The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost B - September 22, 2024

 Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Francis Beckham

The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 20, September 22, 2024

 

Jeremiah 11:18-20
James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a
Mark 9:30-37

 Click here for an audio of the sermon

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, O God, my sustainer and my comforter. Amen.

Late in the summer of 2021, as I was preparing to leave Pittsburgh to enter the Order of the Holy Cross, an unexpected series of events began to happen. Seemingly at every turn during those final weeks in the Steel City, I was confronted with reminders of experiences I’d had during the six-year stint I was wrapping up there – not only reminders of actual events and interactions that had taken place, but also of feelings, emotions, and even ideas I’d had there.

 I suppose it’s not strange to reflect on a chapter of one’s life as it’s in the process of closing, but this seemed a little different. It was almost as if my residency in Pittsburgh had had a life of its own this whole time, and now it was going for one final hang-out session with me, wanting to reminisce about all the good – and ‘other’ – times we’d shared. I had the distinct feeling of being “seen off” by an unseen companion.

Now, what was especially interesting about this little walk down (or, ‘dahn’, as they say in Pittsburgh) Memory Lane, was that most of the memories were drawn from the hundreds of actual walks I’d taken through the surrounding neighborhoods during those years. There was, for example, the time I’d been strolling along Liberty Avenue in Bloomfield and, for some reason, happened to glance up into a brightly lit window of a big new apartment building. It was evening and, through this particular window, I could see maybe five or six young professional types, holding wine glasses and laughing. They were engrossed in their own merry little world, the kind that probably involved group artisanal cider tastings and weeknight visits to the rock-climbing gym. Meanwhile, I was standing out on the street, caught up in my own little world, one in which I could only wonder at what it would feel like even to know four other people to invite over for drinks and dinner.

I was projecting, of course. I didn’t actually know anything about the people in the window, and I had no idea what their lives were like. Maybe they couldn’t stand the taste of cider. Maybe some of them couldn’t stand each other. It’s possible they preferred jogging along the Allegheny River trails or down in Panther Hollow over working out in a gym. I wasn’t resentful or jealous of them. I was just aware of how seemingly different our lives were. But something in that scene stirred up a complicated concoction of emotions, regrets, doubts, and weird memories deep within me. I didn’t understand why, and I didn’t take the time right then and there to try to figure it out. I just turned and kept walking toward the old, beige brick building where my quiet, sensibly priced apartment sat waiting for me.

This experience, along with so many like it during that ‘winding-down’ time, gradually made me aware of something: Now in my early 40s, I hadn’t achieved most of the culturally prescribed standards of materialism and success – an overpriced residence at a trendy address; dental veneers; a partner and kids of my own who were perfectly quaffed and Instagram-ready at all times – and I was never going to. The reason? Despite how much I knew I was supposed to want all those things, I simply didn’t want them. And, apparently I never really had, or, at least, I hadn’t wanted them badly enough. I lacked sufficient ambition for them.

“Good,” I thought to myself while reflecting on these memories later. “Choosing not to pour my energy into getting things I don’t want is a sign of moral strength. Stoicism, even. I’m glad I was content not to be like those people in the window.” If this sounds like sour grapes, I assure you it’s actually much worse. It’s competition by comparison. In my head, I was competing with people who had never wronged me in any way just to assuage doubts I had about my own life choices. In this limited mindset, shaped by the world’s ‘wisdom’ rather than God’s, either they or I could be right, but we couldn’t all be.

Eventually I would come to understand that my judgmental attitude in this and other situations flows from the insecurities and hurts that reside in the shadowy corners of my ego’s cellar. The real damage isn’t so much that I had compared myself to others, but that I had assigned worth to them as human beings based solely on how their external circumstances – either real or perceived through clouded lenses – stacked up against mine. This is a long way from practicing the virtues of humbleness, service, and welcome we hear about in today’s readings.

In the Letter of James, we’re encouraged to live fully out of our authenticity, performing good works with “gentleness born of wisdom.” The worldly values of ambition and competitiveness, the writer of James warns us, will only ever serve us “disorder and wickedness.” I’m sure we can all think of times when we’ve recognized this tendency, along with its effects, in ourselves and others.

Living in a way that is “first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy” may seem like a mighty tall order, but the author of  James offers us an important insight that can help. Indeed, it’s absolutely critical: We must first get to know ourselves, and know ourselves well. “Those conflicts and disputes among you,” James asks, “where do they come from? Do they not come from your cravings that are at war within you?” Yes, James, they do.

They are the things that stir within us when we’re peering through apartment windows, observing the lives of others. And even though we can usually ‘walk them off’ pretty easily in the moment, they don’t leave; they only sink back beneath the surface again. If we want to keep them from returning, or at least stop them from driving our life choices, we have to identify them, name them, and address them. This is not easy work, but it is necessary if we want to live the kinds of lives of service and peacemaking described in James, or to use our gifts in being a generous and uplifting presence to others like the Wisdom Wife in our reading from Proverbs.

But here’s the thing. There’s more to all this than simply wanting to be nice people who go around doing nice things (and maybe being noticed for them, just a tiny bit). Our motive, first and foremost, must be a genuine desire to share in the Love that is born of God. Otherwise, we’re still being driven by ambition to compete against others to see who’s the best at being nice. Jesus recognizes this in his own disciples in our reading from Mark this morning, so none of us should think we’re immune from falling into this trap ourselves.

As they walk along the road to Capernaum, Jesus is aware they are competing with one another for status, even though he’s just finished teaching them about the need for total self-emptying, even if it ends up getting you killed. Like most of us when we know we’re resisting grace, they feel a sense of shame. They have nothing to say for themselves when Jesus asks what they were arguing about. It must be frustrating for him, but he bears their stubbornness with patience because he understands human nature from his own, personal experience. Plus, this is exactly why he’s with them, to show them how to love, no matter what it takes. So, he sits down, calls them to himself, and helps them understand that they must focus on being welcoming to each other – as welcoming as one would be to a child, in fact.

But why welcoming? Consider for a moment what happens when we commit ourselves to making someone feel truly welcome. We want them to be at ease, to feel accepted, safe, and cared-for. So, at least in that moment, we place them ahead of us. We’re not thinking about ourselves, we’re wholly concerned with their needs. And this, in turn, leads to gratitude on the other person’s part, creating a channel for love to flow between us. To put it simply, we can’t compete when we’re creating welcome, because (whether we’re consciously aware of it or not) it’s the presence of God within of us recognizing the exact same presence of God present within the other. We don’t even want to compete. We simply love.

As has been the case for so many people over the past one-hundred twenty-two years, it was a desire for this welcoming love that brought me to the monastery. Indeed, this fundamental need for belonging, free from having to compete to be valued, has drawn untold millions to religious communities for thousands of years. The founder of Western Christian monasticism and author of our own Rule of Life, Saint Benedict of Nursia, makes it clear that “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ.” He continues, saying, “Once a guest has been announced, the superior and the [monks or nuns] are to meet [them] with all the courtesy of love.” (RB 53).

Beyond this, we as monastics are called to model the radical Way of Love and welcome that Jesus extended to all who desired and needed it, not only in welcoming guests, but in the very living of our lives together, in community, day in and day out, for the rest of our lives. Again, Saint Benedict tells us, “This, then, is the good zeal which monks [and nuns] must foster with fervent love: They should each try to be the first to show respect to the other, supporting with the greatest patience one another’s weaknesses of body or behavior … Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ, and may he bring us all together to everlasting life” (RB 72).

The ability to live out this vision of radical hospitality, acceptance, and valuing of human dignity is available to everyone. Monks and nuns may have a particular responsibility to model it, but literally anyone can – and, I dare say, should – do it. We can all welcome others as we would welcome Jesus in the person of a small child (or of a coworker, spouse, bus driver, homeless person, cashier, barista, addict, you name it), and in doing so help to reverse the human value systems around us that are built on competition and comparison. After all, it is the love of the same God which dwells within each and every person.

May peace and all that is good be with us, and all whom we love, today and always. Amen.

 

The Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, June 25, 2024

 Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Francis Beckham

The Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, June 25, 2024

• Isaiah 40:1-11
• Acts 13:14b-26
• Luke 1:57-80

 Click here for an audio of the sermon

“May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you O God, my helper and my comforter. Amen.”

Of all the things that amaze me about God, I think it’s how God uses the least likely people, objects, and events to grab my attention in meaningful ways that never ceases to astonish me. Take, for example, the fictitious Daisy Buchanan – a wealthy, shallow, self-absorbed socialite in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s definitive jazz-age novel, The Great Gatsby. Daisy is frivolous, as ridiculous and one-dimensional as she is boring (to be fair, the same can be said of pretty much all the wealthy people in the novel, save, perhaps for its titular character, Jay Gatsby himself). Insulated from the everyday worries and realities of most people by her cocoon of wealth, status, privilege, and never-ending parties, she is a waster of things: time, money, space, affections, and, in one extreme case, human life. Daisy isn’t exactly somebody I’d expect to learn anything important from, yet, in one nearly memorable line, she does in fact succeed, quite by accident, in making a surprisingly insightful observation about human nature. While lazily taking tea on the grounds of her Long Island mansion on a hot June afternoon, she asks her companions, “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it.” Regardless of anything else we can say about Daisy, this statement about our human propensity to miss precisely the thing that one is – or, at least, should be – looking for is important.

Every Christmas Eve, for example, I find myself thinking or saying, “Wow, I really missed Advent this year.” Similarly, it never fails to dawn on me each Palm Sunday that, “Gosh, Lent really flew by again.” Shocked that Christmas and Easter could somehow sneak in through the back door without having the common courtesy of at least warning me with anything more than just two entire preparatory liturgical seasons, I enter into the two principal feasts of the year feeling caught off-guard and inadequately prepared. In this way, I’m no better than Daisy Buchanan. Distracted, I often end up missing the points of things – my own ‘longest days of the year.’  

And this brings me to today’s main event: the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist (transferred). While not technically the longest day of the year, astronomically speaking, Saint John’s Day always falls within a stone’s throw of it, the summer solstice. In fact, for centuries, it was reckoned as the longest day of the year. And since the first of May, or May Day, was traditionally considered the start of summer, Saint John’s Day continues to be known in many places as Midsummer. Particularly in Scandinavia and the British Isles, bone-, or bon-, fires were lit to ward off dragons that were believed to be active in the land, poisoning wells and springs. In Germany, herbs with known medicinal properties were harvested and brought into churches to be blessed on Saint John’s Day. Children dressed in costumes and raised a ruckus to banish evil spirits, and a general atmosphere of merriment and feasting prevailed. On Saint John’s Eve, the shortest night of the year, people were as far away from winter as they could be, making Midsummer – Saint John’s Day – the feast of Summer. 

Today, in our post-industrial society, the Nativity of Saint John is often little noticed outside of church circles. But to our agrarian forebears, its timing in mid-June – three months past the Annunciation, six months out from Christmas Day, and always at least a few weeks past Whitsunday, or Pentecost – Saint John’s Day came to be closely associated with the growing season, a time of fertility and increase when the planting was over, and the harvest anticipated. It was a feast on par with Christmas and Easter. It was eagerly watched for, and never missed.

The Church has kept the Nativity of Saint John in various locations since at least 506, making it one of the oldest feasts of the Church, and one of only a very few marking the birth, rather than the death, of a saint. And, like that other great nativity, Christmas, it has traditionally been celebrated with not one, nor even two, but three masses: a vigil, a mass at dawn, and a mass during the day.  

That’s because – traditional folk and pagan elements of Midsummer aside – the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, like its very namesake, calls us to something much bigger than the feast itself, to the beginning, the birth of something new. Indeed, Saint John’s Day is meant to point us to the very thing humanity looks and longs for more than anything: the love of God, very real and imminently present in our world, as revealed through the healing and reconciling ministry of Jesus. 

“Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with

strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of 

Judah, ‘Here is your God!’”

In these words, from Isaiah, proclaimed in our first reading, we hear that longing expressed from ages upon ages; the deep, visceral desire of the people of Israel to hear the good news that God is entering into their midst. This, they watched for, and they would not be disappointed in their hope. 

But, of course, as Daisy Buchanan reminds us, it’s easy to become distracted by things that don’t matter, so that we miss the things that do. Or, worse still, we can forget that those things even exist at all. And our conscious longing and looking for God is no exception. Especially for us in this time and place, smack in the middle of summer, outside of the ‘program year’, when things like Sunday school classes, weekly bible study meetings, mid-week Eucharists, and choir practices tend to go on hiatus, replaced by hectic summer travel plans, crowded and noisy airports, and bored kids stuck at home complaining that there’s ‘nothing to do’. Add to that our general disconnectedness from the land and its cycles of growth and rest nowadays, and there’s often very little in summer that’s trying to remind us of the good news of Jesus, or of our great commission to be proclaimers of that good news. 

And that’s exactly why I think Saint John’s nativity is so important. It shakes us out of our doldrums and distractions to remind us that we each have a job to do. The changes and chances of this life are inevitable, but they aren’t the point. In our reading from Saint Luke’s Gospel, Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, proclaims from out of his joy a profound thanksgiving to God for fulfilling the promise of the ages. This passage of praise, known as the Canticle of Zechariah, or the Benedictus, is included almost universally in the morning prayer offices of Western churches, monasteries, and religious orders, including our own here at Holy Cross Monastery. It serves as a daily reminder – right at the beginning of the day – for us to notice and not forget the wonder of God’s work within ourselves and in the world around us. And, of course, to proclaim it to others: 

“Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, 

for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. 

He has raised up a mighty savior for us 

in the house of his servant David.” 

Zechariah’s words seem to want to grab us by the shoulders, shake us, and shout, “Wake up! This isn’t going to be just any ordinary day! This is the day the Lord has made! Rejoice and be glad in it!” 

But he doesn’t leave it there. Zechariah, caught up in the joy of being a first-time parent who suddenly finds himself in crazy, overwhelming love with his newly born child, begins addressing John, telling him of the amazing things he will do to bring Israel – and, indeed, everyone – closer to God, into the very reign of God, by preparing them to hear and know the Gospel of Jesus.  

“And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; 

for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, 

to give knowledge of salvation to his people 

by the forgiveness of their sins.”

Zechariah's proclamation is addressed to each of us every bit as much as it is to John. This canticle was probably first introduced into the morning prayer office by none other than Saint Benedict himself because, like Zechariah, Benedict wants to make sure his monks understand what living into the reign of God entails, which is nothing short of being prophets of the Most High and giving knowledge of salvation to God’s people by being healers of the breaches of sin and death. 

So, on this feast of the Nativity of Saint John, during this wonderful Midsummer season of growth and increase, I pray we will all join with John the Baptist in showing forth the presence and love of God in all we do – whether lazing-about our Long Island estates, chasing away dragons, or patiently biding our time in airport security lines –  living our lives in such a way that the good and saving news of God as proclaimed by Jesus may be readily perceived and embraced by all in whose presence we are blessed to find ourselves. 

May peace and all that is good be with each of us, and those whom we love, now and always. Amen. 

Easter 3 B - April 14, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Francis Beckham

The Third Sunday in Easter B, April 14, 2024

 

Acts 3:12-19

1 John 3:1-7

Luke 24:36b-48

 Click here for an audio of the sermon

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, O God, my sustainer and my comforter. Amen.

In his 2002 novel Kafka on the Shore, Japanese author Haruki Murakami writes,

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same
person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

Murakami is writing in the context of a fantasy novel, but to my mind, he might just as well be writing about the experience – the storm – of the Easter journey.

And what an experience it is! Such a rich mystery with so many layers. It’s a lot to take in, and one hardly knows where to begin in processing and understanding all the pieces, let alone the fuller picture – including its meaning for us, and what we’re supposed to do with it.

There was Lent, for a start, where we saw Jesus preparing the disciples and himself for the great work of Holy Week, where his earthly ministry reached its culmination, the words of the prophets were fulfilled, and the hopes of Israel were (temporarily) seemingly dashed.

Then Easter morning dawned, with those holy sisters coming out to the tomb from Jerusalem, prepared to perform what they thought was going to be the final task of a failed, finished saga, only to discover that what had seemed to be the death of a dream was, in fact, merely the opening scene of its second, even more thrilling, act. Through all of it, we experienced a whirlwind of characters and events including
fasting; ominous warnings of betrayal (and the acts of the betrayers themselves); triumphant donkey rides; a night of fellowship and feasting followed by unbearable loneliness and anguish; mocking and abuse at the hands of soldiers; perversions of justice and the cowardice of religious and government leaders; state-sponsored murder and the silence of the tomb; and just when all seemed lost, the surprise and
disbelief of the Resurrection.

Little wonder, then, that over the following weeks the disciples – and we – might struggle to make sense of it all. Our hearts know one thing, our minds perceive another, while all around us rages a storm of events unprecedented in all of history, filling us with awe, sorrow, wonderment, and confusion.

And so it is that we find the disciples this morning, still uprooted, disheveled, and reeling from the experiences of such an emotional – and, indeed, traumatic – storm, back inside the Cenacle as they struggle to understand “all of the things that have taken place … in these days.” They aren’t holed up there because they don’t want to carry on proclaiming the Reign of God; rather, they’re simply unsure now
of how to do it.

Before, they had Jesus with them. They were active partners-in-ministry, boots-on-the-ground, drawn to the movement by their shared love of God and desire to serve. But now, things are different. The disciples are different. Like the speaker in Murakami’s book, they aren’t sure what has even happened, if it’s really over, or what they’re supposed to do about it. So, they gather and wait for a sign.

I suspect it’s what most of us would’ve done. In fact, it’s exactly what I have done during seasons of uncertainty and unsettledness. When we know that what has worked in the past – be it a job, a city, a relationship, an identity, even a religion – will no longer be useful to us on our journey because of some shift in the lived reality of our lives (but long before a vision of how to move forward becomes
clear) we often find ourselves returning to our own Cenacles – our places of previous divine encounter and nourishment – to shelter, reflect, contemplate, integrate, and await answers.

So then, it’s no surprise that Jesus, working out of his own experience of earthly Life, Death, and Resurrection, decides to pay the frightened and discouraged disciples a few visits, first with two of them on the road to Emmaus, and then with everyone gathered in the Cenacle – the place of their last happy supper together before everything (and everyone) was going to change forever – to offer comfort,
assurance, and understanding:
“Peace be with you,” he begins. He has come to replace their disquietude with calmness.“Why are you troubled? Look at me and see for yourselves. You know ghosts don’t have flesh and bones. It really is I, myself. You know me.” He has come to replace their fear and doubt with confidence and certainty.

“Have you anything to eat?” He has come to replace their feelings of loss with a sense of familiarity and communion through memories of the meals they shared. Then finally, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you. I’d already told you that all these things were going to happen – it just all seemed abstract until now.” He has come to replace their confusion with the knowledge that God is still in charge, and has been this whole time, even if it hasn’t felt like it.

These reassurances are important because, for the disciples, the real work was just about to begin, though not quite yet. In the verse immediately following today’s Gospel reading, Jesus promises them they won’t have to take the next step until they’re ready – and that God will make them ready through the power and
presence of the Holy Spirit: “And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.” Having visited and reassured them, Jesus knows they’ll still need a bit more time to process everything if they’re going to be his ‘body, hands, and feet on earth’ as so beautifully imagined by Saint Theresa of Avila.

There was a time (not very long ago) when I thought that fifty days of Easter was a little much. “Okay, I get it,” I thought. “Easter’s a big deal, but all these extra ‘alleluias’ in the Daily Office are starting to get really old.” Now I’m beginning to understand that, just as Jesus couldn’t expect the disciples to be ready to charge headlong out of Easter Sunday into Pentecost, neither are we able to fully recognize, appreciate, and integrate the Resurrection into our own lives without taking time to rest in it, have it remembered and re-explained to us over six more Sundays, and begin to form a vision of how we’re being invited to use our newfound insight and wisdom in proclaiming the Reign of God when the Holy Spirit draws us from our Cenacles at Pentecost.

We, like the disciples, have journeyed through the tempest of Holy Week and Easter – and, no doubt, many other storms as well – and are now gathered, discovering how we’ve been transformed and made new, and waiting for a sign of what to do next. It is now that Jesus reminds us of the mission we were born to undertake: “Repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all.” And we’re just the people to do it, because we’re all “witnesses of these things.”

May peace and all that is good remain with us during this Eastertide, and always.
Amen.

Lent 2 B - February 25, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Francis Beckham

The Second Sunday in Lent B, February 25, 2024

• Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
• Romans 4:13-25
• Mark 8:31-38

Click here for an audio of the sermon

 

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, O God, my sustainer and my comforter. Amen.

If I were to ask by a show of hands how many of us want to be like Jesus, I’m sure I’d see as many arms raised as there are people in this chapel. Similarly, if I were to ask, “Who’s ready to proclaim the Good News? Feed the poor? Comfort the afflicted? Visit prisoners and captives?” there isn’t a doubt in my mind I’d be knocked to the floor by shouts of, “Ooh! Ooh! Me! I do!”

I’m sure we’d all say yes, and I’m sure we’d all really mean it. I can’t help, though, wondering if we’d respond quite so enthusiastically to Jesus’ invitation to proclaim the Reign of God if we really understood what we were signing up for. Certainly, we, like Peter, think that we do understand: Go, sell all we have and give it to the poor. Try not to place stumbling blocks before the Children of God. Turn the other cheek. Show mercy. And so forth.

Indeed, these are all things that we must do if we want to follow Jesus. But as the disciples – and, particularly, Peter – learn in today’s Gospel reading, there’s important work to be done even before we can begin performing the spiritual and corporal acts of mercy. And there’s a pretty high cost to discipleship, too. In fact, being a disciple requires a lot more than even dispossessing ourselves of all our earthly goods; it involves dispossession of our everything. Even for Jesus, spreading the Good News will eventually mean having to lay down his own life. In Mark’s gospel, this is the first time Jesus shares this piece of information with the disciples. And Peter, at least, is not thrilled about hearing it.

Nevertheless, danger and sacrifice are fundamental realities of the ministry of Jesus. As we know, he will suffer and die for it. So, before they can go any further, Jesus has to make sure Peter and the others understand that staying the course means they must be willing to make those very same sacrifices. Jesus must be completely clear on this point.

That’s because Jesus knows that, despite possessing intelligence and generally good intentions, we humans just don’t always get it. We’re understandably conditioned to react to danger like Peter does: sensibly. After all, Jesus – who had already been making trouble for the religious establishment – is announcing in front of members of the Sanhedrin, the council which exercised religious authority over the Jews, that he needs to be killed. To Peter, and probably to any of us, that would sound like inviting trouble – asking for it, basically. Frankly, it would have seemed less reasonable if Peter, as Jesus’ friend, hadn’t pulled him aside and told him to knock it off.

But instead of coming to his senses and saying to Peter, “Oh man, you’re right. I guess I got a little carried away back there. Hey, thanks for looking out for me, buddy,” Jesus turns around, looks at everyone else, and basically tells him to can it, while seemingly calling him Satan. Not exactly a tender moment between friends.

Why does Jesus react so strongly to Peter’s genuine expression of concern? When I react that way during those kinds of conversations, it’s because my ego doesn’t like having its fragility exposed and challenged. But with Jesus, it’s different. He knows that Peter and the others must adopt a new mindset, or else risk failure. In our reading from the Lectionary, Jesus tells them, “You are setting your minds not on divine things but on human things.” The New American Bible translation, however, treats it slightly differently. There, Jesus says, “You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.”

I prefer that translation. To me, Jesus is telling his friends there’s another way to approach, value, and experience life, relationships, and God, and he’s inviting them to enter into that Way. This Way – which is the very Way of Jesus himself – involves fearlessly proclaiming the Love of God to all who hunger for it, by healing the wounds of injustice, banishing the burdens of shame and guilt, offering acceptance to those who have been excluded, and doing it all unconditionally, without regard to what human systems and institutions think, say, or do about it.

But to accomplish these things in the midst of an Imperial culture that values power over people – to fully realize God’s dream, as Presiding Bishop Curry so beautifully describes the mission and hope of Jesus – the disciples would first need to embrace a conversion of mind and attitude, accepting that the values and priorities of their inculturation must be un-learned and given up, even though it surely won’t be easy. “Whoever wishes to come after me,” Jesus cautions, “must deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.”

What was true for Peter and the other disciples is no less true for us here, today. In our annual Lenten observance, we are invited to enter into the same conversion of heart and mind, casting aside those things that do not help us in living out and proclaiming the Love of God to those who most need it – including to ourselves.
Exactly how each of us chooses to embrace this opportunity depends largely on the current realities of our lives; Lenten practices don’t look the same for everyone, and we shouldn’t feel inadequate if our penance seems less heroic than someone else’s.

Mostly, though, it really is a matter of examining and adjusting our mindset. Here at the monastery, we are reminded and encouraged in this in several ways.

For example, toward the end of Vespers of most Thursdays during the year, the Magnificat, or Song or Canticle of Mary from Luke’s gospel, is opened and closed with the antiphon “O LORD, you have lifted up the lowly, and filled the hungry with good things,” a line adapted from within the Magnificat itself, giving praise for God’s care of the poor, oppressed, overlooked, and marginalized.

But during Lent, Thursday’s Magnificat antiphon strikes a markedly different tone: “Use the present opportunity to the full,” it warns us, “for these are evil days; try to understand what the will of the LORD is.”

And throughout the year, we hear in our House Chapter readings of the Rule of Saint Benedict, “Run while you have the light of life, that the darkness of death may not overtake you.”

These are urgent exhortations, designed to spur us into action, because there is such great need to proclaim the Reign of God in our world. But we can only do so by first making space for God’s dream in our own lives. And that’s the assurance Jesus is offering to Peter, the others, and to us: By changing from thinking as humans do, to thinking instead as God does, we will be able to face any peril, any challenge, even when – not if – the culture around us pushes back.

The ministry of Jesus remains as dangerous a business as ever. But we must never forget that, while it’s true “Whoever wishes to save their life will lose it,” Jesus nevertheless promises “Whoever loses their life for my sake and that of the gospel will save it.”

So, here's to life in abundance, lived and freely shared with all, in the fullness of joy in Jesus, during this holy season of Lent, and always. Amen.

The Feast of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, Apostles - June 29, 2023

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Francis Daniel Beckham, OHC

The Feast of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, Apostles, June 29, 2023

Ezekiel 34:11-16

2 Timothy 4:1-8

John 21:15-19

 

Click here for an audio of the sermon

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, O God, my stronghold and my comforter. Amen.

What does it mean to love? To be loved? What does it feel like? How do we behave towards the ones we love? And what do we do to take care of them? Naturally, our answers will depend on exactly whom we love, what kind of love we’re feeling toward them – romantic, friendship, familial – as well as our own needs, past experiences, expectations, and circumstances.

When we’re teenagers or young adults, for instance, experiencing the reciprocated affections of a crush for the first time, we’re likely to feel infatuation and excitement, accompanied by a grand delusion of devotion: “This is the one!” we tell ourselves. “This is the real thing! If we were ever to break up (which we definitely won’t) I’d never find anyone else to love ever again!” We aren’t usually disingenuous our first time out the gate; it’s just all new and wonderful to us, and we haven’t yet got the benefit of experience to help us have a slightly more measured perspective on the matter.

Love hits much differently when, later down the road, a first-time parent holds their newborn in their arms and realizes what absolute, unshakable, unconditional love and devotion really feels like. Or when, in our middle or later years we suddenly realize just how long a spouse, partner, sibling, cousin, or friend has stuck by us – someone with whom we’ve shared countless formative experiences including both the highs and lows of life, resulting in deep, abiding friendship.

When we’re blessed with a soulmate who just ‘gets’ us, we discover a different way of feeling love for someone – a way marked by sincere gratitude for having a person in our life who makes us feel seen, heard, understood, and appreciated for who we are, warts and all. We’re much more careful to guard and nurture these kinds of relationships because of how much they genuinely mean to us. And the older we get, the more we learn to treasure them.

In reflecting on our Gospel reading, I was struck at the tenderness of the conversation between Jesus and Peter, and just how deep a friendship it reveals. I found myself returning again and again to Jesus’ opening question to Peter: “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” It’s a remarkable thing to ask someone. “Do you love me? And do you love me more than anyone else does?” For many of us, I think this would be a terrifying question to ask or be asked. What if we don’t receive – or can’t give – the hoped-for answer?

Yet Jesus asks Peter this question two more times. He asks Peter if he loves him not because he needs to know, or because he doubts the sincerity of his answer – Jesus knows Peter better than anyone, and he’s fully aware that Peter loves him. Rather, Jesus asks because Peter needs to be assured of his love for Jesus. After all, in John’s Gospel, it’s only been a little while since Peter let his friend down in a pretty big way – and at a very crucial moment – by denying that he even knew Jesus, his friend. And he didn’t deny Jesus only once, but three times in a single night. This was not a friend-of-the-year moment, and we know how badly Peter feels about his behavior. In Matthew’s account of the Passion, we learn that, following his third denial, “[Peter] went out and began to weep bitterly.”

But Jesus isn’t trying to rub salt in the wound. Quite the opposite: he’s letting Peter know that their friendship is still intact, that the two of them are still okay. Jesus accepts that in any relationship there are bound to be moments of selfishness and hurt feelings. Knowing Peter as well as he does, he even tried telling him this was going to happen. “I know how you are, Peter,” we can hear Jesus saying, “and when the pressure’s on later, you’re going to panic and say something hurtful, even though I know you aren’t really going to mean it.”

In this intensely intimate moment between friends, where Jesus and Peter finally have an opportunity to talk alone for the first time since Maundy Thursday, the wounds of the past begin to be healed. In contrast to the three denials, Jesus gives Peter the chance to state his love for him three times, even though Peter, true to form, initially fails to recognize this as an act of healing and is, instead, quite hurt. This is, for me, the most difficult part of the passage. It’s the part that reminds me that being loved hurts as much as it heals – and that being loved can be one of the most difficult things in the world, especially when I feel it coming from someone I don’t believe I deserve to receive it from.

During my lectio with this passage, I imagined Jesus staring directly into Peter’s eyes, questioning him in a steady, but gentle, voice, almost as if saying, “Peter, I know you love me. Please forgive yourself and move past this with me by taking care of those entrusted to me by the One Who Sent Me. I need you to do this now, and I know you will do it well, because you know what it’s like to feel. Follow me.”

In this moment Jesus extends to Peter the surest sign of love there is: Mercy. It’s the same loving mercy Jesus wills for each of us, whether we’re always able to believe it or not. There’s never an “I told you so” or “How could you have done what you did” or “You’re going to have to prove you’re sorry before I’ll ever be able to trust you again.” No, only mercy. Jesus says to Peter and to each of us, “I know you’re not perfect, and I love you every bit as much as I always have. Every. Single. One. Of. You.”

And so, after cooking a meal for Peter and the others (another sure sign of love almost any of us can relate to) and sharing a heart-to-heart with him, Jesus entrusts the well-being of the nascent Church to Peter with a clear example of just how he expects him – and us – to go about “tending his sheep.” Love them, nurture them, forgive them, and be merciful.

Jesus, being the true friend he was to Peter, did not mince words about how difficult this was going to be, or about the fate he would eventually meet. The same would prove to be true for Paul, who himself would later be called by Jesus and accepted by the apostles through a particularly extraordinary show of mercy, and who would then join Peter in feeding and tending the flock, even at the eventual cost of his own life.

Both apostles were invited – as all of us are – to give up control of their own lives and destinies out of love for Christ and those beloved of Christ – that is, everyone. This was no summer fling; this was the deepest, truest kind of love the likes of which we can only catch glimpses of this side of Paradise, but which nevertheless stirs each of our hearts to care for others – those we know, and those we don’t – preparing and sharing a meal where there is hunger, extending mercy where there is shame and despair, and welcoming all we encounter along the path of following in the Way.

I pray that each of us, following in the example of Peter and Paul, will embrace Jesus’ invitation to love, and feel ourselves loved by, God, forgiving ourselves and one another, feeding and tending this big, wounded, wonderful flock – and always with gentleness and mercy.

May peace and all that is good be with each of us and those we love today and always. Amen.

Lent 1 A - February 26, 2023

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Daniel Beckham, OHC

The First Sunday in Lent - Sunday, February 26, 2023

 

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7 

Romans 5:12-19 

Matthew 4:1-11

Click here for an audio of the sermon

 

 

 

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you, O God, my stronghold and my redeemer. Amen.

“After Jesus was baptized, he was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’

Baptized. Led by the Spirit. Fasted forty days and forty nights.

And then, right on schedule, temptation. Welcome to Lent.

Our Gospel reading for this first Sunday in Lent – known, aptly, as The Temptation of Jesus – is … relatable. It seems to me that, in many ways, it is the story of the journey of Lent itself – not only of the liturgical season of Lent, but of the Lenten dimension of the life in Christ, which is always present regardless of the time of year. 

As indicated, the passage immediately preceding this one is Matthew’s account of the Baptism of Jesus. Jesus has presented himself for baptism by John in the river Jordan. The heavens opened and the Spirit of God descended upon him like a dove. The voice of God is heard to call Jesus his “Son, the Beloved,” in whom he is “well pleased.” We could be forgiven at this point for expecting it to be nothing but fair winds and following seas for Jesus from here on out.

But instead, it’s where his troubles begin. It’s where they tend to begin for most of us. We take a bold first step in reorienting our lives toward God, believing that we will receive an overflowing of grace, a reward of some kind for heroically putting aside our self-serving ways, and that, from here on out, God will have our back. But as you and I know, the road to eternal life is narrow and fraught with danger.

In my own life, I’ve often experienced these “post-committal” troubles in the form of fear, self-doubt, guilt, anxiety, feelings of inadequacy and in-authenticity and, of course, temptation.

And so what exactly is temptation? It’s not the passionate, carnal desire for comfort, money, food, sex, or power. Those are merely the disguises temptation wears to woo us. Temptation is the bold-faced lie we tell ourselves that we should quit something because we aren’t good enough, strong enough, or beloved enough. For Jesus in the wilderness, it’s the enemy trying to make him feel that he needs to prove himself, even though God had just declared that he’s God’s Son, and is well-pleasing to God. It’s the shameless attempt to get Jesus to deviate from the path of being his true and full self.

Likewise for us, temptation is devious, presenting as a more attractive, safer alternative for the sake of distracting us and pulling us away from the path to becoming our true selves. Instead of going to the gym to become healthier and better focused, I’ll lie on the couch and eat tacos today. Rather than spending time with a lonely friend or loved one so that we can both be nourished by one another’s company, I’ll stay in my sweatpants and watch internet cat videos instead. I’m all ready to do the work of committing myself to renewal, self-emptying, and service to God and others, when the passions flare. It’s as if the old tempter – or, more likely, my shadow or false self – is saying, “Do you really think you can do this? To shake off all your bad stuff? Well, you really can’t. All you’ll do is fail and mess it up, and everyone will laugh at you and hate you for it, so it’s better not to even try. Trust me, I know you better than you do, better even than God does.”

If I had to guess, I’m probably not the only person this happens to. And no wonder: When we make the decision to empty ourselves, what we’re really doing is letting our guards down, allowing our defenses to take a back seat to the Spirit of God working within us. We are weak in these moments, vulnerable. And while this is a necessary condition for allowing ourselves to grow into greater union with God, it is also an ideal condition for letting in the invaders – the demons of our pasts, so to speak, and our shadow-selves – all the bad stuff we’d rather ignore or forget.

If only there were some way to have one without the other. After all, letting God in is good. Letting demons and temptations in is bad. The two seem like they should be mutually exclusive, don’t they?

Well, as it turns out, they’re not. In fact, they sort of … go together. In order to become spiritually strong, we must first become weak, as the Apostle Paul counsels us. And, as somewhat of a spoiler alert, Jesus himself is going to demonstrate this principal rather dramatically at the opposite end of Lent.

This is because we can only grow in union with God by overcoming the bad stuff that assail us. We can only overcome it by naming and confronting it. And we can only do that with God’s help. So, strange as it may seem, the act of conversion really does demand that we take the bad with the good.

Of course, there are plenty of examples of people engaging with this reality with varying degrees of success. In our reading from Genesis this morning we can probably see a lot of ourselves: “I know I shouldn’t do such-and-such a thing, but I want to, and I’m being given a compelling rationalization by someone who claims to have my interests at heart and seems to know what they’re talking about, so that makes it okay. Or, at least, it makes me feel less responsible for choosing my own will over God’s.” Good old human nature at its less-than-finest.

Perhaps a more edifying example is that of the desert elders of the first centuries of Christianity who, following the example of Christ, fled to their own wildernesses where they certainly faced temptation. Those who were unable to contend soon either returned to the relative comfort and perceived safety of civilization or allowed themselves merely to acclimate to their circumstances without ever really facing – or getting to know – themselves. But for those who meant business – for the likes of Anthony and Pachomius, and later figures such as Benedict of Nursia and Isaac the Syrian, life in the wilderness meant a constant, intentional engagement with the bad stuff – the insecurities, the weariness, the hunger, the burning heat and biting cold, and, especially, the temptations.

I imagine those early desert monastics must have thought about today’s Gospel reading a lot. And, my guess is it must have provided a measure of both comfort and reassurance, along with a challenge. After all, Jesus likely had only the same resources at his disposal as were available to them: prayer, meditation, fasting, silence, solitude, and faith in God’s mercy. And if Jesus himself was not immune to temptation, then they certainly couldn’t expect to be either. And, most important, while he was enduring many of the same elements that they must have been experiencing, he still managed to resist succumbing to them because, at all times, his eye was on the prize, which was to do the Will of the One who sent him.

This is key. Jesus, having just been baptized, and in preparation for his ministry in Galilee (that’s the part that comes right after today’s reading in Matthew), undergoes a period of intense human and spiritual formation to prepare himself for the path he has committed himself to following: namely, the proclamation of the Reign of God. It is a process and a path we are each called to follow no less stringently.

Commitment, formation, and then proclamation. It’s a process that all of us must be willing to embrace in its entirety. The reason is simple: each step along the way, including all of the trials, the setbacks, the doubts, the temptation to stop and return to what we knew before – not because it’s what we really want but because it’s what’s familiar and known and, therefore, seemingly safer than what we think may lie ahead – prepares us in a particular way to live more fully into the Paschal Mystery and to proclaim the good news that there is a God who loves each and every one of us so much that he’s willing to walk in our shoes, to be baptized, famished, and tempted – all to show us that we are worth it, and we can do this too.

This can seem overwhelming, if not utterly unrealistic depending on where each of us is in our own life. For someone like me, who has spent the past nearly eighteen months being tested in a period of formation here at the monastery, I can see for the first time, really, just how much of a gift this path is. Drawn out of what was familiar to me and led up by the Spirit into the Wilderness of the mid-Hudson Valley, I have indeed been very much tempted by those parts of me that would prefer to throw in the towel and return to what feels safe.

Yet, as Jesus demonstrates to us in today’s Gospel, it’s worth it to resist the temptation to quit, to flee to what feels safe in the moment but what is ultimately unsatisfying and lifeless. Because on the other side is the promise of something far, far greater than the suffering of the present time.

Our Gospel reading is about the temptation of Jesus, but that isn’t where it ends. The closing sentence proclaims, “Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.”

The enemy left. The attacks ended, the bad stuff was over. And angels of God surrounded him. The fruits of trial, prayer, perseverance, and unceasing faith in God’s saving power have won the day. Now that Jesus has experienced what we do, he is ready to begin his ministry in Galilee.

Of course, we know it’s not going to be smooth sailing from here on out – not for Jesus, and not for us. In fact, these periods of testing will repeat themselves again and again, and not just in Lent. But each time we experience the suffering that comes with living – the bad with the good – we are a little better prepared than the last time to face them head-on. If nothing else, it becomes a little easier each time around to have hope that angels are indeed flying our way to wait on us. This hope is, really, the hope of the Resurrection. That in the death of our anxieties, fears, self-judgement, and self-loathing, new life will emerge in the form of peacefulness, faith, self-acceptance, and love.

And, having passed through the gauntlet as Jesus did, we, too, will be ready to join him in the proclamation of the Reign of God. May each of us hold to the hope of the Resurrection, never allowing the enemy of temptation to fool us into believing that there’s any better option for us, no matter how appealing it may seem in the moment. And, when we emerge on the other side of these forty days, may we find ourselves tested and proved, bearing the marks of the struggle, yet strengthened and equipped to proclaim the glory of Easter morning. Amen.