The Last Checkpoint

Remember this name: Vyacheslav Abroskin.

Over the last several hundred years, it’s gotten harder and harder for people to see what good it does anyone for Jesus to die on the Cross.  Everyone knows what a crucifix is, but almost no one knows what it is for.

We remember that there was  something about a scape goat in Leviticus, over which Aaron prayed, confessing “over it all the iniquities of the people of Israel, and all their transgressions, all their sins, putting them on the head of the goat, and sending it away into the wilderness.”  And we remember that there was a lamb that was sacrificed for the Passover, when the Israelites were trying to escape from their captivity in Egypt, so that God would “pass over” their homes, and no plague would destroy them when God struck their Egyptian captors.  And, thematically, these ancient memories seem to be connected somehow to the Cross.  So there’s something about sin, and there’s something about sacrifice, something about rescue.  And there’s something about the mystery of God’s love.  

And maybe we aren’t meant to see things any more clearly than that.  Maybe just looking up at the Crucifix and remembering the scape goat who bore the sins of the people, and remembering the Passover lamb whose blood was the promise of the deliverance of God’s people… maybe linking these two memories to the memory of Jesus’ sacrifice is close enough.  But if you are going to take the time to come here to church on Good Friday, I think we should try to get a bit closer to the heart of this mystery of God’s love.

Yes, it’s OK to remember the scape goat.  Yes, it’s important to remember the Passover lamb.  But today I want to ask you to consider Vyacheslav Abroskin, who might be able to help us see what the Crucifix is for: what Jesus’ death on the Cross is for.

It was on the Feast of the Annunciation, just a few weeks ago, when, amongst the torrent of stories coming out of the war in Ukraine, I came across news of the proposal made by Vyacheslav Abroskin.  The Times described Abroskin as a “high-profile police commander” in Ukraine.  If the Russians keep a list of names of people they would like to get rid of, we can presume his name is on the list.

On March 25, word began to spread of a deal that Abroskin was offering to the invading Russian forces in order to rescue the children of Mariupol - the besieged Ukrainian city in which many thousands of citizens have been attacked, bombarded, and trapped with no hope of escape, for weeks, now.  Writing on Facebook the day before, Abroskin said this: 

“There are many children left in a completely destroyed city today, who, if not saved now, will die in the coming days, time is running out.  

“I appeal to the Russian occupants - give me the opportunity to get children out of Mariupol, instead of living children, I offer myself.

“Yes, I ask you to let me in Mariupol to collect children and organize their export.  I need three days in the city.  At the last checkpoint, while returning with the children, I surrender myself to captivity.”

In his message, Abroskin points out that he is surely a desirable target for the Russians, since, as a police commander, he organized active resistance to the Russians in their campaigns against Ukraine in 2014 and 2018.  “I’m included in your sanction list,” he wrote.  “I’m in your search.  He knows that his offer would be meaningless if he was of no significance to his enemies.  He makes his offer precisely because he believes he might just be a sufficiently high-value target.

“This is my personal initiative,” Abroskin wrote.  “My life belongs to me alone and I offer it in exchange for the lives of children who still remain in Mariupol.”

“My life belongs to me alone, and I offer it in exchange for the lives of the children who still remain.”  I don’t doubt for a moment the sincerity or authenticity of Vyacheslav Abroskin.  Nor do I doubt that he may be a high-value target whom the Russians would gladly eliminate.  To my knowledge, however, no one has taken him up on his offer.  

The comparison has its faults, to be sure, but you can see, can’t you, how plainly the spirit of Jesus is expressed in the offer of Vyacheslav Abroskin?

Death looms for the children of Mariupol.  Death has surely already taken many of those children.  Others have been forced into exile, others may be hanging on until the fate of the city is sealed one way or another.  There are no good outcomes to be had.

Three days is what their would-be savior says he needs to accomplish his work.  Reason won’t accomplish anything for the children of Mariupol; the situation there is long past reason.  Force hasn’t saved the children of Mariupol; not for lack of trying.  Mercy has been shut off from the city: the Red Cross has been unable to reach the children of Mariupol.  So what’s left?  The demise of the children of Mariupol (and of course, everyone else there) seems almost inevitable.  The headline this morning tells me that, “Russian forces appear close to taking Mariupol.”  

There is a man who is willing to give his life for the children of that city.  “My life belongs to me alone,” he said, “and I offer it in exchange for the lives of the children.”  

