Stop Feeling Sorry For Yourself!

It seems to me that one of the things my mother always discouraged in her children when we were growing up was the temptation to feel sorry for ourselves.  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I feel I can remember her saying to us, even though I could not swear that she ever uttered these words to my brother, or sister, or me.  It is the type of warning that you would only issue to a child (or an adult) about whom the tendency seemed both immanent and a little dangerous, or at least unhelpful.  No one wants a pouting, sulking kid around the house, who is accomplishing nothing for anyone by feeling sorry for himself.  

But, of course, anyone who’s ever tried it (as all of us have) knows that feeling sorry for yourself - since it’s deeply indulgent - somehow makes you feel better.  It’s you against the world, and you are oh so right, and the world is deeply, astonishingly, cruelly wrong.

Ash Wednesday flirts with the idea of inviting us to feel sorry for ourselves.  Take this smudge of ash, and account for all your sins, acknowledge your fault, own your mortality, and remember that you are but dust and to dust you shall return.  I can feel my lower lip pushing out a bit into a pout, just thinking about it.  Left to our own devices with these thoughts, Ash Wednesday could easily become a pity party that includes the world’s smallest violin playing just for you.

But if even my mother knows what a bad idea that is, I think it is safe to say that God knows, too; and that God is not asking us to feel sorry for ourselves today.  God has not called you here on Ash Wednesday in order to give you reasons to feel guilty, ashamed, rotten, or bad about yourself.  And God most certainly does not want you to wallow in self-pity.  There is no place in the Bible that anyone’s mother tells them to “stop feeling sorry for themselves,” but there ought to be.

After admonishing her children not to feel sorry for themselves (if she ever did), I am sure my mother would have followed up with a directive that I know she gave us all the time: “Go outside and play!”  The rationale for this instruction might sometimes be appended to it with a small flourish, “… and get out of my hair!”  After all, something had happened that made us want to feel sorry for ourselves.  Some infraction of the rules, betrayal of trust, failure of responsibility, infringement of another’s rights or space, or act of sheer stupidity for which we been called out, caught, and possibly punished, left our lower lips adopting that well-known position, and our hearts slumping beneath a cloud of self-pity.

It would not be unusual to arrive in church on Ash Wednesday, aware of some more recent infraction of the rules, betrayal of trust, failure of responsibility, infringement of another’s rights, or act of sheer stupidity that’s weighing on your conscience.  Personally, I don’t have to wait for Ash Wednesday every year for such awareness in my own life.  And if God has not called us here to invite us into a self-induced pity party, than perhaps (if I may compare God to my mother, and vice versa), perhaps there is some other directive that we need to follow, akin to the instructions to “go outside and play!”

In our case today, God welcomes the admission that we have done wrong, and that we have been wrong.  But I think the message of the Gospel is to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and instead to decide to do something about it.  When we were children it was usually enough to simply go outside and play.  This was the something we needed to so to snap out of our funk, and to mend whatever broken relationship (often with a sibling) needed repair.  As adults, we may need to find more sophisticated ways to do something about the sins that we recall today.   But the first thing to do is to bring them honestly and humbly before God, and attend to God’s loving response.

Sometimes forgiveness includes the injunction to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and to go outside and do something about it.  Before the end of the day, when you wipe these ashes from your brow, and begin to forget about the infraction, the betrayal, the failure, the infringement, or the stupidity, will you listen carefully for God?  Will you hear how much God loves you when he tells you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and instructs you to go do something about whatever it is that weighs you down?

Nothing will please God more, than to see you and me actually do something about our sins, and to get out of his hair.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Ash Wednesday 2019

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Reflections in a Mirror

Years ago, the New York City subway cars had poems  displayed on signs in those places above the windows where today there is only advertising.  On one of those subway cars I came across a poem that left a strong impression on me.  It’s by the American poet, A.R. Ammons, and the title of it is, “Reflective.”  Listen:

I found a
weed
that had a 

mirror in it
and that 
mirror

looked in at
a mirror
in

me that 
had a 
weed in it

Every time I read this poem, I picture myself stooping to inspect carefully some leafy weed growing somewhere: maybe growing in the crack of a sidewalk, or maybe  amid an otherwise perfect lawn, where its weediness causes it to stand out.  I see myself on my knees looking carefully at the weed; perhaps with a magnifying glass.  The weed in question is non-distinct, except that it clearly has a flower or a leaf structure or something that I can look into.  That is to say, there is more to its plant structure than just a blade, more than just a stalk, so that it is capable of enclosing or encasing something.  With my magnifying glass, I can see, inside the weed, the twinkle of glass, and the reflection of the mirror.  It must be a very small mirror.  No wonder I need the magnifying glass.  

But with the glass I can see what’s reflected in the mirror that’s inside the flower or the leaves of the weed.  You would think that it would simply be the image of me, staring back at me through my round glass.  But there is more.  The weed’s mirror captures the reflection of another mirror somewhere within me.  That mirror inside of me must reflect something.  And what it reflects is a weed.  Is the image of the weed in that mirror, the weed outside of me looking in at its own reflection in me?  Or is it the image of a weed inside of me, where its weediness causes it to stand out?  Does it really matter?

Since we reflect one another, I can see that the weed (that I am inspecting with my magnifying glass) and I are not so different, though clearly we are not the same.  But whatever it is that we have in common, is not superficial or insignificant, for it is found only by looking deep inside of each of us - me and the weed.  The reflection would be easy to miss, if we were not looking.

And somehow I am not cheapened by discovering how much I have in common with the weed - or that there is a weed inside of me, or at least that there is a reflection of a weed visible inside of me, if you look.  And I think it is not a matter of pride to say that the weed, conversely, is, somehow, elevated or ennobled (at least in my eyes) by the discovery that it contains a reflection of me.  And I wonder if after seeing each other this way we could ever be the same again.

I found a
weed
that had a 

mirror in it
and that 
mirror

looked in at
a mirror
in

me that 
had a 
weed in it

I have no reason to suspect that A.R. Ammons was thinking of the Transfiguration when he wrote this poem.  Quite the contrary, the onus is on me to show cause why his intention might align with my kooky homiletical approach to the mountaintop scene that we are invited to inspect carefully this morning.  Ammons was influenced by the Transcendentalist poets, so I think it’s fair to look for deeper reflections in his work.  

So, when I look into this poem, I think I see a mirror in it, that looks in at a mirror that has a mountain on it, and on that mountain is a man, the appearance of whose face has changed, and whose clothes have become dazzling white.  Three men are there looking on at the scene.  And amid all that light, when they look, do they see a mirror on that mountaintop that looks in at a mirror inside of each of them, that reflects a dazzling light, and carries with it the promise of change?

St. Paul put it this way: “... all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.”

When Jesus took Peter and John and James up on the mountain to pray with him, there unfolded this incredible scene: Jesus’ entire appearance transfigured, the presence of Moses and Elijah, the dazzling light, the glory of the Lord, and the voice from the cloud that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen.  Listen to him.”  Theatrics on a large scale for a very small audience.  As a rule, the church assigns a version of this story to be read twice a year; she asks us to look into the drama of its details, to see what we can see.

And as a rule, I suspect we see very little.  We don’t really know why Jesus’ face is changed.  We don’t know what Moses and Elijah are doing there.  We don’t really know what Christ’s glory looks like.  And we don’t really care.  Is it time for Coffee Hour yet?

And we don’t see the mirror that St. Paul wrote about, when we look.  And if we don’t see the mirror, then we don’t see the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror.  And we don’t realize that that mirror looks in at a mirror that’s within us.  And we don’t see that we are being transformed into the same image, from one degree of glory to another.  And if we don’t see the reflection of glory that’s within us, then I guess it might as well not be there, since it’s made almost entirely of light.

Sometimes when I sip from the chalice, I notice the reflection in the sliver.  But I seldom think to stoop carefully in my mind, and to look into the wine, that gift of Christ’s own Blood.

there I might 
find a savior who 
has a 

mirror in him
and that 
mirror 

looks in at 
a mirror 
in 

me that 
has a
savior in it

God made us in his own image and likeness.  We are the crowning glory of his creation, and the object of his profound love.  We amount to more than weeds - with all due respect to the Transcendentalists, and to the weeds.  We can do so much better than merely trying to sell things to one another.  We can be changed from one degree of glory to another.  Indeed, this appears to be what God made us for: to reflect the image of his glory, from the inside out.

You and I are not so very different from the image of God’s glory, though clearly we are not the same.  Whatever it is that we have in common is not superficial or insignificant, for it is found only by looking deep inside of each of us.  And it would be easy to miss, if we were not looking.

And somehow God is not cheapened by what he has in common with the likes of you and me.  And I think it is not a matter of pride to say that we, conversely, are elevated and ennobled by the discovery that within us can be found the reflection of God’s glory.

If only we could stop and see this, we would never be the same again.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
3 March 2019
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

The Vine and Branches

We celebrate the Feast of Saint Matthias today, and we have to begin by admitting that we know almost nothing about him.  We hear in our first reading from the Acts of the Apostles all that there is in the scriptures to hear about him. Matthias has been with Jesus and the disciples from the beginning, “from the baptism of John,” they say, “until the day when he was taken up from us,” the day we call the Ascension.  After Judas betrays Jesus and dies a ghastly death, the Apostles need to replace him, so they call both Justus and Matthias, and they pray for guidance. Then they cast lots and Matthias is chosen. It’s an admirably uncomplicated discernment process even if its origins are a bit grim. But we really can’t say anything more about Matthias for sure.  Some early sources place him in Cappadocia, or in Ethiopia. Some give him a different name. He is known as the patron saint of alcoholics, carpenters, tailors, and Gary, Indiana, among other honors.

But his selection by the Apostles—and in particular their determination to replace Judas and keep following their risen Lord—sets out a vital pattern for us to emulate.  “I am the vine,” Jesus says in the gospel of John, “and you are branches.” And the Apostles invite Matthias to join them in a notably vine-like form of growth. They branch out.  They curl around their future, sending out tendrils that extend their reach. They cling to their support while inching forward into new shapes, sprouting clusters of grapes in unanticipated places.  Just as the root structure of the vine deepens and spreads, so the branches spread, and the vine flourishes.

The sin of Judas is an incomprehensible loss.  The crucifixion is an unspeakable trauma. The resurrection instills in the Apostles an ability to live again, live past, live through, twine around the hard places and grow in the light.  “I am the vine,” says Jesus, “abide in my love.”

It’s as natural as can be, it’s entirely predictable, for a branch to remain on the vine, but to hear Jesus talk about it the process sounds fraught with peril.  His father is the vinegrower, and his father wields the pruning shears with vigor. Did you notice that there is no escaping those shears in the Father’s hand? If a branch is fruitless, says Jesus, it will be cut off and burned.  If a branch bears fruit, on the other hand, it will be pruned. That’s a lot of cutting one way or the other, isn’t it? Pruned or cut off: those both sound like painful options, don’t they? But to be fruitful is to know that losses are part of a shaping and a cultivation in God’s hand.  To be fruitful is to know the glory of abiding in the love of Jesus while the vine twists and curls and climbs, inching forward like apostles who take a new path, send out a new branch, when Judas has cut himself off.

In this case, abiding in the love of Jesus means that the scars from the cutting-off of Judas give way to the growth of a new branch.  The eleven apostles turn to the larger body of disciples and, by the grace of God, discover a new apostle within that body, perhaps somewhat unexpectedly.  Something unexpected whithin reaches out toward the future.

We know many losses in the church and the world today, and we could be pardoned for thinking of some of them in catastrophic terms.  The Roman Catholic Church is meeting even as we speak, determining a way forward after the sustained and systematic betrayal of children, a betrayal so pernicious as to call the foundations of belief into question.  And we know they are not alone in discovering that they had been hollowed out from within by sin and duplicity and excessive self-regard. We are hard pressed in this era to find an institution, religious or secular, that doesn’t feel as though it were teetering on the brink of illegitimacy.  Pruning is everywhere, or perhaps it’s closer to the truth to say that some parts of the world we have known are cut off from us, and burning. What an unshapely vine, the body of Christ in the world. Where is its growth? Where are the tendrils beginning to curl around the new supports as new branches yield new fruit?

Tendrils, I want to say, should be second nature to us, especially those of us who have the joy of worshipping in such a leafy, curly, church.  You may think I’m giving our parish a metaphorical compliment—and yes, I see many ways in which the vines are growing among us as people of God.  And I know that you abide, we abide together, we are rooted, in the love of Christ.

But in truth I just want to talk about what we see when we come together on a Sunday morning here at St. Mark’s and our eyes begin to wander, maybe when the sermon gets a little long and we go looking for something more interesting.  That might ordinarily worry me a bit but this morning I encourage you to look around. I think I can promise you that if you stare in almost any direction your eyes will find themselves resting on some kind of vine. I’ve been looking for them in recent days and it has been delightful to realize that they are absolutely everywhere.  You see them all over the pulpit, right? And on the sanctuary rail and the gates? Look at the windows. Most of them are surrounded by foliage, peeping out around the edges of the holy images in stained glass as though they were growing indoors from the garden. Doors are framed by dark carved vines as though we had to step through the leaves to make our way to coffee hour.  The baptismal font is circled by a leafy ring. In brass and stone and silver and glass and wood, in gold across the St. John’s altar, in silk across vestments and paraments, luxuriant vines circle around us. They were placed there by mad, enraptured Victorians and post-Victorians who couldn’t get enough of a good motif.

Like the apostles who prayed and drew lots, our Anglo-catholic forbears, albeit in a vastly more stylish way, let the body of Christ grow in the world in improbable, tangled, shapes.  They built a medieval church in Philadelphia and then decorated it like a jungle. They planted verdant institutions filled with curlicues. They knew something, just as the Apostles knew something, about how the love of Jesus in which we abide will send us twisting and turning and climbing, until the fruit we bear is abundant and surprising.  High and low, before us and behind us, along our walls and covering our archways, the vines are creeping toward the future, carrying us with them like lovely bunches of grapes. Rooted in the past, maybe, but more importantly rooted in Christ and growing in him and with him and through him toward a future known only to him, our Alpha and Omega.

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson
24 February 2019
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia