The Holy Trinity in the Wake of George Floyd's Death

"Act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God." These were the words printed on a homemade sign at last Saturday's Black Lives Matter demonstration that began in Federal Plaza in Chicago to protest the police killing of George Floyd. The sign was carried by a mom, dad, and their young son as we all milled about in the plaza before the marching and chanting began; and I wondered whether these parents had brought their child to the event in order to show him what democracy-in-action looked like. Perhaps that's just what they had done, I thought to myself, and I smiled broadly underneath my mask. But to invoke the prophet Micah's words as a fitting commentary on the values that we are supposed to embody, not only as people of faith, by as members of a civil society, that was truly extraordinary. Great work, Mom and Dad.

These three commands from Micah--act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God--are all about how human beings are meant to be in relationship with each other and with God. Trinity Sunday, which we will celebrate this week, explores the deep mystery of the Holy Trinity. That God should exist as three persons, and yet still be one God, boggles the mind when we try to think about it in our limited, compartmentalizing, human way. The Trinity expresses the dynamic of God's action in creation. God's loving, life-giving force is the product of the cooperation of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, which in theological terms we call, perichoresis, a Greek word that means "mutual indwelling." 

One of the reasons that I have been averse to referring to the persons of the Trinity with the non-gendered language of "Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier" is that to do so leads us into the heresy of either tritheism (three Gods) or modalism (describing God according to different aspects or modes). To reduce God to three of God's functions is to deprive God of God's fullness. To assign a specific function--say, redemption--to one of the three persons of the Trinity is to suggest that only the Son had any hand in redeeming humanity, because the Father only created and the Holy Spirit only sanctified. It's as if we distilled a human being's identity down to one salient characteristic, instead of acknowledging the richness of their personhood, with its infinite variety, complexity, and nuance. It's dehumanizing.

And yet, that is exactly how we act in our society, when we stop treating people like the full human beings they are and only as Black people, or trans people, or women, or immigrants. We sterotype and essentialize them according to one or a few characteristics, rather than honoring the vow we make in our Prayer Book's Baptismal Covenant to respect the dignity of every human being. To respect a person's dignity is to avoid lumping individuals into a convenient and yet sloppy category like Hispanic, or gay, or even Sanctifier. The society we create is not the product of one person, but the cumulative contributions we complex human beings make (or fail to make) to act justly, to love mercy, or to walk humbly with our God and each other. If we are made in God's image, then we cannot relegate responsibility to create, to redeem, or to sanctify to just one person. It must be the result of our mutual indwelling. The Holy Trinity is not just a theological brain-teaser, it is an image that we are expected to embody in our society's systems and in our daily lives.

Abundant blessings,

Fr. Ethan+

A Story of Belonging

Anniversaries are a good time to take stock of things. Whether it's a birthday, wedding anniversary, or the commemoration of some other major watershed moment, these days urge us to reflect on where we've come from and where we're going. St. Helena's turns 60 this month, and so I've been doing a lot of reflecting on the parish's long life and the path that lies ahead for us.

I spent some time yesterday at the Starbucks in Burr Ridge Village Center sipping an almond-milk decaf cappuccino and poring over some old dog-eared histories of the parish. I smiled at Peggy Anderson's reverence and wit as she recounted in her elegant, lyrical style some of the high points of the parish's history: the first meetings at Pleasantdale School and Fr. Soukup's study, the burning of the mortgage on September 12, 1976, and the various social and outreach events we hosted: pig roasts and salad luncheons and autumn festivals. Peggy also spends a lot of her history documenting the origin and meaning of many of the features and furnishings of the church building, for as Fr. Johnson put it, "the church has an opportunity, even a responsibility, to encourage beautiful artistic expression as a means of recognizing and experiencing the divine image in creation." It would seem that she and Fr. Johnson were of the same mind on such things. One only need look back at our Advent Service of Lessons and Carols last December to know that the aesthetics of worship have always been and continue to be an important current running through the parish's life.

But what was most compelling about Peggy's history were the affectionate vignettes of the people who have belonged to St. Helena's family over the years. And there were some characters! Fr. Johnson returning from Europe yet again with a statue or another set of gorgeous vestments to support the parish's high-church worship. The arrival of the Petraseks and the Oommens. The wedding of my fellow priest and friend, Mark Geisler. Fred Boskovich dressing up as a clown on the Fourth of July at Pleasantdale Park. A lot of life has unfolded within these walls. Peggy documents meticulously each priest who served the parish over the years, some with long, distinguished tenures and others for a short season, with never an kind word or uncharitable comment. As an historian, she is always professional and gracious. It's a rarity to experience such writing nowadays. What a privilege and a pleasure.

But both priests and parishioners came and went, and most of the people she talks about are no longer around. That should not make us sad. Churches shrink and grow. People are born and die. As I've said to many of you, Jesus started the Church with just twelve of his friends, and so similarly, we are no less St. Helena's because we are few. Most Episcopal churches are small, as it happens. As we cross the threshold of our 60th anniversary, I want to tell you that I think great things are ahead for us, even if we remain small and intimate. Great things lie ahead, because St. Helena's is stiil full of great people, you, who will continue our story of belonging.

Abundant blessings,

Fr. Ethan+

One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic

This Sunday, Christians all over the world will observe the Feast of Pentecost, which people often call the Church's birthday. Our reading from the Acts of the Apostles recounts the day that the Holy Spirit alighted on Jesus's followers, equipping them for ministry. The story illustrates what we call the four Notes or Marks of the Church : that the Church is (1) ONE, (2) HOLY, (3) CATHOLIC, and (4) APOSTOLIC. We affirm these qualities every Sunday when we recite the Nicene Creed; but many of us say the words without really reflecting on what they mean.

The statement that the Church is ONE, emphasizes its fundamental unity, such as when St. Paul refers to us as "the Body of Christ." It is often hard to appreciate or even believe that the Church is one, when there are so many divisions among Christians into different denominations, theological views, and worship styles. Nonetheless, we affirm that, however much we human beings may have fragmented the Church over the centuries, God is working through us to restore it to wholeness, which is why ecumenical work, for instance, is so important. Remembering that the Church's essence is to be ONE should impel us to seek out unity where we can.

The Church is also HOLY, in that it calls us into a particular kind of living. This lifestyle is modeled on the example of Jesus, who showed us how to spread peace, justice, and harmony by fashioning mutual, moral relationships with God and among all human beings. The Church's teachings, its sacramental life, and its mission in the world are tools for us to live as Jesus did, so that we can inhabit that holiness.

The Church is CATHOLIC, according to the original definition of the word, which is "universal." The Church is not limited to one locale, one denominational tradition, or one worship style; but rather embraces all Christians everywhere. The Pentecost story in Acts is a testament to the fact that Jesus's disciples were commanded to spread the Gospel to every family, tribe, language, people, and nation, baptising them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Finally, the Church is APOSTOLIC, meaning that the Christian faith we practice is a legacy from the first apostles that has been handed down from generation to generation. Known as the "Vincentian Canon," St. Vincent of Lérins in the 5th century affirmed the universality of this apostolic faith by claiming that it is "what has been believed everywhere, always, by all." Now, that may seem like a pretty bold and sweeping statement that may not hold up under scrutiny; and yet it is easy to perceive even in our own Sunday services the enduring legacy of the apostles: the reading of Scripture; the blessing and sharing of bread and wine; prayers for the Church and the world. There are still many common features between our faith and that of the apostles, as the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer makes clear.

Although the Church is one, holy, catholic, and apostolic, it is only so in an imperfect way. The Church is often prone to schism and disunity, corruption and vice, denominational prejudice, and theological error. When we recite the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds, there's always a hint that we are making an aspirational statement, that we will work to make the Church a better and fuller embodiment of those four essential qualities that we claim for it. The Acts story is clear that the gift of the Holy Spirit was given to all who were present, without distinction--men and women, slaves and free, old and young, worthy and unworthy. The apostolic ministry has been given to each one of us, and each of us is called to serve. Each one of us is called to embody the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church as we go about the ordinary activities of our daily lives. That should give us something deep to reflect on this Sunday, as we recount the descent of the Holy Spirit upon Jesus's followers in the gust of wind that brings God's holy fire.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Bless Those Who Curse You

Last Sunday, Deacon Daryce and Deacon Miguel led us in reciting the Litany in the Wake of a Mass Shooting to commemorate the victims of the 38 mass shootings in our nation's recent history, including the one last Friday in Aurora, IL. Many people said what a moving and overwhelming experience it was to bring to mind so much wanton violence within the context of the church's worship.

This week's readings likewise address a variety of human tragedies. The reading from Genesis recounts Joseph and the Israelites' want during a period of famine. The psalm acknowledges human anxiety in the face of wickedness. The epistle reading from 1 Corinthians confronts head-on the reality of physical death and the promise of resurrection. And finally, our Gospel reading from Luke offers encouragement to those who are the victims of persecution and oppression.

In each case, the author tells us not to lose heart; because the moment we give up on hope and goodness, evil wins. The way we vanquish wickedness is by being kind and loving ourselves, by not letting ourselves be corrupted by the influences that destroy God's creation. If we rely on God to sustain and support us in the midst of adversity, if we follow God's guidance for a virtuous life, we will bring more joy, peace, justice, and mercy into the world to defy the evil forces that separate us from God and each other. By being faithful to the teachings of Jesus, we will offering the best, most effective resistance to the powers of darkness.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

We Wish to See Jesus

This past week, at the invitation of Bishop Lee, I have been in Cleveland, Ohio attending the Evangelism Matters conference hosted by the Episcopal Church. Bishop Lee nominated my friend, Mthr. Mo O'Connor, Zach Dyrda, and me as the three "evangelism catalysts" from the Diocese of Chicago to bring back ideas and learnings from the conference to inspire and share with others. We have spent the last three days with about 400 clergy and lay leaders from across the church to learn how to invite people to join us as followers of Jesus, to network and to form new friendships, but most of all to share our stories about how God has transformed our lives. That is the essence of evangelism: to share our Good News with others, ask them to share their own stories, and then invite them to experience MORE, more belonging, more acceptance, more love, more redemption.

In this Sunday's Gospel reading, the Greeks come up to Philip and say, "sir, we wish to see Jesus." Philip runs to Andrew and tells him about the request, and then the two of them tell Jesus. Our Lord's response is sobering. In order to see Jesus, we have to let go of much that makes us feel safe. We have to let go of our egos. We have to let go of our mistrust. We have to let go of our sense of entitlement. We have to learn to be vulnerable, to share and entrust our stories of pain and redemption with each other, and then go out into the world to invite others to be vulnerable with us, for there is no true community without vulnerability and trust. Let me be clear, the goal of evangelism is not to grow the church, to fill our pews. The goal of evangelism is to share the Good News of Jesus Christ and bring Jesus's unconditional love to the lost, the despondent, and the discarded people of the world. With such good news to share, we hope that other people will want to join us. But the work before us is to learn to be faithful followers of Jesus by loving others as he has loved us. If we want to see Jesus, then we must speak, and walk, and live as he did.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Is There an Ageist Bias in the Church?

Many of you know that I have been seeking a new call since the middle of last year. I have been reviewing parish profiles, crafting cover letters, and interviewing with search committees, trying to convey my vision for a vibrant, life-giving church. The one issue that keeps coming up is the assumption that young families with children are the sure-fire way to promote congregational growth, and that any parish that is not attracting this demographic is in decline. I couldn't disagree more.

Now, I landed in the Episcopal Church in a congregation that was composed mostly of young families with children, and I loved it. There was lots of noise and laughter, making the Eucharist (and the coffee hour that followed) a joyfully chaotic--and yet still reverent--event. Our parishioners were generous with their pledges and their time, but as a mission congregation, we often struggled. In the many years since I left that exuberantly young parish, I have come to understand that it is often elderly and retired people who keep many of our churches chugging along. And I am deeply, deeply grateful to them for their commitment. They are the lifeblood, the ones on whom you can always rely.


And it's not by accident. As I sit in interviews with search committees and vestries, I look around the conference tables and see a preponderance of gray and silver heads, which tells me something important. Elderly and retired folks have the time and energy to volunteer on search committees, vestries, altar guilds, choirs, and outreach committees. They have the freedom to attend meetings during the day when everyone else is at work. Although there are many elderly and retired folks on limited incomes, there are also many who are now enjoying the fruits of a lifetime of hard work and careful planning. They tend to pledge well and participate in planned giving programs. Their kids are grown and out of the house. Some are reaching the end of their professional careers at the height of their earning potential. Others have lost spouses or are geographically separated from their children and grandchildren, and so value the sense of community and belonging the church offers. They always show up for Sunday morning worship. They provide food for potlucks and coffee hour. They iron the altar linens and prepare the sanctuary for worship every week. They coordinate volunteers. The contribute to capital campaigns. They support the priest in a crisis, whether it's a hospitalized parishioner or a broken boiler.

Young families with children, while contributing much to the life of a parish, have a unique set of challenges. Being at an earlier stage in their life cycle, money tends to be tighter. And for low-income and single parents, the obstacles are even greater. In general, young parents earn less at a time when expenses are high. They may be trying to buy a house while they raise their kids, so they likely do not have the resources to be big pledgers. After all, children are EXPENSIVE. Young parents also have very little time, because they are working long hours to squirrel away money for the down payment on the house, the kids' college fund, and fees for their kids' extracurricular activities. Parental commitments like PTA meetings, soccer practice, ballet lessons, and karate classes mean that they feel pulled in many different directions all the time. Evening events, whether they are committee meetings or Lenten Stations of the Cross, often mean that they have to find a babysitter. Sunday mornings are equally tough, because sports teams now schedule mandatory practices and competitions on the Lord's Day, which would have been unthinkable in past generations. Clergy looking to fill the pews and grow their Average Sunday Attendance (ASA) often find that young families are their least regular attendees at Sunday morning worship. Once or twice a month is now becoming a normative standard for many families.

Of course, these observations are not meant as criticisms of young families, but rather as a sympathetic appreciation of the demands on their time and finances. With all of this in mind, congregations should be seeking ways to support parents and help them (and their kids) stay connected to the church and nurture their spiritual lives.

This brings me back to the contributions of seniors to the life of a congregation. Without them, our parishes would be greatly diminished. For example, I recently organized an Inauguration Day collection and distribution of supplies for people experiencing homelessness. Because it was a Friday, almost all of the volunteers were seniors. They made sandwiches, packaged supplies, and went out into the community to distribute the food, clothing, and hygiene kits to our neighbors. It's too bad that Paul didn't include the words, "no longer young or old," to his declaration to the Galatians that "there is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus." As I watched everyone joyfully bustling in the parish's dining room to get things done, I witnessed the Church at its healthiest and most vibrant. Jesus never said the body of Christ was a youthful one. Perhaps the body is matured and seasoned, experienced and wise.

I raise this issue about ageism in the Church, not because I think it is especially guilty of this bias, but because I think it is an extension of the ageism present in our culture at large. Youth and beauty are privileged and prized. Gone are the days, it would seem, when we showed reverence for our elders and looked upon them as mentors who could help us mature into better adults. Now, granted, age is no guarantee of wisdom or any other virtue, but there is something to be said for respecting the seasoned perspective that experience brings to living, including living as a Christian. There is much that I have learned about being a person of faith and conscience from people that are far older than I. They have taught me how to deepen my prayer life and to practice greater humility, patience, and generosity. They have helped me to take a longer view and put things in proper perspective. They have broadened my appreciation for what is possible. So, I would urge us to be counter-cultural, and to greet our senior parishioners with the same enthusiasm and gratitude as we do our young families with children. A diverse Church is a strong Church. Without our seniors, our congregations, not to mention the Kingdom of God, would be woefully incomplete.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

Upon This Rock

Yesterday, I went to see the Martin Scorsese film, Silence. It chronicles the lives of two Jesuit missionaries in Japan and the underground Christian community that sheltered and followed them during a period of intense persecution in the seventeenth century. I will do my best not to spoil the film for those who are planning to see it, but I would like to reference a couple of scenes in light of today's commemoration of the Confession of St. Peter.

With the priests' arrival, the people can once again celebrate the Eucharist and receive absolution for their sins after many years of being on their own. Their yearning for the smallest sign of nourishment for this faith was palpable--the gift of one bead from the priest's rosary was considered an inestimable gift of holiness, a pearl of great price. Their joy over the appearance of the padres was infectious; and at times, I got lost in their emotion, making the sign of the cross or mouthing the responses in the darkened theater, forgetting that I was watching a film, rather than participating in a moment of grace. But then I'd catch myself, and sheepishly return to my limited role as spectator. I was moved by the sincerity and intensity of their piety; it summoned memories of my own swelling emotion and devotion as a new convert not too many years ago. Perhaps that's why I was so easily sucked into the story.

The film also paints the devastating effects of the authorities' coercion of these Christians, driving them to apostasize in order to avoid torture and martyrdom. As the terrified faithful weigh whether to step and spit on an image of Jesus to avoid drowning and burning at the stake, one easily recalls Peter's three-fold denial of Jesus. And of the Church's earliest martyrs. The film's graphic depiction of human suffering inspires profound humility, for how many of us, one wonders, could endure as much? Is there a point beyond which an apostate Christian is beyond God's forgiveness? As priests responsible for the well-being of a vulnerable flock, what is the right thing for Fr. Rodrigues and Fr. Garupe to do: apostasize to save the people from torture and death or continue to profess the faith and watch them suffer and perish?  It is a morally complex and untidy film that deliberately raises questions that foster uneasiness on many levels, both theological and pragmatic. Scenes of crippling guilt and sorrow, followed by confession and absolution punctuate the film. Relationships get repeatedly ruptured and repaired, with little resolution or clarity.

The Denial of St. Peter, G. van Honthorst, c. 1622

Silence engages the politics of imperialism and cultural domination, as well; and I was sympathetic to the Japanese authorities' contention that the missionary work was subversive and disruptive. I was aware of my postmodern discomfort around the missionaries' claims that the Christian faith was the only source of truth or divine revelation, while also holding fast to my conviction that Christianity is a faith with unique and valid truth claims that we are urged to spread. Evangelism is part of our call to follow Jesus. It continues to be a timely dilemma. At what point does evangelism become disrespectful and invasive? How are evangelism and proselytism different and similar? How does one remain respectful of a different cultural and religious tradition while still commending the value of one's own, especially if one is an outsider?

Finally, Silence stirred in me a renewed awareness of the current persecution of sister and brother Christians around the world: in Pakistan, in Nigeria, in China, in Palestine. Scorsese's film reminded me that the plight of St. Peter, the early martyrs, the seventeenth-century martyrs of Japan, and Christians living under persecution now is largely the same. Christians worshiping in secret and hiding any signs of their faith--a crude cross made out of straw, or the image of a saint, or a Bible--is not merely an artifact of our early history, but the daily reality of many Christians around the world, which we often forget about in our own privileged contexts. Freedom of religion or conscience is not a universal benefit enjoyed by everyone.

In fact, the Church was built (and continues to be built) upon the bodies of St. Peter and the martyrs, on those who make sacrifices of many kinds to profess Jesus as the Messiah.  On this day, when we remember Peter, the rock on whom Jesus built his Church--for all of his apostasy--may we pray for all of the martyrs and confessors who suffer for proclaiming Jesus as their Lord and Messiah. May the Angels receive them into Paradise, into the everlasting rest of God.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

"O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear."

On Sunday, we celebrated the Feast of Christ the King, drawing the Church's year to a close, and now we prepare to enter Advent, a season of pregnant expectation. Yet for many in our world, the images of a victorious Jesus reigning in glory may be hard to embrace or to believe in the midst of brutal violence and suffering.

The horrific photos from Aleppo this weekend remind us that faith is often an easy luxury of those who enjoy safety, stability, and the satisfaction of basic needs. One photo showed a father weeping over his child, who had been killed in an airstrike, "I've lost everything," he cries. Reports are coming in of civilian casualties not only from the heaviest aerial bombardment in the last five years, but also from exposure to chlorine gas. One frightened boy, exposed to this chemical weapon, asks a medical worker, "Am I going to die?" Food and basic supplies are running out; hospitals and schools have become targets for violence. Many are urging the international community to take action in response to crimes against humanity. It must be hard for any person of faith--whatever faith he or she professes--to see God in the midst of all this. How can the captives believe in Emmanuel, "God with us," when the exile IS so lonely, when God feels so absent?

It is in the context of this world that we await--anxiously and impatiently--the arrival of the Christ-child. We hope for God's ransom of humanity from its endless captivity. And yet, when the child comes, he grows up to preach a message of peace and love that will get him killed. Jesus ends his life on earth not as a king enthroned in splendor, but as a defeated criminal condemned to a shameful form of death. This is the most unlikely scenario for a savior. The criminals flanking our crucified King of kings and Lord of lords plead with him to save himself and them from their impending deaths, which of course, he does not do. The true victory only comes when Jesus takes death as far as it can go, and then comes back from the supposed point-of-no-return. The crucified human does not do it on his own, but through the strength and power of God, which makes even the unimaginable, even the impossible, possible. That same hope is offered to us: "may you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience" (Col.1:11).

The Feast of Christ the King affirms that it is through God's power that we are able to imagine a future beyond death, beyond the bombing and chlorine gas. It declares that we must not let the now define the future. Never allow anything to deny the possibility of hope. If we are God's hands and feet in the world, as St. Teresa of Avila claims, then we should take seriously the psalmist's assertion that "He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire" (Ps 46:9). This is not only a statement of divine power, but God's instruction for our lives. God's power fills us with the strength, power, and endurance to defy destruction and death. If we believe that a helpless child can become a savior that survives death on a Cross, then we too have a chance to overcome our own experiences of death. I believe that Christ the King mourns with us, and says, "I've been where you are; but I survived death, so that you may survive it, too." God IS with us in suffering. The Word became flesh and encountered human suffering in all its grotesque brutality; and yet, in defiance of all the odds, life triumphed over death. Advent is the season when we begin to imagine a different future for humanity that reaches its fulfillment in the reign of Christ the King. For now, we mourn the loss of life, the scope of death's sway; but we look ahead to the appearance of God's Son, and prepare to resist humanity's lonely exile.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

The Ladder

"I am going to send an angel in front of you, to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I have prepared." Exodus 23:20

Earlier this week, my mother and I teetered precariously on ladders, stretching and stapling wire mesh to screen in the large front porch of her house. The siding had just been replaced and painted, a new metal roof installed, the windows re-glazed, and now we were tackling the porch. We spent all day in the heat and humidity of central Florida, swatting mosquitoes, with our staple-guns, hammers, and X-ACTO knives in hand, trying not to get our feet tangled in electrical cords and the front yard's tortuous vines. It had been a long time since my mother and I had done a project together, and we discovered to our surprise that we actually worked quite well as a team. We had a delightful time despite the sweat and fatigue of the project, which didn't always go to plan. Getting the screen up perfectly taut without any ripples or gaps is challenging; it takes great patience and persistence. Sometimes we had to take a few steps back, unstaple the screen, and start over. After seven hours in the heat, it was a minor miracle that we were still speaking to each other. 

I came to Florida this week, not to staple and hammer, but to celebrate my sister's fortieth birthday and my niece's eleventh. When I think about the good relationships I have with my family now, I also remember those days growing up when they weren't so good: the misunderstandings, the quick tempers and tongues, the regret of things said or left unsaid. It took us a long and tumultuous journey to get to the good place we are now. It is not perfect, of course, but there are unexpected moments of grace that make me grateful and hopeful. That day on the ladder was one of them. Many families have similar stories. The good (or bad) relationships we have are fashioned by our choices and experiences, and yet I'd like to think that God has some hand in them. The Bible is full of stories of divine messengers (from the Greek, angeloi = "messengers") or angels communicating God's word and will to humans. I'm sure there were hasty moments when I did not heed God's advice to hold my tongue or to bear with patience a difficult conversation. There were undoubtedly urgings from God that I ignored in order to follow my own flawed judgment. I bear full responsibility for those failings, but I am grateful that God did not give up on me and continued to whisper in my ear and inhabit my dreams. And so does God with us all.

"Jacob's Dream" by William Blake, 1805.

The Church celebrates the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels this week, which emphasizes God's desire to speak and be present with us in our daily lives. In joy, pain, confusion. All of it. Whether the traditional image of gossamer-winged messengers resonates with you or not, the idea that God seeks to encourage us to walk in paths that lead to abundant life can serve as a source of comfort and strength. The decisions are ours to make, but God offers us a vision of what could be and guidance to get there. In the famous passage from Genesis 28, God speaks to Jacob in a dream and presents a vision of a ladder to heaven on which angels are ascending and descending. Jacob's ladder was probably grander than the aluminum one on which I worked and sweated this week, but both have been symbols to me of deep relationship. I have always imagined it as a metaphor for the back-and-forth communication between God and creation. It is an analogy of our ongoing relationship with a Trinitarian God that seeks us out in the unfolding of creation, the bread and wine and sacramental life of the Son, and the sanctifying guidance of the Holy Spirit. And as a people that participates in God's activity, we are often messengers of God to each other, as well. When we offer words of comfort, assistance in time of need, or nourishment when we are running on empty, we bear God's message of new life. Sometimes, God leads us forward through each other to the place God has prepared for us. Sometimes, it takes a person or a family quite a while to get there. When we sing the classic hymn for St. Michael and All Angels, "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones," we should not only command the ranks of angels to sing God's praise, but challenge each other to be God's messengers in the world.

The Lord is glorified in his holy ones; O, come, let us adore him.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

A Voice is Heard in Orlando

Thus says the Lord: A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more. - Jeremiah 31:15

When the news hit me of the mass shooting in Orlando, I was stricken by a sense of powerlessness in the face of so much violence and grief. It is hard to know how to respond to trauma on this scale without feeling that what we do is an empty gesture. One acquaintance of mine rawly declared that "thoughts and prayers" are a trite and perfunctory response to tragedy. "My prayers are with you in this terrible moment," is the sort of thing people feel socially obligated to say. After hearing it so many times, the words, however sincere they may be, lose their impact for the grieving. After all, people are devastated and terrified; they need something more concrete and actionable than a formulaic expression of solidarity.

I struggled with this. There was a very big part of me that resonated with my friend's sobering challenge. Are my thoughts and prayers just an easy, phone-it-in response that doesn't ask much of me? It doesn't inconvenience me, or make me go out of my way. It doesn't force me to change the pattern of my daily routine. It costs me nothing. I realized, though, that prayer--as unsatisfying as it may be for some people--is the foundational Christian response to everything in life, including tragedy. Our main job as Christians IS to pray. The whole pattern of our faith is grounded in prayer: the Daily Office, the Eucharist on Sunday, anointing, marrying, burying. It is all prayer. We pray for God's presence and activity among us in all of the moments of our existence; we call upon God's power to transform us when our own resources fail us.

As I walked into the cathedral to say Mass yesterday, I thought carefully about how the Church could be useful to the grieving. "OK," I thought, "let's own the grief and anger and pain and fear. That's where people are. The Burial Rite from the Prayer Book. Black vestments. The readings appointed for the Feast of the Holy Innocents." So, we did what the Church does in these moments: we prayed--hard. Praying isn't a passive act. Praying activates us to bear the Gospel into the world, to respond to the rhetoric of violence and death, of hate and despair with Jesus' message of love and healing and new life. Praying, both publicly and privately, is the act of drowning out the messages that destroy with the Good News that builds up. That's one reason we pray without ceasing. We keep preaching the Gospel over and over again, because the world desperately needs to hear it. The Evil One is a liar, don't you dare believe him.

Rachel's lament over her children.

Perhaps some of us pray the familiar words so often that we forget what we're calling upon. In morning prayer, for example, the collects reach out to God for peace and protection: "O God, the author of peace and lover of concord, to know you is eternal life and to serve you is perfect freedom: Defend us your humble servants, in all assaults of our enemies; that we surely trusting in your defense, many not fear the power of any adversaries; through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." In the aftermath of a tragedy like Orlando, these words take on renewed meaning and power. They are relevant; they matter. Engaging the biblical stories of Rachel weeping for her children--the tribes of Israel that were gathered for deportation to exile in Babylon--and the slaughter of the Holy Innocents by King Herod enfold our current tragedies within the larger story of God's action and salvation. There is kinship between then and now, between Ramah and Orlando, between the babies martyred by Herod, and those martyred by Omar Mateen. But these stories are also linked to the assurance in the Revelation to John that "death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." God urges us to respond to tragedy by working to bring this New Jerusalem into being with our hands, and our feet, and our lips in prayer.

Jesus gathering the Holy Innocents to himself.

We were a small congregation in the cathedral chapel, but the sincerity of the prayer was palpable. There was no doubt in my mind or my heart that we were doing something meaningful and healing. After the requiem was over and the chapel emptied, two men entered to sit quietly and pray. One shared that he was having a lot of trouble with his grief over the Orlando shooting, and the other that he was angry and discouraged over a recent disappointment in his life. I laid hands on both and prayed with them, and I suggested to one that he read psalm 35--a source of great comfort to me when I felt I was being badly treated. The look of profound gratitude and comfort on both of their faces was very moving, and I was reminded that praying is the action the Church does best. Prayer is the center from which we become agents of God's healing, whether in activism, interfaith collaboration, liturgy, or the pastoral care of each other. May the Church never lose sight of its power to offer the suffering the gift of new life.

Abundant blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

All Souls' Day: A Storehouse of Consolation

A Sermon for All Souls' Day.  A link to the audio recording can be found here.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A young man sat across from me last Tuesday on the Red Line train during the evening rush hour. We’ll call him Phil.  Phil was in his mid- to late-20s, with a shaggy ginger beard and huge headphones over his ears. He looked up at me every now and then, and after several stops, finally leaned forward and ventured tentatively:

“You’re a priest, right?”

“I am,” I stated pithily, smiling.

“So, do I call you, Father or Pastor, or what?”

“Those are fine. Or you can just call me Ethan.”

“OK. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“I’m not a Catholic or anything, Father, but …”

“Neither am I, actually. I am a priest in the Episcopal Church,” I hastened to clarify.  (I decided not to muddy the waters by explaining Anglo-Catholicism. I knew what he meant.)  Phil’s face brightened with a look of recognition.

“The Episcopal Church. OK, so you don’t have confession, then?”

“Actually, we do,” I said encouragingly.  “But we often call it reconciliation.”

“Hmm. Really?  Well, do you think that the sins and bad stuff we do can affect our physical health? ‘Cause I’ve been feeling kind of sick, lately,” Phil confided. “I’m wondering if there’s a spiritual cause for it?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.  “I firmly believe that the things that weigh on our consciences can affect our whole selves, emotionally, spiritually, and physically.” Phil seemed genuinely engaged, so I continued. “They damage our souls, and they can turn toxic and work on us over the long haul, if we don’t process them through therapy or sacramental confession.  In fact, I do both, and I highly recommend them.  They can make a huge difference.” Phil’s face, which had been intensely serious, relaxed into a smile.

“OK, thanks,” he said reflectively, as we shook hands and I got off the train.

To those who say that sin is an outmoded, medieval concept, my brief conversation with Phil would suggest, on the contrary, the world is still in desperate need of God’s mercy.  And that’s because sin is real, however much our society might deny its existence.  Sin is a difficult sell these days, because we would prefer to focus on God’s estimation of the created order, including us, as very good, as the book of Genesis records.  But the recognition of human sinfulness does not invalidate God’s original blessing.  Rather, it acknowledges our complexity: that the human experience is fraught with moral failings that we cannot resolve by ourselves.  We may be inherently good, but we are not sufficient unto ourselves.  We need God.

It may be hard for us to discern this hopeful message in the Requiem’s severe language. Contemporary sensibilities are not attuned to the Requiem’s central theme of the wrath and vengeance of divine judgment.  But to really appreciate the extravagant gift of God’s mercy and deliverance from sin, we need to engage equally extravagant language around human brokenness.  If the human condition were expressed in lukewarm terms, then God’s remedy would seem far less dramatic, far less redemptive.  What is deeply beautiful about the Requiem liturgy is the notion that however far we may fall, however much we might deserve divine retribution, God, out of his endless love for us, offers us abundant mercy.  And this is where the liturgy ends up, with the balm of divine absolution.

This evening’s readings are aligned to this hopeful outlook.  They are meant to provide reassurance in the face of fear and despair, doubt and failure.  The Dies irae expresses the intensity of human terror in the face of death and final judgment, and, yet in the Recordare there is a note of humility and tenderness that acknowledges God’s promise of redemption through Jesus’s once-for-all sacrifice on the Cross.  “Remember, kind Jesus, / my salvation caused your suffering; / do not forsake me on that day. / Faint and weary you have sought me, / redeemed me, suffering on the cross; / may such great effort not be in vain.”

A wise priest said to me one day, while instructing me how to hear confessions, “Remember that we come to confession, not for condemnation, but for forgiveness.”  In the face of deserved judgment, God offers forgiveness to those who seek it out in a spirit of sincere repentance.  It is a pity that so few people nowadays avail themselves of the sacrament of confession, because I think it would provide a baseline for understanding how the Requiem amplifies on a cosmic scale the assurance of God’s mercy the priest offers the penitent in life.  In death, too, we are assured of mercy.  We may be broken, but God intervenes to make us whole.  And we are insufficient unto ourselves, not only because we must rely on God, but also because we must rely on each other.  That is what it means to be the Body of Christ and to participate in the great cloud of witness we call the Communion of Saints, which we celebrated yesterday.

The Communion of Saints, however, is often practiced as a one-way street, rather than the mutual relationship of intercession and encouragement that it is.  Yesterday, as we recited or sung the Litany of the Saints, we asked the holy ones who have gone before us for their intercession as we face the strife of our lives here on earth.  Yet, the saints are not just charged with the ministry of conveying our repentance to God, and pleading on our behalf.  They are also sinners with their own brokenness and pain, seeking wholeness and ultimate union with God, for whom we pray.  One theological tradition of the Church has argued that whatever brokenness we have acquired through sin during our lives on earth, we must face it after death in a reality that precedes Heaven.  I have imagined this myself not so much as working off our sins, but God granting us the space to repair the damage to our souls through healing, and learning, and new spiritual insight, so that we may achieve a more intimate union with Him.  In the end, who knows?  What is fairly certain is that we each meet our Maker with a certain amount of woundedness.  So, the living in turn pray for the departed on All Souls’ Day, asking God to show them mercy and heal their brokenness.  The Communion of Saints is about solidarity in the midst of shared sinfulness and vulnerability and hope.

John Mason Neale

The great luminary of the Oxford Movement, John Mason Neale, offered the following guidance in his sermon on All Souls’ Day 1856 to the sisters of the Society of Saint Margaret, of whom he was the founder and first chaplain.  He said,

“But for the great multitude of those who have been redeemed to God … they without us shall not be made perfect.  And it is they, the true Servants of God, but not his Saints, whom we keep in memory to-day.  And what then?  Between them and us is there no fellowship?  Is there such a great gulf fixed, that no prayers, no power or grace of the Church can overleap it?  God forbid!  This it is to hold the Catholic faith; this it is to derive the untold comforts of her storehouse of consolation.  Think now each of you, of the dear ones whom you have lost, and believe this earnestly: that, if they have slept in the Lord, your prayers still avail for them, as much as (or more than) if they were still present in the flesh.  Let it be so, that we cannot tell what their needs are; that we know not what especial increase of grace they lack; in what particular way they desire to be helped.”

The saints, whom Neale calls simply servants, to remind us of our kinship with them, are bonded to us in common care and prayer across the ages. We share in the untold comforts of the Church’s storehouse of consolation in prayer, the sacraments, and our relationships with each other, the living and the departed.

In fact, the prayers of the living and the dead for each other across the ages drives the Church’s core identity as one, holy, catholic and apostolic.  From the apostles, martyrs and confessors of the primitive Church down to Phil, and you and me in this day, we are united in God’s promise of mercy and new life.  “Very truly, I tell you,” Jesus proclaims in the Gospel of John, “anyone who hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life, and does not come under judgment, but has passed from death to life.”  The Eucharist that we are about to celebrate is our regular affirmation of this promise of eternal life, when human brokenness is redeemed, ours and the servants who have gone before us.  Bread broken that, in the fullness of God’s time, we might be whole.

Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord.  And let light perpetual shine upon them.
May they rest in peace.  Amen.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

On Church Buildings

I currently serve at the Diocese of Chicago's third oldest parish, which was founded in 1851. If you were to pass in front of the building, you might not think it was a church at all, and certainly not one of such great longevity. Grace is now at its sixth location in a converted commercial building in the South Loop's Printer's Row. It houses not only an Episcopal congregation on Sunday, but a number of not-for-profit organizations, a Lutheran satellite campus, a Korean congregation, the South Loop campus ministry (Lutheran/Episcopal), a weekly community breakfast for 200 homeless men and women, yoga, Alcoholics Anonymous, and a number of other activities that vary from week to week. The building is almost always FULL.

For many congregations, though, their buildings are perceived as a burden, rather than an asset. After several years on the diocesan Congregations Commission, I came to appreciate how pivotal a building can be to a congregation's survival and vitality. Many are faced with huge obstacles posed by deferred maintenance: a roof that needs to be replaced, a parking lot that needs to be resurfaced, tuckpointing to preserve a crumbling facade, foundation or other work to stem flooding, electrical upgrades, plumbing repairs, a new boiler or water heater. The list goes on and on. In every congregation where I have been a leader, both as a layperson and as a priest, there have been major physical plant challenges. As a result, some have argued that we need to get out of our expensive Gothic or Romanesque buildings and relocate to spaces that are more economical and better suited to the kind of work our congregations want to do. They're bleeding us dry, people complain.

A community meeting on the 1st floor meeting space.

While that may be true in many cases, the larger question for me is: what does your building make possible? There is no doubt that Grace, a parish that numbers a steady 65 on Sundays, is able to do disproportionately more than other congregations its size because of its extraordinary building. I know you'll indulge me and allow me to brag a little that the parish has a reach and a reputation in the community that most congregations would envy. But even a contemporary building ideally suited to ministry in the wider community has a variety of associated costs. Tenants provide a steady revenue stream, but they also generate costs. Additional wear and tear on the building from increased usage; staffing to provide building security, custodial services, and setup/break-down of the various meeting spaces; infrastructure repairs and upgrades to the physical plant; and legal fees incurred to negotiate contracts and occupancy agreements can also be part of the equation. There is no doubt in my mind that these expenses are worthwhile; and the relationships the parish builds with its community and ministry partners are inestimable. But they can add up to a sizable fiscal note. So, a parish needs to be informed about what's involved and smart about managing it all.

Saturday's community breakfast.

There is no one-size-fits-all solution to the challenges posed by church buildings. Moving out of an historic Gothic building might be more cost-effective, but relocating to a converted printing warehouse might not support the ethos and aesthetic of the traditional liturgy that is central to a particular parish's identity and reputation. On the other hand, it might be just the thing that allows that parish to grow into a more vibrant and stable version of itself. It might encourage the parish to think of itself in new ways, as its members discover what the new building makes possible. In either case, the parish needs to act strategically to ensure that it has the right leadership, resources, and infrastructure to support its mission. As a priest that spends about half of his time doing administration and management, I value the experience and skills sets I developed as a not-for-profit executive. I couldn't do my job without them. I am aware, however, that if we imagine new ways of being church, including the types of buildings we use, seminaries will have to train clergy differently and congregations will need to recruit particular types of expertise to fill leadership roles on vestries, building committees, and other bodies. Church buildings can be a invaluable asset if we honestly evaluate what they make possible, and what they don't, and what they need from us to make them work.

Blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

An Apology of Anglican Catholicity

The new Chicago Chapter of the Society of Catholic Priests

While Philadelphia (and the world) waited with great anticipation for Pope Francis to open the World Meeting of Families last Saturday, my friends and I were preparing for an event of our own here in Chicago. After two and a half years of discussion, discernment, and preparation, we gathered at Grace Episcopal Church in the city's South Loop for a mass to inaugurate the Chicago Chapter of the Society of Catholic Priests. It did not involve barricading downtown streets or ticker-tape parades. None of us drove through adoring crowds in a Pope-mobile. Just bread and wine, hymns and holy smoke, and champagne at the end.

The frenzy of activity and interest in the Pope's visit demonstrates the power that the notion of

Pope Francis greets admirers in Philadelphia

catholicity still has over people generally, and Anglicans, specifically. My Facebook feed filled with commentaries about Francis's statement on same-sex marriage and the ordination of women, the moral example he was setting by snubbing an invitation from congressional leaders to eat with the homeless, and even how his presence would likely influence the upcoming presidential election. In a way, it makes me sad that many Anglicans feel they have to piggyback onto the Roman bandwagon to satisfy their fascination for and experience of the universal Church.

It speaks to the fact that Anglicanism, including the Episcopal Church, is timid about claiming its catholicity. When we do it, it's in a half-hearted and qualified way, as if we're either embarrassed or not quite convinced of it. Maybe we feel insecure that we're so much smaller or that we're a more recent creation. Like the rural cousin that arrives to the fancy gala in her simple homespun dress, we feel we just don't measure up. After all, it's hard to compete with the sheer scale of the Roman Church's presence and of Pope Francis's popularity. But if Francis has taught us anything, it's that the Church is not about riches or pomp or who's got the tallest mitre.

John Jewel

I think about the many great theologians in our tradition that have crafted sophisticated apologies of the Church of England, how they too wrestled with the concept of catholicity. Whether it was an attempt to recapture the purity of the ancient Church, reconnect with the roots of pre-Reformation Sarum, or enter into a more expansive understanding of catholicity, they all had to make sense of the unique place of the ecclesia anglicana in the universal Church. Jewel and Hooker, Newman and Keble, Ramsey and Williams have thought and debated in just the same way we are thinking and debating within the Society of Catholic Priests. As I looked around Grace's sanctuary on Saturday morning, I remarked on the diversity of our members' priestly ministry, the variety of contexts in which we serve at the altar. We are urban and suburban, in mostly white congregations and mostly black, in small parishes and large, in broad churches and Anglo-Catholic churches, in affluent communities and in poor communities. If this doesn't represent the universality of the Church, then I don't know what does.

Abundant blessings,

Fr. Ethan+

Why Episcopal Identity Still Matters: Part I

This Sunday, I will conduct the first in a series of four classes on the Episcopal Church, what are often known as "inquirers classes." Although this is standard practice in Episcopal congregations, many might ask if this is still relevant. In a pluralistic, post-denominational society, does it matter whether we are Episcopal, Lutheran, Methodist, or Presbyterian? Haven't we evolved past these distinctions?

The answer is both yes and no. I firmly believe that ecumenical and interfaith collaboration is vital to the future of the Church, but I also feel very strongly that denominational identity is still worth building and nurturing. This belief is not the result of some abstract, intellectual exercise, but rather, the experience of my own formation as an Episcopalian. Below are five reasons why I think Episcopal identity still matters.

In Washington National Cathedral.

1. Common prayer. At the heart of the Episcopal identity is the notion of common prayer. As the old Anglican maxim goes, lex orandi, lex credendi, the way we pray shapes what we believe. Although many congregations now pray from Sunday bulletins, rather than pew copies of the Book of Common Prayer, worship is still based largely on the forms and rubrics of the Prayer Book. I can't count the number of times I have been in an unfamiliar city for work or vacation and have wandered into the local Episcopal parish for a Sunday Eucharist or weekday Evening Prayer. Whether it is in a country church, like the one my great-great-great-grandmother founded, or Washington National Cathedral, the patterns of worship remain familiar and consistent. In a strange environment, Episcopal worship has offered a locus of stability and belonging that I have greatly valued in a very fluid and tumultuous world.

2. An appeal to intellect, emotion, and the senses. As one elderly parishioner once said to me, "the Episcopal Church is the thinking man's church." The Anglican tradition has relied heavily on deep theological thinking, informed by Scripture, tradition, and human reason. However, the Episcopal Church has also encouraged people to peer beyond theological inquiry and debate to embrace experiential ways of knowing that engage the emotions and the senses. There is something deeply transformative about sitting in deep silence with others, walking the labyrinth, offering up prayers in great clouds of incense, or joining an entire congregation as they chant the Nicene Creed. Episcopal identity and worship engage the whole person.

Let my prayer be set forth in thy sight as incense.

3. Both ancient and modern. The Episcopal Church has been described as a creedal, rather than a confessional, church. This means that the Episcopal Church does not have a checklist of denominationally specific articles of faith to which members are expected to assent. Episcopalians ground themselves rather in the the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds, which articulate a heritage of faith and belief that goes back to the earliest days of the undivided Church. We may struggle to accept some of the content of these ancient creeds, but we recite them as a sign of our relationship with the generations of Christians that have come before us. But that is not all we are. We are also open to the new things the Holy Spirit has to teach us about what it means to be children of God and followers of Jesus in our own unique contexts. In the Episcopal Church, we value the tension between continuity and discontinuity, between tradition and new discoveries about God.

4. A democratic polity. The governance of the Episcopal Church was deeply influenced by the democratic, representative ethos of the United States, which was born in the same era. The Episcopal Church may be organized around the leadership of bishops, but these bishops are elected democratically by the clergy and lay leadership of each diocese.  At the national level, moreover, the Episcopal Church establishes official policy on a wide range of issues through discussion and shared decision-making that includes bishops and elected representatives of both the clergy and laity of each diocese.

Neighborhood peace vigil.

5. A social conscience. One of the reasons that I came to the Episcopal Church was its progressive stances on social justice issues, such as immigration policy, the ordination of women, and the inclusion of LGBTQ people. However, I have also respected that fact that the Episcopal Church is a very big tent, incorporating people who may not agree with me and supporting a diversity of convictions and outlooks: liberal and conservative, traditional and experimental, mystical and intellectual.

The attributes I have just described are not all unique to the Episcopal Church, but in the aggregate, they shape and define our shared identity as Episcopalians. In order for an individual or a congregation to understand who it is, it needs to be steeped in the larger tradition to which it belongs, to identify where there are shared connections, and whether there is divergence.  Next week: Part II.

Blessings,
Fr. Ethan+

A Tale of Knives and Nunchucks

An audio recording of this sermon is available by clicking here.

The letter to the Ephesians commands its hearers to, “put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” In this day and age, this sort of language seems out of place, whether for its militaristic overtones or the medieval worldview that it invokes. The image of Christian soldiers has often made me very uneasy, reminding me of shameful chapters in our history, like the Crusades and the Inquisition, when people have been oppressed and killed in the name of Jesus, the Prince of Peace. Talk of the devil and evil forces, moreover, seems superstitious and outmoded, calling forth visions of damned beings with horns and tails, inhabiting a realm of eternal suffering and unquenchable fire. And yet, I am here to tell you that these images are still compelling and relevant, even to postmodern people who think they have evolved beyond conventional understandings of angels and demons, of heaven and hell.

A brawl breaks out at Starbucks.

On Tuesday, I sat at a table at the Starbucks on Bryn Mawr in Edgewater, waiting for a parishioner to join me to plan adult forums for the rest of the year. As I sat in front of my laptop leisurely sipping my latte, a commotion erupted, and three men ran past me, swearing and knocking over chairs. At one point, one of these chairs became airborne as one man tried to shield himself from the blows of the other two, who were clearly enraged and bent on inflicting verbal abuse and physical violence. The shop’s patrons were alarmed, and so I packed up my stuff, and dashed outside to find a police officer. By the time I came back a few minutes later, a policeman was leading one of the men out of Starbucks in handcuffs. Over the course of the next several minutes, four more squad cars pulled up to offer backup, and the other two men were taken into custody, as well. The anxiety in the room quickly dissipated, and people returned to their drinks, conversations, and mobile devices. But my story doesn’t end there.

After my meeting, I jumped on the Red Line for my usual commute to Grace. When the trained pulled into the Jackson station, we interrupted another altercation already underway. As the platform came into view, I witnessed a woman attempting to defend herself with nunchucks against a man wielding a knife. The doors opened, and an officer in plain clothes whipped out his badge and shouted, “CPD!”  He exited the train and attempted to separate the two combatants and calm them down. Aided by another police officer in plain clothes, he apprehended the man with the knife, who had attempted to seek refuge on the train, all the while spouting obscenities. I thought about how frightened the German couple standing in front of me must’ve been, their school-age daughter in a wheelchair, facing the door where all of this turmoil was occurring. The two officers managed to subdue the aggressor, remove him from the train, and put him in cuffs. The woman, still holding her nunchucks, thanked the police officers, and announced, “he had the devil in him. He had the devil in him, and he showed his true colors.” I’m not making it up; she really said that.

Jesus' temptation in the wilderness.

It was harrowing to watch both of these scenes unfold before me, and to feel powerless to intervene. I was grateful that the police were responsive and professional during these incidents of unexpected violence that endangered so many innocent bystanders. It was fortunate that an officer just happened to be standing in front of the door -- in my train car -- at that precise moment. I don’t know if it was divine grace or dumb luck, and I frankly didn’t care.  But when I become complacent, feeling that the world is safe, moments like this remind me that human beings can still be agents of great suffering and violence, that evil really exists. I am not saying, of course, that the perpetrators of this violence are evil or are somehow not loved by God, but rather, that human beings—and that includes all of us—are susceptible to the lure of all kinds of sins, to selfish motives and evil urges.  We may not all act on these temptations, but they prod and goad us, encouraging us to give in to our baser impulses. This is what the reading from the Ephesians is all about. The devil is all around you, he’s crafty and powerful, so be on your guard and protect yourself, the reading tells us.  You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re immune. After all, Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness being tempted by Satan, who offered our Lord wealth and power, if only he would bow down and worship him. 

I know that in the twenty-first century, sin is a topic that is out of fashion, and out of sync with contemporary sensibilities. Nobody wants to hear about it. As Jesus’s disciples say to him in this morning’s Gospel, while our Lord is teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum, “this teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”  Sin seems like a topic for fire-and-brimstone sermons from the seventeenth century. Besides, the Church has done so much to make us feel bad about ourselves, because of our sexual orientation, gender, or gender identity, or for using birth control or getting divorced, and a host of other things, that we’ve consigned sin to the theological dustheap. But I’m bringing back Old Time Religion this morning just for a moment, because I think we’ve overlooked something. There is a reason that we make our confession every Sunday before receiving Jesus’s body and blood at the altar: sin is real. It is not only the sin we commit as individuals against each other for which we ask for forgiveness, but it is also for our participation in institutionalized sins, such as racism, misogyny, ecological devastation, and rampant consumerism. We have a lot of sin to repent for.

Jesus's Baptism in the Jordan.

Ephesians offers us jarring language that chafes against our inclination to think of ourselves as just fine the way we are. I have always subscribed to the concept of original blessing, rather than original sin. When God said on the sixth day that everything that she had created was very good, I take God at her word. We ARE very good, but that doesn’t mean we can do without God, that we are self-sufficiently moral without God’s help. Even as good as we are, “the spiritual forces of evil” are formidable, and so we need to be vigilant and disciplined, because sin could crop up anywhere, at Starbucks or on the Red Line. To “take the shield of faith, to “fasten the belt of truth,” and to “put on the breastplate of righteousness” expresses the human aspiration to overcome the temptation to give in to sin. “As shoes for your feet,” Ephesians counsels, “put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.” In the face of sin and evil, we wrap ourselves in God, who shelters and protects us like armor.

This topic comes up most poignantly whenever I prepare new Christians, or their parents and godparents, for baptism. “Don’t be put off by the old-timey language,” I tell them. “Your child will face all kinds of evil in her life: human cruelty, apathy to the suffering of others, violence, greed, selfishness, and many other things that will divide her from God and her neighbor. In baptism, we are asking for God’s protection and guidance in such moments.” Indeed, the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer asks the person or sponsor, “will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord.” The response is, “I will, with God’s help.” The Prayer Book suggests that the avoidance of sin is impossible, and so we just plug away as best we can and rely on God’s help to set us back on to the path of peace. As the disciples asked Jesus, I now ask you, “this teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”