First Blessings

APOSTLES ANGLICAN CHURCH
Fr. John A. Roop

Feast of the Ascension, 18 May 2023
(Acts 1:1-11 / Ps 110:1-5 / Eph 1:15-23 / Lk 24:44-53)

Alleluia. Christ the Lord has ascended into heaven:
O come, let us adore him. Alleluia.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress, built by nature for herself
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth (Richard II, Act II, scene i).

It was only twelve days ago that the world’s attention turned to “this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England” as John of Gaunt described it with his dying breath in Shakespear’s Richard II. From the “teeming womb of royal kings,” one arose to receive the crown that day, Charles III. Whether he will be fear’d by his breed and famous by his birth is yet to be seen; but surely no king was longer prepared to reign than this new sovereign.

My family enjoyed tea as we watched the Coronation a few hours after the fact: sandwiches, scones, cheese, an assortment of dessert delicacies, and, of course English Teatime Tea, which, in England, is simply called “tea,” I suppose. The event was a regal affair by any definition: relating to a monarch, befitting royalty, magnificent and splendid — England and the English Church on display in all its pomp and finery. The affair was replete with symbolism: robes, scepters, orb, crowns, thrones, and something called the “stone of destiny.” Dignitaries from across the globe were in attendance, some awkwardly still trying to determine whether to bow or curtsy as the royals processed by them. The music was glorious and the liturgy was — thanks be to God — orthodox and straight from the Book of Common Prayer. It was all quite grand.

And yet…as we listened to the vows required of the king, to the ancient responsibilities laid upon his shoulders, to his obligations to be a protector of the realm and a defender of the empire, to his commitment to rule justly and in accordance with the Law of God, I could not help but recognize that all those obligations are relics of history, remnants of the time when the sun never set on the British Empire. Whatever one thinks of monarchy in general or the English monarchy specifically, it is a monarchy diminished in scope and power. Charles III took vows that he cannot, and dare not, attempt to fulfill. He does not rule in any meaningful sense of the word; he represents certainly, he persuades perhaps, he reassures some but not others, but he does not reign as did the kings of old, with power and authority. It may well be that the commoner on the streets of London has greater power to speak and act freely than does King Charles III.

But, there were times when rulers ruled, when kings were sovereign, when peoples and nations trembled at the emperor’s word spoken and bowed the knee before him in fearful, if not loving, obedience. It was in such times that Jesus lived, that Paul wrote, that the Church was born. When the people in Westminster Abbey recently proclaimed “Long live the King,” it was more wistful ceremony than oath of fealty. But, when the Roman “good news” was proclaimed, “Caesar is Lord!” that meant something, that demanded something — acquiescence to the power and dominion and authority of the state vested in this one person, this emperor, this Caesar, this king of kings and lord of lords. Caesar is Lord — bow or die — to which the people replied one way or another, “Hail, Caesar!”

Now, imagine that on the day of King Charles’ coronation, Philip up in Thirsk, North Yorkshire had gathered a group of friends around him and had proclaimed, “I am the rightful King of ‘this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’ And not of England only, but of the full British Empire. And not of the Empire only, but of all the world. Now you go down throughout the dells, down into London, over into France and finally into all the world in my name announcing my sovereignty and calling all people to submit to me.” We might just laugh and think Philip is harmless but rather off his trolley. Certainly, he presents no real threat to Charles’ reign.

Matthew 28:16–20 (ESV): 16 Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. 17 And when they saw him they worshiped him, but some doubted. 18 And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19 Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

And what of this Jesus: as off his trolley as Philip? Harmless? No real threat to Caesar’s reign?

Some thirty years after Jesus spoke those words on a mountain in Galilee, St. Paul, while in prison, wrote of “the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory” and of

his power toward us who believe, according to the working of his great might 20 that he worked in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, 21 far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the one to come. 22 And he put all things under his feet and gave him as head over all things to the church, 23 which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all (Eph 1:19b-23, ESV unless otherwise noted).

St. Paul is still insisting, three decades later, that what Jesus said on that mountain was true in spite of all visible evidence to the contrary: that he was not off his trolley but was/is the very wisdom of God; that he is not harmless but good, and that he will come again in power and great glory to judge the quick and the dead and the world by fire; that Caesar — that all Caesars throughout all places and in all times who would stand athwart the will of God — have been brought down from their thrones as the true King of kings and Lord of lords ascended into heaven and took his seat at the right hand of the Father. All earthly authority is derivative of Christ’s authority, is subject to Christ’s authority, is to be exercised under Christ’s authority. So, hear that, Washington. Take heed, London. Pay attention, Moscow. Listen up, Beijing. Think again, Sudan. Your authority is subject to Christ or it will be judged by Christ. You presidents and kings, you prime ministers and chairmen, you despots and strong men, all of you are accountable to your Sovereign Lord Jesus Christ. One day you must give account of your stewardship of that delegated authority.

That is St. Paul’s message for the powers-that-think-they-be. But, it is also his message for those of us who live at the whims of those powers. We are sometimes blessed by them, and we sometimes suffer under them. They occasionally exercise wisdom, and they often flounder in folly. They may from time to time — in their best moments — try to implement a form of justice and mercy, but they always fall short of the kingdom of God; they rarely, it seems, even consider the kingdom of God. And yet, St. Paul assures us that all of these earthly powers, all of these fallen powers, are even now subject to the dominion and authority of the Lord Jesus Christ. Their power to do good is given by God. Their power to do evil is limited by God. And in some way beyond our comprehension, all of this is subject to the providential will of God and will redound to his glory and to the welfare of his people. The world is not out of control. It is under the control of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Brothers and sisters, I look at the state of the world and at the insufficiency of its leaders, and I grow nervous. But, Jesus is not nervous. I hear of wars and rumors of wars, of plague and pestilence and famine, and I grow afraid. But, Jesus is not afraid. I rack my brain for solutions to violence, racism, sexual disorientation, cultural and political divisions and a host of seemingly intractable problems, and I grow confused. But, Jesus is not confused. Jesus’ ascension bears no resemblance to Pilate’s hand washing: “I take no responsibility. See to it yourselves.” No! Jesus’ ascension is his assumption of full responsibility for the sake of the world, because Jesus is the only one who is fully able to respond, the only one who is fully able to save, the only one who is fully able to rule. And he is, even now, doing so. And if I don’t understand it, if I don’t perceive it, well, thanks be to God. Because any plan that I could fully understand, any providence that I could perfectly perceive would be inadequate for the salvation of the world. What I do know, what we do know, is Jesus: ascended to glory, seated at the right of God the Father in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named not only in this age but also in the one to come. And that is enough and more than enough.

While it is enough, it is not all. Why has Jesus ascended into heaven? Why has God given him all rule and authority and power and dominion? Why have all things been put under his feet? For you. For me. For the church.

22 And he put all things under his feet and gave him as head over all things to the church, 23 which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all (Eph 1:22-23).

Christ’s authority, his rule over all things, is God’s gift to the church. It is that which constitutes the life of the church and which empowers the mission of the church.

18b “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19 Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Mt 28:18b-19a).

Did you get that? Because all authority has been given to me you can go and make disciples. Because all authority has been given to me you must go and make disciples. It is this authority that sustains the life of the church. It is this authority that compels and empowers the mission of the church. It is this authority that guarantees that the gates of hell will not prevail against the church. It is this authority that allows us to say confidently with Dame Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

And we must not miss what St. Paul says about the church: the church is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all. When Jesus ascended into heaven, he did not absent himself from his people or from the world. Rather, he filled his people with his presence in the Person of the Holy Spirit, and he formed them into his body, the church. And he sent that church, his body, into the world for its salvation. It is in the church that we should most clearly see the rule and authority and power and dominion of our Lord Jesus Christ manifest. In the church all striving after human power, all abuse of authority, all coercive rule must finally and fully be relinquished and banished. In the church, any rule that does not wash the dirty feet of another, any authority that does not take up its cross and follow Jesus, any dominion that does not say to God, “Not my will but yours be done,” must be repudiated, must be subjected to the Lordship of Jesus.

Then the rule and authority of Jesus must move outward from the church into the world — to Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, to West Hills, Knoxville, Tennessee and all the world — in the persons of his image bearing sons and daughters, the church. As Henry Morton Robinson wrote in his novel, The Cardinal:

It’s not the mission of the Church to work out practical methods by which the just state is brought into being. The function of the Church is to form public men who will. Men of Christian conscience and moral purpose, who believe that human beings have a right to live on the plane of morality, dignity, and security intended by God.

Only poets can write poetry; only women can bear children. Only the Church (adapted from the original, “a priest”) can remind men that God forever was, is now, and — come hell, high water, or technology — always will be” (Henry Morton Robinson, The Cardinal: A Novel).

It is the place of the Church to insist that God, through the rule of Jesus Christ, is in charge in the Church and in the world. It is the mission of the Church to form men and women into the image of Christ and to send them out into the world to exercise the dominion of Christ, in their areas of expertise and influence, to bring wisdom and love and mercy and justice to bear. It is the vocation of these men and women — in whatever context they find themselves — to ask the question, “What would it look like if God were in charge here?” and then to act as if He is, because he truly is.

In St. Luke’s two volume account of the ministry of Jesus and the ministry of the Apostles (Luke and Acts), we get only an earth’s eye view of the ascension, a leaving as it were.

Luke 24:50–53 (ESV): 50 And [Jesus] led them out as far as Bethany, and lifting up his hands he blessed them. 51 While he blessed them, he parted from them and was carried up into heaven. 52 And they worshiped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy, 53 and were continually in the temple blessing God.

It is perhaps difficult to see that as an enthronement, as Jesus receiving all authority and power in this age and in the age to come. But, Daniel was given a heaven’s eye view, a glimpse of the “arrival” of Jesus, the Son of Man, a vision of his enthronement that causes the coronation of Charles III, grand as it was, to pale by comparison.

Daniel 7:13–14 (ESV): 13 “I saw in the night visions,
and behold, with the clouds of heaven
there came one like a son of man,
and he came to the Ancient of Days
and was presented before him.
14 And to him was given dominion
and glory and a kingdom,
that all peoples, nations, and languages
should serve him;
his dominion is an everlasting dominion,
which shall not pass away,
and his kingdom one
that shall not be destroyed.

That is the truth of the ascension. And even that, glorious as it is, just begins to reveal the full meaning of the Ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ and the

Ephesians 1:15–23 (ESV): 19b …immeasurable greatness of [God’s] power toward us who believe, according to the working of his great might 20 that he worked in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, 21 far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the one to come. 22 And he put all things under his feet and gave him as head over all things to the church, 23 which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.

Alleluia. Christ the Lord has ascended into heaven:
O come, let us adore him. Alleluia.

I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die (John 11:25, ESV throughout unless otherwise noted).

Steven Spielberg, one of the most acclaimed directors of modern cinema, wanted John Williams, one of the most acclaimed composers for modern cinema, to score the film Schindler’s List. Spielberg screened a rough cut of the film — absent music, of course — for Williams. Here, in Williams’ own words, is what happened next:

Spielberg showed me the film … I couldn’t speak to him. I was so devastated. Do you remember, the end of the film was the burial scene in Israel — Schindler — it’s hard to speak about. I said to Steven, “You need a better composer than I am for this film.” He said to me, “I know. But they’re all dead” (https://www.slashfilm.com/880861/john-williams-didnt-think-he-was-up-to-the-task-of-scoring-schindlers-list/, accessed 2/28/2023).

As I stand before the Gospel today, as I have been immersed again in this devastatingly human story of Lazarus and Martha and Mary and Jesus, I find it hard to speak. We are confronted by the confounding wisdom of God and the joy producing sorrow of death and resurrection, and I know this: you need a better preacher than I am for this sermon. They are not all dead, but this passage beggars everyone of them, everyone of us, still living. So, I pray, and I speak:

O Lord, open my lips,
And my mouth shall proclaim your praise. Amen.

There are grand movements in this story that compel our attention. And yet, I find myself drawn to smaller things, to little details —a word here, a phrase there: now, so, if, come and see, come out. These are the little words and the seemingly insignificant phrases that frame my life, that define my experience: perhaps yours, too? The story starts now.

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha (John 11:1).

Now. This isn’t just a word of transition from one chapter or one story to the next or even just a routine marker of time. It is the sleep-shattering clanging of the village church bell in the middle of the night heralding some imminent disaster — fire, flood, invasion — something that requires immediate action. And that is exactly what we expect from this story, what we expect from Jesus: immediate action. Now a certain man was ill. Wake up. Do something — now.

Notice that now is paired with so. Now a certain man was ill…so the sisters sent to him, saying, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” Now and so are literary bookends, a cause and effect pair. There is an immediate, urgent need — now — so the sisters send for Jesus. This message they sent to Jesus is their prayer: Come, Lord Jesus, come. Now.

How often prayer is like that: now, so. Now the ambulance is on the way to the emergency room. Now the bills are overdue and there is no money to pay them. Now the water is rising and the forecast calls for nothing but rain for days. Now my daughter slammed the door behind her and I have no idea where she’s going, when or if she’ll return. Now my wife says she doesn’t love me anymore and she wants a divorce. Now the neighborhood lies flattened and scattered by the tornado. Troubles, when they come, always come now. So, we pray:

O God, make speed to save us;
O Lord, make haste to help us.

Now is the time of our trouble, so, come quickly, Lord. Now. So.

Lest we miss this pairing of now and so in the text, it follows again immediately.

John 11:5–6 (ESV): 5 Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. 6 So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

As before, now is not just a literary transition, not just a marker of time. As it’s used here, now is emphatic. In A Christmas Carol Dickens wrote emphatically:

There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Stave I).

That is how now is used here in the Gospel. In this little word now, St. John emphasizes, “There is no doubt that Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.”

Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he immediately rushed to Bethany. That’s what we would expect, isn’t it? That’s how we would write the story, given free literary rein to do so. But that’s not the Gospel. Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, so he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. Because he loved them, he delayed two days: two agonizing days for Martha and Mary as they watched their brother decline, two confusing days as they waited for word from Jesus or watched for him to rush breathless through their door to take Lazarus by the hand and raise him up. And nothing.

How often prayer is like that — now, so: urgency, agonizing delay, confusion. One we love, one our Lord loves, is ill, and we pray; oh, do we pray. And nothing. The situation moves from bad to worse. One we love, one our Lord loves, turns his back on the faith, and we pray. And nothing. He moves farther and farther away, his heart growing ever harder. This world we love, this world the Lord loves, descends into madness, and we pray. And nothing. Disasters come one after another, wars and conflicts increase, cultures disintegrate. And nothing, or so it seems.

St. John wants us to understand distinctly that Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, and precisely because of his love he stayed where he was for two days. If we don’t understand that, nothing wonderful comes from this story, from this difficult story. And St. John wants us to understand distinctly that Jesus loves us, that Jesus loves those whom we love, that Jesus loves this world that was made by him and through him and for him. If we don’t understand that, nothing wonderful comes from our story, from our often difficult story. Now the dark days come, and so we pray. And nothing, or so it seems. But, it’s not nothing; far from it. Jesus wasn’t idly or callously twiddling his thumbs during those two day of waiting. St. John parts the curtains a bit later to show us that Jesus spent those days — and certainly the days of his travel to Bethany — praying: God the Son interceding to God the Father on behalf of those whom he loved, interceding that his Father would do for Martha and her sister and Lazarus better things than they could ask or imagine. If Jesus delays in answering our prayers now, it is because he loves us. It is because he is interceding for us at the right hand of the Father, asking for and preparing us for grace beyond our feeble power to comprehend.

There is a final now/so pairing in the story, this one after the death of Lazarus and before his rising again.

John 11:17 (ESV): 17 Now when Jesus came (to Bethany), he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days.

John 11:20 (ESV): 20 So when Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, but Mary remained seated in the house.

What does now mean here, I wonder. Ask Martha and she might say, “finally,” or “it’s about time,” or, most likely, “too little, too late.” So, she went and met Jesus. Taken together, this now/so pair ushers us into the presence of the most poignant word in the story: if.

John 11:21 (ESV): 21 Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

We know exactly what if means here because we have all experienced it and we have all said it or thought it. If expresses regret, opportunities lost or squandered, potential unfulfilled, roads not taken. If looks backwards. If longs for a do-over. If imagines a different — and far better — present and future. If is a fantasy, maybe even a lie. If asks us — beckons us — to trade the real present for the imaginary past and unrealizable future; but it is seductive, and we can easily lose ourselves in it. Who among us has no regrets? Who among us has never said of past choices, “If only I had”? Who among us has never pointed the finger at God and said, “If only you had…”?

This if of Martha is repeated by her sister Mary a bit later. And, there is a final if spoken by Jesus; we must save that for the proper time. Between the ifs of the sisters and the if of Jesus there is a classic bit of Johannine dialogue in which Jesus and Martha talk right past one another, Jesus saying one thing and Martha hearing another.

“Your brother will rise again,” Jesus says. Martha hears only a pious, funeral home platitude, Jesus singing “When We All Get To Heaven” to lessen the pain of her brother’s death. “(Yes, yes) I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day. (We all will. We all believe that.),” Martha responds. And right here at this point, though John doesn’t write it in the text explicitly, there hangs in the air between Jesus and Martha another short if phrase, perhaps the most important one in the story: What if? What if the resurrection is not just an event, not primarily an event, but rather a person? What if, in the person of Jesus, the resurrection on the last day is brought forward into the present, God’s future appearing now? What if resurrection is here today, not in its fullness, but as a sign pointing toward the fulfillment to come? What if new creation could break into this sin-impregnated, death-filled world now?

John 11:25–26 (ESV): 25 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, 26 and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?”

What if all that is true? What if Martha believes it? What if we believe it? What if St. Paul is right?

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ — new creation (2 Cor 5:17a, author’s translation)!

If anyone is in Christ, new creation has broken forth. Resurrection has overtaken death. Eternal life is here and now. None of this fully yet, of course, but there are signs of it everywhere, the mysterious already/not yet signposts of the kingdom of God that Jesus inaugurated. We need not wait for the last day. The one who was, and is, and is to come says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Now. So. What if?

Martha answers Jesus, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.” If she believes it at all, I think she believes it like I do some days, like many of us do from time to time: feebly, hoping against hope that it is true, believing it because there is absolutely nothing better to hold on to, no other words of life on offer.

After speaking with both sisters, Jesus asks where the tomb is. The answer is another of these meaning-packed short phrases: come and see. Come, Jesus, come and see the reality of the human condition. Come and look death in the face. Come and weep with us, as if this one who speaks so loftily about resurrection and life needs to be brought down to earth, as if the one who warned Adam and Eve that on the day they ate of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil they would die doesn’t know what that means or looks like. Come and see what the real world looks like, Jesus. And Jesus wept at all this: wept for the disobedience in the Garden, wept for the sin of Cain, wept for the tower of Babel and the flood, wept for slavery in Egypt and in every land, wept for forty years wandering in the wilderness, wept for the glory of Israel squandered, wept for the exile, wept for the death of Lazarus and the death of all the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve, wept for his own death to come. The theological arguments for a dispassionate God melt away in the flood of tears that Jesus, God the Son, wept on this day. But his tears are not the final words; nor are ours. There is more to come.

I told you earlier that there was another if to come. “If you had been here” was the first. “What if” was the second. Now, for the third and final.

John 11:38–40 (ESV): 38 Then Jesus, deeply moved again, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay against it. 39 Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, by this time there will be an odor, for he has been dead four days.” 40 Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?”

Martha doesn’t seem to know quite what to believe. That Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world? Yes, but what does that have to do with her brother Lazarus who is four days dead and well along toward decay? That Jesus is the resurrection and the life? Yes, I suppose, but what does that have to do with the stench that will waft from the tomb if the stone is removed? But Jesus knows what one has to do with the others. Jesus knows because he has been praying for just this moment, praying for days. Did I not tell you if you believe, you will see the glory of God? If you believe.

John 11:41 (ESV): 41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me.”

This is so subtle that we will miss this bit of glory if we blink, if we do not pause to sniff the air around us. The stone is taken away and there is no odor, no mention or whiff of putrefaction. And Jesus thanks his Father that he has heard his prayers, the prayers that he has been praying since receiving word of Lazarus’ illness, that it would not be unto death and decay but rather for the glory of God.

If you believe you will see the glory of God. That’s the final if in this story. And don’t we need that word of assurance? Someone, something, some dream we hold dear is sick and dying. We have sent for Jesus and he hasn’t come. Things are going from bad to worse and the end is in sight. Still, no Jesus. What is he doing? Why is he waiting? He is praying, interceding for us at God’s right hand, preparing for us a weight of glory that will bring us to our knees in praise and thanksgiving. Has he not told us? If we believe, we will see the glory of God.

And now we stand at the climax of the story, at that point when all the little words, all the seemingly insignificant phrases come together to reveal the grand truth that we have been waiting for: now, so, what if, come and see.

Standing at the open tomb in the fresh air, Jesus cries with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The man who had died came out.

Come and see the reality of death, the people had said just moments ago. Come out and see the glory of God, Jesus shouts now. Come out and see the sign of the coming defeat of death. Come out and see the resurrection and the life. Come out and see the inbreaking of the kingdom of God — already and not yet.

And with this, all the little words, the seemingly insignificant phrases have been spoken: now, so, what if, come and see, come out. Jesus’ disciples will need all these little words and phrases soon. He and they are standing a mere two miles and a few days from his own betrayal, from his own death, from his own tomb. And his disciples will say all these little words and phrases in a thousand different ways: now, so, if, come and see. And God the Father himself will say the final phrase: come out. And the man who had died will come out.

Like the disciples, I need this story. When troubles come now and Jesus loves me so much that he waits and prays before answering my prayers, when I am lost in regret-filled what ifs and accusatory “if you had been here”s, when I am so certain that God does not understand my plight that I cry out “Come and see!” I need this story. I need to hear Jesus say, “If you believe, you will see the glory of God.” I need to hear Jesus cry, “Come out!” Perhaps you do, too.

I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.

Amen.

Christian Essentials / Anglican Distinctives
Session 3: Creeds

The Lord be with you.
And with your spirit.
Let us pray.

O God the Father, Creator of heaven and earth,
Have mercy upon us.

O God the Son, Redeemer of the world,
Have mercy upon us.

O God the Holy Spirit, Sanctifier of the faithful,
Have mercy upon us.

O holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, one God,
Have mercy upon us.

Now, let’s affirm our faith in the words of the Apostles Creed:

I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.
He was conceived by the Holy Spirit
and born of the Virgin Mary.
He suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again.
He ascended into heaven,
and is seated at the right hand of the Father.
He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.

Introduction
I spent the first four decades of my life in a non-creedal church. The Creeds were foreign to our faith and practice. It is not only that we did not say the Creeds; we were opposed to Creeds of any kind. We did not know them or use them or even think about them. Our statement about Creeds was simple: No Creed but Christ. It is not that we disagreed with any of the statements in the Apostles Creed, for example; taken one by one, we would have affirmed each. Our refusal to use the Creeds in corporate worship was not a doctrinal issue. It is more that we felt the Creeds were superfluous and possibly divisive. We have Christ. We have the Bible. Why do we need man-made statements of faith not found in Scripture?

How would you answer those objections to the Creeds? Why are the Creeds important?

In a previous session, we spoke of the confession of the Creeds by the ACNA and of the role they play in our commitment to the faith of the one, holy, catholic, and Apostolic Church. The Fundamental Declarations state this:

We confess as proved by most certain warrants of Holy Scripture the historic faith of the undivided church as declared in the three Catholic Creeds: the Apostles’, the Nicene, and the Athanasian.

By way of review, let me emphasize three points from this declaration.

First, the Creeds accord fully with Scripture; they seek only to express succinctly the fundamental truths of Scripture — and particularly of the Gospel — and to defend those truths against persistent heresies that plagued the early Church, heresies which are still around today.

Second, the faith expressed in the Creeds is the common “possession” of the undivided Church. In that way, the creedal content serves as a continuing force for unity amidst our current sad divisions and as a touchstone of historical orthodoxy. If a church rejects the contents of the Creeds, then it renounces its claim to be part of the historic church. It is in this sense that the Nicene Creed is also called the Symbol (σύμβολον) of the Faith. As “symbol” is used in that context, it means something like a ticket for admission or a claim check or perhaps better still a token of belonging. You’ve seen heart necklaces where the heart is broken in two top to bottom in a zigzag pattern so that the two pieces fit together? Each person receives one half of the heart as a token of being a member of the special relationship the heart implies. Each piece is a symbol, a token/proof of that belonging, of that membership. The Nicene Creed functions that way in the Church. Those who have it (the Creed) — and by “have it” I mean believe it — belong to the one, holy, catholic, and Apostolic Church; the Creed is their symbol/token of belonging.

Third, there are three Creeds which function as symbols and deposits of the historic faith: the Apostles’ Creed (which Anglicans use as the baptismal and catechetical creed and in daily Morning and Evening Prayer), the Nicene Creed (which Anglicans use as the Eucharistic creed), and the Athanasian Creed (which Anglicans rarely use liturgically, but which functions as the best expression of our understanding of the Trinity). While we consider these three creeds as expressing the faith of the undivided Church, only one of them, The Nicene Creed, is used in both the Eastern (Orthodox) and Western (Roman and Anglican) churches. That is why it is called the Symbol of the Faith.

Since the Apostles’ Creed is most frequently used for catechetical instruction in the Western Church, it will be our primary focus, though we will compare it to and contrast it with the Nicene Creed, as well. I will leave the Athanasian Creed for your reading and reflection. Remember that all confirmands are expected to know the Apostles’ Creed: to be able to recite it and to discuss its meaning.

The Apostles’ Creed
The Apostles’ Creed may be found in the BCP on pages 26 and 40 and in the ACNA Catechism on pages 31-32. This Creed is found only in the Western Church: the Roman Catholic Church, the Anglican Church, and various Protestant Churches.

Simply looking at the format/structure of the Creed, what do you notice?

First, there are three Articles, one dedicated to each Person of the Trinity. This creed, in both its format and content, is trinitarian — perhaps not as explicitly so as the Nicene Creed and certainly not in the level of detail as the Athanasian Creed, but fully and overtly trinitarian nonetheless.

Second, each Article begins with an individual statement of faith: Credo in the original Latin of the Creed and I believe in English. Contrast this with the opening of the three stanzas of the Nicene Creed — a corporate statement of faith: Πιστεύομεν in the original Greek and We believe in English. What might explain the difference between the individual and corporate emphases in the Creeds? Think of how the Creeds are used liturgically: baptism (Apostles’ Creed) versus Eucharist (Nicene Creed). In baptism, one expresses an individual/personal commitment to the corporate faith of the Church. In the Eucharist, the whole Church — on earth and in heaven — proclaims the common faith that brings us together around the table. This is, I believe, a valid theological emphasis. But, to be thorough, I should note that some churches — even the Episcopal Church up through the BCP 1928 — opens the Nicene Creed with I believe, a change to the original text. Personally, I am glad that the ACNA returned to the original corporate language, though some individual still prefer the singular, personal language.

I believe in God…
We start the Creed by saying, “I believe.” What do we mean when we say that? Certainly we mean that we acknowledge the truth of the statements that follow; to believe is to assent intellectually. But, that is not nearly enough as St. James makes clear:

James 2:19–26 (ESV): 19 You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder! 20 Do you want to be shown, you foolish person, that faith apart from works is useless? 21 Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered up his son Isaac on the altar? 22 You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by his works; 23 and the Scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness”—and he was called a friend of God. 24 You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. 25 And in the same way was not also Rahab the prostitute justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out by another way? 26 For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead.

So, belief has to be more than mere assent to truth, or we are no better than the demons! Belief is a commitment to a life based on and reflecting the truth to which we assent. The Creed, in this sense, functions as a vow; I will live my life in accordance with this faith I express through the Creed. The Creed shouldn’t be said lightly; it is more akin to saying “I do” in marriage than “I love you” while dating.

What do we claim to believe in first? God — a word always requiring clarification. There were many gods when the Creed was written and there are many gods now. To which of these gods do we give our allegiance? To the triune God: the Father, whom no man has seen or can see; the Son who is the perfect image of the Father and who makes the Father known; and the Holy Spirit who is the presence of God within us and within the Church. That understanding of God is what the Creed unpacks for us.

This first Article in the Creed addresses the first Person of the Trinity, God the Father almighty. In what most basic sense is God the Father? He is the creator of heaven and earth. The Nicene Creed expands on that to say that the Father is the “maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, visible and invisible” (BCP 2019, p. 109). Even the Son is eternally begotten of the Father and the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father (ibid). The Athanasian Creed goes to great lengths to clarify this:

The Father is made of none,
neither created, nor begotten.
The Son is of the Father alone,
not made, nor created, but begotten.
The Holy Ghost is of the Father and the Son,
neither made, nor created, nor begotten, but proceeding (BCP 2019, p. 770).

So, while the Son and the Holy Spirit are co-equal, co-eternal, consubstantial (of one essence) with the Father, they, in some sense, come from the Father: the Son by being begotten, the Holy Spirit by procession. Here, the Creed simply uses Biblical language without trying to define the difference between begotten and proceeding. In fact, one of the great theologians of the Orthodox Church, St. John of Damascus wrote:

We have learned that there is a difference between begetting and procession, but the nature of the difference we in no wise understand” (Exact Exposition of the Orthodox Faith, 8-9).

What we can say with certainty, is that the Father is Father by virtue of being the creator of all that was created and by begetting the Son.

But, perhaps more personally and pastorally important, Jesus teaches us to call God the Father “our Father who art in heaven.” We have all had earthly fathers: some good though flawed, some bad, some present, some absent. And we all, despite our differing experiences with fatherhood, have some notion of what a good father should be. Whatever good there may be in human fatherhood is an image-bearing reflection of God the Father almighty. The essence of that might be summarized in the most fundamental characteristic of God: love — willing and in God’s case acting for the good of the other. This Article assures us implicitly that God loves us and that he is always acting for our good and for our salvation. Imagine the opening article of the Creed without the appositive “the Father almighty.” What if it simply said, “I believe in God, creator of heaven and earth”? Then we could only relate to God as creature to Creator, which is vastly different than relating as son or daughter to Father.

I believe in Jesus Christ…
This Article is the most detailed of the three, surely because it is fundamental to the Gospel. It declares Jesus to be both divine, the only Son of God the Father and conceived by God the Holy Spirit, and to be human, born of the Virgin Mary and enduring all the sufferings of human life including death. This Article also roots Jesus and the Gospel in a historical context: not “once upon a time” but during the administration of Pontius Pilate. The Gospel is more than, but not less than, history — events that actually occurred, events which people saw and to which they testified.

The ACNA Catechism has a good discussion of this Article, and I’d like to work through that with you (TBAC, pp. 38-46). For those reading the lesson online, you may find a PDF of the Catechism at the following link:

https://anglicanchurch.net/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/To-Be-a-Christian.pdf

I believe in the Holy Spirit…
This Article can initially seem like a catch-all statement; everything important that wasn’t mentioned before gets “dumped” in here. But there is theological rhyme and reason to it. Perhaps I can liken it to prayer and the Persons of the Trinity. The fullest theological understanding of prayer is that we pray to the Father, through the Son, in the unity of the Holy Spirit. That is, it is the Person of the Holy Spirit who draws us up into the life of the Trinity, who is our most immediate, Personal point of contact with the divine; the Holy Spirit is God in us, God animating us and giving us life, individually, yes, but corporately, as well, in the Body of Christ. All of that is part and parcel of this third Article of the Creed.

The Apostles’ Creed does not explicitly define the divinity of the Holy Spirit as do the Nicene Creed and the Athanasian Creed; that is, in no small part, why these other creeds are needed. But, the very structure of the Apostles’ Creed implies that the Holy Spirit is one of three divine Persons: one Article for the Father, one for the Son, one for the Holy Spirit.

Let’s turn to the ACNA Catechism, pages 4-55, to review its explanation of this Article.

Summary
The Creeds serve several important purposes.

1. They summarize the most essential, non-negotiable doctrines of the faith. They also provide a convenient outline for evangelization.

2. They clarify some of the doctrines of the faith and refute historical (and ever present) heresies related to those doctrines.

3. They provide a symbol of the common faith that transcends place and time. Essentially, they codify the Vincentian Canon: that which has been believed everywhere, always, and by all.

TO KISS AN ICON

For some twenty years this book has been a favorite traveling companion on the spiritual path. Part spiritual memoir, part travelogue, part poetry, part comedy, it is all treasure. It called to me this Lent, and I answered.

The author begins the book as a confirmed agnostic who saw no validity to traditional religion and especially none to Christianity. His wife had recently converted to Orthodoxy. They find themselves vacationing on Patmos — yes, that Patmos where St. John had the series of visions we call The Revelation — where daily they are surrounded by the culture of Orthodox Christianity. Eventually, they purchase a house there where they lived several months each year.

One evening they end up at the Monastery of Diasozousa where the entire town has gathered for the night service of the Feast of the Dormition (the falling asleep of the Blessed Virgin Mary). The monastery houses a wonder-working icon, and the worshipers queue up to kiss it, something that the author has strongly resisted in the past. I quote now from the book:

A long queue of local people was waiting to kiss the wonder-working icon. Not having escaped to the fringes of the crowd, I was pulled in. We shuffled along, and as I chatted with people I knew — the electrician, the grocer, the carpenter, the plumber — I was struck by the fact that these people, practical working men with no very obvious religious slant to their lives, were doing something extremely odd. They were all patiently standing there in their best suits waiting to kiss a painting. What was really going on?

I remembered something that Philip Sherrard, an Orthodox writer whom I admired, had written about Western society’s having lost its way. Materialism had become the creed of the majority, and it was opposed not by the churches but by those who claimed a vague spiritual allegiance or inkling which they insisted had nothing to do with “organized religions.” But Sherrard pointed out that any genuine religious tradition provided for some formal discipline as a means of spiritual realization. He wrote that people who attached themselves to these modern, rather gaseous trends of New Worldism were spiritually inferior to the simple believers who practiced a faith sincerely but with only the slightest knowledge of the metaphysical principles on which it was based.

As we stood in the queue at Diasozousa, I realized that these people, by the simple act of kissing the icon, were rejecting the closed system of materialism in which most people of the West are living today. Even if the act is a formal one, done because everybody does it, to revere an icon is to perform an action which proclaims that the material world is not the end — that there is a spiritual dimension to life which we may not understand and which we may ignore in our daily business of living but which on occasions such as this we can come together and publicly acknowledge. To kiss an icon, to cross oneself, to say “an theli o Theos” (God willing), however perfunctorily or unthinkingly these actions are performed, is to strike a blow at the closed universe of the materialists.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

(Gen 2:4-9,15-17, 2:25-3:7; Ps 51; Romans 5:12-21; Matt 4:1-11)

A Homily on Matthew 4:1-11 — Temptation

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil (Mt 4:1, ESV).

O God, make speed to save us.
O Lord, make haste to help us.

It is not possible to tempt a thief to steal in the same sense that it is possible to tempt a faithful husband to commit adultery. How’s that for an opening line? Let me say it again, because it’s important to what follows. It is not possible to tempt a thief to steal in the same sense that it is possible to tempt a faithful husband to commit adultery.

When a thief sees an unlocked door in an empty house or an unwatched purse at a restaurant, it is not a temptation, but rather an opportunity to do what has, step by step, choice by choice become second nature to him. There is no inner turmoil, no grappling between motives and counter-motives; there may be a quick assessment of risk or of cost-benefit ratio, but there is no real ethical calculus at play, no moral qualms to work through. To steal is to act in accordance with the real identity the thief has forged for himself. A thief may be tempted to return found money, but he cannot be tempted to keep it.

A faithful husband, however, can be tempted to adultery precisely because faithfulness is second nature to him; it lies near the core of his real identity, and even to momentarily contemplate adultery seems to break faith not only with his wife, but with himself and with God. If the temptation is strong, he will grapple with it as Jacob grappled with God at the Jabbok, and he may emerge wounded and limping. But, please God, he will emerge victorious and blessed.

What I’m sketching out here is a notion of temptation as an enticement away from one’s real identity — the identity that is a second nature — and toward a false identity. A thief cannot be tempted to steal because the chance to steal is an merely an opportunity to exercise and express his real identity as thief, an identity that he has forged with the encouragement and help of the evil one. For those who might be concerned with theological nuance, note that I am distinguishing between identity and nature. By nature, the thief is an image-bearer of God; by identity he is, well, a thief. So, the main point remains: temptation is an enticement away from one’s real identity, one’s second nature, and toward a false identity.

Well, that was fun. But does it matter? It must, I think, because it is integral to the text presented us today in Matthew 4, the temptation of Jesus. There is an unfortunate chapter break at the beginning our text, and unfortunately the lectionary submits to it. But the end of the previous chapter must be taken into account as the necessary context for Jesus’ temptation.

Matthew 3:13–17 (ESV): 13 Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to John, to be baptized by him. 14 John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” 15 But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented. 16 And when Jesus was baptized, immediately he went up from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on him; 17 and behold, a voice from heaven said, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

This is a proclamation of identity, not the creation of identity. The Logos is the eternal Son of God and, at his conception, the man Jesus — his human nature — was taken up into that eternal identity of the Logos. So, Jesus’ baptism is not the creation of identity, but rather the very public proclamation by God the Father that this man standing in the river dripping wet is his beloved Son; it is the very public anointing by God the Holy Spirit of this man Jesus for his ministry to come. It is baptism and confirmation both in one. We do not know how many people heard the voice of God the Father that day or saw God the Holy Spirit descend: relatively few, I would think. But, the proclamation of Jesus’ identity certainly resounded throughout the whole spiritual realm of angels and archangels, of cherubim and seraphim, of demons and fallen powers. Even the devil himself, our ancient foe, took notice. And what was his first response? To tempt Jesus, to entice him away from his true identity to a false identity: “If you are the Son of God,” was the devil’s constant taunt and refrain throughout the temptations — a questioning and challenging of Jesus’ identity.

Brothers and sisters, that is not Jesus’ story only, but yours and mine as well. When the Celebrant immerses the baptismal Candidate or pours water upon the Candidate three times saying, “I baptize you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit” (BCP 2019, p. 169), that is both the creation of a new identity and the public proclamation of that identity to the people of God gathered and seen and to the spiritual hosts gathered and unseen — angels of light and demons of darkness. And the devil himself, our ancient foe, takes notice. His sure response will be to tempt that newborn or newly commissioned child and servant of God, as he tempted Jesus, to entice that one away from his/her new, real identity to the old, false identity. That is, in part, why we so desperately need this account of Jesus’ temptation; it is a paradigm for everyone who is “sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever” (ibid), a paradigm of temptation and of victory over it.

Matthew 4:1 (ESV): 4 Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.

There is so much to be said about that brief statement, so much to be pondered and prayed. The Spirit who had just descended upon Jesus now leads him into the place and time of temptation. Clarity matters here, as St. James insists:

James 1:13 (ESV): 13 Let no one say when he is tempted, “I am being tempted by God,” for God cannot be tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no one.

God the Holy Spirit is not tempting Jesus, not enticing Jesus away from his true identity, but is rather providing Jesus the opportunity to exercise that identity, to perfect that identity (cf Heb 5:8-9), to vanquish the devil in the power of that identity. The Holy Spirit does not abandon Jesus in his time of testing, but leads him, guides him, guards him, strengthens him, encourages him. And so the Spirit does for you and for me. The Holy Spirit may lead us into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil, but the end of that temptation, the purpose of it, is our salvation and victory, not our downfall. And in the midst of temptation, know that God tempers temptation, limits its scope to that which we can bear:

1 Corinthians 10:13 (ESV): 13 No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.

God will provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure the temptation, and not endure it only, I think, but also to triumph over it. And this way of escape is not a mystery. It is what we see Jesus doing when he found himself in the wilderness of temptation. It is clear in this text and in others throughout the Gospels. It is the way of Lenten practice. It is the way of the spiritual disciplines, not for Lent only, but for the whole of the Christian life: fasting, prayer, Scripture.

Matthew 4:2 (ESV): 2 And after fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry.

Fasting: I fear that I misunderstood this passage for most of my adult life, until I began to take fasting seriously and to listen carefully to what the saints had been saying for two millennia. We read of a forty day fast and immediately think of how weak and vulnerable that must have made Jesus, how susceptible to temptation. But that is — and I say this with all reverence and sincerity — that is devilish thinking, because it is apparently what the devil himself thought. How little the devil as an incorporeal (unbodied) spirit can know about the grace of God ministered incarnationally through the union of human body and soul. How little can he understand that the weakness of the body can strengthen and steel the soul and spirit. Jesus did not fast to make himself weak, but to make himself strong for battle. As St. Gregory the Great wrote, “It is impossible to engage in spiritual conflict, without the previous subjugation of the appetite.” Yes, Jesus’ body was hungry, but his soul was full. Yes, his body was weak, but his spirit was strong. Ironically, the devil tempts Jesus with bread, thinking him weak from fasting. Jesus responds with the word of God showing himself strong from fasting.

It is neither incidental nor unimportant that fasting is a traditional Lenten practice. It is neither incidental nor unimportant that the early church observed Wednesdays and Fridays as regular fast days throughout the year (Didachē). It is neither incidental nor unimportant that the Desert Fathers and Mothers made fasting a foundational spiritual discipline. Fasting is preparation for battle; fasting is armor and weapon in the midst of battle.

The proclamation of Jesus’ identity and the descent of the Holy Spirit were the context and impetus for Jesus’ temptation. Fasting was his preparation for temptation. But, not fasting only. Hear these words from St. Mark’s Gospel:

Mark 1:35 (ESV): 35 And rising very early in the morning, while it was still dark, he departed and went out to a desolate place, and there he prayed.

We miss the connection in our English translations between this verse and St. Matthew’s description of the temptation locale. “Desolate place” in St. Mark and “wilderness” in St. Matthew are the same word. Jesus goes to the wilderness to pray; that was his practice. So, it is no stretch to say — and, in fact, I think it is only reasonable to say — that when the Spirit led Jesus up to the wilderness, to the desolate place, to be tempted, there Jesus prayed. The forty days of fasting were forty days of fasting and prayer. What might Jesus have prayed? We need look no further than the Psalms — the Jewish Book of Common Prayer, the Hebrew Hymnal. Can you hear Jesus praying these Psalms in the wilderness preparing for the temptation to come or in the midst of temptation present?

Psalm 1:1–2 (ESV): 1 Blessed is the man
who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners,
nor sits in the seat of scoffers;
2 but his delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law he meditates day and night.

Psalm 3:1–4, 7a (ESV): 1 O Lord, how many are my foes!
Many are rising against me;
2 many are saying of my soul,
“There is no salvation for him in God.” Selah
3 But you, O Lord, are a shield about me,
my glory, and the lifter of my head.
4 I cried aloud to the Lord,
and he answered me from his holy hill. Selah
7 Arise, O Lord!
Save me, O my God!

Psalm 4:1–4, 8 (ESV): 1 Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness!
You have given me relief when I was in distress.
Be gracious to me and hear my prayer!
2 O men, how long shall my honor be turned into shame?
How long will you love vain words and seek after lies? Selah
3 But know that the Lord has set apart the godly for himself;
the Lord hears when I call to him.
4 Be angry, and do not sin;
ponder in your own hearts on your beds, and be silent. Selah
8 In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

It is neither incidental nor unimportant that prayer — not least praying the Psalms — is a traditional Lenten practice. It is neither incidental nor unimportant that the early church embraced the Psalms whole heartedly, incorporating them into prayer and liturgy. It is neither incidental nor unimportant that the Psalms were the very breath of the Desert Fathers and Mothers. St. Augustine said, “He who sings prays twice.” It is no wonder the devil cowers and trembles when God’s people sing the Psalms, pray the Psalms, breathe the Psalms.

Jesus fasted in the wilderness. Jesus prayed in the wilderness. Jesus immersed himself in Scripture in the wilderness, the Word of God incarnate feasting on the word of God written. We know this because every response of Jesus to the devil’s temptation was a word of Scripture. Jesus did not depend upon his own human strength, his own human cleverness, his own human will to overcome the devil; he simply refuted and rebuffed the devil with the word of God: not the twisted word, the distorted word that the evil one offered, but the true, the pure word of God as received from the Holy Spirit. As the Psalmist writes:

9 How shall a young man cleanse his way?*
By ruling himself according to your word.
10 With my whole heart I have sought you;*
O let me not go astray from your commandments.
11 Your words have I hidden within my heart,*
that I may not sin against you (Ps 119:9-11, BCP 2019).

It is neither incidental nor unimportant that reading and reflecting on Scripture is a traditional Lenten practice. It is neither incidental nor unimportant that at the heart of the Book of Common Prayer lies the regular, daily reading of the whole of Scripture in the context of prayer, Psalmody, and worship. It is neither incidental nor unimportant that St. Paul identifies the word of God as the sword of the Spirit (Eph 6:7), the spiritual weapon with which to strike down the enemy and his temptations.

When temptation came to Jesus, when temptation comes to us, it comes as a spiritual attack. Temptation is not a sin; it is an assault. In Jesus’ case, it was an assault from without, from the devil, since in Christ there is no darkness. In our case, it may be without from the devil, or within from our own unruly passions of body, mind, and spirit. Regardless of the source, it is what we do with the assault that determines whether it progresses to sin. We must follow the way of our Lord; we must do as he did in the wilderness, do as the saints for two millennia have taught us. Jesus did not engage with the temptation, did not ponder it or reflect upon it. He did not entertain an extended debate with the devil. Jesus simply refuted the temptation with God’s word. As the Desert Fathers tell us, we cannot keep flies from buzzing around our heads, but we do not need to let them light there. We cannot prevent the assaults of the devil, but we dare not let them linger; we dare not engage them. St. Ignatius recommends a three-fold strategy of watchfulness and action. First, become aware that something is stirring spiritually. Second, understand it for what it is. Third, accept it if from God or reject it if from the devil. Awareness is key. The Desert Fathers and Mothers called this awareness nepsis or watchfulness. It is placing a guard over the senses, a watchman over the mind and heart to prevent temptation from penetrating our spiritual defenses. Be careful what you watch. Be careful what you listen to. Be careful where you go. Be careful what you think about and imagine and dwell on:

1 Peter 5:8–9a (ESV): 8 Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. 9 Resist him, firm in your faith.

If one temptation does not induce you to sin, know that another will soon follow. We do not know the full extent of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness; three temptations are given us as a summary of the wiles of the devil: three enticements away from Jesus’ true identity, three seductions of the world, the flesh, and the devil as symbolic of all temptations. We do not know the full extent of Jesus’ temptations, but we do know how they ended. Jesus rebuked the tempter: “Be gone, Satan!” Near the end of his ministry, Jesus said a similar thing when tempted by Satan through the human agency of Peter: “Get behind me, Satan.” And we read this somewhat cryptic but powerful word in Jude:

Jude 9 (ESV): 9 But when the archangel Michael, contending with the devil, was disputing about the body of Moses, he did not presume to pronounce a blasphemous judgment, but said, “The Lord rebuke you.”

Be gone, Satan. Get behind me, Satan. The Lord rebuke you. What powerful responses to temptation, what potent weapons against temptation and the tempter these few words are. They should become part of our vocabulary of spiritual warfare. Our foe is ancient. Our foe knows us better than we know ourselves. We dare not trust in ourselves, in our own devices, but rather in the power and the authoritative word of the Lord: Be gone, Satan. Get behind me, Satan. The Lord rebuke you.

Jesus’ identity was declared at his baptism, and temptation surely followed. And now, we find our identity in him; it was created and proclaimed in baptism. And temptation surely follows. Fasting, prayer, Scripture, watchfulness, and a word of rebuke spoken in the power of the Spirit: these were the weapons Jesus used to vanquish the tempter and his temptations, the same proven weapons that are commended by and bequeathed to us in Scripture and in the great tradition of the Church. May we wield them well to the glory of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.