Saint Mark's Church

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

I wonder how long he’d been sitting there. Had he been there all day, in the dust and the warm spring sun? I wonder if this was the spot he always sat in, his spot, the smooth stone of the city wall worn away into a comfortable curve by the leaning of his back, the smells and sounds of the city gate familiar and homey. I wonder how he found his way there. Did a friend or a neighbor lead him there at daybreak? Or did he find his way there himself in the dewy early-morning, the path made familiar by day after day of sleepy, heavy-eyed travel – walk slowly to the smell of Miriam’s freshly baking bread, turn right when you hear Hiram’s donkey braying in his stable, watch the step up near the bubbling waters at the mikvah, and finally slide yourself into your spot along the road, your place of begging business, your tiny crease in the busy world.

I wonder if, when he sat alone by the roadside, he spent time trying to remember what the world looked like. He hadn’t always been blind, you see. He had once seen the soaring starkness of skinny palm trees, the vastness of a solid blue sky, the infinite smallness of the first star on a dark, cloudless night. He had once marveled at the sights of the world and all that was in it – at the way his honorable father’s eyes had twinkled when teasing his mother, at the tiny wrinkles in the knuckles of his baby sister, of the brightness of a smile and the curve of a shoulder and the flash of sunlit hair. But all that had been years ago, and even though sometimes he was sure that his dreams had been full of color, when he woke he couldn’t quite remember green, or the rich ruby glow of wine, or the shade of his own golden-brown skin.

I wonder what they sounded like on that day. Surely he heard them coming – first the scattershot of voices carried by the wind, then the buzz and hum of a band of country pilgrims headed on the road from Jericho to Jerusalem for Passover. Did he sit up right away, arranging his face into just the right combination of kindness and need, draping his empty cloak over his lap to catch the coins tossed from generous hands? Or did he wait a moment, knowing that he would hear the difference in sound when the crowd rounded the bend in the road and could see him, taking those few extra seconds to linger in the cool curve of the stone behind him?

I wonder when he noticed the sound change, when he heard the buzz and hum grow into a roar. When did he realize that this was more than just a few families of pilgrims, that it was an enormous crowd – men and women and children, with accents from all over the land, their bodies buzzing with an excitement that made his own heart beat faster in his chest. I wonder how he knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth who was passing by. Did he hear snippets of conversation from the crowd, murmurings of dead children raised and live children embraced and bread broken and multiplied and shared? Did he catch the disciples still arguing over who was the favorite? Or did he just feel it when the Lord walked by – a stillness in the air that made his breath catch in his throat, a warmth like the sun on his upturned face?

I wonder what made him cry out. Where did that courage come from in the heart of this man who had always played by society’s rules, begged by the roadside like a good beggar should, lived in corners and darkness like a good blind man should? What did his voice sound like when he shouted down the road, his face turned to the place where that warmth had been? Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me! Did he even hear the crowds telling him to shut up, or was all he could hear his own desperate rasp of a cry and the pounding of his own heart? Again and again, Son of David, have mercy on me, have mercy on me, stop, stop and come back.

I wonder what it sounded like when the crowd shuffled and slowed and stopped. What did it feel like to have hundreds of people hushed and quiet, their attention focused on him as he waited, his ears straining to hear anything, his face turned, his body leaning into the place where that presence had passed by, waiting, longing. And then, a whisper coming down the lane, he is calling you, take heart, take courage, get up, you blind man, get up and go.

I wonder what it felt like to move, to feel the scratch of his woolen cloak as it slid off his knees, to hear the thump and jingle of coins as they fell to the ground, unheeded and unnecessary. What did it feel like to move out onto the road, to hurry down the path, sensing the still, expectant bodies all around, drawn along only by that presence, that warmth, that something out there. I wonder if it felt good – stretching out his legs, stretching out his arms, searching for this new thing, fearless in the face of his faith in this Jesus, standing directly in the Son, feeling this calm, warm, holy presence right before him.

I wonder what he thought when Jesus asked him what he wanted. Was it a thousand separate images of father and mother and family and bread and sky? Or was it just one word: green? I want green again. I want to see again, rabbi, and then the sound of those words – go, go on, your faith has made you well, and suddenly a flood of colors, the road and the trees and the sky in a tumble of greens and blues and dusty brown feet and bright white smiles. And the man standing before him with dark eyes as rich as wine. I wonder what it felt like to watch that man smile, turn his face towards Jerusalem and move along down the road, to feel the crowds begin to move along with him. I wonder what it felt like to choose: to look back at his place of sitting and to then turn away – to leave his cloak and his coins and his comfy cool curve of stone and to move along, to follow this man wherever he was going, whenever he might get there, however his life might be forever and forever changed.

I wonder where we find ourselves in this story. I wonder if today this Gospel is inviting us to draw near to Bartimaeus, to find ourselves at his side, to recognize something of ourselves in the man who has spent his life sitting in one place. After all, we find our way to this place by the same old sounds and smells – wake up and walk straight until you smell the incense, turn right when you hear the rustle of choir robes, slide yourself into the comfort of your pew. We lean back into the curve of this familiar worship, of our familiar prayer practices and scripture study and stewardship and service, day after day. And that sitting still, that sameness, that little crease of faith in a hectic and busy world can feel stable and steady and reassuring. But I wonder if this Gospel is inviting us into more, encouraging us, too, to take heart, get up, and move along. I wonder if this Gospel is reminding us that discipleship is not really about sitting still.       

This is not to say that we shouldn’t fully embrace the familiarity of this worship, of our prayer and study and stewardship and service. How in the world could I stand in the pulpit at Saint Mark’s Church and say that? No, these familiar practices are critical to the life of discipleship. But just because our practices are the same every day doesn’t mean that our faith should be the same every day as well. In fact, these practices of discipleship are important not because they help us to sit still, but because they help us to move – to notice Christ’s presence, to summon the courage to call out for his mercy, to hear his voice calling us to something new. And he is always calling us to something new. Why would we ever imagine that God would call us only once? Why would we ever imagine that God’s process of transformation would simply stop? God wants more for us – more of us – than that. Our discipleship is a journey; it is “the way” not “the destination.” It is a path, a process, not a place where one hangs a plaque and says, Here I will sit from now until eternity. We are called by Christ again, and again, to come close to him, to learn to see the world anew, and to move along.  

I wonder what it would feel like to move – to leap up from where we are now in our faith, in our discipleship, in our stewardship, and to move along the road. Perhaps you already feel like you’re already there, that, like Bartimaeus, you’re being transformed daily, that you’re moving along each and every moment because it just feels too good to stop. But for those times when you feel like you haven’t moved in a long time, when you feel like your faith has been sitting steady but perhaps a bit stale, remember – God is making all things new. God is present, here, on this road, loving you and longing to transform you – your call, your eyes, your faith, your whole life, this whole world. So lean in. Listen for that whisper down the lane, “Get up! Take heart! He is calling you.” I wonder what it would feel like to hear that voice this morning and to spring up and to move.                

Note: I am much indebted to Jerome Berryman and the Godly Play curriculum for the language of this sermon. The "wondering" comes from him!

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

28 October 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Phelps's sermon here.

Preached by Father Nicholas Phelps

21 October 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Imagine that you are surrounded by a spectacularly beautiful mountain landscape: a stream is gurgling not too far away; the sun is shining; perfect, fluffy, white clouds are floating along in the clear, blue sky; the air is crisp and clean.  All is wonderful in this sylvan scene… except that you are carrying on your back a backpack loaded with your tent, your sleeping bag, your clothes, your food and your water.  And the bag is heavy.  And you are hiking uphill.  And you have been doing this for a week, or ten days, or maybe two weeks.  This was the scene one day this past July when I was hiking in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada.  I am 45 years old.  Let’s not guess just exactly how many extra pounds I am already carrying around my middle.  Let’s just say that most days the loudest sound I could hear as I hiked was my own labored breathing: in and out, in and out, as I tried to suck the oxygen out of the thin mountain air.

On my worst day of hiking – my unhappiest day, when every muscle ached, and I wanted only to sit and rest, but I was looking up to a mountain pass that I could not imagine ever reaching – a thought ran through my head as I grumbled to myself, and wondered if I could really make it.  I was aware of how long the hike was (211 miles), of how heavy my pack was (something like 30 pounds or more), and how overweight and out of shape I am (I thought we agreed not to be precise about that), and I listened to my breathing (in and out, in and out)…  and the thought that ran through my head was this:  “You did this to yourself.”  No one else had let me get so out of shape.  No one else had forced me to take this hike.  No one else had packed my bag.  I was responsible for every ounce of unhappiness I was experiencing.  I did it to myself, and there was no one to be angry or upset with other than me.

There had been another day with a moment of unhappiness, when my companions and I were hiking up a steep ridge where several trees had fallen directly across the trail, making it very difficult to ascend.  In one place there was a very large tree that had fallen across the trail at a steep angle.  I tried to climb over the tree, grabbing its branches to try to hoist my self and my backpack across its big rounded trunk.  But the tree was too big and the tangle of branches too thick to get up and over.  It looked as though hikers before me had instead chosen to duck beneath the tree, going just downhill of the path and squeezing themselves, and their backpacks between the steep mountainside and the rough tree.  There was a gap there that looked as though a small child with a bookbag might make it through.  But I could not imagine how I would get underneath with my backpack.  I was tired, and frustrated from not having made it over the tree.  I was annoyed that my smaller, lighter, and younger hiking companions had already cleared this obstacle and were now well ahead of me.  I was nervous about losing my footing.  And I was sure I would not fit underneath the tree.

So I got down on my belly, my face nearly in the dirt.  And I reached my hands out in front of me and started to pull myself forward on the sloping mountainside, underneath the fallen tree trunk.  I felt the top of my backpack hit the trunk above me, and my momentum stopped.  I scrunched myself down into the dirt to try to get lower, and I pulled myself again, and I felt my backpack reluctantly scrape along the bark of the tree as I managed to get myself most of the way under.  Another pull, and at last I made it through to the other side of the tree.  My knees were scraped, I was covered in dirt, I was breathing even harder than usual, but I was past the obstacle.  I adjusted my pack on my back and I looked up, for the trail kept going up, and I continued on my way.  I did it to myself.

I was not thinking at the time about the Gospel of Mark.  But come to think of it, very few people that I know believe in the Gospel by the time they get to the portion of the 10^th chapter we read this morning.  Very few Christians can see the value in Jesus’ teaching here, and most of us are eager to ignore it, to explain it away, or stash it in whatever drawer we stashed Jesus’ teaching that we should love our enemies: the “useless drawer” where we put other useless things.

Today’s gospel reading might as well go into the useless drawer: “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!”  “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”  Haven’t you and I long ago consigned this passage to the useless drawer?  Only holy people – monks and nuns – believe this stuff, and they are either crazy or stupid, or there is something else wrong with them (we must assume).  For no one in his right mind does anything other than what the man in the story does: turn his or her back on Jesus and walk away from him when told to sell everything and give the money to the poor.  Except in our case we do not turn away from Jesus sorrowfully, because, really, what is he, crazy?

Remember me trying to get underneath that tree?  Do you know what never occurred to me?  Do you know what thought never crossed my mind?  This one: take the pack off your back.  You are carrying too much and it makes it hard to go forward, so take the pack off your back.

Now, normally I would think that that’s a metaphor for repentance or forgiveness or grief, or some other spiritual virtue, some inner conflict or turmoil that it’s hard to let go of.  And I would say to gently, why don’t you take the pack off your back?  Let Jesus carry it?  But I had my stuff in my backpack: the things I needed.  My life.  You don’t just take that off your back.

I played a little thought experiment the other day when reflecting about my hiking trip and this gospel reading.  I asked myself to imagine that I had been hiking with a backpack full of money, and that I could keep as much money as I could carry up those mountains.  I’d have killed myself to drag it all up there!  I’d have starved and dehydrated myself to make room for more cash in my bag.  And you could have pushed trees down in front of me and I’d have crawled under them.

And I think I actually stand pretty loosely to money.  I give a fair amount of it away.  I am not very motivated by it.  I have chosen, more or less, a life with limited earning potential.  But if you’d told me I could keep a bag stuffed with money as long as I could hike uphill with it on my back for three weeks …I’d give that serious consideration.

I’d want to know what the denominations of the bills were, of course.

I’d want twenties… at least.

When the man asked Jesus what he had to do to inherit eternal life, do you remember what Jesus did?  Saint Mark tells us that “Jesus, looking at him, loved him…”  He loved him.  This means that this un-named, unknown, never-to-be-seen-again man is in the same category as Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead!  He loved him.  This is not insignificant. 

Jesus loves you, too.  He is going to raise you from the dead.  OK, that’s later.  But now, he loves you and me, and does he also want us to hear what the un-named, unknown, never-to-be-seen-again man heard?  “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me”?

But we don’t really want to take our backpacks off, do we?

No, we do not.  We would rather scrape our way along the dirt to try to squeeze through the eye of the needle, than risk leaving our money behind.  I know I would.  And many of us would just decide that it was a better idea to turn back whence we came.  Maybe the only reason I kept going is because there were two guys ahead of me, and didn’t want to lose them.  Maybe otherwise I’d have turned around, marched to the bottom of the mountain and ordered myself a beer.

Money has a grip on us – on you and on me – and it is not letting go.  And neither are we, just yet.

And here’s the thing: it seldom occurs to any of us to take the backpack off.  It is almost unthinkable that we could do without, manage with less, or give it all away.  Let Warren Buffet do that, or Gerry Lenfest, we think.  They have plenty to spare.  But I’ll keep my backpack on, thank you very much.

Now some of you, maybe you need to be careful this way.  There are people who worship in this church week by week, I know, who really don’t have much at all in their packs, and they need to hold onto it.  But not so many of us fall into that category.  Most of us are rich by nearly any measure.  Which means that Jesus is talking to us.  Jesus loves us.  And he hardly ever had a good thing to say about the rich except this: from those to whom much is given, much will be expected – which Google may tell you is an anonymous quotation, but which is actually found in the 48^th verse of the 12^th chapter of the Gospel of Saint Luke.

We forget where it came from because it has been filed in the useless drawer.  Just like the Gospel reading today: useless.

Here’s another thing we don’t believe:  Money can’t buy happiness.  Hah!  Most of us strongly suspect that money can indeed buy happiness.  And the more of it you have the happier you will be, we strongly suspect.  And it certainly seems that money buys the things that go with happiness.  But you know what money doesn’t do?  Money doesn’t make it easier to climb mountains; which is to say: to pass through the eye of the needle.

I suspect that most of us are going to leave this Gospel passage in the useless drawer for a good while longer.  I suspect that we have already turned away from it, for we have many possessions, most of us.  So we have taken the passage out for its requisite fifteen minutes and it can go back in the drawer for another year, or whatever.  But if, like me, you suspect, that Jesus actually said this for a reason, that he meant it, and that it could, in fact, be mysterious and wonderful kind of Good News that we have just not figured out yet, I have a suggestion:

Let’s practice giving our money away.

You can try when the plate is passed around the church later on in Mass.  Will you let it go by?  Or will you put something in it?  A dollar, a five, ten, twenty?  Even if you already pay your pledge by check, or credit card?  Practice giving it away.

You can practice by giving a dollar to a person on the street, whom you would normally pass by.

You can practice by taking home a pledge card and thinking about how much money you can give to Saint Mark’s, and the adding a little bit to what you think would be a reasonable amount.

Wait! you’ll say.  Jesus didn’t say to give your money to the church; he said to give it to the poor!

And I stand proudly by this parish’s record of work with and for the poor and the needy: thirty-plus years of the Food Cupboard, eight years of feeding the hungry on Saturday mornings, two years, now of St. James School – which only serves the neediest families, two free medical clinics in Honduras. 

And yes, we have lots of other bills to pay too, but I promise you that when you give, we can and do more and better ministry with the poor.

Practice giving your money away.  Practice with me, because it’s good for you, as it is for me.

Practice giving your money away because it is part growing up spiritually, and outgrowing a kind of bondage that money traps so many of us in.

Practice giving your money away, because otherwise, I promise you, you are going to get stuck, under a tree, or in the eye of the needle.  Or worse yet, you will never even start the journey, and you will go home sorrowful.

On my hike, I eventually made it up to the mountain pass that day.  And then up and over successive mountain passes day after day for three weeks, until finally we reached the top of Mount Whitney, which is the highest mountain in the continental US: 14,500 feet.  I’d call that a useful metaphor for the kingdom of God – no place higher to go!

How hard it is to get through the eye of a needle when we are not willing to let go of our money.  But I promise you, if the view from the top f Mount Whitney bears even the tiniest resemblance to the view from the kingdom of God: it is worth it!

Look up!  The kingdom of God beckons!  And nothing can stop you, except you, yourself!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

14 October 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

My mother was good at many things. She was an enthusiastic and creative teacher. She was a beautiful public speaker. She made a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And she was a dedicated and consistent speech temper-er. If my brother or I said something that she considered to be too extreme, especially too extremely negative, she would jump in right away to temper what we’d said. “Oh, you don’t really mean that,” she’d say. And then she’d suggest something she thought was more appropriate. An example, as I was pouting after banging away at a difficult piece on the piano: “You don’t mean that you hate this piece, honey; it’s just not your favorite.” Mom liked gentle speech – we couldn’t hate something or wish we would just die or never, ever, ever do something again. She would always try to moderate our extremes, temper our bitter words with a touch of sweetness, encourage speech that was a little softer, a little nicer. “Oh, you don’t really mean that,” she’d say. And most of the time, she was exactly right.                

Maybe some of you have mothers like this. And maybe it’s because of mothers like this that I find myself wondering what Mary was thinking while Jesus was giving this charming little speech in today’s Gospel, how she was feeling when Jesus suddenly started talking about chopping off body parts. “Oh, Jeshua,” I can hear her saying, “you don’t really mean cut off your own foot; you mean watch out for where that foot might take you.” And, “Now, honey, wouldn’t it be nicer to say something like, ‘Try to look only at beautiful and holy things’ rather than telling people to gouge their eyes out?” You don’t really mean that, Jesus, I can hear her saying.

And the truth is, she’s right. He probably didn’t really mean what he was saying. Everyone who reads this passage can see that Jesus is using this extreme speech to make a dramatic point. He’s practicing the art of hyperbole, standing in a long line of Biblical figures who valued and carefully crafted the skill of purposeful exaggeration. We hear the same kind of extreme speech from Moses when he was confronted with the whining Israelite rabble: “Look, God, did I conceive all this people? Am I their babysitter now? If you seriously expect me to find meat to feed this bunch of babies, if this is how you value our relationship, then just kill me now. Take me. Out of. My. Misery.” This is the tradition of intentional exaggeration that Jesus has inherited, the kind of speech that Jesus is putting to work here. It would be better for you, he says, to be drowned in the sea than to turn another person away from me by your actions. It would be better to cut off one of your own limbs than to allow it to trip you up in your own discipleship. In other words: stay out of the way. Better to be drowned, or to go about life maimed, lame, or half-blind than to get in the way of your own faith or anyone else’s.

So yes, we’re on fairly safe ground not taking this text too literally. After all, we don’t hear about the great mass limb-chopping before the day of Pentecost, or of the band of one-eyed Christians who stumbled their way around Asia Minor because they had no depth perception. It’s safe to say that this extreme language is intended to make a point. It’s safe to say, “Okay, Jesus, we know that isn’t really what you meant, so we’re going to soften up your language just a bit.” How about, “Keep an eye out, Christians, for the things that get in the way of belief.”

But it is profoundly unsafe to let this word-tempering turn into a habit. We get ourselves into trouble when we start applying this tempering technique willy nilly, when we let our discomfort with other extreme things that Jesus said push us to try to find nicer, more appropriate, more doable, alternatives to them as well. And we do this all the time. We don’t mean to, and sometimes we aren’t even aware of it, but we do. We take “love your enemies” and say, well, maybe not “love” maybe just “be nice to” or at least “don’t be mean to.” And maybe not really your enemies but just the people who slightly annoy you. We hear “Go into all the world and preach the Gospel,” and we soften it to “Go to people who are already kind of receptive and try to casually slip the Gospel into the conversation.” We translate “do this in remembrance of me” into “do this when it is convenient for you.” We temper “take up your cross and follow me” and “feed the hungry,” and “love one another as I have loved you.” We don’t mean to, but we do. We let our own discomfort with this kind of extreme speech push us into trying to soften these words, into trying to make this speech more digestible, more politically correct, more socially acceptable.

The trouble is that Jesus spoke in extremes all of the time, and most of the time, he meant what he said. Sure, he may have spoken in hyperbole and stretched the metaphor to drive home his point from time to time, but not all the time. Love your enemies was not an exaggeration. I am the resurrection and the life was not hyperbole. Take, eat this in remembrance of me was not a suggestion. Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all is not an example of extreme speech that needs to be softened. And – and this is important – our level of discomfort is not actually a good indicator of when we should start tempering this bold speech. Some of Jesus’ words might make us uncomfortable, but that in itself isn’t a good enough reason to discount them. We are asked, we are commanded to listen to them anyway.

And if we’re being honest with ourselves, we’re actually asked to do more than just listen to these words of extreme love, extreme forgiveness, extreme mercy and truth and grace – we are asked to live these words, and we are asked to repeat them ourselves over and over and over again. We are asked to use this kind of extreme speech in our own lives, not to temper the way we speak about God to others or to ourselves. We are commanded to proclaim the Gospel with boldness, to boast in the cross of Christ, to visibly embrace the utter foolishness of God made man. If we don’t do this, if we don’t speak with the same strong words that Jesus did, then who in the world is going to listen to us? If the Gospel that we present to the world is merely lukewarm, then it’s no wonder that people will spit it out of their mouths. And, what’s worse, if we choose to do this – to speak in half-truths that are softened so as not to offend, or tempered so as not to make anyone uncomfortable – then guess what? We are setting ourselves up as dozens of little stumbling blocks to all of those people out there who would come to know Christ but simply need a compelling invitation. And you know what that means. It would be better for you to have a millstone tied around your neck and be thrown into the sea, it would be better for you to try to drive west on the Schuylkill Expressway at 5:00 on a Friday afternoon, it would be better for you to get stuck behind a Cowboys fan at the Linc, than to put a stumbling block before any and all of these little ones.

Now here is the good news. Right now, everyone in this church has the chance to get rid of the millstone. Because your stewardship committee has asked you to bring a friend to church on the second Sunday of October. This is the perfect opportunity to practice your extreme speech. And I do mean practice. You may need to actually stand in front of the mirror and watch the words fall out of your mouth. Words like: “You know, neighbor, when I serve soup to the homeless at Saint Mark’s, I actually see Christ in the eyes of those I feed. Would you like to come with me on Saturday?” Or: “You know, Dad, I can’t do an early brunch with you on Sunday because Sundays are holy days for me. Worship at Saint Mark’s grounds me and names me and sends me – would you like to come with me this week and we could do brunch afterwards?” Or: “You know, mother-of-playdate-friend, growing my children in the knowledge of God’s love for them is hugely important to me, and my church really helps me to do that. Would you like to come to our Family Mass and Schola with my family next Sunday?” Or: “You know, work colleague, I find God when I hear the choir offer their praises and prayers. Come hear them – and God – with me.”

This extreme speech – this strong, bold, radical speech – pleases God. These are words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts that are pleasing and acceptable in God’s sight. When we feel and speak in this way, not only do we remove the stumbling blocks from our own faith and from those we meet, we actually imitate Christ. And then the speech becomes not simply our own but the word of God made living and active in our mouths. God speaks in us when we speak this way, draws close to us to guide and strengthen us in our speaking. So we have two weeks – be bold in your speech, be extreme, and smile as you say that yes, that holy speech is exactly what you really, really mean.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

30 September 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

For something like 50 to 100 years – it’s actually hard to say how long – various policies throughout the states of Australia resulted in the forcible removal of indigenous children from their families of origin.  There is not easy consensus about what the purposes of such policies were, and some people implausibly deny that they were ever in place.  Some say that the policies were there to protect the children from neglect; others say it was to preserve their Aboriginal heritage; still others say it was to “civilize” a race of people that was not as technologically advanced as the Europeans who had by then long ago claimed Australia as their own.

One reason for removing indigenous children from the bosoms of their families, however, seems to be wrapped up in the perverse thinking of eugenics: through generations of inter-marriage with fairer skinned people and generations of socialization in European customs, this thinking went, you could “eliminate the full-blood and permit the white admixture to half-castes and eventually the race will become white,” according to one of the policy’s best-known proponents.[i]

The children taken during these decades came to be known as the Stolen Generations – and no one really knows quite how many children were indeed stolen.  Can you imagine what it was like?  Here’s how one member of a stolen generation described what happened:

“I was at the post office with my Mum and Auntie. They put us in the police [car] and said they were taking us to Broome. They put the mums in there as well. But when we'd gone [about ten miles] they stopped, and threw the mothers out of the car. We jumped on our mothers' backs, crying, trying not to be left behind. But the policemen pulled us off and threw us back in the car. They pushed the mothers away and drove off, while our mothers were chasing the car, running and crying after us. We were screaming in the back of that car. When we got to Broome they put me and my cousin in the Broome lock-up. We were only ten years old. We were in the lock-up for two days waiting for the boat to Perth.”[ii]  And so it was that several generations of children were taken from their own families to grow up in orphanages and schools other institutions, some of them run by the churches of Australia.  And generations of Aboriginal families were deprived of their own children.

Of course, the policies were not only misguided and cruel, they did not succeed in eliminating the indigenous peoples of the Australian continent, who have never fared very well since Europeans came to those beautiful shores with their supposedly superior culture.  To this day Aboriginal Australians often suffer the same kinds of indignities that Native Americans suffer on our own continent: unusually high rates of poverty, unemployment, addictions, and, of course, the loss of the lands and customs that sustained their lives for generations past.

But I digress.  For, today the Gospel compels us to think about children.  We find Jesus’ disciples engaged in an activity that adults have perfected – arguing about who is greatest, which is a way of saying that they were wrangling over power.  Knowing something about power, Jesus wants to teach them.  So he scurries off for a moment, and then comes back to the house where they are all gathered.  He has with him a child – maybe it’s an infant, or a toddler, but I like to think it’s a child a little bit older, say, a middle-school-aged child.  “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all,” he says to them.  And then, he takes the child in his arms.  If it’s small enough, he is cradling it in his arms.  Or, if the child is a little older, perhaps he bounces the boy or girl on his knee.  If the child is a little older still, standing beside him, Jesus wraps his arms around his or her shoulders, and draws the child close to him as he says, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes not me, but the one who sent me.”

This is a recurring theme in the Gospels – not only the lesson that the first shall be last, etc, but also the instruction, the command, the imperative (you might say) to welcome children.  It’s a lesson most forcefully and memorably taught by Jesus when his disciples are yelling at people for bringing their children into the presence of the great teacher, and they are telling the people to take their kids away and get out of the way.  But Jesus intervenes and says, “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”  The disciples meant well, but they were wrong – not just because Jesus made it permissible to bring children into his presence, but because children have a privileged place in his heart, and in the kingdom of God.

I sometimes think of those generations of stolen indigenous Australian children, ripped from the arms of their mothers, tossed into the backs of pick-up trucks, and then hidden away till they could somehow blend in wit the rest of white Australian society.  And sometimes I think about this parish, which I love, and about parish churches like it, and I wonder, who stole our children?

There are entire generations of children missing from the life of the church in many places, certainly it is the case here in this parish.  The children were not taken from us forcibly – it was all much more subtle.  In urban churches, like ours, it was linked to the flight of so many families from the cities to the suburbs.  And then, of course, the loss of Sundays as free, un-programmed time, protected for worship and family togetherness.  The church has proved to be a weak attraction compared to softball leagues, and football games, and Sunday brunches.  But we didn’t shoo the kids away, as the disciples did; we just woke up on successive Sunday mornings and found that they were simply missing.  We may have wondered who took them, but what could we do?

At Saint Mark’s, for decades now, we have tried to make the best of it – enormously grateful for those few families with their children who stalwartly remain – but generally learning to cope without the children, filling the roles they once filled with adults, as necessary, and keeping just enough small-sized vestments around to fit the occasional boat boy, as a reminder to us – since those boat boys and girls look so right in this place, so much like they belong here – a reminder to us of the missing generations.

There’s something awkward in the passage of Mark’s Gospel that we heard today that may contain a lesson for us.  Mark is very specific that Jesus and his disciples are gathered in a house, as Jesus talks with them, but I doubt that there is a child sitting there in the house with them.  Jesus must have gotten up to go get a child.  Did he go to another part of the house?  Or out into the street?  Who knows?  But I feel certain that Jesus had to get up from where he was sitting and go get the child that he put in the midst of his disciples in order to teach them a lesson.

Perhaps part of the lesson for us in this Gospel passage comes from asking, “Where did the child come from?”  It’s a form of the question I ask around here, “Where will the children come from?”  It’s all fine and well to say that children ought to be a part of the church, after all, but where will they come from?  Out of thin air?

Well, where did the child come from that Jesus put in the midst of his disciples?  Jesus went to find the child, and he brought her in.

My brothers and sisters, our children are missing.  They have been taken from us by forces that we often think are more powerful than we are.  And in so many cases their entire families have gone with them.

Our children are missing, and they are being deprived of a Christian heritage: of the Christian story, of the Christian sacraments, of the Christian community, of the Christian life – all of which are good and useful and holy.

Our children are missing, and after all, the church hasn’t shown herself to be an unreliable care-taker of children?  There are those who are ready to say what a good thing it is that the children are missing from the church.

Our children are missing, which puts us in peril if we truly care about the kingdom of God, the kingdom of heaven, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven, and whoever welcomes a child welcomes not just the child, but Jesus.

Entire generations of our children are missing from the church – including the present generation.  It’s been no one’s policy.  No bands of policemen have gathered them up and carted them off.  They are not locked up in a cell somewhere.  They have not been taken by force from their mothers’ sides.  But they have been seamlessly assimilated into a society that either thinks it has outgrown the kingdom of God, or would rather turn its back on the kingdom of God.

Our children are missing, but we cannot really point to anyone else, and say, “It’s your fault.”  Because the children were missing when Jesus gathered the disciples in that house in Capernaum, too.  The disciples, after all, were planning their own futures, designing their own vestments, arguing over who was the greatest, who would sit at the Lord’s right hand.

I wonder how they arranged themselves in that house, after their discussion – how did they jostle to get the best seat, beside the Teacher?  How awkward was it for them when he got up from their gathering and left them to sit there alone with each other?

How long was he gone?  Did he just go to the next room and find a child sitting there in its mother’s lap?  Or did he go out the front door and ask one, then another passer-by if he could borrow her child for just a moment?  Or did he bring the mother in with him too, and ask her to join them?

Why did they think he had brought a child into their august gathering?  Children can be disruptive, after all.  And they thought they were doing just fine without children; they thought it was best to keep the children at bay.  Let them come to Jesus when they are grown up, they thought.  They had no idea that the children were missing from their midst; they had thought they were doing alright without them.  But they were wrong.

So Jesus went to find a child and hold her in his arms.

My friends, if your children were missing you would go out and look for them.  You would not sleep till they had been found, you would not rest till they were warmly tucked in their beds, you would not leave any stone unturned in your search for them.

If your children were missing you would find them and bring them home.

Well, my friends, our children are missing.  To welcome them is to welcome not only Jesus, but to open our lives to the whole presence of God, to welcome the one who sent him. 

Our children are missing.  Are we just going to sit here?  Or shall we go together and find them?

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

23 September 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

[i] A.O. Neville in The West Australian, 1930

[ii] The Stolen Generation, by Peter Read, a report to the Dept. of Aboriginal Affairs of the Government of New South Wales