnian, we were all there.
One further reflection on Luke’s story of the first Pentecost. We might recall that the spirit of God was poured out indiscriminately. Not only was everybody present, but also everybody received the gift of the Spirit.
A pet peeve of mine is that church people are always concerned with orthodoxy. One of the favorite indoor sports of church people is to decide on who is right and who is wrong, or who is in and who is out. For instance, in many Episcopal churches, the invitation to participate in the spiritual banquet of Holy Communion, which is a recreation of that first Pentecost, (this invitation) is done by saying: “All who are Baptized, and who believe what we believe about the Sacrament of Communion, are welcome to come to the rail.”
I think Luke would have had trouble with such an invitation. He might have said, “Go back and read the Pentecost story. No tests of orthodoxy, no admission criteria, not even a check as to whether you have been good or bad. God’s spirit is poured out on everyone… very indiscriminately.
Do any of you recall the movie Places in the Heart? Particularly, the last scene. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen Hollywood make a profound Christian statement.
In the movie, which is filled with violence and injustice, we come to the final scene. Everyone is gathered in a little country church for communion. As the service proceeds, the camera pans over the faces of the congregation. There kneels the man who was murdered years earlier. And next to him sits the murderer. We see all the good guys and bad guys from the film kneeling together. And suddenly we’re caught up in a Pentecost experience… everyone is there.
Places in the Heart never won an Academy Award, but for me, it showed what the church is like as it comes together for Holy Communion. In the Eucharist, the Pentecost experience is duplicated. We are joined to everybody. All who have gone before, people from all parts of the earth, the good and the not-so-good.
And so the Church was born on Pentecost. The church, that group of people who gather as a family to break bread, share some of their lives, and tell stories. Stories that may not be factual, but are filled with meaning and are always true.
Today at Pentecost, everyone is here. And you are invited to come forward and join not only the people in the next pew, but also people from your past. My Uncle Donald is here, as well as your relatives. We are all part of this communion, this banquet, where God’s spirit is poured out upon us. We were there at the first Pentecost, and we are all here today.
Amen -
Prayer
May 12, 1973
There is a great deal of talk today about the energy crisis. We seem to be standing on the edge of a steep Cliff, looking down on a threatened collapse of our economic and environmental systems. Every day renewed that the source of the earth’s energy, coal and oil, is drying up and this is scary.
But today, I want to concentrate on another type of energy crisis. We, in the church, seemed to be standing on the edge of a steep Cliff looking down on the threatened collapse of our systems. If we look below the surface of our busy churches, we can observe that the source of our spiritual energy, prayer, is drying up, and in many respects, this is more frightening of the two crises
Can you imagine a church without prayer? A religion without talking to God? A faith without some sort of ongoing dialogue with the Almighty? Sounds of silence would be terrifying.
Sometimes it surprises me how quickly prayer is drying up. Yes, we still go through the motions, in most churches, but somehow there’s a feeling abroad that we have outgrown prayer. In our day, we do not pray before an examination; we simply study. But pray for rain, we simply seed the clouds. When a friend is ill, we do not usually indulge in prayer by his bedside; rather we go to a phone and call a specialist.
Perhaps our age is so advanced that we’ve passed beyond the need to pray.
I have always been fond of the story of the two men in a rowboat in the midst of a storm. As the waves rose, and the boat threatened to capsize, the two men they needed outside help. They were not religious, but they decided that prayer was all that was left, so in the teeth of the Gale, one of them shouted the only prayer he could muster. Ohh God you know that I haven’t bothered you for the past 15 years but if you’ll just get us out of this mess, I promise you that I won’t bother you again for 15 years
Another reason that prayer is drying up is that we’ve lost contact with whom we’re talking. We’ve become so concerned about relevant language, lack of repetition, and familiar wording, that we have forgotten that prayer is simply talking with God. I think it becomes easy to neglect prayer if it is seen as some type of performance. If we worry over originality and sound, then it is best for professionals, and our task, if any, becomes a minor critic. Quickly, the spiral goes downward, from tentative speaker of prayers, to critic of prayers, to non-user or neglectful of this aspect of the Christian experience
I confess that there are times when I wonder about the shallowness of the Christian Church. I ride around and think about the institutions that are established in all their beauty. My mind runs to the buildings we occupy, the bureaucracies that we have built, the techniques we have mustard, and the brains that we have commandeered for Christ say. Frequently, I am driven to ask myself, did ever so many labor with so much, to produce so little?
