James the Apostle. And his mother.

In the Gospel of Mark, chapter 10, verses 35-45, we hear a story that’s almost identical to the one Matthew tells us today about the ambitious sons of Zebedee.  In Mark’s version of the story, James and John are pretty cheeky about their desire to sit at the left and right hands of Jesus.  “Teacher,” they say to Jesus, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask” (Mk. 10:35).  Jesus doesn’t fall for this setup, of course, but rather asks his disciples directly what it is that they want, before he agrees one way or the other.  Who wouldn’t?  Nobody but Herod would agree to write a blank check like that.  So Jesus asks James and John to say specifically what it is that they want, and then they make that foolish request about wanting to sit on his right and left hand when he comes into his kingdom.  It’s not a flattering story, but I’m actually surprised that the lectionary doesn’t use it today.  Because Matthew’s version, the one we are reading this morning, is so embarrassed about the folly of this request that it avoids naming James and John altogether.  We know who they are, but Matthew doesn’t want us to think too much about it. Strange choice for the Feast of Saint James the Apostle: a story too embarrassing to be given his name.

No, in Matthew’s version of this story the folly of the great Apostle James and his brother gets disguised a little.  They don’t waylay Jesus and demand that he give them anything they want.  They have their mother do the dirty work.  Someone named “the mother of the sons of Zebedee” presents herself to Jesus and asks him outright to favor her sons with positions on the right and the left when he comes into his kingdom.  Do you hear that?  She is “the mother of the sons of Zebedee” rather than “the mother of James and John.”  No need to name names.  James and John are there, but they aren’t talking at first.

Having their mother do the asking is a really interesting strategy.  On the one hand, it feels a bit juvenile.  Imagine the conversation: “Mom, could you ask Jesus to make me a pivotal figure in salvation history?” It doesn’t look good.  Worse yet, she could be one of those stage mothers who just pushes her way to the front of the crowd, dragging her two sons with her, and embarrasses them by putting into words what they had silently and inappropriately wanted. How awkward.

There is, on the other hand, a fine old scriptural tradition of women who are ambitious for their sons and who scheme and negotiate to advance them socially and politically.  The most famous example may be Rebekah in the Book of Genesis (chapter 27), who maneuvers her son Jacob so that he can defraud his older brother Esau and can steal the blessing, and the inherited estate, of their father Isaac.  You remember the story: Rebekah tells Jacob to cover his arms with goatskins so that when Isaac, who can no longer see in his old age, reaches out his hands to touch him, Jacob will feel hairy like his brother Esau.  Rebekah is wily and they trick poor old Isaac, and the whole story is morally questionable, but Jacob is firmly established as the next patriarch of Israel.

So biblical mothers—Rebekah is not the only one—may be forgiven for scheming on behalf of their sons.  Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the scriptures sometimes rely on women to be the bearers of the ambiguities of the story of God’s action in the world.  If the mother of the sons of Zebedee had it in her mind that we might all revere the Apostle James one day, which of us can really judge her?  After all, we do revere the apostles.  Matthew may not want to name James and John as the bearers of this immodest desire for greatness, but he can’t quite leave it out of the story.  It’s not true to say that there were no big-name figures in the early church.  It’s not true that there was no hierarchy.  Not only do we have the name of James the Apostle, and the story of his influence, we even have a “James the Less,” as if it were important to distinguish not only that the two men are different, but that one is younger or shorter or, well, “less” than the other.  Now “James the Less” is a composite figure in our tradition, and the story of his various identities is too complicated to unravel here.  But the name, a stand-in probably for James the Younger or James the Shorter, speaks volumes about how we rank our Christian heroes.

No, it’s not true that there were no tensions about preeminence during the earthly ministry of Jesus or after his resurrection.  Had there not been tensions, this gospel passage would never have been written the way it was.  There would be no need to bring in this nameless mother to bear the onus of asking a bad question.  There would be no ten other disciples grumbling about how James and John had tried to push themselves to the front of the pack.  And there would have been no need for Jesus’s teaching. 

In response to this kerfuffle about which disciple will be the greatest, Jesus gives us a word about how the church will not be like the world.  “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them,” he says, “and their great ones are tyrants over them.”  In the world of the Roman Empire, authority is dominance.  Greatness implies tyranny.  Wanting to win means making others lose.  “It will not be so among you,” he tells them.  “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave.”

The church we inherit sometimes wants to model itself on empire.  That has sometimes been our first instinct.  We all, individually and collectively, will continue to have to let that dream of dominance rise and fall and slip away, as it gets replaced by something more like fidelity to Jesus.  Jesus came not to be served, but to serve, to give his life for us.

James certainly learned that lesson.  We know, among other parts of his story, that he was the first apostle to be killed for the sake of the gospel.  He did drink from the cup of suffering and humility that Jesus held out to him.

And, surprisingly, his unnamed mother learned, too.  She shows up again in the Gospel of Matthew, in chapter twenty-seven.  She is present at the crucifixion, when the disciples have run away and Jesus is alone.  Except for the women.  When Jesus dies, when the sky grows dark and the earth quakes and rocks are split and the tombs yield up their dead, Matthew tells us “Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs.  Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of Zebedee’s sons.”  There she is, with the great Mary Magdalene.  And there too is that woman named Mary who is the mother of the one we call James the Less.  And there is the mother of James the Greater, the Apostle we celebrate today, that son of Zebedee.  The Mother of the Sons of Zebedee is herself given an important place as Jesus comes into his kingdom.  It is a place of pain and mourning and deep fidelity to our savior.  She had followed Jesus in her motherly way, just to care for his needs.  And now he gives his life for her.

In the shadow of the cross, the truth is revealed, just as Jesus had described it.  While the dream of the empire rises and falls, while Jesus achieves his victory by dying at the empire’s hands, while mothers watch in agony and wonder and while the heroes of our faith run away, the true dimensions of a life of discipleship emerge.  

It has always been complicated.  The desire for dominance is written right into some of our founding stories.  The cross of Jesus has always been a reversal of all our plans for coming out on top.  And the joy of our lives together has always included the joy of watching one another let go and live for Jesus alone.  And to learn that he lives entirely for us, so that we can forget ourselves.  That’s the story of the greatest apostles and the lowliest, most mixed-up followers. Even moms.  

*I am indebted to Emily Cheney, “The Mother of the Sons of Zebedee (Matthew 27:56)” for her discussion of these issues [Journal for the Study of the New Testament 68 (1997) 13-21].

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson
25 July 2021
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

All in the Family

Those of us fortunate enough to have grown up in the 1970s enjoyed the shared cultural experience of the great TV sit-com, “All In The Family.”  In my family, this TV show (along with reruns of  “I Love Lucy”) was one of a very few cultural touchstones that connected three generations.  The show also provided substantial cultural commentary.  One of the most famous examples of that commentary was the episode in which Sammy Davis, Jr comes to visit Archie Bunker and his family at 704 Hauser Street.*  The plot details of what occasioned the visit are mostly unimportant.  In the course of twenty-nine minutes, the episode exposes and challenges a huge variety of racist and bigoted attitudes, all embodied in the person of Archie Bunker.  For instance, Archie, who first met Sammy Davis, Jr. when the performer was a passenger in his taxicab, shares his excitement with his family, telling them that the big star seemed like “a regular person.”  “If it wasn’t for the rear-view mirror,” Archie says, “I’d have thought he was a white guy.”

On reviewing this episode 49 years after it first aired, I expected the writing to seem heavy-handed and dated.  But I’d say it has aged quite well.  What’s surprising is how very blunt and direct the writing is.  It pulls no punches, and Archie never sees any of them coming.

Of course, Archie’s son-in-law, Mike, the Meathead, objects to Archie’s racism at every turn.  He prompts Archie to make a claim that is remarkable in its perverse accuracy, when he asks why Archie holds Sammy Davis in high regard, in contrast to his view of black people in general.  Archie answers: “In this great country, a man like him can overcome the unequal-ness of his color to become a great star.”  Oh, Archie, you know not what you say.

If you can remember that far back, you might recall that the climax of the episode comes when a neighbor is snapping a photo of Archie and Sammy Davis together at the door, as the famous man is making his departure.  Just as the flash goes off, Sammy leans in to kiss Archie on the cheek with his black lips.  The moment is captured on film, much to Archie’s shock.

But the dialogue had already led to a high point of commentary, moments earlier, when Archie asked Sammy to come to his defense in the face of the Meathead’s accusations of prejudice.  Full of irony, Sammy Davis obliges Archie, saying: “If you were prejudiced, you would, like some people, close their eyes to what’s going on in this great country we live in.  But not you, Archie, your eyes are wide open.  You can tell the difference between black and white.  And I have a deep-rooted feeling that you’ll always be able to tell the difference between black and white.”  Naturally, Archie is pleased with this assessment, and asks Sammy to shake hands in a show of solidarity in their supposedly shared commitment to the racial divide.

A divide is at the heart of the beautiful passage we heard read from the Epistle to the Ephesians a moment ago: the divide between Jew and Gentile, circumcised and uncircumcised, between those who had been included among the children of God, and those who were excluded.  The early church was deeply engaged with this question of who the message of the Gospel was intended for, and who could be given the gift of salvation.  Israel, after all, already enjoyed the blessings of the covenant of God’s love.  What, then, was the Venn diagram that described who would be included in this new covenant of Christ’s blood?  How much overlap could there be?  How far could new limits extend?

The writer of the Epistle to the Ephesians describes the separation between Jews and Gentiles in terms of a wall.  You just know he’d been talking with someone who confidently asserted that you could and should easily tell the difference between Jew and Gentile, and that he (the writer) had a deep-rooted feeling that there were those who would always be able to tell the difference between Jew and Gentile, and wanted to keep it that way.

And in a sentence of majestic confidence and simplicity, we are given a vision of hope, through the grace of Jesus Christ: “For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”

He is our peace.  And he has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.

These words, and the hand that wrote them, knew nothing, of course, of the long and ugly history of slavery and racism that have built such a high wall of separation and hostility between white people and people of color in America.  But I pray that I am doing no violence to the text or its meaning if I borrow the words and the thought to apply them to our current situation.  For the wall of racism is staggeringly high in so many places.  It has been added onto, and reinforced - often by people on both sides.  The wall is high and it is thick, and it is surrounded with razor wire, and topped off with broken glass in many places. Often it is guarded (on both sides) by people with guns and grenades.  It is a vicious, foul-smelling wall that too often drips with blood.  It twists and it turns, and it shows up in places you wouldn’t expect to find it.

It’s more than a little sad for me to realize that that episode of “All In The Family” is nearly fifty years old.  What’s clearly changed since then is that you’d be hard pressed to find twenty-nine minutes of such densely packed, blunt, and accurate social criticism in a widely shared popular medium that’s available to and enjoyed by three living generations.  And I wonder how easy it is to find anyone who gives voice to his racism with such unaware self-assurance as Archie Bunker, anymore.  But it’s not at all clear that  attitudes have actually changed.  Except that not many people would promote the naive idea anymore that it would be productive, or helpful, or possible to rid ourselves of all distinctions between black and white, etc.

And a version of something Archie Bunker said about Sammy Davis, Jr. remains a pressing question.  In this country of ours, is it possible for a person to overcome the unequal-ness of the status conferred by color to become anything other than a star, to be anything other than an exception to the rule?  When I look around me in Philadelphia, I observe much evidence to suggest that it is not.

If Christ is our peace, can he really break down the dividing wall, that is the hostility between us, even when its comes to racism?  In my experience, Jesus is the only hope to break down this wall.  Because Jesus is the one who calls us to turn away from our sin, to repent and live our lives differently, which is what is required if we are ever going to address the effects and the reality of racism in our hearts and in our society.

In that long ago episode of “All In The Family,” there can be found at least two signs of hope that we don’t have to be stuck forever on our respective sides of the wall of racial hostility that so easily divides us.

First, Edith.  Of course, Edith brings a sign of grace and hope to the situation.  Among the most lovely moments in the episode is when Edith first meets Sammy Davis, Jr..  Among all her twittering and fluttering greetings, after shaking his hand and telling him “It’s an honor,” Edith offers her guest not only a handshake, but a try at a little curtsey.  It is the most effusive form of respect she can come up with, since as far as she is concerned, Sammy Davis, Jr. might as well be royalty.

The second sign of hope is the remarkable gesture that Archie makes when inviting Sammy Davis to stay for a cup of coffee, and he offers his guest his own chair.  “Sit right down here, Mr. Davis,” he says.  “Right in my chair.  Make yourself comfortable.  It’s the best in the house.”  His chair, as any viewer of the show knows, is also the territory that Archie cedes to no one, that he guards jealously as his own, asserting his sovereignty there almost as if his life depended on it.  Perhaps we have something to learn from Archie Bunker, after all.

Christ is our peace.  And he can break down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.  I have seen Jesus doing that work at St. James School, and here on Locust Street, too, when we extend ourselves to try to meet the needs of others, without paying too much attention to who’s black and who’s white.  For it’s in situations like these that we learn to curtsey to one another - offering the other the respect they deserve; and when we learn to offer our chair to another, even the best in the house - ceding territory that it might be hard for us to give up.

You have to look for these weak spots in the wall of hostility that so often separates us and keeps from seeing one another as we are: as brothers and sisters in Christ.

And I think we need to keep repeating this message to ourselves and to others, as often as we can, to remind ourselves that the wall can and should be torn down, that we don’t need to be divided by hostility, and that Jesus doesn’t want us to be.

For he is our peace.  He is our peace.  He is our peace.

Lord Jesus, break down this wall, and bring us together, all in the family of your love.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
18 July 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

* “All In The Family” Season 2, Episode 21.  Aired Feb 19, 1972.  Written by Normal Lear, Bill Dana, and Don Nicholl

Washington Square

We often forget that ten blocks away from us, directly east on Locust Street, there is a mass burial ground.  The National Park Service description of Washington Square puts it this way:

William Penn patented this square in 1706 as a Potter’s Field, or a public graveyard for the poor. Free and enslaved Africans were interred here alongside suicide victims, those unaffiliated with a church, and strangers to the city. More than 60 Native Americans who died from smallpox were buried here in 1763. During the Revolutionary War, Potter’s Field served as a military cemetery for British and American soldiers.  John Adams walked these grounds in April 1777, where ‘…upwards of two Thousand soldiers had been buried…’ Victims of the yellow fever epidemic, numbering more than 1300, filled the remaining space in the burial ground in 1793. The city closed Potter’s Field to burials in 1794. (https://www.nps.gov/inde/learn/historyculture/places-washingtonsquare.htm)

What a unique meeting place Washington Square became, by reason of death.  Where else in America  - then or now - could so many  souls come together who were supposed to be at so much enmity with one another?

The stone memorial in the Square today was erected in the 1950s, when city officials decided to mark the  place with a Tomb of the Unknown Soldier of the Revolutionary War.  That tomb lies at the foot of a statue of George Washington, and before it burns an eternal flame.  The stone wall behind the tomb bears this inscription: “Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness.”  This odd epitaph is not so easy to turn into a sermon.  A search for its source reveals that it comes neither from scripture, nor from literature, nor from General Washington himself.  The phrase was composed by an unidentified advertising man at the behest of the committee that designed the memorial.  Oh, America, is there anything you have left untouched by the marketing department?

The readings the Prayer Book assigns for today are not new to the current edition.  Far from being some expression of woke-ness on behalf of the libs, Jesus’ enjoinder to love our enemies was assigned as the Gospel reading for this day in the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, and in the first American Prayer Book of 1789, adopted in the year the first Congress met under the auspices of the newly ratified Constitution.

Jesus said, “I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven.”  Is it a wonder that they didn’t carve those words into stone in Washington Square?  How long a line of people might line up to vandalize such an inscription today?

Free and enslaved Africans.  Victims of suicide.  Those unaffiliated with the church.   Strangers to the city.  Native Americans.  Soldiers of opposing armies.  Victims of epidemic disease.  All gathered together in one place.  What utopian ideal has been realized in Washington Square, shrouded only by death!  Could we ever, I wonder, accomplish in life, what death has achieved in that Square without even trying?

As a slogan, the words supplied by the advertising man to be carved in stone strike me as the only real failure of the memorial in Washington Square - an effective rallying cry for neither the living nor the dead.  Just imagine if they had chosen instead the words of the Gospel.  “You have heard that it was said ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, Love your enemies.”  When we teach our children about Jesus, do we teach them this lesson?  When we teach our children about America, do we teach them this lesson?  Do we model our own lives on this teaching?  Could we ever even try?

But, “freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness?”  The dead whose bodies were buried in Washington Square - all of them - deserve a more profound reflection on light and darkness, life and death, and the real meaning of freedom.

If I were choosing readings for Independence Day, I would have included some lines from Galatians, chapter 5, where St. Paul writes, “For freedom Christ has set us free…. Only, do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love be servants of one another.”  But nobody asked me.

One of the wisdoms of the founders of this nation was to see that, while freedom is worth fighting for, freedom doesn’t come from the fight.  Rather, we were made for freedom by the artistry of the divine hand.  I’d go a lot further and say that, indeed our real freedom was accomplished with death - but by only one death, and that on a Cross.  And that death established for ever the victory of light over darkness, a victory that had been assured since the beginning of time, in any case.

The rectangular tomb that holds the remains of the unknown soldier in Washington Square bears its own inscription.  It reads: “Beneath this stone rests a soldier of Washington’s Army who died to give you liberty.”  I don’t object at all to this inscription.  But a little research reveals that it makes a claim that was not, in fact, proven: namely, that the remains therein are those of a soldier of the Continental Army, and not of a soldier who was fighting (and died) in the service of King George III.  

A number of commentators have looked into the account of how the remains of that soldier were identified in 1956, and many allow for the uncertainty of his identity.  Forensic evidence suggests that the bones were those of a male, about twenty years old, with a wound to the skull that could have been caused by a musket ball.  But there remains some doubt about which side of the battle the young soldier was fighting for.

And this fact of uncertainty - that our memorial to the unknown dead of our original American war might actually have enshrined the remains of a soldier of the other side - provides me with hope that yes, we are capable of loving our enemies.  We can learn to do it, when we want to: when we put the past behind us, but remember who we are and what we were made for.  Including… free and enslaved Africans.  Victims of suicide.  Those unaffiliated with the church.   Strangers to the city.  Native Americans.  Soldiers of opposing armies.  Victims of epidemic disease.  Among others.  All gathered together in one place.  Not an enemy in sight.

Maybe some day the living will learn from the dead.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
4 July 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia