Manna from heaven

Manna from Heaven

Father Mullen

For forty years the children of Israel ate manna in the desert.  The Scriptures say that “it was white like coriander seed and tasted like wafers made with honey.”

“Each morning everyone gathered as much as they needed, and when the sun grew hot, it melted away.  On the sixth day, they gathered twice as much… some gathered much, some little.  And when they measured it… the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.”

It is, of course almost impossible to believe such a thing.  Even if you account for the number “forty” as an indicator for the more vague meaning: “a long time,” it’s hard to believe that the grumbling, complaining followers of Moses (or anyone, for that matter) subsisted on this dew-like substance, that evaporated from the ground with the sunshine.

An interesting detail: “Moses said to them, ‘No one is to keep any of it until morning.’  However, some of them paid no attention to Moses; they kept part of it until morning, but it was full of maggots and began to smell.”  This detail, like so many details of the stories of Israel’s pilgrimage to the Promised Land, contributes to the general sense that the stories cannot possibly have taken place in history.  It all just seems so hard to believe.  Who knows?  I don’t.

What I suspect is this – that the details of the taste and texture of the manna from heaven are unimportant, as unimportant as the actual amount of time the children of Israel may have wandered through the wilderness.  But the matter of the perishibility of the manna is not unimportant at all.

History is silent about the truth of the existence of manna.  God seems to have wanted to allow for a kind of historical exhibit of manna for all posterity: he tells Moses to “take a jar and put [a measure] of manna in it. Then place it before the Lord to be kept for the generations to come.”  But this artifact and its contents have been lost, just like the tablets of the Ten Commandments, and Noah’s ark.  Who can truly believe that they ever really existed?  I don’t know.

But I know that if you want to know what kind of economy God would set up, if we really allowed him to govern our lives, you don’t have to scratch your head and wonder.  God knows there are people who are perfectly capable of getting up early and collecting more than their fair share of the manna.  God knows that such early birds could sell it at a profit.  God knows that there are those who could corner the market in manna, stockpile it, and make a killing.  And God knows that there are those who would sleep in and miss out on the manna.  He knows that there are those who are too weak, or too lazy, or too stupid, frankly, or whose knees don’t work so well anymore, or whose backs go out whenever they try to bend over and collect their share of the manna.  God knows.  And God doesn’t care.  “The one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little.”  This is a rule, established by God.  And in case you forgot, or deliberately held on to more manna than you needed overnight, the excess would be crawling with maggots in the morning, just to show you.

We heard St. Paul refer to this unbelievable story in one of his letters to the fledgling church in Corinth, as he is trying to help them learn what it means to act like a Christian community, a community gathered in Christ’s name, a community called to embody God’s will for his people.  It was a community in which there was a marked disparity between those who had a great abundance, and those who had great need.  (Sound familiar?)  He is writing to the young church about its offering and support for the poor.  And St. Paul reaches for this simple and unbelievable story from way back in the Bible, and its un-complicated insistence: The one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little.”

I’m not going to torture the point here.  You can see where this is going.  I’m not going to try to paint a picture of those in our own day and age who have gathered too much, or of those who have gathered too little.  Let me just say this: both pictures are grotesque in the extreme: wealth and poverty in our midst that are grotesque in the extreme.  I’m not going to say that it is easy to calculate the life-lesson here – how much is too much, how much is too little? - I’m not at all sure it is simple to do this math.  But I am pretty sure the calculations should not be so extreme as they are in our society.

What I’m going to say is that if you want to know how God organizes things, what God thinks is good and right and fair, you don’t have to wonder: it’s right there: “the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little.”

I can think of dozens of ways to rationalize and explain this lesson away: beginning with the sheer supposed foolishness of believing that there was a time when a wandering people grumbled in the wilderness that they were hungry, and God left a tasty dew on the ground that fed them for forty years.  You’d have to be a little gullible these days, I guess, to believe a story like that.  This, of course, is a common, but often unstated, assessment of Christians: that we are gullible.  You’ve got to be at least a little gullible to believe this stuff.  If you weren’t gullible you’d be spiritual, but not religious.  Spiritual is OK.  But religion, with all its hard-to-believe stories, is for the gullible.  Manna from heaven: LOL!

But even amongst the religions, I have this suspicion that we are becoming – maybe we have become - a people who no longer believe in manna.  And you can imagine that I see this as a danger.

And if we are in danger of becoming a people who no longer believe in manna, then we are in danger of becoming a people who no longer believe in a Promised Land.

And if we should become a people who are in danger of no longer believing in a Promised Land, then we are in danger of becoming a people who no longer believe in the kingdom of heaven.

And if we should become a people who no longer believe in the kingdom of heaven, then what is the point?

And in a sense, it all starts with the manna.  You give up on the manna and so much else falls away.

And what’s the thing about the manna?  It isn’t the flavor, or the texture, or the presentation – it’s that God provides it, and that everyone gets what he or she needs.  It’s that those who gathered much did not gather too much, and those who gathered little did not gather too little.

There has been a fair bit of gasping about the news this past week or so.  There have been two remarkable Supreme Court decisions, and one rendition of Amazing Grace that left a lot of people gasping, one way or another.  And of course it is dangerous to talk about either Supreme Court decisions or about singing presidents from the pulpit.  So I want to say that I know this.  But it is important to talk about manna from the pulpit – lest we become a people who no longer believe in manna.

And from where I stand - in this city that is built, in part, on the amazing gifts of medical care that have been developed in the most extravagant way – access to that care is more or less a question, not of legislation, but of manna.  Those who gathered much did not gather too much, and those who gathered little did not gather too little.

And from where I stand, the human right of gay and lesbian people to enter into marriages that can be sanctioned by the state, in this nation that grants privileges to married people, is a question, not of states’ rights, but of manna.  Those who gathered much did not gather too much, and those who gathered little did not gather too little.

And from where I stand, the reality of the plight of so many black Americans whose lives seem not to matter very much in the eyes of some in our nation, is a question, not of regional heritage, or respect for law enforcement, or anything else, but of manna.  Those who gathered much did not gather too much, and those who gathered little did not gather too little.

It all begins with manna.  It begins with recognizing how hungry you are, that somehow you have ended up in the wilderness.  You grumble, and if you do not grumble to God directly, then some Moses hears your grumbles, and passes them on to the Lord.  And amazingly, like dew in the morning, manna comes down from heaven!  And now you can set off again for the Promised Land.

On the way to the Promised Land, we are trying not to forget the manna.  We are trying not to tire of it.  We are trying not to resent God for feeding us with nothing but this manna, nothing but this bread from heaven.  We are trying not to forget that God has someplace for us to go, even though we don’t know where that place is, we just believe that it is flowing with milk and honey (a welcome change from the manna)!

On the way to whatever Promised Land God is calling us to (and this is an idea, mind you, not a piece of real estate), we are trying to remember that Jesus has already told us about a kingdom.  He called that kingdom the kingdom of heaven, and he told us that it is at hand.  And mostly we don’t know what that means.  (We are still struggling with the manna!)  But the manna tells us something important about the Promised Land, something important about the kingdom.  It tells us that those who gathered much did not gather too much did not gather too much, and those who gathered little did not gather too little.

St. Paul was being cautious in his letter, not to say what was too much and what was too little.  St Paul was secretly an Episcopalian.  He knew that this was a delicate matter.  But he also knew that responsible people of faith could figure out when too much is too much, and when too little is too little.  Has that become too difficult a task for us?  I hope not.

I hope it has not become too much to ask of us to hold on to our belief in the manna that came down from heaven, and to know manna in our own day and age when we see it, even if it looks like a visit to the doctor, or a marriage license, or claiming with the urgency of the moment that black lives matter in America.

The manna just keeps coming: manna from heaven: gifts of God for the people of God, with which he nourishes and feeds us.  There is more than enough for everyone.  May it be that those who gather do not gather too much, and those who gather little do not gather too little.  And may God draw us ever closer to the Promised Land, and ever more deeply into his kingdom.  And let it start with manna.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

28 June 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

For the Martyrs of Charleston

For the Martyrs of Charleston

Father Mullen

Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.”   (Mark 4:35)

I don’t know what David was thinking when he looked up at Goliath of Gath, the Philistine champion who was supposed to whup his behind, but I know what I’d have been thinking, and you can’t say it in church. 

Whatever it was, it was almost assuredly not what the disciples were thinking when Jesus said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.”  They had no cause for worry because they didn’t know that their boat was about to get swamped in a storm, and that they would soon be on the brink of drowning on the very lake they had grown up around, fished in all their lives, swam in as children, sailed on every day, and depended upon for their livelihoods.  But the only reason that their fear and trepidation was not on a par with the fear and trepidation that David may have felt – or at least that I would have felt had I been in David’s shoes – is because they couldn’t see the storm coming. 

David could see the giant right there in front of him.  We are told that David talked a tough game, bragging that he had killed both lions and bears while tending his sheep, and declining the use of Saul’s armor.  But that doesn’t mean that he was entirely free from anxiety when he stepped out to meet Goliath.  His heart may well have been in his throat when Goliath told him he’d feed his flesh to the birds and the animals.  And I suppose that he might have had confidence in his own cunning and skill, he might have been certain of his aim, but that is not where he tells Goliath that his confidence rests.  He tells Goliath this, “I come to you in the name of the LORD of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This very day the LORD will deliver you into my hand.”  David approached Goliath with a certain self-confidence, no doubt, but mostly his confidence and trust were placed squarely in God.

Back on the Sea of Galilee, the disciples still had not come to understand who Jesus is, their faith was as yet unformed.  They were not expecting that it would be tested on the lake that day.  They had no idea what they were in for.  All they knew was that Jesus had said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.”

Let us go across to the other side.  It turns out that this is not an idle invitation.  This is the invitation that God essentially gives to Noah before the flood.  It’s the invitation to Abraham as he’s packing his things to wander in the desert with Sarah.  It’s the invitation to Moses at the Red Sea with the Egyptians in hot pursuit, and again as he sets out for forty years in the wilderness.  And it is the invitation Moses is not allowed to accept as he gazes down at the Jordan River, and across the valley to the Promised Land.  Let us go across to the other side.  When Jesus goes down into that river with his cousin John, he picks up the journey that Moses was not allowed to complete, but he will cross more than just a river.  This is the invitation that Jesus makes when he tells his disciples to take up their Cross – and invitation to go with him to Golgotha, and cross the river of death.  It is an invitation implicit in every mention Jesus makes of the Kingdom of heaven, and when he tells the repentant thief that “today you will be with me in paradise.”

Let us go across to the other side.  This is the fundamental Christian invitation whenever we stand at the font and stir up the waters of Baptism, whenever we stand over a casket to commend the dead to God’s care, and whenever we peer with St. John the Divine into the mystical wonder of God’s revelation of what he will do when all things in this world come to an end, and the new Jerusalem is built in the heavens and there is no pain nor death, nor sorrow nor sighing.  Let us go across to the other side: it is no idle invitation.

This has been a Christian dream – the dream of martyrs and virgins, and crusaders, and monks, and pilgrim, and priests, and many a simple child of God – to follow Jesus’ invitation and go across to the other side… of the river, the desert, the wilderness, the lake, the path obstructed by some giant enemy, the spiritual challenge of evil, pain, suffering, and loss, the vale of tears, and the great, unknown chasm of death.

And of course this was the great dream of those generations of slaves who were shipped to these shores in chains with no hope ever of returning whence they came.  The only shred of Good News that came their way was this invitation in the Gospel that they knew was meant for them: let us go across to the other side.  How sweet the other side of some fabled Sea of Galilee must have looked!  How ravishing the opposite shore of some apocryphal Jordan River must have seemed from their sweat-soaked, blood-stained slave-hood, even if these were only realms of faith found deep in the heart that they could sing about but never actually glimpse!  Let us go across to the other side!

Let us go across to the other side.  You have to wonder whether Jesus knew that he was leadings his friends into a storm.  And you have to wonder whether he knew that he was leading his friends into a storm on Wednesday night at Mother Emmanuel Church in Charleston, when a room full of his disciples opened their doors to a young man intent on killing them when the Bible study was done.

What was Jesus thinking!?!?  Why, oh why, does he ask his disciples to get into a boat, only to lead them into a storm that he knows they may not survive?  And this is not the first time he has done it!  How do you do that?  How do you let your children be sold into slavery?  How do you let them suffer for a hundred years after slavery is abolished?  How do you ask them to endure such slow progress in the battle for their human, civil rights?  How do you ask David to stand up against Goliath, knowing that the armor doesn’t even fit?

God has left himself open to some difficult questions, if you ask me.  And I do not claim to have all the answers.

Jesus doesn’t come across with all the answers either, he just tells his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.”  And then a deadly storm breaks out while he is asleep. 

Most times when we tell this story we focus on Jesus calming the storm as if that was the point of the story, but actually, maybe it is not?  For, once the storm is calmed they are still in the middle of the lake, and the object is to go across to the other side.  So maybe Jesus calms to the storm in order to grasp a teaching moment.   He says to his disciples in the boat, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" 

Why are you afraid?  Have you no faith?  (Remember that faith was the only thing David was meaningfully armed with when he went up against Goliath!)  The seas are calmed, but there they are in the middle of the lake.  The very next line in Mark’s Gospel, after this story is told, has been identified as the first line of the next chapter, but I think perhaps it should really be the last line of the previous chapter, and of this little episode.  It says this: “They came to the other side of the sea.”  Mission accomplished.

In our own day and age, this lesson in faith is important if we are to put our trust in God, because although we may call them by other names giants there still be; storms there still be; madmen wielding guns there be.  And there is no armor that can protect us against such perils.  And sometimes the only promise Jesus can make is that we will get to the other side.  There is another side, and we will make it there!

A couple of generations ago, the leaders of the Civil Rights movement transposed and translated this faith in the journey to the other side of the sea, as they translated and transposed the songs of the slaves into another song that became the anthem of the Civil Rights movement: We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome some day!  This was a way of linking their hope to Jesus’ invitation to go across to the other side.  To brave the storms of racism, bigotry and hatred, armed with little other than their faith in the God who promises to get you to the other side.

It can be frustrating to find that we still have so much distance to travel.  But don’t you know that Noah felt that way, too?  Abraham felt that way, Sarah felt that way. Moses felt that way, and Aaron his brother, and all the weary children of Israel.  God knows the slaves who built my own college in Virginia must have felt frustrated that there remained so much distance to get to the other side.

And I am frustrated when I look back at a movement that was in full swing when I was born nearly fifty years ago still has so far to go to get to the other side.  Because racists there still be, bigots there still be, haters there be, and mongers of hate.  The battle must not be over since they refuse to take down the battle flag, fold it up, and put it away in a drawer where it belongs.

But Jesus is still saying to those of us with faith (and maybe nothing more), “Let us go across to the other side.”  It is not just an invitation; it is a promise.  It is a promise that he made to his disciples and that he kept though the waters raged and swelled.

It is a promise that he made to those Martyrs of Charleston: to Sharonda, Clementa, Cynthia, Tywanza, Myra, Ethel, Daniel, Depayne, and Suzie: let us go across to the other side.  And it is a promise he is keeping with them right now, as he carries them in his bosom of love.

And it is a promise he makes to us, as he invites day by day to seek his justice in this world, and his hope in the world to come: Let us go across to the other side.

It is a promise we must not stop repeating in that beautiful translation of the Civil Rights movement, and we must breathe it, and live it, and sing it, and fight for it if we have to: We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome some day!

Storms are coming, but why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?  We shall overcome!  Let us go across with Jesus to the other side, wherever our faith should lead us!  Let us go across to the other side!  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

21 June 2015

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

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