Saint Mark's Church

You can listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

For a few months now, I have been telling more or less the same story about Bethlehem to various different groups of people.  It is not the story of Jesus’ birth at Bethlehem; it is the story of the recent visit twenty-two of us from Saint Mark’s made to that little city in the West Bank, during our recent pilgrimage to the Holy Land.  And the hero of the story - if you want to call it a hero – the hero is me.

It’s a story that takes place entirely within the church of the Nativity – the ancient church that sits just off Manger Square in Bethlehem, and that marks the spot where Jesus is said to have been born.  That precise spot is actually marked, not by an X, but by a fourteen-pointed silver star set into the marble floor, with an altar over it.  Silver lamps, very much like the lamps that hang in front of the altar here at Saint Mark’s, hang not above but beneath the altar in Bethlehem, over the star.  All of this is found in a grotto – an underground chapel that you reach by waiting in a long line of people upstairs in the main church, in the south aisle.

The day we were there it took about 45 minutes of standing in line to pass through the first little doorway that leads to an upper chapel, beside the high altar of the main church.  Inside the upper chapel, to our left there was a semi-circular stairway, like a miniature amphitheater, if you can picture it, of maybe five or six steps that lead to another little doorway through which a few more steps lead down into the grotto, where eventually you can reach the altar, get down on your knees, stretch out your hand beneath the silver lamps, and place your hand in a hole in the center of the fourteen-pointed star to touch the stone, a few inches below, in the place where it is said the Virgin Mary gave birth to the Little Lord Jesus.

All of this is lovely.  Except for the crowd of people, every one of whom believes it is his or her Christian birthright to visit the place where Jesus was born.  And every one of whom thinks he or she should probably get to the grotto before anyone else.  So, we found that when we passed through the first little door into the upper chapel to approach the semi-circular steps - which functioned like a funnel that was basically too small to allow the flow of people in - things got a bit tight, and what had been a line of people, became more of a crush of people.

The situation was not helped when a security guard tried to escort a large group to the front of this crush of people, right to the mouth of the funnel.  I believe that in the Holy Land this is referred to as “cutting in line.”  This special group may have been special to the security guard, or to the priests who ran the church, they may even have been special to Jesus for all I know, but they were not special to us.  No one who had been waiting on line - at that point for nearly an hour - appreciated this group cutting in line.  And what had been a crush of people now became a little more like a mosh pit.

Perhaps I exaggerate.

But at the time the only thing that seemed exaggerated was the pushing and shoving of people who wanted to get to see the place where Jesus was born, and to place their hands on the stone beneath the silver star, under the hanging lamps.

I was appalled.

I began to recite in my head Hail Marys, over and over, thinking not only that it was an appropriate prayer, but that it was a pious and holy thing to do.  And I pictured myself as the only pious and holy pilgrim in this crush of madness.  At this point I could have cared less what had become of the other twenty-one pilgrims in Saint Mark’s group.

And here’s what I did: I kept looking back over my shoulder, calculating, in my disgust, how I could make my exit from this place, from this crass shoving and pushing.  I tried to plot an exit route, back whence I had come.  I thought to myself that it was not worth it - debasing myself and my quite well-behaved faith - just to stoop at the place that may or may not be the place where Jesus was born.

The problem with my exit plan was the little door we had already passed through to get into this upper chapel.  Trying to swim upstream through the crowd, as it were, seemed nigh impossible to me, and the thought of squeezing my way in the wrong direction back through the doorway and into the main church seemed like challenge even the hardiest of salmon wouldn’t have tried.  So I soldiered on to the semi-circular steps, steeling myself as others pushed behind me, making myself as big and square-shouldered as I could, even glaring from time to time at others who made their way past me, wishing to send with a burning signal some sign to them that they had trampled on my holy patience and were themselves like unto the lowliest and filthiest shepherds that might have crowded round the manger that first Christmas night.  Whereas I was a wise man: quite possibly the wisest man to be found in a hundred yard radius… at the very least.

Eventually I made my way down the funnel-steps through the second little doorway and into the grotto, where, of course, a host of so-called pilgrims were now angling toward the altar and falling to their knees in order to reach out their hands, one at a time, into the opening at the center of the silver star and feel the place where Christ was born.

To me, nothing seemed more far-fetched than that Christ could be born in such a place, or that he could be born for such a gaggle of selfish, rude, and inconsiderate people.  And I would have none if it.  Without pausing even to pray, I circled wide around the altar, avoiding the crowd, and rushed up the stairs on the far side that lead out of the grotto and back into the relative sanity of the church.

Once outside the church, when our group was gathered, I was only too happy to pronounce my righteous indignation in the most sneering way.  And I fashioned myself, in my mind, in every way the hero of this episode – I was one who would not push his way through the crowd, who would not put his own desire ahead of another’s in order to reach a destination that may or may not be a truly holy place.  I would not lower myself to the level of those other pilgrims whose enthusiasm for their faith had clearly gotten the better of them.  I would gladly have left, I let it be known.  Yes, I would have walked right out, if only I could have swum upstream through the crowd, and retraced my steps.

But, faced with no choice but pressing onward, I certainly was not going to linger in the precincts of the grotto where the sniveling simpletons, who actually believed beyond the shadow of a doubt that here was the place where Jesus was born of Mary, insisted on reaching their hands into the opening in the fourteen-pointed silver star… as if… the Prince of Peace would have anything to do with this lot of hooligans!

And as we drove away from Bethlehem, I think I cradled my head in my own hands, as I shook it in dismay, thinking about the poor state of Christians, and the poorer state of the Christian faith, and wondering how it was that Jesus could tolerate followers like those I’d just encountered.

The more I have told that story, the more heroic I have become in my own mind, as my rectitude compares so favorably to the dubiousness of everyone else in the story.  And in my mind it became clearer and clearer to me that I was the best thing that had happened in Bethlehem, since… well in about 2,000 years!

That is, until Christmas started to creep up on me…

…and the possibility that I am not the hero of the story, and never was meant to be, began to dawn on me along with the uneasy suggestion that when my rectitude compares so favorably to the dubiousness of everyone else in the world, then maybe – just maybe - I am looking at myself in a rose-tinted mirror, as it were.

There is, you see, no hero of Bethlehem, and when any of us begins to make ourselves the hero of Bethlehem, then we are treading on dangerous ground.  On Christmas there is only the question of whether you are willing to go to Bethlehem, or not… and what you do when you get there.

That is why tonight, here at Saint Mark’s, and in virtually every Christian church, on every continent, whether it is winter or summer right now; warm or cold; whether you speak in English, or Swahili, or Greek, or Aramaic, or Japanese; whether there are palm trees growing outside or pine trees… nearly every Christian church has transformed itself, for one night only, into a miniature Bethlehem - for those who wish to come and see the babe lying in the manger.

One of the great, open secrets about Christmas, that we nevertheless have to re-learn year after year, is that Bethlehem can be built almost anywhere – nearly overnight – if we wish.  And we have come here tonight to build Bethlehem.  You are all standing in Manger Square, and we have got as many twinkling stars in the sky as we could light.  Over there, the wise men have begun their journey.  We have provided, if not a choir of angels, at least an angelic choir.  Let’s call the acolytes shepherds.  And of course there is the manger, with Mary and Joseph, and the Baby Jesus.

And it turns out that Bethlehem – no matter where it has been built – poses nearly the same question to everyone: What are you going to do now that you are here?  Are you going to come to see Jesus?  Or, are you going to make the same mistake I made and conclude that somehow this journey to Bethlehem is about you?  That you are meant to be either the beneficiary of the visit or the hero of the story?

Are you the reason you are here tonight?  And is your pew-neighbor’s elbow, that keeps jabbing you in the side, beginning to make you wonder if you should leave at the first chance you get?  Is the head of the tall person who sat in front of you causing you to look back over your shoulder to plot an escape route during the next hymn?  Do you wonder if you could swim upstream at some point in this service and find your way back to the world outside here, where there is surely a Christmas party you could go to?

But the question Bethlehem poses isn’t only about tonight.  Because we all have our weaker moments, our less proud moments, even on Christmas Eve...  Even when you have travelled half way around the globe to visit Bethlehem and all you can do is conclude how much holier you are than everyone else around you.  The truth is that many of us do this with our faith all the time.  We say it is about Jesus; but really, we make it about us.  And if we’re not getting what we came for, then don’t expect us to stick around Bethlehem very long.  Even if we can’t find a way to swim upstream and get out the way we came, then you better believe we are not going to stick around the grotto and go sticking our hands inside stars!  We are going to find the fastest way out, and the best story to tell of why it was so virtuous of us to leave so soon.  We are going tell ourselves that we are the heroes of Bethlehem.  That’s what I did.

But really… can you believe I would be stupid enough to stand in that line for more than an hour…

...that I would put up with all that pushing and shoving…

…that I’d have administered all those dirty looks…

…that I’d have said all those Hail Marys…

...that I’d finally made it down the steps, and through the little door…

… I’d finally entered into the grotto – the place I’d traveled thousands of miles to see, where I might never be again…

… can you believe that I was only steps away…

… all I had to do was drop down to my knees…

…and stick out my hand…

… and reach into the place - marked, lest I should miss it, by a silver star, illumined by sacred lamps, sheltered by an altar…

… but, instead… I walked away from this… in a hurry?

And this is how I should leave Bethlehem?

What might have happened if I’d stopped at the place where Jesus had been born…

…and instead of uttering my Hail Marys as an antidote to the world around me…

…I’d found a better prayer to offer to God?

… a prayer of just how wonderful it was to be in Bethlehem in the first place – to have the freedom and the resources to get there…

… a prayer of thanksgiving for all God’s given me…

… a prayer for healing the things in me that need to be healed…

… a prayer for forgiving in me the things that need forgiving…

…  a prayer for helping me with the things that need helping…

… a prayer of love and concern for others around me…

… a prayer of care for the earth God has given us…

… a prayer for peace in a world that is drowning in war and violence…

But I left Bethlehem without saying any of the prayers….

… which is a lot like visiting Bethlehem without really visiting Jesus.

And tonight, tonight… we have built Bethlehem here.  And I believe that perhaps God is giving me another chance to visit Bethlehem, and to make a better visit of it.

Yes, tonight we have built Bethlehem here… and of course the same question is staring you in the face, as it is me:  What are we going to do now that we are here?

Are you we going to wait and see if we get what we want out of this visit?  Or are we here to see Jesus?  I sure I hope I get it right this time!

There is no hero of Bethlehem – and it certainly wouldn’t be me or you if there was - God does not need a hero tonight, or any night of the year.  There is only this child in the manger… and a thousand reasons not to stop and worship him, not to bend low and adore him… but to plan our exit…  and get on with our lives, because we foolishly think it is all about us.

But for one night only we have built Bethlehem here…  and it’s not about me or about you… and there is only this question:

Now that we are in Bethlehem, are we going to stop, and be with Jesus, and let it be about him?

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Christmas Eve 2011

Saint Mark’s Church, Phialdelphia

The Battle of Trenton, at the end of 1776, was, as you all know, a decisive turning point in the War of Independence.  The Continental Army had earlier suffered stinging defeat in New York, and New Jersey didn’t look very promising. By late December of that year the entire revolutionary effort looked to be in doubt.  To make matters worse, many of the colonial soldiers’ enlistments were set to expire at the beginning of the new year, and many of the men must have imagined cutting their losses and returning home to try to salvage what remained of their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor, in the aftermath of this misadventure.

It was the success at Trenton that changed the momentum of the war and set the cause of independence on a course for success.  I won’t recount for you here the details of the battle – which many men here know, I’m sure, with greater clarity than I do.  But I will recall one miniscule detail of the march to Trenton, after Washington and his men had already successfully crossed the icy Delaware. 

Somewhere near Jacob’s Creek, about 12 miles from Trenton, while General Washington was directing the movement of artillery from horseback, the hind legs of his horse buckled and the horse began to slip backward down an ice-covered slope.  Washington, ever the horseman, grabbed the horse’s mane, yanked his head upright, shifted his own weight in the saddle, spurred his horse forward, and managed to prevent the horse from careening down the ice.  He recovered his stature, stayed in the saddle, and continued to oversee the movement of the artillery.[i]

It’s reasonable to surmise that there were Troopers nearby, since they were with Washington on the way to Trenton.  And I like to imagine that the Troopers’ confidence in their General was bolstered by his expert horsemanship.  Certainly from a historical perspective, as the most recently named, Most Improved Rider of the Troop, I’d have been impressed!

But we know how easily and how often history turns on miniscule events.  Who knows what would have happened if the march to Trenton, already hours behind schedule, had been thwarted because of the unauthorized dismount of its commanding officer?

As it happened, Washington and his men caught the Hessians who manned Trenton by surprise, and in 45 minutes of fighting claimed a decisive victory, then turned back to return to the relative safety of Pennsylvania on the other side of the Delaware.

Once back on this side of the river, Washington had a pressing task at hand: to convince the men whose enlistments were about to expire to re-up, which he did, sitting on his horse and offering a $10 bounty in return for signing on for an additional six weeks of service in the Continental Army.

Picture Washington giving a speech to his men while mounted on his horse.  As one soldier described it, the general “told us our services were greatly needed and that we could do more for our country than we ever could at any future date and in the most affectionate manner entreated us to stay.”[ii]

At first just a few men stepped forward.  As the others looked at Washington, I wonder if they called to mind that scene from just a day or two before when it had seemed the illustrious general was about to be toppled from his horse to slide unceremoniously into a half-frozen creek.  Did they recall his strong fingers grasping the horse’s mane and holding his head up?  Did they see his sure legs grip the horse’s sides?  Did they remember the way his shifted his weight just so in the saddle to help the horse regain its balance?  Did they hold in their minds eyes the vision of that horse spurred forward, steam snorting out its nostrils, ears forward, its eyes alight, and its rider sure and confident and upright, taking command of the work that needed to be done to assure the victory they had crossed the river to accomplish?

Who knows what the men thought?  But every one of them eventually stepped forward to re-up, and the rest of how things played out in the war, is, as they say, history.  And perhaps throughout the years of war that lay ahead of them his soldiers remembered the sight of that sure horseman on his steed, bringing victory where others would have found only defeat.

I don’t know for sure, but I very much doubt that the papers that reported the successful river crossing and the victory at Trenton included any word about George Washington’s horsemanship.  But if they had, here’s how the headline might have read:

Horse slips, Washington doesn’t fall.

Now, this sounds like a pretty boring headline, but it is at the heart of what we revere about Washington: when the going got tough and things looked bleak, our man stayed on his horse.  It certainly would be good press for any Trooper!

Now think for a moment about that reading we heard from the Revelation to Saint John the Divine, about war that breaks out in heaven.  If you think about it, and put aside all the hoopla about a great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns, and seven diadems on his heads, this is, more or less the headline for the war in heaven:

Dragons attack, angels win.

It is also the headline that every solider who marches as to war hopes will be told about him:

Enemy fires, our boys are safe!

It follows, of course, the general contours of the Christian Gospel, which can also be reported in headline form:

Christ hung on a Cross to Die: Rises from the Dead.

And the reason the image of Jesus hanging from the Cross has been branded onto our memories is because we need that image, too, in the time that lies ahead of us.  We need to be reminded of Christ the sure rider, as it were, on his Cross: confident and upright, taking command of the work that needs to be done to assure the victory he has crossed the river to accomplish.

It is no wonder that very shortly after he died, in 1799, it became popular to revere George Washington with an enthusiasm usually reserved for saints.  And it was not long before the image of the “apotheosis of George Washington” produced.  This image, which literally means “George Washington becoming a god” is what graces the rotunda of our nation’s capitol, where Washington, draped in royal purple, is flanked by Victory and Liberty, surrounded by figures representing the thirteen original states.

Great debate has been waged about the matter of Washington’s faith: how strong it was, or whether he had any at all.  The rector of this church, William White, once said that no amount of recollection could bring to his mind “any fact which would prove General Washington to have been a believer in the Christian revelation.”[iii]

But what we know or understand about Washington and the inner workings of his heart and mind actually pales in importance beside the image of him as the strong rider who will not be unseated from his horse, who will lead his men to the victory that they crossed the water to accomplish, and defying all odds, achieving that victory not only in Trenton but in the grand battle for freedom.

And in that image, we see, too, something true about our faith in Jesus Christ, the inner workings of whose heart and mind are unknowable to us, the mysteries of whose birth remain much talked about, the meaning of whose death is much debated…

All of which pales in comparison to the image of that sure rider, as it were, on the Cross, who will not come down from it to save his own skin, but who remains there to save our souls, who will lead us to the victory he crossed the water to accomplish, and whose triumph is a freedom more sublime than any even the great General Washington could have won for us: freedom from the fear of death, the tyranny of the grave, an eternity of hopelessness…   For which we give thanks to God now, and for as long as our voices will praise him.

In the Name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

at the Washington Memorial Service of

The First Troop Philadelphia City Cavalry

18 December 2011

Christ Church, Philadelphia

[i] Chernow, Ron; Washington, A Life; 2010, New York, Penguin, page 274

[ii] Ibid. page 278

[iii] Ibid. page 130

You may listen to Fr. Mullen's sermon here.

The angel Gabriel is the best known of all the angels, and one of only two angels actually called by name in the Bible.  Many people know that Gabriel is one of the Archangels, but what they don’t know is that the Archangels had formed, for a while, a band, who had a modestly successful touring career, playing in clubs and smaller venues around heaven.

At about the time of the birth of Jesus, Gabriel was in a bit of a rough patch because the band had recently broken up.  Uriel and Raphael preferred to go fighting dragons with Michael, and were off in the far-flung reaches of heaven tracking them down.  But Gabriel wanted to keep on making music, and so decided, with God’s permission of course, to pursue a solo career.  Truth to tell, God was pleased with this outcome because he’d always thought Gabriel was a superior musician to the other three and would do better on his own.

So Gabriel spent time practicing his horn, and working with a vocal coach to develop his own approach to song interpretation, since he didn’t want to be just another Sinatra-wannabe.  But before he could even begin to think about arranging his first gig, Gabriel was summoned by God and given a mission.  It had to do with a decision God had made to send his Son down to earth.

The mission involved a two-pronged sortie that would involve a host of lesser angels as well, under the command of Gabriel, who would be sent to a field to notify shepherds of the news.  The news was to be delivered in the traditional angelic way – in song, with lots of “Glorias” - so Gabriel was very comfortable with all the arrangements, although he had to admit that it seemed odd to single out a bunch of shepherds abiding in a field who’d be keeping watch over their flocks by night.  But Gabriel, ever-faithful, was confident that God had his purposes, and that all would work out well.

Still, it gave him pause to think about the particulars of the plan.  No one is as close to the secrets of the triune God as archangels, after all.  No one has gotten as close as the four archangels to the reeling divine Presence: never static, but sometimes only imperceptibly moving; never sleeping, but sometimes deeply still; never distant, but sometimes inexplicably elusive; never divided, but always, mysteriously knowable as Three-in One.  The mysteries of God that trouble men do not so much trouble angels, who have become accustomed to God’s ways.

But God’s plan to send his Son to earth, to be born of a human mother, in poverty and near obscurity, to let him grow up in a human family, to make human friends, to feel human feelings, to suffer human injuries, to know human limitations, to speak only in the limited ways that humans speak, to work with the commonest of men, to consort with the most questionable kinds of women, etc, etc.  And to do all this without a retinue of angelic protection…  All this seemed risky to Gabriel; it seemed a little too much like an idea that had come from the mind of Frank Capra, and not enough like a plan that had sprung from the fount of all wisdom.  But it is not the business of angels to question God, nor is it their nature.  So Gabriel received his instructions and began to go about his work.

And, of course, Gabriel knew about life on earth.  He’d heard from the sentries who returned from their regular deployments at the gates of the Garden of Eden, how much the humans had blown it.  How we had traded paradise for selfish indulgences, because we wanted to be able to make decisions for ourselves.  To an angel, this thinking is pure foolishness, since angels cannot choose to love God or not, they are simply hard-wired to do it.  And although it would be deeply un-angelic to actually look down their noses at anyone, the angels were a bit mystified at the regular human insistence on doing things our own way – it seems so childish to angels.

Yes, Gabriel knew that the world was a difficult place, nothing like it had been in the old and early days before the apple.  And when he thought of this he was wistful for the company of his old companions, Michael, Uriel, and Raphael, and worried about them because he remembered that slaying dragons was not child’s play, even though to many it sounds like just that.

And he reflected that on his own mission he would have to be on top of his game, since humans were not famous for heeding God’s word, not well known at all for their compliant willingness to accept God’s plans.  Not ready to bend to God’s intentions, no matter how loving those intentions are.  Humans cling to the notion that they know best.

And God’s plan had an interesting feature that involved this young girl named Mary.  Gabriel reviewed the scant dossier on her, which gave him not much to go on.  Why had God chosen this girl?  What made her so special?  It was hard to say.  And the note in Mary’s file about rumors of her so-called Immaculate Conception brought a smile to Gabriel’s lips, since he knew that such rumors were what you might call hard to prove.  But he liked the look of this girl, and he had to concede that she seemed different to him, special somehow.  And once again, he trusted God’s judgment.

It was not difficult to recruit a first-rate chorus of heavenly hosts, for amongst angels good tenors are not as hard to find as they are here on earth.  Gabriel went to work on special melismatic arrangements of the Glorias they’d be singing, and after rehearsals he conducted regular study groups with the lesser angels to explain the entire plan to them.  This phase of preparation was actually a bit more intense than you might imagine, since it took a while for all the angels to be convinced that this plan of God’s to be born in a manger, and raised as a child, dependent on his mother to nurse him, on his earthly father to protect him – that this plan was actually Good News.

The angels realized that although no one knows the secrets of God the way they do, even they had something to learn about God’s love.  And as they talked with Gabriel about it, they could almost feel the depth of God’s love for these difficult creatures he had made on earth, just a little lower than the angels, but enough to make a difference.  They could sense that tingling sensation of God’s love being made manifest that they had felt so many times before.  And when they began to picture in their angelic imaginations the infant child wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger, they found that they were eager to sing long, legato Glorias, and they began to think it was a shame that they’d only be singing for a bunch of shepherds.

And then Gabriel told them about Mary, and when they saw her picture, it wasn’t just that she was beautiful, there was something else that made them envious of Gabriel, that he alone would make the annunciation to her, while they’d still have nine months of rehearsals until they were off to sing to shepherds.  They could sense, from Gabriel’s description of Mary that she was, as he said, full of grace.  And they knew that this was a rare thing in any of God’s creatures – even among angels.  For to many had God given a measure of grace, now and then more apparent; but racking their minds they could hardly think of another creature whom God had filled with grace, and certainly no one had ever been so highly favored as to be chosen to be visited by the Holy Spirit, overshadowed by the Most High, and to give birth to the very Son of God.  So when they talked of Mary among themselves, they spoke in softer, reverent tones, and they all wished that they could go with Gabriel on that fateful day.

But only Gabriel was to go to see Mary.  And he had been working on his speech, in order to say the most with the fewest possible words (angels being almost the exact opposite of preachers), and he had it down nicely, he thought, as the day approached.

And in the sixth month, following the directive given to him by God, the angel Gabriel set out to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to visit this young virgin named Mary, who was espoused to a man whose name was Joseph.

Having winged his way to Nazareth, Gabriel arrived at Mary’s home, and so as not to frighten her, came to the door and knocked.

“Hail, Mary!” Gabriel said when she answered, “the Lord is with thee!”

And despite her confusion, Mary invited this unusual and handsome creature in, and offered him tea.

“Fear not,” said Gabriel, using a customary angelic greeting, because people were so often frightened by the appearance of angels.

But Mary was not frightened at all.  Perplexed, to be sure, but not frightened.

And Gabriel delivered his message, including the instruction that the child should be called Jesus.  And he explained about the Holy Spirit and the overshadowing.  He told Mary that her child would be the Son of God, and he told her about Elizabeth’s pregnancy, and he finished with a little rhetorical flourish that he was rather proud of: “For nothing will be impossible with God!” he said.

And Mary, as if to demonstrate that she, indeed, was full of grace, uttered that most graceful response, “Behold,” she said, “the handmaid of the Lord.  Be it unto me according to thy word.”

And the scriptures tell us that then the angel departed from Mary.

But, in fact, another exchange took place between the virgin and the angel before he left.

You remember that Gabriel is a musician.  And he had come prepared, on this mission, not only with a song of his own, but with a song he had written for Mary to sing.  He knew that she was young and uneducated, but he guessed that even if she was untrained, she probably had a pretty voice, as girls her age so often do.

So he’d written this song for her, and he wanted to teach it to her before he went: a song for her to sing during the months of her pregnancy, a song to sing to her newborn son, a song to sing as she rocked him to sleep.  A simple song was all she needed.  And he reached into the folds of his robes to pull out a little parchment onto which he had inscribed the words, and to find his horn, to teach her the melody.

As he did so, he explained to Mary that he’d written a song for her.  And although it seems astounding to decline the gift of a song from an angel – and even Mary, herself, could hardly believe the words that came out of her mouth as she said “No thank you” to Gabriel - it is true that she declined the gift of his song.

She explained to Gabriel that she had a song of her own: that with his arrival she had felt it forming deep in her soul. 

And Gabriel, being a dignified angel, bore her refusal with dignity, and turned to Mary, and asked her to sing her song for him.

But again Mary declined, explaining to Gabriel that her song was a song not of the angels but of us men and women, who are, we have to admit, a little lower than the angels.  And Mary thought it right to reserve her song to be sung for the first time for her cousin, the happy news of whose pregnancy Gabriel had just brought to Mary.

And Gabriel thought this an excellent idea, and was a bit amazed at the astounding grace of this virgin girl.  He bowed to her before departing, so that he, for a moment, was a little lower than she.  And he asked her, as he bowed, if she would tell him at least how the song begins.

And she bent to his ear and whispered the soft first notes of her song to him:

Magnificat anima mea:

My soul doth magnify the Lord!

And Gabriel smiled a broad angelic smile, and he stood upright to regain his composure, and he unfurled his elegant wings, and as his heart raced he departed from the young virgin, amazed that for the first time since the beginning of time he had heard a song that could rival any song of the angels, which was fitting, since it accompanied good news that rivaled any news ever before delivered by an angel: that a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, that unto all mankind a child will be born and he shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

18 December 2011

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Mullen's Sermon here.

The Mount of Olives stands just east of Jerusalem, across the Kidron Valley, affording the visitor to that holy place a wonderful view of the Old City, where the shining, golden Dome of the Rock (whence the Prophet Mohammad is said to have ascended into heaven) dominates the vista.  The slopes of the Mount of Olives have become, over the centuries, a burial site for Jews, Christians and Muslims, all of whom are welcome to believe (in some measure) that this spot, looking toward a sealed gate in the eastern-facing wall of the Old City of Jerusalem, may be the place where the Messiah will come to bring about, or to complete the salvation of mankind.  And it would seem that with salvation, as in real estate, location is everything.

When our group of 22 pilgrims from Saint Mark’s walked from the Mount of Olives into the city of Jerusalem last month, we could see black-clad men with their side-locks, tassels, and broad-brimmed black hats visiting graves.  I know there are Christian and Muslim graves there somewhere, but most of what you can see are burial places for Jews, who place a stone on a grave as memorial gesture when visiting.

Something put it into my head to visit the graves of the dead while we were in Jerusalem – I had a question I wanted to ask - but it was not a part of the itinerary, so I knew I would have to make a secret mission of it.  The wee hours of the morning seemed like a good time to be walking among the hopeful dead anyway, so I stole out of the hotel one morning well before sunrise to go to visit the dead on the Mount of Olives.

I found a chink in a fence I was able to squeeze through and in no time I was ambling among the flat, table-top graves that are spread out on the hillside like a giant keyboard of some kind.  No grass grows between the graves, there is only dirt and stones.  The moon was bright, so I was able to navigate easily among the tombs.  I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, I just wanted to find someone there who’d be willing to talk to me – a goy from Philadelphia – someone who might be willing to entertain my question.  I picked my way among the graves, trying to make enough noise to be heard by the dead if they wanted to talk, but no so much noise as to wake the dead if they preferred to remain sleeping.

Eventually I paused, and I sat on the edge of a gravestone, looking back to the old city as the moonlight glistened on the Dome of the Rock, and in the still darkness before dawn I heard the sound of old, gravelly throat being cleared somewhere behind me.

“What brings you here at this hour?” the voice asked.

Dispensing with small talk, I got right to the point, “Sir, I have a question to ask.”

“American?” asked the man.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oy vey,” said the old voice, “another American tourist.”

“I’m not a tourist, I’m a pilgrim!” I began to protest, before realizing that the dead old Jew really didn’t care about my semantic distinctions, so I repeated the purpose of my visit, “Sir, I have a question to ask, if I may?”

“So, ask,” said the man.

“You were buried here in order to wait,” I ventured, “but what, may I ask, are you waiting for?” giving voice to the question I had come here to ask of the dead.

“What am I waiting for?” the old voice repeated.

“What are you waiting for?”

Taking a slow, deep breath, (which was only for effect, since he was already dead) the man replied, “In the last chapter of the Book of the Prophet Zechariah, we read this:

“ ‘A day is coming for the Lord… On that day his feet shall stand on the Mount of Olives, which lies before Jerusalem on the east…  Then the Lord my God will come, and all the holy ones with him.’ ”  And he let out a breath of ghostly air.

“So you are waiting for the coming of Messiah?” I asked.

“Yes,” sighed the tired voice, “I am waiting for Messiah.”

“Why?” I asked, hoping this was not pushing my luck.

“ ‘On that day,’ the prophet says, ‘there shall not be either cold nor frost.  And there shall be continuous day… not day and night, for at evening time there shall be light.

“ ‘On that day living waters shall flow out from Jerusalem… it shall continue in summer as in winter.

“ ‘And the Lord will become king over all the earth; on that day the Lord will be one and his name one.’

“For this,” said the man from his grave, “for this, I am waiting.”

“So, you are waiting for endless day, for living water, and for the time when the Lord will be one and his name will be one?”  I asked.

“Just as the prophet said,” the voice allowed.

“May I ask, sir, if it’s no trouble, what does this mean?” I pressed on.

“It’s no trouble,” came the answer, “what else have I got to do?

“You won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve had time to think about it, lying here on this hillside.  There’s more to consider than just these few lines, of course, but my memory isn’t what it used to be, so I find myself going back to what I know, what little I can remember, and to me it seems like enough, at least for now.

“On that day there shall not be either cold or frost: this is good news to a cadaver, because it’s the cold the kills; it’s the slow seeping away of life’s heat, the gradual slipping into deeper, colder water – it’s like every burial is a burial at sea, and you just get colder and colder till the chill has emptied your veins and penetrated your bones. 

“Here, on the Mount of Olives, cold and frost won’t do: it spoils the olives and kills the trees.  So this promise that there shall not be either cold or frost is a sign of life.

“And there shall be continuous day.  This, my child, is a promise of justice, because cruelty and wrongdoing cavort in the night hours, but justice thrives in the daylight.

“Remember that murder, robbery and warfare are all planned in the night, or underground, or in dark places.  Greed despises the light where it can be seen eating more than it should, taking more than it needs, while Hunger moans close at hand.

“Lies are best perpetrated in the night; secrets that erode trust are mostly nocturnal.

“Do you think the lights burned brightly in Auschwitz?  No more than they do along the wall I can almost see from here, or in any place where injustice is cloaked with the confidence that my destiny trumps your rights.

“If you want to keep a child stupid, don’t give him any light.  You know this,” the man said, “you can see this from where you live. 

“Why do you think they called the Dark Ages dark?  Wickedness swaggered with the conviction that might made right, while Justice was locked somewhere in a dungeon.

“But where there is continuous day, there will be justice, for even at evening, when cruelty and wrongdoing are ready to go about their work that requires the cover of darkness, there shall be light.”

“And what about the living water flowing out from Jerusalem?” I asked.

“Have you seen the desert just beyond these hills?” he cried.  “Do you know what water means in this place?

“Do you remember what Isaiah said?

“ ‘The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,

the desert shall rejoice and blossom;

like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,

and rejoice with joy and singing…

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,

and the ears of the deaf unstopped;

then the lame shall leap like a deer,

and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.

For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,

and streams in the desert;

the burning sand shall become a pool,

and the thirsty ground springs of water;

the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,

the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

‘A highway shall be there,

and it shall be call the Holy Way…

And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,

and come to Zion with singing;

everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;

they shall obtain joy and gladness,

and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.’

“Need I say more about the living waters that God promises will one day flow from Jerusalem?” the old man asked.

“Your memory is not so bad after all,” I joked.  And the man let out a sigh of contentment.

Then I repeated the last part of the prophecy of Zechariah he had quoted to me:

“ ‘And the Lord will become king over all the earth; on that day the Lord will be one and his name one.’ ”

And the dead man took up his discourse:

“ You have seen how we fight here?  You have seen the land mines and the guns and the tanks, no?  And our arsenal is puny compared to yours, is it not? 

“You know how men abuse one another in the name of God – it has ever been thus.  You know how God has been used as a justification for slavery, warfare, and oppression of all kinds – always because my version of God is different from your version; my text reads differently from yours, even if they are identical.  And this is done from one corner of the globe to the other.

“We cannot fool ourselves for ever.  We cannot pretend for eternity that this way of treating one another pleases God.  In time he will make himself known; in time he will establish his rule.

“How I yearn for the day that the Lord will at last be king over all the earth, to put all that to and end; when all people will see and know that the Lord is one, and his Name is one.  Is this not worth waiting for?” asked my aged, departed friend.

Knowing it would be unwise to turn around and look for the body of my long-dead companion, for it was still enclosed in its tomb, I gazed at the old city across the valley from where I sat among the graves.

“That’s a lot to wait for,” I said.

“Oy,” said the man, “a lot to wait for, indeed”

“Why is it so important to be right here, on the Mount of Olives?” I asked.

“When the Lord comes,” said the old voice, “I suppose it may be that he will save all creation at once, that there will be no waiting, that you won’t need to take a number, as though you were standing in line at a delicatessen.  I suppose it may be that God can manage the machinery of salvation with greater efficiency than I can imagine. 

“I suppose it may be that an American goy will be as likely to be saved as me, a faithful Jew, who did his best to observe the commandments.

“But my burial here on this hillside, my desire to wait here, just across from the Eastern Gate, with the words of the prophet ringing in my post-mortem ears, is not intended to say anything at all about God.  God will do what God will do, and there is nothing at all I can do about that except to be faithful.

“But to wait here is a choice I make, so that even in death I can declare my faith, so that my body may rest in hope, not only repose. 

“To wait here is to continue to pray, even with the cold, decaying dust of my bones, that Life triumphs over Death; that God will bring Justice; that a living stream will some day flow from the streets of this holy city on the edge of a desert; and that the Lord our God is indeed one, and will be king over all the earth.

“To wait here is to be a witness to my children of this faith, and to hope that perhaps they will live the faith better than I did: more truly, more peaceably, more honorably.

“To wait here is to declare at the end of my life what I could only say inadequately while I was alive: that even though we all go down to the dust there is something to wait for.

“To wait here is to stand as a testimony to the One by whom all things were created, and for whom all life is lived.

“Don’t you see how few are willing to live their lives for him anymore?  Even if they claim to believe in him, they are not willing to change their lives!

“Don’t you see how few are willing to wait for God, to keep watch for him?

“Me, I made the last choice I could make in life, to set myself as near as I could to the place where his glory will pass by, when he comes with a sound of many waters, and when the earth will shine with his glory.

“What am I waiting for?  Why do I wait here?  What else could I do? 

“I am waiting because I believe God is faithful. 

“I am waiting because I believe God will restore paradise. 

“I am waiting because I believe God will establish justice at last. 

“I am waiting because I have faith that God will show his mercy on my soul and on all souls.

“I am waiting because I am thirsty, as I have been all my life, and I long for the living waters to flow from the streets of Jerusalem.

“I am waiting because I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth, and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!

“I am waiting because God is coming.  What better is there to wait for?”

I sat in silence for a moment to let his anthem sink in and to hear its faint echoes in the valley below and the soft harmonies that seemed to be coming silently from the graves around us.

Then I said to the man, “I don’t know what I expected to hear from you, but it wasn’t this.  You know that I believe that Jesus is the Messiah, that he has come, and that he will come again.  I expected something, crazier from you, I guess, something angrier, and more selfish.  I expected more politics, more vengeance.  I expected at least to have to argue with you.”

“There is enough of conflict in life,” he said, “too much, in fact, to drag it all into the grave with you.

“In death, it is enough to hope in God.

And then he looked at me, I know, although I did not turn to look back at him, for there was nothing to see.  But I could feel his eyes looking deeply into mine, as he gazed at me from his grave.  And he said to me, “He’s coming, you know.  God is coming.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I know.  He’s coming soon.” 

And I heard a long and ghostly sigh as I picked up a stone from the ground, and turned around to place it on the old man’s grave.  And as the sun rose over Jerusalem, I made my way home to join the other pilgrims for prayers, and for breakfast.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

27 November 2011

Saint Mark's Chruch, Philadelphia

You may listen to this sermon here.

Here beginneth the first sentence of the second chapter of a book you may have read, or at least you have very probably heard of before:

“Maybe you’re not unemployed.  Maybe you’re just adrift, or bored, or puzzled about where to go next with your life.  You’re at some crossroads in your life; you can’t stand your job anymore, or you have a new handicap you’re trying to adjust to, or you’re just out of the military, or just out of prison, or just out of college, or just out of a divorce.  Or you’ve just lost an important person in your life, and you’re ready to look for some deeper purpose for your remaining time here on Earth.”  Here endeth the reading.

The job market being what it is, the well-known book, What Color is My Parachute? is still going strong, with a new edition out every year, more than 40 years after the first edition.  This job-hunting book charts an unusual course, because it doesn’t just give advice about how to tailor your resumé for this job or that one, and it doesn’t just give you strategies for putting in a strong interview; it gives advice about you, and about your life.  For instance, the very first section of the book is called “How To Find Hope.”  And the last section of the book is all about trusting God.

In between, there are lots of lists of questions and exercises meant to help you take stock of yourself.  At the center of the book is what the author, Richard Bolles, calls “The Flower Exercise” in which you conduct an extensive self-inventory, so you can know yourself better, not only so you can present yourself more effectively to a prospective employer, but so that you can find a job for which you are actually well suited, and in which you might actually be happy.  A little later in the book, there is an exercise that asks you to take ten blank sheets of paper and spread them before you, and write at the top of each page, “Who Am I?” so that you can fill in the space on all ten pages.

As it happens, the situations that Bolles imagines in the first sentences of the second chapter of his good book are the very types of situations that trouble most of us – even people who consider themselves Christians, even people who come to church.  Maybe you’re not unemployed.  Maybe you’re adrift, or bored, or puzzled about where to go next with your life.  You’re at some crossroads in your life; you can’t stand your job anymore, or you have a new handicap you’re trying to adjust to, or you’re just out of the military, or just out of prison, or just out of college, or just out of a divorce.  Or you’ve just lost an important person in your life, and you’re ready to look for some deeper purpose for your remaining time here on Earth.

What do you do if you are in one of those situations (or some other one that I have not imagined out loud) and you land in church on Commitment Sunday – that Sunday when I am supposed to talk to you about money, when I am supposed to encourage you to give, when I am likely to try to persuade you to give more money to the church than you were prepared to give?  You are in trouble, aren’t you?  You are wondering How To Find Hope, but I am wondering How To Find Money.  Maybe I am wondering How To Find Money In Your Checkbook.  Perhaps you should come back another day.  Perhaps you are just unlucky.

I have the Gospel on my side, after all.  You heard the parable of the talents entrusted by a man to his slaves: five to one of them; two to another; and to another, one talent.  You know where the story goes: everyone is expected to make more with what’s been given.  At the very least, earn a little interest; better yet, make a shrewd investment; whatever you do, do not bury your talent in the dirt.  And I am absolutely certain that it would be A-OK to use this story to talk to you about money and about how much of it you give; that may very well be why Jesus told it so long ago, so that you and I could have a conversation about why you don’t give enough money to the church, as I’m pretty sure you don’t (neither do I, for that matter).

But what if we didn’t use this story this morning to talk about How To Find Money?  What if we used it instead to talk about How To Find Hope?  What if the hidden question in today’s Gospel is really this:  What Color Is Your Talent?

Because, like Richard Bolles, who wants to help you in your job search, but thinks you do not know yourself well enough to do it very well; I want to help you in your search for God, but I worry that you do not know yourself well enough to do it very well.  I suspect strongly that you do not know what color is your talent; you have not realized all the gifts that God has given you; and you certainly have not found all the ways to use those gifts for your own happiness and for God’s glory.  I suspect this about you, because I also suspect it about myself.  And I can assure you that every word I ever preach to you, I am really preaching to myself.

And I also suspect it because I know enough of you well enough to see that you are selling yourselves short as children of God.  I perceive that you have taken your talents, at least some of them, and buried them in the dirt.  And I know that this is a shame.

Allow me to borrow a little more from What Color Is My Parachute.  In the section on How To Find Hope, we learn that “Hope requires that, in every situation, we have at least two alternatives.”  This makes sense, since having only one choice in life, often leaves us feeling boxed-in, trapped, dead-ended, hopeless.  And if it is easy to feel this way in a job search, it is also easy to feel this way in your search for God; it’s easy to feel this way about your spiritual life; it’s easy to feel this way about being in church: boxed-in, trapped, dead-ended, hopeless. 

How many of you have children or siblings or close friends who have felt precisely this way about their search for God in church, and have opted instead of continuing, to simply give up?  You mean I have to stand here and sing these hymns?  I have to believe this creed?  I have to show up at this hour and fall to my knees at these appointed moments?  I have to admit I’m a sinner?  I have to put money in that silver plate as it passes by?  This is my only option for finding God and staying with him?  No thank you!

The people I know who are furthest along on their journeys with God know full well that the journey doesn’t begin and end in the pew, because sometimes faith from the pew isn’t enough, leaves them feeling empty, unchallenged, unmoved, doesn’t provide enough spiritual calories, or provoke enough transformation.  So these people find alternative ways to engage their desire to be with God, while still keeping the Pew Option open, probably even showing up week by week, or day by day to keep the Pew Option on the table.

But they are also volunteering at St. James School to tutor a kid who needs help; or volunteering in the office to help us keep this parish running like the well-oiled machine we are; or making soup to feed to hungry people on Saturdays; or digging in the garden; or packing groceries for our Food Cupboard clients; or studying the Bible on Wednesday nights; or keeping a discipline of prayer at home; or going to yoga class to find strength and space for contemplation; or visiting a monastery for a day or two of silent retreat; or travelling to a far-off place to help people in need.

People who are really advancing in their relationship with God are very often doing so because they have found ways outside of the pew to make those advances.  And they discover that when they are in church the prayers and hymns, the Bread and the Wine, the kneeling and standing, the creeds and the scriptures, all have more meaning, all point to a bit more hope, because this Pew Option is now only one of the ways that God is being revealed in their lives.

Borrowing again from Parachute, I see there is a chapter entitled, “Attitudes Necessary for Survival.”  This seems like a good idea.  Let’s see what they are:

1)    Find something that it is within your power to change.

2)    Assume that nothing that worked before will work now, because the world is a different place than it used to be.

3)    Believe that nothing is meaningless.

Again, what works in job hunting would appear also to apply to God hunting.

Remember that the search for God is always about growth and change.  God wants you to grow, which requires you to change.  He wants you and me to move beyond our limitations, to turn from the things we do to trip ourselves up, to learn to be stronger, more loving, more wise.  Most of this change will come from God – he expects to do most of the work – but some of it must come from you.  God seeks our partnership in the process of transformation, because otherwise it is just magic, and magic transformations don’t last very long.  Real, life-changing transformations require a bit of effort on our part, so we have to look for something that it is within our power to change.

Many people learn more about religion in their childhood than at any other time of their lives, and then are surprised when their Sunday School religion is not robust enough to sustain them in their adult lives, as though you and the world you live in have not changed at all.  Assume for a moment that what worked for you as a child is not enough religion to sustain you.  Assume that you require more and different input, that you need to know more than that Jesus Loves Me.  This means that you may need to go about the practice of religion more often and differently: seeking new, more intense outlets for religious expression; discovering more than one alternative.  I promise you that you do not need to find another church in order to do that.  Whether Saint Mark’s is your home or some other church is, you will find, in most decent churches, avenues to explore your faith that you have never tried before, all under the same roof.  Maybe you should try one of them?

Can you believe in your search for God that nothing is meaningless?  Can you believe that the gifts God gave you – no matter how varied or limited you regard them to be – are all important to God and useful for the building up of his kingdom?  Do you realize that it takes no skill more advanced than ladling out a bowl of soup, or filling a basket with bread, or stuffing envelopes in the office, or greeting a person at the church door to make a difference in this world?  Do you realize that in fact, the kingdom of God depends on these apparently meaningless acts?

Listen, it is as if a man went on a journey, and has entrusted you with some of his talents, as he has entrusted some to the person next to you.  What are you to do? 

You could begin by taking ten sheets of blank paper and writing at the top of them, “Who Am I?” and then filling in all the blank space on those ten sheets of paper.  At the very least you should ask yourself why God has given you the things God has given you?  What are you supposed to do with all that God has given you?  Who are you?

If you think that Christian stewardship is all about money, that is like concluding that a job search, is all about your resumé.  Well… money may be a crucial, required ingredient to building up God’s kingdom, but it’s not the whole story.

And what I know about the Christian life is that those who live it most deeply, most thoroughly, most fully, are the ones who share their talents and their money most freely.  Look around you, and you will realize this too.

And I also know that you could all empty your bank accounts into Saint Mark’s coffers this very morning, leaving nothing for yourselves, in acts of radical offering, and we would still be no closer to the kingdom of God.  Because if the only talents you give are your green ones, then you might as well have buried them in the dirt.

Who are you?  What color is your talent?

Is it blue as the sky, because your mind is always at work dreaming up good ideas that need a community in which to be realized?

Is it silver as a fine table setting, because you have a gift for hospitality?

Is it black and white because you have a way with words?

Is it four-color because you have a way with images?

Is it brown as the soil because you love to be in the garden?

Is it waxen as a candle because you are ready to serve God at the altar in the beauty of holiness?

Is it white as a chorister’s surplice because you are ready to lift your voice in song?

Is it pink as…  well, of course there are some people here who talents are pink – thanks be to God!

Is it red as blood because you are a healer who is ready to bind up wounds?

Is it black as a chalkboard because you are a teacher who loves to help others grow?

Is it golden as a doubloon because you know that money is actually one of the easiest things to give away?

What color is your talent?  And are your prepared to turn it into something more?  Are you ready to Find Hope?

Christian stewardship is about How To Find Hope, because it encourages us to see new alternatives, especially to the old, tired ways we have been doing things, wasting our energy, forgetting to use our gifts, and throwing our money at things that amount to nothing.

Maybe you’re not unemployed.  Maybe you’re just adrift, bored, puzzled.  You’re at some crossroads in your life; you can’t stand your job, or you have a new handicap, or you’re just out of the military, or just out of prison, or just out of college, or just out of a divorce.  Or you’ve just lost an important person in your life, and you’re ready to look for some deeper purpose for your remaining time here on Earth.

And maybe you are wondering How To Find Hope.

Maybe you need to make a pledge to dig up the talents you have buried in the dirt and make them grow into something new.

Maybe you need to discover what color is your talent.

Maybe you need to answer this question: Who am I?

Because the truth is that you yourself are the talent that Jesus is begging you not to bury in the dirt.  Your gifts and skills and charms, your weaknesses and quirks, your strengths and abilities, your history and your future, and yes, even your money, which you have gained by using all your talents. 

Everything about you is what Jesus is asking you to offer him, to see the amazing choices you can make in building up his kingdom.  So you can measure every ounce of your value, your worth; you can assess fully the complicated tincture of the color of your talent; so that finally you will know How To Find Hope!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

13 November 2011

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia