Pip: Fire-breathing dragons, a martyrdom at the altar, and a painter who hid himself in the scene running away — Fr. John has been busy.
Mara: This episode follows a single sermon preached on the Feast of St. Matthew, tracing the saint's legend from Jerusalem to Ethiopia, and ending with a question about what it means to keep looking back at the Gospel even as we walk away from it.
Pip: Let's start with the legend itself, and what it asks of us.
Matthew, Ethiopia, and the Man Running Away
Mara: The sermon opens in apocryphal territory — not the canonical Gospels but the Acts of the Holy Apostle Thomas, where the apostles divide up the known world before scattering to evangelize it.
Pip: The verbatim passage sets the scene directly: "we the apostles were all in Jerusalem — Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother; Philip and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the tax-gatherer… and we portioned out the regions of the world, in order that each one of us might go into the region that fell to him."
Mara: Matthew's region, according to Jacobus de Voragine's Golden Legend, is Ethiopia — where he settles with the very eunuch Philip had baptized on the road to Gaza, and spends thirty-three years converting the country.
Pip: Dragons lay down at his feet. A king's son rises from the dead. The king announces, quote, "Come and see God in the likeness of a man" — and Matthew redirects all the gold toward building a church. Quite the ministry.
Mara: The sermon doesn't stop at the legend. It moves to Caravaggio's Martyrdom of Saint Matthew in Rome, where the saint lies on the altar steps, hand raised — not to ward off the executioner's blow, but to receive a palm branch from an angel above.
Pip: And then the sermon finds its real subject: a second face in the painting. Just behind the executioner's shoulder, Caravaggio painted himself — watching the scene and walking away from it.
Mara: The sermon asks what that figure means for the rest of us. The words are plain: "We hear the Gospel. We know what Christ asks of us… And sometimes we do. But sometimes we turn away. Sometimes the demands of the Gospel are more than we want to bear."
Pip: But the man is still looking back. That's the hinge the whole sermon turns on.
Mara: Right — and the sermon holds that tension without resolving it cheaply. The question it leaves is not whether we'd have the courage to die as Matthew did, but whether we have the courage to turn around while we're still alive.
Pip: The palm branch is waiting. The painting says the journey isn't over yet.
Mara: A saint's legend, a Caravaggio self-portrait, and a question about where we place ourselves in the scene.
Pip: Still looking back. Which, apparently, is where grace begins.
The canonical books of Holy Scripture run from Genesis through Revelation, and the Episcopal Church also recognizes the Apocrypha—Bel and the Dragon, the Book of Wisdom, and others—but does not use them to establish doctrine, rather as suitable “for example of life and instruction of manners.” (BCP 868) However, these are not all. Many other books have been passed down that are hard to classify and are known as the New Testament Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, such as the Infancy Gospel, the Ascent of Isaiah, and the Apocalypse of Peter, to name a few. The one where our story begins today is the Acts of the Holy Apostle Thomas.
It is primarily the story of Thomas and how he evangelized India, but it begins in Jerusalem. “At that time we the apostles were all in Jerusalem — Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother; Philip and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the tax-gatherer; James of Alphæus and Simon the Cananæan; and Judas of James; — and we portioned out the regions of the world, in order that each one of us might go into the region that fell to him, and to the nation to which the Lord sent him.”
If this is to be trusted, our Patron Saint Matthew was in attendance, but from there the legends and traditions take many different directions. Today, I’m using Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend because that legend is linked to the painting on the cover of your bulletin.
In Acts of the Apostles, an angel instructed Philip to go to Gaza. There, he met “an Ethiopian, a eunuch, a court official of Candace, queen of the Ethiopians.” The Ethiopian was trying to understand a passage from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. Philip explained it, and the Ethiopian was converted.
Years later, according to the Golden Legend, after the meeting in Jerusalem when they divided up the known world, we are told that Matthew went down to Ethiopia, where he “stayed with the eunuch of Candace the Queen, whom Philip had baptized.”
Using the Eunuch’s home as his base, Matthew went out and began evangelizing. Along the way, he had some rather interesting encounters with magicians. On one occasion, “a man came to them and reported that the magicians had arrived with two dragons, which breathed fire and sulfur from their mouths and nostrils and killed everyone they encountered.” Matthew, armed with the sign of the cross, went out to meet these magicians and their dragons. As soon as they saw Matthew, the two dragons approached him, lay down at his feet, and went to sleep.
A verbal confrontation with the magicians follows, ending with Matthew waking the dragons and sending them away. Is that a true story? Let me ask you, when was the last time you saw a fire-and-sulfur-breathing dragon?
Later, the king’s son died, and Matthew raised him to life. The king declared far and wide, “Come and see God in the likeness of a man.” The people came, bringing gold and wanting to make sacrifices to Matthew, but he said to them, “What are you doing? I am not God. I am the servant of our Lord.” He commanded that the gold and silver be taken and used to build a magnificent church, completed in thirty days. From this church, Matthew ministered the Gospel for thirty-three years, converting all of Ethiopia.
During that time, Matthew established a convent where some two hundred virgins lived and prayed. One of them, Ephigenia, caught the eye of the new king, Hirtacus, who ascended the throne after the king whose son Matthew had raised died.
Hirtacus greatly desired Ephigenia and pleaded with Matthew to release her and persuade her to come and be his bride. In response, Matthew told the king to do as his predecessor had done and come to church on Sunday. The king was happy, thinking Matthew would do as he commanded.
In concluding his sermon, Matthew said that marriage is good when it is faithfully preserved in a good covenant. But then he said: “You who are gathered here know well that if a servant were to take the wife of a king, he would not only offend the king but would deserve death—not simply because he wished to marry her, but because in taking his lord’s bride he would violate the marriage that already joined them.”
“And you, O king, know that Ephigenia has become the bride of the everlasting King [Jesus] and has been consecrated to him by the holy veil. How, then, can you take the wife of a mightier King and join her to yourself in marriage?”
As you can imagine, the king was not pleased and flew into a rage. The Golden Legend tells us, “After the solemn celebration of the Mass, the king sent an executioner, who killed Matthew from behind with a sword as he stood beside the altar with his hands raised toward heaven.”
In the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome, three paintings by the great Italian painter Caravaggio hang in a small chapel near the high altar: The Calling of Saint Matthew, The Inspiration of Saint Matthew, and The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew. I would wager you would recognize them if you saw them, and The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew is the one on the cover of your bulletin.
Matthew lies on the altar steps, and his executioner holds Matthew’s wrist. It appears as though Matthew is holding up his hand, as if trying to ward off another blow, but he is instead reaching out to take the palm branch the angel above the altar is handing him.
The Book of Revelation describes the vision St. John had. At one point, John sees “a great multitude that no one could number… clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands.” (Revelation 7:9) When John asks who these people are, he is told, “These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (Revelation 7:14)
Matthew reaches for the palm branch, the sign of his martyrdom.
Is the whole story true? I’ll let you be the judge, but I suspect that behind the dragons’ wings, there is a good bit of truth about our Patron Saint.
Some may say, “That’s a nice story, Father John, but what’s it got to do with us, with me?” The answer, I see, is not in the story but in the painting.
If you were at our Wednesday night study, you may recognize a face in the painting. On Wednesday, we looked at Caravaggio’s painting of David and Goliath. David holds up Goliath’s head, and Goliath’s face is Caravaggio’s self-portrait. Caravaggio also includes a self-portrait in The Martyrdom of St. Matthew.
The executioner is in the center. There is a face just to the left of the executioner’s left shoulder. It is believed to be Caravaggio. He has painted himself looking on this horrific scene while running away.
Now, I don’t know what Caravaggio intended by placing himself in this painting, and I’m not going to pretend that I do. But I wonder what we might learn from this man who is running away while looking back.
He sees the violence. He sees Matthew lying on the steps. He sees the executioner standing over him. And he is leaving.
But he is still looking back.
I wonder how often that is us.
We hear the Gospel. We know what Christ asks of us. We know we are to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind, and our neighbor as ourselves. We know we are to forgive, to show mercy, to care for those in need, and to take up our cross and follow him.
And sometimes we do.
But sometimes we turn away. Sometimes the demands of the Gospel are more than we want to bear. Sometimes the world offers us something that seems a good bit easier than following Christ.
And we walk away.
But we keep looking back.
I wonder if Caravaggio’s self-portrait might tell us something about the grace of God. For even as this man is leaving the scene, he has not entirely turned his back on what is happening. Something still holds his attention.
And perhaps that is where the work of grace begins.
Look again at Matthew. He is reaching toward the palm branch, the promise of victory and eternal life. His earthly journey is coming to an end.
But Caravaggio’s journey is not over.
He is still alive. He still has time to turn around.
And so do we.
I don’t know where you would place yourself in this painting. Perhaps you would be among those fleeing. Perhaps you would be standing helplessly, watching what is happening. Perhaps you would like to imagine yourself beside Matthew, ready to share in his martyrdom.
I know where I would like to place myself.
But I also know that there have been times when I have walked away from what Christ was asking of me.
And yet, I keep looking back.
Maybe that’s the question we should take away from this painting today. Not whether we would have the courage to die as Matthew did, but whether we have the courage to turn around and follow Christ while we are still alive.
Because the man in the painting still has time.
And so do we.
Let us pray:
O blessed Saint Matthew, once a tax collector, now a beloved apostle of Jesus, pray for us. You were called from a worldly life to follow the Lord, and your example inspires us to leave behind our sins and embrace a life of faith.
Intercede for us that we may be open to God’s call in our lives. Help us to recognize His presence in the ordinary moments of our days. Grant us the courage to follow Him wherever He leads.
We ask for your intercession, that we may be faithful stewards of our talents and resources, using them for the glory of God and the good of others.
Our saint for today is Hildegard of Bingen, born in 1098. Hildegard was a great teacher and advisor to everyone from the average person on the street to kings, queens, and Popes. Many of her letters are preserved, and today I would like to share one she wrote to Elisabeth of Schoenau, who led the double monastery in Schoenau, Germany. Hildegard writes,
“I, a poor little form and earthen vessel, speak these things not from myself but from the serene light: Man is a vessel which God fashioned for himself, which he imbued with his spirit, so that he might accomplish his works in him.”
Hildegard then speaks of God’s creation and leading up to the fall. She cries out, “Oh woe!” She continues, “Then all the elements enfolded themselves in the alternation of light and shadows as man did in transgressing God’s commands. God, however, strengthened/irrigated certain men, lest man be completely despised. Abel was good, but Cain a suicide. And many saw the mysteries of God in the light, but others committed many sins, until that time came in which the word of God was manifest as it is said: Beautiful in form beyond the sons of men. Then the sun of justice appeared and illuminated men with good works in faith and in act, just as the dawn comes first, and the other hours of the day follow, until night arrives. Thus, o daughter Elisabeth, is the world changed. For the world is already weary in all the greenness of virtues, that is at dawn, prime, ters, and in the strongest hour of the day, at sext. But in this time it is necessary for God to strengthen/irrigate some men, lest his instruments be idle. Hear, o anxious daughter, that the ambitious suggestions of the ancient serpent are worrying somewhat those men whom the inspiration of God has so imbued. For when that same serpent sees an elegant gem, he roars, saying: “What is this?” And he worries it with many miseries of the burning mind, desirous of flying over the clouds, as if they were Gods, just as he did. Now hear again: Who desire to accomplish the works of God, let them always consider that they are earthen vessels, since they are men, and let them always reflect on what they are and what they will be, and leave heavenly things to [him] who is of heaven, since they are exiles, not knowing heavenly things, but only reciting the mysteries of God, just as a trumpet only makes sounds, but does not cause them; someone blows in it in order to make the sound. But the mild put on the [armor] of faith, being gentle, poor, and unfortunate, having the simple habits of children, just as he whose trumpet sounds they are was a Lamb, since God always scourges those who sing in his trumpet, taking care lest their earthen vessel perish, except as it pleases Him. O daughter, let God make you a mirror of life. But I too lie in the [timidity] of my mind, fatigued much by fear, sounding a little, at times, like the small sound of a trumpet from the living light. Whence God help me, that I may remain in his ministry.”
I was struck by the line, “O daughter, let God make you a mirror of life.”
Do you remember Clare of Assisi and her letter to Blessed Agnes of Prague? In it, Clare implored Agnes to “Look more deeply into the mirror and meditate on” the characteristics of Jesus. Clare asks Agnes to gaze into Christ as into a mirror, contemplating him so deeply that her own life is conformed to what she sees. I see “O daughter, let God make you a mirror of life” as an extension of this teaching: Clare tells us to look into a mirror and see Jesus, and Hildegard tells us to be a mirror and reflect Jesus into the world.
Imagine the infinite mirror effect. There is a mirror in front of you and a mirror behind. You stand between them, but instead of seeing yourself, you see Jesus, and that reflection continues into eternity.
Jesus said, “Those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.” Perhaps this is the life Clare and Hildegard are calling us to live: a life between the mirrors—beholding Christ until, by grace, we begin to reflect the Christ we behold.
Pip: Star Wars, Pharaoh, a donkey with delusions of grandeur — Fr. John is covering a lot of ground this week at Candle in a Cave.
Mara: The sermon for Proper 19 pulls together the Exodus story, the parable of the unforgiving servant, and a question that runs through all of it: what are you actually building with what God has given you?
Pip: Let's get into it.
"What Are You Building?" — Gifts, Empires, and the Kingdom
Mara: The sermon opens with a sweep through history — every great empire, from the British to the Mongol to the Babylonian, eventually collapses. That pattern sets up the Exodus reading, where Pharaoh insists the Nile is his own making.
Pip: And the sermon lands the line that becomes the sermon's spine. After the Israelites cross the Red Sea and receive Egyptian gold as a parting gift from God, they melt it into a golden calf — and the sermon reads that act as Pharaoh's logic recycled: "My Nile is my own; I made it for myself."
Mara: That phrase does the heavy lifting. The Israelites were liberated, given a gift, and then used the gift to rebuild the very thing they escaped — their own version of Egypt, their own small empire.
Pip: Which is where the parable of the unforgiving servant walks in and makes the same point at human scale. The king forgives an impossible debt — the sea parts, the servant walks through free — and then the servant immediately shakes down a colleague for pocket change.
Mara: The sermon draws the parallel directly: "The servant took the gift of mercy and, in his arrogance, began building his own little empire." Liberation received, liberation refused to others.
Pip: And then there is the donkey. Decorated with garlands to carry a sacred icon, he stops mid-procession and brays at the crowd, convinced the adoration is for him. The man leading him swats him and says, "The honor is not meant for you but for the image you are carrying."
Mara: That fable lands the sermon's practical point. The gifts — wealth, education, position, talent — are not the problem. The sermon is clear: "The gold was never the problem. Possessing the gold was never the problem. The question was what they built with it."
Pip: Wealth can build an empire or serve the Kingdom. Same gold, entirely different structure.
Mara: Saint James frames it as the law of liberty — freedom from sin that teaches liberated people how to live, and Saint Peter adds: "use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God's varied grace… in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ."
Pip: Every empire falls. The sermon closes on that contrast — every empire we build eventually collapses, and God's Kingdom endures forever — and asks why anyone would choose the perishable project.
Mara: The closing prayer puts it plainly: serve without counting the cost, labor without seeking rest, spend yourself for glory that belongs to someone else entirely.
Pip: Pharaoh, a servant, and a self-important donkey — same story, different costumes.
Mara: The question underneath all of it stays simple: the gift is in your hands. What are you building with it?
“A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away … It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire.”
Can you see those words scrolling up the screen as the music swells? I was stunned to learn this week that next year will mark the 50th anniversary of the original Star Wars movie. But I have been a faithful follower of those movies and even survived Jar Jar Binx.
As big and powerful as the Galactic Empire was, it went the way of all the real empires we know of. The British Empire of the 1920s was the largest, and it eventually collapsed, as did the Mongol, Russian, and Spanish Empires, among others.
If the empires of history were represented by colors, we would see one color constantly superseding another. Beautiful and chaotic.
The empires we hear about in scripture—Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian—dominate Israel’s history, and in today’s reading, the Egyptians take center stage.
Moses came to Pharaoh and delivered the Lord’s message: “Let my people go.” Pharaoh responded, “Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord.” (Exodus 5:2) Years later, another Pharaoh would say essentially the same thing: “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” (Ezekiel 29:3) In their arrogance, they believed they had built the empires they ruled. God has a funny way of humbling such fool-heartedness.
The sea parted, the Israelites crossed on dry land, and the Egyptians followed. In the song of Miriam that we read, Pharaoh said, “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil, my desire shall have its fill of them. I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them.” The Lord said, “I don’t think so,” and the waters came crashing down. The Israelites were liberated. What do they do with this newfound freedom?
As you will recall, just before the Israelites left Egypt, Moses told the people to ask the Egyptians for silver and gold, and the Lord disposed the Egyptians to comply.
Today, they passed through the Red Sea, but only a couple of months later, “All the people took off the rings of gold that were in their ears and brought them to Aaron. And he received the gold from their hand and fashioned it with a graving tool and made a golden calf. And they said, ‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!’” (Exodus 32:3-4) The Egyptian gold they received as a blessing from God was used, with their own hands, to make the Golden Calf, a false god, to replace the one true God who had liberated them. By their actions, they speak in the same spirit as Pharaoh, “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” In essence, the Israelites are building their own version of Egypt. They are beginning to build their own empire. How it all plays out is a story for another day, but see the pattern: captivity to liberation, yet instead of living into God’s freedom, they turn from God to self. “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” And in that turning from God and in their arrogance, they began building their own empire. When they did, we should not be surprised that God came along and smacked them, as he has done to so many others.
What we must keep in mind is that this applies not only to world empires; it also applies to the individual. Consider it the parable Jesus told today.
The king is settling his accounts and has a servant who owes more than he can ever repay. Because the servant was unable to pay, the king ordered that the servant and the members of his family—wife and children—be sold into slavery to pay the debt. The servant went to the king and pleaded for the king’s patience: “‘Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.’ And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt.”
The servant is like the Israelites in Egypt. He is in captivity to his debt. Yet, like the Egyptians’ gift of gold, the king gives the servant a gift—mercy. In doing so, the sea parts for the servant, allowing him safe passage through the debt, and then the sea closes behind him, bringing him into safety. The servant has been liberated.
“But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, ‘Pay what you owe.’ Then his fellow slave fell down and pleaded with him, ‘Have patience with me, and I will pay you.’ But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he would pay the debt.” The servant took the gift of mercy and, in his arrogance, began building his own little empire. “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” The king, hearing of this, recalled that servant and smacked him about the head and neck.
The Israelites were liberated, and the servant was liberated. In both cases, a gift followed. But the gift never became a way of life. Israel received the gold but forgot the Giver. The servant received mercy but refused to become merciful.
In his epistle, Saint James speaks of the law of liberty. It means that, through Christ, we have been liberated from the empire of sin and death. However, the liberty we received does not mean we are free to do whatever we please or to treat those around us in a sinful manner. Instead, the law of liberty teaches us how liberated people live, using the gifts He has bestowed on us for the good of His kingdom. Why? Because the gift is not about us—me—the gift is about God and His glory. Saint Peter writes, “As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace… in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ. To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever.” (1 Peter 4:10-11)
Aesop wrote a fable that has evolved over the years but remains essentially the same: A sacred icon of the Madonna and Child was being transported from one church to another. To carry the icon, they decorated a donkey with garlands and ribbons and placed the icon on its back so that, as it passed, all could see it.
As the procession went along, the people came out, adoring the image, singing songs, and casting flowers before it. However, the donkey got it in his pointy little head that all the adoration was for him. In his foolishness and arrogance, he stopped and began to bray loudly, basking in all the praise. Understanding what was happening, the man leading the donkey swatted him on the backside with a stick and said, “Get along with you, you stupid Ass. The honor is not meant for you but for the image you are carrying.”
God has liberated us from sin and death and has given each of us gifts. Some have received wealth, education, position, status, and many other gifts. These are wonderful gifts and great blessings, but like the Egyptian gold or the servant’s mercy, they can be profaned. We can begin thinking like the donkey or Pharaoh: “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” In doing so, there’s a very good chance God will come along and swat us with a stick and say, “Get along, you stupid little… yeah.” Why? Because when God liberated us and blessed us with such wonderful gifts, He did so that we might enjoy them to the fullest, but more importantly, He did so that we might bring Him glory.
Remember how they collected gold to build the Golden Calf? Later, they collected gold again, this time to build the Tabernacle and its sacred furnishings, including the Ark of the Covenant. The gold was never the problem. Possessing the gold was never the problem. The question was what they built with it.
Wealth can build an empire or serve the Kingdom. Education can elevate the self or serve the Kingdom. Authority can dominate or serve the Kingdom. Position, reputation, intelligence, talent—all of it. The question is what you build with what God has put in your hands.
The Psalmist says of the Lord,
Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and your dominion endures throughout all generations.
(Psalm 145:13)
Every empire we build eventually falls. God’s Kingdom endures forever.
Question: Why would we ever want to work on our own little perishable empires when we can work to bring glory to the only Kingdom that is imperishable and eternal?
God has parted the Red Sea for you. You are free. He has placed gifts in your hands. Don’t use them to rebuild Egypt. Don’t use them to build yourself a little empire. Build his Kingdom. And whatever he has placed on your back—carry it well. Just remember who gets the glory.
Let us pray: O Dearly beloved Word of God, teach us to be generous, to serve You as You deserve, to give without counting the cost, to fight without fretting at our wounds, to labor without seeking rest, to spend ourselves without looking for any reward other than to bring You glory, knowing that we do Your holy will. Amen.
Pip: There's a sermon on Candle in a Cave that opens with Shakespeare, detours through a shrew the size of a penny, and ends with a butcher knife in a teenager's hand — and somehow it's all about forgiveness.
Mara: Fr. John's recent writing takes us into the hard territory of reconciliation — what the Gospel actually asks of us when someone genuinely wrongs us, and why the answer isn't what we'd prefer.
Pip: Let's start with the sermon itself.
What Reconciliation Actually Costs
Pip: The Gospel passage at the center of this sermon sounds, at first read, like permission — Jesus telling us to go confront the person who wronged us. The question the sermon presses on is what motivation we're actually supposed to bring to that confrontation.
Mara: The setup begins with Katherine from The Taming of the Shrew — a character whose fury is her defining feature. The sermon draws a line from her to what it calls the grouch and the shrew in all of us, and then lands here: "It's as if Jesus is giving us permission to be the grouch or the shrew we know we have every right to be."
Pip: Which is a fair read of the text — until it isn't.
Mara: Right, and that's exactly the pivot the sermon makes. The cockroach exercise is where it gets concrete. A dozen teenagers, a paper box with a cockroach image taped to the lid, and a butcher knife. They shred the cockroach completely — and underneath is an image of Jesus, also shredded. The outrage is immediate.
Pip: Probably not the pastoral risk assessment form they teach in seminary, but the lesson lands.
Mara: The sermon draws the theological line directly from that image: "Whatever you do to them, you do to Jesus." And it holds that against the Gospel's one sentence that's easy to skip past.
Mara: That sentence is: "If the member listens to you, you have regained that one." The sermon reads that as the whole point — the motivation isn't vengeance, it's reconciliation. Paul's letter to the Romans backs it up: "Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.'"
Pip: So the upshot is that the passage isn't a license to build a team and stock up on ammunition — it's a call to want the other person back.
Mara: And the sermon is careful about what reconciliation doesn't require. It doesn't mean forgetting, pretending you weren't hurt, or allowing the offender back into your life. What it does mean, as the sermon puts it, is you release the desire to go stab cockroaches — you refuse to let someone else's sin dictate who you become.
Pip: The closing image is the early martyrs who had no great words, just a simple reply when told to renounce their faith or die.
Mara: "I am a Christian." The sermon offers that as the thing to say to yourself in the moment anger tips toward vengeance — not a denial of the harm, but a refusal to be ruled by it.
Pip: And the final line reframes the familiar "where two or three are gathered" — not a formula for a small meeting, but a description of a reconciled community.
Mara: The through-line here is that reconciliation is the shape of Jesus' entire ministry — and the sermon asks whether we're willing to let that be the shape of ours.
Pip: Even when the cockroach really had it coming. More from Candle in a Cave next time.
Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, And speak I will. I am no child, no babe. Your betters have endured me say my mind, And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, Or else my heart, concealing it, will break, And, rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
If you know your Shakespeare — thank goodness for the internet, because I don’t — you’ll recognize this as a passage from The Taming of the Shrew (Act 4, Scene 3).
For a long time, my understanding of the word shrew was limited to Webster’s Dictionary’s second definition: an ill-tempered, scolding woman. Please do not report me to the bishop for being sexist. It turns out the first definition refers to a small, insect-eating, mouse-like creature. Some weigh as little as a penny. Not very big.
Somewhere along the way, the name of this tiny, noisy creature became a term for an ill-tempered, scolding person—and Shakespeare gave us perhaps the most famous shrew of all. When a shrew gets agitated, it makes a rapid-fire eek-eek-eek-eek sound, as if it were firing a tiny little machine gun. I suppose Shakespeare thought that’s what Katherine sounded like when she got agitated.
My research tells me there’s no masculine version of the shrew, but I can picture someone like Ove from A Man Called Ove embodying one. Just a real grouch.
So, we have the grouch and the shrew—those who are ill-tempered, and when they get irritated, they sound like tiny little machine guns, letting everyone know exactly how they feel. Thank goodness I am never like that.
Throughout his earthly ministry, Jesus offers teachings that are not only difficult to follow but also seem contrary to our natural inclinations. There is the business of loving your neighbor, which we will attempt, but love of your enemy… don’t you think Jesus is asking a bit too much there? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you is great until it starts costing us; then we may have to rethink it a bit. And as for the Beatitudes—blessed are the poor, the meek, the peacemakers—they can certainly seem a little too radical at times. However, today’s Gospel reading is something we can all get behind. It’s as if Jesus is giving us permission to be the grouch or the shrew we know we have every right to be.
“If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault.” Hallelujah. I can get behind that. And when I do, if I’m honest, I hope that person doesn’t repent, because then I can break out my tiny little machine gun and tell everybody. Even better, in most cases, I have such confidence in how right I am that I can actually dispense with that first step and go straight to telling other people. Then I can build my sides, my team, and stock up on ammunition. I can hit the person who offended me with both barrels and then some. No need for peacemakers here. I have been given permission, by Jesus, to embark on this most holy war.
We like this teaching of Jesus a lot because it gives us room to vent our righteous anger and flip over a few tables. Or does it?
When I served in Montana, I ran an after-school program in one of the communities. The kids who attended were not church kids, and they went to high school across the street. They were great kids, but sometimes a little rough around the edges.
I had them for a couple of hours once a week. We gave them a meal and a safe place. I told them they were always welcome, but their attendance would cost them 10 minutes, and those 10 minutes were mine. They agreed, and I taught them the Christian message in creative ways.
It would never work with our kids here at Saint Matthews, but one message sparked a full-on rebellion from that group.
I took a paper box and, on the lid, I attached a large picture of a cockroach with blue painter’s tape. There were about a dozen kids that day, and I told them there was likely someone in their lives who was an irritant. Perhaps someone they truly disliked or who had hurt them, and that this exercise was designed to help them release the frustration and stress they experienced.
The cockroach, I said, represented this evil person in their life, and they should pour all their disdain for that person into the image of the roach. We had some good laughs as they pictured the person. Then I handed the kid nearest to me a butcher’s knife. “Take out your frustrations,” I said. And they all did. They stabbed that poor cockroach so many times that it was a shredded mess by the end.
When they were suitably vented, I peeled off the blue painter’s tape and removed the picture of the cockroach. What I had failed to tell the kids was that beneath the cockroach image was another image of Jesus. It, too, was a shredded mess, and outrage erupted. “You didn’t tell us.” “That’s not fair.” “I never would have.”
Perhaps putting a sharp butcher knife in the hand of an angry teenager and telling them to work out their frustrations wasn’t the wisest pastoral move, but I would wager they still haven’t forgotten that lesson.
We read our gospel today, and we can become the shrew or the grouch. We can go after someone with our tongue the same way those kids went after that cockroach. We can shred our enemies and firmly believe we are within our Christian rights. Yet when we do, we forget Jesus’ words: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40) From the greatest to the least, from the person you love to the one you hate, whatever you do to them, you do to Jesus.
When we study Scripture, we can study individual passages, but when we interpret it, we must do so through the lens of Scripture as a whole. One part will not negate another. Because that is the case, Jesus is not telling us we have the right to go after the person who offends or hurts us. So what could He possibly be saying in our Gospel?
The answer lies in the motivation. If we read this passage to give ourselves the right to strike out at the cockroach, our motivation is vengeance. Through the lens of Scripture, we know that vengeance is not our department. The Psalmist writes,
Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath! Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil. (Psalm 37:8)
St. Paul tells us in his letter to the Romans, “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’” (Romans 12:19) So if the passage isn’t permission for personal vendettas, what then? What should the motivation be? The answer is found in our Gospel lesson. It’s the one sentence that is easily dismissed: “If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.” The motivation is at the heart of Jesus’ entire ministry: reconciliation. Jesus reconciled us to God so that we might be reconciled to one another.
Yes, there will be people who irritate you, and there will be people who genuinely hurt you. Being reconciled does not mean you have to go and be best friends forever, that you have to forget, or even pretend you weren’t hurt, nor does it mean you have to allow the offender back into your life. However, it does mean, at the very least, you will release the desire to go out and stab cockroaches. It means you won’t allow the other person’s sin to cause you to sin or to dictate who you will become. If the offender chooses not to be reconciled, that is between them and God. However, what is between you and God is your actions, your heart, and your life.
Finally, if you are the offender, which you know you can be, don’t be so pigheaded that you can’t accept fault, for you are under the same obligation, and an even greater one, to work toward reconciliation.
Throughout the history of the Church, there have been great persecutions. Persecutions in which thousands were put to death for their faith—for refusing to renounce Jesus. For every one great capital “S” Saint who somehow found wonderful words to denounce their executioners and profess the faith, there were hundreds of others who were kind, simple people. They didn’t have great knowledge, so no one was going to listen to what little they had to say. Like all the rest, these Christians were given the option in plain language: Renounce your faith or die. In response, they gave a simple reply that spoke volumes: I am a Christian. I am a Christian.
When faced with an evil person or someone who is simply disagreeable to you, your first thought is often anger, which can turn to vengeance—a shrew, a grouch, a knife-wielding cockroach killer. In those moments, don’t surrender yourself to such thoughts. They’ll happen. That doesn’t make you a bad person. Just don’t let them hang around. Say to yourself, “I am a Christian.” That doesn’t mean the evil didn’t happen; it doesn’t mean you have to keep taking it, and it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. However, “I am a Christian” does mean the other will not be allowed to rule your life, and—as hard and painful as the work may be—you will work toward reconciliation.
Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” This is not a formula. This is not simply two or three church folk hanging out together. Instead, it is a reconciled community where Jesus, the one who reconciled us to the Father, is present, healing and restoring our brokenness.
Let us pray: Most Holy Virgin Mary, help us to heal the broken bonds within our families, our friendships, and all our other relationships. Help us to love others the way that Christ loves us with self-sacrificing love. Intercede for us, O Holy Daughter, Spouse, and Mother, so that through the mercy of God, the chains of division will be broken, uniting us once again as you are ever united to the Most Holy Trinity. We ask this in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Pip: There's a sermon on Candle in a Cave that opens with a medical transcription disaster and lands, somehow, on the fiery furnace of Daniel. Fr. John has range.
Mara: This episode follows that sermon through three interlocking figures — Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, Moses at the burning bush, and Jesus heading toward Jerusalem — all circling the same question about faith under pressure.
Pip: Let's get into the furnace.
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Defying the Furnace: Faith That Doesn't Negotiate
Mara: The sermon sets up a central tension right away: what does faith actually look like when the outcome is genuinely uncertain — when God might save you, or might not?
Pip: And the sermon's answer comes straight from Daniel, chapter three. The setup is worth naming: three Jewish men in Nebuchadnezzar's court, condemned for refusing to worship a golden statue, standing in front of a king who asks who could possibly save them now.
Mara: The text gives their reply directly: "Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up."
Pip: "But if not." That's the hinge. They're not bargaining with God, and they're not promising themselves a rescue. They're saying the furnace does not get to decide who they are.
Mara: Right — and the sermon makes the stakes plain: their faith was not contingent on the outcome. It was, as the text puts it, "simply in God and His divine providence, without qualification."
Pip: Which is where Moses comes in, and this is a sharp move. God tells Moses to walk back into Egypt — back into the place he fled, as a wanted man, to confront Pharaoh. God doesn't promise it will be easy. The sermon frames it plainly: "I am sending you into the furnace, and I will be with you."
Mara: That phrase — "I will be with you" — is the thread connecting all three figures. The sermon notes that God never spoke those words directly to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. But Nebuchadnezzar's own testimony proved them true: a fourth figure, unbound, walking in the fire beside them.
Pip: And then there's Peter, flinching when Jesus announces he's headed to Jerusalem to suffer and die. A very human reaction. The sermon doesn't mock him for it.
Mara: It doesn't. The sermon reads Jesus's rebuke as clarification, not condemnation — Jesus already knows the Father is with him, and he's telling Peter: follow me through the furnace, because I will be with you in yours.
Pip: The sermon ends with a kind of stripped-down catechism. Standing in front of the furnace, all the complicated answers fall away. What's left? "I believe in one God, the Father Almighty." Not an explanation. Not a guarantee. Just that.
Mara: The closing line lands it: "I believe does mean we are not walking into the furnace alone."
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Pip: Faith that holds without a promised outcome — that's a harder ask than most furnace stories let on.
Mara: It is. And that question of what remains when the answers run out seems like territory worth returning to.
Reader’s Digest reported an incident where medical staff who transcribed medical audiotapes were confounded when one of them came upon a perplexing diagnosis: “This man has pholenfrometry!” [spell it out] Being unfamiliar with that condition, they checked the medical dictionary and with co-workers, to no avail. Finding the doctor in charge, they asked him. He listened to the tape, shook his head, and translated: “This man has fallen from a tree!”
There is a wonderful little acronym most are familiar with: KISS—keep it simple, stupid. That is advice we should follow; however, many are more prone to go in the direction of what we could call MESS—make it sound sophisticated. Complicate it. Confuse it.
Chapter 3 of the book of Daniel is a very familiar Bible story. We learned it as children. The story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (a.k.a. My Shack, Yo Shack, and A Bungalow). They are also known as the three young men.
The Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, has made a statue and decreed that everybody is “to fall down and worship the golden image” or face death. (Daniel 3:5)
Even though they are captured Jews, the three young men and Daniel have risen to high places in Nebuchadnezzar’s court. Their rise to power and fame has also heightened jealousy among many, so these others are looking for a way to destroy them. When the jealous ones learn that the three young men are not worshiping the statue, they turn them over to Nebuchadnezzar.
Nebuchadnezzar confronts them. He tells them, you can worship the statue and live, but if you do not worship, you shall immediately be cast into a burning fiery furnace.” (Daniel 3:15a) It is then, in his ignorance, Nebuchadnezzar adds, “And who is the god who will deliver you out of my hands?” (Daniel 3:15b)
The three young men reply, “If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.” (Daniel 3:16-18)
Hear what they say: “Our God is faithful, and our God is able to save us.” Notice, they did not say, “Our God will save us, only that He is able to save us.” Then they add, “But if not.” That is, “Our God can save us, but if not, if our God chooses not to, so be it. We will remain faithful.”
Nebuchadnezzar is furious. He orders the furnace heated to seven times its normal temperature; the three men are bound and cast into it.
Nebuchadnezzar then watches, scratching his head. He asks his aides, “Did we not cast three men bound into the fire?” (Daniel 3:24b) You are correct; the aides answer. “But,” Nebuchadnezzar says, “I see four men unbound, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods.” (Daniel 3:25) He calls the three out of the furnace, and they are unharmed. “The hair of their heads was not singed, their cloaks were not harmed, and no smell of fire had come upon them.” (Daniel 3:27b)
Nebuchadnezzar had asked, “Who is the god who will deliver you out of my hands?” He learns the answer. It is the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who can save. He declares, “There is no other god who is able to rescue in this way.” (Daniel 3:29b)
Looking at this one episode in the lives of these three young men, what can we learn about faith? (Remember KISS and not MESS.) Their faith was not contingent upon whether God saved them or allowed them to die. Their faith was simply in God and His divine providence, without qualification.
Notice, we are not told the three weren’t afraid of burning to death, or that there would be no pain involved, or that they knew for certain what God’s plan was for them. However, their faith did declare, “Nebuchadnezzar, your kingship and your decrees do not rule over our lives; this furnace does not rule over our lives; pain, suffering, and even death do not get to decide who we will become.” The three defied all these things and declared, “We will be bound to no one and no thing, except to the one true God.” What happened? Well, duh. “God saved them from the fire.” However, for the three young men, that was not the main thing. What was? We see it in our reading from Exodus.
Moses is standing in front of the burning bush. The Lord tells Moses that he is sending him to Egypt to confront Pharaoh and free God’s people. Moses is an Israelite, and God wants him to return to the land he has escaped from—the land where he is a wanted man. The Lord wants Moses to confront and make demands of one of the most powerful individuals in the world—Pharaoh. “Moses,” God says, “I am sending you into the furnace.”
Moses says, “Who? Me? I’m a nobody.” In response, God did not say that it would be easy, that there was no need to be afraid, that Moses would be sleeping in five-star hotels the entire time. No. God said, “I am sending you into the furnace, and I will be with you.”
The Lord never spoke those words to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, but through their faith, God proved they were true. How did Nebuchadnezzar put it? “But I see four men unbound, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods.” (Daniel 3:25) God was with them.
For us, God never promises there will be no furnaces in our lives. He never says we’ll come out unscathed, but He does promise, “I will be with you.” Can we believe that?
In our Gospel, we are told, “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” Jesus said, “I am headed into the furnace.” Peter’s response was very human. Perhaps he was terrified. Perhaps he simply couldn’t imagine losing Jesus. Whatever was going through Peter’s mind, he said, ‘This must never happen.’” Jesus rebuked him. Why? Because Jesus knows He will not be alone in the furnace. He has already said, “The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own home, and will leave me alone. Yet I am not alone, for the Father is with me.” (John 16:32-33) Jesus says to Peter, “Follow me.” It is as though Jesus were saying, “I know the furnace is a terrifying place, but follow me, because when you face your own furnace, I will be with you. I will lead you through.”
The three young men defied the furnace. They did not allow it to dictate who they would become. Instead, in their defiance, they declared, “We believe in God.”
Moses defied the furnace in his life and through his words. In doing so, he declared, “God is with me.”
Jesus, fully aware of the furnace, defied it. He declared, “I believe in the Father.”
Jesus says to us, “Follow me, and I will lead you through the furnace, and we will defy it together.”
When you are standing in front of the furnace, all the complicated answers do you no good. If you can even remember them, they fall away. When they do, what remains of your faith?
Imagine: there you are, standing in front of the furnace, burning seven times hotter than ever before.
Why did this happen? How did you end up in such a place?
I don’t know.
Will God save you from all the hurt and the pain?
I don’t know.
How is it going to turn out? Will you live?
I don’t know.
You don’t seem to know very much. Is there anything you do know?
Yes.
What’s that?
“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty. I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only Son of God. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life.” I may not know much, but I do know there is a God and that He is with me.
We can all find ourselves standing in front of any number of furnaces. And it is in those furnaces that our faith becomes costly. They bring with them pain in various forms—evil, loss, death, pain, suffering.
While standing in front of that furnace, we may have no answers as to why any of this is happening or what the outcome will be, but there is one thing we can hold fast to—I believe. We can defy the furnace. It does not mean it won’t hurt. It does not mean that we will not experience great fear, or that we will see a happy outcome, all tied up with a pretty little bow. However—I believe—does mean we are not walking into the furnace alone. So follow Jesus. He has gone before us into the furnace, and He promises, ‘I am with you always, to the end of the age.’”
I believe.
I’ll share with you a portion of Psalm 116:1-10 as a closing prayer. Let us pray: I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice and my pleas for mercy.
Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live.
The snares of death encompassed me; the pangs of Sheol laid hold on me; I suffered distress and anguish.
Then I called on the name of the Lord: “O Lord, I pray, deliver my soul!”
Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; our God is merciful.
The Lord preserves the simple; when I was brought low, he saved me.
Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you.
For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling;
I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.
I believed, even when I spoke: “I am greatly afflicted.”
Candle in a Cave 