Revelation & Resurrection

Sermon notes from 11/13

When I was growing up in the 1990s, if you stayed up late enough and you were lucky enough to have cable TV, you might run across a late-night infomercial that appealed more to urgency than to art. “Do you know what’s coming?” an ominous voice would demand as distorted letters flashed across the screen. “Discover the Bible Code.” Now, this idea of a “bible code” wasn’t new in the 90s, though I do think this was probably the first instantiation of the code having an infomercial, but there was a heady revival of the idea. The authors of this book explained a basic belief that various historical events had been predicted by the arrangement of words in the Bible. Words like “Holocaust” and “Berlin Wall” and things of that nature were shown to be mappable within the larger text, a bit like if one used a word search puzzle as a ouija board. Of course, it wasn’t long before critics of the alleged bible code quickly pointed out that the very same process could be just as effectively applied to any text long enough to contain lots of word patterns. You could do this with Moby Dick, it turns out. And - as it happens - the entire lyrical repertoire of the great 90s hip-hop icon, Vanilla Ice. 

But that question sells books. “Do you know what’s coming?” Doomsday predictions and signs proclaiming the end of the world have existed since human beings could write things down. 

We are captivated by that question. We are afraid of that question. Because it remains the fact that for all of our skill, our knowledge, our capacities, and our cunning, we actually do not generally have a very strong sense of precisely what it is that’s coming. 

It is always around this time of year when we meet this apocalyptic language in the Gospel as appointed for the weeks just at the edges of Advent. I’ve always found it a bit wonderful that when the rest of the world is turning up Christmas music, we’re here in church talking about the end of the world. It’s as if each of us could be looking toward our holiday decorations or the lights in Rittenhouse Square and pointing out their magnificence just like the people in temple who pointed toward its beauty, and Jesus suddenly turns to us as says, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when all will be thrown down."

Today in this 21st chapter from St. Luke, Jesus is teaching in the Temple itself in Jerusalem. For just about ten chapters - nearly half of the entire Gospel text - Jesus has been traveling toward this very place, where he will soon be arrested, scorned, and crucified. His hearers point toward the splendor of this incomparable place: the temple was glorious - covered in gold and shining like a lighthouse of pure white marble above the clay and stone of Jerusalem. Jesus wastes no time with his reply: all of this - even this magnificent thing - will fall. Even the things that seem indestructible are doomed. When his listeners ask him when this all will be, note that Jesus does not tell them directly, but rather instructs them to beware that they are not led astray. Beware of false prophets. And even when all seems lost, do not be terrified. 

What follows seems like a litany of terrors. Wars. Persecution. Betrayal by family and friends. But then his assurance: “not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.” What is Jesus up to here? 

It assists us when we remember that the word “apocalypse” comes to us immediately from the Greek, “apocalypsis,” which does not mean “the end of the world” at all. It means “disclosure.” “Uncovering.” Revelation. The apocalyptic preaching of Jesus is not to herald something deadly but rather to reveal something true. This is not a text about the end of all things. It is about the truth of all things - the truth of all things to be uncovered and disclosed by the Son of God. The truth is just as Jesus says it is: the old ways of being are passing away. Something new is coming. Be wary, but do not be terrified. 

Because the truth that his hearers do not yet know is that what’s coming is the Resurrection. For generations, the temple had been the center of power and religious life, but something new is coming. In just a few short chapters, we will find that the place where God’s people meet him will no longer be within the walls of a building, but within the flesh of his own Son, risen from the dead. You think you’ve seen power? In buildings? In kings? In gold? Here is true power - disclosed, uncovered, revealed - in the Incarnate Word. Here is true power: the Son of God - crucified, died, and yet alive. 

An apocalypse may not be the end of the world as God knows it, but it might just be the end of the world as we do. The image that comes to me when I take this passage to contemplation is the image of setting a bone. When a bone is broken, it must be put aright again. But there is that moment - right before the bone is set - when it seems perfectly logical to us to just let it be. The act of setting it will be excruciating. It will feel like death. O Lord, please just let my leg dangle as it is and let me suffer at a level I can manage. Setting the bone aright will feel like death. But it is necessary for the bone to heal. It is necessary for the limb to be whole. The truth can feel just like this. We become so familiar with the broken bone that we wince at the idea of anything that might touch it, but somewhere within us, we know what it is to yearn to heal.

Resurrection is the only answer to our question: “do you know what’s coming?” What's coming is the savior of the world. What’s coming is the truth that whatever we are holding onto that is not Christ will be torn down. What’s coming is renewal, and a divine rearticulation of hope so beautiful that it will make broken bones feel like wings. 

Preached by Mtr. Brit Frazier
13 November 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Crossroads of Suffering and Beauty

Just last week in the Gospel we met Zacchaeus, who was a rich man, and who, in the course of only ten verses in scripture determined to give half of what he had to the poor.  Zacchaeus would have been a great spokesman for Commitment Sunday.  We’d met Zacchaeus before, of course, but we often forget about his generosity.

You know, I make up the preaching schedule here; and I’ve been wondering why I assigned to Mother Johnson the wonderful story of Zacchaeus, and signed myself up for the story of the bride for seven brothers, all of whom die, leaving her a childless widow.  She doesn’t seem like just the right messenger on Commitment Sunday, does she?

Zacchaeus, on the other hand, who had done well in his career as a tax collector, put me in mind of a number.  That number is 80,000.  80,000 is the number of hours that you are likely to work in your career.  It’s 40 hours per week, times 50 weeks per year, for 40 years.  It’s a lot.  But what else were you going to do with your time?

The guys behind a movement called “Effective Altruism” want us to think carefully about these 80,000 hours of our lives, because they think we can change the world if we use that time well.  And I think they are right to encourage us to do so.  Mostly, these guys are trying to encourage young adults to consider carefully how they could steer their way into a “high-impact career,” like something in government, or non-profit work, or medicine, sciences or technology.  But also, they are trying to encourage people who have plenty to give a portion of their money away.  And at the bottom of the list of “key categories of impactful careers” that these guys provide (among which the clergy are not listed, I’m sorry to say), at the bottom of that list there is a last bullet-point that says “Earning To Give.”

Follow that link, and you will find yourself on the receiving end of advice that suggests that maybe you should be a banker or a consultant and simply maximize your earning potential because the more you make, the more you can give.  After all, you’re going to be working for at least 80,000 hours.  The beauty of all this is that it’s not complicated: as a banker or a consultant, if you make more money, you can give more money away!  Write this date down, because never before have I suggested from the pulpit (or anywhere else that I can think of) that it might be a good idea to be a consultant.  And it might not happen again.

But if you are earning in order to give… well, it turns out that being a consultant, or even a banker, can be a very good thing indeed!  So, if you are a banker or a consultant, or in some other high-earning profession, write that phrase down and commit it to memory.  You had the earning part down, it’s the giving part we want you to add to your memory: earning to give, earning to give, earning to give.  (I’m helping you remember it now!)

Unsurprisingly, the Effective Altruism folks suggest that a good benchmark of giving is 10% of your earnings.  It’s like they read that somewhere.  I wonder where?  It’s less than Zacchaeus gave, but you have to start somewhere!

I don’t have to reach back to last week’s gospel reading to enlist a rich man for my preaching today.  We actually encountered a rich man in the scriptures assigned to be read today, but you may have forgotten that he was a rich man: his name was Job.  At first glance, Job would not appear to do very well at the auditions for Commitment Sunday, either.  Everything he has was taken from him: his wealth, his family, and his health.

Job’s ruin is so thorough and so awful because he must serve as the stand-in for every tragedy, every victim, every failure, every loss.  And anyone who suffers ought to be able to see and hear themselves in Job.  So miserable is Job that he curses the day he was born: “Why did I not die at birth?” he complains in a grotesque lament.  Every mother of a Ukrainian or Russian soldier who has been killed in a senseless war should be able to find her lament echoed by Job.  Everyone who has lost everything to a hurricane, or wildfire; everyone whose child has died before they have should recognize the depth of Job’s misery.  Everyone whose own life is shaped by pain, injury, or illness, should find a kindred-sufferer in Job.

It is because we actually do live in Job’s world of suffering that what we do with our 80,000 hours of work matters.  More precisely, it’s because some of us live right in the center of Job’s world of suffering, and some of us live far removed from it, much closer to beautiful things.

Here at Saint Mark’s, we try to position ourselves at the crossroads of suffering and beauty, because we believe this is where God has called us to be, and this is where God’s people need us to be.  We delight in the beauty we receive from God’s hands, and we also recognize the suffering that is a significant part of life.

At the crossroads of suffering and beauty we also may find Job.  And what does Job do as he stands there, but open up his voice and sing?  The very same voice that had lamented, “Let the day perish in which I was born,” has another song to sing.  This song is one of Job’s greatest gifts, and chances are you already know it.  At the crossroads of suffering and beauty, Job stood still and sang: “I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth!”

Thanks to Handel, Job sounds, improbably, like a soprano.  But the register of the voice aside, it’s his certainty of faith, at the crossroads of suffering and beauty, that we borrow from Job, to sing as our own song too.  And it’s the confidence of this song that identifies Saint Mark’s as a place, a community, an institution worthy of your gift, too.  I know that my redeemer liveth!

Our ministry here - worshiping God and serving God’s people - is carried out at the crossroads of suffering and beauty, with the surest faith that Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer, is alive among us!  Since his own Cross was also set up at the crossroads of suffering and beauty we believe that Jesus can be found there whenever we look for him.  We know that our redeemer lives!

In your 80,000 hours of work - and all the hours of your life, too - you will come past these crossroads more than once, most likely.  And when you get to the crossroads of suffering and beauty, you may not even know you are at an intersection, you may be caught so deeply in the ruts of the path of suffering that you can hardly see beauty.  But such a moment of pain and sorrow is precisely when you deserve to hear someone singing with sure confidence: “I know that my redeemer liveth!”

+ + +

To be honest with you, as I stand here this morning, I’m not sure I can say with certainty who this sermon is about.  I don’t know for sure if it’s about Zacchaeus or about Job.  I don’t know for sure if it’s about the guys at Effective Altruism, or if maybe it’s about anyone who is going to work for 80,000 hours in the course of their lifetime.  Maybe it’s a sermon about earning to give. But maybe it’s a sermon about the surety of faith.  Or, maybe it’s a sermon about the complexity of life at the crossroads of suffering and beauty.

Mostly, I think a preacher should know what a sermon is about; things go wrong when you don’t.  But whatever this sermon is about, it is about any soul that has known suffering , uncertainty, fear, and pain, but which has also longed for beauty.  And it is about the sound of that voice, standing at the crossroads of suffering and beauty, and singing: I know that my redeemer liveth!

Can you hear that voice - from a distance, or up close?  More importantly, can you take up that song yourself?

Does it matter to you, as you toil away at your 80,000 hours of work, which may or may not be in a high-impact career?  Does it speak to you when you consider the pain and the loss that you have known in your life?  Does it give you hope, when you hear it, or repeat it yourself?  I know that my redeemer liveth! I know, I know, I know… that my redeemer liveth!

And does it make you wonder if, perhaps, the best thing you can do with part of what you’ve been given, part of what you’ve earned, is to give it away?

I know that’s what it does for me.

And I know that my redeemer liveth!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
6 November 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Complaint of Job, by William Blake

The Influencers

The economist John Kenneth Galbraith once wrote that “no significant manufacturer introduces a new product without cultivating the consumer.”* Galbraith was inclined to remind us that our outlooks, desires, and demands are influenced, in this modern world, by corporate forces who have their own purposes in mind, and who wish to bend us toward those purposes, whether it’s good for us or not.

Because Jesus lived in a world before mass advertising and marketing, his teachings were not much shaped by any thought of “cultivating the consumer.”  The Beatitudes, in any version, but especially in St. Luke’s version, provide a case in point.  In the Beatitudes, Jesus promises blessedness to the poor, the hungry, those who weep, and those who are hated, excluded, and reviled.  These do no amount to a much-sought-after demographic.  Furthermore, in St. Luke’s account of the Beatitudes, Jesus not only lists those who can expect to experience blessing, he is also explicit about those who will be on the receiving end of woe.  Guess what? - it’s the rich, the replete, those who are satisfied and amused, and anyone else who’s well spoken of.  All of these do, in fact, make up a desirable pool of potential consumers, who Jesus might cultivate.  But the promise of woe is a reliably unsuccessful cultivation technique.

When Jesus shows up on the scene, he is new.  His message is new, his blessings are new, his promises are new, his covenant is new, and the life he promises in this world and the next is new.  But when it comes to consumer cultivation, Jesus is the one who is woeful.  He is not very good at it at all.  It is simply not his thing.

These days, the cultivation of the consumer for something new often involves a strategy that includes various kinds of influencers.  You hardly need me to provide a definition for the term, but this one will do: “a person who inspires or guides the actions of others.”  The taxonomy of influencers by audience size (nano, micro, macro, or mega), or by function (pioneers, amplifiers, authorities, or scalers) is tiresome, I suspect, to most of us who are not students at the Wharton School.

But on today, when we celebrate all the saints of God, I am inclined to borrow the term “influencer” as a catch-all descriptor for that marvelous company of saints, the great corporate force of the church.  If we have to sum up, in a word or so, what it is we celebrate in the saints, perhaps more than anything, we celebrate the fact that the saints are those who have been influencers for the kingdom of God; persons who have inspired or guided our actions toward the love of God.

It’s easy enough to see how saints like Peter and Paul, or any of the evangelists inspired or guided the actions of others toward God’s love.  Where would we be without them?

There are saints whose influence was made with the use of their minds and their words - like Augustine, or Aquinas.  And there were those, like Francis, or Clare, or Martin, whose actions spoke louder than words.

We have been influenced by saints who were kings and queens, like Louis or Margaret.  And by those whose influence was chiefly among the poor, like Lawrence or Mother Theresa.

There are saints whose influence was accomplished in and through their visions and prayers, like Julian or John of the Cross.

There are saints whose influence was known by their music, like David and Cecilia; or their hospitality, like Benedict;  or their strong backs, like Christopher; or their military prowess, like Joan of Arc.

If there’s a way to inspire or guide a person toward the mind and care and love of God - sometimes in full view of the everyone; but sometimes hidden secretly away in silence - there is a saint who has done it: influencers of us all.

But these influencers do not cultivate consumers, they cultivate congregations who gather to hear the good news that the saints heard; to be washed in the baptism that the saints were washed in; and to feel the power that the saints were given (power often expressed in weakness).

Here’s the thing that John Kenneth Galbraith knew, and that he was at pains to remind us of: there are corporate forces out there that are working to influence you.  Mostly those forces want to influence us for their own purposes, to bend us to those purposes, and to sell us something.  These forces are relentless.  The proliferation of influencers on social media would be amusing, if it weren’t such a serious business - all aimed at getting you and me to buy something.

On All Saints’ Day, the church draws our attention to the relentless work of the corporate forces of God, the whole company of saints, to influence us for the purposes of God and his kingdom - with nothing to sell you, and everything to give!

Consider how vast and varied has been the influence of the saints: by their preaching and their writing; by their journeying by foot, or on horseback, or by sea; by their shipwreck, their poverty, their ruin, or their recklessness; by their visions, and their fevers, and their headaches; by their warm embraces, their stubborn willfulness, and their powerful arms; by their sweet singing and their long silences; in their nakedness, or dressed in lavish costumes; wounded, kicked, beaten, and bloody; splendid, radiant, chiseled, and sweaty; limping, whimpering, and dripping wet; drunken, emaciated, stinky, or fat; buried in their books, ink stains on their fingers; flowers ‘twined in her hair; dirt caked in his nails; deep in their prayers; wild in the wilderness; cunning, clever, and brave; woke early, up late; carousing and cavorting; concentrating and cajoling; convincing, connecting, consoling; sentenced to death; brimming with life; old enough to know better; young enough not to care; covered in rags, or dressed to the nines; mumbling their words; published, practiced, or making it up as they go along; through the dim haze of the campfire, at the hospital bedside, and in the battlefield; strung up at the scaffold, or tied to the stake; defending the faith; defying the powers that be; quietly in the library; rowdily with the boys; steadily with a needle or a knife; with a shamrock or a scallop shell; as the wolf drew near; with harp in hand; at the pickle barrel with a crowbar; at the altar saying Mass; strung up on a fence and left to die; threatened but allowed to live; slaying dragons, keeping notes, studying history, baking bread, tending sheep, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked; listening, weeping, pleading, pushing, shouting, insisting, forgiving, soothing, sowing, reaping, pruning, weeding, sweeping, scrubbing, digging, burying, planting, praying, living, and dying - these are the ways the saints have influenced us, and many more, too: relentlessly cultivating within the people of God an openness to the power of love to take over our lives, as the greatest influence that could ever possess us.

There are a lot of other influencers out there, God knows.  But for tonight, at least for tonight, we delight in the legacy of this corporate force: all the saints who have inspired and guided us, and who, we pray, will never stop doing so, in thousands of thousands of ways, until the kingdom of God has come!

Jesus spent no time cultivating consumers, even though everything he brought into the world is new.  But all the saints have been the blessed influencers of the people of God!  May they ever be!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
All Saints’ Day 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

John Kenneth Gailbraith, The Economics of Innocent Fraud, p 6