Feast of St. James – Sunday, July 27, 2025
Matthew 20:20-28
The mother of the sons of Zebedee came to Jesus with her sons, and kneeling before him, she asked a favor of him. And he said to her, “What do you want?” She said to him, “Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom.” But Jesus answered, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?” They said to him, “We are able.” He said to them, “You will indeed drink my cup, but to sit at my right hand and at my left, this is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father.”
When the ten heard it, they were angry with the two brothers. But Jesus called them to him and said, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”
Good morning, St. James Wellfleet, and happy Feast of Saint James! I come to you a bit like a long lost relative, bearing greetings from St. Anselm’s, Lafayette, who later this year is celebrating our 65th Anniversary, and whose in-the-round sanctuary was also designed by Olav Hammarstrom and beloved by Bishop James Pike. I am also like someone who has recently discovered that they are descendants of some pretty fascinating people – folks one might be grateful to be connected with, whose choices, especially the decision to answer the call to follow and learn from Jesus, have made a difference. The people of St. James the Fisherman and St. Anselm’s share a commitment to live lives that are uninterested in prominent seating arrangements and all about sharing the cup and being in mutual care and service with one’s fellow human beings.
As an Episcopal priest whose brother is also a priest, I can’t help but be drawn to the character of James’ mother in today’s gospel, who is kneeling at Jesus’ feet, asking for a favor, asking for James and his brother John, her two sons, to be positioned well in Jesus’ new realm. Our Mom, by the way, married a Catholic and was asked to renounce her first marriage, so you are getting one of her two bastard priests today.
James and John’s mother’s desire is very relatable. What parent doesn’t want the best for their children? But what Jesus may be saying to this mother and all of us is that being a follower, being part of Jesus’ realm, is predicated on being concerned with a broader circle than one’s family members, and being willing to drink from the cup of a life poured out.
That’s what draws me into the story of your chapel: how a not-particularly-religious immigrant architect connected with his Cape Cod neighbors, one of whom was an Episcopal priest who just happened to be the dean of St. John the Divine and a future Bishop of California.
When I encountered St. Anselm’s sanctuary, the more I wanted to know about its origins, about the people who worshipped there regularly, and also those who imagined and built it.
The more I delved into the church’s filing cabinets and library, the more questions I asked various members, the more I read about Cape Cod Modernism, and the more I reached out to your wonderful priest, the more it became clear that celebrating the relationship between our two communities is important. I am grateful that this renewed connectivity is happening, and I am hopeful that revisiting our legacies and engaging with our contemporary circles, by sharing the wisdom born of creativity, neighborliness, friendship, and faith, will strengthen our lives of service and witness.
Back in December of 1960, Time Magazine did a spread on modern church architecture. In the article, St. James and St. Anselm’s are written about under the subtitle “apostolic simplicity.” Bishop Pike is quoted as saying, “At St. Anselm’s, the congregation is not the audience for a performing clergy and choir. The clergy, choir, and congregation perform together, and God is the audience.” The article closes with this: “so popular, in fact is St. Anselm’s that Bishop Pike now proposes to revamp San Francisco’s still unfinished Grace Cathedral to place the high altar at the crossing of nave and transepts.”[1] If you have visited Grace Cathedral since 1964, you know that’s exactly what happened; it’s hard to imagine the cathedral any other way.
Soon after I started serving at St. Anselm’s, I invited a friend of mine, who happens to be the grandson of Bishop Pike, over to visit. When he walked into the church, he took a picture and texted his mother, who texted back, “Are you on Cape Cod?”
Michael later sent me footage from an old newsreel that included an interview with Bishop Pike. In it, Pike said something that remains compelling: “There is no future for the church as a club, every sign shows that, the in-group protective thing… There is a future for the church as cause, as a servant of the world.”
Today’s gospel has Jesus saying something similar to what Bishop Pike said, to James and John’s mother, to the brothers and the ten. Jesus is saying that the realm of God is different from the world of hierarchy, pulling rank, and competition. The realm of God is instead about relationships of care and service–not just for a few, but for everyone.
The architecture of St. James and St. Anselm’s, though on opposite coasts, has a vibe that is intentionally modest, understated, humble, and egalitarian, while also being provocative and breathtaking when the sun shines through the skylight.
Sacred places matter, and as a friend in the tech world reminded me, many of what some call “third spaces” are at risk. Third spaces are defined “as separate from home (first space) and work or school (second space), where people can socialize, connect with others, and build community.”
