Christine Sunderland

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the medium, if not the message itself, shapes the message, midwifes the message, and delivers the message.

Marshall McLuhan (1911-1980), a Canadian philosopher of communication theory, not only foresaw the Internet but bequeathed this popular phrase, “The medium is the message.” Since I work with words and consider them the material of miracles, I like to think that words are powerful on their own, anywhere, in any medium. But lately I have been considering how powerful the medium is truly becoming, far more than McLuhan could have dreamed.

In our parish church we use a Eucharistic liturgy that can be dated to the eleventh-century Sarum rite in Salisbury, England; the daily hours, the psalter, go back to seventh-century monasteries. But more to the point is that many generations have said and say these same words, as though taking part in a great drama, each Sunday. The words form phrases of timeless truth that were honed and perfected in Elizabethan translations of the Latin Mass, so that in many ways what we say evokes a Shakespearean play. The words are big words with large theological consequences of sin and redemption, sorrow and joy, darkness and light. These words make a difference in our hearts and lives, here and now. The language serves a clear purpose, to bring us in from the profane and secular world so that we can partake of the sacred and holy one, uniting the two. The language rebirths and recreates us, returning us to the secular world to be living mediums for the message. Our lives become words and the medium merges with the message in our own bodies.

In the liturgy, the medium that holds these words, this message, is print on paper, pages in our prayer book or hymnal. But the same words come to us through the medium of our own speech as we say and sing them and through the medium of our ears as we hear them said and sung. A fourth medium for these words is found in the actions of the liturgy: kneeling, making the Sign of the Cross, genuflecting, processing to the altar, receiving Christ in the bread and the wine. These acts, these movements of our bodies, are probably the most powerful medium for this message.

A sixth medium for this Sunday morning message is found in the shared experience of the congregation: the sharing of the space, the language, the speech, the processing, the saying and singing, the shared prayers and creeds spoken in unison as one voice. There is also the sharing of the meaning of the words, the call for penitence, the general absolution, the sharing of the bread and wine, so that we become one body, Christ’s Body, the Church.

A seventh medium is seen in the sharing of the message throughout time and space, with those believers before us and those believers after us. The sharing extends spatially outside our own parish to the greater world, and we call this the Communion of Saints.

So ritualistic liturgy (“the work of the people”) is propelled by seven mediums nearly simultaneously, providing a powerful experience of meaning, of message. We have pulled the heart from each word; we have traveled centuries with each word; we have looked into Heaven with each word.

Such ritual is part of social constructions as well. Where it is ignored, society becomes deconstructed, torn apart. Where it is recognized as necessary, society weaves together, for a commonality is shared. In a democracy, we are reminded of such shared values through mediums of patriotic rituals: celebrating national holidays with parades and ceremonies, saluting the flag, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, singing patriotic songs, honoring memorials, monuments, and heroes of our shared history. When these mediums of our nation’s message are ignored, democracy is threatened, for we act as individuals or self-interested groups rather than as one body, Americans with shared ideals expressed in common language and recalled through common history.

As we approach our nation’s midterm elections, messages and mediums become hugely important. Illiteracy and short attention spans demand entertaining mediums, TV and sound bites. Voters choose candidates and policy based on flashing images and pulsating phrases, delivered by powerful interest groups. A candidate must be politically correct in appearance, attractive and charismatic. Votes are cast for race, gender, and other superficial standards.

It would not matter if these were high school elections for cheerleader or class president. But, as we have seen in the last two presidential elections, telegenic does not mean experienced and pretty words and phrases do not equal sound policy. Words are mediums for something greater; they must point to keeping us safe and our communities law-abiding. They must reflect constitutional protections to freedom of speech, religion, association.

Our diverse peoples, the glory of our nation, must melt into one pot we call America; we must share language and history; we must not forget who we are, but keep the message alive with each generation through the medium of patriotism. If we do not do this, we shall fragment, weaken, and be conquered by those who do not appreciate our American message.

And so, as the words thundered in my ears this morning in our little church, as I sang with my brothers and sisters, as I united with believers around the world, past, present, and future, I looked ahead to this moment in our national history, this first Tuesday in November of 2014, praying that the many voices of America would reflect educated choices, ones that respect law, liberty, and freedom of expression, ones that  understand the power of this American message expressed in the greatest medium of all, a single vote.

We got off to a slow start this morning, for on the way to church I realized I had forgotten my reading glasses. To go back or not? The thought of not being able to see the words, to sing the hymns with my parish family was a sad one. We took the risk of being late and went back home to fetch them. (Note to self: place extra reading glasses in car and other well-used locations.)

Once back on the road, winding along Highway 24 past Lafayette and Orinda, home towns of my childhood, and through the Caldecott tunnel, I quieted my mind for Mass. I wondered, as I have often wondered, what God would give me today, what he would show me. I took on the heart of a child, opening my eyes to all around me. I considered my week and my many strayings, my sins, large and small, especially the hard-to-see sins of attitude and desire and fear and worry. I cleaned out my heart.

The day was bright and clear, promising increased warmth with Santa Anna breezes. Leaves were changing and golden patches had appeared among the still-green oaks. (Flocks of swallows have been swooping and looping over our back yard, wings catching the light, and baby birds have emerged from bushes, strutting and looking at their world with curious awe.) Greens were greener today, the blue sky bluer. The earth sparkled. I wondered what gift God would bring me as we drove to church, as we covered a bit of the earth’s round surface, and within my wonder a prayer formed and grew, asking for eyes to see. For I have found, if I can see it, there is always a surprise gift. I just need to pay attention.

We parked and crossed the new courtyard that now welcomes us to worship in our century-old church, St. Peter’s Anglican in Oakland. We climbed the steps, entered through the wide open doors, and stepped into the narthex. We found seats in the nave. As I knelt and said my prayers of thanksgiving for the freedom to worship, for the clergy, and for the people of the parish, an opening prayer I learned long ago, I considered my brothers and sisters all around me in the pews.

There was a sense of quietude this morning, of calm, a quiet that continued even as the liturgy began, even as the Scriptures were read, even as the Canon of the Mass invited us all to take part in the great work of the people, the action of the Eucharist, the sacrifice of  Christ reenacted each Sunday morning. These were clearly all great and good gifts, but I sensed there was another, and I watched and I waited, saying the prayers and singing the praises, confessing and receiving absolution, partaking in the Real Presence of Christ.

It was a re-freshing Eucharist, an hour of sustenance. Each Eucharist, I have found, is different, each liturgy while being the same is never the same. A new color is painted on my soul, a new note added to its melody, another flock of birds turn their feathers to the sun, and I always marvel in curious awe.

After Mass, I visited the Sunday School to see the children, and I found my gift.

Two of my former students (from twenty-five-plus years ago) sat side by side with their children. The two generations, three, counting myself as I joined them, gave witness to the love of God. The room had been redecorated since then. We had all taken many paths since then. But there we were, living testimonies to the teaching of the next generation, having found our own unique paths back to church.

In the chaos of a world that devalues family and marriage and commitment, it is good to have a parish family to weave us all together again. Many of my former students from the ‘eighties live far away. Most have experienced or been touched by heartbreak, divorce, loss and tragedy. Even believers in an ordered, religious, path through life, one of sheer joy and redemption, cannot help but be tossed and turned in the storms of today’s culture. So, just as the medieval monasteries gave shelter from the wilds, just as they turned the swamps of Europe into fertile valleys and named stars through telescopes, so little parish churches today, like ours in Rockridge, keep us safe and teach us how to live. They offer peace; they offer family; they show us the why of existence, who we are and who we are meant to be. They give us a way forward to believing in God, or to fortify that belief, a path to understanding his great love. And on the altars of these churches God is re-presented to us, given to us, sacramentally.

We cross the courtyard and enter the silence, carrying hearts of turmoil laced with selfishness, confusion, and distrust. We are blind but want to see. We spend an hour with God, in God, and he with us, in us. When we leave, when we cross the courtyard and re-enter October 2014, we are changed and renewed.

Our eyes  have been opened. We can see the many gifts given. Now we can turn and give them to our children and they to their children.