SUNDAY OF THE PASSION: PALM SUNDAY

April 10, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

 

Luke 22:47-23:49

 

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” That saying highlights what I like to call the “paradox of judgment.” Much as we rightly hate to be judgmental (or, to use what seems to be the new word, “judgy”), we cannot avoid judging. Those two things—judging and being judgmental—are not the same. From day to day, we inescapably make dozens of critical evaluations and decisions. The paradox, however, is that in the very act of judging, we subject ourselves to judgment.

 

A probably apocryphal story tells of a brash American tourist who went into the Ufizzi Gallery in Florence, one of Italy’s most famous art museums with an indescribably wonderful collection. In less than an hour he breezed through all the rooms containing medieval and renaissance paintings that occupied other visitors for days on end. On his way out, he crassly remarked to the guard at the door, “Well, I don’t think much of your old masters.” With a certain resigned air of old-world weariness, the guard replied calmly, “Yes, sir. And they don’t think much of you either. But unfortunately, they aren’t the ones on trial here, but the viewers.”

 

The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, writes that the word “trial” signifies an event (or even an ordeal) designed to reveal the truth. The purpose of a judicial trial in particular is to determine an accused person’s guilt or innocence. But in the process the trial typically lays bare many other truths as well – the honesty and reliability of the witnesses, the competence of the lawyers, the impartiality of the judge, and the wisdom of the jury.

 

In other words, many others are on trial than just the accused. In a real sense, every time it renders judgment our entire justice system itself goes on trial. When the courts find guilty and sentence an innocent person who’s later exonerated by new evidence; or, conversely, when they acquit and set free a guilty person who then goes out and commits further crimes, then they stand condemned by their own false judgment.

 

In every act of judging, then, we subject ourselves to judgment. The judgment may be favorable or unfavorable. The key point is that we have no privileged vantage point from which to evaluate and judge others without subjecting ourselves to evaluation and judgment at the same time.

 

In his famous essay “God in the Dock,” C. S. Lewis pointed out that many of his contemporaries seemed to think they had the luxury of critically examining the claims of Christianity, and effectively standing in judgment over God himself, without any corresponding sense of their own accountability. Describing the difference between previous generations and ours in this regard, he wrote this:

 

“The ancient man approached God (or even the gods) as the accused person approaches his judge. For the modern man the roles are reversed. He is the judge: God is in the dock. He is quite a kindly judge: if God should have a reasonable defense for being the god who permits war, poverty, and disease, he is ready to listen to it. The trial may even end in God’s acquittal. But the important thing is that Man is on the bench and God in the dock.”

 

But what would it really look like to put God on trial? The answer is that almost two thousand years ago, we did precisely that. When God came among us as a human being, we arrested him, tried him, judged him, condemned him, and executed him.

 

What stands out in the Passion according to Saint Luke is how the different characters respond to Jesus in such different ways. Luke seems acutely aware that it’s not Jesus who’s really on trial here, but everybody else.

 

As the story unfolds, many of the characters reach their own verdicts concerning Jesus. The chief priests, scribes, and rulers of the people seem to have their minds made up from the beginning. They press relentlessly for Jesus’ condemnation, thus securing their own condemnation.

 

Representing this world’s ruling powers, Pilate and Herod find nothing to condemn in Jesus. After declaring Jesus innocent three times, Pilate then demonstrates the moral bankruptcy of Roman imperial justice by condemning Jesus to death anyway.

 

The crowds are a bit harder to pigeonhole. At least some of them go along with the chief priests and scribes in taking up the cry, “Crucify, crucify him.” But Luke is careful to tell us that the crowds watch the crucifixion itself in silence, not joining in the taunts of the rulers and soldiers. And then, once Jesus has died, the crowds return to their homes beating their breasts—a gesture of sorrow and perhaps even repentance.

 

The starkest contrast is that between the two thieves crucified with Jesus. One joins in the executioners’ mockery and abuse. The other, against all expectations, puts his faith and trust in Jesus—saying “Remember me when you come into your kingdom”—and receiving in turn the promise, “Today you shall be with me in Paradise.”  There’s no clearer instance of the point that Jesus is not really the one on trial here; in reaching his true judgment of Jesus the good thief gains his own acquittal.

 

Likewise with the centurion who renders the verdict: “Certainly this man was innocent!” In so saying, he acknowledges the guilt of his complicity in a wrongful execution and yet, paradoxically, possibly gains the beginning of his own acquittal before God.

 

In all these different ways, the characters reach their various judgments concerning Jesus, and, in so doing, are themselves judged accordingly. The same is true for us today. As we question, probe, and evaluate God, God questions, probes, and evaluates us. In rendering our verdict, we receive our verdict.

 

The difficult truth is that none of us can stand up to that kind of scrutiny. None of us has clean hands. Throughout our lives, so many of our judgments are misjudgments, so many of our decisions so deeply flawed. So often—as the Catholic priest and writer Richard John Neuhaus once put it—we’re at our worst precisely when we’re trying to do our best.

 

But notice that the characters who come off best in the Passion narrative are not those who are beyond reproach—for, besides Jesus and his Blessed Mother, there aren’t any—but rather those who accept responsibility for their actions and repent of their sins: the thief who acknowledges that he’s receiving the due reward of his deeds; the centurion who admits his complicity in a wrongful execution; the crowds who go home beating their breasts.

 

Our only hope lies in repentance. Yet, once we’ve put God on trial and condemned him to death, what possible hope can remain for us? For the answer to that question, come back a week from today!

LENT 5, YEAR C

April 3, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

 

Isaiah 43:16-21

Psalm 126

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

 

All four Gospels record some version of the story we’ve just heard of a woman anointing our Lord’s feet with costly ointment at a gathering for a meal at somebody’s house, although they differ on the details. In today’s Gospel, from Saint John, it takes place in the house of Lazarus in Bethany, a village located on the Mount of Olives a mile and a half outside Jerusalem, and the woman is identified as Mary, the sister of Lazarus and Martha. 

 

In Matthew and Mark, it also takes place in Bethany, but in the house of Simon the Leper, and the woman’s name is not mentioned. In Luke, a similar incident takes place, but in an unnamed village, with the woman a notorious but repentant sinner—traditionally identified as Mary Magdalene, although without a shred of scriptural evidence.

Biblical scholars tend to agree that the existence of such slightly differing versions of the same story attest to its basic historical reliability. Some actual underlying event was memorable enough to get repeated over and over in such a way that these differences in detail crept in before the various Gospel accounts were written down in their final form.  

 

In any case, since the lectionary gives us the account in John’s Gospel, that’s what we’ll engage with today. The key point is that this episode of the anointing of our Lord’s feet by Mary of Bethany takes place in the context of the rising tension that follows directly upon his raising of Lazarus from the dead. 

 

According to John’s Gospel, this wonderful miracle is what precipitates the decision to have Jesus put to death. The members of the Jewish ruling Council, the Sanhedrin, frantically ask one another: “What are we to do? For this man performs many signs. If we let him go on thus, everyone will believe in him and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” To which the High Priest Caiaphas responds: “It is expedient for you that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should not perish.”

 

So, when today’s Gospel begins, Jesus is already a marked man. The authorities are trying to track him down and catch him away from the crowds so they can arrest him and hand him over to the Romans for execution. 

 

Amidst this rising tension, Mary of Bethany lovingly anoints the Lord’s feet with precious and costly oil and wipes them with her hair. The Greek title “Christ” and the Hebrew title “Messiah” both mean the same thing: “the Anointed One.” Mary’s action thus has enormous significance as symbolically identifying Jesus as the Messiah of Jewish expectation: God’s Anointed One, the Christ.

 

It seems to me that in the Gospels Jesus receives three different anointings. The first is at his baptism in the River Jordan. In a later sermon recorded in the Acts of the Apostles, Saint Peter proclaims that “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power, [and] he went about doing good and healing all that were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him.” The second anointing is that described in today’s Gospel. And the third, at least in John’s Gospel, takes place after our Lord’s crucifixion, when Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus bring “a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pounds weight” to prepare his body for burial.

 

Now, what I’m about to say may be a bit of a stretch, but these three anointings could be read as corresponding to what are known as our Lord’s three offices of Prophet, Priest, and King—the three roles for which one was anointed in ancient Israel. The Holy Spirit’s descent in the likeness of a dove at his baptism anoints Jesus for his prophetic office of preaching and teaching in Galilee. His anointing by Mary of Bethany points to his priestly office of offering himself upon the Cross as the one, full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of the whole world. And the anointing at his burial by Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea identifies his kingly office as Lord of heaven and earth, soon to be made manifest in his Resurrection and Ascension.

 

All these different meanings are implied whenever we name Jesus as the Christ. In this context, several details of today’s Gospel assume special significance. If Mary of Bethany had poured the oil on his head, the symbolism would have been that of a coronation—anointing a king about to enter upon his reign. But anointing the feet is characteristically done in the Jewish rites of burial. This detail tends to confirm the symbolism of Mary’s action as pointing to our Lord’s coming crucifixion, where he offers himself as both priest and victim. Moreover, the costliness of Mary’s offering, her loving extravagance, anticipates the infinitely greater cost that Jesus will bear on the cross as the expression of God’s extravagant love for all creation. 

 

Finally, when Mary anoints Jesus’ feet, “the whole house [is] filled with the fragrance of the ointment.” Similarly, our Lord’s approaching death on the cross is a sacrifice of sweet savor that brings life, health, and salvation to the whole world.

 

So, today’s Gospel identifies Jesus as the Anointed One, the Messiah, or Christ of God. A point not to be overlooked, however, is that as Christians we’ve all been anointed too! In the Church’s sacramental life, we’re anointed with the oil of chrism at our baptism, and sometimes at our Confirmation as well. When we get seriously ill, we can be anointed with the oil of the sick in the Sacrament of Unction. At their ordination, priests receive an anointing of the hands to set them apart for handling holy things.

 

These various sacramental anointings point to our common Christian calling, whether lay or ordained, to participate in the exercise of Christ’s prophetic, priestly, and royal offices in a manner appropriate to our circumstances and station in life. We share in the prophetic office by bearing witness to the truth of the Gospel and giving an account of our faith as the opportunity presents itself. We share in the priestly office by joining faithfully and regularly in the Church’s worship, its continual offering of the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving to God. And we share in the royal office by taking responsibility for our part in the stewardship, care, and governance of the wider world in which we live. 

 

Most of all, today’s Gospel suggests that the authentically Christian life is marked by radical self-giving born of love. We’re called to give it our all. Mary of Bethany enacts this extravagant generosity in her anointing of our Lord’s feet, just as Jesus will soon offer himself for the whole world in his self- sacrifice on the cross. And it’s precisely this same quality of costly, all-outpouring love that we’re called as the Church to make manifest in the world today, as we seek to follow Christ, and serve God and our neighbor in his name.

 

FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR C

March 27, 2022

Saint Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

 

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32

II Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

 

A triple theme runs through today’s Scripture readings: homecoming, reconciliation, and celebration. Let’s look at these three images in turn.

 

First: homecoming. In the reading from Joshua, the Israelites have just crossed the River Jordan into the land of Canaan, ending the forty years of wandering in the wilderness after their liberation from bondage in Egypt. They’ve never seen this place before. Still, it’s the land God promised their ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as their inheritance. So, they know that they’ve finally come home.

 

Similarly, in the Gospel reading from Saint Luke, the parable of the Prodigal Son is all about homecoming. After taking himself off to a far country and squandering his inheritance in loose living so that he nearly perishes from hunger, the Prodigal “comes to himself” and returns to his father’s house, where, against all expectations, he’s welcomed with open arms: the homecoming story to end all homecoming stories!

 

The second theme is reconciliation. At the beginning of the Old Testament reading, God makes a rather puzzling statement to Joshua: “This day, I have rolled away the reproach of Egypt from you.” To understand what’s going on here, it helps to know what’s happened immediately before. During their forty years in the wilderness, the children of Israel have neglected to circumcise their male offspring eight days after birth. So, upon crossing the River Jordan, God instructs them to renew his covenant with Abraham by circumcising all the uncircumcised men and boys among them: a painful procedure, to be sure, but necessary if they’re to inherit God's promises to Abraham. 

 

So, God’s words to Joshua, “This day, I have rolled away the reproach of Egypt from you,” mean that the people have been reconciled to God by keeping his commandments. More broadly, they no longer suffer the shame and disgrace of being a band of wandering fugitive slaves. They’re now God’s People, ready to take possession of the land that’s rightfully theirs.

 

And I don’t need to labor the point that the parable of the Prodigal Son is all about reconciliation. Forgiven and restored by his father, the Prodigal can surely make his own the words of Psalm 32: “Happy are they whose transgressions are forgiven, and whose sin is put away.” Both the Israelites entering the Promised Land and the Prodigal Son being welcomed home are figures pointing in their different ways to what God has done for us in Christ, as Saint Paul writes in Second Corinthians: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come.” 

 

The third image is that of celebration and feasting. Encamped at Gilgal on the plains of Jericho, the Israelites keep the Passover on its appointed day. Moreover, something enormously significant happens. After they eat land's produce, unleavened cakes and parched grain, the manna ceases. The manna, we recall, is the miraculous bread from heaven that God has provided for their sustenance during the forty years in the wilderness. But it was never meant as anything more than a temporary measure. So, when they arrive in their new home, the land flowing with milk and honey, the manna ceases. 

 

The Fathers of the early Church discerned in the manna a figure of the true Bread from heaven, the Sacrament of Christ's Body and Blood, which sustains us on our journey through this life. But this too is a temporary measure. When we arrive in heaven, as Hymn 315 tells us, “Sacraments shall cease” just as the manna ceased. For there, in our Promised Land, we shall all share in the feast of which the Eucharist is the foretaste, in direct communion with Christ, and with no further need of intermediate signs.

 

The homecoming party in the parable of the Prodigal Son stands as another figure of this same heavenly banquet. In his joy at his son’s return, the father in the story orders up a great feast: “let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” There we have it all in a nutshell: homecoming, reconciliation, and celebration.

 

The good news is that God is giving a homecoming party, and we’re all invited. We accept the invitation by being reconciled with God and our neighbor. As Saint Paul writes in today’s Epistle: “God through Christ reconciled us to himself, and gave us the ministry of reconciliation … We beseech you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.”

 
The challenge in today’s readings is to examine our lives and ask ourselves where we need to be reconciled to God. In which of our relationships do we need to forgive or seek forgiveness? If God in Christ has given us the ministry of reconciliation, then that’s what we need to be about as Christians.

 

The not-so-good news is that some of our relationships may have become so damaged that reconciliation is no longer possible, at least not in this life. Even though we’re called always to pray for the grace to forgive those who’ve done us harm, nonetheless, forgiveness doesn’t necessarily mean letting people back into our lives who’ve demonstrated that they can only be relied upon to do us further harm. In these few cases, our only option is to pray for the good of the other person, in the hope that we may be reconciled in heaven if not in this world.

 

Sometimes, then, reconciliation happens and sometimes it doesn’t. And that observation brings us to the jealous older brother. Even though the father forgives his wayward son, it seems that the older brother cannot. Even though many readers find him easy to identify with, he’s not in any sense a figure to admire or imitate. He’s so wrapped up in self-righteousness and self-pity that his father effectively must beg him: For God’s sake, stop taking yourself so seriously! Let go of your wounded pride, come inside, join the party, and have a good time! Some New Testament commentators point out that Jesus deliberately leaves the parable’s ending open. He doesn’t tell us whether what the older son does, because he wants us to supply that ending ourselves by our own acceptance of the invitation.

 

So, we’re left with the question: What’s stopping us from coming home, being reconciled, and joining in the celebration? Like the old man in the parable, God is always ready and eagerly waiting to welcome us back with open arms. Will our response be that of the Prodigal Son returning to his father’s house, or that of the jealous older brother staying outside and making himself miserable? How we answer that question determines how we spend eternity.

 

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR C

March 20, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

 

Exodus 3:1-15

Psalm 63:1-8

I Corinthians 10:1-3

Luke 13:1-9

 

From today’s reading from Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians: “Now these things are warnings for us, not to desire evil ...” This verse invites us to reflect on the nature of “warnings” in general.

 

A warning is not quite the same thing as a threat. I’m old enough to remember when the warning first appeared on cigarette packets: “The Surgeon General has determined that smoking may be hazardous to your health.” Tame language compared with today, but the intent was to warn people that if they persisted in smoking tobacco products, they incurred a grave risk of lung cancer, emphysema, heart disease, and a variety of other potentially fatal ailments. It wasn’t a threat but a warning.

 

The distinction, I think, is that a threat has the purpose of intimidation, coercion, and control—and it’s made for the benefit of the party issuing the threat. The word for someone who habitually gets his way by making threats is a bully. A warning, by contrast, is made for the protection and safety of those being warned: like the signs we see on the beach: No swimming: dangerous rip currents! The warning is for our own good, and we ignore it at our peril.

 

If this distinction is valid, then it seems to me that our God doesn’t make threats. But he does issue plenty of warnings: always intended for our ultimate good, indeed for our eternal salvation.

 

In the wonderful Old Testament reading from Exodus about the burning bush, God commissions Moses to liberate the children of Israel from their bondage in Egypt. Although the reading doesn’t explicitly mention it, a key component of Moses’ ministry will be to warn Pharaoh and the Egyptians of the dire consequences of their failure to obey God’s command to let his people go—warnings that sadly go unheeded.

 

In the reading from First Corinthians, Saint Paul is warning his readers not to presume upon their baptism, membership in the Church, and participation in the Eucharist as a license to indulge freely in immorality and disobedience without fear of any consequences. During their forty years of wandering in the wilderness, the Hebrews whom Moses delivered from bondage in Egypt incurred God’s wrath and punishment when they put the Lord to the test and defied his commandments. Never mind that they’d been led through the Red Sea and had tasted the heavenly manna. Having received such great gifts, they were even more accountable to God for their behavior.  So, Saint Paul writes, “Now these things happened to them as a warning, but they were written down for our instruction, upon whom the end of the ages has come.”

 

The early Church fathers interpreted this point as meaning that the temporal punishments of sinners in the Old Testament serve as figurative or allegorical warnings of the eternal punishments awaiting unrepentant sinners in the world to come. In other words, while we probably won’t be punished for our sins in this life by plagues, serpents, or the earth swallowing us up alive, nonetheless these calamities symbolize the miseries of hell, and hence serve as warnings to repent while we still have time.

 

Our Lord’s message in today’s Gospel is similar. Preaching to the crowds, he’s told of a group of Galileans massacred by the Roman prefect Pontius Pilate. We don’t know the exact incident referred to here, but those relating it are likely seeking to entrap him. If, on one hand, he condemns Pilate for his brutality, then he can be charged with sedition. If, on the other hand, he says that those Galileans were sinners who got just what they deserved, in effect blaming the victims, then he loses the support of the common people.

 

Jesus sidesteps the trap brilliantly. Yes, those Galileans were sinners, but no worse than the rest of you. Similarly, with eighteen Jerusalemites killed by a collapsing tower in Siloam: again, we don’t know the historical incident referred to, but the point’s the same: they were sinners, yes, but no worse than all the inhabitants of Jerusalem. And in both cases, Jesus repeats the refrain: “unless you repent you will all likewise perish.”

 

Our Lord’s point is much the same as Saint Paul’s in today’s Epistle: “these things are warnings for us.” Specifically: the temporal sufferings of the Galileans massacred by Pilate and the Jerusalemites crushed by the falling tower point to the eternal sufferings awaiting us all if we fail to repent. It’s not a particularly comfortable message but hey, it’s Lent, and we owe it to ourselves and to God to wrestle a bit with the Sunday Scriptures that the Church lays before us for our edification in this holy season. 

 

The key theological point is that heaven and hell are choices we make for ourselves. God never sends us anywhere we don’t want to go. If we end up in heaven, it’s because we’ve chosen, explicitly or implicitly, to accept God’s offer of eternal life and bliss; if we end up in hell, it’s because we’ve chosen to hold on to the lesser goods that we’ve put in God’s place and mistakenly believe will bring us the happiness that we seek. The torments of hell really consist of the eternal frustration of forfeiting the happiness and fulfillment that only God can give us. So, heaven and hell are choices that we make for ourselves. In the end, we get what we want.

 

The warnings in today’s Epistle and Gospel are thus given to help us make the right choices. Both Paul and Jesus are warning us to repent, to put God before all else, precisely so that we may enjoy eternal happiness. God does not want any to perish, but desires all to be saved—and indeed gives his only Son to death on a cross to precisely that end.

 

The parable of the barren fig tree drives this point home. The fig tree is us. Even though we fail to bear the fruit that the Lord seeks from us, he doesn’t cut us down right away. When the landowner comes three successive years and finds no fruit, the groundskeeper persuades him to give it yet another season. God gives us not only second chances, but third, fourth, and fifth chances. Christ digs about our roots and pours on manure. (It may seem irreverent to picture God’s grace as manure, but hey, that’s the metaphor right there in the parable!) 

 

The day of judgment will come, when the fig tree must either have borne fruit or be cut down. But the good news is that day is not yet. We still have time to take God’s warnings to heart, and repent and return to the Lord. And we have the promise relayed by Saint Paul in today’s Epistle: “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” In other words: by God’s grace, we can do this.

SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR C

March 13, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

Genesis 15:1-12

Psalm 27

Philippians 3:17-4:1

Luke 13:13-35

A theme running through our readings for today is that our God is a God who brings joy from sadness, hope from despair, light from darkness, and indeed life from death.

The wonderful story of Abram in the Old Testament reading from Genesis illustrates this theme perfectly. In response to God’s assurance, “Fear not, for I am your shield; your reward shall be very great,” Abram somewhat impertinently complains that God has given him no offspring to carry forth his name and his inheritance. God then takes him outside and shows him the myriads of stars in the clear night sky and declares, “So shall your descendants be.” Not only that, but after an offering of sacrifice accompanied by some interesting supernatural phenomena, God promises Abram’s progeny the gift of land, from the River Nile to the River Euphrates. 

The story’s key point, I think, is that in a society that conceives of the afterlife as living in and through one’s descendants, God’s words to Abram amount to a promise of resurrection and immortality. God transforms a man without heirs into the father of many nations, a landless nomad into the future possessor of vast fertile territories.

Psalm 27 takes up a similar theme. Despite his many discouraging struggles with enemies threatening his life, the psalmist sings joyfully: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?” And near the end he reaffirms his belief that he shall see “the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living!”

In the reading from Philippians, Saint Paul boldly articulates the Christian hope in life after death: “Our commonwealth is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will change our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power which enables him to subject all things to himself.”

The Gospel reading takes up this same theme of life from death, but requires a bit more unpacking. Jesus and his disciples have begun their final journey to Jerusalem. Some Pharisees warn him to “get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” The warning is credible, for Herod has just recently killed John the Baptist. The irony is that they’re already on their way out of Herod’s territory, heading into Judea. Jesus tells the Pharisees to “go and tell that fox” that he’s not leaving from fear of anything that Herod can do to him. When he dies it won’t be at Herod’s hands, “for it cannot be that a prophet should perish away from Jerusalem.”

Calling Herod a fox is quite an insult. As depicted in numerous ancient fables and stories, as well as in rabbinical sayings, foxes have the reputation of being sly and crafty. They’re also omnivorous. They’ll eat anything. They’re both predators and scavengers – killing and eating all sorts of smaller animals like rodents and birds as the opportunity presents itself.

But the political insult cuts even deeper. Like jackals, foxes scavenge at the kills of larger predators, like lions. So, it’s just possible that in calling Herod a fox, our Lord is likening him to a scavenger feeding on the leftovers of Roman imperial conquests. As a client king, Herod depends on Rome’s power to sustain his own position in the region. So casting Herod as a fox in relation to Caesar’s lion is daringly subversive speech.

But then, our Lord uses an even more unexpected animal image to describe himself. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you! How often would I have gathered your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not!”

For our Lord’s listeners, this image of a hen gathering her brood under her wings is at once familiar and unfamiliar. The Psalms are full of verses in which the speaker seeks or finds refuge under the Lord’s wings. For example, Psalm 17, verse 8: “Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me under the shadow of your wings.” And again, Psalm 91, verse 4: “He shall cover you with his pinions, and you shall find refuge under his wings …”

Yet the image is also startling. The Old Testament language of refuge under the Lord’s wings tends to evoke eagles, falcons, hawks, or other fierce birds or prey who are generally more than a match for predators seeking to take their young. But a hen is no match for Herod’s fox, much less Rome’s lion. By covering her chicks with her wings, she lets the predator know that there’s no way to get to the chicks without killing her first. If the predator attacks the hen, the chicks just may have a chance to scatter and escape. If they live, it will be because the hen has given her life in exchange for theirs.

In one of the great classics of early modern political thought, Machiavelli remarks that the successful prince combines the strength of the lion with the cleverness of the fox. Here Jesus shows that his power is not that of any such prince, but of one who stands defenseless and ready to die for those entrusted to his care. He says, in effect, that if we would be his followers, we must likewise forsake the way of the lion and the fox and adopt instead the way of the mother hen – the way of vulnerability and self-sacrifice.

Embedded in the juxtaposition of these images of the fox and the hen is thus a prophecy of our Lord’s coming suffering and death at the hands of this world’s powers, which the Bible repeatedly likens to dangerous wild animals. The paradox, however, is that in the end the fox does not have the last word. Our Lord’s message to Herod is, “Behold I cast out demons and perform cures today and tomorrow, and the third day I finish my course.” 

The original readers of Luke’s Gospel would clearly have understood the third day as an allusion to our Lord’s resurrection after three days in the tomb. Again, our Lord’s words at the end of today’s Gospel combine a prediction of desolation with a promise of hope: “Behold, your house is forsaken; and I tell you, you will not see me until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”—words spoken not only during our Lord’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday but also at every Sunday Mass when we welcome the risen Christ into our midst in his sacramental presence.

In other words, even after this world’s lions and foxes have done their worst, and all lies in ruin and desolation, the true victory goes not to the wild animals who rely on speed and strength to catch and kill their prey, but rather to the lowly mother hen, who offers herself up for her chicks. Just so, God brings joy from sadness, hope from despair, light from darkness, and life from death.

FIRST SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR C

March 6, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

Today’s Old Testament reading always takes me back to my first year in seminary. Our Old Testament Professor had an old-fashioned teaching method; he required us to commit to memory certain passages of scripture that he considered it necessary for us to know. 

Some shorter passages, like the Song of Miriam – “Sing to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously, the horse and his rider hath he cast into the sea” – he had us memorize and recite in Hebrew. Longer passages he was content to have us recite in English translation. And one passage he considered most important of all was that in today’s Old Testament reading, “A wandering Aramean was my father; and he went down to Egypt and sojourned there, few in number; and there he became a nation, great, mighty, and populous.”

Every year, faithful Israelites would recite these words when they came up to the Jerusalem Temple to offer to God the first fruits of the harvest. These words constituted a solemn remembrance of their sojourn in Egypt, their toil and affliction, and their deliverance from bondage by the Lord’s mighty hand and outstretched arm. Most of all, these words gratefully acknowledged that the present harvest was the gift of the same Lord who’d brought them into this place and given them this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.

Imagine the cumulative effect of re-enacting this solemn ritual year after year, generation after generation. By reciting the story of God’s mighty deeds in the past, the Israelites reconfirmed their allegiance to God, and renewed their membership in God’s People Israel. So, over time, this annual confession of faith powerfully formed and shaped their identity as the People of God.

The memorization and repetition of passages of scripture is an invaluable exercise. While my seminary classmates and I initially chafed at our professor’s requirement, by the end of the semester we were immensely grateful to him. Learning these verses by heart deepened and enriched our process of priestly formation. But we don’t need to be in training for holy orders; all Christians stand to benefit spiritually from committing key biblical passages to memory. So, there’s a question and a challenge for each of us: Do we have an arsenal of scripture verses, passages, and stories that we can call to mind and recite at key moments in our lives—moments of decision and maybe even temptation?

The more we immerse ourselves in the scriptures, the closer we come to realizing the goal that St. Paul sets before us in today’s Epistle: “The Word is near you, on your lips and in your heart . . . because, if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved; for man believes with his heart and so is justified, and confesses with his lips and so is saved.”

At the offering of the first fruits, the Israelites confessed with their lips what they believed in their hearts. The temptation narrative in today’s Gospel exemplifies the same principle. Jesus overcomes each of the devil’s three temptations in the wilderness by means of a confession of faith.

And each time the devil tempts him, Jesus responds by quoting Scripture. To the temptation to misuse his divine power by turning stones into bread, Jesus responds: “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone.’” To the temptation to fall down and worship the devil in return for all the world’s kingdoms and their glory, Jesus responds, “It is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and him only shall you serve.’” And to the temptation to throw himself down from the Temple pinnacle to have the angels catch him and so demonstrate his divine Sonship, Jesus responds, “You shall not tempt the Lord your God.” (An equally good translation would be, “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.”) 

This third temptation shows us that the devil himself can misuse Scripture for his own ends, as he quotes today’s Psalm, “He will give his angels charge over you,” and “On their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone.” So, we need to be careful. Even so, in his three responses, Jesus demonstrates how the right use of Scripture can be a decisive shield against the assaults of the evil one.

This wilderness episode reveals a lot about Jesus. No doubt, as he grew up, he learned large portions of the Hebrew Bible by heart, both at home with Mary and Joseph, and every week in the synagogue in Nazareth. Luke’s Gospel tells us that when Jesus was twelve years old, his parents took him up to Jerusalem, where he amazed the teachers in the Temple by his understanding and his answers. Having grown up immersed in the scriptural heritage of his people, Jesus was equipped to stand firm in the time of his testing. The Word of God was truly in his heart and upon his lips.

So much of what we do in the Church’s liturgical life is designed to have precisely the same effect: to put the Word of God in our hearts and upon our lips. In our Sunday Masses, we follow a three-year lectionary that systematically takes us through large parts of the Bible, keying a wide variety of readings to the changing seasons, feasts, and fasts of the Church Year. 

Those who read the Prayer Book’s offices of Morning and / or Evening Prayer cycle through the entire Psalter once a month, and through most of the Bible every two years. This regular repetition of set prayers, psalm verses, and sentences of scripture, is a great gift of our Anglican spiritual tradition. The more we repeat them, the more they sink into the depths of our subconscious awareness, the more they become part of who we are, and the more likely they are to spring to mind when we truly need them: in moments of tragedy, crisis, decision, or temptation—or of rejoicing and celebration.

This Season of Lent is a time of year when by God’s grace we recommit ourselves resisting temptation and repenting of sin. It’s a time when we recommit ourselves to faithful participation in the worship that helps put the words of Scripture in our hearts and on our lips. And it’s a time when we recommit ourselves to the lifelong process of allowing God’s Word and God’s Spirit to form us ever more deeply into our baptismal identity as God’s People. 

LAST SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY, YEAR C

February 27, 2022

St. Uriel’s, Sea Girt, N. J.

Luke 9:28-36

In the contemporary Church calendar, the Gospel for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany is always that of Our Lord’s Transfiguration. So, even though the Feast of the Transfiguration is traditionally kept on August 6th, nonetheless, today is widely known as “Transfiguration Sunday.”

A standard line of interpretation has grown up around the Transfiguration’s placement at this point in the liturgical year. The vision of our Lord radiating the light of heavenly splendor brings to a climax the season after the Epiphany – the wintertime of the year when we consider such manifestations of the Lord’s glory as his baptism in the River Jordan and his changing of water into wine at the wedding at Cana in Galilee.

But then, just as Jesus and the three apostles must come down off the mountain to begin the journey to Jerusalem—despite Peter’s expressed desire to “hold on to the experience” by building three booths—so we also must come down off the mountain of Epiphany to traverse the dark valley of Lent, which leads us inexorably towards Our Lord’s passion and death on Good Friday. And so, countless sermons warn us against trying to hold on to the “mountaintop experiences” and admonish us instead to take up our crosses and follow Jesus in the hard way of discipleship.

Now, that’s a perfectly valid line of interpretation. I’ve preached that sermon any number of times myself and will almost certainly do so again. But this morning I’d like to suggest an alternative interpretation in which the Transfiguration doesn’t as much stand in contrast to Lent as it anticipates and points to the Lenten season itself.

Today’s Gospel opens with Our Lord taking the apostles Peter, James, and John up on a mountain to pray. This detail epitomizes a distinct pattern in our Lord’s earthly ministry. As we read the Gospels, we notice that Jesus typically alternates periods of intense activity with periods of withdrawal and solitude.

Most of the time, the Gospels depict our Lord traveling from town to town, preaching, teaching, healing, casting out demons, performing miracles, and engaging in controversies with his religious critics. It’s an active ministry that no doubt requires enormous stamina.

But every now and then, Jesus goes off by himself to a lonely place apart. The pattern begins after his baptism in the River Jordan when he goes into the wilderness forty days and forty nights—as we shall hear in next week in the Gospel for the First Sunday of Lent. But it continues throughout his ministry. For example, after feeding the five thousand, Jesus goes up on a mountain to pray while his disciples set out in a boat to cross the Sea of Galilee, setting the scene for his nighttime miracle of his walking to them across the water’s surface.

So, we see in our Lord’s ministry a pattern of alternation between what the Christian spiritual tradition has called the active life and the contemplative life. His taking Peter, James, and John with him up the mountain to pray at the beginning of today’s Gospel continues precisely this pattern.

Many spiritual writers observe that such alternation marks the typical Christian life as well. As baptized members of Christ’s Body the Church, we’re most of us called to engage in active good works in the world, but without neglecting either worship or times of solitude and quiet for prayer. Moreover, the Christian life is marked by rhythms of alternation between among different types different types of prayer over time. At certain times in our lives, we may find ourselves drawn to more spontaneous and emotional expressions of praise, while at other times we find ourselves drawn more to formal liturgical prayer or to silent contemplation. 

The cycle of the Christian year likewise takes us through an alternating rhythm of seasons, feasts, and fasts – some joyful, some penitential, some ordinary. As finite human beings, we can’t do everything at once, so we set aside distinct times and seasons, feasts and fasts, to concentrate sequentially on the manifold dimensions of our faith. And so, as we go through the cycle year by year, we build up a cumulative appreciation of the whole faith in all its multifaceted splendor and beauty.

Against this background, one way of looking at the Season of Lent, which begins this week on Ash Wednesday, is as an invitation not so much to come down off the mountain as to go up on it. Jesus and the three disciples need a place to get away after the exhausting grind of their ministry. In the Bible, moreover, the mountaintop is the archetypal place of encounter with the divine—as exemplified in today’s Old Testament reading about Moses and Mount Sinai. In the same way, the Season of Lent bids us find a space set apart from the busyness of our lives, a place where we may encounter God.

For example, we might make a point of coming to one (or more) of our weekday services, such as the Wednesday Mass or Stations and Benediction on Friday. Or come to the Lenten series on the English Mystics that we’ve scheduled later on Wednesday mornings and again on Wednesday evenings. There are many other possibilities for disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving that we might take on. But we need to remember that the true point of all our Lenten practices is to create a space in our lives where we can be available to God; and we need to devise our Lenten rules with that objective in mind.

And it’s just possible that even amidst the season’s austerities—indeed precisely in and through the season’s austerities—we shall catch a glimpse of the glory of the Lord, just as the three disciples did after completing the climb up the mountain. Notice that when Moses and Elijah appear with Jesus, they speak with him of his departure or exodus, which he is to accomplish at Jerusalem; and this refers of course to his coming death on the cross. 

It’s thus a mistake to draw too sharp a contrast between our Lord’s glory and his suffering, as if the Transfiguration’s light were somehow opposed to Calvary’s darkness. They’re two sides of the same coin, the wonderful mystery of our redemption. And so, by ascending the mountain with Jesus this upcoming season of Lent, we open ourselves up to the vision of this dual reality: darkness and light; suffering and glory.