Sunday, November 1, 2026

All Saints Day, November 1, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert Leo Sevensky, OHC

All Saints Day, November 1, 2026

Some of you may be aware that the website of Holy Cross Monastery has an extensive archive of sermons going back a quarter of a century. As of this week there are 1014 sermons available there, most in both text and audio formats. And of these, there are eighteen sermons preached for the feast of All Saints which we are observing today. After perusing these eighteen sermons, including one of mine, I got to wondering what more could be said. What's at the core of today’s feast? What is this communion of Saints that we speak of in our creeds? And how does that impact us by challenging us, encouraging us, and assisting us? 

After a while you can see certain themes or emphases emerging in these and other sermons and writings about the saints. One of the central themes concerns what precisely is a saint. Most of us when we hear the term think of a super Christian whose life is marked by fidelity and courage and other-directedness and love and patience and so on. It's almost as if we were talking about some category of celebrity Christian, but celebrities who instead of drawing attention to themselves point beyond themselves to Jesus and his saving mercy and transforming love. There are of course the great names of those mentioned in the New Testament—Saint Peter, Saint Paul, Saint Stephen, Saint Mary Magdalen, and of course Saint Mary the Virgin, mother of our Lord. And there are others that we know popularly in our culture-- Saint Patrick, Saint Valentine, St. Nicholas and St. Francis being among the all-stars. But they constitute only a minuscule part of what Scripture calls “a great cloud of witnesses” that surrounds us on all sides, supporting us by their fellowship and offering us their lives and struggles as models of holiness and expressions of hope in the face of tough and broken lives. Which is to say, all our lives. 

The Christian community has always recognized that there are countless such saints, far more than can be named or numbered. Sainthood is not limited to some process by which a particular church canonizes or includes in a calendar of commemorations one or another Christian. So it is  that we see in many of those eighteen sermons a reminder that before it was a  title for the well-known Chrisitan, the word “saint” applied to all the faithful  who struggled in good faith to be holy, that is to be restored to wholeness and  integrity and blessedness often in and through the most hidden and ordinary  of circumstances. The saints are you and me, at least potentially, at least partially. And we need to be reminded that God is not finished with us, that we are works in progress. The great saints, the lesser-known ones, and the mostly invisible ones who are part of our lives, however unrecognized, are tokens and assurances that there is a journey which leads us home… home to the very heart of God. And that we are not journeying alone.  

A second theme in several of our eighteen sermons from the online archive is a more recent observation that today we're smack in the middle of a sacred three days which has been termed the ‘autumn triduum’…three days which reflect the same dynamic as the three days that lead up to Easter.  These are, of course, Halloween, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day or the Commemoration of the Faithful Departed. Someone once described them as scared, sacred and scarred. And who of us does not know all three of these, sometimes all at once? Today we are invited to enter this thin space, if you will, where the days become shorter, the clocks are set back (hopefully for the last time) and we are made exquisitely aware of the transitoriness and the beauty of life. 

But I don't want to stop here quite yet. I want to remind us that in our recent monastic observance and in some Anglican church calendars there is also a feast called the Saints of the Old Testament. Saints aren't just Christians who knew Jesus. The saints are also those who longed for and 

worked toward the coming of Jesus Christ. Churches in both the East and the West have for centuries commemorated and celebrated the lives of our ancestors in the Old Covenant. In its compendium of saints, the Anglican Church of Canada says the following: 

“Our faith did not begin with the birth of Christ in Bethlehem, but with Abraham and Sarah, with Moses and Miriam and Aaron, with Deborah and Samuel, with holy kings like David and Hezekiah, and with prophets like Elijah and Jeremiah. We give thanks for the testimony of their lives and celebrate their faith, because they were the true forebears of Christ, who has made us partners and fellow heirs with them in the covenant of salvation.” 

And we must remember that the covenant made with Abraham and his descendants is irrevocable, and that God honors and works through that covenant to this day. 

But let's not stop there. Yes, there are saints in the Christian tradition.  And yes, there were saints of the Old Covenant. But there are also saints in other religious traditions as well as among those who subscribe to no particular faith. These are the ones whose quality of life and obedience to their conscience in what our tradition has often called the natural law or the inner moral law hold up, even for Christians, models of holy living. The early Christians often looked at the noble lives of “virtuous pagans”, people such as Socrates and Plato and Aristotle and the emperor Trajan and the poet Virgil as in some way anticipating and participating in the saving and transformative work of our Lord. And today we might well name others who were not or are not explicitly Christian, but who embody, in ways that we can't quite explain, the very best of a Christian moral outlook and a humanity and a humility that is beyond beautiful. Today we might name people like the current Dalai Lama 

or Thich Nhat Hanh or Abraham Issac Heschel or Mahatma Ghandi or Sufi poets such as Rumi or Hafez and other Islamic wali or “Friends of God”, or the Indian devotional mystic Kabir along with countless people of goodwill throughout the world who work for the welfare of others through their own vocations and careers and often at great personal cost, be it in medicine or law or rescue work or in simple faithful support of self and others. These too are saints! The late Jesuit theologian Karl Rahner called them “anonymous Christians”. This was not without some criticism… who wants to be called an anonymous anything? But it is a way for Christians to appreciate that the work of Christ is universal and reaches everyone everywhere inviting them to live lives of integrity and compassion…what our opening prayer today calls “virtuous and godly living.” That’s not the end of the story, of course, and it’s certainly not an explanation, but it is a reminder that God’s mercy and love is not the sole possession of any single religious tradition or teaching.  

The Protestant writer and theologian Frederic Buechner once wrote: 

“…the feet of saints are as much of clay as everybody else's, and their sainthood consists less of what they have done than of what God has for some reason chosen to do through them. When you consider that Saint Mary Magdalene was possessed by seven devils, that Saint  

Augustine prayed, “Give me chastity and continence, but not now,” that Saint Francis started out as a high living young dude in downtown Assisi, and that Saint Simon Stylites spent years on top of a sixty-foot pillar, you  

figure that maybe there's nobody God can't use as a means of grace, including even ourselves. 

Buechner adds:  

“The Holy Spirit has been called “the Lord, the giver of life” and, drawing their power from that source, saints are essentially life givers. To be with them is to become more alive.”

Beloved, for whatever reason, God has chosen to do something through each of us. That is the fountain of our dignity, our holiness, our healing, and our personhood. May we be blessed to dwell among the saints, among those who are life givers. For to be with them is to become more fully alive. And the more fully alive we become, the more we ourselves become life-givers.  

Called to be saints—you and me and (dare I say it?) everybody.  “Therefore, lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet….” (Hebrews 12:12). And come, let us walk together in that great company spanning the ages toward fullness of light and life and peace.  

Happy All Saints Day, my friends. Amen.

Sunday, October 25, 2026

The Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 25A, October 25, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York
Br. Ephrem Arcement, OHC

The Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost, October 25, 2026




One of the most resonant spiritual themes of our Judeo-Christian tradition is the theme of the journey.  When you place the Spirit in time what you get is movement and growth—indeed, transformation.  This process of moving from point A to point B and beyond is the through-line of our sacred story…and when you widen the lens a bit you begin to see that it is the through-line of every story, sacred or not…and when you widen the lens as wide as possible you behold with wonder that it is also the story of creation itself.

On the macro level, the universe is in the process of becoming.  From the big  bang to the formation of the galaxies to the formation of this magnificent planet which brought forth life to the advent of human consciousness, we find ourselves immersed in a sacred canopy of vitality and possibility.  What is may not be determined to be exactly what it is, but there is no denying the agency embedded in creation to become, to reveal, and to disclose itself in the amalgamation of life.  On the micro level, each individual instance of life tells its own story…becomes, reveals, and discloses its own truth.  And what I find to be at the very root of the disease of our time is that too many of us have lost sight of the macro level in the obsession with our own individual stories.  We are failing to see the big picture…that we are a part of a much larger sacred story…we’re failing to see that life is invitation and participation before it can ever become the making of my own creation.  

