Proper 26 C- Sunday October 30, 2016

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Proper 26, Year C - Sunday - October 30, 2016

Zaccheus by Maxim Sheshukov

Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. His days of earthly ministry will soon be coming to an end. Along the way, people are clamoring to see him and hear him, and be touched by him, wanting to be healed. Just before his encounter with Zacchaeus, before he entered Jericho, Jesus heard a blind man shouting to him insistently, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stops and responds, “What do you want me to do for you?”  Zacchaeus did not cry out to Jesus like the blind man, but in the act of climbing that tree, he too reached out to Jesus, and Jesus responded. Imagine Jesus standing before you, asking “What do you want me to do for you?” What would you say? What do you desire? As I prayed with this story, that is what welled up inside me as the crucial question: What do you desire? Knowing honestly and humbly what our deepest desires are is central to how we live our lives and to our relationship with God.

At the core of our relationship with God is prayer. It is our desires that lie at the heart of our prayer lives. In their wonderful book, Primary Speech, Ann and Barry Ulanov write that “all prayer begins with desire. Desire comes in many forms. At its best, desire in prayer is what Augustine calls an ‘affectionate reaching out to God.’ We long for contact, for connection at the center, that grounding that brings full-hearted peace of mind and soul. We want to be in touch with what lives within everything that matters, with what truly satisfies.” We reach out, as did all those who asked, who begged, for Jesus to stop and heal them, who stretched out their arms to touch his cloak, who dug a hole through a roof to be dropped at Jesus’s feet. And as Zacchaeus did in climbing that tree, we yearn to make contact with God. And, God yearns to make contact with us, or, more correctly, he yearns for us to respond to his desire for us, his love for us.

It is quite essential to recognize that the desire within us is God’s desire. We respond - or we don’t respond - to God’s call to us. God is calling to us all the time and is the initiator of our prayer. Our most basic task in climbing our own tree toward God is to listen and respond to God, to make ourselves available to God. Of course, we are busy people, with things we need to be doing, places we need to go, and people we need to see, so this simple act of being available to God can be challenging. As the Ulanovs put it, “All of us have trouble finding the time to pray. We solve the problem...best when we begin where we are… For some of us praying starts anytime… It may be when we are jogging, doing exercises, or taking a bath. Or when we are cooking… or when we bend over our baby’s crib… when we ride the bus or subway or work in the garden, or when we sit and stare into space… Some of us pray only when we cry or are desperate and afraid…  Some of us pray only in church in the safety of set prayers or prayers vocalized for us. We must each begin in the way that comes to us, for in that way God is approaching us and knocking on our door.” So, make yourself available to God, begin where you are.

A second important element toward responding to God’s call, God’s desire, and climbing that tree is to trust in God. Those are easy words, but to truly put all your trust in God is a great challenge and a great risk. Zacchaeus took a great risk. He, while viewed as a sinner and a collaborator by others, was also a man of wealth and status, who would have dressed well and would normally not be seen climbing a tree. By doing so, he certainly risked making a spectacle of himself in front of everyone. He risked falling. 

Ultimately, he risked admitting the wrongs he had committed, and he risked changing his life, with the likely loss of income, status, friends, and security. There is a lot of inertia that keeps us where we are, and without fully trusting in God, things will not change. Think about how much of what we do is governed by others’ expectations, by advertising and social pressures - our choices in careers, clothing, food, or recreation, for instance. We want to fit in, we want to succeed, but conforming is quite often inconsistent with true Gospel living. Going against the grain can be very hard, climbing a tree for all to see is risky. But the reward can be very great, as Zacchaeus experienced when Jesus came into his home.

So, prayer and trust must be cultivated so that our desire for God can flourish. The third piece I want to highlight is what the Ulanovs described as “connection at the center.” God dwells at the center of each of us, and God desires to be whole; thus, we are drawn toward each other and toward God, toward unity. That is the fundamental root of our desire. It is what Quakers call the Light Within. It is expressed in love: the love of committed relationships, of parenting, of ministering to the poor and needy.

It is the source of that fleeting, intense feeling of unity and peace that we sometimes experience in the astounding beauty of the earth or a work of art or a piece of music. It is what drew Zacchaeus up into that tree and has drawn people of all kinds and in all ages toward God.

In his powerful 1942 book, A Testament of Devotion, Quaker Thomas R. Kelly writes, “The Inner Light, the Inward Christ, is no mere doctrine, belonging [just] to a small religious fellowship, to be accepted or rejected as mere belief. It is the living Center of Reference for all Christian souls and Christian groups - yes, and of non-Christian groups as well - who seriously mean to dwell in the secret place of the Most High. He is the center and source of all action, not the endpoint of thought. He is the locus of commitment, not a problem for debate. Practice comes first in religion, not theory or dogma. And Christian practice is not exhausted in outward deeds. These are the fruits, not the roots.”

The root is our desire. It can lead us to climb the tree with Zacchaeus and receive, or perhaps become, those fruits. But we can do so only if we listen and respond to God’s being within us, God’s desire for us, made known to us in our prayer and in our relationships with others, the members of the body of Christ. And we can respond to God meaningfully only if we put our trust completely in God so that we are willing to risk falling, or failing, risk the discomfort of change; and, we can respond only if we let the light within us - God within us - be the center and source of all our actions. 

Proper 17 C - Aug 28, 2016

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Peter Rostron, OHC

Proper 17, Year C - Sunday - August 28, 2016

Jeremiah 2:4-13
Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16
Luke 14:1, 7-14

Gandhi spinning yarn. What is our simplicity?

With all sorts of news about the presidential campaign swirling about, I recalled the well-known aphorism: All politics is local. Whatever the sweeping visions or inspiring slogans,­ if any, ­in the end, people tend to make their decisions on the smaller things, things that affect their daily existence. Such as having enough food on the table, being safe on the street, having a decent place to live, getting a good education, and having access to quality health care. Yes, there can be bigger principles at work in people’s decision­-making, but a prerequisite is the fulfillment of fundamental, local needs.

This principle is also at work not just as we think ahead and make choices about the future, it also applies to the trajectory of the past that brought us to this present moment. The grand themes of history that we look back at, and study and learn from, only emerge out of the accumulation of many lesser, individual events and decisions that were made over time with no knowledge of what the future, or what the big picture, would be. Likewise, the grand arc of our individual lives is the accumulation of the many small choices that we make along the way. Thus, little things matter. All the small decisions that we make matter. They add up to who we are.

So it is in today’s gospel. Where do you choose to sit? It seems like a fairly inconsequential decision to make, yet it is not. It is a reflection of how you regard yourself in relation to others. If you choose to sit in the highest place, there is an assumption of being important. It implies that you want and deserve the best, that you don’t have much concern about what might rightfully belong to someone else. 

On the other hand, sitting in the lowest place makes space for others to be ahead of you or to receive more than you. And that involves a letting go or a doing without. It embodies a level of poverty. Poverty, I imagine, is not a word most of us in this room might associate with ourselves. On the surface, I don’t think of myself as being poor or as living in poverty. Yet, for me and for my brothers, poverty is embedded in the component of our monastic vow in which we commit to conversion to the monastic way of life. And for you seated in the congregation, if it isn’t already, poverty, and an awareness of it, can become part of your spiritual practice.

