Sermons

Cyclone Pentecost

Sean Mullen — Sun, 11 May 2008 19:09:57 +0000

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

The Unknown God

Sean Mullen — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 16:09:06 +0000

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

A Mission From God

Sean Mullen — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 15:10:53 +0000

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

Inside the Tomb, II

Sean Mullen — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 17:42:19 +0000

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

Inside the Tomb, I

Sean Mullen — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 00:08:22 +0000

Etiquette

Paul Francke — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 03:08:19 +0000

There is nothing in the Christian year like the Sacred Triduum, the three high liturgies of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and the Great Vigil of Easter, which, the church teaches, are really parts of one single liturgy, into which we've embarked. The Triduum doesn't just recall but engages us in the depth of Jesus’ experience in his last days and his first risen day. I've taken friends to parts of the Triduum at Anglo-Catholic Churches and even those people whose normal experience of church is diametrically opposite this liturgy - even the lowest of the low-church folks, always concerned about not going overboard - even they have tended to be floored by emotion, so moving are these days when they're done right. There is nothing like the Triduum, from the things God does to our hearts in these liturgies, to the things God engraves in our minds.

Today Jesus engraves in us the 'maundy,' meaning 'mandate', 'maundy' being a Middle English word derived from the Latin 'mandatum': commandment, rule. Today we accept anew and celebrate the new mandate of Jesus, the New Commandment, given just before his death. Jesus tells his disciples, after washing their feet: "love one another as I have loved you." Love one another as I have loved you. It fits that this 'mandate' and maid-like, servant-like washing of feet occurr during the sharing of a meal, the first Communion. It makes sense, because in the history of salvation, from the Passover meal described in our reading from the Hebrew Scriptures, to the altar from which we’ll receive communion today, a table establishes unity. A table is a place where you can't hide, but where diverse people sit down and eat the same things, becoming one, inside and out. This is just the setting Jesus chooses to make an example of love in an unloving, imperialist world ('love during wartime'): love each other in a self-giving way; love each other in mutual service, not 'working the system' to get something out of it at someone else's expense. There's no emptier reward for love than crucifixion, hence the inescable altruism of Jesus' saying 'love as I love you.'

In Seminary many of us, especially foreign students, found ourselves far away from family on days traditionally associated with a family meal, such as on Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter. So others who lived near the Seminary would invite us over to their homes. That was the case with me one Easter afternoon - I was invited by a friend to her family’s house in Virginia for a traditional Easter meal. They say Northern Virginia is technically the North, but this family was far enough below the southern suburbs of DC as to be identifiably Southern, and I'll leave it to your imagination what was there to be 'identified.' I loved it. As we drove to the old family homestead, not a colonial but a frontier-style house surrounded by beautiful rolling hills and farmland, my friend briefed me on some of the family dynamics I was about to see played out.

The elephant in the living room would be one of the younger, college-age cousins, who had recently gotten pregnant 'out of wedlock.' This had happened in her second year at one of those tiny, private Southern colleges where everyone knows your business and most definitely judges you about it. She was keeping the baby. Certainly the family knew this girl’s business, too, and they were uncomfortable with it. As we took our places at the table and were served, conversation began – and it all danced merrily around without touching down anywhere near this pregnant cousin. I was extensively grilled on my upbringing, education, family, interests, pets, and on and on; and the other family members boisterously caught up with one another, too. Not a word to the pregnant cousin. Finally, silence began to set in, as people ate. The silence loomed especially large over this woman, the one person to whom I hadn’t been introduced (a big deal in a Southern home), though I knew her name from my friend, and I’ll say it was “Annie.” After dinner, conversations become shorter and quieter than they had been before, and an awkward silence seemed to separate each sentence from the next. It was as though we’d delved into every possible subject of interest except the obvious.

Then, as older children sometimes do, the oldest cousin couldn't help but recognize what was wrong there and he, rather than the matriarch or patriarch of the family, jumped in and took action. “Annie,” he said, “you know, this is bittersweet and all, but it’s nothing my friends haven’t dealt with well, and the good part is that we know this kid’s gonna have an excellent Mom.”

Deeply ingrained unspoken rules prescribing what should and shouldn’t be discussed at that family's Easter Dinner table had been torn in two. In some ways it had to be this oldest cousin to have broached the subject so bravely and carefully, because within the structure of a traditional family, he had the credentials to say what he wanted to say. The pregnant cousin did not. For credentials, this guy had a wife and kids, he was the oldest of the cousins, he was a successful partner at the biggest local law firm. It shouldn't be this way, but the fact that he was male definitely had something to do with it. He used his unspoken social power in the family to express that this cousin was one of them, come what may. Annie smiled. One of the two grandmothers present asked her if she’d been thinking of baby names.

That got people thinking and talking in a more open, human way. It was a crucial barrier passed over into friendly territory, and possible for that family only because one of their (rightly or wrongly) highly esteemed members had made himself a servant of the least-esteemed. In other words, he girded up his loins and loved his cousin like Jesus would have loved her. That's the maundy, the mandate we celebrate today, the truth behind the symbolism of Jesus washing everyone’s feet. In authentic Christianity, the exalted are called to humble themselves completely, sparing none of the needs of those the world wants to call lowly. Make no mistake, there are always moments when you or I have social credibility, or money, or other forms of power, which someone else lacks. Those moments are opportunities to love each other as Christ loved us.

These, then are the implications of our simple mandate: no person is too strange, too new, too guilty, too disagreeable, too conservative, too liberal, to be served as one of us at our family table. But more than that, in fact it is the most cast off, the most misunderstood, the most sinful, the strangest, the most obscure, even the most offensive, the hardest to understand, whom we are blessed to do our best to serve. In such territory it bears remembering that Jesus loves as a close, though anonymous friend the man who nails him to the cross. That is a great part of the sadness of the cross which we'll encounter tomorrow. Jesus is killed by people he cares for as we care for our own parents, lovers, friends - though these people don't know him has he knows them (which is to say, as God knows them).

That same piercing love extends to us, and through grace alone we cultivate that almost absurdly resilient love toward each other. It is a love which extends to all, which never ends, to which we're called beyond defense, beyond all walls; a love which sings of day when all sound ends, when darkness falls - as it must. This is a love which follows us even when we don't trust it, when we run from it - because Jesus practices his own mandate, and as our own servant, never gives up on us.

Preached by Dcn. Paul Francke
Maundy Thursday, 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Punishment Policy

Sean Mullen — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 19:11:50 +0000

The news last month, from the Pew Charitable Trusts, that more than 1 in a hundred Americans were in prison at the outset of 2008 was upstaged only by the statistic included in the report that 1 of every 9 black men between the ages of 20 and 34 is behind bars in this country. One shudders to think what the percentage is in Philadelphia. In our nation, 2.3 million people were in jail at the beginning of this year – 1% of the population. Even China has imprisoned only 1.5 million of their significantly larger population.

The report tells us that these numbers are a concern for states because of the high costs of incarceration, which naturally deprives other important programs – like education – of funding. For every dollar spent in Pennsylvania on education, we spend 81 cents on prisons. What kind of holy experiment is that?

The conclusion of the Pew report says this:

“As a nation, the United States has long anchored its punishment policy in bricks and mortar. The tangible feel of a jail or prison, with its surefire incapacitation of convicts, has been an unquestioned weapon of choice in our battle against crime.... However… a continual increase in our reliance on incarceration will pay declining dividends in crime prevention.”

This conclusion is happily free of euphemisms for the reality of prisons: like correctional facilities or, more pointedly, penitentiaries, both of which suggest that we have something more in mind than punishment when we lock someone up. In America, punishment is not just a policy, it’s a growth industry, if not a terribly useful way of dealing with crime, since, according to the report, “more than half of released offenders are back in prison within three years.”

This report makes me almost unspeakably grateful to our friend and neighbor, Fr. Julius Jackson, who with a handful of helpers runs a parish (St. Dismas) within the walls of Graterford Maximum Security Prison, where, on a very few occasions, I have visited the men with him. But I cannot imagine what Palm Sunday is like in the walls of that prison. And I wonder if it occurs to us to consider how different God’s punishment policy is from our own.

Very near the beginning of the Bible comes the first story of God’s punishment, which, interestingly, involves locking Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden, not locking them up. Go on, and you will find that the Ten Commandments completely lack sentencing guidelines. Keep reading the Scriptures from there and you will get to a body of religious law that is complicated but has precious little interest in building correctional facilities. And while there are plenty of threats breathed against the children of Israel, God’s hand is seldom actually raised. Their suffering is usually at the hands of worldly opponents.

Eventually we get to Jesus. His early call to repentance is soon transposed to his preaching of the kingdom of God: a message that he seems to intend for prostitutes and sinners: governors and their harlots, perhaps. But remember that, with the governor and his call girl, you and I have also been locked out of Eden. And while our sins have not been chronicled in detail in the press, are we really any less susceptible to the punishment policy of God?

So we might take notice when we hear Saint Paul tell us that “Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, emptied himself, taking the form of a slave… and humbled himself... and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross.”

Here on the cross is God’s new code of punishment: foreshadowed by the scapegoats who had long carried the sins of the people out of their midst.

Here is God’s Son, who could very well have rode on, rode on in majesty, (could he not?), but here he is, taking the form of a servant, a slave, even unto death. Here is the eternal Word of God, nailed to two wooden beams.

Here is God’s new policy of punishment: using the most vulgar form torture available and turning it not to our own destruction but to our salvation. Here Jesus suffers and dies for us.

+ + +

So impressed are we with ourselves in America, because we can buy whatever we like and pay for it with credit, that we have pretended that a liberal democracy that imprisons 1% of its population and more than 10% of its young black men – at the expense of educating the rest of its children - has something to teach the rest of the world. I’d call that ironic at best. We are clearly building in this country a hellish kingdom of punishment behind bars, where the smartest thing to do must be to get used to it, since chances are good that those who are banished there, even for a while, are likely to return.

But God’s kingdom is built with the wood of the Cross: with the atoning sacrifice of his Son. God’s kingdom runs on an economy of forgiveness, mercy and reconciliation. God’s kingdom is founded in hope not despair. God’s kingdom doesn’t need bricks and mortar, let alone iron bars. And the tangible feel of God’s kingdom is the surefire love that stoops to wash the feet of its friends.

Any nation that has committed itself to a punishment policy that gives us an ever-increasing supply of prison cells – and that has no trouble filling those cells - is desperately in need of word of God’s kingdom.

It turns out that God doesn’t have a policy of punishment at all. His policy of love extends to providing the lamb for the sacrifice. And while the cost to God must surely be great, this gift of salvation is given to us freely.

Just try to get into Graterford Maximum Security Prison – not an hour away from here – as a visitor from the outside. It will take months of waiting, even with the Chaplain working on your behalf. And should you fail to produce the proper identification, on arrival, or should forget to leave your cell phone in the car, or should you be carrying with you a book that seems suspicious, you will be stopped at the inner gate and told to go home.

They do not want you to see more than you have to. And they do not want to risk that you will infringe on the punishment of surefire incapacitation that is meted out to the men – so many of them black – who are incarcerated there. This is our country.

But try, if you will, going to the foot of Jesus’ cross. Go there without my help, or anyone’s. And you will find that although the way is not easy, there is no one to stop you, nothing to prevent you from standing at the foot of the cross, as we stand here today, marveling at the love of God, who put punishment aside, and instead sent his Son into the world to bear the sins that even the strongest prison cannot contain.

Bring to the foot of the cross not only those things that you fear you could be punished for, but all those things you and I have gotten away with and that live only in the secrets of our hearts.

Lay your sins at the foot of the cross, and I will lay mine there. Let us go with fear and trembling: God knows what we deserve.

And see that he who hangs there, dies for us; his blood poured out that we might be saved. And his greater love made plain as he lays down his life for you and for me, and for all the world.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Palm Sunday, 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

First Spring Buds

Paul Francke — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 19:34:27 +0000

I trust none of you are such weather purists that you were deflated by that great, unseasonably warm weather we had on Monday and Tuesday. It fit with the week of Rose Sunday to relax from the discipline of bundling up against the cold and bracing ourselves against the icy sidewalks, in what the calendar told us was still Winter. We felt the Spring breathe back into our bones a little bit earlier this week, and I was totally living in Spring mode. So were the early buds that came out in our garden, and gardens across the city.

Jesus begins, and the early Church expands on the idea that those who die in the Lord are like seeds planted in the Earth – their resurrection is as certain as the coming of Spring. That would make Lazarus like one of those early buds, called forth by a couple warm days in the winter, as it were. He would be destined to die again, though nonetheless chosen in the depth of winter to bloom back to earth, as a sign of God’s power in the Messiah.

But this raises questions, right? Why just one early bud, shooting up before the rest of the dead? Elsewhere in the Scriptures, Jesus seems to call dead people to life – like the Centurion’s daughter. But that girl, Jesus says, was ‘only sleeping.’ The dead are raised after Jesus’ death in Matthew’s Gospel, in an almost ghostly way. But Lazarus is different – he was dead and Jesus chose to bring him back. How wonderful for his sisters, Mary & Martha, who were mourning him. How wonderful for his friends and the rest of his family. How wonderful that they were able not just to have one last conversation with him, but many more.

But why just one Lazarus? Why couldn’t Jesus Christ have done this for our dead friends, mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, and whomever we’ve grieved in our lives? Like Martha, we know that they will rise again in the resurrection at the last day, and that Jesus who dwells among us is the resurrection. But still – why just one Lazarus?

At least 300,000 have died in Darfur. A hundred thirty five thousand people have died in Iraq since we initiated the current war. Since the outbreak of civil war in the Congo ten years ago, 2.5 million people have died. In our own city, gun violence has taken young lives at an alarming rate. And in the midst of all this anguish, still, we know, with Martha that the dead will rise again on the last day, and Jesus who dwells among us is the resurrection. But for a family who’s just lost their only daughter to a stray bullet on the streets of Baghdad or our own streets, where is the opportunity that Lazarus had, to rise and be greeted once more on this Earth by his loved ones?

The families and classmates of those killed in campus shootings in Louisana and Illinois last month, and Virginia Tech last year - those thousands of mourners would be consoled by Martha’s faith that the dead will rise again on the last day. But they might also wonder why their dead sons and daughters, classmates, sisters and brothers can’t rise a little early, like Martha’s brother.

It’s confusing. But what’s clear is that God cares for every one of us, and Jesus mourns every death – it’s impossible to read the parables of the lost sheep, and the lost coin, and not understand that. So I think what’s really confusing about this question is what theologians call the scandal of particularity. Part of what it means for God to become human and dwell among us is that he lives in a certain place, at a certain time. This means that Jesus’ ministry (of healing and teaching) and resurrection were conducted also at a certain place, at a certain time – this inevitable ‘scandal’ of particular circumstances culminates perhaps with the fact that only certain people got to see him after he rose from the dead – as for the rest of us, he says, “blessed are those who have not seen, and still believe.”

But it would have been magnificent to see. It would have been amazing to hear him preach. It would have been consoling to be healed by his very hands. It would have been wonderful if he called our own loved ones forth from the grave. But what we’re desiring thereby is that Jesus would never have ascended to heaven at all, and would instead have remained on earth forever. And even then, we would find ourselves wanting more. We wouldn’t want him just to be in one place at once time. We would want him always, wherever someone dies, calling the dead forth. And at this point, we realize what we’re really desiring is more than even Jesus’ earthly ministry, as broad as it ever could have been: we’re desiring heaven, where pain and sorrow are no more.

Now we must look back to the Resurrection of Lazarus and remember that Jesus did this and all his signs to show that the heaven we desire really exists. And that, really, is the point. Jesus did these things to show that we become part of that eternal life now, through him, and that indeed, our bodies are like seeds which will all blossom in the eternal Spring, which will all be ‘called forth,’ like Lazarus.

Our Gospel reading ends with the statement: ‘Many… therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what he did, believed in him.’ The amazing thing, I think, given our tendency to doubt, is that after those who saw Lazarus rise had themselves died, still their faith was passed on to another generation. In other words, it was amazing that there only needed to be one Lazarus, there only needed to be one earthly ministry for Jesus, there only needed to be one death on the cross and one resurrection of Christ for the mysterious and life-giving faith we now share to be passed down through history. God’s grace and truth are powerful conduits.

And that truth, the truth of which Lazarus’ resurrection is a sign, is that God has something greater in store for us than even Mary and Martha witnessed on the day Lazarus came back. God has prepared eternal life for us, and this eternal life begins now, it dwells within us. That means that resurrection can never be something only far off in the past or many years to come in the future. Paul writes: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit which dwells in you.” Despite the ‘scandal of particularity,’ still the one Spirit of Christ dwells in all of us. The power of resurrection is alive in all of our bodies, which are the Temples of the Holy Spirit. There has been a long winter – I know, in Philly, it’s really been mild; but since the Fall from grace, metaphorically there’s indeed been a long Winter, with only a couple early buds before Spring. Still, these ‘early buds’ witness the power of their creator. Albert Camus said, in an admittedly non-Christian, but completely applicable statement: “I realized that in the depth of Winter, there lay within me an invincible Summer.”

“I realized that in the depth of Winter, there lay within me an invincible Summer.” Now, in the depth of Lent, as we walk the way of the cross, there lies within us resurrection: strength beyond any human strength, which is good, because the journey is hard. I heard a country preacher on a radio station in southwestern Virginia say: “you know why Jesus said, “Lazarus, come forth?” (And in the background, on the radio, everyone hoots and hollers.) “Cause if he would have just said, ‘come forth!’, all the dead would have been raised.”

Now, uncontrollably vibrant inside us, breathes the invincible Spirit of God who sees the dry bones of all who have gone before and says to them and us, without qualification: come forth. Out of sin, come out. Out of the old way you used to live your life before you heard about this higher love: come out. Out of death: rise again to the faint resonance of bells from our true and native land, as you’ve come so many times to the communion rail, to the looming and unfathomable peace of the varied, deep and narrow way: come, come, come; but this time, stay.

Preached by Dcn. Paul Francke
9 March 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

At a Well, Without a Bucket

Sean Mullen — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 16:08:30 +0000

The woman said to Jesus, “Sir, you have nothing to draw with, and the well is deep.” (Jn. 4:11)

There is much to distract us in the story that we hear today of Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well. There is the implication of ethnic tension here; the issue the scarcity of water; the possibility of lurid details of the woman’s personal life; the ethics of marriage; the disciples’ tendency to miss the point; questions about the role of the Messiah; and other aspects of this encounter that would yield interesting results were we to dwell on them. That is to say that this is the type of biblical story that could easily lead to a long, boring sermon. I hope it will not – and I bet you do too!

As I have been reading and re-reading the story this week, I’ve begun to think that the crux of the story – and the aspect that connects it to our own lives – is to be found in the woman’s reaction to Jesus when she says to him, “Sir, you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep.” Or, to use a different translation, “Sir you have no bucket, and the well is deep.”

“Sir you have no bucket…”

I say that this is what connects the story to our own lives because of all the details of this episode, this is the one that does not require us to learn anything new. You might need me to explain to you something of the background of the relationship between Jews and Samaritans. We could spend time delving into the issue of water scarcity in biblical lands and biblical times, and in our own. We could do a study of the ethics of marriage, etc. And from all these inquiries we would undoubtedly learn something useful that would shed light on the meaning of this passage.

But when we listen to what the woman says to Jesus, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep,” we don’t need to do complicated analysis in order to understand what she is getting at. How are you, Jesus, going to give me water, when you have no bucket? Why do you expect me to think that you have anything for me when you are standing there without the proper gear? What would make me think that you have anything for me, when anyone can see that you don’t even have a bucket to draw water from the well?!

You have no bucket, and the well is deep.

This story takes place in an ancient context but it poses a very modern question to Jesus. Because in our world it often looks as though Jesus is standing at the well with no bucket.

We want to believe that he is the Prince of Peace. But war rages around us, our cities are locked in cycles of violence, and we all know households where crucifixes hang on the walls but peace is far from home. It would appear that the well of peace is deep, but Jesus has no bucket.

We want to believe that Jesus is the Judge eternal who brings justice into the world. But we know that justice is not evenly distributed to rich and poor, or to the weak and powerful, and that in many corners of the world might still makes right. The well of justice is deep, but where is Jesus’ bucket?

We want to believe that Jesus is the Great Physician who heals all our infirmities. But the more medically sophisticated we become the more frustrated we are by the cancer that comes so swiftly and so decisively, by the Alzheimer’s that settles in so slowly but surely, by the Parkinson’s that takes over so viciously, by the virus that lurks so silently but menacingly. We have hoped that the well of healing would be deep, but how can Jesus show us since he has no bucket?

We want to believe that in Jesus we meet the Son of the God of love. But all around us we see failures where we thought love was planted: in broken marriages, estranged families, lost friendships, and unrequited romances. We want to believe that the well of love is deep, but even if it is, where is Jesus’ bucket?

We want to believe that Jesus conquers death with the hope of life everlasting. But don’t we still lose the ones we love to the grave? Isn’t our grief still real? Don’t we still know the pain of loss and still fear the uncertainty of death? The well of hope, if it exists, might be deep, but we cannot be sure that Jesus has a bucket.

And so we can be tempted to say, as skeptics and non-believers would, Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep.

Perhaps questions like these ran through the Samaritan woman’s mind as she stood there talking with Jesus. If so, something happened to overcome her questioning. Something mysterious and even mystical happened in this exchange between the woman and Jesus. Notice that John tells us that when the disciples came “they marveled that he was talking with a woman, but none said, ‘What do you wish?’ or, ‘Why are you talking with her?’” Something kept the disciples silent, preventing them from interrupting whatever it was they witnessed. Something was happening there that prevented the disciples from making their predictable objections. It was not just a conversation taking place between the woman and Jesus; some mysterious and mystical exchange transpired that so transformed the moment that the woman set down her water jar and left it behind.

I wonder if what happened was something like what Saint Paul is talking about when he says that “God’s love has been poured into our hearts.” Was there a moment, as the woman stood there assessing Jesus, ready to dismiss him because, after all, he had no bucket, and the well was deep, was there a moment that something happened to her and she realized that God’s love was being poured into her heart? Is it possible that the Holy Spirit – as yet unrecognizable to the disciples – carried a measure of love from Jesus’ loving heart and poured it into hers? Was it the unmistakable power of that exchange that kept the disciples silent? Was it the overwhelming flood of God’s love, poured into her heart, that transformed all the woman’s expectations and caused her to set down her water jar and leave it behind as though she had no more need of it?

God’s love has been poured into our hearts.

During Lent we stand before God to acknowledge, among other things, that we so often stand before Jesus with a skeptical stance, as though we want to say to him, Sir you have no bucket, and every well we can think of, every well we encounter, every well that might have something we need in it is deep! What good do you do us if you have no bucket?

Is this any different from the stance of our earlier generations who murmured against Moses (which was really murmuring against God) and said, “Why did you bring us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our cattle with thirst?” What could they possibly have thought as Moses stood there in front of the rock at Masseh? Moses, you’ve got no bucket! And we’re pretty sure you’ve got no sense left if you expect us to believe that you are going to get water from that old rock!

And do we find it any easier to believe that God is pouring his love into our hearts?

Tradition has it that it was for his failure of faith that God would bring water from the rock that Moses was prevented from crossing the Jordan and entering into the Promised Land. At the end of his life, Moses was allowed to see the land to which he had been traveling for forty years in the desert, but not allowed to go over.

Jesus knows that you and I have been traveling too, sometimes across arid, lonely, painful ground. He knows of our anguish for peace and justice and healing and love and hope. He knows that we are afraid to place our trust in him, because the well is deep, and where is his bucket?

But Jesus does not want us to get so close to God’s promise and still miss out on it. He doesn’t want to leave us stuck on the wrong side of the Jordan.

And so he calls us, day by day and week by week; and he calls many others who have not yet heard or responded to that call. He calls us to make room in our hearts for the love of God that the Holy Spirit is pouring into them. He calls you and me to come apart with him and pray. He calls us to spend at least a moment of communion with him. He call us to notice, when we draw close to him in prayer, in communion, that instant when no one dares speak because of that mysterious and mystical exchange when we hold out our water jars to him. We are only hoping that he might fill them with some water. We are only holding them out, hoping for the measure of peace we came for, the measure of justice we came for, the measure of healing, love, or hope we came for…

… and so often we have little expectation that we will receive what we have hoped for. But see how the disciples have stopped in their tracks. See how silent it is. See how something more than what we had hoped for passes from him to us. See how God’s love has already been poured into our hearts. See how ready we are to set our jars down and leave them behind, because it was you and me that needed to be filled – not our jars.

And see how, when we let ourselves get near enough to him - to this great Rock of ages - we are filled to overflowing with that love, by which all other gifts flow in a fount of every blessing. And we thought that Jesus didn’t even have a bucket!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
24 February 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

What is the What

Sean Mullen — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 14:45:32 +0000

In his excellent book that the whole city is now meant to be reading, Dave Eggers tells a creation story that comes from the Dinka tribes of the southern Sudan:

“When God created the earth, he made… the first [men]… tall and strong, and he made their women beautiful, more beautiful than any of the creatures of the land….

“… and when God was done and the [men and women] were standing on the earth waiting for instruction, God asked the man, ‘Now that you are here, on the most sacred and fertile land I have, I can give you one more thing. I can give you this creature, which is called the cow….

“… God showed the man… the cattle, and the cattle were magnificent. They were in every way exactly what the [man and woman] would want… [they] would bring them milk and meat and prosperity of every kind. But God was not finished….

“You can either have these cattle, as my gift to you, or you can have the What.

“… the first man lifted his head to God and asked what this was, this What. ‘What is the What?’ the first man asked. And God said to the man, ‘I cannot tell you. Still, you have to choose. You have to choose between the cattle and the What.”

Of course the man can see what an excellent gift the cattle are. He can imagine the health and happiness to be had in its milk and its meat, he can see that it is a peaceable animal and a great blessing from God and so the first man chooses the cattle, and leaves the What well enough alone. But throughout time the memory of the mystery persists. What other gift might God have had in store? Something better, more wonderful, more frightening, more excellent than the cattle? Or is the What a second prize, of clearly lesser value than a cow? What is the What?

Thus God guides the human heart in imagining the beginning of all things: a garden planted in the east of Eden, a man, and a woman formed from a rib, rivers flowing, a tree of Life, and a tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil. And somehow, choices to be made, even in paradise. To accept God’s obvious blessing or to go with what’s behind Door #2, since, after all the fruit of the tree looks to be good for food, and it was a delight to the eyes?

Our own creation story is universal in its outlook but in many ways it hews pretty closely to the African one. And as Adam and Eve stand naked before the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil, there is a sense in which they are being faced with the same kind of choice: accept God’s obvious blessing, or risk it all and find out what is the What?

There is missing, in the African story, a crucial character, slithering and sliming along: the subtle serpent is absent from this tale. Had he been there, we can only assume that he would have bargained with the first Dinka man and the first Dinka women, convincing them that the What was worth looking into, pointing out ways that they might keep their cattle and still get the What. He could sell snake oil to a snake! But he has no role in this story... not in those early days of story-telling.

But in Sudan the story continues, jumping forward to our own times: a chronicle of the horrific slaughter of men and women all across southern Sudan. An exodus of Lost Boys (and others) walking across the desert into Ethiopia. A decade of childhood spent in a refugee camp. And finally deliverance to the promised land of these United States where the main character of the book finds himself beaten, robbed, and left sitting in an Emergency Room for hours since he has no insurance. Perhaps the serpent, subtle as ever, has been there all along.

And the memory of the mystery persists. What is the What? What is that secret that God once withheld? Was it right to choose the cattle – which had seemed such an obvious blessing? Or would the What have been a better choice that could have delivered the people from this awful fate?

What is the What? It is such an odd question! We can let it take us into our own story, too. What is it that leads us so quickly from paradise to murder? It wasn’t the cows, surely! It wasn’t Abel’s goats that so incited Cain! What is the What?

What is it that has organized this great nation of ours into the aisles of a discount super-store? What is it that puts guns in the hands of children and then recruits them for warfare? Is it some twisted version of a gift that once was given by God? Is it the backwash from the rivers that flowed through Eden? How did this garden get so polluted? What is the What?

Is it some Holy Grail that has inspired men perversely to fight to the death across a holy land? Is it the power of the tree of Life, rolled up into a belt, strapped around a young girl’s midsection, and then detonated in a public square? What is the What?

What gift did we decline? Or is it that we have never stopped pursuing its mystery? What fruit could we have eaten that brought things to this? What parasite has burrowed into the human being that has made the street corners of Camden so awful and so bloody? What is the What?

Or is the What the deceptive power that courses through corporations and congresses as they spend ever more money on weapons and less on anything else? Or is the What light sweet crude oil – that sounds so scrumptious, but grips us with all the determined and corrupting power of a heroin addiction? What is the What?

Perhaps our own story is not so different from the story of those tall, dark Dinka from Sudan. Perhaps we, too, have been possessed by the memory of the mystery of what might have been (what is the What?) How delightfully naive it must have been to see the hopes of the future possessed by a cow! How delightfully simple it would have been to stay away from just one tree! But that was long ago and now we are modern, sophisticated, busy people! Give us the What – whatever it may be! For at last we must know what we might have had - What is the What?!

If the truth is that our story is intertwined with the Africans’ story, then let us let the story take us to the desert – since it is the desert that the Lost Boys of Sudan had to cross. But let us let our story take us to a different desert, where Jesus has gone, and where after forty days of fasting he encounters that slithering, slimy, subtle tempter. And it turns out that the devil has been harboring the memory of the mystery all these ages. He’s packaged it differently for Jesus.

Wouldn’t you like some bread, he asks. Wouldn’t you like to let me help you out? No?

Wouldn’t you like to show me just how powerful you are? Flex your muscles? Won’t you take my suggestion? No?

Wouldn’t you like to add to your power? Wouldn’t you like to rule men’s hearts with an iron fist? No?

The devil’s temptations suggest the contours of that old mystery. Wouldn’t Jesus like to have the What – the alternative to God’s obvious blessing? Wouldn’t Jesus like to have it all? What is the What?

Somehow fortified by his fasting, Jesus, who now seems to know himself more fully, also knows the folly of these false choices. He knows, of course, about the garden and the tree. He knows about the Dinka and the cattle. And he knows about the What. Jesus knows about the false choice between God’s obvious blessing and whatever it is that’s behind Door # 2, or down Aisle 12, or in the firing chamber of a gun, or gushing up from an oil well, or strapped around a suicide bomber’s waist. Jesus knows that there was never really any good choice to be made, that accepting God’s obvious blessing is blessing enough for any people.

So Jesus goes into the desert like a new first man to confront the memory of the mystery of this ancient, nagging question – what might have been? And when we see Jesus confront this tempting question, do we finally see it for what it is: something like a curse on our lips?

Even though that first Dinka man chose wisely, his children, or their children, would find themselves in the exact same boat as the children of Adam and Eve. That persistent question always haunting them, unable to simply be grateful for the cows, the question hung in the air: What is the What?

So Jesus goes into the desert to become a new first man who will take the question from our lips. Because a story like that – or a story like the folly of Eve and Adam – is a story that we are bound to go on repeating over and over until we find a new story to replace it. This seems to be the way we are made.

Which is why today the Sudan has become a place of un-imaginable bloodshed and misery. Far from the most sacred and beautiful land that God could give, Sudan and its people have been raped and slaughtered in their hundreds of thousands over the last ten years or more. Africans are unwilling or unable to put a stop to this. The Chinese are unwilling, the Europeans are unwilling. And although we Americans will read about it and preach about the carnage that has befallen Darfur and other parts of Sudan, we have shown precious little willingness to do much about it.

We are all too willing, it would seem, to live with the What – with whatever the alternative to God’s obvious blessing is. We are all too willing to be beguiled by smooth-talking serpents who tell us we don’t have to have it God’s way, we’ll do perfectly well on our own. And we have not yet convinced ourselves that it is time to let this new first man take over our lives, our history.

Which is why, as Lent begins, the Church drags us into the desert with Jesus to overhear his confrontation with that old serpent.

“Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

“You shall not tempt the Lord your God.”

“Be gone, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve.’”

And there is no What anymore. When Jesus comes out of the desert he begins his ministry of healing and teaching and preaching and feeding. He holds no false bargain up to those who would hear him and follow him. He leaves no lingering question in the air. He only starts to call out, “Follow me, follow me!” And soon we learn that to follow him is no easy task. It might be easier to wonder about what God is hiding behind another door, what secret answer he may hold to an ancient question.

But there is no question. There is only the Cross to go to with this new first man, who will take every ancient tragedy there with him to be crucified with him – and every modern tragedy as well.

And there is no What anymore – no alternative to God’s obvious blessing in this new man, who has given us a new story to tell, and who has beaten that slithering, subtle serpent at his own game.

Forty days and forty nights he is giving us to think about that old story, or to repeat the old question in our heads over and over: What is the What, what is the What?

Forty days and forty nights to leave these things in the desert, where, with the serpent, they will finally shrivel and die.

Forty days and forty nights to discover this new first man, who the devil is forced to leave, and to whom angels come, to bring him to us, if we will have him.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
10 February 2008
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia