A Platform for Y2K
Sermon by James W. Crawford
September 12, 1999
This week, up in Milford, New Hampshire, former Vice President Dan Quayle pursued his quest for the presidency. His platform? A 30% cut in taxes, a limit of 12 years for members of congress or a constitutional amendment to cut a Congressperson's pensions and benefits after 12 years. But most of all, he urged a return to what he calls "traditional values." He celebrates the current state of the economy, says The New York Times, but points out what he calls "cultural decline," and asserts we need reclaim values that made America great in the first place. Reclaim values like respect, integrity, the value of faith, the value of freedom.
And Dan Quayle found himself, this 14 months and another Labor Day before the presidential election, amid a bevy of other eager candidates, all tramping through New Hampshire: Steve Forbes, as The Times said, "demanding increased defense spending;" Elizabeth Dole promising to "put a leash on the Internal Revenue Service;" not to mention George W. Bush whose float won the Milford Labor Day Parade first prize while he literally kissed babies in South Carolina; and Al Gore who covered himself with tripe announcing a new initiative for fishermen here in Massachusetts which turned out to be old; and Bill Bradley, back in Crystal City, Missouri, promising to use our prosperity, as he said, "to improve the well-being of all our citizens, fixing our roof while the sun is shining."
As we wade though all of this prolixity, and realize our candidates will be chosen almost before Lent begins next Spring, we may discover a truth about the candidates proffered by Adlai Stevenson: "The hardest thing about any political campaign is how to win without proving you're unworthy of winning," or even more so, the plaint of the bumper sticker screaming, "Thank God only one of them can win!"
In any case, as these political figures, august and pusillanimous, roam the land, I want to get in on the action. I want to offer a platform for our church as we begin our new season together. I take as a text—call it a pretext, if you will—the passage we read a moment ago. You will remember Jesus sends his disciples out on to their mission with a ringing charge: "The realm of heaven is near. Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, cast out demons." What a platform! Surely, not a platform emerging from the politics Henry Adams described as the "systematic organization of hatreds." No, our Lord offered a different focus altogether. And in that vein, I offer a three point platform for our common life here this year.
I
In the first place, I do hope we all, and others too, from across this city, this region and from around the world, may gather in this room, and with reverence, enthusiasm, humility—and high expectation—we may worship, echoing the song of the Psalmist, "How lovely is your dwelling place, O God of hosts! My soul longs, indeed it faints for the courts of God; my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God."
Can we do that? Can we take time out from the furious acceleration of our lives, the myriad choices we face for the filling of our time, the fragmentation we encounter in our increasingly encapsulated and disjointed moments—can we call "time out" for joining with other pilgrims, seeking to take a deep breath, seeking to recast their loyalties from those things demanding we keep up keeping up and celebrate One who releases us from the trivial tyrannies driving us crazy, exhausting, numbing, killing us? Can we set aside a moment to put a fresh, transcendent perspective on the demanding components of our life? It is a matter, as Dr. Fosdick used to say, of "getting ourselves off our own hands," and surrendering our lives to the loving, accepting sovereignty of the living God, turning our lives over and saying, amid all the vacuous piffle and chaotic claims raining in on us, "By God, you take charge; take me, use me, release me, free me for your joy and your service."
That is what worship can mean to a lot of us. In a wonderful reflection on what moments in our churches and what worshipping together can and should be all about, the Dean of England's Litchfield Cathedral, N. T. Wright, starts by brooding over some of the majestic buildings and architecture where we Christians gather.
He could be talking about us and this splendid setting. "It is the worship of God," he writes, "It is the worship of God that prevents our buildings from becoming mere theme parks and museums. Without the warming fire of worship, these elegant buildings would be ancient monuments rather than living temples capable of inspiring the souls of men and women with glimpses of the divine."
And then Wright launches into a paraphrase of I Corinthians 13. He admonishes preacher types like Lael and me; he cautions musicians like Greg Peterson and our choir; he gives notice to all of us who gather here and who in various ways join in worship or in institutional service or front line mission, and he writes as follows:
Though we sing with the tongues of men and of angels, if we are not truly worshipping the living God we are noisy gongs and clanging symbols. Though we organize the liturgy most beautifully, if it does not enable us to worship the living God, we are mere ballet dancers. Though we repave the floor and reface the stonework, though we balance our budgets and attract all tourists, if we are not worshipping, we are nothing.
Worship is humble and glad; worship forgets itself in remembering God; worship celebrates the truth as God's truth, not its own. True worship does not put on a show or make a fuss; true worship isn't forced, isn't half hearted; doesn't keep looking at its watch; doesn't worry about what the person in the next pew may be doing. True worship is open to God, adoring God, waiting for God, trusting God even in the dark.
Worship will never end; whether there be buildings, they will crumble; whether there be budgets, they will add up to nothing. For we build for the present age, we discuss for the present age, and we pay for the present age; but when the age to come is here, the present age will be done away. For now we see the beauty of God through a glass darkly, but then face to face; now we appreciate only in part, but then we shall affirm and appreciate God even as the living God has affirmed and appreciated us.
So, now our tasks are worship, mission and management; these three. But the greatest of these is worship.
Indeed! God forbid we ever forget that!
II
In the second place, I think we want to be a house of reconciliation and hospitality. I have to tell you, in a world where civil war seems to be the order of the day, if anything is desperately needed, it lies in a community where variegated souls gather and serve as signs to a warring world of a community recognizing one another as children of God.
Do you know why baptism is such a wonderful event in the life of a congregation? Do you know what baptism tells us brilliantly, loud and clear? Well, many things, of course, but one of them speaks precisely to this vital matter of our unique identity in the divine scheme of things. This morning, for instance, we welcomed Andrew and Olivia as our own children, as our own brother and sister into this family of ours rooted and grounded in the love of Christ. Genes and chromosomes aside. Race and culture, creed or career, credentials and religion notwithstanding, we welcomed those wee cherubs into the family of God; a family where all the barriers we create or tend to recognize as boundaries dividing us into "them and us," "we and they"—in this sacrament those boundaries dissolve. Andrew and Olivia, as much as they may be genealogically the children of Amy and Jim, Pam and Conrad—these children are shown to be children whose value rests in their being little miracles of God—no more so, no less so, than each of you among us this morning. That little African-American girl, that little Anglo-American boy—that is our world. Nay, that is God's world and the sacrament provides a glimpse, not only of how these little infants fold into the divine mosaic, it illustrates exactly our relationship to one another in this room and with the human family across God's marvelous world.
Oh, this fact of faith can be hard to come by. It can be difficult to believe. A human family, are we? Children of God, are we? We are a diverse, crazy, maddening mix of worshippers. On any Sunday morning —this Sunday morning—we gather as a diverse crowd of guests, searchers, first-timers, children of the children of the sixties, and as Don Wells indicated from this pulpit some years ago, we probably include
a charismatic, dubious as to whether the sprit will splatter like the rain against the ark of our voyage, and beside her a social activist fearful that our prayers will not lead us to serve the suffering. The pietist will wonder why we worry about the budget so much while the banker thinks we read the wrong book. A liberal, afraid we avoid matching our faith to current events, will sip coffee in fellowship hour with a conservative who expects to hear a quote from Billy Graham or Pat Robertson, but scarcely from Nehemiah or Amos. A feminist will check our language for inclusivity, while a Latino waits for a word to be spoken bilingually. A visiting musician, hypercritical, thirsting for choral disaster, will wince as the tenors seek to grasp beyond their reach. An organist on his day off will listen for Greg's right foot to slip on a pedal. A teen-ager will squirm at the ponderous pace of our proceedings; a grammarian will parse our syntax; a scientist mock our three story universe.
But here we are—my soul! here we are!—suburbanite, urbanite, rural dweller . . .strangers and saints, colleagues and adversaries, leaders and followers, male and female, young and old, black, white, brown, yellow, red, small group spiritual seekers, promise keepers, united and disunited, optimist, pessimist, visionary, reactionary, first-strike-capability cheerleaders and turn-the-other-cheek pacifists, fresh shaven and bearded, paunched and slim, curled and bald, wrinkled and smooth, bespectacled and blind, silly putty and pre-cast concrete, timber and tooth-pick, shale and marble, wide awake and sleepily bored—the whole of us greater than the sum of all our parts—a lot of us, like my own father, as Paul Tillich observed, standing in church unable to say the creed but eager to stand next to someone who can, few of us realizing no one of us can, but all of us leaning on the other for succor and support.
Is it any wonder we begin our services here with an act of unity and reconciliation? We are from all over the map, physically, spiritually, emotionally. "The peace of Christ be with you!" "The peace of Christ be with you!" Welcome to our family of God. Welcome in the compassionate, healing, gracious, loving name of Jesus Christ, our friend, our brother, our sovereign, our savior.
III
And just once more: a third plank in our platform speaks to the continuing need for a Christian social conscience and mission. When Jesus sends out those disciples to proclaim the impinging realm of heaven, when he urges them "to heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, cast out demons," he describes the possibility of a new kind and quality of life, of a new regime where people are treated differently, kindly, compassionately, truthfully, justly.
I am reminded of this tremendously high missionary calling by a death taking place in Brazil just two weeks ago. One of the towering figures of the twentieth century church, Dom Helder Camara, Archbishop of Olinda and Recife, died at age 90. What a fantastic presence! Among others, Helder Camara articulated and shaped what became known in Latin America in the 70s and 80s as Liberation Theology. He began his effort at the Second Vatican Council at Rome in 1963. Helder Camara begged his fellow bishops to drop such titles as "excellency", and "eminence" and to exchange their silver and gold pectoral crosses for bronze or wooden ones. He urged them to identify more closely with their constituency, Brazil being the largest Catholic Country in the world, and in 1964, when Pope Paul VI appointed him as Archbishop to Recife, Dom Helder practiced what he preached. He put the traditional golden throne in storage and replaced it with a simple wooden chair. He chose to abandon the palatial official residence and moved, instead, to a sparsely furnished room behind a parish church. He saw the Gospel as announcing a new kind of world and insisted his diocese soak up the New Testament as a vision for social change. When the military regime took offense, Dom Helder Camara toured the world denouncing the jailing, the exiling, the slaughter of priests, nuns and seminary students, calling the oppression a denial of the Gospel. The regime tapped his phone, threatened his death by phone and mail, and in 1969, as his recent obituary tell us, "a hail of bullets pierced the walls of his living quarters."
What did Dom Helder seek? What did he point to? The inauguration of social justice. An end to propping up unfair and unjust political and economic social arrangements and now the pursuit of land distribution and access by all to education opportunity. They called him "The Red Bishop", "Fidel Castro in a Cassock." And as we are reminded by those who write about him now, he retorted, "When I fed the poor they called me a saint. When I asked, why are they poor, they called me a communist."
No way! In a fashion, Helder Camara provides a model for all of us, both as individuals and as a church. We are not all going to make the choices he did. We are not all going to make the impact he did. But he reminds us, first and foremost, of our calling, our vocation in God's world beyond anything we do here. He reminds us again that worship and mission are all of a piece, that prayer and justice go hand in hand, that hymns and service are siblings. As our church purpose articulates so well, we begin with worship and the preaching of the Gospel, we cherish our responsibilities to one another and to the church at large, and we close with the commitment to "strive for righteousness justice and peace." A terrific church purpose!
So then, friends, three planks in our Y2K platform: One: reverent, expectant, recreating worship, glorifying God, leading to freedom, release, and joy. Two: A gathering of congregants transformed by the grace of Christ into a secure, reconciled and reconciling family demonstrating to the world the kind of community God really wants; and three, a contribution to that new world through an offering of our substance and witness of our lives. Can we do this? Can we be this? Of course we can. This year, God bless the Old South Church in Boston!
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