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John 10:
7-10 January
24, 2010
OUR MEETINGHOUSE This year marks the 100th anniversary of this our beloved Meetinghouse, and so each week in this series of sermons, I am trying to show the connection between some of the exquisite details of this building and some of the stories and teachings of Jesus. While there are no ecclesiastical symbols in this building – this being one of the cornerstones of our congregational tradition -- nevertheless, I agree with the theologian Paul Tillich who spoke of symbols as those things that point beyond themselves to what he called “ultimate reality.” In other words, in this clearly protestant theology, anything in creation can point beyond itself to the creator. Not just crosses and stained glass windows and religious statuary, but everything can and perhaps should be thought of as a symbol, pointing beyond itself to “ultimate reality”, and so this morning as we survey this exquisitely beautiful building, this building in which our ancestors poured so much of themselves and their generosity, I would have us contemplate a few of the details that add to the beauty of this building, a few things that perhaps remind us of the life and spirit of Jesus. Being the son of a carpenter as he was, being something of a carpenter’s apprentice, if you will, helping his father out around the shop, I am quite sure that Jesus would have been impressed by the handiwork in this building – the curvature of the staircase, the workmanship so evident in this pulpit, the ionic capitals on these columns, but of course, all of this is probably a lot fancier than what Jesus would have seen in his father’s shop. So, as beautiful as those features are, this morning I would prefer to have us contemplate the doors of this Meetinghouse and remember how Jesus said, “I am the door.” While I doubt if Joseph had many commissions to build walnut pulpits such as this, I would guess that Jesus may have helped his father in building more than a few doors. If you were to visit the British Museum, in the medieval room, perhaps you would find some old tiles, known as the Tring Tiles that date from the Middle Ages. They show Jesus as a child helping out in his father’s carpentry shop, and in one of them, it shows Jesus taking a piece of wood that he had cut too short and then, as if it were elastic, using his newly found supernatural powers, he stretches it out to just the right length. It’s a rather whimsical and endearing picture of Jesus as a mischievous child, but I guess I would prefer to think of Jesus, even at an early age, as living by the same maxim the rest of us do, or at least try to do – “measure twice; cut once.” I like to think of him as being a careful student of his father, a lover of excellence, practicing and practicing his craftsmanship until he got it right, and being the lover of quality and perfection that he was, I like to think of him as making the very best door he possibly could, knowing how important a door is to the beauty and the warmth of a home. The doors on this Meetinghouse are sometimes called “Christian doors” for if you look at the paneling, you’ll see that they are in the shape of a cross. But for me, what makes these “Christian” doors has nothing to do with the paneling and everything to do with us, the members and the friends of this congregation – the doorkeepers of this church. In the long history of our church, dating back to 1665, I would guess that there were times when these doors were shut, when people didn’t feel welcome here, times when people felt the cold sting of exclusivity, times when the grace and the hospitality of our church was not as evident as it should have been, times when people of other races or cultures might not have felt welcome here. And so, if Jesus said, “I am the door”, then I would say that it’s incumbent upon each one of us to do all that we can to make sure that door always stands open, and it’s for that reason that I always station myself at the door of this meetinghouse both before and after our worship services. For me, it’s one of the great, great honors of being a minister of this church, and for that reason, no matter what the weather is, even if it’s 10 below zero, I love standing on the front steps to greet people on a Sunday morning. For me, it’s a non-verbal way of reminding myself of the awesome responsibility we all have as the “doorkeepers” of this congregation. By what we say and by what we do not say, we can scare people away. By being overly self-righteous we can make people feel unworthy. By being narrow minded, we can take these beautiful Christian doors and turn them into that which is categorically unchristian. Instead of doorkeepers we can be gatekeepers, and I would ask you to ponder the difference between the two. And let’s face it, in the long history of the Christian church, far too many have found the door of the church slammed in their face. With today being the day for our congregational meeting I am painfully reminded of a congregational meeting that was held in 1830. The predecessor to this building was only 13 years old at the time, having been built in 1817. This building is almost an exact replica of that building, and being so new, you can imagine how pristine and beautiful it must have been, but on May 31st 1830 I’d like to suggest that it was the ugliest building in this community, an embarrassment to the life and teachings of Jesus, for on that day, there was a congregational meeting in that building in which an African American woman by the name of Nancy was told that she was no longer welcome here, for it seems that witnesses had seen her in a state of intoxication, and so based upon this evidence, she was excommunicated. And that’s the difference between a “doorkeeper” and a “gatekeeper”. A gatekeeper presumes to know who is worthy and who is not, whereas a doorkeeper does not presume but rather sees his or her role as being one who in a spirit of humility has the honor of saying to one and all those blessed words of Jesus, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Just for a moment imagine yourself to be Nancy coming to church for that congregational meeting on May 31, 1830, not knowing what to expect. The Meetinghouse is so beautiful, only 13 years old. You remember when it was built. You remember how it used to be a very simple barn like structure up on Meetinghouse Hill, but now with the thriving boat-building business along the Lieutenant River, the members of the congregation built a new Meetinghouse. Using ship carpenters, this building would be the pride and joy of all New England, they would build a building that would be painted and photographed more than any other. Maybe Nancy’s father had been one of those builders. And so, as you walk to church that morning, you look up at the beautiful white spire and then you see the “Christian” doors with the panels being in the shape of a cross, and despite your troubles, you feel somehow reassured by these outward, physical signs or symbols of grace. I wonder if perhaps the minister that day used the same Call to Worship that I used this morning, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.” I wonder what their hymns were that day; I wonder if perhaps they sang that old familiar hymn, “Just as I am, though tossed about, With many a conflict, many a doubt, Fightings and fears without, within, O Lamb of God, I come. I come.” You hear all of this and you feel understandably reassured, but then following the benediction the congregational meeting begins, and you hear your name and you suddenly feel as if you are on the wrong side of a closed door. A cat of nine tails is nothing compared to the sting of exclusivity. You know your faults better than anyone else, and you know that alcohol can never fill the emptiness within, and so you have come to church hoping to fill that emptiness with the love and the grace of God. You walk through the door, the “Christian door” hoping to find what Jesus called, “abundant life”, but instead of abundant life what you find instead is a life of abundance, a beautiful building but a lousy church. For my part, I believe that it was precisely for such people as Nancy that this meetinghouse was built and rebuilt, and I hope and pray that we, the congregation, in the grace and love that we exemplify will be at least, at least as beautiful as the architecture of this building, and the way that we can do so is to honor our sacred responsibility as being the doorkeepers and not the gatekeepers of this place. I believe that as the young Jesus worked with his father building doors, I believe that he dreamed that someday he would be like a door for people such as Nancy. Far from being turned away, they would find in Jesus a way, a threshold, a passageway in which they would see and experience life in a radically new and different way. Through him, they would come to see how beautiful God’s Creation is. Through him, they would come to see how beautiful they were, being the children of God that they were. They would pass through that door, and they would know the sheer joy of being alive. On the wrong side of that door, they had felt cold and unwanted and unworthy, but on the right side of that door there would be a fire in the fireplace and a feast on the dining room table, and there would be a warm and welcoming voice that says, “ah, Nancy, you’re the one we’ve been waiting for you; please come in, and make yourself at home.” Jesus, sanding a door in father’s workshop, trying to get it perfectly smooth, would say, “That’s the kind of door I would like to be. And if and when a church is built in my name, I pray it will be a place where the door is always, always open.” I am the door. So much for doors, now, how about the honeysuckle and the pineapple? Well, for this, I would call your attention to the gold leaf in the dome and also in the apse behind this pulpit, but first, a little bit of history. The Fifth Meetinghouse was dedicated in 1910 – one hundred years ago, and in doing research on this series of sermons, I was surprised that the interior was completely repainted in 1929, only 19 years later. Now, why would it need to be done so soon? Well, apparently the soot from the furnace spoiled the beautiful interior, and so everything had to be redone. And so the year is 1929 and there is yet another congregational meeting to decide what to do. This was during the great depression, and redoing the gold leaf in the dome would be one of the most expensive items, and so, understandably, someone suggested that maybe the dome might be left plain. But I love how Mr. Huntington – perhaps one of your fathers or grandfathers replied, saying, “Over my dead body; we will raise the money!” Ah, now, that’s the spirit of a Congregationalist that should make us all feel proud, and in my 34 years of ministry, that’s the spirit that I have seen time and time again – in the building of our organ, in the rebuilding of our spire, in the restoration of our parsonage, in the building of our Parish House, in all the many mission projects we have taken on, in the building of houses with Habitat for Humanity, in the building of a medical clinic for refugees from Burma, in supporting the work of Central Methodist Mission in Johannesburg in their efforts to provide sanctuary for the refugees from Zimbabwe, in amplifying the work of Israelis and Palestinians in working toward a just and peaceful resolution in the Holy Land, in our support of the Storefront School in Harlem, New York. In these, and so many other locations, I’m sure there have been those who understandably have been anxious and afraid, but thank God that it has always been the spirit of Mr. Huntington that has prevailed. “Over my dead body; we will raise the money.” As you ponder the gold leaf above our heads, I hope you will give thanks for that spirit and the generosity and the vision of those who have come before us. As you can see in the architect’s letter and his exquisite eye for detail, the gold leaf is in the shape of a honeysuckle vine, and as such it should remind you of how Jesus said not only “I am the door” but also “I am the vine.” We are intimately and inextricably connected to those who have come before us, and as we ponder this honeysuckle, every flower on this vine should remind us of the good works and the faithful and courageous spirit of our spiritual ancestors, and in what we do today, in the ministries and missions we support, it is as if we are adding our own little fragrant piece of honeysuckle to this vine, remembering how Jesus said, “I am the vine.” Now, how about that pineapple? As perhaps you know, historically, the pineapple has been a symbol of hospitality, and in the 18th century especially, the pineapple was a favorite piece of decoration. You would find it carved in stone or wood on top of fence posts, incorporated into wallpaper and stenciled on the walls and ceilings of many homes. And so with this building being a replica of our 4th Meetinghouse which was built in 1817, I felt that surely I would find a pineapple somewhere in the architecture of this building. I confess that at first I misread the stenciling in our dome, thinking that the larger part of the design was a pineapple, but as you can see in the architect’s letter, clearly the gold leaf was supposed to be a honeysuckle design, no mention of a pineapple. Disappointed, I started looking around this building for a pineapple, and then on Thursday morning of this week, I found it, or, at least I think I did, and following the service, you can check it out for yourself and you can let me know whether I am right or wrong. But in order to see it, you have to get down on your knees – which seems quite appropriate for a church building. If you kneel down and look behind the communion table you’ll find what I would describe as an upside down pineapple right at the base of the pulpit. The French Philosopher, Paul Ricouer said, “the symbol gives rise to thought” and for me what this symbolizes is that if the pineapple is a symbol of hospitality, then that hospitality needs to be evident in all that we do as a church, and it begins with this bible and the pulpit on which it sits. Too often in the history of the Christian church there hasn’t been much hospitality emanating from the pulpit. Too often the bible has been used as a weapon against others. Too often those of us that occupy these pulpits on a Sunday morning haven’t remembered that in God’s eyes, we are all imperfect; we are all students in search of the truth; we’re all woefully ignorant about the great mysteries of life; we’re all seekers and pilgrims looking for enlightenment. And so the pineapple at the base of this pulpit is for me a reminder that we should kneel in a spirit of humility and do all that we can to make sure this church is a place where we all can feel welcome, a place where we all can come and be seekers of truth, a place where we all can feel the warmth and the love of God, a place where we all can feel as if we are a vital link in that vine that started so many years ago. Amen.
David W. Good Old Lyme, Connecticut
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