Saint Mark's Church

If I close my eyes when I pray,

I sometimes wonder

what I am preventing myself

from seeing.

 

Am I shutting out the world? 

Will God project some image

inside my eyelids,

that only I can see,

but have not yet seen?

 

My hands are closed, too.

Clasped, is what you would call them.

Closed is what they, are –

unable to reach, to grab, to pinch,

or to hold on to anything.

 

What else in me is closed

when I pray,

if my eyes and my hands

are closed?

 

Usually my mouth is running,

which is not so different

from when I am not praying,

and my mouth is running…

which is another way of being closed.

 

And my mind, of course,

is following (yes, following)

my mouth;

so it is occupied, unavailable, and closed.

 

What else is left,

if my eyes, and my hands,

my mouth, and my mind

are accounted for?

 

Only my heart.

 

When the Scriptures say

that Jesus was in the world,

and the world was made by him

but the world knew him not.

That he came unto his own,

and his own received him not,

where does that put me,

since I am part of this world?

And where does it put you?

 

Remember, I am praying,

and my eyes, and by hands, are closed,

and my mouth is running,

my mind is following behind.

And there is only my heart to wonder about.

 

If this is what I am like at prayer,

how could I receive him, ever?

How could you?

 

I am so busy with myself,

how can I receive him,

when he comes into the world?

 

I have my interests, my worries,

my loves, and infatuations,

my greediness, and desires;

I have my work, and my church

to distract me from Jesus,

if I will let them,

which, generally, I do.

Don’t you?

 

And remember, even when I pray,

almost everything is closed, shut,

unable to receive him.

 

Sometimes my dog lies on his back,

all four limbs crookedly in the air,

his pink, fur-less belly exposed.

I can stroke his silly belly this way,

and he will wag his tail,

and stay that way for a little while,

until being so exposed

becomes too much.

 

Is that what it would be like

to be able to receive the Christ?

To lie, belly-up, naked, and exposed?

To be available to be touched by him,

even my silliest parts?

Un-concerned, for a while,

with myself?

 

It’s so much easier to let it be about me.

So much easier to presume that the world

awaits my judgments,

owes me something,

belongs to me.

 

And, therefore, I am free

to make an assessment

about God, and about his Son.

 

I am free to decide

whether I want him

or not.

 

Free to decide

whether I need him

or not.

 

Free to decide

whether he is real

or not.

 

As though all that were mine,

though it is not.

Though I am still free

in just those ways.

 

And he comes to his own,

and his own receive him not.

 

I want Christmas to be

as soft as pine boughs,

as comfortable as a bed

of green, scented needles.

 

I want it to be only, ever

a manger,

and me outside of it,

able to come and go as I please,

or not.

 

But what I need

is for Christmas to be the sharp,

strong end of a wedge,

or a lever,

that subtly works its way

into some crack, or seam,

or tiny opening

in all that is shut up and closed

and unavailable in me.

 

Because as it is,

I am not ready or able

to receive him.

My eyes, and hands, and mouth, and mind

are not open for him.

 

My heart is not open to him.

I am battened down,

and all his battery is of little use,

when I am like this.

For how can he batter my heart,

if I will not even open the door?

 

But a wedge, or a lever,

something strong that I hardly notice

at first.  Maybe that would work!

Something like a baby?

 

Sometimes it helps

to go back to the beginning.

In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God.

 

Every time we go back

to the beginning,

it’s as though there is

another chance to receive him.

Every time we remember

that the Word was made flesh

and dwelt among us.

 

As subtle as a baby:

a thin, sharp, long lever;

a wedge

to get into those tight places,

whence I might be pried open.

 

It’s as though I am lying on my back,

my silly belly open to the sky,

and to the possibility that God will touch me,

will touch you,

and we will wag our tails.

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

30 December 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

I am told that we are now living in the age of “big data.”  The term refers to all the information floating out there in the digital world.  Information that is added to the data set when you make a phone call, or send a text message, or search Amazon for a book to read, or post dopey photos of your dogs on Facebook, or send an email, or search for anything at all on Google.  All these (now daily) activities generate data that is being stored somewhere for someone to use for some purpose or other.  Walmart is using it to figure out what to sell you.  The Department of Homeland Security is using it to determine whether or not you are a potential terrorist.  And the Obama campaign used it to figure out how likely you were to vote for the incumbent president.  Some people estimate that the amount of data to be stored or tracked in the world doubles every 1.2 years.  That’s a lot of data.

In many ways Christmas seems like a big-data kind of holiday.  There is lots of information to keep track of: shopping lists, recipes, holiday parties, Christmas cards, mailing lists, etc. 

And the whole Santa gig seems like it lends itself easily to the world of big data.  There are big sets of binary data for Santa to keep track of: girls and boys; naughty or nice.  If the elves aren’t into big data yet, they will be soon.

And what could be a bigger big data gig than God’s?  I mean whose got more to keep track of than God?  This year, managing not only all the usual stuff but also keeping one big-data-eye on the Mayan calendar as well!  God is all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful.  God is the original big data user.  The more we learn about the universe and its size, the more impressive is God’s capacity for big data.  Not only is our own planet exploding with growth and complexity, apparently the entire universe has been expanding for millions of years.  What God must know about big data would put Google to shame!  And Christmas, we are reminded, is a holiday for everyone.  Jesus came into the world for everyone, and we have been continuing the celebration of his birth for more than two thousand years, so the data around this holy night must be getting bigger and bigger by the year.

Which is why it is odd that actually the Christmas story seems so devoid of big data.  There is this one particular pregnant Jewish girl, and her particular, patient mensch of a fiancé.  They make their way to a particular small town, well outside of the big-data capital of the day, and all the lodges are booked, so they find shelter in the tiny, particular sanctuary of a stable.

At the time, the data about what was happening was actually only a tiny set of information.  A prophecy here and there, a few angels in the sky, and some shepherds who had nothing else to do.  This is not a big data moment – it’s more like performance art.  There is the matter of the star that shines to mark the place of Jesus’ birth – and one star out of millions does seem like maybe it could be tracked with big data – but the wise men are wise enough to keep the information to themselves, and the star guides only them.  In fact, the only potential user of big data in the entire Christmas story is the villain – Herod the king – who sets out to destroy every baby boy in Bethlehem, while the Holy Family slips away in tiny obscurity.

In our own time, Christmas has become such a huge holiday that it is no longer even just about the story of that little family.  Christmas is about peace and joy and love in any shape or size, from Whoville to Hollywood, and everywhere in between.  It’s about marketing and shopping and malls and sales and parties and movies, and parades, and music.  It is about big, big data, which is probably OK, probably not hurting anyone.  Maybe sometimes all the data around Christmas obscures it, but so far no amount of data has ruined Christmas.  And part of the miracle of Christmas is this: that despite the great proliferation of data, the whole thing persistently boils to down to the very small data set of two: you and the child, Jesus.

In a world that is sifting through big data to send you a targeted Groupon, Jesus is being born for you.  Not someone like you; not someone in the same demographic set as you, but being born for you.

For God, who has all the data in the universe available to him, has little need for it.  God does not have to figure out what kind of advertisements you are most likely to respond for, or what size shoe you wear, or what kind of music you listen to, or whether or not you are behind on your mortgage, or who you voted for in the last election.

This is information everyone else wants about you, needs about you, to try to get what they want out of you.  But God already knows all this about you, and tonight, it hardly matters.  Tonight, God doesn’t want anything out of you at all.  Tonight God wants to give you something.  He wants to give you the gift of his Son.  And this is a tiny piece of data – no bigger than an infant child – it has not gotten any bigger after all these centuries.

God gives this gift to you and to me because he sees how much we need to be transformed.  He sees how easily our hearts are hardened, how selfish we become, how unwilling to share, how ready to fight.  He sees how we make much ado about nothing, how we grapple for power, how we live for things that are not important, while the important things in life go wanting.

God has ample data to show that we are not ready to receive a gift from him – even after all these years.  He already knows that he will send his Son into the world and the world will receive him not, again and again.  There is immense data to demonstrate this to God.  These days the data points to the possibility that more and more people don’t give a damn about God or his Son, and even those of us who claim to care, often do a rotten job of acting as though we do – unable to follow his one simple commandment that we should love others as he loved his disciples.

So, God has been crunching the numbers, year after year, Christmas after Christmas. Perhaps this year he has upgraded his technology, increased his server-power, and really thrown himself into big data.  Who knows?

But still, as Christmas comes, there is this remarkable fact that it all boils down to the tiny data set of you and Jesus… me and Jesus.  There is no big data here.

There is only the fact of God’s love and his power to change our lives for the better – a fact that could constitute a universe of big data…

… but instead has been somehow implanted in the womb of a virgin girl, born in a stable in Bethlehem, visited by shepherds and wise men, and sung to by angels in the sky.

And which tonight is just about you and the child Jesus… about me and the child Jesus…

… who has given up his power to master all the data of the universe, in favor of simply being cradled by each of us in our hearts…

… in this tiny, little data set of two…

… on this dark, and rainy, and eventually… on this silent night.

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Christmas Eve 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

 

Do not fear, O Zion;

let not your hands grow weak.

The Lord your God is in your midst.  (Zeph 3:16-17)

For most of her history, Israel has dreamt of Zion: a high place where God reigns, and where peace and prosperity, safety and happiness are the order of the day.  Christians inherited this dream from our Jewish ancestors.  We never forgot that we came from a people who were led by God to a Promised Land, a land said to be flowing with milk and honey.

So magnificent was the prospect of the American continent that it was easy for some of our more recent ancestors to imagine that this great land was, at last, the Promised Land of God.  Indeed, to travel across America – from its cities to its vast and varied wilderness – is to encounter a land that might well be blessed by God.  Many Americans have tended to think of our nation as a kind of Zion – an exalted place where God reigns, and where peace and prosperity, safety and happiness are the order of the day.

But we share with Israel – ancient and modern – the regular, painful awakening to our own delusion about this.  God is not in charge here.  Peace and prosperity are both elusive.  And safety and happiness slip easily from our grasp whenever we think we are holding them fast.  

The apparent foolishness of hoping for Zion is one thing that has contributed to the easy dismissal, these days, of religion and faith.  “See how all they hope for proves false and crumbles, time and time again,” say those who only believe that there is nothing to believe in.  And this can be a hard argument to counter, for it often appears to be accurate.  Zion is smoke and mirrors, a fantasy, like Oz – a manipulated but false promise that something beautiful lies at the other end of the yellow brick road.  Only fools, hopelessly stuck in a childish fairy tale, place their hope in such ideas.

It is, of course, true that Zion crumbles every time we think we have it in our grasp, that the Promised Land always lies just beyond the horizon, and sometimes the horizon seems very far away indeed.  As it does today, in the aftermath of the bloody slaughter of holy innocents in Connecticut two days ago.  If Zion was anywhere in sight before, we have lost it now; if ever it seemed within our grasp, it has proved to have been made of a kind of crystal that crumbles and melts at the merest touch of our fingers.

If Zion is the hope for peace and prosperity, safety and happiness, where is that hope today?  It is being readied for burial with the little bodies of twenty beautiful children.

What can we do but keep silent in the face of such sadness?

[Silence]

 

Somewhere beneath the rubble of our lives, are the foundations of Zion – the foundations of hope.  After the silence… eventually… when we are ready… comes the work of digging through the rubble of disaster to rebuild Zion, which is to say, to rebuild hope in our lives and in the lives, I pray, of those whose children or brothers, or sisters, or friends, or teachers, or students, were taken violently from them.

Every child is a Zion-in-miniature – a symbol of hope, of peace and prosperity, safety and happiness – and every child is just as fragile as the hope for Zion, just as susceptible to the wickednesses of every age, just as likely to crumble at our touch, especially when we treat so many children with a cruel indifference in our own day and age.  See how easily they crumble.  See how easily we destroy our own hope.  Zion crumbles. 

A voice says, “Cry.”  And I said, “What shall I cry?”  All flesh is grass, and its beauty is like the flower of the field.  Zion crumbles.

But a voice reminds us to dig through the rubble  - painful though it may be.  Yesterday that voice belonged to the parent of a murdered six-year-old girl, Robbie Parker, who, in expressing his grief, found the strength to offer his prayers and sympathy for the family of the man who killed his daughter.  As Zion crumbled all around him, he was already identifying the stones with which it would be rebuilt: stones of forgiveness, faith, and love.

Do not fear, O Zion;

let not your hands grow weak.

The Lord your God is in your midst.

… [and] I will bring you home.

Sometimes the voice is all we have; a voice that says, “Cry!”

What shall we cry?

We might remind one another that while it may be deeply American to defend the right to bear arms, it is yet more deeply godly to burn with a desire to beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks.  And that means every kind of weapon, firearm, missile, and bomb: transformed in the heat of God’s forge.  For Zion cannot be built with the edge of a sword or the barrel of a gun.

How easily and how often Zion crumbles.

Since Friday, Zion has lain in smoking, bloody ruins in a school in Connecticut.

Who knows why God has made Zion so fragile, when we think we need a fortress?  Why is hope so easily killed?

A voice says, “Cry!”  And I said, “What shall I cry?”

Do not fear, O Zion;

let not your hands grow weak.

The Lord your God is in your midst.

… [and] I will bring you home.

 

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

16 December 2012

Saint Mark’s Church

2 days after the shooting of twenty children

and seven adults in Newtown, CT

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

For most of the time I have lived in Philadelphia – more than ten years now – I have been aware of the presence of an unusual character who regularly passes through the neighborhood here.  I have no idea if he lives nearby, or if he is also seen and known in other parts of the city.  I can’t say I see him every day; but three or four times a week would not be unusual.  And sometimes I don’t see him; I only hear him, so I know he is nearby.  He is a trim, fit fellow of indeterminate age – he could be in his 50s, but he could be in his 60s – it’s hard to say.  He wears runner’s tights, with short, runner’s shorts over them, and usually high socks, as well.  I think he always has a cap on his head, and usually there is a set of small headphones over his cap, covering his ears.  Whether or not the headphones are connected to anything, I cannot say; it is not immediately apparent that they are.  And he has a small backpack on his back.  The colors of his close-fitting outfit are muted, not outrageous - blues and blacks and greys.  The get-up, which seldom changes very much, is not, I think, intended to draw attention to him.  Were it not for two distinct features of his ensemble, he could pass for any very fit but un-stylish, late-middle aged man devoted to his daily exercise.

But there are these two distinct features that render him remarkable.

First, he traverses around the neighborhood – and I can only surmise, around the entire city – on rollerblades.  Second, he carries with him a trumpet, upon which he occasionally blows short, loud blasts of a note or two, never an entire tune.  I am not at all sure he knows how to play the trumpet, although I have seen him carry one for years.  But he does know how to get a bit of noise out of the instrument.  And he rolls around the city sounding blasts from his trumpet, for no apparent reason.

Actually, I am being a little un-truthful in this description, for, in fact, a month or two ago, the rollerblading man gave up his trumpet in favor of a French horn, which appears a bit newer and shinier than the trumpet he once carried.  As was the case with the trumpet, one cannot say for certain that the man knows how to play the French horn.  One can only say that he does indeed know how to evince short, mellow blasts from the French horn, which almost evoke in the hearer’s mind hunting scenes in the Bavarian hills, but not quite.  I’m not sure what made the man forsake his trumpet in favor of the French horn.  I don’t think it’s the holidays, for I don’t ever recall noticing in years gone by seasonal adjustments in his orchestration or his repertoire.  And I wouldn’t venture an opinion to the question for which instrument the man demonstrates a keener aptitude.  And I must say that I have no idea what the man thinks or hopes he is accomplishing as he wheels his way through the streets of the city.

I wish I knew.

I wish I knew what dream or thought process or voice in his head compelled the man to don an outfit not unlike that of an Olympic bobsledder’s, with headphones either to drown out the sounds of the world, or to provide a soundtrack to his journeys, mount himself on wheels, a brass horn in his hand, and career around the city, blowing one-note fanfares as he goes.  And I wish I knew what made him change instruments.  Maybe the French horn was a gift!

I wonder if he is a religious man. I wonder if he is a Christian of some variety (for we come in many varieties).  I wonder if he reads the scriptures, and I wonder if he does, how does he read them?  I wonder if his get-up, and his skating circuits around the city are born of religious conviction.  I wonder if is his trumpet blasts – or more recently the blasts from his French horn – are meant to sound declarations for which he has no words, or which simply require the announcement of a brass section.  I wonder what he thinks he knows that I don’t know… if that’s why he does what he does.

Because I have nothing else to call him, and because it suits my purposes, I am going to call him Advent Man.  And because I have never had the opportunity to ask him, I am going to imagine what it is he believes.  I am going to imagine what he hears through his headphones, and what he sees in his dreams.  I am going to imagine what he carries in his little backpack.

I imagine that Advent Man lives in a state of perpetual preparedness - ready to go at a moment’s notice, ready to get wherever it is he’s going faster than the next guy, and ready to sound the alarm – whatever it may signify.  He is ready!  He is Advent Man, hear his horn!

I imagine that what Advent Man hears through his headphones may be the Gospel reading for today:  “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”  I imagine he hears these verses in pronounced by the voice of Sir Alec Guiness.

Or maybe it’s the voice of Morgan Freeman in his head:  “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

Stand up!  Raise up your heads!

I imagine that inside Advent Man’s little backpack is some water and a few power bars – just enough to tide him over if he is caught unawares for a day or two.  And maybe a rain jacket and a nice warm fleece.

I imagine that Advent Man has dreams very much like yours and like mine, and if he ever dreams of God, he dreams that God loves him, and searches him out, because I imagine that Advent Man knows he is like a sheep without a shepherd.

I don’t imagine that Advent Man hears voices in his head, other than the ones reading the scriptures to him.  I imagine that he hears Betty White telling the parable of the wise and foolish virgins.  And James Earl Jones telling the stories of John the Baptist (a particular hero of his, I would guess).

And I imagine that he hears Dame Maggie Smith reading Jeremiah:  “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: ‘The LORD is our righteousness.’”  Wouldn’t you like to hear Maggie Smith deliver those lines?  I sure would!

“Stand up!  Raise your head!”  That I imagine, is the secret message of Advent Man’s horn-blowing: Stand up!  Raise your heads!

I imagine that Advent Man doesn’t know how to play either the trumpet or the French horn because he knows it doesn’t matter.  When the time comes, God will put the tune in his heart and the notes on his lips!  And in the meantime, his short blasts of warning are enough:  Stand up!  Raise your heads!  Your redemption is drawing near!

And here is Advent Man’s greatest secret – not that he knows when the Messiah will come again, but that he knows he is in need of redemption.  He knows he is broken, sinful, pig-headed, and selfish.  He knows he has done those things he ought not to have done, and left undone those things he ought to have done.  And he has spent time, roller-blading around this city, thinking about all these things, recalling his shortcomings, remembering his foolishness, repenting for his sins.  All that time on wheels has not led him to reflect on how awesome he is.  It has made him realize how much he needs God in his life, and how prone he is to push God away.

Does he race around the city, as he does, in order to keep the wind in his face, to dry the tears as he recalls his own sinfulness?  And do the tears turn joyful when he hears, somewhat surprisingly, these words again - “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near,” – read by Oprah?  Who’s to account for the voices that proclaim the Gospel inside his head?  What’s important is that they grab his attention.  They get him out of bed every morning.  They loosen his fingers when they feel stiff, lacing up his rollerblades.  They remind him to raise his head, when he looks in the mirror, and to keep it raised throughout the day.  And they keep repeating the promise: your redemption is drawing near.  Your redemption is drawing near.  Your redemption is drawing near.

Advent is a time of warning and caution.  It is a call to repentance and a reminder of our human frailty, foolishness and selfishness.  But it is also a reminder of God’s promises.

Advent asks, why did you get up early to shop on Black Friday but you won’t get up to worship me?

Advent asks why you spent $1.5 billion on Cyber Monday and put $5 in the offering plate for God?

Advent asks what you mean when you call yourself a Christian?

Advent asks what it is you are hoping for?

Advent asks if you think you love God, are you ready to meet him?  Do you want to?

And Advent Man hears all these questions in his head – asked by the reasonable voice of Anderson Cooper, or sometime Walter Cronkite, because Advent Man is old enough to remember what Cronkite sounded like.

He hears all these questions in his head, and he cannot sit still or remain silent, even though he does not yet know where to go or what to say.  This is not stupid of Advent Man: this is faithful, which sometimes looks stupid to those who have no interest in a costly faith.

I imagine that Advent Man’s faith is a costly faith: it has cost him everything and boiled his life down to his simple outfit, and his jaunts through the city, and his one-note solos.  And I wonder, again, about why he switched from the trumpet to the French horn. I wonder if it’s because, occasionally, once in a very odd while, Advent man hears in his head the Gospel proclaimed by a voice that can be none other than God’s voice:  “Stand up!  Raise your head!  Your redemption is drawing near!”

Maybe to him, God’s voice sounded more like a French horn than a trumpet.

Or maybe it reminded him that the sound of the Gospel never grows stale, but rings out with new timbres and different tones, in new and different times.

I don’t know.  I can’t say.  I have no idea, in fact, if the man on rollerblades hears anything, or cares one fig for what people think when he blows his horn.  He might be carrying in his backpack nothing but a tuna fish sandwich and a Diet Coke, to munch on at lunch time, for all I know.  He might not hear any voices articulating the scriptures to him, and he might resent any comparison whatsoever to John the Baptist.  He and his dopey horn-blowing might mean nothing at all.

Which means that it may be the voice of God, proclaiming in my ears and yours, and in my heart and yours, and in this place when we gather:  Stand up!  Raise your heads!  Your redemption is drawing near.

Because I hear that ancient message proclaimed, and I pray you do too.

And I am reminded that I am broken, sinful, pig-headed, and selfish.  I know that I have done those things I ought not to have done, and left undone those things I ought to have done.  And so have you.  And sometimes I could use a strong breeze to dry the tears as I reflect on all these things.  But in Advent, my tears are turned to tears of joy, if I can just bend my ears and my heart to hear that proclamation carried somehow, mysteriously through the streets of the city:  Stand up!  Raise your head!  Your redemption is drawing near!  Your redemption is drawing near!  Your redemption is drawing near!

And the voice is unmistakable: it is the voice of Love.

 

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Advent Sunday

2 December 2012

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Late one recent night, I found myself staying up long past a reasonable hour to watch a broadcast of the 1967 film version of Camelot, with Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave.  The film is every bit endearing as I recalled, but I’d forgotten how shot through with angst the story is: how obvious to everyone is the affair between Guinevere and Lancelot; how unwilling is Arthur to acknowledge the truth; how cruel he is to Pellinore, the old man who tries gently to urge Arthur to accept the truth; how desperate is the king’s fondness for Lancelot; how inevitable is Guinevere’s fate, considering Arthur’s pride in the rule of law; how wicked is Mordred’s Oedipal jealousy.  And all presented with a jaunty score of song after memorable song.

Because of the Kennedy appropriation of the idea of Camelot, “that once there was a spot/ for one brief shining moment/ known as Camelot,” I think we tend to recall the story of the musical as if it was as chirpy as its title song.  But really it’s a story full of conflict and pain.  And the characters are all deeply flawed.  (So, I guess the Kennedy comparison holds.)  By the end of the movie, Mordred has desecrated the Round Table, Guinevere has been rescued by Lancelot from burning at the stake in the nick of time, and Arthur is preparing to go to battle with Lancelot.  England is clearly headed for the Dark Ages.  It’s not what you would call a happy ending.

I wonder if the story of Camelot has any parallels with the Christian story.  At the center: our hero, whose commitment to justice was admirable, but ultimately the institution he built to advance the cause wasn’t up to the task.  The church, like the Round Table: a good idea, but ultimately susceptible to the foibles of both its enemies and its own flawed leaders.  Of course, both provide fodder for good musical numbers and colorful costumes with a certain medieval flair.  But does the church seem to be headed for any better an ending than the musical’s?  Or will all be wrack and ruin by the time we finally acknowledge what everyone else can see is going on around us?  And do we have anything more to hold out to the would-be believer than a story that might be nice if it was true, but that seems frayed at the edges and straining at the seams?  Perhaps there was one brief shining moment long ago when the Christian faith was full of promise: before the schisms, and the crusades, before the greed and power and corruption, before the scandal and abuse, before the willful ignorance, before the disregard for women, before the stultifying self-absorption, etc., etc.  But you can see what happened.

One wonders if Arthur had a bit of a messianic complex.  Did he think to himself, in the words of the Christ, “My kingdom is not of this world”?  Or was his problem that he didn’t realize that the ideals of Camelot could never survive in this world, that they had to be aspects of another dimension of reality?  To look at the other side of that coin, is Jesus as delusional as King Arthur, when he stands before Pilate and says, “My kingdom is not of this world.”?

And what use is either of them to us – Jesus or King Arthur – if their kingdoms are not of this world?  After all, we have to live in this world, we have to work and strive, and hope and suffer, and repair, and restore, and ruin, and recover, and heal, and fall sick again, and forget, then remember, and lose things, and find some of them, and break, and fix, and wander, and get lost, and discover, and guess, and invent, and disfigure, and design, and build, and burn, and assemble, and discard, and recycle, and fight, and resent, and forgive, and repent, and assist, and cook, and wash, and nap, and conquer, and overcome, and deceive, and risk, and give, and take, and coddle, and cajole, and swoon, and sing, and sew, and float, and swim, and love, and live, and die in this world – not in some magical fairytale land.  What good is it to us to tell us that Jesus’ kingdom is not of this world?

Here’s what I think Jesus means by this, when he tells us his kingdom if not of this world.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a fleeting thing, that lasts for one, brief, shining moment.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a fantasy kingdom, where the climate must be perfect all the year, where winter is forbidden till December, and exits March the second on the dot.  It means that Jesus’ kingdom is not a kingdom of wishful thinking, where rain may never fall till after sundown, and by eight the morning fog must disappear.

Fantasy kingdoms are built in this world all the time, and they deliver only fantasy promises that, like a Broadway musical, bring momentary salve, but not real healing; a happy tune to hum, but not real hope; a call to arms, but not real justice; all the craziness of romance, but not real love; and illusions of resuscitation but not real life.  But the kingdom Jesus is talking about is a kingdom of real healing, real hope, real justice, real love, and real life.  It exists in dimensions beyond this world, but it is not inaccessible from this world.

How, then, does one get to Jesus’ kingdom?

There are really only two steps involved.  First, you follow Jesus.  Then you go where he sends you.

Now, following Jesus is not so easy.  To do so, you probably have to hear him call you, which is one reason to come to church – for here the call of Jesus is pronounced week after week as we proclaim the Good News of his ministry, and tell the story of his salvation.  Sometimes you have to stop and listen to hear Jesus calling.  You have to turn off your phone, take your earbuds out of your ears, shut off your iPod, and listen.  I’d call this praying – for listening is at least half of prayer.  Though it’s certainly possible that you could hear Jesus call while you are praising him: singing a hymn, or reciting a psalm, or raising your eyes to see him lifted high, as bells ring, during the Mass.

Then, if you listen to Jesus and follow him, eventually you are very likely to hear him tell you to go somewhere and do something.  Go ask for forgiveness where you have needed it for a long time.  Go help the hungry, the poor, the lonely, the sick, or the imprisoned.  Go help a child who the world is failing.  Go help a church that is struggling.  Go help someone whose life was turned upside down in a hurricane.  It’s hard to follow Jesus and never hear him tell you to get up and go somewhere and do something.

Now, these two steps, may not seem to take you very far, but the trick to the Christian life is in repeating these two simple steps over and over.  We have to stop and listen for Jesus over and over, because his voice is easily drowned out by the din of this world, and many people are actively trying to obscure the sound of it.  And we can’t follow Jesus unless we are listening to him.  And we have to go where Jesus sends us over and over, because mostly he sends us on small excursions that last an hour or two, or a half a day here and there, without interrupting every other aspect of our daily schedules.  So we repeat these two simple steps over and over: follow and go, follow and go, follow and go.  (If I was Lerner and Loewe, I’d write a song here.)

At the end of Camelot, as Arthur is about to take up the battle with Lancelot; he encounters a young boy named Tom, who tells the king that he wants to be a knight of the Round Table.  The boy’s naivete gives Arthur pause to reflect on what’s happened to his kingdom.  Despite his disappointment and his misgivings he has Tom kneel, and makes him a knight, commissioning him with a reprise of the title song of the show: “Don’t let it be forgot/ that once there was a spot/ for one brief shining moment/ that was known as Camelot.”

Long before I had any inkling about being a priest of God’s church, I wanted to be Tom.  I suppose I really wanted to be Richard Burton, but you have to start somewhere.  But now that I am older, I see how sad the story of Camelot is, and how hopeless the nostalgia it rests on.  Like all the Arthurian legend, it looks wistfully backward without any real hope of building Camelot in this world, because, after all, Camelot is the stuff of fantasy and musical theater.

But you and I have to live in this world.  We have to work and strive, and hope and suffer, and repair, and restore, and ruin, and recover, and heal, and fall sick again, and forget, then remember, and lose things, and find some of them, and break, and fix, and wander, and get lost, and discover, and guess, and invent, and disfigure, and design, and build, and burn, and assemble, and discard, and recycle, and fight, and resent, and forgive, and repent, and assist, and cook, and wash, and nap, and conquer, and overcome, and deceive, and risk, and give, and take, and coddle, and cajole, and swoon, and sing, and sew, and float, and swim, and love, and live, and die in this world – not in some magical fairytale land.

A fairytale land is what the church looks like, what the kingdom of God looks like, to those who are not willing to take those two simple steps: follow and go, follow and go.

But when we follow Jesus, listening to him, and then go where he sends us, doing the work he gives us, we find that we are already learning what it is like to live in his kingdom, where the hungry are fed, the poor are lifted from their poverty and given a decent education, the sick are cared for with compassion, where love sustains relationships despite many challenges, where justice is upheld, and where life does not end at the grave, as long as we are willing to follow and go, follow and go.

All these things are happening in God’s church, where his kingdom is being built even now.  All these things are real and true right now, in places where the saints of God follow and go, follow and go.  All these things are part of the life of this parish community, this church, this gathering.  This is no Camelot, we are just a parish church on Locust Street, in a city that struggles and fails to live up to its name.  But when we follow Jesus, listening carefully for his call, and the go where he sends us, we find that his kingdom, strangely not of this world, is nevertheless being built right here.

And so we rejoice in his kingship, and we crown him with honor and glory, we wave his banner on high.  And, God willing, we follow and go, follow and go; making the journey toward his kingdom which is not of this world, not remembered from one, brief, shining moment long ago, but is being built right here when we follow and go. 

And it’s enough to make you want to sing about it!

May God put the song of his kingdom on our lips, and in our hearts, and may he make us ever ready to follow him when he calls and to go wherever he sends us, in the service of Jesus Christ, our king.

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

25 November 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia