First Blessings

Anglican Church of the Redeemer
Fr. John A. Roop

A Homily at the Ordination of Jeremy Swaggerty to the Sacred Order of Priests
24 September 2023

(Is 6:1-8, Ps 119:33-40, Eph 4:7-16, Luke 10:1-9)

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

11 And he gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the shepherds and teachers, 12 to equip the saints for the work of building up the body of Christ (Eph 4:11-12, ESV).

Bishop Frank, Fr. Phil and fellow clergy, brothers and sisters in Christ at Anglican Church of the Redeemer: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

When we read the New Testament Epistles, we are reading someone else’s mail. The letters were addressed to the first century recipients, but, by God’s grace they are also for us in the twenty-first century. I trust you won’t mind if I follow that same biblical pattern in this sermon: it is addressed to Jeremy, but, by God’s grace, I hope it will also have some meaning for everyone gathered here.

Jeremy, as we approach the profoundly significant and life-changing moment of your ordination to the priesthood in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church of our Lord Jesus Christ, there is an important question hanging in the air, a question on the minds of many here, a question that simply must be asked before we can move forward: Do you have any new, cute pictures of Jack?

Here’s the truth; you may struggle against it, but in your bones you know it’s true. You have had your moment. You have had a brief window of time in which to be Jeremy Swaggerty. But now? Now, you are Jack’s father. That’s your new identity, and what a remarkable and gracious thing that is.

I speak now perhaps more poetically than theologically, though in the best of moments the two are indistinguishable. Fatherhood leaves an indelible mark on a man’s character, or, perhaps, it confers a new and indelible character upon him. I am certain the same is true for motherhood — perhaps even more so — but I dare not presume to speak for mothers. From the moment his baby is first placed in a man’s arms — and probably seven or eight months prior — he receives a new identity; regardless of what he was before, he is now a father. His life must be oriented differently. His priorities must change. His responsibilities must deepen. As John the Baptist was to Jesus, so must a father be to his child: the father must decrease and the child must increase. There is a choice, of course; a man may be either faithful or unfaithful to this new character, but he may not escape from it. He is a father.

You have just begun the journey of fatherhood; I am nearly twenty-nine years along the way. The nature of fatherhood changes with time — I am needed in a different way now than at first, and I am a different kind of father now than before — but the sheer fact of it never changes; once a father, always a father. “Father” is not just what you do, though there is certainly much to do; “father” is who you are.

In just a few moments — God willing, the people consenting, and Bishop Frank presiding — you will be ordained to the priesthood.

Ordination is the laying on of the bishop’s hands with prayer, which confirms the gifts and calling of the [candidate], consecrates [him], and grants [him] authority to serve Christ and his Church in the office to which [he has] been called.

In ordination, God conveys the gift of the Holy Spirit for the office and work of the order being conferred (Anglican Church In North America (ACNA), To Be A Christian, Crossway (2020), p. 60).

In this sacrament of holy orders you are, once again, about to become a father, a spiritual father to a people that God is placing in your care. Whether they call you father or just Jeremy is no more important than whether Jack calls you pop, papa, dad, or something else entirely. You will become father through the grace of the Holy Spirit received in this sacramental rite. This consecration will leave an indelible mark on your character, or, perhaps, will confer a new and indelible character upon you from the moment the bishop lays hands upon you and prays:

Receive the Holy Spirit for the office and work of a Priest in the Church of God, now committed to you by the imposition of our hands (BCP 2019, p. 493).

Regardless of what you were before, you will thereafter be a priest, a spiritual father. Your life must be oriented differently. Your priorities must change. Your responsibilities must deepen. You have a choice, of course; you may be either faithful, or, God forbid, unfaithful to this new character, but you may not escape from it. You are, from that moment, a priest, a spiritual father. Priest is not just what you do, though there is much to do. Priest is who you are: priest, spiritual father.

Have you noticed how many things come with warning labels and instruction manuals today? A cup of coffee at McDonald’s comes with the warning emblazoned on the styrofoam: Caution! The beverage you are about to enjoy is extremely hot. And the furniture you ordered online thinking it would be shipped assembled? No such luck: build-it-yourself, some assembly required. But you do get a thirty page instruction manual written in one language, translated into a second language by someone who speaks English only as a third. At least there are some badly photocopied diagrams with part numbers and letters visible only with an electron microscope. So, I ask you: where are the warning labels on a baby, the instruction manuals for fatherhood? Is a baby not as important as a cup of coffee or as complex as an IKEA bookcase? One morning, a nurse hands you this small, fragile, living human being who is little more than a bundle of needs, wheels the mother to the curb in a wheelchair, and sends you off on your own to figure it out as you go. So begins biological fatherhood: no instruction manual.

Thanks be to God — and I mean that — thanks be to God there is an instruction manual for spiritual fatherhood, an instruction manual for the priesthood — and not one only, but several.

First, we have the witness of the whole of Scripture: from the Patriarchs (the fathers) to Moses, to Joshua and the Judges, to the Kings and the Prophets — all fathers of God’s people, sometimes faithful and sometimes faithless, but examples all. In the Gospels we encounter Jesus who said:

John 14:9–11 (ESV): Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? 10 Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own authority, but the Father who dwells in me does his works. 11 Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me.

In the Epistles we see hands-on spiritual fatherhood as Paul and Peter and James and Jude and John grapple with the problems of their spiritual children gathered in household churches scattered throughout the Mediterranean: sometimes praising, sometimes rebuking, often instructing, always praying — spiritual fathers pouring out their very lives for their spiritual children. Especially, there are the Pastoral Epistles in which the aging spiritual father Paul passes on his wisdom and experience to his protégés, to the next generation of spiritual fathers in the persons of Timothy and Titus. Do you want to be a good priest, a faithful spiritual father? Of course you do. Then delve deeply into Scripture; make it your instruction manual.

There is also the great Tradition of the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church passed on to us in faith and practice, in the example of saints and martyrs, in holy writings and rules. Look to the Church Fathers, East and West; look to the Desert Fathers and Mothers; look to the great theologians, bishops, and abbots — Augustine, Chrysostom, Basil, Gregory, Benedict.

Jeremiah 6:16 (ESV): 16 Thus says the Lord:
“Stand by the roads, and look,
and ask for the ancient paths,
where the good way is; and walk in it,
and find rest for your souls.

Look to more modern teachers, writers, thinkers, contemplatives, activists, and saints also — Ignatius of Loyola, Mother Teresa, C. S. Lewis, Henri Nouwen. And do not forget that we, too, are a living part of the great Tradition, a link in the chain of faith and practice received from the Apostles and passed down the generations to us, to this generation. The great Tradition lives all around you in this parish, in this diocese, in this province, in this communion. Look to the godly bishops, priests, deacons, and spiritual fathers and mothers among us. Seek them out. Mine and mind their wisdom. Follow their examples. Do you want to be a good priest, a faithful spiritual father? Of course you do. Then immerse yourself in the great Tradition; make it your instruction manual.

And, we must not neglect our own Anglican formularies; we cannot pass over The Book of Common Prayer and especially the Ordinal, The Form and Manner of Ordaining a Priest. I suspect you have read this rite many times, meditating on it and praying with it and through it. No matter: it bears repeating.

What does it mean to be an Anglican priest, a spiritual father in our tradition? It means “to be a messenger, watchman, and steward of the Lord” (BCP 2019, p. 489). There is a common theme here. A messenger proclaims not his own word but the word of the one who sent him. A watchman attends not to his own welfare, but to the welfare of those entrusted to his care. A steward tends not his own treasure, but the treasure of his master. As a priest and spiritual father, you are “to provide for the Lord’s family, and to seek for Christ’s sheep who are in the midst of this fallen world” (ibid). The vocation of priest and spiritual father is to you, but it is always from God and for the sake of his people.

What does it mean to be an Anglican priest, a spiritual father in our tradition? It means to “work diligently, with your whole heart, to bring those in your care [the children of God] into the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of God, and to maturity in Christ, that there may be among you neither error in religion nor immorality in life” (ibid). There is a trope in film and television, tired but too often true, of the man-child, the boy who will not grow up, the thirty-five year old teenager. We’ve all seen it in “real life,” haven’t we: the immature adult who acts like a spoiled, petulant child? And, whether we say it or not, we most often blame the parents, who infantilized their child and did not allow or demand the child to mature. God forbid that such a thing should be said of any priest or spiritual father, that he is guilty of infantilizing God’s people. No: a priest is to work diligently, with his whole heart to bring God’s people to maturity:

Ephesians 4:12–14 (ESV): 12 to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, 13 until we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ, 14 so that we may no longer be children, tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind of doctrine, by human cunning, by craftiness in deceitful schemes.

This equipping, this encouraging and challenging people to grow, this refusal to do on behalf of others what they should do themselves is not always easy or pleasant. It requires commitment and diligence. The Ordinal exhorts you to:

give your faithful diligence always to minister the doctrine, sacraments, and discipline of Christ, as the Lord has commanded and as this Church has received them, according to the Commandments of God, so that you may teach the people committed to your charge with all diligence to keep and observe them (BCP 2019, p. 490).

These things are the day in and day out work of the priest, and they require an “ordinary,” daily diligence. But, from time to time, more serious matters arise, matters which require “extraordinary” diligence, when as priest and spiritual father you must:

be ready, with all faithful diligence, to banish and drive away from the Body of Christ all erroneous and strange doctrines contrary to God’s Word; and to use both public and private admonitions and exhortations, to the weak as well as the strong within your charge (ibid, p. 491).

This is the difficult and painful priestly work of correction. It must be done impartially, to the weak as well as to the strong, to the founding member as well as to the newcomer, to the influential and to the “nobody,” to the big donor and to the one who receives from the benevolence fund. It must be done privately, if possible, and publicly if necessary. It must be done — with encouragement — to the older man as to a father, to younger men as to brothers, to older women as to mothers, and to younger women as sisters, in all purity (cf 1 Tim 5:1-2). As difficult as it always is, it sometimes must be done by a faithful priest and spiritual father.

In exercising this diligence for the household of God, you must never neglect your own household, but rather:

be diligent to frame and fashion your own life [and the life of your family], according to the doctrine of Christ, and to make yourself [and them, as much as you are able], a wholesome example and a pattern to the flock of Christ (ibid, p. 491).

This is implicit in your marriage vows and is now made explicit in your ordination vows. Look to your family. Do not be so devoted to the bride of Christ that you ignore your own bride. Do not be so concerned with the children of God that you neglect your own child. There are far too many cautionary tales of parents failing their children in Scripture, tales written for our learning, the stories of Samuel and David prominent among them. Right order is essential, not least the right order of your vows: baptismal vow, marriage vow, ordination vow. Be diligent to harmonize these. Do you want to be a good priest, a faithful spiritual father? Of course you do. Then immerse yourself in all these aspects of our own Anglican tradition; make it your instruction manual.

I want to highlight one last bit of instruction in the Ordinal. It comes with a personal admission. Whenever I place the stole — the symbol of priesthood — around my neck and across my shoulders, I do so with these words of Jesus on my lips and in my heart:

Matthew 11:28–30 (ESV): 28 Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

There are days — and here is the admission — when these words sound like sarcasm, when I find no rest for my soul, when the yoke is hard and chafing, when the burden is anything but light, days when the will and the ability both seem absent. There are not many such days and they do not come often, but when they come, this instruction from the Ordinal is crucial. It is not an instruction on what you are to do or on how you are to fulfill your vows. Rather it is a stark reminder that you cannot, under your own power, do so:

Know, however, that you cannot accomplish this of yourself; for the will and the ability needed are given by God alone. Therefore, pray earnestly for his Holy Spirit to enlighten your mind and strengthen your resolve (ibid, p. 489).

On those difficult days when the stole seems hard and burdensome, my prayer, perhaps all I can muster in the moment is this:

Come, Holy Spirit. Purify my heart, enlighten my mind, strengthen my resolve, and glorify Christ in me.

I have always found that prayer to be enough and more than enough. I have always found God to be faithful in steeling my weak human will, in stirring up the gifts given me through the laying on of my bishop’s hands, in strengthening my resolve once again for the work he has given me to do in that moment. Depend on this prayer or one like it. Find a few faithful parishioners who will pray it with you and for you. Do you want to be a good priest, a faithful spiritual father? Of course you do. Then recognize your own insufficiency and the boundless grace and power of the One who has called you to this good work and who will faithfully bring it to completion through the grace of the Holy Spirit.

Now, I would like to speak directly both to you Jeremy and to all the saints at Redeemer for a moment. The priestly vocation, spiritual fatherhood, is a gift. It is God’s gift to you Jeremy, for it is the means God has chosen to transform you into the image of Christ; it is the way God has chosen for you to work out your salvation with fear and trembling. It is the way that you are called to take up the cross and follow Jesus. But, it is also a gift to the church, to the local church here on McBrien Road in Chattanooga and to the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church of our Lord Jesus Christ. Church, treasure this gift, and, in the words of the author of Hebrews:

Hebrews 13:17 (ESV): 17 Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you.

And, for both Jeremy and the saints at Redeemer, I close with this prayer and blessing from Hebrews:

Hebrews 13:20–21 (ESV): 20 Now may the God of peace who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant, 21 equip you with everything good that you may do his will, working in us that which is pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.

Anglican Church of the Redeemer
Formed Conference 2023: Male and Female in Christ

The Cruciform Shape of Gender:
Male and Female and the Cross of Christ

Following is a talk I presented at the Formed Conference 2023.

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

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. Amen.

I like to begin presentations by lowering expectations; that way, I am less likely to dramatically disappoint. My contribution to this conference will be quite modest, not unimportant, I hope, but modest nonetheless. I am neither a sociologist nor a psychologist. I am neither a biologist nor a philosopher. I am a parish priest, and an assisting priest at that. I think and speak as a priest; so, primarily, I want to frame the context and character of the gender debate in which we find ourselves in terms of the great narrative of Scripture, which means in terms of the cross of Christ. It is a vast narrative that climaxes in the cross, but, it starts here:

Genesis 1:1–2 (ESV): 1 In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. 2 The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.

The earth was without form and void; it was chaotic and empty. In the following six days of creation, God remedies those two deficits. God first creates order through separation and differentiation: light from darkness (day from night), the waters above from the waters below, the dry land from the seas. Then having established order on the first three days, God begins to fill the emptiness on the next three days: plants and fruit trees; sun, moon and stars; sea creatures, great and small, and all winged birds; livestock and creeping things and the beasts of the earth. On the sixth day, God creates man — humankind — male and female, and he calls them to a specific vocation:

Genesis 1:28 (ESV): 28 And God blessed them. And God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”

As his image-bearing humans, man — male and female — are to continue God’s work of bringing order out of chaos (subdue, have dominion) and of filling the emptiness with life (be fruitful, multiply). This account of creation in Genesis 1 emphasizes the mutuality of male and female in the human vocation.

Genesis 2 adds detail to our understanding of the creation and vocation of man. In this account, God creates the male, Adam, first and specifically assigns to him one part of the human vocation:

Genesis 2:15 (ESV): 15 The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.

This is the task of bringing order (work it) and defending order (keep it). This is the uniquely male aspect of the human vocation. Missing from this is the mandate to be fruitful and multiply, because there is, as yet, no helper — no mate — fit for Adam.

To emphasize both Adam’s role in the ordering of creation and his inability to fill the emptiness with human life, God next brings the animals to Adam to be named, to be placed in their proper order in creation. All the animals have mates fit for them, but Adam does not.

Genesis 2:20–25 (ESV): . 21 So the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and while he slept took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. 22 And the rib that the Lord God had taken from the man he made into a woman and brought her to the man. 23 Then the man said,

“This at last is bone of my bones

and flesh of my flesh;

she shall be called Woman,

because she was taken out of Man.”

24 Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh. 25 And the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed.

Notice that Adam — the man, ish in Hebrew — names the woman, ishshah, giving the human species an order also. Together, man and woman can now fulfill the entire human vocation of ordering, subduing, and filling. Man and woman were made for one another — bone of bone and flesh of flesh — and designed for mutuality and intimacy; they were naked and were not ashamed.

The relationship between man and woman is, by God’s design, non-competitive (rf Gen 2:18), interdependent (rf 1 Cor 11:11-12), and vocationally ordered (rf 1 Cor 11:3).

In that, it is an icon of the relationship among the persons of the Trinity. The persons of man and woman are of one bone and flesh. The persons of the Trinity are consubstantial, of one substance/essence. And though, in marriage, male and female become one flesh in a unique spiritual and physical relationship, yet they do not lose their individual identities nor are they made interchangeable. Similarly, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are one in essence, yet they remain three persons and are not interchangeable. There is a vocational order in both relationships, human and divine, as St. Paul writes:

1 Corinthians 11:3 (ESV): 3 But I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God.

This is God’s iconic, anthropological intent as manifested in creation: the relationship between man and woman is, by God’s design, non-competitive, interdependent, and vocationally ordered. This relationship was God-ordained and was intended for the fulfillment of the human vocation and for the flourishing of both man and woman and of all creation. Apart from that relationship, we cannot effectively accomplish God’s will, nor can we flourish independently or relationally.

To say that the male-female relationship is vocationally ordered is not to imply a hierarchy of worth or importance. The divine relationship is eternally ordered. Who is worth more, the Father or the Son? Who is more important, the Son or the Holy Spirit? These are nonsense questions, because order is not about worth or importance. Order addresses proper place and function within a matrix of relationships, each person fulfilling a unique and irreplaceable purpose within God’s creation, exercising those gifts given by God for the people of God.

How long this non-competitive, interdependent, vocationally ordered relationship continued we do not know, but there are hints early in Genesis 3 that all was not well in the male-female relationship even before the actual act of disobedience.

Genesis 3:1–6 (ESV): 3 Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made.

He said to the woman, “Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” 2 And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, 3 but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’ ” 4 But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not surely die. 5 For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” 6 So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate.

This text raises many questions about the prelapsarian male-female relationship.

Where was the man during the woman’s conversation with the serpent?

Why was the man not exercising dominion over the serpent?

Why was he not keeping (protecting) the woman and the garden?

Why does the man, who was given the vocation of working and keeping the garden, appear totally passive?

Why was the woman taking the initiative in this conversation and acting independently of the man?

The non-competitive, interdependent, vocationally ordered relationship seems already disjoint, already disordered, which might even be seen as the precursor of the great disobedience. The man yields dominion and forsakes responsibility. The woman ceases to be helper and becomes tempter.

And, what are the consequences of disobedience?

• Shame before one another and before God.

• Blame — the woman blaming the serpent and the man blaming the woman and, by implication, blaming God.

• Competition and struggle for dominance:

Genesis 3:16 (ESV): 16 To the woman (God) said,

“I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing;

in pain you shall bring forth children.

Your desire shall be against ( alternate reading) your husband,

but he shall rule over you.”

• Unproductive toil.

• Exile and death.

The non-competitive, interdependent, vocationally ordered relationship between man and woman is a casualty of the fall, replaced with shame, blame, a struggle for dominance, a war of independence, and chaos. That is what it means to be “male and female” in the aftermath of the fall. Insisting on this way to be male and female does not promote human flourishing, does not fulfill the human vocation to tend and keep creation, and does not glorify God.

Insisting on that way of being male and female distorts anthropology — and even biology — to the extent that our culture can no longer even define male or female or else considers male and female to be optional endpoints of a gender spectrum along which one is free to move at will.

Insisting on that way of being male and female distorts sociology by separating people into oppressor and oppressed groups with one group exercising coercive power to retain dominance and the other group exercising coercive victimization to tip the scales and achieve dominance.

Insisting on that way of being male and female distorts theology by rejecting the revealed created order in favor of culturally conditioned, distorted reason and postmodern philosophy.

How might St. Paul respond to this muddle? His words to the church at Colossae seem pertinent:

Colossians 2:8–9 (ESV): 8 See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the world, and not according to Christ. 9 For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily.

The prevailing narratives and philosophies of our culture – the elemental spirits of this world — offer no healing for the disordered male and female relationship: no way forward to human flourishing, no opportunity to image God into the world, no means of fulfilling the human vocation. But, the Gospel offers all this and more. Hear St. Paul again, this time to the churches of Galatia:

Galatians 3:26–28 (ESV): …for in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith. 27 For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. 28 There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

Notice carefully what St. Paul says: In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female. From the the call of Abram on, there was a covenantal separation between Jew and Greek. From the beginning of societies, there was a sociological and political separation between slave and free. In Christ, those separations are ended: neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free. But, from creation, God intended the relationship between male and female to be and not or: to be non-competitive, interdependent, and vocationally ordered — not a separation, but an ordered harmony. It is the fall that distorted that relationship and made of male and female a struggle for dominance, a chaotic muddle in which the very meaning of male and female is uncertain, a fierce war of independence that pits male and female against one another. But, not in Christ. In Christ there is no longer male and female in that fallen state. St. Paul is not abolishing sexual differentiation. He is not making male and female indistinguishable and interchangeable. Rather he is insisting that the fallen, disordered, competitive male and female relationship characterized by shame, blame, struggle, desire, dominance, and opposition has been healed by Christ and must no longer exist in the Church. He is insisting that through the cross male and female have, in Christ, returned to the non-competitive, interdependent, vocationally ordered relationship as it was in the beginning.

The debate about what it means to be male and female — the debate within the Church and in the broader culture — has no other resolution than Christ and him crucified. Our culture stokes division and that division and strife infiltrate the church. And how did St. Paul address division in the church, deep division in the Corinthian Church?

1 Corinthians 2:1–5 (ESV): 2 And I, when I came to you, brothers, did not come proclaiming to you the testimony of God with lofty speech or wisdom. 2 For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. 3 And I was with you in weakness and in fear and much trembling, 4 and my speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, 5 so that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.

Not the wisdom of men — not philosophy or the latest social theory — but Jesus Christ and him crucified. Not lofty speech or plausible words, but Jesus Christ and him crucified. And that is the conviction I bring and the whole of what I have to offer to this conference: that we must plant the cross of Christ firmly — immovably — in the center of this muddled, heated, divisive issue of male and female and there at the cross take our stand, knowing nothing but Jesus Christ and him crucified. The cross of Jesus Christ is the power of God unto reconciliation: the reconciliation of man to God, yes, but also the reconciliation of male and female.

The whole of the Old Testament leads up to the cross. The Gospels present the cross. The Epistles flow from the cross as the economia — the pastoral dispensation or working out — of the cross. The great Tradition of the Church enshrines the cross as its very reason for being. When we stand with the Scriptures and the Tradition, we stand at the cross. When we know the Scriptures and the Tradition, we know Jesus Christ and him crucified.

But, knowing Jesus Christ and him crucified also means knowing and having the mind of Christ that led him to embrace the cross:

Philippians 2:1–8 (ESV): 2 So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, 2 complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. 3 Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. 4 Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. 5 Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, 6 who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, 7 but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. 8 And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.

In Jesus Christ and him crucified, there is no fallen male and female but rather a return to the non-competitive, interdependent, vocationally ordered relationship manifest in God’s creative act and the human vocation, revealed in Scripture, worked out and preserved in the great Tradition, and expressed most fully in the mind of Christ through humility, love, and obedience.

Anglican Eucharist theology is not monolithic; it ranges from near transubstantiation to near memorialism while typically not transgressing either of those boundaries. I find these words from the Second Vatican Council an interesting description of the Eucharist: “the summit toward which the activity of the Church is directed … [and] the font from which all her power flows.” I do not know how many Anglicans would describe it the same way, though the Oxford Movement might resonate with that characterization.

I cannot read “summit” without thinking of Calvary to which the Eucharist points. I cannot read “font” without thinking of baptism which unites us with Christ in his death and resurrection. So, yes, summit and font are good words to describe the Eucharist. It is arguable that the Eucharist is the climax — hence, summit — of the Liturgy and is also the font of power in which God’s people are dismissed into the world to do the work we have been given to do, to love and serve with gladness and singleness of heart. Again, summit and font do nicely.

Some Anglicans might argue that Scripture is summit and font. I would not argue the point. That is not to say that I agree, but rather that I have found such arguments useless and lifeless. But, in the Eucharist we feed sacramentally — not symbolically, not memorially, but truly — on the Body and Blood of Christ. I will not and need not specify how that is true; it is, to use the Orthodox word for Sacrament, a mystery. In that sense though, the Eucharist is certainly the most intimate encounter one has with Christ (summit) and the source of spiritual life (font).

Tolkien, himself a devout Roman Catholic, did indeed have a “deep devotion” to the Blessed Sacrament. Anglicans may initially be chary of such devotion, feeling it inches a bit too close to Eucharistic adoration (rf Article XXVIII, BCP 2019, p. 783). It need not do and they need not be. Very few would hesitate to say that they are devoted to Scripture or to prayer. Why then hesitate to express devotion to the Blessed Sacrament? How could anyone who truly believes that it is the Body of Christ that is given, taken, and eaten in the Supper (ibid) express anything less than or other than devotion for the Blessed Sacrament, the summit of our worship and the font of our life?

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:

“Glory be to God for all things.”

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:

https://www.facebook.com/667255720/posts/10167848449420721/

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:

https://apostlesonline.org/sermons/16th-sunday-after-pentecost/

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.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

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.

Amen.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

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.

Amen.