Resurrection Policy

Resurrection Policy
Fr. Sean Mullen

Throughout this entire campaign our man has been all too ready to make his case about behavior and character, but he has been what you might call notoriously light on policy. Some Sadducees realize this state of affairs and they decide to try to corner the guy: to get an answer out of him on a hotly debated, and really very important matter of policy. The Sadducees do not want to see a miracle. They are not interested in a healing, and they don’t even want to argue about the Sabbath. They are not going to be deterred by a clever put-down (“Woe to you who are laughing now!”). And they are not going to be satisfied with easy moralizing (“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”) A compliant press is taken in by these theatrics, but not the Sadducees: People! Jesus was not the first person to utter the Golden Rule! Jews were already teaching their children to be nice - had been for centuries! And in time, Muslims would do the same… along with just about every religion you can find!

But none of this was on the minds of the Sadducees. They were looking for a substantial policy discussion, and a commitment to a firm position from Jesus. They wanted to know where he stood. They did not want to see a leper healed, nor were they interested in what this rabbi could do with some loaves and a few fish; they could care less if he turned water into wine. No, these were serious men with serious questions, and they expected Jesus to treat the questions seriously too. They would not be satisfied by the optics that so impressed the masses. This was a question of life and death. This was about resurrection!

Ask any Sunday School child about resurrection and chances are that the bold ones will tell you that Jesus was raised from the dead – and that’s where resurrection begins and ends. And that answer will be right, as far as it goes. But as an answer, it will also be severely attenuated, for that’s not all that Jesus taught, and it’s not all that the church is supposed to believe, even if we are a little uncertain about the details. Do not be confused by the way the discussion is presented in Luke’s Gospel. Do not be distracted by all the talk of wives and marriage. The Sadducees have not asked Jesus a question about marriage, or inheritance rights, or any other such thing. They have asked him about one very important thing: about resurrection – because they don’t believe in it. The Sadducees believe that, as the saying went when I was younger, life’s a bit difficult, and then you die. Period. End of discussion.

But other Jews believed that God made us for a life that extended beyond the grave – and that’s what the Sadducees are asking Jesus about. This is a big policy question, and the Sadducees have asked it in a way that they suspect Jesus cannot wriggle out of a real answer.

Jesus does not wriggle! “In the resurrection [they] neither marry nor are given in marriage. Indeed they cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection.” This question of resurrection was an open question when Jesus was confronted by the Sadducees all those centuries ago. Since it was a question about what happens after death, it was naturally difficult to back up one’s position with proof, other than the Scriptures (which is precisely what Jesus does) since no one had yet seen anything of resurrection life.

Not that we often stop to think about it much, but you might say that there is confusion, and maybe even disagreement, about resurrection in our own day too. Many of us who call ourselves Christians are satisfied with the Sunday School answer: resurrection is what happened to Jesus. But as policy statements go, this is an inadequate one, since it fails to take seriously the Sadducees question, which I’ll appropriate and rephrase for my own purposes: But what about us? What happens to us after we are dead? Will we be resurrected too? This is a serious policy question. And it tends to shift the discussion, for in order to address this question, you have to decide that God has not called us to gather as a church just to learn to be nice to one another – although we should learn that too. We are also here to learn about who we are, and what kind of life has been given to us.

We are here to learn that our lives were fashioned by God’s own hand, that he made us and knows us, down to the number of hairs on our heads. We are here to learn that God guides us, challenges us, protects us, and loves us in the turbulent reality of the world we live in. We are here to learn that the life God gave us in this world is heading inevitably toward death, and that our sometimes beautiful, always imperfect bodies come with strict limitations in this life – affected as they are by gravity, the environment, the passage of time, and the blows we inflict upon one another. And that the earth itself will take our bodies and return what came from the earth right back to the earth from whence it came.

But there is more to us – to our bodies and to our souls – than came from the earth. There are secrets to how we are made that we have not yet discovered, and that include both body and soul. These secrets, like the question of resurrection, used to be an open question, long ago, even when Jesus walked the earth. But then this man, this rabbi, this figure of controversy, was seized, restrained, flogged, nailed to a cross, and killed. And his body was placed in a tomb. But when that tomb was reopened just a few days later, the long-open question of resurrection was at last closed. Because Jesus was himself risen - body and soul. He was not there, he had arisen from death, and he is risen now, too! And if Jesus was telling the truth about his own resurrection, then he was telling the truth about ours, as well. He said: we “are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection.”

There is so much I don’t know about the implications of this policy of resurrection. I don’t know, for instance, how it’s done. I don’t know what form our bodies will be in when we are resurrected, though I believe that they will be repaired, restored, and renewed to some state of perfection, thank God. I don’t know whether the process is fast or slow, or how time will even be measured beyond the grave. I don’t know how we will be held accountable for our sins, but I believe we will be. I don’t know if I will recognize you, or be recognizable to you, although I am counting on it, in the same way that I am counting on having my dogs with me in the life to come. I don’t know if we’ll be issued wings, but I have reason to believe that the wardrobe will be predominantly white. And I don’t know what the music sounds like, but I am certain there will be music. The list of what I don’t know about the life to come goes on and on.

But I know, I know, I know, that resurrection life awaits us beyond the grave. I know that we were made for more than the organic process of growth and decay. I know that when we return to dust, that is not the end of the story. How do I know this? I know it because I know that my Redeemer lives! I know that if we are children of the resurrection, as Jesus taught, then we will be resurrected, too! I know that the Word of God took on flesh in order to redeem flesh – that was the point of his coming! Yes, I know that my Redeemer lives! With Job, whose suffering far surpassed any trouble I have ever known, I know that he shall stand at the last day! And I know that after my skin – my flesh – has been destroyed, then in my flesh shall I see God, as a child of the resurrection!

Saint Luke doesn’t tell us how the Sadducees reacted to Jesus’ clear policy statement about resurrection. Were they satisfied to have found out what his position was, so they could rally against him when the time came? Were they disappointed that so charismatic a leader took a policy position so diametrically opposed to their own? We don’t know. But there is this wonderful good news that we do know, because Christ himself led the way through the grave and gate of death, and when he did, death itself was swallowed up in victory – for all who follow him.

There is so much I do not know, but thanks be to God I know that my redeemer and yours lives! And though worms destroy this body yet in my flesh shall I see God, as you shall, too. We will, I think, be dressed in white, very much like angels, and unmistakably children of the resurrection! That’s a policy I can live and die with! Thanks be to God!

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

6 November 2016

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

 

Posted on November 7, 2016 .

Creating Barriers to God

Creating Barriers to God
Mtr. Nora Johnson

Zacchaeus is the chief tax collector and a wealthy man. What would drive him up a tree?

It’s easy to like Zacchaeus’s story. It’s easy to admire his spunk, or his zeal. He’s fantastically ready to give away half of what he has, and to repay what he may justly owe. I’d love to be able to identify with that particular readiness. I don’t think I can. Sometimes, though I think I do identify with Zacchaeus as he climbs the sycamore. Because like many of you I know something about what it is to feel faintly ridiculous about my own desire to see Jesus. That feeling of having gone out on a limb is familiar to many Christians in the twenty-first century. Nice story. I’m glad to see him get his reward.

Still, why should he have to climb a tree? We know he wants to see Jesus. Everybody does. That’s a good thing, right? They want to cast eyes upon Jesus as he passes through, and it’s hard not to feel some kinship with them. There is some kind of ardor, or at least a powerful curiosity, that leads that crowd to stand by the side of the road, just hoping to get a glimpse of this healer and teacher on his way to Jerusalem. They know something is happening in their midst, and as New Testament crowds go, that makes them pretty enlightened. Just last week, the Gospel of Matthew told us about Jesus being unable to do anything much in a crowd of people from his own hometown, because they lacked faith and they took offense at him. But Luke’s crowd from Jericho is all fired up. They aren’t hiding their interest in Jesus. They’ve turned out for Jesus in large numbers, it seems. We would do well to learn from them.

But it still bothers me that Zacchaeus has to climb a tree. While that crowd has come together to seek Jesus, while their eyes are trained on this itinerant holy man, they seem unable or unwilling to notice their short friend Zacchaeus. Do you ever wonder about this? It’s fun to imagine him climbing a tree, but what are the unspoken rules of that crowd that make him climb in the first place?

I wonder who else can’t see Jesus in that crowd. I wonder whom else it would be awkward for them to acknowledge. Are the children lifted up on their parents’ shoulders or do they stand in a sea of adults, wondering what all the excitement is about? Are they left to their own devices? I wonder what the man on crutches or the woman with the hemorrhage have to do to get close to the healer. What about the one with the demonic spirit or the leper or the one who is too hungry to focus on anything other than begging right at that moment? What do you do in that crowd if you are blind?

What would it feel like to be standing in a crowd and to realize that there is no way that particular group of people are going to get you close to what you’re looking for in your life with God? They’ll let you stand there, sure, but their backs are firmly turned away from your actual needs, your honest stature. They may have taken your measure silently—I guess everybody knows Zacchaeus is short—but they don’t want to talk about why you feel diminished among them. It would apparently feel awkward to turn to Zacchaeus and ask whether he would like to move up to the front of the line.

Zacchaeus knows how the game is played. He knows what kind of community that is. He is the chief tax collector, a collaborator with the Roman forces that dominate the people, and he knows that whatever he needs in that crowd, he has to take. He knows enough to know that no friendly invitation will be forthcoming. No one will overcome the awkwardness and shoo him on up to the front. So he runs ahead and climbs a tree. Like you do.

All this while, Jesus has been passing through the crowd of people eager to see him. He must intuit something about the spirit of that community. Maybe he just knows that they are like everybody else, and they come to see him in the same way they set about trying to get power or riches or approval or a good parcel of land or the best place at a banqueting table. You take what you want because it’s not going to be given to you. Jesus knows that for that crowd, even desire for holiness has become a kind of a scarce commodity. There are only so many places at the front of the line, only so many people who can be touched by the holy man, only so many chances to have an encounter.

Maybe Jesus knows that we can’t stop ourselves from thinking that his love is a scarce commodity. We know that God’s love is infinite and ever-abundant but how often are we really willing to let that knowledge change how we live? How many people come and go among us, without a deep sense of having been known and loved? How many people can’t see Jesus here because of a feeling of elitism or exclusivity? What are the barriers to entry at Saint Mark’s, physical and social? Is there self-satisfaction? Competition?

The answer is “Yes, of course.” Not because this isn’t a great church. I know a lot about the warmth and forgiveness and faith and creative outreach that are available here, and it blows my mind sometimes to think about what happens in this place. But we are still sinners, aren’t we. This is and always will be a church full of sinners on a long, uneven, journey of healing and transformation. And every one of us will want to jockey for a position at some time or another. Every one of us will foolishly try to measure our own closeness to God by measuring the between us and the nearest competitor. Every one of us will slip into imagining that Jesus is the object of our desire, something out there to attain.

But Jesus is no object. Jesus is no commodity. Jesus is the desire itself. Jesus is the whole process of transformation: the curiosity, the heart warming. And Jesus is the excluded one, too: the short one, the forgotten one, the one who comes out on the wrong end of the social interaction, the one who has already been written off before the competition starts.

And so while all the good people of Jericho, with their growing sense of spiritual desire, jockey for the chance to feast their eyes upon Jesus, our Lord turns his own eyes upon Zacchaeus, and he reorders that whole community. He redirects their quest. “Zacchaeus,” he says, “I need your hospitality.”

Now, I guess, if that crowd wants to get close to Jesus, they will have to go find him in uncomfortable proximity to the people they ignore. They will have to risk looking like the awkward people who hang out at Zacchaeus’s house. They will have to stop straining to achieve something for themselves, and start seeing the people Jesus sees, loving the people Jesus loves, choosing the people with whom Jesus has publicly cast his lot.

That’s a challenge for every one of us, every day. We will have to stop imagining that if we could just feel like insiders within these walls we could win the love of Jesus. We will have to become people who know that if our eyes are really on the Lord, they are constantly being trained to see our neighbors. What we want to receive, we will have to learn to offer. Instead of competing for something we imagine we can own, we have to learn to celebrate what God has in store for someone else.

We’ll have to engage that question that has been coming up again and again at Saint Mark’s in recent weeks: who is our neighbor? And the good news is that a great feast awaits those who are willing to ask that question and bear the answer. It’s a feast at which no scarcity need be feared, no outsider need ever be turned away, no sinner need hold back out of a sense of unworthiness. It’s a feast at which we find the community and belonging we have really always sought, a feast at which we drop the burdens of our own difference and our own isolation. Jesus is not far away, not just passing through our town on the way to Jerusalem. We don’t have to jockey for a place with him. Jesus is here with us, now, and he is playing host at the table of your least valued acquaintance. Let us seek him together. Let us find him. Let us dine with him in incomparable grace and splendor.  Today and every day, salvation is coming to our house.

 

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson

October 30, 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Posted on November 3, 2016 .

To Be a Saint

To Be a Saint
Mtr. Erika Takacs

This past April, a man from Tennessee named Ben Stucki was reading his Facebook news feed. I wasn’t there, so I can’t know for sure, but if Ben is anything like me, he was in a marginally comatose state while doing so, scrolling halfheartedly past videos on how to make boeuf bourguignon in under 3 minutes in your microwave, advertisements for the world’s most comfortable yoga pants, and photos of friends-you-can-barely-remember’s kids/pets/dinners/vacations/new haircuts. But suddenly, like a beacon of light in the middle of the world’s most boring storm, there it was – the thing that Ben had been looking for, the thing that made his internet trolling worth it for the day.

The thing was a meme, which is, according to Google, “a humorous image, video, piece of text, etc. that is copied (often with slight variations) and spread rapidly by Internet users.” This particular meme looked like an ordinary political campaign sticker – you know, I’m With Her, or Make America Great Again – but the words on this sticker were anything but ordinary. Giant Meteor 2016, it read, and then under it in smaller, sadder print: Just end it already.

I’m guessing that many of you have seen this slogan around town, but you may not know that you have Ben Stucki to thank for it. Ben was the person who took that meme and turned it into a real bumper sticker. He made only a few at first. He really only wanted one for himself, but the printer he used sold only in blocks of 50, so Ben put the rest up for sale on Amazon. And someone bought it, and then someone else saw it, and someone famous tweeted it, and by June of this year he had sold over 1500 Giant Meteor bumper stickers. I can’t even imagine how many he’s sold by now.

You can see the appeal of the Giant Meteor campaign. No matter which candidate you’re planning on voting for by this time next week, this year’s presidential campaign has been an uglier version of the ugly campaigns we’re used to. The hyperbole is more hyper, the scare tactics scarier, the scandals wilder, the bruises bigger. No matter who we’re hoping will win, many of us are already feeling pretty defeated, so much so that a joke about the total annihilation of the world makes us shake our heads and chuckle a bit. Giant Meteor 2016 is funny, in a tired kind of way. It’s also a sign that over the past months we’ve lost something – something that was itself the theme of a rather significant campaign sticker from 8 years ago: hope.

What’s interesting is that the question this bumper sticker raises isn’t if we’ve lost hope or why – the question this bumper sticker raises is whether or not it really matters. So we’ve lost hope, so what? After all, it doesn’t seem like there’s much to be very hopeful about. Is it so unreasonable to feel anxiety, or anger, or apathy instead – I mean, look where we’ve ended up, and look what’s headed this way. Maybe it’s better to be brutally realistic, to prepare ourselves for a disappointing future so that we don’t find ourselves disappointed and surprised. Maybe the gallows humor of Giant Meteor 2016 is better for us in the end. Laugh, eat, and drink, for tomorrow we die.

We could have a long and complex discussion about the place of hope versus pragmatism in American politics, or about how we as American citizens can have a healthy emotional engagement with the political process – when to turn the other cheek, when to turn away, where to draw the line, when to click off the computer. But I’m going to suggest a different discussion tonight. Because tonight, we sit in this place not first and foremost as Americans, but as Christians, and as Christians, we can and should have an entirely different conversation about hope.

The conversation begins here: “In Christ, we have also obtained an inheritance…so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory.” “I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.” Notice that for the author of the letter to the Ephesians, hope is a given. You who were the first to set your hope on Christ, you who claim a hope to which you have been called. Not you who might sometimes feel hopeful, or you who imagine what hope might be like. For this community of early Christians, hope was a fact of their discipleship. It is just how they lived in the world.

And remember, this letter wasn’t written for a perfect world. This wasn’t some golden age when city states were free from tyranny, ego, corruption, and ignorance. This wasn’t some idyllic moment when everyone told the truth, gave generously, and loved perfectly. This time was as marked by as much hope-killing absurdity as ours is. And yet, for these Christians, there was no cynicism there. There was no weariness there. And there certainly was no Giant Meteor LXII bumper sticker there. Because this community of disciples did not find their hope in the future that the world dictated. This community of disciples did not ground their hope in the actions of women and men, even good women and men. This community of disciples knew that their hope was not a flittery, fluttery thing – not so much a thing with feathers* as a thing of iron that anchored them to a more profound reality. Because their hope was in the one seated at God’s right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. Their hope was in the one who fills all in all. Their hope was in the power and presence and persistence of Jesus Christ. And that hope does not fail.

This is the hope to which Christ called that community of disciples, and this is the hope to which Christ calls this community of disciples. Not hope in Donald Trump. Not hope in Hillary Clinton. Not even hope in the wisdom of the founders and the fail safes of our political process. Not hope that it’ll all just go away, but hope in our Lord Jesus Christ. Hope in his power. Hope in his generosity. Hope in his tenacity. Hope that his life, death, and resurrection is making all things new, even this mess. Hope that in him, we are made one. Hope that we can be one whole body, not just the left arm and the right arm. Hope that our inheritance of light and life and mercy and justice can flood the world with grace. Hope that our hope can bring hope to all the hopeless.

This is what it means to be a saint. Saints are all of those Christians who have lived – and died – in the hope of Christ. Saints are people who claim hope as their birthright, who choose hope, day after day, no matter what storms rage around them. Saints are those who know themselves to be called by Christ to hope, even when the world seems dark and full of fear. 

Yes, the world seems hopeless to us right now. That’s okay. God does not see it that way. And God is giving us this gift, this inheritance of hope, free of charge, so that we don’t have to see it that way either. We have a chance to see the bigger picture tonight, God’s picture. This moment is a blessed opportunity to strip the sticky sourness and sad cynicism from our lives and to claim our inheritance as saints of God – to claim hope. This is our opportunity to set our hope on Christ and then to live like it, tonight, and tomorrow, and next Tuesday, and next Wednesday, to love our enemies, to do good to those who use us poorly, to give generously and freely, to do unto everyone we meet what we would have done to us. This is our chance to choose to hope that God is working in the world, that we have a part to play in that work, and that God will not quit until the work is finished.  

This is the work we have to do, you and I: to follow the saints who have come before in all virtuous and godly living and to hope in Christ. If you are starting to lose your hope, reach down into the darkness and grab it with both hands. Bear it into the light and set your hope on Christ. Be his. Be hopeful. Be a saint of God. Hope 2016. And forever and ever. Amen.

*from Emily Dickinson

 

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

All Saints Day, 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Posted on November 2, 2016 .