In the eyes of many, Sir Harbottle Grimston was a great man in the English parliament of 1640. He rounded up and prosecuted many who he and others saw as traitors to the state. Bringing one such enemy of the state to trial, Grimston declared, “We are now fallen on that great man: look upon him as he is in his highness, and he is the sty of all pestilential filth that hath affected the state and government of this commonwealth. He is the man, the only man, that hath raised and advanced all those that, together with himself, have been the authors and cause of all our ruins, miseries, and calamities we now groan under.” Grimston won his case, and the man he was speaking of was taken to the tower and finally beheaded in 1643 for his crimes. However, today, we do not celebrate Grimston. Instead, we celebrate the one he saw beheaded: Archbishop of Canterbury, Blessed William Laud. You see, Grimston was a Puritan, and during their short-lived rule in England, they sought to remove anything and everything that looked, sounded, or tasted like a Catholic. I don’t know how he tasted, but William Laud very much looked and sounded like a Catholic, but he was also a staunch supporter of the Church of England and the monarchy, without separation of Church and state.
Laud looked and sounded so much like a Catholic that the Pope sent a special envoy to Laud and offered him a cardinal’s hat, stating that he would “accept clerical marriage, communion in both kinds, the English Prayer Book liturgy and only a conditional re-ordination for all priest” if Laud and the others would convert to Rome. Laud was not impressed with the state of the Roman Church, so he declined.
It would seem that Laud’s influence would have ended with his death, but when the Puritans were put out of power, it was the Church that Laud had somewhat envisioned that was restored.
Today, scholars and historians either hate all 5’2” inches of him, or they love him. One says he was a “ridiculous old bigot.” The other says, “Laud was the one man who prevented the English Church from being bound in the fetters of an iron system of compulsory Calvinistic belief.” Can I get an “Amen!” Another said, “He had the misfortune to think that he was born to set the world right.” I suppose we can always listen to what others say about someone, or we can listen to what that person says about themselves. On the scaffolds facing his execution, Laud said, “This poor Church of England hath flourished and been a shelter to other neighboring churches when storms fell upon them. I was born and baptized in the bosom of the Church of England. In that profession I have ever since lived, and in that I am now come to die… bless this kingdom [of England] with peace and charity, that there may not be this shedding of Christian blood amongst them.”
I do not know enough about his life to say one way or another, but I have learned that if you are making people angry on both the left and the right, you may be on the correct path… or a fool.
Jesus said, “Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven.” Archbishop William Laud had his strong points and faults, but he unashamedly acknowledged the Savior. So today, we celebrate one who believed, who died for what he thought, and who—unlike so many of the Saints we celebrate—was entirely… human.
One morning, Clotile woke up, looked at herself in the mirror, and rushed off to her doctor.
Breathless and panicked, she said, “Dr. Pierre, take a look at me. When I woke up this morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my hair all wiry and frazzled up, my skin was all wrinkled and pasty, my eyes were blood-shot and bugging out, and I had this corpse-like look on my face! What’s wrong with me, Doctor?”
Dr. Pierre looks her over for a few minutes, then calmly says, “Well, Clotile, I can tell you one thing… there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight.”
This past Wednesday, we celebrated the Feast of the Holy Name. A celebration of the name that God the Father gave His Son—Jesus. It is, without a doubt, the most powerful name throughout time because regardless of where and when it is spoken, it can generate powerful negative and positive emotions.
As I was preparing that sermon, I guess this one was percolating in the background because I want to come back to this idea of names, but today, instead of the names we are given at birth, I’m thinking about the names we give ourselves. For example, I can look in the mirror and think, “Now there’s one sexy beast.” Not really. Most of the time, the name I use when looking in the mirror is not so kind. And there are times when I look past the image I see in the mirror to my inner self, and the names can be even more cruel and hateful. I don’t imagine I’m the only one, so why is that? Why is it that we can be unkind to ourselves?
A few months back, we did a class by Lysa Terkeurst—Forgiving What You Can’t Forget. Most found it beneficial. I’m not sure if this is one of the major points she was trying to get across in the teachings, but one thing that has stuck with me has to do with the stories we tell ourselves. The stories of our lives with all the various players, the emotions (whether real or perceived), the joy or the pain experienced, and so on. We have these stories, and we tell them to ourselves.
If, in that story, we are the one that is hurt or done wrong, then every time we tell that story to ourselves, we re-enter it, and in those negative stories, all the hurt, pain, and anger resurfaces. We experience it all over again. That’s not a good thing because it does not allow us to heal. We remain in this rut, and over time, our lives are lived out of that rut, never experiencing joy or forgiveness.
In the telling of these stories, we give ourselves names. With the good stories, the names can be joyful: rock star, sexy beast, strong, faithful, obedient, happy. But in those other stories, the negative ones are where we employ the cruel and hateful names. And, because the negative in our lives has far more significant influence over us than the positive, we come to believe those negative names we call ourselves are who we truly are. If someone calls you “stupid” enough times, you come to believe you are stupid. From a spiritual perspective, call yourself unholy, unloveable by God, unworthy, and damned enough times, and guess what? You start to believe that as well.
To get ourselves out of the rut of the story and to begin to have a better view of ourselves, Lysa suggests that we rewrite the script of that story. For example, if there is a story in your life where someone hurt you, or you were the one doing the hurting, you can tell yourself that story repeatedly, each time experiencing the same pain, anger, and resentment you’ve always felt. The rut continues to hold you on the path, but what if you rewrote the script? What if you said, “I’m no longer going to be angry or hurt.” What if you said, “Instead of feeling angry or hurt at someone else or myself, I will rewrite the script. When I begin to tell myself that story again, instead of becoming angry at them or myself, I will choose to forgive. Instead of raging in my mind and continuing down that path, I’m going to forgive the person who hurt me, or I’m going to forgive myself and accept the forgiveness that comes from God.” It doesn’t fix it overnight; it is a process that requires patience, but over time, you begin to tell a story of forgiveness, not anger and resentment.
This same principle applies to the names we call ourselves. We must begin to rewrite that script as well, but what do we replace them with?
“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”
In the Catechism at the back of the Book of Common Prayer, the question is, “What is Holy Baptism?” The answer is, “Holy Baptism is the sacrament by which God adopts us as his children and makes us members of Christ’s Body, the Church, and inheritors of the kingdom of God.” (p.858)
Jesus was God’s son, so he did not need to be baptized and adopted; however, Jesus’ baptism demonstrates how we can be adopted and become sons and daughters of God. Jesus is showing us the way to the Father.
At His baptism, Jesus heard the words of the Father, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Henri Nouwen writes, “These words revealed the true identity of Jesus as the beloved. Jesus truly heard that voice, and all of his thoughts, words, and actions came forth from his deep knowledge that he was infinitely loved by God. Jesus lived his life from that inner place of love.” (Source, January 2)
How is it that Jesus could submit Himself to the horrors of the cross? He understood that, regardless of all that would come against Him, all that was said about Him, and all that was done to Him, He was the Beloved Son of God. In the face of it all, He could say, “I am the Beloved.” And in knowing that, He could trust the Father to see Him through.
How do we move away from the hateful and cruel names we call ourselves? Through your baptism, you have become God’s daughters, God’s sons. Of this, Nouwen writes, “I know now that the words spoken to Jesus when he was baptized are words spoken also to me and to all who are brothers and sisters of Jesus. My tendencies toward self-rejection and self-deprecation”—my tendencies to look in the mirror and speak cruel and hateful words—“make it hard to hear these words truly and let them descend into the center of my heart. But once I have received these words fully”—I am also the beloved—“I am set free from my compulsion to prove myself to the world and can live in it without belonging to it. Once I have accepted the truth that I am God’s beloved child, unconditionally loved, I can be sent into the world to speak and to act as Jesus did.” (Ibid.)
You can look in the mirror and speak words of hate, but how can you hate what God loves so dearly? Rewrite the script. You are not the person in the stories that you tell yourself. You are the beloved of God. Rewrite the script. Imagine for a moment what your life could be if you lived into that knowledge, that place of love. Imagine what it would be like to look in that mirror and say, “I am the beloved of God.” And not only say it but believe it.
In our first lesson from Genesis, we heard how God separated the light from the darkness. “Let there be light.” The author then tells us, “And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.”
Look into the mirror of your soul and say to it, “I am the beloved of God.” Believe it, and let this be the day God separates the light from the dark within you. Let this be your first day.
Let us pray: Father in Heaven, You made us Your children and called us to walk in the Light of Christ. Free us from darkness and keep us in the Light of Your Truth. The Light of Jesus has scattered the darkness of hatred and sin. Called to that Light, we ask for Your guidance. Form our lives in Your Truth, our hearts in Your Love. Amen.
Question: How does your name make you feel? Do you like it? Do you wish your parents had been a bit more creative? Turns out, our names impact who we are, how we perceive ourselves, and how others perceive us.
“The psychology of names in the context of humans is a rich and complex subject that touches upon culture, identity, and perception. Names are not just words; they are the essence of who we are, representing our heritage, values, and aspirations. They have the power to shape our self-identity and influence how others see us. In a world of diverse cultures and traditions, names are a reminder of the beauty of human individuality and the shared bonds that connect us across generations.”
John is a relatively common name; it is the third most popular name in the last 100 years. As of 2022, I share the name John with 4,354,502 others. That said, I like it. It seems to fit my vocation as a priest, and when I think of it in those terms, I feel more related to John the Baptist than the Apostle John—although they both influence how I understand myself.
Today, however, we celebrate a different name—the Holy Name of Jesus. (Officially celebrated on Monday.) The name “Jesus” is from the Hebrew Joshua, or Yehoshuah, meaning “Yahweh is salvation” or “Yahweh will save.” It was the name given to Jesus by his Father. As we read in St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians:
Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
The name Jesus is interesting and has wildly varying effects on people. It can cause some to give thanks and others to rage. It is a name that can bring peace and ravaging wars. It is truly the name above all names, but why so much division? Why so much discord when it is spoken? There are many different answers, but one thing is for sure: we can either contribute to the rancor or help bring about greater peace, for in the same way that people recall the name of an Ernest Hemingway novel when they hear my last name—For Whom the Bell Tolls—they will or will not recall the name of Jesus when they hear yours. Consider a Stradivarius violin.
Stradivarius is the name associated with the finest violins in the world. This is true because Antonius Stradivarius insisted that no instrument constructed in his shop be sold until it was as near perfection as human care and skill could make it. Stradivarius observed, “God needs violins to send His music into the world, and if any violins are defective, God’s music will be spoiled.” His philosophy was summed up in one sentence: “Other men will make other violins, but no man shall make a better one.”
Each violin was unique in itself, but each was the finest instrument of its kind. If not, Stradivarius would not attach his name to it. If he had, then the instruments he attached his name to would not have been considered of such great value, and in turn, his name would have been smeared and his influence forgotten.
In a similar manner, as the Christian people, the name of Jesus is attached to us, and if we are not viewed as the holy instruments of our God, then we tarnish the name of Jesus. In the process, we drive people away from the Truth and, in many cases, make them enemies of God.
You bear the most holy name in history: Jesus. When people speak your name, may the name they also recall in their minds be that name: Jesus, because, through you, they have experienced Him.
A man appeared before St. Peter at the pearly gates. St. Peter asked, “Have you ever done anything of particular merit? Anything that might have revealed the goodness of God in the world?”
“Well,” the man said, “once I came upon a gang of bikers who were threatening a young woman. I approached the largest and most heavily muscled biker and smacked him on the head, kicked over his bike, ripped out his nose ring, and threw it on the ground. ‘Now leave her alone!’ I then yelled.”
St. Peter was impressed: “When did this happen?”
“Just a couple of minutes ago.”
Tonight, we heard of the angels appearing to the shepherds proclaiming the birth of Jesus. It began, “Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” As I studied that, I began thinking about the “glory of the Lord.” Throughout Scripture, we are told of several encounters with God’s glory, and what’s interesting is that as history progresses, we are allowed more and more access to this glory.
Moses went up on the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments. Afterward, “Moses said, ‘Please show me your glory.’… But, [the Lord] said, “You cannot see my face [my glory] for man shall not see me and live.”
Later, the Prophet Ezekiel will have a grand vision of the Lord. Ezekiel spoke of the living creatures, the angels that were serving the Lord, and then “above the expanse over their heads there was the likeness of a throne, in appearance like sapphire; and seated above the likeness of a throne was a likeness with a human appearance.” There was something like gleaming metal and fire. There was a brightness and a rainbow around Him. A magnificent sight. Ezekiel concluded, “Such was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.” God’s glory is out there yet unapproachable, but later, with Jesus, the glory of the Lord comes closer.
St. John tells us, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” At the Transfiguration of Jesus, we are told that Peter, James, and John witnessed the glory of the Lord, and finally, in the New Jerusalem at the end of days, we will forever live in God’s glory. From John’s Revelation, “I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb.”
The glory of the Lord drew closer, and what is so amazing is that through Jesus, we now share in this glory. It is a part of us. On the night before He was crucified, Jesus prayed, “The glory that you have given me I have given to them, that they may be one even as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become perfectly one, so that the world may know that you sent me and loved them even as you loved me.” The glory of God seen by the shepherds on the night Jesus was born and revealed throughout scripture is in you, but can we see it? Moses, Ezekiel, the shepherds, the Apostles, and, in the end, everyone will actually see the glory of the Lord, but what about us? What about today? If it is in us, is it something that is hidden within, or does it visibly shine? Answer: perhaps you can’t see it in yourself, but you can witness it in others.
Author Donna Ashworth published a collection of poems, Wild Hope, which includes the poem You. “If every single person who has liked you in your lifetime, were to light up on a map, it would create the most glitteringly beautiful network you could imagine. Throw in the strangers you’ve been kind to, the people you’ve made laugh, or inspired along the way, and that star-bright web of you, would be an impressive sight to behold. You’re so much more than you think you are. You have done so much more than you realise. You’re trailing a bright pathway that you don’t even know about. What a thing. What a thing indeed.” (Source: Wild Hope)
St. Irenaeus (d.202 a.d.) is one of the Church Fathers and a great early theologian. He writes, “The glory of God is a person fully alive, and the life of a person is the vision of God.” What did Irenaeus mean? The answer relies on understanding that the person who is the “vision of God” is not just any person. It is Jesus who revealed the Father. So, the glory of God is a person fully alive, and the person is fully alive when Jesus is revealed in them. A person is fully alive when the vision of God, Jesus—God’s Glory—is witnessed in their life as they trail a bright pathway of God’s love and glory behind them.
You don’t have to go live in the desert eating only bread and salt and praying the Psalms all day, every day, to reveal the glory of God and enter His Kingdom. You don’t have to become a missionary in some distant land to show Jesus to the world. You don’t even have to take on a gang of bikers to demonstrate the goodness of God. So, what must you do? Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” What must you do to reveal the vision of God? Let the glory of Jesus that is in you shine before others just like it shown around the shepherds on that hillside outside of Bethlehem. Let others see the glory of the Lord in you, and they will say, “Let us go and see what the Lord has made known to us,” and they too will glorify and praise God.
You have God’s glory within you. Turn it into a bright pathway so that others may join us in coming before the child in the manger to see and receive this gift from Our Father.
Let us pray: Lord our God, with the birth of your Son, your glory breaks on the world. Through the night hours of the darkened earth, we, your people, watch for the coming of your promised Son. As we wait, give us a foretaste of the joy that you will grant us when the fullness of his glory has filled the earth, who lives and reigns with you for ever and ever. Amen.
Within our sanctuary, by the altar, is the tabernacle. Above it, the red sanctuary lamp burns, indicating that the consecrated bread and wine—the body and blood of Our Lord—are present.
For some, the bread and wine (in many cases, grape juice) are only representations or symbols. For others, they hold a slightly higher place and point to something greater but remain bread and wine. For us, we believe that the bread and wine maintain the form of bread and wine but do, in fact, become the body and blood of Jesus, but is there any proof that this transformation has taken place? It is a question of faith, but I came across the following article that may get you thinking about it. (You’ll hear this again on a Sunday.)
“On the evening of the last day of his October 1995 visit to the United States, John Paul II was scheduled to greet the seminarians at Saint Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore. It had been a very full day that began with a Mass at Oriole Park in Camden Yards, a parade through downtown streets, a visit to the Basilica of the Assumption, the first cathedral in the country, lunch at a local soup kitchen run by Catholic Charities; a prayer service at the Cathedral of Mary Our Queen in North Baltimore; and finally a quick stop at Saint Mary’s Seminary.
The schedule was tight so the plan was simply to greet the seminarians while they stood outside on the steps. But the Pope made his way through their ranks and into the building. His plan was to first make a visit to the Blessed Sacrament.
When his wishes were made known, security flew into action. They swept the building paying close attention to the chapel where the Pope would be praying. For this purpose highly trained dogs were used to detect any person who might be present.
The dogs are trained to locate survivors in collapsed buildings after earthquakes and other disasters. These highly intelligent and eager dogs quickly went through the halls, offices and classrooms and were then sent to the chapel. They went up and down the aisle, past the pews and finally into the side chapel where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved.
Upon reaching the tabernacle, the dogs sniffed, whined, pointed, and refused to leave, their attention riveted on the tabernacle, until called by their handlers. They were convinced that they discovered someone there.
We Catholics know they were right—they found a real, living Person in the tabernacle!” (Source)
Today, in our Gospel reading, we hear the story of Jesus appearing to the disciples in the upper room. On that first visit, Thomas was absent. When the other disciples tell him about it… you know the story—Doubting Thomas. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
A week later, the Lord appears again, and Thomas is present. Jesus says to him, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”
“Upon reaching the tabernacle, the dogs sniffed, whined, pointed, and refused to leave, their attention riveted on the tabernacle, until called by their handlers. They were convinced that they discovered someone there.” I am convinced that if those dogs, while sitting in front of the tabernacle, could have spoken, they would have professed the same words as Thomas, “My Lord and my God!”
On this Eve of the Feast of St. Thomas, when you receive the Blessed Sacrament, recognize that hidden within is your Lord and your God and receive Him with great humility and thanksgiving.
On May 25, 1961, President John F. Kennedy made a speech to Congress titled Urgent National Needs. Among other items, he stated, “I believe this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to earth.” He concluded, “In a very real sense, it will not be one man going to the moon… it will be an entire nation. For all of us must work to put him there.” (Source)
In her book Resonate, Nancy Duarte picks up a part of the story. “Later in the 1960s, JFK was touring NASA headquarters and stopped to talk to a man with a mop. The president asked him, ‘What do you do?’ The janitor replied, ‘I’m putting the first man on the moon, sir.’ This janitor could have said, ‘I clean floors and empty trash.’ Instead, he saw his role as part of the bigger mission that was to fulfill the vision of the president. As far as he was concerned, he was making history.”
Growing up in Louisiana, I remember even there, we could have these cold and rainy Saturdays. A bit too unpleasant to be out, so my brother and I would set up a card table between our twin beds and put together a puzzle. Maybe 250/300 pieces. Nearing the end, we both wanted to place the last piece, so we took to hiding one (or, at least, I did). All the pieces but that one were in place, then you could snatch it out of your pocket and have the thrill of finishing the puzzle. However, there were other times when neither of us would hide a piece, but there would still be one missing, so we would crawl around on the floor searching and only give up once it was found. Why would we do that?
If it was a 300-piece puzzle of a deer in the woods and the piece missing was the head of the deer, I could understand it, but most of the time, it was some random bit of sky or a part of a tree. A piece that was missing but did not detract from the overall picture. You knew what it was. Yet, we would search, and I’m guessing you would too. It’s not that you can’t tell what the picture is supposed to be. It’s just that it is not complete. You look at the picture, and the only thing you can see is the hole where that missing piece belongs. Perhaps a minor part of the overall image, but without it….
Jesus said, “What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly, I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray.” (Matthew 18:12-13) The puzzle is incomplete without the one piece, and the flock is incomplete without the one sheep. Each piece and each sheep fulfill a purpose that completes the whole.
In the time of Jesus, we know that the people were looking for a Messiah, but they were also looking for the coming of a particular prophet. In the last book of the Old Testament, Malachi, and the second to last verse of that book, the Lord says through Malachi, “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes.” (Malachi 4:5) The people were looking a Messiah and for Elijah. Why Elijah? In 2 Kings 2, we see that Elijah did not die but was carried away into Heaven by a whirlwind. The people were looking for Elijah, the great prophet, to return the same way he went. This is why, in our Gospel reading today, we read that “the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, ‘I am not the Messiah.’ And they asked him, ‘What then? Are you Elijah?’ He said, ‘I am not.’ ‘Are you the prophet?’ He answered, ‘No.’” They were trying to ascertain whether or not John was the fulfillment of Malachi’s prophecy. Although John denies it, not believing that he is the Prophet, Jesus will say of John, “He is Elijah who is to come.” (Matthew 11:14b)
However, following John’s denial, the priests will say to John, “‘Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?’ [John] said, ‘I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.’”
In the overall picture, John was unsure who he was, but when asked, “Who are you?” He knew his exact purpose and fulfilled that purpose, preparing the way for Jesus.
President Kennedy asked, “‘What do you do?’ The janitor replied, ‘I’m putting the first man on the moon, sir.’” The priests asked John the Baptist, “Who are you?” Put another way, the priests asked John, “What do you do?” And John said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.” Question: what do you do? We are each a piece of the puzzle of God’s plan on earth. Without you—even if, like John, you are uncertain as to what part you play, and even if you think you’re a minor detail of the overall image—the picture is incomplete without you. What do you do? You can’t say, “I serve no purpose.” If you have a heartbeat, you serve a purpose, so what do you do?
If you already know or have an idea, then I pray you are fulfilling your purpose. If unsure, go through a discernment process, intentionally seeking out how God would like to use you. Once you discover it, go to work. What we cannot do is ignore our purpose, thinking someone else will do it. Our piece in the puzzle is as specific as John’s and even Jesus’. Therefore, our last words should be the same as Jesus’ last words, “It is finished.” We should be able to confidently speak those words, knowing that we have finished God’s will and His purposes in our lives.
The Lord says,
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” (Isaiah 43:1b)
You were the lost sheep. God went out and found you. Jesus redeemed you. You belong to God. He has a purpose for you. Discover it, and if you have, put it to use in His Kingdom. The work of His Kingdom and His Church needs you. We are making history, and you are a part of it.
Let us pray: Loving Father, faith in Your Word is the way to wisdom. Help us to think about Your Divine Plan so that we may grow in the truth. Open our eyes to Your deeds, our ears to the sound of Your call, so that our every act may help us share in the life of Jesus. Give us the grace to live the example of the love of Jesus, which we celebrate in the Eucharist and see in the Gospel. Form in us the likeness of Your Son and deepen His Life within us. Amen.
Fr. John Julian writes: “When a martyr lives and dies in Sicily, has a world-famous song written about her which is still sung 1500 years after her death [Santa Lucia], has her name included in the Canon of the Roman Mass, is listed in the oldest Christian Sacramentaries, has two churches dedicated to her in pagan England before the 8th century, is the most popular saint in Sweden and Norway, had her biography written by a member of the Saxon royal family, and a poem about her by John Donne, and whose feast day was originally the date of the winter solstice, she has to have been some remarkable lady! And such a person is Saint Lucy—the ever-popular Santa Lucia.” (Stars in a Dark World)
Legend has it that Lucy was born to a noble Sicilian family but secretly decided to remain a virgin and dedicate her life to Christ. Since her mother was unaware of this commitment, she promised Lucy to be married, but when Lucy finally told her of her intentions, her mother allowed Lucy to do as she pleased. However, the suitor was sorely disappointed; he was looking forward to a sizable dowry, so he became angry when the wedding was called off. He turned Lucy into the governor for being a Christian, which was illegal under the current emperor, Diocletian. Brought before the governor, she refused to recant her faith and was ordered to work in a brothel, but when the guards came to take her away, they could not move her from the spot she stood. It only gets gruesome from there, but she was put to death for her faith—a virgin martyr.
Using the old Julian calendar, her feast day, December 13th, was the winter equinox, which is the return of the light with longer days. Given that her name in Latin means light, you can understand why those in the far northern hemisphere would celebrate the Saint who brings the light and the lengthening of daylight to their short winter days. Such is her renown that in these Scandinavian countries, on this night, it is said that you may hear cattle speaking or see running water turn to wine. If, during this season, you have ever seen a young girl wearing a white dress with a red sash and crown of candles, then you have seen a representation of Santa Lucia.
It is a beautiful way to celebrate the season, but it and the equinox also remind us of the words from John’s prologue, “The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” We celebrate this same coming of the Light through our traditions and celebrations, from the lights on our trees to the candles of the Advent wreath—all of which point to the birth of our Savior and the light He brings into the world.
Santa Lucia’s Song speaks of this coming, so I’ll close with it:
Night walks with a heavy step Round yard and hearth, As the sun departs from earth, Shadows are brooding. There in our dark house, Walking with lit candles, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!
Night walks grand, yet silent, Now hear its gentle wings, In every room so hushed, Whispering like wings. Look, at our threshold stands, White-clad with light in her hair, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!
Darkness shall take flight soon, From earth’s valleys. So she speaks Wonderful words to us: A new day will rise again From the rosy sky… Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!
Sixth graders and history do not always go well together. One budding historian wrote, “Ancient Egypt was inhabited by mummies and they all wrote in hydraulics. They lived in the Sarah Dessert. The climate of the Sarah is such that all the inhabitants have to live elsewhere.”
Another writes, “Writing at the same time as Shakespeare was Miguel Cervantes. He wrote Donkey Hote. The next great author was John Milton. Milton wrote Paradise Lost. Then his wife died and he wrote Paradise Regained.”
Finally, if you ask my Old Testament professor in seminary (we did not always see eye-to-eye), he would say that my answers to test questions were about as good as this, “Moses led the Hebrew slaves to the Red Sea where they made unleavened bread, which is bread made without any ingredients. Moses went up on Mount Cyanide to get the Ten Commandments. He died before he ever reached Canada.”
“What is history but a fable agreed upon.” (Bernard le Bovier de Fontenelle) Perhaps, but what many have repeated is true: history repeats itself, and there is a specific pattern, which Lord Byron summed up in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,
“There is the moral of all human tales: ‘Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory—when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption—barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but ONE page.” (Canto 04.108)
Regardless of the events, how they can be interpreted depends on who you ask. From the opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (I know, I know… too many quotes):
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.”
History is a peculiar thing. Some enjoy digging into it; others don’t remember what they had for breakfast and don’t care. And, I suspect for many, the history they most care about is their own, especially when you have more days behind you than before. At those times, we remember the good ol’ days when we were young and healthy, and the world seemed kinder and more innocent. Like pulling out old photographs and saying, “I remember when….” While looking at those photos, we can find ourselves longing for those days.
In our first lesson today, the Prophet Isaiah was “looking at some old photographs” and longing for those days.
Because of their sin, the Israelites had been conquered by the Babylonians and carried off into captivity. For 70 years, they were in exile. Now, Cyrus has conquered the Babylonians and allowed the Israelites to return, but things are not going well. There is infighting and turmoil, so Isaiah writes something of a Psalm, a lament. In doing so, Isaiah is looking at an old photograph. He is looking at where they are and longing for the past. In chapter 63, he says,
I will recount the steadfast love of the Lord, the praises of the Lord, according to all that the Lord has granted us, and the great goodness to the house of Israel that he has granted them according to his compassion, according to the abundance of his steadfast love. (v.7)
Isaiah then goes on to tell of the days of Moses—how the people had been captive in Egypt. How God had led the people through the divided waters of the sea and saved them, and how, finally,
Like livestock that go down into the valley, the Spirit of the Lord gave them rest. So you led your people, to make for yourself a glorious name. (v.14)
It is a glorious picture of the past, but now, Isaiah looks at their current circumstances. A world where the Lord is angry and has hidden His face from the people. How the Lord has allowed them to melt in the hands of their iniquities. So, looking at his old photograph, Isaiah says in chapter 64 (what we read today)
Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains might quake at your presence.
And a few lines further,
When you did awesome things that we did not look for, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
Isaiah is looking at an old photograph. The days of God’s glory, and praying, “Lord, do that again. Come in great power and save your people, like you did in the days of Moses.”
Like the Israelites in Isaiah’s time, the Israelites in Jesus’ time were also occupied and oppressed. This time, it wasn’t the Babylonians but the Romans—an equally oppressive regime. So, like in the time of Isaiah, the people are once again looking for God to act in a mighty way to bring about their freedom. The question that was always before them was, “When will the Lord return to us and save us?” Early on in chapter 13 of Mark’s Gospel, Jesus remarked on that day, so the people immediately asked, “Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign when all these things are about to be accomplished?” (v.4) The reading we heard today—darkened moon, heavens shaken, lesson of the fig tree—are all a part of Jesus’ answer. After saying all these things, He concludes, “Therefore stay awake—for you do not know when” these things will come to pass.
Amid tribulation, Isaiah held up a picture of the past and asked the Lord to return to the glory days. Jesus, on the other hand, amid tribulation, did not hold up a picture of the past. Jesus held up a picture of the future. Question: what did that picture show?
Father John, just read St. John’s Revelation! The seven seals being broken, the sky rolling up like a scroll, the star Wormwood crashing and bitter waters, death, blood, smoke, creatures that sting like scorpions, and things Stephen King couldn’t dream up on his wildest days. That’s the picture that Jesus held up of what is to come.
No. It is not. Not even close. Jesus held up a picture that showed a new heaven and, a new earth, and a holy city. A city where “the dwelling place of God is with man.” A city where God “will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.” When there, God “will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” The picture of the future that Jesus showed the people was a place where all things are made new. (cf. Revelation 21:1-5)
Jesus told the people, and in doing so, He’s telling us all that is to take place, not so that we will be afraid and run hide in the mountains, but so that we will be prepared. Those will not be easy times for anyone—the righteous or the unrighteous. So Jesus tells us to remain vigilant in our faith and persevere until the end. As St Paul tells us, “Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong. Do everything in love.” (1 Corinthians 16:13-14) Do these things and have life eternal.
Charles Dickens wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” And we can say with him, “These are the best of times, and these are the worst of times.” These are the best of times because Jesus has “conquered sin, put death to flight, and gave us the hope of everlasting life.” (BCP 835 #69) These are the worst of times because we are in the midst of what Jesus calls “birth pains.” (Mark 13:8) We are in the already and not yet; therefore, “clothe yourself with the Lord Jesus Christ” (Romans 13:14) and hold the picture of His future in your mind.
Let us pray: Come, King of all nations, source of Your Church’s unity and faith: save all humankind, Your own creation! Come, Lord Jesus, do not delay; give new courage to Your people who trust in Your love. By Your coming, raise us to the joy of Your Kingdom, where you live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever. Amen.
There was a priest who was such a golf addict that one Sunday, he called in sick and went golfing instead. An angel saw this and reported to God. “Let me handle this,” God said. The angel watched, but to his horror, the priest was playing the best game of his life. On the par three, seventh hole, the priest hit the perfect hole-in-one. The angel was livid. “I thought you were going to do something about this,” he said to God. “I am,” God replied. “Who’s he going to tell?”
Why a golf story? Because the game of golf was invented in Scotland. Why think of Scotland? The Apostle Andrew, the Saint we celebrate today, is the Patron Saint of Scotland. How did a Jewish fisherman from Israel end up the Patron Saint of Scotland? That answer is a bit more fuzzy, but there are two likely scenarios. The first legend tells of Andrew’s extensive travels and that on one occasion, he did come to Fife, a region of Scotland on the northeast shore of England, and established a church there, now known as St. Andrew’s. Perhaps more believable, the second legend is that some of Andrew’s relics were brought to Fife in the 4th century, and a church was built to house them. Whichever the case, Andrew became widely known throughout Scotland, and many churches were named in his honor. As Episcopalians, we also have a connection to Andrew, which is memorialized in the shield of the Episcopal Church.
Our connection starts, of course, with Holy Scripture. We know that Andrew was Peter’s brother and that he was the one, at least in John’s Gospel, who introduced Peter to Jesus. We also know that Andrew was the one who brought the loaves and fish to Jesus before the miraculous feeding. From there, history and legend tell us that, like the other Apostles, Andrew went out proclaiming the Gospel, which eventually led to his arrest and martyrdom. He was to be crucified like Jesus, but he did not deem himself worthy to be crucified in the same manner, so he was instead crucified on a saltire, an “X” shaped cross. This “X” was incorporated into the flag of Scotland, which has a blue background with a large white “X” across it.
As we learned a few weeks ago, following the American Revolution, the fledgling United States had no Bishops, so Samuel Seabury first went to England in an attempt to be consecrated, but when that failed, he went to Scotland, and the bishops there consented. The following two American bishops were consecrated in England, so when James Madison was consecrated by those three, Madison became the first fully American bishop and reunited the Scottish and English lines of the Episcopacy, which brings us to the Episcopal Shield.
As you are aware, on the shield is a large red cross in the center, the Cross of St. George—a shout-out to England because George is the Patron Saint of England, but also, in the upper left quadrant of the shield is that blue field, with the nine small white crosses. Those nine small crosses represent the nine original dioceses of the Episcopal Church, but they are also in the shape of a saltire, an “X” on a blue field, the Scottish flag, and a shout-out to Andrew.
As a Christian people, we are a part of something much larger than ourselves. We, gathered here today, are the Body of Christ, but we, gathered throughout the world and across the centuries, are also the Body of Christ. We stand alongside Andrew and all the others as a Testament to the wondrous workings of our God and the truth of His Word.
Candle in a Cave 