The Word IV

Somewhere in the secret places of the universe
burns a fire beneath a kettle of strongest steel.
and in the kettle there simmers an elixir
comprising the most intense concentration
of all the love and grace of God, distilled,
and here, reducing to a version stronger still.

And when that lovely broth is cooked
down to only barely more than a vapor,
it is drawn into the nib of God’s finger,
to become the sanctified ink with which, 
in elegant lettering, he spells out
across the parchment of his creation
that one perfect Word, 
that contains the fullness of his own being,
in letters too small to be read,
but immense enough to encompass the universe.

The Word exists in every language and in none.
It is impossible to spell, 
but tolerates any number of variant spellings.
It is uttered all over the world, 
and yet it is unutterable -
defying feeble speech,
and the conventions of our language.

God never stops writing this sacred Word
and he never began.
From before time the ink was fermenting;
and for ever will the Lord draw more
into his almighty finger, to scrawl, or dab, or paint,
or illuminate the Word wherever it is called for,
and even where it is not.
And as he writes, does he also whisper, or shout,
to be carried on the wind, the sound of the Word
forever being written by his finger?  Forever speaking it, too?

And did he not draw with that finger
the manger scene, with the exquisite figure
of a child - that perfect calligraphy of the Word
made flesh, breathing the same breath
that carries the living Word on the breeze?

He was in the world, but the world knew him not.
He came unto his own, but his own received him not.

And does not that Word still
glow with a light that enlightens us all?

The darkness comprehends it not; 
the darkness cannot overcome it:
cannot overcome the light, the Word.

Nothing can overcome it.  Do not be fooled.
Not a lazy church, or an overzealous evangelical.
Not a death sentence, or solitary confinement.
Not a lie, or insidious innuendo.
Not a cancerous cell, or a pain killer.
Not the changing climate; or the denial of it.
Not a bomb on a rocket, or one made at home.
Not a truck charging through the crowd, 
or a man with a bump-stock, among other things,
on the thirty-second floor.
Not a fire coming down from the California hills,
or one raging into the upstairs apartments.
Not a man who thinks he can, when he should not.
And certainly not a tax bill, its carelessness codified.
Not warfare or murder; not fire or brimstone; 
not injury, insult, or indignity; not unrequited love; 
not loneliness, not grudge-bearing; not addiction, not jealousy;
not failure, and not fear; 
not betrayal, and not even the loss of everything you own.
Not fire or flood, or the failure to have the correct insurance.
Not grief - no - not even that precious grief
of one taken too soon, no.
The darkness cannot overcome the light.
God knows it has tried.

And these few lines of mine - what weak potion
in comparison with the omnipotent ink of that eternal Word.
There comes a time when other words must bow
in deference to the one true Word: 
prostrate themselves before it in humility and veneration.
For I will never in a lifetime manage to scribble or speak
so much as a jot or a tittle of that Word
that gave me all of mine.  I am only trying to repeat
some small syllable, in hopes of making it repeatable
to you.

The closest we can come to the Word, I suppose is Love,
although that is not what the scholars say about it:
that’s not what it means.
Love is what the Word would signify to us,
if Love carried much meaning;
if we hadn’t made Love cheap,
by saying how much we love every damned thing;
when what we really mean is that we want to take
every damned thing for ourselves;
when there are only a few things we would give our selves for:
like our children.  Maybe.  
For Love is giving, not taking.

The Word was given to us.  Just given.
No questions asked.
No need to ask for more - there is plenty to go around.
And while it can be easily ignored, written over, garbled;
It cannot be erased.  
From God’s fullness we have all received grace upon grace,
which was grace upon grace, upon grace, upon grace, 
before love was love, was love, was love, 
to borrow a coined phrase.

Thanks be to God for the fire, and for the kettle;
for the liquid version of his grace and love,
distilled to almost a vapor.
Thanks be to God for the ink, and for the nib of his finger.
Thanks be to God for writing and speaking that Word
for eternity.
Thanks be to God for giving us power to become his children- 
and if his children, then his heirs: born of his love.

Thanks be to God for the grace upon grace.
And thanks be to God for sending us
that Word
made flesh
to dwell among us, 
full of grace and truth.

Thanks be to God.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
31 December 2017
Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Someone Special

In August of 1984, a man sat in the heat in a run-down music studio painstakingly recording a new song that he had just written. I say “painstakingly” because the man didn’t play any instruments. At all. Nonetheless, he was determined to make this recording without any help. He felt that the song was different, special, and he wanted to shape every element himself, even if that meant working out on the fly how to find the right sound on the drum machine or how to play the keyboard parts with just two fingers. He sat alone in a room, recording drum tracks and synth parts and, of course, his own vocals, with only a producer in the booth and Christmas lights for company.

Christmas lights, because the song he was recording was the classic Wham! hit “Last Christmas,” written – lyrics and music – and performed – down to every last jingling sleighbell – by the late great George Michael. And his efforts in the August heat were well worth it; the song was a huge hit. It sold and sold and was securely on track to make the UK’s Christmas Number One – that is, until the release of Bob Geldoff’s little song “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” which featured every single famous pop singer in the 1984 universe, including George Michael. And, as the old showbiz adage goes, don’t ever try to compete with a song that’s raising money for famine relief in Africa. So no Christmas Number 1 for George Michael that year. But Last Christmas has continued to sell. It’s been on the charts almost every year since 1984, and it’s been re-recorded by dozens of other singers, in multiple languages including German, Polish, and Cantonese. It is the biggest-selling record in the UK never to reach #1 on the charts. This year there was a massive publicity push to try to boost the song into the number one slot for Christmas in honor of George Michael, who died exactly one year ago today. Alas, it was not to be; Ed Sheeran took the spot, and Last Christmas, I guess, will have to wait until next Christmas.

A friend and I were in the car recently when Last Christmas came on the radio…for approximately the 3700th time since Thanksgiving Day. My friend asked me to change the channel, and I jokingly asked if she, too, was a little tired of hearing it (and by “a little tired of hearing it,” I meant was it starting to haunt her dreams like it was mine). But she said no, that actually she didn’t want to hear it because she thought it was just too depressing to be truly Christmas-y. And it is, let’s face it, a little depressing. It’s a song of the broken-hearted, with lyrics that swing from bitterness to longing and back again. You remember the words: “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special.” A little bitter, a little blue, and yes, a little bit depressing.   

All of which leads me to this question: is “a little bit depressing” okay for Christmas? Is a little bitter, a little blue allowed on Christmas morning? Is there room for Blue Christmas, or is Christmas morning limited to Joy to the World and Jingle Bell Rock? Do the words of celebration we sing this morning leave space for any lyrics that might swing from bitterness to longing and back again? Does the exuberant gladness of this worship allow for broken hearts? Or would this Christmas prefer that we leave our worries at the door, stashed away behind some obliging poinsettia? Would this Christmas prefer that, for a moment, we try to put away those things that grieve us, the memories of loved ones we miss terribly, the fears we cannot shake, the images of a world ravaged by mistrust, abuse, and greed? Does this Christmas morning really ask us to just shut up and be happy, because darn it, Christ is born? Is there any room on this Christmas Day for a little bitter, a little blue?

Honestly, I don’t see how there can’t be. How can there not be room for a little bitter, a little blue this morning? Because there has to be room for us this morning, and let’s face it, sometimes we’re just a little bitter or blue. We don’t wake up every Christmas morning light as a feather and merry as a schoolboy, like Ebenezer Scrooge hopping around in his dressing gown. Our lives are not actually like the Hallmark Christmas movies we love so much – the girl doesn’t always get the boy (or the girl), the family isn’t always reunited, the mom and dad don’t always get back together and buy us the magical Christmas present we have always wanted, all our life. Yes, Christmas morning is a glorious morning; yes, these hymns and this crèche and even these poinsettias offer a very particular delight that we can find only at this time of year in only this kind of place. And that is something for which we are grateful. But we are human, too, imperfect and broken, and our lives are imperfect and broken, and that doesn’t change just because we’re singing The First Nowell. There must be room for a little bitter, a little blue on Christmas.

