Saint Mark's Church

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

One day this past week, while I was walking on Rittenhouse Square taking care of some errands, I came up on a young man who was obviously just out enjoying the day – strolling around, looking up at the sky, even whistling a little bit. As I passed by him, he took a long look at me in my collar and got a huge grin on his face. I’ve seen this happen enough to know what was coming next, and sure enough, he drew up next to me and asked me one of the two questions that I get here in Philadelphia at least once or twice a week: “Are you a priestess?” (If you’re wondering, the other question is “What are you?”) I laughed and said that he was close – I was a priest, actually, not a priestess, which for me always conjures up images of grey robes and standing stones and someone singing Casta diva. What he said next was completely unexpected. “You have too many crucifixes in your church!” Now he didn’t know which parish I serve, and if I worked in some other church in this city I might have been able to respond to this by saying, “Well, no, actually we don’t.” But seeing as I am a priest here, I just said, “Well, that’s interesting. Why do you say that?” To which he replied, “You know, you make it all about the cross and the sacrifice and that one moment. When really that wasn’t what Jesus spent most of his time doing, you know? He went around talking to people and showing them how to be good people. It doesn’t always have to be about the bloody cross. Jesus was just a teacher, you know?”

Now as unusual as this conversation might seem in the context of running errands in Center City, this man’s argument is certainly not an unusual one. From the Jesus seminar, to agnostics, to Christians who are critical of “The Church,” people of all types and persuasions have argued for years that the Church’s focus on the moment of Jesus’ crucifixion has obscured the “truth” about who Jesus was and what Jesus was up to. Jesus was just a teacher, you know? He was a regular man, a great faith healer, a political upstart, who taught people how to love, how to live a moral life, how to choose an ethic that supports the poor and welcomes the outcast. You don’t need all of that hocus pocus mumbo jumbo, they argue. You don’t need sacraments and sacrifice, you don’t need mystery and miracle, and you certainly don’t need crucifixes to show you how to be a follower of this man Jesus. You just need to be a good student of his words. He was just a teacher, you know?

Now Jesus certainly was a teacher. He spent a huge amount of his time teaching, and he took his teaching technique seriously. He taught in parables, he harnessed the power of rhetoric. He liked a good old-fashioned lecture but was also a big fan of experiential learning. Jesus was a teacher, and an excellent one at that. Let’s look at today’s Gospel as an example. Now any good teacher will tell you that before entering the classroom, you need to have prepared a very detailed, very comprehensive lesson plan, with goals, objectives, procedures, and a means of evaluation. As one educational website says, you have to know where the students are going, how they will get there, and how you will know that they’ve made it. So here’s Jesus, heading to the villages of Caesarea Philippi with disciples in tow. It’s a bright, sunny day, with a high blue sky. Everyone is in a good mood. Peter and James and John are out in front of the group, still talking about the healing of the blind man they’d just seen in Bethsaida. Andrew and Phillip are practically skipping along, thrilled to be on the other side of the sea from the Pharisees. Judas is walking alone, wondering aloud where he might get some more of that magically multiplying bread. It is as good a time as any, so Jesus pulls out his lesson plan and calls his class to order. After dealing with Bartholomew who whines oh, Son of Man, can’t we just stroll along and look at the sky for a little while?, Jesus begins to teach.

Today’s Lesson: Jesus the Messiah. Goals for the lesson: 1. to clarify the disciples’ understanding of Jesus’ identity; 2. to increase the disciples’ understanding of Jesus’ mission; and 3. to introduce the disciples to a deeper understanding of their own mission. Objective 1: The disciples will be able to identify Jesus as Messiah. 2. The disciples will be able to define the word “Messiah.” 3. The disciples will be able to describe what the role of the Messiah looks like in the world, highlighting the Messiah’s suffering, rejection, death, and resurrection. 4. The disciples will be able to describe their own response to this Messiah, including taking up their own cross, following him faithfully, and turning over their entire lives to their discipleship.  

Procedure. Step 1: Ask the disciples who people say that Jesus is. Step 2: After hearing these responses, then ask the disciples who they think Jesus is. Step 3: Once the disciples have correctly identified Jesus as the Messiah, strongly redefine this word for them by outlining how the Messiah will suffer, die, and rise again. [Accommodation for learning disabled students: If Peter has trouble understanding this new definition, privately rearticulate this vision in a firm and unyielding manner.] Step 4: Once the disciples are able to articulate this new definition of Messiahship, gather in all of the students and give them their work, which is to take on this cross themselves, be willing to sacrifice their own selfish desires when they come into conflict with the will of God, and let go of their death grip on their own lives. Step 5: Continue along the journey, with the disciples beginning to work on the integration of this learning. Evaluation: Jesus the teacher will closely observe the disciples’ progress over the coming days and weeks by noting how they demonstrate love for God and one another. Final note: this lesson may be repeated as necessary, even up to three times total, in order for the learning to be fully assimilated.

This really is an excellent lesson plan. It has clear goals, clear procedures, and an understanding that the objectives will only be met when the disciples adopt this new cross-bearing, self-giving way of being. Jesus is clearly all about instruction here – Mark tells us that he began to “teach” the disciples about the true nature of his Messiahship – not warn them, not pass along to them, but teach them. And Jesus does, in fact, present this lesson again – three times in fact – each time instructing the disciples clearly about what will happen to him for their sakes.

Jesus is a teacher, a dedicated, passionate, efficacious teacher. But he is not “just” a teacher because he teaches, any more than the Bible is “just” a history book because it contains history. Because what is it that Jesus is teaching? It is the lesson of the cross. Jesus is teaching them this – the crucifix. Jesus is a teacher, yes, but he offers us more than simply lessons about how to be kind or how to make good decisions. Jesus is a teacher, and he is a good enough teacher to save his most serious and powerful instruction for the lesson that is most important for his disciples, for us, to learn – the lesson of the cross. Here, right in the middle of Mark’s Gospel, at the heart, at the crux of Mark’s proclamation, Jesus works up his most excellent lesson to teach us the central truth of his own ministry: that the Son of Man will experience the fullness of humanity – our suffering, our rejection, even our death – and will transform it all. The cross – this place of shame and suffering – is changed into a place of mercy and glory in the hands of a loving God. The cross changes everything. The cross is the root of our education, the core learning of the Gospel, the wisdom Christ wants to impart. In fact, the cross is the lesson, and the goal, and the teacher, and the evaluation all in one.

And the class, of course, is still in session. The lesson goes on. That great “if” still lingers in the air: “If any want to become my followers….” Is that, in fact, what you want – to be a follower of this Messiah? Is that what you want – to learn this lesson, to practice it again and again until it becomes etched into your heart and soul? Do you want to be a student of this Jesus, to “listen as though who are taught” and to set your mind on divine things instead of human ones, to bear this cross?   

Jesus is before you, waiting for your answer, longing to teach you. You know the lesson; you have seen it again and again. You see the lesson hanging all over this church. The cross is our vindication, and our vindication is nigh. Jesus is Messiah. Study that, you know?

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

16 September 2012

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

The legend is told of a secret chamber located somewhere deep beneath Saint Mark’s: somewhere deeper than the tomb that holds the mortal remains of Fernanda Wanamaker, deeper than the tunnels the PATCO trains run through under Locust Street, deeper than the underground river that is said to flow beneath 16^th street.  The entrance to the secret chamber is buried now, somewhere underneath the dirt floor of the eastern end of the Undercroft, directly beneath the choir stalls or the altar.  It is a chamber that has a sort of magical property: you could bring things there that were stuck or locked or jammed in such a way that they would no longer open, and you could say a simple, one-word prayer, and they’d be open-able.  A box that was locked and the key had been lost, a watch whose mechanism had gotten jammed, a jar that couldn’t be opened, a briefcase with a lock whose combination had been forgotten.  These are the sorts of things that were carried gently through the secret narrow passage, down the dark stairs, to the dimly lit chamber, that is said to be bare, with only a single candle to be lit inside it.  The Victorians had a lot more little locks on things than we do, they used little boxes to hold all kinds of things, and mechanical objects were more prone to failure and harder to replace than ours, so this was a useful secret chamber back in the day.  But even more remarkable things were said to happen in the chamber.

It is said that once a star choirboy, whose voice was damaged from an illness of some sort, so that he could barely speak, let alone sing, was escorted down past the columns of the Undercroft, led to the narrow entrance, given the single candle to light, told the prayer he had to recite, and sent down the long passage, deep below the church, and when he came back his voice was restored, and he was given a solo to sing the following Sunday.  It is also told that a priest of the parish, who was spurned by a woman he’d hoped to marry, went down to the secret passage to utter the prayer, but that strangely his broken heart was never mended.

Maybe it was with the construction of the Lady Chapel in 1900 that the entrance to the secret chamber was mistakenly covered over.  Maybe with the turn of the century, and with industrial advances, there were fewer things that needed to be unlocked, or the things that needed to be fixed were all too big to fit through the passageway and carried into the secret chamber.  Maybe the whole story was just made up, and there never was a secret chamber where you could bring the locked, the stuck, the broken, the failed, and have them unlocked, un-tuck, repaired or restored.  But even in our modern age, when watches don’t have any moving parts, when we tend not to lock things up in little boxes, etc, it’s nice to think that there could be a place where a child who has lost his voice could be sent, and he would return with a song on his lips.

I suppose that in this city of study and science, surrounded as we are by medical schools, it became a matter of ridiculous superstition to carry a broken music box (for instance) into a secret chamber and recite a special prayer by the light of a single candle, let alone to send a sick or injured child into such a place and hope for some mysterious healing, some other-worldly repair.  Better to send your sick children to Penn or to Jefferson, or eventually to CHOP.  So, if the entrance to the secret chamber was covered up, it seemed to be no great loss, I suppose, by the turn of the century.  The name of the broken-hearted priest had been forgotten already.  And the choirboy whose voice was restored had grown up and moved away, his identity lost in the shadows of memory.

