Br. Lucas Hall

Saint Andrew the Apostle

Today we observe the feast day of St. Andrew, the first-called disciple, brother to St. Peter. Well, technically his feast was Sunday, but the first Sunday of Advent bumped him. Honestly, I don’t think he’d mind; if your brother is St. Peter, you probably have a pretty thick skin about not getting top billing.

You may have noticed the signs at the entrances to the chapel, in the wooden frames with the candles, one at the front entrance and one at the guesthouse. We put those signs out on the larger feast days of the year, just to give people coming into the chapel a little context about why our liturgy may look and sound a bit different than normal. Each sign has the collect of the day, as well as a piece of art from somewhere in the Christian tradition, depicting the relevant figure or scene. So, naturally, today’s sign had to have St. Andrew.

As I was looking for a good image, I ran into a problem. A lot of them just aren’t very distinct. Many images of Andrew have been made, but most of them are just depictions of an older man. Which is fine, he was an older man, but they don’t really give you much. Some have him holding a scroll, a common feature associated with the Apostles, representing the Gospel, the Word, which they spread. Again, fine, but not very distinctive. Many had him with a big wooden X; the Church tradition holds that Andrew was crucified, not on an upright cross, but on an X-shaped cross, limbs spread and nailed to each arm of the cross. If you know what the Scottish flag looks like, a white X on a blue background, that’s from St. Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland. But as a symbol, that only really works if you’re not only familiar with Andrew in the Bible, but also of the Church tradition around him. If you’re not, it’s just an X. And some images depict him in a boat with his brother Peter, being called from the shore by Jesus; I considered that, but honestly, I felt a bit bad. We hear so much about Peter; maybe for one day a year, Andrew shouldn’t have to share the spotlight. Maybe Andrew’s sainthood isn’t just a function of bringing Peter with him; maybe he’s a saint in his own right.

The image I ultimately found is, at first, not that distinct looking. It’s an old man, holding a scroll. But what struck me was what was written on the scroll. In Greek, you see the words, “Eureka men ton Messiah.”  Literally, “We have found the Messiah.” This is the way Andrew shares the news with his brother Peter in John’s gospel. But what stuck out to me was that first word, “Eureka.” You may recognize it: Eureka! It’s an exclamation that’s made its way into English. The most famous story involving the word is that the ancient scientist Archimedes exclaimed “Eureka” after sitting in a bathtub, seeing the water rise, and realizing that by measuring how much the water rose, you could exactly measure the volume of an object placed in the water. He was so excited at discovering a fundamental function of physics that, it’s said, he sprang up, naked, shouting “Eureka,” that is, “I’ve found it!” and ran through the city still naked to share his discovery.

And honestly, as someone who has read a lot of John’s Gospel, many times, that’s new to me. “We have found the Messiah,” can be said, well, just like that. A simple recitation of fact. But seeing that word, “Eureka,” adds something exclamatory. We’ve found him! I need to share this with you, my brother, my loved one, because this is new and exciting; we’ve found the one we were looking for! We found him!

Maybe I’m channeling Archimedes, encountering a fundamental mechanism of physics, seeing something deeply and beholding in awe. Or maybe I’m channeling Christ himself, who speaks at length about searching and finding, the woman and the lost coin, the shepherd and the lost lamb, the father and the prodigal son, who did not even let his son get fully to his house before rushing out to him in the street, who “had to celebrate, because . . . he was lost and has been found.”

“We have found him!” How sweet and pure, how full of awe is this joy. How new, even in the words of an older man. We are in Advent, a season of preparation and anticipation. I go to church a lot. Many of you do too! Perhaps part of our Advent observance, our watching, our keeping awake, is not to become dulled by the familiar story. Maybe, with St. Andrew, we’re called to be excited, to be surprised, to behold this promise anew, and exclaim “Eureka! We’ve found the Messiah!,” and really, really mean it.

Br. James Koester

Advent 1A

Isaiah 2:1-5

It happened in an instant. I’d just walked in the building. It was packed, mostly with children. Even before I had made my way to the front, I knew I had to do this.

That’s what I tell people when they ask how I started to keep bees. A friend had been telling me for years that I had to keep bees. She’d been on about bees since I came to know her. In fact, just a few months before that fateful day at the Topsfield Fair I’d been staying with Ann. Once again, she started on about bees. To satisfy her, I took a couple of her bee books to read. The next morning, I returned them, unread, but promised to do some reading about bees when I got home.

So, I went off to the Topsfield Fair, mostly out of obligation. What happened changed my life. I walked in obliged. I walked out committed. In that instant something inside me woke up.

It’s safe to say I woke up to a whole new way of being. Because of the bees, I began to pay attention. I came to know where they found the nectar which they turn into honey, and the pollen they eat for protein. I began to see things, as if for the first time. Soon I could identify over 130 different plants, flowers and trees that grow at Emery House. I discovered the difference between butter and eggs (which is a flower and not a breakfast!), and goldenrod. I can tell you things bloom two weeks earlier in Cambridge. I can identify the ridge near Peabody where the weather between Cambridge and West Newbury changes.

But something else woke up in me: a memory, a dream, a vision. I remembered what I wanted to be when I grew up. Ever since I can remember, and then I forgot, and then I remembered: long before I wanted to be a monk; long before I wanted to be a priest, I wanted to be a famer. I remembered it that day at the Topsfield Fair and I knew, as if my life depended on it, that I HAD to keep bees.

We are urged today by Jesus, Paul, and Isaiah as well, to wake up, to wake up to a new way of being, a new world, a new reality.

Isaiah knew that there was a different way of being in the world than the one in which he lived. Wars and rumours of wars abounded. Warmongering, corrupt kings reigned. Fraudulent priests in league with the rich and powerful, oppressed the poor and dispossessed. But Isaiah was awake to a different reality. It was not the army of the Assyrians that he saw flocking to Jerusalem, or unruly mobs storming the halls of government, but the peoples of the earth seeking the ways of justice and peace.

“In days to come the mountain the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and . . . all nations shall stream to it. Many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of . . . God . . . that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.’” (Isaiah 2:2, 3)

Isaiah was awake to a different reality, a reality in which “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” (Isaiah 2: 4).

There were those no doubt who regarded Isaiah as unplugged from reality. At the same time many longed for Isaiah’s reality to be fulfilled. Who here today does not long for the reality of Isaiah, than the one we see emanating from the White House?

Sometimes to wake up to a new reality, to a new world, to a new way of being, we need to go to the Topsfield Fair. Other times we need to risk speaking of justice and peace in times like these. Sometimes the reality of the world, and the war cry of corrupt kings dull our senses to the reality of God, but Isaiah stands before us reminding us to keep awake to the reality that the promised day of God will indeed come, even when people think we are crazy.

Noah knew that there was a different way of being in the world than the one in which he lived.[1] To find that reality, he had to build an ark. There were those no doubt who regarded Noah as unplugged from reality. However, to be faithful to God, Noah knew he had to do something crazy. In the end he trusted the reality of God’s promises and built the ark. Sometimes the reality of the world, and the raging storms of daily life dull our senses to the reality of God, but Noah stands before us reminding us to keep awake to the reality that the promised day of God will indeed come, even when people think we are crazy.

Sometimes to wake up to a new reality, to a new world, to a new way of being, we need to go to the Topsfield Fair. Other times we need to risk building an ark.

Advent is a time when we are commanded to wake up, to keep awake, to stay awake.

All around us the armies of corrupt kings are laying siege. The storms of life are raging. But the vision of Isaiah, the trust of Noah, and the life of Jesus stand before us as reminders that a different reality is possible, a different world is possible, a different way of being is possible

Some days to find that that new reality, that new world, that new reality, we need to go to the Topsfield Fair. Other days we need the vision of Isaiah, the trust of Noah, and the life of Jesus to keep us awake, to open our eyes so that we may see, and know and believe that “salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed” (Romans 13:11).

It feels this Advent that we are mired in despair. Everything looks hopeless. My hunch is, that was also the world of Isaiah, and the world of Noah. Yet both had an inner sense that another way of being was possible.

I don’t know what you see today. It may be the armies of corrupt kings laying siege all round. It may be storm clouds heavy with rain. Or it may be a wild and wonderful vision of peace. It may be plans for an ark. It may be a honeybee dancing and drawing you in to the source of a new and abundant life.[2]

The hope of Isaiah, the confidence of Noah, and the dance of the honeybee are the things calling to me this Advent. The challenge is to be awake to their message and hear, through the din of war, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer; to see through the threatening storm clouds, the colours of the rainbow; and to remember as you watch the honeybee dance, the invitation to a new and abundant life.

So, this Advent, wake up and watch the honeybee, see the rainbow, and hear the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer and know that in this world full of corrupt kings and fraudulent priests, God’s promise of peace, salvation, and renewal is nearer today than it was, even yesterday.

[1] Genesis 6-9

[2] Upon discovering a source of nectar or pollen, honeybees return to the hive and dance to communicate the direction of the nectar or pollen.

Br. Luke Ditewig

Christ the King: The Last Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 23:1-6

Woe to shepherds who destroy and scatter my people! Through Jeremiah, God is upset at corrupt kings in Israel and tells of Jesus to come as a good king, a righteous Branch, who will be wise, who will save and bring safety. Not long after this King Nebuchadnezzar conquered Jerusalem and destroyed the temple. He took most of the city captive and moved them far away to exile in Babylon.

As under Pharoah in Egypt and under Caesar of the Roman empire in the time of Jesus and the early church, the biblical story is of people under the oppression from both inside and outside. We see this in the world and experience it more now with our wannabe king as they seize power and wealth and oppress the vulnerable.

For the Colossians, the image of Caesar – understood to be the son of God – was everywhere, and imperial power kept the peace by military force including through crucifixion.[1] In his letter, Paul gives not a simple poem but rather subverting empire by saying Jesus, not Caesar, is the image of God and Lord of all.[2]

That community was saturated by images of Caeser being all-powerful. Paul proclaimed Jesus is all-powerful. Jesus is over all things, including thrones, dominions, rulers, powers, empire and scattering shepherds. Jesus is “before all . . . and in him, all things hold together.”

Paul wrote both to subvert and claim who Jesus is encourage how to act. He prays just before today’s text that the believers will “lead lives worthy of the Lord . . . bear fruit . . . and growth in knowledge” (Colossians 1:9-10). Later, Paul describes the alternative to empire, a community who acts like Christ: “as God’s chosen ones, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, forgiveness, love, and peace” (Colossians 3:13-14).

To people under oppression, amid pain, act with compassion. Amid hatred, be kind. Amid power hoarding, share with those who have little. Amid immediate gratification, be patient. Amid hurt, forgive and love. Amid threat, protect. Amid violence, peacefully resist.

Humility and meekness are similar and from the same word in Hebrew. Humility is a lowliness, not thinking too highly of oneself. Meekness is a gentle, strong patience waiting and seeking justice. It is trust with a long view like the psalmist says: “For the power of the wicked shall be broken, but the Lord upholds the righteous” (Psalm 37:8).

When Israel was in Babylon, God said to build houses and live in them, plant vineyards – which take a long time to grow – and eat their fruit, and to seek the welfare of the city there in exile. Be meek, be strongly patient and seek justice in captivity.

Scott Bessenecker wrote: “the meek . . . are naturally disposed to use power in the way it was designed by God to be used – as a guard for the weak and to preserve the common good – in contrast to those with MONOPOLYTM power, who consolidate wealth and status in a single set of hands at the expense of everyone else.”[3] The gentle, strong patience of the meek is a way of using power, often choosing restraint and downward mobility, for good.

We see this in Jesus who saves by coming down as a poor, minority, refugee baby. Jesus led with meekness including by teaching and healing the poor, entering Jerusalem on donkey instead of stallion, and washing feet. Jesus did not seize control.

Though scoffed and derided on the cross, Jesus showed sovereignty saying: “No one takes [my life] from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (John 10:18). Jesus spoke with authority to political power. “My kingdom is not from this world. . . . For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice” (John 18:36-37).

Jesus carried his own cross, hanging from it cared for his mother and beloved disciple. With compassion and forgiveness, Jesus said: “you will be with me in Paradise.” Jesus announced: “It is finished” and was buried with spices befitting a king. The Good Shepherd slaughtered for the sheep, executed by the empire, reconciles all and reigns through the cross.

Amid images that saturate us with and by oppression, Jesus is the good image, the image of the invisible God who rescues us. Jesus reigns through the cross holding our past, our present, all that breaks our hearts, and our future. In Jesus, all things hold together. All ultimately has and further yet shall be reconciled in Jesus.

We are image-bearers, embodying Jesus’ reign, seeking the welfare of our cities, protecting the poor and vulnerable, welcoming the immigrant and refugee, cultivating compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, forgiveness, love, and peace.

Jesus reigns! As we shall sing: “Let Love’s unconquerable might your scattered companies unite in service of the Lord of light.”[4]

[1] B. J. Walsh and S. C. Keesmaat, Colossians Remixed: Subverting the Empire (Downers Grove, IL, 2004), 83-84.

[2] Ibid., 84.

[3] S. A. Bessenecker, How to Inherit the Earth: Submitting Ourselves to a Servant Savior (Downers Grove, IL, 2009), 15.

[4] “Christ is the King! O friends upraise,” The Hymnal 1982, no. 614; text by George Kennedy Allen Bell (1883-1958).

Br. Lain Wilson

The Blessed Virgin Mary, God-bearer

Luke 1:39-56

In his classic introduction to the Hebrew prophets, Abraham Heschel notes a characteristic of the prophet Isaiah: “Pathos is spoken of in Isaiah more frequently in an instrumental than in a personal sense. . . . the world’s great powers are instruments of the divine will.”[1]

The greatest expression for us Christians of the divine pathos is what John’s gospel reveals: “For God so loved the world that [God] gave [the] only Son” (John 3:16). For this supreme expression of love, God chose not one of the world’s great powers to be God’s instrument, but instead a poor young woman named Mary.

Celebrating Mary today reveals something about what God is up to, and something about what we are called to.

As we prepare to celebrate tomorrow the feast of Christ the King, today we can proclaim the words of a seventh-century hymn of praise to this poor young woman chosen by God: “Rejoice, for you are the throne of the King.”[2]

The figure of Mary invites us to gaze with joy on the mystery of divine humility: that the kingship of Christ we anticipate isn’t one that perpetuates our own broken kingdoms and empires, but instead chooses and embodies and exalts the humble and low. “[God] has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly,” Mary sings in her great Magnificat (Luke 1:52). Saint Paul expresses a similar sentiment in his first letter to Corinth: “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong . . . what is low and despised . . . things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are” (1 Corinthians 1:27-28).

And as we prepare to make room in our lives and in our hearts during the season of Advent for the coming of our Savior, today we proclaim that Christ is already here, present in Word and Sacrament and gathered Body of Christ.

The figure of Mary invites us to consider how we too are instruments of the divine pathos: humble people chosen to be bearers of God ourselves, bearing God’s love into a broken world that still cries out for justice and healing.

“Rejoice, through whom creation is renewed.” The hymn is addressed to Mary, but how do you hear it when you direct it to yourself? When you, like Mary, say “yes” to your own vocation as co-laborer with God? When you, like Mary, say “yes” to being an instrument of divine love?

Amen.

[1] A. J. Heschel, The Prophets: An Introduction (New York, 1962), 1:82.

[2] Akathist Hymn, first stasis, available online at https://www.goarch.org/-/the-akathist-hymn-and-small-compline (accessed November 22, 2025). The subsequent quotation from this hymn is also from the first stasis.

Br. David Vryhof

1 Maccabees 4:36-37, 52-59

We have today two stories, both of which involve the cleansing of the Temple. Our first lesson from the book of Maccabees records the actions taken by Judas Maccabeus following the desecration of the Temple by the Seleucid king, Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Having conquered Antiochus’ army, Judas Maccabeus set about cleansing and purifying the Temple, replacing its defiled altar and furniture, and rededicating it to the worship of the God of Israel. In this case, the defilement of the sacred space was the direct result of outside forces attempting to suppress the religion of the Jews.

The second story, taken from Luke’s gospel, addresses defilement of the Temple from within, from the Jews themselves. Jesus cleanses and purifies the Temple by casting out the moneychangers and declaring plainly, “‘My house shall be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a den of robbers.”

Biblical scholar Fred Craddock notes that among New Testament writers Luke is the only one who presents a positive view of the Temple. His gospel begins with Zechariah in the Temple and ends with the disciples in the Temple. He opens his second book, The Acts of the Apostles, with Christians attending the Temple services every day, and presents Paul (who is often portrayed as a rebel) praying in the Temple and there receiving a revelation that he should preach to the Gentiles.[1]

Luke’s account of the cleansing of the Temple is shorter than the other gospel accounts and does not imply that what Jesus did signaled the end of the Temple and its services. In Luke, Jesus is purifying the Temple, not destroying or replacing it, in order that it might be a place for his own ministry and that of his followers. It is not the system itself that is attacked by Jesus, but the excesses in the system that were interfering with true worship.

Luke doesn’t name what those excesses were. Jesus’ actions against the moneychangers could have been directed at the corruption of exchanging Roman coins for sanctioned Jewish coins. Or he could have been targeting the exorbitant prices being charged for the birds and animals offered in the Temple sacrifices. In either case, pilgrims to Jerusalem were an easy mark for the greedy. Pilgrims, many of them peasants, were not in a position to dispute unfair practices. Jesus reminds his hearers that the Temple’s chief purpose is to be a house of prayer for all people.

Jesus’ criticism of an institution dedicated to the worship of God is remarkable – and that prompts us to ask, What happened to the Temple? How did these excesses creep in?

It is not hard to imagine how, over time, the Temple became corrupt. Religious institutions are corrupted, Craddock suggests, when people give their leaders “more authority than they have the character to handle.”[2] When servants become officials, when ministers become religious authorities, their self-interest tends toward preservation of the institution (and of their status) rather than responsiveness to God.

This is a challenging word for any religious institution. In the Rule of our Society, we remind ourselves that “In John’s gospel the community of disciples is portrayed as a circle of Christ’s friends. . . . In this portrait we recognize an implicit critique of the tendency for communities to harden into institutions, and for officialdom to replace the spontaneity of mutual service.”[3]

We might ask if these distortions of purpose characterize our own churches and religious communities. What are we about? What should we be about? What faults might we be covering up by our acceptance of the status quo?

Or we might ask if we have lost sight of the overarching purpose of our own lives. If we recognize how comfortable we’ve become with our own status quo, we might ask ourselves how we might contribute to our own renewal and sanctification. What in my life has become corrupted and needs to be changed or discarded? How can I recapture my highest ideals and my most sacred intentions? How can I open myself to what God is asking of me now?

The upcoming season of Advent seems an appropriate time for such self-assessment, for renewal and rededication. What would “renewal and rededication” look like in your life or in the life of your community?

[1] F. B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation Commentary (Louisville, 1990), 229.

[2] Ibid., 230.

[3] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, 11.

Br. James Koester

Luke 19:41-44

Our course reading of Luke has been interrupted this week, first by Sunday, and then by the feasts of Hugh, Hilda, and Elizabeth on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. It is no wonder then if you are scratching your heads wondering where on earth are we. We are in fact, right at the beginning of Luke’s account of Holy Week. The verses immediately before today’s gospel describe the first Palm Sunday. The verses following tell of Jesus’ daily teaching in the Temple leading up to his keeping of Passover, with the meal that became for us the Eucharist, Good Friday, the Great Sabbath and finally Easter, the day of the Resurrection. Overlaid with this is the fact that Luke is writing after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans in AD 70. It is through that lens which Luke hears the words of Jesus as he predicts the fate of Jerusalem: “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!” (Luke 19:42a).

That for me is an arresting phrase: “the things that make for peace.” It’s fair to ask ourselves, What are these things that make for peace? I’d hazard to say that Luke tells us repeatedly and specifically throughout his gospel what those things are.

These, and many others, are the very things which Luke and Jesus tell us make for peace. The problem is we fail to listen, or if we do, we fail to take them seriously. Oh, he can’t mean that, we say. Or, oh, that’s too difficult. Or, oh, he doesn’t mean that in our case. And we dismiss the very gospel of peace which we are called to proclaim “not only with our lips, but in our lives.”[1]

Advent is approaching, and we should all be trembling as we look with expectation, and not a little dread, for the One who is to come and judge us in time, and at the end of time. As we stand before the just Judge longing to hear the words, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world” (Matthew 25:34), we may first be asked, had we, even we, recognized the things which make for peace.

[1] The Book of Common Prayer, 101.

Br. Jamie Nelson

Luke 17:26-37

Spoiler alert: there’s no prediction about the date or hour of Jesus’ return in this sermon. If you looked up the gospel reading and came to the service today specifically to hear calculations based on this passage, I’m sorry to disappoint you.

However, given a well-publicized practice in some traditions of contemporary Evangelical Christianity to apply a predictive lens to this passage and others like it, to draw connections between particular Bible verses and current events as signs that can be decoded to predict that Jesus’s second coming is drawing near,[1] when we hear Jesus talking about fire and sulfur raining down from heaven and repeating phrases like “one will be taken and the other left” (Luke 17:34b, 35b), listening to today’s gospel likely brings to mind whatever images or associations you carry with you about the End Times.

But instead of wandering down that path, I want to get curious with you about a different part of this text, specifically, verse 33, which reads: “Those who try to make their life secure will lose it, but those who lose their life will keep it.”

What I hear Jesus offering in these words is acknowledgement that life is rife with uncertainty and change, that all our efforts to control the things outside our control are ultimately futile. Jesus’ description of the people in the days of Noah and the days of Lot speaks to me not of people who defiantly reject preparedness for the calamities that await them, but instead of people who bank on the false security that their way of life will remain ever unchanged.

Humans crave certainty. It’s part of the wiring of our psychology. We crave certainty because it provides a mental container that makes us feel safer, soothes our anxiety, and protects the illusion of control.

What does this look like in our daily lives? We have a hunger to know the outcome of a decision before we take the first step – for instance, if starting a new graduate program will lead to fulfillment and a better quality of life, if going on a low-key coffee date with a someone new will lead to marriage, if taking the plunge to enter this monastery as a postulant will affirm a lifelong vocation with SSJE. We desire assurance that relationships won’t fail, that jobs won’t end, and that our loved ones will be ok. Sometimes we exhaustively research something that ultimately is unpredictable so we can try to prepare for all possible outcomes to a situation or ways we might respond in a difficult conversation. But: deep down, we know that certainty is an illusion.

So, here’s your invitation today: to notice and gently sit with the discomfort of uncertainty, perhaps in tiny tastes of little consequence, perhaps in small bites of existential questions. Practice welcoming God into those moments, for you are not alone. You are witnessed by a listening and loving Creator. Pray to God for the peace and courage to help you to release the desire for answers carved in stone, and instead to follow an invitation to deeper relationship.

I certainly can’t tell you the date or hour when Jesus will return but I can offer one prediction: life will continue to remain uncertain and full of change, and our loving Redeemer is present with us in those moments.

[1] The current cultural discourse around eschatological speculation is a relatively modern focus in biblical studies and owes much to late 19th- and early 20th-century Bible interpretations by scholars such as Cyrus Scofield, who published the influential Scofield Reference Bible in 1909.

Br. Jack Crowley

Martin of Tours

Matthew 25:31-46

Tonight we celebrate the life of Saint Martin of Tours. Saint Martin lived in the fourth century and converted to Christianity as a young adult at a time when Christianity had only recently become legal in the Roman Empire. Martin went on to be a Roman soldier, then a hermit, then started the first monastery in what is now France, and finally became a bishop. His life was a series of pendulum swings between solitude and service.

There is one anecdote from his life that I’d like to focus on tonight. The story goes that in the year 371, the bishop of Tours died and the people wanted to elect Martin to take his place. The people knew Martin was too humble to accept the position, so they tricked him to come into the city by telling him there was a sick woman who needed his help. When Martin realized he was being fooled, he ran from the crowd and hid in a barn full of geese. If you’ve ever been around geese, you know that is not a good hiding spot. The geese started to honk, Martin was discovered, and soon became bishop. To this day, it is common in some countries to eat goose on Saint Martin’s day in celebration of this anecdote.

Like Martin in the goose barn, we human beings have been trying to hide from the call of God for a long time. From the very beginning, we’ve never really been good at it. One of the first things Adam did after he ate the forbidden fruit was hide. Adam covered up himself and tried to hide from the call of God among the trees. This first game of hide and go seek did not go in humanity’s favor.

To hide from the call of God is like trying to run away on a treadmill. You may think you are gaining distance, but in the eyes of God, you have not moved. The call of God has a way of catching up to us all.

So what would it look like to stop hiding? What would it look like to answer the call of God? What does it take to make us step out of our own barn full of geese and face the crowds?

One of the many things I love about the lives of saints is that they all had to answer these questions with their lives. So do we. The Christian life is not an escape from anything. The Christian life is a confrontation. We do not hide from the hard questions, the hard conversations, or the hard times we must endure.

We also do not hide from joy. That little bubble of hope that lifts up our hearts and surprises us with a smile when things seem bleak. We have a God who loves us and a Holy Spirit that guides us. It may be tempting to hide from these wonderful truths of life but the good news is they are there no matter what kind of day we are having.

Saint Martin answered the call of God, maybe not in the way he wanted to, but he answered it. Saint Martin, give us the courage to do the same.

Saint Martin, pray for us. Amen.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Willibrord

Psalm 98:1-4

In the calendar of the church we remember today a monk named Willibrord who was born in the mid-seventh century in what is now southern Scotland, northern England. In his early 30s, and with 12 companions, he sailed from the Isles to evangelize Frisia, which is modern-day Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. Frisia was a hinterland, largely untouched by Christianity, practicing fearsome tribal religions, and fraught with political contests and wars.

Willibrord and his fellow monk-missionaries countered the strife and fear with unshakable kindness and care, and with the convincing news of God’s love. They were authentically charismatic, and were welcomed and trusted. They embodied the personality of the psalm we just prayed: “Sing to the Lord a new song.” They baptized multitudes, built monasteries, local churches and schools, completely changing that part of the world, from the inside out. Willibrord would eventually become Archbishop of Utrecht, in the modern-day Netherlands, and was recognized by the church as a saint from shortly after his death in year 739.

One reason the church remembers its saints is as an intervention to despair. When times are appallingly bad, when strife is on every corner and in every page of news, when political power is compromised and corrupt, when the rich become richer and the poor, poorer – times such as now for so many people in our world and in our own land – we recollect the life and inspiration of one such as Willibrord as an example of courage, faithfulness, and hope for how then to live in the face of adversity in our own day.

In my moments of despair, when I feel so small in the face of what seems so big and so bad, when my faith feels like I’m hanging from a windowsill, I find someone such as Willibrord galvanizing. And for you, I suggest you recollect some people you know in your personal life history who to you are heralds of courage, kindness, selflessness, and faithfulness in the midst of the egregious needs of their own day. How did they do it? Claim from them a template for how then to live your life with zeal as a missionary to those within your reach. And call on these souls whom you remember for their own intercession.

Blessed Willibrord, whom we remember today.

Br. Lain Wilson

All Souls: All the Faithful Departed

Wisdom 3:1-9

A week and a half ago, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon, in Washington, DC. I anticipated the physical exhaustion, but didn’t expect the emotional exhaustion. No small part of that came at mile 12, the “wear blue mile.” Every few strides, a pair of sandwich boards featured a fallen serviceman or -woman. Every few strides, on and on: faces, names, ages – a litany of the dead.

As I ran that mile, I tried to say their names to myself, to make my running through this gauntlet, in some measure, my prayer for them. I couldn’t help but think ahead to a similar litany we’ll experience this evening, as we recite the names of our own departed.

Today is the feast of All Souls, when we remember all those whom we love but see no longer – parents and children, friends and mentors, those long departed and those recently lost. We remember them with the faith, the hope, the expectation that, though gone from our sight, they are not lost in the eyes of God. “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God” (Wisdom of Solomon 3:1).

Our first reading, from the Wisdom of Solomon, includes an evocative phrase that always catches my attention: “In the time of their visitation they will shine forth, and will run like sparks through the stubble” (3:7). The image here is common in Jewish apocalyptic, referring to the brilliance of the righteous when they will judge the nations.

If this image points to a truth of God’s future, it also reveals a reality of our own present –  a real way that those whom we love and see no longer are present to us now. The first-century-CE Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria extends this image, in a discussion of the edifying effect of virtue: “the smallest spark of virtue, when it beams up, being wakened into life by good hopes, gives light to what has previously been dim-sighted and blind, and causes what has been withered to shoot up again, and whatever is barren and unproductive it transforms and brings to abundance of prolific power.”[1]

Our departed, who will shine forth like stars in God’s future, in our present run like sparks through our lives. Their faithful example – their ways of loving us, their commitment and courage, their achievements and, yes, their failures – all these enlighten us, build us up, kindle our own spark so that our own lives and witnesses might shine in the world.

I experienced my own version of this during the race. As I hit a wall at mile 22, I found myself remembering those names and faces from earlier, replaying them in my mind, feeling myself surrounded and pushed forward by the strength of their example, those who gave all for a cause they felt to be true and right. I didn’t know any of those faces or recognize any of their names, but I still felt myself kindled by their example – kindled, empowered, propelled.

On this feast of All Souls, what empowerment do you need today, at this stage of your own earthly race? How might your own spark be kindled by the example of your own beloved departed? How might your life shine forth now?

Amen.

[1] Philo of Alexandria, On the Migration of Abraham, 123, available online at P. Kirby, “Early Jewish Writings,” https://www.earlyjewishwritings.com/text/philo/book16.html (accessed November 4, 2025).