Saint Mark's Church

And suddenly a sound came from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind….  (Acts 2:2)


It was not the flick of the switch of the Large Hadron Collider – a particle accelerator outside of Geneva that has been built in order to smash protons together and that some say could create a small black hole that would swallow the earth – but it was not this, the work of scientists over-stepping their bounds that wreaked havoc with the earth last week.  It was not the hands of men that swirled the winds together in a great turbine and that churned the waters from their depths to wash over the Irrawaddy Delta leaving death and destruction in their wake.

It was what the insurance companies call an “act of God” - in the rush of a mighty wind and its accompanying surge of water – that brought catastrophe to Burma: a country that can hardly afford such a fate.

And today, on Pentecost, when we remember the great rushing wind that first carried the Holy Spirit into the midst of the church, we can be forgiven for wincing at the cruel irony of these parallel stories: the whoosh of great blessing that announced the arrival of the Holy Spirit, and the terrible spinning gusts of Cyclone Nargis that washed over the better part of a nation with it a 12-foot mound of water.

No wonder ancient voices spoke about God’s wrath and his fury – words that today make us squirm but which may ring true when we consider the work of his fingers this past week.  No wonder the Psalmist posits that “the earth shall tremble at the look of him.”  No wonder so many run for cover under the easy platitude that God moves in a mysterious way, and then do their absolute best to avoid or ignore God’s movements altogether.  No wonder the world is confused about God and ready to believe those who forcefully preach that God is not great.

And yet, we could be forgiven for wondering, in the grip of disaster, if God is, in fact, good.  But can we doubt that he is great?  What is a cyclone to God but one of many eddies that he leaves in his majestic wake as he veers across the universe, his mantle of midnight velvet and stars with its white-capped ocean-fringe brushing up against we poor innocents – and few more innocent than the poor, common people of Burma.

Flip the dreaded switch of the Large Hadron Collider and risk the destruction of the world.   This we could understand: our un-doing brought about at our own hands, by our own proud science, in our own relentless need to be masters of everything.  But how can God bring such mayhem to his own creatures on the same winds that once promised hope, and that fanned the tongues of fire that crowned silly disciples?

Is it only at times of disaster that it occurs to us that God is powerful?  Are these incidents of destruction the only acts that we could possibly attribute to God anymore?  Have even we who believe ceased to allow for the possibility that God is, in fact, great?  Are we so impressed with our own human power, our own human creativity, our own human ingenuity that we believe we have left God behind, the divine vestigial relic of a darker age?

And is this our bright age – when still more will die in Burma because of the recklessness of a paranoid junta; when the gunfire in our own streets brings down children or cops without much distinction; when we cannot conceive of an end to a war we thought we were clever enough to control; when we have doused the good earth with poisons we have the gall to call “fertilizers”; when we keep going to the gas pumps to get our fix no matter how high the price of oil climbs – is this our bright age?

And suddenly today comes a sound from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind.

We – bright things - have locked our doors against the wind as though a cyclone were coming straight for us.  We have hunkered down in our self-sufficiency, and our certainty that the world and its fate really rests in our own hands.  We have milk and water and toilet paper in our bunkers.  We still have duct tape and rolls of plastic here too.  I, myself, have helped screw hurricane straps onto new houses in the Gulf Coast to keep them from blowing away.  We know how to protect ourselves when we want to.  We know how to keep the doors locked tight.

And if we know how to keep the wind out and our roofs from blowing off, we also know how to lock the doors to keep God out.  We know where to put weather stripping so not even a draft of him can blow in through the cracks.  And the world today hardly knows the difference between the insurance company’s description of an “act of God” and the real thing, mostly because the world today is not much interested in acts of God.

In my Bible only two pages separate the two different stories of Pentecost: the stories of God’s gift of the Holy Spirit in Acts and in John’s gospel.  But of course there is a sharp contrast.   In Acts, Luke tells us of the rushing, mighty wind, and the tongues of fire.  But in John the doors are locked, and the disciples are hunkered down; but Jesus finds them and comes to them anyway.  And there is no commotion, no wind, there are no tongues of fire.  There is only his greeting of peace, and then his gentle breath on them as he tells them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

John says it happened late on Easter Day, and Luke tells us that it happened fifty days later.  But scholars assure us that although the timing and the circumstances are described differently the stories are about the same thing: about God’s gift of his Holy Spirit to his people after the resurrection of his Son.

If it is true that God moves in a mysterious way – as it manifestly appears to be – then we may have to account for his movements that terrify us, and drive us behind locked doors.  But we also have to account for God’s quiet presence in our midst and the greeting of peace from the lips of his Son Jesus.  

And if it is true that the Holy Spirit of God can and does ride on the violet currents of wind and water that can and do wreak havoc in the world, it is also true that Jesus’ gentle breath bequeathed that same Spirit to us, to bring us peace.

The designers of that particle accelerator, the Large Hadron Collider, quite staunchly defend their work against criticisms that when it is turned on it could create a black hole that would swallow the earth.  Nevertheless, when the suggestion was made, they did agree to double-check, to run the numbers, and they did review Stephen Hawking’s theory that such micro black holes would evaporate if they did just happen to get formed.  They did allow for the possibility, however remote, of phenomena more powerful and dangerous than those built by their own hands and intended to replicate the forces of creation.

If we can imagine our own human capacity to wield such power, why is it so hard for us to conceive of a God who wields yet more power than us?  And why do we find it so hard to believe that the Son of God could harness that power with his own breath and share it with us for the singular purpose of bringing us peace?

And it may be that the great gift of Pentecost is the realization of God’s determination to share with us both his power and his peace.  It may be that the proximity of these two stories of the Holy Spirit – just two pages apart in my Bible – is intended to link them in our imaginations, and to temper the almost un-bridled power of that Spirit, on the one hand, with the un-compromised dictate of peace, on the other.

And it may be that our challenge as mere humans is not so much to hedge against the possibility that we have usurped God’s creative power to the extent that we might unwittingly form black holes – one of the most mysterious features of the universe.  Rather, it may be that our challenge is to accept that the phenomenal power God has given us, by the extraordinary gifts of his Spirit, is intended to bring us peace.

And maybe the reason we think of natural disasters like Cyclone Nargis as “acts of God” is because we can’t help but seeing in these tragedies a projection of ourselves, and our own tendency to mis-use the power God has given us by his Spirit.

We Christians have always believed that despite this reliable tendency of ours (to mis-use the gifts that God has given us), God determined to send us his Son as our neighbor, our brother, our friend.  And in living with us as closely as a neighbor, a brother, a friend, Jesus has always been close enough to breathe on us as he offers us Peace.  

And even now, in this place, he is near enough to breathe on us.  At this very moment, tiny eddies of air, perhaps stirred up by a cyclone on the other side of the globe, are swirling invisibly around us.  They will not ignite in tongues of flame to dance above our heads.  Theses currents of God’s breath are hardly detectable, easily missed or ignored.  Yet, they carry with them the un-matched power of peace, in the echo of Jesus’ resurrection greeting to his friends: a power more awesome than anything the scientists in Geneva or anywhere can replicate.  

And it may be that the flicker of candles is the only potential evidence of that gentle breath floating among us even now, deceptively slight, pregnant with power, promising peace, and waiting only for us to inhale.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
11 May 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Saint Paul, who has come in for a lot of criticism over the years, was quite a traveler.  And he seems to have adopted, in his travels, the attitude that when in Athens, one should do as the Greeks do – up to a point.  

Paul is seldom given credit for a sense of humor, but I think we see it on display in this passage related by St. Luke of a speech that Paul gives to a group of Athenians as he stands on the Areopagus, or Mars Hill.  ‘How religious you Athenians are!’ he tells them.  ‘As I walked your streets, I found an altar with the following inscription: To an Unknown God.’  How very religious indeed, to erect a shrine to we know not what – just to be on the safe side.  Paul is being a bit facetious here.

Of course, in our own day and age it has become a popular sport to level a similar observation at people of faith.  How religious we are, are critics cringe.  We gather here week by week and day by day – the thinking goes - to sing our hymns and read our stories and say our prayers and offer our thanks to a God who is virtually unknown to us or to the world, who is figment of our collective imaginations, a God-delusion that makes us feel better about ourselves and the world but which doesn’t even spur us on to good works very often.

In the minds of many people these days (most of whom seem to want to write books about it) we Christians, and people of other faiths, are as deluded as the ancient Athenians who would take seriously an altar to an Unknown God.  And we are no better off.

Considering the world we live in, it is not surprising that many ask whether or not the God we worship is anything more than a delusion.  Considering the state of affairs among nations, and the degradation of the planet, a person could wonder whether the God we praise is any more involved in the world than some Unknown God.

The Unknown God really is the Just-in-case God, who is worshiped in an effort to cover our backsides.  And as such the Unknown God is a largely undemanding God – after all what could he require of us, since we don’t even know who he (or she) is?

And it might be fair to ask whether the Unknown God is worshipped today in many churches.   After all, when in Rome or Athens or America, do as the locals do.  And this is more or less what our parents did, or what the nuns taught us to do.  And don’t worry so much if you begin to wonder that the God we worship is really an Unknown God.  Brunch will be served soon enough.  For many of us, the Unknown God – susceptible as he is to the delusion critique – is still not such a bad God, and maybe just about all the God we want, since, after all he doesn’t require much of our time, money or energy.

But notice what Saint Paul tells the men and women of Athens.  See that he does not denigrate the Unknown God, and he does not even argue against the pantheon of Greek religion.  He doesn’t even write a book!  What Paul says is this: ‘I know who the Unknown God is.  He is the God who made the world and everything in it, the Lord of heaven and earth.  He does not live in shrines made by man, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself give to all men life and breath and everything.  I know who the Unknown God is!’

All these centuries later, and so far from Athens, we live in a world of Unknown Gods.  Half the time we seem almost ready to worship at their altars.  We could almost imagine every single ATM in this city as an altar to Unknown Gods; then we’d know who or what we worship since there is no surer indicator of what’s important to Americans than what we spend our money on.  These Unknown Gods do require very little of us – except our regular visits to their altars of cash dispensation.

But are we left wondering whether or not the atheist book-writers have a point?  Do we sometimes wonder if we are deluding ourselves?  Have we followed this path of faith just-in-case?  Do we live in a world of Unknown Gods because there is no real God to know?

It may be the case that the way to answer this question is the same way Saint Paul answered it.  That is, we may find that there is no way to assure ourselves that God is not a delusion  other than to discover (perhaps to our own surprise) that we know who the Unknown God is.

Perhaps we have come to know this because we see how much has been given into our hands: the blessing of a child, the love of family, the benefits of wealth, even dominion over so much of this planet.  Or perhaps it is because of a sin forgiven – one we thought we could never live down.  Perhaps it is the on-going encounter with beauty that we cannot explain any other way.  Perhaps it is that tiny spark of hope that lifts us out of despair in the face of the death of someone we love.

In all these ways, and countless others, the living God makes himself known to us.  And most profoundly, for us, in something as simple and ordinary as a morsel of bread, and a sip of wine, God is known and among us day by day.

For us, living in a world of Unknown Gods can become a daily exercise in discovering that we know who the Unknown God is!  There is no proof of this, of course.  There is still room for doubt and delusion, for error and uncertainty.  There is only the Way that follows Jesus’ commandment to love one another as he loves us, which means with every ounce of our being, and with all humility, as we wash one another’s feet.  And that Way leads us past many altars: some at which we feel right at home, some to strange Gods, some that spit out cash as long as you have your card and your PIN number, and some to Unknown Gods.

Having walked this Way for some time now, I have been past a lot of altars, and so have you.  And we have seen a lot of evidence of Unknown, Just-in-case Gods, as well as the people who suspect that these are the easy Gods to serve.

And perhaps we should follow the example of Saint Paul.  What is the point in denigrating these Unknown Gods of the world we live in?  What is the point in arguing against the pantheon of secularism?  What is the point of writing a book about it?  As Saint Paul knew, when in Athens, do as the Greeks do, and when in America... what else can we do in this land of Unknown Gods?  

We can only follow the Way of Christ’s commandment of love, which leads past this altar, whose simple offering of bread and wine reminds us that we know who the Unknown God is!  He is the God who made the world and everything in it, the Lord of heaven and earth, who does not live in shrines made by man, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needs anything, since he himself gives to all people life and breath, and everything!  

He is the God who sent his Son into the world to save us from sin and death, that we might have life and have it abundantly.  He is the Lord of Life who died for our sakes and who gives us his body for food and his blood for our salvation.  He is the Light that continually dawns in the east, and the new life that rises up from the grave.

He is the God who knows us each by name, and even the number of hairs on our heads, who once would show nothing more than his back to Moses but who now delights to dwell by his Holy Spirit among us, living, breathing, and working in each and every one of us.

Yes, we live in a land of Unknown Gods, but we rejoice, because we know who the Unknown God is.  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
30 April 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Those who had been baptized devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers….  Fear came upon every soul; and many wonders and signs were done through the apostles.  (Acts 2:42-43)


Although you probably remember it more for the spectacular car chases and the wonderful soundtrack, the 1980 cult film The Blues Brothers had another important element.  One of the brothers, Jake, has just been released from prison.  He and his brother Elwood, embark on their epic journey in and around Chicago for a purpose: in order to raise $5,000 to pay the Cooke County Tax Assessor the back taxes owed by the orphanage in which the brothers grew up.

The film is a little unclear about why a Roman Catholic orphanage – which would surely have been a tax-exempt organization – owes back taxes.  There is, however, the suggestion that the archdiocese wants to shut down the orphanage and sell the property.  In any case, the nuns who raised the boys refuse to accept ill-gotten money from Jake and Elwood, and the brothers are challenged to redeem their checkered lives by doing the right thing.  And throughout the film, as the Blues Brothers veer from adventure to adventure to put their old band back together and raise the money, their explanation is a simple one: they are on a mission from God.

As it turns out, the Blues Brothers’ mission was a mixed bag: in the end they earned the money honestly to save the orphanage – by putting the band together and giving a benefit concert.   But their several traffic violations in the process land them back in prison by the end of their journey.  A mission from God can be a tricky thing!

The Blues Brothers had something in common with Saint Mark’s, for we, too, are on a mission from God, as every Christian community is and ought to be.  Like the Blues Brothers, we also tend to make a lot of music as we go about our mission.  There, I think the similarities may end.  But it is important that we remind ourselves and others that we are a community with a mission: we are on a mission from God.

The Vestry and the clergy of this parish worked over the course of about five months to find a concise way to articulate that mission.  Here is what we came up with:
Saint Mark’s is a community that gathers in faith, serves in love and proclaims hope, through Jesus Christ.

We are on a mission from God; that mission requires us to gather, to serve, and to proclaim; it grows out of the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and love; and it is anchored in the lordship of our Savior Jesus Christ.

I will not bore you now with a disquisition on this mission statement, which we have now begun to circulate in our newsletter and on our website.  Rather, I want to briefly make the case that in our mission from God we are linked not only to the Blues Brothers but the to very first community of the early Church.

Saint Luke, whose Book of Acts is a second volume to his Gospel, wrote in the early portion of that work that “those who had been baptized devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”  This sounds great!  Churches often refer to this sentence in Acts because it sounds so familiar.  But read on!  “Fear,” or in another translation, “awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.”

Many wonders and signs and were being done, many wonders and signs.

Here is the challenge for the church today: Are we satisfied to continue to devote ourselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, the breaking of bread and the prayers?  Are we perfectly happy to stop reading there?  Do we believe that our mission from God can be summed up with such tidiness?  After all, this sounds a lot like the church we know: we gather in fellowship for teaching, for the breaking of bread in the Eucharist, and to maintain our collective life of prayer.

But what have we left unsaid, and what have we left undone, if we forget to read on?  Many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.

The second volume of Luke’s Gospel is called the Book of the Acts of the Apostles for a reason.  Because they were on a mission from God.  They had been sent – which is the basic reality of anyone on a mission.  Sent by the angels who asked them as they stood watching the ascension of Jesus into heaven, “men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into heaven?”  Sent by the Spirit that Jesus promised would visit them, and which did so in tongues of fire and a rushing wind.  These apostles were sent out to do things they never dreamt they could do: to heal the sick and give new life to those who seemed to be dead; to bring promise and hope where there was none; to work for peace and justice; and to turn the world upside down by following as best they could the singular command that Jesus had given them: that they should love one another as he had loved them.

They were on a mission from God, and what signs and wonders they performed as they gathered together, as they served one another and those in need, and as they proclaimed the Good News of Jesus to anyone who would listen!

They might have stopped at gathering, you know.  They might have formed a club, and collected dues, and drawn up by-laws, and membership eligibility requirements.  They might have devised a secret handshake and a password.  They might have stopped at gathering.  But they didn’t.  They had been sent on a mission from God, and they had signs and wonders to perform that would astonish even themselves!

And the reason that the leadership of this parish bothered to go through the exercise of drafting a mission statement, of discussing it with as many of you as we could, of debating the merits of word choice and punctuation and ideas, is that we could very easily stop at gathering too.

We could be very happy gathering here week by week, singing our music, tending to the apostles’ teaching, breaking the bread in the lovely way we do, and deepening our lives of prayer.  We are within our rights, as a Christian community, to do all these things, and, perhaps, to stop there.  

But where would be the signs and wonders that bring awe upon us?  How would we do the things that transform the lives of men and women and children?  How would we follow that singular commandment to love if we only ever gathered and never cared also to serve and to proclaim?

I find it amusing, in my own silly way, to think that we are connected to the fictitious Blues Brothers by their singular assertion that they were on a mission from God.  But I must say it leaves me almost breathless to think that we are also connected by our mission to those first apostles who gathered amid great uncertainty to pass on Jesus’ teaching, to break bread together, and to pray, and who then went out to do great signs and wonders bringing healing and new life where they confronted sickness and death.  I find it astonishing to think that we, too, are called to gather, to serve and to proclaim; that the virtues of faith, hope, and love could so possess this community that lives are changed by bringing health where there is sickness and the promise of new life where others see only death.

We, my brothers and sisters in Christ, we are on a mission from God!  He calls us here week by week and day by day to form us into his holy people by the apostles’ teaching, the breaking of the bread and the prayers.  And then by his Holy Spirit, he sends us out into the world to serve in love and to proclaim the hope of new life.  There are signs and wonders to be performed by you and by me as we do this.  Do not be deceived by the tyranny of low expectations.

And we can do so much more than the Blues Brothers could!  We can do more than raise enough money to pay the bills.  And we will not end up back where we started, as poor old Elwood did – right back in prison.

I have an ongoing debate with some of the Office Volunteers here about the coffee machine in the Parish Hall.  That machine has one dial, two switches, and a valve to control the flow of coffee.  Its controls are significantly simpler than those on the dashboard of most cars, let alone the control panel of a jet, say, or of anything requiring a degree in rocket science.  And yet from time to time we are thwarted by this simple machine.  We set the dial wrong and the coffee is too weak, or we leave the valve open and coffee pours out all over the floor.  And we are tempted, some of us, to think that this machine is too much to handle, that it should be left to a very few carefully trained people to manage it, or perhaps abandoned altogether in favor of some simpler alternative.

But I believe that God is calling us as a community to do some wonderful things – what you might even call signs and wonders.  I believe God has endowed this community with gifts that far exceed the ability to operate a coffee machine with one dial, two switches, and a valve that might be open or shut.  I believe that we are on a mission from God that changes people’s lives and turns the world upside down.

And so I believe that if we allow ourselves to be thwarted by a coffee machine we will have set our expectations depressingly low!  Because I believe that we can make wonderful coffee!

But I also believe that we can do so much more, if as a community we will gather here in faith, we will serve our neighbors in love – whomever they may be, and we will proclaim hope to those who need to hear it with whatever words we have to use.

For we are on a mission from the God who sent his Son into the world that we might have life and have it abundantly.  And what can stop us now?

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
13 April 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

As is the case with many holy sites in Jerusalem, there are at least two tombs that are identified as the burial place of Jesus.  It is perhaps the case that the best claim of authenticity can still be made by the tomb that has been enshrined beneath the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  

That tomb – identified in the fourth century - has seen empires rise and fall, crusaders come and go, Muslim occupation, Christian schism, warfare, tumult, squabble, earthquake, fire and every kind of upset.  The emperor Constantine built the first structure over it: what amounted to a “little house” that was itself enclosed by a larger church.  That same plan – rebuilt many times – survives today inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  Beneath the great, grey dome of the church is a smaller building, surrounded by countless burning lamps, and chanting monks of various pedigrees, and tourists of every variety.

This morning, if we will, we are invited to follow Mary Magdalene to this tomb.   See what happens when we get there.

On seeing that the stone is rolled away, (only a fragment of it remains today) she hesitates at first, and runs to get others – Peter and the one known as the beloved disciple.  And now Saint John gives us marvelous details that are absent in the three other gospel accounts of the resurrection.

Peter and the beloved disciple begin to run: racing each other to the mouth of the cave.  I imagine that Mary Magdalene runs too, but she is a girl, and not so fast or so competitive as the boys are.  But all three of them have a single question burning in their minds: Is he dead or alive?

John tells us that the beloved disciple got there first.  He stoops to look in and sees the grave-clothes.  Peter catches up, and, having lost the race to the mouth of the tomb, shoves the beloved disciple aside, lowers his shoulders, bends his head low and, brash as ever, dives inside the tomb of Christ.  There must have been room for the two of them in there.  The beloved disciple follows Peter, lowers his shoulders, bends his head low, and goes inside the tomb, too.

There they find no body.  The details that they notice about the position of the linen cloths – lying undisturbed – are meant to show us that Jesus had not struggled to escape, had not performed some fantastic magic trick.  And the two men – full of excitement - scramble out of the tomb and back to their homes.

But Mary Magdalene stood weeping outside the tomb, confused, uncertain.  Is he dead or alive?  Finally she brings herself to lower her own shoulders and bend her head low and lean in far enough to look inside the tomb, where she, privileged in her grief, and undistracted by the competitive spirit that possessed the two men, sees the two angels sitting where the body of Jesus had lain.

Only in John’s Gospel are we told that anyone actually goes inside the tomb of Jesus.  Only in this last and latest gospel do the disciples lower their shoulders and bend low to get inside.  Only here does Mary Magdalene, too, stoop to get her head and shoulders inside and see the amazing site, which does not stop her weeping, for she does not yet know what it means.  Is he dead or alive?

That tomb was originally hewn out of stone in a hillside, but the hillside is nowhere in evidence.  Journalist Richard Rodriguez wrote of his recent visits to the Holy Sepulchre:  “ A mountain was chipped away from the burial cave, leaving the cave.  Later the cave was destroyed.  What remains is the interior of the cave, which is nothing….  I must lower my shoulders and bend my head [to get in]; I must crawl to pass under the low opening.  I am inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.”

A hillside was chipped away leaving a cave; the cave was destroyed leaving the interior of the cave, which is nothing.  What is left is the idea of the tomb of Christ.

Nothing prevents you and me from lowering our shoulders just now, from bending low, and crawling, ourselves, inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.  And this, after all, is where the church has led us today: into the idea of the tomb of Christ.

Since our imaginations have been shaped by courtroom dramas and forensic police work on TV, we are tempted to experience Easter Day as a particularly old episode of Law and Order.  We want to detain Peter for questioning, and we’d like to know why the beloved disciple won’t give us his name.  We’d like to hold Mary Magdalene in a separate room and see if the stories of these three corroborate.  We doubt that the two men Mary spoke with are angels and we have a few questions for them.  And how can Mary be so sure that it wasn’t the gardener she talked with?  Let’s bring him in for questioning too!  Most importantly, don’t touch anything!  We will send the linen cloths to the lab for testing.  We need some DNA!  We will scour the inside of the tomb for a fibre, a strand of hair, a fragment of fingernail.

But where would that get us?  Will it really tell us whether or not Jesus is dead or alive?  It will surely not get us inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.  Better, on this Easter morning, to lower our shoulders, bend low, and crawl inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.

Two days ago it seemed so different: so dark.  But then, darkness covered the whole land on that Friday.  Isn’t it surprisingly light in here now?  Is it the candles, or is there residual glow from the angel-light?  Is the air sweet with the smell of incense and spices?  Do we have the sense that Jesus was here just a minute ago?  Or can we tell somehow that he did not stay long in this tomb, that he had work to tend to, and got straight to it?  Is it creepy in here, inside the idea of Jesus tomb, in this chamber of death?  Are we frightened?    Could we somehow get stuck in here?  Is the stone rolled back far enough, and held tight?  It won’t roll back across the door and seal us in?  And where is Jesus?  Is he dead or is he alive?

If we pause here, inside the idea of the tomb of Christ, does it occur to us to think about our own death?  Isn’t it a little weird to be inside this grave?  What are we doing in here, inside the idea of this tomb?  And if we pause here for a moment or two longer than Peter stayed, longer than the beloved disciple paused here, do we find that the question begins to shift from him to us?

We thought that we had come here to investigate Jesus.  But inside the idea of his tomb we begin to find the question that we had not thought to ask: do we die or do we live?  We thought  - because the world had tried to convince us – that the question was whether or not Jesus was dead or alive.  We thought that was what brought is to his tomb, looking for evidence, for an argument, for proof.  But here, inside the idea of his tomb, we discover that the question shifts from him to us: will we die, or will we live?

We realize that the world is killing us all day long, one way or another, and the world tells us that if we just keep buying things, everything will be OK.  (Can I interest you in a satin pillow for the inside of that tomb?)  But we know that everything we buy ends up being thrown in the trash and goes to the dump.  And we want to know – is that what will happen to us in our graves?

And while we are inside the idea of his tomb, perhaps we cannot tell.  There are the grave clothes: un-rumpled, no sign of struggle.  It does not appear to be a trick.  But still, we are uncertain.  Is he dead or alive?  Will we die or will we live?

And from in here, we can hear a sound nearby, but from a distant time: Mary Magdalene, stands outside weeping, and we can hear her sobs.  She has poked her head and shoulders in here.  She has seen what we see – and more.  But there she stands weeping.  And who are we to console her?  We have only been inside the idea of Christ’s tomb; she has looked into the real thing.  We have only seen the details that others reported to us; she has spoken with angels.  But still she weeps.  For as long as she does not know if Jesus is dead or alive, she cannot know if she will live or if she will die.   And from in here, inside the idea of Christ’s tomb, can we know either?

This morning, the sound of Mary weeping is enough, I hope, to bring us out of the idea of that tomb.  Although there was that strange light in the tomb, to sunlight is brighter, and we blink in the brightness of it as we draw close to Mary.  As her sobs become louder, I begin to feel that maybe I will join her in her tears, for there is sadness enough in this world, and this tomb is empty, and they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.

And I know somehow that my fate is tied to his fate, and so is yours.  And I know, with Mary, that if he is dead, then perhaps the best thing to do is crawl back inside that tomb and get used to it – because that is what awaits us anyway.

But before I have gotten close enough to put my arm around her, to join my sobs to hers, there is this voice.  And I am certain it is not the gardener, because I am only standing outside the idea of the tomb of Christ, and many centuries have past.  And I have heard the story before (and so have you).  And when I hear him call her name, I remember that the tomb was always going to be empty, could only ever be empty.

And now the tomb doesn’t matter at all, because once it was a hillside that was chipped away leaving a cave; then the cave was destroyed leaving the interior of the cave, which is nothing.  And you and I cannot be trapped inside of nothing – not even for a moment.

And I cannot tell the difference anymore between my sobs and the sobs of Mary Magdalene.  I cannot say how close she is to me, or to you.  But I am sure we are all standing outside of the tomb now.  And I am sure that tomb is nothing but an idea.  And I know that it doesn’t matter any more.  Because I hear a voice, and I think you do, too.  And a moment ago that voice seemed to be calling, “Mary!”  But now I hear my own name, and I know, somehow, that you hear yours.

And now I know that my redeemer liveth!  And once I know that, in a instant, in the twinkling of an eye, I know, too, that every tomb has been chipped away, as his tomb has been, and reduced to nothing, as his tomb is nothing; nothing but an idea.  And I know that Mary’s sobs have been turned into songs of joy, and I can hear myself singing, and you too!  And I know that Christ is alive, and that if he lives then you and I will not die when our mortal bodies are done on this earth, but that we shall live, because he lives, and calls us each by name!  Alleluia!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Easter Day 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

As is the case with many holy sites in Jerusalem, there are at least two tombs that are identified as the burial place of Jesus.  It is perhaps the case that the best claim of authenticity can still be made by the tomb that has been enshrined beneath the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  

That tomb – identified in the fourth century - has seen empires rise and fall, crusaders come and go, Muslim occupation, Christian schism, warfare, tumult, squabble, earthquake, fire and every kind of upset.  The emperor Constantine built the first structure over it: what amounted to a “little house” that was itself enclosed by a larger church.  That same plan – rebuilt many times – survives today inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  Beneath the great, grey dome of the church is a smaller building, surrounded by countless burning lamps, and chanting monks of various pedigrees, and tourists of every variety.

The tomb was originally hewn out of stone in a hillside, but the hillside is nowhere in evidence.  Journalist Richard Rodriguez wrote of his recent visits there:  “ A mountain was chipped away from the burial cave, leaving the cave.  Later the cave was destroyed.  What remains is the interior of the cave, which is nothing….  I must lower my shoulders and bend my head [to get in]; I must crawl to pass under the low opening.  I am inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.”

A hillside was chipped away leaving a cave; the cave was destroyed leaving the interior of the cave, which is nothing.  What is left is the idea of the tomb of Christ.

Nothing prevents you and me from lowering our shoulders just now, from bending low, and crawling ourselves inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.  And this, after all, is where the church has led us today: into the idea of the tomb of Christ.

Since our imaginations have been shaped by courtroom dramas and forensic police work on TV, we are tempted to experience Good Friday as a particularly old episode of Law and Order.  We want to analyze Pilate’s motives, interview the soldiers who led Jesus to Golgotha.  We’d like to get a statement on the record from Simon of Cyrene.  It would be helpful if we could cross-examine the centurion.  And of course we long for DNA samples.  We would like to secure the scene and scour the inside of the tomb for a fibre, a strand of hair, a fragment of fingernail.

But where would that get us?  It will surely not take us inside the idea of the tomb of Christ.  Better to lower our shoulders, bend low, and crawl inside the idea of the tomb of Christ, (just for a moment or two if that is all we can tolerate).

Is it dark in here?  Or is there a candle burning already?  Has angel-light already begun to cause the stone to glow?  Does it smell in here yet – the sweet spices have net yet been brought by the women.  Is the air heavy with the scent of blood and sweat and tears?  Is Jesus’ body still; is it cold?  Is he given time to rest in death, regain strength after his ordeal?  Or does he spring to work instantly like an escape artist with limited time to get out of his shroud?

Will he speak to us?  Could we understand him if he did?  Is there anything we can do?  Is he even there?  Or is he gone already?  Of course, he must be gone – we are only inside the idea of his tomb.  And it is centuries later.  But if we are here, what does that say about us?  Are we dead or alive?  Could we get stuck in here?  Is the stone outside propped back?  It won’t roll across the door and seal us in?  No, really?  What are we doing in here?  What good can it do us to come inside the idea of the tomb of Christ?  Why are we here?  Are we dead or alive?

Are we dead or alive?

Here, inside the idea of the tomb of Christ, we find the question that we had not thought to ask: are we dead or alive?  We thought  - because the world had tried to convince us – that the question was whether or not Jesus was dead or alive.  We thought that was what brought is to his tomb, looking for evidence, for an argument, for proof.

But here inside the idea of his tomb, we discover that if we will be buried with him in his death, the question shifts from him to us.

And do we find that here, inside the idea of his tomb the question of the rock, the cave, the hillside that once stood around his actual tomb – these all become immaterial?  Who cares where the precise location of his grave is, if we can be buried in his death without ever having to search for it?  And who cares about anything, really, except the answer to that burning question: are we dead or alive?

Here in the idea of Jesus’ tomb I think it is dark, and very still.  I think that I am lying on the shelf where his body lay.  And I think you are there too, but I am not sure that I can feel you there.  I do not think I can hear you; I am not sure you are breathing.  I am not sure I am.

And I think I am dead, as I think Jesus must have been.

I know I cannot stay here for three days.  It has only been a few minutes, but already it feels like hours.  I think I was frightened for a moment, but now that has passed.  I don’t know if I can feel my feet or wiggle my toes; I don’t know if I can move; I don’t know if I can see or hear.  And I don’t know if you can either – or if you are really there.  Is there room for us all in here?  Yes, it is very dark, and very still in here, inside the idea of Jesus’ tomb.  And I am wondering if I am dead or alive.  And what about you?  I cannot feel or hear my heartbeat.

+ + +

But now, I am sure I hear something like a breath.  It was not mine or yours, but it was a breath.  And I know that I have been buried with Christ inside the idea of his tomb.  And I can hear now.  And my heart is thumping.  And there is air in my lungs.  And the smell is sweet.  And it is still dark, but my eyes are open.  And I cannot tell, but I think I am beginning to see something like light.  And I can feel you there next to me; I can feel you tremble - or is it me who trembles?

And I know I was dead.  Here, in the idea of Jesus’ tomb, I know that I was dead, before I lowered my shoulders, and bent low, and crawled inside this death where Jesus has already been.

And I know I want to get out of here – out of this tomb of death.  And I know that I can; and I know that I will, because I know that this is why Jesus led me here.  Because he has been here himself.  And he made room for me and for you inside the idea of his tomb, so that we could know whether we are dead or alive.

He knows that we are desperate to know this: are we dead or alive?  He knows the world is killing us all day long and telling us that if we just keep buying things it will be OK.  But we know that everything we buy ends up be thrown in the trash and goes to the dump.  And we want to know – is that what will happen to us in our graves.

So Jesus calls us to come and die with him, and lie for a moment or two inside the idea of his tomb, and see.

Are we dead?  or are we alive?


Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Good Friday 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia