God's Own People

October 14, 2018

Dedication Festival

You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…"

Those evocative words of Charles Dickens seem to have felt true at just about every point I can remember in my adult life. I first opened A Tale of Two Cities when I was a seminarian in Oxford over 25 years ago, and I was immediately struck by how this famous author seemed to have been penning words that described my exact feelings, despite writing them down more than a century before my birth.

Ask just about any seminary-trained priest, and they will tell you how bewildering, how roller-coaster like the whole process of theological training can be. How previous skills and experiences can feel devalued, and former professional status can be stripped away; how faith can come and go like a yo-yo, and former spiritual certainties can lie discarded by the roadside like worthless garbage. Truly, a contrasting epoch of belief and of incredulity; truly, a spring of hope and also a winter of despair; truly, the best of times and also the worst of times. And, very truly, the most fluctuating thoughts about whether I, and all my fellow class-mates, were all going direct to Heaven, or if we were all going direct the other way.

As I read these words the first time, I could only nod in bewildered agreement, as Dickens continued this magnificent prose by saying in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received…in the superlative degree of comparison.

Or, as that shadowy figure called ‘the Teacher’, the author of Ecclesiastes, put it rather more succinctly, there is nothing new under the sun.

And it was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon.

But if Charles Dickens was somehow describing life in an Oxford seminary in the early 1990s, he also seems, perhaps, to have been describing the complexities of life in the western world right now, in the fall of 2018. Whether in my country of origin, or in this, my adopted country of the moment, depending on who you speak to, you might be forgiven for thinking that this was either the best of times or the worst of times. Nobody  - whatever their views - seems to think that we are in a bland ‘middle ground’ right now.

Both the increasingly embittered political wranglings about Brexit that dominate UK politics, and recent events played out in the US Senate, would suggest that, yet again, Dickens hits the nail on the head, when he speaks of an epoch of belief and an epoch of incredulity. The prospects of a Brexit deal that will please all concerned is both offered with confident assurance by Prime Minister May – and greeted with disbelief by her opponents. And the US media in recent weeks has been divided sharply by those who utterly believe Dr Ford, and those who believe Judge Kavanaugh.

Truly, depending on who you choose to speak to, you will be confidently assured that we are going direct to Heaven, or that we are going direct the other way. But the real point – the point that Dickens really highlights for us – is that, paradoxically, these opposites are not exclusive of each other. For – just as I felt in seminary – we have elements of good and bad around us fairly constantly in our lives. The best of times and the worst of times often exist in close proximity and sharp juxtaposition.

And that, too, is something which is by no means a new state of affairs. That, also, should remind us that there is nothing new under the sun. And if you don’t believe me, you should ask the founders of this very church – those first Episcopal Christians whose vision and planning we celebrate today in what we call the Dedication Festival of this, our church home. They knew all about the best and the worst of times.

For there would have been no church – no churches of any kind, probably – there would have been no point in building a church, if the early settlements efforts around Fort Dearborn had not proved to be so successful. If the arrival of folk from the east out here had not led to ‘the best of times’, and made Chicago such an attractive trading post, then there would have been no need of church communities. But the best of times also produced the worst of times – as the Reverend Isaac Hallam, who was appointed to serve here in 1834, was all too well aware. 

“The speculator’s activities with the cares of the world was powerfully influential…and the greatest hindrance to the progress of religion,” he remarked with a clear sense of regret. Without those speculators the nascent parish community of St James would have been irrelevant – but clearly, it wasn’t a great time or culture in which to be religious. And if he had it bad, it sounds as if it was even worse in the era of the Reverend Robert Clarkson, who spent 16 years as priest here from 1849, and who lamented that, “People here worship the dollar more idolatrously than I could imagine men with reason and souls could do.”

And it was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon.

And when it is winter, then darkness can seem particularly prevalent, and cold can feel particularly hard to bear. And that, as Dickens reminded us, can lead so easily to despair, unless one does something to keep the darkness and the cold at bay. Which, of course, was what Isaac Hallam and Robert Clarkson were all about, as were their supporters, such as the unstoppable Juliette Kinzie, who was so significant in the founding of St. James. They, and an ever-growing contingent of others, understood just how vital their mission and ministry was, precisely so that if they did find themselves in the winter of despair, they could create a spring of hope. Precisely so that they could hold out the hope of going straight to heaven just at a time when you might have been forgiven for thinking that people were all going direct the other way.

And that is why not only are we rejoicing on this Sunday that celebrates the dedication of this church, and of all our forebears did that allows us to be here today, but we are also rejoicing that God is calling us to play our part in continuing this mission and ministry from today, on into God’s future. That is why – very deliberately – we are kicking off our annual stewardship campaign today, of all days.

Because it is very easy on a day like today to realize just how extraordinary and all-embracing God’s love for us is, and has always been. As Jesus reminded us in the gospel just now, My sheep hear my voice… I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.

But, if you read those remarks in the context of the middle of the tenth chapter of John’s gospel, you can already see just how inevitable Jesus’ fate has become – you can already see how the good news of this promise of love and salvation is inexorably intertwined with the awful fate awaiting Jesus, who has already become despised by the angry and vengeful Jewish authorities. In other words, you can see  - surely….? - just how completely and totally costly is the uniquely deep love which God has for God’s world and for God’s children.

And if you can see the insurmountable depths of that love, and if you can see the heroic way in which Juliette Kinzie, and Isaac Hallam, and Robert Clarkson, and so many others in the great history of this church and cathedral, if you can see how our forebears responded to that love, then – surely – you must celebrate the gift to follow in their footsteps, by playing your part today to maintain that spring of hope, even, and perhaps especially, if you think others are looking at a winter of despair – whether that is political despair, or economic despair, or spiritual despair, or family despair, or professional despair.

Because God’s unconquerable love – that love which promises that no one gets snatched out of God’s hands – that love that led Jesus to the cross is at its most visible and its most needed when the going gets tough. And - as Dickens reminds us – there are always people around us for whom that is exactly how it is.

And so, today, everyone who we know within this church community is going to be getting a letter from me that asks you to be transformingly generous in making a commitment to give sacrificially to the work of St James Cathedral in 2019. There will be more about that in the announcements a little later on, but for now, let me say this much:

In the last three years, since I and my colleagues have had the privilege of leading St. James, we have heard many kind remarks about all that has taken place here, and about growth, and optimism, and excitement for the future. And the culture of giving and pledging has begun to change quite significantly during that time – which has been a profound joy to witness.

But it is my duty to say – and to say absolutely in the heart of a sermon, not just in the announcements – that healthy churches – churches which are growing, and active, and attractive, and vibrant – healthy churches exist on a day by day, year in year out basis, on the financial pledged giving of their members. Special one-off appeals, capital campaigns, and draws on endowments are fine for special projects, or unforeseen events. Money that is put by for a rainy day is, of course, there to be spent when the heavens open and a deluge comes – especially if it comes out of the blue.

But the regular paying of the electricity bill, and the music budget, and the bulletin costs, and the staff salaries – these ought to be covered by the regular, pledged giving of the members of a church. And, although we have moved noticeably in the right direction in recent years, we are not there yet. But if that sounds like another winter of despair, then let me give you the message that is the spring of hope:

And that message is simple – which is that the money and the commitment are there to be had – there to be had… from you and from me. Because if we believe that St James is doing what God is calling it to do, and if we pray that the people of this cathedral community will live out even more the vocation to which God is calling each one of us, then we can become properly financially secure.

And that’s where your response to God’s extraordinary, sacrificial love comes in. Because if you are not pledging – not making a planned, budgeted commitment on which we can make proper financial plans for the coming year – if you are not pledging to this, your church community, then your response to God’s love for you is incomplete. And evidence does show that this is true for a number of people who gather here each week.

And if you are pledging, but the sum you have written down for your pledge, when compared to the rest of your financial situation, suggests that, like some of Chicago’s founders in the 19^th century, you also worship the dollar in an idolatrous manner – then you need to be praying and thinking again about your commitment to this, your church community. And, again, evidence does show that this is true for a number of people who gather here each week.

And if you are pledging generously and sacrificially…. Then you should still think and pray about how your pledge might change or increase next year. The letter and paperwork you will receive will have some ‘helpful’ figures and percentages to help you in this task – but remember that the only figure that God in Jesus ever considered in God’s pledge to the God’s world was 100%.

And it is when we get that 100% mentality, and our giving is properly sacrificial, that springs of despair appear in winters of darkness. It was that mentality that saw Mrs. Kinzie and those around her put their energy into play, and put their money where their mouths were… and we are the heirs of all that they did – all that they did to make sure that there was a season of light alongside the season of darkness that can so often and so easily engulf the world.

For at that time the festival of Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon.

And let me tell you that if the reverend mister Hallam and the reverend mister Clarkson thought they lived in a challenging time to be faithful to God, that was as nothing compared to the era in which Jesus lived. That was as nothing when we find Jesus walking in the temple at the festival of Dedication, when it was winter.

Because the festival of Dedication commemorated a season of light in what had truly been a season of darkness. Life, for God’s people of the first covenant, had been getting darker and darker from about 175 years before Jesus was born – from when the emperor Antiochus IV became ruler of the Seleucid Empire which governed Jerusalem and Judea at that time. Known as Antiochus Epiphanes (whose very name made the appalling claim that he was ‘God made manifest’), he persecuted and subjugated the Jews, and finally desecrated the Temple, leading to the great revolt led by Judas Maccabeus, who overthrew Antiochus, and rededicated the Temple.

And you will know, I am sure, the miraculous story of how, at the time of the rededication, a one-day supply of oil burned for eight days, to bring, truly, a season of God’s light  into the darkness – and thus, to this day, Jews celebrate the eight-day feast of Hanukah, at about the darkest time of the year, by lighting the candles of the menorah, to celebrate a spring of hope that extinguishes a winter of despair.

And in today’s gospel, conscious of the growing conflict around his ministry, Jesus – the true light of the world – is having to walk in one of the great porticos of the Temple, rather than outside in the courtyard, because it is the season of darkness and coldness around him. It is getting a worse and worse time to live out the true will of God, as the religious authorities take deeper and angrier issue with Jesus.

It is a time of growing darkness – a darkness of such intensity that not too many days later, it will extinguish the sun in the very middle of the day for a full three hours, and Jesus will stretch out his arms for love of the world, and die a criminal’s bloody death, nailed to a cross of wood by religious zealots who should know better, and unjust and cowardly rulers who simply do not give a damn. And then it will really feel like the very worst of times to try and be genuine followers of God’s will, as darkness and death appear to get the upper hand.

But God is curiously adept at dealing with darkness – for it is in darkness that God does not just death…. God also takes life. For it was on a dark night in a stable in Bethlehem, some 33 years prior to all this that God had taken and transformed human life, and at some point in the darkness of a brand new tomb 48 hours later, God will transform life yet again.

And just as God gives new life to Jesus, and Jesus gives new life to the world – so, in our day, we are called to continue that work of new life. And it starts in here, in the new life of baptism and the Eucharist – and, if we play our part, it flows out from here to change the world and make the world more Christ-like – to bring the world the best of times, even, and especially, when all the world can perceive is the worst of times.

Jesus walked in the cold and the darkness of the Temple in the depths of winter, knowing already exact what the consequences of his vocation would be. And, by his very presence, a winter of despair became a spring of hope – and by what he was called to do, he opened to an embittered and angry world the prospect of going direct to heaven, rather than going in the opposite direction. And now he calls us to do the same, through our prayer, through our action, and, without any doubt, through our pledging 

Having begun with Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, it is, perhaps, proper to find our close there. For at the end of this extraordinary story, where the horrors of the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror have wrought terrible things in many lives, the sometime wastrel turned hero English lawyer, Sydney Carton, preparing to go to the guillotine in place of someone he felt more worthy to live than himself, Carton thinks to himself the final words of this great novel – words evocative of that great vision from the end of the Book of Revelation, which we have also heard this morning.

I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out…

And thus he is able to embrace his vocation, and say with great conviction,

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.

We don’t have to go to the guillotine to make Chicago a more beautiful city for God, even one as beautiful as that vision in the Revelation of John. We don’t have to face the executioner’s blade to walk into the coming Chicago winter of darkness, and make it a spring of light. You and I can do something far, far better than anything we have yet done before. Because, for me and for you, it is always the best of times – because You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.