Saint Mark's Church

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

Several years ago, the BBC released an epic documentary series entitled “Planet Earth.” This production was the culmination of five years of extraordinarily intense work. Film crews traveled to the ends of the earth with high definition camera equipment in hand to record some of the rarest and most beautiful sights on the planet. They sat in blinds for months to capture the mating dance of a shy jungle bird, they weathered storms and ice to get just a few moments of footage of the rare snow leopard, they dangled out of helicopters to film enormous flocks of birds as they flashed and wheeled across the sky. The series is truly stunning stuff. Like everything that the BBC does, it is, in a word, brilliant.

One of the most memorable scenes for me was of a dark, lush South American rainforest. A giant tree has just crashed to the ground, ripping open a bright hole of sunlight in the thick canopy of the jungle, and what happens next is breathtaking. In seamless, fluid, time-lapse photography, the film shows us what the narrator calls the “race to the light.” Suddenly awakened by this shocking stream of sunlight, plants of all shapes and sizes start growing as fast as they possibly can, pushing up slender stems from the rich black earth, stretching and reaching as far as they can, wrapping long tendrils around tree trunks and pushing their fat leaves in the faces of other plants that are trying to grow just as fast as they are. It is an explosion of green, of plants yearning for the sun above their heads, longing to be the first green and growing thing to expand into that lone hole of light that beckons from above. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the growth stops. The hole is filled, the sun blocked out by all of the new growth, and the forest resumes its natural cycle of birth and death, of breathing out and breathing in.

It is a remarkable, stimulating, moving scene of Creation at work, a reminder that even with only the tiniest window of hope, even in a fierce plant-eat-plant world, growth happens. The conditions may be harsh, the moment of opportunity may be brief, but growth happens. We see this all the time in the city. Grass winds its way into the tiniest crack in the sidewalk and shoots up into the sun; flowers planted right on the sidewalk’s edge turn bright faces to the sky and hold on for dear life as they are whipped about by each passing truck; whole forests of majestic weeds tower in impossibly tight alleyways. With the smallest of opportunities, the narrowest of constraints, growth happens. And this, Jesus says, is just like the kingdom of God.

The kingdom of God is like a man who does only one little thing and then reaps a bumper crop of wheat. He scatters seed on the ground and then basically does nothing. He doesn’t hoe, he doesn’t water, he doesn’t fertilize or clear weeds or prune or pinch or run to Home Depot to get Turf Builder or Miracle Grow or some other Scott’s brand concoction. He just scatters the seed and waits. He sleeps, he rises, the sun goes up, the sun goes down, he breathes in, he breathes out…and growth happens. The seed becomes a sprout, and then the sprout becomes a stalk, and then the stalk begins to bear fruit until there is a full head of grain bursting and ready to be harvested. The man has no idea how. He has done just one small thing, and growth happens anyway. And this, we are told, is like the kingdom of God.

The kingdom of God is like the tiniest of seeds that grows into the heartiest of bushes. The mustard seed is so small that when it is cast into the ground it looks less planted and more swallowed up by the earth. The mustard seed is so small that Mark tells us it is the smallest of all seeds even though it really isn’t – but that’s his point. It’s so small it should be the smallest seed on the earth; it’s so fragile, so seemingly insignificant, and yet when it grows it becomes a full, vibrant, life-giving bush, where birds find home and safety and a place to sing their songs. This sanctuary begins with just one small thing, and growth happens anyway. And this, Jesus says, is just like the kingdom of God. 

The kingdom of God was ushered into this world as one, tiny, vulnerable, seemingly insignificant thing – an infant boy child born of a poor virgin in the backwater of Bethlehem. But this child sprouted and grew into a man, and began scattering seeds all over Judea – “Repent for the kingdom of God is at hand.” “Your sins are forgiven you; rise up and walk.” “Do this in remembrance of me.” His disciples planted their own seeds in the offering of their teaching and their preaching and their very lives. Then Paul planted, Apollos watered, and Timothy and Barnabas and Lois and Phoebe strew their own seeds and by all of the saints through all of the years, God gave the growth. And so from this one God-made-man, this one moment, the kingdom of God has grown into a forest of mercy and love and truth. It towers around us now, with growth as majestic and as immovable as a mountain. The kingdom spreads out beneath us thick as a jungle, with green growing things of all shapes and smells, each succulent and bearing fruit. It runs to the very ends of the earth, so that each shrub and bush has room to fan out roots in rich earth, room to find a window of light open to the sun, room for birds to nest in its branches. The kingdom breathes in and breathes out all around us, night after night, day after day. The earth is filled with glory of God as the trees cover the forest and as the waters cover the sea.

And the kingdom is not finished growing. The final harvest has not yet come. You and I stand in a long line of saints and sowers, each of us charged to plant whatever seeds we have, no matter their size. There is room yet in the kingdom for what we have to give, for our own seeds of Gospel proclamation – what we do and what we don’t do; what we say and how we say it; who we choose to embrace and how; how we give of our time, how we spend our money, how we treat our bodies, how we care for Creation, how we  pray, how we reach out to one another, how we look to the poor and the lonely and the sick and the prisoner and the persecuted and the voiceless, how we “proclaim God’s truth with boldness and minister his justice with compassion.” These are the kinds of seeds that you and I can plant, and tiny or not, God will use them to grow a bush, a tree, a forest, a kingdom.

So it turns out, somewhat surprisingly, that today’s parables are not just about planting and growing. They are not just about size and production and harvest. They are also, most profoundly, about fear, about how you and I need have no fear for the kingdom of God or for our place in it. The kingdom will grow, because when God is involved, growth happens. We need not fear that our words are too silly, too insignificant, too small. We just need to plant them anyway, and let God grow them how he will. We need not fear that our ideas aren’t thriving and will never come to anything. We just need to wait and watch as the sower did, paying attention to them as they germinate in the darkness, noticing what they look like when they begin to sprout, and keeping a close eye on them when they begin to bear fruit. And we need not fear even when we see some part of the kingdom topple over, because each such fall leaves behind it a hole where the Son can pour through, an open space for new growth that sprouts and dances and bends into the light. We need not fear. Growth happens, for God gives the growth.

What would you do if you had no fear? What seeds would you plant if you had no fear that they would take root and grow? How would you live if you wholly trusted God to grow good things? Imagine what you would do, what you would say, who you would feed, what good news you would share if you had no fear – and then ask yourself why not? Why not grab your seeds and go? Go out into the city and plant your seeds with boldness. Keep watch for them to grow and bear fruit. And while you’re out there, take a good look at the kingdom of God that is already green and lush and growing all around you. And give thanks. Because it’s a wonderful, beautiful, grace-filled and glorious jungle out there. 

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

17 June 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

It is a tradition, in some Episcopal churches, to offer this morning’s lesson from Acts in a slightly unusual way. Because the reading tells of the disciples being inspired by the Holy Spirit to speak in many different tongues, some churches try to recreate this experience by having not just one reader for this lesson, but a whole string of readers, each of whom reads a verse or two in a language in which they are fluent. The effect, I’m sure, is to create a sense of the sound of that Pentecost morning in Palestine, to paint the aural landscape from a rich palate of sounds and inflections, to sound something like this:

When the day of Pentecost had come, the disciples were all together in one place. Und es geschah schnell ein Brausen vom Himmel wie eines gewaltigen Windes und erfüllte das ganze Haus, da sie saßen. Au même moment, ils virent apparaître des sortes de langues qui ressemblaient à des flammèches. Cosí furono tutti ripieni di Spirito Santo e cominciarono a parlare in altre lingue, secondo che lo Spirito dava loro di esprimersi.

While I appreciate the intent behind these kinds of readings, there are two problems with this approach that are immediately apparent. The first is that most of the time, because of the people who read them, these verses are read in a smattering of European languages – French, Italian, German – languages whose aural colors are different than English, to be sure, but not from quite the same palate as the languages of the Parthians, Medes, and Elamites. The sounds are not quite right. The greater problem, though, is that this experience is not quite right. The whole point of the disciples being gifted by the Holy Spirit to speak in different languages was so that all of the people, all of the visitors “from every nation under heaven” who were in town for the festival of Pentecost, could understand what was being said. The miracle was that everyone could understand everything, not that random people in the crowd could understand two verses in twenty. The upshot of all of this is that unless you’re someone who speaks every language known to man, as some of you undoubtedly do, the experience of these kinds of Pentecost readings is likely to be more confusing than clarifying.

In response to this concern, I’ve heard of a few churches who try a different approach. Instead of dividing up the reading into separate verses, one for each represented language, they have different people read the entire lesson in different languages – all at the same time. The lesson is read simultaneously by a whole gaggle of lectors, lined up at the front of the church and belting out these verses in their best Mandarin Chinese or Portuguese or Russian. This approach, while eliminating the problem of understanding only two verses in twenty, obviously comes with its own significant challenges, which are best summed up by a former parishioner of mine who, honestly confused by a church experience she had had while on vacation, asked me why this church had acted out the story of the Tower of Babel on Pentecost instead of the regular lections.

Now I don’t mean to make these approaches to this Pentecost reading seem overly silly, because they certainly aren’t intended that way. I do see what these churches are getting at. The day of Pentecost as we hear it described in Acts was, first and foremost, an experience – a banquet for the senses, something to be seen and felt and heard and touched. The rumble of rushing wind, the heat and light of those tongues of fire, the pure music of all of those lovely languages as they danced around the dazzled crowd. Pentecost is a day to be felt, known and understood not only with our minds but with our bodies. Pentecost is a big, larger-than-life festival day, a scene that we can easily imagine in epic, Cecil B. DeMille style, with apostles standing on majestic sets, booming forth their proclamation in hearty voices well-trained for the stage, with thousands of extras running to and fro with looks of bewildered joy on their faces and happy exclamations on their lips, with fanfares and flourishes and noise, noise, noise, noise. Pentecost is a celebration on a large scale, a loud, busy, grand and wonderful day.

But Pentecost is not just about the pomp of the circumstance. Pentecost is not just about the noise. Because the devout Jews who heard the disciples speaking in many tongues not only heard words in their own language; they actually heard the word of God. They heard what the disciples were saying, not just how they were saying it. They were able to listen past the wonder of the words themselves deep into the heart of their meaning, to hear the stories of God’s deeds of power in and by and through Jesus Christ. They not only heard; they understood. And if they understood, then they couldn’t have been just standing in place, straining to hear someone screaming at them in Mesopotamian from a far parapet; they must have followed the sound of familiarity, found the disciples who spoke their language, and gathered in tight to hear what he had to say. They must have huddled together, drawn up close, face to face, breath to breath, to hear and feel this Gospel message as near to them as it had ever been.

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus promises his disciples that he will send them the Holy Spirit to guide them into all truth. He says he will send them the Paraclete, a word sometimes translated as the Advocate or the Comforter. But the Greek word parakletos literally means “the one who is called alongside.” The Paraclete is the one pulled next to, the one drawn near, the one who comes up close. It is this particular gift of the Holy Spirit that Jesus offers us in his physical absence – not just the majesty and might of the swirling winds and fiery breath, but the intimacy of a companion, one who comes near, walks beside, and shares with.   

This has always been God’s way. For all of the smoke and fire with Moses on Mount Sinai, the flames that shot out of heaven and licked up the watery sacrifice on Elijah’s altar, the burning chariots that showed Elisha that he, too, would be a prophet, God has always also been a God of great intimacy – a personal God who speaks not only to His people but speaks to them one at a time, in their own language, who calls Moses’ own name out of a burning bush, who startles Balaam by speaking through the very donkey he is riding on, who offers Elijah the small voice of sheer silence. God has always drawn near to His people, pulled close, spoken to them persons to person.

And when the Son of God became flesh to redeem the world, he, too, spent his ministry drawing close. He spoke to the crowds, to be sure, but he also spoke to persons – to Zacchaeus and Matthias, to the Magdalene, to Nicodemus – one on one, drawing near, sharing space and breath, close and personal and intimate.

One of my professors at seminary once joked about how much easier it would have been if God had just waited until now to be made manifest. If God had just waited, he teased, he could have put Jesus Christ on CNN – the Sermon on the Mount could have been streamed live all over all the continents in every language known to woman, his healings could have been broadcast live and in HD. But then, my professor said seriously, this never actually could have happened. Because this is just not how the Son of God works. Even if he had walked the earth in our own age of lightning-fast communications, Christ still would have worked slowly, quietly, one on one, drawing close, coming alongside, and being near. 

This is how God works today, on this Pentecost. Yes, there is a feast, and yes we are celebrating, and yes we sing mighty hymns and think about the height and depth and breadth of the Holy Spirit’s life-giving and energizing work in the Church. But we also remember that aspect of the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, who comes alongside you and speaks the Gospel – not just to all the multitudes where we might have to strain to hear the Good News – but right to you, in your ear, in the language that is easiest for you to hear – the language of Stravinsky, perhaps, or the language of shared prayer. The language of bended knee, the language of another’s face, the language of bread and wine. This is God’s promised gift – that he comes alongside us, wherever we are, whatever language we speak, and says, Lean in and listen. I am here, I am with you. When you are in church, at work, at school, on the streets, I am beside you. When you are kneeling in repentance, lying in weakness, standing in strength, dancing in joy, I am beside you. When you are comforting, exhorting, dreaming, prophesying, proclaiming, I am beside you. When you go into all the world, to the ends of the earth, to share and live and sing the Gospel message, I am always right beside you. So lean in close and listen, to the still, small voice – to that sound of Pentecost.       

Father Mullen, Mr. Glandorf, Mr. Sheehan, Mr. Marshall, acolytes, choir, esteemed guests, friends, family, congregation, and especially the class of post-resurrection disciples, welcome to the 2012 Ascension Day Exercises. It is such a joy to be here with you, such a privilege to have been asked to offer a few words of wisdom and counsel and congratulations as these eleven fresh-faced apostles and their companions graduate and begin to make their own way in the world. What a day this is! A day to look back over the past three years, to remember and celebrate the long, hard journey that has brought you to this place. And it is a day to look forward to the future, to gaze into the coming days with hope and courage, knowing that you have been prepared well for the challenges that lie ahead and that the friends you have made here, in this city of Jerusalem, will continue to shape your life powerfully for years to come. Indeed, what a day this is! It is the first day of the rest of your life. Today is truly your commencement.

It is always a challenge to know what to say on such an auspicious occasion, or even to whom I should say it. Should I speak to just the graduating class, reminding them of how far they’ve come? Should I tease them a little about how hard it was for them to learn their parables, or about that dark and stormy night on the Sea of Galilee when they nearly capsized their boat in panic? Should I recall the time they were all fighting over who was Jesus’ favorite until he put a child in their midst and invited them to be child-like but not child-ish?* Should I speak with gravity of the events of the past few days, remind them of how all of their Holy Week frailty was redeemed by Easter morning? Or should I just try to offer them words of wisdom, nuggets of truth that they can carry around in their pockets? Should I remind them to listen to their hearts, to go out into the world and make a difference, to live each day to the fullest, to love their neighbors as themselves, to follow their Passion?

Or should I speak to the whole crowd? Should I remind all of you who are sitting here of the important part you’ve played in the lives of these disciples? Should I thank you, encourage the graduating class to stand and applaud you, you with your open hearts and doors, with your wounds that needed healing, your sins that needed forgiving, your food that needed blessing and breaking? Or should I speak to a crowd that isn’t even here – should I rail against Roman tyranny or lambast the Pharisees because of their hard hearts that not even the Son of God could melt? Should I be political? Entertaining? Inspiring? Philosophical? Or should I just make sure that my speech is short, so that you all can get along to your graduation parties and brunches and family gatherings in the temple?

My job, of course, is not made any easier by the fact that Jesus has already said so much. In his remarks earlier, he has already offered an entire survey course on the history of the people of God. He has reviewed all of that which was said about him in the Law of Moses and in the prophets, even in the psalms. He has opened the minds of these faithful disciples to understand what was written in the scriptures, reminding them that he was always meant to be crucified, killed, and raised on the third day, that he was always meant to proclaim forgiveness to all people, that this shul in Jerusalem was always meant to be just the beginning. And he has charged the graduates with their future work and ministry, assuring them that after this day – and after a few weeks set aside for worship and blessing and celebration – they will be clothed with power from on high, sent out from this city to the ends of the earth as workers and witnesses. Jesus has already said so much. In this final speech of his earthly life, he has, in a way, already covered it all – looking back and looking forward, offering Wisdom and counsel and a sending forth. What more is there really to say?

Well, not much, except that I believe it falls to me to point out that while these may seem like your typical commencement exercises, they most certainly are not. At a normal graduation, after the speeches and the diplomas and throwing your mantles in the air, everyone goes their separate ways. The graduates go out into the world on their own, to live their life and make their mark; the teachers climb back up into their towers of learning, decreasing, as it were, to let their former students increase, hoping that what they’ve said and taught will endure in their absence; and the friends and family simply go back to living their regular, ordinary lives.  And what is so different about this commencement?, you may ask. Isn’t that what’s happening here? The disciples are being sent forth into the world to live independent lives that are full of grace, Jesus is ascending on high, going away, drawing back to let the disciples go out and bear fruit on their own, and you and I are just watching. There is something happily predictable about this pattern, something organic and familiar – the little chicks leave the nest, the students become the teachers, “the seasons go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down.”**

But the circle game is not what is going on here today. Yes, the disciples are being sent out into the world with a new sense of authority, mission, and purpose, but they are never – never – left on their own. Yes, Jesus is ascending into heaven, but he does this not to leave the disciples alone, but because it is only by ascending that he is able to be as close as he needs to be, to draw near as he wants to be. It is only by climbing into the very heights of heaven that he is able to fill all things, to see as far as the furthest corners of Jerusalem, to Corinth and Antioch and Rome, to the east and to the west, to the north and to the south, across the mountains, over the seas, over the years, to this little church in this little town with all of our worship and celebration and blessing and joy and sorrow and healing and pain. Jesus ascends, not to help us learn to fend for ourselves, but because it is only by ascending that he can be as present to is all as he needs to be.

And yes, you are here to witness these exercises, but you are not here just to watch, and you are not expected to simply go back to living your regular, ordinary lives. You are charged, too, you are sent, too. Because in the course of this ceremony, you have been grafted into the body of this graduating class. In this liturgy, you, too, have heard Jesus the teacher reminding you of all of the lessons he taught the disciples here on earth. In this commencement exercise, you, too, have been invited to look back over your life to remember the times that Christ has taught you, to remember the mistakes you’ve made, the forgiveness you’ve received, the infinite tiny graces that have been showered upon you like confetti. And you, too, have been encouraged to look forward; you’ve been offered nuggets of truth, words of Wisdom and vision, and presented with the gift of an eternal hope to which Christ has called you. In this commencement exercise, which we sometimes call the Mass, you have been shed your role as supportive bystander and put on the robes of a graduate, who is charged and called and sent. You have been changed here, transformed by the powerful presence of the resurrected and ascended Christ, who fills all things and fulfills all things, whose presence will never withdraw, never pull away, never leave you alone with just the lessons he taught. He has ascended to fill all things, even you, and you are hereby sent out in his powerful company. You are not here just to watch. You are now an apostle. You are a graduate. This is your commencement. And so I say to you, Congratulations.  

*These phrases taken from a recent talk given by Bill Gordh.

**Joni Mitchell, “The Circle Game.”

 Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

17 May 2012, The Feast of the Ascension of our Lord

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Dean Hall's sermon here.

Preached by the Very Rev. Dr. John Hall, Dean of Westminster

6 May 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Bishop Bennison's sermon here.

Preached by the Rt. Rev. Charles E. Bennison, Jr.

29 April 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia