The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21 A, September 27, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Scott Wesley Borden

The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4,25-32

Philippians 2:1-13

Matthew 21:23-32

Click here for an audio of the sermon

 

This morning's reading from Mathew begins with Jesus' teaching in the Temple. The chief priests and elders come to challenge him. By what authority are you teaching? They demand. Who gave you this authority? The chief priests and elders assume, reasonably enough, that they are the authorities...

Jesus’ answer is audacious, to say the least... Jesus says: I will ask you a question first, and if you answer then I’ll answer your questions... Jesus is putting himself on equal footing with the chief priests and elders... They asked Jesus about authority, and he is telling them his authority is equal to theirs... I can’t imagine that the chief priests and elders are greatly impressed... but it's too late because Jesus asks a question about the authority of John the Baptist. This is a question that the chief priests and elders, the authorities, dare not answer.

These questions seem to make perfect sense today – but they may not mean exactly what we think they mean. Our modern understanding of authority unusually has to do with the right to apply power and control. But that is not the only form of the word. Authority also has to do with expertise and mastery of knowledge. This is the form of authority we seem to be dealing with – not power, but knowledge.

In any case, it seems that Jesus is done with the challenge to his authority and moves on with a parable...

“What do you think:” Jesus asks, “a father had two sons...” I think that makes me nervous... I have one brother. My father had two sons... So right away this parable feels a little too close to home for comfort. But part of the power of Jesus’ parables is that we can locate ourselves in them.

A father had two sons – one who pleasantly agreed to do what he was asked, the other who disagreeably refused. But Jesus adds a wrinkle.

The nice son turns out not to be so very nice. He can pleasantly agree to anything – because he doesn’t do it. There is no cost to him in being nice and saying yes.

And the nasty son turns out to be not so bad – he gets done what needs to be done. But he seems to pay twice – there is the cost of refusal and the cost of doing what was asked.

Two things jump out at me - First: if I were the father in this story, I’m not sure I’d be the world’s most proud parent. Second: both sons don’t tell the truth - and I wonder: are they lying to their father or to themselves about what they will or won’t do?

We don’t know much about these two sons. It's risky to try to determine their motives for their behavior. But I do know a thing or two about my own behavior...

It is not too uncommon – if I can bare my soul – that somebody asks me to do something and I cheerfully agree. And yet somehow the task goes undone. It's not that I really don’t want to do what I’ve been asked, or that I’m being passive-aggressive, or giving an easy answer just to end a discussion – though those are all sometimes true. I agree, with all good intentions, to do something... and still I just don’t get it done.

It is also true in my life that sometimes somebody asks me to do something that I know needs to be done but really don’t want to do – clean up my room... file the stuff piled on my desk... and I just flat out refuse. My inner two-year-old rears his ugly head and says – no, I don’t want to... but then my more adult self takes over. Most of the time it's easier just to do whatever needs to be done, rather than invest the energy in bickering about not doing it.

I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one here who sometimes doesn’t do what he says he will – and sometimes does what he says he won’t... I think that is pretty much part of the human condition.

It's tempting to say that growth means we grow in the direction of putting the first son’s words with the second son’s actions. And in fact, I think, as we become more whole, it is true that our words and actions are more likely to go together.

But the beginning of becoming whole is the realization that each of us is both sons. In this parable, Jesus is talking about us... about you... about me... We are at the same time obedient and rebellious. Sometimes our words and actions don’t match.

And it's one of those ironies of human nature that the harder I work to deny that I am like either son, the more I am likely to be like both sons.

When I pretend that I’m so good that I can’t be bad – that is when I’m most capable of really wicked behavior. I lose touch with my failings and with my shadow, and they start to have lives of their own.

What do you think? A father has two sons... a good-natured slacker and a surly guy Friday. To the degree I can acknowledge that I am both sons, I can do a better job of matching my actions to my words. And it is, after all, through my actions that I live in my baptismal covenant – a covenant made with words and actions.

For these two sons, becoming whole doesn’t mean curing them of their failings. It means becoming aware of them. For the first son, maybe it means learning that he makes commitments to easily, or perhaps just learning that it is OK sometimes to say no if that is what he really wants to say. For the second son maybe, it means learning to keep his mouth shut a few moments longer, realizing that the first reaction isn’t perhaps his best reaction.

Becoming whole means knowing who you are – the good and the bad, the strength and the weakness. God knows us as we are – our greatest virtues and our worst vices. God loves us whole. It's not that God loves us in spite of our faults. God loves us. Period.

I said a while ago that if I were the father of these two sons, I would not be the world’s most proud parent. That’s because I’m human. One of my weaknesses is that my love is conditional. I love the things that are easiest to love. I rationalize it by saying I love the things that deserve my love.

But God’s love is not conditional. Thank God!

So, am I saying that it doesn’t matter what we do since God loves us? Of course it matters. Growing in wholeness does not mean growing lazy, or wicked, or whatever. It means growing in the knowledge of who you are and in the knowledge of the love of God. This doesn’t make you free to do anything that comes to mind. It makes you free walk in the ways of justice and peace; in the ways God calls us to walk.

Acknowledging that I lust for money, or for control, or whatever, takes away the power of that lust. Saying that I don’t lust for money, or power... is simply not telling the truth... like the son who said “I go.”

It is, after all, the refusing son who does his father’s will. Ultimately, his actions tell the story of who he is.

And so, it is with us – our actions tell the story of who we are.

We are God’s children – loved by God. Those of us who follow Jesus are called on to share that love – to build God’s beloved Kingdom. A kingdom where the meek inherit the world, where the poor are blessed, where we hunger and thirst for righteousness.

We are known as Christians by our love.

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

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, September 28, 2025

Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15

• 1 Timothy 6:6-19
• 
  
• Luke 16:19-31

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

Proper 21 C - September 25, 2022

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Aidan Owen, OHC

Pentecost, Proper 21 C - September 25, 2022

Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

Click here for an audio version of this sermon

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

It’s so easy to feel smug when we read Jesus’ parables. We’ve read them so often, heard so many sermons on them, that it’s easy to think we’ve got them—and by extension Jesus—figured out. Because of this tendency we normally see ourselves in the outcasts in the stories, never as their persecutors. We’re always Israel, never Egypt, always the publican, never the pharisee. 

Our smugness betrays us, however. Jesus tells stories like those we’ve been hearing the last many weeks to confuse us and untangle the knots of our complacency and stubborn self-regard. As soon as we think we’ve figured out a parable, it shoots out of our hands, falls between our feet, and trips us. 

 

This morning’s story of the rich man and Lazarus is just such a story. On it’s surface it’s rather simple. There’s a callous rich man who feasts all day in his mansion while a beggar starves on his doorstep. He’s very wicked, but his wickedness primarily lies in his self-absorption. It’s not that he bears Lazarus any ill will. He’s just so concerned with his own comfort that he doesn’t even see Lazarus. Even when he ends up in hades being tormented by fire, he treats Lazarus as a tool—someone who can either give him water or warn his brothers for him. Never does he see or acknowledge Lazarus as a child of God. 

 

Fortunately for us, our God is a righteous and just God. Lazarus, who suffered while he was alive, gets to recline at the eternal banquet against the bosom of Abraham. Hopefully the dogs are there, too, being fed the choicest of kibble. Not only does Lazarus get the care he never received on earth, not only does the rich man get to burn for the rest of time, but—and this is the best part—Abraham tells off the rich man for his negligence and self-absorption. It’s a classic tale of the reversal of fortune and the delicious comeuppance that those ignorant rich folks get when we all get to heaven. 

 

You see, surely, how tempting that reading is, how brilliant Jesus’ rhetorical skill is to draw us in and make us identify with the poor man at the gates over against the callous rich guy. Jesus had it before Hollywood. But there’s our smugness again. There’s our hypocritical self-righteousness. There are our callous, unforgiving hearts on full display. 

 

More than Lazarus or the rich man or Abraham, though, I find myself fixated on the chasm. It’s the part of the story that makes no sense to me. One translation I read described it as “a large chasm filled with sharp stones.” It’s something of a moat or gate, some barrier that is fixed in place, unmoving and unmoveable. It must be quite something if even Abraham cannot get past it. And just like the walls around the rich man’s house, this chasm keeps Lazarus and the rich man separated for all eternity. No reconciliation. No forgiveness. No chance of conversion or change or healing. Justice, perhaps, but no mercy. 

 

To the extent that we find ourselves caught up in anger, fear, self-justification, and the desire for revenge, this chasm can’t but remain fixed in place, both in the parable and in our world. Every time we hear this story and think, Glad that rich guy got what was coming to him, we pile another sharp stone in the ditch. We have to see this dimension of the story if our hearts are ever to soften. We have to repent of our heard-heartedness, if we are ever to help to reconcile and heal the jagged-edged divisions in our world. We have to learn to see the chasm with dismay, to mourn its seeming fixity with tears of compunction. 

 

Just after the story of Lazarus and the rich man, Jesus says to his disciples “If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, “I repent”, you must forgive.’” This teaching is so difficult that the disciples immediately respond, “Lord, increase our faith!” 

 

It can’t be an accident that Jesus teaches about the demands of forgiveness immediately after telling a story about these seemingly irreconcilable men. True, the rich man never expresses contrition for ignoring the poor man at his gate. But then, Lazarus never has the chance to speak, either. Perhaps it’s naïve, but I wonder, if the two could sit down at the banquet together, what new world might come into being between them? 

 

But, of course, there’s that terrible chasm and its sharp stones between them. As I prayed about that chasm, I kept wondering, where is Jesus in all this mess? And then I knew. Jesus is the bridge over the chasm. Jesus, pouring out his life and his love on the Cross, bridges the gap that cannot be bridged. He makes a way where there is no way. He, who broke open the gates of hell and freed the souls trapped in their torment, lays down his tender body over the sharp stones of our hard and unbelieving hearts so that we, too, can be reconciled to God and one another, so that we can be made whole. 

 

We who follow Jesus know that there is no chasm that cannot be crossed. We know that the Cross of Christ is the bridge over which we walk from this life, with all its brokenness and separation, to the heavenly banquet. I have to believe that Lazarus and the rich man can also walk across that bridge, can finally look into one another’s eyes, clasp one another’s hands, and say to one another, “brother, welcome home.” 

 

In the world in which we live, this kind of reconciliation seems naïve, the stuff of kids’ imaginings. To the extent that that is true for us, we can join the disciples in praying, “Lord, increase our faith!” The God who makes a way out of no way, can bring even you and me to the place of belief and, through that belief, to the place of surrender and wholeness in Christ. 

Proper 21 B - September 26, 2021

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Bernard Delcourt, OHC

Proper 21 B - Sunday, September 26, 2021

Numbers 11:4-6,10-16,24-29

James 5:13-20

Mark 9:38-50

Click here for an audio version of this sermon

In the name of God, the Lover, the Beloved and the Love everflowing.

I’ll focus on our passage from the epistle of James today. These are the last verses of the epistle. James concludes his letter by encouraging his readers to pray in all situations.

In this, he echoes the apostle Paul in his epistle to the Ephesians (6:18a): “Pray in the Spirit at all times in every prayer and supplication.”

James, the author of this morning’s epistle is thought to be James, the brother of Jesus. Did he learn about prayer from his Brother? Or did he learn more about prayer from his Brother’s disciples? 

In any case, he was a major leader of the Jesus-following Jews of Jerusalem, a proto-Christian community. And he encouraged them to pray in all circumstances.

James is the one best known for writing in this same epistle (James 2:17): “faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.”

It would appear that James counts prayer as one of those good works he enjoins us to do to strengthen our faith.

The brother of Jesus tells us to pray whether we are up or down; whether we are suffering or cheerful. In both instances, it can be easy to be all involved in our feelings and forget to pray. 

Do we remember to ask for fortitude, wisdom and healing when we suffer? Do we remember to say or sing “thank you, God!” when we have had happy moments.

When we are sick, do we stick to what the medical authorities prescribe? Or do we also ask fellow believers to pray for our healing? As the new Director of Associates, I notice I get those requests if I elicit them but rarely spontaneously. Why know a monk, if you don’t dare ask him to pray for you?

Do we dare to have some of our fellow believers visit us when we are not at our best? Do we invite them to bring us comfort and pray with us, over us? 

How often do parish priests find out, after the fact, that a parishioner was hospitalized and did not want to bother her with a request for a pastoral visit? 

She would probably have been glad to bring some chrism (a blessed mixture of oil and balsam) to anoint her sick parishioner in the name of the Lord. 

James invites us to not let opportunities to pray or be prayed for pass us by.

“The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up” he writes. We hear a verse like that and don’t believe it because as modern folks, we are looking solely for the relief of the physical symptoms and the eradication of the physical cause of illness. 

Those two healing outcomes are very good indeed. But healing is much more than that. It also involves the restoration of wholeness and belonging. And prayers are part of the pharmacy for that.

James also advises us to unburden ourselves of our sin by confessing it to other members of the community of faith and prayer. What he suggests here is mutual. I confess my sins to you and you confess yours to me. 

And the important part is that we commit ourselves to pray for one another. And that is also where an important healing occurs. 

We recognize that we are both sinners and righteous ones at the same time. None of us is perfect and we are all in need of mercy; each other’s mercy and God’s mercy.

James tells us the prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. That is true regardless of whether you get to observe the effects of your prayer or not. Sometimes, God gives us the grace of seeing how we have been an instrument of divine grace. But most often, God doesn’t bother. We need to trust in God’s grace regardless of measurable effects of our prayer. After all, this is not about us and our very own superpowers, is it?

So this coming week, see if you can remember to pray your life and pray the lives of your fellow creatures more often. Happy, sad, healthy, sick, culpable or innocent; those are all states that bear praying about.

Beloved Lord, help us to pray as you would have us pray.

Beloved Creator, help us to be instruments of your grace to all your creatures.

Amen

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost - Proper 21 A - September 27, 2020

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Bernard Delcourt, OHC

Proper 21 A  - September 27,.2020

Ezekiel 18:1-4,25-32
Philippians 2:1-13
Matthew 21:23-32

Click here for an audio version of this sermon

In today’s passage, Jesus doesn’t make any more friends amongst the chief priests and elders of the temple. The passage ends up with an explicit insult to make sure they get it. 

If he were here today, would he address us differently? Would he tell us monks and priests, “Truly I tell you, the payday lenders and the drug dealers are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you?” This gives us a sense of how stinging was the rebuke he addressed to those who were deemed to live virtuous lives.

What Jesus wants them and us to hear and consider is a simple message. Our actions show our real intent. They speak more eloquently of our faithfulness than our statements, no matter how well worded and sincere they may be.

Our virtue and authority may be favorably assessed by ourselves and others. But are our actions expressing that virtue? Our perceived virtue and authority are irrelevant to how well we love God and neighbor. People’s and our own assessments of our virtue and authority do not put us above those most vilified by the self-righteous.

*****

Shortly before the encounter we heard about in today’s gospel, Jesus entered Jerusalem in triumph. Later, he proceeded to cleanse the temple. Those are two recent things the chief priests and the elders of the people object to. 

Under what authority does Jesus allow himself to do these things, they want to know? More to the point, they are quite sure he does not have the authority to do these things and they want to expose him.

The authorities ask Jesus: “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?”  They are hoping that Jesus will incriminate himself by his answer.  

They expect him to either say “Under my own authority” or “Under God’s authority.” Either of those answers would be deemed sacrilegious (though actually correct as we know from our point of view).

But Jesus sees through their machinations and knows better than to answer directly. Instead he meets the authorities’ challenge with a riposte. 

He asks the chief priests and the elders a question that he knows they will find very difficult to answer in front of the crowd of onlookers. “Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?”

After discussions, the authorities find it impossible to answer the question without losing face. And as it is, they lose face anyway in admitting that they can’t even answer a straightforward question. 

Jesus’ question has established that He has more authority than the chief priests and the elders. He has also established that John the Baptist was a mighty prophet whose authority the religious elite rebuffed.

It is an amazing demonstration of Jesus’ insight into people’s intents and motivations, his capacity to subvert the establishment, not to mention his rhetorical virtuosity.

*****

But Jesus is not done with his demonstration of the religious authorities’ illegitimacy. Next he tells a parable that illustrates where they stand in relationship to God.

It is the parable of two sons who respond to their father and how their words and acts differ.

The first son sounds bad but does the right thing in the end. The second son sounds good at first but doesn’t do what he says. The first son ultimately did the will of his father. The second son sounded faithful but then did not act in accordance with his words. Which son did actually do the will of his father Jesus asks? The first one.

The first son ends up being more faithful to his father than the second one. This parable imparts that in the end, turning back to God, repenting, and doing God’s will is more important than sounding faithful without showing the fruits of faith.

The parable is an indictment of the religious authorities who say the right things but then don’t act according to what they say.

******

Jesus concludes by saying that the tax collectors and the prostitutes who repented and did what John the Baptist preached will precede the chief priests and the elders in the Kingdom of God. 

But even after they witnessed the repentance of sinners, the authorities did not believe in John. And even after seeing all the signs that Jesus has done, neither do they believe in Him.

It is a shocking statement, tax collectors and prostitutes were deemed to be among the worst possible sinners there were. The religious authorities are utterly shamed by the end of this parable. No wonder they then conspire to get rid of this inconvenient Galilean prophet.

******

So where does this gospel passage leave us? Do we profess to live the Golden Rule and the Beatitudes in our lives? Do we talk a good talk about our religious obligations?

What about our actions? Are they aligned with our profession of faith? Do we try to dilute the strength of Jesus’ teachings or do we let their radicality shake us into radical living? Do we turn to Christ with our acts more than our words? What parts of our lives remain to be converted into Christ-following actions?

And how is all that playing out in our personal, communal and national lives? Who are the converted tax collectors and prostitutes we should emulate in today’s society? Let us think of those we look down on. Let us wonder how they may witness to God’s will more actually than we currently do.

Let’s be doers of Jesus’ teachings more than loudspeakers. As a saying attributed to St Francis goes: “Preach Jesus, and if necessary use words.”

Amen.