Showing posts with label Year A. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Year A. Show all posts

Sunday, October 25, 2026

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, September 27, 2026

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


 

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.


Sunday, September 6, 2026

The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 18 A, September 6, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve

The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, September 6, 2026

Exodus 12:1-14

Romans 13:8-14

Matthew 18:15-20



Our gospel is, on one level, a process for addressing faults and conflicts within the community of believers.  It is so different a way of making amends from much of our public discourse (which does not seem to care much for amends) as to seem laughably unrealistic and naive.  If we take this reading seriously, then we can ask, what does this kind of relating mean?  Where does it come from and what informs such behavior?  What kind of people are we called to be in order to actualize these practices?   So, I endeavor to reflect on just the first act: If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.
Life gathered in the name of Christ is life in truth, in reality.  Set in the midst of all manner of lies and illusions, deceit and fantasy, we are to be truth-bearers so that we can be practitioners of reality, so that truth becomes who we are.  Spiritual life is not an escape into some alternate reality; it is the entering into the essence of truth which forms all of life.  We are vowed in such a way that avoidance, excuses, rationalizations, and any other form of discernment that is not true and real find no home in us.  Our baptismal liturgy describes this identity as both renouncing the sources and systems of evil and injustice in us and around us and the affirmation of the truth of Christ’s saving power for us and through us as a body.  We practice our identities in such a way that we face what is real rather than run, name what is happening rather than deny.  
What our Lord proscribes here is the practice of our human experience within conscious community.  This way subverts the impulses of punishment and vengeance and orients power as that commitment to the good which expresses itself as for and alongside others, never over or against others.  It is actively nonviolent.  It describes what is the case about us: sometimes I perceive some aspect of the truth that you do not.  Sometimes you are aware of a reality to which I am blind.  So, we need community as the realm in which we offer the gift of our insight and receive the feedback of others.
As our desire turns into deeper acts of love and trust, we encounter our inner resistances.  We all have baggage around sin, forgiveness, and reconciliation.  We have been hurt and we have caused hurt.  Pointing out someone’s fault may hurt their feelings, or they may attack me, our relationship may be harmed.  I don’t want to be judgmental.  It’s not a big deal.  I may also discover beliefs toward my own sin: it’s easier to hide than confess, if the community knew what I had done, they would reject me.  If I am honest, some may look down on me.  These beliefs inhibit common life.  Facing truth liberates us from the besetting distortions that pollute relationships.  Hiding and avoiding might feel safe, but they are flimsy substitutes for the kinds of flourishing relationships we long for.  We must go through the resistance to experience the renewal on the other side.  Living in a community requires the willingness and capacity to live and speak truth for the sake of the health of the whole body, sometimes evoking out of us an honest vulnerability.  My discomfort bows to the greater needs of community harmony.  
This counsel is the liturgy of mercy made visible and ordinary.  The sinner is invited to act from the belief that their sin is unavoidable and real, but not permanent.  Forgiveness really does wipe the slate clean because the community believes and practices that beginning again.  It is dangerous to lead an unconfronted life.  The naming of our errant ways is a gift of grace which we can receive as such.  The truth-teller is invited to act from the belief that although real harm has been done, it can be healed, trust can be restored, and the sword of vengeance must be laid down.  A healthy community is made up of people willing to face their truth and name the truth of others in service of the good of our souls and the integrity of life together.
We are called to be ourselves without performance or pretense, which includes gifts and wounds.  Assemblies of the guarded and defended, where secrets are well-hidden and bitterness carefully concealed under a mask of mere polite friendliness is not the new creation we are made to be.  
Communities caught in the web of defending and rationalizing, blaming and avoiding will expend all their energy on preserving the illusion of independence because the fear of being truly seen and known is not safe or welcome.  Such places are a kind of self-created hell of refusing to be fully human.
What would it be like to live where every member of a community can be seen and known, and can participate in the salvation drama of falling short and beginning again without partiality and with sincere absolution?  The Lord asks us to do something that may sound strange; normalize the inevitability of sin and the beauty of conscious forgiveness and reconciliation.  Faults and failure are not threats to an integrated community, not signs to withdraw and hide - they are opportunities for vulnerable trust in the reality of being imperfect image-bearers.  Lead us into all truth, Lord Christ, and help us love one another as you love us. Amen.

Sunday, July 26, 2026

The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 12, July 26, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Robert Leo Sevensky, OHC

The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, July 26, 2026

Last Sunday, Brother Ephrem spoke to us about the hero’s journey, that archetypal tale which becomes a pattern for human life. He used this to illustrate the story of Jacob as well as that of Odysseus, a story of leaving home, having adventures, facing challenges, and making one’s way back, chastened and—let’s hope--a little more mature and wiser.  And we understand that this is not peculiar to Jacob or Odysseus but touches each of us. This hero myth or story is one of many models or genres that speak more generally to our human condition. There is, for example, the story of the descent into the underworld or the search for a hidden treasure or the story of a flood such as we find in the Gilgamesh Epic or that of Noah and the ark, a story of universal destruction and restoration.   


Today’s Scripture readings present us with yet more stories or symbolic lessons, messages of faith and pathways to wisdom.  There are five—count them—parables of the Kingdom in today’s brief Gospel passage.  And one folk tale…that of Solomon and his dream.  In any event, it strikes me as a folk tale.


Folk tales or, in their more condensed form, proverbs seem designed not to offer us the shape of the whole pattern of our lives but rather focus on one or two practical pieces of advice for successful living.  And every culture has them, shared with children, often quite humorous, and sometimes even bawdy.  We all know them and have been exposed to them in collections such as Grimm’s fairy tales. They are a primary tool of socialization in any society or culture.


One folktale that appears in many shapes is the tale of The Three Wishes.  And like any good folk tale it can be endlessly elaborated on though it is easily summarized. In its classic form—and with a nod to Wikipedia—it tells the story of a poor woodcutter and his wife who are struggling to make ends meet. One day the woodcutter finds the perfect tree to harvest, and just as he begins to do it a fairy or wood nymph appears and begs him not to chop down her home. In returns, she promises to grant him three wishes and he agrees. The woodcutter returns home, and as he talks with his wife about what happened, he realizes he's very hungry and without thinking he wishes for a sausage to eat. And suddenly a hot sausage appears at the table. His wife, furious that he's wasted a wish, speaks to him in anger.  And he responds in kind: “I wish this sausage was stuffed up your nose.” And as if by magic, there it is. The couple now need to decide what to do with their one remaining wish. They could be rich, they could be powerful, they could be fruitful, but alas, the sausage would still be hanging from the wife's nose. So, they decide to use their third and final wish to remove the sausage from her face.


What's the moral of the story? What do we learn from it? Maybe we learn to take our time, to not be hasty, to not act out of unexamined desires or uncontrolled emotions.  Maybe we learn that greed is not the way to go forward in life. Or maybe we learn that who we are or what we have right now is enough.


It seems to me that the story of Solomon that we hear in our first reading has something of the character of a folktale with its own moral. God appears to Solomon in a dream and says, “Ask what I should give you.” And though he is given one, not three, wishes he is faced with the difficult question of what he should ask for, what he desires. Solomon, of course, the paradigm of the wise ruler, does not ask for long life or riches or the life of his enemies but rather for, and I quote, “understanding to discern what is right.”  But my hunch is that the other things surely went through his mind. Why not ask for long life? Why not ask for riches? Why not ask for the life of his enemies? But what Solomon does request is in fact quite bigger.  In effect, he is asking for the skill to live a life which is at once meaningful and productive. And as we hear from the reading, God grants him the other things which he set aside for the sake of this larger purpose, namely that of being a wise ruler for his people. Indeed, God promises that he shall be the wisest of all mortals ever!


If this is a folktale, is there a moral? What lesson can we learn? It’s easy to draw the wrong conclusion from these stories. Perhaps you have heard it said: be careful what you wish for or be careful what you ask for or even--and deeply mistaken--be careful what you pray for.  


On the contrary, I’d like to suggest that it is well worth thinking about what it is we want or desire. It is worth naming. It is even worth praying for. Because in the very process of wanting or desiring and in examining and engaging and not censoring those desires or longings they may be refined and reshaped in ways that serve both our own true good and God's greater glory. Befriending our desires, as one writer puts it, or heeding our deepest longings and giving them space to be transformed and sharpened or perhaps even sublimated or abandoned, is a profound spiritual practice and a necessary one. Saint Augustine of Hippo who lived in the late 4th and early 5th centuries was the great saint of desire and delight and love. He knew firsthand the depths of human desires and admittedly did not always navigate them well. But he came to recognize that the only adequate object or goal of our desires is God. He is famous for teaching: “Our hearts are restless, oh God, until they rest in you.”


This saying sometimes frightens people. Does loving God with all our heart mean we can have no other loves? No. Rather Augustine talks about the right ordering of loves.  As he says: “…everybody loves but the question is, what is the object of their love.”   His advice is to examine our loves—all our loves, all our longings, all our desires—and look for what they are honestly moving deep, deep within us before the face of God.


Augustine continues: “So, am I telling you to give up loving? Not at all! If you love nothing you will become lazy dead lifeless creatures. Love, by all means; but take care what it is you love.”


This is good advice for the 5th century and for any century, especially when we realize that what we are being invited to is not the suppression of our desires but the deepening of our desires, getting more and not less in touch with them, naming them, focusing on them and even fanning them.  And in this Saint Paul tells us, the spirit helps us with sighs and groans too deep for words. It is this wordless prayer, this interior groaning, which is arena of the deepening and cherishing, the purifying and right ordering of our desires. Cherishing our deepest desires, we enter into relationship with them, and they become educated, reformed, expanded, transfigured, more adequate, all embracing and simpler.


I believe this happened with Solomon and maybe with the woodsman and his wife and their sausage.  Because this is the mystery of sanctification. We come to know ourselves.  And we come to know God, to love what God loves. We come to desire what God commands, we come to long for what God envisions and to love what God intends. And in that is our happiness, that is delight, that is freedom and that is becoming who we are.


And the moral, the lesson of this fairy tale? Don't be too worried about what you wish for or what you desire or what you ask for or long for on the inside, or what you pray for. Your very open, honest, prayerful engagement with these desires allows them to be transmuted by God’s love into something beautiful… something beautiful for you and me and something beautiful for God. 


And by the way, what do you want God to give you today?

Sunday, July 19, 2026

The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 11, July 19, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Ephrem Arcement, OHC

The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, July 19, 2026




In his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the great mythologist Joseph Campbell describes the narrative pattern of the hero myth as follows:


A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are encountered there, and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.


Campbell chronicles this narrative process of the hero myth through seventeen chronological stages, each infusing the protagonist with new experiences that gradually transforms his or her character into its destined ideal: a hero who has undergone adventure, transformation, and return to become the boon, or a blessing, to those yet to undergo the journey themselves.  The “thousand faces” of the hero’s journey refers to the multiple iterations that this universal, mythic journey manifests.  Underneath, though, for Campbell, there is only one transformative monomyth of adventure, transformation, and return.

This weekend one of the most paradigmatic of these hero journeys hits the big screen in the highly anticipated adaptation of The Odyssey by the great filmmaker Christopher Nolan.  The Bible, too, is full of these hero journeys beginning with Abram who is transformed into Abraham and his grandson, who we hear about today, Jacob who will be transformed into Israel. 

Up to this point in the story, Jacob, whose name means “supplanter,” has usurped his twin brother, Esau, at every turn.  Even at his mother’s bidding, Jacob will come to assume and own his identity as a trickster all to get what was not rightfully his, his father’s blessing.  Even though a twin, he is not the first-born twin.  He is the second…and his supplanting nature is memorably depicted in the story even in his birth with his tiny hand firmly fixed on his brother Esau’s equally tiny ankle.  Ever-grasping Jacob refuses to stand in the shadow of his brother and rightful inheritor of the blessing of the father and the promise of God.  So, all of his life, he grasps and strives and connives to supplant his brother to be somebody his society and religion said he could not be.  And yet, the irony at the heart of the story is that all along Yahweh, his god, had supplanted custom and already chosen him to be the son of blessing.  But to realize this, Jacob has to go on a hero’s journey of adventure, transformation, and return.

The story today picks up with Jacob on the run, living in fear of his brother’s retribution.  It’s here in the moment of his own, personal existential crisis that he meets his match.  With a stone for his head, he lies down and dreams of a ladder connecting heaven to earth with God’s messengers, angels, ascending and descending on it.  But the message does not come from these messengers but directly from God standing right beside him.  God’s message is a message not of castigation or reproach but one of assurance and promise.  Jacob learns that his god is with him to fulfill the promise of Abraham through him, just as he so desperately desired.  As he rouses himself, his eyes are awakened to new dimensions and exclamation says, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!  How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”  For us, today, the journey ends here…but not for Jacob.  His transformation is only beginning and won’t be complete before having to wrestle with this god and be perpetually wounded in the fight.  Jacob will indeed be the vessel through whom the blessing of God flows, but it’s through a wounded, limping, humbled vessel…one who has gone through the fire and whose ego-ambition has been supplanted by God.  

But this is a lesson for another sermon in the weeks ahead, today the focus is on a very particular stage of this hero’s journey.  The truth discovered at this stage is a truth that appears again and again in the journey of spiritual maturation…it is the moment of awakening.  Ironically this happens while Jacob is asleep.  And maybe there’s a lesson in this irony…it’s only when we let go of control in our wakened life that the divine in our subconscious minds can make itself known.  And what is the revelation that here awakens Jacob?  It is the fact that his God, Yahweh, the God of the promise, is with him in this deserted place with only a stone for a pillow.  It’s the insight that it’s in the ordinary where the extraordinary is discovered and that he is now in God’s house (the literal meaning of Bethel) …that it’s when you’re worn down by running away from the thing you fear most and have to just stop over sheer exhaustion that you encounter the awesomeness of God and the gate of heaven.  

Jacob’s journey of awakening and discovery reminds me of another hero’s journey, the journey of Thomas Merton who chronicles a very similar experience.  After living about sixteen years as a Trappist monk in rural Kentucky, Merton, suffering from chronic back pain, goes to downtown Louisville to see a doctor.  While walking on a busy street corner he is suddenly stunned by what he sees.  He describes it as follows:


In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness….  And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun…. Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed…. I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.

“How awesome is this place!  This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”  Sound familiar?  

I have often wondered if anybody else on that busy day on Fourth and Walnut saw what Merton saw.  Probably not!  But why did he see it?  Was it a moment of total sovereign revelation?  I don’t think so.  Merton had spent sixteen years giving himself over to the monastic way of life and learning how to open himself up and listen deeply with the ear of his heart.  His spiritual senses were attuning themselves to the presence of God everywhere.  He was, in other words, ripe for something like this to happen.  And it did!  “The gate of heaven is everywhere” is Merton’s great insight…and he challenges us to awaken our spiritual senses to see it, hear it, taste it, touch it, and smell it in the everyday, ordinary moments of our seemingly mundane lives.  

Pope Francis used to repeatedly say that God is a God of surprises and that we never know when God is going to surprise us.  We, therefore, need to develop what he called “a contemplative gaze” so that we don’t miss those divine surprises.

So, at the heart of our journey in our life with God is found one of life’s greatest lessons.  With Jacob we must close our eyes to the world around us and “fall asleep,” as it were, to the phenomenal world and awaken to the numinous depths within.  It is there that the awesome presence of God awaits us.  We don’t have to wait until Sunday morning or a moment of crisis to encounter this presence.  It abides with us!  And with Merton we give ourselves to lives of prayer and deep listening, ever sensitizing ourselves to the “deep calling unto deep,” so that with Pope Francis we can awaken from our slumber and return to our awakened state each morning ready for the adventure in God that awaits us.  

One further lesson in the Jacob story…this process of awakening to the vision of God in the hero’s journey is not easy and comes at a price.  It’s on a very hard, uncomfortable stone that you will have to sometimes lay your head.  It’s not what we would have chosen, and it is often what we wrestle with God to accept…but it is this very stone which becomes the catalyst of awakening and is transformed into a monument to God.  

The lesson Jesus teaches us today is that in this process of transformation there are weeds encroaching on us our whole lives.  Patient endurance, putting up with the weaknesses of body and behavior, as our Holy Father Benedict memorably put it, is not just a necessary burden, it is the very virtue transforming us into someone who will one day shine like the sun.  For Jesus, and for those in him, the good news is that the adventure we’re on is one much greater than any hero’s journey…and the transformation and boon of blessing far exceeds anything previously imagined.  We’re on a journey not just of adventure, transformation, and return…we’re on a journey of adventure, transformation, and transcendence into a whole new mode of being…what he called eternal life…and that this eternal life isn’t in some far away kingdom reserved for us when we die…but in the simple, but pregnant, moments of our everyday lives.  Let anyone with ears listen!  And let anyone with eyes see…we’re all shining like the sun!

Sunday, July 12, 2026

The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 10, July 12, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Bernard Delcourt
The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, July 12, 2026


In the name of our Loving, Liberating and Life-giving God. Amen!

Jesus leaves the house that day and walks down to the water. The crowd that gathers is so large that he has to push off in a boat just to have room to speak, while everyone else stands crowded along the shore. And there, with the sea at his back and the fields probably visible somewhere behind the people, he tells a story about farming.

It is worth pausing on how ordinary that story would have sounded to his first listeners. Nobody in that crowd had ever tested the pH of a field or laid down seed in neat, irrigated rows. In first-century Palestine, you scattered the seed first and plowed it under afterward. You threw it across the path, across the rocky patches, into the weeds, and onto the good ground, all in the same sweeping motion, because you could not always tell in advance which parts of the field would produce and which would not. Then you waited for rain that you could not control, over a harvest you could not guarantee. Every farmer in that crowd would have been nodding along, thinking, yes, that is exactly how it goes.

So when Jesus describes seed falling on the path, on rocky ground, among thorns, and on good soil, he is not describing something strange or symbolic to begin with. He is describing an ordinary Tuesday. The strangeness comes later, in the ending, and in what the story assumes about the sower who keeps throwing seed onto ground that, by any sensible calculation, is not going to produce anything.

Notice, too, how the story is framed. It opens with Jesus saying, "Listen!" and it closes with "Let anyone with ears listen." Whatever else this parable is doing, it is asking for our full attention, not our anxious diagnosis. And it arrives in Matthew's Gospel at a hard moment: the chapters just before this one are full of misunderstanding and outright opposition to Jesus' ministry, and the chapter will end with his own hometown rejecting him. Matthew is writing to a community that knew what it was to proclaim good news and watch much of it fall on ground that produced nothing — through persecution, through poverty that scattered people from the region, through false teachers sowing confusion inside the church itself. This parable was first heard by people who needed reassurance that a disappointing public response did not mean their message was wrong, or their labor wasted.

That is where I want to start today, because it is easy to hear this parable and immediately turn it into an inventory of ourselves. Which soil am I? Am I the hard path, closed off and unreceptive? Am I the rocky ground, quick to catch fire with enthusiasm and just as quick to burn out when life gets hard? Am I choked by thorns, distracted by ambition or worry or the hundred small hungers that crowd out anything deeper? I suspect most of us, if we are honest, have been all four kinds of soil at different points in our lives, sometimes in the same week. I know that when I was young, this parable was taught to me almost entirely as a checklist for self-improvement: figure out what is wrong with your soil and fix it. It is a tiring way to hear good news, because it turns the gospel into one more thing you are failing to get right.

But look again at where Jesus puts the weight of the story. He does not linger on the soils nearly as long as he lingers on the sower and on the harvest. And when the interpretation comes, in the second half of our reading, it is offered almost as an afterthought, a clarification added because the story on its own was too open, too strange, too likely to be misunderstood. The center of gravity in this parable is not the quality of the ground. It is the character of the one doing the sowing.

Picture that sower again: walking a field, throwing seed in every direction, including places that everyone standing nearby could see were hopeless. Not one seed reserved for the good ground and withheld from the rest. Not one calculation of odds before the throw. This is not a cautious, efficient sower rationing precious seed for maximum yield. This is a lavish, almost reckless sower, acting as though there is no such thing as too much seed, no soil too far gone to be worth the risk. If you have ever been on the receiving end of that kind of extravagance — loved by someone who did not first check whether you deserved it — you know it does not feel like sound business practice. It feels like grace.

That, I think, is the first piece of good news buried in this familiar story: the parable is not primarily asking whether you are good soil. It is telling you what kind of God is doing the sowing. This is a God who does not sort us first, who does not calculate our likely returns before showering us with love. God's word goes out toward hardened ground and rocky ground and weed-choked ground with the same generosity it goes out toward the ground already prepared to receive it. Nothing about our failures — the times our hearts were closed, the times we scattered under pressure, the times ambition or anxiety choked out something truer — makes God stingier with the seed. There is always more where that came from.

The second piece of good news is that none of us is only one kind of soil, forever. The path, the rocks, and the thorns are not fixed identities assigned to certain people while others get to be the good soil. They are conditions — seasons, really — that any one of us can move through. Hardened ground can be broken open. Rocky ground can have its stones cleared. Thorns can be pulled. We are not seeds, locked into whatever patch of earth we happened to land on; we have the strange and demanding freedom to notice our own condition and to let it change. That is part of what it means to keep showing up to listen, week after week: to let something soften that had gone hard, to let roots go down deeper than the last hard season allowed.

And then there is the ending, which is the part I think we are most tempted to skip past too quickly. Jesus does not conclude with a modest, reasonable harvest. A good year for a first-century farmer might yield seven or eight times what was sown. Jesus says thirtyfold, sixtyfold, a hundredfold. That is not agricultural realism; that is a promise of abundance that breaks the scale we normally use to measure return on investment. The point is not simply, keep trying and eventually something will grow. The point is that when God's word does take root, it produces far more than the effort put into it could account for. We are not meant only to endure; we are invited to expect abundance we cannot engineer or predict.

There is one more thing worth naming before we close. Paul, writing to the Romans, tells his readers that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ, because the Spirit of God dwells in them. I think that is close to the heart of this parable too. The sower is not standing over us with a clipboard, grading our soil. The seed that has already been planted in us is not something we manufactured through our own discipline or worthiness; it took root because the Spirit of the very sower who planted it also dwells within us, doing the slow work of clearing stones and pulling weeds that we could never manage entirely on our own. That is not permission to stop tending the ground of our own hearts. It is the reason we can tend it without dread, trusting that the outcome was never solely up to us in the first place.

So perhaps the truest response to this parable is not anxious self-examination but something closer to trust, followed by imitation. Trust that the sower sowing in us is patient, generous, and unbothered by our rocky or thorny seasons. And imitation, because we too are sent out to scatter seed without first demanding proof that the ground is worthy. Speak the kind word to the person who seems closed off. Offer forgiveness before it is requested. Show up for the neighbor whose soil, as far as you can tell, looks like nothing but path and rock. You will not always see what grows. But the sower we follow was never stingy with the seed, and the harvest, when it finally comes, is always far larger than anyone had a right to expect.

Let anyone with ears, listen. Amen.

Sunday, July 5, 2026

The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 9, July 5, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula OHC
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, July 5, 2026

The lectionary today omits the little section of today’s Gospel which Matthew calls Jesus’ reproach of the cities.

“Then he began to reproach the cities in which most of his deeds of power had been done, because they did not repent. “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? No, you will be brought down to Hades. For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day. But I tell you that on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom than for you.” (Matt.11:20-24)

Let’s be honest. We don’t much like reproach in our lives or in our scriptures. Most would rather skip quickly to the good part, that part about the humble and gentle Jesus who we think is going to make life easy. But we need to hear these words of reproach as individuals and as a nation. It seems most appropriate during this 250th anniversary that we hear it as a nation. They’re important words. Reproach by Jesus is not rejection but the other side of care and concern.

These are the towns where Jesus spent most of his ministry and where he did most of his miraculous works. They know Jesus well and he knows them. He knows their unbelief, their unwillingness to change, their refusal to yoke themselves to him and to his gospel.

“To what shall I compare this generation?” Jesus basically tells them that they are like a bunch of spoiled kids unhappy with whatever is offered them. They want it their way or no way. John the Baptist came neither eating nor drinking and they said he was possessed. Jesus came eating and drinking and they call him a glutton and a drunkard who hangs out with the wrong kind of people.”

I think that Jesus would say the same to us today as a nation. Are we different from Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum? How are we responding to Christ and his gospel?

Reflecting on this question raises a deeper and more fundamental question. To what or whom are we yoked? To what or whom do we give ourselves? What or who takes priority in our lives, orienting how we live and relate to others, how we make decisions? We all harness our lives to something: another person, work, family, success, reputation, country, political party. Sometimes our yokes are more interior like fear, anxiety, anger, beliefs and opinions, the losses and tragedies of our lives. Regardless, they are the relationships and attachments that we depend on for meaning. For better or worse, they give us our life’s direction. We’ve all got them and usually more than one.

What yokes do you wear? As Christians, we know the right answer should be Jesus. But is that how we live? Is it reflected by our deeds and in our relationships, or just in our words?

If we are going to call ourselves Christians, we must yoke ourselves to Christ. He must be the primary and determining yoke. We cannot simply just hear the gospel and say our prayers. The gospel of Christ demands a response. The people of these cities have seen God among them; they have witnessed the signs. Jesus cleansed their lepers, healed their sick, cast out their demons, forgiven their sins, calmed the sea. Still, they reject Jesus and, before him, John the Baptist.

Sometimes we are like those little kids in the marketplace, unhappy with whatever is offered us. We want the gospel to fit our beliefs, desires, and agendas rather than shaping our beliefs, desires, and agendas to fit the gospel. That is not an option for Jesus. The yoke of Christ must reorient our lives and priorities.

It means we take seriously our life of discipleship. Our prayer is more about intimacy with God than getting what we want. We work for justice and the dignity of every human being. We care for the poor, feed the hungry, and defend the oppressed. We love our enemies. We offer forgiveness. Our faithfulness should be evident by how we live and speak. We let go of anger and don’t live in fear.

To be yoked to anything or anyone other than Christ will only leave us weary and burdened. Our lives will be frenzied and fragmented. This is a disease of the soul in which we end up comparing, competing, and judging ourselves and each other. There is no internal integrity. Our reserves run dry and we live exhausted with nothing of substance to offer, making our relationships superficial.

Too often we treat our weariness and medicate our burdens with addictions, a new toy, a vacation, a nap, a day off, busyness and perfectionism. Interior voids cannot be filled by exterior things. Often, we’re just as weary afterwards as we were before. These are not the antidote to our exhaustion. The antidote to our exhaustion begins with sharing the yoke of Christ, the heart of God and the heart of humanity beating as one.

Jesus isn’t upset because the cities misbehaved, but because they have chosen a life less than what they were created for. Jesus is like a loving parent looking at his exhausted children, so tired we do not know which end is up, so weary we misbehave. This is why his words of reproach soon become words of invitation and love. “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

To take on the yoke of Jesus is to take on his life: to let our heart love like his.  Only by living and moving as one with him, will we find rest for our souls. +Amen.