Having received the gift of a Christian faith and living a Christian life can never be allowed to be two different things. I spoke briefly about this last Sunday. If they are separated, if we claim to have faith and never show it in the way we interact with others, in the way we lead out lives, then something is seriously wrong. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them (Mat 7:20).

Life is sanctified through faith, and faith is nurtured when we live it. Our faith is a free gift from God—and so, my friends, is human life. They go together. Life itself finds its purpose, its fullest expression in adoration and worship of God through faith in Christ Jesus. They cannot be separated. This is why Timothy is admonished to fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called (1 Tim 6:12a).

Works do not save, but the way we lead our lives affects our faith. A tender plant or a flickering candle placed in the middle of hammering rain and howling storms—what do we think is going to happen? A plant must be nurtured and protected in order to grow. A flame must be guarded and shielded in order to not be extinguished. And likewise, our faith must be nurtured, protected, guarded and shielded by the way we live our lives. Only then can it be sustained, flourish and blossom.

This is the process of sanctification, which is an ongoing, unceasing struggle because it is nothing less than the struggle between the heavenly and the earthly, taking place in our hearts. In the words of St Josemaria Escrivá, “It is true, whoever said it, that the soul and the body are two enemies that cannot be separated, and two friends that cannot get along” (The Way, § 195). It is not that the body and the world are evil—but they are fallen, and as such they are irreconcilably at odds with the perfection we are called to seek. A Christian is the subject of sin, as well as of holiness; of flesh, as well as of spirit. “Old Adam is powerful throughout this life and will not have his demands denied without putting up a struggle.” (Laestadius, Dårhushjonet, §58)

So how do we nurture this plant? The answers we get depend on the questions we ask, and it seems that a lot of the time we ask the right question in the wrong way. The question is “what must I do to be saved?” But listen carefully to that question: what must I do to be saved? Often this means simply what it says: what is the minimum I need to do to get in through the gates of heaven? Because of the hodge-podge of Calvinistic-Evangelical teachings about predestination and salvation that are so common today, it is almost customary to ask this question as if it referred to a single, irreversible minimum effort. How can I live my life as conveniently as possible but still get the maximum benefit and make sure that I am not messing up eternity? This is, if not the verbatim question, then at least the mindset depicted in today’s gospel reading:

And it came to pass, as he went to Jerusalem, that he passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee. And as he entered into a certain village, there met him ten men that were lepers, which stood afar off: And they lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us. And when he saw them, he said unto them, Go shew yourselves unto the priests. And it came to pass, that, as they went, they were cleansed. And one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, and with a loud voice glorified God, And fell down on his face at his feet, giving him thanks. (Luke 17-16a)

Of these chaps, once they had received what they wanted, crying for a short time to God, worshipping him when it was convenient to them, only one fell down at the feet of Jesus, thanking and glorifying him. The others? They did the minimum necessary to get what they wanted, after which they were content and went on their merry way, believing that they had received something that lasted without them having to tend to it.

The leprosy is an image of the state of our soul. Faith heals, but continued healing requires continued faith, which in turn requires ongoing devotion and sanctification: that in all that we do, we must fall down before the feet of Christ Jesus, and give him thanks and glory. It is not about us, it is about Christ, and about making sure that our hearts continue to be a fit dwelling for him.

Returning to our question—what must I do to be saved—it can and must be asked in a different way: how can I live a life that is pleasing to God? How can I live so that my action, my deeds and my very being reflect his will, to his greater glory? This is a question about a process, not an event, and when we ask about the process, then we are able to make sure that we don’t squander that precious gift of grace that we receive through faith. Then, friends, we are the leper who came back, gave thanks and praise, and then chose a life of witness. He understood that the minimum was not lasting, that the beginning was only the beginning, that the gifts of Christ have to be realized in the Christian life.

Judas was one of the twelve. He was one of the chosen. He was one of that band of brothers that we all consider to be the most blessedly chosen group of people in history. These twelve, handpicked by Christ, ought to have been as assured of righteousness before God as any other human beings throughout time because, not only did they have faith in Christ, but Christ had already showed that he had faith in them. He had picked them out from among their peers. He had groomed them and trained them and instructed them and educated them. They had walked, quite literally, in his footsteps. They had evangelized on his direct and personal command. Judas was one of them, yet one night he turned around, because, Scripture tells us, he was overcome by Satan, and without any further explanation betrayed the Lord. He too must have felt, at some point in time, that he was truly blessed and chosen. He was, but his human nature, the old Adam, simply couldn’t hack it. Chosen, blessed—and then fallen and accursed throughout time.

We would do well to notice what the disciples said, what they asked, when Christ told them about the treachery that lay ahead. They did not turn around and say, “Oh, well, it’s not going to be me that does this evil deed of which you speak.” No, they were well instructed, and knew about the treachery of our human nature, the war between the flesh and the spirit that St Paul so eloquently writes about at length in his letter to the Romans. They became filled with grief and worry and each of them asked him, “Is it I?” They knew that, being chosen by God did not somehow eradicate their human nature. The spiritual enlightenment given to them as an endowment directly by Christ Jesus did not crucify the flesh and its lusts and desires. They knew that God’s calling requires a response. That walking on God’s path requires a straight walk. That God’s service requires discipline. They had been called by God in the most personal of ways—but they knew that they were still capable of stumbling…and of falling. “Is It I?”

We need to take a page from their book. We need to learn from that poor wretch Judas. We need to understand that the Christian calling is no cake walk. If it is, we’re probably doing it wrong. For as long as we live in the world, we are subject to the temptations and dangers of the world. We are his house, his church, writes St Paul in his letter to the Hebrews, if indeed we hold fast our confidence and our boasting in our hope (Heb 3:16). If these people, these people chosen to share Christ’s last supper, were concerned that they had been, or were going to be unable to hold fast—is it possible that we might do well to similarly question our ability to serve faithfully to the end?

This is why our worship life, together and individually, is so important. And it is more than merely a coming together of likeminded people to find some peace and solace. Lex orandi, lex credendi is something of an Anglican motto: our rule of prayer is our rule of faith. The way in which we worship and the content of our belief are inseparable. Our faith is based on Scripture and the ecumenical creeds, but they in turn were based on the worship practices of the church. In the early Church, some 70 years of liturgical tradition went by before there was a creed. Some 350 years passed before there was a biblical canon. Worship was ongoing, and the liturgical traditions of the Church provided the theological framework for establishing the creeds and as well as the canon of Scripture.

This is why the liturgy is such an important element of traditional Anglicanism, because the way we worship is a reflection of our faith, but our faith is a product of our worship, in a constant feedback loop. St Prosper of Aquitaine wrote, in the first half of the fifth century:

St Prosper of Acquitaine

From the entrance hymn to the dismissal, the mass matters, and throughout the weeks, years, and our entire lives, the mass matters. It is not to be tinkered with. It is not a matter of individual preference or entertainment. It visualizes and enacts our faith and strengthens us, sustains us, points us forward. By the time that Scripture was assembled, the Church already knew what it meant to fall down before the feet of Christ, to worship him, give thanks and glorify him. The Church already knew what it meant to be that blessed leper and had developed its liturgical life as a witness to that insight. To the world, people who protest against liturgical revolution and innovation, against rephrasing prayers to fit with social fads, against abolishing elements of the mass, and so on, are simply reactionary dead enders. Sticks in the mud. But when it comes to the liturgy, the Church has a right to be, is right to be, must be change resistant. Precisely because our common worship, our Eucharistic celebration, is the beating heart of the Body of Christ. The framework within which we continually return to Jesus, fall down at his feet, give him thanks and praise, and so are enabled to sanctify our lives and walk with him to the end. Believing as a Christian and living as a Christian can never be allowed to be separate things. A Christian lives in the Church, and the beating heart of the Church is the mass.

As we approach the Lord’s table, let us therefore pray with the ancient prayer of the Church, in the translation of Cardinal John Henry Newman:

Soul of Christ, be my sanctification;
Body of Christ, be my salvation;
Blood of Christ, fill all my veins;
Water of Christ’s side, wash out my stains;
Passion of Christ, my comfort be;
O good Jesus, listen to me;
In Thy wounds I fain would hide;
Ne’er to be parted from Thy side;
Guard me, should the foe assail me;
Call me when my life shall fail me;
Bid me come to Thee above,
With Thy saints to sing Thy love,
World without end.
Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove, CA

Luke 10:23-37

And he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus: And who is my neighbor? There is an almost endless number of Scriptural passages where those who already are followers of Christ, or those who wish to become followers, are exhorted to show love and mercy. To focus their lives on seeking and reflecting the divine love that Christ Jesus embodied perfectly throughout his earthly ministry. Indeed, Christians are admonished repeatedly to focus their “faith life” on love as sacrifice and as gift, at the same time.

When the lawyer tried to tempt Jesus to tell him what he needed to do to inherit eternal life, the answer was plain and simple: He said unto him, What is written in the law? how readest thou? And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself. And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live. (Luke10:26-28)

Love as our offering to God and at the same time love as God’s gift to mankind through His people—this must be the core of the life of a Christian from which everything else flows, and without which nothing can be achieved. Yet Christian love seems like an evermore-scarce commodity in the world. In the first two centuries, the apostolic and post-apostolic writers emphasized the transformational power of the Christian faith—for the human person and, through that transformed person, for the world. By becoming Christ-like we call out to others: see, friends, the power of love over hate is real, and it is here, in the Body of Christ, His Church!” Yet this changed. As Swedish pastor and theologian Lars Levi Læstadius (1800-1862) noted,

Christianity was to morally transform the world. What, then, has the heathen nations gained by Christianization? Inquisitions, wars of religion, autodafés. Was not revelation meant to enlighten the world about its foolishness? Certainly, but revelation was not grasped with the heart, but with reason, and as such became first a papacy, then a myth. As soon as religion became a dead letter, as soon as it ceased to be what originally it was, namely a moral passion, the world fell into an even worse state than prior to Christianity. (Dårhushjonet, §§551, 552)

Today, many seek constantly to qualify the words of Jesus, to narrow the divine down to human dimensions, to make it manageable within our lives as we already lead them. More and more of those who call themselves Christian forget about the gospel, reduce the teachings of Jesus to feel-good stories, and redefine love into some shapeless, contentless, aimless and therefore godless worship of human desires and inclinations. Others are so racked by fears and worries—about their lives, about their futures and about society—that Christian love is pushed to the margins of their lives, or perhaps altogether replaced by suspicion and enmity.

This is perhaps especially the case in the meeting with people from other cultures, religions, and countries. But for the Christian, the neighborhood is global, and the neighbor is every child of God on the face of the planet. It is tragic that Christians are so often content with embracing love as an abstraction, while reluctant or even bothered by the application of that principle to real people in the real world. Max Stirner, a mid-19^th century anarchist theoretician—who most likely has never been quoted in a sermon in an Anglican church, ever—was lamentably close to the mark in noting that

The Christian loves only the spirit; but when could one be found who [is] really nothing but spirit? To have a liking for the corporeal man with hide and hair—why that would no longer be a ‘spiritual’ warm-heartedness, it would be treason against ‘pure’ warm-heartedness, the ‘theological regard’… pure warm-heartedness is warm-hearted toward nobody, it is only a theoretical interest, concern for man as man, not as a person. (Der Einzige und sein Eigentum)

We would do well to take this critique to heart and ask ourselves: how do we as individuals and churches embody the love for our neighbor that Jesus calls for? The transformational power of faith, transforming our lives—this is our witness to others. Preaching and living the Word of God cannot be distinct; there can be no theoretical love of one’s neighbor. Yet the reality is that often, we are comfortable with the concept of loving our neighbors, but find ourselves challenged beyond our capacity when it comes to implementing the concept. Instead of submitting to Christ with an open heart, we question His reasons and motives for giving us all these difficult instructions. And he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus: And who is my neighbor?

So Christians ask themselves if maybe Jesus was not in fact establishing an ideal that we are to strive towards, but never reach? Perhaps an impossible benchmark to show us how far below His perfection we fall? Or perhaps he is describing something that is only possible for some “spiritual elite”? Friend, these are nothing but attempts to escape our calling by means of intellectual gymnastics. You and I are commanded to love, because he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him (1 Jn 4:16), while he that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love (1 Jn4:8). Could it be any more plain than that? We are commanded to do something with which the world is unfamiliar. This is why St Paul exhorts us to be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God (Rom 12:2).

In every meeting with other human beings, regardless of who they are, we have the opportunity to proclaim by living. A witness of love is worth much more than a tract or admonishment. And we do not need to travel to the other side of the globe in order to witness to our faith. From the moment we open our eyes in the morning till we close them at night, we are to bear witness to Christ within us. A spouse, children, the next-door neighbor, people at work or in social gatherings—there is no escaping this duty to love.

So what of the practical side of this? How are we to apply this ideal? After all, it is easy to talk about love in the abstract, and good works and mercy—but how do we do it? Again, there can be no difference between theory and practice. Remember, remind yourself, whenever you meet someone—be it a banker or a bum, a housewife or a waiter—that this person is a child of God. This person is someone for whom my Lord Christ Jesus gave up everything. Lord, how can I serve this child of yours?

Time and again, Jesus was able to draw people to repentance and salvation, not by tracts and threats, but by being an example, a living manifestation of Divine Love. It was by example that he showed the way. As we follow in His footsteps, by the grace of God, this is precisely what we are called to do. If we claim to be children of God brought to the light by faith in Christ, how can we do anything other treat our siblings—whether they dwell in light or darkness—with the love that is the be all and end all within the household of God.

May the Lord continue to show us the way of love and mercy. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove, CA

Luke 8:9-14

Abba Elias the minister said, “What can sin do where there is penitence? And of what use is love where there is pride?”

On the level of knowing our vocabulary, the distinction beteween pride and humility is straightforward. They are each other’s polar opposites: pride is a self-centered focus on one’s own accomplishments and merits while humility is to know and admit one’s limitations. On the spiritual level, the difference between pride and humility is one of the most important forks in the road on our journey with Christ. Humility can and must be attained as we move onwards and forwards as Christians. Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honour is humility (Prov 18:12) This is because humility in the Christian sense is more than merely knowing our faults and limitations, it is a way of relating to God, to other human beings, and to creation at large. Humility is life. The true realization of our own limitations compels us to rely for our righteousness on the merits of Christ. Only with humility in our hearts do we see the necessity of having Christ as our advocate before the judgment seat. It places us on par, as absolute equals, with every other member of the human race. Pride, on the other hand, is the death of the soul. It hides form us our relationship to God and the world around us. It tells us that we are the authors of our own fortunes and destinies; owners rather than stewards of Creation; that we are competitors rather than neighbors to others.

By focusing on our own achievements we push ourselves further away from God, but by honoring Him as the source of all the good that we do and all the blessings that we have, we are able to draw closer to Him. A reliance on our own abilities will always cause us to fall short of our spiritual target, while a focus on the boundless mercy and grace of God, and a focus on how we can reflect that divinity in the world despite our limitations, raises us up and assures us our victory. And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted (Mat 23:12).

These are movements of the heart and soul, entirely interior to ourselves. For this reason, humility cannot be faked. Well, we can pretend, put on a show of humility, but to no avail. What’s the point? The world doesn’t value humility anyway while, as the psalmist writes, Shall not God search this out? for he knoweth the secrets of the heart (Ps 44:21).

Today’s Gospel reading is perhaps the best-known Scriptural passage speaking about the life-and-death difference between pride and humility. The parable of the Pharisee and the publican is right up there with the parables of the prodigal son and the Good Samaritan as Scriptural corner stones; messages that we have heard and read more times than we could possibly remember. But have we listened properly? Have we “inclined the ear of our heart,” as St Benedict calls us to do? And this is crucial: what is our heart’s response to the text? What happens to us when we hear it? Does the text pierce our heart or does it merely prompt us to have some selfgratifying emotional response? There are really only these two options. Both recognize the surface meaning of the text—that pride will get you nowhere—but only one response recognizes the text’s deeper spiritual meaning and implications. Let us discern the difference.

Firstly, we can hear this parable and frown at the pride of the Pharisee, look with favor at the humble publican, and say to ourselves, “man, that publican’s a moron”—or words to that effect—“he really doesn’t get it. Clearly the publican is the one doing it right.” We see what is going on, we take sides and stake our claim against that wicked Pharisee. But, my friends, this response is dangerously close to offering up our own prayer of thanks: “thank God that I am not a spiritually blind as that Pharisee.” And what is this other than an exact replica of the error of the Pharisee himself?

To recognize what goes on we must first realize that this parable holds up before us two images of ourselves as worshippers. Scripture is almost never about “them.” It is about us, you and me. We must always read Scripture as participants, as if we are in the text—because we are. The characters described are, in a spiritual sense, us—especially in the parables. The Pharisee and the publican are no different.

So we read or hear about these two characters. One of them is agreeable to us, the other one not and our natural impulse therefore is to point fingers at the Pharisee in a “aha! I know the answer!” sort of way. But again, this parable is not about “them.” We don’t get to point fingers at anyone… other than ourselves. Friends, we all want the publican. We want him to be the image in which we recognize ourselves but once we do, we are the Pharisee.

This is the paradox: we cannot be the publican, the one whom Jesus says went down to his house justified (Luke 18:14) unless we recognize ourselves in the Pharisee. Unless we recognize that his faults of pride represent our faults; that his smug satisfaction with himself is a filler for our shortcomings; that his self-righteousness is ours—and that this does violence to our relationship with God. Only when we realize that we are the Pharisee, not the publican, are we able to earnestly pray with that publcan: “God be merciful to me a sinner”

Some may object: “this does not at all describe me.” But, friends, herein lies the problem: the moment we defend ourselves as more righteous than this Pharisee, we are the Pharisee. There is none righteous, no not one (Rom 3:10). That is the realization that we are pushed towards; that this parable, read carefully, tricks us into. We are not more righteous than the Pharisee. We may not suffer from his specific defects, but we have others, and plenty of them. This may be something to pray and reflect on in the coming week.

But having said all this, Pharisees and publicans are safe because they are historically and culturally distant from us. They function almost as literary types; in a sense, even if we read about them regularly, they are not real to us. They have no contemporary, present-day meaning because none of us have ever met a Pharisee or a publican. Once we are able to overcome the difficulty of recognizing ourselves in the Pharisee and wish for the righteousness of the publican, I would like to up the ante by replacing them with contemporary types. Make it the parable of the pastor and the hooker. Or the churchwarden and the junkie.

A proud and boastful pastor and a humbly penitent prostitute. A self-righteous churchwarden and heroin addict praying God’s mercy. Are we still able to see the relationship: that it is the humility and penitence of the soul that renders merit, not the calling, profession or situation in life? Are we still able to see that all the signs of propriety and status are neither here nor there, that they are neither signs of nor aids to salvation? Is it more difficult to agree that we are not one iota more righteous than a penitent prostitute? Is it less appealing to be told that you have to realize that you are the churchwarden in order to be able to become the junkie?

Of course it is less appealing. But it is also–because these are types of people that we all know of or even know–more real. “I am no more righteous than them!” Can I say that and, in my heart of hearts, mean it? That is what we are called to do. That revelation, when grasped with the heart, is a stepping stone to divinity. In humility lies the realization of the true nature of our relationship with God; the relationship of slave to master, of creature to Creator. In true humility lies also the vision that every repentant soul carries the divine within it. That propriety and social status are neither here nor there, and that we are committing grave sin if we do not take this equality seriously. God is no respecter of persons (Acts 10:34), and neither is the Christian.

St. Basil the Great

Let me put it somewhat differently: self-righteousness is the absolute opposite of righteousness. When we rely on our own righteousness, we do not need the righteousness bought for us by the shedding of Christ’s precious blood on Golgotha. In this parable, the Pharisee does not really need God. Despite the fact that he is standing in the temple praying, what he is doing is simply to reaffirm how great he is. This is a man who does not need the achievement of Christ on the Cross because he has his own achievements, and his need for God is a need for social ritual. This is why the text says something rather odd: The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself…” (Luke 18:11). St Basil wrote that, “he prayed with himself, that is, not with God, his sin of pride sent him back to himself.” In effect, he worshipped the creature instead of the Creator. And he asked for nothing. He was satisfied with his place and position. It suited him. He was not on a penitent journey with God, his pride had prompted him to settle down and to reduce worship to a status symbols.

Too often we reduce Jesus to someone we are comfortable with, someone who says things that we are comfortable hearing; a Jesus who does not demand anything too outrageously harsh. But Jesus was, as a matter of fact, an uncomfortable person who said exceptionally harsh things and demanded of his followers some extremely difficult choices. This is, after all, why the Jews did not want to listen. He was not what they had imagined he would be, so they put him to death. By refashioning Jesus in our own image, making him into someone we can live comfortably with, we are doing the very same thing. Softening his admonishments to the point where they become feel-good stories is one way in which we repeat his death at the hands of humanity.

But we do so at our own peril. Laying aside our pride and assuming the cloak of humility in a real and tangible way is not negotiable. Yes, it is difficult. Yes, it requires patience, perseverance and grace. And yes, it can only be achieved by absolute abandonment of ourselves to grace. But it is important because, friends, pride kills. St John Chrysostom wrote about this parable that it “represents to us two chariots on the race course, each with two charioteers in it. In one of the chariots it places righteousness with pride, in the other sin and humility. You see the chariot of sin outstrip that of righteousness, not by its own strength but by the excellence of humility combined with it, but the other is defeated not by righteousness, but by the weight and swelling of pride.”

The prayer of the publican is the basis for what the Eastern Church refers to as The Jesus Prayer. It is a constant repetition of the exclamation, “Jesus, saviour, have mercy on me a sinner.” As we continue to pray for God’s grace and guidance, I whole heartedly recommend to you to make use of this prayer often and regularly. Not only is it a prayer that indicates an awareness of our true relationship with God, but it also fosters that awareness by repetition. It keeps the necessity of humility before our eyes.

So we continue to pray, for you, O Lord, to have mercy on us. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove, CA

Romans 6:3

Matthew 5:20-26

This morning Gospel reading is among the harshest admonishments of Old Adam, our sinful nature, in the New Testament. It is difficult to understand, difficult to accept, difficult to even process. It is counter-intuitive to many, a stumbling block for others. But this is not exactly apparent due to the way that the reading has been trimmed. Sometimes, lectionaries separate passages that are more easily understood if kept together because the whole gives a context that the part is lacking. This morning we come across one such instance.

Hieronimus Bosch, The Seven SIns

We are given only the first of a series of comparison between what had been the benchmark of righteousness among the Israelites and what, according to Christ, must henceforth be the benchmark of righteousness. We heard the following: Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment (Mat 5:21-22a). Now add to this the two verses that follow immediately after the reading: Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart  (Mat 5:27-28).

This turns up the pressure somewhat. But there is more, several more such comparisons, until the chapter concludes with the following: Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect (Mat 5:43-48).

William Blake, Cain and Abel

We are called to transformation, to newness, to a life in which we are to be perfect, even as our Father which is heaven is perfect. If this isn’t daunting, I don’t know what is. Especially given that, as St Paul points out, it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one (Rom 3:10). Does the Gospel reading for this day, together with its conclusion, suggest something different?

Not at all, but it is worth dwelling on what really goes on in this passage, along with its implications. This is one of those readings that I have mentioned before, that some have come to see as Christ setting up an impossible benchmark in order for us to realize how absolutely depraved we are, that we cannot live up to His standards, and that we have to rely on grace alone for our salvation. But before we even get to grace, it is worth asking the question: is this impossible, or is it simply really hard? Is it unattainable pure and simple, or is is a really hard struggle that requires grace—for sure—but also discipline, patience, perseverance and a level of seriousness about discipleship that is difficult to muster?

Let me start at the other end, away from grace and love. There is a continuity of passions that we do not think about nearly often or hard enough. But passions matter because they not only cause us to commit certain actions–those very same passions also cause us to feel and think in certain ways.

What causes someone to commit adultery? Generally, it is safe to assume that there is some element of lust involved. Well, that is exactly what Christ goes on to condemn—not merely the open fruit of lust, but lust itself. Similarly, what causes someone to do murder? Again, from Cain onwards, it is safe to assume that wrath is somehow involved—which is precisely what Christ goes on to condemn—not merely the actions resulting from wrath, but wrath itself. He is warning us of the passions that underlie the actions because they are entirely at odds with the heavenly passion: love.

Let me put the question this way—can I claim that I have love, that I dwell in the God who is love—if I go around secretly hating everyone I come across, simply because I don’t beat them up or kill them? Of course I can claim it, and you wouldn’t know the difference, but the spiritual reality, the reality hidden from you all would nevertheless be that of a victim of wickedness. Sure it is a wickedness that I somehow manage to keep in check, and it is often argued that keeping Old Adam in check is the best we can do. Well, the problem is that often, one wickedness is kept in check by another wickedness. For instance, I may choose to not steal stuff from my colleagues at work for fear of being caught and fired: ambition and the need for money keeps me in check, not godliness. I may choose to not be an adulterer for fear of being exposed and ending up in divorce court: pride and self-righteousness keeps me in check, not love. And so on. These are not godly reasons, and the fact that I do not carry out certain acts in no way means that I dwell in God and God in me. Abstaining from open sin for reasons such as these I just mentioned means, on the contrary, that my soul is gripped by exactly the same passions as that of a murderer, an adulterer and a thief—plus those additional passions that keep me in check. How, my friends, am I then any better?

Christ Jesus gives the answer. Not to how I am better, but to how I can escape and find refuge: in grace, which comes through faith. Yet it may not be immediately apparent that this is what we actually heard, in the very first sentence of this morning’s Gospel reading, but let’s try it again: For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven (Mat 5:20). One unknown church father wrote that “The righteousness of the Scribes and the Pharisees are the commandments of Moses; but the commandments of Christ are the fulfillment of that Law This, then, is His meaning; Whosoever shall not fulfill my commandments, shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” What then, friends, is the fulfillment of the Christ’s commandments other than love? Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets (Mat 22:37b-40).

But friends, participating in God’s love through faith by grace requires a response from us. In return for these gifts, God expects a response: as Christians we are called to make use of that heavenly passion, to implement it, to nurture it–to live a life of love because love actually matters to us.

I am sure you recall that famous passage from 1 Corinthians 13 about love that endures all things, etc. It is a favorite reading for weddings and other special occasions. It is also a favorite passage of modern “anything goes-theologians.” Its frequent use and popularity may have served to hide the fact that it is saying exactly the same thing as today’s Gospel reading: we are called to interior transformation and that what we do or refrain from doing does not automatically have anything to do with what is in our hearts:

And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing. Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. … we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away (1 Cor 13:3-7, 12b-13).

Friends, that which is perfect is come: Christ Jesus. He loves us with a perfect love from the Father, and we are said, as Christians, to have a share in that love; to dwell in that love. God loves mankind, this is the only reason we have hope for salvation. But what is our response?

Our response, by grace, is transformation, newness, and a struggle to be perfect even as our Father which is heaven is perfect. To struggle for love in the face of the challenges that the world throws at us—that is to love God. Love is not some abstract, floaty, anything-goes thing. It requires discipline, patience and

perseverance. We have to work on it, and we do work on it. Marriages are a good example. There is a reason that the wedding vow includes the wording “for better, for worse.” Even for those who are so blessed that most of it is better, there will be times that are worse. Then you work on it, deal with issues, think, talk and pray on it. Why? Because love compels you, because it is important to you.

The bridegroom, Christ Jesus, warned his bride, the Church, before his execution that there will be times that are better, but there will also be times that are worse, much worse. In this context, towards the end of the gospel according to St Matthew, he emphasized the importance of our commitment to work on the marriage, to remember our vows—our baptismal vows—and what they mean to us. To order our lives in such a way that our imperfect response to his perfect love is a priority in our lives. To offer love to a world that hates. Again, it is worth our while to ask the question: is this impossible, or is it really hard? Is it unattainable, or is it a struggle that requires grace, discipline, patience, perseverance and a level of seriousness about discipleship that is difficult to muster?

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us all. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove

1 Peter 3:8-15a

Luke 5:1-11

The poverty of a merely historical reading of Scripture is placed into fine focus in this morning’s Gospel reading. What happens? Jesus teaches the masses, then he performs a mighty miracle, and from this miracle, he extrapolates a lesson for his disciples—henceforth thou shalt catch men. Essentially, Jesus does the sorts of things that he does most of the time, and appends a lesson for the instruction and edification of his followers. A merely historical reading does not allow us to ask the question that constantly faces us in the pages of Scripture, and which makes Scripture as living and God-breathing a document for us today as it was to the earliest generations of Christians: ‘what does this mean?’

As a historical account, it is plain what it means, and we focus our effort, our Christian apology, on showing how Jesus could have done it, how the story is perfectly plausible, and so forth. And if we can’t prove it, we believe it anyway. How many times have we not heard that the wreck of Noah’s ark may have been located on the top of Mount Ararat? How much time has not been spent trying to figure out when and where exactly Job lived and suffered? The Bible becomes a mere history book, and our witness as Christians becomes, somewhat bizarrely, to prove to others the historical accuracy of the text as an argument for its truth, while still believing that which we cannot prove archaeologically.

Christians have never been content with this. ‘What does it mean?’ is a question that goes far beyond, ‘how did it happen?’ or ‘what was the chain of events?’ For instance, from the earliest days of the Church, Christians were able to see the figure of Christ infusing and enlivening the entirety of the Old Testament. Yet nowhere is the son born to a carpenter in a manger in Bethlehem explicitly mentioned. Yet they read the Law and the prophets with faith in Christ and were able to see that from Genesis onwards, all these books contained images, allegories and similes that pointed to and were fulfilled in the coming, death and resurrection of Christ Jesus.

This is because divine truth operates on a spiritual, not a forensic level. This truth, through its divine inspiration, goes beyond the historical events described; it soars above and is buried beneath. The early Christian teachers and thinkers recognized this: there were the historical events but there was also the meaning—allegorical and mystical—of these events.

All of Scripture is given to us by God, revealed to us for our instruction and edification, and it is up to us as receivers of the text to interact with it, pray on it, interpret it, and apply it. This is the core of Christian faith life—to receive the divinely inspired Word into our hearts and our lives. But to the church fathers and mothers, it was the inspiration of Scripture, not its historicity, that was the key factor. Because it is inspired, not because it is historical, are we able to say that there are right and wrong ways of reading Scripture. “What does God want me to understand from this morning’s gospel reading?” becomes the important question, rather than “did this happen historically?”

This in turn means that Scripture is not in need of scientific or archeological corroboration, nor is it threatened by findings in these and other fields of worldly inquiry. Divine inspiration and absolute truth are different from historical accuracy and scientifically testable hypotheses. On the one hand, divinely inspired truth can speak to our hearts and fill our souls through stories and accounts that are historically entirely accurate, partially accurate or entirely fictional. It is the operation of the Holy Spirit that is key, not the object or story through which He reaches and affects us. On the other hand, scientific truth depends entirely on provable accuracy, and while it may cause us to wonder at the might and intricacy of creation, if it is found to be inaccurate, it no longer has value.

The answer to the question of what any given Scripture reading means is entirely internal to Scripture itself. To the fathers and mothers, Scripture was the absolute standard of Scripture, which is our unshakeable rule of faith. Should my faith be weakened because it turns out that it was not, in fact, the wreckage of Noah’s ark that was found on a mountain top in Turkey? Or because Job most likely is a literary type/character used by the Sumerians long before the Israelite account, as opposed to an actual person? Or by the fact that the Sumerians seem to have settled Mesopotamia before time, according to the Old Testament timeline, even began? Such a faith seems to me to be a faith in human powers of discovery, rather than a faith that relies on the Holy Spirit to affect, inform and enlighten us about spiritual truths.

All of this is merely intended to point out that the historicity of Scripture is not why we read it, treasure it, are nourished by it. Historical events recounted are important insofar as they testify about God through Christ. This is in fact the very reason for the inclusion of these particular books in the canon of Scripture—that they testify about God through Christ. A faithful, faithfilled reading does not need outside corroboration for God to speak to us, nor is it threatened by anything other than weak faith.

From the earliest days of the Church, our great teachers and doctors have known that there is much more to Scripture than a merely historical account. Origen, that great teacher of the saints, argued that we do not understand Scripture by merely reading the words. It contains much that, as historical event, is hard to swallow and even entirely impossible to fathom. Rather, he suggested, “first believe, and you will find beneath what is counted a stumbling-block much gain in godliness” (Phil. 1.28). Origen exhorts us to not get unduly caught up in historicity, but rather to let the spirit enrapture us in reading: “Let us search, not for the letter, but for the soul of what we are considering. Then, if we are able, we will ascend also to the spirit” (1.30). Every book, every chapter, every verse, every word—inspired as they are by God—have a plain sense, a symbolic sense, and a mystical sense. For instance, Genesis is not a “how to” manual for putting together the cosmos, but an epic account of God’s majesty, power, love, will and intentions. For this, we have to go beyond the plain meaning of the words. For many, this is a scary proposition.

Turning to this morning’s Gospel reading, what is our task? Does it involve proving that this fishing expedition happened, or at least could have happened? If we could find some wreckage of the boat, or the remnants of a broken net, we would be in business. We have the words, we have the narrative, so with some basic map coordinates and a ticket to Israel, we could set about constructing our Christian apology, right? But, friends, does our task not go far beyond such activities?

Let me recount what some of the Church fathers have seen in this reading. The ship is the church, about this the church fathers were in universal agreement. Jesus makes a choice—he enters the ship of Simon Peter. Connecting this morning’s reading to a parallel text in the gospel according to St Matthew, St Ambrose writes this: Now in a mystery, the ship of Peter, according to Matthew, is beaten about by the waves, according to Luke, is filled with fishes, in order that you might understand the Church at first wavering, at last abounding. The ship is not shaken which holds Peter, that is which holds Judas. In each was Peter; but he who trusts in his own merits is disquieted by another’s. Let us beware then of a traitor, lest through one we should many of us be tossed about. Trouble is found there where faith is weak, safety here where love is perfect. Already, we have ventured away form the plain meaning, into the realm of allegory.

What about the other ship? Some, for instance St Ambrose, have understood it to be a sign of the church consisting of more than one vessel, as in jurisdictions or dioceses—all are on the same fishing expedition, but going about it in different ways, in different places, from different ships. Others have seen it as a sign of there being one ship chosen by Jesus and another that is not. But notice, then, how that great catch is followed by rapprochement—they beckoned their partners, which were in the other ship, that they should come and help them. Clearly they are all fellow fishers of men, coworkers and colleagues, even though they are in different ships. St Cyril of Alexandria saw that other crew as the fellow laborers of the Apostolic mission, a division of labor between those who wrote the Gospel, safeguarded the Gospel, and preached the Gospel. I can’t but help pondering the significance of this in our denominationally troubled day and age. Who are our fellow laborers? Who are our apostolic colleagues? How do we serve this effort to call out to those in the other ship? Or perhaps we are those in the other ship—how do we respond to the calls from Peter’s ship?

The nets broke, but no fishes were lost. “…this signifies that there will be in the Church so great a multitude of carnal men, that unity will be broken up, and it will be split into heresies and schisms” says Saint Cyril. The Venerable Bede adds to this the observation that “the net is broken, but the fish escape not, for the Lord preserves his own amid the violence of persecutors.” Even in times of trouble and upheavals, the Father knows his children and keeps them in his fold. By faith were we caught and by faith do we remain his, regardless of troubles and trials. A historical account of an extraordinary fishing expedition, read with faith, becomes a mighty prophecy and testimony for us to reflect, pray and meditate on.

And when they had brought their ships to land, they forsook all, and followed him. Both crews left everything behind to follow Jesus. Already here in the account itself we can see the importance of mystical insight into the meaning behind the actions. The fish were not the point of the fishing expedition. These men had labored for a long time but caught nothing. They were tired, but once on dry land, they ought to have begun gutting the fish, or taken it to market. But for these fishermen—even for these poor, simple fishermen—it was not about the fish, or the concrete actions of Jesus, but rather about what they signified. They saw it, forsook all the fish, and followed Jesus.

Friends, the spiritual dimension of the event was in fact tailored for them. “For in His condescension to men, He called the wise men by a star, the fishermen by their art of fishing.” (Chrysostom Hom 6 in Matt) Whether by a star of by a fishing expedition, what lies beyond these accounts is that meeting with Christ Jesus, the Son of God. That meeting always takes place in the heart of the faithful, and it is toward that meeting that all of Scripture strives. Are we prepared to walk by faith regardless of forensics? Are we prepared to take our spiritual reading seriously enough, as seriously as the church fathers and mothers, to the point that we are willing to forsake the world and its theories for the iron clad spiritual truth of the Gospel? As we draw near the sacraments this morning of grace, let us pray to God that we too may be guided by that star, or taken on that fishing expedition, that erases the difference between mystery and reality.

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove

1 John 3:13-24

Luke 14:16-24

Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple (Luke 16:33). These words of Christ, found a few verses after the conclusion of today’s Gospel reading, were directed at the multitude that followed Jesus. This morning of grace, they are directed at us.

What is our goal in life? When all is said and done, what is the goal of all this spiritual laboring and reading, morning prayer and evening prayer, writing and worshipping? Well, what else could the goal be other than reconciliation with our Creator? That we should walk with God during our time here on earth in a way that allows us to dwell in him perfectly in eternity. ‘Israel’ means to ‘persevere with God.’ The Church–and this has been our faith through the ages–truly is the new Israel; forged in the old covenants and fulfilled and perfected in the new covenant, in and through Christ.

Today’s Gospel reading calls on us to reflect on the demands made on those who persevere with God. The reading from St Luke is the text appointed for the ‘Sunday of the Forefathers’ in the Eastern Orthodox Church, a feast shortly before Christmas devoted to the celebration of Christ’s ancestors according to the flesh. St Gregory Palamas explains that this is done “so that all may learn that the Hebrews were not disinherited nor the Gentiles adopted as sons in a way that was unjust, unreasonable or unworthy of God who did these things and made these changes. Rather, just as among those Gentiles who were called, only the obedient ones were chosen, so the race of Israel… only those among them who lived according to God’s will were true Israelites. To them the prophecies belonged, through them future events were prefigured, and to them the promises were given” (Hom LV).

When the prophecies were fulfilled in and through Christ, this was not what many of them had expected, and they rejected him.  When God made good on His promises in and through Christ, many received Him as an impostor and an inconvenience, rather than a blessing. When the Messiah really did come, many of the chosen ones were no longer interested. This relationship, this changing response of the people of God to God’s loving mercy, is at the heart of the parable recounted by St Luke. It is among the most straightforward parables in Scripture, the dramatis personae are easy to recognize, and their responses are easy to interpret. That said, it is commonly the case that layers kan be peeled away to reveal something not immediately evident, and this parable is no exception. A piece of ground, five pairs of oxen, and a wife–these are the excuses recounted in the parable. Earthly possessions had become more important than heavenly treasure. But what kinds of earthly possessions are these? St Augustine (of Hippo, not Canterbury) saw these possessions as  pointing to something beyond themselves (Hom LXII). The possessions are not problematic. It is perfectly possible to be a married, cattle owning farmer and still follow Christ.  To St Augustine, the issue is not with the possessions, but with the way in which the possessions have ensnared the people and diverted their focus. In his homily, St Augustine suggests that the piece of ground that the first man had bought indicates a sense of dominion as opposed to stewardship, an imperative to own and control that is ultimately grounded in human pride and ambition. The second man’s five pairs of oxen indicate–as part of an extensive explanation that I will not go into here–the five bodily senses: sight, smell, hearing, touch and taste. This St Augustine understands as our preoccupation with worldly things; with things that we can see, smell, hear, touch and taste. That is to say, an interest in the world around us, rather than the interior, spiritual world. And, suggests St Augustine,  the third man’s excuse of having taken a wife indicates, not a preoccupation with family life–because married life is in and of itself eminently Christian–but with carnal desires and lust. Put differently, and less specific, what causes the invited guests to reject the invitation are various expressions of materialism. Corrupted passions and warped priorities are the root of the explanation for why these invited guests turned away the servants when they came to inform them that the supper is ready; that preparation is complete and, in the words of Christ on the cross, it is finished (John 19:30).

Friends, nothing in this parable is specific to the Israelites. This is not merely a historical anecdote about other people long ago and far away. This is an ongoing spiritual truth for those who profess to persevere with God; for those who have received the invitation to the supper. Just as the prophecies and the promises belonged to the faithful among the Israelites, and to them only, so too do the prophecies and promises belong to the faithful among the Christ followers, and to them only. We  are the branches grafted onto the Israelite tree planted by God; a tree has the roots that ground us and through which we receive the  nourishment necessary for survival and growth. We are neither better, smarter or more sophisticated than the Israelites. Therefore, friends, are we called to pause and ask ourselves, holding up this parable as a mirror before our faces: is all this spiritual toil of ours really leading us towards that blessed goal of redemption and reconciliation. Let us not run aimlessly or box as one beating the air (1 Cor 9:26) as St Paul writes to the Corinthians.

In his letter to the Philippians, St Paul laments the many Christians of whom I have often told you and now tell you even with tears, walk as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their end is destruction, their god is their belly, and they glory in their shame, with minds set on earthly things (Phil 3:18, 19). Does this not sound exactly like those three men in the parable, who reject the invitation because of sinful passions and materialism? St Paul talks about the necessity of a living faith, and tells us that to keep that living faith is a struggle. There is no hint anywhere in Scripture that there is anything easy or guaranteed about salvation. That notion, so common today within evangelical Christianity, that salvation is like a spiritual vaccine–one shot and your done–is simply not scriptural. In his letters, St Paul tells us repeatedly of living Christianity as an ongoing struggle. So are we truly struggling? Is our spiritual toil and our belief leading us to reconciliation, or to self-righteousness? Does the Word stir us to action or sooth our egos? Are we on the right path forward? I don’t mean we as ‘the Church,’ but we as individuals confessing the faith of the Church—are we serious about this confession and all its implications or are we, like the Israelites, getting too comfortable?

God’s holy prophet Jeremiah was sent to prophesy against Jerusalem. As the nation of Israel wallowed in sin and selfishness, Jeremiah warned them: Thus says the LORD: If you will not listen to me, to walk in my law that I have set before you, and to listen to the words of my servants the prophets whom I send to you urgently, though you have not listened, then I will make this house like Shiloh, and I will make this city a curse for all the nations of the earth (Jer 26:4-6). Repent and serve the Lord. That’s it. God tells his people to straighten up and fly right, and he does so out of love; the everlasting, tender love of a parent who, with the heart of a father and a mother, seeks nothing but blessings for his children.

But the reaction against Jeremiah was what? They wanted to put him to death. Then the priests and the prophets said to the officials and to all the people, This man deserves the sentence of death, because he has prophesied against this city, as you have heard with your own ears (Jer 26:11). The priests and the prophets in Jerusalem itself, the servants at the Holy of Holies wanted to have the messenger of God killed. Small wonder then, that Jesus underscores the wickedness of the chosen people by referring to Jerusalem, the holy place were God dwelled, as the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it (Luke 13:34). He does so shortly before offering the parable that is today’s Gospel reading.

Again, these are not mere historical anecdotes about other people long ago and far away, but an ongoing spiritual truth for those who profess to walk with God. We get comfortable in church. This is a fact. Tradition and liturgy gives stability to our lives. Church attendance provides a nice frame. We are told form the pulpit that God loves us, that the Church to which we belong is the mystical body of Christ, and so on and so forth. Soothing and stabilizing, lovely and comfortable. So the question remains: am I ready to respond to the servants when they bring that message that the supper is on? Am I content simply with being chosen, or am I eager for that for which I have been chosen—discipleship?

Let’s not kid ourselves that living Christianity, persevering with God, is easier today than it was for the Israelites of old. We live in a world that constantly hammers home the point that material possessions are the be all and end all of life. Where everything seems to be about prestige, power and lust.  Where greed is good and the most important benchmark for success is to be more successful than the neighbor. In a world where our churches are teeming with priests and priestesses who accept, condone, encourage and engage in activities and lifestyles that are contrary to God’s will and unworthy of those chosen to sit at the table of the Lord. In a world where many church leaders lack the moral fiber to say no to that which is contrary to the faith, while clergy and laity who do say no find themselves shunned or even sued by the very churches to which they belong. In a world where life is grand for the superficial Christian who contents himself with dead faith, but hard and perilous for those who wish to follow Christ in the footsteps of the apostles. In this world, in these surroundings, are we able to say ‘yes’ without reservation, to the invitation?

As we ask ourselves these questions, let us remember that we already have the invitation. By grace are we chosen, and by grace are we able to persevere with God, guided by His holy Word and trusting in His love and mercy. With a living faith in our hearts, a living and life-giving passion that is divine love and love of the divine, we can steer clear of the pitfalls and run the race to the end. St Peter writes, He has called you out of darkness into His marvelous light. Once you were no people, but now you are a people. Once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy (1 Pet 2:9b-10).

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us. Amen.

St. Anselm’s Anglican Church

1 John 4:7-21

Luke 16:19-31

Burial shrouds do not come with pockets. How rich we are, how well dressed or well groomed we may be does not matter when we are called to account for our lives before the judgment seat. In today’s Gospel reading, the rich man finds out that all those things–those costly items and valuable trappings that had been so important to him in life–were useless to him in eternity. In fact, he had allowed himself to be ensnared by the good life. Greed—the passion for more and more and more—had come to govern him and in the end, he had remained spiritually destitute even though he had amassed great worldly fortunes. The truth that we are called to reflect upon this morning of grace is this: we are not judged by what is in our storehouse, but by what is in our hearts.

So, what is in our hearts? Another way of asking the same question is—does my heart belong to the world or to God? Yet another way to ask the same question is—which passion fills my heart? Which passion moves me, compels me, drives me forward? There are many passions to choose from, including the seven mortal sins. Is my heart governed by greed? Or anger? Perhaps lust or gluttony compels me? Friends, the seven mortal sins are real, and they have real consequences. In what today is, of course, extremely unfashionable language, they have been likened to seven devils (Laestadius, Dhj). These devils may move into a person’s heart at any time, change the locks and take control of it. Once lodged in our hearts, they compel our thoughts, our desires and our actions. They direct our lives. Many a life has been lived under the guidance of the passion called greed, including that of the rich man in today’s reading. For this reason, St Josémaria Escriva remarked: “Remember that the heart is a traitor. Keep it locked with seven bolts” (The Way, § 188).

The Christian passion is love. Love is a more than a core element of the Christian faith: it is the core. It is the beginning, the content, the frame and the end of true faith. It is the indispensible foundation for our fellowship with God and with other human beings, as well as for our stewardship of creation. God’s love for all of mankind—for all of His creation—is reflected in every aspect of His revelation throughout the Scriptures, and it is the only basis for our fellowship with him: by grace are we saved, and God’s grace is nothing other than a product of His love. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life (John 3:16).

Our redemption in Christ through His passion, death and resurrection has no other basis than God’s love (Læstadius, Dhj. § 33), nor does it have any other purpose than to bring us into that love; to allow us to dwell in love and thereby in God. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him (1 John 4:16). To be sure, we acknowledge and worship God’s majesty, might, justice and glory—but all these ‘attributes’ are expressions or functions of His love.

The love of God for all of humanity is infinitely greater than man’s hatred against fellow men. It is worthwhile pausing before the gravity of this truth and to consider its implications. Or, perhaps more accurately, consider the implications that we are called to transform into reality. God’s love is not some ethereal cloud that hovers above us, or swooshes around us like a gust of divine wind. It is not an otherworldly object or a distant supernatural notion. God’s love has implications through God’s people; it works in and through individuals of flesh and blood.

Love is also a passion. It is as real, it as is forceful, it is as compelling as any other passion. When it comes to human love, it affects our senses and our intellect and prompts us, compels us to take action. Perhaps to move from one city to another in order to be closer to the one we love. To marry, to have children, to work hard, to deny one’s own needs in order to fulfill the needs of loved ones. We know this. Everyone who has ever been in love knows it: love is a passion that affects the way we order our lives.

Why, then, do we so often allow ourselves the cozy illusion that loving God is different? We know that God’s love for man moved God himself to send the Son to fulfill the Law, and then send the Spirit to teach, comfort and guide us. We know that God’s love for man moved Jesus to sweat blood in the garden of Gethsemane, and then press on in order to repair once and for all the broken relationship between the divine and the human. God’s love is powerful enough to move God himself—but what about us? Why do we systematically assume that God’s love is some abstraction, or at least live our lives as if it were?

Many believe, because they have been so taught, that there is something so utterly ideal and idealized about the teachings of the Gospel that fulfilling is simply beyond the grasp of humans. Instead, we ought to be content simply to have faith that the ideal exists ‘up there’ while we remain utterly incapable of achieving it ‘down here.’ The Gospel teachings viewed in this way serve simply to demonstrate how utterly unworthy we are. In many denominations it is taught that this is as it should be because it causes us to rely on grace rather than achievement, which in turn is the central aspect of our salvation, our ability to become and remain Christian. Any ideas we might have about actually fulfilling the demands made in Gospel are written off as works righteousness, a theology of self-reliance rather than a theology of grace.

For the hardhearted sinner who has not reconciled with God in faith; for those whose hearts are ruled by the passions of this world, this is true. But what is our excuse? Does not something fundamentally change when, as Christians, we claim to be enveloped in God’s love? Again, St John writes that God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him. Is this merely a pretty sentiment, a Hallmark moment, or does it have real world implications? I am not saying that we can attain perfection in this life. Nor am I saying that we can ever avoid failure. But to acknowledge our human limitations is very different from making excuses to not be moved at all. Again, the passions of the world—greed, ambition, lust and so forth—move us to commit all kinds of more or less openly heinous acts. Love between human beings has the power to change lives. God’s love has the power to move God himself–to send the Word and the Spirit in order to heal the rupture caused by sin. Yet among so many who call themselves Christians, God’s love is somehow less real, less forceful, than the seven devils; it is a ‘divine abstraction’; an ideal that is beyond our reach—and then we turn around and make our inability to be moved by God’s love into a corner stone of our salvation.

Why would believe that we have not been given the capacity to love in the way that God requires of us? Some reasons suggest themselves. Seven reasons, in fact. Friends, convenience, which is a product of sloth, is one answer. Not wanting to appear odd to friends and neighbors, which is a product of ambition and self-righteousness, is another answer. Wanting to live our lives as we see fit, which is a product of egoism, is yet another answer. Those seven mortal sins are mortal because they have the ability to lodge themselves so firmly in our hearts that they prevent the one passion that can save, love, from entering—all the while persuading us that we’re doing alright, we’re decent types, we observe moderation, we try our human best.

On October 2, 2006, a gunman entered the West Nickel Mines Schoolhouse and killed five young girls belonging to the Old Order Amish community, before killing himself. Fighting the passion we know as hatred, the Old Order Amish community reached out to the family of the perpetrator, counseled them, brought gifts, and sought reconciliation rather than reproach. They attended the funeral of the man who had killed their children, and they invited the killer’s family to their children’s funerals. Through their lives, these anonymous saints reflected the all-forgiving love exemplified by Jesus on the cross at Golgotha

In Auschwitz, on August 14, 1941, Franciscan priest Maximilian Kolbe, volunteered to die in the place of a stranger who had been randomly selected for execution. When Kolbe heard the man cry with despair for the future of his wife and children, he took the man’s place, was tortured and eventually killed, while the stranger went on to live and survive the camp. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends (Jn 15:13). St Maximilian’s life and death absolutely reflected what Scripture itself calls the greatest form of love.

On April 15, 1889, Jozef de Veuster, better known as Father Damien of Molokai, died of leprosy after sixteen years of service to the leper colony quarantined on Molokai. He had volunteered for the mission, knowing that it meant daily exposure to this horrific disease. Six months into his mission, he wrote in a letter, “I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ.” St Damien entire being was a reflection of God’s love for the poor and the sick.

These are acts of Christian heroism, but they are actually not that uncommon. We live in a world where the church is still persecuted, where disease and poverty are rampant, where oppression and tyranny are endemic—and where the nameless workers of the church, clergy and laity alike, are moved to serve, minister and sacrifice for love. Where Christians are still repaid for their love with imprisonment, torture and death. These people serve as examples to us all that it is indeed possible to be moved by God’s love, to follow Christ by loving God above all and our neighbors as ourselves. We must remember that people who are not Christians are also moved by love to selflessly serve others and they must be also be held up as beacons–beacons of the power of love to cause real-world action.

As Christians trying to live in and through divine love, we must prayerfully ask–what is my calling? How am I meant to transform divine love into human action? Where has God placed me? Whom has God sent in my way? What am I skilled at? What do I have to offer? We are not all called to be a St Maximilian or a St Damien. Most of us are not called to perform deeds that are noticed around the world. In most of our lives, the small things are what must be transformed by love into a sacrifice. If we are moved by love we are moved by love–and it matters not one bit if the action is small or great. The point is not the magnitude or global importance of our actions, but rather that we allow ourselves to be truly envloped by God’s love; to be lovers of God by allowing His love to compel us into action, whatever that may be. At any rate, even the great saints have begun their journeys by transforming the little things through what is known, again somewhat unfashionably, as interior mortification. St Josémaria wrote:

The appropriate word you left unsaid; the joke you didn’t tell; the cheerful smile for those who bother you; that silence when you’re unjustly accused; your kind conversation with people you find boring and tactless; the daily effort to overlook one irritating detail or another in those who live with you… this, with perseverance, is indeed solid interior mortification. (The Way, §173)

If it is divine love that compels us, that drives us forward, it does not matter one little bit if our deeds are great or small. With love comes humility, which in itself is nothing other than a loving response to a love that we have in no way merited or deserved. I will conclude by reading you a few lines from a prayer by St Therese of Lisieux, who in small things was always able to both find and offer great love:

But, you know my weakness, Lord. Every morning I make a resolution to practice humility and in the evening I recognize that I have committed again many faults of pride. At this I am tempted to be discouraged but I know that discouragement is also pride. Therefore, O my God, I want to base my hope in You alone. Since you can do everything, deign to bring to birth in my soul the virtue I desire. To obtain this grace of your infinite mercy I will very often repeat: ‘O Jesus, gentle and humble of heart, make my heart like yours!’ (Prayer for Acquiring Humility)

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us all. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church

Rev 4:1-11

Jn 3:1-15

We believe in Father and Son and Holy Ghost;

one Godhead in three hypostases;

one will, one operation, alike in three persons;

wisdom incorporeal, uncreated, immortal, incomprehensible,

without beginning, unmoved, unaffected, without quantity,

without quality, ineffable, immutable, unchangeable, uncontained,

equal in glory, equal in power, equal in majesty, equal in might, equal in nature,

exceedingly substantial, exceedingly good,

thrice radiant, thrice bright, thrice brilliant.

We may not understand, but we believe with simplicity. We may not understand, but we accept this with humility. This attitude lies at the heart of the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity. Our powers of logic and reason and inquiry fall short of the task of comprehending the nature of God. One is three without division; three is one, yet not the same–nothing created can fully fathom this sublime truth about the nature of the Divine. But we submit humbly and say: Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief (Mark 9:2). By the grace of God, not by our own intellectual abilities, do we live and serve. For this we are gathered to give thanks and praise on this morning of grace.

Last week I talked a little bit about the church calendar–actually, I talked at length about the calendar–and how it all hangs together in a coherent whole. From Christmas to Pentecost we commemorated, celebrated and gave thanks for the earthly ministry of Christ. Now we enter a string of twenty-plus weeks that are ordered quite differently. They are faith feasts in which the mysteries and doctrines of our faith are the focus of our reflection in liturgical worship. The Feast of the Most Holy Trinity is the first of these, and it is also the finale to all the preceding feasts.

All three persons of the Holy Trinity shared in the work of redemption. The Father sent the Son to earth, For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life (Jn 3:16). The Father created us, created us anew in Christ, called us to the faith. The Son, our Savior Jesus Christ, became man and died for us. He redeemed us and made us children of God. He remains with us in his body the Church, and through His body and blood in the sacrifice, His sacrifice, of the Eucharist. After Christ’s ascension, the Holy Spirit was sent by the Father, as the Son promised, to be the Teacher, the Leader, the Comforter, our Guide. Today we are called to relect on a mystery of faith that, in effect, is a synthesis of Christmas, Epiphany, Easter and Pentecost. The fact that this celebration falls on the first Sunday after Pentecost should make us mindful, help us recall, that all Sundays are devoted to the honor of the Most Holy Trinity; that every Sunday is sanctified and consecrated to the Triune God. Sunday after Sunday we should recall in adoration and gratitude the gifts which the Most Holy Trinity is bestowing upon us.

Some might ask, why is this even an issue? There is no mention in the Bible of the concept of Trinity. None. There is no passage that explains it or lays down the law on Trinitarian doctrine. The closest we get is the great commission, when Christ tells the disciples to go and baptize in the name of the Father and Son and Holy Ghost. This is actually very important in the context of the Trinity. Particularly because ‘the name’ of the three is singular; it is not ‘the names,’ but ‘the name,’ and this is not a translation error. Hardly enough for a doubter, though, who could reasonable say, ‘show me a passage where it says, specifically, that there is this mystical reversal of mathematics and logic.’ I can’t. There isn’t one.

We know of the Most Holy Trinity  because the first generations of Christians pondered, prayed, read Scripture, and reflected on the way Scripture was connected, is connected, and their insight is preserved for us in, among other things, our creeds. They were able to see the picture behind the picture. The backdrop that looms large but that, if you stare at the details, you will miss. The backdrop that gives color and tone and context and depth to everything in the picture. The backdrop that makes the picture you see the picture you see, and not some other picture. We may not even notice the backdrop as we look at the details, but we are able to see the details because of that very backdrop. The Most Holy Trinity does not need to be explained in detail, not even explicitly mentioned, for it to be present on every page of Scripture.

Johannes Tauler, a great German 14^th century mystic and student of Meister Eckhart, wrote that, “on this subject a staggering amount of things could be said, and yet nothing would have been said… To experience the workings of the Trinity is better than to talk about it… and though there is no subject more joyous and sweet to the taste, there is also nothing more grievous than falling into error concerning it. Therefore, stop your disputations on that mystery, and believe it in simplicity, entrusting yourselves wholly to God” (Hom 29).

For the Christian, life begins and ends by the grace of God. He created us and has given us every minute of our lives until the day we die. This is God’s grace and providence that we partake of every day and for this reason the life of a Christian is very explicitly begun and ended, in baptism and last rites, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. This concept, then, that we cannot even explain has become one of the single most important  doctrinal statement of the Christian Church. The understanding of the Church is that baptism in the name of the Triune God is what provides membership in the Christian Church. This is why no one who has been baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit is baptized again when he or she moves from one denomination to another. And it is why those who are members of groups that claim to be Christian but do not baptize their members in the name of the Triune God are baptized, such as  Jehova’s Witnesses and Mormons. Walking by fait in the Triune God, who revealed himself to us in the person of the Son and guides us in the person of the Holy Sprit is what makes a Christian.

I began this sermon with a few lines from a doctrinal statement from the early undivided Church. They were written by one of the Church’s greatest theologians and confessors, St John of Damascus. St John goes on, and let us listen carefully:

Light is the Father, Light the Son, Light the Holy Ghost;

Wisdom the Father, Wisdom the Son, Wisdom the Holy Ghost;

one God and not three Gods;

one Lord the Holy Trinity discovered in three hypostases.

Father is the Father, and unbegotten;

Son is the Son, begotten and not unbegotten, for He is from the Father; 

Holy Ghost, not begotten but proceeding, for He is from the Father.

There is nothing created, nothing of the first and second order, nothing lord and servant;

but there is unity and trinity

- there was, there is, and there shall be forever –

which is perceived and adored by faith –

by faith, not by inquiry, nor by searching out, nor by visible manifestation;

for the more He is sought out, the more He is unknown, and the more He is investigated,

the more He is hidden.

The most important question may not be ‘what can be said about the Trinity?’ but ‘what can be felt?’ Johannes Tauler argued that you must “allow the Holy Trinity to be born in the center of your soul, not by the use of human reason, but in essence and in truth; not in words, but in reality. It is the divine mystery we should seek, and how we are truly its Image; for this divine Image certainly dwells in our souls by nature, actually, truly, and distinctly, though of course no in as lofty a manner as in itself” (Hom 29). And St John of Damascus expresses a similar view when he writes:

And so, let the faithful adore God with a mind that is not overcurious. And believe that He is God in three hypostases, although the manner in which He is so is beyond manner, for God is incomprehensible. Do not ask how the Trinity is Trinity, for the Trinity is inscrutable.

But, if you are curious about God, first tell me of yourself and the things that pertain to you. How does your soul have existence? How is your mind set in motion? How do you produce your mental concepts? How is it that you are both mortal and immortal? But, if you are ignorant of these things which are within you, then why do you not shudder at the thought of investigating the sublime things of heaven?

Think of the Father as a spring of life begetting the Son like a river and the Holy Ghost like a sea, for the spring and the river and sea are all one nature. Think of the Father as a root, and of the Son as a branch, and the Spirit as a fruit, for the substance in these three is one. The Father is a sun with the Son as rays and the Holy Ghost as heat.

This is the advice of one of the greatest theologians of Church history: leave it alone. Leave it alone not just because the creature cannot grasp the essence of the Creator, but because it is a virtue to walk by faith alone. Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed (John 20:29). We walk by faith even when it comes to the very nature of our God. I love this fact because, whatever He is, He is most certainly not made in our image. If we could comprehend God, then He could very well be an idol, a mental graven image made in our own likeness. The fact that we cannot comprehend God is to me a good argument for the truth of the Christian faith. Again, St John of Damascus:

Be persuaded, moreover, that the incarnate dispensation of the Son of God was begotten ineffably without seed of the blessed Virgin, believing Him to be without confusion and without change both God and man, who for your sake worked all the dispensation. And to Him by good works give worship and adoration, [and venerate and revere] honor the most holy Mother of God [and ever-virgin Mary as true Mother of God,] and all the saints as His attendants. Doing thus, you will be a right worshiper of the holy and undivided Trinity, Father and Son and Holy Ghost, of the one Godhead, to whom be glory and honor and adoration forever and ever. Amen

Be humble, have a simple faith, and let your love for God be ardent. Embrace God in complete, utter and total trust. Know that he is, instead of inquiring or disputing abou what and how he is. When all is said and done, that may be the most important lesson of the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity—humility, simplicity and love, fundamental as both a point of departure and as end station for our journey of faith.

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us all. Amen.

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove

Old Testament: Joel 2:28-31

Epistle: 1 Corinthians 2:1-11

Gospel: John 14:15-31

As we gather to celebrate the birth of the Church, I want to spend some time dwelling on the church calendar. To many, the Church year often seems complicated and antiquated; the ritualistic relics of a distant past that have little relevance to us today. Only yesterday did I read in a newspaper about how many or most of the Evangelical churches do not celebrate Pentecost. According to one pastor interviewed, other than Christmas and Easter, and maybe Advent and Holy Week, “the rest of the church calendar is viewed as liturgical and ritualistic.” Another pastor was quoted as saying, “I also think we want Jesus to be the main thing. Can’t say if that’s right or not.” The article goes on to say that “in the history of the church, especially among Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and older Protestant denominations, special holidays were created and practiced with flourish. ‘Which ones are worthy of paying attention to?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard to pick.’” Here we are dealing with an age-old tension between individual preference and church doctrine, and I am not going to say more about that today other than noting that it is precisely due to the capricious nature of individual preference that we don’t get to pick.

Often, however, the complaint  about the church calendar is that we have these various themes that aren’t ordered in any obviously sensible way. For instance, we proceed from Annunciation through Advent, Epiphany—and then already three months or so later, we are at death, crucifixion and resurrection–with another eight months to go until the first of Advent is again upon us.

The Church’s “year of grace,” as it has been called, is intimately connected to the natural calendar’s yearly cycle. A problem today is that even the natural year has lost its significance in the modern industrialized world, at the apex of which are currently the United States and Europe. World travel and global trade have created for us a world in which we no longer need worry about the availability of fresh produce, for instance. My mother told me that when she was little, fresh cucumber was a summer luxury, and my grandmother would always go off to the grocer to buy half a kilo of fresh cucumber as soon as it was available; my mother and my uncle thought of this as a summer luxury. The rest of the year was pickle season. To me, the smell of tangerines is the smell of Christmas, because that was the only time they were available when I was a kid. Global trade, the speed of travel, and other features of the modern world have weakened our dependence on, and even our awareness of  natural cycles. Hold that thought.

I hasten to add that our exposure to other peoples, cultures, customs and beliefs is not a bad thing, nor for that matter is the availability of cucumbers in the middle of winter immoral. Diversity and difference is part of God’s plan for mankind. The people in the Land of Shinar were scattered for chastisement, in order to learn humility, not because there was a need to separate the good ones from the bad ones. In the fall, as in faith, we are all equals. In Genesis we read: And the LORD said, “Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them (Gen 11:6). There are many ways to read this account, but at the root of every sensible reading lies God’s ultimately inscrutable effort to protect humanity from its own arrogance and vainglory; an arrogance that lies in self-reliance, rather than reliance on Him, and a vainglory that the people express when they say, Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be dispersed over the face of the whole earth (Gen 11:4). The old saying, “Man proposes, God disposes” has no better illustration than God’s response to these people: Come, let us go down and there confuse their language, so that they may not understand one another’s speech (Gen 11:7). And the tower of Babel fell.

There is good reason to bring up Babel on Pentecost. As the Western liturgies began to evolve in the second half of the first millennium, the gift of tongues on Pentecost was thought of as having put right the ‘confusion of tongues’ visited upon mankind in the narrative of the Tower of Babel. In other words, the Babel account served as an image of mankind’s fall, reversed by the unity of one faith-confession made possible through the coming of the Holy Spirit. The Eucharistic preface from the ancient Ambrosian rite makes the relationship clear:

It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation,

to celebrate the joy of this most holy day,

which in its sacred numbering of fifty days

enacts the fullness of the paschal mystery.

Today the confusion of languages which human pride had brought upon the world

is resolved by the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Today, hearing the sound come suddenly from heaven,

the apostles received the profession of one faith and spoke in many tongues,

announcing the glory of your Gospel to all the nations of the earth.

And so, in joy of this Passover, earth and heaven resound with gladness.

The angels and the powers of all creation sing the ageless hymn of your glory:

Holy, Holy, Holy…

To return to the issue of separation between ourselves and the natural world, this separation lies in our continued human craftiness, despite learning about the experiences in the Land of Shinar, to create distance between ourselves and our natural surroundings–from what God created and gave us stewardship over–and also to create distance between ourselves and the Creator. A hundred years ago, the church calendar would have made much more intuitive spiritual sense to folks than it does today. Farmers and others who work the land still seem to have a better understanding of the joy of Christmas–celebration of light in the midst of darkness,  of the seedling of redemption planted in the coldest and most barren season; of Lenten grief and Paschal death at the end of winter’s long stretch; and of the blossoming of the fruits of the Holy Spirit today, as the rays of the sun causes the world around us to blossom.

So the calendar is connected, it is a cycle, or a series of cycles, it follows a natural order. It is a coherent whole. There can be no Resurrection Sunday without Good Friday. Another way to put it is to say that the suffering of Good Friday brings us to the joy of Resurrection Sunday. Advent brings Christmas which in turn brings the Epiphany. The resurrection of our Lord on Easter Sunday leads us straight to the coming of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost. And all of it begins with that blessed greeting to the All Holy Mother of God and Ever Virgin Mary– treasured by the  Church throughout the ages: Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!… Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus (Luke 1.28-31) Mary’s response is the Church’s response: Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word (Luke 1:38).

On one level, Pentecost is straightforward. We celebrate the realization of Christ’s promise, as we heard in the gospel reading, that the Father will send the Holy Spirit on his faithful, the Comforter, to help and sustain the church. The words of Christ: But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid (John 14:26-27). This statement is part of Christ’s explanation, in parables and simple language, of what will come to pass.

The disciples are bewildered and occasionally scared, certainly they realize that they have no clue what is really about to happen, and what is really going to be expected of them. Several of them will not die of natural causes, but will receive the crown of martyrdom. They must surely have suspected a tremendous task lay ahead of them, and what comfort—what wonderful reassuring comfort these words of Christ must have been to them. The Comforter will teach you and sustain you in the truth that I have given to you. This morning of grace, friends, we are called to reflect on the grace, the joy, and the reassurance that those very words are directed also at us.

And then Jesus is killed, doubt sets in among the disciples, joy is replaced by grief and anticipation turns into trepidation. And then—Pentecost. This feast exists in the Jewish calendar, referred to as the Feast of Weeks. It is an annual day of thanksgiving for the wheat harvest and also a commemoration of God giving Moses the law in Mount Sinai. As the old foreshadowed the new, the first Christian Pentecost was a celebration of the harvest not of wheat, but of souls; and a celebration of God’s gift of Grace through Christ, in whom the Law is fulfilled.

Pentecost marks the foundation of the Church, and there are some images that may help us to reflect on the importance of this day. The following is a description that I cannot claim credit for, that must go to Pius Parsch, the distinguished German theologian. At Easter, Parsch wrote,

Christ, the divine Sun, rose in splendor. At Pentecost it is high noon, as he sheds upon his vineyard the bright, warm rays that redden and ripen. At Easter the garden of the Church is abloom with beautiful blossoms, Christians newly baptized and confirmed—it is the traditional baptismal feast of the church. At Pentecost, these blossoms have developed and matured into fruit, hanging heavily upon the trees. The gardener who tends the trees is our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ; the Sun that ripens the fruit if the Holy Ghost. At Easter we were born anew as children of God. Like infants we sought our Mother’s nourishing milk, the Holy Eucharist, carefree and happy we grew up in our Father’s House. As we became older, Mother Church warned us that the happiness of childhood would pass, taught us that we were strangers and pilgrims on this earth, that we must suffer and be patient, in the various readings and themes throughout Pascaltide. Now, at Pentecost, we have come of age. This is why this day is the traditional day for confirmation, the rite of initiation into God’s Holy Church.

Strangers and pilgrims. Suffering and patience. Pentecost is a time when we are called to leave our comfort zone, to trust that the Spirit is with us, to move out in the world and proclaim the good news, but also to move inward and contemplate, meditate, on the great gift that had become our inheritance. We are the church. The days of our being individual followers, apprentices, freely roaming seekers are over. We are now, by grace and in the Holy Sprit, transplanted into a family, the church, where we are all brothers and sisters. And through the divine love that sustains us, we are called to see all of humanity, without exception, as brothers and sisters for whom Christ died, and to whom we have a responsibility. A responsibility of love; a responsibility to serve.

By service to others are we able to grow in faith; through closeness to strangers are we able to draw closer to God. But by serving others we are also living witnesses to the transformative power of faith. By going out into the world in truth and love and spiritual joy to proclaim Jesus as Lord by means of the ways in which we lead our lives–that is a journey that ultimately takes us home to the Father, and a journey that has the ability to change the lives of others. A life lived in the footsteps of the apostles is a far more powerful witness than any pithy tract or glossy magazine. Imitate me [mimetai mou], Paul writes to the Corinthians, even as I imitate Christ (1 Cor 11:1). He is referring to his work to save souls for the Kingdom, not seeking mine own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be saved (1 Cor 10:33b). ‘The work’ is not for our own benefit, for our own salvation, but for the benefit of the souls of others, to the greater glory of God. Not by words only, but by deeds, by showing how God redeems and transforms.

We are called, as the Israelites once were called, to be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation; a light capable of kindling the divine light in the hearts of those who are still on the outside. We have an incomparable example of what it means to lead a Christian life, an account found in the Epistle to Diognetus, a 2^nd century description of Christian church and its relationship to the world around it:

For the Christians are distinguished from other men neither by country, nor language, nor the customs which they observe. For they neither inhabit cities of their own, nor employ a peculiar form of speech, nor lead a life which is marked out by any singularity. The course of conduct which they follow has not been devised by any speculation or deliberation of inquisitive men; nor do they, like some, proclaim themselves the advocates of any merely human doctrines. But, inhabiting Greek as well as barbarian cities, according as the lot of each of them has determined, and following the customs of the natives in respect to clothing, food, and the rest of their ordinary conduct, they display to us their wonderful and confessedly striking method of life. They dwell in their own countries, but simply as sojourners. As citizens, they share in all things with others, and yet endure all things as if foreigners. Every foreign land is to them as their native country, and every land of their birth as a land of strangers. They marry, as do all [others]; they beget children; but they do not destroy their offspring. They have a common table, but not a common bed. They are in the flesh, but they do not live after the flesh. They pass their days on earth, but they are citizens of heaven. They obey the prescribed laws, and at the same time surpass the laws by their lives. They love all men, and are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death, and restored to life. They are poor, yet make many rich; they are in lack of all things, and yet abound in all; they are dishonoured, and yet in their very dishonour are glorified. They are evil spoken of, and yet are justified; they are reviled, and bless; they are insulted, and repay the insult with honour; they do good, yet are punished as evil-doers. When punished, they rejoice as if quickened into life; they are assailed by the Jews as foreigners, and are persecuted by the Greeks; yet those who hate them are unable to assign any reason for their hatred. To sum up all in one word–what the soul is in the body, that are Christians in the world.

Love, humility, forgiveness—these are not abstract principles but rules of life. And that rule of life is the best witness to the transformative power of faith. We need to take this seriously: by our lives we can change lives. Love humility and forgiveness are not things we merely talk about in here, but things we must live out there. Love and humility are suffocated and will die if we keep them hidden from the world and do not put them into practice. This is what it means to leaven the bread, to be the salt of the earth, to walk in the footsteps of Christ. This is what the Church was anointed to do on that first Pentecost, and that anointing continues to summon us to do for others what Jesus did for us. Guided and comforted by the Holy Spirit, the Church can and must continue to be ‘the hands anf feet of Jesus’ in the world.

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us. Amen  

St Anselm’s Anglican Church, Pacific Grove, CA

Epistle: James 1:23-27

Gospel: John 16: 23-33

Seek in reading and you will find in meditation; knock in prayer and it will be opened to you in contemplation. These are the words of St John of the Cross, the great sixteenth century mystic, reformer of the Carmelite order, and Teacher of the Church. The sermon this morning of grace is devoted to the accuracy, or perhaps better, the necessity of that insight—seek in reading and you will find in meditation; knock in prayer and it will be opened to you in contemplation. To this end, I will take some time to dwell on the epistle reading because underneath its apparently straightforward surface lies incredible depth and power. It is a reading that absolutely requires meditation in order to penetrate our mind, then turns around on us and demands of us further prayerful contemplation in order to pierce our soul—ultimately opening up for us a window onto the true nature our relationship with God through Christ, in the Holy Spirit.

In the Western branch of the Christian family, today’s epistle reading has been the subject of suspicion and controversy for half a millennium at this point. Its contents and implications have been discussed and argued to the extent that it seems to have obscured the actual text itself. In the Reformation tradition, there has always been a fear that St James’ letter overall, but the content of today’s reading in particular, preaches righteousness through works. I am not sure that any competent theologian has ever actually claimed that it does, but in the infected and vitriolic environment of Reformation and counter-Reformation, St James’ language became problematic. Luther, in his early writings, referred to it as “an epistle of straw… for it has nothing of the nature of the gospel about it” (Luther, Preface to the New Testament, 1546). Calvin, interestingly, defended the epistle against its detractors, arguing that it is certainly worthy of an apostle and filled with sound, godly teaching. Calvin writes:

“A doer of the word does not mean here… one who satisfies the law of God, and fulfills it in every part; but one who embraces the law of God from his heart, and testifies by his life, that he hath seriously believed it… The sum of his reasoning is—that faith without works profiteth nothing and is consequently dead” (Calvin, Commentary on the Epistle of James, 1550).

That is all well as far as it goes, but it only scratches at the surface of what St James is talking about. Let me reread today’s epistle text:

But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves. For if any be a hearer of the word, and not a doer, he is like unto a man beholding his natural face in a glass: For he beholdeth himself, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was. But whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work, this man shall be blessed in his deed. If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain. Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.

So what is going on? St James is doing nothing less than presenting to us an analogy or simile that offers us a glimpse of our true relationship with God. Merely to hear the Word of God, he says, without acting on it—living it—is like looking into a mirror and then going away, forgetting what kind of person one is. Stop and listen to this one more time: When I hear the Word of God, it is as if I am looking into a mirror. When I hear the Word of God without translating what I see into action, it is as if I am looking into a mirror only to forget what I’ve just seen. If this was merely a way of saying that the person who has faith will, as a consequence of that faith, do good works, then the analogy chosen by St James would be limping at best, misleading at worst, and certainly in any case not very helpful.

Friends, the divinely inspired apostle is using language that points to a reality beyond the words themselves; a mystery that cannot be captured in words, but demands quiet and prayerful meditation. Seek in reading and you will find in meditation. I would suggest that you prayerfully return to this reading a few times this week and dwell on it. Knock in prayer and it will be opened to you in contemplation. What do we see in a mirror? Let me suggest the following:

The Word is a mirror held up to us, and in it we see ourselves. In order to forget what kind of person we are, we must first have seen what kind of person we are. In the mirror, therefore, we see ourselves. When we abandon the Word by not allowing it to permeate our lives, we abandon ourselves. The Word is clearly not a mirror in the physical sense, in which we see our tired faces as others see them. Rather, the Word of God is a mirror in which we see ourselves as the creatures we are meant to be; the Word of God is a mirror in which we see ourselves as God made us, as God wants us, as God is calling us to become.

This is so because the Word of God is Christ Jesus. St John the Evangelist makes this very clear: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, etc. So, when we behold the Word—which comes to us in Scripture and in the Sacraments—we behold Christ, we behold an image or ourselves as God meant for us to be—as his children, as Christ-like, as partakers of Divinity. The image of Christ is our own image. In the tenth chapter of the Gospel according to St John, Jesus, accused of blasphemy for claiming to be one with the Father, rebuts the accusation by asking the following: Is it not written in your law, I said, Ye are gods? If he called them gods, unto whom the word of God came, and the scripture cannot be broken; Say ye of him, whom the Father hath sanctified, and sent into the world, Thou blasphemest; because I said, I am the Son of God? (Jn 10:34b-36). Those to whom the Word came were indeed described in Psalm 82 as “gods”—understood as participants, through grace, in the Divine. Jesus himself points to this in order to underscore his own Divinity. To say that when we behold the image of Christ we behold our own image is therefore neither hubris, nor blasphemy, but orthodox, catholic teaching. We see in the Word our true spiritual calling, which is to be Christ-like.

This calling is referred to by St James as the perfect law of liberty. When we see ourselves as God wants us, as Christ-like; as redeemed, obedient and worthy children of God, we see perfect liberty. Gone are the shackles of sin—because Christ was without sin. Gone is our distance from God—because Christ was, is and ever shall be True God and one with the Father. Gone is the tribulation that has been the reality of this world since the original transgression of our first ancestors—because, as we hear in the Gospel reading, Christ overcame the world. We see ourselves set perfectly free by Christ’s perfect sacrifice, restored to oneness, harmony with God. We see our spiritual selves, and may recall the words of St Paul, But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life (Rom 6:22). Clearly this perfect liberty does not describe our lives in the world, where Christians are as bound by the laws of government and of nature as anyone else; where Christians are no more free from suffering, grief and death than anyone else. The perfect law of liberty that we see in that mirror is our spiritual liberty in Christ.

To see all this—to see ourselves in a state of perfect liberty in and through Christ—and then walk away instead of being moved to act on it, is to deceive ourselves about who we are. It is to deny the reality of what we see in that mirror, the Word. There are many ways in which we can deceive ourselves, but they all hinge on one thing: the idea that there is something else, something more or something different, that I can do that is spiritually more important than that image of my perfect liberty reflected in the Word. Whether I choose wild all-night parties as a means of forgetting about the Word, or penitential self-flagellation as a means of improving on my relationship with God, they are both expressions of a failure to look into the Word and see that Christ has already attained for us a perfect spiritual liberty—and perfect means perfect.

To see all this and actively seize upon it—to take up the struggle to cling to that perfect liberty—is to remain in the perfect law of liberty. Because of God’s grace freely given, we are neither expected, nor required to win all the battles. As we fight the good fight, rune the race to the end, or whatever we want to call it, sin will ensnare us, purity and perfection will elude us. And we will accept this failure with confidence and joy because we have not forgotten what we saw in that mirror—our perfect spiritual liberty in and through Christ; our spiritual destiny thanks to a battle that has once and for all been won for us by the Word incarnate.

We struggle to cling to that perfect liberty by honoring God and serving our fellow human beings. Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. When we recognize who we are and cling to that recognition, we will have compassion for the poor, the sorrowful, the sick and the hungry. We will “visit them in their affliction”—strive to alleviate their suffering—because that, friends, is what Christ did for us. He took pity on us and visited us in our affliction. To recognize ourselves in the Word is to be forced from contemplation into action—because that alone is Christ-like behavior.

The fatherless and widows—these are people who at the time of Jesus’ earthly ministry were ‘outside the system,’ without families and therefore without safety nets. Today the categories have shifted, but the needs are still out there. Psalm 82, the one that Jesus points to in order to underscore what it is to be gods, admonishes us to defend the poor and fatherless, see that such as are in need and necessity have right. Deliver the outcast and poor, save them from the hand of the ungodly (Ps 82: 3-4) Good works throughout Scripture are such that alleviate suffering and meet the needs of the vulnerable. Other things that we do in the context of our faith may be edifying, instructive, educational or just plain nice—pilgrimages, praying the rosary, singing in the church choir—but no works are demanded of us in Scripture except to serve the needs of the poor and the vulnerable. If those other things, those additional works come in the way of that single Scriptural demand, then they cease to be good and instead work evil in our lives. Why? Because serving the poor means that we have not forgotten who we are called to be; in whose image we see ourselves; what Christ did for us in our affliction.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle” said Philo of Alexandria. We, too, are fighting a great battle—a battle to cling onto that mirror image of ourselves that we find in the Word. Seek in reading and you will find in meditation; knock in prayer and it will be opened to you in contemplation. Then, when we translate that contemplation into action, we find ourselves at the starting line of a life long race. Absolutely not the finishing line—but we are finally ready to get off the blocks in a race that we run with perfect joy because we know that it has already been won.

May the Lord continue to have mercy on us. Amen