An audio of Fr. Carskadden preaching this sermon is available.
ack in the 1950s, I attended the Music and Art Foundation’s Free Creative Arts School, which at that time was located down the street in what is now “Pagliacci Pizza.” I was a minor Wunderkind, and my favorite medium was collage. Give me a box of colorful scraps of paper and a jar of paste, and my imagination would soar.
Faced with the scripture passages assigned to today’s lectionary: judgmental words from Jeremiah, a harsh message from Jesus regarding family division, a letter from an unknown author to unknown recipients; and attempting to acknowledge the golden anniversary of the Compline Choir; bearing in mind this year’s political race, and the opening of the Olympic Games; and noting the death of Julia Child, who herself taught cooking classes in this very Cathedral in the days of Dean Tennis; I invite you to join me, with this box of colorful scripture quotes, anthem texts, and recollections, and let us see what we can imagine, what sense or non-sense we can paste together — for these times, for our lives.
The texts themselves provide us with historic voices. I’m reminded of a sign at an entrance to Winchester Cathedral: “You are entering a conversation that began long before you were born, and will continue long after you are dead.” And so it is each time we enter this resonant space. We join a conversation. First, a discourse between architects and planners, among local business- men and women, committees and faithful parishioners who have tried to say something about God and faith in concrete, glass, wood, and iron.
Over the years there were voices who called out for historic architectural articulation of faith: faux-Gothic stained glass-filled windows and furnishings, defining the faith as it once was defined. Other voices have been raised in praise of openness, of light, transparency, incompleteness of this space – speaking of God known only in part. In the words of Christopher Smart, eighteenth-century English poet and sometime resident of Bedlam, author of today’s specially-commissioned anthem: “For God is magnitude immense, his prowess is [Ed., Fr. C. said, "in"] omnipotence, that knows no date or end, His wisdom infinitely great, and all duration, depth, and height, His mysteries transcend.”
Come to this Holy Box on Sunday nights at 9:30, when both the light and the darkness, inside and outside, are in dialogue with each other. And discover that the architecture of this place suggests a space apart, rather than a place sealed off from the rest of creation. It’s not that God is “in here” as opposed to “out there”, but rather our experience in this space opens our eyes to holy presence both within and without. Jeremiah’s words echo: “‘Am I a God nearby?’ says the Lord, ‘and not a God far off? Who can hide in secret places so I cannot see them? Do I not fill both heaven and earth?’ says the Lord.”
The visual conversation is joined by silence and sound, made possible by the space. In choice of texts both said and sung and in the very musical settings, the dialogue, the conversation continues. Ancient plainsong hallowed and honed by at least a millennium of daily prayer, polyphony from the renaissance, solid chorales and song-tunes of reformers and Pietists, folk tunes gathered from the countrysides, and joined with them notes from Butler, Hallock, and Proulx still wet on the page. Hymns of seraphim and cherubim, poetry of King David, prose of Isaiah, mystical texts of medieval bards, angular words of Luther, messages of hope and promise from black slaves, and unforgettable phrases of W. H. Auden, his “rare beasts and unique adventures.” All of these voices are in conversation with us in this place. Surely the words of the author of the Letter to the Hebrews seem apropos, as we reflect on our experience week by week “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.”
And great indeed is the cloud of witnesses, with whom we are privileged to converse, as we worship. It is a radical and important thing that we as modern people bring ourselves to this conversation: open ourselves to the voices of the past, in order to be informed, inspired, challenged, judged, instructed, yea, even disciplined for the work of our time, that we too might run with perseverance the race that is set before us.
The race: the race brings us to current politics and Olympic Games, and it might even surprisingly get us to the Compline Choir before I’m done. On the political front we know we are a country divided. When the votes of the Navajo Nation can change the course of American history, we are divided indeed. But division is hardly new and not necessarily negative. Remember the words of Jesus: “From now on five in one household will be divided: three against two, two against three.” Jesus himself and his message were the cause of the division. He didn’t come to gloss over difference, or provide a religious opiate to soothe the masses. He came announcing a radical new thing God was doing. Nothing less than God’s promised reign of justice was breaking into contemporary life. And Jesus challenged his hearers and followers to observe, discern, understand, and respond to, the times in which they lived. To take seriously the decisions and choices discernment required. In the Christian Church as in Judaism, Islam, and other religious communities, division is growing; growing among non-fundamentalists and fundamentalists. Karen Armstrong has described the divisions well in her book, The Battle for God. In that volume, Armstrong examines dynamics which underlie so many current issues relating to faith, spirituality, sexuality, and politics; issues which this community of faith has intentionally and often bravely faced in your witness and ministry. Armstrong writes of the ancient distinction between mythos and logos, between sacred significance and rational discourse, between meaning and practical matters. And she warns of the grave dangers which exist when the two are confused or combined, as current events at home and abroad attest.
This last week Dr. Peter Hallock loaned me Armstrong’s book. He has done that over the years, said [Ed, Fr. C. chuckles], “READ!” And in effect what he said to me was … if you want to understand what I have been trying to do in that wonderful sacred space called St. Mark’s — a space he said I have loved since I first visited it on a Cathedral Day at age twelve as a lad from Kent, Washington — if you want to know about my choice of texts, my musical compositions; if you want to perceive the importance of the vocation and work of the Compline Choir, read [The] Battle for God. I believe that Peter and the Compline men have, to use the metaphors of Jesus, “seen a cloud rising in the West and know it’s going to rain.” They have intuited the south wind blowing and know it’s going to be scorching heat. I believe their commitment to rehearse and sing Compline together is a way of responding. I believe they sing together on Sunday nights as a way of experiencing meaning. A way of intentionally, under the discipline of music, giving voice to a great cloud of witnesses. And in so doing making “savage souls gentle” and “uplifting sad minds.” And these singers — these men we know, together with the hundreds of young folks who fill this cathedral Sunday night by Sunday night, and upwards to a hundred thousand listeners every Sunday — form for us a contemporary cloud of witnesses, pointing to a spiritual realm of eternal and timeless presence, in the face of which issues of daily life find perspective, and our lives find purpose.
I am not one who’s at home with sports metaphors, as you may know. But the opening of the Olympic Games has inspired me to imagine the Compline men as participants in a wonderful fifty-year-long musical “relay race.” And in honor of that, I have fashioned playful paper plate Olympic medallions [Ed, congregational laughter], complete with patriotic ribbons, for current and former singers, and each of us wears the numbers of the years we participated in the marathon. Many still run. The thirty-, forty-, and fifty-year veterans even have stars, you will see. We will wear them to the reception which follows this service, so you may know us by name, and this conversation may continue.
Finally, a word about Julia Child. There was a woman who knew both mythos and logos, and she knew not to confuse them in her wonderful cookbooks. May God welcome her to the great feast described by the prophet Isaiah as “A banquet of rich food, a banquet of fine wines, of food rich and juicy, of fine strained wines,” ingredients in which Julia herself taught us to delight. May she rest in peace.
And may we, surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely, and run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfector of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the Cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.