Easter 2 C - April 24, 2022

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Robert James Magliula, OHC

Easter 2 C - April 24, 2022

Acts 5:27-32

Revelation 1:4-8

John 20:19-31

One week ago, God rolled away the stone from the tomb and Mary Magdalene saw Jesus alive. That night, despite her good news, the disciples were still hiding behind locked doors. Not much has changed. They had traded a tomb for a room and a stone for locked doors. This time Thomas was with them. Jesus came and stood among them, saying "Peace be with you." Then he turned to Thomas and offered himself. "Reach your finger here", he said, "see my hands. Put your hand in my side. Be unbelieving no longer but believe." 

Try to forget, for a moment, everything you thought you knew about Thomas. Forget that somewhere along the way you came to believe that Thomas’ primary attribute was doubt. Forget that you still think of him as a slightly inferior disciple who Jesus rebukes him for his lack of faith. Forget it all because the opposite is true. Nowhere in the Gospels is he described as a doubter. What Thomas asked for was exactly what all the other disciples got. When Jesus appeared to them, he showed them his hands and his side and only then, did they rejoice “because they saw the Lord” (20:20). We tend to forget that it was not only Judas who betrayed Jesus. Every one of the disciples abandoned him, apart from the women and John. Thomas was no worse than any of the others in that room behind locked doors. Jesus never accused Thomas of doubting. That’s how we have translated and interpreted the Greek. Rather, Jesus, says, “Do not be unbelieving, but believing.” He could just have easily said that to the others. All of them were guilty. All went into hiding, afraid that they would also be accused and arrested. Traumatized, paralyzed by fear, grief, guilt, remorse, and despair, their brokenness had buried them alive. The locked room was their tomb. 

Christ is risen, the tomb is empty, but the doors are locked. Resurrected life does not come easily. It’s not just the first disciples, however. I suspect we all know about locked doors. God opens the tomb, and sometimes we follow behind locking the door. God declares forgiveness and we continue to live behind the locked door of condemnation of self or others. God defeats death but we still live as if it is the final word. God offers new life, but we live in the past. God declares we are loved, and we lock ourselves out of that love. The locked doors of our lives are not so much about what is going on around us, but what is happening within us: fear, anger, guilt, hurt, grief, the refusal to change. The lock on the door of our life is always locked from the inside.

Resurrection is not just an event or an idea. It is a way of being and living. It is the lens through which we see the world, each other, and ourselves. Resurrection is the gift of God’s life and love. Living resurrection, however, is difficult. It is neither quick nor magical. For most of us it is a process, something we grow into over time. Resurrection does not undo our past, fix our problems, or change the circumstances of our lives. It changes us, offers a way through our problems, and creates a future. Christ’s resurrected life invites us to unlock our doors and sends us into the world.

One week after Easter, is our life different? Where are we living--- In the freedom and joy of resurrection or behind a locked door? What do we believe about Jesus’ resurrection? What door have we locked? If you want to know what you believe, look at your life and how you live. Our beliefs guide our life, and our life reveals our beliefs. Belief in Jesus’ resurrection is not a question of intellectual assent or agreement. It’s not about evidence or proof or getting the right answer. Belief is more about how we live than what we think. It encourages us to be real---to find as Thomas did---that when we admit our need, Christ will meet us where we are. The opposite of faith is not doubt but fear. Doubt is an essential ingredient of faith which can serve us, but fear imprisons us. We’re called to look squarely at our fear, and then step out knowing that Jesus walks beside us. 

Resurrected people know that faith and life are messy. They ask hard questions rather than settling for easy answers. They don’t have to figure it all out before praying, forgiving, or loving. They trust that what God believes about them is more important than what they believe about God. They unlock the door even when they don’t know what’s on the other side. They believe even if they don’t understand. They may never see or touch Jesus, but they live trusting that they have been seen and touched by him. None of us crosses over this gap from death to new life by our own effort or perfection. Each of us is carried by grace. Death cannot win when we recognize that the thing which could destroy us is the very thing that could enlighten us.

Speaking over Thomas’ shoulder to the rest of us, Jesus says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Jesus isn’t rebuking Thomas but blessing us. In fact, Thomas emerges as the model of how one becomes a disciple. Once he has encountered himself and Jesus, he makes the ultimate confession in John’s Gospel, acclaiming Jesus not only as “my Lord” --- but also “my God,” Like Thomas we all need to see and touch the mark of the nails. That sight frees us to see our own wounds and those of others compassionately, not fearfully. God transforms the human soul by using the very thing that would normally destroy us—the tragic, the sorrowful, the painful, the unjust deaths that lead us all to the bottom of our lives. Jesus’ death and resurrection is a statement of how reality works all the time and everywhere. He teaches us that there’s a different way to live with our pain, our sadness, and our suffering. We can feel sorry for ourselves, or we can say, as he did on Good Friday, “God is even in this.” God is the one who always turns death into life.

What happened to Thomas is exactly what John hopes will happen to each of us when we hear his story every year on this Sunday after Easter. After this scene John writes, “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name” (20:30-31).

+ Amen.

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

The Rev. Janet Vincent

Good Friday - April 15, 2022

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Hebrews 10:16-25

John 18:1-19:42

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You can listen to The Rev. Janet Vincent's sermon by clicking the link above.

Palm Sunday C - April 10, 2022

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Ephrem Arcement

Palm Sunday C - April 10, 2022

The Liturgy of the Palms:

Luke 19:28-40

The Liturgy of the Word:

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Philippians 2:5-11

Luke 23:1-49

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Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!

It has been said that the spiritual life is what one does with one’s fears, and I largely agree. Fear has a way of either making us cower and hide or, with some inspiration and faith, to stand up taller, fight harder and overcome. Ever since the ruddy, young David took down the towering Goliath, humankind loves a good underdog story.

As we know, the “greatest story ever told” is about such an underdog: how a young, simple Jewish man from Nazareth overcame the power of death and brought eternal life to all who desire it. It’s the story of the confrontation between the reign of a powerful and violent “Satan” and the reign of a hidden and unassuming God. And one of the greatest lessons followers of Jesus Christ have had to learn ever since Jesus called Peter “Satan” was that the reign of God is entered into riding on a donkey rather than a chariot.

As we find ourselves beginning our Holy Week liturgies commemorating the most pivotal and transforming events of human history, we find ourselves confronted with two primal realities: joy and sorrow. We know how the story ends…and this brings us great joy. But we also know that there is no way to resurrection joy but by way of the sorrow of the cross. We are, as St. Paul expressed, on a parabolic journey: we must descend before we ascend. Like the shape of a parabola, we move from the reign of the self to self-emptying to the reign of God, and this means that the sorrow and fear of the cross must be confronted before God can reign supreme in peace and joy over our lives.

In a previous monastic incarnation, I spent several years as a Roman Catholic Benedictine monk teaching courses on the Old and New Testaments to a group of young and often very biblically naive seminarians. One of my goals was to inspire my students to fall in love with the Sacred Scriptures while simultaneously helping them to be honest with the text. But for many young people today, being honest with the text is a direct challenge to their faith and stokes all kinds of fear…along with some stone throwing and accusations of heresy! One such occasion in fact occurred when I was teaching the Servant Songs of the Prophet Isaiah and tried to help my students get into the mind and heart of Christ who, I suggested, must have often used these Servant Songs for his own personal lectio divina. Just imagine, I offered, a young Jesus probably around their age, reading and internalizing these passages and coming to greater and greater realization of his destiny as the very Servant who was called to fulfill these prophecies.

The Lord God has opened my ear,

and I was not rebellious,

I did not turn backward.

I gave my back to those who struck me,

and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard;

I did not hide my face

from insult and spitting.

The Lord God helps me;

therefore I have not been disgraced;

therefore I have set my face like flint,

and I know that I shall not be put to shame;

he who vindicates me is near.

This was all too much for one student who raised his hand and said that the Church doesn’t allow us to believe that Jesus didn’t always know that he was the Messiah. I challenged him and told him he was mistaken and received an email the following day with a concession speech which he also sent to the whole class reassuring them, that after some research, Fr. Ephrem was, in fact, not a heretic after all!

I share this story because I continue to hold that our Lord did in fact come to terms with his identity and mission throughout the developing years of his life and that a significant catalyst for him was his own Sacred Scriptures, especially the Servant Songs of Isaiah, which our liturgies this week will feature in a prominent way.

This is important because it is crucial that we look to Jesus and his own parabolic journey to help us make our own. How did he face his fears? And how did he overcome them?

There was perhaps nothing clearer to Jesus, it seems to me, than the fact that his destiny of ushering in the reign of God was replete with suffering. If he did in fact see himself as the Suffering Servant of the prophet Isaiah, then Gethsemane and Golgotha came as no surprise. All four Gospels attest to the fact that Jesus knew that there was no way around the cross. So, what kind of weight he must have bourn from his first realization, probably already as a young man, that his life was to be cut short by the reign of terror and violence and that he was the one destined to be lead as a lamb to the slaughter! How did he have the grace to not cower in fear but to stand up taller and fight and overcome?

The young seminarian might reduce the answer to the fact that he was God. Yes, Jesus was fully divine but also fully human and the dread he experienced about his future was as real as yours and mine would be if we were in a similar situation. A better answer, I believe, is that he was fired with a vision of what his life was and what it meant and this vision gave him a power much greater than the power of fear. The cross became relativized in the light of his ultimate vocation and destiny. He knew that the way of the cross was somehow a part of the mysterious plan of “Abba” who would not, in the end, forsake him. And he became fully convinced that the sacrifice of his life would be the very catalyst for the final destruction of sin and death and pave the way for God’s reign of peace and justice. Every word he spoke, every lesson he taught, every miracle he performed, all poured forth from a heart fully owned by this vision.

Liturgically speaking, and, for some of us, perhaps existentially as well, we now find ourselves in Jerusalem, the city of destiny, awaiting the condemnation of Pilate and the scourge. The cross towers before us like a menacing Goliath and we hear our Lord ask, “will you follow me or will you forsake me?”

It is ultimately a question about what means the most to us: ourselves or our Lord. A question about fear or faith. Before we answer, let us not be like the impetuous Peter but let us soberly consider the stakes and the best way forward. Armed with humility, the knowledge of our own weakness, and the vision of our ultimate purpose and destiny in Christ, let us draw strength and inspiration from the pioneer and perfecter of our faith and continually watch and pray lest we too are brought to the trial. And even if we are and stumble along the way, we are assured that we have a faithful and merciful high priest who is ready to pick us up and egg us on in the fight.

Lent 5 C - April 3, 2022

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Robert Sevenksy, OHC

Lent 5 C - April 3, 2022

Isaiah 43:16-21

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

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Last week we heard Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son, so called. It is a remarkably moving and profound reflection on the human condition, and it was so lovingly explored with us by Brother Aidan. But what does ‘prodigal’ mean? It wasn't until well into adulthood that I discovered that the word had more nuances of meaning then I realized. On the one hand of course, it refers to being recklessly wasteful or extravagant, such as in disposing of goods or money. And that is probably the meaning that most of us associate with the parable of the Lost Son that we heard last week. But there is a second, related meaning of prodigal understood as lavish in giving or yielding, generous, openhanded. It is this meaning that we need to hold in mind this morning as we listen to the gospel story of the anointing of Jesus.

We hear today of a woman, in this case Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, anointing Jesus in preparation for his burial. This story is, in one form or another, told in all four canonical gospels, though as usual John's gospel gives it a particular spin or emphasis. It is placed right at the outset of the beginning of the passion narrative, just six days before the Passover and Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and death. And ready or not, we are catapulted into Passiontide. What makes this a prodigal act? Well obviously, the expense of the ointment. The gospel narrative tells us that it is worth 300 denarii or about a year's wages. Can that be true? And if it is true, we might find ourselves asking, with the disciples or (in John’s gospel with Judas) the question, “Why this waste? This ointment could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” It does seem, rationally speaking, to be a rather extravagant and over the top action. Yet Jesus immediately intervenes to stop any criticism of Mary. He says, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” Indeed, in the gospels of Matthew and Mark, Jesus goes on to say of her action: “…wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.” (Mark 14:9) Following the model of an Ignatian meditation, I'd like to share three points about this event and John’s take on it. First, and I regret that I need to say it, but it must be said: Jesus’ response to Mary’s critics, that the poor are always with us, is no excuse for not caring for those who are poor or in need. Jesus is here alluding to a passage from the book of Deuteronomy, and anybody in that circle would have known the whole quote and we should as well. Let me read it: “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” (15:11) There is a continuing obligation on our part to open our hands and our hearts to the poor. Our Lord’s saying this serves as a reminder to us all. This is part of the ordinary obligation of Christian living. But, let it also be said that amid ongoing obligations and ordinary life, extraordinary events can and do call out extraordinary responses from one or another of us. And Mary of Bethany was one who was called out. Second, the writer of John's gospel places this event not in the household of Simon of Bethany, as the do the authors of Matthew and Mark, but in the household of Jesus’ friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus. And unlike the woman in the other gospel accounts, this woman is not anonymous. She has a name, she has a family—though admittedly a rather nontraditional family—and she has a relationship with Jesus. Yes, we'd like to know more about all these family members, but what we do know is that they are people with a respected place in their community and culture, people with shared dreams and hopes, and people with complex and life-giving relationships with each other and with our Lord. They are friends of our Lord, and it is in the womb of their friendship that Jesus finds comfort and rest. I find it not only interesting but encouraging that this event, so tender and prophetic and yes, shocking, happens within the intimacy of discipleship understood as friendship and in a place where Jesus can find a home. Third, let’s be frank. This is a pretty wild act on Mary’s part, isn't it? And we're not just talking about the cost of the ointment, its value. There's also the issue of the hair. I'm not sure how the culture of Jesus’ day might have viewed the anointing of the head or feet of a man by a woman, especially in quasi-public setting, but I can't help but imagine that the wiping of the feet with her hair made some of the onlookers just a little bit nervous, kind of the way I get nervous when I see public displays of affection or intimacy. What got into her that she was moved to do this? There is of course something spontaneous about it. The gospel says that she bought the perfume or ointment so that she might keep it for the day of Jesus’ burial. But somehow, she recognized that this was the moment. Suddenly she realized that she needed to act without, I imagine, thinking too much about it or agonizing over it but just doing it, period. Her knowing was that kind of knowing where we realize only later the magnanimity and enormity and consequences of what we had done. Perhaps that's part of what falling in love is like. It's seldom moderate, at least at the outset. There's an insistence, and indeed even a madness, about it which gives it much of its meaning and lasting power. I think of the Friar Laurence in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet saying to Romeo as he awaits the arrival of his beloved: “Love moderately. Long love doth so.” Of course, as they meet, they throw themselves into each other’s arms, at least in the Zeffirelli movie version; they're having none of that. Their love is immoderate and spontaneous and ultimately tragic. But I wonder if falling in love with God doesn't elicit and need something of that immoderate character, that kind of energy and abandon where we're all in or we're not in at all. Two decades ago, we were blessed for seven years here at Holy Cross with the presence of Mary Klock, a Catholic Religious Sister of Mercy who shared in our life and taught many of us profound lessons in holy living. Mary was of strong Irish Catholic heritage and one day quoted a poem to me which captured my imagination. It was The Fool by Patrick Pearse. Pearse was an Irish political leader and revolutionary, one of the architects of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Many see him as a patriot, others as a terrorist. That’s the inherent ambiguity of political revolution. In his poem Pearse urges us, as he urged the Irish people, to be all in. It's a dangerous poem, one which can be read as advocating violence. But at the heart of it, I believe, is also encouragement to live prodigally, with abandoned and with trust. I quote a portion: I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God. I have squandered the splendid years: Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, Aye, fling them from me! For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word? The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, And said, `This man is a fool,’ and others have said, `He blasphemeth;’ And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold. O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?

What if the dream come true? What if, after all, the ointment was not wasted? What if the love was immoderate, even embarrassing, maybe even tragic? I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s question: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” No matter how old we may be, that question lives.

This has been a season of prodigals: the Lost Son, prodigal in his wastefulness, and his father, prodigal yet more in his loving forgiveness and welcome. There is the prodigal Mary of Bethany, whose wildly spontaneous generosity filled her house with fragrance, covering over the odor of her brother Lazarus’ death even while preparing the Lord for his own entombment. And of course, there is the greatest prodigal of all, our wildly generous Lord Jesus Christ who gives himself freely for us and for our sake and out of love for us and out of all proportion. With this anointing, he begins his journey to the cross and it is to that cross to that we now turn our faces. This is the same Lord who teaches his disciples and us that there is no greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.

O, brothers and sisters, what a Friend we have in Jesus. Amen.