The Kingdom of God

“The kingdom of God has come near.”  (Mark 1:15)

The first thing they want you to know upon entering Jordan is that it is a kingdom.

The second thing they want you to know is that when you are in Jordan you are in the Holy Land, which does not know modern international boundaries.

The third thing they want you to know is that an officer of the tourism police will soon be entering the coach to make sure you have your passports; please have your passport ready to show the officer.

The fourth thing they want you to know is that the bus will be advancing through the first gate, after a period of waiting for no apparent reason.  When the bus stops you are to exit it and retrieve your baggage from beneath it.  You are to carry the baggage into the building you see on your left, entering through the small door.  Place your baggage on the conveyor belt inside to be screened.  Your baggage may be searched by hand.

The fifth thing they want you to know is that you may then carry your baggage out to a waiting area, beneath a shelter.  They do not tell you that you will be profoundly glad for the shelter because even though it is October, the sun is high and hot, and you will find yourself seeking the shade.  They don’t need to tell you this; you figure it out for yourself.

The sixth thing they want you to know is that you must leave your baggage beneath the shelter while you go inside to the immigration and customs office.  There you will stand on line waiting for no apparent reason.  Do not allow yourself to become visibly annoyed; this may not bode well for you.  Wait patiently.  You will have figured out that your baggage will be unattended if you leave it beneath the shelter to enter the immigration and customs office.  This makes no sense – for anyone.  Never mind.  Arrange for a member of your group to stay with the baggage until the first person to clear immigration and customs exits the building.  He or she can now watch the baggage as the first watcher goes to the end of the line, still waiting.

The seventh thing they want you to know is that when you have cleared customs and immigration you may put your baggage back beneath the bus.  But you may not yet board the bus.  And you may no longer stand beneath the shelter; it is nowhere near the bus’s new location.  In fact, you discover that there is a new bus.  The old bus that came from Israel could be trusted this far, but only this far. 

In time, after waiting for no apparent reason, you are allowed to board a Jordanian bus, which comes complete with the benign presence of an officer of the Jordanian tourism police, lest….  well, lest anything should require such a benign presence.

You are pleased to discover that there are bottles of cold water on the bus, available for only a dollar.  And you open one and sip the cool water, as the diesel engine roars a little bit, and the gate tilts up and open, and you begin to make your way into the kingdom.

In various airport lounges, and baggage claim areas the discussion could be heard about whether it took longer to get into or out of Israel; about whether it was better going into or out of Jordan; about which border crossing was the most efficient, which most difficult. And guesses were made as to how long it would take to accomplish the border crossing each way.  It was, frankly neither a nightmare, nor a breeze for an American tourist to go either way.  It was simply a chore to get into and out of the kingdom of Jordan.

It would have been worth it under any circumstances, if only to make our way to Mount Nebo, where Moses is said to have been led by God to see the Promised Land that God would not permit him to enter.  If Moses could manage wandering for forty years in the desert with a troublesome people to see that sight, then we could endure an hour or two of being shuffled along from one waiting area to the next, with or without our baggage.

The view from Mount Nebo is not especially impressive, although you can certainly see a long way.  But you do begin to get the idea that God could be leading you someplace.  You do begin to get the feeling that God has done this before: led people on tiresome journeys.  You do begin to let go of the tiresomeness of the journey.  And you do begin to think about where God might be leading you.  You do begin to remember that the scriptures talk about a land flowing with milk and honey.  You do begin to think about the Promise – about the covenant between God and his people.

Mount Nebo is not even high enough for the air to become thin – only 2700 feet or so – but you do begin to see so much more than you could see before.  You can see the green stripe that follows the banks of the Jordan River.  You already know that the River is a border, because you have crossed it before and you know you are going to cross it again.  But now you can see where you will be going when you return.  You can look behind you and see the Desert, and look ahead of you and find the River snaking its way south to the Dead Sea.  And you can look off to the west, toward Jerusalem, and imagine that God is calling you there, too.  You may dread for a moment the few hours of inconvenience that you already know await you at the border crossing.  But that will not stop you from going.

From Mount Nebo you get back onto your bus, and as you listen to the Arabic-tinged lilt of the tour guide’s accent, you hear that you are returning to the capital city of the kingdom: Amman.  And he reminds you that in the biblical era, Amman was one of the cities of the so-called Decapolis, and in those days the city was known by a familiar-sounding name; the city was known as Philadelphia.  And you may think to yourself that the capital of this kingdom you are now in was once Philadelphia, although you realize you are mixing up time and languages and cultures.

Philadelphia was the southernmost city of the Decapolis, and the one closest to Jerusalem.  And for some irrational reason this thought brings a momentary warmth to your heart.  And you think that if you can look west from that ancient Philadelphia and almost see Jerusalem, then maybe it is not so silly to face east from this new Philadelphia and dream about the distant view to Jerusalem.  And even though it’s the wrong kingdom, it is helpful somehow, to be reminded of the idea of a kingdom.

The first thing on the lips of Jesus in the first Gospel, written by our patron, St. Mark, is this:  “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near.”  Every year on this day we hear those words of Jesus as we give thanks for our life together as a community of faith.  But do we remember the kingdom of God?  Do we believe in the kingdom of God?  De we trust that the kingdom of God has come near?

The first thing I want you to know tonight is that you are in a kingdom, for tonight the kingdom of God has come near, once again.

The second thing I want you to know is that from where I stand, this new Philadelphia is a holy land in which God’s power has been revealed before and where God’s power is at work even now.

The third thing I want you to know is that the gift of the saints is a benign and loving presence that links one generation of believers to another, and although we might never need to call on them, it is good to know of that benign and loving presence of the saints, which includes Saint Mark as well as other saints that maybe only you know, maybe only ever were sainted by you.

The fourth thing I want you to know is that as we make our way on our spiritual journey in life, not infrequently there are periods of waiting around for no apparent reason.  This waiting will make it seem as though you are not actually going anywhere, as though you are stuck where you are.  It will make it seem as though there is not actually anyplace for you to go.  But do not be fooled by the waiting, and do not be put off by it.  Do not expect to learn why you must wait, just get used to the idea that on this journey, from time to time, you will have to wait for no apparent reason.  But remember, God actually has someplace for you to go.

The fifth thing I want you to know is that sometimes the journey of faith is a lot more like a border crossing into and out of Jordan than it is like a tour through the Holy Land.  Some of the stops will make no sense, and you will be grateful for nothing but the shade – if there is any.  At least be grateful for the shade – if there is any.

The sixth think I want you to know is that most people do better on their journey with God when they make it with other people.  This is why we gather into communities.  Sometimes someone has to watch the baggage while others go to get their passports stamped.  Sometimes we need to switch places.  Sometimes you need to lean on someone as you walk uphill.  Sometimes you need to borrow money.  Sometimes you have food you want to share.  Sometimes it’s gin.  The journey to the kingdom is better in community.

The seventh thing I want you to know is that although the kingdom of God has come near, it is sometimes still far distant.  This is a mystery. The bus is ready to go, but you may not board it; and when you are at last allowed to board the bus, they may not let it depart for reasons unknown to you and me.  This feels nothing like the kingdom of God; how can the kingdom have come near.  You have travelled all this way and you feel nothing, you see nothing, you have learned nothing, except to sit and wait on this bus.

And then the microphone comes on, and an Arabic-tinged lilting accent whispers into it, as the Desert begins to roll past the windows: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near.”

So many of us have forgotten where we are going.  It is so easy to forget there is a kingdom, and that God is calling us to it, that God is constantly bringing us near to it, or bringing it near to us – whatever it is precisely that God does; I don’t know which. 

Why are you here?  What are you doing?  What do you believe?  How much have you forgotten?  Does any of this make sense?  Does God hear your prayers?  Does he ever answer them?  The way you want them to be answered?  What are you afraid of?  Will the fear ever go away? Why won’t the pain go away?  Why isn’t life fair?  Are you worthy of the love of God?  Do you care?  Why are you here?  What are you doing?

The first thing I want you to know is that you are in a kingdom.

The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near.

Now, where were we?

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

The Feast of Saint Mark the Evangelist 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Easter Lingering

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

In case you haven’t noticed, in the Episcopal Church, we have a real thing for nicknaming Sundays. Last week, the second Sunday of Easter, we often call “Low Sunday,” and next week is “Good Shepherd Sunday.” We have Laetare Sunday in Lent and Gaudete Sunday in Advent. And then there’s Septuagesima Sunday, Christ the King Sunday, Transfiguration Sunday – even the lesser well-known Quasimodo Sunday. (Ask me about that one after the Mass if you’re curious).

This week we celebrate Déjà vu Sunday. Déjà vu is taken from the French phrase that means “already seen.” It was coined by a 19^th century psychic researcher named Émile Boirac to describe the phenomenon of experiencing something that seems eerily familiar, something that you remember, but you can’t possibly remember, something that…okay. You’re right. I cannot tell a lie; there is no Déjà vu Sunday. (There is a Quasimodo Sunday, though, I promise you.) But if there were ever going to be a Déjà vu Sunday, this would be it. Because as you stood there a minute ago listening to the proclamation of the Gospel, wasn’t there a little voice in your head saying, “Something like this has happened before…this Gospel seems weirdly familiar…”? Something like this has happened before, like, last week, when we heard John’s Gospel telling almost the exact same story. The disciples are shut up in a room, hiding, or regrouping, or something, and Jesus appears among them and says, “Peace be with you.” They are astounded and amazed, and so Jesus shows them his wounds to prove that he is, in fact, their Lord – the same Jesus Christ who was crucified, dead, and buried. Same Jesus Christ; same story. There are some differences, of course. Thomas is noticeably, noisily absent from the group in John’s telling of the story, but in Luke, everyone seems to be present and accounted for. And Jesus is hungrier in the Gospel of Luke, taking time to eat a piece of fish, reminding the disciples of other times they have watched him enjoy his food – sitting by the sea of Galilee, breaking the loaves and the fishes, offering his body and his blood.

But for the most part, these two Gospel stories are remarkably similar. So similar, in fact, that it’s a little surprising that the Church asks that we hear them two weeks in a row. Could you imagine doing that at other times of the year? Coming into church in July and hearing the story of Jesus’ calming of the stormy sea from the Gospel of Matthew, and then the next week hearing the same story from Mark, the next week from Luke? That could be quite interesting, actually, but the Church lectionary doesn’t usually behave that way – except for these weeks in Eastertide when the readings repeat themselves a bit. And so two full weeks after Easter Day, we find ourselves back at Easter evening with the disciples who are just hearing the remarkable, ridiculous news of the resurrection.

Now, there may be a little part of us that feels ready to move on. Where does the story go from here – what happens next? When do we get to hear about the breakfast on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, when will Jesus ascend into heaven, when does that great Holy Spirit dive down on the disciples? What’s next? But the very purposeful repetitiveness of today’s Gospel reminds us, invites us, encourages us to linger a moment. Today’s Gospel asks you – and me – if we would be willing to linger in Easter one moment longer – not just in the stories and celebrations of Easter Day, but in the very presence of the risen Christ.

This is such a timely invitation. Because this concept of lingering doesn’t always come easily for us, and at this is a time of year, lingering can be a particular challenge. In the past couple of weeks, I have heard countless people say to me, “If I can just make it until….” Sometimes this is about being hassled and worn out and tired. If I can just make it through these exams, if I can just get this project finished at work, if we can just finish painting the house, if I can just get to the end of the fiscal year. But sometimes this feeling is about being in a particularly difficult and stressful season of our lives. If I can just get my mother safely settled in a home, if I can just get this second opinion, if he can just find a job, if we can just hang on until summer…. We in the church are not exempt from this way of thinking, of course. If I can just get through Corpus Christi, if we can just make it through this current budget cycle…. If we can just make it past fill-in-the-blank, then…what? Then, we imagine, we’ll have time, and peace, then we can breathe in and linger all we want. But now? Right now we don’t have the time or space to be still and know that God is God.

Of course, we know that this is a kind of magical thinking. We know that there will almost always be something else over the horizon, some other task or tension that will run up on us all in a rush and consume as much time as anything we’re involved with now. There is a natural up and down and back and forth to these cycles, of course, but we know that the ebb quickly turns into a flow, and we’ll find ourselves once again flooded out and wishing for that still, small isle of peace that we can see just out there, if we could only get to it.

