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.
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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
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
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