I believe I am standing on holy ground. I mean this church is a holy place for me and Alice. 35 years.
But why? Holy because it is a church, [consecrated by a bishop. Babies baptized here, confessions hear, weddings contracted, masses celebrated and funerals conducted.] I guess so.
But more so because it is filled with holy people all these 35 years. Yes, you, and the many who preceded you. (Some have moved on to other holy ground. God bless them. Some have gone underground. May they rest in peace.)
Oh, Did I imply you are holy? Well, yes. Yes, I think you are! Not because you are heroes or martyrs. Not because you say “please and thank you” or write nice notes to people. And not many of us are famous for heroic deeds. No, it’s because you are here. Because you and I weekly come and cast our lives into this place, this little church in modest Madisonville. [It is modestly small when you compare it to St. Cecilia’s, St. Gertrude’s, St. Francis deSales, the Cathedral or Crossroads.] But this is our holy place. You and I are called by these bells to walk through that door and acknowledge that we are believers. Our lives are not neat, somewhat untidy. Our troubles are not left at the door. They cling to us like gum on shoes. We expect that few of our problems will be fixed here. Nonetheless, you and I expose ourselves and our fragile faith week after week. We are seen for what we are at the heart of our lives— believers, but somewhat unsteady on this holy ground. As Matthew says: “They worshiped, but they doubted.” (Mt. 28: 17). And you may argue that you come because you lack sufficient faith. You come not because you have much to give, but because you need so much.
All that it true. But I believe you are holy because of that need, that gaping hole in your heart, and mine; our crying desire to be given something honest to goodness. We are needy, and we come to hear an utterly sincere word, a story too good to be true. But you and I claim it is. Bread too good to be taken in our hands and on our tongues is blessed and broken and given to you and me. Something that cannot be tarnished. Something that is sincerely deep down goodness. Something you can walk with this week, something you can carry out.
There is a moment on some Sundays when the holy ground of this place nearly moves beneath my feet. When I am privileged to walk to the ambo, with your eyes on me, on my steps, on my clothes. I worry: Do the clothes fit right? Will I trip? Will my bad knee buckle as I go up these steps? Will I fall flat on my fanny. So far, anyway, I get there.
I pick up the book of scriptures, the lectionary, and hold it in my hands. I want you to see them. It is a holy book and my hands are holy. The book is holy because of words they hold. My hands are holy because of the hands they have held and the hands that have held them: Alice’s, my sons’, my grandchildren’s. Yours, at the sign of peace. And everyone else I touch, in between.
I take my time. I want you to pay attention to me, to what I am doing to you.
You may even grow concerned that I have lost my place, or lost my nerve. I want you to ache for me and what I have to read. I want you to yearn to hear something honest to goodness. Something deep down. A truth you will trust. Not my own words, but the words that have been read in this very church for over 120 years, words that have been read in churches, in homes, on busses and on park benches throughout the world for over 2000 years. Some of these very same words were even read by a man named Jesus, in his holy place, a synagogue in Jerusalem. Words which even then were six hundred years old.
Year upon year, week after week, one of us has taken the risk of walking up front and holding this book and daring to read words beyond her own goodness, beyond his own truth. To become a holy person in front of us, to be seen as a believer, to let the word become flesh in her. Because those words sounded from her lungs, vibrated from her vocal chords, formed on her tongue, slipped through her teeth until we see those words cross her lips and there…there…the words become flesh, in her flesh.
With that moment, suddenly it is Christmas. It is the word made flesh.
If only we could believe it. I suggest that if we dare to come to this church, if we dare to read these words, if we dare to hear them, if we dare to eat this bread and drink this wine, then we are no less than the word made flesh in this time and in this place. If not here, where? If not now, when? We are the church. We are the Christ extended in time.
I bow to you, my holy friends.