SSJE Sermons

Br. Lain Wilson

The Transfiguration of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Luke 9:28-36

One of the things I love most about this Chapel is the play of light and color. It changes seasonally, daily, hourly. The deep orange that appears in the afternoon, the jewel tones of the Lady Chapel, and, most importantly for me, the revealing of the faces in our clerestory windows as the sun rises. Dark texture ever so gradually gives way to brilliant color and light, and I can see the faces of our monastic forbears. These faces, these colors, are always there, but it was only this illumination that allows me to see them.

Today is the feast of the Transfiguration, when we recall Jesus’ journey to the mountaintop with three chosen disciples, there revealed to them in glory. The sign of this is visual – his changed appearance, face and clothing. The disciples, for the first time, are able to see Jesus as he truly is.

When I first encountered this story, I’ll admit I was a bit let down. I knew, somehow, that it was a big deal – perhaps clued in by the heading it got in my Bible. But the details were odd, at least to the modern, Western imagination. I remember feeling like a commercial for bleach had crept into the biblical narrative.

What changed for me was encountering the long tradition that the most important transformation in the story was not Jesus’, but the disciples’. Jesus may have appeared transfigured, but only because the disciples were made to see what was already there. Like the light through our windows, the Holy Spirit transformed the disciples to see what was there all along. To see that all that surrounded them was already charged with the glory of God.

Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann, in his extended essay from over sixty years ago For the Life of the World, called out our tendency to create divisions: spiritual vs. material, sacred vs. profane. I would add here not only how we impose lines in our relationship with God, but within our world, and between each other. Nature vs. culture, domestic vs. foreign, us vs. them. “The world is a fallen world,” Schmemann writes, “because it has fallen away from the awareness that God is all in all.”[1]

The awareness, in other worlds, that the glory of God glimpsed by the disciples on the mountaintop, was not a one-time, one-place thing – but rather a glory that suffuses creation. A glory dwelling in the silent hearts of those we meet: friends and neighbors, strangers and enemies.

Schmemann concludes: “It is only when, in the darkness of this world, we discern that Christ has already ‘filled all things with Himself,’ that those things, whatever they may be, are revealed and given to us as full of meaning and beauty. A Christian is the one who, wherever he looks, finds everywhere Christ, and rejoices in Him.”[2]

There is so much darkness in our world: so much suffering, so much hatred, so much division. The transforming power revealed in the Transfiguration reminds us that even in the darkest places, God’s glory abides. Even in the most silent hearts, God’s glory dwells. Even where divisions are most rancorous, God’s glory nevertheless is there, filling and bridging and mending all things – truly there, if only we have eyes transformed to see.

Amen.

[1] A. Schmemann, For the Life of the World (New York, 1963), 5.

[2] Ibid., 86.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Matthew 15:1-2, 10-14

Jesus was a Pharisee.[i] We cannot know this for sure; however, Jesus was not a priest, so he was certainly not a Sadducee. And given how much Jesus enjoyed dinner parties and the company of women, he was certainly not an Essene, who were monastics in the desert. And given he was not a warrior, he was certainly not in the company of the Zealots. If we presume he had been formed by the Pharisees, this helps explain why the Pharisees get so much press from Jesus, often bad press. Jesus knew Pharisees inside out.

Pharisees were very attractive to multitudes of people. They were rigorous in their observance of the Sabbath and days of festival, of tithing, and of dietary practices. They believed that bad things happened to bad people; they believed in angels; they believed in the bodily resurrection of the dead, in the coming of a Messiah, and the ingathering of God’s faithful at the end of time.[ii]  Pharisees were single-minded in their devotion to God, every day devoting set hours for study, work, and rest.[iii] They knew they were “right,” which means “righteous” in a religious sense.[iv] Especially in a time of anxiety and political unrest, the Pharisees attracted many followers. They were compelling conservatives … which may sound familiar to today.

The Pharisees’ issue with Jesus’ disciples not handwashing before meals was about spiritual hygiene. One could become spiritually soiled in a marketplace by touching an unclean person or unclean thing. That contact would render impure the food the Pharisee subsequently touched. Pharisees washed their hands before, during, and after eating, thereby retaining purity, undefiled. Clearly, Jesus knew about this handwashing practice. Jesus turns the principle of the practice inside out saying, “It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles.”

Jesus decries the Pharisees’ keeping up appearances, meanwhile their oblivion to what was going on inside their souls – their arrogance, their damning judgment of those not like them, their indifference to the poor and needy, the “other” people whom Jesus knew also have a place in the heart of God.

The Pharisaical movement died out, but not the fuel rod. We witness today the genocide happening in Gaza and the Sudan; the insidious racism in our own country, the forcible extraction of people who are resident aliens, the building of yet more prisons to make the unwanted disappear. People clinging to their personal power often wash their hands of poor, powerless people.

And yet there is another group of “arch conservatives” with whom I can readily identify. This other group of conservatives are those who in actuality are liberals, liberals who have little-to-no tolerance or respect for anyone who sees things differently. “Conservative liberals.”

Our baptismal pledge to “respect the dignity of every human being” means, at the very least, to listen to one another.[v] It is very difficult to listen when one is dodging stones. And we should hear Jesus’ words to “love our enemies,” which he said in a political context very similar to the upheaval in our own country and our world.[vi] Love our enemies, or at least to pray for love for our enemies. They will certainly not change-for-the-better by our hate. Alongside our prayer and our listening, we must also work for what we can do on behalf of the least, and the last, and the lowly – the anguished multitudes of our own country and our world – to redress the injustice, poverty, and unconscionable suffering which is their daily bread.

[i] The New Testament scholar, Raymond Brown, S.S.: An Introduction to the New Testament (1997), p. 80. Brown quotes Rabbi Harvey Falk in Jesus the Pharisee; A New Look at the Jewishness of Jesus (1985), who sees Jesus as a Pharisee of the Hillel persuasion.

[ii] This according to Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J.: The Anchor Bible: The Gospel According to Luke 1-9, (1981), p. 581.

[iii] The Order of Carmelites – www.ocarm.org/lectio – on Luke 11:37-41.

[iv] The etymology of the word “righteous” comes from the Old English rihtwis: morally right persons, just, upright, sinless, conforming to divine law.

[v] “The Baptismal Covenant” in The Book of Common Prayer (1979), pp. 304-305.

[vi] Matthew 5:43-48; Luke 6:27-36.

Br. James Koester

Hosea 11:1-11

I must confess to being caught off guard early last week when I looked at the lessons appointed for today. Much can be and has been said (including, I noted, by me!) about the readings from Colossians and Luke. What caught me off guard was that I was immediately drawn, not to either of the New Testament lessons, but by the lesson from Hosea. It’s not something I would normally be drawn to, after all, Hosea is sometimes referred to as the prophet of doom. Jokes aside, doom and gloom are not my natural tendencies. I usually try to see the best in people and situations, and not the worst.

Hosea, on the other hand, who lived and wrote about 800 years before the life of Jesus was constantly predicting doom for the people of Israel. And he had reason to do so. For decades the political, social, cultural and religious life of Israel had been in decline. Its kings were corrupt. Its inhabitants were immoral. Its priests had turned away from the worship of God. In all the land there [was] no faithfulness or loyalty and no knowledge of God….[1] It was no wonder then, prophesied Hosea, that the thief breaks in and the bandits raid outside.[2] It all came to a bitter, crushing end in 722 BC when the Kingdom of Isreal was defeated and occupied by the Assyrians setting in motion the Assyrian occupation when tens of thousands were forcibly removed from their homeland and resettled throughout the Assyrian Empire.

This is the context of our lesson from Hosea, and while the Assyrian conquest of Isreal has not yet happened, it will do so within a few years of Hosea’s prophecy, and he is saying that the defeat and occupation will be God’s judgement and punishment for their faithlessness and disloyalty.

But listen to what else Hosea says, and this is what caught me off guard:

When Isreal was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. The more I called them, the more they went from me… My people are bent on turning away from me…How can I give you up…? How can I hand you over…? I will not execute my fierce anger…for I am God and no mortal…I will not come in wrath…They shall go after the Lord…and I will return them to their homes.[3]

What caught me off guard was God’s abiding compassion for his covenant people, despite their past behaviour. I will not come in wrath says the God whose name is love, for God is love.[4] It is this divine love for God’s people which is eternal, unchangeable, and ever present that caught me off guard. Inspired by the teaching of Father Benson, we say something like this in our Rule of Life.

Father Benson has taught us that the call of God … is continuous, abiding and progressive.  Continuous, because in the communion we enjoy with God … the voice of the Spirit never ceases to call us into deeper union.  Abiding, because the wisdom of God, communicated to us …, is absorbed into our hearts never to perish.  Progressive, because God’s voice will come to us in the future ever new, calling us to fresh opportunities, and bringing gifts beyond what we know now.[5]

The struggle of course is to be faithful to our vocation to listen. As St. Benedict, says, [listen] my [child], to the teachings of a loving father, and incline the ear of your heart.[6] But this is no easy task, and Father Benson knows it. God never ceases to speak,[7] Father Benson tells us, and yet as God speaks, He requires us to listen. The voice [of God] is of no value to those who are deaf. And God speaks, to how many, alas, who never hear Him!… We must take care, then, to really listen attentively, listen devoutly, listen obediently, listen gratefully[8].

The problem for Hosea, and I believe for us, and certainly for Father Benson, is that many have stopped listening. The paradox is that while we may have stopped listening, God has not stopped speaking. God has not stopped loving. As Hosea reminded them, no matter what, the people of Isreal were (and I should add are still) God’s covenant people. [You] shall be my people, and I will be your God.[9] The same is true for us. Even when we stop listening, even when we are deaf to God’s voice, even when we find God’s voice calling us to things impossible to contemplate, we remain God’s people, grafted into the one vine through the waters of Baptism, and the call and covenant of God is continuous, abiding and progressive; eternal, unchanging, and ever present.

We live in a transactional world. That is truer today than perhaps ever before. The current occupant of the White House has, for good or ill, been described as a transactional president, whose mode of operation is if you do this, I will do that. But God’s covenant love is not transactional. It is transformational. God desires to transform us. You shall be holy, for I am holy.[10]

It is this transformational love of God which Hosea points us to, which Jesus proclaims from the cross, for God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him,[11] and which Father Benson teaches when he says, [self] melts away and the new life [of God] takes possession of it. It lives, yet no longer is itself, for it is taken quite into this divine life and joy.[12]

I was caught off guard earlier in the week, because I was not expecting Hosea to remind me how deeply God loves us and desires us to be transformed: And we all, with unveiled faces, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.[13] Yet here we are, even when deaf to God’s word, God is not deaf to the cry of the covenant people of God.

What I wasn’t expecting last week, was for Hosea to remind me of that so profoundly.

[1] Hosea 4:1c

[2] Hosea 7:1b

[3] Hosea 11:1111

[4] 1 John 4:8

[5] SSJE, Rule of Life, Life Profession, chapter 39

[6] Rule of Benedict, Prologue

[7] Benson, Richard Meux, The Religious Vocation, Of the Call of God, page 69.

[8] Ibid, page 71

[9] Ezekiel 36:28

[10] 1 Peter 1:16

[11] John 3:16-17

[12] Benson, page 79

[13] 2 Corinthians 3:18

Matthew 14:1-12

A few years ago, on the way to a conference, I spent several free hours alone at the Art Institute of Chicago, a place I had always wanted to visit. Free to absorb the experience at my own pace, I spent nearly an hour engrossed in a series of six panel paintings by the Renaissance artist Giovanni da Paolo. They had been part of an original series of twelve for a folding altarpiece depicting the life of St. John the Baptist.[1]

Da Paolo’s vision unfolds with the narrative flare of a graphic novelist or a cinematographer. The human figures are set within strange landscapes and fantastical buildings. There are inexplicable details scattered throughout that make the entire series feel like fragments in a dream sequence. One such detail became, for me, the interpretive key to the entire work.

In the scene of John speaking to his disciples through his prison window, there in the courtyard outside sits a tired, old leopard chained to a wall, gazing forlornly over his shoulder through an archway at a distant figure in blue walking toward us through the fields.

The animal looks utterly out of place – as out of place as John, both of them wild creatures of God held captive at the whim of a cruel tyrant, surrounded by lavish testimony to one man’s ego. The line between prison and zoo is blurred by the leopard’s presence. This exotic creature from a far off land, perhaps remembered and trotted out to impress visiting ambassadors, then just as quickly forgotten. A noble beast consigned to become a barely living plaything.

And yet … the creature’s eyes still gaze toward freedom, and that mysterious figure in blue.

It is tempting to completely dissociate ourselves from Herod and his almost archetypally messed up family. But I can’t quite manage to do that. Like the figures in a dream, each character in the gospels has been placed there for a very particular reason and has the potential to impart a word of gospel truth. However disturbing, there is a Herod, a Herodias, in each of us.

The chained leopard holds many possible meanings: the spirit of the prophets denied and suppressed by the world; the obsessive pursuit of novelty at the expense of creaturely dignity and life; the soul of John the Baptist himself in animal form. But from another angle, the chained leopard may be Herod’s own conscience.

Herod is in many ways the true prisoner in the story. He is a prisoner of his own fear: “He feared the crowd, because they regarded John as a prophet.” He is a captive to his own self-aggrandizement, epitomized by the lavish birthday banquet he throws himself, at which his own daughter is put on display. He is caught between his own politically expedient decision to imprison John and the persistent experience that John has something to say that is worth hearing, a detail brought out in Mark’s version: “When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.” He is bound by the foolishly grand and public promise he makes to his daughter. But he is not powerless. Herod is grieved, the sure sign that his conscience has up to this point remained intact, however repressed. Herod makes a choice. “Out of regard for his oaths and for the guests,” he acquiesces to the perverse demand of Herodias, and the life of an innocent man is lost.

The death of John the Baptist prefigures the death of another innocent prophet – but that is not the end of the story. In Da Paolo’s depiction of John’s execution, the leopard is gone – but the mysterious figure in blue can still be seen through the archway, roaming the fields.

The Son of Man still searches out the captive – the prisoner of conscience, or simply the conscience leashed to the wall by the chain of sin in which we are all complicit.

If today you hear his voice – harden not your heart.

[1] View online at https://www.artic.edu/collection?q=panel&categoryQuery=di+Paolo&artist_ids=Giovanni+di+Paolo

Br. Curtis Almquist

Matthew 13:54-58

Prophets were held in honor so long as they were talking about distant people, about “them.” But when prophets were in their hometown, among their own people, talking about “you,” the prophets were abhorred, and sometimes stoned to death. Jesus spoke and acted as a prophet, and that was trouble. We can distill the hometown people’s disdain of Jesus just by looking at what is now happening in our own country and elsewhere around the world.

Jesus aligned himself with the poor. Among the destitute beggars were the sick and disabled, none of whom had anything similar to Medicaid. Unskilled day laborers, migrant workers, and slaves were also among the poor. If there was a famine or a war, they starved, like the people of Gaza just now. Another social factor was hugely important for rich and poor alike: being regarded with dignity. Several days ago I visited a food pantry, and those waiting in line would not make eye contact with me.

Jesus also aligned himself with sinners. Sinners were people who could not pay the temple tax with their “tainted” money, or make a sacrificial offering, or observe the sabbath, or practice ritual cleanliness. They were held with contempt. People labeled as unclean were prostitutes, tax collectors, those charged or convicted of crimes, prisoners, and herdsmen. The uneducated or the resident aliens who did not speak Hebrew or Aramaic were caught in the trap of not being able to understand or negotiate the law. We need only look at what is now happening in our own country to people who are not proficient in English, those whose skin color is not white, those who do not have just access to sound legal representation. There is certainly no “prosperity Gospel” evidenced in anything that Jesus taught or did. He aligned himself with the misaligned.

In one of the confessions of sin we use in this Chapel, we confess our own sins and those sins done on our behalf. Quite. We must pray for the amendment of our own lives, and the same for our governmental and corporate leadership. And we must act. We must act in some way to redress the egregious poverty that surrounds us in many forms. As we heard read in The Epistle of James: “What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but does not have works? … Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.”

Br. David Vryhof

Ignatius of Loyola

Genesis 32:22-31

We have before us today three examples of what I would call “committed, determined, all-in discipleship.”

The first is the image of Jacob wrestling with “a man” along the River Jabbok.  Jacob is on his way to meet Esau, his elder brother, the same brother he deceived by stealing his birthright. He is afraid, justifiably. Jacob helps his family to cross the river, then returns alone to the other side to pray and prepare for his encounter with Esau. There he confronts a mysterious stranger and the two engage in a wrestling match. The man bestows on Jacob a new name – “Israel” – signifying a new role and purpose in his life, but he refuses to reveal his own name. Jacob refuses to give up, wrestling with the stranger through the night, insisting on receiving a blessing from him. Finally, as day breaks, the man relents and grants Jacob’s request.

The man reveals to Jacob that he has, in fact, been wrestling with God and Jacob expresses wonder that he has been able to see God and live. The story raises a number of questions: Who was this man and what prompts him to fight with Jacob? Who actually prevails in the struggle? What is the blessing that Jacob so desperately wants from the man? Why does the man leave Jacob with a hip injury?

Regardless of the unknowns, the image of Jacob engaged in an all-night, all-out struggle with God is a powerful one. We admire his determination, his commitment, his clinging to God until he receives the blessing he is seeking. The image of whole-hearted engagement in the struggle can be a powerful inspiration for us.

A second example comes from our Gospel text, where Jesus encounters three would-be disciples, all of whom are eager to proclaim their devotion to him but none of whom follow through and actually follow him. Each has an excuse for turning away, and they are not unreasonable excuses, but they fall short of what Jesus expects of them.

As is often the case, Jesus is using hyperbole to exaggerate his point. The story makes clear that he is seeking disciples who will devote themselves whole-heartedly to the life and work of the Kingdom, without considering the cost to themselves. Whole-hearted discipleship is costly.

The third example comes from St. Ignatius of Loyola, whom we remember today. Ignatius was a soldier – proud, vain and totally consumed with himself – when he met Jesus. That encounter changed his life and led him to devote himself whole-heartedly to the cause of Christ. His utter devotion is captured in the prayer you have in your hands. It is called the “Suscipe” – from the Latin word meaning “receive” – and invites us to likewise consider offering God our all.

Let’s pray it together:

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding and my entire will; all that I have and call my own. You have given it all to me. To you, Lord, I return it. Everything is yours; do with it what you will. Give me only your love and your grace; that is enough for me. Amen.

Retreatants, brothers, friends: Take Ignatius’ prayer to heart. Learn it, ponder it, embrace it. Allow it to challenge and inspire you. Let it be for you a summons to whole-hearted devotion and commitment, which is what Jesus asks of each of us.

Br. Jack Crowley

Matthew 13:36-43

One challenge of modern-day life is knowing when to be serious. There is the challenge of knowing when to be serious, the challenge of how serious you should be, and the challenge of communicating how serious you are about something.

There is also the challenge of how to be serious with God. The challenge of knowing how we should speak to God when we really need to know something. How do we approach God in such a forward manner while still being respectful? How do we break through our day-to-day pleasantries with God and boldly ask for the truth?

In our Gospel tonight, we heard the wonderful story of the Disciples approaching Jesus directly. The context here is important. Jesus had just left a crowd of people after teaching them through a series of parables. Jesus is finally alone and inside a home after being surrounded by people.

I think we all know that feeling of coming home after a long event full of people. There’s that mixture of lingering excitement with fatigue setting in. There’s also this feeling of intimacy now that everyone has gone home. So the Disciples approach Jesus in this very specific context and ask very directly what he meant by his parable. They want the truth, the real deal, or maybe even they think there is something extra Jesus will tell them alone.

Like the Disciples, we must find the time and the mood to approach Jesus with a mix or urgency and intimacy. That serious desire for knowing must bubble up from deep within us and lead us to seek out Jesus wherever we can. We must also have a mixture of humility and boldness as we approach Jesus. We can be humble in our attitude towards the Son of Man but also be bold and authentic in our desire to know more through him and with him.

The point I’m trying to make is it is ok to get real Jesus. Not only is it ok, but maybe Jesus is also eager to meet you at that level of seriousness. What if Jesus is already there? Even after a long day, what if Jesus is waiting for you to approach him with your whole authentic being?

Try speaking to Jesus face-to-face in your own way with your own words. If you feel embarrassed to do so, ask yourself what do you have to lose? Amen.

Genesis 18:20-32

At about 1 AM the pager for the on-call hospital chaplain pierced the silence. I was the on-call hospital chaplain that night – or at least, I was the next best thing: the chaplain intern whose turn it was to carry the pager. The nurse picked up my call quickly and asked, “Are you in the hospital now? We have a stroke patient who is dying.” I explained that on-call chaplains drive in from home, but that I thought I could be there in twenty minutes.

As I sped through the darkness on the way to the hospital, I reviewed the evening so far. I had gone to bed at 10, having already driven back to the hospital once that evening to sit with a patient whom my supervisor had asked me to visit. This patient was also dying – but not imminently, and his end of life experience was bringing out some of the worst in him, especially in the evenings. All of his feelings – anger, resentment, fear – manifested as needs and demands and ultimatums to everyone who came near him. I knew he had been a regular churchgoer, so faith was also there somewhere. Beneath all the bluster, it seemed that he was bargaining for something he desperately needed, whimpering one moment then growling the next. I prayed God would help him find it. After two hours, I helped the nurses bring him all the spare pillows on the unit, then went home.

When I arrived at the hospital the second time, the new patient lay motionless in the bed: an elderly African-American man. The nurse explained that he had died just moments ago. His wife sat calmly beside him, and an elderly white couple sat against the wall, neighbors who had driven the couple to the hospital. I turned my attention toward the wife of the patient, said I was aware that she was a person of faith, and that I was there to be helpful in any way I could. She thanked me, and asked me to pray. I do not remember anything of what I said, but I invited her to add her own prayer. For the next fifteen minutes, she offered up one prayer after another, dense with quotations from scripture, in a voice that was direct, dignified, and as unselfconscious as it was authoritative: prayers for her neighbors, for me, for the doctors, for her departed husband, for their family. It was the prayer of a person who was used to talking to God without holding anything back. When she finished, I thought: If I were God, I’d sit up straight, pay attention, and get to work.

In today’s gospel passage from Luke, Jesus tells the parable of two friends in the middle of the night, to enjoin upon his disciples a particular quality in their prayer.

‘Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.” And he answers from within, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.” I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his ________ he will get up and give him whatever he needs.’

Our English translation uses the word “persistence,” but a more literal translation would be “shamelessness.”

The fear of social embarrassment or ridicule was a major incentive to moral behavior for the cultured Gentile audience that Luke often writes for. Jesus here slyly commends the opposite in our relationship with God. Instead of carefully sifting and choosing your words, Jesus seems to say: Go ahead and say anything, at any time, and in any place. Ask for everything that you need, however unreasonable or ridiculous. This “shamelessness” is a lack of restraint; even a lack of that internal filter we have learned to develop in polite, adult conversation.

In my experience, there are situations when we are brought to our limits or our defenses are down when most of us are able to simply say exactly what’s in our minds or on our hearts. When we are brought close to death, or at the death of a loved one – as with those two hospital patients. When we are awakened in the middle of the night – before waking consciousness asserts its boundaries.

But there are also relationships that help us practice this totally unselfconscious quality.

Imagine the person that knows you most intimately – and the ways you are able to communicate. In developing an intimately personal relationship with God in prayer, we begin with the kind of intimacy we have known (or have glimpsed, and want to know better).

That is how Jesus teaches – he dives right into the middle of everyday life. Prayer, as Jesus teaches prayer, begins with human reality. In his parables, this is often a springboard for teaching about divine realities. “If you then, who are evil (relatively evil – in relation to the limitless goodness of God) know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

For Jesus, God was most like a very attentive and loving parent. This is not the only human relationship Jesus uses as a springboard to illustrate divine realities, but it does seem to be the one he appropriated most personally. What that means for Jesus’ self-identity is that he is a child. Yes, is the Son, the Heir of all the belongs to the Father, which is very grand and awesome. But at heart, Jesus of Nazareth is the little boy with the totally unselfconscious lack of filter or embarrassment who just names aloud every little thing he needs or wants. This cycle of asking and receiving transforms both the child and the parent by creating a deep bond of trust for the child, and for the parent, the witnessing of an unfolding miracle: a baby slowly becoming the person they were created to be.

As disciples of Jesus, when we pray we are standing in the place of Jesus before God. As his Body, our prayers come forth through his mouth. God wants and anticipates that those prayers, over time, will sound and feel more and more like the prayers of his own only-begotten child. Through them, we become more like the person God created us to be.

So what’s stopping us?

Maybe some of the following thoughts will sound familiar to you:

What if I ask, and my request is denied – or even worse, met with a deafening silence? What if I search and I come up empty-handed, exhausted and looking like an idiot for investing myself in such a lost cause? What if I knock until my knuckles bleed and the door doesn’t budge? Then where will I be?

These are supremely reasonable responses if we take our vulnerable human experiences of denied requests, fruitless searches, and closed doors and project them onto our life with God – particularly our life of prayer. These “what ifs” might even cause us to forsake prayer. Or we might prefer always to pray for the needs of others. Or we might prefer to rest in a form of pseudo-contemplation that says, “Whatever you want, God” rather than actively stay put in the excruciatingly particular vulnerability of our needs.

In the opposite direction, we might discover that we are asking, searching, and knocking for what we perceive to be our needs with an insistent and frenzied energy. On the surface, this might look like exactly what Jesus is commending to us in today’s gospel reading. But our petitions might just be so closely shingled that they block out the sunlight of self-awareness, or as reactive as the appetites of children. The spaces, silences, or even pauses that God might use to breathe in us, to disclose to us our deeper needs, will be filled up with our persistent requests. We may even lose precious opportunities to examine what God has given, has revealed or has opened while we have been so busy asking.

God always responds to prayer. But sometimes the response is to gently lead us into a thick patch of ambiguity and uncertainty rather than a breezy clearing of clarity and certainty. In one of the chapters from our Rule commenting on our vow of poverty, we read, “By our vow of poverty we recognize that in our own spiritual lives there will be seasons of shadow, experiences of dryness, waiting, obscurity, or the seeming absence of God. In the light of the gospel we know these are necessary, and that some of them yield more blessings than times when we are filled with devotion and confidence.” And in a chapter entitled “The Mystery of Prayer,” we read: “Our love must be purified and tested by many times of darkness, loss, and waiting.” Like a wise parent, God gives us the Holy Spirit – who often arrives in forms we did not ask for, not only to satisfy or console, but to lead us into all truth.

Let us pray:

Jesus – You shed all shame before your Father to take away the burden of our shame.

Jesus – We stand in your place now and pray with your voice.

Jesus – Teach us to pray by starting with reality as it is, letting our need to dress it up or get it right fall by the wayside that, like you, we may never cease to be children and receive your Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Br. Lain Wilson

Matthew 13:24-30

Several years ago, I stood staring at a twenty-five-foot row of seven-foot-tall weeds. “You can take all of it out,” I was told. “All of it except a lilac bush that’s in there.”

That all seemed clear . . . except I had no idea what a lilac bush looked like. So I spent the next several hours checking and rechecking that this plant that looked like ragweed, that in fact looked like the dozens of ragweed stalks I had just pulled out, was, in fact, ragweed.

I eventually found the lilac, which looks nothing like ragweed.

The distinctions between “wheat” and “weeds” in today’s gospel are in fact much subtler than ragweed and lilac, so much so that they were nearly indistinguishable as young plants. Separation happened after harvesting, indeed, after threshing, when differently colored grains could be clearly discerned.[1]

Our parable today thus speaks to the patience that farmers would have shown in a familiar situation. It’s a patience Jesus asks his followers to demonstrate as they see all that is wrong around them, all that cries out for judgment: “Let both [wheat and weeds] grow together until the harvest” (Mt 13:30).

This parable speaks to the end of things, the “harvest.” But Jesus also speaks to his listeners, to his disciples and to us, in the here and now. The parable of the weeds reveals to us a necessary posture of compassion, forgiveness, and humble honesty.

It is very easy and natural for us to notice and call out the weeds around us – those who are different than us, who hold different priorities and go about their lives in different ways. It is easy for us to want to condemn them – want to see them come to judgment. But if Jesus urges patience, he also reveals that the distinction between wheat and weeds is subtle, surprising, and, perhaps, indiscernible to our eyes. We Brothers speak in our Rule of Life of “honor[ing] the mystery present in the hearts of our brothers and sisters, strangers and enemies. Only God knows them as they truly are.” Even those we hate, who seem to stand for everything we are opposed to, whom we would just as soon see as weeds to be gathered and burned, deserve our compassion and forgiveness as fellow creatures, known and loved by God.

Where do you notice resistance in yourself to exercising compassion and extending forgiveness?

Just as importantly, this parable speaks to the humble honesty we must turn on ourselves. Russian novelist Alexander Solzhenitsyn famously wrote that the “line separating good and evil passes . . . right through every human heart.” We, each of us, bear within ourselves wheat and weeds. We, each of us, have the work before us of a lifelong conversion. The humbling part is that, like the weeds of our parable, we may not always be able to discern what needs to be converted. The humbling part is recognizing that and praying to God, as the publican did, “Be merciful to me, a sinner!” (Lk 18:13). The humbling part is that this honesty may be how we are best able to cooperate with God’s work in the world.

In the end, we can only trust. Trust that God is merciful. Trust that we will be forgiven as we have forgiven others. Trust that God knows our hearts infinitely better than we ourselves can. And trust that, when we come to the harvest, God will gather us in.

Amen.

[1] W. Barclay, The Gospel of Matthew, rev. ed. (Philadelphia, 1975), 2:73.

Br. Jamie Nelson

Matthew 13:10-17

In today’s gospel passage, Jesus has just finished preaching the Parable of the Sower to a large crowd gathered alongside the lakeshore. When we enter the story, his disciples have come to him privately to ask why he spoke to the crowd in parables.

I wonder if the disciples’ question masked feelings of disappointment.

I wonder if they felt that Jesus’ choice of teaching tool had squandered a great opportunity. Perhaps their own plans had been for him to relate to the crowd like a politician at political rally – pumping up the people with an inspiring message and building up a base of support for his Messiah movement.

I wonder if they would have liked him to perform a miraculous healing on command. That would demonstrate credibility for his claims to messiahship.

I wonder if they were hoping to pick up a few new guys for the discipleship road crew.

But instead, Jesus left out an inspiring call to action and told the crowd a confusing parable about seeds.

So what are parables, and why did Jesus choose them as a teaching tool?

I can give you an answer for the first question. Parables are deceptively simple stories that illustrate complex spiritual truths using everyday situations and settings. Parables are like icons – their images point to a deeper reality underneath the story.

As to the second question, why did Jesus choose to speak in parables – Jesus’ explanation about why is about as confusing as the parables themselves.

This gospel passage, and Jesus’ frequent use of parables, points to a complicated truth: that God is ultimately uncomprehensible to our limited human capacity for understanding. That the beauty, goodness, and power of God will stay beyond our knowing in this lifetime.

So why use parables?

Parables create space for wondering and for wrestling with God.

Parables offer nuggets of mystery to mull over.

Parables invite further seeking, they don’t set up tidy answers to regurgitate on command.

Parables plant the seeds of the kingdom.

Have you ever felt disappointed by God, unable to trust in the good news or to live in hope? Sometimes life is downright disappointing, and looking to Jesus’ words in the gospels can be confusing.

Jesus’ use of parables reminds us that God’s work is often hidden, mysterious, and silent. It’s easy to give in to the temptation to live as if human action is what brings salvation. However, the sowing and harvesting is ultimately God’s work, theologian Mark Burnham cautions us.[1]

Over and over, Jesus reminds his disciples that his messiahship isn’t going to look like what they’re used to. He doesn’t fit neatly into the box of Promised One born to overthrow Rome through military might, destined to restore glory and freedom to his people.

What he does offer is a kingdom that enters our world through stories. Through stories as seeds that grow into moments of insight and understanding, mercy and love.

Theologian Michelle Voss Roberts writes: “Jesus plants parables in the imaginations of his hearers to do the work that Scripture and theological language are supposed to do: take root, mature, and bear fruit.”[2]

But seeds take time to germinate, to take root, mature, and bear fruit.

So how to live in the in-between?

The poet Rainier Maria Rilke wrote this word of advice to a younger man that he was mentoring in poetry and in life:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.”[3]

Jesus’ parables are like those unsolved questions that Rilke writes about.

So let us follow his invitation and live the questions now.

[1] Mark R. Burnham. (2015) “Matthew 13:10-17 – Pastoral Perspective.” Essay. In Feasting on the Gospels – Matthew, Vol. 1. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, p360.

[2] Michelle Voss Roberts. (2015) “Matthew 13:10-17 – Theological Perspective.” Essay. In Feasting on the Gospels – Matthew, Vol. 1. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, p360.

[3] This quote is from Letter #4 of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet: https://rilkepoetry.com/letters-to-a-young-poet/letter-four/