Starting

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

There is a scene in the new movie Noah that apparently made Russell Crowe rather grumpy. It wasn’t so much the scene itself, but rather the filming of the scene. You don’t have to have seen the movie to know which scene I’m talking about, because it’s been in all of the trailers. It’s the shot where Crowe, in character as Noah, is standing alone in the rain just as it begins to fall. He looks up, and there is a beautiful, focused, slow-motion shot of a drop of rain falling on his forehead and running down his cheek. The problem with filming this scene was that the director, Darren Aronofsky, wanted Crowe to keep his eyes open as the water, being dumped from above in an industrial movie set somewhere in Brooklyn, first spilled onto his face. And Crowe couldn’t do it. He’s a fearless, tough-as-nails kind of actor, but he couldn’t stop himself from blinking. This apparently made him grumpy, which in turn made everyone grumpy, but there was nothing for it. Each time the presumably cold water began to splash down on his face, he couldn’t help it. It was impossible for him not to start.          

Now I think I get what Aranofsky was going for. This is Noah, after all, he’s been expecting this rain, he’s been counting on this rain in many ways. This water falling from the sky is a vindication of the crazy building project he and his family have been working on in their backyard for the better part of a year. In many ways, this water is his salvation. Yes! It proclaims – yes! I am a servant of the Lord. Yes, God has spoken to me. Yes, these plans will come to fruition in the way that God has promised. If anyone should have his eyes wide open when those rains begin to fall, it should be Noah.

But seriously, how do you keep your eyes open in the rain? How do you feel the water hit your face and not blink? Blinking is just what your body does, right? Even when you expect the water, you still start. A friend’s fingers, ready to flick water in your face at the pool – you start. One of those water squirting fans that feel so deliciously lovely on a hot day at the ballpark – squirt, and you start. A drop of early rain, a drip from the ceiling, a first spray at the hair salon – you start. It’s impossible not to.

Apparently it’s even impossible not to start during the Easter Vigil. I know, because I was watching you as I was spraying you – or aspersing you, to use the correct term – with Holy Water during our procession after the baptism. A tiny drop of water sent forth with a flick of my wrist from the tip of the aspergillum (now there’s a $10,000 church word for you), and you started. A whole bunch of you started. Even when you were looking right at me, ready to cross yourself, ready to be hit in the face with a little plop of holiness – you still started. It’s almost impossible not to.

And really, if there are any waters in the whole wide world that should cause you to start, it should be the waters of baptism. Because these are not just ordinary waters. These are the very waters of creation, the water that roiled and seethed before God corralled them under the earth and above the firmament. These are the waters the Holy Spirit moved over and blessed with Her breath to make them Her own. These are Noah’s waters, that raised the ark and all of its holy and hairy passengers into safety while razing the rest of Creation, the same waters that then reflected the light of the sun into a thousand tiny prisms that spread a rainbow of God’s promise across the sky. These are the waters of the great Exodus, swept aside by the prayers of God’s faithful servant Moses so that his people could pass through, and swept back over the servants of the faithless Pharaoh who could not stay true to his promise. These are the waters that the Israelites longed for in the wilderness, that ran out of dry rock, that gathered in deep wells where patriarchs and matriarchs met for matchmaking.

And these are the waters that flowed over Jesus’ own head in his baptism. These are the waters of new birth, the waters that promise a lifetime without thirst, the waters that flowed down Jesus’ face at the death of Lazarus. These waters are cosmic, eternal waters, transformed by our prayers on this cosmic, eternal night into the waters of baptism. They are sanctified by the Holy Spirit with fire and smoke, impregnated with the Holy Spirit to be for us waters that do something, that effect a real change, that become the physical sign of a miraculous internal grace. They are profound waters, heavy with meaning and potential, waters that transform us into one body, that connect the watery cells in my body to the watery cells in yours, that connect us now to Lily and to Don and to all of the saints who have come before us. They are no less than the very waters that bring both death and life. “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death,” Paul tells us, “so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.” These are the waters that were showered out upon us a moment ago.  No wonder we could not help but start.  

We are in good company. The Gospel tonight is filled with people who start. When the peace-filled hush of dawn is ripped in two by the roar of an earthquake, the guards at Jesus’ tomb start so badly that they pass out. When the angel descends from the heavens on high like a flash of lightning, he tells the two Marys not to fear, probably because when they saw him they started. And when those women run down the Jerusalem road with their improbable news, there, suddenly, is Jesus – Hail! – startling them yet again. This is a resurrection story full of starts, starts of shock and of fear, starts of joy and of disbelief. For when faced with the glorious, improbable truth that Jesus is alive, it is, apparently, impossible not to start.

It is right, and a good and joyful thing for us to remember this – to recognize that the starts are a part of the story. Those moments of surprise, even shock, come along, part and parcel, with the resurrection. They are tied to it, bound up with it. And all of these starts remind us of how we ourselves should respond to this story, even though we are looking right at the moment of the resurrection, knowing that it is coming, even though we have stared this particular story right in the face again and again for years, even though we know this scene so well that we even have our favorite resurrection moments and Easter phrases – he is risen, as he said…behold, he is going before you to Galilee. But even though we can recite the resurrection story along with the Gospel reading, the story itself reminds us that there is still a good start to be had. Christ is risen; he is not here. You will see him. What was only death and darkness is now forever life and light. This are all impossible statements and yet true; they should make it impossible for us not to start.

And the most startling thing of all is that all of this – all of this – is done for you. These holy and deep waters that echo through time and connect us to all of creation, these waters that we use to baptize in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit are given freely to you. This night, when wickedness is put to flight and sin is washed away, is made for you. This Son, given to redeem us from our slavery and sin, is offered for you. How wonderful and beyond our knowing is God’s mercy and lovingkindness, and how startling is his gift – new light, a new dawn, new members of the body, new bread and new wine, new life, a new world. So start with wonder. Start with gratitude and joy. And let those starts remind you that God can still surprise you with grace, that God does and will continue to startle you with beauty and gift and love. Tonight and tomorrow and for the next great fifty days, when you hear these words – Alleluia! Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! – remember the wondrous surprise of these words, like a brilliant flash of lightning or the promise of the first drop of rain that falls upon your forehead. And it will be impossible not to start.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

Easter Vigil 2014

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Easter Selfie

Late last year the Oxford Dictionaries organization – our favorite and snootiest word police – identified, as they do every year, a Word of the Year.  This is a word that is supposed to be indicative of the direction of the world, to encapsulate the zeitgeist of a given year, to express something about the way we see the meaning of life, or at least talk about it.  And just a few months ago that word was: “selfie.”

A selfie, properly speaking, is not just a photographic self-portrait.  It must fit certain criteria.  It should be a photo in which the photographer is also the subject, taken most often with the camera on your cell phone.  The two most common formats are the arm’s-length-selfie (in which the arm holding the camera is often partly visible), and the mirror-selfie (which I think is self-explanatory).

Another defining characteristic of the selfie is that it has been posted to a social networking site – Facebook or Instagram, for instance – and this was probably the driving purpose of the photo in the first place.  A selfie is meant to be disseminated and shared over the Internet, not to be pressed quietly between the pages of a book.

There are strong feelings out there about the prevalence of the selfie.  Some see the trend as an exuberant embrace of our ability to share with one another in the age of fast and easy digital communication.  Others see it as a sign of the total decline of Western civilization.  One writer called the selfie a “subversive twist on the traditional understanding of the photograph.  Usually conducted because the subject cannot locate a suitable photographer to take the photo, like a friend.”

But this seems like an unfair criticism, since the selfie has clearly grown beyond the strict self-portrait to include others within the frame.  President Obama was controversially seen snapping a selfie with two other heads of state at the funeral of Nelson Mandela.  A much-seen selfie of Hilary and Chelsea Clinton has been making the rounds of the web.  And the group-selfie reached what you might call its apotheosis last summer when a gaggle of teenagers posted their selfie taken with Pope Francis, who has since be captured in more than a few selfies.

On Easter morning it might seem odd to stop to consider the selfie, except that I have been wondering about the possibility of the Easter-selfie, and how it would have transformed Christian faith had the selfie been an available means of expression and communication on that first Easter morning.

To begin with, it would have saved a lot of time.  We hear in John’s Gospel that there is a lot of running to and fro the tomb that morning.  First it’s Mary Magdalene in the dark.  She runs to get Peter and the unnamed disciple Jesus loved.  They run to the tomb together, but the unnamed disciple gets there first (maybe to get the first selfie?)  But Peter is the first to look into the tomb.  The two of them race back home.  But Mary stays by the tomb weeping, only to encounter two angels with whom she chats – a selfie moment if ever there was one.  Eventually Mary, still on her own encounters a man she supposes to be the gardener, but who turns out to be Jesus.  He tells her to go back to his brothers, his friends, his disciples and report to them.  Imagine what the impact would have been if she could have just held out her smart phone as she stood beside the risen Lord and taken a selfie with him.

All this running around, all this uncertainty would have been dealt with in a matter of seconds.  Not to mention that thousands of years of skeptics would have had photographic evidence to contend with.  Doubting Thomas himself would have been spared his doubt if he’d seen the selfies of Mary with the angels and then standing beside Jesus posted on Instagram with a nice sepia filter.

But, in fact, I think the Easter selfie has greater potential than just saving time, and even greater potential than dispelling doubt.  Imagine the selfies taken by Mary Magdalene, by Peter and the other disciple.  Imagine Mary standing right beside the risen Christ – but not so close as to touch him.  And now imagine yourself there too.  Maybe, like me, you have never actually taken a selfie and posted it on line (I don’t think I have).  And yet, if I was there on that Easter morning, I think I’d want to very much.

In a way the Easter selfie is an answer to the old Good Friday hymn: Were you there.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?  Were you there?

The implied answer to the hymn, of course, is no – you weren’t there and neither was I.  The hymn is a lament of longing.  We should have been there; we would have been there if we could; we wish we’d been there.  Would something had been different if you’d been there?  Who knows?  But you were not there; we were not there.

The Easter selfie would provide a powerful counterpoint to this lament.  On the day of resurrection it would allow us to proclaim with more than a little joy: I was there!  I spoke with angels!  I gazed into the empty tomb!  I saw the risen Lord Jesus and heard him call my name!  Don’t you believe me?  Have a look at this!

Were you there when they found the empty tomb? 

Were you there when the angels came to chat?

Were you there when the gardener called your name?

Yes, yes I was there!  And ohhhh! sometimes it causes me to tremble when I look at those Easter selfies!  Yes, I was there!

Additionally, the Easter selfie would allow us to get over our great reluctance to say anything at all about our faith.  Not sure how to tell someone that you actually believe in all this Jesus stuff?  Can’t find the words to describe the power of the risen Lord to change your life and the world?  No need to put it into words.  Just post a selfie taken outside his empty tomb – in this case take it outside of church on Easter morning - and this time leave it in color!

If “selfie” really is the word of the year; if it really does accurately capture the mood of this moment in history, the direction of the world; if it expresses something about the way we see the world, then let us at least have some Easter selfies to add to all the images that seem to say nothing more than that I am alone in the world and relatively pleased with myself – or at least that’s what I want you to believe.

Let’s add to those isolating images with the images that capture us looking hopeful by an empty tomb; that show us chatting away with friends who appear to be angels (what with that hazy filter you have added and the sun shining into the lens).  Let’s post a selfie taken with the nearest gardener.  And let us not be surprised on Easter, when we find ourselves in a garden where things are meant to come to life and grow, to hear a voice connected to that unknown gardener that’s calling out a name.

And let’s let our Easter selfie be one that captures the surprise and joy on our faces when we realize that the voice is calling your name, that the gardener is not the gardener at all, that the name he is calling is yours, and that the face in the picture that matters the most is not yours or mine, but the one we are somehow surprised to find there, even though he promised that after three days he would rise from the grave, and that he would be with us always.

Take an Easter selfie with Jesus, which is best done not with a camera phone but with your heart.  But still, don’t forget to share it, and let us all see you smiling beside the risen Jesus, who, by the way, is very happy to be here in an Easter selfie with you!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Easter Day 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Atonement

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

At the movies last year, you may have watched a scene that I suspect will prove to be an enduring image in cinema.  Solomon Northup – born free in the North, but kidnapped into slavery in the South – has resisted the authority of his overseer, taken his whip from him, and beaten him harshly, inflicting on his supposed master the kind of treatment intended for the slave.  The slave is rounded up and taken to a tree not too far from the gracious manor house of the plantation where his overseer plans to hang him, but another overseer intervenes after the noose has already been placed around Solomon’s neck, and the rope thrown over strong tree branch, and the men are about to hoist him to his death.  The intervention, however, leaves something to be desired. Solomon is not released from either noose or tree.  He is left there – strung up by the neck, his toes still just barely on the ground, so that he can push himself up just enough on his tippy-toes to suck in tiny breaths.  He is left there all day, his toes losing and finding their purchase in the muddy ground beneath the tree, until his owner returns and cuts him down.

The scene is hard to watch – we are left to watch Solomon hang there for what feels like ages in cinematic time.  It’s all the more chilling when you consider that something like this actually did happen to Solomon Northup in real time, recounted in his book on which the film is based.

About this scene, the cinematographer of 12 Years A Slave, Sean Bobbit, has said that it encapsulated for him the entire movie.  Specifically he said this about it: “Here’s a man who’s on the edge of death and no one can help him because he belongs to someone else.”  This is an interesting comment.  It has strong resonance with an ancient understanding of the crucifixion of Jesus.  The thinking went like this: By disobeying God and yielding to temptation in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve sold their souls (and the soul of all humanity) to the devil.  We then belonged to someone else, until someone should come along and free us, cut us down – which God would eventually do in the person of his Son, Jesus.

By that reckoning, after the Fall all humanity was on the edge of death and no one could help because we belonged to someone else.  But God paid the ransom for our initial transgression and thereby out-negotiated the devil by sending his own Son to die, and then to rise from the dead.  This is a tidy story – which is nice if you like tidy stories.  If you allow for the parallel with the near-hanging of Solomon Northup, however, it has the unfortunate correlation of putting God in the place of the slave-owner.  I’d say this correlation demonstrates not a weakness of the parallel with the film, but a weakness of the tidy story.  In fact, if you employ such a tidy story to explain why Jesus dies on the cross, you will nearly always come up against some deeply unappealing suggestions about God.  God nearly always comes out looking like a slave owner: cruel, unjust, anything but divine.  I don’t recommend this way of thinking about God.

The painful, long scene in the film, however, suggests to me a different way of thinking about why Jesus dies on the Cross, and it has to do with drawing another parallel.  If you look at this scene - in which Solomon Northup is strung up to a tree by a noose, balanced between life and death – as a crucifixion scene with a different accent, then you begin to see the parallel.  For if this scene is read as a crucifixion, it becomes clear that the slave owner cannot be God at all – he is more like Pontius Pilate.

And if you watch that betrayed man, who was once free, struggling for life, but heading toward death, and if you see the weight of human indecency and suffering pulling the noose more tightly around his neck, making it harder and harder for him to breathe, to stay alive… then you begin to see who it is who is hanging there on that tree.  You begin to see Jesus.  And if you consider that most slaves who were hung by a noose from a tree were not cut down alive, then you begin to see why even this cruel scene is an imperfect crucifixion.

Human suffering and death comes in many shapes and sizes – with many causes, not the least of which is the suffering we inflict on each other, the killing we do of each other.  No religion has a good explanation of or answer to this reality – this is the Achilles’ heel of religion.  In the Christian faith, instead of an explanation for human suffering a death, we have a God who allows it to happen to himself.  I recently heard a preacher say that the way to understand the Passion and Death of Jesus is as God diving into the deep end of humanity – and I like this way of thinking of it.

The technical, theological term for this matter is “atonement.”  The word means exactly what it says if you break it down – it is about God and humanity being “at one.”  It is about crossing the divide that could separate us from the love of God.  It is about finding again the image of our maker in our own selves.  It is about seeing that we are never without God, that he will never abandon us – even though we will suspect he has.  It is about being at one with the Lord of life.

It would be tidy to proclaim on Good Friday the power of a God who can cut you free from all that enslaves you and causes you to suffer.  But that is not the story of Good Friday.

Instead we have the story of a God whose Son is strung up next to you, who will suffer with you, and who, when your feet finally slip and can find no purchase in the mud, will die with you, since dying we must all do.  And then, we are promised, there will be still more to discover, about what it means to be at one with the Lord of life.

No longer can we fool ourselves to believe that we belong to someone else – even though the suffering be hard, and death inevitable.  For in Jesus, God has, indeed, jumped into the deep end of humanity – he is at one with us, and we are at one with him through Christ.  There is no pain or suffering that divides us, nor any divine insulation that divides us.  There is not even death that divides us.  God has done it: he has died, himself so he might be at one with us, and so that we would know that we belong to no one else but him, and never have.

And though the suffering be bloody, and death be not far at hand, and though he will feel, as some of us do, that God has forsaken him, he still makes this promise to all who wish to hear it who hang there next to him: “today you will be with me in paradise;” which is to say: “today you and I shall be at one with each other.”

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Good Friday 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia