To Hold Him

It’s wonderful, really, how commonplace the Gospel account of the Presentation is. So much of this story is completely ordinary. So much of it is just what regular people do, or did, in Jesus’ time. The events of Jesus’ birth had all been so extraordinary – but those unexpectedly expectant mothers Elizabeth and Mary had had their babies now, the divinely muted Zechariah had found his voice again, the angels had swept their Glorias back up into heaven, and the shepherds had taken all of their flocks back home. Life had, for the most part, gone back to normal. And so when 40 days had passed, and, according to the law, it was time for Mary and Joseph to take their first-born son to Jerusalem, Mary and Joseph took their first-born son to Jerusalem, just like everybody did. And when they got to the temple, they presented him to the Lord, just like everybody else did. And when they made an offering for the gift of his life, they offered two young birds, just like everybody else who was poor did. There were no trumpeting angels to announce their presence at the temple gate, no gathering crowds on the Jerusalem streets. No miraculous golden coins appeared in their pockets as they reached the tables of the money changers, no booming voice from heaven showered praises upon a beloved son. Just Mary, and Joseph, and Jesus. No fuss. They were, for this moment, just what they appeared to be – a family, blessed with a newborn babe, being faithful to God in the simplest, most ordinary way possible.

But then, in the middle of this wholly ordinary holy moment, something extraordinary happens. Simeon, a devout and righteous man, has been led to the temple by the promptings of his prayer. He is aflame with the Holy Spirit, expectant, hopeful. He notices this ordinary family making their ordinary offering, and in a flash, Simeon is given eyes to see. He sees Mary and Joseph for who they are, sees Jesus for who he is and who he will become. And so he does what all good people do in the Gospel of Luke when they are confronted with the presence of the divine – Simeon sings. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people, To be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

But the song is not the extraordinary moment I’m talking about. The truly extraordinary thing happens before Simeon even opens his mouth. When the parents brought in the child Jesus, Luke tells us, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God. Simeon takes the infant Jesus in his arms. What a remarkable thing. I doubt that first-century customs were so different from ours as to make the practice of a strange man asking to hold your newborn baby a routine act. It would be one thing if Luke told us that Simeon was an old family friend, or if the temple priests had instructed Mary and Joseph to stop and see the old wise man on their way out the door. But nothing like this happens. Simeon approaches Mary and Joseph out of nowhere, comes up beside them and asks them, perhaps quietly, perhaps with eyes shining, Could I hold him?

And, amazingly, Mary lets him. She who has done nothing but protect this tiny little thing, during the days spent traveling heavy on the road to Bethlehem, during the hours spent in labor in an animal’s shelter, during the moments spent hosting shepherds and angels at the side of the manger, during these last days spent journeying again to Jerusalem with a newborn and a new husband and so much news to ponder in her heart, she sees a man she does not know asking to hold her son and her heart tells her to let go. And so she does. She hands her Jesus over and watches a stranger’s arms wrap around his tiny, fragile frame; watches a stranger’s hands touch his cheek and the still-soft crown of his head; watches her son change a life simply by being there, offer a gift simply by being held.

What a thing to hold Jesus. What a thing for Simeon to recognize who he is and still to have the courage to take him into his arms. He stands in the temple singing songs about how the child he holds carries with him the salvation of his people and yet seems unafraid that it is he and he alone who holds this child safe, he alone who in this moment protects this tiny Lord, who weighs, what, ten pounds?, with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Simeon stands with his hands cradling the one he knows bears a light so brilliant and so clarifying that it will burn into the darkness and dissolve the shadow of death, even his own death, and he feels no fear, only humility and a deep, final settling. This is the one he has been waiting for. And so he will no longer be afraid. He will risk reaching out to hold him, even if that means bearing responsibility for the truth that he holds. He will risk reaching out to touch the hem of his garment even if that means being touched by the refiner’s fire. He will take him into his arms, this tiny Christ-child, and worship the weight that he holds.

It seems like too great a risk sometimes to hold Jesus. We feel the weight of responsibility for his message, and we wish to simply put it down, give him back to his mother, to history, to the Church. Or we feel the heat of that great light that burns away everything in us that is even a little bit impure, even a little less-than, and we wish we could simply hand him back and worry about having a clean heart another day. But Jesus will not have this. Jesus wants to be held. And the reason we know this is that he commanded us to do so. On the night before he was crucified, he took bread, blessed, and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, Take, eat. Reach out your hands, my beloved, and hold me.

Hold me. And yes, this means that as you bear me in your arms and in your heart, you must also bear me into the world. And yes, this means that the light of redemption that you now carry in your body will burn, not just burn into the darkness in the world but also burn away the darkness in you. Yes, and yes. But I am here to be held, he says. The Holy Spirit has moved upon you in your baptism, rests upon you, calls you again and again to this altar. You have been given the eyes to see me in the bread and the wine, to know that this is not only your salvation but the salvation of the whole world. You have seen Mary, our Mother, lifting me up to you, letting me go, into your arms and into your heart.

And this is what we do here, each week, each day – we hold him. We come, we worship, we eat and drink. We hold Jesus in our hands, and we become a family, blessed with a newborn babe, being faithful to God in the simplest, most ordinary, most wonderful way possible. You have come tonight to this temple; come and hold him, and when you do, know what it is you hold – the salvation of the world, the one who offers a gift just by being here. How extraordinary.

*I am indebted to Fr. Martin L. Smith for one of the themes of this sermon.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

2 February 2016, Candlemas

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Love, Actually

“Say nothing at all,” a mother once said,

“If the thing that you’re saying makes your face turn all red.

Say only the nice things, the things that are kind.

Leave the harsh things unspoken: leave those hard words behind.”

Clichés are so common, they’re so matter of fact,

that to say them suggests you have not too much tact.

A long time ago, this was still clearly true,

when Jesus was teaching old friends that he knew.

“Where’d this attitude come from,” they asked of Joe’s son.

“Who died and made him king?  Who made him the One?”

“Heal thyself, dear physician, before you heal us,”

was the proverb he mentioned amid all the fuss.

No prophet is welcomed among his own peeps,

not when old friends are wolves merely dressed up like sheeps.

But it’s not just in Naz’reth that this was the case;

Jesus’ message is thwarted all over the place.

In our own day and age, we just take it for granted

that the Gospel of love is not easily transplanted

from the lips of the Master to the world that we live in,

which we seldom admit is disfigured by sin.

In that cliché of weddings, First Corinthians, thirteen,

we hear Saint Paul polish to an ultra-high sheen

the new law of love that replaced all the rules

that were taught in the seminaries and theology schools.

And its words have become so familiar, so common,

that it seems no more special than a hot bowl of ramen,

when in fact it’s worth pausing; it’s worth being specific,

to say they’re stupendous, fantastic, terrific!

I’m a gong; I’m a cymbal!  Hear me roar; hear me clang!

Without love all I do is cajole and harangue!

Without love it’s as though all I have has been filched!

Without love, I’ve got nothing, I’ve got nada, I’ve got zilch!

Love is patient and kind; love’s not boastful or rude;

love is lovely and blind; it’s not sneaky or shrewd.

Love believes all things, bears all things, doesn’t gripe or complain;

love endures all things, hopes all things; but gets wet in the rain.

Love’s not pushy or greedy; love tells you the truth;

love’s not touchy or needy; nor the domain of the youth.

love’s lasting, it’s endless, goes on, never stops;

love’s eternal, not friendless; hate’s the bottom: love’s the tops.

Love’s the answer, the way; it will keep us together;

love’s a dancer, it’s gay; makes you light as a feather!

Love’s splendors are many, and love’s all you need;

Love’s genders are any: love can never mislead.

I digress from the pattern of Paul’s well-known letter;

and not because ever could I do it better,

but only because love is more than a trope:

love’s a marvelous, a wordy, and a slippery slope.

All our knowledge is partial, it’s the best we can do;

all the smarts we can martial, and still hardly a clue;

and the words of the prophets o’er centuries accrued,

are like ceilings whose soffits have all come unglued.

When I was a child like a child I spoke,

childish thoughts were the best that my mind could evoke.

But now that I’ve cast off my childish ways,

I feel I could preach about love here for days!

But time won’t allow it, there’s Mass to be sung,

there are prayers and anthems, there are bells to be rung.

There’s incense, communion - not just bread nor just wine -

it’s love all-excelling, that same love divine.

For now we can see in a mirror most dimly,

and so to our vision, God’s love can seem primly

to meet our desires, our dreams and our yearning,

but somehow we know something greater is burning

within us: the chance that some day by God’s grace

we’ll stand in his Presence and see Love face to face.

In that day what to us in this moment looks woolly,

will at last be available to be looked at fully.

Now faith is important, it’s great, and it’s grand;

the thing on which Luther could take quite a stand.

Saved by grace through our faith, that’s been done once for all,

since the tree and the apple, and the serpent, the Fall.

And hope springs eternal for sure, does it not?

It’s about what comes after the grave, if not rot.

It’s a new holy city, where saints all in white

sing praise to the Lamb who conquered in the fight.

There’s faith and there’s hope, these two still abide,

but the thing about love is, it’s deep, high, and wide;

it connects us to others, to those far and near,

and in moments of terror, perfect love casts out fear.

My song is a song about love to us shown,

I sing of a Savior’s love known and unknown.

I might stay and sing here, for who, who am I

that for my sake, Love should take on flesh and die?

So maybe these verses of Paul’s have grown old

in a world that revolves ‘round what’s bought and what’s sold.

If we fight about carrying guns in the open

then maybe we’re almost beyond being holpen

by God, who is love, (meaning love is God, too);

and maybe we think we could all just make do

in a world where some preacher wouldn’t natter and natter

on and on about love, as if love just might matter.

And maybe we see things through just the same lens

of those people in Nazareth, Jesus’ old friends,

who hearing him teach, went off in a tiff,

and tried, but then failed, to throw the Lord off a cliff.

Love isn’t easy, it’s hard, it’s demanding;

for love doesn’t shrink, it’s always expanding;

it’s not just for family, for sisters, and brothers;

it seeks out the lonely, the lost, and all others.

Remember that love was Christ’s only command;

they’ll know we are Christians, if on love we do stand;

it’s our watchword, our motto, our only true light,

and by love we will manage through any dark night.

Love, they say, if you let it, will soon find a way;

love brings peace, for which daily in this place we pray.

Love’s a four-letter word, said fast or said slowly;

Letting love in your life will make all things holy.

If love is clichéd, well, I don’t mind at all;

Love’s the cream in my coffee, the response to my call.

Of preaching on love I shall never grow weary;

love’s the one single note that will never get dreary.

So faith, hope, and love, they abide, these three things,

despite life’s hard fortunes of arrows and slings,

but here in the Name of Son, Father, and Dove,

the greatest of all of them has to be love.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

31 January 2016

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Repetition

In the days of my childhood if it snowed heavily on a school day the thing to do was to get up and listen to the radio.  It was on the local radio stations that the list of school closings would be read.  So if you woke up and you saw the kinds of piles of snow on the windowsill that we woke up to yesterday, and if it was a school day, you would huddle around a radio somewhere in the house to listen to the list of school closings, and hope with all your might that your school was on the list.  The list had to be repeated, of course, every so often early in the morning, so that families tuning in at different times could still learn what they needed to know – the important information about whether or not school was on that day.  So you listened to the list as it was repeated, and you waited for what you hoped would be good news.

Any half-attentive church-goer could easily be led to conclude that Jesus repeated himself often.  Since we tend to read the same passages of Scripture over and over every three years, and within that three-year pattern sometimes we hear different accounts of the same story, it can seem as if Jesus repeats himself.  “Take up your cross and follow me.”  “The last must be first and the first must be last.”  “A house divided cannot stand.”  “Let your light so shine before others…”  These phrases are so familiar; we have heard them more than once, surely Jesus must have said them more than once (I know I repeat good material when I have it).  But actually, within the texts of the Gospels themselves, we seldom hear Jesus repeat himself in any one Gospel account.  Maybe good editing accounts for this absence of repetition.

But today we hear Jesus repeat something that’s been said before.  He repeats a stirring phrase from the writings of the prophet Isaiah.  And when he repeats these words everyone in earshot sits up and takes notice.  "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

Remember the setting: Jesus is in the synagogue of his hometown, Nazareth, where he spent his childhood, where he was well known by many.  His friends and relatives and acquaintances are there in the synagogue, and they hear something they are not expecting.  What they hear is not Jesus repeating himself, nor is it even only Jesus repeating the words of the prophet.  They hear something that makes them all stare at him in amazement.  Whether they knew precisely what it was they were hearing is impossible for me to say, but they knew it was a moment of significance.  For they heard God repeat himself – and that is a rare thing to hear indeed.

God repeats himself.  But, to go by this example, maybe it’s only once every eight hundred or a thousand years, or more that he does so.  So it is worth paying attention when God repeats himself, which is precisely what we hear happening in the Gospel reading today.

God repeats himself, and what does he have to say?  He says: I have good news for the poor, release for captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and freedom for the oppressed.  Period.  That’s God repeating himself.  That’s what God thinks is worth repeating.  Interesting.

It’s tempting, this Sunday, to take advantage of Saint Paul’s eloquent and prescient teaching on inclusivity and diversity.  Lord knows I am tempted to try to improvise variations on his themes in light of the recent statement from the leaders of our sister churches around the world in the Anglican Communion.  Oh, how I would like to yield to the temptation! 

But doing so would very likely detract from the important opportunity to direct your attention to God repeating himself: making promises to the poor, the imprisoned, the incapacitated, and the oppressed.  If God is going to repeat God’s self, we might want to check our own preoccupations, to make sure we are being attentive to what ever God thinks is important enough to repeat.

Recently, a friend went to go visit the great Anglo-catholic parish of St. Mary the Virgin on West 46th Street, just off Times Square in New York City.  There was no liturgy taking place at the time, the organ was not being played, no special exhibit of art was on display.  It was a bitterly cold winter’s day, and here’s what my friend noticed: the pews were populated with dozens of homeless men and women who had come in to the church to find refuge from the cold.  Pews are often maligned these days, but you have to admit that it’s easier to stretch out for a rest on a pew than it is in a chair.  And I have no doubt that the old wooden pews of Smokey Mary’s were conveying good news to the poor in their own way that cold day.

At least once, God repeated himself.  And what he chose to repeat was not a defense of marriage, or any other matter of doctrine or discipline.  No!  It was good news to the poor, release to the captives, relief to the suffering, and freedom for the oppressed!  These are the things that God went to the trouble of having his Son repeat!

I sometimes find myself wanting to try to say that faith is simple, or religion is simple: all you have to do is love God and your neighbor.  But I know that in reality neither of these things is simple to put into practice.  You have to ask, for instance, “Who is my neighbor?”

God is not simple, and neither are we.  So questions of faith and religion are going to be complicated from time to time: thus has it always been.  But now and then we have to simplify things just to help us get through them

Which is all the more reason to sit up and take notice when God repeats himself, especially since it does appear to be rather a rare occurrence, and since the message he had was fairly simple.

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

So you come to church on a snowy morning, and it’s not a snow day; you were right to come!  But still you want to listen for the thing that is repeated … to make sure you don’t miss the Good News.  You came in from the cold to get warm, and maybe you did not even know that you needed to hear this Good News.  Maybe you were hardly aware of your poverty, your imprisonment, your blindness, or your oppression, until you stopped to listen to see if God would repeat himself.

And God does repeat himself, as you are settled into your pew.  And by his grace, you may hear that this Good News is meant for you: so important that these words of hope are worth repeating.

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

Pray, God, keep repeating it, until finally we have ears to hear!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

24 January 2016

Saint Mark’s Church Philadelphia