The Sky Above the Clouds

Christmas is coming, and this is good news for the church, since Christmas may be the last great Christian story that has the power to capture nearly everyone’s imagination.  Even in a world that seems to give up on religion, and certainly gives up on the specifics of the Christian faith more and more each year, Christmas has something to say to people, as long as we keep it simple, tell the story, look for peace, remember that it’s love we are looking for.

So it’s frustrating that Advent is so complicated.  Yes, Advent is a time of preparation for Christmas.  But Advent is supposed to be more than that.  The beginning of the church year gets off to a start that’s meant to remind us that marking time in the church is never only about looking back: the seasons, celebrations, feasts and fasts of the year that recall days gone by, only ever do so in order to turn our eyes to the future, to an expectation of something more, something new, something better, something holy.  Advent accentuates the forward gaze of the Christian year in acute ways, insisting that we not only remember that long ago John the Baptist foretold the coming of Christ, but also that we attend to Jesus’ own promise that he will come again.  But to do so has become more and more awkward for the church, since Christ has been so long in returning, maybe even longer than he expected.  And so, many people have stopped believing that he will come again; or at least they have stopped caring.

And for those whose Advent calendars function primarily as a way to keep track of the number of shopping days left till Christmas, or as a delivery system for treats, the idea that anyone is waiting for the Second Coming of Jesus, is quaint, and more or less entirely beside the point.  A tree, a manger, some carols, the Grinch, and a family dinner will be quite enough.  Why ruin it with so much religion?  To show up on Advent Sunday in this frame of mind and to be confronted with the teaching we heard from Jesus in Luke’s Gospel must be disappointing.  It’s like going to see “The Nutcracker,” and discovering that it has been replaced with a performance of “Waiting for Godot.”

“People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world,” Jesus says, “for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”  Which means nothing much to anyone, as warnings go.  And as promises go, what comes next can seem equally beside the point, and beyond interest: “Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory.”  Can’t we just cut to the  innkeeper, the shepherds, and the wise men?  Wouldn’t it be nice to hear some cattle lowing?

Sometimes, though, you hear a story that makes the promise that we will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud seem possible again.

Becca Stevens

Just last week I happened to attend a conference that was led by a wonderful priest some of you may have heard of.  Her name is Becca Stevens, and she is the founder of a ministry called Thistle Farms, in Nashville, Tennessee.  Thistle Farms is a two-year residential recovery program for women who have survived trafficking, prostitution, and addiction.  What Thistle Farms provides, their promotional material tells me, is “a safe and supportive place to live,” “a meaningful job,” and “a lifelong sisterhood of support” for the women in the program.

In fact, I have visited Thistle Farms once, because I’d heard so many glowing things about it.  The ministry goes hand in hand with a social enterprise that helps fund it, and which sells bath, body, and home products that are made by the women.  And I can tell you that the gifts I am giving friends and family this Christmas include a lot of hand and body lotion, essential oils, candles, shaving cream, and bath salts.

I was fortunate, when I visited Thistle Farms, to arrive in time for the morning circle, at which a candle is lighted every morning.  Becca (she would faint if you called her “Mother Stevens”) once explained in an article, “We start every day in a circle and we light the candle and say, ‘We light this candle for the next woman coming in off the streets.’  …we’re all doing it, so another woman can come in here. She cannot be raped anymore. She cannot be jailed anymore. She cannot be beaten anymore. She can be here and she can be economically independent. She can be in a loving community. She can choose a relationship that’s healthy.” (Parade Magazine, Nov 1, 2017)

When I visited Thistle Farms three years ago, I got to see a bit of the production of the candles and hand lotion, I visited the café they run, and I got to meet with one of the women in the program, who told me she’d come there from Texas because she was desperate and out of hope.  But it’s not her story that I want to share with you.  Because I’m still really wanting to make a point about Advent.  I haven’t forgotten about Advent, but I think (I hope) the little detour to Thistle Farms will help to bring some meaning to the possibility that it still matters to the world that Jesus promised that we will see “the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.”

At the conference last week, Becca told us that she usually travels with one or two or the graduates of Thistle Farms who, after graduation, have stayed on to work with the organization.  It was Becca’s first time traveling with this particular graduate, and they were going to Nebraska, if I have the story right.  Becca told us that she was feeling drained and un-inspired, and the thought of being in Nebraska wasn’t doing anything to improve her spirits, as she looked out the window and realized that at that time of year (it was Advent, early December) the grey clouds in the sky would cast a flat grey pall over the flat grey landscape of the plains, and everything would be flat and grey.  I guess she was looking forward to it about as much as you’d look forward to a holiday production of “Waiting for Godot.”

And she told us that she realized that she’d made a mistake with this particular traveling companion, by not giving up the window seat and allowing her to sit there.  Because her colleague was excitedly, energetically, and unapologetically invading Becca’s personal space in order to gaze wide-eyed out the window at the expanse of flat, grey clouds.  As Becca put it, this woman had seen the wrong side of the streets, the worst side of people, the back side of men’s hands, the other side of rehab, the underside of bridges, and the inside of prison walls, “but she had never seen the top side of a cloud.”

And that’s a good line.  That’s the kind of line I’d steal for a sermon.  So I wrote it down.  At least the last part, the part about the top-side of a cloud.  I kind of ad-libbed the first part, more or less.  I know I captured the essence of what Becca was saying; the kind of contrast she was trying to make.  And I told her I was going to steal it, anyway.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.  There was one more thing she wanted to tell us.  Becca wanted us to know what her traveling companion - this woman, whose name I stupidly forgot to write down, and who had successfully completed the program of recovery, and who has a story, as everyone in that program does, of addiction, of abuse, of sickness, of failure, of bloodshed, of tears, and of pain, and despair - what she had to say, when she had ended her invasion of Becca’s personal space and eased back into her own seat, and had a moment to reflect on what she’d seen out the window of the airplane.

She said, “I swear, I did not know there was a sky above the clouds.”

Now, you understand that this is a statement of disposition, not knowledge.  You understand that this is poetry.

As a piece of poetry, it’s a statement that I suspect could also say something about the prevailing Christian outlook, especially at Advent.  I swear, sometimes I think we do not know there is a sky above the clouds.  And have we given up hoping that we have a Savior, who is not just a fairy-tale figure of a nostalgic Christmas long ago, but who is coming to us again with power and great glory, and with healing in his wings?

It is true that this Advent we will prepare to look back, and remember that first Christmas long, long ago.  But Jesus didn’t come to us to keep us looking backward.  For he promised that he would come again in a cloud with power and with great glory.  And no, we are not waiting for Godot.  Jesus promised to come again because although his kingdom had come near, as it is near to us even now, his reign had not yet been established, and still it is not.

And there are many whose lives are stories of addiction, or abuse, or sickness, or failure, or bloodshed, or tears, or pain, or despair.  Maybe you know some of these realities in your own life. Which is to say that there are many who have never seen the top side of a cloud or least for whom it is a distant memory.  And many of us, who are the inheritors of the promise that we will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud, have virtually forgotten that there is a sky above the clouds; that there is a Savior who will come to us.  This is not so much a statement of knowledge, as it is one of disposition.  But so many have forgotten it. 

We need a story to remind us.  And I’ll take a story about a woman who’s been battered, and bought, and sold, and strung out, and who found a place of extravagant love (run by an episcopal priest of all things), and, who, after what can only have been a hard but blessed road to recovery, finds herself on the top side of the clouds, and in a moment of poetic clarity declares, “I swear I did not know there was a sky above the clouds.” 

I’ll take that story to point my eyes and yours to the clouds once more and remember there’s a sky up there.  And there’s a God who loves us; and who sent his Son once.  And that Son will come again from the clouds in power and great glory because his work is not yet done, but he will finish it.

Yes, my friends, Christmas is coming.  But that is only one part of the story.  The Good News is that there is a sky above the clouds; and that Jesus is coming in a cloud, with power and with great glory, to bring peace, and healing, and to establish at last his wondrous kingdom of love.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Advent Sunday 2018
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The King's Speech

Royal subjects know the voice of their king. Those in early 20th century England certainly recognized their king’s voice in the stammering speech of George VI. The 2010 movie The King’s Speech tells the story of how Bertie, the future King George VI, is led by his wife to Lionel Logue, a speech therapist. Bertie has struggled since childhood with a vocal stutter, and with the new reality of speaking publicly on a regular basis, Bertie’s wife, Elizabeth, is determined to fix the speech defect that has plagued him for most of his life.

Logue is a rather unusual choice for a speech therapist. He is an Australian with very little formal training in speech therapy, as Bertie later finds out to his dismay and to the dismay of those in his close circle. He’s not a medical doctor, although Bertie, at first, assumes that he is. There are, in fact, no credentialed letters after Logue’s name that can provide any formal imprimatur of his expertise. And at first, Bertie is completely unconvinced of the effectiveness of Logue’s training. But over time, he comes to see that Logue is actually helping him find his voice, if in unconventional ways.

 The rocky beginning of Bertie and Logue’s working relationship soon morphs into a friendship grounded in shared vulnerability. Logue is a failed actor and a self-made man, and he comes from humble beginnings. And Bertie, with his lack of eloquence, is a most unlikely candidate to be King of England. He is uncomfortable with the public scene. He is many ways self-effacing, in spite of his temper. He is after all, not even supposed to be king.

He is king only because of his brother Edward VIII’s abdication. Bertie’s entire speech training with Lionel Logue has been intended to prepare him to fit into a particular mold as king. This mold is one forcefully imposed upon him, one created by centuries of British politics, pomp, circumstance, and colonialist pride. The might of the British empire must be represented in the might of a king, and the might of a king is represented in a certain image. And this image does not involve a stammer.

And so Bertie is caught in a vicious and self-defeating cycle of despair. His speech defect seems to be largely psychological, the result of years of being beaten down by his family and those in the inner royal circle. From the abuse of his cruel childhood nanny to the impatience of his father who can’t sympathize with his speech defect, this pressure is precisely why Bertie cannot speak without stammering—that is, until Lionel Logue gets at the heart of his problem. Logue is able to see that Bertie can, in fact, speak with fluency. Logue helps the king find his authentic voice, even if it still defies the mold of expectations for a mighty ruler, because Bertie’s slightly stammering voice is still the voice that his people know. It is, in fact, the only voice his people know.

When, in 1939, Bertie is obligated to make a public speech declaring war against Nazi Germany, his stuttering speech and lack of confidence are pitted against the blustering arrogance and darkly strident speech of Adolf Hitler. Bertie seems somewhat envious of such speech that, while horrid and evil, is capable of captivating audiences. And yet, what George is still only beginning to accept is that, with Logue’s assistance, he has discovered his own unique voice as king. It is a voice that the British people in a new age of wireless communication are able to recognize as that of their leader, for better or for worse. And even this vulnerable, imperfect voice can become the voice of a nation standing against forces of evil. After the successful 1939 broadcast, Logue gently notes that George showed some difficulty in pronouncing “w’s.” George cheekily replies, “I had to throw in a few so they’d know it was me.” After all, royal subjects know the voice of their king.

The question for us is how do we know the voice of our King, and how do we listen for his voice of truth? When facing the dominance, might, and ruthlessness of Pontius Pilate in the trial prior to his passion and death, Jesus never calls himself a king. Jesus never claims majesty, power, and brute strength as defining factors of his kingship. Instead, Christ admits that his kingdom is not of this world. His kingdom is something so very different from the secular definition of a kingdom, that the world does not recognize him as bearing imperial authority. Jesus testifies that his kingdom is characterized by truth. And this truth is received by listening to his voice.

But the issue with this voice is that many people in Jesus’s day were not able to hear it for what it was. And many people in our day still do not hear this voice. This voice of our true and only King is sometimes unrecognized because it doesn’t speak in ways that the world expects. In Jesus’s day, as in the more modern examples of kings, there are certain assumptions about what a king’s voice should sound like and what it should say. Our King’s speech in 1st century Palestine was not a voice of imperial dominance and military brawn, as were the voices of most other kings and rulers in that time. Christ’s voice was not one that basked in privilege and unrestrained civic power. It was a voice that spoke in ways that defied cultural expectations, so that some people simply couldn’t identify this voice as that of a King, as that of their King.

This voice entered the world in a babe born in a Bethlehem stable, who with his first meek cry challenged the suppositions of a complacent and unjust world order. This King of kings was born of an unwed mother and adopted by a lowly carpenter. This King established the borders of his kingdom by proclaiming that the oppressed would be raised up and the mighty cast down. This King challenged the religious order of his day and called out its hypocrisy and refusal to help those in need. This King of the world declared victory by dying on a cross in desecrated territory outside Jerusalem.

And yet God’s word of truth was uttered clearly in the human voice of Jesus of Nazareth. It was uttered when he spoke words of healing to the sick and to those possessed of demons, when he spoke words of forgiveness to sinners, and when he spoke words of intercession for all of humankind before the throne of God. This incisive but gentle human voice of Christ was seemingly incapable of rising above the noisy din of worldly rulers in their struggle for domination, but in its persistent strength, it nevertheless continues to speak two thousand years later in Scripture and through the Church.

The voice of our heavenly King did not assert truth by force or volume, and it was a voice that was willing to stammer in vulnerability. It was a voice that could break into tears at the death of a friend. It was a voice that could admit thirst in the last pangs of death on the cross. It was a voice that would give up its last breath in agony. But in spite of worldly expectations of what a king should be and how a king’s voice should sound, this King’s voice did not cease to speak at death.

Precisely because this King’s voice did not speak truth through arrogance and the savage screaming of a dictator, it is still capable of being heard even these many years later. Precisely because this voice sounded through vocal cords given flesh in the Incarnation, its message of truth has not ceased. It lives on even today, and it’s heard by all who belong to the truth.

Indeed, this voice of truth must still vie in quiet strength against more worldly voices that yell and compete for attention. But because of the Word made Flesh, our King’s voice still speaks in unexpected ways, and yet the vulnerability of this voice is the only way in which we can recognize it as our King’s voice. We hear this voice in those whose song is that of Mary, yearning for the lowly to be lifted up and the mighty to be cast down. We hear this voice in prophetic strains that strive for justice, peace, and respect for the dignity of all people. We hear this voice as we read and pray with Holy Scripture in community through the power of the Holy Spirit. We hear this voice in the cries of those who hunger and thirst, and in the sorrow of those who weep for the violent deaths of their friends.

This familiar voice of a risen, ascended, and glorified Christ is still recognizable to us because those to whom Christ spoke in his day are still with us in our own day. Christ is still speaking truth to us over the noise of a troubled world. Now, Lord, give us hearts to respond to this voice for the life of the world, because if we’re really listening, we will know the voice of our King.

Preached by Father Kyle Babin
25 November 2018
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The Surplus of God's Grace

Today may be Thanksgiving Day, but for those in the retail world, minds are already set on tomorrow. Like dogs dreaming of catching squirrels and cats of catching mice, retailers are likely immersed, as we speak, in spectacular visions of the hordes of people lined up outside department store doors, waiting with bated breath for the beginning of the great shopping race on Black Friday. In a day of Amazon and widespread electronic shopping, the traditional notion of Black Friday, that day of shoppers’ heaven—or hell—is almost anachronistic. Many businesses are offering pre-Black Friday deals in the quest to maximize profits this holiday season, and  Cyber Monday is an added bonus. Black Friday is actually no longer confined to rigid shopping hours on the day after Thanksgiving. A survey from last year revealed that 11 percent of Americans apparently shop on mobile phones during Thanksgiving Day feasting.[1] I imagine a significant number of people will begin the shopping frenzy late this evening, happily buttressed by the tryptophan coursing through their veins.

I was surprised to find out that Black Friday is a term that supposedly originated here in Philadelphia in 1961, initially referring to the heavy foot and road traffic on the day after Thanksgiving. Over time as this moniker became more popular, it came to represent the reality of businesses reeling in profits, and so moving from being “in the red” financially, to being “in the black.”

If you think about it a bit, the occurrence of Black Friday right after Thanksgiving Day is quite odd. It is rather like having a much-needed massage and then immediately throwing your back out. Thanksgiving, it seems, is one of the few days left in the secular calendar on which there are few obligations other than eating and spending time with family and friends. Most businesses are closed. There is no need to buy, wrap, and give gifts to people. Thanksgiving is, in large part, a day to revel in the present moment, to live in the here and now. It is, in some sense, the closest our secular culture gets to true sabbath rest. Thanksgiving Day is a most welcome, rare pause in a pace of life that is running at sonic speed.

But Black Friday is well-nigh the complete opposite of Thanksgiving sabbath. Black Friday is defined by shoppers’ mania, with people lining up outside department stores while it’s still dark, hoping to be the first ones into the store without being trampled in the wild-eyed lust for cheap purchases. Black Friday is not restful; it seems to be characterized by anxiety. It also assumes a scarcity mentality. Marketing and commercials play on the generalized fear of not having enough—not having enough toys for children, not having enough clothes, not having enough pairs of shoes, not having enough things, whatever they may be. A Black Friday mindset assumes a starting place of “in the red,” with the ever-present hope of moving across that indefinable line into “the black” where just a few more possessions might give you long-desired fulfillment. But the truth is that this coveted place of contentment, of being fully sated, is never achieved, because when it comes to material possessions, things bought in department stores, and the latest technological devices, it will never be enough. That is as certain as the sun’s rising.

And so, this prevalent attitude of scarcity is the greatest argument in favor of celebrating Thanksgiving. It is the principal reason that we should honor and keep, as we do today, one of our prayer book’s holy days. Our culture, however secular it may be, needs Thanksgiving, too. And we, as Christians need to be constantly reminded that our very lives as followers of Christ should be centered on the act of giving thanks. It is, after all, what we do every time we gather at Mass, when we celebrate the Eucharist together, that glorious and ceaseless eternal act of thanksgiving.

For the simple but profound act of giving thanks whether in our individual private prayers or together as a worshiping community here at Mass, reminds us that because of God’s bountiful grace and love, we are never “in the red.” We are always “in the black.” Because God’s grace, goodness, and promises to us are limitless, we are never truly in need. In our relationship with God, our starting place is one of abundance, not scarcity. And that is such good news.

This is what we hear from our Lord himself when he tells us in the Sermon on the Mount not to worry about our lives, not to worry about food, not to worry about our bodies or what we will wear. All these worries and anxieties about material things prevent us from living in the present moment and, most of all, from resting in profound thanks for what we do have. They distract us from focusing on the essence of God’s kingdom. This ceaseless fretting can suck us into a vicious cycle of negativity and despair, which undermines any sense of trust in God’s gracious goodness and providence. Worry about material provisions puts us at the center of things rather than God. Because Jesus tells us that if we merely trust in God, what we need will be given to us. In God’s kingdom, we are always dealing with surplus situations, not deficit situations.

At the same time, Jesus’s words in Matthew’s Gospel might seem a bit impractical and idealistic. For we know from merely watching the evening news, reading the paper, or walking around Center City, that there are many people who seem to be starting from deficit situations. We know that people in this very city go to bed hungry each night. We know from the large number of people who came last week to this place to be sized for boots that there are plenty of God’s children who need proper shoes and clothing. And so, how can these people not worry about their futures?

Surely, the heart of God bleeds at the situations of those around us who are in need. But recognizing the real material poverty of some of our brothers and sisters doesn’t mean that they are necessarily defined by a scarcity mentality or that they constantly see themselves living “in the red.” I suspect that there are many who lack material staples of life who still live with a perpetual spirit of thanksgiving, because they know that even in spite of their lack of tangible things, God has blessed them in various ways. They know how to be thankful for what, to the more fortunate, might seem like small blessings but are indeed great riches. They instinctively know that in the richness of God’s providence, they are always “in the black,” and from this gratitude, the world can learn.

You see, the ultimate gift of gratitude is that it shapes us into people who are able to bask in the knowledge that we are precious in God’s eyes, no matter what, no matter how vast our wardrobe or how sumptuous our meals. Knowing our worth in God’s eyes frees us to be at peace knowing that it is enough simply to be loved by him, right here, right now, in spite of what we might need in the future. But ingratitude does the exact opposite, for it is a fraud. Ingratitude is a liar and a deceiver that tells us that we are never good enough. It tells us that, like those in the frenzied lines outside stores on Black Friday, we must be first in line to get the best deal with God. Ingratitude torments us with the lies that we are never good enough, that what we do never measures up to what it should be, and that somehow God will love us less as a result.

But Jesus offers us the good news that worrying, fretting, and being consumed with anxiety about measuring up is not true living. Truly living means being ever present in a posture of thanksgiving towards God, the Creator and Maker of a splendid creation that was called good. We may be sinners in need of God’s redeeming grace, we may live in a world that is fractured by division, greed, and lust, and we may inhabit a culture that lives like one perpetual Black Friday, but Jesus assures us that who we are and what we have, under God’s benevolent care, is enough. For we are sinners simultaneously longing for redemption and reveling in gratitude for God’s many blessings. Our true home is in the surplus of God’s grace and forgiveness. Because we are a people of thanksgiving, and when it comes to our relationship with God, we are never living “in the red.”

Preached by Father Kyle Babin
22 November 2018
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

[1] http://www2.philly.com/philly/business/retail/black-friday-descends-philadelphia-region-with-earlier-and-deeper-discounts-20171122.html