Saint Mark's Church

Some of you may remember that I am not, as we say, a “cradle Episcopalian.”  I was raised a Christian Scientist.  One of the hallmarks of Christian Science is that members read daily not only from the Bible, but also from the Christian Science textbook, Science and Health.  Now, Science and Health was first written in 1875 by the religion’s founder, Mary Baker Eddy, and although it went through hundreds of revisions by the time of her death, it always maintained its rather gilded Victorian literary style, with long, complicated sentences and an ornate, advanced vocabulary.  Some of my earliest memories are of struggling to read aloud from this book, stumbling over phrases like “animal magnetism” and “infinite manifestation.” But it certainly helped my reading comprehension!  As a little child, I could have easily told you the meaning of words like “omniscient” and “efficacious.” And it was because of this book that I first learned the meaning of the word “impetuous,” because it was used to describe your favorite disciple and mine, Peter. 

Peter, the "impetuous disciple," he was called.  I learned what impetuous meant not by looking it up in the dictionary, but by looking at what Peter did.  Impetuous, I discovered, meant to act without thinking – to run off the edge of a boat with all of your clothes on, to lash out at your leader when he says something you don’t want to hear, and, of course, to step out onto the surface of the sea in the middle of a furious storm.  To be impetuous is to be like Peter – impulsive, reactive, perhaps even a bit foolhardy.

At first glance, it would appear that today’s story from the Gospel of Matthew is the most extreme example of Peter and his impetuous nature.  The disciples are asea in the middle of a storm, bashed and beaten by the waves and the winds, struggling to steer their boat to shore but making little headway against the violent weather.  Suddenly, they see a figure walking towards them on the water.  They are, understandably, terrified, and reach for the first explanation that comes to mind – this must be a ghost, a specter, something extra-ordinary.  But then Jesus speaks, “Cheer up!  It is I.  I am – fear not!”  And here is where the impetuous Peter shows up.  He looks out across the water, sees Jesus standing on the surface of the waves, and decides, Hey – I want to try that too!  So he jumps out of the boat and tries to walk to Jesus.  But when he feels the water splashing against the hem of his robe and the rain slapping him across the face, his brain finally catches up with the rest of his body.  What am I doing, he asks?  He looks around, wild eyed in fear, and almost immediately begins to sink.  And so he cries out for help, Jesus reaches out and catches him, and they both get into the boat as the wind stills and the waves calm. 

As I said, at first glance, this story looks like just another tale of Peter leaping before he looks, another example of that hapless impulsivity that can make him such a charmingly irresistible figure.  But take a second glance, look carefully at these verses, because there is one sentence here, one moment, that completely changes the tenor of this story.  “Peter answered him, ‘Lord if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’”  Look what happens here in this one moment.  Peter pauses.  Command me to come to you, he says, say the word, and then I will step out.  Peter seems unable to move without this word; he is stuck in the bow of the boat like in some nautical version of Simon Says.  If we look carefully, we can see that here, in this moment, Peter actually does look before he leaps; he does think before acting.  He waits for Jesus’ command, for that one word: come.  This is not just another example of impetuous Peter.  Here, in this moment, Jesus is the impetus, and Peter’s action the response.

Now why does this matter?  Is it really so important to see Peter’s water-walking as a step of faithful response instead of just another impetuous leap?  It is really so important, because it completely changes the way we see Peter.  Suddenly, we see not just another knee-jerk reaction from an overly-excited disciple; we see brave, bold action from a disciple who is unafraid to risk his life, his all, to follow as his Lord commands.  We see Peter as a man – a real man, instead of a mere caricature of himself – a man who desperately wants to follow in Jesus’ footsteps even when they take him into the middle of the wild, wild sea.  It is only when we see that first step over the side of the boat as a faithful response to the call of Christ that we are able to let ourselves feel the very real terror that must have been raging inside of Peter’s heart, that we are able to recognize in this often impetuous disciple the mark of true courage, of faith in the face of real fear.

And if this change of perspective helps us to see Peter differently, then it also changes the way that we see ourselves.  Because if this is a picture of faithful discipleship, and not just of an overly-zealous disciple, then this is exactly what we are supposed to be doing.  We, too, are supposed to be stepping out of the boat.  We, too, are required to be brave, to have true courage, to act out in faith despite our fears.  We, too, are invited to step out of the comfort of our own lives right smack into the middle of the storm that is raging out there – a storm of fear, prejudice, hatred, judgment, blame, divisiveness, apathy, cynicism, and greed.  There is scary stuff out there.  We could so easily be swamped by any number of headlines – Climate of Fear!  Wall Street Volatile!  Brace for the Pain!  Brutal Crackdowns in the Middle East!  Flash mobs, church abuse, famine, starvation, climate change…wave after wave of truly terrifying stuff crashes against us every day, again and again, until we feel truly battered and bruised. 

But the simple fact is that even in the midst of this mess, Christ calls.  Jesus stands in the middle of the storm and speaks, a long list of imperatives, commands to which we are invited to be the response.  Come.  And pray and fast, yes, but also forgive, offer, visit, love.  Feed the hungry.  Heal the sick.  Cast out demons.  Step out of the boat.  Do unto others as you would have them to unto you.  Step out of the boat.  You give them something to eat.  Step out of the boat.  Repent, follow me, keep my commandments.  Eat, drink, do this for the remembrance of me.  Step out of the boat.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  Go and do likewise.  Make disciples.  Step out of the boat.      

If you’re thinking that none of this is likely to be very easy, I think you’re probably right.  Like Peter, we will have to screw our courage to the sticking point before offering the response that God requires.  Because it’s one thing to say that your response is to invite your friends and like-minded neighbors to pray with you in a stadium in Houston, that’s fine, perhaps, but it is quite another thing to say that your response is to truly love one another as Christ has loved us.  It’s another thing entirely to really love your neighbor as yourself, even when that neighbor thinks exactly the opposite of everything that you think and isn’t afraid to tell you about it.  It’s another thing to make disciples of all people.  To preach the Gospel…at work, or in the grocery store, or to our own families.  To feed the hungry…in Philadelphia and in Somalia.  To heal the sick who are dying from diseases caused by their poverty, to heal this sick world from the ravages of our consumerism.  Sometimes it’s quite another thing just to love yourself. 

So yes, you’re right – none of this is likely to be very easy.  And we’ll probably start to sink.  Peter did.  And that is okay, because we are never, ever asked to offer this response alone.  Christ is always present, standing in the center of the storm, speaking at surprising times and in extra-ordinary ways, calling us, beckoning, willing us to keep him in the center of our vision at all times.  Christ is here, front and center each week as we cry together, “Lord, have mercy!”  Christ is here each week reaching out his hand, ready to catch us in the cradle of this altar and lift us up into the stillness of heaven.  Our Lord Jesus Christ knows that the storm is scary.  He knows our fear, our weakness; he knows how much easier it is to just sit in the boat with the rest of the world and wait for the storm to blow over.  But he calls us anyway and waits for the response.  Come.  Step out of the boat. 

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

7 August 2011

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Please allow me to set the record straight: I accepted the call to serve as the associate rector of St. Mark’s, Philadelphia, because I believe that God has invited me to worship and work in this place, for my own benefit, and yours, and for the sake of the whole Church.  I did not accept this call so that I could get back into the land of the Philadelphia Phillies.  Now my propensity to talk all things baseball may belie this assertion.  And my decision to rent an apartment right on South Broad St. may cause some of you to doubt my sincerity, but believe me when I say that the fact that I can now watch the Phils every night on my television is only a side benefit – a beautiful, perfect, gem of a side benefit – of my call to serve among you.  God works in mysterious and wondrous ways.

I do love baseball: the strategy and the statistics; the stars who light up the field and the day-to-day workhorses…the nostalgia, the sounds, the smells…I even love the movies.  My all-time favorite baseball movie is Field of Dreams, but I’m also a fan of another Kevin Costner film, For Love of the Game.  In this film, Costner plays Billy Chapel, an aging pitcher for the Detroit Tigers.  Chapel was once a number one starter, an ace who pitched the Tigers into a World Series win.  But now he is an aching old-timer on a losing team, pitching what is likely to be his last game against everyone’s most-hated rival, the New York Yankees.  The game means nothing to the Tigers, but the Yankees need a win in order to go on to the playoffs, and so the stadium is filled to capacity and as loud as game 7 of a championship series.  But Chapel is an old pro, an expert at tuning out the distractions of frenzied fans.  When he takes the mound and leans in to get the catcher’s sign, he speaks a simple phrase to himself: Clear the mechanism.  And in an instant, the crowd blurs into the background, their roar dampered to a kind of muffled, distant hum.  Clear the mechanism, and all Chapel sees is the path between him and the plate – the catcher’s mitt, the strike zone.  All he hears is his own breath, his own thoughts, his own heart.  Only then can he stand up, ready to begin his delivery, ready to pitch. 

Now I cannot imagine that the crowd on the Sea of Galilee was as unruly as a crowd of screaming Yankees fans, but Matthew does call them a “great crowd.”  They are a mob of people, pushing and jostling to get to the front, pushing and jostling so much that Jesus is forced to get into a boat and shove out a little bit from shore so that everyone can see…and hear him.  Listen!  He says.  Listen!  Clear the mechanism.  A sower goes out to do what sowers do.  The sower sows seeds all over his patch of ground – some fall on the path, some on rocky soil, some fall among thorns and some on good soil.  Only the seeds that fall on the good soil take deep root and bear fruit; the others are snatched away by birds or scorched by the sun or strangled by weeds.  But the seeds that landed in good soil – what a harvest they produce, what a yield!  A hundred times their worth – or even just sixty or thirty – but still an overabundance, a ridiculous bounty.  You, crowd!  You who have ears, let them do what ears do – let them listen! 

Later, when his disciples ask Jesus why he speaks to the crowd in parables, his answer is simple – because parables help the people listen.  The people of God aren’t very good listeners; they have a hard time hearing.  They either can’t hear at all, or they are easily distracted from what they’ve heard by their own fears, worries, and misplaced longings.  But stories help them to listen.  Stories help them keep the mechanism clear.  And keeping the mechanism clear is what discipleship is all about – being able to hear “the word of the kingdom” through the noise all around you, being able to hear that word above the undertones of your fear, being able to hear that word when your ears are caught by the whisperings of temptations, possessions, or worries.  To be a disciple of Christ is to listen, and to keep listening even amidst the din of the world’s distractions.  To be a disciple is to be the one who will clear the mechanism again and again and again, who will hear the word and understand it and then share it with the world. 

That is the kind of discipleship that you and I are called to this day, by virtue of our baptisms, by virtue of our worshiping in this place together, by virtue of the very breath in our lungs.  And that kind of discipleship – that kind of listening, attentive discipleship – is hard work.  Because there is more noise now than ever.  There is noise of all kinds, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  We are surrounded by the racket of texts and tweets and status updates.  We carry our noise in the palm of our hand, take it to bed with us, wake up with it in our ears.  And when we pile that constant clamor of information on top of the noise of everyday life – the siren songs of new things to be purchased and wealth to be gained, the throbbing drumbeat of anxiety and worry – our lives become layer upon layer upon layer of noise.  So how do we hear the word of God through all of that hubbub?  How do we clear the mechanism?

Well, honestly, it’s a lot like baseball.  It takes practice; the listening that our discipleship requires means that we have to be a kind of day-to-day workhorse, throwing the ball into the mitt thirty, sixty, a hundred times, sculpting the muscles of our attention so that we can hear God’s word to us.  And, like any good ballplayer will tell you, equipment matters.  We might need a phrase or a mantra to help us to listen, a holy word or a simple sentence, like the Jesus prayer.  We might need to hear a story, like the stories of God’s people from scripture, the great story of our salvation that we tell each week at the altar.  We might be helped by having something to hold in our hands, a holy touchstone like a cross or a rosary.  Or we might need a special place where we can more easily hear the word of the kingdom – a prayer corner, or a sacred spot out in God’s creation, or a place like this, where the bustle of the world outside is hushed the moment you step inside. 

And we should remember, too, that while this kind of discipleship can be hard work, it also requires a light touch and a sense of humor.  Because we won’t be able to listen all the time.  At times, we will certainly find ourselves lying exposed on the path or rootless in the shallow soil or tied and tangled in the weeds.  Clear the mechanism doesn’t work all the time, even in the movie.  At the end of the film, when Billy Chapel has pitched so well that he’s looking at the possibility of pitching a perfect game, his practice fails him.  He leans in, takes a breath, says: Clear the mechanism.  And it clears – for about an 8^th of a second.  Then the noise comes rushing back in like a tidal wave.  He pops up, startled, leans in again and says, Clear the mechanism.  And nothing happens.  So he shakes his head, chuckles to himself, and pitches anyway.  We will not always be able to hear God’s word in the midst of the noise of our lives.  And when this happens, we must be gentle with ourselves, pray, laugh, and then stand up and pitch anyway.  Because we know that even when we have a hard time hearing, even when our own soil is not particularly fertile, God’s word will accomplish its purpose, God’s word will ultimately succeed and grow and bloom, so that there will be a bumper crop of grace like no one has ever seen.

So listen, all you disciples of God.  Take a breath and lean in.  Clear the mechanism.  Look until you can see only the path between you and the kingdom of heaven, only Christ, the way and the truth, and the life.  Listen until you can hear only the breath of the Holy Spirit, the word of God very near you, the beat of the heart that God has created in you.  Listen and keep listening for the Word who came down from heaven for love of you.  For only then can you stand up, ready to deliver a message of hope right into the heart of a world that desperately needs it, ready to preach the Gospel in word and deed.  Let anyone with ears listen! 

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

10 July 2011

St. Mark's Church, Philadelphia