A Safe Head of Hair

Next Friday evening, if you care to see a minor spectacle, you can come out to see me ride on horseback through the city with the First Troop Philadelphia City Cavalry, whom I serve as Assistant Chaplain.  It is quite a thing to see the Troop riding in formation – with their braided and buttoned tunics and epaulets, their high black boots, and their helmets topped with a swoop of bear fur.  I, however, will be wearing basic black.

It will be hard to tell on Friday that many of the men you see have recently served with the National Guard in deployments in Bosnia, Iraq, and Egypt, and their next deployment will probably be to Kuwait or Afghanistan in 2012.  They will appear to be playing the part of soldiers from a bygone age, when in fact, many of them are real soldiers, at least one weekend a month.

I was reminded of this fact recently when at a gathering of some of the men, we heard recounted again the story of the most recent Purple Heart awarded to a Trooper during the deployment in Iraq.  That story (a harrowing one to my ears) is told, among this set, with some laughter and barely concealed admiration.  And, perhaps for obvious reasons, this morning’s gospel reading put me in mind of it, in a more serious way.  “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom,” Jesus warns, as he warns, too, about earthquake, famine, and plague, and personal betrayal, as time moves toward the fulfillment of God’s intentions and a new era of the reign of his kingdom.

Many Christians – probably many of us – do not really know what to make of these kinds of warnings, or what to think about what God’s intentions for the future time might be.  But we hear a crazed insurrectionist note in what Jesus says this morning that puts us on edge.  And we may worry that it has become all too easy to interpret the various lunatic wars we are part of or can read about as a part of God’s plan.

But to my ears the single most important part of Jesus’ warning is this: “But not a hair of your head will perish.”  How can this possibly be?  Amongst all the violence and catastrophe Jesus predicts, can all his disciples expect to be kept safe?

That is a question I do not know the answer to.  But what I hear in what Jesus teaches is the assurance of two things: first, that the violence of the world we live in is to be expected before God’s will takes a more perfect hold on us all.  And second, that God’s children will be protected when God’s time is fulfilled.

I think about the story of that Purple Heart, and the man I ride with, to whom it was awarded.  And I think about the tens of thousands of wounded soldiers that have returned home from Iraq and Afghanistan in the past eight years, and about the thousands who only came home to be buried.  And I want to know why all the hairs of their heads were not kept safe.  I want to know why they were not protected from harm, why their lives were cut so tragically short.  To what end?  I want to know.

But the answer to that question eludes me.  And I am able to reach only one conclusion: that none of this warfare is part of God’s plan.  Jesus’ accurate prediction of wars and catastrophe does not mean that the violence they wreak is part of his plan.  For God’s plan is that not a hair of our heads should perish.

It brings me a feeling of shame to think that good men and women – thousands and thousands of them – have been asked to fight in wars that most Americans do not believe in and would not fight in, indeed that most of our leaders do not believe in and would not fight in.  And when I ride beside men who have been called to take up arms, and who will be called to do so again, it is with a singular intention: so that I can pray, sometimes audibly, that God’s will may some day come to fruition, and not a hair of their heads will perish.

May God protect all his children in every place where wars and disasters threaten them. 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

14 November 2010

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The Unknown Island

The great Portuguese writer, Jose Saramago, once wrote a little story about a man who goes to see the king to ask him for a favor:

“Give me a boat,” [the man] said….

“And may one know what you want this boat for?” [the king asked]….

“To go in search of the unknown island,” relied the man.

“What unknown island?” asked the king, suppressing his laughter, as if he had before him one of those utter madmen obsessed with sea voyages, whom it would be as well not to cross, at least not straight away.

“The unknown island,” the man said again.

“Nonsense,” [the king asserted,] "there are no more unknown islands."

“Who told you, sir, that there are no more unknown islands?” [from the man.]

“They are all on the maps,” [this from the king.]

“Only the known islands are on the maps,” [said the man.]

The king: “And what is this unknown island you want to go in search of?”

“If I could tell you that,”[the man replied,] “it wouldn’t be unknown….”

“And you came here to ask me for a boat?”

“Yes, I came here to ask you for a boat,” [said the man.]

“And who are you that I should give you a boat?”

After a bit more cross-examination, the king finally relented and agreed to give the man a boat.  So he sent him down to the harbormaster with a note.  And this is what the note said: “'Give the bearer a boat, it doesn’t have to be a large boat, but it should be a safe, seaworthy boat, I don’t want to have him on my conscience if things should go wrong.'  When the man looked up, this time, one imagines, in order to say thank you for the gift, the king had already withdrawn."[i]

Many of us came to church today expecting that the message would be all about money; after all it is Commitment Sunday, when we ask you to make your commitment of financial support to the work and ministry of this parish.  And since we live in a society that has a somewhat unhealthy relationship to money – in which its hoarding and unjust distribution is looked upon as a great virtue – it would be reasonable to spend fifteen minutes or so examining our attitudes about money.  And next year I may very well ask you to do that!  But this year it seems to me that we might see ourselves more like the man in the story who goes to ask the king for a boat.

And if I told you that we were asking for that boat in order to go in search of the unknown island, would you think of me as one of those madmen obsessed with sea voyages whom it would be as well not to cross, at least not straight away?  Would you fire back at me that this is nonsense, that there are no more unknown islands, that all the islands are on the maps?  Would you begin to think twice about whether or not we really need a boat?

Because a boat, as anyone who has ever owned one knows, is a hole in the water down which you throw large sums of money, and watch that money sink away into the wet darkness.  You must pay for a mooring, and you have to cover the costs of crew and provisioning.  There is lots of maintenance on a boat, which is always succumbing to the corrosive effect of the water.  Plus there is fuel and other supplies.  And there are always repairs on a boat, lots of repairs.

If I told you we had come here to ask the king for a boat, would you ask me if I had really thought this through carefully?  And would you ask me to explain to you again about this unknown island?  How can I be so sure that there is an unknown island out there to be discovered?  Aren’t all the islands already on the map?  But of course I will assert to you that only the known islands are on the map.

Jesus always called his disciples to go with him to an unknown island.  Even when he assured them that they knew the way, the destination was always something of an unknown island.  And the Christian journey is, in many ways, a voyage in search of the unknown island.

For some the journey gets off to an easy start, as it does for the fishermen, who are used to boats anyway and find it easy to answer Jesus’ call to “follow me.”

For most of us, it is a voyage that leads, at some stage through the narrow straits of repentance, when we try to turn from our old sins, and live the new life of searching for the unknown island.

For some it leads through forgiveness of others, and acceptance of things we cannot change, which is also a lesson that needs to be learned by those whose search requires them to give up old habits, fight destructive addiction, and learn a new way of living.

For many of us the search for the unknown island requires us to learn how to give thanks, to learn humility, and to be willing to serve others.

For some, the journey is aided immensely by selling what you have and giving the money to the poor.

For others it is a painful journey that leads through sickness and suffering.  And we don’t know why this is so, any more than we know why one day sees clear sailing, and the next day we are buffeted by storms that make us wonder if we should have ever left port.

But always, always in the Christian life we are searching for the unknown island, which is to say that we are confronting our conviction that there is at least one unknown island left for us to discover.  And some days this seems more likely than others.

Every day in this parish we stand before God and ask him for a boat in order to go in search of the unknown island.  Unlike the king in story, God already knows where all the unknown islands are, but these are the secrets of God’s heart.  We cannot expect him to divulge them.  But we can and we do expect him to give us a boat.  For he already knows the answer to another question the king in the story asked, “Who are you that I should give you a boat?’  He knows you are the work of his own fingers, a beloved child, made in his own image, and brought back to redemption with the precious blood of his Son Jesus. 

God always gives us a boat.  He has given us this magnificent church to worship in.  He has given us a mission to care for the poor and the hungry.  He has given us one another, in a wonderful community of love.  He has given us work to do at Saint James the Less, and in our mission trips abroad.  And he has given us a song of faith to sing day by day by day.

In our enlightened world, we are often told that there are no more unknown islands left; that all the islands are already on the maps.  That such searches are, in fact the undertakings of fools who have been taken in by an old superstition.  We might as well be chasing a white whale.

But we see every day a world that yearns for justice, freedom, peace, forgiveness, healing, and love.  In such a world, if there are not unknown islands left to be found, then we are living without hope.

And many people believe that giving money to the church is as foolish as financing a boat to go after that whale: very much like throwing it down a hole in the water, where it sinks into the wet darkness.  But I suspect that these are those who do not believe in the unknown island, and who prefer to cling to their money though it brings little hope or peace or joy into the world.

You might think that the Tale of the Unknown Island is an adventure story, but Saramago’s version is actually a love story.  And I believe that God’s version of this story is also a love story.  He calls his people – no matter how broken, poor, sick, or unworthy we may be – to follow the way to the unknown island, where he promises we will at last find peace, mercy, healing, forgiveness, hope, and love.

Every day, I ask God for a boat, for me and for this parish family, and every day God answers that prayer one way or another.  God is always willing to give us the boat, and show us the way.  There is always need, however, for the rest of us to give our share for the journey.  And I suppose we do a better job of that if we have a greater faith that there is an unknown island of God’s love to be found.

Speaking for myself, I’d have to say that from this vantage point on Locust Street, I’ve always thought that it is easy to look out over the vast, spiritually empty miles that surround us, and see land that looks a lot like what was, until now, an unknown island.  For while this parish is not the final destination to which God calls us, I feel certain that you can see it from here!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

7 November 2010

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

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[i] Jose Saramago, The Tale of the Unknown Island, translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa.  London, The Harville Press, 1999

Two Brothers

An old story, told by the rabbis, is still told today:

A long time ago, in the place that is now Jerusalem, but long before that holy city’s streets were laid, there lived two brothers who had inherited a farm from their father.  Each had built a house to live in and a barn in which to store wheat, on opposite sides of a hill in the middle of the land they shared and tilled together.  The older brother was single and lived alone.  The younger brother had a wife and children living with him in his house.  The brothers loved each other dearly and did not want to divide the fields between them.  So together they plowed and planted and harvested the same crop in the same fields.  After they cut the wheat, they shared equally in the produce of their labor, and each stored his half in his own barn.

One year at harvest time, this time of year, the two brothers, each in his own home, beside his own barn, on opposite sides of the hill, found themselves lying awake at night, thinking.

“Here I am,” the older brother thought to himself, “all alone with no wife and no children.  I don’t need to feed or clothe anyone.  But my brother has a family to raise.  Is it right to share our harvest equally?  After all, he has greater need than I do.”  So at midnight he arose and took a bundle of wheat from his barn and carried it to his brother’s barn and left it there. Then he returned to his bed and slept in peace.  And he did this night after night, during harvest time.

Also troubled in his sleep, his younger brother thought to himself, “Here I am, my wife looks after me, and when I grow old my children will take care of me.  But what will happen to my brother in his old age?  Who will take care of him?  He has greater need than I do.  It isn’t right to share the harvest equally.”  So shortly after midnight he arose and took a bundle of wheat from his barn and carried it to his brother’s barn and left it there. Then he returned to his bed and slept in peace.  He, too, did this night after night during harvest time.

For years, every harvest time, each brother would consider the other’s needs, and would wake night after night in the small hours to carry some wheat from his barn into his brother’s barn.  And for many years neither brother knew of the other’s generosity.

One year, on a clear and starry night, around this time of year, the two brothers met each other coming over the hillside, with sheaves of wheat bundled in each other’s arms.  When they realized what they had been doing all these years, they dropped their sheaves, held out their arms and embraced.

Long after the brothers were gone to heaven, and their children had sold the land and subdivided it, as Jerusalem was built up around it, the story continued to be told about the two brothers, and the spot on the hill was remembered as the place where they met and discovered the gift of their generous love toward each other.  And the rabbis say that that is the place where King Solomon decided to build the Temple, for it was fitting that the holiest place of the holiest city should be a place that had long been remembered for extraordinary generosity and grace between brothers.

It is now almost harvest time here at Saint Mark’s.  It’s time for us to lie in bed and think at night about one another, and about our brothers and sisters who are not a part of this family yet, or who have no place at all to build a house or a barn, who don’t even know how to find their way to the hillside.  Its time to be troubled in our thoughts as we try to fall asleep and to wonder if it’s right to keep so much of the harvest for ourselves since we know so many whose needs are greater than ours.  It is a beautiful thing to be kept awake at night by the thought that you might be able to do something for someone you love; that all you have to do is get up and carry a bundle of wheat in your arms and deliver it in secret, sharing what you have with someone whose need is great.

When Saint Mark’s was built, it was one of the first buildings on this side of Broad Street, the city had not yet grown up around it.  Quickly the streets were filled in and the city of brotherly love made its way here.  We’re not in the exact middle of the city here, but we are close; and there is no hilltop here, but I think, I hope, I pray that we occupy something like the space where those two brothers met, before Jerusalem was builded, so long ago.  I hope we are a place where brothers and sisters, kept awake by their consciences – by their love – bring their gifts for each other, and for the brothers and sisters who have yet to join our number, or who simply need our care.  It might even be that like Zacchaeus we’d like to give half of all that we have to those who have greater need than we do – believe it or not there are people in this world even now who do just that.

We are the vibrant, happy, lively and faithful community we are because generations of brothers and sisters before us left their sheaves here, while they were living and when they died.  And although Philadelphia may not quite be a holy city, we are standing on holy ground, consecrated by the prayers of God’s people over more than 160 years, and by the care of God’s children, and by the visitation of the Holy Spirit.

We are so many more than just two brothers, who have been so abundantly blessed in our many ways.  And we come here week by week, from our various edges of the fields we work in.  And when we get here, do we realize that no matter what we do for a living, in God’s eyes we are all tilling the same soil, tending the same crop?  Have we begun to suspect in the small hours of the night that it would be good for us to share what we have with someone whose need is greater than our own?

And I believe I see you coming over the brow of the hill toward me, carrying something in your arms, and I have something in mine.

Let us decide to leave it here, where an altar has already been built.  And may future generations know why this temple stands here at a place on Locust Street: a place of extraordinary generosity and grace, where brothers and sisters lay down our offerings, and spread our arms wide to embrace.

Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

31 October 2010

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia