Saint Mark's Church

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Potentially embarrassing photos of me are floating around on the Internet.  They depict an eleven-year-old version of me at camp, with a haircut suitable for 1978, wearing blue jeans and a hastily fashioned cape of some sort made of a kind of rust colored fabric that is tied around my neck.  I am with three friends on a rock outcropping overlooking the lake, on the opposite shore from the camp.  We would have had to row boats over and scramble up the steep slope there 20 or 25 feet to the outcropping.

In our youthful enthusiasm, and fueled, no doubt, by a history lesson about the medieval period, the photos show that we had fashioned what we hoped could be classified as a catapult, made of fallen tree branches, a sapling, an old inner tube, and lots of twine.  I believe we intended to use water balloons as ammunition.  Although my memory is hazy, I think our tests of the weapon were all disappointments.  In truth, I cannot even recall what invader we thought we would repel – any and all, I suppose.

Although the details are fuzzy, I think the entire enterprise came to a quick end when one of the four of us took a wrong step and tumbled off the outcropping and partway down the steep hillside.  This emergency required a swift evacuation, and a fast row across the lake so the injured party could be taken to the nurse, who was able to tend to all wounds, as I recall.

What became of the failed catapult, whose design flaws would surely have become evident very quickly, I cannot say.

Children are supposed to make such mistakes and learn from them.  But we seem to live in a society where adults continue to act like children well into their more mature years; liable to make the same mistakes over and over again; doomed to repeat history because we are so inept at learning its lessons.

“What king,” Jesus asks, “going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand?”  Jesus never meant this question as a lesson in geo-politics, and he was not asking his audience to consider the current affairs of his own day, nor of ours.

And if the New Testament is to be believed, Jesus never called anyone to battle, or even to take up arms – though he is heard from time to time telling someone to put his sword back in his sheath.

And from our particular vantage point of history, it would seem that anyone who ever claimed that Jesus was calling him to war has been proven to be a charlatan, misguided, or just plain daft.

Among the many things we adolescent boys had not considered in our lives by the time we built that catapult was what it would mean to be real followers of Jesus, although we were at a Christian camp, where worship and prayer were a part of every day’s agenda.  If you’d asked us to march around singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” we’d have done so gleefully, with wooden swords shoved into our belts, homemade capes fastened around our necks, happily arranging ourselves into battalions of some configuration, unrecognizable as either real soldiers or real Christians.

But if you’d asked us what it would cost us to follow Jesus, we’d have looked at you blankly.  The best we could do, I’d guess, would be to tell you that during Lent we would have to put a coin or two aside every day to fill our mite boxes, but that would be a pretty neat summary of the cost of discipleship to our youthful minds.  And for our age, that would have been a reasonable limit of our imaginations.  It would not, at that time, have occurred to us that our worship and prayer cost us anything – for we had nothing else to do with our time, and no freedom to make decisions about it anyway.

But we are supposed to learn from our childhoods and to grow beyond the limits of them.

In the reading we heard today from Luke’s Gospel, Jesus was sitting at the table of a ruler of the Pharisees.  He was having an adult conversation.  He’d had difficult words for his hosts, and challenged them to be more humble and compassionate in their leadership.

The large crowds that were traveling with him must have been outside.  Maybe he had to lean out of a window and shout to them.  St. Luke does not say that these crowds were friendly to Jesus, they are not yet his disciples.   Maybe they were twittering outside that Jesus was giving the Pharisees a talking-to.

But now Jesus turns to the crowds – who it seems to him might be only too happy to be told to form into battalions and start singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” especially if by so doing they could express their disdain for the Roman occupiers of their land.  But this is childish, and Jesus knows it.  No one has considered what kind of life God really wants them to lead.  They all want to know what God is going to give them.  But Jesus wants to know what they are willing to give to God.

And I suppose that Jesus knows they are not yet serious, he knows they have not yet grown up, he knows they are not yet ready to follow him.  So he exaggerates when he tells them, “You cannot be my disciples, for you have not considered the cost of it.  If you want to be my disciples,” he says, “give up everything you own, and then come follow me!” 

I am willing to bet that the crowd quickly dispersed – no so many were all that interested in Jesus any more!

And frankly, if that was the message of the Gospel to us today, who of us would stick around to hear the details?  Give up all our possessions?  Including my flatscreen TV?  I don’t think so!

So maybe Jesus is not teaching foreign policy, and maybe he is not truly advocating that we forsake all material goods.  Then what is he getting at?  I suppose that Jesus is trying to teach us to grow up, to consider carefully what it means to be a follower of his: to count the cost.

And I am reminded again of my childhood escapades by the lake with my friends at camp, and how our game came to a quick end when one of us took a wrong step, and went tumbling down the embankment.  We were, you recall, on the far side of the lake, meaning it was difficult to call for help.  So I suppose the three others of us went to the aid of our fallen comrade.  We’d have had to help him down the rest of the hillside to the tree where the row boat was tied up, and then we’d have to have gotten him into the boat with his injuries and rowed him across the lake to the other shore.  We’d have had to get him safely to the dock and let him lean on us as we helped him to the nurses’ station, and from there, as I say, I believe all was well.

It reminds me that every real soldier I have ever come across who’s fought in battle, has told me that in the end it’s the soldier next to you who matters far more than the enemy.  It’s the band of brothers (and now sisters) to whom you have been joined in trust.  It’s worrying about that guy, and what you can do for him – to keep him from getting shot, or to help him once the bullet or the grenade or the shrapnel has hit.

And it makes me grateful for that little childhood journey down the hillside with my wounded friend’s arm around my neck, rowing across the water back over to the other side of the lake, where, instead of weapons, there was a nurse, and a ping-pong table, and the circle of logs around which we’d sit every night, with a fire in the center, and we’d tell stories of what mattered to us that day, and we’d say prayers for the people we cared about, and we’d sing “They’ll know we are Christians by our love,” and “Kumbaya,” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

Which was all a process of growing up, learning about the different sides of the lake, learning how much more blessed it is to give than to receive, and how much more important it is to carry your friend down the hillside and to row him across the lake than to successfully launch your ordnance from a catapult.

And I hear Jesus calling from a window, saying, “Yeah, remember what happened last time I tried tell everyone what it would cost to be my disciple?  How hard it was going to be?  How much it was not going to be about you, but about living for others?  Where have the crowds gone?”  I hear him ask.

And I hear myself, answer: “We are just here on the other side of the lake, playing with our weapons!  Don’t worry, just as soon as one of us falls, we’ll come scrambling down, get him into the boat and row him across the water over to your side!  But for now we are doing what we must do!”

“You do what you must do,” says, Jesus, “and I will do what I must do.” 

And he stoops down to pick up the fallen branch of a sturdy old tree that still has some twine and a piece of an old inner-tube tied to it, but which is long enough for him to stretch his arms out on it when it comes time to nail his hands to it, and he carries it step by step toward a green hill, far away, across the water, hoping that when we grow up we will follow.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

8 September 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You may listen to Mother Erika's sermon here.

The book of Proverbs is, as its name implies, a collection of sayings, really a collection of collections of sayings that are intended to help its readers lead a better life. It is, in many ways, a book of good advice. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” it says…and here are a few other tidbits that might help you out along the way. Many of these tidbits are folksy and colorful and fun to read. There’s “Better is a dinner of vegetables where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it” and “Whoever blesses a neighbor with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing.” There’s the beautiful: “One who gives an honest answer gives a kiss on the lips” and the gross: “Like a dog that returns to its vomit is a fool who reverts to his folly.” There’s the famous “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” and the infamous “Those who spare the rod hate their children, but those who love them are diligent to discipline them.” And then there’s my personal favorite: “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman without good sense.”

Today’s little tidbit is taken from a collection of sayings about how to act should you ever find yourself in the presence of a king: “Do not put yourself forward in the king’s presence or stand in the place of the great; for it is better to be told, ‘Come up here,’ than to be put lower in the presence of a noble.” Good advice. Better to intentionally underestimate your place in society and be told you’re actually cooler than you thought you were than to be told that you are no longer on the A-list. That’s very practical, very smart good council for real, everyday living. 

And maybe this is all Jesus meant when he quoted this proverb in today’s Gospel from Luke. He was at a party, he saw the Pharisee’s guests pushing and shoving and jockeying for position, and he was reminded of this little verse from Proverbs. Better not to make a fool of yourself, he offers, by placing yourself in first class and then being told you can only afford coach. Better to sit in the cheap seats in the hope that you’ll get bumped up. Good advice. And maybe that’s all he meant. Maybe if he had seen different behavior at the dinner he would have told another proverb, like “If you have found honey, eat only enough for you, or else, having too much, you will vomit it,” or “Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise.”

Maybe. But maybe not. Because there are a couple of things here that seem to belie this impression of Jesus as Ben Franklin writing Poor Richard’s Almanac. The first is that word “parable.” “When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable,” Luke tells us. And we know that in parables, things are rarely simple, and they are rarely what they seem. We know that parables are not just about giving good advice, about helping us lead a better life here on earth; they are also about revealing to us something of the kingdom of God. Parables are about more than simply advising us on the best ways to act; they are about showing us who we are, who we’re meant to be, deep in our being, as sons and daughters of God.

The second thing that undercuts the image of Jesus-as-Emily-Post is that Jesus’ parable doesn’t end with his words about where to sit at a banquet. He goes on to offer a corresponding parable for the host: when you give a party, don’t invite the people in your social circle, knowing that they’ll return the favor. Invite those outside the circle – invite the poor, the lame, the blind, the sick, the needy. Put yourself in the company of the lowly, and you will be rewarded.

Jesus is not merely playing a game of quote-the-proverb here; he is upping the ante, maybe even changing the game entirely. His words are not advice on proper party etiquette or how to get ahead in the world of kings and powerful hosts; his words are about helping us to find the right seat in the kingdom of God. And he makes it very clear that that seat is with the lowly. We are meant to sit in the back of the room with the rest of the B- or C- or D-listers. Jesus doesn’t suggest this just because it will help us save face (although it might), or just because it means we can serve all of the lowly people we’re sitting with (although that’s never a bad idea). No, Jesus suggests this because these seats are where we actually belong. He is showing us, once again, that we really are lowly. When it comes to your life in the kingdom, he tells us, when it comes to your own soul, don’t bother trying to exalt yourself, because it just won’t work. So find your seat in the lowest place, the humblest place, the place where you really belong.

Now this may sound overly pessimistic or bleak. It may even sound unhealthy. But it is none of those things – it is Gospel truth, and it is good news. The truth is that you and I are lowly, we are broken and vulnerable and sinful and we need help. And why is this good news? Because there is always help to be found. Because when we find our seat with the lowly, when we know and feel the true nature of our sin-sick souls, something truly miraculous happens. Dietrich Bonhoeffer put it best; he said that the point of accepting our seat with the lowly “… is not to make [the Christian] contemptible nor to disparage him in any way. On the contrary it is to accord him the one real dignity that man has, namely, that, though he is a sinner, he can share in God’s grace and glory and be God’s child.”* Knowing our sinfulness, knowing that our seats are truly with the lowly, knowing that it is impossible for us to exalt our own selves means that we can, with joy, claim our “one real dignity” – that we are, nonetheless, beloved, chosen, children of God.

And God is one who exalts. Jesus’ parables aren’t just about showing us that our seats are with the lowly; they are also about showing us that our God is one who will search us out in those seats and exalt us. Over and over again, when we are humble enough to see that we cannot save ourselves, when we are vulnerable enough to ask for help, when we are honest enough to choose a seat with the lowly, God helps, God reaches out to us and says, “Come, friend – come up higher. Sit here, with me.”

I wish that we didn’t forget this. I wish that we could always remember that God is there for us, a very present help in trouble. But we don’t always remember, we do forget. We become weighted down with hopelessness and imagine that there is no help to be found. Or we become seduced by our own self-sufficiency and imagine that we don’t need any help that’s out there. But this simply doesn’t work. The more we try to exalt ourselves, the more we fail, and the more we struggle. We struggle to forgive, we struggle to pray. We struggle to be generous, to be merciful, to speak truth with love. We struggle to love our neighbors, our enemies, ourselves. We struggle and fail, and struggle and fail, and this never ending cycle is frustrating and disheartening and exhausting and at worst we find ourselves giving up entirely and at not-quite-the-worst we find ourselves spinning out, off-center, and sick – stressed out beyond belief and sustainability; addicted to something that numbs the pain, like drugs or food or work or another person; hungry for love, desperate for home. On our own, we try, and we fail, and we struggle, and we hear again and again, no, no, get down from here, this isn’t your seat, this isn’t the place for you.

Without God, we can do nothing. But with God, nothing is impossible. So maybe we can stop trying to do the impossible on our own. Maybe we can finally stop struggling, stop laboring so hard to exalt ourselves. Maybe we can have the courage to be truly humble, to pull up a seat among the sick and the broken and the addicted and the lonely, and the lame and the poor and the unemployed and the heartsick and to know that we are at home, and that we are blessed to be there. We are blessed to know that we do not have to do this, this life, this walk, this discipleship, on our own. After all, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” is not actually in the Bible, not even in the book of Proverbs. But “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid” is. “All who humble themselves will be exalted” is. And so is “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. For I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto you souls.” Come, friend, come up higher. Come unto me. That sounds like pretty good advice. 

*Taken from Life Together.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

1 September 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia

For reasons I can’t entirely explain, it seemed important to me recently to reiterate to colleagues a lesson I was taught as a child: that one should not receive the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of our Lord more than once a day – that is, not receive communion more than once a day.  I feel certain that we were taught this lesson as children (in a church school) as a way of underscoring the sanctity and other-ness of the Eucharist; to help us learn that it is a special thing to take Christ’s Body into your hands and onto your tongue, a blessing of no ordinary kind to drink his Blood.  I’m sure the rule was intended to instill in us a reverence about communion, an attitude of piety.  This was only really ever an issue on Sundays when, as it happened, we were in church at least twice.  So this was not arbitrary: it was important!  And although we had no idea what punishment we would suffer in the event of an infraction of this rule, I’m sure none of us was interested in finding out whether it was a torment to be suffered in this world or the next.  It seemed really quite dangerous to us, as children, to entertain the thought of venturing close to the altar rail twice in one day.  Plus, as it happens, the Roman Catholic Church had long ago codified this ban in writing.  The point is that it was a rule: No seconds: communion once a day, and once only. 

As I say, I can’t be certain what prompted my recent reiteration of this old rule.  Of course, the Episcopal Church doesn’t really have such a rule written down anywhere (as is the case in most matters) – it’s more of a custom, borrowed (like so much else) from the old Roman Catholic rules.  But even Rome changed its rules thirty years ago to allow for the possibility that the faithful could receive communion twice in a given day.  So I might ask myself why it seemed important to me to keep this old rule.

And I do.  Ask myself that very thing.  Is it because we have so few rules in the Episcopal Church that it seems important to hang on to the few we (sort of) have?  This seems unlikely.  More likely is that I share something of the spirit of the leader of that synagogue who was indignant when he spied, out of the corner of his suspicious eye, Jesus healing a crippled woman on the Sabbath.

“Away, away, away,” he said to the crowd that had gathered.  “The rules do not allow this!  You have six days to come and be healed, but one day to keep the Sabbath.  Do not fail to keep the commandment – remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.  Away, away, away with you!”

And turning to Jesus, I imagine, he might have been incensed:

“HOW DARE YOU!” he would have scolded, with what he would have wanted to be understood as righteous indignation.  “Six days you have – six days of the week to do work: to heal, to teach, to preach, to gather your little band of disciples around you. 

“Six days you have to wow them with your parables, and your healings, and your miracles, and all the other tricks you seem to have up your sleeve. 

“Six days you have to wrap them around your little finger and tell them they have to give up everything to follow you.  Six days for YOU!

“But God gets a day!  God gets HIS day!  Remember the Sabbath Day to KEEP IT HOLY!

“This is not complicated.  That old woman has been stooped for years – she could wait one more day.  You could wait one more day.  Give God his due!  Give God his day!  I won’t sit by and watch you defile the Sabbath without saying anything!”

I know how the leader of the synagogue feels.  I know how ready I am to share in his righteous indignation.  I know what it’s like to survey the world passing by utterly oblivious to the claims of the creator upon his creatures, who have become largely disinterested in giving God his due.  I know what it feels like to want to wave a commandment in the air, and point emphatically to it, and shout out in shrill indignation, “God gets his day, you know.  God gets his day!”

And I know how hollow this teaching sounds to most ears these days.  The entire passage we read from Luke’s Gospel this morning is really like something from a National Geographic documentary about the way things were in biblical times – because they are most certainly not that way today.  To begin with, most people don’t go to synagogue or to church on the Sabbath.  And we don’t say that a spirit has caused the suffering of a woman stooped with osteoporosis, or whatever.  And we certainly do not come to church (or to synagogue) so that some guy in a collar can teach us the rules (that aren’t really even rules) that we are supposed to live by.  To begin with, we don’t need anybody imposing his rules on us, thank you very much.  This is why we became Episcopalians, isn’t it?  No rules!  A blessed silence when it comes to being told what you must and mustn’t do!  This is why we left the Roman Church, after all: all those damned rules!  But we don’t have to follow them.  We are Episcopalians – hear us roar!  Or not – you can’t make us roar, and you can’t make us stop: we have no rules!

And isn’t it pretty well established that Jesus – who may or may not be right about very much else – is certainly right about this: that the clergy are hypocrites: always insisting that people to keep rules that they don’t keep themselves!  On this we can surely agree.  Having thus agreed, can’t we quietly close our Bibles, get on with the next hymn and move a little more rapidly toward Coffee Hour?

We could, but we would be missing the chance to hear the Gospel speak to us.  And we’d be missing the point if we reached the conclusion that Jesus’ message is that rules were made to be broken, that as Lord of the Sabbath he will do what he jolly well pleases.

Because, in fact, Jesus demonstrates no desire to flout the rules of faith.  Jesus is deeply possessed of the tendency to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.  Jesus, above all, knows what this means.  Jesus knew the words of the prophet before they were ever written down:

“If your refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day,

“If you call the Sabbath a delight, and the holy day of the Lord honorable,

“If you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests, or pursuing your own affairs;

“Then you shall take delight in the Lord, and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth!”

… if you refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day…

Did you hear what Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue?  He did not assert his right to work on the Sabbath.  He did not say that he should be exempted from the rules and allowed to heal the woman.  He did not say that he was special and should therefore be allowed to teach his followers.  He did not say that time was short and he had much to accomplish, and that practicality demanded that he do as much as he could with the time that he had.  No.  He said this, “Don’t you, on the Sabbath, untie your ox or your donkey and lead it to water?”  Don’t you untie it?  Don’t you set it free so that it may drink, and live?

And what did he say to the woman?  He didn’t say to her, “Your faith has made you well.”  He didn’t tell her to throw down her cane and walk.  He didn’t command the spirit to come out and go find a herd of swine.  When he laid his hands on her he didn’t even offer a prayer for healing.  He just said this: “Woman, you are set free.”  You are set free!

For eighteen years her life had become a labor: just getting up in the morning, tending to the house, going about town had become what the Bible used to call “travail.”   The more stooped she became, the more difficult every day was to get through.  How could she keep the Sabbath?  There was no rest for her…  …until she was set free!

And Jesus said to her: You are set free.  You are set free.  You are set free.

Is there a spirit that cripples you?  That prevents you from standing up straight and being the person God made you to be, living the life God made you to live.  Is it something everyone can see?  Or is it a secret you keep deep in your heart.  Is there something that makes your life, or at least a part of it, what used to be called “travail”?  Are you heavy-laden, as we used to say?  Is there a burden that forces you to stoop through life as though you cannot straighten, stand up, and be the person you believe God made you to be?  How can you keep the Sabbath this way?   How can you find your rest in God?

How can we offer food to the hungry if we are stooped ourselves?  How can we satisfy the needs of the afflicted?  How will our light ever rise in the darkness if we are shooed away from God’s healing grace?  How will we ever slake our thirst in parched places?  How will our bones ever grow strong?  How will our ancient ruins ever be rebuilt, our streets restored, our foundations raised up…  … when we are stooped and stunted by so much heaviness, so much travail?

Six days of every week, burdens are piled onto our backs.  Six days of every week there are worries to tend to, chores to be done, responsibilities that we dare not overlook.  Six days of every week we are crippled by the demands of so much!

Why won’t we let God have his day with us?  Why won’t we give him his due?  Why won’t we bring our stooped and broken frames to him in all humility, and ask him to help us?  Are we afraid of the rules?  If they get in the way, then by all means let us reconsider them.

But the rule about keeping the Sabbath is, like all good rules, not a rule that imprisons us, it is a rule that offers to set us free:

If we refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing our own interests on God’s holy day.

If we call the Sabbath a delight, the holy day of the Lord.

If we honor it, not going our own ways, serving our own interests, or pursuing our own affairs.

Then we shall take delight in the Lord, and he will make us ride upon the heights of the earth!

There is not much serious talk in the church these days about keeping the Sabbath holy.  We can hardly get past the quite boring semantics of whether the Sabbath is Saturday or Sunday – as though it matters to Jesus.  When what really matters to him is that we have become like so many oxen and asses: tied to the various things, duties, diversions, and inanities that prevent us even from making our way to water when we are thirsty.  So he comes to us every Sabbath – at least – and he whispers in our ears as he unties the rope around our necks: “You are set free!”

And I suppose I may have to reconsider whether it is more important to reiterate the rules, than to be sure that those who have ears to hear, do in fact hear it when their Lord sings out to them: You are set free!

May God help us all to learn to remember the Sabbath to keep it holy, and then, at least one day a week, may he help us hear him proclaim that wonderful news: You are set free!

And then we shall take delight in the Lord, and he will make us ride upon the heights of the earth!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

25 August 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

From time to time I am compelled to give you all a report on Leo, the scaredy-cat of the Rectory.  Leo was brought to me about six years ago as a terrified kitten who’d been found by someone, shivering behind a dumpster, apparently abandoned by his mother.  He has lived these past six years in fear and isolation in the Rectory.  Change of any kind is a terror to him.  Visitors send him into quick flight.  One dog was bad enough, but when the second dog entered the equation four years ago, Leo probably should have been medicated or sought therapy.  Fortunately the Rectory is large, and over these six years Leo has claimed refugee status in one room or another, finding various sofas to live behind, beds to quiver under, and closets to hide out in.

Leo has become to me an icon of hopelessness and fear.  I can only conclude that he is a deeply un-Christian cat (sweet though his disposition has always been).  He stands in stark contrast to the two Labradors who live in the Rectory with me in a state of profound hope: constantly expectant that someone is coming to visit them, that they may be taken out for a walk, that they may find a morsel of food on the ground, that they may find a puddle to play in, a fountain to frolic in, a stream to swim in.  To the Labradors, treasures lie all around, and they give their hearts easily to each and every one of them.  Their lamps are lit, so to speak; they are dressed for action.  The little domes of their heads can sometimes be spotted in the windows of my office, as they wait for their Master (or anyone at all, really) to return, fasten his belt, and have them sit down to eat.

But Leo cowers in fear, (who knows where?): terrified of what the next footfall might bring.  No treasure possesses his heart, so it thumps hopelessly, nervously, ironically in his little leonine chest.

For some weeks I have been preparing to bring you sad news about Leo – uncertain about just how to do so.  Six weeks ago when I was traveling abroad, I emailed Kent John and asked him to check on Leo.  His reply brought concern: no sign that Leo was eating his food or using his litter box.  Some weeks previously the room Leo had been hiding out in for the past several years had been invaded by painters.  This incursion sent the cat in flight to the fourth floor, taking refuge in the old chapel up there, behind a pew.  But now, no sign of him was to be found.

On my return home, I searched the house: looking especially carefully in the basement, where I found a dead rat, but no Leo, and no sign that the carnage was his work.  I put food in his bowl in the chapel on the fourth floor, I went around opening closet doors to make sure he had not been shut in.  I returned again and again to the basement, calling his name, looking behind boxes, but still no sign of the cat.  I checked the fourth floor, too, but nothing.

After a month I was worried.  After five weeks, despairing.  And by the sixth week I had given up hope, and have been wondering how to break the news to you that Leo is gone.  Who knows where?  Did he flee out the back door between someone’s feet in a state of terror?  Did he slink out the front door while workmen were coming and going?  Might he come home again?  After all these weeks?

Of course I felt guilty.  I felt I have been a poor steward of one of God’s creatures – one who needed me more than most.  But I consoled myself with the reassurance that really it was Leo’s own issues that got the better of him, not my neglect.  It was his inability to adjust to the world around him – a world in which he was loved and cared for (even the Labradors would have liked to befriend him).  But he could find no hope, no treasure in which to place the trust of his heart.  “Do not be afraid” – the scriptures say, but these words would be an idle insult to a cat whose life was defined by fear and the avoidance of nearly anything that would get too close, anything or anyone who might protect him and care for him.  Leo’s disappearance was nobody’s fault but Leo’s, who chose his own fate when he walked out of the sanctuary of his Master’s house.

But still, a sense of sadness and responsibility rested heavily on my shoulders as I began to accept that Leo was gone, and hoped that you all would forgive me for not taking better care of him.

On Thursday I had not yet determined to share this news with you when I walked into the Rectory after Morning Prayer.  As soon as the door was shut behind me I heard a little squeak of some kind.  I stopped to listen.  Yes, it was either a squeak or a peep. In fact, it sounded familiar.  I opened the door to the basement.  “Leo?”  I called out.

And in reply came not a squeak or a peep, but a cry, a plaintive wail that I know well.

“Leo!” I shouted, as I skipped down the stairs, turned on the light and stooped under the ductwork.  His loud squawking moan wouldn’t stop now – calling to me out of equal parts fear and need. 

There was a wadded up sheet of plastic – a drop cloth the painters left behind – stuffed behind an old, immovable iron safe.  No movement there, but unquestionably the location of the cat.  I brushed aside the plastic sheet, and there was Leo!  He darted behind the safe, and continued to cry.

I raced up the stairs to the fourth floor to get his food and water bowl and his litter box.  I danced down the stairs to bring them to him, I was singing his name out in reassurance: “Leo!  Leo!  Leo!”  I placed his food down, and his water, and put his litter box nearby.  And my heart raced with joy.

He crept out from beside the safe far enough to allow me to scratch him behind the ears.  I dared not pick him up yet, since he doesn’t much like being held in the best of circumstances.

And I rejoiced to have found the lost cat, to know he was safe and alive, to be able to feed him, and do what I could to care for him.

I have to report to you that at the moment, Leo is still making his home in the basement.  I suspect he will stay there for a long time.  Maybe it’s the best place for him.  He can hide as much as he wants, and steal upstairs to patrol the rest of the house under the cover of darkness in the middle of the night if he so desires.

And so, although once he was lost, but now he’s found, Leo will probably remain an icon of hopelessness and fear.  His six-week sojourn in darkness and his miraculous return do not seem to have put a treasure in his heart; he shows no signs of desiring to move upstairs and live among the hopeful creatures of the household.

And, of course, this story would be only mildly amusing if not for the sad reality that so many people live their lives the way Leo does: captives of hopelessness and fear.  For some it is self-pity, or jealousy; for others it’s the result of addiction or co-dependence; for others it grief they cannot let go of; for others it’s the constant worry of scarcity in a world that has never provided them with anything other than plenty; for some it’s self-loathing, for others silly pride; for some it is greed of one kind or another.  There are a host of reasons to decide to live in fear and hopelessness – to live, as it were, under the bed, behind the sofa, deep in a closet, or in the darkest recesses of the basement – even if you have friends and family who love you and care for you and would do what they could to help you.  To live this way is to live without a treasure to trust your heart to.

And the truth of the matter is that there is only one Treasure worth entrusting your heart to.  There is only one Master worth waiting up for till he comes.  There is only one Light who will conquer the darkness.  There is only one Spirit to fill you with hope.

Most of us have our moments when we flee to the basement, and cower there in fear.  But the lesson of Leo is this: if you must hide in the basement, at least do not run for the door.  Do not take flight through the back door, or slink out the front when no one is watching.  At least stay in the basement till you find some way to overcome your fear and you are brave enough to squeak or to peep: to make the first sounds of a prayer.

Listen for footfalls on the floor above you as you hear the door creak open.  And do not be afraid to call out when your Master is looking for you – as he always is.

Do not be afraid, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom – yes, not just the basement, but the entire kingdom!

So open your mouth and wail, open your heart and cry out, reach out your paws and embrace the One for whom you have been waiting, although you did not know it. 

Blessed are you when he comes and finds you, and rescues you from your fear and your hopelessness, which at least kept you awake for this moment.

And for God’s sake, remember that you are not cat!  So when you have found this treasure worth giving your heart to, for the love of God, come on up out of the basement, and live!  For in him is treasure worth an entire kingdom, and it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.  Claim him, and him alone, as your treasure – who calls you out of darkness into his marvelous light – for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

11 August 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

I wonder what Jesus looked like when he prayed. Did he stand or sit…or kneel? Did he face east or west, turn to the sun or to the sea? Did he walk about as he prayed, matching long strides to the pace of his prayer? Did he take off his shoes or cover his head? Did he hold himself still, or did he daven and silently move his lips? Did he chant or sing or hum? Did he close his eyes and bow his head? Did he smile, or frown, or weep? Did he begin his prayers in silence or with a sigh? Did he stretch his arms to heaven and say, O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you, in the name of the Father, and of me, and of the Holy Spirit? No, perhaps not.

What did Jesus look like when he prayed? The Gospels are fairly mute on the subject. There is, of course, the moment on the mount of transfiguration when Jesus’ garments began to glow white like no amount of sunshine and Clorox could ever bleach them. But other than that one description of Jesus in prayer, the Gospels leave us guessing. They do often tell us where Jesus prayed, that he liked to pray in places that were set apart and secluded – a mountain, the wilderness, places of privacy where the Holy Spirit had enough space to take wing. But what Jesus looked like when he prayed there? We are left only to imagine.

Today’s Gospel reading is equally silent on the subject. Luke tells us that Jesus is off praying “in a certain place,” perhaps one of these deserted spots, away from the maddening crowds. But it seems that this particular “certain place” is not so very far away, because the disciples can clearly see him. And they are watching him closely. Look! they whisper to one another. He’s praying again. Just look at him. I wish I could pray like that. He looks like he is full of peace, full of beauty and holiness. I want to look just like that when I pray.   

So when Jesus returns to the group, they ask him to show them how. Lord, teach us to pray, they say, the way that John taught his disciples. Now scripture again has nothing to say about how John the Baptist prayed, but I would imagine that his prayer practices were as severe as his wardrobe. Find a rocky spot in the desert, I can hear him saying, and kneel there until you can feel the sharpness of your sin. If you are ever unsure of your need to repent, walk into the desert and sweat a while. Hairshirts are always helpful tools to keep you from being too comfortable with the riches of the flesh, and always, always remember to say grace before tucking in to your locusts and wild honey.

Who knows what John the Baptist taught his disciples about prayer, and who knows what Jesus’ disciples are expecting when they ask him for some prayer instruction. But one thing is for sure – the disciples want to pray like Jesus. They want to look like him; they want to be like him. They want to be world-class pray-ers, Olympic athletes of supplication, Greek gods of petition. Teach us to pray, Lord, so that we can be really good at this, as good as you are, beautiful and serene and holy, holy, holy, just like you.

Jesus, of course, knows what they are asking. He knows exactly what they are looking for. He knows what it is that they want from him, but he also knows what it is that they need from him. So instead of offering helpful hints about the seven habits of highly effective pray-ers, he just smiles and says, okey dokey – or however you say okey dokey in Aramaic – this, my children, is how you pray.

Father. Hallowed be your name. And with those five simple words, Jesus changes everything. Father. Hallowed be your name, and instantly Jesus takes the focus away from the pray-er to the pray-ee. Because prayer, Jesus knows, is not primarily about our holiness; it is first and foremost about the holiness of God. God is the holy one, the numinous one. The disciples may have been asking about how to be holy themselves, but Jesus knows all holiness, all beauty, all prayer begins with God, the Holy One, the one whose very name is so holy it cannot be spoken, whose being is so holy it can only be expressed in the sound of sheer silence, whose presence is so holy that we cannot bear to look upon it. Take off your shoes, Jesus tells his disciples, for your God is holy, and the place of prayer is always holy ground.

But Jesus’ teaching does not stop there, because he then goes on to show his disciples – including you and me, of course – that this holiness does not exist for its own sake. It is not a disembodied, disinterested holiness; it is holiness on your side, holiness for you. That holiness is your Father, your Mother. That holiness is closer to you than your own heart. That Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy Immortal One is extremely, intimately, inexhaustibly interested in you. And so ask, and your prayers will be answered. Ask for bread enough, for food enough, for patience and endurance and strength enough. Ask for whatever you need, ask again and again, ask and seek and knock, for our God is holy and righteous and will give you whatever you need, not because of your holiness, but because of His. God will give you whatever you need, not because you prayed well, or enough, or at the right time of day or in the right posture or with the right words, but because God is God and can do no other.

God can do no other – including giving us anything less than a good gift. Jesus promises us that God will respond to our prayers, but he does not promise that God will give us what we ask for in the form that we would prefer the very second we’re looking for it. God actually knows better than that. God will not give us more stuff when what we need is more space. God will not give us a quick fix when what we need is a slow returning. God will not take us out of the wilderness when what we need is to see that he is in the wilderness with us. God will not even give us an instant cure when what we need is an enduring healing. This is good news, of course, but it is not always easy. It’s difficult to lay aside our own expectations about what God’s response will look like or when it will come. We can start to imagine that God has gone deaf and dumb, when really the problem is that while he’s reaching out to offer fish and eggs, we’re looking around for snakes and scorpions.

But the more we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, the better we get at seeing the gifts that God offers. The more we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, the more holiness we begin to see all around us. For the holiness of God cannot be contained. It spreads out and around, landing on everything like sunshine dripping down the soft leaves of summer. It is a saturating holiness that fills in the tiniest cracks and makes even the rests between the notes pregnant with the presence of the Almighty. It is a holiness that rubs off and rubs in, even into you and in me.

When we pray Father, Hallowed be your name, you and I actually become the holiness that we seek. When our eyes are pining for the beauty of God, when we turn our faces to the "splendor of Goddes grace," we actually begin to look like heaven. begin to look like what we’re looking for. “And every gentle heart,” poet Robert Bridges writes, “that burns with true desire/Is lit from eyes that mirror part/Of that celestial fire.” And that is what you look like when you pray. You look beautiful. You are beautiful when you pray. You are beautiful when you say Father, Hallowed be your name. You are beautiful when you join with angels and archangels to sing Holy, Holy, Holy with all of the heavenly choirs. You are beautiful when you sing “Here, O my Lord, I see thee face to face,” yes, even you in the back who thinks that God would probably rather you not sing in public, let me tell you, you’re wrong, God loves it when you sing, especially hymns out of The Hymnal 1982. When you sing, when you pray, you are so beautiful, filled with the holiness of God, afire with the light, the truth, the beauty that the world so pines to see. You are so beautiful that someone out there, who is looking for a home or looking for a hope might just look at you and say, wow. I want to pray like she does. I want to look like that. Teach me how to do that. So tell them. Father. Hallowed be your name. Invite them to pray in the beauty of holiness. Alleluia, alleluia! Praise with us the God of grace.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

July 28, 2013

The Mississippi Conference on Church Music and Liturgy

St. Philip's Episcopal Church, Jackson, Mississippi