The Last Word

Who has the last word in the account of Jesus’s passion? Is it Jesus’s dying words on the cross? Is it literally the last spoken words in Luke’s passion story, on the lips of the centurion who professes Jesus’s innocence? Is it the unspoken words of the women watching from a distance but who will discover the empty tomb in a few days’ time? In the drama of this story, it’s not clear where the final word lies.

The traditional seven last words of Christ are themselves a conglomeration from all the Gospels: Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.
Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.
Woman, behold thy son.
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
I thirst.
It is finished.
Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.
Three of these traditional last words are from Luke. So, which is the last word?

Are any of these really the last word? But there is another last word that seems to speak with a finality transcending musical settings that are brought out of the library each Holy Week. There is a last word from Jesus that comes not in his dying moments but early in his final steps towards the cross.

You can certainly be forgiven for not noticing it. There is so much happening in the Passion Gospel. But hidden in this overwhelming drama is a last word from Jesus that has little power of eloquence but rather speaks a profound truth that lies at the heart of his death on the cross.

Jesus’s final hours bring to the fore the grating dissonance of a world oriented towards retribution and violence. If it were not so, he would not have been put to death. When the status quo is threatened and earthly power is questioned, the voice that turns over tables must be silenced, and in the semantics of such a broken world, only violence, both literal and spiritual, will do.

Violence, anger, hate, and meanness seem to be the lingua franca of not just first-century Palestine but of our own day. It is sometimes even the language of the Church. Governments know of no other formula to settle disputes than force or threatening words. People know of no other response to a biting comment or hurtful action than reciprocating the same. Institutions know of no other means of ensuring conformity than heavy-handedness.

The disciples show themselves to be as inept as we in learning this new language of Jesus, the language that is the source of that profound final word of his earthly life. When Jesus warns them of the danger of discipleship to come, they mistakenly think he wants them to buy real swords for their mission. They simply don’t understand. Nor do we. After years of speaking a language where words are used as swords, how can we so quickly learn another that is vastly different?

Which is why perhaps the truest final word of Jesus is buried in today’s long Passion story. Our minds and hearts may have settled for a moment on what Jesus said and did, but I imagine, we quickly moved on to other gorier scenes.

Did you catch it? It’s early in the Passion Gospel. Judas has entered the scene to do his dirty work of betrayal with a kiss, and suddenly, those around Jesus now understand what is taking place. They know of no other language to speak in response to this wicked deed than to use a sword to cut off the ear of the high priest’s slave. It might elicit within us the satisfying response of the bad guy in a movie getting his comeuppance. It’s the delight of schadenfreude when a sworn enemy hits rock bottom. We all know this language deeply.

But into this horrible language of human sin, Jesus speaks a last word of truth which expresses most vividly the meaning of his passion, death, and resurrection. This word will not be remembered for elegance or lyricism. It matters not what English translation you use. This word goes beyond mere speech and moves into the realm of action, the apex of which is the Lamb of God sacrificed for the salvation of the world.

No more of this!, says Jesus, when the slave’s ear is severed. This is the last word. It is a command both for that gruesome moment in the first century and for ages to come. It is also a statement of what Jesus accomplished for us in his life, passion, death, and resurrection. And it is emblemized in Jesus’ next action, where he touches the ear of the wounded slave and heals him.

This is it. In this we can begin to see the meaning of this holiest of weeks. In this we catch a glimpse of the mysterious heart of salvation. This is how God’s power manifests itself, which is so incomprehensible in the language we usually speak. This is the last word, the final word, the word that exchanges healing for violence.

But it seems quite the opposite, doesn’t it? How can this have been the final word when it was followed by so much evil? How can that have been the final word in the face of war? How can that have been the final word when suffering, like the poor and oppressed, is always with us? How can that have been the final word when so much is left unhealed?

It is this perplexing question itself that paradoxically attests to the truth of Jesus’s final word. For this word’s finality comes not through heavy-handed power but through quiet confidence and persistence. This last word doesn’t assert its strength by yelling down other words. This last word reveals its power in the silence of Jesus’s own submission to his Father’s will. It reveals itself in Jesus’s healing of a severed ear. It reveals itself in Jesus’ forgiveness of those who put him to death. It reveals itself in Jesus’ dying words on the cross, by which he surrenders everything, including his own life, for the sake of the world. It reveals itself in the Eucharistic feast in which the disparate members of Christ’s Body are made whole again. It reveals itself in Jesus’s kiss of peace given to us, which is the opposite of Judas’s kiss of betrayal.

This is the final word that dispels the cycle of retribution. This is the final word that conquers death by breaking the cycle of violence which is death’s only weapon. This is the final word that still speaks, albeit in a different language, after death has killed the body. This is the final word for us, as we enter this holiest of weeks.

It is the only word that can bring us from death into life. It is the only word that offers true freedom. It is, at its heart, the only word that matters. And in the midst of the world’s incoherent babbling, it speaks the only language that can have the last word.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday
April 10, 2022

No Waste at All

If you want to understand what Gothic architecture is really about, start with the highest vaulted roof or the most obscure corner. Examine the finials on a cathedral tower. Notice the finest details on the hand of a saint poised above the doors to a church. Or research the structural proportions that render mathematical ratios symbolizing the perfection of God. The real meaning of Gothic architecture is found in those places usually invisible to the human eye.

If you really want to understand the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, move beyond the beautiful counterpoint and adventurous harmonies of this musical giant. Look to the hidden messages encoded in the music, those cryptic compositional features that most people never know are there. You will find Bach’s own name spelled out in musical letters or the shape of a cross created by inverted musical lines of a sacred work.

If you really want to understand the culinary arts, before you shovel a piece of food into your mouth at a fine restaurant, notice the arrangement of the food on the plate before you: the visual appeal of contrasting colors and textures, the carefully dripped sauces in patterns, the precisely measured portions of food.

In a functional and mechanistic world, it is perhaps only the arts that have retained the wonder of play. Art, at base level, still prizes the creation of beauty for beauty’s sake: not to win a prize or make money but to offer something beautiful to a demystified world. In most universities, arts programs are the first ones to have funding cut when there are financial challenges. Many parents are quick to redirect their children to other disciplines when they want to study music, art, or dance. What’s the purpose of spending money on college to study the arts when you will never have a financially lucrative career? To artists, making art is a vocation, while to the rest of the world it seems like a waste of time and money.

Of course, medieval sculptors assumed that they would be the only ones to behold the exquisite details on the claw of a gargoyle perched hundreds of feet in the air. I’m sure J.S. Bach knew that few people would be able to decipher the musical codes in his compositions that rendered his own praise of Almighty God. Most chefs assume that the average restaurant patron will immediately destroy and devour their culinary creations. But the point is not so much in customer value as it is in creating art for art’s sake.

For the medieval artisan or J.S. Bach, it takes on another meaning. Art is prayer. Art is praise. Lavishing hours and hours on a work of art that will only ever be seen by the artisan and by God can be nothing other than an act of prayer. But if this is considered a waste, it is very much a holy waste.

There is perhaps no better Scriptural image that represents such seeming wastefulness than Mary anointing Jesus’s feet with oil. Jesus has just raised her brother Lazarus from the dead, and he is the dinner guest of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Everything about what Mary does is utterly extravagant. She uses a pound of oil, worth nearly a month’s wages, if we insist on putting a numerical value on it. It is pure, unadulterated nard. There is no functional reason for this anointing. Jesus has no need of it, nor do his feet. Mary wipes his feet dry with her hair, which means that now her hair is oily and reeking of perfume. Indeed, the entire house is permeated by the smell of this oil. Mary has even risked her own good image by engaging in such an intimate act.

What purpose could this gesture have served? We can’t help but see in it a foreshadowing of Jesus’s own washing of his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper, as well as the anointing of Jesus’s dead body after his crucifixion. But in that moment when Mary anointed Jesus’s feet, there were undoubtedly starving people on the streets of Bethany and nearby Jerusalem. And the smell of nard threatened to overwhelm the smell of the food prepared for Jesus. And Jesus was less than a week away from death, so what purpose could Mary’s anointing have served except no real purpose at all? It was a waste unless you could see it from the eyes of Mary, who wished only to honor Jesus for his own sake and enjoy just a few moments of his glorious presence.

It was Judas who ruptured the beauty of that moment with his cynicism and false self-righteousness, but his voice rings familiar to us doesn’t it? This voice rings down the millennia to our own day mocking us for spending so much time in prayer when we could be out on the streets helping the poor. This sly voice still enters our thoughts when we are taking a moment to be with those we love rather than toiling away at a thankless job. This voice fusses when we insist on beautiful churches and organs, glorious choirs and transcendent worship. This voice argues that we could worship in a much plainer setting and spend the money on those who are hungry. This accusing voice haunts us when we set grand visions for ministry in a parish that relies too heavily on investments. Logical voices say that it would be much wiser to make budget cuts and preserve our meager savings.

Before long, this persistent voice has convinced us that we are left with a moral dilemma and an either/or proposition. Either spend money on those in need and forego art and beauty, or pour it into lavish, self-serving worship and feel guilty forever. But Scripture tells us that Judas’s critical question rang hollow from the start. We know that he had no real interest in the poor. And it reassures us that the accusing voices in our heads and in the world ring false, too. There is no dichotomous choice to be made here.

Nowhere does Jesus say to ignore the poor. Indeed, if we followed Jesus’s own statement back to the Book of Deuteronomy, we would know that because the poor will always be with us, God’s mandate is to care for them.[1] To enjoy God’s presence in prayer, praise, and worship simply for its very enjoyment is no alternative to caring for those in need. It is, in fact, the very source of that care.

The more we are extravagant with God—in our prayer, praise, and giving—the more we can’t help but be extravagant with the poor. The more we engage in holy wastes of time, we will see that lavish worship of God for no other reason than to be with him draws us out of our own agendas. In such praise, our actions are no longer directed towards some end, which often is designed to make us feel good. Wasting time with God reminds us that we must rely on God’s grace alone rather than on our pet projects and task lists.

When Mary revels in Jesus’s presence as she anoints his feet with oil, there is no other purpose than to be with him. It serves no end. She gets nothing from it except a precious moment of being with her Lord. It is an utter waste in the eyes of the world.

And this wastefulness is but a shadow of God’s own wastefulness. What kind of deity is committed to saving a group of people that so persistently turns from him? Could there be anything more wasteful than sticking with a bunch of fickle sinners? Is there anything more wasteful than an act of creation that will be marred time and again because of human arrogance and neglect? It’s all so incomprehensible, and yet it demonstrates the extravagant love of a God who seems to want nothing more than to be in our presence and to love and treasure us as we should love and treasure him.

God’s unflinching devotion to us his sinful children seems to be noticed by fewer and fewer people these days. Like the eyelash of a saint sculpted in stone on the portal of a medieval cathedral or a nod to the Holy Trinity in the key signature of an organ piece, it seems wasteful in its futility. Often, God’s wasteful extravagance goes unnoticed even by us, the recipients of his grace and mercy.

But there is no better way to waste time than to pour it all into being with a God who cannot get enough of being with us. God doesn’t do it to get anything from us, nor should we do it to get anything from God. Wasting time with God humbles our grandest human projects and our sterile mechanization of a world created by a God who longs for us to enjoy it and his own presence. God does not force false choices on us. God is extravagant with us so we might be extravagant with him and the poor and needy. If we can only enjoy his presence, then we will find that such a holy waste of time is, in fact, no waste at all.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday in Lent
April 3, 2022     

[1] Deut. 15:11

The Art of Life

In a 1982 introduction to the book On the High Wire by the French tightrope artist Philippe Petit, the American writer Paul Auster wrote of his first encounter with Petit in Paris in 1971. On a Parisian street, he happened to encounter Petit as he was juggling, performing magic tricks, and riding a unicycle before a silent and captivated impromptu audience.

A few weeks later, late one night, Auster spotted Petit and a group of young people surreptitiously moving ropes, cables, and other equipment near Notre-Dame Cathedral. Auster recognized Petit as the street performer he had previously seen in action. He knew something was about to happen, but he could not imagine what. The next day, Auster discovered the answer when he came across a photograph in the International Herald Tribune showing Petit walking on a wire between the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral. This was the result of the furtive late night activity Auster had witnessed. For three hours, Petit had juggled and danced on the wire before an awestruck audience at street level. He was then promptly arrested and charged with violating the law.

But Auster never forgot the photograph of Petit’s tightrope act that he saw in the newspaper. He couldn’t forget it. Auster noted that the stunt was really no stunt at all. Petit was not a flippant stuntman who sought people’s attention by risking his own life. He was not a superficial crowd-pleaser. He was an artist. And he could see art where others could only see the possibility of death.

There was something beautiful and artistic in Petit’s dangerous forays out over canyons between skyscrapers, most notably when he walked between the towers of the World Trade Center in 1974. And for Paul Auster three years before, seeing a tiny figure suspended between the vast towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral transformed his view of the cathedral itself. Petit had shown it to be alive in some new and creative way. Auster observed that, because of the photograph of Petit’s tightrope dance at Notre Dame, his perception of Paris itself changed.[1]

When Petit repeated the tightrope act by walking from a tower of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York to an apartment building across Amsterdam Avenue, Austen recalls that not for a single moment did he think that Petit would fall. It was simply not a part of this artistic act. Death was not—could not—be in the picture. In Auster’s words, “[h]igh-wire walking is not an art of death but an art of life—and life lived to the very extreme of life. Which is to say, life that does not hide from death but stares it directly in the face.”[2]

Philippe Petit is an artist precisely because he can see possibilities for new life and new creative impulses in places and situations that most people would only regard in an ordinary way. Indeed, most people could only imagine a devastating end to a tightrope walk hundreds of feet above a hard city pavement.

But the mark of the artist is countercultural. It’s an ability to see with the mind’s eye, to envision that a lump of clay can become an exquisite piece of pottery or that a series of white and black notes on a piano can coalesce to form a sonata. To Paul Auster, tightrope walking is an “art of life” because it demonstrates that a thin wire strung several hundred feet above the ground can be the stage for a dance that leads not to death but instead enlivens the imaginations and hearts of its witnesses.

It’s not entirely obvious what the apostle Paul means when he speaks of regarding no one from a human point of view. But I wonder if tightrope artistry might help us begin to understand. Maybe St. Paul is enjoining us to see people and the world with the eyes of life. These are eyes that are colored by the new creation instituted by Christ. These are eyes that do not look away from death but, instead, stare death directly in the face, knowing that there is something greater that always triumphs.

The mind’s eye of a new creation not only stares death in the face. It sees through death into new life.  Places and situations of fear are transformed into ones of possibility. What appears to be old is seen as new by the grace of God.

Does this seem to be an impossible thing to you? Aren’t our eyes usually tinted with jadedness? How can we see a new creation in pointless war and the slaughter of innocent lives? How can we see the image of God in a person who has deeply offended us? How can we see the potential for good in a person who is responsible for catastrophic evil? How can we see hope for the future when our past is weighed down by tragedy and trauma? And when does optimism and hope become naivete?

It doesn’t seem that St. Paul is giving us easy answers either. He isn’t summoning us to implement an action plan that will provide an easy fix for our shortsightedness. In fact, it doesn’t seem to be about us at all. It’s about what God has done in Christ. Paul’s words seem to be an invitation to recognize this and then let it captivate our mind’s eye. And then, in the mystery of God, what appears to be only death becomes an art of life.

Can we even begin to imagine that a tightrope strung hundreds of feet in the air between two towers might be art rather than a recipe for death? When we speak about original sin, we might imagine it as an  innate tendency to let our inner vision become narrow, hardened, and stagnant. We can’t catch glimpses of a new creation. Our vision is impaired because we have not owned up to what God has done in Christ. Perhaps we can’t even see that God has done anything at all.

Think of the ways in which our vision is skewed from a human point of view. We only see sinners as the sum of their worst actions, not as those who were lost and have been found. We only see God as a scorekeeper, not as One who forgives endlessly. We only see wrongs done to us as grievances to hold, not as opportunities for forgiveness.

From a human point of view, our future is self-made, not created by God. Challenges are problems to be solved, not chances to become closer to God. Death is an end, not an entrance. Our ideological and political differences are insurmountable obstacles, not invitations to conversation. From a human point of view, we only see creation as serving ourselves, not as a gift for us to treasure.

But Paul says that if anyone is in Christ, that person is a new creation. Everything old has become new. And while we are so used to looking to the future for newness, Paul tells us that, in some mysterious way, the new has already arrived. It is here. God has already done something beyond our wildest imagination. If only our perception could change, we might be able to see just how possible the impossible can be.

The invitation to be Christ’s ambassadors is to act as if the new has already arrived and to see the world as if it has already been made new. It is an invitation to stare death in the face and realize that God can string a tightrope across the most forbidding canyon and help us make art out of life.

In this art of life, the worst sinner can be forgiven. In this dance, the most savage enmities can find reconciliation. In this grand symphony, the deepest wounds can be healed without the difficult truth being erased. Here, the obsessive rehashing of our anxieties and resentments can be released into a more capacious future. Here, a Church that some say is dying can indeed spring to new life and be a source of inspiration for an aimless world.

It’s a bold and courageous step to walk out onto the tightrope of life and to accept its risks. It’s utterly countercultural to imagine that the entire world can be remade by the hand of God, to realize that it has in some sense, already been remade. It is almost incomprehensible to think that, in our humanity, we can still see the world with the mind of Christ and not only from a human point of view.

But Paul tells us that, with God, the impossible has become possible. The old has become new. Our broken selves can become whole. And a tightrope strung high up in the air can be more than a formula for tragic death. For the art of life is about staring death in the face and knowing that, in spite of the odds, it is only the beginning of something unbelievably and wonderfully new.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 27, 2022

[1] https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/06/03/philippe-petit-artist-of-life/

[2] Ibid.

The Gift of Time

Some years ago, over dinner with several musician acquaintances, talk turned to music studies. I happened to mention the name of my first organ teacher in college, and this prompted one of the other musicians to make a derogatory remark about my teacher.

I found myself somewhat defensive in that moment. Although I wasn’t personally being attacked, I was defensive for the sake of my teacher. Indeed, I was actually offended. One’s identity as a musician is often bound up closely with one’s genealogy of teachers. Musical pedigree and style are quite personal.

It was true that my first teacher was eccentric, quirky even, but who ever said that was rare among musicians? It was indeed some of this eccentricity that made my first teacher such a good one. So, when I found myself confronted with a snide remark about him, my hackles were raised. And what I kept repeating internally was that the person who criticized my teacher didn’t even really know him.

But I did. I knew that my teacher, an esteemed if colorful organist, had sensed the potential in an eighteen-year-old college freshman who had never studied organ before. He had seen that I could be a professional organist based merely on a piano background and musical ability. This teacher had the patience to sit with me and other students as we labored through boring technical exercises. And contrary to some people’s views, none of us played in the same way because our teacher taught us how to bring out our own inner musicality and to make real music, not as dry technicians but as artists.

I had spent three years studying with my teacher, and the person who made a negative comment about him didn’t really know him. The best quality of my former teacher was that he offered me the gift of time, to work with me and to cultivate my inner gifts. He didn’t accept me into his studio because I was already blazing through major repertoire; he accepted me because he recognized potential. This teacher was a great one because he appreciated that often strong musical talent lies dormant, waiting to be realized.

The gift of time is vastly under-appreciated in our society. We are trained from an early age to follow a path headed towards making the most amount of money in the least amount of time. Long gone are the days when faced with an unfamiliar word in a book, we would retrieve a dictionary from across the room and hunt for a word’s meaning. Now, we have all the information we need right at our fingertips.

We are an impatient people. We have been impatient for two years to take masks off. We are impatient with the volatility of the stock market. If our internet connection is sluggish, we become angry. We demand answers and solutions, and we demand them now.

Frequently, we press forward with changes, even when quite drastic, in the name of justice or whatever cause will justify our whims. But less frequently are we willing to take the time we need to listen to God’s direction, to test the spirits, to discern what is true.

God’s time, of course, is an eternity, and it seems like such. To us, three years seems like a long time. So, a fig tree planted for three years should certainly be bearing fruit. In today’s Gospel passage, we might not be inclined to fault the owner of the vineyard for being impatient with the tree. The tree, he says, is a waste of space. It’s using up perfectly valuable earth. So, get rid of it!

Thank God for the gardener, though. The gardener reminds me of my first organ teacher. Just give the tree another year, the gardener says, and then make a judgment. Don’t be so hasty. Remember that bearing fruit takes time. This little parable ends mysteriously. We don’t know what really happened to that fig tree. It seems that we’re not meant to know.

What we also don’t know is whether the vineyard owner planted the fig tree himself. Based on the Scriptural text, I’m suspecting he didn’t. He had the tree planted. Someone else did the work for him. What we do know, though, is this: he seems to have checked in only occasionally to see how the tree was doing. He was clearly not the regular tender of this plant. That was the gardener’s job.

The owner treats the fig tree in a utilitarian way. The tree is planted, and it needs to bear fruit. The owner remains at a distance, with hands clean, infrequently checking in to find the desired-for progress. But the gardener tends the soil, watches the tree every day, and buries hands in the manure to fertilize the tree. The gardener does the dirty work and journeys patiently with the tree that requires time to bear its fruit.

And it’s the gardener, the one with dirty hands that have labored in love, who sees the potential in this tree. The gardener knows the cycles of warmth and cool, the periods of sunlight and cloudy skies, the days of rain and the days of drought. The gardener has a horticultural relationship with this tree. The gardener is invested in the tree. The gardener is the only one in this parable who understands the gift of time.

In parables, we are so often tempted to allegorize. Which character is God? Which is Jesus? Which is us? There’s no easy way to do so, and I’m not convinced that’s the most helpful way to read parables. And with this particular parable, who’s who is not clear. But if I had to guess, I’d say God is much more like the gardener than the vineyard owner. And I’d also guess that many people see God the other way around.

In their eyes, God is the impatient ruler of our lives. God sits afar off, having set creation into motion, and then God drops in from time to time to check in on how we’re doing. And when there’s no visible fruit or when the fruit is spoiled, it’s time to be cut off from the vine and thrown out. Is this possibly the root of so much spiritual fear? Are we afraid that when God spies in on us, we will be found lacking and then cast off?

And if we can’t imagine that God gives us the gift of time, are we then impatient with God? When our prayers are not immediately answered or answered in the way we expect, do we assume that God is not invested in us? Do we stop investing ourselves in God?

The parable of the fig tree is intentionally juxtaposed with Jesus’s call to repentance. If we wait too long, we might miss the boat. If we constantly delay our own self-examination and grappling with our own sin, there will come a time when we will be faced with the consequences of our stubborn and foolish choices.

But this parable adds some nuance to the anxious urgency associated with calls to repentance. This parable teaches us that God is not, in fact, like the vineyard owner but more like the gardener because God gives us the gift of time.

God is invested in us because God created us. This is the same God who created our inmost parts and knit us together in our mother’s wombs. This is the same God from whom no secrets are hid. This is the same God who called the wayward human race back time and again when they just couldn’t get it right. God does not give up on us precisely because God knows us intimately. God is invested in us in a way we can’t even begin to see. It turns out that the gift of time is not an excuse for inaction. It’s permission to understand the investment that God has in us and that he calls us to have in him.

God doesn’t behave as we so often do, with our hasty judgments of others, especially those with whom we have no relationship. God doesn’t operate according to the rash moral reasoning we employ that often contains very little nuance and understanding of the complexities of life. God doesn’t have a rule of three-strikes-and-you’re-out.

One of the most distinctive aspects of Christianity today is that we profess to understand the gift of time. We claim that one bad choice doesn’t mark us forever. Because we are claimed as Christ’s own forever in baptism, we are marked towards a life full of plenteous chances to repent and turn to God. But we must first understand God’s investment in us and God’s willingness to forgive us so many times. Sadly, we usually don’t live up to what we profess, even in the Church.

God gives us the gift of time because God knows that repentance needs to be cultivated, not summoned with the snap of a finger. God gives us the gift of time so that we can be more patient with him, more understanding of his role as the gardener of our souls, and ultimately more patient and forgiving of others and ourselves.

This is the message of Jesus in today’s Gospel: none of us is wasting the soil. None of us is indispensable. God gives us the gift of time to help us learn and understand this. It will take a long, long time to realize this. It won’t happen in this life, for sure. But if we’re patient, it’s well worth the wait.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday in Lent
March 20, 2022

Closing the Gap

There has been much media hype recently over meetings between world leaders sitting at opposite ends of a twenty-foot-long table in the Kremlin. The pictures of these occasions boggle the mind. Even in a pandemic, we’re not used to meetings where people are separated by such great distances when they are intending to have a conversation. One wonders how a conversation in such conditions is even possible.

We could speculate about the extreme distance in these meetings. Was there a real concern about contracting the coronavirus? Was it a powerplay? But for our purposes, let’s just focus on the image for a minute. Two powerful world leaders sit at extreme ends of a very long, ornate table—just two people, no one else in sight. It’s a helpful metaphor for the state of the world at the moment, isn’t it? There is very little real or productive dialogue happening, and not just in Ukraine and Russia. The distance between two world leaders seated at a long, long table is a helpful metaphor for the countless ways in which we, as citizens of a shared planet, are quite adept at putting distance between ourselves.

And because we are so used to human separation, do we also assume such distance exists between God and humanity? Do we assume this, too, when God enters into dialogue with chosen people in Scripture? Do we imagine God and Abram sitting at a long, long table as they negotiate their covenant relationship? God begins the conversation by telling Abram not to fear. Meanwhile, Abram sits twenty feet away wondering how in the world he is not to fear.

God has just brought him from his homeland in Ur of the Chaldeans with little more than a promise that the nations of the world shall be blessed through Abram. Abram has journeyed a vast distance, along with his family, presumably because he trusts God’s promises.

He now sits at one end of a long, long table, while God sits at the other. God is still telling him that his reward shall be great, but the only thing that is obviously great to Abram at the moment is the chasm between him and God. Can he still believe God’s words? A significant period of time has passed since God first made a promise to him, but Abram still has no biological heir. And he and Sarai, his wife, are a little long in the tooth.

Abram, still sitting yards away from God, decides to name the discrepancy between God’s promise and his experienced reality. Abram doesn’t seem terribly confident that God will make good on his promises. So, God brings Abram outside and directs his gaze to the heavens, promising that his descendants will be as numerous as the number of the stars, which are uncountable. Then we are told that Abram believes.

But Abram still wants more. At the long, long table, Abram longs for something to close the gaping hole between him and God. God, he says, how will I know your promises are true? Close the gap. Show me a sign that the land you have also promised me is my possession and will be populated by my heirs.

And God does. God doesn’t remain in the sky, distant from Abram. God touches down in the form of a flaming torch passing between pieces of slaughtered animals, enacting a covenant of promise with Abram. God gets up from his end of the long, long table, walks over to Abram, and shakes his hand. It's a done deal. My word is trustworthy.

In a cursory reading of the Book of Genesis, Abram seems like a profoundly trusting person. It would be easy to surmise that he is almost naïve in his willingness to leave his homeland based on a surprising vision from God. Time and again, when he still has no children, he continues to follow God’s call—through a brief sojourn in Egypt to avoid famine and through battles with surrounding foreign nations. Abram remains steadfast in following God, even when it seems ridiculous.

But sitting at that long conference table with God, when we encounter him today, we see that Abram’s inner state is more complicated than simple acquiescence to God’s demands. Somewhere inside Abram’s soul, there is a chasm to be crossed in belief. Will God really honor his promises? Was he stupid to leave everything that was familiar to go to a strange and foreign land? Abram wants some proof. Abram yearns for God to get up from his end of the table and to come to him, to certify that his promises are trustworthy.

Perhaps Abram is not so unlike you or me. How can faith and trust even be real if there is no gap of belief from time to time? We are told to wait on God, as if we must sit at a long, long meeting table, shouting down towards God and, if we’re lucky, we hear God respond, albeit faintly. In our prayer, we recall the powerful and almighty God sitting high and lofty. We plead, we ask, we entreat, but can we cross the mental and spiritual chasm we feel exists between God and us?

Feeling powerless before God, humans amass their own fragile power in other ways and play off the canyons of separation within the human race. We bully by email because the computer screen offers a comfortable virtual buffer. We jealously guard our choice morsels of anger and our resentments because if we hold onto them, we have something to wield over the one who has offended us.

We exercise and claim our power by widening the distance between ourselves and others. We play hard to get. We pout. We gossip. We judge. And all these things place us at one end of a very, very long table, while the targets of our meanness sit at the end. There in an empty room sit two parties, one offending and the other offended.

But in his encounter with Abram, God does something quite extraordinary that reverses all our expectations. As we so often conceive it, God sits in authority at one end of a long, long table, wielding judgment over us and deigning to heed our requests. So often the gap between us and God is silence, unanswered prayers, and loneliness.

And yet, God does something incredible with Abram. God reveals his power not by creating an unfathomable distance between himself and Abram but by closing it. God gets up from his end of the table and walks over to Abram. He comes down in a flaming torch and makes a hard and fast covenant with Abram, literally promising that God himself will be like slaughtered animals if he does not measure up to his promises.

And God does something else, too. He directs Abram’s gaze up to the heavens and teaches. Abram, it’s not I who have created a void between us, but you. You are so hyper-focused on your biological kin and on your own parcel of land to possess. But I am giving you a much larger vision. And the larger the vision is, the closer the distance is between us.

What God promises to Abram transcends the idolatry of familial ties. It transcends nationalism. It surpasses the human tendency to turn everything in on ourselves and circle the wagons with those who are like us. The human tendency is to sit at opposite ends of a twenty-foot-long table and keep plenty of distance between us so that we can survive, so that we can be powerful, so that our own interests are met.

But paradoxically, God demonstrates his power by closing the distance between himself and us and by widening his vision for us. God has made covenant after covenant with his people, putting everything on the line for a sinful and wayward people who frequently forget what he has done for them. And in the fullness of time, by sending his only Son into the world, he crossed that gap in a profound way so that the entire world could be drawn to himself.

As we sit at the table with God, we will fill up the chasm between us with all kinds of things: with our pride, with our lust for power, with our anger, with our lack of trust, and so often, with our acute fear. And because we are usually incapacitated in our sinfulness, God moves. God takes action. Time and again, God reassures us that the chasm we have created or imagined has never really been there.

God stands up from his end of the long, long table and comes to us. God has done so throughout human history and will continue to do so. And God doesn’t just shake our hand. God reaches out to us with arms wide open.

Look to the heavens and see the immensity of what I have in store for you, God says. I will help to widen what you have narrowed. I will help you trust and love. I will help you let go of your fear. If you can but believe in my promise, you will see that there is no gap between us. Believe me, because my promises are true.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday in Lent
March 13, 2022

Contrario Modo

Tell someone that you believe the devil really exists, and they might look at you askance. A demystified world doesn’t have a lot of time or imagination for the supernatural. And even those who do have some time for the supernatural—especially when it makes them feel good—might dismiss Satan and his evil minions as antiquated superstition.

But it’s difficult to take seriously the account of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness if we don’t believe in some sense of palpable, existential evil in the world. The fact that this story occurs in three of the Gospels cautions us from dismissing it as mere fabrication. And how can we not heed the latest news from around the world and indeed in our very own neighborhoods without acknowledging that there are sinister forces that appear to be affecting us and which are clearly beyond our control. So, then, why is it so preposterous to believe in a Satan or a devil or a Prince of Darkness who is opposed to the Prince of Peace?

It is to our great peril that we deny the reality of evil. And yet this is a double-edged sword. Paying too much attention to the devil as the embodiment of such wickedness can paradoxically cause us to view him as little more than fabrication. Most of us have watched one too many movies like The Exorcism or its ilk, and this can numb us to the true reality of evil.

So, to get a real handle on this thorny topic, we often have to go far back in history to earlier Christian writers who didn’t inhabit a world as demystified as ours. Earlier Christians were convinced of the reality of the devil but also believed firmly in a power of light that was much, much greater.

I want to take us back to St. Ignatius Loyola, the sixteenth century founder of the Jesuit religious order. Ignatius recognized the all-too-human problem of wrestling with doubts, especially when determining whether something is sinful or not. And Ignatius knew that the devil often assails our sensitive consciences by making us over-scrupulous.

Say, for instance, you are considering doing a good work or a charitable deed. But suddenly you find yourself questioning whether you should do said deed because it might seem like you’re being overly pious. This, Ignatius would say, is the evil one trying to keep you from doing the right thing. And Ignatius’s advice was to observe the practice of moving contrario modo, or “in the opposite direction.” In our example, the person assailed by doubts should be somewhat less scrupulous and, in fact, do the good deed.

However, a person who rarely is disposed to follow God’s will or to any kind of scrupulosity is often beset by the opposite problem. The devil will seek to make that person even less scrupulous. That person, moving contrario modo, should be more scrupulous.

The logic seems inverted, but it is brilliant. This sounds very much like modern psychology, but it is deeply spiritual. Which of us doesn’t have many doubts? Don’t many of us have overactive consciences from time to time? And have you ever been tempted not to do a good work because of an accusing internal voice?

Ignatius understood something else that modernity has lost. The devil doesn’t usually manifest himself with contortions and spinning heads but rather with sly nuances that creep into our minds and hearts. And this brings us to St. Luke’s account of Jesus’s temptation in the wilderness.

The devil is not described in graphic detail by St. Luke. He is not carrying a pitchfork or even embodied as a terrifying presence. The devil is simply a constant, ominous presence with Jesus, tempting him for forty days and forty nights.

Not even the temptations themselves are what we might imagine. We are so used to thinking of temptations as attractions to do horrible things or towards horrible things. But the devil is not that simplistic. In the wilderness with Jesus, he knows that he is up against someone who is far more powerful than he is. So, he must be on his game to stand even a chance in this fight.

There doesn’t seem to be any if in Satan’s mind about whether Jesus is the Son of God, although the translation in Scripture doesn’t emphasize this. Satan knows that Jesus is the Son of God. That’s why Satan shows up. And it’s why he shows up in the wilderness, a lonely place, where Jesus is famished from his fasting.

The real temptation for Jesus is whether he will remain loyal to God the Father. The devil knows that he can’t tempt Jesus to one of the more obvious sins, so he takes a subtler path and tries to get Jesus to use his authority for the wrong reason, to summon stones into bread to feed himself and perhaps those who might be hungry. If Jesus were only to worship Satan, even the corrupt kingdoms of the world could be transferred from worldly leadership to Jesus’s reign. Perhaps even Jesus’ willingness to summon God to save him from hurtling down the side of a mountain could prove God’s words from Scripture to be true and provide some defense of God.

But Satan is no match for Jesus. Vulnerable though he may be after such a long period of fasting and loneliness, Jesus understands the real temptation at hand. It’s not some wild act of wrongdoing to which he is tempted, one that would cause others to reel in horror were they to witness it. The real temptation is not about whether Jesus is the Son of God. It’s about whether there is something conditional about God. This underlies everything that the devil lobs at Jesus.

The clue to the devil’s weakness lies in the second of the devil’s temptations. The devil promises the glory and authority of all the kingdoms of the world if only Jesus will worship him. This is the devil’s dirty little secret. The devil’s so-called power is only conditional and hinges on whether Jesus will worship him or not. And up against this sobering reality, the devil’s only ploy is to try to cause Jesus to question the reliability of God’s authority and also the unconditionality of God’s love.

It’s the same temptation for us, too, isn’t it? The real temptations that accost most of us are usually not to murder or heinous crimes. They are not usually to worship Satan rather than God. The temptations that assault us in insidious ways are those that stir up doubts within us. Will God love me if I’m not successful and recognized in my professional life? Will God forgive me yet again since I’ve made a mess of things one too many times? Will I make it to heaven if I’m not constantly busy doing good deeds, even if I have no time for prayer? Is God still active in the world, or is it all up to us, the Church, to effect the change that is needed?

Is it any wonder that we have been lured into questioning the unconditional nature of God’s love, mercy, and compassion towards us? We are conditioned by a world in which we calculate every risk. If we intervene in a war, will we provoke an aggressive power into worse actions? If I am honest with that person about their involvement in an injustice, will I lose that person’s friendship or love? If I don’t worship the god of work or academia, will I ever be able to put food on the table or make ends meet?

It’s a slippery slope from good intentions towards giving into the sly temptations that come our way. But if we return to the words of St. Ignatius of Loyola, perhaps there is something we can learn. For those of us who have come to this Altar to be close to holiness, our vulnerability lies in our own sensitivity to such holiness. For those of us who wish to do good, our potential weak spot lies in that very effort. And before long, we are doubting whether goodness is a fabrication of the mind and whether our well-intentioned acts will ever make any difference in the world.

But I think Ignatius would tell us this. When you feel those sly assaults, turn. Turn in the opposite direction. Remember the principle of contrario modo. For the sake of the good, do the opposite of your haunting thoughts, trusting that God is leading you back towards him.

And in our weakest moments, the greatest temptation of all might be to believe, even just for a minute, that somehow, we are worshipping and devoting our lives to a God who only loves us if we do things on command or if we ask for things in the correct way. It’s a terrifying thought to imagine losing the love and favor of a God who patrols our every movement and attaches conditions to our actions.

So, resist this temptation will all your strength. Remember: contrario modo. Turn the other way. Turn away from the falsity of cunning doubts and accusing thoughts. Turn towards the Light. And walk with confidence into the arms of the One who will never let you go, whose love is never conditional, and who always welcomes you back home.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday in Lent
March 6, 2022

The Face that Never Turns Away

The Virgin of Kyiv is one of the most famous icons in the world. Although historical details of this icon are murky, it is believed to have been written in Constantinople in the early twelfth century and eventually given to the Grand Duke of Kyiv around the year 1131. Some years later, the duke’s son, after sacking the city of Kyiv, transported the famous icon to the city of Vladimir in modern day Russia. Legend says that the icon itself chose the city when the horses moving it from Kyiv stopped moving somewhere close to Vladimir. It’s likely that such a story was used to justify Vladimir’s claim to replace Kyiv as the principal city of the ancient kingdom of Rus.[1]

The icon of the Virgin of Kyiv represents what is known as the Eleousa pattern of icons. There are myriad writings of this form of icon, but the Virgin of Kyiv is perhaps the most well-known. In this icon, the Virgin Mary cradles the Christ child. Her left hand points gently up to Christ, signaling that he is the focal point of this image. With her right hand, she holds up the infant Jesus as he reaches up with his body to gaze into her face, his own face pressed snugly against his mother’s. His right hand is placed firmly on his mother’s breast.

There is so much to take in. It’s difficult not to feel a pang of poignancy in one’s chest as you see Jesus as a human child who cannot part from his own mother. Indeed, he is actively seeking her face. But then there are Mary’s eyes, which are unsettling. She looks not at Jesus but at the person gazing on the icon. Her eyes are sorrowful. Does she know her child’s fate? Does she know about the sword that will pierce her own soul, too?

I recently saw someone post this icon on Facebook as an obvious reference to the devastating war that is ongoing in Ukraine. When I read more about the Virgin of Kyiv icon, I was struck by the eerie connections with the current crisis in Ukraine. This icon represents such heart-warming tenderness, showing in so many ways the love of Christ for the human family, which is symbolized by the Blessed Mother. This icon, too, stands at the center of a centuries-long tumultuous history between historic capitals representing modern Ukraine and Russia respectively.

But what does this icon have to do with Ash Wednesday? What does a work of sacred art have to do with this somber evening, where we are reminded of our own mortality? The brittle ashes that will soon be imposed on our foreheads are scratchy reminders that from dust we came and to dust we will return.

Of all things, the Virgin of Kyiv icon has made me consider the reading from the prophet Joel. It is difficult not to think of the current war in Ukraine as Joel sounds the alarm amid his own people. Joel is using apocalyptic language, but there is also an imminent threat, vague though it may be. Is it real war? Or is it a figurative way of speaking of God’s judgment? There is an approaching cloud of gloom and doom. It seems to be from God, although nothing is certain.

Joel, like so many of us, is quick to establish cause and effect. What have God’s people done to deserve this threat on the horizon? There is clearly some state of sin for which they must repent. Joel’s command is clear: return to the Lord. Repent. Who knows whether God might turn and relent?

Joel, like so many of us, can’t help but read the crisis at hand as God’s judgment. Joel, like so many of us, reacts to catastrophe by resorting to the only tactic he feels is worth the gamble: turn to the Lord. Joel, like so many of us, is torn between two things: fear of God’s wrath and appeal to God’s graciousness and mercy.

Joel’s words may seem like nothing more than unleashed anxiety in reaction to crisis, but Joel also can’t shake a particular understanding of God’s nature. It has been emphasized over and over again in Scripture. Long before Joel’s words, we hear back in the books of Exodus and Numbers that God is full of compassion and mercy. We hear it, too, in other prophets and in the Psalms. This is nothing new. As confused as God’s people may be time and again as they wrestle with disaster, enemy invasion, and their own sinfulness, Joel reminds the people not to forget this irresistibly compelling attribute of their God.

And for some reason, this has drawn my attention to the icon of the Virgin of Kyiv. It is seemingly far removed from the words of the prophet Joel, but it is not really so far removed. In this icon, we see the face of the One who came in human form to remind the world of God’s very nature, which humanity would so often forget and still so often forgets.

=Which of us does not struggle to see the face of mercy looking into our eyes when we can’t bear to face the wrong we’ve done? Which of us doesn’t imagine God’s face somehow turned away from those on the wrong side of a war? Which of doesn’t have trouble seeing God’s face still turned in love towards a world that has gotten things so horribly wrong?

The tension in Joel’s own words between a God of wrathful judgment and a God who is steadfast in mercy and compassion and who might yet forgive is also mysteriously present in the icon of the Virgin of Kyiv. Christ does not turn from humanity in anger. In the icon, Christ is reaching up to cuddle his own face against his mother’s with endless longing. But Mary gazes at us. Representing humanity, perhaps she, like us, is trying to comprehend the gaze that will not let her go.

Is it a profoundly moving accident of history or a beautiful wink of God’s providence that the icon of the Virgin of Kyiv images the incomprehensible nature of God’s steadfast love toward humanity? This icon moved from ancient, ransacked Kyiv to modern-day Russia now sits in a modern-day Russia that is ravaging Kyiv. The only thing that can bring peace into this intractable conflict is the steadfast face of Christ’s mercy and compassion.

We, too, this day, sit in a place of so many tensions. We come knowing that we must acknowledge our sinfulness. Every Ash Wednesday is a reminder that after a year of wandering and turning away from God, we are invited yet again to turn. Frustrated by our foibles and stubbornness, by our selfish ways and easy resentments, we, like Joel, decide that it’s worth the effort. Maybe, after all, God will turn and relent.

Without realizing it, we like Joel, assume that God has turned from us. We struggle to imagine how, after all the evil the human race has done, God could still be turned towards us. It’s hard to shake this notion. But Joel reminds us that it’s hard to shake something else, too. Joel has been unable to get something else out of his head, and I pray that we will never be able to get it out of ours either. God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.

No matter how much we feel compelled to look away and no matter how much we can’t really believe it, Christ is grasping onto us with passionate hands of love. He’s not forcing us to look at him. But if we remember this day, as we do every year, to look down at his face, it is pressed against ours. His eyes look into ours if we dare cast them down. And we know that Joel was on to something. We mourn our sins and repent of our past misdeeds, but turning always shows us what never changes. Always, always, Jesus is looking at us, reaching up our bodies to press his face against ours and to remind us that God has always been gracious, merciful, and forgiving. And he always will be.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Ash Wednesday
March 2, 2022

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgin_of_Vladimir

An Immersion Experience

A few weeks ago, I was attending a family wedding, and at the reception, one of the toasts was given in Spanish since the bride was born and raised in Spain. With four years of high school Spanish and a year from college, I rather enjoyed testing my ability to comprehend what was being said.

Writing and reading other languages has always been much easier for me than hearing and comprehending, primarily because I have never had an immersive language experience. But I love languages, and as much as I wanted to understand every word of the toast at that wedding, the reality was as I predicted. Listening to the Spanish words was like sifting for pebbles in the sand. Most of what I heard was sand, a cloud of words that rushed by too quickly for me to translate. And thrown in were little pebbles of light, words I could readily comprehend.

I found myself longing to sit with those moments where I understood a word, or if I was lucky, even a phrase. It felt good to receive occasional glimpses of clarity from the fog of another language. And in my pride, I patted myself on the back in those fleeting moments of comprehension.

Perhaps you, like me, have had dreams where you were speaking fluently in another language. These are wonderfully satisfying dreams, elusive proof that somewhere inside of us, we are capable of understanding another language. Uninhibited in the world of sleep, we comprehend clearly. In the muddle of a busy world with worries and cares, we can only glean pebbles of words.

If only translating were as simple as understanding individual words! Anyone who has studied another language knows that translation is an art. You can’t simply Google translate, literally transcribing word for word. Words have multiple meanings in some cases, and a literal translation will sound like nonsense in addition to being inelegant. Translation is not for those who like rigid clarity. It can’t be accomplished successfully without swimming in the linguistic sea of a culture different from one’s own.

I dare say that many people approach conversation with God with a literalism similar to novice translators. Listening to God’s voice feels like paddling our way through a cloud of confusion with a desperate desire to pick out one or two choice morsels of wisdom, hope, or clarity.

In Scripture, there are numerous stories where crystalline voices sound from heaven, obviously from God and unambiguously stating God’s purpose and will. These are the moments we want to enshrine in our memories and hearts. These clear glimpses of the divine are like those dreams in foreign languages that we want to hold onto forever. If only we could.

In the New Testament, we get just a few of these moments where the voice of God breaks distinctly into the earthly realm. At Jesus’s baptism, before his earthly ministry begins, the heavens part and God’s voice speaks directly to Jesus, designating him as his Beloved Son. And at Jesus’s transfiguration on the mountain with Peter, James, and John, God does it again. God speaks from heaven to earth with great lucidity, but this time to the disciples, and presumably to us as well. This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!

Don’t you long to experience one of these moments? Don’t you yearn to hear God speaking directly to you, with such transparency? And are you somewhat mystified and frustrated by God’s clear command as Jesus was transfigured before his disciples on that mountain? This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!

The command is direct; how to observe it is less so. How, Lord, do we listen to Jesus? How, through the din of war, of voices raised in anger, with ears clogged by fear can we hear Jesus’s voice? How do we know which voice is his? What does his voice even sound like? And what does it mean when we hear no voices except the incessant roar of a noisy world around us?

We are usually looking for blatant signs, whether voices or visions. Few of us are afforded what is offered to Peter, James, and John. Few of us will ever see such a vision of glory in this life. And so, is it any surprise that, in spite of his sleepiness, Peter tries to memorialize the spectacular scene before him by building booths?

Peter opts for the easy route of Google translation. He has grasped one clear morsel from heaven—albeit in a vision—and he wants to etch it in stone. But he has missed the point, for no sooner has he attempted to freeze in amber this remarkable moment in time than he is confused by a cloud. Peter has been listening to speech in another language, but he has only pulled out a few words that make sense to him. And he has thereby missed the point.

It’s only when Peter and the other disciples are overshadowed by the consternation of the cloud that a coherent command can be gleaned from this experience. Only when human confidence and arrogance are humbled by ambiguity can God’s voice ring clear in our own ears. This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!

Undoubtedly, like us in our daily lives, Peter and the other disciples were searching for answers to Jesus’s identity. And Peter himself had been so bold as to state that Jesus was the Messiah. But did he know what this really meant? Does anyone know what this really means? Do we know what this really means?

Peter represents those of us who want an uncomplicated Messiah who does not have to suffer. Peter represents those of us who want unequivocal answers to our theological queries without periods of dryness and confusion. Peter wants the ability to make sense of his faith by translating a stray word here or there from heaven, enshrining it in his memory, and calling it a day.

We who hear this story of the transfiguration have the benefit of knowing the whole story. We know that Peter missed something in his haste to memorialize the mountaintop experience, because he would soon deny Jesus. It would take him some time to learn Jesus’ language and to translate with some degree of fluency Jesus’s commands.

Which of us is not like Peter in some sense? We are instructed to follow God’s will and listen to Jesus, and our intentions are good. We want to do so. But so often it seems unclear how we are to know what God’s will is or what Jesus is saying to us. We cherry pick commands as we see fit and as they make us feel good, yet at the bottom of it all, we are missing the semantics of Jesus’s language. We have failed to immerse ourselves in it.

On the verge of Lent, we are perhaps looking for some clarity before we begin our long wilderness wanderings. Before we enter the cloud completely, can we have just a few simple and direct words?

As much as it is mystifying and mysterious, the story of the transfiguration provides us with some clues in our quest to heed God’s voice. St. Luke tells us that the setting of Jesus’s transfiguration is one of prayer. Jesus goes to the mountain to pray. It is while he is immersed in prayer, fluently communicating in the language of his heavenly Father, that this theophany happens. Might this have something to teach us?

Prayer frequently seems like uttering words into a cloud, and while we long for God to respond back to us with clarity, it is never so simple. On the mountain with his disciples, Jesus models something else for us. Jesus affirms the value of prayer as learning to speak God’s language. Discerning the results of prayer is rarely like translating random words from a cloud of confusion. It is more about conforming our lives to a different language, God’s language.

And when we immerse ourselves in that language, it may be that we can make more sense of the voices we hear, the nudges we feel, and the things we see. Unless we are steeped in the language of prayer, everything will seem like babel. But the language of prayer shapes our hearts and minds to listen and see in new and unexpected ways. When we become fluent in God’s language, we find ourselves able to heed our instincts and gut reactions more and more because we can trust they are really from God. We can trust that they are God’s words to us.

On the verge of this Lent, the noise is deafening. The cacophony of violence and the roar of evil is sickening. Voices cry in anguish and protest, and to begin to make sense of this cloud, we need the courage to enter it. God is inviting us to become fluent in his language, because God is not silent. God has never been silent. And God will never be.

 Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
February 27, 2022

So Unbelievable It Must Be True

A few years ago, when I was a newly-ordained priest and serving in my first parish, I led a Bible study on the parable of the prodigal son with the youth group. I was excited about an opportunity to crack open one of my favorite Bible stories. As an interactive way to get inside this famous passage from Luke’s Gospel, the youth and I created a digital story using iMovie, including images from contemporary life to relate an ancient story to a modern way of living.

Just to refresh your memories, in the parable of the prodigal son, an arrogant young man demands his inheritance prematurely from his father, and goes off, squandering it in dissolute living. When he reaches rock bottom, he comes to his senses and decides to return and admit his mistake and ask his father for a place in his household as a hired servant.

The beautiful part is that the father seems to have been waiting for him to return all along. Rather than upbraiding him upon his homecoming, he throws a lavish party for him and welcomes him back with open arms.

In my discussions on this passage with the youth group some years ago, I wanted them to see the radical nature of this parable. I hoped to relate the abundant compassion of the prodigal son’s father to God the Father’s extraordinary ability to forgive. I truly believed that this incredible story could change their lives if they opened themselves to it.

I was dead wrong. My initial fervor in approaching this beloved parable was quickly squelched as the youth responded to the story itself. Rather than being astounded by the beauty of forgiveness found in the story, one person pointed out with some measure of weary scorn that the prodigal son didn’t even seem sorry for what he had done. He didn’t really care that he had deeply offended his father by asking for an inheritance far too soon. In fact, this son simply made the only decision he could make when things got rough. He would take advantage of his father’s compassion and be welcomed home. The son had never truly repented, this young person said. And it was grossly unfair that he was given a lavish party after all he had done. The gist of her argument was that this son should have gotten what he deserved.

Having heard this, my hopes of highlighting God’s mercy and compassion were somewhat dashed. I was trying to find good news in the parable, and the youth were not seeing it. In hindsight, I realize that something far more troubling was happening. These youth, although they didn’t know it, were struggling to believe in a God that could be so extravagantly, even foolishly, forgiving.

Now, today, we are not given the parable of the prodigal son. We will, in fact, get that parable a few weeks from now during Lent. But there is a strong connection between that parable and today’s Gospel lesson. Listen to what Jesus is saying to his disciples in the continuation of the Sermon on the Plain: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. It goes on and on until we are stupefied at what Jesus is demanding in the life of discipleship.

How do you love someone who hates you? What kind of weakness of character is required to turn the other cheek when someone strikes you? Is it even ethical to do so, especially when such violence becomes a pattern of abuse? How can we possibly take Jesus’ words seriously? The problem is that we can’t avoid these words. They are from Christ, and they are meant to throw a wrench into our usual way of behaving.

In a striking blow to ordinary habits of thinking, Jesus ups the ante in what he demands of his followers. It’s not difficult to love those who reciprocate that love, so what is extraordinary about loving those who are likeable? And in a tit-for-tat world, why should one bother doing something for someone who is unkind and nasty?

The temptation is simply to write off what Jesus has demanded and settle for an easier interpretation. Jesus is speaking in hyperbole. It’s not practical. Jesus was preaching to a different world. Surely, he doesn’t really mean for us to do exactly what he says. It’s the spirit of what he suggests that matters.

It even seems for a moment like Jesus has violated his own admonitions. The measure you give will be the measure you get back, he says. It sounds remarkably like tit for tat. And before too long, we are caught in the Gospel’s trap. Jesus is precisely right! If we only respond with tit-for-tat, then we will forever be a part of that vicious cycle, exchanging good for good, and bad for bad. We treat others as we want them to treat us, and so it’s self-serving. Our understanding of what is morally right and ethically sound is now transactional, weighing one side against the other.

If we’re honest, our approach to life is so often transactional. Why should we go out of our way to speak to the person who has offended us? If someone hits me, it would be an affront to my honor not to strike back. If someone commits a crime, it haunts them forever, even when they are no longer behind bars, for it is their just deserts. If one political party leverages a tactic to their gain, then the other party has their opportunity when they’re in the majority. If someone doesn’t have enough money to afford basic resources, it’s their own fault, so why should I have to be responsible for their welfare? There is no shortage of examples, and do any of these seem wrong to you?

As I think back on that youth group Bible study of the parable of the prodigal son, I realize that I was hastily judging the responses of the youth. How could they not see the good news in that parable? How could they not see the son’s father as our loving and merciful God? But Jesus says, judge not, lest ye be judged. And I was definitely judged because I hadn’t looked deeply enough at myself.

If I thought about it hard enough, I would have to ask how many times I failed to forgive myself. And each time I failed to forgive myself, did I subconsciously believe that God could not forgive me? And were the times in which I struggled to forgive others due to the same reason? The youth were no more engaged in tit-for-tat thinking than I was. I was also being judged.

What about you? Do you find it difficult to love an enemy because it feels powerful to harbor resentment against them? Is it uncomfortable to behave in the extreme and break the cycle of resentment because it feels too foolish and weak?

The truth is that many struggle to believe in a God who can forgive no matter how badly we mess up. Such a God does seem foolish and weak. It can be impossible for some even to respect a God who continues to call us back time and again when we turn our backs on him. Maybe this is why some can’t believe in God.

In response, Jesus offers a strongly compelling reason to believe in such a God. This is why he asks us to behave with such ridiculous abandon, to act in the extreme, motivated by love. If life is only tit-for-tat, it is a business transaction. And when the transaction turns sour, it leads only to evil, and evil propagates evil. But when we love recklessly, loving the enemy, praying for those who hurt us, and lending without any expectation of reciprocity, we have the power to break the vicious cycle. The world is changed by the Gospel not simply through good actions but by a profound faith in the One who lifts us beyond our cycles of human pettiness, violence, and retribution. This nasty cycle was broken supremely by our Lord’s death on a cross, where he forgave even those who had crucified him before breathing his last.

It is almost unbelievable to imagine God would never tire of loving us. It is almost unbelievable to imagine that we could begin to love those who hate us. And if we find ourselves struggling to love our enemies, it might have more to do with our inability to accept that God can love each one of us in spite of our sins.

I would love to go back to that youth group Bible study and say a few things. I now see that I shared the same struggles as those young people. If I could do it over again, I’d say this to them: you’re right. It is absurd and ridiculous that the prodigal son’s father threw a big party for him, even when he didn’t even necessarily apologize. It is unfair and even foolish that we are called to love our enemies and turn the other cheek. And this is how foolish and unfair God’s love is, because God doesn’t play tit-for-tat. It is so unbelievably amazing that perhaps the best response is simply to say thank you. Thank you, God, that you love us in the extreme. It is so unbelievable, that it must be true.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany
February 20, 2022

On the Level Plain

Air travel has a way of bringing out the worst in a person. It starts with remote check-in. Long gone are the days when you paid for your ticket, were guaranteed an assigned seat, and could check a piece of luggage for free. Now, remote check-in might require you to pay an extra fee to choose your seat before arriving at the gate.

And then all the social stratification begins. At the time of boarding, the hordes are divvied up at the gate into first class, priority boarding, or some elite club based on the airline. At the time of boarding, the hordes are divvied up at the gate into first class, priority boarding, TSA pre-check, or some elite club based on the airline. Stepping onto the plane itself brings more frustrations. Do you ever feel that those in business class are pitying you as you make your way to the very back of the plane while your shoulder bag smacks people on the aisle seats? Or are you the one in business class?

Being packed into cramped seats in the economy section doesn’t do much to enhance self-esteem. You are handed a tiny packet of nuts if you’re lucky, and anything you might purchase is over-priced. You begin to feel sorry for yourself because you are subjected to such demeaning conditions. Meanwhile, the extra leg room in the front of the plane is enjoyed with some amount of unspoken gloating.

No wonder it’s so easy to begin judging others on the flight. Do you ever find yourself doing this? The person in front of you insists on putting the seat back as far as it will go, slamming your laptop up against your legs. How inconsiderate! The person seated next to you watching that show must be very shallow. And shouldn’t the mask be worn over nose and mouth?

It seems that it all started back before you ever arrived at the airport. From the point of remote check-in, you were already assigned to a social compartment. For the limited duration of your flight, you fume at those with more leg room, and they feel sorry for you as you eat your peanuts while being elbowed by your neighbor.

The superficial social stratification that is intrinsic to modern day plane travel is nothing compared to the vast chasms of inequity and inequality within our society. But being subjected to even minor inconveniences can certainly highlight our predisposition towards knee-jerk judgments, can’t it? And these hasty judgments of others usually belie just how complicated life really is.

It would be easy to make rash judgments of that vast crowd of people addressed by Jesus in the sixth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel. This motley crowd includes locals, as well as foreigners, the diseased and those possessed by unclean spirits. Presumably there are also poor folk, and hungry ones, those in mourning, and others who are judged harshly because they have followed this itinerant Jewish preacher. Many have sought out Jesus because they truly believe that there is some mysterious, potent power in this man from Galilee that enables him to heal and to cure. I imagine there are others who scoff at the supposed displays of power and who want to jeer from the sidelines. Also present are the wealthy, the well-sated, the ones who laugh easily, and those who are well liked.

In Jesus’ blessings and curses, we are prone to see a tidy Western dichotomy. It would be so easy to pit the poor against the rich, the hungry against the full, the ebullient against the mournful, the scorned against the popular. If we’re not careful, we begin judging who should be in what category based on our own shallow assumptions.

Such judgment works both ways. Surely the poor are lacking because of something they have done. Is it their sin? And the hungry? They simply haven’t worked hard enough to earn their keep. The mournful are only lamenting the consequences of their poor choices or the brunt of God’s wrath. As for those who are reviled, what can they expect in return for following this controversial rabbi?

But if you have a soft spot for the downtrodden—the poor, the hungry, the oppressed, and the scorned—the woes are particularly delicious, aren’t they? Like the downfall of the bad guy in a movie, we delight in seeing the rich get their comeuppance. We love St. Luke’s great reversals, where those who are hungry will be sent empty away. Laughter will not last forever, right? And the popular ones are no different from those phony prophets of old.

It’s the same in our polarized society. Those on the mountain can so easily rail at those below, equating their misfortune with a failure in personal responsibility or with a deserved judgment from God. And those in the valley wait impatiently for the day of vindication when the prosperity gospel is shown to be a fraud. We live in stark categories that pit us against one another: the poor versus the rich, the powerful versus the weak, the vaccinated versus the unvaccinated, the privileged versus the destitute, Republican versus Democrat, the religious against the secular, the well-educated versus the uneducated.

It would be so easy to valorize one side. Voluntary poverty or hunger is the way to heaven. And those who suffer in this life are de facto blessed because of their low estate. Those who are living well here below are mere hedonists who will pay on judgment day. We are either on top of the mountain or in the valley. Where else can we be?

Is it any surprise, then, that for so many, Jesus can only be in one but not both of those places at the same time? It all depends on whose side he’s on. As Lord, he reigns from the mountain, the triumphant friend of those who have done well and received their reward. As Savior, he is with the downtrodden in the valley, shaking his fist at the oppressors above. Jesus becomes the judge that either group wishes him to be, inherently opposed to the other side.

And this easily morphs into pie-in-the-sky religion. Heaven is the escape from earthly suffering, and hell is the just reward of those who have had too much of a good thing.

But this is not the vision St. Luke gives us. St. Matthew’s Beatitudes may be delivered by Jesus on a mountaintop, but in Luke’s gospel, Jesus is neither on the mountain or in the valley. He is on a level place when he announces the blessings and curses. Jesus stands, not in the place of easy equalities and simplistic assumptions but on the even plain teeming with earthly complexities.

On this plain, Jesus knows that there is no simple causal relationship between misfortune and sin. People are more nuanced than they seem on the surface. Here, inexplicably, bad things do happen to good people and good things to bad people. Here, the gospel makes no easy promises of good fortune, but neither are the poor and hungry automatically placed in heaven. Here, people of all nations come for healing and are cured. Here, the extraordinary power of the gospel is made available to all, knowing no boundaries.

On this level plain, God’s justice asserts itself not with brute force but with truth. Jesus, as Savior, is released from the vicious cycle of human judgment that is only rooted in vindictiveness. Here, the haves and the have-nots find their common ground in mutual poverty, even if of different sorts. On this plain, rich and poor, hungry and full are fed at the same Table with the same Bread and Wine.

On this level plain, Jesus stands as the one who comes to save all of humanity, the haves and the have-nots, the rich and the poor, the weak and the strong, the hungry and the full, the popular and the unloved. Here, Jesus stands not as judge looking down from the mountain condescendingly to condemn. Instead, rooted among us in all our complexity and sin, he looks up at us with love and compassion.

Our Lord is calling you and me to stand with him on that level plain, to bring all our sorrows and joys and all our complicated humanity. He is calling us, the Church, to testify that on this level plain, all can find healing. On this plain, all nations, tribes, and races meet to learn that, in some way, they are all poor. When everything else threatens to divide us, our common poverty brings us together.

Here, on this plain Jesus has come down to meet us, just as we are. He rules as Savior and Lord not from above but on the ground with us. And he looks at us, not with condemnation from on high, but up at us with a judgment that heals. And he tells us that there is only one assumption we can make: on the level plain, we are loved by him.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 13, 2022

Getting the Order Right

Combination locks make me nervous. It all started back in middle school when I had to wrestle with them, both on my hall locker and then on my gym locker. It always felt like a race against the clock. With less than five minutes until the next class, my nervousness made fiddling with a combination lock a dreadful experience.

I’m sure you know the kind I’m talking about. 3 – 2 – 1 is apparently the trick to unlocking them. Turn the dial three times to the right to clear it and then stop on the first number of the combination. Then turn counterclockwise twice to pause on the second number. Finally, turn once more to the right, resting on the third number of the combination.

It sounds simple, but when you’re up against the clock, it’s nerve-wracking. Did I really make one full turn? Did I remember to clear the lock with three full turns at the beginning? Did I line the pointer up with the number? But just remember: 3 – 2 – 1. And above all, know that order is important.

Scripture frequently presents us with episodes where something is amiss, and then Jesus arrives on the scene to fix everything. It’s as if, until his arrival, people are anxiously fiddling with a lock, getting the sequence of numbers and turns all wrong. And then Jesus steps up, turns the dials with just the right amount of precision, and everything unlocks.

Do you remember when Jesus is with his disciples and a man brings his son for healing from epilepsy? The disciples were unable to cure him, said the man. And so, Jesus takes matters into his own hands, and the boy is cured. Then there is the paralytic at the pool of Bethesda. He has been ill for thirty-eight years and has been waiting for someone—anyone—to help him into the pool so he can experience the healing waters. But when Jesus encounters him, he skips the pool business altogether and orders the man to stand, take up his mat, and walk. And when Jesus and his disciples are faced with a large and hungry crowd of people, the disciples are anxious and doubt that there is any way to feed so many stomachs. But Jesus starts to give orders, and before long, a miraculous supply of bread and fish feeds 5,000 people, with leftovers remaining.

Jesus often appears at the right time when there is a problem, and somehow, the lock springs free. We marvel at how it happens, and we wonder just why no one else can figure things out.

It’s no different when Jesus’s future disciples are washing their nets by the side of the lake of Gennesaret. It has been a very long night, and it has been a very unproductive one. Fishing is naturally a slow-paced endeavor, but it’s absolute torture when hours of casting the nets renders no results. I imagine the disciples were forlorn, in addition to being exhausted. It must have been a sad sight, seeing their haggard appearances washing those empty nets that were bereft of any catch.

As he is wont to do, Jesus finds these disciples. They don’t know they need him, but he does. Even though a large crowd is pressing in on Jesus to hear him deliver God’s word, he is more interested in those lonely, tired fishermen cleaning their nets and probably wondering what they did wrong all night.

3 – 2 – 1. Three times to the right to clear the lock. Then twice to the left. Then once to the right. Were they casting their nets on the wrong side of the boat? Did they go far enough out into the deep? What did they miss, and how did an entire night go by without catching so much as a single fish?

But Jesus finds these disciples as if following a homing beacon. Inexplicably, he gets into Simon Peter’s boat. He orders him to push off a bit from the shore. He teaches the crowds from the boat. And then, he asks Simon Peter to go farther into the deep and let the nets down for a catch.

But, Jesus, Simon says, I already did this. I thought I did it right. Three times clockwise, then two counterclockwise, then one more time clockwise. Or perhaps I had the wrong combination? Oh, well, if you say so, Master, I’ll try again. And the lock springs.         

It begs the question, what did Simon and his fellow fishermen miss? Were they in the right place to fish? Was it just an off night? Did they fall asleep and miss their catch? Or is Jesus the only one with the ability to have any success in this fishing venture?

Yes, it is, of course, a miracle. The vast quantity of fish that ends up breaking the nets is none other than the work of God. How could such a catch have materialized the night before? It’s only God’s power working through Jesus that brings in this surprising catch of fish.

And as so often happens in Scripture, it might seem as if this is a trick question. The poor disciples are made to look like failures because they have not gotten something right or their faith isn’t strong enough. And Jesus always provides the key or the right answer.

But St. Luke masterfully presents the details of this miracle story so that we are given the key to this stubborn lock. It’s about Jesus, of course, but it’s also about something these disciples need from him. It’s not really that they’ve failed; it’s that after meeting the Christ, they are enlightened. When Peter falls to his knees and asks Jesus to depart from him because he’s a sinner, we might be tempted to think this is the obstacle. Peter just doesn’t have enough faith. He simply isn’t holy enough for God to act in his desperation.

Except this doesn’t seem to be the real answer. When Peter falls on his knees before the Christ, it’s as if he is saying, Master, I see now. It’s not that I forgot the combination to the lock. It’s not that I wasn’t trying hard enough. It’s not that the lock was defective. The problem is that I didn’t get the order right.

All night, I was fishing, hoping against hope for a catch, at least one fish. I know the fish were there. I wasn’t in the wrong place. At the time, I just didn’t understand. I was trying to go it alone and do it all by myself. I wasn’t responding to your call because you hadn’t called me yet. But when I encountered you and heeded your summons, everything changed.

Isn’t this a kind of parable for ministry? We so often profess that we are working hard and being creative as we faithfully undertake our various projects and ministry endeavors. We cast our nets, ready to haul in large catches. In many cases, we’re not even afraid of the deep water. But then we find ourselves, like those first disciples, the morning after we have tried and come up empty, wondering what went wrong.

If this story of the calling of the first disciples is indeed a parable for discipleship and ministry, we may have missed something. Could we, too, have gotten the order wrong? Perhaps we forgot the most important thing. We forgot that every series of events we undertake in the name of the gospel springs from God’s call to us. And unless we begin by responding to God’s call and asking God to help us, our nets will just be empty, time after time. The disciples came up dry until Jesus found them on that lake shore, called them, and then they obeyed.

If the order is right, if God calls and we respond by venturing out into the risky deep to cast our nets, the lock springs. We might find ourselves hauling in nets full to the breaking point. God has moved us into gospel work himself, but we need others to help us. And we invite them to share in this work with us. Community forms, and there is evangelism in the making. In addition to an overabundance of fish, God has also given us community.

This is how evangelism works. It’s not so much “build it and they will come” but let God help you fish, and others will need and want to come help. Maybe the Church’s growth lies in inviting other people into a place where they are fed by engaging in ministry that responds to God’s call. And it all starts with God’s call and a simple response of yes.

Remember: 3 – 2 – 1. Three times to the right, two to the left, and once more to the right. You have to remember the combination. But above all, order is everything, and it all starts with God.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 6, 2022

Not Taking No for an Answer

Two unrelated and diametrically opposed endeavors from the past fifteen years might have something to say to today’s reading from the prophet Jeremiah. The first dates back to 2008, probably in Japan, when rage rooms were developed. Sometimes called smash rooms or anger rooms, they are now popular across the world. A brief Google search will reveal that there are rage rooms nearby, both in Philadelphia and in West Chester.

These rooms are places where people who are presumably filled with pent-up anger pay money to spend time smashing things. Some rage rooms allow you to bring in your own boxes of things to break. Others have mock living room sets that you can delight in destroying.

Rage rooms are supposedly about letting off some steam and having fun while doing so, all in an apparently safe environment. But a 2017 study showed that perhaps these rage rooms are not effective in serving as a safety valve for bottled-up emotions. They can, in fact, increase one’s anger.[1]

I, myself, have a number of questions about such rooms, even though I’ve never been to one. What is the real goal of such rooms? Is it really about letting off steam? And is breaking a bunch of glass with a hammer the most effective way to cope with stress? What happens when you leave the room? Does your anger disappear, or does it simply manifest in different ways? And when you become angry again, is it necessary to return to the rage room to deal with it?

Now, the second, very different endeavor that might tie into the Old Testament reading from today is the 2013 opening of the Cardboard Cathedral in Christchurch, New Zealand. You may recall that in 2011, a disastrous earthquake devastated the city of Christchurch and severely damaged the Anglican cathedral. Shortly thereafter, the Japanese architect Shigeru Ban, often characterized as a “disaster architect,” was invited to design a temporary cathedral that could also host concerts and civic events. Shigeru Ban came up with plans for a so-called cardboard cathedral, constructed from cardboard tubes, timber, and steel. The cathedral congregation still worships in this building to this day. Significantly, this temporary building stands on land where Anglicans in Christchurch built the very first church of permanent materials in the mid-nineteenth century.[2]

It strikes me that the production of the Cardboard Cathedral is precisely the opposite of a rage room. A rage room purports to serve a purpose by providing people a venue in which to let off steam, but I’m not sure it really does this. Rather, it seems to channel anger into wreaking destruction, even if on low-value objects. There is nothing creative about it.

But the cardboard cathedral is the result of a creative response to disaster. When faced with the mystery of human tragedy and suffering, creativity is not always the most obvious option. But when channeled properly, it enables a movement from destruction to rebirth.

Now, with these images in mind, let’s return to the prophet Jeremiah and to the very beginning of the book that bears his name. We hear Jeremiah’s call story, where God’s word comes to him, unbidden, and informs him that he has been predestined to serve as God’s prophet to the nations.

Jeremiah is wise and discerning. He knows this is not going to be easy, and so he makes excuses. He is too young, he says. It’s not dissimilar from God’s call to Moses, who hems and haws and tries to get out of a call, too. But with both Moses and Jeremiah, God is not taking no for an answer.

It seems that Jeremiah has no choice. God touches his mouth and puts his words there for Jeremiah to speak in the face of a recalcitrant people who will not want to hear these words. They will not be naturally inclined to turn back to God quite so easily.

Jeremiah is given an enormous charge. He is granted a significant amount of power to act in God’s name. He is able “to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” But lest we forget what is really happening here, we must remember that Jeremiah is merely a vessel for God to act. Even if we’re reluctant to attribute destruction directly to God’s hands, it is God who acts in the midst of tearing down and overthrowing. It is God who can then build and plant.

God has done this before, after all, hasn’t he? When God’s good creation had so lapsed into sin and evil, in the time of Noah, a flood wiped out all of creation except for those saved on the ark. And then God renewed this creation and repopulated the land.

When God’s people later turned away from him and rebelled, and when they forgot to own up to their part in their covenant relationship, God’s people fell prey to their warring neighbors. Jeremiah is writing in such a time when God’s people are forced into exile and their Jerusalem home has been destroyed.

But after a time, God’s people returned to the Holy City. They were able to rebuild, and the Temple was restored to its central place in the life of Israel. And centuries later, when God’s Beloved Son has breathed his last on the cross and when Jesus’s disciples are left, forsaken and alone, God rebuilt once again. By the power of the resurrection, God’s people were empowered by the Holy Spirit and the Church was formed from the very rubble of a Roman crucifixion. God is not absent when destruction occurs, but God is most obviously seen in the rebuilding that follows. God’s nature is creative and is inclined towards restoration.

But for us, it is indeed the immediate aftermath of destruction that is the most spiritually precarious time. This moment, in between dismantling and rebuilding, is charged with great potential. Two directions are possible: one is towards a place of eternal despair, the other is towards a place of eternal hope. In this moment, a weighty decision lies. One can choose death, or one can choose life.

And this is why the development of rage rooms and the building of a temporary cathedral in New Zealand are so very different. One act deals only with anger and a need to express emotion through violence, even if it masquerades as silly fun. The end is destruction, with no positive response to reconstruction. The other moves from devastation into creative hope, from death into life.

And the great spiritual temptation for all of us is to choose wrongly. It is satisfying to hold onto our resentment in the face of injustice. It is pleasurable to feel righteous anger and then to act on it. It’s tempting never to let our rage go or to imagine that it can ever be transformed. All of this is quite easy. It’s not difficult to tear down, but it’s much, much more difficult to build up.

God’s words to the prophet Jeremiah suggest that destruction is not the end of the story. While it’s impossible to avoid misfortune or tragedy, and while on this side of heaven there will always be some measure of pain and loss, hope does not have to smolder in the ruins.

God made it clear to Jeremiah that what follows the plucking up and the pulling down, the destruction and the overthrowing, is building and planting. God is always moving us from places of destruction to places of renewal. God is always pushing us from death into life.

God will not take no for an answer. God didn’t accept Jeremiah’s no, and God won’t accept ours. It is assumed that each of us, as we walk in the paths God has prepared for us, will face rejection. We will face opposition. We will encounter destructiveness, whether in others’ behavior or in the suffering that is part and parcel of life. We will be tempted to try to evade God’s call, like Jeremiah. And even after we’ve accepted God’s call, we will also be tempted to claim power through our rage, to mope in the aftermath of devastation, to relive our ruinous past and to resist creative transformation.

But hear the call to the prophet Jeremiah and learn from it. You and I are more than our rage or anger. We are more than the wreckage of our lives and the world. It is sometimes in the tearing down that God is able to build something newer and better. And everywhere that human sin wreaks havoc, God is waiting to rebuild and usher us into places of forgiveness and hope. 

However much we might protest or choose complacency, God will not take no for an answer. When we are faced with despair or hope, when we can go the way of death or the way of life, God is very clear about where he is sending us. God won’t accept our no. Choose life, he says to us. Choose life, and live.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany
January 30, 2022

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rage_room

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardboard_Cathedral

More than Luck

This past week, the New York Times featured an article on the fascinating history of how messenger RNA vaccines were created. The article begins and ends with Dr. Barney Graham, a virus expert in Bethesda, Maryland, at the Vaccine Research Center. In 2013, when the Middle East Respiratory Syndrome—or MERS—virus was killing one out of three infected people, Dr. Graham wondered if one of his lab scientists had contracted MERS while abroad. It turns out that the scientist had only a common cold. But it led Dr. Graham to an insight: maybe studying the ordinary cold virus of the lab scientist could help him with the vexing problem of creating a vaccine for MERS.

The eventual fabrication of a messenger RNA vaccine to address COVID-19 drew together the work of Dr. Graham and three other major efforts spanning over 60 years. It all started when two Pennsylvania scientists explored what seemed to be a wild idea. Maybe messenger RNA could cause cells to produce bits of a virus. It turns out that they could. The other major scientific endeavor came out of gene therapy, as scientists looked for a way to protect genetic molecules with fatty membranes as they made their way to human cells. And finally, the third piece of this large puzzle, involved the U.S. government’s massive undertaking to find a vaccine for the AIDS virus.

When on December 31, 2019, Dr. Graham first saw a report of a new pneumonia that had originated in Wuhan, China, he contacted a colleague and noted that it was time. All the complex work hitherto accomplished—the three scientific efforts spanning over 60 years and including scientists from various countries—was now coming together and could possibly be used for this puzzling new virus from China. And at the center of this astounding story was something that seemed to be a fanciful bit of intuition. A lab scientist’s mundane cold proved to be helpful in the ultimate production of a vaccine to combat COVID-19.

Dr. Hadi Yassine was that scientist from Dr. Graham’s lab, and when recently asked about how his common cold virus sparked efforts to create a vaccine for the COVID-19 virus, Dr. Yassine remarked: “You can consider it luck. . . or you can consider it a blessing.”[1]

For people of faith, to consider something as luck seems almost blasphemous. What seems to be mere luck to some can only be a blessing, even if in disguise, to those of us who believe in the power of God. Seeing something as just a bit of luck assumes that we inhabit a world of disparate pieces, randomly thrown together by fate. When the pieces align, it’s good luck. When they don’t, it’s bad luck.

But a universe governed by God, who can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine involves far more than luck. Such a universe radiates God’s blessing, even in what appear to be chance encounters. Diverse people are not disconnected from one another, duking it out in a competition for resources. The world that God has given us as our home is one where God, humanity, and all of creation are inextricably intertwined.

The apostle Paul’s metaphor of the human body to describe the living Body of Christ is so well-known in the Christian tradition that it seems almost banal. And yet I would venture to say that it’s the least understood of theological images. Isn’t it ironic that when the words of Holy Scripture cannot captivate our imaginations enough to illumine the bond of the human family, we must turn to science?

Science, which is so often unnecessarily used to combat religion, is one of the most powerful witnesses to a core precept of Christian faith: our undeniable relatedness and responsibility for one another. Look at the inseparable connections of the component parts of an ecosystem. If you can’t heed St. Paul’s words, just think of the last time your splitting headache was the result of eye strain. And if you’re still looking for evidence that none of us can exist as an isolated subject within creation, think about this horrible virus that has kept us in pandemic for nearly two years. At what point will the light bulb go on and will the human race realize that what is playing out in science is directly related to our moral cohesion as a society?

Or is it mere luck that a time of pandemic has brought into bold relief some of our societal sins? Is it just mere luck that the presence of a vaccine for the coronavirus has highlighted the gross social inequities among us, where parts of the world are heavily vaccinated and poorer parts cannot find enough shots to get into arms? Is there any connection between civil unrest and a raging pandemic that won’t leave us alone?

For those who think everything is just luck, there is no relation between the constitutive parts. These isolated incidents are simply random die thrown onto the gameboard of life. Their apparent lack of connection is just more evidence that we inhabit an aleatoric universe. The fact that there is so much chaos these days is simply another reminder that there is no cohesive meaning to our lives.

But let’s go back to the Christian view. None of this can be mere luck. There must somehow be a blessing in it all, even if it’s hidden. And if life is no more than a lucky game, then how is God working in the small details of life? Luck refuses to believe that the minor encounter of two people in the same place at the right time might be for a greater purpose. Luck could not comprehend something good or unifying coming out of a heated conversation between people with very different viewpoints. Luck has no time for the ordinary moments of life, where disparate pieces of a puzzle find their matching partners in surprising ways. Because luck is just luck. Luck has no higher purpose.

And St. Paul clearly understood this when he lectured the Church in Corinth. Paul knew that the assortment of random members, strong and weak, within the human body are not haphazardly put together. And Paul also knew that God has beaten us at our own game. God has always known that, because of human sin, we will give preference to the powerful members and ignore the weaker ones, and so God has inverted our values by bestowing dignity on those parts of the body that are most at risk of neglect.

You see, God has graced us with a built-in mechanism for looking out for one another. By linking us together as part of Christ’s living Body, God has handed us a supreme gift, if we can only recognize and accept it.

We can survey the social, medical, and environmental landscape around us and see it in one of two ways: as bad luck or as radiant with hidden blessings from God. It could appear blasphemous to expect to wring a blessing in the worst of times, but if God is truly at work among us, there is always a blessing to find.

And the blessing becomes more apparent when we realize that our ties to one another are not based on biology but on our constitution as Christ’s sacred Body on earth. If you think your presence here today is luck, think again. Have you considered that God has brought you to Good Shepherd for a very particular reason? Do you have any idea of how your own unique gifts are needed in this place for Christ’s gospel to flourish? Have you thought that refusing to share your gifts with this part of the Body of Christ can weaken the whole system? Are you thinking that you can just show up for Mass as an individual and leave afterwards as an individual? Or can you imagine that when someone in the pew across the church is hurting, you are, too? And if that person is hurting, maybe your sympathetic hurt is God’s way of healing the hurt. You see, in this interconnected universe we inhabit, nothing is random.

In such an interrelated world, science can teach us about our duty as members of Christ’s Body. In such a bound-up world, a common cold can spark insight to produce a vaccine for one of the world’s most traumatic viruses. In such a world, no person, no thing, no part of creation can say, “I have no need of you.” We all need one another. You are here today because of more than mere luck. It will take far more than luck to heal our deepest divisions. And just maybe in the most random encounters of your life, you will find, not luck, but God’s blessing.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 23, 2022

[1] “Halting Progress and Happy Accidents: How mRNA Vaccines Were Made,” Gina Kolata and Benjamin Mueller, The New York Times, January 15, 2022: https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/15/health/mrna-vaccine.html

The Party Goes On

Can’t you hear the music and the sound of voices? There has been dancing for quite a while now, several days, in fact. Everyone is having a wonderful time. The food has been plenteous. Until this point, the wine has flowed freely.

But now, Houston, we have a problem. There is a whisper, a rumor at first, that the wine has run out. This is unfortunate and unprecedented. It is extremely bad form and poor planning for the host not to have anticipated this possibility. The guests who have journeyed from far and wide to attend this several-day celebration will not be happy.

The rumor grows into louder voices of discontent. The wine has indeed run out. The music has come to a screeching halt. The dancing has ceased, and people are no longer just milling about aimlessly. They are threatening to riot if this problem is not solved soon, very soon.

Mary, Jesus’s mother, notices the problem. Discreetly, she finds her son, because he will know what to do. She knows that he will be able to do something. “Jesus,” she whispers urgently, “the wine has gone out.”

Jesus’s reply seems harsh, although it really isn’t. At first, he replies as some of us might be tempted to do upon learning that someone has not planned properly. “Woman, a lack of preparation on the part of the wedding host does not constitute an emergency on mine.” Fair point. Why should this crisis that stems from poor planning force Jesus into performing some miracle? He is not into parlor tricks. And besides, it is not yet the hour of his glory.

But then, after this equivocation, he does do something. Mary knew all along that he could and would. The other guests at the wedding are pretty clueless, though. Maybe the disciples know that Jesus will do something, maybe not. And, in the end, only the inner circle understands who it is that resolves this crisis and how he does so.

I wonder about Jesus’s initial comment, which seems to dismiss the request to fix the problem at hand. Is it simply his way of pushing reset on the whole situation? Jesus fully intends to do something, but he also needs to demonstrate in some way that the miracle he will perform is more than just a magic show. It is more than being a miracle worker on demand. The sign that Jesus performs is more than just a flashy display of power. The sign points not only to who Jesus is as Son of God but to God’s ability to bring extraordinary grace into situations of seeming scarcity. Jesus’s sign does not point to him. It points to what is possible with God.

The servants, whom Jesus has conscripted into his work, know the full details. This small group of servants, who do what Jesus tells them to do, have eyes that are now opened by the miracle they have witnessed. They can see that even six empty stone jars can be filled not just with water, but with the very best wine. Something that seems unrelated to the crisis at hand now becomes the means of resolving it.

Because Mary trusts in Jesus’s power, and because of God’s boundless grace working through Jesus, the party continues. The feasting goes on. The music starts back up again. This quiet miracle has transpired, unbeknownst to many at the party. But the servants have been changed. They do what Jesus tells them to do. And their vision will never be the same again.

We in the Church are in a position not dissimilar from those guests at the wedding party in Cana. For centuries and centuries, the Church feasted and partied, riding high on privilege and general favor in society. The Church counted on the party lasting forever. The food would always be plentiful. The wine would never run out. People would flock to the church in good times and in bad. All the priest had to do was ring the Mass bell and the faithful would come.

But in more recent decades, things have changed. Rumors and whispers have grown into anxious cries. The wine is running out! The guests are leaving the party! The invited guests are staying away! And those who still come are complaining that the wine has disappeared. Where are the people? The Church has lost her moorings! Things look so different than they used to! There is a crisis!

And the Church has responded in various ways. There have been demands. Jesus, do something! Some have resorted to parlor tricks, putting all hope in the latest gimmicks, testing God to work some miracle that will solve all the problems.

We have forgotten Jesus’s very own words not to be anxious and have drunk anxiety like it was going out of style. We have become obsessed with everything that could go wrong and that seems to be going wrong. We have let worries over money impede the proclamation of the gospel, lacking any faith that God could do something surprising among us.

And at this moment in time, our anxiety has been ratcheted up even more as we lament our ecclesiastical crisis as well as a medical one. We have good reason to worry about the party stopping entirely, because for periods of time, it seems as if it has. Just when we thought the wine was about to run out, we found more of it, and the music started again, only to be shut down in the past two months. How can we feast if we can’t gather the way we expect? Who will solve this massive problem on our hands?

We are just like those wedding guests who saw only a problem when the wine began to run out. Except that, in the end, the faithful servants who did what Jesus told them to do learned something that might be helpful to us. I imagine those servants learned that the wrong way of thinking is to see a crisis  as just a problem needing to be solved. The servants learned that if we simply shift our vision, we could re-envision our worst moments as laden with God’s potential to surprise us with his abundant grace.

It would be dishonest to conceive of our present situation as anything other than a crisis. But having settled that, we, as members of Christ’s living Body, have two options. We can respond anxiously to this crisis, or we can enter into a spirit of trust, like Mary, assuming that God will do something good and will surprise us.

Our assumption must be that the party will continue. The feasting here and now, even when it pauses for a time, will continue forever. Admittedly, this is difficult to see when people are dying and getting sick, when others are starving because the food has disappeared, and when the loneliness of this time threatens to overwhelm us.

But the Church, if she chooses, can embrace this moment to proclaim something that we have always known. It is our moment to teach the world. Even in the most incomprehensible crises, God is still working his purpose out, however mysterious it may be. Parlor tricks are not the answer to declining attendance in the Church. Praying to God is not the same as expecting miracles on demand. And when we seem to be looking at empty wine barrels and are staring at a host of empty water jugs, God can surprise us and give us wine. Really good wine.

Just as Mary knew that her son would do something, shouldn’t we expect that God will do something in the midst of our crises, even if we don’t know what it will look like? Now, is the time for the Church to pave the way for a new kind of thinking by learning from our own struggles. We can wring our hands and complain that there is no more wine while we gaze vacantly at empty water jugs. Or we can trust that the Holy Spirit, moving among us, will lead us into all truth and show us what to do when no one else has the answers. And it just might surprise us.

This is the moment for the Church. This is the moment for the gospel to break into a world that has no answers and is only trying to solve a problem. It is our task to tell the world that we can’t wait until the conditions are perfect to move on. We are to go forth boldly in trust, knowing that God will enable the party to continue. The empty water jugs will be surprisingly full by God’s grace. And the music will still play on.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany
January 16, 2022

Giving Us Our Names Back

Two occasions from my first year of college over twenty years ago have remained in my memory. The first was during orientation week when the Vice President for Student Affairs met with groups of students from the new matriculating class. The university I attended was not especially large, but my matriculating class was still probably at least 800 students or so, if not more. When we were gathered in a room with the Vice President for Student Affairs, he then proceeded to call us each by name, without reference to photos or any other documents. At the time, I thought this was an astounding feat, and I still do. I was a shy freshman from a small town in southeast Texas at a major university. It was a vulnerable moment of transition in life, and I felt, in some small sense, valued.

The second instance I remember from my first month or so in college was being in a large sociology class. It was a popular course because of the professor, and therefore the class size of nearly 100 students was unusually large for that particular university. We were seated throughout a vast lecture hall, and this professor did just what the Vice President for Student Affairs had done. He called us each by name at the beginning of one class, without reference to any notes. He had also bothered to learn one additional fact about each of us, such as our hometown or a special interest we held.

Understandably, both these events from my college days have stayed with me. The uncanny capacity for memorization of these two faculty members was a part of student lore. But for me personally, these two stories are important not because of the phenomenal memories of two faculty members but because in a significant time of transition in my life, I felt valued. As one of thousands of students admitted to a university with a competitive application process, I found myself more than just a number. Moving from a smaller high school to a much larger university, I was more than just a statistic. I was a name. I was seen as a unique person.

Now, maybe this seems pretty straightforward. Of course, each of us is unique. Even identical twins have their own personalities, after all. Two music students studying with the same teacher and performing the same technical exercises all play differently; they play their personalities. It is no news flash that our individuality is an established part of what it means to be human.

The problem is that this common knowledge seems to be so easily ignored in society. Sometimes the most basic knowledge is the victim of collective amnesia. So, I ask you this question: do you feel like you are valued? Do you feel like you are called by name as a unique person? Do you feel like more than just a statistic or a number in the world’s vast population?

I believe it’s the extraordinary task of the Church to remind the world of what it has forgotten. That’s why the importance of being called by name is a central theme of today’s feast, the Baptism of Our Lord.

Let’s get one thing straight, though. Today’s feast is really about Jesus. It’s about his baptism, which is different from ours. It’s about his unique status as the Beloved Son of God. But because of all those things, today’s feast is also about us. It’s difficult to talk about Jesus’s baptism without talking about ours. And because of who Jesus is, and because we are baptized into his death and resurrection, we can claim something about our own identity that might seem preposterous if it weren’t actually true.

Of all today’s Scripture readings, it’s the prophet Isaiah’s words that strike me as hitting the mark here. Isaiah’s words were spoken to the people of Israel. In this passage, God speaks to his beloved children, his chosen ones, who are in exile from Jerusalem. They long to be back in their true home. How could they not believe that God had forsaken them in their current state? How could they not equate their misfortune with judgment or God’s wrath?

And into the midst of this state of despair, God speaks tender words that are profoundly personal and moving. To a nation who had been promised so much and given so much but now living in desolation, it would have been easy to think of oneself as just a number, just a number in a large host of people doomed to destruction, just a number in that long lineage promised to Abraham who were to be as numerous as the stars in heaven and the sand on the seashore but who now seemed forsaken. I imagine that the people of whom Isaiah writes felt as if they were drowning in a sea of anonymity.

But then God speaks. And God references the other surrounding nations, whose political affairs threaten to overwhelm Israel. Then the picture screen telescopes into focus on Israel, as if Israel were a singular, unique person at risk of being forgotten among the grains of sand on the seashore. God speaks: You are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you.

Reading and hearing these words, we feel almost as if we are intruding voyeuristically on a personal exchange between two lovers. But the speaker is God, the Almighty, the Creator of the universe. He is addressing his beloved. Yes, God, our God, speaks like this!

And we who have been baptized and adopted into the long lineage promised to Abraham, who find our roots in Israel, who are heirs of the extended promise to all nations, must be moved by God’s words so long ago to his chosen people. We can never go back in time to inhabit their specific circumstances, but we are allowed a glimpse into a delicate, beautiful moment when God zooms in on his people, as if the nation were one single individual. And God tells of his undying love for his children.

This picture window also illumines something of Christian baptism, as we understand it. In baptism, we are called by name and marked as Christ’s own forever. Our baptism echoes Jesus’s very different baptism, where he alone is called God’s Beloved Son. But because we are baptized into him, we have a right to relish God calling each of us by name. We can have no baptism without a name. The name is essential to what it means. A name is essential to our membership in the Body of Christ.

At different points in history, we might wish to linger with different moments in the baptismal rite. Usually, people like to focus on the baptismal promises, with the commitment to respecting the dignity of every human being and committing oneself to justice. But now, in 2022, in a global pandemic and living in a nation experiencing political and civic unrest, I wonder if we might rest for a while in the knowledge that, in baptism, God calls each of us by name.

For how can we not feel like a number? We all live in fear of being one of the 656,478 cases or the 1,524 deaths of the coronavirus reported yesterday. Do you long to be more than just a statistic in the workplace or the recipient of a sterile paycheck? Do you wish to be not just a student force-fed into an ultra-competitive educational system that takes your money and spits you back out into a hungry world? Look how many people are reduced to statistics of injuries or deaths in natural disasters or housefires or gun violence. At this very moment, think of how many of the aged and infirm are at risk of being forgotten and unloved in their solitary homes.

So, right now, I, for one, want to sit for just a time with the good news that I am more than just a number. You are more than just a number. Your worst enemy is more than just a number. You are honored and precious in God’s sight. You are loved. It’s a simple, obvious statement, but do you really believe it?

In this season of Epiphany, as we manifest the gospel to the world, we must learn to claim our God-given individuality and then respect that of others.

You, I, all of us are more than just a blank face in a sea of anonymity. No culture, no acts of oppression and violence, no cruel systems of injustice, none of it can take away this fact. And the good news we are called to share this season after Epiphany is that especially when the world clamors to take our names away, God always comes in Christ to give them back to us.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord
January 9, 2022

Staying in Our Lanes

Last week, driving back to Philadelphia from Pittsburgh, I spent several hours on I-76. While intermittently admiring the hilly terrain and rural countryside, I was frequently distracted by a series of religious-themed billboards. Perhaps you have seen them. They include a variety of messages, all of the same ilk.

Here are a few of them. “Where are you going? Heaven or hell?” “Jesus can free you from sin!” “Jesus: Your only way to God.” One of the more ominous ones had the following words inscribed above and below what appeared to be the squiggly line on a heart monitor, with the peaks and valleys morphing into a straight line visually signifying death. This sign said, “After you die, you will meet God.”

Now, some of the billboards I simply found hard to stomach for various reasons. But I couldn’t necessarily argue with all of them on the surface. Yes, I do believe Jesus can and does free us from sin! Yes, I can talk to God like Jesus did, although admittedly Jesus was a lot better at it than I. Yes, Jesus does offer peace and hope to us. Yes, I, do believe that Jesus is alive. If I didn’t, I would not be here in this pulpit.

The billboard I found most mystifying showed a teenager reading a Bible and had the clear suggestion that to know who Jesus is, we should read Matthew’s Gospel. Well, okay, but what about Luke, Mark, and John?

You get the point, I’m sure. I’m willing to give the benefit of a doubt that the intention behind these billboards was good, at least on some level. But to a T, what I discerned lurking in every single one of these billboards was smugness.

Every one of these messages, even if stating some truth about Christianity with which I would agree, had an implicit message. This unstated message read as follows: “Those of us who have prepared these billboards for your edification have the definitive truth, which we are sharing with you, so that one day, when you meet your Maker, you end up in the right place.” Although some of the billboard messages were more comforting than others, many of them played off an age-old tactic of fear.

The problem is that I don’t believe this kind of fear really works. I doubt many of us want to continue into the next life with a bunch of people who are scared out of their wits. I think heaven is much bigger than a holding pen for people who have been traumatized by the journey to get there.

So, what in the world do these billboards, I-76, heaven, and hell have to do with the Feast of the Epiphany? Well, I’m getting there. So, let’s go back to the Letter to the Ephesians. The author, probably not Paul himself but writing as Paul, is making a series of bold claims in chapter three. The author is claiming a special revelation from God of something radically new to the Hellenistic-Jewish world he inhabits. God’s promises of hope and salvation, first laid out in covenant after covenant throughout the Old Testament, then in the flesh of a Jewish man named Jesus of Nazareth, have now encompassed a new dimension. God’s promises are now shared between Jew and Gentile.

There is more: the author of the letter to the Ephesians claims to be God’s messenger to bring this good news to the Gentiles. And there is yet more, and this is where it gets even more daring: this author attributes to Paul a particular understanding of God’s mystery and eternal purpose. And finally, here’s the stinger: in Christ Jesus, all of us are reconciled to one another and God.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I notice two things in this excerpt from Ephesians. The first is that the author, purporting to be Paul, is fired up about some astounding good news, and he can’t help but share it. This news is meant to be shared by Jew and Gentile alike, and it is good news because its embrace is wondrously inclusive.

But the second thing I notice is a statement that “in former generations this mystery was not made known to humankind.” This can sound a bit exclusive, as if no one before had been able to understand anything of God’s mysterious revelation. As if anyone could fully understand the mystery at work here.

And so, we are left with a quandary. How do we reconcile a seemingly exclusive claim on truth with the inclusive vision that lies at the very heart of it? How do we hold the truth of the author’s claim and not use it to beat others down?

If we paraphrase the message of Ephesians, the Gentiles are late to the party. Not having been explicitly a part of the previous covenants between God and his people recounted throughout the Old Testament, the Gentiles are yet now described as “fellow heirs” and “members of the same body.” But, the author of Ephesians asserts, even if the Gentiles are late to the party, they are not missing out on anything. Now, all people, regardless of race or clan or tribe, have access to the full riches of Christ’s gospel. At its heart, the message of Ephesians is about the reconciliation of all people with one another and God. And at the center of this stands Christ.

And this is the first of two main messages of the Feast of the Epiphany: that in God’s manifestation to the world in Christ, we are reconciled both with one another and even with the most unpredictable and perhaps abhorrent strangers imaginable. In the way that God chooses for his Son to be revealed as light to the world’s darkness, we see all boundaries disappearing and all hasty assumptions falling away. We see in the journey of magi astrologers to the infant King that God works from within their unchristian, pagan ways to lead them to Jesus. The magi follow the only thing they know anything about—the stars—and they find Christ Jesus. But not first before confronting the evil Herod. Even here, God works through this tyrant to lead the magi on to the Christ child. You see, Christ’s epiphany is a mystery beyond our explaining. That the magi found Christ was straightforward. How they got there was less so.

As I made my journey on I-76 last week, trying to stay within the lines marked on the interstate while reading the religious signs ranging from ostensibly truthful to patently offensive, there was a paradoxical metaphor at work. Processing the implicit and explicit theology of the signs, I became more and more determined to stay within the lines God has charted for me. To be more open to God’s presence and work in the world around me, I should stay in my own lane and not attempt to control the lives of others. And yet, as God manifests the truth of his gospel to a dark world that so badly needs its light, God does not stay within lanes. God drives the vehicles of his revelation where he chooses, and his light reaches those it most needs to reach. In some way, perhaps unknown to us, we must play a role in helping that light reach those for whom it is destined.

There is a responsibility we must claim as ambassadors of Christ’s gospel. We are here because we believe it’s true. I hope we are here because the gospel has brought us life. I hope we have seen it bring life to others. I hope we all can trust that it heals and changes lives. I believe that it is what can truly heal the fractious, unruly character of this world. Epiphany is our own call to venture out into the world’s darkness to bring Christ’s light into it, to announce abundant light into overwhelming darkness.

But we are left with the puzzling paradox of staying in our human lanes to let God be God and also giving voice to the truth we know in the depths of our souls. We can’t simply reduce it to billboard slogans of fear and arrogance. So, we find ourselves confronted by the second main message of this evening’s feast: all we have is a gift from God.

We think we must come to this feast every year bearing the gifts of our lives, as the magi brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But our purpose in coming to God’s altar this night is also to worship, adore, and receive the gift that God gives us in every Mass. Tonight that gift is amplified by the knowledge that God’s manifestation to the world is pure gift. We cannot control it. We cannot wield the gospel to force others into heaven. All we can do is accept the gift of the gospel, ponder it in our hearts, manifest it in our lives, and let its light shine and speak for itself in a world that will inevitably be illumined by its radiance. Then we pray that others will receive the good news. This is our call and none other. It is pure gift.

And one final afterthought from the magi: let us stay within our own lanes with humility and reverence, because in sharing Christ’s light, we carry the mystery of the gospel into darkness. If we accept the gift, then we can let God do the driving.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Epiphany
January 6, 2022

Dreaming Like a Child

With the news of Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s death last Sunday, I have been reflecting on the witness of his extraordinary life. And as I pondered today’s Gospel lesson, I could think of no better place for inspiration than Archbishop Tutu’s Children of God Storybook Bible.

I have referenced this marvelous book in another sermon. We keep it on the bookshelf in our children’s formation room because sometimes the best way to enter the Biblical stories is through the eyes of a child. Until the day of his death, Archbishop Tutu radiated a childlike character stemming from his profound trust in God’s promises.

It is remarkable that a victim of the sinful horrors of apartheid who received death threats for his protests against that unjust system, and who ostensibly had every reason to be bitter and resentful, actually emblemized the exact opposite. This he showed to the world in his leadership of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. The truth must always be told for healing to happen, was his consistent message. But once the truth is told, forgiveness must follow.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission embodied the heart of the Gospel that we so often forget. The consequences of truth-telling are not punishment and retribution. The fruit of truth-telling is forgiveness. Only such forgiveness can release God’s children from the slavery of sin and death into new life. What a strange dream it seems to us.

It is perhaps no surprise that Tutu’s Children of God Storybook Bible refers over and over again to God’s dream. It is simple yet profound. This dream is something unimaginably good for God’s people. It is the restoration of relationship with God and others. It is freedom. It is a way of living in which God’s people see the goodness for which they were made, to quote another of Archbishop Tutu’s book titles. It is seeing God’s goodness in others, too.

 But God’s dream is not just a dream because it heralds something wonderful for humankind. It is a dream because it seems like a fantasy to most of us. We inhabit the place of tension between the stupendous, promised reality of God’s dream and the absence of its fulfillment in this life.

In his children’s storybook Bible, Tutu retells Jesus’ final moments on the cross and has him pray to his heavenly Father to forgive those who have put him to death. In Tutu’s words, Jesus says, “Father, forgive them, for they do not understand your dream.”[1]

Perhaps this should be our prayer, too. Father, forgive us who do not understand your dream. How can we possibly understand God’s dream? We receive occasional glimpses of it, but then the quotidian and often tragic reality of life here below obscures our vision. And God’s promises to us too often seem like dreams that could never happen.

Because of this skepticism, it could be easy to dismiss the numerous dreams in Matthew’s Gospel. For Matthew, dreams are an important vehicle for God’s revelation. With all respect to Dr. Freud, many of us may enjoy our dreams and even derive fun from trying to interpret them, but do we really believe that God might speak to us in dreams? And do we dare imagine that a dream might be something more than fantasy? Do we believe that dreams might reveal something that is true?

It is somewhat difficult to accept Joseph’s unquestioning obedience to his dreams, on not only one occasion, but on three, as he seeks to protect Jesus and Mary from the cruel machinations of Herod. Within Church tradition, Joseph has become a model of exemplary obedience that could only be borne out of a deep trust in God’s faithfulness. In spite of the circumstances, Joseph appears to assume that God has what Desmond Tutu would call a “special plan” for the Holy Family.

But if we fail to understand God’s dream, we look at Joseph’s behavior and call him a fool. Who in their right mind would get up in the middle of the night and journey to Egypt, a place whose history loomed ominously for the Jewish people? Who in their right mind would then get up again and yet again to go to other lands, all because of some dreams?

And this entire story is made even more fantastical by what we do not hear in today’s Gospel passage. We do not hear the horrifying story of the massacre of the holy innocents, which is the tragic episode immediately before the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt. Jesus’ life was spared because of God’s “special plan” for him and his family, and yet the lives of thousands of innocent children were not spared. What do we make of that? And how is there any good news in this dream?

On many days, it’s hard to wake up, look at the news, and imagine there is any “special plan” for us. If you are like me, you are sick and tired of more dreadful news. You are weary of yet more environmental disasters and the prospect of others to come. You are fed up with unnecessary violence, injustice, and the fact that humanity seems utterly incapable of living into God’s dream, much less even realizing that God has a dream for us. Archbishop Tutu’s own description of God’s dream as becoming “one big, happy family sharing everything together” might seem laughable based on what we know. In our jaded moments, it’s the stuff of children’s books, we say. The prospect of hope in the future seems precisely like a pipedream. Our dreams of a different future are tantalizing only as escapist episodes, not as legitimate visions of a real and tangible future.

But in his storybook Bible, Tutu has Jesus utter these words: “Everyone who wants to see God’s dream come true must see with the eyes of a child.”[2] I can’t get away from this admonition. Is this what we’re missing? If anyone had reason not to believe in God’s dream because of tangible hardships and the prevalence of systemic sin, it was Archbishop Tutu. And if anyone could show forth childlike faith, it was he. If anyone could help point to God’s dream, it was also he. God’s dream becomes more than just a dream when it begins to change the present. God’s dream begins to plant its feet on the ground when it summons obedience precisely when the impossible seems possible.

Having been duped by hope in too many instances, do you find it easier to play the role of skeptic? Is vindictiveness more satisfying than forgiveness? Is doubt more emotionally gratifying to you than trust? If so, then maybe we can only offer the prayer that Tutu gives us: “Father, forgive us, for we do not understand your dream.”

The difficulty with Matthew’s description of the wild journeys of the Holy Family is that it all seems so pat and tidy in hindsight. In the midst of infanticide, a “special plan” for one baby hardly seems like a dream. Joseph’s motivation to get up and go based on dreamy angelic revelations might tempt us to doubt the integrity of his faithfulness. He had angelic wisdom to act upon, after all. It’s easy to get up and go when your dreams are divinely inspired. But hindsight is always 20/20. How can we really know how Joseph perceived his dreams? But what we do know is that Joseph acted and lived as if God’s dream were real. Not knowing the future, he nevertheless took his family and ventured into its uncertainty.

And so, with Archbishop Tutu’s help, we offer our prayer. Father, forgive us, for we do not understand your dream. Father, forgive a world that cannot glimpse your dream and venture into an uncertain future. Father, forgive a world that thrives off resentment and cannot extricate itself from that vicious cycle. Father, forgive those who think our trust in a gospel of hope is simply a pipedream. Father, forgive us when we cannot imagine that you are working from within human tragedy and horror. Father, forgive us who call ourselves Christians and can’t find enough good news to share with the world.

Can you imagine a world that dares to believe in God’s dream? Can you imagine a future where forgiveness reigns and resentment falls away? Do you believe that God will fulfill his promises, even if you don’t know how?

In our efforts to believe and dream, we continue to make our prayer. Father, forgive us when we do not understand your dream. Father, help us to act in the present even, and especially, when the future seems like a pipedream. Father, give us the eyes of children. Father, help us always to believe that your dreams for us will one day come true.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday after Christmas Day
January 2, 2022

[1] Desmond Tutu, Children of God Storybook Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2010), p. 111.

[2] Children of God Storybook Bible, 78-79.

The One Thing that Is Certain

The celebration of the Baptism of Our Lord had already passed, meaning Christmas was officially over, but the town was still festooned with Christmas trees and lights. The air was slightly chilly, but not incredibly so. It was the Middle East after all. My tour group had traveled to the West Bank by bus that day. And after enjoying a delicious lunch of salads in a small restaurant, we entered Bethlehem’s narrow, hilly streets.

We soon pulled up to the Church of the Nativity, which tradition tells us is built on the site of Jesus’ birth. It is an impressive edifice, with its foundations dating to the fourth century. I was traveling with a group of seminarians, as well as others who were immersed in a two-week study tour in which we walked in the footsteps of Jesus. The course was being led by someone deeply influenced by the Jesus Seminar movement, which meant that he was concerned with the historical Jesus and therefore doubted the veracity of many of the traditional sites associated with Jesus in the Holy Land.

I and many others on the tour found this mildly frustrating, even though we knew that a large number of the holy sites could not be authenticated by archaeological, factual, or historical evidence. And for most of us, that was okay. It was, in fact, not really the point of these holy sites. But the leader of this tour had, sadly, disturbed the comfort zone of some people in our group, especially those with little scholarly study of the Bible. And I understood their disappointment. Sometimes, it’s better to revel in mystery rather than trying to look for proof. And I had come to encounter the mystery, not to wallow in skepticism.

When we entered the massive Church of the Nativity, we first had to wait in a long line. We patiently held reverence and anticipation as the line snaked its way slowly to the front of the church. At the east end of the church is the altar, which is located behind an iconostasis, a large, ornate screen, adding to the mystique of the place. And below this grand altar is a grotto chapel, where tradition holds that Jesus was born sometime around the year 4 B.C.

During the long wait my heart raced with excitement. I could feel on my skin and with each breath I took the centuries of prayer seeped into the walls of this church. It was simply overwhelming. It was impossible not to be touched inwardly by the crowds of people who, like me and my tour group, had journeyed to pay homage at this place.

Finally, I and a handful of people entered the tiny grotto space. We stooped to go through the small doorway, and then we waited yet again to revere the holiest spot in the church, and one of the holiest in the world.

There on the floor below the main altar in that small chapel was a fourteen-pointed silver star with a Latin inscription reading, “here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.” I eventually took my turn in the line of people to place my head behind the curtains partially shielding the silver star. And I kissed the spot. My skin prickles thinking about it. Then, it was all over. I had to move on because a long line of other pilgrims still waited to venerate the supposed site of Jesus’ birth.

Throughout the rest of my trip in the Holy Land, I reflected on the sites we had visited. And I realized that neither I nor anyone else would ever really know the true history behind some of the holy sites, such as the Church of the Nativity. I was looking for a certainty that I could never, ever find. Others were, too. Some, like our tour guide, relished bursting the bubbles of other people’s certainties. But why? I admired the simple faith of those who did believe in the authenticity of the holy sites. And I admired the deep mystery of not knowing for sure, either.

In spite of my questions and lack of certitude, there was something that I knew for certain. And because I knew this one thing for sure, it didn’t matter to me whether I could prove the validity of holy sites with factual or historical information. The one thing I knew and treasured in my heart was that in some year, perhaps unknown to us, and in some historical place, which Scripture tells us was Bethlehem, Jesus Christ was born. This we know. God entered the human condition. God seeped his way into earthly existence so intimately that he got under our skin. And he touched us. And that, for me, is all that matters, because it is everything.

When St. John unfolds the wondrous Prologue of his Gospel, he takes us to the beginning, although there really is no beginning with God. And there, with echoes of the Book of Genesis, we find the pre-existent Word of God, waiting until that Word would become flesh and get under our skin. I found the anticipation and fulfillment in John’s words echoed in the long line leading to the grotto at the Church of the Nativity, waiting, suspensefully and hopefully, to confront a mystery in the flesh. And then, God comes among us and gets under our skin.

For the thirteen verses that open his Gospel, John spins poetic, philosophical, and theological language in what seems to be vague terms. It goes on and on until we finally arrive at verse fourteen. We enter the grotto. And since we have probably heard this passage of Scripture many, many times, we know it is coming. And if you are like me, it never loses its power. When I read it or hear it, I literally get goosebumps, because I remember that it points us to what really matters: that God, in some historical year and historical place, came so close to us, that he got under our skin to touch us in the most intimate way imaginable. We stoop to enter the grotto, and we mirror God’s motion of stooping to get under our skin. We kiss the silver star. We hear John’s words: And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

This is what matters. This we know for sure. This no skeptic can take away, because its power has enthralled the human race for a long, long time. Maybe you, like me, get goosebumps when you hear those words. It’s the bending down to kiss the star in the Church of the Nativity. It’s the prickly sensation we have when we suddenly understand that God has not remained aloof from us but has come to get under our skin so that we might become children of God.

I suspect that this Christmas, you, like I, have many, many questions. You may be seeking answers, too. With so much uncertainty around us, is it too much to ask for a little certainty? Don’t you at least want to know when this pandemic will end? Don’t you wonder whether we’ll be wearing masks again next Christmas? Wouldn’t you like some reassurance that everything will be okay, that all this illness and death will cease?

I don’t blame you for seeking those answers. I want them, too. I wish we could find them here today. But right now, our task is simply to celebrate a truth that may not answer all our questions but that rings with a profound certainty.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. This we know. God did not remain far off and distant. God got under our skin in a manner so intimate that we will never understand it. It’s the reason that every year at this time we metaphorically bend to kiss the silver star below the altar of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. We don’t do it because we have all the facts about that place. We do it because the place is holy. We do it because generations of people have made their way there because they know with certainty that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, that God got under our skin.

Only such a certainty could give us goosebumps. Only such a certainty could bring you here today. Only such a certainty can give us the hope that we desperately seek and find in the mystery of worship: that the Light that once shined in the darkness, in a definite point in history still shines among us. And even in the midst of all our questions, we can know for sure that this Light will pierce our darkness again at a time and a place that we might not yet know. And in spite of our lingering questions and uncertainty, we know one thing more: this Light that got under our skin and illumines our darkness, will never, ever go out.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after Christmas
December 26, 2021

The Light that Never Goes Out

Somehow, this night, in spite of the darkness outside and all around us, you have found this place. You could have been in any number of other places: at home by a cozy fire, celebrating at dinner with friends, or isolating yourself for fear of contracting the new variant of the virus. But you are here, and something has drawn you to this place.

Maybe it’s the light. At the time of year when the days are shortest and darkness comes too soon, something within us always seems to want to find the light, like insects gravitating to a flame. Maybe that’s why you have come to this church on this night. Are you looking for the light?

There is something irresistible about the charm of candlelight. Every year, people flock to candlelight carol services. Each Christmas Eve, during the singing of “Silent Night,” we dim the church lights and bask in the glow of hand candles. Even when all the world outside the walls of this church seems to be moral darkness, we still come to sit for a time in darkness knowing that there will also be candlelight to pierce through the gloom.

I witnessed this last Sunday evening at our service of Advent Lessons and Carols. We began in darkness, and there was a moment at the beginning of the service that, to me, felt a bit chaotic. Everyone stood up when the Tower bell rang, and just as we were supposed to light the congregation’s candles, we discovered that our candlelighters were out of wick. I found myself scurrying to the Tower doors to obtain a hand candle and pass it to an acolyte, who then proceeded to spread the light among the gathered congregation.

It was an awkward, perhaps suspenseful moment as we tried to summon light into the darkness. The light was supposed to appear, but for a minute, it seemed as if it wouldn’t. But once it did, it started to spread. And it could not stop. The next day, I watched the livestream of the service, but I didn’t sense the anxiety I felt inside as we sought to resolve the problem of wickless candlelighters. Instead, I saw something incredible happen. While I was inwardly anxious about resolving a liturgical detail, what I saw outwardly—and probably what most people saw—were tiny pricks of light spreading throughout the dark nave of the church. In the midst of the darkness, light had appeared.

And when finally it seemed that most people’s candles were lighted, one person on the Gospel side of the nave crossed the center aisle to pass the light to someone on the other side. I realized, then, that as much as I wanted to control the light that evening, I couldn’t, and even still, the light didn’t go out. It spread from person to person. The light was in no danger of being extinguished. Because it had been ignited, it could only be shared.

At this moment in time, when the entire world seems captive to chaos and illness, the image of light on this most holy night brings us back to the basics. The image of light is a simple image. It is used throughout Holy Scripture, and it may seem to be a trite one because it is used so much. There’s nothing clever about it. And yet, most people seem to understand what it means. That’s why it’s such a wonderful image.

As the prophet Isaiah tells us, to God’s people wandering in darkness, there is a great light sent from God that will shine the people into a new, better future. Eventually, there will be a Messiah who will bring his kingdom to reign and establish peace. And later, in the time of Caesar Augustus, to a land held in the vice-grip of Roman authority, the light appears in an angelic annunciation of a Savior’s birth. The glory of the Lord shines all around a huddle of lowly shepherds keeping watch in their fields. The light is carried by these same shepherds to the Holy Family itself, and Mary takes it inside, and she ponders it in her heart. And even when the light seems to become invisible, it never, ever goes out. It stays in the hearts of those like Mary who keep it aflame.

This light is pure gift. It is pure mystery. It cannot be fully fathomed or understood. It cannot be controlled. And yet it shines. We do not know when a gust of wind will threaten to blow it out. The more we try to protect it and keep it burning, the more we risk smothering it ourselves. But it always keeps burning. All we need to do is gaze upon and tend the flame.

We can imagine Blessed Mary after the shepherds have departed from her in Luke’s Gospel. She is left with a little flame in a candle, gazing upon it, pondering it in her heart. Meanwhile, the shepherds must go to other places, to share this light they have been given with others. The light has been ignited, and they must tell the good news of a Savior born for the salvation of the world.

And tonight, this is where the story stops. There will be other acts in this play. Mary’s entire life will be a grand sharing of the light that her Son Jesus has brought into the world. She will nurture the light as she rears her son and as he perfectly manifests the light of God to a world drowned in darkness. Even when people fail to perceive the light, the light is still there. It is a delicate, precious flame that can never, ever go out. The light always brings us back to the basics of the hope that is within us.

Here’s another truth: our present age is not the first to walk in darkness. Isaiah told of a people wandering in darkness, threatened by enemies, but seeing light in the hope of God’s future protection and blessing. The age of the shepherds, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus was ensconced in its own vale of darkness. And tonight, I imagine that many of us are bringing the sorrows of our hearts, our weariness, and all that weighs us down to the Christmas crèche. We are longing to behold even a glimmer of light to reassure ourselves that the flame has not gone out.

Two Christmases ago, who would have guessed we’d be fumbling in the dark of a pandemic? One Christmas ago, who would have thought we’d still be sealing our faces with masks, letting the chilly night air into the church, and dealing with new utterances of a vicious virus? Would you ever have imagined in your lifetime that you’d fear getting too close to someone or that you’d meet someone for the first time without ever seeing their entire face? Nearly two years in, we are just plain weary. We know there must be light at the end of the tunnel, but we can’t see it yet. And that, in and of itself, is frightening.

Last Sunday evening, as I stood at the back of the church before Lessons and Carols, I waited for the light to spread, not knowing how or if it would. I could not control it. But it spread and it lingered for over an hour. Throughout the service, I watched my hand candle get smaller and smaller, but it never burned out. The hand candles throughout the church lighted the way for people to sing carols and, perhaps, it brought into a dark time some glimmer of hope.

I suspect that you, like me, have come here tonight not to deny the weariness of this time but to find burning within it some light to give you hope. There are many who would try to squelch our hope or who would tell us that we are looking for it in the wrong place. But we all know better, I think.

The darkness is all around us. It will, in some sense, to a greater or lesser degree, always be with us. But emerging from within it, is a light that shines forth to a new future. This is how the light of Christ works. It shines out from the heart of the darkness. There are plenty of times when the light will have seemed to go out. And when that occurs, look inside your neighbor. Look inside yourself. Look especially to the manger and the cross. The light is there.

The reason we flock to church every Christmas is not only to celebrate the birth of Jesus, our Messiah and Savior, but to remind ourselves that there is a light burning within us that we must tend. It was shared with our ancestors long, long ago, and passed down through the ages. It sparked into the world on that dark night in a cave in the Middle East. It lit fires across the world, and although some burned out, the flame itself never did. At times, in order to preserve the light, it has been pondered in the hearts of the faithful until it could be shown forth again.

We, too, have been charged to tend this flame. Like a delicate candle, let us not walk too fast with it, lest a gust of wind overwhelm it. Let us not hurt the eyes of those around us by shining it too forcefully upon them. Let us hold it gently in our hands as the mystery that it is, knowing that it is ultimately beyond our understanding.

Do not hide this light. Carry it with you into the darkest places of the earth. And when those around you fail to shine their lights, look inside yourself to find the light that was given to us so long ago. For on this night, a Child was born. A Light was given to us and to the world. And all the ages, including ours, that have walked in darkness, have seen a great light. May we always look to it, both within and without.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Christmas Eve 2021

To Sing and To Dance

I have three confessions to make. The first is that I’m not a fan of musical theatre. I mean no offense to those of you who like it, but I just have never personally taken to it. The second confession is that, although I am trained as a professional musician and adore classical music, opera is not my favorite genre. I don’t dislike it. I go to operas and do enjoy some of them, but I prefer other musical genres. The third confession is that this sermon might have something to say to the first two confessions I have made.

As I reflect on why it is that I don’t particularly care for musical theatre or that some operas fail to captivate me, I think it might have to do with some lack of imagination within me. Maybe I find it difficult to take seriously the way people suddenly stop their normal speech and begin to dance and sing about something that is happening, especially in musical theatre. And it bothers me that as a trained musician I might find that nearly preposterous.

And yet, that is what both musical theatre and opera do. They suggest that the richness of life can’t be limited to the dry, spoken word. Some things must be sung about. Or danced out. And if we really engage with the mystery of life, perhaps singing and dancing are not ridiculous responses after all.

This inner compulsion to move our bodies and engage our vocal cords is not limited to musical theatre and opera. Perhaps you have witnessed it in everyday life among those who are less guarded than you. Or maybe you are free enough to act spontaneously, in the moment. I suppose I forgot to add another confession about myself. I don’t like to dance.

But I remember fondly the student in my choir at St. James School, when I was on the staff there, who in nearly every rehearsal could not sing without also dancing. To stop her from moving to the inner pulse of the music would have been cruel. Her inner impulse was always to dance.

It is this invisible, responsive energy manifesting itself in charged, visible action that strikes me in the story of the visitation of Mary to Elizabeth. It is a familiar story, but I wonder if we often miss what is pulsing like a strong electrical current beneath the surface of the text.

Mary has just been visited by the angel Gabriel, who has announced that she will bear the Son of God, although she has not known a man. This annunciation comes to her, unbidden and unsolicited. Mary is a teenager. She is not married. And now, she has a piece of astounding news hidden within her soul. With whom will she share it?

I am sure that much inner turmoil happened between the story of the Annunciation and the story of the Visitation that we hear today, although Scripture doesn’t help us here. What single, teenage girl in a society with strict norms about marriage would not have been terrified by the news from the angel? How many people would even have moved beyond fear in order to consider this as good news?

We have no reason to doubt that Mary was vulnerable to all these emotions. But the important thing for us is how she responded, and that’s what we hear about today. Mary is practically running from Nazareth all the way down to the hill country near Jerusalem. It’s a long journey by car, much less by foot. She makes haste, because, it seems, her soul, her heart, her mind, her whole being is radiating the electricity of the good news imparted to her. Her only response is to share it.

Share it she does, and when she does, Elizabeth responds in kind with a radiant blessing of Mary’s state. Even the unseen child in Elizabeth’s womb leaps for joy. This is a scene in which ordinary speech fails. The only appropriate response is song and dance. And Mary sings her praise of God, echoing the strains of Hannah’s song in 1 Samuel. The shared tradition of generations of women whose forlorn state is then blessed is a common song.

What is also so striking about this literal song and dance is that many people, perhaps many of us here today, find it preposterous. It is similar to the way in which musical theatre and opera stretch the limits of my own imagination at times. And maybe this says more about my need for imaginative growth than about the artistic media themselves.

But there is something else to this story of the Visitation that adds to its potentially preposterous character. It’s not that Mary and Elizabeth break into song and that even an unborn child dances. It’s why they do so. This is not some scene from a musical theatre production or an act from an opera. This scene is an embodied realization of the stupendous works of God.

For Mary and Elizabeth are united in being surprised by God. It is utterly nonsensical that someone of Elizabeth’s age could bear a child, but she does so by the grace of God. It is unthinkable that a human being could conceive a child without a human, biological father, but Mary does so by God’s initiative. And this, to most people, seems absurd.

But like my own criticism of musical theatre or lack of interest in some operas, this seems to say more about the jaded state of the world in which we live rather than about the veracity of what God has done.

What a contrast lies between God’s mighty works and what we believe God can actually do! It puts into bold relief the expectation of hope to which we are called as Christian people and the prevalent sterile skepticism that any hope is even possible.

Which is why the song and dance of Mary and Elizabeth are so important for us. It’s as if we are suspended in time and space, while confronted by injustice, inequity, violence, and destructive willfulness. And we watch not some grand entrance of a mighty God to stomp it out, but instead the ecstatic play of two humble women, graced by an unbelievable power. Their song and their dance are the profound faith in something seemingly unthinkable and absurd.

Day after day, it probably seems impossible to us to sing and dance like Mary, Elizabeth, and the unborn John the Baptist. Mary’s song appears to be a pipedream relegated to some inane musical theatre production. For the strong among us seem only to get stronger, the weak only weaker. The powerful literally get away with murder, and the rich become richer. The hungry are not fed in so many places, and the promise made to our ancestors is perceived to be a distant hope.

There are good reasons why many people cannot sing and dance like Mary and Elizabeth. Maybe you, too, feel that way. But maybe, too, our imagination needs to be inspired by the song and dance of Mary and Elizabeth. Perhaps, after all, there is something incredible we are missing.

It is easy to dismiss Mary’s song as musical theatrics if we think she only sang and danced because of what God did to her. We are also told that she is blessed because she believed that what God promised would come true. There was some potential for belief in Mary before she ever received the good news of God. We would be naïve to think that Mary witnessed the rich becoming poor and the poor becoming rich, and the hungry being fed and the powerful being knocked from their thrones. But Mary didn’t sing to respond shallowly to what she saw happening. She sang because she knew that in some unseen, perhaps even absurd world, God would and was already delivering on his promises. Mary required not visible signs. She believed. She trusted. And she sang.

Can you imagine such a world, where we could be filled with such intensity of hope in God’s promises? Can you imagine if we couldn’t help but move our bodies and sing and dance? Can you conceive of a world that could dare to imagine the unimaginable? Can you imagine saying no to the tired and benumbed illness of unbelief and saying yes to a fantastic world that is not only hopeful but true?

There may be no more demanding and essential task as Christian disciples than to cultivate, like a well-tended garden, the fruit of this hope. It will be a challenging endeavor on many days; we cannot deny that. But we cannot also deny the power of this hope.         

Let us look to Mary. Let us look to Elizabeth. Let us believe that even a child in the womb could be receptive to a dynamism among us testifying to the unbelievable power of almighty God. Let us revel in the dance. Let us embrace the absurd. Because God has delivered on his promises. He is doing so now. And he will do so again, throughout eternity.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 19, 2021