Br. James Koester

Vincent of Saragossa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[2] The Book of Common Prayer, 365.

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

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

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

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

Br. Jack Crowley

The Second Sunday after the Epiphany

John 1:29-42

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Br. David Vryhof

James 1:2-6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Br. Curtis Almquist

Hilary of Poitiers

Luke 15:1-7

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

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

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

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

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

Blessed Hilary whom we remember today.

[1] Matthew 2:1-12.

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

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

Br. Jonathan Maury

1 John 3:1-3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of this only possible with God as my helper.

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

Br. Jamie Nelson

1 John 4:7-12

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

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

So what does it tell us about love?

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

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

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

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

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

So how can we respond to this knowing?

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

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

Amen.

Br. Luke Ditewig

The Second Sunday after Christmas Day

Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23

If the Christmas story was a family picture album, what would be first? Luke begins with Zechariah and Elizabeth, an old, barren couple. Matthew begins with a genealogy notably including four courageous women: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba. Their stories and that of sinful husbands Judah and David are scandalous. The four are foreigners. Jesus’ bloodline is not only Jewish but also Canaanite, Moabite, and Hittite. They show Jesus came for the world from the world, from diverse peoples.[1]

Matthew’s next picture is of wise men from the East, magi, foreign astrologers who come to worship Jesus by what they have learned by studying stars, not scripture. Like the four women, they were outsiders. As Ray Bakke wrote, God came through a mixed-race family with a foreign welcome party, God in flesh for all humanity.[2]

When the magi leave, God tells Joseph in a dream to flee to Egypt to save his family. This echoes to the Old Testament. From Egypt, Joseph saved his family. Hidden in Egypt as an infant from Pharaoh, Moses grew up to lead Joseph’s numerous descendants out of Egypt in the Exodus. Matthew shows Jesus’ birth echoes God’s larger story and the prophets.

Matthew quotes prophet Hosea 11:1: “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” Matthew writes Jesus fulfills this. Jesus embodies it further. God chose and loved a people—Israel—to bless the whole world. Then more encompassing God sent Jesus to bless and save the whole world. The Exodus from Egypt was the highlight of God’s saving power for Israel. Now Jesus is saved from Herod by coming out of Egypt.

When Joseph and family left Egypt, God directed them twice by dreams. Joseph took Jesus and Mary to Israel planning to return to Bethlehem of Judah. But when they heard Herod’s son was ruling, they went up north to Galilee to the small, little-known village of Nazareth. Matthew writes: “so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, ‘He will be called a Nazorean.’” We don’t know the source of this quotation.

Some suggest Matthew refers to Isaiah as Matthew does elsewhere describing Jesus humble and lowly.[3] Isaiah wrote: “For he grew up before him like a young plant, and like a root out of dry ground; he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. . . . he was despised, and we held him of no account” (Isaiah 53:2, 3b).

Dale Bruner suggests Nazareth is the dry ground from which Jesus came up with nothing appealing and of which people expected nothing. [4] We know Nazareth because children took the name of their birth, and so Jesus of Nazareth. Yet it was very small and obscure from which little was expected. As Nathanial said, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:6).

Like being laid in a manger, being from Nazareth was humbling. By fleeing oppression, losing home, restarting in new places including far from where one wanted to be, Jesus grew up, as we sang: “with the poor, the scorned, the lowly.”[5] Jesus identifies with us in our diversity, obscurity, and vulnerability. The Incarnate Christ comes humbly, meeting all children of Eve in our suffering, poverty, and weakness, in our losses and grief. This is God who comes so closely, who fully identifies with us and gives grace, unmerited favor.

As when lifted high upon the cross, Christ comes like this to draw in the whole world to himself (John 12:32). In this birth, grace comes amid scandal and sin. Grace comes amid diversity, obscurity, and messy stories. Grace is shared through improbable people: courageous grandmothers and surprising visitors, unexpected neighbors and strangers in Egypt and Nazareth.

Christ comes further this Christmas amid our violent and needy world, amid our suffering and vulnerability. Behold and see, the One comes for us, who identifies with what we need, and gives grace. Whether at home chosen or fled to, with whatever we lack, behold Christ Incarnate, here with grace for all.

[1] R. Bakke, A Theology as Big as the City (Downers Grove, IL: 1997), 125.

[2] R. Bakke, A Biblical Word for an Urban World: Messages from the 1999 World Mission Conference (Valley Forge, PA: 1999), 54.

[3] F. D. Bruner, Matthew, A Commentary, Volume 1 (Dallas, 1987), 62.

[4] Ibid., 61.

[5] “Once in royal David’s city,” The Hymnal 1982, no. 102, words by Cecil Frances Alexander (alt.). This is our Entrance Hymn today.

Br. Curtis Almquist

1 John 3:1-6

The opening verb in our reading from the First Letter of John is revealing: “See.” “See,” also translated as “Behold,” which is to look, to notice, to pay attention, to remember![1] Remember! If we do not draw on memory from our past, we are vulnerable to living our lives superficially, simply reacting to the bombardment of media and advertisements and requests coming at us all the time. Living our lives reactively is whiplash to the soul.

Rather, living our lives reflectively, meditatively, responsively draws from a much deeper well. The English word “meditation” comes from the Latin, meditari, which is to rehearse one’s lines. “Meditation can be seen as a kind of rehearsal for the unknown future.” I’m drawing here on the insight of the Dominican, Simon Tugwell.[2]  Reserving space every day to meditate in God’s presence will make a world of difference. It’s to listen to, reflect on, consider, devise, rehearse one’s lines in the face of life, regardless of what stage on which we find ourselves. Make space every day, make some space however brief or long, to meditate in God’s presence to find your way.

So our reading from the First Epistle of John begins with, “See what love the Father has given us.” “See!” “See!” Notice God’s presence now. Of course, God’s presence is always present, even in our past. God is always now. God’s presence is always present. To meditate will mediate our life. Meditating on the gift of our life – which is remembering, retrieving, rehearsing God’s presence in our past and into our present – will help give us our lines and show us the way as we follow Christ into the future.[3]

[1] This Greek verb ἴδετε (“see” or “behold”) appears nine times in the New Testament.

[2] S. Tugwell, OP, Prayer: Living with God (Springfield, IL, 1975).

[3] To meditate is to remember, recover, retrieve, rehearse our lives, e.g.: “Their delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law they meditate day and night” (Psalm 1:2); “when I think of you on my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night” (Psalm 63:6); “You shall put these words of mine in your heart and soul, and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and fix them as an emblem on your forehead. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise” (Deuteronomy 11:18-19); and “The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you” (John 14:26).

Br. Jack Crowley

The Holy Innocents

Matthew 2:13-18

Today we observe the Feast of the Holy Innocents. We remember all the children slain by King Herod in his attempt to murder Jesus. I know to observe this feast in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas can feel like emotional whiplash, but in my experience, it is always healthy to remember and respect the blood that has been spilt for us to be here today.

In my own prayer life, every year on this feast, I take some to reflect on fear. I think it’s safe to say that King Herod was filled with fear. King Herod feared a baby. I know for a grown man, never mind a king, to fear a baby sounds ridiculous, but it is true. Herod feared that the baby Jesus would grow up and take away his power. King Herod acted on that fear, and the consequences were horrific and violent.

We all deal with the consequences of fear. We deal with the consequences of own fears and the fears of those in power. Fear coupled with power can result in violence. This violence has shaped the course of human history, and affects our own lives on a daily basis.

Every year on this day, I turn inward and try to find, confront, and heal the King Herod inside of myself. I ask myself when I have been so full of fear that my heart hardened and turned toward violence? When in my thoughts and my feelings have I been so full of fear that the chatter of my soul was violent? When I have acted like my own little tyrant, seeking to control everything and hold on to every ounce of power that I have?

You may have noticed in all these questions, God doesn’t appear a single time. That’s one of the worst, if not the worst, consequences of fear. In times of fear, we often forget about God and focus on ourselves. We need to be reminded to remember about God. That is the only way we can begin to heal from all this fear.