More than that, though, a little bitter, a little blue is at the very heart of Christmas. A little bitter, a little blue is exactly why this baby was born in the first place; it’s why the herald angels sing, why the Lord is come, why unto us a boy is born. Came he to a world forlorn, the hymn tells us; the Word was made flesh in a world forlorn, a world so full of darkness that we, on our own, could not overcome it. And so God sent his Son into that darkness, God sent his Son because of that darkness, so that his strength of his true light would enlighten everyone.

Yes, the Christ child is born this happy morning. But this morning is about more than just happy. This morning is about marvelous things, about true, transformational joy, precisely because it does not ask us to leave our sadness at the door. The morning is about real joy precisely because of the child who was born into the midst of our sorrows in order to bear them with us and sometimes even to save us from tears. This morning can be a little bitter, a little blue, and still wonderfully glorious, because Christ the babe was born for you, whether you’re light as a feather or heavy as a rock. When you are effervescently happy, Christ is born for you. When you are all forlorn, Christ is born for you. When your heart is full and your faith** is strong, Christ is born for you. When your soul feels trapped and is longing for freedom, Christ is born for you. When you are so full of joy you want to play the harp and the trumpets and shawms all by yourself, even with two fingers, Christ is born for you. When you are just a little depressed, and the thought of giving it one more try makes you weep, Christ is born for you. When you are grateful and humbled and moved, Christ is born for you. When you are frightened and lonely and praying for time, Christ is born for you. Christ the babe was born for you.

Break forth together into singing, you ruins of Jerusalem, Isaiah tells us, for the Lord has comforted his people. The Lord has comforted you, for he has given you his heart. Even though he knew that the very next day, the world might lose it or break it or even give it away. This year, to save us from tears, he’ll give it to someone special. He’s given it again to you. Joy to the world.

 *Much of this information is taken from an article in the Guardian written by Rachel Aroesti.

**Italicized words are titles of George Michael songs - a little homage.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

Christmas Day 2017

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Christmas With Or Without A Baby?

A friend recently told me of a meeting that was taking place at his church not that far from here, and during that meeting a baby was born.  By this, I mean to say that the proceedings of the meeting in question were interrupted as a woman went into labor and gave birth to a newborn child right there in the Parish Hall.  I don’t mean to say that her labor merely began in the Parish Hall before she was safely transported to a hospital.  I mean to say that the child was born: delivered there in the Parish Hall before the EMT’s arrived, who’d been called as soon as anyone realized what was happening.  I don’t know how long the labor lasted.  (It wasn’t long.)  I don’t who who assisted with the delivery.  I don’t know if the father was present.  I assume the meeting was adjourned.  To the best of my knowledge, it all unfolded very quickly and quite safely - all things considered.  And I am quite certain that mother and child are both healthy and doing well.

This blessed event took place within the last two weeks, and I have to admit that as I heard the story of the baby being born in the middle of a church meeting, I was filled not only with a bit of joy at the good news of this birth, but also with a fair measure of envy.  Gee, I thought, I wish a baby had been here in the days before Christmas - what a sermon that would make!

It’s funny how quickly you can go from feeling happy about something, to feeling mildly envious that that something took place somewhere else, to deciding that the absence of such an event at you own church could just ruin Christmas.  And this is precisely the thought process that took place in my head over time.  The more I thought about it, the more I felt gypped that we haven’t had a baby born in the Parish Hall at Saint Mark’s during Coffee Hour, or during a Finance Committee meeting, or some such thing.  It began to seem to me that, not only was it a happy omen for that other church in question that a baby had been born on the premises only days before Christmas; but it began to seem to me that, conversely, it was a sign of some foreboding and doom that no mother had even felt labor pains within our fence line here.  

And every baby that’s been born in recent memory to mothers and fathers in this parish has been born in the safe and antiseptic precincts of a hospital.  What’s the matter with us?  I began to wonder?  Couldn’t a woman give birth here, at Saint Mark’s?  And how can we possibly have Christmas now, since we were not chosen to be a place where babies are miraculously delivered to mothers of such fortitude and grace that meetings going on around them may only have come to an end when the crying of the newborn interrupts the call of the chair for any new business that had to be attended to.

As I say, some of the shine was knocked of Christmas for me as I brooded on this matter. And because I have been thinking a lot lately of the importance of symbolism, I found myself more and more bereft at the absence of the quite literal symbol of a birth in church.  It’s been keeping me up at night.  And in my mind, as I lay there thinking about this in my bed, unable to sleep, I began to worry that you can’t have Christmas without a baby.  And, I worried, that while babies are literally being born on-site in some churches, we haven’t had an in situ birth since who-knows-when - if ever!  How could we, in good conscience, go ahead with Christmas?!?  You can’t have Christmas without a baby!

So I’m thinking about all this... about the implications of Christmas without a baby…and I’m in a downward spiral.  This is starting to look to me like a crisis - Christmas with no baby.  It seems to me, in my anxiety, that everyone else will have a baby for Christmas, that babies have been born in the Parish Halls of nearly every church in Philadelphia, in every denomination, probably even the Quakers are having babies quietly delivered during meetings, who only cry if they have something to say - but not Saint Mark’s!  This is terrible, catastrophic!  How could this be?  

Then it hits me - of course!  This is Trump’s fault!  But no sooner does the thought occur to me than I realize how crazy it is.  Get a grip!  And a much more plausible idea comes to mind - this is Obama’s fault!  Thanks, Obama!

The point of all this worrying of course, was that you can’t have Christmas without Jesus.  And I suppose that I got into a bit of funk that so much of Christmas seems to go ahead in the world, with or without Jesus.  And somewhere deep in my psyche, I guess I began to wonder whether or not we really have Jesus with us here; whether or not the baby in question really would be present with us tonight, on Christmas Eve.

And if the issue at hand is a worry about Christmas without Jesus, then it begins to dawn on me that my job in the pulpit tonight must be to convince you that you can’t have Christmas without Jesus, and that if you haven’t made room in your heart for the Christ Child to be born, then maybe you should be as frenzied as I was, when I was having sleepless nights because a baby was born at another church nearby (right in the Parish Hall!) but not here at Saint Mark’s.   What’s the matter with you? (this thinking goes) that you don’t love Jesus enough to let him be born in your hearts?  You are no better than innkeepers with no room for a pregnant Mary, and her tired husband Joseph.  No room at the inn: and no room in your hearts!  You wicked people!

But when I think like this, I feel like one of those culture warriors who is demanding that we put the Christ back in Christmas, even though I know this is is a somewhat ridiculous thought, because Christmas is not in our control, and there can be no real Christmas without Christ, but that’s not up to me or to you.  And I realize that I don’t want to be one of those culture warriors, and I don’t really want to try to make you feel guilty on Christmas Eve at Midnight Mass, because what does that accomplish for any of us, let alone for Christ?  Especially since, I assume that if I talked to you that way from the pulpit, you would respond appropriately and ignore me, and you would sit there hoping that the next Christmas carol we sing is going to be a good one, because we are gonna need something after this sermon to lift our spirits again.  

And as I consider the possibility of this whole entire service going south because of an inane sermon about the need to put the Christ back in Christmas - or, on the other hand, to put the Mass back in Christmas (which is an even worse sermon) - it makes me want to blame Trump all over again, even though I know the fault is all mine.  Thanks, Trump.

But the point - the original point - of all my worry is still out there: that is, the problem of Christmas without the baby, of Christmas without Jesus - and how the worry about the possibility of a Christmas without Jesus makes me feel.

It makes me feel alone and hopeless.

I imagine that Mary and Joseph felt pretty alone and hopeless on that first Christmas, even though both of them had been assured by the angel Gabriel that God’s hand was behind all these things taking place, that God’s will was being accomplished, and that God’s own Son was to be born.  But how did they know on that night, when they were without a roof to shelter them?  How could they be sure that this was a child of the Father’s love begotten?  How could they help but feel alone and maybe a bit hopeless?

When God looks at us, he sees us with all our fear, and in all our aloneness and our hopelessness.  And don’t you think that when he see us thus, he says to himself, or maybe to the angels around him, or at least within their hearing, “This is not how I intended it to be.  I did not make each one of these beautiful children of mine to be hopeless and alone, or even to be afraid that life could ever leave them that way - that I could ever leave them that way.  I must do something.”

God remembers that he made us to be his most wonderful creatures in his most wonderful garden.  And somewhere in God’s house - in more or less the same place that you and I have set up a miniature manger with little figures of Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus, to remind ourselves of the scene at that first Christmas, on God’s mantle, or some such place - God may have set up a miniature garden with little figures of a smiling Adam and Eve, stark naked and happy as larks, to remind himself of the scene of that first morning when creation sang, and all was as it was meant to be.

God longs to restore us to such happiness, where there was never a fear of being alone or hopeless, at least not once the creation was finished.  It’s a story, of course, but it’s a story given to us by God to allow us to see that things are not the way he intended them to be; that things have gotten this way because of our intentions, not because of his.  And this new story, this manger scene, was arranged by God for the giving of his Son, to begin to set things right again, and to bring the rule of his love back to the place where he first planted his most wonderful garden, and to the people for whom it was planted.

And here’s some good news.  It’s not up to me or to you to put the Christ into Christmas.  That’s God’s job; it always has been; and it always will be.  Let’s admit that there is something arbitrary about keeping Christmas on December 25th - it’s not really Jesus’ birthday.  Any day could be Jesus’ birthday, and every day should be a day when we allow the Christ Child to come bursting into our own lives and take over - even if no baby was born in the Parish Hall that day.

There is so much to keep any one of us awake at night - do you need me to make suggestions?  Just think of Puerto Rico, or Myanmar, or Las Vegas only two months ago.  Think of Washington DC, and no matter where you stand, you’ll find something to disturb your sleep.  Think of North Korea, or Syria.  Think of opioid pain killers.  Think of this nation’s veterans, or think of the soldiers we are still all too willing to send to war.  Think of the women whose five-letter (#MeToo) hashtag has told us a truth that ought to disrupt our easy sleep.  If you are looking for something to keep you up at night, there is plenty out there.

But one thing that none of us needs to worry about is whether or not Jesus is showing up for Christmas.  Christmas is only the annual reminder of an every-day truth: that God loves us and is always sending his Son to us, in the most innocent and vulnerable of ways, since anything else would make us suspicious of him.  And God knows how frightened we are that we may find ourselves alone and hopeless.  But God comes to us of his own volition, seeking fellowship and love, and bringing hope.

The 16th century poet Robert Southwell put it this way in a beautiful text that is sometimes sung at this time of year, speaking of the Child whose birth we celebrate:  “He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due.”  Jesus is God’s gift to us, and we owe him our lives, our salvation.  We deserve each other - us and Jesus - and there’s not a chance he won’t be born, right here in our midst.  Thanks be to God, like everyone else who seeks it, we’ll have Christmas again with a baby, the Son of God: God with us!

And if I have trouble sleeping tonight, I’ll do my best to remember most of the rest of that poem I mentioned, about the child Jesus:

Though young, yet wise; 
though small, yet strong; 
though man, yet God He is:
As wise, He knows; 
as strong, He can; 
as God, He loves to bless….

Alas! He weeps, 
He sighs, He pants, 
yet do His angels sing;
Out of His tears, 
His sighs and throbs, 
doth bud a joyful spring.

Almighty Babe, 
whose tender arms
can force all foes to fly,
Correct my faults, 
protect my life,
direct me when I die!

(A Child My Choice, by Robert Southwell, 1562-1595)

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Christmas Eve 2017

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia