Investing in Love

In her book Walking on Water, the late author Madeleine L’Engle tells a story of an English friend whose husband was an officer in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War. Every day that her husband was away in service of his country was one of constant anxiety over his safety.

And then, one day, her husband was granted an unexpected visit home. With great joy, the woman left her husband and three small children in the house to go shopping for a celebratory dinner. But while she was away, her home was hit by a bomb in a surprise air raid, and her husband and three children perished.

For the remaining years of the war, the woman bravely persevered, quietly grieving, but she got on with her life. Her tragedy didn’t prevent her from being a productive member of society. She eventually met a man, and they fell in love. And when the man proposed marriage to her, the woman had to make what she deemed the most difficult decision of her life. She could play it safe by never marrying again and avoid the risk of being hurt again by investing in love. Or she could choose love, courageously remarry, have more children, and open herself to the possibility of suffering loss once again. As Madeleine L’Engle wisely puts it, “[i]t is easier to be safe than to be vulnerable. But she made the dangerous decision. She dared to love again.”

L’Engle later retold her friend’s story at a college that she was visiting. Afterwards, she was approached by a young philosophy professor who shared that her husband had died, but she would not do what L’Engle’s friend had done. She, in turn, would play it safe; she would refuse to be vulnerable, to use L’Engle’s words. Madeleine L’Engle noted that she didn’t think she would want to be a student in that professor’s philosophy classes.[1]

I tend to agree with L’Engle here. And yet I know that to love involves enormous risk. To bare one’s heart and soul to another takes profound courage. To cultivate relationships and to invest in lives beyond your own is a dangerous enterprise. It could lead to joy. But it also might expose you to profound suffering. It’s much easier to opt for safety.

Could this be the unstated reason why some people shy away from following Jesus? Is it that safety is more comfortable than vulnerability? Is the risk of relationship with God less desirable than the security of a life without God?

Peter’s rebuke of Jesus shows his reluctance to embrace the fullness of discipleship. Peter has already demonstrated his fear when trying to walk on water. Peter has already shown that he is risk averse. And yet, Peter has also chosen to drop everything of his past career and follow Jesus. Peter is now in conflict.

And the rubber hits the road shortly after Peter confesses that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God. It’s only then that Peter really begins to understand that following Jesus is more than mere lip service. It’s going to require sacrifice. It’s going to require loss. It’s going to require giving up control. And above all, it’s going to require getting behind Jesus, not trying to lead him where he wants to go, and not even trying to walk beside Jesus. To follow Jesus, you must be behind him. You must be all-in. No half measures will do.

No wonder this frightens Peter so much. No wonder his immediate instinct is to try to shield Jesus from future harm. But I also suspect that below the veneer of altruism, Peter isn’t merely trying to protect Jesus. He’s also trying to protect himself. Peters stands at a crossroads, just like Madeleine L’Engle’s friend. Do I take the path of love and go with the risk? Or do I play it safe and seal myself off from love? Am I all-in with Jesus, or am I simply giving lip service to discipleship without corresponding action?

It’s not surprising that Jesus calls Peter Satan, for Satan is lurking behind this encounter between Peter and Jesus. Satan is the one Scripture also calls the Accuser. The Accuser is the one who tempts Jesus in the wilderness, trying to lure him into doing the wrong thing for the right reason. And Satan does the same to us, just as he did to Peter. In the heat of discernment, when it’s most difficult for us to heed the voice of light rather than the voice of darkness, the voice of darkness masquerades as an angel of light.

Haven’t you heard the voice before? Don’t let your child grow up, because it’s better to smother him with safety than to accept the risk of letting him be free. Don’t date another person after your nasty breakup because your heart might get broken again; play it safe and don’t take a chance on love. Don’t dip your toe too much into the water of church life, or else you will be asked to share your gifts or your money. Don’t adopt the elderly dog who needs a home because she will soon die, and investing too much of your emotions in this pet will eventually lead to sorrow. Don’t risk your financial security by leaving a soul-killing job to do what you’ve always wanted to do. It’s better to play it safe. The voices never stop, do they?

So, I keep wondering whether the perceived contemporary malaise within Christianity isn’t so much about unbelief but rather about an unwillingness to accept the risk of relationship and to pay the price of being in love with God. Are we willing to put all of ourselves into a way of life that demands so much from us? Are we prepared for the risk involved? Can we own the fact that being a Christian is more than saying we are disciples of Christ because it involves living as if we are disciples? Are we prepared to invest in love?

And maybe this explains why church is so often an afterthought. Isn’t it easier and less risky for people to give their lives to sports, dance practice, clubs, and the academic arena than it is for people to give themselves to God? When we give ourselves fully to those other things, we have some tangible sense of what we will get in return. Rarely would we need to sacrifice our life for any of those things, and rarely would devotion to those things require us to part with what is most dear to us. Above all, if our investment in everything other than God works out as we hope, we gain something: a promotion, entrance into an esteemed school, even money.

But when we give ourselves to Christ, when we invest in his way of living, there’s a profound risk, and that frightens us. There’s the risk that our heart will be broken. There’s the risk that when we encounter suffering or death, we will be tempted not to believe in God. There’s the risk that when we give our hearts to relationships in the extended family of Christ, we will be responsible for the well-being of more people than we can handle.

At the end of the day, this risk doesn’t seem worth it, for there’s a lack of tangible evidence of what we shall gain in exchange for what we invest. If we can’t see God and if we can’t prove that God exists, aren’t we then just wasting our time on God? Aren’t we wasting our hard-earned money on God? Aren’t we throwing away our future to commit ourselves to something we don’t understand? And are we willing to hand everything over to God and trust that God knows what’s best for us, even if it makes no sense to us, even if we are disappointed, even if finding our life means losing what we most deeply treasure?

This, ultimately, is Peter’s dilemma. And it’s your dilemma and my dilemma as followers of Christ. We’re constantly at a fork in the road, and we can make one of two decisions. We can reorient our entire lives around God, the Gospel, and the Church, and we can accept the risk involved. Or we can play it safe and choose an easier, less committed path.

The problem is that this choice is too often made to be a choice for God and against the world, when really what we’re being asked to do is to choose life, not death. When we choose God, we also choose the world, because we commit ourselves to a way that desires nothing less than the full flourishing of all people.

If Christianity is honest and true, it won’t make easy promises. It won’t promise a life of worldly success or wealth. It won’t promise that you won’t be burned by the Church or be hurt at some point. It won’t promise not to ask you to share your talents and your money for God’s sake. And it certainly won’t promise to save your life.

But in accepting the risk, we choose love, and living out of love is the only way a Christian can live. To follow Christ, the cost is steep, but with God’s grace, the stumbling blocks of our lives can become launch pads into human flourishing. And the voice of light can hold more sway than the voice of darkness. For we live in the kingdom of Christ, and in that kingdom, the Accuser’s voice has no power. The only thing that has power is love, the voice of God, which invites us to forsake ourselves and get behind Christ. And when we do so, and no matter what we might lose, we will find the only life that is worth living.    

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 3, 2023

[1] Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York: Bantam, 1980), 192-193.

No Mere Hyperbole

I have a good friend who loves English choral music. Give him recordings of the music of Charles Villiers Stanford, C.H.H. Parry, and Herbert Sumsion, and he couldn’t be happier. My friend once told me about an experience he had while attending Choral Evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. He was overwhelmed by the gargantuan building and by the sound of the organ reverberating for ten seconds in the room after the last chord was released. The sheer size and beauty of the building was of jaw-dropping splendor. The music was utterly superb. It was like a little glimpse of heaven. And as my friend recounted the story in his heartfelt and colorful way, he said that he was so moved by the service that he simply wanted to take his American passport and throw it at the altar.

I had to laugh when I heard this story, because I know my friend was using a storyteller’s license to make the story engaging. The telling of the story was to some extent hyperbolic. But the fact remains that the sentiment underlying it all was completely genuine even though my friend would no more have renounced his American citizenship because of Choral Evensong than he would have sliced up his driver’s license. But the point is this: an experience in worship was so transformative that my friend’s only reaction was to imagine chucking what amounted to his official, secular identity at the altar. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but hyperbole that flowed out of a moment of heartfelt transformation.

When you hear the words of the apostle Paul, I wonder if you’re quick to accuse him of hyperbole in his speech. Admittedly, before I began to have a deeper appreciation for Paul’s integrity and wisdom, I often found his letters to be either obtusely theological or annoyingly hyperbolic. He uses imagery of a human body to describe the Church. He urges people to give up their own desires for the sake of the larger community. He even tells some people that it would be better if they didn’t marry so that they can control their unruly passions.

Paul always favors the community over the individual. He has one of his companions circumcised so that his message might be more readily received by Jews. Paul even suggests that the irreconcilable differences among groups of people are indeed reconcilable in Christ. In short, Paul seems ridiculously pollyannish, needlessly demanding, and at times, very much lost in his own head.

Not to mention, Paul has the obvious zeal of a convert, which he, of course, was. He does not mince words. He does not proffer a mealy-mouthed version of the Gospel. In fact, he suggests that the Gospel is both the best news imaginable and the most challenging thing to live out. Is it any wonder that many people love to dislike Paul?

Look, for instance, at his exhortatory words to the Romans in chapter 12. Present your bodies as a living sacrifice. Do not be conformed to this world. Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought. We are, individually, members one of another. This not only sounds preachy, but it sounds unrealistic if not incomprehensible, to some extent. I mean, come on, Paul, what else do you want us to do? Throw our passports at the altar?

Well, actually, I think he might. As I reflected on Paul’s words to the Romans, I couldn’t help but think of my friend’s humorous response to a glorious evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Yes, I think Paul might be asking us to throw our passports at the altar, and in this case, it’s no hyperbole. It is for Paul the Christian Gospel.

We can’t fully understand Paul’s argument here unless we consider the first eleven chapters of the Letter to the Romans. As Paul begins chapter twelve, he recommends a response among the Romans that hinges on his entire argument up to this point. To put it succinctly, in God’s mysterious providence, goodness, boundless mercy, and compassion, God has enabled the Gospel to be available to all, both Jews and Gentiles. God has given us the gift of the Holy Spirit to unite us in the prayer of the triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Therefore, Paul says, you are to live accordingly. Paul’s exhortations to offer ourselves to God, to be transformed by the renewal of our minds, to be humble, to live together amid our differences as one body, and to use our God-given gifts are all responses to what God has already done for us. They are responses to grace, a grace that is so hyperbolic that our responding actions seem ludicrous. Chapter twelve is the hinge-point where we shift from theological argument to hyperbolic action. It’s the moment where we throw our passports at the altar in response to God’s wondrous love.

But let’s be clear. Paul is not simply asking for our spiritual worship to be confined to dropping into church every week or for the renewal of our mind to be limited to reading an occasional religious book. He’s not simply asking for us to live in harmony with those who are similar to us or whom it’s easy for us to like. He’s not recommending that we use our giftedness in competition to be the best athlete or math student or musician. Paul says that the Gospel demands much more of us, something that sounds like pure hyperbole.

Our spiritual worship is giving everything we are and have to God. Everything. Our bodies, our minds, our hearts, and our possessions. And it’s letting go of our self-centeredness, our envy, and our resentment. Everything. We give it all up to God. The renewal of our minds means that we live and think according to the mind of Christ, not how we are often told to think in this world. The Gospel expects nothing less than living with a spirit of compassion and mercy toward our most hated enemies, including those who have wronged us. Using our gifts means undergoing the effort to thoughtfully discern the true gifts God has given each of us, all of which are different, and all of which are needed for the flourishing of God’s kingdom on earth.

Paul is asking us to throw our passports at the altar. This is no hyperbole. It’s not even really a metaphor. It’s the only proper response to an honest acknowledgment and appreciation of all God has done for us. When we recognize how generous God has been with us, we will find ourselves surprising ourselves by our own generosity.

When we throw our passports at the altar, we’re owning the fact that in baptism, a person is given a new citizenship, a citizenship in heaven. And that citizenship in heaven does not mean that we deny this world or fight it or reject it. It means that at some point our marker of identity in the country God has prepared for us defines us more than our identity in our nations of origin or biological families. Our God-given citizenship defines who we really are. That identity is what transforms our minds and hearts.

And when our minds and hearts are thus transformed, we will find ourselves truly free, because our earthly citizenship ultimately diminishes our capacity to live as fully as God desires for us, even though we are called to live in this world. Our vulnerability to the powers and principalities of this world means that we are always captive to fear, anxiety, wealth, status, power, and approval. When the powers and principalities have become our idols, we throw our money at the things that elevate us in the eyes of others, or the things that only make us individually happy. And we are usually  quite willing to throw so much of ourselves at those things, while God and his Church remain an afterthought. Which is why it’s no surprise that what the Gospel demands sounds like a hyperbole. It sounds unattainable because we have functioned and existed for so long in a foreign country that will never stop demanding more of us.

But God is different. God doesn’t demand more and more from us. God doesn’t really demand anything at all. God still loves us and gives to us and forgives us even when we cling fearfully to our pocketbooks and let everything but God suck up the hours of our day. God is simply always there ready for us to live out of response to the stupendous awareness that God gives infinitely of himself even when we turn to other gods.

But, I urge you, now—not later—is the hinge-point of our lives, where Paul’s words no longer sound like hyperbole. Now—not another time—is the moment for our minds and hearts to be renewed and transformed. This transformation should not elicit perfunctory obligation or a begrudging sense of duty. It should draw out of us a loving, heartfelt, genuine, willing response to the incredible generosity and love of God, which no longer seems like hyperbole. It is simply the right and only proper thing to do. In awe and amazement, we stand up, throw our passports at the altar, and we are truly free.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
August 27, 2023

Out of the Future

Astronomers tell us that it’s possible to look back in time. All we need to do is look at the night sky. Because the universe is so vast, even with light traveling at its own speed, light from an object in a remote part of the universe will reach us much longer after it emanates from its source. For example, with the naked eye, we can see stars in the Big Dipper, and when we do so, most of us are looking at light from before we were born. Unaided by telescopes, we can even see 2.5 million years into the past if we look at the Andromeda Galaxy.[1]

But what astronomers haven’t been able to find is a way to see into the future. To go there, we would definitely need a time machine. Although we could imagine precognition as a way of seeing into the future, the fact of the matter is that the future is off-limits from a scientific perspective. But theologically speaking, seeing into the future sounds a lot to me like what it means to have faith.

And faith is what Jesus and his disciples see coming towards them from the region of Tyre and Sidon in Matthew’s Gospel. Significantly, the Canaanite woman is coming out of the region towards them. It’s not clear from the Greek text whether Jesus goes into that foreign country or not. But as the woman approaches them, crying for help, it’s as if Jesus and his disciples are seeing into the future.

And for us to see into the future, we need to put ourselves there with Jesus and his disciples as they move toward Tyre and Sidon, a region in the north of the Middle East around present-day Lebanon. It’s foreign territory, historically at enmity with the Jewish people. The people in Tyre and Sidon, represented by the Canaanite woman, aren’t Jewish. They’re Gentile pagans. And in terms of God’s mission at this point in the Gospels, Gentiles aren’t even in the picture. After all, God started his mission with the people of Israel, God’s chosen people.

This might begin to explain why, when the Canaanite woman approaches Jesus to ask for healing for her daughter, he ignores her. When his disciples ask him to send her away because she’s annoying them, Jesus remarks bluntly—if not, rudely—that he was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. At this point in the story, Jesus is sent to the Jews, not the Gentiles. And when the woman persists in her plea for help, Jesus’s words are even more offensive to our ears. The Canaanite woman and her people are likened to dogs, who aren’t even entitled to the crumbs from the table.

This is perhaps one of the most perplexing and troubling episodes in Scripture because it doesn’t seem to cast Jesus in a favorable light. But it also doesn’t seem honest to soften his words. And so, we’re left with Jesus showing a side we don’t like and wondering how to reconcile this with the compassionate Jesus that we know and love.

And yet I wonder if attempts to understand Jesus’s behavior miss the point of the story, too, rather like trying to ascertain whether Jesus had a form of ESP. It seems to me that we’re intended to put ourselves into the story the Gospel gives us, and what’s happening is that Jesus and his disciples—and we, too—are seeing into the future.

Our attempts to explain away Jesus’s seeming rudeness are colored by the fact that we have the benefit of hindsight. We know the end of the story. We know how it all ends. We know that there will be an empty tomb on the third day. We know that Jesus will appear after he has been raised from the dead. We know the early Church will be empowered by the Holy Spirit to reach the ends of the earth, moving from out of the Jewish people to include all. We know that death is not the final word for us. We know that sin should not have to have supreme authority in our lives, because we have the 20/20 vision of Gospel hope.

But when Jesus and his disciples are moving towards Tyre and Sidon and the Canaanite woman comes out of that region pleading for her daughter’s healing, for the sake of the story, we don’t really know the end. We’re with Jesus and his disciples as they witness how everything plays out in human time. And we see the future only because of the Canaanite woman’s profound faith.

Extraordinary faith is what Jesus recognizes when he commends the woman. The Church father St. John Chrysostom suggests that Jesus’s rebukes of the woman were intended to allow her to exhibit her profound humility and faith in the face of offense.[2] I think there’s something to this rather strange argument, and our unwillingness to accept that possibility might be further evidence that we could learn a thing or two from the Canaanite woman’s faith.

Her faith is like divine light breaking into the rigid chronology of our human time. God’s mission that begins with the Jewish people moves into all corners of the earth to touch and bless them. The Gospel is for all people, and nothing we do can restrict its encompassing reach. The fulfillment of God’s mission happens in God’s time, no matter how impatient we may be and how much we may take umbrage at the way in which God accomplishes it.

When we confront this challenging story, we probably find ourselves feeling offended for the sake of the Canaanite woman. But her faith moves our vision from beyond our restrictive interpretations. She moves us beyond trying to make sense of how God works in human time when God is beyond human knowing. Here’s what the woman helps us see.

She helps us see that true faith doesn’t take offense at the order of events in human time. If God reaches the Jewish people first, it doesn’t mean God won’t ever reach the Gentiles. If your neighbor’s illness is cured while you’re still suffering, it doesn’t mean that God won’t heal you, too. If some people are eating well and others are starving, it doesn’t mean that God is the cause of food deserts. The Canaanite woman knows that your place in line is not proof that God loves you more than others. She simply knows deep down in her heart that God always provides for everyone.

This woman has enough humility not to expect to be in the front of the line. God doesn’t dole out loaves of bread to some and crumbs to others. God doesn’t keep score and then show favor based on merit points we’ve accrued. God doesn’t operate within human boundaries or according to any category into which we want to assign our neighbors. God is simply love, and love knows no order of preference or specific favor or chronological time. Love can only be what it is, and when we see what it really is, it’s like seeing beyond the distorted present into the redeemed future.

Which is precisely what the Gospel story is all about. Its end is really no end at all. It’s more of a beginning. Jesus’s resurrection allows us to see into the future, where what we think are crumbs are loaves of bread to feed the whole world. In God’s kingdom, order makes no difference, because the first are last and the last are first. Scarcity is really abundance and abundance is scarcity. Knowing is not really knowing, and knowing everything is knowing nothing at all. The lost are never lost, and those who never think they are lost really need to be found. Seeing into the future may currently be a scientific impossibility, but it’s a religious reality. Faith like that of the Canaanite woman is available to all who are willing to see into the future that God has prepared for us in Christ.

In that future, what is old is made new and what is bound is released into freedom. Death is not an end but a beginning to live fully within the triune life of God. The future, in short, is heaven, where there’s no special favor, no competition, no impatience, no anxiety, no envy, no jealousy. What is available is available to everyone. And if we allow ourselves to look into the redeemed future with the eyes of faith, the only thing we will see is pure love.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost
August 20, 2023

[1] “Why Looking At The Stars Is A Look Back In Time,” Forbes (7 February 2018), https://www.forbes.com/sites/quora/2018/02/07/why-looking-at-the-stars-is-a-look-back-in-time/?sh=3e26ba7014ec

[2] John Chrysostom, Homily 52 on Matthew, https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/200152.htm

Into the Wind

I want to tell you about a little church. This little church was once not so little. On Sunday mornings, the pews were often full. During church school, there weren’t just one or two classrooms filled with children but many. Multiple priests said the numerous weekday Masses. Parish fellowship events were boisterous affairs. It was a happy place, and although like any parish, the boat was occasionally rocked by low-level drama, in general, this parish sailed easily on untroubled waters.

But at some point, the waters on which the boat of this church was sailing became more troubled than quiet. Some in the boat said that it was the wind. The winds of change in the wider Church were against this little boat of a church. The stable grounding of calm waters seemed a thing of the past, and navigating the increasingly troubled waters wasn’t for the faint of heart. Indeed, it often appeared as if there was no navigation chart for these new waters, and that was scary to many in the boat.

After some years, the boat was so rocked by the chaos of the deep, that it looked as if it would split apart into pieces. Some doubted whether this boat would be able to continue sailing on the waters. Others were convinced that there was only one proper course to save the boat from the threats around it. But at some point, it became clear that the instability of the waters was a major threat to this sea vessel.

The people in the boat were of two minds. A minority believed that staying in the boat was the best course of action. The troubled waters were simply part of the reality of sailing on the seas. But a majority could only see the winds against them. The roiling of the seas was interpreted as a visible sign that forces were against them. There was only one choice for this latter group: abandon the boat and flee to safer waters.

But interestingly, the boat was never lost at sea, although it came perilously close on multiple occasions. The boat was never torn apart by the winds. A small handful of brave souls stayed on that boat for the years to come. While the sea had calmed down considerably, there were still moments of nautical drama. Some on the ship eventually left, but there was always a small core hanging onto the rudder who were determined to pilot this boat into an uncertain future.

That, it seems, was the answer. Embracing the uncertain future was indeed the only way to pilot the ship. Under the right conditions, strong headwinds could become graceful tailwinds. The remnant in the boat began to include a growing number of new persons who had decided to join the boat after its most threatening episodes on the sea. But even more importantly, at some point, those who were now in the boat realized that even on the tumultuous and threatening seas they could find their Lord walking toward them. And something else strange happened. When they stepped out onto the troubled waters in faith, if they paid too much attention to the strong winds, they would sink. The winds were always there. The waves were always there. But when they kept their minds and hearts on Jesus, they could walk on water.

Soon, a new mindset came over the place. Those things that the world would label as threatening or anxiety-provoking were simply part and parcel of navigating the waters. Financial challenges and building problems became reasons, not deterrents, to step out onto the water and fix their eyes on Jesus. The people in this boat had come to know that true faith was not certainty about the future or knowing all the answers about God. True faith was knowing that Jesus was always to be found in the troubled waters.

Now, I dare say that this is a countercultural viewpoint. We tend to refute those who claim not to believe in God with beautifully crafted logistical proofs of God’s existence. Offering some kind of certainty is the answer. And for those who claim to be believers in God, concrete, tangible evidence of the miraculous is like heavenly manna. It’s not enough to trust that Jesus works miracles; we must see them. It’s not enough to believe that God heals; we must idolize those who can perform visible works of healing. It’s not enough to believe in miracles; we must have firsthand witness of how the laws of nature are superseded. These are all the footnotes of our thesis that God is real and powerful.

And while the miracle stories of the Gospels on the one hand offer us some footnotes for this thesis, they also present some of the most difficult interpretive quandaries. If we take them at face value, Jesus defies nature in a way that we can’t explain. I, for one, do believe in these miracles. I have no reason to think that any of the Gospel evangelists needed to make these stories up. But I also believe that there is a deeper level to these miracle stories that lies below the visible manifestations of God’s power in them, and it’s on this deeper level that the miracles have the most to teach us.

The miracles are a bit like sacraments. We see something that points to a richer, invisible reality. But in the common interpretation of miracles, everything is reversed. The defiance of nature is the fireworks show that can buttress our weak faith. And yet, I’m guessing that the point of the miracles is the opposite. When Jesus walks on water, he clearly defies the ordinary laws of nature, but something else is going on. Jesus isn’t walking on untroubled waters; he’s walking on water that could easily capsize a boat. The true miracle here, emblemized in the physical defiance of the laws of nature, is that the Son of God is found not only in the calm waters but in the most dangerous places on the seas.

 And this is why Jesus’ presence on the waters is miraculous. The disciples in the boat can’t comprehend that anyone could be walking on water in a storm. They’re looking for certainty of knowledge about their Lord. I suspect they’re looking for calm waters, but it’s in the eye of the stormy chaos that they find their Savior.

It’s only when Peter notices the winds against him that he sinks. And when he begins to sink, he cries out for Jesus to save him, which is how we so often treat our relationship with Christ. We only venture out onto the troubled waters when we’re certain that he will be there, ready to call us towards him and then take our hand if we fall like a toddler learning how to walk. When we sail into a gale, we cry out to be rescued. And when we’re rescued, we worship Jesus.

But the miracle of Jesus’s walking on the water is calling us to something riskier. This riskiness is venturing out into an uncertain future, especially when the odds seem against us. When the entire culture around us seems like an opposing wind, we’re called not to fight it or flee from it but to sail into it, trusting that God will teach us something in the experience. When we’re tempted to play it safe, God invites us into the stormy waters to witness to the Gospel boldly, even recklessly. It’s in the chaotic waters that we find God’s most creative potential.

Right now, hordes of people are fleeing the changing headwinds in certain sectors of the Church. They’re fleeing to churches that will ensure them that they can cruise through peaceful seas if they call on Jesus to rescue them. Religious promises of certitude are more appealing than a path of silent humility. Obsessions with all things supernatural are comfort food for those who are starved for visible proof of God’s power.

But the truth is that we live in the moment of that Gospel story when Jesus says to the disciples, “Take heart; it is I. Have no fear.” Like Peter, we will sink if we lose heart. We will sink not so much when we doubt but when we assume that the stormy winds against us are signs that we’re not doing something right or are heading in the wrong direction. And we will definitely sink if the certainty of safety is more important to us than the risk of being bold and adventurous on the rocky seas.

Remember that little church that I told you about, the one that bravely sailed into winds that threatened to bring it down? Well, it’s you. You and I are the church in that boat, sailing out into waters with no real navigation map but with a lot of hope and faith. I can’t and won’t promise you that there will never be a storm. I can’t promise you visible miracles, but I can promise you that the God in whom we trust does work miracles. They’re all around us, although we usually don’t see them in the storm. But it’s in the storm that Jesus asks us to step out of the boat and to walk towards him. He’s not merely someone to rescue us; he’s someone to save us and make us whole. He’s someone who’s always with us, especially in the stormy waters. So, pay no attention to the winds against you. Keep your eyes on Jesus, take a step out of the boat, and walk on water.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
August 13, 2023

The Heart of Discipleship

I’ve learned a lot about God from walking my dog, Beau. Beau has his own way of approaching a walk, and it’s not the way I usually conceive of it. On most days when I’m in the office, I take Beau for brief walks throughout the day. Well, the walks should be brief. A walk around the block from the retreat house to the rectory shouldn’t take twenty minutes. But Beau has little regard for chronological time.

We start out getting the leash. I announce to Beau that we’re going for a walk, and he becomes very excited. He loves to go outside. For Beau, going on a walk doesn’t mean the same thing as it does for me. I think of the walk as going from A to B. We’re going from my office to the retreat house. But for Beau, going for a walk is an opportunity to revel in and respond to everything nature has to offer.

Every turn of the corner is a moment to stop and sniff the breeze that has brought new smells around the side of a building. Every blade of grass brings news of other canines who’ve perambulated around the neighborhood. Beau makes me cross the street because something beckons from a strip of grass. And since Beau loves people, every person is someone to stop and greet. Walks are pure bliss for Beau.

But for me, they usually end up being stressful. I’m always in a hurry to get from the rectory to my office to answer emails or write a sermon. I’m rushing home for a quick lunch in the middle of the day, but Beau is in no hurry. And what I’ve discovered walking Beau is that he goes where he wants to go. If he doesn’t want to cross the street, he stops and digs in his paws. If he wants to stop and smell something, he does the same. But more importantly, if I tug on the leash to get Beau to do what I want him to do, he moves even more slowly. Paradoxically, trying to rush Beau along slows the walk down even more.

So, I sometimes try a different tactic with Beau, and it’s something that’s very difficult for me to do. I let him take me where he wants to go. Instead of luring him to the parish office with the exciting prospect of seeing Chris, our parish administrator, or Mary, our financial administrator, I let him go where he wants to go, no matter how long or what path it takes. Hey, Beau, where do you want to go? And it’s anybody’s guess where he’ll take me.

And so, I’ve found that walking Beau is a helpful spiritual metaphor for prayer and listening to God. I’m fully aware of my own control needs, but I also know from experience that the more I try to control prayer, the less I get from it. I’ve discovered over the years that praying is like allowing God to take me for a walk.

The problem is that usually I’m the one who’s trying to walk God. I live for plans and structure. I plan my days and weeks carefully. I watch the clock constantly. I try to make informed decisions about the most diplomatic or sound way to go about a course of action. Sometimes it works. But there are many times when my plans evaporate before a greater creative intention that I know only comes from the living God.

The most obvious theme of today’s Feast of the Transfiguration is the revelation of Jesus’s glory and the ensuing clarification of the disciples’ awareness of who Jesus is, fully divine as well as fully human. Like Jesus’s baptism, at Jesus’s transfiguration, God declares that Jesus is his chosen, well-beloved Son. God reaffirms this unique identity of Jesus as the Son of God. The truth is that the disciples have been dense about this fact. By accompanying Jesus throughout his earthly ministry, they have become more and more aware that Jesus is no ordinary human. But even by chapter nine in Luke’s Gospel, they don’t fully appreciate who Jesus is nor do they grasp what it really means to follow him. The disciples still want to go where they want to go rather than being led by Jesus. The mountain of the transfiguration isn’t only where Jesus’s divine nature is made clear. It’s also where the nature of discipleship is revealed. Even as Jesus’s glory is revealed, the descent from the mountain will lead to the cross.

And at the heart of the mountain experience is something seemingly less spectacular than transfigured faces, a numinous cloud, and a voice from heaven. The mountain is where Jesus goes to pray. It’s while Jesus is praying that Peter, James, and John struggle to stay awake, foreshadowing their later drowsiness in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus is again praying on the eve of his death. And it occurred to me, while reflecting on this story, that rarely, if at all, in the Gospels do we hear that the disciples are explicitly at prayer.

Many times, we’re told that Jesus goes off by himself to pray, often on a mountain. The disciples frequently see him at prayer. They even ask him how to pray, which causes Jesus to give them the Lord’s Prayer. But do we ever see the disciples at prayer?

The disciples certainly seem comfortable fulfilling their commission to teach and preach in response to Jesus’s commission. They enjoy being busy. But at times, we’re told that they aren’t able to heal in Jesus’s Name, and why is that? Could it be because the disciples, even on the mountain with Jesus, don’t yet know how Jesus is inviting them to pray?

Of course, the disciples prayed. They were faithful Jewish men and observed the law and commandments, but it also seems that in his transfiguration, Jesus is handing to Peter, James, and John the key to unlock the door to the heart of ministry and of their very lives as they have been transformed by his own life.

The disciples will shortly be sent down the mountain to carry out the ministry they have been called to do. But first, they must know how to pray. And it’s only through prayer as Jesus teaches them that they can begin to discern the voice of God leading and guiding them. It’s that same voice that they will later know as the Holy Spirit moving among them, tugging them along.

On that mountain, the disciples are rather like us, I suspect. They aren’t eager to accept suffering and confusion along with the glory of following Christ. They aren’t used to listening to where God wants to go. So, too, with our best-laid plans. So, too with the plans we have for our children’s success, or our hopes for a career path, or our opinion on what ministry God is calling our parish towards. So, too, with planning for retirement or in trying to follow God’s will in our daily lives. We typically decide where we want to go or where we think we should go, and we devise a story to explain how it’s God’s will.

I’m usually like Peter, who can easily associate busyness with faithfulness. Peter wants to build three tents to concretize the moment, and the confusion of the cloud and God’s voice shuts him up, because it’s not about what Peter thinks should be done or even about the most logical thing to do. It's about what Jesus is summoning them to do. On the mountain, while Jesus is praying, passion is inextricably tied up with glory, revelation is mixed with clouds of confusion, and human certainty is tempered by God’s creative freedom. Listen to Jesus, God says. Listen to my Son.

The story of the transfiguration shows us a different, more excellent way, which is God’s way as he gently tugs us along through the power of the Spirit. God doesn’t keep us on a leash, and God certainly doesn’t yank us into pre-fabricated plans. God tugs on the strings of our heart and invites us to ask this question of him: Where do you want to go?

Our freedom as God’s beloved people is manifested in our ability to ask this question of God and listen for God’s response. And in the listening, we will see the disparate strands in our lives—people, places, and things—being woven into a single strand that leads us where God is inviting us to go. For it’s only through letting go and entering the cloud of uncertainty that we can truly listen to Christ’s voice, revealed in the power of the Spirit.

I’ve recently tried a new way of walking Beau. I’ve given myself permission to let go of my plans and set the clock aside when I walk Beau. And when he stands still and I’m tempted to yank on the leash to move him where I want to go, I ask him, where do you want to go?

And he shows me. He shows me flowers blossoming that I’d never before seen. He shows me people patiently waiting in the summer heat at a bus stop. He shows me people whom I might ordinarily never stop to acknowledge. But more than anything else, Beau shows me how to be in the moment and to listen.

The foundation of discipleship is prayer, and prayer’s foundation is listening. And letting go is accepting curveballs as gifts of the Spirit and confusion as its own form of paradoxical clarity. And when we loosen our grip on the leash and ask God, where do you want me to go?, the voice of the risen Christ is always there saying, come and see.  

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Transfiguration
August 6, 2023

A Little Goes a Long Way

Once upon a time—until quite recently, in fact—there was an annual gathering of a consortium of Episcopal parishes with large endowments. To be invited to this gathering, your church’s endowment had to be of a certain size, and that size was not small. (Translation: Good Shepherd, Rosemont would not have been invited.) This annual meeting of parishes ended up being an elite convocation of large, wealthy churches, while smaller, less wealthy churches who weren’t invited sometimes cast verbal stones from afar on Facebook.

But I want to create another consortium. In this more expansive annual gathering, struggling parishes wouldn’t celebrate their smallness in contrast to larger and wealthier parishes, but instead, they would recount how in their experience of ministry God had created something incredible out of something tiny and insignificant. In this consortium, we might find small and large parishes, because large parishes must begin small, right?

To group parishes into large ones and small ones, successful ones and struggling ones, would intimate that we can evaluate the success of Gospel work based on numbers and statistics or on sizes of endowments. If you’re only impatiently looking for size or wealth to measure fruitfulness, you might be blind to mustard seeds that can grow patiently into fruitful shrubs. In the economy of God’s kingdom, large and small parishes, well-endowed and barely endowed parishes can speak the same language. A consortium of large, endowed parishes assesses Gospel ministry from a place of arrival, but our hypothetical consortium of parishes would reflect how the kingdom of heaven can flourish from out of nothing.  

When Jesus himself talks about the kingdom of heaven, he gives us many images. No image fits the bill completely. The mustard seed, for instance, is a valuable image of the kingdom of heaven, but Jesus also gives us the wonderful image of leaven hidden in flour. And this image beautifully describes how our imaginary consortium of parishes could begin to talk about the kingdom of heaven.

The leaven of which Jesus speaks isn’t like the yeast we buy in the store and mix with water, salt, honey, and flour to make bread. This leaven is more organic and much messier. It’s like a sourdough bread starter. Have you ever made sourdough bread?

Several years ago, I led a young adult ministry that was based in an abandoned church in south Philadelphia. This church had been closed years before by the diocese. The historic building where Marian Anderson had once sung in the choir and where W.E.B. DuBois had worshiped was empty and silent. When our little group of young adult leaders began to organize the ministry there, we were told that the building was unsafe and that it would take hundreds of thousands of dollars to make the building structurally sound. There was mold in the ceiling tiles. Part of the nave floor was structurally unstable. The sacristy was littered with debris from a collapsed ceiling. Drawers in the vesting cabinet were left open as if someone had ransacked the place, or more likely, scurried away with the church’s possessions after being told the church was closed.

         But that didn’t deter us. Our group was there to try something new, to try to reach young adults in the neighborhood who might be suspicious of the Church and to form community around the baking of bread. While the dough was rising, we engaged in conversations on various topics.

And I’ll never forget that sourdough starter. It belonged to a member of our group who was especially enthusiastic about making bread. One day, that person combined a little flour and water in a mason jar and left it in the church’s parish house where we gathered. When we came back to the building a few days later, the jar was overflowing with activity. It was frothing like crazy, and we all laughed. We laughed not because it was frothing like crazy but because we knew why it was full of bubbles, foam, and literally overflowing out of the jar. This little sourdough starter, formed by mixing a bit of water and flour had very quickly begun feeding on bacteria and yeast in the room. It was alive.

Had we left this starter in a restaurant kitchen that had passed safety inspection, it would not have looked the same. Had we left it in the industrial kitchen of a large, endowed parish, it might only have been lightly foaming. But this starter was growing out of control because it had been left in an abandoned, dirty, smelly, moldy church. All that nasty stuff we’d rather not think about and that might not even be very good for us was causing that sourdough starter to sizzle with life. And soon enough, that boisterous starter would serve as leaven for some dough to be baked into a gorgeous, delicious loaf of bread. And that tasty bread would feed all kinds of people: misfits, the lonely, the distressed, and those longing for meaning in their lives.

Now, for the end of the story. The ministry we started never took off. COVID didn’t help it. But what did happen is that the parish was reopened by the diocese and is now a living congregation. I like to think that our presence in that building for a brief period played some small part in that parish’s reopening, even if the end result looked nothing like what we had initially envisioned. And through that experience, I learned that a sourdough starter is a fantastic image of how things work in the kingdom of heaven.

When you heard today’s Gospel lesson, did you wonder why the woman hid the leaven in the flour? Could it be that the catalyst for growth and change is often something that we fail to notice? Could it be that God will use what is seemingly insignificant, unnoticeable, small, and even nasty to create a buzzing hive of Gospel activity?

Jesus’s parables invite us to focus not on the end result of our labor or ministry but on the beginning. This is the difference between a consortium of parishes celebrating their wealth and visible significance as opposed to our imagined consortium of parishes. Our consortium would reflect on how we must temper our human impatience with God’s divine patience to truly see what growth in the kingdom of heaven looks like.

This is good news to every church that was on the brink of closure but then was given a second chance. The movement of the Holy Spirit is often most palpable in those places where the roofs leak and windows are broken. In those places and people, God will surprise us by using all kinds of natural yeast and bacteria to leaven a lump of dough that can be baked into delicious bread that will feed the world.

Jesus’s parables of the mustard seed and the leaven don’t encourage complacency with being small. Far from it. And the status quo of size can be its own idol, whether large or small. All the parables of the kingdom of heaven assume growth. They assume that in the heavenly kingdom, sin will be transformed through repentance, and what is old will be made new. In the kingdom of heaven, nothing stands still. Jesus’s parables assure us that God wants ministry to flourish, not to decline. They assure us that the Church won’t die out but will once again send out her members in peace and love to the ends of the earth, even if some pruning and purging must happen first. Jesus’s parables are no excuse to celebrate our smallness. They are invitations to hope that even when it seems like we are nothing or don’t have enough, God will surprise us.

And God will surprise us with those things that sometimes remain hidden at first. All around us is fodder for the sourdough starter that will leaven ordinary dough into a beautiful loaf of bread. Hidden among us are unused gifts and the gifts of others whom God will send here to build up his kingdom on earth. Unknown to us are the ways in which leaking roofs, frustrated plans, and budget challenges will lead us to pursue the ministry to which God is calling us. Yet unseen are the mustard seeds of this world that God will plant in the soil of this place that will one day flourish into shrubs to provide shelter for the wandering birds of the air.

Put a mason jar with a bit of water and flour down in this place, come back in a few days, and you might be surprised. Go ahead, laugh, because like the elderly Sarah in the Book of Genesis, we should laugh at how God surprises us by leavening our lives with hope.

We are flour and water. We are ordinary stuff meant to be transformed into something extraordinary. We may think we aren’t enough to do anything. We may think we don’t have enough to do anything worthwhile. But think again. One life lived and sacrificed on a cross was the source of the entire world’s salvation. What is hidden among us can be revealed by God as leaven to transform a plain lump of dough. God will make it rise. We are to bake it. And with just a little, the entire world can be fed.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
July 30, 2023

In God's Good Time

It wasn’t an easy summer, but at the top of the list of difficult things to endure was learning that in that hospital, there was nothing I could fix. I was in the middle of three months of chaplaincy as part of Clinical Pastoral Education following my first year of seminary. And, oh, how I wanted to fix so many things, but above all, I desperately wanted to fix people.

My chaplain supervisor, on the other hand, constantly urged me and my fellow interns not to try to fix anyone or anything. His advice was to say little and be present more when visiting patients. Sit and listen. Don’t try to make the patients feel better. Just be with them. Don’t try to fix them or tell them what to believe. Above all, don’t try to dole out vapid assurances of comfort when someone is suffering. Trying to make patients feel better is usually about our own need to make ourselves feel better. If we can make cancer patients smile, then we don’t have to face their pain.

Although I understood this, I just couldn’t let go of the need to fix. I was perhaps a bit arrogant and too confident that I would help them in their suffering by bringing a generous understanding of God to their bedsides. I sat in the rooms of patients who were convinced that their suffering was God’s punishment. And I was only supposed to listen, not fix? I longed to correct their bad theology. After all, if I knew what was good for them, why couldn’t I share it with them? Why couldn’t I help them see a God of love instead of a vindictive God of wrath? So, I became quite adept at threading the needle of obedience to my supervisor’s instructions. I refrained from telling people what to believe but tried to suggest that there was another way of looking at the situation. Maybe your heart condition is not because God is angry with you. Maybe your cancer is not because you sinned.

And so, when I shared one of those bedside experiences with my supervisor, I could see his face fall. He became a bit exasperated when he pointed out that I was trying to fix things and that wasn’t our job as interns. Just be with people, he said. That’s all. So, I sighed and wept a bit inside.

My experience in that summer of hospital chaplaincy reminds me of the parable of the wheat and weeds, or to put it more traditionally and eloquently, the parable of the wheat and the tares. I can readily identify with the servants of the householder who spot weeds in the wheat field and instinctively want to root them out, because like me, they are fixers. When I see bad theology, I want to beat it down like the devil under my feet, to borrow the words of the Great Litany. In pastoral ministry, if there’s a hint of a bad seed being sown amid the parish, I want to root it out. And especially when I’m standing in the middle of a field of good seed, ready for ample wheat to be produced, I’m usually mystified and disturbed when I realize that weeds have been sown among the grain. How did they get in? Who sowed them? And isn’t it my job to get rid of them?

But my own knee-jerk reactions, perhaps like yours, are probably the mark of an impatience with views different from our own. The householder in Jesus’s parable is much more like my chaplain supervisor in clinical pastoral education. Let it be, he says. The sorting and reaping are not to be done by us but by God.

This approach doesn’t immediately sit well with me. We’re habitually trained by both our culture and sometimes by others in the Church to sort people into good or bad, moral or immoral, valid or invalid, bound for heaven or condemned to hell, worthy or unworthy, sinful or redeemed. And every parable that Jesus ever told, like that of the wheat and the tares, confounds our easy binaries. If we’re not unsettled by this, then we probably don’t have ears to hear.

But the householder in Jesus’s parable is wiser than his servants. He knows that leaving the sorting to the reapers at harvest time is best for everyone. If you’re a fixer like me, it would seem, at first glance, that it’s a very poor decision. The weeds will destroy the health of the field. They’re vile and unattractive. But the householder knows something that the servants don’t know.

At first, in the initial stages of growth, those pesky weeds look an awful lot like the wheat growing alongside them. In fact, they grow together, intertwined with one another, good and bad, wheat and weed. And if the supposedly bad weeds are pulled up too soon, they will uproot some of the wheat as well. The householder is concerned about the health of the wheat. But that’s not all. I suspect that the householder is also concerned about the well-being of the weeds, not because they’re weeds but because they might not be weeds after all.

Let them grow up alongside the wheat, the householder advises. Their lives are mysteriously bound together for a time. And at harvest time—God’s time—what once seemed to be a weed might be revealed as wheat. At harvest time, it will be clear what’s to be kept and what’s to be burned up. The reaper knows better than the servant. And the householder knows best of all.

It’s not much of a leap to see how God is like the householder. God knows how to lovingly temper our overzealousness for his sake. We want to think that we’re always the wheat in the good field of God’s planting, and it’s utterly satisfying to do our own mental sorting from a place of superior comfort. But it’s not harvest time yet in this life. Any final assessment of good and evil is too soon. Any premature sorting into final eternal destinations is irresponsible if not downright harmful.

God knows that it’s best for us to stop trying to fix others and focus on faithful, compassionate, and godly living. The less time we spend sorting others into categories and trying to fix them, the more time we have to grow by God’s grace into wheat bearing much fruit. Go to Mass, say your prayers, love your neighbor, serve the poor, act charitably, turn constantly to God in repentance, seek relationship with others. All of this is our Christian vocation. Leave the sorting and reaping of others’ souls to God and his angels.

While our culture and even parts of the Church are inordinately concerned with extirpating the weeds among us, God is concerned with the growth of the wheat. And God is concerned, too, with the weeds. At some point the image of weeds falls short as a metaphor. In God’s astounding providence, who’s to say that the weeds we’d like to root out couldn’t learn from the growth of the wheat? Can a grain of wheat teach weeds to bear fruit? Do weeds remain weeds for eternity?

When humans meddle in sorting and reaping too soon, it’s not just the weeds that suffer. The wheat suffers, too. Think of the souls fleeing the Church at the damage done by premature reaping. Think of the Church’s tarnished reputation because grains of wheat tried to do their own sorting and reaping. Think even of bundles of wheat and weeds in parasitical relationship all because of hasty reaping when the wheat itself has gone astray. If the time isn’t right—if the time is not God’s time—irreparable harm is done to both wheat and weeds.

In that hospital eight years ago, I sat at the bedside of people who would probably have put me in with the weeds had they known me better. And I cringed at what I perceived as their bad theology. I thought I needed to fix them, to make them more open-minded and generous. But what did I know? Wouldn’t it have been better to let God be the custodian of their souls and for me to simply live faithfully and honestly as a follower of Jesus Christ? Is there any better way to testify to the good? Is there any better way to ensure that abundant, precious fruit will be borne?

Whether I truly know what’s good or bad theology, and of all the things I don’t know, I do know some astounding good news from the parable of the wheat and the tares. I know that God is the only one who can sort and reap. I know that none of us is compassionate, discerning, or wise enough to sort and fix others. And I also know that the fullness of God’s kingdom is realized not by placing people into categories or making facile judgments but in courageous and faithful living as Jesus taught us. And above all, a strong dose of humility and a great deal of godly patience will teach us that in the kingdom of God, wheat and tares growing together can yield the most abundant harvest imaginable.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost
July 23, 2023

Away from the Page

While on retreat this past week, I made my way through Madeleine L’Engle’s lovely book Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. L’Engle suggests that artists instinctively understand faith at a deep level because of the creative process of making art. True art isn’t perfunctory. It isn’t produced by formulas. It isn’t rendered solely for commissions or to gain approval. Real art is birthed when the artist responds to a creative gift from God.

Artists, we might say, are completely reliant on the grace of God. That’s what grace is: a gift from God, “unearned and undeserved,” as our prayer book catechism says.[1] Grace, like any true gift, can’t be controlled. Grace isn’t predictable. Grace is freely given, and hopefully, it’s freely received. Madeleine L’Engle believed that true artists, whether they purport to be Christian or not, whether they believe in God or not, and whether they know it or not, are responding to God’s grace. To create art, then, is an act of faith. The creative process requires faith that the work of art is worth creating, and it demands faith in a creative power greater than we are that allows us to create. For those of us who profess belief in God, we can clearly name the source of that power as God.

Now, journey with me for a minute to the organ console, where Matthew Glandorf sits for his penultimate Sunday here at Good Shepherd. You’ve already heard him improvise during this Mass, and there’s more to come. If creating art or music is an act of faith, then in Matt’s incredible gift for improvisation, we have a glimpse into what faith looks like on the ground. Improvisation, while it may or may not be explicitly Christian, helps us understand the relationship between law and grace. And this, I promise, has nothing to do with Matt taking a Lutheran church position in Germany.

Matt will be the first to tell you that while his knack for improvisation is a gift from God, to improvise well necessitates discipline. No one can improvise well without practicing scales, understanding harmony, and studying musical form. But no one can improvise well by attending only to scales, harmony, and form. And this is where grace comes in. This is also what Madeleine L’Engle would call the paradox of making art. True artists don’t wait for creative gifts to plop into their laps. True artists labor in the field of technique and daily practice so that they can eventually submit to God’s freeing gift of inspiration. This is how grace works. Grace happens in the moment where discipline, musical rules, and musical reasoning give way to inspiration.

Any novice improviser will tell you that venturing away from the written musical page is the most difficult aspect of improvising. Initially, it’s frightening to think of creating music that is not written out. It requires a leap of faith. It requires an ability to trust oneself in a vista that has opened out from beyond rules, technique, and form. It requires courage, risk, and an ability to let go of control. In theological terms, it’s so much like yielding to God’s grace.

And this brings us to St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans. In chapter six, where we find ourselves today, Paul makes an astonishing claim. All who have been baptized have been transferred from one jurisdiction to another. The baptized are moved from the realm of sin and death to the realm of grace and freedom because they now live in Christ. And this is where faith comes in. To have faith means to accept that at some point in the game, laws and rules must open into something unpredictable and uncontrollable, which is the surprising freedom of God’s grace.

For Paul, the Jewish law is certainly not bad, and it’s most definitely not to be equated with sin, as much as some have mistakenly made this claim. The law provides a framework for right relationship with God. It contains an essential discipline that allows for the reception of God’s grace. But ultimately, any religious law, whether Jewish or Christian, must allow for God’s gift of grace to break in and take over. If we are to truly yield ourselves to God, we need the courage to be part of a musical improvisation. We must move from a land of certainty to a land of uncertainty. We must travel from a place of security to a dangerous land. We must leave all our worldly idols behind and put our whole trust in God, the only One who can give us true freedom.

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle quotes the late Anglican theologian H.A. Williams who said that “the opposite of sin can only be faith, and never virtue.”[2] Why? Because faith means relinquishing control to receive God’s gift of grace. Sin doesn’t know how to let go; it only knows how to enslave. Sin knows nothing of trust. It only breeds doubt and fear. At the end of the day, faith means having enough trust in God to give ourselves completely to him, with nothing held back. And as L’Engle would offer, all true artists understand something of this. And like such artists, we must all learn to improvise and allow God to help us paint outside the lines. We must learn to make music away from the written page.

But Paul isn’t naïve either. On the one hand, he says that all the baptized have already been transferred into the realm of God’s grace. But we, like Paul, also find ourselves struggling with sin. The safety of doctrine and ethical rules can easily become an idol. We find ourselves wanting to play it safe to ensure our salvation. And at some point, we are tempted to believe that just because we practice our scales every day, we are entitled to a burst of inspiration. We try to earn what can only be a gift from God.

Here we see sin at its wiliest. It’s sin that tells us we can’t trust the grace of God. It’s sin that empowers the religious voices that promise to give you God’s truth in a neat little package. It’s sin that perpetuates legalism in the Church. It’s sin that forces us to stay away from God’s grace because we aren’t worthy enough to receive it. It’s sin that urges us to seek the immediate satisfaction of knowing exactly what God wants us to do at any given moment. It’s sin that scares us into thinking that no matter how much we love God, we can’t take the bold step of yielding our complete selves over to him. It’s sin that won’t allow us to let go because sin won’t let go of us.

This is why we still cling to our reputations, to our fear of God’s wrath, to our money, and to our tidy theology. It's sin that exhorts us never to give up control. It’s sin that still enslaves us and forces us to stick to music on the page, in terror of making any mistakes. All this when God wants us to improvise with him.

But the worst trick that sin plays with our minds is when it would have us believe that we need to earn God’s love and favor. Play it safe, color between the lines, and seek clear answers, sin says, because only then will you be privy to God’s love.

But though we live with one foot being yanked back into the realm of sin and fear, and while we try with all our might to stand firmly in the realm where there is true freedom and imagination, if we can trust God enough, just maybe we can stand with both feet in the land of freedom and grace. Maybe we can learn to improvise.

I, for one, am grateful for Matt and all artists who can help us understand something of what it means to yield to God’s grace, to improvise through life. Talk to any artist or musician, and they will tell you about a moment when they are “in the zone,” or perhaps even outside their bodies. They are so completely caught up in the creative act of making art or music, that they are utterly free.

Can you imagine, then, a spiritual life like that? Can you imagine trusting God so completely and utterly that you would give up your worst fears and worries just to make music with God? Can you imagine yielding your whole body, everything you have, and your entire soul to the One who created you in love? Such yielding isn’t only for artists and musicians. It isn’t only for saints. It’s for you and me. For to yield to God in such a way is to have faith. And faith is the opposite of sin. Faith is what it means to be absolutely free because we are living, breathing, and moving in a new kingdom. And in this kingdom, sin has no authority and no power. This kingdom can’t be bought or earned. All it takes to get there is a leap of faith.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
July 2, 2023

[1] p. 858.

[2] Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York: Bantam, 1980), 148.

What Fear Can Never Kill

If you turn on your television or open a news app, I’d bet some good money that you’ll probably find your spirits sinking. I was reminded of this recently when I was visiting my parents and sitting in front of their television. Since I haven’t had cable at home in over a decade, it’s rare that I’m sitting in front of live television news.

But last week, I became painfully aware that if you want 24-7 justification to destroy your faith in humankind, just watch the news. It’s one dramatically bad story after another, and TV anchors do their part to play this up. If it’s not one more shooting making the headlines, it’s yet one more medical scare or a political system in shambles.

With perpetual news coverage, every story, no matter how big or small, is elevated to crisis level, with a basso continuo of throbbing anxiety. And the recipients of such news coverage are in a constant position of high alert. In fact, just Google “high alert,” and see how many recent news stories pop up. You’ll be convinced that the world is spiraling out of control.

While pondering the fearful, anxiety-ridden nature of modern news, I also stumbled across an interesting opinion piece in The New York Times authored by an experimental psychologist. The title was “Your Brain Has Tricked You into Thinking Everything Is Worse.”[1] The author of this piece asserts that at least since 1949, there’s been a general tendency to assume that humankind is morally worse than it was in the past. But as the article claims, this simply isn’t true. The assumption that people in the past were more altruistic or more morally upright is the result of two juxtaposed psychological phenomena: biased exposure and biased memory. Biased exposure means that we tend to pay the most attention to negative news. And biased memory means that positive memories tend to have more power in our memory than negative memories, even if those negative memories seemed awful at the time. Combine the two and there’s a mistaken view that the past was an unvarnished golden age, and the present is infinitely worse.

This unfortunate juxtaposition of psychological phenomena has infiltrated our perception of Christianity, too. If you believe the new headlines or what comes at you from some pulpits or what many churches are saying, Christian discipleship was unquestionably stronger and less complicated in the past. Fifty years ago, church attendance was better. A hundred years ago, our culture was generally more supportive of the Church. In the past, being a Christian was not as countercultural as it is today, and it was more acceptable to be a Christian. There weren’t so many secular forces working against us. Today’s nonstop news headline about the Church is that the plane is getting closer to the ground, and the pearl of great price is circling the drain.

For this very reason, it’s imperative that we sit patiently, if uncomfortably, with Jesus’s most challenging words in the gospels. At the top of that list are several of Jesus’s sayings that we’ve just heard from St. Matthew’s Gospel. Jesus hasn’t come to bring peace to the earth, but a sword. The cost of discipleship is division and possibly even estrangement within families. There’s no following Jesus without the cross.

But these difficult words seem to have faded into biased memory. Most Christians tend to remember the positive memories of Jesus’s life. We love to recall the healing stories of Jesus. We love the stories about Jesus’s love and acceptance. We relish the moments when Jesus smacks down his opponents. We rest easily with crowds being fed or Jesus walking on water or the victory of an empty tomb. And the difficulties of Jesus’s passion and crucifixion can get lumped in with the resurrection in terms of our biased memories.

And so, when we stumble across Jesus’s more perplexing words, it’s difficult to know what to do. Could he possibly have meant what he said about bringing a sword instead of peace or in creating family divisions? Or are these words just the fodder of an angry evangelist? But consider for a moment the possibility that Jesus really did say what is recorded in the Gospels. Such troubling words will come back to haunt us as long as we come to Mass and our ears are open to God’s word. We can’t run from Jesus’s hard teachings.

The biased memory of the Church’s past is of a golden age with a Jesus of positive memories and glorious salvation on offer. And the biased exposure of the present day is this: a Church in perpetual decline that’s constantly at odds with the surrounding culture. Combine biased memory and biased exposure and you will wonder if there’s ever been a more difficult time than the present day to be a Christian.

But if the myth of a lost golden age of the Church is really just the confluence of two psychological phenomena, the truth is much more complex. It has always been difficult to be a Christian, and the great sin of the Church is that she has forgotten how difficult it’s supposed to be. She has failed to preach it. She has failed to live it.

It should therefore be no great surprise that amid today’s Gospel passage there’s a big, stinking elephant in the room. And this elephant has emblazoned on its side the word “fear.” Yes, Jesus names this elephant multiple times in just sixteen verses of Scripture. Have no fear of them. Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. Here’s the sober truth of discipleship that’s masked when biased memory and biased exposure combine to have us imagine a nonexistent golden age of following Jesus. The sober truth is that fear has been around ever since Jesus’s disciples first began to follow him.

And Jesus doesn’t dance around this fear. He doesn’t sugarcoat the cost of discipleship. He doesn’t promise a life without struggle or illness or even death. Instead, he offers a Gospel far more powerful than fear but which rarely makes the news headlines.

In his lifetime, Jesus said much about fear. Fear is the enemy of love. Fear is living in darkness. Fear is the 24-7 news headline that won’t shut up and will scream louder and louder until you believe its lies. Do you hear the voices? Things are worse now than they ever have been. Everyone is actively working against the Church. You don’t have enough time for God and your job. People are after your money and your possessions, so cling to them as tightly as you can. If you speak up in the face of injustice, you will lose your friends. If you’re honest about who you are, your family will forsake you and God will reject you.

And while these incessant voices scream about fear, the soundless captions below on the TV screen scroll by with more news of fear. If you choose to worship God, do it quietly, or others will think you are foolish. Don’t be too vocal about your faith lest some think you are like those reactionary Christians. Why don’t you give up on a Church that has hurt too many people in the past? In fact, how can you even trust the Church at all?

By this point, it should be clear, shouldn’t it? Fear has always been with Christians. It raged in the mouths of lions devouring early Christian martyrs. It stoked the flames of the Inquisition. It unleashed dogs on those marching for civil rights. And it’s still doing what it’s always done: it’s trying to make us think that things are so much worse than they’ve ever been. Fear has always done what it could to silence the Gospel’s voice by wielding its weapon of biased exposure.

But the reason we shouldn’t ignore Jesus’s difficult words is because the best news of all is hidden within them. Amid the hyped-up anxiety of divided families, lost friends, and the specter of death, is the pearl of Gospel wisdom, which is not circling the drain after all. The past was never better than the present. Fear always haunted the followers of Jesus. And above all, the future is infinitely capable of beauty, promise, and goodness. There’s always hope, and God is always with us. And no matter what you’ve done, God will never leave you.

Although around us, there are many things to fear, Jesus tells us to fear only one thing: fear God. Fear God not with anxiety over hell but with reverence and gratitude because of God’s love for you and the love it asks from you in return. Fear God because the truth is this: even in the present moment, there’s never been a better time to find your life. And if we’re willing to lose our lives for Jesus’s sake, we’ll find the life that fear can never touch.  

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
June 25, 2023

[1] By Adam Mastroianni, June 20, 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/20/opinion/psychology-brain-biased-memory.html

Tell Me What You Eat

If you call yourself a gastronome, you might be familiar with Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, a nineteenth century French lawyer, politician, and gastronome himself. In his 1826 book that roughly translates into English as The Physiology of Taste, Brillat-Savarin suggested that food was an art, something much more than a practical matter. What we eat, in some sense, defines who we are.

It’s no surprise that the slow food movement across the world has picked up on Brillat-Savarin’s philosophy. The slow food movement has three basic tenets: eat good food, eat clean food, eat fair food.[1] In other words, good food will be tasteful and enjoyable. Clean food is food that doesn’t come from processes of production that are detrimental to the environment. And fair food is food that can be available to all people, regardless of their socioeconomic status, and whose producers receive fair wages.

Slow food, by its very nature, isn’t fast food. According to slow food principles, good, clean, and fair food can’t be produced quickly. Fast food treats food as less than an art. It prefers quantity over quality. It’s utilitarian and practical. Fast food is concerned only about squeezing a meal in during the shortest amount of time and for the least amount of money. It’s not primarily concerned with being good, clean, or fair.

Slow food, on the other hand, is the art of long meals in fellowship with others. One can’t partake of slow food without being somehow connected to creation. Eating slow food is living close to the ground. Eating slow food involves a willingness to sacrifice speed and financial savings to ensure that those producing the food are treated fairly and that the environment is respected.

“Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are,” said Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin. If you ask me, that sounds rather theological. It sounds like St. Augustine of Hippo, who famously said in a sermon on the Eucharist: “If you, therefore, are Christ’s body and members, it is your own mystery that is placed on the Lord’s table! It is your own mystery that you are receiving! You are saying “Amen” to what you are: your response is a personal signature, affirming your faith.”[2] Behold, who you are. Become what you receive. Indeed. Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.

When looking at Scripture, it becomes clear that God doesn’t readily offer fast food. Have you ever wondered why when God brought the Israelites out of Egypt, he didn’t bring them out the most direct way? He brought them out the long way. We hear today in Deuteronomy that the Israelites spent forty years in the wilderness, being tested and humbled. Between grumblings and disobedience, though, God fed them. There was always enough, if just enough.

And the food of which Jesus speaks in chapter 6 of John’s Gospel is not food on demand. It’s not fast food. It’s slow food. Consuming his flesh should never stop. Consuming his blood should never stop. But those who hear Jesus’s words, from his disciples to those who oppose him, don’t yet understand. Their eyes don’t yet see. Their ears don’t yet hear. Their hearts are still somewhat hardened. They want fast food: miracles, signs, and immediate satisfaction.

But only slow food is on offer. When Jesus feeds the five thousand from five barley loaves and two fish earlier in John’s Gospel, it’s not fast-food service. When Jesus later says that he is the bread of life, and that eating his flesh and drinking his blood is the means of finding eternal life, the disciples and crowd still don’t get it. Where’s the fast food, they seem to say? This is what the Israelites said in the wilderness. Hunger is immediately associated with God’s abandonment. They have no concept of what slow food is because it’s about more than just the food. Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.

And so, it begs the question to us: what are we eating? What we’re eating says everything about who we are. On this Feast of Corpus Christi, we celebrate who we are by virtue of what we eat. We celebrate that in the Church, we are part of a slow food movement, because what we eat and how we eat it says everything about who we are and how we are more truly becoming who we are called to be.

“The destiny of nations depends on how they nourish themselves,” Brillat-Savarin also said. We can likewise say that the destiny of the Church depends on how she nourishes herself. If the Church feeds on the wrong things, she will wither. If she hungers after quick fixes and gimmicks, she will fail to thrive. If she feeds on power, she will oppress. If she feeds on status, she can’t be Christ-like. If she tries to control or weaponize the gift of the Eucharist, she will cause others to starve. If she’s only concerned about the meal, she will never serve the poor. If she only wants her heavenly food quickly, she will never be patient with God’s time. If she stops eating, she will have no strength to thrive and spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth. If her members refuse the gift offered to them, they will fail to find their lives tied up with others, and the Church will wither and die. Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.

But we know what we eat, and we know who we are by virtue of the heavenly food promised to us by Christ. While beyond the doors of this church, we may consume power, status, money, and quick fixes, here, in this place, we slow down. Here we learn the art of eating well. Here we feast together, not alone. Here the TVs are turned off and the phones are put away while we feast together. Here all people share a meal, because those baptized into Christ have put off all other identity markers in order to be clothed in the goodness of Christ.

Here the supreme gift of heavenly food is available to all those baptized into Christ so that they can truly become what they eat. Here the food will sustain us not for a few hours but for eternal life. Here the food that we eat is truly the Body and Blood of Christ. And what we eat is who we are.

We have no choice but to be the Body of Christ in the world. We have no choice but to be a part of a broken world being put back together again. We have no choice but to feed those who have no food, to love those who have no one to love them, to bind the wounds of those who have been ripped apart by cruelty and injustice. We have no choice but to be the lifeblood of peace, love, and mercy that will course through the clogged and poisoned veins of a fast-food culture that’s slowly dying. We are a slow food movement whose mission is nothing less than the life of the world.

Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are. If others look at us, they should be able to trace us back to our roots. They should be able to find this place where we feast together and the food of which we partake. Because we are what we eat. And our destiny depends on how we nourish ourselves. And if we truly become what we eat, maybe others will find themselves longing for that heavenly food which never ends and by which we will live forever.  

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of Corpus Christi (transferred)
June 11, 2023

[1] https://www.slowfood.com/about-us/our-philosophy/

[2] https://earlychurchtexts.com/public/augustine_sermon_272_eucharist.htm

The Music that Always Plays On

Imagine that we’re standing before an abstract painting. If we didn’t already have some knowledge about the painting, it would look like a swirl of colors, with three amorphous shapes emerging from the texture of the canvas. But because we’ve been educated about this painting, we already know that the three splotches are supposed to be musicians. Without this knowledge, we would only see three blobs, but now we see that they do resemble musicians.

And we also see that what appeared to be an extra limb on one of the musicians is actually a cello. Oh, and there’s a violin on another oval-shaped blob, and that funny looking shape in the far left is a viola attached to the third blob. And the way the three amorphous shapes are oriented on the canvas makes it clear that a string trio is being performed. We can almost hear the music being played. It all makes sense because we have some knowledge of this painting.

Trying to pull the doctrine of the Trinity out of Scripture feels a bit like making sense of an abstract painting while already knowing something about it. Of course, the doctrine of the Trinity wasn’t properly formulated and expressed in its fullest form when the Gospels or epistles were authored. But living on this side of the Nicene Creed a few hundred years after the last Gospel was written, we can look back on the New Testament corpus, and even on the Old Testament, and say, yes, of course it makes sense now. Yes, we can see the presence of God the Father. We can see the work of God the Son. We can see the movement of the Holy Spirit. Yes, we know that while they are three distinct Persons, they are one God, an undivided Unity, sharing one substance. We know that because the Church has told us so. And knowing what we now know, it’s clear that when we read Scripture, we can discern glimpses of the Persons of the Trinity at work. And then words fail us, and if we try to say too much, we’re teetering on heresy. We’re once again looking at an abstract painting, three blobs on the canvas, and the story that is told is much more complex, creative, and dynamic than we can fathom.

This seems to be where the eleven disciples are at the very end of St. Matthew’s Gospel. They’re on a mountain, in a liminal space, having heard from the women at the tomb that Jesus was now alive, but some are also stewing in their doubts. In short, they’re confused, and can you blame them? And so, they settle on the only proper response to mystery; they worship. I suspect that the disciples are rather uncertain about their future and that they doubt whether they even have a future. And most certainly, they have no concept of a triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They are still trying to figure out who Jesus is.

And then in their place of transcendence, removed from the valley below, balancing their giddiness and their uncertainty, the risen Christ comes to them. The disciples are looking at an abstract painting and trying to figure out what’s next. And blessedly, the risen Christ appears to them and begins to interpret.

He doesn’t explain the doctrine of the Trinity, but he tells them something very important. He doesn’t retell Scripture to point out the presence of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. He doesn’t formulate a creed for them. He simply gives them a clear command that ends up saying everything we need to know about the doctrine of the Trinity.

Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Forget that this Trinitarian formula was placed in Scripture after decades of reflection on the nature of God and after the earthly ministry of Jesus and the visible gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Rather, take it for what it is: a specific command that puts flesh on what it means to worship one God in three Persons, sharing one substance.

As the disciples stare at the abstract painting and then hear Jesus’s words, they begin to understand what they need to do. Without expressing it in tidy doctrine or creeds, the disciples can start to comprehend what’s happening in the painting. They can see the musicians. And most importantly, they can hear the music.

But they’re still on the mountain. No matter how much knowledge and insight they have, they’re only looking at the painting with a clearer perspective. It reminds me of an experience I had some years ago when I had gone home from college to a family reunion. I was studying music at the time, preparing to be a church musician. And one of my uncles asked me what I was studying in college. I explained that I was studying music. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand what this might look like or how studying organ could have any concrete application in the world, and then he said to me, “But what are you going to do with it?”

How could I explain that my study wasn’t limited to a practice room? How could I explain that my vocation at the time was to try to talk about God through the language of music? How could I begin to articulate the power of music to draw others to God in worship? On the other hand, did I really know what my study would look like on the ground?

And so, too, with the disciples on that mountaintop. They’re looking at the abstract painting that Jesus is interpreting for them. They’re lost in wonder, love, and praise, despite their doubts. But the real question that Jesus poses to them is this: what are you going to do with it? What are you going to do with this knowledge you now have? What are you going to do with the mission I’ve just given you?

It’s the same with us. Here we are on Trinity Sunday, with our doubts and confusion about life, worshipping the Unity of a God we know as Triune. We’re part of a worldwide Church that’s fumbling to articulate her mission, even though that mission has been clearly stated by Christ himself. We have the advantage of creeds, Church councils, and Church teaching to help us make sense of the abstract painting before us. We are, in that sense, much better off than the eleven disciples so many years ago. But steeped in all this knowledge and perspective, what are we going to do with it?

Indeed, that’s the million-dollar question. Because at its heart, what we’re going to do is what the doctrine of the Trinity means for us. It means that what we know and experience on the mountain, here in our worship and always in our prayer, spills over into the rest of our life. We’re called to move from the dizziness of the mountain height into the valleys below, where many know nothing of the glory we have experienced. And they need to know it.

But there’s something more. As we let Jesus interpret the abstract painting for us, we hear his reassuring words that we have a future. The Church has a future. For too long, Christians have been worshipping a God whom they envision as no more than a clock winder, a static, aloof entity who sets things in motion and then steps back for a nap. And if we believe ourselves to be made in the image of such a God, then we have become just as static in our inaction and just as vulnerable to randomness. We’re stuck on the mountain while millions are starving below.

But through the Church’s tradition, we’ve also been told that there’s more to this painting. Through God’s grace, we can begin to see the blobs form into persons. We see that the persons are musicians holding instruments. And we see that they’re playing together. And then we hear the music, and the most astonishing thing happens. It suddenly dawns on us that we are in that musical trio, too. We’ve been invited into the piece that has been playing eternally among Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We’ve been invited to listen with heart and soul and mind and to know with utter conviction that we’re also being asked to do something with the musical piece that is sounding in our ears.

So, we do something. We pick up our bows, and we play. Before long, we’ve moved down the mountain, and soon, millions down in the valley are picking up their bows, too. They’re playing. And with time, this glorious, heavenly music has reached to the ends of the earth. And it plays on and on, forever.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Trinity Sunday
June 4, 2023

The Right Place at the Right Time

All three groups appear to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The first group is just two men named Eldad and Medad, and they’re not where they’re supposed to be. They’re still hanging out in the camp, rather than outside the camp where the seventy elders have gone according to Moses’ instructions.

Eldad and Medad are part of that crowd who began grumbling as soon as they’d they left Egypt by God’s hand. Back in Egypt, the dishes were so much more delicious. Oh, the garlic and the cucumbers. You’ve heard it before. The way the liturgy was before was so much better. At least back in Egypt there were succulent dishes to eat. Now, there’s only oatmeal. Well, manna, actually. There is enough to eat—just enough—but the people are too stuck in their frustrations. They’ve forgotten how bad life in Egypt really was, with the slavery and unceasing production of bricks. As we all are so wont to do, they’ve forgotten how to be grateful.

Even Moses, their leader, is fed up. God tells Moses he will provide for the large crowd of people, but Moses is skeptical. Moses is sick and tired of this irascible, recalcitrant group who are moaning and questioning why they ever left Egypt. And Moses is blunt with God. How in the world will you feed six hundred thousand people? Moses has caught the scarcity bug from the people he’s leading.

And that’s when God goes into visible action. All right, you asked for it, God seems to say. God knows that these people need the possibility of abundance drilled into their heads. God knows that Moses can’t bear the burden of leading this complaining people all by himself. And so, some of Moses’s spirit is shared with those in the group.

The seventy elders receive some of this spirit, and then they prophesy. But they only prophesy once, which seems odd to us, who always want more. It still seems like God is limiting what he’s giving, just like the manna in the wilderness was just enough for that moment in time. No more, no less. Nothing is to be wasted.

But back in the camp, Eldad and Medad, who aren’t where they’re supposed to be, begin to prophesy. Now the people turn from complaining about their situation to jealous controlling. Stop Eldad and Medad from prophesying, Moses! They’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shush, Moses says. There’s no need for jealousy. The spirit is meant to be shared. Medad and Eldad are in the right place at the right time. Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets!

Now, the second group of people is a bit larger. This group also appears to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’ve just watched Jesus ascend into heaven. They’ve just been told by two men in white to stop looking up into heaven and, essentially, to get to work. Look down and around and do something, the men suggest. Jesus’s departure is your summons to get to work.

But instead of getting to work, they return to Jerusalem, to that same familiar upper room where they always go to be safe. When they’re scared, they hunker down and lock the doors. They’re not where they’re supposed to be, which is out in the streets sharing the good news.

Like God’s people in the wilderness, these early disciples of Jesus can’t see that the present has enough for them to survive and thrive. They long for the days when they followed Jesus and watched him heal, teach, and preach. Now, Jesus is gone. They wonder if he was a fraud. They wonder if they have a future. And despite two men in white telling them to get to work, they’re convinced that they don’t have what it takes to work—whether stamina, purpose, vision, or resources.

They have no self-confidence until the Holy Spirit bursts into their cloistered gathering and falls on each of them. They begin to do wild things and speak in unfamiliar languages. We don’t know how long they spoke in those languages, but at some point, the linguistic ecstasy stopped. It was just enough for that time and place. The possibility of having enough to thrive and survive doesn’t become obvious until the Spirit is shared with everyone.

The disciples’ gift of the Spirit makes no sense and is of no earthly good until those out in the streets hear them speaking in tongues and understand what they’re saying. And then the mission begins. It becomes clear that the disciples, just like Eldad and Medad, were in the right place at the right time. There’s no question that they do have enough to do what Christ has called them to do. There’s exactly enough, if what’s given is shared by all.

And the third group is right here in this church. It’s you and me. It might seem as if we’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. After all, it’s Memorial Day weekend. We should be at the beach celebrating or having brunch with friends rather than gathering in this modern-day upper room. If we’re troubled by what we see on six of the seven days of the week when we’re not here, perhaps where we should be is out there, doing something about what troubles us, trying to make a difference.

Maybe you’re sympathizing with the Israelites on their journey out of Egypt. Maybe like the disciples gathered in the upper room in the aftermath of Jesus’s death, you’re feeling aimless about the future. Are you wondering whether we’ve been given enough to do what we’re called to do? The mission seems daunting, but the resources are few. And yet, do you really want to go back to Egypt? Was life really better then, even if more people were around and there was more money? And is it entirely possible that right now, we’re not in the wrong place at the wrong time but exactly where we’re supposed to be?

If that’s the case, then maybe the answer lies in today’s feast. On Pentecost, we celebrate not only that God calls us to mission and that the Holy Spirit has been poured into our hearts. We rejoice that through the Holy Spirit’s power, we do have enough.

The limits that God seems to impose on his gifts aren’t really limits at all but invitations into recognizing just how God’s abundance works. When God took some of the spirit that was on Moses and put it on the seventy elders, they only prophesied once. Then Eldad and Medad prophesied in the wrong place. Do you get it now? The seventy elders couldn’t do it alone. Moses couldn’t do it alone. The Spirit doesn’t operate with boundaries. The gift of prophecy was shared both inside and outside the camp. God had provided just enough for their circumstances.

And, too, with the disciples in that upper room. They were given the utterance of tongues amid their doubts about their future, but nothing could happen until those outside the upper room could hear them. There were enough people to spread the Gospel. Thousands were brought to Christ. And person by person, the good news spread to the ends of the earth.

And here we are, probably wishing that there were more among us. We need more hands and more money, and that’s true. But could it be that God has given us exactly what we need for this time and this place? Could it be that the helping hands are here among us and perhaps underutilized? Could it be that spiritual gifts are here and yet undiscerned or used? Could it be that the hands and gifts we need are still outside the camp but will soon be sent here? Could it be that the money is here but not tapped into yet? And even more astounding than all that, could it be that in each stage of our journey ahead, when we find ourselves doubting the future, God will pour the Spirit among us anew? Could it be that God comes among us to show us that we have just what we need right now? Can we trust that at every future stage in the journey, God will continue to provide as he has always done?

I’m like you, I want to reach the Promised Land, where the milk and the honey flow freely and the water no longer flows in through the damaged stained-glass windows when it rains. I want to be preaching to a full church, teaching a full Sunday School, and seeing our work touch people all over the world. It can happen. Anything is possible with God. I don’t yet know how it will happen, but I believe it will.

But what I do know now is this: we are in the right place at the right time. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. So am I. God has brought us here not just to be in the pews to worship, but to move from that worship into service in the ministry God is building here. God wants all of us here. Each of us is indispensable.

And I also know that because of God’s promise to us in Christ, we can trust that there is enough, even right now when our mouths water for garlic and cucumbers. There’s enough here in you and me. Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets. Yes, indeed. And that’s every single one of us, because we’re in the right place at the right time.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Day of Pentecost
May 28, 2023

A Breath and a Prayer

Over the last week, on this campus, the sound of singing filled the air during a multi-day retreat called “Praying Twice,” hosted by our retreat house. The intention of the retreat was to provide instruction in chanting the liturgy, as well as to cultivate a practice of chanting in one’s own prayer life. Participants sang some of the Church’s most ancient melodies and devoted special attention to shaping music that was originally intended for the Latin language, trying to make it sound a bit suaver in English.

My friend Ruth Cunningham, formerly of the famed women’s vocal ensemble Anonymous 4, was one of the retreat presenters, and as she led retreatants in chanting, she invited them to think about how to use their breath. In plainchant, many of the musical lines are long and spun out and require volumes of air to support them. So, Ruth said, take a breath, but treat it as a going-on breath, using a visual image from her Anonymous 4 days.

A going-on breath pauses for a quick intake of air, but it doesn’t leave the building for a shopping expedition or go outside for a chat with friends. A going-on breath serves as a practical necessity, as well as a musical pause, but it’s a pause with intention. It’s a pause that intuitively understands that there’s still music to come. The going-on breath must be oriented towards the music that lies ahead, to give it direction and focus. A going-on breath is not the end of a musical line, because there’s still a future ahead of it.

With this helpful image of a going-on breath, the singing of the retreatants changed. Musical lines had more direction and were less stagnant. The music itself gained more energy, shape, and purpose. The chant became vibrant, alive, and energized.

Maybe the Church needs that image of a going-on breath right now. Sometimes, it just feels like she’s stuck with no hope or definable purpose. We live in a peculiar time. I’m not certain that it’s scarier or more fraught with potential doom than other eras in human history, but the Church often fumbles to respond to a rapidly changing world. One thing is certain: with technological advances, the pace of life is speeding up exponentially. It seems that the Church is standing still, and the world is speeding by. Often, it appears as if more and more people increasingly see religion and faith as vestigial remnants of a tired past.

Now, add a pandemic to the mix, and things get very confusing. It’s as if for nearly three years we have paused to catch our breath because we’ve had to. We haven’t been able to do certain things for a while. We’ve been forced to slow down. But now things are accelerating again, although in many places, it doesn’t feel like the Church is. The Church is wondering where her people have gone. She is confused about how to be a viable source of meaning in a chaotic age. The Church is still pausing for a breath, but the future seems uncertain. At the end of a musical line, some have chosen to take their lunch break and have never come back.

Without the appropriate context, it’s difficult to see that in John chapter 17, Jesus is offering direction for an incipient Church that is pausing to catch her breath. Jesus himself, on the eve of his passion and death, is pausing to catch his breath, but it’s not an ordinary breath or one of exhaustion or one lacking purpose. It’s a going-on breath.

Jesus’s prayer to his Father is meant to be heard by his disciples and us. In John’s Gospel, Jesus is going on to his passion, death, and resurrection, and then ultimately to the right hand of his Father in heaven. This is what we celebrated on Ascension Day this past Thursday. Jesus has completed his earthly ministry, but the story is not yet finished. Jesus’s breath of a prayer to his Father on the eve of his death is radiating with hope. It’s the defining moment for a Church that will soon be formed and empowered to move forward. The disciples will be left forlorn, depressed, and aimless in the wake of their Lord’s death. They will surely doubt if a future lies ahead of them. But Jesus has anticipated this confusion. Before the worst occurs, he prepares them. Take a going-on breath, Jesus seems to say. There is a future ahead of you.

And if we recall the Scriptures, we know where this going-on breath is headed. This breath gives shape, purpose, direction, intention, and stamina for a group of disciples that are about to be set on fire. When in a few days the Holy Spirit alights on them, their future will be revealed, and they will be thrust forward in mission to the ends of the earth.

With a little help from Jesus’s prayer to his Father, can you visualize the Church’s future? In the brief span of time in which we take a going-on breath, can you dream about what lies ahead? Eternal life waits for us to receive it, not only ahead in the future but even in glimpses here and now. The Church will do even greater works than Jesus did. The Church can share in the remarkable unity of Father and Son. All that seems so impossible to us is possible. Jesus’s prayer to his Father is a prayer of confidence in what we as his Body can do.

Jesus’s prayer was a going-on breath, but we, in our own time, can easily forget that. And in this peculiar time, we are suspended in midair, trying to fathom our purpose, our intention, and our future. Do we even have a future, some say? Isn’t our future doomed, and aren’t we just here to manage decline? That’s what some are saying. How can our paltry numbers compete with numbers that actively work against us? How can hope compete with despair? How can justice compete with injustice? How can prayerful response compete with malaise? How can a mindset of abundance compete with one of scarcity? How can the voice of Jesus compete with the accusing voices of our culture, which tell us that our vision is an antiquated figment of our imagination?

The Church has paused to catch her breath. We are waiting to exhale and move on, but we are stuck. At the very least we are beset by doubts. We feel wholly inadequate for the task at hand. Until we remember where to focus our gaze. In the Acts of the Apostles, we heard two men in white say to the disciples, “why do you stand looking into heaven?” And, accordingly, we look down after Jesus goes into heaven, ready for action, but we see inaction. We look down ready for peace to reign, but we see fearful people, with ploughshares turned into swords. We look down to find unity amid our differences, but we see walls being built. So, can’t we just gaze up into heaven after all? It’s better up there.

Our gaze lingers on the sky above us. Can we be blamed for that? Perhaps in his prayer to the Father, Jesus has given us the counter image to the Ascension Day call to look down. Sometimes, we need to look up as well to be reminded that there is a future ahead. So, beloved in Christ, let’s try it. Lift your eyes to heaven for a time. Catch your breath, but don’t stop breathing. Lift your eyes, inhale, and find the breath you need to survive and thrive. This breath is not a stagnant pause. It’s not your last breath. It’s a going-on breath.

Jesus has told us this. When we lift our eyes to heaven, we remember that our future isn’t controlled by us; it’s controlled by God. And if we remember this, maybe we can remember that everything will be okay. All shall be well because our future is not in our own hands; it’s in God’s.

Take a breath, but with intention. Attend to the musical line that needs to be spun ahead. There’s a future ready to be shaped and directed by hope. Its jagged lines are ready to be smoothed, and its clashing dissonance can find pleasing harmony if not unison chanting.

Don’t let anyone tell you that your singing is over. Don’t let anyone tell you that your future is lost. The Good Shepherd of the sheep will allow no one to be lost, and especially not the Church. So, pause, take your breath, not just any breath, not too long of a breath, but a breath with intention. It’s a going-on breath. Breathe in all that is possible with a God who makes all things possible by the glorious resurrection of his Son Jesus Christ. Take your breath with an eye to that wondrous future, and then sing.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Seventh Sunday of Easter: The Sunday after Ascension Day
May 21, 2023

The Benefit of the Doubt

If you will, join me on a walk through the neighborhood. When we get to Lancaster Avenue, we’ll turn right. Walk a few blocks east, and you will see them. On the right, there’s the tanning salon, where disdained personal images are transfigured into more acceptable hues. On the left, there’s the bar where crowds drink away their fears and try to fill the gaping holes in their lives with fleeting glimpses of fellowship. Further ahead, on the right, is the spa, where after a long day’s work, for a small fortune, the bodily tensions of your punishing commute can be massaged into relaxation.

Just a few doors down is the overpriced ice cream shop that will undo everything you accomplished in the weight loss center nearby. Purchasing ten-dollar ice cream with bizarre toppings will elevate you to the cool crowd.

Keep looking, though, because there’s more. On the south side of the street, you will find the upscale clothing stores that offer you myriad choices of apparel to demonstrate that you are well off, respectable, and earning a decent living, just in case you need to cover up your insecurity. There’s a smoke shop and a place to relax the back that will ease your tense nerves and hopefully calm some of your anxiety, because these days, everyone is anxious. For a monthly fee, the fitness center will enable you to firm up your abs and work off your anger at your boss. And we’ve only gone a few blocks east on Lancaster Avenue.

Venture off into side streets and a bit further afield and you will see the parks filled with joggers and sports players, yes, especially on Sunday mornings. You might see a cycling club race by, yes, again on a Sunday morning. Baseball and soccer teams perfect their plays, on Saturday, and yes, on Sunday mornings, too. There’s the school full of overachievers who are stressed to the max, with inflated GPAs and ballooning hopes of getting into that Ivy League school. And this is only the tip of the iceberg.

On my worst days, I tend towards despair when I see the crowds in these human-made shrines but vacant pews in churches. I lament the fact that church can no longer compete with extracurricular activities, and marathons scheduled on Sunday mornings give people one more excuse to sleep in rather than go to church. I look hungrily at all the people in the barre studio and fitness center and wonder if they have a church home or know the love of God.

But on my best days, when I’m less cynical and more generous in spirit, I remember the apostle Paul in chapter seventeen of the Acts of the Apostles. He has just walked through Athens, a major cultural center, teeming with erudite philosophers debating the most novel ideas, spinning complex theories like a spider weaving a web to catch those who just can’t cut it in the highest intellectual echelons. Paul has seen the human-made shrines everywhere, and he’s taken the time to read the inscriptions. He has paid great attention to the objects of worship zealously manufactured by the Athenians.

But he was distressed to see so many idols. And so, he preached about Jesus, and people were intrigued. They found his teachings strange; they’d never heard them before. Some wanted to know more, so they brought him to the Areopagus, and this is where today’s speech begins.

But Paul in Athens is having a good day, unlike me on my worst days walking my dog through the streets of our neighborhood and seeing the shrines made with human hands that so easily become idols. These places are not bad or evil; they’ve simply fostered an unholy obsession from those who are seeking meaning in their lives. But Paul doesn’t chastise the Athenians. It’s not us versus them. He stands in the midst of a city proliferating with idols, unafraid of them, and he says something remarkable.

Paul doesn’t point the finger at the Athenians. He points a finger towards Christ. Paul doesn’t scold the Athenians, he gives them the benefit of the doubt. He has found his inspiration in one peculiar statue with a peculiar inscription, “To an unknown god.” This is a gift to Paul. It’s the hinge point for a conversation starter. It’s a window into the Gospel. And Paul goes for it. He preaches the good news, and he offers his Gospel gift to the Athenians.

The great hunger he sees among the Athenians and their real proclivity towards religiosity are simply directed towards the wrong things. Or perhaps—again, giving them the benefit of the doubt—they are inadvertently grasping towards the God we know as the living God, the One who made the heavens and the earth and who gives life to all and sustains all things. The Athenians are after something, they just don’t know what. Contrary to the Stoics, some of the Athenians aren’t apathetic. They aren’t mired in malaise or ossified by the status quo. Some of them have great aspirations to know something beyond their understanding. They’re so very hungry.

They’re famished, just like so many among us, too. I suspect that many of us here today are hungry. Unless you were forced here by a parent, you have come to this church because you were drawn by something. You must want to be found.

And so, on my better days, when I’m less cynical and try to be more like Paul in the Areopagus, I walk through our neighborhood. It’s not us versus them, I recall. And so I see not just idols to wealth, power, self-image, children’s successes, or worldly affirmation but I see a deep desire. People are full of longing. And I’m moved to pity.

So many people have put their hope in things that are not intrinsically harmful; they just implicitly promise something that will never satisfy. And then I look inside myself. What about you? Are our inner worlds so cluttered, confused, and unhappy that an idol is required to worship, whether our jobs or success? What about investments in purchases that will tell a superficial story of our lives while the secrets of our lives fester into open wounds?

More than we might imagine, you and I have much in common with the patrons of the businesses and crowds on the sports fields, even though we may be here on Sunday morning and they are elsewhere. We all share a longing for something that will fill the giant hole in our lives. But what makes our gathering here today so different is that we have some inkling that the only one who will fill that hole is God.

Doesn’t it make you want to run out into the streets and to share this good news? Don’t you want to announce to others that you know the temptation to fill the gap in your life with human creations, but that you’ve come to see that the only true fulfillment is God? Evangelism isn’t knocking on doors or thumping Bibles in people’s faces. It’s announcing the unshakeable truth that has been revealed in Christ, the One who has made God known in a particular time and place.

And before Paul stood in the Areopagus, Jesus came to earth and stood in our midst to tell us that we have no need to fill the emptiness of our lives with status or power or wealth. The God who gives us far more than we can ask or imagine is nearer to us than we are to ourselves. Jesus tells us that our broken self images which are consistently destroyed by human cruelty are made in God’s image. God loves us unconditionally, with no strings attached. Jesus comes to tell us that rather than building up our person security through affirmation and worldly success, we are better off putting our trust in God, who will never let us go. Jesus comes to tell us that in our loneliest moments when we grope after fellowship with others in all the wrong places, we will find our greatest companionship in his presence and in the fellowship of the Body of Christ. Jesus comes to tell us that everything we long for is already in front of our eyes. We have been feeding unknown gods when the God known in Christ is closer to us than we can comprehend.

On the day we come to understand this, nothing else will matter—not our self image, not our kids’ college portfolios, not the affirmation of shallow people, and not even the financial security that has us in its grip of total fear. All that matters is that we are loved and cared for by a God who is indeed known to us. This God requires not statues or shrines. This God does not need fancy inscriptions or money in order to give us what we need. This God is simply always present, always on the scene before we get there in the most unexpected of places. And most of all, this God is so compassionate and merciful that we are always given the benefit of the doubt. God loves our desire and our hunger and hopes it will draw us to him. And the moment we turn to him is our moment of repentance. And it’s so extraordinary and beautiful, that we can never turn away again.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 14, 2023  

Words that Can Light Up the World

As a child, I was intrigued with black and white films. Why, I asked my parents, were some films in black and white while others were in color? My uninformed, childlike assumption was that black and white films were simply color films that had grown old. They had once been in color, and then they just deteriorated in quality over time. In my mind’s eye, I imagined film rolls sitting around in a dark storage area, collecting dust, until one day, they lost their polychromatism and devolved into monochromatic grayscale productions.

While this naïve theory was incorrect, maybe there was a bit of truth in it after all. The black and white films I was analyzing were never filmed in color, but behind the limited chromatic fields of the final productions there were living worlds of vibrant hues. Jimmy Stewart’s eye color was not an unidentifiable shade of gray but light blue. Donna Reed’s hair color was not an unfathomable variation on black but deep brown.

When you read Scripture, what’s the color palette that you see? Is it polychromatic or monochromatic? If the current malaise of the Church and the confused comfort of many Christians is any indication, Scripture is only a black and white film. That’s not to say that everyone finds it uninteresting or irrelevant, but rather that over the centuries, something has been lost. It’s a bit like my childhood image of black and white films. I thought those films had simply lost their color over time.

So, where has the color gone in the stories of Jesus and of the early Church? In 2023, can we find any ounce of the fervor described in the Acts of the Apostles, when thousands were converted in a day? Today, where’s the palpable presence of the Holy Spirit, alighting on person after person and strengthening them to do wild and unexpected things in the name of Christ? Where are the miracles, the healings, the missionary journeys to exotic lands, and the inclusion of heretofore ostracized groups of people?

Over the years, Scripture has become a monochromatic palette. We hear the same stories repeatedly. Unspoken, key details are left to our imaginations, but if we fail to employ our imaginations to supply the color, the stories are simply visualized in grayscale. Chilling moments lose their electricity. Scripture is read as if it were the phone book.  

Maybe Scripture has taken on something of the monochromatic reality around us, which seems like it will never blossom into color again: an unending conflict in Ukraine, one more mass shooting, racism coded into law, lawmakers establishing policy that excludes yet one more vulnerable group. Some things never seem to change. We’re left with a grayscale universe and no real ideas of how to add color to it, because we feel helpless. Do you wonder if the color has completely gone from our world?

And then, we hear Jesus say something remarkable, if we’re listening. On a first hearing, Jesus’s words channeled through John the Evangelist may have a monochromatic ring to them. We hear him repeat a common refrain many times in John’s Gospel: I am in the Father and the Father in me. John spins a circular logic that can lose its zest when rendered into English. Everything sounds colorless until Jesus drops a zinger of flashing light.

He who believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I go to the Father. Wow. Did you see the world just light up with color? Or when you heard it just a few minutes ago, did your attention gloss right over it? Can you believe what Jesus said to his disciples and what he’s saying to us? Listen again: He who believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I go to the Father.

This is nothing short of astonishing. We’ve been given a charge that’s either so true we can’t believe it or just one more hyperbole in Scripture. But I’m here to tell you that what Jesus says is true. It’s simply that we’ve failed to believe it.

Why then have we become content with a monochromatic world? Why has the story that upended the world been reduced to silent film in grayscale? Why does the fervor of the early Church or even the vibrancy of the Church fifty years ago seem like mere idealism? There’s only one solution to this predicament, as far as I’m concerned, and it’s not my own. It’s the one Jesus gives us.

Did you catch those other words of Jesus, or did they fail to light up for you, too? Hear them again: Whatever you ask in my name, I will do it, that the Father may be glorified in the Son; if you ask anything in my name, I will do it. Never underestimate the power of prayer. I’m talking about real prayer, the kind of prayer infused with the love of God the Father, revealed in his Son Jesus Christ, whose living presence continues to be made known to us in the power of the Holy Spirit.

This is prayer that takes place no matter how we’re feeling. This is prayer that’s unceasing and permeates every moment of our day, whether in words or through movements of the heart. This is prayer expressed both in song and in silence. This is prayer that turns every aspect of our lives over to God so that God can do what’s best for us when we don’t know what we need. This is prayer that takes place at home, at work, in the public sphere, and unfailingly here at church.

This is prayer that envisages a God who is more than a mere dispenser of favors or worker of magic tricks. This is prayer that can only come about from aligning our lives with Jesus, the way, the truth, and the life. When our wills are so bound up with Christ’s, then we will know exactly what we need to ask for, and God will give it to us. If we believe what Jesus says, then we can do far more than we can imagine, and impossibilities become real possibilities, because the Holy Spirit has been given to us as our companion and guide.

It's a tragedy that thoughts and prayers have come to stand for inaction in the face of injustice. But perhaps that’s because we’ve put the cart before the horse. Action can only follow prayer. And right action can only stem from being hitched to the one who is the way into eternal life.

Right now, it’s probably difficult for many of us to imagine doing greater works than Jesus because our world has been so dulled by the monochromatism of sin and despair. But we are custodians of the great treasure of Jesus’s words. His words of hope have been entrusted to us so that we will believe them and then live from out of their power.

So, now is the time for the Church to light up the world with color. Politicians have failed. Government officials promise and don’t deliver. Lawmakers write injustice into law. Friends betray us. Institutions take our money and give us nothing in return. Every person and thing in which we’ve put our misguided trust will disappoint. But the Church is different. She should be different. She can upend the world once again. She will do things so astonishing that they can only be from the hand of God.

The most exciting and magnificent film you’ve ever seen and ever will see is before your eyes. You are in it. For some time now, it has lain dormant in a closet, shut up in the dark. It has collected dust. It has lost its color, little by little, decade by decade. Tired narratives tell us this: the Church can only manage her decline, the Church must be scaled back to manageable size, thoughts and prayers are useless, and the only hope in the world is what you alone can do, because God won’t help you.

But these are lies, because the risen Christ is alive in our midst, and he gives us a different message. The Holy Spirit is setting the world on fire. Grays can become blue, and shades of black will morph into brown. There’s no color too alluring for the palette of the film that God is producing among us. We are actors in it. The dull gray of your despair is now a luminous hope.

All you must do is believe. Believe that Jesus’s words are true. Believe that behind the grayscale film you see is a world of dazzling color, radiant with hope. Believe that through the Holy Spirit’s power, our wills can be united with God’s desires for us. And above all, believe Christ’s promise: if you ask for anything in his name, God will do it.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 7, 2023

Sermon for Good Shepherd Sunday

In the Name of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. Amen.

I want to begin by thanking Fr Kyle your Rector for inviting me to be with you on Good Shepherd Sunday. I served as Rector here for seven years from 1978 to 1985, and years of blessing those were for me and my family and, I hope for the congregation. I have held this church in my loving prayers ever since: May the good Lord bless, protect and prosper you now and always. May you flourish in every way it is possible to flourish!

After 41 years of full time parish ministry, I retired – I should say my wife Nancy and I retired – in 2014. We live where we met, in Narragansett, RI, and we worship where we were married there over a half century ago, at Saint Peter’s-by-the-Sea. I have a story from St Peter’s that I believe well illustrates the work of our Lord Jesus as our Good Shepherd.

Several years ago, a man about my age, we’ll call him Tom, befriended us and invited us to join him and his wife in a play-reading group. It’s good fun, and a certain social life rotates with it. One day, however, Tom wanted to see me and talk personally and seriously, so I drove over to his house for a conversation with him and his wife. He revealed that he had been battling with cancer for over a decade, which few had known, and that the cancer had gained too much ground for him to continue his battle with it: he was starting at-home hospice care.

Tom’s wife was an attender at St Peter’s, but I didn’t recall seeing Tom with her. Nonetheless, Tom had been educated in Episcopal schools, was familiar with their chapel services, with the old Book of Common Prayer, the hymns, and other time-honored customs; but he had long since ceased regular church attendance.

I didn’t ask Tom why he had stopped with church, but he did say he hadn’t liked the changes in the Prayer Book, or some political sermons, or whatever. Very likely. The truth is, if you’re looking for a reason not to go to church, there are plenty available, and so I let this all pass. The further, deeper truth was, Tom wanted to receive the sacrament, to use what little time he had left to get in touch again with Jesus and his church. That was the heart of the matter.

While I demurred from acting as anything but a retired priest and friend, I did volunteer to contact our rector. But Tom said I needn’t do that; he would email him directly. To paraphrase him, he said this “poor old lamb needs to come back to the sheepfold…”  That, I thought, was impressive. It was a simple statement of faith and fact spoken in a genuine crisis.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says several of the things that describe him as The Good Shepherd, and today they involve him as the good shepherd who opens the gate of the sheepfold. The sheep, he says, know the true shepherd’s voice, and they do not heed the voice of strangers. Elsewhere, Jesus says “I AM the Good Shepherd,” meaning that he is the Lord God, I AM, who is the Shepherd of all Israel, and that there is one flock and one shepherd.

On the day before he died, Jesus said that as the Good Shepherd acting in perfect unity with his Father, he had power to lay down his life and power to take it up again. This is of course a reference to Jesus’s death and resurrection, his ultimate act on behalf of his sheep, for whom he lays down his life. There are images around this church of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. These images reflect the earliest Christian art and iconography. Clearly the image of The Good Shepherd spoke to the hearts of the early disciples and the church that grew up after them. Some of the images here show Jesus as a beardless Roman shepherd, with a sheep on his shoulders. I have always found these powerful and moving. When Tom in Narragansett referred to himself as a poor old lamb wanting to return to the fold, that was the very image that rose up in my mind’s eye. I thought of the risen Lord with Saint Peter by the lake, healing Peter’s triple betrayal by asking him three times if Peter loved him; and each time commanding him to feed, to tend, and again to feed his lambs and sheep, young and old, high and low, rich and poor.

The rector responded quickly and well to Tom’s email. He visited Tom within a few days, and they spoke and had Holy Communion in Tom’s home. Tom was not able to go out any more. He and the rector had significant pastoral conversation, and more than once. Tom’s wife was happy at what she witnessed. Would I, she asked, take some part in Tom’s funeral service when the time came for it? I would be honored, of course, the rector assigning me my place.

As it happened the time came quickly, not months but weeks, much quicker than Tom had first told me. The rector saw that Tom’s reaching out to the church was not a moment too soon, actually just in the nick of time. The night Tom died in his sleep, he told his wife he felt he was now all done, was right at the shore. And he did not linger. 

St Peter’s, even in this strange time of Covid worries, was full of people for Tom’s funeral. The rector provided a most grace-filled service from the Book of Common Prayer and spoke of Jesus the Good Shepherd, of how there is joy over our desire to come home to him.

It was good to hear some of those Prayer Book phrases: “Acknowledge, we humbly beseech, a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.” And I thought of a prayer for the departed that wasn’t read but is always pertinent: “wash him in the blood of that immaculate Lamb who was slain to take away the sins of the world…that whatsoever defilements he may have contracted in the midst of this earthly life being purged and done away, he may be presented pure and without spot before thee…”

This story is one of many that show us what the church is for, whether St Peter’s in Narragansett or The Good Shepherd in Rosemont. May we always do what we can to assist in the care of our beloved Jesus, the Lamb of God who is our Good Shepherd. And, good brother Father Kyle, dearly beloved members and parishioners of The Good Shepherd, may many lambs find safety and pasture here in this venerable and lovely sheepfold.

In the Name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Illogical Hope

I remember many things from my visit to the Holy Land in 2016. I remember with fondness the beautiful rolling hills of the Judean wilderness and Ein Karem, where the visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to Elizabeth is commemorated. I remember kissing the stone in Bethlehem marking the spot where it’s believed that Jesus was born. I remember wading into the Jordan River where Jesus was baptized, nervously staring at armed Jordanian soldiers across the river, because we had been told that there could still be some landmines hidden on the bed of the river. I remember the incredible Church of the Holy Sepulcher, which houses the site of Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified, as well as the place where his tomb was.

But I also remember that holiest church in Christendom divided into pieces, some portions allocated to Orthodox Christians, some to Armenian Christians, others to Roman Catholics. Anglicans weren’t allowed to celebrate Mass at any of the altars there. I remember feeling the palpable tension between denominations in that holy place, vying for power and control. I remember being hastened from my posture of adoration at Jesus’s burial place by abrupt and rude guards of the tomb, so that other tourists could have their seven or eight seconds there.

The Holy Land is a confusing place. It has an illogic that masquerades as logic. Even though it should be the place of truest peace on earth, it’s one of the most volatile. Where love should reign, hate predominates. Where swords should be beaten into ploughshares, soldiers who look like they’re still teenagers roam the streets of Old City with machine guns.

But in that beautiful land, there is also a place called Abu Ghosh. It’s the place believed to be Emmaus. On my pilgrimage some years ago, as we journeyed there, we were told that it was not a safe place. We were told that the Roman Catholic monastery we would be visiting, which housed both men and women, was infrequently visited. Many people were afraid to visit this unstable region of Israel.

So, when we pulled into the drive of the monastery, I remember this. I remember monks and nuns coming out to greet us. I remember a welcome so warm that it surpassed the welcome we received or didn’t receive at any other site in the Holy Land. I remember a profound gratitude radiating from the monks and nuns because we had chosen to visit them.

We moved into the ancient church for Mass. And there, a group of Roman Catholic monks and nuns allowed an Anglican priest to celebrate Mass at the altar. I was astounded. On our trip were men and women priests, and they were all graciously welcomed. The monks and nuns even joined in the Mass with us. In this quiet, remote place, in the place where two early disciples finally recognized Jesus in the breaking of the bread, I saw a fleeting glimpse of Christian charity, unity, hospitality, peace, and love. I saw the illogic of that goodness trump the world’s unholy quests for logic.

And then it was over. The bread was broken, the wine was poured. We were dismissed and sent into the world to love and serve the Lord in peace. We climbed back onto our buses, and we road back to Jerusalem. We road back to a city seething with hatred and violence. We road back to a city arbitrarily and defiantly partitioned, where altars were controlled by the religious hierarchy and denominations fought over their last square footage of space in a holy site. At Emmaus, the Risen Christ had been clearly known to us in the opening of Scripture and in the breaking of bread, in divisions momentarily put aside, and in true hospitality. And then it was as if Jesus had vanished from our sight.

In Luke’s Gospel, when Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus, it’s three days after they had seen humanity at its worst. Walking from Jerusalem, they left the ugliness of human betrayal, fear, denial, mocking, hatred, and crucifixion. They walked along that road to Emmaus stewing over everything that had happened. Talking and discussing, trying to find logic in the empty tomb that was discovered, the absence of a body, the seemingly preposterous claims of the women at the tomb who said they saw angels.

Here’s what I imagine Cleopas and the other disciple thinking inside, although they don’t give voice to it. The friend we thought was the hope of Israel may have just been a fraud. Where in all this is the God we worship and adore? Was God not powerful enough to save the one who preached and taught about love? When all our hope was centered around someone who is now dead, is there any future for us? And if so, what is it?

And although those disciples are wrestling with many emotions in their hearts, for most of their journey on that road to Emmaus, they appear to be lost in their heads. They are hashing it out in conversation, trying to rationalize. They are looking for logic where there is none.

But something happens on that road to Emmaus. The logic they had sought is disassembled by Jesus. When they think that suffering and death can have no part in the world’s redemption, the Risen Christ reinterprets Scripture for them. When they think that they need to articulate a cohesive argument in their minds, as if they could philosophize the resurrection, Jesus spends the evening with them, takes a loaf of bread, blesses it, breaks it, and shares it with them.

And this is the moment in which their eyes are opened by God. Until now, their eyes have been closed. Until now, they have been in their heads. Now, they have moved from head to heart. Now, it all makes sense. There is no logic to this mystery, and in the illogic of it all, they find their hope.

This hope was made known to me in Emmaus on that pilgrimage back in 2016. Before that Eucharistic encounter, I was seeking Christ’s presence in the holy sites where he walked, preached, taught, and healed. I was looking for him, and of course, he was there. But somehow, my eyes were still closed to his real presence, because I was in my head. Mere remembering was not enough to summon Jesus’s presence, because in the present, I still saw the illogic of human sin, strife, discord, contention, and harbingers of violence. I saw petty denominational differences manifested in territory grabbing. I saw lots of Christians trying to control the uncontrollable.

But at Emmaus, my eyes were opened. And the only one who could open my eyes was God. Christ was truly present among a diverse group of Christians assembled in an ancient church, hearing Scripture read and interpreted, and breaking bread together. No sinful bickering could keep him out. No manipulative schemes could pin him down. No jaded human logic could quench his beautiful illogic.

And suddenly, his presence vanished from our midst. He was present, and then absent once again. We pilgrims went on our way, but now it made sense. Usually, we are trying to force our eyes to open by ourselves. We are living in our heads, trying to rationalize our way to peace or understanding. But Christ is inviting us to let him interpret the Scriptures for us and let him give us his Body and Blood. He longs to be made known to us in the present by Holy Spirit’s power, not simply in our memories or intellectual schemes.

And here we have come today. We are perhaps lonely and confused, perhaps sad and bereft, perhaps feeling abandoned, perhaps wondering if the world has gone off the rails. Maybe you’re trying to rationalize your way to faith and understanding. Some of you may even think being here is just a waste of time, when you could be out there, doing something good in the name of Christ.

But you and I are exactly where we should and need to be. There’s no other place on earth in which the Risen Christ will make himself known more clearly. He has already told us that. There’s no other place where you will be changed more deeply. He has told us that, too. There’s nothing better that we can do for the sake of the world and our lives than to heed our Lord’s command to come here on the Lord’s Day, week after week after week. Come together as much as you can. Allow Christ to open Scripture for you. Come to the Lord’s altar, and let Christ feed you. You can never get enough of this.

And then, your eyes will be opened, not by the books you read, the teachers you admire, or your own effort. Your eyes will be opened by God, who is the only one who can bring the illogic of hope into an illogical world.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Easter
April 23, 2023

Of What Are You Afraid?

It’s Sunday. They are huddled together in a room, where they usually gather. That event which seemed like ages ago is still in their memories. But something is wrong. This motley assortment of disciples should be glad. They should be gathering out of thanks, for a life so generously sacrificed for their salvation, for a startling new truth that they still struggle to grasp, for the eternal promise that has been made to them.

But they don’t look glad. They all seem drawn into themselves. There’s a nervous energy in the room. They are forlorn. They are lonely. They are beginning to wonder if God has abandoned them, even though they have shown up to be together with one another, as is their custom. The doors are not only shut; they are locked. The tension and anxiety are so thick in the room that you can cut through the resulting cloud with a knife. Above all, these disciples are afraid. They are scared out of their minds.

A handful of disciples in need of one another’s company, gathering according to their custom, shut behind doors, so very afraid. Is the year 30 A.D. or 2023? Is this gathering comprised of Jesus’s disciples, who were still in shock in the evening of the Day of Resurrection, or is it the modern Church gathering to break bread and share a cup on a Sunday so many years later? Is the man nervously pacing across the room impetuous Peter who is still feeling guilty for his three denials, or is it the parishioner who’s worried about the heating bill and the recent liturgical change?

Right now, on the first day of the week, countless other Christians—although undoubtedly fewer than in ages past—are gathering across the world, just as we are. Usually, the doors are shut and hopefully not locked, although in some corners of the world, perhaps they are. Prayers are said. Bread and wine are present. Thanks is given to God for them. The bread is broken, and the wine is poured. They are shared.

In many places, as in this place, people seem glad to be here. The peace is exchanged. Worries and troubles are brought with the contemporary disciples who come, even though most of these remain hidden inside our hearts. All that we bring is placed on the altar, with ourselves and the bread and the wine. Sins are forgiven. Fellowship is shared. Christ’s Body and Blood are received.

But do you detect any tension? Do you sense any anxiety? Are you afraid, and if so, of what are you afraid? Is it what’s on the other side of the doors of this church? Is it the safety of your family when you’re not with them? Is it the health of a parent who is struggling with a sobering new diagnosis? Is it the mental health of your child? Is it about paying the bills?

Or are you afraid of a world full of shifting mores and values? Or of the judgment of your friends who want nothing to do with church and think you’re out of your mind for being here? Or of the people who look and think differently from you? Are you afraid of any of these things?

Let’s face it. The fear that Jesus’s disciples had in that upper room over two thousand years ago manifests itself in similar ways in our own day. The fear that St. John describes in his Gospel was used to scapegoat others: one group of Jewish people who followed Jesus demonized another group who didn’t.

But the Church still recapitulates such fear in other ways. She fears “the world” outside our doors, even if they aren’t locked. She fears a culture that has decreasing respect for the Church and that schedules ballgames and dance practice on Sunday. She fears a pandemic that has thinned out the pews. She fears even the fear of those outside the Church who have been wounded by reckless spiritual leaders. She fears those within the Church who weaponize Scripture and the sacraments. She fears talking about sin too much lest she offend, or in some corners, she fears talking about love lest she become too generous. Her members even fear their fellow Christians because they can be so unforgiving. There is so much to fear, it seems.

At least, that’s what the prevailing narratives suggest. One narrative, which many in the Church have bought hook, line, and sinker, is that the Church is in perpetual decline. The Church will need to reinvent herself completely, or she will simply die out. The clock is ticking. Haven’t you heard this? Are you afraid of it? And if so, what are you going to do about it?

And in walks Thomas. If there’s anyone in Scripture we should feel sorry for, it’s Thomas. But we shouldn’t feel sorry for him because he doubts. The Greek text never says he doubts. Jesus tells him to be believing, not unbelieving. And the last thing we should fear is our doubts. We should feel sorry for Thomas because he is often so misunderstood. Thomas should be our role model. Thomas demands something that we all need to see. Thomas wants to see Jesus’s wounds.

Thomas is going for something deep. Perhaps it’s not so much that he wants proof before he can believe. Perhaps he wants to make sure that the person the disciples have claimed to see is truly the Risen Christ. When Satan is known to masquerade as an angel of light, Thomas is sensible to ask for proof. And the Risen Christ who never deceives isn’t someone who mysteriously appears and offers facile peace with oppression or with the status quo. The Risen Christ, whom we worship and adore, is the One who appears with the scars still in his hands and his side, because this Savior has been to darker places than we can imagine. He offers the peace that passes all understanding and a new creation that transforms the old. This Risen Christ still comes to us in our valleys of despair. So, put your hands into his side and see the print of the nails in his hands, and what do you see?

In those scars is a Church that gathered week after week on the first day of the week, even when it was a crime. In those scars is a Church that produced martyrs whose blood became the seed for a growing crop of disciples. In those scars is a Church that grew and grew even when others mocked it and when authorities persecuted it. In those scars is a body of disciples who stayed together despite heresy and schism, and corrupt bishops. In those scars are the internal divisions that threatened to destroy the Church forever, but which didn’t. In those scars, are the sins of the Crusades and anti-Jewish pogroms and oppressive colonization. In those scars are the wounds of those abused by Church leaders and those who were excluded by the Church.

It’s all there, and Thomas wants to see it. Ask to see the wounds, he says, because only a Savior who is risen from the dead and still bears such wounds is our true Savior. His wounds are proof that the worst crimes and heinous acts and even death itself cannot destroy what God has built. The Risen Christ, who offers his peace and Holy Spirit to us, will not erase our wounds. He heals them.

And here is the Risen Christ with us today, in our midst. He has come to us, despite the closed doors. He has come to us despite our fear. He has an invitation and a message for us.

As he did with Thomas, he invites us to see the wounds in his hands and to touch his side. He asks us to be not unbelieving but believing. He encourages us not to believe a message of despair about our own future and the Church’s future. His wounds remind us that although we may think the world has never been so bad, it has been in trouble before, and it survived. The Church survived. And Jesus says, you and the Church will survive. For he doesn’t forsake his own, and his message is no lie.

That is his invitation to believe. And then he does one final thing: he gives us a charge. Go and unlock the doors, he says. Your fear has already been unable to keep him out. Unlock the doors to all. Do not fear what is outside. Do not fear the unknown. Believe that what you haven’t yet seen will be good news. Believe that no matter what anyone else tells you, this isn’t the end. There is a future prepared for you, and that’s the best part yet.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday of Easter
April 16, 2023

Gathered at the Tomb

We don’t really know how long all the events took, but maybe we can hazard a guess. Like any book or movie, the real-life action always takes longer than it takes to read or watch. So, imagine that before us on the screen is a video of just over an hour’s length. If we start at the beginning and click the play button, it’s difficult to make out what’s happening. It’s dark, and the camera is focused on a tomb whose stone has been rolled away from its entrance.

A woman walks in from stage right. She’s not walking fast. She’s leaning forward a bit, as if the weight of the world is resting on her shoulders. At ten seconds, we see her pause, bring her hands to her face, and then suddenly, she darts off the screen in the direction from which she came. For thirty minutes, the camera remains focused on the empty tomb. There is no other movement. All is silent. All is still.

And then, just after thirty minutes into this video, we can hear the rustle of movement from stage right. One individual darts into the picture view. Shortly afterwards, a second figure appears, running as well. And then we see a third figure, which we recognize as the woman whom we first saw.

The first running figure bends down at the tomb entrance but doesn’t go in. But his competitor in the race to the tomb does go into the tomb. We hear something, although we can’t make out what he’s saying. He clearly sees something significant. Now, his running companion also goes into the tomb. We hear muffled voices, but they are distorted by the cavernous reverberation of the tomb. After they emerge from the tomb, these two individuals depart. It’s about thirty-two minutes into the video.

All we see now is the woman, her back to us. She is standing outside the tomb. We see her shoulders moving up and down. She is crying. We can hear the muffled sobbing. Occasionally, she brings a hand to her face, presumably to wipe away tears. It’s painful to watch. There’s no other action except this woman, staring at the entrance to the tomb, wiping away tears, shoulders trembling.

We watch and hear her crying, and it’s a long time. Not until the video has been playing for an hour do we see a different kind of movement. The woman seems to have a thought. We can read it in her body language. She stoops down and freezes. Then we hear two voices echoing in unison from inside the cave of the tomb. Woman, why are you weeping? The woman responds, through her tears, They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.

Then, it happens. Someone else, whose back is also to us, appears. We don’t even notice how he appears. We’re just suddenly aware that he’s there. Of course, we know who he is. We’ve watched this video before. At this moment, we see the woman, as if she were instinctively aware of another presence behind her, abruptly turning. He says to her, Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?

We’ve heard the story before, so we know how she answers. We know what happens now. But this climactic moment of the story we rewatch every year is at one hour and three minutes. It’s at this moment that we finally learn her name. It’s Mary. The man has called her by name. And the rest is history. We and the world have never been the same since.

And here we are this Easter Day, rewatching that video. Or at least that’s what we say we’re doing. In truth, the events we think we’re rewatching are taking place in human time. They are being truly re-presented to us in the salvation of liturgical time because God’s time knows no bounds. We are participating in those saving events. But for simplicity’s sake, let’s imagine we are rewatching this video for the sixth, thirty-first, or eightieth time. What are we rewatching? And what moments of this rather long video are we focusing on?

What has brought you here today? What moment in the video have you come for? Is it the moment when Mary first appears on the scene, sees the stone rolled away, and runs off? Or is it thirty minutes in when the three figures come racing onto the scene to make their further discoveries at the tomb? Or is it an hour into the video, when Mary peers into the tomb, sees the angels, and finally meets the Risen Christ. Which moment is it?

If I had to guess, I would surmise that you, I, and countless Christians across the world in this very moment are watching one of those moments and holding onto it for dear life. Maybe it’s why you got up early today and put on your Sunday best. Maybe it was inspiration enough to get your kids up, too, for an Easter egg hunt and then to stay for church.

But what about those other moments of the video, the ones we like to forget or ignore. As we’re imagining this story, there’s nearly an hour’s worth of footage that we rarely talk about. It’s probably not the footage you would choose to watch and rewatch. It’s probably not the footage that brought you here today. Why wouldn’t you watch and rewatch it? Is it because it's boring or because it’s too painful to watch? But let’s do something different this Easter. Let’s rewatch those long, difficult moments. No, let’s do something more. Let’s participate in them.

First, there’s the thirty minutes of silence and suspense, staring at the empty tomb, after Mary leaves the scene to find Peter and the Beloved Disciple. Think it’s not important to you or to me? Think again. Look again.

Ah, do you see them now? There are characters in this part of the video, but we must go deep into our hearts to find them. When we look at the footage again, we see the long, painful confusion of a former Christian who lost his faith. He once was convinced he knew it all. Jesus was his Lord and Savior, and he was stirred up inside every time he thought of Jesus. But one day, after he was betrayed by his own church, he lost the faith he thought he had. And now, here he stands, in an awkward, disturbing silence of waiting between knowing Jesus and feeling like Jesus is gone from his life.

We also see the woman, across the world in Ukraine, whose son went to fight in the war. He left six months ago, and she hasn’t heard from him. She’s still waiting. The silence is long and hard, but she’s grasping for something in the emptiness and hoping that the story isn’t quite over yet. Maybe one day he will appear from stage right, too.

Or should we fast forward to thirty-two minutes into the video? Yes, we see Mary weeping, shoulders shaking, and we hear her gentle sobbing. But there are others, too. Do you see them now? I see the woman weeping by the bed of her spouse who is daily losing strength. I see the youth crying in her room because she is bullied at school and ignored when she tries to speak up to school officials. Whom do you see? Do you see the family gathered on the street block now cordoned off with police tape? Do you see the hardworking father that can’t afford to feed his children? Do you see the elderly woman who has no family or friends and is eating alone? Which others do you see?

What has brought us here today, I suspect, are not these moments. We have come for the dramatic moments of finding the empty tomb and Jesus calling Mary’s name. But the best news of all this day lies in the moments of the video that we’d prefer not to watch. And yet, God is showing us something in them. We can’t have resurrection glory without that hour of the video that is so hard to watch. Resurrection glory has its meaning in them. And it’s the best news we could possibly imagine because not one of us will ever be removed from that hour of the video. We will be there one day. We have been there. Maybe we are there now. And here’s the meaning of today: despite all that, we have hope.

We have hope because the tomb was empty. The body was gone. And only because of that historical reality can we fully trust that God has done something that will always be so unbelievable that we must believe. This story is hope for anyone who struggles, who doubts, who weeps, or is confused. The resurrection in its full glory and truth is not a neatly packaged event to be tidily consumed by those without blemish or doubt. It’s a truth that finds its full meaning especially when we are wandering in the dark, when we are deep in the tomb and can’t find our way out, and when we are weeping for sorrow. It greets us not to affirm our righteousness or pat us on the back. It greets us with the incredible news that truth and love come to find us when we don’t know where to look. The Risen Christ is here to give us eternal life because his love is stronger than death.

I don’t know where you are in the video this day, but wherever you are, rejoice. Whether you are weeping, whether you are confused, whether you have lost your faith, whether you don’t understand anything at all, rejoice that the one whom God raised from the dead is right behind you, always. Turn around like Mary. Look. The Good Shepherd, the innocent Lamb slain for the other sheep, is calling your name. You are his beloved child. You are his lost sheep. You have been looking for love, and love has found you.

Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sunday of the Resurrection
April 9, 2023

An Unbelievable World

On Good Friday, we are usually looking up. Jesus hangs on the cross, arms stretched out in love as if to embrace the whole world. Jesus and his agony, it seems, is the focus of our attention this day. But what if we looked down? What would we see?

When those who were near the cross on that solemn day finally looked down after Jesus gave up his spirit, there were many surprises. All around, they had come. Some, like the Blessed Mother, Mary the wife of Cleophas, Mary Magdalene, and the Beloved Disciple are named. But there were others who were not named. Something had drawn them here.

There were plenty who were here for the sport of a public execution. There were those who did the dastardly deed with nails and hammers. There were the soldiers who would pierce his side. But I’m not talking about these. I’m talking about the ones who came for a different reason. They came for love.

The ones who came for love weren’t drawn by the words Pilate hastily wrote and placed above Jesus’s head on the cross. They certainly weren’t there for the spectacle or for curiosity. They weren’t there to jeer or mock Jesus. The ones who came for love came for one reason only: they knew his voice.

It was a motley collection of people there near the foot of the cross. They surprised one another. But that’s what love does: it surprises us. Of course, the poor were there. The ones who hardly had two denaari to rub together came because they were hungry. They knew the one on the cross could not give them bread right now, but they knew he would feed them. They had heard him say so: I am the bread of life. Even on the verge of death, he would satisfy their hunger.

The lonely were there, too. Some of the outcasts and the social pariahs came as well. Some had committed crimes that they hoped no one would ever discover. The only place they knew to come was here, the foot of the cross. Because they heard him say before: I am the good shepherd. They knew that where the deepest loneliness was, he would most certainly be there, too.

There were other women besides the Marys, women, unfortunates treated as less than human in their marriages. And there were the people regarded as notorious sinners, shunned by society, and vulnerable to abuse. They came because they heard him say it: I am the gate for the sheep. They knew that this was the safest place on earth, and that when they came close to him, he would protect them, even if it seemed like the most dangerous place on earth.

There were the blind, who knew that they could find their deepest sight in this man hanging from a tree. And those who needed others to carry them were brought. The sick and the suffering made the journey here, too. They came for healing, because they heard him say it before: I am the light of the world. This one on the cross would give light to the darkness of their lives.

Among those near the cross were some of the most aimless and directionless. Some had been led astray by false prophets before. Some thought they had faith until a tragedy struck. Others didn’t know God until they heard this one say it: I am the way, and the truth, and the life. In the chaos of their lives, something about this man compelled them to come, trusting that they would find abundant life.

Those who were mourning recent deaths stood expectantly waiting at the foot of the cross. Their bowels groaned with the emptiness of their losses, but they came because they heard him say it before: I am the resurrection and the life. They had heard about Lazarus. They knew that the who had wept for his friend would give them hope.

They all went to the foot of the cross because they had heard his voice. Even above the fracas of the angry crowd, even above the pounding of the nails into the hard wood of a cross, even above the tone of cynicism, they still heard his voice. They recognized it, because the one who was now the spotless victim had called them by name. The Good Shepherd of the sheep was now the innocent lamb led to the slaughter. He was true to his word. He would indeed give his life for his precious sheep. They knew it now. They knew his voice. So, to the cross they came. They came for love.

And here we are. We are at the foot of the cross. We are a no less surprising group of people than those who gathered at the cross for love oh so many years ago. We have heard him say it, too, which is why we came. We have come with all that seems unlovable about us. We have come with our deepest secrets and most painful sins that have isolated us for years. We have come with our aching hunger. We have come with recent deaths weighing on our hearts. We have come with the numbing confusion of grasping for the rudder in a rudderless world. We have come to find truth when everything else is lies. When we have given up on loving ourselves and others, we have come with a desperate last hope that here we will find love. We came for love.

The shepherd has become the sheep who sacrifices himself for the rest of the flock. The king reigns from a tree. The one who is I AM has accomplished the perfect salvation of the world. It is finished. It is complete. The Savior of the world has stretched out his arms to draw all people to himself. This Shepherd has become a slain sheep so that everyone can be found.

We look up at him on the cross. Then we look down in awe at all who have come here, many of whom we would never have imagined could be in this place. We are surprised by love. Here, at the cross, is the place where deepest loneliness becomes the place of deepest communion. Here, at the cross, is the place where death becomes life. Here, at the cross, is the place where all that is unloved is loved for all eternity.

We heard him say it. We still hear him say it. I am, he says. The blazing bush is before us. We take off our shoes because we are on holy ground. We have come for love, and love speaks. And we fall backward to the ground. And we worship and adore.   

Sermon by Father Kyle
The Great Vigil and First Mass of Easter
April 8, 2023