Where It All Begins

Suppose that you’re trying to learn a new language, and in the language learning app, you’re faced with a sentence divided into segments. Some of the segments are complete phrases, others are just a couple of words. The segments of the sentence are scrambled, and you must use your knowledge of syntax, vocabulary, and grammar to arrange the pieces into an intelligible, complete sentence. When doing this exercise, if you’re really in a bind, you can always rely on the segment that begins with a capital letter to get you started. At least you know where the beginning of the sentence begins. But all the other segments must be connected by the rules of the language and put together in a particular order for the sentence to mean anything.

If we were to scramble events in the first chapter of St. Mark’s Gospel, like a language learning exercise, how would we reconstruct it? We might even ask the question of whether the order of the events is all that important, aside from the historical sequence in the life of Jesus. Would it be possible for us to construct a convincing narrative by rearranging the events in a different order than the one Mark gives us? Maybe, but something crucial would be lost in doing so. Theologically speaking, order is everything. And because order is everything, we find ourselves today on the First Sunday in Lent revisiting the baptism of Jesus that we heard just a few weeks ago.

Let’s return to our imaginary exercise of confronting a scrambled version of chapter one of Mark’s Gospel. We find ourselves looking at several events. We have Jesus’s Galilean ministry, the call of the first disciples, his temptation in the wilderness, and his baptism by John. Of course, this isn’t the correct order, and we’re searching for a clue as to what comes first. Where’s the capital letter in all these segments? We need a clue to confirm what should come first.

Why couldn’t the call of the disciples be first? Or the Galilean ministry? And wouldn’t it make sense for Jesus to be tempted before being baptized and proclaimed as God’s beloved Son? In this way, the baptism and designation as God’s Beloved Son would affirm his weathering of the wilderness trial.

But in trying to reassemble the theological sentence of chapter one of Mark’s Gospel, the capital letter can only be found in the segment dealing with Jesus’s baptism. That’s where the sentence begins. The baptism must come first, not because Jesus needs to be washed of sin in any kind of way or even because he needs some kind of spiritual affirmation before he faces the wilderness temptation. The baptism must come first because who Jesus is explains why he is able to withstand the desert temptations. And the pattern of his self-emptying life seen in those wilderness trials must precede the call of his disciples, who are then to take up that cross-shaped pattern and follow him.

This order is important for us, too. If we’re looking for a capital letter to help us assemble the scrambled sentence of our lives, we need only look to who Jesus is. He’s the Beloved Son of God, the One who stooped to experience the greatest trials of the human condition and didn’t sin, who emptied himself even to death itself, and then journeyed into the depths of hell and brought all of humanity and creation up into the Godhead. And in doing so, he put the capital letter on the beginning of the sentence that God is writing for our own lives.

But there’s something more to the ordering of Jesus’s life that helps us reassemble the sentence of our own lives. To see that ordering, we must go back with Jesus to the wilderness. Unlike St. Matthew and St. Luke, Mark gives us a unique look into Jesus’s time in the wilderness. There’s no dialogue with Satan. We’re only told that Jesus was there for forty days and nights, tempted by Satan. He was with the wild beasts, and angels waited on him. Although this was undoubtedly a deep spiritual struggle, we don’t see him fighting with Satan. There seems to be no violence to this scene in the wilderness. Jesus simply shows who he is: God’s Beloved Son in steadfast, confident holiness, enduring the wiles of the devil and coming out on the other side as the victor. And because that victory has been won, our future has been prepared by God.

Do you see now that the order of things matters a great deal? Because of who Jesus is, he’s able to suffer the dregs of the human condition without succumbing to retaliation or violence. Because of who Jesus is, God invites us in our own temptations and trials to face the darkest moments of our existence, knowing that they have no power over us.

We don’t know exactly who the wild beasts were in the desert with Jesus, but we might imagine them literally as dangerous animals and also as the horrible, accusing thoughts that Satan used to assail Jesus. And rather than fighting them, Jesus only refused to give them the power they longed to have. And in doing so, he emerged as the victor.

Could it be so with our own Lenten journeys? What are we afraid of this Lent? Who are the wild beasts among us? Are we afraid of the dark emotions that have nestled in the bottom of our souls? Are we afraid of the anger that borders on murderous rage at times? Are we afraid of losing control? Are we terrified of the envy that causes us to loathe others? Are we scared of the accusing thoughts that tell us we’re not talented or smart or wealthy enough to receive God’s love? Are we assailed by a nagging pessimism that tempts us to question the viability of our own futures? What are we afraid of this Lent?

And when we recognize this fear, what happens? They say that when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Are we spiritually armed with a perpetual hammer that makes us want to smash the living daylights out of all those emotions and thoughts that terrify us? Do we run from them? Do we employ yet more rage against them? This, it seems, is so often the Christian approach to perceived evil. We want to smash it to smithereens. We behave as if it has more power over us than it really does, and in doing so, we betray who we really are. We become people who react and fight in fear. But God calls us to endure and act in love. We have no need to fight. We only need to exist in the confident hope given to us by the capital letter that begins the sentence of our lives.

And this is precisely why the order of things matters. If we’re looking for a capital letter to help us reorder the scrambled sentence of our spiritual lives, we need to look no further than the defining event and truth that makes sense of it all. It all starts with who Jesus is and what he has done for us. As God incarnate, who deigned to undergo the trials of the human condition and emerge victorious, the evils that continue to vex us in this life have no power. Because the Crucified One was raised from the dead and now lives among us risen and glorified, the tempter and enemy of our natures has no power over us. There’s no need to fight. There’s no need to use violence. There’s only a need to rejoice in the fact that with faith and trust in God, there’s nothing that can change the divine ordering of our lives. It starts with what Jesus himself has done for us and who he still is for us. And while there may be wild beasts among us, the angels are ready to minister to us as well.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday in Lent
February 18, 2024

You Are Mine

If we were to exchange Valentine’s Day candy hearts this evening, they might bear strange messages on them. Instead of “sweetheart” or “be mine” ours would say “you’re dust” or “repent.” We might as well own the oddness of the 2024 calendar as we begin Lent on Valentine’s Day.

But we would also do well to pay attention to the intersection of God’s time, kairos time, with our calendar time, or chronos time. A martyr’s feast day has become a secular day celebrating romantic love, and a as the world celebrates romantic love, the Church enjoins fasting and repentance. There’s a glaring irony in the Ash Wednesday liturgy as we come forward to have ashes imposed on our foreheads just minutes after we hear Jesus’s warning against practicing piety in public. It might be tempting to justify not being here today because to kneel before God in repentance and to receive ashes and to refrain from a celebratory dinner on Valentine’s Day would seem to draw attention to our piety. And this begs the question of what we might be tempted to run away from.

But perhaps the greatest paradox of all on this Ash Wednesday is that by not coming here in repentance, we would show ourselves to be the most flagrant hypocrites of all. To avoid the ritual intentions of Ash Wednesday, we would implicitly admit that our sinfulness must define us and our future. It would be, in some sense, to deny our deepest identity as beloved children of God.

On a day where people exchange candy hearts with meaningless messages on them, we recall that there’s a greater message that God is sending to us in in our fasting and penitence. It comes to us not stamped on a little candy heart, but underneath the confessions of sin and imposition of ashes and starkness of tonight’s Mass. It’s a message written on our very hearts themselves, a message straight from God: you are mine.

Despite our fickleness and spiritual amnesia, despite our sullenness and ingratitude and hardheartedness, despite our complacency and malaise, that message is still written on our hearts. You are mine. We always have been, and we always will be God’s beloved, no matter what we do. It’s hypocritical to pretend otherwise.

It’s hypocritical to live as if we were never washed in the waters of baptism and cleansed of sin and marked as Christ’s own forever. It’s hypocritical to live as if we’re estranged from God when God is closer to us than we are to ourselves. It’s hypocritical to look for true love in worldly pleasures, or shallow friendships, or in our careers, or in self-affirmation. We’re God’s, and we have always been God’s, and we will always be God’s. And if we’re looking for true love, we need to return to the very beginning to find it.

The ashes that will soon be imposed on our foreheads remind us of our mortality, that we are dust and to dust we shall return. But they also remind us that the dust from which we were made was called good, and that the dust to which we shall return will one day be raised in glory. You are mine, God says. You have always been mine, you are mine now, and you always will be mine.

Tonight, God wants not affected piety or manipulative prayers or groveling before him. God doesn’t need our guilt or over-scrupulosity. There’s no material thing we can give God to gain anything, and God doesn’t trade in transactions. We already have everything we need because God has already given it to us. God simply wants our hearts, and nothing less. God wants to transform our cold hearts of stone into warm hearts of flesh and put a new spirit within those hearts. And because God is already dwelling in our hearts, God really just wants us to sift through the clutter and shame in our souls to see him way down at the bottom, looking at us with great love. And God longs for us to echo back to him what he’s always been saying to us: you are mine.

The bizarre realization of Ash Wednesday, and indeed of Lent itself, is that the more we run from our sins, the more we run from love itself. Awareness of our sins is a profound grace that calls us away from a life of hypocrisy and towards our true identity as beloved children of God, released from sin and meant to be free. Jesus’s warnings against making overt displays of piety in public could just as well be applied to the excessive self-shaming and self-abasement common among many Christians. Such grotesque reveling in our unworthiness is, above all, hypocritical because it’s full of pride. It’s a proud thing to refuse God’s love and forgiveness. It’s a proud thing to ignore the eternal message God sends us on this Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday, and, indeed, every day: you are mine.

To boldly acknowledge that we are dust and to dust we shall return is to receive God’s eternal gift of love. It’s to know that even the dust itself came from God’s gracious hand, and that the dust itself will not be wasted on the last day. To say we’re sinners and ask for forgiveness is to own the hypocrisy of living as if we haven’t been claimed as Christ’s own forever. To perversely relish our unworthiness is to refuse the astounding gift of God’s unending love, mercy, and compassion. To reject such love is to tell the greatest lie of all, that we belong to the deceiver who, night and day, prowls around like a roaring lion and constantly tells us that we are his instead of God’s.

But today, we reject that lie by being here to have our heads marked with ashes, to confess our sins, and to receive Christ’s healing in the Eucharistic bread and wine, all despite our own imperfections. And in showing up with all our imperfections, we’re not hypocrites but as utterly honest with ourselves as we could ever be. We’ve chosen to receive God’s precious gifts of mercy and forgiveness that mark our truest identity as his beloved children, redeemed and loved. And in those gifts, God reminds us: you are mine, you always have been, and you always will be.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Ash Wednesday
February 14, 2024

A Gospel Worth Trusting

If you will, imagine that you’re watching a play for the first time. It's just before the final act, and the curtain hasn’t yet been raised. The curtain is made from gauze, so it’s partially transparent, but it’s also difficult to make out the details of what’s on the other side because the house lights are so dim.

The final scene is set, and you, along with the rest of the audience, are waiting with bated breath to discover how everything will end. Until this point, the play has been quite dramatic. It’s about someone named Jesus, who people believe is the long-awaited Messiah. Remember, you must imagine that you know nothing about Jesus; you’re seeing this play and hearing this story for the very first time.

Thus far, the script has taken you through Jesus’s earthly life, where he casts out demons, heals the sick, preaches the good news, and works wonders. And you’ve also seen how his ministry has disturbed others. You’ve witnessed the side conversations and secret meetings with his opponents. You’ve watched as this Messiah has been cheered by crowds, then abruptly mocked and viciously antagonized. You’ve seen his closest followers confess loyalty to him and then deny knowing him in the next breath.

At the end of the previous scene, you were left with a cliffhanger. One of the Messiah’s very own disciples betrayed him with a kiss and handed him over to the authorities, who then arrested him and brought him before Pontius Pilate. And then, at a climactic moment, as Jesus stands before Pilate, before any conversation is heard, the lights go out, the diaphanous curtain drops, and the act ends.

Now, you and the rest of the audience are impatiently waiting to see how everything will pan out in the final act. But remember, this story is completely new to you. And now, you’re looking through the dim lighting and gauzy curtain to try to predict what will occur next based on the scenery and characters assembled on stage. You can make out crowds of people. There’s also a hill, and there appear to be three crosses erected on this hill, or is it a mountaintop? That much isn’t clear. It seems that there are three people hanging on these crosses, but you can’t tell who they are.

And because this story is unfamiliar, you wonder what will happen, and you try to figure it out. You’ve seen all Jesus’s amazing works in the play until this point, and now you’re convinced that he is the world’s Savior. And although you’re deeply aware of the antagonism directed towards him, you’re also hopeful that he will bring God’s salvation to earth and that he’ll be vindicated in glorious form. Justice will be served to right all wrongs.

And as you try to figure out just who is hanging on those crosses, you become certain that one of them can’t be Jesus the Messiah. Based on your hopes for this Messiah and on what others have told you, you believe that Jesus’s vindication will mean that the ones hanging on the crosses will be the ones who persecuted him. Justice in human hands has been won. This is how God would want it.

As you’re trying to rationalize the ending in your mind, the curtain goes up. The lights fade in. You gasp as the rest of the audience gasps. You’re in shock. It’s not Jesus’s opponents who hang on the crosses. Jesus himself hangs on the central cross, surrounded by two criminals. The audience who, like you, doesn’t know what will happen, is scandalized. Some are leaving the theatre. You hear a murmur of discontented voices, and someone even yells, “this can’t be!” This isn’t how things are supposed to turn out.

It turns out that the gauzy curtain between you and the scene on the stage was a veil of judgment, which you now realize. When you couldn’t see through clearly to the other side, you made up the ending based not on God’s perspective but on a human perspective. How could Jesus be consigned to the fate of a criminal? How could his victory be won through death? Why didn’t he exact the world’s justice on those who persecuted him? How could God let this happen? This wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out. This makes no sense.

But of course, you rightly say, we know how this story unfolds, and it’s very hard to confront the ending of the story as if we didn’t know it. And yet, if we could encounter this story as if for the first time, we might realize that a veil still hangs between us and the redeeming life of our Lord and Savior. Isn’t it true that we still struggle to make out its ending through the opacity of the curtain’s veil?

I think that St. Paul’s words still ring true. If our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing, he says. The god of this world—the one Scripture calls the father of lies, the Satan—is still at work. He’s not causing heads to spin or bodies to contort. He’s pulling down a translucent curtain between our eyes and the story of salvation that continues to unfold before us through the power of the Incarnation. And the story isn’t over yet.

Whether in the workplace or home or even in the Church, we’re still prone to make up the Gospel as we go along. It’s as if we view the world through a gauzy curtain rather than through the transparent lens of the Gospel. We look at situations and people through a veil, and we see the final ending of the play that we want to see. And this must mean that we don’t usually see the world through the eyes of the cross. Instead, we see the convicted felon as the encapsulation of his most hideous act. We see the person who offended us decades ago as one undeserving of our forgiveness. We see the degrees listed after our names as the truest marker of our identity. We see the size of our houses or bank accounts as our ultimate security.

Or we see political dysfunction as a reason for despair or the stock market as the predicter of a parish’s survival, or we deduce the absence of God from statistics on world poverty or hunger or predict the demise of the Church based on the litany of wrongdoings committed by Church leaders.

The veil which hangs between us and the Gospel is deceptive. It’s a delicate spider web woven by the Accuser and father of lies who’s waiting to catch us in his sticky grasp. And so often, we take the bait. We believe the lies. We believe that flashy voices speak the most convincingly or that skepticism is the road to wisdom. Many have simply come to believe that the Gospel can’t speak for itself. The Gospel needs to have sparkle and pizzazz and that, without those things, it will fail.

The Gospel is dressed up in whatever guise necessary for it to be heard, whether parlor tricks or sound bytes or easy messages of neatly packaged ideas and perpetual prosperity. And the gauzy curtain comes down on the stage between the Gospel and us, and we see through the veil what we want to see, not what God intends. We see a Gospel and a world made in our own image, where the offenders get their just deserts, the faithful get rich, and our unchallenged comfort is God’s eternal will.

But the paradox is that by dressing the Gospel up, we make it bad news. Such a veiled Gospel shames those who are small in this world and condemns the poor, the quiet, and the meek. A veiled Gospel elevates the contented ones, whose complacency is disturbed by the suffering masses. In short, a veiled Gospel turns the cross upside down and robs it of its power. The world of the veiled Gospel is one in which nothing is ever enough because the Gospel itself isn’t enough. Simply put: it’s a world where there is no trust in the Gospel.

It's no coincidence that we hear the convicting words of St. Paul on the same day that we hear the story of the transfiguration of Jesus on the holy mountain, on the very cusp of Lent. When looking through a veil at the crucifixion, we might very well see only the glory of transfiguration and ignore the cross on the other side in the valley. We see what we want to see and ignore what we want to ignore.

But although the father of lies will always seek to pull the wool over our eyes, there is One infinitely greater who will raise the curtain on a remarkable scene before us. It’s a scene of ultimate truth, where an empty tomb shines with the light of Easter morning. And from this empty tomb a Gospel that needs no makeup will be carried with great haste to the ends of the world by fervent believers who have the courage to trust it.

Even today, that Gospel pulses with electricity despite its scoffers. It stands, preserved in all its simple yet profound glory and truth. Although it has been fumbled in the hands of many and veiled by others, there’s nothing we need to add to it. It needs no costume dress or shiny sparkles. It only needs loving and trusting hands. It needs our hands to believe in its power and to ignore the voices that make us question its efficacy. And most of all, it needs our confident hands to carry its gleaming light into the darkness.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
February 11, 2024

Wanting to Be Found

I haven’t seen the television series The Chosen, and I admit to being biased against it for reasons that are probably not entirely fair. But I do understand from some trustworthy and astute parishioners that it’s worth watching. Based on what they’ve told me, at the very least, the show’s dramatic portrayal of Jesus’s life in ministry could encourage us to encounter the Gospel stories with more imagination.

Truth be told, it’s not always easy to do this. Maybe we think that we’re not allowed to use our creative intelligence with holy Scripture. Or maybe we feel as if we don’t have enough to work with in the text itself. And Mark’s Gospel, of all the Gospels, is pretty lean in its prose. It’s a rapid-fire succession of dramatic events, with little embellishment. Mark gets straight to the point.

But, if I were scripting today’s Gospel story for television, and if I needed a title for the episode, I would call it “The Hunted.” We’d want to draw the viewer in without delay, so the initial scene would feature Jesus with Simon, Andrew, Simon’s mother-in-law, James, and John in a tiny house eating a meal prepared by Simon’s newly-healed mother-in-law. They’re enjoying fellowship and conversation after this meal when, suddenly, the rumble of feet is heard outside. Voices get closer. And before long, people are knocking on the door and pressing against it. The door itself is bowing in.

Scores of eager people outside have come from all over the little village of Capernaum because they need something from Jesus. They’re desperate. Some desire healing for themselves or other family members. Others merely want to catch a glimpse of Jesus. But all of them want something from this man about whom they’ve heard so much. Jesus is the pursued. He’s the one who is hunted by the crowd.

In the next scene of our television episode, we see Jesus healing all these people who’ve hunted for him. The remains of the meal previously shared are left on the table inside the house. Jesus is outside, working once again. We see him silence the demons, who oddly enough, know who he is. But in a subsequent scene, the camera fades into a glimpse of Jesus sitting alone in a deserted place, praying. It’s a vivid contrast to the previous scenes, in which he was bombarded with requests from hordes of people. The melee has subsided into tranquility. Now, he has hunted for a lonely place to be with God, all by himself.

But this quiet loneliness will not last. Soon, Simon and some others seek him out. We’re told that they pursue him, but the verb is really stronger than that. The meaning is closer to that of a predator going after prey. They hunted for him. They zealously sought him out because everyone is searching for Jesus.

It's been debated whether this hunting for Jesus was perhaps misguided. People were always seeking Jesus out, and rarely did they understand his mission. They wanted his healing, teaching, and comfort, but when they learned how difficult discipleship was, they fell away and lost their nerve. So, some have interpreted the disciples’ hunting for Jesus as a negative intrusion on his desire for privacy.

But right now, I don’t want to get lost in the weeds on this nuance. I want to give Simon and the disciples the benefit of the doubt. Were they possibly misguided? Yes. Did they understand what following Jesus would really mean for them? Not yet. But there’s something in their hunting for Jesus that’s compelling to me. I’m moved by the fact that so many people wanted to be near and with Jesus. He’s the one who’s hunted, perhaps not so much as a predator goes after its prey but as a suffering person goes to any length to find the source of their healing.

And maybe I’m so drawn to this hunting of Jesus because it feels so removed from our own age. Jesus so often does not seem to be the hunted one these days. He’s the neglected one, the ignored one, the forsaken one, because many people simply think they don’t need him. And there are many who claim to love him in their own way, but they still seem to be looking for every excuse not to find him. I don’t understand it, and it breaks my heart. But you’re here today because you’re hunting for him, and so am I. Let’s linger for a while with this incredible image of Jesus being passionately pursued by the crowds.

The fact that crowds of people were hunting for Jesus is evidence that something was amiss in their world. We tend to think our own societal problems are worse than they’ve ever been in human history, but that’s simply a mark of modern arrogance. Jesus was born into a deeply troubled and disordered world. And if I directed an episode of The Chosen, I would make sure those problems were known: the injustice, the imperial oppression, the marginalizing, the stigmatizing, the poverty, the hunger. All of it would be shown in vivid detail because such a description explains why Jesus was sought out and pursued. The suffering masses were hunting for him because they wanted to be free, and they somehow sensed that this man for whom they were hunting would not only heal them and help them: he would give them glorious liberty.

It begs the question of why more people aren’t hunting for Jesus in our own day. If we really are so tired of the perpetual bad news and of seeing hearts broken, then why aren’t more people hunting for the one who will set us free? And do those of us who profess to be hunting for him truly believe that he can and will set us free? Or have we, too, given into the narrative of despair? Where are the masses of people at the doors of our churches, yearning to get in and meet the one who saves and makes us whole?

And yet, there’s one thing that would be hard for us to depict in today’s Gospel story if it were scripted for television. We have the benefit of living in the aftermath of the resurrection, and this changes everything. And on the other side of the empty tomb, there’s an astounding role reversal. The one who is hunted before the resurrection suddenly becomes the hunter after he’s raised from the dead. He’s the hunter in the best sense of the word. He takes all the desperateness out of the zealous pursuit and turns it into perfect love.

The risen Christ is the one who seeks us out in love. The one who prayed by himself in a lonely place and was sought out is now the one who’s not bound by time and space and who finds us in our own lonely places. The one once hunted is the Good Shepherd who goes after his sheep. He pursues us relentlessly, not to accuse or condemn us, but to love us back into wholeness and to bring us back to his heavenly Father in that unremitting love.

He seeks out all with an indefatigable passion: the lonely, the lost, the forsaken, the imprisoned, the sick, the stubborn, the angry, the cold-hearted. He searches for all of them with the same measure of compassion, ready to heal, love, forgive, and redeem. There’s no good way to depict this in visual form. It defies storytelling. It’s simply a truth that I wish more people could know and understand.

This pursuit by the risen Christ is an incontestable fact. He seeks us out, whether we’re looking for him or not, whether we’re knocking on the door of his house or running away from it. But there’s one catch to all this. We won’t be transformed by his gift of love unless we want to be found. We aren’t prey hunted by a predator, we’re beloved children sought after by the one who loves us infinitely more than we love ourselves. But he never forces us into that love. We can only be embraced by his love if we stop running from it.

God has a mission for us, and it’s one that will run off the pages of any television script. It can’t be scripted because its reach is too vast. We’re being invited to take our love and knowledge of being pursued passionately by Christ into the world. We’re to go into the streets, alleys, and hidden corners of our communities and let the citizens of our anguished, lonely world know that they, too, are being pursued by one who wants to love them back into wholeness. And he’s the only one who will make us whole and set us free.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 4, 2024

Showing Up for Salvation

I’ve always loved how random characters in a novel by Charles Dickens suddenly reappear later in the story. A character with a humorous name like Pipwick or Bumblewig will make an initial appearance, and then, just when you least expect it, the character returns towards the end of the plot, proving to play some important role in the narrative. This is also why the television show Seinfeld is so brilliant. Ingenious writing ties several disparate plot threads together, and somehow it all works.

Charles Dickens or the producers of Seinfeld might have enjoyed tying together the seemingly unrelated stories of the Holy Family, Simeon, and Anna. These strands at first appear to be no more than three ordinary, unrelated stories, but in the hands of St. Luke the Evangelist, they’re shown to be intricately woven together by the subtle hand of God.

Without knowing how this story of Jesus’s presentation in the Temple is going to play out, you might wonder what all these characters have to do with one another. But we soon learn that something marvelous unfolds out of the different stories of a family with a newborn baby, a righteous and devout man, and an ancient prophetess who spends most of her time in the Temple. The marvelous intertwining of these initially unconnected lives is what, in ordinary life, would be called a coincidence, but we know there’s no coincidence here. God is doing something.

The first story strand involves Mary and Joseph, who are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do according to the Law. They’re going to the Temple to present their firstborn son to be dedicated to the Lord. It’s worth noting their obedience to the Law, especially in an age where we tend to scorn obedience. The Law tells them to show up in the Temple after a certain period of time, and that’s what they do. Why would they question the Law’s command? And while they could have made excuses about not being able to afford a sheep for the sacrifice required by the Law, they also know that a turtledove or a pigeon will suffice. This family is obedient, and because they’re obedient, they bother to show up in the Temple.

In the second strand, we’re introduced to a righteous and devout man named Simeon. Simeon also shows up in the Temple, not because he’s commanded to, but because he’s inspired by the Holy Spirit. We might call him deluded these days. He feels a nudging and a call to show up at the Temple. And while many might have dismissed that hunch, Simeon pays attention to it. Maybe it’s because he’s particularly attuned to God’s voice by virtue of his righteousness and faithfulness. Maybe he shows up because he hasn’t yet given in to the despair of his own day. He’s still looking for the consolation of Israel while many have given up or become disgruntled with impatience. And to our own jaded and skeptical world, we might laugh or at least marvel at Simeon’s confident hope. He surely sees the broken, hurting world around him, but he still hasn’t given up on God. So, he shows up, too.

And the third plot strand involves a prophetess named Anna. Now, she’s the local eccentric. She never leaves the Temple. I wonder if her lips were constantly moving in silent prayer like Hannah in 1 Samuel, and we know that Hannah’s observers just thought she was intoxicated. Anna is quite old, maybe even over the age of 100, so perhaps people unjustly questioned the reliability of her mental faculties. And we know what people think of those who are constantly praying or worshipping. They need to get a life, and they must be. . . well, you fill in the dots. But Anna also knows where she’s supposed to be, where she’s meant to be, perpetually in the presence of God in that holy Temple, praying and fasting. So, she shows up, too. She always shows up.

It’s at this point in the story where Charles Dickens or a scriptwriter for Seinfeld might merge the three plot strands together. The story about nothing turns into a story about something quite remarkable. And this is precisely what Luke does. Simeon’s faithful expectation of God’s salvation meets two peasant parents who show up obediently with their child, who is the Savior, and those parents learn something more about just who their son is. I imagine those unnamed persons in the Temple also learned something, too. And then Anna gets thrown into the mix, as well, helping others see the mighty works of God.

From three ordinary strands, an incredible story is woven that moves far beyond that of a poor family showing up in the Temple according to the Law, or a man showing up because of a hunch, or an elderly woman witnessing one more presentation in the Temple because she was always there. The story that has been woven is authored by a God who takes the mundane and weaves it into a surprising story of salvation and good news for the entire world. God’s eternal, mysterious time is superimposed on quotidian time. It’s enough to surprise even twenty-first century rationalists.

God has created this tapestry of good news by using both obedience and freedom. God has taken the loyalty and dutifulness of humble parents, mixed it with the faithfulness of prayer, and added a dollop of profound openness to the unpredictability of a Holy Spirit that blows at will. And for a moment, before everyone returns to their ordinary lives, it becomes clear how this God works. It becomes clear how this God is tied up in human lives. Obedience mixes with freedom, and as the world will later find out, in this alternative universe, by losing your life, you will find it anew. In submitting to God’s law and will, true freedom is gained. In paying attention to the ordinary, the extraordinary is revealed. In showing up, salvation is found.

And this evening, you’ve shown up, too. For some reason, you’ve chosen to be here rather than somewhere else. Maybe you were scheduled to serve in some capacity. Maybe you felt obligated. Maybe you really just wanted to attend the potluck supper. But whatever the reason, you showed up, and in an age where people don’t always show up for God, that’s no small feat. It’s a deep mystery that this stone building set among so many other buildings in a busy community can be a locus for the revelation of extraordinary grace, a grace that is always readily available if we bother to show up.

In this place, spiritually hungry people show up, randomly, searching for answers. Others are brought by compulsion. Strangers stumble through the doors in a time of crisis. People come week after week because it’s what they were brought up to do. And then the Holy Spirit weaves all those strands together in some unfathomable way. It defies our control, but it changes us irrevocably.

In a world of competing demands, it’s far too easy not to show up. It’s far too easy to question the nudges that surprise and yet compel us to some action. It’s far too easy to write the faithful churchgoer or devout person off as out of their mind. It’s far too easy to dismiss the quirky character whom God will bring back at the end of the story to tie the amazing plot together. It’s far too easy to imagine that we could ever be characters in such a fantastic story, especially when our lives seem little more than a story about nothing.

But the presentation of the world’s Savior under the obligation of the Law reveals the manifestation of the powerful freedom of God. Obedience and freedom go together, the extraordinary is manifested in the ordinary, and from nothing, something boundlessly life-giving and creative emerges. And as ordinary as it may seem, when we bother to show up, we will find that there’s no detail that God can’t or won’t use to weave together his beautiful story of salvation.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple
February 2, 2024

[The notion of divine providence guiding the intersection of the lives the Holy Family and Simeon is powerfully noted by Joel B. Green in The Gospel of Luke (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 146.]

The Only Thing Worth Having

The church in which I was raised was an interesting piece of architecture that dated from the modernist period following the Second Vatican Council. You entered the church at the front, so everyone could see your messed-up hair or untucked shirt when you passed through the doors. The sacristy was at the back, so the altar party could easily process to the altar.

The roof sloped from over the sacristy to the front, over the altar, at a rather steep angle. There was a skylight over the baptismal font. There were abstract Stations of the Cross about which I could make neither head nor tail. There was little symmetry in the internal arrangement, and pews surrounded the altar on most sides.

It turns out that the innovative design of this church may have been its downfall, though. After a major hurricane in 2017, the church experienced so much damage that it couldn’t reopen again. Maybe it was the innovative roof or experimental design, or perhaps just shabby craftsmanship, but sadly, this past fall, the building was demolished. Sometimes innovative designs just don’t work. Maybe they’re too innovative for their own good.

But take this building, for instance. There’s nothing innovative about it. It’s a feat of bold retrospection, idealizing a period in Church history that we like to imagine was purer and better than any other time. News flash: it wasn’t. But no matter how flimsy that romanticized argument of the medieval period is, this building isn’t flimsy. Sure, the windows and the roof have been known to leak. Water seeps through the porous stone when it rains, and brittle stone falls off the walls, which is why I wouldn’t recommend using Wissahickon schist for stone in the future. But this building has a good structure. It’s solid. They just don’t build them like this anymore, we say. This building has strong bones. It’s not puffed up by innovation; it’s meant to last.

That, I think, is St. Paul’s understanding of ministry, at least if we draw a connection between his theology of the Body of Christ and the mission of the Church. “Knowledge” puffs up, but love builds up. Our translation puts scare quotes around knowledge. Too often, we moderns simply think we know more than we do. And as Paul bluntly tells us, if someone thinks they really know something, they don’t know anything at all.

It’s excellent advice that Paul gives us. Be builders, he exhorts, not people who are puffed up by big talk. It’s less about what you “know” (scare quotes again) and more about how you love. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Talk all you want about your “knowledge,” but it means absolutely nothing without love and charity. And love and charity are delectable.

The somewhat enigmatic passage from Paul’s 1 Letter to the Corinthians is not so much about food sacrificed to idols; it’s about how to flourish in a community built up by love, rather than one that’s merely a puffed-up bubble of conceit. For Paul, it means nothing if some of the Corinthians can in good conscience participate in feasts containing meat that has been involved in pagan sacrifices. Their consciences might be clear because they know that idol worship has no validity to it. Who cares if I eat that meat, they say? I don’t believe in that pagan nonsense.

But not everyone is as assured as those puffed up with “knowledge.” For some, who have not quite realized the invalidity of idol worship, watching others chow down on meat used in idol worship is harmful to their faith. Oddly enough, something that might not be an inherently sinful action could be sinful if it affects another brother or sister in Christ. Sin is profoundly contextual in some instances.

For those of us puffed up with Darwin’s notion of survival of the fittest, Paul’s words are simply ludicrous. After all, we “know” so much more than Paul because we have “evolved.” And those of us who have “evolved” will survive; the rest will die out. For those of us steeped in a culture of individualism, we imagine that our innovative minds and sophisticated “knowledge” give us license to do whatever we want, assuming we avoid blatant sinning. But often we sin when we try to demonstrate the correctness or sophistication of our “knowledge” and thereby wound the novice in the faith, who still needs milk and is not yet ready for solid food.

Undoubtedly, our age is one of much puffed-up “knowledge” and very little checking of the tongue or staying of the arm. Sometimes our puffed-up knowledge is better kept inside than let out, though, especially if it’s not grounded in charity. Love builds, but knowledge can easily tear down. And that Christ-like love, the builder of all good things, requires patience, sensitivity, grace, compassion, and above all, wisdom. St. Paul is right. We’re called to be builders, not destroyers.

Something can be torn down in the blink of an eye but take decades to rebuild. An insensitive remark can do long-term, irreparable damage, but a small gesture of love can move another soul in an instant. A bold stance taken for a supposedly right and just reason can go deeply wrong when others are destroyed in its wake. Sometimes even the zealous proponent of “truth” is the only one standing after the rest of the building surrounds him in smoking embers.

And for those steeped in this “age of anxiety,” to borrow from W.H. Auden, the temptation is, oddly enough, not to build with patient love but to build with haste. Many lust after innovation as the newfound idol that will solve all the problems of malaise and decline. Many long to stand out with novelty in a sea of apathy, wrangling whatever gimmicks are available to cheerlead others into faith. Provocation and careless banter are wielded to command attention. And rarely does such innovation and provocation pause to assess the souls that have been lost to their crassness. Only infrequently, it seems, are charity’s quietness and gentleness recognized as the best ways of all.

Yes, as St. Paul reminds us, we’re called to be builders, not puffed-up innovators. If we’re truly following Christ, then we won’t accept a tired narrative of Church decline or easy solutions to anxious problems. Instead, we might be less loud-mouthed and quieter because love is the way and charity costs nothing. Indeed, such love will help us gain our souls.

If the Church wants to be stronger, then every joist and timber in her structure is essential, and every part of her frame will need to find its source of gravity in love. And worshipping in this marvelous and solid building today is such an inspiration. If any place is a witness to the power of Christ’s redeeming and reconciling love, it’s this parish. Harmony has spoken more powerfully (if more quietly) than division. What is old has spoken with a clarifying newness and with astounding openness. A relatively small number of people can build a sturdy house, especially if that house is built on love. And even if the exterior stone is fragile, the house will stand forever if the bones are good.

We know that it doesn’t take long to tear something down, and we also well know that it takes a long time to rebuild. But God has more time than we can ever imagine.[1] God’s way is to take the long road of patience and perseverance. Love and charity would have it no other way. God can turn a few scraps into a marvelous feast. God can take fissures in an aging frame and weld them together to last a lifetime. God can do anything with very little. God doesn’t need puffed-up things; God just needs our cooperation in love.

And here’s the most amazing and countercultural thing of all. This building up to which we’re called and which is the sole purpose of the Church doesn’t require an advanced degree or expertise or an IQ of 140. It doesn’t require money or power or prestige or fame. It’s not puffed-up or fancy or innovative. This building up, which is our truest calling, requires only one thing. Love. And if we brave the risk of throwing all our knowledge to the wind, this love is the pearl of great price and the only thing worth having.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany
January 28, 2024

[1] This idea is influenced by Stanley Hauerwas, especially in Matthew: A Theological Commentary (Ada, MI: Brazos Press, 2015).

The Pang of Poignancy

In Salvador Dalí’s famous 1951 painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross, a crucified Jesus is viewed as if from above. The viewer looks at him head-on but sees only the top of his head. His eyes are looking downwards from the cross. His arms are stretched out as we are used to seeing him on the cross. Light illuminates the cross, but all is black behind.

The same light that shines on the cross seems to spread downward onto a scene by a lake. It’s clearly the Sea of Galilee, which is really a lake because of its modest size. Clouds hover over the lake, but some light breaks through. It seems to be the light from the cross itself but might be the faint light of a new horizon. Perhaps it’s early in the morning. Two fishing boats can be seen on the lake, although they’re partially obscured by shadows. And among those rather lonely-looking fishing boats stand what appear to be three fishermen, although because of the shadows of the painting, it’s actually difficult to tell just how many.

I’ve preached on this painting before, on Good Friday, as a matter of fact, but this painting is not just about the end. It’s also about the beginning. The beginning and the end of Jesus’s earthly ministry are portrayed in this magnificent and eerie painting by Dalí. And I’ve always been struck by the poignancy of this painting. A picture of these simple fishermen next to their boats on the seashore is nondescript and not necessarily poignant. But when the entire scene is overlooked by Jesus dying on the cross, it’s enough to cause a lump in your throat. The simple fishermen, longing for a catch, have no idea how their lives will change when Jesus calls them into discipleship.

The poignancy of this painting—we might even say the sadness—is not maudlin or sentimental. It just goes right to your gut. Jesus knows his disciples will have to persevere without his earthly presence. We can only imagine the loneliness of those former fishermen without their Lord among them in the flesh.

And yet there’s an even deeper level of poignancy that Dalí’s painting elicits. It’s the poignancy we always experience when we look back on the past with knowledge of the future. It’s the slightly hollowed-out feeling I get when I watch movies that I saw as a 10-year-old and think about what I didn’t know then and what I do know now. The way I watch those movies now is so different than how I watched them back then. I’ve changed, even if the movies haven’t. I recall all that I had to experience between then and now to get where I am today. And then I remember all the innocence I’ve lost since then, all the adult problems I’ve had to take on, all the hair I’ve lost and bodily aches that I’ve begun to experience, the grandparents and friends who’ve died, the opportunities forfeited. There’s such longing in looking back.

But there are times when I want to go back, even if for a time, to that childhood where I didn’t have to worry about filing taxes or paying bills or arranging for snow removal, or more profoundly, watching people I love get sick and die. There are times when I want to be innocent once again, to experience life with less loss, and to go back to a time before I parted with what was once so dear to me.

At the end of the day, though, I always come back to the present, and I know that there’s no other place I’d rather be. No matter the trials and sadnesses, no matter the burdens and the worries, and no matter what I’ve had to give up, what I’ve gained with age and maturity is invaluable.

In Dalí’s painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross, two moments in time coalesce to summon a pang of poignancy in the viewer, and such poignancy protects us from oversimplifying the story. It’s true that certain aspects of this story are simple and uncomplicated. Jesus calls, and Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John respond. It all happens without any delay, which is a testament to the power of Jesus’s presence and invitation.

And at the same time, there’s nothing uncomplicated about it. It’s the most poignant and redolent of moments as Dalí’s painting shows. At that call of the first disciples, the cross hangs over it all. From that moment of response to Jesus’s summons, things will never be the same again. Because those disciples said yes without a second thought, they submitted, if inadvertently, to the lordship of One who would change their lives and the world forever.

Those ordinary fishermen were called from a local context to an international one. They were moved from the status quo of their quotidian lives to the dynamic creativity of unpredictable life fueled by the Holy Spirit. They were transformed from fishing for food merely to alleviate hunger and poverty to fishing for people to spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth. And with that call, they had to abandon so much: their careers, their comfort, their homes, even their biological families, and eventually, some would even give up their lives because they said yes to that call.

Could it be, then, that the pang of poignancy in our own lives of discipleship is the truest test of the depth of our commitment to Christ? Is it more often the case that when we consider what it means to follow him, we feel no poignancy at all? Aren’t there scores of Christians who think they can follow Christ with no loss whatsoever? Or maybe what we choose to part with is conveniently determined on our own terms.

Those of us who were baptized as infants can’t even picture a life before Christ called us into membership in his Church. But imagine, if you will, a time in your past when you weren’t officially a disciple. Or imagine a time even after your baptism when you had no desire to follow Christ. And then think about how it all changed afterwards. Think about what you had to give up to place yourself behind Jesus and follow him. Think about the losses you’ve experienced and will still experience to be a true disciple. Think about what you’re giving up even to be here today.

Do you feel the pang of poignancy? To feel the loss of something dear to us because we’ve chosen to follow Christ means that we must be on the right path. The Christian life is always pulsing with the pang of poignancy.

And yet, is there any other place we’d rather be than here and now? Would we really want to be back on the shore of that lake, working our ordinary jobs and content with just a catch of fish? Would we want to go back to a time before the Risen Christ walked by us and asked us to follow him and fish for people? Would we want to go back to a time before we knew the palpable presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives? Would we really want to go back to a time before we experienced that sense of deepest communion in the Eucharistic feast? We may have lost so much innocence and had to forsake one too many idols, but is there any place we’d rather be than here in the present, finding our true home behind Christ under the shadow and light of the cross?

It’s the call of Christ that gives us our future, no matter what must be given up. It’s the call of Christ that calls us from comfort into risk and something greater than we can imagine. It’s Christ’s call that gives us the priceless gift of hope.

The pang of poignancy reminds us that to become a disciple, we had to become poor and humble and powerless. We had to abandon our wealth, our pride, and our power. But despite all that we’ve lost, we’ve gained something eternal. We’ve gained our souls. We’ve moved from fishing for ourselves to fishing for others to invite them to be changed like us, too. And hopefully, no matter how wistful we may be about the past, we’ve lived long enough on this side of the call to trust that there’s no other place we’d rather be than right here, right now, in our true home.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 21, 2024

Yet to Be Seen

There’s a distinct but very obvious difficulty in reading a novel for the second, or even third or fourth time. After the first reading, you know exactly how it ends. Returning to the beginning of a novel for a second reading is to bring the end into the beginning. The initial excitement of reading voraciously through a book to discover how the climax will play out is difficult, if not impossible, to recover.

And it’s no different with the Christian story. If we’ve gone to church and read the Bible, and perhaps even if we haven’t, we know what happens. We know that God creates everything and calls it good. We know that God’s people rebel time and again, and yet God still calls them back into covenant with him. We know that God sends the prophets but that God’s people usually don’t listen to them. And yet, God still persists in love. We know the misfortunes of God’s people, how Jerusalem is ravaged and how the people go into exile. We know that they return to the holy city and rebuild the Temple. We know that the story is an alternation between sin and repentance with God’s unremitting love holding it all together. And we know that in the fullness of time, God sends his only-begotten Son to take on human nature and live and die among us. We know that he’s crucified and raised from the dead. And we know that this changes everything.

In short, we think we know the climax of the story, and it seems as if we’re living in a perpetual denouement after the events of that third day following Jesus’s death. And this, I think, makes it very difficult to approach the story as if we don’t know what happens. And it also makes it quite easy to encounter this story as if we were reading the phone book.

But because we have chosen to be here while much of the world sleeps in or has determined that Christianity is irrelevant or boring, let’s try to reset our minds and rediscover the initial excitement of our great story as if we’re experiencing it for the first time. Let’s imagine for a moment that we don’t know what happens. We’ve been told that this is a thrilling story and that it involves a man named Jesus and his disciples and that this man, who is the Messiah, will change everything. But that’s it. Now, let’s imagine that we’re with those first disciples in backwater Galilee, and Jesus finds us and says something simple. He says, “Follow me.”

Maybe we’re struck by the fact that Philip immediately follows without really knowing Jesus very well. Perhaps we’re impressed that he would then go and find Nathanael to bring him to Jesus. But then, it might be that we’re sympathetic to Nathanael’s initial skepticism. Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Can anything good come out of . . . well, you fill in the blank. I’d mention my own hometown, but you’ve never heard of it.

Nathanael is the one in whom there’s no guile. He’s bluntly honest. “How do you know me?” he asks Jesus. And Jesus says that he saw him under the fig tree even before Philip called him. For whatever reason, this is enough information to cause Nathanael to confess that Jesus is the Son of God and King of Israel. And then Jesus utters the line that should make us want to pick up this story again and again and read voraciously until the end. “You shall see greater things than these.” Or as one translation puts it, you haven’t seen anything yet![1]

But for those of us who know how this story ends, we say, of course. Yes, we have seen what is yet to come. Jesus will work miracles and heal and teach and preach. He will die on a cross. And then he will be raised from the dead and appear to his disciples. He will ascend into heaven and then send his Holy Spirit upon his disciples to empower them to reach to the ends of the earth. The Church will grow and spread. Millions will be baptized. Many will die for their faith, but that Church will still thrive and do amazing things. The teaser that Jesus drops in his conversation with Nathanael is talking about all this. Nathanael hasn’t seen anything yet. And it’s going to be incredible.

But the problem remains: it’s not as easy for us as it was for Nathanael to hear Jesus say, you haven’t seen anything yet and feel goosebumps or notice our heartrate accelerating or gasp with excitement. We think we already know the end of the story. It’s as if deep down in our hearts we really believe the greatest things have already happened, that this story is over, or, at the very least, that it’s in its perpetual denouement.

And because we supposedly know how this story ends and might be bored, we find ourselves strangely back with Nathanael who doesn’t yet know how the story will end. We’re stuck with Nathanael’s skeptical and cynical question, can anything good come out of Nazareth? The unexpressed silent question from us is really a doubt that there’s still more yet to come that will change our lives and the world. And although we may confess with Nathanael that Jesus is the Son of God and the King of Israel, we seem to think that’s this is all there is to the story. We recognize who Jesus is. He’s our Messiah. We follow him. That’s it. And we conveniently forget that the story is still in dynamic motion. Jesus is still here among us as the Risen Christ who is ascended and glorified, and he still speaks to us just as he spoke to Nathanael all those many years ago. And he says, you haven’t seen anything yet!

If only the Church could fully believe this! Haven’t we lost this eager anticipation? Haven’t we forgotten what it was like to pick up the novel and read eagerly to see how everything would unfold? And have we come to believe that there really is nothing left to this story? Do we trust that God is still revealing things to us and showing us greater and greater things? When and how did this incredible story become so innocuous to us?

The constant question of the Church is too often, can anything good come out of Nazareth? Can anything good come out of a fledgling group of followers who seem to be decreasing in number? Can anything good come out of the scandals and the divisions? Can any harmony be found amid so much discord? Can any enthusiasm for God be found amid so much malaise?

