Saint Mark's Church

When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea to Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (Jn 6:15-17)

It was not very like the disciples of Jesus to do something on their own initiative. And when they did, they often got it wrong. Think of Peter cutting off the ear of a man in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Today we are told by Saint John that when evening came, the sun was setting, and everyone else was stoking the fire and enjoying supper, our friends the disciples decided to put to sea. Jesus has left them after the melee that was prompted by his feeding of five thousand people with five loaves and two fish. He was not about to let the adoring crowd determine his fate (he knows how fickle a crowd is). So he slipped through the bushes and back up the hillside to a secret place, hidden even from his own followers.

What put it into their heads to get in the boat as night was falling? They wanted to get to Capernaum – perhaps they had already discussed with Jesus that this would be his next stop. Some of them were fishermen, and not unfamiliar, I suppose, with handling a boat during the darker hours of the day. Whatever their reasoning, they do not seem to be acting on instructions from Jesus; they are simply making it up as they go along.

And Saint John gives us now one of the most evocative phrases of all scripture, if you ask me: “It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them.”

Start with the dark. We all know that even in broad daylight or with the lights blaring we can be in the dark.

It’s dark if you are one of the millions of Americans who’s lost their jobs lately.

It’s dark if you are counting the months or the weeks or the days till your deployment to Iraq or Afghanistan.

It’s dark if you’ve fallen off the wagon of your sobriety again.

It’s dark if you’ve run out of ways to shuffle your debt.

It’s dark when the sharp pain of a loved one’s death has turned into a dull throb that you fear will never go away.

It’s dark when the chemo doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

It’s dark when you haven’t spoken to a brother or a sister for years and your pride won’t let you break the silence.

It’s dark when you are honest about the things you’ve done wrong, and didn’t have to.

It’s dark when your mother or your father doesn’t recognize you any more.

It’s dark when you wake up in the morning and you can’t think of a reason or find the energy to get out of bed.

You could name other ways that it’s dark in the middle of the day, when despair eclipses hope, options have narrowed, you squint your eyes, but still see no light at the end of the tunnel. The dark is not a time of day, it’s a state of being. And sometimes it seems as though we must constantly adapt to the darkness, so much so that we seem to become adept at being nocturnal creatures, who can operate just fine in the dark.

Why did the disciples get into the boat when it was dark? They do not know where Jesus is. The crowd, who continue to look for Jesus the next day, is confused for a while, because they know that the disciples left without Jesus. Were the disciples forging on ahead, preparing the way for Jesus? Or were they making something of a get-away? Frightened by the power of his signs and his refusal to respond to the awe of the crowds, are they having second thoughts about following this man?

Are they frightened when they see Jesus on the water, at least in part, because he has found them out and caught them as they are making an escape from him? It was dark, after all, and they had thought they could get away with it. Have they decided that they prefer the darkness to the light?

Who knows? But we do know what it feels like to be in the boat in the dark without Jesus. We know what it feels like when the seas become rough because a strong wind is blowing, don’t we? We know that these are not just maritime conditions, but also states of being.

It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. We know too well what this feels like, too. And it doesn’t really matter whether we are running away of our own accord or if we have simply found ourselves in the boat in rough seas. What matters in the moment is that it is now dark and Jesus has not yet come to us.

Take note that it is not the weather that frightens the disciples – although it is getting rough. It is the appearance of Jesus in the midst of this plan of their own devising that terrifies them. Of course he should not be walking to them on the water, this is unsettling; but they might have been amazed and glad to see their teacher performing such a great sign.

Their fear is a signal (though they do not realize it at the time) that they are in the presence of the living God. “Fear not” is a colloquialism of the Bible for just this reason. But they do not know what their fear signifies. They were impressed, it has to be said, with the bread and the fish, but they do not know what it meant. Perhaps they had been hoping for some time on their own in Capernaum to talk it over among themselves, decide if they really want to follow this Jesus who resists the support of the very crowds he so excites.

It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. It was not the time of day, it was a state of being. And into that state of being, Jesus strides across the rough surface of the sea. “It is I,” he says, “do not be afraid.”

And Saint John gives us two more wonderful details.

First he tells us that eventually the disciples want to take Jesus in the boat with them. They are willing at last to incorporate Jesus into their plans, to take him with them where they were going. When Matthew and Mark tell this story, the whole point of it is that Jesus gets into the boat with them. It’s a great sermon, and easy one to preach! But here, in John’s gospel, Jesus never gets into the boat. All John tells us is that the disciples eventually decide they would have invited him in.

Second, John tells us, that once they have decided it will be OK to include Jesus in their nighttime excursion, they find themselves delivered immediately to where they were headed, their destination reached, their objective accomplished. Now Jesus can get on with his work.

Saint John knows that none of this is about the weather or the time of day; it is all about a state of being. And he knows that when it is dark, and the seas are rough, a strong wind blowing, many of us are not prepared to let Jesus into the boat, even if he should walk on the water to get to us.

We claim our faith in that moment when we decide we want to take Jesus into the boat with us – for now our state of being has changed, the plan we hatched on our own is turned over to Jesus, the time of day, and the conditions hardly matter, and we find that we have arrived at our destination.

Start with the dark. A thousand darknesses descend on our lives, cloaking our vision in shadows, regardless of the time of day. And we know so well what it feels like when it is dark and Jesus has not yet come to us.

What plans of our own devising are we in the midst of when we realize it is dark? Have we really meant to include Jesus in those plans? Are we going on ahead of him? Or are we really trying to make our escape from this man, who, while admittedly impressive with loaves and fishes, leaves us feeling uneasy. Are we wearing the nametag of a disciple uncomfortably, uncertainly, and do we think, maybe, if we could get away from him for a night and talk it over with one another, we might actually come up with another, easier plan? Or is it just easier for us to move about in the dark? Have we become so adept at it that it seems like the best time to make our move?

Earlier in his gospel, Saint John allows that some of us would just as soon allow the darkness to be our natural habitat. “Light has come into the world,” he writes, “and men loved darkness rather than light.”

It is now dark. We start in the dark. We have plans of our own that so often do not include Jesus, have not considered him and the claim he makes on our lives. And we believe that we can handle the boat even though it’s dark and a strong wind is blowing. And we may even be right about that – some of the time.

But Jesus does come to us, striding across the rough waters of our lives. If it is frightening, we should not be surprised – this is a signal that we are in the presence of the living God.

Maybe Jesus is going to get into the boat with us and calm the storm. It has been known to happen.

But maybe he is waiting for us to decide that we want him with us in the first place. And maybe that’s enough – the words of invitation need never be uttered. All that’s needed is wanting Jesus in the boat, choosing to have him with us, preferring the light to the darkness.

When we make that choice, we should not be surprised that our small goals are easily accomplished, as we arrive immediately at out destination. And we hear Jesus calling us to help him get on with his good work.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

26 July 2009

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia 

For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.


It is commonly, but apparently incorrectly, asserted that the only man-made structure visible from outer space is the Great Wall of China. Even if the Wall does not stand alone in this regard, it remains in a small category of things that can still be seen with what we might think of as a God’s-eye-view. Which makes it all the more interesting to learn of the discovery recently of an additional 180 miles of the Great Wall that were built during the Ming dynasty but had been covered up by shifting sands over the centuries. This is not the first time new sections of the Wall have been discovered. And it does tease the imagination to wonder how you lose track of something so monumental.

It is a point of reflection that the Great Wall, the construction of which was begun about the time of Jesus’ ministry, was built generally to keep invaders from the north on their side of the wall. I can’t say how effective it was over the millennia, but one imagines that it was less so in the areas where the Wall was lost to the sand.

The propensity of men and women to build walls is itself a perennial point of reflection about more than just the architectural and structural purposes of a wall – just think of Berlin, the Gaza Strip, or Robert Frost. A wall can say a lot about a society and its people. The writer of the letter to the Ephesians is thinking of a wall when he explores the meaning of the inclusion of the Gentiles in the covenant of hope and salvation that is the Christian faith. The early church had struggled with the question of whether salvation was for the Jews alone, or if the gifts of God’s grace were more magnanimously offered in Jesus Christ. “Remember,” the letter says, “that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world.”

Strangers and aliens to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world – this is a harsh description to apply to someone else, and even harsher to think of someone who would look in the mirror and believe that it applies to them. Yet it is very much the description that has been so often foisted onto people who we routinely refer to these days by a four-letter code: GLBT. To be gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered has often meant to be identified as a stranger and alien to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world, hence the higher rate of suicide amongst teens who discover themselves to be so strange, so alien, so without hope, so without God.

Our Episcopal Church has been tied up knots over the matter of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people, often pitting conservatives against liberals. Last week our church used its General Convention (which is its triennial legislative gathering) to address this matter in a meaningful way. The delegates there (bishops, priests, deacons, and lay people) ended a moratorium on the ordination of any real person whose so-called manner of life might be offensive to some hypothetical person anywhere in the world. This unrealistic standard was never more than a euphemism for a person who was romantically and sexually involved with another person of the same gender. You might even say two such people were in love, but I digress.

The word on the street is now schism – the breaking apart of the church, now that long-exposed fault lines have so clearly fractured. And the debate about who is leaving whom has already begun. And we seem to be waiting to discover whether or not the sky is falling on the Episcopal Church.

It is surely just a coincidence that 2000 years ago or so, when God looked down from heaven he noticed the beginnings of the building of a Great Wall to keep the Mongols to the north from invading China. But did this sight – visible from the heavens because of its monumental ambition – prompt God to sigh about all the other monumental divisions that separated his people? Did he begin to regret, perhaps, the success of his experiment at Babel to keep men from getting too close to heaven? And did he see, with a clarity that only he could have, the carefully fortified and vast networks of the walls of race and tribe and nation that were the fruits of that experiment? Did he lament that after Babel we left off building towers for a while and chose instead to become experts at building walls?

Was it his God’s-eye-view that moved him to send his Son into the world for a ministry of reconciliation – bringing all people closer to each other, binding them in a relationship of service and love, and so, bringing them closer to his own heart?

And did he send his Holy Spirit into the world to use his mighty breath to blow sand over great sections of the walls that divide us – even bringing Jew and Gentile together: his own chosen people joined to those who were strangers and aliens to the covenants of hope?

To imagine this is to indulge in the fantasy that either God thinks like me or that from time to time he allows me to think a little bit like him.

The “issue” of what to do with gay, lesbian, and transgendered people in the church is very much like a section of ancient wall that the church has discovered. And the question of what to do with it begs the question of which fantasy we want to indulge: the idea that God thinks like us, or that from time to time he allows us to think like him.

And what we choose to do with the wall seems to be a reasonable indication of which fantasy we are indulging. Do we believe that it is providential that previous generations built us a wall and that we should not only preserve it but strengthen it? Or does it seem to us a rather good and godly thing that the sands of time have covered up this old division?

It is that image from the Epistle to the Ephesians that gives me confidence in my fantasy: “in his flesh [Christ] has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”

Remember that Jesus was a carpenter not a mason. He was not skilled at building walls that could last. He was, however, prone to spend time with the unlikely, the unwashed, the unprepared, and the unsuitable. In Ephesians the grace of this propensity of Jesus’ is called “our peace.” It is what reconciles our differences, brings us together, teaches us tolerance, instructs us in love, and knocks down lasting barriers. It is the peace of Christ which passes all understanding. And it is a peace that has held sway in this parish at least for the past 60 years or so, and, I am prepared to believe, for the previous hundred years before that. A peace that comes of letting the broken-down, covered-up, lost walls of our past remain broken-down, covered-up and lost to all but memory.

It seems odd that this peace would be disrupted because of an insistence that we must agree – on pain of schism – with every Anglican around the globe on how to include the people captured by those four letters, GLBT, in the life of the church. Inasmuch as we do not require a universal agreement about the meaning of either the Eucharist or Holy Baptism within and among all Anglicans, why should such a rigorous demand be made of our understanding of the meaning of sexual orientation, erotic expression, and romantic affection?

The early church realized, St. Paul attests, that Gentiles would have to be included in the communion of saints because the Holy Spirit had already visited them, blessed them and made them a part of the Body of Christ. Who were they, St. Paul asked, to second-guess the Holy Spirit when his work and presence were so obvious in those who had once been far off?

Today’s church - at least in America – has increasingly understood that gay men, lesbian women, bi-sexual and transgendered people have already been visited and blessed by the Holy Spirit and made a part of the Body of Christ, for this is what most of us mean when we perform the sacrament of Holy Baptism. (And it has never seemed wise or necessary to stop and ask whether this child at the font might grow up to be a gay boy, a lesbian girl, a bi-sexual teen, or a transgendered adult.) Who are we to second guess the work and presence of the Holy Spirit, made obvious by the faithfulness and fruitfulness of the lives of people we so casually categorize with a letter: G,L,B,T, as though those letters tell us very much at all about the people to whom we affix them?

For at least thirty years in the Episcopal church we have been excavating around this section of some great wall that we have discovered. We have been wondering, praying, thinking, fighting about what to do with it. We have been invited, encouraged, enjoined, threatened and cajoled to build it up, strengthen it, mark it out as a border and a boundary not to be crossed. We have been told, incredibly, that its foundations rest on the consistent biblical record attesting to the sanctity of marriage, that was supposedly established in the Garden of Eden (though I have searched the Book of Genesis in vain for a marriage rite), but which seems to falter when we consider almost all the patriarchs of our faith, beginning with Abraham, and which was rejected for reasons unknown to us by our Lord.

Instead, Jesus went to the Cross, where his blood marked the spot where the cornerstone of his grace was laid. On the cornerstone of his sacrifice he would build, it turned out, not a wall, but a holy temple that knits together all the unlikely lives of all the sinners like me and like you who will go to him when he calls. It is just a fact that Jesus has been as generous with his grace to people who wear the badges G,L,B,T as he has to princes and harlots, rich and poor, black and white, Gentile and Jew.

And he has determined to build with us – whether we agree with one another or not – a dwelling place for God. If this is God’s purpose for us and our vocation in the world, we may find that we fulfill it much more easily and joyfully if we give up our habit of so fixating on the walls we would like to shore up that we never get around to building the temple that God has invited every one of us to be a part of.

“Remember that [we] were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”

Thanks be to God.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
19 July 2009
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

When I became Rector of Saint Mark’s, I will confess to you that my head swelled – just a little. My mother would tell you that I could ill afford such an expansion. Nevertheless, I had been entrusted with the job of leadership – shared by only 13 other men over the last 160 years – of a great and historic parish. This building, its history, ministry, and leaders have been known over the decades as exceptional in many ways. And if Saint Mark’s, Locust Street would be remembered for nothing else by visitors and those beyond the parish, there is the matter of a shining silver altar in the Lady Chapel to catch the outsider’s imagination.

You can imagine, therefore, that I was somewhat deflated not long ago to meet the rector of a very large, well-known parish on the west coast. A parish that has not the historical significance, tradition, or architecture to shine a candle in the presence of Saint Mark’s. A church without any silver altars at all. When I met this colleague in ministry whose church has been known to me for many years, he asked where I was from. “Saint Mark’s, in Philadelphia,” I said, looking to see a hint of wistful envy on his face.

“Oh,” he replied, “what kind of parish is that?”

Well, I mean… How could he know nothing of our architectural pedigree, or that the fourth rector of this parish was one of the greatest churchmen of the 19th century, or the story of ministry and worship that this place has stood for since before his church was even built? And if all else failed, how could he not know about our silver altar?!?  Pride goeth before the fall, as the Good Book more or less says.

The 21st century is not proving to be a heyday, so far, for the Episcopal Church in general, so I suppose we should not feel too bad if we cannot yet claim it as a heyday for Saint Mark’s. There was a time when our pews had more people of greater renown in them, when children were more a part of the life of this place. There was a time when rich benefactors lavished this place with gifts and memorials that lesser parishes could never dream of. There was a time, under the leadership of the great Eugene Augustus Hoffman, the fourth rector of this parish (who was himself a very rich man), that the ministries of this parish were a model of outreach to the city and those in need. There was a time when any rector of a west coast parish might have looked east with sighs of envy at Saint Mark’s.

These days most Episcopal churches are sighing for days gone by when the pews were full, the work was easier, and the church was strong. In this context, it is extraordinary to reflect that a week ago today we were wrapping up, at our mission parish of Saint James the Less, a nine day urban mission project that was an exercise in building community.

30 high school students from around this diocese and beyond, and 8 – 10 adults slept in tents on the grass behind the parish hall. These kids went out into the neighborhood where they cleared overgrown vacant lots, planted flowers, and put up swings and benches. They helped with the renovation of one of the buildings on the church property. And most significantly, they organized a week of Vacation Bible School for the neighborhood that attracted as many as 65 kids at its peak, bringing a measure of life to the church grounds and to the neighborhood that was greatly needed by both.

By my count, more than forty people from Saint Mark’s took part in City Camp 2009 in one way or another: whether in helping to prepare the buildings for the camp, or baking, or manning the grill or the nurse’s station, or leading Vacation Bible School, or organizing the clean-up of a vacant lot, or cleaning bathrooms, or serving meals, or a host of other ways.

City Camp will prove to have been, I am certain, one of the most remarkable mission projects carried out in our diocese all year, and perhaps for many years.  It was the type of project that you would expect to be led by a parish or a diocese in its heyday – by institutions with muscle and money to flex.

Today we heard one of the most perplexing passages of the New Testament, when Saint Paul is writing to the church in Corinth about someone being “caught up in the third heaven.” Scholars believe that he is probably writing about himself, though the reference to the third heaven is obscure and no one has ever figured out what the thorn in Paul's flesh is (“to keep me from being too elated”). Then Saint Paul writes about something most of us can relate to. Three times he appeals to the Lord. Three bouts of prayer on his knees, we can imagine, of lighting candles, three sleepless nights, perhaps of clutching his rosary (if only he’d had a rosary!). Three tearful pleas to be relieved - does it matter from what?

We are meant to understand, I think, that his prayers, at first, go un-answered, his frustration and misery and perhaps despair begin to mount, that despite his religious pedigree, his Roman citizenship, his formidable mind and boundless energy, the saint is confounded and fears, perhaps that he will be undone. Have you ever felt this way? I have.

Saint Paul even begins to think of this thorn in the flesh as a “messenger of Satan to torment [him].” How can he do the work that God is calling him to do if he is thus tormented? How can he go the many places he must go if he is so handicapped? How can he think and pray and work for the Gospel this way?  And in his anguish and frustration, a voice came to him, known to him from the day he first heard it on the road to Damascus: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”

Now, my brothers and sisters, perhaps we should lock the door. For here is a great secret of the church that Saint Paul learned and shares with us. When the heyday is past, and we are feeble, unprepared and ill-equipped, hope is not lost. Christ’s grace is sufficient for you, power is made perfect in weakness.

You will not find this advice in The Art of War, or being taught at the Wharton School. Although you may hear it laughed at here and there. Christ’s grace is sufficient for you; for power is made perfect in weakness. See the power of eternal life, hanging on the Cross, being perfected in weakness.

The 21st century has been no heyday for the Episcopal Church, for the Diocese of Pennsylvania, or for Saint Mark’s, so far. What can institutions like these do to advance the kingdom of God? How are we to accomplish great things with so much less than we once had, than we should have, so much less than bigger, richer churches have?  And why did Jesus send his apostles out with so little to do his work – no bread, no bag, no money? Nothing except one another and his authority?

My grace is sufficient for you.

Throughout the church, and certainly here at Saint Mark’s, we know, like Saint Paul, what it is like to be in control, in power, to have many resources and much at our disposal. We know what a heyday feels like. And it is tempting to conclude that the church’s ability to minister has been irreparably hobbled, our mission diminished because the heyday is so clearly over. But a voice comes to us, known to us from our prayers and our time gathered at this altar: My grace is sufficient for you. My grace is sufficient for you.

The Episcopal Church is not the place it once was. The Diocese of Pennsylvania is not the place it once was. Saint Mark’s is not the place it once was. Are we all weaker? I suppose we are. But is not Christ’s grace still sufficient for us?

City Camp was a sign – of which more than forty of you were a marvelous part – a sign of the power of Christ’s grace working through our weakness. It was an important sign, because Jesus is not waiting for us to become strong by the world’s standards to do his work. His business plan does not look like any other. He sends us out deliberately with no bread, no bag, no money! Why? Because his grace is sufficient for you and for me!

And by his grace is everything supplied.


What kind of parish is this? (The question still rings in my ears.)  You might be asked that some day by someone from the west who knows nothing of silver altars. Would it occur to you that this is a parish that is reviving ministry in a church by a graveyard, where just a little more than a week ago almost a hundred young people buzzed around like bees pollinating every inch of the place with new life?

If that’s what comes of our weakness, then I am inclined to trust our Lord who sends us with no bread, no bag, and no money to do this work. Because his grace is sufficient. His grace is sufficient.

Thanks be to God.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
5 July 2009
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia