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Before we go any further with
this little exercise, let me say clearly and confidently
(leaving no room for anyone to misunderstand or take
offense), that I believe you can worship anywhere, any way,
any time, with anybody, wearing pretty much anything. But
speaking solely for myself, it feels good to once again
pray, preach and sing the praises of almighty God in this
place, wearing my brand new tie.
Let me explain. Two Sundays ago,
at the conclusion of worship, Roger and Barbara Timm (two of
the best treasures we ever stole from the Presbyterians)
said: “If you’ve got a minute, we’ve got something to give
you.” Which turned out to be a tie from Ede and Ravenscroft
of Edinburgh, Scotland (Clothiers by Appointment to the
Crown since the year of our Lord 1689). Roger and Barbara
knew I had bought a tie there while leading several of you
across the trail of the Protestant Reformation. And
befitting the good Presbyterians they once were, they have
returned to Scotland and purchased ties for yours truly a
trio of times since.
But in giving me this one, Roger
said: “We thought you would wear it upon reentering the
sanctuary on May 15.” To which Barbara said: “It’s a gift,
Roger. You can’t tell Bill what to do with a gift.” But
Roger’s “hint” mirrored my “want,” given that I am wearing
it as a way of reminding myself that this day is no ordinary
day, this place is no ordinary place, and the thing I am
privileged to do on this extraordinary day in this
extraordinary place is no ordinary thing.
For years I have worn a new tie
every Easter as a way of turning the youngest child’s
question at Passover (“Why is this night unlike any other
night?”) into an aging preacher’s question at Easter (“Why
is this morning unlike any other morning?”). And in a
similar spirit, every Sunday finds me wearing the color red
somewhere on my person (visible or invisible) as a way of
reminding myself that every Sunday….whether it dawns fair or
ill….is a weekly rehearsal of our Lord’s resurrection from
the dead.
Yet this day is extra special,
else why would my daughter and son-in-law be here from San
Francisco? Unless they came to help install the organ, which
also came from San Francisco. Parts of which you can see.
Though nothing of which you can hear. But you will. Soon.
Trust me. After all, it’s only been twenty weeks and three
million dollars.
Twenty weeks is nothing. Wells
Cathedral in England took 245 years. Notre Dame in Paris,
187 years. While Washington Cathedral (in our nation’s
capital) was first discussed in 1791 and finished (if a
cathedral is ever finished) in 1990.
And three million dollars, while
slightly more than a drop in the bucket (and never to be
confused with chump change), is a bargain when factored in
fifty-year increments. Assuming that some of us are sitting
here in 2055, we’re talking a mere $60,000 a year. If we’re
here in 2105, it drops to $30,000 a year. Sometimes you have
to think long as well as big.
And maybe high, too….as in
transcendence. Along with low….as in roots. I trust you have
read about Dearborn’s magnificent Islamic Center of America
($14 million to build 92,000 square feet, including a
60-foot dome). It is set to open on Thursday. The article
quoted John Esposito of Georgetown University (a pre-eminent
Islamic scholar) who said: “What we are seeing is a 21st
century community emerging, making sacrifices to build
cathedrals as symbols of both their deep roots and their
ongoing presence.” Which, translated, seems to be their way
of saying: “We’ve been here. We are here. We’re going to
stay here. We’re going to make a difference here. Even
though everything we do here (including the design of the
building we have constructed here) announces that our home
is never just here….never only here….never finally here.”
Which is an incredible theological statement….one which
could be ours as well.
Which is why I offer no apology
for the magnitude of the work we have done. Magnificent, by
some standards. Modest, by other standards. It was needed.
It is appreciated. And on my watch (along with succeeding
watches to come….again, trust me), it shall be wonderfully
utilized.
Before undertaking it, we
refurbished everything else in the building first….beefed up
the staff first….built the Christian Life Center
first….expanded the program first….and dramatically
multiplied both mission dollars and mission efforts first.
But cardiology being equally important to ecclesiology, we
knew that sooner or later we would have to attend to our
heart. Our heart being worship….including the means to do it
and the space to hold it.
King Uzziah died in 742 BC,
although Uzziah’s name may have been Azariah….historical
precision not being the primary objective of the narrative
here. Sometime during that year, Isaiah (who was a prophet
on the payroll) entered the temple. Or, truer to the text,
had a vision of entering the temple. This vision included
the Lord enthroned, high and lifted up, with a train that
trailed longer than the one on my daughter’s wedding gown.
Beside the Lord were six-winged seraphs (use your
imagination here). Two wings for covering the face. Two
wings for covering the feet (“feet” being an euphemism for
nakedness here….again, use your imagination). And the
remaining two wings for flying.
Suddenly, one seraph calls to
the other (or to several others), singing a version of the
hymn my wife says they sang every Sunday morning in the
church of her childhood:
Holy, holy, holy,
Lord God almighty,
All thy works shall praise thy name in earth and
sky and sea.
After which the building itself
shakes and its entirety is filled with smoke (incense?).
Now I ask you, is Isaiah talking
about what the building looks like or what the encounter
feels like? Is it the building that is shaking? Or is it the
prophet who is shaking? You know the answer as well as I do.
After all, this is a story we find in the pages of the
Bible, not in the pages of Architectural Digest.
Consider the old phrase “Sunday go to meeting.” Ponder for a
minute the word “meeting.” Then ask yourself: “Who is being
met?” Friends? Yes. Preacher? Yes. Choir? Yes. God?
Maybe….hopefully….occasionally. But like the one good golf
shot that keeps you coming back, God is met (in sanctuaries
on Sundays) often enough to make a difference….yes, all the
difference in the world.
And it is the remembrance of
encounters past, coupled with the expectation of encounters
in the future, that leads us to call places like this
“sacred.” There’s no accounting for things that have
happened here. Nor is there any way of predicting things
that might happen here. Speaking from his barstool, a man
met briefly said tipsily: “Bill, I’d love to come to your
church. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the roof
cracking.” Assuming he is serious, what is he afraid of?
Well, you know that it’s not what he’s afraid of, but
who. Which recalls Annie Dillard's great line when
she wrote: “If we really expect God to show up in worship,
we all might consider wearing hard hats into the sanctuary.”
We don’t, of course….wear hard
hats. Yet we do, of course….expect God to show. Which is why
some of us still enter quietly and speak softly. Because you
just never know.
Several years ago in a sermon on
the 12th point of the Scout Law (quick, somebody give me the
12th point: “A Scout is ____”), I told you about the evening
Kris and I went to a wedding. Which is to say we attended a
wedding. I did not perform the wedding. Meaning that I did
not stand up here looking like me, but sat down there
looking like you. As in a pew. Where I do not hang out very
often. I do not know what it is like….out there….where you
are. The wedding was for my friend. I had buried his first
wife (who was also my friend). And I was extremely happy he
had found someone else with whom to share his life.
Anyway, Kris and I took our
places in the pew. Which wasn’t in this church. But it was a
beautiful church….with a beautiful organ….playing beautiful
music….for a crowd of beautiful people….who were behaving
(for the most part) beautifully. Yes, beautifully. Except
for the people immediately behind me. They were listening to
nothing and talking about everything…. including a lot of
talk about hunting. And as the wedding got closer and
closer, their talk got louder and louder. Whereupon I leaned
over to Kris and whispered (very quietly): “Is it always
like this out here?” To which she whispered back (even more
quietly): “More than you know.”
I found myself wanting to turn
and glare, ever so briefly, at the people behind me. And up
until a few years ago, I would have. Because, until a few
years ago, I was in that period of my life when I would
occasionally count items in the grocery carts of people in
the “express checkout lines” and kindly point out to them
that this was a “12 item or less” line and they had 27 items
in their cart (33 if you counted the six pack). But I didn’t
turn and glare because, now that I am older and wiser, I
realize that no one died and appointed me “King of the
Universe.” So I sat facing forward, grinding my teeth in
silence. My friend’s adult children began processing.
Whereupon a tear or two began rolling. And the organ began
swelling. Which was when it happened.
But before I tell you what
happened, I need to tell you that this church….the church in
which I was seated….is dominated (architecturally) by a
floor-to-ceiling window of stained glass. I mean, the whole
front of the church is a window. It’s not just a window
in the wall. The window is the wall. And it’s
mostly of Jesus (although the disciples are in it, too,
along with several other images that are less recognizable,
but no less beautiful).
So there I was….forward
facing….tears welling….family coming….organ swelling…when
the man behind me talking (subject, hunting) noticed the
window for the very first time. I mean, we’d been sitting
there fifteen minutes. How could he have missed it before
this? But, seeing it now, he pointed it out to his
significant (female) other. Then, in a stage whisper, he
said: “Wow. I wonder what a .357 Magnum would do to that?”
To which she said (in no less of a stage whisper): “It would
send you straight to hell.”
Now I know the guy was just
being funny. He wasn’t planning on blowing out the window.
And he wasn’t planning on blowing away Jesus. I mean, Jesus
has been killed before. And I’m not all that certain anybody
went “straight to hell” for that, either….given that it is
in God’s nature to be far more merciful than I would ever
think of being.
No, the guy behind me wasn’t so
much sinful as stupid. Or insensitive. Or inappropriate. He
just said the first thing that came into his head. And it’s
a free country. You can pretty much say anything to anyone,
at any time, in any place….except “fire” in a crowded
theater. But I wanted to turn around, shake his lapels, and
say to him: “Look, buddy, if this place….if this window….if
the figure in the window….if this moment….if these
lovers….if none of this means anything to you….can you tell
me what, if anything, does?”
I mean, at some point in your
life, you are going to have an experience for which no other
word will suffice except the word “sacred.” And it’s going
to touch you….move you….humble you. Moreover, it’s going to
shut your ever-moving mouth….bring a tear to your eye….form
a lump in your throat….drag a long, slow sigh from your
lungs….and maybe even drop you to your knees. Whereupon you
may attempt to explain what has happened with traditional
words like “God” or “Jesus” or “church” or “sanctuary.” But,
more likely, you will not know what words to use (by way of
explanation)….although later you may say with Jacob: “Surely
the Lord was in this place and I didn’t even know it.”
We’re talking about encounters.
We’re talking about “going to meeting” on Sunday….or any
other day, for that matter. How did Isaiah say it: “I saw
the Lord, high and lifted up. And then I said, ‘Woe is me.
For I am lost’ (actually, I like other translations which
read ‘for I am undone, unraveled, unglued, exposed’). I am a
man of unclean lips. And I dwell in the midst of a people of
unclean lips.”
We’re talking “confession” here.
We’re talking about my smallness in the midst of God’s
greatness here. We’re talking: “There’s no way I can have
this kind of encounter while continuing to entertain notions
of my own grandeur here.” But what is this “lips” business
here?
I’ll tell you about this “lips”
business. Isaiah is a prophet. And prophets, unlike
plumbers, painters, plasterers and pipe fitters, do not make
their living with their hands. They make their living with
their lips. They speak for God. And they also speak for
bread. Which is what I do, don’t you see. I speak for God.
And I speak for bread. My calling is my living. And the
prophet is saying: “At the very heart of what I am called to
do….trained to do….do do….I am unclean. More than
inadequate. More than unworthy. Unclean.”
Never have I openly lied to you.
Never have I knowingly misled you. Never have I sought to
varnish, package or otherwise finesse the truth for you.
Never have I intentionally used my skill with words to
manipulate the Word. But what do I know….about what I have
done, I mean. Over the last dozen years, some of you have
been hurt by my words….confused by my words….unsettled by my
words….even angered by my words. Knowing how to do surgery
with words, I have not always closed up the opening with
words. Making me a man of unclean lips in the midst of a
people of unclean lips. Yes, you too.
But then comes the coal….taken
with the tongs….out of the fire….the altar fire….God’s altar
fire. Whereupon the coal is applied to the lips….cauterizing
the wound while warming the chill. Accompanied by the
promise: “Lo, this has touched your lips and your guilt is
taken away….your sin, forgiven.” I have felt that coal on my
lips. I have also said those words with my lips. Tell me
you’ve heard those words from my lips (that your guilt is
taken away and your sin forgiven). Tell me I have said them
loud enough and often enough so that you haven’t left this
sanctuary crippled by sin or shackled in shame. My friend
Dick Cheatham is famous for saying that every sermon ought
to have some good news in it. Tell me you’ve heard some
here.
Fire. Tongs. Coal. Then the
voice. Ever the voice. Always the voice. “Who will go? For
us? For God? Who’s available? Who’s sendable?” It only
starts here. It never stays here.
Who will go and do? Given that
doing is important. We’re talking feeding, clothing and
visiting. We’re talking teaching, healing and forgiving.
We’re talking about driving out demons and raising up the
dead. You can do all that stuff on the way home from
church….should do all that stuff on the way home from
church….will do at least some of that stuff on the way home
from church.
But the corollary question to
“Who will go and do?” is the question “Who will go and be?”
How does the anthem put it?
Christ requires of
us, wheresoe’er he comes, to have the best of rooms.
No Motel 6s for our Lord. Our
Lord is picky….fussy…..choosy. But what is the best of
rooms? Saint Peter’s? Westminster? Canterbury Cathedral? The
Mormon Tabernacle? Our newly-refurbished sanctuary? Surely
we qualify. If we weren’t first class before, we’re first
class now.
Ah, close. But no cigar. Big
room. New room. Good room. Great room. But not the required
room. The required room….the desired room….the best of
rooms….the heart.
Lord, prepare me to
be a sanctuary,
pure and holy, tried and true;
with thanksgiving, I’ll be a living
sanctuary for you.
Note: This Sunday’s sermon was
preached on the occasion of our re-entry into the sanctuary
after a twenty-week hiatus in the Christian Life Center. The
extensive sanctuary renovation was sufficiently complete so
as to allow the congregation to again occupy the pews. The
Schoenstein organ installation was (and remains) a work in
progress. But the “awe” and “wow” factors were very much in
evidence as we gathered for worship.
The final praise chorus,
“Sanctuary,” was sung, first by the preacher, then echoed by
the choir at the close of the sermon.
The text for “The Best of Rooms”
(set to music by Randall Thompson) dates from 1647 and reads
as follows:
Christ, he requires still,
wheresoe’er He comes,
To feed, or lodge, to have the best of rooms:
Give Him the choice; grant Him the nobler part
Of all the house: the best of all’s the heart.
—Robert
Herrick
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