Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Brother Scott Wesley Borden, OHC
BCP – Easter 2 B - Sunday 23 April 2006
I’m not sure Thomas gets a particularly fair deal in history. For two millennia he has been, more or less, the poster child for doubt: Doubting Thomas - an archetype that has entered the mainstream psyche. All generations will call Mary blessed... and apparently all generations will call Thomas doubting... I’m thinking Thomas needed a better public relations plan...
This is one of those stories that we’ve heard so many times we almost don’t hear it at all anymore. We just hear the echo of it. The echo in my mind is of a belligerent Thomas confronting Jesus - show me the wounds or I won’t believe its you. And of a gentle Jesus showing him the wounds and then almost taunting him - you see and believe, more blessed are those who believe without seeing...
That, of course, isn’t really the story. When Jesus arrives at the home where the disciples are huddled the first thing he does is show everyone his hands and his feet. But Thomas is not there. So when Thomas says he needs to see the wounds, he’s just saying he needs to see what everyone else has already seen. But he doesn’t say this to Jesus. He says it to the other disciples.
When Thomas next meets Jesus, Jesus invites him to look at, to touch, the wounds. Jesus knows Thomas’s heart and knows that Thomas is dying to get a peek. And it seems as though Jesus is as interested in showing the wounds as Thomas is in seeing them.
What strikes me is that maybe doubt is not the point of the story. Maybe this is not a story about overcoming doubt or about having faith. I’m beginning to understand it as being a story about the wounds. The story of Wounded Jesus rather than of Doubting Thomas...
Doubt is no big deal. I have doubts. We all have doubts. It would be a bigger story if Thomas had no doubts. After all, he knew for a fact that Jesus was dead. He should have had a hard time believing Jesus was walking among them again in the flesh. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want some proof.
But what strange proof Thomas seems to want. Show me the puncture wounds, the stab wounds. Its strangely intimate and pretty gory all at the same time. Surely there are other more beautiful and appealing ways that Thomas could have had his doubts allayed.
Jesus does nothing to provide any alternatives to coming face to face, finger to gash, with the wounds. Surely Jesus could have given another sign, or just talked to them, or changed some water into wine... Instead he seems to be saying here I am, look at my wounds, look at my hands and my side.
But as I say, I’m beginning to understand that the wounds may be the central part of this story.
What if Thomas had not been so honest? What if he had said “I have no doubts... I don’t need proof. I have faith.” What if he lied?
Those doubts would still have been there and they would have worked on Thomas. One way or the other he would have been looking for proof. What type of proof might he have sought?
What are some of the ways we seek to prove that we know God?
Some people see proof of God in disasters. A hurricane strikes the Gulf Coast and the City of New Orleans is devastated. Some see this as proof of the hand of God. Not any old God, but a really angry God; and isn’t it convenient that this God is angry at the same folks we’re angry at...
But this is not what Thomas sought. The hand of this angry God has no nail holes in it. This God knows no crucifixion. This angry and punishing God causes suffering. Jesus, with his wounds takes on the world’s suffering.
I’d love to be smug and say I don’t look for this proof - I don’t worship this angry God... but when bad things happen to people I don’t like, somewhere in the back of my mind I want to see the hand of God... How much more healthy to be like Thomas...
Some people see proof of God in unexpected rewards. I suspect many who have won the lottery have felt that they won not by chance alone, but by divine intervention. I know if I ever win the lottery I will thank God... and at some level I might suspect that God stuck a hand in that machine that picks the winning numbers... that the divine fix was in...
But again, this is not the God that Thomas was seeking to know. This God’s hands have no nail holes either. This is the hand of a God who rewards a few and forgets about the rest, rather than a God who died so that all might have abundant life.
Thomas is refreshingly direct about his doubts. He doesn’t require God to destroy his enemies or make him rich. He just needs to see the wounds. He needs to see the loving, sacrificing God who died for all... who wants to punish nobody... who extends grace to everybody.
Jesus does not seem too bothered by Thomas’s doubts. There is no condemnation is the way he talks to Thomas. He is very willing to show the wounds, to even have Thomas touch them. Everybody gets to look at the wounds. Do not doubt but believe. That’s what Jesus says.
Two things happen when Jesus does this. He relieves the disciples doubts and he fixes the wounds permanently in their memories. They can never remember Jesus without remembering that he was crucified... that he was wounded. Those nail holes and gashes will never be separated in their minds from Jesus.
That’s why I think this story is more about the wounds than the doubts. I think this story is Jesus way of saying to us, two millennia later, “remember I was crucified.” We can’t know Jesus without knowing the wounds. Jesus has managed to fix those nail holes and gashes in our minds as well.
The point in remembering the wounds is not sentimental. We are not meant to feel sorry for Jesus or for ourselves. There is not a trace of self-pity in Jesus in this story - or in any story for that matter.
The point in remembering the wounds in not to place blame; though clearly we Christians have been tempted, and have sometimes given into that temptation with horrible consequences, to blame somebody for wounding Jesus. The truth is we are all responsible for wounding Jesus. More importantly, Jesus’ wounds are for all of us. There is no guilt or blame in this story.
Remembering the wounds changes our entire relationship with God. Saint Paul said we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to some and foolishness to others. Our relationship to a crucified God can’t be rational and intellectual, because it doesn’t make sense. Our relationship to a crucified God can’t be based on demonstrations of great might, because a mighty God would not have been crucified.
When we want a God who will smite our enemies we only have to remember the nail holes in the hands. When we want a God who will make us rich, we only have bring the wounds to mind. When we think we know who God likes and who God hates, we have to consider the scourging. When we are indifferent to those who are starving, we have to call to mind the vinegar that was given to Jesus.
Jesus does not show the wounds to Thomas as an accusation. He makes no suggestion that Thomas or anyone else should feel bad because of his wounds.
The wounds remind us that Jesus is Lord and savior of the poor, the injured, the wounded, the sorrowful, the powerless, as well as everyone else. This is the God we worship. The wounds help us get on with living our baptized life. We can not know Jesus without knowing his wounds.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sunday, April 9, 2006
BCP - Good Friday C - 09 Apr 2006
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Brother Scott Wesley Borden, OHC
BCP – Good Friday C - Friday 09 April 2006
The week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday is quite a roller coaster of experience. Last Sunday things were going pretty well. Jesus makes the triumphant trip into Jerusalem - he doesn't even have to walk, he gets a Donkey to ride on.
And Easter Sunday causes the joy of Palm Sunday to pale in comparison. For there simply is no greater wonder, no greater joy, no greater promise of hope, than the promise of Easter. We are the resurrection people. This coming Sunday is at the very core of our lives as followers of Christ.
But here we are somewhere between the two. And for Jesus and his followers things have gone terribly wrong. Between the pinnacles, here we are in the very deepest of valleys.
Of course we know something about today that the followers at the actual event didn't know. We know that this is not the end of the story. We know about Easter - about the resurrection. They might have suspected - Jesus dropped a few hints along the way. But they didn't know what was coming next.
All they could have known is that just when things were going really well, just when Jesus was starting to receive the kind of royal recognition he deserved, just when they were making this triumphant ride into Jerusalem, their world was shattered. Their dream was destroyed. Their vision was obliterated. What despair, what inconceivable sorrow they must have known. We can't really know that feeling because we know the story does not end.
And so we are pulled in two directions - either glossing over the events of today as something we have to get through in order to get to Easter; or delving into the utter horror of the events - the cruelty, the gore, the inhumanity, the ugliness.
I have to confess I'm far more drawn to the former - I'm far more interested in getting on to Easter; getting on with life. And I think Mel Gibson in his current film "The Passion" is far more drawn to the latter; the violence and the gore. And much as I would love to congratulate myself and criticize Mr. Gibson, I have come to believe that the Gospel message is not complete without both intentions.
Without a realization of the shocking horror, the abject inhumanity, the depravity of which we are capable, the Gospel is just a bit bland. If I'm not all that bad then my salvation is not all that big a deal. But the reality is that there is no evil in the world, no darkness, no horror, that also doesn't have at least a little place in my heart. When we, as the crowd shout "crucify" it is utterly appropriate for me. I have to face full on the fact that I could have been part of that crowd. Worse still, like Peter, I could have denied my Lord. It is even possible that I could, like Judas, have been the betrayer. And to be really honest, I have to admit that there are times in my life when I have - and will - deny Christ, betray Christ, do my part to crucify Christ. That darkness - the whipping, the blood, the treachery - is part of the Gospel story and it is part of me. But thank God it is not the whole story.
The part of the story that most appeals to me - the forgiveness of sin, the building of God's kingdom, the just and brilliant Jerusalem where the gates are open in every direction, where there is no night, where all is good - the Gospel hope, is all the more dazzling given the darkness where we start.
So what do we do to avoid being drawn to the pure prurience of dwelling too much on the horror of the crucifixion while at the same time not denying the wanton ugliness.
For me, the powerful way to experience the events of today's Gospel is to try to put myself in the position of the disciples. What if all I knew today is that Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried? What if Christ died today, April 9, 2004? What if I didn't yet know about the resurrection that we will celebrate on April 11, 2004? What would happen in my life? What would I be afraid of losing? What might I think I had gained?
If Christ died today and didn't rise, my comfortable life here in a Christian Monastery, would be in doubt. Our grand Episcopal liturgical celebrations with great choirs, thundering pipe organs, beautiful vestments, sweet smelling incense, would all be rather pointless. Some of the finest pieces of architecture, of music, of art, would be stripped of meaning and future artists would not be inspired - in the true sense of that word.
You may be noticing a problem with my list (and perhaps the list you have been making in your own mind along with me...)... These are all nice things, but they are not of the essence of living out my baptismal covenant. They are not essential to being a Christian.
Who would I pray to? And what would I pray for if Christ died today and did not rise? This is a more essential set of questions - but honestly I already struggle with these questions. In fact if Christ died today and did not rise, I might find it a bit of a relief to no longer have to struggle with this pair of questions.
Would my life have purpose, meaning, and direction? Well I know people who have no particular belief in God who's lives have purpose, meaning, and direction. So I suppose my life could go on and be quite fulfilling if Christ died today and did not rise again. And I suppose this is some of what the disciples were pondering in the aftermath of the crucifixion - how to get on with their lives.
But what could not survive, at least for me, is the vision of the Gospel, of God's kingdom - in this world or the next - of salvation. I don't know what kingdom I would be building if Christ died today and did not rise. For me this is the question that is almost too hard to ask. What vision would I have for this world if Christ died today and did not rise?
Christ doesn't die and stay dead. The gospel can not be killed - by us or by anyone.
Today in the midst of horror and hope, sadness and joy, despair and elation... today might be a good day to take stock of what it means to be loved by Jesus and to love and to follow Jesus - the essential qualities, not the nice qualities.
Perhaps in that reflection we will find parts of our vision of Christ and our vision of our relationship with Christ that need to die and not resurrect so that we are more fully alive for the resurrected Christ.
And we will find visions of Christ and our relationship with Christ that are so essential, so powerful, so life-giving, that we really can't think what we would do if Christ were not alive in our lives. It is in the facing of death that we become most aware of life.
Lord Jesus, you are so present with us that we can sometimes take that presence for granted. In these next few days help us to be more keenly aware of you and of what you are calling forth in our lives so that we may be your resurrection people and the builders of your kingdom. Amen.
Brother Scott Wesley Borden, OHC
BCP – Good Friday C - Friday 09 April 2006
The week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday is quite a roller coaster of experience. Last Sunday things were going pretty well. Jesus makes the triumphant trip into Jerusalem - he doesn't even have to walk, he gets a Donkey to ride on.
And Easter Sunday causes the joy of Palm Sunday to pale in comparison. For there simply is no greater wonder, no greater joy, no greater promise of hope, than the promise of Easter. We are the resurrection people. This coming Sunday is at the very core of our lives as followers of Christ.
But here we are somewhere between the two. And for Jesus and his followers things have gone terribly wrong. Between the pinnacles, here we are in the very deepest of valleys.
Of course we know something about today that the followers at the actual event didn't know. We know that this is not the end of the story. We know about Easter - about the resurrection. They might have suspected - Jesus dropped a few hints along the way. But they didn't know what was coming next.
All they could have known is that just when things were going really well, just when Jesus was starting to receive the kind of royal recognition he deserved, just when they were making this triumphant ride into Jerusalem, their world was shattered. Their dream was destroyed. Their vision was obliterated. What despair, what inconceivable sorrow they must have known. We can't really know that feeling because we know the story does not end.
And so we are pulled in two directions - either glossing over the events of today as something we have to get through in order to get to Easter; or delving into the utter horror of the events - the cruelty, the gore, the inhumanity, the ugliness.
I have to confess I'm far more drawn to the former - I'm far more interested in getting on to Easter; getting on with life. And I think Mel Gibson in his current film "The Passion" is far more drawn to the latter; the violence and the gore. And much as I would love to congratulate myself and criticize Mr. Gibson, I have come to believe that the Gospel message is not complete without both intentions.
Without a realization of the shocking horror, the abject inhumanity, the depravity of which we are capable, the Gospel is just a bit bland. If I'm not all that bad then my salvation is not all that big a deal. But the reality is that there is no evil in the world, no darkness, no horror, that also doesn't have at least a little place in my heart. When we, as the crowd shout "crucify" it is utterly appropriate for me. I have to face full on the fact that I could have been part of that crowd. Worse still, like Peter, I could have denied my Lord. It is even possible that I could, like Judas, have been the betrayer. And to be really honest, I have to admit that there are times in my life when I have - and will - deny Christ, betray Christ, do my part to crucify Christ. That darkness - the whipping, the blood, the treachery - is part of the Gospel story and it is part of me. But thank God it is not the whole story.
The part of the story that most appeals to me - the forgiveness of sin, the building of God's kingdom, the just and brilliant Jerusalem where the gates are open in every direction, where there is no night, where all is good - the Gospel hope, is all the more dazzling given the darkness where we start.
So what do we do to avoid being drawn to the pure prurience of dwelling too much on the horror of the crucifixion while at the same time not denying the wanton ugliness.
For me, the powerful way to experience the events of today's Gospel is to try to put myself in the position of the disciples. What if all I knew today is that Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried? What if Christ died today, April 9, 2004? What if I didn't yet know about the resurrection that we will celebrate on April 11, 2004? What would happen in my life? What would I be afraid of losing? What might I think I had gained?
If Christ died today and didn't rise, my comfortable life here in a Christian Monastery, would be in doubt. Our grand Episcopal liturgical celebrations with great choirs, thundering pipe organs, beautiful vestments, sweet smelling incense, would all be rather pointless. Some of the finest pieces of architecture, of music, of art, would be stripped of meaning and future artists would not be inspired - in the true sense of that word.
You may be noticing a problem with my list (and perhaps the list you have been making in your own mind along with me...)... These are all nice things, but they are not of the essence of living out my baptismal covenant. They are not essential to being a Christian.
Who would I pray to? And what would I pray for if Christ died today and did not rise? This is a more essential set of questions - but honestly I already struggle with these questions. In fact if Christ died today and did not rise, I might find it a bit of a relief to no longer have to struggle with this pair of questions.
Would my life have purpose, meaning, and direction? Well I know people who have no particular belief in God who's lives have purpose, meaning, and direction. So I suppose my life could go on and be quite fulfilling if Christ died today and did not rise again. And I suppose this is some of what the disciples were pondering in the aftermath of the crucifixion - how to get on with their lives.
But what could not survive, at least for me, is the vision of the Gospel, of God's kingdom - in this world or the next - of salvation. I don't know what kingdom I would be building if Christ died today and did not rise. For me this is the question that is almost too hard to ask. What vision would I have for this world if Christ died today and did not rise?
Christ doesn't die and stay dead. The gospel can not be killed - by us or by anyone.
Today in the midst of horror and hope, sadness and joy, despair and elation... today might be a good day to take stock of what it means to be loved by Jesus and to love and to follow Jesus - the essential qualities, not the nice qualities.
Perhaps in that reflection we will find parts of our vision of Christ and our vision of our relationship with Christ that need to die and not resurrect so that we are more fully alive for the resurrected Christ.
And we will find visions of Christ and our relationship with Christ that are so essential, so powerful, so life-giving, that we really can't think what we would do if Christ were not alive in our lives. It is in the facing of death that we become most aware of life.
Lord Jesus, you are so present with us that we can sometimes take that presence for granted. In these next few days help us to be more keenly aware of you and of what you are calling forth in our lives so that we may be your resurrection people and the builders of your kingdom. Amen.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
BCP - Proper 20 A - 18 Sep 2005
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Brother Randy Greve, n/OHC
BCP – Proper 20 A - Sunday 18 Septembere 2005
Jonah 3:10-4:11
Philippians 1:21-27
Matthew 20:1-16
"You have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat."
Who is your "them"?
The Book of Revelation imagines heaven's heart as the great throne of Christ the Lamb. The faithful from all the ages encircle the throne and worship for all eternity. Any feeble attempt to imagine the unimaginable is dangerous, but in my mind's eye I see rows of saints rippling out from the throne at the center.
Is there order to anyone's place in the numberless masses, I wonder? Surely, I am prone to believe, the more pure, holy, and spiritual you were in this life, the closer you'd get to having a front row seat. After all, hadn't you earned it? In my seating chart the apostles would be closest. Next are the martyrs, then the great mystics, teachers, and doctors of theology. Behind them are the monks and nuns. Then the ordinary Christians - Americans first, of course, followed by the rest of the world's Christians - what there are of them. Way in the back are Bishop Spong and Karen Armstrong - they're in, but appropriately far behind me.
What would your seating chart look like? Who is your "them"? It may be interesting to reflect on who you would seat behind you and why. Of course I also enjoy naming those who I'd rather not be there at all. A friend defines Hell as the alternate choice for those who arrive at the gates of Heaven, look in, and say to St. Peter, "Thank you, but no. We're not in communion with them."
Placing myself within the world of this morning's Gospel parable, I realize that merely being called out into the vineyard is not enough for me. I'm not content just to pick grapes. I want to pick more and better grapes than anyone else. I want the other laborers - them - to see me picking more and better grapes. And I want the landowner to pay me what I'm worth - reward me for the indispensable worker that I am. I'll bear the burden and the heat of the day if I know there's a big payoff at the end. But for the average daily wage? I'm not so sure.
Being average and ordinary is my worst fear. Who was ever content with all "C's" on their report card? In what Frederick Borsch calls "blinding insecurity" I must be better than them. I yearn to know that the lazy, the sinful, the less enlightened and sophisticated, the "other" - is worse, deserves less, and cannot, will not have as much value to the landowner as me. Keeping the focus on the inferior latecomers and off myself allows me the smug comfort and arrogant detachment that my ego craves. I keep my "them" them.
Until I listen to the parable again and allow it to do its work. Then I can begin to see a new way of relating emerge - a way out of the "us" versus "them" trap. In the vineyard that is the world, we forget we're not the landowner. We don't define the terms. We don't sign the checks. We go into the fields and work. Work for the landowner. We gather the harvest before us as best we can, knowing that other workers will come and work in different parts of the field.
Some of the landowner's personnel decisions are mysterious to me, for sure. It's tempting to look around in the field and wonder, in the words of my favorite cocktail napkin, "Who invited all these tacky people?" Well, these tacky people have been called into the field just as I have and they are gathering in fruit as sweet as mine.
We are being shown how to move from us against them to a common vision of what our shared labor means to the landowner. Can I, can we welcome and value the worker who's different, who doesn't work like me, talk like me, look like me - those behind us in our heavenly seating chart?
If we hear this parable deeply and allow its truth to transform our definitions of in and out, for us and against us, us and them - we can celebrate our common labor in the one field. As we do that we get a glimpse, a hint, a taste of what will be when the kingdom has come.
In heaven, around the real throne, when we know even as we are known, we'll get our daily wage. And it will be sufficient, even good. We didn't have to be hired, but we were. We may have refused to work, but we didn't. We bore the burden and the scorching heat. Some bore more and others less. But in heaven we will finally be equal. We will accept the gift of being average and ordinary. We will not sit in ranks or rows. Grace has no seating chart. When our work is done. When we put down our baskets for the last time and enter into the day where there is no dawning, no sunset, no heat, no burden - will join the one circle - unbroken, undivided, around Christ the landowner. We will all have front row seats.
Br. Randy Greve, n/OHC
Brother Randy Greve, n/OHC
BCP – Proper 20 A - Sunday 18 Septembere 2005
Jonah 3:10-4:11
Philippians 1:21-27
Matthew 20:1-16
"You have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat."
Who is your "them"?
The Book of Revelation imagines heaven's heart as the great throne of Christ the Lamb. The faithful from all the ages encircle the throne and worship for all eternity. Any feeble attempt to imagine the unimaginable is dangerous, but in my mind's eye I see rows of saints rippling out from the throne at the center.
Is there order to anyone's place in the numberless masses, I wonder? Surely, I am prone to believe, the more pure, holy, and spiritual you were in this life, the closer you'd get to having a front row seat. After all, hadn't you earned it? In my seating chart the apostles would be closest. Next are the martyrs, then the great mystics, teachers, and doctors of theology. Behind them are the monks and nuns. Then the ordinary Christians - Americans first, of course, followed by the rest of the world's Christians - what there are of them. Way in the back are Bishop Spong and Karen Armstrong - they're in, but appropriately far behind me.
What would your seating chart look like? Who is your "them"? It may be interesting to reflect on who you would seat behind you and why. Of course I also enjoy naming those who I'd rather not be there at all. A friend defines Hell as the alternate choice for those who arrive at the gates of Heaven, look in, and say to St. Peter, "Thank you, but no. We're not in communion with them."
Placing myself within the world of this morning's Gospel parable, I realize that merely being called out into the vineyard is not enough for me. I'm not content just to pick grapes. I want to pick more and better grapes than anyone else. I want the other laborers - them - to see me picking more and better grapes. And I want the landowner to pay me what I'm worth - reward me for the indispensable worker that I am. I'll bear the burden and the heat of the day if I know there's a big payoff at the end. But for the average daily wage? I'm not so sure.
Being average and ordinary is my worst fear. Who was ever content with all "C's" on their report card? In what Frederick Borsch calls "blinding insecurity" I must be better than them. I yearn to know that the lazy, the sinful, the less enlightened and sophisticated, the "other" - is worse, deserves less, and cannot, will not have as much value to the landowner as me. Keeping the focus on the inferior latecomers and off myself allows me the smug comfort and arrogant detachment that my ego craves. I keep my "them" them.
Until I listen to the parable again and allow it to do its work. Then I can begin to see a new way of relating emerge - a way out of the "us" versus "them" trap. In the vineyard that is the world, we forget we're not the landowner. We don't define the terms. We don't sign the checks. We go into the fields and work. Work for the landowner. We gather the harvest before us as best we can, knowing that other workers will come and work in different parts of the field.
Some of the landowner's personnel decisions are mysterious to me, for sure. It's tempting to look around in the field and wonder, in the words of my favorite cocktail napkin, "Who invited all these tacky people?" Well, these tacky people have been called into the field just as I have and they are gathering in fruit as sweet as mine.
We are being shown how to move from us against them to a common vision of what our shared labor means to the landowner. Can I, can we welcome and value the worker who's different, who doesn't work like me, talk like me, look like me - those behind us in our heavenly seating chart?
If we hear this parable deeply and allow its truth to transform our definitions of in and out, for us and against us, us and them - we can celebrate our common labor in the one field. As we do that we get a glimpse, a hint, a taste of what will be when the kingdom has come.
In heaven, around the real throne, when we know even as we are known, we'll get our daily wage. And it will be sufficient, even good. We didn't have to be hired, but we were. We may have refused to work, but we didn't. We bore the burden and the scorching heat. Some bore more and others less. But in heaven we will finally be equal. We will accept the gift of being average and ordinary. We will not sit in ranks or rows. Grace has no seating chart. When our work is done. When we put down our baskets for the last time and enter into the day where there is no dawning, no sunset, no heat, no burden - will join the one circle - unbroken, undivided, around Christ the landowner. We will all have front row seats.
Br. Randy Greve, n/OHC
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