I sat in my office not to long ago and watched some kind of group getting off two busses right out front at the curb. Typically on such a weekday morning, it would be a group of school children coming to a concert at Alexander Hall or going somewhere on campus. Sometimes the groups look oh so much like tourists. But this group, fifty or so, they were dressed in business casual. There were more than a few “young professionals.” Many couldn’t help but look up right as they stepped off the bus, look right up at the building. They moved away from the curb and gathered on the front patio of the church waiting for directions, I guess. I could see that they all had their corporate ID’s with pictures around their necks. I figured it must be a kind of team-building day, or maybe they were heading for training at the University, or they had rented space down at the Nassau Inn. A few minutes later I was making my way through the same crowd there in front of the church heading for a lunch appointment. More than a few of the folks had worked their way up on to the steps to look at the plaque there on the front to the left of the door. It was when passing by that I heard it: “Wow” someone said, “this is a really old church!”
      I should have stopped. Not just to introduce myself, not just to offer a tour inside, not just to unpack a bit of the history. I should have stopped to tell them they should come back at about 4:45 and they could join the wonderfully noisy game of tag that goes on up there under the watchful eye of a choir dad as 15 or 20 kids wait to be picked up. I should have stopped and invited them to come back on a Sunday morning when I shake hands up there and lines of folks pass by with no notice of that sign. They’re heading out to be the Body of Christ for the world. I should have stopped and said “Yes, it’s an old building, but it’s not an old church.”
      John, in his Apocalypse, John here in the Book of Revelation, offers vision after vision. In the 21st chapter, it is the vision of a new heaven and a new earth, and the holy city, the new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God. John hears a loud voice coming from the throne; “See, the home of God is among mortals. God will dwell with them; they will be God’s peoples, and God himself will be with them; God will wipe every tear from their their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” John’s vision of the new heaven and the new earth and the new Jerusalem, it is a vision of the presence of God. A vision of God dwelling with humankind forever. A vision of the tabernacle of God surrounded by humanity. It is about presence. The presence of God. The presence of the One who was seated on the throne. The One who said, “See, I am making all things new.”
      It’s not an old church. The defiant affirmation, it’s more than a comment on the collective color of our hair. It is more than a celebration of the God-given youth and children in our midst and the privilege we share when gathering at the fount knowing that many congregations could go months without an infant baptism. It’s not an old church. That descriptive phrase, it is more than a passing commentary on the theological tradition entrusted to us. That Reformation heritage that shall never let us forget that the church is not the institution, that the church is called to fulfill its mission even at the risk of losing its life, that this church is the church reformed, always reforming. The newness of the church, it’s not because of the style of our worship or the selection of our music or that some things are different now than they were. It’s not new because we’re always right, or because of some progressive ideal, or because of this theological position or that. The church is new because of the promised presence of the One who said “See, I am making all things new.” It is about presence. God’s presence with us.
      The novel Gilead by Marilynne Robinson is the story of a pastor coming to grips with his own mortality in the face of a terminal illness. It is written in the first person and the pastor is writing to his very young son. At one point the pastor describes a Sunday morning celebration of the Lord’s Supper. He preached that day on the Words of Institution. “Take, eat, this is my body broken for you.” He writes that he doesn’t normally preach on those words. “The sacrament is the most beautiful illumination of those words there could be,” he suggests, but, he goes on, “I have been thinking a great deal about the body these last weeks. The body; Blessed and broken.”
      “When everyone had left, and the elements were still on the table and the candles still burning, your mother brought you up the aisle to me and said ‘You ought to give him some of that.’ You’re too young of course, but she was completely right. Body of Christ, broken for you. Blood of Christ, shed for you. Your solemn and beautiful child face lifted up to receive those mysteries at my hands. They are the most wonderful mystery, body and blood.”
      It is the wonderful mystery of the presence of Christ. Present to the body, not just this body, or that body, but to the body of the community of faith that is Nassau Presbyterian Church. The body of our life together, indeed blessed and yet broken. And the promised presence of Christ with us and for us. The presence of the One who makes all things new. Present not just in these elements, not just in a piece of bread and a touch of juice duly prayed over decently and in order, but Christ present in all of the elements of the Supper. All of the elements. The community called together by God and gathered around and doing as Christ commands. The community taking and giving, eating and drinking. The community singing and praising and praying and serving. The community remembering the life and the witness and the ministry of Jesus. The community proclaiming his suffering and his death. The community rejoicing in his resurrection. The community yearning for his coming again; that this world might more nearly resemble the kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. All of the elements. In all of the elements of the Supper, the whole Christ is present, as theologian Michael Welker describes it, “the gathered community is permeated and surrounded by Christ, by the entire richness of his life.”
      Permeated and surrounded by the Risen Christ; the One who makes all things new. It must be the building that’s old. In her most recent book Grace Eventually: Thoughts on Faith Anne Lamont tells of how badly she needs her church and “the grown-up service” as she labeled the service of worship with all of its singing and praying and silence. “Sometimes it is as still as a forest” she describes it, “sometimes a person speaks words of wisdom and comfort.....The music moves you along, you rise and you sit and rise and sing and float, and you open your mouth and let the sound come out. No matter that you may sing poorly, and fumble around with the hymnal, and sing the wrong words, the hymn expands to make room for all the voices, even yours. We clap a lot at my church” Anne Lamont concludes, “it punctuates the air and chases the devil away.”
      I’m fairly certain that worship in Anne Lamont’s presbyterian church is a bit different than ours, and I’m not so sure about chasing the devil away, but I am certain when it comes to what she says about music, and I take that to mean worship, that it punctuates the air that we breath. The worship of our daily devotion. Worship when we gather on a Sunday night in Niles Chapel. Worship in a committee meeting some Tuesday night. Worship here in this place Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. I have talked about it from here before. I have preached about the importance of worship and how everything flows out of and back into worship, and how it’s not about perfect attendance but about what is being missed, how meaningful it is to know that someone is here singing and praying on your behalf when you’re not here, how children ought to be here in worship learning what it means to praise and watching grown ups pray and learning to listen and tasting and seeing, how church school teachers and youth group kids and confirmands ought to be here; how it may take more than a hour of your time on Sunday morning to fit it all in, how this is not about what you may get out of it, but about how you were created as an instrument of praise and worship.
      I have preached about it before, the importance of worship. Once at a Session retreat I used some jargon language, I referenced as a goal and wrote up on the flip chart “the centrality of worship.” One faithful elder correctly called me on it, saying “I have no idea what that means, the centrality of worship in the life of Nassau Church.” How about this...worship, it punctuates the air that we breath. Worship, it is a necessary part of the air that we breath here in this blessed and broken body that is Nassau Presbyterian Church. Not because of what we do, or how well we sing, but because the One whom we worship promises to meet us here; and if we’re ever, by God’s grace, to be something other than an old church, it won’t be because of the collective color of our hair, or because of our style of worship, or because of our theology, or because of the breadth of our program, or the dollars of our outreach, or the volume of our voice for justice, it will be because of the presence of the One who is making all things new! And here at the Lord’s Table, our community is permeated and surrounded by the Risen Christ, by the entire richness of his life.
      I was in Miller Chapel on the campus of Princeton Seminary a bit more than a week ago. It was the last day of class for the semester and the chapel service was a celebration of the Lord’s Supper. I was coming forward to receive communion. The room was very full. It was a bit warm. The congregation was singing. There were drums and other instruments. As I drew near to the table I could smell grape juice and bread. Some of you know, the acoustics in Miller Chapel are very lively. As I approached the table, the music was either getting loud or I was in a hot spot in the room, or just paying more attention. As I took a piece of bread, the celebrant looked me in the eye and said, “The Body of Christ, broken for you.” I actually couldn’t hear it because of the sound in the room. But I knew it, more than reading his lips, more than knowing what he was supposed to say. I could feel it. I could smell it. I could see it in the face of the one holding the bread. I knew it with every possible sense my body could imagine. I was surrounded by the promise. It was in the air. The promise presence of Christ.
      That is my prayer for you today, Nassau Presbyterian Church. That you would taste and see the presence of the One who makes all things new. No one is just going to play or sing louder today. But the Risen Christ is present in all the elements of this celebration. “Behold, I am making all things new.”
                  Yes, it’s an old building, but there’s nothing old about you, the Body of Christ for the world.

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