Showing posts with label Randy Greve. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Randy Greve. Show all posts

Sunday, March 9, 2025

The First Sunday in Lent C, March 9, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The First Sunday in Lent - March 9, 2025



Lent is the summons to renewal, repentance, and transformation.  And whether we have observed Lent for decades or this is our first time, the invitation is the same - examine ways of being that are incomplete, inadequate, dead, and go deeper.  We begin at the beginning: what is the spiritual journey?  What is life in God?  Is it the pursuit of a state of blissful separation from the slings and arrows of lesser existence?  Is it an escape plan from trials, suffering, anxiety?  Is the purpose of gathering here to be protected from all that happens outside these walls, enclosed safely and securely in God’s care, even if for an hour?  Are we escaping something or changing something?  Are we being comforted or empowered?  And as we look at the state of the country, do we circle the wagons or storm the gates?  
The life of Jesus of Nazareth was neither withdrawal nor attack, which were the dominant strategies of his day as well as ours.  He did not flee the realities of life under Roman occupation.  He did not align with the zealots who fought it.  His life is a new thing, a new template for human life as trust in God which he called the kingdom or reign of God.  His temptations in the wilderness have the power to reorient us out of the twin dangers of denial and enmeshment.  
The wilderness is the place of exposure, vulnerability, wildness.  In the Bible, the outside is often a symbol of what is going on inside.  Trust in God is summoned in the raw, untamed place of the land and the heart.  This is not a comfortable retreat that is interrupted by the pesky presence of the adversary.  Conscious and prayerful solitude in God’s presence brings up temptations. Presence is a free choice and temptation accompanies all free choices.  There is no freedom without the presence of temptation.  Compulsion is not freedom.  Authentic presence to God in myself is chosen, never automatic.  Real choice by definition includes the option of saying, “no” to that presence.  So the option of resisting God, of avoiding God, of going unconscious rather than being present to God must appear if the “yes” to God is to be authentic.  We can discern from the reading that Jesus was authentically present to God because he was tempted.  
I do not imagine that a being with horns and a pitchfork appeared to him in the wilderness and began to offer him something appealing.  The temptations came from his own conscience.  It somehow occurred to him that he could change stones to bread or rule the earth or perform some spectacular sign to impress the masses.  These ideas appealed to him.  In his wrestling with the nature of his message, the nature of authentic love and humility, of power and transformation, the alternatives appear.  Why not change the stones or worship the devil or throw himself off the temple?  Good questions.  Jesus faced the temptations as temptations.  He related to them, not from them.  He did not avoid or attack.  He discerned and made a choice.  
What is new in Jesus is the source and nature of his renunciation of the temptations.  The gospel gives us Jesus’ reply to these thoughts.  Jesus does NOT say, “I can’t change these stones to bread because that would be wrong. I am not allowed to do that. I am not bad, but good, and I must, must make good choices at all times, no matter what, no matter how hungry I am.”  In reply to this and the other two temptations, he recalls something greater than what the devil offers.  He rejects the temptations because they are illusory.  He can see that they are both appealing and illusory.  The temptations are a quick fix, but they are too small, too transitory.  Jesus is committed to cosmic, eternal things.  In renouncing temptation, he affirms who he is - he chooses to be himself.  He is the faithful and obedient Son, and from that identity he discerns and chooses.  He does not become himself because he resists the temptation. He resists because he knows who he is.
This manner of understanding the inner meaning of the story makes it applicable to us.  For those of us who are good, moral, churchgoing types, our temptations are probably not going to come as theft, robbery, assault, murder, adultery, etc…. Our temptations will usually come in more subtle and venial kinds of sin: inordinate pleasure, greed, materialism, judgment, self-righteousness, apathy, coldness of heart, failure to love as we could.  Remember that in prayer is temptation. In temptation is the awakening to the choice of our identity.
We face our temptations as temptations, not denying or running away, not averse to the wounded parts of ourselves, but facing all that we are.  You and I have sinned in part because the sin provided something that appealed to us, some means of getting something we wanted.  It worked, for some brief moment, anyway.  And so we have violated ourselves and one another and rejected God’s love.  The will to act contrary to God, which is contrary to ourselves, resides within us.  I am not wholehearted all the time.  I am good at inventing temptations for myself.  I have no problem rationalizing my way into why the temptation is actually a good idea.  The temptation sounds just fine.  I sometimes want to be someone else, with more power and autonomy, access to the quick fix and the instant gratification, especially if there is a chance I can get away with it.
We can avoid temptation - at least most of them.  It is possible, but costly.  We can choose to repress our human desires, disengage from the responsibilities of freedom and choice, find false solace in a pseudo-spirituality of legalism and denial.  This is the core temptation of good people - to fixate on our own self-image of goodness to such an extent that we lose contact with the potential for sin, and so lose our freedom.  It is possible to look and even outwardly act holy, but not be fully human.  What this dangerous path denies is the deeper truth under the temptation.  Because we become our choices, our individually custom-fitted temptations are clues into who we are and must continue to choose to be.  We do not grow in holiness by becoming less human, less free, but by freely choosing to trust God in the face of temptation because that is who we are.  
Jesus as the model fully-human One obeyed the Spirit and went into the wilderness.  He faces temptation as the obedient Son. Because he knows he is the beloved, he chooses to act as the beloved.  Our wilderness temptings will expose our false identities and confront us with the full reality of what it means to be human.  Denial and avoidance is a refusal to be fully human.  The presence of temptation does not make us less human.  Temptation awakens us to the cost of freedom.  Ignoring our sinful desires does not make them go away.  It is not sinful to think about what I could get by sinning.  A good self check-in question is, “what do I want?”  For Jesus, the answers were bread, power, and fame.  Now ask, “what do I want under what I want?”  What is the gold under the temptation?  For Jesus, the deeper commitment was fellowship and obedience to his Father through self-giving, sacrificial love.  And because he knew and was united to that, he could renounce bread, power, and fame.  Fear can be converted into faithful service.  Lust into healthy intimacy.  Greed into vulnerable simplicity.  Vengeance into prayer for enemies and wrongdoers.  What do I want under what I want?  
The wilderness is the space to undergo the stripping of our illusions and the unmasking of our false self-images.  We neither withdraw nor attack.  In facing our full humanity, we can choose to be fully ourselves.  In this stripping, God gives us back to ourselves in full divine image - made of love and blessing while also capable of hate and cursing, made to reflect glory, yet often choosing to deny that glory - and in it all never separated from the love that sees and knows us.  Give us the grace, Lord Christ, to be real and truly who we are and the power to always choose to be who you have made us to be. Amen.

Sunday, December 8, 2024

The Second Sunday of Advent C - December 8, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The Second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024



Every year in early November, a local radio station changes its usual music format to Christmas music.  I know this because when I am driving somewhere, I will occasionally surf the radio and land on this station. I scan the stations based on what is not commercials.  It may just be me, but since the presidential election and in the context of ongoing political division, as the fabric of civility is tearing and many relationships are fracturing, I feel more dread than usual (and I usually feel a lot). When I lit upon this station a few days ago, I was surprised to note that not only was I cheating by listening to Christmas music before Christmas, but I did not even enjoy cheating.  I was actually repulsed by it.  Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole singing to me about mistletoe and tree tops glistening and sleigh bells in the snow made me want to drive the car into a light pole.   It is like having a DJ at a funeral reception.  Perhaps in more optimistic times the themes of abundance and togetherness, peace and goodwill that come through so many of these songs are in harmony with the cultural moment, but not now.  At that moment it all rang hollow and empty. I pushed the power button and turned it off.
Pumped into our blood from every media entry point is the lure of commercialism that promises we can conjure the emotions we believe we are supposed to feel - “be merry”, “celebrate”, “holly jolly”, the songs hypnotize us over and over.  Their prescription for our discontent is that if we are experiencing grief or loss, fear or dread, conflict, strife, anxiety about the future of our families, churches, politics, then another cup of cheer will fix everything - or at least we can forget about our and the world's problems - at least for a while.  And that is the best we can hope for.  The capitalistic system is a dealer in Christmas as escapist fantasy.  Sorry, Bing, but not all our days will be merry and bright, nor will all our Christmases be white.  Life does not work that way.
If we are to faithfully prepare room in our hearts for the coming of God incarnate, and if that preparation can open us to welcome that coming with great joy, then we are in need of something more substantive than nostalgia and sentimentality.  Divine discontent, which is what I think I was experiencing at that moment, is discontent at quick and shallow fixes.  This is a good thing and can actually prepare us for deeper conversion.   Advent is the opposite of escapist fantasy.  That is why it is usually awkward.  Primed as we are for the standard fare of instant gratification, the church sets us unflinchingly inside the tension, the contradiction of the reality of hope and salvation alongside the reality of sin and suffering.  Can joy come from a contradiction?  The proclamation of salvation ought never ask us to cheer up, get over it, feel what we do not feel, deny reality, believe what we cannot quite believe - that is mind control, not good news. What is on offer is the invitation to dwell in Christ with all our thoughts and emotions, our doubts and pains, our expectations and hopes and to be fully, deeply, knowingly engaged in our actual life experience.  
What, then, does joy really mean?  Am I doomed to be Scrooge forever, or could my association with joy as an external mood, mere emotion, be inadequate?  The Collect and the epistle lesson for today give us some profound wisdom on this question.  The Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent asks God for the grace of repentance which prepares the way for greeting with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.  In the reading from Saint Paul’s letter to the Philippians, which is included for this Sunday because of its mention of joy, Paul writes, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.”  Both the Collect and Philippians root joy in God’s activity and our choice to recognize and participate in good work blooming in and around us. Joy is the gift of the glimpse of God’s goodness which has begun to set the world right. We receive joy when we stop; stop acting, numbing, avoiding, or pretending and start opening, anticipating, and receiving.
Saint Paul’s joy for the community in Philippi came from his care for them and his trust in the power of the gospel.  What he saw and knew was the triumph of the grace at work in their hearts. No Caesar, no empire, no violence, no persecution or chain or martyrdom (try as they might across the centuries) no division, no scandal, no heresy could thwart the power of God to effect good in willing hearts.  Those things harm and are tragic, but they are no obstacle to Christ.  When he saw that, joy flowed up out of him in the lavish, unbounded love of Christ who will never leave us or forsake us.  He never denies or minimizes his suffering, he is still in prison.  He never presents life in Christ as a program to escape reality. His joy is in the truth that the suffering cannot, will never, quench the power of that presence and mystery. “This present suffering is not to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us”, he writes to the Romans.
Joy is the effect of offering and entrusting our lives and the life of the world to the one who is its source and end. Our source intends our flourishing and growth and our end is bound up in an end to all suffering and crying and pain.  Let not the power of joy be cheapened by its cheap imitations - it is a gift much richer than mere cheerfulness and positivity. It is honest and real, includes melancholy and sadness, grief and loneliness, but gathers up our longing and cries, our blessings and riches - indeed our whole lives - into the promise of the redemption of the world.  The deepest, most soulful peace and fulfillment we can experience is that the unstoppable goodness of God in our lives is more wondrous and beautiful than we can imagine and will be ours for eternity.
So, we may not feel as cheerful this year.  The groanings of the world - in creation, in our bodies, in our care for each other - these groans and sighs and tears last for a time.  We must groan when we need to groan.  But only new creation is ultimate and is our hope and home. In the foretaste of that promise now and to come, we rejoice.  In our patient endurance, in our faithful witness, joy beckons in and over it all.   Grieve, but refuse to despair; be discontented, but continue to bear witness to the gospel; lament, but guard against becoming bitter.  Welcome joy when it emerges in you - do not stifle it. But know that it may come at a time and in a way that does not follow a schedule.  It may surprise you.  Greet it openly and humbly when it appears - it is a precious gift from God. Amen.

Sunday, October 13, 2024

The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost B - October 13, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 23 B, October 13, 2024



“Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”
Christ has come to inaugurate the way of life, which he calls the kingdom of God or the kingdom of heaven. He inaugurates through power.  His power is the power of love. He expresses love in the way he invites and liberates; in his surrendering and suffering love.  He does not inaugurate by domination and never uses power over to impose, coerce, or control.  The way of life comes in freedom, or it does not come at all.  His freedom in inviting meets our freedom in responding. Each of us chooses to enter or we do not enter at all.  He calls forth the desire in every human heart for meaning, hope, community, purpose, and promise and reveals that this very desire has its source and end in God.  Being created by God and for God, we discover our true identity, our true home in responding to the invitation to follow the way of life and receive the gift of life, real life.  We bear the divine image and no substitute identity will ever satisfy.  Jesus appeals to our goodness, enlivens our longings, and illuminates the obstacles within and around us on the path to life. The gates are always open to any who will hear the call to repent, be liberated, be unburdened from the weight of attachment to the transitory and the temporal, and come. 
 Christ welcomes so-called “sinners” into the way of life.  In the gospels, they almost always know their need, seek him out.  Many in the out groups seek out Jesus, touch him, call to him, cry to him, interrupt him, get in his way as they discover in him the power to restore their dignity and their hope.  He relieves their pain, reconciles them from their status as outcasts, as unclean and sends them joyfully back into community and connection. For those of us who in some way or at some time have been outsiders or the victims of prejudice and judgment and met by a Christ who loved and accepted us, we know that the power that brought life to the lepers and demon possessed, the prostitutes and tax collectors, can and does bring power today in the hearts of so many who experience harm.
The gospels also include another kind of conversion story.  The so-called “insiders” are invited into the way of life as well.  In the religious culture of Jesus’ day, the religious elites, the rich, those with positions of power thought of themselves and were believed to be blessed by God - they had arrived into the realm of the “converted” because they were not “sinners” or “unclean”.  These are often, but not always, those who are scandalized, confused, or, because he represents a threat, oppose Jesus.  For Jesus, “no” is an answer. Today’s gospel is a story from this second group.  This man sees the world through the lens of his status and wealth. Eternal life is a possession like all my other possessions and I can obtain it like I have obtained all my other possessions - by some act, or price, some access to improving my insider status.  He is not in need of the same kind of compassionate, healing touch that the leper or demon-possessed need. His pain is more in his heart than on his skin.  His isolation is more spiritual than social.  His sense of emptiness hidden and buried under the illusions that his possessions can satisfy.  Yet, even if the awareness is only a glimmer, the ache of dissatisfaction only a faint echo that appears in the silence of the night, he still desires real life.  The desire is inescapable, relentless, haunting the edges of his storehouses and treasure chests, refusing to leave him alone.  He is in need. He has money. He will satisfy his need like he has satisfied every other need. Jesus surprises him. Jesus’ response is about to send him away in shock and grief.  
Entrance to life costs.  The kingdom exacts a price.  In our myriad delusions about our identities and our own programs for individual happiness, we keep ourselves outside, resist life.  We may believe we desire life, but not act in ways that lead to life.  Jesus presents no utopian vision of instant bliss. The way to the kingdom is a narrow, difficult, and winding way.  We may seek to avoid the difficulty and search for an easy road, for cheap grace. We may desire entry through power or status, money or education.  We may rely on seeking moral goodness or conformity to social norms of purity for special access.  These are dead ends that seduce us into believing we have capacities we do not actually have, means to negotiate what we want at a sale price.  But Christ in his grace brokers no shortcuts, no exceptions, no earning or deserving our way in by what we have or do.  The way to life is not a philosophy, an ethic, or the accumulation of good deeds. It is surrender, emptying, death and resurrection. Whatever I bring with me to the entrance to life to get me in are the very things I must leave in order to be made ready for entrance.  Entry is a continual process.  I am always only beginning to enter the kingdom - never arriving, never possessing its fullness in this age.  Therefore the way to life is a scandal, a crisis, and a gift. The crisis is to surrender whatever appears as essential to meaning in order to receive the true gift which is the actual fulfillment of meaning.  We are all too eager to fixate on the instant, the easy. Jesus warns that these are illusions which in fact are obstacles to the most valuable way of being, obstacles to real life.
As modern listeners the temptation is often to hear the text in order to get an answer or to follow an instruction - bridge the meaning into our world by reducing the story into mere moralisms, yet more performing and achieving and being good. Such a response misses the deeper truth.  Life is discovered not in having, but in belonging. And we cannot be attached to anything and receive the gift of belonging at the same time.  Jesus says, “It is you I want for myself, not anything you may accomplish. I will not rest until all of you is enlivened by love and grace and you abide in the fullness of your glory as beloved sons and daughters made in God’s image.” We enter life by allowing the burning away of all that cannot enter, until we walk through with empty hands, claiming no rights, hiding nothing.  It is precisely by owning up to and inhabiting our void that we are offering ourselves up to God’s mercy. The invitation to this man and to us is what Eugene Peterson calls a centered, submissive way of life.  He writes,
“Americans in general have little tolerance for a centering way of life that is submissive to the conditions in which growth takes place: quiet, obscure, patient, not subject to human control and management. The church is uneasy in these conditions. Typically it adapts itself to the prevailing American culture and is soon indistinguishable from that culture: talkative, noisy, busy, controlling, image-conscious.” 
So this other kind of conversion, the conversion of those of us who enjoy some level of possession and status and goodness, is to be utterly stripped, dispossessed, emptied, made void, plunged into the terrifying emptiness, consumed by God’s love, offered up to God’s mercy, and then given away. Self-sufficiency, the impulse to dominate, hoard, defend, control all die on the cross with Christ.  Then the seeds of life - searching for good, receptive soil in which to root - will appear green and full. We will become generous, free, receptive people so that we might enjoy the riches of God’s goodness in God’s good world more abundantly.  Then we will receive good things as gifts to be shared. 
“Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age…and in the age to come eternal life.” Amen.




Thursday, July 11, 2024

The Feast of Saint Benedict, July 11, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The Feast of Saint Benedict, July 11, 2024


Thomas Moore, not the nineteenth century Irish poet Thomas Moore, but the contemporary author and speaker who is best known for his book Care of the Soul, wrote a book in 1994 which I read the following year. It was a memorable gift in those years.  Meditations: On the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life, is a series of short thoughts, memories, parables, and experiences mainly focused on Moore’s time as a monk in his twenties. One memorable parable has lingered in my mind for years:

“Three monks knelt in the chapel in the dark morning hours before dawn. The first thought he saw the figure of Jesus come down from the cross and rest before him in midair. Finally, he said to himself, I know what contemplation is. The second felt himself rise out of his place in the chair. He soared over his brother monks and surveyed the timber-vaulted ceiling of the church, and then landed back in his place in the choir. I’ve been blessed, he thought, with a minor miracle, but in humility I must keep it to myself. The third felt his knees growing sore and his legs tired. His mind wandered until it came to a stop on the image of a luscious hamburger laden with onions and pickles. ‘No matter how hard I try’, said the devil’s helper to his master, ‘I can’t seem to tempt this third monk.’”

I remember being baffled by this story when I first read it almost thirty years ago.  I wanted contemplation, I wanted the miracle - or at least my image of them.  Hamburgers do not belong in prayer - they are for eating, not praying. 

It is somewhat ironic, then, that the longer I ponder and live the Rule of Benedict, the more the hamburger appears in prayer.  Does Moore have a point about the third monk?  Is the third monk onto something? 

St. Gregory the Great in his biography of St. Benedict is generally believed to be at least embellishing if not inventing miracle stories and pious legends about St. Benedict’s own miraculous powers and mystical experiences.  St. Benedict seemed to have had more than the average number of visions and miracles. At the time, those were signs of spiritual importance and power.  The Rule itself, curiously, does not put much energy into knowing secrets and floating around.  The Rule is not even that interested in a thorough discourse of what prayer even is other than prayer should be sincere and short.  He is interested in a deeper reorientation.  The whole Rule is the living of prayer.  Our every thought, word, and deed is formative for relationship with God.  And the whole Rule is prayer because the Rule describes life and life is prayer.  And life is prayer because humans live life and to be human is to be being-in-communion.  St. Benedict takes as given that as creatures made in God’s image and crowned with glory and honor this is as obvious and as natural as breathing.  Life is the divine office and the world is the oratory.  Benedict’s gift and power is in unveiling before our distorted and blurry vision the sacredness of all of life, especially those activities which in their ordinariness reflect no obvious sign of God’s presence.  We may receive the gift of more immediate or direct encounters with God if God so chooses, but those experiences are the effect of daily faithfulness, not ends in themselves; they are opportunities for humility, not possessions to be held over the heads of those not so gifted.  The ultimate unfaithfulness for St. Benedict is to go about filling a cabinet full of trophies to my deep spirituality and profound maturity.  Rather, I can hear St. Benedict saying to the first and second monks in the parable, “You have had insight into some great mystery? Great, now go work in the fields.”  “You have received a minor miracle?  Be thankful and go wash the dishes.”  “So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."

What makes the third monk different (and I believe for St. Benedict truly holy) is an honest, earthy acceptance of his creatureliness as the ground of humility.  Moore’s language is quite precise on this point: the first monk knew something mysterious after a long search; the second monk received a miracle. But the third monk is different in that Moore says his mind wandered and came to stop on the image of the hamburger. The third monk is simply noticing, not grasping at or seeking to possess the hamburger, but noting the presence of the thought in a detached manner.  It is not that he is beyond temptation entirely, that would mean he was dead, but that he is conscious that everything belongs, he is not seeking to defend, perform, possess, or compete for or against anyone or anything in his praying.  He hears in Jesus’ admonish to give up possessions the wisdom that possession is impossible, so the deepest giving up is the illusion that I can possess in the first place.  The home toward which we are hastening is that human life where everything is received as a gift, where we are stewards of blessings not to be grasped or owned, but participated in and enjoyed.

In the Gospel reading the Lord is prodding us to take stock - estimate, consider.  If builders are thoughtful about their building supplies and kings about their troop strength, then how much more ought we to bring honest scrutiny to the realities which inform and shape our whole lives?  A conscious choice requires that our feet are planted on the ground, our ears are listening for the truth, our hearts are attuned to love.  

The greatest obstacle to conversion is my own fantasy land image of conversion. St. Benedict is allergic to any image of self or God which leads to escaping reality, rising above others, or enlisting God in my project of having the final, absolute answer to the mysteries of the divine.  As we estimate, consider, and then give up the illusions that get revealed in our honest assessment of ourselves, we find freedom - the freedom to unlearn habits of thought and action which are familiar, but which stifle our true selves.  Into our empty hands Christ places the gift of our incarnation to be celebrated and enjoyed in the abundance of the kingdom of heaven.  Eugene Peterson is channeling the spirit of St. Benedict in his paraphrase of the beginning of Romans 12 in the Message Bible: “So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life - your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking around life - and place it before God as an offering.”  Amen. 





Thursday, May 30, 2024

Corpus Christi - May 30, 2024

 Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
Corpus Christi, May 30, 2024
  • Deuteronomy 8:2-3
  • 1 Corinthians 11:23-29
  • John 6:47-58

The Bread of Life discourse in John 6 has read to me for a long time as a rough draft in need of a good editor.  The repetition especially seems like overkill.  But by digging a bit more into the context of the Johannine community, I have come to appreciate the motivation for the emphasis.  The scholarly consensus is that the community from which the gospel of John came were settled in Ephesus. Ephesus was an important center of pagan worship with a large temple and the ritual that went along with it.  The worship of Artemis provided social identity and cohesion.  If we were to go back in time and talk to a typical resident of Ephesus, he or she would describe a world in which the pagan gods were higher and more powerful than human beings and held the right to punish or bless.  Seeking through ritual sacrifice to appease the gods was a way to earn favor and avoid hardship and pain. Our imaginary Ephesian believed a great chasm is fixed between the realm of the gods and the realm of humans.  They believed that we earthly creatures are defined by our deficiencies - we lack immortality, we lack freedom from flesh and pain and death, we lack freedom.  
    The gods are our idealized selves, the truly free beings who have real power. By sharing in their benevolence we participate in those attributes and can aspire to escape our dreadful enfleshed state and touch the eternal, our true home.  Life is about the hope of escape and freedom from limits.
These beliefs are the backdrop to the gospel of John. The gospels' description of the incarnate Son of God is in every way the exact opposite theology of the pagan gods.  This deity does not escape flesh, but becomes it, does not find freedom by ascending above us, but by dwelling among us.  When the gospel is read as a renunciation of pagan theology by the revelation of the incarnation, it comes alive in a richer way. The Bread of Life repetition serves a rhetorical and catechetical function.  The Son of God is not one more addition to the program of sacrifice and appeasement. The Christ event is an utterly original and reorienting revelation of the nature of God in the world and our human vocation.  The minds of the new converts needed to be “de-paganized”, programmed as they were to see the world one way, now in Christ it is revealed as something else, with a truth, beauty, and goodness entered into by belief.  

How do I become a clean insider so that I may approach the Son of Man?  “whoever believes has eternal life”. Christ is not like that.
My social status and sin exclude me from participation in the life offered by Christ…  “whoever eats of this bread will live forever…” The Son of God welcomes whoever.
How can I climb up to reach Christ?  “This is the bread that comes down from heaven…” The incarnate Christ comes down to us, we do not go up to him.
    This life in Jesus is sent down into the Incarnate One to earth; from divinity, for humanity in whom Jesus is the great Reconciling One. The material and the earthly now become the means of embodying and reflecting life eternal now.  Jesus’ words and actions set out the contours of the human and divine relationship. We are made participants in the divine life through the initiative of God - not something we ascend to possess, but life that Christ descends to give freely, without respect for the person.  “Whoever” stresses the individuality and particularity of God’s gift in Christ; our true identity, our true home is found as we put ourselves inside this word, “whoever”.
    The narrative acknowledges the scandal and the stumbling block of believing and receiving: “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” The scandal is how the life offered is a great equalizer of human worth and value.  I cannot increase status or favor or value.  The fullness of the divine image is always already present and secured by God and cannot be revoked.  In believing, eating, and drinking, we are set into the wondrous glory and limit of being a creature made in the divine image, yet dependent on our creator.  Being truly human is cooperation, not competition.   To receive this gift is to believe that I am welcomed along with you. The scandal is that I am welcomed no differently, not ever less or more than you.  
    Christ’s “whoever-ing” of all humanity reveals the essential unity and shared glory of every human person.  Even as we differ in gifts, responsibilities, and roles, in Christ we eat and drink from the same gift offered in the same way to each of us.  For John and his community, life is not a new legalistic hierarchy of conformity, but a universal invitation of living as brother and sister in Christ.
To the extent that I receive this hospitality in and for me, I am formed to recognize and welcome in my brothers and sisters the same dignity and Christ-indwelt sacredness.  This mutual recognition faces difference and conflict in the context of our shared call by Christ and the need of Christ.  We express our positions and preserve boundaries and give and receive consequences and solve problems and reach consensus not with the goal of yielding power over the other, but in the assurance that our shared “whoever” is inviolable and that anything that denies or harms our mutual welcome cannot persist in the community.  
    As enmity, insult, and abuse engulf social discourse, perhaps hearing Saint John’s repetition is necessary.  As divisions swirl around us and rivalry would tear at our very humanity, the words of life ring with renewed prophetic hope.  To eat and drink and live is to renounce these evil powers and affirm our common dignity.
    The Holy Eucharist itself is the eternal now of this common receiving of the one gift of life offered as and by Christ equally with whoever is willing to believe and eat and drink.  As we gather as a eucharistic community, we are practicing the reception of one another in the reception of bread and wine.  Help us believe in your words, Lord Christ: “Bread of life, living bread, those who eat and drink have eternal life, abide in me, live forever.”  Amen.

Sunday, March 31, 2024

Easter Sunday - March 31, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
Easter Sunday, March 31, 2024

From St. Bonaventure:

“God is an intelligible space whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere.
God is within all things but not enclosed.
Outside all things but not excluded.
Above all things but not aloof.
Below all things but not debased.
God is supremely one and all-inclusive.
God is therefore ‘All in All’”.

The word “liturgy” means “the work of the people”. Liturgy is the witness to and embodiment of the transcendence of the categories of past, present, and future into a “now”.  When were God’s mighty acts? Yes. Liturgy exists within my participation, but is not contained by it; desires my presence but is not dependent on it.  The Holy Spirit is the source and inspiration for our aliveness to Christ in our midst.  We begin when we decide to look at what is. That is faithfulness.   Mere nostalgia for the past is not faithful, nor is our work added to lives which we own and possess.  In God’s sight, all of life is liturgy - we remember and live from the source and end of human life itself.

The Easter Vigil is the liturgy of all liturgies - nothing less than the very drama of creation being made alive in its proclamation in and among us.  Darkness is its opening act as earth and sky and heavenly bodies join in.  The joke among sacristans is that the six most complicated words in the Prayer Book are,  “In the darkness, fire is kindled”.  For those of us for whom this is an annual event, a part of our identities, we cannot imagine being anywhere else doing anything else this morning.  But we can think of family members or friends who would be perplexed by this work.

In our increasingly secular culture, liturgy is odd work -  weird, inconvenient, impractical, awkward, certainly uncomfortable at times.  We do not claim to produce anything tangible, to be guaranteed to be entertained or even sufficiently distracted - we promise none of the markers of attractive ways to spend time and attention in our culture.  We do believe that something unseen and mysterious is happening.  We believe that we are touching the very source of God’ covenant faithfulness to us and for us.  We began in darkness so that we might put our bodies into the dark night that precedes dawning, set ourselves first and fully in the embrace of the blackness of death and the grave and the womb of the world,  unable to see, to move, set groping for a glimmer, a flicker of light.  We gather to begin at the time before time when the universe has not yet, but is about to be, big-banged into existence.  And as humans, we are most human, most aligned with our image-bearing vocation as creatures, when through our senses and hearts, imaginations and doubts, enter the great drama of our existence.

So the work is to be “remembered” into the story when we forget, when distractions lead us into detachment and isolation, by acting it out from darkness into light, from despondency into terror, and then to greet hope and joy.

The gospels are the first liturgies, written to instruct and train catechumens and form the faithful within their unique perspective and community.  We would think that part of that instruction would be a firm grounding in the resurrection of Jesus by preserving appearances and sayings that assure the faithful that Christ is alive and in the midst of them.  But Mark, who is already a bit odd and doing his own thing in his Gospel, gives us a different Easter morning than Matthew, Luke, and John.  

The earliest and likely first ending of the gospel of Mark is 16:8:So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  The lectionary includes the shorter ending of verse 9: And all that had been commanded them they told briefly to those around Peter. And afterwards Jesus himself sent out through them, from east to west, the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation.   Likely some later scribe was copying along and got to verse 8, “... for they were afraid”, and thought, “well, that’s not a very Jesus-y way to end the gospel, now is it? I’ll fix that right up.” And thus an extra verse.  There is an even longer ending of Mark that I will not get into - read it yourself if you dare and if you decide to follow it literally do it far away from me.

So after Jesus has cast out demons, healed, taught, multiplied loaves and fishes, calmed the storm, been crucified and buried - now, on Easter morning, when it is finally time to pour on the celebration and unleash the fireworks and glory and find some relief from the unrelenting conflict and struggle - Christ has conquered death and the grave!  What do we get?  So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Resist the temptation to say, “yes, but.”  Before we get there (and there are six more Sundays yet to come), we enter an awful emptiness, the yawning chasm and chaos of the absence of a dead body that every expectation, every way of seeing reality assured these women would be present in this tomb as surely as the sun will rise.  A dead body lying there on that slab just as they had left it on Friday afternoon.  It is not there. An angel announces what has happened, what to do now, and they leave.  The gospel ends there, ends with the fear hanging in the air. No appearance, no word of peace - just the ultimate cliffhanger.

This is classic Mark.  He loves to leave teaching and parables unresolved, leaving questions unanswered/ He writes the gospel as a “fill in the blank” quiz as if to say, “and now what happens?” Write your response here in the margin.  We are all part of the story, processing in real time.  For this persecuted community, many exiled from home and family, excluded from the synagogues, hunted by Romans, the fireworks of glory and triumph are not where they are.  And so for us as well.  We may believe in resurrection - believe it to be the greatest news in the greatest story ever told - but that news does not, is not intended to, wipe away our grief and sorrow or make us forget our pain.  We can have both.  We can know that both are true.  Even at the empty tomb there is fear and pain and grief yet to live.  Sometimes we can’t get to the joy and celebration just yet. Some years, some periods of our lives, we are stopped cold in the awful dark emptiness, the terror and amazement, caught between the presence of death we expected and the presence of absence which bewilders us further. 

Rather than hasten to words of peace and assurance, hasten to touch Jesus’ feet or gaze at his wounds, might there be liturgy in the space between death and glory, the nothingness, the absence, the darkness where dwells our deepest fears and trembling hopes?  Those other moments will come.  But these women, the disciples, and all of us, must receive them in our own time.  If we rush past the dark emotions we may smile and act as if it is the dawning of new creation, but our hearts will still be in the tomb.  Liturgy is language and sign and movement.  It is also silence, absence, and stillness. We may not live in the tomb, but we must enter it.  It is a necessary place, but it is not home.  When we enter the tomb, enter the emptiness, we are in that place of coming undone and thus becoming the ones in whom the risen Christ dwells.  The risen Christ can and will dwell even in our terror and darkness, he does not wait for our joyful assurance, our personal inner fireworks.  Because he has conquered death by death, he can be present to my terror and take me with him through it. 

Mark knows that we will want a more comforting ending, which is why he does not include one.  He knows we will want him to finish the liturgy; tell us what it means, what to do.  He does not.  He leaves that up to us. He lets us proceed with what is next when we are ready.  The impulse to fix the ending of Mark is understandable, but I’m glad it ends the way it does.  Leave it as it is - at the end of verse 8.  It may take a while, we may flee far in terror and amazement, too afraid to say anything to anyone.  At the other end of our fleeing is home; the far country of fear becomes peace - Christ will not abandon us - we cannot outrun him.  The center of life in the risen Christ is everywhere; his circumference is nowhere.  This is just the end of the gospel, not the end of the story.  The story continues until all things are made new.  It has a perfect ending.  We are the ending.  Amen.

Sunday, February 4, 2024

Epiphany 5 B - February 4, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 4, 2024


Click here for an audio of the sermon

 

The richness of the gospels is how the same story of the same Savior is told in these four distinct ways. If in Matthew the Lord is Teacher, in Luke the bringer
of universal joy to all people, in John the eternal Logos made flesh and glorified eternally in the death/resurrection event, then in Mark Jesus is the Vanquisher, the Rebuker of evil in the form of the suffering servant. Mark is loaded with conflict
and confrontation. The evil unleashed on and ravaging the world in the form of spirits, disease, violence, rivalry, and oppression is faced head-on by Jesus. Indeed, he is the only one who can, the only hope to break cycles began in the garden of Eden and the one to open the way to love and peace. The work is urgent, the need for focus and clarity are serious, the time is short, the stakes are eternal. Mark’s community is in crisis and looking for meaning in their persecution - why won’t Jesus save us from our suffering? The gospel sets them on the journey of the mystery that in their suffering is Christ alongside them, suffering in them and with them. The gospel shows them and us how to follow and to lay down our
lives, how to put down the sword and take up the cross.
    All four gospels have so-called “reversal” sayings, but Mark really loves paradox: the first are last and the last first, the poor are rich, the blind see, the seeing are blind, the servant is the greatest. Humans in Mark are mostly hard-hearted, slow, and seeking to save our own skin first before laying down our lives
for others. We are a confused and hapless lot who provoke Jesus to ask “Have you still no faith? Do you still not understand? Are your minds closed?” Jesus is looking at us from the page, across the millennia, when he asks these questions. We can barely perceive a world of goodness and justice and so need prophetic awakenings - mighty acts - to rouse our hunger and open our hearts. Jesus sets about doing the impossible - undoing the physical, spiritual, social powers of isolation, exclusion, and dehumanization. The healing and making right which is the foretaste of the coming reign is joyful and healing but also disorienting and unsettling. We readers are being undone and refitted to think and act as fellow signs of courage and boldness alongside our crucified leader.
    New Testament scholar Werner Kelber writes this of the gospel of Mark:
“Jesus announces the Kingdom but opts for the cross; he is King of the Jews but
condemned by the Jewish establishment; he asks for followers but speaks in
riddles; he is identified as Nazarene but rejected in Nazareth; he makes public
pronouncements but also hides behind a screen of secrecy; he saves others but not
himself; he promises return but has not returned; he performs miracles but suffers a
non-miraculous death; he is a successful exorciser but dies overcome by demonic
forces; he is appointed by God in power but dies abandoned in powerlessness; he
dies but rises from death.”
So keep all of that in mind as we look at the reading for today. We are not yet out of the first chapter and already Jesus is the successful healer and exorciser. He is doing all the rebuking and meeting the needs of the people for health and connection, for wholeness of body and mind and spirit. The elements for a
growing and influential ministry are there. Bigger crowds, more to share the message of the kingdom, more hope and joy are at his fingertips. All he has to do is stay and keep doing what he did last night. Just show up and give the people what they want. The potential for popularity and fame is limitless. Jesus goes to a deserted place. He prays. The disciples hunt for him. (And the Greek is quite explicit - not casually looking around, but stalking him like an animal). The disciples’ words on finding Jesus alone hang ominously in the air, loaded with assumptions and expectations.
“Everyone is searching for you...”
It’s nice to know that being passive/aggressive did not start with us…
So much hangs on the next words Jesus says! What kind of movement is this going to be? Will Jesus join the ranks of doomsday prophets, zealots, insurrectionists, rebels? Will he use his power to create yet another system of domination with attention and control centered in him? Are miraculous acts a way
to create throngs of people dependent on his physical presence for their identity?      

    If our Lord - loving and merciful and forgiving as he is - is also at times, perhaps most of the time, surprising, offensive, scandalous, outside the worn paths of any thought we might have of, “Well, if I were in that situation, here is the obvious right thing to do”, that is not because he intends to be inscrutable or
confusing, it is because he is the only fully and perfectly present, aware, free, and perceptive person who has ever lived. Jesus simply had no category of motivation toward being famous or followed for his powers. We imperfect creatures are the ones prone to create and worship a safe, manageable, and laid back image of Jesus who is cool with whatever or, at the opposite extreme, a vindictive, violent, and hell-obsessed Jesus who will slay the wicked who happen to be the people we don’t like. The journey is not caging our image and nailing down all knowable facts about Jesus so we have a clear and predictable definition (although that is a popular aim, it is misguided). It is closer to the capacity to continuously have my illusions shattered, my lack of imagination exposed to his unblinking gaze, to be surprised, shocked even, by the deeper reality of the one who continuously chooses the narrow path, the counterintuitive decision, the way that rejects every mark of success we idealize and worship. 

    “When they found him, they said to him, ‘Everyone is searching for you.’ He answered, ‘Let us go on…’” Whatever Jesus perceives it is that they are searching for must remain as search. Jesus calls disciples, he does not accumulate admirers. Jesus loves the people in Capernaum in two ways: he heals them and he goes on. Compassion compels both. The kingdom must include both. Our growth in union with Christ must reckon with how we receive both gifts. Jesus comes to us as perfect presence and perfect ache. He hides nothing of himself, gives himself fully, yet at the same time will evade and escape every
attempt to possess him as our pet savior, our mascot, our magic wand. I am thrown back onto the nature of my desiring so that I may encounter the presence of Jesus within me in the very desiring of the one I believe I do not possess. When the ache is a gift that teaches me what it is to a creature who desires, who yearns, who sighs and groans, then the paradox of the kingdom is doing its work in me to make me
human.
    When I am healed of the fantasy of the unreal Jesus I can never possess - who brings clarity, who resolves crises, who evacuates mystery - then I can encounter the Christ who has packed up and moved on to the next village. What the folks in Capernaum will come to learn, as we ourselves are on the path of
conversion, is that while it seems as if he is absent, he is not truly absent. His absence is his presence. The searching for him is already the encounter.
“Everyone is searching for you.”
“Good”, Jesus says. Exactly what I wanted.”
Amen.

Sunday, November 26, 2023

The Last Sunday after Pentecost, Christ the King - November 26, 2023

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve OHC
The Last Sunday after Pentecost, Christ the King, November 26, 2023

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46

 

Click here for an audio of the sermon

 

Recent American history has evoked a reckoning. Movements such as #metoo, the facing of past and present racism, even in the church, and the dismantling of many Confederate statues and symbols are but a few of the shifts in these years.  This reckoning is an unveiling of the patterns of denial and privilege that is leading us to a deeper awareness of our collective unfinished business of creating a society with liberty and justice for all.  Yet as our heightened commitment to justice comes as grace-filled liberation for many, for others the present moment is a threat to previous ways of organizing power and has inspired an equally intense resistance that seeks to preserve racial, gender, sexual, and other barriers and prejudices.  Those empowered by the ways of denial are not happy about this reckoning.  
In her book, The Great Emergence, Phyllis Tickle describes this reckoning as a once every five hundred year rummage sale during which the political and religious foundations shift and crack and institutions go from chaos to realignment in ways that are both hopeful and dangerous, exciting and disorienting.  She writes that the central question during the transition is, “Who is in charge?”  Who has power and how is it being used?  The deepening levels of political and religious polarization and partisan strife in our culture points back to Tickle’s question.  In his last book, Morality: Restoring the Common Good in Divided Times, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes about this phenomenon; “Something new is happening: the sense that the other side is less than fully human, that its supporters are not part of the same moral community as us, that somehow their sensibilities are alien and threatening, as if they were not the opposition within a political arena, but the enemy, full stop.”  We are in the midst of the cracking and do not know the extent or the duration.  The desire after the worst of the pandemic to “return to normal” has confronted the undeniable reality that whatever that “normal” was way back in February 2020 is not coming back while what will be is not yet fully known.  As old structures of power are questioned and critiqued, but before new ones have coalesced, we are at an impasse that invites careful reflection and mindful discernment as to the faithful response of word and deed.  
 

If we are paying attention, we come around to the seasons of the Church year and her feasts over and over again yet as if meeting them for the first time.  The collects and readings are the same, but the moment, the “now” of each feast and season is unrepeatable. The reckoning of Christ’s life and work among us takes on ever more urgent importance and is an ever more vital source of unshakable hope amidst the disorientation.  It is good to celebrate Christ the King.  Necessary to that celebration is to take seriously the claim of Christ the King for today, among us, within the changes and chances that 2023 have brought us.  
 

Christ the King disorients and reorients, evokes frustration and hope.  Perhaps only Trinity Sunday is a rival in the admonition to the preacher - “just don’t say anything heretical!”  It is a truth claim and title that by itself evokes a range of reactions about spiritual power and authority.  Can the eternal identity of Christ meet our present honest struggles and longings, our unknowing and fear, and still be affirmed?  Christian disorientation is creating two main reactions: on one hand when theology is doubted, just double down - vigorously preserve the tribal dogma against its critics and enemies.  On the other side are those who have been harmed by abuse in the name of Christ and who struggle to preserve faith when the voices and models have acted contrary to the Christ they proclaim. They see no way to integrate the claims of faith with their emotional experience.  
 

I suggest Christ the King gives us a third way - not a Christ who is tyrannically demanding conformity, yet a Christ whose rule is necessary to fulfill my human dignity and freedom.  Let’s start with the obvious. Christ is King. I am not king. You are not king. The judgment scene in St. Matthew gives sole rule and reign to the one who gathers and knows and who pronounces what might be called a verdict on our behavior’s compassion or lack thereof.  Note carefully how nowhere does Christ the king ask my opinion, solicit my help, or seek my advice about how to be king - there is no committee. The only thing that humans do in the scene is ask “when did we see…?” Christ, we may affirm from the text, is not a mascot for my side over the other. Christ is not King in such a way that aligns him with those who believe they are right, who hold power, who claim superiority simply by the fact of those beliefs or powers.  No persons or groups get a free pass, special status, or exemption from the standard of judgment.  Christ is not a means to gaining power for myself.  Christ is not available to be weaponized into a sword with which I smite the infidels.  What we would need to know if we were going to construct a theology of power based on knowing, exclusion, absolute answers, and fixed boundaries is missing.  Such as…
When will the final judgment come? We don’t know because the story does not say when the final judgment will come.
    How can we know with certainty who are sheep and goats? We cannot. The story identifies what sheep and goats do, not who they are. Christ knows.
    Do we help Christ execute judgment against our enemies? We do not.
Has much energy been spent by Christians seeking to answer these questions and who believe that answers are attainable? Yes. Are the answers any of our business? No.
 

I find I would much rather be a helper than a subject.  I would like to serve on Christ’s staff.  Wise understanding is not rightly oriented toward inventing what the text does not provide, but first taking as given that we are not mini-kings who must rule over those in error, but limited and imperfect humans in fellowship with other equally limited and imperfect humans. The story purely distilled is reinforcing the differences between the divine vocation and the human vocation and pointing toward how these separate powers interact.  When we aspire to divine acts, Christ is giving us back the gift of our human creatureliness with all its glory and honor, all its passing-breath mortality. Part of the gift and glory of being human is what we do not know, cannot know, what is hidden from us, what is of an altogether different order of reality from our ways of understanding. Our vocation is to let the unknowns be unknown so that we can attend to the human quest of love for our neighbor.
 

Christ the King asks us to awaken to being human not as a problem to be overcome, but as a gift to be received and shared.  What is not said, what is kept in God’s own being, what is missing, is information that also makes the story formative in that our attention is pointed toward seeing and doing what we can, not what we cannot - that is where our power resides.  Our deepest search is for Christ, but Christ the King himself declares that our search is not fulfilled in esoteric theories and speculation, not in power over others, but presence with and service to others.  The place to find Christ is in the other. There is a theme in scripture of God appearing in the stranger. Christ is always coming to me in the other person.  By grace I am Christ going to my brother or sister.  To locate Christ as the One encountered in the other puts me in an open, expectant, and generous posture - in other words, makes me human.
 

Aware of what we do not know, but on the last day will know because we will be fully known, our power is liberated toward human flourishing in this our waiting-time before the setting right of the world.  In our care of the least of these, we discover a reality bigger than our unknowing - that Christ the King is present to us through them and that we are present as Christ to them.  That is the reckoning to which we are called.  In the moments of seeing and responding, we are choosing to be counted among the blessed inheritors of the kingdom.  That compassion participates in and adds to what foretells the end of violence and exploitation, the end of greed and idolatry, the end of division and ingratitude. Amen.

Sunday, October 1, 2023

Dedication of the Monastic Church, October 1, 2023

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve OHC
Dedication of the Monastic Church, October 1, 2023

1 Kings 8:22-30
1 Peter 2:1-5,9-10
Matthew 21:12-16


 

The Second Council of Nicaea, the Seventh Ecumenical Council, which met in 787, is most remembered in that it established the theology of icons and their veneration.  After centuries of iconoclastic furor and destruction by political and church leaders, the church finally spoke definitively on the question of icons and holy objects.  The motivation for the destruction or banning of icons was based in a reading of the second commandment prohibiting “graven images”. The conviction of the iconoclasts was that the image itself evoked the adoration which belongs to the divine alone, therefore any image was by definition a “graven image” and in violation of the commandment.  The council approved and protected icons by making an important distinction.  The council said that the icon in itself was not a graven image because it was not made to be worshiped nor was the worship of the image supported by the Church.  An icon was not a golden-calf level of idol as if it was claiming to depict or contain the divine or to be worshiped as divine.  What the council asserted was that an image, properly understood, was a door or window through which the person praying before the image perceives and adores the heavenly personage who is depicted in it. 

Any sound theology of icons will be quick to repeat this point - that an icon is an image that is looked through, not looked upon.  It points to something beyond itself.  The icon presents us with the paradox that in the existence of the icon is the truth that the icon itself is not the object, but is meant to point to its subject.  As physical, sensory creatures, we need the image to point beyond the image.  We are dependent on some means, some mechanism as an intermediate link between our finitude and the infinite.  We need the icon to remind us that the icon is not the point.  Further still, the veneration of icons is partly about the person seen, but more fundamentally about the act of seeing itself.  When the icon teaches us how to see, we have changed our relationship to it from taking meaning to receiving insight.  They are templates that reveal how I am in the world, how I relate to my humanness and God’s self revelation.  This distinction between veneration and adoration, between seeing into and through the object and idolatry of the object, is profoundly helpful in our practice of inhabiting this house of prayer.  Indeed, we cannot find authentic peace and joy unless we hold this tension.


Each of the readings for today is about the nature of God’s communion with the material world and the means of our perception of that communion.  In the first reading recounting the dedication of the temple by Solomon, this ambivalence toward the notion of a holy place, a house for God, is named as a question that sits alongside the building.  After all the effort of raising this colossal structure, he says, “but will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built.”  Maybe he should have thought about that before construction began!  And at the same time we can identify with the need for a material place and focus for worship that is set apart.  It will be over the next thousand years while the temple is standing, as prophets arise to interpret it, that the paradox of sacred space as both gift and danger will become the central question in Israel’s life.  The biblical epic preserves both the priestly tradition and the prophetic counter-voice.  The priestly narrative is concerned with right ritual piety, sacrifices and sabbaths, festivals and fasts, that preserve the memory of the exodus, the giving of the law, and the retelling and reenacting of these events of God’s salvation.  The holy of holies where resides the ark of the covenant, in the center of the temple, is regarded as the tangible presence of God on earth.  The prophets as counter-voice function as a social conscience toward how the ritual is viewed and lived.  They warn about the dangers of temple worship that degenerates into mere outer form and neglects an equal passion for justice and righteousness.  The goal is ritual and remembrance that informs and is transformed into faithful living toward the poor, the outcast, the foreigner.  The prophets say, essentially, “have the ritual, but the ritual itself is no substitute for faithful living.  Authentic liturgical remembrance always expresses itself in justice and compassion.”   In fact, they continue, outer piety can blind the heart to what God is most concerned about in human relationships, so watch out that you do not make the practices into idols of self-righteousness. 

 
It is into this prophetic tradition and perspective that Jesus enter and exorcizes the temple of the corrupt practices into which the ritual has slid.  The danger was real. Solomon’s caution was ignored. By now the temple does seek to contain God in patterns of power, exclusion, and legalistic judgmentalism.  The worst possible path of misinterpretation and misunderstanding of the icon-like nature of the temple has come to pass and robbery has replaced the central purpose and priority of prayer.  Taking on the prophetic mantle of the one who fully embodies remembrance and prayer becoming  justice and compassion, Jesus sees through the institutional processes designed to keep the temple going and names what is below the surface.  Our Lord sees the temple from the perspective of a window through the stones into the divine. It is this violation of the intent and veneration of its very nature that so angers him.  
 

The epistle reading from 1 Peter, reflecting on the Jesus tradition, borrows building imagery but redefines it to declare the human person the temple of divine presence. We ourselves are the living stones, a spiritual house, no longer focused on a building, but in Christ are indwelt in our flesh by the spirit of God as God’s own people. The icon, the object, the building are all reflecting back to us our true nature as image bearers.


I remember reading Brother Lawrence’s The Practice of the Presence of God when I was in my twenties and the confusion I felt when he said that for him there was no difference between the kitchen and the oratory.  In my young dualistic way of thinking, the kitchen was common and the church was the set apart sacred place of God’s presence - never the twain shall meet.  As I have gotten older, I can at least aspire to Brother Lawrence’s integration of perception of God’s presence everywhere.  When I talk to groups about the rule of St Benedict, the archetypal verse I always use is Benedict’s admonition to the cellarer to regard the pots and pans as the sacred vessels of the altar.  I don’t know if Brother Lawrence was aware of the ecumenical councils, but St Benedict is certainly foreshadowing and intuiting the reverence and veneration of created things and seeing all the world as infused with this wonder and care because all of it is sacred, every place is a place for worship. Amen.