Saint Mark's Church

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

You may listen to Mother Johnson's sermon here.

“Between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”

Let me go out on a limb and say that the rich man in the Gospel story this morning got off easy.  I don’t mean in the afterlife; that certainly does sound bad.  I mean that what seems to have been asked of him in this life was pathetically easy.  He was a wealthy man in first-century Palestine.  Surely he had a house full of servants and plenty of square footage.  There was a single hungry beggar at the gate who would have been happy for any scrap from one of the sumptuous meals that were consumed in that place on a daily basis.  Surely this wealthy man, had he cared to think at all about the beggar at the gate, could have furnished him with a room, fed him until he regained his strength, and then employed him somewhere on the estate. 

He needn’t have done any of this himself, mind you.  He could have commanded that a servant see to the needs of Lazarus and then gone on about his prosperous life.  He needn’t have labored over this act of kindness any more than Oprah Winfrey used to labor over giving free copies of the latest self-help book to her adoring studio audience.  She had people for things like that.  And the wealthy man in today’s Gospel had people too, to see to life’s little necessities.  It would have been as easy for him to help Lazarus as it is for some of us to write a modest check: not enough to cause pain or second thoughts, but enough to get the charity to stop asking.

One suffering stranger at the gate?  Clearly this wealthy man did not live in Philadelphia.  He did not walk along the city streets as some of us do, witnessing displays of human distress outside fashionable shops and tempting restaurants.  He did not show signs of being aware of social inequalities, or of worrying about whether he was implicated in them.  He does not seem to have been called upon to cast his vote for politicians who won’t keep the public school system working or the national government open, no matter who gets hurt.  He does not seem to have been asked to think about the uses of global power or the ethics of intervening in Syria.  This imaginary wealthy man from first-century Palestine has just one task to fulfill, for all we know.  Just one moment in which a kind-hearted response to human suffering would be called for.  Just one shot to get it right or wrong forever.  Nothing very difficult.  Nothing very confusing.

And when I think of his story that way, I almost envy him.  It doesn’t seem that hard to show up once and do the right thing, does it? Or to have your servant do it for you?  What seems hard to me is knowing that today, if Lazarus appears at your gate, it’s possible that you might have the means to answer every one of Lazarus’s needs. And you may do so with an open heart and a willing spirit.  And you may go to bed tonight feeling great satisfaction.  But you will wake in the morning to the sound of another voice at your gate, another person or situation with a legitimate claim to your assistance.  Like Bill Murray in that old movie “Groundhog Day,” you will wake up every morning starting over from scratch with God and Lazarus and whatever you have of time, talents, and treasure.   The bosom of Father Abraham and the fires of Hades are for most of us a long way away, even if we are sure that we know what we are talking about when we gesture toward them.  This encounter with the suffering of others will not be a one-time experience for us.

Harsh though the fate of the rich man may be, his life and his afterlife may look to us like some cartoon version of the complexities we face as followers of Jesus.  Nor is it actually likely that living in first-century Palestine, under Roman occupation, was a simple thing for Jesus’s original audience.  Surely they struggled too, to know whom to help, when to help, how much to help.  “Who is my brother?” they asked of Jesus.  “How many times do I have to forgive?”  Like us, perhaps, they longed for a clear set of choices, a single task to complete, a yes or no answer.  They longed for perfect moral clarity, perhaps, for perfect righteousness.  They longed to feel that they had done what was required. 

But no such perfect clarity would be forthcoming for them, and no perfect clarity will be forthcoming for us.  In fact, the more I think about what perfect clarity would look like in the face of another person’s needs, the more I wonder whether clarity itself might be part of the great chasm we are always fixing between ourselves and each other.

Think about it: the wealthy man in this story knew exactly what to think about himself and about Lazarus.  He knew, deep down in the core of his being, that he was important and Lazarus was not.  It’s not a particularly admirable world view, but his consistency is absolute: not just a lifetime of stepping over the suffering man in his doorway, but a sense of entitlement that extends beyond the grave.  “Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony.”  “I beg you to send him to my father’s house.”  And most astonishingly, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.”  Can you imagine?  “No, father Abraham!”  “No, great biblical patriarch who trusted the Lord’s most baffling promises even to the point of being willing to sacrifice your own son.  I know more about faith than you do!  Tell Lazarus to give up his heavenly rest and look after my family.”  Nothing is going to make him question his own superiority.  Not even the torments of Hades.

Now, I don’t think many of us would formulate a statement so baldly self-serving, much less uphold it beyond the grave:  “I am important and Lazarus is not.”  We are mostly, thank God, disinclined to be openly contemptuous.  We are not cartoon characters.  But how often do we put up little walls of certainty that keep us from having to face the needs of other people?  “They get what they deserve,” we may say, or “There is nothing that can be done for a person like that.”  “Freedom and prosperity depend on the fact that there will always be winners and losers among us.” “It is the fault of the other political party.”

Even our best impulses can be part of the chasm we fix between ourselves and those whose needs overwhelm us: “I helped at the Soup Bowl last Saturday; I’ve done my share.”  “I’m only one person.”  “I give to people who can demonstrate that they will use my money well, but I never take a chance on the unknown or the undeserving.”  We long to feel that we have done what is required.  We long to have an answer.  Clarity.  Some chasm fixed between the rich and the poor so the rich can sleep at night.  And we will unthinkingly reduce the suffering of other people to some cartoon version of reality that we can imagine handling in just the right way.  We will over-simplify because we are afraid.

But note what happens to this wealthy man in the Gospel story.  After a lifetime of reducing Lazarus to insignificance, this wealthy man becomes unable to escape his own cartoon.  He spends eternity staring at that chasm he so diligently created in his lifetime.  I think that may be why Jesus tells this story the way he does, as though it were such a black and white situation.  He lures us into our own position of comfortable certainty.  We are no fools!  We know the rich man is wrong and the poor man will be received into the arms of God.  I saw that one coming from the beginning of the story, didn’t you?

And then Jesus delivers the punch line: “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” Nothing, that is, not even the resurrection of our Lord, will move us if we have become too comfortable with our own simple story about who matters and who does not.  What could be more chilling than to hear the voice of our savior, reaching forward in time and predicting that we will not have ears to hear?  I can’t think of a more powerful image of being lost.

But perhaps we need not be lost, no matter how powerfully the suffering of the world threatens to overwhelm us.  If Jesus calls to us for any single purpose, it has to be this: that we might be free to love abundantly.  Jesus will not deny us the gift of giving to others.  We can rely on his help, every day, as we start from scratch with Lazarus. 

Keep a place in your heart for the creative power of Jesus when you turn toward Lazarus at your gate.  Don’t get stuck in a cartoon version of good and bad.  Don’t look for winners and losers.

On Monday, pray and tell yourself that you will give even if you aren’t sure whether you should.  On Tuesday, pray and re-evaluate.  Talk to someone who has taken a risk for the Gospel.  Talk to Pauline and Don, our interns, and ask them how they made such a risky commitment to giving.  On Wednesday, pray and be mindful of your own inherent limitations.  On Thursday, pray that when you give you will be spared the curse of self-righteousness.  On Friday, pray—pray hard—and forgive the politician of your choice for not knowing how to do what’s right any better than you do.

Do you see the plan?  We can with God’s help make this the work of a lifetime, not the task of a single day. We can stay in motion.  We can let the suffering of the world be the mystery that it is, and remain small in the face of that mystery.  We need never sell our souls for the cheap cartoon luxury of feeling in control.  Just for today, let’s chip away at the chasm that is established between the rich and the poor, in whatever way we can.  Let’s see where it takes us, and let’s band together as we follow. 

Indeed, chipping away at that chasm has taken this parish to some wonderful places like the Saturday Soup Bowl and Saint James School.  And there is always more that God can do with us if we are willing to stay in motion. 

Jesus has come from beyond the grave to give us words of life.  And we really wouldn’t be here this morning if we weren’t willing to budge, to hear a little bit of what he says.  That’s all we need to be sure of for today; that’s enough to take us into tomorrow with its challenges and blessings.  That’s enough to keep us open to the reality of the world around us.

Let’s try everything we can, and see what works.  In the words of today’s Epistle: “pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness….[T]ake hold of the life that really is life.”

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson

29 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, the Lord has sworn by Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds.  (Amos 8:4, 7)

The arrival in my apartment on the third floor of the Rectory of a mouse is not a wholly unusual occurrence; it has happened before.  Evidence of the mouse’s activity a few weeks ago prompted a little inspection of potential sources of its culinary interest, and some foodstuffs stashed on top of the refrigerator were discarded or otherwise dealt with.  Rectory mice can often be dealt with through a program of severe discouragement rather than outright extermination.  It’s a big city, after all, and there are lots of other places to forage for food.

The mouse in question had left telltale evidence of its presence on top of the refrigerator, where it conducted its raids presumably under the cover of darkness, or at least in the absence, during the day, of me and the two Labrador Retrievers.  After the super-refrigerator remediation program, the absence of such evidence strongly suggested that the mouse had been sufficiently discouraged and had moved on to greener pastures, so to speak.

So it came as a surprise to me the other day when from the sofa, with lights blaring, TV on, out of the corner of my eye I detected a momentary flash of murine movement.  I looked again, and, sure enough, the mouse was brazenly promenading across the little kitchen floor.  The dogs took no notice, so I shouted, and the mouse ran away.  The dogs looked at me quizzically.

A minute or two passed, and I saw it again: the mouse quite casually making its way across the kitchen floor.  I let another cry ring out, the mouse ran away, and the dogs again looked lazily up at me.  And in a moment of theatricality, that is admittedly a bit much even for me, I stood up and addressed the room:

“What is the meaning of this?!” I demanded to know.  “How can this mouse not only return to the scene of its earlier crimes, where it is now bound to be disappointed by the utter unavailability of any reward for its foragings, but, on top of that, how can this mouse have become so emboldened that it has now abandoned the safety of the cover of darkness?  How can it think that I will ignore its incursion into my space, and pay no mind to its intention to take what is mine, from under my very nose? 

“How can it violate the unspoken agreement that mice should slink in to do their dirty work while no one is looking?  How can it be so bold as to parade around while the lights are lit, the lamps burning, the watch is not yet ended?

“How can this mouse – this dirty little creature whose presence I have tolerated, whose life I have spared by forgoing the most obvious course of extermination – how can this mouse make its person known in these precincts as though it belonged here, as though it had a right to be in my kitchen foraging for food, (even if it be only scraps, or whatever was once stored on top of the refrigerator) as though it was entitled, as though I would tolerate its presence while the lights are on?  How can this be?!?”

The dogs looked up at me, unimpressed by my soliloquy, and supremely uninterested in the mouse.

Mice are, of course, by their nature poor.  Not hunters, they can only gather; and what they gather invariably belongs to someone else.  They are dependant on the leavings of others.  Even within mouse society there are no rich mice (although there may well be fatter mice who are better at scavenging than others).  There are no mouse millionaires, so to speak.  Mice are socialists – depending on a daily re-distribution of wealth that they are only too happy to tend to themselves in the absence of appropriate legislation.  Mice are poor.

And, true to the context of the moment in this American life, I was offended by the presence of the poor mouse in my space – a presence I could have tolerated if it had kept itself hidden, unseen, cloaked by darkness.  But once the poor mouse became bold enough to assert itself in the glare of the kitchen lights, its presence became intolerable to me.

Let me put that a slightly different way: true to the context of the moment in this American life, I was offended by the presence of the poor.

The prophet said, “Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, the Lord has sworn by Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds.”

At least 46 million Americans – which is frankly a number far too vast for me to comprehend – 46 million fellow citizens of this beautiful, resourceful, and abundant nation live in poverty.  And how easy it has become to think of these poor people as mice whose mere right to be among is easily questioned, as if they chose poverty for themselves, as if at some point they stood before Door #1, Door #2, and Door #3 and were told to pick between industry and work, or privilege and wealth, or poverty and want, and they said, “Oh sure, I’ll take Door # 3.  Why not? How bad could it be?”

Of course, when you have 46 million poor people (at least 46 million, that is), you begin to notice them, intolerable as this may seem.  In our own city, about a quarter of the population lives in poverty – which is also hard to miss.  And how likely we are to react with indigence in the presence of the poor, when they are not cloaked in darkness.  As though they belong here, as though they have a right to be in our cities, our neighborhoods, our streets?  As though they are entitled…?

Jesus said, “the poor you will always have with you.”  And I suppose he knew whereof he spake.  For all the evidence suggests that Jesus lived his life more like a mouse than a millionaire.  He was always on the move, dependent on others for hospitality, always seen eating at other people’s tables (often in the company of unsavory people).

Maybe Jesus and his disciples even had to scavenge for food from time to time.  Maybe that’s why the scribes and Pharisees took them to task for “plucking the heads” off the grain on the Sabbath.  Maybe they were doing a little more than noshing, plucking more than a few heads of grain?  Maybe they were doing a little Sabbath re-distribution of grain, when no one else was likely to be in the fields?

When I allow myself to imagine the very likely possibility that Jesus was really quite poor, I am quickly reminded of my indignation with the mouse who had the nerve to show himself openly in my sight.  And I have to wonder: if Jesus is poor, how likely am I to welcome him into my life?

In the context of the present moment of this American life it would be easy to want to rant about the government’s treatment of the poor, to adopt a polemic stance of righteous indignation (which is fun to do from time to time) about the uncaring treatment of the poor.  And I believe I would be justified in doing so.  But my own tendency to treat poor people with the same attitudes that I addressed to the mouse in my house suggests that I am not ready to cloak myself in righteous indignation just yet.

My tendency to think of the girl who parks herself out on our doorstep for weeks at a time in just the same way, or to think the same of the familiar faces I see inhabiting the steps of First Baptist Church around the corner from here, prevents me from ranting too much about anyone else’s attitudes toward the poor.

And I give thanks that we have harnessed ourselves, here at Saint Mark’s, to the poor in several ways.  We have made Saturday mornings here all about serving poor, hungry people in the Saturday Soup Bowl.  And we have linked ourselves to a school that we founded that allows admission only to the children of needy families.  Maybe we did this as much or more out of need as out of virtue.  Maybe our best selves keep close to the poor because we cannot escape the Gospel insistence that we pay attention to the poor, that we find Christ among the poor, that God prefers the poor to the rich, and makes a readier pathway to his heart for the poor.

We happen to be living through an appalling moment in the context of this American life or ours, when our national, civic, corporate care and concern for the poor is at a very low ebb.  And there are those who tell us that this is as it should be, that no forces conspire to keep poor people poor except their own moral failings, and the complicity of a soft government.  But such lies must not be told in church.  Whether you know the Bible well or not, you have heard it said before that you cannot serve two masters, for you will either hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other.  You cannot serve God and mammon.  You cannot serve God and money.

Very well, we say in the calculus of this American life, we know whom we will serve, and I guess we’ll see how it all works out in the end.

And so in this context we are told that caring for the poor makes us socialists.  Another lie.  Caring for the poor makes us Christians.  That is a surety I promise you can take to the bank!

Very few of us want to be poor, or to spend our time among the poor.  This is not unusual, and my sermon this morning will not end with the advice that you should sell everything you have, give your money to the poor, and follow me.  But I am left remembering how prone I am to think of poor people in the same terms as I think of that poor mouse, whose life I have so far spared.  See how confident I am that his life rests in my hands?  I can give it to him, or I can take it away.

But the prophet was not talking about mice, and neither was Jesus.  He was talking about people almost just like you and me, who also happen to be made in the image and likeness of God, though we mostly cannot see it, since we see them mostly as mice.  Maybe the lives of the poor – at least some of them – also rest in our hands, in some ways.  Maybe we have to remember that the ancient question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” was an evasion, not a sacred incantation.

And maybe I should stay at home in my kitchen, waiting for the mouse to come back, and greet him with a new soliloquy, saying something like this:

“Brother mouse, in days gone by I despised you, and wished to trample on you, and to bring about your ruin.  I could see no way to share with you the embarrassing riches I enjoy, even though you require very, very little.

“In days gone by, Brother mouse, I believed I could serve two masters, and I charmed myself to believe that this was so.  But I see now, Brother mouse, how foolish I was, how likely I am to choose to serve mammon in this American life of mine, since it is the way of this world.

“And I need you, Brother mouse.  I need to practice on you, so that I may serve another master – the God of love.  I need to learn to give you the little you need out of the plenty I have.  Because I have not yet learned how to share it all with the poor people who are my neighbors, my brothers, my sisters, my friends – or at least they should be.

“So I am practicing on you, Brother mouse, learning to put up with you, and to tolerate you in your poverty.  And I am praying that some day I will be ready to leave my kitchen, and live like a Christian in the rest of the world, with real people whose lives may depend on me, if only I would choose to share with them too.

“For the time being, Brother mouse, may I continue to practice on you?” 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

22 September 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

Short Term 12 is a new, independent film about the staff and residents of a group home for foster children. The movie opens with a scene in the yard outside the home and a conversation between Nate, a new volunteer who is visibly nervous, and Mason, a long- time staffer who is trying to reassure Nate by recounting a story about a particularly embarrassing experience he had during his first week at the home. The story hinges on the fact that residents of the home regularly try to escape, knowing that if they can get outside the gate, the staff literally can’t touch them. Inside the gate, the staff can physically restrain them; outside the gate, staff members can only follow them and try to talk them into coming back inside. As Mason tells his story, two other staff members gather around, already laughing at the punch line they know is coming. But just as Mason reaches the story’s climax, a high-pitched, ferocious scream comes from inside the house. Seconds later, a skinny, freckled, red-headed boy comes tearing out the front door, headed for the gate. Mason turns to Nate and says, “Here we go,” and he takes off. The boy is running as fast as he can, head back, arms pumping, but the adults catch up to him quickly. They flank him, grab hold of his arms, and pull him down into a seated position. Mason tells Nate to grab the boy’s legs and hold him still. The boy is wild, screaming, panting, kicking and squirming for all he’s worth. But the adults just sit there, holding him down, talking him down, telling him that it’s going to be alright, making jokes about how he was able to get a little further that time before being caught. They don’t ask him what’s wrong, they don’t tell him not to do it again. They don’t try to fix him; they just sit with him, squeezing him in from all sides, keeping him safe. Gradually the boy’s breathing slows, the screaming stops, and he settles down, head lowered, body slumped, exhausted and deflated. And when he’s settled, the adults simply help him up off the ground and walk him back into the house. Welcome to short term 12.

During the course of the movie, we never learn this boy’s full story. We learn that his name is Sammy; we learn that he seems to have a compulsion to play with any toy he can find. We see him getting his meds – four cups full of pills – and we see how he curls up into himself when his therapist orders that all of his toys must be taken away. But that’s all we know. We know that he is wounded; we know that he is broken. We know that he has suffered some kind of trauma that would likely shock and horrify us were it to be named. And we know that the staff and volunteers of the group home are committed to keeping a constant eye on him, to making sure that he is seen, that he is safe, this skinny little lost sheep.

The number of lost sheep in this country is astounding. On any given day there are 400,000 children in foster care in the United States. Most of these are placed in homes, but a full 15% of them have to live in group homes like short term 12. In the city of Philadelphia, approximately 3,000 children are added to the foster care system each year. Most of them are never adopted and remain in foster care for years. Many simply age out of the program, turn 18 and are sent into the world with precious little experience of how to live outside of an institution, on their own, alone.

And, of course, in the city of Philadelphia there are many more lost sheep than just those who are in the foster care system. Recent studies have revealed that 39% of Philadelphia’s children live below the poverty line and that almost 10% of Philadelphia’s high school students have at some point been homeless. And our public schools are in the direst of straits: A $304 million budget deficit. 24 fewer schools than last year. Class sizes as high as 48 students per class. 3700 teachers laid off at the end of last year, with only 1600 recalled this fall. 60% of Philadelphia’s schools without a full-time guidance counselor. Assistant principal positions slashed. I even read one article this week about a school principal who is now also serving as the school nurse. How in the world are those stalwart public educators who remain supposed to do their jobs? How can they possibly keep their eyes on all of these children, making sure they are safe, that they are fed, that Individual Education Programs are followed for those who have learning difficulties, that bullies are stopped in their tracks? How can all of these kids possibly be seen, kept safe and protected? How can they not be lost?

And yet, Jesus assures us that they are seen, that they are protected. In the strongest possible terms, Jesus assures us that all who are lost will be found, that those who are broken in body, mind, or spirit, those who come from broken homes, those who have lived a life of broken promises, those whose relationships with God or with others are broken because of sin, those who live with the constancy of a broken heart, will be found. The shepherd will “go after the one that is lost until he finds it.” No matter what stands in the way, no matter how much that lost sheep has hopelessly curled up into itself, God will search, God will look for the lost one until he is found. God keeps his eyes on each individual sheep and will not let even one be lost forever. As one biblical commentator puts it, this parable assures us that “God counts by ones.”* One sheep found, or one broken heart mended, or one sinner redeemed, or one child protected, or one beautiful new child baptized, all with one joyful celebration in heaven.

But here is my question for us this morning: what about those other 99 sheep? Commentators have always puzzled over the fact that the shepherd in this parable left his sheep behind. Did he just leave them alone in the wilderness? Or are we to assume that he left them in the care of another shepherd? The parable doesn’t really tell us. But what if, what if we imagined that the other 99 went with him? What if the other 99 somehow followed along, inspired by the shepherd’s bravery? What if they stretched out in a long line across the wilderness like a search party, baahing as loudly as they could to call their friend to safety? What if the other 99 helped as much as they could to find the one who was lost? Now if they did find him, of course, they couldn’t do much. They couldn’t pull him out of a crevasse or bind his wounds or pick him up on their little sheep shoulders to carry him home. But they certainly could sit with him, flank him with their wooly fluff, squeeze him tight, offer soft, reassuring sounds, and wait until more help, until a savior, comes.

            You and I, most of us, are the other 99. And we can, we must, join in the search for the lost sheep of this city. So many of you are doing this already. Some of you tutor or mentor at local schools. Some of you work for arts organizations like Play On, Philly, that prove how music can transform the life of any child. Some of our rectory residents work every day with after-school programs, or with young adults who have aged out of foster care programs. Many of you give your time or your money to that great sheepfold known as the Saint James School. And, of course, other opportunities abound. We can volunteer with our new boys and girls choir, help to plan and staff the after-school programs that we hope will accompany that program. We can join in with the parents who are helping to safely walk Philadelphia students to their new, and newly far-away, schools. We can contribute to the mayor’s Philadelphia Education Supplies Fund. We can volunteer with Boys and Girls Clubs, with Philadelphia foster care, or at the very least, we can get to know the children in our own neighborhoods. We can say to the children of this city, with one voice, in the name of Christ, you will not be lost. We will search and search and search for you until we find you.

The final scene of Short Term 12 finds the staff again outside sharing stories. And once again, a piercing, fierce scream interrupts them as Sammy, now with an American flag draped around his shoulders like a Superman cape, sprints out the front door. Mason looks at his co-workers, smiles a wry smile, and says again, “Here we go.” And the movie ends with this beautiful, slow-motion chase scene. Sammy is in the lead, the adults are following, four across on the lawn. Sammy ducks and dodges, the adults follow him, turn to the left, get behind him, around him. And we know at some level that this chase will never end, that those 4 adults, those 4 of the 99, will never be able to totally fix Sammy or make him whole. But they will keep chasing him, keep searching for him, keep their eyes on him, helping him never be utterly lost. My friends, the race is on. Here we go. 

* Stephen C. Barton, "Parables on God's Love and Forgiveness" from The Challenge of Jesus' Parables, Richard N. Longenecker, editor.

Preached by Mother Takacs

15 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia