I had the blessing of serving as altar guild this morning to prepare the altar for the Wednesday Noon Eucharist. As I placed the missal stand on the altar I noticed, for the first time, the engraving on it. Perhaps I should note a certain past ambivalence toward memorial plaques in churches — a “holy” indifference with a slight tipping of the scales toward the negative. But this engraving moved me deeply and lifted my heart up to God. I have no idea who Malcolm Herbert Burgess was in this life, only that he died so very young (twenty or twenty-one), that he was an altar server at St. Peter’s Church in Canton, IL for seven years, and that someone loved him enough to want him remembered in the fellowship of the saints at the altar of our Lord Jesus Christ.
I paused in my altar preparation to pray:
Almighty God, with whom the souls of the faithful who have departed this life are in joy and felicity: We praise your holy Name for all your servants who have finished their course in your faith and fear, especially Malcolm Herbert Burgess; and we most humbly pray that, at the day of resurrection, we and all who are members of the mystical body of your Son may be set on his right hand, and hear his most joyful voice: “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.” Grant this, O merciful Father, for the sake of Jesus Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 679).
In that moment, there was a strong sense of the Communion of Saints, of the continuity of the Church, of the immanence of the transcendent. The plaque’s first words are “In Memoriam,” and in a sense that is true. But it is inadequate. Perhaps better would be “In Thanksgiving For” or, better still, “In Communion With.”
Man is created to praise, reverence, and serve God our Lord, and by this means to save his soul.
The other things on the face of the earth are created for man to help him in attaining the end for which he is created.
Hence, man is to make use of them in as far as they help him in the attainment of his end, and he must rid himself of them in as far as they prove a hindrance to him.
Therefore, we must make ourselves indifferent to all created things, as far as we are allowed free choice and are not under any prohibition. Consequently, as far as we are concerned, we should not prefer health to sickness, riches to poverty, honor to dishonor, a long life to a short life. The same holds for all other things.
Our one desire and choice should be what is more conducive to the end for which we are created (St. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius (trans. Louis J. Puhl, S.J., Loyola Press (1951), p. 12).
This is the “Principle and Foundation” of Ignatian spirituality and informs every aspect of the Society of Jesus: prayer, discernement, obedience. At its heart lies holy indifference to created things, states of life, and all else except insofar as God wills. A thumb on the scale defeats this Christian way. What matters is one’s purpose — to praise, reverence, and serve God our Lord — not one’s preferences. This seems akin to St. Paul’s attitude toward receiving a “care package” from the Philippian Church while in prison:
Philippians 4:10–13 (ESV): 10 I rejoiced in the Lord greatly that now at length you have revived your concern for me. You were indeed concerned for me, but you had no opportunity. 11 Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. 12 I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. 13 I can do all things through him who strengthens me.
And, it was a fundamental part of Wesleyan spirituality as expressed in this covenant prayer:
I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed by thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.
What other dichotomies could we and should we add to these?
So, as far as we are concerned, we should not prefer slander to praise, friend to foe, consolation to desolation, recognition to anonymity, strength to weakness, autonomy to dependence, trust to accusation. The list is vast. Why this holy indifference? Because God and God alone knows what we need for his glory and for our salvation. Perhaps that is at the heart of St. James’ exhortation:
James 1:2–4 (ESV): 2 Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, 3 for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. 4 And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
Perhaps that is why St. John Chrysostom, who died in exile, spoke these as his final words:
Matthew 6:14–15 (ESV): 14 For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, 15 but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
Matthew 18:21–22 (ESV): 21 Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” 22 Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times.
A routine by comedian Brian Regan about school spelling practice goes something like this, a teacher asking a question and Brian, a not so dedicated student, responding:
“Brian, what is the i before e rule?”
“I before e except after c or when sounded like a as in neighbor or weigh or on weekends and holidays and all throughout May when you’ll always be wrong no matter what you say!”
Brian’s final comment is, “That’s a hard rule. That’s a tough rule.” And it is, but it is nothing compared to Jesus’s “rules” of forgiveness: you must forgive to be forgiven, and there is no real limit to the number of times you must forgive. That’s a hard rule. That’s a tough rule.
So the question often comes to priests, “Must I forgive X for doing [Y — fill in the blank with a grievous offense] to me?” The short answer is yes, you must if you want to be forgiven and if you want to be faithful to Jesus.
“But Y was so horrible!” the person says. “Yes,” the priest agrees, “Y was indeed horrible; you were sinned against. But, what types of things do you think require real forgiveness if not for horrible things, if not for real and hurtful sins? Lesser things we can just brush aside as accidents or momentary lapses in judgment hardly requiring an apology and not rising to the level of costly forgiveness.”
“But how can I ever forgive that person?” And now we are beginning to get to the real issue. “I am hurt and angry and I cannot pretend that everything is okay when it’s not, so how can I forgive?”
Let’s begin with the obvious, though it is obviously often forgotten: forgiveness is not an emotion. The fact that one is hurting and angry does not preclude forgiveness and the fact that one is still hurt and angry after an act of forgiveness does not render that forgiveness a fiction. Forgiveness is not an emotional state or response.
What then is forgiveness? Let me suggest that forgiveness is laying aside one’s own definition of and demand for justice and instead leaving justice in the hands of God. It is not saying that justice does not matter; it is saying that justice is not mine. That is, perhaps, the first step of forgiveness. To be clear, forgiveness is not praying, “Lord, I leave justice in your hands; now smite, smite hard, and smite quick!” No: forgiveness is truly leaving justice in God’s hands, period, with no demands about a particular divine implementation of justice.
The second step of forgiveness mirrors Stephen’s final words: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” (Acts 7:60). This is more difficult, it seems. Not only do we renounce our own justice in favor of God’s, we ask God to pardon the sin. Here we have moved beyond the notion of retributive justice — punishment — to restorative justice — putting things right. I am foolish enough to believe that Stephen’s prayer was answered in the conversion of Saul: not divine punishment for Saul’s complicity in Stephen’s death and the persecution of the church, but divine intervention in calling Saul to repentance and calling Saul to mission. There is a straight line from “do not hold this sin against them” to “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from the body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord” (Rom 7:24-25a)!
There is one more step in forgiveness — at least one more — and that is the movement from accuser to advocate. In the Hebrew Scriptures, “ha satan” (Satan), is the accuser of God’s people, not unlike a prosecuting attorney. That is, indeed, what the name or title ha satan implies: the accuser. Now — not that the two are equal or equivalent! — contrast this title with “ho paraklētos” the name or title of the Holy Spirit in the New Testament. The Greek means something like “one called alongside” and is often translated “the advocate,” not unlike a defense attorney. Forgiveness is a choice: to be adversary — to align oneself with Satan — or advocate — to align oneself with the Holy Spirit. This step of forgiveness is to refuse to accuse another before God but instead to advocate for that person’s redemption. It is to move beyond, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” to “Lord, lead this person to repentance, redemption, and reconciliation with you.” It is to refuse to curse and to bless, instead. It is to become a partaker of the divine nature by showing justice through mercy. The essence of such advocacy is simply the plea that God will show the same mercy to the other that God has shown to me.
Though I have posted it before — not so very long ago — the prayer of Nikolai Velimirovich, Bless My Enemies, may be prayed as an act of forgiveness:
One final comment: forgiveness does not imply or require reconciliation. I suggest, tentatively, that reconciliation requires repentance, restitution, and amendment of life, the same requirements as for priestly absolution. A notorious sinner is not reconciled to the fellowship of the Church solely as an act of forgiveness by the priest on behalf of the community. No. The sinner must repent by recognizing and owning the wrong done and the damage the wrong caused. He must express Godly sorrow for the sin (contrition) and not merely sorrow for being found out (attrition). He must put things right as far as that is possible and as far as he is able. And, he must make a firm commitment — and a plan — to live a changed life. None of this must occur before forgiveness, but for reconciliation? Yes, I think so, for true reconciliation to occur.
Fr. Thomas Ryden’s sermon (Apostles Anglican Church, 17 September 2013) addressed much of this and much better than I have done. I commend it to you:
I have no fully developed angelology beyond what is revealed in Scripture and handed down in the great Tradition. But, since Scripture nods (at least) to guardian angels and the Tradition explicitly includes them, I see no good reason to doubt their existence, presence, and agency on our behalf. I suspect my guardian angels works overtime, if time has any meaning to such a being.
As I continued to read “Tolkien’s Faith: A Spiritual Biography” today, this passage about guardian angels impressed me:
…Tolkien had a vision, or “apperception” of spiritual reality, that brought him profound joy:
“I perceived or thought of the Light of God and in it suspended one small mote (or millions of motes to only one of which was my small mind directed), glittering white because of the individual ray from the Light which both held and lit it … And the ray was the Guardian Angel of the mote: not a thing interposed between God and the creature, but God’s very attention itself, personalized.”
He realized, as part of this flash of vision, that “the shining poised mote was myself (or any other human person that I might think of with love).” Tentatively, he suggested a possible way of understanding what an angel is. Just as in the Christian understanding of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son, as being the love between them, “so the love and attention of the Light to the Mote is a person (that is both with us and in Heaven): finite but divine: i.e., angelic” (Holly Ordway, Tolkien’s Faith”. A Spiritual Biography, Word on Fire Press (2023)).
There are, I think, problems with Tolkien’s proposal, not least that angels are created beings and not coeternal with God. And yet, the notion that guardian angels are God’s attention to the individual believer personalized, that is, God’s focus of love on the individual so intense that it springs to life to minister to the individual, is a gracious thing in the true sense of grace. If not true theology, Tolkien’s vision is nonetheless theological poetry.
Holy Cross Day, 14 September, is a “Red-Letter Holy Day” in the Anglican Calendar, a day of expected, as contrasted with optional, observance. At Apostles Anglican Church we will observe the day at our Noon Eucharist and Healing Service on Wednesday, 13 September. There is historical justification for observance on the 13th, but you will have to attend the service or read the sermon online to learn what it is.
Historically, Holy Cross Day commemorates the rediscovery of Calvary and the true cross of Christ following the destruction and rebuilding of Jerusalem and the loss of many Christian holy site locations. According to tradition, it was St. Helena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, who uncovered the buried site of Calvary and, on it, the remains of three crosses. This is one of the stories I relate in the sermon:
While searching for Calvary, Helena noticed a large patch of an aromatic herb unknown to her. She felt compelled to dig in that spot and there she uncovered the wood from three separate crosses, perhaps those of the two thieves and Jesus. As an aside, that herb is what we call basil, from the Greek basileus meaning king. Many churches — mainly Orthodox churches — are decorated with basil plants in observance of Holy Cross Day.
What are we to make of stories like this? How are we to read them? Some might — some do — argue that they are “fond thing(s) vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture” (BCP 2019, Article XXII, p. 780), and that we should not tell them at all. Obviously, I disagree. The problem lies not in the stories, but in a poor and false way of reading them. Let me explain.
Such stories are not objective history, nor do they purport to be. In fact, I would contend that “objective history” is an oxymoron as our Western culture understands both the words “objective” and “history.” Objective implies an independent, unbiased observer who in no way interacts with what is being observed or reported. But such an observer is a fiction. All observing and reporting is subjective, because the observer or reporter is a subject — a who and not a what. Every reporter, every historian tells a subjective story. He (or she) selects some facts to include and some to omit. He selects some subjects to interview and others to ignore. He selects one or more themes that he wishes to emphasize and others to pass over. He structures the story in one way out of many possible options, ordering events and ideas to support his purpose in telling the story. This is how history is actually — and inevitably — done. And, this is precisely how the Gospels work. They make no pretense of being what we would call “objective” history; that literary form was unknown to the Evangelists. If in doubt about this, read St. Luke and St. John’s Gospels again carefully; the writers openly acknowledge that they come with an agenda and that they have interviewed people (in St. Luke’s case) and carefully culled available material (in St. John’s case) to accomplish their purposes in writing. That doesn’t mean that the Gospels are fiction! Far from it. What the Evengelists tell us happened actually happened. Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. On the third day he rose again. Yes, actually, factually. Still, this is not “objective” history because the “reporters” were subjectively involved with it; they built their lives upon it, and they wanted to convince the world about it. Further, Christian readers are not objective, nor should they be. We come to Scripture with a purpose:
to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that by patience and the comfort of your Holy Word we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life (BCP 2019, p. 676).
Now, back to the story of St. Helena and the discovery of the true cross. Is that objective history? Of course not, and it does not purport to be. Is that a reason to reject it, to assess it as of no value to the church. I think not.
If the story is not objective history, then what is it and where does its value lie? I might describe the story as tradition, or sacred myth. A myth is a story — sometimes factual and sometimes not — that contains and teaches great truth. It is akin to parable. I suspect no one seriously thinks that the Parable of the Prodigal Son is factual history or that the Good Samaritan recounts an actual event. To insist on that is to miss the point. We understand the stories for what they are — not history but sacred myth. And we do not discount them for that. In fact, they stick with us and move us perhaps more than a didactic presentation of principles of forgiveness or neighborliness would do.
I do not know if St. Helena found Calvary or the wood of three crosses, and I do not care. The story is important nonetheless. Consider what it might teach us — and here I am scratching only the surface.
One of the earliest creeds was the simple but bold statement, “Jesus is Lord,” with the unspoken implication “and Caesar is not.” Well, the cross seemed to put the lie to that. The Roman persecution seemed to put the lie to that. But this simple story shows us Helena, the mother of the Roman Emperor, on her hands and knees digging in the dirt longing to find the cross on which the King of Glory — Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews — died so that she might honor it and worship him! “Jesus is Lord and Caesar is not” is the essence of the story: Rome on its knees in worship of the Jewish Messiah. Is that the truth? Is that a story worth telling? Creation was subjected to futility through the fall: thorns and thistles and the sweat of one’s brow. Here, in this simple story, the ground brings forth a living offering — not cultivated by man but offered by nature — to honor the King of kings, an offering with a sweet aroma. This points toward the new creation springing forth from the cross. Is that the truth? Is that a story worth telling?
Reading Scripture, the Fathers, and the Great Tradition well is an art that must be practiced and cultivated. It is not easy. It demands a certain purity of heart, a hermeneutic of trust — a willingness to read the author on his/her own terms without importing an agenda of one’s own and without distorting the text for personal motives. It requires humility. The best way to learn to read this way is to read with the church.
Holy Cross Day (14 September) (Is 45:21-25 / Ps 98 / Phil 2:5-11 / John 12:31-36a)
Collect
Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ was lifted high upon the cross that he might draw the whole world to himself: Mercifully grant that we, who glory in the mystery of our redemption, may have grace to take up our cross and follow him; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.
Preface of Holy Week
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. For our sins he was lifted high upon the Cross, that he might draw the whole world to himself; and by his suffering and death he became the author of eternal salvation for all who put their trust in him.
Both here and in all your churches throughout the whole world, we adore you, O Christ, and we bless you: because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.
Matthew 24:1–2 (ESV): 24 Jesus left the temple and was going away, when his disciples came to point out to him the buildings of the temple. 2 But he answered them, “You see all these, do you not? Truly, I say to you, there will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.”
It is thought that Jesus spoke these words on Tuesday of Holy Week as a prelude to his Mount of Olives Discourse, the great apocalyptic prophecy of the destruction of Jerusalem and possibly of the end of this age.
“There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.” Forty years: that’s all it took for the fulfillment of this prophecy. Responding to a Jewish rebellion, the Roman army besieged Jerusalem on 14 April in 70 A.D. The city fell within four months, and by 8 September the Roman general Titus — soon to be Emperor — had leveled the city and the temple to rubble: not one stone left upon another, just as Jesus had said.
Some sixty years later, a new Emperor Hadrian set about rebuilding Jerusalem as a Roman City, Aelia Capitolina. His construction drastically altered the landscape of the city and covered over many of the sites holy to Christians, Calvary and the Holy Sepulchre among them. That was no great loss for the Romans, of course, until nearly two centuries later when Constantine converted to Christianity and made it first a tolerated and then a favored religion. The holy sites in Jerusalem, he felt, needed churches to mark them, to serve as sites for pilgrimages. First though, he had to relocate them. None was more important than Calvary.
Constantine’s mother Helena was a devout Christian and a godly woman. The early Church historian Eusebius wrote this about her:
Especially abundant were the gifts she bestowed on the naked and unprotected poor. To some she gave money, to others an ample supply of clothing; she liberated some from imprisonment, or from the bitter servitude of the mines; others she delivered from unjust oppression, and others again, she restored from exile. While, however, her character derived luster from such deeds … , she was far from neglecting personal piety toward God. She might be seen continually frequenting His Church, while at the same time she adorned the houses of prayer with splendid offerings, not overlooking the churches of the smallest cities. In short, this admirable woman was to be seen, in simple and modest attire, mingling with the crowd of worshipers, and testifying her devotion to God by a uniform course of pious conduct” (The Life of Constantine, XLIV, XLV).
Constantine tasked his pious mother with finding the holy sites of Jerusalem, chiefly Calvary. Stories about how she did this abound, but there are two I particularly like. While searching for Calvary, Helena noticed a large patch of an aromatic herb unknown to her. She felt compelled to dig in that spot and there she uncovered the wood from three separate crosses, perhaps those of the two thieves and Jesus. As an aside, that herb is what we call basil, from the Greek basileus meaning king. Many churches — mainly Orthodox churches — are decorated with basil plants in observance of Holy Cross Day.
So far, so good; Helena apparently had discovered Calvary and wood from three crosses. But which one was the true cross of Christ? A woman suffering from a terminal illness was brought to the spot and asked to touch the wood from each of the crosses in turn. When she touched the wood of the last one, she was miraculously healed; that must be the true cross of Christ. And that was the beginning of the veneration of the Holy Cross of our Lord Jesus. The church built on that site to house the cross was completed on 13 September 335 — 1688 years ago today — and formally dedicated the next day, 14 September, which we now observe as Holy Cross Day.
In one sense, it is somewhat odd that the Anglican Church would mark this day at all, since at its heart lies a relic, a piece of wood that the faithful venerate. A fifth century account gives this description of the service of veneration of the cross in Jerusalem.
A coffer of gold-plated silver containing the wood of the cross was brought forward. The bishop placed the relic on the table in the chapel of the Crucifixion and the faithful approached it, touching brow and eyes and lips to the wood as the priest said (as every priest has done ever since): “Behold, the Wood of the Cross” (Catholic News Agency, https://www.catholicnewsagency.com/resource/56094/the-veneration-of-the-cross, accessed 9/6/2023).
Such a practice would have been anathema to the English Reformers as stated in The Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion:
XXII. OF PURGATORY
The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping, and Adoration, as well of Images as of Reliques, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fond thin vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God (BCP 2019, p. 780).
And yet, here we are — good Anglicans — observing Holy Cross Day, a “red letter day” on our church calendar. We do so in our public worship, in our Common Prayer, not by venerating a physical representation of the cross — though some do that also — but rather by reflecting on the role of the cross in the great narrative of our redemption.
It is a strange sort of faith that makes an instrument of ridicule and torture, that makes the weapon used by “church and state” to murder its founder and god, the focal point of its redemption story. St. Paul understood the strangeness, the scandal of the cross which he described as a stumbling block (σκάνδαλον) to the Jews and as folly to the Gentiles (cf 1 Cor 1:23). Yet the cross is inescapable in our faith. We are not ashamed of it; it is the most exalted and ubiquitous symbol of our faith. But why? Why is the cross so central to our faith?
There are many ways to frame an answer to that question, but at the heart of every answer lies this: the cross is God’s solution to the existential crises of fallen humanity, to the crises that threaten our very existence. What are these crises? Again, there are many ways to frame an answer to that question, but all the ways must include sin, bondage, and death. This unholy trinity is the problem to which the cross is the answer.
When we think about sin, we might think only in terms of violating a commandment of God. And, while that is true, it is true only in a secondary way. The breaking of the commandment is the visible part of the iceberg. But, like the iceberg, sin is more vast, more hidden, and far more dangerous than what is seen. Genesis, in the first use of the word sin, presents sin as a power that seeks to destroy man (Gen 4:6-8). St. Paul presents sin as something indwelling man, preventing him from doing what he knows to be right and compelling him to do that which is contrary to God (Rom 7:15 ff), a passion — what we might call an addiction — that assumes control over our lives and destroys us. Sin is a power, external and internal, which rules over us and compels us away from God. And we are powerless over it.
But, the cross is God’s solution to sin. Hear St. Paul, again to the Romans:
Romans 6:3–14 (ESV): 3 Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? 4 We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.
5 For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. 6 We know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. 7 For one who has died has been set free from sin. 8 Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him. 9 We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. 10 For the death he died he died to sin, once for all, but the life he lives he lives to God. 11 So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.
12 Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions. 13 Do not present your members to sin as instruments for unrighteousness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments for righteousness. 14 For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.
The cross is God’s solution to the problem of sin.
Sin is not the only problem for which the cross is the answer; there is also bondage. Our sin enslaves us to Satan and the fallen powers. One of the central themes of Scripture — seen throughout the Old Testament and culminating in the cross — is God’s acts of redemption — of liberation — for his people. In Egypt, the Hebrews were enslaved to the fallen powers, both Pharaoh and the false gods of Egypt, and were powerless to extricate themselves. It took a mighty act of God — his mighty hand and outstretched arm — to deliver his people from bondage. The sacramental participation in that act of liberation was, and is for the Jews, the Passover meal. And it was the Passover meal that provided the context for the Last Supper, for the Sacrament of Holy Eucharist that Jesus instituted on the night before he died for us. There is a straight line from the liberation from the fallen powers in the Exodus to the liberation from the fallen powers in the cross. Redemption is the word commonly employed in Scripture for this liberation, as St. Paul writes to the Colossians:
Colossians 1:13–14 (ESV): 13 He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, 14 in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.
The cross is God’s solution to human bondage to the fallen powers.
Lastly, the cross is God’s solution to death. In the Garden, God warned Adam of the consequence of disobedience — not the punishment, but the consequence:
Genesis 2:15–17 (ESV): 15 The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it. 16 And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, “You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, 17 but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.”
Adam ate, and in that day something in him died, as symbolized by his exile from Eden. And we — all of us from that moment forward — inherited death from Adam, the head of our race. But, listen again to St. Paul to the Corinthians:
1 Corinthians 15:1–5 (ESV): 15 Now I would remind you, brothers, of the gospel I preached to you, which you received, in which you stand, 2 and by which you are being saved, if you hold fast to the word I preached to you—unless you believed in vain.
3 For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, 4 that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures, 5 and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve.
1 Corinthians 15:21–26 (ESV): 21 For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. 22 For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. 23 But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ. 24 Then comes the end, when he delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power. 25 For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. 26 The last enemy to be destroyed is death.
Christ died, crucified on a cross. Christ was buried, laid in a borrowed tomb. Christ rose on the third day. We have died with Christ, our body of sin crucified with him. We have been buried with him in the water of baptism. And we will rise with him, for death no longer has dominion over him. By him, with him, and in him death no longer has dominion over us.
The cross is God’s solution to the problem of death.
Why this feast day, Holy Cross Day? Because the cross is the focal point of all things in heaven and on earth. Because the cross is God’s solution to sin, bondage, and death. Because the cross is our salvation.
Both here and in all your churches throughout the whole world, we adore you, O Christ, and we bless you: because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.
The Transfiguration of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ex 34:29-35/Ps 99/2 Peter 1:13-21/Luke 9:28-36)
Luke 9:34–36 (ESV): 34 As he was saying these things, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 And a voice came out of the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen One; listen to him!” 36 And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
My wife’s memory is a steel trap; mine is a pasta strainer. And, that difference sets the stage for some recurring conversations at our house. We settle in after supper to watch an episode of some British crime drama, one with multiple characters and a complex plot, which is already a problem for me; three characters and one simple story line is my ideal. Now, understand, it may have been three weeks since we watched the previous episode. A character comes on screen, one I’m certain I’ve never seen before, and I ask, “Do we know him? Who is he? How does he fit into the story?” Then, Clare mutes the TV and says, “Sure. Don’t you remember? He’s …” and then she identifies the character and places him in the proper context of the story for me, knowing that three weeks later I’ll probably ask the same question.
Identity and context — Who is this person? and How does he fit into the story? — those are the essential elements for making sense of any given episode within a narrative, any moment in history, any event in a life. It is certainly true in the grand, sweeping arc of the scriptural narrative. Any event in Scripture means what it means — means anything at all to us — only insofar as we understand the identity of the characters and the context of the event within the whole story. Who is he? How does he fit into the story?
These were the questions that hung in the air around Jesus, spoken and unspoken by those who encountered him or heard rumors of him. John the Forerunner, the one who had himself baptized Jesus, the one who had pointed his own disciples to Jesus with the words, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” still had these questions after he was imprisoned by Herod:
Luke 7:18–20 (ESV): 18 The disciples of John reported all these things to him. And John, 19 calling two of his disciples to him, sent them to the Lord, saying, “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” 20 And when the men had come to him, they said, “John the Baptist has sent us to you, saying, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?’ ”
Who are you, Jesus? How do you fit into the story? John wants to know.
Luke 7:21–23 (ESV): 21 In that hour (Jesus) healed many people of diseases and plagues and evil spirits, and on many who were blind he bestowed sight. 22 And he answered them, “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them. 23 And blessed is the one who is not offended by me.”
To those steeped in the narrative of Israel, to those filled with the hope of the prophets, this is a clear answer. Hear Isaiah:
Isaiah 35:2–6 (ESV): 2b They (the exiles of Israel) shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God. 3 Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. 4 Say to those who have an anxious heart, (say to John the Baptist) “Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.” 5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; 6 then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy.
Who is this man Jesus? Your God will come and save you, Isaiah sees and says. And when God comes, you will know it by this: the blind will see, the deaf will hear, the lame will leap, and the mute will sing.
How does Jesus fit into the story? His ministry, his mission, is nothing less than the ransom, the redemption, the deliverance of Israel prophesied when God himself comes to establish his kingdom.
Still others were asking the same questions: Herod, following his execution of John the Baptist, for example:
Luke 9:7–9 (ESV): 7 Now Herod the tetrarch heard about all that was happening, and he was perplexed, because it was said by some that John had been raised from the dead, 8 by some that Elijah had appeared, and by others that one of the prophets of old had risen. 9 Herod said, “John I beheaded, but who is this about whom I hear such things?” And he sought to see him.
In the end, Herod did see Jesus and almost certainly asked him these questions: Who are you? How do you fit into the story? Jesus never answered him directly. After all, you do not give dogs what is holy, nor do you cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you (ref Mt 7:6).
The crowds that followed Jesus, the crowds that assembled wherever he was, had the same questions:
Luke 9:18–19 (ESV): 18 Now it happened that as he was praying alone, the disciples were with him. And he asked them, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” 19 And they answered, “John the Baptist. But others say, Elijah, and others, that one of the prophets of old has risen.”
The crowds, it seems, were as confused as Herod, though all the evidence was on clear display: those with eyes to see, saw, and those with ears to hear, heard. The others remained spiritually blind and deaf.
These were the right questions, the questions that Jesus wanted people to ask. And he even pressed his disciples — the Twelve — to ask them:
Luke 9:20 (ESV): 20 Then he said to (his disciples), “But who do you say that I am?” And Peter answered, “The Christ of God.”
You get the sense in reading the Gospels, that this was the moment — the answer — Jesus had been waiting for, the moment when his ministry pivoted toward the cross:
Luke 9:21–22 (ESV): 21 And he strictly charged and commanded them to tell this to no one, 22 saying, “The Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.”
So, God has revealed to Peter the answer to the first question: Who is this man Jesus? Peter doesn’t fully understand; he doesn’t really know yet what he has said. Clarity will come in time. In fact, it begins to dawn just eight days after his confession of Jesus as the Christ of God.
Luke 9:28 (ESV): 28 Now about eight days after these sayings he took with him Peter and John and James and went up on the mountain to pray.
I’ve heard that in real estate, three things matter most: location, location, location. That can be true in Scripture, as well. Jesus takes the Three to a mountain, perhaps to Mount Tabor. Why a mountain? Because mountains are where people go to encounter God; mountains are where God calls people when he wants to reveal himself. Moses first encountered God — in the burning bush — on Mount Horeb. Later, God called Moses to himself on Mount Sinai — probably the same mountain as Horeb — to reveal himself and his Law. Elijah encountered God, in the spectacular contest with the prophets of Baal, on Mount Carmel. Forty days later, God called Elijah to Mount Horeb and there revealed himself not in the earthquake, wind, or fire, but in the still small voice. So, Jesus calls the Three to go up a mountain with him to pray because that’s what God does; the stage, the location, is set.
Luke 9:29–31 (ESV): 29 And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was altered, and his clothing became dazzling white. 30 And behold, two men were talking with him, Moses and Elijah, 31 who appeared in glory and spoke of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.
What is it we see? Who is this man Jesus? There is more to ponder here than we are able: Jesus is the burning bush on fire with the glory of God but not consumed; Jesus is the thunder and lightning and smoke and trumpet on Mount Sinai that heralded the presence of God; Jesus is the fire from heaven that consumed both the sacrifice and the altar that Elijah had laid on Mount Carmel; Jesus is the glory of God that made the face of Moses shine; Jesus is earthquake, wind, and fire and, yes, the still, small voice of God that Elijah heard. Jesus is God incarnate, revealing the glory with which the first man Adam was clothed in the garden and the glory yet to come when we shall be reclothed fully in the new, last Adam. Who is this man Jesus? This is who he is.
Moses and Elijah are there, basking in his glory, speaking with Jesus about the departure he will soon accomplish in Jerusalem. Departure: what a feeble translation that is! The text says they are speaking to Jesus about the exodus he will accomplish. Departure is a mere leaving. Exodus is a triumphal procession. A great conflict is coming; the great conflict is coming in Jerusalem when, like Moses, Jesus will conquer the power of empire, when, like Elijah, Jesus will conquer the power of false prophets and false religion. All the powers that vaunt themselves against God, all the evil that was, is, or ever shall be, all the spiritual powers of wickedness in the heavenly places are converging on Jerusalem to do battle against the Lord and against his anointed. And though it will look for a time as if those powers have won, three days later Jesus will accomplish his exodus. Three days later, the psalm will be fulfilled:
Psalm 118:10–14 (ESV): 10 All nations surrounded me; in the name of the Lord I cut them off! 11 They surrounded me, surrounded me on every side; in the name of the Lord I cut them off! 12 They surrounded me like bees; they went out like a fire among thorns; in the name of the Lord I cut them off! 13 I was pushed hard, so that I was falling, but the Lord helped me. 14 The Lord is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.
Yes, Moses and Elijah, who through the power of God had won their own victories over the powers, were speaking to Jesus about his victory, his exodus over all that opposes God. How does Jesus fit into the story? This is how he fits into the story: God himself come to rescue his people. It is not so much that Jesus fits into the story, but more that Jesus is the story.
Peter, John, and James have been sleeping through all this — perhaps physically, but certainly spiritually; they have been asleep, oblivious to the true nature of Jesus’ identity and purpose. But now they begin to wake, to see. And it seems good to them, so good that Peter wants to prolong the experience, to build dwellings for Moses and Elijah and Jesus. But that is, once again, to miss the point of Jesus’ identity and place in the story.
Luke 9:34–36 (ESV): 34 As he was saying these things, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 And a voice came out of the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen One; listen to him!” 36 And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.
There is a term in Greek and Roman drama — deus ex machina — used to describe the sudden appearance of a god on stage to resolve the plot of the drama. The actor representing the god was often lowered by a machine onto the stage (deus ex machina means god from the machine), god descending, as it were, from the heavens. But this is not a play; this is the Gospel in which God, not an actor playing god, comes down in a cloud to resolve the plot. And what is the resolution? “This is my Son, my chosen One; listen to him!” Moses had his day, and Elijah his — both faithful servants and signposts pointing toward something, someone greater. And now the greater is here. Moses and Elijah were servants; Jesus is the Son. And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.
Who is this man Jesus? He is the Son of God, the One chosen to accomplish the great exodus for the whole world. How does Jesus fit into the story? Jesus is the story: not Moses, not Elijah, but Jesus alone, for Jesus alone can defeat all the powers of empire and evil standing athwart the purposes of God, Jesus alone can deliver man from slavery to sin and death, Jesus alone can inaugurate and reign over the Kingdom of God.
But, his exodus, his victory is not going to look like Peter, John, and James think it will look or should look. His weapon will not be a staff with which to call forth plagues from God, or even an altar drenched with water with which to humiliate false prophets. It most certainly will not be an army with which to overcome Rome. It will be a cross on which Jesus will take upon himself all the sin of the world and all God’s condemnation of that sin, all the suffering of the world, all the death of the world. By taking all that upon himself, he rescues and redeems us. By absorbing all that within himself, he exhausts its power. And,
by his resurrection he broke the bonds of death, trampling Hell and Satan under his feet. As our great high priest, he ascended to (God’s) right hand in glory, that we might come with confidence before the throne of grace (cf The Prayer of Consecration, BCP 2019, p. 133).
That’s who this man Jesus is. That’s how he fits into the story.
The Transfiguration has its answers to the questions of identity and context: Who is this man Jesus? and How does he fit into the story? But, it also turns those questions back on us, asks the questions of us with a twist: Who are you? and How do you fit into the story?
For us, identity depends upon belief. John, who was on the Mount of Transfiguration and beheld Jesus in his glory, John who heard the voice of God say, “This is my beloved Son,” wrote these words in the Prologue of his Gospel:
John 1:9–13 (ESV): 9 The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. 10 He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. 11 He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. 12 But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
Who are you? If you have received the Son of God, if you believe in the Son of God, if you have been born of God in the water of baptism and in the power of the Holy Spirit, then you are a child of God. And John continues that same theme in his first epistle:
1 John 3:1–3 (ESV): 3 See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. The reason why the world does not know us is that it did not know him. 2 Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. 3 And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure.
Those in Christ Jesus are the children of God — now — and when he appears we shall see him as he is — in all his glory — and we shall be transfigured to be like him. In fact, we are even now being transformed as St. Paul writes:
2 Corinthians 3:18 (ESV): 18 And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.
This is who we are: children of God being transformed into the image of Christ from one degree of glory to another as we await his coming and our final glorification in him.
And what is our place in the story? To live out our identity as children of God in the midst of a fallen world: to be salt and light; to live as citizens of heaven and as resident aliens in this world now; to love God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind and to love our neighbors as ourselves; to worship God and God alone.
Who is this man Jesus? What is his place in the story? Who are we? What is our place in the story? All these questions go together, and all are caught up together in the great mystery of the Transfiguration — Jesus’s and ours.
Luke 9:34–36 (ESV): 34 As he was saying these things, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 And a voice came out of the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen One; listen to him!” 36 And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.
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.
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:
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.
First Blessings 