Saint Mark's Church

For reasons I can’t entirely explain, it seemed important to me recently to reiterate to colleagues a lesson I was taught as a child: that one should not receive the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of our Lord more than once a day – that is, not receive communion more than once a day.  I feel certain that we were taught this lesson as children (in a church school) as a way of underscoring the sanctity and other-ness of the Eucharist; to help us learn that it is a special thing to take Christ’s Body into your hands and onto your tongue, a blessing of no ordinary kind to drink his Blood.  I’m sure the rule was intended to instill in us a reverence about communion, an attitude of piety.  This was only really ever an issue on Sundays when, as it happened, we were in church at least twice.  So this was not arbitrary: it was important!  And although we had no idea what punishment we would suffer in the event of an infraction of this rule, I’m sure none of us was interested in finding out whether it was a torment to be suffered in this world or the next.  It seemed really quite dangerous to us, as children, to entertain the thought of venturing close to the altar rail twice in one day.  Plus, as it happens, the Roman Catholic Church had long ago codified this ban in writing.  The point is that it was a rule: No seconds: communion once a day, and once only. 

As I say, I can’t be certain what prompted my recent reiteration of this old rule.  Of course, the Episcopal Church doesn’t really have such a rule written down anywhere (as is the case in most matters) – it’s more of a custom, borrowed (like so much else) from the old Roman Catholic rules.  But even Rome changed its rules thirty years ago to allow for the possibility that the faithful could receive communion twice in a given day.  So I might ask myself why it seemed important to me to keep this old rule.

And I do.  Ask myself that very thing.  Is it because we have so few rules in the Episcopal Church that it seems important to hang on to the few we (sort of) have?  This seems unlikely.  More likely is that I share something of the spirit of the leader of that synagogue who was indignant when he spied, out of the corner of his suspicious eye, Jesus healing a crippled woman on the Sabbath.

“Away, away, away,” he said to the crowd that had gathered.  “The rules do not allow this!  You have six days to come and be healed, but one day to keep the Sabbath.  Do not fail to keep the commandment – remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.  Away, away, away with you!”

And turning to Jesus, I imagine, he might have been incensed:

“HOW DARE YOU!” he would have scolded, with what he would have wanted to be understood as righteous indignation.  “Six days you have – six days of the week to do work: to heal, to teach, to preach, to gather your little band of disciples around you. 

“Six days you have to wow them with your parables, and your healings, and your miracles, and all the other tricks you seem to have up your sleeve. 

“Six days you have to wrap them around your little finger and tell them they have to give up everything to follow you.  Six days for YOU!

“But God gets a day!  God gets HIS day!  Remember the Sabbath Day to KEEP IT HOLY!

“This is not complicated.  That old woman has been stooped for years – she could wait one more day.  You could wait one more day.  Give God his due!  Give God his day!  I won’t sit by and watch you defile the Sabbath without saying anything!”

I know how the leader of the synagogue feels.  I know how ready I am to share in his righteous indignation.  I know what it’s like to survey the world passing by utterly oblivious to the claims of the creator upon his creatures, who have become largely disinterested in giving God his due.  I know what it feels like to want to wave a commandment in the air, and point emphatically to it, and shout out in shrill indignation, “God gets his day, you know.  God gets his day!”

And I know how hollow this teaching sounds to most ears these days.  The entire passage we read from Luke’s Gospel this morning is really like something from a National Geographic documentary about the way things were in biblical times – because they are most certainly not that way today.  To begin with, most people don’t go to synagogue or to church on the Sabbath.  And we don’t say that a spirit has caused the suffering of a woman stooped with osteoporosis, or whatever.  And we certainly do not come to church (or to synagogue) so that some guy in a collar can teach us the rules (that aren’t really even rules) that we are supposed to live by.  To begin with, we don’t need anybody imposing his rules on us, thank you very much.  This is why we became Episcopalians, isn’t it?  No rules!  A blessed silence when it comes to being told what you must and mustn’t do!  This is why we left the Roman Church, after all: all those damned rules!  But we don’t have to follow them.  We are Episcopalians – hear us roar!  Or not – you can’t make us roar, and you can’t make us stop: we have no rules!

And isn’t it pretty well established that Jesus – who may or may not be right about very much else – is certainly right about this: that the clergy are hypocrites: always insisting that people to keep rules that they don’t keep themselves!  On this we can surely agree.  Having thus agreed, can’t we quietly close our Bibles, get on with the next hymn and move a little more rapidly toward Coffee Hour?

We could, but we would be missing the chance to hear the Gospel speak to us.  And we’d be missing the point if we reached the conclusion that Jesus’ message is that rules were made to be broken, that as Lord of the Sabbath he will do what he jolly well pleases.

Because, in fact, Jesus demonstrates no desire to flout the rules of faith.  Jesus is deeply possessed of the tendency to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.  Jesus, above all, knows what this means.  Jesus knew the words of the prophet before they were ever written down:

“If your refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day,

“If you call the Sabbath a delight, and the holy day of the Lord honorable,

“If you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests, or pursuing your own affairs;

“Then you shall take delight in the Lord, and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth!”

… if you refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day…

Did you hear what Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue?  He did not assert his right to work on the Sabbath.  He did not say that he should be exempted from the rules and allowed to heal the woman.  He did not say that he was special and should therefore be allowed to teach his followers.  He did not say that time was short and he had much to accomplish, and that practicality demanded that he do as much as he could with the time that he had.  No.  He said this, “Don’t you, on the Sabbath, untie your ox or your donkey and lead it to water?”  Don’t you untie it?  Don’t you set it free so that it may drink, and live?

And what did he say to the woman?  He didn’t say to her, “Your faith has made you well.”  He didn’t tell her to throw down her cane and walk.  He didn’t command the spirit to come out and go find a herd of swine.  When he laid his hands on her he didn’t even offer a prayer for healing.  He just said this: “Woman, you are set free.”  You are set free!

For eighteen years her life had become a labor: just getting up in the morning, tending to the house, going about town had become what the Bible used to call “travail.”   The more stooped she became, the more difficult every day was to get through.  How could she keep the Sabbath?  There was no rest for her…  …until she was set free!

And Jesus said to her: You are set free.  You are set free.  You are set free.

Is there a spirit that cripples you?  That prevents you from standing up straight and being the person God made you to be, living the life God made you to live.  Is it something everyone can see?  Or is it a secret you keep deep in your heart.  Is there something that makes your life, or at least a part of it, what used to be called “travail”?  Are you heavy-laden, as we used to say?  Is there a burden that forces you to stoop through life as though you cannot straighten, stand up, and be the person you believe God made you to be?  How can you keep the Sabbath this way?   How can you find your rest in God?

How can we offer food to the hungry if we are stooped ourselves?  How can we satisfy the needs of the afflicted?  How will our light ever rise in the darkness if we are shooed away from God’s healing grace?  How will we ever slake our thirst in parched places?  How will our bones ever grow strong?  How will our ancient ruins ever be rebuilt, our streets restored, our foundations raised up…  … when we are stooped and stunted by so much heaviness, so much travail?

Six days of every week, burdens are piled onto our backs.  Six days of every week there are worries to tend to, chores to be done, responsibilities that we dare not overlook.  Six days of every week we are crippled by the demands of so much!

Why won’t we let God have his day with us?  Why won’t we give him his due?  Why won’t we bring our stooped and broken frames to him in all humility, and ask him to help us?  Are we afraid of the rules?  If they get in the way, then by all means let us reconsider them.

But the rule about keeping the Sabbath is, like all good rules, not a rule that imprisons us, it is a rule that offers to set us free:

If we refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing our own interests on God’s holy day.

If we call the Sabbath a delight, the holy day of the Lord.

If we honor it, not going our own ways, serving our own interests, or pursuing our own affairs.

Then we shall take delight in the Lord, and he will make us ride upon the heights of the earth!

There is not much serious talk in the church these days about keeping the Sabbath holy.  We can hardly get past the quite boring semantics of whether the Sabbath is Saturday or Sunday – as though it matters to Jesus.  When what really matters to him is that we have become like so many oxen and asses: tied to the various things, duties, diversions, and inanities that prevent us even from making our way to water when we are thirsty.  So he comes to us every Sabbath – at least – and he whispers in our ears as he unties the rope around our necks: “You are set free!”

And I suppose I may have to reconsider whether it is more important to reiterate the rules, than to be sure that those who have ears to hear, do in fact hear it when their Lord sings out to them: You are set free!

May God help us all to learn to remember the Sabbath to keep it holy, and then, at least one day a week, may he help us hear him proclaim that wonderful news: You are set free!

And then we shall take delight in the Lord, and he will make us ride upon the heights of the earth!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

25 August 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

From time to time I am compelled to give you all a report on Leo, the scaredy-cat of the Rectory.  Leo was brought to me about six years ago as a terrified kitten who’d been found by someone, shivering behind a dumpster, apparently abandoned by his mother.  He has lived these past six years in fear and isolation in the Rectory.  Change of any kind is a terror to him.  Visitors send him into quick flight.  One dog was bad enough, but when the second dog entered the equation four years ago, Leo probably should have been medicated or sought therapy.  Fortunately the Rectory is large, and over these six years Leo has claimed refugee status in one room or another, finding various sofas to live behind, beds to quiver under, and closets to hide out in.

Leo has become to me an icon of hopelessness and fear.  I can only conclude that he is a deeply un-Christian cat (sweet though his disposition has always been).  He stands in stark contrast to the two Labradors who live in the Rectory with me in a state of profound hope: constantly expectant that someone is coming to visit them, that they may be taken out for a walk, that they may find a morsel of food on the ground, that they may find a puddle to play in, a fountain to frolic in, a stream to swim in.  To the Labradors, treasures lie all around, and they give their hearts easily to each and every one of them.  Their lamps are lit, so to speak; they are dressed for action.  The little domes of their heads can sometimes be spotted in the windows of my office, as they wait for their Master (or anyone at all, really) to return, fasten his belt, and have them sit down to eat.

But Leo cowers in fear, (who knows where?): terrified of what the next footfall might bring.  No treasure possesses his heart, so it thumps hopelessly, nervously, ironically in his little leonine chest.

For some weeks I have been preparing to bring you sad news about Leo – uncertain about just how to do so.  Six weeks ago when I was traveling abroad, I emailed Kent John and asked him to check on Leo.  His reply brought concern: no sign that Leo was eating his food or using his litter box.  Some weeks previously the room Leo had been hiding out in for the past several years had been invaded by painters.  This incursion sent the cat in flight to the fourth floor, taking refuge in the old chapel up there, behind a pew.  But now, no sign of him was to be found.

On my return home, I searched the house: looking especially carefully in the basement, where I found a dead rat, but no Leo, and no sign that the carnage was his work.  I put food in his bowl in the chapel on the fourth floor, I went around opening closet doors to make sure he had not been shut in.  I returned again and again to the basement, calling his name, looking behind boxes, but still no sign of the cat.  I checked the fourth floor, too, but nothing.

After a month I was worried.  After five weeks, despairing.  And by the sixth week I had given up hope, and have been wondering how to break the news to you that Leo is gone.  Who knows where?  Did he flee out the back door between someone’s feet in a state of terror?  Did he slink out the front door while workmen were coming and going?  Might he come home again?  After all these weeks?

Of course I felt guilty.  I felt I have been a poor steward of one of God’s creatures – one who needed me more than most.  But I consoled myself with the reassurance that really it was Leo’s own issues that got the better of him, not my neglect.  It was his inability to adjust to the world around him – a world in which he was loved and cared for (even the Labradors would have liked to befriend him).  But he could find no hope, no treasure in which to place the trust of his heart.  “Do not be afraid” – the scriptures say, but these words would be an idle insult to a cat whose life was defined by fear and the avoidance of nearly anything that would get too close, anything or anyone who might protect him and care for him.  Leo’s disappearance was nobody’s fault but Leo’s, who chose his own fate when he walked out of the sanctuary of his Master’s house.

But still, a sense of sadness and responsibility rested heavily on my shoulders as I began to accept that Leo was gone, and hoped that you all would forgive me for not taking better care of him.

On Thursday I had not yet determined to share this news with you when I walked into the Rectory after Morning Prayer.  As soon as the door was shut behind me I heard a little squeak of some kind.  I stopped to listen.  Yes, it was either a squeak or a peep. In fact, it sounded familiar.  I opened the door to the basement.  “Leo?”  I called out.

And in reply came not a squeak or a peep, but a cry, a plaintive wail that I know well.

“Leo!” I shouted, as I skipped down the stairs, turned on the light and stooped under the ductwork.  His loud squawking moan wouldn’t stop now – calling to me out of equal parts fear and need. 

There was a wadded up sheet of plastic – a drop cloth the painters left behind – stuffed behind an old, immovable iron safe.  No movement there, but unquestionably the location of the cat.  I brushed aside the plastic sheet, and there was Leo!  He darted behind the safe, and continued to cry.

I raced up the stairs to the fourth floor to get his food and water bowl and his litter box.  I danced down the stairs to bring them to him, I was singing his name out in reassurance: “Leo!  Leo!  Leo!”  I placed his food down, and his water, and put his litter box nearby.  And my heart raced with joy.

He crept out from beside the safe far enough to allow me to scratch him behind the ears.  I dared not pick him up yet, since he doesn’t much like being held in the best of circumstances.

And I rejoiced to have found the lost cat, to know he was safe and alive, to be able to feed him, and do what I could to care for him.

I have to report to you that at the moment, Leo is still making his home in the basement.  I suspect he will stay there for a long time.  Maybe it’s the best place for him.  He can hide as much as he wants, and steal upstairs to patrol the rest of the house under the cover of darkness in the middle of the night if he so desires.

And so, although once he was lost, but now he’s found, Leo will probably remain an icon of hopelessness and fear.  His six-week sojourn in darkness and his miraculous return do not seem to have put a treasure in his heart; he shows no signs of desiring to move upstairs and live among the hopeful creatures of the household.

And, of course, this story would be only mildly amusing if not for the sad reality that so many people live their lives the way Leo does: captives of hopelessness and fear.  For some it is self-pity, or jealousy; for others it’s the result of addiction or co-dependence; for others it grief they cannot let go of; for others it’s the constant worry of scarcity in a world that has never provided them with anything other than plenty; for some it’s self-loathing, for others silly pride; for some it is greed of one kind or another.  There are a host of reasons to decide to live in fear and hopelessness – to live, as it were, under the bed, behind the sofa, deep in a closet, or in the darkest recesses of the basement – even if you have friends and family who love you and care for you and would do what they could to help you.  To live this way is to live without a treasure to trust your heart to.

And the truth of the matter is that there is only one Treasure worth entrusting your heart to.  There is only one Master worth waiting up for till he comes.  There is only one Light who will conquer the darkness.  There is only one Spirit to fill you with hope.

Most of us have our moments when we flee to the basement, and cower there in fear.  But the lesson of Leo is this: if you must hide in the basement, at least do not run for the door.  Do not take flight through the back door, or slink out the front when no one is watching.  At least stay in the basement till you find some way to overcome your fear and you are brave enough to squeak or to peep: to make the first sounds of a prayer.

Listen for footfalls on the floor above you as you hear the door creak open.  And do not be afraid to call out when your Master is looking for you – as he always is.

Do not be afraid, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom – yes, not just the basement, but the entire kingdom!

So open your mouth and wail, open your heart and cry out, reach out your paws and embrace the One for whom you have been waiting, although you did not know it. 

Blessed are you when he comes and finds you, and rescues you from your fear and your hopelessness, which at least kept you awake for this moment.

And for God’s sake, remember that you are not cat!  So when you have found this treasure worth giving your heart to, for the love of God, come on up out of the basement, and live!  For in him is treasure worth an entire kingdom, and it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.  Claim him, and him alone, as your treasure – who calls you out of darkness into his marvelous light – for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

11 August 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia