There are 36 original oil paintings hanging in Macdonald Hall today. They tell the narrative of Thanksgiving at St. James. The show is called "Portrait of a Tradition" and the paintings invite one in the church door, to the communion rail, out to the hill, and then show horses, hounds and riders as they assemble the field and get ready to ride out. Through the sale of these works, the Hunt and the Parish are building on our tradition of raising funds for Christ's work in the world. Outreach projects in this community and beyond are made possible by your donation at the door and your participation. The artist's reception and sale of these painting is this Sunday, November 30th from 4-6pm, but I want to paint an additional series of word pictures of our tradition for you this morning.

While these verbal sketches are not in chronological order, as we gaze from one to another we will see the larger story that stretches over centuries and spans continents. Let's start with a watercolor and gouache view of four plaster walls, tall and white, with a clean, clear light coming in through double hung casement windows. The shadow of a branch falls across a sill, bends, and extends over the surface of curing plaster, then glints off the metal edge of a trowel left on an otherwise empty floor. This painting is the kind of image you might see hanging in Andrew Wyethe's studio.

But this view is not just an artist's vision, it's a real place. You're under this roof in 2008 because several people in 1750 decided to make sure that you would have a place to sit today for Thanksgiving. No, they didn't actually know many of our names but they knew it was important to gather to give thanks in all times and in all places. So by the work of their hands and the depth of their purse they built these walls and established this church. It was built as a place for them. But it was also intended to stand, and still be here for us when we finally arrived. What their efforts did for us, our pledges of financial support will do for those yet to come.

But why a church, rather than a just a meeting hall or a tavern? Any roof will keep one dry and a glass can be filled with many things that will keep one warm. They built a church in 1750 because there is something that becomes possible in the presence of an altar, and the company of others, that does not occur in any other kind of meeting place.

Two or three gathered in front of a tavern fire with even the best vintage, raised in eloquent toast, cannot complete with an elevated chalice and the words "Drink this all of you: This is my blood of the New Covenant, which is shed for you, and for many, for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me."

One can find fellowship under many roofs, and wine at various tables- but absolution, communion, and the presence of Christ in the gathered body happens under this roof every week. Jesus himself promised that whenever two or three are gathered in His name He would be in the midst of them. So here we are, and here Christ will be, as well.

"Sir, we would see Jesus," we may say along with the Gentiles who came one day to the disciple Philip. Where is He, we may ask?

The outward signs will be in our hands and on our lips - bread and wine, body and blood, life and life everlasting. But the real power of Christ's presence is not in something we can hold with our hands. It is a silent singing deep in our hearts. It is in the light shining from the faces of the people around us. The power of Christ's presence is love, love that is brought to us by strangers as well as by family or friends, love that is brought to others through us. We have been meeting Christ here for over 250 years, as we raise the chalice, say the words, seek forgiveness and then go out, together, from this hill to hunt for signs of God in our daily lives.

From this hill we can see farms and fields, pony rings and riders but we can also see the large canvas that portrays the works of Moses. There is Moses at the Red Sea. Over there is Mt. Sinai, full of dark clouds and lightening. In the center is Moses is coming down the mountain with tablets in his arms. Over on the right is the desert and Moses is telling of the Promised Land. He is admonishing the Israelites to remember their God, the giver of all good things.

Next to that sweeping canvas there is a simple pastel, sketched out on common writing paper. It has an ordinary frame but a clear and timeless composition. In it we can see Saint Paul dictating to his scribe who is writing to the new church in Corinth, a bustling port city full of righteousness and vice. There are so many opportunities, so many distractions in Corinth. "Remember," Paul says, "God is able to provide you with every blessing…so that… by having enough…you may share abundantly in every good work."

There's a small pen and ink drawing, next. The lines are full of energy and suggestive of hurried movement. Nine small figures are almost off the page. They are leaving for parts unknown. No, it is not members of the Hunt. They are still with us. There are no red coats in this diminutive image, just rags receding from view. The nine tiny figures in this small drawing are former lepers running to embrace their new found freedom. Although they have been rescued from exile and death they don't even acknowledge the enormity of the gift they have received. They can't take the time to even say "thanks!" They are running from Christ.

If we look more closely we can see 11 figures in the pen and ink drawing. Two are on he brow of the hill. They are standing still. One is the Living God who gives all good things- Christ, our Savior. He stands, with one hand resting on the shoulder of the other, who kneels. This kneeling one knows he has been rescued from sin and death. He has run, not away from Jesus, but to Him. The one offers gratitude and seeks relationship.
But the nine are almost out of the picture. They are moving farther and farther away. Soon they will be over the horizon and gone from view.

Here is the last offering-an empty frame, waiting to be filled. It is the picture of Sundays yet to come. Who will be kneeling in thanks within these walls? Who will continue in the apostle's teaching and fellowship, the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?
We are all invited to sit for this portrait. We are invited to kneel, to stand and to sing. We are gathered in Thanks today, in the presence of Christ. Put the portrait is a work in progress. Should we not reconvene this Sunday and all the Sundays of our lives?

From this hill we can see from horizon to horizon, from Alpha to Omega. We can see the nativity, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension and the promise, to us, of life eternal. From this hill we can see forever.

Give thanks for those who built these walls. In time the earth around us took the builders of this Church to itself again- ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But the same names that are carved on the gravestones outside that door are carried by descendents who come today to worship - Pierce, Howard, Tillman and many others. Brightly colored autumn light comes down through names of the people we have memorialized in stained glass windows around you. This gentle light now shines on their descendants, a shimmering light that illuminates the centuries. This gentle light now shines on those who are here for the first time. But all are gathered into the love of Christ by this light. This is the fuller view of the portrait of our tradition.

Tradition is the means by which we offer tested wisdom and meaningful action to the generations yet to come. The words of the prophets and the paintings in Macdonald Hall shine a light on "God with us" in our common life. Riders on horses and riders at the communion rail remind us to give thanks for the Giver of all good things, the One who "makes the dawn and the dusk to sing for joy." We do gather together to ask the Lord's blessing. But let us also gather together to remember to be the Lord's blessing to others when we go out into the world. And, finally…see you next Sunday? AMEN.