The Third Sunday after Epiphany - January 26, 2020

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC
The Third Sunday after Epiphany - January 26, 2020

Isaiah 9:1-4
1 Corinthians 1:10-18
Matthew 4:12-23

Click here for an audio version of this sermon.

From the Book of Common Prayer:

O God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, the Prince of Peace: Give us grace seriously to lay to heart the great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions; take away all hatred and prejudice, and whatever else may hinder us from godly union and concord; that...we may be all of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and one mouth glorify you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Yesterday we, along with many churches, concluded the annual observance of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.

There is an interesting history in the development of this observance which has an historical connection with our own Order. Fr. Paul Wattson, founder of the Atonement Friars, served an abbreviated (and alas, unhappy) novitiate at our OHC monastery in Westminster, Maryland in 1899, and it is he who is credited with creating and promoting this octave of prayer after his conversion to Roman Catholicism.

Over the years the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity seems to have diminished in stature, but the desire of our Lord that we all be one is still very real and continues to demand our attention. What does it mean to be one in faith and in church order? one in service, in ministry, and in witness? one in charity? There are many different takes on this. And we are called again and again to remember that we are already united in that one Lord in whom we have been baptized, despite our unhappy divisions and our perhaps not-so-unhappy varying outlooks and rich diversity.

Still we look around us and we see critical tensions, divisions or breakups within churches. We in the Episcopal Church and the wider Anglican Communion are no strangers to this, having lived with internal dissension and schism for some decades. We lately read of the United Methodist Church now breaking into two independent bodies. And we read with no little fascination of contrasting visions and power struggles within the Roman Catholic Church from the top on down. Indeed there is scarcely a church body that has not experienced some such disruption. And even within apparently monolithic households of faith there are open or hidden tensions and widening gaps regarding faith, doctrine, and practice, often circling around issues of the authority and interpretation of the Bible or other sacred texts or regarding particular teachings, traditions or persons. Likely flash points currently focus on issues of gender and sexuality, but it touches everything.

Today's reading from Paul's First Letter to the Church at Corinth therefore seems both a bit ironic in the light of our observance of the Week of Prayer for Unity and also timely. For the Church in Corinth, which Paul was so instrumental in founding and nurturing, was, within perhaps ten years of its establishment, a community rent by divisions, factions, and cliques all claiming allegiance to one or another leader and at odds with each other over issues of sex, marriage, the role of women, right doctrine, food, divergent worship styles, and the role of leadership and finances and power. It was a mess. And it could, with a few tweaks, have been written today.

In some ways, the state of the Church at Corinth was not unexpected. Unlike other churches Paul founded that were homogeneous, with most converts coming from similar religious and cultural backgrounds, the Church at Corinth was big and diverse. As a recent article puts it:

“...the Corinthian Church was crisscrossed by significant differences. It was composed of people who were from an utterly pagan background, who were half-Jewish pagans (that is, converted God worshipers), and who were Jews. There were many poor converts but also a number of high-status and wealthy figures, along with their households.... These diverse Corinthian converts brought into their Christian community all the hostility, suspicion, and misunderstanding that arose from these differences in race, class and gender.” (Douglas A. Campbell, The Christian Century, January 3, 2020)

Significantly, the article from which this quote is taken is titled: “Culture Wars at Corinth.”

And it's not all that different from the church of today. Truthfully, how many churches have you ever been a part of or attended where folks of many different cultures or colors or educational levels or wealth or status have worshiped and formed Christian community together? Nor is it different in our society. We hear so much about our own culture wars, about class conflict, about a deeply divided citizenry both at home and abroad. We have become aware of the ubiquitous and enduring negative effects of sexism, racism, class-ism, poverty and privilege as well as of the pain of those whose modest dreams of economic or social progress have been lost and who see their hope fading or gone.

At the same time we mourn the death of civil discourse in our public and private arenas, not to mention in social and other public media, where non-violent speech and patient

listening and reasoned conversation are absent or dismissed. We have become sensitive—some might argue hypersensitive—to any expression of thought that differs from our own. We have come near to the point that whoever differs from us either by appearance or conviction is, by that very fact, considered an enemy, an alien, an other. We are "other-izing" each other to death, both metaphorically and actually.

What does our Christian faith have to say about these unhappy divisions not just in our churches but in our country and in our world? Much, to be sure. And it is hard to know where to start. We could, of course, look to the Gospel teachings and example of Jesus who invites us, with his first disciples, to follow him. But it might be well to look at what St. Paul has to say to that messy church at Corinth, where we began and which crystallizes in a certain place and time this difficult contemporary dynamic.

There are two things, among many, that are worth emphasizing, and here I am indebted to the article I quoted from earlier by Douglas A. Campbell.

The first has to do with love. Michael Curry, our Presiding Bishop, never tires of telling us: “If it's not about love, it's not about God.” He is right. And I think St. Paul would agree. For it is later in this same anguished letter to the Corinthians that St. Paul offers us his great hymn to love. And this, according to St. Paul, is what love looks like: it is patient; it is kind; it is not envious or boastful or proud; it is not rude; it is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. It rejoices in the truth. It trusts. It hopes. It perseveres.

If we are to live lives of Christian integrity, indeed of human integrity, whether in church or in society, we need to begin here. We need to live into and act out of this stance. This is the key to appropriate relating in all life, as impractical and utopian and counter cultural as it sounds. These Corinthian Christians, no less than we American Christians, need to learn the practice of love. And brothers and sisters, it's hard work, especially when it forces us to see ourselves and our world in a clearer light and commits us to persevere in that walk of conversion, come what may. It is a habit, a practice, one that is both life long as well as life giving.

Secondly, we must expect this of our leaders as well, whether in church or government, from the highest national levels to the most local. Paul reminds the Corinthian church and its leaders that their model and ours is none other Jesus Christ crucified. It's the message of the cross. It's the self-emptying love and humility of the crucified Messiah who stoops down to us, becomes one with us, and thereby transforms and transfigures us and our world.

Pope Francis, speaking to church leaders and pastors, put it this way: “You must be shepherds who smell like your sheep”...because they are close to them and live among them and are not afraid to get their hands dirty. So, too, should all our leaders. And so, brothers and sisters, should we.

St. Paul was not naive. He knows this is a tough pill to swallow. He concludes this section of his letter with these sobering words: “... the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us are being saved it is the power of God.”

That is us—you and me—though we may shrink back, tempted to either run in the opposite direction or dawdle in indecision. Yet we are being saved by love and through love. And this way of life is none other than the power of God at work in the world through us. It is power to live well in a changing church, in changing society, and in a changing world. It is power to live and to risk loving because in truth we are rooted and grounded and enfolded in a Love deeper and wider and greater than we can ever imagine.

I need to remind myself of this regularly, even as I remind you: it is worth the risk. It is a gospel that saves. It is good news.

You can bet your life on it. Many of you already have.

The Second Sunday after Epiphany - January 19, 2020

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Maximillian Esmus, n/OHC
The Second Sunday after Epiphany - January 19, 2020

Isaiah 49:1-7
1 Corinthians 1:1-9
John 1:29-42

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We have here an “Epiphany moment.” The glory of God is glimpsed in Christ, discipleship begins, the foundation of the Church is laid. And it all happens so quickly! The Baptizer points at Jesus and says, Behold, the Lamb of God! Two of his disciples get the message and go after him. Jesus looks at them, says, “What are you looking for?” and they reply, “Rabbi, where are you staying?” He simply says, “Come and see.”

They spend the rest of the day with him, and the gospel community is born.

The very first act of Jesus in this Gospel is to turn and look at these two disciples. I speculate that they became fully convinced this was the bona fide Anointed One at that moment when Jesus looked them in the eye. Just then, they caught a glimpse of the eternal, and they knew that the salvation of Israel was at hand, that the Lamb of God was here, taking away the sin of the world.

And Jesus, in turn, saw the image of the Divine reflected back to him in their eyes. This is one of Jesus’s greatest superpowers: his ability to look at you and see you for who you really are, and to love you for it.

When Jesus asks what they seek, the disciples don’t request from this Rabbi a word of wisdom, nor a Messianic holy war manifesto. They seek to know where he is staying. It is about being with Jesus, and Jesus being with them, mutually beholding each other.

The initiation of this community of mutual beholding is almost shockingly direct. I want to know, How is it that these two are able to see Jesus for who he really is? How is it that they are able to respond so unreservedly to Jesus’ equally unhesitating acceptance?

I think that the disciples were able to see and respond because they were well prepared for this moment by a good teacher: John the Baptist, the preacher of repentance. John, who it was said would “go before the Lord to prepare the way, to give God’s people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.”

I believe the disciples’ eyes were open to Jesus in part because they had acknowledged their human frailty and received God’s promise of forgiveness in those cleansing waters, and in so doing, had received the gift of humility. They had set aside all pretense. Humility, the honest acknowledgement of my situation as a beloved, broken, sinful, forgiven child of God, is a crucial element in my readiness to behold the Lamb of God.

