SSJE Sermons

Judith 9:1, 11-14

We encounter tonight two very different women.

The first prays to God for the success of her plan of deception to save her besieged city.

The other, a young woman, stands weeping by an empty tomb.

What connects these two women—the one, daring all to save her people; the other, alone and bereft, met in the garden by her savior?

Faith, for sure. But something else—courage.

This is of course obvious with Judith. During the siege of her city, she goes out alone, seduces the Assyrian general Holophernes, and while he sleeps uses his sword to strike off his head. Hers is a story of plotting and brutal action.

Courage is less obvious with Mary Magdalene, whom we remember today. But if we let ourselves encounter this familiar passage anew, we will find it there, too. On that first Sunday, Mary has come to the tomb and found the stone removed. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him,” she cries to the other disciples (Jn 20:2). We can imagine Mary following behind Peter and John as they race to the tomb, confused and grief-stricken. The other disciples leave, “but Mary stood weeping outside the tomb” (Jn 20:11).

And this is where I see her courage. Not the courage to take up a sword, but to stand, to remain in her grief and loss and fear. To simply be in the hurt and uncertainty. This is also courage, a common, unheroic kind of courage—the vulnerable courage of waiting and trusting when hope seems gone, when we have no other hope than that God will provide.

Judith, too, displays this courage, in her prayer to God: “you are the God of the lowly, the helper of the oppressed, the upholder of the weak, protector of the forsaken, savior of those without hope. Please, please, God my father . . . hear my prayer” (Jth 9:11-12). Please, please, God, hear my prayer. It is the courage of the psalmist: “I pour out my soul when I think on these things. . . . Put your trust in God” (Ps 42:4, 7). And it is the courage of Mary, standing weeping in the garden, and hoping that this man who comes up to her may know where Jesus’s body has gone.

Some of us may be called to uncommon courageous actions like Judith’s. I expect that many of us will not. But all of us are called to exhibit the Mary’s common courage of simple faith, hope, and trust—the common, vulnerable courage to stand in our grief, to wait in the face of the unknown and uncertain. To simply be, abiding, waiting to find God—and assured that God is already meeting us there, calling us by name.

Br. Geoffrey Tristram

Jeremiah 23:1-6  

In the year 1919, the poet W B Yeats wrote a poem called ‘The Second Coming’. There is a famous line in that poem which has resonated through the decades. He wrote, ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’  The first world war had just ended, and it felt like chaos had descended on the world, with the breakdown of order, of stability, and of the traditional sources of authority. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’ For many, those words well describe our world and our nation today: The recent shocking attempt at an assassination, a deeply polarized and divided nation, a world filled with violence in the Ukraine, Gaza, and frightening weather patterns signaling a planet in crisis. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’

Yet these same words could also have been used to describe the land where Jesus walked. Not only was their land occupied by Romans, but worse, there as a breakdown of moral guidance and spiritual guidance from those who were meant to be their leaders, their ‘shepherds’.  In our first reading today from the Book of Jeremiah, the prophet excoriates the religious leaders of Judah, ‘woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture. You have driven them away and not cared for them.’ But Jeremiah then goes on to give to the people a prophesy of hope. ‘The day is coming, says the Lord, when I will raise up a shepherd who will shepherd my people. I will raise up for David a righteous branch and he shall reign as king and execute righteousness in the land.’  That day finally came, when Jesus was born.

And our Gospel reading today is one of the most marvelous descriptions of Jesus the good shepherd in action! It is only a very short gospel reading, but it is so visual, almost cinematic. The disciples have returned from a mission, and they are excitedly telling Jesus all about it. But they are tired and hungry, so Jesus says to them, let’s get in the boat and sail across the lake to a quiet place where we can rest and recover.  But as they crossed the lake they are spotted. ‘Jesus is coming!’ and the word spread like wildfire. And before long, crowds and crowds of people, hundreds and thousands of them, were running, hurrying, racing on foot from the towns and villages to meet the boat on the other side. I imagine those tired and hungry disciples must have groaned, ‘Oh no.’ Just when we thought we could get some peace and quiet…’ Perhaps they even asked Jesus to send them away. But Jesus, we read, ‘had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.’  But in Jesus, the crowds recognized the Good Shepherd promised by the prophet Jeremiah, the one who will exercise justice and righteousness in the land. So the crowds kept coming, and they gathered around Jesus, and Mark tells us that ‘he began tot each them many things.’ For although they were likely tired and hungry, what they hungered for above all was a word of life, a word of hope, a word of salvation for their hungry souls.

In Mark’s account, we get this incredible description of all these people scattered all over the countryside, running from every direction, racing to be with Jesus. If you have ever seen Pasolini’s ‘Gospel according to Matthew’, there is a wonderful scene of hundreds of people running, jumping over rocks, like scattered sheep, racing to be with Jesus. It must have been quite chaotic! But after Jesus had finished teaching them something changed. The disciples, whose tummies were probably rumbling by now, reminded Jesus that the crowds were hungry. So, Jesus takes five loaves and two fish and feeds them all, five thousand of them.  But actually, Jesus had already fed their souls with his words of teaching – and now they are changed. This disorderly and scattered crowd of people running here and there, like ‘sheep without a shepherd’, are transformed.  And Mark describes the scene very carefully and in precise language. Everything is now calm and still. They are sitting ‘on the green grass in groups of hundreds and of fifties.’ Out of chaos Jesus had brought calm and order. With their souls fed, and now their bodies as well, they are sitting in safety and security and in peace, in ‘shalom’. For they had found their shepherd. Or rather, their shepherd had found them.

As I was praying with this Gospel reading, I imagined being there with these crowds and with Jesus. I felt within myself that deep peace which those people must have felt, sitting with Jesus their shepherd. I believe that Jesus wants to give that same peace, that same rest, to each one of us. In a world which seems sometimes to be falling apart, with a center which cannot hold, Jesus the Good Shepherd comes to us and says, ‘Come to me all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’  In our monastic life, in this community, the most precious part of the day happens each morning, immediately after Morning Prayer. Each brother goes into his cell for an hour of prayer and meditation.  We simply sit there with Jesus our Good Shepherd, and allow him to still and feed our souls, and prepare us for the day ahead. I do commend this practice to all of you. It doesn’t have to be an hour – ten minutes, or as long as you can manage. Find a place where you can be quiet and still, and then maybe have a picture or an icon to help center you; perhaps a picture of the Good Shepherd, and allow him to gently restore your soul. Most recently I have been praying with that most beautiful of psalms, psalm 23, which we have just sung together: ‘The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, and leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul, and guides me along right pathways for his Name’s sake.’ You might find it inviting to do the same. Read the verses slowly, and imagine that you are there, beside the lake, sitting on the green grass, with the one who knows you and loves you.

For we have found our shepherd. Or perhaps rather, he has found us! Every day he comes looking for us, to save us, and when our earthly days are over, to bring us safely home. ‘For surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’

Br. Curtis Almquist

Isaiah 7:1-9

Our reading from the Prophecy of Isaiah is an 8th century BC version of what we are seeing every day in our own newspapers and online: a world, including our own homeland, teeming with conflict. For Isaiah, the players were King Pekah and King Remaliah of Israel; King Rezim of Aram-Syria; and Kings Tabeel, then Uziah, then Ahaz, and then Jotham the successive Kings of Judah.[i] For the life of me, I cannot keep it all straight – neither the political players whom we are reading about from the 8th century BC, nor our own present-day news stream: the historic territorial disputes, the ever-changing political alignments, often created by common enemies; the fracturing of treaties and goodwill; the political threats and promises; and the suffering of the innocent. Whether in the 8th century BC or in the 21stcentury of the Common Era, there are so many parallels in strife that span across time.

There is a word of hope buried in this Prophecy of Isaiah, hope for the 8th century BC which also pertains to us in our own day. Isaiah speaks an assurance in the voice of God: “Take heed, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint…” “Take heed, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint…”

These words of assurance do not mean that everything will be just fine. Clearly not. We do not escape suffering in this life. None of us does. I don’t need to tell you that. If anything, suffering takes on a certain poignancy for those of us who are followers of Jesus. You may remember Jesus’ saying that if we want to be his followers, we must “take up ourcross and follow him.”[ii] This signals the cost of our discipleship to Jesus. We are promised the experience of the cross: not taking up Jesus’ cross but our own cross. I imagine that every one of you knows about that: what it is to have been handed a cross in life – at least once and perhaps multiple times – to carry in life.

In almost the same breath that Jesus speaks about our taking up our cross, he also speaks about living in peace… but with a qualification. Jesus does not say we will know peace because all the political turbulence and terror will calm down. Quite to the contrary. Jesus says: “I do not give you peace as the world gives.” The gift of peace Jesus is talking about is from the inside out. Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give [peace] to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”[iii] Jesus lived in a time of cataclysmic political strife with the massive occupation of the oppressive Roman Empire, and with the political factions within Judaism being so very fractious and frightening. It is in this context that Jesus speaks of his gift of peace, peace from the inside out.

Jesus’ promise of peace does not preclude our suffering in life. Jesus clearly knew suffering himself. Nor does Jesus’ promise of peace circumvent our mortality, nor the diminishment we will likely experience as we decline with age before we die. Neither does Jesus’ promise of peace mollify our grief from those whom we have lost in life, nor our grief from what we have lost in life. Jesus says, “You will weep and mourn; you will have pain but, he adds, your pain will turn into joy.”[iv] And Saint Paul picks up on this.

The single-most prolific author of the Christian scriptures – the New Testament – is Saint Paul. Virtually everything that he wrote about following Christ was inspired by his suffering and written during his imprisonments. He writes about his floggings, lashes, having been beaten with rods, and being stoned. He writes about being shipwrecked and adrift at sea, about the danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger from deceivers….” He writes of “toil and hardship, many a sleepless night, being hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked.” He faces capital punishment, and he continues to write. [v]

In the end, what is he left with? Again in prison and on the cusp of being executed, the experience which he writes about, repeatedly, is joy. And in case we miss his point, he writes, “again I say, rejoice!”[vi] Joy is such a great paradox. For Saint Paul, suffering sets the stage for knowing joy: a deep sense of well-being and gratitude in life. One might say that Saint Paul is a little over-the-edge about joy, rather hyperbolic in an unimaginable sort of way… unless you have discovered how joy will so often emerge from and companion grief and loss.

Back to what we heard in our first reading from the Prophecy of Isaiah: “Take heed, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint…” This is about living life peacefully, but not about living life passively. It is not about taking the suffering we experience and witness in life with a saccharine smile on our face. But it is to say that when we find ourself powerless to overcome what we know to be wrong, or when we find ourselves suffering without promise of relief, or when we find ourself reminded of the imminence of our mortality, we are not left alone. We are promised Jesus’ provision of inner peace, his companionship, and his joy. As Jesus says, “that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”[vii]

[i] In the Hebrew scriptures we read of about 250 different kings in Middle Eastern antiquity. Many of these kingdoms were miniscule in size; however the title “king” usually designated unrestrained power and the divine favor of whomever or whatever the kingdom worshiped.

[ii] Matthew 16:24-27; Mark 8:34; Luke 9:23, 14:27.

[iii] John 14:27.

[iv] John 16:20.

[v] 2 Corinthians 11:21-29.

[vi] See Philippians 4, particularly verse 4.

[vii] John 15:1-11.

Br. Lucas Hall

Mark 6:14-29

One of my favorite films came out roughly five years ago. It’s called A Hidden Life. It’s a Terrence Malick film, if you’re familiar with him. One reviewer called it a “grand cathedral” of a movie. And I agree, because it’s very big. It’s about three hours long. It’s quite quiet, reflective. The story—It’s based on a true story—of an Austrian, alpine farmer, living in a small, rural village during the Second World War. He receives a draft summons to join the Nazi army, and he can’t. His conscience will not allow him to swear an oath of loyalty to Adolf Hitler. He is told repeatedly that it’s merely a formality, that he can be assigned to non-violent, non-combat work. He could even be assigned to hospital work. He could help people, save lives.

No. He refuses over and over again. He is imprisoned. His wife and children are ostracized in their village. He is tortured, beaten, moved around from prison to prison to prison, interrogated. His wife is brought to him to try and convince him, remind him of what he’s giving up. Instead, she agrees with him, and encourages him, and says she will be with him, whatever he decides. So he stands firm. Ultimately, he is executed. That story has a clear hero, a clear main character, but what really struck me about the film was the way it ended with this man’s death. Because he, with a number of other prisoners, was brought to a place of execution, a military installation. It was a gray, cloudy day. They were sitting outside in a gravel courtyard area. One by one, they were brought into a dingy old building with a concrete floor and unceremoniously killed. It wasn’t a heroic setting. It was mundane, normal, dingy, depressing. And each of these people to be executed had no idea whether they were on the winning side or not. There was certainly no hint of it at the end of their lives, powerless against a much bigger foe, and ultimately killed.

I could tell you this man’s name, but I won’t. I think the title of the film, A Hidden Life, speaks as to why. The idea that holiness, that sainthood, that goodness takes place in obscurity, in a hidden way, within contexts much bigger than we know and out of our control—I find that very compelling and very true. I’m convinced that there are more anonymous saints than ones whose names history records.

That brings us to today’s gospel lesson, and I have a question about it. Who’s the main character? There are a number of potentially correct answers. The first, most obvious one is it’s in the Gospel and the opening lines are about Jesus, so maybe it’s Jesus. But he barely appears, and only in reference.

Herod is the one having the reactions, he’s sort of the central figure in terms of what happens in the story. But Herod, zooming out for a second, is a client king on the border of a vast empire. He feels simultaneously captivated and convicted by this holy man’s preaching, and he’s bound by an oath to his daughter that he regrets and does not want to carry out. This man, this king, ostensibly very powerful, if you think about this from his perspective, doesn’t actually seem to have much power.

Maybe the main character is Herodias, Herod’s wife. She’s the one who ultimately requests John’s head. But Herodias as well—she’s a woman in a patriarchal society. She has by marriage finally ascended to a place of relative power and stability, safety for herself and her children. And suddenly, that’s under threat from this holy man who her husband can’t seem to get enough of. I don’t think she’s particularly powerful in that sense either.

And of course, maybe it’s John himself. But John, this prophet, clear about what he believes to be the truth, is struck down before anything he prophesied really comes to pass, a position of real weakness.

My point here is that perhaps thinking of the main character, the main driver of events, isn’t necessarily productive. The narrative tradition of Scripture is often useful, often delightful and wonderful, but we can become too comfortable in that narrative structure with its clear path, its clear heroes and villains, its clear ending, and when we exit that setting, back into our present world, we can be left with a profound sense of unclarity. What do I do now? There’s a lot going on in the world, all sorts of competing factions and interests, and unlike a children’s cartoon, no one really self-identifies as the bad guy. Everyone thinks they’re justified in their actions. What’s the good side? What team am I supposed to be on? How does the story end?

In one way, in a broad sense, we can answer that. As Christians, God’s side is the good side, the winning team, and that victory is how things will end. But that can come with a simplicity that doesn’t fully grapple with our own struggles. How many of us really conceive of our day-to-day lives as great battles between good and evil with a clear outcome? I don’t think that’s common. Sometimes it’s just Thursday. I suspect it’s much more common to think like the figures in today’s gospel reading, a collection of interests and priorities, not really sure how it’s all going to work out, and feeling relatively powerless in the face of forces and events much bigger and more powerful than our own personal struggles.

As John knew he was about to die, I wonder, did he tremble? Did he weep? Did he regret? Did he fear? Was he disappointed that he was not seeing the end of his own prophecy? I don’t think such things are beyond the pale. Jesus himself experienced a lot of them. I can imagine a real sense of unclarity from John himself.

Our reading ends today describing John’s disciples who come to bury his body. That’s the real source of unclarity. If you’ve hitched yourself to a prophetic movement and suddenly the leader is killed, what do you do now? What happens next? Is this the losing side? I am convinced that this struggle, this confusion, this lack of clarity is more a real picture of our day-to-day lives than a clear narrative of good and evil that is obvious to all. And the reality within that is that the example of John in today’s reading confirms that a commitment to what is good, holy, godly, may not result in that clear path, that clarity, that clear sense of a neat and tidy ending. There will be work unfinished, there will be things we didn’t accomplish or see accomplished, there will be forces beyond our own control.

I would be remiss not to mention very recent events in our contemporary society. A near-successful assassination attempt against a major presidential candidate does not give a particular sense of security or confidence. What if it had gone differently? What happens next? Today’s gospel reading, of violence, political figures, moral righteousness, and confusion about the path forward is really quite relevant. What I think we’re meant to hear in this, what I hope I, and you, and all of us, can hear in this is that faithfulness to the call of God does not yield comfort or ease or a neat and tidy life, either personally or all-inclusively. There will be strife and conflict, warfare, violence, and death, and we are still called to live that life of hidden holiness, that life of anonymous sainthood.

We may not know the end, but we are to trust that these confusing things, these things that we can’t clearly parse, will be used to the promised victory of God. I believe that’s why John went into that lion’s den of Herod’s palace. I suspect he probably knew there was a good chance he would die. Certainly that confidence underlies Jesus’s own confidence in going to the cross. We might not be able to see over the horizon, but the pitched battle between good and evil that happens within the very mundane, day-to-day aspects of our lives is one we can take up again, and again, and again. This call to continue that work, I believe, is the hallmark of a life of holiness and it may cost us everything, our lives, our understanding, our sense of clarity, and that offering is holy enough.

Br. David Vryhof

Proverbs 2:1-9

The author of the Book of Proverbs tells us that there is much value in wisdom.  Wisdom is not a given, something that all of us naturally acquire with age and experience.  It is instead a treasure that must be desired and earnestly sought after.

“If…you cry out for insight,” the author of Proverbs instructs us, “and raise your voice for understanding; if you seek it like silver, and search for it as for hidden treasures – then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.”

Wisdom comes from God.  “The Lord gives wisdom,” Proverbs tells us, “from his mouth come knowledge and understanding.”  But wisdom can be passed along from one person to another.  We can learn God’s wisdom from those who have learned it before us; we can seek it from those who have already found it. We can learn to live wisely and well from those who have actually done that.

St Benedict has guided monastics and other seekers along the path toward wisdom for almost fifteen centuries.  He is an excellent resource for those who seek wisdom.  The wisdom Benedict offers is not for mystics and saints alone.  It is not the exclusive realm of those who choose to follow God along the monastic way.  It is wisdom for all of us, wisdom that is found and practiced in everyday life.  Here are three things Benedict teaches us:

In such simple ways, in our common tasks, in our everyday interactions, in the routines of our daily life – this is where wisdom is to be found.  This is where sanctity is acquired.  This is where holiness begins.

Seek wisdom and pursue it.

BENEDICTINE VALUES (Here are some core values of Benedictine spirituality, an interpretation of each, and its reference in The Rule of St Benedict (RB).  This list comes from the Benedictine monks of St John’s Abbey, Collegeville, MN.)

AWARENESS OF GOD

To look for God not in the abstract but in the ordinary events of every day.

“We believe that the divine presence is everywhere.” RB 19

COMMUNITY LIVING

To become who we are by our relationships with others.

“Let all things be common to all.” RB 33

DIGNITY OF WORK

To appreciate the dignity of work in God’s creation.

“…they live by the labor of their hands.” RB 48

HOSPITALITY

To offer warmth, acceptance and joy in welcoming others.

“Let all…. be received as Christ.”  RB 53

JUSTICE

To work toward a just order in our immediate environment and in the larger society.

“…that in all things God may be glorified.” RB 57

LISTENING

To hear keenly and sensitively the voices of persons and all created beings.

“Listen… with the ear of your heart.” RB Prologue

MODERATION

To be content with living simply and finding balance in work, prayer, and leisure.

“All things are to be done with moderation.”  RB 48

PEACE

To strive for peace on all levels: with self, others and God.

“…seek after peace and pursue it.”  RB Prologue

RESPECT FOR PERSONS

To respect each person regardless of class, background or professional skill.

“No one is to pursue what is judged best for oneself, but instead, what is better for someone else.”  RB 72

STABILITY

To cultivate rootedness and a shared sense of mission.

“To stand firm in one’s promises.”  RB 58

STEWARDSHIP

To appreciate and to care lovingly for all the goods of this place.

“Regard all utensils as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar.”  RB 31

Br. Luke Ditewig

Psalm 115:1-10

I have gotten water in my ear while swimming. Muffled, it took a lot more effort to hear and pay attention. Remember what it’s like to lose part of your perception.

The psalmist tonight says idols, gods which humans make, are not worth worship. “They have mouths but do not speak; eyes, but do not see.” Idols cannot perceive. Don’t trust them, says the psalmist. Rather, “you who fear the Lord, trust in the Lord.”

Likewise, God speaks through the prophet Hosea, not about other nations but God’s own people. “With silver and gold they made idols for their own destruction. … an artisan made it; it is not God.” Focused on what they made, our ancestors did not perceive. It’s like their ears were full, muffled to God’s voice.

We make idols when focusing on something or someone instead of God. We can make an idol out of anything: out of person by overly seeking their approval or appreciation or time, out of work, hobbies, wealth, possessions, or avocation. It’s not so much what but how we use it, or how much we focus on it.

In our Gospel lesson Jesus sees and focuses on people in need. “When [Jesus] saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” I keep finding myself like a lost sheep both by the grief and trouble of the world and because I am distracted, not focused on Jesus. I have idols that impair my perception and wounds that hinders me. We keep needing Jesus.

What is on your heart tonight? What hurts? What do you need? What is muffling or getting in the way? The good news is Jesus is alive with power and compassion to nourish and heal again and again. “You who fear the Lord, trust in the Lord.” Jesus is God made flesh, who clearly perceives with love.

Mark 6:1-13

About thirty years ago, we Brothers went through a period of renewal. We were stuck, and we knew it. It was difficult for us to make decisions. We were busy all the time, but it seemed, we were mostly busy spinning our wheels. We didn’t know which direction we wanted to go, and we weren’t even sure how, or who, would decide that. We were stuck, and we knew it. Luckily, we also knew that something needed to change. We weren’t sure what, but we knew we could not go on like that. And so, we asked around. What had other people and organizations done in similar situations? Eventually we were led to a woman named Jean. Jean walked into our life one day, and while there were countless times when we all wished she would walk right back out, she and we persisted, and we’ve never been the same.

Thirty years later, all of us who were here then, still speak of her. Brothers who were not here, certainly know of her. She is perhaps quoted, and referred to, only slightly less frequently than Father Benson. Ask some of us, and we all have our favourite Jean story.

One of the things that was eye opening for me, was the day Jean introduced us to the concept of frozen roles.

Jean’s point was that we often cannot see what another is doing, or saying, because we think we know what they will do, or say, even before they do, or say it. She always reacts this way. He always does that. I don’t need to bother listening because I already know what they will say. We freeze people, and even ourselves, into certain patterns, and we don’t allow them to break out, or to be different than how we expect them to be.

The dynamics of frozen roles are perhaps most prevalent in families, small work situations, and dare I say it, monastic communities, where members have known one another over decades. Here he goes again, we say to ourselves. How many times have I heard this in the last 10, 20, 30 years? I don’t need to listen. I already know what he will say.

Today in Mark’s gospel, the author paints a classic picture of frozen roles. Jesus comes home, after having been away for some time. At first, everyone is thrilled.

[Jesus] … came to his hometown …. On the sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded. They said, ‘Where did this man get all this? What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands![1]

The hometown crowd is impressed and astounded with his words and deeds of wisdom and power. But that astonishment quickly turns bitter. No longer do they see the man Jesus has become. They can only see the one they think they knew from before. Suddenly the past catches up and the wise teacher becomes the simple carpenter.

Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?’[2]

In an instant, small town jealousies freeze Jesus into roles that are as predictable and safe, as they are familiar. It seems all he could do in the face of their offence, was to lay his hands on a few sick people and [cure] them,[3] before leaving town.

Frozen roles and frozen expectations quench possibilities and stifle innovation. In the end if you stay there, everyone gets stuck, and no one can move. Patterns of behaviour and response are frozen, as are the relationships around them. Luckily, Jesus had the force of will, and that’s what it takes sometimes to get unfrozen, sheer force of will, and even the courage, to move on and leave town, amazed at their unbelief.[4]

Once he left town and escapes his former neighbours’ preconceived notions and frozen roles, amazing things began to happen.

He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits… So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.[5]

Sometimes it takes a force of will and sheer courage to break out of a frozen role. Sometimes it takes a new leader, or, as in our case, the election of a new Superior.

Like people and organizations, monastic communities can become frozen. They can become frozen by expectations, both internal and external. We always do things this way. They always do things that way. We expect people, and organizations, and individuals, and monastic communities to behave or react in certain ways, because that is how history has repeatedly shown them to react. Until they don’t. When they don’t, expectations are tuned upside down, and strange, new, sometimes upsetting, and sometimes quite wonderful things happen.

The history of SSJE has been marked by a series of events when we broke out of certain frozen roles, both individual and communal.

The first frozen role that was shattered occurred in 1890 when Father Benson, our Founder, and until then our only Superior stepped down as Superior and moved away from Oxford for newly a decade. From our founding in 1866 until the 1880’s it had been unthinkable that Father Benson would resign as Superior. It was assumed that only death would remove him from that role. But by the late 1880’s the community was in crisis. The professed members were leaving in droves, and those who came to test their vocations stayed for only a short time before they too left. The atmosphere was gloomy, depressed, and discouraged. Father Benson famously declared that a religious community should not exist for more than one generation. The community and Father Benson were frozen into a certain mindset that said the end of SSJE in their lifetime was inevitable.

Fortunately, Father Congreve did not believe that, and he slowly convinced Father Benson to step down. In 1890 Father Page was elected Superior, and in a few years things turned around. Men came and stayed. Soon a new and larger monastery and church were built to accommodate the growing community. Roles which had been frozen were unfrozen, and new and wonderful things began to happen.

Another occasion when roles were unfrozen happened towards the end of the First World War. For decades the Brothers here in Boston had been advocating for the establishment of an independent American Congregation. This move towards independence was resisted tooth and nail by the community in Oxford. In fact, things got so bad it seemed at one point that the house in Boston would be closed, and the work here in this country shut down. When word of this leaked out, a great hew and cry went out from across the Episcopal Church and the Superior General was flooded with pleas to keep the work here going. About the same time, Father Bull, an Englishman who had served for several years at the Mission House on Bowdoin Street was recalled to England where he was elected Superior General. Knowing the situation in Boston and the United States firsthand, he took steps which resulted in the creation of an independent American Congregation in 1921. With autonomy from the English Congregation came vocations, and new work was opened in San Francisco, Canada, Japan, New York, and right here on Memorial Drive. Roles which had been frozen were unfrozen, and new and wonderful things began to happen.

Another occasion when roles were unfrozen happened in the early 1970’s, with the election of Paul Wessinger as Superior. Again, the community was in crisis. Men were coming to test their vocations, but more men were leaving. They left in droves in the 1960’s and 1970’s. Some left because they perceived us to be too liberal. Others left because we were thought to be too conservative. At one point the novitiate was closed, and it was expected that we would simply die. But in 1972 Paul was elected Superior and he took the risk to change thing. The novitiate was reopened. We adopted the 1979 Book of Common Prayer as our standard for worship. Women were welcomed into the choir and guesthouse, to name a few. Roles which had been frozen were unfrozen, and new and wonderful things began to happen.

I believe we are in such a time.

The world and Church are in crisis: economically, environmentally, demographically, politically. No matter how well certain patterns of behaviour have served us in the past, they may, or may not, serve us in the future. The world is a different place than when Father Benson, or Father Page, or Father Bull, or Brother Paul, or even when I became Superior. The Church is a different place than when Father Benson, or Father Page, or Father Bull, or Brother Paul, or even when I became Superior. If we are to serve the Church and the world in the years to come, we cannot simply do what we have always done. If SSJE is to survive, and thrive, and serve the Church and the world in the years to come, we cannot simply do what we have always done. We cannot afford to remain frozen. We need to take the risk to change.

In a few weeks the Brothers will elect a new Superior, and things will change. Things are already changing. They will change because whoever we elect is not me, nor will he be a James clone (and that is a good thing). Nor will he be Paul, or Father Bull, or Father Page or Father Benson. And that is a good thing. We are not living in 1866, or 1890, or 1921, or 1972, or even 2016. Things will also change because whoever we elect will be under the age of 55 and might even be in his 30’s or 40’s. Whoever we elect will have only been in the community since about 2009 and will only really have known either Geoffrey or me in this role of Superior. That alone will cause roles to be unfrozen, and things to change.

It takes a great deal of courage to break out of frozen roles. I cannot imagine how difficult that conversation was when Father Congreve told Father Benson it was time to step down. I cannot imagine the risk Father Bull or Paul took when they set a revolution in motion. Everything could have gone wrong. The resistance could have been so great, and the freeze so deep, that nothing might have changed, and like the residents of Nazareth, they could have been dragged to the cliff to be thrown over by the Brothers. But instead, roles which had been frozen were unfrozen, and new and wonderful things began to happen.

In the days and months ahead, our task, the task of the Brothers, the task of the new Superior, even your task as our friends and those who pray for us, is to pray for the gifts of courage and of hope. Courage to do things differently, because the world is different, the Church is different, and all of us are different. And hope to remember that the future, the world’s future, the Church’s future, and our future belong to God who promises to meet us in whatever the future will bring for remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.[6]

I must say that I have never so eagerly anticipated the election of a Superior as I do at this very moment. It is not that I am ready to lay down this role, and pass it on to someone else, although that is certainly true. Rather, it is because I am excited about our future, and the expectation that God’s promise to meet us there will be fulfilled in new and wonderful ways.

[1] Mark: 6: 1 – 2

[2] Mark 6: 3

[3] Matthew 6: 5

[4] Matthew 6: 6

[5] Matthew 6: 7, 12 – 13

[6] Matthew 28:20

Br. Lucas Hall

Matthew 8:23-27

“What sort of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?” That question, I believe, strikes at the heart of Matthew’s gospel. Matthew’s intent in all his gospel is to focus on Jesus as the fulfillment of the prophets. He deliberately emphasizes the ways Jesus inverts expectations of the looked-for messianic figure, and seems to quite delight in tying these inversions together. When we compare this with our first reading from the prophet Amos, we see the lines of comparison Matthew draws; he does not view Jesus as simply another prophet. In Amos, God acts, and speaks, and the prophets listen, and prophesy to these acts. Here, Matthew depicts Jesus as the one who speaks and acts. And this message, this action, this intent is not simply to Israel, nor is it simply to humanity; the winds and sea obey, or more literally from the Greek, they hearken, they listen and follow.

It should be no surprise that Matthew views Jesus in this way; the idea that he has command over all Creation puts us in the mind of even the Genesis creation stories, where all is brought into being by the proclamation of God. It should be noted that these creation stories have a highly theological purpose; they closely line up with other similar stories among various contemporary religions, but they affirm the creation comes from a singular God. The various aspects of creation are not treated as individual beings to pay homage to, but equally created, and so equally under the sway, of the one God. And so Matthew depicts Christ in this way.

“What sort of man is this?” I don’t often like to get too in the weeds of the Greek or Hebrew translations of Scripture, but this matters here. The Greek word used is most literally translated as a question about where this man is from. From where, from what country or region or place, is this person, exactly, that he’s able to do something so bizarre? I am put in mind of John’s Gospel narrative, of Jesus before Pilate; when the crowd tells him Jesus claims to be the son of God, the pagan polytheist Pilate is quite willing to accept this possibility. And he, “ more afraid than ever…again…asked Jesus, ‘Where are you from?’ But Jesus gave him no answer.” There is an awe-filled otherworldliness to Jesus in these moments, something tangibly real and tangibly other, not just an ordinary person, indeed, not just an extraordinary person. There’s something deeper, beating at the heart of this man.

I want to point out that these encounters are not comfortable or joyous; they are fearful. We can imagine these people around Jesus with goosebumps up and down their arms, with hair standing on end, with heart hammering in their chest. I worry we, in a wealthy, educated, powerful culture and society, are more liable to forget that aspect of God than most. An encounter with God should push us, at least a little bit. It should surprise us, at least a little bit. It should bewilder us, at least a little bit. An encounter with God is an encounter with power not our own, beyond our own, something that should cause us to stop and pay attention, to be broken open, to kneel. This experience, even if frightening and uncomfortable, should assure us that this God is no mere idol of our own comfortable desires, no mere tool we’ve mastered, but living and active, with evermore to show us, teach us, and welcome us into, even if our steps forward are trembling ones. “Prepare to meet your God!” Amos admonishes. So we do, whenever we take that trembling step.Po

Br. Jack Crowley

Mark 5:21-43

One of the many things I love about Jesus is that he knew how to work a crowd. Jesus dealt with crowds all the time. Crowds to be fed, crowds to be healed, crowds trying to anoint him king, crowds trying to arrest him, and finally a crowd who crucified him. Jesus knew crowds.

These crowds were not just crowded with people, they were crowded with meaning. Everywhere Jesus went, people tried to figure out what Jesus meant. Jesus’ words, actions, and very being were jammed with meaning. The crowds around Jesus unloaded all sorts of expectations, baggage, and misunderstandings onto what Jesus meant. Yet through it all, Jesus just kept on healing.

Jesus kept on healing, because healing cuts through the crowd. Healing has the power to unite a crowd. Healing even has the power to make us love a crowd.

Our Gospel this morning is a perfect example of the power of healing. We are told by the Gospel writer that Jesus was being followed by a large crowd and that the crowd was pressing in on him. That’s a powerful image.

Try to imagine how that must have felt for Jesus. To be walking along and have this frenzied crowd all around you, pressing in on you. It really must have been jolting.

Jesus was not just going for a casual stroll, he was on his way to heal the daughter of a local religious leader. As the famous story goes, a woman who had been suffering from bleeding for twelve years was in that crowd pressing upon Jesus. She believed that if she could just touch Jesus’ cloak, she would be made well, and it worked. It worked. She was made well.

Jesus and the bleeding woman had the same focus, healing. Amid that frenzied crowd, their focus on healing united them, even if just for a moment. Yet that moment of healing was clearly life changing.

 We’ve all had some experience like this before. Some brush with the power of healing. It’s an experience that stays with you. It’s important that we hold on to those experiences and cherish them.

I can’t help but remember a bizarre knee injury I had in my senior year of college. I was just a few weeks away from graduating, and I woke up one morning in my dorm room and my left knee had swollen very badly. It was swollen so much, there were actually no curves to it. It looked as if my thigh, knee, and calf had become one big lump of flesh. I remember leaning over the side of my bed, unable to put much pressure on my leg, and thinking oh boy this isn’t good.

Eventually I ended up in a hospital room with a crowd of doctors poking and prodding me all over. I was scared because it seemed like all the doctors had the same confused look on their faces, which is something you never want to see on a doctor. It felt like every minute that passed, there was a new specialist in the hospital room and the crowd around my bedside kept growing. I was sweating profusely and my head was pounding with a fever.

I just remember growing all tense and getting more and more stressed as the room got more and more crowded and my mind raced. Then something changed. It could have been the painkillers they gave me, but I remember thinking to myself Oh God, heal me. It felt like that prayer came from the core of my being. Oh God, heal me. I remember I focused on the energy behind those words and how it made me feel. It felt like those words were becoming more than words. It was as if they had power that I could feel unfolding.

As I prayed and prayed, that crowd around my bed felt like less of a crowd. It felt more like a group of people who were focused on the same thing I was focused on. Healing. I didn’t know a single thing about them, but for a moment, I knew them.

We are all a part of a crowd. That great crowd of humanity pressing in upon Jesus. Thank God Jesus knows how to work a crowd. He knows what to do with us. He is working through us. He feels us just as we feel him.

We feel Jesus because we want to. It’s a desire deep in our hearts to be closer to God. We want to be closer to God, just as God wants to be closer to us.

We all want to feel well and to be made well. Jesus makes it clear what makes us well. Faith.

Faith is that unrelenting belief in God. That constant returning day after day to the grace of God. That belief that there is something far greater than ourselves, far greater than this crowd of ours.

We abide in our faith because it is our lifeblood. It’s the thing that keeps us going. It’s the thing that makes us feel alive.

This human journey of ours is not easy. God chose to take this journey with us, becoming incarnate and walking the same difficult path through life that we walk. We faithfully walk this difficult path, even when we are exhausted. We faithfully walk it because we know we are on the right path. We know what we are doing is good.

What we are doing is good and the world needs us. We live in a time when confusion and uncertainty are the norm. Stress seems to be in the very air around us. Such a crowded atmosphere makes it hard to breathe.

We do not shy away from these challenges. We are humbly bold and ask God for help. We look to one another, that great crowd of humanity, and try our best to work together and heal.

The Christian life is a life that demands courage and stamina. We will get wounded along the way. Yet we keep healing, and we show off our scars as proof that change is possible.

Br. David Vryhof

Ezekiel 34:11-16

We stand today in the presence of two of the giants of our faith: the Apostles Peter and Paul.  No one has had a more profound influence on the Christian faith and on the Church than these two men.  Both of them have their own feast – Peter on January 18 for his confession of Jesus as the Messiah and Paul on January 25 for his conversion – but they are commemorated together on this day, June 29, because of the Church’s tradition that they both died as martyrs in Rome during the persecution under Nero in the year 64.  Today we observe them as martyrs for the faith.

They are very different figures: Peter was a simple man, not highly educated and possibly illiterate, a fisherman from Galilee.  Paul was an extremely well-educated, cosmopolitan Jew who was also a Roman citizen.  He was from a notable family line and had received an excellent education.  The two men didn’t always agree.  Peter was the chief ambassador to Jewish believers, while Paul focused his efforts on winning Gentiles to the faith.  Peter was centered in Jerusalem and the surrounding area, while Paul’s missions extended throughout Asia Minor and even to Rome.  One of their most heated conflicts was around the question of whether Gentile believers ought to comply with Jewish law.  Yet, their commitment to Christ and to the proclamation of the Gospel enabled them to overcome their differences.  Both were zealous to the end.  The tradition holds that Peter was crucified, upside-down, and that Paul, because he was a Roman citizen, was beheaded rather than crucified.

What strikes me most about the two of them is that, despite being “giants of the faith” whose lives and witness were crucial to the early Church’s growth and development, they were both imperfect men, at times fallible and weak.

Peter stands out for his courage and zeal – see him drawing a sword to defend Jesus in Gethsemane’s garden – and yet we know that at times he was afraid.  One day he boldly proclaims that Jesus is the Messiah; but the next he denies that he even knows the man.  Like the rest of the Twelve, he often doesn’t “get it,” and, like them, he abandons Jesus at the hour of his death.  He becomes a bold and fearless witness to the Gospel after Pentecost – but always carried with him the memory of his three-fold denial.

Paul was educated, wise and insightful, a brilliant apologist for the faith and a powerful preacher, yet he could never escape the fact that he was one of the Church’s earliest persecutors.  Both men were giants of the faith who had significant blemishes on their records.

That both men were powerful at times and vulnerable and weak at other times, I take as a great consolation for us.  We, too, have been zealous believers, perhaps even fearless, at times – and at other times full of weakness, doubt and fear.  We have been at times confident and strong in our calling, and at other times wavering and uncertain.  We know what it is to act faithfully, and we know what it is to fail to rise up to our calling.

The wonder is that God has chosen us and continues to use us as agents for God’s work in the world, the bringing in of the Kingdom of God.  These charismatic figures inspire us by their example and their willingness to suffer for the sake of Christ.  They challenge us to take up the mission of God day by day, continually renewing our commitment to Christ and fanning into flames our zeal for the Good News.  Today is another day to push forward, to renew the promises we have made, to recommit ourselves to the life and work of a disciple, and to lean wholly on the power of God’s Spirit, who strengthens us for the battle.  Humbly but courageously, we press on.