The Poor Mouse

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, the Lord has sworn by Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds.  (Amos 8:4, 7)

The arrival in my apartment on the third floor of the Rectory of a mouse is not a wholly unusual occurrence; it has happened before.  Evidence of the mouse’s activity a few weeks ago prompted a little inspection of potential sources of its culinary interest, and some foodstuffs stashed on top of the refrigerator were discarded or otherwise dealt with.  Rectory mice can often be dealt with through a program of severe discouragement rather than outright extermination.  It’s a big city, after all, and there are lots of other places to forage for food.

The mouse in question had left telltale evidence of its presence on top of the refrigerator, where it conducted its raids presumably under the cover of darkness, or at least in the absence, during the day, of me and the two Labrador Retrievers.  After the super-refrigerator remediation program, the absence of such evidence strongly suggested that the mouse had been sufficiently discouraged and had moved on to greener pastures, so to speak.

So it came as a surprise to me the other day when from the sofa, with lights blaring, TV on, out of the corner of my eye I detected a momentary flash of murine movement.  I looked again, and, sure enough, the mouse was brazenly promenading across the little kitchen floor.  The dogs took no notice, so I shouted, and the mouse ran away.  The dogs looked at me quizzically.

A minute or two passed, and I saw it again: the mouse quite casually making its way across the kitchen floor.  I let another cry ring out, the mouse ran away, and the dogs again looked lazily up at me.  And in a moment of theatricality, that is admittedly a bit much even for me, I stood up and addressed the room:

“What is the meaning of this?!” I demanded to know.  “How can this mouse not only return to the scene of its earlier crimes, where it is now bound to be disappointed by the utter unavailability of any reward for its foragings, but, on top of that, how can this mouse have become so emboldened that it has now abandoned the safety of the cover of darkness?  How can it think that I will ignore its incursion into my space, and pay no mind to its intention to take what is mine, from under my very nose? 

“How can it violate the unspoken agreement that mice should slink in to do their dirty work while no one is looking?  How can it be so bold as to parade around while the lights are lit, the lamps burning, the watch is not yet ended?

“How can this mouse – this dirty little creature whose presence I have tolerated, whose life I have spared by forgoing the most obvious course of extermination – how can this mouse make its person known in these precincts as though it belonged here, as though it had a right to be in my kitchen foraging for food, (even if it be only scraps, or whatever was once stored on top of the refrigerator) as though it was entitled, as though I would tolerate its presence while the lights are on?  How can this be?!?”

The dogs looked up at me, unimpressed by my soliloquy, and supremely uninterested in the mouse.

Mice are, of course, by their nature poor.  Not hunters, they can only gather; and what they gather invariably belongs to someone else.  They are dependant on the leavings of others.  Even within mouse society there are no rich mice (although there may well be fatter mice who are better at scavenging than others).  There are no mouse millionaires, so to speak.  Mice are socialists – depending on a daily re-distribution of wealth that they are only too happy to tend to themselves in the absence of appropriate legislation.  Mice are poor.

And, true to the context of the moment in this American life, I was offended by the presence of the poor mouse in my space – a presence I could have tolerated if it had kept itself hidden, unseen, cloaked by darkness.  But once the poor mouse became bold enough to assert itself in the glare of the kitchen lights, its presence became intolerable to me.

Let me put that a slightly different way: true to the context of the moment in this American life, I was offended by the presence of the poor.

The prophet said, “Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, the Lord has sworn by Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds.”

At least 46 million Americans – which is frankly a number far too vast for me to comprehend – 46 million fellow citizens of this beautiful, resourceful, and abundant nation live in poverty.  And how easy it has become to think of these poor people as mice whose mere right to be among is easily questioned, as if they chose poverty for themselves, as if at some point they stood before Door #1, Door #2, and Door #3 and were told to pick between industry and work, or privilege and wealth, or poverty and want, and they said, “Oh sure, I’ll take Door # 3.  Why not? How bad could it be?”

Of course, when you have 46 million poor people (at least 46 million, that is), you begin to notice them, intolerable as this may seem.  In our own city, about a quarter of the population lives in poverty – which is also hard to miss.  And how likely we are to react with indigence in the presence of the poor, when they are not cloaked in darkness.  As though they belong here, as though they have a right to be in our cities, our neighborhoods, our streets?  As though they are entitled…?

Jesus said, “the poor you will always have with you.”  And I suppose he knew whereof he spake.  For all the evidence suggests that Jesus lived his life more like a mouse than a millionaire.  He was always on the move, dependent on others for hospitality, always seen eating at other people’s tables (often in the company of unsavory people).

Maybe Jesus and his disciples even had to scavenge for food from time to time.  Maybe that’s why the scribes and Pharisees took them to task for “plucking the heads” off the grain on the Sabbath.  Maybe they were doing a little more than noshing, plucking more than a few heads of grain?  Maybe they were doing a little Sabbath re-distribution of grain, when no one else was likely to be in the fields?

When I allow myself to imagine the very likely possibility that Jesus was really quite poor, I am quickly reminded of my indignation with the mouse who had the nerve to show himself openly in my sight.  And I have to wonder: if Jesus is poor, how likely am I to welcome him into my life?

In the context of the present moment of this American life it would be easy to want to rant about the government’s treatment of the poor, to adopt a polemic stance of righteous indignation (which is fun to do from time to time) about the uncaring treatment of the poor.  And I believe I would be justified in doing so.  But my own tendency to treat poor people with the same attitudes that I addressed to the mouse in my house suggests that I am not ready to cloak myself in righteous indignation just yet.

My tendency to think of the girl who parks herself out on our doorstep for weeks at a time in just the same way, or to think the same of the familiar faces I see inhabiting the steps of First Baptist Church around the corner from here, prevents me from ranting too much about anyone else’s attitudes toward the poor.

And I give thanks that we have harnessed ourselves, here at Saint Mark’s, to the poor in several ways.  We have made Saturday mornings here all about serving poor, hungry people in the Saturday Soup Bowl.  And we have linked ourselves to a school that we founded that allows admission only to the children of needy families.  Maybe we did this as much or more out of need as out of virtue.  Maybe our best selves keep close to the poor because we cannot escape the Gospel insistence that we pay attention to the poor, that we find Christ among the poor, that God prefers the poor to the rich, and makes a readier pathway to his heart for the poor.

We happen to be living through an appalling moment in the context of this American life or ours, when our national, civic, corporate care and concern for the poor is at a very low ebb.  And there are those who tell us that this is as it should be, that no forces conspire to keep poor people poor except their own moral failings, and the complicity of a soft government.  But such lies must not be told in church.  Whether you know the Bible well or not, you have heard it said before that you cannot serve two masters, for you will either hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other.  You cannot serve God and mammon.  You cannot serve God and money.

Very well, we say in the calculus of this American life, we know whom we will serve, and I guess we’ll see how it all works out in the end.

And so in this context we are told that caring for the poor makes us socialists.  Another lie.  Caring for the poor makes us Christians.  That is a surety I promise you can take to the bank!

Very few of us want to be poor, or to spend our time among the poor.  This is not unusual, and my sermon this morning will not end with the advice that you should sell everything you have, give your money to the poor, and follow me.  But I am left remembering how prone I am to think of poor people in the same terms as I think of that poor mouse, whose life I have so far spared.  See how confident I am that his life rests in my hands?  I can give it to him, or I can take it away.

But the prophet was not talking about mice, and neither was Jesus.  He was talking about people almost just like you and me, who also happen to be made in the image and likeness of God, though we mostly cannot see it, since we see them mostly as mice.  Maybe the lives of the poor – at least some of them – also rest in our hands, in some ways.  Maybe we have to remember that the ancient question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” was an evasion, not a sacred incantation.

And maybe I should stay at home in my kitchen, waiting for the mouse to come back, and greet him with a new soliloquy, saying something like this:

“Brother mouse, in days gone by I despised you, and wished to trample on you, and to bring about your ruin.  I could see no way to share with you the embarrassing riches I enjoy, even though you require very, very little.

“In days gone by, Brother mouse, I believed I could serve two masters, and I charmed myself to believe that this was so.  But I see now, Brother mouse, how foolish I was, how likely I am to choose to serve mammon in this American life of mine, since it is the way of this world.

“And I need you, Brother mouse.  I need to practice on you, so that I may serve another master – the God of love.  I need to learn to give you the little you need out of the plenty I have.  Because I have not yet learned how to share it all with the poor people who are my neighbors, my brothers, my sisters, my friends – or at least they should be.

“So I am practicing on you, Brother mouse, learning to put up with you, and to tolerate you in your poverty.  And I am praying that some day I will be ready to leave my kitchen, and live like a Christian in the rest of the world, with real people whose lives may depend on me, if only I would choose to share with them too.

“For the time being, Brother mouse, may I continue to practice on you?” 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

22 September 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Here We Go...

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

Short Term 12 is a new, independent film about the staff and residents of a group home for foster children. The movie opens with a scene in the yard outside the home and a conversation between Nate, a new volunteer who is visibly nervous, and Mason, a long- time staffer who is trying to reassure Nate by recounting a story about a particularly embarrassing experience he had during his first week at the home. The story hinges on the fact that residents of the home regularly try to escape, knowing that if they can get outside the gate, the staff literally can’t touch them. Inside the gate, the staff can physically restrain them; outside the gate, staff members can only follow them and try to talk them into coming back inside. As Mason tells his story, two other staff members gather around, already laughing at the punch line they know is coming. But just as Mason reaches the story’s climax, a high-pitched, ferocious scream comes from inside the house. Seconds later, a skinny, freckled, red-headed boy comes tearing out the front door, headed for the gate. Mason turns to Nate and says, “Here we go,” and he takes off. The boy is running as fast as he can, head back, arms pumping, but the adults catch up to him quickly. They flank him, grab hold of his arms, and pull him down into a seated position. Mason tells Nate to grab the boy’s legs and hold him still. The boy is wild, screaming, panting, kicking and squirming for all he’s worth. But the adults just sit there, holding him down, talking him down, telling him that it’s going to be alright, making jokes about how he was able to get a little further that time before being caught. They don’t ask him what’s wrong, they don’t tell him not to do it again. They don’t try to fix him; they just sit with him, squeezing him in from all sides, keeping him safe. Gradually the boy’s breathing slows, the screaming stops, and he settles down, head lowered, body slumped, exhausted and deflated. And when he’s settled, the adults simply help him up off the ground and walk him back into the house. Welcome to short term 12.

During the course of the movie, we never learn this boy’s full story. We learn that his name is Sammy; we learn that he seems to have a compulsion to play with any toy he can find. We see him getting his meds – four cups full of pills – and we see how he curls up into himself when his therapist orders that all of his toys must be taken away. But that’s all we know. We know that he is wounded; we know that he is broken. We know that he has suffered some kind of trauma that would likely shock and horrify us were it to be named. And we know that the staff and volunteers of the group home are committed to keeping a constant eye on him, to making sure that he is seen, that he is safe, this skinny little lost sheep.

The number of lost sheep in this country is astounding. On any given day there are 400,000 children in foster care in the United States. Most of these are placed in homes, but a full 15% of them have to live in group homes like short term 12. In the city of Philadelphia, approximately 3,000 children are added to the foster care system each year. Most of them are never adopted and remain in foster care for years. Many simply age out of the program, turn 18 and are sent into the world with precious little experience of how to live outside of an institution, on their own, alone.

And, of course, in the city of Philadelphia there are many more lost sheep than just those who are in the foster care system. Recent studies have revealed that 39% of Philadelphia’s children live below the poverty line and that almost 10% of Philadelphia’s high school students have at some point been homeless. And our public schools are in the direst of straits: A $304 million budget deficit. 24 fewer schools than last year. Class sizes as high as 48 students per class. 3700 teachers laid off at the end of last year, with only 1600 recalled this fall. 60% of Philadelphia’s schools without a full-time guidance counselor. Assistant principal positions slashed. I even read one article this week about a school principal who is now also serving as the school nurse. How in the world are those stalwart public educators who remain supposed to do their jobs? How can they possibly keep their eyes on all of these children, making sure they are safe, that they are fed, that Individual Education Programs are followed for those who have learning difficulties, that bullies are stopped in their tracks? How can all of these kids possibly be seen, kept safe and protected? How can they not be lost?

And yet, Jesus assures us that they are seen, that they are protected. In the strongest possible terms, Jesus assures us that all who are lost will be found, that those who are broken in body, mind, or spirit, those who come from broken homes, those who have lived a life of broken promises, those whose relationships with God or with others are broken because of sin, those who live with the constancy of a broken heart, will be found. The shepherd will “go after the one that is lost until he finds it.” No matter what stands in the way, no matter how much that lost sheep has hopelessly curled up into itself, God will search, God will look for the lost one until he is found. God keeps his eyes on each individual sheep and will not let even one be lost forever. As one biblical commentator puts it, this parable assures us that “God counts by ones.”* One sheep found, or one broken heart mended, or one sinner redeemed, or one child protected, or one beautiful new child baptized, all with one joyful celebration in heaven.

But here is my question for us this morning: what about those other 99 sheep? Commentators have always puzzled over the fact that the shepherd in this parable left his sheep behind. Did he just leave them alone in the wilderness? Or are we to assume that he left them in the care of another shepherd? The parable doesn’t really tell us. But what if, what if we imagined that the other 99 went with him? What if the other 99 somehow followed along, inspired by the shepherd’s bravery? What if they stretched out in a long line across the wilderness like a search party, baahing as loudly as they could to call their friend to safety? What if the other 99 helped as much as they could to find the one who was lost? Now if they did find him, of course, they couldn’t do much. They couldn’t pull him out of a crevasse or bind his wounds or pick him up on their little sheep shoulders to carry him home. But they certainly could sit with him, flank him with their wooly fluff, squeeze him tight, offer soft, reassuring sounds, and wait until more help, until a savior, comes.

            You and I, most of us, are the other 99. And we can, we must, join in the search for the lost sheep of this city. So many of you are doing this already. Some of you tutor or mentor at local schools. Some of you work for arts organizations like Play On, Philly, that prove how music can transform the life of any child. Some of our rectory residents work every day with after-school programs, or with young adults who have aged out of foster care programs. Many of you give your time or your money to that great sheepfold known as the Saint James School. And, of course, other opportunities abound. We can volunteer with our new boys and girls choir, help to plan and staff the after-school programs that we hope will accompany that program. We can join in with the parents who are helping to safely walk Philadelphia students to their new, and newly far-away, schools. We can contribute to the mayor’s Philadelphia Education Supplies Fund. We can volunteer with Boys and Girls Clubs, with Philadelphia foster care, or at the very least, we can get to know the children in our own neighborhoods. We can say to the children of this city, with one voice, in the name of Christ, you will not be lost. We will search and search and search for you until we find you.

The final scene of Short Term 12 finds the staff again outside sharing stories. And once again, a piercing, fierce scream interrupts them as Sammy, now with an American flag draped around his shoulders like a Superman cape, sprints out the front door. Mason looks at his co-workers, smiles a wry smile, and says again, “Here we go.” And the movie ends with this beautiful, slow-motion chase scene. Sammy is in the lead, the adults are following, four across on the lawn. Sammy ducks and dodges, the adults follow him, turn to the left, get behind him, around him. And we know at some level that this chase will never end, that those 4 adults, those 4 of the 99, will never be able to totally fix Sammy or make him whole. But they will keep chasing him, keep searching for him, keep their eyes on him, helping him never be utterly lost. My friends, the race is on. Here we go. 

* Stephen C. Barton, "Parables on God's Love and Forgiveness" from The Challenge of Jesus' Parables, Richard N. Longenecker, editor.

Preached by Mother Takacs

15 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

Catapult

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Potentially embarrassing photos of me are floating around on the Internet.  They depict an eleven-year-old version of me at camp, with a haircut suitable for 1978, wearing blue jeans and a hastily fashioned cape of some sort made of a kind of rust colored fabric that is tied around my neck.  I am with three friends on a rock outcropping overlooking the lake, on the opposite shore from the camp.  We would have had to row boats over and scramble up the steep slope there 20 or 25 feet to the outcropping.

In our youthful enthusiasm, and fueled, no doubt, by a history lesson about the medieval period, the photos show that we had fashioned what we hoped could be classified as a catapult, made of fallen tree branches, a sapling, an old inner tube, and lots of twine.  I believe we intended to use water balloons as ammunition.  Although my memory is hazy, I think our tests of the weapon were all disappointments.  In truth, I cannot even recall what invader we thought we would repel – any and all, I suppose.

Although the details are fuzzy, I think the entire enterprise came to a quick end when one of the four of us took a wrong step and tumbled off the outcropping and partway down the steep hillside.  This emergency required a swift evacuation, and a fast row across the lake so the injured party could be taken to the nurse, who was able to tend to all wounds, as I recall.

What became of the failed catapult, whose design flaws would surely have become evident very quickly, I cannot say.

Children are supposed to make such mistakes and learn from them.  But we seem to live in a society where adults continue to act like children well into their more mature years; liable to make the same mistakes over and over again; doomed to repeat history because we are so inept at learning its lessons.

“What king,” Jesus asks, “going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand?”  Jesus never meant this question as a lesson in geo-politics, and he was not asking his audience to consider the current affairs of his own day, nor of ours.

And if the New Testament is to be believed, Jesus never called anyone to battle, or even to take up arms – though he is heard from time to time telling someone to put his sword back in his sheath.

And from our particular vantage point of history, it would seem that anyone who ever claimed that Jesus was calling him to war has been proven to be a charlatan, misguided, or just plain daft.

Among the many things we adolescent boys had not considered in our lives by the time we built that catapult was what it would mean to be real followers of Jesus, although we were at a Christian camp, where worship and prayer were a part of every day’s agenda.  If you’d asked us to march around singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” we’d have done so gleefully, with wooden swords shoved into our belts, homemade capes fastened around our necks, happily arranging ourselves into battalions of some configuration, unrecognizable as either real soldiers or real Christians.

But if you’d asked us what it would cost us to follow Jesus, we’d have looked at you blankly.  The best we could do, I’d guess, would be to tell you that during Lent we would have to put a coin or two aside every day to fill our mite boxes, but that would be a pretty neat summary of the cost of discipleship to our youthful minds.  And for our age, that would have been a reasonable limit of our imaginations.  It would not, at that time, have occurred to us that our worship and prayer cost us anything – for we had nothing else to do with our time, and no freedom to make decisions about it anyway.

But we are supposed to learn from our childhoods and to grow beyond the limits of them.

In the reading we heard today from Luke’s Gospel, Jesus was sitting at the table of a ruler of the Pharisees.  He was having an adult conversation.  He’d had difficult words for his hosts, and challenged them to be more humble and compassionate in their leadership.

The large crowds that were traveling with him must have been outside.  Maybe he had to lean out of a window and shout to them.  St. Luke does not say that these crowds were friendly to Jesus, they are not yet his disciples.   Maybe they were twittering outside that Jesus was giving the Pharisees a talking-to.

But now Jesus turns to the crowds – who it seems to him might be only too happy to be told to form into battalions and start singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” especially if by so doing they could express their disdain for the Roman occupiers of their land.  But this is childish, and Jesus knows it.  No one has considered what kind of life God really wants them to lead.  They all want to know what God is going to give them.  But Jesus wants to know what they are willing to give to God.

And I suppose that Jesus knows they are not yet serious, he knows they have not yet grown up, he knows they are not yet ready to follow him.  So he exaggerates when he tells them, “You cannot be my disciples, for you have not considered the cost of it.  If you want to be my disciples,” he says, “give up everything you own, and then come follow me!” 

I am willing to bet that the crowd quickly dispersed – no so many were all that interested in Jesus any more!

And frankly, if that was the message of the Gospel to us today, who of us would stick around to hear the details?  Give up all our possessions?  Including my flatscreen TV?  I don’t think so!

So maybe Jesus is not teaching foreign policy, and maybe he is not truly advocating that we forsake all material goods.  Then what is he getting at?  I suppose that Jesus is trying to teach us to grow up, to consider carefully what it means to be a follower of his: to count the cost.

And I am reminded again of my childhood escapades by the lake with my friends at camp, and how our game came to a quick end when one of us took a wrong step, and went tumbling down the embankment.  We were, you recall, on the far side of the lake, meaning it was difficult to call for help.  So I suppose the three others of us went to the aid of our fallen comrade.  We’d have had to help him down the rest of the hillside to the tree where the row boat was tied up, and then we’d have to have gotten him into the boat with his injuries and rowed him across the lake to the other shore.  We’d have had to get him safely to the dock and let him lean on us as we helped him to the nurses’ station, and from there, as I say, I believe all was well.

It reminds me that every real soldier I have ever come across who’s fought in battle, has told me that in the end it’s the soldier next to you who matters far more than the enemy.  It’s the band of brothers (and now sisters) to whom you have been joined in trust.  It’s worrying about that guy, and what you can do for him – to keep him from getting shot, or to help him once the bullet or the grenade or the shrapnel has hit.

And it makes me grateful for that little childhood journey down the hillside with my wounded friend’s arm around my neck, rowing across the water back over to the other side of the lake, where, instead of weapons, there was a nurse, and a ping-pong table, and the circle of logs around which we’d sit every night, with a fire in the center, and we’d tell stories of what mattered to us that day, and we’d say prayers for the people we cared about, and we’d sing “They’ll know we are Christians by our love,” and “Kumbaya,” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

Which was all a process of growing up, learning about the different sides of the lake, learning how much more blessed it is to give than to receive, and how much more important it is to carry your friend down the hillside and to row him across the lake than to successfully launch your ordnance from a catapult.

And I hear Jesus calling from a window, saying, “Yeah, remember what happened last time I tried tell everyone what it would cost to be my disciple?  How hard it was going to be?  How much it was not going to be about you, but about living for others?  Where have the crowds gone?”  I hear him ask.

And I hear myself, answer: “We are just here on the other side of the lake, playing with our weapons!  Don’t worry, just as soon as one of us falls, we’ll come scrambling down, get him into the boat and row him across the water over to your side!  But for now we are doing what we must do!”

“You do what you must do,” says, Jesus, “and I will do what I must do.” 

And he stoops down to pick up the fallen branch of a sturdy old tree that still has some twine and a piece of an old inner-tube tied to it, but which is long enough for him to stretch his arms out on it when it comes time to nail his hands to it, and he carries it step by step toward a green hill, far away, across the water, hoping that when we grow up we will follow.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

8 September 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia