It is well known that the story of the origin of the Order of the Holy Cross begins at an Anglo-catholic parish in Philadelphia. It just so happens that the parish in question is not my parish. So, if you will allow me, I’d like to establish my credentials. The connections between West Park and Locust Street were well established by the time this Chapel was consecrated, since priests from Holy Cross had come to Saint Mark’s in the years before the First World War to tend to our parish during the interim between two rectors. And it was Catherine Murray Rush Camac, a parishioner of Saint Mark’s, who made the gift to fund the construction of this chapel in memory of her husband William Masters Camac, who’d been a Vestryman.
For the record, William, the scion of a notable Philadelphia family, worked with the firm of the marvelously quirky and idiosyncratic Philadelphia architect Frank Furness. Catherine was one of the grandchildren of Dr. Benjamin Rush, a most distinguished Philadelphian who had been a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and is often referred to as one of the founders of American psychiatry. There is a Camac Street in Philadelphia, one short stretch of which is the last street in the city paved with blocks of wood. The street is better known as the home of the Tavern on Camac, a piano bar that is pretty close to the heartbeat of the city’s affectionately nick-named Gayborhood. So the Camac name still resonates in the city of brotherly love.
My predecessor, Fr. Frank Vernon preached the sermon at the consecration of this chapel one hundred years and three days ago. He was only a year into what would be a twenty-four year tenure at Saint Mark’s that ended with his death in 1944, a few months after he had collapsed of exhaustion. Fr. Shirley C. Hughson, O.H.C., was the celebrant who sang the Solemn Requiem Mass for Fr. Vernon at Saint Mark’s, for which the Bishop of Pennsylvania was present. We are told that the bishop offered the prayers. (I’m curious to read between those lines - but, another time.)
When the Vestry adopted a memorial resolution on Fr. Vernon’s death, it mentioned that “his sermons were always brief but they evidenced an immense amount preparation.”* Those sound like possibly more lines to read between. Anyway, such requirements were not part of the job description by the time it made its way to me (neither the brevity nor the evidence of preparation).
A volume of parish history produced for our centenary in 1947 makes substantial note of Mrs. Camac’s gift to the Order, providing a description of this building, as well as this comment:
“This chapel is in daily use and is the center of the monastic establishment at Holy Cross. Many has been the soul which has found peace and pardon here and to whom our Lord has spoken words of consolation and encouragement. Thousands have received at this altar the ‘Bread of Immortality’ which our Blessed Saviour has left as the pledge of His Love to His hungry children. It can be said that this memorial to an ardent parishioner of St. Mark’s has become nationally known and loved as a shrine of our Church.”**
No need to read between the lines there, I think. It sounds as though the people of Saint Mark’s were feeling quite proud of our association with the Order of the Holy Cross. And except for the fact that I seem to remember that pride is a sin, I say, why wouldn’t we still feel proud of our long association with this community, and this place, this shrine of prayer and praise?!? Many of us, myself included, over these past hundred years, have beaten a path from Locust Street to West Park, much to our benefit. (And I should note that in my seminary days, I was fortunate to have Douglas Brown as my spiritual director.)
That little volume of history reports that at the service of consecration, Fr. Vernon took as his text, “Love is the fulfilling of the Law.” For better or worse, I am not required to preach on that text, which, out of context, might be easy enough to do. But in its proper context in the 13th chapter of St. Paul’s Epitsle to the Romans, is not an easy text to preach on. It is preceded by Paul’s argument that we should “be subject to the governing authorities.” And it is followed by his admonition to “cast off the works of darkness,” and to “make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires.” All very well for monks, I guess, but I’m not a monk!
But I have to admire Fr. Vernon’s decision (if it was his) to preach on a text that has nothing to do with foundations, nothing to do with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, etc., nothing to do with temples, but only to do with the ongoing conversion of the church, and of every human heart, to the law of God’s love. “He who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law…. Love does no wrong to a neighbor, therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.”
If the Gospel reading assigned to Fr. Vernon was the same one assigned for today, no wonder he left it alone. Jesus enters the temple. He disrupts everything with accusations of corruption. He chastises the men who are supposed to be in charge. And then he walks out and goes on his way. Well, that’s one way for the visiting preacher to approach his task. But is this really a pattern we want to dwell on as we celebrate the anniversary of the dedication of this monastic church?
In the midst of that very upsetting series of events, the chief priests and the scribes came to Jesus with a question, when (as Matthew tells us) they saw what wonderful things he did; and when the children were crying out in the temple, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” Any one of us who cares about the church (as we all do) knows exactly how the chief priests and the scribes felt in this moment, when a charismatic leader has caught the attention, and maybe even the hearts of the people, and is teaching them and leading them in ways that are not our ways, and with thoughts that are not our thoughts, and that we are certain cannot be good for them! Because, frankly, what the scribes and the priests heard being shouted in the temple was blasphemy, as far as they were concerned.
So, they went up to Jesus, the chief priests and the scribes did, and they asked him, “Do you hear what they are saying?” The question is telling, because they assume that if Jesus heard what they heard, he would do something about it. God, I know how that feels, too. How many times in my prayers have I wondered if Jesus is really listening - not just to me, but to everything I hear that I am sure cannot possibly be good for the people entrusted to my care, or for me?!? What a common prayer it could be on my lips: Lord, do you hear what they are saying? Or maybe a slightly different version of the question: Do you see what they are doing? And I assume that if Jesus heard what I hear, if he saw what I see, he would do something about it! Indeed, when I’m honest with myself, it’s almost never hard for me to identify with the chief priests and the scribes in the Gospel. When I look beyond editorial prejudice against them, it’s almost never difficult for me to align myself with the Pharisees. I mean, I hate to admit that to you, but over the years I have gotten used to being honest in this chapel. It’s just that usually I am not speaking out loud.
And in this moment, I feel the echo of Fr. Vernon, as I try to work out how my heart is aligned, what kind of Gospel I have to proclaim…. and I feel that miserable prayer on my lips and in my heart again and again: Lord, do you hear what they are saying; do you see what they are doing. Take blasphemy, and add to it, for starters: gunfire, warfare, racism, untrammeled greed, a relentless and cruel marketplace, exploitation, addiction, the ruin of this planet, rampant secularization, outright rejection of religion, and this virus on top of it all. (Let alone my own issues!). Lord, do you hear what they are saying? Do you see what they are doing?!?!
Fr. Vernon’s hand is on my shoulder, and he whispers in my ear, “Don’t you remember that love is the fulfilling of the law?” Or, to paraphrase: Don’t you remember… love? Don’t you remember… love?
As I feel Fr. Vernon’s hand on my shoulder, and hear his echo whispering in my ear, I find that my task here this morning to proclaim the good news is primarily to repeat and intensify what others from Saint Mark’s have already said. To wit:
“Many has been the soul which has found peace and pardon here and to whom our Lord has spoken words of consolation and encouragement. Thousands have received at this altar the ‘Bread of Immortality’ which our Blessed Saviour has left as the pledge of His Love to His hungry children.” And when I get too caught up in that question - Lord, do you hear what they are saying? - it is easy for me not to notice that God’s children are still hungry.
Saint Mark’s and Holy Cross have something else in common, beyond a cast of characters from bygone years. Perhaps it is bold of me to say this, but I will say it: our two communities - one monastic, one parochial - have the same heartbeat. For, the hearts of both our communities beat with the rhythm of the daily Eucharist - and this is not normative in the Anglican tradition, but it is essential, and it is a profound connection.
I know that here you breathe the breath of the Daily Offices, inhaling and exhaling the Psalms, drawing them deep into your lungs, and sending them tunefully out again into the atmosphere. And at Saint Mark’s, we breathe the Offices with a shallower breath than you do. But the Mass is our heartbeat, our lifeblood - here in West Park and on Locust Street. The Mass has been said daily at Saint Mark’s since 1884, which is just a few years later than the time this community’s Eucharistic heart began to beat.
If love is the fulfilling of the law, the Mass is the proper spelling and pronunciation of Christ’s love - and of course, it can be spelled and pronounced in a thousand different ways - for the Mass conveys the fullness of the mystery of God’s self-giving love in the person of Jesus. And people come here to this community, to this chapel, as they also come to Saint Mark’s, in order to rest their heads on Jesus’ breast and listen to his heart beat. God’s hungry children come here, as they also come to Saint Mark’s, day by day by day, to be fed with the Bread of Life.
In its memorial resolution, the Vestry of Saint Mark’s commended Fr. Vernon’s sermons not only for their brevity, but also because, “each was a carefully designed utterance - with a beginning, a middle, and an end.” That’s the result of all that preparation, don’t you know? And it doesn’t seem like a lot to ask of a preacher - but you never know what you’re going to get, do you?
But as I said, my task here today seems to me to be one primarily of repetition. So to make sure that this sermon at least has an end, I will repeat again the marvelous gifts identified by my parish decades ago when we bragged about our indelible connections to this community and its life of prayer: Peace and pardon. Words of consolation and encouragement. And the Bread of Life which our Blessed Saviour gives as the pledge of His Love to His hungry children.
May Christ’s hungry children ever be fed here in this place. And may Christ’s heart beat here with that unmistakable rhythm, so that those who come to worship and pray here may rest our hearts on Jesus’ breast and hear his heart beat, full of love.
* “Frank Lawrence Vernon: A Memorial Minute adopted by the Vestry of St. Mark’s Church, Philadelphia, July 5, 1944, available on philadelphiastudies.files.wordpress.com
** “St. Mark’s: One Hundred Years On Locust Street,” by Charles Glkyson, privately published, 1948, p. 75