As I prepared for this time together, the loss of sacred spaces, both personal and collective, has weighed heavily on me. My childhood parish, where my brother and I were confirmed, St. Paul’s on the Hill in Winchester, Virginia, was torn down during the pandemic.
My tiny liberal arts college in the Berkshires is being put up for sale.
We recently learned that a beloved queer club in SF, Oasis, is closing down even as another long-standing club is reborn as a worker-owned cooperative.While we see the disappearance of sacred places of all sorts, more troubling still is that we are witnessing the structures through which our country has sought to do good and serve others being shuttered. Today, so much is being torn down: both literally and otherwise. For those of us who care about our future as a Christian community or simply as a species, it is a time, among other things, of grief.
As the poet Adrienne Rich wrote:
“My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed
I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.”
Today’s gospel reminds us that to follow Jesus is to put one’s life at risk, not to secure the best seat in the house. The Christianity that our shared in-the-round architecture nurtures is one of humble engagement, earnest participation, openness to wonder, simple beauty, and mutual vulnerability. These two structures on either coast are modest, but their visions, purposes, and impact are not. They were built by people who had seen grief and hard times, who, though flawed, confronted societal wrongs with grace and courage, imagining a world that welcomed diversity and collaboration, leaders that served the people, who built churches not to create private exclusive clubs but to reconstitute the world by joining and strengthening causes and serving others.
In other words, a church in the round isn’t just a design statement. It’s also a theological one. One of the first experiences I had of worshipping in the round was in the basement of my childhood church, a far less impressive mid-century A-frame, where we sang with the youth pastor Harry Chapin’s “All my life’s a circle.”
By age 14, I was involved not just in diocesan life but also in regional life, which led me to one of a handful of church retreats. At one of these, at the encouragement of the leaders, I was assigned to a small group responsible for redesigning the evening eucharistic liturgy. A key feature we all suggested, despite knowing nothing about a church in Wellfleet or Lafayette, was that the service took place within a circle and that the eucharistic table be central.
What those childhood and youth experiences of church in the round communicated to me was that being a Christian is all about the people gathered together in mutuality, sharing a simple meal, and a desire to serve.
Of course, Bishop Pike and Olav Hammerstrom and those many others who were part of nurturing liturgical reforms in the mid-20th Century (as Vatican II would have the priest turn around rather than have their back to the congregation) believed that by worshiping in the round, they were helping contemporary Christians reconnect with something ancient, primordial or even perennial as Aldous Huxley used the term. I recently encouraged our youth choir members at St. Anselm’s to consider how leading worship in our round church might be similar to telling stories and singing songs around a campfire.
James the Fisherman, of course, wasn’t the only one called to serve and to gather people. He wasn’t even the only one from his own family. James, son of Zebedee and Salome, goes on to become James the Great, Apostle and Martyr, patron saint of Spain and veterinarians, equestrians, furriers, tanners, pharmacists, oyster fishers, and woodcarvers.
This shared call, experienced both in scripture and today, is part of the answer to the grief we are experiencing these days. Aren’t we lucky that St. Anselm’s and St. James aren’t alone in our calls as congregations to seek and serve Christ in all people? We’re not alone in carrying on the values and faith of those who have gone before us. While a trip to Cape Cod is not the same as walking the Camino de Santiago, who knows? Perhaps by widening our circle on this feast day, we are being invited to imagine our whole lives more like a pilgrimage.
The husband-and-wife team of Charles and Ray Eames, who were connected with Marianne Strengel and Olav Hammarstrom’s at Cranbrook, had a motto for their now famous company: “the best for the least for the most.”
That line which I first heard in The Shores of Bohemia[2], a book about this region, has been sitting with me as I prepared to join you this morning as I think perhaps about what motivated the founders of both our communities. What drove them was a healthy aspirational sense that we human beings can when we are truly at or giving our best, can do the most for the least, and for everyone. The best for the least for the most, churches with a cause, not clubs with special seats, but people seeking to serve.
Inclosing I thought I’d share a poem by Rainer Marie Rilke, whose words felt right on this occasion.
I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?
So St. James, let us continue to ask ourselves, are we a falcon, a storm, or a great song. Let us be uninterested in who is in what seat and make our circles ever wider in service to one another and to God. AMEN.
The Rev. Will Scott, Rector St. Anselm’s, Lafayette,
St. James the Fisherman, Wellfleet, Massachusetts
[1] https://time.com/archive/6830160/art-the-new-churches/
[2] The Shores of Bohemia: A Cape Cod Story, 1910-1960″ by John Taylor Williams