Every day in my own prayer life, I also take some time to pray for the leaders of the world, especially the ones I did not vote for. I pray that they be given the same opportunities for healing from fear that God has given me in my own life. I pray that whatever traumas they have endured, whatever fears they hold in their hearts, and whatever world view they have that may be warped by violence, that they all may be softened by the grace of God.

It’s important to remember that King Herod had the violent power of a first-century-CE army, but two thousand years later, our leaders have access to nuclear bombs. The potential for the violent consequences of fear mixed with power has never been higher. The importance of our prayer life and our continual turning toward peace and God have never been more important.

Above all else, remember that from the cradle to the crucifix, powerful people were bent on destroying Jesus. They all failed. The power of God is beyond us all. Thank God for that.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Saint Stephen, Deacon and Martyr

Acts 6:8-7:2a, 51c-60

The first generation of Christians in Jerusalem was comprised of two groups of Jews: the native Palestinians, and those who were outliers, sometimes called “the Dispersion” because they had been born and raised while “dispersed” into other countries. Their native tongue was Greek, and so they were called “the Hellenists.” Rivalry existed between these two groups, and converts to Christ brought their respective history with them. The Greek-speaking members were convinced that their widows and the other poor were not getting a fair share of the community’s food and financial support. To resolve the problem, the apostles appointed seven of the Hellenists to administer the Church’s resources and to care for its poor. Among the appointees was young man named Stephen. He ministered as a deacon in the Church.[1]

Stephen is described in the Acts of the Apostles as “a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit.”[2] He was an administrator, he preached, and he exhibited a charismatic authority. His ministry was miraculous. It was also conflictual. He came into conflict with the Jews who shared his own Greek-speaking background. They accused him of blasphemy, and dragged him before the Council which enforced the law of Moses. Stephen denounced them. He was silenced by being stoned to death, and he is remembered as the first martyr of the Church.

Here’s the after-story. Stephen’s martyrdom caused an enormous fear among the Christian community in Jerusalem, and many fled from Jerusalem. For the first time, the Gospel of Jesus Christ began to spread worldwide. Good came out of this undeniably tragic circumstance, which is a redemption. The English word redemption comes from the Latin, redemptio, which is when something that has been spent, lost, used, broken, wasted, or seemingly dead comes back to life in a new way. Stephen’s shed blood proved to be a life stream for the young church.

Redemption was also evidenced in the life of a conspirator who was present and consenting to Stephen’s murder: a Pharisee named Saul. Saul was deeply affected by Stephen’s death. Saul converted to Christ, was given a new name – Paul – and became the most ardent missionary and most prolific author of the entire New Testament scriptures. We see evidence of redemption when Paul writes about the suffering he both caused and later personally experienced. Paul asks, rhetorically, “Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword? . . . We are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.” His answer. Nothing, nothing, nothing will separate us from the love of God shown in Christ Jesus our Lord. [3]

Where does redemption figure into your own life story? In my own experience, many of the strongest formative influences in my life seemed deformative at the time. In earlier years, my sense of loss, fear, uncertainty, anguish, or anger was too consuming for me to see how many-an-insufferable circumstance could ever come to any good. And yet, looking backwards, I realize so many gifts have come from what only had seemed like debris, and I am so thankful.

And for you. Dust off your memory. You may discover in the discarded rubble of your past there are some precious gifts to be claimed from your earlier life. That would be redemption. I am not suggesting to smile on tragedy; however, I am saying that life’s cure is very slow, and that thankfulness is most appreciated and most appropriated when we turn around and look backwards on our life.

Blessed Paul, who learned from blessed Stephen, both of whom giving witness and encouragement to us about the gift of redemption.

[1] Saint Stephen’s history informed by S. J. Reynolds, For All the Saints: Prayers and Readings for Saints’ Days (Toronto, 1994), 228-29.

[2] Acts 6:8-7:2a, 51c-60.

[3] Saint Paul writes, “Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than victorious through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:35-39).