Saint Mark's Church

The other night I held in my arms the infant child of good friends: a child who may not have long to live.  The details are unimportant; suffice it to say that the diagnosis is severe, and the prognosis dire.  But my friends have determined to love their child with every ounce of their being as long as he is with them in this world.  And as I held him in my arms and looked down at his sweet, innocent face, and saw what a beautiful child he is, I was hit by a sense of how unfair it is.  I’m sure his parents have had more than a moment or two of such feelings.  And when you confront those feelings while you are holding in your arms a beautiful baby boy, you might ask yourself how you can ever trust God, who has tethered this child so tenuously to the life that he gave him.

If I were a consultant, and if God hired me, I’d have to tell God that one of his problems in the world today is that so many people don’t trust him.  And it’s not because they are cynics, or contrarians; it’s because there is plenty of cause in every day life to wonder whether or not God is trustworthy.  I won’t even posit a list of suggestions – you have all the material you need, I’m sure, to come up with your own.  Let the infant boy who snuggled against my chest the other night provide sufficient cause to wonder whether or not God is trustworthy.

We hear Jesus today teaching his disciples how to pray – his simple prayer of reverence, obedience, sustenance, and forgiveness.  And when Jesus goes on to expand on his teaching he makes this promising statement: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find it; knock and the door will be open for you.”

Oh, if only this were true!  But you know already that the prayers of my friends were not answered when they heard the news that their child would not be long for this world.  (And, of course, you know of your own unanswered prayers.)  Such bad news has the power to rob a child of his beauty, to make it seem as though this child - who cannot suckle as other children do, who is not growing the way that other children do, who cannot develop the way that other children do – is a less beautiful work of God’s own fingers.  Because what parent does not hope and pray for a perfect child?  To borrow from the Gospel: you pray to God for an egg, and then for a perfect child to be born from that egg; you trust in God not to give you a scorpion, so to speak.

This, of course, is what we assume that God is doing when imperfect children are born, as they are every day of the week: we assume that God is giving a scorpion, when an egg – and a healthy, perfect child emerging from it – was what was asked for.  How can you trust such a God?  This seems like a fair question when you are veering toward resentment that the child in question is so imperfect, so fatally flawed, and, therefore, such a failed attempt on God’s part to meet your expectations of what your child should be, must be.

And it is true that the child I held the other day is quite literally, fatally flawed.  And as long as I can see him only as such a child, I am doomed to resent God because of him, bound to conclude that God is not trustworthy, because he has failed to deliver on the promise, failed to give what was asked for, failed to disclose what was searched for, failed to open the door of happiness that was knocked at. 

My friends flirted with this resentment – I expect they still do from time to time, maybe even on a daily basis.  But, they also decided to see their child differently: not as the embodiment of a fatal flaw, and as an unanswered prayer, but as a child who bears the imprint of God’s own fingers.  Which is to say that my friends began to see their son as God sees him.  And they also decided to let God decide (so to speak) how long or how short this child’s time on this earth will be, knowing that, painful though it is for them, it doesn’t make their son any less beautiful.

For weeks and weeks, I could see almost none of this, despite my long conversations with them, and my daily prayers for them, and my desire to empathize with them.  For weeks and weeks my only thoughts of this child were gripped by worry, and anxiety, and fear.  For weeks and weeks, I had never actually picked up the child and held him in my own arms. 

And then, I did.

And when I looked at him, and felt him snuggling there – generously allowing himself to be taken from his mother’s arms – I could see nothing but a beautiful baby boy.  I could not see his fatal flaw (though I know it’s there).  For a few minutes, or more, I was privileged to see him, perhaps, as God sees him: as a beautiful child who needs the love and the care of his parents, even if it will be for a much shorter time than a supposedly more perfect child would require.

Of course it is not so simple – life never is.  It is complicated, and frightening, and painful.  And it is enough to make you want to give up on the whole notion of trusting God.

But when you are holding a child in your arms whose whole future depends on a the grace of God, what else can you do but trust the One who made him in the first place not to forsake him, not to forsake you?  And what makes him different, in that respect, from any other child (or from you and me) – whose whole future depends on God?

