Saints – SSJE: Recent Episodes
Saints – SSJE
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:Such a way as gives us breath;Such a truth as ends all strife,Such a life as killeth death.[6]
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:Such a way as gives us breath;Such a truth as ends all strife,Such a life as killeth death.
Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength:Such a light as shows a feast,Such a feast as mends in length,Such a strength as makes his guest.
Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart:Such a joy as none can move,Such a love as none can part,Such a heart as joys in love.
Br. James Koester
Vincent of Saragossa
Some of us will remember that when Tom was the Superior, he would often pray at the midday Office that the gift of martyrdom be given to the community. These prayers became so frequent that some of us were more than willing to assist him in making these prayers come true, by offering him as the first martyr. The reality, however, is that the gift of martyrdom has been given to the Society, and Tom’s prayers have been answered, but not in ways that are perhaps obvious at first.
For many, perhaps most, perhaps you, and certainly these days for the press, martyrdom is about violence, and ultimately about death. Martyrs are people who die violently for a cause. However, in a larger sense, martyrdom is not simply about dying violently. It is about surrendering our lives, by living with integrity and without fear. We say in our Rule that:
“The grace to surrender our lives to God through our vows has been given to us in Baptism whereby we die with Christ and are raised with him. It is the same grace that gives strength to martyrs to submit gladly to death as witnesses of the resurrection. From the beginning monks and nuns have been encouraged to understand their own commitment in the light of the freedom and trust that enables martyrs to give up their lives to the glory of God. The witness of the martyrs should never be far from our minds as we go forward in the vowed life day by day.”[1]
In many ways, all of us who have been baptised into the death and resurrection of Jesus, as well as those of us who live under monastic vows, have become martyrs, or rather witnesses, to the power of the resurrection, for the word martyr simply means witness. Some of us are witnesses to Christ through our “strength and courage to love and serve [him] with gladness and singleness of heart.”[2] Others are witnesses to the power of life over death given to us in the resurrection of Jesus by offering our very life, demonstrating that we do not fear death in the face of persecution. In either case our witness to the power of God to give life to all who love Jesus is our martyrdom, and it comes through living boldly, or dying bravely, or both.
This week the church remembers some of her earliest martyrs: the Apostle Peter,[3] Fabian,[4] Agnes and Cecelia,[5] and today, Vincent.[6] Each of them were willing to live boldly, and die bravely, as witnesses of the resurrection.
May God grant to us all the grace to do the same, and may God continue to grant our Society the gift of martyrdom, as we witness to the mystery of Christ’s resurrection in our lives, by living boldly, and perhaps dying bravely.
[1] The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, “Life Profession,” 79.
[2] The Book of Common Prayer, 365.
[3] Confession of St. Peter the Apostle, 18 January
[4] Fabian, Bishop and Martyr, 250, 20 January
[5] Agnes and Cecelia of Rome, Martyrs, 304 and c. 230, 21 January (in some places the feast of St. Cecelia is kept on 22 November)
[6] Vincent of Saragossa, Deacon and Martyr, 304, 22 January
Br. Jonathan Maury
Saint Thomas the Apostle
John 20:24-29
As this year’s Advent season draws to a close, we may well find ourselves questioning where God is present or even if God is present in the frightening chaos of our time. Yes, the Word’s coming among us in human flesh at Christmas still promises the restoration of wholeness, abundant new life and the future of divine glory for all creation. But in the midst of a fearful, world apocalypse of injustice, violence, cruelty, oppression, untruth, and greed – we may have our doubts.
It seems apt then, fortuitous even, that we should celebrate the image of Christ in Saint Thomas, the so-called “doubting” apostle. For just when the eternal Light seemed to have been extinguished, Thomas found faith and hope to be rekindled in the midst of his doubts.
If we are honest, the path to faith of “doubting” Thomas is in some measure shared by us all.
By Jesus’ choice, Thomas was brought into community of the disciples as Twelve. It seems to me, that Thomas’s charism, his particular gift of the Spirit, was to ask the questions most of the others would not or could not ask.
The “doubt” which I believe is Thomas’s gift should be understood as a component of his coming to faith. This “doubt” plays a part in coming to fullness of belief and commitment for each of us.
The seeds of hope, of faith in things not yet seen, must be sown in the soil of just such questioning and doubt. The Greek word for this doubt connotes a wavering or hesitation in faith – of belief already here. Doubt is not the negation of faith – but an integral part of the way to its fulness.
Within the community of believers and seekers, we must question, even doubt, that the promises of God in Jesus can possibly be realized in our world – and the world to come. It is only in such wavering and hesitation together that we are freed from the fear which binds us corporately and individually.
There are two places in the gospel of John, where “doubting” Thomas’s rootedness in this common sharing of faith is highlighted:
When Jesus has decided to raise his friend Lazarus from the sleep of death, his purpose will take him again to Judea, where the authorities seek to arrest and try him. The disciples – likely including Thomas – try to dissuade Jesus, doubting or hesitating with the prudence of his intended course of action. Yet it is Thomas, perceiving that Jesus will go, who says to the others, “Let us go also, that we may die with him.” (John 11)
At the supper on the night of his betrayal, Jesus speaks of his leaving the disciples and going to prepare a place for them and of his coming back to take them with him. Amid the ensuing confusion and worried uncertainty, it is Thomas alone who asks the question, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” (John 14)
To this, Jesus replies, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.” Though not fully in that moment, Thomas’s questioning doubt will at last open him to faith in the relationship which God will always share with us in Jesus.
When we hear of Thomas’s skepticism at the other disciples’ experience of the risen Christ, we would do well to remember the clear trauma and despair that that Thomas carried from Jesus’s condemnation, torture and execution. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
Yet it is faith, manifested in the midst of hesitant doubt, that brings Thomas back to the company of the disciples from whom he had previously absented himself. And this return becomes the occasion for the resurrected Jesus’ to show himself to Thomas in the only way this particular disciple can truly see the One for whom he has been watching.
The same applies for us in these last days of Advent: Jesus seeks to show and give himself to each of us and to all the world – to see and know in God fulness of faith, life and hope – as Christ is continually born anew in each moment. So I ask as I invite you to ask, What doubts, wavering, hesitation, resistance, or missteps are impeding, slowing down my readiness in following Jesus and the living of my life in God?
I pray that God will reveal these things and also the abiding presence of Jesus to us in the company of others in praying, worshipping, and serving in Christ’s name. May we welcome Jesus to show himself to the eyes of our faith.
It may perhaps be in the oppressed and needy stranger, in the child of refugee parents in exile from their homeland, in seekers who are seen as outsiders – or in sharing with another our doubts and thereby giving them leave to express their own.
All these may be channels leading from doubt into faith, so that may be made ready to see Christ Jesus when he shows himself, to cry aloud with blessed Thomas, “My Lord and my God!” Amen.
Br. Lucas Hall
Saint Andrew the Apostle
Today we observe the feast day of St. Andrew, the first-called disciple, brother to St. Peter. Well, technically his feast was Sunday, but the first Sunday of Advent bumped him. Honestly, I don’t think he’d mind; if your brother is St. Peter, you probably have a pretty thick skin about not getting top billing.
