“So through God you are no longer a slave but a son, and if a son then an heir.” (Gal. 4:7)
Evelyn Waugh once said that the ideal relationship between a father and a son consisted of long periods of silence interrupted occasionally by sums of money arriving in the post. Behind Waugh’s attitude lies a socio-economic reality that would very likely include boarding schools, allowances, skiing in the Alps, university education, a good marriage (whether happy or not), gracious gentlemen’s clubs, a reasonable position in finance, industry or the law, and finally an inheritance – perhaps modest, but meaningful all the same. The few of those aspects of upper-middle class status that Waugh himself did not enjoy are all supplied handsomely to the characters in his novels.
Put Waugh’s pithy comment a slightly different way: long periods of silence interrupted by dramatic blessings from above. This is very much the way Jesus’ relationship to God, his Father, is presented in the New Testament.
We have the stunning circumstances of this child’s birth: from shepherds to angels to wise men. Then: nothing. The briefest blip on the screen (in one of the Gospels), about a precocious utterance in the synagogue as a child. Them what? Eighteen, twenty years of silence, darkness, nothing, (maybe some carpentry). Until his cousin John the Baptist comes on the scene, as though delivering a long-lost envelope. And then, in the water, the cloud and the dove and the voice from heaven: This is my Beloved, my Son. That’s a check you can take to the bank!
More silence, then, until the fateful day at Golgotha. The man – the Son – is nailed to the Cross, and left there to die! And there is darkness, and earthquake. But no voice from above, and no rescue. And, it would seem, no inheritance. But then, there is the empty tomb, and the strange and mysterious appearances, and finally his ascension on a cloud – a last, dramatic intervention from above that, if you can believe it, might lead to the ancestral heavenly home, to his seat in the kingdom at the right hand of his Father.
And if this is how we see Jesus’ relationship with God the Father – long periods of silence interrupted by occasional blessings from above - do we really expect any more for ourselves? And doesn’t it sometimes seem, for us, that the long periods of silence grow longer, and the occasional blessing from above less dramatic – and certainly less frequent?
Saint Paul had no such reservations, and was at pains to remind the first Christians (whether they began as Jews or not), that in Christ we are all part of one, great lineage; linked together by our ancestry in Abraham – which is more figurative than literal - and promised a share of the inheritance of the kingdom of heaven.
“Because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” The sexist language here is deliberate – since for most of history in most societies (and certainly in Paul’s time) it was only the sons who could expect to be heirs. But we understand that God has sent the same Spirit into his daughters, crying, “Abba! Father!” as well.
So much of the world hears this as an empty cry these days. They point to those long periods of silence in our own lives as though they were proof that there is no Father to call out to, no Abba to hear our cries of worship and love and sorrow and need and joy and wonder. And there is a suspicion out there in the world – and perhaps here in the church as well - that there is no inheritance to be had for the sons and daughters of God. There is the suspicion that if there ever was one, it was squandered in the Crusades or the Holocaust or somewhere in Lynchburg, Virginia, but that there is no point in crying out, and nothing to cry for, no Abba listening to hear us. What possible inheritance could there be from a Father who sends his Son to die on the Cross, and who then sits silently though so much of history?
It’s hard for us not to see the situation in Freudian terms. No wonder the church went running back to Mary – her mother – in the face of so distant and silent a Father. No wonder we are saddled with so much dysfunction, considering the strained family dynamic. No wonder Jesus’ own prayer life is one of anguish, considering the demands of an oft-silent Father.
This is a cynical way to see things, and probably not very good psychology either. Still, there are many, in our current age, who are eager to point to this Christian family narrative and call it delusional, at best. And any thought of being heirs, is just crazy: heirs of what?! Heirs of the legacy of the Bethlehem manger?! Heirs of the silence of a far away God?! Heirs of the blood poured out on the Cross?! What does that get you?!
It is Saint John’s gospel that shows us the rich inheritance that has been ours from the very beginning. It is in that peerless testimony that we learn about the life that is the light of men and women: the light that shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it, the light that enlightens everyone. For it is in our fellowship with that light – in Christ our brother – when we believe in his name, that we are given power to become the children of God, whose inheritance comes not because of our family name, or our heritage, or of any will of man, but because we were born of God! We are inheritors of light!
Abba! Father! Why are you so silent?! Why so distant from this world you made and from the creatures whom you must have loved if you bothered to make us?
God’s answer to this cry is to give us light to shine in the darkness. It may seem to us like a silent response. And it may be hard to take it to the bank. But it is this inheritance that shows us that darkness will never overcome us; that suffering can be transformed into glory; and that death will never be our master. This is the inheritance of light!
And it depends on one thing: on knowing that Jesus is our brother.
It is in the gift of Christ our brother that God’s long silences are broken. It is in his daily, bodily presence with us in the eucharist that God’s great distance from us is foreshortened. And it is in his own language that Christ our brother teaches us how to call out in hope: Abba! Father!
My brothers and sisters in Christ, it is true that God our Father is often a mystery to us. We are perplexed and often frustrated by his ways, by his silence, by his distance. Perhaps because God knows himself, did he send us his Son, our brother, to bring us his Spirit and to teach us to cry out, Abba! Father! for anything at all.
Abba! where are you? I am here, with Christ your brother – for where he is, there I am also.
Abba! I’m scared! I know, child, trust in the strength of Christ, your brother.
Abba! it is dark, and I am afraid of the dark! Here is your light, child, Jesus, your brother; the darkness will never overcome him.
Abba! I’m lonely! Reach out to your brother, child, take his hand, he will never leave you alone.
Abba! We need you! Here child, inherit the kingdom, ruled by the light of Christ, your brother. Everything that is his is yours, and there is nothing to fear.
For, in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. He is the true light that enlightens everyone. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world received him not. He came to his own home, and his own people received him not. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God; who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father.
And he is our brother. The Word is our brother. The light is our brother. Christ is our brother: yesterday, today, and for ever.
Thanks be to God for that great Word, spoken once, and sounding still throughout the silences of all the ages.
Thanks be to God for that light, given once, and shining for ever, overcoming all darkness.
Thanks be to God for the power given to us all to become his children, brothers with Christ, and co-heirs with him of everlasting glory.
Thanks be to God, to Abba, our Father! Thanks be to God!
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
30 December 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia
The Light
In the nighttime,
as the darkness settles,
and becomes colder and colder,
the pipes in that old house
bang and clang with so much noise –
what you might call a clatter –
that I almost feel I should rise
to see what is the matter.
What is the matter?
As the darkness settles
and becomes colder and colder?
What is that clanging
that banging
that noise
that almost wakes me up?
There is so much noise
it could be almost anything.
It could be gunfire
from the cold desert nights of Sudan,
from the wars
that someone elses’s sons
and daughters
are fighting for us,
or from the streets of our own city,
where guns are clanging and banging
all the time: a horrible clatter.
It could be a campaign
of candidates on their way
to New Hampshire or Iowa,
making so much noise as they go,
so much clanging, signifying what?
It could be the banging
of heavy, vaulted doors,
where mortgages are kept,
locked up,
where we thought they were safe,
until even they started clanging.
It could be the tills,
the ringing registers of Christmas,
or the ATMs,
or the sound of credit
being tested
and expanded
and stretched
to what limit?
It could be in my head, or yours.
There is so much noise
inside people’s heads.
Voices, for some.
Ideas for others –
crazy ideas,
depressing ideas,
vengeful ideas,
not good ideas.
And a moaning sadness for others.
But still, a sort of clanging
or banging
that keeps you up, or almost could.
A lot of noise,
as darkness settles,
and becomes colder and colder.
But could it be something else –
all this noise?
Considering the night.
Considering the songs we sang.
Considering the promise
of angels’ wings and voices.
Considering the possibility
that shepherds make a lot of noise,
and so do kings,
when they finally show up.
And considering
that morning has now come,
and the banging, and the clanging
have not stopped,
but I can no longer be certain
that it’s the pipes
making all that noise.
What could it be?
What is the matter
on this new morning?
Of course, it is the matter
of Light on this morning,
as it is every morning.
But somehow different today.
Is it a certain slant of light?
No. It is some whole new Light:
brighter, stronger, deeper,
and more golden
than the already golden light
of each new morning.
Who knew that light
could expand and contract
inside the pipes of that old house?
Who knew it could bang and clang,
as it rose up like heat
as the darkness settled
and became colder and colder?
Who knew whether the light
would stay trapped inside those pipes,
never to be seen,
only felt,
as though only the heat had come on.
When, in fact,
the Light was shining in the darkness,
and all I heard was some banging,
some clanging,
as though something were the matter.
Because, of course,
something is the matter –
we’ve been over that.
Let’s not pretend that all is well.
and all is well, and all is well.
All is not well.
It could have been almost anything –
all that clanging,
all that banging.
It could have been gunfire,
even here,
on Locust Street.
But it was not.
Not last night, at least,
not this new morning.
It is the matter of Light
on this new morning.
It is the matter of life,
that is the light of men
and women everywhere.
It is the matter of the true Light
that enlightens every one of us,
and all the whole world.
It is the matter of Light
that fills the world this morning
with its baby-ish cries,
as it fills that manger,
and seems to set the straw ablaze.
But it is only shining,
light-infused,
and still more golden
than the already golden light
of each new morning.
But if the Light could stay trapped
inside the pipes
of that old house: clanging,
and banging,
then what are the chances
for you and me?
What are the chances
that that same Light
courses through us,
rising up, like heat?
Did we think it was only heat?
Only hot flashes?
What are the chances
that that true Light
came into the world for you
and for me?
And what are the chances
that even now
that Light
expands and contracts
with the breath of the holy Word,
and with our own breathing –
yours, and mine?
What are the chances that the Light
really does shine in the darkness?
Even if the darkness is deep
within you, within me?
Even if it seems to get colder
and colder.
Who knows what the chances are?
And who cares?
What I care about
is all that banging and clanging,
all that clatter!
What I care about is the heat, rising,
expanding, contracting,
wherever it can,
wherever darkness settles,
and it gets colder and colder.
What I care about is the Light,
breaking forth, with so much force
on this new morning,
so much golden brilliance,
more golden
than the already golden light
of each new morning.
What I care about is the clatter
of all that Light in the world:
a joyful, holy noise,
that’s not just in my head, or yours.
It is the sound of the one, true Light
coming into the world.
It is the sound of your voices
heralding that Light
with the angels’ songs,
and with their wings.
It is the sound of the Light
overcoming darkness
in a world that often prefers darkness
to light.
That’s why it bangs.
That’s why it clangs.
That’s why there’s clatter
in the night,
as the darkness settles,
and it gets colder and colder.
The Light is growing, expanding,
contracting with Mary,
whose contractions
brought their own noise last night.
The Light was ready to be born:
banging and clanging,
and crying out with its infant cries,
so I almost felt I should rise
to see what was the matter.
Nothing is the matter.
The Light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.
And the morning shines
with a golden Light,
more golden
than the already golden light
of each new morning.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Christmas Day, 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia
A Publisher's Christmas
For more than a hundred and fifty years, maybe two hundred, Philadelphia was a publishing town. As early as the 1740s, magazines were beginning to be published here. By the time of the War of Independence, the city was a hotbed of publishing of all sorts, spurred on, no doubt, by the industrious Benjamin Franklin. Shortly thereafter, the first Bibles produced in the newly independent States were published in Philadelphia by Robert Aitken. The 19th century saw the rise of publishers like Curtis and Lippincott and the heyday of Philadelphia publishing: Ladies Home Journal and The Saturday Evening Post leading the pack.
And in 1885 the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America published a volume here in Philadelphia called “The Little Children’s Book for Schools and Family” which sounds hopelessly quaint to me, but which contained at least one enduring contribution to Western culture: the first two verses of the Christmas Carol, “Away in a manger.”
There is a little mystery surrounding this carol. The author of those first two verses is completely unknown. And although an attribution is often given for the third verse, which appeared years later, many think that it, too, came from an anonymous pen. The hymnal in your pews will tell you only that the words are a “traditional carol.” But I like the attribution given by an English hymnal that lists, at the bottom of the little poem, where the author’s name should be, just these words: “Anonymous, Philadelphia 1883.”
The carol is sung to several different tunes, depending on what country you live in. And one scholar suggests that there is an old Moravian tradition of this carol being played by trombone choirs, which I imagine is not quite as good as angel choirs, but certainly better than choirs of kazoos!
Many of us know that another Philadelphia church (just the other side of Rittenhouse Square) can claim to be the home of the great carol, “O Little town of Bethlehem.” But I think that all of Philadelphia could lay claim to “Away in a manger.” Without the year (1883), “Anonymous, Philadelphia” could be any of us, making the prayer of this Christmas carol our prayer - “I love thee, Lord Jesus! Look down from the sky!” – as though it were too embarrassingly innocent to admit to: a “Dear Jesus” prayer, signed only, “Anonymous, Philadelphia, 2007.”
But since we are Philadelphians – at least many of us here tonight are Philadelphians, and we are willing to adopt (for one night only) those of you who are not – and since we come from a publishing town, we have a challenge this Christmas. It is our challenge to publish the Good News that we hear sung by angels tonight. For where would we be if the Lutherans (Lutherans, of all people!) had never published our lovely little anonymous carol? And where would we be if Phillips Brooks had not returned from his journey in the Holy Land to his parish on Rittenhouse Square, in Philadelphia – a publishing town – where “O little town of Bethlehem” could set in type and widely distributed?
And where will we be if we keep the Good News of Christmas to ourselves? If we tell everyone about the bargains we got while shopping on line? Or the great new place we discovered to get chocolates? Or the fantastic deals at Macy’s? Or of our patience in standing on line at DiBruno Brothers? Or the deal we got on a tree this year? Or how many times we drove to New Jersey to buy wine? Or that your terrific new scarf came from Daffy’s, not Burberry’s, and all your ornaments and tableware came from Target not Tiffany? Where will we be if we tell all of this but we never mention a word about this secret joy of Christmas, about the way Jesus answers our prayer – “Be near me, Lord Jesus!”
And have we come here tonight to test this prayer? “Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay/Close by me for ever, and love me, I pray.” (Signed: Anonymous, Philadelphia, 2007)
It is for this reason that Jesus has called us here: to hear our prayers, and to remind us all what it’s like when he’s so near us, so available to us, so ready to be taken up in our arms, and in our hearts. It is to let us remember what it feels like when we bring all of the frustration, disappointment and sorrow of the last year to his cradle. To be reminded that joy can and will be kindled in our hearts like a warm fire on a cold winter’s night. The Christ child calls us here with his Christmas wailing, so that we can sing our prayers and praises together – even the secret prayers of our hearts, too private, or frightening, or just plain embarrassing to admit ownership of them – just anonymous prayers from Philadelphia in 2007. (“I love thee, Lord Jesus! Look down, look down, look down from the sky!”)
And if, in the dark mystery of this night of God’s love, if in the flicker of a candle’s flame, or the resonance of a musical note, or in the eyes of your own child, if you should happen to catch a glimpse of something peaceful, something joyful, something holy this night, will you rise to the challenge in the morning? Will you risk being brave enough to publish the Good News you and I sing about tonight?
By this I don’t mean that you have to go and write a book about it! You don’t have to find an agent and shop your manuscript around. You don’t have to register the copyright or negotiate the advance. All you have to do is find a story, one story, of Christmas. We have heard again tonight the well-known story of the angels and shepherds, of Mary and Joseph, and no room at the inn. But what Christmas story could you or I publish that has not yet been told?
What anger could we let go of this Christmas-time? What offence could we forgive? What grudge could we finally let go of? What self-righteousness could we give up?
What injustice could we stand up against? What conflict we could we help to resolve? What imbalance could we set right in the scales?
What persistent wound could we ask God to heal? What chronic sickness could we ask him to help us learn to live with? What loss could we ask God to help us accept?
We live in a world that has become violent, cruel and often disappointing, despite the truth that God made this world to be good; we live in a world that conspires to distract us from all kinds of miseries – of others and our own – with shiny things and 3-D animation, and almost anything you’d care to be addicted to. And Jesus knows that we come to his cradle with all the woes of foreign policy, family dynamics, and financial strain weighing on us. And still he hears us sing, “Look down from the sky!”
Do you know that this baby Jesus holds heaven and earth in his pudgy hands? Do you see how he transforms a stable into palace and a refugee girl into the Queen of heaven, her consort Prince a carpenter only moments ago?
Do you believe that his birth can change the world – and has already done it? Do you see how for his sake men and women have lived beyond themselves, achieved great things, and learned to love and care for one another for no reason other than that we are neighbors?
Do you realize that even death, our greatest fear, has been vanquished by this tiny child, because once he traveled for us across the great divide between life and death and closed the gap with nothing but his awesome love?
“Be near me, Lord Jesus!” who makes all things new! I ask thee to stay, to stay, to stay, and to stay close by me for ever, and love me I pray…
Will this only ever be a secret prayer of our hearts on Christmas Eve? Or do we dare to publish the hope that we place in this little child? Where will this world of ours be if we don’t all become little publishers of hope this Christmas-time?
Away in a manger, all those nights and years ago, God came down to us: a tiny, little child, nothing but a baby. And since then, nothing has ever been the same – since Love came down that first Christmas.
And who are you and I to keep such joyful news to ourselves? Even if we never dare to admit who “Anonymous, Philadelphia, 2007” really is. Is it you this Christmas? Is it me?
We love thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky, and stay, and stay, and stay, and stay by our side, on this cold winter’s night, until morning is nigh!
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Christmas Eve, 2007
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia