Take My Yoke

No doubt, you have come across in one way or another a poem called “Footprints.”  You have heard it recited, or you have seen it printed and framed on someone’s kitchen wall.  The poem, the authorship of which is unclear, is so well known that it has become a most celebrated cliché.  In its several versions it tells of a dream or a vision in which a person perceives the episodes of his or her life in a long progression, marked by two sets footsteps in the sand: one belonging to the narrator and the other belonging to Jesus.  But the narrator notices that during the most difficult, painful, and trying times of life there is only one set of footprints in the sand, and so questions the Lord, “I don’t understand why, when I needed you most, you would leave me.”

I can see that you are all already completing the well-worn ending of the poem in your minds, when Jesus says, “It was then, my child, that I carried you.”

Now, clichés become clichés for a reason -because they ring true more often than not – so it’s not my desire or intention to sell this little poem short.  But I am willing to acknowledge that the poem and its visual representations have achieved the very summit of kitsch.

There are those who contend the Footprints poem has its origins in a sermon preached by the great Charles Spurgeon on a Thursday evening in June of 1880: a sermon that is considerably longer than the poem, and which does not really make the point that the poem makes about Jesus carrying us through the tough times.  But Spurgeon’s sermon does begin with an allusion to Jesus’ footsteps:

“And did you ever walk out upon that lonely desert island upon which you were wrecked and say, ‘I am alone—alone—ALONE—nobody was ever here before me’? And did you suddenly pull up short as you noticed, in the sand, the footprints of a man? I remember right well passing through that experience—and when I looked, lo, it was not merely the footprints of a man that I saw, but I thought I knew whose feet had left those imprints. They were the marks of One who had been crucified, for there was the print of the nails. So I thought to my-self, “If He has been here, it is no longer a desert island. As His blessed feet once trod this wilderness-way, it blossoms now like the rose and it becomes to my troubled spirit as a very garden of the Lord!”[i]

Spurgeon’s sermon is a four-point sermon that goes on, in printed form, for more than 6 pages of single-spaced, small-ish type; and the text he is preaching on (from Hebrews) has nothing to do with any of the texts we’ve read today.  But this introduction to the sermon shares a theme with the Footprints poem, that Jesus is with us, and that especially when it comes to times of trial, Jesus has already been where we must go, and that he will be with us in love and support throughout the hardest periods of our lives.

This way of thinking of Jesus as our spiritual companion is pervasive in modern Christian thought, and again, I have no interest in debunking it.  But like the Footprints poem, the opening of Spurgeon’s sermon relies on an image that is not found in the Scriptures, which doesn’t make t wrong, but it only goes so far.

The Gospel reading today, from the eleventh chapter of Matthew, however, does provide a powerful image of Jesus’ connection to each and every one of us in times of trial.  He says to his disciples, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now, a yoke, the dictionary tells me, is “a wooden bar or frame by which two draft animals (such as oxen) are joined at the heads or necks for working together.”[ii]

The image here is not of Jesus carrying us; it is not the assurance that Jesus has already trod where we must tread ourselves.  No, the image that Jesus himself supplies is one in which we are bound to him in mutual service, working together.  And the irony of the analogy (or the grace of it) is that very instrument that signals the great weight and demands of the work we must do with him, the very tool that must imply straining muscles and sweaty work, this yoke that we must share with Christ – by which we may be bound to him – this yoke, if it is his, is easy to bear, and the burden is light.

It is an odd, and somewhat un-lovely image: to be invited by the Son of God - whose path leads inevitably to suffering and sacrifice – to be yoked to him.  But recall to whom it is that Jesus addresses the invitation: “all you that are weary, and are carrying heavy burdens.”

Last week in Honduras, I noticed all week long that among the slightly chaotic traffic of cars, and trucks, and motor-bikes, and three-wheeled tuk-tuks, and countless people on foot, we also encountered the not uncommon sight of carts drawn by a single horse or a single donkey.  I take it as a sign of the poverty of that nation that you never see two animals working together – what a luxury that would be: a team of animals to bear the load!  And it is true, in the most literal sense, for you semanticists out there, that a yoke can sometimes refer to an apparatus that is used by only one creature.  But the common usage of the term implies that two are yoked together, sharing the load.

“Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens… take my yoke upon you.”  Do you hear what Jesus is saying?  Do you understand how this works?

Jesus is not saying, “Follow me, and put your feet here in the prints of my feet, so that you will know the way.”

Jesus is not saying, “Let me pick you up and carry you in my arms through your roughest days.”

No, Jesus is not reciting a sentimental poem.  Rather, Jesus is saying, “Let me share with you the burden of your load.  Let me walk beside you, so that our shoulders rub together, and we can hear each other’s breathing, and we can match our footsteps one to another.  Let me be your partner, your friend, and your helper.  And you be mine, too.  Let us share together in the work and weariness of this life.  For although I am the very Son of God, I know your weariness, your sadness, and your pain.  Let me yoke myself to you, and you, yoke yourself to me.  And see, just see, if it isn’t easier this way, better this way.  See if your load is not lighter this way. 

“What a way this is to go through life – yoked together, you and I.  We are bound to one another.  I see you are weary, and I know weariness, but I am strong.  I see you are lonely, and I know loneliness, but yoked to me like this, you will never be alone.  I see that you are heavy laden with your burdens, and I have carried the Cross to my own crucifixion – I know what it is to carry heavy burdens.  But I turned that instrument of death into the means of resurrection life.  Imagine what I can do for you!  Come to me; take my yoke upon you, and see if it isn’t easy, here next to me, see if my burden isn’t light.”

Considering the poverty of a place like Honduras, and contrasting it to our situation here on Locust Street, it is notable that somebody decided, when designing the marvelous red doors through which you walk into this church, and the tympanum, with its figure of Christ the great high priest, somebody decided to carve these words above those doors, in the rather more idiosyncratic Prayer Book translation of the text: “Come unto me all ye that travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you.”  Who were they thinking of, I wonder, when they chose that text?

Our stretch of Locust Street is not one closely associated with weariness, travail, or heavy burdens.  Back when carriages were pulled down this block, I have no doubt that there were pairs and teams of handsome horses with polished harnesses who delivered the dignified denizens of Rittenhouse Square to these doors.

And yet among the well-heeled of our neighborhood, were there not a few who had known sadness and pain, who had experienced great loss, who carried in their hearts (if not on their backs) heavy burdens?

And come to think of it, could not the same be said of most of us here today?  Are there not a few of you who are weary in this life?  Don’t you know pain?  Don’t we carry a weight of sadness with us?  Is it more than you can bear sometimes?  And do you wonder if you can carry it on your own?

What you need for your weariness – whether you are rich or poor – is not a somewhat glib poem that purports to tell you that things were never as bad as you thought they were.

What you need – what I need – is a partner, a companion, a friend, and a Savior who has himself known weariness, sadness, and pain every bit as deep as the weariness, sadness, and pain that you know; and who invites each of us to yoke ourselves to him and see, just see, if his yoke isn’t easy, if the burden isn’t light.

I don’t have three other points to make this morning.  This is all I have - this yoke – along with the testimony that my life has always been better when I have taken Jesus’ yoke and let him help me with the burdens.  My life has always been happier when my steps have been locked in with his, than when I have tried to go it on my own.  Every load I have ever known has been lightened by his friendship and his love, and every path I feared I could not walk has disappeared behind me with his help.  For his yoke is easy, and his burden is light.  Come to him, and try it for yourself!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

9 July 2017

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

[i] “Spurgeon, Charles, “The Education of Sons of God,” June 10, 1880, The Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington

[ii] Merriam-Webster Dictionary

A True Welcome

The pineapple is thought to have originated not on the Dole Plantation in Hawaii, as you might imagine, but in South America, specifically in what is now Brazil. Its original name, ananas, comes from a South American language, and means “excellent fruit.” These excellent fruits were transported by travelers to neighboring lands where they were planted and came to flourish. Eventually the pineapple was discovered by European explorers who thought its skin resembled the spiky points of a pinecone while the fruit was a lot like…you guessed it…an apple. They also thought it was delicious. The pineapple was such a hit that European sea captains loaded up their ships with them and tried to get enough wind in their sails to carry them back to Holland or Spain or England before their sweet yellow insides began to rot. European botanists were consulted on how the pineapple might be grown outside of the tropics and imperial architects were hired to build hothouses and even something called a pineapple stove – all for the love these prickly sweet fruits.

By the 18th century, the pineapple had begun to take on a new identity. You see, stories told about pineapples said that the original explorers who had traveled to lands far and wide had noticed that the indigenous peoples who placed pineapples by their doors seemed to be the friendliest and most welcoming. The pineapples, it was thought, were a kind of native welcome mat. And its being a perfectly likeable kind of fruit, the pineapple began to be seen as a sign of welcome. It became, in fact, a symbol of extravagant hospitality – extravagant because in the 18th century, pineapples were enormously expensive. In colonial America, one pineapple is said to have cost as much as $8000 in today’s currency. Now I like a good Dole Whip as much as the next girl, but that is ridiculous. Those who couldn’t afford this caviar of fruits, had to make do with images of pineapples carved into welcome signs outside of taverns or inns or even churches – an early version of the Anglican Church welcomes you.

There was another option, though, for those who wanted to offer the pineapple of prodigious welcome but couldn’t quite afford it. Colonial dealers of produce used to rent out pineapples for a discounted price. That’s right, rented pineapples. Families that were slightly less wealthy could lease one of these luxurious fruits for a party or a formal dinner, show all of their friends or colleagues that they, too, could offer a welcome that generous, and then whisk it away before anyone got too friendly with a knife. The pineapple was then returned to the rent-a-fruit dealer, who resold it to someone who could afford not only to look at it but actually eat it as well. It was a case of American ingenuity at its…well…most American.

But what kind of welcome is it if the welcome disappears when the time has expired? What kind of welcome is it if the symbol of welcome is off-limits, if the welcome says please, come in, but don’t touch, don’t mess about, and definitely don’t sit down and eat? One has to wonder if these pineapple renters were seen as generous or as pitiable. Perhaps they would have more hospitable if they had bought some real apples and really let people really eat them. Better real food than a fake fruit, no matter how excellent.

When Jesus sends his disciples out into the world on their first real mission, he, too, is concerned about welcome. He is sending them out to proclaim the Good News, with little more than their faith and each other’s company – no staff, no bag, no extra tunic or spare pair of sandals. They are off to do something they have never done before and to do it on their own. And so he offers them words of assurance and inspiration as they look out upon the long road. He tells them not to worry if people ask them questions they cannot answer, for the Spirit will speak to them and give them words to say. He tells them not to be afraid if them are persecuted and handed over, for their Father in heaven knows every single hair of their heads. And he tells them, as he sees the doubt and the hope in their eyes, that they are worthy of this task. Yes, they are traveling without him; yes, they will be preaching and teaching without him, but this will be no second-class proclamation of the Gospel. They will carry Jesus Christ will them, in their hearts and upon their tongues, and so to welcome them is to welcome Christ himself. Because of the Gospel they proclaim, they are worthy of a true, generous welcome.

So…what kind of welcome do we offer for the Good News of Jesus Christ? Is our welcome real or fake? When we hear the Gospel proclaimed do we truly open ourselves up to it, let it fill us up, body and soul, or are we only really interested in how it looks but not so much in how it tastes or fuels our actions? When the Spirit speaks to us – in the words of scripture or the words of a stranger on the street, in the food offered at this altar or the food offered in our parish hall, in the feeling we have as a hymn soars around us or the feeling we have as we watch a boat of refugees floating in the Mediterranean – do we welcome the Spirit in, to stay a while? Do we welcome the Gospel when it is inconvenient, when it speaks at the wrong time, or comes from the wrong person, or seems to be just the wrong message? Do we offer a real welcome when it seems the Gospel might do that which is scariest of all, which is, of course, change us?

Change feels like the costliest part of a true Gospel welcome. Change is the $8000 pineapple, the thing we think we can’t possibly afford. What do you mean go out two by two to proclaim the Good News of Jesus Christ? What do you mean take no tunic and no extra sandals? What do you mean take a week’s vacation and travel to Honduras? What do you mean change jobs, run for office, go to seminary? What do you mean give away more of what I have? And what do you mean give away even more than that? What do you mean start exercising, stop drinking, start loving my body as a gift from God, even when I catch a glimpse of myself naked in the mirror? What do you mean get up earlier to pray? What do you mean risk looking like a fool by reaching out in love even if that love is rejected, what do you mean risk looking naïve by being unfailingly kind and loving rather than biting and superior, what do you mean risk speaking truth with love even to – and especially to – those in power? What do you mean open my heart, even if there is no guarantee I won’t get hurt? Oh, no – that cost is too high. Why don’t I just rent the Gospel instead?

Because if I’m just renting the Gospel, then I can be nice, no matter what anger or judgment might be rotting beneath my smile. I can love my neighbor in church on Sunday, but God help you if you cut me off in traffic or post something I don’t like on Twitter. I can use the Gospel to order my financial life, but not my sexual life. I can give money to organizations that work for justice and equality but ignore discrimination and meanness I see around me if they seem likely to get too messy. I can welcome the Gospel into my life, and then send it back when it starts to feel too costly. Anything more than that is simply too expensive.

But this, of course, is backwards thinking. For it is not the cost of the Gospel that is extravagant; what is extravagant is what God has given us, free of charge. The cost of change in our life is nothing in comparison with the gifts God has already given us, the changes he has already wrought in our lives, the welcome he has already provided for us, high upon the cross. The free gift of God, Paul tells us, is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. Grace, forgiveness, salvation, mercy, compassion, love that never ends – these are the gifts that we have been given for free, not to mention the gifts of Creation, our own gifts and talents, the people God has placed in our lives, the Church. All of this is ours, simply because God has chosen us to love.

So listen now to this word that I speak in your hearing and in the hearing of all the people. You can afford this Gospel. You can afford this extravagant generosity. Open up your hearts, fling wide the gates, and welcome the Gospel in. Invite it to sit down and stay a while, to lovingly mess about, to change you by making you more of the precious, excellent fruit you were made to be. Welcome the Gospel in to stay, a true welcome. And the king of glory shall come in.    

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

2 July 2017

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Forgetting Any Other Home

Act II, Scene II, again: the Capulet’s orchard. You remember the set-up. Juliet is on her balcony; Romeo is below on the ground. Juliet has been called inside by her Nurse, but unable to tear herself away from Romeo, twice she slips back out to shower him with sweet “good nights” till they shall meet again.

Her second return to the balcony is unexpected; Romeo has begun to exit, as the stage directions make clear. But his beloved calls him back with a “Hist! Romeo. Hist!” The two confirm the time of their next meeting: “At the hour of nine.”

Melodramatically, Juliet says, “’tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back.”

Romeo: “Let me stand here till thou remember it.”

Juliet: “I shall forget, to have thee stand there, remembering how I love thy company.”

Romeo: “And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home but this.”

I’ll still stay… forgetting any other home but this.

The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet impresses itself upon anyone who has ever wished not to have to leave the presence of someone he loves, someone she loves. We know what it feels like to stand there at the train station, watching as the train pulls away, waving with a forced smile to the beautiful face in the window as it passes by. Or to stand, as we used to be able to do, behind the big glass windows at the airport terminal and watch as the plane taxis to the runway and then soars into the sky, carrying our beloved away till… when? – ‘tis twenty years till then, no matter if it should be tomorrow at nine. “Parting,” as Juliet so famously says, “is such sweet sorrow.”

This morning we do a highly peculiar thing as we keep a somewhat peculiar feast of the church. When our regular worship comes to an end we will linger, like lovers reluctant to part. Following somewhat different stage directions, after walking with Jesus around the church, we will place him on his balcony, as it were: the monstrance on the altar. And then, piously, we will gaze at him, present with us in the way he promised to be, even to the end of the ages.

If you want to try to understand the peculiar ritual we will enact at the end of Mass today, you will do well to recall one of those partings in your own life, when you could hardly bear to tear yourself away from someone you love, even if the next time you would see your beloved was only hours away. For it is from this urgent love – the love that causes you to turn around for one more kiss, and then turn around again for another, that compels you to stand there and watch the train disappear along the tracks, or the plane turn into a speck in the sky – it is from this urgent love that the ritual of Benediction flows. Parting is such sweet sorrow, and we don’t want to say goodbye. I’ll still stay, we pray, forgetting any other home but this.

It is rare these days in the church to find a community that is willing to stake out so baldly, with the goofy piety of star-crossed lovers, its love for Jesus. We are willing to teach our kids that Jesus loves them, but we don’t always teach them how to love Jesus back. And, out of - what, a sense of propriety? – we don’t admit that it is possible to love Jesus this much, to want to stay and linger, forgetting why we called Jesus back, not giving a damn that we forgot, and then forgetting for a few moments any other home but this, as we stare up toward the golden rays of his Presence.

I suppose there may be other reasons to gather as the church. There may be other reasons to take on the name and identity of a Christian. There may be other reasons to give one’s self over to the church to be ordained to the priesthood. But I am not sure that any of those reasons is any better than this: that you love Jesus enough to stand there, wishing you did not have to leave his Presence, that you’ll still stay, forgetting any other home but this.

Earlier, on the balcony, after Juliet has assured Romeo of her love, (“I gave thee mine before thou didst request it.”) she goes on: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep: the more I give to thee, / the more I have, for both are infinite.

How brazen of Shakespeare to put such godly words into the mouth of mere Juliet. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep: the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.” 

The dialogue translates nicely to our own circumstances, and, in fact, seems more true coming to us from the altar than from Juliet’s balcony, since only in Christ can bounty and love be truly infinite. But here, at this altar, the claim that is mere hyperbole on Juliet’s lips becomes deep truth from the mouth of God, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep: the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

And in the face of such bounty and such love – both truly infinite only here in Christ’s Presence – I find it hard to tear myself away, and I think I’d like still to stay, forgetting any other home but this.

Won’t you stay too?

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

18 June 2017

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia