Pip: There's a sermon out there that opens with Henry Ford, pivots through a Ridley Scott film, and lands at a baptismal font — and somehow the logic holds the whole way through.
Mara: That's Fr. John's recent work at Candle in a Cave — a sermon on what baptism actually does to a person, and why the answer is more than symbolic.
Pip: Let's start with the knights of Jerusalem and what they have to do with a sacrament.
What Baptism Actually Does
Mara: The sermon opens with a question that sounds almost dismissive — does water make someone a child of God any more than a sword makes someone a knight?
Pip: And the film Kingdom of Heaven is doing real theological work here. Balian of Ibelin knights common farmers and blacksmiths before a siege, and the bishop asks whether the ceremony changes anything. Balian's answer is one word.
Mara: The sermon quotes it directly: "Does making a man a knight make him a better fighter?" — and Balian looks the bishop square in the eye and says, "Yes."
Pip: That yes carries weight because medieval knighthood wasn't ceremonial decoration. It conferred land, status, religious standing, and — crucially — a new interior sense of self.
Mara: Exactly the point. The sermon draws the parallel plainly: baptism isn't merely about water, just as knighthood isn't merely about a sword. Both are about, in the sermon's own words, "a new allegiance, a new identity, and a new life."
Pip: The Ford story at the opening earns its place here — a machinist returns stolen tools the morning after his baptism. Something actually shifted.
Mara: The sermon lists what that shift includes: forgiveness of sins, participation in Christ's death and resurrection, renunciation of evil, and entry into the community of faith. Then it names the seal — chrismation with oil blessed by the bishop, and the words spoken at the sign of the cross.
Pip: "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ's own for ever." That's the line that closes the ceremony, and the sermon treats it as the thing that makes the rest of it stick.
Mara: Nine baptisms on the day this sermon was preached. The closing line echoes Ford: dam up the Cimarron and baptize everyone.
Pip: A bishop, a machinist, and Balian of Ibelin walk into a font — and the sermon makes the case that all three are asking the same question.
Mara: What holds this together is a single claim — that identity conferred by ritual is real identity, not performance.
Pip: Which means the next time someone asks what water does, the answer is still yes.
According to Christian ministry lore, a machinist at the Ford Motor Company found religion and was baptized. Before his conversion, the man had frequently stolen parts and tools from the Ford factory.
Moved by his newfound faith, the employee returned all the stolen goods to his boss the very next morning, explained his baptism, and asked for forgiveness. Dumbfounded by this unprecedented response, the manager sent a telegram to Henry Ford (who was traveling in Europe at the time) asking how to handle the situation. Ford reportedly wired back his enthusiastic approval with the now-famous reply: “Dam up the Detroit River, and baptize the entire city!”
When I get home on Thursday nights—my Friday—my brain is only up for a glass of wine and a movie. Since most new movies disappoint, I’ll usually rewatch an old favorite. A couple of Thursdays ago, I settled in with Kingdom of Heaven, best described as historical fiction about the defense and fall of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187.
This movie centers on Balian of Ibelin. In the movie, his personal life is entirely fictional; however, his role in the defense of Jerusalem is quite accurate, down to a powerful scene as the final battle approaches.
The problem: too few knights remain to defend the city. Most have died or fled. The Patriarch of Jerusalem points this out to Balian. Accepting his words, Balian gives a rousing speech and commands, “Every man-at-arms or capable of bearing them, kneel.” All comply. Approaching a young man, Balian recites his father’s words: “Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright, that God may love thee. Speak the truth even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless. That is your oath.” To the young man’s surprise, Balian slaps him and says, “And that’s so you remember it.” Balian then steps back, addressing the assembly, and says, “Rise, a knight.”
The bishop, who has witnessed all this, is not impressed and says to Balian, “Does making a man a knight make him a better fighter?” Balian looks the bishop square in the eye and says, “Yes.”
That actually happened, but for us today, we might be inclined to think like the bishop—putting lipstick on a pig doesn’t make a pig a beauty queen. However, that’s us today. Back then, being made a knight made you something new.
Being made a knight gave you land and privileges. It offered chances for advancement, political influence, and access to goods and services a commoner would never have. It meant entry into the aristocracy and more. But perhaps more importantly, a shift took place within. You actually became someone. People looked up to you; they called you “Sir.” Your sense of self-worth increased dramatically.
There was also a religious aspect, especially in Jerusalem. There, you became a true defender of the faith. For many, you were a Christian hero. The Pope essentially stated that serving as a knight in Jerusalem counted toward all penances you owed.
When the bishop asked, “Does making a man a knight make him a better fighter?” Balian’s “Yes” carried all this weight, and those who took the knee believed it. No longer were they blacksmiths, farmers, peasants, or even slaves. They were now great defenders of the faith, and for those who truly believed, it would have meant a great deal and, in fact, made them knights and better fighters.
And if you have figured out by now that I’m not talking about the knights of Jerusalem but about those to be baptized into the Christian faith, give yourself a gold star.
Today, we have ____ who will be baptized into Christ’s one holy catholic and apostolic Church. Yet some might ask, “Does water make someone a child of God any more than a sword makes someone a knight?” The answer: Yes! Because neither baptism nor knighthood is merely about water or swords. Both are about a new allegiance, a new identity, and a new life.
Behind that, yes, lie forgiveness of sins, participation in Christ’s death and resurrection, the renunciation of Satan and evil forces of this world, the desire to fight sin and injustice, and true loyalty to Christ Jesus as Lord and Savior. Baptism also opens participation in the community of faith in thought, word, and deed, the call to commend the faith that is in you, and more. Through baptism, you become a citizen of the Kingdom of God and take on all the benefits and duties of a child of God, as has been practiced throughout the Church’s history.
Finally, I won’t be slapping anyone to make them remember it, but we will chrismate all those baptized with the oil blessed and set aside by the bishop. As the sign of the cross is made on the forehead, the words are spoken: “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.” This sealing in the Holy Spirit helps us remember all that has been done for us and all that we have vowed to do ourselves.
Given all this sacrament of baptism accomplishes in a person, I say, “Dam up the Cimarron and let’s baptize everyone.” Or, according to the Book of Common Prayer on page 301, “The candidates for Holy Baptism will now be presented.”
Jesus said, “Every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”
“Every scribe.” We heard this reading just a few Wednesdays ago when we studied Alcuin, who was a librarian of sorts. It also appears when we celebrate the great historian, the Venerable Bede; the theologian, Thomas Aquinas; and a more contemporary writer we studied at length, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. We hear this reading and understand that our Saint’s gift involved the Church’s writings. Ephrem of Edessa, whom we celebrate today, is no different.
Early on, he served in the household of Bishop Jacob of Nisbis, and it is likely that he attended the Council of Nicaea (where the Nicene Creed was composed) with the Bishop in 325. Following the Bishop’s death, Ephrem remained in service to Jacob’s successors but was eventually forced to flee following the Persian invasion. He then settled in a cave, where he lived out the remainder of his life.
Although he lived an austere life, he remained active in preaching and writing and was ordained a deacon. Of his writings, he not only wrote the hymn we read but also over 400 others used to teach the orthodox faith, which is how he became known as “The Harp of the Holy Spirit.” He died in 373 from exhaustion while caring for the sick.
There is much for Ephrem to be remembered for, but his role as “scribe” stands out most. For some, his writings are a bit too flowery, but many others find great beauty and comfort in them. In one particular hymn, he addresses the Upper Room where the Last Supper was held: “O blessed spot! No one has seen or shall see the things which you have seen. In you the Lord himself became true altar, priest, and bread and chalice of salvation. He alone suffices for all, yet none suffices for him. He is Altar and Lamb, victim and sacrifice, priest as well as food.”
In the Gospels, Jesus is never pleased with the scribes. He sees them, along with the Sadducees and Pharisees, as placing stumbling blocks before the people, at one point saying, “But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them.” Yet Jesus says that what is needed to be a faithful scribe is one “who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.” It is one who understands the writings of those who have gone before and recognizes that those writings speak of and point to the Savior.
Jesus said, “For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” Ephrem was one who, through his writings, gave us a “cup of water to drink,” and therefore has received his reward. We give thanks for him and all those who have passed on such knowledge, which leads to salvation through Jesus.
Groucho Marx said, “If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I would be happy to do it for you.” And the Tunisian Prime Minister, Habib Bourguiba, wrote, “Happy is the person who can laugh at himself. He will never cease to be amused.” We know that laughing at ourselves, or self-deprecating humor, can have a healthy side, but it can also become detrimental. We say something about ourselves that makes others laugh, but on the inside, we actually believe it. Example: “My romantic strategy is simple: I just wait for someone to make a terrible mistake and fall in love with me.” In addition, most of the time, we don’t need to laugh at ourselves, because the world can pour it on just fine. That is not only true of who we are, but also of our faith. In fact, the world has been great at ridiculing and laughing at those who act in faith.
There’s Noah. He’s an easy one. Can you imagine the grief they must have put him through? According to Scripture, it took him 50-100 years to build the Ark. All the while, everyone was watching, and I’m certain they were laughing. When he started gathering the animals, think of the ridicule. How stupid could a person be?
Then there was Abram, who became Abraham, whom we read about today. Can you imagine: Abram starts packing up his house. The neighbors stop by and ask, “Hey, Abe, what are you doing?” His response, “The Lord spoke to me and said, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.’” Can you imagine the ridicule and laughter? “You can’t even pack your camel correctly, and the Lord is going to make a nation out of you? Please.”
When David was just a boy, he went up against the giant Goliath. His brother saw him coming and berated him. The King, Saul, said, “You’re just a boy. You’ve got no chance” (cf. 1 Samuel 17:33). Then, Goliath laughed and sneered. “Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks?… Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the beasts of the field.” (1 Samuel 17:43) All of them rebuked him and, I’m certain, laughed at him, not only the Philistines but his own people. “You’re nothing but a child. Go home to mama.” But what St. Paul would later write to the Corinthians was just as applicable to these: “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.” (1 Corinthians 1:27–29)
Noah, his family, and the animals were saved from the flood, while the world perished around them. Abraham walked the earth 4,000 years ago, and we are part of the great nation established through him, which continues to grow and expand. David struck down Goliath with a single small stone and became the greatest King Israel has ever known, and his lineage produced Jesus. God chose the weak, the despised, the lowly, and the ridiculed to accomplish His work, so that it was clear to all that the victory was God’s alone.
If these three were the only examples in Scripture, we could say, “Everybody gets lucky on occasion,” but in truth, it is the way of God. And the pattern continues. Gideon’s 300 defeated an army. Esther saved her people. A young girl named Mary said yes to God and bore the Savior of the world.”
Again and again, God works through the foolish, the weak, and the ridiculed, overturning the expectations of the powerful.
In our Gospel reading, we find two more examples. First is the calling of Matthew. Jesus said, “Follow me,” and Matthew did. That evening, Jesus had dinner at Matthew’s house, and many other sinners were present. Seeing this, the Pharisees said, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” They ridiculed Jesus and, I imagine, laughed at his foolishness. I suspect their comments were like those of the Pharisee who invited Jesus to dinner. You’ll recall that the “sinful woman” came and washed Jesus’ feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and then anointed them. The Pharisee thought, “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner.” (Luke 7:39) I can hear them saying the same thing about Matthew and his companions.
The second incident in the Gospel involves Jesus. The little girl has died, yet through her, Jesus intends to demonstrate the power of God. He says to the crowd, “‘Go away; for the girl is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him.” They believed that only God has power over life and death, and, in their understanding, Jesus was merely a man.
Remember how Jesus’ hometown ridiculed him? They said, “Where did this man get this wisdom and these mighty works? Is not this the carpenter’s son? Is not his mother called Mary? And are not his brothers James and Joseph and Simon and Judas? And are not all his sisters with us? Where then did this man get all these things?” (Matthew 13:54-56) “We know this kid. Who does he think he is? He’s Joe’s boy. He’s nothing.”
When Jesus said to those gathered around the dead little girl that she was only sleeping, they laughed at Him. They knew she was dead and that only God could raise the dead. They were saying, “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing.”
However, you would think that after witnessing all the miracles the people would have believed, but even then there was still ridicule and disbelief. “‘He is possessed by Beelzebul,’ and ‘by the prince of demons he casts out the demons.’” (Mark 3:22)
Writing in the second century, the philosopher Celsus spoke sarcastically about Christianity and those who followed Jesus. He described Christians as “the most uneducated and vulgar persons” and “like a swarm of bats–or ants creeping out of their nests–or frogs holding a symposium round a swamp–or worms in a conventicle in a corner of mud.” Not what I would call high praise, but it is what many thought of Christianity and Christians. 2,000 years later, not much has changed. Should we be surprised? No. Jesus said, “A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master…. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household.” (Matthew 10:24-25)
Throughout history, God’s people have been ridiculed and laughed at for their faith. Yet no word or sneer from the outside has stopped us from moving forward. Yet, there is ridicule and laughter that can and does bring everything to a halt—when we attack ourselves. When we laugh or sneer at the faith that is in us. What does that look like?
“I’m not good enough. My sins are too great for God to hear me.” “God is too busy to be bothered with the likes of me and my little problems.” “What I want to say or ask just isn’t all that important, so I shouldn’t bother God with it.” “I’m too weak. I’m too foolish. I’m laughable in my relationship with God.” These and all the other “reasons” we come up with are simply ways of degrading and ridiculing who we are in God and in our faith. We’re laughing at ourselves, but not in a healthy way, and it is detrimental to our life with God.
Jesus says, “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” (John 15:7) There are no qualifiers in that statement like, “Ask whatever you want, as long as you’re as holy as me, and it better be important.” Jesus says, “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” (Luke 12:32) It is the Father’s pleasure to hear from us and to fulfill those things in accordance with His ways.
St. Paul says it so clearly: “Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession… Let us then with confidence—let us boldly—draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” (Hebrews 4:12, 16)
There are plenty in the world who will gladly ridicule and laugh at your faith. And you know… so what. They’ve been doing it since the beginning. Wish them a nice day and keep moving. As St. Josemaria Escriva says, “Don’t waste your time and your energy — which belong to God — throwing stones at the dogs that bark at you on your way. Ignore them.” (The Way) But also don’t do their job for them. Don’t undermine your own faith through self-condemnation and self-abuse. Instead, come before God’s throne of grace with boldness and confidence, come as His beloved children, and lay your heart before Him. It is His good pleasure to hear you.
Let us pray: “Loving and Merciful Father, we come before You knowing that You are ever present and attentive to the voice of our prayers. In the quiet of our hearts, we trust that You hear every petition, joy, and sorrow we lay before You. We place our anxieties and needs into Your compassionate hands, confident that Your steadfast love endures forever. Strengthen our faith, Lord, and grant us the grace to always accept Your holy will. Amen.”
A man has been visiting a therapist because he has been afraid of monsters living under his bed. He has been seeing this doctor for months. Every time he came in, the doctor would ask, “Have you made any progress?” Every time, the man would say, “No.” The man decided to see another doctor. When he went back to his other doctor and the doctor asked, “Have you made any progress?” he said, “Yes, I am feeling all better now.” The doctor asked, “What happened?” The man said, “I went to another doctor, and he cured me in one session.” The doctor asked, “What did he tell you?” The man said, “He just told me to cut the legs off my bed.”
My friend Stephen King, in his book Danse Macabre, discusses the three types of fear and later, in a social media post, sums them up. There is the Gross Out, the slimy stuff slapping you in the face; the Horror, things like giant spiders and the walking dead; and his favorite, the Terror. He describes it as, “when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute. It’s when the lights go out, and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there’s nothing there…” The monster under the bed is a terror.
For me, I can go with a little gross-out, but if it becomes too predictable or gratuitous, I’ll turn it off; however, it is wildly popular. Just consider the number of ways Jason killed off some witless teenager in the Friday the 13th movies. The Horror, I can go either way. For example, Sharknado should have won an Oscar, but when it gets into giant spiders or magical creatures, not so much. However, give me a good (or even bad) zombie movie, and I’ll buy tickets for everyone. Yet, the Terror, the slow burn, I’m sucked into every time. I’m more than happy to have a movie or book mess with my head.
There are many who live for the good scare, but even for those who don’t, fear is an exceptional motivator. Those who have figured this out down to a science are the ones trying to sell us something.
Using Mr. King’s scale, the marketing people use the Gross Out by making us afraid of a fungus that can turn our toenails yellow. They appeal to the Horror by reminding us that each and every morning, our breath is so bad that we scare the cat. And they attempt to create the Terror by telling us that our current insurance company won’t really help us following the inevitable and ever-present disaster. Politicians are particularly adept at the Terror—a vote for me can save you from world domination under my opponent (and if they call or text me one more time, I’m going to pray they are visited in the middle of the night by some fantastic Gross Out Terror).
What is curious is that—based on how and why these fears are employed—they often motivate us to action. I’ve got a yellow toenail; I’d better tell my doctor I need that medicine. I may have cat-scaring breath; I’d better buy that mouthwash. I’m afraid of world domination; I’d better vote for that candidate. We do these things, yet they are all equivalent to saying, “I’m going to saw the legs off the bed because of the monster under there.”
Fear motivates, and if there is one organization that learned this very early on, it is the Church. We are very good at it. The book we are reading now for book club, The Sinner’s Guide, has a tremendous chapter on it. Speaking of those who will suffer the torments of damnation, the author writes, “What will they say when they will find themselves stretched upon a bed of fire, surrounded by sulfurous flames, not for one short summer night, but for all eternity?” “If one of these unhappy souls, says a Doctor of the Church, were to shed one tear every thousand years, and if these tears accumulated to such a flood as to inundate the world, he would still be as far as ever from the end of his sufferings. Eternity would only be at its beginning.” (p.76) That’s a good motivator right there. However, last week I was reading one of several short devotionals by St. Alphonsus Liguori, and he wrote, “Although no punishment awaited those who love Thee not, I would never leave off loving Thee, and I would do all I could to please Thee.” (The Love of Jesus Crucified, p.172) That really made me stop and think.
What if there were no punishment—no hell? Don’t misunderstand. There is a hell, and I firmly believe it will be far worse than anything we can imagine, but, momentarily setting Scripture and Doctrine aside, what if there wasn’t? What if it were like the monster under the bed, something we’re told as little kids to make us behave, but that everyone really knows isn’t real? What if you were free to choose God or not, with no painful consequences for not choosing?
If you choose God, you receive eternal life and all that Jesus offers. If you don’t, well, maybe you just blink out or something. No pain, no punishment, none of that. You are free to do whatever pleases you. If that were the case, would you still be here today? Would you still try to follow Jesus’ commandments? If that were the case, would your relationship with God mean anything to you?
For some, the answer is, “Heck, no. I’m out of here.” For them, their relationship is based solely on fear. For that person, if there is nothing to fear, there is no reason to be here at all, because that relationship is master and slave, yet instead of God being the Master, fear is. Dispense with the fear, and the slave does whatever he or she wants. It is a purely transactional relationship—I’ll do what you say, and you keep me out of hell.
For others, when asked why they are here, they might answer, “I don’t know that I would be here, but I would certainly hope so. I want what Jesus offers.” This person has begun to understand that fear may have brought them here and into the relationship in the first place, but they’re beginning to sense that there is something more they are being drawn to. A shift has begun to take place, and that shift marks the beginning of transformation.
Finally, the third group answers in a way that brings us back to what Liguori said, “Although no punishment awaited those who love Thee not, I would never leave off loving Thee, and I would do all I could to please Thee.” For them, it is not about fear or even hope. It is a declarative statement that says, “I desire nothing but to be with my God, so if I have to renounce everything of this world and all it has to offer, I will do it. I will seek God alone.” This goes beyond transformation and marks the beginning of transfiguration—living into the fullness of the image of God within, the Image we were created in. As we read,
“God created humankind in His image, in the image of God He created them; male and female He created them.” (Genesis 1:27)
It is a desire to walk with God as Adam and Eve did in the beginning.
So, back to the original question: why are you here? Fear? Hope? Desire? For me, a truthful answer is: it depends on the day. Ask me today, and I will tell you that I am 98% here out of desire and 2% because, well… I am a priest. However, if you had asked me earlier in the week, when my stomach wasn’t behaving, my air conditioner hadn’t been working for over a week, I couldn’t sleep at night because it was hot, and the repair folks were being unresponsive… Let’s just say that it is a good thing I believe in hell, otherwise I would have called down the same Gross Out Terror on them that I want to visit the politicians.
I suspect the same is true for all of us. The prayer is that the trajectory always seeks the higher place, always desiring God above all else—diminishing fear, then transformation, and finally transfiguration. This is what we should desire because it is what God desires for us. Is that true?
Today is Trinity Sunday, the day we celebrate our Triune God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Speaking on behalf of the Trinity, Jesus said, “I no longer call you slaves… I call you friends.” (John 15:15) Jesus also said, “Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.” (John 14:23) Jesus desires that we be friends, and the Holy Trinity desires to take up residence within our souls. God calls each of us to desire Him as much as He desires us. If we can do so, only a fraction as much as He desires us, it is a very good beginning.
If you are here because you fear the alternative, you have begun. If you are here because you hope for Heaven, your hope will never be in vain. And if you are here because you desire God, fan the flames of that desire to an even greater degree.
Gregory of Nyssa wrote, “The one who climbs never stops going from beginning to beginning, through beginnings that have no end.” Regardless of where you are, never stop climbing and always increase your desire for a deeper relationship with God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Let us pray: (a prayer of Saint Anselm) O Lord, my God, teach us to seek you, for we cannot seek you unless you teach us, or find you unless you show yourself to us. Let us seek you in our desire; let us desire you in our seeking. Let us find you by loving you; let us love you when we find you. Amen.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
The hymn Jerusalem, taken from a poem by William Blake, alludes to a legend that tells how Joseph of Arimathea, a tin merchant and uncle of Jesus, once brought the boy Jesus to England on a trading journey, and suggests that Jesus once walked the shores of England.
The Legend of Glastonbury goes on to describe how, after the death of Jesus, Joseph and some of the other disciples came to England. It is said that upon arrival, Joseph planted his staff, which miraculously flowered and reportedly still does so each Christmas. A sprig is taken to Buckingham Palace every year as a reminder of the miracle. The church established under Joseph of Arimathea in Glastonbury is said to be the first church in England.
That may have been the beginning of the English Church, but its early history was quite rocky, and it wasn’t until the late 6th century that it began to experience more consistent growth.
In the year 596, Pope St. Gregory the Great sent Augustine, the near-sighted prior of an abbey, along with 30 other monks to England to convert the English to Christianity. This small band of monks landed on the Isle of Thanet, located at the southeast corner of England, in the year 597.
The territory was ruled by Ethelbert, king of Kent, who was wary of these Christians, but because his wife was a Christian, he allowed the monks to stay. Eventually, Ethelbert would convert to Christianity, which encouraged his citizens to do the same. On a single day shortly after Ethelbert’s conversion and baptism, some 10,000 English were baptized in the River Swale by Augustine and his fellow monks. Not bad for a day’s work!
Augustine was consecrated as the first Archbishop of Canterbury and is known as the “Apostle to the English.” Archbishop Sarah Mullally, whom we pray for each week, is the 106th Archbishop of Canterbury.
In our Gospel reading today, Jesus saw Simon Peter and the others fishing. He said to them, “Throw your nets out into the deep water for a catch.” Simon Peter’s response was, “Look, we’re fishermen. We know what we’re doing, and we’ve been out here all night trying. They aren’t biting, but just to satisfy you…” “They caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink.”
That event seems to be very accurate in describing the early history of the English Church. Casting and casting – 600 years of casting – then finally bringing in the catch when Augustine and his monks arrived. One of the many lessons in studying the life of Augustine and this era of English church history is persistence in faith. Recognizing that the goal is worth reaching, no matter the setbacks and hardships. This is true in the greater scheme of things and in our own lives.
Pip: There are days when only a strong moral principle stands between you and knocking someone’s hat off in the street. Fr. John opens with Melville, and somehow ends up at the Holy Trinity.
Mara: This episode follows that journey — from Moby Dick to Pentecost, from the veil between Heaven and Earth to what the Holy Spirit actually does inside a human soul. Let’s start with the gift itself.
Sermon: Pentecost and the Gift of the Holy Spirit
Mara: The central question here is one most people quietly carry: if the Kingdom of Heaven is real but unreachable, how do we actually touch it? That’s the tension this sermon sets out to resolve.
Pip: The setup is a Venn diagram — God and the Kingdom in one circle, us in the other — and the sermon asks what lives in the overlap. The anchor quote comes from Richard of St. Victor’s De Trinitate: “Love not only tends to another person, but also tends to sharing love. When two persons mutually love each other, they can love and be loved and communicate their riches, but they cannot share their love. For that, still another person is required, a companion of love. Thus, love can be realized by a duality of persons, but it can only be completed by a trinity of persons.”
Mara: So the Trinity isn’t an abstract theological puzzle — it’s the structural requirement for love to be complete. The Father and Son need the Spirit the way a shared joy needs someone to share it with.
Pip: And that architecture has a practical consequence. God didn’t create us because He needed a hobby. The sermon is clear: He created us to love us with the same love that moves within the Trinity, which means a conduit had to be built — something that runs both directions, Heaven to Earth and back.
Mara: That conduit arrives in two steps. First, the Son. Then, as the Eucharistic Prayer puts it, “he sent the Holy Spirit, his own first gift for those who believe, to complete his work in the world, and to bring to fulfillment the sanctification of all.”
Pip: The phrase “first gift” does a lot of work there. Not a consolation prize for the ascension — the intended completion of it.
Mara: Saint Cyril of Alexandria makes that explicit: the Spirit doesn’t substitute for Christ’s presence, it is his presence, dwelling inwardly where the incarnate Christ could only stand alongside. The sermon calls this ongoing — not a single Pentecost flame but a continuous exchange between the soul and God.
Pip: Which loops back to Melville. The Holy Spirit is, among its many offices, what keeps a person from methodically knocking people’s hats off. Useful work.
Mara: The sermon closes on Romans 8 — nothing in creation can separate us from the love of God — and frames Pentecost not as anniversary but as present tense. That inward, unbreakable connection is the gift being celebrated.
Pip: And if the Spirit is the conduit that holds Heaven and Earth together, the next question is what that looks like when we try to live it outward.
Mara: The thread running through all of this is proximity — the Kingdom closer than it looks, the Spirit already inside the veil.
Pip: The soul of God’s children, each one of us, is the address where the gift, the Holy Spirit, gets delivered.
One of the great epic tales begins with the simple line, “Call me Ishmael.” It is Moby Dick by Herman Melville. In the opening paragraph, he writes, “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos [his melancholia] get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off-then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
As I read that, I’m thankful that my strong moral principles also prevent me from going out into the street and knocking people’s hats off… or even knocking a few blocks off. However, I do confess that there are days when I would not place a bet on those moral principles. At those times, something else helps me keep my peace and my sanity.
Last week, we talked about the Kingdom of Heaven: what it is like and where it is located. We concluded that it is glorious and beyond description, and that its location lies just beyond a thin veil, as near to us as our skin. Just on the other side of the veil is the very throne room of our God, our Savior, the Saints, and the holy angels. However, we cannot cross the veil or even see through it, so how can we participate in the Kingdom of our God?
You are familiar with the Venn Diagram, even if you may not know it by name. It uses overlapping labeled circles to compare groups, showing both what makes each group distinct and what they share in common in the overlapping sections. For example, there are three circles: one labeled “Killing Machine,” the second “Cuteness,” and the third “Eternal Sleep.” In the overlapping section between “Killing Machine” and “Eternal Sleep” is “Vampire.” The center, where all three—“Killing Machine,” “Cuteness,” “Eternal Sleep”—overlap, is “Cat.” I’m thinking of one in particular. Within our life with God, there is something similar.
If there is a Venn diagram of this life with God, God and the Kingdom of Heaven are in one circle, and we are in the other. There is also a point where the two circles overlap—where the veil is pulled back. What can we find there? The best answer is the Sacraments, and the Holy Eucharist makes this most evident.
The Eucharist begins with things that are entirely of Earth and made by us—bread and wine. The circle with God and the Kingdom of Heaven includes the Person of Jesus Christ. When these two circles overlap—Bread and wine with Jesus—when the veil is momentarily pulled back through the Sacrament and the words of institution, the result is the Body and Blood of Christ. Heaven and Earth share space and produce the blessing. However, this is one-sided. Everything is directed and given to us. Yes, we give God our praise and thanks, but God wants more of us. He says clearly, “I am a jealous God,” so He wants to participate wholly in our lives, and He wants us to participate wholly in His—remember Jesus’ great priestly prayer: “I in them and you in me, that they may become perfectly one.” (John 17:23) So, how is this accomplished? The answer lies in more fully understanding the Holy Trinity, and the first part of that understanding is knowing why three, and not just one or many.
We know that God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—is outside of time. God has always been and is uncreated. God is. Period. The one definitive statement we can make about God is, “God is love.” This love is perfect. However, for it to be perfect, it can’t be held within one person; it must be directed at another, but not just any other. God’s perfect love must be directed at one who can receive and return the same perfect love. Therefore, we have the Father and the Son. They can both give and receive each other’s perfect love. However, for this perfect love to be complete, a third is required who can share and participate in a community.
Richard of St. Victor, in his study De Trinitate, writes, “Love not only tends to another person, but also tends to sharing love. When two persons mutually love each other, they can love and be loved and communicate their riches, but they cannot share their love. For that, still another person is required, a companion of love… Thus, love can be realized by a duality of persons, but it can only be completed by a trinity of persons.”
We say in the Nicene Creed that the Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. In a way, and don’t take this too far or we’ll all burn at the stake for heresy, the Father and the Son are like a husband and wife who have a child. The husband and wife love one another, and the child receives their shared love and returns it. It is in the love of these three that love is perfected and completed. But then God did something funny, something that really makes no sense whatsoever—God created us, but not because He was bored and needed a plaything. God created us so that He might love us with the same love shared within the Holy Trinity, and so that we might love Him to the best of our abilities. Yet, in order for that to happen, a part of Who He is must become part of who we are. God had to create a means —a conduit that goes both ways: Heaven to Earth and Earth to Heaven. As above, so below. The placement of this conduit came in two steps. First, God sent His Son, Jesus, and “to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.” (John 1:12-13)
Second, having become children of God, as we have been saying in the Eucharistic Prayer, “That we might live no longer for ourselves, but for him who died and rose for us, he sent the Holy Spirit, his own first gift for those who believe, to complete his work in the world, and to bring to fulfillment the sanctification of all.” (BCP 374) Through the giving of the Son and the sending of the Holy Spirit, the pathway from Heaven and Earth was established.
This pathway, which is the Holy Spirit, then allows us to participate in the love and life of the Triune God. It is the Holy Spirit who bears witness to our spirit, assuring us that we are indeed God’s children. It is the Holy Spirit who speaks to our spirit, enabling us to hear and receive the Word of God and to speak to God even when our own words fail us. It is the Holy Spirit who passes freely through the veil, both coming and going, so that God might dwell in us—so that the Kingdom of God is not only in our midst but within us as well. And it is the same Holy Spirit who holds us eternally to God, giving St. Paul the knowledge to say, “For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)
All this and more is the work of the Holy Spirit, including preventing me from going out into the street and knocking people’s hats off.
In a commentary on John, Saint Cyril of Alexandria summarized this work of the Spirit for us: “As long as Christ was with [the disciples] in the flesh, it must have seemed to believers that they possessed every blessing in him; but when the time came for him to ascend to his heavenly Father, it was necessary for him to be united through his Spirit to those who worshipped him, and to dwell in our hearts through faith. Only by his own presence within us in this way could he give us confidence to cry out, Abba, Father, make it easy for us to grow in holiness and, through our possession of the all-powerful Spirit, fortify us invincibly against the wiles of the devil and the assaults of men.”
Today, we celebrate the fire of the Spirit descending and lighting upon all God’s people, but this is not a one-time event. It is ongoing, a continuous giving and receiving of Heaven, of God working from within the soul of every believer.
On this Pentecost, give thanks for God’s presence in your life through the giving of His greatest gift, the Holy Spirit.
Let us pray:
O King of glory, send us the Promise of the Father, the Spirit of Truth. May the Counselor Who proceeds from You enlighten us and infuse all truth in us, as You have promised. Amen.
For this Season of Easter, the opening sentence of any Eucharistic service has been “Alleluia. Christ is Risen.” Following Pentecost, we’ll return to “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” However, what follows, no matter the season of the church year, is always the same: “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy Name; through Christ our Lord.” It is known as the Collect for Purity.
It began as one of the many private prayers for clergy to be said before the Mass, yet it was deemed too meaningful to be locked away in the sacristy and was eventually introduced into the public prayers of corporate worship.
What does that have to do with today? We are celebrating Blessed Alcuin of Tours, born in the year 730, who preserved and incorporated that prayer into our worship. Just because we worship with the 1979 Book of Common Prayer does not mean it is an entirely modern invention. Over the centuries, many like Alcuin have contributed to that wonderful little red book that automatically falls open to page 355.
Alcuin was one of the great scholars. At the time, he was considered “The most learned man anywhere to be found.” Fr. John Julian says that “Alcuin’s work was seldom highly original, but his own commitment was rather to the protection, compilation, and promulgation of the words of others.” Through these efforts, he “was chiefly responsible for the preservation of the classical heritage of western civilization.” And if that weren’t enough, he is also credited with giving the world the punctus interrogativus. Is that true? Did he really? What could that possibly be? Why, the question mark.
Jesus said, “Every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.” There is a theological interpretation of this passage, as well as a practical one, and it is the practical one that we understand to apply to Alcuin. The “scribe,” according to Sirach, is one who “will seek out the wisdom of all the ancients.” Think of it in terms of the George Santayana quote, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Alcuin not only sought out the wisdom of the ancients but, as Jesus taught, believed that the teachings of our fathers were worth preserving, not only for their historical value but for our collective benefit.
He died in the year 804, and a portion of his epitaph reads, “Dust, worms, and ashes now… Alcuin my name, wisdom I always loved, Pray, reader, for my soul.”
When we think of the lives of the Saints, we often think of the apostles, martyrs, or evangelists. So, in the midst of them all, did you ever imagine coming across a librarian? Alcuin’s life says to us, “It’s not about the specific gift that God has graced you with. It’s about how you employ that gift.”
God has graced each of us with gifts. Don’t squander them or leave them unused. Like Alcuin of Tours, practice them to your greatest ability in the work of God’s Kingdom.
Candle in a Cave 