Prayer of Dedication for the new Wilson Chapel

May 18, 2007

(People spread out from ends of rows to touch walls and hold hands with others)

O God, this hour we call upon you anew
In this place:
Father, Word and Holy Spirit;
Mother, Wisdom, Breath of Fire;

You who spoke in light to frame the worlds,
And meet us in their wonder,
wonder at what we understand and wonder at what we do not;
You who dove to the depths of manger and of cross
To bear the world of those you made,
And meet us in the face of Christ;
You who dwell by every heart,
The promised guest of every gathered two or three,
And meet us in our neighbor;
Who remake us in communion by communion,
You who are communion,
Draw near to us,
who have made this place to draw near to you.

Holy One, who dispose of every manner of appearing--- in earthquake, wind, and fire, still small voice and vision dreams---- keep the many appointments you have already made for this place, beginning now. Make us the first who will not leave these walls the same as we entered.

With our hands we touch the future,
This building that will be here when we are gone,
That will witness what we will not,
That will hold what we cannot imagine.
Blessed are those who will see what it will see.

Send your spirit to us, through us, now.
Send your spirit to us from that future.
Give us a foretaste of your glory.

Give us unity with those who will come,
That we may dedicate this place for their blessing
And the blessing of all those they will serve.

In the sweep of your time and your purpose
This place is but a passing tent of pilgrimage,
An arc of refuge.

But this we pray:
May your name always be hallowed here,
May the gospel of Christ always be heard here,
May the hope of your justice always be kindled here,

May the open face of this building be a window to the world you love,
that we may never turn away from seeing its suffering,
its need, and your tears.
May these walls be aged by prayer,
Steeped in song,
Tempered by grief and anger and joy,
Until the practice of your presence is a habit here
That bends the time, and space, and hearts of all who enter.

May everything that comes out of our classrooms, and studies, and homes and churches, everything in our school, be brought into and through the fire of this place,
Tried, refined, perfected and renewed to grow up into the fullness of your purpose, so in our generations we shall see yet much more of your wisdom, power, goodness and truth than we have known before.
Take this place. Make it yours. For Christ's sake. Amen.

S. Mark Heim
Samuel Abbott Professor of Christian Theology

Faith

When I was a child, we often visited our grandparents in the country. A river divided their mountain town into two sections. A swinging bridge united the two sections of that town, Oneida, Kentucky.

That swinging bridge terrified me. That ramshackle, jerry-rigged construction of cables and boards, swaying from side to side and undulating up and down in the wind above the South Fork of the Kentucky River, intimidated me. I tried to cross that bridge many times, but my knees always became paralyzed about the same place, five steps in, that the bridge commenced to sway.

Still, I dreamed about the other side of the swinging bridge. I imagined there a country store with exotic flavors of soda pop and varieties of penny candy that the vendors on this side could not supply.

I also dreamed that in that store a child was waiting for me, a child just my age: my ideal, best friend.

I know now what it is that spans the gap between my dreams and ideals and their realization. What is the risk, the price, the cost?

To get to the other side, you've got to cross a swinging bridge.

What is faith? Faith means having the courage to cross a swinging bridge.

Gregory Mobley
Associate Professor of Old Testament

A Reflection on the Book of Psalms as a Whole

I want you to imagine the entire Psalter as a single narrative, divided into 150 chapters.

It is the story of a human life. Maybe not any human life, but a particular life, a life in tune with the peculiar contradictions of life with God.

It is a life dominated by petition early, by request, by neediness. There are more psalms of petition and of lament in the first half of the Psalter than in the second half.

Throughout life, there is the rhythm of complaint and thanksgiving, the beat, in Charlie Rich's words, "of life's little ups and downs." Throughout the Psalter, the beat alternates between sentences of praise or thanksgiving, on the one hand, and of lament and petition, on the other hand.

There are big moments in the Psalter and in a human life: the breakdown of Psalm 51 ("For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me"), the crisis you brought on yourself; the wedding of Psalm 45 (bride: "You are the most handsome of men"; bridegroom: "[You are] bedecked . . . with gold-woven robes . . . with joy and gladness"); the bitter collapse that you didn't bring on from Psalm 137 ("By the rivers of Babylon, we sat and wept").

Somewhere in life there is room for the joy of Torah, expressed in Psalm 119, but it takes a while to get there, and it takes the Psalter one hundred and eighteen poems to get there, to realize the joy of instruction, of a script, of the disciplines and structures that enable us to live in harmony, of the wise restraints that make us free.

Throughout there are moments of paranoia, as in so many of the psalms that express paralyzing fears of some enemy.

But how does the Psalter end? In the same way that we hope and pray our lives will end, in delight and praise, in, as Walter Brueggemann says, an affirmation, a "yes" to God that goes beyond thanks for services rendered.

The Psalter ends in a crescendo (Psalms 146-150). Some say that it is false, hyped, over-the-top, over-compensating. But I do not think that it is merely hollow musical dramatics, tinkling brass and clanging cymbals. You do not get to all the praise of these final psalms until you've lived through all passion and agony of the previous 145 psalms. It is the praise and delight and joy of those acquainted with grief, an autumnal, reflective, bittersweet joy and praise, a sober, clear-eyed, anything-but-naive "Yes" to life.

Gregory Mobley
Associate Professor of Old Testament