Our Return to the Nave [Proper 26B - Mark 12:28-34]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Mark 12:28-34
Our Return to the Nave
Well, we’re inside. This
is an exciting day, one we have long awaited.
Today, for the first time in many months, I can gesture with both hands
while I preach, like God intended, without having to worry about my pages
flying off into Tejon Street. I don’t to
have to wonder if the altar book will turn its pages in the middle of a chant. I will no longer spend my Sunday mornings envious
of your bundled heads and sunglassed eyes and supported backs.
Because we are, after many months, back in the nave. I want to thank you for your patience, for
your understanding, and for your trust.
I know it wasn’t always easy. But
I do appreciate your willingness to be inconvenienced for the greater good, to
love our members more than your comfort.
I know today that I don’t need to say too much about the Gospel lesson,
because I have seen so many of you live this Gospel during these challenging
times. You have loved God without a
building; you have discovered creative ways to love your neighbors – even
during the months we could not physically be together.
Today we are excited to be together in the same room. But the truth is: we have been together throughout
this entire pandemic. We have supported
each other, prayed for each other, journeyed these challenging times as a
united community. We have prayed the
Daily Office over the internet and spent Sundays on the lawn and had meetings
under the cover of our blue tents and walked the Stations of the Cross all over
our campus. Today, though, we get to come
home together. And that is special.
I don’t know if you have ever had this experience. When I return to house after an extended time
away, maybe after a vacation, I can, for a moment, when I first walk through
the door, actually smell what my house smells like. After a day or two the scent is washed away
by familiarity. But in that moment, it
smells like home.
Today feels like that, like coming home after long
holiday. The memories come rushing back –
in the scent of the caked-in layers of incense, in the smooth texture of the
well-worn wood of the pews and the pulpit, in the sound of your church shoes on
the stone floor, in the way the colors dance on the walls as the sun pushes
through the stained glass. Did you touch
the stone today? Did you close your eyes
and breathe in the holiness that hangs on the air - ventilated air, I might
add? This place will always be special
but it might never feel the same kind of special that it feels today. So take a moment; take it in.
And while this building feels, in many ways the same, almost
as if time froze in here while it was passing everywhere else, it has also
changed. A stunning antiphonal organ now
adorns the west wall. It is a wonderful,
new addition, but also feels like it was always meant to be there. Like if you didn’t know it was new, you would
think it was as old as the font it frames.
And we have changed too, individually, yes, but also this
congregation has changed since we last worshiped in this space, back in March
of 2020. During the many months of this
pandemic, we have buried members and we have baptized new members into the
Church. Some of our old friends have
moved on to new adventures; new friends have joined us on our journey. There are people here who, before today, had
only worshiped with us on the lawn or on-line and this morning settled into one
of our old wooden pews for the very first time.
I am also acutely aware that for some of you, for some of our
longer-term members, this is the second time you have done this, the second
time you have returned to the nave after an extended period of absence. And, I can’t believe I am saying this, but I
imagine that for many of you the global pandemic was the less painful of the
two experiences. And I want to honor that. Endurance and grit, courage and love, and a
relentless hope, are engraved on the heart of this parish. I am proud of that; you should be too.
This is a day of celebration.
We are back. It feels great. But I do think it is important to acknowledge
that while God is here, in our midst today, rejoicing with us, God has not been
waiting for us in this building. When we
were stuck in our homes, last Spring, God was with us, love reached across the
distance to bind us together. When we
were on the lawn, singing in the shadow of the tower, God was with us. When you were frustrated or despairing,
lonely or lost, in these challenging times, God was with you. Not waiting for you to return to this space,
but finding you and filling the space in your heart. Meeting you wherever you were, wherever you
are.
Zen Hess wrote recently in an article in The Christian Century, “During the Babylonian exile, there was
always an urge to return to Jerusalem, to worship again in the comfort of the
temple. But the prophets began to shift
the focus from the temple itself to the purpose of the temple in God’s work of
making the people holy. They taught that
God does not exist for sacred spaces; sacred spaces exist to open us to an
encounter with God and teach us to live with God in ways that will sustain our
faith beyond their walls.”[1]
This sacred space is no exception. It gives us a space to touch and taste
heaven. Like a sheepfold, it gathers and
holds together this occasionally unruly flock.
It stands in this city as a symbol of the love that permeates the air
and the prayers that soak the stones.
But it will not let us stay. What
we find here, we are meant to carry out the doors. The building itself tells us as much; it sends
us out. The window above the tower door
says, “Go ye into all the world.”
This building is special.
It has formed us by its beauty.
It has gathered us in its welcoming embrace. It has shielded us when the storms of life
have threatened. It has amplified our
songs of Easter joy and has stoically shouldered our Good Friday sorrow. This is our home. And while this place does not confine God,
God does choose to meet us here. And
will continue to meet us here for generations to come.
And then one day, hundreds of years in the future, this
building will be reduced to ruins, like every great work of human hands. And the people who walk between the old
pillars, will never truly know the beauty of this space. They will only be able to imagine the colors
on the reredos and the sounds of the organ and the heft of the wooden
doors. They will not be able to see what
we see. But I hope they will still feel
what we feel. I hope they will stand
under the blue sky, in a nave much more wild with nature, and close their eyes
and listen for the echoes of our songs, and bask in the lingering
holiness. I hope they will feel the
residue our love, the love we imprint on everything we do here.
Today is a special day.
It is a day of celebration. And
so, allow yourself to linger a bit longer than usual; take in the beauty of
this sacred space. Give it a chance to
remind you why you missed it so badly.
And then come back next week and the week after that. I hope you come so
often that you start to take this place for granted again.
If that is possible…
Like the mountains to our west, this worship space is breathtaking every
time I see it. We are blessed to be the inheritors of this beautiful gift, a
gift shared with us, a gift we will share with those who shall follow us. But honestly, it wouldn’t be nearly as
beautiful if the pews were empty. Without
the people, without the saints who fill this building with the sounds of heaven,
who permanently stain this space with love, it is no more than a well-organized
collection of stone, steel, and wood.
Our love is what makes this space sacred; our love is what makes this place
a church.
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