SSJE Sermons

Br. Lain Wilson

Luke 16:19-31

Today’s Gospel lesson at first glance seems straightforward: you get what you give, Scripture’s guidance is clear, therefore you should change your ways. What more do you need? I for sure don’t feel myself to be living a life like the rich man, so I guess I’m doing okay?

But when I look at the shape of my life, when I examine my own actions and inactions, my thoughts and feelings and attitudes and prejudices, I find myself, inevitably and endlessly, falling short of the mark. I may not be the rich man lording my wealth and status over poor Lazarus, but I’m not innocent.

And I could say that I, and we all, participate in inescapable systemic evil, but that just disguises a simpler truth: countless times each day, each hour, I both know and feel myself to be mired in the endless array of “little sins,” of the kind that Saint Augustine confesses and likens to birdlime, snaring us unawares with the subtlety, we might say now, of Scotch tape.[1] These little sins, in aggregate, result in a growing distance in my relationships with God, with my neighbors, with myself, and with all of creation around me.

I’d like to think of myself as a good person, and I also know and feel the truth of this sin, of this distance. Saint Paul, in his letter to the Romans, expresses this better than I can: “I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do” (Romans 7:18-19). This feels exactly right, and not just in my body – which is Paul’s focus – but in my imagination and attitudes and emotions – in my whole self.

I know I can choose not to be the rich man in his grossest outrages, but I also know that my own will and agency are ultimately insufficient to rise above not only the systemic evil that we all swim in, but even, and especially, my own little sins. So as I hear again this parable this morning, I receive some comfort from Jeremiah: “Cursed are those . . . who make mere flesh their strength. . . . Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord” (Jeremiah 17:5, 7). We might easily substitute “will” or “power” or “self-sufficiency” for “flesh.”

My trust – our trust – is that this “great chasm” is not fixed and uncrossable, but that Jesus Christ has bridged it, has closed the distance in our relationships. “Wretched man that I am!” Saint Paul continues. “Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:24-25). My trust – our trust – is that God will be merciful to me, to us, sinners all, great and small, who come forth in penitence.

Amen.

[1] I am grateful to Peter Brown for sharing this modern image in a seminar decades ago.

Br. Jack Crowley

Matthew 23:1-12

Many years ago, my confessor gave me a tough homework assignment. My assignment was to get over myself. To get over myself and pray with the last line from our Gospel passage tonight, where Jesus tells us, “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

My homework assignment came after I had spent a long time waxing poetically with my confessor about my sins, my shortcomings, all the mistakes I had made in the past, and so on. My confessor looked me in the eye and asked if I thought that God wanted me to think about myself as much as I did, especially my past. I must admit I was tongue tied in my response.

I’ve always been grateful for that homework assignment because it led to years of me praying about humility. What I’ve come to learn in my time as a monk and in especially with getting to meet so many people here, is that genuine humility is not what I thought it was.

To humble yourself is not an invitation to beat yourself up. To humble yourself is not an invitation to be a doormat for other people to walk over and never stand up for yourself. To humble yourself is not an invitation to obsess over yourself.

To humble yourself is to have a genuine and realistic understanding of who you are. To come to know that we are all somewhere in the middle, neither too high nor too low. As boring and unexciting as this may seem, genuine humility creates space for us to serve God. When we are not busy dredging up our past or stuck in our own heads playing our mistakes on repeat, there’s a lot more room for love.

Jesus, who knows the hearts of all people, knows what we think about ourselves. He is right there with us in our journey toward genuine humility. He is there to lift us up when we are down and bring us back down to earth when we fly too high.

To live life somewhere in the middle can feel countercultural. In today’s world, we often crave superlatives, to be the best, the greatest, the most liked, the most viewed, etc. To live in the middle with God is to skirt the temptations of the extreme. This is a boundary we establish in our hearts and live out with our daily lives.

In all honesty, I’m not sure if I ever really completed my homework assignment or if that’s even possible. What I do know is that our walk with God lasts for a lifetime. One day, I will take my last breath, and this servant will be set free. Until then, I intend to serve God.

Br. Luke Ditewig

The Second Sunday in Lent

Genesis 12:1-4a

A woman and her young daughter move into a French village and open a chocolate shop. The mayor urges residents to keep away and not each chocolate because it is Lent. With kindness, generosity, radical welcome, listening presence, and great chocolate, the woman slowly ushers healing into many people and relationships, ultimately the mayor and town. The 2000 film Chocolat starring Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp tells this story.

The mayor was convinced he knew what was right and good and that he acted out of duty. Yet fasting was distorted into a legalistic rigidity and a sense of earning God’s favor. He treated his community and himself with restriction and condemnation. Many of us have received an image of God who is a harsh and stern authority with a pointing finger demanding an apology. Lent with fasting and kneeling on marble might trigger that image.

Remember how we began the liturgy. “Let us come to the Lord who is full of compassion.” Lent does not begin with confession. Lent begins with love. Lent is like a retreat with the purpose to reclaim, renew, and refresh our identity as children whom God loves. Retreat, Lenten fasting and discipline, and our different order for Lenten worship is all rooted in the love of God who calls us beloved.

Nicodemus, a prominent leader, came to Jesus sounding confident. “We know who you are.” We know what is possible and impossible. By what you’re doing, “you must be a teacher from God.” Jesus replied, “No one can see the kingdom without being born from above.” How is that possible? Nicodemus asked. “Can one enter the womb again?”

Nicodemus came at night, a sign that he’s in the dark, that he cannot see, and does not know. Jesus gives images that push the bounds of expectation and imagination. Life with God is being born from above, born anew. We keep needing to be saved from our limits, graced by expansion from power beyond. Being born again is not a one-time act nor an individual’s decision. It is receiving from the heavenly Breath we cannot see or comprehend. As for all new life, birth is a gift received.

Abraham struggled waiting to see God’s promise. God had said: “Leave country and your family. I will give you a huge family to bless the world.” Abraham was about 100 years old, and Sarah, his wife, was barren. Paul wrote to the Romans that Abraham was justified by faith not by works, not by his own effort or merit. Paul quotes Genesis 15:6 that Abraham’s faith “‘was reckoned to him as righteousness.’”

In Genesis 15, years had passed without Abraham receiving a son. God appears and says: “Don’t be afraid. I am your shield. Your reward will be very great.” Abraham responds: What will you give me? I still don’t have a child, so a slave born in my house is to be my heir.”[1] Is Abraham loud shaking his fist or slumping dejectedly while groaning about his Plan B? I imagine both.

God replies: “No, my promise is true. I will give you your own son. Look up. See these stars. Your descendants will be this numerous.” The text then says Abraham “believed the Lord, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.”[2] Did Abraham begin to believe afterward? No, it was throughout. Believing God, having faith in what is not seen, being reborn, includes doubts, pushing back and questioning, fist shaking, slumping, and groaning.

God called Abraham into a promise beyond imagination took long patience, first for a son, and then through his life. In Genesis there are seven episodes showing Abraham and God which illustrate “a lifetime of developing response.”[3] Abraham is slowly or repeatedly reborn from self-reliance to trust in God, from striving to make a name for himself to generously being blessing for others.[4]

Do you identify with Nicodemus or with Abraham in that Jesus and divine promises seem impossible and confusing? How are you trapped or caught, distanced from God or others or yourself? What needs saving now? What might be the invitation to expand your imagination and trust that God is real good and loving? God might come at night pointing to stars as grace or welcomes you at night in your fear and confusion. Perhaps the Spirit comes in a kind stranger with listening presence and chocolate in Lent.

As we shall sing, God is “a spendthrift lover . . . who never counts the cost or asks if heaven can afford to woo a world that’s lost. . . . behold the bruised and thorn-crowned face of one who bears our scars   and empties out the wealth of grace that’s hinted by the stars.” [5]

What’s ours to do? Accept love. Accept this grace, this gift.[6] Being born anew is ours to receive as God keeps changing and empowering with love.

[1] Genesis 15:1-3.

[2] Genesis 15:4-6.

[3] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (Lanham, MD, 1997), 78.

[4] Paul Borgman (2001) Genesis: The Story We Haven’t Heard (Downers Grove, IL, 2001), 103.

[5] Thomas H. Troeger, “A Spendthrift Lover is the Lord” (Oxford University Press Inc., admin in North America by GIA Publications, Inc., 1983).

[6] Ibid, last verse: “How shall we love this heart-strong God who gives us everything, whose ways to use are strange and odd; what can we give or bring? Acceptance of the matchless gift is gift enough to give. The very act will shake and shift the way we love and live.”

Br. Curtis Almquist

George Herbert

Ecclesiastes 4:13-5:7

In the calendar of the church, we remember today George Herbert, a 17th-century English parson and poet. How Herbert’s life ended is not how it began. In the beginning, his family’s tremendous wealth and privilege, his keen mind, his excellent education,[1] his charismatic oratorical skills, his internal drive to be fabulous, brought Herbert to the top of the heap. By age 30, he was counselor to two kings and a member of Parliament. He had gained the whole world but forfeited his soul.[2] Two things happened, two breakdowns which became breakthroughs.

First, his despair over his own vanity, the “chasing after wind.”[3] He described himself as “a broken heart cemented by tears.”[4] His second breakdown was with his lungs. He had contracted tuberculosis, which had no known cure. The disease had a kind of rarifying effect on how he lived while God gave him breath. It is as if he had been born again.[5] He knew his true vocation was to become a priest and a poet.

As a priest, he served a tiny parish near Salisbury. Gone was his pomposity and sense of privilege. He was revered by his parishioners for his humility and kindness, for his tender attention to the sick and generous care of the poor. As a poet, he described his writings as “spiritual conflicts” until, as he said, “I could subject my will to Jesus, my Master; in whose service I have found perfect freedom.”

By the end of his life – he died at age 39 – he had made peace with his destiny. Peace came in a surrender of his greatness to God for God to use as God chose. As a man literally losing his breath to tuberculosis, at the very end of his life he wrote a very autobiographical poem which we will momentarily sing.

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:

Blessed George Herbert, whom we remember today.

[1] Herbert attended Westminster School, then Trinity College, Cambridge, where he earned both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree.

[2] Jesus’ words found in Matthew 16:26 and Mark 8:36.

[3] Ecclesiastes 4:16.

[4] A phrase in Herbert’s poem “The Altar.”

[5] Alluding to Jesus’ words in John 3:3.

[6] Inspired by John 14:6, Herbert wrote:

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:

Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength:

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart:

Br. James Koester

Esther 14:1-6, 12-14

I’ll tell you a secret! This passage from Esther appears nowhere in the Hebrew scriptures. It is only found in the Greek Septuagint. That means it is not part of the Jewish canonical scriptures, and is only included in Christian scriptures as part of the Apocrypha. Because of that, this portion of Esther (indeed the whole of Esther) is only included in Scripture by Roman Catholics and Orthodox. As Anglicans we read it (and other parts of the Apocrypha) as an “example of life and instruction of manners, yet [we do] not apply them to establish doctrine.”[1]

Curiously, despite their negative regard for the Apocrypha, the Protestant Reformers loved Esther. She was frequently the subject of various forms of art during the Reformation period. This was because they admired, among other things, her determination and resistance to tyranny. They regarded her as a model for themselves as they struggled against the tyranny of Rome, and especially of the “Bishop of Rome and all his detestable enormities.”[2]  It was the example of her prayer, asking God to “put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn [the king’s] heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him” (Esther 14:13). Her courage, indeed willingness to die if she must – “If I perish, I perish” (Esther 4:16) – also appealed to them. As tempting as her prayer for the destruction of her enemy may be, that’s not why we are reading this passage today. (Although, it seems to me to be a good reason!)

Paired with Jesus’ teaching on prayer in today’s gospel – “if you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask” (Matthew 7:11) – we begin to get a picture of what we might call real prayer.

We remind ourselves in our Rule of Life what this real prayer looks like:

“The life of prayer calls for the courage to bring into our communion with Christ the fullness of our humanity and the concrete realities of our daily existence, which he redeemed by his incarna­tion. . . . We are to bring [God] our sufferings and poverty, our passion and sexuality, our fears and resistances, our desires and our dreams, our losses and grief. We must spread before [God] our cares about the world and its peoples, our friends and families, our enemies and those from whom we are estranged. Our successes and failures, our gifts and shortcomings, are equally the stuff of our prayer.”[3]

This kind of prayer, the kind of prayer offered by Esther, expounded by Jesus, and taught in our Rule is far from polite. It is gritty. It is passionate. It is demanding. It is even, at times angry.

Different ages demand different kinds of prayer. In today’s world, Esther and her gritty, passionate, demanding, and even angry prayer, may be a model for us, as we spread before God our cares about the world and its peoples. It’s not polite, but it is certainly real, true, and honest.

[1] The Book of Common Prayer, 868.

[2] The Church of England, “Great Litany,” The Book of Common Prayer (1549), available online, http://justus.anglican.org/resources/bcp/1549/Litany_1549.htm, accessed February 26, 2026.

[3] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (Lanham, MD, 1997), 45.

Br. James Koester

Isaiah 58:9b-14

We used a pretty strong word this morning. In fact, we said it three times within a single prayer, and then, it appeared in our reading from Isaiah. We said, “We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.”[1] Shortly after, we heard Isaiah say, “If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil . . .” (Isaiah 58:9b).

Few of us, I hope, would describe ourselves as evil, but we have just said that evil enslaves us, and that we do evil things. More boldly, we have admitted that others do evil on our behalf. So, while you and I may not be personally evil, evil surrounds us. We cannot escape it. The news, and our lives, are full of evil.

The unprovoked invasion of Ukraine by Russia, while the world watches seemingly helpless, is evil.

We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.

The trafficking of minors to wealthy, powerful men, for the purposes of sex, is evil.

We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.

The killing by government agents, of civilians engaged in legal protests, is evil.

We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.

The use of political office primarily for personal gain, is evil.

We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf

When we speak of evil, we are not speaking of the convenient lies we tell to get ourselves out of an unwanted social obligation, we are talking about something much more primal.

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, ‘Did God say, “You shall not eat from any tree in the garden”?’ The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.”’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die, for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God.’” (Genesis 3:1-5)

It is this desire to be like God, which leads to evil. But the thing is, to be like God does not require us to act like petty tyrants, despots, or narcissists, and so do evil things. It requires us to behave as Isaiah would have us behave: “if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday” (Isaiah 58:10).

To be like God does not require our reaching out toward unfettered power, privilege, and prestige, and so separate ourselves from God, as did our first parents. Rather to be like God is found in acts of humble service, on our knees, carrying jug, basin, and towel, as we will each do in a few short weeks following the example of the One who came to serve and not to be served.[2]

Evil enslaves us. We do evil. Evil is done on our behalf. And the antidote is not denial, but mercy. The antidote is not denial, but service.

If you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday and you will be like God.

[1] From the General Confession, Enriching Our Worship (New York, 1997), 56, as used at the Monastery during Lent.

[2] See Mark 10:45

Br. Jack Crowley

Luke 9:18-25

Our Gospel passage today features one of my favorite words that Jesus uses. That word is “daily.” Jesus tells his disciples that they must take up their cross daily and follow him. Jesus could have said, take up your cross when you are ready or take up your cross when the time is right, but instead, Jesus says plainly, take up your cross daily.

I always appreciate how Jesus does not sugarcoat the truth. The daily grind of taking up our cross is something we all know too well. We each have our own version of this. Each day’s cross carries its own little splinters, its own knots in the wood, and it can rub us the wrong way on different days. In my own experience, how I carry the cross one day doesn’t always translate to how I must carry the cross the next day. In other words, I’m relearning or remembering how to take up my cross each day, but with a slightly different accent or technique each time.

In this season of Lent, we have forty daily reminders of the cross we must bear. Forty daily reminders that we never really know for sure what’s going to happen when we put that cross on our back and set out into the desert. Sure, we have plans and disciplines and boundaries and routines, yet the weight of the cross has its way on all of them.

The good news is that we know six weeks from today will be Maundy Thursday. We’ll gather here and wash away the sands from the desert of Lent in warm water. Our feet will be toweled off, and we will gladly kneel to wash the feet of another. We all know our journey with the cross will have a glorious, healing, and cleansing ending.

Yet, in the meantime, there is still our daily cross. As sure as the sun rises, our cross will be there waiting for us when we wake up in the morning. Remember that we are not carrying our cross for no reason or without direction; as Jesus said, we take up our cross and follow him. We follow Jesus. We are not walking aimlessly in the desert; we are following Jesus. We are answering his beloved invitation to come and see.

I wish you all a glorious Lenten season. Amen.

Br. Curtis Almquist

Janani Luwum

John 12:24-32

In 1972, an Ugandan military dictator, Idi Amin, overthrew the elected Ugandan government and began terrorizing and butchering the population, especially two groups: academics and Christians. Some called it the Ugandan holocaust. In the calendar of the church we remember today an Ugandan Archbishop, Janani Luwum. He was a gentle, zealous, courageous man who met face-to-face with Idi Amin, confronted him on his atrocities, and asked for atonement.[1] Leaving the meeting, Archbishop Luwum told his companions, “They are going to kill me. I am not afraid.” The next day his body was found riddled with bullets.

Uganda fifty years ago may seem far away; however, we need only witness the governmental terrorizing in our own country to see how the seeds of an Ugandan-like incursion have found a home here. We witness daily trauma and injustice for persons whose first language is not English, persons of color, persons who do not follow an exclusive brand of Christianity, persons who are not straight or cisgendered, and many others.

Tomorrow begins the season of Lent. The Ash Wednesday liturgy presents us with a “Litany of Penitence.” We will confess and repent for where we, individually, have lapsed in our baptismal promises, including “our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty.”[2] What will come of this? Those of us who make this confession will each have our own reasons, each of us will have our own resolve, and each of will have our own reach as we seek to amend our own lives and others’.

Will our resolve require courage? No, I don’t think so. Courageous people do not see themselves as courageous. They did what needed to be done, what they had prepared for or promised. A clear moment arose, and they acted or spoke as only they could. In that moment, it’s what their life was all about. The word “courage” arises in the voice of the witnesses. We see someone as courageous. Archbishop Luwum did not see himself as courageous.

I have a suggestion, as we individually anticipate making our confession tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, for “our blindness to human need and suffering, our indifference to injustice and cruelty,” and a great deal more. I suggest we overlay our confession with what we know about “the suffering, injustice, and cruelty” that surrounds us, and what we are prepared to do about it. This is not a preparation for being courageous. Courage will take care of itself. This is about clarity, about being clear what our life is to be about, each of us in our own way, as we lay down our lives to follow Jesus, we each being like “a grain of wheat.”

Blessed Janani Luwum, whom we remember today.

[1] Janani Luwum was married, the father of nine children. He was educated at St. Augustine’s College, Canterbury, and at the London College of Divinity. The anniversary of his death, January 16, is a day of remembrance and a public holiday for the 52,000,000 people of Uganda: “Archbishop Janani Luwum Day.”

[2] The Litany of Penitence is found within the Ash Wednesday liturgy in The Book of Common Prayer (1979), 264-69.

Br. Keith Nelson

The Sunday of the Transfiguration: The Last Sunday after the Epiphany

Matthew 17:1-9

At its heart, the Feast of the Transfiguration is about the revelation of who God is in and through Jesus Christ – and who God is in and through Christ’s followers, as we are transfigured by this life-changing relationship of love.

But the transfiguration account we just heard, and its counterparts in Luke and Mark, are all preceded by a stark prediction, by Jesus, of his violent death. And in all three, this prediction is followed by an equally stark condition of discipleship: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). Luke adds, “every day.”

So while the mountaintop vision reveals Jesus, shining like the sun as he speaks face to face with the ancestors Moses and Elijah, they speak of his coming death.

And while Peter cries, “It is good for us to be here!,” in response, when the disciples hear the voice of the Father and are overshadowed by the bright cloud, they are filled with fear.

The touch and the reassurance of Jesus, “Get up and do not be afraid,” brings them back to familiar, everyday reality. But the veil has been pierced; they cannot unsee the true identity of their Master; they cannot escape those mysterious but disturbing instructions:

“Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

As disciples of Jesus, we glimpse what Peter, James, and John glimpsed on that mountain: an alternative order of reality open and available to us in God’s Beloved Son. “There are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom,” says Jesus (Matthew 16:28). Belonging to that order of reality, which Jesus calls the kingdom of God, means that we participate in his belovedness. Come what may, nothing can now separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:31-39).

I find this utterly vital to remember as we live through a time rife not only with competing visons of human thriving and definitions of happiness but, more fundamentally, competing orders of reality.

The bewildering and disturbing events unfolding hourly in our national life and their cascading global consequences induce – for many, many of us – the feeling that we are living within a nightmare from which we cannot wake up. The order of reality fabricated in the halls of power,  is deftly and seamlessly woven around us. Those paid, promoted, privileged, and protected to weave it seek to unravel any good, true, just, godly, or merely sane alternative – any counter-narrative that exposes the illusion or breaks the spell. And the constant cognitive and moral dissonance of bearing up under such a system can threaten both our endurance and our hope.

It is time to say not merely, “Those are not my values” or “I have a different definition of happiness.”

It is time to say, clearly and explicitly: “That is not the order of reality to which I belong.”

Because in the transfiguration, we also glimpse the awesome responsibility that comes with being loved so deeply: to follow a Master whose cross is also our cross. To spend our lives spending ourselves for the sake of others, especially those deprived of power as the world defines it; to undergo what T.S. Eliot called a “lifetime’s death in love.”[1]

What do I mean by order of reality?

What we value; what we nourish and cultivate; the ways in which we spend our time; the people, communities, and endeavors to which we give our attention and our devotion; these are the things that shape who we become. Who we are, deep down, shapes the way we engage or disengage from the material and immaterial structures of human and creaturely being.

There is an order of reality being woven by the unregulated, unreflective, and wantonly profit-driven proliferation of artificial intelligence, which now plays a part in most areas of human life and behavior. Some of it is helpful. Much of it is harmful in ways we cannot yet fully understand because of the pace of its development. All of it operates with unprecedented power. The underlying motive is to push the limit of technological possibility without adequate safeguards or boundaries and see what happens.

There is an order of reality being woven by massive climate and environmental de-regulation. Most significantly this week, the repeal of the 2009 endangerment finding by the entity called the Environmental Protection Agency effectively de-regulates the oil, coal, and gas industries in the U.S. The underlying motive is to prioritize industrial profits over fundamental creaturely needs for fertile soil, clean air, and the right of future generations to these basic conditions for life.

There is an order of reality being woven by so-called Christian Nationalism, which has been analyzed seriously since 2020. Episcopal Bishop Rob Wright calls it “a set of beliefs, practices and policy goals which are fundamentally at odds with the gospel but presented as harmonious with the gospel and as having been with us from the church’s beginning.” Bishop Wright specifies that “it should not be characterized as simply a difference of theological or political interpretation or emphasis” but is rather “a deceitful rendering of Jesus’ teaching for the purpose of manipulation and the increase of mammon . . . to serve the interests of a political system where government has total power.”[2]

There are many others you can probably think of.

For a long time – in some cases, decades – these social, political, technological, economic and religious issues have been propelled by evolving bundles of values. But as their influence pervades our culture, their master narratives more seductive and much more organized, they have become something more.

The order of reality we choose – consciously or unconsciously – is the story that molds our most basic experiences: of time, memory and history; relationships, milestones, accomplishments and losses; dreams, goals, aspirations; what is broken in us, what is in process of being healed, and what has yet to be; how and by whom we will be remembered.

By our birth into this world, God our Creator gives every creature a longing to find the story, sing the song, or dance the dance that will order all these givens in a particular direction. In humans, this becomes a relentless pursuit of our purpose. These are the raw materials that are transfigured – pierced, infused, and taken up into God’s new creation – in Jesus Christ.

In the midst of a counterfeit order, what is accomplished by claiming this alternative as the only true order of reality worth giving our lives to?

Simply speaking words of truth can break the fangs of an illusion.

When we are overwhelmed with anxiety, grief, or a creeping sense that there is no escape from the cruelty and misery, to pause, to breathe God’s air given to all without measure, and to say: “That is not the order of reality to which I belong,” can make real our resistance.

Communities – first and foremost here today, the Church – can more actively and explicitly claim: “That is not the order of reality to which we belong.” This is utterly crucial in the current landscape of American Christianity.

We can also look to our ancestors in faith, as Jesus spoked with Moses and Elijah – those prophets who saw through the lies and disguises of their own social order and chose to win hearts back to God by telling a different story.

One such story told by a master storyteller and Christian of the twentieth century is The Lord of the Rings trilogy, by J.R.R. Tolkien. Because I was given this story before I was given my first Bible, I often turn to its profound wisdom in moments of spiritual perplexity. I return often these days to this beloved exchange between the hobbit Frodo, tasked with carrying a truly great burden, and the wizard Gandalf:

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”[3]

This decision will look different for each of us as we seek to live transfigured lives in our different vocations and circumstances. What will unite our decisions is an existential and spiritual resistance, a realignment of consciousness itself with God’s purposes. That brings the freedom “for which Christ has set us free.” No one and nothing can ever again enslave the child of God who claims that freedom.

“It is good for us to be here.” Transfigured by that freedom, we descend the mountain, again and again, in every age, “strengthened to take up our cross” in this time God has given us; to do what lies in our power with God’s help; and to keep our hope alive and our conscience sharp.

[1] T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets, “The Dry Salvages,” V.

[2] https://episcopalatlanta.org/news/christian-nationalism-and-christian-witness/

[3] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 1, Chapter 2.

Br. James Koester

Cyril and Methodius

Philippians 1:15-26

This morning, we conclude the sermon series “A Lifetime of Developing Response.” Over the last few weeks, we have heard from each of the senior Brothers, as we have reflected on our years as members of the community. Today it is my turn. Now, don’t read too much into that. I am not sure that my having the last word is meant to signify anything of great importance! But you never know.

I must admit, I find it difficult to comprehend that I am one of the senior members of the community. Yet the reality is that when I came to the community, those who were then the senior members, were not that much older than I am now, and the things we say in the Rule about the gifts and challenges of old age were written with them in mind! So, like the others who have preached on these Saturdays, I find myself in the odd situation of discovering myself where I least expected to be.

I also find myself reflecting today on the feast of St. Cyril and St. Methodius, two brothers who are known as the Apostles to the Slavs. Among the things which fascinates me about them, or at least about Cyril, is that several years ago I found myself quite by accident at his tomb. I was on a visit to Rome. One day I discovered myself at the Basilica of San Clemente. For Rome, San Clemente is rather new. It was built about the year AD 1100. What is fascinating about the church is that what you see is the second church built on the site. It had been built on top of the earlier fourth century church, which everyone believed had been destroyed during the rebuilding project one thousand years ago. That is, they believed that until the 1860s when a workman opened a door that had not been opened in centuries, descended a flight of stairs, and discovered the fourth century church beneath, more or less intact, including the tomb of St. Cyril.

It is this image of going deeper, into unknown places, that resonates with me as I ponder the mystery of aging, and the gifts to be found, not at the bottom of a flight of disused stairs, but buried in a lifetime of experiences.

We say in our Rule that “our older brothers will . . . be able to contribute their experience of what is essential in our life with God, a sense of perspective, wisdom, their appreciation for the community, and joy in the younger members.”[1]

As I read that line, I am aware that over the past 37 years, a major shift has taken place within me. Then I was an eager, enthusiastic, excited, and rather nervous and certainly naïve 32-year-old when I arrived one hot day at the end of June 1989. It is not that I am no longer that person. I have moments when I am very much that person. But something has changed. Over the last 37 years I have begun to explore the hidden passages of my soul that lie at the bottom of my own forgotten staircase. It is that opportunity for exploration for which I am most grateful, despite the pain, loss, and confusion it has sometimes caused. We recognize that in our Rule when we say, “stages of genuine transformation are marked by experiences of confusion and loss.”[2] To be honest, I am confused and lost a great deal of time. Frankly today is no different, as I navigate those mysterious basement passageways of my soul, to discover what it means for me to be the former Superior, and what all that went before, means now.

And perhaps that is the thing I am learning in this season of my life: that all that went before continues to have meaning for me today. We say something like this in the Rule when we remind ourselves that “[these] hearts of ours are not empty vessels but inner worlds alive with images, memories, experiences and desires.”[3] Scott Cairns puts it this way in his poem, “The Ruminant”:

So that was why the monk’s thin lips

There was a time when I swallowed whole: food, experiences, emotions, tasks, roles, and, mostly, I got a stomach or heart ache. At times I still swallow whole, and the stomach and heart aches are the same as ever. In this stage of life, however, I am more and more discovering the grace of mulling matter over and again and find that life is the sort of gum whose sugars will not quit, nor ever quite hold still.

As I do so, I find that I now want other things out of life than I once did. It’s not that the things which that eager, enthusiastic, excited, and rather nervous and certainly naïve 32-year-old wanted were wrong or bad. After all, they brought me here. Nor is it that I want more. In many ways I want less. In an odd way, the older I get, the less I want, but the more I want it, and I begin to understand what Paul hinted at when he said, “for to me, living is Christ, and dying is gain . . . my desire is to depart and to be with Christ, for that is far better” (Philippians 1:21, 23). Or, as Father Benson put it, “cling to Jesus, cling only to him.”

My hunch is that what is true for me is true or will be true for many of you. What you wanted, and needed out of your marriage, your relationships, your family, your life, your job, your vocation, your community when you were 30, is, or will be different when you are, or will be 70. That will change again no doubt when you are 80, or 90, or . . . There will be a stripping away of everything, even those things which gave purpose and value to your life, until you stand naked, at least metaphorically, before Christ, saying, “this is all I am . . . and all that I am is yours.”

Once upon a time, I could not have imagined any of this. The idea of wanting less out of life was unfathomable. The idea of wanting to depart and be with Christ was, well, morbid. The idea that I wanted to creep down those stairs and explore the hidden rooms in the basement of my soul was scary beyond words.

Yet the workman who risked opening that door in San Clemente nearly two centuries ago and crept down those stairs discovered a vast treasure beneath, including the forgotten shrine of a saint. Maybe, just maybe, as I mull my life over and again, sucking on the sugars of past experiences, I too will discover the body of a long-forgotten saint buried deep within my soul, and will be able to say with Paul,  “for to me, living is Christ, and dying is gain . . . my desire is to depart and to be with Christ, for that is far better.” And to follow Father Benson’s lead and cling to Jesus, cling only to him, and in so doing, witness to my Brothers what really is essential in our life with God.

[1] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (Lanham, MD, 1997), 94.

[2] Ibid., 75

[3] Ibid., 40.

[4] S. Cairns, Compass of Affection: Poems New and Selected (Brewster, MA, 2006)