Fear, Death, & Sparrows

In my recent research into athazagoraphobia (the fear that you are forgetting something or someone, as well as the fear of being forgotten), I happened to come across the term anatidaephobia.  Anatadaephobia is supposedly the fear that somewhere, somehow a duck is watching you.  Is this a real fear or not?  The term was coined in a cartoon by Gary Larsen, so some people say that it is a joke.  But of course that’s easy for you to say since you don’t have ducks watching you day and night.

The bigger joke is that these days, of course, you can add any Latin or Greek-sounding word as a prefix to “phobia” and thereby pathologize nearly any kind of fear.  For instance, I came across someone who suggested that there might be such a thing as egochristicolaphobia - the fear of being associated with the word “Christian.”  And also this: nesciophobia - the fear of not knowing what you are really afraid of.  With this slightly ridiculous term, I think we may actually be getting somewhere.

This morning’s passage from the Gospel according to St. Matthew may have left you scratching your head, as it often does me.  There is much in this passage that leaves me uncomfortable, and when I get to the end of it, I don’t like the idea of Jesus denying anyone before the Father in heaven; and I find myself resenting it when I hear Jesus say, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword,” then listing the various types of conflicts that he may bring about.  Where, I ask myself, is there is good news to be found in this passage?  And then I think of nesciophobia, the fear of not knowing what you are really afraid of, and I think maybe somehow this made-up term might help us find the point of this passage (or at least a point of it), and might even help us find some good news in this passage.

Because what we heard today comes from Jesus’ missionary instructions to his disciples.  He’s telling them, among other things, what it’s going to be like when they go out into the world like sheep into the midst of wolves.  And the part of those instructions that we just heard is the part that describes, as the heading in my study Bible put it, “Whom to Fear.”  In fact, the passage doesn’t deal only with fear, it also deals with death, as you could hear when Jesus said, “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body….”

If I were to place a heading at the top of these paragraphs, I think my heading might be: “Fear and death.”  And in the notes I might point out that here, Jesus helps his disciples get over their nesciophobia - their fear of not knowing what they’re really afraid of.  I’ll tell you what you’re afraid of, says Jesus, and what you should be afraid of, too!

Fear and death are related, of course, because most people are afraid of death, since it represents the great unknown, and what we can’t know frightens us immensely.  Modern culture is so afraid of death that we have treated it as though it is unnatural and to be avoided at any cost.  But death is both natural and unavoidable.  Which is not to say that being afraid of death is odd or unusual - it’s just to point out the obvious, which is often obscured in our culture.

But fear is not restricted to the fear of death, not by any means.  Fear grips our lives in so many ways: we’re afraid of failure, and some of us are afraid of success; we’re afraid for the health of our planet; and we are afraid for our safety; we’re afraid for the future of our children, and for our own happiness; we’re afraid of relationships we are in, and sometimes of relationships we are not in; we’re afraid of the darkness we can identify in our selves when we are honest, or of the emptiness we may find there, too; we’re afraid of being alone, and we’re afraid to ask for help from another; just to name a few possibilities.  Fear is all around us.  If this passage of Mathew’s Gospel is primarily about fear and death, then we should examine closely what Jesus has to say about these two things.

As much as I hate to hear Jesus talk of bringing a sword instead of peace, I swoon when I hear him mention the sparrows.  “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.  And even the hairs of your head are all counted.  So do not be afraid: you are of more value than many sparrows.”  Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.  This ought to be a prayer that we can repeat to ourselves over and over again.  Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.  The way Jesus puts this - about the sparrows falling to the ground - makes it clear that he is talking about death, but I think we can apply this teaching to any fear that happens to possess us.  In fact, I’m counting on it!

Despite the impossibility of it, God knows the number of hairs on your head, each and every one of them is counted.  God also knows what frightens you, and God loves you and sees you; you are not out of his sight, you are not far from his hand, just as even the sparrows are not out of his sight or far from his hand.   And nothing happens to any of the sparrows that goes unnoticed by God - not even their deaths, insignificant though they may seem to us.  Therefore, do not be afraid; do not be afraid; do not be afraid; for you are of more value than many sparrows.

If that’s fear, then what about death?  Well, Jesus ends his discussion of fear and death by saying this, “Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.  This paradoxical saying is one of the most confusing of Jesus’ teachings, but also one of his most pervasive.

Later in Matthew’s Gospel (16:25) we’ll hear Jesus repeat this teaching: “Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”  Matthew may have been borrowing from St. Mark, who reports Jesus saying nearly the same thing (8:35): “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”  St. Luke repeats Matthew 16:25 verbatim, in chapter 9, verse 24 of his Gospel.  And again in Luke 17:33 we hear Jesus say, “Those who try to make their life secure will lose it, but those who lose their life will keep it.”  And in St. John’s Gospel (12:25) we hear a slightly more dramatic, and a bit worrying, version of this teaching: “Those who love their life will lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”  This specific pattern of language that Jesus uses over and over, and the concept he is conveying are difficult for us to parse.  We can’t quite make sense of it, and we can’t figure out how this paradox can possibly work, and because it’s about life and death we can’t quite let go of it either, we can’t dismiss it too easily.  But it seems important to try to wrestle with what Jesus could possibly mean.

It’s possible that it’s easier to hear what Jesus means when we hear it as a chorus from all four gospels.  Over and over again Jesus says this: What you think you want will only get you what you don’t want (which is death); but what you think you don’t want will get you what you want (which is life).  Now, you and I have been conditioned to make no sense of this statement, because we have been targeted and urged all our lived by marketers and advertisers to consider what we want, then go out and buy it.  And we have been conditioned to believe that following this pattern will make us happy and good.

To put it another way, we are told: You are not as happy as you could be because you don’t have what you want yet, but if you buy what you want you will be happy!  Let’s contrast that to what Jesus said: What you think you want will only get you what you don’t want (which is death), but what you think you don’t want will get you what you want (which is life).  You can see why it’s hard for us to compute.  There is nothing for us to buy, for one thing.  We have been told by powerful forces that following our desires and getting what we want (sometimes with free two-day shipping) will make us happy.  And in fact, powerful forces have always been deeply skeptical of Jesus’ teaching since even before there were advertisers and marketers.  There is a selflessness required at the heart of this teaching, which is not strictly speaking about self-denial, but is more about turning toward the other as an organizational principle of our lives.  And the prospect of thinking about ourselves less and others more makes us afraid!

Our old friend fear rears its head again! You see… we didn’t even know what we were really afraid of!  We thought there was death, and a bunch of other stuff to be afraid of, but now we see that it’s also the prospect of living our lives less selfishly and more oriented toward others… yup, we’re afraid of that, too.

Now, here’s what we have to see to make sense of all this: that fear is the antithesis of faith, and death is the antithesis of life.  Jesus is showing us how often we are headed for fear and death, but that through him, by him, with him, and in him, we can be headed toward faith and life, instead.

Think of yourself standing on the shore of the ocean of life.  In the distance are the Island of Fear & Death and the Island of Faith & Life.  You can see how powerfully the current seems to draw most vessels to the Island of Fear & Death.

But a Captain stands on the shore who tells you that he can get you to the Island of Faith & Life in his boat, but it requires you to take up the cross and follow him, in order to get there.

“What does it mean,” you ask him, “to take up the cross?”

He replies, “It means that you live your life more for others than for yourself, that you put aside selfishness, and you try to give more than you take.”

“Oh, who can do that?” you ask.  “It’s too hard!  After all, I’m not as happy as I could be because I don’t have what I want yet, but if I buy what I want I will be happy!”

The Captain points to where a group of people are picking up their packages before boarding the boats that will be carried to the Island of Fear & Death on the power of nothing but the currents.  He looks at you kindly, and asks you, “Is that what you want?  Do you really believe that satisfying your own wants will make you happier, or the world better?  Can you see that it’s the current of fear that carries all those boats so swiftly to the Island of Fear & Death?  Do you really want to be carried to your life’s destination by fear?  What are you afraid of?”

“Oh,” you reply, “I’m afraid that I don’t know what I’m really afraid of - and I don’t really want to find out!”

Says the Captain to you, “Step into my boat, my child, and try this, and see how it goes: just repeat after me and say, ‘Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.  Do not be afraid, you are of more value than many sparrows.’”

And you do as he asks you, and you realize that you are praying, and that’s OK.  And as you repeat the prayer, you look and see that although you have not yet left the shore, the Island of Fear & Death is somehow already much further away from you than it was only moments ago, and you feel relief and hope, and you see that the Captain is smiling, that he is good.

And the Captain asks you if you would like to go with him to the Island of Faith & Life.  But you can see that the currents still flow powerfully toward Fear & Death, even though they are farther from you now than they were.  “How is it possible?” you ask, “to overcome such strong currents?”

And the Captain hands you an oar in the shape of a cross, and he points to a third island, which you had hardly even noticed, and he tells you that it is the Island of Others, and he tells you to row with him toward the Island of Others.  But before you start rowing, you ask him, “Who are they, and what do they need?”

“Who knows?” he says, “until we get there.”

And as you take your cross-shaped oar from him, you notice that his hands are bloodied, so you repeat your prayer, over and over, and you put your cross-shaped oar in the water, and you wonder how you will ever get to the Island of Faith & Life if you are rowing in the direction of the Island of Others.  But you trust this Captain, and he seems good to you.  And you start rowing toward the Island of Others.  And before long you can see that the closer you get to the Others, the closer you get to the Island of Faith & Life.

And there are sparrows chirping on the gunwhales of the boat, and they seem to be talking with Captain, who seems to be talking with them, and who seems to know and care for each and every one of them.  And somehow, you believe that it will be possible to row for the Others, and still reach the Island of Faith & Life.  And you think about a time that you were so afraid that you didn’t even know what you were really afraid of.  And now that time seems long ago, since if even the sparrows are safe on. This boat, surely you will be too.

And now, even as you row toward Others, guided by this Captain, who is rowing right beside you, and in fact, seems to be doing most of the work, you can’t remember what you were ever afraid of.  And you feel good.

And you are able to forget yourself for a while, as you row toward the Others, as you sense this Captain has also forgotten himself as he heads toward them.

And you believe that despite the strong currents of fear, which you can see are still carrying boats to that other Island, which now seems very far away, indeed; you become confident that with this Captain at your side you will be able to reach the Island of Faith & Life.  And you are right.  And you find tat you are no longer afraid of not knowing what you were really afraid of, because now, with him, there is nothing to fear.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
25 June 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Harvest

I have to admit right from the beginning this morning that my experience of what we might call “harvesting” is limited to a small vegetable garden in my early adolescence. I enjoyed tending the tomatoes and the squash and the onions and all the rest—it was a lovely little garden—but there really isn’t anything agricultural in my life that can be equated with the kind of image Jesus is using when he says “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” What we had in the garden was easy for my family to handle. We’d have to give away some extra zucchini from time to time but that was not labor. 

“Harvest,” for me, ridiculously, conjures up bucolic festivals and folk dancing. And bandanas, which we do have for sale here at St. Mark’s if you should happen to need one for a harvest festival in the coming months. One for $15 or two for $25, and they look beautiful. Leslie and I have two. 

You see, my agricultural vocabulary is sorely lacking. It goes right into commodification and knickknacks. Mention the harvest and the next thing you know I’m hawking bandanas. For me the harvest is a distinctly decorative notion, because I’ve lived a life in which agriculture itself feels like it’s somehow removed from living. It’s very different, I know, for those who live or have lived on farms, but I can present myself this morning as a representative of an uprooted, urban or suburban lifestyle. 

It's a challenge, then, for me to hear that Jesus wants us to be laborers in the harvest. And here are a few things I’m guessing I don’t know about being that kind of laborer: 

First: I don’t know what it’s like to do that kind of physical work. Not for a span of days or weeks, and not, certainly, for the lifetime that a farmer spends on a farm. I don’t know what it means that the work of farming doesn’t end, that “harvest” isn’t a one-and-done thing, something that happens and then is followed by a nice vacation. 

I don’t know, either, what it means to have worked on the harvest on a particular patch of ground, in a particular community, for generation after generation. I’m not identified with what grows around me. I’m free to pack up and move. 

I’m not bound by the climate or the soil or the water where I live. Or let me correct that: I’ve had the illusion, all these years, that climate and soil and water could be made to have a negligible impact on my life. If I didn’t like the heat, there was air conditioning. You can filter the water, or buy some if you need it. Part of the shock of life in the twenty-first century is for me the dawning realization that I’m connected to the earth. If there are fires in Canada I will inhale the smoke. 

Another way to say this: I’ve had the luxury or delusion or both that whatever happened in the harvest, I might have to pay a little more at the grocery store but I could have what I wanted. I’m not used to thinking about the fact that I am dependent on the harvest. Is it possible that to be a true laborer in the harvest I have to know that my life depends on the harvest? The harvest isn’t an action that I am supposed to imagine myself doing to something static called a 

crop; the harvest is a life filled with and bound up in and utterly dependent upon growth and seasons and shared effort and whatever blessings the weather might bring. 

So I think we have established that I’m not a farmer. But Jesus is leading me to a deeper question here. Am I a Christian? Jesus speaks to his disciples, who are followers of his, friends of his, students of his, but he tells them to ask God to send laborers. And this prayer they are to offer, for laborers in the harvest, this prayer comes along with the expectation and the authority that they will go out themselves and do real ongoing work. He’s not asking them, it turns out, to be really moved by his teachings and interested in his ideas and drawn to him as a person. He is asking them to dig in. They will need to rest but the work won’t end and it won’t be a one-time volunteer opportunity. 

They are going to cast out diseases and illnesses and unclean spirits. The worlds, seen and unseen, will pass like soil through their fingers. Something will grow, as they go out. They will grow with it. They’ll be identified with what grows, and where it grows and how it grows. It will happen in season and out of season. They’ll be utterly dependent on the weather, and on their own hard work, and on other people: in other words, dependent on God. 

Are we Christians, then? Are we laborers in the harvest? This is a wonderful church. You are wonderful people. I’m not putting any of us down or implying that we aren’t enough. What I’m asking is, do our lives depend on this work? 

Just as I’ve been able to live with the illusion that I was somehow separate from the business of growing food, we followers of Jesus have been led in a thousand ways to imagine that our connection to Jesus, our need to do the work of Jesus, our need for Jesus, is optional. In a thousand ways we need to be awakened from that dream. What has come close to us here is the actual kingdom of heaven. There is no replacement for it. Our lives in the church are the means God is using for casting out the demons and the sickness and the death in the world. In our world. And we don’t have another one. God’s redemption can only happen for us as it is happening right here and now, as we pray and turn to God and ask God to send the laborers, to make us into laborers, to bring about that plentiful harvest. God is meeting you here now, decisively. 

A farmer can’t decide to harvest some other crops than the ones the farmer has planted. I don’t mean that we are unable to make choices about how or where we worship. What I mean is that there is no supermarket of experiences with God that we can run to, to buy what we need if the experience we are having with God fails. If I don’t love my neighbor, if I don’t open my heart to the love of God, if I don’t pray, there isn’t any other neighbor or heart or prayer that can replace the one in this moment and this place. 

And yes that does make this church and this community and this Mass profoundly consequential for all of us. Because this is where we are planted today. This is our holy labor today. And just like in farming, longevity and preservation and consistency and care for the 

future are part of being present for today’s work. If this were ever to fail, it couldn’t be replaced. 

Of course nobody gets this right. Nobody labors in this harvest without failure and weakness. That’s part of the work. We all take small steps more often than we take big ones: chatting at coffee hour, signing up for a thing, praying for a moment as honestly as we are able: these are all actions that deepen our lives in faith. And did I mention buying bandanas? And I can look at our community as a whole and at so many of you and I can be moved deeply by your laboring. Because you do look as if your lives depend on this. 

But the question about being a laborer, the hope that we would pray to God to send real laborers and that we might also be some part of the answer to that prayer, that’s not a one- and-done question. A wonderful church will never stop asking this question. Are we laborers? 

This isn’t even a question about whether we could do more, necessarily; rest might be the most important part of the work for some of us today. But this is always a dig deeper question. Dig deeper until you start to know that the kingdom of heaven is drawing near, until you start to get that sense. Until it feels true that you are receiving without paying and can give without being paid. 

And then when you get that sense of depending on God, dig a bit more. And when it gets hard, keep working, even when rest is the work. And when hope gets scarce, think of that as part of the work. Rejoicing is part of the labor of the harvest. Keep at it. And when you are bored and disengaged, think of that boredom as your labor in the kingdom for right now. It may all change tomorrow, but keep doing the work. 

It may be that the single greatest testimony we can give about who Jesus is, is the acknowledgment that our lives depend on the harvest of our work with him. His work in us and our work in him, a growing and a harvesting. Essential. Perennial. Holy. 

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson
June 18, 2023
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Do This

Athazagoraphobia is not defined as a clinical condition by the American Psychological Association.  Neither is it a word made up by Mary Poppins.  It’s a term that’s been coined to describe the fear of forgetting someone or something.  But it is also the fear of being forgotten.  You’ll find that the term also includes not only the fear of forgetting and being forgotten, but also the fear of being ignored or replaced.  Some, but by no means all, sources identify athazagoraphobia as an “irrational” or “morbid” fear.  This remains to be seen, in my opinion.  Some people do not believe athazagoraphobia is a real thing, since it has no authoritative clinical definition.  For my purposes, I am going to accept that athazagoraphobia is real enough - and it certainly seems so to me.  Whether the church at large suffers from athazagoraphobia, I can’t say for sure, but I think we should consider the possibility.

Scholars have pointed out for decades that biblical literacy in America is remarkably low - people just don’t know the stories, names, and places of the Bible; stories, names, and places that once were widely known and shared across many cultures.  Not long ago, I mentioned in conversation with a friend the story of Moses and the burning bush; my friend looked at me a little confused, and informed me that he was not at all familiar with what I was talking about.  On an individual  basis, we might diagnose the situation as a deficiency of biblical literacy, but on a societal level, I think the issue may be somewhat different.  I wonder if what we have, as a society, is the beginnings of a case of collective memory loss.  And I begin to worry about what happens when as a culture we forget the stories (and names, and places) we once shared.  I begin to wonder if we are losing our memory.  And it fills me with a measure of worry, and anxiety, maybe even some fear.

Among the most important memories that the church possesses is the memory of the Last Supper, when Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and shared it with his disciples and said, “This is my Body, which is given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”  And he took the cup of wine, and blessed it and shared it and said, “This is my Blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.  Whenever you drink it, do this in remembrance of me.”

Here at Saint Mark’s, Jesus’ command to “Do this” echoes powerfully in our ears and our hearts.  And we tend to follow Jesus’ instructions rather deliberately and somewhat fundamentalistically here.  Every day, more or less, since 1884, a priest has come to an altar here, with at least one other person, to follow those instructions; to “Do this” in remembrance of Jesus.

And, because the bread and the wine are the elements of the Mass, and because we take great care with those elements when they have been consecrated, even reserving the bread in a golden Tabernacle, you could be forgiven for thinking that the church’s great interest is in protecting those elements: the consecrated bread and wine.

But really, there is a matter of possibly greater significance for the church, and that significance is becoming more and more evident to me, the more I realize that it is in peril.  Possibly more important than regarding, honoring, venerating or holding on to the actual consecrated elements of bread and wine, the church’s great interest is and ought to be to hold onto the living memory of Jesus’ presence with us.

Churches like ours have often been afraid to speak of the living memory of Christ, because the word and the idea have a complicated history for us.  To speak of the Sacrament as a “memorial” is to place it on the lowest rung of the Sacramental ladder.  And, you know, we like to be near the top of the ladder at Saint Mark’s.  And in our corner of the church, we believe that there are many dimensions to remembering, and that this memory is a special category of memory - the term we use for it is “anamnesis” -  a kind of remembering in which the past becomes immediately and fully present to us,  and the thing we are remembering becomes more than a memory,  it becomes real in the here and now, as time folds in on itself, and Jesus becomes really, truly, and bodily present to us, so that he can really be with us, and we can really be with him.

It is this real and living memory of Jesus that the church is interested in preserving, protecting, and continuing, because the memory is more than a memory: it is the real and sacred Presence of the risen Christ.  But sometimes, trying to hold on to this memory can feel like trying to hold on to the smoke of incense.  And in a world that does not remember Moses at the burning bush, it feels to me like we are in danger of losing this most important memory, too: the memory of Jesus giving us his Body and his Blood, and instructing us to “Do this in remembrance” of him.  How can anyone believe in what they can’t remember?  Or how can we bask in the Presence of One whom we can’t remember?

It is not irrational, I don’t think, to take note that many of the cultures that once held tightly to the memory of Jesus’ offering of himself, have been forgetting that very tradition, a tradition that shaped so many different and varied societies.  And losing this memory isn’t merely a case of forgetting certain events, and particular words and actions associated with them; it’s not just forgetting the story of the Last Supper.  To forget this memory, is, in a very real sense, to begin to forget who Jesus really is, not just who he was.

And when I take note of my own fear that the world may be forgetting who Jesus is, I begin to understand the need for the coinage of a term like athazagoraphobia.  And I realize how clinically appropriate the term seems for me.  Because I am not only afraid of the world forgetting who Jesus really is - I mean who Jesus is in the here and now, not only who Jesus was back in the first century - I am not only afraid of the loss of this memory; I am also afraid of the church being forgotten, ignored, or replaced.  And I believe this fear is not at all irrational.

Ironically, the antidote for my athazagoraphobia has already been given to us, and is contained within the very gift I fear we will forget.  The treatment could not be simpler: Do this.  Do this simple thing - take bread, take wine, bless them, and share them - and do it in remembrance of Jesus.  Do this.  Do this.  Do this.

We do this at Saint Mark’s every single day.  And as long as we do, we stave off my potential case of athazagorophobia.  For Jesus is with us here every day, truly present, as he promised to be.  Oh, the church may be ignored, and even replaced in people’s hearts and in our social standing, but Jesus will not be forgotten, as long as people gather to do this in remembrance of him.

Doing this is much easier than catching the smoke of incense.  We do as Jesus told his followers to do: we take bread and wine, we bless them, and share them.  And he is really and truly here with us; he is not forgotten, and neither are we.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
The Solemnity of Corpus Christi, 11 June 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia