My Favorite Things
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MY FAVORITE THINGS
The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The Twenty-sixth Sunday after Pentecost
November 17, 2024
Therefore, my friends, since we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain (that is, through his flesh) … let us approach with a true heart, in full assurance of faith. (Hebrews 10:19ff)
Today’s readings from the Letter to the Hebrews and the Gospel of Mark have me thinking of a song from The Sound of Music. Why? Well, if you hang with me for a few moments, I’ll tell you why. As many of you know, The Sound of Music is the story of a young, aspiring nun named Maria who, instead of the cloistered life, becomes the governess in a houseful of seven children. The show was first a Broadway musical, then in 1965 a Hollywood hit that broke all sorts of box office records. Julie Andrews, who stars as Maria, often bursts spontaneously into song, as people in musicals are inclined to do. In one of the songs, Maria sings about her favorite things. The list includes raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, warm woolen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up in strings. These are just a few of her favorite things.
Lo and behold, through many years of parenthood, my two sons have compiled a list for me – not of my favorite things, but of things I have denounced as unwelcome intrusions into my otherwise happy, cheerful life. What things? These are a few of my least favorite things: The Los Angeles Dodgers, cilantro, the over and misused word “iconic,” going by my middle name, non-dishwasher safe kitchen ware, traffic circles, and one more – valet parking. No matter where I am, I just never want to hand over my car keys to some teenager named Todd. What is more, Todd is going to expect a sizable tip for doing something I didn’t want him to do in the first place. There you have it: a few of my least favorite things. And in case you were wondering, my sons do not have permission to reveal anything else on the list, so don’t ask them at coffee hour.
In today’s reading from the Gospel of Mark (13:1-8), the disciples of Jesus talked about the Jerusalem temple as if it topped the list of their favorite things. “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” they said. Obviously, we don’t have any photographs of the temple, but various written sources describe it as enormous. It sat atop Mt. Moriah, and was by far the largest building in the region, with stones measuring 40-feet long, 12-feet high, and 18-feet wide. By the time of Jesus it had taken forty years to build and they still weren’t finished. But the temple was not only big, it was beautiful, almost blindingly so. The historian Josephus writes that much of the exterior was clad in gold plates so that the rays of the rising sun reflected off it with dazzling intensity. To say that the temple had an emotional hold on the Jews would be a vast understatement. It was the focal point of their identity, even the dwelling place of God on earth.
Nevertheless, Jesus foresaw the worst of times ahead for the temple. “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down,” is what he said. Jesus’ prediction of the temple’s impending destruction was a lament over the favorite building of all the Jews. Why would he say it? Perhaps he speaking politically, gauging the revolutionary foment in Jerusalem, and realizing it was headed towards a suicidal rebellion against Rome, the occupying power. Or perhaps he was speaking theologically, understanding that the offering of himself on the cross he saw looming before him would be the perfect sacrifice for the whole world, rendering the temple sacrifices redundant. We heard echoes of these latter thoughts in today’s reading from Hebrews (10:11-25). Whoever it was who wrote Hebrews also had concerns about the temple’s viability. Every priest stands day after day at his service, offering again and again the same sacrifices that can never take away sins, is what the author wrote. In other words, the rituals of the temple were empty and futile. The blood of bulls and goats could not atone for sins. Only the offering of Jesus could bring peace with God.
In either case, whether the gloomy prediction about the temple was politically or theologically motivated, Jesus’ words proved to be true. Mark 13 is often called “the little Apocalypse” because it purports to unveil the things that were to come. Indeed, in AD 70, approximately 40 years after Jesus spoke, the Romans sent troops with catapults and siege engines to retake and ransack the city. Nation rose up against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, but it was never a fair fight. Nowhere in Jerusalem was safe, but especially not the temple. The Romans set the temple ablaze with a fire so big that Josephus compared Mt. Moriah to an erupting volcano. Then it was all gone. If nothing else, it was a lesson for the Jews not to put their trust in a building made with hands, but only in the true and living God.
So here we are, two-thousand years after Jesus warned that not one stone of the temple would be left on top of another. He warned not to put our trust in a building made with hands. What has been a major focus of our parish life in the past year? It has been making sure that the stones of this temple – of this church – stay on top of each other. It is striving to prevent from happening here what happened there. To this end we raised over $5 million last spring. Today, I am pleased to report that we can all see progress. In fact, with the plastic tenting down, we even have an unveiling of sorts. You can look inside the scaffolding and see what has been our own little apocalypse: destruction, yes, but also glimmers of what is to come.
What is coming is good news. By next Sunday, all the interior scaffolding that you see will be gone, except for a remnant up against the south wall itself. The south aisle will be clear for all the important Thanksgiving, Advent, and Christmas gatherings that will fill the church in the weeks to come. Yes, at he pageant on Christmas Eve, the villagers with their torches, including the infamous Jeanette and Isabella, will hurry and run to the manger along the same route they take every year.
Now for the challenging news about the south aisle project. To quote Winston Churchill: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Beginning in 2025, our construction team will be staging the next critical phases of the work, and filing important documents with Landmarks Preservation and the Department of Buildings. These things take time, I’m told. Also, we will conduct what is called a “make safe survey,” by which workers on lifts will handle every exterior stone that protrudes over public spaces to assure than none are thrown down. Then, immediately after Easter, some iteration of the scaffolding that you see now will return. We will remove four stained-glass windows and send them off to a studio for a complete restoration, because they and the stone tracery supporting them were a source of water infiltration. If all goes well, the stained-glass windows will be back in place – wait for it – a year from now. No doubt they will shine with dazzling intensity.
Understand, the south aisle project was supposed to be finished last month, not next fall. But when we opened this brown paper package tied up with string, what we found inside was a water-logged sponge. You know those silver white winters that melt into spring? Well, the water goes somewhere. Over the past few weeks I have been absorbing the reality of how long it is going to take, and how many other projects we were hoping to do. Believe me, I have been tempted to instruct my sons to add the south aisle to the list of my least favorite things. If Rogers and Hammerstein were to set it to song, the lyrics might include:
“Raindrops on marble, and windows in pieces;
Plaster dissolving, the toll never ceases.”
No, I will not sing it, because preachers who burst spontaneously into song in the middle of their sermons happen to be another entry on my list of least favorite things.
Am I losing heart? No, we have come too far over the years to sink into despair now. Besides, Jesus implied that difficult times are the birth pangs preceding new life. What is more, the author of Hebrews writes, Therefore, my friends, since we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain (that is, through his flesh) … let us approach with a true heart, in full assurance of faith. The author turns the corner from futility to purpose, from fear to confidence, from sin to forgiveness, and invites us to come along on the new and living way. True, the old temple and its former function are gone. No longer do we throng the temple in order to be forgiven. The new and living way is to gather here because God in Christ has already forgiven us. It is accomplished. Note the earthy components of the new way: the body and blood of Jesus, the curtain that he opens for us, a sanctuary that we can approach, and the importance of meeting together in a sacred space.
We live in a sacramental universe, in which every common, earthy thing can open a doorway to God. Not to belabor the song, but raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens are iconic in the true sense of the word. They become gateways to heaven. They open windows, they pull back the curtain, they reveal the presence and love of God, and even declare God’s glory. Stained glass and stone, wood and plaster, fabric and flowers also sing the praises of God for those who train their ears to listen. In The Sound of Music, Maria sings: “When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”
Let me tell you about a favorite thing I remember whenever the building challenges at Grace Church tempt me to feel sad. Back in 2015 our choristers sang a concert tour in France, and one of the venues was Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. It was amazing. Our choristers did more than hold their own in that ancient and holy place. Their voices soared, and hundreds of tourists stopped their milling about and listened. After the concert I was outside waiting for them in the plaza in front of the cathedral. I looked up at the great west towers, the rose window, and the blue sky. I remember thinking that someone 800 years ago, standing right where I was, would have seen exactly the same glorious sight. The continuity with souls long dead was moving and meaningful. Notre Dame Cathedral became one of my favorite things.
Then four years later came the terrible fire that consumed the cathedral’s roof, brought the central spire crashing to earth, and filled the Parisian sky with smoke. Only by the genius of medieval architects and the heroics of modern firefighters was the cathedral not entirely lost. But it came close. Nevertheless, the people of France and supporters around the world did not lose heart. The President of France, Emmanuel Macron, declared that they would restore Notre Dame to its former glory within five years. They raised $900 million. Architects, engineers, and artists swarmed the place, and set themselves to the task. Now the cathedral is ready to open its doors again to the public on December 7th of this year. Once again the stained glass and stone, the wood and the nails, the bread and the wine, the choirs and the organ, and all the common things of earth that constitute Notre Dame will become sacramental. They will declare the glory of God, and show forth the handiwork of God’s people.
I like to think that the same Spirit of God that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ has been stirring the hearts of the people raising Notre Dame out of the ashes. It is the same Spirit of God at work in us, the people of Grace Church, as we seek to make new that which has grown old. We press on because Grace Church, and all that composes it, is one of our favorite things. A verse from the majestic hymn (360) that began our service says it well:
Hallowed this dwelling, where the Lord abideth,
This is none other than the gate of heaven;
Strangers and pilgrims, seeking homes eternal,
Pass through its portals.