An Offering for Christ Church Philadelphia,
delivered to the full congregation on 17 November 2013,
at a service commemorating its (and – eventually – the Episcopal Church’s) 318th anniversary.

At the lectern….

My name is Andrew Phillips.
I usually sit over there with my family at the 11 o’clock service. Two pews behind where Betsy Ross sat; across and back a pew from where George Washington sat.
I’m sure there were other notables around us, but we never knew them.

I’m a member of Christ Church almost 15 years.
I’m here, because of you.

It could be I’m here because of my mother-in-law. Her family tradition asks that all the babies wear the same baptismal gown that’s been worn for generations.

It could be I’m here because of her daughter, Alice Dommert, whose hand I’m blessed to hold. If there’s no Alice, there’s no son; no son, no baptism; no Christ Church.

Elliot was a big baby. He would soon outgrow that gown. We had to ‘get it done’, and fast. It could be I’m here, because of Elliot.

We began to church shop. First stop: Christ Church. It was close; we lived in Old City.
Convenience, we figured, was important, totally misunderstanding that faith is never convenient.

One visit was all it took. It was early June, I think.

We met Tim, who’d arrived just two weeks prior. His sermon was brilliant that first day.
This, I wasn’t expecting. I thought it was a fluke. So we returned the next week to check. We’ve been coming ever since.

It could be I’m here because of Tim.

Soon, we met Harvey Bartle. He introduced himself without hesitation. Turns out his daughter Louisa is one of my graduate students in Architecture at the University of Pennsylvania.

Maybe it’s because of Harvey that I’m here.

Harvey’s wife, Nathalie, is a southern girl who hits it off with Alice, a Louisiana belle.
Maybe it’s because of Nathalie.

Two years later, we have our daughter Claire. Now we’re really in deep.
With her, I’m baptized from that font right back there, the same one used for William Penn.

It could be, because of Claire, I’m here.

A crisis. Though they barely know me, I turn to Sheldon Hackney and Harvey Bartle for help. They give it, just by listening, unconditionally.

To this day, I’m haunted (and humored) by the image of Harvey leaving a courtroom full of people stranded for an hour while he sits in his chambers and carefully listens to my dilemma by telephone.

Countless times a kind face and voice has come to our rescue, often in ways so subtle we didn’t even notice. This place is crawling with good Samaritans. I’m convinced they were a very quiet people.

It could be, because of the Samaritans I’m here.

Alice and I try to reciprocate. We try to give back, with whatever treasure, talent and time we have to offer, knowing it’s only a fraction of the abundance we receive.

A few years ago, Alice and I decide to take new life paths. New callings.

Alice trains to help others through yoga and mindful meditation. She begins to build her wellness practice. I leave Penn and become a public high school teacher.

No longer Andrew or Professor Phillips, I’m now ‘Yo, Mr. Phil’.

As Mr. Phil, I’ve witnessed tragedy and joy. Before, at best, I’d read about it. Before, it was always a safe distance. I now swim daily in a sea of teenagers and their struggles with multiple poverties: education, nutrition, opportunity, safety. You name it.

I’ve held students grieving over a classmate shot dead; a drug deal gone bad.

(I’ve held faculty at a Buddhist funeral, placed incense sticks into an open casket, sobbing over the loss of a shining young man who didn’t live to see his 18^th birthday; a motorcycle accident. I’ve held that young man’s best friend who, a mere 6 months later, buries his own mother in the family plot, next to his best friend – there was no where else to bury the best friend.)*

I thought I was going to ChAD to teach a subject: design.

It became clear to me one night on the phone. ‘Aren’t you building buildings anymore?’ my father asked, confusion and slight disapproval palpable. Understandable, I have three degrees in architecture, including one from Harvard. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘I used to build buildings. Now I’m building people.’

Every Sunday, you lift me up to go back in on Monday. Every Sunday, wherever I am, I get the message: you’re with me. It’s because of you I’m here.

I am an architect, so I speak with some authority on this. This is a building. (Gesturing to the vault above, the walls and columns surrounding us.)

But you – we – are the church. I am here because of you the church and, I hope, you are here maybe a little because of me.

What we put in that plate, what we pledge, helps us and everything around us.

It helps the clergy. It helps the music. It helps keep this building open, and that one, and the garden and the burial ground and all of it. It helps people yet to enter our door and it helps people who will never enter our door.

It’s not what you give; it’s what you leave, so you can depart with something else. Every time we come together – we depart with something greater.

The pockets might be a little emptier, but the heart is fuller.

Alice, Elliot, Claire and I give, as best we can – week after week – to lift up a place whose coordinates are almost magical. After all, I met Alice right over there (pointing south), on the El platform at 2nd and Market, one Saturday morning so many decades ago.

We lift this place up because it lifts us up. Every time. That’s why we pledge, every year.

Most every Sunday we come, maybe a bit empty, but we leave something here and we depart fuller. We depart with more in our heart than in our pocket. And that’s good.

And we hope what we leave behind helps to make the next three centuries as giving to the people we’ll never know as it has been to us.

Because of you. Thank you.

* Omitted during the witness: too hard.