What is a shepherd?

Preached on the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year B), April 21, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Acts 4:5-12
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
John 10:1-18

Shepherd and his flock, by Vincent Van Gogh

This homily is a short “starter” homily that encourages the assembly at our 5:00pm liturgy to add their own insights and reflections in conversation with the preacher. Gathered in a circle in the early evening, we enjoy this evening Eucharist as a more intimate form of worship on the Lord’s Day.

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A shepherd.

What’s a shepherd?

Our holy book is full of shepherds. A shepherd is up on the mountainside when a thornbush bursts into flame, but is not consumed. A shepherd is called from his work and, in the presence of all his older brothers, is proclaimed sovereign of the kingdom. Shepherds are working the night shift when the heavens split apart in glory and angels announce a wondrous birth.

Those shepherds may have been teenage girls. The job of shepherd was not glamorous, not an impressive bullet point on a resume. Even now, a livestock worker in, say, Montana, is not exactly killing it in our high-tech economy.

But our holy book is full of shepherds, and from its most ancient poets to the Christian Gospels, we borrow the image of shepherd quite often, when we’re trying to speak about God, about who God is, about how God acts in human life. “Adonai is my shepherd,” sings the ancient poet who composed Psalm 23. “I AM the Good Shepherd,” sings Jesus in the Good News according to John. 

Why? Why shepherd?

Shepherd is a versatile role. A shepherd is quiet and serene, until the critical moment when the shepherd swings into action to protect the flock. A shepherd handles livestock in an everyday way, one sheep is much like another, and yet she starts to get to know the idiosyncrasies of each animal in her care. One human is much like another: we all share roughly the same genetic material; and yet each of us is unique. If God is a shepherd, then God recognizes my humanity, and yours, and everyone’s, holding us all equally in God’s sight; but God also knows what sets me apart, you apart, each living human person apart from all the rest. 

Shepherd is a humble role. It’s not just a job for commoners, for farm kids, for unassuming country folk. It’s a job that’s close to the earth herself, the hummus, the mud and muck of the soil. The word “human” is related to “humble” and “hummus” – to mud and muck. Shepherds know about our dirty laundry, our bloody towels, our tangled bedsheets, our burial shrouds. If God is a shepherd, then God is down in the mud and muck with us.

But shepherd finally is a leadership role. Shepherds aren’t just working stiffs. In fact, Jesus in John takes pains to remind us that the shepherd is not like the “hired hand,” who does not care about the sheep and does not protect them from the wolf, whoever the wolf is. (Sometimes the wolf rises within the sheep themselves…) If God is a shepherd, then God takes us places. God directs. God leads.

A versatile and humble leader: God as Shepherd. From the very beginning of our story of faith, and that of our cousins in the Abrahamic tradition, we prayerfully discern God as our Shepherd; and we Christians proclaim Jesus as the Good Shepherd, the über-Shepherd, the one who breaks the mold. 

We watch as Jesus in John steps between his flock and the soldiers swarming the garden gate to arrest him. We watch as Jesus lays down his life for his flock, lays his body at the gate of the sheepfold, the way first-century shepherds would do when the gate was not at all like our fine rolling metal gate upstairs, but just a gap in the low wall. 

And finally if God is a Shepherd, then you and I, we are sheep. We’re sturdy, but not always sharp enough to perceive every threat before it is upon us. We’re fuzzy and warm, and we love our children, but we are vulnerable to predators, easily spooked, prone to listen to our fears. We need help. We need direction. We need the loving care of a strong leader.

I invite you to share your reflections on this intriguing and lovely image of God, God as Shepherd, and Jesus as the Good Shepherd. What pulls you in? What bumps you out? What kind of shepherding may you need the most? Or how do you yourself learn from Jesus how to be a shepherd for others? I invite your reflections on this, or on other images and ideas from our readings, or on this Easter season of renewing life and springtime hope.

"I am the Good Shepherd"

Preached on the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year B), April 21, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Acts 4:5-12
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
John 10:1-18

I am the Shepherd, by Galih Reza Suseno

When the first Christians want to tell us about Jesus, they often reach for the image of shepherd. This, they say, this is Jesus: Jesus is a shepherd. They know about shepherds themselves, living as they do in a pre-industrial agrarian world where city streets are designed for beasts of burden, not automobiles or trains. But they also cherish older stories of the faith, stories already as ancient to them as their stories are ancient to us. And in those older stories, shepherds reliably appear.

Moses is tending sheep when God appears in the flaming thornbush and sends Moses on his vocation to liberate the Israelites. David is tending sheep when Samuel proclaims that he is the new sovereign of the Israelite nation. God comes near to shepherds. And so it’s not surprising to encounter the shepherds of Bethlehem, knocked off their feet by angels. God in Jesus has come near, so… here come the shepherds. Jesus is divine, his followers say, so… he’s a Shepherd.

But none of this shepherd imagery is necessarily going to pull us in, persuade us, move us, change us. What do we know about shepherds? Let’s take a deeper look. John the evangelist can help us with this.

First, John tells us that Jesus the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. That was a powerful teaching for John’s community, because they were badly hurt, painfully rejected, cast out of their communities because they held so firmly to Mary Magdalene’s strange Good News that she had seen the risen Lord. Jesus lays down his life for a rejected community.

And then, later in the Gospel, when the John community tells us their version of the arrest of Jesus, they say he leaves the garden to meet the soldiers alone: he comes forward, standing at the gate between the dangerous army and his beloved companions. He places his body between his followers and a mortal threat. Shepherds do that kind of thing.

But John also gives us at least one more key insight about Jesus the Good Shepherd. Today we hear a portion of John’s “Good Shepherd discourse,” a moving speech, a love song, really, sung passionately by Jesus, that powerfully explores the shepherd metaphor.

And here’s the point, the essential thing to know about the “Good Shepherd discourse” in John: this “Good Shepherd” speech, or song, is how Jesus explains his healing of the man born blind, the disruptive event that happened just before the speech, a wondrous action that led to great controversy. The man born blind was rejected, another outcast, living at a time when to be born with a birth defect didn’t just make you a target in an ableist culture, it made you a pariah. “Someone sinned!” people would say, when they came upon the man born blind. Someone is being punished. There could be no kinder interpretation of his condition.

And so Jesus the Good Shepherd is Good News for the man born blind, and anyone who can identify with him. The Good Shepherd lays down his life for his friends, of course, but among those friends are those who the respectable, privileged people consider beneath contempt, reprehensible, even disgusting.

But maybe Jesus as Good Shepherd is still not hitting home for us. We live in a hard, angular city, not on a natural, pastoral hillside. So I’d like to introduce you to a contemporary shepherd. Two shepherds, really: a man and his dog. The man is Jon Katz, a novelist who decided to buy a farm in upstate New York. Jon Katz quickly learned that his suburban New Jersey lifestyle had not remotely prepared him for the brutality of farm life, and one of his best early teachers was his dog Rose, a border-collie/shepherd mix. 

I’ve read, and recommend, Jon Katz’s books about his farm, and about his many dogs. If you’re a dog person, get his guide book for dog owners called “Katz on Dogs,” a play on his name, k-a-t-z. If you read his books, though, fair warning: you may fall in love with Rose, in my opinion his most intriguing dog.

Rose the dog, even more than Jon Katz, her owner, opens up for me what we Christians might mean when we proclaim Jesus the Good Shepherd. I want to share with you a portion of The Story of Rose: A Man and His Dog, by Jon Katz. In this portion, Katz writes about a dreadful night in February. I will be quoting him at some length, but I hope you’ll agree that he’s worth our generous attention. And I hope you’ll let Rose guide your reflections on our Savior, Jesus the Good Shepherd, who is our guide and our helper; our defender and our leader; our companion and our chaplain, in life and in death.

The story begins like this:

“I remember sleeping in bed… in the farmhouse and being awoken suddenly by a cold dog nose against my arm. Rose had hopped up into bed and was whining. She only did that when something was wrong.”

Jon follows Rose into the snowstorm until she leads him to a newborn lamb and her distressed mother. He continues:

“I was frozen for a brief moment by the awful beauty of the scene. Rose moved quickly to head off the lamb, who was going uphill. I knew — [Rose] also did, clearly — that a newborn lamb out in a storm meant almost certain death. I had heard stories of farmers finding lambs frozen to the ground.

I also knew that if she were separated from her mother for too long, the ewe would reject her and refuse to give her milk. The lamb would either die or have to be bottle-fed, a difficult and laborious process. The lamb stood braying at Rose, perhaps thinking she was her mother. Rose seemed to understand that this creature was frail. She did not bark, charge, or nip at her. Rose stood her ground gently in front of the lamb. She held the lamb in position until I could scramble up the hill, get my arms around the little creature, and then start to make my way back to the barn. Rose did not need any commands. She stayed behind with the ewe, who was still lying on her side, struggling.”

Jon then takes the lamb into the barn and warms her up, feeds her, and gets her settled. He then trudges back up to Rose and the troubled ewe. Their next task was to get the mother sheep into the barn. He continues:

“Rose had an inch or two of snow across her head and back. I had not seen Rose like this — close, intense, still. She seemed to know what she could do and what she could not do. And right then there was nothing she could do. She seemed protective of the ewe. She did not look around or try to leave. Rose seemed to have the sense that this was her responsibility… 

“I realized that I knew how to get the ewe into the barn. I stumbled back into the barn, grabbed a sling, slipped it under the lamb, picked her up, and brought her out into the storm. Keep her there, Rosie, [I thought], keep her there. And she did. I knew she would. When we got close, the lamb began crying out, and the ewe recognized her voice, then her smell. Frantic, she forgot about Rose and began moving toward me, toward her baby. I saw her bond with her baby and was shown again what a powerful instinct mothering is.” 

Jon, the lamb, Rose, and the mother sheep struggle back toward the barn, and then, Katz writes, “the ewe balked, refusing to come in, and ran right over Rosie and began to climb up the hill to the pole barn, her safe place.

Rose turned into a wolf right there, barking and circling. She seemed larger to me, so determined, and then the ewe turned and ran toward me, deciding a man and a barn were much safer.” Katz finally reunited mother and baby, and got them settled and safe in the barn.

“There was no sweeter, deeper feeling,” he wrote, “than seeing that mother and child in their pen, dry and warm in a storm. We did it, Rosie, we did it. And then I saw Rosie turn her head toward the barn door. She ran to it, and then I saw her swivel and tense, her ears up, fully alert. Something was wrong, something had happened, and I heard the cry that she had just heard, piercing and sharp. Another lamb. There was another lamb up there. She had twins, I thought; she must have had twins, and both of them had been searching for her in the storm as she lay on her side.”

Jon and Rose went back into the storm, and Rose led her owner to the other lamb, but this time it was too late. He continues: “I was surprised, shaken, and numb, feeling so many things out there in that snowy pasture. Rose and I sat quietly over the dead body, this lamb that was our responsibility. Just a few minutes ago I had been asleep in bed. It was hard to get my bearings in that field, on that night.

“Rose, too, I think, was uncharacteristically thrown off balance. She was not so sure about the world now. She had never seen a dead sheep before, never seen something in her charge die, nor had I. It was an awful feeling, not so much of grief, but of failure and sadness. I should have known, should have been better prepared, should have avoided this…

“I left Rose alone to sit up on the hill with the lamb for as long as she wished. Even then, I had this instinct to let Rose work things out, to see her amazing ability to process things and move forward, something I have struggled almost all of my life to learn how to do.

“I came down to the barn to make sure my first lamb was healthy, which thankfully it was. A little later, I went to the rear of the barn, surprised that Rose had not come down yet to check on things.

“The barn floodlight was on, and I turned the flashlight on the dark hill. There was Rose lying down next to the dead lamb, and looking down at the barn, at me.”

Needing Easter

Sermon given the Third Sunday of Easter (Year B), April 14, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church by Mark Lloyd Taylor, Ph.D.

Acts 3:12-19; Psalm 4; 1 John 3:1-7; Luke 24:36-48

Fish & Pita, by Mark Hewitt

I need Easter. Not as decoration or distraction. I need Easter as a matter of life and death.

I need Easter, not just for one day or even a seven-week season. I need Easter for a lifetime. I need Easter as the beating heart and breathing lungs of my life.

I need Easter. It’s a life and death matter. I need to see and hear and touch the risen Jesus. I need the eyes and ears of my faith opened. Its hands and feet roused. I need to share a meal with the living Christ and know him in the breaking of bread.

I need Easter because, as the Apostle Peter says, we have rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to us. We have killed the Author of life (Acts 3:14-15). Truly a matter of life and death. Our own death, the death of someone we love, the deaths of the many children who starve daily in our world, the deaths of the countless people who are murdered by the sin and greed of others. And all the miniature deaths that haunt our lives. Age and illness and dementia. The miniature deaths of eroded friendships, of broken promises and shattered dreams. Lonely decisions, the heavy weight of failure, the shame of facing someone we have disappointed. Those profound personal faults we keep hidden from most everybody most of the time, except the people who deserve our best and don’t always get it. I need to encounter Jesus raised from the dead; from the death that enslaves us, the death we have done, and the death done on our behalf. I need hope for the future – not just dead things brought back to how they once were – but a new future of abundant life. For as the Apostle John writes, we are God’s beloved children now, but what we will be has not yet been revealed. This we do know: when the risen and living Christ Jesus is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is (1 John 3:2-3).

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This morning, as on every Third Sunday of Easter, we hear one last story of an appearance of the risen Christ before we turn the pages of our gospel book back to Jesus’ words to his followers around the table during their Passover meal – and then ahead to the stories of Jesus’ ascension and the descent of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost. I say one last appearance story, because there are many spread across the closing chapters of our four gospels. I count eleven or twelve. We never hear all of them read on Sundays in any given lectionary year, so here’s an executive summary.

Each of the four gospels tells a version of the story of Mary Magdalene – Apostle to the Apostles – coming to the tomb where Jesus’ body was laid, accompanied, maybe, by another woman or two, only to find the stone rolled away and the tomb empty (Matthew 28:1-8; Mark 16:1-7; Luke 24:1-12; John 20:1-10). Wow! The first appearance of the risen Christ is actually an appearance of his absence. Nothing to see here! Which means the women must hear something from someone else even to begin to grasp what has happened. You’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth who was crucified. He is not here. He has been raised from the dead. The bearer of this good news differs in each version: an earthquake and an angel; a young man in a white robe; two men in dazzling clothes; two angels. In some versions, Mary Magdalene, and maybe the other woman or women, go and tell the male disciples what they’ve seen and heard. In some versions, Peter and maybe another disciple believe the women enough to go to the tomb themselves and also find it empty.

Next, according to Mark’s gospel, the women flee from the tomb in terror and amazement and say nothing to anyone (16:8). Thud!

In Matthew, the women see Jesus himself as they leave the tomb. But then the gospel writer cuts to a strangely believable story of how the religious and political authorities concoct and spread the lie that Jesus’ followers stole his body during the night. Some soldiers even get paid to broadcast the fake news (28:11-15).

John tells three powerful stories of appearances to specific individuals. Mary Magdalene lingers, despairing, outside the empty tomb, and Jesus appears to her. But she doesn’t recognize him. She mistakes him for the gardener – until he calls her by name. Hearsay is not enough. Mary must listen more deeply for intimate, personal address (20:11-18). Thomas is not present with the rest of the community when Jesus appears to them. And so he refuses to believe their report that they have seen the Lord until he can put his finger in the mark of the nails and his hand in Jesus’ wounded side. Seeing isn’t always believing. Sometimes, only touch will do (20:19-29). Peter goes back to the way things used to be before he met Jesus and takes up fishing again – with no success. Jesus appears on the seashore at daybreak, but Peter, like Mary, fails to recognize him until Jesus tells him to cast the net on the other side of the boat – and now it’s impossibly full of fish. It is the Lord! Peter shouts. Then Jesus prepares and serves Peter a breakfast of fish and bread. And asks him three times: Do you love me? – redeeming Peter’s threefold denial of Jesus and opening for him a new future (21:1-19).

And in Luke’s gospel, we hear how on that first Easter, two followers of the crucified Jesus trudge disconsolately from Jerusalem toward an outlying village when a stranger joins them. The three have a conversation about the events of the past few days and the stranger – who is Jesus, although the two don’t recognize him – has a word to speak to them: he explains to them from scripture all things about himself, especially why, as the Messiah, he had to suffer and die. The three reach Emmaus, and yet the stranger acts as if he is going to journey on. Cleopas and their companion urge him strongly to stay with them, as it is almost evening and the day now nearly over. He does. They share a meal. And when he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him (24:13-35).

Which brings us to this morning’s gospel reading from Luke and our last appearance story for this Easter season. It’s a continuation of the Emmaus story. The two companions have returned to Jerusalem, rejoined the community of Jesus’ followers, and tell them what they saw and heard and tasted on the road and at table with the risen Christ. While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them. But one more time, they fail to recognize him – thinking, instead, they were seeing a ghost, a disembodied spirit, a phantom. Jesus insists: Look at my hands and feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones. While his followers whirl in joy and disbelief and wonderment, Jesus has one more thing to say, one more way of making himself known. Have you anything here to eat? he asks. Have you anything to eat? They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate it in their presence. Jesus again revealed through a meal. But flipping the Emmaus story and that of Peter’s breakfast, this meal is prepared by the disciples and served to Jesus not the other way around (24:36-48).

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Chef José Andrés, founder of the World Central Kitchen, has much to say about people eating and people being fed. For food is a life and death matter. Listen to some words from his recent New York Times op ed in response to the killing of seven of his co-workers in Gaza by the Israeli military (April 3, 2024).

“Their work was based on the simple belief that food is a universal human right. It is not conditioned on being good or bad, rich or poor, right or left. We do not ask what religion you belong to. We just ask how many meals you need.

“From Day 1, we have fed Israelis as well as Palestinians. Across Israel we have served more than 1.75 million hot meals. We have fed families displaced by Hezbollah rockets in the north. We have fed grieving families from the south. We delivered meals to the hospitals where hostages were reunited with their families.

“At the same time, we have worked closely with community leaders…[to serve] more than 43 million meals in Gaza, preparing hot food in 68 community kitchens where Palestinians are feeding Palestinians.

Andrés continues: “The peoples of the Mediterranean and Middle East, regardless of ethnicity and religion, share a culture that values food as a powerful statement of humanity and hospitality – of shared hope for a better tomorrow. There’s a reason, at this special time of year, Christians make Easter eggs, Muslims eat an egg at iftar dinners and an egg sits on the Seder plate. This symbol of life and hope reborn in spring extends across religions and cultures. I have been a stranger at Seder dinners. I have heard the ancient Passover stories about being a stranger in the land of Egypt. The commandment to remember – with a feast before you – that the children of Israel were once slaves.

And he concludes: “It is not a sign of weakness to feed strangers; it is a sign of strength.”

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I need Easter. Maybe you do, too. If so, then know that all of the appearance stories from all four gospels are yours. Which one do you need to live into? Or live out from? And know that the risen Christ can be revealed through any number of your senses.

Do you need to see that the stone has already been rolled away? That the tomb is empty? That the beloved is not here? That he, that she, they, it – the family, the church, the school, the nation – is not here but risen?

Do you need an earthquake and an angel in order to hear the good news? Or do you need instead a young man dressed in a simple white robe, because you’ve already suffered an earthquake in your life? Do you need to come alongside Mary Magdalene in the garden, weeping, and hear the risen Christ call you by name? Were you absent with Thomas when the good news was announced? Do you need to touch – and no longer avoid – wounded hands and side? With Peter on the seashore, do you need to be served breakfast after a long night of fruitless labor and then, but only after you have been fed, talk openly about betrayal and love, about amends to be made and new hope, hope for a new life? Or, walking with Cleopas, allow a stranger to enlarge your little circle of shared grief and explain those stories you’ve heard for years but never really understood or taken to heart? Do you need to invite the stranger to stay for a meal and suddenly, beyond all belief, recognize them as the risen Christ in the taking, blessing, breaking, and offering of food?

If you need Easter as a matter of life and death as I do, then know that even as we talk about this, Christ Jesus himself stands among us and says: Peace be with you. Look at my hands and feet, see that it is I myself. Touch me and see. And most urgently today, he asks: Have you anything here to eat?

Yes! Our answer is a resounding yes. This altar of ours is an emergency feeding station – an outpost of Jesus’ World Central Kitchen – because sharing his holy meal is a life and death matter. And our best sign of hope for the future.


For further reflection

But Mark, you may be asking, what about our fifth sense, the sense of smell? It doesn’t figure directly in any of the appearance stories. Nevertheless: surely the aroma of that broiled fish preceded its taste. And isn’t smell the most ancient, most animal of our senses – the deepest trigger of danger to be avoided and the deepest trigger of memory of the beloved. The stench of decay or poison. Also, the fragrance of abundant life – honeysuckle and lavender and roses. His cologne lingering on a jacket. Her scarves still hanging in the closet. The decades of incense permeating the walls of this church. I wonder what it would mean to smell the risen Christ?

They want to see our wounds

Preached on the Second Sunday of Easter (Year B), April 7, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Acts 4:32-35
Psalm 133
1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19-31

I have a core memory from my childhood that reveals interesting backstory about my character, my leadership style, my worldview. I have worked on this memory in therapy. I strive (successfully!) to develop beyond it. Here is the memory, reinforced for years when I was a child: I sat in the back of the family van.

Most of you know I’m one of seven children, fifth in the line. We kids would pile into the van every summer for the long, hot drive to visit my mother’s family in Denver. My dad would take the wheel, driving us across the monotonous miles of southwest Minnesota, northwest Iowa, Nebraska, and eastern Colorado.

Family legend recalls the hot, dusty afternoon when my father was flooring it (I think understandably) on one of the highways, probably in western Nebraska, and he got pulled over for speeding. As the officer walked alongside the van on his way to my dad, he saw a little-kid face in every single window of our vehicle. (Some accounts of the story uncharitably put snot in every child’s nose. Other versions are kinder to us, but all of the storytellers maintain that each kid stared manically out of their respective window.) The highway-patrol worker, when he finally reached the driver’s-side window, let my dad off with a warning, saying, “I think you’ve got enough problems today.”

All of this is to say that I know in my bones what it’s like to have a lot of peers, and what it’s like to assume a place in the back, to let the group decide, or let the parent decide, or let the older sibling decide what’s happening, where we’re going, what’s next.

And this personal experience guides my contemplation of another great sibling in the faith, Saint Thomas, the faithful disciple who is cast in a supporting role, but who nevertheless is all in, who wants to see, who wants to know, who wants to participate fully.

Whatever Thomas wants, he makes it known. Maybe he doesn’t have a juicy role like Peter or Mary Magdalene, but Thomas isn’t a back-of-the-van person.

When Jesus assures them that they know where he is going, Thomas says what others likely thought but were afraid to say: “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” This sets Jesus up to pronounce one of his great “I AM” statements: “I AM the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” Jesus proclaims to Thomas. 

In another important encounter, Thomas encourages his friends, stirring them up, bracing them to follow Jesus even to their deaths, when he says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

Thomas does not sit quietly in the back of the van. He knows what he wants, and he knows what he needs. He summons courage to assert himself to meet those needs. He’s the kind of apostle I want: Thomas is an advocate. He speaks up. He is our model, our example, a saint for all who have too often stepped back when the healthier choice, the braver choice, the best choice, is to step forward.

And Thomas is called, curiously, “the Twin.” Thomas the Twin: this is probably meant to give all of the rest of us a place to join the story, a place closer to the front of the van. If Thomas is a twin, and his twin is not named, then we can assume that we — all of us who hear and read the Good News — we are the Twin of Thomas. We enter the story through his window, his perspective, his vantage point.

And doesn’t that track? Like Thomas, we weren’t there when the Risen One appeared to his friends on Easter Evening. And as the Twin of Thomas, we often can share his confusion about where Jesus is going, where Jesus is leading us, even the basic question of who Jesus is. (Thomas tells the others, and the world, who Jesus is, but only after Thomas asserts his need to see and touch Jesus, intimately.) And finally, if we are the Twin of Thomas, we may also share with Thomas his vigorous, dreadful, life-changing passion to give it all for the cause. 

So… we can’t meekly cower in the back of the van. Dear twins of Thomas, my siblings in this parish, which in its own way is a van crammed with people, hear this challenge: it is our job to speak up, to act up.

Like Thomas, I demand to see the wounds of Christ. I insist on seeing how this Body of Christ, here and now, is wounded in mission. Over nearly a year and a half now, St. Paul’s has begun to grow again, welcoming newcomers just about every Sunday. That’s exciting! But it is also challenging. We don’t truly welcome newcomers only by greeting them and authentically making a place for them by our side. That’s important, and don’t get me wrong: I found out last year that a child in our parish saw a picture on our social media advertising abundant cake at coffee hour, and begged her parents to take her to this delightful cake-eating church. This inspired my resolution to feature cake at coffee hour as often as possible. Church is fun. Cake is delicious!

But church is also a place where we are beautifully wounded, and that is something I believe newcomers want to see, too. We don’t just renovate a beautiful building and tend a garden around it so that we can enjoy aesthetic beauty; no, we build an urban mission that connects us beautifully to this wounded — and wounding — neighborhood. We are doing vital — and painful — ministry here. This gives our lives meaning. And we attract many others who, without a world-changing mission, would struggle to find inspiration and meaning in their lives. Without our mission, they’d find it harder to affirm their vocation.

Thomas speaks for them when he demands to see the wounds of the risen Christ: not just the living Christ, but the wounded Christ. Thomas is not just trying to verify the improbable, mystifying news of the Resurrection, though that alone is a worthy goal for him and for us, who were not there to see it. Thomas wants to see the wounds. If this is Christ, then he is wounded. If St. Paul’s is a church, then we are wounded. One of our newer members, when visiting some time ago, told me she stayed when she saw our porous borders that allow unhoused neighbors to be close to us, to be part of us, to be us. If we ever chose to seal ourselves completely behind a secure wall of hostile architecture, this person told me, she would not see us as a church anymore. She would not see our wounds. We might not even be wounded, at least in the way that Christ is wounded.

Like Thomas, I want to see the wounds of the Body of Christ. I want to see suffering, death, and resurrection — all of it — happening here, and then I will believe; then I will trust; then I will follow.

In recent weeks I’ve been reflecting and praying about a certain neighbor of ours who has found housing, with our help. We didn’t obtain the exact apartment he lives in, and we haven’t given him lots of money to secure that housing. All we’ve done is build friendship with this person, over time, holding him in prayer, hearing his story, asking him to pray for us, asking him to guide us to others, drawing on his wisdom in our street-centered ministry, letting him evangelize us, and recognizing that God has brought us to this neighbor — and not the other way around. We are the newcomers to the mission of this neighborhood, where this friend of ours is one of the presiders, one of the celebrants, one of the leaders. He is deeply wounded of course, but all of us are, with wounds of the body, wounds of the mind, wounds of the heart and spirit. 

And I tell you this: the light in this person’s eyes; the gratitude he expresses for the help he has received; the help and encouragement he offers to others, and to me: all of the wounds of this resurrected person reveal to me, right here at 15 Roy Street, right now in this fraught and frightening first half of the 21st century — these bright wounds reveal to me the Risen One moving easily through the locked door of our anxiety, standing among us, breathing peace through all of us. We have helped save the life of this neighbor, and he has helped save other lives, while strengthening the hope I feel in my own life.

When I see all of this, here in this community where almost nobody cowers in the back of the van, then like our sibling Thomas, I can’t help but cry out, “My Lord and my God!”

Who will roll away the stone for us?

Preached on the Resurrection of our Lord (Year B, Mark), March 31, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Mark 16:1-8

Easter Morning, by He Qi, used with permission.

“Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” the spice-bearing women ask, up at dawn, worrying their way to the grave of their friend.

Great question. Who will roll away the stone for us? The stone is immensely heavy. Sure, it’s shaped roughly like a wheel, so it can roll. But you can imagine the difficulty in getting a purchase, getting it to first start rolling. Once it has a little momentum it will move with increasing ease. But that first shove is heavy. Maybe impossible.

But we want the stone to move, because like those women, we want to visit our friend’s grave. And we want to do what one does when visiting a friend’s grave. But maybe the grave is impossibly shut. Maybe the cemetery is closed.

Who will roll away the stone for us?

And — we also know that the stone belongs to us. It is ours. We lent the stone every inch of its immense size, every pound of its crushing weight. We rolled it into place, you and I, all of us, down the ages, together. We made the stone. We like the stone. We need (or at least we needed) the stone.

The stone hides death. That’s one good reason for its existence in our lives. We don’t want to look at death. We don’t want to smell death. Our own death is hard to contemplate of course, and we have plenty of deaths of loved ones to grieve. These sad deaths are a hard reality that the gravestone can sometimes shield from our eyes, push out of our awareness, the tomb sealed shut.

But then there are the deaths we cause, the deaths we participate in, the culture of death inside which we live and work. The bad news around the world, the news of the countless deaths of innocent people — this news doesn’t just come at us, with us as impassive, innocent consumers and bystanders. No, we are caught up in it. We are a part of it. We contribute to suffering and death in the world.

We know that, and we can admit that, when we’re honest, when we choose not to hide the truth behind a heavy stone. The women who come to the tomb, wondering about that stone: they know well the many forms of death in the world. They know well how complicated human life is, how complicated human death is.

They’re the ones who remained with Jesus, watching him die, watching the removal of his body from the cross, watching the burial. Mark the evangelist names them three times: all three of this morning’s spice-bearing women are named as witnesses of the death, and the two Marys saw where the body was buried. They saw the stone roll heavily into place. They have seen difficult things. Just like us.

And when they witnessed all of that, what did they think about? What did they feel, as they watched from a distance? I don’t know, and we are not supposed to beam ourselves back to an ancient time and pretend we know what it was like. If the resurrection matters, it matters because it is happening today, here, with us. Now.

But I can tell you what I think and feel as I hear the story of the witness of these spice-bearing women, the record of their vigilant watch, and their fretful wondering about the tombstone. I can see, through their eyes, the death and burial of Jesus, and I can think about my own involvement in death, in the here and now. My unconscious – and, often enough, conscious – support of an economy that privileges my life above others’. My unconscious – and, often enough, conscious – enjoyment of many privileges that my neighbors do not have. On the other side of Lent, on Ash Wednesday, we confessed many things, including this terrible thing: we prayed, “Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done: for our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty…” If I am standing with the spice-bearing women, I am reflecting on all of that – on all of that death. And how that death sometimes has my name on it.

So yes, I can imagine wanting a heavy stone to block all that out – to block it out from myself.

But the stone doesn’t just block out death, mask death, hide death. The stone also secures and safeguards a grim, sad future. That sounds like a bad thing, but at least it’s the devil we know. The stone is an object of hopelessness: our friend is dead, and once you’re dead you stay dead. Everyone knows that. The women approach the tomb worrying about the stone, not because he might be alive but only because they want to anoint his dead body. In fact, when they are confronted with the news of his resurrection, they are far more upset and disturbed – and even terrified – than they had been during his arrest, trial, torture, execution, and burial. All of those things are horrible, but they are reassuringly familiar. But resurrection? A good, redemptive future? Authentic hope? The spice-bearing women – and all of us alongside them – we can’t easily wrap our minds around such a thing.

The resurrection reveals a new future, which maybe sounds exciting but is also, when you really contemplate it, deeply unnerving. In a new future, a future with authentic hope, I will have to set aside comfortable things, like my privileges. I will have to let go of the grim comforts of cynicism and nihilism. I will have to grow and change. I will have to trust. I may not have to believe something hard and fast. (Please note — particularly if you resist going to churches that demand hard beliefs — please note that belief isn’t about signing your name to a list of firm conclusions. It’s just the courageous practice of trusting someone outside of yourself.)

But even with all of these conflicting feelings — our resistance to the reality of death alongside our desire to be honest and courageous about it; and our resistance to the reality of a bright future alongside our desire to be filled with hope and amazement and even joy — even with all of these conflicting feelings, we now, like the spice-bearing women, want someone to move that stone for us. We want to get in there. We want to see.

And here is what we see.

A young person dressed in bright clothing tells us that there is no dead body: death has been reversed, creation is young again, the future is bright again. We will all die, but that is not the end of all things. We are driven by the Risen One into the world to cultivate life where there is death, hope where there is despair. We do that here at church, helping people find shelter, building friendships with those who are lonely, feeding hungry people, embracing grieving people, walking with our oldest elders and our youngest children, assisting those unable to walk, tending and revitalizing this neighborhood — revitalizing, a word that means “restoring life.” 

And though the spice-bearing women run away, amazed and afraid, we now are invited to heed the instructions of that brightly-dressed young person — and maybe it was him who had the strength to roll away our stone. We can follow his instructions. We can go to Galilee. Galilee: not just rural hills around a lake in northern Israel, but our own world, our own city, our own neighborhood, occupied by our friends, and also those we all too easily call our enemies. Galilee is our own context, our own households, our own workplaces. That’s where the Risen One first appeared to us, teaching us how to care for the sick, how to clothe the naked, how to feed the hungry, and how to change the world.

Alleluia, Christ is risen, and Christ has trampled death, kicked aside the pebble of our gravestone, and gone ahead of us into this world, this dangerous world, this sad and anxious world, this beautiful and lovely world.

So let’s go. Let’s go from here, filled with hope — and also more than a little scared by what we have seen and heard. Let’s go from here into God’s good world.

There we will see the Risen One, just as he told us.

Just get up

Preached at the Great Vigil of Easter (John’s Gospel), March 31, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

John 20:1-18

When I am awake in the wee hours, I can’t always think clearly. There’s not a lot of blood flowing to my neocortex. We have two dogs with food sensitivities, and a third dog who all too recently was housebroken: if something goes bump in the night, I don’t even have to look. I succumb to the grim conclusion that there’s a mess, somewhere in the house. (Even if there isn’t.)

But even when the dogs are sleeping in heavenly peace, often enough, before first light, I am vulnerable to dreadful thoughts and awful feelings. “I offended somebody yesterday!”, an inner demon will mutter in the shadows of my mind. “I didn’t finish a project!”, whispers another gremlin as it shuffles along another mental corridor. “I was foolish; they think I’m a fool; I am a fool.”

But there are still worse gremlins in my mind, in the pre-dawn hours. The climate-change gremlins tell me the world is ending (though even at noonday their argument is persuasive). A bridge fell down last week? Well of course it did. I try to go to my “happy place” – and of course you just know I have a happy place: I have given and received lots of therapy; I am couch trained, as they say in our psychotherapeutic culture – and sometimes I can just manage to get there.

My happy place is a serene, leafy, quiet glade near the top of a hill, where I sleep snug under a down comforter, with gentle breezes flowing over me. I try to go there in the early morning, when it is still dark, when my mind isn’t working properly – when I am out of my mind. But I don’t reliably find that place of serenity. Finally I give up, I get up, and I go downstairs to turn on the kettle. Then I take my hot instant coffee (with four sugars – yes, four, one for each evangelist, if you like), and I get comfortable under a blanket in the living room, hoping Dash, a most outstanding dog, will come downstairs to be with me. He always does.

Two mornings ago, by ancient Jewish reckoning the sixth day of the week, while it was still dark, I spent some time with an icon of Saint Mary Magdalene, whom I consider the patron of morning people, the patron of those with nocturnal anxiety disorder (if that’s a thing), the patron of early-morning feelers of feelings.

This particular icon reveals Mary before a dark background – it seems that even now, among the communion of saints, she is up in the night. And in this icon, she is a brown Palestinian woman. (I hope you can come up and see her, after the liturgy.) Her splendid red garment suggests that she is wealthy, and that tracks: we know that the first Christians gathered in households run and bankrolled by women. Her name is written at the base of the icon in Syriac, a dialect of the language spoken by Jesus and his friends.

In this icon, as in all icons, you are invited to pray with the guidance of the subject. And the subject – Mary of Magdala – stares directly into your eyes. She holds an egg, a familiar symbol of resurrection, but in her hands also a symbol of Mary’s status as the apostle to the apostles, the one who ran to them to tell them, “I have seen the Lord.”

When I pray with Mary while it is still dark, she teaches me a few things. I want to share them with you, if only because every single one of you was a sibling of Mary Magdalene, early this morning, on this the first day of the week. Against all reason and good sense, you rose in the middle of the night to come here. But you are in good company, when doing this odd thing.

Mary teaches us, first, to just get up. Are you laying in bed, helpless against the flood of wretched thoughts and feelings, certain that the world is forever corrupt, that your life will end in grief, that all is lost, or all is just pointless?

Get up. Get up and go downstairs and start the kettle. John the evangelist tells us that Mary doesn’t even bring spices or give herself anything to do, exactly. She just gets up and goes to the tomb of her friend, the grave of her teacher. (More than teacher: she calls him “Rabbouni!”, which doesn’t just mean ‘teacher.’ Rabbi means ‘teacher.’ Rabbouni is a caritative term. Rabbouni means teacher-I-love, teacher-I-adore.) Anyway, Mary just gets up and goes. That’s her whole mission.

Next, Mary teaches us to just feel our feelings. We’re going to feel them whether we want to or not, so why resist? Mary sees that the stone had been removed from the tomb, so she just runs to her friends and tells them – with no evidence – that someone had taken the body away.

Now, at this point in Mary’s story, a couple of men cause a distraction. They run to the tomb – they respect Mary enough to take her alarm seriously – and they enter the tomb, a bolder step than Mary had taken when she was lost in her early-morning fears. (It helps to be the second or third person to arrive at an upsetting scene, so they have Mary to thank for that.) They step into the tomb, one at a time, and see that the body is gone. But then they just ... go home. Clunk, they take no further action. Thanks, guys.

But Mary stays at the tomb, where she has more to teach us. She has already taught us to just get up already, and feel our feelings, even the hard ones. Now she teaches us to stay. Stay at the tomb: stay at the place where it hurts the most. Trust yourself that you will know what to do, and what not to do; and trust yourself that even if you do something foolish, you’ll be able to cope with the consequences. Mary stays at the worst place she can think of – the tomb of her friend – and she weeps openly, weeps freely, in that terrible garden.

Get up. Feel your feelings. Stay where it hurts. Weep freely. But here’s her ultimate teaching, the one thing we should all read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest, from our first and bravest apostle, Mary Magdalene: In the depth of our grief, in the wasteland of our early-morning despair, in the worst muck of this world, the Risen One calls us by name.

The Risen One calls us by name, and this is not just an empty promise from a pollyanna: they said Mary had been “filled with demons,” probably an ancient way of saying she had been mentally and emotionally disturbed. This world-wise and world-weary saint has no illusions. Her greatest friend, her beloved teacher, was executed before her eyes, and even in resurrected life she can not hold on to him; she can not keep him to herself; she still loses him. She is the first of his followers, a brown Palestinian woman who sees the world as it truly is, and trusts even the wretched thoughts and feelings that haunt her in the awful hours before dawn. Mary knows. She won’t lie to you.

Accept her teaching: the Risen One calls you by name, calls you by name not out of the world, but into it, with power, and with purpose. Everything we do as followers of the Risen One, here on this block and across this city, day and night, week in and week out – everything we do is done with a clear understanding of how hard things are in this world. And yet we do good things, powerful things, life-sustaining things, resurrecting things. And we do them because the Risen One calls each of us by name.

We practice names, here at St. Paul’s. We practice names so that we can follow the Risen One, who knows each of our names. A little while ago we showered lovely baptismal water on everyone, the water that flows when each of us is named before God. If I do not know your name, or if I forget it in a moment of early-morning fatigue, you will still be known here. Always.In a little while I’ll personally be naming many neighbors of ours who are living outside, or used to live outside until they gained shelter, in a few cases with the help of this community. Names matter. And we followers of the Risen One, we remember names.

In the depth of our grief, in the wasteland of early-morning despair, in the worst muck of this world, the Risen One calls you by name. So get up, feel your feelings, stay where it hurts, and hear the Risen One calling your name.

And hear me now, dear friends, as I tell you this Good News:

I have seen the Lord.

We proclaim his death

Preached on Maundy Thursday, March 28, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14
Psalm 78: 14-20, 23-25
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35

“For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

“For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

We proclaim a death. We do this every week. Some of us do it more than once a week. We break bread and give everyone in the room a small portion, and everyone eats. We pour wine into a chalice and everyone is invited to drink. And whenever we do this, we proclaim a death.

We break the bread, and as it breaks we cherish the horrible memory of his body broken, hammered to a pole and crossbar, left to hang in such a way that he would slowly suffocate. And we remember his body stripped of clothes, particularly clothes that would identify or dignify him: no colorful garment to signify that he was a rabbi, an educated teacher and leader; no tunic that signaled wealth or social status; no pockets to hold money; no modest underclothes to protect his privacy. 

We break the bread, tear it in half, then quarters, then into little bits. And then we gobble it up, we wolf it down, we consume it. We consume him.

Then we pour the wine, and as it pours we cherish the horrible memory of his blood poured out. If he hadn’t suffocated on the humiliating pole, then he would have bled out. Blood: it carries oxygen and nutrients to the furthest reaches of the body; and it carries back toxins to be processed and discarded. Blood carries life. Blood sustains life. But his blood poured out, taking the life out of him. 

We pour the wine, and each of us is offered a taste. We drink it down, we guzzle it, we quench our spiritual thirst. We quench our thirst with his blood, with him.

Every week, sometimes multiple times a week, we do this. We eat and drink our Savior. And in this eating and drinking, we proclaim his death. We enact it. We perform it. We live it. We eat and drink him as he passes from life to death.

We do this because our Savior taught us to do this. He demonstrated the whole thing, to his friends. So when the priest leads our thanksgiving prayers, she wears a tunic, much like his tunic: we call it a chasuble. You’ll see Father Jay change into the chasuble in a little while: he’ll take off his coat (which we call a cope) – the cope is a lot like the overcoats that Roman officials wore when they worked in unheated government buildings – anyway, Father Jay will take off his coat, and then he’ll put on the chasuble, the tunic – Christ’s tunic.

This is done not because the human presider at the Eucharist is Jesus, or even “Jesus-y” – we may love our presiders, but they’re just our human siblings. The presider’s tunic merely reminds the assembly – it reminds all of us, priests included – that Jesus gives us this meal; Jesus teaches us how to break his body apart and pour out his blood; Jesus makes us ready to proclaim his death in this particular, startling way.

And tonight – just one night a year – tonight we will take the leftover bread and wine and place it on the Altar of Repose. We set it on a table covered in candles and surrounded by fragrant flowers. The table stands at the entrance to this space, next to the baptismal font. This is our Garden of Gethsemane, recalling that fateful night before his death when he waited and prayed in the garden, all night long, while his friends dozed. 

If you like, at any point overnight, you could keep watch, though from the distance of our video stream. We’ll have a link on our website that you can use to spend some time watching, and waiting, and watching. Youtube tells you how many people are watching with you. You can see the number go up and down. If others are watching with you, say a prayer for them.

Whenever I do this, I look at the veiled bread and wine (you can’t actually see them because they’re covered in a white cloth), and every single time, every year, I think about the priest who consecrated that bread and wine, whether it’s me or Jay or Catharine or Mary Jane, it doesn’t matter. I think about that person. I pray for them. (Is that selfish? I sometimes pray for myself on this night.)

Whoever the priest was, they asked God to sanctify these gifts – these gifts of the earth, shaped by human hands. And so now, the bread and wine are more than just a dish of starch and a flagon of alcohol. They are also the Body and Blood of Christ. They’ve been broken; they’ve been poured out. And since that first night, every time we do this, someone leads the prayer, wearing a tunic. So I think about that person, and pray for them.

And then I think about all of you. I think about you sleeping in your homes, which dot the city, near and far. I think about how hard you work, not just here at church but in your family lives, and in your vocations, and in your countless efforts to make a positive difference, to be kind, to be good. If you’re like me, then you’ll doze in the garden, just like those flawed disciples. But you do care. You do make a difference. And I pray for you.

Then my mind wanders, as I keep watch with the bread and wine, the veiled Body and Blood of Christ. I think about the world, every bit as broken as Christ’s Body. I reflect on the rivers of anguish and anxiety that course through the world right now. And yes, the world has always suffered from anguish and anxiety, but it seems especially terrible now. Do you feel this agony? I think about some of our members who are only thirteen years old, or only three years old. I pray for them.

And I wonder, in all of this, I wonder how this meal of thanksgiving, this eating and drinking our Savior, makes a difference in the world, makes a difference in our community, makes a difference inside you, inside me. Why stay up in the night, spending quiet time with a plate of bread and a jar of wine? Why do it? Does it matter? Does it help? Does it work?

Yes. It matters, helps, and works because it extends great love into the world. When we break bread and drink wine together, and when we keep vigil together with the Body and the Blood, we naturally, inevitably keep vigil with one another, and with the whole world. We breathe, and our breathing slows, becomes even. Our Savior, broken in a terrible death, is poured out to the whole world in wondrous self-giving love.

You see, when Jesus taught his friends about the bread and wine, he knew what was about to happen. He knew that he was about to die, and die horribly. And so he taught them how to proclaim that death, enact that death, embody that death, so that his death would fire and found a new community, a community of wondrous self-giving love. 

And so it’s only natural, then, that Christians down the ages have been known for taking bullets to save innocent life; we’ve been known to give everything away to be sure everyone in the village has food and clothing; we’ve been known to stand alongside the vulnerable – think Sister Helen Prejean standing in solidarity with death-row inmates, seeing Christ crucified even in them! It’s only natural. We Christians act this way because Christ taught us about this meal, and we repeat it countless times to be sure it works – to be sure it works on us.

The death of Christ is not just a trauma. It is not just a pointless tragedy. The death of Christ is dinner: Christ’s death is a Table laden with platters of food, groaning with flagons of festal drink. If I am going to die, Christ teaches me, then my death should count for something: my death should save lives; my death should bind wounds; my death should nourish all who hunger. 

And so it seems right, it seems fitting, that we should recall an old Protestant saying, a little statement the presider would make after the invitation to Communion. It’s in our Prayer Book, but we never say it at St. Paul’s, probably because we Anglo-Catholics don’t want the mystery of the Eucharist to be nailed down by one specific explanation. But the statement is short and sweet, simple and good. It helps us understand why we share this odd but nourishing meal, week by week, and especially tonight. And it only riffs on what Jesus himself said, wearing his tunic at table with his friends on that terrible night, long ago.

Good catholic Christians, allow yourselves to hear this bit of Protestant wisdom:

The gifts of God for the people of God: take them in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your hearts by faith, with thanksgiving.

Let her alone

Preached on Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion (Year B), March 24, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Mark 15:1-47

Palm Sunday, by Kris E E Miller

“Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”

“Let her alone.” Listen, if you can, to that strong command. “Let her alone.” Jesus says more to his churlish, resentful friends in this paragraph-long speech — he says more by far — than he’ll say in his own defense against his accusers, later on, at the sham trial. He is speaking to his own, to his friends, to his beloveds, to his family. And he is unhappy with them. And they know it. They remember it. This rebuke is recorded more than once: the first Christians cherished this memory. They wanted us to cherish it too.

Jesus is correcting his closest followers, but he is not shouting. He is not throwing a fit. He is not snarking, or delivering a sick burn, or being aggressive, or even harsh. But his rebuke is all the more devastating because of its gentleness. He is firm, direct, even assertive! Yet he remains gentle, kind, and good.

We see Jesus through five ancient lenses: the four Gospels, and Paul’s letters. These five portrayals are distinct. Mark’s Jesus is raw and immediate and human; Matthew’s Jesus is the new Moses preaching from the mountaintop; Luke’s Jesus is an eloquent prophet of economic justice, a foodie who loves to eat with the hungry; John’s triumphant Jesus rises above the earth in splendid glory; and Paul’s muscular Jesus is the risen Christ, shattering the powers of Sin and Death. All different, all memorable in their own ways. And yet, it’s uncanny how we encounter the same gentle yet fierce person across all five portrayals. One person seems to shine through them all.

Jesus always defends and protects the vulnerable, and makes them his own, whether he’s the human friend we meet in Mark, or the cosmic mystery we crane our necks to glimpse in John. In all five portrayals, Jesus is an ally of those without male privilege, without education privilege, without health or ability privilege, and especially those without wealth privilege. When he says, “Let her alone,” he is standing alongside the one other person there who fully understands his mission, and who he truly is.

Jesus stands alongside his one lavishly generous companion, a woman whose name we do not know. (Maybe, if we do not know her name, we ourselves can more readily take her place of honor in the story.) By anointing the body of Jesus with shockingly expensive ointment of pure nard, this woman does something brave and extravagant and loving. She performs a quiet but brazenly prophetic act: she centers Jesus as the source of our virtue, the ground of our faith. She centers the movement of Jesus on his saving death, in which he gave it all away – even his life – for the dawning of the dominion of God. She touches and caresses and soothes his physical body: in doing this, she performs a startling sign of the raw, earthy, sensual, physical bond we have, through Jesus, to one another and to our neighbor.

And so they scolded her. They scolded her because of course they scolded her: she shames them in the poverty of their imagination. She steps far beyond the basic, pious, perfunctory charity that upstanding people, then and now, perform around the edges for the ever-present “poor people.” Jesus says, “The poor you will always have with you … but you will not always have me.” Don’t miss the meaning of this odd verse. If our neighbor remains only a recipient of our charity, then we will always, always have people around us who are in extreme need. And we will always be patronizing them while hoarding most of God’s blessings. But if we really understand who Jesus is and how Jesus challenges us to change the world, then the world really will change.

This woman gets it: She sees how, with Jesus at the center, we are all in with all the people the kingdom of the world rejects and ignores. With Jesus at the center, our movement makes the ever-present them full members in one beloved us. We embrace one another. We are scandalously generous with one another. We caress and soothe and anoint one another.

And consider all the people who are no longer the ever-present “poor,” but are now our beloved siblings in Christ. Imagine who will join our movement, when we are ridiculously and radically generous, when we take up the vocation of the nameless woman and her alabaster jar. Reflect for a moment on who, exactly, gets stitched into the center of our heart, when we anoint the body of Jesus for burial. We have known them.

Well, maybe we’ve mostly just tolerated them, or managed to discreetly ignore them.

He is Black or brown, or undocumented, or wasn’t taught English, our language of empire. She is starving in southern Gaza. He is neurodivergent, or lives outside, or struggles with mental or behavioral challenges. She has a rap sheet, a record, a history of wrongdoing, like those awful tax collectors Jesus loved. He is desperate to defend his Ukrainian town. She is a faithful, decent member of a group we love to hate. They are nonbinary and therefore hunted mercilessly, taunted viciously, in the halls of their senior high school, in the halls of Congress.

And — what a friend they have in Jesus. Jesus is the friend of the vulnerable. He is the friend of the woman who anoints him, the generous companion who gets it. But even when he rebukes those of us who don’t get it, the kindness never leaves his eyes, even as his voice becomes devastating. All five ancient lenses reveal this fierce yet kind Jesus, this harrowing yet lovely Jesus.

Fierce yet kind; harrowing yet lovely. This is the person we contemplate, year by year, in this holiest of weeks. We keep coming back to this person at the center of our community. He is a great man, yet he’s great enough to reject out of hand the ‘great-man theory’: this is not a master and commander, not a decorated war hero and global diplomat, not a canny executive or corporate titan. No. That’s not Jesus. That’s not the one we look for, the one we caress, the one we finally see on the Cross.

Jesus is kind. And that is no small thing. That is, in fact, everything. Kindness, true kindness – the ancient word is chesed – true kindness is almost as rare as a unicorn. I sometimes think I understand kindness, even if I fail to embody it. I want to be kind. Do you? I know for sure that I look for kindness. I look for it everywhere. For me, Holy Week is about my never-ending search for kindness, the potent kindness that shatters the powers and defeats the principalities, the dreadful kindness that removes the oxygen from the room with a quiet yet startling rebuke on behalf of one brave person.

But we know in our bones what the broken world does to the strong and kind ones, the fierce and good ones. Year by year, we contemplate not just Jesus, but the death of Jesus. We contemplate how goodness is shredded and kindness is scolded. We stand with the women who huddled at a distance to watch the burial of Jesus; and alongside those brave women, we refuse to veil our faces to the reality of injustice, the reality of cruelty, the reality of hell on earth. 

And we keep at it. We strive to be kind, as Jesus is kind. We strive to be fierce, as Jesus is fierce. We strive to be something bigger than resentful scolds. “Let her alone,” Jesus tells us. “Why do you trouble her?” We hear this rebuke, and the harrowing kindness that drives and directs it. I pray that we will then go and do this good thing, in the presence of this memorable, mighty woman with her jar of pure nard.

I pray that we will let her alone.

What do you see?

Preached on the Fourth Sunday in Lent (Year B), March 10, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Numbers 21:4-9
Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22
Ephesians 2:1-10
John 3:14-21

Monument of the bronze serpent erected by Moses, Mount Nebo, Jordan.

Look up, and see. Raise your eyes and look at the cross, at Jesus on that cross. Jesus rises above us, in glory. Lift your head. Feast your eyes.

Even for those of us who struggle to see with our physical eyes, or see only in ways other than physical, we are a visual species. “I see,” you say, as you finally understand a complicated point. “I feel seen,” you say, when you experience another person truly empathizing with you. “Why can’t you see that?!” you shout to your friend, who has failed to understand your good motive, or your sensible solution.

We humans imagine (imagine is a visual word). We see.

When Mark the evangelist tells us their version of the Good News, their portrayal of Jesus the Crucified and Risen One, Mark takes pains to focus on the centurion seeing Jesus hanging dead on the cross, as Jesus does here in this room, in this sculpture rising above us, high enough for all to see. The centurion sees Jesus on the cross, and only then does he grasp the truth that almost no one in Mark’s Gospel has fully comprehended: the centurion says, “Truly this man was God’s Son.” He sees, and in seeing, he understands.

Don’t miss Mark’s point here: we can’t understand Jesus, who he is, why he matters, until we see him giving away his whole life in love, on the cross.

But John the evangelist expands on this idea. He riffs brilliantly and vividly on this image. (“Brilliantly… vividly…” Those are adverbs related to vision, to seeing…) Again, in Mark, the full identity of Jesus is revealed only when he dies on the cross. But in John, the identity of Jesus is revealed in his death, resurrection, ascension, and giving of the Spirit — and all of those things happen on the cross. In John’s telling, the cross soars high, so high that it looms over all creation, so high that Jesus does not just die on that cross, he also rises to life, and ascends, and gives us his Spirit. Now, John does give us some post-Resurrection appearances of Jesus — some of our most powerful and provocative Resurrection stories! — but Jesus in John is already rising on the cross. He knows what is happening to him, as he hangs there; he sees all ends, as he suffers; he knows that his death is but the beginning of his triumph and glory, even as life departs from his body.

And so Jesus himself, in John’s Good News, when he’s on the cross — that one, terrible, dazzling, glorious location where he dies, rises, ascends, and gives the Spirit — Jesus on the cross is everything we need and want to see. “Look!” Jesus invites us, just as he had done in an earlier scene in John’s Good News, the time when he said to his first followers, the blinkered disciples, “Come and see.”

“Look at me,” Jesus calls out.

Jesus invites us to look at him — to look at him on the cross — in his encounter with the befuddled, myopic Nicodemus, the scholar and leader who anxiously but eagerly seeks out Jesus under the cover of darkness — the darkness of fear, the darkness of spiritual blindness, the darkness of ignorance and confusion.

Jesus takes pains to explain, to the seeker Nicodemus but also to us, that he is all we need to see, as he rises high on the cross. Jesus draws on an ancient story to make his point. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” Jesus says, “so must the Son of Man be lifted up.” Jesus is touching on a riveting narrative from the book of Numbers in the Torah, the story we just heard in our first reading. In that odd, mysterious, and dreadful story from the desert wilderness, Moses lifts up the serpent in the wilderness. He lifts it high — so that all the people will see.

And what do they see? They see the venomous, burning viper, the same snake that had bit them, injuring and sometimes killing them. Our best translation of the Hebrew calls the beast a “fire snake,” probably alluding to a historical memory of the burning pain a desert reptile had inflicted on the wandering tribe. But the word for “fire snake” is the same word as the word  for the seraphim, one of the orders of heavenly angels. God is not being gentle in this story, in most stories. Even the angels are startling, upsetting, dreadful … even terrifying.

And even today, even now, millennia later, on the other end of history from this ancient memory, even today we hold on to this upsetting, awful image, this image of the snake on a pole. It forms the logo of the American Medical Association, and it’s on the shield of Blue Cross Blue Shield. It’s even etched into the glass of the medical bay on Star Trek, a show that imagines a distant, post-religion future. You have seen this symbol. We have kept it around. Why?

Well, when the snake-bitten desert nomads look frantically up at the copper snake hanging from its bronze pole, they are healed: they can see; they can understand. The text tells us they are healed from their physical ailment, but we are invited, as always, to explore the deeper meaning of the story. They are healed of their ignorance, cured of their low insight. Like the centurion centuries later — a military official on a brutal so-called “peacekeeping” mission in an occupied land at the edge of the empire — like the centurion, the Israelites finally see. They see their bitter complaint against God; their venomous, inflamed contempt for God’s blessings; their destructive, deathly resentments. They see all of this hanging above them, on a pole. And they finally understand.

This is a parable about insight. (Insight: another visual word.) They understand, finally, with great relief. Ah! they exclaim, as the truth finally dawns on them (dawn: a bright phenomenon that one sees: another visual metaphor). Ah! they exclaim, as the truth finally dawns on them. We see. We get it. We understand.

And so I wonder, and I invite you to wonder, what you see when you look up at this new pole, which is now a cross, and this new serpent, which is now the Christ, crucified, risen, ascended, and handing over his Spirit. What do you see? What do you understand?

I can tell you what I see.

I see our shared culpability, our shared responsibility for all that stings us in this hard wilderness of a world. I confess I see our wrongdoing first, before any of the happy things I might see on this cross, on this crucified Body. I see our guilt. The Church rightly comes in for rebuke about our long, sad history of guilting people, and so I rush to assure you that that’s not what I’m doing. I just know what I suspect you also know: we are caught up in the venomous bite of injustice. We sometimes tolerate it, whether we’re aware of that or not. But we also inflict it. You know that, right? It is a hard truth.

But I also see hopeful things when I gaze at that cross. I see Jesus pouring out his whole life in self-giving love, for us, for those in extreme need, for refugees, for victims of ignorance, for victims of war, for victims of climate destruction, for victims of despair. I see Jesus showing us the Way to pour ourselves out, too, for all of these same people, and for one another. I gaze at the cross and I see self-giving love. 

But I see other good things. I see reconciliation; I see glory; I see the gift of the Spirit. In John’s Gospel, the crucified, rising, and ascending Jesus places his mother in the care of his dearest friend, and places his dearest friend in the care of his mother: we are meant to see in this conversation at the cross the formation of the Christian community. “Behold your mother,” Jesus says to his beloved friend. “Behold your child,” Jesus says to his mother. And so once again, yet again, Jesus is inviting us to see! “Behold,” Jesus says: “behold”— yet another visual word.

And so I see — when I gaze at this cross — I see Jesus looking at me, and saying to me, “Stephen, behold your congregation.” The crucified, rising, and ascending One, looking down to me from the cross, is inviting me to see you. And in seeing you, I am instructed by Jesus to love you, to care for you, to sometimes challenge you, to faithfully draw alongside you, even as you and I, all of us, are invited to see our neighbor, to love our neighbor, to care for and sometimes challenge our neighbor, to faithfully draw alongside our neighbor.

And that is the hope and glory of the cross, rising above us in a vision of splendid sacrifice and dazzling triumph. “Behold. Look. See,” Jesus says, shining gloriously, from the cross.

Do you, my beloved companion, do you see? Do you see Jesus on the cross, and through his eyes, do you see me? Do you see yourself? Do you see your own conflicted but good heart? Do you see your sins forgiven, the fire snake’s venom extracted, your hope restored? And do you see your neighbor, craving your embrace?

What do you see, when you gaze at this terrible sight, when you adore this vision?

I invite you to lift up your eyes, and look.

God is terrible

Preached on the Third Sunday in Lent (Year B), March 3, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.

Exodus 20:1-17
Psalm 19
1 Corinthians 1:18-25
John 2:13-22

This homily is a short “starter” homily that encourages the assembly at our 5:00pm liturgy to add their own insights and reflections in conversation with the preacher. Gathered in a circle in the early evening, we enjoy this evening Eucharist as a more intimate form of worship on the Lord’s Day.

The Second Inaugural Address, by Anna Rose Bain

We just sang a portion of Psalm 19, perhaps one of the most beautiful psalms in our collection of these one hundred and fifty extremely ancient hymns. Psalm 19 sings of the splendor of creation, of the sun joyfully running its course through the sky, of the flaming spheres of the cosmos singing a song without music, proclaiming a message without words.

Then there are a couple of verses that sound beautiful, but maybe strike you as a little ho-hum. Verses eight and nine, which go like this:

The statutes of the Lord are just
and rejoice the heart; *
the commandment of the Lord is clear
and gives light to the eyes.

The fear of the Lord is clean
and endures for ever; *
the judgments of the Lord are true
and righteous altogether.

Aw, that’s nice. Right? But wait! One of our national leaders a century and a half ago explored how even these verses are startling and troubling. The leader was Abraham Lincoln, and while he may not deserve the blind hero worship he has received across nearly sixteen decades (and while he is now, in our time, coming in for some valid critique for being a little too pragmatic and equivocal on the issue of slavery), Lincoln was (in my view) an intelligent, if personally flawed, reader of his bible. He seemed to understand, in his bones, how terrible God is, how dreadful, even, God may be. Here is Lincoln’s take on a half verse of Psalm 19, in his second Inaugural Address. He writes:

“Fondly do we hope — fervently do we pray — that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’” (End quote.)

Did you catch the dreadfulness of what Lincoln is saying? Maybe, says Lincoln, maybe God wills that every unearned wage-dollar of every slave must be wasted on a devastating war. Maybe God wills that “every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword.” Maybe God wills all of that. And if so, “as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’”

That’s a lot to take in.  But I want to point to this, lest we think Psalm 19 is just a little bit of sweet lemonade among the sour lemon of God’s Ten “You shall not” Words on the fiery mountain; and the sour lemon of Paul’s uncompromising and challenging interpretations of the Cross; and the sourest lemon of all – Jesus fashioning a whip of cords and cleansing the temple. Sweet Jesus, nice Jesus, graceful and loving Jesus – yeah, well, today Jesus fashions a whip of cords. God is terrible. God is dreadful.

When he cleanses the temple in this way, Jesus renders the whole temple useless to everyone, not just to the people running it (the ones he condemns for turning it into a “marketplace”), but the pilgrims, rich and poor alike, who risked their lives and spent their savings to climb the hills to Jerusalem just to pray in this temple. By driving out the money changers, Jesus makes it impossible for a pilgrim to exchange their Roman Empire money, which bears the idolatrous face of Caesar (making it unclean for the temple); so now they can’t go in. And by driving out the cattle and sheep and doves (cattle are sacrificed by those who can afford them; doves are sacrificed by working-class peasants like the parents of Jesus) – by driving the animals out, the pilgrims can’t do their temple prayers properly, even if they figured out how to get inside with their dirty money.

We try to make sense of these terrible stories, like the cleansing of the temple; and we try to make sense of these uncompromising ideas, like the Cross as stumbling block and folly but also the very power of God. We try to make sense of them. Maybe it’s best to borrow a page from Abe Lincoln: we won’t make sense of them if we also try to keep God nice, to hold God down as a just a graceful, gentle Creator. 

But then, what use would we have for God if God were merely a gentle giant, like Big Bird or Barney the Dinosaur? Maybe it’s good for us that God is terrible, because we live in a terrible world. Jesus ferociously disrupts the temple practices – the easy, timeworn, ethically compromised spiritual life of his people – because that Way has finally become nearly worthless in the face of their terrible world. 

On Ash Wednesday I preached about spiritual warfare, and at least one person was upset by what I said. We are in healthy dialogue about it, this person and I. I need to stand by what I said, in the same way that I stand by what I say tonight: that God is terrible; that God is dreadful. Why, though? Where does this get us? Well, let’s go back to President Lincoln, who had just said that perhaps God willed that the evil of slavery be defeated by a war that was just as terrible as slavery itself. Lincoln didn’t just stop at that idea, that terrible idea. He continued, finishing strong, by saying this:

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right — as God gives us to see the right — let us strive on to finish the work we are in: to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

God is terrible; God is dreadful; but not just because God is those things. God is fashioning us into people who strive, people who bind wounds, people who care for those who have suffered the very worst. God does not form us to shrink from a challenge, to recede into a sing-song community of sentimental huggers. Now, we do embrace each other, and oh, the sweet peace – the luscious delight! – of sins forgiven, of friendships restored. Yes. But we are formed by God the Terrible, God the Dreadful, to engage the enemy of peace, the enemy of justice, the enemy of refugees and victims of war. We are formed to stand tall in defiance of the worldly powers of violence and terror, in all their forms. 

And so I invite you now, whether you want to or not, to share your own reflections on these provocative readings. Are you at the foot of the fiery mountain, your eyes blazing as Moses descends with those terrible tablets covered with the words “You shall not”? Are you at the foot of the Cross, that dreadful Cross, contemplating the confounding mystery of self-giving love? Maybe you’re a dove merchant just trying to help poor people say their prayers in the temple, and a zealot just ruined your livelihood. Where is God, in all of this, for you?

No one bears the cross alone

Preached on the Second Sunday in Lent (Year B), February 25, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by Kevin Montgomery.

Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
Romans 4:13-25
Mark 8:31-38
Psalm 22:22-30

Believe it or not, speaking from this pulpit is a vulnerable task. Heck, getting up in front of people is vulnerable, period. Everyone’s looking at me. Am I going to mess up? Am I going to make a fool out of myself? Am I in the procession with the back of the tunicle tucked up behind me? Yes, that has happened. (No, not here.) Most of you know me to some extent and have seen me up here or downstairs at coffee hour or elsewhere. Some of you might even think I’ve got my stuff together. Well, one thing you might not know about me is that I have struggled with chronic depression for many years. As I’m sure you know, depression is more than just feeling sad. It encompasses the whole self – physically, emotionally, spiritually. Imagine feeling both pain and numbness at the same time. You want nothing more than to be somewhere else even though both your mind and your body seem to be swimming in molasses. Simply getting out of bed can be an achievement. There were times when I would wrestle up just enough energy to get an arm off the mattress, then maybe a leg, and eventually my whole self. Sure, I’d now be lying on the floor, but at least I was out of bed. And there’s much more incentive to get up off a cold floor than out of a warm bed. Emotionally, I’d feel like a crushing weight was resting on my heart. Sadness, failure, shame. “Why can’t I get over this?. . . Maybe you deserve it. . . . I don’t want to feel like this. . . . But can you really expect better? . . .” 

I’m lucky, however. My mom had a cousin who had bipolar disorder. The message I always got from my family was that it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Cousin Dot simply had a medical condition. If she stayed on her medication, she was mostly fine. If she didn’t, well, not so fine. When I was diagnosed while in college, I already knew that it was something that could be treated. Thank God for mental health professionals, pharmaceuticals, and supportive family and friends. Before we go on, I have responded pretty well to medication, and I have the stability of a good job, a good church, and loving family. Nevertheless, I still sometimes have episodes, and I always carry with me the experience.

One of the worst parts of depression is the feeling of being utterly alone. Even with the support I had, during the lowest periods, I would feel cut off from everyone, from myself, sometimes even from God. Today we sang part of Psalm 22, the cheerier part. “Praise the Lord, you that fear him. . . . For he does not despise nor abhor the poor in their poverty; neither does he hide his face from them; but when they cry to him he hears them.” But who can recite that psalm without thinking about the beginning of it. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? and are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress?” Can there be any other verse in scripture that describes so well the reality of depression? “O my God, I cry in the daytime, but you do not answer; by night as well, but I find no rest.” I’m almost certain that I’m not the only one here who has experienced that desolation. Actually, now that I think about it, I am certain I’m not the only one.

In Mark and Matthew, on the cross there is the cry of abandonment that flies from Jesus’s parched lips, a broken body giving up what seemed like a broken spirit. I was never ashamed of having depression, but it did break my conception of myself. Someone logical in thought and planning, in control at all times. But then I found myself being controlled by the emotions that arose within me. Well, the emotions were always there, always strong, but now I was the one being held in a box. I was always the scholar, the A-student, someone always hearing about people’s “high hopes,” being told that I’d go far. Yet the depression played a major, albeit not sole, reason in my burning out of a doctoral program. I was supposed to achieve great things in a field that I loved. Instead, I collapsed under the weight of misery and the shame of failure. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t the plan. “Told you you couldn’t do it.” Oh, what I would have given to be able to say in response, “Get behind me, Satan.” 

Even though in some of the worst episodes I felt totally abandoned by God, at other times I would feel the closest to him. Like being so bereft of my own strength that I had no other choice but to rely on Christ’s. Maybe I was stripped so bare that I couldn’t help but feel the warmth of his love on my skin. “Yet you are he who took me out of the womb, and kept me safe upon my mother's breast.” Even in Jesus’s cry of abandonment and his Father’s response of sheer silence, God was not torn asunder. God was not divorced from humanity but descended into the abode of the dead. Psalm 139, “Where can I go then from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I climb up to heaven, you are there; if I make the grave my bed, you are there also.” I’m not saying that God sent this to me to teach me a lesson or some nonsense like that. Nor do I believe that suffering by itself is redemptive. Rather, God is present wherever we find ourselves. And wherever Christ is, there too is the Cross on which hung the world’s salvation.

When he says to take up the cross, we shouldn’t mistake it for some sort of work we have to do. He’s not saying, “Come to me you who are lightly laden, and I will give you chores. My yoke is hard, and the burden is heavy.” Nor is he telling us to press a cross upon others, especially if we do nothing to help. He calls us to follow him. It was a path that led him to the cross and the tomb, and it very well might lead us there as well. We take up our cross and lay aside what keeps us safe. Some might already be carrying some sort of cross. But since we are all one in Christ, no one bears the cross alone. Deny yourself? Deny what the world says you should be, whether it’s high or it’s low, whether you’re supposed to be better than everyone else or to be worse. Deny the power the world bestows upon you and embrace humility and weakness. Deny the powerlessness the world imposes on you and hold fast to the strength of Christ. The cross was meant to be an instrument of excruciating torture and burning shame, but through the power of the Spirit’s refining flames, it becomes a crucible of transformation. For even in the deepest darkness, the light of the Resurrection shines through. As we say in our funeral liturgy:

“As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives

and that at the last he will stand upon the earth.

After my awaking, he will raise me up;

and in my body I shall see God.

I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him

who is my friend and not a stranger.”

The crucible

This homily is a short “starter” homily that encourages the assembly at our 5:00pm liturgy to add their own insights and reflections in conversation with the preacher. Gathered in a circle in the early evening, we enjoy this evening Eucharist as a more intimate form of worship on the Lord’s Day.

Preached on the First Sunday in Lent (Year B), February 18, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.

Genesis 9:8-17
Psalm 25:1-9
1 Peter 3:18-22
Mark 1:9-15

An alchemist working with his assistants at a crucible, by F. Pedro after F. Maggiotto

A crucible is a metal container, roughly in the shape of a cup, that you heat to very high temperatures to manipulate chemical compounds. But in history, the word crucible has also referred to a lamp that is placed near a crucifix. Crucible … crucifixion … excruciating. These words are related. I wonder if the objects they describe are also related — the alchemist’s device and the devout Christian’s chapel lamp. Think about it: the alchemist uses the crucible to put chemicals under the pressure of intense heat. Perhaps, by the light that burns near the cross, you can endure the pressure of seeing things you normally would not see, or would not want to see.

In my years as a couples therapist, I studied the work of David Schnarch, who coined a new term, the sexual crucible, to describe what couples need to do if they want to grow and change together, toward the goal of reviving and invigorating their long-term, monogamous relationship. One member of the couple needs to take a calculated and dreadful risk, by telling the other person what they want, or who they are; they need to tell them something honest that the other person needs to hear.

When they do this hard task, the person is going through their own personal crucible: they are being brave. They are doing something truly difficult. It’s scary! Can you relate? Imagine telling someone you deeply love something about yourself that they might find hard to hear — a desire you have that you’re pretty sure they don’t share with you; a hope or ambition you have that could threaten their dreams.

When Andrew and I watch television programs, I often imagine “crucible” conversations the couples on the shows could have with each other. (Okay, I also imagine “crucible” conversations Andrew and I could have, but I don’t have his permission to list them as examples here.) If the show is, say, Resident Alien, I want Kate to go through her crucible and screw up the courage to tell her husband Ben that staying in Patience, Colorado, is a deal-breaker for her, and if he doesn’t want to follow her to New York, then they need to assess whether they should stay married. And I want Ben to respond positively to that challenge — and by responding positively, Ben would go through his crucible — and accept this reality about his wife, and dare to trade his safety and security for a scary but potentially thrilling new adventure for their family.

All of this brings me alongside Jesus of Nazareth, recently baptized and driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. The wilderness is the crucible for Jesus, the dreadful praxis where he finds out who he truly is. Mark the Evangelist doesn’t say much at all about this experience, only that he is “tempted by Satan,” and that he spends time “with wild beasts.” Maybe the gift of Mark the taciturn evangelist is that we get to fill in the details with our own temptations, our own wild beasts. These are the things and the beings that we would use to escape our own crucibles.

I have a few.

A major temptation I have is to yield to my basic longing to be liked, to receive approval. But the crucible of faith demands that I step outside of that safe zone. For years I’ve sung a hymn — really a song more than a hymn, and usually at diocesan events, not at St. Paul’s — that includes this imagined question that Jesus asks of us: “Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name? Will you care for cruel and kind and never be the same? Will you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare? Will you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?”

Wow. Yeah, I don’t know if I will. It’s scary to “leave myself behind.” It’s hard to “care for cruel and kind” (though that one runs right down the middle of my vow as a priest!). But recently, not to pat myself on the back, but a couple of times recently I have “risked the hostile stare” by preaching things that are things I think should be said, but things that are painfully provocative. This is all rough. And I want my life to attract others, not scare others. But even an attractive vocation is daunting. Attractiveness can spark imposter syndrome. It’s easier to stay snug in the safe zone where I don’t say or do anything significant.

As for the wild beasts in the crucible of the wilderness, well, I have a few of those, too. Dreadful creatures in my psyche; creatures like selfishness, being judgmental, unkind or unjust aggression, and the dreadful wolf of unchecked privilege, the wild beast who dresses like a mild sheep even as it does unspeakable damage.

And so I wonder — did you know this was coming? — I wonder about your crucible. Our faith tradition sets aside forty days to do “crucible stuff,” to meet the accuser or tempter, to wrangle wild beasts, to discern who we really are. We always have the option of “noping out” of all this, just skidding to Easter without much thought or concern about any of the truths that find us in that wilderness. (And hear this Gospel truth: if you skip Lent entirely, you’ll still be warmly welcome at God’s Easter table: God’s rainbow arcs above all of us, no matter what. Life is a lot. Do what you can. Pace yourself if you need to.)

But … what might be your crucible? Can you identify a wild beast, or two? Do you wonder whether Noah is apprehensive, having survived a harrowing flood and unsure whether he’s up to the task of rebooting the whole human race? How does the lovely yet wild season of Lent find you? When God’s angels minister to you, what might you tell them about your experience?

I invite your brief reflections and insights.

All the creatures under the rainbow

Preached on the First Sunday in Lent (Year B), February 18, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Genesis 9:8-17
Psalm 25:1-9
1 Peter 3:18-22
Mark 1:9-15

Follow me, Satan (Temptation of Jesus Christ), by Ilya Repin

Let’s do some systematic theology, shall we? I’ll try to keep it interesting, and relevant. It may even be urgently important! Let’s do some theology together. Ready? Okay. Here we go.

If I take a hammer and bear its weight down upon a nail, the nail will comply and descend into a plank of wood. (Or it will slam onto my fingernail and bruise me badly.) Aristotle would call this an example of efficient cause: I employed a hammer to cause the nail to go into another object.

But there are three other classic, Aristotelian types of causes, three other ways one can make something happen, or bring something into being, or change something. There is the efficient cause, which I just described. Then there is the material cause: hammer, nail, wood, and fingernail — these objects are made of metal and trees and human flesh. The material causes the interaction of the four objects, simply by being the “stuff” the four objects are made of.

Then there is the formal cause: the conceptual form of the thing I’m making when I hammer a nail into wood. Maybe I’m building a table, or assembling a cabinet, or fashioning a door. The imagined form in my mind causes the thing to take shape in physical reality.

And finally there is the final cause: If I am building a table, the final cause is the dinner we will share at that table. The dinner is the motivation — the final cause — that compels me to start building, guided by the form of the thing I want to make, consisting of the stuff I’m using to make it, the stuff I manipulate efficiently with my hands.

Efficient, material, formal, final: these are Aristotle’s four causes of all that comes into existence, all that moves and develops, all that changes, all that transforms.

And it is, I think, deeply disappointing that God does not seem to create with the efficient cause! God does not hammer nails; God invites Noah to hammer them into boards to build an ark. God does not resist temptation; the human person of Jesus does that, and God’s Spirit only drives him, with inspiration, into the wilderness.

But oh, how this world might quickly improve if God efficiently caused things! God creates ingenious doctors and compassionate caregivers, but God could instantly and magically zap cancer cells, rather than permitting them to grow. Those doctors and caregivers are wondrous, but they’re not omnipotent. God could simply reverse climate damage, instead of driving us into the wilderness as advocates for the earth and all living creatures. God could directly save children from harm, instead of stirring and sending us to create a world that actually nurtures children. But God is the Humble One. God enters creation abundantly, but always in deep humility. God is not a carpenter; that’s the job of Jesus’s human father. And God is certainly not a superhero or wizard. God seems to intervene only indirectly in this serendipitous and phenomenal world. Alas.

But God intervenes nonetheless. God creates all the stuff of the universe. God creates material: the word material comes from mater terra, Mother Earth. God creates the atmosphere, then, and God tells Noah in today’s portion of Genesis that God will “bring clouds over the earth” — “bring clouds”: that sounds like efficient cause! — but God is still not taking direct control, not hammering nails, even if God is “bringing” clouds. No, God simply creates the material that makes up the clouds, and the material that makes up the whole atmosphere, and the material that makes up the sun and the sun’s rays, and all of that material interacts in such a way that clouds are “brought” over the land.

So God, in turn, does not efficiently or directly “set” the rainbow in those clouds, the rainbow that will remind God to be merciful with all created life. God perceives the rainbow, and God will make meaning of the rainbow, and take a course of action in relationship with the rainbow; but God does not efficiently create it. As we know, the rainbow is created not by God, but by sunlight passing through raindrops. God may point to the rainbow as a profound atmospheric sign of God’s grace, but the rainbow itself is created by ordinary atmospheric phenomena.

So let’s review things so far: God apparently does not create efficiently, like striking a nail with a hammer, but God makes all matter — all stuff — that interacts in this astonishing, splendid universe: God creates Mother Earth; God creates material. And all of that material flourishes freely, forming into planets and cities and people and rainbows and art and music.

Next: God causes things to happen — causes things to come into being — by formal cause. God imagines a form: a world of land and sea and air; a world teeming with creatures; a world with a moral and ethical arena; a world vulnerable to destruction; a world that remains in relationship with God its creator, a world that has the capacity to overcome evil. In this way, God employs the formal cause. Some key examples:

God imagines the form of a good and just human race, and inspires Noah and his family to strive through great hardship to become good and just themselves, and then to fill the land with good and just people.

God begets God’s own self with a particular human being, the perfect form of a human being capable of defeating the powers of Sin and Death. God’s Spirit then drives that being into the wilderness, into the praxis of human struggle, where that being chooses righteousness. And then God sends God’s messengers to serve that being, Jesus, with nourishing bread, and consolation, and companionship. 

All of this corresponds to what Aristotle calls the “formal cause”: the Holy One, Blessed be God, creates a great form for the universe, and by that form God inspires random stuff to coalesce and organize, to come into order; by that form God encourages the flourishing of Noah and the whole human family; and by that form God sends us Jesus to lead us toward redemption and wholeness, and the world toward goodness and glory.

And finally — literally, finally — God creates by “final cause.” God calls to us from the destination we are striving to reach. God calls to us from the future. If we’re hammering nails to assemble a table, God is already at that table on God’s holy mountain, the mountain where everyone shares a feast of rich foods and well-aged wines; the mountain where we feast on food while God dines on death – the mountain where the prophet Isaiah says that God “swallows up death forever.” God is calling to us, even now, from that mountain. God feasting with us in the future: that is The final cause. That’s where creation wants to be.

And today, we draw closer to that mountain. Today we pray the Great Litany, perhaps the first Christian liturgical text to be translated into the English language, a litany that goes on, and on, and on, invoking God’s mercy and power; pleading with God to spare and save us, to empower us to trample Satan under our feet. But we do not pray that God will simply do these things, striking hammer to nail. We pray for all of these things because God has already accomplished them, in the future from which God calls to us. The Great Litany is not a song we sing; it is God’s song that pulls us forward into God’s future. Where do we get all these ideas that fire our prayers? Where do we get our desire for the defeat of pride, the destruction of “sinful affections,” the end of hypocrisy and malice and all the rest? We get them from God’s mountain, where all of those things are already being swallowed up. 

And we touch God’s mountain every time we set this Table, where we enjoy a foretaste of that rainbowed mountaintop feast of victory and peace and justice. The stuff of the feast — bread and wine — is consecrated into the form of Body and Blood, but the final Feast itself is the thing: God is there, even now, creating a universe that bends toward that mountain, toward the rainbow that arcs above that mountain, toward the end of all suffering, toward God.

And so we do not lose hope. As the earth stirs and the trees bud; as springtime finds its way across the landscape and warms our wintry hearts; as the days lengthen and we long for the renewal of all things, we sing our Great Litany to God, the Creator who loves all creatures who live beneath the rainbow; the Savior who embraces us in the wilderness of our difficult lives; the Spirit who drives us into our vocations with power, with gladness, and with purpose.

The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the Good News.

"Boe a hyn neled herain… dan caer menig!"

Preached on Ash Wednesday, February 14, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Psalm 103:8-14
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Help comes to Aragorn’s beleaguered army in the closing scene of the Battle of Helm’s Deep, in “The Two Towers,” the 2002 film adaptation of the J.R.R. Tolkien novel, directed by Peter Jackson.

The army is assembling on the hillside. The enemy is forming a battle line. They are in lockstep, forming into ranks and files. They brandish dreadful weapons. They are so numerous they cannot be counted. They are not a group or a team or even a crowd: they are a swarm. They are younger than our elder warriors. They are older than our untrained youth. They stand tall. 

Here is how the prophet Joel describes them: Like blackness spread upon the mountains a great and powerful army comes; their like has never been from of old, nor will be again after them in ages to come.

Consider their weapons. One of their most awful weapons is disinformation: the enemy persuades people in our land to believe conspiracy theories, to assume the worst of our leaders, to be cynics. Civil discourse about civil rights can hardly stand up to snide, combative personal attacks. Everyone plays the Gotcha! game, and eventually everyone loses. There are so many lies and distortions floating around, nobody can believe the truth, or even trust a few basic facts.

But the enemy also comes at us with the subtle yet devastating weapon of despair. Our young adults resign themselves to a lifetime of debt, and our housing crisis persists, dulling the city with gray and gritty discouragement. Climate change seems inevitable: “We’re cooked, literally,” people sigh to themselves. Factory farming, systemic racism, hollowed-out small towns, extreme weather, apocalyptic regional wars, rising seas: it is all too easy to submit to the enemy’s nudge in the back of our consciousness, the thin, wretched voice that whispers to us, “All is lost.” And if all truly is lost, I don’t have to do anything, do I? What’s the point?

And then there’s the weapon of discord. The enemy sows conflict, and makes every encounter a battle. Let’s fight. It’s all too easy for me to assume you are my opponent, my adversary, that you have malign intentions against me, even if we actually have deep capacity for empathy, and we both just feel lonely, or scared. When, say, the nation is struggling with issues of justice and freedom of speech on college campuses, we don’t look for common ground; somebody needs to take the blame. Somebody needs to go before the kangaroo court of a Congressional hearing and get tripped up in a cynical interrogation, say the wrong thing, and be forced to resign.

Even in the Church, again and again, we take up our opposing sides. Who’s the better congregation? Who’s wrong about how to spend our money? Whose fault is it that many mainstream churches are declining? And what was the National Cathedral thinking, charging admission to a Christmas Eve service? Let’s berate them on social media! Jesus said his deepest desire was for us to abide with him as one people, in beloved community. But the enemy tears our community apart with the weapon of discord.

In the face of this oppressive enemy, the prophet Joel blows the shofar, and calls an assembly. We are to come together. All of us.

We come together every springtime, usually at about the same time in Seattle when we begin noticing the crocuses pushing up from the sodden ground. Every single blade of grass is green right now — have you noticed? In just five months or so we’ll see brown grass everywhere, but right now the land is green. The trees are beginning to awaken. This is Lent. Lent: a word related to the word lengthen, as in, lengthening daylight. Spring is the time in the church when we hear Joel’s horn blowing and we come together. We assemble. The aged, but also children, “even infants at the breast.” Everybody comes together.

Then we take stock. We take a hard, morning-after look at what we have, what we’ve lost, how we really are doing. On Ash Wednesday, we sort through all the ways we’ve strayed from the Good News, all the ways we’ve squandered the gifts we’ve been given, all the ways we’ve messed things up. We account for all of that. We do this not to beat ourselves up: we never, ever proclaim a faith that shames people. That is never what we’re about. We are just being honest. Here’s what we’ve done that we should not have done. Here are the ways we can strive to do better.

We do all of this taking stock, all of this self-examination and confession, because like the quietly awakening earth in springtime, God is reliably drawing alongside us, and God dwells most powerfully in the hearts of those who are awake, aware, and ready. Hear again the prophet Joel’s consolation: “‘Yet even now,’ says the Lord, ‘return to me with all your heart.’ Return to the Lord, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.”

I invite you to notice, as we gather today to begin again, to look honestly at everything, to confess wrongdoing, and to resolve to do better — I invite you to notice how plural all of our language is. “We confess to you, Lord”...”Our anger at our own frustration”...Our negligence in prayer and worship”...and on it goes. Yes, Psalm 51 sounds more like one person’s remorse, but we say even that highly personal psalm together as one people, one assembly, one Body. We are in this together. How do we fight disinformation, despair, and discord? We fight them together. We come together; we sing laments together; we own up to our mistakes together; and we receive the springtime embrace of God’s mercy together.

All of this battle imagery, and especially the idea of the Christian community assembling for a great battle, brings to my imagination a popular story of a dreadful battle, a battle at the center of a fantastic war — literally fantastic: a war in a fantasy story. If you haven’t read the books or seen the films, don’t worry, it’s a familiar scene you can easily imagine: a few military leaders are reviewing their troops before a battle, and they are worried. The scene is set in the middle of the second volume of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and in the film version, you can see the worry lining every face as our heroes prepare for battle in the fortress of Helm’s Deep. 

It doesn’t look good. The earth is thundering with the sound of the approaching army, an astonishing horde of orcs, grotesque monsters born in mud who are ferocious and merciless, relentlessly closing in on a dwindling band of villagers. Everyone is frantically getting ready behind the wall of their fortress, rushing to hide small children deeper in the great rock while conscripting boys and men of all ages into a ragtag army. Here is the worried conversation of their leaders, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli:

Aragorn reviews the men and boys preparing for battle and says, “Farmers, farriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers.” Gimli says, “Most have seen too many winters.” Legolas adds, “Or too few.” Legolas looks over the clutch of people rushing back and forth, trying on ill-fitting armor and feeble swords. “Look at them. They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes.” He turns frantically to Aragorn. “And they should be [frightened]. Three hundred against ten thousand!” Aragorn replies, “They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras.” But Legolas pleads, “Aragorn, they cannot win this fight. They are all going to die!” Aragorn shouts back, “Then I shall die as one of them!”

A bit later on, Legolas comes back to Aragorn and repairs their friendship. He says to Aragorn, “We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.” Aragorn is graceful: “There is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” He says.

Aragorn is right. There is nothing to forgive. Legolas is afraid, and that is reasonable. Three hundred against ten thousand! You and I, we are not fighting an actual battle in a fantasy world of orcs and dwarves and elves. This is not a movie, this spiritual battle for which we prepare. It is all too real: we live in a complicated, woeful time of disinformation, despair, and discord. If you think we’re not equal to the task, well, that is reasonable.

But Aragorn was right in other ways. He was right when he was confronted with the certain death of his people and he said, “Then I shall die as one of them!” And he was right before that, when he searched for the faintest silver lining, and remembered that when his people are all together in one place, getting ready together, their chances are better. And — this is made clear at other points in the saga — Aragorn, quietly faithful, nursed authentic hope that help would come to them from outside their camp. And so it did.

Help is coming to us. It is even now here. Crocuses are pushing through the soil in this garden, right here, and the Lord of heaven and earth is faithful. God is abundant in steadfast love. Come together then, and take stock. Consider our shared strength, and our shared weakness. We are about to join in spiritual warfare, but we have trusted God this far, and God has not led us astray. Spring is coming, and with it great struggle. But our patron Paul is right when he reminds us that God fashions weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left. Ahead lies hard work, but all will be well.

***

Note: the title of this sermon is Legolas’s Elvish line in the dialogue with Aragorn, when he says, “And they should be [frightened]. Three hundred against ten thousand!”

The human person fully alive

Preached on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B, February 11, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

2 Kings 2:1-12
Psalm 50:1-6
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9

The Transfiguration, by Albert Bouts

I intensely dislike stains on my clothing. When I notice them for the first time, when I’m standing up at a restaurant or walking after lunch, my morale plunges. I groan. A stain on my clothes can ruin my day. In my compulsive hatred of stains, I suffered grim disillusionment when OxyClean came on the market and I discovered that it’s not great for oil stains. And those little Tide stain sticks? No. They don’t work, especially on oil. Oil is my nemesis. In my household, I take command of all laundry activities while Andrew governs the kitchen, and oil is despised in my realm as much as it is essential in his. This is a happy problem, but I intensely dislike stains.

And so I smile when Mark the evangelist tells us that Jesus is dressed in clothes so clean, clothes so spotless, that they dazzle in a way that “no one on earth could bleach them.” No stains! Jesus gleams. He is perfect. Undamaged. Unmarred. Clean and bright and beautiful.

But the response of his friends, when they see this vision that should stir the heart of every launderer, and inspire the imagination of every person ever to tri-fold a t-shirt — the response of his friends is terror. They are knocked to the ground in fear. They recoil in awe. We could just attribute this to the understandable human response to a bright, dazzling, and splendid explosion of divine glory. But I think it goes deeper than that. I think the friends of Jesus are frightened by his Transfiguration because it reveals the human person as God created us to be — it reveals the friends of Jesus as the human persons God created them to be — and the human person in full glory is terrifying. Your best self is unnerving. Your unstained soul, free of all blemishes, cleansed into perfection, is scary.

Reflect on this for a while. Imagine your best self: the ideal you. Speaking for myself alone, the ideal me is powerfully compassionate and empathetic, a force of reconciliation in this torn-asunder world of conflict. But, unfortunately, on any given day, in any given meeting, the ideal me does not necessarily appear. Maybe I’m nursing a tension headache, or worse, I’m nursing a self-centered resentment. Maybe, as we meet, there’s the dull irritation of construction noise down the hallway, something that has happened fairly often these past weeks. Maybe, like today, I’ve just gotten over a head cold, and I am wary of lingering congestion. But underneath or beyond all of that, the ideal me is alive. He is active. He is here.

And he is not neutral.

A human person at full, healthy, God-given strength is formidable. They bear a gleaming shield that wards off the enemies of ignorance and indifference. They brandish a flashing sword that defeats the demonic powers of nihilism and cruelty. They inspire people of good conscience, but they are daunting. They do not feel tame; they are not tame.

Part of my own therapy in recent years has been to get in touch with my better self, my stronger self, my dreadfully powerful warrior-for-justice self. I was formed as a later-born child to sit in the back of the family van; I was rewarded for keeping silent, for endorsing the status quo, for sitting tight. And so it is scary for me to stand, and walk, and act on God’s errand. It is scary to get into conflict for the right reasons, to get into what the Civil Rights hero John Lewis famously called “good trouble.” It is daunting to realize that when I am doing the right thing, I can be intimidating.

And so we draw alongside the friends of Jesus as they retreat in dismay from the Transfiguration, and we empathize with them. They see in Jesus what St. Irenaeus famously calls “the human person, fully alive.” Here’s the full quote: “The glory of God,” says St. Irenaeus, “the glory of God is the human person fully alive.”

Fully-alive people do all sorts of scary things. They ask for forgiveness, and that is scary because it invites the person they harmed into a terrible intimacy, into a perplexing, costly relationship of trust. Or they offer forgiveness, and that is frightening, too: “Do I deserve this forgiveness?” their offender may wonder. It is scary to contemplate the Gospel truth that yes, indeed, you do deserve this forgiveness. This truth compels you to be vulnerable to the person you harmed, and to go forward with the real intention to do no further harm. Do you have it in you to be this good? Yes, yes you do. Every living human person has the capacity to improve. But this is all quite unsettling, to say the least.

Fully-alive persons do many other scary things. They freely offer grace and goodness to their neighbor, regardless of that neighbor’s rap sheet, regardless of their own beliefs about whether that neighbor deserves their aid. They place their trust in people, knowing that to trust is to invite heartbreak. They don’t give up on people, ever, and while that does not mean we disregard healthy boundaries (our faith does not teach us to be doormats or powerless abuse victims!), we nevertheless always, always hold out hope for every single living human person: hope that they will respond to God’s saving love, hope that they will return to our community safely and peaceably, hope that we will never fail to see the reflection of Christ on their face, no matter how marred it might be by addiction or misbehavior or illness or abuse or despair. Fully-alive persons rise up in might as agents of mercy to those who appear least deserving of that mercy: and all of that is scary.

But the transfigured and risen Christ gives us a vision of humanity that is scarier still.

Back to those stains I hate: I despise stains, literal stains and metaphorical stains alike, because they get in the way of something or someone good. They make my favorite shirt look disheveled; or they hide my better self, my best self, behind a smaller me, a snottier me, a resentful or bitter me. I say No to all stains. 

But I say Yes to the five wounds of the crucifixion. The Transfiguration story is possibly a post-Resurrection vision of Jesus, retrojected into the weeks before he arrived in Jerusalem and suffered, died, and was raised. Whatever the literary facts behind the text, the vision of the Transfiguration is definitely a lot like the Resurrection appearances: Jesus shines; he is familiar yet also strange; he is joyous yet also terrifying. And so it is good for us to remember that the risen Jesus is wounded: He shows his wounds to his friends, and he even invites someone to touch his wounds. Why? Aren’t the wounds of the crucifixion stains on the otherwise flawless Body of Christ? 

No. The wounds don’t dim the brightness of his glory. They enhance it. They reveal his broken-open self, his vulnerable open heart that he offers to all people. The wounds reveal the risen Jesus, the best Jesus, the noblest human Jesus and the most majestic divine Jesus, both. And so we can dare to improve on St. Irenaeus, who again said “the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” That’s true! But we can add to it:

The glory of God is the human person fully open in ministry to their neighbor. The glory of God is the human person fully heartbroken in relationship with their offender, or their victim. The glory of God is the human person fully wounded by the wrenching injustice of this world, wounded because we rise up in might to face that injustice, for the sake of the least of these.

The wounds of the risen Christ are the opposite of stains. They reveal to us our own dazzling capacity for self-giving love, for life-giving service, for world-saving compassion. They move us to be wounded, too.

And so, at the dying of the old year, in early December, at the beginning of Advent — ten weeks ago, at the beginning of the incarnational season that reaches its end today — we sang a hymn about the dazzling, dreadful, risen Christ, a hymn that evokes the frightening splendor of the Transfiguration. In one stanza of that Advent hymn, we sang in particular about the wounds of the risen Christ. But as we sing about the wounds of the risen Christ, we do well to remember that they will become our wounds, too, whenever we follow him. We shine brightest — we are at our best — when we are wounded in Christian mission. With confidence, then, but also with some amount of fear, we sing these stirring words:

Those dear tokens of his passion
still his dazzling body bears,
cause of endless exultation to his ransomed worshipers;
with what rapture, with what rapture, with what rapture
gaze we on those glorious scars!

Power is made perfect in weakness

Preached on the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul (transferred), 1-28-2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Acts 26:9-21
Psalm 67
Galatians 1:11-24
Matthew 10:16-22

The Conversion of Paul on the Road to Damascus, by Caravaggio.

I don’t like weakness. I don’t like failure. I don’t like to feel lost, and forlorn, and sad. I don’t like feeling foolish, looking foolish, acting foolish, being the fool.

So … why, why does the Risen Christ appear most powerfully, most helpfully, most beautifully when I am weak, when I am grieving, when I am failing, when I am the fool?

The risen Christ appeared to me on the worst day of my life, making it simultaneously the best day of my life. On the day when I painfully chose sobriety, I was confronted not only with my own weakness and grief, but with my own wrongdoing. And in that confrontation, I found peace. I found acceptance. I found painful correction. And I found a path to health, a path to strength, a path to usefulness. 

But it has always been like this. I am not alone. I am not unique.

The risen Christ appears to Mary Magdalene when she is stricken with traumatic grief: she stays by the tomb to weep, openly, and only then does she see the Risen One. Mary had understandably responded to the catastrophe at the center of her life—the violent killing of her last, best hope—with abject sorrow. (Note, however, that Mary never gave in completely to despair: she stayed by the tomb, a choice that even in the throes of grief reveals her strength of character, and her abiding faith.) But oh, how she wept. She not only failed to imagine how anything good could follow all that had happened, all that was still happening; she failed even to recognize her friend when he appeared before her, badly wounded but very much alive. But then he spoke her name, and she recognized him, and after he met her in the worst moment of her life, she rose up in strength to become the first apostle, the first to cry out, “I have seen the Lord.”

The risen Christ appears to the disciples when they are in hiding, shame-faced, guilt-ridden, culpable in his execution because they fled in terror when he was arrested, rather than defend or protect him. Not only had their greatest hopes been dashed, but they were appalled by their own weakness, their own failure, their own broken selves. Not only were they terrified that the authorities would find and destroy them, just as they had destroyed their teacher; they were also miserable victims of their own self-destructive actions. But the risen Christ appeared to them in the depths of their anguish and weakness. He breathed the Holy Spirit on them. He wrenched them out of their crisis. He toughened them, bucked them up, pulled them to their feet, and transformed them into apostles.

The risen Christ then appears to the Jerusalem authorities, albeit indirectly, when his followers bravely stand up to them and tell them that the one they handed over, the one they condemned to death, has overcome their resistance: it turns out that they failed to destroy him. The Jerusalem authorities thought that they had been strong, but they were weak. They thought that they had been in the right, but they were mistaken. And in their encounter with the community of the Risen One, they finally come to terms with their own folly.

And finally, Saul: Saul the Pharisee, Saul the persecutor of the Jesus Movement, Saul the latecomer to that same movement. Saul is confronted on the road and is struck to the ground, incapacitated for three days, knocked flat. 

The risen Christ appears to us when we are grieving; the risen Christ appears to us when we are weak; the risen Christ appears to us when we have lost, or when we are confronting our most dreadful mistakes.

But it is the grieving who need someone bearing authentic joy. It is the weak who need someone strong. It is the wrongdoers who need a redeemer, a just judge, a merciful savior. 

Paul our apostolic patron, Paul our name saint, Paul our forebear—Paul reflects often on this basic but confounding truth about Christianity: ours is a faith for the grieving, for wretches, for the guilty, for the losers. Paul points to the cross of Christ and acknowledges readily that some find it a stumbling block, and others a folly. He meditates on a “thorn in his flesh”—and what he means exactly by this thorn, he does not say—and Paul concludes that in Christ, “power is made perfect in weakness.”

Power is made perfect in weakness.

Power is made perfect in weakness.

This needs to be broken open, unpacked, brought to light, explained, and finally understood. Here are a few ways to do that.

Power is made perfect in weakness; joy is made perfect in grief. The Risen One meets Mary inside her grief, not with a glib message of glee, but bearing his open wounds on hands, feet, and side. This means our deepest grief has a home here, meets a companion here, receives authentic consolation here. In Christ I do not throw down my grief, no longer heartbroken: that is a false fantasy. Instead I throw open my grieving heart, to embrace another grieving person, to endure the sight of the wounds that mark us both, to trust that we will not weep forever in a graveyard, but step first into and then beyond our heartbreak and become wise healers, together, in a world shattered by loss and death. Power is made perfect in weakness; joy is made perfect in grief.

Power is made perfect in weakness; vindication is made perfect in guilt. The Risen One confronts his betrayers and his political enemies in their guilt, not with an easy message of cheap forgiveness—for that would gravely dishonor their victims, of whom Christ is only the first—but with the restorative power of justice. This means our deepest guilt is healed by Christ, if painfully, in conversation with our own holy work of authentic remorse. I am sorry for what I have done that I should not have done, and in my remorse the risen Christ is present, first confronting and then, with sweet relief, forgiving me. I then go on to work as an apostle of restorative justice for others. Power is made perfect in weakness; vindication is made perfect in guilt.

And finally, the witness of our patron Paul: Power is made perfect in weakness; victory is made perfect in failure. Paul returns again and again to the theme of his old accomplishments and abilities, and how finally they added up to nothing at all. He was the last and least of the apostles, not just a denier like Peter or even a betrayer like Judas, but a persecutor, a zealot for the wrong cause, a perfect failure in his effort to do the right thing, to be the righteous person, to succeed, to win. Flat on his back on Damascus Road, gasping for breath, unable to see, unable to speak, unable to stand: in this moment of extreme vulnerability, Paul loses everything. He loses his friends, his job, his vocation. He loses his sight, his confidence, his power. He is as good as dead. But all of this is restored by Christ, but never again for Paul’s own honor or glory. All of his abilities are returned to him, this time even stronger and better, but he is the last and the least, the failed runner in a race won by Christ, the patron of all who are knocked to the ground, all whose ambitions are crushed, all who lose. Power is made perfect in weakness; victory is made perfect in failure.

Are you grieving? Are you guilty? Have you lost?

Are you on the brink of despair? Are you certain nobody wants you, what with all your warts and weaknesses? Do you believe the winning team won’t ever pick a loser like you?

Then praise the Risen One, whose heart holds all our grief, and who sends us to embrace our grieving neighbor. Praise the Risen One, who appeared first to the wrongdoers, and teaches restorative justice to this world gone mad. Praise the Risen One, who wins by losing, and lives by dying, and chooses heartbroken guilty losers to be a mighty fellowship of apostles and prophets and martyrs.

This is what we Christians mean when we sing our sibling Paul’s great refrain, “Power is made perfect in weakness.”

Monsters

Preached on the Third Sunday after the Epiphany (Year B), January 21, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Jonah 3:1-5, 10
Psalm 62:6-14
1 Corinthians 7:29-31
Mark 1:14-20

Jonah and the Whale, by Anonymous 18th century

Everyone knows there is no monster under the bed. Come now, you are sensible: you know that monsters are only a harmless metaphor. Same with demons. People aren’t possessed by demons; we all know that. Our ancient forebears did not know about mental disorders caused by chemical processes in the brain. They didn’t know that everything can be explained, in due course, by sound research and careful study. 

The medieval Church, led by shrewd theologians like Thomas Aquinas (who read his Aristotle with understanding), slowly created what we know as the university: a center of study and inquiry that teaches us to trust the ready evidence of our senses. When I worked as a therapist I often reminded myself that all behavior — no matter how awful, strange or exasperating — all behavior makes simple sense. If a couple’s marriage is collapsing around them, their dilemma was caused by ordinary circumstances and events, not mysterious or monstrous forces. If a person seeking therapy is depressed, and another one is anxious, and yet another has anger problems, all three have readily explainable challenges, not demons. They’ll benefit from realistic and skillfully designed therapies.

In short, no, there is no monster under the bed.

So why do we insist on opening a book that assumes the existence of monsters and demons? We read again and again that Jesus exorcizes demons. We read of a person swallowed up by an enormous fish. Holy Communion, the central ritual of our faith, implies something that sounds a lot like grotesque cannibalism. And in our anguished psalms of lament, we sing of dogs and bulls attacking us, and we view our enemies as monsters: in one of our psalms, we want God to throw the children of our enemies against a rock. One doesn’t do that to a human being. That is the fate of a monster.

And so, if we are determined to open this book and to be formed and guided by what we read there, we should understand that even in the first quarter of the twenty-first century, we do believe in monsters. We think about monstrosity, and reflect on it, and worry about it, and grapple terribly with it. We recognize around us, if not literal demons, powerful demonic forces at loose in the world, and even inside ourselves. 

I have witnessed rage erupting in persons of faith over the past few months. Righteous, honorable, holy rage! Rage that seems, that feels, that is a response to evil monsters, real or perceived. And I am sorry to say it is usually real, this evil. It is evil to slaughter children: evil to do so in southern Israel on Simchat Torah, but also evil to do so in Gaza City, in hospitals, in buildings holding refugees who have nowhere to go. It is evil to rape people, to step on the necks of people in a street gutter, to incarcerate people in cages along the border, to strip people of their humanity in any of the countless ways our species has invented.

Are we monsters? No. We are made in the image of God, bearing God’s own graceful shining face in God’s creation; and we are made in the likeness of God, called to govern and nurture creation as God would do, as God does do. 

But are we monsters? Yes. Each of us is capable of dreadful evil, from a cutting insult to brutal homicide. The monstrous, the demonic: it can rise within us and ravage our neighbors. This is something every human being has in common. My dog Keiko was rescued from a dog-meat market where she witnessed the slaughter of her kind: she is now wary of all humans, and behaves as if we should not casually be trusted. She is quite right.

So let us open our holy book once again and consider all the monsters that lurk there. Generally speaking, our faith tradition approaches monsters in one of two ways: we trivialize and tame them; or we watch as God defeats them in mighty battle.

Jonah’s encounter with the great fish is an example of the trivialization or taming of the monster: the great fish — in Hebrew, the dag gadol — is pointedly not called a sea beast. He is just a fish, albeit a huge one. Then, once he has swallowed up Jonah, in the Hebrew text she becomes a dagah: a feminine fish. Her belly, then, becomes a womb as Jonah is reborn and resent by God to do his mission. This is all vividly bizarre, but also quite lovely. The great fish, no longer a monster, readily obeys God, and helps save wretched Jonah from himself.

In Psalm 104, God creates the sea beast just for fun, so that it can happily frolic in the ocean: this is another example of defanging the monster. When God creates the heavens and the earth, God proclaims everything good, and on the sixth day of creation God says that the animals and creeping things and human beings are very good. Some creatures may be startling, but ultimately everyone submits to God’s wisdom and power. In the end, or in our essence, we are very good.

And today we hear about another monster God defangs and tames: Nineveh, that great city. Nineveh is the capital of the Assyrian Empire, and the Assyrians are evil monsters. Who compares to them, in our day? Oh, we can think of a few examples. The governments in several modern cities would qualify. Do they condone and even encourage the slaughter of children? Then they’re a lot like the Assyrian Empire. But in the story of Jonah, Nineveh immediately repents. The monster surrenders.

But God’s forgiveness of them scandalizes Jonah, who wanted deep in his heart for these monsters to be slaughtered. And why shouldn’t he want this? They are murderers, rapists, terrorists, tyrants. They are evil. But Nineveh goes the way of the great fish: Nineveh sets down the mask of the monster; Nineveh reforms.

But Jonah remains enraged. Still wrestling with his own monster within, Jonah fumes that God was so merciful. Jonah prefers the second way our faith tradition treats monsters: God slays them in battle, remember? God smashes the head of the beast; Mary stands on the moon, crowned with stars, and crushes the head of the serpent. Evil is soundly defeated. We keep that one most problematic psalm in our holy book, Psalm 137, the one that voices an explosion of righteous outrage. We keep these verses in our book:

O daughter Babylon, you devastator!
Happy shall they be who pay you back
what you have done to us!
Happy shall they be who take your little ones
and dash them against the rock!

When the psalmist screams this in fury, I can hear Jonah turning to her and saying, “Girl, same.” And today, all these centuries later, many of us feel this. When one group oppresses another and justice is denied, do we mind if their own children are destroyed? How do we really feel when their villages are attacked? I think we understandably want God to smash the monster; we want Mary to crush its head beneath her heel. That’s the second way our tradition deals with monsters, after all. It’s legitimate. Isn’t it?

Well, Jesus ingeniously finds a third Way, something of a both-and approach. We hail Jesus as the new Jonah who slays the monsters of Sin and Death in his three-day sojourn in the tomb/womb of the fish. And in John’s Gospel we sit down by the sea for breakfast with the risen Jesus, who is cooking a fish on his charcoal fire: he has slain the sea beast, and we eat its flesh in the triumphant Easter dawn. But — the slaughtered sea beast is a fish again! A dag, or a dagah, a humble creature at the center of breakfast on the seashore. And most importantly, at that quiet breakfast, Jesus does not slaughter Peter, the monster who denied him: he repairs his relationship with the repentant Peter.

And Peter and all the others: they are fishermen, not beast-slayers; they mend their fishing nets; they ply their careful trade. Yet at the same time, these mild workers become mighty apostles and martyrs: they perform acts of tremendous courage; they enter the arena — sometimes literally — to battle the monster. And even if the monster tears them to pieces, they praise God’s triumph over evil, because even though we die, God in Christ has smashed Death’s power over us.

It’s a jumble, really, the Way of Jesus that prepares us to either battle or tame the monsters without and within. Sometimes we confront them with the truth, but mercifully: we challenge the monstrous person or the monstrous government to reform, and sometimes they do just that. Other times, we ride to war. And finally, there are times when it is not one or the other, but both: 20th-century Germany was defeated twice in bloody battle, but in the wake of their own evil atrocities, they have become a great fish, conscious of their own capacity to be monstrous, and determined not to repeat their dreadful history.

Jonah sulks in the desert as he contemplates this mess of options, and the maddening persistence of evil in God’s good world. The disciples, in contrast, put down their nets and follow the One who approaches the monster without fear, and attempts to save not just the monster’s victims, but the monster itself.

What would you like to do, as, even now, Jesus pauses by your boat and says, “Follow me”?

Water both delightful and dreadful

Preached on the First Sunday after the Epiphany (The Baptism of Our Lord), Year B, January 7, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Genesis 1:1-5
Psalm 29
Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-11

Eleanor’s baptism on this feast day in January 2023.

Water is delightful and dreadful. Water makes life possible, but water kills. Water bathes, but water drowns.

We are made mostly of water. It roils within us, flows with purpose through our arteries and veins, surges along countless labyrinthine pathways that lead everywhere inside our bodies, carrying nutrients, carrying oxygen, carrying life.

And God’s Spirit hovers above the water, including the water inside us. She hovers; she broods; then she plunges. She swoops down, and with the Word of God she stirs the chaotic water into order, into rhythm, into beauty, into life.

We enter this community by water – water that is both delightful and dreadful. 

Since 2011, this parish has enjoyed living water — that is, water that moves — at the entrance to our sanctuary. We placed our new font there because, again, we enter this community by water. We can dip our hands into this moving pool of water, this miniature ocean, and remind ourselves of our Baptism. One of our theologians in residence, Eleanor Bickford, was baptized on this feast day last year. Now three years old, Eleanor still touches the water each and every time she passes the font. She continues to teach us this key insight: We enter by water, by water delightful, by water dreadful.

Dreadful water … deathly water … water that kills … I want to delve deeper into this upsetting idea. We hear this fairly often at church, that Holy Baptism is not just a light party, that the baptismal water changes us in sometimes terrible ways. Maybe we hear it so often, it loses its power. And so this week I did some unscientific, highly qualitative research. I asked a couple of other Episcopal preachers, and one lay leader in this congregation, “What do you think it really means, that we are baptized into Christ’s death? What do you think it really means, that the baptismal water is dreadful?”

I heard some good answers. One preacher said, “Well, my husband would say that in Baptism we die to the powers and principalities of this world.” This is quite true. (And by the way, I like that this preacher listens to other voices, the mark of a curious faith leader.) Yes: our baptism into Christ’s death forces us to die — to die painfully, to die dreadfully — to the “powers and principalities,” to the easy answers and facile solutions of our political world, the world that divides people into allies and enemies; the world that breezily assumes that economic inequality is natural, even virtuous; the world that builds a shrine not to the God of the Liberated Slaves, but to the false gods of capitalism, of cutthroat competition, of self-interest above all. We die to all of that, in Baptism, and this is dreadful because it costs us: it costs us friends, it costs us money, it costs us the privilege of leisurely indifference.

But I replied to my friend, “That’s good, but I think Saint Jonathan Myrick Daniels would challenge us to be much more literal when we say we die with Christ in Baptism. I think Jonathan Myrick Daniels would say we need to take the bullet — the literal bullet — so that another person is not killed.” My friend readily agreed.

Daniels did just that on August 20, 1965, when he stepped in front of a gunman and saved the life – he saved the young Black body – of 17-year-old Ruby Sales. Daniels had already been a powerful witness for civil rights. He had already articulated eloquently, ahead of his time, how our faith demands that we go to war against racism, and begin that war by confronting our own complicity in white supremacy. But then, in a critical moment, he closed his life just as he lived it. The dreadful waters of Baptism drowned Jonathan Myrick Daniels on August 20, 1965. And by doing this, Daniels transformed a gunman’s dreadful violent act into a prophetic proclamation of justice. By the power of God, even a hate crime can be transformed into a life-giving event that stirs the conscience of a nation.

Another friend of mine was more reflective, more systematic. He did a little bit of big-picture theology when I asked him what he thought “baptized into Christ’s death” means. For this friend of mine, Christ’s death and resurrection “underpins the cosmos.” Christ’s death and resurrection is at the heart of all that is. We die for others, and in this dying, the universe rises to life. We give all of ourselves away in self-giving love, and in this giving, the universe is infused with grace, and we are given a new heart and a new spirit. I yield to you in love, and in that yielding, your life is preserved, and my life is restored, and given new meaning. The cosmos flourishes.

Yet another writer, Andrew Sullivan, put it this way some years ago, in this approximate quote: “At the heart of the universe is caritas.” At the heart of the universe is caritas: Caritas is the spirit and practice of self-giving love that lies at the root of the words ‘charity’ and ‘caring.’ Life is triumphant in the universe because life first submits lovingly to death. A parent gives their whole being away in their effort to raise a child. A friend labors tirelessly to help someone in extreme need. An ally jumps in front of a teenager and dies so that she may live. This is how the universe works.

And finally I asked a lay leader here at St. Paul’s, “What do you think it really means, that we are baptized into Christ’s death?” (Full disclosure: I asked Andrew, my husband.) Andrew said that for him, this is merely one part of a larger idea: we are baptized into the death and resurrection of Christ. Therefore, being baptized into Christ’s death is part of the great hope at the center of our faith, which is that death does not have the last word. Well … that’s pretty good. I fully agree.

And that is the great hope that fills us today, as we sing with awe and pray with wonder at the bank of the River Jordan — a river, incidentally, that currently runs through a land ravaged by human atrocity and human suffering. Today we sing and pray as the Spirit broods over that muddy river, then swoops down and carries from the torn heavens God’s thunderous message: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

But wait: I want you to notice something here. Curiously, in the evangelist Mark’s report of this scene, we do not know whether anyone but Jesus hears God’s voice. After all, God speaks directly to Jesus: “You are my Son,” God says. Not “This is my Son.” Why? Why do we not know whether anyone else heard this message?

Well, consider again how terrible the call of Jesus is. He is God’s Beloved, which sounds (and is) delightful, but this identity will take him to the cross. This identity will take him along the dreadful journey of the prophet, who speaks truth to power and is subsequently crushed by that power. This identity will carry him into the crosshairs of the gunman. This identity will cost him everything, fusing his future to that of the whole cosmos itself: as God’s Beloved, Jesus will not live before he dies. He will not enter glory before being crucified. Recall our solemn prayer on Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion:

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

That’s intense. So maybe that’s why Mark leaves it unclear whether anyone but Jesus heard God speaking to him that day, at the delightful but dreadful river. Maybe Mark understands that this path of death and resurrection — a path that our sibling in Christ, my husband Andrew, assures will lead to great joy — is nevertheless not a path for everyone. (St. Paul later calls it a stumbling block to some and a folly to others.) Holy Baptism is never just a soothing hot bath with aromatic soap and warm lighting. (And I say this as one who adores hot baths.) Now, Baptism is warm and soothing! We sing together here at church until we choke with emotion; we dwell in silence here at church until we hear the music of the spheres; we embrace here at church when our aching limbs are crying out for connection, and reconciliation. We eat the bread of caritas; we drink the cup of blessing.

But we also … well … we also die here at church. We die to powers and principalities. Sometimes we literally die so that others may live. We give everything away, training our patterns of life to the rhythms of the grace-infused cosmos. We drown.

But in the baptismal life both delightful and dreadful, we are God’s beloved. In the giving and losing of life, we are God’s beloved. In all of this delight, and in all of this loss and death, we sing with the ancient singer of psalms. We sing along as they proclaim their mighty ballad:

Adonai sits enthroned above the flood; Adonai sits enthroned as Sovereign for evermore. Adonai shall give strength to us; Adonai shall give the people the blessing of peace. And in the temple of Adonai, all are crying, “Glory!”

We were born of God

Preached on the First Sunday in Christmastide, December 31, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 61:10-62:3
Psalm 147:13-21
Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
John 1:1-18

My parents, Nancy and Gary Crippen.

“…[We were] born not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of [humanity], but of God.”

Here is another way this verse has been translated and proclaimed:

“[We were] born not by natural generation nor by human choice nor by a [person]’s decision, but of God.”*

In short: We were born of God.

In being born of God, we belong to God. And we belong to God first: our belonging to God supersedes any claim we may have on ethnic or genetic heritage, or any privilege we enjoy in this divided and unjust world; our belonging to God runs deeper than any human affairs or accidents that brought us to this place and time; our belonging to God explains our very existence, far more than the decision a parent made to have a child, far more than any human decision, any human cause, any human circumstance, that gave rise to you, or to me.

We were born of God.

And so, once again, at the dying of another year, in the season when we contemplate God appearing alongside and among and between us, in Christmastide when we glimpse the divine veiled in human flesh — in this moon of wintertime, we perceive our deepest identity. We discern the most profound meaning of our existence. We discover who we are, no matter what we’ve been told about ourselves by our parents, by the dominant culture, by all of the powers of the world. Today, on the seventh day of Christmas, we acclaim that no matter our origins, no matter our histories, and no matter what happens next, we were born of God.

These profound contemplations come from just one short verse in a soaring and glorious hymn, a majestic poem, a solemn, ancient text that could be chiseled on a granite frieze above the entrance to a castle, or carved along the rotunda at the crossing of a cathedral: this is John’s Prologue, a grand new proclamation of the creation of the world. Like the first book of the Torah, John launches into his song by singing the words, “In the beginning…”. And like Genesis, John begins with the Word of God; but in this creation narrative, the Word not only creates light, the Word is light. 

And then, a little later on in this grand poetic text, John builds further on the Genesis vision of God creating the universe, and John sings of God making a home in this created world, a home right here, just here, in human community. When we sing John’s Prologue, we sing about our wondrous birth as God’s own children, as God’s beloved. We are where God dwells. God does not merely form us from clay and blow God’s Spirit of life into us. God takes on human flesh: God dwells here.

We — we who were born of God — we are those among whom God makes a home. The Word becomes flesh not only in a long-ago baby; the Word becomes flesh here and now, in us.

This week I focused on one of my less ultimate identities: ‘member of a human family.’ This is a powerful identity, surely! But it can’t compare to my identity as one who was born of God. I went home to be with my family of origin, the family that lends me my ethnic and genetic heritage; the family that gave birth to me in the ordinary rising and falling of generations; the family formed by my parents, who consciously chose to have children. 

It was good to see my kin. It often is good to see them. We can skip over so much and just begin talking. I can instantly read subtexts and non-verbal messages. It is sometimes delightful to find overlaps, places where I recognize parts of myself in others: my niece Natalie, for example, likes to wander into mischief, much like me. My nephew William reminds me of our shared lightness of heart. 

But there are awkward and unpleasant overlaps, too. Sometimes I see in my closest relatives the very things I wish were different about myself. You know how families are: they often hold up a mirror, an honest mirror, and that can be sobering.

As I’ve said many times now, the cause for all these home visits was my father’s death on November 30. Now, I am born of my father: I am his son. But his death reminds me, even if I don’t need or want the reminder, that I am not ultimately born of him: I am ultimately born of God, who conquers the grave, and abides with me — and abides with you — eternally.

And so I accept — consciously — the faint melancholy that accompanies many of these family visits. (And sometimes the melancholy is not faint at all.) We broke bread together this past Monday in what we call the “sibling dinner,” a once-a-year holiday gathering of all seven of us children of Gary and Nancy. It was a fine enough dinner, but it wasn’t the Feast to come. It was not the meal I share at this altar, this cosmic Table where all souls are offered a seat. I love them dearly, but my kinfolk are not where it all begins and ends for me.

And this takes me back to John’s Prologue, perhaps the most sublime work of literature that survived antiquity and has been handed down to us. To be “born of God,” for those who first sang this Prologue: this truly was good news of profound comfort and relief for them, because they had just been thrown out of their synagogues, cast out by their clans, rejected by their families. As followers of the Risen One, their new ideas were too much for their human families to bear: it was all a step too far.

And this is often how it goes, as we struggle in this mortal, melancholy arena. We struggle apart and together, with family, with friends, with coworkers, with neighbors, with those we call our enemies, with those who see us as their enemies. I love my family beyond my own ability to understand, let alone describe, and yet there are missed connections, neglected opportunities, lost chances.

As I shared with most of you on Christmas Eve and Day, I went home in part to sort through old letters written by my parents. I ran across an old journal of my mother’s, and wondered whether any of us should read it, let alone share its contents widely. But I think I can ethically share one small entry she made. It was 1974: I was four years old, and she paused to reflect on me, how I was doing, what I might need at that time, and what I might need specifically from my mother. She endured several hard years of back surgeries to treat post-polio syndrome, and she lamented her inability to interact freely with family due to her severe physical limitations. But she was able to walk short distances. She wrote: “Perhaps Stephen and I should walk together each day and talk.” 

I have uncertain memories of those years, so we may have had one or two walks of that kind, but I do not believe that we did. It is hard to calculate the immense weight of responsibilities and hardships my parents were facing. It is fully reasonable to conclude that my mother simply was not able to grant herself, or me, that lovely wish for us. Human birth, human identity, human family: these are lovely blessings, but they are bound by finitude, by the frailty of our bodies, by the swiftly changing years. Only our birth in God endures beyond these limitations.

And so my mother and I, we will have those walks. In my ministry alongside you, here and now, I take steps on the path we all share as God’s beloved people, we who were born of God. My mother, who dwells forever in the Communion of Saints, joins us every time we gather here, to walk, to wonder, to work, to pray, to sing. I carry her desire to walk with her kinfolk, and I received from her the assurance that God in Jesus weaves all human persons into one clan, one people, one Body.

And I even hold firmly in my heart a fierce hope that I will one day walk with my mother along that other shore, where we will have much to discuss. Oh, we will have so much to discuss.

Be assured, then, good friends in Christ, that as this year dies, and as all our ties of family and friendship succumb to the finitude of this world, we nonetheless are forever the children of God, given birth by God to abide with one another, and with God, in all times and places. 

I pray for a blessed and happy new year for you, and for all of us. Perhaps we should walk together each day and talk.

***

*Translation taken from The Revised New Testament – New American Bible, in Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel and Epistles of John: A Concise Commentary (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1988), 23.

I want to be with family this year

Preached on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 9:2-7
Psalm 96
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-20

Peter embraces Andrew. Iconographer unknown.

I want to be with family this year. You likely understand this feeling. My father died less than a month ago, and while his death was a holy one — he was full of years, and he died with great dignity and serenity, despite a grave illness — I am grieved by his death; and though the great St. Francis rightly teaches us to greet death as our graceful sibling, and though our faith rightly teaches us that death has lost its sting, it is still … well …

I want to be with family this year.

And so I had a quick reply when my sister Sarah texted me and my younger sister Elizabeth the other day. She wrote, “Anyone interested in an afternoon or evening at my house, in my front closet, going through Daddy and Mother’s correspondence box?” I answered instantly, with two words: “for sure,” except of course I’m still relevant and hip, so I spelled them “f-o s-h-o.” Fo sho, I’ll be there in that front closet, with family, looking through old letters.

It is instinctive, the desire to be closer to my kin, not just to mark the departure of my father, but for other reasons, too. This is a bone-wearying hard time in the world. This is a scary time. I’m in personal grief, but you and I, I think all of us, can feel how rough everything is, everywhere, right now. I want to be with family this year. And so, for the fourth time since mid-November, on December 26th (the feast of Stephen), I’m traveling to Minnesota to see them, in the land where the snow lays roundabout, clean and crisp and even. I’ll miss my family here, though. I’ll miss you. I want to be close to everyone, you included.

Drawing close to family: this is not just the plot of a holiday movie. Our faith holds ‘drawing close to family’ at the center. The incarnation — the revelation of God’s presence and power; heaven torn apart by angelic cries of joy; the nativity of Jesus Christ; God’s mighty, cosmic arm contained in the little space of a baby’s tiny limb, reaching for the face of their mother: in all of this, family draws close together.

Joseph of Nazareth essentially gets a notice in the mail: register your family, by orders of the emperor. So he helps his fiancée get everything packed, and they move south-southeast, from the northern hill country of Galilee to a southern suburb of Jerusalem, where his extended family lives. North moves to south: I think of Psalm 133, the one where Aaron’s beard drips with fragrant oil — Aaron, that great sibling in our faith tradition who loved his younger brother Moses, breaking the violent tradition of sibling rivalry begun by Cain and Abel, continued by Jacob and Esau, and then Jacob’s twelve contentious sons. Aaron embraces his brother — Aaron draws close to family — and Psalm 133 says that this is “like the dew of Mount Hermon falling on the hills of Zion.” Mount Hermon is in the north; Zion is in the south. North and south are reconciled: family comes together.

This north-to-south journey taken by the Holy Family — by Mary, Joseph, and their infant — is still possible to take today. You could start in the Israeli city of Nazareth, and travel south-southeast to Bethlehem. Hermon to Zion. Except there’s a problem: as you likely know, today, Bethlehem is in the West Bank, behind a huge concrete wall. So north reconciling with south is … fraught, in our time. Maybe we should stick with vague metaphors and assume that Christmas isn’t about modern Nazareth and modern Bethlehem.

But no, we really shouldn’t do that. Christmas is exactly about Israel and the West Bank, and Christmas has always been about such things. Remember, Aaron was noteworthy because he did something the rest of the siblings in the Hebrew bible didn’t do: he embraced his sibling. And if you like you could pray before a Christian icon of sibling reconciliation, an icon of Peter and Andrew, the two fisherman siblings, embracing in sweet peace. That icon is noteworthy because it symbolizes western Christianity  in Peter, who went west to Rome, and eastern Christianity in Andrew, who went east into Syria, perhaps as far as the Black Sea. Their embrace guides our prayer that west and east, divided for a thousand years, might one day reconcile.

If Christianity is not about this — if Christmas is not about reconciliation, about siblings embracing, about family coming together, about Peter and Andrew, about Aaron and Moses, about Israel and the West Bank and Gaza, about Russia and Ukraine, about all the families on earth driven apart and driven insane by war — if it’s not about this, then Christmas isn’t worth celebrating.

When my father was first hospitalized and it became clear that his condition was serious, two memories flashed in my mind: the two or so years of family schism and angst that followed my mother’s death, in 1996, and another disruption in the wake of our uncle’s 2015 death. Both times, when a close member of the family died, the family struggled. As I flew to Minneapolis to see my father, I steeled myself with a resolution: not this time. I even shared this resolve with a few of my siblings. “If this is leading to his death,” I told them, “I am not permitting myself to fight with anybody.” 

Sure enough, there were a few moments when I stood at the brink. Death is wrenching and even traumatizing. Tempers wear thin. Eating junk food in a hospital lounge doesn’t help. But so far, so good: it’s still early, but I’ve held to my resolution pretty well. (Thank you for your prayers.)

We celebrate Christmas, then, for two reasons: first, God calls us to come together as a human family, in a bond that runs deeper than clan and nation, deeper certainly than social constructs like race or religious identity, deeper than all the myriad reasons we humans invent to make wretched war with each other. God becomes flesh in the land of the Holy One to build a just peace, from south to north. God calls the west to embrace the east. God gives me wisdom to embrace my siblings, of course, but ultimately God calls everyone in the world to stop killing each other, for the love of God. (Really: for the love of God.)

So that’s the first reason to celebrate Christmas — that God comes in Jesus to teach us the way of justice, the way of peace, the way of that beautiful sibling in the faith, kind and good Aaron. And second, we celebrate Christmas because all of this is exceedingly difficult. Sometimes reconciliation simply can’t happen. Other times, when someone simply cannot be safe, or simply remains unwilling to reconcile, it shouldn’t happen. It’s difficult! I have to resolve not to get into quarrels with family as we cope with grief together. I can’t just wing it. And a cursory glance at the news will tell you how hard this is, writ large. And so, at Christmas, we are not naïve: we do not celebrate perfect reconciliation everywhere. Sometimes what is broken stays broken. And sometimes that’s the healthiest path. But we celebrate that God still comes to us, faithfully, to teach us how to embrace one another.

It’s difficult, but it’s not complicated. Christmas is about God breaking into our conflicts, our wars, our easy habits of destruction and violence, but God in Jesus breaks in with a straightforward, uncomplicated mission: Jesus simply teaches us how to be kind. Sometimes we call it lovingkindness — in Hebrew, the word is chesed. Lovingkindness is the very nature of the one God. Jesus teaches us how to be kind, for that is how we find justice; that is how we make peace.

I want to proclaim a portion of a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, a Palestinian-American poet. Here is the final stanza of one of her poems, the one she titled, simply, Kindness. In her poem, Nye does not lie to us: she knows kindness and sorrow are siblings; a daughter of a Palestinian, she surely knows the cost and cruelty of war; she knows how difficult everything is. But she sings a hymn to kindness, all the same. Here are her words:

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.