Sermon preached at St. John's, Worthington, Ohio, on September 2, 2012
(c) 2012 C. B. Park, all rights reserved
“Liturgy is a part of
our everyday life,” I told a class at St. Pat’s a few years ago. “It’s
everywhere!” They looked at me like I
had three eyes. So, I asked them to
think about what makes up liturgy. Thinking
of church, they came up with:
·
People gathering for a purpose.
·
Songs chosen for the occasion – Advent,
baptisms, that sort of thing
·
Readings chosen for the occasion -
lectionary
·
People who have specific roles in
leading the liturgy
·
Common responses to common calls
culminating in a shared experience
·
Sending out into the community
After they identified
the core ingredients of this thing called liturgy, I asked them to consider one
of my favorite community liturgies: A
Cubs game at Wrigley Field. By their
countenance, I’d grown another eye. But,
I explained –
People gather there for
a purpose. Some are there with family,
some are alone. Some are there to party,
some are there because they love the game.
Some want to immerse themselves in history. But, all are there to enjoy a few hours away
from the worries of the world.
Our opening hymn is the
Star Spangled Banner. There is the
ceremonial pitch from the honored singer of the day.
It all happens in the
Big Inning. We read the statistics of the players in our bulletin – I mean game
program. The umpires and officials take
their places at their assigned bases.
The coaches and team members line up in the dugouts ready to start the
ritual.
“Play Ball!” says the
home base ump. And, the crowd roars its
approval.
If you are a Cubs fan,
you know the proper response to the unfortunate circumstance of the visiting
team hitting a home run. If you are
visiting and are unaware – we let you know about it loudly: Throw it back! If you do not comply with the rubric, I mean
tradition, the crowd gets more insistent.
When the ball finally finds its way back onto the outfield grass, the
crowd roars its approval.
The innings roll
on. Finally, we get to that point we’ve
all been waiting for. The public address
announcer introduces the guest singer for the Seventh Inning Stretch. “A-one, a-two. . .” the singer begins, and
then we all sip from the cup of baseball – “Take me out to the ballgame…”
On a good day, there
are only 9 outs left. We sing the “Go
Cubs Go” song when there’s a victory. Win or lose, its been an experience. We pour out from the stadium into the
neighborhood of Wrigleyville.
Some of us drive back
home, some take trains, others to stay awhile longer to enjoy the lingering
aroma of hot dogs, peanuts and cracker jack.
Thanks be to God!
“Okay, we get it,” the
class was resigned.
“Really?” I said. I then asked them to take the example a step
further. “What if you’d arrived and the stretch was sung in Spanish. What would that do?” “Imagine that when you left the game you were
expected to reach out to people in need?”
I heard them swallow hard and sigh.
Liturgy for its own
sake is like a day at the ballpark. It’s
entertainment. It’s self-centered. We may be here for a shared purpose, but at
the end of the ritual we go back to our unchanged selves and routine
lives. We can sing our songs or throw
back home run balls as our parents and grandparents did, but unless we’re open
to letting the liturgy change us, we just mosey past the turnstiles into a
harsh and angry world. All we’ve done is
escape it for a while along with other like-minded people.
That’s what got Jesus’
knickers in a twist.
He wasn’t against
liturgy and ritual. They have their
proper place. It’s just that the
Pharisees and the scribes were more interested in how things got done than why
things got done. They were more about
the trappings than about the transformation.
The cups and bronze kettles were polished wonders to behold, but the
orphans and widows were hungry and no one seemed to notice them.
Growing up in high
falutin’, Anglo-Catholic, Northern Indiana, I identify more with the
Pharisees and scribes than I want to admit.
We were so wedded to the liturgy and the pomp and circumstance that I
spent more time being afraid of church than happy to be there. It was lovely – billowing clouds of incense,
organ music, and very predictable verbiage.
The rector actually did a great job moving the congregation through the
prayer book change. We were ever so
compliant. But, in my 18 years there, I
don’t remember ever hearing about justice.
My ethical upbringing came from my family, not my church.
Then, I went to
college. The service wasn’t the same as
I was used to – egad – you mean there are different ways to access Word and
Sacrament? Good Shepherd, West
Lafayette, used the contemporary Lord’s
Prayer. Holy moley! I sure stumbled over that for a good long
time. But, then it became a part of me. Now, it’s my
preference.
For the first time I heard sermons that connected the lessons and
the liturgy to what we were actually to do in the world. I learned about the difficulties of the food
stamp system and how shaming it was to those trying to access it. We participated in letter writing
campaigns. I learned about a world that
was much darker and scarier than I’d ever realized.
I went to college a
good Episcopalian. I left it a
struggling Christian. The broader use of
the liturgy was a significant part of that transformation.
The journey through
liturgy and discernment is still a struggle. My diaconal experience at St.
Stephen’s was culture shock. Then, I was
exposed to the Lutheran tradition while I was in seminary. By being open to new ways of being in
community, I became more open to hearing the voice of God in sermons and
liturgies. Our church services included
art and mime and dance as well as the stuff I was used to all the time. Even St. Patrick’s pushed me. Our
5:30 pm service uses contemporary music and has an abbreviated order of
service. I couldn’t imagine how it would
work. But, it did! And, the late service is the fastest growing
of all of the Sunday offerings.
What I came to learn
was that church could not be my personal sanctuary. In order to spread the good news of the
Gospel of Christ, we must fling open our doors and speak to people who have not
heard of Jesus in ways that will appeal to them, not us.
That was a hard lesson
to learn. Deep inside of me was, and
still is, that Northern Indiana girl who loves her bells and smells. But Jesus is
insistent – it’s not about you and your need for personal religious
happiness. It’s much more important than
that. You’re here to have your eyes
opened, to see God’s presence in every person, place, and thing. You’re here to
bring people closer to God by being God's representative and advocating for the
poor, the outcast, and anyone whose voice cannot or will not be heard.
My sisters and
brothers, we are here not to polish brass, but to prepare for service in the
world. We are not here for solace only,
but for strength – strength to take a hard look at those who are victims of
injustice and find a way to restore them to full membership in society. We are not here for pardon only but for
renewal – a renewal of resolve to uphold our baptismal covenant and usher in
the reign of God.
And, if we embrace this
calling, my friends, we’ll be batting a thousand. Amen.
