Sermon at the Rededication of the Chapel, September 15, 2008

There’s a hymn we’ll sing after communion, a hymn we’ve often used here on anniversaries and dedications and re-dedications. It’s emblematic of this ministry and indeed, of lots of ministries on this campus. The name of its tune is “Commemoration.” Here’s what we’ll be singing:

Our Father, by whose servants our house was built of old,
Whose hand hath crowned her children with blessings manifold,
For thine unfailing mercies far-strewn along our way,
With all who passed before us, we praise thy Name today.

The changeful years unresting their silent course have sped,
New comrades ever bringing in comrades’ steps to tread:
And some are long forgotten, long spent their hopes and fears;
Safe rest they in thy keeping, who changest not with years.

They reap not where they labored; we reap what they have sown;
Our harvest may be garner’d by ages yet unknown.
The days of old have dower’d us with gifts beyond all praise:
Our Father, make us faithful to serve the coming days.

Before us and beside us, still holden in thine hand
A cloud unseen of witness, our elder comrades stand:
One family unbroken, we join with one acclaim,
One heart, one voice uplifting, to glorify thy name.

The relation of a building to a ministry is a complex thing. Some ministries have no building; some buildings have little ministry. At its best a place like this can be none other than the house of God and the gate of heaven. It can be that. It can also be a place where Jesus needs to come in and clean house.
Episcopal ministry in the midst of this university goes all the way back to 1910, predating the Chapel by some 15 years. Then an Episcopal ministry with a truncated Chapel operated for 81 years. The Chapel was incomplete, but the ministry was not limited by the Chapel. Now, at last, the Chapel is complete, but the ministry certainly is not. We hope the ministry will enlarge, just like the Chapel. This ministry and the many ministries on this campus and in these communities won’t ever be finished, not until the new Jerusalem comes down from heaven.
One of the challenges in finishing the Chapel was to build something worthy of what was begun. That foreshortened Chapel, with its three bays of Gothic splendor and an asbestos-shingled shack on the back, was nonetheless a special place. Celtic spirituality talks about “thin” places, places where the membrane between this world and the eternal is very thin, penetrable. For generations of those who worshipped here, the divide was crossed again and again. No building can transport people to another dimension. The Spirit of God, working in God’s people, brings worship alive. But gosh, this space helps—infused as it is with the hopes and fears and dreams and commitment of those who have gone before us. People have come in here hoping that their needs will be met and gone out from here to meet the needs of the world. It’s the story of churches and campus ministries everywhere: People come in to be served, are nurtured and strengthened, and go out to serve, to nurture and strengthen.
When we began the completion effort, we knew we couldn’t do it by ourselves. We had to have the help of those who had been here before. We knew they loved the place. But even more than the place, they loved what had happened to them here. They had become bigger, stronger, more able, more faithful. And they were thrilled to help this ministry grow. It surely made us believe our own propaganda about the importance of campus ministry. Our folks are out there, in leadership in the church and the world.
And a wonderfully graceful dimension of the whole project has been the talent and skill of the people who planned, designed, and built it. We’re grateful for their commitment to this building and for their labors. I know that it was more than work to some of them: there was devotion in it. They weren’t just doing a job; they were fulfilling a vocation. We look forward to sharing the sacred space they’ve built with the larger community.
We’ve put a motto in the rose window. The words are Jacob’s words after his dream of a ladder that reached heaven, with angels ascending and descending on it. Waking from the dream, he said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it.” And he was afraid, and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” And he called the place Bethel. “O how awesome is this place. Truly this is none other than the house of God and the gate of heaven.” (Gen 28:17) Since we’re Episcopalians we put it in Latin—we like that kind of stuff. But it’s a bold assertion for any place made with human hands and filled with human worshippers. After all, we’re not angels; of course neither was Jacob. God uses flawed people to work God’s will. As Martin Luther put it, “God carves the rotten wood and rides the lame horse.” And this is a place of encounter with God, where we are consciously present to God and God is present to us. Sometimes that presence is intense and that encounter poignant: it is not a light thing to be carved or ridden. Lives have been changed here. That happens in a house of God.
And this is the gate of heaven—a place where the world to come impinges on the world as we know it. That world can only open on our world to judge it; to challenge it: to infuse it; to enliven it; to change it. Yes, here we’re knocking at heaven’s gate. But heaven knocks back, blasting our barriers. Gates go both ways, in and out. That motto in the window will be true and not just hubris if we’re transformed in this place to take the love of God and the grace of Christ and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit into the world. The motto will be true and not blasphemy as we become instruments of God’s justice and mercy and peace. That task scares us to death; that same task scares us into life.
“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Rev 21:3)