SERMON PREACHED BY THE REVEREND DR. HAROLD T. LEWIS, RECTOR
CALVARY EPISCOPAL CHURCH, PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
AT RODEF SHALOM TEMPLE, PITTSBURGH
FRIDAY 23 APRIL 2010
“I will go unto the altar of God, even unto the God of my joy and gladness.”
(Psalm 43:4)
Some years ago, a book was published, entitled All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten. I never read the book, but I believe that its major point was that life’s important lessons are learned in the context of one’s interaction with one’s peers in kindergarten. For it is there that we learn good manners, how to communicate with others, how to share, and, lest we forget, the importance of waiting our turn. If I am socially maladjusted, by the way, it’s because a) I never went to kindergarten; and because b) I was an only child who didn’t have any siblings from whom I might have learned at least some of the lessons I would have learned in kindergarten.
Now I am thinking of writing a similar book, entitled, All I really need to know about the faith I learned as an altar boy. For it was in that setting that I learned about how to pray; I learned that our primary purpose in life is to worship God; I learned about sin and forgiveness; I learned about reverence for holy things; I learned about what might be called “holy deportment” ---- hands clasped, eyes slightly downcast, never walking backwards. And there were some kindergarten-type lessons as well, like punctuality, the necessity for shined shoes, and showing respect --- for our fellow acolytes and especially for the priests. Of course there were one or two lessons I have since had to filter out, such as the long lecture we received one day from the acolyte warden explaining why girls could not be altar servers --- or by extension, priests.
What was “cool” about being an altar boy is that we observed what might be called secret rituals --- stuff about which the congregation did not have a clue. Principal among these was the Office of Preparation, a series of prayers that we recited (while the choir was singing) to prepare us spiritually for divine worship. The centerpiece of that little service was the 43rd Psalm, which, having recited it every Sunday and holy day for a good chunk of my childhood, is indelibly seared in my memory.
Kneeling before the altar, we recited those words with care. First we would ask God that he would not allow us to be contaminated by evil: “Give sentence with me, O God, and defend my cause against the ungodly people, O deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man.” Then we would praise God for his omnipotence and loving kindness, saying, “For thou art the God of my strength, why hast thou put me from thee, and why go I so heavily while the enemy oppresseth me?” Then we would ask that God would allow us to come into his presence: “O send out thy light and thy truth, that they may lead me, and bring me unto thy holy hill and to thy dwelling.” And then came the most important petition: “That I may go to the altar of God, even unto the God of my joy and gladness; and upon the harp shall I give thanks to thee, O God my God.”
The altar is a symbol common to our traditions. To both Jew and Christian, the altar is a place of sacrifice. For the Christian, the altar is that place where we believe that the sacrifice of the Holy Eucharist takes place, where Jesus, called the Lamb of God, is offered. Almost the entire Epistle to the Hebrews is spent in the development of an argument in which Jesus is described not only the sacrifice but as the high priest, the offerer of the sacrifice. So important is this piece of holy furniture that the church building has been defined as four walls and a roof built to house an altar. It was for this reason that when Ralph Adams Cram designed Calvary Church, it was his intention that the eye of every worshipper would immediately be drawn to the high altar.
But this evening, I would like you to think of the altar not primarily as a place of sacrifice, or as an architectural focal point. I would like you to think, instead, as the altar as monument, or, if you will, the altar as memorial, as shrine, or as tribute. For, as I read the Hebrew Scriptures, it seems to me that every time an altar is erected, it commemorates some event, some milestone, some learning experience, some “Aha!” moment in the life of the builder.
First, we must like Noah build an altar of thanksgiving. After the Great Deluge, when, Genesis tells us, Noah found that the surface of the ground was dry, Noah summoned his family and all the living creatures to come out of the ark, and “he built an altar there to the Lord” [Gen. 8:20] to thank him for preserving the passengers of the ark, both man and beast. Yahweh smelled the incense of the sacrifice that Noah offered there, and promised never again to destroy all living creatures. We human beings, proud as we are, people whom St Paul described as “thinking of ourselves more highly than we ought to think,” basically feel that prosperity, good health, possessions and children who in the words of Proverbs “rise up and call us blessed” are our due. We take such things for granted, and often don’t remember the kindergarten lesson of saying “thank you.” It is often only when things go awry that we question God. Perhaps you saw a cartoon in a recent New Yorker, depicting a doctor and his patient. The patient is forlorn, obviously having just received an unwelcome diagnosis. Clearly he is not long for this world. The doctor says to him, “Sometimes it helps to turn the question inside out. Why not you?” Perhaps the true believer asks “Why me?” upon learning that he has won fifty million dollars in the lottery. Let us remember to build altars of thanksgiving.
Second, like Abram, we must learn to build altars of trust. In the twelfth chapter of Genesis, Yahweh commands Abram to leave his familiar surroundings, his comfort zones, but instead of supplying Abram with a Mapquest or a GPS, the Lord God simply said “go to the land I will show you.” When Abram and Sarai and Lot arrived at Canaan, this was obviously not the final destination, and Yahweh promised to give the land to Abram’s descendants. But Abram dutifully built an altar there to the Lord. When he arrived at Bethel, the next stop, again, clearly not the final destination, Abram again built an altar. After famine, fortunes and reversals of fortune, Abram arrived at Mamre and Hebron, and again built an altar to the Lord. I learned a new word not long ago: “careerist.” A careerist is one who has a clear goal in life --- perhaps he wants to be the CEO with the corner office and the keys to the executive rest room, or he is desirous of becoming a bishop. (A book came out in the Sixties, by the way, entitled How To Become a Bishop Without Being Religious.) The careerist is so fixed on his ultimate destination that no intermediate stop is of any consequence. Those positions and the people there are simply stepping stones to what is perceived as a greater accomplishment --- the greatest accomplishment. Not so with Abram. Abram was not aware of the significance of each of the stops along his journey, but he knew they were important because the Lord had sent him there. He didn’t question the Lord’s wisdom; rather he trusted in the Lord’s omniscience, trusting in God at every stop along the way, asking the Lord “What would you have me to do in this place?” May we, like Abram, learn, even at times of confusion and uncertainty, to build altars of trust.
Finally, we must learn to build altars of solidarity. The 17th chapter of Exodus describes the first time that the Israelites actually took part in battle. It was a hard-fought victory for Moses against the Amalekites. The Israelites were grumbling and complaining --- so much so that he cried to the Lord “They are almost ready to stone me.” But the Lord gives Moses a game plan. He instructs Moses to strike the rock. Moses enlists the aid of Joshua who sent Aaron and Hur to lift up Moses’ hands. And they kept Moses’ hands up until sunset when the Amalekite army was defeated. And yes, Moses built an altar and named it Yahweh Nissi, “The Lord is my banner.” Or “sign,” or victory.” There is a new film out called “Invictus,” starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. Mr. Freeman portrays Nelson Mandela, who apparently found great strength in the poem of the same name by William Ernest Henley (who, by the way, gets nary a mention in the film, not even in the end-of-movie credits --- Hollywood once again passing up a teachable moment). The punch line of the poem is, as all of us who had to memorize it, remember, “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” As I have often said, it’s great poetry, but lousy theology. We are not in charge of our fate, as evidenced by our utter helplessness in light of the Haitian earthquake that reduced a city to rubble or volcanic ash from an Icelandic volcano that grounded thousands of flights for nearly a week. Moses, however, knew that he couldn’t do it alone. He had to a) listen to God; and b) be assisted by his people. That demonstration of strength --- such solidarity --- proved to be unbeatable, and the Amalekites were defeated. As we build altars of solidarity with God, let us remember that we are called to work in concert with him and with our fellow pilgrims along the way.
In the Book of Exodus, Yahweh says, “If thou wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone, for if you wield your tool upon it, you will profane it.” In answer to those words, George Herbert, poet and priest, wrote these words:
A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears,
Made of a heart, and cemented with tears:
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workman's tool hath touched the same.
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow'r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame,
To praise thy name.
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
O let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.
My sisters and brothers, my prayer is that, trusting in God, we might, like Noah, Abram, and Moses, make altars of our hearts. AMEN.