But look again at the Gospel for this week – and last week, for that matter. Look at how and when Jesus chooses to show up. He doesn’t wait until the disciples have waded through all of their fears and doubts and panic to make an appearance. No, he shows up right in the middle of the storm of their anxiety, when they’re all whipped up like a sea squall about the rumors of the resurrection. Right in the midst of that foaming tempest – wham! – Jesus appears, breathes “Peace be with you” and the waves are still. He invites the disciples to take a breath, to linger with him as he shows them his wounds, picks the bones from the flaky flesh of a freshly-broiled fish, and opens the scriptures for them page by page, like petals.

And that Jesus, who was the same Jesus who was crucified, dead, and buried, is the same Jesus who is present here in Word and Sacrament and in this people gathered together. Jesus is the same now as he was then; he steps right in the middle of your whirlwind and whispers “Peace be with you.” He invites you to take a breath, to linger with him, to take real time to sit and be still, to chew over the scriptures with him until they taste sweet as honey in your mouth, to savor the taste of his meat and drink. He invites you to linger in Easter each and every Sunday at the weekly celebration of his resurrection, to sit and to sing and to pray and to take eat and to proceed in peace. But Christ also invites you to do this every day, every moment. Right in the middle of your life – ebbing or flowing, stormy or still – he invites you to take a breath, to see, to notice, and to linger a moment with the love that is all around you.

This takes practice, of course. Even if you aren’t feeling particularly overworked or overly stressed right now, the truth is that this lingering always takes effort and attention and commitment. But don’t worry – Christ is happy to stay with you as you figure out what this lingering will look like for you. Maybe it will be silent, contemplative prayer. Maybe it will be the slow, prayerful study of scripture. Or maybe it will be taking time to really listen to what your co-worker is telling you about her child’s report card. Maybe it will be really looking at the person who sits outside the steps of this church asking for money. Maybe it will be paying attention to the earth, stopping and smelling the flowers, noticing the beauty of spring that reminds us that, in the words of Joan Chittister, “hope rages, hope rages, hope rages in this world.”

This kind of practice, this cultivation of a still heart, is what Easter Christians are asked to do every day – to linger long enough that we can open our eyes to see all of Christ’s redeeming work. How else can we possibly be a witness to the good news if we haven’t really seen it ourselves?  Of course this isn’t always easy – sometimes the waves crash against us and we feel as if we’ll never reach the shore. But these waters cannot quench the love of Christ, neither can the floods drown out his speaking, Peace, peace, peace. 

So right now, take a breath. Practice some Easter lingering.  Practice resisting the temptation to rush along to the next part of your story, to look only over the horizon at the oasis of calm that you imagine there. Practice opening the eyes of your heart. Look here. Taste this. “This flower,” writes Thomas Merton, “this light, this moment, this silence – the Lord is here. Best because the flower is itself, and the silence is itself, and I am myself.” Peace be with you. Here. Now.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

22 April 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Doubting Thomas

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

A long time ago back in Palestine land,

was the death of a man on a Cross.

And they buried the chap in the dirt and the sand,

‘neath a stone that was covered in moss.

The disciples dismayed; they were scared to their wits,

and they hid behind doors out of fear.

There they huddled together like a gaggle of twits,

not suspecting their Savior was near.

There was one of them who you’ll remember by name,

“Doubting Thomas” he’s called by us all.

He’s been branded for ever with that odd kind of fame,

That reminds us his faith was too small.

For he was not there at that magical hour

when although all the doors, they were locked,

Jesus rose from the grave, and to show them his power,

came to visit, which left them all shocked.

“Peace be with you,” he said, and he breathed on them then,

thereby sharing the great Holy Ghost.

“Give the gift of forgiveness to women and men”

said their Savior, their Lord, and their Host.

How they murmured and wondered, how their sleep was disturbed,

They were ten, minus Judas and Tom.

And their thoughts were confused, and their whole lives perturbed;

this new peace had not brought them much calm.

The would meet all together, they would talk and they’d pray,

hid away in a dark, secret room,

they went over and over details of that day,

which had ended in tears at the tomb.

And they marveled together, they wondered in awe,

how he’d risen from death, as he’d said,

and almost they couldn’t believe what they saw,

for they truly had thought he was dead.

Eventually Tom was together with them,

and the news was just too good to keep:

that God, in his wisdom, had not condemned

to death the Great Shepherd of sheep:

“We have seen the Lord Jesus!” his friends told him that day,

though to Tom this was hard to believe.

“It can’t be,” said the man in his own doubting way,

prepared only and ever to grieve.

“Let me see the deep prints where they drove the nails in,

let me thrust my own hand in his side.

Don’t you know that I loved him as though he were kin,

don’t you know that for three days I cried

out of sadness for all that we seem to have lost,

out of fear that it never was true,

out of horror to know that his life was the cost

of the lessons he taught me and you.”

“Get a grip,” said his friends, Peter and Paul,

“Get a grip,” said James and said John.

“Don’t you know that he’s come to appear to us all?

Wait and see, for he’ll be here anon.”

It was not long thereafter, when they gathered, those ten,

That the Lord came to be with his friends.

And Thomas was there, to make eleven of them,

and so this was his chance for amends.

“Peace be with you,” said Jesus as he entered inside

by the door that he never unlatched.

“Stretch out your hand, feel my hands and my side,

you’ll see that the wounds are un-patched.”

Then famously Thomas did fall to his knees,

with a gasp, and a shout to exclaim,

“My Lord and my God!  Great Jehovah!  Big Cheese!”

or something a tad less profane.

“Doubting Thomas,” said Jesus, “you’ve seen and believe,

let me say, I don’t want to be mean,

but blest is he who the truth can perceive

though my hands and my side have not seen.”

When we hear this old story the way it’s been told,

and the words that to Thomas were said,

the lesson, we think, is to hear Jesus scold

him for failing to get through his head

the good news that his Lord and his Master had ris’n

from the grave, ‘neath the dust and the stone;

that Death, though he tried, could not fashion a prison

that would keep Christ from claiming his throne.

But perhaps there’s a lesson that’s still yet more pressing

in this story for Christians to glean.

Perhaps it’s the message of Jesus’s blessing

for believers who never have seen

the prints of the nails, or the wound in his side:

the evidence of our Lord’s death.

As though proof was the best thing that he could provide,

and not the Spirit he gave with his breath.

But that Spirit has carried the message of love

to all the four corners of earth:

from Jerusalem, winging its way like a dove,

as far as both Philly and Perth…

I can tell you, I’ve seen with my very own eyes

the power of our risen Lord.

How it lifts human hearts as high as the skies,

how it vanquishes even the sword.

It’s a power that’s given from way up on high,

it’s a force that can’t be disguised;

and it signals that Jesus, the Master, is nigh,

and it’s given to all the baptized.

Which is why we bring children, with fathers and moms,

with godparents, uncles, and aunts,

after reading the lessons and singing the psalms

to the water that’s poured into fonts,

where the Spirit, who to those first ten men was given,

is shared with our own children here:

a sign and a symbol that all is forgiven,

and a promise to chase away fear

of everything evil that makes our faith falter,

with grace and with power divine,

that same grace that leads us all to the altar

to share holy Bread, holy Wine.

And when in our faith we have been through the waters

of Baptism, and of new life,

we give thanks for the gift to our sons and our daughters

that promises fin’ly the strife

is o’er, the great battle won, and the Lord,

in his glory has rose

from the dead for all people, the great human horde:

we are all of us, those he has chose.

And sometimes it may be that you start to think

that your faith is too tiny, too small.

And you’ll fear that your heart is beginning to shrink,

and you’ll doubt that God loves you at all.

You’ll think back on Thomas, and remember the scolding;

in the midst of your doubt you might dare

to fall on your knees, and right there start folding

your fingers together in prayer.

And the answer you’ll hear to your prayer that hour

won’t be one that is mean or unkind,

“Blest are you, my dear child,” says the voice full of pow’r,

“Blest in heart, and in soul, and in mind.

“Oh I know that you think that your faith is minute,

Oh I know you think it’s not enough;

But even small faith can bear you much fruit,

and I’d say you’ve got the right stuff.”

The lesson today is of blessing, not curses,

and if I had bells I would chime it;

but since all I have is these words and these verses,

the best I could do was to rhyme it.

So when you feel low, you’ve got nothing but doubt

and you’re certain that you have been messing

life up, and you think that you just want to pout,

then remember this little blessing:

Blest are you, my belovéd, my child, my friend,

blest are you, my dear jelly bean,

for you have had faith, and on God you depend,

even though with your eyes you’ve not seen.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

15 April, 2012

Saint Mark’s Church

On the occasion of the baptism of

Charles Frederick Reinhardt, Jr.