FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY, YEAR C

January 30, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

Luke 4:21-30

“But passing through the midst of them he went away.” 

Today’s Gospel continues where last week’s left off: in the middle of our Lord’s first return visit since the beginning of his public ministry to his hometown of Nazareth . Initially, everything seems to go well. Last Sunday’s Gospel recorded that on the Sabbath Jesus entered the synagogue and read from the Prophet Isaiah. Then, commenting on the text, he declared: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” implicitly identifying himself with the Anointed One or Messiah whom Isaiah foretold.

Picking up at this point, today’s Gospel records the congregation’s response: “all spoke well of him and wondered at the gracious words which proceeded out of his mouth; and they said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?’” The text gives us no reason to suppose that this question indicates anything other than local pride in a hometown boy who’s done well. Nonetheless, by the end of this episode, these same townspeople have turned against Jesus, and are trying to kill him by throwing him off the edge of a cliff.

The disagreement emerges when Jesus identifies the thought in the minds of at least some of the congregation: “Physician, heal yourself; what we have heard you did at Capernaum, do here in your own country.” In other words: Why are you devoting so much time and attention to those outsiders? Attend to your own people, here in your own hometown.

Our Lord responds: “No prophet is accepted in his own country.” He expands on his point by citing the prophets Elijah and Elisha. There were many Jewish widows in Israel, but Elijah was sent only to a Gentile widow in the land of Sidon. There were many Jewish lepers in Israel, but Elisha cleansed only the Gentile leper Naaman the Syrian. In this way, Jesus implies that his mission likewise must reach out not only to the other cities and towns of Galilee, but also even beyond Israel to the nations. 

At these words, the people’s approval is transformed into outrage. Filled with wrath, the congregation rises up, takes him out of the city, and leads him to the brow of a hill with the intention of dashing him down on the rocks below. But, as Luke cryptically writes, “passing through the midst of them he went away.” 

Commentators down through the centuries have spilled much ink debating whether this “passing through the midst” constitutes some sort of miracle by which he disappears or makes himself invisible. Some argue yes; others no, that all the text indicates is that by the force and authority of his presence he faces down his would-be assassins and walks away. Either way, it’s a narrow escape: if not a miracle (miraculum) then at least a wonder (mirabile).

The contrast between the Nazareth congregation’s initial welcome and their subsequent rejection of Jesus anticipates the contrast in Jerusalem between the multitude’s initial chants of “Hosanna to the Son of David” on Palm Sunday, and their subsequent cries of “Crucify, crucify him!” on Good Friday. Beyond illustrating the fickleness of crowd psychology, this contrast highlights what I like to call “the mystery of rejection.”

This is a subcategory of what theologians call the mysterium iniquitatis, the mystery of iniquity. Namely, when faced with the choice between good and evil, why do some people freely and knowingly choose evil over good? Why, in the beginning, did Adam and Eve rebel against God? And why, even before that, did a portion of the angels make the same choice so that they fell from their heavenly glory and became demons? The majority answer among theologians is that it remains precisely a mystery, something fundamentally inexplicable. We all exercise our freedom in different ways and to different ends: some choosing good over evil, and others choosing evil over good.

So, what I’m calling the mystery of rejection narrows this question down to a specific type of situation. Two people hear the same preaching of the Gospel; one accepts it, and the other rejects it. Why? Or again: a lifelong faithful parishioner known to be personally devout and biblically literate suddenly turns his back on the Church and repudiates Christianity. Why? We may venture all kinds of explanations, ranging from some upsetting recent event in this person’s life, to the deep-rooted psychological dynamics of his personality. But the answer ultimately remains a mystery. 

Conversely, why does a long-standing professed atheist suddenly come to faith, embrace Christianity, and join the Church? Here we need to factor in divine grace, the movement of the Holy Spirit in that person’s life. But that only pushes the question back a step: Why does one person freely choose to cooperate with divine grace, while another resists it? Again, the answer remains a mystery: something fundamentally inexplicable even to the individuals involved, and fully and finally understood only by God himself.

A more productive line of inquiry is to look at our Lord’s response to such rejection. Notice what he does when the townspeople of Nazareth reject him and his message. He doesn’t try to argue them into acceptance. He doesn’t try to overawe them with some miraculous demonstration of his divine power. He doesn’t call down legions of angels to overwhelm his assailants when they try to lynch him. Instead, in Saint Luke’s cryptic phrase, passing through the midst of them he goes his way.

To dig one layer deeper: while he respects their freedom to accept or reject him, he also defies their efforts to control him. Initially, he refuses to accede to their demand to perform in Nazareth the same sorts of miracles he has performed in Capernaum. Then, when he asserts his freedom to go to whomever his Father sends him, they try to kill him: the ultimate form of control. But he will not be tamed; he will not be domesticated; he will not be stopped.

Despite their rejection, he continues on his way, and his way continues. He’ll find new disciples elsewhere, in the other cities and towns of Israel, and beyond, even to the ends of the earth. 

Here is reassurance for us whenever we may feel discouraged by those who reject Christ in our own day. Despite such rejection, his Church continues on its way, finding new adherents in untold new places. We really have no control over how others respond to Christ’s call. What we do have control over is how we respond. And we have this promise and assurance: that so long as we don’t reject him, he will never, ever reject us.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY, YEAR C

Sunday 23 January 2022

St. Uriel's, Sea Girt, N.J.

Luke 4:14-21

“Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

Back in the 1950s, the linguistic philosopher John Austin coined the term “performative utterance” to designate a certain type of speech. At that time, the dominant philosophical school of logical positivism was maintaining that any meaningful human speech is purely descriptive, so that it either conforms to reality in a demonstrably verifiable way, in which case it’s true, or it does not, in which case it’s false. For example, the statement “John has three apples” is either true or false, depending on whether it accurately corresponds to the reality it purports to describe.

Against this idea, Austin’s contribution was to point out that certain types of speech are not merely descriptive but what he called performative: that is, they don’t merely describe existing realities; they actually bring new realities into being. Of course, we need to be careful. One sign of either delusional thinking or, worse, unscrupulous manipulation is the idea that merely saying something is enough to make it true. But still, there are some forms of speech where merely saying something really does make it true: “I christen this ship the Queen Elizabeth;” “This court is now in session;” “This meeting is now adjourned;” “I sentence you to three years in prison.” In these instances, the spoken words become deeds that create new situations, that bring new realities into being.

As Catholic Christians, we know all about performative speech.  We profess faith in a God whom the Bible describes as creating the world by speaking: “‘Let there be light.’ And there was light.” Jesus, the incarnate Word, performs many of his mighty works in the Gospels simply by speaking: “Your sins are forgiven.” “Rise, take up your pallet, and walk.” In the Church’s sacraments, the spoken word (combined with the corresponding prescribed actions) creates new spiritual realities and new worlds of meaning: “I baptize you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” “This is my Body, which is given for you … This is my Blood, which is shed for you …” “I absolve you of all your sins.”

Today’s Gospel sets forth a wonderful example of performative utterance. Having returned to his hometown for the first time since his fame has begun to spread, Jesus is invited to read and comment on the Scriptures during worship in the synagogue. This privilege could be extended to any Jewish adult male, so it was fitting for the synagogue elders to honor Jesus in this way. The reader would first read the Torah passage appointed for the day, and then he’d read a second passage of his own choosing from the Prophets to complement the Torah reading. Finally, he’d offer a brief spoken commentary relating the two readings to each other and to the congregation’s life.

Luke doesn’t tell us what the appointed Torah passage was, but he does recount Jesus opening the scroll, and reading the verses from the Prophet Isaiah describing the servant of the Lord anointed by the Spirit to proclaim good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind, liberation to the oppressed, the year of the Lord’s favor. After Jesus hands the scroll back to the attendant, all fix their eyes upon him to hear what comment he will make. Assuming the posture of a teacher, he sits and announces to the congregation, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

The meaning is straightforward. Jesus is identifying himself as the Spirit-anointed one in Isaiah’s prophecy. In Hebrew, the word for “anointed one” is Messiah; in Greek it’s Christ. Jesus is none other than the Messiah or Christ of Jewish expectation. In Luke’s Greek, his words read literally, “Today, this Scripture has been fulfilled in your ears.” This dynamic interaction of speaking and hearing creates a whole new world of possibilities. He’s inviting the congregation to receive the forgiveness, healing, enlightenment, and liberation that he brings. Simultaneously, he’s calling them to join in proclaiming the good news of the year of the Lord’s favor so that they can in turn help convey this forgiveness, healing, enlightenment, and liberation to their neighbors and to the wider world.

Notice that his focus is on the present. God has done great things in the past, to be sure, and will do even greater things in the future, as the Scriptures attest throughout. But Our Lord’s emphasis in the synagogue of Nazareth is on what God is doing here and now, in this congregation’s very midst. “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” 

This interpretation of today’s Gospel has at least three implications for our life together as a parish community. 

First, we need to be mindful of the power of speech to build up or tear down. Negative talk, grumbling, and complaining are destructive and demoralizing. By contrast, positive talk, words of appreciation and blessing, are creative and life-giving. The point is that such speech is performative utterance; or, we might say, self-fulfilling prophecy: it helps bring into being the realities it purports to describe. Counselors and therapists often point out that in addition to identifying and naming what’s going wrong with our lives and relationships, it’s even more important to be able to identify and name what’s going well—for that gives us a positive foundation of hope to build on for the future. So, the practical question is how we can learn to accentuate the positive in ways that bring blessing to one another and our community.

Second, God wants us to focus on the present. In my time amongst you so far, I’ve periodically encountered some anxiety about the parish’s future, combined with what might be called nostalgia for a bygone golden age. From time to time, I still hear lamentations for the good old days, when the church was packed, for multiple services, and the Sunday school was thriving with dozens and dozens of children. But I think it’s safe to say that if Jesus were here, he would tell us to let go of both nostalgia for the past and anxiety for the future, and to concentrate instead on the opportunities he’s presenting us in the present. As Saint Paul puts it, “Behold, now is the acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

And third, the most important question we can ever ask about our parish is not what we’re doing or failing to do, but rather what God is doing in our midst. This way of thinking is admittedly unfamiliar and perhaps a bit difficult, but it’s crucial. It requires prayer. It begins with identifying, proclaiming, and celebrating the ways in which God is blessing us here and now, today. How is God fulfilling the Scriptures in our hearing? For what do we want to give thanks to God in our life together? These are crucial questions to be asking ourselves as we prepare for our Annual Meeting, and beyond that, for calling and welcoming a new Rector.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY

January 16, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N.J.

John 2:1-11

Today’s Gospel reading identifies Jesus’ changing the water into wine as “the first of his signs.” The Evangelist John uses the term “sign” to describe Our Lord’s miracles. The opening address in The Book of Common Prayer’s wedding service remarks that “Our Lord Jesus Christ adorned [married] life by his presence and first miracle at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.” So, changing the water into wine has the distinction of being Our Lord’s first miracle: perhaps not only in the sense of being the first in sequence but also in the sense of being the model and pattern for his subsequent miracles and mighty works.

With that in mind, I want to focus on the Blessed Virgin Mary’s role in this story. She doesn’t figure into any of the other Gospel miracles in quite the way she figures into this one. So, it’s especially interesting and informative to observe how Mary and Jesus interact with each other when the wine gives out at the wedding in Cana.

John’s account begins: “[There] was a marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus was also invited to the marriage with his disciples.” Notice how from the beginning Mary is the pre-eminent figure in the scene: John tells us first that the mother of Jesus was at the marriage and only then mentions that Jesus was also invited with his disciples. By thus calling attention to Mary at the outset, John prepares us for her central role in the miracle that follows.

When Mary points out to Jesus that the wine has given out, he responds with one of his more problematic and difficult sayings: “O woman, what have you to do with me?” He seems to be brushing her off – even to the point of being rude and disrespectful.

What are we to make of these words? Well, first of all, the idiom “what have you to do with me” is notoriously difficult to translate. In the original Greek, it literally reads, “What to me and to you?” Some translators render it, “What concern is this of ours?” Others: “Why are you involving me in this?” And others: “How is this concern of yours my concern?” However we translate it, the import is clear: Jesus is holding the problem at arm’s length. Such immediate practical needs, pressing as they may be, fall short of the ultimate purpose for which he’s come into the world. So, he adds: “My hour is not yet come—the hour, that is, when he will fulfill his real mission to redeem and save a fallen creation.

Furthermore, his remark that his hour is not yet come implies that whatever sign he knows he's going to perform now must inevitably fall short of the greatest sign of all: namely, his death, resurrection, ascension, and coming again. Wonderful as it may be in itself, the present marriage celebration in Cana is only an anticipation and foretaste of that cosmic wedding feast when Christ and his Church, indeed heaven and earth, are joined as bridegroom and bride in the Kingdom of heaven.

And then there’s the form of address: “O woman.” In English, addressing a woman in this way will almost always come across as discourteous and disrespectful, but not so in the Hebrew or Aramaic that Jesus spoke, nor in the Greek of John’s Gospel. There, it might better be translated, “Madam,” “Ma’am,” or even “My Lady.” Nonetheless in New Testament times it was an unusually formal way for a son to address his mother: the more common biblical idiom would be “My mother,” or “O my mother.”

Here, it’s critical to recall that in John’s Gospel, Jesus again addresses Mary as “Woman”—from the cross when he entrusts her to the safekeeping of the Beloved Disciple: “Woman, behold, your son!” And to the disciple: “Behold, your mother!” 

Both these instances of Jesus addressing Mary as “Woman” hark back to a passage in the third chapter of Genesis, where God says to the serpent who’s tempted Adam and Eve to sin: “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel.” So, the suggestion is that both at Cana and from the cross Jesus is identifying Mary as the new Eve, the new mother of all living, just as he himself is the new Adam. (In Hebrew, incidentally, the name “Adam” simply means “man.”) Together, Mary and Jesus are the prototypes of a new humanity in which the effects of our first parents’ disobedience are canceled and reversed. Mary is the new Woman, and Jesus is the new Man, in whom the whole human race receives a fresh start and a new beginning. 

 “When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’” Here Mary takes on the role of intercessor. She perceives a problem or need. Then she takes that need to her Son. Notice, however, that she doesn’t tell him what to do. She just makes the need known. Some Christian spiritual writers commend that technique when we bring our needs to God in prayer. God does want us to share our concerns with him. But he doesn’t necessarily need us to tell him what to do if we trust that in his infinite wisdom he knows what’s best for us and will take care of us no matter what.

Having brought the problem to Jesus, Mary simply leaves it with him, and instructs the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” At this point, Jesus takes over, telling the servants to fill with water the six stone jars standing there, thus setting the scene for the miraculous transformation to follow.

Mary’s intercession with her Son in this dialogue offers us a model and pattern for our own prayers of intercession. We notice a need in the world around us, perhaps among our families, friends, or neighbors. We bring that need to Jesus in prayer, but preferably without telling him what to do. Then, we leave that need with Jesus—and we stand ready to do whatever he tells us.

In our prayers, moreover, we can always ask Mary to bring our needs to her Son on our behalf. Just as we pray for one another here on earth, so she and all the Saints pray for us in heaven. So, it’s entirely legitimate to ask her for her prayers. Mary always points us to Jesus. Contrary to Protestant objections that devotion to the Blessed Mother detracts and distracts from the worship of her Son, Mary always brings us closer to Jesus. When we bring our needs to her, she brings those same needs to Jesus, and then she lovingly exhorts us: “Do whatever he tells you.”

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY, YEAR C

THE BAPTISM OF OUR LORD

January 9, 2021 (at the 8am Mass)

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N.J.

Luke 3:15-16, 21-22

“Thou art my beloved Son; with thee I am well pleased.”

The Epiphany and the Sundays following reflect on the revelation of Christ’s identity as the Son of God at various points in his earthly life, beginning in his childhood with the star that brings the wise men from the East to worship him and offer their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh; through his baptism in the Jordan River, which we celebrate today; through the wedding feast at Cana where he changes water into wine; and culminating in his Transfiguration on the mountaintop, where he shines with the light of the divine presence before the disciples Peter, James, and John. 

The word Epiphany means revelation, manifestation, or showing forth. We appropriately use this word to describe some profound new insight or understanding. In more colloquial language, the penny drops, the lightbulb comes on, and, for a life-changing moment, we see things as they really are.

Our Lord’s Baptism is not only an Epiphany but also, in the language of Eastern Christianity, a Theophany: a revelation of God himself. It marks the end of what is sometimes called our Lord’s hidden life – his childhood and upbringing in the household of Mary and Joseph – and the beginning of his public ministry of teaching, preaching, healing, performing miracles, and gathering disciples. At its most obvious level of meaning, the baptism occasions an Epiphany of Our Lord’s identity as the Son of God. But it’s also a Theophany: a revelation of the Holy Trinity. The Son is immersed in the waters; the Holy Spirit descends in the form of a dove; the Father’s voice is heard from heaven.

Today I want to focus on the content of the heavenly proclamation: “Thou art my beloved Son; with thee I am well pleased.” Almost the same words are repeated verbatim at the Transfiguration, when a cloud overshadows the mountain, Jesus radiates dazzling light, and a voice sounds from the cloud, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.” In both instances, the Father proclaims Jesus his beloved Son. This appellation manifests love as the essence of the relationship between the Father and the Son, and indeed among all three divine Persons. Love is intrinsic to the inner life of the Godhead. The deepest meaning of the Theophany at the Jordan can thus be summed up in a single sentence that appears not once but twice in the First Letter of John, namely: “God is love.”

New Testament scholars often point out that Christ’s Baptism was almost certainly an historical event because the early Church would never have made it up. For Jesus to be baptized by John was actually somewhat embarrassing to the early Christians. John’s baptism was a call to repentance and conversion, but according to Christian teaching Jesus had need of neither. John was administering a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins; yet Jesus was sinless. The person administering baptism would normally have been of a higher religious or spiritual rank than the person receiving it; yet great as John was, the Church obviously considered Jesus infinitely greater. So, down through the centuries, Christian thinkers have debated the question: Why did Jesus submit to a baptism of which he had no apparent need?

The best answer is the traditional one. He did so to express his solidarity with the fallen humanity he came to save. At his baptism he identifies with us in our sinfulness, so that at our baptism we might be identified with him in his sinlessness. For this reason, the celebration of the Baptism of Christ furnishes an appropriate occasion for us to give thanks for our own baptism, and to recommit ourselves to our baptismal promises.

At our baptism we were incorporated into the same divine life of love made manifest at the baptism of Jesus. The Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus in the visible form of a dove. In the course of my priestly vocation so far, I’ve administered many baptisms – so many that I’ve lost count – and I can reliably testify that I’ve never seen a dove descending on the newly baptized. Nonetheless, the Holy Spirit descends upon each of us at our baptism just as surely as he descended upon Jesus. A voice from heaven proclaimed Jesus his beloved Son, in whom he was well pleased. Again, I’ve never heard such a voice from heaven at any of the baptisms I’ve administered, at least not audibly in any physical sense. Nonetheless, there’s a sense in which God always speaks these words to the newly baptized: “You are my beloved son – you are my beloved daughter – in you I am well pleased.”

Another way of putting it is that at our baptism we enter into the very same relationship of divine Sonship that Jesus enjoys with his heavenly Father. What he is by nature, we become by adoption and grace: God’s own sons and daughters, indwelt and empowered by the Holy Spirit. Just as our Lord’s Baptism marked the beginning of his public life and ministry, so our Baptism marks the beginning of our life as Christians, members of Christ’s Body the Church, continuing his mission in the world of forgiveness, reconciliation, healing, and love.

But that love has a cost. Being God’s beloved Son did not protect Jesus from suffering and death. Indeed, the Eastern Orthodox have a tradition that the steps Jesus took into the River Jordan were his first steps towards Calvary. A related tradition depicts Christ’s descent into the waters of the Jordan as prefiguring his death on the cross and descent into hell on our behalf. Still, the revelation of divine love alone makes it possible to undertake and offer such a sacrifice. Christ bears suffering, death, and the grave for our sakes, so that enfolded in the love of the Holy Trinity we may bear anything for his sake. Our baptism symbolizes and prefigures not only our dying with Christ in a death like his, but also our rising to new and eternal life with him in a resurrection like his.

Again, at the heart of the baptized life is the mystery of divine love. Today, then, as we celebrate the Baptism of Christ and renew our own baptismal promises, we dare to imagine God speaking to us the same words he spoke to Jesus. Whenever we get discouraged or the challenges of life threaten to get us down, it’s enormously helpful to call to mind our baptism, and hear again God repeating those same words to us, over and over: “You are my beloved son – you are my beloved daughter – in you I am well pleased.”

THE EPIPHANY

Thursday 6 January 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N.J.

Isaiah 60:1-6

Ephesians 3:1-12

Matthew 2:1-12

In the Book of Common Prayer, the Feast of the Epiphany is subtitled “the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.” The term “Gentiles” in the biblical languages is interchangeable with “the nations.” The Hebrew word goyim means both “nations” and “Gentiles,” as does its Greek ethnē, from which we get the English word “ethnic,” and the Latin gentes, from which we get “Gentiles.”

So, an equally valid way of describing Epiphany would be something like “the revelation of Christ to the nations.” To appreciate the full force of what’s happening as the wise men bring their gifts from afar, it helps to understand the biblical view of how “the nations” fit into the grand scheme of God’s plan of salvation.

To go back to the beginning: the creation story in the Book of Genesis envisions humanity as essentially one, insofar as all are descended from the same first parents, Adam and Eve. Later, after the Flood, all human beings can trace their descent back to Noah and his three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. In symbolic terms, this common descent signifies the common humanity that binds us all together, regardless of race, language, nation, or culture.

But human sin rends this primordial unity asunder. The story of the Tower of Babel in Genesis 11 describes how the peoples of the earth try to build a tower up to heaven. Because of the pride and presumption of this project, God confuses their language and scatters them over the earth. In symbolic terms, the story signifies the estrangement of different nations and peoples from one another as they lose a common language and lapse into mutual incomprehension and suspicion.

Later, God calls Abraham out from the nations to be the ancestor of a new people, in whom all the nations of the earth will be blessed. From this point on, the Old Testament tends to divide humanity into two parts: Israel, the People of God; and the nations, everybody else.

Most of the Old Testament depicts the relationship between Israel and the nations as one of mutual suspicion and hostility. The nations pose a threat to Israel on two counts. First, they’re a political menace. Israel’s existence is always under threat from hostile empires and kingdoms seeking to subjugate God’s people and take possession of their land. Second, the nations present the temptations of paganism and idolatry: a constant threat to Israel’s unique covenant relationship with God. For this reason, the prophets and teachers of Israel are constantly urging separation from the nations to avoid pagan contamination.

Despite all this, the nations still have a definite place in God’s plan. The Bible never completely loses sight of humankind’s original unity. God’s purpose in choosing Israel is not to give Israel a privileged place over everybody else, but to make Israel a light to the nations. Ultimately, not Israel alone but all the nations are to share in the blessings of universal peace in God’s kingdom.

Such is the vision expressed in today’s Old Testament reading. Addressing Mount Zion, the prophet Isaiah foretells the nations of the earth and their kings coming to worship God who shall reveal himself in glory: “the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.” To the Temple mount in Jerusalem camels will come bringing in the wealth of the nations, gold and incense, to show forth the praises of the Lord.

In the New Testament, we see the fulfillment of these prophecies. The old dichotomy between Israel and the nations is overcome in the Church, the expanded People of God, in which all nations have an equal place. Christ commissions his apostles to go into all the world and preach the Gospel. All nations, races, tribes, and tongues are to be gathered into Christ’s Body, the Church, thus restoring humankind’s unity in Christ, the new Adam. Thus, Saint Paul writes in his Letter to the Ephesians of the mystery of Christ, now revealed to the apostles and prophets, that the Gentiles should be fellow heirs, members of the same body, partakers of the promises of Christ Jesus through the Gospel.

In this light, we begin to appreciate the full force of the story of wise men from the East who travel from afar bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh for the newborn king of the Jews. Matthew’s point is that Jesus coming into the world begins to fulfill the ancient prophecies of the reconciliation and healing of the ancient divisions between Jews and Gentiles, and among all races and nations. 

Even though Matthew makes no mention of how many wise men there were, Christian tradition settled on the number three not only because they brought three gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—but also because three is the number of the sons of Noah—Shem, Ham, and Japheth—from whom the Bible describes all the peoples of the earth as being descended after the Great Flood. 

By tradition, Shem was the ancestor of the Semitic peoples, Ham of the African peoples, and Japheth of the European peoples. Thus, artistic renderings often depict the three kings as representing these different races. The symbolic point is that when Christ is born, all the nations and peoples of the earth begin to unite in the worship of the one true God, bringing all the wonderful gifts of their diversity.

In consequence of this symbolism, let me urge two points of practical significance. First, the Church must always be a place where people of all races and ethnicities are welcome to come and offer their gifts. Our unity in Christ is not uniformity but unity in diversity. The different gifts brought by the world’s different cultures immeasurably enriches our life together in the universal Church. We need always to guard against the temptation to feel superior or look down our nose at the expression of cultural traditions other than our own in the Church’s life and worship.

But second, our membership in the universal Church bestows a shared identity with fellow Christians the world over, transcending all differences of nationality, politics, culture, and language. It’s praiseworthy to be devoted family members, conscientious employees, enthusiastic participants in civic life, and patriotic citizens of our country. By fulfilling our responsibilities in all these spheres, we contribute to the common good that God intends for all creation. We just need to remember that our identity in Christ as members of the Church’s global fellowship always takes precedence over any other claims upon our loyalty and allegiance. 

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

January 2, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

Matthew 2:1-12

Some years ago, I was talking to a former parishioner of the church where I was then serving as Rector. This man had been brought up in the church—the son of several generations of prominent members of this well-known Anglo-Catholic parish—but he’d fallen away and stopped attending in his adult years. Apart from customary family attendance at Christmas and Easter, he didn’t come to church anymore. Explaining why, he commented bluntly that while the Christian Gospel was a “nice story,” it wasn’t anything that people in the contemporary world could any longer find credible or take seriously.

What intrigued me then, and still does now, was his characterization of the Gospel as a “nice story.” That’s not quite how I would describe it. But, on reflection, perhaps we can understand how people who come to church twice a year, as well as to the occasional wedding or funeral, might get the impression that all we have to offer them is just a nice story.

Come on Easter Sunday morning without having attended on Palm Sunday or Good Friday, and you hear the proclamation of the Lord’s Resurrection without the prior unpleasantness of his Crucifixion. Likewise, come to church on Christmas Eve, and you hear the joyous angelic announcement to the shepherds: "Behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people; for to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord."

But if you don’t come back on the subsequent days of the Christmas season to hear what happens next, you might be excused for thinking that what you’ve heard is nothing more than a nice story. In today’s Gospel, however, hints of the dark events about to take place overshadow Matthew’s account of the wise men bringing their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to worship the newborn King.

In fear for his reign and indeed his life, King Herod secretly summons the wise men and asks them to come back and tell him when they’ve found the child, so that he too may come and worship him. But the wise men are warned in a dream not to return to Herod, and they depart to their own country by another way. Then, in the verses immediately following today’s Gospel, Joseph is similarly warned in a dream to take Jesus and Mary and to flee into Egypt, for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him.

Realizing that the wise men have tricked him, Herod then sends his troops to kill all the male children under two years of age in the vicinity of Bethlehem. So, Matthew writes in some of the most poignant words in all the New Testament: “Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah: ‘A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they were no more.’”

I’m really looking forward to the Epiphany Pageant next Sunday. I don’t know what the practice is here at St. Uriel’s, but in most Christmas or Epiphany pageants that I’ve seen, the climactic moment has always been the arrival of the three kings to honor the newborn Christ child with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. In my last parish, this was a stunning spectacle that always rounded off the pageant with a magnificent flourish.

However, in some parts of the country, or so I’m told, some pageants used not to end there, but instead followed the pattern of the medieval mystery plays in continuing right through the slaughter of the Holy Innocents and the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt. (Apparently, the kids playing the roles of Herod’s soldiers and their young victims really got into it!) Whatever we might think of the effect of such gruesome play-acting on impressionable young minds—and I’m certainly not encouraging it—one thing we can say for sure is that anyone witnessing such a pageant would be free of any illusion that this is a nice story. It’s instead a story that lays bare, with stark realism, the cruelty of human life in a fallen world.

Still, if Jesus comes to save us, then he must become incarnate in precisely such a world as this. If the Christmas message is to speak to us as something more than just a nice story, it must be able to offer hope in a world of suicide bombings, of children kidnapped and forced to become child soldiers, of whole ethnic populations displaced by massacres and the burning of their villages, of migrants forced to flee their homelands to find safety and security in new lands.

The most basic affirmation of the Christian faith is that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. That is, God saves us not by waving a magic wand to make all the word’s troubles disappear. Rather he does something infinitely more radical and profound: he comes down from heaven to share in our human life, in all its pain and suffering, so that no matter what we may have to face in this life, we need never be alone. Jesus is there for us, and with us; he knows what we’re going through, because he’s gone through worse himself. And he offers us the hope that because he thus shares with us in all the joys and sorrows of our human life on earth, so he’ll bring us to share with him in his divine life in heaven.

King Herod’s slaughter of the innocents, and the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt, remind us that Jesus is born not into a fairytale land of angels, shepherds, and exotic sages from faraway places, but rather into the same world we see depicted every day on the network news. The Son of God becomes incarnate amidst all this stark cruelty. Our Lord knows what it’s like to be a migrant, for he started his earthly life as a migrant himself. He’s no stranger to the violence of the powerful, which almost succeeded in extinguishing his human life as soon as he was born, and which ultimately succeeded in ending his earthly career on a cross outside Jerusalem thirty some years later. (But that, as we know, is not the end of the story!)

All this and more is entailed in the Christian affirmation that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. And no, it’s not a nice story. But it is very Good News! A nice story cannot change lives, let alone transform the world. The Good News can—and does. So, we make it our business as the Church to continue sharing this Good News in this New Year of the Lord’s grace and favor that has now dawned upon us.