Manifesto of the Meek

Manifesto of the Meek

Fr. Sean Mullen

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The Sermon on the Mount unfolds in three chapters of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and we will hear significant portions of it read in church over the next four weeks, beginning, as we did today, with the famous Beatitudes.  But the Sermon also contains hard sayings – “if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away,” and a difficult passage about divorce.   In it Jesus teaches that “if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.”  And only a breath later, “You have heard that it was said, ‘you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

The Lord’s Prayer comes from the Sermon on the Mount, according to Matthew, and so does the saying, “Where your treasure is there will your heart be also.”  Jesus’ beautiful teaching about the pointlessness of worrying is found in the Sermon on the Mount: “consider the lilies of the field, how they grow, they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”  Important teachings that can guide you for your entire life are found in the Sermon: “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”  And throughout the Sermon Jesus teaches about God’s gracious goodness: “Ask, and it will be given you; search and you will find; knock and the door will be opened.”

St. Matthew tells us that “when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astonished at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority.”

We have heard so many of these words so many times, that perhaps they leave us slightly less astonished than the original crowd.  Or perhaps we have just learned to ignore them, as we so often do when it comes to Jesus’ teaching, preferring our own versions of the Gospel to the ones provided to us by the evangelists.

What, for instance, are we to make of Jesus’ assertion that “blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth”?  A short investigation tells me that the “meek” are “gentle, courteous, kind, merciful, compassionate, indulgent.”  And that the usage of the English word in connection to a specifically Christian virtue connotes someone who is “free from haughtiness and self-will, piously humble, patient and unresentful under injury and reproach” as well as “non-violent.”[i]

To some, I am sure, this list of characteristics sounds a little sad.  And indeed there is only one person in the New Testament who ever describes himself as “meek” – that person in Jesus.

It should be said that the Beatitudes make great poetry, but as an assertion of fact, the idea that the meek, the mournful, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, the pure of heart, those hungering and thirsting for righteousness, and those who are persecuted for the sake of their faith appear to the world in any significant way to be “blessed” in any way… well, to much of the world this sounds like an “alternative fact,” to almost coin a phrase.  For everyone knows that these virtues are not winning, and will not get you very far; they certainly do not get you into positions of power.  In fact, when you sit down and read the Sermon on the Mount, with just a little common sense, and awareness of the real world, it’s possible to see the entire thing as an assertion of alternative facts, so to speak.  Love your enemies?  Turn the other cheek?  Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth?  Please!

If Jesus is asserting alternative facts, then he is either deluded, or he is revealing to us a new truth about how God works in the world.  Can it be that the God who spoke to Moses on the top of Mount Sinai, who routed the Egyptians at the Red Sea, who rained down fire on the sacrifices of Elijah in rebuke to the priests of Baal, whose voice brought creation into being, and whose breath gave life to the world… can it be that this powerful God – the one and only – sent to us a Son who is gentle, courteous, kind, merciful, compassionate, and indulgent, as well as free from haughtiness and self-will, piously humble, patient, non-violent and unresentful under injury?

Furthermore, if this is so, is it good news?  Saint Paul thought so, even though he knew it would sound confusing to people: “The message… is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

It’s possible to think of the Sermon on the Mount as Jesus’ Meekness Manifesto, and there is no doubt that he intends for it to be received as good news, although he knows it will be heard as foolishness by many.  And perhaps this is the right time for us to consider a savior who comes to us in meekness.

In meekness did his parents wander in search of a place for him to be born.

In meekness was he carried to exile for his safety.

In meekness did the Holy Family return from home.

In meekness did the child study and grow.

In meekness did he go out into the desert to confront the devil and prepare for his ministry.

In meekness did he call his disciples to follow him.

In meekness did he cure the sick, feed the hungry, and heal the injured.

In meekness did he grant merciful forgiveness to the penitent.

In meekness did he raise the dead to life again.

In meekness did he enter into the Holy City.

In meekness did he stoop to wash his disciples’ feet.

In meekness did he bestow to them the living promise that they would be fed by his Body and Blood.

In meekness was he betrayed by one of his own.

In meekness did he confront the powers that be.

In meekness was he led away to be crucified.

In meekness was his stripped, and whipped, and spat upon, when he was condemned to die.

In meekness was he crowned with thorns.

In meekness was he nailed to the tree.

In meekness did he give up the ghost.

And in meekness did the Lord of the meek descend to the dead to free all those whose sins had seemed to seal their fates.

In meekness did he break the bonds of death and burst from his tomb.

In meekness did he reveal himself to be newly alive.

In meekness did he ascend to heaven.

In meekness does he now reign at the right hand of God the Father.

With gentleness, courteous kindness, mercy, compassion, and indulgence; free from haughtiness and self-will; with humility, patience, without harming anyone has he become our savior!

And so, blessed are the meek, for they – by the grace of the Lord of Meekness – will inherit the earth!  Which is to say that the meek shall inherit a share of all that is his, which is everything that is.  These are the facts Jesus teaches as he lays out his manifesto on the mount.  And to those gathered they must surely have sounded like alternative facts – for how could it be so?  They did not know what we know now.  And what we know is that the Manifesto of the Meek sounds like foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God!

So, my friends, be gentle, be courteous; be kind, and be merciful; be compassionate, and yes, be indulgent.   Be, yourself, free from haughtiness and self-will, be humble, be patient, and (perhaps hardest for us) be unresentful under injury and reproach, and do no be violent.  For then you will be meek.

And blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

29 January 2017

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

[i] Oxford English Dictionary

Confirmation

Confirmation

Mtr. Erika Takacs

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The recent confirmation hearings had not gone well. As a whole, the nominees had been evasive and unimpressive, and Peter was frustrated. After all, how hard is it to answer a simple question? Like, are you or are you not the Messiah? Seems pretty straightforward, right? But you’d be amazed at the answers the disciples heard. “Are you the Messiah?” “Yes, I do believe that there is a Messiah.” Or “I AM in support of the general thinking about Messiahs.” The answers to the disciples’ other questions were no less confounding. “What would your priorities be as the Messiah?” “To be the best Messiah there ever was.” “Uh huh. And what about our work if we become your disciples?” “Well, first of all, you should become my disciples, because I will have only the best disciples. You will, you know, disciple me, learn from me.” “And what exactly will we learn?” “Oh, you’ll learn my style, you’ll learn how to repeat everything I say, you’ll learn crowd control, how I like my coffee….” “Uh huh. And where will all of this learning take place?” “Well, yes, I’ll mostly be in Jerusalem, at headquarters, which is this lovely little b and b. But you’ll go out all over the place, I don’t even know where, and you will likely have no place to lay your heads, but you will still have the very best discipleship. And if you don’t, well, then, it’s definitely, probably, the Romans’ fault.” Like I said. Frustrating.

 And so when this new candidate presented himself, it was all that Peter could do to drag himself up to the microphone one more time. But drag himself he did, and what he saw across the room surprised him. The nominee wasn’t schmoozing or shaking hands; he was just sitting, calmly, like he was listening to something beautiful or waiting for something wonderful to happen. Peter cupped his mic and leaned over to his brother, “Where are his aides – you know, his people?” Andrew leaned back, “I don’t know – I think it’s just him.” Peter looked over his brother’s shoulder and saw James and John coming into the room. “Hey,” he called, “thanks for being here.” He pointed to the bag John was carrying and smiled. “Planning on getting some knitting done?” John shrugged his shoulders. “You know these hearings are a huge waste of time – thought I’d at least try to get this net fixed while I’m sitting here.”

Peter raised his hand and the room settled into quiet. He inwardly braced himself for another round of ridiculousness and tried to smile at the man sitting quietly at the far table. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Simon Peter, this is Andrew my brother; James and John, some fellow fishermen, have joined us for this hearing today as well. Welcome, we’re very glad that you’re here. Would you please state your name for the record?” The man leaned again into the microphone. “Jesus of Nazareth.” “Thank you, sir. Let’s talk about Nazareth for a second. You were born there?” The man shook his head. “No, born in Bethlehem.” “Bethlehem?!” Peter started. That was a loaded answer. He heard a murmur ripple through the crowd and took a moment to shuffle through the papers on his desk. “Interesting. I don’t have that in my records. But you were raised in Nazareth, yes?” “I was.” “But now you’re in the Galilee, living in Capernaum, correct?” “Yes.” “Why the move? This isn't exactly a hot spot for a kick-off campaign.” Jesus smiled. “It is here that my journey must begin.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “Here. In Capernaum. Says who?” Jesus sat very still. “Why, Isaiah, of course.” His voice grew rich and round, and he looked around at the crowds gathered behind him, “In Galilee of the Gentiles—the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

Peter felt his brother’s quick intake of breath. He looked over at him, a question in his eyes. This was definitely something new. Peter looked back at Jesus sitting before him. “Thank you. I’d like to move on to your message, if that’s okay with you. You’ve been quoted as saying, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ That’s a pretty hard-line statement – is there anything you’d like to add to that here for us today?” Jesus looked up, directly into Peter’s eyes. “No, nothing to add. This was the message of my cousin, John the Baptist, and this is my message to all people. Including you, Simon Peter.” His eyes sparkled as he continued. “Repent, Peter, for the kingdom of the heaven has come near.”

Peter felt, rather than saw, John put down his mending. Andrew was sitting forward in his chair now, and Peter actually heard the smile on James’s face as he uttered a little, “Hmm.” And all the while, Jesus just kept holding Peter’s eyes, like he was listening to something beautiful or waiting for something wonderful to happen. Peter took a deep breath and asked, “So what do you want out of this?” “That is what I want,” Jesus said. “For me to repent? But there’s nothing in that for you.” “Oh no,” Jesus replied, “there is everything in that for me. For I am for you.” Peter felt Jesus’ eyes holding him, holding on to him, and he found that he had only one question left. “Who…who are you?” Jesus smiled and stood. “Follow me. Follow me, and I will make you fishers of women and men.”   

John was up like a shot. His net, half-mended, slipped to the floor, forgotten. James was already stepping around the table. Peter and Andrew turned to look at each other again, speaking with their eyes in the way that only siblings can do. Are you going? Because I’m going…. And they went. Just like that. They went to follow the one who offered them nothing more than an invitation to follow him. They went to follow the one who offered them nothing more, and nothing less, than his whole self.

We say sometimes that we do not know how the disciples did this. What was it about Jesus, about what he said or did, about how he looked or how he spoke, about the gleam in his eye or the warmth in his touch that led the disciples to respond to his call? What was it about this moment that led them to jump in this way? We say that we do not know, and yet we most certainly do. We all know what it is to respond to Jesus’s call. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. Each of us knows what it is to hear Jesus’ call and to respond, to leave something behind and to follow. This morning, each of us stopped doing something in order to come here – you put something down, put something away, chose to move. Christ was with you, called you, and you responded to his holy disruption, his call to sit with these fellow disciples, to worship him, to pray, to repent, to take, and eat.

How can we respond in this way? Not because of who we are, but because of who Christ is. His call is unlike any other. His is the call of one who goes with us, who will never ask us to go someplace he hasn’t gone before. His is the call not to follow an ideology but a man, a man both human and divine, who calls us not for his own sake, but for ours. His is the call of the Messiah who saves, not a magic man who promises to solve all of our problems. His call is a real invitation, a real question, and a real answer.           

And if, in our discipleship, we ever have any doubts about whose call we follow, all we need do is look here. Here is the one we follow; here is his heart and here are his priorities. Here is the cross, which is foolishness to those who love power but true wisdom to those who know the power of love. Here is the cross, and here is confirmation. Here is the confirmation that God is for us, at all times and in all places. Here is the confirmation that God sides with us, especially when we are weak and powerless. Here is the confirmation that God chooses us, especially when we are humble and meek. Here is the confirmation that God desires freedom for all people, that God has freed us from sin, freed us from death, freed us from tyranny, even at the cost of his own son. Here is the cross of Christ, and Christ is calling you. Get up, jump, and follow him, follow him still, follow him again, follow him further, follow him forever. For there is work to be done. There are people to be gathered up in the divine web of love; there are people to be served and offered shelter in the shadow of the cross. There are people sitting in darkness who need to be shown that the light has already dawned. There is work to be done, and so this hearing is adjourned.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

22 January 2017

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Agnus Dei

Agnus Dei

Fr. Sean Mullen

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In Room 10-A of the Prado Museum in Madrid you will find among other wonderful things, a painting by the 17th century Spanish painter Francisco de Zurbarán that is commonly known as Agnus Dei, or Lamb of God.  It is a very famous painting, perhaps you have seen it there at the museum or in reproductions.  Or you may have seen one of the five other versions of this subject that Zurbarán painted, like the one hanging at the San Diego Museum of Art.  El Prado, however, says its version is the finest of them all, and I believe them.

The painting is simple: a wooly merino lamb is lying on its side on a grey slab of some kind, facing to the left, as the viewer observes the picture.  The Lamb has horns, elegantly curved, that look as though they could some day be made into shofars, the horn that is sounded to mark the end of Yom Kippur.  All four of its feet are bound together above the fetlock with two strands of a cord of some not-too-heavy kind: the knot is not visible.  With its feet tied together, the animal’s back makes a kind of hump, lying there on the slab, that looks as though it could be the profile of a mountain ridge if the painting was a landscape.  The left eye of the lamb (the only one we can see) is open, pale eyelashes delicately lined in; and we can see that the lamb’s gaze is directed down, past its pink nose, at the grey slab on which it lies, as if in resignation.  There is no blood shown in the painting; we are to understand that the lamb is alive, but that its destiny is sealed.  Light shines down on the lamb from the upper left at a relatively high angle, so that only a little shadow is thrown, although beyond the pool of light that bathes the lamb, all is darkness.  Behold the Lamb of God.

Zurbarán did not give the painting its name, per se.  As I understand it, some of the versions do contain inscriptions, and the one in Santa Barbara includes a faint halo over the lamb’s head.  But at the Prado there is nothing depicted on the canvas but the lamb – no explicit religious iconography - so that a viewer could suppose the painting is intended simply as a still life of the animal.  Such a viewer, would, I feel quite certain, be missing the point.  The painter is saying much more with this simple image than he can accomplish with only the strokes of his brush.  Behold the Lamb of God.

When John the Baptist announced Jesus’ arrival with these words, “Behold the Lamb of God,” he was, I think, inspired to say more about Jesus with those few words than the words themselves indicate.  And what could he possibly have thought he meant when he said that Jesus “takes away the sin of the world”?  Jesus had just wandered in from the desert; did John think that he would be driven out there again, like the ancient scape-goat, to bear the people’s sins for them?  Was he thinking of the Passover lamb, whose blood was smeared on the doorposts to protect the children of Israel?  Did he have some mystic insight into the vision of the apocalyptic lamb who sits upon the throne that had not yet been given to St. John the Divine?

And what do we think it means, that Jesus came to take away the sin of the world?  Shouldn’t we at least test the claim, made so long ago?  If Jesus’ mission was to take away the sin of the world, then he must not have done a very good job of it.  Is sin any less pervasive than it now than it was in his day? Aren’t things, in fact, worse today than they were then, at least if you want to take a measurement anywhere I can see?

What metric are we to use to evaluate the effectiveness of Jesus’ ministry to take away the sin of the world?  If John the Baptist was right, how can we demonstrate it to be so?  “Behold the Lamb of God,” he says.  But, so what?  What does that mean?  And what does it matter?

Sitting at my desk, I feel compelled, if I am to talk to you of this, to explore the question of that metric by which to demonstrate that Jesus has, indeed, taken away the sin of the world.  I think if the claims about which I preach are true, I should be able to do this.  If I am going to call him the Lamb of God, I should know what I am talking about.  I should be able to measure this somehow.  Maybe I have just not put my mind to it before.  Maybe someone has already worked this out and posted it on the Internet?  I think this could be done; I think it should be done, as I sit there at my desk, and begin to think of a chart, or a table that I could use to measure God’s success rate at taking away the sin of the world.  My computer is running, and I have sheets of paper before me, and sharpened pencils, and an open Bible, and I am thinking, and thinking, and thinking.  But it is late afternoon, and I become drowsy, and the task is harder than it should be.

People sometimes dream that they can enter into paintings – you know, walk along the Seine with Seurat, or, row among the water lilies with Monet, or check the drooping time with Dalí.  What would I do if I could inhabit that masterpiece of Zurbarán’s in a dream for a little while, if I could shrink down and crawl up into the canvas, and hear the slow breath of the lamb, smell the heavy odor of his wool, and feel the lanolin on my fingers as I reach down to stroke his coat?

The impulse, of course, is to untie him.  But perhaps that is why the knot is out of sight, so that I will not be tempted.  And in my dream, I have no knife with which to cut the cord.  What am I to do?  Clearly the lamb is in trouble, but I cannot save this lamb.  Is there anything I can do for him?  It would seem that there is nothing he can do for me.

So in my dream, I lie down beside the lamb.  I have no shoes on, and perhaps no shirt, I don’t know.  I know that I can smell him, and I can hear him breathing.  He is smaller than a Labrador.  I put my arm out to touch him, and he does not shudder, but I can feel the steady, slow rhythm of his side, as he draws breath in and out, for now.  He is not struggling.  He shifts his eyes to look at me; and his gaze, that looked so sad to me before, is gentle, not frightened.

Very quickly, a sensation is coming over me.  For I had thought I had entered this painting to discover something about the lamb.  But now that I hear his breathing, and feel the rise and fall of his breast, and smell the musty odor of his coat, I sense that I am beginning to know something new about myself, not about the lamb.  I am moved, as I lie beside this lamb, all of a sudden, for I seem to know myself in some rich complexity as both a beloved child of God whose blessings are many, and as a sinner whose foolishness is now flashing before my eyes, as if it was my destiny that was sealed here on this slab, not his.  He is the one who is bound, but now I can see myself for who I am – marvelously made, but oh so prone to wander.  I am looking into the tired eyes of this condemned lamb, lying on my side, staring into his calm eyes, my hand stroking his soft wool, and along with all my blessings, I can see everyone I have ever hurt, and every stupid thing I have ever done, and every good deed I left undone.  And I feel as though I can hear some choir singing a litany just for me: “Have mercy upon him, miserable sinner.”  The choir is singing for me, I know, not angrily, but in some recitation of the truth.

Bound as he is this way, as I face the lamb in my dream, I can only reach out to him across his fettered hooves.  But something in me needs to be closer.  So I get up and crawl around him to a part of the painting that is obscured from view, and I lie down behind the lamb, spooning, embracing the wooly hump of his back with my torso and arms so I can hold him close to me, and reach under his horns and scratch him soothingly behind the ears.  This way, the pace of my breathing can match his slow breath, and you would think that I am cradling him thus to calm the frightened lamb.  But he is not frightened, and I am the one who is becoming calm, as the choir’s singing fades away, and I hear the echo of mercy more clearly than the accounting of my sins.  And I think that the lamb does not fall asleep, but I do, with a restfulness that I have never known before.  And if I am dreaming within my dream, I cannot tell what the inner dream is.  But a new chorus is beginning to rouse me: Behold the Lamb of God.

Because we have been trained by cash registers, credit cards, and spread sheets – which often inspire nightmares, but seldom dreams – we find it hard to escape the idea that the cries of John the Baptist are claims that must be quantified, tested, audited, and reported.  But that is not really how faith works.  It’s not how redemption works.  It’s not how salvation works.

You believe – you become a person of faith – because you enter into this vision of this lamb, and confronted by him, you see, you know to be true, things that you did not know to be true before.  You see what a sinner you are, and yet here is the lamb, bound before you, and already you know that he has taken away your sin and the sin of the world, and you discover that you can now get on with being marvelously made.

Redemption is not a mystic transaction within the economy of sin; it is a living encounter with this weak and helpless lamb, whose power is nevertheless greater than any other power in the universe.  It is the drop to your knees when you decide to reach out to touch this lamb, to love him, and to try to match your breath to his, which, you find, is stronger than it should be for a lamb who appears to be doomed.

And salvation is not wrought by war-weary angels who battle on our behalf with a dragon, (although the angels have surely fought their battles).  But the salvation of our souls, our lives, our all, is accomplished by this small lamb: tied up and undoubtedly headed for death.  And to be in his presence, thus bound, is to discover that it must be so, for he must go where we will some day go, to mark the path that leads through the grave and gate of death and beyond into a new life prepared for all who love him.

Behold the Lamb of God; behold him who takes away the sin of the world.

It turns out that this claim, hangs not on my ability to provide a table of sins forgiven, erased, or eradicated.  It turns out to be an invitation, not only to behold, but to encounter, to embrace the One who comes in the name of the Lord.  He was sent for you and for me – for our sakes and for all – to give his life as a ransom for many. 

It is already accomplished, already done, it is finished.  All that is required is to behold this lamb, to come to him, and to take him as your savior.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

15 January 2017

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia