Batting a Thousand

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.