Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC
Those of you of a certain age may remember the 1969 movie “‘Alice's Restaurant.” It is loosely based on a song of the same name by Arlo Guthrie, son of Woody Guthrie, which is itself based on a true story though, no doubt, somewhat exaggerated. It was a popular film about war and resistance, about coming of age, about sex and drugs and all those other good things. But all I remember about the movie--and this may say more about me than I care to admit--is a brief scene about fifteen minutes into the film which recreates a service of the removal of a consecration of a church or what we might now call the secularization of a consecrated building. Trinity Church, a small Episcopal parish, was located in the Berkshires and was being taken out of commission, so to speak, to become the home of the eponymous Alice. I was struck by the starkness and power of the service, at once both sadly realistic and yet paradoxically hopeful. The cinematic portrayal was accurate down to the last detail. Even the prayers were true to the approved text:
"We who are gathered here know that this building, which has been consecrated and set apart for the ministry of God's holy Word and Sacraments, will no longer be used in this way but will be used for other purposes.
“To many of you this building has been hollowed by cherished memories, and we know that some will suffer a sense of loss. We pray that they will be comforted by the knowledge that the presence of God is not tied to any place or building.
“The altar has been removed and protected from desecration.”
The Bishop's statement was then read: “...this building, having now been declared deconsecrated and secularized, I declare to be no longer subject to my canonical jurisdiction.”
Contrast this with the joyous ceremonies of consecration and dedication such as we read in Scripture. There is Solomon's portrayal of the original Temple in Jerusalem, real or imagined, with all its accoutrements. Or the lavish rededication ceremonies of the Temple after the Babylonian exile with its gold and silver and thousands of animal sacrifices. Or even what occurred here ninety-nine years ago today when St. Augustine’s Chapel was dedicated and consecrated to almighty God. To be sure, it was a more modest affair than what we read about the time of the Second Temple. Still, it was a major production by any measure. There were special trains from New York City. About 500 people attended the service crowding every available nook and cranny. And in the perfect fall weather that followed, food was served on the lawn, a real multiplication of loaves and fishes.
The service was not without its critics of course. The local Episcopal rector from across the river, Dr. Alexander Cummins, was scandalized that the bishop would participate in such a service in this community of monks thereby lending it legitimacy. He made his sentiments known in the New York City press. I can't resist quoting at some length:
“The long trail of monasticism is full of intrigue and rebellion on the part of these irregulars against the regulars, i.e., monks against bishops, priests,deacons or laymen. History gives us a picture of the gossiping woman in all ages telling her eager tale against the parish priest or bishop in the willing ears of a listening monk. This has been one of the most offensive combinations of unhappy debate and cruel persecution against men accused of heresy and unorthodoxy.
“With this picture must be placed another of the rich orthodox layman outside, ready to meet all deficits and stand all bills for further propaganda provided that sufficient influence is used to keep him out of purgatory.
“West Park has its saints, no doubt, but it is also behind much false teaching in the Church. It cannot help itself in the nature of things….
“Is it wise for the Bishop of a diocese which still remains old-fashioned and Protetsant in its character to make one of his first official visitations to a monastic establishment hitherto felt to be a good place to avoid and historically in line with ways and teachings contrary to all the American fathers stood for?” (New York Times, November 7, 1921)
Dr. Cummins obviously thought not. Happily, not everyone agreed.
In the wider Catholic tradition, and especially in the monastic tradition, buildings are important. They are not accidental. We often hear it said around the current increasingly frequent closures of churches and other places of worship that the church is the people, not the building. This is true. But people are also embodied, as is our own Christian faith. And so we need spaces, buildings in which to gather, to be the ekklesia, those who are called out. We need places to be instructed, to be fed, to be renewed. We need places to find community. We need places to mark our beginnings and offer our commitments and covenants and vows, and yes, make our exits.
Churches are these places for us. And at their best, they are also places of great beauty, doorways into the sublime, the eternal. I think of another movie, “The Deer Hunter,” a 1978 epic war film which takes place in and around a depressing and depressed steel town in Western Pennsylvania at the height of the Vietnam conflict. The one place there of great beauty, of transcendence, indeed of hope is the local Orthodox Church at the center of the town. In the midst of this grey landscape is the exuberance of a church bathed from top to bottom with light and color and song. It is a place of vastly larger meaning and hope in a world on the brink of meaninglessness and chaos. My own ancestors who came from Central and Eastern Europe understood this. They were exceedingly poor, but the first thing they did after getting jobs and a home was to build a church. It functioned as a community center and a cultural touchstone. But most of all, I think, it served as a place of beauty and light and hope no matter how grim or difficult life might be. And that is because the Church building itself, as much as the community gathered in it, is the image of something more. It is the image of something eternal. It prefigures, if you will, the Paradise of God.
So every year we commemorate this reality and hold up this truth with gratefulness, with joy, with nostalgia, with awe as we celebrate this anniversary. “This is none other than the house of God and this is the gate of heaven,” said Jacob upon waking from his dream of a ladder which reached to heaven and upon which the angels of God ascended and descended. We can say the same of this place.
Nevertheless we must also remember that nothing is here forever. The words of one of our favorite hymns say it so well:
Mortal pride and earthly glory,
sword and crown betray our trust;
though with care and toil we build them,
tower and temple fall to dust.
But God's power, hour by hour,
is my temple and my tower. (Hymnal 1982, # 665 )
Buildings age and collapse or they are destroyed through natural disaster and through war or human madness. Congregations, like monasteries, change. They grow and build and outgrow and shrink and disappear. Cultures change, demographics change, priorities change, our self-understanding changes. This is the truth as well.
And so a service of secularization or deconsecration is also worth considering today. Does it mean these buildings or attempts were failures? Perhaps not. Could it be that they have fulfilled their purpose all too well, that their time has come and is now gone in a particular place, and that we now hand them over the larger providence of God, just as at the end we will hand over our very souls to that same loving providence? Sooner or later everything will disappear. Everything.
In the Book of Revelation we are given a vision of the new Jerusalem, heavenly and eternal. What is shocking is the claim that there is no Temple there. It’s no longer needed. The rituals have ended, the cult is done, the sacraments have ceased, the priests are no more and not because they were not effective or necessary. Rather precisely because they were. Rituals, figures, types are ended because the reality, the Prototype, the living Truth now pervades everything. Call it what you will: heaven, paradise, eternity, the Kingdom. It is Christ all in all.
None of us is there yet, of course, none of us. But our eyes look toward that day and our hearts stretch forward toward it. Church buildings, like this Chapel, are signs and signposts of hope for a future that is almost unimaginable and yet utterly necessary and--dare we say?--inevitable.
So we give thanks today for those who built this place, this little forecourt of heaven, this little foretaste of God’s future, already present. We remember those who have worshipped within these walls during the past 99 years--monks, guests, strangers and pilgrims, the hopeful, the despairing, the lost, the confused, the certain, the seeker and the sought. May they join us this morning as together with the angelic choirs we give thanks to God for this and for all divine signs and instruments of grace. May we be joined together here and hereafter. For truly, the Lord is in this place.
Amen.
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