A few weeks ago I gave a talk on “St. Benedict’s Way of Peace” after which someone posed the following question: “Would you say that the individual or the collective is more important for St. Benedict?”  He was asking this question in light of the current societal struggle in our current fraught political situation which pits individual rights against communal solidarity.  Which, for Benedict, is more important?  The answer is…both.  The problem is that we have the unfortunate tendency to separate the personal from the communal and try to justify one over the other.  But, in my mind, this is a fundamental misreading of reality—the personal and the communal are two dimensions of one reality, equally important to the whole and to the unfolding of the sacred story.  If we see our own personal story as a story unfolding apart from either my neighbor’s story or from the world’s story, we will lose our soul and our story will come to a tragic end.  But if we see our personal story as an integral part of my neighbor’s story and the story of the world as a whole, we will not just regain our soul but it will be transformed in its becoming all that it was intended to become.  To be is to be in relationship to the whole.

Today’s readings present us with insightful lessons about this fundamental spiritual theme of life as a journey, at once personal and communal.  Our three protagonists are Moses, Paul, and Jesus…each in their own way on their personal journey, yet, each acutely attuned to the larger story of which they are a part.  Moses is on a journey leading a community out of slavery in Egypt to freedom in the land of promise, Paul is on a journey spreading the good news about Jesus to foreign lands, Jesus is on a journey back to the Father.  Yet, each in their own way, with their own lives, is telling the story of Life itself and within the micro narrative of each something of the life of God (the macro) is glimpsed.  

In relation to the theme of journey, there are a number of ancillary themes which present themselves.  For instance, there are always obstacles along the way; there is always the struggle of faith to believe that you’ll actually make it to your journey’s end; there are always the lessons learned and disappointments to be accepted.  This is true of us all, no less than for Moses, Paul, and Jesus.  

Moses faced the obstacles of faithless Pharaoh and a faithless, complaining nation.  Paul faced the obstacle of a faithless community…as well as shipwreck, stoning, and lashes.  Jesus as well faced the obstacles of faithlessness and unbelief, as well as abandonment by his disciples and an ominous cross looming up ahead.  At first, Moses wanted to opt out of the journey because of his stuttering, Paul could only consider himself unworthy to be called to the journey at all because of his past sins, and Jesus had to first prove his faith by being tested by the devil in the desert. Yet, along the way, Moses is transformed from a stammering coward to the deliverer of a nation.  Paul is transformed from an zealous persecutor of Christians to a humble slave of Christ.  Jesus is transformed from a carpenter’s son crucified on a cross to the triumphant Son of God raised from the dead, which, of course, gets us as close to the heart of the macro level as possible.  The story of Life is the story of Christ.  In Christ the macro and micro come together in one perfect unfolding, and the secret to life is revealed.  If you want to know the meaning of your life, there it is.  If you want to know the goal of your life, there it is.  If you want to know the way to live your life well, there it is.

May I suggest that the necessary remedy to the heightened stress and anxiety of our age is the wedding once again of the micro and macro levels of life…of the rejoining of the personal and the communal and both of these with the cosmic.  Jesus makes just this point in today’s Gospel passage.  When tested by a Pharisee and expert in the law about which commandment is the greatest, Jesus responds with the expected answer, the Shema: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.”  But then quite unexpectedly to the legalistic Pharisee adds a companion commandment that, for Jesus, is the proof that one is truly obeying the first, “And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.”  Or as one young politician from Texas has been preaching on the campaign trail, “You can’t love God without loving your neighbor.”  

