Saint Mark's Church

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

It’s amazing what you can get used to. An example: last week I was on my way home, walking down Broad Street, lost in my own musings and enjoying the crisp fall weather. As I crossed South Street, I looked up to see a man about halfway down the block, walking in my direction. Immediately the great question that haunts all city-dwellers popped into my mind: do I make eye contact and smile, or do I pretend like I don’t see him at all? I usually opt for the former, even if it makes me seem less cosmopolitan and chic. So as the gentleman and I approach one another, I look up, ready to smile, and suddenly he says, “Right…right. That’s exactly what I said. What in the world is she thinking?” At which point, I realized that he was, in fact, on the phone, and I laughed to myself and continued on my way.

These kinds of surprise outbursts are so common anymore that I barely even notice them. Remember the good old days, when to talk on your cell phone, you had to actually, you know, talk on your cell phone? Remember how strange it was at first to hear these one-sided conversations in public, as you sat in the train station or did your grocery shopping? But by now we’ve been through the era giant blue-blinking earpieces and the speakerphone, where people just kind of yelled in the general direction of their phone and moved on to the era of the headphones with the attached microphone. The man I saw had no visible communication device at all – no earpiece, no headphones, no phone to be seen. For all I could tell he’d had a microphone surgically implanted in his face. Nonetheless, I didn’t think a thing of it. That man who appears to be talking to himself as he walks alone down the street? Why, of course, he must be on the phone. Amazing what we can get used to.   

That man who appears to be talking to himself as he stands in the midst of the temple compound? Why, of course, he must be praying. We are, of course, completely used to the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. We have heard this story so many times that the behavior of the Pharisee hardly strikes us as odd. The fact that he stands alone in the middle of a crowd and talks out loud is no surprise to us, because we have long ago realized that he is really talking to God, trying to pray. He gets it wrong, we know this; we’re used to watching him boast about his piety, his holiness, about how much he tithes and fasts. We’re also used to the actions of his foil, the tax collector, who stands far off and cannot even lift his eyes for shame. And, of course, we’re used to Jesus’ punchline: “I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other….” These two men, who appear to be talking to themselves in the courts of the temple? Why, of course, they must be praying – one of them well, and one of them not-so-well. We’re used to it.

This is, of course, dangerous. Whenever we find ourselves thinking that we “get” a parable, we should take a breath, take a step back, and sit at Jesus’ feet once more. Because we know that the parables of Jesus were intended to be shocking, to describe a world that was unlike anything his listeners were used to. Those to whom Jesus told this tale would have never seen this punchline coming in a million years. It would have seemed to them entirely outlandish, nonsensical. They would have walked away shaking their heads, wondering what color the sky was in Jesus’ world, this world where a lowlife like a tax collector, a corrupt, abusive, puppet of Rome, is held up as a model over and above a Pharisee, a faithful, righteous, strict keeper of the law.

And why is it so dangerous for us to think that we know better? After all, we have the gift of hindsight; we see the whole story, and we know how it ends. We see the color of the sky in Jesus’ world because we’re trying to live in that world, too. We know a bit better, don’t we? Ah, dangerous thinking. The risk here is two-fold: first, that we might get so used to this story, so comfortable with the caricature of Pharisee as fool and tax collector as diamond in the rough, that we will fall headlong into the parable’s trap by saying something like, “God, I thank you that I am not like this Pharisee.” Dangerous.

But the second risk here, if we are too quick to get used to this parable, is that we might miss the fact this Pharisee is not, actually, like the man I saw walking down Broad Street. That man looked like he was talking to himself but was actually talking to someone else. The Pharisee in this story looks like he’s talking to God but is actually talking to himself. He doesn’t speak as if God is actually listening; he’s just thinking out loud, talking to himself about what he’s done, and how he feels about it. God doesn’t have much to do with it. Even the text itself is unclear here. The Greek phrase which describes his prayer translates to something like, “he prayed thus to himself.” Does this mean he prayed under his breath so that no one else could year? Or does it literally mean that he was praying to himself? Or, perhaps, does the ambiguity simply lie there, challenging us to think differently, about him and about ourselves?  

There are times in all of our lives when we find ourselves praying thus to us? It’s an easy trap to fall into. It’s easy to get so used to our prayers that we are blinded to the fact that they actually do ascend to heaven like incense. We pray without actually praying, start a conversation with the expectation that no one is really listening. An example: we confess our sins often in this place – every Sunday, every day, in fact. We offer a weekly opportunity for private confession. But do we say those words as if God is actually listening? When we say, “Most merciful Father,” do we feel, in the speaking of those words, that we are demanding the attention of Almighty God? When we pray, “we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed,” are we just talking to ourselves, going over a list in our own heads and for our own sakes, waiting for the priest to turn around with words of absolution, waiting to get up off our knees? Are we talking to God, or to ourselves?

This parable reminds us that whether we recognize it or not, God is listening. God is always listening. God does hear us talking. This confession that we make week after week, day after day, can never be an empty gesture, because it’s real. It’s efficacious. It matters. We have really sinned, you and I have sinned, the Church has sinned, the country has sinned, our forebears have sinned. And God knows it, knows all of our sins already, even those that we are too afraid to bring to mind. God listens. If we were able to really grasp this, if we were to feel the sharp reality of this conversation, to acknowledge God’s Almighty, Omnipotent presence, our regular confessions would feel far different. We might even find ourselves beating our breasts, kneeling with heads bowed low, foreheads on the ground, unable to speak at all. We might find ourselves echoing the words of God’s people in Jeremiah, praying that God will not completely reject us, hoping that God does not loathe us, longing for peace and healing, hoping against all hope that God will continue to be righteous, that God will continue to forgive.

But this is not meant to scare us. Because the truth is that if we let ourselves become so used to speech of our confession that we are only really giving it lip service, we miss out. We miss out on the opportunity to feel the transformational grace of God’s mercy, the unearned and unmerited gift that God gives us when he says to us again and again, yes, I hear you, yes, you are mine, and yes, I forgive you, I cherish you, I see you and seek you out, and yes, through the merits of my only son, your beloved Savior, Jesus Christ, I even exalt you.       

So go ahead. Make your humble confession before Almighty God, devoutly kneeling. Pray as if he is listening, talk not to yourself but to him, and know his infinite mercy and love. Speak, you humble, beautiful sinners, speak you servants, for your God is listening.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

27 October 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

As the sun rose upon Penuel, Jacob crossed back over the Jabbok River, collected his two wives, two maids, and eleven children, and continued on his way home, limping back toward the Promised Land, repeating his new name over and over in his head: Israel, Israel, Israel.  He knew that his brother Esau – with whom he had a bad history – was waiting for him somewhere along the way with an army reported to be 400-strong.  Jacob had every reason to believe that Esau was holding a grudge and had amassed the army with the express purpose of getting even with his twin brother after all these years.

On the one hand, Jacob was feeling pretty good about himself.  After all, he had just spent the night wrestling with someone who he strongly suspected was the angel of God – or maybe even God himself (though how such a thing could be was, frankly, beyond Jacob’s imagination).  He had spent the night entwined in conflict – a conflict, he knew, that was about something bigger, something beyond himself, something deeply existential - and he had prevailed.  And even after he’d been injured in the wrestling match, Jacob had held on to the angel (or whoever it was), and refused to let go without a blessing from him.  And the blessing he received was an affirmation of his fortitude, and more than that, an affirmation of his destiny: it was his new name, Israel, and the explanation that the angel gave with it (“you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed”).  So, on the one hand, he had been tested by God and had done well, so well that he’d been given a new name as a reward.

On the other hand, he was limping badly, because the angel had struck him in the hip socket and put his hip out of joint.  And the resulting limp tended to take a little bit of the shine off of the victory of the divine wrestling match, and also made him a slightly less formidable opponent for his brother, whose anger would have been seething for years in anticipation of the meeting that was about to occur.

This well-known episode of Jacob wrestling with the angel (or God himself) takes up about the last third of the 32^nd chapter of the Book of Genesis, and goes to the end of the chapter.  But for reasons at which I can easily guess, the Episcopal Church has omitted the last verse of the chapter from our reading this morning.  It’s a verse that follows the description of Jacob limping away because of his hip, and it says this: “Therefore to this day Israelites do not eat the thigh muscle that is on the hip socket, because he struck Jacob on the hip socket at the thigh muscle.”

Now, I assume that we do not read this verse because almost no Episcopalians these days keep kosher.

Were I to delve into my understanding of kashrut, the kosher laws, I wouldn’t get very far, so I should be careful here.  But my research leads me to understand that, indeed, the prohibition against eating the thigh muscle of an animal is still in force amongst Jews who keep kosher.  In fact the rules require such a complicated preparation of the meat from this area of a cow, and so few people possess the knowledge and skill to perform it, that the hind-quarter of the cow is often simply sent off by kosher butchers to be sold to Episcopalians and other Gentiles.  Be that as it may, what remains in the consciousness of at least a certain set of Jews who forego eating the meat from the thigh muscle is a tangible link to the lingering memory of Jacob’s test under the stars beside the Jabbok River, when he was all alone, about to face the music for his past dishonesty with his brother, worried for the lives of his wives and his children, and he didn’t really know what lay ahead of him.

The story of Jacob wrestling with the angel is a little mysterious, a little complicated, and full of interesting details.  It has many possible points, many possible morals, many possible conclusions to be reached, including the possibility that Jews should no longer indulge in rump roasts.  Asking what is the singular point of this story is a little bit like asking what’s the most important color in a kaleidoscope?  But if I have to choose, today I’d say the most important points of the story are these:

…that God tests people – it is a regular feature of the way he deals with those he calls into relationship with him.

…and that the community of faith is given a blessing through the tangible links of the lingering memories of our encounters with God.

It is commonplace these days for people to reject the idea of God because getting to know God is not so easy.  Part and parcel of the difficulty of getting to know God is God’s tendency to test people.  Abraham was tested by being asked to sacrifice his son Isaac; Noah was tested just by being asked to build the ark; Moses was tested by being asked to confront Pharaoh; David was tested in his confrontation with Goliath; the prophets were constantly being tested; Jesus himself was tested during his forty days of fasting in the wilderness.  God tests those he calls into relationship with him.

It is important to see that God does this testing not for his own benefit (God already knows the outcome) but for the benefit of the one being tested.  This tendency of God’s offends modern sensibilities, since today we think that God ought to be selling us on himself, and all this testing really is off-putting.  But Jacob would never have become Israel without his test.  Not because God needed him to pass the test, but because Jacob needed it himself.  Jacob needed to know that he could prevail, not through trickery or deceit, but through his own determination and fortitude.  Jacob needed to know that he could prevail on his own.  Jacob needed to overcome his own self-doubt.  Jacob needed to know that God wished to be entangled with him.  God already knew all these things.  But Jacob only discovered them in his test by the Jabbok River.

And, of course, Jacob needed to be ready to receive a new name, to take on an identity bigger than his own, to become the third patriarch of God’s chosen people.  Jacob needed to become Israel.  And the moment that Jacob does become Israel is commemorated for him by his injury, and by the limp that impedes his footsteps as he crosses back over the river, toward both his past and his future, and toward the destiny that God has in store for him.  Jacob’s destiny was to become Israel and to return home to the Promised Land.

So Israel adopted the commemoration of the limp by refusing to eat the meat of the thigh muscle of the hip socket in order to remember all that Jacob learned in his test, in order to fix that memory to the daily routines of their lives, in order to have a constant reminder that even if you must do so limping, you should follow God’s call back to his Promised Land.

All of which might or might not be interesting to you and to me.  But that is not the question.  The question is this: Have you ever felt tempted to reject God because of a night, or a season of torment?  Have you grappled with God, found him difficult, confrontational, maybe even wounding to you in some way, and concluded that God is not worth the angst, not worth the struggle, not worth the injury?

Jacob limps toward you to beg you to consider otherwise; to remind you that the struggle was not for God’s benefit, but for his own; to tell you that he wouldn’t even know who he was, had it not been for his night of testing by the Jabbok River.  And he wants you to know that he wouldn’t trade his limp – by which the memory of that night of wrestling is brought constantly to mind – for anything!

Where God is concerned, sometimes we need to embrace the struggle, to refuse to let go of it until God gives us the blessing that is meant to come from it.  Our tendency to think that religion ought to deliver Nirvana on demand from a standstill is naïve, childish, and has little basis in the human experience.  But of course, it’s what we all want!

Is God testing you?  Don’t let go of him!  Don’t give up on him!  And don’t assume that the test has no purpose.  You have no more idea what God is going to show you than Jacob did.  For all you know God may have a new name to give you!  Hold on to God, and demand from him the blessing you seek.

It’s true that Episcopalians are not so good at keeping kosher.  But we are quite good at rehearsing the tangible link of our lingering memories of our encounters with God.  If you let your imagination go for a minute, you can see how the Mass is its own little set of dietary laws – controlling only these two ingredients: bread and wine.  Why do we fuss with them so?  Bread is baked into little, crumb-less wafers.  Wine is poured into elaborate chalices.  They are carried into the church, just so.  We dress up in this out-moded gear when we gather this way.  We ring bells, sing hymns, and then pronounce the prayers – the same old prayers, time and time again – just for this Bread, just for this Wine.  But we do not remember Jacob, wrestling with angel.  We remember Jesus.  And with these tangible links – the Bread, the Wine, the words he used, the bells, and the smoke, and the gathered people - our memory comes alive, so that Jesus is really with us, right here among us.

And maybe last night was a night of struggle for some of us.  Maybe you felt alone, entangled in conflict.  Maybe you feel separated from everyone you love; maybe they have crossed over to the other side of the river, but you have had to stay on your side alone.  Maybe you are feeling unimpressed by God, who has not been doing a very good job of selling himself to you lately.  Maybe you suspect that, in fact, all this God talk is just so much talk about angels and rivers, but that it doesn’t make much difference in your life.  Maybe there is an old enmity – with your brother, or your sister, or your parents, or your spouse, for which you feel angry, or guilty, or both, and that has dogged you for years.  Maybe you fear that inevitable confrontation lies ahead of you tomorrow, and you just wish you could get away from it.  And maybe all this has happened before, and you have been left limping – but to what end and for what purpose?  Maybe God is testing you  - I don’t know why, it’s just the way God does things.

But remember that God is not testing you because he does not know how things will work out for you; God is testing you to teach you how things will work out for you.

In the story of Jacob wrestling the angel, it is not entirely clear that Jacob has won the match when the sun begins to rise over the Jabbok River.  What is clear is that Jacob refuses to let go.  Even when injured by the angel, he refuses to let go.  Even when the angel will not answer his question, politely asked (“Please tell me your name.”) he will not let go.  He will not let go until the blessing comes.  And he is right to hang on, for the angel blesses him; God blesses him right there, in the place of his loneliness, his anxiety, and his struggle, God blesses him.

And Jacob gets up, limping badly.  But there is a joyfulness to his step, nonetheless, as he limps across the Jabbok, reciting his new name over and over, and collects his two wives, and his two maids, and his eleven children.  And, knowing that his angry brother Esau awaits him, he sends gifts ahead - camels and flocks and herds - acting with generosity toward his brother for perhaps the first time.  And Esau tells his men to stand down, and embraces his brother instead of attacking him.  And they part company, and Jacob continues on his way home, toward the Promised Land he’d left behind, teaching everyone to pronounce his new name: Israel, Israel, Israel.

God tests his people from time to time – not because God needs to, but because we generally do need to be tested, though it is highly frustrating, and sometimes much worse than that. 

And God has given us a living memory of the gift of salvation – he gives us his Body and his Blood over and over again, to bring to mind the journey he calls us all to make: across the river, past all our fears and doubts, and all our enemies, and all our old failures, probably limping as we go.

And there is a name has given to each of us – a new name that he hopes we will keep repeating in our heads till we have learned what it means: Christian, Christian, Christian.  Which reminds us of the new name he gave to Jacob, when he called him Israel, and of the Promised Land that we are so ready to forget, because we left it far behind so long ago.

And it turns out that the test is mostly this: to see if we are willing to keep limping toward the Promised Land that God is building in our hearts.  This is our destiny, if only we will refuse to let go of God till he has given us his blessing, which he will surely do, as surely as the sun rises over the river.  And we give thanks to Jacob, we give thanks to Israel, for teaching us over and over again that important lesson in our struggle with God: that the most important thing to do is to refuse to let go to be confident of the blessing, to hang on till you receive it…

… and then to go limping toward the Promised Land with your new name rolling around in your head: Christian, Christian, Christian.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

20 October 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

As many of you know, this past week, Saint Mark’s hosted the fifth national conference of the Society of Catholic Priests.  We had a really wonderful week together, with powerful liturgies, beautiful singing, inspiring presentations, and a truly transformational afternoon spent at the Saint James School. I am so grateful to all of you who helped Saint Mark's be so wonderfully hospitable to all of our conference guests and society members who came to Philadelphia from all over the country.

One of the joys of hosting a conference like this, of course, is getting to show off the city in which you live. Many of our guests were coming to Philadelphia for the first time, and it was great fun for me to watch them explore this city that I love so much. Our conference agenda was quite full, so I didn’t make so many recommendations about what to do as I did about where to eat – introducing guests to the wonders of Steven Starr; assuring them that yes, I’m not kidding, that vegan restaurant is supposed to be really, really good; trying to convince them that the gelato at capogiro is truly legit; and, of course, naming all of the places within a four block radius that know how to pour a good pint. I enjoyed listening to the conferees report back the next morning on where they’d gone – and on what they’d experienced when they got there.

What do I mean by that? Well, I mean that I had at least half a dozen priest colleagues tell me with great wonder and awe of their experience that showing up in a bar in Philadelphia in a collar will get you a free round. And these colleagues of mine just couldn’t believe it. Now remember, many of these priests live in rural areas, or in the south, where the sight of a priest might raise an eyebrow but probably not a pint glass. But Philly, as you know, is still a pretty intensely Roman Catholic city, and when a gaggle of priests walks into a bar, and there isn’t an obvious joke to follow, well, some of our hospitable neighbors reach into their wallets and tell the barkeep to buy the nice fathers (and maybe the lone and slightly confusing mother) a whiskey chaser on them. My colleagues were blown away by this and many of them have, I’m sure, gone home to update their profile pages on the church deployment website in the hopes of working here permanently.

Now as someone who lives here, I can say that this does not actually happen regularly. At least not to me. It probably does to Father Mullen. And I’m sure that part of the reason for the free rounds was that there were so many of us. Four full tables of priests in the Irish pub; a baker’s dozen of collars at a karaoke bar (I was not there for that, just FYI) – and, on Friday night, ten priestly types around a common table at The Farmer’s Cabinet. That much black clerical wear tends to attract a bit of attention.

So on Friday night, at The Farmer’s Cabinet, we decided that since everyone was already looking at us anyway, we would go whole hog, and when our food came out, we stood up around our table and sang the doxology. Now I have to admit, I feel a little sheepish telling you that. I’m a little nervous admitting to you that I stood up in a restaurant in Philadelphia on a Friday night and sang praises to God in a loud and lusty voice. And there are a thousand little voices in my head whispering all of the reasons why: because it isn’t very elegant, because we Episcopalians just don’t do that, because it was show-offy, because it inconvenienced other diners, because Jesus said to go into your closet to pray, because it was rude or pushy or gauche. And maybe there is some truth there, I don’t know. But I can say that in the moment, I didn’t feel any of those things. I just felt incredibly grateful. Grateful for the friends around the table, grateful for the week we had just shared, grateful that that week was over, grateful for the fact that I get to serve a parish as generous and beautiful as Saint Mark’s with musicians as generous and beautiful as ours, grateful that I get to work with a priest as fine as Father Mullen, so grateful that another fine priest, Mother Johnson, had offered to take the Mass for me yesterday so I could recuperate a bit – I was so grateful, filled with joy, and happy to sing out my praises to God. It felt good, it felt right, it felt necessary.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, that Jesus seems to expect this behavior from the lepers he has healed. “Were not ten made clean?” he asks. “But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Only one has returned, a Samaritan, who has not only come back to thank Jesus for this miracle but praised God “with a loud voice.” Now it’s easy for us with our twenty-first century eyes to imagine that this kind of thing happening all of the time in first century Palestine. People must have been running around praising God with a loud voice all of the time – common occurrence, the running and the leaping and the prostrating yourself before an itinerant preacher. Common occurrence, more acceptable in those times…except that it obviously wasn’t. Because only one of the lepers returned, only one of them came tearing back down the street towards Jesus making a complete spectacle of himself by shouting out his praises and thanks to God right in the middle of the village square. Only one of them was filled up enough with the Holy Spirit to just not care if he was being inelegant or rude, if he was inconveniencing people with his songs of praise, if he was fitting in with commonly accepted village etiquette. Only one of them felt good enough to be loud about it.

And Jesus seems okay with this. He doesn’t shush him (which, after all, Jesus has been known to do from time to time); he doesn’t say, oh, yes, that’s very nice, thanks, but would you mind taking that exuberance over to the synagogue, there are people here who don’t want to hear that kind of thing. No – Jesus says that his faith, that enthusiastic, raucous faith has made him well. His loud voice of praise isn’t just okay; it’s actually an active and living force, a force for healing, a force for good, a force for the kingdom.

Now I’m not saying that we should all go running out into the street praising God with a loud voice. Although maybe that is what I should be saying, honestly. And the point isn’t really to just be braver about saying grace, although that isn’t such a bad idea either. The point is to find ways to be that grateful, to dig for the taproot of our gratitude and to let it well up within us, to look at our lives and to be so filled up full with thanks that we cannot help but sing out in a loud voice – for the food we eat, for the jobs we have, for the city we live in, for the people we love, for the bodies we are, for the God we worship. If we take the time to notice all that we have, to stop and breathe and actually look at the grace that really does flow through all of our lives, running around praising God with a loud voice won’t feel so ridiculous. It will feel good; it will feel right; it will feel necessary.

This is what we’re doing during this stewardship season. Our vestry and other leadership of this parish are coming to you, to each of you, to spend some time tapping into that root of gratitude. What do you love about your life, about this church? What do you love about the holy work of God in this world? I am convinced that when we do that, when we stop and notice and talk about the many gifts in our lives, the praising God with a loud voice just comes. It will look like the number of your pledge, written boldly on a card and offered to God on Commitment Sunday. It will look like using words like “grateful” and “blessed” and “grace” in our regular, ordinary, everyday lives. It will look like smiling at strangers, like reaching out in love, maybe even like singing.  

I’ll bet you’re wondering what the response was to our impromptu hymn fest at The Farmer’s Cabinet. Not much. We got a smattering of applause, which was interesting. Later in the evening a woman from the table next to us came over and asked us if we would sing Happy Birthday to her husband Bob, obviously confusing us with that next hot singing group The Ten Episcopal Priests. I left early, I must admit, so I’m not sure if there was more of a response later on in the night. Maybe not. Maybe we were just an oddity, these people dressed in black and singing a strange old chorale in the middle of cheese plates and cocktails. But maybe, just maybe, there was a young woman in the back corner of the restaurant singing with us under her breath. Maybe, just maybe, there was a college student who remembered that hymn from his old church and felt a swell of gratitude for his old youth group from those days. Maybe as we sang about blessings that flow, there was an old man who offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God for his recent recovery from surgery, and a mother who thanked God that her daughter-in-law is finally pregnant, or a couple who felt a surge of gratitude just because they were together. Maybe, right? So go, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

13 October 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs, Society Convener

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

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

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

The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!" The Lord replied, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, `Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you.”  (Luke 17:5-6)

The old joke isn’t much told any more about how to get to Carnegie Hall…  Practice, practice, practice, being the answer.

When it comes to faith, it is tempting to suspect that the same thing is true.  How do we get to be good at faith?  Well… practice, practice, practice.  This is what we suspect the saints have done: practiced whatever aspect of faith it was they were good at so much that they became saintly at it.  Francis practiced poverty and preaching to the birds.  Mother Theresa practiced changing endless bedpans of those dying in Calcutta, until in sanctified her.  St. George must have practiced on something else – maybe squirrels – before he slew the dragon.  Practice, practice, practice your faith enough, and you will get good at it!

The apostles seem to be begging Jesus for this punch line when they say to him, “Increase our faith!”  This is another way of asking him, “How do we get good at faith?”  They assumed that the rabbis, who were good at faith, must have practiced, practiced, practiced reading the Scriptures.  The priests must have practiced their secret arts, the cantors must have practiced their incantations.  And so all of them were good at the specific aspects of faith for which they were responsible.  Now the apostles want to know: How can we get good at faith?  What, Lord, do you want us to do?  What shall we practice?

And Jesus gives them a quite unexpected answer.  He says, “Increase your faith?  If you had faith the size of a mustard seed you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and be planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

Don’t you think the apostles murmured a little about this?  Don’t you think they took offence?  Don’t you think they huffed and puffed a little; they snorted: a mustard seed!  Well, I think we’ve got faith the size of a mustard seed, Lord!  And what good would it do, anyway, to uproot a mulberry tree and plant it in the sea?

This mustard seed business is a biblical cliché.  And in it we normally think we hear Jesus enjoining his apostles to have a little more faith, will you?  We hear it as a put-down, a sarcastic remark that reinforces our image of the twelve stooges that follow Jesus and never get anything right (because they have not yet started taking their practicing seriously).  But I wonder if we are hearing Jesus correctly, when we hear his comment about the mustard seed that way?  I wonder if he really is telling the apostles that what they need is more faith, as if he was just providing the punch line to the old Carnegie Hall joke.

Remember that Jesus is responding to their plea that he increase their faith.  And when Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed…” maybe he is not saying, “have a little more faith,” maybe he is really saying something else.  Something like this:  Why should I increase your faith?  Your faith, though it be small, is enough, it is sufficient not only to the day but to accomplish greater things than you have yet imagined!  Your faith is enough.  Your little faith is enough – even if it is no bigger than a tiny mustard seed.  It is enough.  I am encouraged in this reading of this passage of Scripture for one significant reason: it sounds like Good News to me!

Don’t you sometimes worry that your faith is too small?  I do.

Don’t you sometimes worry that you don’t know how to believe?

Don’t you sometimes worry that you just don’t practice enough to be very good at faith?

Don’t you sometimes worry that you disappoint God with your miniscule faith?

Don’t you sometimes worry that God will punish you (or is punishing you) because your faith is too small?

If you do worry like this, you might pray (with the apostles), “Lord, increase my faith!”

If only you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to a mulberry tree, ‘be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.  And what good would that do? 

Such a tree, transplanted by faith into the middle of the sea, would constitute an island.  Let’s call it Mulberry Island.  And over time Mulberry Island would enlarge its shores so that people could live on it – but only people who heard Good News in Jesus’ mustard seed remark.

None of the residents of Mulberry Island has been sainted.  All of them have only a little faith.  But they have become convinced by the Gospel that even their little faith is enough.  It must be, for it was through their conviction that they arrived on Mulberry Island – there are no ferries to take you there.  The residents of Mulberry Island live in what could be described as peace and tranquility, in neighborhoods surrounding the great Mulberry Tree in the center of the Island.

The other plant that flourishes on Mulberry Island is the mustard bush – which is not actually a very large tree, nevertheless many birds do come to Mulberry Island to make their nests in and around the mustard bushes.  On Mulberry Island, the people use mustard seeds as currency.  Some people have a lot, others have a little, but each finds that she has enough.  No one is too poor or too rich on Mulberry Island.  Mulberry Island is non-sectarian and non-discriminatory.  Because of its origins, there are a lot of Christians there.  But they never wear crosses around their necks, as many Christians among us on the mainland do.  Their preferred symbol of faith happens to be the mustard seed. 

Many of the men will wear on their lapels a little mustard seed that’s been carefully attached to the end of a pin, as a sign of their faith (tiny though it may be).  And many women wear earrings made of mustard seeds – like tiny, yellow pearls in their ears.  (Some of the men wear earrings, too, and this is raises not an eyebrow on Mulberry Island!)

The clergy on Mulberry Island preach very short sermons, largely because the people on Mulberry Island long ago stopped being anxious about whether or not they had enough faith.  They realize that everyone’s faith seems small – small as a mustard seed – but that even a little faith is enough.  And a little faith thrives on short, but frequent, sermons.

The real problem on Mulberry Island is that it easily becomes crowded, as new people discover the Good News that even a little faith is enough to lead a happy life, and move onto the Island.  After the first wave of immigrants onto Mulberry Island, the original residents began to feel that old familiar anxiety rising in their throats.  They thought they had moved onto a near-paradise, where no one is too poor or too rich, and everyone has enough, and the birds twitter away as they make their nests in the mustard bushes that can be harvested for currency, as required.

But as the Island became crowded, those first settlers of Mulberry Island worried that their faith was not big enough, that they’d run out of room, that the new folks might have stronger faith than theirs, and then where would they be?!?  Falling back on old habits, those original residents, feeling the anxiety rising, fell to their knees and uttered a prayer they remembered from their past: “Lord, increase our faith!”  And as they got up from their knees, they felt a little rumbling in the rocks below them. And they looked and saw they roots of the Mulberry Tree that is at the center of the Island pushing out beyond the shores, further into the sea, and new rocks and new land forming around the roots, as the Island expanded, making room for more people of a little faith.

Geologists do not have a word for this process, that I know of.  And relatively few people have ever seen this expansion of Mulberry Island happen, since most people believe that Jesus is scolding them for having too little faith, and therefore never go near Mulberry Island, believing that it is childish to think that a mulberry tree could be uprooted and planted in the sea.

And most people do not notice that there is something missing in the Gospel reading assigned to us today.  Most people don’t suspect that the apostles didn’t just grumble among themselves, but actually answered Jesus when he said to them, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you.”

Most people do not believe that the apostles answered Jesus thus:  “Oh, but Lord Jesus, we do!  We do have faith the size of a mustard seed.  Not much more than that (a mustard seed being bigger than a grain of sand, but smaller than a pea or a pebble) but, yes, we can say with true conviction that our faith is at least about the size of a mustard seed!”

And most people do not believe that the apostles joined hands and prayed then, just to see if it would work.  And there, in front of their eyes, the mulberry tree was lifted from its terrestrial moorings, and carried some distance into the sea, where it was planted by the Lord, and dubbed “Mulberry Island.”

A few of them must have moved onto the Island then, tending to the first mustard bushes they planted, and establishing the practice of using mustard seeds for currency, for obvious reasons.  And every now and then, a few souls discover that although their faith is small, it is enough: enough to do whatever God requires.  Enough to care for the needy, to raise children happily, to feed and educate your family, enough to endure trials and tribulations, to weather storms, and to recover from sickness.  In fact, even just a little faith is enough to face death when it comes, as it will, as it must.  Yes, even a little faith is enough to find one’s way through all these struggles – all of which still take place on Mulberry Island.

And every month or every year a few souls who realize that even a little faith is enough find their way to Mulberry Island, guided by their tiny faith, and a lack of anxiety.  And so, by God’s grace, Mulberry Island is growing – albeit slowly, at this stage of the game.

Mulberry Island (where a little faith is enough) is growing: the old tree is stretching out its roots, and rocks and dirt and sand are building up around them to form new shores.  Little by little, the shores of Mulberry Island are expanding, so that some day folks like you and me, folks who have only a tiny bit of faith, will be able to hop or skip almost effortlessly right over the teeny inlet of the sea that will some day be all that separates our shore from the shore of Mulberry Island, where a little faith is enough.  After all, such a tiny jump – just a few inches, maybe – requires just a little faith, maybe only faith the size of a mustard seed!

And, God willing, by then we’ll be able to join with those early apostles, whose answer to Jesus has been mysteriously omitted from the Gospels, and say: “Oh yes, Lord, if faith that’s tiny as a mustard seed is what’s required to get from here to there, I can supply that.  Maybe not much, more, but I can summon up faith that is bigger than a grain of sand, and smaller than a pea or a pebble!”

And won’t Jesus smile then, to hear that we have finally discovered this good news: Oh ye of little faith, even a little faith is enough!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

6 October 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Phialdelphia