Showing posts with label Robert James Magliula. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robert James Magliula. Show all posts

Sunday, July 5, 2026

The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 9, July 5, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula OHC
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, July 5, 2026

The lectionary today omits the little section of today’s Gospel which Matthew calls Jesus’ reproach of the cities.

“Then he began to reproach the cities in which most of his deeds of power had been done, because they did not repent. “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? No, you will be brought down to Hades. For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day. But I tell you that on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom than for you.” (Matt.11:20-24)

Let’s be honest. We don’t much like reproach in our lives or in our scriptures. Most would rather skip quickly to the good part, that part about the humble and gentle Jesus who we think is going to make life easy. But we need to hear these words of reproach as individuals and as a nation. It seems most appropriate during this 250th anniversary that we hear it as a nation. They’re important words. Reproach by Jesus is not rejection but the other side of care and concern.

These are the towns where Jesus spent most of his ministry and where he did most of his miraculous works. They know Jesus well and he knows them. He knows their unbelief, their unwillingness to change, their refusal to yoke themselves to him and to his gospel.

“To what shall I compare this generation?” Jesus basically tells them that they are like a bunch of spoiled kids unhappy with whatever is offered them. They want it their way or no way. John the Baptist came neither eating nor drinking and they said he was possessed. Jesus came eating and drinking and they call him a glutton and a drunkard who hangs out with the wrong kind of people.”

I think that Jesus would say the same to us today as a nation. Are we different from Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum? How are we responding to Christ and his gospel?

Reflecting on this question raises a deeper and more fundamental question. To what or whom are we yoked? To what or whom do we give ourselves? What or who takes priority in our lives, orienting how we live and relate to others, how we make decisions? We all harness our lives to something: another person, work, family, success, reputation, country, political party. Sometimes our yokes are more interior like fear, anxiety, anger, beliefs and opinions, the losses and tragedies of our lives. Regardless, they are the relationships and attachments that we depend on for meaning. For better or worse, they give us our life’s direction. We’ve all got them and usually more than one.

What yokes do you wear? As Christians, we know the right answer should be Jesus. But is that how we live? Is it reflected by our deeds and in our relationships, or just in our words?

If we are going to call ourselves Christians, we must yoke ourselves to Christ. He must be the primary and determining yoke. We cannot simply just hear the gospel and say our prayers. The gospel of Christ demands a response. The people of these cities have seen God among them; they have witnessed the signs. Jesus cleansed their lepers, healed their sick, cast out their demons, forgiven their sins, calmed the sea. Still, they reject Jesus and, before him, John the Baptist.

Sometimes we are like those little kids in the marketplace, unhappy with whatever is offered us. We want the gospel to fit our beliefs, desires, and agendas rather than shaping our beliefs, desires, and agendas to fit the gospel. That is not an option for Jesus. The yoke of Christ must reorient our lives and priorities.

It means we take seriously our life of discipleship. Our prayer is more about intimacy with God than getting what we want. We work for justice and the dignity of every human being. We care for the poor, feed the hungry, and defend the oppressed. We love our enemies. We offer forgiveness. Our faithfulness should be evident by how we live and speak. We let go of anger and don’t live in fear.

To be yoked to anything or anyone other than Christ will only leave us weary and burdened. Our lives will be frenzied and fragmented. This is a disease of the soul in which we end up comparing, competing, and judging ourselves and each other. There is no internal integrity. Our reserves run dry and we live exhausted with nothing of substance to offer, making our relationships superficial.

Too often we treat our weariness and medicate our burdens with addictions, a new toy, a vacation, a nap, a day off, busyness and perfectionism. Interior voids cannot be filled by exterior things. Often, we’re just as weary afterwards as we were before. These are not the antidote to our exhaustion. The antidote to our exhaustion begins with sharing the yoke of Christ, the heart of God and the heart of humanity beating as one.

Jesus isn’t upset because the cities misbehaved, but because they have chosen a life less than what they were created for. Jesus is like a loving parent looking at his exhausted children, so tired we do not know which end is up, so weary we misbehave. This is why his words of reproach soon become words of invitation and love. “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

To take on the yoke of Jesus is to take on his life: to let our heart love like his.  Only by living and moving as one with him, will we find rest for our souls. +Amen.

Sunday, April 19, 2026

The Third Sunday of Easter, April 19, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Third Sunday of Easter, April 19, 2026


It’s not enough to believe in the resurrection. At some point we must move from the event of it to experiencing it. Resurrected life can never be comprehended, contained, or controlled by human thought or understanding. The resurrected life of Christ is revealed in and through the created order, but it is not bound by it. It unites the visible and invisible, matter and spirit, humanity and divinity. The degree to which we’ve allowed ourselves to be bound by the created order is the degree to which we are unable to see resurrected life in this world.

We bind ourselves through our fears, our sorrows and losses, our random thoughts and distractions, our attachments and addictions to things, people, and even beliefs. Sometimes it’s our unwillingness to trust God to grow and change us. In binding ourselves to the created order we lose the ability to live in the sacred. The resurrected life is not acquired but received. It happens when we risk unbinding ourselves from our usual ways of seeing, living, and relating. Christ longs to open our minds to understand all that has been revealed about him. That’s what Jesus did for those two disciples in today’s Gospel. When Christ opens our minds, we experience moments of awe and wonder that leave us in sacred silence.

Within this Gospel story is a template that describes the journey from Jerusalem to Emmaus and back to Jerusalem. If our life has ever been broken and restored, or if we’ve ever been in that in between place, then this is our story. It’s the journey Cleopas and his companion take and it’s a journey each of us has taken, is taking, or will take. It’s not, a one-time journey, but one we take repeatedly.

Jerusalem and Emmaus are archetypal realities within us which get enacted in our lives. They’re portals into a greater self-awareness through which we see a greater fullness of God, ourselves, each other, and the world.

Have you ever felt like you just had to get away or that life had given you more than you could handle? Have you ever been deeply disappointed by unmet expectations? Have you felt lost, as if your world had been turned upside down? Have you ever asked: “Who am I now? What’s next? Where do I go? What do I do?” Have you grieved the death of a love, a dream, an identity, a future? If so, then you know what it’s like to be Cleopas and his companion.

It’s Easter morning and the two disciples are leaving Jerusalem, a place of pain, sorrow, and loss, a place of death, unmet expectations, and disappointment. As they walk, they’re talking about all the things that had happened: Jesus’ arrest, torture, crucifixion, and death. They’re talking about a hope that didn’t materialize. They’re disappointed and sad. They had hoped Jesus was the one, but now he’s dead. There’s a part of them that’s been lost with Jesus. They had heard rumors that he was alive, but it all sounded too unbelievable.

Emmaus is our escape from life, but it is also a hunger for life. It wasn’t only brokenness that took them to Emmaus but a hunger for wholeness, for restoration. Hunger isn’t only physical; it can also be spiritual and emotional. We are all by nature hungry. We hunger for life, love, wholeness, community, meaning, purpose. That hunger is the reason they urged Jesus, “Stay with us.” He not only stayed, but he also fed their hunger. The guest they invited to their table became their host.

“When [Jesus] was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.” They recognized him as the one they had left for dead in Jerusalem. They recognized him as the one who had accompanied them on the road. They recognized him as the one they had hoped he would be. Jesus wasn’t just giving them bread; he was giving them back themselves. This was their resurrection, their restoration. When Jesus broke the bread something in them broke open. With that breaking open their lives were being put back together. It is so for us as well.

Despite how it feels, our brokenness is not an ending. It’s a breaking open to new life, to new seeing, community, welcome, hospitality, and love. Jesus fed them, as he feeds us, not just with bread, but with himself: with his body, his life, his love, his compassion, his forgiveness, his strength, his hope.

As soon as they recognized him “he vanished from their sight.” He was no longer before them because he was now the burning heart within them, who had been there all along. Sometimes that burning is felt as loss, sometimes as hunger, or being broken open, and other times as deep joy and gratitude. And “that same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem”, to the place from which they had to get away. Now it is not only the place of death and sorrow, but also the place of life and resurrection.

We leave our Jerusalem to return to our Jerusalem: to face our deaths, losses, and broken lives. In so doing we discover that life awaits us too. We return to reclaim ourselves, to recover the lost pieces of ourselves. Our Jerusalem hasn’t changed but we have. Of course, it’s never as simple as it sounds. It’s one thing to name this pattern but another to live it. It takes trust, time, and effort. It means trusting that somehow the pieces of our lives will become a new life.

Where do you see this pattern in your life today?

What is your deepest hunger?

What in your life is being broken open?

What needs to be restored and put back together in you?

Jesus was in Jerusalem before Cleopas and his companion ever left. He was with them on the road to Emmaus. He was in the breaking of the bread. And he was already in Jerusalem when they returned.  He never left them nor does he ever leave us on our journey. +Amen










Sunday, March 1, 2026

The Second Sunday in Lent, March 1, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Second Sunday in Lent, March 1, 2026





It’s always less threatening to encounter parts of ourselves in others. In our gospel today we encounter Nicodemus, who enables us to do just that. His action in coming to meet Jesus in the night, his trust, however guarded and limited by fear, prompts us to examine our own. Trust is a complex and mysterious thing. Some of it has to do with things that go back to our childhood. Some has to do with our sense of ourselves: our strengths, our weaknesses, our willingness to risk, our sense of how loveable we are. We have a common thread that binds us to Nicodemus in this episode of his life. It's a bridge moment for him, a transition, as he steps out of his comfort zone. We have all been through transitions. In fact, we as an Order are going through one right now with the upcoming election of a new Superior and the recent departure of a member of our community here. Having just returned from my visitation to our brothers in South Africa, I came to appreciate even more the drastic double transition they’re negotiating in setting up the new monastery there.

We all know what transitions feel like. They are a dark and liminal space and they are not comfortable. They are the times and places in our lives when we feel isolated and alone, when the stability and predictability of life are disrupted, when our confidence shrivels and we have more questions than answers. They are the times when we feel afraid, powerless, unprepared, and overwhelmed by what lies ahead. They are the times we feel there is nothing to hold on to, nothing makes sense, and we can’t see the way forward.

In such times it’s helpful for us to affirm that God is with us in whatever situation we find ourselves ---that God is rooted in the realities of our lives, even amid change and loss. As we receive the Eucharist today, we are physically affirming the fact that God is with us, within us, so we may continue to live in trust---especially during transition and change.

            God often calls us to new places in subtle ways. Take Nicodemus. He was a busy and powerful man, a lawyer and teacher, a member of the Sanhedrin, the ruling council. He was liked and respected, but at his center there was an empty space. One night he arranged to meet Jesus secretly. It didn’t take long for Jesus to see that emptiness. There was more than curiosity in Nicodemus’ voice. In his seeking there was longing. We can recognize it because the same longing is in us. We all long for God, for the love, grace, and presence of God, whether we are conscious of it or not. It’s how we humans are created. Jesus tells Nicodemus that he needs to journey into himself. He needs to enter those parts of himself long forgotten, to discover the desire, to acknowledge the longing. All his responsibility, all his busyness, all his influence doesn’t keep him from feeling dead. All the power and control he has cannot drive this feeling from him. He needs to come alive; he needs, Jesus says, to be “born from above”. Then Jesus switches images and speaks of a wind that blows in a person’s life. You can’t control it. All you can do is wait for it. Nicodemus is attracted, confused, and repelled by what he hears. He is affirmed yet frightened. Like most of us, he is wary of things that can’t be controlled. Yet even in this conflicted moment, as he sits in the shadows, he knows that his life will never be the same again. Even if he doesn’t respond, even if he tries to drown this moment out by the duties and responsibilities of the coming days, nothing will ever be the same again. He walked away from the encounter that evening, but he never succeeded in walking away from Jesus.

            Months later, when Jesus’ body hung on the cross, Nicodemus came looking for him again. This time it was in broad daylight for all to see. He forgot his position, his reputation. He forgot everything except what Jesus had become for him. He and his friend, Joseph of Arimathea, took the body down, carried it away, and placed it in a tomb. In lowering that body, I imagine that Nicodemus descended into himself more deeply and discovered what Jesus had spoken about. In that moment of change, Nicodemus was “born from above”. In that moment, Nicodemus knew something that you and I know, especially in those painful moments of discovery born of change, loss, and transition. He knew that Jesus, whose body he was carrying, was already rising in his heart.

            We too have our patterns of busyness and responsibilities. But even the most consuming schedule cannot stifle the longing for something more. Jesus satisfies that longing if we seek him out, even in the darkness of our fears and confusion. Like Nicodemus, we too are directed to look deep within ourselves for that part of us which has never yet managed to be born or has gotten so weighted down that it has forgotten what it is. If we stay present to our discomfort, we will also feel something else arising, a more real awareness of our true selves. Then we too can expect a wind, a spirit that we cannot control or manage. It comes in endless and unexpected ways to energize us, to give us hope and courage. And, when we feel as if all is dead inside us, it will enable us to rise again, to God’s life, what Jesus calls eternal life.  +Amen.

Thursday, December 25, 2025

Christmas Day, December 25, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

Christmas Day, December 25, 2025





Our experience of Christmas changes as we do. I recently had the opportunity to see it through the eyes of my two young nieces. For them, it’s a season of gifts. At dinner on Sunday, the eldest, Artemis, sensibly suggested that we should also observe Hannukah, because it would multiply the number of gifts we received. She is correct about the gift aspect of this feast. Christmas, as gift, cannot be explained by reason or doctrine. It can only be experienced. The Child we receive and celebrate today is the sign of God’s “Yes” to us and to all, without exception. That “yes” is the pure and unconditional gift of Christmas. It comes to us as love, acceptance, forgiveness, presence. It never comes wrapped in an economy of transaction which is what we’re used to. We live in a world in which we pay for what we get. That’s not God’s way. God love and presence are not reserved for those who try to purchase it by being worthy, faithful, or acceptable.

As I’ve aged, I’ve begun to experience Christmas from another perspective. Out from behind the advertisements and through the haze of old carols and crèche scenes, I began to see that Christmas is about finding life where we did not expect life to be. Given our humanity and the times we live in, we might have mixed feelings that cause us to hesitate about even recognizing, no less receiving God’s “Yes”, the gift of this feast. Every year of life waxes and wanes. Every stage of life comes and goes. Every facet of life is born and then dies. Every good moment becomes a memory. This last year we have lived in a land of deep darkness. We look at our world and ache to hear some good news of great joy for all people. Every one of us has experienced some darkness. Every one of us has longed to hear good news, but it’s hard to hear the angel’s voice when joy is in such short supply for so many.

I find that hope dims for me, until Christmas comes again. Then I am called at the deepest, most subconscious, least cognizant level to begin to hope and live again. Christmas brings me back to the crib of life to start over: aware of what has gone before, conscious that nothing can last, but full of hope, even in darkness, that this time, finally, we can learn what it takes to live well, to grow, to get it right. I find myself drawn to Bethlehem to see this thing that has taken place and be reminded once again that it’s all true.

That Jesus’ birth happened at a specific time within a particular set of circumstances, doesn’t mean his birth is limited to that time and those circumstances. There is no single Christmas story. There are an endless Christmas stories, happening all the time. This feast is not only a celebration of what was. It is also our participation in what is and what might be. There is a child in each of us waiting to be born again. The Christ Child beckons to those looking for life, those who refuse to give up, those to whom life comes new and with purpose each day,  those who can let yesterday go so that life can be full of new possibility, those in whom Christmas is a celebration of the constancy of change, a call to begin once more the journey to human joy and holy meaning. This Child shows us the reality and truth of our lives.

Today we are invited to move from the fact of Jesus’ birth to the meaning of his birth in our lives. We can only come to the manger as we are. We’re invited to come, not as spectators, but as participants in Christ’s birth. Spectators might see Jesus born in Bethlehem, but participants will experience God born in themselves. By becoming human, God encourages us to honor the vulnerability of our humanity and the fragility of our lives. God is with us in our fears and pain, in our losses, in the cruelty and inhumanity we witness daily perpetrated by Empire. The world was no different at Jesus’ birth.

Isaiah offered his prophecy and vision of endless peace, the destruction of the oppressor’s rod, and an end to the trampling boots and bloody garments of this world. Our sadness, anxiety, and fear for the world, can leave us shortsighted and unable to see the prophetic vision of Isaiah. We can feel a sense of dissatisfaction with simply hearing the story instead of our deep longing to live the story.

The shepherds, the first ones to hear the good news, left their flocks and went to the manger and in so doing they moved from the event of Jesus’ birth to the experience of his birth. They offered themselves, their curiosity and awe, as well as their status as homeless field workers, the outcasts and despised of their society. The birth that called the shepherds away from their fields and flocks is also the birth that returned them changed to the same fields and flocks. They carried the birth of Jesus back within them and made the Christmas story their own. Today Bethlehem is more than a geographical location. Today Bethlehem is within us.

Name your hopes and fears, your thanksgivings and disappointments, the joys and the sorrows of this past year, your desires and longings. His manger is big enough to receive whatever we might bring. Whatever we offer today at the manger let it speak the truth of our life. The Christ Child shows us who we are, who we can become, offering us a new beginning. If Christ is not born in the real everyday places of our lives, he isn’t born anywhere.

Today is not so much about explaining or analyzing, but about pondering, discovering, treasuring. Allow your wonder and awe to make you attentive. Awe precedes, and is the root, of faith. That’s our Christmas work. Then Christ is born in us and the divine life lives not only in Jesus but in us too.  +Amen.

Tuesday, December 9, 2025

The First Profession of the Monastic Vow of Br. Daniel Benjamin Hansknecht, OHC, December 9, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The First Profession of the Monastic Vow of Br. Daniel Benjamin Hansknecht, OHC, December 9, 2025





Ben, you came to us seven years ago to live alongside the community as an intern, and then a year and a half ago you returned as a postulant and then a novice in the community. You know first-hand that this life presents its challenges and its rewards. You’ve learned that community life presents human beings at their best and at their worst. When you requested to take the name Daniel, marveling at his experience in the lion’s den, I confess that it crossed my mind that there might be a parallel there to your initial monastic experience. Initial formation is intended to take you outside of your familiar framework to raise basic questions where meaning is challenged, decisions reconsidered, and doubts unearthed. It can be daunting and exhausting, and it can both drain but also infuse hope. When our private worlds go to dust, hope digs in the ruins of our heart for memory of God’s promise to bring good out of bad, joy out of sadness, and life out of death. For all of us, especially in these times, hope is not optimism in the face of dire circumstances, nor is it founded on denial. Hope is made of memories which remind us that there is nothing in life we have not faced that we did not, through grace, survive. Hope is the certainty that something will make sense, regardless of how it turns out.

Today, as you make your vowed commitment to continue your discernment, the more honest you are in examining your own motives, the closer you are to being yourself. The more equipped you are to distinguish the person you want to be from the one everybody else wants you to be, the more likely you are to become it. Without the honesty it takes to unmask the self, there is no liberation, let alone fulfillment. To make a truly life-giving discernment, we all need to squarely face what it is that gives us life. We need to speak the truth of our interests, our abilities, our desires, as well as our dissatisfactions. We need the help that comes from having our confusion, disappointment, and anxiety accepted and understood by those who are not threatened by it. We need the acceptance and encouragement of each other so we can move beyond fear to the freedom it takes to be who we are. The power that comes with self-discovery at any age catalyzes us. Our holy Father Benedict, in the longest Chapter of the Rule, emphasizes humility, which is nothing less than living in the truth.

The three-fold vow helps us to continue to embrace the path of seeking God and satisfying our desire in a communal context. The vow is not about negation, restriction, or limitation. The vow guides us in facing the three basic demands of this life: the need to listen, the need to not run away, especially from ourselves, and the need to change, the conversion of our way to the monastic way, by embracing transformation through common ownership and consecrated celibacy. Living the vow requires fidelity, endurance, perseverance, and patience---with yourself and with your brothers. The Epistle today wisely exhorts us to clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, meekness and patience, forgiving each other, and clothing ourselves in love which binds us all together in harmony in one body. (Col.3:12-14) Your commitment today reminds all of us that the paschal mystery of Jesus’ dying and rising is the pattern of our monastic life. Our ongoing conversion is a sign of our commitment to allow God to continue to work within us.

While we come here seeking God, it becomes increasingly evident that God has sought us. In the depths of our heart, hear the invitation to abide with Christ. Our Gospel today reminds us that we cannot live this life apart from abiding in the love of Christ. He is the vine, the source of our life and love and all that flows from it in community. Our primary relationship is with Christ. He is both the Light we see and the Illumination by which we see. That Light and Illumination reveal mercy and forgiveness in the shadows of guilt and shame, courage in the night of fear, compassion and hope in sorrow and loss, a way forward in the blindness of confusion, and life in the darkness of death. Our monastic life is the call to immerse ourselves in the all-inclusive and transforming love of God. Giving witness to that love, leads deeper into the meaning of being chosen by Christ, and of learning to prefer nothing to Christ. It is the flame of God’s love that consumes our darkness and frees us for the peace God has promised.

Faithfulness is a prerequisite to trust and intimacy. With divine love flowing through us we can see others and ourselves in our connectedness and wholeness. But be warned, the vow does not put an end to struggle. God intends us to live together in the fragility of human imperfection which leaves us open to deeper truth. Yet, even when we fail, and often because of it, we come to know more of ourselves, each other, and God.

 Daniel, you are now embarking on another stage of your life pilgrimage.  Within the abundance God’s and our love, we give great thanks that you’ve decided to take this next step as we continue this journey together.  +Amen.

Sunday, November 16, 2025

The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 28 C, November 16, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost, November 16, 2025







            It’s easy to see why some people might think that the world is ending. Just hold up a newspaper in one hand and Luke’s gospel in the other. “Nations will rise against nation”. There will be great earthquakes. In various places famines and plagues. Dreadful portents and great signs from heaven. They will arrest you and persecute you.” Of course that depends chiefly on who you are, how rich you are, what color you are, or where you’re from. Security, peace, and diplomacy have given way to fear, violence, war, and terrorism. It seems like Temples are falling everywhere.

This frightening passage not only looks forward; it also looks back to the many times before now when humanity experienced all these things and believed their world was coming to an end, only it didn’t. The inexplicable delay in the coming of our Lord at the end time was one of the stickiest problems the early church had to face. Jesus himself did not seem to know the answer. “Truly, I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place”, he said, over two thousand years ago.

            He says it as part of his last public teaching. He has come to Jerusalem knowing he will collide with the authorities there. He is sitting in the temple talking with his disciples when some of them begin to admire the place, commenting on how beautiful the stone is, and the gifts dedicated to God. Anyone who knows me would not be surprised that I would be part of that conversation or maybe even initiate it. Then Jesus reminds them that it will all be ruins someday.

            He doesn’t say it to be cruel. He is simply telling them the truth---that the things of this world will not last---that even some place as stunning and holy as the temple will become a ruin when the old world collapses in on itself. The temple was the center of Jewish life. It was what structured their community and gave identity and meaning. It’s the kind of news that makes you look around for someone who can save you---someone who seems to have access to God’s calendar and who will tell you exactly when the ship starts to sink so that you can make it to the lifeboats in time.

            Only Jesus does not recommend that course of action. He warns against it, in fact. “Beware that you are not led astray,” he tells those gathered around him; “for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them. When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately.” Do not go after them. Do not be terrified.

We all have temples. Some have been given to us, others we have built for ourselves. Sometimes our temples are people, places, values and beliefs, institutions, dreams. They are the things that we think structure and order our lives, give meaning and identity, providing security and stability. At least we think they do, until they fall. We may not like it, we may deny it, we may resist it, but the reality is things are changing. Our world is changing, our country is changing, our lives are changing. These are dark days when change brings loss or the fear of loss. Darkness, I’ve discovered, is often the way we come to see.  It may create the depressions that, once faced, teach us to trust.  It gives us the sensitivity it takes to understand the depth of the pain in others. It seeds in us the humility it takes to learn to live gently with the rest of the universe. It opens us to new possibilities within ourselves.

Change has a way of pushing us into the future. Many people will begin looking for signs about the future. But if we’re not careful, we will be living in a future created in our heads. When Jesus describes things that will happen, he is not asking us to speculate about the future. He is offering signs that call us to be faithful in the present.

According to Luke’s Gospel they are not signs of God’s absence but signs of God’s sure and certain presence. Nothing is going on that is unknown to God---not the things in the news or the things in our lives. God sees them and encourages us not to be terrified. To become terrified is to become part of the problem. God has something else in mind, what Jesus calls endurance. When all that is lovely to you, when all that is holy looks as if it may soon be reduced to rubble, do not lose heart. Do not be terrified. Hold on to one another and follow through. By your endurance you will gain your souls.  Staying in communion with one another---holding onto one another through all the storms that blow around us---that is how we know that God is still with us, no matter what the headlines say. Come injustices, wars, persecutions, earthquakes, plagues, famines, we are to hold on to one another---we are to endure ---because holding on to one another is how we hold on to our Lord.

Sometimes, after our temples fall, we look for a scapegoat, someone to blame or even demonize. We look for someone or a group who does not think, act, or believe like we do. Democrats and Republicans blame each other as do the conservatives and the liberals. Some simply give up and despair. Some become angry, resentful, and fight back. Others will say it’s God’s will or even God’s punishment. Many will look for easy answers, quick fixes, something that will prop up the old structures and ways of doing things. None of these are Jesus’ response.

So, what do we do on the day our temples fall?

Jesus’ response is: Be still, be quiet, do not be led astray. Do not allow your life to be controlled or determined by fear. Do not listen to the many voices that would cause you to run and go after them. Endure, he says. Be faithful, steadfast, persevere here and now. He is calling us to be present and faithful in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. If we cannot find God here, in our present circumstances, even amid our temple ruins, we will find God nowhere. Too often, we believe and live as if the fallen temple is the end of the story. It will be if we run away, scapegoat, respond with anger, or try to put it back together like it used to be. The new story is how we discovered God beside us in the temple ruins and how God rebuilt what we could not. It is the ongoing story of God recreating life out of loss, a story of God rejoicing and delighting in us.

The place of fallen temples is the place in which God, speaking through the prophet Isaiah, declares: “I am about to create new heavens and new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight. I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people; no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it or the cry of distress” (Isaiah 65:17-19).

Those promises are fulfilled through our endurance, our stability, by remaining fully present, faithful, no matter how dark or uncomfortable life may be. In so doing we discover that God has always been with us – in the changes, chances, and chaos of life; in the pain, loss, and disappointment; in the destruction of our temples. Endurance, perseverance, stability are the ways in which we offer God the fallen stones of our temples. Stone by stone God will restore the beauty of our life and world. Stone by stone a new temple arises from the rubble, and we are that temple.

Do not be terrified, he said, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”    +Amen.

Sunday, September 28, 2025

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21, September 28, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, September 28, 2025


From beginning to end this parable, like our country, is full of divisions and separations which are painfully obvious in our time. The Gospel today reminds us of the wall between the rich and the poor, the powerful and the powerless. Each new executive order, each new policy implemented, are intended to erase the identity and history of marginalized groups, and each new vindictive lawsuit to terrify into submission any opposition. In the parable, on one side of the gate a rich man lives in splendor, dressed in expensive clothes, feasting every day. A poor man named Lazarus lays on the other side of the gate, hungry, dressed in rags, and unable to even get up and walk. He would gladly eat the scraps that fall from the rich man’s table, but the table is on the other side of the gate.

This story is supposed to raise questions for us, but not for the reasons you might think. Today’s gospel is not a theological analysis of heaven and hell. It’s not about rewarding the poor for being poor and punishing the rich for being rich. It's not about what will happen to us after we die. It’s about how we live today. This parable is asking us to acknowledge and deal with the gates and chasms that separate us from each other. Jesus is telling us that how we live today has consequences for tomorrow, not just for ourselves but for others also.

He’s asking us to face the poverty not only in the world, but in ourselves. Lazarus doesn’t just represent poverty in the other. Through Lazarus we see the rich man’s poverty. That may be one reason why we build walls between the rich and poor, those on the inside and those on the outside. We don’t want to look in the eyes of a Lazarus and see ourselves. If we did, it would require something more of us.

Our choices matter. Our priorities set a direction for where we’re headed. Our values and actions shape what we become. We see it in the rich man. Jesus is warning us that today’s gates become tomorrow’s chasms. At some point the gates we use to shut out parts of ourselves or exclude another become the chasms that isolate and confine us.

The chasm that separates the rich man from Lazarus reflects his impoverishment. It’s another manifestation of the gate that separated them in life. The gate and the chasm are the same thing.

Consider all the ways we set gates between ourselves and others; between rich and poor, powerful and powerless, black and white, gay and straight, Muslim and Christian, immigrant and citizen, neighbor and enemy. The list is endless. Those gates are not a condition of circumstances but a condition of the human heart. The gate that becomes a chasm always exists within us before it exists between us. It’s a symptom of our impoverishment.

This parable challenges us to examine our own heart to name the gates that separate us. We all have them.  What are the closed gates in your life today that are separating you from yourself or another? What is impoverishing you today? It might be fear, anger, resentment, jealousy, indifference, guilt, grief, old wounds, loneliness, cynicism, prejudice, to name a few. What gates do we need to open to experience abundance, to discover our identity, to live with meaning? What gates does our country need to open?

What would it take to open the gates of compassion for others, generosity and sharing, healing and wholeness, forgiveness and reconciliation, justice and peace, vulnerability and love? And what would it mean for our life? I suspect it would change the way we pray, the depth of our relationships, the significance of our lives, and what we hope for the future.

Jesus lived God’s concern for the poor and expects us to do the same. We reveal God’s presence in our lives by acting as God acts. We help the poor, feed the hungry, house the homeless, care for the sick, visit prisoners, love our enemies, and work for justice and peace because that’s simply who and how God’s people are to be. Gates destroy relationships. They unmake God’s purpose for creation.

Whatever gates we carry within us, every time we love our neighbor as ourselves, every time we love our enemies, every time we see and treat another as created in the image and likeness of God, gates are opened, and chasms are filled. It’s a choice set before us every day. It’s not easy work, but it is possible. Jesus demonstrated it in his life, death, and resurrection. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote “Power without love is reckless and abusive. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice.1

That’s what the kingdom of God looks like. We already have everything we need to accomplish it. Christ’s love, mercy, grace, and presence make it possible for us to ensure that our gates do not become chasms. This is our work, and the salvation of the world. +Amen.



1 Martin Luther King Jr, Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community? (Harper & Row, 1967),37.

Sunday, June 29, 2025

The Apostles Saint Peter and Saint Paul, June 29, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Apostles Saint Peter and Saint Paul, June 29, 2025

Today is the commemoration of the martyrdom of Saints Peter and Paul. They both died in Rome during the persecution under Nero in 64 A.D. According to tradition, Paul was granted the right of a Roman citizen to be beheaded by a sword, but Peter suffered crucifixion, with head downward.  

These two are an unlikely duo. Their paths and opinions more than once divided the Church. In the early days of birthing the Christian community, nobody really knew what to do next. Various things had been set in motion in a rather haphazard way. Mark had not yet written his book. Communities were springing up, and as with all communities, the first resentments and disagreements were surfacing. Danger also begins to appear with the persecution of the new Christian movement, especially from a brilliant lawyer from Tarsus with religious and political clout. The rumor surfaces that this Saul the enemy has changed sides and his name to Paul. He appears in Jerusalem asking to meet with Peter and James, the brother of Jesus. Luke in Acts tells us the local community didn’t believe that he was now a disciple. The second century writer, Onesiphoros, describes Paul as unimpressive. “A man rather small in size, bald-headed, bow legged, with meeting eyebrows, and a large, hooked nose.” Appearances aside, he was a brilliant scholar, sophisticated, politically astute, at home in any society, with the full advantages of full Roman citizenship.  

Peter, unlike Paul, at this stage of his life knew little or nothing about the vast reaches of the Empire. He had no idea what it was like to live in the immense melting-pot of religions and lifestyles. Yet the instinctive conservatism of Peter met the far-seeing vision and boundless energy of Paul to propel the Gospel from one end of the Empire to the other. Immensely different and possessing very different visions of the future they battled their way to what today’s collect calls “a unity in the Spirit.” 

That first encounter in Jerusalem and the relationship between Peter and Paul fascinates us because of their differing gifts, personalities, and roles that provide a pattern of contrasts that were to be important in the formation of the future Church. One of the things they held in common was the difficulty of their ministry. I don’t mean the darkness of their times, their struggles, or the persecution, but the greater difficulty of competing lights. This is what Paul tried to convey to Timothy in our Epistle and Jesus to Peter in today’s Gospel.  

For the youthful Timothy, animated by the zeal of a new convert, ministry and mission were still relatively uncomplicated. It would be some time before he would see, like Paul, that the most demanding discipleship is not a battle with darkness. The far greater threat to the Gospel, and to our faith, is not evil cloaked in darkness, but evil decked in light. Paul’s ministry was conducted in a world of dazzling brilliance. The Roman Empire was at its apex; the religions of Athens and Rome, Israel and Egypt had been around long enough to build firm foundations and impressive cults. Learning was alive, world trade and communication brought people into vibrant contact. Set against the powerful forces of empire, commerce, and culture, Christianity was insignificant. How could a gospel of self-denial and service to others survive in a world of creature comforts and power and not be eclipsed by this competition? This is no less true for us today. 

In part that seems to be Jesus’ message to Peter as well. This is Peter who fled from Jerusalem only weeks earlier from the horror of Jesus’ execution. In this exchange Jesus rescues Peter from his shame for his denial and weakness and makes the past irrelevant. The fact that Peter now knows what it is to come apart makes him a more compassionate leader. He realizes that above all else the Kingdom which Jesus preached was about people: caring for them, building them up, healing them, loving them. That would be Peter’s great gift in the years ahead. This conversation takes place after they have satisfied their appetites with breakfast. Might Jesus be reminding Peter and us that ministry is always more difficult when we are satisfied and can be charmed out of our convictions? 

Life is never quite as simple as we’d like, but it is possible to say that Peter’s gift was of the heart while Paul’s was of the mind. The readings for this feast do not so much emphasize the greatness of these two as their humanity and vulnerability. In the Epistle we catch a glimpse of Paul who is old and tired, worn out by the impossible pace and demands he had set for himself: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.” He may be tired and old, but the self-confidence is still there, and humility was never his strong point. The voice we hear to Timothy is that of the teacher, thinker, the formulator of the faith. 

Martyrdom is less about how we die and more about how and for whom we live. The Christian faith calls us to a life of endurance and perseverance. The lives and deaths of Peter and Paul offer us examples and guidance for our lives today in a world not unlike that of their own day, that desperately needs witnesses to the love of God. Though Peter and Paul disagreed about the Christian mission their common commitment to Christ and the proclamation of the Gospel proved stronger than their differences. The icon for this feast portrays them embracing each other, offering us a much needed image and example of unity in diversity in our polarized world.  

Paul‘s words for us today are timeless: “I charge you in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus who is to judge the living and the dead:  preach the word, be urgent in season and out of season, convince, rebuke, and exhort, be unfailing in patience and in teaching.”  He continues describing not only his day, but ours, where we see the Gospel domesticated and accommodated to support peoples own agenda “For the time is coming”, he says, “when people will not endure sound teaching but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own likings and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander into myths.” He reminds us that we must be willing to examine our own lives and choices and not allow ourselves to become so self-confident that we believe that we are incapable of having itching ears as well. He concludes: “As for you, always be steady, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministryFor I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has comeHenceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved His appearing.” 

So let us give thanks today for these two ancestors in the faith, whose work, writings, and witness give us insight and strength for our work and witness.  But perhaps, most of all, for showing us our capacity as human beings to change, to grow and to work together to build God’s Kingdom. +Amen.