Sermon
Christ
Chapel
William
C. Spong, D.D.
Professor
of Pastoral Theology
Truly, truly I
tell you, a servant is not greater than his master; nor is he who is sent
greater than he who sent him...
John
Daddy
played piano, played it very well.
Music
from those hands could catch you like a spell.
He
could make you love him, ‘for the tune was done
You
have your daddy’s hands, you are your daddy’s son...
Daddy
played piano, bet he’s playing still
Mama
can’t forget him, don’t suppose I will.
God
wants no excuses, I have only one
You
have your daddy’s hands, Forgive me
You
are your daddy’s son.
Ragtime
I
don’t know what to do today is this pulpit. Looking at you, not wanting to be
here, knowing I must. It is a sea of memories, looking
for the glue that holds it all together.
I remember it was the summer of 1972. Hudnall Harvey was the Dean of the seminary. Just following
commencement, he died of a massive heart attack. I was one of his last pieces
of work; I arrived in July.
One of the first people I met was Dee Dee Harvey, Hud’s
wife and life partner. It was very hard for her. She said to me, “you know, Will, when school starts in September, I will not
know one-third of the student body. A
year later, I will only know the seniors, and then at the end of two years, I
won’t know anyone. That’s how fast a person can lapse into obscurity.” I said, “but Dee Dee, you have your memories.” And she said, “Memories are
always measured in time frames. Watch the alums when they come back; they only
talk about what it was like when they were here.” The institution is always
gathering its memories, but the institution is always larger, longer, than
anyone’s memories of it. Everyone must live within inevitable consequences of
memory.
I
remember my first sermon in this place. I recall looking out at the
congregation, not unlike you, and feeling waves of fear. I was not smart
enough, old enough, articulate enough, not degreed
enough. I did not feel like I belonged here, so I told a story about a frog
named Kermit, made famous by Jim Hensen, who extolled
the virtues of being ordinary. You see, I was talking about myself ... being
green, free to succeed / free to fail. The song was really written for black
children – you remember the one; Amy sang it on Monday evening. The idea was
that people with bad opinions about themselves needed to make their way. People
began giving me frogs. It was my first memory, the theology of being ordinary.
I
have always been fascinated with memory, not in the Jungian sense, but in the
sense of the best understanding of anamnesis, calling into the present moments
of the past for their current meaning. Remember in the Prayer Book: having in remembrance his blessed passion and
precious death, his mighty resurrection and glorious ascension...
To
remember Jesus is to remember the bad stuff first: the cross, sweat, thieves, Samaritans, Judas,
Peter. To remember Jesus is to recall the feet, the hands, the tomb, and the
women. All of that harsh memory got absorbed in the good times of the
Resurrection. But memory is a balancing act between bad things and good things.
Sometimes, the church fails to understand that concept. “Keep it nice,” they
say, “don’t upset. Church should be uplifting.” Sickness is downplayed,
conflict is submerged, and death is sleeping. But everything is not nice.
Crucifixion is not nice, and Gospel is not faithful when it only reports happy
times.
I
remember my father. I was nine when he died; I loved him. I would do anything
for him, like rake the back yard for an RC Cola and a moon pie. Or sit and
listen to him play Scott Joplin because Daddy
played piano, played it very well; music from those hands could catch you in
his spell. I also remember the other things: throwing food across the table
at my mother, cursing her, falling down the stairs, telling my brother that he
was a lazy misfit and would never amount to anything, running his hand up my
mother’s dress and embarrassing her. I remember the bottles, the profanity, the
abuse, but also the love, the gathering into his arms, and the laughter. My
father was all of those things, horrible things, wonderful
things. It was anamnesis: weaving beauty into chaos, and living with the
tension.
It
was true for Jesus, it was true for my father, and it is true for me, and us, I
suspect. Things we never said, come together, the hidden truth no longer haunting me.
Today we spoke of the things that were never spoken, that kind of understanding
sets me free. I can’t believe you love me, never thought you’d come, guess I misjudged the love between a father and his
son...
Surely it is true for this beloved place; a
sea of memories, some wonderful, some disastrous. The anamnesis of this
seminary, thinking back ...
My
first pastoral assignment was when the Dean, whose name was Larry Brown, asked
me to visit the dorm and calm down a law student living there who was drunk,
who took off all of his clothes and ran across the campus, past the chapel
where a liturgical class was in session. He flashed by, with only a can of
deodorant with him, on his way to the Centennial Liquor Store where he was
arrested. Frankly, I would have rather been in
And
in the third week, I had to stand in this space and read: If your eye offends you, pluck it out. You know I could do just
that, and I started laughing. Everyone knew that the plastic eye was the one
with the gleam of human kindness in it; and we roared together, and this place
became my home.
Or
the time I was the high priest at the altar and when the incense was presented
to me, which itself was strange for a graduate of Virginia Seminary, and I
censed the altar, the bottom fell off the thurible,
and charcoal and incense burned the carpet, and the lifting off of the charcoal
was our evening sacrifice.
Or when Frank Sugeno, the church
historian, was celebrating at the altar. Frank never knew that those
little packages only had fifty wafers in them, but he thought they numbered
100. We had hardly communicated one-third of the congregation and we ran out of
bread. I went up to Frank and said quietly, “Frank, it seems there’s not enough
bread to feed this crowd!” Frank said, “Make the people sit down.” The server
that day was a student named Mark Wood, and he came up to Frank and said
quietly, “There is a Lad here with some bread and a few fishes, but what is that among so many?” You can laugh even in the midst of
serious matters. And the soul of this place was forming.
It
was not always happy. I remember helping to dismiss a student because he was
living a gay lifestyle; I am still sad about that; it was 25 years ago. Or the
student who asked me if he could speak to me in confidence, and I said yes, and he told me he had cheated on Bill Green’s final. Or when faculty was not speaking to faculty because we voted
differently over curriculum reform. Or being taken to dinner because
your colleagues were not happy with you; first they feed you steak and
Beefeaters gin as a preamble to being set straight. We owed that to each other,
and still do.
One
morning Hal Perry, the assistant Dean and teacher of Anglican Church History
and Liturgics, did not come to work, and Bill Green and Dusty found him dead in
his kitchen, a victim of a heart attack. I still remember Hal’s sermons about
Joseph and charity towards others. I remember his Maalox during faculty
meetings, and his sighs. Hal Perry is now an abstraction to most of you, but he
was a major player in our history. It only takes two years to become obscure
here. We still weep when we think of Hal, those of us who remember him.
I
remember when Church History Theology was a nightmare to the students here. One
year every middler flunked the course. And the
seminary endured yet another crisis, forming into subgroups to consolidate
their hostility, students and faculty alike.
Or
the time when a student named
I
ended a 27 year marriage in this place, a matter of real failure for me. When
it happened, I was afraid that I would be asked to leave here. I was
frightened; I was supposed to know about marriage and the family. I lied for
many years about that marriage, but I could not see about myself what others
saw, and they couldn’t tell me. I learned how much courage it took to tell the
truth and how easy it is to be in this profession and lie about anything that
makes you look bad.
I
have come to believe that integrity is so much better than orthodoxy. It was
around this altar that I married again, to someone who makes the pieces fit; no
one should be so lucky. Charlie Cook presided that day.
I
have learned about the gift of friendship, of how Charlie and Bill Green
nurtured me back to health again; of Dusty’s fidelity
to whatever I needed; to the students who taught me you can teach and colleague
at the same time; to Jerry Albert who said “Sometimes you have to pick up the
shit and carry it, Will.” And those memories persist to this very day; it comes
in the form of Michael’s steadiness, and Russell’s presence and honesty; and
Harold and Pat’s constancy; and Bill and Amy who rocked me on the night my
mother died; and Bob Kinney who is as good a friend as you can have; and Rob
Cogswell and Mikail who have given the library a new sacramental touch of
coffee, cookies, and the New York Times;
and Bose and Busbey who put up with what they know they have to put up with;
and Paul, Flora, and Cynthia who will be the stewards of this place in the
future; and Corinne who may be the soul of this school, with eloquence and
compassion; and Susan who weathers her job with so much pain and so much
desire; to Alan who in his brilliance understands so much, including burlesque,
bowels and buttocks and beauty; to John Bennet and Nancy Springer-Baldwin who
keep the doors open; Theresa, Susan, Sue, Mary, Joe, Madelyn, Jan, and Amanda,
Mary Hicks, Betsy and Eloise who do so much for such little credit, and Fito
and Domenic (who’s leaving May 29) who try diligently to usher the faculty into
the new millennium. And De, happily married to Bob, and who truly belongs here.
And Ray, Jay, Faye, and the others across the street who
stretch us to look beyond the narrow confines of being Episcopalians. And then Marcos, Rick, Vicky, Jesse, and Rade
who we cannot praise enough. And April, who made liturgical dance
something that I could really enjoy.
And
to each of you, arguably different, not to be compared, not to be put down as
adolescents because you are students. Everything we do here is because of you;
don’t let the seminary ever forget that!
The
seminary is human, and when we get unhappy and condemn it for this or that, we
all have a foretaste of what a parish church is like, and maybe our conflict
here will teach us how to be on the receiving end. For those who are the most
uncharitable will be dealt with the most uncharitably. For rage will be
directed towards us, make no mistake about that.
When
I was very small, and at the end of the calendar year the new
year was ushered in like a newborn baby, while the old year was old,
tired, and wounded. I sometimes feel that our seminary is like the old year.
This place has a personality and needs to be cared for, and we need to be proud
of it, not because it’s perfect, but because it isn’t. No individual faculty,
student, staff or administration, dean or trustee should ever place their needs
above the school, just as no parishioner should ever place their agenda ahead
of the church, because a servant is not greater than the master, nor is the one
sent greater than he who sent her.
You
have graced my life with love and candor for a long time. Please forgive me for
the things I have not done well, and they are many. I love you all very much.
Monday night was nothing but grace for me.
So
go in peace, remember the poor, visit the sick, care for the dying, love one
another, and if you come to the altar and there remember that your brother or
sister has a grievance against you, leave the altar and go your way. First be
reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. And may the power of the Gospel run with you this day and for the
rest of your life.
Amen.