You may have noticed the signs at the entrances to the chapel, in the wooden frames with the candles, one at the front entrance and one at the guesthouse. We put those signs out on the larger feast days of the year, just to give people coming into the chapel a little context about why our liturgy may look and sound a bit different than normal. Each sign has the collect of the day, as well as a piece of art from somewhere in the Christian tradition, depicting the relevant figure or scene. So, naturally, today’s sign had to have St. Andrew.
As I was looking for a good image, I ran into a problem. A lot of them just aren’t very distinct. Many images of Andrew have been made, but most of them are just depictions of an older man. Which is fine, he was an older man, but they don’t really give you much. Some have him holding a scroll, a common feature associated with the Apostles, representing the Gospel, the Word, which they spread. Again, fine, but not very distinctive. Many had him with a big wooden X; the Church tradition holds that Andrew was crucified, not on an upright cross, but on an X-shaped cross, limbs spread and nailed to each arm of the cross. If you know what the Scottish flag looks like, a white X on a blue background, that’s from St. Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland. But as a symbol, that only really works if you’re not only familiar with Andrew in the Bible, but also of the Church tradition around him. If you’re not, it’s just an X. And some images depict him in a boat with his brother Peter, being called from the shore by Jesus; I considered that, but honestly, I felt a bit bad. We hear so much about Peter; maybe for one day a year, Andrew shouldn’t have to share the spotlight. Maybe Andrew’s sainthood isn’t just a function of bringing Peter with him; maybe he’s a saint in his own right.
The image I ultimately found is, at first, not that distinct looking. It’s an old man, holding a scroll. But what struck me was what was written on the scroll. In Greek, you see the words, “Eureka men ton Messiah.” Literally, “We have found the Messiah.” This is the way Andrew shares the news with his brother Peter in John’s gospel. But what stuck out to me was that first word, “Eureka.” You may recognize it: Eureka! It’s an exclamation that’s made its way into English. The most famous story involving the word is that the ancient scientist Archimedes exclaimed “Eureka” after sitting in a bathtub, seeing the water rise, and realizing that by measuring how much the water rose, you could exactly measure the volume of an object placed in the water. He was so excited at discovering a fundamental function of physics that, it’s said, he sprang up, naked, shouting “Eureka,” that is, “I’ve found it!” and ran through the city still naked to share his discovery.
And honestly, as someone who has read a lot of John’s Gospel, many times, that’s new to me. “We have found the Messiah,” can be said, well, just like that. A simple recitation of fact. But seeing that word, “Eureka,” adds something exclamatory. We’ve found him! I need to share this with you, my brother, my loved one, because this is new and exciting; we’ve found the one we were looking for! We found him!
Maybe I’m channeling Archimedes, encountering a fundamental mechanism of physics, seeing something deeply and beholding in awe. Or maybe I’m channeling Christ himself, who speaks at length about searching and finding, the woman and the lost coin, the shepherd and the lost lamb, the father and the prodigal son, who did not even let his son get fully to his house before rushing out to him in the street, who “had to celebrate, because . . . he was lost and has been found.”
“We have found him!” How sweet and pure, how full of awe is this joy. How new, even in the words of an older man. We are in Advent, a season of preparation and anticipation. I go to church a lot. Many of you do too! Perhaps part of our Advent observance, our watching, our keeping awake, is not to become dulled by the familiar story. Maybe, with St. Andrew, we’re called to be excited, to be surprised, to behold this promise anew, and exclaim “Eureka! We’ve found the Messiah!,” and really, really mean it.
Br. Curtis Almquist
Willibrord
Psalm 98:1-4
In the calendar of the church we remember today a monk named Willibrord who was born in the mid-seventh century in what is now southern Scotland, northern England. In his early 30s, and with 12 companions, he sailed from the Isles to evangelize Frisia, which is modern-day Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. Frisia was a hinterland, largely untouched by Christianity, practicing fearsome tribal religions, and fraught with political contests and wars.
Willibrord and his fellow monk-missionaries countered the strife and fear with unshakable kindness and care, and with the convincing news of God’s love. They were authentically charismatic, and were welcomed and trusted. They embodied the personality of the psalm we just prayed: “Sing to the Lord a new song.” They baptized multitudes, built monasteries, local churches and schools, completely changing that part of the world, from the inside out. Willibrord would eventually become Archbishop of Utrecht, in the modern-day Netherlands, and was recognized by the church as a saint from shortly after his death in year 739.
One reason the church remembers its saints is as an intervention to despair. When times are appallingly bad, when strife is on every corner and in every page of news, when political power is compromised and corrupt, when the rich become richer and the poor, poorer – times such as now for so many people in our world and in our own land – we recollect the life and inspiration of one such as Willibrord as an example of courage, faithfulness, and hope for how then to live in the face of adversity in our own day.
In my moments of despair, when I feel so small in the face of what seems so big and so bad, when my faith feels like I’m hanging from a windowsill, I find someone such as Willibrord galvanizing. And for you, I suggest you recollect some people you know in your personal life history who to you are heralds of courage, kindness, selflessness, and faithfulness in the midst of the egregious needs of their own day. How did they do it? Claim from them a template for how then to live your life with zeal as a missionary to those within your reach. And call on these souls whom you remember for their own intercession.
Blessed Willibrord, whom we remember today.
Br. Lain Wilson
All Souls: All the Faithful Departed
Wisdom 3:1-9
A week and a half ago, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon, in Washington, DC. I anticipated the physical exhaustion, but didn’t expect the emotional exhaustion. No small part of that came at mile 12, the “wear blue mile.” Every few strides, a pair of sandwich boards featured a fallen serviceman or -woman. Every few strides, on and on: faces, names, ages – a litany of the dead.
As I ran that mile, I tried to say their names to myself, to make my running through this gauntlet, in some measure, my prayer for them. I couldn’t help but think ahead to a similar litany we’ll experience this evening, as we recite the names of our own departed.
Today is the feast of All Souls, when we remember all those whom we love but see no longer – parents and children, friends and mentors, those long departed and those recently lost. We remember them with the faith, the hope, the expectation that, though gone from our sight, they are not lost in the eyes of God. “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God” (Wisdom of Solomon 3:1).
Our first reading, from the Wisdom of Solomon, includes an evocative phrase that always catches my attention: “In the time of their visitation they will shine forth, and will run like sparks through the stubble” (3:7). The image here is common in Jewish apocalyptic, referring to the brilliance of the righteous when they will judge the nations.
If this image points to a truth of God’s future, it also reveals a reality of our own present – a real way that those whom we love and see no longer are present to us now. The first-century-CE Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria extends this image, in a discussion of the edifying effect of virtue: “the smallest spark of virtue, when it beams up, being wakened into life by good hopes, gives light to what has previously been dim-sighted and blind, and causes what has been withered to shoot up again, and whatever is barren and unproductive it transforms and brings to abundance of prolific power.”[1]
Our departed, who will shine forth like stars in God’s future, in our present run like sparks through our lives. Their faithful example – their ways of loving us, their commitment and courage, their achievements and, yes, their failures – all these enlighten us, build us up, kindle our own spark so that our own lives and witnesses might shine in the world.
I experienced my own version of this during the race. As I hit a wall at mile 22, I found myself remembering those names and faces from earlier, replaying them in my mind, feeling myself surrounded and pushed forward by the strength of their example, those who gave all for a cause they felt to be true and right. I didn’t know any of those faces or recognize any of their names, but I still felt myself kindled by their example – kindled, empowered, propelled.
On this feast of All Souls, what empowerment do you need today, at this stage of your own earthly race? How might your own spark be kindled by the example of your own beloved departed? How might your life shine forth now?
Amen.
[1] Philo of Alexandria, On the Migration of Abraham, 123, available online at P. Kirby, “Early Jewish Writings,” https://www.earlyjewishwritings.com/text/philo/book16.html (accessed November 4, 2025).
Br. Luke Ditewig
Thomas Traherne
Today we remember Thomas Traherne, a priest from the Welsh countryside known only after his death for his great quantity and quality of spiritual writing. He died at age 37 and his treasures kept being found and published.
Traherne saw and pointed to God in all creation. “Suppose a river or a drop of water, an apple or a sand, an ear of corn, or an herb; God knoweth infinite excellencies in it more than we. . . . O, what a treasure is every sand when truly understood! Who can love any thing that God hath made too much? [God’s] infinite goodness and wisdom and power and glory are in it.”[1]
As you pray, what wonder of creation catches your attention? Stop, stay, and gaze at it. Behold this treasure, like you, created good.
Traherne wrote about how God is revealed in scripture. Traherne wrote of the psalmist for Psalm 105 and 106, “celebrateth the ways of God in former ages with as much vehemency, zeal and pleasure as if they were new things, as if [the psalmist] were present with them seeing their beauty and tasting their delight that very moment.”[2]
As you pray, remember how God has saved, healed, protected, formed you. Recall God’s faithfulness. Retell your story. Recall our story as in Psalms 105 and 106. Feel again the zeal and pleasure of being found, the delight of seeing God act.
Traherne was a theologian in poetry and prose, expressing God is infinite and beyond as well as intimate in flesh as shown in this prayer:
“O eternal wisdom instruct me,
O eternal light illuminate me,
O eternal purity cleanse me,
O thou omnipresent power strengthen me,
O infinite holiness sanctify me,
Immutable love establish me,
Eternal mercy have mercy on me.”[3]
Blessed Thomas Traherne whom we remember today.
[1] Landscapes of Glory: Daily Readings with Thomas Traherne, introduced and edited A. M. Alchin (London, 1989), 41 (from Centuries of Meditations, 2.67).
[2] Ibid., 46 (from Centuries of Meditations, 3.92).
[3] Ibid., 60 (from Bodleian MS, The Church’s Yearbook, 112).
Br. Curtis Almquist
Ninian
Psalm 96:1-7
Matthew 28:16-20
Today we commemorate the life and witness of a monk and bishop named Ninian, born in the latter half of the fourth century in southern Scotland. And we only know this because the venerable historian named Bede, four centuries later, very briefly wrote about Ninian. Legend has it that Ninian was educated in Rome and greatly influenced by Saint Martin of Tours. Ninian followed Jesus’ words to “go and make disciples,” becoming a monk-missionary bishop to the Celts and Picts of Scotland in the fifth century.
Unless you are Scottish, you may never have heard of Saint Ninian. This is actually true about most saints. The church universal does remember some saints in boldface – Saint Paul, Saint Mary Magdalene, Saint Patrick among them; however most saints are only known in the recesses of our own hearts. The word “saint” comes from the Latin, sanctus, meaning holy, someone experienced as close to God. Saints have a heroic quality, at least to us personally. My paternal grandmother was a saint. You would not know her, but I do. Recollecting her always brings tears of gratitude to my eyes. You will know your own saints: people who symbolize hope, people who give you a moral compass, people who are real, and whole, and holy.
We all need big people in our lives: people who point the way how to live, people whom we admire and perhaps revere, people who influence us, whom we want to emulate. Life is so uncharted, and we need a great deal of help to find our way. Which is why Jesus’ words, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” arrested people, past and present. We need help finding our way.
Don’t let this innate need for “big people,” for heroes, be filled in your own mind and heart by people who have amassed power and authority in disingenuous or disreputable ways. We need to keep a repository in our own souls of people whom we know – past and present – who have influence and authority that teems with God’s life, and light, and love. Holy people, holy in our own eyes. And we need to be these very people to others. Our life vocation is to emulate kindness, generosity, dignity, beauty, love in ways which we can uniquely share and show. We need heroes. And we need to be heroes to those within our reach. It’s an innate need.
Blessed Ninian being one such soul from ages past.
Br. Lucas Hall
Saint Mary Magdalene
John 20:11-18
In 2009, a discovery was made by archaeologists working near the sea of Galilee. They had uncovered what would become known as the Migdal synagogue, one of the earliest known synagogues in the world. Indeed, to this date, the Migdal synagogue is one of only 10 known synagogues from before the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem by the Roman Empire in the year 70. That destruction would have profound ramifications for the religious scene in the area of Judea; before the destruction, a great variety of sects had existed, leading to rather vibrant debate among them. After the destruction of the Second Temple, only two remained: the Pharisaic movement, which would develop into the Rabbinic Judaism we know today, and the early Christians.
Many scholars have argued that, before the destruction of the Second Temple, synagogues had existed, but they weren’t terribly common, and were not considered to be particularly sacred. They were gathering places, places of discussion, education, and debate, but they weren’t specifically holy. The argument goes that this sense of the sacred was instead limited to the Temple in Jerusalem. But the discovery of the Migdal synagogue opened up a challenge to that line of reasoning. Within the synagogue was a large carved stone block. The carvings on this block are remarkable, because they’re full of imagery from the Temple. Scholars have some disagreements about exactly what some images depict: some see the Inner Altar of the Temple on one side, while others dispute this. Similarly, on two of the sides are a series of arches, but between the arches, there are curved lines which could be sheaves of wheat, depicting a grain offering, or that could be distant arches in the background, referencing the mysterious entrance to the Holy of Holies. Unanimously agreed, though, is the depiction of the Temple menorah, the seven-branched candleholder of pure gold that lit the Temple. This stone is noteworthy for a couple reasons. First, because it existed before the Temple’s destruction, it was likely carved by someone who had actually seen the Temple and the objects within. And second, this stone, and its central location in the synagogue, seem to challenge the idea of synagogues as mere gathering places. To move the central, sacred imagery of the Temple to the local synagogue was likely intended to establish some of the Temple’s own sacredness in that synagogue. This movement of sacredness from a particular place to the communal gathering-place, wherever that may be, would soon be very important; the particular place of the Temple, in its sacredness, was soon to be gone. Only those Jewish religious movements that emphasized a personal and universal approach to God, not dependent on a specific place but on the intention and pattern of life of the individual and community—that is, the Pharisees and the Christians—would survive the Temple’s destruction.
Today is the feast day of St. Mary Magdalene. If it was not already apparent, this Migdal Synagogue and its famous stone—the Magdala Stone—are located in the ancient town of Magdala, where Mary was born. This town, too, would be destroyed by the Romans in the same war that destroyed the Temple. But Mary lived just a few decades before that. We don’t know much about her until her adulthood, where she first encountered Jesus. He is said to have healed her, freeing her from the clutches of seven demons. She financed his ministry out of her own pocket, and remained present for his crucifixion and burial, bringing myrrh to anoint his tomb. And, as we have just heard, she came to his empty tomb, at first heartbroken, then elated to discover the resurrected Christ. She was sent by him to tell the disciples, and as such is often referred to as “the Apostle to the Apostles.”
There is one part of this whole narrative that often causes people surprise, or confusion, and bears explaining. When Mary realizes she is speaking to Jesus, she grabs onto him. You might, too, if a loved one who had died was suddenly alive again. But Jesus tells her not to do so. “Do not hold on to me,” our reading tonight says. Conveying the sense of the original Greek, a more urgent verb might be used, “Do not cling to me.” Some have seen this as a somewhat insensitive retort to an awestruck friend. Some have seen in this a particular sexism, especially when compared to Jesus’s reaction to Thomas, beckoning him to touch his wounds, or at least Jesus’s adherence to gender norms around physical contact. But I don’t think that’s what’s really going on here.
Soon, we will all be invited to receive communion. In doing so, we customarily receive the bread in our hands, in a cupped, open position. This symbol of open-handed receptivity is of practical use, certainly, but more than that, it is instructive. It shows us how we should approach, and receive, God. Namely, we are not to cling. To cling is to close one’s hands. Doing so does not permit letting something go, even when necessary. It similarly does not allow receiving some new thing, even when sorely needed. The posture of closed-handed clinging is a double “no” to the power of God to take away that which is no longer what we are called to, and to give what God is calling us to anew. In short, to cling is to miss God’s purposes, to substitute whatever it is that is the object of your clinging, a passing thing, for God, and the things of God, the things that endure.
I do not believe Mary was inordinately clingy. But I do believe she was human, and therefore, prone to clinging to things. Perhaps she clung to her demons, those things Jesus liberated her from; maybe that sounds harsh, but I don’t mean it to be so. How many of us have seen someone clinging to a mindset, a behavior, a wound, a certain interpretation of past or present or future, that has been destructive to them? How many of us have been that person, clinging to something that is not giving us life? I have.
Mary did not seem to have a problem clinging to money or material goods. Indeed, she seemed to have a significant amount of wealth, and to be very generous with it. A woman in those days would rarely be able to control such wealth herself, and may have been understandably unwilling to part with it. But Mary doesn’t seem to struggle with that. Maybe the lesson here is that God doesn’t just call us to be challenged. Sometimes God does call us to use our strengths and learn from them. We brothers here, from time to time, switch jobs around the monastery. I often tell people there are three types of jobs: “We gave you this job because we think you’d be really good at it,” “We gave you this job because we don’t think you’d be very good at it, but it will give you an opportunity to improve a skill you need to work on,” and finally, “We gave you this job because you’re a warm body and we just need someone to do it.” I’ve had all three types. And managing money, it seems, fell into the first category for Mary. Not a struggle, but a chance to excel in the work of God.
But what of the tomb? What teaching about clinging was happening there? I believe this to be the final lesson, the capstone class for this long course in clinging and letting go. Because who would have expected Christ himself to tell his most faithful followers to let go? Not to hold on? It’s a surprise, to be sure. But he is able to say in this that he has more work to do, that is, his Ascension. There’s more coming. And to Mary, he is giving the ultimate lesson: “You have experienced me so much in this bodily way, your teacher, your friend, very near to you, in a way that is tangible. Don’t cling to that. It was good. But it will not last. Do not cling to an experience of God as if the experience itself were God. Do not pin your hopes on a particular feeling, or thought, or sensory experience, even one from God. Do not cling to me, Mary. These things are passing away. Instead, hold on to the things that endure.”
Jesus ascended; God’s love endured. The Temple passed. God’s faithfulness endured. War and sickness and poverty and strife rear their head. God’s justice endures. May we, with Mary, learn this hardest lesson, not to cling to passing things, even if those things are good and holy and dear. May we hold on to the things that endure.
Br. Lucas Hall
Saint Peter and Saint Paul, Apostles
There is a common trope, that the people most worthy of leadership and authority are those who do not want it. I disagree. I believe, generally speaking, that if a person tells you they don’t want a job, you should believe them. To do otherwise creates a perverse incentive: I want power, but people only want to give power to people who don’t want power, so I have to pretend like I don’t want power. This can become almost codified as a cultural expectation. The current Ayatollah of Iran, when he was first nominated for the position, vociferously objected and debated, insisting that “my nomination should make us all cry tears of blood.” He, of course, eventually accepted.
We see this cropping up in the history of the Church as well. One of my favorite saints was a man named Ephrem. He was a deacon, and a sort of proto-monk known in his culture as a “son of the covenant,” and he composed a great deal of theological hymns. The Church, especially in the East, but now increasingly in the West, has viewed him as an extraordinarily gifted theologian. The Church has also wondered, “How can such a man of extraordinary talents, recognized in his own lifetime, have been just a deacon? Surely, surely, such a man should have been made a bishop!” And so a story soon developed that he had been repeatedly offered that role of leadership, that role of authority, and Ephrem in his great piety and humility, refused the office. Wow, what a great guy. Of course, we have no evidence this happened. In all likelihood, Ephrem, and those around him, collectively discerned that he was called to the diaconate.
Some may say that’s a less interesting story, but again, I disagree. Maybe I’m weird, but stories of people doing the difficult work of discerning around leadership and authority, of doing what is necessary to make a functional community, however big or small, of doing that difficult work, and continually taking up the charge of doing so, are exciting to me. They’re not exciting like a roller coaster. But they’re exciting because they offer a path forward in real life. Not a pious performance of humility, but the real humility of taking a question, an issue, a problem seriously and doing the real, honest work of trying to contribute to making things better.
Stepping outside the realm of Church for a moment, I read a book a few years ago, by Tufts political science professor Eitan Hersh, provocatively titled Politics is for Power. It was essentially an argument by a white progressive person that white progressive people in the United States in their political participation have often avoided the moral obligation to be effective in favor of symbolic posturing and gratifying self-expression. It’s a lot more thrilling to go to a big rally than it is to join your local advisory board on bicycle lane implementation, but the latter is significantly more likely to accomplish something tangible and good.
Why am I talking about all of this? Well, it’s because I think it’s important. It’s because I think it’s relevant to our current lives and the national and world political moment we currently inhabit. But also, crucially, it’s the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul. And we cannot speak about either of them without speaking of their leadership of the Church. They were called to positions of leadership among those earliest Christians. And I think we have a lot to learn from how that happened.
Unlike the trope of not wanting power, Peter and Paul, on some level, both did want to lead. Both insisted on their unworthiness, but this did not preclude them from seeking authority. Peter regularly spoke on behalf of his fellow disciples, often suggesting a course of action when the rest seemed confused. It is Peter who gives the correct answer to who Jesus is, and therefore gains the name Peter. It is Peter who suggests building a tabernacle at the Transfiguration. It is Peter who says that he must wash Jesus’s feet at the last supper, and when rebuffed, insists that Jesus should wash all of his body, not just his feet. It is Peter who insists that Jesus as the Christ cannot possibly be killed. He’s not shy about proclaiming, deciding, and acting. He sometimes gets it right and sometimes gets it wrong, but he wants to lead.
And Paul, I mean, come on: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. A Pharisee, son of Pharisees. Brought up in Jerusalem at the feet of Gamaliel, educated strictly according to the ancestral law, being zealous for God. This is a middle class, educated, upwardly mobile young man, quick to repeatedly break out his resume to all who would listen or question him. He’d do very well in Cambridge, actually.
My point is, these men were not engaged in the pious practice of performative humility. Even Peter’s insistence that Jesus must wash all of him, and not just his feet, is not performative; he’s just learned he’s wrong about him needing to wash Jesus’s feet, and he’s adapting and correcting, if a bit overzealously. And that’s the point. He learned that he was wrong, so he changed.
What I believe unites Peter and Paul’s leadership is that they are fundamentally marked by error, by enduring the pain and humiliation of learning that they were wrong, and growing from that. Both men discerned, with the help of those around them, including God, that they were called to some leadership. And both men learned, often from those same people around them, including God, that in their leadership they would screw up, sometimes quite badly. And this is important, because it answers the concerns expressed in that trope, that the best leaders are those who don’t want power. Because the people who say that are coming from a place of correct skepticism of those who are power-hungry, who fantasize about being in charge. It’s a bad thing, almost the definition of that biblical phrase, being “puffed up.”
From this, we might discern a Christian theology of leadership. Not the pious performance of self-deprecation, nor the puffed-up power-seeking of the prideful, but humble honesty. Honesty about whether one feels called to a position of power in the first place. Honesty about what that might look like. Honesty about why one leads in a particular way, why a leader is doing what they’re doing. Honesty publicly, and honesty with oneself, the capacity to actually examine one’s reasons and motives. And finally, perhaps most importantly, the humble honesty of accepting criticism, or as the Psalms say, “being smitten by friendly rebuke.” Maybe it comes from on high, and maybe it comes from those who one leading. But to lead in the Christian sense is to recognize that one’s actions, and motives, and plans, are and will be laid openly, nakedly before God. Pride and deceit won’t work there. And to embrace the sort of leadership offered by Peter and by Paul, one must give no quarter to that pride or to that deceit. They won’t last, and they won’t suffice. All will be revealed. And the honesty to which we all have been called will do the Church and the world a lot of good.
Br. David Vryhof
Ezekiel 34:11-16
II Timothy 4:1-9
John 21:15-19
We stand today in the presence of two of the giants of our faith: the Apostles Peter and Paul. No one has had a more profound influence on the Christian faith and on the Church than these two men. Both of them have their own feast – Peter on January 18 for his confession of Jesus as the Messiah and Paul on January 25 for his conversion – but they are commemorated together on this day, June 29, because of the Church’s tradition that they both died as martyrs in Rome during the persecution under Nero in the year 64. Today we observe them as martyrs for the faith.
They are very different figures: Peter was a simple man, not highly educated and possibly illiterate, a fisherman from Galilee. Paul was an extremely well-educated, cosmopolitan Jew who was also a Roman citizen. He was from a notable family line and had received an excellent education. The two men didn’t always agree. Peter was the chief ambassador to Jewish believers, while Paul focused his efforts on winning Gentiles to the faith. Peter was centered in Jerusalem and the surrounding area, while Paul’s missions extended throughout Asia Minor and even to Rome. One of their most heated conflicts was around the question of whether Gentile believers ought to comply with Jewish law. Yet, their commitment to Christ and to the proclamation of the Gospel enabled them to overcome their differences. Both were zealous to the end. The tradition holds that Peter was crucified, upside-down, and that Paul, because he was a Roman citizen, was beheaded rather than crucified.
What strikes me most about the two of them is that, despite being “giants of the faith” whose lives and witness were crucial to the early Church’s growth and development, they were both imperfect men, at times fallible and weak.
Peter stands out for his courage and zeal – see him drawing a sword to defend Jesus in Gethsemane’s garden – and yet we know that at times he was afraid. One day he boldly proclaims that Jesus is the Messiah; but the next he denies that he even knows the man. Like the rest of the Twelve, he often doesn’t “get it,” and, like them, he abandons Jesus at the hour of his death. He becomes a bold and fearless witness to the Gospel after Pentecost – but always carried with him the memory of his three-fold denial.
Paul was educated, wise and insightful, a brilliant apologist for the faith and a powerful preacher, yet he could never escape the fact that he was one of the Church’s earliest persecutors. Both men were giants of the faith who had significant blemishes on their records.
That both men were powerful at times and vulnerable and weak at other times, I take as a great consolation for us. We, too, have been zealous believers, perhaps even fearless, at times – and at other times full of weakness, doubt and fear. We have been at times confident and strong in our calling, and at other times wavering and uncertain. We know what it is to act faithfully, and we know what it is to fail to rise up to our calling.
The wonder is that God has chosen us and continues to use us as agents for God’s work in the world, the bringing in of the Kingdom of God. These charismatic figures inspire us by their example and their willingness to suffer for the sake of Christ. They challenge us to take up the mission of God day by day, continually renewing our commitment to Christ and fanning into flames our zeal for the Good News. Today is another day to push forward, to renew the promises we have made, to recommit ourselves to the life and work of a disciple, and to lean wholly on the power of God’s Spirit, who strengthens us for the battle. Humbly but courageously, we press on.
Br. Lucas Hall
Feast of St. Alban
Today we mark the feast of St. Alban, the first martyr of Britain. In the third century, Christians were subject to various persecutions in the Roman Empire, and the story goes that the then-pagan Alban, living in Roman Britain, hosted a Christian priest in his home who was fleeing persecution. Impressed by the priest’s devotion to prayer, Alban joined him, and converted. When it came to light he was hiding the fugitive priest, Alban donned the priest’s robes and went to death for him. He refused to partake in a pagan votive offering, saying, “I worship and adore the true and living God, who created all things.” For this, he was beheaded on a hilltop at the town that now bears his name.
I must admit, I cannot speak solely of Alban today. Partially, it’s because this early Church martyr calls to mind the Church’s general age of martyrdom, when the experience of persecution necessitated developing a theological understanding of the concept. But it’s more personal than that. You may know that we brothers take initial vows for a few years before taking life vows. Today is the anniversary of my initial vows. And earlier this week, the anniversary of my life vows, was the feast of Bernard Mizeki, another martyr. By happenstance, or something more, I cannot encounter these martyrs without thinking more broadly of their witness to the vocation of the Church, my own included.
Witness. That’s what “martyr” means, literally. There are many ways to witness, in the Church’s sense of that word. But it was those whose blood was shed, whose bodies were broken, who were elevated as the witnesses, the martyrs. You may recall the story of Cain and Abel, where Cain murders his brother in a fit of jealous rage. God describes Abel’s blood as crying out from the ground, and the ground cursing Cain. In the letter to the Hebrews, the writer speaks of a great cloud of witnesses, encouraging us in faith to resist sin to the point of shedding our blood, for we have come “to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.” Not a curse, but salvation.
I am moved by the realization that this ancient martyr, Alban, and this much more recent martyr, Bernard Mizeki, shed the same blood. I’m not speaking of family lineage, or ethnic heritage, or national identity; I am speaking of the blood of the Church, the body of Christ, commingled and sanctified in the holy cup. If martyrdom is a witness, it is a thoroughly sacramental one; the spilling of holy blood is very much an outward sign of inward grace. For in this libation, this poured out offering, we recognize our own offering within us, our own sacrifice. That same blood courses within us. Each cell, forged in the lattice depths of our very bones, rushing through a vast and intricate network, connecting every last corner of our bodies, this same blood participates in our own offering, day by day.
What has your offering been so far? Has it been good, and just, and holy? Then step forward, and join it in communion with the holy offering of the whole Church, in this and every age. Has it come up short, snagged and hampered by the wound of sin? Then step forward, and renew the consecration of your own life with the ever-living body and blood of Christ. Has it been distracted, confused, bored, or something else altogether? Then step forward, and behold, life and truth are ready to meet you once again in the sacrifice of thanksgiving.
Alban was martyred on a hill. Bede writes that this hill was “beautiful, as was fitting, and of most pleasing appearance, adorned, or rather clothed, everywhere with flowers of many colors…a place altogether worthy from of old, by reason of its native beauty, to be consecrated by the blood of a blessed martyr.” The martyrs’ sacrifice, the life of the Church, the body and blood of Christ, is a thing of beauty, a thing before you, a thing within you. Step forward. Be consecrated, that by your offering, you too may consecrate the world.
Luke 12:1-12
We remember today the southern African missionary and martyr Bernard Mizeki. Born in modern-day Mozambique, he came to the Christian faith while a young man in South Africa, where he was baptized in 1866 by Father Puller of our Society. In 1891, he traveled to Mashonaland, in the northeast of modern-day Zimbabwe, to serve as a missionary to the Shona people.
In the year of his death, 1896, rebellion against the British South African Company spread to the Shona people, and Mizeki resisted orders to escape to safety. Resentment and violence served as a backdrop to Mizeki’s own death that June at the hands of one of his adopted kinsmen, the tension between traditional religion and Mizeki’s work spreading the Gospel message coming to a tragic head.
Martyrs capture our imaginations. We may read about the great martyrs of the early church who endured shocking, inhuman treatment, and we can wonder at their strength of conviction, at their fearless resolve, at their seeming superhuman capacity. They were very close, in time and culture, to Jesus and his words from our Gospel lesson: “do not fear those who kill the body, and after that can do nothing more” (Lk 12:4). As we read about these martyrs, it is easy for us to wonder at and admire them . . . and at the same time to handle them with a critical distance: then and now, them and us.
Bernard Mizeki challenges us to close this critical gap. Although marked by social and cultural practices different than our own, Mizeki’s world is also very close to ours. It’s a world of international businesses and family tensions, of empire and community, of fear and hope. Our exact circumstances may differ, but Mizeki shows us how martyrdom can happen in a world not too distant from our own—a response to forces that still surround us, and that are largely out of our control.
And this is because martyrdom is about who and how we are in the face of these larger-than-life forces. It’s not primarily about suffering or violence or perseverance or courage, or even death, really, but about a clarity of identity. Mizeki was only able to be found and killed because he had ignored orders to go to safety: he was caring for an incapacitated man, who, under cultural norms, would have been left helpless had Mizeki departed. “I cannot leave my people now in a time of such darkness,” he wrote.[1] The simple choice to care for one man’s life, in the face of unrelenting, irresistible forces—a metaphor for clarity in knowing who he was, who God created him to be.
And so martyrdom is not about death but life—life that makes present in the world God’s eternal kingdom. The martyrs do not inspire us because their courage or fearlessness in the face of adversity or pain or terror is exceptional, but because it is consistent with who they are and how they lived their lives, at important and unimportant moments. And that lesson is available to us—to discover who God is calling us to be, in this place, in this moment. To hew closely to that call, returning to it again and again in the unending and seemingly unimportant choices that face us, and so to be consistent and clear in our identity. And, at the end, to not be afraid, because we are of more value than many sparrows, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.
Amen.
[1] M. A. Noll, C. Nystrom, Clouds of Witnesses: Christian Voices from Africa and Asia (Downers Grove, IL, 2011), 29.
The Martyrs of Memphis
2 Corinthians 1:3-5
“Arrived. Streets white with lime; wagon loads of coffins. A sad coming home.”1
So wrote Sister Constance, whom we remember today along with other Episcopal religious and priests who perished in the 1878 yellow fever epidemic in Memphis, Tennessee. Sisters Constance, Thecla, Ruth, and Frances, and priests Charles Parsons and Louis Schuyler were six of the over five thousand people who died between August and October.
At a time when so much of the city’s population was fleeing—fleeing according to the wishes of the civil authorities—these sisters and priests came to the city, into danger, into a “scene of desolation and death.” Over the course of just under a month, this corps of sisters and priests worked themselves to exhaustion nursing the sick, caring for orphans, coordinating and disbursing donations, and celebrating mass.
Sister Constance, the Superior of the community of the Sisterhood of St. Mary in Memphis, gives a sense of the frenzied pace of the sisters’ activities: “Sat down to acknowledge donations when Sister T. reported Mr. C just taken with chill, no nurse. Went with her to attend to him. . . . Mr. C. better, but wife very ill. . . . Met man with a telegram . . . ‘Father and mother are lying dead in the house, brother is dying, send me some help, no money,’ . . . Man said, ‘Will you go to that poor girl?’ We went at once.”
For many of us, it may be hard to wrap our heads around the scenes described here from a single day. For others, though, this may seem all too familiar. So many people need help, and the demands can be constant and exhausting. How can we console so many?
But God is a God of consolation, as Saint Paul reminds us. And God consoles us so that we might console others. We can console because we ourselves have been consoled; we can comfort because we ourselves have been comforted.
The martyrs of Memphis demonstrate the extraordinary things ordinary people can do. We can’t know all the ways that they themselves found consolation, from God and from others. We can’t know all the ways that they themselves found consolation, to persevere through exhaustion and fear and sickness. But we do have a short note, from the same day Sister Constance reported visiting “that poor girl”: “Sent Mrs. B. to Howards. She returned in the midst of the loveliest sunset (one notices these things so strangely).”
One notices these things so strangely. Our consolations often come in unexpected ways, breaking in upon the demands of our daily lives. And these consolations often provide us with the unexpected grace and strength to meet those demands. How often, amid your own busy lives, does something break in on your awareness, pull your attention away from the flurry and frenzy of activity? How often does that something prove to be exactly what you need to get you through, to meet the demands of the next day, the next hour, the next moment? How often does that something allow you to do the extraordinary?
Martyrs of Memphis—Constance, Thecla, Ruth, Frances, Charles, Louis—pray for us.
Br. Lucas Hall
Feast of St. Justin Martyr1 Corinthians 1:18-25
When I was inquiring about a vocation here at SSJE, my favorite musician released a new song, entitled “John My Beloved.” Given the charism of this community, I paid attention. One of my favorite lines occurs toward the very beginning: “Beloved of John, I get it all wrong, I read you for some kind of poem.” I like this line, because it is a direct challenge to the impulse I often have, many of us have, of reducing Christ, this beloved of John, to the realm of abstraction and metaphor. To be clear, the poetic and the abstract have their place, including in the interpretation of scripture. But when we behold the one to whom the evangelists point, we’re beholding not a metaphor, but a man, clothed in the very flesh and blood you have brought with you today.
Today is the feast of Justin, an early martyr. Justin would have been at-home in Harvard Square. He was born to a pagan family in Palestine around the year 100, and he was well-educated in philosophy. More than literate, he was an eager student and writer. But also (not unlike a great many of our local students and writers today) he was frustrated by the philosophies he encountered. He wanted something more. And he found it upon discovering Christianity, and hearing about, not philosophers, but prophets, who “did not use demonstration in their treatises, seeing that they were witnesses to the truth above all demonstration, and worthy of belief.” Justin began to see Christianity as a means to this truth, the beholding of God. He still appreciated philosophy, though, and argued that earlier philosophers were expounders of truths more fully revealed by the prophets and the coming of Christ.
Justin went to Rome and started teaching there. After getting into a dispute with local philosophers, was brought before the authorities. He and six companions, some of whom were his students, refused to offer sacrifices to the Roman gods, and so were beheaded.
Justin’s writings are still extant, still robustly philosophical, still beautiful works. His thought is clear, his intellect sharp. But this philosopher greatly preferred the prophets and martyrs over the philosophers, and the Church recognizes him first and foremost as a martyr. The word “martyr” itself is instructive here, as it simply meant “witness,” originally. For the Church to elevate it to mean specifically someone killed for the faith was in keeping with those words that first converted Justin: while demonstration, argument, and abstraction are useful tools, the witness of flesh and blood is greater, for such witness is a direct beholding of the truth. Justin spoke well, but in the witness of blood shed and flesh sundered, he pointed more directly at the God who took on that blood and flesh, who really, truly dwelled within it, who really, truly suffered and died and came to life again, and who really, truly took it beyond, into the realms of heaven, where that flesh and blood remains even now, beholding God.
As we prepare to offer ourselves and receive the Eucharist, let us recall the words of the blessed martyr Justin: “…not as common bread and common drink do we receive these; but in like manner as Jesus Christ our Savior, having been made flesh by the Word of God, had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so likewise have we been taught that the food which is blessed by the prayer of His word, and from which our blood and flesh by transmutation are nourished, is the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh.”
Bede, Priest, Monastic and Historian, 735
Ecclesiastes 12:9-14
It is hard for us to imagine Eighth Century Britain. We think of it as dark, cold, and remote. The reality is otherwise. We think of it as dark, only because so few documents exist to shed light on events that took place in what we call The Dark Ages. It probably was cold, but it was certainly not remote. Britain, including the monastic community of Wearmouth and Jarrow where Bede lived, was situated on trade routes that stretched from northern Britain to India, Afghanistan, and China. Archeological studies of glass, parchments, and pigments found, or known to have originated in Jarrow, demonstrate the complex web of Eighth Century trade. It is also well known that Bede’s monastery possessed one of the greatest libraries in all Europe, with manuscripts devoted to scripture, as well as classical and secular texts. It is estimated that the library contained over 250 separate works, which was an enormous number for the time.
Far from being a backwater, the monastery where Bede spent almost his entire life, was a centre of culture and learning, and Bede himself, was probably its greatest member. In fact, it is said that Bede was the greatest scholar of his day, in all Europe, writing scriptural commentaries based on patristic interpretations, poems, hymns, and essays on orthography. He treatise on chronology, while not original, popularized the counting of time before and after the birth of Christ. The BC – AD system county years is still used throughout most of the world today. His most significant works were his Life of St. Cuthbert, and his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. All of these works demonstrated the breadth of his learning, and his care as a scholar who consulted a wide range of documents, evaluated his sources, and most importantly cited them. If it can be said that there was one person who invented the study of history, that person has to be Bede.
Writing later in life, he wrote that he had been brought to the monastery by his parents at the age of seven and then spending all the remaining time of my life…I wholly applied myself to the study of Scripture, and amidst the observance of regular discipline, and the daily care of singing in the church, I always took delight in learning, teaching, and writing.[1]**
We remind ourselves in the Rule that our pursuit of knowledge is an expression of love for God’s world and the riches of revelation.[2] We live in an academic setting where the goal of study is to prove a point, and establish a reputation. Bede reminds us that a life of study, rooted in prayer, is a pursuit, not of a reputation, but of holiness. [The fear of] God, and [keeping] his commandments, [is the] whole duty of everyone.[3] It matters not what is after your name: BA, MDiv, PhD, or even SSJE, or what is before your name, Dr, Prof, Brother, even St, or as in Bede’s case, Venerable, but that your name is written in the Book of Life.
Bede, whom we remember today, is a reminder that the pursuit of knowledge is an expression of love, and wisdom a gift from God, and that our growth in love and wisdom is the goal and purpose of our life in Christ.
[1] Lesser Feasts and Fast, 2022, page 244
[2] SSJE, Rule of Life, The Maturing of our Minds in Christ, chapter 41, page 82
[3] Ecclesiastes 12: 13
Br. Curtis Almquist
Saint Monica, Mother of Augustine of Hippo
1 Samuel 1:10-20
Psalm 115:12-18
Luke 7:11-17
In the calendar of the church we remember today Saint Monica for her patience, and perseverance, and faithfulness. She was born in north Africa about year 430, and became an ardent Christian. Not so for her husband, Patricius, a Roman administrator known for his temper and infidelities, nor by their son, Augustine, who took after his father. Monica prayed and prayed for them, and a miracle happened. Shortly before his death, her husband converted to Christianity, and thereafter, the wild son, Augustine, also. Some years later, Augustine would write in his Confessions: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Very autobiographical.
The three lessons from the Bible appointed for today all tell stories about prayer for children. Whether or not we be parents, most likely all of us carry in our hearts people who have garnered our heart’s attention. We carry a deep concern for them, a fear for them, a hope for them, a love for them. We may pray for them, perhaps ardently, either because they have asked us to pray, or because we have been drawn to pray for them. Perhaps we pray because there is nothing else we can do. We are otherwise powerless to make a difference in their lives. So we pray.
Prayer is a mystery, a mystery that begins in God. Our prayer is always in response to God’s initiative. It is God who has caught our attention. Mysteriously, in our prayer for others, we invoke God of the heavens meanwhile being grounded in God’s love, God’s healing light, God’s presence here on earth. It is like we complete a triangle: God, our own self, these other persons for whom we pray. In my own prayer for others I often remember the image given to us by Hildegard of Bingen, the 12th century abbess and mystic. Hildegard said we are like mirrors, catching God’s light and then mirroring that light onto the countenance others. Whatever prompts us to pray for others, we are always responding to God’s initiative.
Who Monica’s son, Augustine, would become held a stature far beyond all that she could have asked for or imagined, especially given what a bad, bad boy he was. Monica sets a very high ceiling for hope in how we and others can change, amazingly, miraculously for the better. So we pray our hearts out.
Blessed Monica, whom we remember today.
Br. Curtis Almquist
Saints Agnes and Cecilia of Rome, Martyrs
Matthew 18:1-6
In the calendar of the church we remember today two early Christian martyrs: Saint Cecilia and Saint Agnes. Saint Cecilia, as a young woman, was married. She converted to Christianity members of her own household; however in the face of the demand from the Roman government to offer sacrifice to pagan idols, a demand she refused, Cecilia was martyred year 280. Saint Agnes, a 12-year old child, was brought to a civil magistrate, before whom she refused to renounce her Christian faith, and she, too, was martyred, this in year 304. Saint Ambrose of Milan wrote about Agnes that “all were astounded that she should come forward as a witness to God when she was still too young to be her own mistress.” The various accounts of Cecilia and Agnes’ martyrdom are appalling, which show something of the impact of the life and death these two young women made upon their contemporaries and succeeding generations.
The word “courage” comes to mind in remembering martyrs such as Cecilia and Agnes. Our word courage comes from the Latin word for heart, cor, then the Old French, corage. Courage emanates from the heart, the heart symbolizing the essence of a person. We hear Jesus say, “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.”[i] But courage is not something to work on. Becoming courageous is not a spiritual calisthenic. Courage comes as a byproduct, a characteristic or an action which is quite invisible to the person themselves. I have never once heard someone described as having done something courageous who sees this about themselves. Courage is in the eye of the beholder, not in the awareness of the actor.
Courage simply flows from a heart that is fully committed. Whether we are talking about a soldier who has acted in a courageous way for others, or a mother who has courageously stood up to defend her bullied child – and the countless other acts of courage we can witness in the news every day – these people whom we call courageous were quite freely living with absolute clarity how to spend their lives.
For those of us who have pledged to follow Jesus, we shall have countless invitations most every day to lay down our lives. Not to cling to our lives, but to offer our lives in giving witness to the generosity of God’s love. It’s to live our lives as a self-offering. Most of these daily offerings of our life and labor are quite small, maybe not even noticed. However these generous offerings of God’s love exercise our hearts so that we are ready for the big one, should it come. And if it does, our heart will be well toned with strength and courage far beyond what we could have asked for or imagined.[ii]
Blessed Cecilia and Agnes, whom we remember today.
Lectionary Year and Proper: A
[i] John 14:27.
[ii] In a concluding prayer for the celebration of the Holy Eucharist: “…Send us now into the world in peace,
and grant us strength and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart; through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Book of Common Prayer (1979), p. 365.
“If you are now in a dark night of the soul where pain, despair, loss, or fear are your companions, how very difficult. You need the comfort that Jesus promises us. Presume that your dark night is the eve of the dawning of a new day, and that you are not alone. You are being carried on the wings of the prayers of those who have gone before you and who are looking out for you.”
Br. Curtis Almquist finds companions for our prayer on All Saints Day and the eve that precedes it, All Hallows Eve, Halloween.
“May we who are surrounded by so much enmity in our own day, and encounter the living Jesus in the Eucharist, follow Saint James' example of wisdom, patience, and faith, and seek to ease the world’s divisions in the reconciling truth of God’s future.”
Br. Jim Woodrum points us to James, the brother of our Lord, for a witness of patience and faith in a divided world.
“A birthday is a humble but beautiful occasion to cherish the particularity of a person – all the things that make them adorable to us and to God – and a person’s universal membership in the family of all creation, all creatures who have come forth from God, lived a finite mortal existence, and returned to the heart of the Creator. Each of us is an irreplicable instance of divine creativity and love.”
On the Feast of Mary of Nazareth, Br. Keith Nelson celebrates the essential gift of being, as it is expressed in the particular places, people, and beings around us.
“How might God be calling you today to be courageous in speaking the truth when you recognize injustice, when you see through the lies and deceptions of the powerful, when you perceive their hypocrisy and deceit? How might God be calling you to speak up when you recognize racism, misogyny, xenophobia or other forms of discrimination? Silence empowers the oppressors. Be bold. Speak truth. And never give up.”
Br. David Vryhof looks to the witness of John the Baptizer for the courage to speak truth to power, whatever the consequences.
“Certainly the sacrifice of Alban is worth remembering today. We recall with awe his unwavering commitment to Christ, a commitment that prompted him to give himself up to torture and death in place of a Christian priest. We stand in awe of the unflinching witness of the martyrs and pray that, if that day should ever come to us, we would be equally steadfast and fearless in the profession of our faith in Jesus Christ.”
Br. David Vryhof challenges us to live mindful of our unspoken witness and its power to change the lives around us.
“Inspired by Saint James' holiness of life, his wise leadership of the Church, and the courage with which he faced a martyr’s death, we reflect today on our own role as witnesses of the Gospel of Christ in our own age, and pray that we may be found as faithful as he was.”
Br. David Vryhof celebrates the witness of Saint James of Jerusalem on his feast day.
“Frideswide, is perhaps an odd saint for us to commemorate, but it is her connection as patron saint of Oxford that places her in our calendar, and in our windows. Her legend is quite fantastic, at least to modern ears. It involves virgins, royalty, attempted seductions, near escapes, vows, miracles, and holy wells. In other words, the works. But beneath the legend, is a story of dedication, devotion, mercy, and healing.”
Br. James Koester honors a surprising saint, who was a meaningful connection to SSJE and a message about our universal human needs.
“Think of it. One man. One life, cut short at 44 years. Like Jesus, he never owned a home or acquired wealth. Like Jesus, he never wrote a book, or earned an academic degree, or held a political office. He refused to pursue worldly status and power. He chose instead to live as a poor man, as Christ did, giving himself to the care and service of the most needy. And yet, his life is a shining light that has illumined the whole world. Millions have dedicated their lives to following his example of complete and utter devotion to God.”
Br. David Vryhof marvels at the profound influence and inspiration Saint Francis of Assisi has had on the world.
“There is a paradoxical reason that the Church and the world know the names Peter and Paul: following their own very different paths, they relinquished the authority that comes with human charisma. This progressive renunciation allowed the authority of Jesus more and more to shape their choices, hallow their successes, and especially to redeem their failures. The paradoxical reason that we remember Peter and Paul as pastors of God’s flock is that they knew, better than most, what it meant to be harassed and helpless sheep.”
On the feast of Saints Peter & Paul, Br. Keith Nelson acknowledges the surprising reason behind their ages-old fame: renunciation.
“Bernard had discovered the good news that life is full of meaning in union with God. His martyrdom on this day 125 years ago was not a throwing away of his life, as some would imagine, but a complete giving of his life to the One to whom he had turned over his life that day in the baptismal tank at the old St. Philip’s. ”
Br. James Koester turns for inspiration to a less-remembered day in the life of Bernard Mizeki.