SSJE Sermons

Br. Curtis Almquist

Psalm 146:4-9

In the calendar of the church we remember today a medieval princess named Elizabeth, born in year 1207 into immeasurable privilege as the daughter of the King of Hungary. At age 14 she happily wed a German nobleman, Ludwig. Meanwhile the poor surrounded her on every side, especially because of a famine and epidemic that had ravaged the population in 1226. Elizabeth was smitten by the endless needs. With her husband’s blessing, she built a hospital, then gave away her dowry, crown, jewels, and royal attire all for the relief of the poor and sick.

The following year her husband died and her in-laws descended, accusing Elizabeth of squandering the royal purse on the vagrants of the land. There was a palace coup and she was put out. The poverty which had been her passion to alleviate now became hers to bear. She became a Franciscan tertiary. In the succeeding years her dwelling places varied, sometimes with charitable relatives, and sometimes in a pigsty, literally. Elizabeth lived in poverty, her life a self-offering. She was deeply loved and revered. She died at age 24 on this day in 1231, and was canonized four years later. Her name, Saint Elizabeth, has been remembered through the centuries for her gifts of healing, and help, and hope, especially for the poor and the infirm.

We hear in the gospel lesson appointed for today, “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Our ultimate treasure, the end for which we have been given the gift of life, is in God. And therefore everything in life – every relationship, every distinction or responsibil­ity, every ability, every trinket or property to which we have been entrusted – are not our possessions. They are temporary means to realize our end, which is “to know God, and to love God, and to serve God.”[i]

This is ultimately the distinction between an idol and an icon. An idol is some thing to which we cling and to which we may give ultimate worth, which is called “worship.”[ii] It can be anything: our youthfulness, our good name or good looks, our title, our privilege, our chest of money. An idol is some thing we fix on, clutch at, possess, or are possessed by. Whereas an icon is like a window through which to experience something More, something larger that belongs to God. It makes a world of difference to see life as “iconic” (like an icon), that is a window through we experience the most amazing people and other gifts of creation which come from God as channels to and from God. All that we are and all that we have are not our possessions but rather are gifts from God and for God. Life is not a possession; life is an invitation, a recurring invitation. Life is like an icon, a window to and from God.

Emulating Saint Elizabeth, two practices are helpful for living life freely and faithfully:

And in thanksgiving for blessed Elizabeth of Hungary, whom we remember today.

[i] These words are the “Foundation and First Principle” of The Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius Loyola (1491-1556), the founder of the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits.

[ii] The English words “worth” and “worship” come from the same etymological root.

[iii] In our appointed Gospel (Luke 12:32-34), Jesus says: “Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven…”

[iv] Our appointed Psalm (146:4-9) names many different people of need.

Luke 16:9-15

This lectionary excerpt begins with the tail-end of a parable unique to Luke that is fairly universally acknowledged to be one of his most baffling parables, called the parable of the dishonest manager. It’s one of those passages that makes a preacher pray: “Oh, Jesus…what do you mean here?” What follows is a series of short teachings strung together that further elucidate Jesus’ teachings on our relationship with money – already, of course, an intrinsically challenging subject for many.

The point seems to be that money – of all the things human culture deems necessary – most easily becomes dishonest or unrighteous if its use is not channeled and directed by our ultimate allegiance to God, to whom all things belong. This spiritual allegiance relativizes the value of money, knocking it from its pedestal as a would-be master over us.

Jesus calls us into a perspective which offers freedom. When we have access to plenty, this is the freedom to be generous for the sake of good. When we have access to less, this is freedom from incapacitating worry.

At the same time, Jesus calls us into active engagement on both a personal and systemic level so that there are none who do not have enough. For those who have much, Luke’s gospel in particular encourages a periodic and searching question: Do I have too much?

As brothers bound by a vow of religious poverty, all the money to which we have access comes from others. None of us earn a wage within this country’s economic system; we are dependent on many who do. We are sustained because the work we do – and most days we work pretty hard – is deemed valuable by other followers of Jesus who earn a living by trading their time and talent for money. When Jesus asks: “If you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own?,” there is a double meaning I cannot avoid. Because the resources that sustain us are all gifts, they do not belong to me. And because all things belong to God, they do not belong to me. This is doubly sobering when I consider our vow, and my own degree of faithfulness or unfaithfulness in small things.

As the newly elected Superior of this community, I have more regular, immediate need to think about circles of giving and receiving in the course of each day, and more regular contact with generous individuals who sustain our life and ministry. One married couple who regularly support us embody for me the spirit of freedom to which Jesus calls us. Before I became a brother, I was a guest at their wedding about twelve years ago. After the toasts at the reception, each guest received a small card with the name of three charitable organizations. As a gift to each of us, we were invited to circle one of these charities, to which they would make a significant gift on our behalf. The whole room was palpably touched by this offering. As we were participants in a joy that was about them on their wedding day, they invited us, by their generosity, to become participants in a joy that was about others. This magnified the outward ripple of joy in relationship a hundredfold.

I call that experience to heart each time I am tempted to claim a resource as my own. Today you might also ask yourself: How free am I from the would-be mastery of wealth? And how might I use what I have to foster relationships that will endure?

Br. Luke Ditewig

Deuteronomy 6:1-9

What is most important? a scribe asked. Jesus answered consistent with the tradition: Love God and love neighbor. Jesus quotes both Deuteronomy, our first lesson, and Leviticus. Others had put these two together before. Jesus’ answer is not new. They weave together through scripture.

“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” This central, frequent prayer of Judaism is the first one taught to children. It goes with binding on the forehead and placing on the doorpost. Remember this foremost. The prayer is called shema, from the first word “hear” or “listen.”           Don’t miss the start. The call to listen is threads through scripture, as from prophets: “Listen to me, my people” (Isaiah 51). The psalmist cries, “Hear, O my people … oh, that you would listen to me” (Psalm 81). Similarly, The Rule of St. Benedict begins: “Listen.”

It is so easy and normalized to be caught up in noise around and within, preoccupied with plans and intentions, actions, and questions, caught up in the whirl of emotions, and caught stroking anxieties. God speaks through the Psalms: “Be still and know that I am God.”

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” Love the Lord your God, the one who seeks you, the one you know, who knows you, who first loves you.

Love your God with heart, soul, mind, and strength, with all you are. Like our ancestors, this command is important because we get distracted. Overfocus on a thing or person can make it like a god, an idol. While it may not be a statue, idols are problems because focused on them, we don’t hear or can’t see. When a family member or colleague or neighbor says “I can’t get your attention” or “Did you hear me?” that indicates a problem. If I don’t hear the people around me, how am I hearing God?

Listen. Let go of distractions and idols. Stay focused on God who loves you.

“You shall love neighbor as yourself” is from Leviticus 19 in a list about community and caring for the vulnerable. That list includes many specifics. Leave food in your fields for the poor and alien. Don’t defraud. Pay fair wages. Don’t be a stumbling block to the deaf and blind. Do not hate, take vengeance, or bear a grudge. Do not slander or cheat. Be honest and just. “The alien [or foreigner or immigrant] who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.”[i] The Torah, the gospels, and all scripture give many examples of how to love our neighbors.

Dale Bruner sums it up this way: “Love the God who loves you, and cherish the person who meets you.” [ii] While that is the greatest command, Bruner notes “… the greatest truth is God’s love of humans.”[iii] As in the First Letter of John: “In this is love, not the we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another.”[iv]

Jesus lived in a time of great anxiety under an oppressive Roman regime.            This passage takes place in Jerusalem. Jesus has turned over tables in the temple. Leaders want to arrest him. Jesus knows he is soon to be killed. The scribe asks and Jesus answers in that troubling context. Amid our own anxiety and division before the election, what is most important?

Listen to the One who loves you. Be still and know the Lord is God and holds all. That’s a daily invitation and even important at times of stress. What are your practices for self-care? Maintain or increase them this week. Instead of frequently refreshing your newsfeed, refresh yourself. Refresh by listening to love. Sleep well. Exercise. Eat healthy. Talk with friends and therapist and safe people. Take a walk and be with earth and sky. Gaze at beauty.

Reflect on the day or week asking: How have I received love? Hold onto these gifts of God. Give thanks. Trust for more to come. How have I given love?[v] How am I invited to love? Who is my neighbor?

In voting and all the comes this week, hold onto what is most important. Listen. “Love the God who loves you, and cherish the person who meets you.”[vi]

[i] Leviticus 19:33-34

[ii] Frederick Dale Bruner (2004) Matthew, A Commentary: Vol. 2 The Churchbook. Revised and expanded edition. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. p417

[iii] Ibid

[iv] 1 John 4:10-11; v10 quoted in Ibid

[v] This is a part of the Examen, what Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits, called a central form of prayer. These questions are from Dennis, Sheila and Matthew Linn. (1995) Sleeping With Bread: Holding What Gives You Life. Paulist Press. Their children’s book (2006) Making Heart-Bread is great for teaching kids to pray.

[vi] Bruner Ibid

All Souls: All the Faithful Departed

Wisdom 3:1-9

When I was ten years old, we gave my grandmother a calendar with family pictures. I think that’s a fairly standard Christmas gift for a grandmother. She hung it up in her closet . . . and it continued to hang there for the next twenty-seven years. On it, year by year, she noted major life events: vacations, births, marriages, deaths. Long after it ceased being useful as a way of noting the day of the week, the calendar provided a different way of marking time, through the vital rhythms of human lives and relationships. It was an icon of sorts, making present all those people who surrounded her.

On this day of All Souls, we are called especially to remember and make present all those who have surrounded us and who now rest in death. We celebrated at the feast of All Saints yesterday those champions of faith whose closeness to God makes them radiate God’s love, as surely as their icons in glass in the Chapel windows shine with the morning sunlight. Today we commemorate those whose light may be known only to us and to God. We will shortly hear many of their names; many, many—uncountably more—rest in our hearts. We will hear their names, with our ears or in our hearts, and make them present.

And why? Because we believe that in our journey to God, death is not the end. We believe that death is not the destruction of the soul, but the passing of the soul into the hands of God: “The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, and no torment will ever touch them,” we hear in the first-century Wisdom of Solomon (Wis 3:1). We believe that those whose light may be known in this life to us alone are nevertheless fully known, and held, and loved by God.

And because we believe that life follows death. As we have passed from death to life in our baptism, so too do we believe that we will be called from death to life at the end of all things. Jesus and Saint Paul both write of the rising of those who hear the Lord’s voice (Jn 5:25, 1 Thes 4:16); the book of Wisdom speaks of the “time of their visitation” when these innumerable pinpricks of light “will shine forth, and will run like sparks through the stubble” (Wis 3:7).

We believe these things to be true, and so we hold up today in prayer all those who have gone before us into God’s embrace, all those who hold us in prayer with God. They are with us still, part of our own vital rhythms, helping us to mark time in our earthly pilgrimage. We see their light, and it runs through us now, “like sparks through the stubble,” and we shine.

Amen.

Feast of Saint Simon and Saint Jude

Ephesians 2:13-22

Today, one week before Election Day, is a day that I didn’t expect I needed Simon and Jude.

We don’t know much about these apostles—we know their names, and that early tradition consistently linked them together in mission to Persia and Armenia. We know that Simon was called “the Zealot” (but not what is specifically meant by this), and that Jude has come to be venerated as the patron saint of desperate or lost causes.

We don’t know much about them, but these small, memorable associations are somehow exactly what I needed today.

I’m sure many of us have felt, or maybe are feeling even now, a sense of despair—that we are going down a road with no return, that there will be something about who we are that is irrevocably broken. Here in the US, our major party candidates promise two very different visions of tomorrow—you may despair that the other side may win, or you may despair that neither vision speaks to the challenges that you and your loved ones face. I’m sure many of us feel like we’re facing one of the most desperate of lost causes.

And that’s just politics. Each of us bears wounds that others cannot see, tugging at our attention, drawing us to doubt our hope that we can become who we were created to be. For many of us, part of this will be about how we view our neighbors, with contempt or hate. If externally we face an ever-more-divided populace, internally, we can come to feel a division in who we are now and who we are supposed to be.

So what are we supposed to do?

We can pray, of course. We’ll pray for unity this evening. We Brothers will engage in a vigil next Tuesday, on Election Night, going from 7 PM until the last polls close at 1 AM, to pray for unity, guidance, and protection.

But more than that we can take the example of Simon and be zealous. But not zealous for a political candidate, or for an issue, or for a movement. We can instead be zealous for God. Which may sound a bit strange, at first. What do I mean by being zealous for God?

Fundamentally, what I mean is taking the God revealed in Scripture seriously. Taking seriously that God is a “faithful God, without deceit, just and upright,” as Moses recites in Deuteronomy (Dt 32:4). Taking seriously that God’s faithfulness remains from one generation to another,” as the Psalmist sings (Ps 119:90). And taking seriously that Jesus “is our peace,” that he can break down dividing walls and remove hostility and proclaim peace (Eph 2:14, 15). Taking seriously that our internal and external divisions are not permanent, that we as individuals and as a people are not irrevocably broken, that this seemingly most lost, most desperate of all lost causes is not in fact lost, because we take seriously that God is powerful to heal, to mend, to save. Amen.

Mark 10:35-45

You do not know what you are asking. I can’t imagine the feeling of having Jesus Christ himself say that to me. It’s a real conversation stopper. Yet that’s exactly what Jesus said in this morning’s Gospel.

You do not know what you are asking. You have no idea what you are talking about. You do not know what is best for you. You do not understand the bigger picture.

We’ve probably all been in situations where some version of these words is said to us. It’s an awkward place to be in, when what we think we know to be true or ideal, suddenly is full of doubt. When our own side of the story starts to slip away and we feel exposed. These moments are often full of fear and shame.

You do not know what you are asking. Jesus says these words to James and John, the famous sons of thunder. Staying true to their nickname, James and John had boldly approached Jesus with an ask, they wanted to sit at the right and left hand of Jesus in his glory.

Whenever I pray with this passage, I always try to arrive at a place of sympathy for James and John. I always try to get a sense in my own self of when I’ve thought I’ve known was best for me and everyone around me. I remember all the times I’ve gone to God with my bright ideas.

Now it’s perfectly natural to go to God to ask for what we want. We all want certain things to happen and certain things not to happen. We all have our own sense of what would be best for ourselves and the world around us. It’s really hard not to express these thoughts, especially to God.

The problem is that we can easily fall into a trap of thinking that our way is absolutely the best way to do things. We become so certain that our plan is the plan. What we think should happen, well, should happen. We try our best to make it so. We work, we beg, we plead and we strategize ourselves to exhaustion.

Then when things do not go the way we want them to go, it can feel like our life is on pause or on some never-ending detour that will never match up to our original route. It’s hard to be a servant of God when we think this way. No matter what we do, we will keep thinking of what could have been instead of focusing on what God is providing right in front of us. Dare I say that God might have a better plan for us than we realize?

When I was a senior in high school, I had a good friend who had his heart set on going to a certain college. This college was his dream school. It’s all he talked about for months. He talked about the classes he was going to take, the professors who taught there, all the famous alumni, and on and on and on.

You can probably guess where this story is going – one day he got this small envelope in the mail and my friend found out he had been waitlisted by his dream school. He was stuck in the academic version of purgatory. He thought his life was over in the way only an eighteen-year-old can conceive of. He kept talking to me about God, and questioning why would God allow this to happen, and explaining to me why God should have gotten him into this school, and how he had this perfect plan of his life should have gone, and now it was over.

Well my friend never made it off the waitlist, but he did fine. He ended up going to a different school. After a month or so, he never even mentioned his former dream school. His senior year he met a woman in one of his classes, they fell madly in love and got married not long afterward.

Fast forward about fifteen years, I visited my friend and his wife at their home. By this point, they had had four kids, a house, a dog, two cars. As I watched these adorable little kids play around in the front yard, one of them had on a shirt with a college logo on it. I couldn’t help but think of the hours I had spent with this friend as he kept asking God to have his dream school accept him.

I suddenly realized that if my friend had gotten into his dream school, he never would have met his wife, and these four beautiful kids never would have been born. It was a weird spiritual moment and I didn’t say anything to my friend or his wife because I would have to say something like Hey remember all those times you asked God to get into your dream school back in high school? 

We do not always know what we are asking. We don’t always know what we are doing either. If God does in fact have a plan for all of us, that means at times our own plans for ourselves will not come true. To be a servant of God, and not go too crazy, requires us at times to sacrifice our own plans and give up ourselves to God’s plan.

We can spend the rest of our lives being bitter or waiting for what we want to happen. We have freedom to do that if we want and plenty of people do. In my experience, they lead miserable lives.

We can spend the rest of our lives telling ourselves that as soon as that one problem in our life is fixed, then we can really start living. To be a servant of God is to know that there are always going to be problems. The circumstances of our life are never going to be perfect. This is it. This is what we get. We are never going to be 100% ready for this.

To be a servant of God is to act within the possible. To be a servant of God is to communicate what you think you know to be true, but also to be ready to be wrong. To have the humility to course correct.

We go through our days doing the best we can under the eyes of God. We rack up our victories with every situation we navigate. At the end of our days, we can look back on our experiences and see God at work.

To live a life devoted to God is a meaning full life, but not an easy life. We are accountable for what we do here. So let’s make the most of it.

Br. David Vryhof

Job 23:1-9, 16-17  

Poor Job.  In the midst of a prosperous life, he suddenly meets with a series of calamities.  His fortune disappears, his sheep and camels are stolen, his children die in a tragic accident, and he finds himself banished to the edge of the city, diseased and covered with nasty sores.

But Job’s suffering goes beyond these tragic physical losses.  He also suffers emotionally because he cannot understand WHY this has happened to him.  Has God abandoned him?  Is God punishing him?

Despite all his troubles, Job refuses to curse God.  His response is remarkable: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away,” he says, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” (Job 1:21)

Three friends, learning of his misfortune, travel to see him and to offer comfort.  And at first, they do just that.  They cry out to God, they tear their clothes, they sprinkle ashes on their heads, and they sit in silence with him for seven days and seven nights.  But then their patience runs out and they feel compelled to offer their opinions about WHY Job has suffered this string of tragedies.

There’s a lesson for us here about keeping company with the sick and bereaved.  More often than not, a person who is suffering is not looking for advice, nor are they seeking an explanation for what has befallen them.  Usually, they want someone who will sit with them, who will recognize their pain and give them permission to grieve.  They need someone to bear their suffering with them, not to explain it away, or tell them what they should be thinking or feeling.

Based on the counsel they offer him, it is clear that Job’s friends share an underlying assumption: They are convinced that because God is just, Job’s suffering must be the consequence of his sin.  In biblical times, people saw prosperity and good health as signs of God’s blessing, while poverty, sickness, disability or bad fortune were signs of God’s displeasure.  This belief lingers in our own day.

His friends urge him to confess his sins, but Job rejects their assumptions, insisting that he is innocent.  But he is still left with the question, “WHY?”  In the passage we read this morning, he reaches the pinnacle of frustration.  He longs for a chance to put his case before God.  He is sure, if he could gain an audience with God, that God would hear him and acquit him.  But God seems to be absent, deaf to his cries.

God does answer Job, eventually.  We’ll hear God’s response in readings from the book of Job over the next two Sundays.  But what I want to draw our attention to here is the response of Job’s friends, which proceeds from their assumption that because God is just, Job must be the one who is at fault.  They insist this is true, even when there is plenty of evidence that Job is a righteous man.  Job is innocent, and yet he suffers.

Their insistence that Job is guilty and therefore deserving of this punishment prevents them from recognizing the truth that is before them.  They cannot let go of their belief, even when there is clear evidence to the contrary.  They are blind to the truth.

We are not unfamiliar with this type of blindness.  Science gives us the best examples.  It was obvious to everyone that the earth was the center of the universe until Copernicus introduced a new idea, that the sun was at the center and the earth was in motion around it.  His new idea made better sense of the observations of astronomers, but it took a very long time for this view to be accepted.  Our assumptions, beliefs and convictions can blind us to the truth.

Bill McKibben, a well-known scholar and environmentalist, insists that a similar blindness, one with potentially drastic consequences, exists today.[i]  The belief that humankind clings to, despite clear evidence to the contrary, McKibben says, is that more is better, that growth is always to be desired.

Increases in our nation’s economy, upticks in gross national product, reports that sales of cars or construction of new homes are up – all these are taken as good news.  Similarly, when the nation’s output of goods and services is sluggish, this is taken as bad news.  Any decline in the economy is cause for concern.  The implication is that growth is unquestionably good, that more is better.

But, in fact, there is plenty of evidence that more is not always better – not for human beings, nor for the planet on which we live or for the creatures that share it with us.  Still we push on, trying to become wealthier, trying to own and sell more or bigger or better things, while ignoring the crisis that surrounds us.  One might think that the rise in the earth’s temperature, disappearing icebergs, or the dangerous weather patterns we’ve been experiencing would cause environmental concerns to be at the top of the list in this election season, but they are barely mentioned.  The most important question seems to be, Which candidate will grow the economy?  We are blinded by our belief that more is better and that continued growth is desirable, even necessary.  Where will this conviction lead us?

We don’t know if Job’s friends ever came to see how their belief system was preventing them from acknowledging the truth of Job’s innocence.  But we can certainly take a lesson from them as we examine the pre-conceived notions, systems of belief, or profound prejudices that may be keeping us from recognizing or embracing the truth.  For this grace we pray, “Lord, open our eyes to see the truth and to act upon it.”

[i] McKibben, Bill; The Comforting Whirlwind: God, Job and the Scale of Creation; (Cambridge MA: Cowley Publications, 2005).

Commemoration of the Blessed Virgin Mary, God-bearer

Luke 11:27-28

Our reading from today’s Gospel passage had me casting my mind back to high school English.

We naturally read the woman in the crowd’s statement, “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you!” (Lk 11:27), as an example of synecdoche, a figure of speech that substitutes a part for the whole: “womb and breasts” stands in for “woman,” or, more specifically, “mother.” I’m sure you’ve heard versions of this: hungry mouths, a pair of shoulders, a willing hand.

But even if these only stand in or point to the whole, they nevertheless overemphasize a specific function relative to everything else. If the mother is only identified as the parts of her body necessary for giving birth and sustenance to a baby, then what about the rest of her? What about those infinite permutations of histories and emotions and motivations that make each of us who we are, that make each woman, each mother, who she is? We are each more than our parts, more than our biological functions.

Jesus’s response may on first hearing seem overly harsh: “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it!” (Lk 11:28). But he doesn’t deny his mother Mary blessedness; rather, he affirms that she finds blessing in her whole-self offering. “All generations will call me blessed” (Lk 1:48)—not because Mary just happened to have a womb, but because she heard the words of God through the angel, because she pondered and questioned and ultimately said yes: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Lk 1:38).

It matters that Mary bore Jesus as a baby, but it matters because of this context of obedience. Mary bore Jesus with her whole self—her whole body, mind, and spirit joined in obedience to the word of God—and in this whole-self offering, this whole-self response, is blessed.

And her response doesn’t deny or gloss over what was difficult in her life. A young, poor, unmarried mother; a temporary refugee; a woman who doubtless experienced complex emotions about her brilliant son. Her response was a lifelong yes of witness, of joy and grief, of fear and hope. A response that led her to the foot of the cross. A response, ultimately, of faith that she wasn’t alone, of faith that God was with her through it all.

We each are called to make a whole-self-offering to God. In the example of Mary, we are assured that, though it might not be an easy offering, it won’t be a lonely one. And we are assured that in bearing that offering to God, we too will be blessed.

Amen.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Galatians 1:13-24

Our first reading is from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Galatians, Galatia being in modern-day Turkey. This is where Paul was born as a Roman citizen, one generation after Jesus’ birth.[i] In Paul’s letters he describes himself as neither eloquent nor handsome,[ii] and he was not married.[iii] He earned his livelihood as a tentmaker,[iv] and he was literate in Hebrew, the language of his Jewish heritage; in Latin, the language of commerce and diplomacy; and in Greek, the language of culture and higher education. All of his life he personally suffered from something significant – we know not what – which he called “a thorn in his flesh” which never healed.[v] We know that he identified as a devout Pharisee, Pharisees being the largest and most influential religious-political party in Jesus’ own day, and they strongly opposed him. The name “Pharisee” means “separated one.” The Pharisees separated themselves from society to study and teach the law.[vi] Paul was an accomplice in the murder of a man named Stephen, a prominent follower of Jesus.[vii]

We read of a mysterious, life-changing encounter Paul had with Jesus along the road to Damascus. This surreal encounter was after Jesus’ crucifixion, and resurrection, and ascension. Paul unmistakably recognized Jesus as the Messiah, the Christ. We could call this the moment Paul’s conversion to Christ; however this was actually only the very beginning of his conversion.[viii] We know this for two reasons.

For one, in the years following, Paul makes a confession. He writes very transparently, “For I know that nothing good dwells within me… I can will what is right, but I cannot do it…”[ix] And yet Paul is full of hope and praise, what he even calls “boasting,” that he continues to be saved by Jesus, Jesus’ strength, he says, coming through his own ongoing weakness.[x] His name for this ongoing miracle in his life is “grace,” a word that Paul uses 80 different times in his epistles in the New Testament. Paul’s conversion was life-long.

We also know that following his mystical Damascus Road experience with Jesus, Paul virtually disappears. Paul immediately went off to the desert of Arabia for a period of time, and then to Syria for three years, and then for fourteen years he lives a life virtually unrecognized and unknown to members of the growing churches. So it was likely almost twenty rather hidden years before Paul returns to Jerusalem to begin his public ministry as a follower of Jesus Christ. Twenty years of his ongoing conversion… which never ended.

Saint Paul’s Christian formation was really in a crucible of suffering. He writes that he lived through afflictions, hardships, and calamities; experienced beatings, imprisonments, riots, and sleepless nights; of often being without food, and of being cold and naked; of suffering from bandits, from danger at sea and shipwrecks, and from betrayals by those whom he trusted.…[xi] At the end of his life, imprisoned and facing capital punishment because of his allegiance to Jesus, his last word is almost unbelievable. He writes, “rejoice!” In case you might misread his handwriting, he writes, “Again, I say, rejoice!”[xii] The words “joy,” and “rejoice” are words Paul uses relentlessly in his writings, and always in the context of suffering, which is such a paradox.[xiii]

Paul was a very complicated person, by his own admission. I have often wondered whether Paul would write today what he wrote 2,000 years ago? I imagine that he would have some other things to say, especially if he knew thirteen of his epistles – maybe he thought they were simply letters – would become part of the Canon of Holy Scripture, eventually carrying a similar weight to the Hebrew scriptures which had so decisively formed his own thinking, praying, and practice.[xiv] But we have no way of knowing how Saint Paul would write today.

What I believe we can cling to with absolute confidence is Saint Paul’s conviction that nothing, absolutely nothing can separate us from God’s love. “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” he asks. It may seem like a rhetorical question. It’s actually Saint Paul’s memoir:

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, ‘For [Christ’s] sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.’

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” [xv]

So be it!

[i] Acts 22:22-23:11.

[ii] 1 Corinthians 1:17; 2 Corinthians 5:12; 10:10; 11:6.

[iii] 1 Corinthians 7:1-7.

[iv] Acts 18:1-4.

[v] 2 Corinthians 12:7.

[vi] Galatians 1:13–14; Philippians 3:4-6.

[vii] Acts 7:51-60, where “a crowd dragged [Stephen] out of the city and began to stone him; and the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul.”

[viii] The story of Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus is told in Acts 9:1-19, and retold by Paul in Acts 22:6-21 and Acts 26:12-18.

[ix] Romans 7:18-20.

[x] 2 Corinthians 12:9.

[xi] 2 Corinthians 6:1-10; 11:23-30.

[xii] Philippians 4:4-7.

[xiii] The words “joy” and “rejoice” appear 49 times in Paul’s epistles.

[xiv] Most scholars believe that Paul personally wrote seven of the thirteen “Pauline epistles” (Galatians, Romans, 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians, Philemon, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians). Scholars debate whether the other six epistles were authored by Paul, or whether he was honorifically attributed as being the author by disciples who knew his mind and heart.,

[xv] Romans 8:35-39.

Br. Geoffrey Tristram

Job 1:1, 2:1-10

I was talking with a friend recently about the situation in the Middle East, and he said he felt so much darkness right now that he found it hard to know how to deal with it. I knew exactly what he meant. You may feel it too, overwhelmed by the images of violence, death and destruction. How do you pray, what words of prayer do you use, how do you focus your love amidst such images? How do you remain faithful and hopeful? For me, I have tried to focus on individual families who I have read about, and prayed for them by name. I have read about individuals who have shown extraordinary bravery, resilience and self-sacrificial love; mothers with their children who have lost everything but hope. Where do they get this hope, this strength? God bless them.

Munther Isaac is a Palestinian theologian and he’s the pastor of the Lutheran Christmas Church in Bethlehem. He gave an interview last week which greatly moved me. He said, ‘When I talk to my friends in Gaza I have no idea how they are surviving. It is really hell on earth there. What kind of strength do these people have, and where do they get it?’  The same question may be asked of those Israelis, whose loved ones are still being held as hostages. What an excruciating time of waiting and hoping. Where do they get their strength? Or of those Lebanese whose homes have been destroyed, and loved ones bombed. ‘What kind of strength do these people have and where do they get it?’

Munther Isaac goes on to say, ‘I am convinced that people undergoing harsh realities experience God in a more real way than we can imagine. We hear it from those pulled from the rubble, who still say, “We thank you God. We rest our case before God”. The faith they exhibit in God is so strong’, he says. ‘We pray for deliverance, but the Bible doesn’t promise deliverance. It promises that God will be with us.’

When I was in my teens, I began, I imagine rather pretentiously, to ask deep questions about the meaning of life, about the mystery of being human. About who I am, why am I here, and about the human condition. At that time the news, every day, would be about the endless violence and killings in Northern Ireland. I tried to understand why there is so much suffering in our world. My parents would take me to church sometimes, despite my sullen resistance. What I heard there didn’t really answer, or actually even address any of these questions. One day, I was perhaps 16, I came across some engravings that rather blew me away. They were by the poet and artist William Blake. There were twenty-two illustrations of the Book of Job. I found them quite staggering. You may know them. One in particular stood out for me, and it is called ‘Job’s despair’. And it depicts what we heard read today in our first lesson. God has allowed Satan to afflict Job with every kind of suffering in order to test him and see whether he will maintain his integrity before God, or whether in his agony and despair he will curse God.  In this engraving Job is sitting on the ground, and we see that he is covered from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head with loathsome sores. His three friends, his ‘comforters’, sit around him with their heads bowed to the ground as in wailing or deep grief. But Job himself sits upright. His face, despite his sorrow, is actually rather beautiful. In despair he lifts his arms up towards the heavens. We hear him crying those words , ‘Let the day perish wherein I was born.’  But as you stare longer at the engraving, those same arms stretch up in a kind of triumph of trust and faith in God. Just as some of those pulled from the rubble in Gaza can still say, ‘We thank you God’, so Job, in the midst of his terrible suffering can still utter those extraordinary words in the 13th chapter of the Book of Job, ‘Though he kill me, yet will I trust in him.’  I didn’t understand this at the age of 16, but I knew this was serious business.  I don’t claim to ‘understand’ it now either, but I know that here we are on holy ground. There is a deep silence pervading the engraving, and as you look longer at Job’s friends, they are bent over, their heads touching the ground not only out of grief, but out of awe. God is in this place.

Munther Isaac, the Lutheran pastor, in his interview, asks, ‘What kind of strength do these people have, and where do they get it?’ Contemplating Job, as he sits in despair but refusing to curse God, we might ask the same question. What kind of strength did Job have, and where did he get it? But we might well ask the same question of ourselves. What kind of strength do I have, and where do I get it? Think of a time in your own life, it might be now, when you were going through a great trial; a time when things were very dark. Perhaps a loss or a bereavement, perhaps an illness; perhaps even an experience of despair. How did you get through it? What strength did you draw on, and where did you get it?  Over many years of pastoral ministry, I have had the great privilege of sharing in the inner lives and struggles of many men, women and children, including in this congregation. I would say that Job is not some strange and alien figure from the past. I have known many Jobs: Many, who in the face of great suffering and trials have shown heroic patience, fortitude and perseverance, and whose faith and trust in God have frankly put my own faith to shame. I bet you know some Jobs in your own life; those whose faith and resilience have amazed you, and caused you to ask, ‘Where do they get their strength from?’ It can be very humbling.

Meditating on the William Blake image of Job, with his arms raised to heaven, draws us of course to another image, that of Christ on the Cross. Christian theologians through the centuries, from Gregory the Great onwards, have seen in Job an Old Testament prefiguring of Jesus.  Two figures who amidst terrible suffering, showed such unwavering, unflinching faith and trust in God. Nailed to the cross Jesus’ body is covered from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, not with loathsome sores, but with the terrible wounds of his passion. Just as Job raised his arms to God in despair but also in a kind of triumph of trust and faith, so Jesus extends his arms to his Father in agony, but also in a kind of triumph and victory of trust and faith. In the midst of his sorrow, Jesus’ face is strangely beautiful. At his feet are his mother and close friends, who bow down or stare up in anguish. There is this deep silence. The figures at his feet, as well as the angels, look on in despair but also in awe and wonder. This is holy ground. Throughout his trials, Job remained faithful to God; ‘Though he kill me, yet will I trust in Him;’ and God vindicated him. Throughout his passion and suffering on the cross, Jesus remained faithful to his Father: ‘Into your hands I commend my spirit.’ And God raised Jesus from the dead, and opened the gate of heaven to all who put their trust in him. That is the Good News that we proclaim, that however dark the night, the light of God will always be brighter. For us who believe in Jesus, the Cross is surely where we get our strength. It is our hope and our anchor. If you are feeling overwhelmed with the sorrows of our world, if your heart is filled with compassion for all who are suffering, in the Middle East and beyond, bring your sorrow, your love and your prayers to the foot of the cross, and allow Jesus to bear them and offer them for his work of redemption.

May God give us strength and courage and perseverance, in all our trials, may God give us hope and faith, that even in the darkest day, we may proclaim with Job those luminous words, “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the last day upon the earth, and then, in my flesh, I shall see God.”