The deal proposed by Vyacheslav Abroskin, is, it has to be said, offered to no one in particular.  It is not entirely clear to whom such an offer could be made, or if anyone would take it seriously.  He just put it out there - on Facebook - to anyone and to no one.  This aspect of Abroskin’s proposal is important in the comparison to Jesus; it helps me avoid all kinds of theological pitfalls that arise when you try to figure out whose terms are being met in the offering of Christ on the Cross - the terms of the enemy? the terms of the Almighty?  It’s all problematic.  But maybe, as in the case of Vyacheslav Abroskin, the terms aren’t anyone’s but his own.  It’s not really a negotiation, after all; it’s just an offering, just a gift, if you will.

“My life belongs to me alone, and I offer it in exchange for the lives of the children who still remain.”   Or, as Jesus said, “I lay down my life in order to take it up again.  No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord.  I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again.” (John 10:18)

My heart breaks for the children of Mariupol, and for children all over the world for whom neither reason, nor force, nor mercy have provided much hope.  And I am moved deeply to know that there is a man who is willing to give his life for the children of that city, even though his offer has been rejected, since it was never even clear if there was anyone who could accept the offer, anyway.

Here, today, we stand in the valley of the shadow of death.  Neither reason, nor force, nor mercy has much to say to us in the face of death - death as real for Jesus as it is for the children of Mariupol.  My only hope is this: that there is a man who has already given his life for the children of Mariupol, and for every child whom neither reason, nor force, nor mercy could save, and for all of us, too.

And because his work is finished, his offering is complete, there is hope for the children of Mariupol and for all of us.  It’s the hope that was given to us when he gave himself up for us: a kind of hope that could never be accomplished by any other offering, not even the offer made by Vyacheslav Abroskin.

In the shadow of the Cross, I hear his words, the words of Vyacheslav Abroskin, and I begin to see: My life belongs to me alone, and I offer it in exchange for the lives of the children who still remain.  At the last checkpoint, while returning with the children, I surrender myself.

And I think, yes, that’s what the Crucifix is for.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Good Friday 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

An armored vehicle in the streets of Mariopal during Holy Week, 2022. Photo by Alexander Ermochenko for Reuters, from the NY Times

Dispatches from the threshold of heaven

Sermon notes from 4/14/22

Some years ago, I found myself in front of a Sunday school class of first-graders, tasked with teaching them about what it is we do together in church. We walked around the sanctuary, and I pointed out the various places and objects around us: the altar, the tabernacle, the crucifix, and so on. I struggled with how to possibly explain the substance and significance of the Mass to a bunch of six-year-olds, but it was a thrill to see their wonder when I told them, “did you know…that when we are in church together and we receive the Eucharist, we are seeing a little bit of heaven?” We spoke about how Jesus came into our world to love us, forgive us, and show us God, and we talked about the Eucharist being a special place where heaven and earth are close together. 

A couple of weeks later, I received a note from a parent. He reported with some amusement that his little son had started announcing to the family in the car on the way to church that it was, “Time to go to heaven!” I imagine that this is a strange thing to hear from the mouth of your six-year-old, but I have never forgotten it. In fact I think about this every time I approach the altar at the offertory in every single Mass I have ever attended or celebrated since. To come before the tabernacle of God - to encounter Jesus Christ in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood - this is to see a glimpse of heaven.

You know, the Bible doesn’t actually tell us very much about heaven. We know from scripture that heaven is the dwelling place of God. We know that it is the place from which Christ came and the place to which he returns. We know it is the dwelling place of the angels and that it is comprised of many of what some translations call “mansions.” Heaven is the ultimate destiny of those who love God, and yet we are given little information about the details. What will our bodies look like? Will we know one another? What could existence feel like without the heaviness of earthly burdens like time or decay? And, of course the urgent question: will we get to see our pets? The answer we do have in the midst of uncertainty is this: in heaven, we will behold God face to face. We will see a collapse of any distance that we have ever imagined between ourselves and God. And in the immediate presence of his glory, we will recognize all creation as God’s, beholding its beauty as he does. 

So there are at least three things we can hope for in heaven, among others: to see God face to face. To see how close we have always been to him. And to see others as he sees them. These are properties of heaven. And they are the properties of the Sacrament of Christ’s holy Eucharist. 

At the Last Supper, Jesus holds broken bread before his disciples and declares, “this is my Body.” He does not say, “this is sort of like my body.” Or, “here’s a nice representation of my body.” He doesn’t insist that we run an algorithm regarding the mechanics, but he lays this ordinary, material food before his friends and pronounces something remarkable. The one who proclaimed, “I am the Bread of Life” gives them, and gives us, his Body itself, promising that whenever this Bread is blessed and broken in his name, we proclaim his death until he comes. We know him in this Sacrament. Not a facsimile of him. Not a ghost of him. But Jesus himself, in whom we see no less than God. 

In the Blessed Sacrament, there collapses any illusion of distance between ourselves and the love of Christ. We are united with him in glory and joy, receiving his Body and Blood, and as Saint Augustine wrote, “beholding what we are, becoming what we receive.” What a strange thing for the Son of God to become known to us in bread: bread that we hold and touch, taste, smell, eat, and digest. How gritty, how earthy, how humiliating this is - for the Son of God to give himself to us as something eaten by the young, the sick, and the poor. And yet…in this gift of the Sacrament, we see the Incarnation itself. What a strange thing for the God of the universe, creator of heaven and earth, to become known to us in flesh and blood. How gritty, how earthy, how humiliating this is - for the King of Glory to come to us as a baby, an itinerant teacher, and one who washes the dirt from his students’ feet. And yet…this is how God has chosen to be made known. 

And then there is the transformation of our perception. This re-authorship of the order of all creation. In the Sacrament, what much of the world prizes is turned on its side and we are welcomed into a new way of seeing everything. The Sacrament is not a prize won or an achievement unlocked. It is gift, pure and full. It is the act by which we see one another as God sees us: whole, worthy, and free.

It is truly an astonishing thing to receive the Sacrament in a church with our family in Christ. Just as we reserve the Sacrament safely and beautifully in the tabernacle behind the altar, we suddenly find one another shining with the holiness of Christ. We extend our hands and receive the cup, each of us becoming little tabernacles as we become one with Christ’s Body and Blood. Just as we genuflect before the golden tabernacle behind the altar, perhaps it could be meet and right to genuflect before one another in those quiet moments after communion, recognizing one another as blessed, transformed, and beloved.

Imagine Christ’s first apostles: tabernacles of grace around that supper table. Imagine those first fledgling churches described in the Acts of the Apostles, people of all backgrounds gathered at homes and in fields, repeating the same words we hear repeated at each Mass to this very day. Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians that we heard this evening is the oldest record we have of the Eucharist. It was written sometime in the mid-50s AD, and those words: “This is my Body, given for you. This is my Blood of the New Covenant” - these have been the words repeated in churches and chapels and bunkers and basements and cathedrals and prisons and back yards for two thousand years. Two thousand years of tabernacles, radiating with the same righteousness. 

And so here we stand at the threshold of heaven, on this very night where Christ gives us the Sacrament of Life. This is where we reach our arms forward, making small mangers with our hands - one on top of the other - to be a resting place for the incarnate Christ. This is where our hearts are opened to his grace and mystery, where we are embraced and united with the one who first loved us. 

Come. Let us walk one another toward heaven.

Preached by Mother Brit Frazier
Maundy Thursday
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Kind and Watchful Farmer

Sermon notes from Sunday, April 3rd

A highly underrated part of ministry is the gift of finding the best books for children in church. Recently I came across this delightful story entitled It Will Be Okay: Trusting God Through Fear and Change. The illustrations are marvelous, and this little book ostensibly written for small children delivers the heart of holy scripture to readers of any age. This is the story of two best friends, Little Seed and Little Fox. Little Seed lives in a cozy packet in the safe, warm shed of the Farmer. Day by day, Little Seed saw the Farmer come into the shed and take a seed in his hands and say, “I have a good plan for you.” “Little Seed knew that the Farmer was good and kind, but he did not want to leave his home.” 

Little Fox lives in his cozy den in the forest. But he is scared of dark shadows and noises. One day during a storm, Little Fox runs into the cozy garden shed, and, of course, meets the little seed with whom he becomes friends. They play and laugh, and all is well and happy, until one day the Farmer comes. He takes Little Seed in his hand and whispers, “Little Seed, I have a wonderful plan for you. I have waited for just the right time, and today is the day!” Little Seed is terrified. He does not want to go! The Farmer takes Little Seed out into the garden and presses him deep into the ground. It is a dark place. It is a strange place. It is a messy, frightening place. Little Fox looks all over for his friend, but the seed is nowhere to be found. All seems lost…but - the story tells us - the Farmer was good, and the Farmer was kind, and the Farmer was always watching over them. Even when they did not know it. 

The two friends are scared and lonely. But Little Fox waits in the garden for his friend. And Little Seed waits in the dark, deep dirt. And the Farmer was good, and the farmer was kind, and the farmer was always watching over them. Even when they did not know it. 

Of course, little seeds pressed gently into the ground and tended by a good gardener do not stay little seeds forever. Little Seed becomes a sprout, and then a beautiful tree, and the friends are reunited once more, happy and safe, in a place far more magnificent than they had ever imagined. The story tells us that Little Seed liked things to stay the way they were. And sometimes Little Fox was afraid. But “just as they learned to trust the Farmer, we can learn to trust God. We do not need to fear…” He is good and he is kind, and he is always watching over us, even in places that are dark, strange, and messy.

This story of Little Seed and Little Fox is over two thousand years old. It is - with marvelous illustrations - the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. Isaiah was likely authored during three different eras of the history of Israel over the course of about two centuries that defined the evolving story of God’s chosen people. In the eighth century BCE, the Assyrian invasion of the northern kingdom of Israel prompted the prophet Isaiah ben Amoz to write about God’s judgment and the promise of restoration for the righteous. The middle section of the book, chapters 40 through 54, are written sometime in the sixth century when Israel has been forced into exile in Babylon. And the third section seems to have been written after Israel has returned to Jerusalem and the greater Promised Land following their captivity. The book is rich in promise, and the entirety of the prophecy tells of God’s provision. The Farmer was good. And the Farmer was kind. And the Farmer was always watching over them, even when they did not know it.

Today’s text comes from the frightening, strange, messy middle place of exile. Isaiah 43 is a song sung in the wilderness - by a seed buried in the darkness. It begins with a reminder of the foundational story of Israel: the Exodus. “Thus says the Lord who makes a way in the sea, a path through the mighty waters.” This is the story of God’s chosen people. This is the rock upon which the psalms and stories and songs of Israel are built. The liberation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt is how they know themselves and how they know God. There was a mighty ocean. There was an undefeatable oppressor. And God made a way. This memory is an identity. It is their assurance. It is the key to understanding absolutely every other singular thing. 

But then the strange turn: “Do not remember the former things or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing. Now it streams forth. Do you not perceive it?” What is this catastrophe? What is this surprising, impossible call? Imagine: you are a people in exile, oppressed again by foreign powers and over a thousand miles from the home that your history has promised to be your inheritance. The only thing keeping you strong and sane and connected with your neighbors is this story. This way of knowing yourself and of recognizing God. This history is the only thing you could take with you. This lullaby that you sing to your children. And here, thus saith the Lord: “I am about to do a new thing.” 

For the Israelites, every new thing seemed to bring disaster. A new thing? What, like a new foreign enemy? A new opportunity for failure? New violence? New exile? New chaos and destruction? No thanks, I would like to remain a seed, cozy in my garden shed, if it’s all the same litanies of heartbreak. Has there not been enough darkness, enough strangeness, enough mess? 

But the Farmer is good. And the Farmer is kind. And the Farmer was watching over them, even when they did not know it. 

It is said that people fear change, but I don’t think that’s true. People don’t fear change. They fear change for the worse. If you are sick, for example, and your doctor knows precisely the right medicine to give you to bring you back to health - that is a welcome change. If a relationship is broken and then someone offers forgiveness, if reconciliation blossoms out of the stirrings of trust and friendship, that is a change. If a community is suffering and then one day, they together decide to do something about it, that is change. We are not afraid of change for the better. We are afraid of change that might make things worse. 

We do not see beyond the coziness of our garden shed. We do not see beyond the small places of grace we have desperately carved out amidst exile. We cling to the consolations we have found in the darkness, and we are terrified of letting them go, because what will we be without them? We cannot even begin to imagine ourselves growing into a tree. 

The world in which we live most often speaks to us of change as something that will make things worse. Who will we be if our stories look different? If our church looks different? If our people look different? If the voices we hear and the things that we do together are different?

We forget that our salvation came and comes from a change: the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Error into truth. Sin into righteousness. Death into life. This holy season of Lent is God’s continual assurance that he is doing a new thing, making a way in the wilderness. It is the time of the little seed, pressed into the dirt, feeling alone and afraid, the time of exile and uncertainty. It is the holy Saturday of impossible grief. And yet- the Farmer is good. And the Farmer is kind. And the Farmer is watching over us, even when we do not know it. Now is the time to perceive it.

Preached by Mother Brit Frazier

3 April 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia