SSJE Sermons

Hebrews 10:32-39

“We are not among those who shrink back and so are lost, but among those who have faith and so are saved” (Heb 10:39).

This line from the letter to the Hebrews strikes me today as we commemorate the martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicity. Young mothers and catechumens, the one a noblewoman, the other a slave, Perpetua and Felicity were arrested, imprisoned, and executed, along with three others, at games held in Carthage in the early third century.

Their death in the arena is lurid, but it is the account of their last days in prison that makes the line from Hebrews jump out at me. Perpetua leaves an account in her own words of that time, and visions that she received there. At the end, following her final vision, she writes, “I understood that I should fight, not with beasts but against the devil; but I knew that mine was the victory.”[1] Felicity herself was also eager for martyrdom, inducing an early pregnancy so she would be eligible to suffer and die for her faith.[2]

Both Perpetua and Felicity saw in their suffering and death a witnessing to the truth of their faith, and a revelation of their authentic selves. Look at this pitcher, Perpetua said to her father. Could you call it anything other than a pitcher? Neither could I call myself anything other than a Christian.[3]

“We are not among those who shrink back and so are lost.”

What is the lesson for us here today, at the beginning of Lent?

One way is to pray for courage of Perpetua and Felicity; the courage and faith, in the words of the collect we pray at Compline each Friday, “to die daily to our sin and pride, that even as this flesh and blood decays, our lives still may grow in you.”

We may not fight beasts in the amphitheater, but we each face subtler enemies that entice us to trust our own strength, encourage us to resist God’s grace, and draw us away from trust and faith in God. Enemies that convince us to live a half-life rather than face the daunting challenge of dying daily to self.

But we can face this challenge, we can cooperate with God in this dying to self, by recognizing all the ways in which death is at work in advance in our lives, in “hardships, renunciations, losses, bereavements, frustrations, and risks,” as the chapter in our Rule on “Holy Death” states.[4] Each of these is an invitation to let go, to surrender, to trust in God and not ourselves.

Where have you noticed these invitations, in your life? How have you responded?

The season of Lent calls us to self-examination, to honesty about our own hearts. Part of that is the invitation to die each day—to die to all that holds us back from a full acceptance of what it means to live as followers of Jesus. To pray that we might not shrink back and be lost. To pray that we might have the courage and faith to be brought from bondage and death into freedom and life eternal.

Amen.

[1] St. Perpetua, The Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity, 10, available online at the Internet Medieval Source Book, Paul Halsall, Fordham University, 1996, https://sourcebooks.web.fordham.edu/source/perpetua.asp.

[2] Ibid., 15

[3] Paraphrase of ibid., 3.

[4] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (Lanham, MD, 1997), 97.

Br. Luke Ditewig

Luke 9:18-25

What would you do if you fell in icy water? When we Brothers visited Scotland in 2017, I saw a billboard with the image of a man looking distressed, arms and legs extended, lying in water fully clothed. The caption: “Float for your life. If you fall into water, fight your instinct to swim until the cold water shock passes. Float to live.”[i]

My instinct would be to try to swim, to fight for my life. The Royal Navy teaches that doing so, I would likely choke and drown. Our bodies adjust to shock if we first give them time to adjust. In freezing water, float to live. Then swim to safety or call for help.

“Deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me,” Jesus says. Resist instinctively taking control, grasping like you’ve got it all together, and fighting to save your own life. Surrender, let go, and die to yourself. Jesus is our savior. Receiving Jesus’ repeated invitation, we often fear, flee, or fight. I certainly do. It may be habitual, instinctive. From what are you fleeing or fighting? For what are you thrashing or struggling?

Many are struggling with waves of shock and sadness at our new president’s behavior. While resistance is vital, so is praying the pain. Acknowledge and pray the hard. God listens. In whatever form your prayer takes, whether in the silence of your heart, in speaking to a trusted person, in journaling, gazing, drawing, or moving, risk stark honesty about your experience. Name the cold freeze. Pray your life as it is. Be still holding the hard, and God will meet you.

Poet Denise Levertov wrote: “freefall, and float / into Creator Spirit’s deep embrace, / knowing that no effort earns / that all surrounding grace.”[ii] In the pain and shock of life like freezing water, float first to live, surrendering to our Savior.

[i] Float to Live – Respect The Water

[ii] The Avowal by Denise Levertov – Famous poems, famous poets. – All Poetry

Br. Geoffrey Tristram

Psalm 90:4-5

Today is Shrove Tuesday. In the Christian tradition, this day has always been seen as a day of preparation; a day to prepare our bodies and souls for a great journey; the holy season of Lent, which begins tomorrow on Ash Wednesday.  The word ‘shrove’, from the word shrive, means receiving forgiveness and absolution for our sins, being ‘shriven’, before the start of Lent. And that will happen tomorrow.

We are about to begin a six-week journey, and we need to prepare. Like before any journey, there are bags to be packed, decisions to be made about what to take, and what should be left behind. Seasoned travelers strongly advise us to ‘travel light’. Today, this Shrove Tuesday is the time to ask, ‘What should I leave behind, what can I do without, or sacrifice, so that I can travel light and be available to God on the journey? Then to ask, ‘Where do I want to go? What is the direction I want to take in my Lenten journey? In other words, what is my intention for this Lent? Where have I wandered off the road and how might I need to amend my life, to get back onto the road that God has set before me? What areas of spiritual growth do I need to ask God’s help in dealing with? Lent is a great gift for us if we use it aright.

So, the six-week journey is about to begin. Don’t forget to empty the fridge! Eat up all the food before you go. In French, this day is known as ‘Mardi Gras’, ‘Fat Tuesday’. Traditionally today is the time to clear the fridge, eat up the meat and dairy produce – no more pancakes, donuts, desserts. We need to travel light.

In some places, the preparation for the journey is nearly as long as the journey itself! In New Orleans, the preparation begins on January 6, the day of the Epiphany. Those weeks of preparation for Lent are known as ‘carnival’, which literally means, ‘farewell to meat’. During these weeks there are numerous celebrations: parades, street parties, circuses, music, eating, dancing and singing.  That all reaches a climax today, ‘Mardi Gras’. I have never been to the Mardi Gras celebrations, but a friend of mine was there once, and he gave me an amazing description of what it was like. People everywhere, partying, the streets strewn with decorations, singing, dancing, pretty chaotic. But, he said, the most incredible moment was what happened at exactly 12 am, the first minute of Ash Wednesday. The preparation was over. The journey now begins. At exactly 12 am, the music stops, police, mounted on horseback clear the revelers and partyers from the streets. They are then followed by huge trucks, sweeping away all the trash and debris of the carnival, suddenly there is silence, and the streets are swept clean. Lent has begun.

That is a powerful spiritual image. Our psalm this evening is psalm 90. It talks about how human life is fleeting, and passes away quickly like a dream. In verses 4 and 5, we hear, ‘For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past, and like a watch in the night. You sweep us away like a dream.’  I love that. ‘You sweep us away like a dream.’ Just as those great trucks sweep the streets of New Orleans, so our mortal lives will one day be swept away like a dream, which disappears upon waking up. It reminds us that our time on earth is short, so we need to seize the day. This is also an image of judgment. A sober recognition that our lives also need sweeping clean. So, as we prepare for the Lenten journey, we take stock, we acknowledge our sins. ‘Create in me a clean heart O God, and renew a right spirit within me.’ So, are you ready for the journey? Are your bags packed? Which direction do you need to take?  Have you made some wrong turns during the past year? Get back on the road which leads to life and to God.

In New Orleans, the Lenten journey begins exactly at 12 am on Ash Wednesday. There is a precise moment for the journey to begin. We need to get on with it. I like that, because we so often say to ourselves, ‘Yes, I need to make some changes in my life. I need to get my prayer life in order, my relationship with God. But then we just don’t get round to it. What’s great about tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, is that there is a precise moment, when ash is marked on our foreheads. That is the moment. Lent has begun.  We are sent out to begin this great spiritual adventure. No more putting it off. We’ve packed our bags, as light as possible. We know where we are headed.  We have closed the front door, and the journey begins. Bon voyage!

Luke 9:28-43a

Good morning and welcome to the Sunday of the Transfiguration. Today marks the final Sunday before Lent begins. Our great journey through the desert is nearly here.

This morning we celebrate one of the most glorious events in the life of Jesus. The Transfiguration. The Transfiguration of Jesus is hard to oversell. It was an astounding miracle.

Reading and praying with the Transfiguration can leave us feeling like Peter, James, and John did that day on the mountain. We know something great happened on that mountain, but we don’t quite know what or why or how it happened. The mystery of the Transfiguration is just as awesome as its glory.

Peter, James, and John went up that mountain with Jesus to pray. I love imagining what they thought was going to happen. I always wonder if they had any idea that a miracle was about to occur or if they thought it was going to be an ordinary day hike.

We are told that at some point on their journey on the mountain, suddenly, Jesus was transfigured. His face changed in appearance and his clothes became dazzlingly white. Not only that, the prophets Moses and Elijah appeared and spoke with Jesus.

One of my favorite parts of this story is Peter’s reaction. Peter sees this glorious transfiguration and the presence of the two prophets and says to Jesus that they should build three dwelling places for them right then and there. I love this reaction from Peter. It is as if something awesome happened and he said hey let’s just stay here forever.

Now personally I know that feeling, and I think you do too. That feeling when it is as if heaven and earth have kissed. Everything feels perfect and you just want to stay there. We want to hold on to these dazzling moments because they are just so beautiful. In those moments say things like I could just die right here and I’d be happy.

Who could blame us for wanting to hold on to God’s glory? We spend our lives relentlessly pursuing God and in those moments when we finally feel closest to God, of course we just want to stay there. We don’t want to leave that moment, we don’t want to go back to life, we want to stay high on that mountain forever.

I felt that way one time during my first Holy Week at SSJE. I was a postulant and was given a very important task – I had to carry a platter of brownies and a platter of stuffed mushrooms to the guesthouse. Now this was Good Friday, so we Brothers were fasting, but we wanted to serve food to our guests in the guesthouse.

As I made my way from the kitchen to the guesthouse, I passed through the Holy Spirit chapel. As I walked in the door, the sight of the sunlight hitting an icon made me stop. Maybe it was the angle of the sun, maybe it was Holy Week, or maybe I was just really hungry, but there was something about the beauty of that icon shining that just killed me. I stopped and stared, mushrooms and brownies in hand, and just couldn’t pull myself away. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I remember eventually someone called my name from another room, probably wondering where I was, and I snapped back to reality.

The beauty and glory of the Transfiguration is hard to oversell, but that’s not the whole story. Our Gospel this morning had two halves. One half on the mountain, and one half back down the mountain.

One of the best and worst parts of life is that it keeps going. The worst parts of life don’t last forever and the best parts of life don’t last forever. No matter how high we climb that mountain, at some point we are going to have to come back down.

We cannot stay on our mountaintops just as much as I can’t stay stopped staring at icons during Holy Week.  It’s that walk back down the mountain that makes us who we are. It’s that walk back down the mountain where we take what we have seen and enter back into the world. It’s that walk back down the mountain where the glory of God meets the reality of humanity.

When Jesus walked back down that mountain after his transfiguration, he was immediately met by a crowd. Jesus was met by a crowd and a father with a sick child. This child, a boy foaming at the mouth and shrieking, needed healing and the disciples had been unsuccessful in helping the child. This is another image I just love. Jesus, fresh from the glory of his transfiguration, met by this messy situation.

Jesus then says to the crowd “you faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?” Have you ever said anything like that before? On your walk back down the mountain and back into the real world, only to see the fear and the frustration all around you, and you just want to say oh God.

Fear and frustration are realities of the human condition. We may look at ourselves, our neighbors, our coworkers, our country, our world and be full of fear and frustration. One of the greatest challenges of our life is to experience the glory of God while simultaneously experiencing the harsh realities we live in. It can feel impossible to rectify.

So what do we do? How do we maintain our relationship with God in this era of fear and frustration?

Start by focusing on your own experiences with God in your own life. When in the past have you felt the closest to God, the most intimately connected to the glory of God? Remember all those times you gave great thanks God and praised God for all God’s glory. Remind yourself that all of those experiences were real, they were true, they had meaning.

Remember, also, the times of immense suffering in your own life. The times so dark, that the glory of God felt impossible. Perhaps you felt forsaken by God and forgotten by the world. Be on speaking terms with that darkness, that fear and frustration, that anger and desperation, and remember it was all real, it was your lived experience.

Finally, remember here you are today, breathing and alive, and remember God was equally present at your greatest moments, your darkest moments, and right now. This is a mystery beyond our understanding, yet we know it to be true through our own experiences. This is just as true for you as it is for all human beings throughout time.

The transfiguration of Jesus is astounding. We will never fully understand it. What we do understanding is somehow, someway the glory of God sneaks through our lives and transfigures us. On the mountaintop, in the valley, at home, at work, from the cradle to the hospice, God’s glory is present, real, and true. Seek God with everything you have. Amen.

Br. Jamie Nelson, SSJE

Mark 4:26-29

“The seed would sprout and grow, though the sower does not know how.”[1]

To the disciples listening to Jesus, watching seeds sprout and grow must have seemed a rather mysterious process despite being a commonplace sight in first-century Galilee. Sure, each year they would have seen farmers scattering seed over wheat and barley fields in late autumn once the first winter rains had arrived. They would have observed tiny green seedlings emerging from the soil 1-2 weeks after sowing. But what exactly was going on in that invisible underground process?

Twenty centuries after Jesus first shared this parable, plant physiologists can tell us much more about the workings of seed germination, that temperature, moisture, air, and light all interact to provide the precise conditions that signal to seeds that it’s time to grow, to break out of their protective coats and lengthen up towards the light.

Different types of seeds need different conditions to spark growth. In forests, grasslands, and deserts, a soil seed bank builds up over time. Seeds from different plant species accumulate and lie dormant, waiting for their moment. Some seeds need the two-step sequence first of winter’s freezing cold and then of spring’s warming thaw as the green light to go. Other kinds of seeds may rest in the soil seed bank for years, even decades, until mechanical, chemical, or thermal processes spark growth.[2]

In the Rocky Mountains, Lodgepole pine trees have integrated wildfire into their reproductive cycle.[3] Mature trees retain some of their cones on their branches for decades. It’s not until those cones are exposed to the intense heat of a wildfire that the resin that seals up the cone melts away, allowing the seeds to be released for distribution across the newly barren ground. The Lodgepole pine then become one of the early colonizers of fire-devastated landscapes, eventually growing to a stately height of 60 feet or more.

We carry within ourselves our own soil seed bank, a reservoir of sparks of faith that when planted, grow us closer to God and to making the Kingdom of God present in our midst. Over time, we accumulate a variety of those seeds of faith. They are the fruit of life events and experiences both small and large, mundane and sublime: conversations over cups of coffee, deeply heartfelt yet unanswered prayers, the beauty of a sunset, the birth of a child, the devastation of losing a job – joys and sorrows and more, all those moments and memories that you carry in your soul.

Some of those seeds of faith germinate quickly because the right conditions are present. Other seeds of faith lie dormant for years, germinating unexpectedly after the devastation of a spiritual wildfire which brings the searing heat needed to free those seeds.

So, what can we do to work towards growing the Kingdom of God in our midst? Cultivate the right conditions for germination and trust the process. The timing and invisible work of spiritual growth may seem mysterious. When favorable conditions for germination aren’t present, have faith that God our marvelous creator is building up our soil seed banks, which will one day blossom into the Kingdom of God.

Though we may not know how, the seed will sprout and grow.

Amen.

[1] Mark 4:27b

[2] These processes are known as seed stratification and scarification.

[3] This adaptation is known as serotiny.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Psalm 7:6-11

There is a curious request in Psalm 7. The psalmist asks for God’s judgment: “Judge me, O Lord.” And this request – this desire for God’s judgment – does not just appear in Psalm 7. Praying for God’s judgment is repeated a number of times in the scriptures, particularly in the Psalms.[i]

Being judged is a sore subject for many people, and maybe for you, personally. You might have faced a kind of belittling judgment in growing up; you may live with it now. But the worst kind of demeaning judgment is not what we hear from other people, which may be terrible. The worst kind of judgment is what we may hold in our own hearts against ourselves: disparaging self-judgment about how we should be better, or different, or changed in some way. This not only compromises our zeal for life, but also compromises our hope for the future. So to hear the psalmist solicit God’s judgment of us may seem incredulous to you. If so, you are missing an important piece of due process.

When the psalmist talks about appear­ing in court before God the judge, this is not a criminal case where the psalmist – or you! – are on the dock. Rather, this is a civil case, and you are the plain­tiff.[ii]  If it were a criminal case – which it is not – the best judgment you could hope for is an acquittal. But this is a civil case, and you are anticipating a resounding triumph with a heavy reward being made to you. You are going to win this case! So the psalmist prays, “judge my quarrel” and “avenge my cause.”[iii]  The psalmist simply cannot wait for God’s judgment, nor should you.

Something we all have in common is our rather hidden lives. No one actually does know or could know the things that you know about yourself: what you carry in your heart, what you juggle, wrestle with, suffer over, have survived from.…  But God does know you, better than you know yourself.[iv] And in God’s judgment, you are absolutely amazing. You are a walking miracle. You are the apple of God’s eye.[v] In God’s judgment, you are understood and cherished as God’s own child. You are judged by God as one created in God’s very own image.

In God’s judgment you need a Savior to rescue you from mean and partial judgment. Jesus puts a face to God’s judgment, and this is a judgment of love. In God’s judgment you are no mys­tery. You are knowable, and understandable, and forgivable, and helpable, and loveable; and God adores you. You are already prejudged as one with whom God has every desire and intention to share eternity.

[i] See, for example, Psalms 35, 57, 96.

[ii] Insight about court procedures drawn from C. S. Lewis’ Reflections on the Psalms (1958); pp. 9-19.

[iii] Psalm 35:23.

[iv] 1 Corinthians 13:12.

[v] Psalm 17:8.

Br. Lucas Hall

It is an old monastic custom that on Saturdays not otherwise devoted to particular observances, we mark the day with special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. This is for a number of reasons. As Sunday is the Lord’s Day, and Saturday gives way to Sunday, we take Saturdays to honor the one who helped bring forth Christ into the world. Another reason is that Saturday is traditionally the last day of the week, the last day of Creation in the Genesis story, and Mary has a special association with Creation, as she is the one through whom God the Creator put on the Creation in the Incarnation of Jesus.

I’d like to focus on one more reason, though. Saturday is not just the last day of the week of Creation, but it is the day of rest. The Genesis story recounts God creating everything from Sunday through Friday, and taking Saturday as a day of Sabbath rest. This idea of Sabbath rest is not understood as one of idle pleasure, but rather, as a day of holy rest, a devotional offering, a weekly marking of silence, stillness, and single-minded, single-hearted devotion that requires putting down other things, even if those things, those thoughts and activities, are important. And Mary is very much associated with these qualities of devotion through silence and stillness. Most obviously, Mary is described in Luke’s Gospel as beholding amazing things, and her reaction is not to speak or act, but she is repeatedly described as pondering and treasuring these things in her heart. It was Mary who, at the wedding at Cana, informed Jesus of their running out of wine; when Jesus told her that it was not yet the hour of his revelation, she did not argue or protest, she responded by simply telling those there to heed whatever Jesus told them to do. Mary was one of the few faithful who remained present at the Crucifixion, while many of Jesus’s other followers were in hiding, abiding in stillness through the tragedy of her son’s death and burial. Mary, again and again, teaches us how to respond to this rather odd man, Jesus.

This silence and stillness has long inspired the monastic life, specifically. But while monastic life is arguably the most obvious Christian expression of this vocation, it is a vocation in which every Christian partakes. And it is a deeply counter-cultural one. When the priest and theologian Donald Allchin wrote about the reemergence of Anglican religious orders in the 1800s, including SSJE, he titled this boo The Silent Rebellion, writing specifically that “By their vocation, these monastics made plain the silent rebellion that is at the heart of the vocation of every Christian in baptism.” Monks might make it obvious, but this silence, this stillness, this way of devoting oneself to God, is a function of being not just  a monk, but a Christian. And it is this vocation to silence, and to stillness, that I believe is so foundational to the life of the Christian, that is so easy to overlook, dismiss, or ignore. Silence and stillness don’t look like much. They sometimes don’t feel like much. But we live in a world where increasingly, the most valuable thing is your attention, with many billions of dollars being spent on figuring out the most effective ways to capture it and keep it. We live in a world that revels in the latest thing by which we should be outraged, so outraged that we click that link and share that video and engage with a never-ending glut of content.

We live in a deeply flawed world. There is much sin to be aware of, and to help correct. But if we as Christians are to participate in building something more holy, more just, and more true, we must remember that there can be no holy word or holy action without holy listening and beholding. We cannot rebel against the idols of this world without being able to put them down and offer our attention to the living God. And by the example of Mary, we may learn and relearn this silent art of beholding.

Genesis 11:1-9

Genesis’s account of the Tower of Babel, itself an explanation for the dispersion of humanity and their diverse languages, hinges on the daring of human endeavor. “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves” (Gen 11:4). God’s response may at first be surprising to us: “this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them” (Gen 11:6).

Marilynne Robinson, in her recent extended essay Reading Genesis, remarks on this familiar story: “The Lord sees neither failure nor frustrated intention nor a chastening of presumption in the tower and its destruction but potential for human success in doing the impossible. This is an astonishingly high estimate of human capability.”[1]

This anthropological reading of the Genesis account, and God’s response to human capability, recognizes something fundamental to our human nature and history: that in our lives, our relationships, our creations, we so often work at cross-purposes to our life in God, our relationship with God, and with God’s creation. If the destruction of the Tower of Babel demonstrates God’s “astonishingly high estimate of human capability” it’s a capability that is just as often bent on dominance and destruction—the will of the nations, mighty armies, the strength of the horse, as the Psalmist puts it (Ps 33:10, 16-17)—as it is on relationship and cultivation.

And yet, this “high estimate of human capability” is exactly what lies at the heart of Jesus’s exhortation to humility. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mk 8:34). Jesus presumes a kind of greatness among his followers in their ability to accept, to choose, a radical, stark, and ultimately painful rejection of all that they know, all that they have been taught to esteem and hope for. If building a tower to the heavens, uniting all people under its sway and its one language demonstrates human capability, so too does the rejection of such endeavors.

We see all around us, in the rapid advances of technology and emphasis on productivity and efficiency, the promise of human capability—and its shadow side. We see the seeming success of pride and dominance, and the casual cruelty that goes along with it. But we hear in Jesus’s call to follow him a call not to reject human capability but to understand that its greatness is not in what we do, what we make, what we build, what we buy and sell, but in who and how we are—to God and to ourselves, to each other and the rest of creation. It is in this choice of another way, the way of denial, the way of the cross, this radical, stark, painful choice, that we prove true God’s “astonishingly high estimate of human capability.”

Amen.

[1] M. Robinson, Reading Genesis (New York, 2024), 73.

Mark 16:15-20

Back when I was in college, I spent part of one Valentine’s Day evening with some friends in a dorm room. We sat around drinking cheap boxed wine and discussing love. Some of us were single, some of us were in relationships, and I had one friend in the room who had just gone through a bad break up. As the evening went on we all took our time waxing eloquently about our experiences with love and relationships, my heart broken friend let out a long sigh and said, “Valentine’s Day, ugh”. Sighs too deep for words!

Like most holidays, Valentine’s Day brings out all sorts of feelings from us. Feelings like sweetness and nostalgia, but also sometimes feelings like annoyance, insecurity, and even bitterness. We all know love is a powerful experience and our experiences with love can often stay with us for life.

Every year on the week of Valentine’s Day, I spend a little time each day reflecting on love. Every year, I come back to asking myself similar questions. Questions like where could I be just a little bit more loving? Where could I open my heart just a little bit more right now? Do I really believe, whole heartedly, that God loves me?

Having been celibate for seven years now, my belief in the importance of love has only grown. With the growing stresses in the world around us, we are always in danger of thinking that love is not worth the effort. We are always in danger of thinking that love is a luxury we do not have the energy for. We are always in danger of slipping into a coldness of heart and stonewalling ourselves off from all those who love us, including God. We are always in danger of thinking that self-reliance and isolation are the only way to protect ourselves.

To love and be loved is certainly a risk, but Jesus was clear that we must love one another. The good news is that God loves us. Start there. Start by vulnerably accepting that love of God. That infinite supply of unconditional love is equally accessible to us all at all times. That’s good news.

Keep coming back to the power of love again and again in your life. Refresh that love within you as if your life depended upon it. Spread that love around you unconditionally and let it soak into everything that you do. God wants us to love. God is with us in our love. God is love. Amen.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Commemoration of Absalom Jones, Priest

Isaiah 42:5-9

In the calendar of the church we commemorate today Absalom Jones. His parents were slaves; he therefore was born a slave, this in 1746 in Delaware. He taught himself to read from the New Testament. At age sixteen he was separated from his parents and siblings when he was sold to a store owner in Philadelphia. There he attended a night school operated by the Quakers for African-Americans. At age twenty he married another slave and purchased herfreedom with his slave earnings. He remained a slave for eighteen more years, until he could buy his own freedom. This was legal freedom but certainly not freedom from the insidious racism and injustice that infected both the church and society.

Absalom Jones became active as a lay evangelist and social organizer among African-American Christians. They were denied access to the Episcopal Church in Philadelphia. Nonetheless, his ardent work as a pastor built up what was called “The African Church,” which was ultimately received into the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania in 1794 as St. Thomas’ African Episcopal Church. Shortly thereafter, in Philadelphia, Absalom Jones was ordained as a deacon and, in 1802, as the very first African-American Episcopal priest.

Absalom Jones denounced slavery, warning the oppressors to “clean their hands of slaves.” He was certain that God always acted “on behalf of the oppressed and distressed.” His empowered preaching, his constant visiting of his pastoral flock, and his kind, tender-hearted manner made him much beloved. St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church grew to over 500 members during its very first year.

And this was in Philadelphia. Ironically the Declaration of Independence had just been signed in Philadelphia in 1776, upholding “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” as the “unalienable right” given by the God to all human beings.[i]  However African-Americans were not fully human. In 1787, with the signing of the U. S. Constitution in Philadelphia, African-Americans were discounted as three-fifths of a person.[ii]  Such insidious racism. The Reverend Absalom Jones knew the promise from Isaiah: “I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people…”[iii] Quite true, he knew.

It is for Absalom Jones’ faithfulness, courage, and the absence of bitterness I most revere him. He spent his entire life mediating God’s love and foraging for justice in the name of Jesus Christ.[iv] And he lived and worked in this way without being consumed by hatred from his own lifetime experience of injustice. What a beautiful example and inspiration for us in our own contemptuous time.

Blessed Absalom Jones, whom we remember today.

[i] At least 1,700 members of Congress enslaved Black and Indigenous Peoples at some point in their lives, including 374 senators, at least 1,477 representatives, and at least 23 territorial delegates to the U.S. House. From “Congress Slaveowners,” The Washington Post (February 3, 2022).

[ii] The “three-fifths clause” of the U.S. Constitution of 1787 (Article I, Section 2).

[iii] Isaiah 42:5-9.

[iv] John 15:12-15.