Even though it was early, and will be even earlier next year, Easter Day was at least bright and sunny this year. It was almost a reprieve from the endless winter that was 2015 and, well, this current cold front which has come through this week and which is still hanging on, in the form of cold and fog, as I sit and write this morning. Early Easter’s aren’t particularly welcome for kids and families — bundling up in thermal fleece for an egg hunt is never fun, and everyone wants a nice family picture outside. Nor are early Easter’s lovely for altar guilds and flower guilds. Just last night, in fact, the head of our altar guild told me that next year we’ll have to forego some of the prettier, flowering plants we normally get since it’ll be a late-March celebration. Bummer.
And yet there’s also something about an early Easter that, I think, tells the Christian story more profoundly than a Sunday in later April when everything is blooming and in full color. Just this morning, driving back to the rectory from an early morning call, I noticed it, you know, in the way that fog kind of sets everything in highlight or contrast.
Outside, even now, there are these shoots of green, shots of color, somewhat daring, somewhat risky. Patches of green grass set against, pretty much, a brown-ish field. Daffodils and jonquils, of course, are the heartier (gardeners would say) or riskier (I might add) perennials, shooting out before it’s safe, before it’s warm, before it’s right and ready. But all around it’s still brown and gray, cold and chilly. Warmth is coming, for sure, even later today. Spring is already here and, we trust, having been given a pretty good Easter-day foretaste, it won’t disappoint. But, still, it’s gray, brown, chilly.
I was recalling one of my favorites, the great Catholic, indeed Jesuit poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, to whom I turned upon returning to the office because he says these things so much better than I could or anyone has, for that matter. “The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” he begins the poem of the same phrase. “Charged,” he says; charged! For this reason, then, because the world is literally charged with God’s grandeur “…nature is never spent,” Hopkins affirms; “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things.” But that freshness, that dearest freshness is underneath, not immediately or always perceptible. Not to the naked eye nor, for that matter, to the trained eye. Not only is it “down” there, it’s “deep down.” Deep down, for we still live in a world that is, at times, shrouded as in a cloud, a fog, a kind of darkness. Easter isn’t a declaration so much as it is a revelation. It isn’t an awareness so much as it is an invitation.
Easter is its own kind of beginning, but it’s also its own kind of end. It’s the central truth of Christianity, resurrection, and yet that’s the most remarkable thing about it – and one, I’m afraid, which too many Christians, themselves, overlook and get patently wrong: that the foundational tenet of our life in God has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with what we know or believe or feel or can see, readily and straightaway with our eyes, no matter how trained or gifted or skilled we may be in searching. Our life in God, made new in Christ, has everything to do with what we hope in, what we place our faith in, what we cannot see but still trust, nevertheless. Just like we trust that warmer days and more colorful landscapes are coming, even though we cannot see them and even though it feels, on mornings such as this, that this year’s eternal winter isn’t going away.
What Easter brings to an end is a religion based on creedal comfort and doctrinal assurance. Easter ends dogmatic certainty. Easter ends the reign of belief statements, memorizing things in order to get right with God, doing certain things to ensure your place in heaven. Easter ends all of that. Because we’re talking, now, about the beginning of faith. And one cannot enter into faith, a real and living faith in God through Christ, until one has put to end the desire to know, to believe, to understand. As we’ll meet this Sunday in Thomas – unfortunately, throughout history, called ‘the Doubter’ — one of the biggest things standing in the way of true, living faith in God through Christ is a fruitless obsession with belief. What Thomas learned, leading him to echo the greatest affirmation of faith in all of scripture, is what we must also learn, day after day after day: that faith and doubt are not at all set against each other, but what is at tension with faith, ironically, is a constant obsession with belief, for faith’s opposite is nothing more than certainty. I’ll say it again: the opposite of faith is certainty.
For only when you perceive without seeing, when you hope without knowing, when you trust without proof is faith begun, much like on a chilly April morning, even just a few days after we’ve proclaimed the truest thing, and yet the hardest thing, we know to say: Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
When we’re first introduced to Thomas in the Gospel of John, Jesus is preparing to go to Bethany, the suburb of Jerusalem where his close friends Lazarus and Mary and Martha lived. Lazarus has died and Jesus is preparing to go, in his words, “so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.”(11:4) Most of the disciples urge Jesus to stay put, to avoid Jerusalem, to let the tensions cool down. Otherwise, they fear what will happen, and they’re pretty sure it’ll involve death. But Thomas speaks up, saying “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”(11:16) Thomas is bold, courageous, fearless, and strong, at least strong-willed. Where the others are timid and scared, Thomas is undaunted.
Fast forward a few chapters, to the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, and you’ll meet Jesus in the middle of a long farewell speech to his followers and friends. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus says. “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” (The New Revised Standard Version gives the more accurate translation – “dwelling places” – but many of us like the King James’ Version of at least this one verse a lot better: “In my Father’s house there are many mansions.”) “And you know the place to where I am going,” Jesus goes on, explaining that he’s going to prepare a place for us and that he’ll lead us there, in time.
This sounds wonderfully reassuring to our ears, but imagine how it sounded to Jesus’ disciples back then. They didn’t want him to die. They didn’t want the movement to end. They expected to help him bring about the Kingdom of God on earth. Like students in a classroom, they were probably very confused, even more worried now that he was telling them to not worry. But no one speaks up, that is, no one except Thomas. Thomas states the obvious, “Lord, we do not know where you are going,” he says, bluntly. “How can we know the way?”(14:5) Thomas is unafraid to speak his mind, bold and unassuming.
And then this chapter, John 20, a famous story which has ever since made ‘Thomas’ synonymous with ‘doubt.’ Thomas tells his friends that he doesn’t believe they’ve seen the Lord, and that he won’t believe until he can see it himself, until he can put his own finger in Jesus’ scars.
Why would Thomas believe? The other ten didn’t believe, themselves, until Jesus showed up in their midst, and even then they didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t until he showed them his pierced side and the marks of the nails in his hands that they recognized him, and believed it was, in fact, their now-Risen Lord. Thomas wasn’t there, so why would he believe?
We’ve gotten so carried away with this one snapshot of Thomas that we forget the larger picture. He’s everything leadership consultants tell us to be. Thomas is bold, courageous, fearless and strong. He’s a natural-born leader and a good one, at that. Thomas has everything we’re told we need to have if we want to succeed or win friends or influence people, or everything we wish we had within.
And yet we keep calling him Doubting Thomas, focusing on that one episode – an episode that’s perfectly, ordinarily human, I might add.
Every year, I suppose, we are supposed to say something profound about doubt. If that’s what you’re expecting, I have to disappoint. I have nothing profound or lasting or moving to say about doubt, except for what I consider a basic, shameless truth: Doubt is. It’s there and it’ll always be there. It’s part of a faith life. I’ve got plenty of doubts and I’m sure you do, too. Doubt will always rub up against belief, and belief will always challenge doubt, and those two – doubting and believing – will be for ever locked into a wrestling match in all things in life. (And let me add that I’m also glad to be part of a tradition in which I can say this, openly. In my reading this week, I came across a sermon preached by an evangelical pastor who said what I just did – doubt happens and I, too, have doubts – but he included a footnote in which he explained those apparently off-the-cuff remarks and stated that, after the sermon, an elder of the church pulled him aside and said something like, “Now, Pastor, you can go around saying such things…”) Sometimes, though, the honest truth is the best one, at least the best at which to begin. Doubt and belief are powerful forces, and they’ll continue in you.
But the longer we keep talking about doubt, either excusing it or making it sound poignant or challenging it, the more we miss the point. This story isn’t about doubting or believing. It’s about faith, and that’s another order of things, entirely.
Let me explain by way of a story.
You don’t go to divinity school or seminary unless you’re serious about training for the ministry or you’re really interested in having all your presumptions and assumptions and faith-claims laid out naked before others and questioned and challenged. For me, I’m glad I studied in a ministry program in an academic divinity school because I feel I got the best of both worlds – serious preparation for ministry in an ecumenical context as well as a chance to be interrogated by and rub against the challenges of a great secular university, a chance to not let my faith statements rest, simply, on pietistic niceties or baseless claims of belief, a chance to both re-ground and challenge belief in order to develop something more, something I’d call faith. But some people don’t like to have their belief system tested. Some people are quite happy with having faith be, for them, a series of statements of what they believe. After my first year, and after many first years in seminaries and divinity schools, a number of students dropped out. After a long program, some students are so changed from who they were when they first enrolled, as well. Seminary or divinity school is not a hard thing to do, by and large – you have to learn languages and read books and write and talk a lot – but the hardships are on the inside, and for some that’s truly hard.
A book that was something of a required initial read for anyone entering the University of Chicago Divinity School is Martin Gardner’s semi-autobiographical novel, The Flight of Peter Fromm. Published in 1973 and set at that divinity school in the late 1930’s, the novel features the transformation of the fictional Peter Fromm, a young, believing, Christian evangelist wanna-be from the oil fields of Oklahoma who ventures into that great secular university’s divinity school to take on the heart of liberal theology, itself – all of which is the first step in Peter’s life’s campaign to win the hearts of America for Jesus Christ. Peter is bright but naïve, intelligent but with an agenda driven by evangelical theology, gifted but unrooted. The story, overall, is about his transformation, but it’s also about a man’s breakdown and faith’s remodeling.
Early in the book, while he’s still a good believer, there’s a passage that’s long spoken to me, especially as relates to Thomas in our New Testament. It’s a scene from a chapter in which Peter’s dating a Catholic girl named Angelina.
“…Peter lingered for a moment to peer through the gate’s iron grillwork at the large stone statue of Saint Thomas that stands in front of the church’s entrance. It was dusk and the Saint’s face was in deep purple shadow. A powdery snow was clinging to his head and shoulders and to the arm outstretched as if to touch the wounds of Christ.
‘I am his brother,’ Peter said in low tones.
‘What do you mean?’ Angelina had never read the Gospels. If someone had asked her who Saint Thomas was, she would not have known how to answer.
‘He refused to believe the Lord had risen from the dead,’ said Peter. ‘He refused to believe until he could put his finger in the nail prints or rest his hand on the wound made by the soldier’s spear.’
‘Did he ever do it?’
‘No, when he saw Jesus he believed. That was when Christ said to him, ‘Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed. Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.’’ Peter’s voice had a curious ring. ‘It was the last of the beatitudes.’
Puzzled and a little more frightened, she studied the statue more carefully through the softly falling flakes. ‘Why are you like him?’
‘Because,’ Peter answered desolately, his words blowing clouds of whiteness into the freezing air, ‘I’m not sure I believe the story about Thomas.’”
“I’m not sure I believe the story about Thomas,” Peter says. At times throughout life I could’ve and probably wanted to say the same. I’m not sure I believe the story about Thomas. I’m not sure I believe he couldn’t and wouldn’t believe even after his friends told him they’d seen the Risen Lord. It seems so strange, so unpredictable, so odd that someone with such boldness and courage and inner strength, someone exactly like Thomas, couldn’t, wouldn’t believe. It seems, to us, that the trick to doing something or becoming something is to will it, to want it, to make space in your life for it. Want to lose weight? Do it, then. Want to acquire a new skill? Get to it. Want to be a better believer, a more faithful Christian? What are you waiting for? Start praying more frequently, attending more regularly, resisting more forcefully.
But what if it’s not at all up to us? What if the big things in life, the stuff that really matters, isn’t in our power or control at all?
I suspect that’s the case. And I fear that the longer we keep pretending that things might be in our power, that the secret to faith, for instance, has something to do with doubt or belief, the further we get from the truth. For the truth of the matter is that the story of faith is not about our searching for God, our yearning and our hoping and our desires, as good and well-founded as they may be. Even if the desire to please God, as Thomas Merton once famously prayed, may in fact be pleasing to God, it’s not entirely satisfactory to our Creator. The story of theology and, in particular, our faith is not at all about our searching for God. It’s about God searching for us.
I’d like to say that we need to let go of worrying about belief and thinking about doubt but that, in itself, is still on you, that still requires your initiative. I’d like to tell you to practice letting go, to practice as an Easter celebration no longer trying to be a better person or a more faithful Christian. Practice ending practices.
But the truth is that we can’t do this, not entirely on our own.
What we’re talking about is simply being in front of God, naked and vulnerable and you.
After all, I believe, that’s the real story of Thomas. Even though so many artistic depictions of this scene have, over the centuries, featured Thomas actually touching Jesus’ wounds, I don’t see that happening, not in the text at least. True, Thomas said that he wouldn’t believe until he touched the marks, but nowhere does it say he actually did it once Jesus appeared. No, when Thomas stopped searching and fretting and doubting and believing and God found him, after all, just as when God finds you, all of that other stuff dissolves and drifts away, and you and I are left face to face with the One who knows us more intimately than we, even, know ourselves. It’s in those rare and beautiful moments, then, that we, like Thomas, find ourselves having dropped everything we were once concerned with and, together, utter in our hearts the greatest confession of faith made in the pages of the New Testament, “My Lord and my God!”
As a boy, Tolstoy and two friends put together a club. They called it the White Polar Bear Club because the only membership requirement was that a boy had to stand in a corner for 30 minutes and not think about a white bear. Memory researchers say we’ve all got a bit of the White Bear Syndrome. Close your eyes, if you don’t believe me, and whatever you do do not think about a white bear.
Intentional thought suppression was once tested in a Harvard psychology lab. Participants were told they were going to sit for five minutes and describe, in words, what’s on their mind; speak their stream of consciousness. They were randomly assigned to one of two groups. One group was told they could think about a white bear. The others were told they could not think of a white bear. They would press a button if or when they thought of a white bear. Additionally, their stream of consciousness utterances were recorded and the number of times they said “white bear” were counted. Participants who were told to not think about bears actually mentioned it less than the others, but all of them pressed the button at about equal rates. If the goal is to stop thinking about something, it’s hardly effective.
Also interesting was a follow-up test with those who, in the first test, were told to not think about bears. In a second test, they were told they could now think of white bears. Those folks – first told to not think about something, then told they could think about that thing – were off the charts in mentioning white bears and pushing the button, much more so than either group in the first study. Suppressing a thought actually leads, in time, to its subsequent over-indulgence. Someone trying to quit drinking only thinks about alcohol; someone trying to lose weight lets himself have just a nibble of a chocolate bunny’s ear and winds up devouring the whole thing.
We humans are tricky animals, crafty, and pretty good at self-deceit. I’ve always thought the Apostle Paul was describing me when he said to the Romans, “I don’t understand my own actions.”(Rom. 7) “I do not do what I want,” Paul wrote, “but I do the very thing I hate.” What do to about it? God “gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ,” Paul wrote in another letter, so you and I should “stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” (1 Cor. 15)
This is true. When life besets us and gets us down, when the anxiety is too much to bear and the worries are real, when pain is acute or life’s direction gone missing, the story of our faith is that the victory’s already won. For us, then, we hold on, we stand firm.
This is true, but it’s the type of truth Christians know a lot better as mystery than fact. For the fact is that the games of life and the culture of death not only exist outside but also tear us apart, within – desires are inflated, wills are set in competition, and I continue to do the things I do not want to do and which I know aren’t good. Christians celebrate resurrection, new life, but the context of this gift is death.
We labor but sometimes, contrary to Paul, it feels like we do so in vain. I can only imagine that’s what it felt to those women who headed out early on this first day of the week, carrying heavy sacks of ointment and spices. They were doing what they knew to do, laboring through life. Like them, we are also good at finding tricks to get through the day: when life gets overturned, we make lemonade, some say, or bury ourselves in work or master a craft. Mind over matter. A study performed at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, in fact, suggested we’ve got some capacity to exercise mind over matter. From an article in The Week: Twenty particpants were arranged into two groups and told to search for an item. One-half of them were allowed to repeat, out loud, the name of the thing they were looking for. The other half could not say the name of the thing. On average, the group speaking the name of the thing found it quicker than the group which was silent. Similar studies of children show that those who talk themselves through the process of tying their shoes do so faster than those who don’t. We have the capacity, some capacity, to exercise mind over matter, to accomplish tasks, to labor well, to get through the day.
But that’s not what resurrection looks like. Just laboring is not new life. Breaking the culture of death and attaining new life is the goal, but it’s truly hard. Phase two of the University of Wisconsin study is where it gets more interesting. Again, from The Week: “Researchers carried out a ‘virtual shopping task’ for common grocery store items, like Jell-O or Coke. Just as in the first phase, some of the participants were asked to repeat the item’s name to themselves while looking. But this time the results were ‘more complex.’ …Talkers were able to find familiar objects like Coke much quicker. But for less familiar objects, such as the slightly more ambiguous Speed Stick deodorant, the mutterers actually took much longer. Why? ‘Speaking to yourself isn’t always helpful,’” one researcher said, “’If you don’t know what an object looks like, saying its name can have no effect or can actually slow you down.’”
If you don’t know what an object looks like, or if the events of life have so worn down the truth you once received, or if you’ve already made yourself believe there is no hope, just simply saying it has no effect on you. In fact, it might even distract you, slow you down, get in your way. Truly, I wonder how some of the words we regularly toss around in the church actually sound to people, to you. What does resurrection mean? What does new and unending life imply? What does redemption say, to you, today? Are you hearing something or, just as likely and for no apparent fault of your own, do these words not only sound empty, vacant, vacuous but are they a distraction, obscuring your path to wholeness?
The way the Easter story is told, then, is precisely for you, you who are tricky animals, you human beings. The gospels do not describe the resurrection. They tell only of its faint aftermath, the evidence of the action of God: a stone unrolled, a tomb empty, a promise kept. Resurrection is a matter of faith, and faith is born in a place within the lives of perfectly ordinary women and men, people who can and do, from time to time, delude and trick ourselves. Like those women we forget and lose sight, we alter memories and, as science has shown, we are actually a whole lot better at driving ourselves further from the truth than we are at doing what people say when you lose something: just stop thinking about it and you’ll find it.
That’s not what the angel said in the garden. He said “Remember.” “Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man will rise again.” And they remembered what he said and that he said it because they remembered how. They remembered, at that moment, not in their quickly deceiving minds but in their well-hewn hearts. For resurrection cannot be thought or learned. Redemption isn’t something some are better at because they pray harder or attend more regularly. It’s a gift and is retrieved in remembering, in coming back together and returning to life. In that moment, in that garden, those women remembered how Jesus embraced them and blessed them, how he took bread and broke it, how he welcomed sinners and loved the outcast, how gently he touched them, in a place deeper than words or meanings or thinking.
That place is the harbor of faith, and it is there in you. It’s been there all along.
Born in 1775 and consecrated Assistant Bishop of New York at the age of 36, John Henry Hobart’s life and ministry offers something of a model for our time. Without him, who knows what would have happened to the church he served. What did happen, we know, is quite a remarkable thing. Or is it all that remarkable?
Most reports about Hobart focus on the High Church faction of the Episcopal Church, of which he was a strident spokesperson and advocate; most notably, his conviction in the importance of the apostolic succession and historic episcopate – set against the individualized, evangelical tendency he saw in his own church and fellow countrymen. A man of integrity, charisma and consummate drive, Hobart is also remembered for the things he did – create The General Theological Seminary, revive Geneva, now, Hobart College, build up the clergy in his diocese, plant churches, and write hundreds of meaningful devotional manuals. He was all those things, apparently, and he did all those things, and he happened to be a leader in the Episcopal Church. But his vision goes far beyond the Episcopal Church, far beyond the nineteenth century, far beyond his time, and offers models for our own.
The world into which he was born was a world of dramatic, profound and, for some, sudden change. Only one year after Hobart’s birth, the American colonies declared their independence from the mother country, leaving what was the Church of England on American soil in a serious quandary and search for a reason to exist. Some sided with England, and fled. Others argued for revising their way of being church while staying true to their tradition. We know what happened in the Revolution and we know what happened to that church, now called the Episcopal Church. We know how this new nation established a Constitution and this new church established an American Book of Common Prayer, and we know that these new entities found their way forward, step by step, in the later decades of the eighteenth century.
But what we forget is the steady, dark cloud of fear and anxiety that surrounds any change, no less significant political and cultural change. We forget the way, I’m sure, many remembered the good ole’ days, even though those days weren’t so good and weren’t coming back. We seem to have forgotten that change doesn’t happen overnight, and history isn’t always linear, and even when people are on board with the idea of revision they don’t always act nicely. We fail to remember that having your world changed right under your feet leads inevitably to anxiety and fear; most people either shut down or act out. And even with great visionaries in the decades immediately following the American Revolution – leaders in the Episcopal Church such as Samuel Seabury and William White – ordinary folks and everyday congregations were left in stasis, extended paralysis.
Enter John Henry Hobart. I’m sure he heard from countless members of his grandparents’ and parents’ generations all about the good ole’ days, but he never experienced that culture and he knew it wasn’t returning. He also knew that the changed political and cultural landscape (even though he disagreed with some of it) meant that his church, which was the very definition of the establishment, was going to die unless it stopped doing two things and started doing two others. First, stop denying the change and, two, stop looking at other churches (the rapidly growing firebrand Methodists, for instance, or the more culturally nimble Congregationalists) as if they had a better answer. And they needed to start, for one, accepting the change (something his mentor William White established) and, for another, mining their own ‘Anglican’ tradition for ways to be true to their story and authentic in their environment. What historian Robert Bruce Mullin has coined as the “Hobartian Synthesis” is precisely this – a compelling vision that isn’t just about getting over denial and beginning to accept but, rather, a new way forward that is, at once, entirely rooted in their story, the story of God in Christ acting through their tradition.
That’s our moment today, I believe. I believe it because I’m living it, and I feel it profoundly most days of my own ministry. I was born in 1975 – long after the glory days of the post-war years, long after the Baby Boom ended, long after the mainline Protestant establishment realized it was on the decline, long after social and cultural and political shifts had fundamentally changed our country and world. I never knew a world in which every mother stayed home all day, although I’m grateful my own mother did. I never knew a world in which neighborhoods were all one color or race or ethnicity. I never knew a world in which prayer was legitimate in public schools, nor did I know a world in which Sundays were set aside, solely, for Christians to go to church. I never knew that world, and yet I was personally drawn to church – my neighborhood’s classic Old First Church. Unfortunately, that church was in deep paralysis during my childhood years. They fretted about the changing neighborhood, about white families moving out to the suburbs and “other families” moving in. They remembered with fondness their church bowling league, and twittled their thumbs about numbers and a huge physical plant. They told their story as one of bewilderment and loss, and I was growing up there, growing up in a church that was dying, and knew it.
What I learned in those years has become, in these, a priceless gift. I learned to love Jesus, not the church. I learned to become rooted in God, not this ever-shifting world. I learned that a culture which supports church-going isn’t necessarily a culture that is Christian, faithful in the ways Jesus preached. Since my church also felt like it didn’t have what other, more ‘hip’ Christian groups had, I was dragged to more 80’s Christian rock concerts and evangelical “Jesus-be-my-boyfriend” rallies than I care to recount. And I wasn’t fed by emotional, charismatic Christianity; it seemed as shifty and unstable as anything else. So I also learned that the subtlety and majesty and accessibility of what has become known as mainline Christianity is a wonderful thing, for it lets people go in and go out, it creates space for diversity (at its best), it’s built to change (at its best), it doesn’t force God upon anyone, and it’s solid, staid, beautiful. I also learned that most people who have remained in mainline congregations have a lot of depth to their life and faith. Even though they were never trained to be evangelical, they’re unashamed of talking about struggles and joys, and they’re not afraid to mention God or Jesus.
I learned that we have a rich tradition, and we don’t need a complete overhaul – we only need a new spirit. I suppose, for starters, to believe that you also have to believe that God in Christ is acting in the world today, and that things of deep meaning are also things of constant revision and adaptation. (Those are pretty big “starters”, and maybe you don’t agree. You’d better stop reading, then.) That’s what it means to be traditional. From its Latin root, tradition implies handing down, passing on. Things that are of the tradition are things that speak through the ages, and anything that’s powerful enough to be passed down from generation to generation is going to be expanded or, at least, have its original packaging altered. We know, for instance, that “all men are created equal” in our political discourse has been expanded, revised, and changed. I, for one, am not willing to go back to its original packaging just because it was, well, original.
So is John Henry Hobart’s work all that remarkable? No. Not at all, in fact. And, moreover, it can be replicated by women and men today, in this time of significant cultural change. Provided that there are people of faith who are unafraid of making a choice between being culturally acceptable or being faithful to Christ. Provided that there are people who don’t care to “see and be seen” in a pew but, rather, be transformed by God. Provided that there are people who know or want to know the power of the Holy Spirit, not the invitation of social convention. Provided that there are people who will root themselves in Christ, and his story – which is a story about death, first, then resurrection. Provided that we as the institution called “church” begin to deepen our conversation and formation, and seek to become what we receive — the Body of Christ in this world. You bet we’ll grow, provided we make that one, simple turn.
The sermon’s title is taken from Bishop Hobart’s address at the the opening of The General Theological Seminary of the Episcopal Church in New York City, held on Monday evening, 11 March 1822: “The event that calls us together is a subject of real congratulation. An institution, organized by the Church in her highest legislative council with a unanimity and cordiality that could not have been anticipated, has commenced its operations in this city under auspices that promise not to disappoint the expectations of its founders and patrons. Here is the sacred school in which are to be trained the heralds of the cross, we hope, to the latest generations. Here is the fountain, drawing, we trust, its living waters from the throne of God, whence are to proceed those streams of divine truth and knowledge that are to refresh and gladden the Zion of the Lord, the city of our God.”