What does the path of repentance – the path toward humility – look like? The Gospel does not give us any details about the paths that originally brought those two disciples to the Jordan river to be cleansed. We can imagine and speculate about that. We can think of our own stories of forgiveness and repentance.

I’d like to share one such story that comes the realm of legend and myth. It comes from one of the greatest epic myths of Western Culture, or at least, one with great influence on me from my childhood. As in all myths, the characters in this story are archetypes, whose experiences are universally relevant.

The story begins:

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a young Jedi knight named Anakin Skywalker. He was a skilled Jedi, strong in the force, and advancing well in his training. He and his wife, Padmé, a formidable politician, were expecting their first child. One day, Anakin had a nightmare, a prophetic vision that Padmé would die in childbirth.

Anakin became greatly distressed, and began acting out in anger at the unfairness of this fate. How could this happen to him? How could Anakin, so strong in the Force, be dealt such a devastating loss? In his desperation to resist Padmé’s fate, Anakin abandons the ideals of his Jedi masters and begins to seek the security of cultivating power and control.

When the time came, Padmé gave birth to twins, and named them Luke and Leia. Then, tragically, she died.

Anakin acted out in anger and frustration yet again. His fellow Jedi knights, fearing for the safety of the twins, took them away into foster care. In the darkness of Anakin’s grief, the Evil One came to him with sympathy on his face and said, “Oh, my dear Anakin. What a tragedy. If only you had been strong enough to save Padmé. If only you had loved her enough. If only you hadn’t been so angry.”

In his pain Anakin believed these words. He didn’t think he could bear the shame of what he had done, and what he had failed to do. He started to believe himself incapable of love, to believe that he was in some way defective. He had to hide. And so, he crafted a mask for himself, a dark mask and a cloak that would project strength, power, and invulnerability. He called this mask Darth Vader. For many years, Vader lived a kind of half-life, almost more machine rather than man, and allied himself with the Evil One.

Then, one day, Darth Vader’s son Luke, now grown to adulthood, returned to him, and said to him, “Father, I know there is good in you. I see the good in you. Won’t you take my hand and come back home to yourself?” And Vader felt so threatened by Luke’s compassion, more threatened by this than by any who had ever raised a sword against him, that he swore to destroy Luke.

But Luke said, “I will not fight you, Father. There is good in you.” Vader didn’t believe it, he said it was too late for him to have such hope. But then he saw Luke do a remarkable thing. Luke was so determined not to jeopardize his relationship with the one he loved, that he chose even to surrender to the most destructive forces of the Evil One, rather than draw a sword against his own flesh and blood.

Seeing this, Darth Vader – Anakin – finally understood something about love he had long forgotten. He at last was able to face the guilt over the wrong he had done, and the shame – the unearned guilt – over what had been beyond his control. In receiving Luke’s acceptance of him, he accepts himself. He casts the Evil One into the abyss, and repents. He turns around to face his son.

The first thing he says is, “Luke, help me take this mask off, so that I can see you with my own eyes.”

“Help me take this mask off, so that I can see you with my own eyes.”

The black helmet is lifted off, the twisted mask is peeled away, and behind it we see a broken man whose eyes are filled with nothing but love for his son. The deep shame of past hurts, failures, and losses has fallen away, and with it has fallen away the need to armor up, puff up with pride, and protect himself.

And we see that all along, behind the mask of Vader have been the eyes of a man desperate to love, desperate to give himself in love. Luke had said over and over, “I know there is good in you.” And Anakin’s final words to Luke are, “You were right about me. You were right.” Thus ends the story of Anakin Skywalker.

I, like you, wear a variety of masks – personas – that disclose a curated version of myself to myself and to the world. They obscure a deeper me, the “me” who I’m not so sure is lovable, or capable of love.

But God knows — God knows that your point of origin is not sin, it is love. He sees the goodness in you. He says to you, in the words of the Psalmist: “Princely state has been yours from the day of your birth; in the beauty of holiness have I begotten you, like dew from the womb of the morning."

When you undergo repentance, and let go of your mask, you see Christ afresh. And then you can Look! Behold – the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! And you find yourself adoring him, overflowing with love that spills over into every relationship, into every hurt that needs healing.

Christ notices you beholding him with these new eyes of love and says, “What are you looking for?” And you say, “You, Rabbi. I’m looking for you! I have seen you with my own eyes, and I wish to abide with you. Tell me, Where are you staying?”

And he says, “Come and see.” He guides you along the way to where he abides. He says, Come here to where two or three are gathered in my name. There I am. Come and see – in the face of this little one who comes from a distant land seeking a cup of water to drink. Give it to her, and in so doing, you give it to me. Come and see. In the fragile and majestic beauty of this world my Father made. Come here to the table and see the broken bread; there I am. Abide with me and I will surely abide in you.

Jesus knows that my attention is fickle, my resolve is weak, and the old habits of shame and self-rejection are not overcome in a day. I find myself hiding, holding back, losing sight. So again and again, I turn back to the one I love and I say, “Rabbi, teacher, open the eyes of my heart. Help me take this mask off; so that I may see you, where ever you are staying.”

The First Sunday after Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord - January 12, 2020

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
The Rev. Cari Pattison
The First Sunday after Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord - January 12, 2020

Isaiah 42:1-9
Acts 10:34-43
Matthew 3:13-17

Click here for an audio version of this sermon.

I am grateful to be with you this morning.

My name is Cari Pattison, and I have long been a guest and friend of the Holy Cross Monastery.

Over 15 years ago while I was attending seminary, one of our professors brought groups of students here, and introduced me to this Benedictine monastic way of life.

I served a parish just north of the City for 12 years, and now have the joy of staying in Iona [the guest-suite here at Holy Cross Monastery] for several months. And it is a blessing to enter the rhythm of community here in a new way.

We just began a brand-new year and a brand-new decade, and there is no shortage of advertising that tells you there’s something you need to start out right. A new diet, a new habit, a new spiritual practice that will make you the best Christian.

Maybe you made resolutions this year; I know I did. Anyone still keeping theirs?

There is something in us that wants to get a strong start when a new year or a new season begins. How we start things matters.

In our Gospel reading today, Matthew wants to make sure his readers and listeners understand how Jesus’ ministry starts.

I invite you to use your holy imagination and picture the scene, there at the Jordan River. We see the ripples of gentle waves, the reflection of light on the water. And in the distance the silhouette of a bearded man, standing waist-deep in the river, his arms gesticulating to the crowd on the shore.

A crowd has gathered: old and young, men and women, children and babies. They are watching this man in the water with expressions on their faces both quizzical and open. Curious what he has to say.

He starts in softly, telling them his own story of living in the woods, eating locusts and wild honey for food. He tells them that in those lonely hours he heard a call from God. A call to prepare the way. His voice gets louder and he gestures more emphatically-

“That God,” he says, “is calling you too. Telling you it’s not too late to turn around.” He calls this repentance. And the sign of it, he says, is to step into the water.

I picture how this might’ve played out. Perhaps an older man, unsteady on his cane, steps in. And then a pregnant woman. And then two children holding hands. Some look uncertain. Others have tears in their eyes. A few smile with longing.

And one by one, the man in the river- whose name is John – gently dunks each one under the water, saying, “I baptize you for the forgiveness of sins. Wash and be made new.”

Then someone new arrives- a man who seems to know John well. He smiles with recognition and calls out, “I’m here to get baptized.”

John starts toward shore to meet him. They exchange the mid-eastern greeting of a kiss on the cheek. “Wait a minute,” John says. “You? You’re the one I’ve been announcing. You’re the one who needs no forgiveness!” He shakes his head. “How can I baptize you?”

What does the world tell you about who you are?
What kind of starting over does it demand?

“Start over - and be successful this time.”
“Start over - and make something of yourself.”
“Start over - and be more disciplined.”
“Start over - and do more to save the world.”

There is plenty to be anxious about in the world – real problems that need addressing, real disasters that need relief. This week alone, there are temperatures here that make no sense for the month of January, smoke and fires in Australia, leaders in Iran who’ve been shot down, rumors of retaliation.

But I wonder if the greatest anxiety most of us face isn’t that of the world around us, it’s the world in us. The relationships under strain. The job that isn’t fulfilling. The weight of our own disappointments.

If you were among the crowd gathered at the Jordan, what kind of fresh start would you want?

The crowds turn to watch: John the wild man, the baptizer, the prophet, speaking in hushed tones with the man from Nazareth - the son of Joseph the carpenter and his wife Mary.

Some of them remember rumors of a magical birth – angels and foreign astrologers and mysterious stars. Who is this Jesus? And why wouldn’t John want to baptize him?

As Jesus steps into the water, John does not understand what is happening, but he can no more disobey Jesus’ request than he can stop a hungry urge for food or drive away the thirst for water.

And as John baptizes Jesus, something extraordinary happens.

Some described it later as a parting of the clouds, a beam of sunlight landing right on Jesus’ face. Some said it was a flock of birds that flew down, among them a lone dove alighting on his head. Others couldn’t find the words to speak of it, only describing the shiver they felt in their bones, the wave of warmth instead of cold that passed through them, a kind of wind that whipped at people’s robes and rippled the waters and carried a shimmering lightness that felt like love.

No one could adequately describe what they witnessed. Only one thing they agreed upon:

The Voice. Coming from God knows where, had come a voice beyond any they’d ever heard. Not quite male or female or child. A voice at once booming, and quiet.

The voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

If you seek who Jesus is in the Gospels, you find he is uniquely the Son of God.

But I believe that part of why he got baptized – into that sacrament of forgiveness and belonging and community – is that he’s inviting us to do the same. Not just to be baptized, but to hear the voice.

The voice that declares, “You are God’s son.” “You are God’s daughter.”

You are the Beloved.

With you God is well pleased.

The late author and evangelist Brennan Manning tells the story of Edward Farrell, a priest from Detroit, who visited his uncle in Ireland in honor of his 80th birthday. On his uncle’s big day, they got up before dawn and walked quietly along the shores of Lake Killarney then paused to take in the sunrise.

They stood there together basking in the beauty of the rising sun when suddenly the uncle turned and went skipping down the road; beaming and smiling from ear to ear.

Running to catch up to him, Ed said, “Uncle Seamus, you look very happy.” “I am, lad,” said his uncle. Ed asked, “Want to tell me why?” And his 80-year-old uncle replied, “The Father of Jesus is very fond of me.”

Manning continues: “If the question were put to you, ‘Do you honestly believe that God likes you?’ Not just loves you theologically because he must, but likes you?” What would you say?

“If you could answer, ‘The Father of Jesus is very fond of me,’ how relaxed would you feel? How compassionate and tender toward yourself? And those around you?

In my 12 years of being a pastor and my 4 months of hiking the Appalachian Trail, I’ve gotten to hear a great number of people’s stories. Religious people and non-religious. Wall Street bankers and wilderness wanderers.

And I can tell you that no matter how old, how rich, how smart, good-looking, or successful someone is, most people are asking some form of the questions: “Am I good enough? Am I lovable?”

How do we get in touch with this voice who calls Jesus - and us - the Beloved?

I think the simpler the better. Maybe you are regularly here with us for morning Matins prayer, to anchor your day. But whether you are or aren’t, that voice calls you to also make a little time just for God and you alone.

You might consider setting a timer for only 5 minutes, and picturing God smiling upon me, just as you are.

Sometimes I do the breath prayer “Lord Jesus Christ / Have mercy on me.”

Sometimes I do the Thich Nhat Hanh way, of saying, “Breathing in I calm my body; breathing out I smile.”

And it can help to enlist a friend in your daily practice of hearing the voice who calls you Beloved.

Lately I have been starting each day by exchanging an email with a prayer partner, listing out five gratitudes. Specific things that morning I’m truly thankful for.

It was only by rising early each day and meeting with God in prayer, that Jesus could hear the voice of the Father above all the other voices that clamored for his attention. The voices of adoration and condemnation.

Relationships can be hard. Community takes work. Families are fragile. But part of the beauty of receiving your blessing and knowing you are the Beloved, is that you start to see everyone else as Beloved, too.

It begins with the way we look at people.

The late author Toni Morrison says, “It’s interesting to watch what happens when a child walks into a room. Does your face light up?” She explains, “When my children used to walk in the room when they were little, I looked at them to see if they had buckled their trousers or if their hair was combed or if their socks were up. You think your affection and your deep love is on display because you’re caring for them. It’s not. When they see you, they see the critical face. What’s wrong now? Let your face speak what’s in your heart. When they walk in the room my face says I’m glad to see them. It’s just as small as that, you see?”

A small thing, but actually quite big. A way we can choose to look not only at children, but at each person we meet.

At the very start of Jesus’ ministry, that loving look from his Father, that blessing spoken over him, is what sustains him throughout the trying road ahead. It’s what carries him through the wilderness and temptation and criticism and persecution.
A little blessing goes a long way.

If you can start your conversations with other people, offering a word of acknowledgement, a noticing of something special about them, a genuine smile, you are inviting them to see themselves as God’s beloved.

Jesus’ entire ministry began not with anything he did, but with hearing that voice of love.

The late priest Henri Nouwen says, “Life is a chance to live as a ‘yes’ to our belovedness. Not living as though we have to prove we are worthy of being loved.”

May it be so for you, in 2020 and beyond. Amen.