The Peace of God

You may listen to Mother Takacs' sermon here.

This is a peaceful place. This space, right here, within these magnificent, dark walls, is a place of peace. You don’t have to be a mystic or a great spiritual guru to feel that this is a holy place; in fact, this is often the first thing that people say when they see the church for the first time. It’s so beautiful in here; it’s so peaceful. I feel God here, I feel safe here. When you step into the nave and hear the gentle thump and shudder of the doors as they shut behind you, you can feel a presence in here with you, and suddenly the traffic and the noise and the busy-ness of the world seem a million miles away.  And you know that the presence you feel is the very presence of the Almighty, made palpable by the patina of prayers that have been spoken and sung here for a hundred and sixty years, prayers that have soaked into the wood and the mortar, prayers that make the very stones themselves seem to hum with life. This is the holy space T. S. Eliot speaks of in his poem Little Gidding, when he reminds us: “You are not here to verify,/Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity/Or carry report. You are here to kneel/Where prayer has been valid.” You are here to kneel where prayer has been valid, where holiness has been beautiful, where people have known peace.

And isn’t that exactly what we long for? To know a place of peace? We come to this place because it is a refuge, because the state of our lives often leaves us seeking sanctuary. We live, many of us, in a constant state of war; we are at war with our schedules, at war with the incessant barrage of information that assaults our brains. We are at war with our waistlines, our bank accounts, our impulses. We are at war with those voices in our head that tell us we will never be good enough, that we are no longer useful, that we are unloved, unworthy, and alone. We war against cancer, against unemployment, against wrinkles, aging, death.

And in those moments when we are blessed enough to find a grace-filled way to calm the chaos in our lives, we are always reminded that there is still plenty of chaos in the rest of the world. There are protesters slaughtered in Syria, gay men murdered in Uganda, children starving in Somalia, innocents shot in Philadelphia. There is a 22% unemployment rate in Spain, the constant threat of riots in Greece, a vitriolic election process in America. There is certainly enough turmoil in this world to make us yearn desperately for a place where we can feel God’s mighty arm wrapped around us, holding us and keeping us safe. There is enough cruelty and injustice and anguish in the world to make all of us cry out to the Lord, in the words of today’s collect, “Almighty God, in our time grant us your peace.” In our time, please God, grant us your peace, and in the meantime, give us this place where prayer has been valid and peace is present.

I wonder if that is what this poor, sick, desperate man from Capernaum felt when he entered the synagogue on that Sabbath morning. He must have lived a life of torture, tormented every moment of every day, exhausted by the effort of continuously fighting off the voices of those evil spirits that fed like parasites on his soul. Was it only in the synagogue that he was able to find some peace? Was it only when he stepped out of the sun into the cool, dark building, only when he heard the shuffle of his own sandals on the sandy stone floor, that those voices finally became muffled and still? Why else was he there, if not to find some measure of calm, to feel God’s arms wrapped around him, to sit for a few moments in the eye of the raging storm of his life?

But into this place of peace walks a new rabbi, accompanied by four shiny new disciples, fresh-faced and following. And instead of the predictable, pedantic words of the scribes, this new teacher, this Jesus, offers words of power, words spoken with real authority, that amaze and astound his listeners. And the peace that our poor, bedeviled man had been trying to wrap around himself like a blanket is suddenly and completely shredded. The dark voices within him that had always lain dormant in the shade of the synagogue suddenly erupt in protest, howling out of his mouth with words that are not his own: “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” His peace is shattered; the chaos of his life has returned with the sudden ferocity of a storm whipping up across the Sea of Galilee. He finds himself not wrapped in the protective arms of God but facing down the fist of this Jesus of Nazareth, whose arm stretches out against the devils who dare to speak his name. “Be silent!” Jesus commands, or, more accurately, “Shut up! Put a muzzle on it. And come. Out. Of. Him.” And this poor, fraught man, who had come to the synagogue only to find some measure of peace, is suddenly in the middle of a war, as the powers of good and evil battle in his very body, as he feels the demons torn out of him, screaming their pain and frustration out of his mouth, sending him into convulsions as they fight to keep their hooks in him.     

And then, just as quickly as they had risen up, the spirits are gone. And the crowds are amazed at what they have seen, not least of all the man, who lies panting in a pool of sweat on the ground. Mark doesn’t tell us so, but I imagine people in the crowd helping him up, brushing him off, getting him a glass of cool water to drink. How do you feel? they ask him. Are they really gone? And looking up into the powerful, joyful, radiant face of Christ, the man whispers his answer hoarsely through a rough throat. Yes, he says. They are gone, and I feel…I feel…peace.

Do you think it’s possible that this is what God wants for us too? That part of the peace that we are offered in this place is not just a moment of reprieve from the voices of pain, anger, and fear that whisper war in our hearts but also the strength to face those destructive voices and be wholly rid of them? Do you think it’s possible that the peace God wants to give us is more rich, more complicated, more lasting than an occasional breath of calm? Do you think that maybe God loves us, loves you, too much to offer you anything less than real, transformative peace?

After reading this Gospel story, I do think so. As much as we love the idea of peace without risk, of a calm that effortlessly soaks into our souls like water seeping into cracks in the sidewalk, the truth is that peace is more work than that. Finding our peace involves facing down those dark voices that battle within us and telling them once and for all that they are unwelcome. And those voices will not go quietly. They will cry out again and again, fight us fiercely until we are thoroughly worn out. But we face these voices standing alongside Jesus Christ, the Holy One of God, who speaks for us when we have no voice, who stretches out his arm against the dark forces of this world when we have no strength and heals us when we think we are beyond all hope. Those voices that tell us that we are unlovable or good for nothing, that tempt us to eat more than we need or drink more than we should, that try to convince us that injustice will always reign on the earth, that tell us to be afraid, always to be afraid – those voices will be grow more and more muted until they are finally muzzled forever. For we have this promise: that the peace of Christ is ours to claim; it is our inheritance, the peace that passes all understanding, the peace that only the Son of God can give. This peace is an active, life-changing, real, redeeming force in the world that rebukes the powers of darkness and bathes all people in light.

So in this holy place, pray for that kind of peace. Pray for that kind of transformation, for you and for the world. Pray that God will call you here and send you out into the world in that peace, and grant you strength and courage to love and serve Him with gladness and singleness of heart. And carry with you this beautiful poetry from our own Hymnal: “The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife closed in the sod. And yet we pray for but one thing – the marvelous peace of God.” 

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

29 January 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Greater Things

The Bible is full of signs from God.  You remember recently we heard about the star that was a sign to the wise men.  Way back in the stories of Moses you may recall all kinds of signs God gave back in the day: from turning his staff into a serpent to dividing the waters of the Red Sea.  The message is: if you want to know where to find God – and especially if you want to know whose side God is on – then look for the signs.  Water flowing from a rock; manna raining down from heaven; a dove and a voice from heaven; a rainbow in the sky; a vision of the heavenly court; a ladder that stretches into heaven; angels singing sweetly through the night.  The pages of the Bible regularly supply us with vivid images of signs from God meant to prove that God is in charge, or to demonstrate something that someone might normally be reluctant or unprepared to believe.

The desire for signs has not diminished in our own times.  The recent best-seller that tells of a “little boy’s astounding story of his trip to heaven and back” is touted as a sign that “Heaven is for Real.”  Religious leaders regularly see signs of God in weather events and natural disasters. The work of the scientists at the Large Hadron Collider has recently been linked to the possible discovery of the so-called God-particle, which, if identified, would, I guess, provide a sign - proof that God actually does exist, but can only been found with a really, really big particle accelerator!  This would be a more satisfying sign to many of us than the face of Jesus appearing in a piece of burnt toast.

You might say that it is very hard to be a person of faith – or a person looking for faith – and not to look for signs.  How are you supposed to know whether God is up there, out there, or wherever he or she or it is?  How are you supposed to know what God wants you to do?  And how are you supposed to know that the signs you see aren’t actually delusions, as a great many people would like you to believe?  If God isn’t going to post videos on YouTube to make his presence and his will known, then how can believers avoid looking for signs?

The view from a mountaintop, the breeze across a lake, the gurgle of a stream can all provide signs of God in the world.  And so can the cries of a newborn, the outstretched hand of a homeless person, or the purring of a kitten.  This season of the church year, in fact, is meant to be all about signs – all about remembering the signs of God’s revelation of his presence in the world in the person of his Son, Jesus of Nazareth.  Healthy young fishermen will leave their boats at his beckoning, demons will quit their sorry victims, illness will be put to flight – just wait and see in the stories that we read in the coming weeks.  Sadly, this year we will not read about the wine being turned into water, but it is a favorite sign, and one most Episcopalians have never stopped hoping to see repeated.

Today we hear about one of the silliest and least convincing signs of all: Jesus claims to have seen Nathanael under a fig tree at some earlier point in time.  That’s it.  Which, if any of you were to believe was a sign that you had had a personal encounter with the messiah, I would suggest more therapy.

Moments ago, Nathaniel was sneering at Jesus as a redneck from Nazareth, but when Jesus, says, “Before Philip called you, I saw you under the fig tree,” Nathaniel believes he has seen a sign that here indeed is the Son of God, the King of Israel.  It wasn’t much of a sign to go on, but apparently it was all Nathanael needed.

If you are preoccupied with signs, you might leave here today thinking that this is the point of the story.  If I was preoccupied with signs, I might spend the next few minutes trying to convince you what an absolutely terrifically important sign this is, not only to Nathanael, but to you.  I might suggest that I have seen you sitting under proverbial fig trees, that Jesus sees you under them even now, and that he has sent me to you to give you a sign!  But I am not preoccupied with signs – not today anyway – and I hope that today you are not either.  Because if we were preoccupied with signs we might have stopped listening to Jesus already, and we might not hear what comes next.  Don’t look!  Can you remember what Jesus says to Nathanael after he more or less laughs at Nathaniel’s simple-minded preoccupation with what may or may not have been a sign?

This is what Jesus says: “You will see greater things than these.”

It is by no means clear that Nathanael believes Jesus, or has any idea what he means by this, but it will transpire, twenty chapters later in John’s Gospel, that Nathanael will be there by the Sea of Galilee when the risen Jesus appears to his disciples, although they do not know it is him until he gives them a sign.  And Nathanael, who might have been known only for his quick-witted insult of Jesus, is among the first to see and know that the promises of new life through Jesus are true, because the Lord is risen, and the gates of death and hell would not prevail against him!  “You will see greater things than these,” Jesus had said to Nathanael. And so it will prove to be.

You come to church, maybe every week – maybe not so often.  What signs do you see here?  What signs have you seen in your life?

Do you see signs of God’s real presence in the Bread and the Wine as I lift them up for you to see and the bells are rung?

Do you see signs in the faces of the hungry people we feed here every Saturday morning?

Do you see signs in the colors of light streaming through the windows just now?

Do you hear signs in the notes that the choir sings, the organ plays, or in the hymns to which you join your voices?

Have you seen signs in the wilderness when the beauty of God’s creation is spread out before you?

Have you seen signs in the twinkle of your little child’s eyes?

Did you pray for a sign of God’s presence as you stood vigil at your loved one’s death bed?

Have you tasted a sign of God’s work in a loaf of bread that was baked for you, or in a piece of fruit that was picked or peeled or squeezed for you?  Or in a meal that was served to you?

Has the rain brought you signs of God’s work?  Or the sunshine?

All of these are places that I believe I have seen signs of God.  And yet, somehow they can all fall short.  Signs are great as long as they last, but they don’t last long, and it’s not always clear what we are to make of them, and there is this modern nagging suspicion that all those signs are just delusions anyway.

But believing in Jesus is not just about seeing signs in things where other people see delusions.  Believing in Jesus is believing in the promise that you will see greater things than these.

This was God’s promise to Abraham, who assumed he had nothing before him but the waning years of his childless old age. You will see greater things than these.

This was God’s promise to Joseph, who was left in a pit and sold into slavery by his brothers.  You will see greater things than these.

This was God’s promise to his people through Moses, who had nothing to look forward to but increasing hardship and abuse at the hand of Pharaoh.  You will see greater things than these.

This was God’s promise through his prophets to his people when they were carried into exile.  You will see greater things than these.

This was God’s promise to all who came to visit the straw-strewn manger where a child was nursed by his mother beneath the light of a twinkling star.  You will see greater things than these.

And this is God’s promise to every one of us, when we sometimes feel as though we have to grasp at straws for signs of God’s promise.  You will see greater things than these.

Was that a message from God spelled out in your Cheerios yesterday morning?  And have you missed the fleeting chance to know what God is doing in your life because you gobbled them up too soon?  No, you will see greater things than these.

Does the faith you once felt long ago, but which has slipped away as you’ve gotten older, and begun to lose your friends, and your family, and your soul-mate, feel worn and flimsy?  You will see greater things than these.

Have the songs that once you could sing out in full voice become hard to sing?  You will see greater things than these.

Does it seem that maybe once, long ago it seemed possible that Jesus saw you, sitting under a fig tree or wherever, but now, the signs of his love are distant memories, that seem less real to you, and that your children are inclined to ignore?  You will see greater things than these.

What can you do if your faith was built on signs, but the signs have all faded, and you have begun to wonder if you ever saw them in the first place?  Did you believe just because someone once told you that Jesus sees you under your fig tree?  Did you believe just because of the signs?

Let me promise you that God is not done with you and with me; we will see greater things.

The life of faith is not just a life in which you receive the worn out old promises of a rickety old God and his dusty old religion.  It is a life that carries with it the promise of greater things: a land flowing with milk and honey, for instance.  The whole story of the Bible is the promise of greater things, and all the heroes of the Bible clung fast to this promise: that you will see greater things.

But too many of us have somehow concluded that there is not much more to faith than reading the tea leaves of the world around us and seeing God in them, or not.  And if your faith rests on whether or not God is going to provide a sign on a piece of toast, then that faith can be smothered with nothing more than a spoonful of marmalade.

Faith in God has always been built on the promise of greater things, and it has always been delivered to those who are in need of them: the childless, the homeless, the wandering, the depressed, the poor, the hungry, the battered, the frightened, the abused, the war-torn, the abandoned, and the out-of-luck.

Perhaps some small sign is given: a birdsong, a passage of Scripture, the helping hand of a stranger.  And now what?  Will I see greater things?  Or is this all there is, these little signs to be embraced or dismissed?  Yes, you will see greater things than these.  The Christian puts one foot in front of the other every day because of this hope – you will see greater things.  And from time to time we have glimpses of the greater things God has in store.

From time to time we approach the altar with nothing left in our souls, and no confidence even in the signs that led us there.  We are ready to give up, but we are still going through the motions out of habit.  And in a moment of silence, no sign is given, but we discover the assurance that God is in the world.  How do you know it?  You don’t.  You have received no sign; you only ate the bread and sipped the wine like you always do, but you knew that you had met Christ for a moment at his table, and he reminded you that he is not done with you yet.

From time to time we realize how desperately we are in need of forgiveness.  We put off dealing with it, we avoid certain people, we make excuses for ourselves.  But by God’s grace we have a moment of weakness when we are able to confess and to seek forgiveness.  We know we don’t deserve it, but we kneel before God and ask him to forgive us.  And without any sign at all of his work, God waves his hand over our heads and wipes away the sin that has troubled us so, and sends us on our way.

God has planted the vision of a promised land in our hearts.  And although many signs point to it, none of them leads us directly there.  Not yet.  But you will see greater things.

I thank God for the signs he allows us to see, and I pray that not too many of them are delusions (though probably a few of them are).  And I hope that you see signs of God’s work in the world and in your life, too.

But there is something very important to remember, both when the signs seem to be coming at you fast and furious, and when they are but a distant memory.  You will see greater things than these.

God is not done with you or with me. He has greater things in store.  He has a place, a promised land, to which he is leading us, and if we forget that, then there will be no point in paying attention to the signs anyway.  By all means, look for the signs of God’s work in your life and in the world.  Be a skeptic about the signs if you want.  But never forget that there are greater things in store for you.

One day you will be on the shore of a distant lake, and there will be a figure there who you do not recognize.  Perhaps he will show you a sign, and it will all make sense.  Or maybe there will be no sign at all; maybe he will just call you by name.  And you will remember that once, in the midst of your search for signs, he promised you that you would see greater things.

And now that you can see them all unfolding before you, you feel that you can finally breathe, and at last in this new world of greater things, you discover that you are meant to live!

Thanks be to God.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

15 January, 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Phialdelphia

Baptisms Gone Wild

You may listen to Mother Takacs' sermon here.

Picture the scene. A Sunday morning at Saint Mark’s. 11:00 Choral High Mass. Ushers are helping people to find their seats, handing out leaflets, and welcoming newcomers. The congregation is settling into pews or scanning ahead to see who is preaching today or bent in prayer after shuffling a red kneeler across the floor. The candles are lit; the organ begins to play. Altar servers are gliding about the chancel, in that amazing, unique way that says, “I’m going as fast as I possibly can, but I will darn well look dignified while I do it.” Then the servers disappear, the prelude rolls into the Introit, a breath!, and the first hymn. The congregation stands and opens their mouths wide in joyful song, the choir and altar party and clergy process in – and the Mass is underway.

But just as soon as it’s begun, you notice something different. After the opening acclamation, the Celebrant chants, “There is one Body and one Spirit….” Ah-hah!, you think. A baptism today. I wondered why the pews seemed so full. Come to think of it, the church is really full – really, really full. Bursting at the seams, in fact. What a joyful occasion, you think, I love baptisms. They’re so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. And so you travel through the liturgy of the word, listening to the readings, reminding yourself – again – to let someone know that you’d like to become a lector, praying the psalm as the choir sings, rising for the Gospel, attentively following the sermon, getting lost in the middle, finding the preacher again when she gets near the end, and then – finally! – the altar party stands, the choir begins to sing Palestrina’s Sicut cervus (which you now know so well that you like to sing along quietly under your breath) and the baptism has begun.

When the baptizands and their families gather with the priests at the back of the church, it looks like half the congregation is trying to squeeze back there. The crowds turn into more of a mob as they try to find their spots, and you find yourself worrying about the safety of Father Mullen – but he eventually emerges from the fray and all is right with the world again. When all has settled down and the candidates begin to be presented by name, you realize why there is such a crowd – there are twelve people to be baptized today. Twelve! Amazing! What are they doing in that confirmation class these days? After all the names are read and the promises are made, the candidates make their renunciations and affirmations, prayers are sung, the water is blessed, and the baptisms finally begin.

And for a while, all is going quite well. The candidates are processing up to the font in order, receiving the baptism with water and anointing with oil and a baptismal candle. But then you notice that after they are baptized, the candidates seem to be a little dazed. One of them has wandered up the North aisle and seems transfixed by the stained glass window of Jesus walking on water. Another has started some kind of davening in the soft space, rocking and muttering under his breath while holding a little stuffed lion. And yet another has marched straight down the center aisle and is smiling up at the rood beam with his arms extended. You think to yourself that all of this is starting to get a little unseemly when suddenly, from the font, you hear a strange, alien sound. The man who has just been baptized is standing on the step, his hair dripping wet, and, well, he’s moaning. Or talking or rapping or scatting or something, you really can’t tell…and as soon as he starts to make noise all heaven breaks loose. The davening man begins to sing, the window man is now rocking back and forth, a woman has jumped up on a back pew, pointed at the congregation and belted out, “Hear, O people, repent and return to the Lord!” Another woman has begun witnessing earnestly to the people seated by the St. John’s altar, and yet another has run up into the choir yelling, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, the kingdom of heaven is like a fugue.” All of the newly baptized are dancing and singing, lighting every candle they can find, praying and prophesying and speaking in tongues. All is finally brought to order again when the Master of Ceremonies, who just happens to be Dan Devlin, calmly approaches each new prophet and quietly reminds them of their place in line, which they, of course, are happy to find if only because he asked them to.

It sounds crazy. It sounds absurd. It sounds like it could never happen and that Erika was a little giddy when she was writing her sermon this week. But this is exactly what is described in our reading from Acts today. Twelve disciples, living in Ephesus, meet up with Paul. When he asks them if they received the Holy Spirit when they were baptized, they answer him that no, they don’t even know what a Holy Spirit is. They were baptized with the baptism of John, a baptism of repentance and preparation for the one who is to come. But, Paul says, the one who is to come has already come, and gone, and come again, and when he ascended into heaven he promised the disciples that they would receive a comforter, the Holy Spirit who would come upon them and bless their preaching and their healing, offer strength and consolation for the journey. Well, give us this baptism, these twelve disciples say, and “when Paul had laid his hands on them, the Holy Spirit came upon them, and they spoke in tongues and prophesied.”

So why does my little scene seem so crazy to us? The Bible is full of stories of baptisms gone wild – impulsive baptisms in an obliging stream; baptisms of dozens, hundreds, thousands, after a particularly dynamic sermon. And in today’s Gospel, in Jesus’ own baptism, “the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove” and the voice of God thundering from the clouds. But you and I have rarely seen a wild baptism like this. Most of the baptisms I have seen or performed have been quite orderly, some even stately, and the wildest they’ve ever gotten is when an infant thinks that the water is too hot or too cold and decides to test out his lung power. No wonder we’re tempted to think of baptism as something domestic, as merely a “rite of initiation” meant to be witnessed by family and friends and followed up with fluffy white cake.

Now I have nothing against family and friends and fluffy white cake. And baptism is the rite of initiation in the Church. But it is so much bigger than that, so much more powerful, so much wilder than anything we could ever contain in a small marble font. Any invocation of the Holy Spirit is bound to get wild, but baptism particularly so because of the astonishing promises of the baptismal covenant. In our baptisms, we promised, or someone promised on our behalf, to continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers; to persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord; to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ; to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves; and to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being. These are the promises that we made; this is covenant that we entered into. They’re crazy; they’re impossible – we’ll never, ever be able to keep them all all the time. But, remember, we never promised to do these things alone – we promised to do them only with God’s help.

It is God’s help that makes the wildness of these promises something creative and life-giving instead of fantastical. And this help is found most powerfully here, in the Mass itself. Each week, in this liturgy, we enact these promises and remind ourselves of what they feel like. We learn the apostles’ teaching through the Holy Word of Scripture, break bread and pray; we confess our sins; we proclaim the Gospel and hear sermons that hope to share the Good News; we seek Christ in all persons by gazing into their eyes and offering them his peace; we love our neighbors and effect peace and justice through our prayers and thanksgivings; and we respect each human being by kneeling shoulder to shoulder to receive the bread and the wine. The preacher Barbara Brown Taylor compares this facet of our worship to strength training – a workout that helps us to be fit and ready to run when we enter the mission field.  

And in our worship, we are reminded, too, that this covenant has never been one-sided. God has also made promises – to be faithful to us, to be present in the body and blood, to “raise us to a new life in grace” day after day after day. And God keeps his promises. Without his righteousness, made manifest in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, we would be utterly lost. The wildness we would face then would be utter chaos with no hope and only the rule of Death. But that is not the life into which we have been baptized. Our baptisms had power, have power, the power of this holy covenant that, when lived out by you and me, transforms the world. So keep this covenant, or if you have not been baptized, seek it out. Embrace the wildness of these promises; practice them together here week after week. And then listen for that mighty voice of God proclaiming again and again that You are my son, my daughter, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased. And do you know what the really wild thing is? He really means it.

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

8 January 2012 - The Baptism of our Lord

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia