The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost
November 14, 2021
As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Mark 13:1-2)
In the name of God: Father, Son, & Holy Spirit. Amen.
Last week a reporter at the New Haven Register phoned me to ask how church attendance was looking. I don’t think the story ran, but the conversation was interesting. He was curious to know if attendance had rebounded since the start of the COVID pandemic.
Now believe it or not, but we actually do keep statistics about things like this! You can go online and read, for every Episcopal church, what the average Sunday attendance is and what total giving is for each year, going back for about ten years in the current data set. And what I can tell you is that, actually, numbers have been going up! Before COVID, on average, about 175 people came to church here at Christ Church each Sunday. Now, that’s not every person that comes to church, of course, or all the people affiliated with this community—that number is much higher. But that number, “Average Sunday Attendance,” is exactly what it sounds like. Each service the ushers count how many people are there. We add all those numbers up for every Sunday and at the end of the year divide by 52—and behold, there’s the magic average Sunday attendance, or ASA.
So that number, before COVID, was about 175.
Now, after a year and a half of pandemic, almost two years, that number is 140.
That’s a decrease of 30 people each Sunday on average, or less than 20%, which looks about right to me.
The difference from now till a March of 2020, though, is that now almost a quarter of those people are praying together online via our livestream. If you look around and expect to see someone in the seat next to you, that person may well be there—but virtually, in their living room, with a cup of tea or some breakfast or with their family gathered around.
It’s a brave new world we’re in as the pandemic stretches on. And what do we do with that change?
What do we do when we’re confronted with the fact that not everyone is together in the building any more?
And what’s more, what about the people that aren’t joining on livestream—for whom going to church—or being a part of the Church—is a completely foreign idea? When I was a child growing up in our hometown, if anyone new moved in, one of the questions you’d ask is, “Where are you going to church?” And the answer was usually either the Methodist or the Baptist church! There were cultural expectations about religion, and everyone in that town—almost everyone—was Christian, whether they followed Jesus or not!
That’s not the case any longer. And many of you know it. Being Christian, being baptized, joining with a community of believers, coming together on Sundays or any day really to offer praise and thanksgiving to God—all of this is profoundly countercultural. There is no cultural expectation of it any longer. You’ve made a distinct and deliberate choice to be here today, either in person, or via the livestream. You chose to do this instead of something else. And here we are together.
The world is changing all around us. The world has changed around us. We may be longing for normalcy, to “get back to normal,” to get back to a life pre-COVID. Some of you may be longing for the days of the post-war church, when families went to services each Sunday at 11am and then out to lunch afterwards, and there were guilds and groups and book clubs and events. Maybe you’re longing for the good old days when politicians either side of the aisle could work together, and rhetoric was decent and civil, and things felt less fraught. Or maybe you just long to go out to a restaurant and not have to wear a mask.
We want things to be the way they were. But they’re not. And we don’t know what things will look like—what society will look like, what the Church will look like, what our lives will look like. Change is the only constant. And that may be disorienting. It may feel like things are falling apart.
And I want to suggest to you that that’s probably okay. It’s probably always been that way, and we just haven’t noticed it lately.
Our story in this morning’s gospel is an uncomfortable look at change. At destruction, really. What does Jesus have to teach us?
In this passage from Mark Jesus has been in the temple in Jerusalem, and as he walks out of that magnificent building, one of his disciples exclaims, "Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!"
You’d think Jesus would agree. After all, Jesus shows up in synagogues and in the Temple. I’ll bet if he were traveling he’d even join via livestream from wherever he was for prayers. Jesus is a faithful churchgoer. I’m a faithful churchgoer. And I like beautiful church buildings! In fact, whenever someone remarks on the beauty of the church building here at Christ Church, I usually reply in agreement and then ramble on a little about the history of the building, the architect Henry Vaughan's pedigree, or the remarkable CE Kempe glass in our windows--the largest collection of Kempe outside of England. It's a beautiful building and a real resource for ministry. That’s why we’re involved in a capital campaign right now to pay for the new roof on the tower here—to keep this place viable as a symbol, a signpost, and as a gathering point for Christians in New Haven. As a place we can pray together.
But Jesus doesn’t have any kind words for the building. In fact, his reply isn't to praise the buildings at all; he’s clearly not in the middle of a capital campaign! What he says instead is shocking: "Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down."
Jesus is, of course, right. The Temple was destroyed once before when the Babylonians took Jerusalem by siege and dragged the ruling class of Judea off to Babylon. We’ve been reading in Morning Prayer about the rebuilding of the temple, the second Temple, through the permission of the Persian king Cyrus. And it’s this second Temple, greatly enlarged, a grand space, that Jesus would have known—on whose steps Jesus was standing. And within forty years of Jesus's words on the steps of that building, the Romans would in fact desecrate and destroy this second Temple, pulling it down.
Physics and history teach us that nothing in our world that seems permanent really is; everything is always changing. And sometimes that change can look like decay--maybe even disaster.
But God's perspective is longer than my own.
In these shorter, darker days of autumn, one might be understandably concerned about change, about disruption, about loss and decay. After all, we're still in the end days of a worldwide pandemic, a plague, that's taken over five million lives worldwide, disrupted the economy and labor market, and upended our supply chains. Our country is torn apart by political disagreement, anger, and sometimes even hatred. Human lives are broken by greed, addiction, racism, violence, and even illness--here in our city, in our own families, in our own homes.
This Veterans Day and Remembrance Day we look back to those wars, especially the First World War, when soldiers fighting and people in the path of battle must have thought the world was ending. It was the war to end all wars. And then there was the Second World War--and constant war and fighting ever since, as there ever has been.
There is change and decay all around us.
Where, then, do we find hope? Why do we even try? Why do we bother to gather here on Sunday, to stream in virtually, to put new roofs on buildings or go to work or cook dinner or visit with friends or family? How can any of it have meaning in the face of such decay—such despair?
Immediately following Jesus's words, he continues to predict chaos and disorder: "Nation will rise against nation... there will be earthquakes...[and] famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs."
This prediction of chaos, of destruction, seems like disaster from the perspective of the moment. If the Temple falls, how can there still be a covenant with God? How can God's people be in relationship with God with no place to pray?
Are we seeing chaos and destruction in the world around us? In the Church even? Will people come back to mass after COVID? Will they join guilds? Will they give enough to keep this place going into the future? Can we afford to put on a new roof?! Will there ever be peace? Can I ever go out in public without wearing a mask? Will things ever get back to normal?
I'm reminded that, every time the Temple was sacked or desecrated, every time God's chosen people wandered away from God or were dragged into exile or sent out into the wilderness, each and every time God came to them again--reached out in relationship and love. They couldn't escape God's love.
God reaches out to us coming in the human and divine incarnate one, Jesus Christ, son of Mary, walking with us, suffering, loving, feeding, and healing. God is with us even in the midst of what seems like chaos and destruction.
What if chaos, what if destruction, was not an end but rather a waypoint? What if, instead of destruction, we are experiencing change?
What if, rather than hatred, we're feeling the last gasp of a dying dragon thrown down by St Michael and his warrior angels? What if the labor market and supply chain are teaching us something about how we produce and how we consume?
What if God is doing something--reconciling creation even now in the midst of what seems like disorder?!
Because friends, that's what I believe is happening.
Last Sunday, All Saints Sunday, I celebrated with you the second of two baptisms--two faithful Christians, one infant and one adult person, Zora and Cate, who love God. This is a profoundly countercultural act that they and their families have made.
Later that evening I celebrated with many of you mass in the dark, a sung mass following Compline, with only candlelight to illuminate the altar, the walls, the faces that filled the room. About sixty young adults, mostly college aged, came forward with candle-lit faces eager to receive the Presence of Christ in the sacrament. This too is profoundly countercultural. They came to seek something. They found Jesus.
If you're feeling the chaos and confusion of the present time, you are not alone. History is with you. Commentators are writing about it. I am feeling it with you. God is there with you.
But in the midst of all of it, God is working. Sometimes change feels like chaos, and that's ok. God didn't abandon God's people. Christ has not left the Church, which is his Body.
And that's why we're gathering. And going to work. And fighting against war and violence. And developing vaccines. And putting on new roofs. Building new bathrooms. Working on accessibility and clarity and information delivery. Why we move forward even in the midst of change. Because God is there. And people are seeking to know God. And God is drawing the whole world to God’s own self.
I'm profoundly hopeful about what God is doing here at Christ Church. I'm overjoyed at the faithful support many of you are providing to the annual Stewardship Campaign--and to the Capital Campaign over this and next year as well. I'm overwhelmed by what's happening.
And I'm encouraged by that never-ceasing procession of souls and bodies to the altar in this place, praising and petitioning and adoring God -- and being filled up and sent out with the Presence of Christ in each of us.
This is but the beginning. But it's birthpangs, not pains of death. God is faithful. God is good. And the kingdom of God will prevail.
Pledge Sunday is next Sunday, Christ the King. Come and see. Come and pray. Come and give.
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