Jesus said, not to the world at large but to his disciples, without me, you can do nothing. We can build our buildings and issue our position papers, we can structure our committees, and push for various causes, but where it really matters, where we’re in for the long haul, where we require the energizing of the spirit, it is still true that without God we can do nothing. We seem to have everything in the Christian Church, but the power of God’s Spirit. We suffer the sterility of abandoned prayer; our spiritual energy crisis is long past the mildly serious stage.
Well, what can we do about it let me try to speak to each of you personally. You may be among those who feel that we have with prayer, if you are, I should like you to challenge you to try it again. Don’t say that you will wait until the major social problems are solved, or your own doubts are clarified, before you pray; you may have forgotten by that time what prayer is all about.
You may be among those who feel that praying is really for the professionals. if you are, I should like to challenge you to begin, right now, and talk to God. Talk about what you have done and what you have failed to do. About who you are and who you wish you were, and who the people you love are, and who the people you don’t love are. Talk to God about what matters most to you, and then join the familiar words using these corporate prayers of the ages to press your innermost feelings. And finally, whatever your thoughts were in the past about prayer, I challenge you to believe that somebody is listening. Believe in miracles. Believe that your father hears you and cares for you, and loves you, and will come for you as you speak to him.
Let me read you some wise counsel from Brother Lawrence. He comes from a much simpler and less complex civilization than ours, but he has a lot to tell us.
God lays a great burden upon us with little remembrance of him from time to time, a little adoration, sometimes to pray for his grace, sometimes to offer him thanks for the benefits he has given you and still gives you in the midst of your troubles. He asked you to console yourself with him as often as you can; the least little remembrance will always be acceptable to him. And then you’ll not cry very loud, for he is nearer than you think.
That’s it, the secret of overcoming our energy crisis in the church. It’s really very simple, you need not pray very loud, he is nearer than you think Amen -
St. Philips Day
John 4: 21-22
May 7, 1995
In a book called “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a Colombian novelist by the name of Gabriel Garcia Marquez tells a story of a strange disease that invades a village. The sickness starts with insomnia and then spreads to a loss of memory. The infected person becomes unable to recall the names of simple things. As the disease progresses, they forget memories of childhood and eventually even the names of the people around them. Finally, they sink into a state where they lose awareness of their own selves. Eventually, this leads to idiocy.
In the novel, one of the villagers conceives of an imaginative way to stave off forgetting. He takes pen and ink, and marks everything in his home with its proper name – table, chair, clock, door, wall. He even marks the animals and plants. Soon after, he observes that this alone will not do for people with the disease. He then begins to label everything with a description of its use. “This is a cow. She gives milk. She needs to be milked every morning.” “This is a blanket. It is used to cover a person while sleeping it goes on a bed.” One of the most touching labels was the names and descriptions of the village and the parish church.
Memories are powerful things. If we lose our memories, we are in danger of becoming dysfunctional and rootless. This is certainly why we name things and assign meanings to places. One of the earliest tasks the Bible reminds us of is to become a namer. The job of giving a name is one that God commands us to do at the very beginning of creation.
Listen – in the second chapter of Genesis it says: “And the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air and he brought them to Adam to see what he would call them and whatever man called every living thing, that was its name.” Deep down inside of ourselves, we realize that a place or a person without a name can never have much significance. Deep down in our unconscious, we know that if we fail to name things, fail to see significance and meaning in things, we are on the road to idiocy. Let me even take this one step further and say that the process of naming is the beginning of making something special. We might even say it is the beginning of making something holy. Hence, Baptism. Hence, the christening of ships and other modes of transportation. Hence, giving a church a name.
The ancient Hebrews realized this, also. Our first lesson tells how Joshua commanded twelve men, one from each tribe, to find a stone from the River Jordan and bring it to the priests at Gilead so that they might build a monument and name the place
Let me set this request in its context. The Hebrew people had just crossed the Jordan River. They had been wandering as a nomadic people in the wilderness, and now, finally they have come into the promised land. But they were also very much aware that they were surrounded by potential enemies. Enemies who were like giants. Doesn’t it seem strange to stop whatever they were doing – just to build a monument?
The explanation that Joshua gives is worth noting. “This shall be a sign among you, that when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, ‘What mean these stones?”, then you shall answer them “that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord, and these stones shall be for a memorial unto the children of Israel forever.”
On the surface, it might seem as though Joshua were crazy. Imagine taking time to collect stones at a critical moment when there were fortifications to build, crops to place, enemies to face, and a thousand details in establishing a new homeland. But, you see, Joshua understood that memories were of equal importance in building a homeland. “This shall be a sign to you, that when the children ask their fathers in time to come, What mean these stones?’, then you shall answer them-.” Those twelve stones of Joshua pointed beyond themselves.
We might say they had transcendent meanings. They had the ability to speak to the inner souls of future generations. I don’t know what the stones looked like. I’m only certain they were not functional; that is, they were not able to be used for another reason, like as markers directing people to the nearest filling station. These stones, in themselves, contained power and meaning as well as a sacred name for a place and an event. They were there to guard against the Hebrews lapsing into amnesia, or a kind of idiocy that thinks the world begins and ends with the people present.
Recently, there has been a fascinating series in the New York Times on the megachurches of the country. A megachurch is one that has between five and fifteen thousand people attending worship on a given Sunday. The third article in the series was on church architecture. The writer indicated that many megachurches looked more like shopping malls than houses of God. The rationale was that they were there to comfort and entertain people rather than provide them with symbols of spiritual meaning. I wonder what Joshua would say on viewing one of those megachurches that look like a shopping mall. Would he ask: ‘What mean these stones, this wood, this glass???”
One of the reasons I love this special church of ours is that it is filled with symbols reminding us that we are debtors to the past. There is no question that these stones, this wood, this glass, are God’s house, and not simply a convenient building for getting together. Every time we come to worship, the name hits us – St. Philip – the place – jogs our memory and we join a divine human conversation which began long before any of us were born, and will continue long after all of us are dead.
Having said all that I’ve said so far, I feel compelled to issue a sole warning. Places of memory can lead us into all sorts of trouble. Memories are like the roots of a tree. They can give life. Without them, you can quickly descend into a kind of idiocy- But memories, like roots, can also hinder growth. Like roots, they can choke a tree or keep other trees from growing in the same vicinity. On a human level, memories can become addictive, a presence that blocks movement into the future. The difficult task for churches that are proud of their links to the past is how to preserve those precious memories and still be open to possibilities in the future.
Today is our patronal festival day. A day in which we recall those special memories of St. Philip and all who have worked in this parish under his banner. We are reminded that our faith lives on memory, as well as hope and promise. Our faith is based on the reminder that God has acted throughout history. . . hence, we celebrate a day like this lest we forget, or begin to think that everything started with this generation.
Joshua also suggests that our role is not only to name, but also to interpret the memories. Our task is to not only care for the stones, but to interpret the memories lest they become ends in themselves. ‘When your children,” Joshua says, “shall ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean these stones?’, then you shall let your children know.”
It is not enough that we have magnificent adobe and wood, and glass. We need to constantly interpret, to preach, to tell the world the meaning of this community that bears the name of Philip. This is a never-ending task that we often forget is so important for our growth as a community. Every Sunday, when I enter this pulpit, I am thankful that right behind me stands a picture of Philip. I don’t know if he looked that way. But this I do know. Those eyes seem to drill into my back, and I am reminded that I am accountable for all that I say to Philip and all who have gone before. Let me tell you, this is a scary feeling for a preacher – to suddenly realize that you are accountable not only to those in the pews and to the Vestry and to one’s Bishop, but to all those who have come and gone before you.
The bottom line for me on this patron saints day is to look at this building, to look out at you who are the living stones of this parish, and look around at the magnificent artwork and architecture, and know that here is a place that honors memories without being chained to the past.
Today, we give thanks for this place called Philip. We give thanks that someday, somewhere, there will be people who might have been afflicted with cultural amnesia – and they will say: ‘What did the Christian church look like in the ’90s???”
And someone will answer: Here is a place called Philip – whose stones are a memorial unto the church forever.
AMEN.
/se