But, what is poverty? Most simply, it is being without, lacking something. Something material or emotional or spiritual. It does not necessarily mean, however, that you do not have enough. It can mean having only what one reasonably needs and living simply, without extravagance. The more we possess, the more energy we must devote to caring for and protecting those possessions, and the less energy we have to be mindful of the needs of others, to love our neighbor. Our Founder, Father Huntington, expresses this in his rule when he says:

we are, then, to look for the riches of God to be given us more fully as we depend less upon the riches of the world. 

And Jesus exhorts us in the gospel of Matthew, 

Do not store up for yourselves treasure on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and thieves break in and steal; but store up treasure in heaven... For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

We can choose to do without material things in order to make more room for spiritual things.

There is another manifestation of poverty for us as Benedictines, which is common ownership. As put forth in the book of Acts, 

The whole company of believers was united in heart and soul. Not one of them claimed any of his possessions as his own; everything was held in common.

Benedict includes this in his Rule, where he says, 

... no one may presume to give, receive, or retain anything as his own, ... not [even the free disposal] of their own bodies and wills.

So, rather than being individual owners of anything, we instead are stewards of commonly­ owned things. We are responsible for their care and use while they are in our possession, but we, as individuals, do not own them. I have on occasion been given something here in the monastery and been told, “Here, this is for your use,” not “Here, this is yours.”

Beyond the notions of intentionally doing without, or with less, or of sharing possessions, you can also experience a form of poverty that stems from the loss of something that you really do want, something precious, and for reasons beyond your control. Things such as good health, or a happy marriage, or the love of a lost parent or child. That form of poverty can be a source of pain, sorrow, regret, bitterness, or resentment. It can fuel jealousy and animosity. It can cause us to close in on ourselves and condemn or neglect others. In his book, Bread for the Journey, Henri Nouwen writes, 

When we are not afraid to confess our own poverty, we will be able to be with other people in theirs. The Christ who lives in our own poverty recognises the Christ who lives in other people's. Just as we are inclined to ignore our own poverty, we are inclined to ignore others'. We prefer not to see people who are destitute, we do not like to look at people who are deformed or disabled, we avoid talking about people's pains and sorrows, we stay away from brokenness, helplessness, and neediness. By this avoidance we might lose touch with the people through whom God is manifested to us. But when we have discovered God in our own poverty, we will lose our fear of the poor and go to them to meet God.

The avoidance or denial of poverty, then, in its various forms, can lead to separation, from others, and from God. You could be avoiding the “desirable” poverty of simplicity or shared ownership and instead, be living with a sense of privilege and with a focus on accumulating and holding on to lots of nice things. This puts you at risk of becoming self­absorbed and inwardly focused, becoming disconnected from those around you. On the other hand, you could be carrying your own painful, emotional poverty. Denying this puts you at risk of denying the needs, even the very existence, of others who are suffering, because that might resonate too much with your own woundedness. 

Either way, our own poverty ­ material, emotional, and spiritual is significant and worthy of careful examination. Do you have more things than you need? What consoles you when you are stressed? What issues of the world concern you? What activities and things enliven and enrich you? Your honest answers to questions such as these can suggest how poverty exists in your life,­ what forms it takes, how you understand and relate to it, what your intentions are around it­ and that in turn can shed light on the ways that you engage with, or separate from, those around you.

So now, back to the simple question prompted by today’s gospel, one of the many small decisions that add up to your life. Where do you choose to sit? Do you choose the highest place?

That is, do you choose to insulate yourself from others, to detach yourself from your own humanity in favor of other seductive but false attachments? Or, do you choose to sit in the lowest place? There, you can embrace your poverties and enjoy the freedom to be open and honest and loving with those around you, no matter their place in the world. We heard Paul say it today in his letter to the Hebrews: 

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers... Remember those who are in prison... Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have.”

It is then that we can be filled with the ultimate treasure: God’s love. And, by living in such Godly poverty, we will be able to realize what Paul expressed so eloquently to the Corinthians: 

As servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: ...as poor yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Lent 5 C - Mar 13, 2016

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Lent 5 C - Sunday, March 13, 2016

Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12:1-8

Anointing Jesus' feet

In today’s gospel reading, John brings us in to a dinner hosted by Jesus’s friends, Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. There may have been others present, but John focuses on just the three hosts and Judas, and their interactions with Jesus. The tone of the story is quite intimate. Mary, in letting her hair down, is breaking a social norm that women in public should keep their hair up; she is doing something she would only do in the presence of family or close friends. And Jesus’s response to Judas - “Leave her alone” - is raw and emotional. The story is given added richness by being set just before Jesus’s final entry into Jerusalem and his crucifixion. Mary anointing Jesus’s feet evokes the foot washing Jesus will soon offer his disciples. Mary and Martha as servers at the table hints at roles that will develop in the church around the offering of Holy Communion. The story thus has echoes of both the Last Supper and the Eucharist. And the fragrance of the precious oil filling the house is suggestive of the Holy Spirit that soon would breathe life into the nascent Church, and which resonates even to this very moment in the incense that fills this church.

So, John has created for us a very compelling image of Christian community that was to come. He gives us four specific portraits, four prototypes in a sense, of how a member of the Christian community might relate to Jesus. Lazarus just days earlier had lost his life and was raised from the dead by Jesus. He has experienced the resurrection that awaits each of us as faithful Christians. He has the most intimate possible relationship with Christ and is living with the full realization of what it means to be a member of Christ’s body. Then there is Martha, a servant, practical, faithful, who values order and the fulfillment of obligations. We met her in Luke’s gospel as the dutiful one who was most concerned that her home was clean and orderly and that her guests were cared for, and in this story we are told simply that she served. This is an admirable role, one that we see many places in the Bible, such as with Peter’s mother-in-law, who, upon being healed, immediately began to serve. It is certainly not a bad role, but by itself it is not a fulfilling one. There is a missing piece, and that is what we see in Mary, who sets aside all distractions and obligations in order to be fully present to Jesus. She is risk-taking, boundary-pushing, someone we might wish to be like. She alone recognizes and reveres the divinity of Jesus. And finally, there is Judas, sinful, separated from God, who will betray Jesus, who most values wealth and position and safety within the power structure of his day. He is blind to the deep significance of the precious oil and instead sees only an opportunity for selfish gain.

As I read and re-read this story, I found myself wondering, Who am I at this intimate table? Who are you? Am I more like Martha, who principally values her duty and her service in community? Or like Mary, in her extravagant devotion to, and love for, Jesus, who is willing to use rather than cling to the valuable perfume? And what about Judas? His extreme actions make him easy to vilify and dismiss, but all of us are fully capable of feelings of greed or of committing an act of betrayal. And at the opposite extreme we have Lazarus, whom we can only wait with patience and faith to be like. Obviously, none of us is exactly like any of these four. We are each our own unique person. So it might be worthwhile instead to think of how we each could fall somewhere on a scale between Judas at one end and Lazarus at the other. A new question, echoing Paul’s words, might be, “To what extent am I willing and able to suffer the loss of all things in order to know Christ?” Judas is not willing to give up anything; in fact he would rather destroy in order to hold on to what he has and gain even more. Martha - reluctantly perhaps - gives up things she might enjoy or that might be right for her in order to care for others. Mary willingly sets aside all things in order to simply be with Jesus. And Lazarus, at the far end of the spectrum, beckons us toward the reward of resurrection in Christ that can only come from letting go of everything, including one’s own life.

What Lazarus experienced is ultimately what Paul is yearning for. “I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him… I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection.” Paul and Lazarus are on to something, but what they have experienced or are seeking strikes me as quite beyond my reach. Perhaps we could posit a few markers, in the form of questions, that might be helpful in locating ourselves on the scale I proposed and that would guide us in the direction of Lazarus and Paul. “To what extent am I able to give up my own will, or let go of my own ego, or humble myself, in order to better know Christ and be Christ in the world?” “What spiritual practices can help me on my journey?” “What acts of compassion can I offer to those in need?” “What material stance can I take in the world that promotes greater respect for the poor and disenfranchised, and for the Earth?” There are likely many other questions you could come up with that might be helpful. And there are certainly many different choices of lifestyle and attitude that will either promote, or hinder, one’s movement on this scale toward fullness in Christ.

For instance, I have chosen to live in a monastery. Yet, I have found that living in a monastery does not magically eliminate all the problems and temptations of everyday life. I still cling to some of the same things or ways of being as I did before. Certain behaviors, of my own or of others, still bug me. It turns out that a commitment to let go and to turn one’s will over to Christ is no easier here than anyplace else. One thing I do have here is a space that is particularly conducive to prayer, that invites a contemplative attitude, and that offers scripture read and chanted multiple times each day, all of which are valuable components of a life that moves toward Christ. In fact, it was not long after I first arrived at the monastery that I heard today’s passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians read by Br. Bernard at Matins. I remember it vividly. I left and sat in my cell in tears afterward. This passage so moved me that I later chose it as the New Testament reading at my First Profession. It is why I came here, to attempt to suffer the loss of all things in order to live fully into the love of Jesus Christ. But, it hasn’t happened yet, and I understand more clearly as time goes on that it will take a lifetime of work here, just as it would outside the monastery. All of you and all of the brothers here are on the same journey - the circumstances are just a little different. Martha, Mary, Judas, Lazarus, and Paul were on the same journey - the circumstances were just a little different. All of our individual circumstances are unique. Still, no matter where you live, or who you are, or how far along your are on your journey, you can immerse yourself in scripture, have a rich prayer life, and live with a contemplative attitude. You can be attentive to answering key questions that will help you locate yourself along the way. And you can ponder how Martha, Mary, Judas, and Lazarus sat with Jesus.

So, let us keep making our way closer to Christ. Let us learn from each other and from Jesus’s friends - from what we and they have done well, and from where we and they have gone astray. And, like Paul, let us press on to know Christ and the power of his resurrection.

Advent 4 C - Dec 20, 2015

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Advent 4 C - Sunday, December 20, 2015

Micah 5:2-5a
Hebrews 10:5-10
Luke 1:39-45, (46-55)

The Visitation

I’ve been struck over the past three weeks by the severity of some of the readings we’ve heard here at the monastery during Matins and the Eucharist. It’s been like an ongoing one-two punch for me: the prophets at church and then Donald Trump in the news. John the Baptist warned about trees being cut down and thrown into the fire. Jesus spoke of distress among nations and of people fainting from fear and foreboding for what is coming upon the world. Isaiah told of a voice, crying out in the wilderness. A voice, as I imagined it, that was filled with urgency and yearning and anguish. There was, in particular, one reading, from the prophet Amos, that grabbed my attention. I’ll share a bit of it with you.

“Alas for you who desire the day of the Lord! Why do you want the day of the Lord? It is darkness, not light; as if someone fled from a lion, and was met by a bear; or went into the house and rested a hand against the wall, and was bitten by a snake...I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. Even though you offer me your burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them; and the offerings of well-being of your fatted animals I will not look upon. Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps.”

Amos spoke this message almost 3000 years ago, so it can’t possibly apply to us, can it? But I’m increasingly afraid that it does.

I look around, and I see a world filled with material excess and enticing advertisements and numbing distractions. Distractions that help us avoid looking at all the real pain and suffering and injustice that exists. A world, as Amos described, that we have filled with festivals and solemn assemblies and the noise of songs. I have been lamenting, also, how much our perceptions, our desires, and our choices can be so heavily influenced by superficial, appealing packaging, by what looks good on TV or online or on the shelf at the store. How much our opinions and beliefs can be so heavily influenced by the attractively packaged words of a newspaper, a blog, or a captivating politician. Our society seems fueled by a desire for quick, easy, off-the-shelf, feel-good solutions and entertainments. What we like, how we behave, what we wear, what we buy, what we believe - is too often the product of a bombardment of seductive advertising and images. We are at risk of our selves becoming defined purely by outside inputs and losing our own inner, grounded, holy selves. The world seems to be on very shaky ground these days.

There was an interesting opinion piece in the Washington Post a few weeks ago by Anne Applebaum in which she talked about the terrible damage done to democratic debate and civilized discussion by our reliance on the Internet for news and our immersion in various forms of social media. She wrote, “Nevermind that Donald Trump’s claim that thousands of Muslims in New Jersey cheered the collapse of the World Trade Center is false; it is now possible to live in a virtual reality where Trump’s lies are acclaimed as the hidden truth that the mainstream media have concealed from the masses. The long-term impact of such disinformation is profound: it creates cynicism and apathy. Eventually it means nobody believes anything. People aren’t bothered by Trump’s lies or Vladimir Putins’ lies or the Islamic State’s lies because they don’t believe anything they read anymore. It’s impossible to know what’s true.” Shaky ground, indeed.

But finally, I find some relief upon hearing today’s gospel, welcoming Mary into my Advent experience. After a steady stream of harsh words from the prophets, I at last feel some hope and solid truth in Mary. Her world, like ours, was fraught and dangerous, and she was faced with an unsettling and risky decision, as we often are. She could have played it safe and stuck to the social script of the time, conforming to her role as Joseph’s young betrothed, and simply said “No” to God. “Maybe someone else would be a better choice, God.” Or, “Maybe later, God, after Joseph and I have gotten married and settled down.” But, she said “Yes.” She chose to trust in God, to turn herself completely over to God’s truth, to not succumb to fear, to step, in faith, into the unknown.

And just after making this great decision, she spent three long months visiting with her cousin, Elizabeth. To connect deeply, not just exchange text messages. To share her joy, no doubt, but also to share her anxiety. To find comfort with a friend and to have the companionship of a woman who also was pregnant. Imagine those two together. Both had very good reasons to be anxious and fearful. Mary had been visited by an angel, Gabriel, as had Elizabeth’s husband, Zechariah, who told them of surprising things that were about to happen, and to not be afraid. Right! I suspect both Mary and Elizabeth were quite afraid. Mary, wondering how her husband Joseph might react, what might happen to their planned marriage, what could happen to her if she ended up an unwed young woman with child. And, what this child might bring. And Elizabeth, barren and older in years, suddenly and unexpectedly pregnant, who had been in seclusion for five months with a husband who had been struck mute. Yet, they had each other - and more. The Holy Spirit was with them, having come upon Mary and through Mary to Elizabeth and to her child, John, who leaped in her womb. In a way, I can see this as a beginning of the church: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit present where two or three have gathered together. What an amazing scene, an amazing focal point of God’s power there in that small house with Mary and Elizabeth and Jesus and John.

And there is in that scene great hope for us, today, too. We, as they, live in troubled times. The prophets had repeatedly warned Mary’s ancestors, the people Israel, of their sinful ways, as they continued to turn away from the Lord. They would return, and God would forgive, but it happened again and again. And our situation seems no better. Mary and Elizabeth lived under the weight of imperial domination, and we have our own, 21st-century version of forces with great wealth and power oppressing many of us. Amos’s words do ring true today. But, in the midst of the mess, across time, sits Mary. Through her, God became human to save us. Through her, we have Christ with us, within us. Even so, with Mary as our inspiration we still have to say “Yes.” Like Mary and Elizabeth, we must join together and offer each other our mutual love and support and comfort. Like Jesus, we must be free of the seductions and false securities of the world and do the hard work of living out God’s will for us. We must reach out to the tax collectors and prostitutes and Pharisees, the citizens and prisoners being mistreated by our criminal justice system, the immigrants being vilified by our leaders, the foreign peoples being killed and maimed by our bombs, our own friends and neighbors being left without adequate food or shelter or health care.

Ultimately, I believe humanity will encounter the day of the Lord. We will celebrate Christmas in just a few days, but Jesus’s birth is ongoing. He is being born within us, and God’s kingdom is coming, slowly but surely, in God’s time. It may be, as Amos said, that the day of the Lord will be darkness, not light, but that is because it won’t be - it is not now - easy. As we heard just this morning in the Revelation to John, birth pangs can be agony. There is evil in the world, and it won’t go quietly; it is systemic evil. We are called to feed the poor and visit the prisoner, but we must go further and work to eliminate poverty and create true “justice.” In the Magnificat, Mary says God has done great things for her, God’s lowly servant. And that, in his mercy, God will do good things for all who are hungry and lowly, forever, in fulfillment of his promise to the entire family of Abraham. Which means us. Even Amos, after all his harsh words, concluded, Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream. So, let us say “Yes” and know that after the darkness, there will be light. And know that Mary is our companion in the birthing of Christ.

Feast of the Dedication - Oct 4, 2015

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Feast of the Dedication of St Augustine Church – Sunday, October 4, 2015

Genesis 28:10-17
1 Peter 2:1-5, 9-10
Matthew 21:12-16

The flower arrangement for the feast of the Dedication

When I entered the order as a postulant in January of 2012, my first seat in the monastic choir was over there, where Br. Joseph now sits, facing the entrance to the church. I enjoyed watching guests as they entered and picked up a breviary and a schedule, blessed themselves with holy water, reverenced the tabernacle, then minded the little bump in the floor as they rounded the corner into the guest court and took their seats. I would wonder how they had found their way to the monastery and this church, and I would wonder what stories and burdens they were bringing with them and how they might be changed before they would leave. I also enjoyed my view of those graceful arches in the wall, and of a small sliver of the great old white oak tree in the small cloister, which I could see through that window up there at the far east end. And yet another thing that drew my attention was a small splash of brilliant, colored light on the south wall there, created by the sun shining through the Mary Queen of Heaven window, just above the statue of Our Lady in that corner. This glowing little rainbow would slowly slide across the white wall, as the sun moved. I found it to be a very mesmerizing and prayerful point of focus, one of many displays of God’s beauty in this church.

A while later, my seat moved down to the west, closer to the guest court, and from that spot, if the door was open, I could see directly into the small cloister. The brick columns were lined up perfectly, one slightly offset and behind the next, creating a beautiful, geometric pattern. My eye was drawn along this sequence of columns to a vanishing point on the far wall of the cloister, right to the spot where Jesus hangs on a small, wooden cross. Like the rainbow of light, this was a very prayerful image - a form of visio divina, if you will - that contributed much to my worship experience. Also at this seat - and this is a little bit of an aside - sitting on my left was Brother Andrew, from whom I felt a strong, comforting, and reverent presence, and who also occasionally let slip some witty, under-the-breath remark, that I think no one else could hear, and that had me biting my lip sometimes not to start laughing right out loud during the office. I miss him.

Now, I sit on the opposite side of the choir. At first, I was disappointed to be losing those perspectives that had become so familiar to me. I couldn’t watch guests enter anymore, or see the graceful arches, or follow the rainbow of light, or see Jesus in the cloister; instead, I looked at a big, plain, flat, white wall. Yet, once I got over my possessive annoyance at what I had lost, I realized that I had gained a great view of the Oberammergau Crucifix, up there. It is a strong and striking image of Christ, dark and heavy, but with the lightness of pain that has been relieved, a burden that has been lifted, a body that has been left behind. I had gazed at it at various times from different places: from a guest seat on the far wall; from directly beneath it, as John and Mary were at the crucifixion; and even while standing in the entry area over there, where it is framed by an arch, with the icon stand and candle sitting low in the foreground. Now, this great crucifix welcomes and accompanies me through every office.

This church is a powerful place. There is something simple yet compelling about it, I find. No matter where you sit, or what mood you are in, or what of your daily life is distracting you, God is here, calling to you, in light, in an archway, in a crucifix, in rain falling on the roof, in the music of chant and the words of a Psalm, or in the person sitting right next to you. This church draws you into prayer, into relationship with God. Today is the 94th anniversary of the dedication of this church, which we celebrate as a First Class Feast. But we are not celebrating grand architecture or spectacular stained glass or amazing tilework or anything that, physically, is particularly awesome. Rather, I think primarily we are celebrating what happens within this space: the marvelous work that God does in each of us and has done in so many brothers and guests over the past 94 years. 

Certainly, this church is not fancy. In fact, The Rule of James Otis Sargent Huntington, our founder, and his successors suggests that the physical space should not detract from the worship it supports. The rule states, “The adornment of altars and chapels of the Order is to be dignified and rather severe than florid. Chasubles are ordinarily to be of Gothic pattern; there is to be no lace on surplices or albs. No new decorations are to be introduced without the approval of the Superior or of the Father-in-charge.” And one of the architects, the famous Dr. Ralph Adams Cram, wrote in the October, 1921 issue of The Holy Cross Magazine that “the new Chapel...in a sense...has no architecture, that is to say, it does not adhere very closely to any historical style, while the monastic simplicity demanded by its function left...little opportunity for architectural embellishment.”

I am struck by a parallel between the simplicity of our church and the simplicity - extreme simplicity - of the place where Jacob dreamt of the ladder carrying angels between heaven and earth. His experience of God took place outside, with no walls or roof and with a stone for a pillow (a bit perhaps like our choir stalls, many of which, as you might notice, have been outfitted with cushions). Nevertheless, God’s action in that place was so wonderful that it led Jacob to declare, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” Just like this place. It was what happened and not the grandeur of the place that made it holy. Also, like many of us, Jacob encountered God in the course of his ordinary life, in this case while on a journey on which his father, Isaac, sent him to find a new wife from among his own people in the land of his grandfather, Abraham. I don’t imagine Jacob was expecting anything special to happen, and the place where he laid down certainly wasn’t special, but it became so by God’s action. An encounter between Jacob and God gave the place its significance, and it is the same for us here in this church.

You and I, of course, are not Jacob. We are not the patriarchs or matriarchs of a great nation, nor are we prominent figures in the Bible. But we are perhaps Jacob in that, like him, we can be open to God’s presence, listen for God’s Word, discern God’s will for us, embrace our place in the family tree of Abraham, and respond to God’s love for us in reverence and worship. Part of that takes place when we gather in community in a space like this, in a physical building called a church. But an equal or greater part of our worship, our relationship with God, takes place outside these walls. On the road somewhere. Asleep in a dream. Wrestling with an angel. In communion with the beauty of creation. In other words, in our lives as members of the other church, that great set of people who make up the living body of Christ.

So, on this Feast of the Dedication of St. Augustine’s Chapel, let us celebrate that event on October 4, 1921 when this church, this focal point of our monastic life, was dedicated, but, even more, let us re-dedicate ourselves to being faithful members of the body of Christ, the living church, to being alert to God’s presence in the beauty of creation that surrounds us, and to being in relationship with God in any and every unexpected place. I invite you to close your eyes and listen to the words God spoke to Jacob in a dream, but now, somewhat modified, addressed to you: “And the Lord stands beside you and says, ‘I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; eternal life in Christ I will give to you and to to those who come after you; and they shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in those who come after you. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to me in the end; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.’” Amen.

Corpus Christi B - Jun 4, 2015

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
John 6:47-58 , Thursday, June 4, 2015

Several years ago I saw a movie  called King Corn. Not King Kong, but King Corn. It’s a documentary that came out in 2007 about the politics and economics of corn and how that has contributed to a decline in the healthfulness of our diets. The focal point of the movie is a one-acre plot of corn that the two young filmmakers cultivate in Iowa, and they follow and explain the entire process from planting to selling the corn. The film vividly describes the serious, negative consequences of the politically-manipulated corn industry in this country. The opening scene especially is quite startling, as a University of Virginia professor analyzes a hair sample from one of the filmmakers, which reveals, based on the substances in his body, that over 50% of his diet is corn. Farm animals are corn-fed, soda and many juices are largely corn syrup, and corn oil is a very common choice for cooking fried foods. The subtitle of the film is You Are What You Eat, and indeed the film disturbingly reveals the ill state of health of our own physical bodies as well as our collective social, political, and economic body because of all the corn and corn byproducts that we ingest.

It matters what we eat. It matters for our own, individual health and for the health of our society. But, there are so many bad foods that taste really good, and often they’re very convenient, so it takes a lot of self-discipline in order to make the right choices. And that’s tough. It can be a challenge to consider the larger ramifications every time we make a food decision throughout the day. Do I eat this hamburger? Should I give in to my craving for some Twizzlers? What about this glass of cranberry juice? What are the ingredients? What fertilizers or additives were used? Where did it come from? I must admit that I can be lazy when it comes to such things, and too often I choose to eat foods without investing much reflection, investigation, or discernment in the process. And I suspect this is true for many of us. We have a desire, and we seek to satisfy it. That’s it. Unfortunately, what we desire and how we satisfy that desire may not be good for us. As the film says, we are what we eat. We might become corn, or at least unhealthy, and I don’t believe that is what God desires for us.

Just as this may be true for us now, it was true for the Israelites wandering in the desert millennia ago. They did not live as God wished them to. We know there was plenty of grumbling among them on their journey. In Exodus, we are told that “the whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron…[saying] ‘if only we had died by the hand of the Lord in Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread.’” In other words, “we’re happy with the status quo; it’s too much trouble to pursue change.” And today in the book of Deuteronomy we heard Moses tell the Israelites that God led them to hunger so that they would learn to desire what he would provide and change their ways. And we heard Paul point out in his letter to the Corinthians that the rock from which the Israelites drank was Christ. He went on, though, to say that, “nevertheless, God was not pleased with most of them, and they were struck down in the wilderness. Now, these things occurred as examples to us so that we might not desire evil as they did.” The Israelites did not know Christ, for God had not yet revealed him to the world, but we do. And we hear Jesus tell us in John’s gospel, “Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died…[but] I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever.”

This truth is central to our Christian faith. We declare it each time we gather around the table to celebrate the Eucharist and partake of the body and blood of Christ. On this Feast Day of the Body of Christ, we are placing special emphasis on the significance of this truth, yet we do not always live accordingly. Like the ancient Israelites, we do not always choose to feast solely on God’s word. In many ways, we are wandering in our own, 21st-century wilderness, lost, grumbling, often wanting to eat and live simply to satisfy our selves, not God. We do not fully listen to God or act based on what God wants for us, we do not live in community as God wants us to live, and thus we are not yet ready or able to enter the Promised Land, not yet ready or able to establish God’s Kingdom on earth. We must keep in mind Paul’s words of warning. Still, like the Israelites, we keep going, we keep trying, despite the hardships and setbacks and discomforts. We stray, we grumble, we sin, but God keeps forgiving us and calling us back. We continue on our journey, we hunger, and we look to God for sustenance. And, as the Israelites did not, we have the benefit of the presence of Christ.

God sent us his son, and God does provide for us, but still we must choose to eat the good food and to say yes to God’s word. We can choose wisely or we can choose foolishly. We can eat food that is unhealthy, out of laziness or impulse or convenience or cost, or we can eat food that will truly nourish our bodies and energize us. We can also think beyond just food and include everything that we take in and that becomes part of us: the air we breathe, the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the ideas and politics that inform our opinions and behaviors. All of the things that we ingest become us. And by us I mean each one of us as an individual, but also, all of us who together make up one single us, a social, political, economic, and spiritual body. This is a concept that the Israelites were much more attuned to than we are, but it is significant. All of our individual little choices add up to become the path that our community, our nation, and therefore each of us, will take.

So, choose well. As indeed we will in a few moments when we gather around the table to consume the ultimate food, the spiritual food of the body of Christ. When we do this, we become the living Christ, nourished and enlivened to do God’s work, to create God’s kingdom on earth, to move toward the promised land. So, on this feast day of Corpus Christi, come, celebrate, joyfully eat this bread that has come down from heaven and that will lead us to eternal life. We are what we eat.

Lent 3 B - Mar 8, 2015

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Peter Rostron, OHC

Lent 3 B – Sunday, March 8, 2015


Exodus 20:1-17

1 Corinthians 1:18-25 
John 2:13-22

The Cleansing of the Temple

In John’s gospel, the story of the cleansing of the Temple occurs at the beginning of Jesus’s public ministry, whereas in the three synoptic gospels it occurs near the end, just days before his crucifixion. Placing it there, just after the miracle at Cana - the first of Jesus’s signs of his glory - and just before his encounter with Nicodemus - in which Jesus spoke at length of being born from above, of eternal life, and of his own being as Savior - reflects John’s emphasis on Jesus as the Christ, the Messiah, on the divinity of Jesus. John alone also puts Jesus in Jerusalem early and often in his gospel, in the Holy City that Jews considered to be the very center of the world and of God’s power on earth. In his gospel, John invites us to focus especially on the fully divine Jesus, Jesus as the eternal word of God.

So as we listen to John tell us about Jesus cleansing the Temple, angrily overturning the tables of the money changers and driving out the sacrificial animals and their vendors, we know that the message being delivered to us is central to Jesus’s ministry and that it is from God. God is not pleased with how the people are treating his Temple, the dwelling place that they had made for him on earth. The Temple had become a place for the rich and powerful, for those with status and influence, not a place for the poor and disenfranchised, nor for the pilgrim who might be making a long journey to celebrate a Feast in Jerusalem. The succession of courts surrounding the Holy of Holies in the center of the Temple grew increasingly restrictive as one moved from the outermost Court of the Gentiles to the innermost Court of the Priests. It was that outermost court that held the animals and the money-changers, so that most visitors would have found quiet prayer to be near impossible because of the commotion. 

Not only was the Temple symbolic of the stratification of society at the time, but it actually functioned as a sort of national bank, with money and material goods being stored there. Those who wished to pay their obligatory Temple tax had to change their money from one of the many national currencies in use to the local currency accepted by the Temple, and they had to pay a commission to do so. And those who wished to offer sacrifice had to purchase the animal at the Temple, at inflated prices. Jesus’s shocking action in the Temple reflects his desire to shatter all these profane and greedy practices that were desecrating the sanctuary of God. He was also making a statement that the act of animal sacrifice was not what God wished from his people. In this story that John gives a prominent place in his gospel, Jesus - God-made-human -  was boldly declaring an end to the Temple as people knew it and the beginning of something totally new.

This is only the first part of John’s story, however. The second part is the reaction of those who witnessed this event. This part is unique to John’s version, and it is yet another indication of his particular focus on the divinity of Jesus. The authorities demanded a sign, that is, an indication of what gave Jesus the authority to do what he had just done. The boldness of his act could mean that he was the expected Messiah, for it was understood that the Messiah would make himself known through the performance of signs and wonders. Jesus responded to them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” But, as often was the case, the authorities did not understand what Jesus was saying, that he was referring to his own body and not to a building. In that short sentence, Jesus was revealing his divine nature to the world, that he would be crucified and resurrected, and that he is to become the new Temple of God. And, by extension, that the whole world is to become God’s Temple, as members of the body of Christ.

The disciples’ reaction, on the other hand, was quite different from that of the authorities. They immediately sensed the presence of the Messiah before them in remembering a phrase from Psalm 69: “Zeal for your house will consume me.” This psalm was understood by the Jews of the day to be a reference to the Messiah, and to them the dramatic act they had just witnessed was certainly the act of one who was consumed with zeal for his father’s house. It is this phrase that really captured my attention as I prayed with this reading over the past few weeks. And, in particular, those two words - zeal and consume - struck me. I consulted Webster’s dictionary, which informed me that zeal is “eagerness and ardent interest in pursuit of something,” and that a synonym for zeal is passion. And for the word ardent Webster lists fiery, hot, shining, and glowing. 

So, indeed, this phrase from Psalm 69 seems an apt description for Jesus; he most certainly was consumed with zeal for his father’s - for his - house. But what about me, and you? Do I live my life as a Christian, and as a monk - and you, whatever your vocation - with zeal? Do we let our love of God, of Christ, consume us? Do we fully turn ourselves over to God’s love as the driving force in all that we do? These aren’t easy questions, and they are perhaps even a bit scary to imagine saying an unequivocal yes to, but they did strike me as good questions for Lent, this season when we are prompted to self-examination, to an extra measure of prayer, to repentance, and to re-establishing a right relationship with God.

That one, intriguing phrase from Psalm 69 inspired me to go and read the entire psalm, which only intensified my thoughts about how the disciples saw this man Jesus in the Temple and about how I am spending these days of Lent with him. I will read just a few verses from that psalm, and, as you listen, hear the voice of the Messiah speaking to God:

It is zeal for your house that has consumed me; the insults of those
who insult you have fallen on me.
When I humbled my soul with fasting, they insulted me for doing so.
When I made sackcloth my clothing, I became a byword to them.
I am the subject of gossip for those who sit in the gate, and the
drunkards make songs about me.
But as for me, my prayer is to you, O Lord. At an acceptable time, O
God, in the abundance of your steadfast love, answer me.

I imagined Jesus uttering those last words in his prayer at Gethsemane. And an image came to my mind of Jesus humbling his soul with fasting during his forty days in the wilderness just after his baptism and as the enormity of his mission unfolded before him. All these images - of Jesus in his zeal in the Temple, consumed by passion for his father; being driven into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit; sitting in profound humility and prayer in the garden - sprang from John’s rich telling of Jesus cleansing the Temple and from his tiny reference to a psalm. John’s words and images have enlivened my experience of Lent, helping me draw closer to Jesus in his journey to the cross. May you also find John’s words inspiring for your own Lenten journey, and, ultimately, may we all be led to share in the zeal of Christ as inhabitants and caretakers and worshipers in his new Temple.

Christmas Eve - Dec 24, 2014

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Peter Rostron, OHC

Christmas 1 B, Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Isaiah 9:2-7 
Titus 2:11-14 
Luke 2:1-14(15-20) 

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God

Well, our wait is over. Christmas is here. This is indeed a joyous day and season, and it has me thinking back to my Christmas holidays as a child. The season of Advent, as I remember it, took a distant second place compared to “the big day,” and what I was waiting for then is quite different than what I wait for now as an adult and as a monk. Back then, the main business of Advent was making sure my list of gifts was complete so that Santa Claus, and later my parents, would know what to leave for me under the tree. There was the anticipation of a vacation from school and perhaps some snow to go along with it. There was a tree to buy, and there were decorations to put up. There were Christmas songs playing on the radio, holiday performances at school, houses covered in lights, and, of course, the big holiday television programs: Frosty the Snowman, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. And movies like Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol, and It’s a Wonderful Life.

Today, as my Christian faith has matured and as I move further along in my monastic vocation, my experience of Advent and Christmas is quite different than it was then. It is quieter and simpler and it is about the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ rather than about getting and giving all the right gifts. And I’ve been pondering how these two different versions of Christmas might be related to one another. How do my childhood past and my adult present mesh as experiences of the same event? And what might that say about this event of Christmas? 

A useful approach, I thought, might be to look at the stories that belong to each of them. Consider those old TV shows and movies, which are still remarkably popular today. They certainly do not seem to have much to do with the birth of Jesus, yet they genuinely resonate with people at this time of year, and they do seem to offer some of what Jesus represents: forgiveness, repentance, love, generosity, charity, even eternal life. Frosty melts away but lives on in the children’s hearts. The Grinch has a complete change of heart and becomes a loving and generous figure. George Bailey is pulled from the depths of despair to a renewed love of life by his guardian angel, Clarence. Even now, I still think of these stories fondly. They may not be biblical, but they do sit well as companions to a celebration of Christ’s life because of the truths that they speak.

And that is the essence and the function of a story: to speak truth to us, to tell us something about our condition, about our lives, about our hopes and fears and loves. And this is true for works of fiction or nonfiction, for books or movies, and regardless of whether or not they present actual events or accurate facts. Today’s gospel reading was a story of Jesus’s birth told by Luke. There is a different story in the gospel of Matthew. And even though these two stories are different in fact and detail, both speak the truth, of the miraculous birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Of an angel reassuring someone to not be afraid and giving them a path or a course of action to follow. Of people going on a journey in search of safety or new life. Of a child being born who is the Messiah. It’s not really important if this child was born in a barn or in a room in a house, nor whether it was shepherds or wise men or kings who came to greet him and to proclaim him. Whatever the details, the one truth that we are remembering and reliving tonight, the birth of the Messiah, comes to life in Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels. By immersing ourselves in these stories, we bring an event from 2000 years ago into the present. We experience some of the joy, amazement, hope, and love of that moment when Joseph and Mary welcomed their newborn son, the son of God.

And in doing so, this story of Jesus’s birth becomes part of our own story, our own truth. For stories do not exist just on paper or on film or, now, stored in digital files. They are being acted out all around us, and we soak them up. They play an integral role in how we see ourselves and how we make decisions. Consciously or not, we visualize ourselves in stories, we identify with characters, and our own decisions and behavior are inspired by the events in stories - in books we read, in TV shows and movies we watch, even in the gossip we hear and the video games we play and the sporting events we attend. We are immersed in stories, we absorb elements of them, and we are shaped by them as we write the stories of our own lives. 

The birth of Jesus is the foundational story for us as Christians: God in human form. It is the essence of our faith that we are the body of Christ, that Jesus exists within each of us. I believe that when we celebrate and relive the birth of Christ at Christmas we are, in part, celebrating and reliving our own birth. And our own birth was and is part of God’s greater act of creation that is still ongoing. This is a living story, and it includes us. The universe is still expanding, and God is still creating, creating new life and new ideas and new ways of being. We are his agents in the world. You know that intense feeling of joy that one can experience in the presence of a newborn baby. That is a reflection, I believe, of a deep-seated awareness that we are each still in the process of being born, or perhaps you might say re-born, and Jesus with us. We desire and are capable of feeling the same freshness and sense of infinite possibility that sits at the beginning of a newborn’s life. Unlike a baby, of course, we are not innocent. We have a lifetime of accumulated hurts and disappointments and regrets and sins. As we stand in the presence of the newborn baby Jesus at Christmas, we are reminded of our intimate connection with God, of the joy of new life within us, of God’s creation within us. Jesus’s story is our story. Jesus’s birth is our birth.

That is the magic of Christmas. This baby, Jesus, was a great gift to us from God, a gift that is God, given by our creator as the most concrete expression of love imaginable or possible. It was given in the form of a man with the hope that through his life as God incarnate we might be freed from sin and shown the way to eternal life. The only way for us to make sense of and record and share such an amazing act is through the telling of a story. And this story of Jesus’s birth, whether it is Matthew’s or Luke’s or some combination thereof, is a story for and about and of us. And even those other Christmas stories - the ones told by cartoon specials and old black and white movies, the story of Santa Claus, and even our modern, misguided story of a consumerist frenzy of shopping and gift-giving - can be traced back to the same, single truth: the truth of God’s boundless love for us. The truth that was fully revealed to us in the birth of the baby Jesus: the ultimate gift, the ultimate story, a story worthy of being told and lived over and over again, forever. Merry Christmas!

Proper 27 A - Nov 9, 2014

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Proper 27 A, Sunday, November 9, 2014

Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-16

1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

Matthew 25:1-13

The Ten Bridesmaids

For the past several weeks, the Sunday gospel readings have been from Matthew’s account of Jesus preaching in and around the temple in the final days before his crucifixion and resurrection. What has struck me most has been the sense of urgency and exasperation in Jesus’s words and actions. In a section the lectionary happens to skip, Jesus exclaims, “You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you? How much longer must I put up with you?” His first act upon entering Jerusalem was to violently overturn the tables of the merchants and money changers in the temple. He went on to tell a series of parables that convey the consequences of the people’s continued disregard for God: about tenants who killed the landowner’s son, about invited guests who were too busy to come to the king’s wedding banquet, about two women grinding meal together where one will be taken and one will be left at the end. In the face of fierce challenges by the chief priests and Pharisees, Jesus responds with biting intensity: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!” “You make the new convert twice as much a child of hell as yourselves.” And, echoing John the Baptist, “you snakes, you brood of vipers!” Jesus knows that his time on earth is running out, and it is urgent that he get his message across to “this faithless and perverse generation.”

Yet, I believe his sense of urgency and frustration is a reflection of the depth of his love for all humanity: the people alive in his day, those already asleep in the earth, and all who were yet to come, including us. There was in Jesus’s time, as there is now, a separation between God and the people, and God’s greatest desire, through his son Jesus Christ, was and is, for them and for us, to be God’s hands in creating God’s kingdom on earth. Jesus may have been frustrated with the people as his earthly days came to an end, but his infinite and passionate love for them transcended that. It is with that in mind that we can view the story of the ten bridesmaids. It is another of the parables of the past few weeks that conveys this dual sense of frustration but also love, of urgency but also hope, that I believe Jesus felt.

The final statement of this parable – “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour." – conveys one of the key messages of the parable. Keep awake. Or, as I learned in Boy Scouts, be prepared, which certainly five of those bridesmaids were not. On the one hand, it seems harsh that those five foolish bridesmaids, who did not bring extra oil for their lamps, were not helped by their friends. Christ taught compassion, to help those in need. But before the act of helping a person in need can bear any fruit, I believe that person must also want to help themselves. They must play a role in their own salvation, if only by simply loving God within themselves and having a desire to know God. Those five bridesmaids did not display any care for themselves by failing to carry the extra oil needed to keep their lamps lit. They simply assumed that, at the last minute, someone else would step in to help them, with no effort of their own needed. They were indeed foolish, unprepared to do what was required of them to meet the bridegroom. As a result, their separation from God was made permanent. They were excluded from the kingdom.

The other five bridesmaids, who did bring oil for their lamps, were described as wise. And that, for me, is the second key message of this parable. Keep awake, and seek wisdom. The great significance and virtue of this pursuit is reflected in the existence of an entire collection of books in the Bible known as the wisdom books. We heard from one of them, the Wisdom of Solomon, this morning. Sometimes in those books, the person of wisdom, Sophia, speaks directly to us. I would like to add to what we heard earlier. In chapter eight of the book of Proverbs, we hear her say, “The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago. Ages ago I was set up, at the first, before the beginning of the earth. When there were no depths I was brought forth, when there were no springs abounding with water...When he established the heavens, I was there...When he marked out the foundations of the earth...I was beside him, like a master worker, and I was daily his delight.” I am always astonished at this portrayal of wisdom as a companion of Jesus. “In the beginning was the word,” and wisdom. Wisdom is essential in a journey to encounter God. It is to the wisdom of five of those bridesmaids that Jesus is calling our attention. It is in their wisdom that they were prepared for the arrival of the bridegroom. Keep awake, and seek wisdom.

A third aspect of this parable that intrigues me is the anticipation and joy it reflects, especially in the phrase, “Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.” It is a joy similar to that which we experience as we anticipate the birth of Jesus during the season of Advent, which is just around the corner. “Look! Here is the Christ child! Come out to meet him.” It strikes me that we can view our experience of reading the parable of the bridesmaids, as well as the other parables in this section of Matthew’s gospel, as a kind of parallel, or prelude, to Advent. Rather than anticipating and welcoming the coming of the infant Jesus, we instead are anticipating his departure, and his resurrection, and his coming again. Of course, we consider these events later in the church year during Lent, but I’m thinking about them now not with the sense of grief and loss, and with the acts of penance, that fill Lent, but rather with feelings of preparation and enthusiasm, with a sense of joy in what resurrection will bring.

Keep awake, Seek wisdom, Joyfully await my coming. Those, to me, are the messages Jesus is speaking through his parable of the ten bridesmaids. They are part of Jesus’s larger message given throughout his final days before crucifixion and resurrection. Keep awake! Pay attention! Listen! This is important! The shepherds and the wise men acted in this manner and thus were present to bear witness to Christ’s first coming into the world. Before we celebrate and relive their experience next month as a new church year begins, we are being asked now to pay attention to Christ’s departure from this world, to keep awake, seek wisdom, and joyfully await our own resurrection when he comes again.

Proper 21 A - Sep 28, 2014

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Peter Rostron, OHC
Proper 21 A, Sunday, September 28, 2014

Exodus 17:1-7
Philippians 2:1-13
Matthew 21:23-32

Rublev's Trinity

What do I believe? Well, I believe that this building will remain standing today. I believe that the bank will safeguard the monastery’s money. And I believe that my brothers would care for me if I became ill. I maintain these beliefs because I willingly put my trust in others. Construction workers, the town’s building codes and inspectors, the bank, and the prior of this monastery all have my trust, which means they also have some degree of power or control over me by virtue of their control of things that are important to my well-being, such as money, health care, shelter, and safety. Having power or control means having authority. There are, in fact, a great many people, institutions, and systems that have authority over us because they have our trust, because we believe they will be there for us and will ensure our well-being. Some of them, like the examples I gave, are readily apparent, while others exert very subtle power and control: advertisements, movies and television shows, news stories, peer behavior, family expectations. We all live within a great landscape of beliefs and authorities, most of which we have freely chosen or have willingly given our trust.

This leads us, then, to the question: Where does God fit into this landscape of beliefs and authority? We are Christians because we believe that Jesus was God incarnate, fully possessing God’s authority on earth. The chief priests and elders did not share that belief. In today’s gospel reading, they challenged Jesus’s authority, and he brilliantly turned that challenge back on them. Although they could not come up with an answer, they were, unknowingly, submitting to God’s authority in Jesus simply by accepting the challenge and attempting to respond. Furthermore, in their state of unbelief, they felt their own power and authority being threatened, and they lived in fear of those people who did believe in Jesus and in his forerunner, John the Baptist. The gospel passage ends with Jesus pointing out to the chief priests and elders that their unbelief would put them last in line behind the tax collectors and the prostitutes. He makes it clear that, even though God, in John the Baptist and in Jesus, is in fact their ultimate authority, their choice whether to believe that or not matters greatly in their lives, and our choice matters just as much.

So, Jesus is challenging us: What do you believe? Do you fully believe that God is your ultimate authority? It is easy to say the words, I believe, but what does that really mean? Do we really live our lives as if that is the case? Jesus’s parable about the father and his two sons makes the point that beliefs are expressed more through actions than words. So, perhaps What do I believe? might better be translated into What do I do? Do I volunteer to serve the poor at my church or in my neighborhood? Am I enticed by the latest advertising to spend too much money on the latest gadget or fashion? Do I write letters or attend rallies or make phone calls or convince my friends to push for greater social and economic and environmental justice? Do I spend time other than Sundays reading the Bible or other spiritual works and in prayer? Am I careful to always recycle and turn off the lights when leaving a room and consolidate errands into one trip? Do I treat others, even strangers, with genuine kindness and patience? 

Answering these kinds of questions can give us a window into our beliefs. We may not entirely like what we see, but we are, after all, imperfect, and God knows this. God calls us back to him again and again in mercy and forgiveness, knowing that we will never get there until our last day. But in the striving, we will strengthen our belief. So we should remember to be gentle on ourselves, but also to keep moving toward God, aiming to give God full authority in our lives and to make our actions truer reflections of our belief in God. For us to know God’s mercy and his will for us, though, we must listen closely for God’s voice.

I keep in my choir stall this small icon of Rublev’s Trinity. I’ll leave it up here afterward in case you want a better look. It depicts the three angels who visited Abraham and told him that Sarah would bear a son. That icon is also often interpreted as a representation of the Holy Trinity: the Son seated in the center with the Father and the Holy Spirit on either side. As I sat in my stall during my first profession of the monastic vow in July, the angels spoke to me. They told me how glad they were that I was finally taking a seat at the table with them. I had been standing by the table for quite awhile, but now I was choosing to place myself firmly in their company, more fully ready to listen to and interact with them. This astonished me, and I interpret it is a reflection to me of the state of my beliefs. It deepened my belief that God loves me, that God invites me to sit with him, and that he wants me to be an agent of his love in the world. I’m still working out exactly what that means, but God’s call has already led me to this monastery, as it is now leading me to pursue a course of study, starting in just a few days in fact, that I hope will enable me to work as a chaplain in a hospital or hospice.

Abraham turned from the chores that undoubtedly kept him busy in the camp in order to offer hospitality to three strangers. He listened to God in those three strangers, and he believed and acted. Moses turned from his path to pay attention to a bush ablaze with light. That was the beginning of an amazing, ongoing relationship, and we heard in our first reading today one example of Moses listening to God, believing, and then acting. Jesus listened to God in profound prayer and, as we heard today so eloquently expressed in Paul’s letter to the Philippians, in extreme humility, and he believed and acted. You and I, of course, are present-day, ordinary humans. We are not Abraham or Moses or Jesus, so perhaps we can be satisfied with setting our sights a little bit lower than theirs. But we can certainly use them as inspirations for what it means to listen to God’s word, to believe in the presence of God within us, and to act in accordance with God’s will for us.

So that is it, boiled down into three words: Listen, believe, and act. That is Jesus’s challenge to us, and in doing so we will enable God’s authority to bear fruit in our lives. There are angels and burning bushes all around, we need only choose to turn and listen. That requires that we pay attention to what is truly important. The angels and burning bushes aren’t always the loudest or brightest things around us. There are many voices competing for our attention, so we must filter out and silence those that lead us to what might be called false beliefs, in order to focus on the still, small voice of God. So take care, then, where and in whom you place your trust. Be intentional in whom and in what you give authority in your life. Be aware of the power of the words you use, but know that your actions are the greater reflection of your beliefs. Listen, believe, and act with God as the ultimate authority in your life.