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.

Tuesday, June 24, 2025

The Nativity of St John the Baptist, June 24, 2025

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Aidan Owen, OHC

The Nativity of St John the Baptist, June 24, 2025

In the name of the One God, who is Lover, Beloved, and Love Overflowing. Amen. 

In the middle of June every year, we get a little Advent. This year, the weather has even been cooperating. Today’s feast is a timely reminder that, whatever the season, God is constantly preparing the way of our return. 

This year, in particular, I’m struck by the resonance of Isaiah’s poetry: “Comfort, O Comfort, my people. […] Speak tenderly to [them.]” Oh, how we need that tenderness! How we need that comfort! In the midst of so many and great temptations to despair and fatigue—an ever expanding list these days—the comfort of God’s promise of faithfulness and return beckons all the more strongly. 

Comfort my people. Tell them that their return to me is imminent. Prepare the way of their salvation, their wholeness, their new life in me, says the Lord. 

John the Baptist, whose birth we celebrate today, and Isaiah both knew darkness and exile. Both lived in times of great chaos and upheaval, in which the very life and existence of their communities was anything but assured. Isaiah, for instance, comes proclaiming this good news of the elevation of Mount Zion precisely at one of the moments of Israel’s greatest darkness. When the Assyrian empire has decimated Jerusalem, when all that the Israelites hold dear has been ravaged and the world seems irreparably fragmented, the voice of hope sounds its clear bell. This home that has been destroyed will not only be rebuilt, but it will become a center of welcome, peace, and love for all the world. 

John comes as the morning star, the great forerunner of the morn, as that wonderful hymn puts it. He is the sign that the life that really is life is coming into the world as Jesus, our brother, our friend, and our God. And like the morning star, he comes at the darkest hour of the night as a promise that the sun will rise again. 

Before I entered the Monastery, echoing Isaiah, Br. Andrew told me, “there are no sharp edges here. Everything in the Monastery has been worn smooth through years of prayer.” It was a lovely sentiment, and just what I wanted to hear in that moment of romantic infatuation. Having lived in this community for a little while now, I can tell you that there are actually plenty of sharp edges remaining. I’ve even introduced a few myself. Not all has been worn smooth, at least not yet. 

But nor was Andrew’s comment mere sentimentality. The common life—whether in a monastery, a family, a parish, or a nation—is one of great friction. Our sharp edges are only worn down by rubbing against those of our brothers, our coreligionists, or our neighbors. Much the same can be said for the life of prayer, in which, whatever consolations may come our way, we will eventually find ourselves facing into dryness, desolation, and the fracturing of our optimism that the spiritual life will finally make us into shining examples of perfect, ordered human life. 

The great Anthony Bloom connects this stripping down to the work of prayer: 

“There is a degree of despair that is linked with total, perfect hope. This is the point at which, having gone inward, we will be able to pray; and then ‘Lord, have mercy’ is quite enough. We do not need to make any of the elaborate discourses we find in manuals of prayer. It is enough simply to shout out of despair ‘Help!’ and you will be heard.” 

He continues, “Very often we do not find sufficient intensity in our prayer, sufficient conviction, sufficient faith, because our despair is not deep enough. We want God in addition to so many other things we have, we want His help, but simultaneously we are trying to get help wherever we can, and we keep God in store for our last push. […] If our despair comes from sufficient depth, if what we ask for, cry for, is so essential that it sums up all the needs of our life, then we find words of prayer and we will be able to reach the core of the prayer, the meeting with God.”1 

The encounter with the realities of his own dark time of empire, domination, and the potential extinction of his religion and his people led John into the wilderness to fast and to pray. In the purification of his own desire, in the distilling of that desire down to its essential element—Lord, have mercy!—he became, as the eucharistic preface puts it, a burning and a shining light, drawing others away from the city toward the boundaries of their becoming. There he invited them to turn back to the Lord and to be washed clean in the waters of baptism. 

It's no accident that the movement of return and remembrance that John proclaims originates in the wilderness. It is there that the Israelites wandered after their slavery. It is there that they encountered God and that, through their trials, murmurings, and cursing God forged them into a community. It is into the wilderness that the Spirit drives Jesus after his baptism, there to be tempted, yes, but also there to be formed. For it is through his temptation that Jesus touches his deepest desire, which is for God alone. 

It is in this place of wild wandering that we come to know God and, in that encounter, to be known as God’s beloved.  

And so, it is to the wilderness that John calls—or we might say recalls—the people when they have strayed from God’s ways. And it is in the wilderness of this historical moment that we, too, must face down temptation and despair. It is in this wilderness of death and anxiety and fear that we may allow God to strip down our desire, until all we want is God. And it is from this wilderness of darkness and wandering that our hope will emerge. 

On the eve of the Velvet Revolution in what was then Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel wrote about what it means to hope: 

“Hope is a state of mind, not a state of the world. Either we have hope within us, or we don’t. […] Hope is definitely not the same as optimism. It’s not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. It is hope, above all, that gives strength to live and to continually try new things, even in conditions that seem as hopeless as ours do, here and now. In the face of this absurdity, life is too precious a thing to permit its devaluation by living pointlessly, emptily, without meaning, without love, and, finally, without hope.” 

Real hope, as writer and activist Rebecca Solnit points out, is always dark, because the future is forever dim. And while the darkness may frighten us, in her words, it is always the dark, not just of the grave, but of the womb. For out of the dark wilderness emerge possibilities we could never have imagined in the clear light of day. 

If the emergence of hope from the dark is true in the secular world, how much truer it is for the Christian, who bears not only Christ’s life within her, but first bears Christ’s death on the Cross. We who profess the faith of Jesus, profess, not that he died and made everything okay in the world, but that having died and risen, he now lives in us, right here and now, still working to stitch back together this fractured world. 

The Israelites and the early Christian community discovered in the darkness of wilderness and exile that, although they could no longer see the way forward, they could be seen, seen in the depths of their being, known and loved in the very foundation of their soul, in that darkest point within that is reserved for God alone. And in that foundational place, too deep even really to call it love, for it is so much more than that, from that deepest place hope is born. 

John, the great forerunner of the morn, the morning star and herald of the dawn, continues to shine like a beacon of hope in the darkness of our time, just as he did in his own. His voice calls out today that though we are like the flower of the field that springs up today and tomorrow is gone, the word of the Lord—the word that is Jesus within and around us—endures forever. There is always cause to hope, because God is good, and that is everything. 

Sunday, June 22, 2025

The Second Sunday after Pentecost, June 22, 2025

Holy Cross MonasteryWest Park, NY

Br. Francis Beckham, OHC

The Second Sunday after Pentecost, June 22, 2025

Click here for an audio of the sermon


“Most High, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart, and give me true faith, certain
hope, and perfect charity, sense and knowledge, Lord, that I may carry out Your holy and true
command. Amen.” (The Prayer before the Crucifix, 1205/1206)
In the words of this simple prayer, uttered before the crucifix of the crumbling church of San Damiano near Assisi, Italy, in about the year 1205, Saint Francis gave voice to a new desire that was taking hold within him: namely, to offer himself completely and absolutely to God.
By asking to be emptied of everything that was not really him at all – that is, of all his
worldly thoughts, fleshy desires, and his prideful will – Francis would at last be free to
become the person he was truly meant to be, the real Francis who had been made by God for
the exact purpose each and every one of us has been created: to use our whole beings to love, and be loved by, God. To be fully human involves nothing less than this.
Francis, who was around twenty-four at the time, was just emerging from a period of
profound personal conversion. Having only recently recovered from a severe illness preceded by a failed military expedition involving a mysterious vision, this charming, handsome playboy son of a wealthy cloth family, the “King of Youth” as he had been known in Assisi, had now rejected his privilege and patrimony – even his family name – and become the penniless “Fool of God.” 
The main event in his conversion had been an encounter he’d had with a leper on the road outside of the city walls, in whom he had recognized not an object of fear as he previously would have done, but instead the very person of Christ. Francis’ response was to show mercy to the poor soul. And with that, he could no longer look at anyone ever again without seeing the face of God. Now, as he knelt before the altar of San Damiano, he could hardly know all the remarkable things the future had in store for him, things far greater than the glorious knighthood he’d always dreamed about for himself. But, in that moment of surrender, he had all he needed: complete faith in God’s loving mercy.
The conversion of Saint Francis has always been very special to me, and I couldn’t help
thinking of it as I reflected on this morning’s readings. Much like Elijah, Francis was finally
ready to say yes to God only because he had finally become aware of his complete
dependence on God. Both had to be shaken from sleepful complacency in order to
understand just how utterly not in control they actually were. Similar to Francis, Elijah had
also been acting as he thought he was supposed to, which in his case meant being a prophet
and demonstrating God’s true power and authority in Canaan. But now, after believing he
had achieved his purpose, he finds himself alone in the wilderness, being hunted down like a
criminal. It’s no wonder he wants to give up, saying, “It is enough.” But God doesn’t give up.
Through more than a little persistence (faithfulness, really), God leads Elijah from his sleep
beneath the broom tree to the top of Mount Horeb, the very place where Moses had
experienced his own theophany, where God is finally revealed to him in a sound of sheer
silence. Definitely not what he had been expecting.
We see another, and, in my opinion, profoundly touching, example of God’s particular love
for outcasts in today’s Gospel reading. As we’ve heard, the Gerasene Demoniac (let’s call
him Gerasene Guy, since no one should be defined by their challenges) faces a set of
absolutely heartbreaking circumstances. Although Elijah’s life and credibility as a prophet
are at stake, Gerasene Guy is in danger of losing all connection with something far more
fundamental: his very personhood. For a while now, he’s been existing not as a living human
being, made in the likeness and image of God, but as essentially a zombie. Devoid of
everything we associate with humanity, including family and community, clothing, and even
his reasoning, he’s instead been cast entirely outside of the social order. No longer seen as
acceptable to society and continually tormented by demons, he is for all points and purposes,
dead. (Incidentally, this is exactly how the lepers of Saint Francis’ time were looked upon;
there was even what was essentially a funeral liturgy for the newly diagnosed.)
But, even for all that, Gerasene Guy is not truly dead. There still remains, deep within him, a
spark of the Divine and, thus, of the human as well. As Jesus and his companions near the
shore in their boat, the Divine force within Gerasene Guy awakens. Then, as his human
heart, restless and long-tormented, recognizes the one sent by his Source, he goes to meet
him, and throws himself at Jesus’ feet. I can only imagine the anguish, fear, and, perhaps,
even the tiny bit of hope, he must have felt in that moment. And Jesus – understanding that
the demons are not the person – actually sees him, sees both the humanity and the divinity
within Gerasene Guy, and uses his power to cast out from him that which is not really him at
all. As he would inspire Saint Francis to do twelve-hundred years later, Jesus shows love to
the marginalized by first showing mercy.
While this doesn’t necessarily result in the best outcome for the swine, it does do something
amazing for Gerasene Guy: it makes him truly human and whole again. In fact, he has gone
from screaming and throwing himself before Jesus as a demoniac to sitting at his feet as a
disciple, dignified, clothed, and in his right mind. When people who know him – or, perhaps
more accurately, who think they know about him – see this, it fills them with fear because,
for the first time in years, Gerasene Guy is fully and undeniably human; but unfortunately,
they’ve lost the ability to see him as anything other than what they’ve decided he is. I must
admit that this forces me to consider how often I allow my own ideas about others to blind
me to their true humanity.
Naturally, Gerasene Guy wants to join Jesus on his mission, but Jesus – rightly recognizing
the need for people to understand the truth about what they had seen – tells him to return to
his long-forgotten home and practice his discipleship there, among his own people,
recounting what God had done for him. After all, the Gospel isn’t going to be spread very far
if all of Jesus’ disciples insist on clinging to their Teacher.
So, for Elijah to understand God’s purpose for him, he first needed to be woken by an angel,
drawn through the wilderness, and taken up a holy mountain. Gerasene Guy had to be brave
and run toward Jesus, who showed him mercy, made him a disciple, and told him to return
home to proclaim the reign of God to people who had so long feared him. And, of course,
Saint Francis could only become a living witness of the Gospel once he had been purged of
his love of the world’s vanities by coming to despise what he had once loved, and to love
what he had so feared. God never fails to favor most highly those who have dwelt in the
lowest places.
As I’m sure is true for all of us, there have been plenty of times when I’ve been so certain of
my own plans, ideas, and actions, only to watch them go up in smoke, leaving me to wonder
what else I’m wrong about and where in the world I’m going to go from here. True, none
were ever as serious has having to risk my life defending the worship of the God of Israel
over Baal Peor; or proclaiming the healing message of an itinerant Jewish preacher amongst
a community that had once cast me out for being full of demons; or even renouncing my
inheritance and every form of comfort and security for the sake of the Gospel. No, mostly
I’ve simply failed to recognize my complete reliance on God, and to see how much more
lifegiving it is just to live boldly into the simple events of everyday life.
Elijah, Gerasene Guy, and Saint Francis all bear witness to the fact that there are no
insignificant lives. And nothing – and no one – in our lives is truly insignificant either. In
fact, as our readings today show us, one of the most amazing truths of the human experience
is God’s never-failing preference for using the least likely people to achieve the most
extraordinary things. This ought to be a reminder to all of us that, though we can sometimes
feel hugely discouraged and ineffective within our chaotic and unjust world, our efforts –
even our most flawed efforts – at being bearers of the Gospel are revolutionary and holy acts.
Having begun this reflection with Saint Francis’ initial prayer of self-offering alone before
the crucifix, I’d like to close with a prayer written by him some twenty years later, after God
had sent him thousands of brothers, more than a few hardships, and many, many more
blessings. And as he asked the grace for him and his companions to know their dependence
on God in showing mercy and proclaiming the Gospel, may it be so for all of us today:
“Almighty, eternal, just, and merciful God: give us miserable ones the grace to do for You
alone what we know you want us to do and always to desire what pleases You. Inwardly
cleansed, interiorly enlightened and inflamed by the fire of the Holy Spirit, may we be able
to follow in the footprints of Your beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, and, by Your grace
alone, may we make our way to You, Most High, Who live and rule in perfect Trinity and
simple Unity, and are glorified God almighty, forever and ever. Amen.” (A Letter to the
Entire Order, 1225-1226.)