First Blessings

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

Mathematics, Poetry, and Parables of the Kingdom
(Zephaniah 3, Ps 49, Matthew 13:44-end)

Collect for Ember Days
Almighty God, the giver of all good gifts, in your divine providence you have appointed various orders in your Church: Give your grace, we humbly pray, to all who are [now] called to any office and ministry for your people; and so fill them with the truth of your doctrine and clothe them with holiness of life, that they may faithfully serve before you, to the glory of your great Name and for the benefit of your holy Church; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

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

There is an adage that mathematics is precise or it is nothing at all. That is true, I think; there is no room for ambiguity or contradiction in mathematics. All mathematical objects and constructs must be precisely defined and all proofs logically reasoned. Consider, for example, a proof in mathematics that starts with this definition:

Let x = p/q, where p and q are relatively prime positive integers.

Every mathematician knows exactly what that definition means; there is no room for confusion or doubt. To put the definition in “simpler terms,” x is a positive fraction in simplest form, a fraction that has been reduced. -2/3 does not meet the definition because it is not positive. 4/6 does not meet the definition because it is not reduced; but, express 4/6 as 2/3 and there you go — you have satisfied the definition. Mathematics is precise in this sense, or it is nothing at all.

But poetry? Not so much. Consider this poem by Emily Dickinson in which the subject is hope.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Let “hope = the thing with feathers that perches in the soul” is hardly precise in a mathematical sense. But, in a deeply human sense we “understand” — maybe “intuit” or “recognize” is better than “understand” — we know what the poet means because it is not foreign to our experience. In times of storm and struggle we have all heard hope, that thing with feathers, singing in our soul, keeping us warm in the greatest extremity.

Mathematics defines, poetry describes, and both tell the truth. Is the difference in these two arts arbitrary or fundamental? Is that just the way it happens to be, or must it be so? I think the latter is the case; the difference between the definitions of mathematics and the descriptions of poetry are inherent and unavoidable for this reason: the subject matter of mathematics is simple in a way that the subject matter of poetry is not. A fraction is simple; hope is not. A fraction can be defined; hope cannot be defined, though it may be described.

What about theology: is it more akin to mathematics or to poetry? Read the Prologue to St. John’s Gospel: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Mathematics or poetry? Read Hebrews 11:1: Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. A definition or a description? The Word transcends and defies definition; faith transcends and defies definition. But, the Word can be seen and known, has been seen and known in the Person of Jesus. And faith can be received and nurtured and experienced. They can be described.

When Jesus came on the scene, his message was an imperative proclamation: Repent (imperative), for the Kingdom of Heaven/God is at hand (proclamation). But, what is this kingdom of heaven? How does Jesus define it? The truth is that he does not define the kingdom of heaven because it transcends and defies definition; it is more like hope than it is like a fraction. Instead, Jesus spends the next three years revealing and describing the kingdom of heaven in prophetic word and deed, a kind of holy poetry. He casts out demons and says to the Jewish authorities, “See, the kingdom of heaven has come upon you.” He heals the blind, the deaf, the lame and says, “See, the kingdom of God is among you.” He compares the kingdom of heaven to a great banquet, to a wedding feast, and he institutes a holy meal of bread and wine, so that all who follow him may know him, may know the joy of the kingdom in that feast. He suffers and dies as the king of the kingdom of heaven just at the titulus crucis, the charge against him on the cross, proclaimed to all the world: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. All of this taken together forms a complex and, yes, poetic description of the kingdom of heaven. You cannot define that kingdom, because definitions limit and restrict their objects to human understanding, and the kingdom of heaven is beyond human understanding.

Jesus not only demonstrated the kingdom of heaven in prophetic actions, he also taught about the kingdom; St. Matthew’s Gospel is filled with parables of the kingdom. We have three such parables in our reading today: the treasure hidden in a field, the pearl of great price, the dragnet of fish. What do these add to our perception of the kingdom of heaven?

First, notice that none of these parables claims to be a definition: the kingdom of heaven is…. Instead, all the parables say “the kingdom of heaven is like,” or “it is like this in the kingdom of heaven” — descriptions, not definitions.

Matthew 13:44 (ESV): 44 “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

I asked my wife just a few days ago if she had ever hidden anything in a store so that she could come back later and buy it. This would have been decades ago before credit cards made such strategic action necessary. She laughed and said, “Of course!” I have, too. I distinctly remember hiding books on bookstore shelves so I could return the next day to make the purchase. You might be scandalized by my behavior, but I’ll bet some of you who are my contemporaries here have done it, too, particularly when the item was the last one or the only one in your size or color.

That is something like Jesus has in mind in this parable. A man stumbles across a treasure in a field. That raises a host of questions for us: Whose treasure is it? Whose field is it? Why was the treasure hidden in the field? Why is the man walking through someone else’s field? We may have these questions because we lack the cultural context that Jesus’s listeners had; the scenario might have been obvious to them. Or, it may be that this was and is an outrageous, a far-fetched, story meant to grab their attention and ours. No matter: the point is what the “finder” did. He hid the book on the bookshelf, he hid the dress on the rack, he hid the treasure in the field because he recognized its worth and he wanted it above all else. That is what it is like when someone glimpses the kingdom of God, when someone catches a glimmer of its worth.

The Jewish authorities — the Sadducees, the Scribes, the Pharisees — are the “owners” of the field. The field itself is the covenants, the Law, the prophets all of which point to the great treasure hidden in the field, the Messiah. But, to them, the treasure is hidden; they cannot see it. But, the sinners — the tax collectors, the prostitutes — walking through the field stumble over the treasure, the Messiah and recognize his worth. That’s the treasure they have been looking for; they will “sell off” everything else they have to get that. It is that kind of desire that allows one to enter the kingdom of heaven.

Jesus tells another kingdom parable:

Matthew 13:45–46 (ESV): 45 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls, 46 who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.

What is the most obvious difference between this and the hidden treasure parable? The merchant is not just walking through someone else’s field when he happens to stumble upon a hidden treasure. He is actively seeking out fine pearls when he finds a spectacular one presumably on open display. Here is where the parable gets interesting. The merchant was probably looking for another pearl to add to his collection. But that is not what he found. He found a pearl that was more valuable than his entire collection, a pearl so valuable that he would have to liquidate his entire collection to purchase it. And that is precisely what he did. That may be the point of this parable: this pearl of the kingdom of heaven is not one among many, not one to be added to an existing collection. It will cost you everything, and it will stand alone as the great treasure of your life.

We see this parable imaged in photographic negative in Jesus’s encounter with the rich young man.

Matthew 19:16–22 (ESV): 16 And behold, a man came up to him, saying, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” 17 And he said to him, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you would enter life, keep the commandments.” 18 He said to him, “Which ones?” And Jesus said, “You shall not murder, You shall not commit adultery, You shall not steal, You shall not bear false witness, 19 Honor your father and mother, and, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” 20 The young man said to him, “All these I have kept. What do I still lack?” 21 Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” 22 When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.

This man saw great value in Jesus, and he wanted to add Jesus and his teachings to his own life as one aspect of his life among many, including his many possessions. But no, this is the pearl of great price which will cost everything. That is what St. Paul found to be true, as he writes in Philippians:

Philippians 3:8–9 (ESV): 8 Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ 9 and be found in him….

One last kingdom parable for our consideration today:

Matthew 13:47–50 (ESV): 47 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and gathered fish of every kind. 48 When it was full, men drew it ashore and sat down and sorted the good into containers but threw away the bad. 49 So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous 50 and throw them into the fiery furnace. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I was once at a clergy retreat in an “ask-the-bishops-anything” session. This often devolves into a time for certain clergy to air concerns and grievances and to make dire predictions for the future of our province. This was such a time. I remember one of the bishops — who shall remain anonymous — responding to one of the questioners: “What you’ve raised isn’t a parish problem or a diocesan problem or even a provincial problem. It is an Anglican problem and it always has been. Anglicanism is messy. Get used to it.” Truer words were never spoken: Anglicanism is messy and you have to get used to that or leave. The problem is, there is no other part of the Church that is not also just as messy: different messes than Anglicans have, yes, but messy nonetheless. Because the Church is messy. Because the kingdom of heaven is messy — right now — and it will be until the angels come for the great sorting on the last great day. The kingdom of heaven is messy because it is comprised of a mixed bag of people like you and me just like fish caught in a dragnet: some Michelin Star restaurant worthy, some bait fish, some bottom feeders. It is not our job to do the sorting as much as we would sometimes like to. We just want to be on the side of the angels about their business, don’t we? But that is not my job. In fact, if the sorting were done now, I’m not certain which pile I’d be thrown in. So, to that extent, I am thankful for the messiness of it all; it makes a place for me in the kingdom here and now, and I can leave the ultimate sorting to the angels.

Jesus ends these parables with a question to his disciples, which becomes a question to us:

Matthew 13:51–52 (ESV): 51 “Have you understood all these things?” They said to him, “Yes.” 52 And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”

Well, it’s doubtful that they really understood all these things, and it is certain that I don’t. But this much I do know. If you are “lucky” enough to stumble across the hidden treasure of the kingdom of God, do whatever is necessary to lay hold of it. But, understand that it may well cost you everything else, that is not a trinket to be added to your existing collection of trinkets; it is to be your sole treasure. And, treasure that it is, it is not yet perfect; it is messy in the kingdom, thanks be to God.

Amen.

I write about illness from a state of good health, at least to the best of my knowledge. And that makes the writing both difficult and necessary. It is difficult because several people whom I love dearly are now facing health crises, and I fear lest they misinterpret what follows as callous. It is anything but. I share their burdens as I can, which primarily means through prayer. But, I am convinced that the type of observations which follow may best be written from the sidelines of suffering, as it were, in preparation for the real thing to come or else having come through the crucible of suffering. I suspect the three young men were able to praise God in the midst of the seven times hotter furnace only because they had praised him in better times and had worked through the consequences of doing so before Nebuchadnezzar erected his statue and demanded worship on pain of death. I want to think through the matter of illness clearly now so that when my time comes, as I suspect it will, I am not caught unawares. And, I hope that by the mercies of God, those who are in the thick of things right now might find some comfort here.

A priest is not a medical doctor, though he is most certainly a physician of souls and bodies. His training and tools — both diagnostic and treatment — differ from those of medical doctors. In his “little black bag” the priest carries not a stethoscope nor a sphygmomanometer but rather a Prayer Book and a Bible, an oil stock, a stole, and perhaps the Sacrament. His treatment includes prayer with anointing and laying on of hands, the Rite of Reconciliation (confession) with absolution, spiritual counsel and comfort, and perhaps the Holy Eucharist. While a medical doctor might speak of infections, cancers, and physical deterioration, a priest might speak of trials, sin, and passions. Priests do not — should not and must not — pit themselves against medical doctors or eschew the medical arts. Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) expresses the proper synergistic relationship of priest and physician, of prayer and medicine:

38 Honor physicians for their services, for the Lord created them; 2 for their gift of healing comes from the Most High, and they are rewarded by the king. 3 The skill of physicians makes them distinguished, and in the presence of the great they are admired. 4 The Lord created medicines out of the earth, and the sensible will not despise them. 5 Was not water made sweet with a tree in order that its power might be known? 6 And he gave skill to human beings that he might be glorified in his marvelous works. 7 By them the physician heals and takes away pain; 8 the pharmacist makes a mixture from them. God’s works will never be finished; and from him health spreads over all the earth. 9 My child, when you are ill, do not delay, but pray to the Lord, and he will heal you (Sirach 38:1-9, Holy Bible with Apocrypha, ESV).

We priests and our parishioners pray for the medical professions:

Almighty God, whose blessed Son Jesus Christ went about doing good, and healing all manner of sickness and disease among the people: Continue in our hospitals his gracious work among us [especially in __________]; console and heal the sick, grant to the physicians, nurses, and assisting staff wisdom and skill, diligence and patience; prosper their work, O Lord, and send down your blessing upon all who serve the suffering; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 661).

And, as a priest is not a medical doctor, it is equally true that a doctor is not a priest, though the Enlightenment and Modernity Projects embued them with a semi-divine aura of those who “put a stopper in death.” The recent pandemic reinforced this doctorism for some and debunked it for others.

Patients often ask medical doctors questions that begin with “what” or “how” or even “when;” the questions asked of priests often begin with “why.” The medical doctors are questioned about physiology and treatment, the priests about theology. Mystery obtains in both areas, though I suspect that medical training prepares the physicians of bodies to answer the questions posed to them better than does the training of priests. God help us if it is not so; God help us if it is so.

The Book of Common Prayer provides Rites of Healing and prayers for the sick. Since these rites and prayers are reflections on and applications of Scripture arranged for prayer and worship and pastoral care, one might expect to find in them a biblical theology of sickness and healing and perhaps even an answer to those questions that begin with “why.” Alas, that is not the case of late; no clearly articulated spirituality of illness and healing is found in such modern revisions of the Prayer Book as the BCP 1928 and the BCP 2019. Fortunately, the BCP 1662, “a standard for Anglican doctrine and discipline” (Fundamental Declarations of the Province (6), BCP 2019, p. 767) supplies what is otherwise lacking. These words come from another time, from a different context, from a world in which priests and prayer were perhaps more intimately associated with healing than were physicians and medicine. The words are strange to our ears and the theology is perhaps an affront to both modern hearts and minds formed by the Enlightenment project — at least initially. But this is the wisdom of our fathers and mothers, and it is worthy of both respect and consideration.

Soon after entering the house of the sick the priest using the BCP 1662 offers this prayer:

HEAR US, almighty and most merciful God and Saviour. Extend thy accustomed goodness to this thy servant, who is grieved with sickness. Sanctify, we beseech thee, this thy fatherly correction to him, that the sense of his weakness may add strength to his faith, and seriousness to his repentance, that, if it shall be thy good pleasure to restore him to his former health, he may lead the rest of his life in thy fear and to thy glory; or else give him grace so to take thy visitation, that after this painful life is ended, he may dwell with thee in life everlasting, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (The 1662 Book of Common Prayer: International Edition, InterVarsity Press (2021), p. 325, see end note 1).

Following the prayer, the priest exhorts the sick person with these or similar words:

DEARLY beloved, know this, that almighty God is the Lord of life and death, and of all things pertaining to them, such as youth, strength, health, age, weakness, and sickness. Wherefore, whatsoever your sickness is, know you certainly that it is God’s visitation. And for whatsoever cause this sickness is sent unto you — whether it be to try your patience, for the example of others, and that your faith may be found in the day of the Lord laudable, glorious, and honourable, to the increase of glory and endless felicity; or else it be sent unto you to correct and amend in you whatsoever doth offend the eyes of your heavenly Father — know you certainly that if you truly repent you of your sins, and bear your sickness patiently, trusting in God’s mercy for his dear Son Jesus Christ’s sake, and render unto him humble thanks for his fatherly visitation, submitting yourself wholly unto his will, it shall turn to your profit, and help you forward in the right way that leadeth unto everlasting life (ibid, p. 326, see end note 2).

There is a depth of theology in this prayer and in this exhortation. It begins with a conviction of the sovereignty of God, “the Lord of life and death, and of all things pertaining to them” including health and sickness. The sick person is not theologically abandoned to the accidents and incidents of chance; rather, sickness and health, life and death are in the hands of God and his accustomed goodness: “whatsoever your sickness is, know you certainly that it is God’s visitation.” Whether this is a comforting or disconcerting assertion perhaps depends on one’s understanding of the nature of God. That it is intended for comfort is made clear in the assertion that one is in the “hands of God and his accustomed goodness.” It certainly challenges the modern mind to include illness within the loving care of God, to understand that illness might indeed be a blessing and a holy correction meant to strengthen faith and give seriousness to repentance, to lead to a holy life or else to a holy death.

As to why this sickness has occurred — and that is so often the pressing question — the exhortation offers several possibilities: as a test of patience; as an example to others; to make one’s faith laudable, glorious, and honourable; to increase one’s reward of glory and felicity; or as a correction. There is no reason to believe this list is exhaustive, but it is univocal; God intends this and every illness for one’s good in this age and in the age to come, intends illness for one’s spiritual profit.

How then is the sick person to cooperate with God to ensure that God’s visitation of illness accomplishes that for which it was intended? Repent of sins, bear sickness patiently, trust in God’s mercy, render thanks to God even for the illness — Glory to God for all things (Chrysostom) — and submit wholly to God’s will.

The language of sickness as God’s visitation, of sickness as something sent, is jarring to our modern sensibilities. The notion of God as the causal agent of illness is, perhaps, a theological step too far for many — but surely not the notion of God as the redemptive agent of illness. If it is too much to say that God visits us with illness, surely we can maintain that God visits us in and through, in the midst of, illness. Surely we can believe that God forms us — perfects us — through illness just as Jesus was perfected through suffering (Heb 2:10). Surely we can use illness as an impetus to repent, to amend our lives, to give glory to God through our patient endurance and submission to his will. Surely we can begin to move our questions beyond Why? to What is God doing here? and How might I, in cooperation with God, use this illness for my spiritual welfare?

Can we hear these words? Can we bear this theology? Can we who have, perhaps unwittingly, embraced a materialist attitude toward illness dare acknowledge its spiritual dimension? These are difficult words; perhaps that, along with the West’s increasing “faith” in medical science and technology, explains why this theology of illness disappeared from the Book of Common Prayer. But these are gracious words also, words that assure us that God is not absent from our most difficult moments; that God is resolutely acting for us and for our salvation in and through our most difficult moments; that meaning can be found, and glory, in our most difficult moments; that the answer to the questions that start with “why” are always “because God loves us.”

END NOTES:

1. While a form of this prayer is retained in both the BCPs 1928 and 2019, both are reduced in theological content:
   
   HEAR us, Almighty and most merciful God and Saviour; extend they accustomed goodness to this thy servant who is grieved with sickness. Visit him, O Lord, with thy loving mercy, and so restore him to his former health, that he may give thanks unto thee in thy holy Church; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (BCP 1928, p. 309).
   
   Sanctify, O Lord, the sickness of your servant N., that the sense of his weakness may add strength to his faith and seriousness to his repentance; and grant that he may live with you in everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 233).
2. No such exhortation is present in either the BCPs 1928 or 2019.

Anglican Church of the Redeemer
FORMED Conference 2024
Fr. John A. Roop

Spiritual Life and Screen Technology
(Is 6:1-8, Ps 42, 2 Cor 5:17-6:2, Mt 4:1-17)

Hear this word from St. Paul:

1 Corinthians 7:25–26 (ESV): 25 Now concerning the betrothed, I have no command from the Lord, but I give my judgment as one who by the Lord’s mercy is trustworthy. 26 I think that in view of the present distress it is good for a person to remain as he is.

Now, we good Anglicans in the ACNA:

confess the canonical books of the Old and New Testaments to be the inspired Word of God, containing all things necessary for salvation, and to be the final authority and unchangeable standard for Christian faith and life (Fundamental Declarations of the Province (1), BCP 2019, p. 766).

But, here, in the midst of one of the canonical books of the New Testament, right here in the inspired Word of God — the fundamental and unchangeable authority for our faith and life — we see St. Paul give not a command from the Lord, but rather his own judgment, his own opinion about a matter of some importance to the Corinthians. What are we to make of that opinion and its authority, its status? What are we to make of St. Paul’s disclaimer? Well, about that, I have no command from the Lord, but I will give my judgment as one who by the Lord’s mercy…. See what I did there?

As one who speaks and writes I have often reflected on this question: Must I be able to say about a sermon, a lesson, or an article “Thus says the Lord,” or may I be permitted to say, similar to Paul, “I have no command from the Lord, but I give my judgment as one who by the Lord’s mercy struggles to be trustworthy”? I have reflected often on — and prayed often — the collect For Those Who Inform Public Opinion:

Almighty God, your truth endures from age to age: Direct in our time, we pray, those who speak where many listen and write what many read; that they may speak your truth to make the heart of this people wise, its mind discerning, and its will righteous; to the honor of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 661).

Not many listen to what I say, and not many read what I write. But, many or few, I want what I speak and write to express God’s truth to his glory and for the welfare of his people. By God’s grace, you are listening today. So, I want you to know that for what follows, I have no command from the Lord; I would not, at the end of this sermon, declare “Thus says the Lord.” I will offer you my judgment, my opinion. You should evaluate it in light of Scripture and the Apostolic Tradition of the Church as I have formed it in light of Scripture and the Apostolic Tradition.

I have been asked to preach on “our spiritual life and our screen technologies.” And now you see the nature of the problem. There is no command from the Lord, in Scripture, about screens. Once, while enjoying an ice cream cone the thought struck me that Jesus never tasted ice cream. It is equally true that Jesus, in his humanity as a second temple Jewish peasant, could not have imagined the devices we take for granted — the iPhone or the iPad or the Mac or the Kindle or the television or any of the screens that light my life, demand my attention, and form, or deform, my spirituality. Nor could Sts. Paul or Peter or James or John or Jude or any of the other New Testament writers. So, we do not have, nor could we have, a direct command from the Lord about precisely such things. But we do have wisdom in the Scriptures and in the Church that may rightly inform our judgments about such things. That is what I can offer.

To begin, let’s narrow down the broad topic of “our spiritual life and our screen technologies” to a few more specific questions: Why are we so drawn to our screens? and, What might our attraction to them reveal about and perhaps portend for our spiritual life?

If we want to know — at the psychological and emotional levels — why we are so drawn to our screens we should ask the product engineers, the software developers, the advertisers, the psychologists, and the sociologists just why these devices are so attractive and so addictive. They are not incidentally so; they are designed, built, and marketed specifically to appeal to our fallen human nature and to take us captive. And that, alone, should give us pause: not just that it is our fallen nature that embraces these devices but that engineers, programmers, and advertisers know us better than we know ourselves and can manipulate our fallen natures so effectively.

But, the real issue for us concerns the spiritual — and here I struggle for the right word — spiritual maladies? deficits? disorders? immaturities? that allow us to fall prey to such manipulation. Perhaps it goes even deeper. Perhaps we should name it as sin or, in the language of our ascetic Fathers and Mothers, captivity to the passions. There are many spiritually profitable ways to approach this issue of spirituality and screens; I will suggest only three.

The first comes from the Old Testament wisdom tradition, specifically from Proverbs:

Proverbs 29:18 (ESV): 18 Where there is no prophetic vision the people cast off restraint, but blessed is he who keeps the law.

As good as the English Standard Version may be, that language is unfamiliar to me; I am old enough to remember, and in many cases to prefer, the King James Version:

18 Where there is no vision, the people perish: but he that keepeth the law, happy is he.

Where there is no vision, the people perish. Vision: what does that entail in a spiritual sense? Meaning, purpose, direction, goal: telos, the perfect fulfillment of God’s will and human flourishing for which we were created and toward which the indwelling Spirit longs and strives to move us. What is God’s vision for you, not just generically for all people, but specifically for you? When God called you into being from nothing, when God first spoke your name, what vocation, what purpose, what telos did he also speak into being and join to that name? You probably will not find the answer to that on a screen, although God gave a vision through Balaam’s donkey and can certainly use even an iPhone if he so chooses. No, your vision, your telos, lies at the intersection of your life with the grand narrative of creation, fall, Israel, covenant, law, prophets, exile, restoration, incarnation, ministry, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension, final judgment, and new creation. You are part of this story: not an incidental part, but a part worthy of a son or daughter of God. Each week in the final words of the Eucharist we say something like, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” What we are really saying is this: “You have been here long enough to see the vision, to begin to grasp your telos in Word and Sacrament, to be strengthened for it. Now, get out of here and get to work out there for the Kingdom. Get out of here and live the vision, live your telos.” If we do not grasp this vision, we will perish, not all at once, but moment by moment as we are distracted by lesser things, by things with little meaning, little purpose, little direction, little goals — little screens. I wonder sometimes if we are looking there for a story, for a meaning, for a telos. Or perhaps it is simply that, having forgotten the grand narrative, the great vision, of which we are part we simply want to be distracted from a certain spiritual emptiness, to mindlessly “kill a little time.” It was Henry David Thoreau who in Walden wrote: As if we can kill time without injuring eternity.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not saying that every waking moment must be a constant striving toward your telos or that relaxation and entertainment are somehow spiritually deficient or harmful activities. Hardly! St. Irenaeus of Lyons wrote in Against the Heresies (Book 4, Chapter 3, Section 7): “For the glory of God is the living man, and the life of man is the vision of God.” You may have heard this in a slightly different translation: “For the glory of God is man fully alive.” Being fully alive means being fully human. And we are fully human only in our relationships: with our family and friends, with our neighbors and our community, with our reading group or knitting circle, with our pickle ball team or civic organization, with our work and with our play. It is in these things — as well as in prayer and Scripture and fasting and almsgiving and service — that we find the vision of God and our telos. And it is from these very things that screens can distract us so easily. One cannot form a spiritually nourishing relationship with a screen. Where there is no vision, the people perish. Brothers and sisters, we must recover, we must embrace, we must live fully into this vision, this great narrative of God’s loving creation, redemption, and renewal of all things, because lesser stories, smaller screens, beckon us, clamor for our attention.

The second comment about spirituality and screens I draw from St. Ignatius of Loyola and his Spiritual Exercises. It begins with his definition of the spiritual state of desolation:

I call desolation … darkness of soul, turmoil of spirit, inclination to what is low and earthly, restlessness rising from many disturbances and temptations which lead to want of faith, want of hope, want of love. The soul is wholly slothful, tepid, sad, and separated, as it were, from its Creator and Lord (St. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius (trans. Louis J. Puhl, S. J.), Loyola Press (1951), p.142).

St. Ignatius describes desolation in its acute form: “wholly slothful, tepid, sad, and separated, as it were, from its Creator and Lord.” We may experience this from time to time; many of the great saints have done as part of their sanctification. But, I suspect that a lower intensity, chronic form of desolation is more common than this — not crisis, but a muddling through — and that this low level desolation contributes to our “addiction” to screens. St. Ignatius describes the soul in desolation as slothful, a heavily freighted term in classical spiritual formation. Slothfulness is a distaste for, an avoidance of all things spiritual: prayer brings no particular joy or sense of God’s presence; Scripture seems dry like we are stuck in an endless loop of Leviticus; worship may be annoying — music too traditional or else too contemporary, preaching too long, children too noisy; contemplation makes us drowsy. We’ve all been there, haven’t we, just spiritually out of sorts? It’s not spiritual pneumonia: more like spiritual spring or fall allergies. Note how St. Ignatius describes some of the symptoms: inclination to what is low and earthly, restlessness arising from many disturbances.

Let me use a example that some of us, many of us, probably all of us can identify with. You are working at a tedious task that seems endless and endlessly boring. Suddenly you realize you are hungry. You are not, of course, since you had a very good meal only an hour ago. You are listening to your bored mind, not to your full stomach. But, you get up and go the the refrigerator, open it, and stand gawking at the contents. There are healthy, nutritious foods there that you could prepare, but you would have to prepare them. Then you remember the pint of ice cream in the freezer, and the spoons that are ever so handy. And, before you know it, you are knuckles deep in that pint bucket of Rocky Road and nearing the bottom. You’ve eaten it all and noticed not one bite of it. Now, replace Rocky Road with iPhone or iPad or any other screen technology and you get the picture. It is a mindless distraction from the real and tedious work that needs to be done, work like the Daily Office and intercessory prayer, work like checking on your annoying neighbor who has been sick lately, work like helping your kids with their homework or your spouse with those endless household chores — work like loving God with all your heart and with all you soul and with all your mind and loving your neighbor as yourself. And, let’s not kid ourselves: spiritual formation is hard and boring and repetitive and costly, not least because we have an enemy who tempts us to sloth and distraction, who wants little more than for us to live in a perpetual state of low level spiritual desolation. Brothers and sisters, this is where committed will empowered by the Holy Spirit and holy habit can be our salvation. Have you committed to praying the Daily Office? Then do it: in season and out of season; when the gentle wind of the Spirit stirs your heart and when the hot, dry, sirocco of the enemy scorches it; when you feel God near and when you feel God has absconded. The same holds for all other spiritual disciplines and good works to which you are committed. Go through the motions if that is all you can do; but keep going. If your faith at the moment seems nothing more than habit, then thanks be to God that it is a holy habit. Do not allow the enemy to distract you with smaller things, with smaller screens.

My third and final comment about spirituality and screens concerns a seldom voiced, entirely false presupposition, a willful blindness that most of us embrace: the myth of endless time, the false promise of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Let me ask a deceptively simple question that we rarely think to ask: What are you here for? I am not asking why you are here at this FORMED Conference or even why you here at this Eucharist. I have something more fundamental in mind. Why are you here at all? Why has God given you this day, this moment of life? Ask an Orthodox spiritual father and he will respond quickly and decisively: Repentance. God has, of his great mercy, given you this day for repentance: for changing/transforming your mind, for turning again and again toward God, for working out your salvation with fear and trembling — today is the day of salvation — for confession and amendment of life. God has, of his great mercy, given you this day for repentance. The next question is as simple but as probative as the first: what will you do with it, with this day God has given you knowing that there may not be another? If this were your last day in which to make a good start toward repentance, how much of it would you spend on YouTube or Facebook or X or Instagram? How much of it would you spend with your face glowing from the nearness of a screen instead of with your face glowing from the nearness of God’s glory?

James 4:13–17 (ESV): 13 Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit”— 14 yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. 15 Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.” 16 As it is, you boast in your arrogance. All such boasting is evil. 17 So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.

None of this implies that Christians must be morose; to the contrary, we are called to joy. None of this implies a continual state of memento mori; to the contrary, we are an Easter people and Alleluia! is our song. But, brothers and sisters, it does mean that we are called to live intentionally, that we are called to recognize that our lives matter, that eternal significance lies in each moment, that we know that God has given us this moment for repentance which is joy and life.

So, there you have it, not a command from the Lord but a judgment from a fellow sinner, from one who struggles with these same temptations to distraction, desolation, and denial. What I say to you, I say first to myself. Return again and again to the great vision of God that eclipses all lesser stories. Cultivate holy habits and practice them, maintain them whether you feel like it or not. Remember that today is the day of salvation and that each moment in it has eternal significance and that God has given it to you for repentance. And when we feel an undue attraction to lesser things, let us pray:

Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated to you; and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people; through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 668).

Anglican Church of the Redeemer
Formed Conference 2024: Technology and the Christian

Technē and the Discernment of Spirits
Fr. John A. Roop

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Lord be with you.
And with your spirit.

Let us pray.

O God, by whom the meek are guided in judgment, and light rises up in darkness for the godly: Grant us, in all our doubts and uncertainties, the grace to ask what you would have us do, that the Spirit of wisdom may save us from all false choices; that in your light we may see light, and in your straight path we may not stumble; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I chose this collect to ground my talk because, in the case of technology, I find myself in some darkness. The irony is that I am, by training, a technologist — an electrical engineer, a physics and mathematics teacher. But, when it comes to technology I have a host of doubts and uncertainties and I am subject to many false choices. That’s because I am now a priest, I suppose, with different concerns than before.

My uncertainty starts with two questions which may, at first, seem off-topic and irrelevant. I hope to show that they are anything but, that they rather lie near the heart of the spiritual implications of technology, which, as a priest, is my chief concern.

First: How do we know what we know? Or, worded differently: What are the means and modes of knowledge?

Second: What are the different purposes of knowledge gained in these different modes?

Philosophers and theologians recognize multiple modes of knowing. First, there is epistēmē, knowledge that is logical, verifiable, repeatably demonstrable. The whole edifice of mathematics is built upon epistēmē. It is the basis of science and the scientific method. The purpose of epistēmē is the determination of truth in some absolute sense: logical, verifiable, repeatably demonstrable truth.

Second, there is doxa from the Greek “to seem.” Doxa is a reasonable conclusion based on the preponderance of various pieces and kinds of evidence. Historical knowledge is based on doxa; historical events are non-repeatable and cannot be subjected to the scientific method. Juridical decisions are based on doxa. A jury considers all the evidence and determines the truth based on what seems to be the most likely explanation of the facts in evidence. I would argue that doxa is the most prevalent form of knowledge and that it governs our understanding of the world. The purposes of doxa are discernment and decision-making, the reasonable weighing of and selection between alternatives.

Third, there is a type of knowledge based on personal experience: I will call it gnosis. Gnosis is how I gain relational knowledge of another person. I may learn certain facts about you (epistēmē) and may draw reasonable conclusions based on those facts (doxa), but I do not know you in a relational sense until I meet you and you choose to reveal yourself to me person-to-person. Or consider knowledge of God. I might be persuaded of God’s existence by the five proofs of Aquinas: epistēmē. Or, I might be persuaded by C. S. Lewis’ argument from internal and universal moral law that God is the most likely explanation for that “feeling” (doxa). But, in the end, I do not really know God until I have a personal, relational knowledge of him — a person-to-person revelation: gnosis. The purpose of gnosis is relation.

This brings us to the fourth — and final — mode of knowledge, and the one most pertinent to our topic: technē. You see how it pertains; technology is the acquisition and application of technē. The simplest way to describe technē is know-how. A plumber has technē as does a neurosurgeon. A teacher and a chef both have technē. A composer and a construction worker, an accountant and an undertaker: you name it — anyone who can do anything has a certain body of technē. Today, we equate technē and technology with its digital forms — computers, the internet, social media; but a zipper is technology and one who makes it or uses it has technē.

So, what is the purpose of technē? It is not to obtain absolute truth or to aid in discernment or to develop relationships. I suggest that the purpose of technē is manipulation or control — not necessarily in a sinister sense, but in the sense of utilization of something or perhaps someone to accomplish a given end. When I lock my keys in my car, the locksmith’s technē is a godsend — anything but nefarious. But, that same technē can allow a thief to steal my car or break into my home. Intent and purpose matter in determining whether technē is sinister or innocent, as do other factors. But manipulation and control seem to me inherent in either case.

In summary:

Technology (technē) is a means of knowing the world with the purpose of manipulating or controlling some aspect of the world for good or ill.

Now, let’s focus on two examples of technē, one from The Book of Enoch, a pseudepigraphical work from roughly the second century B.C., and the second from Exodus, an older account, and canonical.

The Book of Enoch purports to be the record of a vision granted by God to Enoch, that righteous man “who walked with God, and he was not for God took him” (ref Gen 5:24). This vision provides a deeper window into the Genesis account — importantly for us, into the strange account in Genesis 6:1-5:

Genesis 6:1–5 (ESV): 6 When man began to multiply on the face of the land and daughters were born to them, 2 the sons of God saw that the daughters of man were attractive. And they took as their wives any they chose. 3 Then the Lord said, “My Spirit shall not abide in man forever, for he is flesh: his days shall be 120 years.” 4 The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.

5 The Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intention of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.

Now, let’s consider Enoch’s commentary on this passage:

VI. I. And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied that in those days were born unto them beautiful and comely daughters. 2. And the angels, the children of the heaven, saw and lusted after them, and said to one another: ‘Come, let us choose us wives from among the children of men and beget us children.’

VII. I. And all the others together with them took unto themselves wives, and each chose for himself one, and they began to go in unto them and to defile themselves with them, and they taught them charms and enchantments, and the cutting of roots, and made them acquainted with plants. 2. And they became pregnant, and they bare great giants, whose height was three thousand ells (R. H. Charles, The Book of Enoch the Prophet, Weiser Books (2012), p. 5).

In their lust for human women, the angels sinned and took these women to wife: misstep one. But it is misstep two that is most significant for us. To bind the women to themselves and to make the women — and all humans — complicit in their sins, the angels introduced them to technē: the use of charms and enchantments and the cutting of roots, illicit knowledge for manipulating and controlling others through both natural and spiritual means. And, going further, Enoch identifies the culprit angels by name and specifies the technē each provided.

VIII. I. And Azazel taught men to make swords, and knives, and shields, and breastplates, and made known to them the metals <of the earth> and the art of working them, and bracelets, and ornaments, and the use of antimony, and the beautifying of the eyelids, and all kinds of costly stones, and all colouring tinctures. 2. And there arose much godlessness, and they committed fornication, and they were led astray, and became corrupt in all their ways. 3. Semjaza taught enchantments, and root-cuttings, Armaros the resolving of enchantments, Faraqijal (taught) astrology, Kokabel the constellations, Ezeqeel the knowledge of the clouds, <Araqiel the signs of the earth, Shamsiel the signs of the sun>, and Sariel the course of the moon. 4. And as men perished, they cried, and their cry went up to heaven…(ibid, p. 6).

The fallen angels gave men technē to manipulate and control them by allowing the men to manipulate and control nature and to dominate one another: metallurgy for violence, weapons, and warfare; bracelets, tinctures, and ointments for seduction; enchantments and roots for potions and sorcery; astrology for hidden knowledge of the future. And the end of this technē was what? The men perished. The spirit behind this technē was demonic and the outcome was sin and death.

And now to the second example of technē. Moses has entered the heavenly tabernacle on Mount Sinai and has been commanded by God to make its earthly counterpart in which God will dwell among his people. And then:

Exodus 31:1–6 (ESV): 1 The Lord said to Moses, 2 “See, I have called by name Bezalel the son of Uri, son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, 3 and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship, 4 to devise artistic designs, to work in gold, silver, and bronze, 5 in cutting stones for setting, and in carving wood, to work in every craft. 6 And behold, I have appointed with him Oholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. And I have given to all able men ability, that they may make all that I have commanded you.”

God gives Bezalel and Oholiab ability and intelligence, knowledge and all craftsmanship — technē — by filling them with the Spirit of God, not to manipulate and control nature and man but to submit to God and to create beauty for the purpose of worship. And the end of this technē was what?

Exodus 40:34 (ESV): 34 Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.

The spirit behind this technē was the Spirit of God and the outcome was God dwelling with his people, and the people’s worship, holiness, and life.

Isn’t it ironic that so many of the same skills — so much of the same technē — that the fallen angels gave to the daughters and sons of man for their destruction were also given by the Spirit of God and used by Bezalel and Oholiab in the construction of the tabernacle? That means that what is of great importance is not only the nature of the technē, but the source of the technē. From what spirit does technē come? That’s the key question. And that leads to the final section of this talk: the discernment of spirits.

In his first letter St. John writes:

1 John 4:1–3 (ESV): 1 Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world. 2 By this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God, 3 and every spirit that does not confess Jesus is not from God. This is the spirit of the antichrist, which you heard was coming and now is in the world already.

Test the spirits, St. John writes. Discern the spirits; yes, even the spirits behind technology. As we have seen, technē can be from God or from the demons. But, determining its source is difficult and often uncertain. Is the spirit behind the internet the Spirit of God or the spirit of the antichrist? The same technology that gives us pornography on demand, that enables sex and drug trafficking, that stirs up covetousness and anger, also spreads the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ across the world. The same medical training that allows life-saving transplants and cancer treatments also enables abortion, euthanasia, and the chemical or surgical mutilation of sexually confused young men and women. How then do we discern the spirits behind technology?

I suggest that we look inward rather than outward, that we discern which spirit is moving us when we are using a given technology. And here, I propose a method of discernment from St. Paul filtered through the spiritual teaching of St. Ignatius of Loyola. I offer a few simple questions to guide in technological spiritual discernment:

1. Does my use of this technology conduce toward greater faith, hope, and love, or conversely, does my use of this technology arouse in me the passions: pride, envy, anger, sloth, avarice, gluttony, lust? This question calls for brutal honesty. Can you honestly say that your use of social media helps you love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself? Or do you end up screaming — either literally or figuratively — at all those idiots who post such stupidity? Does it make you more hopeful, or does it make you anxious? Does it stoke your faith or feed your doubts?

2. Does my use of this technology tend and nurture the fruit of the Spirit? Does it make me more loving, joyful, peaceful, patient? Am I kinder, better, more faithful, gentler, and more self-controlled because of it? Or does it gratify the desires and works of the flesh: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, division, envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these (see Gal 5:16-26)?

3. Does my use of this technology lead me to a life of repentance or to a life of judgment of others?

4. Does my use of this technology distract me from holy things, from good things like worship, the corporal acts of mercy, the enjoyment of things that are good, true, and beautiful? Does it hinder the keeping of my vows: baptismal vows, marriage vows, ordination vows and godly commitments to the raising of children?

5. Does my use of this technology promote godly community or does it alienate and isolate me, remembering that isolation and secrecy are the breeding ground of sin?

6. Does my use of this technology enslave me, and, if so, to what master? Those of us who use technology must bear in mind that we are being used by the creators and purveys of that technology. We know that much of it is addictive, and addiction is slavery. It is imperative to answer well St. Pauls rhetorical question:

Romans 6:16 (ESV): 16 Do you not know that if you present yourselves to anyone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one whom you obey, either of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness?

We could go on, and I encourage you to do. But, this much is clear enough. Technē, technology, as a way of knowing, manipulating, and controlling the world and others, is a deeply spiritual matter, and not an indifferent one. A given technology may originate with and be motivated by either demonic spirits or the Spirit of God. It is then incumbent upon us as followers of Christ to discern the spirits, if not of the technology itself, then certainly to discern those spirits that are acting upon us as we use it.

I close with a reminder of our reason for being, and the reason for the being of all things. St. Ignatius made this sense of purpose foundational to his spirituality, and it is a good and holy guide as we discern the proper use of technology.

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 [yes, technology] 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.

Our one desire and choice should be what is more conducive to the end for which we are created (Louis J. Puhl, p. 12).

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

Yesterday I attended the funeral mass of my neighbor, a good man and a worthy deacon in the Roman Catholic Church. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, by the mercy of God, rest in peace and rise in glory.

On the eve of the mass, family and friends gathered at a funeral home to pay their respects, to reminisce, and to pray the rosary. As an Anglican, the rosary is not part of my personal piety as it is for some, though I do include the Hail Mary in my daily prayers. The sustained emphasis on the Blessed Virgin Mary in the rosary is foreign to me, and, frankly, in the conversations following the rosary I heard many more invocations of the Holy Mother than I did of the Lord Jesus; I find that balance a bit skewed. Issues of theology aside though, something profoundly significant is occurring in the rosary; in the veneration of one particular woman — a woman venerated by the angel Gabriel and blessed by the Lord himself — the Church is consecrating womanhood. That is an act of witness to and defiance of a culture that consistently desecrates womanhood: through pornography, through transgenderism, through abortion, through the entertainment industry, through the hyper-sexualization and — Lord, have mercy — the sexual exploitation of young girls, through the insistence that women must sacrifice family for career, and through a thousand other ways. To that, the Roman Catholic Church responds with the rosary, and that is a holy act of rebellion.

I have always thought that Anglicans “do” funerals up right, and I still do. But, there are a few things, perhaps, that we can learn from our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters. Just before the body is borne into the church from the entrance to the nave, the priest or bishop asperges the coffin with holy water, a remembrance and final re-affirmation of baptism: you were born into the Church in the waters of baptism and you die in the bosom of the Church through the waters of baptism. I hope the Church will do that for me when my time comes. Then, as a final act immediately before the dismissal, the coffin is censed to send off a brother or sister accompanied by the prayers of the saints, to send off a brother or sister as a fragrant offering of the Church to God. I hope the Church will do that for me when my time comes.

There were several Latin chants in the mass. As an interested outside observer, it seems to me that the Roman Catholic Church lost much when the Latin mass fell into disfavor; the preservation of these chants is a holy remnant. Two of them were particularly meaningful: the Panis Angelicus sung at Communion and the In Paradisum before the recessional.

PANIS ANGELICUS (St. Thomas Aquinas, English translation)

May the Bread of Angels become bread for mankind;
The Bread of Heaven puts all foreshadowings to an end;
Oh, thing miraculous! The body of the Lord will nourish
the poor, the servile, and the humble.
You God, Three In One, we beseech;
That You visit us, as we worship You.
By Your ways, lead us where we are heading,
to the light that You inhabit.

The notion that “the Bread of Heaven puts all foreshadowings to an end,” is sacramental theology at its best. The Eucharist is not a sign pointing toward something else; it is the Something Else.

IN PARADISUM

May the angels lead you into paradise;
may the martyrs receive you at your arrival
and lead you to the holy city Jerusalem.
May choirs of angels receive you
and with Lazarus, once a poor man,
may you have eternal rest.

There is a meme that I actually like: “The Apostle Paul entered heaven to the cheers of those he martyred. That’s how the Gospel works!” Yes, angels and archangels and all the company of heaven leading our brothers and sisters — and one day, please God each of us — into paradise.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

What has Jesus been doing all this time?
(Amos 2, Ps 119:153-176, John 17)

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

In Book 11, Chapter 12 of The Confessions, St. Augustine reflects on this question: What was God doing before he made heaven and earth? He remarks, to start with, that he will not follow the path of another certain person who had answered the question somewhat facetiously along these lines: God was making hell for those who pry into mysteries.

Well, I certainly hope that was not what God was doing, because I am going to pose a similar sounding question: What has Jesus been doing since the Ascension, for these last two millennia?

The Creeds don’t help us much here. Both the Nicene and the Apostles Creed simply say in pretty similar words that following the Ascension, Jesus sat down at the right hand of the Father, and that he will at some unspecified moment in the future return to judge the living and the dead. As for the interim between ascension and judgment — as for what Jesus is doing now — the Creeds provide no details. Sitting at the Father’s right hand implies taking up a position of authority and rule, not merely resting, but no more is said about the nature of Christ’s rule.

When we turn to Scripture, we get a little more information. We could start with John 14:

John 14:1–3 (ESV): 14 “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. 2 In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.

Jesus is, in this interim, preparing a place for us. There is a lot of sentimental imagery and several campfire meeting hymns inspired by that statement, visions and verses of mansions on a hill and the like almost as if we think of Jesus plying his carpentry skills in heaven; but I think that is too small a thing. Jesus is preparing neither a tiny house or a mansion for us, but rather the Kingdom of God, the renewal of heaven and earth and their ultimate intersection when the New Jerusalem descends from heaven to earth and God and resurrected man finally dwell together. That is the place that Jesus is preparing for us. We are coworkers with him in that; the good and faithful work we do here in his name will become the raw materials he uses to build the Kingdom. St. Paul assures us that no good work we do here and now will be wasted there and then:

1 Corinthians 15:58 (ESV): 58 Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.

We might think of Jesus’ current reign, his current building of the Kingdom, as a meta-task, his overarching occupation; underneath that “umbrella” there are other occupations that contribute to it. Hebrews tells us that Jesus is even now serving as our great High Priest — on our behalf — in the heavenly Holy of Holies. His high priesthood does not consist of the repeated offering of daily sacrifices:

Hebrews 7:27–28 (ESV): 27 He has no need, like those high priests, to offer sacrifices daily, first for his own sins and then for those of the people, since he did this once for all when he offered up himself. 28 For the law appoints men in their weakness as high priests, but the word of the oath, which came later than the law, appoints a Son who has been made perfect forever.

So, if not to offer sacrifice, what does our High Priest do for us? He provides the way for us to enter the Holy of Holies into God’s presence through him, through the torn curtain that was his body. And, he lives to make intercession for us:

Hebrews 7:23–25 (ESV): 23 The former priests were many in number, because they were prevented by death from continuing in office, 24 but he holds his priesthood permanently, because he continues forever. 25 Consequently, he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them.

What has Jesus been doing these last two thousand years? He has been making intercession for all of us who draw near to God through him; he has been praying for us and for the Church. It is interesting to note — and this would take more time to explore than we have today — it’s interesting to note that this text doesn’t say that Jesus intercedes on behalf of the world, on behalf of those who don’t know him or who reject him, who don’t seek God. At least in this text, the focus of Jesus’ intercession is on his people, on those who bear his name.

Wouldn’t it be fascinating to know the content of Jesus’ prayers for us? What is on his heart for his people? To some great extent, we can know this, because we get to eavesdrop on one such prayer throughout the whole of John 17. This prayer, which is the culmination of the Upper Room discourse in St. John’s Gospel, is called the High Priestly Prayer of Jesus precisely because Jesus is interceding for us as Hebrews describes it. And we get to listen in.

The immediate context of the prayer is Jesus’ last supper in the Upper Room. Jesus has washed his disciples’ feet. He has predicted his betrayal by one of his own and has foretold Peter’s threefold denial. He has given his disciples the new commandment to love one another as he has loved them. He has identified himself as the way, the truth, and the life and as the true vine. He has promised the coming of the Holy Spirit. And now, knowing what will transpire in the next few hours, over the next three days, Jesus prays, not for himself, but for them and for us.

We can’t consider the entire prayer in detail here and now. We’ll instead peruse the text and select some of its main themes, especially those that focus on Jesus’ high priestly intercession.

John 17:6–11 (ESV): 6 “I have manifested your name to the people whom you gave me out of the world. Yours they were, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. 7 Now they know that everything that you have given me is from you. 8 For I have given them the words that you gave me, and they have received them and have come to know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. 9 I am praying for them. I am not praying for the world but for those whom you have given me, for they are yours. 10 All mine are yours, and yours are mine, and I am glorified in them. 11 And I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, keep them in your name, which you have given me, that they may be one, even as we are one.

There are several points here that form the core of Jesus’ intercession and that are repeated throughout his prayer. First, there is a distinction to be made, one that I mentioned earlier. There is the world on one hand and there those who have received the word of God as the truth and have believed in Jesus on the other hand. It is only for the latter group — and, as we will learn, for those who will follow after them in the truth — that Jesus prays. This doesn’t mean that Jesus has no love for the world; his crucifixion in the next few hours is testimony to his universal love. But, there are strangers and there are sons and daughters; there are next door neighbors and there are family members. There is a different level intimacy and care for those to whom we belong and who belong in turn to us versus those who have not yet made our acquaintance or who have chosen not to accept our offer of hospitality. And so Jesus prays here for his own, but not for the world. What is his desire for them? That they may persevere in faithfulness and that they may be one with one another as the Son is one with the Father.

These two intercessions make sense, don’t they, given what the disciples will experience in the coming hours and days and years. As Peter will soon learn, the pressure to deny Jesus will be intense, and it will only increase throughout their lives. Church Tradition tells us that ten of the eleven Apostles for whom Jesus prayed here remained faithful under persecution and martyrdom: faithful unto death. The remaining one, John, suffered hardship and exile and remained faithful throughout his life. Persecution and apostasy was one danger. But another challenge was just as great: schism. Jesus had already seen the danger in the argument over who would be greatest among them, an argument that could have split the disciples into warring factions. So, who will lead when Jesus is gone? Will the others vie for leadership and leave when not selected for it? Will they be one in the faith, each teaching the pure truth as Jesus had given it to them or will heresies arise? What will happen when the group moves from Jerusalem to Judea and Samaria and the uttermost parts of the world, when Jews and Gentiles come clashing together in the fledgling Church? A prayer that they may be one is a tall order as the history of the Church shows. The Great Schism between the Eastern and Western churches in 1054 A.D., the Protestant Reformation in the 16th century, the proliferation of Protestant denominations from then to now, the creation of our own ACNA: no matter how we justify these as necessary separations to restore or preserve the faith, we cannot in good conscience see them as answers to Jesus’ prayer for unity. In fact, we have a prayer in the BCP 2019 that acknowledges our failure in this area.

The Lord be with you.

And with your spirit.

Let us pray.

O God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, the Prince of Peace: Give us grace to take to heart the grave dangers we are in through our many divisions. Deliver your Church from all enmity and prejudice, and everything that hinders us from godly union. As there is one Body and one Spirit, one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so make us all to be of one heart and of one mind, united in one holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and love, that with one voice we may give you praise; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God in everlasting glory. Amen.

We keep praying and working that Jesus’ own intercession for us — for the unity of his disciples — might yet be answered. To see how important this prayer for unity was to Jesus, just scan the remaining text of the prayer to see it repeatedly emphasized:

John 17:20–23 (ESV): 20 “I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, 21 that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. 22 The glory that you have given me I have given to them, that they may be one even as we are one, 23 I in them and you in me, that they may become perfectly one, so that the world may know that you sent me and loved them even as you loved me.

How important is our unity? It is the witness to the world that the Father sent the Son. Our love for one another is witness to the love between the Father and the Son. Our disunity strikes against the credibility of our witness. I can only imagine that Jesus is still interceding for our unity, still praying for it as our great high priest.

I will mention just one more aspect of this prayer. We are still in a fallen world. Though our enemy has been defeated he has not yet been banished. He still stalks and strikes; he still harasses and wounds. And he is wiser far and stronger than we; we cannot withstand him alone. So, Jesus prays for us:

John 17:15 (ESV): 15 I do not ask that you take them out of the world, but that you keep them from the evil one.

When evil seems so near, so virulent, so strong, take heart: Jesus is praying for you — that you will not fall, that you will not be overcome, that you will not be a casualty of the great spiritual battle in which we are all engaged.

What has Jesus been doing for the last two millennia? Not preparing hell for those who ask such impertinent questions, but rather praying for his beloved brothers and sisters — for you and me and for all the faithful who came before and may come after: that we may persevere in faithfulness, that we may be one as the Father and the Son are one, that we may be victorious over the evil one. Amen.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

Transcription and Sacrament
(Prov 9:1-6, Ps 147, Eph 5:3-14, John 6:53-59)

Jesus said:

56 Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him…58 whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.

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

Listen to a great, expansive orchestral or choral work. Recall one even now, a personal favorite; hear it again in your memory: the lush strings, the emphatic percussion, the soaring brass, the haunting woodwinds. Now let the human voices add their color: the melodic sopranos cascading downward through the alto and tenor ranges until reaching the thundering basses which seem to ground the work on the pillars of the earth. Envision the great concert hall around you, designed perfectly for both visual and acoustic beauty. Or perhaps you are listening in a cathedral whose vaulted ceiling beckons you heavenward as modern day sons and daughters of Asaph offer their psalms of praise.

It is possible to take such a vast composition and transcribe it for humbler instrumentation and fewer voices. The Theme from Jupiter, the music for that glorious hymn O God Beyond All Praising, by Gustav Holst, meant for full orchestra, can be, and has been, transcribed for a single instrument; it can be played beautifully on the organ, a very expressive instrument in its own right. An organ, even a cathedral pipe organ, is not not an orchestra, of course, but its various ranks and stops are reminiscent of flutes and trumpets, of strings and voices. But, we can go even further. It is possible to transcribe Jupiter for solo classical guitar. Each step in this transcription process — from orchestra to organ to guitar — is an attenuation, not exactly a diminishment of original glory, but an accommodation of it to more limited instruments and faculties. Those who play the transcriptions — the church organist or the amateur guitarist in his den — do not mind, perhaps do not even notice the attenuation because they are caught up in the wonder of participation in that great music. And here is a profound mystery: the condescension of the music in transcription leads to the exaltation, to the lifting up, of the musician. And the musician knows it; he is playing a greatly simplified arrangement, yes, but he is playing that music. He is playing the great music that stirs his heart, and with the ears of his heart he hears the orchestra as he plays; he is caught up into the reality and wonder of it all. He has entered an enchanted concert hall which is larger on the inside than on the outside.

Something very like this process of transcription is going on whenever God makes himself known to man. There is, there must be, an attenuation, an accommodation, of the divine to the human, if the human is to survive the encounter. God wishes to reveal his glory to Moses in Midian, but Moses cannot bear it. So, God “transcribes” his glory — light unapproachable — into flame which does not consume and firelight which does not blind. At the burning bush Moses participates in the glory of God insofar as he can bear it. At the intersection of the divine and human, things are not always what they seem; things are not merely what they seem; things are very often more than what they seem. Meaning floods mere observation as the waters cover the sea. But — here is the wonder of it all — in taking off his shoes and bowing down before the bush, before God’s glory transcribed in the bush, Moses participates in the divine. He is taken up into it; he is elevated by the divine condescension. Let your mind roam through the pages of Scripture; you will find such divine “transcription” hiding everywhere there in plain sight in narrative and covenant and law and prophets and, of course, supremely in the Gospels.

St. John’s Gospel, especially, abounds with such divine transcription. So, it is rich and complex, difficult and rewarding, on another spiritual and intellectual level entirely than the synoptic Gospels: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Very little in St. John’s Gospel lies on the surface; you have to plumb the depths, plunge in headlong to find its meaning. Things are not always what the seem; things are not merely what they seem; things are very often more than what they seem.

1In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. 4 In him was life, and the life was the light of men. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:1-5, ESV throughout).

Here is the truth. This Word — this λογος — is the very expression of God, is God himself: creator of all things, life of all things, light for all men. And then comes the great divine “transcription.”

14 And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:14).

Yes, we have seen his glory, but attenuated, “hidden” in the form of man, the second person of the Trinity transcribed and “played” on a human instrument: fully God and fully man as the Creeds proclaim, but accommodated to human sensibilities. Look at Jesus and what do you see? A Galilean of the peasant class, an erstwhile carpenter, an itinerant rabbi, a worker of miracles or else a charlatan depending on your point of view, a savior or a threat. But things are not what they seem, St. John insists; things are very much more than what they seem.

Follow St. John’s account and go to Cana, to a wedding there. When the wine runs out, Jesus has the servants fill water jars with water and then draw some water out. One would expect to find water in the ladle, but things are not always what they seem. It is not water, but more than water; it is now wine. And the surprised master of the feast expects it to be inferior wine, but things are not always what they seem; it is the good wine, the best of wines.

Jesus meets a Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well in Sychar. What does she see? Only a weary Jewish man, albeit a very strange and forward one who breaches social convention to ask her for a drink, who dares to engage her in conversation. It seems as if the dialogue centers around water, but things are not always what they seem. She is speaking of water, surely; he is speaking of the Holy Spirit and of eternal life. The conversation would be almost farcical if it were not so important. This woman — an outcast to her own village and a dog to Jews — has a moment of insight when she perceives a higher level of meaning in Jesus than her eyes see: “Sir, I perceive that you are a prophet,” she says. Better, but not yet there. No, the tired, thirsty Jew sitting by the well asking her for water and offering her living water is the Messiah. Things are not always what they seem; things are not merely what they seem; things are very often more than what they seem. That is even true about the Samaritan woman herself. She seems to be a discarded woman with a checkered past, but the Church has named her Photini and canonized her as Saint Photini, whose name means “the luminous one.” Things are not always what they seem.

We come now to the sixth chapter of St. John’s Gospel: the feeding of the five thousand, the interlude of Jesus walking on the water, the Bread of Life discourse — all of it wonderful and disturbing and confusing for those who saw these things and heard these words. Last week’s lectionary reading ended with Jesus saying:

51 I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh (John 6:51).

The first part of that statement is perhaps confusing, but not so disturbing; it can be taken as metaphor: “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever.” Bread, sustenance, life: all that is clear enough metaphorically speaking. Those who follow Jesus find his words, his presence, his way to be their sustenance and life, just like with bread. That is really no different than hearing someone like Yo Yo Ma say, “Music is my life,” or a poet saying, “Poetry is as needful to me as breathing.” We get it.

But, Jesus goes further: “And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” Listen to this part of the discourse again as if for the first time and allow yourself to be scandalized:

53 So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. 54 Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. 55 For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. 56 Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. 57 As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever feeds on me, he also will live because of me. 58 This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like the bread the fathers ate, and died. Whoever feeds on this bread will live forever (John 6:53-58).

The language used here is very concrete, very physical language, not poetic or metaphorical at all; the eating and feeding is more akin to animals hunkered around a carcass growling than to genteel ladies gathered for cucumber sandwiches at afternoon tea. As you will see in next week’s Gospel selection, it was highly offensive language to the Jews, the grossest, the vilest infraction of the dietary law imaginable, reminiscent of the depravity of starvation and cannibalism during the siege of Jerusalem. “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you,” means just what it says; no softening of our Lord’s words will do.

But, what are we to make of them? As the Jews asked in that moment so we ask now, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”

Well, the answer lies not in metaphorical language but in sacramental reality. And that brings us back around again to the notion of transcription. When God acted in these last days to make himself known to man, the Word became flesh and dwelt among us: a transcription, an attenuation, an accommodation to our human sensibilities so that we might see and hear and touch God without being incinerated by his glory, so that man might participate with the divine. And as glorious as that was, it was not yet enough for God. Remember St. John’s prologue: in the Word was life, and the Word became flesh. Life, eternal life, our life resides in the flesh of the Word incarnate, Jesus. In God’s economy, it is not enough that man gaze upon the divine life in the person of Jesus; God intends for man to have that divine life within himself, to participate fully in the life of the Trinity. But how? As Fr. Thomas noted so well last week, we are what we eat. We take life into ourselves by eating and drinking. So God transcribes himself yet again: the Word becomes flesh and blood; the flesh becomes bread, and the blood become wine. This is the first movement of the Eucharist, God accommodating himself to our humanity that we might participate in his life, God made manifest and truly present as and in bread and wine.

19 And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” 20 And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:19-20).

I may be running roughshod over a thousand nuances and caveats and quibbles of Eucharistic theology here, but I’m not overly concerned about that just now; there is time to deal with all that later if need be. For now, just let the wonder of it wash over you! The God who called all things into being, the God in whom all things consist, that God in the Person of the Word became flesh to dwell among us; to make himself known to us; to manifest the divine, eternal life to us; to die for us in order to free us from death, sin, and the powers of darkness; to rise again that we might live with him. That God became flesh and that flesh became bread and we eat that bread and drink that wine so that we might have his divine life within us, so that we might be drawn up into and participate in the life of the Trinity. In the Gospel, things are not always what they seem; things are not merely what they seem; things are very often more than what they seem.

I mentioned the first movement of the Eucharist in which Jesus’ body and blood are transcribed to us as bread and wine. But, there is another essential movement when we enter that enchanted room — the Upper Room — the room that is far larger on the inside than on the outside, when the meaning of the bread and wine is made manifest as the priest says and the Spirit moves:

We celebrate the memorial of our redemption, O Father, in this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, and we offer you these gifts. Sanctify them by your Word and Holy Spirit to be for your people the Body and Blood of your Son Jesus Christ. Sanctify us also, that we may worthily receive this holy Sacrament, and be made one body with him, that he may dwell in us and we in him (BCP 2019, pp. 133-134).

The Word became flesh. The flesh became bread and wine. The bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. We take and bless bread and wine. We feast on Christ himself, on his flesh and blood, just as he said to the Jews, so that we might have life in ourselves. It is the same sacramental mystery of transcription that St. John Chrysostom extols so eloquently in his Paschal Homily. Speaking of Jesus’ arrival into hell following the crucifixion, St. John Chrysostom says:

It took a body, and met God face to face. It took earth, and encountered Heaven. It took that which was seen, and fell upon the unseen.

We take bread and wine and meet God face to face. We take the stuff of earth and encounter heaven. We take that which is seen, and that which is unseen falls upon us bringing life.

Some of the great Eucharistic debates of the Protestant Reformation and the Roman Catholic Counter-Reformation seem to me to be a grand and costly exercise in missing the point. The real point of it all was expressed perfectly not by a theologian but by the American novelist Flannery O’Conner. As the story goes, O’Conner, while still a young, aspiring author was invited to a dinner party hosted by an accomplished writer and attended by other well-known authors. The host saw that O’Conner was intimidated by the group and tried to draw her out of herself and into the conversation. Knowing that O’Conner was a Catholic, the host made a comment about the beautiful literary symbolism of the Eucharist, to which O’Conner replied, “If it’s just a symbol, to hell with it.” That, brothers and sisters, is perhaps the best Eucharistic theology in so few words that I have ever seen. I might not cross the street in the rain for a symbolic meal of bread and wine, but I will stake my life on the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ.

God attenuates himself, accommodates himself to our humanity in the Sacraments so that we might truly participate in the divine life of the Trinity. This is not symbol or metaphor; it is sacramental reality, the most “real thing” you will do this day or any day. And that makes the Words of Institution in the liturgy the holiest words you will ever hear. Bishop Robert Barron argues that the second most important set of words in the Eucharist is the dismissal, which we have in various forms:

Let us go forth in the Name of Christ.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

You have seen the Word become flesh. You have seen the flesh and blood become bread and wine. You have feasted upon the bread and wine become flesh and blood. You have been filled with the divine life of the Trinity. Now, get out of here! Go forth in the Name of Christ. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord. Go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit to do the work that God has give you to do. Participating in the divine life of the Trinity means loving what God loves and doing what God is doing, and all of that out there in the world. And in doing this, you become a transcription of God: the Holy Spirit playing divine music on a human instrument.

Jesus said:

56 Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him…58 whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.

Amen.

Notes:

To explore the notion of transcription or attenuation further, see the essay Transposition in the collection of essays by C. S. Lewis entitled The Weight of Glory.