Knowing the Present

Knowing the Present!

Mother Erika

Two weeks ago, the Saint Mark’s Schola had our end-of-the-year party out in the garden. Our Schola children and their families gathered outside around freshly washed strawberries and cups of ice cold water, carefully-cut-in-exactly-half doughnuts with sugary frosting and, of course, the ubiquitous bowls of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. We ate together and talked; the parents relaxed and the children ran around in the grass. At the end of the party, when everyone was heavy with treats and sleepy with sunshine, I took a group of the children over to a little piece of the garden just behind the west end of the church. I showed them some little scraggly green plants tucked up against the stone, and I told them, with a bit of my own doughnut-induced delight, that those flowers had a very special name. What name? they asked as they looked up at me, wide-eyed. Well, I said, anticipating their excitement, those flowers are called Erica.

Honestly, they were less than impressed. I realized later that it would have been a better reveal if the flowers had had one of their names, like Vivienne or Thomas or Claudia. But they smiled anyway, and then one of them asked, What are they going to look like? I don’t know, I said, we’ll just have to wait and see – won’t that be fun? And they smiled at me, again, and we walked away, me, confident that I had inspired some happy anticipation, some sense of mystery and wonder in those little lovely minds.

It was, I think, about 30 seconds later that one of the little girls, Emma, who’s seven, tapped me on the shoulder. They look like this, Mother Erika, she said, matter-of-factly, and held up her iPhone, upon which was displayed a photo of the Erica flower in bloom, tiny orbs of translucent white clustered around the ends of spiky green branches. How did you find this? I asked. Oh, she shrugged, I just asked Siri, and she walked away. So much for my ability to inspire mystery and wonder in little lovely minds.

The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. But he would not be anxious, nor would he worry, for he would have a smartphone, and he would ask his phone, Siri, what will this plant look like when it blooms? And Siri would show him a selection of photographs from various gardening websites, and he would relax and put his feet up, for he was able to know the future before it happened.

Not the parable that we were assigned to hear today. As much as we might like to hear Jesus tell us that the kingdom of God is exactly what we expect, and that we can find a full description of it on the interwebs, this is not what Jesus actually says. There is no website, there is no Siri, there is no little Burpee seed package to stick into the dirt so that we know precisely what this kingdom will become. There is only Jesus, speaking to us, telling us that the kingdom of God will sprout and grow, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head, and that we know not. There is no way for us to know what the kingdom of God will look like before our time; there is no way for us to know our future in God before it happens. We only know that the kingdom of God is part of our present and the full promise for our future, but we cannot jump ahead to find out what that future might look like.

And this is, at times, supremely frustrating. When we are anxious or afraid, when the things that have supported the structure of our lives are suddenly pulled away, we long to just ask some all-knowing search engine, “What is this going to look like when it’s all done?” We don’t feel like this all the time, thanks be to God; sometimes our outlook is sunny and bright, and when we look into the future we imagine nothing but joy and beautiful blooms. But there are those other times, times when we look at the seeds around our feet and see only the dust; times when we cannot imagine that this prayer will ever be answered, that this thing will ever change; times when we hear I don’t know if we’ll have a position for you next year or I don’t know how I feel about you anymore or We’ll just have to wait for the test results; times when the thought that the next forty years of our life might look just like the past thirty fills us with a cold dread; times when we cast our eyes about and see only questions and what-ifs and how-can-it-ever-be-the-same-again’s. And in those times, we sometimes find ourselves wishing we could see just a bit of the picture of the future. If God has a plan, what is it? If the kingdom of God is growing, it’s growing into what? If something in me is going to bloom, what will I look like when it’s done?

Jesus does not say that we will get that information. He tells us that the seeds will sprout and grow, and we will not know how. We don’t get to know how God gives the growth, as Paul says; and we don’t get to see the flowers before they bloom. We will not know. But that does not mean that this is not a Gospel story. Jesus does not offer this parable to us as a dark tale of doom but as a pronouncement of hope and a call to action.

First, the hope – we cannot know the future, but we can know that our future is in God. Always. God is God of our pasts and our presents and our futures. God is. Always. And so wherever, whenever we go, God is there. When things bloom and grow, God is there, and not just there but there moving the earth, causing beautiful, mysterious things to sprout and flourish. When things wither and die in our lives, God is there, and not just there but bringing life out of death, making all things new. There is no future without God, which means that God is always in our future, no matter what things may look like, no matter what we may look like.

And with that promise comes the call to action. Because Jesus’ parable is not just about a man who sits around watching the grass grow. No, this man sleeps and rises night and day, looks at his plants, watches them grow, pays attention to them, sees the hand of God in them, and when they grow ripe he is ready for the harvest. Just because we cannot know doesn’t mean that we should sit around waiting for our futures to come with our eyes and hearts closed. We can live in a posture of attentiveness, rising day after day to watch what God is growing. We can notice new sprouts and new buds, gifts to be counted right now, in our presents. We can help other people to notice, too, plant a little sign like one of my neighbors did that says Plants loading – do not disturb this dirt! And we can prepare ourselves for the harvest, keep our hearts and minds and lives open to gather in the blessings that are ripe and blooming. We may not be able to know the future, but we can have ready hearts and hands to live it when it comes.

A few days after our Schola party, I told Geoff, our resident head gardener, about my experience with the kids and Siri and the Erica. I laughed at myself and wondered at them as I described to him the photographs that we had all looked at. And Geoff just smiled and said, Actually, that’s not what our Erica is going to look like – our flowers will be pink, not white. And I smiled, knowing that there was still a little bit of mystery and wonder in the garden after all.

We may not know what the world will look like in six months. We may not know what this church will look like in six weeks. We may not know what we will look like in six days. But God knows. For God is already there. And we do know what God will look like then – like a planter of vines, like a grower of seeds, a God who will help those who take root in his house to flourish and to bear rich fruit; a God who loves nothing more than a good surprise, a little mystery, and a lot of wonder. The love of that God is our future, and the comfort of that is our present. That much we know.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

14 June 2015

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

Don't Speak!

Don't Speak!

Trinity Sunday, Father Mullen.

The First Rule of the Holy Trinity is: You do not talk about the Holy Trinity.  The Second Rule of the Holy Trinity is: You do not talk about the Holy Trinity.  These two rules ought to be imprinted on every preacher’s consciousness.  It would save you people in the pews a lot of grief.  It would also make a lot of sense, since the doctrine of the Holy Trinity – that God is three persons in one, undivided unity of Being – is the definitive teaching of the church on the subject of a mystery beyond our knowing.  Much discussion of the mystery of the trinitarian nature of God is either drivel (think of shamrocks) or mind-numbing (see page 864 of the Prayer Book and read through the Athanasian Creed).

A good alternative is not to try to speak of the mystery of the Holy Trinity at all, but instead to follow the ancient tradition and just sing about it: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!  This is not a bad idea, since we don’t need to know the meaning of the song of angels and archangels in order to join in.  And in fact this is our daily practice at Saint Mark’s and throughout the church: simply to enunciate in speech or song the thrice-holy nature of God, confident that if it’s good enough for the choirs of heaven, it’s good enough for us.  “Holy, holy, holy,” we say, and more or less leave it at that.

There is at least one good reason, however, to pause briefly and speak of the mystery of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  It is worth stopping to ask whether or not this mystery has any good news to convey to us, God’s people.  And I contend that there are at least two very powerful strands of good news to be gleaned from even a brief consideration of the mystery of God’s nature.

The first bit of good news is that Jesus is to be found within that mystery.  That is to say, that within and throughout the incomprehensible nature of the creator of the universe, the animator of all life, the redeemer of our souls is to be found the One who is God’s own ceaseless desire to make himself known to us on our own terms: Jesus, the Christ.  Let me put that another way.  When we try to look into the total and complete mysteriousness of God, utterly beyond our knowing, we inevitably encounter the One who daily makes himself known to us in the flesh as our savior and our friend: Jesus.  This is one of the many paradoxes of God, and it strikes me as good news that every time we try to gaze, so to speak, into the complete un-knowability of God, we see One whom we already know.

The second bit of good news is this: that in a society that believes we can become the Masters of everything around us, and in which we strive to do that in order to gain power over others, God remains far beyond our mastery.  Put that another way: in a society that has harnessed the power of nuclear fission, and that uses that power to dominate and to kill, God remains yet more powerful than we are.  I see it as unavoidably good news that God remains far more powerful than the awful power we have accrued to ourselves, almost always at another’s expense.  Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!

Having broken the first and second rules of the Holy Trinity, let me reach for another cinematic reference point, this time from the Woody Allen film, Bullets Over Broadway, in which John Cusack plays a young playwright who is enamored of the aging diva, Helen Sinclair, played brilliantly by Diane Wiest.  Cusack’s character is full of words, and always has something to say, including a need to articulate his deepening and overwhelming love for the aging star.

The great woman knows with every ounce of her being that she is far beyond this young man’s league, no matter how drastically her star may have fallen since its distant zenith.  On the one hand, she is reassured by his fawning attention, which, on the other hand, she finds intolerable.  Whenever the young suitor tries to profess his love for her (which is often), the diva stops up his mouth with her hands and urges him insistently, “Don’t speak; don’t speak!”  Much as she wants the attention, she frankly cannot bear it since the words of the un-known and as yet unsuccessful writer can only be counted cheap in her star economy.  (Don’t speak; don’t speak!)

On Trinity Sunday, perhaps there is an element of this dynamic in our relationship with God, whose fullness is beyond our comprehension or our ability to describe.  We want, of course, maybe even desperately, to say something about God, out of a sense of faithfulness and love.  We are earnest in our desire to use our words and say something.  On the one hand, I expect God loves us for the desire.  But on the other hand, I imagine it is almost unbearable for God to have to listen to us try to say something about that for which there are no words.

And I suspect that in the economy of the Sacred and Holy Trinity – that mystery of undivided love that knows no boundaries nor any human definition - any words that we might pour forth would be counted as cheap by comparison to the immense truth, beauty, and potential of the whole universe, bound up or un-bound in the unitive being of the three-personed God.

And I delight in the small irony that such good theological advice should come from Woody Allen, which nevertheless, I suspect should be followed at this point, as I join with the prophet to proclaim that, “Woe is me!  I am lost!  For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips!” 

And I feel God’s hand on my mouth as I try, in all my inadequacy, in a sort of mirror image of the prophet Isaiah, who at least has seen the Lord in his temple. 

And I hear those words, in this simulacrum of the heavenly courts, delivered not by tong-wielding seraphim, or even from scripture, but from a script, and they seem right to me: “Don’t speak; don’t speak!”

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Trinity Sunday 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Pentecost 2015

Pentecost 2015

Father Mullen

Just a couple of months ago, when we installed our two beehives back behind the Lady Chapel, two important elements were in use.  First, there was the smoke that beekeepers use to keep bees under control when they work in close proximity to them.  I was vaguely aware that smoke is used in this way; in much the same way that Anglo-catholic clergy use smoke to keep the congregation under control when we are in close proximity to you.  But I had not known what was the use for the spray bottle that was on hand when the bees were about to be moved from their wooden shipping container to their hive.

The spray bottle, it turned out, was full not of water, but of simple syrup: a 1:1 combination of sugar and water.  And the bees were sprayed with this sugar-water to calm them and keep them occupied (they eat the syrup), and to keep them under control.  As the bees were thusly transferred, we were warned by our beekeeper to use caution under foot, since some of the bees were so drenched with the simple syrup that they were now, for a short while, too heavy, and, I suppose, too sticky, to fly.  After a few minutes of grooming and snacking, however, they would regain the proper balance.  The sugar-water is a substitute for the nectar they have not yet had a chance to collect and for the bees’ own honey they have not yet had a chance to make since they had not yet established the hive. It is the nourishment they need to get on with their important work, and some of it was also supplied inside the new hive in the early weeks as the bees began to build up their own supply of honey.

Here is a rich thought: to be so drenched in good stuff that you are momentarily incapacitated, to be so overcome with something that’s good for you that you are unable to go on, to be so thoroughly supplied with what you need that you must pause and drink some of it in before you can go on.  And how wonderful to think that what’s needed is so easily provided – sugar and water being easy to come by for those who are called to supply it to the bees.

And here we are on Pentecost, when we are supposed to be giving thanks to God for the gift of the Holy Spirit.  There are churches in the world in which the reasons to do so are manifestly evident to one and all, and where no explanation of this feast is required; where the gifts God provides by his Holy Spirit are flagrantly and fulsomely on display, and always associated with the Spirit: prayers, and tongues, and healings, and prophecies, and teachings, and leadership, and proclamation, and more.  But the Episcopal Church is not always a place where spiritual gifts are so readily identified.  So it is worth stopping for a moment to examine how the Holy Spirit is in our midst here on Locust Street and beyond.

The first thing that needs to be said is that our un-readiness to identify the gifts of the Holy Spirit is in no way a true reflection of the gifts with which we as individuals, families, a community, and a church have been bestowed.  Just because we don’t always see them, know them, claim them, or recognize them readily does not mean that God’s gifts are in short supply here.

The next thing we might say is that there is a possibility, especially on this day, that we could be so overcome, so drenched, so thoroughly supplied with the gifts of God’s Spirit in this place that we sometimes find ourselves in need of a pause to stop and groom ourselves, and snack – no, feast - and take account of the blessings of the Spirit that so abound among us.  Today is such a day!

And for starters we have a baptism, as if to make sure we don’t miss the point!  We will not be spraying young Miranda with sugar-water, but we will be getting her wet with something more than water.  We will be asking God to drench her with his Holy Spirit.    And if, at first, we see no difference in her, if she is no more animated by this gift than a normal child of her age at the hour of noon, then perhaps it is only because she is so drenched with that Spirit that she cannot do anything more than drink it in and prepare herself for what is to come.

Our mistake will be to see only that the locks of her fine hair are a little wet.  But if that is all we see then we miss the point.  The water (to which God’s blessing will have been added in a generous ratio) is the sign of the more complete drenching of the Holy Spirit that Miranda is the recipient of today.  Don’t be fooled!  God, we believe, is giving this child gifts of grace today!  Indeed, God has already been doing this, no doubt, but today God is giving the public assurance of it to us, to her parents, and to her.

There is nothing extraordinary about this moment of sacramental assurance at all – since God is generous with his grace.  And there is everything extraordinary about it, since it signifies the easy access that every human being has to the boundlessness of God’s goodness, God’s loving-kindness, God’s forgiveness, God’s providence, and God’s mercy.

Well, that’s easy for me to say.  And who would argue with me, when it’s a gorgeous and innocent child of whom I speak.  But what about you and me?  Where are God’s gifts in our lives?  Where is God’s Holy Spirit?  If today is more or less like yesterday, where is the evidence of this great breath of God’s grace flowing through this place, our lives, this community? 

It is tempting for me now to begin to prosecute an argument for your benefit: to hold up for you exhibits of the evidence of the work of the Holy Spirit and dare you to disbelieve me.  It is tempting for me to draw you a picture, as it were, and show you how the Spirit blows through it, and to do so in such a convincing way that you will take my word for it.  Oh, how I am tempted to do this, to take you on a tour of the Holy Spirit’s work here on Locust Street, or over on Clearfield Street, or in the home of some beloved parishioner or other.  For I believe that I could do a fine job of it!  And I have taken you on such tours before, and chances are I will do so again.  Such a Dickensian approach can be very winning, indeed!  But the Ghosts of Pentecosts past, present, and to come, are not what I want to ask you to consider today.

I would rather return to the beehive.

I would rather consider the possibility that as we speak God is showering us with the dew of his blessing.  He is not waiting for me to sprinkle you with water from the font, which I will do anyway.  I want us to consider the possibility that at this Mass we become so drenched with God’s grace – the gifts of the Holy Spirit - that we are nearly paralyzed, and that this is alright – so long as we realize what’s happening.  I want us to consider that God keeps us here, momentarily suspended in the power of his Spirit, long enough for us to feel heavy with it, to ask ourselves if we can possibly bear this much of God’s grace, this much of God’s mercy, this much of God’s forgiveness, God’s love, God’s excellent greatness.

Because like everything freely given, God’s grace can be taken for granted, and if we don’t stop to recognize how wet we are with it, we may for a moment forget to consider it at all.  We could be like bees who are so drenched and sticky with syrup that we cannot fly – aware of our predicament but unaware of its marvelous cause!

And the truth is that you do not often discover the fact of God’s grace because of some convincing argument, or miracle, or work, or wonder, though many have looked for evidence of God’s grace in this way.  No, more likely by far, you discover the gifts of God’s grace, given by his Holy Spirit, because you realize that you are in need of them.  Sometimes badly.

The perverse form of this view sees in you the indelible stain of original sin, and you and me as depraved beyond hope except by God’s grace.  But this is a dark view of the nature of both God and man.

A more hopeful view sees life as a path that traverses falls and expulsions, floods and exoduses, wanderings and covenants, sicknesses and healings, deserts and mountains, silences and songs, serving and sitting, falling down and getting up, making messes and washing up, births and deaths, miracles and disappointments, hunger and plenty, storms and calm, loneliness and too much company, addictions and indulgences, beauty and ugliness, time that flies by and time that stands still, visions and doubts, dreams and nightmares, valor and murders, debts and inheritances, little children and the elderly, and all manner of wanderings, hopes, fears, troubles, triumphs, and who knows what else!  And in the midst of all this, sees the possibility, the likelihood, that we will look to the stars, or out to the sea, and deep into ourselves, and ask for something: maybe patience, maybe an answer, maybe deliverance, maybe love.  And in the asking we may feel the need for something beyond ourselves.  And the only question really is: is it there?  Are you there, Lord?  Have you any gifts for me?  Is your Spirit really anywhere to be found?

This moment of asking, wondering, reaching is important in discerning the gifts of the Holy Spirit.  It may be that this is why prayers to the Spirit so often begin with an invocation: Come Holy Spirit, come!  God, who is always at work in our lives long before we start asking, nevertheless desires to be sought out, called up, searched for, reached out to.  Come, Holy Spirit, come!

And it may be that the only reason this parish still stands here, after more than 165 years of praying, is that we have never ceased to beseech the Holy Spirit to come into our lives.  And we have not too often missed the chance, I pray, to stop and luxuriate in the heavy dampness of that Spirit, to account ourselves drenched in it and sticky from head to toe to wings – whether infant or octogenarian.  And if we pause here in church beneath the weight of a certain dampness, then it is with the full expectation that we are about to fly!

Most Pentecost sermons, I think, are about wind and fire, since these are the signs so dramatically provided to the Apostles on that first Pentecost.  But I want to leave you today with thoughts of smoke and water – two elements God uses when working in close proximity to us, his people.  For we believe that God uses these elements in this latter day to make himself known where he would otherwise move unseen.

But of course it’s the water that will dampen us ever so slightly.  And when you feel it, if you do today, will you stop and consider that although I may only sprinkle you a little, God is drenching you with the gifts of his Holy Spirit, the gifts of his grace.  Stop and feel how heavy these gifts are, how sticky you become when you consider what it is that God has given to you, done for you, been for you.

And if it all seems a bit unlikely to you, then remember to beg the Holy Spirit come to you, remember how it has long been the practice of the church to call upon that Holy Spirit to come down to us with power and with blessing.  Remember to ask God to swoop in to your life and shower you with his grace!

And if you don’t feel immediately animated by that Spirit, then take heart – it may be that God has given you so much that you are sticky with grace.  So come, feast, rest a while.  Ask again.  Then take wing, and fly!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Pentecost 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia