European Churches Trip Advisor: Sermon Edition - Hebrews: 11:1-3, 8-16

I’m so glad to be at Christ Church this morning. I’ve been away for about a month, first to General Convention and then on a family vacation. There was also a rude interruption from Covid in between, which I know many of you can relate to. I’ve missed you all. It’s good to be back. And it sure seems like ministry hasn’t skipped a beat around here.

Two weeks ago my family and I had the great privilege of attending a service at Westminster Abbey in London. It’s kind of like going to the mothership of Anglicanism. Picture ushers in morning coats, vergers who mean business, a large flock of clergy, and other people I couldn’t quite identify dressed in black cassocks with white bow ties. I made some fashion notes for our next staff meeting. I also pulled up photos of royal weddings and coronations before the service to try to impress the teenagers, who were not exactly thrilled to be going to church on vacation. But here’s a pro-tip - if you attend a service there you don’t have to buy tickets to see the place. Also, the sermon is likely to be good, so one can steal some ideas for one’s first Sunday back from vacation. What I remember most was hearing a good word about the life of prayer, and how Christ is at the center of all of our seeking. The Christian life may not be not flashy compared to the other options the world offers, but it is our surest path to God, who is our deepest desire. In the beautiful words we just heard from the letter to the Hebrews, such faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. The sermon that morning was a quiet and powerful affirmation of faith, as tourists waited outside for the service to finish.

Each church we went to had a similar juxtaposition, whether it was a grand medieval cathedral or an old country chapel. These structures are part tourist destination, part sacred space. People often enter, and a few minutes later, suddenly remember to remove their hats. In some places, sacred music is piped in or an organist is playing, and visitors, whether religious or not, naturally start speaking in hushed tones. Except for the people who try to talk over the organ. That’s pretty universal.

Jason and I made a habit of looking for a working prayer desk in each church we visited. At the Tower of London we found one with an open prayer book from that morning, a pencil to make notes during the service, and cough drops. The church was closing to tourists soon for a parish wedding. Time and again we found churches striking a rather lovely balance between welcoming the stranger and tending to the spiritual needs of their flock. And whichever category you happen to fall into, tourist or pilgrim, you know that you are near something holy, standing next to things unseen.

If you’ll allow me just one more church story, I have to tell you about our visit to the cathedral in Chartres. Built in the 12th century, you can see it from miles away as you approach by car. Surely pilgrims on foot or horse would have been wowed just as much. It has the oldest known labyrinth in working order in all of Western Europe, from which chairs are cleared on Fridays so anyone can walk it. We happened to have a personal labyrinth facilitator with us, my wonderful mother-in-law Twylla, who gave us some history and instructions, and then the family set out on the spiral path. We were surrounded by a rather eclectic group of pilgrims. There was a woman in flowy robes, barefoot, holding crystals. Next to her walked a priest in a disheveled suit and Tevas holding his briefcase. There was another man finding mysteriously specific stones to stand on nearby, raising his arms toward the vaulted ceiling and having a moment. I imagine a cathedral that old has seen it all. All kinds of pilgrims, all kinds of church fads and fights, all kinds of joys and sorrows. It’s mind boggling to think about how many different kinds of people have been welcomed into that space, looking for things unseen and a place to put their hope.

There is a seating area near the altar that is roped off, with a sign telling visitors that the area is reserved for those who want to pray. I watched as people hesitated, wondering whether or not they fit in that category. It must be the cathedral’s effort to keep some space for prayer away from Intragrammers and whatnot. At the same time, no one is turned away. The sign stands as a broad invitation to anyone who wants to try their hand at prayer in such a sacred space. I imagine everyone feels some kind of connection to the eternal there, however one imagines it.

One of the gifts that comes from visiting such places is, of course, some perspective on the spaces you occupy in your own life. Christ Church is one of those spaces, somewhere between grand cathedral and humble country chapel. We come here to glimpse the things that cannot be seen, and to be assured of things we hope for. We come here to find Christ. We come here to be as close to God as possible.

We have been given a promise about our time in this space by Christ himself. He told the disciples that we will know him in the breaking of the bread. The credit goes to God for such a breathtaking idea. Whether one approaches a 12th century altar in France, or one from 1941 in Little Rock, Arkansas, or even a makeshift one outside during a pandemic or in a wild church service in Allsopp Park, at each one the invisible becomes visible in the breaking of the bread. We actually see and taste that which is invisible and eternal.

This concludes my travel notes from French and English churches, which I hope you enjoyed. I also hope they will remind us that we, too, are pilgrims. In fact, we are part of a holy communion of pilgrims who have gone before and who will come after us. And as God has been doing for centuries, all manner of people are invited into this space and to this altar. Like all pilgrims, we pray and sing and take in the beautiful sites. And then, each time the bread of Holy Eucharist is broken, we catch a glimpse of the invisible. We renew our hope for things eternal. In that moment, we find Christ himself. No matter the church, no matter the century, no matter the altar, that moment is the same.