Love of God and neighbor, then, is the fuel for the journey as well as its destination.  God, as Trinity where the personal is communal and the communal is personal, is the paradigm of our journey.  The Kingdom of God which was the heart of Jesus’ message is the vision of a life where this reciprocating love of God to us and us to God and one another becomes the defining force of all of life…that place where there are no longer any roadblocks to love.  No more prejudice, no more violence, no more scapegoating, no more sin.  Where there is only freedom: the freedom of Love.  Is this nothing more than a dream…and an unrealistic hope?  If we only look at the small picture and get fixated on the micro level, we will soon fall into despair.  But if we have just the faith of a mustard seed, we get a glimpse of the big picture and see how far we’ve come in the great unfolding of Life and also see the Spirit of God at work in it all.  No one of us is meant to carry the whole story to its end.  Jesus has already done that!  Yet, each of our stories is crucial to bringing our common, sacred story one further step forward to its full realization.  That’s it, just one step closer to the fullness that already is.  

If we truly accept this, our own limited place within the vast expanse of the whole, we will not so readily succumb to the disappointments that now seek to hold us back from moving forward.  Moses did not enter the Promised Land…but Joshua did.  Paul did not see the good news preached to the ends of the earth…but a future generation did.  The Holy Spirit is not bound by any one person.  The mantle of one is always in search of and knows just how to accommodate itself to another.  

What, then, should be our response in the here and now as we keep our eyes open wide in faith to this sacred canopy of Life in which we find ourselves?  I take a queue from St. Benedict.  The answer is conversatio: fidelity to the life to which we have been called.  While Jesus teaches us that it is love that authenticates life, it is fidelity which authenticates love.  And love and fidelity become more themselves when they are challenged by the obstacles and disappointments which are inevitable along life’s journey…and when we steadfastly love our way through them.  He hear this in Paul’s admonition to Timothy, “stay true to your call no matter what the circumstances.”  And when the opposition comes, and it certainly will, love and fidelity coming from the Spirit, will guide us through and rewrite the script of hatred, prejudice, and violence with strokes of faith, hope, and love.  

So, sisters and brothers, we each have a story to tell…and we are each presently writing Life’s story with each passing day.  May our stories, both personal and communal, never be defined or determined by the dark and chaotic forces of Death but only by the sacred narrative of Love; the Love that is God and is Christ: God’s sign of fidelity and promise that it is Love alone which will stand at our story’s end.

Sunday, October 18, 2026

The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 24A, October 18, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York
Br. Bernard Delcourt
The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, October 18, 2026



“Show me the coin.” 
That's all Jesus asks for, and it's enough to unravel the whole trap they've set for him. The Pharisees and the Herodians make for one of the strangest alliances in the Gospels; two groups that agree on almost nothing except that Jesus is a problem they'd like solved.  
The Pharisees despise Roman occupation and everything it represents. The Herodians have made their peace with Rome and profit from it. Put them in a room together on any other day, and they'd have nothing to say to each other. But a common enemy has a way of making for uncomfortable friends. 
So, they come to Jesus with flattery dripping from every word: "Teacher, we know you are sincere, you teach the way of God in accordance with truth, you show deference to no one" and then they spring the trap: "Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?" 
It's a perfect question, in the way that only a truly malicious question can be perfect. If Jesus says yes, pay the tax, he alienates every Jew who resents bankrolling the army that occupies their homeland, people who remember that this same tax had sparked open revolt a generation earlier. If he says no, don't pay it, the 
Herodians can report him to the Roman authorities as an agitator preaching sedition, and sedition against Rome had a way of ending on a cross. There is no safe answer. That's the whole design. They think they've boxed him in completely. 
And notice what they're not asking. This isn't really a question about fiscal policy or the ethics of taxation in the abstract. It's a question meant to force Jesus to plant a flag, to declare, once and for all, which side he's on, God's or Caesar's, so that whichever side he offends can be turned against him. It is a question built entirely on the assumption that loyalty has to be either-or. 
Jesus, of course, doesn't fall for it. But he also doesn't dodge it. He asks for a denarius, and right there, something quietly damning has already happened. Someone in that pious, Torah-quoting crowd produces a coin stamped with the image of Tiberius Caesar and an inscription proclaiming him the son of a god.  
Devout Jews weren't supposed to carry graven images at all, let alone one that claimed divinity for a Roman emperor. The very fact that someone can pull one out of a pocket in the Temple courts tells you these men have already made their compromises with Caesar's world. They've been carrying his currency the whole time. 
"Whose head is this," Jesus asks, "and whose title?" "The emperor's," they answer, and there's where their trap fails. "Then give to the emperor the things that are the emperors, and to God the things that are God's." 
It sounds, at first, like the ultimate diplomatic non-answer, the kind of thing a clever man says to get out of a tight spot. But it isn't a dodge. It's a much harder answer than either yes or no, because it doesn't let anyone off the hook. It hands the question back to us, 
and it will keep handing the question back to every generation that reads it: what, exactly, belongs to Caesar, and what belongs to God? 
Here's where the coin itself becomes the real sermon. A coin stamped with Caesar's image belongs to Caesar; fair enough, give it back, it was always his. But what is stamped with God's image?  Scripture already answered that question long before Matthew wrote a word of it: in the beginning, God made humankind in God's own image.  
It isn't Caesar's face that is pressed into flesh and bone. God's face is. So, when Jesus says, "give to God the things that are God's," the deepest and most searching implication of that sentence is: give God yourself. Give God your whole life, because that's whose image you were minted with in the first place. 
That reframes the entire question, doesn't it? This was never really a story about tax policy. It's a story about identity, about whose mark you carry and whose claim on you runs the deepest. Caesar can have his coins back; they were never anything but metal with his face on them. But we are not metal.  
We are not currency to be spent according to somebody else's economy. We belong, first and finally, to the God whose image we bear from the moment of our making, sealed again at the font, where water and oil mark us as Christ's own forever. 
And yet, and this is where the passage refuses to let us get too comfortable, Jesus doesn't say Caesar gets nothing. He doesn't tell his followers to renounce the world, stop paying taxes, withdraw from public life, and wait for the Kingdom to arrive on its own. He says: give to Caesar what is Caesar's. 
There is a legitimate claim that government makes on us; for taxes, for civic responsibility, for the ordinary business of living together in a society. Jesus doesn't erase that claim. What he does is put a boundary around it. Caesar's claim is real, but it is not ultimate.  Caesar's claim answers to a higher claim, and it can never be allowed to swallow that higher claim whole. 
That's the tension every one of us lives inside, all the time, whether we notice it or not. We are citizens of countries and citizens of the Kingdom of God simultaneously, and those two citizenships don't always pull in the same direction. Most days the tension is quiet, we pay our taxes, we vote, we obey reasonable laws, and none of it seems to cost us much of anything spiritually.  
But every so often, the two claims come into open conflict, and we're forced to ask, in a very concrete way, which allegiance actually governs the other. History is not short on examples of what happens when people decide that obedience to the state is simply obedience to God by another name, no questions asked. We rightly remember, with real admiration, those who found the courage to say no to that equation when it mattered most, who understood that legal is not the same thing as right, and that "my country, right or wrong" is not a creed available to people who belong first to God. 
None of us gets to opt out of that discernment by declaring the question too political for church. Jesus certainly didn't. He stood in the middle of the most charged political question of his day and refused both the easy yes and the easy no, because the real question underneath it was never really about Rome at all. It was about us, about what we're willing to render, and to whom, and why.
So here is the question this Gospel leaves sitting in our laps, right where the Pharisees' trap used to be: whose image do you bear, and what does that image cost you to honor? What have you been carrying around in your pocket, what compromises, what quiet allegiances that you didn't even notice had Caesar's face stamped on them?  
And what would it look like, this week, to give back to Caesar exactly what belongs to him, no more and no less, and to give to God the one thing Caesar was never entitled to ask for: yourself, made in the image of the living God, and claimed by him before any empire ever had the chance. 
Amen.