The Wolf of Straight Street

Tragedy comes in all shapes and sizes.  This past week, tragedy came unexpectedly to St. James School when, on Wednesdays morning it was discovered that the six egg-laying hens that live on the property had all been murdered.  Feathers were strewn about the henhouse, and mangled remains of some of the hens were found around the schoolyard.  To those familiar with these sorts of things the deed bore all the signs of the work of a fox, such as are occasionally seen slinking around the churchyard and the school grounds.  It’s not as though we need much more evidence that we live in a dangerous and violent world.

The students who I talked to that day were saddened but not distraught.  By the standards of too many of these children, the slaughter of six chickens is an unremarkable incident and a fairly insignificant spilling of blood.  As an act of injustice, I guess it ranked low on any scale, especially during the week the school remembered the work and sacrifice of Martin Luther King, and the long struggle for justice for black people in this nation.

But for me the loss of the hens and the eggs they’d given was poignant because of the awful symbolism of it.  The fox, you see, had not gained entry in the little fenced in yard built for the hens – the wire fencing is buried two feet deep in order to prevent just such an incursion.  But the fox found a weakness in the henhouse itself, the back of which is unprotected by the fence.

Our school, as many of you know, is surrounded by high 19th century walls of Wissahickon schist.  It is a protected oasis of learning, gracefulness, and hope, in a part of the city that is too often associated with violence, bloodshed, and murder.  The hens, when they arrived, seemed to me to be another hopeful sign of the peaceable kingdom being realized behind those walls on Clearfield Street.  And the fox’s awful assault was a reminder to me that every day, we and our students are sent out as sheep into the midst of wolves – to mix the mammalian metaphor.

It is this very warning we heard this morning on the lips of Jesus as he charged his Twelve Apostles with their mission: “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

But our purpose here today is not sing the praises of those Twelve, nor to dissect our Lord’s instructions to them.  Our purpose is to consider the one Apostle who was not there at the time, for he had not yet been called by Jesus: St. Paul.

And the irony of this Gospel reading is that if ever there was a wolf who was called into the midst of the sheep, it was St. Paul.  He was a firebrand denouncer and enthusiastic persecutor of the early followers of Jesus.  We heard what he wrote about himself, “I was violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it.”  Paul was a wolf!  He was vicious, and cunning, and proud of it.  He’d have been the Wolf of Straight Street if he had gotten to Damascus before he was knocked to the ground beneath rays of shining light, and had he not asked his momentous question, “Who are you, Lord?”

Here is a question for the ages.  And here is a question for the wolves, if only they would ask it.  “Who are you, Lord?”

Here is a question for the foxes to ask as they circle closer to the henhouse, if only a light would knock them off their paws – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for the truants, and the drug dealers, and the letches who follow seventh grade girls on their way home from school and call out suggestions to them, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for those who regard the gift of this beautiful earth with such contempt that they clear-cut it, drill it, burn it, and spill all over and in it with reckless abandon, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for small-minded Anglicans who farcically seek out “untainted” bishops to avoid any suggestion that a woman could share in the priesthood of Christ, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for the bigots who still can’t imagine that there’s room in this nation not only for white people, but for black people and brown people, for Jewish people and Muslim people, and for people we don’t even know how to describe yet, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for the workers of darkness who carry out genocide and ethnic cleansings, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for those wreaking havoc in the streets of Paris, slaughtering innocents in the villages of Nigeria, or murdering Christians in Iraq, to ask – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for every American to ask before we send our brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters to take up warfare again any place at all – Who are you, Lord?

Here is a question for every one of us to ask, when we are caught up in our own self-centeredness, more concerned about things than people, or indifferent to those who suffer – Who are you, Lord?

If only God would throw us to the ground, flood our vision with light, and call out to us by name to get our attention, to make us listen, to prompt us to ask the question!  This was the question that St. Paul asked, when he – the great wolf – was knocked off his feet and onto his tuchus, and he heard a voice speaking to him, and calling him by name, “Saul, Saul.  Why are you persecuting me?”

Paul, wolf that he was, answered the question with a question, unable to provide a proper answer.  But the question was all that was needed, “Who are you, Lord?”

Who am I?  I’ll tell you who I am, came the answer: I am Jesus!

Now, this was not the answer that Paul wanted.  Don’t you know that Paul hated Jesus?  Paul was the wolf to Jesus’ sheep, and happy to have the honor.  But here is the first important thing to see in St. Paul’s quite amazing story: that Jesus does not give up on the wolves.  Jesus has work to do with the wolves, and he knows them by name.

Why Jesus so often allows the wolves to roam so freely, I cannot say.  It is the same old question of why a loving God allows pain, suffering, and evil to exist in his creation, and I just don’t know!  But remember, that Jesus is not done with the wolves, metaphorically speaking, and St. Paul is proof of that, because he was a wolf to be reckoned with.

And here is the second important thing to see in this story of Paul’s conversion; remember what Jesus charges Paul to do: he tells him to testify.  He does not tell Paul to redirect his tactics of persecution and wage a religious guerilla war.  He does not tell him to start blowing things up, cutting people’s heads off, or burning things down.  No, he tells him to speak, to preach, to teach, and to guide.  He tells him to stop being such a wolf, and learn to be a sheep.  And then, Jesus sends Paul out, just like the other Twelve, as a sheep into the midst of wolves.

As far as we know, Paul never again turned back to his old, wolfish ways.  Rather, he stood among wolves like a lamb and he bleated and bleated about the love of God, and how it is made known to anyone who cares to listen, by the person of God’s Son Jesus.  And sheepishly he changed the world.  Having once refused to answer a question with anything but another question (Who are you, Lord), Paul now relentlessly repeats the answer: And the answer is Jesus!

It is Jesus who calls to stop kicking against the power of God and to listen.

It is Jesus who calls to repentance and forgiveness.

It is Jesus who calls to give up being a wolf, and to go out and testify like a sheep!

The idea of being sheep who are sent into the midst of wolves is not necessarily appealing to the sheep.  It takes bravery, trust, and faith to be a peaceful creature amidst a world of predators.  But this is God’s consistent call.

At this moment in history Christians need to hear again Christ’s call to go out like sheep into the midst of wolves.  Too often we have tried to beat the wolves at their own game, as though by adopting wolfish tactics we could somehow accomplish the will of the Great Shepherd.  Sheep are poor and defenseless and peaceful.  Paul was none of those things until he heard the voice of Jesus.  Like us, he strongly suspected there was virtue to be found in wealth and power and cunning.  But in his sheepishness he discovered both wisdom and innocence – gifts from the Lord who called him by name.

We need to borrow, again and again, Paul’s question – Who are you, Lord?

And we need to listen, again and again, to the answer:

I am Jesus; I have been who I have been since before the beginning of time.

I am Jesus; I was there when you were made.

I am Jesus; and all wisdom cometh from me.

I am Jesus; and I am the voice of love incarnate.

I am Jesus; and all forgiveness comes from me.

I am Jesus; and I have given you bravery, trust, faith, and peace.

I am Jesus; and I desire not the death of sinners, but rather that they should turn from their wickedness and live.

I am Jesus; and in your baptism I have clothed you in the fairest, whitest wool to keep you warm and protect you.

I am Jesus; and I send you out like sheep into the midst of wolves, because it is only by establishing a peaceable kingdom that my will can be done, and that my law of love can hold sway on the earth.

I am Jesus!  So now, get up and stand on your feet, for I have appeared to you for this purpose, to appoint you to serve and to testify to the things in which you have seen me and those in which I will appear to you; to rescue you from all that leads you astray; that you may turn from darkness to light, and from the power of evil to God; so that you may receive forgiveness of sins, and a place among the sanctified!

I am Jesus; and I send you out like sheep in the midst of wolves.  You will need bravery, trust, and faith; and you will need to remember to act peaceably in my name, for you are the people of my pasture, and the sheep of my hand.  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

The Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The Voice of God

What does the voice of God sound like? Really, if you had to cast someone as the voice of God, who would you choose? Would you go for the obvious, like James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman? Or the traditional, like Charleton Heston? You could go retro with George Burns or Philadelphia with John Facenda. Would God sound like your father, your grandfather, your childhood priest? Would God sound like an old man, a strong man, a wise man? Would God sound like a man at all? Maybe God would sound like your mother or Meryl Streep or that kindergarten teacher who seemed to know all things. Maybe God would sound extremely well-mannered, like if Walter Cronkite and Peter Jennings had a love child. Maybe God would sound very, very posh, like Benedict Cumberbatch in a period film. Or would God sound like a wise old wizard, Gandalf the White plus Dumbledore with a little Yoda thrown in for good measure? No, the Yoda thing would probably be weird, but God could sound a little weird. Maybe God would have three voices, some male, some female, some breathy, some bold. Or maybe God would sound warm and resonant, like Renee Fleming or Bryn Terfel or your very favorite tenor. Maybe the voice of God would be booming. Maybe the voice of God would be barely there. Maybe the voice of God would be comforting and solid, or clarion and somewhat terrifying. Maybe the voice of God would sound like your wife, or your lover. Maybe the voice of God would sound like a child.

We know that the voice of God is important, no, not just important – fundamental. God’s voice speaks into the darkness and there is light. God’s voice breaks the cedar trees and shakes the wilderness. God’s voice tears open the heavens above his only-begotten Son and rains down upon his dripping head, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” God’s voice pronounces judgment and blessing, calls and calls to account, teaches and comforts and rebukes. God’s voice is always there in scripture, a nearly constant companion to the people of Israel and the followers of Christ…but what does that voice sound like?

I want to know. I really want to know. Because I want to know what to listen for. I want to know God’s voice when I hear it. I want to know which voice belongs to God in the general cacophony of this world. Every morning, I pray along with the psalmist that I would “hearken to his voice,” and I mean it. I want to hearken to God’s voice; I’m all about hearkening. Especially when I’m afraid, or sad, or lost, or anxious or confused or angry or generally tied up in knots. I’m desperate to hearken, I long to hearken. And it would just be so much easier if I knew exactly what to hearken for, if I knew exactly what God’s voice sounded like.   

But it isn’t as easy as that. I wish that it were, I really wish that I could stand here and say to you all, “This just in – God’s voice sounds just like Aretha Franklin. So just listen for that and you’ll be a-ok.” But much as I’d like to do that, and much as I’d like for God to actually sound like Aretha Franklin, you know I can’t say that. You know that I can’t point to one voice and say to you, “That’s God – that’s definitely, undeniably God.” I can’t even do that standing in this church, in this holy place where we know God’s presence abides. I wish that I could, but I can’t. Because hearing the voice of God isn’t always easy. It isn’t usually easy. Some of us have had the gift of knowing a miraculous moment when God’s voice is as clear as a bell and rings us all the way down to our bones. But that doesn’t happen all the time. Heck, it doesn’t happen most of the time. Most of the time, you and I listen for the one, clear voice of God and instead hear lots and lots of voices – the humming of advice from friends, the clicking away of pros and cons and rationalizations, the echoes of our own fears or desires, the whir of the tapes that have been running in our heads since we were children, and maybe the speaking of the Holy Spirit deep in our souls. But how do we know which is which? How do we hear God in the midst of all of this noise?

Well, we pray. We sit in silence and contemplate the holiness that is God our Father and our Mother. We come to Mass to be still and know God, to sing and hear God singing with us, to take bread and wine and hope to then find God singing within us. We pray. And we read. We study scripture. We read what other, wiser people have said about scripture. We read old church fathers and new church mothers, Augustine and Bernard and Anne Lamott and Nadia Bolz-Weber. We journal. We walk. We think. We get tired, we get frustrated. We get some clarity, some hope, an idea! We check it out – what would Jesus say about this? What would my mother say about this? What does Saint Mark or my best friend or my therapist say about this? And maybe they confirm for us that we have, in fact, heard the voice of God renting the heavens above our own heads. But maybe they don’t. And maybe we feel like we’ve taken a step forward, but sometimes we feel like we’re back at square one. And we wonder, again and again, what will God’s voice sound like when it comes?

It’s a process, this listening for God’s voice. It’s a progression. It’s actually a practice. We may never get to be great at this, but we can get better. The truth is that God’s voice spoke into the world, spoke the world, in the beginning, and that voice has continued to resound throughout the ages. God’s voice spoke to priests and prophets, to shepherds and dressers of sycamore trees, to carpenters and virgins, to three magi and to one Messiah. God’s voice has never ceased to sound. And the more we listen for it, the more we practice, the better we’ll get at picking it out of the crowd.

Sometimes, of course, it is the loudest voice in the room, the voice of a hurricane, the voice that shatters the cedar trees and shakes the foundations of the earth. Sometimes it sounds like a young girl from the wilds of Pakistan who stood up and told her oppressors and the world that just because she is a girl, she is no less worthy of freedom, respect, and an education. Sometimes it sounds like a young black preacher 50 years ago who told the world that his people deserved the right to vote and they were willing to march from Selma to Montgomery in the midst of a hailstorm of hate to get it. Sometimes it sounds like the voices of men and boys saying no to violence against women, or the voices of men and women saying no to violence against Creation. Sometimes it sounds like an imam who stands up again and again to remind the world that terrorism and hatred and violence are not Islamic; they are fanatic.

But sometimes the voice of God is still and small, a sound like sheer silence, so tiny that in Hebrew it is called the “bat-kol,” the “daughter of a voice.” Sometimes it sounds like a stranger saying, “God bless you” on the subway when you are feeling decidedly unblessed. Sometimes it sounds like a friend asking you how you are and really meaning it. Sometimes it sounds like a quiet hum – the murmur of a calling, the whisper of a job offer, the yearning for something more. Sometimes it sounds like three little words – I see you. I forgive you. I love you. – spoken by one little, ordinary person. The more we practice listening for this voice that sounds all around us, the better we’ll get at hearing it. I know this because the Bible tells me so, because Augustine tells me so, because my mother and my mentors and my own miraculous moments have told me so. And in a moment, we’ll all have a chance to practice. We’ll stand as a community and watch the parents and godparents of little Maddox Lee Henssler make promises on his behalf. We’ll make some promises of our own, affirming that we will support him in his life in Christ. We’ll pray for Maddox and for God’s help. We’ll watch the Holy Spirit poured out on Maddox in water and oil. And in our Amen we will listen for the reverberations from the heavens, “You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And maybe we’ll hear it. And maybe we won’t. But maybe, just maybe, as we live into these prayers and promises, maybe, as we live out our discipleship in this community of faith, maybe, as we practice our own listening, maybe someday Maddox will be able to say how he heard the voice of God as a little child. And that it sounded like you.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

11 January 2015 - The Baptism of our Lord

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Epiphany 2015

Cartoon by Mike Twohy for The New Yorker

A cartoon in last week’s New Yorker depicts two laboratory-mice in a cage, facing one another.  One of the mice has wires attached to an electrode or something on its head and leading out of the cage to someplace in the distance.  That wired-up mouse is saying to the other one, “I’m not religious – just anti-science.”

These days, science and religion are supposed to be at enmity with one another.  Religion, we are told, is inferior to science for many reasons, not least of which is that the scientific method reveals things that are verifiably true, whereas religion brings few, if any, revelations that can be verified in any sense of the word.  The number of essays, treatises, and other assertions making this point continues to grow in our day and age, as the protectors of some kind of scientific truth duel it out with the practitioners of religion, cast invariably as the enemies of science.

I, myself, am largely un-indoctrinated to the kind of religion that is hostile to science or the scientific method.  Educated for a long time in church schools, with a seminary degree, and nearly twenty years of ministry of a distinctly religious flavor, I have never once been tempted to see science, as a pursuit and a field of inquiry, as hostile to the religion I practice, or the faith I believe.  In fact, most of my education and experience points to quite the opposite, since the architecture, music, and world view of the church I have grown up in and inhabited my whole life is built on a robust engagement with mathematics, physics, natural sciences, and the scientific method.   But maybe I’m just delusional, and secretly anti-science.

In any case, these musings are only the backdrop against which I encounter with you tonight the Wise Men of the Epiphany.  The annotations in my Bible, published by Oxford University, allow for the possibility that these men are “astrologers,” on the one hand – which sounds pretty suspect to me, since we all know that astrology is the silly, superstitious, blonde-haired, quasi-religious step-child of an actual science, namely astronomy.  How the editors determined that these Wise Men were astrologers and not astronomers, I cannot say.  I strongly suspect that there was actually a difference of opinion among the Oxford editors on this point, since a footnote for the very same verse tells me unambiguously that the wise men were from “a learned class in ancient Persia,” and no self-respecting Oxonian could possibly refer to an astrologer as “learned.”

For the sake of argument, then, let us contend that in the Wise Men we have a potential meeting of the religious and the scientific.  For all I know, one was an astrologer, one was an astronomer, and another was a priest of some variety.  Wouldn’t that be convenient?

What I want to know is this, is there any chance that the Wise Men were accustomed to employing the scientific method in their journeys and their observations?  And, if so, what does their arrival at the Christ-child’s manger have to say to them?

May I abbreviate the scientific method thusly: 

1 – You ask a question.

2 – You construct a hypothesis that may provide an answer to the question.

3 – You test the hypothesis rigorously.

4 – You analyze the results and draw conclusions.

For the Wise Men it could have gone something like this:

1 – Question: What is that funny star glowing in the East?

2 – Hypothesis: Perhaps it is a sign of something important!

3 – Test: Let’s look at it more closely… hell, let’s follow it, and see what happens!

4 – Analysis: Good golly this is an adorable baby at whose unusual birth-place we have arrived!

Now along the way, the Wise Men had been getting some advice.  Clearly a rabbi somewhere had put a bug in their ears about Micah, chapter 5, verse 2, and convinced them that this star was about something important indeed – a ruler for Israel who would come from Bethlehem.  Then there was Herod, whose paranoia tended to underscore the idea that they were onto something big.  And even the shepherds they passed on the way had probably told the Wise Men as they traveled that the sheep were unusually excitable, and that there was a kind of a buzz in the winter air that warranted investigation.

How many wonderful things have been discovered because someone said, “let’s follow that and see what happens?”  This is what the Wise Men did.

Gazing at the sky had proved to yield good results in the past for ancient peoples.  They looked at the sky and learned that you could navigate the globe, using the stars as your guide – and they were not wrong about this.  They looked at the sky and saw that things were moving, changing, revolving, zooming around, far past any height they could ever hope to climb.  They looked at the sky and saw stories unfold that expressed deep truths they experienced in their own lives.  Looking at the sky they posed questions, they formed hypotheses, they tested those hypotheses as best they could, and they analyzed the results with various degrees of success, sometimes with peer review, sometimes able to duplicate results, and many times unable to do so.

Back on the ground, do you know that it was not until the year 1878 that we could definitively say that all four feet of a horse were off the ground at the same time when it gallops?  Until then reasonable people could disagree on this question, since the horse’s movement was too fast to capture with the unaided eye.  Artists depicting horses at full tilt tended to draw or paint them with fore-legs extended all the way and hind-legs kicking back as the horse flies through the air.  And not everyone thought that it was possible for a horse to be completely suspended in mid-air in the midst of its stride, despite a period of roughly 6,000 years that we have been observing, up close, the domesticated horse.  But in 1878 the photography of Eadweard Muybridge showed scientifically that there is actually a time when all four of a horse’s feet are off the ground, and it’s when they are tucked up under its belly.

For how long have we been observing the workings of God?  And God is more mysterious and complicated than a horse: faster, but also much slower.  We observe the workings of God, and by inference we have tried to figure things out, sometimes we have been right, sometimes we have been wrong.

A long time ago, some Wise Men asked a question.  I think the question may have been about a star, or a planet, or a comet – reasonable people disagree about what it might have been (if anything) that the Wise Men observed.  Perhaps the question they asked was really about this verse from the prophet Micah: “But thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall come forth unto me that is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting.”  Maybe they liked that question because it gave them a reason to go on a journey to Bethlehem, which would really have given them a reason to visit Jerusalem, which was a much more interesting place to visit (better restaurants).  Yes, maybe this trip was just a junket for the Wise Men.  But they had to have a question, in order to get funding, so they said they were investigating this verse, or they were following that star.

No matter what the reason for their journey, no matter where the question came from or what it was, no matter what hypothesis they formed; they end up testing it as they go, since journeys have a way of testing a lot of hypotheses, as well as the people who make them.

I don’t think the Wise Men had been planning to leave anything of value in Bethlehem.  I don’t think that the gold they had was gift wrapped, or the frankincense, or the myrrh.  I think it came as a surprise to the Wise Men as they peered into the stable, each to find the others simultaneously reaching into their bags, and coming up with the gifts.  I think they may have huddled outside the stable and challenged each other: “Why did you give myrrh?”  “What were you thinking by diminishing the frankincense supply?”  “Did you really have to dip into the gold?”  And in that conversation, maybe they discovered how each of them had been unexpectedly and unaccountably moved just to give… something, but something of real value, in the Presence of this young Child.

And despite the subsequent experiments in the Christian church with church taxes, and paid indulgences, and pew rents, and capital campaigns, and every other form of extortion you can probably think of, the experience of the Wise Men has been repeated over and over again as men and women – some wiser than others – have come to Jesus…   sometimes by following the stars, or through a vale of tears, or in a moment of joy, or in the pages of Scripture, or at the celebration of the Mass, or at a mother’s knee, or from the seat of a space ship orbiting the earth, or in a page of music, or in the fair beauty of the earth… we find that we are unexpectedly and unaccountably moved just to give… something, but something of real value, in the Presence of this young Child, even if it begins with just our praise, our prayers, our songs.

I don’t suppose it would be right to call this long process scientific, even though I do think that when you apply the scientific method to it, you will get some satisfactory results.

1 – You ask a question: is there a Force of Love in the world that seems to be calling me toward it, equipping me by some strange Spirit, and changing me for the better in the midst of a world that tends more often to degrade than to exalt?

2 – You construct a hypothesis: perhaps that Force of Love is the same one that made all of nature, that built cathedrals, that composes music, that delights in scientific discovery, and that teaches how our humanity is really founded in compassion, empathy, and sacrifice?

3 – You test the hypothesis rigorously: by engaging in the community called together in the Name of that Force – a typically imperfect, sometimes dysfunctional, often infuriating community – and you find that despite all the imperfection, dysfunction, and infuriation, love is practiced (however imperfectly), often in the very midst of those crippling symptoms.

4 – You analyze the results: recognizing in yourself, if you are as lucky as I have been, that you are unexpectedly and unaccountably moved just to give… something, but something of real value, in the Presence of this young Child. 

And you draw conclusions - perhaps the same conclusions that the Wise Men drew, now peer-reviewed by you and by me: that God has shown us something real in this stable of Bethlehem, that he is allowing us to observe himself up-close and personal, as never before, and that we may never in our lives give better gifts than the ones we give to him.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

The Feast of the Epiphany 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia