Finer Perceptions

Willa Cather’s 1927 novel Death Comes for the Archbishop is set in the rugged frontier of the Southwest in the mid-nineteenth century. Based on historical figures, it is the story of Father Jean Marie Latour, later Bishop Latour, a French missionary priest sent to the southwest United States to establish a diocese there.

The situation in the Southwest was dire. Scores of people had never received Holy Baptism because of the lack of priestly presence, or in some cases, because of priestly neglect. People were living in all manner of immoral conduct because they had no one to shepherd them and teach them the faith—at least until Father Latour arrives on the scene.

Latour is the essence of a gentleman and a faithful priest. He is erudite, gentle, and pastoral. He knows how to be a faithful pastor to his flock because he is open enough to their circumstances and to God’s living presence among them. He loves his flock. He is a stable icon of God’s grace to a people starving for the sacraments and formation, to a people who have been neglected and even forsaken by their clergy.

Latour’s childhood friend, Father Joseph Vaillant, is sent to accompany Latour in his backbreaking work. They journey on horseback through the perilous terrain of unexplored frontier lands, narrowly surviving the harsh conditions imposed on them, but bringing the Gospel to all, no matter the cost. Father Vaillant is, in many ways, a foil to Father Latour. Vaillant is somewhat impetuous and emotionally volatile. He is not as subtle in his disposition as Father Latour. His faith is rustic, hearty, even flamboyant, but he is extraordinarily devout.

The difference in character between the two men is perhaps most pronounced in their understanding of God’s presence among them. Father Vaillant is entranced by miracles; he relishes such fantastic displays of God’s intervention in the natural order. As his friend Father Latour puts it, “his dear Joseph must always have the miracle very direct and spectacular, not with Nature, but against it.”

At one point in their travels in Mexico, Father Latour and Father Vaillant meet with a local priest who has just visited the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Father Vaillant is filled with excitement at the story behind this apparition of Our Lady to a poor Mexican boy. He tells Father Latour, “Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love.”

Father Latour responds in his measured and thoughtful fashion: “One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. . . The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”

This definition of a miracle is perhaps the best I have ever heard. Both Father Latour and Father Vaillant appreciate something important about God’s manifestation to humans. Father Vaillant recognizes the spectacular nature of God’s grace. But Father Latour is able to find these supernatural disturbances more readily than Father Vaillant, in the everyday and ordinary.

There is nothing ordinary about the Risen Christ appearing to his disciples in the aftermath of his death and resurrection from the dead. The scene in Jerusalem is a flurry of excitement. There has been a series of miraculous appearances to the disciples. This is vividly portrayed immediately before today’s Gospel story begins. Two disciples have just seen Jesus on the road to Emmaus. The Risen Lord has appeared to Simon Peter. And as the disciples are buzzing with speculation and consternation following these apparitions, Jesus suddenly stands among them and gently pauses the conversation with his greeting, “Peace be with you.”

This new post-resurrection appearance only solicits more fear and excitement. Jesus is thought to be a ghost of some sort. To these confused disciples, the moment reveals the ways in which these disciples are so much like Father Vaillant. They need to behold something that is against nature. They have no real perspective on what has happened in the past few days. There is no doctrine to ponder. They want something to hold in their hands and love. There is no way to make sense of Jesus’ seeming absence from their lives, except that now they have miraculous proof of his presence, and they are giddy with excitement.

These disciples are, in some sense, unformed. They have no theological language of which to speak of their Lord and Savior. But at least now they have some proof that he is still living and among them, and that God’s promises are true.

And yet it is tempting to idolize the miracle’s vision. The wild image of the Risen Christ eating broiled fish as if it’s some kind of parlor trick is astounding. And its incredibleness has now become the focus of everyone’s attention. It’s the flashy image used to illustrate a point which has now obscured what it is pointing towards.

But after Jesus eats the broiled fish, he continues. And when Jesus continues, the pieces of the puzzle begin to be put together, piece by piece. Just like those disciples on the road to Emmaus, their eyes are slowly opened to what has transpired. Now, the law of Moses, the cries of the prophets, and the whole narrative of Scripture is starting to make sense.

The visible sign of Jesus with flesh and bones, eating broiled fish, is only a tiny part of this spectacular picture. Its purpose has been to jog the memory. This apparition of Jesus to the disciples, which is not simply a vision but a physical manifestation of his presence, is also more than a physical manifestation. It is, to use Father Latour’s words, “human vision corrected by divine love.” The sight of Christ eating broiled fish before them means nothing without the memory of divine love that has been with them as long as they have known their Savior.

The broiled fish recalls the feeding of the multitude who were hungry. The breaking of bread on the road to Emmaus brings the Last Supper into the present. The hands and feet before the disciples are evidence that the violence done to Jesus’ physical body has not been erased but has been transformed into a sign of the hope of our redemption. And so are all our sufferings and wounds because of this.

It is no wonder that in an age so devoid of theological nuance and formation, so many are left wandering and praying for a spectacular miracle. Perhaps Father Vaillant is right: “Doctrine is well enough for the wise, . . . but the miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love.” Those who have been ostracized, wounded, and even neglected by the Church that should have loved and formed them may not really be uninterested in God. Maybe they are simply waiting for their own miracles, for the proof that God is living among them.

And those of us, too, who come week after week to worship our Risen Lord, in our moments of malaise and in the moments where we are mute before more unspeakable violence and tragedy may also find ourselves desperately longing for some incredible proof that God has not left us. We yearn to touch the hands and feet, to gaze at the wounds, to behold something more specific than bread and wine, to find proof that God is really longing to feed us.

But we know, too, that the eating of the broiled fish points towards something else. Jesus reminds the disciples of that great story of which they are a part. They now see how the gap in the puzzle has been filled. If their past is a vital part of this story, then there is a future, too. And this future is about them. It is about much more as well. It’s about the good news to which they have been witnesses.

The truth to which their eyes have been opened in that room cannot stay in that room. It must burst through the doors, locked in fear, into a world that is longing for a sign and searching for tangible proof that there is some other dimension that will satisfy their emptiness. The disciples are being called to testify to what they know because others are desperate for a sign that God is still with us.

And when this knowledge of God’s faithfulness is propelled into the surrounding world, it will interpret all that is confusing. Perceptions will be made finer. There will be no need for Jesus to eat broiled fish before our eyes. There will be no need to demand more from bread and wine, because they are enough and they have always been enough. Our eyes have simply been closed to the miracle within them.

And there is one miracle that can explain this all. It is not spectacularly visible as an apparition might be, and it cannot be touched with human hands. But it is truly present. And it is that radiant, divine love that has corrected our human vision and made our hearts sing with joy.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Easter
April 18, 2021

In the Zone

In the liner notes to his 2011 album Alone at the Vanguard, jazz pianist Fred Hersch described his playing on the night of the recording as being “in the zone.” Hersch’s live performance, captured in this album, was the culmination of a week’s worth of performances at New York City’s famous Village Vanguard jazz club.

You don’t have to be a jazz musician to understand what Hersch meant when he described being “in the zone.” He wasn’t bragging about his playing. He was acknowledging that, as a performer and improviser, something felt right during that live performance at the Village Vanguard.

Hersch’s playing on that album conveyed an intensity of musical genius. Any performer knows that the art of performing is more than just playing the notes with an acceptable degree of musicality. Being “in the zone” as a musician, means that the performer is acutely aware of her or his surroundings and capable of responding musically in the moment. This is particularly true of improvisation. The room’s energy feeds musical inspiration. It’s hard to improvise to an empty room.

On the album Alone at the Vanguard, one can hear the audience’s enthusiastic response to Hersch’s musicianship, both in the applause following numbers and in the middle of them as well. The playing is electric. There is no doubt to the listener that Hersch was definitely “in the zone” that evening.

Perhaps you have had moments in your life where you felt that you were “in the zone.” I suspect that we all know those moments when everything seems to be falling into place. The right inspiration happens. We have the necessary energy to accomplish the task before us. It’s hard to describe, but we all know what it feels like to be “in the zone.”

When reading the Acts of the Apostles, one has the strong feeling that thousands of people were constantly “in the zone.” The conditions were just right for the proclamation of the Gospel.

The book gets off to a dynamic start as Jesus ascends to heaven and the Holy Spirit’s Pentecostal fire lights upon the disciples. Thousands of people come to the faith and are saved. Many people are healed, some even being raised from the dead. And we are told more than once that Jesus’ earliest disciples proclaimed the Gospel with great boldness. Everyone, it seems, was “in the zone” all the time. There was something in the air in those days. People were fired up about Jesus, and the whole world was reaping the benefits of this.

And as if this were not enough, we are told in today’s reading that there was a profound unity among all these earliest believers. They were “of one heart and soul.” No one felt that their possessions were their exclusive property. People seemed to comprehend that all they had was held in trust for God. And as a result, no one was needy among them.

It is no wonder, then, that many have tried to write off the Acts of the Apostles as a piece of hyperbolic storytelling. How could everything have been so dynamic? Could fallible humans truly have been so selfless and altruistic? Did all those miracles actually happen? It is almost incomprehensible to imagine that so many people could have been “in the zone,” tapping into the same Pentecostal Spirit, feeding off the dynamism of post-resurrection power.

If we were to continue reading after today’s passage, we would know that there were indeed counter examples. Ananias and his wife Sapphira met their unhappy fate precisely because they did not adhere to the standards of communal living and self-sacrifice. But on the whole, the early pages of Acts seem to represent the epitome of Christian love, charity, and service, where all the characters are “in the zone.”

Two thousand years after the fact, we are tempted to put our heads in our hands and wonder what has gone wrong. Do you not feel even a bit guilty that things now seem so different? Is our own skepticism of the historical accuracy of events in the Acts of the Apostles proof itself that we do not expect the same things these days?

The other temptation is to assume that the palpable evidence of God’s work and action were only in full force in those earliest days of the Church. We may imagine that God’s work in the world is like a battery. In the immediate aftermath of Pentecost, the battery was fully charged and everyone was powered by its energy. But so many centuries afterward, we are left with a battery that has lost its charge, and we have no clue how to recharge it.

Where are the miraculous healings? Where are the thousands coming to the faith? Where are the bold testimonies of the resurrection? Where is the gumption that led the earliest believers to risk their lives for the sake of the Gospel?

This perceived disparity between the old days and the present stands out in vivid relief when we try to comprehend a group of people sharing everything in common and providing for the needy. How do we analyze this without twisting our own view of economics? Can we really believe that there was not a single needy person among them?

The only solution with which we are left, so it seems, is to write it all off. Either it did not happen that way, and the Acts of the Apostles is a huge example of storyteller’s license, or we employ all manner of hermeneutical gymnastics to justify why our own economic policies can never replicate those of the early Church.

And we are back to where we started. We are left puzzled by an age in which we seem to be desperately out of the zone. We might not want to be out of the zone, and yet we don’t know how to be in the zone.

But maybe the problem lies in our own perception. Could it be that our vision is myopic? Could we be looking for all the wrong signs? Are we looking for too many visible signs while ignoring the inward and invisible graces latent among us? Have we given up hope on our world when we should demand more of it? Have we let ourselves off the hook when we should hold ourselves to higher standards? A world that is constantly “in the zone” just might be too threatening to our complacency and require too much of us.

Because if what we believe is true—and I, for one, believe wholeheartedly that it is—then the central event of our faith has once and for all upended the world. Jesus’ resurrection from the dead and ascension to the right hand of the Father has unleashed a power upon this earth that defies our expectations. It is a force so incomprehensible in its scope that it is no wonder that every fiber of the world’s being wants to resist it.

And maybe that’s why we seem so out of the zone. Maybe the world has gotten so used to a rut of normalcy that feels right only because it serves the self. Maybe we have forgotten how exhilarating it can be when Jesus upends our reality.

Our vision has followed suit. We have come to see the prevalence of the needy among us as a fact of life, impossible for us to change on this side of heaven. We are afraid of boldly proclaiming the resurrection because we will upset conventional sensibilities and others will think we are foolish. We are taught to stand against those who disagree with us because that is how we assert our independence and individuality. And while we’re at it, we might as well cling to all that we own, because, by golly, we earned it.

But if we can find a way to enter into the zone again, we might be able to believe what the Acts of the Apostles claims: that there is a buzzing undercurrent of dynamism let loose in the world with Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. It is there, buzzing all around us, even if the buzz is too low or high to hear at times. And it is available to us.

This force gains strength in numbers, too. When we tap, however, briefly, into this zone of Good News, we will find ourselves being pulled along with it. And we, like those early disciples, will want to cry out what we have heard with boldness. Others will also want to join in. And little by little, we will find things changing.

Look around this room. Listen. Do you hear the buzz? It’s there. Haven’t you seen the Gospel energy lighting up all over this church and among this congregation? Don’t you see it from time to time making its way into the news? Even in a world that so often seems to be dead to the Gospel, it’s there, if you are attentive. If a numb complacency hasn’t dulled our senses, we will see it. God’s power has not left us. There is still boldness echoing the strains of the Good News to a world that wants to hear it. And that persistent buzz is proof that God is still calling us to be “in the zone.”

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday of Easter
April 11, 2021

The Question Death Could not Kill

Imagine with me a triptych. It’s not the triptych behind the Lady Chapel altar, now opened once again. It’s a visual triptych, with three panels, telling the story from a first encounter with Jesus to Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances.

On the left panel of the triptych, we journey all the way back to the first chapter of St. John’s Gospel. Jesus has just been baptized by John the Baptist, and now he is about to begin his public ministry in Galilee. He is walking by John and two of his disciples. As soon as John identifies Jesus as the Lamb of God, the two disciples begin to follow Jesus.

The action scene represented in this first panel of our triptych shows Jesus turning to look at the disciples. And then he asks them this question: “What do you seek?” This panel might even display the Greek words from Scripture to elaborate on the scene.

The question, admittedly, seems rather vague. It’s the kind of question we might dread. What is the meaning of life? What do you want to be when you grow up? That kind of question. And, unsurprisingly, the two disciples don’t answer the question directly. They, in fact, answer with another question: “Rabbi, where are you staying?” And Jesus replies, “Come and see.”

Move with me now to the second, center panel of our triptych. In this scene, Jesus is in a garden, on the eve of his death, and he is facing head-on a menacing group of soldiers (600 or so soldiers, to be exact). They are carrying lanterns and torches and weapons. And Judas, the betrayer, is with them. Once again, we might emblazon on this panel the Greek words of Jesus’ question to the soldiers: “Whom do you seek?”

In contrast to the two disciples at the beginning of John’s Gospel, the soldiers answer quite clearly: “Jesus of Nazareth.” Jesus even asks the soldiers the question a second time, and they respond with the same answer. And Jesus, in turn, replies, “I am he.” Or more accurately, “I am.”

And this brings us to our third panel, on the right. This scene is also in a garden, and in this garden there is an empty tomb. The stone has been rolled away, and Mary Magdalene is weeping profusely just outside the opening. She does not know where her friend’s body has gone. She thinks it has been stolen. But behind her she has just heard a voice: “Woman, why are you weeping?” And as this third panel of our triptych depicts, Mary has turned to face the Risen Christ, although she does not yet know it is he.

The Risen Christ has asked her the question we are now all too familiar with. In this third panel, we behold the Greek words as well: “Whom do you seek?” But Mary does not answer the question. It is only a bit later, when Jesus calls Mary by name and reminds her of their friendship, that she calls him “Teacher,” just as those first two disciples did.

The unanswered question, though, continues to linger in the air. Perhaps we can assume that it is answered even if left unspoken. Mary has, of course, been seeking the body of her friend. But searching for a dead body is quite different from searching for a living relationship. And although Mary knows she has seen Jesus alive, and although she will communicate this knowledge to her friends as the first evangelist, I imagine it would take Mary a while to comprehend what she has just seen.

But this third panel of the triptych is not just about Mary. It is also the panel in which we find our place, too. In this panel, we discover Jesus’ question, etched onto the panel in Greek, addressed to us as well, two thousand years after the events depicted. “Whom do you seek?”

So often, when Jesus meets us, we, like Mary, are looking at an empty tomb. We are gazing into a mystery that we cannot understand. We are lobbing our own profound questions into the vacant space of the empty tomb, hoping for an answer. And in these moments, it might be that we hear a voice speaking to us, which causes us to turn around. And when we do, we are being addressed not so much with an answer but with this question: “Whom do you seek?”

Most likely, unless we are unusually open and vulnerable, we don’t really recognize, at first, that it is the Risen Christ speaking to us. We, in fact, do not really know what it is we are seeking. We simply know that we are seeking something. And the question hangs in the air. . .

But recall that middle panel of the triptych. It stands in the center because, in a way, everything hinges on it. This panel shows the eve of Jesus’ death; it represents his crucifixion. It is not the event we would like to focus on, but we do because it is the pivot point in the story of salvation. The question posed to the soldiers in this middle panel (“Whom do you seek?”) is unlike the surrounding panels in that the soldiers answer succinctly and confidently: Jesus of Nazareth.

We know that these soldiers are not seeking a relationship with Jesus. They are seeking him so that they can destroy him. The response of the soldiers has all the certainty of the task ahead. They want Jesus so they can kill him. There is no question that can be left in the air. This panel shows the definitive, finite nature of death.

Or, at least, this is what we so often think. This is what death would have us believe. Death, the great enemy, always wants to have the last word. It routinely conspires with its friend and accomplice Sin. And they are both led by the wiles of the Evil One, as they exhibit to the world a false confidence in their power. Death cries out loudly and menacingly as it destroys our mortal bodies. Sin haunts us every day of our lives.

But Death and Sin display a deceitful confidence because they know that they are surrounded, and outnumbered, by the outer panels of our triptych. And in these two panels, we find not the brazen statement of the band of soldiers, but we find the profound question: Whom do you seek?”

Sin and Death rightly cower because they know they have been defeated once and for all. The outer panels of our triptych reveal that what lingers, even after the body has been killed, are the deep questions borne out of relationship. And so the middle panel pivots into that undeniable truth of the resurrection which has conquered all evil.

There is no easy answer to the question, “Whom do you seek?” It is not meant to answered flippantly or casually. It is meant to be pondered in our hearts. It is a question that stays with us and propels us forward as our relationship with the Risen Christ continues on forever. Sin and Death cannot kill the questions.

Death, however, suggests that questions are the enemy of truth and life. Sin judges our questions as the great Accuser of our motives. Some would have us believe that the presence of a question is the end of faith. Or the question of survival marks the end of the Church. For others, the question of suffering ends in the need for a certain conclusion that there is no God. But the question that hangs in the aftermath of Jesus’ resurrection is proof enough that the resurrection is deep enough to hold all our questions. The heart of our faith is a mystery that cannot solicit easy answers. It is only by moving into resurrection light with our questions that we interpret the meaning of the resurrection.

The questions are, ironically, proof that we are still seeking the Risen One. The questions we carry mean that we still have the humility to know our place in relation to our Creator and Redeemer. The questions mean that our faith is alive because we are willing to believe in the One who has risen from the dead, redeemed us, and saved us, because we know in our hearts what he has done for us and for the world. We see it in glimpses and in fits and starts. And for over two thousand years the Church has bothered to get up, week after week, and day after day, because death could not kill a question. The empty tomb speaks a conviction of truth that we cannot deny even if it remains a mystery.

Death poses as the enemy, but it is really no enemy at all, as we know. It is weak and it is a liar. Death masquerades its bold statement of finitude, but we know that life continues and cannot be defeated by this coward.

And we see this in that middle panel of our triptych, where everything pivots into salvation. Here, the Good Shepherd stands facing head-on the prospect of the enemy, of Death. And he places himself between evil and his beloved sheep. And by doing so, he assures us that he will yet live and continue to be with us long after his physical body has been killed.

And even after our bodies are dust, this Good Shepherd will make sure that our bodies rise in glory to be with him forever. For he will continue to pose the question to us: Whom do you seek? Our questions cannot be killed by skepticism, violence, or hatred. Because our questions demand not simple answers but a relationship with the Risen One.

Death has been defeated once and for all. The heart of our faith is an empty tomb and a bold statement that it is our questions that propel us into belief. For that is what belief is: the willingness to move on in faith, in spite of the doubts that assail us.

And when we take that leap, we center our faith in this knowledge—that Jesus our Savior has trampled down death because he has risen from it. Death has no sting. The ultimate victory has been won. The tomb was empty on that third day, this day. Jesus is no longer in the tomb, but he is here with us. And if we hear his voice, turn around, and look at him, he is asking us, “Whom do you seek?”

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Easter Day
April 4, 2021

A Change in Perspective

The late Spanish artist Salvador Dalí is best known for his surrealist art. But when Dalí was inspired to portray the crucifixion in a 1951 work called Christ of St. John of the Cross, he momentarily stepped away from surrealism and rendered a somewhat traditional painting.

And yet Dalí’s portrayal of the crucifixion is nontraditional in one key respect. Unlike most other renderings of the crucifixion, the painting’s perspective is not from the ground looking up at Jesus on the cross, but, instead, it is a view from above the crucified Christ, looking down at the earth.

Below Christ, whose hands and feet interestingly bear no signs of the wounds, is a lake with two boats, a large fishing net, and three fishermen. We don’t know who they are. Peter? James? John? Or maybe Andrew?

Jesus’s face is not portrayed. We see merely the top of his head as he looks down on the world that has crucified him.

Dalí’s painting was inspired by a drawing by the sixteenth-century mystic St. John of the Cross, which employs a similar perspective. We are not used to seeing things from this perspective. It may even seem presumptuous for us to inhabit Christ’s vantage point. Is not this bird’s eye view from the cross to be reserved only for Jesus the Crucified One? Isn’t our place down below, looking up?

Or perhaps St. John of the Cross and Dalí were onto something. The central feature of their portrayals of the crucifixion is the change in perspective. And it is a change in perspective that is introduced by St. John the Evangelist in his account of Jesus’ passion. When we entered Holy Week on Palm Sunday with Mark’s Passion narrative, we entered a world of dissonance between loyalty and betrayal, between truth and lies. The journey to the cross ended with some of Jesus’ followers standing at a distance, looking from the ground up at the Savior dying on the cross. Jesus died with a painful cry, having quoted Psalm 22 in the depths of loneliness and despair.

When we encounter John’s world of the Passion, we find the same tension between falsity and truth. But from the very beginning of the Passion, Jesus states who he is with crystalline clarity. “I am he,” Jesus of Nazareth. More accurately, “I am.” Jesus has revealed his identity as God revealed his to Moses in the burning bush. He has staked his claim and there is no turning back.

And so, it is all the more heartbreaking when Peter denies Jesus three times. Peter’s “I am not” is the foil to Jesus’ “I am.” And Peter is just like everyone else in this story in that he is incapable of standing for something. He is mired in a tight web of deceit, accusations, and fear. The only words he can muster when a woman questions whether he is one of Jesus’ disciples is to answer in the negative: “I am not.”

Peter’s perspective is that of the world. It is that of our world. We, as it were, stand looking from afar at the Savior of the World hanging on a tree, with “I am not” ringing in our ears.

We recall how often we are more passionate about standing against something than in standing for something. What is it about the human condition that seeks to build up the self by tearing others down? Why are we so adept at saying no and so reluctant to say yes? Think how many people of faith are more enthusiastic about defining their identity over and against others rather than standing for the Gospel.
         The air we breathe is full of no’s. Pilate’s sarcastic retort to Jesus might as well define our reality at times: What is truth? The countless “I am nots” can be seen in the willfulness of going one’s own way, no matter the cost and no matter the harm to others. It is present in the stubborn refusal to identify with a neighbor, whether in compassion or joy. Its toxicity rears its ugly head in the defining of oneself over and against the other, those who are easily demonized and scapegoated.

It is present even in John’s Gospel itself, as the evangelist established his own religious tribe over and against an opposing group, whom he called “the Jews.” Centuries of anti-Judaism have fed off this tendency to stand against a body of people rather than standing beside them.

The motives for the naysaying characters in the passion are varied, and they are the motives that are just as present to us as well. It is the palpable presence of fear: the fear of losing one’s life, the fear of losing friends if you rally with the underdog, the fear of losing control of one’s own destiny. It is the fear of loneliness, of being the only one left standing for something or somebody, even if that somebody is the Christ. And it ends in the perspective from the ground looking up at the cross. We gaze with our own measure of sorrow at the cross, knowing what the world has done to its Savior, and feeling that we will always be defined over and against it.

But if we press John’s Gospel a bit further, we might find the perspective changing. After the excruciating journey to the cross, where Jesus carries it all by himself, and once he is hoisted up to the tree, the perspective alters. Jesus now looks lovingly at his mother and the beloved disciple, and he entrusts them to one another. “Woman, behold thy son!” My friend, “Behold thy mother!”

We are now looking down on things the way that Dalí and St. John of the Cross did. We dare to go for a moment to the top of the cross and look down with Jesus. We see the lonely boats on the lake, with their owners going about their business, saddened by their friend’s death. We see a world riven by sin and antagonism. We behold the violence among kin. We see the barriers being constructed among cities, communities, and nations. We see, from the vantage point of Christ, the venom played out in hateful words and meanness. We see the stubborn refusal to extend a hand in peace or love. We see a world of “I am not.”

But we also see that there is one true answer to all this mess, and it is the cross. There on the cross is the Savior of the World, lifted high, so that all people can be drawn to him. This yes is the meaning of the cross.

We see in the cross the love of the great I AM. It is the definitive yes to the good news of peace, reconciliation, and fullness of life. It is the yes that finds life in standing for something rather than against something. It is the yes that went to the cross without lifting a hand against those who were determined to offer a resounding no. The cross is the utter sacrifice of no for the sake of yes. The cross has broken the cycle of no once and for all.

And reigning from the cross is that Good Shepherd of the sheep. It is the Shepherd whose voice was ignored while the crowds followed the hired hand. It is the Good Shepherd who, having been glorified on the cross, becomes the sacrificial Lamb for the salvation of the world.

This Good Shepherd, who has maintained his steady yes to the life of the world, invites us to inhabit the place he has prepared for us. By his gracious permission, we are invited to change our perspective. We have for so long been looking from the ground up, confronted with the agony of the cross. But Jesus invites us to come up and look down from his view.

And Jesus, now reigning in glory, looks down on our world, with his arms stretched out in love, and says to us, Behold your brother and your sister. Look down at this world from my view and see how good it can be.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Good Friday
April 2, 2021

All In

“We will break the news to the family, and then we’ll leave. Otherwise, the family will blame us. You can stay and tend to them after we’ve left.” These were the words of a doctor working the Level I Trauma Center where I served as a chaplain intern six years ago during seminary.

A patient had just died of gunshot wounds, and being on call that night, I was responsible for pastoral care. On one level, I intellectually understood the doctor’s rationale. She needed to place some boundaries between her work in a desperate emergency situation and the family just learning of their loved one’s death.

But I was the one left alone in the room with a grieving family in the aftermath of a violent death. I knew that I could not put up any boundaries in my role. The specter of raw grief was before my eyes. It was palpable and it was audible. As part of the spiritual care team, my job was to stay and to sit with the reality of trauma. When science had no more answers, religion stayed to hold the mystery.

Inside, I secretly wanted to run from the room. At the very least, I wanted the crying and wailing to stop because, at heart, I imagine I didn’t want to be drawn into this painful reality. I did not know this family or the person who had died. Selfishly, I was slightly envious of the trauma surgeon who had departed abruptly after sharing the horrible news with the family. She had been able to extricate herself from this tragedy. I longed to put the whole situation at arm’s length.

The human heart is adept at keeping certain things at bay and at letting in what’s tolerable. Suffering and death are usually what we want to hold at a distance, and we are all too eager to welcome the happy moments. We choose what we want to invest in, and we block out the rest. At some level, it’s an innate survival technique. On another level, it’s a desire to be in control.

On the surface, Peter’s refusal to let Jesus wash his feet seems like a right-minded gesture of humility. Peter could not bear to have his Lord engage in such a demeaning act. Jesus had it all turned upside-down. If anything, Peter should be washing Jesus’ feet.

But there may have been more to Peter’s reaction. Perhaps Peter wanted to keep Jesus at arm’s length because he wanted to be in control. Peter, I would guess, did not want to be all in. Because I suspect that Peter knew what it would cost.

It doesn’t seem likely that Peter understood exactly where Jesus was headed when he supped with him for the final time. We know from Mark’s Gospel that Peter refused to hear about Jesus’ predictions of suffering. Peter wanted to keep the painful aspects of discipleship at bay. But it also seems unlikely that Peter would not have had some foreboding sense of his friend’s impending death. Jesus had been dropping ambiguous clues about his death for some time now.

Do you think there was some deeper, hidden motive for Peter resisting Jesus’ gesture of love and humility? Was Peter reluctant to go all in because he somehow sensed the pain and tragedy that lay ahead?

Peter’s initial refusal to let Jesus wash his feet proffered a false humility while masking a stubborn unwillingness to receive Jesus’ gift. It was Peter’s pride that got between him and Jesus. He was too proud to receive the gift of love before him. Peter wanted to be the one to make a grand gesture of his act of service to his master.

But I wonder if Peter was also afraid of the commitment that would come with letting Jesus wash his feet. If he could only keep Jesus at bay, he could avoid the ensuing responsibilities. If Peter could establish the conditions of the footwashing by washing Jesus’ feet himself, then he could escape the hard task of discipleship.

But Jesus was very clear about the true meaning of discipleship. The footwashing meant that the disciples were to love one another as Jesus loved them. Jesus’ act of love towards them implicated the disciples in a greater cycle of love. Once you’re all in, there’s no escaping the demands of the cross.

Maundy Thursday is the liturgical moment of Holy Week in which we can choose, or choose not, to turn to Christ, especially as we meet him in the depths of suffering and despair. It may be that, as we approach Good Friday, reveling in the agony of the cross can perversely be a means of putting distance between God and ourselves. And if the story is simply one more rehearsal of an ancient event, it will lose its impact on our lives. If we cannot put ourselves in the story, then we are, in some ways, refusing Jesus’ invitation to come into our lives.   

The human heart is all too adept at finding excuses for Jesus not to wash our feet. We are not worthy enough. The Eucharistic gift is beyond our reach because of our frailty. Our sins are too many. If we decide not to accept God’s forgiveness of our sins, then no amendment of life is necessary.

This protective distancing from God’s gift is a mere extension of our daily refusals. To refuse the gift of a conversation with someone who is different is to shun the possibility of changing one’s mind. To reject help from another is to claim self-sufficiency and reject relationship. To cast aside the gift of relationship is to deny that we are in any way indebted or connected to another. It is a shirking of the responsibility of being invested in the human condition.

As the agony of Jesus’ passion approaches with Good Friday, an awareness of our own frailty may be precisely the reason we keep God at bay. It is unfathomable to think of our Savior offering anything to us. We are the ones who should be on our knees in repentance and pleading for his mercy.

Our sins and weaknesses have become one more tactic that we use to keep God at bay. And the more we resist going all in, the more we can be in control.

But God knows that we need the gift more than we will ever realize. God knows that we will employ all manner of casuistry to politely refuse the gift. But God also knows that the way in which salvation comes to the world is for each and every one of us to be all in.

This evening, on the eve of our Lord’s passion and death, a great mystery confronts us. On some level, it may be that we would prefer to set some boundaries with this mystery. A domesticated and sanitized mystery will shield us from the trauma through which our redemption is accomplished.

But our Lord, who calls us friends, comes to us, not just this evening, but week after week in bread and wine. He stoops to wash our feet, and if we are vulnerable enough, we let him do it.

And this night, we are reminded of just what it means to be all in. Jesus asks us not just to stretch out our hand for his Body to be placed upon it. But he asks us to take off our shoes here on holy ground. He asks us to let him hold our worn feet, calloused by the trials of life. He wants to wash away the dirt and grime of our sinfulness.

And he knows, too, how hard this is for us. He knows how much we resist laying bare our souls before him, because it means that all the control that comes from nursing our grudges and resentments must be relinquished and that we turn it over to his healing grace.

But this night, Jesus asks that we commit to him and to his love. He asks us to be all in, to take the risk of vulnerability. He asks us to remain in the room with all the pain of the mystery of his death and resurrection and not to leave. He asks us to share in it with him. For Jesus knows, most of all, that this is not just about you and me. It’s about the whole world.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Maundy Thursday
April 1, 2021

The Dissonance No One Wants to Hear

Holy Week begins with the dissonant music that no one wants to hear. Yes, to some extent, the dissonance is the painful and strident noise of the crowds calling for a brutal death by execution. Yes, the dissonance is the clang of violent instruments of torture, the spitting at a human face, and the agony of death throes in a moment of utter loneliness and despair. Yes, the dissonance is the anguish and sorrow at Jesus hanging on a cross.

But there is another dissonance, too. It is not the most overt dissonance. It is not the dissonance of yet another Hollywood portrayal of a well-known tragedy. It is the dissonance of deceit, fickleness, and falsity. It is the dissonance of clashing testimony, dishonest words, and cowardice.

It may be that precisely because this particular dissonance hits so close to home, we do not want to hear it. We are much more comfortable with the cries of hosanna as Jesus enters into Jerusalem acclaimed as king. And we are left with a painful sense of whiplash as the music’s tone changes swiftly from consonant fanfare to raucous screeching. The voices and instruments once sounding in sweet harmony have gone out of control. Homophony and controlled counterpoint have veered into aleatory.

The dissonance is, of course, in the liturgy itself. It is in our corporate participation in the events of Jesus’ passion so many years ago, as those saving events are made real in our present. If it were a mere reenactment, it would be easy enough to keep the discord at a distance. But we know these events are real and present to us, that we are in them.

And the dissonance is also right there in the text of holy Scripture, subtly hidden amid the details of a theatrical spectacle of a Roman crucifixion. We are told that as some sought solid reasons to convict Jesus and put him to death, the testimony of many voices did not agree. Many came forward to indict Jesus, but when all the notes of their accounts were layered together, it was nothing but discordant noise.

From our place of righteousness so far removed from the historical events recounted, we fume at the dishonesty. We cover our ears at the blatant lies and the cruelty so blindly set on the death of an innocent man. Once a year, on this day, we wallow in the generous permission we give ourselves to entertain the modern-sounding dissonant music of old until Easter can re-organize it into brass bands and fanfares once again.

But every year, as we begin the holiest of weeks for Christians, we are jolted out of our complacency on Palm Sunday. And if we were to take our hands off our ears for a moment and enter into the disharmony that assaults our ears from all around, we might begin to hear the dissonance in our own hearts, too.

The dissonance starts, of course, with the story we so painfully listen to. Jesus has already announced that one of his closest followers will betray him. The one who dips bread into a bowl with him will hand him over to be tried and crucified. Later, Jesus is in Gethsemane with Peter, James, and John. These are the disciples who previously stayed close to Jesus on the mountain as he was transfigured before their eyes. And now, in the hour of death, they cannot even stay awake to be with him in his loneliness and agony. Judas’s subversive kiss of peace is tainted by its sign of betrayal. And Peter, the disciples of disciples, denies knowing Jesus three times, not long after he has avowed his utter loyalty to Jesus. The final scene of this drama shows the Son of Man alone on a cross as some of his followers look on—not at the foot of the cross, but at a distance.

This is the dissonance that lies beneath the passion story that begins this holiest of weeks. It is the dissonance between discipleship and desertion, between courage and cowardice, between following and fickleness. It’s easy enough to notice it in characters of a well-known story. But if we’re honest, it’s harder to see this own dissonance in our own hearts.

Isn’t this what Palm Sunday reveals? At the commencement of this Holy Week, we are cut to the heart by the dissonance between our own lives and that of the Christ. This is a week where we prepare to walk in the ways of holiness by acts of repentance, fasting, and self-denial, and from the first notes of the score, we have lost control of the piece. It is nothing but cacophony.

We want, for just a while before the sobering events of the week ahead, to sit with the fanfares. We want to feel in control of this week and gain mastery of our own pious practices. And instead, Palm Sunday reminds us that the dissonance starts right at the very beginning. No sooner has the overture begun than we are swung recklessly into the throes of the dissonance in which we live.

We are, I imagine, all too aware of this painful dissonance. We know how easily we mimic Peter, how facilely we profess our allegiance to Christ and also how quickly that allegiance turns to denial the minute our friendships or other loyalties are at stake. When our life is a series of mountaintop experiences, we cling to the Risen Christ and attribute our successes to his graciousness. But when we lose control of the piece, we are all hatred and venom.

We see this very discord in our own society. We readily acknowledge our commitment to liberty and the common good, but the reality that stares us down every day is out of phase with what we profess. We celebrate our success and civility, without realizing the jarring sounds of the overwhelming violence that has been blatantly evident in just this past week. Like Jesus’ fearful followers watching his death from a distance, perhaps we watch the horrors of racism, xenophobia, and cold violence from a distance, too.

We are all for Jesus when life is full of smiles, but when the musical score throws a surprise accidental into the mix, we flee. Or we move farther into the distance to see how things will play out before investing ourselves spiritually anymore. Palm Sunday, it seems, has a way of dredging up the muck from our hearts and exposing it to the light of day.

But the thing about Jesus is that none of this is a surprise to him. Jesus had already set his face like flint to his destiny long before he was left alone on the cross. Soon after that last supper in the upper room, Jesus quoted Scripture: “You will all become deserters; for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’”

Jesus is not surprised that our hosannas will turn to calls for crucifixion. Jesus knows that the precious Blood he constantly offers us in the Eucharist is countered by sour wine that we offer him in return. He has heard us mock him, when we have had enough of the trials of life and we tell him to prove his power and come to our aid. But he does not respond by refusing to listen. He comes to save us anyway.

Jesus has already set his face like flint to do the work God had called him to do. He would not shrink before the mockery and shame of an ignoble death. He would go to the loneliest place on the planet, and even to the depths of hell to show the depths of God’s love. On that third day, his face, set like flint, would become the stone against which the new fire of his saving light would be kindled for a dark world.

And on that day to come, when it is time to hand the kingdom over to the Father, Jesus the Good Shepherd will call his sheep. They have fled, but his love for them has not. And if they can recognize his voice, they will hear him calling. And the sheep that have been scattered through the dissonance of their own lives, are gathered back to the One who has been the constant ground-bass of this unruly score. And the Good Shepherd puts them on his shoulders and brings them home.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday
March 28, 2021

Dragged into the Light

One of the oldest tropes in storytelling is the struggle between light and dark. From Harry Potter to Star Wars, some of the most popular of stories revolve around competing worlds: a world of evil and a world of good.

The Western mind delights in such dualities. It is easy for us to comprehend this binary juxtaposition, even though, at heart, we sense that things are not usually so simple. Much of life falls somewhere in the middle, when it’s not being dragged into the light at times and then into the darkness on the worst of days.

St. John centers much of his Gospel on the play between light and dark. His Prologue deliberately echoes the story of creation in Genesis, as he describes the Word made flesh coming into the world. That Word is, of course, the Light of the world. Early in John’s Gospel, Nicodemus, who is both curious and tentative, approaches Jesus by night, under the cover of darkness. He is scared to be seen in the company of Jesus. And Jesus encourages his followers to walk in the light. He categorizes those who oppose him as ones who walk in darkness and stumble.

When Judas departs from the upper room where Jesus has just washed his disciples’ feet, it immediately turns to night. Judas is headed towards his betrayal of Jesus. And on the first day of the week, redemption comes in the dawn of early morning light, as the darkness is disappearing, when Mary Magdalene discovers the empty tomb.

This play between darkness and light is for dramatic effect, and I suspect that John himself knew exactly what he was doing when he used this literary technique. I suspect he also knew the world was not so simply divided between good and bad, light and dark.

When we enter John’s Gospel this morning, it’s around the time of the festival of Passover. It is also the eve of Jesus’ passion and death. And Jesus acknowledges the cosmic tension that is weighing on his heart. His soul is troubled because he knows where he is headed, but  he will not forsake the task ahead.

What Jesus describes is very much like a game of tug-of-war. Truth be told, I never liked this game very much when I was in school, because I always found it painful. My hands were either sore from tugging on the rope or blistered from rope burn. Do you remember this game from your schooldays on the playground? If you were on the winning side, it was much less painful than being on the losing side, both emotionally and physically. If all the strong kids were on the other side, you were likely to walk away with chafed hands or scraped knees from being dragged on the ground.

The unease that Jesus highlights as he looks towards his death has been part of a cosmic game of tug-of-war since he began his public ministry. In John’s Gospel, it is this constant friction between good and evil that is where judgment happens. Judgment enters into the midst of life. Judgment is the rope burn when the power of goodness naturally tends to pull us towards the light, even as we dig our feet into the shadows.

The feeling of being caught on the wrong side of the rope is part of the human condition. St. Paul described this reality forcefully in his Letter to the Romans, when he confessed that he so often was tempted to do the very things he knew he shouldn’t do. It’s as if being human is a perpetual struggle between light and dark. You keep your hands firmly on the rope of life, and inevitably, you are pulled to the wrong side. You lose your grip, or you simply are not strong enough to resist the pull of evil.

It often depends on who’s holding onto the rope with us. When all the weight is on the wrong side of the rope, we get pulled along where we might not want to go. Systemic sin drags us to a realm that we should avoid.

When we get to Jesus’ passion and death, it would seem that the game of tug-of-war is over and that Jesus’ side is the loser. He dies an ignominious death. He is spat upon, reviled, and his disciples are left standing at the foot of the cross, wondering what they will do next. The fear, anxiety, and confusion of his disciples gathered after his death suggests that they likely felt they had lost the game. They had not pulled hard enough on their end of the rope.

But the moment of glorification that Jesus announces in today’s Gospel proves this conception wrong. Jesus subverts the common understanding of victory by revealing the glory of the cross. And he announces that when he is lifted up from the earth, he will draw all people to himself. In fact, it is not so polite. Jesus will drag all people to himself.[1] Kicking and screaming they might be, but he will drag them to himself.

This is striking. It is unexpected. With all the tug of war that has been happening between light and dark, and with all the darkness that has been displayed in the face of the truth Jesus reveals, we might not expect all people to be dragged to Jesus.

If we probe deeply enough into our own hearts, can we admit that there are people that we simply don’t want Jesus to drag to himself? Are there people that we can’t imagine are capable of being dragged to Jesus, and do we secretly or overtly wish Jesus would let go of the rope and allow them to be pulled into the shadows? Do we think we are capable of being dragged to Jesus? Can we even begin to comprehend that Jesus desires to drag all people to himself, you, and me, and especially our enemies?

It is no wonder that we doubt, or conveniently ignore, these words of Jesus. Jesus clearly states the purpose of his life, death, resurrection, and ascension. It is to reconcile all things to his Father. Jesus is pulling firmly on the rope in this cosmic game of tug-of-war. He is not letting go. How can we resist the pull?

But our world is a zero-sum game. If some win, others must lose. It’s impossible for everyone to win. Life is a competition. We treat God’s mercy as if it’s a limited supply of vaccines. If there’s a limited quantity, the fact that some are getting their vaccine means that others are not getting theirs. If some are receiving God’s gifts and mercy, then others are not.

To speak plainly, it is next to impossible to believe that God does not desire to let some people get pulled into the darkness rather than into the light. But hear the words of Jesus when he says that his lifting up will be the dragging of all people into the light.

And the reason we might resist the power of these words is that we long for justice. We want a balancing out of wrong with good. We want payback for those who relish the darkness and those who deliberately pull on the wrong side of the rope.

But this cosmic game of tug-of-war does not deny justice. It does not affirm some easy pull of the rope from dark to light, where the ones heaving and pulling with all their might in the darkest reaches of the rope gain an easy entrance into the light.

Do you remember the rope burn of your childhood games of tug-of-war? Do you remember the skinned knees as you were pulled to the victorious side by a force stronger than you and your team? So it is as Jesus drags us to himself. It is painful, because we so often resist that pull. Even when we know it’s good for us, we pull harder on our end of the rope. We dig our feet into hell, when heaven is trying to yank us forward.

And for some, it’s a long, long rope. When you’ve spent years and years digging your heels into the darkness and pulling against the light, it’s going to take a lot of work with God’s grace to be dragged into the realm of light.

But this is what Jesus came to do. The purpose of Jesus’s life, death, and glorification is for him to pull us to the Father. God’s judgment meets us in our waywardness and presents us with his truth, peace, and love. And all our attempts to resist simply injure ourselves and those we try to drag down with us. But God does not want to leave us there.

Jesus drags us kicking and screaming into the light. It is not that Jesus wants to force us into a place that we don’t want to enter. It does not negate our free will. It’s simply that as the power of God’s goodness catches on and pulls more and more people along, it is harder and harder for us to resist the pull of the light.

And when we reach that realm of light, where there is no more sorrow and sighing, we do not emerge unscathed. The scars are there to prove our struggle. It has not been easy. The triumph of glory does not negate the years of trauma, suffering, and hardship. But when we are finally pulled into the light, and we stand up on our skinned knees, we will remember what we once did not understand. Sin, pain, and death, however real they were, have no place here. They have lost their sting. And we thank God that he never let go of the rope and that we are home.

Sermon by Father Kyle
The Fifth Sunday in Lent
March 21, 2021

[1] See, in particular, the translation by David Bentley Hart in That All Shall Be Saved (New Haven: Yale UP, 2019).

Like Cures Like

At the beginning of the Book of Numbers, the children of Israel are in Sinai, having emerged safely from Egypt and Pharaoh’s cruel grasp via the exodus. Their journey in Numbers takes them through an arduous forty years of wandering as they move towards the Promised Land.

We can understand why the children of Israel became impatient. They had recently been through quite an ordeal as they escaped the clutches of a tyrant. Now, they simply wanted to be home.

And so, as usually happens when a group of people are journeying together, they become tired and hungry, and they grumble. The past was so much better, wasn’t it? How easily we forget about our former frustrations when we emerge into new territory.

There is not enough water to drink, but back in Egypt, there was at least water. The food before we left was tasty, but now we can find nothing to eat. Moses, as the fearless leader, takes the brunt of these grumblings.

Can’t you just hear what they say to him? It could even be a page taken out of the book of parish life in so many places. “Well, people are saying that the food we used to have at coffee hour was so much better.” “When we used to do things that way, everyone was happier.”

The story of God’s children trudging through the wilderness for forty years speaks to us as well in the wilderness of a pandemic. Many haven’t even made it a full year of wearing a mask before grumbling that their glasses are fogging up and they’re uncomfortable. The human condition is prone to complain, especially when we become impatient for an immediate result to satisfy our needs or provide a quick fix for our quandaries.

But all those times when God’s children mumbled with discontent, and all those times when we do as well, God provides, even if it’s not as we expect, want, or predict. This is the dilemma of human trust. Do we really believe that God will provide? But God sent quails in the desert, and made water appear for his children making their way to the Promised Land. And in a most striking way of countering snakebites, God instructed Moses to make a bronze serpent, put it on a pole, and tell anyone who had been bitten by a snake to look upon it. And miraculously, the person was healed.

Isn’t it a bit uncomfortable when we hear God’s healing power equated with magic? It seems random and beyond our reach. It seems, quite frankly, false.

The bronze serpent cure has been described as a form of homeopathic healing.[1] The source of the affliction—the serpent—was the visualized source of healing. Curious indeed.

And it is curious indeed that John the Evangelist incorporates the image of the bronze serpent in close proximity to some of the most beloved verses in the entire Bible. If you are puzzled by the juxtaposition of the allusion to the bronze serpent from Numbers and the image of the Son of Man being lifted up, you are not alone. And yet, if we continue further with this unusual juxtaposition, we might have something to learn about salvation.

Let’s return to the explanation of the bronze serpent in Numbers as a homeopathic treatment of illness. This alternative form of medicine rests on the principle of “like cures like.” In other words, something that causes illness to someone who is healthy can also be a source of healing in that person. The cause of the illness becomes the means of a cure.

The children of Israel who suffered from snakebites looked on the bronze serpent, which wasn’t even a real serpent, and they were healed and survived. Magical homeopathy, you might say. What does this have to do with the Son of Man? Our salvation is bound up with Jesus being lifted up on a cross. The cross is the sign that rises above the sin and tragedy of the world to point to our healing in Christ. But is something else happening here? Are we not called to look upon the agony of the cross, with the epitome of self-emptying and sacrifice, as precisely the thing that does heal us?

Many of us also probably know how John’s words have been so vastly misinterpreted over the years. Generations of Christians have hitched God’s love conditionally to a mechanical affirmation of belief. God’s love has been twisted into a rescue operation that hinges on a one-time personal declaration of faith. We are seen as needing to be saved out of something rather than brought into something.

And what this engenders is something little more than magical thinking.[2] Similar to looking on a bronze serpent as a means of saving one’s life, it is now common to call upon Jesus’ name as a magical incantation. We are told by some that all we need to do is feel a certain warmth in our heart, make a simple profession of faith, and we are fixed forever.

The gift of eternal life available to the entire world is then reduced to a formula. And it is a formula that has been used to great harm, to keep people out rather than welcome them in.

If belief in God and in the saving works of Christ is reduced to a mere homeopathic remedy, akin to looking at a bronze serpent, it is possible that we will lose the gravity of what salvation really is.

Suppose, though, that the homeopathic analogy does have some relevance for us, minus the magic. If, indeed, like cures like, there is some theological truth to John’s use of the image. It is true that our salvation is accomplished in Christ as the one who took on the human condition. Only salvation by one who is fully human can heal us. St. Gregory Nazianzen told us that when he said that what has not been assumed cannot be redeemed. Precisely because of Jesus’ sinless humanity, he is able to heal us.

And if like cures like, then there’s something else to it as well. We look upon the cross and see our own call to take up the cross to be Jesus’ disciple. We see the need for humility and self-emptying. We see that the Son of Man lifted high upon a cross is far more than a magical cure for our brokenness. It is far more than a vaccine against sin. It requires something of us.

Because if like cures like, and we look at the cross, we find that the way of the cross becomes the means of healing. It is only when we sacrifice our own desires and self-serving interests that we find salvation. It is only when we die to self that we gain eternal life.

This is where we come face to face with the difficulty of the Christian journey. Like our spiritual forebears in the throes of forty years of wilderness wanderings, we long, perhaps, for the quick cure. We want the bronze serpent to gaze upon and heal us with no effort on our part. We yearn for that precise moment when Jesus rescues us from the sinful human condition and ushers us into a place of safety and security.

But if we gaze upon the cross, we know that it is not so easy and that it is more complicated than we might want to think. There is no cheap grace. Accepting the gift of salvation requires us to be transformed. If like cures like, then the cross shows us who we are to become.

Even when we accept the claim of the cross, we will continue to fall short. There is no pill to be taken for our salvation, because our own personal healing and salvation is not the full story. It is about something much more. This cross, when held before our eyes, is about nothing less than the healing of the entire world.

The individual bronze serpents that we long to instantly heal us can so easily become weapons to condemn others and beat them into submission and repentance. The cross, too, can become a way of intimidating others into being rescued by Jesus.

But if we gaze long and hard at the cross, and the Son of Man hanging high upon it above the horrors of the world, we will perceive that it is precisely the opposite. Only what has been brought down can be lifted up. We must die to our old selves to rise again to new ones. The cross requires that we change.

And the best part is that when we get to the point of change, we realize that we are not alone. We find ourselves among billions of people living the human condition, also in need of repentance. We are one of many who experience the suffering that is part of the fabric of this earthly life. But when we are brought down by the pain and vicissitudes of human existence, we can be lifted up by the cross. And we discover that this is precisely how God brings salvation and life to the world.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 14, 2021

[1] Commentary by Terrence E. Fretheim, The New Oxford Annotated Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 221.

[2] See Samuel Cruz. Commentary on John 3:14-21, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fourth-sunday-in-lent-2/commentary-on-john-314-21-4

A Most Unusual Sign

A couple of years ago, I was involved with a ministry that was being established in an abandoned church in Philadelphia. The church, which had a rich history, had been closed some years before, and the ministry of which I was a leader was seeking a home. We were also hoping that the ministry would bring life to an abandoned church.

I will never forget my first venture into the church. It was in shambles. I had half expected to find disarray, but I was cut to the heart when I entered the sacristy. It looked like it had been ransacked. The drawers that formerly held vestments had been opened and left bereft of their contents. The drawers were still hanging out from their cabinets. Debris from a crumbling ceiling was all over the floor. I walked gingerly on portions of the floor, wondering if the floorboards would hold my weight. I was both angry and sad. This space, which was meant to be a holy place of preparation for Mass, was a disaster zone.

Nearly a year later, as our ministry was getting off the ground and we were preparing for an opening event, I donned a face mask, months before a pandemic was in our sight. I wheeled a vacuum cleaner into the sacristy and began a painstaking process of cleaning it up. I swept. I vacuumed. I closed opened drawers. I tidied. I couldn’t bear the thought of this holy place sitting in such chaos. I considered it an act of prayer.

But perhaps most poignant about this abandoned church was that it was left hanging in the lurch. It had been stripped of its furnishings. Its sacristy drawers had been divested of their vestments. But no one even bothered to close the drawers before they left the building. It was heartbreaking.

We are accustomed to a certain amount of disorder when we read Holy Scripture. From disordered nothingness, God created everything that is. When creation moved from order to disorder, God renewed it once again. When the human race had gone off the rails, God sent a flood to destroy all but a remnant and then re-created. When God’s people went astray into anarchy, God sent them judges to bring back order. He then permitted them to have kings to aid the effort. When the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by foreign nations, God nevertheless sent the Israelites out of exile and back to Jerusalem to rebuild. The pattern is clear: there is a natural tendency to fall into disarray, but God gives order.

What was so disturbing to me about the abandoned church was that it was caught in the middle. Stranded in time between vibrancy and a possible future, it had never moved past its closing. The sacristy had been left in chaos, but nothing had been rebuilt.

Why should this make us uncomfortable? Are we okay with disorder and destruction, to a certain extent, if order and re-creation quickly follow? Perhaps we are less comfortable when God seems to be the agent of chaos or destruction.

The story of Noah and the flood is, in fact, such a story when it starts out. We often focus on the animals, Noah’s family safe on the ark, and the renewed creation after the flood. But what about those who perished? We know the Jerusalem Temple was ultimately rebuilt after the exile, but what about those invading armies seen as agents of God sent to wreak havoc on a people gone astray?

And what about Jesus, the Son of God, entering the holiest place in Jerusalem and overturning tables? Do we not wince a bit at the Prince of Peace overturning tables, emptying the moneychangers’ coffers onto the floor, and wielding a handmade whip in a sacred place? This is a side of Jesus that is bound to make any of us uncomfortable. The response is often to let Jesus’ zeal inspire us to prophetic ministry, where we lust after the overturning of the tables of injustice among us. We use it to justify righteous anger, claiming the example of Jesus himself.

And yet it might be that Jesus’ fiery behavior on the cusp of the Passover hits too close to home because his actions pierce into our own lives. Those confronted by Jesus’ actions in the Temple that day demanded a sign of Jesus. “Jesus, if you are going to wreak havoc in this holiest of places, you better have a good reason for it. Prove it. Show us a sign.”

Right before this point in John’s Gospel, Jesus has already shown his first sign. He has turned water into wine at Cana. Could it be that Jesus has in fact just given a second unusual sign by overturning tables in the Temple?

John has begun showing us a Jesus who is the living Sign of God’s visible presence. Jesus himself is the Word made flesh, Truth revealed in the world. And now this human Sign has just offered a sign that will make anyone squirm just a bit. He has caused a certain amount of destruction in the Temple in a fit of rage. He has left a sacred space in disarray.

But a sign always points to something. Jesus shows signs to make visible who he is and what he is bringing into the world. So, how has his act of violence in the Temple been a sign?

Jesus offers us a clue. As he told those in the Temple that day, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Jesus knew that his life was a sign of something that people would only understand after his resurrection. His life, with the fullness of God’s love, truth, and peace, was unable to be fully held by the world. A world distorted into its own image of hate and enmity would offer a stone wall to the convicting presence of the Son of God. Without even intending it, the Son of God’s very life wreaked havoc on the harmful bent of the world. And when God is finished with such a world, it will be left in shambles.

What do we do with this uncomfortable truth? How do we marry a God of peace with disorder and destruction? What do we do when God enters our lives, disrupts them, and we are left in shambles?

When we let him in, Jesus enters our hearts, those temples of the Holy Spirit, and begins to clean house. Old furniture is thrown out. The worn chairs in which we have become ensconced in our sloth are tossed out, and we are left standing in the room with nowhere to rest. The dirt and debris that have been disturbed when God comes in to clean are enough to make anyone cough. The demons that we have entertained and made our false gods are chased out by Jesus’s whip. And we are left alone, not knowing where to go.

This is so often where we get stuck. Indeed, we have been stuck since before the house cleaning ever began. Like the moneychangers in the Temple, we have been seated at our comfortable tables, engaging in the commerce of the world, without ever evaluating whether it is even ethical or giving life. Jesus’ whip then drives us out of our comfort zones, but we seem to have no roadmap.

What we see is a scene not unlike that church sacristy I encountered. Our lives have been ransacked. Drawers are left opened. But the old things are not there. And nothing new has replaced them.

Or at least this is how we think things are. If we stopped with the scene from John, chapter 2, we would miss the whole story. We would miss the fact that God does not leave things there.

This is what Jesus is saying as a reflection on his most unusual of signs. When those in the Temple demand a justification for his reckless behavior, Jesus offers a mysterious explanation that only makes sense after his resurrection from the dead. “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The story is just beginning. It has not yet ended.

Can we remember the pattern that is all over the pages of Holy Scripture? Disorder, then order. Disintegration, then a new creation. Death then life. When we are caught in the middle, between destruction and rebuilding, and death and life, it is hard to see the future ahead. But Jesus gives us a sign that this is where God is leading us.

In the Temple, amid squawking birds fleeing for their lives and neighing cattle, amid tables left in splinters and moneychangers running out of the door, the story is not yet finished. It is only beginning. It will not make sense until the third day and the empty tomb.

God enters our lives, if we let him in. God finds our inner state to be one of stasis. God finds us digging our heels into our old ways, when the old ways no longer work. God finds cold, hard hearts of stone, and he knows that the only way to give us new hearts is to break the old ones down.

But rest assured with this good news: God will not leave the sacristies of our hearts in permanent disarray. God will not leave the vestment drawers yanked out, full of dust and dirt, and God will not leave the room without sweeping the floor and closing the drawers again. God will not leave before kissing our aging heads in love.

God will take the shambles of our lives and piece them back together again. He will heal our broken bones. And when our bodies have been ravaged by death, mark my words: God will raise them up again.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday in Lent
March 7, 2021

Unfinished Business

My eighth-grade American history teacher was determined not to give up on me. I wasn’t a bad student or poorly behaved. My teacher did not need to summon great patience to keep me in line or motivate me to do my work. My teacher chose not to give up on me because I was painfully shy.

Each day I entered his classroom, where he stood at the door as gatekeeper while also monitoring the sometimes-unruly hallways. And each day, my teacher insisted that, before I entered the room, I was to engage in some kind of small talk with him. It could be about the weather or a topic we were studying in class. But the deal was that it had to be more than a simple hello.

As I recall, I was more than a little irritated with this demand. I had no say in the matter, really. My teacher would be giving me a grade in the class and was my elder, and so I had little choice but to acquiesce to his request that I come out of my shell just a little bit.

At the time, my teacher’s actions seemed a bit over the line, even perhaps cruel. But in hindsight, I see that his actions were intended to help me. My teacher rightfully discerned that I had difficulty speaking freely with others, especially authority figures or strangers. I also suspect that he saw something in me that he felt could eventually benefit from being less reticent.

My teacher was determined not to give up on me, as much as I struggled to come up with small talk that wasn’t merely about the weather—which was always the same in southeast Texas, hot and humid.

I’m especially grateful for my teacher’s foresight, especially since I have been called to ministry where it’s important to speak comfortably and freely with all manner of people and inhabit pulpits like this one. My teacher could never have known how my life would end up. But I suspect he saw that there was some seed of potential that he might play a small part in shaping. He intervened in my life when I didn’t ask for it or want it. He was never finished with helping me live into a future that perhaps he alone could see.

Who was that person in your life, the one who never gave up on you? Who was the person who was never finished trying to help you or make you a better you? Or when was the last time that someone did give up on you? When was the last time that someone threw in the towel and made it abundantly clear that they were finished with you? And did you ever perceive that the person who was finished with you was God? Worn down by suffering or unanswered prayers, have you ever sensed that God has given up or been too busy to make time for you?

I wonder if Abraham, at age ninety-nine, felt that God was finished with him and Sarah. When God chose to appear to Abraham at his ripe old age, he and Sarah had certainly been through a lot with God. At age seventy-five, God appeared to Abraham and summoned him to a distant land, and Abraham and Sarah, along with their family, got up and went—no small feat. They even fled to Egypt to avoid a famine, all because God had them leave their homeland in the first place. Abraham and Sarah stuck with God.

And although God had already promised Abraham and Sarah a legitimate heir, at age eight-six, Abraham had come to doubt whether this would ever happen. At Sarah’s bidding, he took Sarah’s slave girl, Hagar, and with her had a child, Ishmael. I suppose that Abraham thought that God had reneged on his promise of an heir or was finished with him. So, he and Sarah took matters into their own hands.

But God was not yet finished with them. Full of gray hair, aching limbs, and a full life lived in faithfulness to God’s initial calling, Abraham and Sarah had settled in for their retirement years. Unbidden, God chose to appear once again to Abraham and announce that he and Sarah would have a son. And not only that. Abraham and Sarah would be the progenitors of a fruitful lineage, through which God would establish his covenant.

To mark this new beginning, even at age ninety-nine, God gave Abraham and Sarah new names. This renaming signaled God’s intention of a prosperous future for Abraham’s progeny. The very names God gave them manifested God’s intentions for Abraham and Sarah. Abram, or “exalted ancestor” morphed into Abraham, or “ancestor of a multitude.” Sarah would be a “princess” of kings and influential people. Abraham’s name change showed that God did not see Abraham as a moribund relic of the past but as the beginning of a new line of people blessed by God. Abraham’s new name was not backwards looking but positioned towards the future. Like God’s own Name, that would be revealed to Moses, Abraham’s new name was dynamic, bearing the seeds of generations to come who would be called to serve the Lord.

It is often surprising when God chooses to appear and bless us. Sometimes unbidden, perhaps especially in those moments when we believe God is finished with us, God comes into our lives and announces a new future for us. For some, God was seen to have given up a long time ago. Years of tragedy and perceived abandonment lead some to give up on God when he has never really given up on them.

For others, a life of prosperity and immense blessing may mistakenly cultivate a sense that God is finished because everything is perfect with life. God has done his good work in us, we have responded, all is taken care of, and we are set for our eternal reward. God is finished, and so are we.

Sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism, many go their own ways, convinced that the deed is done, their fire insurance received, and the journey is ended. But God’s relationship with Abraham and Sarah reminds us that the work is only beginning when we are washed in the waters of baptism.

God knows, much better than we usually do, that we will wander. We will go astray, sometimes stubbornly and deliberately, sometimes inadvertently. Years might be spent in the wilderness, experiencing loneliness and despair. But God does not leave. Always, always, God noticeably enters our lives and announces a new future for us.

It is understandable why some are convinced that God is finished with them. They have either done all the good they think they can do, or they feel too tired and too old to try anything new. Some settle in for the long, slow decline. We are told that the Church is fighting futilely against a secular age, and so we may as well throw in the towel and hand it over to God. Parishes reduced to crumbles by conflict and strife imagine that the doors will soon close forever. God is finished, and we cannot change its course.

Like Abraham at eight-six, when we perceive that God is finished with us, we might still recall his promises of old. We sense that God has something good in store for us, but God seems to be seriously procrastinating. We take matters into our own hands to help God along. But look what happened to Abraham and Sarah. Ishmael aside, God stepped in, belatedly and unbidden, and announced that he had a different future in store for them.

It is not different for us. We know that God has not given up on us and is not finished with us because God was not finished with Abraham. God told Abraham that he would make an everlasting covenant with him, marked by the sign of circumcision. Generations and generations to follow would be a part of this gesture of God’s blessing. Precisely when we are too tired and burned out and have given up hope is the time to recall the seal of our baptism and to remember that God is never finished with us.

There will be times when we will laugh like Abraham and Sarah. God, what are you doing with this tired, old body? God, how can this small parish with financial challenges ever get back on its feet again? And we laugh sometimes to avoid the responsibility that we know God is laying on our shoulders.

But God is not offended. God hears our laugh and understands that in our human frailty, it is simply too difficult to maintain our trust in him. We too often measure God by human standards. One too many acts of betrayal or human neglect are projected onto God.

God, though, is never finished with us. God never gives up on us. Time and again, God has appeared unbidden into the story of humanity and given us new names when we have become too ensconced in the malaise of our old ones. God always has a new future in store for us. The story is never finished.

You may not remember when the waters of baptism were poured on your head. Or perhaps you have not yet had that experience. But in those waters, God reminds you of your past and tells you about your future. God seals your place in that great lineage of people sired by Abraham at the ripe old age of ninety-nine. God gently accepts your laughter at his intervention in your life and changes your name anyway.

God has never given up on you. God is not finished with you. God is always reminding you that he has a glorious future for you.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday in Lent
February 28, 2021

Life in the Wilderness

On July 30, 2020, the Mars rover Perseverance was propelled into space via an Atlas V launch vehicle. Perseverance soon began making its way to the Red Planet, and this past Thursday, landed on Mars at 3:55 p.m. Eastern Time. When Perseverance was launched back in July, it was not assured that the rover would ever make it to the surface of Mars. It was a harrowing final seven minutes on Thursday as Perseverance entered the atmosphere of Mars and descended to the planet’s surface, while mission control waited for news of an arrival or a disaster. Although there have been other successful missions to and landings on Mars, Perseverance is the first vehicle equipped to assess whether life has ever existed on Mars.

This rover has been sent into a wilderness land. Perseverance and its companion helicopter Ingenuity will venture into a strange place with a difficult terrain, and extreme weather conditions. The space vehicles that are now on Mars are equipped to withstand bitterly cold temperatures and conditions unlike anything on Earth. Perseverance and Ingenuity will trek into lonely territory where no life appears to exist, guided only by a space center some 128 million miles away.

Propelled from the hospitable conditions of Earth into a wild, foreign land, this Mars mission is in search of life in a place that seems to have none. And the question remains whether this wilderness will ever be able to sustain human missions. But life can blossom in the most unlikely of places, even in the wilderness.

Journeys into the wilderness, whatever they may be, are not for the faint of heart. Most people try to avoid them. We have been told that the wilderness is a dangerous place. No one wants to be stranded in a wild place, left out in the cold or heat with no provisions. We all know how such stories usually end. We can only imagine the intensity of Jesus’ wilderness experience, forty days and nights in a barren place, where water is hard to come by and where wild beasts prowl, looking for prey.

The wilderness we might envision is one of a dark forest with impenetrable vegetation and strange animals crying in the night. One can easily become lost in such places. But the wilderness of Jesus was the Judean desert. This sandy, dry, vast stretch of land east of Jerusalem is indeed a dangerous place. Water is hard to come by. The weather is harsh. It can be bitterly cold at night and scorching hot by day.

This wilderness is also terrifying because of its loneliness. You might travel for days without encountering a living thing, except for the wild beasts and tenacious plants.

But it’s the silence of the wilderness that is perhaps the most intimidating of all. When one is thrust into the wilderness like Jesus, one is alone with one’s thoughts, the wild beasts, and the demons.

It is a strange sequence of events that lands Jesus in the Judean desert. And with Mark’s fast-paced storytelling, it’s even more disorienting. Jesus suddenly appears on the scene in the first chapter, miles from his hometown of Nazareth, and he is baptized by John. In this moment, the heavens part—as the Temple veil will be rent at his death—and the Spirit descends on him like a dove. God affirms Jesus’ exalted status as his Beloved Son.

A strange twist emerges when the same Spirit that descends on Jesus at his baptism soon propels him into the wilderness, where he spends forty days and is tempted by Satan. Mark gives us few details, but we know it must have been an agonizing time.

Why does the same Spirit who rests on Jesus at his baptism also send him into the wilderness, where he is abandoned to wild beasts and the presence of evil? Mark makes no explicit causal connection between the Spirit sending him out into the desert and the temptations that follow. But in reading this story, one almost feels like God is casting his Beloved Son into the wilderness in order to be tempted.

We are so used to assuming that wilderness experiences are the result of our own making. We are either not well-prepared, or we are being punished. We think that if we are abandoned to wild beasts and demons, we have done something to deserve it. Or we imagine that God is testing us and deliberately building up our stamina so that we can withstand temptation and grow closer to him. No one wants to be in the wilderness by choice. It is a difficult place.

We have been journeying through a wilderness over the past year. Countless times, I have heard people compare the pandemic to a wilderness experience. And I suppose that it is, to a certain extent. Some make easy correlations between the devastation of a deadly virus and God’s intentions to test humankind.

But I wonder if something deeper is going on. Being in the wilderness can be a sign that we are entering more fully into holiness. It is no coincidence that Jesus’ wilderness sojourn immediately follows his anointing as God’s Beloved Son. Could it be that the wilderness is precisely the place where God is doing his most holy work with us? Could the wilderness be the place where we are called to find life?

When we are propelled into a wilderness, we usually try to escape as soon as we can. No good can come from a time in the wilderness. It can end only in death or in a bare escape back to civilization.

Right now, on Mars, Perseverance and Ingenuity are searching for signs of life. It may not be existing life, but they are looking amid the harsh conditions of a foreign planet for evidence of past life. Sometimes, in the most unlikely places, life can be found. And where it has thrived before, it can possibly thrive again.

When Jesus was propelled into the Judean wilderness for forty days and nights, he found life. He discovered his identity as the Beloved Son of God. He learned, as everyone in the wilderness eventually does, that we cannot live on bread alone. When fasting and confronting temptation, the securities that usually cushion our lives are of no help. The wilderness strips all that away and leaves us either dead through our attachments to the world, or alive and exposed to God.

It is, of course, to the wilderness that the devil goes to find Jesus, because that is the place where Jesus is up to his most holy work. It is only Jesus and God in that dangerous wilderness, other than the wild beasts and demons. We learn from Matthew and Luke, that the only ammunition the Devil could employ against Jesus was precisely what the wilderness ensures that we forsake. The lure of material things, power, and false idols stand out in relief in the wilderness, because it is a lonely, barren, and silent land. But these things cannot be grasped in the desert. They cannot give us comfort in the wilderness.

The wilderness is a wild and foreign place because silence has become anathema. We don’t know how to handle being alone with ourselves, with our haunted thoughts and vulnerable insecurities. We don’t know how to rely solely on God without putting our trust in an overabundance of resources. And so, the devil wants us to believe that the wilderness is a place to be avoided, hence all the temptations.

But God wants us to venture into the desert so that we can lose our lives to find our lives in him. The wilderness is where we will find ourselves drawing closer to God.

 It is possible that Perseverance and Ingenuity will discover evidence of past life on Mars, even in its harsh climate. The name of the Mars rover is apt, because in the most forsaken and desolate of places, nothing short of perseverance will lead to the discovery of life. And it might be that in the most unlikely places, the seeds of life are found hiding under a rock.

So, too, for us, the wilderness is not a place to be feared or avoided. It is a place where we can be changed and where we can find life. When we are alone with our thoughts and our self-obsessions, the wilderness is frightening, because there is nowhere to hide and there is nothing to feed our usual preoccupations.

But we know that it’s not just the wild beasts and the demons who flock to the wilderness experiences of our lives. When God draws us into holy places, the angels are ready to minister to us, for God has defeated the evil powers that feed like lackeys on the clutter of our hearts. If we persevere in the wilderness and overturn a rock or two, we might find the rivers of the water of true life, ready to nourish us so that we’ll never be thirsty again.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday in Lent
February 21, 2021

Corrected Vision

When our new livestream equipment was installed in the church last week, one of the final challenges was determining where to mount the camera. After some tinkering, the camera was placed just above the west doors. Once the technicians from the installation company had departed for the day, I finally looked at the computer image of the livestream. And I realized that it was a mirror image of reality.

Everything looked normal until you suddenly noticed that the pulpit was on the right side of the nave, and the lectern on the left, and the same was true for the organ and credence table. It was disorienting. In my quest to figure out why this was so, I examined the camera on the back wall of the church, and I saw that it was upside down. It had been hung upside down in order to allow for a better, less obstructed view of the high altar through the rood screen.

The company installing the equipment, of course, knew exactly what they were doing. They knew that the mirror image showing on the livestream could be altered, and so they knew they could hang the camera upside down to achieve the camera angle they desired. It turned out that with a couple of clicks of the mouse on the computer screen, the image was automatically corrected. When you view the livestream for the first time on Sunday, everything will appear as normal.

Technology has us well trained to expect easy changes when something is wrong. Simply click the mouse or punch a few buttons, and you can often get a desired result. And this is often how we approach God in prayer.

When things are wrong in the world or in our lives, when up is down and down is up, we get on our knees, clasp our hands in a pious posture, and hope that by clicking a button, we can summon what we want. We expect a change, and usually this change is expected of God. If we say our prayers just right, or if we adequately express our repentance, we can change God’s mind. We can wring something from the hands of God.

But Church tradition has historically maintained that God does not change. God’s very nature is unchanging. God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, even though the witness of Scripture, especially passages like the one we heard from Joel this evening, suggest that God’s mind is capable of being changed. What are we to make of this?

Joel, like much of the witness of the Old Testament, seems to correlate disaster and God’s judgment for wrongdoing. It’s not clear what the people in Joel have done that is so bad, if indeed they have done anything to deserve the horror of their circumstances. What is clear is that things in the world have gone very wrong.

There has been devastation in the land. Joel looks upon a landscape where crops are withering, water has evaporated, and there is a threat of future disaster, with enemies on the horizon. In some sense, as Joel describes it, all of creation groans in the pains of this barren time.

And Joel is hopeful that these dire circumstances and the possibility of additional disaster in the future can be made right with the click of a button. All the people need to do is return to the Lord. If they will but look to God again, with fasting, weeping, and mourning, God might change his mind.

Joel believes two things: that acts of repentance are efficacious, and that God is, at heart, a merciful God. All it takes is for the people to stop in their tracks, make an about-face, and trust in God’s kindness. But in order to see results, one thing is sure: the people have to change their ways. They must do something.

Joel keenly feels the need to plead with God to change his mind. And he takes this even further. Joel bargains with God to redeem his honor. Joel feels the need to change others’ minds about the nature of God. Joel is concerned about those who do not believe in his God. He is worried that if the people of God appear to have been forsaken, other nations will scoff, “Where is their God?”

Joel employs his reasoning tactic with God. “God, if you will repent and show your mercy, others will see that you do not forsake your own. You will be able to defend your honor and prove your righteousness.” All it takes, Joel seems to suggest, is a click of the button. If the people change their ways, if they plead with God for mercy, God might just do it. God might change his mind, relent, and spare the people.

How often do we come to the altar of God at the beginning of Lent and identify to some degree with Joel? Is there not a part of us that takes time out of a busy work week to get to church or tune in online so that we will obtain something from God? Who knows if God will not change his mind after all, if this Lent, we begin anew? Why not make this Lent the time to let go of some of our resentments? Why not forgive the former friend against whom we’ve harbored a grudge for twenty years? This is the year to clean up our house.

This Lent, we might feel an even more uneasy resonance with the Book of Joel. Joel looked upon his contemporary situation and saw doom and gloom, even systemic ecological disaster. This Lent, we survey the landscape and mourn the uncountable deaths from Covid-19. We see the rapidity of alarming deterioration of the environment. We feel the raw wounds of violence fresh in our national history and know the wounds are still festering. We imagine the anxious uncertainty of our future—of virus mutations and variants, of delayed vaccinations, and of a future yet unrevealed. We sense that a corporate failing of humankind has gotten us to this place, and we wonder exactly where we went wrong. We accept the invitation to a holy Lent because if we press the right buttons by saying the right things and making the right kind of self-denial, we might get God to change his mind after all.

Like Joel, perhaps we even try our hand at bargaining with God. God, do not let your enemies see us forsaken! God, prove that you have not neglected your people and left them helpless against a pandemic! God, show at least some small sign that you care for your children!

How can we not feel a bit defensive for God’s sake, when one natural disaster after another lends ammunition to those who see no reason for God’s very existence? How can we not want to protect God from one more televangelist who claims a link between the latest tragedy and the sins of some segment of the population? Or maybe we are the ones who believe that our sickness is God’s punishment for our own sins.

But there is a refrain that we hear, time and again in Scripture, a refrain that is repeated even when God is portrayed as angry and capable of change. It is the leitmotif that shines throughout the Bible and that makes itself visible in the person of Jesus Christ. And this refrain is that God is merciful and full of compassion. As today’s collect reminds us, God hates nothing he has made. God is not the one who needs to change when we push all the right buttons. We are the ones who need to change.

This is the reason for getting to church on Ash Wednesday. This is the reason for accepting the invitation to a holy Lent. This is the reason for renewing our life of prayer, engaging in self-examination and repentance, and embracing spiritual practices. It is so that we can change, not so we can beg God to change his mind.

We don’t need to defend God’s honor to others. God can take care of himself. God would not be the merciful God that he is if he expected us to grovel in order to win his forgiveness. God calls us to return to him because God knows it’s good for us. And by being good for us, it is in turn good for the whole world.

In God’s gracious providence, the camera can be mounted upside down or right side up, and God can still render the correct image. God knows that. We give ourselves too much credit by assuming that we are responsible for God’s reactions. But when God acts, we are a part of what he does, because God made us and calls us good. God, in the unfathomable mystery of his providence, uses our prayer and actions for the life of the world. And God knows that our prayer and actions will change us, too, so that our view will change. When we come out on the other side of Lent, maybe the images will all be sorted out for us, because by turning to God, our vision has been made right.

As we approach the altar of God this night in full confidence of God’s boundless mercy, we accept an invitation to change. Let us thank God that our inconstancy can be conformed to God’s changelessness. And let us rejoice that in all the instability and change of our world, one thing forever stays the same. God looks upon us, smiles, and welcomes us home. There’s no need to press any buttons. Just turn around and see God waiting for you to come home.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Ash Wednesday
February 17, 2021

I Will Never Leave You

On a Sunday morning in 1784, a group of black members of St. George’s Methodist Episcopal Church in Philadelphia walked out en masse. The number of black members of the parish had grown, due to the evangelistic endeavors of existing members, such as Absalom Jones and his friend Richard Allen. This disturbed the vestry, and so they decided to segregate the black members in a separate gallery in the church.

But the black members of the church were not going to settle for this. The walkout of Absalom Jones and other black parishioners at St. George’s Church in 1784 eventually led to Absalom Jones being ordained as the first African-American priest in the Episcopal Church. And the rest is history.

Today, one day after Absalom Jones’s name appears in the Episcopal Church’s calendar of feast days, our bishop has asked that parishes in the diocese commemorate Blessed Absalom Jones. After all, this was his diocese, where he served as priest and founder of St. Thomas African Episcopal Church, now in Overbrook in West Philadelphia.

 Try to imagine with me the courage of Absalom Jones and his fellow Christians. Many of them, like Jones, had perhaps bought their freedom from slavery. But as they tried to make their way into the ordinary rank and file of society, even in the North, they found themselves in a liminal place: neither having real rights and yet legally free in some respects.

Imagine their tenacity as they clung to their heartfelt belief in God’s natural disposition towards the oppressed and forsaken. Imagine knowing the very real truth of God’s gracious care of the lowly that is evidenced time and again in holy Scripture, and yet not witnessing its manifestation in the Church. And imagine their heartbreak and sorrow as they had to walk away from their own church to claim their dignity. They stuck with God even when the Church turned its back on them.

Now, examine with me, the witness of the prophet Elijah. Throughout the First Book of Kings, Elijah clung fast to God’s holy word, revealed to him. As a prophet, it is to this word alone that he would cling, no matter the cost. In his prophetic zeal, Elijah faced formidable adversaries as he cried out against Baal. He ran from the dreaded Jezebel and heard God’s still small voice speaking to him in isolation. He raised a widow’s son from the dead, and he was ministered to by angels in his forty-day sojourn to Mount Horeb. And these among other things. But through it all, Elijah knew that he must hold fast to one thing: God’s word of truth.

His successor, the younger Elisha, went from being a farmer to following Elijah. And when we encounter Elisha today, he knows that, even though he has clung to Elijah in pursuit of God’s word, Elijah will soon be taken from him.

Elisha knows this, even though the sons of the prophets twice tell him that Elijah will leave him. Elisha knows that he will soon be bereft of his mentor, but he is more concerned about following Elijah than in beginning to separate himself from him. Elisha clings to Elijah out of zeal for God.

Even Elijah himself encourages Elisha to stay behind as he makes his way successively to Gilgal, Bethel, and then Jericho. But Elisha repeats his mantra of dedication each time: “I will not leave you.”

It might seem that Elisha is clinging in an unhealthy way to Elijah. Elijah is merely a human after all, even if he is a prophet. He will soon be mysteriously taken up by God. Where is Elisha’s sense of self-differentiation? But perhaps it is more complex than Elisha being a fanatical devotee of Elijah. What if Elisha is really sticking with God’s word and God’s voice of justice spoken by the prophets through the ages? Elisha knows that in following Elijah, by never leaving him, he is somehow following God’s truth. And yet, ultimately, he will have to let go of Elijah to follow God.

Elisha may be something of a zealot, but he knows what is proper and good in God’s eyes when he sees it, and he will do anything possible to follow that righteousness. So, too, with Elijah. With Jezebel’s forces hounding him, he ran in fear, but he nevertheless was not afraid to speak the challenging word to godless power.

Elijah and Elisha seem to understand something that not even Jesus’ own disciples would at first understand. In Jesus’ transfiguration before Peter, James, and John, the disciples are seeing a foreshadowing of glory to come. But they do not yet see that the road to glory is paved with suffering.

The disciples instinctively want to preserve glory in amber. But their suggestion to create three booths is not heeded. And Jesus forbids them from telling anyone what they have seen. Jesus knows that the disciples and most of his own followers are still clinging to all the wrong things.

Maybe it’s the same with us. We are poised today at the top of a mountain with Jesus. We have been shining with the light of Christ, basking with his revelation to the magi at Epiphany. But now we are looking on the other side of the mountain to the long season of Lent, where we are vividly confronted by our own mortality. We might wish to jump ahead to Easter or to cling only to glory.

But Lent will reveal the unhealthy things to which we hold fast. Lent will unearth our own pride, our conceited projects, our desire to be in control, our tribalism, and those things that comfort us the most. Lent will dredge them up to the surface and expose them to God’s cleansing light. And if our wilderness journey in Lent has any effect, we will emerge at Easter knowing exactly what it is we should really be clinging to, perhaps having let go of the rest of it.

It is clear that Elisha was perturbed by the impending departure of Elijah. He was experiencing beforehand the loss and pain he would eventually feel, plunged into a solo career or prophetic ministry without his mentor. And Jesus’s disciples clung to their own preservation as Jesus approached the cross. As they did so, they began to let go of Jesus until he was the only one awake in the Garden of Gethsemane in anguished prayer.

We, too, know the discomfort that comes with letting go of our own idols and attachments. And as we fear losing our security, we cling more closely to those things that do nothing but make us more dependent on them. At the end of the day, we might even sacrifice the truth for our own pleasure, because we can only find reassurance in the idols of our own making. Sometimes an idol is our very own image of God, made in our own image.

But now imagine with me if we placed Elisha’s words to Elijah in the mouth of God. What if we heard God saying what is easily doubted from time to time: “I will not leave you.” Elisha stuck with God by sticking with Elijah because he knew that he was following God’s holy word, even if it meant the loss of his mentor. Elisha seemed to sense that God would, in fact, not leave him.

And Jesus’ disciples eventually learned that God would not leave them comfortless. The end of Jesus’ earthly ministry was not the end of his presence with them. And so, too, Absalom Jones and his fellow Christians knew that by letting go of their church and even something of their past, they were sticking with God. By walking out of their church in the face of injustice and disrespect, they were saying that God would not leave them. They knew that God’s words to us are always, “I will not leave you.”

We still hover in the midst of a pandemic on the precipice of Lent. The snow still falls, and spring might seem a long way off. And Lent calls to us from the valley below and beckons us to let go—to let go of those things that have consumed our lives, to let go of our resentments, our envy, our individualism, and our antagonism. Lent calls us to stay only with God’s holy word and to walk into his open arms.

The degree to which we stick with God may vary, but the degree to which God stays with us, loves us, and cares for us does not. Imagine if we stop talking at God, stop even trying to cling to him in a possessive way, and instead listen to his still, small voice, as Elijah once heard it. If we could but quiet the raging weather around us, we might hear his beautiful voice saying, “I will not leave you.” I never have. I will not now. And I never will.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
February 14, 2021

Whose Story to Tell?

Good storytelling is all about the pacing. An experienced storyteller carefully scripts the increase in tension until the climax of the plot is delivered, and the denouement leaves everyone basking in amazement at the marvelous rendering they have just experienced.

It’s frustrating when others try to interject comments into the storyteller’s sequence of events. Those who know how the story will unfold egg the storyteller on, as if she needs their help. And of course, this simply destroys the craft of the storyteller and ends up annoying everyone.

I confess that I am sometimes one of the annoying intrusions into the art of storytelling. I don’t mean any harm by it, but I am so excited about the end of the story that I find myself trying to barge in with details. It is not helpful.

There are more serious examples of storytelling for which an interruption or interjection could give great offense. Victims of unspeakable crimes deserve the respect afforded their stories. Because of what they have been subjected to, they are the only ones who can relate their stories with integrity. For anyone to interrupt the telling of their narrative would be utterly disrespectful.

Each of us has our own personal stories to tell, and when we do so, we are vulnerable. It is our story to share, not someone else’s. We share something of our past or our present to which only we are privy. No one else really has the right to interrupt those stories or to tell them for us because we are the ones who have experienced what we are going to share.

And so it is not surprising that when Jesus casts out demons, he does not let the demons speak. They are trying to interrupt the story of his ministry, but it is not their story to tell.

This is the second week in a row in which we have heard of Jesus’ ministry of exorcism. If we can, let’s try to enter into this spiritual world. The modern mind, conjuring up grotesque images from the movies with heads spinning around, has all but dismissed the possibility of demonic spirits. But Scripture and our tradition tell us otherwise. And it hardly seems reasonable to assume that only the age of Jesus knew the reality of evil forces.

Earlier in this chapter of Mark’s Gospel, when Jesus heals a man with an unclean spirit, the demons cry out. They call Jesus by name and boldly claim to know who he is. But Jesus rebukes and silences them. Today, we hear of many demons that Jesus casts out, and whom he again does not permit to speak. Jesus has a story to tell, and the demons, as hard as they may try, do not have the right to tell this story. They do not really know the story. And they certainly don’t know how to tell it.

In the first chapter of Mark, we are already beginning to get a sense of something mysterious about Jesus, which some have called the Markan secret. He does miraculous things and yet does not want anyone to speak of them. And this applies to the demons, too. When the demons correctly identify him as a holy man, he silences them. It is not for them to tell his story. They want to share the end of the story, but it’s only the beginning.

The crowd, too, is wowed by Jesus, so much so that at one point in his early public ministry, the entire city gathers around the door of the house where Jesus has just healed Simon’s mother-in-law. And on the next day, when everyone is trying to track Jesus down, he suggests to his disciples that they move on to another town. Jesus is not ready for the spotlight yet. He is not ready to be crowned as Messiah because no one is ready for the kind of Messiah that he will be.

The bottom line is that Jesus has a story to tell. It is a story so profound, so shocking, and so unbelievably full of good news that Jesus must tell it in his own good time. He must tell it through his life. He is the storyteller, and no one else should impede on the structure of its plot line.

But there’s something else to it as well. Jesus knows that early on in his story, to try to sum it up in a few words would be to dishonor its depth. The demons who want to interrupt Jesus’ story want to proclaim his identity to the world too early in the game. The crowds who press in on the door of the house seem to desire the benefit of his healing, but are they really prepared to encounter the profundity of his narrative? They seem more interested in his miraculous deeds than in the full trajectory of his life, which will end in abandonment on a cross and ignominy.

And Jesus’ story will not be told simply in extravagant words but will be voiced also through his deeds: his healings, his miracles, his feedings, his breaking bread with others, his humility, and ultimately the laying down of his life for those who persecute him. This story will take time. To understand this story will take patience built in community. Jesus’ story is not just in the dramatic healings that cause people to break the door down to reach him. There is something deeper beneath it all.

For the demons to assert his identity too early in the story is for them to try to make Jesus’ story their own. If they steal the story, they will deceive the spiritually immature. They will claim a false power through their strident voices and deflect attention from Jesus. They want to channel their anger against the power of goodness that is so much stronger than they are. And they want to distort the message of the Messiah.

Not long before Jesus begins silencing the demons, he emerges from his temptation in the wilderness. We know that in the anguished time of desert solitude, the devil used Jesus’ authority and status to tempt him to abuse that authority. And Jesus did not give in.

Nor will he give in to the death gasps of the demons who recognize that a force greater than they has emerged on the scene. They want to interrupt his story out of fear. But this story can only be told by Jesus.

In our own day, who is commissioned to tell this story? With the end of Jesus’ earthly ministry, we know the story does not end. It is we who have been authorized to tell this story, and what a tall order it seems that we have his story to tell.

And with that great commission comes so much risk. This story is so sacred that it must be handled with care. It must be protected from those who would disrespect its magnitude or use it for their own ends.

We should be cautious of the bellowing voices who try to hijack this beautiful story and make it their own and not Jesus’. These voices will rush to glory far too soon. They will focus on the miracles and healings and the empty tomb, but they will forget about the sufferings and gory agony of death on the cross.

They will take a truth and twist it to buttress their own authority. These voices do not have the humility to let Jesus tell his story through us, as Jesus had the humility to let God tell his story through him. False voices want to assert Jesus’ identity as a way of building up their own perceived authority. They want to have the upper hand, the last word. And this is precisely why Jesus shuts down the voices of the demons. He is the only person who can tell his story, which Jesus knows is actually God’s story.

If we are going to authentically share the story of good news with which we have been entrusted, we are going to have to speak from our own experience of the good news. And this experience comes with the frustrations of life that ground us ever more in the depths of humility. This experience will mature as God strips away all our pretenses and accomplishments to hollow out a receptacle for his grace to fill us to the brim.

The story we share will not be a recounting of our own accomplishments and projects to which we attach God’s Name but of how God has redeemed our struggles, misdeeds, and missteps time and again through his unbounded mercy.

Notice how the demons are drawn to the drama of Jesus’ ministry. Notice how the crowds flock to Jesus when he is obviously working miracles and able to do something for them. And notice how they all flee when he drags his cross to Calvary.

So, what voices will we allow to speak, and which ones will we silence for the sake of the Gospel? We should fully expect to hear screaming and anguished cries when God is up to goodness among us. When God’s holiness cuts to the quick of life, the demons cry out. When God’s grace is at work, be on your guard for the wiles of the Evil One.

Gently notice this, and then move on. Because if there’s one thing we learn from Jesus’ encounter with the demons, it’s that there is a power and authority far greater than that of evil. And the demons know it, which is why they cry out in a last grasp at control.

We know that there’s a story that has changed the world for over two thousand years, and it is still being told. When it was first told, many chose not to hear it. And today, there are still many who choose not to hear it. But it still needs to be told. And we have been charged with continuing to tell this story.

This is not a story for impostors to tell. This is not a story for one sitting. It is not to be condensed into blanket promises of prosperity, and it should never be interrupted by bullying voices who want to mold the story into their own creation.

This story will cause the demons to cry out, and it will evoke rebellion from many. It will require patient telling. It will demand wisdom, discernment, and knowledge of the depth of suffering.

But it has an ending so glorious that we will be changed forever. Don’t interrupt the story. Let it play out in your lives. Let it sink into your bones. Let Jesus tell this story in you.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 7, 2021

To Be Governed by the Child

There is a section of the print version of the New York Times that always amuses me. As I make my way through the various sections each weekend, I often find myself reading this part, even though it has a disclaimer at the top: “This section should not be read by grown-ups.”

Truth be told, it takes me a few seconds of reading before I realize that I’m in the category of those who should be avoiding this section. Although it’s intended for non-adults, this kids-only section does not necessarily avoid challenging topics.

This past weekend’s edition covered everything ranging from the January 6th capitol attacks, unemployment, the Covid vaccine, and wildfires in California. I have found that this kids-only section is fairly straightforward and direct. Information that the adult sections present in more nuanced and yet flowery language are stated with surprising bluntness for kids. The truth is not veiled under political concerns. It is stated with unabashed honesty. You should read the section on the events of January 6 if you want to get a glimpse of this.

All of this has made me wonder if adults should, in fact, be reading this section. When I discover, a few seconds in, that I’m reading a kids’ section, I usually somewhat guiltily place this portion of the paper down. It somehow feels off-limits to me, as if I’ve intruded onto the scene of an innocence that I have lost. Am I now too jaded to appreciate the honest clarity of a children’s-only section of a major newspaper? That is perhaps a better question than imagining that news for kids is too infantile for me as an adult. The longer I live, the more I know how profoundly untrue that assumption is.

Today, we celebrate what it means to be taught, indeed, governed by a Child. I am particularly moved every time I hear the Alleluia verse assigned for today’s feast. “The old man carried the Child: but the Child governed the old man.” This verse encapsulates one of the great mysteries revealed to us on this beautiful feast of the Church.

This evening, in our celebration and in our encounter with the Gospel passage from Luke, we are taken into a kids-only section of our story of faith. It should indeed come with a warning that we will be challenged. But rather than discouraging adults from reading this section, the warning should tell every adult to pick up the story immediately and feast on it.

St. Luke is marvelous at upending expectations. Mary’s song, the Magnificat, epitomizes Luke’s theology of the Great Reversal. In Christ, the poor are lifted up, the haughty are cast down, the hungry are fed, and the meek are exalted. This is a theology that is quite difficult for many adults to grasp. But I think children are capable of getting it immediately. They can teach us to be more porous to the hard truths we tend to deflect.

And so in the story of Jesus’ presentation in the Temple, we find this theology of the Great Reversal wending its way into our hearts and imaginations. In this cherished story, the Savior of the world enters the human story with a piercing sword to splice through deceit, vainglory, oppressive power, and rigid self-preservation.

Jesus doesn’t trample down religious systems and human customs, but he carries a light into the midst of them that shines through the darkness of resistance and closed minds. With no story of the magi, Luke presents Jesus’ revelation to the world from the midst of the requirements of Jewish law.

Jesus’ family conforms to the law, and Jesus enters the world under the obligations and structures of that law. God’s ways do not stomp things down from on high but restructure our existing order from below and within. Jesus enters the human story under the guardianship of two parents who were not wealthy enough to offer an expensive sacrifice at the time of his presentation, but had to settle for two turtledoves, the offering of the poor.

And when Jesus is brought into the Temple precincts, he finds some surprising people waiting for him. They are not simply adults ready to learn from the perspective of a child. These adults are quite old, Simeon on the verge of death, and Anna, well into her eighties.

The first words of Simeon upon taking Jesus into his arms are to call him Lord or Master. The old man may have carried the Child, but Simeon knows that this Child is governing him. This Child is his master. He needs this Child as his master. And Simeon is wise and humble enough to learn from this Child.

Anna, too, seems to defy our expectations that she may be tired after eighty years and unreceptive to this young Child brought into the Temple. She immediately connects this infant with the restoration of good fortune for Israel. Anna and Simeon do not seem too ashamed or to elevated in their thinking to learn from a page in the children’s section of the paper.

But this Child, of course, is no ordinary child. And Anna and Simeon know this. Simeon states this knowledge with startling clarity to Mary: “this child is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is spoken against (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), that thoughts out of many hearts may be revealed.”

The Savior of the world’s presentation in a Temple will be a wondrous subversion of the usual order. In this story, Jesus enters a world run by adults but that really needs to be governed by a Child. It is a world run amuck. Jesus’ parents, in their poverty, would have known all too well the sorrow of living under oppressive rule. Anna and Simeon, too, must have felt the burden of the times, because they knew that the entrance of this Child into the world would bring a seismic shift in the social fabric.

And it is to the voice of this Child that we must turn as well. We inhabit a world conditioned and governed by the distorted ways of adults. We live in a world of YouTube, where videos are marked as intended for children or not. And the truth is that, rather than perpetually deciding what the children need from us, we could benefit from what we can learn from the children, and especially from that holy Child who continues to govern our lives. We need to be living in a world of the Child who speaks an uneasy truth with crystalline depth and whose word is so sharp that the proud will fall and the humble will rise.

This is not a truth that is easy for grown-ups to take. Old ways die hard. The systems of our own construction are built to buttress our own needs and desires, and this often comes with a terrible cost. And too often, we ignore the kids-only section of the newspaper, because we much prefer the highfalutin articles that justify our own comfort and safety and speak around the truth. And children frequently speak directly to the truth with remarkable candor.

Today we celebrate the uncomfortable truth that we, as Christians, are called to carry a powerful Light into the world. Like the candles we lighted earlier in the Mass, our selves, our souls and bodies, are lights that are to shine forth a greater Light into a world that is covered in darkness.

The darkness of this adult world does not usually like to confront the light. The light shines on all its sordid corners and reveals all the things we like to stash away in the closet. This light is too much for pupils that have been dilated from years spent in the dark.

And even though this adult world does not know it is in need of the light, it is. We are the bearers of this light. Although we carry this light, it is the light that governs us.

What will you do with this light that is shining in your soul? Will you bring it forth into the darkness or will you hide it under a bushel basket? Will you let it shine, or will you try to extinguish the candle? Will you be ashamed of its innocent clarity and bold truth, or will you let it govern every aspect of your life? Will you speak the truth, or will you talk around it?

There is a whole host of adults out there, beyond the walls of this church, who are longing to see this light. Some know it but don’t know where to find it. Others prefer the cover of darkness but would be changed if they came face to face with this light.

This light is burning in you. Whether you let it shine or try to hide it, it is governing you. It will be the cause of the fall of many and the rise of so many others. It will pierce souls. It will break some hearts. But Simeon reminds us of its real purpose. It will dismiss us in peace. It will send us into a redeemed world not governed by adults but a glorious world whose master is a Child.

Now, go in peace. Take this light into the world. Let this Child be your Master. This section of our collective story, is written by a Child, and it most definitely needs to be read by adults.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple
February 2, 2021

Down to the Studs

A few years ago, a local resident in Bryn Mawr purchased a small house just down the road from the rectory on County Line Road. Positioned right next to Bryn Mawr Hospital, this small dwelling was in a bad state at its purchase. When the new owner undertook a renovation, he surprisingly discovered a 300-year old house beneath five layers of exterior material.

The bones of this house date to 1704, making it one of the oldest houses in Pennsylvania. The original house was a log cabin, but after centuries of neglect and barnacles of building materials hiding the real skeleton of this property, the original wood of the cabin was rotting and in poor condition. So through a fastidious renovation, the owner ultimately restored the house, using eighteenth century wood and carefully preserving certain historic features.

Today, the house is easily lost in the more modern houses surrounding it, not to mention in the shadow of the towering hulk of Bryn Mawr Hospital next door. But the newly-exposed edifice is a visual reminder of the historic epicenter of what is now the village of Bryn Mawr.

In a 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer article, the restorer of this house noted the significance of the historic structure amid “the concrete jungle” surrounding it. He described the cabin as “the house where all that came from.”[1] Sometimes, you have to get down to the bones to remember where you came from.

Reading the apostle Paul is something like discovering the bones of where you came from. Paul has been unjustly maligned over the years. He has been labeled a misogynist and homophobe. Many struggle to read his words because they can’t get past the barnacles of interpretation and anger pasted onto his words over the centuries.

Without denying some of Paul’s particular viewpoints, with which we might not agree, we would yet benefit from going down to the bones of what he has to say. Like a 300-year old cabin hiding beneath years of more modern external material, the core of Paul’s theology brings us back to our roots if we strip everything down to the studs.

We might use Paul’s own words to help us in this theological excavation endeavor. Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians that “knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” The translation we have been given even puts knowledge in scare quotes to interpret Paul’s own assessment of this supposed knowledge. In other words, what many perceive as knowledge is really not knowledge at all. Those who think they are wise are really lacking in true knowledge. Knowing God usually has a way of popping the bubbles of our conceit.

But love, Paul tells us, builds us. If we strip everything down to the studs, we will find an original love. It will not be some sentimental product marketed by Hallmark, but a self-giving, sacrificial love that puts others before self. This true love comprises the bones of our communal edifice, whose sole foundation is Christ.

Diving into 1 Corinthians, like any Pauline letter is like listening to one side of a phone conversation, to quote one of my seminary professors. Paul is confronted with a particular problem posed by members of the Church in Corinth, and we hear his side of the phone chat. The question is whether Gentile converts to Christianity could still partake of food that had been offered as sacrifices to idols in pagan worship. Those who claim to have “knowledge” and know full well that such idols do not really exist had found no harm in eating the sacrificial meat. They knew that there was no merit to idol worship. But Paul strips everything down to the studs and goes deeper than mere “knowledge.” It’s really not about knowledge after all.

Paul seems to doubt whether the self-righteous Gentile converts were as sophisticated as they supposed. Paul grants that the idols have no reality in relation to the one, true, living God. Paul even suggests that whether we eat certain foods or refrain from eating them does not really matter. What really matters is how the actions of certain members in the community affect others.

Eating meat sacrificed to idols might not be in and of itself sinful, but if eating such meat has adverse effects on others who are not as spiritually mature, then it is indeed sinful. For Paul, sin is often less ontologically defined than it is contextually defined. The root of sin is failure to abide in love with others, in spite of differences.

For Paul, the presumed knowledge and spiritual maturity of those who have no regard for idols are puffed-up layers of self-importance and arrogance that have papered over the bones of the house of love. Paul reminds us to dig beneath the layers of sophisticated information to the bones of the house, where there should be nothing but the studs of self-giving love.

It turns out that when the owner of the 300-year old house in Bryn Mawr got down to the studs, they were in a poor sort and rotting from years of neglect. And it’s the same with the studs of our communal edifice. We have become so used to papering over our shared life with individualism that when we strip things down to the studs, we find the skeleton of our collective edifice desperately in need of attention.

The moisture and fungi of fear, greed, and human conceit have gradually eaten away at the supporting structure of our shared house. Evil and great tragedies follow when perceived rights take precedence over the common good. Individual wills ramrod their agendas and self-righteousness over the well-being of others, and the loser is the common good.

And yet Paul is clear that no matter how many layers of pride and knowledge are piled on top of our original house, one day the rotting skeleton of our once-strong house will be exposed to the daylight. It’s just a matter of time.

In some sense, this seems to be where we are now in the Church. Our foibles and sins have been shown to the world. We are ever reminded that we live in a fish bowl. What we do and how we live matters because people take note, and the future of others’ souls is somehow connected to our actions. No matter how convinced we are of our faith and knowledge of God’s ways, if our actions do not build others up, we have sinned against them and against God.

To call oneself a Christian and then to perform atrocities that are utterly anti-Christian is to sin. To proceed blindly with one’s own desires based on one’s own perceived spiritual maturity is to become a stumbling block to the weak.

It is perhaps we first-world Christians who are most in danger of offending the weak. In our quest to claim God’s will based on our sophistication, we risk shutting out the rest of the body of Christ.

But thankfully, our house is not built solely on our own efforts. Our house is built on one foundation alone: Jesus Christ himself. And this foundation is comprised of the original love that can be layered over but never extinguished. When everything has been stripped down to the studs and the rotting timbers have been exposed to the light of day, there is yet hope for the house to be rebuilt.

And we have to start with the foundation. Our foundation is God who has revealed himself in Christ. He has revealed himself as the One who is nearer to us than we are to ourselves, as St. Augustine tells us, and as the ground of our being who knits us all together into one. No piece of wood in the frame of the house can be compromised without affecting another. No crack in the edifice can exist without potentially having disastrous results for the rest of the structure.

There is no question that we live in a world that has largely forgotten this. We, in fact, seem to live in a Church that has forgotten this. Too many self-professed Christians live only to themselves, rather than to God and one another.

It could be that the reason some do not like the apostle Paul is that he speaks an uncomfortable truth. Offense at his perceived bigotry may be no more than a puffed-up excuse for disliking a man who tells us exactly what we need to hear. And it’s a truth that pierces to the bones and hurts.

The Gospel that Paul preaches actually does us a favor. It cuts through our layers of deceit, pretense, and self-importance and exposes the studs of our collective house. It shows them to be in dire need of attention, but it also lets us know that our common house can survive. It will survive by God’s grace, if we listen to Jesus’ Gospel.

If we are going to live in it together, we are going to have to see one another, learn to love one another, and make room for one another’s messiness. We are going to have to find a way to put our own self-interests aside out of concern for the well-being of our neighbor. We are going to have to learn that it’s not all about me, but all about we.

Yes, the house will survive. Its studs might be in bad shape at the moment, but its foundation is certainly sure. And God is not going to let this house fall down.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany
January 31, 2020

[1] The Inquirer, July 3, 2017, https://www.inquirer.com/philly/news/pennsylvania/montgomery/bryn-mawr-man-finds-300-year-old-log-house-beneath-stucco-facade-20170630.html

No Time for Procrastination

It was the eighteenth-century French philosopher Voltaire, quoting an Italian proverb, who said that “the best is the enemy of the good.” We often hear this as an admonition not to let the perfect be the enemy of good. Another possible translation: stop procrastinating and get to work.

We all probably know people who completed years and years of education, coursework, and comprehensive exams but could not bring themselves to finish their dissertations. Right there on the precipice of receiving a terminal degree, the academic endeavor halts. The prospect of imperfection wins over the completion of the task.

Some of us might put off writing the paper because we don’t know the perfect way of beginning the essay. Or we delay tidying the house because it will simply get messy again. Really, which of us is not, in some sense, a procrastinator?

The tendency to procrastinate is no stranger to the spiritual life. And there may be good reasons for it. We feel intimidated by our task. We are born, tradition tells us, with original sin or with an innate tendency to do the very thing we know we shouldn’t do, to paraphrase the words of St. Paul. How does one even begin a journey towards holiness when we know it will be imperfect? And on top of that, St. Matthew gives us words from the mouth of Jesus himself that urge us to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect. This is a tough order. No wonder people procrastinate when it comes to their spiritual housekeeping.

Members of the Church have found other ways to procrastinate, which appear to be getting things done but, instead, merely kick the can farther down the road. This often involves the words “taskforce” or “special committee.” We decide that some action needs to be taken, and so we invite members to a special decision-making group that spends yet more time delaying any kind of action.

In the face of unconscionable injustice or evil, we can be quite adept at spending hours of our time talking about things and never actually doing anything about it. It is tempting to use a false grace/works dichotomy to justify our procrastination. We can’t save ourselves but can only be saved by grace, and if we try to work too hard, we’ll all be little Pelagians, trying to earn our salvation by our own works. So, better to wait for God to bring it all home on judgment day. Pray fervently for the end to come, because in that next life, it will all be so much better.

These sound like hyperboles, but we all know that there is truth in them. Whether it’s a defense mechanism to protect ourselves from reality or an oppressive sense of helplessness, we humans are adept at procrastinating.

Which is all the more reason why St. Mark’s account of the calling of the first disciples is so striking. We are perhaps accustomed to Mark’s terse prose. His Gospel is the shortest and all the action happens with such immediacy. There is little room to ponder and imagine. St. Mark spends no time on the birth narrative or on Mary pondering things in her heart. Mark is primarily concerned with the urgency of the Gospel. There is very little time or opportunity for anyone in Mark’s Gospel to procrastinate.

Nor do Simon, Andrew, James and John dawdle when Jesus walks by them on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. It is almost comical. Simon and Andrew’s fishing endeavor is arrested by Jesus’ abrupt command to follow him and his cryptic statement that he will make them become fishers of people. They simply drop their fishing gear and go with him.

Likewise, for James and John. Not only do they leave the nets they are readying to fish, they leave their father and the hired hands in the boat, and they go with Jesus. It all sounds so improbable. Who would ever be so naïve as to do such a thing?

And perhaps this is precisely what Mark is trying to say. The rapidity of all the action in Mark’s Gospel is a shocking prod out of the tendency to procrastinate, think things over, or form a taskforce before taking any kind of action. It would even seem that Mark is encouraging impetuous, maybe even foolish, behavior. But Mark gives us a clue as to why there is no room for procrastination and why, even impetuous action might be needed for the sake of the Gospel. The kingdom of God has drawn near.

There is no reason to wait. There is no time to form a committee and think things over. There is not even time to get things perfect before beginning. Jesus is very clear: The kingdom of God has drawn near. Repent. Believe in the Gospel.

Could it be that procrastination and an exclusive focus on the end times is merely an excuse for avoiding the difficult work of repentance and believing the Gospel in the present? Is eschatological fascination used to justify spiritual procrastination?

Mark never denies an end time where God will bring all things to their perfection in him. It is just made acute within the present urgency of the Gospel. Now is not about perfection. Now is about letting God draw us, right now, into the power of his sanctifying grace and saving acts. Now is the time for God to make us holy.

I seriously doubt that the first disciples avoided any kind of deliberation. I doubt that they didn’t have second thoughts about dropping everything and following Jesus. I am unconvinced that things were as simple and straightforward as Mark’s prose suggests. But this is not the point. Mark shows us in no uncertain terms that there is no time to waste. The kingdom of God has drawn near. It is here. And it’s time to get to work.

So, too, for us. The kingdom of God has drawn near. It is, in some mysterious way, right here with us, even if we don’t see it. And for that very reason, it’s time to get to work.

We, like those first disciples, are ensconced in a moment of time that is pregnant with the possibility for God to act in unimaginable ways. We are in a time so charged with possibility for repentance, change, and belief that we should hardly be able to stand it. We should be bouncing off our feet to respond to God’s call and to follow Christ, whether it seems rash, foolish, or delusional.

There is an urgency among us that is so often ignored or taken for granted. And here are the bare facts that we know. There is a Gospel that has upended the world and that needs to be proclaimed, by you and by me. There are many people, not in some other neighborhood or country, but right in our own streets and communities, who are desperately longing to hear the Gospel, even if they don’t know it. There are wounds oozing the puss of years of neglect and mistreatment, of racism, hatred, and enmity, and they need to be healed right now by the balm of the sweet Gospel. There are chasms in our midst that need to be bridged but around which people have circumnavigated for far too long. And these chasms need to be closed by the reconciling power of the Gospel.

But it seems like it is never the right time in the face of fear, caution, and complacency. There is never enough money. There are never enough helping hands because the congregation is too small. The task appears far too great to be undertaken with the meager resources of the Church. The odds are all stacked against us, so it’s better not to try but rather to play it safe. Perfection becomes the enemy of the good or a justification for malaise.

We have heard for far too long that if things don’t change in the Church, there will be no Church in a few decades. But every minute spent lamenting our current circumstances is a minute wasted for the sake of the Gospel. An obsession with declining numbers only results in people sitting around twiddling their thumbs and giving up on ever getting anything done.

But hear what Mark tell us. There is an unbelievable urgency to the Gospel that we cannot ignore. There is work that God is doing and ready to do, and we are called to follow. The kingdom of God has drawn near. Repentance is needed to move from past evil to future healing. There is a Gospel waiting to be believed. There is a Gospel waiting to change lives and the world.

I, for one, do not despair over the state of the Church. It does no good for us to sit still and count our sorrows. It does no good to let perfection be the enemy of the good. The manic exigency of Mark’s Gospel can be enough to wake us from our spiritual torpor and light a fire among us.

We will never get it just right. We will never be perfect in this life. We will try and fail. We will need to get up, lick our wounds and move on. But if we never get up, nothing will ever happen.

So hear the demand that Mark makes on us. There is no better time than now. The kingdom of God has drawn near. It is ready to yank us from our slumber. There is a Gospel that is meant to be proclaimed and shared, and there is so much need for it. The time has been fulfilled, and now’s the time to get up and do something about it.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 24, 2021

Handle with Care

I’ve recently been reflecting on the Godly Play curriculum, which we use in our new children’s formation ministry. In Godly Play, the stories of our faith are told in a simple but profound way. At the moment, we are making our way through Jesus’ parables on Sunday mornings.

When parables are introduced to the children, the storyteller begins with the same sequence of questions and observations that invite wonder from the children. One of these observations is that when approaching parables, you need to be careful, because if you’re not ready to handle them, you can break them.

This observation does not just apply to parables, though. It applies to so many aspects of our faith: if we approach the mysteries of God with recklessness or carelessness, we play with danger. If we are not mature enough to handle the things of God, we can even get hurt or hurt others.

It’s not that we need to be afraid of God, as if God is unapproachable or requires us to tiptoe around him, like walking on ice. Rather, when we bring inattention and irreverence to the things of God, we are more prone to turn God’s gifts into instruments for our own manipulation or power. In turn, we damage ourselves and we harm others. Godly Play seems to know this deep truth.

And Scripture has much to say about using holy things for unholy purposes. We are frequently warned to stay clear of those false prophets who wield God’s word like a dangerous weapon to bully others with their own agendas. God’s word is like fire; it should come with a warning label because when one tries to control or manipulate its true purpose, it can backfire.

The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow.”[1] God’s word cuts through the layers of human deceit and pretention, and its sanctifying pruning is painful if we are not ready to receive it.

Reverence for God’s holy word is what distinguishes true prophets from false prophets. Samuel, as we learn today, is a true prophet. He is called by God in a time when, we are told, “there was no frequent vision.” This translation does not do justice to the original language. But the King James version brings us closer: “The word of the Lord was precious in those days; there was no open vision.”

Not only was God’s revealed word somewhat scarce; it was like a rare, precious jewel. It was like a parable contained in a gold box, which can easily be broken if we’re not careful or ready to approach it.

In Samuel’s initial call from God, he is drawn into a more mature understanding of God’s ongoing revelation. Samuel comes to understand just how precious God’s word really is when it pierces through the heavenly veil into his world.

His foil, of course, is poor old Eli. Eli is a priest in the temple, but he is no prophet. Over the years, he has become tired, perhaps inured to the sparkling mystery in whose presence he spends his time. He has lost all sense of the risk associated with handling God’s word. His eyesight has grown dim. To him, the word of God has been clouded over with opacity. The word of God in those days was precious, but Eli had lost an appreciation of just how precious it was. To him, the word of the Lord had become dull.

There is some irony in the fact that God works through bored, tired old Eli to reveal his precious, living word to Samuel. It is Samuel’s response to the gift of God’s word that shows he is a true prophet.

Samuel does not immediately assume that God is calling him. He is young and inexperienced, but he also does not seem to be full of himself. And he does what the apathetic Eli tells him to do: when God calls him by name for the final time, Samuel responds that he is listening. He is ready to hear what God has to say. He does not presume to tell God what he thinks he should hear or what he wants to hear. And what God tells him is not entry level information. It is a difficult word.

God explains that he will seek retribution on the house of Eli because of the immorality of Eli’s sons. These scoundrel sons have failed to appreciate how precious God’s word is. They have not handled the things of God with care. They have abused their proximity to holiness. And Eli, God says, is culpable, too, for lacking the spine to restrain his own sons’ deplorable behavior.

Samuel shows that he is a true prophet because, ultimately, he does not hide God’s convicting word from Eli. He is afraid to tell Eli, but he does so anyway. Samuel knows that God’s word is too precious to hide. Samuel proves himself worthy of being a prophet, and, we are told, as he grew into his prophetic calling, he “let none of [God’s] words fall to the ground.” For his prophetic ministry, Samuel carried the words of God into the world like precious jewels or fragile glass, knowing that his call as a prophet was to be a custodian of those beautiful words.

I often wonder if we are living in times similar to those of Samuel, where the word of the Lord is rare, as precious as a breakable, fine jewel. In the middle of a raging pandemic and of civil unrest in our country, it is easy to imagine that God is deliberately making himself scarce or intentionally hiding his word from us. But could it be the other way around? Could it be that God’s word is fully available, right now, distilled into the concentrated, radiant brightness of a precious, fine jewel? Could it be that we just don’t know how to handle it with care?

It’s becoming all too clear what happens when God’s word is not handled with care. It gets broken and it breaks others. The glass display case of the precious jewel is shattered, the jewel is stolen, and it is pawned off for illicit purposes.

What is intended to be a life-giving jewel for the life of the world is turned into a weapon. It might be that those who break into the display case and take the jewel do not even realize what they are doing. In their zealotry, they coopt the brilliance of a precious jewel in the name of a religion they profess but that has little resemblance to the Gospel we know.

On one extreme is the passionate alliance of a personal agenda with God’s word. Strong leaders are mistaken for prophets. False prophets bully others into following a way they peddle as God’s way. Others know full well the truth, but when it is hard to hear, they fail to speak it. They hide the truth. They let God’s words drop to the ground.

Others take their cue from Eli. They once knew the precious quality of God’s word shining in their lives, but through the years, their eyesight has become dimmed. God’s word no longer captivates them with its vibrant energy. They have grown bored, and at worst, they have lost their nerve. When they know God’s word of truth is yearning to be spoken, they yet remain silent.

But all these examples are so unlike the prophetic leadership of Samuel. Samuel knows that we must be careful when we handle God’s word. Samuel understands that God’s word is too precious and valuable to ignore. And if we don’t handle it with care, we can break it. We can break others. We can break ourselves.

And so Samuel speaks. Not one precious word from God is allowed to fall to the ground and shatter. Samuel gives voice to truth, even if the truth hurts. Samuel speaks from the mouth of God, even when he risks offending his own mentor Eli. Because the word of God is too precious to hide. It is too valuable to let it fall to the ground.

Because he is a true prophet, Samuel lets God speak, while he listens, ready for the word to change his life. Samuel is an open slate on which God’s word of truth can be written. And Samuel speaks that precious word, whether people want to hear it or not.

Samuel knows that God’s lamp never goes out in the temple. Even when the word of the Lord seems scarce and rare, it is always shining in our midst, waiting to be cradled and borne into the world like a precious jewel.

There are many voices crying for us to buy their jewels. But there is only one precious jewel worth having, and it cannot be purchased. It is always available to us as a gift. But it requires handling with care. It cannot be manhandled. It cannot be sold off for profit. It is fragile, too. We must hold it carefully when we take it out into the world with us.

It is God’s gift to us, unsolicited and unbidden, and sometimes it is hard for us to receive. But it is worth it. And when we choose to receive it, we must be careful with it. And whatever we do, we should treat it with such reverence and care that it never, ever is allowed to fall to the ground.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany
January 17, 2021

[1] Hebrews 4:12.

Once Upon a Time

Sometimes when everything around us seems mired in chaos and disorder, it’s best to go back to the beginning and hear the story again. Once upon a time, in the beginning, God began to create. Tradition tell us that this act of creation was from nothing. Scripture describes the emergence of a recognizable, visible creation from a formless void. God forms, first, light and then separates it from the darkness. Genesis tells us that in creation, God took nothingness, unorganized darkness and chaos, and gave it shape and order.

Over the formless waters, over chaos, the Spirit of God brooded. It is a haunting image of order emerging from a monolithic mass of disorder, whatever that may be. Over this, the Spirit moved and hovered, calling out variety, diversity, and ultimately, structure.

It is a compelling image, even if exactly what transpired is unclear. To this image of creation, the 4th century theologian Ephrem of Syria supplied his own wondrously vivid description. He said that, in the beginning, the Holy Spirit “warmed the waters with a kind of vital warmth, even bringing them to a boil through intense heat in order to make them fertile.”[1]

This captivating image calls to mind the slow boil of a kettle, as you hear the molecules of water moving more rapidly, ending in a loud hiss. It’s the warming of bathwater before a relaxing bath that soothes the body. It’s the fullness of life growing out of something that seems to lack any sign of life.

When we gather at the font for a baptism, as we did just a couple of months ago, we recall in our prayer over the water, God’s Spirit moving over creation in the beginning. As this prayer is uttered, it’s as if the water in the font becomes energized. We begin to realize the latent power in the water before us. This is the water that can restore life to a thirsty body, and this is the water that can bring death when someone has too much of it.

We are told that this is the water of creation, the water of the Red Sea, even the very water of the Jordan in which Jesus was baptized. Baptism is tied back to creation. Baptism is an act of creation. By the power of the Holy Spirit, the waters are given a “vital warmth” so that they might become fertile. This is the point. These waters are meant to become full of life so that they might bestow life. The waters of baptism are meant to transfer the dynamic energy of life within them to our very lives. In baptism, we are to die to stagnant death and rise to a life of vibrant service, fertile lives radiating the “vital warmth” of the Spirit’s presence in them.

In baptism, we see the chaos of our lives given order by the breath of God. The unorganized voids of our lives, where there appears to be no manifestation of God’s presence shining forth, are warmed, set into motion, so that they might take shape in Christian service.

But notice that when God summons creation into being, it is from a monolithic formlessness to a vast variety of shapes and forms. Paradoxically, the creation of order does not bring sameness, but instead creates order out of difference. The energy of God’s breath brooding over the waters of creation warmed them to incubate[2] energized life, not frenzied chaos.

Once upon a time, we knew our collective story. We understood where we came from, what we were to do, who we were to be. Somewhere in our past, we had structure in our lives, in our government, in our civic affairs. Somewhere in the past, the Church herself knew that she had to manifest God’s truth in the world, not out of the world.

But I think we have forgotten much of this story. In the past few days, we have seen attempts to dissolve the structures of democracy. We have seen attempts to wreak disorder where there is supposed to be order in government. We have beheld chilling violence to lives and to a revered, iconic building by some who call themselves Christians. We have witnessed the destruction of life itself.

The wrong kind of energy, an evil kind of energy, was deployed on Wednesday on Capitol Hill, an energy and action channeled into violence, discord, and hatred. People in positions of public trust and power heated the waters of hatred. Some in the Church did the same. They warmed the waters of civic life with a misdirected heat. The molecules energized into motion and the waters boiled with rage. It was, oddly, an unordered movement unified around sameness, the sameness of vitriol and blind defense of a monolithic claim to power. It was a movement from order to disorder, from creative freedom to stagnant chaos.

I suspect that a caldron of fear is at the root of what we have seen this week. Much of the sin and evil that disorders the creation of our lives is rooted in fear. There is the fear of losing control and power. And when fear arises, the human self goes into a reptilian mode of self-defense. We find ourselves, in fear, turning inward on ourselves, and outwardly manifesting aggression and antipathy for others, because we are scared of losing what we have, as if God doesn’t have enough to provide for us. We are afraid of losing our money, our jobs, our friends, everything that is dear to us. Our frail humanity instinctively wants to claim power for the shaping of our own lives, for the shaping of others’ lives, and for getting what we want.

And so, ultimately, we find ourselves becoming afraid of God himself, because God is the one who is constantly renewing our lives and giving shape and order to the chaos within them, and we resist the imposition of that order, even though it’s good for us. But God is the only one with real power. And when God is in control, we are not. When God is in control, shaping us and molding us from disorder to order, we have to part with those harmful things that have become our idols and dear possessions. It is painful.  

We are also afraid of losing the individuality of ourselves. We do not want to be the same as others, at heart, and we worry that when God shapes our lives, we will lose our identity. But when God takes control and molds us as a potter molds clay, we will find ourselves, more and more, becoming the unique selves God created us to be.

When we find ourselves thrown into existential mayhem, we must return to the beginning. We must start over. We must tell our story again. Today, we return to the beginning of creation and to the beginning of the new creation of our lives in baptism.

Once upon a time, there was a man who held great power but who stooped to the depths of powerlessness to show us how to live. Once upon a time, he was baptized by John. His baptism was not intended to erase any sinfulness on his part, because there was none. In his baptism, God affirmed his unique status as his beloved Son. But his baptism is an example that shows us in whom we are baptized. It is to show us in whom our lives are given order from their chaos, and whom we are to follow. It is to show us how we are to grow into the likeness of God, in whose image we were formed.

Jesus’ baptism was performed by John, whose baptisms were of repentance. Here is the clue for beginning again. Here is the clue for cooperating with God in the renewal of our lives. When we have reached a stalemate of chaos and disorder and the threshold of darkness, the answer is simple but difficult to enact: repent and turn back to the light.

It would be a violence to the Gospel itself for those of us who proclaim to be Christians to fail to tell our story, especially right now. Those of us who believe in God’s vision for the world are precisely the ones left standing who can remind the world of our story. Our story tells us that when we think that all is lost and that we have messed up beyond repair, God gives us yet another chance. There is no end to these additional chances. But we must do one thing: we must tell the truth. We must own that we have sinned and done what we should not have done, or failed to do what we should have done. Sometime the latter case is the most profound sin.

We also know that in spite of our baptisms, our lives will disintegrate, yet again and again, through our own failings, into disorder, sin, and darkness. This is the human condition. Baptism is not a vaccine for sin but a call to constantly renew the creation of our lives with God’s help and power.

It is never easy to acknowledge fault. It takes a great deal of courage to do this. But telling the truth, in word and action, is at the heart of our story. On the other side of the brave step of truth-telling is a redeemed future. And in this future, with God’s help, anything can happen.

When we turn to the light, we see as in the baptism of Jesus, the heavens part and the Holy Spirit breaks into our lives ready to brood over them and give them shape and order. That Spirit breaks into our world and broods over every font and pool of water in Christendom, ready to give the waters of our lives a vital warmth and make them fertile.

Once upon a time, if we remember our story, the Holy Spirit hovered over the water of our lives and warmed its molecules, summoning truth from the chaos of falsity and lies. Once upon a time, that same Spirit mobilized us into vibrant service and action to preach good news and spread peace.

Once upon a time, God gave order to disorder and created all manner of things and called them good. Now is the time to revisit this story. Now is the time to go back to the beginning of our story. Now is the time for God to tell this story again in our lives. And now is the time for us to tell this story to the world.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Baptism of Our Lord
January 10, 2021

[1] Ephrem the Syrian, “Commentary on Genesis 1,” cited in Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: Genesis 1-11. Ed. Andrew Louth (Intervarsity Press, 2001), 6 (quoted https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/baptism-of-our-lord-2/commentary-on-genesis-11-5-3)

[2] This is also Ephrem of Syria’s word describing the Spirit moving over the waters in the act of creation.

The Right Kind of Diligence

2020 was not the year for planning trips. If your experience was anything like mine, you had to settle for Plan D of summer vacation, with some measure of reluctance. I think it was about this time last year when I began to envision the exciting possibilities for summer vacation to celebrate a significant birthday. Alas, it was not to be. As the pandemic emerged and then raged, each new iteration of plans morphed into another, each seemingly less appealing than the next.

2020 was not the year for planning, period. If you are like me and enjoy organizing, looking ahead, and mapping things out, you most likely found 2020 to be a colossal frustration. Each week looked different from the next. Here at Good Shepherd, we found ourselves inching towards a larger capacity for in-person attendance, only to find the church doors closed to public worship a few weeks ago. Not even aspects of the liturgical calendar are as entrenched as they might usually seem. Will there even be ashes this year on Ash Wednesday? Details that we had taken for granted before carry far less weight than the machinations of a biological mystery.

2020, in some ways, may have pushed us to reimagine our own estimation of diligence. For those of us who are naturally geared towards details, hard work, and excessive planning, the 2020 curve ball was a sober reminder that we are not in control. It seems that, in spite of our best laid plans, we are deceiving ourselves if we think we are the ones leading. 2020 revealed that for those of us who value diligence and planning, there are identifiable limits to what we can do. We are being led no matter how hardworking and persistent we may be and no matter how much we want to be the leaders. Who is leading us is another matter.

Something tells me that Herod would have found 2020 very frustrating. After the magi enter Jerusalem inquiring about the Christ child, Herod, gripped by fear, wants to know every single detail of this unusual birth. He first asks the chief priests and scribes where the child is to be born. He then secretly summons the magi to find out exactly when the star of which they had spoken had appeared. His parting words to them are, “Go and search diligently for the child,” and then, I can go and worship him.

We know better than to fall for this trap. I imagine the magi did, too, even before the dream. And we know how the story ends. For all Herod’s diligence, he will not encounter the Christ child. We would be fooling ourselves to imagine that, had the magi bothered to report back to him, he himself would have done the dirty work he intended. The best laid plans, it seems, are often foiled. The most diligent are sometimes the most cowardly.

And yet, we would also be fooling ourselves to think that the magi were not diligent at all. The way the brief Gospel account relays the story, the magi suddenly pop on the scene in Jerusalem and get pulled along to Bethlehem by Herod’s own diligent quest to eradicate any potential threat to his power. It would seem that every step they take is based on a random whim.

But I find this hard to believe. Do you ever wonder what made them leave their distant home in the first place to follow a star? Can you even begin to imagine how difficult the journey would have been? If T.S. Eliot’s poetic reflection is any indication of the magi’s journey, “it was the worst time of the year for a journey.” The camels themselves were recalcitrant, people along the way were difficult, and the final destination was “(you may say) satisfactory.”[1]

The magi must have been pulled along, away from their comfortable home, by something mysterious, some magnetic gravitation towards light and truth about which they could only dream. And their long quest to reach that mystery was driven by their own diligence to follow a star, not the manipulations of Herod.

The magi’s diligence is so different from that of Herod. Diligence, or industria, Church tradition tells us, is a virtue. Its opposite is sloth. Neither the magi nor Herod exemplify sloth, but their respective degrees of diligence could not be more different.

Herod’s diligence is obsessive and distorted by evil intent. The magi’s diligence is a compelling propulsion towards a mystery they don’t fully understand but towards which they must go nonetheless. Herod’s diligence devolves into mania when details are lacking and plans are obstructed. The magi’s diligence follows a zigzagging journey in spite of the uncertain terrain and unexpected waylays. Herod’s diligence ends in a brick wall of frustration and madness. The magi’s diligent pursuit of the Christ child ends in worship and then in a journey home, changed forever.

As is the case with any virtue, the essence lies in the middle place, neither too much nor too little. Diligence in our own day is rarely considered a bad thing, but it can so easily go off the rails. We are so often the victims of diligence gone awry, leading to compulsive working, obsessive buying, and laser-focused pursuit of our own goals. At this very moment, in this nation, we are witnessing the result of a diligent bent towards violence, hatred, and division. It is destructive and wrong. It is misguided and full of darkness. It has led to evil.

2020 has burst our bubble of routine and order. 2020 has led us down unexpected paths and, in the midst of the horror, hopefully revealed blessings and grace that have always been among us.

And yet the decision still remains: do we resist guidance, or do we part with control and go deeper into mystery? Could we in this new year, learn a lesson from the magi? And which star will we follow?

For there is a star in our lives that has been guiding us all along. It has been present since before our birth, our North Star towards which we have been drawn. It took us years to become aware of the presence of this magnetic force, but it has always been among us, coaxing us towards love, light, and truth. We are still learning how to follow it.

We have felt the pull of this star. The yearning stirring in our hearts for something beyond the mundane, the irresistible pull towards beauty and mystery, the attraction of peace and unity, the frustrations that remind us to expand beyond our narrow lives and embrace the aid of another.

And at some point, we realize that even the star itself is not the end of our quest. Sometimes, the star disappears for a bit. Like the magi, we find ourselves face to face with deceit and evil, with violence as we’ve seen today. And the star hides for a bit, to preserve the beautiful path forward. And then sent away from the presence of moral darkness, the star reappears, gently leading us to some unknown destination.

Finally, it stops and hovers where we are to be. We find a place, unsatisfactory though it may be, and we get down on our knees, worship, and adore. We bring out the treasures of ourselves. We offer all that we have and are, knowing that it is insufficient and unnecessary to the recipient. But we give because that’s the only thing we can do. And we worship and adore. It is what we are meant to do.

And we, too, like the magi, are changed forever. We cannot return home by the same road. Our vision is different. We have seen another light and another truth; we have seen the only Light and Truth there is.

The only thing that stands in the way of this exotic, meandering, but beautiful journey is the wrong kind of diligence. We must choose our allegiance. We can choose devotion to people and institutions that demand a warped, callous diligence, which sees us as mere pawns for immoral purposes. Or we can offer worship to God, whom we diligently seek out of love, and who gives us freedom and invites us into a blessed life. We must start with diligence in our heart, an unwavering and irresistible desire to find the Christ child. And then we let go of our control and let God take the reins.

But if we refuse to let go, if we are so bent on our pursuit of our goals, of knowing all the details, of knowing the times and places and geographical coordinates, we will miss Jesus himself.

Between 2020 and the magi, we could learn a few lessons. Diligence is not such a bad thing, but look up once in a while, survey the stars. We have a choice of whom to follow. But let our true guiding star beckon us to a wild and fantastic journey. Just know that, no matter how diligent your intent is, when you find Jesus in that lowly stable, you will be changed forever.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Epiphany
January 6, 2021

[1] “Journey of the Magi”