It’s as if we’ve forgotten that the One who came to join heaven and earth still joins heaven and earth. He still comes daily into our lives, in every moment and in every place. In every corner of this planet walks One who is risen from the dead and whose presence is the locus of angels descending and ascending through an opening in the heavens. He’s the One who reveals to us that indeed we haven’t seen anything yet, that the story isn’t finished, and that great things are yet to come. He’s the One who reveals a God who’s still acting dynamically and creatively in our lives and especially when they seem so very ordinary and hopeless.

To believe that we still haven’t seen anything yet is what it means to be a Christian. It’s to change the narrative that tells us that we’ve already seen everything worth seeing. To change the narrative is to say that the world’s apathy about Church and God is not the final word. It’s to say that even a parish brought close to death can revive once again. It’s to say that asking whether we have enough money or enough children to start a chorister program or enough people to do ministry is like asking, can anything good come out of Nazareth?

But the Risen Christ replies that the story isn’t over yet. It’s only just beginning. Come and see, Christ says. You haven’t seen anything yet. See the gifts present in yourselves and in your neighbor in the pew. See the resources God has given you for ministry. See the goodwill out there despite all the hatred. See the lives that Christ is still changing. See the beauty of creation that hasn’t yet been despoiled. See the potential for spiritual growth in your very midst. See that there is so much good yet to come.

We may still from time to time ask that question: Can anything good come out of Nazareth? It’s the question put into our minds by the Accuser and Enemy of our natures. It’s the monotonous question of a confused and apathetic world. But we can always expect the truest answer to come from the One who yet reveals our future to us. And when we’re in relationship with him, no matter how many times we ask the question, we must always be prepared for his answer: you haven’t seen anything yet!

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany
January 14, 2024

[1][1] The Message translation by Eugene Peterson

What's in a Preposition?

If you ask me, one of the most challenging aspects of learning a new language is understanding the use of prepositions. Prepositions are difficult enough to grasp in English, but having navigated their ambiguity in one language, it’s no easy feat to learn the intricacies of prepositions in another.

In my recent efforts at relearning Spanish, I still get confused about when the English word “at” needs to be translated as a Spanish “a” or “en.” There’s a long list of other confusions that I have, too. Part of the challenge is simply learning idioms and how they are used in another language. But there are times when knowing the many different uses of prepositions in one language can open new vistas of meaning.

I find this especially interesting in Biblical Greek. One Greek word that ordinarily means “with,” can also be translated as “along with,” “after,” or even “behind.” In John’s Gospel, when he says “the Word was with God,” it could also be translated towards God. This describes a completely different orientation of the Son towards the Father. Even though you must pick one option for the translation, knowing its other potential meanings makes the word all the richer. So, what’s in a preposition, we might ask? Well, sometimes, a whole lot indeed.

And there’s a whole lot going on with prepositions in St. Mark’s account of Jesus’s baptism by John, which tells us a great deal about just what this baptism is but also a great deal about what this means for us. Mark’s account of Jesus’s baptism is the only one of the four Gospels that describes the baptism quite so vividly. Jesus goes down into the water, and then he comes up out of the water as the heavens are torn apart and he’s proclaimed as God’s beloved Son. Jesus’s baptism is not the same as our baptism, but our baptism is into Jesus’s baptism.

And I bet you didn’t catch the preposition that I just used twice. In that preposition is the real meaning of today’s celebration. We won’t get this preposition from the rather innocuous translation we’ve just heard. But Mark is clever. John the Baptist may be baptizing people in the Jordan River, but when Jesus is baptized, he’s baptized into the Jordan.[1] Jesus’s baptism effects a new, fuller, Spirit-filled baptism. The preposition is a Greek word that means “in,” but it can also mean “into.” And I wonder if Mark uses different prepositions to tell us just what this baptism is.

This baptism is no sprinkling with water on the forehead. This baptism doesn’t need to take away any sin from Jesus, for he has none. This baptism is both an epiphany of who Jesus is as God’s unique, only-begotten Son, and a revelation of the depth of that baptism. In this movement into the water, Jesus goes down, as if he were descending into the depths of hell after death, and then he rises up, out of the water. Down, then up. Into the waters of chaos, and out into the fresh air of a new creation. Into the parted Red Sea and out into the land of freedom. Into the River Jordan that was crossed by God’s chosen people as they exited the wilderness of forty years and out into the Promised Land.

And when Jesus goes into the Jordan River and rises up out of it, the Spirit is vividly present and immediately propels him into the desert for a time of temptation. The good news will soon be hurtling like a comet into the world to turn it upside down.

All this means that when we go into the water of baptism ourselves, we go into the Jordan River, but also into the Red Sea, and into the waters of chaos at the beginning of time, and we rise out of it again, changed forever, with a seal of the Holy Spirit marking us forever as God’s children. We rise out of the water, empowered for ministry and for setting out like human comets into the ends of the world to share that good news.

But what has happened to the power of that baptism? What has happened to a baptism into dangerous waters and out into a world in need of baptismal energy? Why has baptism become more like a gentle boat, merely skimming the surface of the water? Have we forgotten what it was like to go into the water, to get our hair wet, and to emerge out of it, gasping for air?

We were baptized, like Jesus, into water, but not just into water, but into his life, death, and resurrection. His life has passed into ours. His breath has passed into our breath. His power has spread through our limbs to set us on fire with the Holy Spirit and to live as if we have gotten our hair wet and not just sprinkled with a few drops on our foreheads. To go into the water and not merely float on the surface means that we’ve been baptized by Christ’s very life in the Holy Spirit.[2] Not just with it, but in it. Our spiritual DNA has been altered. Our hard hearts have been softened. We’ve been altered forever. We’ve plunged into a new life with Christ. And because we were baptized into that water, we must rise out of it to go into the world.

And under the water, when we dive into it, there is an amazing world. Like a scuba diver who breaks the surface of the water, we find new, vibrant life below the surface, with fascinating microclimates and exotic environments. Our perception of the world changes. We find a wholly different civilization below the surface when we dive into the water and don’t just stay on the shallow surface. In that underwater dwelling, everything and everyone is on fire with the Holy Spirit.

Somehow, though, this doesn’t seem to be the world in which we live. When’s the last time you heard someone talk about the Holy Spirit’s presence in their life? How often do you see Christians living as if baptism has disturbed nothing in their lives? How many baptisms have you attended in which it was a social occasion or cute rite of passage rather than a risky life-altering movement into the waters of the deep?

It may be that what our world needs—indeed, what the Church needs—right now is a deeper understanding of how Jesus’s baptism into the waters of the Jordan shapes our own baptismal identity. If we can go bravely into the deep, we will find that place of transformation that causes us to breathe differently with the Spirit’s very breath and sends us out with great power to breathe that breath into a world struggling for oxygen.

If you’ve spent enough time here at Good Shepherd, I hope you’ve seen evidence of that deep downwards movement into the water and out into a transformed life. I certainly have, nearly every day. It’s manifested in a hearty faith that takes the sacraments seriously and church seriously. It’s present in a commitment to show up weekly for Mass, to grow in faith through formation, to venture out into the community to seek out the lost. Above all, it’s revealed in a desire to make God alone the center of our lives. And in a day and culture that treats God as a dispensable option, this is no small feat.

We’re not meant to stay on the surface of the water. On the surface, we’re told that politeness is the equivalent of being a good Christian. On the surface, we’re told that we can be a decent Christian without going to church. On the surface, we’re told that political conformity is better than righting injustice. On the surface, we’re fed with shallow claims.

But the Church’s call is crystal clear, no matter how much she might forsake it. Dive deep. Go into the waters, despite how scary it may be. If we dive deep, into the water, we will be changed forever, and we’ll learn the truth that sets us free. Breathe in that truth deeply, learn how to breathe differently, and never stop breathing that breath of the Spirit into a world that is struggling to breathe. Then, God’s very breath of the Holy Spirit, our very breath, will help us carry that truth into a world that needs to be turned upside down.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ
January 7, 2024       

[1] This point is made in Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988), 129.

[2] See David Bentley Hart, The New Testament: A Translation, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2023).

The Answer to All the Riddles

We should start by acknowledging that there’s very little we know about the three wise men except what Scripture tells us: they were from the East; they were magi, quite possibly involved in astrology or Zoroastrianism and known for their vast knowledge; and they weren’t too proud to follow a star and a dream. That’s it. The rest is left to our imaginations.

But with those details, it’s indeed possible to imagine what they might have been like. And this is what the good Anglican Dorothy Sayers does in her radio drama The Man Born to Be King, produced and broadcast by the BBC during World War II. In keeping with tradition, the three magi are named Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Caspar is described as old, learned, and wise, “a little withdrawn and aloof,”[1] as Sayers puts it. His is the “wisdom of the intellect.” In contrast, Melchior is younger, practical, and concerned with “the wisdom of the bodily senses.” And Balthazar, although young, is a mystic who’s interested in the relationship of humans to God and God to humans, and his is “a wisdom of the heart.”

We know how the magi get to Bethlehem. They get there by starting with what they know best: the heavens. They follow a star that they inexplicably know is the star of the one born king of the Jews. And we’re told where they end up: at the manger, with Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child. We know, too, that there’s something unusual about the wisdom of these magi. While their heads might be in the heavens, trying to decipher the stars and make accurate predictions based on natural observations, these magi are wholly different from Herod’s wise advisers. Although Herod’s men can at least figure out that Bethlehem is the likely birthplace of this child-king based on Scripture, beyond that, they seem to have no desire to go any further. And through an odd act of divine providence, the magi are aided in their quest to find Christ through the machinations of the ruthless, cunning Herod.

In Dorothy Sayers’s play, the wise men arrive at the manger not only with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but also with three riddles. The first king, Caspar—who I imagine is rather like Dumbledore in Harry Potter—says something surprising for a wise old man. When Mary acknowledges her humble status as she greets magi, Caspar responds, “Alas! the more we know, the less we understand life. Doubts make us afraid to act, and much learning dries the heart. And the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Wisdom and Love live together at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?”

The youthful and practical Melchior has his own riddle: “order puts fetters on freedom, and freedom rebels against order, so that love and power are always at war together. And the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Power and Love dwell together at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?”

And finally, the mystical Balthazar wonders how union with God can be found in a world of suffering: “Fear is our daily companion – the fear of want, the fear of war, the fear of cruel death, and of still more cruel life. But all this we could bear if we knew that we did not suffer in vain; that God was beside us in the struggle, sharing the miseries of His own world. For the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Sorrow and Love be reconciled at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?”

These are certainly vexing riddles, but ones that aren’t unknown to us. These Gentile wise men who come from a distant, exotic land pose to a poor, uneducated Jewish peasant girl the difficult questions of a perplexed and hurting world. The riddles shared by both Jew and Gentile come to rest at the feet of the Christ child. And Mary responds by reducing everything to an answer that is both simple and yet one of the most challenging things to accept, especially for us moderns. She says that she understands “that wealth and cleverness were nothing to God – no one is too unimportant to be His friend. . . So I know very well that Wisdom and Power and Sorrow can live together with Love; and for me, the Child in my arms is the answer to all the riddles.” The answer is the Child. He—not knowledge, authority, or any other skill—is the answer to all our riddles.

Having taken their heads out of the skies, the magi come from afar, and their immense knowledge of a world in riddles is reduced to the truest answer in the universe. The Child they’ve come to meet is the answer to all the riddles. The magi have moved from the head to the heart. They have moved from finding answers to basking in mystery. And their only response to the mystery in the flesh is to bow down in worship before him.

Twelve days now after this Child was born for us, we, too, kneel in homage at his manger, bringing the riddles of our world and our lives. Some of us hold multiple academic degrees, have defended dissertations, and have more letters after our names than the alphabet contains. Some of us value law and order, keeping things in their place, and respecting the power of worldly authority. And hopefully all of us have hearts that break over suffering, imprisonment, and constant tragedy. But none of us, I imagine, is exempt from carrying a riddle to the manger this evening.

Our world is riddled with riddles if we want to be clever about it. We have arguably more knowledge about the universe, human bodies, and the environment than we’ve ever had before, and yet academia is deeply confused and the planet is in grave peril. We have weapons of defense and more prisons than you can shake a stick at, and yet we have tremendous violence that has infiltrated even our most sacred spaces. We have the gift of psychology and wellness programs, but we have broken spirits and more loneliness than ever before. And we bring all these worldly riddles, which seem intractable and unsolvable, to the manger, and we ask, like those magi, Can wisdom, power, and sorrow dwell with love in the promised kingdom?

We ask because so much of the world, which may also include us, is looking for love in all the wrong places, as the song goes. We’re looking for love in shallow relationships. We’re looking for love in workplace success or status or worldly authority. We’re looking for love because we’re aching with a deep hunger, but no matter how much human knowledge we have, we find that love still eludes us at times.

This love eludes us because it has continued to elude the world since it was first born so many years ago. From love’s first cry as a baby, power was revealed in weakness, knowledge in humility, and compassion in the courage of suffering. And if we only had open hearts like the magi, we might be more willing to trust a star and a dream, instead of our own devices. We might be able to say no to the antics of power, greed, hate, and perpetual suspicion. We might be able to imitate the magi and throw all our sophisticated learning to the wind, fall down on our knees, and worship.

I, for one, don’t believe that current statistics on belief and unbelief in God portray an accurate picture of people’s hearts. I believe most people are searching for what is true, good, and lovely, but most simply don’t know where to find it, because they’re looking in all the wrong places.

But this evening, Scripture tells us where to find love. We will find it only by being foolish enough to trust a star and a dream and to follow where they may lead, no matter how much we’re mocked for it. We’ll find love only by recognizing that the more we know, the more we realize we don’t know. We’ll find true love by moving from our heads to our hearts and seeing that love abides there, closer to us than we could ever imagine. And we fall down and worship this love—true Love—who is the answer to all our riddles.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eve of the Feast of the Epiphany
January 5, 2024

[1] Dorothy Sayers, The Man Born to Be King, 1943 (https://christspieces.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/sayers1943_the-man-born-to-be-king_01_kings-of-judaea_35-53.pdf)

The Cry that Means Everything

In the 1970s, an American developmental psychologist named Edward Tronick carried out a series of studies observing the relationship between a child and the child’s caregiver. The fruits of these studies are known as the “The Still-Face Experiment.” In a video demonstrating this so-called still-face paradigm, a young mother and her infant child are in a room, and the mother engages the child in play. She smiles at the child, makes cooing sounds, and the baby responds. They touch one another. They’re thoroughly and emotionally engaged. The baby smiles and watches the mother. The mother greets the baby, and the baby responds with a cute cry of affirmation. When the baby points at something in the room, the mother’s eyes follow the child’s finger, and she smiles in affirmation. The parent and child interact in the most loving and heartfelt way.

After a couple of minutes of this play, and in an instant, the mother looks away from the child and then turns back to her. This time, her face is blank. She stares at the child with no expression on her face. As the infant processes this change in behavior from her parent, she attempts to reconnect with her mother, using the same gestures as when they were engaging in normal interactions. The baby smiles, but the mother offers nothing in return. Then the baby points at something, but the mother doesn’t follow the baby’s finger. The baby becomes more distressed as she realizes that all her communication tools are failing. Finally, she utters an outcry of frustration, shrieks loudly, and dissolves into tears. At this point, the mother breaks her still-faced persona and returns to a loving interaction with the baby.[1]

The point of The Still-Face Experiment was to demonstrate the inherent connections between human beings, who are relational by nature. This deep relationality can be seen in its incipient stages by observing a parent interact with an infant child. When the mother in the experiment withheld normal, loving facial expressions and modes of communication from her child, the child withdrew emotionally in her own way and exhibited signs of negative behavior.[2] In the video experiment, the point at which the mother discontinued her still-face and returned to her usual self was the moment in which the baby’s negative reactions collapsed into a distressing cry.

There’s something about a cry of distress that elicits anxiety and a need to placate from any normal human being. I frequently hear such cries from children as I walk back and forth between the rectory and church, as a baby in the preschool next door cries out in distress or a child is frustrated on the playground. And my immediate instinct is for that cry of anguish to be alleviated. The cry of distress or the lament, it seems, is the normal vocal mechanism by which one in need establishes connection with one who can be a source of comfort or aid.

For whatever reason, which may always remain a mystery, the apostle Paul understood the power of that primal cry in the relationship between humanity and God. In his letter to the Romans, Paul describes the Spirit of God as praying within us, groaning inwardly with sighs too deep for words. This Spirit prays within us when we don’t know how to pray.

And then in his letter to the Galatians, Paul describes the Spirit of God’s Son, which cries, “Abba! Father!”, the very words used by Jesus in his hour of death as he speaks to his Father. Paul tells us in Galatians that because we are adopted children of God, we, too, have the right to utter that primal cry, “Abba! Father!” Indeed, it’s the very Spirit of God who gives voice to that cry within us. And it’s that passionate cry which connects us to God, our heavenly Father.

But I wonder if this utterance of the Spirit within us is rather like an eerie reversal of The Still-Face Experiment. The Still-Face Experiment demonstrates that the cry of distress from an infant is what can prompt a parent to turn back to the child and reestablish communication and affection. In the famous video, the moment in which the baby dissolves into tears is when the mother breaks her manufactured still-face, smiles, and speaks lovingly to the child once again. It’s as if the mother can’t take the manufactured withdrawal anymore. Because she loves her infant so much, she can no longer pretend to be oblivious to her needs. She must engage with her.

But in God’s interaction with humanity—and contrary to what we might often think—there’s never a moment in which God the Father confronts our pleas for help and responds with a cold, still-face. It’s perhaps more accurate to say that it’s we who are so often blind to God’s pleas for us to turn back to him. We maintain a still-face, stubborn in our sin, cold-hearted in our refusal to love, and parsimonious in our unwillingness to help the needy. The Spirit’s cry within us is something like God’s own cry for connection. It’s as if God cries out within us, in his longing for us to reestablish relationship with him, desperately hoping that we will hear his cry of love and change our still-face into a smile.

On this seventh day of Christmas, Paul reminds us that the birth of Christ to a woman, under the law, was God’s precious gift of intimacy. The birth itself was a baby’s cry to a still-faced world broken by sin and evil. For centuries, God had been faithful to this people, chosen and loved by him eternally. Although God had proven his love time and again, this stubborn people suffered from persistent amnesia. Although they had been told by God himself to remember so many things, they still forgot. They forgot to remember God’s deliverance on that Passover night, to remember the commandments in the Law, to remember how good all of creation was, to remember that they were chosen and loved, to remember that the covenant established with them was unconditional. And so, in the fullness of time, God became a child, an infant crying in the dark night of a wintry world to forge a connection in the most intimate way possible and to turn the cold, selfish still-face of humanity into a warm, interactive countenance of love.

In God’s own gesture of love, God had to come in the flesh, get beneath our skin, and seep his way gently into our hearts, and into those hearts, God would send his eternal Spirit to cry out, “Abba! Father!” This plea for help, this cry of filial intimacy, would be how God would woo humanity’s still-face back into responsive relationship.

All around us, people are yearning for belonging. They’re weary of being told that they’re not enough and that they can never be or do enough to be loved by the world. Many have been told even by the Church that they’re not even enough for God himself, that they can never be enough to stand before God and receive his love. And far too many behave as if they know nothing about the incredible message that St. Paul shares with us, a message that reaffirms our beloved status as adopted children of God.

It’s a still-faced world in which we live. The apathy of humanity before its marvelous Creator is chilling, if not frightening. But there’s one beautiful thing that can cut through that icy chill to elicit a response. It’s a plaintive cry that sounds not somewhere out there in the world but right here inside our hearts. It’s as near to us as the hearts beating in our chests and the blood pulsing through our veins. It’s a cry that can be our very breath if we so choose. It’s the very Spirit of the risen Christ yearning for us to breathe with his breath and turn back to God. And it’s the Spirit’s very cry within us that affirms that we are no longer slaves to this world of sin but are children of God. And not just children, but heirs of an eternal promise in heaven, where no cry goes unheeded and where we have a Father who looks on us with unceasing love, ready to welcome us back home.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after Christmas
December 31, 2023

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1Jw0-LExyc

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

No Small Thing

In recent years, I have made an annual practice of rereading Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol around Christmas. It’s partly for selfish reasons. Having been in parish ministry for as long as I have, I find it increasingly difficult to settle into the Christmas spirit without a little help. The myriad tasks that need to be accomplished before Christmas always seem to get in the way, which makes it a joy and cozy comfort to pick up A Christmas Carol and reread it each year.

But in doing so, I always discover why Dickens’s famous story has such charm. It’s a good story. And it’s not only a good story. There are theological themes running throughout it as well. It was in the middle of this year’s rereading of that story that I found my attention drawn to the part where Scrooge is taken on a visit by the Ghost of Christmas Past. With the help of this Spirit, he goes back to his childhood, recalling with great sadness the loneliness of his early years in school and the later poignant parting with an early love because he had chosen worldly gain over devotion to her.

He becomes painfully aware of all the missed chances of his past, and he realizes how jaded and unhappy he has become. It’s nearly unbearable for poor old Scrooge, and as he recalls those lost opportunities, something begins to change in him. His visit to the past plants a seed for his transformation.

The changing Scrooge begins to give voice to this in a scene from Christmas Past where he revisits his apprenticeship to Mr. Fezziwig. Scrooge’s defining characteristics may be his miserliness and idolatry of work and money, but as he remembers his time working for Mr. Fezziwig, he begins to understand that there’s something more to life than the daily grind and money.

In the scene of Christmas Past, as the clock strikes seven, Mr. Fezziwig puts down his pen, laughs, and calls his apprentices into the room and says that no more work should be done. It’s Christmas Eve! “Let’s have the shutters up. . . before a man can say Jack Robinson!” he says. And before you know it, a fiddler appears, as well as Mrs. Fezziwig, and three Misses Fezziwigs, and a whole host of other people, including some unfortunates. They’ve come to the impromptu ball! Before long, they’re all dancing and making merry until eleven o’clock at night. Each guest is then wished Merry Christmas by the Fezziwigs and all go to bed. It’s a marvelous Christmas Eve.

As Scrooge relives this wonderful memory, the Ghost of Christmas Past slyly goads him, saying that it must be a small matter for Mr. Fezziwig “to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.” But Scrooge retorts vehemently that it’s no small thing at all. And the Ghost replies, “Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?”

And then, in what he says next, Scrooge inadvertently reveals how he has changed. As the story tells us, Scrooge begins to speak as his “former self,” not as his “latter self.” He replies defensively to the Ghost that the happiness given by Fezziwig’s impromptu ball “is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.” Through his visit to Christmas Past, Scrooge’s latter self has been transformed a bit into his former self.[1]

When on Christmas Eve we hear of Jesus’s birth from Luke’s Gospel, we hear of good news brought into a world of sin. We hear of perfect humanity, who’s also perfect divinity, being born into a world that is deeply broken after its Fall in the Book of Genesis. We might say that in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus comes to save humanity in its latter self.

But on Christmas Day, in John’s Gospel, we go back even farther in time—beyond time, really—to a time before the Fall of humanity. We’re reminded of the cosmic origins of existence, of the eternal nature of the Word that eventually becomes flesh in Jesus. We’re reminded of the beauty of creation when all things came into being through the Word, who always was with the Father and the Holy Spirit. We’re reminded in the opening words of John’s Gospel, with its allusions to the Book of Genesis, that God called everything very good. We’re reminded that in the eternally creative gesture of God, there was life, and that life was the light of all people. That light is eternal. It’s a light that can’t be squelched by darkness. Indeed, darkness can’t even comprehend the mystery of this true light because it’s such a great light. On Christmas Day, it’s as if our own Spirit guide is the Holy Spirit, taking us back through our own collective story with the help of St. John. And this Spirit helps us to recall our former selves, selves created in the image of God and destined to become children of God. In some sense, because we live after the Fall, we’ve never truly known these selves. But they exist eternally in the mind of God.

On Christmas, it’s as if we need two sides of a beautiful coin. On one side, in the darkness of Christmas Eve, we must recognize the reality of sin and evil in our lives, and we must acknowledge that our Savior was born into that reality to save it. We recognize that Jesus was born into peasantry, under the boot of a ruthless empire, in a smelly manger, and with all the messiness of childbirth, and with a destiny to die brutally on a cross. But in the dawn of Christmas morning, we are guided by John’s Gospel to the true source of our life in the creative eternity of God, where the Word who eventually became flesh always existed. And in doing so, we catch a glimpse of our former self.

Like Scrooge, our former self has been hijacked by all the wrong things. The mighty dollar has become our god. We’ve turned inwards on ourselves out of self-preservation. We’ve turned against others because we have essentially forgotten who we are and to whom we belong. We’ve forgotten our former self, which is in the origins of a creation destined for goodness. And in forgetting our former self, we’ve forgotten how much God looks with favor on us. We’ve forgotten that God created us and called us—yes, us!—very good along with all the rest of creation that we carelessly ravage. Amid our busy lives and addictions to so many things, we’ve forgotten that we can always put the pen down, like Mr. Fezziwig, and say enough. Let’s dance. Let’s have a ball. And Scrooge was right about that. It’s not a small thing. The fullness of life and joy given to us when we remember our former self “is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

And when we remember that past and our former self, can we help but be changed just a bit? When we remember our roots, from whence we came, can we still continue acting as if our latter self is all there is to our existence? A visit to the Christmas Past of our lives is a loving look back on the source of our life, who is God. And such a God created us out of love and for love, so that we can begin to receive the gift of his power to become his children, not children of the latter self but of the former self.

However, cozy Dickens’s A Christmas Carol might be considering how it ends, Scrooge’s visit to Christmas Past is both transformative and painful. It’s painful because he’s fully aware of what he’s lost, and some of it can’t come back. It’s painful, too, because he's reminded of an innocence that has vanished, of a former self inevitably colored by a latter self.

Perhaps it’s the same for us. On this day, we glimpse our past and our former self with the help of St. John, and we mourn our losses and the reality of the latter self that governs our lives. But we also rejoice in the good news that our latter self can eventually be transformed into our former self. This is John’s version of the good news. From whence we came is ultimately where we’re invited to return. We were made good and destined to be good. And in visiting the Christmas Past of our former self, we dare to hope that by God’s marvelous grace, one day, we, too, will live as our former self in the age to come. And that’s no small thing. It’s “quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
December 25, 2023

[1] Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol (New York: Alfred Knopf, 2009), 35-37.

If You See Something, Say Something

I never had the privilege of visiting New York City before 9/11, which I rather regret. I wish I’d known that great city before. So, when I eventually moved to Manhattan in 2004, I came to know New York only as it was colored with hypervigilance and anxiety. It seemed like everywhere I turned—on the subway, on the bus, on the streets—I was confronted with signs blaring a consistent message of caution: if you see something, say something.

It’s hard for many of us to imagine a world where we aren’t constantly looking for something that might cause us harm. These days, it might as well be in our online banking accounts or in the physical places we had long thought to be the safest. We seem to be living in a time when we’re always looking for bad news and then saying something about it. Which is why I shouldn’t have been surprised when something struck me this past week as I was engaging in my usual morning ritual of browsing through the news headlines.

I typically look at two major newspapers, and after consulting the first one, I came to the sobering conclusion that having scrolled through well over ten headlines, I hadn’t seen even one piece of good news. Not one! Honestly, I would have taken a silly, ridiculous headline as a gesture of levity, or even a made-up story. A joke—somebody tell a joke, please! But I couldn’t even find that. So, I went to my second newspaper source, where I managed to find one hopeful story, having passed it by on first glance. Only after a second scouring of the headlines for good news did I realize that this seemingly ordinary story stood out for bearing some news that could lighten the heart. It wasn’t a headline about politics or the economy or one more war. It was about a non-profit offering cooking lessons for youth dealing with food insecurity.[1]

And yet, why should I have been surprised to have such difficulty finding good news? I’m assuming that this Christmas Eve night, you come here weighed down with the same headlines that are burdening me. I’m assuming that you’ve had little more success than I in finding some good news out there. You, too, have been conditioned to say something when you see something. And we all know that the things we see and about which we must say something are usually not good. They’re terrifying. These days, most of what we tell out is rooted in fear.

If there had been news headlines in Bethlehem all those years ago, they might not have seemed much different from our own, or at least, they would have echoed a similar litany of bad news. There were crucifixions, there were the usual poor living under the chokehold of the Roman empire, there were the vast systemic injustices, and there were families on the run at the command of the political powers, just like Mary, Joseph, and their expected child.

Scrolling through those headlines would have been as futile an exercise as our modern one. Where’s the good news? There was just so much fear. If you see something, say something, because there were many things to be afraid of. But off the screen of the news headlines, something was happening that would quietly change everything. Upon second glance at the headlines, if you knew where to look, it was the most unbelievable good news.

This thing was happening off the radar because the good news was intentionally not being announced to royalty but to humble shepherds outside the major cities and in the quiet of a lonely night. The good news was heard by these ordinary folk living close to the land and attuned to nature and the skies. It was to these poor folk that a sign was given.

They knew the headlines, too, like their contemporaries. They knew it was all bad news probably because they were living in the thick of that bad news, which is why they needed a sign. It’s also why they could appreciate that sign. Upon hearing that their Savior had been born, they, like everyone else, would have been looking for him in a palace or at the head of armies. But the angels’ sign told them what to look for and where to find it in the most unlikely of places.

And they went with haste, looking for their good news. They eventually found the mother, father, and baby after looking all over, after a thorough search. They had searched thoroughly because that good news wasn’t so easy to find. That good news was wrapped in bands of cloth—a poor man’s clothes—in an animal’s feeding trough, and it was in a small city with a big claim to fame. And no one was looking there, except for them.

But they tenaciously turned everything upside down, and they found him. They found their good news, a crying baby, the Word made flesh who couldn’t yet speak a word. And it dawned on them that they had seen something and so they must say something. This Savior who had inverted the world’s power dynamic had now inverted their language of fear. They no longer needed to speak about the bad news of the world. They could speak about the good news. If you see something, say something.

And they did say something. They told it to so many people, who wondered and were amazed. They announced to the world this incredible news, always lying quietly and unexpectedly below the depressing headlines. We, too, are the recipient of their good news, and we, like them, know the sign for which we should be diligently seeking. After scrolling through headline after headline of despair, we know from those lowly shepherds that the good news is always born for us, perhaps most vividly in the places that seem the most unpromising. That good news was born, oh, so many years ago. It’s still born today. And it will be born forever.

We know what the sign tells us. Go and look in the most surprising locations, and there you will see where heaven and earth are joined. Go to the helpless and the lonely. Go to the people hiding in the fallout shelters of war. Go to the poor wrapped not in royal clothes but in ragged bands of cloth. Go to those wandering the streets and searching for room in an inn. Go inside your own souls, which might seem confused, hurting, or lost, and there you will find the Christ Child, speaking his word of truth into your own life. You can find it if you know the sign and if you’re willing to search for it. And when you see something, say something.

The mystery of Christmas, which is papered over with tinsel and meaningless platitudes this time of year, is that this good news isn’t easy to find. And we can’t find it without some help. But we have been given a sign. Look away from the headlines and into the rough but vibrant world around you, and you will find the good news. It’s there. And when you see something, say something.

Or better yet, sing about it. Break into song like the angels. Sing about the peace that’s so difficult to find but that is possible and does exist in hidden corners on this earth. Sing about a peace that can exist, even in Israel and Palestine, where Peace himself was born as a little child. Sing about a God who has such good will towards us that he will constantly be born anew in us to show us his love. Sing about a God who tells his good news first to shepherds and not to kings. Sing about a merciful God who chooses to work off the headlines and in the corners of the earth, in stables, and who can work in war zones and, yes, even on Capitol Hill. Sing about a God who himself sings his way into our lives, rather than scolding us.

Let us sing this night about that marvelous thing seen by shepherds in Bethlehem so long ago. Let us sing with thanksgiving that they decided to say something after that had seen something and that their language of fear was transformed into joy. Let’s sing about a God who invites us not to look for bad news in the headlines but asks us to see his good news, all around us and in the most unlikely of places. Glorify a God who changes our own fear into rejoicing.

Go and run with haste to find that God and his good news. And this will be a sign for you: you will find that good news off the beaten path, out of the headlines, and nearer to you than you can imagine. You will find this Child in the stranger and forsaken, in the lonely and unloved, in the imprisoned and in the depressed. And you will also find him in your own conflicted hearts, always, ready to be born anew. And when you see this good news, remember that you have one more thing to do. Say something. Or better yet, sing that something with all your heart. And whatever you do, never stop singing.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eve of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
December 24, 2023

[1] “Teenagers say they don’t have anything to do. Philly Bridge & Jawn taught them how to cook for one another,” Philadelphia Inquirer, December 21, 2023: https://www.inquirer.com/news/philadelphia/pbj-bridge-jawn-kensington-teens-cooking-20231221.html?query=jawn

If and Only If

Have you noticed that a growing trend in modernity seems to be the loss of nuance in language? We’re rightly concerned about the power of words and how words can be used in damaging ways, but we still struggle to make room for such caution and also retain the great variety of meaning that words can convey.

The beauty of language is that so much meaning lies in what is not evident on the surface. Sometimes that beauty is most palpable in what the words leave unsaid. And what is often unsaid must be supplied by our imaginations. This ambivalence in meaning should create a sense of humility, where we don’t claim to know more than we do. Unfortunately, this isn’t usually the case.

Take, for instance, a conditional “if” statement in English. If you put your foot on the brake while driving, the car will slow down. This is fairly straightforward, isn’t it? It’s a generally accepted fact that brakes cause cars to slow down. In the way this conditional statement is worded, there is little doubt about what will happen if you put your foot on the brake.

But let’s say that we change the words up a bit. If you put your foot on the brake while driving, the car would slow down. Now, we’re in a different territory altogether. It’s not at all certain that the driver will put her foot on the brake, and consequently, it’s not at all assured that the car will slow down.

And the nuance of meaning can be probed even further. We don’t know whether the statement is a slightly passive-aggressive, scolding injunction to drive slower: If you put your foot on the brake while driving, the car would slow down. Or if the speaker is simply stating something that is more impossible than possible because the driver has a penchant for going above the speed limit: If you put your foot on the brake while driving, the car would slow down.  

Speech matters. Tone matters. Inflection matters. But unfortunately, we don’t have many of those rather musical details in Scripture. So, we’re often left wondering what something in the text means. And in that, maybe there’s a wonderful gift for us. What, then, do the angel Gabriel’s words suggest to Mary?

Gabriel tells her that many seemingly impossible things will happen. Mary will conceive in her womb and bear a son, whom she will name Jesus. And he will be great and be called the Son of the Most High. He will receive the throne of his father David and reign over the house of Jacob forever. And there will be no end to his kingdom.

This doesn’t seem evident at all to a young virgin, so Mary asks how. And Gabriel continues to elucidate. The Holy Spirit will come upon her and the power of the Most High will overshadow her. Because of her favored status with God, so many things will happen to her.

It seems as if Gabriel states what will happen by the hand of God as if there is no question about it. But despite that assurance, there lingers in the midst of such confident speech that beautiful question of Our Lady: how? How shall this be, since I have no husband?

There’s so much about the how that we don’t know. Does Mary doubt that all this can happen? Does she have any say in the matter? Is the impossible possible? Will Gabriel’s words come true regardless of what Mary says? There’s so much we don’t know, and that is a beautiful thing.

For a moment, let’s imagine a Mary who’s not over-sentimentalized or meek to the point of having no agency. Let’s imagine a Mary whose body is not forcefully taken by God to accomplish his purposes. Let’s imagine a Mary who has free will like any other human, who doesn’t know how all this will happen, but who knows that it will happen if she assents. So, there’s only one way she can respond to the words spoken to her by the angel. Let it be to me according to your word. Because of who she knows God to be, this is her only response.

And here’s where so much of the world laughed, has laughed, and will continue to laugh. When the impossible is accepted as possible, the world laughs. It’s why Sarah laughed when she was told she would bear a son in her nineties. It’s why people in the crowd laughed at Jesus when he said the little girl he had healed was not dead but merely sleeping. It’s why even some Christians have laughed at the thought of a young virgin conceiving a son apart from knowing a man. It’s why people laughed at Jesus on the cross when he cried out for his Father. It’s why others laughed at an empty tomb. It’s why our own contemporaries laugh at the hope of achievable peace or merciful government policies or a Church that is still around in a hundred years. They laugh because they’ve equated understanding how something will transpire with its possibility. They laugh because they lack the grace of Mary.

But over and over again, we’ve heard and still hear and will hear what God has done, is doing, and will do. God has brought his people out of slavery into freedom by dividing a sea in two. God has brought his people home from captivity when they never thought they’d see Jerusalem again. God has given many barren women the gift of children, especially when others laughed at them. God has stuck with his stubborn people through thick and thin and even when they scoffed at him and complained. God has saved the world through the life and death of his only-begotten Son even though some laughed at his works. God has raised that very Son from the dead and made even an unreliable group of fallible humans his living Body on earth to accomplish his will in the world. Laugh if you will, but this is the God to whom Mary says yes. Let it be to me according to your word.

When the angel Gabriel tells Mary what God will do for her and the world, it sounds to us as if God is trying to bulldoze his way into Mary’s world and ours to save it. But when Gabriel says that God will and can do all that, the future nevertheless hangs on that final answer from the Blessed Virgin: let it be to me according to your word. It’s like a conditional statement that carries all the real possibility of being fulfilled if and only if, the gift of that possibility is accepted by the receiver. Yes. Let it be to me according to your word.

And this is where we are. We stand like Mary between two clauses of an unfinished sentence. God has told us what he will do. God has said that he will give peace to this world. God has said that he loves us unconditionally, and so no matter the worst we have done, if we turn to God, he will forgive us. God has said that everything he has made is very good, and that God will continue to love it as very good. God has said that all is not lost and that he will give us a glorious future. All this God has said he will do.

If and only if we ask not how God will do it but how we can be used by God in that prepared future, we will be a little closer to the posture of the Blessed Mother, who asked how and yet believed. She believed that she could bear the Son of God because God said she could. She believed that in spite of her questions, she would be the meeting place of heaven and earth where the lowly would be exalted and the hungry would be fed and the poor would have what they need and all who were laughed at for the sake of God’s kingdom would eventually rejoice.

For nothing is impossible with God. Indeed everything is possible, despite those who would rather laugh. God will do all that he has promised, but we must say yes. And aided by the prayers of the Blessed Mother and all who have said yes after her, we, too, can ask how and still say yes. Let it be to me according to your word.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 24, 2023

A Light in the Darkness

This past week I found myself pondering two things that I encountered online. The first was an opinion essay in the New York Times called “Finding Light in Winter,”[1] written by a clinical psychologist. She argues that if we want to find light amid the darkness, we can do so. The author isn’t naïve; she’s actually pretty honest about all the darkness surrounding us: the wars, the dysfunction in our government, the mass shootings, and the perilous plight of refugees fleeing unstable countries. Rather than ignoring all that darkness, she notes that she would simply fall apart if she couldn’t find the light that still shines.

She wants to find the light because she has a generally favorable view of humanity. She believes that most people desire peace and want to do good. It’s just that it’s difficult to see such goodness because there’s so much darkness. In response, she has cultivated intentional ways of finding the light in her life. She rises early to watch the sun appear in the sky. She treasures special moments with her family. She meditates and prays. She looks constantly for the light.

And then the second thing that grabbed my attention this past week was the Facebook post written by a former seminary classmate of mine, who provocatively suggested that we should abandon Advent. For him, Advent has become just one more way that people over-anticipate Christmas, causing Advent to lose its meaning.

While I did not enter the fray of lively commentary in response to his post, I quickly noted how much pushback he received, and it wasn’t pushback grounded in a desire to prematurely sneak Christmas into Advent. Rather, I detected a loving defense of a season of waiting and anticipation, and I suspect that this love of Advent is, if unconsciously, rooted in a desire to find light within the darkness. Advent is a season in which we’re brutally honest about the darkness that seems to prevail while also looking with hope for the light that can shine within it, indeed in spite of it.

It's to this light that John testifies. For the second week in a row, we meet him in Scripture, although he’s depicted differently by Mark and John. Mark’s John is “the Baptist,” the rugged man who’s a precursor of the Christ, an edgy prophet crying out in the wilderness. But John’s John is not called the Baptist, nor does he seem to be the center of attention. His primary function is to do one thing: to point to Jesus, the true light that has come into the world.

And John does this in the most peculiar way. He states unequivocally what he’s not. He’s not the Christ. He’s not the prophet. He’s not Elijah. He might be a voice crying in the wilderness to prepare the way of the Lord, but by saying who he’s not, he effectively points to the true light, which is Jesus Christ. It’s as if John is the first exemplar of the via negative or “negative theology” that tries to speak about God by saying what God is not, or by saying rather little about God at all, lest we make God too small.

But there’s something powerful in John’s negations, which aren’t merely negative or pessimistic. There’s something in them that’s both oddly clarifying and oddly hopeful. By acknowledging that there’s one greater than he, John acknowledges that the One who is Messiah, who is the great Deliverer, is beyond what we can fathom. And best of all, that One comes to us in the darkness.

It's rather like finding light in winter. The author of the New York Times essay was not making an explicitly Chrisitan argument, but her point does apply to our Christian belief. And our belief is that there is real darkness in the world, and to deny that reality is to deceive ourselves and to do great harm at the same time. To pretend as if there’s no sin or evil is to diminish the profound suffering of the innocent civilian caught in the conflict between Hamas and Israel or the despair of the person struggling with depression as the days get shorter or the helplessness of the student bullied by teachers and students alike. To ignore sin and evil is to be morally irresponsible.

And yet, the darkness is not the complete picture of reality, nor is it the truest picture of it, which is precisely why my seminary classmate’s post about getting rid of Advent is off the mark, in my opinion. We do need Advent. We need it because it’s the season in which we both confront the reality of darkness in our midst and profess that it doesn’t have the last word. The final word can only be spoken by the Word made flesh, who is the true light that lightens the world.

And all this makes Advent a peculiar and glorious season. We allow some joy of Christmas to break into this shadowy world, when in the northern hemisphere, the days are dark and short. But we honor the waiting for Christmas to arrive. To ignore the waiting is to pretend as if only the light exists, as if everyone must be perpetually happy at Christmas, as if there is no darkness, sin, or evil.

And this is where we are called to be like John, the one crying in the wilderness to make straight the way of the Lord. We are called to point to the true light of the world by saying what that light is not. And that light is not so many things. It’s not the power-mongering of war, corporate greed, institutional dishonesty, unforgiving anger, the careless ignoring of the needy, the celebration of division, or the insidious individualism that threatens our collective identity. The true light is precisely what those things are not.

When we acknowledge what the light is not, we need not become reactionary or negative. We testify to something to which John himself witnessed: that despite the darkness, there is a light that shines with hope and glory beyond our imagining. We’re never told that the light that enlightens the world drowns out the darkness. We’re just told that it can’t be extinguished by the darkness. This true light is brave and strong and loving enough to come to us in the darkness.

And this is such good news for all who are lonely, suffering addictions, struggling financially, or locked in a prison cell. Their situations are real and horrible, but the final word is given by the true light that shines into their lives in spite of overwhelming darkness.

In the overwhelming physical darkness of this time of year, as I was closing the church after Evening Prayer on Tuesday, I found a handwritten card in the basket at the back of the church. It was another iteration of a prayer intention that has been left routinely in this church by someone coming in to pray. The intention asked us to pray for a son who has been addicted to drugs for fifteen years. Despite much prayer, nothing has changed. The writer of the card said they were losing their faith and beginning to give up on God. My heart broke. I brought the card to the sacristy, and I have kept that card with me as I pray the Daily Office as a reminder to hold that son close in prayer.

The cry for help on that card is a reminder that there’s darkness in this world, persistent darkness. But that card’s plaintive cry is answered by John’s cry in the wilderness of darkness, a cry of persistent hope. It’s a hope I want the son’s parent to feel. I want that parent to know that even in winter, there’s light. I want the parent to know that the darkness of the son’s addiction is not the true light, but that the true light is still there with that son. It shines hope into a world dark with addiction and violence and despair. The true light has come into the world and still comes and will come again. It still shines because of a resurrection and in spite of a crucifixion. It’s greater than we are, it’s greater than John was, and it’s not what we often think it's supposed to be. This light can always be found in the darkness, because although there are many things it is not, what it is not cannot overcome it.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Advent
December 17, 2023

[1]Mary Pipher, “Finding Light in Winter”, The New York Times, December 11, 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/11/opinion/love-light-winter-darkness.html

On the Backroads

As we say in Godly Play with the children during Sunday School, “some people think that time is in a line.” Don’t most of us? Inevitably, our lives are oriented around time in a line. On a recent trip south for Thanksgiving, Google Maps wanted to prevent my car from going on the backroads. My husband and I were deliberately trying to avoid I-95 and major thoroughfares, and it took quite a lot of work to outsmart Google Maps to stay on the backroads. Google Maps seems to think it’s smarter than all of us, and it’s certainly even more impatient than we impatient moderns tend to be.

My spouse and I wanted to go on the quieter country roads, because driving there is far more pleasant. As the crow flies, it was not an expedient journey, but it was worth the extra time. We saw lovely foliage and old farmhouses, even though Google Maps was constantly rerouting our journey, trying to take us back to the highways.

Time in a line also encompasses more than just geographical time. We plan our careers and our futures as if time is really in a line. What’s the quickest way to make the most amount of money? Can you avoid the low-level menial paying jobs and go straight to the top? Sometimes I wonder whether I have wasted years. Was the nine years spent studying music in college and graduate school a waste of time if I’m no longer serving as a professional musician? Was it worth all that student loan debt?

But if I recall that time is not always in a line, I usually settle on the conclusion that it was worth every minute of the excursion. It was worth all the experiences of living in New York City and studying with a fantastic teacher. It was worth meeting my spouse. And going to seminary after all that study to prepare for ordination was worth it, too. There’s no second of life on the backroads of life that can be extracted from who I am now. If time is only in a line, then it’s just the churning of cogs in a mechanistic world, and it’s pretty meaningless.

But this isn’t easy for us to understand in our modern world. Aside from communities on the backroads of life, where the pace is slower and people live closer to the ground, it’s very difficult to comprehend time that’s not in a line. It’s hard not to honk at the car in front of you that doesn’t advance a millisecond after the light turns green. It’s hard to wait to spend all the money you received in your annual raise. It’s hard not knowing some piece of information, so you must look it up immediately on Wikipedia. It’s hard to wait for Christmas, so we put the tree up before Thanksgiving.

It's hard, too, to let the person with whom you disagree finish their sentence, without stepping on their words with your rebuttal. It’s hard to await the biopsy results on that tumor that was removed. It’s hard not to share a piece of news instantly, even if a delay would be more prudent depending on the circumstance. It’s hard to invest more money in ministry while the stock market goes down, especially when it might go back up later.

It’s not easy to listen to the reader who goes unhurriedly through the precious words of Scripture because we want to devour it as fast as we do every other book we read. It’s painful to watch more suffering and starvation and violence on the evening news without wanting to fix it all. It’s frustrating to watch the newcomer to the faith struggle their way out of bad theology without wanting to correct it all immediately. For most of us, time is definitely in a line.

Way back on that timeline, the author of Second Peter wrote a letter that probably took an ungodly amount of time to reach its addressees, who were early Christians living nearly a hundred years after Jesus’s death. The letter was timely, coming as it did decades of time in a line from the remarkable events in Jerusalem centered around an empty tomb and a promise. At that point on the time-in-a-line line, there were many naysayers and scoffers, not unlike modern day ones. I’m sure you’ve encountered them.

They’re the ones who scoff at our foolishness for waiting on a promised kingdom that hasn’t yet fully arrived. Meanwhile, wars rage, children starve, and there’s yet one more school shooting. The scoffers, for whom time is in a line, have given up on God. Any attempt to explain that with God, one day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like one day will elicit more scoffing. It’s just an excuse, they say, to cover for a God who doesn’t act in history and might well not even exist.

There are other scoffers who haven’t necessarily given up on God, but who believe that God’s timing needs a little help. They’re the ones who have no time for worship and prayer because action is all that matters. They’re the ones who must respond immediately to every perceived injustice without prayerfully discerning the appropriate time to act. They’re the ones who simplify complex issues with hasty solutions. They’re the ones who talk over those who disagree with them.

And there are yet other scoffers who aren’t outwardly rash or contemptuously atheistic but who still behave as if time is in a line. They’ve simply grown weary with waiting for God to shine some light into the persistently oppressive darkness. They’ve lost hope in the promise made so long ago that a new kingdom would be ushered in to last forever. For these scoffers, impatience is the root of despair. It's to all these scoffers and those persecuted by scoffers that the author of 2 Peter speaks, offering a marvelous invitation into time that isn’t in a line because time in a line misses far too many backroads and far too much hidden goodness.

On the backroads of life, our sense of time changes. We realize that impatience with God, ourselves, and others, usually emerges out of our own self-centered individualism. Sometimes our motives for acting out of impatience are simply ways of trying to alleviate our own discomfort. It’s not at all easy to conceive of time that’s not in a line. We have no concept of the fullness of time, God’s time where one day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like one day.

For a world where time is in a line, every prayer that seems unanswered and every day away from the advent of God’s perfect kingdom is another reason why God can’t be actively involved in our world. But what we can’t see is that God’s timing is perfect in its fullness. We can hardly conceive that what appears to be tardiness might be an incredible gesture of mercy and compassion from a God who is waiting for us to find him, ourselves, and others, and above all, to find love.

As we begin to envision time outside of a line, we see that the quick and easy toll roads of life are usually not the best way. They’re not the best way because on those speedy thoroughfares, we miss each other, and we miss God. We miss the fact that our own salvation is not all that matters. The salvation of others matters, too, and our own salvation is caught up with theirs. On the fast toll roads, we miss the moments of grace to become patient with one another, which is how we work out our own salvation with fear and trembling. On the interstates of life, we miss the fact that God has been so infinitely patient with us that God has sent his beloved Son as his perfect revelation in the fullness of time. And it could only happen when the time was right.

Oddly enough, the delay of our Lord’s Second Coming isn’t proof that God is slow to act or gone from the picture. It means that God cares for us far more than we can imagine. And God cares for every other soul on this planet, too, so much that God would be as patient as is required so that not one soul will perish.

Know this: the scoffers among us will try to outsmart our backroad routes and bring us to the quicker highways. They will try to take away our hope and our patience. They will claim to know the best way for us to travel. But no one knows the way better than our God, who’s so infinitely patient with us that he’s willing to take as much time as is necessary to bring us all into the kingdom. And when one soul is lost on the way, such a God will take all the time needed to bring that one soul back. And that’s a God I can take all the time in the world to follow.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday of Advent
December 10, 2023

What We Don't Know Will Help Us

“I think we’re living in the end times.” That’s what Mrs. Murray said to me as I was giving her a ride home one Sunday evening. Mrs. Murray did occasional cleaning at the inner-city school where I was working at the time, and because she didn’t have a car, I would sometimes drive her home after the Sunday evening Mass.

When she told me that she believed we were living in the end times, we were riding through a much-neglected part of the city. My car was fighting with potholes, as we drove past houses that looked structurally unsound. Mrs. Murray had told me before about the gun violence in her neighborhood, how she would hear gunshots at night and how people were often killed right down the street from her house. Sadly, this was nothing extraordinary for her; it was simply part of her distressing world.

I remember thinking to myself that I didn’t agree with Mrs. Murray on the imminence of the end times. But how could I fault her for thinking the end of time was near? Every day was a struggle for her and her family. It was a nightmare for many who lived in the neighborhood through which I was driving, where trash littered the streets because the city had not provided enough garbage cans and where yet another shooting was seen as just one more statistic, barely worth a mention in the newspaper.

Add to that the nation’s political situation at the time, the ever-increasing despair around environmental issues, and the deep anxiety of a world reeling from repeated acts of terrorism, then maybe Mrs. Murray was on to something. Maybe the end was near. Or at the very least, it wouldn’t be foolish to look at the signs and think so.

Mrs. Murray certainly wasn’t alone in feeling that the world was coming to an end. If I had a penny for every connection made between natural disasters and the apocalypse, I would be a rich man. Novels about the end times make the bestseller lists, and bizarre cults form around definitive predictions of when the Son of Man will appear, coming on the clouds to judge the world and gather the righteous, and of course, doom all others to eternal punishment. Everybody, it seems, wants to know when. From Scripture, we seem to know what will happen, but the real unanswered question is when.

And that’s precisely what Jesus says we cannot know. Immediately before today’s Gospel passage, Jesus has described earthly suffering—wars, famines, earthquakes, and great anxiety—that he says are not yet the end. They’re only the birth pangs. They’re the natural sufferings of earthly life that will demand endurance and patience from his disciples. It’s during those difficult times that false prophets will arise, attempting to mislead us. But the end times are not yet here.

Jesus, insistently, won’t tell us when the end will be, but he does tell us what will happen. The end of the age will be a cosmic event that upends a world ravaged by sin and subverts oppressive worldly powers. Jesus provides an image of how comprehensive this transformation of the world will be so that we can recognize it when it arrives. But the time of that exact hour is not for us to know. It’s as if what we don’t know won’t hurt us, as the saying goes.         

And yet, it certainly seems as if not knowing is working against us. Think of the definitive hope we could have if we just knew when it would all occur. Think of how prepared we could be to greet our Lord at his Second Coming. Think of the hope it would give to Mrs. Murray in her under-resourced neighborhood, waking up at night to gunshots and longing to sleep for one night without being awakened to violence. Think of what such knowledge would do for Israeli and Palestinian hostages who can’t communicate with their families and to Ukrainian civilians enduring an endless crisis. Think of the hope it would give to anyone whose earthly existence feels like hell itself. Why wouldn’t we want to know when the end will come? Because if the end comes soon, things will surely be better soon. And for some, hoping for the end to come very soon is worth enduring the present suffering.

I can’t blame those like Mrs. Murray who interpret present human suffering as a sure and certain sign that the end is near. They’re looking for hope. In this sense, they’re unlike the irresponsible Christians who wield the end of time as a stick of fear to beat others into compliance. But Jesus has already told us that the vivid reality of earthly suffering is not yet the end. It’s only the beginning of the birth pangs, something to be endured patiently and bravely until God truly brings in his kingdom. We can’t know the when of that advent. It’s as if Jesus knows what’s best for us, and what’s best for us is that what we don’t know won’t hurt us. Indeed, what we don’t know will actually help us. Not knowing, it appears, is an indescribable gift.

Because if we really think about it, knowing when would do no good at all. Worrying and fretting about when causes us to be either impatient and foolish, or too patient and slothful. If we knew when, we would be tempted to sleep through the present and abdicate our responsibilities. It would cause us, like many Christians, to focus so much on the end of time that the present means nothing, giving us permission to squander creation and live recklessly.

On the other hand, worrying about the delay of when it will all happen, can create such impatience that humanity tries to become its own savior, refusing to wait in patience for the Second Coming of our true Savior. Knowing when would prompt us to do the right things for the wrong reasons. In short, fretting about when causes us to live in great fear and anxiety or in egregious laziness, which only increases the world’s problems. It causes us to look only to the future instead of receiving the gift of the present.

But maybe Mrs. Murray was partly right. Maybe we are living in the end times to some extent. Maybe this undergirds the invitation latent in Jesus’ words to his disciples as he approaches the cross. Watch. Keep awake. You don’t know when, but you do know what has happened and what will happen. And that’s a gift.

Unlike those disciples hearing Jesus’s words, we know that our Lord was crucified on a cross, inverting the world’s power dynamic for all time. And because of that what, we know that death no longer has dominion over us. We know that sin has been defeated, and the devil has been trampled down. We know that the Holy Spirit has been given to us, to lead us into all truth. We know that we are the living Body of Christ with a powerful role in God’s mission in the world. And we know that although Christ will come again to bring in the perfection of God’s kingdom, because he has already come, the end times are already, in some sense, breaking into this age although not fully realized.

The time in which we live is only the birth pangs of earthly tribulation, where violence reigns, injustice is rampant, and the world seems to be crumbling around us. It’s a time of great testing that will demand our utmost patience. It will require us to be watchful and awake. It will require us to be a people alive with the Gospel, who live not in constant fear or anxiety but with an animated sense of hope borne out of the good news we have received in Christ.

The gift of not knowing is that in the most uncertain times, we find the most surprising gifts. When we don’t know the future, we live in the present, and we see that daily, the risen Christ comes into our lives. Daily, the Holy Spirit drives us to some action that we find has blessed another. Daily, God sends yet another person to this parish to use her gifts for the building up of the kingdom. Daily, our unknown future leads us into unexpected ministry that we would never have otherwise found.

When we don’t know when but when we trust in what will happen, we live boldly. We take risks in ministry. We live generously. And while waiting patiently for the perfection of God’s reign, we also live with urgent expectation that the present can be better than it seems to be. In short, we live in hope because we know that Christ has come, and that has upended our world. We know that he still comes, and that inspires us to live fully in the present. And we know that he will come again at the end of the age to judge the world and establish righteousness.

So, maybe Mrs. Murray was partly correct. We are living in the end times. Already partly here, and not yet fully realized. And while we don’t know when that glorious end will come with Christ riding on the clouds, we do know what it will be. It will be something infinitely more wonderful than we can ask or imagine. And something that wonderful, whenever it does come, can only appear from outside our world, riding on the clouds.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday of Advent
December 3, 2023

Closer than It Appears

On Christmas Eve of 2008, a vibrant Anglo-Catholic parish in a major American city was celebrating our Lord’s nativity on Christmas Eve. The church was bedecked with garlands of greenery. The pews were full. The organ was sounding in its full glory. The Mass opened with a procession around the church and happy voices loudly singing “O come, all ye faithful.”

It was during that procession that several choir members, and I’m sure others, noticed the homeless man who often showed up for Mass at this inner-city church. He was hard to miss because he was wearing what he always wore, no matter the weather: a bulky silver winter coat that shimmered in the light. He was standing at the back of the crowded church, which was not surprising because it was Christmas Eve, and the pews were packed.

The sight of this frequent attender of Masses was only surprising the next day when the choir members picked up the local newspaper and saw that the homeless visitor spotted the previous night at Mass had been brutally murdered on the city streets. The most surprising thing of all was that the murder had happened on Christmas Eve, before the Mass where he was seen.

Although those who confidently assert that they saw the man that night were at first shocked upon learning of his tragic death, perhaps they weren’t entirely surprised to consider that he might have been spotted at the back of the church where he so often attended Mass. It was a place where he found refuge. It was a place where he was seen and welcomed, not ignored. And of all nights to be there, why not Christmas Eve?

The congregation of that church was gathered to celebrate the nativity of Christ and revel in the mystery of the Incarnation and its radical claim that God became so intimately wrapped up in the lives of human beings that God, in Christ, took on human flesh. The people gathered in that church would have heard St. Luke’s account of Jesus’s birth, but of course, in the backs of their minds, they would have supplemented the story with details from St. Matthew’s birth narrative. They would have been potently aware of Christmas’s special significance: that Christ is Emmanuel, God-with-us. God in Christ is revealed to be rather like the message in the rearview mirror of cars: closer than God appears.

In that Anglo-Catholic parish, which was firmly committed to honoring the Real Presence of Christ in the poor on the streets of a troubled, deeply segregated city, parishioners would have understood that receiving Christ in the Sacrament of the Altar was inextricably connected with receiving Christ’s presence in the poor, homeless, hungry, thirsty, naked, imprisoned, and sick. And on that Christmas Eve, God showed up tangibly in both the Sacrament of the Altar and in the vision of a man who had been heinously murdered by those who were supposed to treat him as if he were Christ himself.

If I were to take a poll of the room right now, I would guess that many of you have already sorted characters from this story into sheep and goats based on Matthew’s parable. It’s a scene that is full of judgment and that seems to be about who goes to heaven and who goes to hell, and ultimately, a rigid reading of this parable is usually based on our own fear of judgment. But if we have learned anything from the parables of the last few weeks in Matthew’s Gospel, we have learned that our motivations for following Christ will be distorted if they are rooted in fear. And this is why the parable of the sheep and the goats is ultimately not about fear but about how God’s love is revealed in judgment. And in this realization, we find that salvation is closer than it initially appears.

For nearly twenty-five chapters, Matthew has reinforced a central message to his Gospel: that our salvation is tied up in the ordinary moments and actions of our life. Indeed, salvation itself is closer than it often appears. It’s not an elusive pie-in-the-sky dream. It’s not something that can be controlled or weaponized by the Church. It’s something that is freely given to all who will receive the gift, whether they profess to be Christians or whether they’re living as Christians are supposed to live without even knowing it.

So, as Matthew’s Gospel draws to a close and Advent draws nigh, we encounter this judgment scene that confounds all exclusive, fearful notions of salvation. Salvation is closer to us than we appear. It’s tied up in our willingness to live as if God is closer than he might appear. Salvation is tied up with our willingness to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, and visit the sick and the imprisoned. And in Matthew’s rather practical but convicting depiction of judgment, we find that none of us can receive salvation without each other.[1] Salvation is closer to us than it appears. God is closer to us than he might at first appear. But what is closest to us is often what we least want to face.

Such as an immigrant without a home whose life was taken on the street where he slept. His life was taken by those who should have seen in him that their own salvation was closer than it first appeared, that God himself was closer than they might imagine.

But that homeless man found his way to a place that welcomed him as they welcomed the refugee child born homeless in Bethlehem, the city where salvation became far closer than it had ever appeared. On Christmas Eve, a homeless refugee in our nation’s capital didn’t need to greet his King in a royal palace but met him face to face in the Sacrament of the Altar, where his King exchanged his royal robe for bread and wine. A congregation attired in their Sunday best could easily appreciate the presence of Christ in the Eucharistic Bread and Wine, but some also saw Christ in the presence of the man from the streets. That Christmas night, Christ was present at the east and west ends of that church, in the sacred food of the altar and in the man from the streets.

Christ is the King who exchanges his royal robes for clothes with holes in them. He is the King who exchanges the royal feast for begging for food on the street. He is the King who exchanges the sumptuous bed of a royal chamber for a cold, hard city street. Christ is the King who exchanges the lavish palace for a dank prison cell. He does it all so that heaven can become closer than it appears. Christ is the King honored at the altar and in the streets. We can’t meet Christ in the high places without also finding him in the lowest places of the earth. And in the lowest places of the earth, we find the heavenly throne room.

Christ the King is Emmanuel who comes to us in surprising vesture, although we meet him most truly when we least expect it or are aware of it. This is often when we come closest to salvation. In the parable of the sheep and the goats, neither the sheep nor the goats can understand their fate. The righteous ones are not consciously aware that they were ministering to Christ when they ministered to the needy. And the wicked ones are not consciously aware that they had failed to minister to Christ when they had failed to minister to the needy. Following Christ is about not letting our right hand know what the left is doing. And doing the right things without pretense or ulterior motive is precisely the point.

When we are blissfully conscious of meeting Christ in the ordinary, then we have found heaven. There’s no need to calculate every step of our lives for fear of losing heaven or for hope of gaining it. If we live as Christ is asking us to live, we will find heaven, partly in this life and perfectly in the next. Heaven is closer than it often appears. Is it any wonder, then, that a murdered man being welcomed towards the pearly gates might also be seen in his shiny silver coat in a church on Christmas Eve?

When the poor and needy are pawns for us to use to gain heaven, then we have found hell. When the hungry and thirsty are inconvenient to our daily comfort and when we judge them because of their situation, then we have found hell. When a person on the streets is nothing more than an object of pity, then we have not yet found heaven. When the altar is only a royal throne and not a manger of hay, then we have not understood what heaven is and we have failed to understand the kind of King that comes to us daily.

For us Christians, there must always be two altars. There must be the altar in our church, where Christ comes to us assuredly in the Blessed Sacrament, and there must be an altar on the street, where we meet Christ in the stranger and the one in need. Although it often seems that heaven is light years away in the toil and tribulations of this life, when we begin to see Christ’s royal robes shining forth from the tattered jacket of the one in need, we will learn that none of us can find heaven without each other. And heaven itself is always much closer than it appears.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King
November 26, 2023

[1] I am indebted to a similar argument made by David Bentley Hart in That All Shall Be Saved (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2019), 148-149.

From 10,000 Feet

In the past year and a half, I have been relearning Spanish as a hobby. And as part of my learning project, I’ve been listening to a bilingual podcast produced by Duolingo. Recently, I listened to the story of Eréndira Sánchez, a Mexican woman who eventually fulfilled her dream of becoming a professional skydiver.

It all started when she turned fifteen. As is the custom in Mexico, Eréndira was thrown a quinceañera by her family, although hers was not a typical celebration. Hers was held at a skydiving training camp where her father worked. After everyone was gathered, her father fastened a parachute over her white quinceañera dress, and she soon found herself 10,000 feet in the air, inside an airplane with her father, waiting to jump. And jump they did, together, sharing the same parachute. For Eréndira, that day was a moment of vocational clarity when she realized that she wanted to spend the rest of her life skydiving.

Eréndira said that when skydiving, “many persons feel free. I feel happiness. When you jump from an airplane, you feel as if you are far from every worry. Suddenly, the things that seem important on Earth, look very small and insignificant from the air.”[1]

It strikes me that this is not only a helpful perspective for handling the anxieties of life but also a valuable spiritual lesson. Sometimes for me, it’s necessary to look up at the night sky or at a beautiful sunset to remind myself that my own petty worries and preoccupations are next to nothing in the grand scheme of things. I’m only one small part of a vast world where there are far larger preoccupations than my own. My usual inclination is to look at the world from ground level, where there’s so much fear. But zooming out brings me a bit closer to a perspective of abundance and freedom.

And yet, I think there’s also something more in this image of skydiving. The joy of floating in the air comes only after enormous risk. Skydiving is not for the faint of heart. It takes a gigantic leap of faith (pun intended) to jump from a plane hovering at 10,000 feet, and it takes another leap of faith to trust that when you open the parachute it will indeed open after all. At its most basic level, skydiving can be a matter of life and death.

Floating in the sky, especially at 10,000 feet, offers both a visual and spiritual perspective. Once the fear of heights is mastered and you’re soaring through the clouds, it does seem as if worries are far away. It’s as if we are seeing things from the vantage point of God.

This seems to be the primary point of the parable of the talents. A talent in this parable might be a sum of money, but in my view, this parable is primarily not a parable about money. This parable invites us to try and see things through the eyes of God by ascending to God’s vantage point.

And if we use our imaginations, we find two points of view: one is from 10,000 feet, floating in the clouds, where the things that seem so important on Earth begin to seem less significant from the sky. The other perspective is on ground level, where there are worries around every corner and the general picture is grim.

At 10,000 feet, we find God. In the parable, we might say that the master of the servants is meant to stand in for God in a human kind of way, without literalizing the allegory too much. From 10,000 feet, the master is almost certainly aware of problems in the trenches where his servants labor, but he seems far more interested in making decisions based on his abundant sense of trust. But to a casual observer on the ground, the master seems a bit foolish. He entrusts a huge sum of money to each of the servants, although those amounts vary according to the capacity of each servant to do something with the money. The master then leaves the scene, taking a massive risk that he will indeed lose everything he has handed over but feeling hopeful that he hasn’t made a mistake in the end.

Skydiving from 10,000 feet in the parable are the first two servants, who are making decisions from their awesome vantage point in the skies. The cares and worries of Earth do seem rather small and insignificant up there. Or if they aren’t necessarily insignificant, at 10,000 feet they seem to be part of a much more complicated picture.

So, the first two servants take the frightening risk of jumping out of the plane. The first servant acknowledges the trust and freedom given to him by his master, and he immediately makes five more talents from the five he has been given. Sure, the investment could have busted, but he believes it’s worth the risk. And he’s rewarded as he floats through the air after taking the leap of faith, experiencing the freedom that comes with braving risk. By the time he’s safely on the ground, the master has returned to settle accounts. The servant’s perspective on life has broadened. He has been spiritually opened up. He has already experienced the joy of which his master speaks.

The same is true for the second servant, who jumps from the plane, too, feels the freedom of freefalling in the air, lands safely on the ground, and is also praised by his master. He, too, has known the joy of being generously bold.

But at ground level is the third servant. From ground level and perhaps to us, he seems responsible and prudent. He’s overly concerned about the risk of investing his one talent. He doesn’t have the courage to take a plane to 10,000 feet and reorient his perspective on the universe, and he certainly isn’t risky enough to leap from the plane by investing the one talent entrusted to his care. Consequently, he misses out on the wild freedom of floating in the skies. He anxiously remains on Earth the entire time, and when his master returns, all he can do is hand back exactly what he was given, which he simply buried in a hole in the ground.

The principal message of this parable is really not about money at all. It’s about acknowledging who God really is and letting that form who we are. It’s no coincidence that the careful and least productive servant is the one who is afraid. And it’s no coincidence that this servant believes his master to be a hard man. Because he’s so afraid of his master, he’s not brave enough to risk the master’s displeasure or his own failure. He plays it safe, and he misses out on the 10,000-foot view.

But the first two servants operate from a 10,000-foot vantage point of generosity and abundance. They see from the outset that their master trusts them enough with a large sum of money, and they are inspired. They can do nothing except be fruitful with what they’ve been given. They understand that to receive a gift truly, it must move beyond the recipient and bless others. A real gift has a dynamic life of its own.

Where are we in this parable? If we’re at ground level, we will only be able to see things from a place of fear. If we have made God in our own image, then God is a perpetually wrathful and angry person in the sky who is just waiting for us to mess up again. And if God is like that, why in the world would we ever take a risk of faith to invest ourselves, our gifts, or yes, even our money in a risky enterprise that might change the world for the better?

But if we are more like the first two servants, we will have a different view of God and see that no matter how much we are made in God’s image, God himself is not a mirror image of our own imperfect fears, worries, and resentments. God is no wrathful person but the creative Source of all life. And God has taken an enormous risk in creating us to be utterly free. God allows us to climb onto planes, ascend to 10,000 feet, and run the risk of yanking on a parachute that might not open. God allows us to jump from planes every day in the trust that it’s worth doing to experience God’s joy.

We are rightly horrified at what we see on ground level—war, poverty, hunger, brutal violence on our streets—and these are hardly insignificant. But if we ever desire for true change to happen, we must get our heads out of the ground, where we’re burying our one talent in perpetual fear. We need to see that even one talent is a tremendous amount of money and precious gift that can change the world. We need to be risky and trust that God is actively and creatively working for good in this world, and God is doing so through us.

If we could only ascend to 10,000 feet, we might see the horrors of ground level in a different way. We might see that each of us is being called to a scale of generous living that we never thought possible. And if we can summon the courage to finally jump from the plane by trusting in God’s gracious provision, we would find that we’re as far from fear as we have ever been. We would find that we are truly free.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost
November 19, 2023

[1] Duolingo Spanish podcast, Episode 44: Estar en las nubes “Head in the Clouds”), January 1, 2020, translation of the Spanish.

Tending to the Light

At the top of the list of endangered occupations is that of the lamplighter. In early nineteenth century London, New York, or Philadelphia, your safety would have depended on the reliability of lamplighters. Each evening at dusk, they would appear, poles in hand, topped by kerosene-soaked rags, to reach up and ignite gas flames in the many lamps strategically placed throughout the city streets. No one wanted to venture out after dark without the lamps being lit.

Lamplighters knew all the neighborhoods of major cities. They had to show up on time and be dependable. They worked around the clock. They appeared at dusk to light the lamps and then again at dawn to extinguish them. Today, with electric lights on timers, it’s difficult to imagine just how important lamplighters would have been to an earlier age. And as difficult as it has been to get our light timers working here around the church, I almost wish we could hire our own lamplighters.

Interestingly, the profession has not gone completely out of style. The city of Brest, Belarus, has employed a lamplighter since 2009, and there’s still a small group of lamplighters in London. Only a handful of cities across the globe have active lamplighters.[1] They’re a dying, nearly extinct, breed of people, hanging on to a profession that has been superseded by technological efficiency.

But with the demise of this peculiar profession, there has been a loss of more than just jobs. Think of the ways in which lamplighters were so tied up with the communities in which they worked in ages past. They knew the streets. They knew the people. They provided an invaluable service for the people, and the people depended on the lamplighters for their safety and freedom. In some ways, community was formed and nourished around light, and at the center of those relationships of trust, were the lamplighters.

Maybe we need a modern guild of lamplighters. I don’t mean actual lamplighters roaming the streets and lighting the few extant gas lamps that aren’t self-igniting. I’m talking about a guild of people committed to giving light to a world where the light seems to be going out, to give hope where there’s constant despair. We need a guild of people committing their lives to showing up, dependably, to let the light shine so that others can find their paths in the darkness and proceed on their way in safety, with the hope that they will reach their destination.

If what I read daily in the news or hear in conversations with others or see on the streets is any indication, scores of people are struggling to see the light. I don’t think the world is particularly worse than it has been in the past, but it seems like it because we have so many more mechanisms of spreading a perpetual message that the light is going out, or that it has been extinguished altogether. And this is why the world needs the Church. We are the modern guild of lamplighters. We can be a reliable source of light in the darkness and a lodestone of reconciliation and peace if we reclaim the mission God has entrusted to us. And to reclaim that mission means we need to be more like the wise maidens in Jesus’s parable rather than the foolish ones.

Of all the Gospels, St. Matthew’s in particular gives us the encouraging wisdom that to follow Christ is not to grasp at some elusive notion of God’s will. To follow Christ necessitates doing certain things. What we do matters. Christian discipleship is not only a matter of the heart. It is also a matter of our hands and feet taking action so that we gradually conform to the self-emptying pattern of Christ’s life. To find Christ’s light in a world of darkness, we must constantly replenish our lamps with oil. We must bother to take extra oil with us on the journey. We must be prepared.

We can learn a lot about the two types of maidens in Jesus’s parable by reflecting on their level of preparedness. The wise maidens are not only smart and organized enough to anticipate a long wait for the bridegroom. They’re humble enough to know that when the oil runs out, they can’t presume to rely on backup oil from others. It would be arrogant to consider joining the banquet by piggybacking on other people’s preparedness if they weren’t themselves prepared.

But the foolish maidens have not only been irresponsible; they have also been proud. They have assumed too much—that the bridegroom would not take so long in arriving at the banquet and that if they themselves could leave for the banquet in haste without fully preparing, others would bail them out. It’s not that the wise maidens don’t want to help the foolish ones; it’s that the wise ones know that helping the foolish ones will help no one at all. The oil will run out, and no one will get to the banquet.

And these two types of maidens are rather like two types of Christians. One type of Christian knows what is required of a true disciple. It’s no mystery. Say your prayers. Go to church. Feed the poor. Clothe the naked. Give drink to the thirsty. Love your enemy. Treat your neighbor as you would want to be treated. Humble yourself to be exalted. Empty yourself to be filled. And when you set out on the road of discipleship, make sure you always have enough spare oil.

The wise Christian knows that on the road to heaven, the light will wane. It will threaten to go out. At times, it will appear as if it has gone out. The wise Christian knows that it’s impossible to control the darkness, but it’s more than possible to tend to the light. It’s no mystery. Jesus has shown us what to do.

But the foolish Christian has taken it all for granted. The foolish Christian certainly wants to feast at the banquet but can’t imagine that the bridegroom will be delayed in coming. The foolish Christian will hope for others to assist when deliberate unpreparedness comes home to roost. The foolish Christian will wait until the tragedy strikes to cry, “Lord, lord, open to us.” But the door will seem shut because there will be no readily apparent answer. And the answer’s light, which is always there, will not be seen because the lamp has run out of oil. The foolish Christian is willfully unprepared.

If the Church is about anything these days, she must be about tending to the light. We must be a guild of lamplighters, even though these days we often yearn for recognition, just like that dying breed of actual lamplighters. Like the handful of lamplighters who still give light to their respective communities, we in the Church can be seen as an anachronism. Who needs the Church’s wisdom when we have the wisdom of technology? Who needs the Church’s community when we have the fellowship of social media and clubs? Who needs the Church’s works of charity when we have social service agencies to help the needy?

But without the Church, the light that seems to be fading into darkness will be insufficient to light the way forward, because the Church’s very mission is to manifest the Light of Christ to a confused world. And we are the lamplighters, tending to the flame among us, and lighting the path for others to find the true Light that lightens the world.

Jesus’s parable of the ten maidens is so often heard with anxiety. Will we miss the banquet? Will the door be closed to us? But this parable is, in fact, a gracious, non-anxious invitation to be a guild of lamplighters that this world so badly needs.

When the rest of the world believes that the light is going out and will go out soon, we’ve been told that the light always shines in the darkness, and the darkness can’t overcome it. We’ve been told by Jesus himself how to put oil in our lamps, and no matter how much we have failed to do it, we know that keeping oil on hand is within our capacity to accomplish.

The Church is no anachronism to the world. She is its living light that points the way to the true Light. And what the world needs from us is clear. The world needs us to be prepared, watchful, dependable, and faithful. Ironically, a world that seems increasingly to stay away from church needs us to be here, in church, weekly, dependably, faithfully. The world needs us to show up constantly to say our prayers and pray for others to find the light that shines in the darkness. The world needs us to lighten the darkness by our works of charity and mercy and through our refusal to concede to despair.

The world needs us because we are keepers of the light. We are the lamplighters, with one exception. We never need to show up at dawn to put the lights out. The light always burns. It burns before the Sacrament in this church. It burns in our prayer and daily work. It burns in our authentic witness to the Gospel. And if we choose to put oil in our lamps, we will be the ones to shine a path in the cold darkness to the living Light of the world, who invites the whole world in to feast with him.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost
November 12, 2023

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