It is said, however, that the chamber is still there, somewhere deep beneath us, and that a single candlestick stands inside it, waiting to hold its single candle, whose flame will flicker when the prayer – which has never been a secret – is uttered, should anyone ever find the lost entrance and venture down into the secret chamber.  The prayer, as I said, is simple, and never was a secret, which is counter-intuitive, because it’s the sort of incantation that you’d think would be the most tightly guarded secret of the chamber.  But it is taken from the lines of the portion of Saint Mark’s Gospel we heard this morning, and the church has known it, pronounced it openly all around the world for centuries.  It is the oddly lovely word that Jesus spoke after he put his fingers into a deaf man’s ears, and touched his tongue, since his speech was deeply imperfect. 

You remember that Saint Mark tells us first Jesus looked up to heaven and sighed.  These details are not incidental; they reveal the work of a triune God as the Son looks up to God the Father, and animates the Spirit with his breath.  And then he speaks the ancient Aramaic word: Ephphatha.

It’s not surprising, really, that as the world readied itself for a new century – that would turn out to be a bloody, warring century of enormous change and upheaval – that the thought of a secret chamber where little things could be fixed or unlocked or opened seemed foolishly fanciful.  But I wonder if something more was lost when the entrance to the secret chamber beneath Saint Mark’s was covered up and lost.  I wonder if, as the world entered the 20^th century, it wasn’t just the secret chamber that was lost, but also the kind of faith that believed you could utter a simple prayer and it would be answered unambiguously. 

I suspect the priest with the broken heart was the first person to lose that faith – at least the first one whose story we can tell.  I suspect it seemed absurd to him as he carried his candle down the passageway and placed it in its candlestick, and he stood there in a small, damp chamber, and pronounced the funny word, “Ephphatha.”  I suspect he sighed, but that his sigh was different from the sigh that Jesus sighed when he first uttered that word.  I suspect the broken-hearted priest’s sigh was a sigh of resignation, hopelessness, and despair.  Jesus used his sigh as a pre-amble to the prayer.  But the sigh of the broken-hearted priest contained the answer to his own prayer – nothing.

By the time the entrance to the secret chamber was lost, many people throughout the whole church had learned to thus mis-translate the sigh, and had stopped uttering the prayer altogether.  And so the 20^th century became a century during which the church so often sighed her own self-fulfilling sighs, and nothing happened.

Very, very seldom these days, I come across something small that I would like to have fixed or unlocked or opened, and that I suspect I could have carried through the entrance to the passageway to the secret chamber beneath Saint Mark’s.  And I sometimes sigh to think that the entrance to the passageway is lost forever, and maybe the story never was true anyway.

But much more often I stand at the altar, or I sit in my place during Morning or Evening Prayer and I think about all the big things that are broken or locked or stuck shut.  I think about a child’s illness, or a parishioner’s surgery, or the person who is almost surely going to lose his job and will have a hard time finding another.  I think about my friends who have gone to war, I think about the kids at Saint James School and the violence that is a part of their lives in a neighborhood with the highest murder rate in the city.  I think about the people we feed at the soup kitchen every Saturday, and about the people I walk by on the street every day who are in need, but have no wherewithal to find ways to have their needs met.  I think about the folks we worked with in Honduras, who live with so little, and about families of children being treated at CHOP who sometimes find their way here just to light a single candle as a prayer.  I think about the people I know who are getting older and whose lives are diminishing as their hearts and their minds deteriorate.  And I think about the funerals I have done for souls too young to be resting yet in peace, if you ask me.  I think about all these things in my prayers, and more, and it seems to me that there is so much in the world that is broken or locked or stuck shut.  There is so much that needs fixing, so much that has been silenced, so much that has been repressed, so many voices that need to be found again, and so many hearts that have been broken.

And I wonder why the secret chamber is necessary anymore.  I wonder if there ever really was a secret to that chamber, since the prayer itself never was a secret, and since almost nothing is easier than sighing, and if you mis-translate a sigh, you can always just try it again.  I wonder if it matters that the secret chamber is now lost to us, and if maybe, the reason its entrance was covered up was because the work of fixing, unlocking, opening, had outgrown the confines of its little passageway.

I wonder if it isn’t the case that the work God once supposedly did in the bowels of a dark and secret chamber is now meant to be practiced out in the open, right here, where anyone who cares to can come, where candles flicker in every corner, and all you need to do is learn to say the ancient prayer; “Ephphatha.”

I wonder if what was lost wasn’t so much the secret chamber, as the recognition of how stopped-up we have become: how hard it is for us to hear in this noisy world, and how difficult it is to say anything meaningful or intelligible, how closed-off we are from our neighbors, how unavailable to those who we should be loving, how tiny and self-centered our lives have become.

And I find no reason to regret the loss of the secret chamber, or to start digging to see if I can find again its entrance.  Instead, I find the prayer on my lips, and the desire and need to practice saying it, “Ephphatah.”  Be opened.

And I realize that it’s not the secret chamber that has gone missing, it’s the faith that Jesus can unlock the things that need to be unlocked, that Jesus can open that which has been stopped up, that Jesus can give voice to words that have been stuck in our throats, that Jesus can help us hear things we were never able to hear before, that Jesus can fix the things that are broken in our lives, that Jesus can bring healing to the thousand hurts of our lives.

I want to learn to sigh.  I want to learn to sigh the way Jesus did – not out of boredom or frustration, but with the knowledge and confidence that every breath we take carries the strength and the gifts of the Holy Spirit.

I want to look in a mirror and practice saying the word to the person I know who needs it most, “Ephphatha.”  Be opened.  I want to know how it feels, up here, out in the open – not in some dark, secret chamber – to say with confidence and faith, “Be opened!  Ephphatha!”

Because I want you to learn how to say it too.  I want you to sigh with me – to sigh with Jesus – and to feel the stirring of the Holy Spirit with his breath.  I want you to say the prayer for yourselves and for the world – for everything that is tightly shut, closed off, repressed, buried, and left for dead or ruined or broken: Ephphatha!  Be opened!  Because the power of Jesus to heal, the power of Jesus to unlock, the power of Jesus to open that which is now closed has not been lost, it is not buried in a lost chamber, or in the mists of ages past.

You only need to learn his prayer, and to believe, and to be patient, for he does not always work so fast as he did all those years ago when he could just stick his fingers in your ears, and touch your tongue.  Nowadays, for reasons unknown, he is so often slower to do the work that once he would do in an instant.  But he looks down from heaven when we look up.  And still he sighs, when you and I sigh.  And still he prays, when you and I pray, “Ephphatha.  Be opened!”  And still he opens all that was closed in us before, and promises that there is still more that will be opened to us, here in this world, and in the world to come.

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

9 September 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

So unless you have been on Mars for the last week, or, perhaps, spent your entire week looking at the photographs from Mars (which are very, very cool), you know that this past week was the Republican National Convention. I didn’t watch any of it. This had nothing to do with a lack of interest in politics, or Republicans, or Tampa, and everything to do with the fact that I was away on retreat in a group house in Cape May where the only other guests were children from the Youth Chorale of Trinity Wall Street who, as you might imagine, had other ideas about what to watch on the house’s one television. So on Friday morning, when I checked my news feed on Facebook and saw that multiple friends had posted something about Clint Eastwood talking to an empty chair, I was perplexed. I was also a little concerned that Clint had gone off his rocker – but most of all I was curious. So I went online, googled “Clint Eastwood empty chair” and easily found his speech.

In case you missed the excitement, Clint Eastwood did, in fact, spend a chunk of his allotted time in front of the GOP faithful talking to an empty chair. But rest assured he has not gone off his rocker. No, Clint was pretending that President Obama was sitting in the empty chair. He asked the President questions. He pretended that the President answered him. Mostly he played to the crowd, making jokes at the President’s expense with the kind of biting sarcasm and mockery that Americans of both parties have somehow decided is appropriate for our nation’s political discourse. The empty chair was actually the perfect convention speech tool – it allowed Mr. Eastwood to be in complete control of the conversation, to ask questions and hear only the answers he wanted, to set up the laughs he wanted, to stir up the applause he wanted, to get in all of the digs he wanted. Talking to an empty chair was a strangely effective stunt. It wasn’t a real conversation, and it might have made him look a little foolish, but it accomplished his purpose, and that’s really all that matters.

Unfortunately, this is exactly what a lot of the world thinks we Christians are doing a lot of the time. They think that we gather here today on this first day of the week to gather around an empty throne and talk to an empty chair. Critics like Richard Dawkins and the late Christopher Hitchens have written volumes trying to prove that there is no God, that religion is a massive social delusion, that the chair is demonstrably empty. The young unchurched in this country smartly ask why, if there actually is Someone, capital “S,” in the chair, we religious folks who are asking the questions all end up with such wildly different and aggressively competing answers. The outcast, particularly those who have been cast out, judged, and abused by the Church, look at the chair and hope that it’s empty, because they don’t want to even imagine that the Someone in the chair might reject them because they’re gay, or because they use birth control, or because they aren’t an American citizen, or because they smell, or have AIDS, or have doubts. The world looks at us at worship or prayer and sees us talking to an empty chair, imagines us carrying on a conversation all alone, asking and answering our own questions to make ourselves feel better, or to show how holy we are, or to try to help our neighbors be more lovable by remaking them in our own image. This isn’t a real conversation, they say – it makes you look foolish, and it might accomplish your purposes, but that actually doesn’t at all matter to us.  

What’s worse is that sometimes we in the Church act like we’re talking to an empty chair ourselves. Church leaders look with woe at parishes that are dying if not dead, count and recount our shrinking national Average Sunday attendance figures and our parish and diocesan budgets, and then imagine that the chair must be empty, at least temporarily. We in the Church sometimes look at the throne of God and see nothing but an empty seat. We have a hard time imagining a conversation where God might be able to do something new, and so we start talking to ourselves – which churches to close, which positions to eliminate, which liturgies to cut or shorten or “update” and “make relevant.” We start responding to our own questions with answers based in fear and an overwhelming sense of scarcity. And it isn’t just church leaders who do this. How often do you and I worry that we’re talking to an empty chair? We pray and forget to listen, we conjure up our own answers because we tire of listening for God’s, or, worse, we look at that empty chair and don’t bother to pray at all. No wonder the world looks in on us and wonders if we’ve gone off our rocker.

This isn’t a new phenomenon, of course. The Israelites who followed Moses into the wilderness had gone off their rocker fairly regularly in their forty years of wandering. They moaned and complained for most of the journey, mostly moaning and complaining that their God had left them alone. When Moses went up the mountain, they looked around their campsite and saw only a big empty chair, so they happily set about filling it with a golden calf. They doubted and feared and rejected God; they imagined that no one was around to listen to them, and so they got to work answering their own questions in God’s absence.

But now, now, Moses says to them, you are here. You are standing on the edge of promise, looking into the land that flows with milk and honey, the land that God has always said he would give to you and to your children. And now that you are here, you are to keep God’s commandments and teach them to your children and to your children’s children. And why is this so important? Because keeping the commandments of God helps you to remember that God is near. God has given you all of these commandments not only because they will help you to live well in this holy land, but because they will remind you of God’s closeness every minute of every day, so that every time you say thank you, or bless this, or help me, you will be mindful of God right beside you. The commandments are given not as rules to follow in God’s absence, but as triggers to remind you of God’s presence. And when you live them out, you will be so steeped in God’s presence that when others see you, they will say, “What a fabulous bunch of people! I want to be just like them!” And they will say this because when they see you, they will see that there is, in fact, Someone sitting in the chair.

What a gift to give to this broken world. What a wonderful, timely, desperately necessary gift. To offer the world, by our own following of the commandments and by our own remembering of who gave them to us, a daily reminder that God is near. Isn’t that, ultimately, what the world most needs to remember? Don’t we want to help the world, and the Church, to see that the chair is full, that God sits on his holy throne, that the hem of his garment fills the temple? Isn’t that what we are sent to bear witness to – not that we’re Christians and we have it all together, or we’re Christians and we can tell you exactly how to live your life, or we’re Christians and so watch us be extra holy, but we’re Christians and our God is near. Our God reigns. When we pray, we pray to a God who is and who ever shall be. When we ask questions, God answers – maybe not when or how we imagine, but God is a God who responds. We speak and sing and cry and shout and moan and weep to a God who is very, very close to us, so close it’s like he’s sitting in the chair right next to you, so close it’s like he is sitting in your own heart.

And so here we stand, looking out over a new land, at the new program year at Saint Mark’s, at the new school year, at a new political year. So, now, you people, give heed to the great commandments that God has provided for you. Be doers of the word, care for the widows and orphans, love one another as Christ has loved you. Keep these commandments always and teach them to your children. Keep these commandments so that you will remember who you are and whose you are. Live in this holy way, so that when the world looks at you, they will see the truth that God is very near, that God reigns, that the chair is full.

 

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

2 September 2012

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

A baker, as any half-witted dolt knows,

adds yeast to his dough, and waits as it grows.

For yeast is alive - it’s a single-celled critter -

warm water awakes it; gets the yeast all a-twitter.

It feasts on the sugars that are there in the flour;

and having thus eaten, discovers new power,

that’s impressive and all, but not very classy:

for the dough starts to rise when the yeast gets all gassy.

It’s what happens when yeast in the dough can ferment;

and results in light airy loaves, not cement.

 

Now there once was a baker, back in long-ago times:

a good decent man, who’d committed no crimes.

He baked tasty bread: it was light, it was crusty.

His ingredients were good, and his oven was trusty.

He also baked cookies and cupcakes and pies,

which required him early each morning to rise.

The first thing he did every morning was throw

salt, flour, and water, and yeast into dough.

Then using his very own hands he would knead

the dough, prompting yeast on the flour to feed.

 

His customers knew that his bread was first rate,

he sold out of it early, they knew not to be late.

They loved to awaken with its scent in the air,

and to hear the good baker lift his voice up in prayer,

for the baker was known as a man who loved God.

There were many who thought it was not at all odd

that his bread was the best you could locate for miles,

since the baker enjoyed from his God many smiles.

It made sense that such good bread, all crusty and yeasty,

was baked by a man many thought of as priest-y.

 

He was known to be good to the poor and the needy,

when a helper was needed, he would always be speedy

to offer whatever could make a wrong right,

or to find a solution, whatever the plight.

He was gen’rous and regularly gave away money,

and his humor, some said, turned a cloudy day sunny.

He was kind to the elders, cared for cats and for dogs,

and to keep himself fit, he went daily for jogs.

The body’s the temple of the spirit, he knew,

and he thanked the Almighty for every breath that he drew.

 

Early one morning, long before dawn,

He finished his mixing, his kneading, so on,

And he turned to his prayers while the yeast did its thing,

he gave thanks to the Lord for the blessings he’d bring

to the day that as yet had not hardly begun,

as he did every day till th’ dough’s rising was done.

Then he turned to the dough, and removed the damp towel

that covered it, and he looked down with a scowl.

For the dough had not risen, it was flaccid and flat,

where it should have plumped up like the crown of a hat.

 

But there was the dough, just as flat as a griddle,

which posed to the baker what you might call a riddle.

This was odd, this was strange, this was certainly weird,

and it could be an omen of the sort to be feared.

Why’d the dough not arisen?  Why’d the yeast not awoken?

Was the magic that once worked in the bakery now broken?

It’s mystical how the dough rises for bread;

it gives life to ingredients that look like they’re dead.

But they’re not, as you see when the dough gets puffed up,

and is baked into bread on which you and I sup.

 

And the baker, you see, had always regarded

rising dough as a sign that God had bombarded

the world with his blessings, and his people with grace,

and felt almost holy, he felt God’s embrace,

as the yeast did its work on the water and flour

by the baker in his bakery, of a wee morning hour.

It was almost as though it was meant as a sign

that although it was dark, the sun would still shine,

although there were troubles all over the earth,

there was still such a thing that you might call new birth.

 

The clock was still ticking, for time marches on,

but still the new dough was as flat as a lawn.

There would be no fresh bread from the oven that day;

he put a sign in the window and he started to pray.

He checked his supplies, and the temp in the room,

and he prayed that tomorrow the yeast, it would bloom.

He spent the day quietly and he slept well that night,

and he woke in the morning without too much fright;

and he mixed up his dough in its great big dough bowl,

but when the time came it was flat as a Sole.

 

This pattern continued for days and for days,

the yeast was not working throughout this whole phase;

the dough should have risen, and taken new shape,

but instead, day by day, it was flat as a crepe.

The baker of course began to despair,

and thought it must be something wrong in the air.

But he never stopped praying to his God and his Lord,

though he felt that his spirit once higher had soared.

He began baking quick breads, and muffins and matzoh,

but he couldn’t quite bring himself to start making pasta.

 

His neighbors and customers all now assumed

that the baker, for reasons unknown, must be doomed.

Weeks had gone by since he’d baked any bread;

he was pushing his chocolate chip cookies instead;

which were good, but it really just wasn’t the same;

they were not, you recall, what gave the baker his fame.

And people would sigh, as they passed by his place,

and remembered the bread, back before the disgrace

of this failure, that no one could quite understand,

least of all not the baker, who this shame must withstand.

 

For it seemed that the God he had every day prayed to

had somehow, despite all those prayers, not been swayed to

shower his blessings upon the good baker,

as if God now supposed that the man was a faker:

that his faith was not real, and his prayers were cheap,

and that people should see he was really a creep.

But the truth of the matter was not all that easy,

although his flat dough still left him quite queasy;

every morning although his dough would not rise,

the baker still sang out his pray’rs to the skies.

 

Then one day came a rumor about a new preacher:

a worker of wonders, and quite a good teacher,

who was said to be talking a lot about bread,

how he was the Bread of the living, not the dead.

He said that his Body was Bread, his Blood wine –

which is quite a hard teaching, not that tough to malign.

“I am the Bread of Life,” said this guy,

which as a lesson for some, might be hard to apply,

unless you’re a baker whose dough will not rise,

who’s been praying for grace to pour down from the skies.

 

In which case, a miracle-worker who speaks

about bread and new life, and who hangs out with freaks,

seems like a promising person to find;

like maybe he’d help a guy out of a bind:

like the baker’s, who frankly was now feeling cursed,

like his faith was akin to an un-quenchéd thirst.

So the baker set out to find this new teacher,

determined to discover if baking bread was a feature

of this man who so easily riled the High Priest,

but maybe knew something unique about yeast.

 

The baker, despite all reports of demise,

continued to pray for dough that would rise.

Every day in his bakery, he’d mix and he’d knead,

and he’d pray for what now’d be a miracle indeed.

Every day in his bakery, there’d be somewhere that dough,

that the baker was praying and praying would grow.

It was there on the day he went to find the great man,

it was there as if it was part of a plan,

to invite Jesus in to sit by the fire,

and then show him the dough: flat as a tire.

 

The baker found Jesus, heard what he had to say,

on how to live better, how to follow the Way.

About bread, it is true, Jesus went on and on;

enough for a chapter in the Gospel of John.

In his presence the baker began to feel warmed,

as if something brand new in his soul had been formed.

It was like Jesus’ teaching was yeast, his soul flour;

and the yeast had awakened a kind of new power,

as though everything that he once knew about bread

was now being instilled in his own soul instead.

 

He begged Jesus to come with him that very day,

and to see the day’s dough, like a fallen soufflé.

For he felt he had learned a new lesson in life,

he felt that there might be an end to his strife.

And Jesus went with him as far as the store,

but he paused with the baker, outside of the door,

and he told him again, he said, “I am the Bread,

and he who consumes me will never be dead.”

He instructed the baker to always believe,

and promised a blessing that soon he’d receive.

 

The baker who’d thought bread alone was the way

to make a good living, as long as he’d pray,

was now looking diff’rently at the whole thing,

as though in his heart he had crowned Jesus king.

He entered his bakery and he sniffed at the air,

for an odor was lingering that hadn’t been there

for weeks; it was something like yeast, he felt sure;

he smelled it as soon as he walked in the door.

And to his amazement, his certain surprising,

was the dough in its bowl, and today it was rising.

 

Now, yeast may be simple, made of only one cell,

it may not know much but it knows one thing well:

it knows that when people assume that you’re dead,

there’s new life within you, there’s real hope instead.

It takes just a small bit of water for God

to do in your life what you may think is odd:

to take the ingredients of life, though they’re plain,

and awaken new power, new life to attain.

It’s as though with the water, the yeast is baptized,

and just like old Laz’rus, the dough starts to rise.

 

The baker, you see, had needed to know

what only the yeast, it would seem, could him show.

The yeast has this gift, that it always is giving,

of knowing the One who’s the Bread of the living.

So next time you’re shoving some bread in your face,

remember this story, and all of God’s grace.

Remember the flour, the yeast, and the dough,

and how it refused, every morning, to grow.

Remember the baker, remember his faith;

and remember these words, which the Lord Jesus saith:

 

“I am the Bread who’s come down from heaven;

I am your hope, and I am your leaven.

He who partakes of me will never die,

and on this assurance you can rely.

When life seems uncertain, your seas are all tossed,

you begin to suspect that all hope has been lost,

your dough will not rise, so to speak, it stays flat,

as flat as a pancake, a pizza, a mat,

Remember the baker, who thought he was through,

and remember my words, and believe they are true.”

 

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

26 August 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

 

 

Scientists tell us that using a powerful telescope array from the South Pole they have been able to detect, or see, the oldest light in the universe - about 14 billion years old.  Much as I want to explain to you how it is possible to see the light of the Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation, I find I am unable to do it.  It is not my field.  I have looked up resources that purport to put the explanation in layman’s terms, and I would happily regurgitate those explanations to you.  But even they are beyond me.  Nevertheless, I find it entirely plausible that we have looked up at the sky and seen – insofar as we can see light that is not actually visible to our eyes – or at least recorded the presence of light that originated nearly 14 billion years ago.  And I delight to think that such is the rigor of the human intellectual endeavor and that such is the liveliness of human imagination that we could achieve such a thing.  Moses had to climb a mountain just to see the Promised Land toward which he had been journeying for forty years, and into which he would never step foot.  But we can glance up from our lap-tops and look backwards for 14 billion years, and take pictures of it.

I trust that it pleases God in some measure to allow us such a vantage point; that he is ready to allow us to view secrets that were long tucked away in secret corners of his attic, unavailable to the prying eyes of older generations.  God has left the keys for us to find, in order to unlock the doors of the ancient chambers of time and space, and allowed us to rummage through the boxes there, to piece together pictures of the Beginning – or at least as close as we can get to the Beginning – wherein he has always promised he could be found.  The scientists say we can now see up to just about 380,000 years away from the Beginning – which they seem to think is pretty close, though it still sounds far away to me.

I am told that Religion and Science are supposed to rumble about the Beginning: stark disagreement is supposed to define our posture toward one another.  But about at least one thing most of us agree: there is nothing for us to remember about the Beginning; none of us was there; it would be a matter of time before humans came on the scene.  So when we look back at the Beginning of time – or as close as we can get to it – we are seeing something, recording something, we have never seen before.  It did not shape our human experience, it is not a part of our corporate memory, there are no human shadows to be found dancing in the light of the Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation.

Back on earth, when the Rectory was built in 1893, it was the only building in the Saint Mark’s cluster of buildings on Locust Street that was built with a flat roof.  This piece of information seems incidental until you realize what easy access one has to the roof of the Rectory.  Using only the power of one’s imagination, you can carry up to the rooftop there a special kind of telescopic array that allows you to look up into the sky and see back in time.

This project I have undertaken on a lovely summer’s night – for it takes almost no time at all to build even the most sophisticated telescope from one’s imagination, and the materials are remarkably easy to carry up the stairs.  Such a telescope – the kind you build with your imagination – cannot reliably detect the light of the Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation – not in a way suitable for publication in peer-reviewed journals, anyway.  But it can look back to almost any point in time, if you want it to.  And being a church telescope means that its lenses have been ground and shaped by a certain memory.  It’s more sensitive to light at certain places on the spectrum.  We see images more clearly with such a telescope that shaped our corporate memory, with identifiable human shadows, in the shape of figures we can name, dancing in the light of the stars.  And it is a beautiful thing to go up to the Rectory roof on a clear summer’s night and to stare through the imaginary telescope into the distant past of history and to listen.  For with this telescope you can hear, as well as see – it was easy enough to build it that way in my imagination: all the parts were free!

Not long ago, I was up there, looking and listening; turning the dials to see what I could pick up from the past.  And I heard this question from ages past: “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”  And I knew immediately who it was they were talking about, since I’d come across this conversation before in the scriptures.  And standing there on the rooftop, I realized how immediately the question translated to the present moment, how equally perplexing – maybe even more so – that question seems today as it did all those centuries ago, and how it might confuse people who pass by the church if they ever stop to wonder what it is we do in here.

How can this man give us his flesh to eat?  It seems a perfectly reasonable question.  Early Christians were looked at with significant suspicion, since they seemed to be talking like cannibals.  But they were not cannibals.  They were good Jewish boys and girls who mostly kept kosher in the earliest days.  Which made the question all the more poignant: How can this man give us his flesh to eat?  And do we need a whole new set of dishes for it?

How can this man give us his flesh to eat?

What they discovered was this: that Jesus was not inviting them to go at him with knives and forks.  Rather, he was opening up to them one of the secrets of God’s mysterious love.  He was allowing them to enter into a new chamber of God’s life, where they had never been before.  They discovered that it pleased God to allow them a new vantage point from which to see his work of salvation: reclining by his Son at a table, praying with him in a garden, walking with him toward the Cross, weeping with his mother at his death, and waiting for his resurrection.

“I am the living Bread,” Jesus said.  But they did not yet know what they were seeing, what they were hearing.  They had not yet seen all that we have seen.  Until he sat at table with them and broke the bread and blessed the cup; until he told them to wait with him while he prayed; until he challenged them to take up their own cross; until he hung and died on his Cross; until he rose from the grave, and made himself known to them in the breaking of the bread.  All these were pieces of a puzzle they put together, as God slowly widened the aperture of their vision, and let more light into the lens, and helped them see, and let them cast their own shadows, their own questions on the image that we can peer into from the telescope on the roof of the Rectory.

And what about us?  How can this man give us his flesh to eat?

Well, what’s the matter with you?  Do you really need a flat roof and a Rectory?  Can’t you do this with me now?  Can’t you focus with me the lens that’s hidden up in the steeple of this church and points toward God?  Can’t you find the knobs to turn in your mind’s eye, so you can see what’s detected there?  Can’t you adjust them to look back at his supper with disciples?  Can’t you hear him say, “This is my Body.  This is my Blood.  Take, eat.  Do this in remembrance of me”?

Do you believe that we are able to look back at the origins of the universe and see light that is 14 billion years old, but we can’t look back and remember what this means?  Do you believe God made our vision so dim, our imaginations so dull?  Do you think the light they are looking at from their telescopes is just a memory of light that is 14 billion years old, and not the real thing?  And do you think the words we hear when they echo to us from only two thousand years ago are really just a memory and not the real thing?  You don’t think he had another kind of remembrance in mind?  You don’t think he knew we’d be able to see 14 billion years into the past some day?

I love to go up to my rooftop observatory and look up into the present and see the past hurtling toward me, fast as light, and hear the ancient words, and know they are alive.  I love to lengthen to the focus of my telescopic array and look further back in time to the very Beginning, which I can do with the greatest of ease, listening for the clear sound of the beating of wings over water that was the only sound to be heard in the Beginning, and then a voice that seems to be saying, “I will be who I will be.”

I am strengthened by the knowledge that there are real telescopes that can see almost as far as my telescope can see, telescopes that can see light that originated 14 billion years ago.

But I can see a light that is older still, a light that was there in the Beginning. 

And it takes only an adjustment of the lens to see that light take shape, as he is born of a human mother.  And then I can hear, from my rooftop, the man that that child became offer his Body and his Blood for me.

And when I wonder, how can this man give us his flesh to eat?  I have only to look up with they eyes of my heart, to see where past and present hurtle toward one another at the speed of light.  And I remember how it is that God gives us signs to help us see the work he does secretly and silently, so that we will know we have been fed.  And we don’t have to wonder how he can give us his flesh to eat: we have only to open our mouths, and believe.

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

19 August 2012

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia