And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing.
What can break Americans’ hearts like baseball can? The wounds of war are deeper, to be sure, but the betrayals of baseball sting with a certain sharpness. The release of the report on the use of performance enhancing drugs in major league baseball shows us how the boys of summer can strike us a blow even as winter sets in.
It has, of course, been dawning on us that the heroes of the great American pastime are not what they used to be. And those who think back to the Black Sox scandal of 1919 realize that they probably never were. Still, it stings to find that our dreams have been misplaced; that the icon for all that is good and pure in America is more or less a sham; that like everything else, baseball is a business; and its players are often not worthy of the adoration we would heap on them. And there is no point in pretending – let alone hoping - that it ain’t so.
What did we expect? Did we expect that because a man could swing a bat in a certain arc, with a certain force, that made him good? Did we expect that a stolen base was an accomplishment of justice? Did we expect that pitching a no-hitter was actually a virtue, pointing toward the possibility of Truth and Goodness in the world? Did we really think that a home run could really heal a sick child, listening to the World Series on the radio? And did we expect that in a society that happily uses Botox, liposuction, and all manner of nips and tucks to re-engineer our bodies (not to mention all the chemistry we use daily to re-engineer our moods), that somehow it would never occur to athletes to give steroids a whirl?
We are learning, in America, to be disappointed. We are learning how to be let down by our government, our schools, our churches, and even baseball. We often have to learn how to be disappointed by our parents, our children, our neighbors, our friends, as well. This is what it is to be human.
So it is no surprise that John the Baptist is wondering, when we catch up with him in today’s Gospel reading, about Jesus. “Are you he who is to come? Or shall we look for another?” Growing up, as he did, listening to the story of how he leapt in his mother’s womb when her cousin came to visit, and with the outlandish tale that his father was told what to name him by an angel, wasn’t John set up for disappointment from his earliest days? But his question today, is full of guarded hope. “Are you he who is to come? Or shall we look for another?”
The people who had listened to John’s somewhat fantastic preaching, they, too, are poised for disappointment. The kingdom of heaven is at hand!? What are the chances this is so? The possibility of disappointment hangs heavy in the air. John the Baptist may yet turn out to be John, the crazy guy in a camel’s hair shirt.
And Jesus… well, who’s to say that he isn’t less than he appears to be, that he isn’t pocketing the money from his collections, and fooling around with the emotionally needy women who are drawn to him while their own husbands (if they have one) are away all day doing men’s work?
Perhaps, John the Baptist is not what he appears to be. Perhaps Jesus isn’t what he appears to be either. It wouldn’t be the first time we were disappointed, and it won’t be the last. This is what it is to be human.
It is the voice of the prophet that prepares us not to be disappointed: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom…”
The prophet knows what it is to be human. He knows that we would sell out, and that we have been sold. He could be counted on even to see baseball for what it is. He speaks to people whose hearts have been broken. And he has nothing more than his poetry and his voice to break through the veil of spin and repression, and chemistry that we have used to manage our disappointment: “Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, fear not! Behold, your God… will come and save you.’” He knows that we need to be saved, because he sees how we have been banished to disappointment, and sometimes even to despair.
And if baseball has broken our hearts, yet again, just imagine what our government has done to us over the decades; just imagine what the church has done to us these past years, let alone throughout the rest of history. Just imagine how shattered we are. It’s just that we can admit our disappointment in baseball and its players. Do we dare to admit (even to ourselves) how badly our hearts have been broken by all the rest? And do we dare to admit that we fear God will break our hearts, too? What do we expect?
Do we really expect that there is a Son of God whose gentle touch is a sign that he is good? Do we really expect that the invisible spirit of that Son can bring justice into this unjust world of ours? Do we really expect that the story of a man who was killed on a cross, so many thousands of years ago, has the power to point to the possibility of Truth and Goodness in the world – let alone something beyond this world!? Do we really expect there is someone who can give the blind their sight, make the lame to walk, the lepers whole, and the deaf to hear? Do we really expect the dead to be raised up? Do we expect the poor to receive good news – in this city?!
Of course not! We expect our hearts to be broken – even baseball teaches us this now! We expect to be cheated, lied to, left behind, to have to fend for ourselves, and to survive only if we prove to be the fittest. We expect market forces to determine the measure of comfort we will enjoy in retirement. We expect to be sold, one way or another, just like the mortgages on our homes, to the highest bidder. Most of the time we cannot admit any of this – and so we let our hearts be broken by baseball, because at least we believe that is a heartbreak that will mend.
But God knows that real heartbreak lurks around many corners. God knows how we flirt with disaster in this militarized nuclear age. God knows that a city where 25% of the people live in poverty (but that still claims to be a city of brotherly love) is a catastrophe that has already happened. God knows that even in a city with five medical schools hearts are broken around sickbeds every day. God knows that a church whose leaders can’t speak to one another without lawyers is in some trouble. God knows that we have had to learn to expect to be disappointed.
To his prophet he gave only a voice and a poem. But to his Son he gave real power: power to save everything that would be lost or stolen or cheated away, or withered, or held for ransom. God knows how low our expectations are, and he knows that we are often no more certain about Jesus than his cousin John was in those first days. Is this he who is to come? Or shall we wait for another?
If you think that there are precious few miracles, these days, to point to the hope that comes from Jesus, come and see what happens – in this hopeless world – when you put your disappointed heart in his hands. Come and see what happens when you give your illness and your injury to him. Come and see if the dead have no hope. Come and see if the poor are to be banished for ever to disappointment. Come and see what happens when we put our trust in God!
Come and see what it means to set our sights on a promised land – on Zion, that holy mountain where God prepares a feast for us and where the cups are overflowing. Come and see what it means to be free: ransomed from the power of disappointing heartbreak by the promise of hope! Come and see!
How is it that we live in a society that will give up on God before it gives up on baseball?
“And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” You and I – and anyone we can bring with us – are the ransomed of the Lord. We have been wandering in a wilderness of disappointment. But Zion lies ahead of us, and there is no other to wait for: the One who could unlock the gate has already gone ahead of us.
And all we have to do is try to decide if we will put our trust in him, and go wherever he calls us to go. Or would we could wait patiently through the winter for another baseball season to begin, and see if we aren’t disappointed.
The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing… And is this Jesus the One who is to come, or shall we wait for another?
Come. And see!
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
16 December 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia
The Onion
In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky tells this story:
“Once upon a time there was a wicked-wicked woman, who dies. And she left behind her not one single good deed. The devils seized her and threw her into the fiery lake. But her guardian angel stood, and thought, ‘What good deed of hers might I remember, in order to tell God?’ He remembered, and told God: ‘She pulled up an onion in the kitchen garden,’ he said, ‘and gave it to a beggarwoman.’
“And God replied to him: ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘take that very same onion and offer it to her in the lake, let her reach for it and hold on to it, and if you can pull her out of the lake, then let her go to heaven, but if the onion breaks then let the woman remain where she is now.’ The angel ran over to the woman and offered her the onion: ‘Here you are, woman,’ he said, ‘reach out for it and hold on!’ And then he carefully began to pull her, and soon she was nearly right out; but then the other sinners in the lake, when they saw that she was being pulled out, all began to catch hold of her, so they should be pulled out together with her.
“But the woman was a wicked-wicked woman, and she began to kick them with her feet: ‘I’m the one who’s being pulled out, not you. The onion’s mine, not yours.’ And no sooner had she said that than the onion broke. And the woman fell back into the lake and burns there to this very day. As for the angel, he began to weep and left the spot.”
Thanksgiving Day seems like it ought to be simple: we give thanks for all we have – piles and piles of onions, and everything else besides! And there is something simple about that, to be sure. But the Gospel cautions us against stopping there. “Do not be anxious about what you shall eat or what you shall drink… Your heavenly Father knows [what] you need… But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”
Here in America, we live in a virtual horn of plenty, where, admittedly, some hoard their onions, and others too often go without. Still, there are onions enough to go around, and everything else besides. So it seems a little too easy to take a long weekend, to gorge ourselves, and as we do, to look momentarily up to heaven as we say “Thanks” through our stuffed mouths. Especially if we happen to be ignoring what’s happening underneath the tablecloth… which is to say that within this horn of plenty that are hungry hands reaching up to catch hold of us, who for one reason or another never had so much as an onion held out to them.
Seek ye first the kingdom of God.
Dostoyevsky saw that even in the fiery lake of hell, with nothing but an onion to grab onto, a person could seek the kingdom of God – and all she had to do was stop kicking the others away. Even in the fiery lake of hell, with nothing but an onion to grab onto, a person could seek the kingdom of God. Just imagine, how close to the kingdom of God we might come, even in this life, with all that has been given us for the seeking, with all these onions, and everything else besides. Just imagine!
Is it enough for us to come to the table on Thanksgiving Day, and say with sated satisfaction, “God provides; thanks be to God!”? Or does the kingdom of God beckon us? Do our guardian angels hold out platters of onions to us (and everything else besides), and wait to see whether or not we start to kick?
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Thanksgiving Day, 22 November 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia
Turning the Page
For behold, the day comes, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave neither root nor branch. But as for you who fear my name the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings. (Malachi 4:1-2)
The book of the prophet Malachi is the last book of the Old Testament. The fourth chapter (the last chapter) has only six verses, most of which we read this morning. And the last line – which means the last line of the Old Testament, as it's arranged in our Bibles – is a threat: “he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the land with a curse.”
The prophet has already told of the coming of the messenger of God (“he is like a refiner’s fire”), and fine-tuned the image – the day that comes shall burn them up! And he leaves his listeners with a cliff-hanger. Will the hearts of fathers be turned? Will the hearts of their children be turned? Or will God smite the land with a curse? Coming, as this does, at the very end of the Old Testament, it’s enough to make you ask: Is this how it’s all going to end? It might even be enough to make you want to turn the page and read on!
Generally speaking, I don’t like the passages we read from Scripture today – and I’m guessing you don’t either. They tend toward fire and brimstone, which is not really my stock in trade. I prefer the warm and fuzzy gospel of the Good Shepherd who goes after the lost sheep to the Jesus who warns that wars, insurrections, earthquake, famine, and plague are part of the story of salvation. I prefer the prophetic vision of the great feast of fat things on the holy mountain of God to the vision of the day that comes, burning like an oven.
And since I am an Episcopalian, it is often assumed that I can choose the parts of Scripture I like and ignore the parts I don’t. But that is a characterization made by people who don’t go to church every Sunday – which is to say, other Episcopalians.
Today we heard it – “Behold the day comes, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up.” And I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to think about a God who stokes the fires of an oven for anyone – the allusion is too cruel. I don’t want to think about sheep being separated from goats, about doors being locked, about weeping and gnashing of teeth, about betrayal and persecution. This is not the message of love that has won my heart!
Is it true that I am prone to pick and choose those parts of the Christian message that I want to hear? Do I live in a kind of bubble of privilege that gives me the freedom to do so? If I’m honest, I suppose that both of these things are true in some measure. And I know that it is unrealistic. Because I know, of course, that in this city there are kids being pressured to get involved with gangs who don’t feel they have much choice. I know there are families ruined by drugs who can’t imagine they have much choice. I know there are children whose lives are shaped by violence who can’t even find a safe corner, let alone a protective bubble. I know there are schools in this city where a child can’t even learn to read let alone explore the meaning of justice, truth, or beauty. I know that there is some cruel power here in Philadelphia that has recruited gun-toting goons to take close to 350 lives so far this year.
And it would be easy for many of us to want to retreat into safety. But the Scriptures – certainly the prophet Malachi – compel us to read on, as it were, to turn the page, rather than close the book and reach for something else.
Whether we like it or not, there seem to be what the prophet called “evildoers” in the world around us. Some of them are packing explosives into vests; some are industriously at work in crystal meth labs; some wreak havoc in their homes and others do so across entire nations; some sit at government desks; and some stand waiting on streetcorners; some open fire in a Dunkin Donuts in the city of brotherly love.
And the question that the Scriptures pose again and again is this: is this how it’s all going to end: a marketplace of injustice and a cruel imbalance of power? Has God smitten the world with a curse? Is there hope?
In the Bible, as in life, it is important to remember to turn the page. And the clever editors who once decided to put Malachi’s threat at the end of the Old Testament did so for a reason – to get you to turn the page and begin the story of Jesus.
If we turn the page we find that as Malachi predicts, God’s messenger (in the person of John the Baptist) does come. And if he is not quite a refiner’s fire, he has at least a measure of urgency in his call to repent. And his urgency does not point to an impending storm of fire and brimstone, but, it turns out, to the birth of a child. It’s enough to make you glad you turned the page.
And isn’t this how the story so often goes? The threat of God’s awful righteousness tempered by his mercy? The destruction of the flood tempered by the promise of the rainbow. The offensive sacrifice of Isaac stayed by the hand of an angel and the provision of a ram. Hunger in the desert assuaged by bread from heaven. An angry God shown to be more godly in his mercy. It’s important to turn the page.
We live in an age when it seems entirely plausible to me that God has fires to stoke. There are people – let’s call them evildoers – who are inflicting great harm on other people in our neighborhoods, our city, our nation, our world. Where are the refining fires of God? Will he not smite those who have presume to usurp his power – the power of life and death – into their own hands? “Evildoers not only prosper but when they put God to the test they escape!”
Will God ever turn this page?
In answer to this question, the prophet is given a vision that is so confusing to him that the best he can do to express it is a lyrical melee of mixed metaphors: For you who fear my name, God says, the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.
Amidst the fear that the world slips ever more deeply into darkness, we are told that the sun will rise!
Amidst our fears that justice has been perverted, equity is a dream, truth doesn’t exist, and holiness is a vapor, we are told of righteousness!
Amidst a disease-ridden world that cannot summon the will to battle malaria, tuberculosis, or AIDS with all its might, we are told that healing comes!
Amidst the hobbling ballast of self-indulgent consumerism in which the marketplace reduces all things to their lowest common denominator, we are promised wings!
This is what comes of turning the page. And even Malachi, for all his dark foreboding, cannot fail to proclaim it. Does he see what’s coming? Has he any inkling of the truth? Does he know that he is close but not quite right? Did he think that the burning fires were really the stoked flames of an angry God? Turn the page and see!
The crucible of God’s justice is a manger. The furnace of God’s love is a mother’s womb. This is how God turns the page!
My brothers and sisters, we live in dangerous times. I have said it before and I will say it again. It is easy to find a story of gloom written in the pages of our newspapers and in the book of history that we are writing for ourselves. It is easy to see the end of all things and the judgment of an angry God handed down from the bench. And who could blame him!?
But turn the page and see. See that babe in the lowly manger. He is the sun of righteousness, risen with healing in his wings. He has, it would seem, more pages still to turn before he draws the world more tightly to himself, before the whole story is told. But thanks be to God that he has already written the ending. He alone knows it. But he urges us to keep turning the pages, and looking for the sun of righteousness to rise and to rise and to rise, with healing in his wings!
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
18 November 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia