Reflecting the Light

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

Last weekend I went to the movies with my aunt and uncle. During the numerous previews before our movie started, we saw a trailer for a new film called Vampire Academy, which, as its name suggests, is about a Hogwarts-looking prep school where all of the students just happen to be undead. It looks to have all of the typical high school drama, with all of the standard high school stereotypes – the jock, the princess, the nerd, the mean girl; it’s essentially the Breakfast Club with fangs. As I sat watching this trailer, rolling my eyes in the darkness, my aunt, in an attempt to explain the general goofiness we were seeing on the screen, leaned over to me and whispered knowingly, “You know, vampires are very ‘in’ right now.”

Vampires are very “in” right now. You can hardly turn around without running into some new vampire saga. Some of these additions to the vampire oeuvre are better than others, but what I find most interesting is how each writer of these stories tries to put a unique spin on vampire mythology. Each new story creates a slightly different vampire world with slightly different rules, rules about how new vampires are made, are their fangs retractable or not, do they drink only human blood or are they happy with a very rare steak, do they live in secret or are they “out of the coffin.” Are they cruel, parasitic monsters, or can they feel, fall in love, get married, even have little vampire babies? Each new version of the vampire story has its own set of answers to these core questions.

The one thing that is consistent among all vampire stories is that vampires and the sun don’t mix. Sunlight is always dangerous. At worst (and most of the vampire stories focus on the worst), exposure to sunlight kills them – again. It burns their skin away to ash, or exsanguinates them in a particularly unappealing way. Daylight is definitely off-limits to vampires; the nighttime with its cool, dispassionate moonlight can be their only domain.

The fact that this rule about sunlight seems to be the one great constant in these variant vampire worlds makes a recent tweet I read written by a British comedian just that much funnier. I wonder, the comedian wrote, in that musing-about-life-in-160-characters kind of way, why vampires never realize that moonlight is just reflected sunlight. Good question, isn’t it? And it exposes a real flaw in the vampire mythology. Because, really, could you imagine Dracula standing under a full moon yelling, “Oh, my skin is being burned by the light of the sun as it is reflected off of the lunar surface!”? No, of course not. Because vampire myths are based on the wrong-headed notion that moonlight is its own light, that the light of the moon actually waxes and wanes on its own, that it is light somehow made of a different stuff and is therefore harmless. And really, how boring would it be to read a book about vampires who could only ever go outside at the New Moon when it was mostly cloudy? Pretty boring. And so vampire fans are happy to live with this little inconsistency, the lie of the light – moonlight that is somehow substantively different than the sunlight it comes from.

You are the light of the world, Jesus tells his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount, and you’d better not hide yourselves away in the shadows. Let your light shine before others so that they may see you and in seeing you, see God. Which is all fine and good; Jesus says that we are light and so it must be true. But there is just the tiniest bit of anxiety in these verses, anxiety that has sifted down from the verses that immediately precede them, where Jesus first tells his disciples that they are the salt of the earth. But, he warns, if the salt loses its saltiness, then you are in big trouble. Now I have no idea how salt loses its saltiness; I mean, you never pick up a salt shaker and say, “My gosh, this salt has no saltiness!” Is that even possible? I have no idea what Jesus is referring to in these verses, and I take some comfort that most biblical commentators don’t either. Mineralogy aside, though, Jesus’ point is clear – there is a quality about you that must be preserved, at all costs.

Which is why, I guess, the light verses make me a little nervous. Because while I have no idea how salt loses its salt-hood, I can very easily imagine how light can lose its light-hood. It just goes out. Poof. Gone. No more light. Actually, I don’t have to imagine; I know exactly what it feels like when my light goes out. I know what it feels like to feel flat and uninspired; to feel like I’ve lost my brilliance, my zeal, that warm glow of faith. I know what it’s like to feel like I just don’t have the time or the patience or even the optimism to “loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke,…to share my bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into my house.” After all, all of this light work is exhausting. There is an infinite amount of darkness out there in the world, so of course I occasionally find myself feeling like this little light of mine isn’t shining anywhere.

And the question about what to do when I lose my light-hood is almost as tricky as what to do when I lose my salt-hood. What happens when my light goes out, when the flame of my faith flickers and dies? How do I make it start shining again? How do I force myself to find that spark, that energy, when I don’t even feel like looking for it? No wonder Jesus has to warn the disciples not to hide their lamp under a bushel basket. Knowing that I have this precious light inside me that must shine into the world, I, too, want to huddle around it, covering it with my hands, keeping it to myself, keeping it out of the wind so that nothing can blow it out.

But then I wonder if we are just as confused about this light as vampires are about the moon. Is it possible that we are holding on to a profoundly wrong-headed notion – the notion that our light is its own light, that our light can wax and wane and be blown out all on its own, that our light is substantively different than the light that it comes from? For surely just as moonlight is sunlight transformed, so our light is Godlight transformed. Sure, it looks and feels different. It feels like Erika light, or David light, or Kent John light, or Addie light. But it is really the light of Christ.             

Now this does not make us and our work any less important. This does not make “you are the light of the world” any less of a charge. For God has entrusted this light to us, given this light over to you and to me, the light of truth, the light of justice, the light of compassion, the light of love, and asked us to shine it into all the world. This is an important task for which we bear great responsibility. But it is not just our responsibility. For because this light is, at its core, God’s light, we never have to worry about entirely losing it. There may be times when we feel like we are mostly cloudy, or when there is a great planet of sin or frustration or apathy covering part of us in shadow, but this does not change the fact that the light will never go out. It is the light of Christ, shining into the darkness, and the darkness did not, will not, overcome it.  That light will seek us out and suddenly flare up again, often at the most unexpected times and places. As in the words of one today’s hymns, “Sometimes a light surprises the Christian while he sings; it is the Lord who rises with healing in his wings: when comforts are declining, he grants the souls again a season of clear shining, to cheer it after rain."

This is a kind of double good news. First it is good news because it means that we don’t have to worry so much. We are the light of the world because Christ has made us so, not because we have made ourselves so. We don’t have to worry about our light, because our light is God himself. But there is even more good news. Because Christ is not only the source of our light; he has also given us each an eternal way to reflect that light. For in the deep, still waters of our baptisms, we are each given a reflecting pool of grace that floats deep within us. We are made into mirrors, you and I and in just a moment, little Evelyn, so that when we are given the light of Christ, we may forever reflect that light into the world.

You are the light of the world. You are a holy reflection of the light of Christ. So be free with your light, be extravagant. Hold it up in the darkest night, in the greatest storm, in the places where it will burn away all that is not of God. And if you feel your light start to flicker and fade, fear not. Remember the mirror of your baptism, and shine like the Son.

Sterling Silver

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. (Malachi 3:1)

The message from God, through the prophet Malachi, to at least some of the priests of Israel was this: Not good enough.  “When you offer blind animals in sacrifice, is that not wrong?  And when you offer those that are lame or sick, is that not wrong?  Try presenting that to your governor; will he be pleased with you or show you favor? says the Lord of Hosts.”  Not good enough!”  This is the fundamental shortcoming that Malachi is addressing.  He is not calling for universal justice or peace.  He is not pleading the cause of the poor.  He says nothing about healing, forgiveness, or mercy.  At issue is the way the priests have gone about the business of worshiping God, giving God honor, giving God glory.  Not to say the priests haven’t done their job at all.  It’s just not good enough – sending your second or your third-best won’t do.  You bring your best for God, simply and only your best.  Nothing else will do.  Keep it up, Malachi warns, and see what happens.  “The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his Temple… but who can abide the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears?  For he is like a refiner’s fire!”

Now, as you may know, we have a lot of silver here at Saint Mark’s.  Recently a silver missal stand – the thing on which the big book rests on the altar – this missal stand was damaged, and I brought it in to a shop, up above Fishtown, to have it repaired.  Not only was the missal stand dented, it’s in need of a good cleaning, too.  It’s covered in dark, tarnished blotches and its color is dull.  It needs to have the lacquer stripped off, and to be polished and re-lacquered.

When I brought it to the shop and asked for this treatment, the owner – a craftsman who deals with a lot of silver – warned me that if it was only silver plate the silver would be stripped off in this process too. “Oh no, I said, it’s sterling.  See, it’s hallmarked.”

“Well,” the man said, “I’ve seen hallmarks on things that aren’t really sterling before. And this is awfully heavy to be sterling.  That would be a lot of silver,” he said hefting it up and down to demonstrate.

“Well,” I said, “we have quite a lot of silver at Saint Mark’s."   And I may have sort of winked.

“Let’s see,” he said: still doubtful.

He took the missal stand to a polishing wheel and pressed the flat surface of its back against the wheel.  Off came the varnish, and under the pressure of the wheel the metal underneath began to sparkle: sterling, for sure.  The man was impressed.  “So, maybe you have some more work for me?” he asked.

“Like I said,” I replied, “we’ve got quite a lot of silver.”  And I may have sort of winked again.

For he is like a refiner’s fire.  But who may abide the day of his coming, and who may stand when he appeareth?

It’s widely acknowledged that we live in an age when giving your best to God is considered a bridge too far.  Not long ago, a great preoccupation of the church was to advertize that worshipers should “come as you are” to church.  For all I know this is still going on in many places, though it flies in the face of most of the biblical attitudes about the way we should approach God in his holiness.  Moses took off his shoes; Elijah covered his face with his mantle; the vestments of the high priest were prescribed in elaborate detail; the wedding guest was ejected because he lacked a wedding garment.  Scripture seldom encourages anyone but children to come as you are into the presence of God.  Though children do get a special pass, I think.

And yet… we also live in an age when many people, having concluded that religious leaders, like me, judge them to be not good enough, simply avoid God’s temple: steer clear of God’s holy presence.  “The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple,” but what will it matter if you are not there?

I suspect that part of the problem is that people simply do not know who they are, do not know that they belong in the presence of the living God, do not hear God calling them to approach, have no confidence that they might survive the refining fire of his presence.  This is because – if I may borrow the image of my metalworking friend in Fishtown – many people are no longer sure that they are made of sterling silver, and are not even concerned with the question, since silver requires a lot of polishing, protection, and attention.  Which is to say that we live in an age when much has grown tarnished and unrecognizable as the real thing.  (I’m speaking literally and figuratively here, you understand.)

But here’s the thing: the refiners’ fire doesn’t so much worry you if you know you are made of sterling silver.  But having forgotten who we are, what we are made of, we have felt free to wander away from the Temple of the Lord.

The prophet’s words are not meant to drive us away, they are meant to give us pause, and ask ourselves who we really are, what we are really made of, whether or not we belong near the refining fire of God’s sacred presence.

The suspicion is that because we know ourselves to be damaged, dented, and tarnished, we do not belong, we are not good enough, and have nothing good enough to offer God, and that getting near to the refining fire of God’s presence will only end badly, if indeed there is a God at all.  But this is the wrong conclusion to reach.

Just a few lines after the well-known verses of Malachi that Handel set to music, comes this assertion:

“Bring full tithes into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house; and thereby put me to the test, says the LORD of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you an overflowing blessing.”  There are few more charming images in all of Scripture than the picture of God throwing open the windows of heaven, leaning out, and pouring his blessing out upon his people from buckets, if only they will bring him their best.

Living in an age, as we do, in which people fail to know who they are, it has become so much harder for many people to bring their best to God.  This may be why, in the graceful alchemy of God, the refiner’s fire of Malachi has been transformed into the candlelight of Simeon and Anna.  The roaring, blue heat of refining flames has been contained, and has become the golden flicker of candlelight.

Simeon and Anna knew who they were; and their faithfulness – Simeon in being obedient to the call of the Holy Spirit, and Anna in her long waiting in the Temple – their faithfulness represents the best they can offer to God.  Along comes Jesus, carried in the arms of his parents.  The Lord whom you seek suddenly comes to his Temple.  And a consuming fire does not ignite.  Flames do not leap up to devour the impure and to define the narrow boundaries of God’s love.  Rather, Simeon takes up the child and sings a song, inspired, no doubt, by the Holy Spirit.  And Simeon’s song does not tell of a salvation that has come only to those who were purified in the refiner’s fire; it tells, rather, that the Lord who has suddenly come to his Temple will be a light to lighten the Gentiles – he brings salvation for all people.

The message from God through the prophet Malachi, to at least some of the priests of Israel was this: Not good enough.  But the message from God through his prophets Simeon and Anna is different.  It is more like this:

My dear, dented, damaged, tarnished friend: life is complicated and challenging, and sometimes it is very hard to remember who you are in this world, and what you are made of.  But God knows who you are, and what you are made of.  You are made of silver, my child - solid, sterling silver – and you bear the hallmark of the handiwork of God.  Do not let the confusion of others confuse you, too.  Do not be fooled by the doubts of this world.  Do not worry that you are beyond repair, or that your color has faded never to be restored, or that you cannot stand up straight.  And do not fear the refining fires of God’s love.  Come to him; hear his Spirit calling you; wait for him if waiting is what he requires – this may be the best you can do for him, and God desires your best.

See how, in the presence of Jesus, God’s refining power becomes candlelight.  See how it lights the way.  See how you shine in his light!  See how God has opened the windows of heaven and poured out his blessings.  See how the light grows when we gather together like this.  And see what an awful lot of silver we have here!  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Candlemas, 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Called, Changed, Sent

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Modern translations of the Scriptures have brought many blessings of clarity, meaning, and wisdom to our encounter with holy writ, none of which is apparent in the famous line we hear this morning on the lips of Jesus: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”  This sounds ridiculous; it sounds like Jesus is promising to do a magic trick that will leave Andrew, Peter, James, and John flapping around on the dock, their lips puckered, and their gills heaving.  It certainly does not sound like the sort of call that would convince you to drop your net and follow the guy.  Everyone knows that what Jesus really said was, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”  He wasn’t being sexist; he was just using the linguistic conventions of Jacobean English.  Duh!

I raise the matter not to be curmudgeonly, but because something has been lost here, despite our translators’ intention to hold onto it.  And I think it’s important that we try to reclaim whatever has been lost, as I will try to demonstrate.  What’s been lost isn’t a turn of phrase, it is the urgent and appealing sense of call, transformation, and mission.

There are Andrew and Peter (still going by his old name, Simon), doing what they do: casting their nets, being fishermen.  There are James and John with their father, doing what they do: mending their nets, being fishermen.  And along comes Jesus, and his call is inexplicably like a siren-song to them (but in a good way).  Immediately they drop what they are doing to follow him.  And in an instant, St. Matthew tells us that they have ceased to be the people they were before, as they drop what they are doing to follow Jesus; they are about to be transformed into something new that their old selves (fishermen) intriguingly prepared them to be (fishers of men); and this new vocation brings with it a missional implication of gathering up disciples, just at their old vocation involved gathering fish into nets.

Now, you don’t see lots of fishermen at career day these days, and that is a problem if we are looking for this passage to say something to us in our own day and age; if we think that Jesus means for us to be eavesdropping on his call to Andrew, Peter, James, and John, and to hear him speaking to us, too, through the ages.  When you and I are doing what we do, it isn’t casting or mending nets.  And, aspirationally speaking, being a fisherman isn’t high on a lot of people’s lists outside of Newfoundland and Alaska.  So our context, does not contribute anything to the situation already made difficult by the translation (“fish for people” – ugh!).

Plus, we know, don’t we, that over-fishing is a big problem in our own time!  I know practically nothing about commercial fishing, except what I’ve seen on Deadliest Catch, and except that I am pretty sure the methods of industrialized fishing have left large ocean fisheries depleted of a number of once abundant species.  Plenty of fish in the ocean there are not – at least not as plentiful as they used to be!

But wait a minute!  This is a useful point of reflection for an Episcopalian: perhaps there are not enough fish in the ocean?  I contend that this view is the tacitly held Episcopal position on both over-fishing in the North Atlantic, and interpreting and appropriating Matthew Chapter 4, verse 19 in our own contemporary context.  We hear Jesus say: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people,” which grates on our ears to start with, as we yearn for the older translation.  And in a fashion that is atypical for an Episcopal response to the contemporary meaning of nearly any passage of the Scriptures, we have a ready reply. “Oh my,” we say, “there just aren’t enough fish in the ocean!”

How else can we explain the empty pews in church today?  How else can we explain that we Episcopalians are becoming more adept at closing churches than at opening them?  How else can we explain the despondency and resignation that possesses the church in so many quarters?  How else can we explain the empty pews in this church, this morning?  How else can we explain it?  How else?  There must just not be enough fish in the ocean.  Ain’t that a shame.

It would be convenient to blame all this on that lousy translation: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”  Gawd, how I hate that!  It sounds ridiculous!  I wouldn’t get up off my tuchas for a rabbi who wanted to make me fish for people!  I hear no call!  I hear no promise of transformation!  I hear no mission in the words!  Oh, I would like to blame these empty pews on that silly translation!  But I cannot.

And I think I know where the fault truly lies.  Here’s what happens: When you start to worry that there are not enough fish in the sea, you gradually, without intending to, without even knowing that you are doing it, begin to turn your own little corner of the ocean into an aquarium, where you carefully protect your endangered species: pisces episcopalianis.  You make it safe for these rare and exotic fish: you keep the water warm, and the filters running.  You put pretty little model churches in the aquarium like castles for the fish to swim in, through, and around.  You keep them fed, and you do your absolute best for the fish, because you truly do care about them.  And you begin to regard with some pride your beautiful aquarium, forgetting that once you were called to be fishers of men.  As though, now, there are not enough fish in the ocean.  And do you forget what happened a long time ago: Jesus was walking along, and he saw these fishermen, and he called them, he changed them, and he sent them out to build up the kingdom of God?

The church does not struggle today because there are not enough fish in the ocean, the church struggles because we have not listened to the call of Jesus; we have not allowed ourselves to be transformed by following our Lord; we have not taken up the mission of Christ!  I know the waters are rough.  I know some of the fish have become hostile; some have joined other religions; some are avowed atheists; some think we are crazy.  Do you think it was any easier for Andrew, and Peter, and James, and John!?!?

Well, we say, there were plenty of fish in the ocean back then, but not enough today.  Humbug!  The ocean is teeming with fish, and they are hungry.  They are hungry for a reasonable religion that takes seriously the simplicity of the Golden Rule, a church that earnestly means what it says about God, and that reverently worships the one, true, only, and living God!

We cannot pretend that the waters have been over-fished, when we know it is not true – there are too many people enjoying brunch at Parc right now for us to take this line of reasoning seriously.  Instead, we must hear the call of Jesus; we must allow him to change us, even though we do not want to be changed; and we must take his mission seriously to heart – telling the story of why it matters to be his follower.

For me it has always been simple.  No other path leads anywhere.  No other path promises justice, freedom, peace, mercy, forgiveness, beauty, life, and hope the way his path does.  And nothing else I have seen in the world has had the power to call me when I did not want to be called; to change me when I did not want to be changed; and to send me where I did not want to go… and to make me very happy in the process!

Jesus can do all this just by walking by, and calling out.  But it depends on our willingness to heed him, to allow him to change us, and to go out where he sends us.

People often ask the clergy, “when did you get the call.”  And I take this question seriously.  I have a story I tell about it – some versions shorter, others are longer.  But one of the troubles with the church is that we believe that this question is reserved for the clergy – and we clergy are perfectly happy to keep it for ourselves.  But not one of those four fishermen – not Andrew, not Peter, not James, not John – went to seminary after Jesus called them.  But when they got the call, they knew it, and they responded to it.

Jesus doesn’t just call people into professional, ordained ministry: he calls all his people as he moves among them in life; he promises transformation to all his people; he has a mission for all his people, including me, and including you.  And there are lots of fish in the ocean, my friends, there are lots of fish.  And we have room for more of them here, and in churches around this city, and across this land.

Right now, a few blocks away from here, at the corner of 15th and Walnut streets, the southeast corner of the street is surrounded by construction fences, and a project has begun there that has drawn a lot of excitement and interest.  The project is the construction of a building to house – wait for it – a branch of The Cheesecake Factory.

I promise you that the people behind this project have carefully considered how many fish there are in the waters around our neighborhood, so to speak.  And I promise you that they have meticulously thought through the question of Sunday mornings.  I promise you that not a few of you will find yourselves there after church on Sundays.  And what have they got?  Cheesecake?

We have got the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  This Gospel is pardon and hope, mercy and forgiveness, justice and peace, healing and life!  This is better than cheesecake!

Along comes Jesus.  Hear Jesus calling you.  Allow him to transform your life, to change you from what you were to what you can become.  And come with me on his mission to build up his kingdom, which is to renew this troubled world and to give hope for the world that is to come!

Jesus is calling, Jesus is calling.  Let us follow him, and he will make us fishers of men, and lo, there are oodles of fish in the sea!  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

26 January 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia