Remain

When you see a sign that says, “No trespassing,” you can be pretty sure of two things. One, someone doesn’t want you walking on her property, and two, someone else has been trespassing. Right? Because the first someone wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of posting the sign if she hadn’t been bothered by the second someone’s coming onto her property uninvited. A “No smoking” sign means both that you aren’t supposed to light up right there and that somebody already had been. A “No exit” sign means you can’t get out that way and that someone has probably already gotten stuck trying. Or, I suppose, that you are actually in the right place to see an existentialist play by Sartre. “Please do not clean fish in rooms” – a real sign, I promise you – means that some poor motel maid has already found a bathroom sink full of fish guts, and “Do not punch the llamas” – well, I don’t even know what to say about that one.

The same is true in the Bible. When God commands the Israelites not to abuse widows and orphans, it’s not just because God has a preference for the poorest and most vulnerable, it’s because God knows that someone, somewhere, was abusing a widow or an orphan. And when Paul reminds the church in Corinth not to eat food sacrificed to idols, you can be sure it’s because some Corinthian who was feeling a little peckish had decided to swipe some bread from the nearest pagan altar. Otherwise, Paul probably wouldn’t have bothered to write it.

The same logic holds true for Jesus’ instructions to the 70 men and women he sends out in today’s passage from the Gospel of Luke. Carry no purse, no bag, he tells them, because he knew them well enough to know which ones of them were planning on showing up with a four-wheeled carry-on and two hat boxes. Greet no one on the road, he tells them, because he knew which ones liked to talk so much that they would never actually get from one place to another. And then there is this interesting admonition: Remain in the same house. Do not move about from house to house. Because Jesus knew them well enough to know that should things get tough, they might find it tough to stay. He knew how much easier it can be to just leave, to walk away, imagining all the ways in which the next stop would be better – better food and better beds, easier illnesses and less powerful demons, people more receptive to the Gospel and less interested in asking challenging questions. Jesus knew how hard it would be for these 35 pairs of people to stick around should things prove more difficult than they had expected; he knew how hard it can be to stay, how hard it can be to simply remain.

Now don’t worry, this isn’t going to turn into a political sermon about the Brexit. And, yes, I do see the irony of preaching a sermon about remaining when we’re in the middle of a holiday weekend that celebrates our country’s momentous decision not to remain. But the fact remains that Jesus knows that remaining is an important part of discipleship. And he knows just how hard it is at times to stay. Remaining is hard. Staying when things are less than perfect is tough. We’re programmed as people to look for a way out, an escape we imagine will certainly be better – a better home, a better city, a better job, a better relationship, a better church, a better conversation. If better is out there, why would we ever settle for just okay, or kind of annoying, or utterly stultifying, or requiring too much effort? Moving about from house to house is just so much easier.

All of which is true, but only if you have a very specific definition of “better.” If better means easier, more posh, and less constraining, then sure, you can see why it would make sense to move on. But if better means holier, more connected to the God who loves us and our neighbors, and more likely to grow us into the people God created us to be, then moving on makes less sense. Because there is no place where God is more present than right here. There is no situation, no spot, that has more God than where we find ourselves right now. And so there is no place better than right here.

This is a deep and profound truth, and it is also deeply and profoundly difficult. This is why Jesus has to keep reminding us about it. This is why the spiritual practice of stability is just that – a practice. Resisting the temptation to pull up stakes and move the tent every time some thing or some one or some situation proves difficult requires effort, it requires discipline – it requires some practice. But the gifts it offers can be tremendous. Why else has stability been the bedrock of religious communities for thousands of years? Because those holy people knew that when you choose to stay, you begin to see that the Gospel speaks right where you are, that God is blessing you in this moment, with this person, in this place.

Now not all of us are called the kind of stability of place as that of those in the religious life. Most monks and nuns have a particular vocation to live out their lives attached to a very specific geography – this cell in this monastery for the length of this life. But even if we are not called to this kind of spatial stability, we are still called to find stability in our lives. This kind of stability looks like choosing to send deep roots down into relationships or situations so that we can experience the fruits of the Spirit right there. It looks like staying with a friend whose life has suddenly become complicated and difficult, even if that complication feels tiresome. It looks like continuing to claim as neighbor a fellow church member whose political views this election season make you grit your teeth. It looks like remaining in a marriage or partnership even if the romance and lovely “in love” feelings seem to have disappeared for the moment. It looks like waiting, just for a moment, before leaving a job or a relationship or a community, just to ask yourself if there is still Gospel to be preached there, Grace to be found there.

Hear my disclaimer: stability is a good, for sure, but it is not the ultimate good. Sometimes we need to move on, let a relationship break apart, change jobs or towns or churches, declare our independence. Sometimes people or situations can be so harmful or destructive, so dangerous or so soul-killing that the best thing for us to do is to wipe off our feet in protest and walk away. Even Jesus knew that. But I fear that we do this far too easily these days. I know have in my own life, for sure. And walking away too soon means that we miss out on the chance to experience what one priest calls the “necessary upheaval of the spirit,” which leads to new growth, new learning, the experience of God’s new creation deep within our being.

For when we choose to practice stability, to remain in the brokenness, in the boredom, in the anxiety, even sometimes (refer to my previous disclaimer) in the pain, we have the opportunity to really plumb the depths of our love of self and neighbor and God. To remain in a place where life isn’t as easy or as rich as it once was means that we have the opportunity to enjoy the spectacular particularity of the incarnation, to see Christ’s hand touching every place, even this one that has started to feel a little bit less-than.

For Christ is in every place. In all of the places we go, whether we choose to remain or leave, Christ travels with us, will not do anything but walk right beside us, will always remain. In his life, death, and resurrection, Christ shows us the utter stability of God, who has written our names for ever in the heavens and pressed them for ever into the divine heart. Wherever we are, and whatever we are doing, the kingdom of God has come near. Wherever we are, and whatever we are doing, God’s love for us always remains.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

3 July 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Fit for the Kingdom

My sister-in-law is a psychotherapist. She and her husband - my wife’s brother - came for dinner last Sunday and as we sat outside enjoying the pleasantly warm evening, I asked her what she liked best about her job. Not surprisingly, a therapist’s job offers both rewards and disappointments. When people go to therapy they are admitting they need help. The therapist’s job is to help them identify the problem and guide them to new ways of thinking and living. The rewards are to see how people respond positively to therapy, make changes and turn their lives around. 

On the minus side, I was surprised to learn that psychotherapists can be sued by the family of a suicide. The grounds being that you have failed to prevent the death and so must bear the blame for the person’s tragic end.

I also asked my sister-in-law how easy it is for people to change, assuming that without change people get stuck in deadly routines. She replied that for one category of people change was almost impossible. She classified them as the people who say, “yes, but...” What did she mean? I asked. She explained that there is a person who is intelligent, insightful and who can see the need for change, but who in the end resists it. “Yes,” they will say, “I can see what I need to do, but I have all these other commitments and obligations right now which means the changes will have to wait.” There are subtle psychological reasons preventing change, such as fear of embracing new patterns of thought or new ways of living. Also, a person can become so invested in their misery that it becomes like a cloak that they wrap around themselves for comfort and for familiarity’s sake. 

It reminded me of an old saying of my father’s, that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. When we intend to do something but end up doing nothing, we become a little like Shakespeare’s Hamlet. That’s what happens when our thoughts and intentions become an end in themselves. 

We all know what happened to Hamlet, but if you don’t, it’s in the section of Shakespeare marked Tragedies. Hamlet was paralyzed into inaction by having conflicting intentions which set one action against another. That seems to me similar in some ways to what happens to the people Jesus meets in this morning’s gospel. Jesus, along with his followers, sets out toward Jerusalem. On the way, he encounters a number of people. To them he says, “follow me”, and one replies “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” Another replies, “Lord, let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus’ unequivocal reply is: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

You will notice that what Jesus is offering is not a first century version of psychotherapy. What he offers is different: an invitation to follow him, to leave the past behind and travel with him on the way. That’s what the disciples did, when Jesus called them by the side of the lake or wherever they happened to be, and these words of his are as much for their benefit as for the new people he meets.

In this exchange Jesus makes clear that the kingdom of God is not fit for those whose commitments and obligations prevent them from immediately joining Jesus on the road. “Follow me!” Jesus calls, but he does not wait for those who have other priorities to attend to first. With him, the kingdom of God is always the first priority. Jesus is going to Jerusalem: are you going with him? “Yes, but let me bury my father first.” Jesus replies: “Let the dead bury their own dead.” Jesus asks you to go with him now. Are you ready? “Yes, but first let me say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus replies, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of heaven.”

I can feel some sympathy for the people Jesus meets and then reproaches. Are their responses that unreasonable as to deserve his rebuke? The answer is not that they are unreasonable, it is that they are not good enough. 

To be fit for the kingdom of heaven - something to which I hope everyone here aspires - first requires a leap of faith. By which I mean not that you believe at once everything that Jesus says, but that you trust God to know the way ahead for you. Second, it requires a commitment to serve - the kingdom of heaven is a place where you serve others, not yourself. Third, it requires you to look forward, not back. Looking forward and moving forward - that describes us, the Church, or at least it should do. The kingdom of heaven is a present reality, an immediate call to leave the past behind and step into the future, to realize that God is in your life now and if that is so then things will never be quite the same again. Something very exciting is happening - Christ is calling you to join him. He is on his way to the new Jerusalem. Will you journey with him? 

I know that when people take their first steps into the kingdom of heaven it often feels like swimming in Brighton Beach on a cold day. You put a toe in the water and then withdraw it quickly when you realize how cold the water is. Eventually, with courage you wade in and then there comes a moment when you have to take the plunge. In a split second you forget yourself and know only the sensation of the water. You swim with your whole body in the freedom of the water and it is bracing and exhilarating at the same time. That’s what we need to do as Christians: we need to reach a point where we immerse ourselves completely in the love of Christ. 

Once you are in Christ he will equip you for the work that is needed. Of course you won’t feel worthy, or saintly. In other words, you won’t feel ready. But Jesus doesn’t call saints or the worthy; he calls sinners. He calls people in the mess of their lives to follow him. That’s why he won’t wait for you to put your affairs in order first. You follow him as you are - whatever your circumstances. You can be nostalgic for the past, or feel sorry for yourself, or for what might have been, but really God is interested in you, now, and is calling you this very moment. Your sins are forgiven: awake and be healed; let his love set you free to enjoy life in its fullness, as a son or daughter of the Most High. 

That’s the invitation. He calls all of us to share in the life and work of the kingdom of heaven. So put your hand to the plow, and don’t look back, but follow Jesus and trust his way. Don’t say, “yes, but.” Say instead, “yes, now.”

Preached by Father David Beresford

26 June 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Our Present Duty

There is, in this morning’s Gospel, a truly terrifying moment. Jesus and his disciples cross over to Gentile country, and the second that Jesus’ sandaled foot hits the ground, he is accosted by a mad man, naked and filthy, with matted hair and wild eyes and skin that carries the stench of death from having lain so long among the tombs. He is wiry as a wolf but his body hums with an uncontrollable strength. He has smashed his shackles and bolted past his guard and now stands with his body pointed at Jesus like an arrow drawn back deep into the bowstring – muscles coiled, mind galloping, the whole of him out of control and threatening.

But this is not the terrifying moment.

When Jesus commands the man’s unclean spirit to be gone, the wild man collapses at Jesus’ feet and screams into his face, What have you to do with me? Jesus asks the demon his name, and the answer drops into the conversation like a boulder – I am Legion. I am not one but many, not many but thousands. I am evil with so many faces you will have a hard time keeping track of me, evil that can stare you in the face while also jumping out at you from over your shoulder. I am evil of such magnitude that I can overwhelm and subsume your entire being, leaving you with no name but mine. I am Legion.

But this is not the terrifying moment.

Jesus, unafraid, continues his conversation with the demons. They seem to realize that they have met their match and beg him not to cast him into the abyss where all things evil are dissolved of their power. Send us into those pigs, they cry – unclean, sure, but better than a watery grave. Jesus complies, and the demons surge out of the man’s body into the herd. The swine go mad. They tear down the hillside, ripping through any part of the crowd that stands in their way. They tumble down to the lake in a mob, and when they reach the shoreline, they just keep running – into the water, tumbling over each other, splashing and flailing and crying out until finally they are gone and the water is still and the air is silent.

But even this is not the terrifying moment.

The terrifying moment comes next. When the limp man is lifted from the ground, carried under the shade of a tree, washed, comforted, and dressed, and when the swineherds bring crowds from the town to see what has happened, and when those crowds see the wild man sitting peacefully at the feet of his teacher, clothed and in his right mind, the people find themselves terrifically afraid. They turn to Jesus, this man who had just faced down an army of darkness and cast it into the sea, and they ask him to please, please, just go away. And so Jesus gets into the boat and leaves. He just leaves.

And that is terrifying.   

It’s terrifying because Jesus lets them make the wrong decision. He knows that they are afraid, he knows that they’re acting blindly and stupidly, he knows that he has more good to offer them than they could ever desire or imagine, and yet he leaves them. He sees them reject him, and he allows himself to be rejected. He gets in his boat, and he leaves. He doesn’t stand and argue with them about why they’re being ridiculous. He doesn’t cajole them with parables or prayers. He doesn’t wow them with another miracle to prove he has their best interest at heart. He just leaves, leaves a hole where there could have been healing, a void of hopelessness that evil will be only too happy to fill up once again. He walks away, leaving them with a herd of dead pigs bloating in the lake and a swarm of fear in their hearts. They say no, and he says okay. And that’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying, and it happens in our world all the time. We reject Christ, and Christ allows himself to be rejected. We choose evil, and Christ allows us to choose it. Who knows why we do it. We choose evil because it’s familiar (better the Legion we know than the Savior we don’t). We choose it because it’s easy, or because we are so afraid of change that we’d rather die than try something new. We choose evil for any of a multitude of reasons, and Christ lets us choose it. Look around. We live in a world that is flooded with evil – evil choices, evil people, evil words, evil laws – because Christ allows us to reject him, because, if we want to, Christ will let us swim in the darkest possible waters of fear and death. And that is scary as hell.

It’s also necessary. Because Jesus will not force our choices, force our love, for love that is forced is not love. Jesus does not want our fealty out of fear. Jesus does not want to entertain us into following him or bribe us to choose him. Jesus wants more than half-hearted, wrong-hearted, or closed-hearted disciples. Jesus wants us to choose him for no less a reason than that we have realized that to truly live, we have no other choice. Jesus wants us to love him because we love him. He will always be ready to receive us – the prophet Isaiah tells us that God is always ready to be found, crying out “Here I am!” and holding out his hands for us all the day long – but he will not grab us and force us to come to him any more than we would force a flower to turn its face to the sun.

Now that may sound a little bleak, but let me tell you, there is good news here. First, it’s important to remember that Jesus is just the tiniest bit of a cheat. Because when by him all things were made, the eternal Word of God planted the seeds of love deep within our being. God made us to love. Loving one another and God feels right, feels like home, because our hearts were created with an infinite capacity to love and the eternal longing to do so. And so Jesus knows that there is no need to force our hearts; they are already his.

But there is more good news for us here. Because you’ll remember that in the Gospel, when Jesus gets into his boat and leaves the crowd, he does not leave them alone. He leaves them in the hands of the very man he had just healed; he leaves this man, washed and healed and saved, to stand before the people and continually proclaim the good news. Return to your home, Jesus tells him, and declare how much God has done for you. And that is exactly what the man does – he goes back into the city and tells everyone he sees that he has been healed, that God is here, that God is love, that God is good, that God is making all things new. Choose God, he tells the people. Turn your hearts back to him and find your home. Love the one who made you, he cries, because the one who made you made you to love him.

Jesus gives this man back to his people – just as Jesus gives us to our world. This man’s work is our work too; to proclaim – to shout out! – the good news. This is what you and I have got to do. We have been washed and healed and saved by the merits of our baptism, and each time we come into this church, each time we hold out our hands for holy bread, Jesus then sends us away saying, Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you. Preach the Gospel.

We live in a world where evil is legion, where evil has so many names and faces that it is hard for us to keep track of them. Evil is hate speech, evil is prejudice and fear, evil is bigotry spoken into microphones, evil is bullets fired into bodies at a nightclub, evil is apathy in the face of stupid, senseless tragedy. Evil is legion. But this is not a terrifying moment. Because you and I stand together in the world as the body of Christ. You and I are the baptized, who bring the very light of Christ into the world. You and I and all the whole Church can face down this evil without fear, because we know that in the presence of Christ, even Legion has no power. We are baptized! We have a voice to preach the Gospel, and we must use it. For if we did, if we all preached the good news of Christ crucified in word and action, we would send the voices of evil screaming into the abyss.

This is our solemn and holy task. To quote the old speech by Bishop Frank Weston, this is our present duty. We have got our baptisms, we have got our Mass. We have got our prayer and our service and our outreach. Now go out into the world and preach the Gospel. In the face of hatred, preach love. In the face of intolerance, preach mercy. In the face of despair, preach hope. Preach peace, preach peace, preach peace. And the God of peace, who made you and saved you and marked you as his own, will be with you.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

19 June 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia