SSJE Sermons

Br. Lain Wilson

Mark 7:31-37

In the last decade of his life, my grandfather’s progressive hearing and memory loss caused him to turn inward. He would sit silently at meals, both unable to hear what was said and unable to follow the conversation. We loved him, of course we did, but it was also easy to notice that the everyday currents of relationship could skirt him by, like a boulder in a river – in the water but not moving with it.

I imagine that this is the kind of life that the deaf man in today’s gospel reading led. Unable to hear, with limited, if any, ability to speak, he would have been cut out of so much of the life of the community. I can’t help but notice how often in scripture we hear or read words like “spoke,” “said,” “proclaimed,” “shouted,” “cried,” and “sang.” How isolated must this man have felt in a time before widespread literacy and automatic captioning?

But there’s one detail of today’s reading that really catches my attention: “they brought to him a deaf man.” They brought. We don’t know who “they” are. This formula is used throughout Mark’s gospel, and one of its early appearances is explicit. “When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven’” (Mark 2:5). Their faith, the faith of those who brought someone who couldn’t otherwise, was determinative.

As the paralytic couldn’t have come under his own power to Jesus, the deaf man could not have heard Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom, or about Jesus’ other healing miracles. But those who brought him to Jesus had, and it was their hope, their faith, and their conviction that bore this man to stand before Jesus for healing. Although the deaf man may have found himself cut out of so much of the life of the community, he still belonged, enough for these unnamed people to have faith that Jesus could heal this man.

We live in a time of unprecedented levels of connection at the macro level; and yet, so many of us feel ourselves to be alone, isolated, drawn inward. We may not suffer from hearing or memory loss, but so many of us experience the loss of another critical faculty – the feeling of belonging, to each other, to something more than ourselves. But we are called to belong to each other; indeed, God created us to belong to each other. Jesus’ healing of the deaf man – and the paralytic, and undoubtedly countless others not recorded – shows us that even when we feel most cut off, most isolated, most alone, nevertheless we do still belong. Recognizing this truth is where we may most need to come – or be brought – to Jesus for healing.

Amen.

Br. Luke Ditewig

Scholastica

Matthew 6:5-8

Young children often call out: “Look at me! See me play. See what I can do.” Adults don’t often yell it out so directly, yet we want to be seen. We receive love by being seen and known. This this core need can get distorted. A good desire to participate, help, and lead as well as to be seen can become overly focused on attention.

Eugene Peterson wrote: “Hypocrisy is slow-growing. In its early stages it is difficult to detect. And that is why no one is conscious of becoming a hypocrite. . . . Distraction from intended good ends up as hypocrisy.”[1] Distraction. Jesus says: The world is not a stage for you to show off good deeds. Beware of practicing your piety in order to be seen by others. Don’t announce your compassion. What you could receive can distract from the good you do. Doing good can distract from being.

Jesus commends praying in secret, not seen by others. We brothers pray a lot together in public. We work to do it well: to listen to each other and sing together. We also pray in secret, that is alone in solitude. This private prayer sustains and is the well-spring from which we pray much together in public as well as all our other work and ministry. Private and public, personal and communal. As monastics we are alone together, solitary in community.

Today we remember St. Scholastica, sister of St. Benedict. After he founded a monastery, she founded a convent of sisters. Gregory the Great tells the story that Scholastica and Benedict annually met for conversation and worship. Once when Benedict was about to return home, Scholastica asked him to stay. Benedict said he could not because of his community’s norm. Scholastica prayed, after which there was a sudden storm, and thus Benedict stayed with her that night for further conversation. We remember Scholastica for strong community leadership as well as holding up love and friendship amid the keeping of norms.

There is opportunity and tension for all of us, whether as religious in monasteries or convents or not, in cultivating both solitude and community, in being alone and together with God. For balance in life, serving, resting, and praying, we need times alone as well as together. In solitude and silence, we hear afresh our Divine Parent and Friend: I see you for who you truly are. You are my beloved, fully known and welcome.

Come show yourself, laugh and cry, be held and hugged, and simply be. Be yourself with the One who truly sees. From such prayer, look with love at friends and community like Blessed Scholastica whom we remember today.

[1] E. H. Peterson, Tell It Slant: A Conversation on the Language of Jesus in His Stories and Prayers (Grand Rapids, MI, 2008), 140.

Br. Lain Wilson

The Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple

Luke 2:22-40

Today we commemorate a feast of many names: the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple, the Purification of the Saint Mary the Virgin, Candlemas, and the Hypapante, or “meeting.” But set amid other scenes of angels and miraculous pregnancies and wise men and voices from heaven, the events celebrated today can easily get lost.

These events are, on one level, commonplace. Joseph, Mary, and Jesus would’ve been just one family of many who made the same journey to fulfill the same religious obligations, even that same day. They could’ve been just one among many who could only afford a pair of turtledoves for sacrifice. This story could be the story of any number of young boys in first-century Israel-Palestine.

But of course, this isn’t the story of any number of young boys, but of one particular boy. It’s his story because of what happens when he arrives at the temple. This particular infant boy, who has been announced by angels and hailed by wise men, this particular infant, on this particular day, is not met by heavenly choirs or exotic gifts, but by aged human hands.

I try to imagine what life must have been like for Simeon and Anna. Simeon was told that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. How long must he have waited? I imagine that in his long wait his own imagination ran free: who was this Messiah? What did he look like? How would he appear to him? What must Simeon, living under political occupation, have dreamed of when he though of the Messiah? Was he surprised that the Messiah came to him as an infant, surrounded by others just like him, in this commonplace scene?

I’m not immune to fantastic imaginings, of expectations of how Jesus will come to me, of all the ills that he will cure. I imagine the same may be true of you. What hopes and expectations do you carry with you today that lead you to look past the Jesus who comes?

And Anna. “She never left the temple,” we are told, “but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day” (Luke 2:37). Day after day. Even the most devout will experience times of dryness and fatigue, as we Brothers say in our Rule. Many, if not most, days were filled with grace, but how many, over so many years, were instead gray days of drudgery and routine? How might this have cultivated a hardened resistance to encounter?

I’m not immune to those gray days of drudgery and routine and dryness and fatigue. I imagine the same may be true of you. Where does this lead to your own hardened resistance to encounter with the Jesus who comes?

This day of meeting, of encounter amid the commonplace, can so easily get lost among so many more “miraculous” days. The faithful testimony of Simeon and Anna, though, reminds us of one truth: Jesus comes to meet us, whether we’re ready or not. Jesus, the Light of the World, comes when we may least expect him. Jesus comes, banishing the fantasies of our own imaginings and expectations and softening our callused resistance.

Jesus comes to meet us, even here, even now. May we, like blessed Simeon and Anna, meet him with clear eyes, open hands, and ready hearts.

Amen.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Galatians 5:22-26

A college roommate and I share a monthly conversation. He recently asked me whether I remembered a place on our college campus that was particularly significant. His question evoked lots of memories; however, the most significant place for me was actually not on campus. It was off campus in a nearby park to where I frequently rode my bicycle. In the park was a particular tree I always climbed. I would sit in stillness and silence on a large, outstretched limb and look down on life. I was trying to get a perspective on life and to figure out where I belonged. Though there was every outward sign that I was thriving, on the inside I was lost.

Following my college graduation, I had had an adventurous and fulfilling life, mostly; however, what I had sought as a college student was still my presenting need: a place to belong. The psalmist says, “My boundaries enclose a pleasant land” (Psalm 16:6). And that is what I discovered here, within the enclosure of our monastic community: a very challenging, fulfilling container in which to abide as I “worked out my salvation” (Saint Paul’s words, Philippians 2:12). A place to thrive.

My quest to belong had been informed and complicated by several things. For one, my family of origin. As I had grown up, my life had teemed with love and provision, which I experienced in so many wonderful ways; however, truth be told, I did not feel that my family really understood me, try as they did. How could they? I did not understand myself.

Secondly, I have a lot of energy, interests, and abilities, too much for one lifetime, so it felt some days. Blessings can also be burdens, don’t we know? The words that were spoken by the visiting angel to the Blessed Virgin Mary seemed both poignant and personal to me. Mary is told what she is to bear in life. Her immediate response was incredulity: “How can this be?” Mary’s response articulated for me the unanswered questions about the meaning of my own life: “How can this be?”[1] Mary had her reasons, and I had mine.

Thirdly, I am gay. I knew this as a very young child, long before I had either the language or the understanding for what this would mean. In any rate, there was no one to tell. And though I say “gay,” that word did not exist in the vocabulary of my childhood, adolescence, or early adulthood. But I did know this is trouble. I was growing up in a very conservative, heterosexual culture where most every adult, man and woman, was married. Which would not fit me. That was my secret.

But the greater crisis was actually spiritual. In my adolescence, I had fallen in love with God, was smitten with God, whom I knew loved me. Sort of. Yet the message I heard again and again in the church was that “thems” like me were abominations, were degenerates, were eternally damned. I remember, almost 40 years ago, repeating the very words that Job (in the Hebrew scriptures) said about his own insufferable experience of God. Job cried out, “Though [God] slay me, still will I trust [God]” (Job 13:15). I prayed those same words. “Though [God] slay me, still will I trust [God].” That was true also for me, in such a mysterious way. I loved God whom I was not sure loved me.

You might wonder whether I became a monk because I am gay? No. It’s exactly the opposite. I believe God had intention for me to become a monk. The only way I would have discovered and freely chosen monastic life, found this to be the fit for my life, was by my being created not to fully belong to the culture of my origin. There are no monks in my family lineage. I can trace back many generations. There are no monks; I am the first. My sense is that I did not choose monastic life; I was chosen for this life.

Paradoxically, it’s all about love. In the religious life we are enabled to become lovers. I’m quoting a great English religious sister from this past century, Sister Mary Edna.[2] She wrote how the boundaries and practices of the religious life “canalize” love. That is, this life creates a canal for love, the intensity of which would be a danger to ourselves and others if it were not consecrated, if it were not “canalized.” I have found monastic life such a good fit to love living and to live loving. I have experienced the truth in Jesus’ parable about “the pearl of great price.” Jesus said, “the merchant, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.” Life here in the monastery has been the pearl for me.

So now I am one of the “elder brothers.” I would have never guessed I would live this long. For many decades my personal mantra has been: “Curtis, this is your life, these are the terms, what is the invitation?” Several things. I have been doing what the poet David Whyte calls “corporate downsizing”: downsizing the corpus my life.[3] All of us Brothers have a “cell,” a small, personal space in which to rest, pray, read, and enjoy life in solitude. A cell, in which to be alone with God. For several years I have been intentionally downsizing, parting with one thing after another so that I am living lighter. You might ask, “lighter,” in terms of less stuff surrounding me, or “lighter” in terms of inner light, what Saint Paul calls “the eyes of our heart being enlightened.”[4] My answer is yes.

Another invitation is the grace to hear and follow Jesus in a very fresh way. Jesus said we all are “to change and become again as children to enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:2-3). Becoming childlike has always seemed beyond my reach, given how strong-willed and stubborn I am. Yet now, in my aging, the gift of “childlikeness” is being handed to me as a gift. We acknowledge in our Rule of Life how some gifts of the soul may come to maturity in old age. Quite. We also acknowledge “the needs and struggles that accompany [old age].[5] Quite. I am now experiencing life, both as an old soul and as an increasingly dependent child of God. I am actually finding this last chapter of my life quite an intriguing adventure. Daily I experience such deep gratitude and freedom within my soul for being able to live life abundantly: past, present, and future.

Our Psalm we prayed today, Psalm 19, includes the phrase: “One day tells its tale to another, and one night imparts knowledge to another” (v. 2). How very true. Each day and each night have informed the next. My 38 years in the monastery have been wonderful, absolutely transformative. Using Saint Paul’s language, my experience has been “far beyond all that I could ask or imagine.”[6] It’s been spectacularly good . . . except when it has not been. Those difficult moments have also been an invitation, the grist for my ongoing conversion to Christ, and the honing my membership in our life together and the life to come.

[1] Luke 1:26-34.

[2] Sister Mary Edna was a member of the English “Deaconess Community of St. Andrew.” She graduated from Cambridge University where she studied English and Law, then graduated from King’s College, London, where she studied Theology. She is quoted here from her book, The Religious Life (Penguin, 1968), 19.

[3] David Whyte in Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words (Many Rivers Press, 2014), 30.

[4] Ephesians 3:14-19.

[5] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, “The Gifts and Challenges of Old Age.”

[6] Saint Paul writes: “Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen” (Ephesians 3:20-21).

Br. James Koester

Vincent of Saragossa

Some of us will remember that when Tom was the Superior, he would often pray at the midday Office that the gift of martyrdom be given to the community. These prayers became so frequent that some of us were more than willing to assist him in making these prayers come true, by offering him as the first martyr. The reality, however, is that the gift of martyrdom has been given to the Society, and Tom’s prayers have been answered, but not in ways that are perhaps obvious at first.

For many, perhaps most, perhaps you, and certainly these days for the press, martyrdom is about violence, and ultimately about death. Martyrs are people who die violently for a cause. However, in a larger sense, martyrdom is not simply about dying violently. It is about surrendering our lives, by living with integrity and without fear. We say in our Rule that:

“The grace to surrender our lives to God through our vows has been given to us in Baptism whereby we die with Christ and are raised with him. It is the same grace that gives strength to martyrs to submit gladly to death as witnesses of the resurrection. From the beginning monks and nuns have been encouraged to understand their own commitment in the light of the freedom and trust that enables martyrs to give up their lives to the glory of God. The witness of the martyrs should never be far from our minds as we go forward in the vowed life day by day.”[1]

In many ways, all of us who have been baptised into the death and resurrection of Jesus, as well as those of us who live under monastic vows, have become martyrs, or rather witnesses, to the power of the resurrection, for the word martyr simply means witness. Some of us are witnesses to Christ through our “strength and courage to love and serve [him] with gladness and singleness of heart.”[2] Others are witnesses to the power of life over death given to us in the resurrection of Jesus by offering our very life, demonstrating that we do not fear death in the face of persecution. In either case our witness to the power of God to give life to all who love Jesus is our martyrdom, and it comes through living boldly, or dying bravely, or both.

This week the church remembers some of her earliest martyrs: the Apostle Peter,[3] Fabian,[4] Agnes and Cecelia,[5] and today, Vincent.[6] Each of them were willing to live boldly, and die bravely, as witnesses of the resurrection.

May God grant to us all the grace to do the same, and may God continue to grant our Society the gift of martyrdom, as we witness to the mystery of Christ’s resurrection in our lives, by living boldly, and perhaps dying bravely.

[1] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, “Life Profession,” 79.

[2] The Book of Common Prayer, 365.

[3] Confession of St. Peter the Apostle, 18 January

[4] Fabian, Bishop and Martyr, 250, 20 January

[5] Agnes and Cecelia of Rome, Martyrs, 304 and c. 230, 21 January (in some places the feast of St. Cecelia is kept on 22 November)

[6] Vincent of Saragossa, Deacon and Martyr, 304, 22 January

Br. Jack Crowley

The Second Sunday after the Epiphany

John 1:29-42

One question we Brothers get asked often is “why did you become a monk?”. We often get asked this question at Sunday talking meals just after we have taken a big bite full of food. I usually mumble my way through an answer with my hand covering my mouth talking about God and community.

The truth is I’ve been asked why I became a monk by guests, family members, Doctors, HVAC technicians, police officers, flight attendants, and a whole host of other professions and vocations. Of course I’ve asked myself the same question many times. I would say my personal favorite time being asked this question was when I was standing outside on the front step and a man walking his dog stopped, looked at me and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but what made you want to do this?” The look in his eye was equal parts serious and curious, as if my answer would greatly impact what kind of evening he was having.

Deep down, whenever someone asks me why I became a monk, I just want to say, “come and see”. I want to open up my little world of monasticism to them and show them my experiences of God. I know that sounds incredibly corny, but it is true. I know that my words will never capture the lived experience of finding God, so all I can say is “come and see.”

We heard Jesus use this phrase “come and see” in our Gospel this morning. In all honesty, it’s one of my favorite quotes from Jesus. He says come and see to the two disciples of John the Baptist who ask Jesus where he is staying. Where are you staying is actually the very first question asked of Jesus in John’s Gospel, so “come and see” is Jesus’ first answer to humanity. One of the many reasons I love this answer is it’s only three words long, but it is simultaneously an answer, an invitation, and kind of a command. Come and see.

Above all else, the thing that I love most about Jesus’ answer “come and see” is that it doesn’t really answer the question of where he is staying, at least not literally. Jesus doesn’t answer the question, but he does something even better, Jesus invites the questioner to experience the truth for themselves in their own personal way.

It is as if you were to ask someone what they were cooking, and instead of telling you the recipe or the name of the dish, they just offered you a taste. Jesus knows there’s no substitute for lived experience. There is no substitute for God. Come and see.

So too must we continually come and see. We must pursue God relentlessly and allow ourselves to be loved by God relentlessly. Both are equally important – the active passion to pursue God and ask where are you staying God, where are you in all this? As well as having the courageous vulnerability to accept God’s invitation to come and see.

Personally, there are some days that I don’t want to come and see. There are some days that I don’t want an invitation, I just want a summary. I’d like a quick run down of the truth with clear cut answers about what’s right, what’s wrong, and what I should be doing differently. Instead, in my experience, when I pray and meditate, I go on a journey with God to the truth. I find that the cravings I had for clear cut answers often dissolve under the loving eyes of God. I find that the pointed questions I pose before God are rarely answered, but I get something even better, a loving invitation to live into the truth, as foggy as it may appear to be. Over all the static of the world and in my head, I hear a clear-cut refrain, come and see.

A good portion of our lives is spent stumbling around trying to make sense of what our souls are saying and what’s going on around us. We can do our best to make it look like we have it all together and have all the answers in our head. Yet we all know deep down there will be times when we have little certainty to go on and so many things to trip over.

At certain points in our lives, no matter how saturated with love we are from those closest to us, we will find ourselves utterly alone with God. This can be horrifying, when everything we thought we knew amounts to so little in the presence of God. We will say God where are you staying, just let me a get a foothold here, and God will respond come and see, don’t stop. This is a glorious opportunity to sacrifice whatever it was we were holding onto and grab on to God with both hands, saying yes, I will come and see.

Jesus built his disciples experience by experience. He knew the life he was inviting them into would not be easy. He was inviting them into a life full of controversy, risk, and sacrifice, but also the truth. Jesus invited his disciples into a life full of truth. We have been given this same invitation. All we must do is leave what we know behind and go forward in this pursuit of truth.

The life of discipleship is not for the faint of heart. We must be willing to walk with God no matter how unpredictable the journey appears to be. We all have no idea what’s going to happen to us. Sure, we can have our predictions and plans, but we all know life can change so quickly in so many ways. We have to hold to God for dear life.

Finally, as we begin this Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, I’m aware that nothing feels united right now. I don’t know of anyone who is thriving right now or thrilled at the state of the world right now. However, my prayer this week is we can all nudge our hearts a little closer to the fire. Even if it is just a centimeter, a little movement is contagious. In my experience, momentum is one of the most powerful forces in the world. Moment to moment, we are being called to come and see. As long as we keep nudging towards the light of the world, things will get brighter.

Br. David Vryhof

James 1:2-6

Many people, perhaps most people, imagine that monastics live quiet, fairly uneventful lives. They might assume that we don’t have to deal with the daily upheavals that life in a marriage or in a family with children can bring, or with the challenges of working to earn a living. They might imagine that we have hours of leisure to pray and to read and to contemplate the mysteries of life. Life goes along pretty smoothly in a monastery, they think, and it must be nice to live in a community of like-minded individuals who are committed to loving God and to loving and supporting one another. “How I wish I had your life,” they sometimes say.

But there can be plenty of upheaval in a monastic’s life. There can be times when the community is not in agreement and one has to accept a decision that he did not favor. There may be things a brother wants to do but is not given permission to do, or things he’d rather not do that he is asked to do. There are times when the community faces particular challenges around its buildings, its finances, its ministries, or its members. There can be sticky pastoral situations. Perhaps the most painful times are those when a brother leaves the community, for whatever reason. We may have grown to love that brother and now feel the pain of his absence in much the same way as when couples separate or divorce.

Believe me, I’ve experienced countless “ups and downs” in my forty years of monastic life. Life in a religious community brings any number of challenges.

How do we navigate the “changes and chances” of life? One way is through maintaining equanimity.

Equanimity is a state of calmness, mental composure, and stability, even in the midst of stress, adversity, or strong emotions. Maintaining mental composure allows us to make clear-minded responses to the changing circumstances of life, rather than merely reacting to our thoughts and emotions in the moment. Equanimity is cultivated control and, like mindfulness and meditation, it involves accepting situations as they are, focusing on what we can control, and maintaining our inner balance. It’s a skill that builds emotional resilience, not by suppressing feelings but by observing them objectively with a steady mind. Equanimity is a skill taught by other religions, such as Buddhism, and practiced by non-religious people as well.

In its monastic context (and especially in Eastern Orthodox monasticism), equanimity is often linked to concepts like apatheia (i.e., liberation from unruly passions such as anger, lust, jealousy, and fear) and hesychia (the inner stillness and quietude that results from apatheia).

How do we come to a state of equanimity? How do we develop an inner stillness, an unshakable calmness, in the midst of the upheavals and turmoil of daily life?

I can only share some of the things that have helped me.

The first and most obvious help is prayer. In prayer, we slow down so that we can observe our thoughts and feelings in the light of God’s Word and God’s presence. In prayer, we assume a posture of listening and discern which of the choices before us is best. In prayer, we come to know God more intimately and are transformed into God’s likeness. We need times of solitude and silence to pray like this, but we can also “center” ourselves during the day, especially if we’re feeling tossed about by life, by taking a moment to slow down and breathe and remember that God is.

A second help is detachment. Much of the world clamors after wealth, power, popularity and success. Through non-attachment, we can find freedom from being defined or controlled by what is temporary and worldly. When we are detached from the pursuit of wealth or popularity or success, we can view our circumstances as passing phenomena. We are no longer controlled by our needs or desires and can be more objective.

A third help is spiritual struggle. Monks actively fight against evil thoughts and attachments. They recognize that true equanimity is not passive but an active, disciplined state achieved through effort. This is where ascetic practices such as fasting or vigils can be helpful in disciplining our unruly wills. There is struggle involved in achieving equanimity.

A fourth help for me has been in reciting mantras throughout the day. A simple mantra such as “For God alone my soul in silence waits; from him comes my salvation” (Psalm 42:1) or simply “For God Alone” can help keep us centered on God as we go about our daily routines.

In Johannine spirituality, we call this “abiding.” To abide in Christ includes and goes beyond equanimity in that abiding calls us to believe in God, to trust God’s words, and to unite ourselves with God’s vision and God’s purposes in the world. John tells us that we are joined to Christ as a vine is joined to the branch (John 15:1-11). When we live in union with Christ, his life flows through us, bringing love, joy and peace, patience and humility. We trust in God’s ability to keep us day by day, and we let go of anxiety and worry, anger and resentment, jealousy and rage – so that we may live in peace, no matter what is happening to us or around us. All these help us live in equanimity.

Monastic equanimity differs from secular equanimity in that it is rooted in a personal relationship with God. Its goal is not just to master oneself, but to become more and more like God. It is about finding stability and peace in God, not just in oneself.

Abiding in Christ helps us to maintain equanimity, to be steady even in the midst of turmoil, so that we may live without fear or worry, and dwell in the freedom and peace God intends for us. That is our aspiration as monks.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Hilary of Poitiers

Luke 15:1-7

In the calendar of the church we remember today a fourth-century bishop named Hilary of Poitiers, what is now central France. Hilary was pilloried. That is, Bishop Hilary was rejected and betrayed by a good many people, including those closest to him. Bishop Hilary was convinced that Jesus’ love was to encompass everyone, including those who so meanly rejected Hilary.

In the church calendar, this is the season of Epiphany. The Greek word “epiphany” means manifestation, which is a clear revelation. The church’s observance of the season of Epiphany is inspired by the wise men from the east who visited the Christ Child.[1] They were foreigners, most likely not Jewish, and yet they were received, honored, and remembered. From the very start, Jesus consistently bequeathed dignity and showed the warmest welcome to the widest cast of people: not just to kindred spirits; not just to those with gold, frankincense, and myrrh; but also to those among the least, and the last, and the lost. Jesus was at home with everyone.

Momentarily we will be invited to pray what we call the Lord’s Prayer.[2] It is the prayer Jesus shared in response to his disciple’s question, “How shall we pray?” Jesus’ prayer is addressed in first person plural, not first person singular. Jesus did not say, “My Father in heaven.” Nor did Jesus pray, “Give me today my daily bread.” The prayer is addressed in the plural to “our Father” and is about “our daily bread.”

Jesus’ prayer signals that our relationship with God is very personal, but it is not private. Not that our own needs are insignificant, nor that they go unnoticed by God. Jesus’ point is that we pray for ourselves in the same way that we are pray for others. And the “others” are everyone. We pray for people whom we love. We counterbalance our lovely prayer list with our nasty list: to pray for those whom we may find abhorrent and do not love. We pray for those whom we tenderly carry in our hearts, and we pray for those for whom our hearts are hardened; those with whom we most disagree and want to forget, or condemn, or punish, and those whom we regard with disdain. We pray for them like we pray for ourselves, for the intervention of God’s love. In the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”[3]

This is how Bishop Hilary understood Jesus, and how Hilary prayed and practiced his life. And he paid a considerable personal cost to his discipleship, which was stellar. May Hilary be a beacon for our inspiration and courage.

Blessed Hilary whom we remember today.

[1] Matthew 2:1-12.

[2] Matthew 6:5-15; Luke 11:1-13.

[3] Quoted from MLK, Jr.’s 1957 Christmas Day sermon, “Loving Your Enemies.”

Br. Jonathan Maury

1 John 3:1-3

“O God, you caused your blessed evangelist Saint John so eminently to receive the love of your dear Son Jesus Christ: Grant to us your servants that that we may evermore abide in that love, and accomplish your holy will. Watch over the Society of Saint John the Evangelist for good. Give your elect angels charge concerning us, and make your Holy Spirit to rule our hearts, that our lives may be holy, our prayers acceptable, our wants supplied, our words directed, and our work prospered, to the glory of your Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The prayer just offered comes from the earliest days of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist. It is presently used to conclude the Chapter Office in which we hear and reflect on our Rule of Life, chapter by chapter, day by day. It is, I think, a fitting way to begin a sermon series in which our community’s elders meditate upon their developing response to the grace and gift of commitment through profession in life vows.

Listen for a moment to the introduction of Chapter 39 from our SSJE Rule of Life (1997):

“Jesus’ offering of his life on the cross was the supreme expression of his love for the Father, made in perfect freedom through the Spirit. . . . This free self-offering is expressed anew in our lives when, abiding in Christ, we find in him the power to surrender ourselves entirely to God, by taking the vows of poverty, celibacy and obedience for life. When a brother vows to abide in our community until death, the whole brotherhood rejoices in the gift of freedom that enables him to make this commitment after years of testing.”

My path of commitment to life profession in religious vows began, I believe, with God’s call to existence and being, which I share with my Brothers, each of you present and all of God’s children. We were chosen by God in Christ before we were even capable of owning and choosing the gift of being for ourselves. The religious life vows of poverty, celibacy, and obedience were preceded by God’s commitment to me in Holy Baptism. Through the outward and visible sign of burial in water and the inward and spiritual enlivening of God’s creative Spirit, we have all been sacramentally incorporated into the death and resurrection of Jesus by the loving purpose of the Father. Our commitment to God’s call and our desire to respond to that gift are themselves signs of God’s commitment to us as beloved children. My present commitment was born out of my parent’s response to God’s love in faith and trust by bringing me to the font of regeneration.

Commitment to religious vows in Christ, I am certain, arises from my need of God’s love at every moment to sustain me in being. The vows provide the framework for my own life through the common baptismal commitment we all share. The vows are the means by which God is shaping me in the unique image and likeness of his love which God has created me to be. Lived openly in the face of the Church and the world, both in my faithfulness and in my failings, the vows become the creative means by which God is revealing the image of Christ in me. “When He is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is,” as Saint John’s first letter promises (3:2).

In our Rule of Life we hear that “Father Benson has taught us that the call of God in the religious life is continuous, abiding and progressive. As profession brings to an end the period of probation, so it inaugurates a lifetime of developing response.” In light of this teaching, we elders of the community have been asked to testify to the wisdom of our experience and to our ongoing response to the grace and gift of vowed life.

My personal experience has been of ongoing, unconditional welcome and acceptance, just as I was when I joined the community and even as I am now. God’s commitment to me and to our everchanging community of men, I believe, has always been there drawing me to Jesus. Even I, one given to rebellion and self-assertion, one presuming to know already exactly how I was best suited to serve and love God, was welcomed and accepted into the particular fellowship necessary for my transformation. One wounded by addiction and romantic dreams, even this man, was challenged to accept being born again, “born from above,” to surrender my life to Christ in a community of mutual commitment composed of holy and fallible men. Joined to a company of those desiring to “see the kingdom of God,” years of formation in vows, are even now bringing me to submit to a “greater, higher power” than my helpless self. I continue to experience the vows of poverty, celibacy, and obedience challenging me to accept the molding and shaping of God’s fierce and unfailing love – despite my many resistances.

In this hope, my developing response has and continues to be a growing desire to live “a life hid with Christ in God,” as apostle Paul teaches, to be “separated from the world in order to be joined to the world” as a monastic. My at times flagging desire is to respond to God in a life of joy. My desire is for a life of faithful response in the following ways:

All of this only possible with God as my helper.

How shall I, how shall each of us baptized into the death and resurrection of Christ, be made ready to respond today and every day to God’s call? We will surely come to know, as we need to know, though our commitment to one another and to God’s future forever losing ourselves in the wonder, love, and praise of Christ Jesus. Amen.

Br. Jamie Nelson

1 John 4:7-12

Sometimes the metaphorical language used in scripture is so densely layered that it’s hard to see what exactly the writer is talking about. We come across images and symbols that feel distant from our lives, and we must hold them patiently, asking what they might be pointing towards.

That’s not the case for today’s reading from the first letter of John. Here there are no riddles to puzzle through. The same word keeps repeating again and again: love. In six short verses, the word comes up 15 times.

So what does it tell us about love?

Let’s start with God. In telling us about love, we learn something foundational about who God is. Not just what God does, but who God is at the deepest level. “God is love,” we read. Love describes God’s very nature.

And God acts in love. That divine love is directed toward us in Word and in deed. The deed was this: that God chose to send God’s son Jesus into the world at Christmas to live among us, taking on the form of love in a body. Jesus revealed embodied love every time he healed lepers, ate with tax collectors and sex workers,  shared conversation with Samaritans, and proclaimed reconciliation and grace for all. Again and again, he proclaimed that the Kingdom of Heaven has a place for each of us no matter our stories. In Jesus’s choice to die for us on the cross, we see just how far God is willing to go in love for us.

The love we feel for another does not begin with us. It originates in the love we receive from God. God’s love was first, from the beginning of time. It flows into something deep at the heart of our createdness. From there, it flows through us out towards those we love. We love, because God first loved us.

The Greek language that this letter was originally written in has many words for love. The particular Greek word for love used here for all 15 instances is agape (ἀγάπη). Agape love is a particular quality of love. It is a choice to seek another being’s flourishing. It is love that acts for the good of another, even when it is costly or invisible.

No one has ever seen God, the letter writer tells us. But we can witness love’s movements. Think of hearing leaves rustling in the wind, or seeing gravity pull an apple from a tree to the earth. We cannot directly observe the forces of wind and gravity, but we can notice their effects. God is made visible in the world through love, through ordinary, imperfect people’s choices to say yes to love.

So how can we respond to this knowing?

Here are a few possibilities to carry with you this week:

Above all, remember, “let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God” (1 John 4:12).

Amen.