Who or what you put you trust in is, in part, a matter of what you see around you, and how you evaluate whatever it is you see.  And I admit that I found it very hard to trust God about this child – and I would not have blamed my friends for giving up on trusting God either – before I held their boy in my arms, and saw him for what he truly is.  Which is not an imperfect child whose fatal flaw is cause for worry, anxiety, and fear for those who love him, but a perfect imprint of some beautifully imperfect aspect of God, who, tragically, cannot survive long in this world.

This is not to fall back on the old platitude that God makes no mistakes.  Rather, it is to say, that if I can see the beauty in a child – any child – can you imagine what God can see?

For it would seem that there is a part of God that has a hole in his heart, and a malformed brain, and a disfigured smile, and undeveloped lungs, and a hundred thousand imperfections like the imperfections borne by the imperfect children, who nevertheless bear God’s image in the world – if only for a fleeting moment (or less) before their light goes out and they are known no more.

Of this we can be assured because it is, of course, God’s own story: his perfect Son: beaten, bloodied, and killed so as to become an unrecognizable image of the perfection whence he came, and yet the perfect icon of it.  How can his lifeless form, hanging on a cross, elicit trust in the One who sent him into the world for this?  Which is an eminently reasonable thing to ask as you contemplate the crucified Lord, and wonder what sort of God could countenance this cruelty.  And you may continue to see it this way, and struggle to put your trust in God… until the day you are willing to hold Christ in your arms, to cradle his head against your chest, to welcome him into your life – as either infant or corpse – and look at him, and see him as God sees him: as a child of beauty, who bears God’s own perfect image, because in his bloodied brokenness, and in his death he has become the perfect image of God’s love.

If I were a consultant, I would tell God not to operate this way.  I would tell God to operate more like Toyota, making sure to give people exactly what they want: perfectly rendered answers to their prayers.  And like most advice from consultants, my advice to God would make perfectly good sense.  I’d tell God to make sure that people found him at least as trustworthy as a car manufacturer, for instance.

But God’s ways are deeper than my ways, his thoughts are more complex than my thoughts.

And the strange thing is that when you cradle an imperfect child in your arms, about whom you have known so far only worry, anxiety, and fear, and you look down into his face, and see him for the beautiful boy that he is, then you begin to feel that maybe God can be trusted, even in such dire circumstances, even though you cannot explain why this is happening, or what it’s all about.  But you choose to trust - which only makes sense when you are holding this deeply imperfect life in your arms, and you can see not only that he is beautiful, but also, that you love him.  It is only in love that we discover that even the imperfect is the answer to our prayers, the object we were searching for, and the answer to the door on which we knocked. 

And the really painful part, is that having discovered this truth – having seen the perfect image of God even in an imperfect child – we remember that he will not be long for this world (which is as it must be), we will have to let him go, give him up, trust in God, which has become so much harder since we learned to see him as he truly is – as God sees him - and to love him.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

28 July 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Why do you call me good? I’m not really, you know. I’m not bad, either, but I’m not particularly good. But for some reason you seem bound and determined to keep calling me good – the Good Samaritan, with a capital G and a capital S. I’ve become a compound noun, a phrase that’s shorthand for a particular kind of person doing a particular kind of thing. I’ve even become a clause in liability insurance policies and in state law to reassure you that if you’re trying to help someone in a crisis situation and you fail, you cannot be successfully sued or prosecuted. You all use this little phrase so much that it’s started to seem like those two words just go together, good and Samaritan. You realize, of course, that they don’t. At least they didn’t for the people who first heard my story. For them, for the Jews of Jesus’ time, good and Samaritan went together about as well as good and Mets’ fan would for you, or healthy and cheesesteak. No, Jesus’ listeners would have told you that there was nothing particularly good about Samaritans. We had had a serious falling out, you see; we were like first cousins after a family feud, like best friends who decide to try being roommates – we were so close that our differences drove us crazy and finally drove us apart. So the fact that now the phrase Good Samaritan just trips off of all of your tongues is a little shocking. The Parable of the Good Samaritan. The Church of the Good Samaritan. She was saved by a Good Samaritan. Inconceivable.

And why call me good? I’m not so good. I’m just a man who was in the wrong place at the right time. I’m not a saint, for heaven’s sake. I’m not even particularly religious. Sure I go to worship when I need to (on Mt. Gerazim, of course). I make my yearly sacrifices, I keep the Law. But I’m a working man; I don’t have time to sit around debating Torah and asking questions about eternal life. I have to work; I have to walk, to travel around the country selling the wine that my family has made for generations. I am a respectable businessman, a respectable husband and father, but I don’t have a halo, and I’m not some sort of hero.

I do not like traveling the Jericho road. Never have, never will. The people I run across when I make that journey back and forth from Jerusalem are mostly miserable. Especially during the high pilgrim season, when they’re in a hurry, and they’re anxious, and they’re all pushing and shoving and running their donkeys right up the back of your neck. The rest of the year they mostly just ignore you. Most people are so worried about who’s in and who’s out, who’s friend and who’s other, that it’s easier to just pretend like you aren’t even there.

And mostly I ignore them right back, especially Jerusalem Jews. Now don’t get me wrong; I’ve never been openly hostile to the Jews. When some of my neighbors got it into their heads to go to Jerusalem and desecrate the temple by throwing a bunch of old bones around the place, I didn’t go along. I was tempted to, but I didn’t. But I have to admit, when I see the way the way my people are treated – as outcasts, as heretics and lesser-thans – it angers me. So I stick to my own side of the road.

But that anger is nothing compared to how I feel about the robbers. They make me furious, these bands of men who run about this wilderness road stealing and wounding and basically scaring the hell out of people. I’m a large man, with strong hands, and they leave me alone. But I have wished time and time again that one of them would try to rob me, just so I would have the pleasure of beating him up one side and down the other with absolutely no guilt whatsoever. So you see? I’m not that good.

You know, I almost didn’t stop when I saw that guy on the other side of the road. He was such a mess. I couldn’t believe what a pounding he had taken. Every bone in my body told me to just keep my eyes down and my feet moving. You know that feeling. It’s like when you come up on a woman sitting on the pavement talking to herself with a cup of coins in her hand, or a man with greasy hair crying over a cardboard sign that reads, Hungry! Please help. I almost kept walking. The man looked like he might have been dead anyway. But then I stopped and looked at him. I really looked at him. I saw him, naked and bloody and lying in the dust, and suddenly I was full of anger and full of pity all at the same time. Just looking at him made my whole body hurt. I really didn’t want to get involved, but what could I do? I couldn’t just leave his body there for the wind and the wolves. I was starting to ponder if I could get a burial for him down in Jericho if I didn’t even know who he was, when just then, he moaned. Not a lot, just a little, desperate, moan.

And my heart just went out to the guy. I mean, he was really in a rough way. So I went over to him to see what I could do. I don’t know anything about first aid, but I didn’t think any bones were broken. Well, maybe a couple of ribs. But he was bruised from head to toe, with scrapes and cuts where the robbers’ knuckles had torn at his skin. His wounds were red and angry and filthy. Flies were already starting to pick at them. Well, I thought, I can at least clean him up a bit while we’re waiting for someone else to come along. So I poured some of my oil over the cuts to try to get some of the dust out; but that just made things sticky and not very clean. Wine would be better. All I had with me was the wine I was going to sell down in Jericho, and I wasn’t thrilled about wasting a whole wineskin just to wash out the wounds of a guy who was probably going to die anyway, but I saw him lying there, completely broken, and so I broke the seal on a wineskin and poured out some wine. On the open wounds. He didn’t like that much.      

We sat there for a while, him flinching and moaning and muttering about someone named Sarah, me wiping his wounds and waiting for someone else to come along to take him off my hands. Which, of course, no one did. And, well, you know the rest of the story. I shrugged him up on my own donkey, put my pack on my own back, and got him out of there. I cared for him myself until I found someone else who could help. But that’s it. I’m not a Superman. I’m not a Savior. I’m just a Samaritan.

So why do you call me good? You know, Jesus asked that question, too. Why do you call me good? Of course, the person who was calling him good was a sycophantic hypocrite just trying to get in with “the man.” Jesus asked the question because he didn’t want to be flattered. I guess I’m asking it because I don’t want to be flattened. The Good Samaritan. As if calling me “good” explains everything. I’m not perfect, some great example of purity and saintly and noble guy. I’m not a good guy who of course had no other option but to help that man on the road. I’m just a normal guy – a guy like you – who did something, one thing, that was, actually, pretty good. The point of Jesus’ story is not that I am a person of particular virtue, who gets it better than you do, who is innately better, somehow, than you. To say that would be as idiotic as to say that the priest and Levite who walked by earlier are innately evil, or that the lawyer who asked Jesus the question that got this whole thing started was innately selfish or callous. That is hugely missing the point. We’re all just men, people, like you, and what determines whether we’re good or not is what we actually choose to do. What I did wasn’t easy. I didn’t do it because I’m particularly good, and I certainly didn’t do it because I was trying to be “nice.” I just did it, one little step at a time. I did it because I saw this guy and I felt his pain, and I found that I couldn’t just leave it at that. I stepped into his skin, and once I had done that, I just had to help him. I felt compassion for him. Compassion. I was suffering with him, and so helping him was actually helping me, because in that moment he was my brother, my neighbor, a part of my family, a part of myself. He was my responsibility. So if you’re going to call me anything, call me compassionate. The Compassionate Samaritan. The world could use more perfectly normal but wholeheartedly compassionate people doing good things any day of the week, just like I guess the world could use more neighborhood watch programs where people are watching for neighbors instead of for others.

So don’t call me good. I don’t think it’s so helpful, if it makes you feel like I’m good and therefore better than you so why bother. There is only really one who is good. No one is good but God alone. But he is so good, he is so good that he offers us his only Son, the compassionate one, to suffer with us, to die for us, to rise again in great glory, to offer all of us normal folk the glimmer of hope of being compassionate people doing good things. Because that we can do. That we must do. So go and do likewise.

Preached by Mtr. Erika Takacs

14 July 2013

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Back in 2009 the British Ministry of Defense shut down its hotline designated for the reporting of UFOs, saying that it served no purpose, since decades of reported sightings had produced not a single shred of credible evidence that a UFO was actually the vehicle of a visitor from another galaxy.

To my knowledge, there is no government agency in the US that collects such reports.  However, you will find non-governmental organizations ready to take your report.  When I looked, I found instructions about how to report such a sighting; they begin with this sensible advice: “Remain calm.”

On NPR recently a panelist in a discussion about UFOs pointed out that there is actually widespread suspicion, even hope, in the scientific community that there could be life beyond our galaxy.  To this way of thinking, the question isn’t whether there is life to be found elsewhere in the universe, the question is whether those life-forms are here, visiting us.

It does not seem far-fetched, outlandish or crazy to believe that there is more life beyond our planet, our solar system.  It does not require a hallucination or a suspension of disbelief to suspect that life – in one form or another – has been created in a galaxy far, far away.  It does not require a measure of lunacy or paranoia to imagine that God has done the intricate and awesome work of life-giving in regions too far from us to see.  But neither does allowing for such a possibility lead to the readiness to believe in little green men, or flying saucers, or a host of other supposed phenomena associated with the idea that there is life elsewhere in the universe and it is looking for us.

Today the Gospel reading introduces us to demons.  And many people might put demons and demonic spirits into the same category as UFOs – loopy, far-fetched, superstitious thinking.  We Episcopalians are prone to be at least as skeptical about demons as we are about UFOs – maybe even more so.  And we have no codified method of dealing with demonic possession, no official office where you should file a report.  The Roman Catholic church has somewhat clearer rules about all this, which are pretty restrictive, and begin with the supposition that demonic possession is an exceedingly rare thing.

So why assign this reading from Luke’s Gospel that tells us all about a man possessed by a demon, and Jesus’ exorcism of that demon, and the plight of an innocent herd of pigs?  Why keep reading such a story in a day and an age when we know better?  After all, can’t we explain these demons away?  Isn’t that what we sophisticated western people do?  Can’t we just assume that this is a case of epilepsy, or schizophrenia, or some other mental illness?  Can’t we all agree that the man with a demon didn’t so much need Jesus as he needed to be on his meds?  Just like UFOs, don’t we know better than this?

It seems to me that there are good reasons not to merely try to explain these demons away, at least two that leap to mind:

The first reason not to dismiss the demons quite so easily is that the power of darkness still moves among mightily among us, even in modern American society.  There is a force that draws too many of us toward malice, hatred, cruelty, destruction, warfare, selfishness, perversion, abuse, wastefulness, and fear.  You don’t need me to begin a catalog the way this dark force is at work in the world – you can read about it in the papers, and you know about it from the darker episodes of your own life, and the lives of those you love.  This dark force is not only a plot device for modern cinema, it exists, and it drives us to our knees with weakness, faithlessness, and despair.

The second reason not to dismiss the demons of Gerasene quite so easily is because it is only Jesus who has the power to free the man of their possession, and banish them to the depths of the sea.

And may I suggest that the question for us today isn’t so much whether or not there is a dark power at work in the world – I take it as plainly evident that there is – and that we should not get caught up in whether or not we call that power demonic.  The question really is whether or not Jesus still has the power to free us and the whole world from the grip of that dark power, and banish it from our lives?

Listen again to the prophet Isaiah:

 “I was ready to be sought out by those who did not ask,

to be found by those who did not seek me.

I said, ‘Here I am, here I am,’

to a nation that did not call on my name.

I held out my hands all day long to a rebellious people,

who walk in a way that is not good,

following their own devices;

a people who provoke me to my face continually….”

I said, ‘Here I am, here I am,’ to a nation that did not call on my name.

We are not being asked today to assert our allegiance to the far-fetched idea that there are demons in the world that might possess you or me without any warning, and provide fodder for a Hollywood blockbuster.  We are being asked to consider whether or not a dark force still holds sway in the world, whether we can see it among the tombs: ranting and raving in the habitations of death.

We are being asked to consider whether the malice, hatred, cruelty, destruction, warfare, selfishness, perversion, abuse, wastefulness, and fear that we see all around us are not just by-products of the atmosphere, and therefore conditions that we have to learn to live with, - like illnesses for which we have no cure as of yet - but actually the signs of the working of another force: contrary to the will of the God who made us and fitted out a Paradise for us. 

Why do we allow for this possibility in our movies and television, our literature and art, but no longer in our religion?  Is it so hard to believe not only that Jesus can heal, but also that he can vanquish?  Not only that he can teach, but also that he can conquer?

And so we provoke God continually, we follow our own devices, we walk in a way that is not good, we are a rebellious people, and we generally refuse to call upon his name… while God keeps calling to us: “Here I am, here I am!”

Let’s assume that demonic possession – if there even is such a thing – is exceedingly rare.  In fact, let’s assume that its days, like the days of the dinosaurs, are over.  We need not still assume that the power that brought us demons has been drowned forever in the Sea of Galilee.  There is far too much evidence, to my mind, that the same dark force that made itself known in the demons of Gerasene is still at work in the world, to dismiss it so easily.  And unlike the UFOs, that dark force is deeply interested in visiting us in the here and now, wreaking havoc and destruction in its path, and creating again a habitation of death where it can feel at home in its nakedness.  I feel no need to name it: not demons, or Lucifer, or Beelzebub, or the devil, or any other name, for its name is legion, and it resists precise identification.

But the power to prevail, the power to vanquish, the power to conquer the powers of darkness has only one name, and its name is Jesus!

And the point of telling this old-fashioned story about a man who has demons, and the point of not just explaining the demons away…

… is that the darkness is still too close at hand for us to be so cavalier about it.

… and the point is that the Lord keeps calling to us, “Here I am, here I am…”

… and the point is to identify the real question, which is this:

Are we finally ready to embrace the Lord who calls out to us in our darkness, and to call him by name: he who is the name of our Salvation: Jesus, the Christ, our Lord, and our Savior, who vanquishes the power of darkness from our lives, and bids us live in realms of light!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

23 June 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Early in the days of my posting to the far reaches of the Empire, I was invited at the last minute – in order to fill the empty seat of a guest who couldn’t make it - to a dinner at Government House in Perth – the official residence of the representative of the British Crown in Western Australia.  It was marvelous – tinkling cocktail glasses, and passed hors d’oeuvres, and a long, long mahogany dining table in a candlelit dining room with lots of attentive staff.  The glasses on the table all had little crowns etched on them.  And after dinner, port was passed, and the Governor stood to give the loyal toast to the Queen.  This, I thought, was how life should be.  And although I am no monarchist, as we all raised our glasses, inwardly, I swooned.

How easily one swoons within the halls of power and prestige.  They are, in fact, made for swooning.  Proximity to power is enough to make one swoon even if it is meaningless, as it was that evening.  My presence at the Governor’s table was entirely inconsequential to him or anyone in authority. But the environment had its effect on me, and my innards still swooned.

The Scriptures today present us with a story of power gone amok.  To backtrack a little: King David – chosen by God, and anointed by his prophet to lead Israel – now intoxicated by his own power, has his own episode of a different kind of swooning when he spies Bathsheba bathing on a nearby roof.  He swoons, and, being the king, he sends for her and has his way with her – what Bathsheba thinks of all this, we are never told.  We are told that from David’s swoonful clutches a child is conceived, news that will soon become apparent to Bathsheba’s husband Uriah who has been off fighting wars for King David, while David has been peeping from rooftops. 

The details of what transpires are rich and delicious, but we have no time for details now.  Eventually David determines to send Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, back into the battlefield, and arranges to have him ordered into the most dangerous part of the battle, where he is killed, along will several others, thus relieving the king from the unpleasantness of admitting his indiscretion.

But before long Nathan, the prophet, appears on the scene to confront the king – a dangerous thing to do.  So he does so by telling the story we heard read earlier of two men: one, a rich man with many flocks and herds, the other, a poor man with a single ewe lamb, to whom he feeds food from his own plate and drink from his own cup, treating the lamb, we are told, like it was a daughter to him.  When a traveler comes to visit the rich man, the host cannot bear the thought of slaughtering one of his many sheep for a meal.  So he contrives to steal the ewe lamb from the poor man, kill it, and serve the meat to his guest as though it was his to serve.

Hearing this story, King David is appalled, and, slamming his hand on the table, he pronounces, un-prompted, a sentence of death on the callous, cruel, and selfish rich man who would deprive a poor man of his only lamb.  David does not know that he has just pronounced judgment on himself, but Nathan knows, and with a steely look in his eye, he fixes the proud king’s gaze, and says to him: “You are the man!”

This story begs us to consider how easily power corrupts, how predictably the mighty do fall, and how necessary but difficult it is to speak truth to power.  All of which are valid and important points to be gleaned from the Scriptures.  But few of us will ever be king or queen – which is to say that few of us will ever be in David’s place of power.  And few of us will be called to be prophets, which is to say that not so many of us work at the NSA, or WikiLeaks, and few are in a position to blow the whistle on power when it runs amok, as Nathan blew the whistle on David.

Now, when you’re sitting in church, and the Scriptures tempt you to point the finger at someone else, you should exercise some caution – at least if you are sitting in the position of relative comfort and privilege that most of us enjoy.  And this biblical passage seems to be encouraging us to point the finger at someone.  But if we accept the caution that finger-pointing in church is a dangerous thing, then what are we supposed to make of the story of King David’s shameful hubris and galling hypocrisy?

This is where the story of the two men comes in again.  Because it’s true that you and I are neither king nor prophet, neither rich man nor poor man, and neither is any of us the poor man’s little lamb.  But there is another character in this story – there is the traveler who sits at the table of the rich man and dines sumptuously on the meal set before him, and raises a glass to his host, even though the meat was stolen from a poor old man down the lane.  And did the traveler swoon, just a little, as he tasted the first morsel of that tender and delicious lamb, slaughtered just for him?

If we are looking for the place we fit into this story, perhaps we should be looking at the table where the traveler feasts so well on the meal provided for him, he knows not whence it came.  Maybe we are sitting at the table too.

And is the table laid with a cloth and napkins that were manufactured in a collapsed factory in Bangladesh?  While we sit at table, and un-manned drones go in search of God-knows-who, do young men and women in uniform still go off to fight a war at our bidding that we have nevertheless forgotten about almost entirely?  Do we care that the vegetables at our table are the product of an agri-business conglomerate that long ago squeezed family farms out of the way, along with sensible, sustainable farming practices?  Do we ever consider how it became so easy to set a bowl of bananas on the table?  Is there a flat-screen TV at one end of the table?  Are there bottles of water being served?  Where did these come from?  How much work for the preparation of this meal, and the ingredients that went into it, was performed by undocumented workers?  In other words, how much of our comfort and pleasure comes at the expense of folks who have less than we have, and less than they need?

I know there is nothing original in bringing up these issues.  And maybe, like me, you are stymied by them.  What are we supposed to do?  After all, we didn’t take anything from anybody!

I don’t, frankly, know what we are supposed to do.  But we might start by being suspicious of the inward swooning (that I, for one, am prone to) at how wonderful it is that we have so much good meat on the table.  Which is to say that we might start by not taking the meat for granted, the way the traveler did.  I want to tell you that I struggle with this.  Do you know how easy it is to get to Wegman’s from here?  Easier still to get to DiBruno Brothers!

Maybe a story will help.

One day a man was traveling, and he stopped, as was the custom in the land at that time, to ask for accommodation at the estate of a rich man, whose house was the only house for miles around – except for the little shack of a poor man down the road, and it was clear to the traveler that if he had to stop and ask for accommodation he was going to ask for it at the lovely, big estate, with the fruit trees lining the drive, and what looked like it might be a swimming pool out back, and not at the ramshackle, falling-down hut, where an old man puttered, and seemed deaf to the incessant bleating of a sheep that followed him around like it was his daughter.

The owner of the estate was happy to offer hospitality to the traveler.  He gave him a room where there were clean towels laid out, including one he could take to the pool, he was told, if he would like to have a dip before dinner.  This he did, and arrived at the dinner table refreshed from his day of travel on the hot, dusty roads.

When dinner was served, it arrived on a beautiful large platter – deliciously roasted lamb, with lemon and rosemary.  The meat was pink, the way the traveler liked it.  The wine was delightful.  There was a scent of orange-blossom in the air.  The candlelight was soft and flattering to everyone at the table.  The cushions he sat on were comfortable.  And as he put another bite of tender, pink lamb into his mouth, inwardly, the traveler swooned.

Mid-way through the meal there was a commotion from somewhere beyond the kitchen: shouting and stomping of feet, but soon the commotion was ended, the host apologized for the interruption, calm was restored, and the swooning could continue.

After dinner, the guest went for a walk to settle his stomach, finding a path that led through olive trees in the direction of some hills behind which the sun was setting.  To his surprise this path led him to a wire fence that surrounded a little, unkempt garden that he soon recognized as the back side of the ramshackle cottage of the poor old man that he had passed on the way.

The traveler stopped, for he heard from somewhere in the garden, the sobbing of the old man, who he eventually spotted sitting on a little wooden bench under a crooked trellis on which climbed some half-hearted vines.  The man was sobbing and moaning and talking to himself in the way that simple folk do in stories of this kind.  And the traveler heard the poor old man, bemoaning the loss of his only sheep – who he cared for like it was his daughter – at the hands of his rich neighbor, whose servants had come and taken the sheep by force, and slaughtered it, and roasted it, and served it for dinner that very night.

The traveler felt embarrassed to be there eavesdropping like this, and still more embarrassed to have enjoyed the meal so much – to have swooned inwardly while savoring the scrumptiousness of a roasted lamb that he now knew to have been stolen from this poor old man.

The traveler turned back to the path and returned to the home of his host, where he was invited to sip tea or brandy and enjoy a smoke before retiring.  And while he sat there with his wealthy and satisfied host, he did something that he knew was a risk, since he knew better than to bring up either religion or politics when traveling by himself, dependant on the hospitality of strangers…

… he mentioned to his host the news from Jerusalem, how it had been leaked to the press that the death of Uriah the Hittite had not been an accident at all, how King David himself had ordered him into the fray of battle with the express intention of getting him killed, all because the king had fancied Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba, (well, who wouldn’t, she’s gorgeous?) and knocked her up, and acted quite the hero when he took her in after Uriah’s death, but in fact, the king was quite the scoundrel.

Un-prompted, the rich man, offered his opinion that the king shouldn’t be able to get away with such a thing just because he’s king!  And oughtn’t there to be some justice in the world?  And a man ought to be made to pay for such appalling behavior, even if he was the king!  And he slammed his hand down on the table as he said this.

And with a steely look in his eye, the traveler fixed his proud host’s gaze, and said to him: “You are the man!”

And the traveler got up from the table and went to his room and gathered his things, and walked out of the comfortable house, down the path, past the olive trees, and into the little unkempt garden of the poor old man.  And he found the man asleep on a bed of straw laid on the ground in what was neither bedroom nor stable.  And the traveler set down his things, and lay down next to the old man for the night, on the straw.

And only half awake, the old man imagined that the movement next to him was the little sheep that he’d been tending, caring for it like it was his own daughter.  Forgetting, in his sleep, the tragedy of the day, at the feel of the slight motion next to him, as the traveler made his bed in the straw beside the poor old man, who dreamt that it was his little ewe lamb settling in beside him for the night, inwardly, in his dreams, the old man swooned.

Most of us are neither king nor prophet, but we are travelers on the way.  And we will be fed at many tables.  And there is no doubt that the tables of power and prestige hold a strong allure for us.  But, sometimes it behooves us to consider what table we are sitting at, and how the feast before us came to be there.

And it may be that there are times when we do better to excuse ourselves from the groaning board of plenty, and wander down the lane to the ramshackle cottage of a poor old man, who is followed everywhere by an incessantly bleating lamb who seems to imagine she is his daughter. 

At least, the lamb was there yesterday.  And maybe in our uncertainty about what to do in the crazy complexity of this modern and confusing world, we start by just making sure the lamb is still there today.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

16 June 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

You take some flour and some water, mix it together, leave it out on the counter for a while – maybe a few days – and it is going to start to change, as wild yeasts that are just floating around in the air find their way to the mixture.  The flour and water will begin to bubble as the yeasts feed on the sugars in the flour and the process of fermentation begins.  Eventually, you add more flour and some salt, and let the yeast continue to do its work: the fermentation continues, the dough rises, and you can bake your bread.

You take some grapes and you crush them and you leave the juice out in a barrel, and that juice is going to start to change, as wild yeasts that are just floating around in the air find their way to the grape juice, which will begin to bubble as the yeasts feed on the sugars in the grape juice and the process of fermentation begins.  Eventually you make wine from this fermented juice.

You don’t take the flour and the water, mix it together and just eat it - that is wallpaper paste.  You let it change first!  And you don’t take the grape juice and just drink it (not if you have any sense, anyway).  You let it change!  These things are better after they have fermented and changed.

Saint Mark’s was founded a few years before Louis Pasteur’s work was published, showing that the fermentation in bread and wine and other things is the product of the work of living organisms.  And by the 1880s - just around the time scientists were coming to understand how the anciently employed process of fermentation works; just as they were beginning to understand that the bubbling levain used to make bread is alive, that the bubbling must used to make wine is alive – this parish began to celebrate the Mass every single day, as we have done ever since.

You take these simple things and you let God work with them, and they are changed.

You need four ingredients to have a Mass.  You need bread and wine, you need the Gospel, and you need the people of God.  You bring all these ingredients together, and you mix them up inside a Gothic revival building, and you let them sit there for a while.  Maybe an hour or two, or a day or two, or a decade or two, or a century or more.  Something starts to bubble when these ingredients come together.  And it’s not wild yeasts this time.  It’s something about the way the Gospel of Jesus Christ goes to work on the people of God that starts a process of fermentation, and, by God’s grace, we are changed.  We begin to look beyond our own selfishness and start to think that maybe we are being called to feed others, to celebrate with others, to rejoice with others, to care for others.  We begin to come to grips with all the ways we need to change, and we start to seek forgiveness from our neighbor, and from God.  We begin to see that the stories of limitation and failure we have told ourselves are transformed by the message of hope.  We begin to see that we don’t need to be wallpaper paste – that if we let God do his work on us, we can be transformed into wonderful bread!  And we don’t need to be grape juice – that if we let God do his work on us, we can be transformed into fabulous wine!

Fermentation is becoming something of a fad in the food world, but it has been the model for Christian life since long before science even understood how it worked, before we knew that the bubbling levain and the bubbling must were actually alive in a meaningful sense, and that being alive is what changed them.  You don’t settle for what you were when you started this process.  You don’t come and sit here in this hot sandstone cauldron hoping that nothing will ever start to bubble.  You come here for the bubbles, for the fermentation; you come here for the change.  Wallpaper paste and grape juice will not do; you come for bread and wine.  And the old you – the old us – will not do either.  We come for whatever new thing it is that God is making of us now!

And do we need science to tell us that whatever makes this process happen is alive?  Do you even need me to tell you that the bubbling, the fermentation, the transformation that God is effecting all takes places because a living Word goes to work on a living people?  We feast on that Word and it begins to convert us, to ferment us, to change us, and transform us, and make us into something new.  And behold, we become the Body of Christ.  We are alive in Christ, and being alive in him is what changes us!

You take some bread and some wine, and the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  And you take the people of God – take you – and you mix them together, and let them sit, for just a while.  And it is not long before things are bubbling, and God is at work, forming again the Body of Christ, and changing everything in the process, because he is alive, his Word is living and he has changed us and given us new life, too!

Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

The Solemnity of Corpus Christi, 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia