Saint Mark's Church

It was hot in the chariot, I imagine. Stuffy and still and hot. They had stopped on the side of the road, something to do with an axel that the eunuch didn’t understand, and so he sat, baking in the desert in his glorious, gilded oven. The high wooden doors trapped the heat, and the sun beating down on his uncovered head made the air shimmer before his eyes. The plush pillows had all been thrown to the floor an hour ago, but still the cloth beneath his legs felt uncomfortably wooly and warm. It was hot in the chariot, close and dusty, and the eunuch felt entirely trapped. Trapped in the still air of this chariot, trapped on this bleak wilderness road, and not least, trapped in this snarl of a biblical text. He glanced again at the scroll draped over his knees like an unwelcome blanket. The passage he had thought might distract him while he was trapped in this infernal box now only made him feel more claustrophobic. What in the world was Isaiah going on about? A man, some man, a slave who would suffer and bleed and yet utter not a sound, who would be humiliated and tortured, who would lose his life, silently, humbly, obediently. The eunuch had heard the text in Jerusalem, and now, days later, he found the prophecy about this servant still singing in his head, echoing with question after question after question. Who was this man? Was he a real man at all, because really, what kind of man would allow this? Even a eunuch would not; even a eunuch would at some point stand up for himself. So who was this man? Had these events already happened or were they still to come? Had the eunuch missed it already, or should he still be looking, and if he should still be looking, well, then where? In Jerusalem, back in Ethiopia, on this stupid, solitary road? Who, when, where…the questions spun around in the hot air of the chariot, dancing before his eyes like dust motes in the light. He glanced down again at the text; he knew there was some truth there, some truth beyond his own questions, but he couldn’t untangle himself enough to actually touch it.

By the time Philip arrived as his chariot door, the eunuch was sweating his way again through the text, sputtering and spitting out words that were only getting him more and more tangled up in his confusion and frustration. When he heard Philip’s voice, gentle and easy, “Do you understand what you are reading?” he was entirely too exhausted to be shocked by the directness of the question. No, of course, I do not. Do you not see how tied up I am in my questions? How can I unravel all of this myself, how can I understand this when there is no one to guide me? Yes, yes, of course I want you to explain it to me. Come in, sit beside me, tell me who, tell me when and where, tell me why. 

And so they are off. They read aloud, together, and the questions begin. Is this a real man? Oh, yes, Philip replies. Who? Is it Isaiah? It is Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus of Nazareth – I heard talk of him in Jerusalem – is that where this happened? Yes it is. Yes, the eunuch echoes, and he feels the tightness of his bonds begin to slacken. The chariot begins to move, they pass through a shadow of clouds, a spot of cool in the heat of the day. The eunuch looks out across the desert, feels the beginnings of a breeze on his brow. He takes a breath and continues. Jesus of Nazareth in Jerusalem, yes. But why, he asks. Why did he allow this? Why did he give himself over to this? Love, Philip replies. Love? Love for whom? Why, love, Philip says, for you.*    

They continue to talk. There are questions, answers. Philip tells stories, some ancient, some new. The eunuch argues, shrugs, argues some more. But as they talk, the eunuch feels bond after bond loosen and fall away. Soon, he and Philip are laughing, stumbling over each other’s sentences with exclamations of wonder and surprise. The eunuch feels his heart leap in his chest, he is overjoyed, giddy, impulsive, and when he hears the sound of water bubbling along by the roadside, he suddenly calls out to his driver to stop. He turns to Philip, eyes clear, and asks one, final, dazzling question – What is to prevent me from being baptized?

And there is only a resounding silence, only a holy silence, filled with joy and pregnant with possibility. And in that silence the eunuch hears the answer to his own question ring out in the depths of his being. And the answer is NOTHING. What is to prevent me from being baptized? NOTHING. And with that answer, he feels the last of his bonds fall away completely, and he is free, finally free to open the door of the chariot and step out into a new understanding, a new way of being, a new community, an entirely new life in Christ.

In the past few days, we have all heard about, talked about, worried about ways in which we can feel trapped by the world, by the incomprehensible woundedness of our cities, the frustrating challenges of the church, the baffling brokenness of our own selves. We all know what it is like to feel stuck and stifled, to feel as if we have nothing but questions that tangle us in knots. Who are we? Where have we come from? Where are we going, who will show us how to get there, and who will join us along the way? But this holy word of scripture assures us that if we are bold enough to ask “What is there to prevent us,” we will hear the very same answer – NOTHING.

There is only nothing – nothing to prevent us from that mystery, that wonder, that sacrament, that challenge to which God calls us. There is nothing to prevent us. Why? Because in his life, death, and resurrection, Christ, that suffering servant, has made it so. He has promised to be with us always, to step into the chariot with us again and again and again, to walk miles into the wilderness of our lives to find us and untangle us from the whatever thicket we have lost ourselves in. Christ has called us to be bold enough to ask that question – what is to prevent us?  

What is to prevent us from being fully open to the mystery we worship? Nothing. What is to prevent us from reaching out our hands to the poor and reaching the heights of heaven? Nothing. What is to prevent us from proclaiming the fundamental relevance of the Gospel? Nothing. What is to prevent us, all of us, laity and clergy, from living out the fullness of our baptismal covenant? Nothing. What is to prevent us from doing authentic, transformational ministry for and with young adults, and old adults, and not-quite adults, and everyone in between? Nothing. What is to prevent us from living the truth that the world is our parish? Nothing. What is to prevent us from just starting to do mission? Nothing. What is to prevent us from bridging the achievement gap in our own cities and towns, across the entire nation and the world? Nothing. What is to prevent us, in this society, from starting a new movement, a new Anglo-Catholicism to transform the church, to transform the world? Nothing. What is to prevent us from intentionally inviting more of our women colleagues to join this society so that our membership and our national conferences reflect more accurately the fullness of our life together? Nothing. What is to prevent us from claiming in our rule of life that we not only center our lives on the Eucharist but also on our mission to the poor? Nothing. What is to prevent us from growing strong bonds between all of the provinces of the Society of Catholic Priests around the world, bonds forged in love, in word and deed, in holy food and drink? Nothing. What is to prevent us from being entirely flame and setting the world alight with the blazing truth of our salvation in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? Nothing.

What is there to prevent us? NOTHING. For Christ goes before and behind, beside, above and below, with us, always to the end of the age. Christ goes before us, now and forever, to the end of the age. What is there to prevent us? 

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs, Society Convener

Feast of Saint Philip, 11 October 2013, Conference of the Society of Catholic Priests

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

*I am indebted to the writing of Yann Martel, author of The Life of Pi, for the feel of these last few sentences.

You may listen to Mother Johnson's sermon here.

“Between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”

Let me go out on a limb and say that the rich man in the Gospel story this morning got off easy.  I don’t mean in the afterlife; that certainly does sound bad.  I mean that what seems to have been asked of him in this life was pathetically easy.  He was a wealthy man in first-century Palestine.  Surely he had a house full of servants and plenty of square footage.  There was a single hungry beggar at the gate who would have been happy for any scrap from one of the sumptuous meals that were consumed in that place on a daily basis.  Surely this wealthy man, had he cared to think at all about the beggar at the gate, could have furnished him with a room, fed him until he regained his strength, and then employed him somewhere on the estate. 

He needn’t have done any of this himself, mind you.  He could have commanded that a servant see to the needs of Lazarus and then gone on about his prosperous life.  He needn’t have labored over this act of kindness any more than Oprah Winfrey used to labor over giving free copies of the latest self-help book to her adoring studio audience.  She had people for things like that.  And the wealthy man in today’s Gospel had people too, to see to life’s little necessities.  It would have been as easy for him to help Lazarus as it is for some of us to write a modest check: not enough to cause pain or second thoughts, but enough to get the charity to stop asking.

One suffering stranger at the gate?  Clearly this wealthy man did not live in Philadelphia.  He did not walk along the city streets as some of us do, witnessing displays of human distress outside fashionable shops and tempting restaurants.  He did not show signs of being aware of social inequalities, or of worrying about whether he was implicated in them.  He does not seem to have been called upon to cast his vote for politicians who won’t keep the public school system working or the national government open, no matter who gets hurt.  He does not seem to have been asked to think about the uses of global power or the ethics of intervening in Syria.  This imaginary wealthy man from first-century Palestine has just one task to fulfill, for all we know.  Just one moment in which a kind-hearted response to human suffering would be called for.  Just one shot to get it right or wrong forever.  Nothing very difficult.  Nothing very confusing.

And when I think of his story that way, I almost envy him.  It doesn’t seem that hard to show up once and do the right thing, does it? Or to have your servant do it for you?  What seems hard to me is knowing that today, if Lazarus appears at your gate, it’s possible that you might have the means to answer every one of Lazarus’s needs. And you may do so with an open heart and a willing spirit.  And you may go to bed tonight feeling great satisfaction.  But you will wake in the morning to the sound of another voice at your gate, another person or situation with a legitimate claim to your assistance.  Like Bill Murray in that old movie “Groundhog Day,” you will wake up every morning starting over from scratch with God and Lazarus and whatever you have of time, talents, and treasure.   The bosom of Father Abraham and the fires of Hades are for most of us a long way away, even if we are sure that we know what we are talking about when we gesture toward them.  This encounter with the suffering of others will not be a one-time experience for us.

Harsh though the fate of the rich man may be, his life and his afterlife may look to us like some cartoon version of the complexities we face as followers of Jesus.  Nor is it actually likely that living in first-century Palestine, under Roman occupation, was a simple thing for Jesus’s original audience.  Surely they struggled too, to know whom to help, when to help, how much to help.  “Who is my brother?” they asked of Jesus.  “How many times do I have to forgive?”  Like us, perhaps, they longed for a clear set of choices, a single task to complete, a yes or no answer.  They longed for perfect moral clarity, perhaps, for perfect righteousness.  They longed to feel that they had done what was required. 

But no such perfect clarity would be forthcoming for them, and no perfect clarity will be forthcoming for us.  In fact, the more I think about what perfect clarity would look like in the face of another person’s needs, the more I wonder whether clarity itself might be part of the great chasm we are always fixing between ourselves and each other.

Think about it: the wealthy man in this story knew exactly what to think about himself and about Lazarus.  He knew, deep down in the core of his being, that he was important and Lazarus was not.  It’s not a particularly admirable world view, but his consistency is absolute: not just a lifetime of stepping over the suffering man in his doorway, but a sense of entitlement that extends beyond the grave.  “Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony.”  “I beg you to send him to my father’s house.”  And most astonishingly, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.”  Can you imagine?  “No, father Abraham!”  “No, great biblical patriarch who trusted the Lord’s most baffling promises even to the point of being willing to sacrifice your own son.  I know more about faith than you do!  Tell Lazarus to give up his heavenly rest and look after my family.”  Nothing is going to make him question his own superiority.  Not even the torments of Hades.

Now, I don’t think many of us would formulate a statement so baldly self-serving, much less uphold it beyond the grave:  “I am important and Lazarus is not.”  We are mostly, thank God, disinclined to be openly contemptuous.  We are not cartoon characters.  But how often do we put up little walls of certainty that keep us from having to face the needs of other people?  “They get what they deserve,” we may say, or “There is nothing that can be done for a person like that.”  “Freedom and prosperity depend on the fact that there will always be winners and losers among us.” “It is the fault of the other political party.”

Even our best impulses can be part of the chasm we fix between ourselves and those whose needs overwhelm us: “I helped at the Soup Bowl last Saturday; I’ve done my share.”  “I’m only one person.”  “I give to people who can demonstrate that they will use my money well, but I never take a chance on the unknown or the undeserving.”  We long to feel that we have done what is required.  We long to have an answer.  Clarity.  Some chasm fixed between the rich and the poor so the rich can sleep at night.  And we will unthinkingly reduce the suffering of other people to some cartoon version of reality that we can imagine handling in just the right way.  We will over-simplify because we are afraid.

But note what happens to this wealthy man in the Gospel story.  After a lifetime of reducing Lazarus to insignificance, this wealthy man becomes unable to escape his own cartoon.  He spends eternity staring at that chasm he so diligently created in his lifetime.  I think that may be why Jesus tells this story the way he does, as though it were such a black and white situation.  He lures us into our own position of comfortable certainty.  We are no fools!  We know the rich man is wrong and the poor man will be received into the arms of God.  I saw that one coming from the beginning of the story, didn’t you?

And then Jesus delivers the punch line: “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” Nothing, that is, not even the resurrection of our Lord, will move us if we have become too comfortable with our own simple story about who matters and who does not.  What could be more chilling than to hear the voice of our savior, reaching forward in time and predicting that we will not have ears to hear?  I can’t think of a more powerful image of being lost.

But perhaps we need not be lost, no matter how powerfully the suffering of the world threatens to overwhelm us.  If Jesus calls to us for any single purpose, it has to be this: that we might be free to love abundantly.  Jesus will not deny us the gift of giving to others.  We can rely on his help, every day, as we start from scratch with Lazarus. 

Keep a place in your heart for the creative power of Jesus when you turn toward Lazarus at your gate.  Don’t get stuck in a cartoon version of good and bad.  Don’t look for winners and losers.

On Monday, pray and tell yourself that you will give even if you aren’t sure whether you should.  On Tuesday, pray and re-evaluate.  Talk to someone who has taken a risk for the Gospel.  Talk to Pauline and Don, our interns, and ask them how they made such a risky commitment to giving.  On Wednesday, pray and be mindful of your own inherent limitations.  On Thursday, pray that when you give you will be spared the curse of self-righteousness.  On Friday, pray—pray hard—and forgive the politician of your choice for not knowing how to do what’s right any better than you do.

Do you see the plan?  We can with God’s help make this the work of a lifetime, not the task of a single day. We can stay in motion.  We can let the suffering of the world be the mystery that it is, and remain small in the face of that mystery.  We need never sell our souls for the cheap cartoon luxury of feeling in control.  Just for today, let’s chip away at the chasm that is established between the rich and the poor, in whatever way we can.  Let’s see where it takes us, and let’s band together as we follow. 

Indeed, chipping away at that chasm has taken this parish to some wonderful places like the Saturday Soup Bowl and Saint James School.  And there is always more that God can do with us if we are willing to stay in motion. 

Jesus has come from beyond the grave to give us words of life.  And we really wouldn’t be here this morning if we weren’t willing to budge, to hear a little bit of what he says.  That’s all we need to be sure of for today; that’s enough to take us into tomorrow with its challenges and blessings.  That’s enough to keep us open to the reality of the world around us.

Let’s try everything we can, and see what works.  In the words of today’s Epistle: “pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness….[T]ake hold of the life that really is life.”

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson

29 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

Short Term 12 is a new, independent film about the staff and residents of a group home for foster children. The movie opens with a scene in the yard outside the home and a conversation between Nate, a new volunteer who is visibly nervous, and Mason, a long- time staffer who is trying to reassure Nate by recounting a story about a particularly embarrassing experience he had during his first week at the home. The story hinges on the fact that residents of the home regularly try to escape, knowing that if they can get outside the gate, the staff literally can’t touch them. Inside the gate, the staff can physically restrain them; outside the gate, staff members can only follow them and try to talk them into coming back inside. As Mason tells his story, two other staff members gather around, already laughing at the punch line they know is coming. But just as Mason reaches the story’s climax, a high-pitched, ferocious scream comes from inside the house. Seconds later, a skinny, freckled, red-headed boy comes tearing out the front door, headed for the gate. Mason turns to Nate and says, “Here we go,” and he takes off. The boy is running as fast as he can, head back, arms pumping, but the adults catch up to him quickly. They flank him, grab hold of his arms, and pull him down into a seated position. Mason tells Nate to grab the boy’s legs and hold him still. The boy is wild, screaming, panting, kicking and squirming for all he’s worth. But the adults just sit there, holding him down, talking him down, telling him that it’s going to be alright, making jokes about how he was able to get a little further that time before being caught. They don’t ask him what’s wrong, they don’t tell him not to do it again. They don’t try to fix him; they just sit with him, squeezing him in from all sides, keeping him safe. Gradually the boy’s breathing slows, the screaming stops, and he settles down, head lowered, body slumped, exhausted and deflated. And when he’s settled, the adults simply help him up off the ground and walk him back into the house. Welcome to short term 12.

During the course of the movie, we never learn this boy’s full story. We learn that his name is Sammy; we learn that he seems to have a compulsion to play with any toy he can find. We see him getting his meds – four cups full of pills – and we see how he curls up into himself when his therapist orders that all of his toys must be taken away. But that’s all we know. We know that he is wounded; we know that he is broken. We know that he has suffered some kind of trauma that would likely shock and horrify us were it to be named. And we know that the staff and volunteers of the group home are committed to keeping a constant eye on him, to making sure that he is seen, that he is safe, this skinny little lost sheep.

The number of lost sheep in this country is astounding. On any given day there are 400,000 children in foster care in the United States. Most of these are placed in homes, but a full 15% of them have to live in group homes like short term 12. In the city of Philadelphia, approximately 3,000 children are added to the foster care system each year. Most of them are never adopted and remain in foster care for years. Many simply age out of the program, turn 18 and are sent into the world with precious little experience of how to live outside of an institution, on their own, alone.

And, of course, in the city of Philadelphia there are many more lost sheep than just those who are in the foster care system. Recent studies have revealed that 39% of Philadelphia’s children live below the poverty line and that almost 10% of Philadelphia’s high school students have at some point been homeless. And our public schools are in the direst of straits: A $304 million budget deficit. 24 fewer schools than last year. Class sizes as high as 48 students per class. 3700 teachers laid off at the end of last year, with only 1600 recalled this fall. 60% of Philadelphia’s schools without a full-time guidance counselor. Assistant principal positions slashed. I even read one article this week about a school principal who is now also serving as the school nurse. How in the world are those stalwart public educators who remain supposed to do their jobs? How can they possibly keep their eyes on all of these children, making sure they are safe, that they are fed, that Individual Education Programs are followed for those who have learning difficulties, that bullies are stopped in their tracks? How can all of these kids possibly be seen, kept safe and protected? How can they not be lost?

And yet, Jesus assures us that they are seen, that they are protected. In the strongest possible terms, Jesus assures us that all who are lost will be found, that those who are broken in body, mind, or spirit, those who come from broken homes, those who have lived a life of broken promises, those whose relationships with God or with others are broken because of sin, those who live with the constancy of a broken heart, will be found. The shepherd will “go after the one that is lost until he finds it.” No matter what stands in the way, no matter how much that lost sheep has hopelessly curled up into itself, God will search, God will look for the lost one until he is found. God keeps his eyes on each individual sheep and will not let even one be lost forever. As one biblical commentator puts it, this parable assures us that “God counts by ones.”* One sheep found, or one broken heart mended, or one sinner redeemed, or one child protected, or one beautiful new child baptized, all with one joyful celebration in heaven.

But here is my question for us this morning: what about those other 99 sheep? Commentators have always puzzled over the fact that the shepherd in this parable left his sheep behind. Did he just leave them alone in the wilderness? Or are we to assume that he left them in the care of another shepherd? The parable doesn’t really tell us. But what if, what if we imagined that the other 99 went with him? What if the other 99 somehow followed along, inspired by the shepherd’s bravery? What if they stretched out in a long line across the wilderness like a search party, baahing as loudly as they could to call their friend to safety? What if the other 99 helped as much as they could to find the one who was lost? Now if they did find him, of course, they couldn’t do much. They couldn’t pull him out of a crevasse or bind his wounds or pick him up on their little sheep shoulders to carry him home. But they certainly could sit with him, flank him with their wooly fluff, squeeze him tight, offer soft, reassuring sounds, and wait until more help, until a savior, comes.

            You and I, most of us, are the other 99. And we can, we must, join in the search for the lost sheep of this city. So many of you are doing this already. Some of you tutor or mentor at local schools. Some of you work for arts organizations like Play On, Philly, that prove how music can transform the life of any child. Some of our rectory residents work every day with after-school programs, or with young adults who have aged out of foster care programs. Many of you give your time or your money to that great sheepfold known as the Saint James School. And, of course, other opportunities abound. We can volunteer with our new boys and girls choir, help to plan and staff the after-school programs that we hope will accompany that program. We can join in with the parents who are helping to safely walk Philadelphia students to their new, and newly far-away, schools. We can contribute to the mayor’s Philadelphia Education Supplies Fund. We can volunteer with Boys and Girls Clubs, with Philadelphia foster care, or at the very least, we can get to know the children in our own neighborhoods. We can say to the children of this city, with one voice, in the name of Christ, you will not be lost. We will search and search and search for you until we find you.

The final scene of Short Term 12 finds the staff again outside sharing stories. And once again, a piercing, fierce scream interrupts them as Sammy, now with an American flag draped around his shoulders like a Superman cape, sprints out the front door. Mason looks at his co-workers, smiles a wry smile, and says again, “Here we go.” And the movie ends with this beautiful, slow-motion chase scene. Sammy is in the lead, the adults are following, four across on the lawn. Sammy ducks and dodges, the adults follow him, turn to the left, get behind him, around him. And we know at some level that this chase will never end, that those 4 adults, those 4 of the 99, will never be able to totally fix Sammy or make him whole. But they will keep chasing him, keep searching for him, keep their eyes on him, helping him never be utterly lost. My friends, the race is on. Here we go. 

* Stephen C. Barton, "Parables on God's Love and Forgiveness" from The Challenge of Jesus' Parables, Richard N. Longenecker, editor.

Preached by Mother Takacs

15 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

The book of Proverbs is, as its name implies, a collection of sayings, really a collection of collections of sayings that are intended to help its readers lead a better life. It is, in many ways, a book of good advice. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” it says…and here are a few other tidbits that might help you out along the way. Many of these tidbits are folksy and colorful and fun to read. There’s “Better is a dinner of vegetables where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it” and “Whoever blesses a neighbor with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing.” There’s the beautiful: “One who gives an honest answer gives a kiss on the lips” and the gross: “Like a dog that returns to its vomit is a fool who reverts to his folly.” There’s the famous “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” and the infamous “Those who spare the rod hate their children, but those who love them are diligent to discipline them.” And then there’s my personal favorite: “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman without good sense.”

Today’s little tidbit is taken from a collection of sayings about how to act should you ever find yourself in the presence of a king: “Do not put yourself forward in the king’s presence or stand in the place of the great; for it is better to be told, ‘Come up here,’ than to be put lower in the presence of a noble.” Good advice. Better to intentionally underestimate your place in society and be told you’re actually cooler than you thought you were than to be told that you are no longer on the A-list. That’s very practical, very smart good council for real, everyday living. 

And maybe this is all Jesus meant when he quoted this proverb in today’s Gospel from Luke. He was at a party, he saw the Pharisee’s guests pushing and shoving and jockeying for position, and he was reminded of this little verse from Proverbs. Better not to make a fool of yourself, he offers, by placing yourself in first class and then being told you can only afford coach. Better to sit in the cheap seats in the hope that you’ll get bumped up. Good advice. And maybe that’s all he meant. Maybe if he had seen different behavior at the dinner he would have told another proverb, like “If you have found honey, eat only enough for you, or else, having too much, you will vomit it,” or “Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise.”

Maybe. But maybe not. Because there are a couple of things here that seem to belie this impression of Jesus as Ben Franklin writing Poor Richard’s Almanac. The first is that word “parable.” “When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable,” Luke tells us. And we know that in parables, things are rarely simple, and they are rarely what they seem. We know that parables are not just about giving good advice, about helping us lead a better life here on earth; they are also about revealing to us something of the kingdom of God. Parables are about more than simply advising us on the best ways to act; they are about showing us who we are, who we’re meant to be, deep in our being, as sons and daughters of God.

The second thing that undercuts the image of Jesus-as-Emily-Post is that Jesus’ parable doesn’t end with his words about where to sit at a banquet. He goes on to offer a corresponding parable for the host: when you give a party, don’t invite the people in your social circle, knowing that they’ll return the favor. Invite those outside the circle – invite the poor, the lame, the blind, the sick, the needy. Put yourself in the company of the lowly, and you will be rewarded.

Jesus is not merely playing a game of quote-the-proverb here; he is upping the ante, maybe even changing the game entirely. His words are not advice on proper party etiquette or how to get ahead in the world of kings and powerful hosts; his words are about helping us to find the right seat in the kingdom of God. And he makes it very clear that that seat is with the lowly. We are meant to sit in the back of the room with the rest of the B- or C- or D-listers. Jesus doesn’t suggest this just because it will help us save face (although it might), or just because it means we can serve all of the lowly people we’re sitting with (although that’s never a bad idea). No, Jesus suggests this because these seats are where we actually belong. He is showing us, once again, that we really are lowly. When it comes to your life in the kingdom, he tells us, when it comes to your own soul, don’t bother trying to exalt yourself, because it just won’t work. So find your seat in the lowest place, the humblest place, the place where you really belong.

Now this may sound overly pessimistic or bleak. It may even sound unhealthy. But it is none of those things – it is Gospel truth, and it is good news. The truth is that you and I are lowly, we are broken and vulnerable and sinful and we need help. And why is this good news? Because there is always help to be found. Because when we find our seat with the lowly, when we know and feel the true nature of our sin-sick souls, something truly miraculous happens. Dietrich Bonhoeffer put it best; he said that the point of accepting our seat with the lowly “… is not to make [the Christian] contemptible nor to disparage him in any way. On the contrary it is to accord him the one real dignity that man has, namely, that, though he is a sinner, he can share in God’s grace and glory and be God’s child.”* Knowing our sinfulness, knowing that our seats are truly with the lowly, knowing that it is impossible for us to exalt our own selves means that we can, with joy, claim our “one real dignity” – that we are, nonetheless, beloved, chosen, children of God.

And God is one who exalts. Jesus’ parables aren’t just about showing us that our seats are with the lowly; they are also about showing us that our God is one who will search us out in those seats and exalt us. Over and over again, when we are humble enough to see that we cannot save ourselves, when we are vulnerable enough to ask for help, when we are honest enough to choose a seat with the lowly, God helps, God reaches out to us and says, “Come, friend – come up higher. Sit here, with me.”

I wish that we didn’t forget this. I wish that we could always remember that God is there for us, a very present help in trouble. But we don’t always remember, we do forget. We become weighted down with hopelessness and imagine that there is no help to be found. Or we become seduced by our own self-sufficiency and imagine that we don’t need any help that’s out there. But this simply doesn’t work. The more we try to exalt ourselves, the more we fail, and the more we struggle. We struggle to forgive, we struggle to pray. We struggle to be generous, to be merciful, to speak truth with love. We struggle to love our neighbors, our enemies, ourselves. We struggle and fail, and struggle and fail, and this never ending cycle is frustrating and disheartening and exhausting and at worst we find ourselves giving up entirely and at not-quite-the-worst we find ourselves spinning out, off-center, and sick – stressed out beyond belief and sustainability; addicted to something that numbs the pain, like drugs or food or work or another person; hungry for love, desperate for home. On our own, we try, and we fail, and we struggle, and we hear again and again, no, no, get down from here, this isn’t your seat, this isn’t the place for you.

Without God, we can do nothing. But with God, nothing is impossible. So maybe we can stop trying to do the impossible on our own. Maybe we can finally stop struggling, stop laboring so hard to exalt ourselves. Maybe we can have the courage to be truly humble, to pull up a seat among the sick and the broken and the addicted and the lonely, and the lame and the poor and the unemployed and the heartsick and to know that we are at home, and that we are blessed to be there. We are blessed to know that we do not have to do this, this life, this walk, this discipleship, on our own. After all, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” is not actually in the Bible, not even in the book of Proverbs. But “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid” is. “All who humble themselves will be exalted” is. And so is “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. For I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto you souls.” Come, friend, come up higher. Come unto me. That sounds like pretty good advice. 

*Taken from Life Together.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

1 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

I wonder what Jesus looked like when he prayed. Did he stand or sit…or kneel? Did he face east or west, turn to the sun or to the sea? Did he walk about as he prayed, matching long strides to the pace of his prayer? Did he take off his shoes or cover his head? Did he hold himself still, or did he daven and silently move his lips? Did he chant or sing or hum? Did he close his eyes and bow his head? Did he smile, or frown, or weep? Did he begin his prayers in silence or with a sigh? Did he stretch his arms to heaven and say, O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you, in the name of the Father, and of me, and of the Holy Spirit? No, perhaps not.

What did Jesus look like when he prayed? The Gospels are fairly mute on the subject. There is, of course, the moment on the mount of transfiguration when Jesus’ garments began to glow white like no amount of sunshine and Clorox could ever bleach them. But other than that one description of Jesus in prayer, the Gospels leave us guessing. They do often tell us where Jesus prayed, that he liked to pray in places that were set apart and secluded – a mountain, the wilderness, places of privacy where the Holy Spirit had enough space to take wing. But what Jesus looked like when he prayed there? We are left only to imagine.

Today’s Gospel reading is equally silent on the subject. Luke tells us that Jesus is off praying “in a certain place,” perhaps one of these deserted spots, away from the maddening crowds. But it seems that this particular “certain place” is not so very far away, because the disciples can clearly see him. And they are watching him closely. Look! they whisper to one another. He’s praying again. Just look at him. I wish I could pray like that. He looks like he is full of peace, full of beauty and holiness. I want to look just like that when I pray.   

So when Jesus returns to the group, they ask him to show them how. Lord, teach us to pray, they say, the way that John taught his disciples. Now scripture again has nothing to say about how John the Baptist prayed, but I would imagine that his prayer practices were as severe as his wardrobe. Find a rocky spot in the desert, I can hear him saying, and kneel there until you can feel the sharpness of your sin. If you are ever unsure of your need to repent, walk into the desert and sweat a while. Hairshirts are always helpful tools to keep you from being too comfortable with the riches of the flesh, and always, always remember to say grace before tucking in to your locusts and wild honey.

Who knows what John the Baptist taught his disciples about prayer, and who knows what Jesus’ disciples are expecting when they ask him for some prayer instruction. But one thing is for sure – the disciples want to pray like Jesus. They want to look like him; they want to be like him. They want to be world-class pray-ers, Olympic athletes of supplication, Greek gods of petition. Teach us to pray, Lord, so that we can be really good at this, as good as you are, beautiful and serene and holy, holy, holy, just like you.

Jesus, of course, knows what they are asking. He knows exactly what they are looking for. He knows what it is that they want from him, but he also knows what it is that they need from him. So instead of offering helpful hints about the seven habits of highly effective pray-ers, he just smiles and says, okey dokey – or however you say okey dokey in Aramaic – this, my children, is how you pray.

Father. Hallowed be your name. And with those five simple words, Jesus changes everything. Father. Hallowed be your name, and instantly Jesus takes the focus away from the pray-er to the pray-ee. Because prayer, Jesus knows, is not primarily about our holiness; it is first and foremost about the holiness of God. God is the holy one, the numinous one. The disciples may have been asking about how to be holy themselves, but Jesus knows all holiness, all beauty, all prayer begins with God, the Holy One, the one whose very name is so holy it cannot be spoken, whose being is so holy it can only be expressed in the sound of sheer silence, whose presence is so holy that we cannot bear to look upon it. Take off your shoes, Jesus tells his disciples, for your God is holy, and the place of prayer is always holy ground.

But Jesus’ teaching does not stop there, because he then goes on to show his disciples – including you and me, of course – that this holiness does not exist for its own sake. It is not a disembodied, disinterested holiness; it is holiness on your side, holiness for you. That holiness is your Father, your Mother. That holiness is closer to you than your own heart. That Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy Immortal One is extremely, intimately, inexhaustibly interested in you. And so ask, and your prayers will be answered. Ask for bread enough, for food enough, for patience and endurance and strength enough. Ask for whatever you need, ask again and again, ask and seek and knock, for our God is holy and righteous and will give you whatever you need, not because of your holiness, but because of His. God will give you whatever you need, not because you prayed well, or enough, or at the right time of day or in the right posture or with the right words, but because God is God and can do no other.

God can do no other – including giving us anything less than a good gift. Jesus promises us that God will respond to our prayers, but he does not promise that God will give us what we ask for in the form that we would prefer the very second we’re looking for it. God actually knows better than that. God will not give us more stuff when what we need is more space. God will not give us a quick fix when what we need is a slow returning. God will not take us out of the wilderness when what we need is to see that he is in the wilderness with us. God will not even give us an instant cure when what we need is an enduring healing. This is good news, of course, but it is not always easy. It’s difficult to lay aside our own expectations about what God’s response will look like or when it will come. We can start to imagine that God has gone deaf and dumb, when really the problem is that while he’s reaching out to offer fish and eggs, we’re looking around for snakes and scorpions.

But the more we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, the better we get at seeing the gifts that God offers. The more we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, the more holiness we begin to see all around us. For the holiness of God cannot be contained. It spreads out and around, landing on everything like sunshine dripping down the soft leaves of summer. It is a saturating holiness that fills in the tiniest cracks and makes even the rests between the notes pregnant with the presence of the Almighty. It is a holiness that rubs off and rubs in, even into you and in me.

When we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, you and I actually become the holiness that we seek. When our eyes are pining for the beauty of God, when we turn our faces to the "splendor of Goddes grace," we actually begin to look like heaven. begin to look like what we’re looking for. “And every gentle heart,” poet Robert Bridges writes, “that burns with true desire/Is lit from eyes that mirror part/Of that celestial fire.” And that is what you look like when you pray. You look beautiful. You are beautiful when you pray. You are beautiful when you say Father, Hallowed be your name. You are beautiful when you join with angels and archangels to sing Holy, Holy, Holy with all of the heavenly choirs. You are beautiful when you sing “Here, O my Lord, I see thee face to face,” yes, even you in the back who thinks that God would probably rather you not sing in public, let me tell you, you’re wrong, God loves it when you sing, especially hymns out of The Hymnal 1982. When you sing, when you pray, you are so beautiful, filled with the holiness of God, afire with the light, the truth, the beauty that the world so pines to see. You are so beautiful that someone out there, who is looking for a home or looking for a hope might just look at you and say, wow. I want to pray like she does. I want to look like that. Teach me how to do that. So tell them. Father. Hallowed be your name. Invite them to pray in the beauty of holiness. Alleluia, alleluia! Praise with us the God of grace.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

July 28, 2013

The Mississippi Conference on Church Music and Liturgy

St. Philip's Episcopal Church, Jackson, Mississippi