Gospel reading: Luke 17.5-10
(Click HERE for last Sunday's readings)
One of my favorite phrases in the Bible comes in St. Paul's speech in Athens in the book of Acts. He has seen an altar inscribed 'to an unknown god', and he decides to tell the gathered crowd about that god. In his sermon, says that the living God is the one in whom "we live and move and have our being".
His debate had been with the local philosophers. And these people believed that happiness came through philosophical discussion (the Epicureans) or through knowledge, self-sufficiency, and reason (the Stoics). Paul was the first Christian theologian. So he did value careful thought about God. But when he described his God to these philosophers he didn't describe the Christian faith as holding more accurate propositions about the universe. He spoke in terms of the wonder of living, moving, having our being within the life of God.
We still see the world much as those Greek philosophers did. We can still see faith as assenting to a proposition. (I considered this a little in my sermon on Sunday. Perhaps I should have just read this chapter in Amazing Grace from the pulpit.) But faith may be more about movement. And the way we move through our lives may have more to do with who we are than how we think.
As some of you know I used to build houses. Over time I've come to be less interested in how our houses express who we are and more interested in how our houses make us who we are. For instance, it's worth noting that front porches were gradually replaced by back decks with privacy fences. But we don't get the whole picture if we just say that this architectural change was a symptom of our increasingly private personalities. Daily patterns change when our houses change, and I think those daily patterns may have more to do with who we are than we can imagine. Churchill said that we shape our buildings, and thereafter they shape us. So one might ask whether back decks and privacy fences make us into more private persons.
What in the world does that have to do with the Christian faith? Well, when I visited the Episcopal Church seminary in Austin, I was intrigued by their chapel. If you've been there you know it's very unique. The space is not symetrical. The cross behind the altar is outside, seen through the clear windows at the (liturgical) east end of the chapel. But the most interesting feature to me was subtler. The chancel was a kind of a semicircle. And behind the pulpit was a short wall that caused a bottleneck as people went to communion. The bottleneck, however, was not an architectural oversight. It was intentional. For after taking communion, if you keep your head down and try to get back to your seat you may well run into someone. To make it through you have to lift your head and look at the person coming to the rail.
Whether you like the space or the feature is one thing. But can you see the notion behind it? Our buildings will shape us, so this community wanted to be shaped by having to look at one another, by having to see oneself as part of a larger gathering every time they received the body and blood of Christ.
Kathleen Norris pushes us to see the life of faith less in terms of assenting to a few dubious facts, and more in terms of participation, of repetition, of rhythm, of the ongoing involvement in the worship of God. She managed to stop waiting to believe the collection of facts she thought faith was about and start trusting the ongoing life of worship in community. She started the practice of prayer before she understood prayer. And what she found was that the life of faith is more about living and moving and having our being in God than it is about explaining God.
I suppose the good news for us is that we're not meant to figure out faith as a cosmic brain teaser which every human is required to solve before death. Faith is a way of being in the world. And we're transformed not by being convinced of a new theological proposition. We're transformed by the patterns of our lives. Shaping the form of our worship is like shaping our buildings. Our worship doesn't just reflect who we are. It transforms us into something new as we live and move together, having our being in the mystery that is God.
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When I was growing up in the Presbyterian church in Memphis in the 1960s and 1970s, church was a dress up affair. We had what country folks call our "Sunday go to meetin'" clothes. For my Mom, and elder, and my Dad, a deacon, church was all about the people. By the time I was an adult, both my parents has become Methodists, which is even more about the people. You can read a book entitled "Organizing to beat the Devil: Methodism and the Making of America" to get a sense of just how very much about the people it is.
About three years ago,a former Presbyterian turned Episcopal priest named Mary Craig, introduced me to Anglicanism by telling me about an Episcopal church she and her husband used to attend in Saudi Arabia. She talked about how, as the liturgy washes over us, it changes us. She talked about how right it felt to kneel for the confession. I was immediately fascinated. Then I met another former Presbyterian, turned Episcopalian, who was a rector. He gave me my first Book of Common Prayer and talked to me about the history of our great liturgy, and how it bacame what we have today.
I came to my first service at Christ Church, All Saints Day, 2004. Not knowing how things go at Christ Church, after communion, I turned back down the center of the chancel and walked back against the flow of traffic. It was only after I got back to my seat, that I noticed that the people were exiting the sides and returning down the sides aisles. A little embarrassed at not having done it right, I was impressed at how the flow to traffic kept the focus on the altar, and the Eucharist, instead of the faces of "whose who."
It was comforting to be introduced to the Episcopal Church by people who come from the same "Sunday go to meetin'" tradition my people come from. When I was growing up, we took communion in the pews and only once a month. It was a great blessing that the people who lead me to a more sacramental tradition were people like me, raised in churches that were all about the people.
I have come to understand that in a more catholic, eucharistic way of following Christ, church is less about whose there, as it is about what we do together there. We celebrate the sacrament together there. We are changed by the liturgy together there.
The world is full of "whose who." The world is all about "what's she wearing." In his book "Screwtape Letters" C.S.Lewis suggests, the devil never says, "there is no God." The devil says, "Look at her silly hat." As one who is easily distracted by the world of "whose who and what's she wearing?" I am grateful for a sacramental tradition that reminds me I live and move and have my being in God. When Christ Church was shaped, I feel it must have been shaped for this. Now Christ Church is shaping me.
More thoughts on "it's not who is there, but what we do together there."
I got to spend the weekend at Camp Mitchell, at a conference for young people in substance abuse recovery. There were about 600 kids from all over the country, hearing speakers talk about how to stay clean and sober, one day at a time. Now there's where you really learn that it's not about who is there, from meeting to meeting, or from year to year, but it is about what we do together there, and keep doing, no matter what.
When I first started going to Christ Church, about three years ago, there was a woman who sat in the pew in front of me. One Sunday she introduced herself to me, and said she had been going to Christ Church for many years (I don't remember exactly, but I think since the 1960's) She had been there through thick and thin, seeing many priests and vestries come and go. Then one Sunday she wasn't there. I heard she was sick, and then later heard she had died. Her ashes are buried at Christ Church, along with those of some of her parish family from over the years. I think of her often duing the "peace." She would shake my hand and smile warmly and say "The Peace of the Lord." I say this too, in memory of her. Her absence impresses upon me that worship is not about who is there or not there, but what we keep doing there, Sunday after Sunday, year after year, in memory of those who are not there, and most especially in memory of our Lord.
At the conference this weekend, I was missing a friend who cannot stop drinking to save his life. He first identified himself as an alcohoic 17 years ago, and has tried to stop many times. Most recently he got 3 months of continuous sobriety, and relapsed yet again. He may well die drunk. As I listened to wonderful speakers, soaked up the beautiful scenery, and enjoyed the companionship of some old and many new friends, I was reminded that our walk with the God of our own understanding, is not about who may be there or not be there from time to time, but about the continuning to walk with God no matter what. Maybe my friend will make it back. And when he does, God willing, we will be there waiting for him.
Look around next Sunday morning, and think about the ones who are not there. Remember that it not who is there that counts, but what we do together there, and will continue to do, and will be doing, when and if they come back.
As our Presiding Bishop has said, we'll just keep the door open and the light on, for when they come back.
Thank you Mrs. Krebs.
Well, I got back from being out of town for the weekend and had the urge to blog, and there was not a new posting, so I started "trey praises stray phrases" on blog spot.com. Check it out.
Scott, Your story reminds me of a fence. Mother used to rush through her morning so she could meet Marylin Eddy at the fence Marlyn's husband build. Both women hated that fence! It stood for, "social seperation," as much as the Berlin Wall.
Not about to miss their morning gossip, lawn chairs appeared on both sides, and coffee mugs. Marylin's husband got the message... Soon there was a gate installed.
Joel
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