The Sweat of Blood

Immediately following the story of Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan, we hear the story of his temptation in the wilderness. This period of trial, analogous to the forty year wandering of the Children of Israel in the Sinai Peninsula, is a preparation for the public inauguration of Jesus’ ministry. The temptation story concludes: “The devil left him, and suddenly the angels ministered to him.”

The ministration of angels does not, however, signal an end to his trial. After John’s arrest Jesus starts his public ministry of preaching, teaching and healing, stories in which demonic powers are commonly mentioned. In what is generally regarded as a summary statement of Jesus’ ministry, we hear this summary of a single day’s work: “And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons, and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.”

The gospels themselves do not sort out, at least to our satisfaction, the relationship between demonic possession, sin, and illness. The story of the man born blind in John’s gospel certainly raises a caution about any straight and logical connection between sin and disease. And Jesus’ own commitment to those, who in virtue of their illness, were regarded as ritually unclean, gives a telling example of how we ought to regard the sick, as persons deserving our care and not our blame.

Still, though in admittedly strange language, the stories about Jesus are stories about conflict, about his rebuking the powers that bind and imprison people, the powers that leave people excluded, ignored, or the object of public ridicule. It isn’t entirely alien to modern thought, to acknowledge we find ourselves, both from within and without, caught up in patterns of thought and behavior, both personal and social, by which we feel caught. Simply, we ask, “Why did I DO that?” “What was I thinking when I SAID that?” And there is always the larger question about the social and environmental ills of which we are, in part, guilty, but not by open and conscious intention. We have not decided to increase global temperatures, and what role did we have in deciding whether the United States would invade Iraq. Our destruction isn’t a simple matter of choice; it is something into which we are drawn and caught. At this level, I think it makes good sense to consider the rigor of Jesus’ conflict. He did not save us by being nice. He saved us by breaking the chains that bind us.

In a sense, Jesus, because he is incarnate, because he takes our human flesh from the womb of his mother, is in the conflict which we know to be our own lives. He is one of us. He feels what it is to be pulled and torn, his empathies go out to all our sufferings and doubts as if each is his own. He who knew no sin could nonetheless feel the full weight of it. The mystery here needs to be seen from two directions. On the one hand he is what we are, and receives his humanity from his human mother. Yet he is the Son of the Father, and therefore, in being united to us, gives us something we cannot have on our own. He confers his own life. This divine life enters each and every conflict.

In his desert temptations, he acknowledges that he is to live “from every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Toward the end of the story, he says, “Worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve.” His total self-dedication to the Father, which is his eternal vocation, is felt with all human anguish. His conflicts were real. One of his most significant struggles, the one to which I want to focus special attention, though with very few words, is his struggle in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Following the Last Supper in which he again predicted his betrayal and death, Jesus went out to pray, “as was his custom,” St. Luke says. In this time of prayer, seeing a real truth of his impending passion, his humanity not only runs in his veins, but falls from his body upon the ground. St. Luke says, “and he prayed the more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling on the ground. (Lk. 22:43) Here we see it for the first time—his body and blood—which is at the same time our body and blood. He has entered into all of human history. He is in agony.

Of course the great temptation is to leave. “Father let this cup pass from me.” But then he lives only from the words that come from the mouth of the Father, “not my will, but your will be done.” Jesus’ life was a sustained conflict felt with full human emotion. But to every single suffering, to every hurt, to every disease, to every torment of mind or soul, he brings the balm of a divine grace, and he acts as the great Physician.

The Lord's Prayer: Another Reflection

A quite different context, that of the nineteenth century and the ministry of Fredrick Denison Maurice, offers a complementary view to that of St. Cyprian. While Cyprian’s emphasis is focused on our status as sons and daughters of God who are privileged to say “Our Father,” thus drawing special attention to the intimate and mystical dimension of the prayer, Maurice gives special consideration to the moral implications of the opening address. One ought to recall that sharp class division is the social context in which he writes. So the prayer seems to suggest a reassessment of how we regard our neighbor, whoever he or she may be. To say “Our Father” is to suggest that there is one Father of one human family. Maurice writes:

How can we look round upon the people whom we habitually feel to be separated from us by almost impassible barriers; who are above us so that we cannot reach them, or so far beneath us that the slightest recognition of them is an act of gracious condescension; upon the people of an opposite faction to our own, whom we denounce as utterly evil; upon men whom we have reason to despise; upon the actual wrong-doers of society, those who have made themselves vile, and are helping to make it vile—and then teach ourselves to think that, in the very highest exercise of lives, these are associated with us. That when we pray, we are praying with them and for them. . . . Think how many causes are at work every hour of our lives to make this opening word of the prayer a nullity and a falsehood. –Sermons on the Prayer Book and the Lord’s Prayer, London 1902, 283-293

The divisions at present in American society and reflected, in some measure, in the Church are now so deep and so vehemently felt, civil discourse is becoming painfully difficult, many people simply opting for a political correctness and coded politeness as a way of avoiding each other. It may be of some help to recall that those who dare to say “Our Father” thereby commit themselves to the conviction that we are inexorably bound together by the providence and love of one God. Radical as it may seem, we need our adversary, our opponent, our enemy. We are praying with them and for them. Some solid meditation on this point may start to carve out room for a God who is infinitely beyond our grasp and whose love cannot, by our standards, be constrained. Is this easy? No. The easy response, always posing as the reasonable response, is to fight, argue, win, and, if necessary (and how often are we told this is necessary), kill. But God’s ways are not ours, for which we might give thanks. There is, I should add, some real civic benefit to this universal vision of the human family. St. Augustine once remarked that we do not love our enemies to the end that they should remain our enemies, in which case nothing has really changed. Rather, he asserted, we love them to the end that they should become our friends. Therefore, a real transformation is under way in saying “Our Father.” .

Cyprian’s Emphasis in his Tract on the Lord’s Prayer

Cyprian’s Emphasis in his Tract on the Lord’s Prayer

In teaching a course on the Lord’s Prayer drawn principally from a tract by St. Cyprian, I have been especially stuck by the significance of the opening words of the prayer. No less, however, I found very helpful Cypian’s counsel that those who are praying give adequate attention to preparation. The prayer is to be “modest” and “decent.” “Let us think that we stand in the presence of God.” The “composure of the body” and the “manner of voice” ought to be pleasing to the divine eyes. “The imprudent person roars with cries.” On the other hand, “It befits modesty to pray with modest prayers.” Finally, “The Lord has commanded us to prayer in secret . . . that we may know that God is present everywhere."

This preparation is not unlike what one might do prior to vigorous physical exercise or attending a play or concert. Some initial planning and transitioning can add immensely to the experience and even enjoyment of a task that requires one’s full attention. Some attention to the body, to the voice, to the quieting of distractions, to an awareness of God’s presence everywhere may help the significance of the words to open themselves more deeply at both a conscious and unconscious level.

After giving Jesus a series of titles, he turns to the body of the prayer. It is worth pausing, however, to think of Jesus as “The Doctor of peace,” “The Teacher of Unity,” “The Teacher of Concord.” These titles and our background knowledge that Cyprian wrote an important treatise entitled “The Unity of The Catholic Church” gives ample evidence of the emphasis he gives to the prayer.

Finally, he quotes the opening line of the prayer, “Our Father who art in heaven.” Immediately he tells us that “A new Human Being” dares to say these words. “A new Human Being, reborn by his own God, restored through his grace, says Pater in the first place because he (she) has begun to be a son (daughter). “From this he ought to begin to give thanks and confess that he (she) is a son (daughter) of God, while he calls God his Father in heaven.” Earlier he remarked that “The God of peace and teacher of concord wants each one to pray for all, just as Jesus carried all in one (himself).”

The emphasis upon our status as sons and daughters of God, that is, our position as persons reconstituted by the forgiveness and grace of Christ, suggest that we pray in union with Christ and share in the intimacy of his prayer to the Father. Again, Cyprian: “We call the Lord Father, so in fact we name ourselves sons (daughters) of God.”

There is, of course, some quite striking spiritual implications to this teaching. While Cyprian commends our being deeply award of “standing in the presence of God,” and so is not commending an excessively casual or complacent approach to prayer, he is presenting for special attention something he believes is completely new, fitted for a “New Human Being.” This person is restored and reconstituted in Christ, drawn up into the life of Christ, and so prays with the freedom of Christ’s own prayer to the Father.

So a New Human Being has a New Prayer. Our Father who art in Heaven.

A Prayer on Mothers’ Day

A Prayer on Mothers’ Day

[A parishioner, whose father, during the period of the Second World War, was the Rector of the parish which I currently serve, has delivered to me a file containing many of his papers, sermons, meditations, and prayers. Fr. Spicer was a powerful and influential leader in establishing the Eucharist as the primary service throughout the Episcopal Church. Toward the end of his active ministry, he received an honorary doctorate from Seabury-Western Theological Seminary for his efforts to renew the liturgical life of the church, and particularly for his leadership as a tireless teacher. The following is a prayer he wrote for Mothers’ Day. I used it to honor the women of my parish, and also as a reminder of our distinguished past. May God continue to bless the women of the church. And thanks be to God for Fr. Spicer’s life of devoted service in Christ’s name.]

“O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life: send thy blessing on all the mothers of the world in whatever need they may have, physical, spiritual, or mental; grant them light and strength so to teach and love and care for their children that they may grow in truth and love; when the time comes for them to go their own way, give the mothers serenity of heart and confidence in thee, that what they have done in doubts and uncertainties, may be fulfilled in the comfort of Thy Name, that human frailties and inadequacies may be swallowed up in they love and forgiveness; and, we beseech thee, O Father, to grant to all women who have not been granted the privilege of motherhood so to be joined together in thy human family of the Body of Christ that they may reflect in their lives the spirit of motherhood to all thy children, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Monica in the Church of St. Augustine

Walking north the full length of Piazza Navona, I discovered the small street Via di San Augustino. Turning right only thirty or forty yards, I found, as I had been told the day before by a fellow classmate, the Church of Saint Augustine. In spite of his fame as a pillar in the Western Church, the edifice dedicated to his memory is not even mentioned in my “Eyewitness Travel Guide.” The map shows the location marked with a cross, but omits even the name. It is one of hundreds of churches in the eternal city, and not one, presumably, of great significance. But who decides? I entered the church and immediately began looking, not only at the general layout and artwork of the building, but specifically for the place where the body of St. Monica rested. Having looked at each of the side altars and not finding her, and being somewhat disheartened by the scaffolding covering much of the western wall, I wondered if I would see her tomb. Was I (a tourist/student doubts easily) in the right place?

I decided to seek assistance from the caretaker. Italian would help, of course, and though I had done some reviewing before the trip, my Latin studies promptly drove it from my mind, leaving only a few intelligible words at my disposal when needed. Truthfully, Italy, unless one is living with an Italian family and sworn solely to the use of the native tongue, or otherwise forced to do something more difficult than shopping and buying food, doesn’t help much with Italian fluency. Provided you have the money, you can eat and purchase most anything you want with little or no Italian. But in this situation, I had to ask where the body of Monica was laid. “Dove’ Santa Monica?” A flourish of Italian and pointing made it quite clear that her tomb was closed because of the construction. These things happen. When visiting Rome in 1999, I made peace with the fact that I would not see the façade of St. Peter’s. At the end of my eight week stay, workers began to take the scaffolding down that obscured it to reveal an incredibly clean image of Christ and the apostles. I saw a fraction of the total façade, a loss which was duly corrected upon my return in 2002. You can’t see everything, not in one trip, not in many.

But I wanted to see her grave. So I explained myself. English was pointless, and Italian too rough. So I spoke in Latin, though using a couple Italian words “HERI Ostiae fui DOVE Monica mutua est.” (Yesterday I was in Ostia where monica died.) Incomprehension is easy to spot, in any language. As I turned away, however, the man touched me on my shoulder. His hands at his side, he discretely waved for me to follow him toward the high altar, then to the left. We were stopped by boards and yellow caution tape. He waved for me to step over, then, pointing north to an apse left of the high altar, he said something that remains one of the more significant words I carry from this trip, I carry it with me even now. He said, “Monica,” and then walked away.

I walked over debris and parts of disassembled scaffolding until I reach the apse containing the altar under which a portion of her remains have rest since their transfer from Ostia to the Eternal City in 1430. There I remembered Augustine, beseeching his future readers, “to remember at your altar my mother, Monica, your servant, with Patrick my father. . . Remember with deep affection my parents in this transitory light.” The few minutes alone at this site, amidst deep silence, provided one of my most vivid memories, and clear justification for a path I began in earnest eight years earlier. Latin is long and hard. But it miraculously rolls away the stone of a history presumed dead by a modern church impetuously concerned with relevance. The patience required to let Augustine speak on his own terms, even if in an idiom our ears can barely hear, brings him and his story fully to life. It was a good and strong experience, to stand among the dead, who, in Christ, are yet living, real persons, who give life to the Church. Augustine and his mother. I stood amidst relics and debris. It is really one church spanning all these centuries.

Lenten Sermon by Leo the Great

From a Lenten sermon by Leo the Great


N.B. Reading ancient theologians often requires bending one’s mind to patterns of thought and modes of expression which seem quite strange. Behold, for your meditation, this Lenten sermon by Leo the Great. I’ve tried to set forth a clear but quite literal translation.

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On the Goodness of Love

In the gospel of John the Lord says, “In this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another:” and in an epistle by the same apostle we hear: “Beloved, love one another, because love is of God, and all who love, are born from God, and know God: and those who do not love, do not know God, for God is love.”

So – Let the minds of the faithful scrutinize themselves, and let them judge with a true examination the affections of their hearts. And if they find in their consciences some treasure from the fruits of love, they should not doubt that God is present within them, and that as they make themselves more and more open to such a divine guest, they will become more abundant in works of preserving mercy.

If in fact God is love, charity ought to have no end, because divinity is hemmed in by no limitation.

Although all times are fitting for exercising love, in these Lenten days we are especially encouraged: Those who desire to receive the Paschal mystery with holiness of soul and body, they should try especially to acquire this gift of love in which is contained the highest of all virtues and by which a multitude of sins is covered.

So, as we are about to celebrate that sacrament shining above all others, in which the blood of Jesus Christ absolves all our iniquities, let us first of all prepare offerings of mercy. And just as the goodness of God has forgiven us, so we ought to forgive those who have sinned against us.

Let a more open generosity be extended toward the poor and also to those bound by any infirmity, so that thanks may be offered to God with the voice of many, and by our fasting let refreshment be offered to the hungry. No devotion of the faithful is more pleasing to God than that which is extended to his poor, and wherever God finds an act of mercy, there he recognizes an image of his piety.

Don’t worry that you will exhaust your resources, because kindness is a great substance and the resources of kindness cannot be utterly spent when Christ nourishes and is nourished. In all these works the hand is found which increased the bread by breaking it and multiplied it by giving it away.

Let the one who distributes assistance be secure and happy. Indeed he will have the greatest riches, when he saves the least for himself, as blessed Apostle Paul says, “He who administers seed to the sower, will give bread for eating, and will multiply your seed, and will increase the growth of fruits of your justice,” in Christ Jesus our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit for ever and ever. Amen.

To Be Drawn

Turning to Christ? It is never, as with all important changes, simply a question of amassing information and moving toward an apparent and obvious conclusion. A host of complex feelings and thoughts attend any important decision or change. Indeed, the precise reason why we choose one option over another may not even be clear. What moves a person in turning toward Christ?

While knowledge has an important role in Christian conversion and nurture, its role has never been preeminent. Reason helps and attends, but something else gives a decisive pull, something which, again and again, theologians have called “love”. A person is drawn to God, pulled by God’s own love to see and sense more and more what God gives, which again is God’s love. The love which draws is given, but given in such a way that it inflames a deeper love which heightens longing. Of the saints who have turned to this question—how we come to faith—St. Augustine stands as a giant and a great champion of “love.” In a sense, Augustine shows the allure and beauty of God as the cause of all salvation.

In a tract on John’s Gospel, commenting on the phrase “No one comes to me, unless the Father draws him.”, Augustine says that “the soul is drawn by love.” To the objection, still voiced today, particularly among Evangelical Christians, “How do I believe with the will [my free will or choice] if I am drawn?” Augustine answers, “It’s not enough to use the will, you are drawn by desire.” Augustine turns his focus on faith’s origin in God, not in oneself. God draws by love, prompting a loving response. He calls this inner working of emotion “a certain desire of the heart to which is this sweet celestial bread.” Continuing, he identifies attraction as a defining influences. “A person is drawn to Christ who is delighted by the truth, is delighted by beauty, is delighted by justice, is delighted by eternal life, for Christ is all these things.” The passive verbal construction is significant, highlighting that the person drawn is not “doing” something, but rather being pulled by the hidden and mysterious subject, which is God. Is this difficult to understand? Not in the least, Augustine says. We have examples all about us.

“Show me someone who loves, he knows what I mean. Show me someone full of desire, someone hungering, some thirsty wayfarer in the desert desiring the fount of an eternal homeland. Give me such. They know what I mean.” He gives an illustration, “Show a leafy branch to a sheep, and you draw it. Nuts are shown to a child and he is drawn. And where he runs, he is drawn by loving.” Augustine is careful to avoid any sense of compulsion which would override human freedom. “He is drawn without provocation of the body.” Rather, “he is drawn by the chain of the heart.” Speaking in the first person as if for God, he says “I give what he loves; I give what he hopes for.”

Throughout this subtle discussion of God’s alluring love, Augustine has in mind that salvation is rooted from first to last in the loving desire of God for the world. A passive response, though rendered without violation to free will, is a response inspired entirely by God’s love.

This is not only an insight for personal reflection, even prayer, but also a needed corrective to any version of Christian life which seems to make the whole enterprise dependent upon US. Rather, God who is all in all does all the loving and drawing. We, like someone thirsting or hungering, or someone newly in love, are drawn into the mystery of God’s love and beauty and justice.

Almost always, Augustine comes to our aid.