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.

What song will you sing?

Preached on the Fourth Sunday in Advent, Year A, December 24, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by Laurel Tallent.

2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Psalm 89:1-4, 19-20
Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38

The Annunciation, by Henry Ossawa Tanner

Today we witness a short, intense vignette: An unexpected guest, a dramatic announcement, a young woman’s simple question, punctuated by her agreement to participate in a divine plan that will turn the world on its head. Like a purposefully vague but intriguing opening scene to a movie, this scene isn’t providing us much information. Why does she agree so quickly? Her only question is an essentially logistical question: “How”. In Luke’s account, Mary doesn’t ask “why” this plan should be put into motion, or even what the plan implies for the world. I believe that Mary must know more. 

I do not like the Christmas song “Mary did you know”. It was released to the masses in 1991, written by Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene of the Gaither Vocal Band. Since then it’s topped Christian Music charts, and been covered by many, many other artists since. The song asks a series of patronizing questions. “Mary did you know that your baby boy will give sight to the blind” “Mary did you know that your baby boy will calm a storm with His Hand?” No. No she didn’t.

I’m not alone in my annoyance. Others have also pointed out its inherent sexist underestimation of Mary - a pitfall for many artists throughout the ages. Mary is often depicted innocent and unknowing because of her youth and virginity, As a Baptist theologian put it “Could you imagine a song asking Abraham 17 times if he knew he’d be the father of a great nation?” 

In order to understand the scene between Mary and Gabriel, to understand what Mary knows, we must consider the two events that Luke sets around it: Gabriel foretelling the birth of John the Baptist to Zechariah, and the song Mary sings when she is greeted by a pregnant Elizabeth. 

Let’s turn to the passage before Gabriel meets Mary. This is the beginning of Luke, before we ever meet Mary: a righteous, established, childless priest, Zechariah, is selected by lots to enter the temple and offer incense as a crowd prays outside. While in the temple, Gabriel surprises him, and tells him the good news: Your wife, Elizabeth, who has never conceived in the years - perhaps decades - you have been married, will give birth.

Gabriel says this baby will be a personal joy and delight to the older couple and their community. (I’ll note here that Mary was not given this comfort) Their son John will prepare the people, returning them to their God. This should be unparalleled good news. Could a man dedicated to righteousness receive a bigger blessing than this? But Zechariah questions Gabriel. Similar to Mary, he asks “How”. In response, Gabriel silences him, and Zechariah emerges from the temple unable to speak. Why is the same question met with different consequences? We may hear part of the answer in Mary’s song. 

We return to Mary, having quickly traveled through hill country to visit Elizabeth. The two women, relatives and miraculous parents-to-be, reunite with joy. The impossibility of prophecy and biology are coming to fruition through them. This is where Mary tells us what she knows, what she knew, when Gabriel came to visit. She is bursting at the seams, elated. She sings about her new, unexpected promise of a legacy: “He has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant, surely all generations from now on will call me blessed”. She continues, “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty”. Her child will subvert existing systems of power. God is keeping a promise to God’s people, and Mary has accepted a pivotal role in the promise’s fulfillment. 

The song “Mary did you know” asks Mary “did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters? … That the baby boy will one day rule the nations?” Luke’s account shows us that Mary not only knows, but can also sing a more articulate and powerful song on the meaning of her pregnancy and parenthood. 

If we can suspend our own knowledge of what will happen, those “did ya know he’s gonna walk on water” questions from the song, perhaps we can join Mary in this moment: Unaware of the particulars, but awake to the glorious disruption that her child will incite. 

In other words, *this* is the beginning of Luke: two women, pregnant by miraculous means, understand an angel’s message, while the priest, the person who should have understood immediately, is silenced until he is prepared to participate. 

This is not a story about how “God asks us to do hard things sometimes”. This is the story of a young woman who understood and said “yes” to God’s plan of justice faster than the person who should have understood it first. It is the first role reversal of Luke’s gospel, foretelling all of the reversals to come; the child teaching at the temple, the sinners welcomed to the table, the unclean cleansed, the sick healed. The beatitudes begin here, with the song of a young woman one step into a life-long undertaking. 

Mary’s immediate understanding and Zechariah’s period of imposed silence resonate with me because it all feels cathartic. When we look for someone who understands the condition of the world today, who says “yes” to God’s intervention in the world, whom do we look to? As it was in the beginning of Luke, so it is now: the young, the very old, the insignificant, the marginalized, are still the first to understand how systems of oppression operate. They are the first to identify bold, transformative solutions. They are the first to articulate the consequences of action and inaction. Meanwhile Zechariah, by no means an antagonist, but not the herald he could be, holds back from joining by asking “how? How?”. Happily, Zechariah provides us with a redemptive example himself: when given the opportunity, he echoes Mary’s song with his own. Even late, and even after many months of silence, it is a welcome song. It is a good and powerful song. 

What song will you sing, when God greets you unexpectedly? What song will you sing, when God calls you to join them in something different, something new?

Oaks of righteousness

Preached on the Third Sunday of Advent (Year B), December 17, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
Psalm 126
1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
John 1:6-8. 19-28

Rejoice! We have been set a daunting task. Praise God! Our job is difficult. Alleluia! We face a strong challenge in our life of faith, one that will demand much from us: it will exhaust our intellects; it will wear out our bodies; it will break our hearts. But we are glad about this, because what’s worse than having no purpose, feeling underemployed, lacking direction? Happily, that is not our fate. We are delightfully busy with an immensely important mission.

And even better, we know that we can rely on one another, passing the tasks back and forth, spotting each other, caring for each other. And of course we do everything with the great benefit of God’s power.

Now, there are many different kinds of tasks in our mission. Some of them are practical ones, like filling snack packs and stocking the Little Free Pantry. Some of them are more, well, literary — joining or leading faith formation events, writing for the newsletter to define and support our various ministries. Some are technical, like auditing our finances or working with vendors to renovate our mission base. And all of us are called to the mighty task of prayer: holding on our hearts all the people who call this their spiritual home, and all the people we serve. In our prayers, we join the Body of Christ world round whose prayers rise like incense before God. And so we have many tasks, from deeply contemplative prayers to lugging wagons around the neighborhood. And as you can see, I am excited about all this. I hope you can join me as I rejoice.

All of our spiritual work grows from our particular identity in the dominion of God. The prophet Isaiah tells us that when we join the tradition handed down to us, we become “oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display God’s glory.” Isaiah says that we will “build up the ancient ruins, [and] raise up the former devastations; [we will] repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations.”

An “oak of righteousness” is strong, but strong for a purpose: oak wood forms floors, walls, and ceilings for the unhoused; oak branches provide shade for those who swelter in the sun; and the acorns of the oak of righteousness can be ground into flour for the hungry. 

As oaks of righteousness, we do not “display God’s glory” simply by being beautiful. In fact our beautiful liturgy is never only beautiful, as if we could adore God simply by dancing gracefully before God’s altar. Oaks of righteousness do not just stand in the field, or along the river bank, looking lovely. God is a subject, not an object: God is a subject of creation and formation, not an object of passive adoration. God is dynamic. God is dynamism itself, and yet always more than that, too. When God tells Moses that God’s Name is “I AM,” the Holy Name defies easy translation: we know God is not just saying that God merely is, that God simply exists. We know that God’s Name also means that God abides with us and is faithful to us; that God is active, and provocative; that God is beyond our safe grasp; that God is creating, eternally.

And so we, in turn, do not simply exist. Our faith is not about mindlessly adoring God. Our faith is not about contentedly resting in God’s inert presence. Our faith is not about passively basking in God’s glory while the world burns. No. We say a firm No to that lackadaisical understanding of faith. If we were to practice our faith that way, our righteousness would merely be window dressing: we would set a modest “outreach” budget, and trust that because we’re throwing a few dollars toward charity, we can rest comfortably inside a small “church bubble,” enraptured by the insular beauty of our prayers, closed off from God’s good world. 

No, we are oaks of righteousness, through and through. We do not do so-called “outreach,” because that word completely misunderstands both us and our mission. Reducing our faith to mere charitable “outreach” fails to recognize that we are all recipients of God’s lavish grace. Note well that Isaiah’s oaks of righteousness are the same people as those who were oppressed, brokenhearted, and held captive. We always, always share what we first have been given.

We do not feed the hungry; we eat with them. We do not “reach out” to those in need; we welcome them authentically into the center of our life, and we recognize that every human person has deep needs. We do not do charitable acts as afterthoughts of our main task; we understand that acts of justice are the whole point of our faith.

In short, we claim John the Witness as the sibling in Christ who teaches us how to practice the faith. John the Witness: this is an odd title for the one we usually call John the Baptist. (The Lutheran pastor and scholar Karoline Lewis gives John this new title.) It may sound odd to call him this, but if you read the fourth Gospel carefully, you’ll see that in this version, John the Witness does not baptize Jesus. And because he does not baptize Jesus, we do not then experience the thundering voice of God, as we do in the other Gospels, just after the baptism. In the other Gospels, as Jesus comes out of the water, God tells us who Jesus is. But in this version, John the Witness tells us. John the Witness “testifies to the Light.” John — not God — tells people who Jesus is. And for his part, Jesus says nothing.

But who exactly is this witness? “Who are you?” the authorities ask him. He assures them he is not the Messiah. “What then? Are you Elijah?” “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” “No.” The authorities are reaching the end of their patience. “Who are you?” they ask again. “Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?”

John answers them by evoking Isaiah, borrowing an image from Isaiah chapter 40: John is the voice crying in the wilderness, the one who calls out to God’s people to make a straight path, to follow a royal road, to God’s realm of justice and mercy and peace. In doing this, John also evokes for his listeners the post-exile Isaiah, the one who sings in chapter 61 about all the things we do as oaks of righteousness, along that royal road: we bring good news to the oppressed, we bind up the brokenhearted, we proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners, and we proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor — a jubilee of liberation for all who are crushed under the heel of the emperor. 

So… no theophany in this version of the story of John the Witness. No pierced clouds and descending dove, no thunderous voice, no wondrous vision of God’s power breaking into our mundane world. No, in this version, we oaks of righteousness are the vessels of God’s wondrous presence. We bear on our own shoulders God’s devastating, liberating power. We testify to the Light.

We are the miracle.

This is part of what we mean when we say that God in Jesus “becomes flesh.” God does not just become a human person, though of course in Jesus of Nazareth God did do exactly that. But our theology of the Incarnation proclaims more: God “becomes flesh”: God is present in my human body and in yours; God is present in the elbow grease of our labor; God is present — and vibrantly powerful — in all created life. God dwells even in inanimate objects: God pulses through our SPiN wagons, and makes a tabernacle in our Little Free Pantry; God’s power runs along a surgeon’s scalpel and a poet’s pen; God even rises up powerfully from the outstretched hand of a child, reaching for their parent: God dwells in our bonds as kinfolk. 

And so, again, we rejoice. In a world gone mad, a warming world, a world where the human race fails to learn even the easiest, most ancient lessons (basic lessons like, “Share” or “Try to get to Yes” or “Practice gratitude”) — even here, even now, we rejoice that God forms us into oaks of righteousness, holding and nourishing the soil, blessing the landscape with delicious shade; cleaning the air with green leaves; anchoring a garden that nourishes the desert.

Are we the Messiah? No. Are we Elijah, or the prophet? We are not. Who are we, then?

We are God’s oaks of righteousness, testifying to the Light. We are the miracle. We embody the Good News that God is on the move; that God is coming soon; that even now, in this dire hour, even now, all is not lost. We are here, manifesting the presence and power of God. And we have much to do.

Shall we get back to work?

Turn back!

Preached on the Second Sunday of Advent (Year B), December 10, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by the Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 40:1-11
Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13
2 Peter 3:8-15a
Mark 1:1-8

St John the Baptist drinking water from a spring, by Guercino

Turn.

Turn!

Turn around. Go back. Take yourself off this path. This way lies destruction, even death. This is not the path of life.

Turn from the path of anxiety, the path of depression, the path of despair. On this path, you are likely to throw up your hands in helpless exasperation. On this path, you will read about war, seemingly endless war, and you will start to feel numb. The news will stop informing you for action, and simply dull you into defeatism, into complacency, and finally into quiet collusion with the very forces of dreadful violence that you once found so outrageous. Turn from this path. This is not the path of life.

Turn toward a better path, a lively path, a verdant and hopeful highway, a rising and royal road. On the better path, you don’t stop reading the news or listening to others, but you listen for insight, you search for solutions, and yes it has become something of a cliché, but you look for the helpers. On this better path, you understand that anger and anxiety are helpful emotions, but only when they are acute. When they become chronic, they lead you back onto the dreadful path. So pace yourself; breathe; embrace and give voice to your good and righteous anger, but do not let it destroy good things, or good people; clasp the hand of another person, even a bitter enemy; and remind yourself that few good things have been accomplished by one person alone. 

When it rains in Seattle so relentlessly, I run on an absurd and literal “path” that is not a path, really, as much as a human-sized hamster wheel: I run indoors, warm and dry, on a treadmill. But even on that bizarre machine, even there, I can ride the waves of my emotions, and even there, the metaphor of “path” or “Way” — a metaphor beloved of the prophet Isaiah —  still goes to work on me. As I run on the treadmill, running and running but never getting anywhere, I notice my progress on the path. I notice that my pace quickens unwisely when I am upset, and my footfalls are more aggressive (and harder on my knees) when I am angry. I notice that if I am sad that day, or fruitlessly anxious, I get sluggish, and my feet start to scrape each other.

But then I notice once again that my treadmill is located in a small gym crammed with ten other treadmills, and that means I have friends. I am not alone. Now, I also confess that, due to my own personality that was forged in a large family, these companions on their nearby hamster wheels inevitably become my competitors. But even when I am competing against a complete stranger, running flat out just so that I can edge ahead of her in mileage, heart rate, or some other absurd metric, even then, I feel better knowing that I am not alone.

And these friends remind me, in turn, of a more subtle drawback of the dreadful path, a problem that we might not easily notice, because when we’re on that awful path, we’re usually preoccupied by all of our deep, and deeply miserable, feelings. On the path of death, we might not realize it at first, but we have no neighbors. Others may be on the path, but they’re always up ahead, over the next hill; or they’re always lagging far behind, at best a dot in the dust of our own wake. The Anglican writer C.S. Lewis imagines hell as a vast, lonely, gray town: vast because nobody in hell can stand to have neighbors, so everyone builds their hellish little house miles away from the nearest person. 

And yet, from the perspective of heaven, that whole gray town of hell is no bigger than a speck, a tiny, nearly microscopic smudge of gloom at the far edge of God’s lush Paradise, where hordes of pilgrims climb the mountains together, rejoicing, as the sun is about to rise.

Oh, do not take up residence in that dull, tiny-yet-vast, hellish gray town! Turn. Turn! Turn around. Go back. Take yourself off that path. That way lies destruction, even death. That is not the path of life. Turn back toward Paradise. Turn back toward God’s snow-capped mountains.

But don’t take my word for it. Listen to John the Baptizer, the forerunner, the cousin of Jesus of Nazareth who bears on his rough shoulders the vocation of the prophet Isaiah. John calls out — or maybe screams out — a dreadful warning to turn, to turn around, to turn away from the path of death and destruction. I encourage you to listen to John, but first you may have to work out where he is in relation to you. He may not immediately be easy to identify.

John comes to you from the “wilderness,” the wild land that stands beyond whatever you perceive as your safe civilization. John is a wisdom source from somewhere just outside your comfort zone, somewhere beyond your area of expertise, somewhere you feel awkward, or frightened, or helpless.

Speaking only for myself, I have noticed a couple of these wilderness zones in recent weeks, encroaching on my consciousness. When she learned that my father died, a friend of mine texted, quite gently and in an authentically lovely way, a grim but empathetic message. She said, “Welcome to the club.” She was referring to my new status as a middle-aged adult whose parents have both died. I had shared with this friend in past years about the deep pain she and I had suffered when our mothers had died, but when her father then died some years later, I did not notice or appreciate how, for my friend, one plus one equals wilderness: one parent dies, then the other parent dies, and you found yourself in a brand-new experience of disorientation and discomfort. On top of your sweet grief for each parent’s departure from your earthly life, you perceive a new layer of existential anxiety. It is still early for me: my father has only been gone a little over a week; but I think I am slowly beginning to discover this wilderness for myself.

John the Baptizer may appear in that wilderness, for me. If so, I can hear him saying, “Turn! Turn from all that would isolate you further, or delude you into thinking that nobody else understands what you’re feeling. Turn from easy entitlement that could lead you to harm others by wallowing in your grief, or denying your grief. Turn back. Turn toward life.”

But all of this is happening while I wrestle in another wilderness these days, one where I have found a few of you, too. The war in the Land of the Holy One has opened new fissures in what I had casually assumed were solid rocks. This is true for many people in many walks — on many paths — of life. College students and faculties are grappling with new dilemmas about free speech and campus security as protests get intense, and tempers flare. Trust is fraying between lifelong friends, between neighbors who had marched together for the same causes, between people of good conscience who find themselves on opposite sides of a terrible line in the sand.

If you are in this wilderness, listen for John the Baptizer. “Turn!” he cries out to you. “Turn back! Turn from all that would isolate you further, or delude you into thinking that nobody else understands what you’re feeling. Turn from easy entitlement that could lead you to harm others by indulging only your own perspective, or deciding self-righteously who is good and who is evil. Turn back. Turn toward life.”

Now, please understand: John the Baptizer is no pollyanna. Nobody who tells the truth will try to sell you on a path of life that contains no pain, no anguish, no anxiety. If I turn from the dreadful path and embrace my friend who, like me, has lost both of her parents, I will still be left with deep grief for my mother, and for my daddy; and I will still slowly — ever so slowly — take my place as a member of the oldest living generation. And if I resist easy answers and futile fights, and delve more deeply into the vexing dilemmas of a terrible war, I will most certainly be choosing to enter into conflict. We preach Christ crucified: our faith is not a picnic in the park. 

But I am not alone. You are not alone. On the path of life, we enjoy the embrace of Christ when we break bread alongside one another. On the path of life, you will often feel sorrow and fear, but mercy and truth will meet together; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. On the path of life, your heart will be riven by conflict, but righteousness shall go before you, and peace shall be a pathway for your feet.

We are all wizards

Preached at the Ordination of Six Deacons on the Feast of St. Nicholas (transferred), December 9, 2023, at St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

1 John 4:7-14
Psalm 145:8-13
Mark 10:13-16

I love wizards. The wizard archetype, that is: the elderly artisan at the edge of the village, the wise one, the skillful — and usually a bit odd — person who possesses great intelligence, but is also cleverly gentle, strategically kind, consciously tender. Think of the sages from the east, searching Judea for a small child because they looked up at the night sky and understood what they saw. Think of a grandparent who smiles warmly — and knowingly — allowing the smile to travel all the way up to their twinkling eyes. Think of an old woman with her long white hair braided in back, her ancient face alight with youthful wonder; or think of an old man with his long beard sewn with one or two dazzling gems: is he weird? No … Well, a little bit. But he’s also ingenious.

The wizard is wise and gentle, then, but they are also powerful: our fantasy stories vest wizards with magical abilities, and the wizard is so skillful at the magical arts that they have no need for simple charms or pedestrian wands: they can simply raise one hand and silently summon mighty forces to our aid.

The wizard is powerful, then, but she is also powerfully merciful: we hear of lion-hearted wizards whose dreadful yet pastoral job is to carefully pick over the battlefield after all the violence has ended, and dispatch dying soldiers in a coup de grâce, a final blow that eases their passing. A strong wizard is equal to this daunting and solemn task.

And finally the wizard is fierce: when they are riled up, fired up, seized with righteousness, they rise to a great height. Even the weather cooperates with a ferocious wizard: darkness falls around them while they thunder with terrible tidings of swift justice for the enemy, or a swift rebuke of the wretched wrongdoer who has crossed their path. (“Even the wind and the seas obey him,” we recall, in an astonishing story about our Wizard of wizards.)

Gentle but powerful, merciful but fierce: this is the wizard in the cultural imagination of many lands. And this is Nicholas, called a wonderworker in our tradition, an easier word than “wizard” for our liturgical calendars and hagiographies. Nicholas is particularly beloved in the east, but he is cherished worldwide.

Sadly, all too often, our veneration of wizards – including Nicholas – does not do justice to their majestic nature. We see them as gentle, which is true enough, but we often underestimate their power. We adore Nicholas in particular for his high regard for people experiencing extreme poverty, but we tend to paper over his ferocity about the social forces that damage and oppress the poor. Nicholas did not gently place gold coins in rows of children’s shoes; he threw gold through the window. He was a fearsome friend of God who fed the rich with justice. Did he lose his temper and get in a fist fight at the Council of Nicaea? Our tradition stops short of confirming this story, but part of me hopes it is true. I have attended church conventions. I have felt fierce feelings.

In any case, Nicholas is not just a sweet sugarplum saint for kids on a magical December night; he is hardy enough to be the patron of seafarers; and he is smart enough to know, like Jesus himself, how powerful and fierce children themselves usually are. “Let the little children come to me,” teaches the Wizard of Nazareth, “and do not stop them.” Why would he need to teach us this, if children were harmless, easy, frivolous beings? A wizard wisely appreciates the immense power and wisdom of a child.

And so we remember Nicholas as more than a jolly elf. We remember him properly as an unnerving and intimidating wizard-saint, a faith leader who is driven into the world on God’s errand. Nicholas was and is a warrior, a zealot, a prophet — Nicholas is a deacon and a priest and a bishop.

Today we will ask God to fill with grace and power – not just grace, but power, too – the souls and bodies of Phillip, Theresa, Lisa, Martin, Myra, and Robert. Grace and power. Today, a few months before the Church affirms God’s priestly call of these wonderworkers, today we will affirm that God is forming them first to be deacons. Could deacon be another word for wizard?

Deacons certainly are powerful. Deacons descend from the long tradition of fiery prophets in God’s Church. We remember generations of prophets, priests, judges, and kings in the First Testament, and we recall many stories of prophets in particular rising up in power, sometimes dreadful power, to goad and lead God’s people. 

But deacons are not just fiery prophets. They are also iconic servants, and if the word servant makes you think of a quiet waiter at an elegant restaurant, you’re not completely off the mark, but think again. Jesus himself is perhaps no more powerful than in that diaconal moment when he scandalizes his friends by washing their feet, and asks them that penetrating question: “Do you know what I have done to you?” A good servant is a powerful agent of action and leadership in any household, including a household of faith. And deacons are, again, iconic servants: they shine in their service; they glow with the servant heart of Jesus. They inspire others to point to them and say, “Oh, I want that. I want to do that, too.”

And finally deacons are charismatic Gospellers. They proclaim the Good News. The best wizards know that prophets who only shout in anger will be dismissed as tedious gadflies. They understand their call to fill God’s people with hope. And so, before long, all six of you will carry our Holy Book into the midst of the assembly and proclaim what you read there: you will be Gospellers. And when a deacon proclaims the Gospel, her diaconal vocation silently underscores how the Good News is itself prophetic, and how the Good News calls all of us listeners into lives of powerful service.

Gentle but powerful, merciful but fierce: this is the wizard; this is the deacon. When I first discerned whether I might be called to set aside some of the freedoms of the mighty order of lay ministry to serve under the orders of a bishop, I believed I was called to the so-called “permanent” diaconate. But “permanent” is a problematic word: it evokes the same meaning as a quote “terminal” degree: I would be ordained a deacon and stop there, with a thud. But this dishonors the sacred order of deacons, which enjoys full equality alongside the other three orders of ministry. The diaconate is not a six-month pit stop for some and an underwhelming destination for others. Have you met a deacon? Even the wind and the seas obey them! And while we’re on the topic, “transitional” is also a problematic word: the diaconate is not merely a way station on the road to a Real Thing.

No, anyone and everyone who is ordained to the diaconate is a vocational deacon; a deacon forever, yes, but more importantly a person who includes “deacon” as part of what Frederick Buechner famously defines as their vocation: “that place where a person’s deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.” You six are priests, but your vocation is also diaconal. All priests are vocational deacons; all bishops are vocational priests; and all clergy are ordinary Christians focusing on particular dimensions of the larger baptismal identity that all Christians share. In short, it goes like this: in Holy Baptism, we are all wizards. 

God forms us all to be gentle, but also powerful; to be merciful, but also fierce. In a few moments, our friends will submit to the laying on of hands by a wizard, a wonderworker, who again will ask God to fill these prophets, these servants, these Gospellers with God’s grace, and with God’s power. I pray that God will fill them with gentleness, too, but also ferocity. Rise up, chosen deacons in the Church of God. Carry your diaconate into your priesthood, which even now is edging over your eastern horizon. Take up your calling. Rise up in power. Throw gold through windows. Go and be prophets, servants, and Gospellers of the One who leavens all creation with fierce wisdom, and gathers all people in powerful, wondrous mercy.

Evening, midnight, cockcrow, dawn

Preached on the First Sunday of Advent (Year B), December 3, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Isaiah 64:1-9
Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18
1 Corinthians 1:3-9
Mark 13:24-37

Keep Awake, by Lauren Wright Pittman

Jesus said, “Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.”

Evening, midnight, cockcrow, dawn: four watches in the night. We could also be a little old school and call them Vespers and Compline, Matins, Lauds, and Prime: five of the nine monastic times of prayer that carry a religious community through a night and a day. Jesus tells us to stay awake through these wee hours. And then he goes on to meet us in each of them. 

Jesus meets us in the evening: soon after he gives us this warning about keeping awake, in the Good News according to Mark, Jesus gathers in the evening with his disciples, in a private room, and shares a meal with them. Then, as evening yields to night, he leads them to the garden, where he prays fervently, in agony, for the bitter cup to pass from him. And he tells his disciples, once again, to keep awake—but of course they don’t. They doze. Will we? Whatever we do, Jesus meets us in the evening: he meets us in our sundown gatherings, in our homecomings, in our slumbers, in our restlessness, in our private shadows, in our hauntings.

Then Jesus meets us at midnight. This is the dreadful hour of his betrayal and arrest, when Jesus enters the fray with us. He could have run from the garden before the betrayer approached: Jesus knows what is about to happen, what predicaments we face. But he stays with his beloved friends in the garden, and in staying, he is seized. He is indicted. He is in trouble. Jesus meets us at midnight: he meets us in our predicaments, in our deepest fears, in our traps and snares, in our jails and prisons—he meets us even in the anxious cages we construct for ourselves, the cages we lock from the inside. He steps into our crises, alongside us.

Then Jesus meets us at cockcrow, the bleary hour when the faintest gray is appearing along the eastern horizon, the hour when Peter denies his Lord—a desolate hour. Jesus meets us in our frailty, in our mistakes, and even in our worst offenses. Jesus meets us whenever we are discouraged by our faults or failures. And Jesus knows us in this awful hour: he is all too aware of our true story, the good with the bad, even as he meets us with mercy. Jesus meets us at cockcrow: he looks us in the eye, and we will endure his knowing gaze.

And then, finally, Jesus meets us at dawn. This is the hour when the authorities bring Jesus before Pilate: Jesus is our Victim, our Defendant, our Scapegoat, the one who bears away all our sins. “Jesus, Lamb of God,” we sing at dawn, “have mercy on us. Jesus, bearer of our sins, have mercy on us. Jesus, redeemer of the world, grant us your peace.” On Good Friday we ask God to set the cross between us and God’s judgment, between us and despair, between us and anything that separates us from God. Jesus meets us at dawn: he bears away every dreadful shadow.

But this disturbing dawn also foreshadows another dawn, a more triumphant dawn, a dawn that is just on the other side of the weekend: the dawn of Resurrection. And today, Sunday, the First Sunday of Advent—today is a dawning Feast of Resurrection, a morning celebration. Jesus does not remain a Victim forever, nor does our sleepiness endure the blaze of dawn: Jesus meets us at Easter dawn: Jesus is our Risen One.

Oh, how we need the Risen One to appear, at all hours of night and day. “Tear open the heavens and come down!” Isaiah pleads to Adonai, to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob:

O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence-- 
as when fire kindles brushwood
and the fire causes water to boil-- 
to make your name known to your adversaries,
so that the nations might tremble at your presence!

Isaiah pleads with God to tear open the heavens: when he cries out like this, Isaiah consciously nods to the biblical image of a remorseful person tearing their garments. Tear open the heavens, Holy One! we cry, the way biblical figures in anguish would tear our own clothes. Tear the heavens in sadness, in passion; tear the heavens because of all that has gone wrong in this realm of earth. Tear the heavens and bring down the Dominion of God. Tear the heavens and be here with us.

But God in Jesus does not tear the heavens as much as walk quietly into our gatherings, into our embraces, and into our crises. He meets us gently, then bravely, then unnervingly, then mercifully. Evening welcomes Jesus our gentle companion, breaking bread, and praying fervently; midnight welcomes Jesus our brave defender, entering the fray, entering our predicament; cockcrow welcomes Jesus our unnerving judge, our Righteous One, the One who knows us best; and dawn welcomes Jesus our Merciful Victim, the Risen One who sets himself between us and all that convicts us, all that defeats us, all that terrifies us. 

And this is our Way. This is the Way of the Cross. This is how we cope with the world and all its grief, all its violence, all its despair. This is our Advent hope: Jesus, our nighttime companion.

Every Advent I sing in my private prayers an old Advent hymn written by Percy Dearmer, one of our grand Anglican hymn writers. It’s a good song for nighttime contemplations. I ask you to notice any resistance you might have to Dearmer’s old-school Jacobean English verse, writing as he did in the Victorian era, when that was in fashion. Let this Advent hymn guide you as you wait for the presence of Jesus in all times of day, but especially in the shadows of night. Here is Percy Dearmer’s hymn:

Ah! think not the Lord delayeth:
“I am with you,” still he sayeth,
“Do you yet not understand?”
Look not back, the past regretting;
on the dawn your hearts be setting;
rise and join the Lord’s command.

For e’en now the reign of heaven
spreads throughout the world like leaven,
unobserved, and very near,
like the seed when no [one] knoweth,
like the sheltering tree that groweth,
comes the life eternal here.

Not for us to find the reasons,
or to know the times and seasons,
comes the Lord when strikes the hour;
ours to bear the faithful witness
which can shape the world to fitness,
thine, O God, to give the power.

Who is most important?

Preached on the Feast of the Reign of Christ (Year A), Last Sunday after Pentecost, November 26, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Psalm 100
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46

Christ in Glory, from late 17th Century Ethiopian manuscript

It is often easy, when walking into a room, to notice, or guess, who the most important people are. If a newcomer walks into this room for the first time, who will they believe is most important to us?

They will be badly mistaken, but I suspect they’ll decide it’s the people up here in the altar area who are the most important. Here I stand on this little platform. I am raised above you primarily to make the most of good sight lines, but does this pulpit satisfy an all-too-human desire to put one person above the others? And all the people up front – we get to wear special clothes. We have copes, chasubles, dalmatics, and tunicles in our closets, grand names for grand garments. Priests wear the copes and chasubles, deacons wear the dalmatics, and the first lay Eucharistic minister wears the tunicle. We say that all four orders of ministry are equal – we insist that bishops, priests, deacons, and the laity are equal – but bishops wear shiny, pointy hats and hold splendid croziers. And even though the robe of Holy Baptism – the white alb – is something every baptized Christian can wear, only the up-front people actually wear them. Our fancy outfits belie our claims of equality. It seems as if the most important people are all up here.

But if Jesus of Nazareth walked into this room and looked around, I firmly believe that he would not identify us as the most important people in the room. He might look at the altar party, and speak to us, only after he has greeted nearly everyone else. 

He would behave the same way in other rooms. In the Capitol building in Washington, D.C., Jesus would not point to the members of Congress, naming them the most important people. In Vatican City, Jesus would not point to Pope Francis and his cardinals. The most important people in the White House are not Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, at least by the standards of Jesus of Nazareth. Are you a captain of your industry? If so, Jesus has bad news for you: you don’t come first. One of the members of St. Paul’s has what I believe is the most important job in his workplace, but lately I’ve noticed that he never features himself in his company’s promotions on social media. Ah! This person gets it. He’s at the top of the org chart, but he knows he is not the most important person.

This perspective of Jesus of Nazareth applies to family life, too. Would Jesus point to my father as the most important person in my family? Perhaps he would do so at this particular moment in my family’s life, but not because my father is our patriarch, and a great-grandfather, and the most senior living member of the family. No, Jesus might point to my father right now as the most important family member only because my father is gravely ill. His illness puts him in one of the categories Jesus of Nazareth has identified as markers of importance.

Jesus directs his favor to the people in his own time who were denied access to the Temple, because their problems or identities made them ritually “unclean.” And his followers discovered that just by following Jesus, they took on some of these “unclean” problems or identities themselves. And of course we still do this: it is all too easy for religious folks like us to identify who’s in and who’s out. So, here they are, the categories of outsiders who take first place with Jesus of Nazareth:

Are you hungry or thirsty? If so, Jesus points to you and says, “You’re more important than the well-nourished people.” Are you a newcomer here, who doesn’t know anyone? You’re more important than the rector. Are you wearing on your back all the clothes you own, and facing tonight’s weather without a jacket, and tomorrow’s job interview without a change of underwear and socks? If so, Jesus points to you and says, “You’re more important than someone with a full closet and a washing machine.”

Are you sick? If so, Jesus points to you and says, “You’re more important than the healthy people.” And if you’re sick, do you have the least number of visitors among the patients in the hospital? If so, Jesus is going to visit you first. (My father is further back in the line, in this respect: his ICU room overflows with visitors, most of them his many children.)

Are you in prison? If so, Jesus points to you, he utterly disregards whether you are guilty or innocent, and he says, “You are more important than people on the outside, than people who are free.” Look up “Sister Helen Prejean” to learn more about this. She ministers to death-row inmates, innocent and guilty alike, and she never fails to find Christ there.

Now, I wonder if this rankles you. You likely don’t have a problem with Jesus helping those in need, and teaching us to do the same, but we are well trained these days to pursue equality, always equality: “In the eye of God there is not one among us who is greater nor one who is less.” True enough. In fact, all of this beautiful vesture we wear in church is meant to symbolize how God has “wonderfully restored the dignity of human nature” – the dignity of all human beings, even if only a few of us wear the vibrant colors. And yet, despite the truth of our equality in God’s sight, Jesus borrows a page from the job description of an Emergency Medical Technician, who climbs aboard her ambulance to help not all the healthy people, but the one who collapsed, or the few who were injured. In short, Jesus does triage. Of course everyone is important! But Jesus is drawn first to the hungry and thirsty, first to the stranger and the unclothed, first to the sick, first to those in prison.

When Jesus visits the Gerasenes on the other side of the Sea of Galilee, he ministers first to the demoniac who is raving among the tombs. (The villagers are scandalized by this healing, and ask Jesus to leave their town: they are disturbed by the demoniac’s restoration, fully clothed and in his right mind; but maybe they’re also upset because Jesus put him before them.) Whenever Jesus enters any village or house, he begins his ministry there with acts of healing. Simon’s mother-in-law lay dying: nobody mattered more, at that moment. And when Jesus preaches to a crowd, he pressures his followers to focus first on the crowd’s need for something to eat. And finally Jesus was himself an incarcerated defendant, a victim of a sham trial, a dead man walking who was executed by the state: he doesn’t just visit prisoners, he is one of them. 

And that’s the key to understanding how Jesus identifies who’s most important. He searches for the people who most resemble him. He sees himself in the hungry, in the impoverished, in the stranger, in the sick, in the prisoner. Their plight marks them as most important. Their hunger is their royal robe, their poverty a cope of crimson velvet edged in splendid ermine. Their illness is their scepter; their prison sentence is their crown. These are the royalty among us, the ones who reveal to us the face of Christ our Sovereign.

Today we hear about the Last Day, the Day of Judgment, a day of dreadful anxiety. If you visit the Sistine Chapel, you can view Michelangelo’s wondrous and unnerving fresco of the Last Day, and you can begin to appreciate the hold it has on the Christian imagination. And if you listen to Mozart’s Requiem, you’ll hear the unsettling text of the Requiem mass. Here’s a portion: 

Day of wrath! … [dissolving] the earth in ashes … What dread there will be when the Judge comes to strictly judge all things … A trumpet, spreading a wondrous sound through the graves of all lands, will drive humankind before [God’s] throne … Sovereign of awful majesty, who freely saves the redeemed, save me, O Fount of Goodness … Place me among your sheep, and separate me from the goats, setting me at your right hand …

And on it goes. But the point of Matthew’s description of the Last Day is not to terrify us. That is incidental, a byproduct of the true mission of Jesus: He wants to get our attention. He wants to startle us so that he can radically reorient us. He wants to tell us something about the here and now, not about the end of time. He wants to give us new eyes to recognize those among us who most closely resemble Christ himself. It is all too easy for us to see a human being dressed in the robes of privilege and mistakenly revere them as the one God favors.

It is far more difficult for us to look up at the cross, and see hanging there all who are hungry, thirsty, unclothed, sick, or in prison. It is far more difficult for us to see them, recognize their ultimate importance, and bow to the presence of Christ that pulses through their bodies, the presence of Christ that claims our attention, that forms us to love, that forms us to serve, as the dominion of God begins to dawn upon this war-ravaged land.

These are our sovereigns; these are our royalty; these are those to whom we bow, in the splendid but upside-down reign of Christ.