Up All Night

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

When was the last time you were up all night? Knowing this congregation, I would say that it was either an overnight international flight, an all-night study session for your medical boards or the bar, or a particularly long post-Christmas Eve Midnight Mass celebration. But here’s another question: when was the last time you were up all night because you were excited? When was the last time you couldn’t fall asleep because you simply couldn’t wait for what the next day would bring? Maybe it was the night before a long-awaited vacation. Or maybe the night before a commencement or the first day of an exciting new job. Maybe it was the night before your wedding, or for some of us, the night before William and Kate’s wedding. Or maybe, to think of the last time when you were up all night, giddy with excitement, you’ll have to go all the way back to Christmas Eves when you were a kid.

In my house, Christmas Eve always meant visiting family, which always meant that my brother and I had to share a room. With both of us trying to sleep in the same room, we would usually end up getting pretty wound up. We’d start out whispering to each other and trying to predict what presents each of us might get the next morning – an EZ Bake Oven, the new set of Hot Wheels, Atari!. But then inevitably one of us would get so excited we’d start laughing, and then we’d start shushing each other, which made the whole thing even more hilarious, and then more giggling and giggling and giggling. One year I think we even ended up singing Fleetwood Mac to each other, you know, “Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Don’t stop, it’ll soon be here.” The Clintons have nothing on the Takacses. And so with all of this singing and general silliness, we were often up for hours, seemingly up all night, because we knew that there would be joy in the morning, great gifts just waiting to be unwrapped.

Did you know that Pentecost is a stay up all night kind of festival? It’s true; it is. It comes from the ancient Jewish Festival of Weeks, also called Shavuot, when the People of God recalled the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai 50 days after they were freed from Egypt. And one of the traditions of Shavuot is to stay up, all night long, studying Torah. The story goes that on that first Pentecost, some of the Israelites overslept and missed the actual moment when Moses gave the Torah, the Law, to God’s people. So now, some faithful Jews will stay up all night, bubbling with excitement, digging deeply into the Torah, studying with zeal and maybe even with whispers and giggling. Because they know that there is joy in the morning, that great gift of God’s promise of faithfulness and his instructions about holy living, given to them, just waiting to be unwrapped.

And it’s hard to imagine that that disciples weren’t having some sleepless, giddy nights in the days between the Ascension and Pentecost. Jesus had just flickered up into the heavens, leaving behind his blessing and his promise that he would send the Holy Spirit down upon them to sanctify them, to prepare them to be sent out into the world as Holy Apostles. So they’ve been waiting, holed up together in a room in Jerusalem, whispering to each other about this great gift that is coming soon. What will it feel like when the Spirit comes, do you think? Will we see it? Will it happen all at once, or will Peter go first and Matthias last? And as they’ve been sitting there imagining, the anticipation has been building and building, more butterflies in the stomach, more foot-tapping and finger-drumming, more flashes of smiles, and maybe even a few smothered giggles. Because they feel in their very bones that joy will come in the morning, ushered in by a mighty wind and wrapped in fire and light.

The Church, also, recognizes the up-all-night nature of today’s feast. How do we know this? Because there is a liturgy for it. It’s called the Vigil of Pentecost, and yes, it is a real thing, a genuine liturgy with readings and rubrics and everything, right there in the prayer book. Buried a little bit, perhaps, but there. (The first person who can tell me after the service where the Vigil of Pentecost is found in the prayer book will get a cookie. Please don’t start looking for it right now.)*

So…how many of you were up last night, turning in your beds, tummies clenched with excitement, giggling and giddy because of the joy that comes this morning, the great gift of this day? Anyone? Anyone keep vigil last night? Anyone find themselves humming Fleetwood Mac and desperate for the dawn? True confession: I didn’t. I didn’t do any of those things. I fell into bed, got a good night sleep, and awoke with the alarm this morning. I wasn’t up all night, contemplating the wonders of the gift that I was going to receive today. I wasn’t up all night studying the scriptures for insights into the Holy Spirit. I wasn’t giddy. I wasn’t giggling. It was a completely ordinary, un-anticipatory evening. And looking out at your bright, well-rested faces, I’m guessing that the same is true for you.

Why is this, do you think? Why is it that we take this gift of the Holy Spirit so much for granted? Why is it that when Pentecost morning dawns, the most attention we might give it is to wonder what red shirt we should wear and if the organist will play the Duruflé Veni Creator? Here are two suggestions. The first trap is that we get tangled up in the definition of Pentecost as the day when the Holy Spirit was given to the Church. Now Pentecost is the Feast when we recall the moment when the Holy Spirit came down upon the disciples, when they found a power of language they had never had before, when Peter stood before the people of Jerusalem and proclaimed a glorious new day and when thousands heard his words and said yes. But Pentecost is not just about something that happened to those people, over there, all those many years ago. Because if Pentecost is about the gift of the Holy Spirit to the Church, guess what? Who is the Church? The Church is you and me, the Church is us in this time and in this place. Today we remember that that Holy Spirit is this Holy Spirit. That Holy Spirit is the same one we call down upon the gifts of bread and wine today, the same one we pray in and with and through today, the same one we invoke in absolution and in blessing today. That Holy Spirit is the same one poured out upon us in our baptisms, rekindled in our confirmations, fortified every time we come to this altar. That Holy Spirit was not a one-time offering a thousand years ago lit a fire under the Church, but an on-going gift, a gift given every second of every day to every Christian that has ever lived, a gift given every second of every day to you and to me, a gift without which we would not be simply bereft, but would simply not be.

The other Pentecost trap is that we sometimes think of the Holy Spirit as a kind of lava lamp of a gift. It’s beautiful and interesting to look at, but mostly we just set up on a shelf and watch it do its thing. But the Holy Spirit is not a lava lamp; the Holy Spirit is more like an erector set. The Holy Spirit is more like a set of tinker toys, like Lincoln logs. The Holy Spirit is given to us so that we will go do something with it. This is a gift with batteries included and with some assembly required. The Holy Spirit, once unwrapped, is not something to be set upon a shelf. She cries out to be put to use. She, and I say She for the Holy Spirit is surely not an It, draws out words of truth-telling and Gospel-sharing from the depths of our souls. She compels us to dream dreams of a world without divisions, to see visions of a community where all are free, to paint pictures of that great and glorious day when everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved. The Holy Spirit is a hands-on gift, a gift with purpose, with a plan.  

Okay. So we’ve already missed our chance to be up-all-night this Pentecost Eve. But hey, guess what? Guess what I heard? There is a present here this morning with your name on it. That’s right. I heard that there’s a gift here for every single person in this room. Yup, here it is: To: You, From: The Holy Spirit. Go ahead – unwrap it and see what you got. Don’t forget, everyone’s gift is different, and you may need to look for the instructions to know what your gift is, to see if it’s the build-a-prophet kit, or the textbooks of a teacher, or the cooling balms of a healer. “All these are activated by one and the same Spirit,” Paul tells us. All of these are given just for us. Your gift is made just for you, wrapped just for you, given just for you. It is a gift worth getting excited about, a gift waiting up all night for. I hope that you like it, and I hope you’ll enjoy figuring out what to do with it. And I wish you a merry Pentecost.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

8 June 2014 - The Feast of Pentecost

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

*The Vigil of Pentecost is described on page 175 or 227 in the Book of Common Prayer.

I Shall Return

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

In March of 1942, facing the advance of a daunting Japanese Army, General Douglas MacArthur was ordered to leave his headquarters in the Philippines and decamp for Australia.  When he’d arrived safely on Australian shores he gave a speech in which he made the famous promise to the people of the Philippines that “I shall return.”

MacArthur had actually spent a lot of time in the Philippines in various postings throughout his life, and as a military advisor to the government there.  He had more than a casual attachment to the islands.  And beating a retreat from anywhere (as he had from the Philippines) was not exactly his idea of a good time.  When he promised to return, he meant it.  The story goes that MacArthur’s superiors in Washington asked him to revise his statement, to declare, “We shall return.”  But nothing about MacArthur’s ego inclined him to pay any attention whatsoever to that request.

It’s a curious thing that the legacy of such a complicated, accomplished, remarkable, and quite amazing man can be so quickly and easily linked to this one phrase about a place that many Americans forget was once a US Territory, and about which we may not often stop to think at all these days: “I shall return.”

But as I say, MacArthur cared about the Philippines (if you ask me) and it grated strongly against his grain to abandon a place and a people to whom he had devoted much time and effort, and who were clearly facing a terrible threat – a place and a people whom he imagined needed him.  When MacArthur promised to return to the Philippines, I suspect it was a personal promise, a statement of personal commitment, a matter of personal urgency regardless of what the vicissitudes of war should require.  This was his promise: I shall return.

Had he had just a little bit more of a messianic complex, MacArthur might have added, “I will not leave you comfortless,” referencing Jesus’ promise, after his resurrection, to send the Holy Spirit to his disciples.

When we get this far past Easter it’s easy for us to miss the promise of Jesus’ return that is made in the Book of Acts by the two men in white robes, presumably angels: “This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way you saw him go into heaven.”  Those words, that promise, are painted or etched, or otherwise applied to the bottom-most band of stained glass of the great east window of this church, where we see the scene of Jesus’ Ascension into heaven depicted.

Accordingly, you could say that that single line from the Acts of the Apostles is a sort of charter for our parish – so centered on the celebration of the Mass – a charter that calls us to consider that we are not here to recall constantly Jesus’ departure, to perpetually commemorate some long-past alighting of the Lord, but to await, prepare for, and live like people who are looking forward to Jesus’ coming again in the same way.  In fact, you could wonder if the scene displayed before us each and every time we come to church in daylight hours is not a depiction of his Ascension at all, but actually a rendering of his return in the same way: the pillowy cloud about to set down on terra firma again, bringing Jesus back amongst disciples eagerly looking up to greet him as he arrives.  

Fanciful though such a suggestion may be, it might be useful to think about what it would mean to be a church shaped by the promise, the urgent expectation, that Jesus will return to walk with, and talk with, and teach, and preach, and heal, and forgive his followers.  Because you live your life differently if all you are doing is dutifully remembering the past than if you are faithfully looking toward the future.  Christians often get confused about this: getting stuck in the past on the one hand, and making things up about the future (like the so-called “Rapture”) on the other hand.

I’d suggest that the differences between looking constantly to the past, and looking eagerly to the future are differences primarily of posture and attitude.  When you are looking to the past it is easy to slouch, you often feel sleepy, and you don’t mind drifting off to naps while you reminisce about the good old days, your eyes are heavy, and you wish people would keep quiet and leave you alone.  When you are looking to the future you sit up straight, you keep your eyes open, you enlist others to make sure you stay awake, you try to stay fit, you adopt practices that you suspect will serve you well when the day for which you wait finally dawns.

In military terms, you adopt a posture of “situational awareness” so that you can be ready for whatever is coming.  And this posture, this attitude, this awareness translates into decisions about what you do in your life.  Because if you look at that east window and see in the figure of Jesus someone who left the building, so to speak, a long time ago, then it hardly matters what choices you make today.  But if you see that those puffy clouds on which Jesus’ feet rest could be setting him down in our midst again here on earth, then you begin to consider what you might look like to him, what you are doing, and how you will answer when he asks what you have been up to since he last stepped onto those clouds on the way up to heaven.

I think our predecessors at Saint Mark’s wanted us to think that way.  They knew that it can be difficult for Christians to adopt a posture of situational awareness that looks hopefully toward the future, so they furnished themselves and us with a powerful image that looks both ways, reminding us that “this Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way you saw him go into heaven.”  Because they were clear that when the angels promised that Jesus would return, they meant it.  They were speaking for God, and making a promise that could be counted on.

And our forbears, who built this place so that the Real Presence of Jesus would be known day in and day out, wanted to remind themselves and those who would come after them that the matter of Jesus’ return was a personal promise, a statement of personal commitment, a matter of personal urgency regardless of what the vicissitudes of divine life in heaven should require.  This was his promise: I shall return – just delivered on the lips of angels, who are often tasked with announcing divine arrivals and departures.

When MacArthur returned to the Philippines in 1944 the fighting there had not yet stopped.  The small boat he’d taken to come ashore was grounded in knee-deep water, so he got out of the boat and waded through the water to the beach.  It would have suited MacArthur, I am sure, if he could have walked across that water.  But Douglas MacArthur, great and complicated man that he was, was no messiah.  All the same, he fulfilled his promise, and at some point that day in a speech he made the obvious observation, “I have returned.”

For so many Christians these days it is hard to believe that Jesus is really coming back.  The wait has been so long that we have fashioned ways to live as Christians that are untroubled by the possibility of Christ’s return.  Afraid of the embarrassment of being stood up by Jesus, we conveniently forget the message of the angels – enshrined right here in our church – that he will come in the same way you saw him go into heaven.  And maybe we have become comfortable looking backward, keeping holy memory alive, occasionally dozing off, but always awaking when the bell rings and calls us to Mass.

But a window was put here to be ignited by the sun, and to, in turn, ignite our hearts and turn our heads to look ahead to the glorious day when Jesus will come again in the same way we heard that he went into heaven.

And if a mere General of the Army can keep his promise to a place and a people whom he imagined needed him, how much more so will the king of kings, the lord of lords, the Captain of Salvation, and the Prince of Heaven keep his promise to come again to a place and to a people who he knows need him desperately?

We live in a world in which the fighting has not stopped, and in which it may feel to us as if Christ’s boat may have become grounded somewhere off-shore, and he has been prevented from coming to us.  But the water will be no obstacle to our Lord when he comes.  He will step lightly across it, wash our tears with it as he embraces us, and assures us, “I have returned.”

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

1 June 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Rogation Sunday

You may listen to Archbishop Carnley's sermon here.

Preached by Archbishop Peter Carnley

25 May 2014

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia