It was a hot summer day twelve years ago. We were in Central Park at the Conservatory Water. My six-year-old daughter Gillian was sitting on my shoulders. Standing next to us was a mother whose son was piloting a remote-controlled sailboat. The mother looked up at Gillian and said, “My, aren’t you tall!” A diffident Gillian leaned over and as if she were telling a secret whispered to her, “This isn’t all me.”

When you’re a priest and you say the word ‘stewardship’ people start edging toward the door. Like a family story told too often, it can elicit groans. Soon after I came to Saint Francis, I remember being at a stewardship committee meeting where themes were considered for the upcoming campaign. I cheekily proposed this one: Either life is holy with meaning or life doesn’t mean a damn thing. You pay your money and you take your choice.

Blank stares and furtive glances. I kept a straight face until a committee member said it seemed a little wordy. We ended up that year with Charting Our Future Together in Christ. This lacked punch, I said, but Carol Tutera and Brenda Bell assured me with a knowing wink that it meant the same thing.

Stewardship asks where we are going and how we plan to get there if we get there at all, and what we are going to find if we finally do. Vestries are responsible for that planning, and the only reason for asking yourself what your role — and your checkbook’s role — will be in the life and mission of Saint Francis is that you want to be part of where we’re going and how we plan to get there. Period.

We pay our money every day, to one thing or another. By the way we use what we earn and what we’re given, we show what really matters to us. If you’re a member of my parish then four or five months from now in your mail you’ll receive an envelope from Saint Francis with a pledge card in it. Hmm. You’ll ask: What to do with this? What numbers to scratch there? How much of what I work so blessedly hard for should I give gladly away? If you believe in what we say and do at Saint Francis — if you believe that God is busy in your life here — then when the pledge card comes do this: say your prayers, take your pen, and surprise yourself.

The struggle we have with money is really with Jesus himself. And the truth about Jesus is that if indeed he is everybody’s friend the way the old Jesus hymns proclaim, he is at the same time everybody’s worst enemy. He is the enemy at least of everything in us that keeps us from giving him what he is really after. And what he is really after is our heart’s blood, our treasure, our selves.

On the twenty-third of June, 1993, Victoria, Evan, Gabriel, Gillian and I took a train from Seekonk, Massachusetts to Boston to visit the New England Aquarium. I remember the sea lions as we call them (it would be interesting to know what they call us) racing around in their tank, leaping through hoops, balancing beach balls on their whiskered snouts and delighting us all.

On the train ride home that night, Gabriel and Evan were sitting in front of us on opposite sides of the aisle. At one stop, I looked up and noticed Gabriel patting people on the arm as they passed by him. Victoria saw it, too. She leaned forward and said to him, “Gabriel. What are you doing?” “I’m petting them, Mom,” he said. “What?” she said. You shouldn’t do that, Gabriel.” “I’m only petting them, Mom.”

At the next stop, I overheard Evan encourage Gabriel to pet a steward whom Gabe must have mistaken for the conductor. Gabriel said, “No.” “Why not?” Evan asked. “Because I don’t pet abductors [sic].”

There’s a steward in this story but that’s not why I tell it. I tell it because I ask myself: Why would a boy barely four pat on the arm people he did not know from Adam? And why do I love him for doing it? It was a crazy thing to do. It was a risky thing to do. It ran counter to all standards of New England practicality and prudence. It was debonair. He did it because he saw the people on that train not as strangers but as compagnons de voyage. It was not a level-headed, play-your-cards-close-to-the-vest thing to do, just as giving away your hard-earned cash is not level-headed, not playing your cards close to the vest. But to live this way is to make visible who we are and where we are going together, you and I. It is to see the world lit up as if by lightning on a dark night.

In Peculiar Treasures, Frederick Buechner writes:

“Sermonettes make Christianettes,” the saying goes, so Saint Paul kept talking till midnight to make sure they all got the word. Then he thought of a few things he’d left out and went on a while longer. He was so caught up in his own eloquence that he didn’t hear the bumblebee sounds that were emerging from a young man with his eyes more or less closed and his mouth more or less open who sat slumped over in the third story window. It was only a woman’s scream that alerted him to the fact that the boy had fallen asleep, and out, more or less simultaneously. When Paul asked his name, they told him it was Eutychus.

Everybody thought Eutychus was dead, but Paul said he’d see about that. Then he went back upstairs where, after a snack, he ran over his major points once more just to make sure. When he finally left on the early bus, they found Eutychus sitting up in bed asking for two over light and a toasted English.

This miraculous recovery, plus the fact that by then the saint was already well on his way to the next county, made them decide to throw a double celebration. Presumably somebody had the sense to suggest that this time they use the ground floor.

(Acts 20: 9 – 12)

That physical courage is not at all on the minds of people who think of Francis indicates how little people actually know his life. He’d been a fierce warrior as a young man. He survived fighting in two wars (we would call them battles today), one that saw the slaughter of his town Assisi in a battle so brutal it turned the Tiber River red. There were a total of nine crusades waged by Christians in the west to try to take back land that had been seized by the Saracens, as Muslims were called at the time. Living in the late-twelfth and early-thirteenth centuries, Francis lived in the middle of this period. When Pope Innocent III dispatched the fifth crusade, Francis jumped at the chance.

So off he went with a few of his brothers, setting sail from the shores of Italy across the Mediterranean to Damietta, Egypt near the Nile delta. That’s where the fiercest battle was going on, in that critical port city. The Christians were fighting valorously and were being slaughtered. Francis went to the man leading the Christian forces and asked him permission to go into the Saracen camp to meet the Sultan. The commander summarily denied his request. Francis received that denial and went anyway, his brother Illuminato going with him. They walked straight into the Muslim camp.

As they drew near the Saracen perimeter, Francis repeatedly called out, Sultan! Sultan! Sultan! and because he was calling specifically for the Sultan the guards didn’t kill him on the spot. They thought the Christian wanted to convert and weren’t willing to deny the Sultan such a conquest.

The Sultan’s name was Melek-el-Kemel, and he received the Christian graciously. Have you come to convert? It was the first thing the Sultan said. No, Francis demurred. I’m not here to become a Muslim. I’ve come to implore you to convert to the Lord Jesus Christ.

This stunned the Sultan. Flabbergasted, he summoned his sages. This is what they told him, “The law forbids giving a hearing to infidel preachers. And if there be someone who wishes to speak or preach against our Law, the Law commands that his head be cut off.”

The Sultan knew the law, knew that it bound him to cut off the heads of these two men. But the Sultan said, “I am deciding to act against my own law, because it would be an even reward for me to bestow on one who conscientiously risked death in order to save my soul for God.”

Disarmed by the physical courage of Francis, Melek-el-Kemel asked Francis to stay for a while. I imagine Melek offering my church’s patron saint some tea. Francis declined. The Sultan said, “At least let me send you back with gold and silver and silks and other treasures.” No, Francis declined again, disappointed. There was only one treasure Francis came there looking for and that was the Sultan’s soul; if he couldn’t offer that to God he’d just as soon return home empty-handed. He was hungry, though. He said that he wouldn’t mind a little food. So the Sultan gave him all the food he could possibly need, and gave him a military escort back to the Christian camp. I’m not making any of this up.

On the tombstone of one of the Sultan’s sages who was present at this meeting of Francis and Melek-el-Kemel there’s this cryptic remark. “The things that befell Melek-el-Kamel owing to the monk are very well known.” Ten years after this meeting between Francis and the Sultan, in 1229 Melek-el-Kamel freely remitted Jerusalem to the Christians. Not a drop of blood was shed in this transfer. Francis didn’t live to see that. He had been dead three years.

One of my great lights at Yale, the preeminent historical theologian Jaroslav Pelikan, in his Jesus Through the Centuries, wrote:

If a public opinion poll were to ask a representative group of informed and thoughtful people, “Which historical figure of the past two thousand years has most fully embodied the life and teaching of Jesus Christ?” the person mentioned most often would certainly be Francis of Assisi. That answer might, if anything, be even more frequent if the people polled were not affiliated with any church. And it is probably also the answer that many of his own contemporaries would have given to such a question — or at any rate, those who lived within a century or so after him. For in Francis of Assisi the imitation of the life of Jesus and the obedience to his teachings (which were, at least in principle, binding on every believer) attained such a level of fidelity as to earn for him the designation, eventually made official by Pope Pius XI, of “the second Christ [alter Christus].”

From today’s YDN

Volf’s upbringing on the cultural margins helped him develop the ability to find points of convergence in conflicting viewpoints, making Volf the unconventional and creative scholar he is widely considered today, research assistant Neil Arner DIV ’07 said. With a professional portfolio that includes over 150 editorials and articles and 11 books, Volf has been called “one of the most celebrated theologians of our day” by Archbishop of Canterbury Dr. Rowan Williams.

“I was a total outsider,” Volf said of his childhood during the 1960s in Communist-controlled Yugoslavia, where his father was a pastor.

As a religious person in Communist Yugoslavia as well as a practitioner of a marginal religion, Pentecostalism, within Croatia’s small religious community of Roman Catholics, Volf was actually an outsider twice over, Arner said.

Volf, now a member of the Episcopal Church, said he formally affirmed his Christian faith at the age of 16. From then on, Volf recalls being sent to the principal’s office multiple times during high school for wearing a cross or openly discussing his religious beliefs.

“For me, it was matter of personal religious faith,” Volf said, “but it was perceived by the totalitarian state as a subversive act.”

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Read the whole thing but come back to the pull quote. Miroslav is a serious Christian and a fine theologian. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that while wearing the cross was “for [him] a matter of personal religious faith”, the totalitarian state’s perception is accurate that his doing so was “a subversive act.” But witting or not, the article gives the impression that for Miroslav the cross is a matter merely of personal religious faith and not subversive at all. That mistakes him and it mistakes the cross.

The cross has never been a personal objet d’ art. It was a capital punishment Rome reserved not for everyday brigands but for insurrectionists, thus it has always been associated with political subversion. It wasn’t Dali or Rubens who inspired the Roman governor Varius to execute two thousand men at once on separate crosses a few years before the angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night. The Roman general Titus wasn’t moved by Georgia O’Keefe or David Yurman to crucify 500 Jews daily outside the walls in plain view of the citizens of Jerusalem. The cross was to Rome a public service announcement. Six thousand men crucified every 130 feet on the Appian Way from Rome to ancient Capua advertises WHO’S IN CHARGE on a linear scale that even Madison Avenue couldn’t dream up. It is not for his aesthetics—his taste for clean lines—that the name Pilate has been on the lips of Christians every Sunday for nearly two millenia.

Ever since Rome crucified him people who’ve trusted Jesus with their lives have said JESUS IS LORD. They haven’t shut up about it even when the state persecuted and killed them for it. No one ever responds to the cross tout court.

Eamon Duffy writes:

Prayer for the dead is neither fear nor fire insurance, emphatically not an attempt to appease an angry or sadistic God. It is an exercise in the virtues of faith and hope and love.

For prayer for the dead is also a bridge across the gulf of separation which is death. We are social beings, but most of us can expect to die alone, in a hospital bed rather than in our homes. Death is the ultimate alienation, the sacramental expression of all the barriers which divide us. Medieval Christianity witnessed against that isolation by constantly remembering the dead, recalling their names, in the liturgy and in private: the dead remained part of the church community . The Reformation, in silencing all naming of the dead in prayer, unwittingly endorsed the experience of death as alienation.

Images of purgatory come and go, some better than others, none of them essential. We do not pray for the dead to bail them out of prison or to placate a God who demands satisfaction, but because we know that they live in Christ, bound to us in a single faith and hope and love, and therefore with a right to a place in our prayers. We feel ourselves diminished by their deaths, and that has a reality in faith as well as in natural experience.

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Duffy in The Tablet. Author of the terrific book The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England, c. 1400 to c. 1580, Duffy is Professor of the History of Christianity, and Fellow and Director of Studies, Magdalene College, The University of Cambridge.

On 23rd February of the Christian kalendar, we commemorate Polycarp, one of my favorite saints. Polycarp was the elderly Bishop of Smyrna in the year of our Lord 155 when he was arrested by the Roman proconsul, brought on an ass to an arena, and told to renounce his faith in Jesus and pledge his fealty instead to Caesar. At the entrance to the arena, he was transferred from the ass to a chariot where two Roman soldiers who had no enthusiasm for seeing an old man die said to him, “What harm would it be for you to say Caesar Kurios? Just do it, old man, just renounce your allegiance to Jesus.” At first Polycarp did not answer them; but when they persisted, he said, “I’m not going to do that.”

They took him into the arena. And there the proconsul asked him, “Are you Polycarp?”

“Yes.”

“Will you deny this Jesus whom you call Lord?”

Polycarp didn’t reply.

“Think about your age, old man. Swear by the fortunes of Caesar and I will release you. Revile Christ!”

Polycarp said, “Eighty and six years have I served him and he never did me any wrong. How then can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

The proconsul persisted. “I have wild beasts. I can burn you at the stake unless you repent.”

Polycarp said, “I am a Christian. What are you waiting for? Do whatever you wish to.”

They burned Polycarp at the stake.

Rowan Williams at The Episcopal Church’s recent General Convention. You may read his meditation in full.

Our readings put before us a vision of Christ’s Church that is both simple and alarming. We have been called and chosen. It is not that we have ourselves chosen Jesus, and it is certainly not that we have earned the right to be chosen by him (because we’re so orthodox or so open or so faithful or so creative or whatever). We have simply been spoken to by Christ and our fellowship has been created by his word to us. What is more, that word makes us his friends; and as his friends we share some understanding of what he is doing because he has allowed us to overhear his eternal conversation of love with the one he calls ‘Abba, Father.’

I smell like a charcoal-grilled hamburger. My feet have been close to a fire at the youth house with Aaron, talking with David and Anna Hirsch while David flipped burgers and awaited the arrival of the fifty students who are there now for their weekly Tuesday cookout. David is that precious gem hard to find in the Church: an excellent youth minister. “The kingdom of heaven,” Jesus said, “is like a merchant in search of fine pearls who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.” He might just as well have said that the kingdom of heaven is like a church seeking a rare youth minister. Saint Francis has been richly blessed to have a Student Ministry that’s produced scores of disciples over the past eleven years, first under the leadership of Jon Price and now under David’s. I thank God for David, and for Anna, Craig Windham and Betsy Harrison. They help me and my children keep the bloody faith.

Let me get a little philosophical about the teaching of religion. If the adjective ‘religious’ is taken to mean possessed of certain virtues such as faithfulness, compassion, integrity, humility, self-understanding, and self-discipline, you cannot teach people to be religious. If the noun ‘religion’ is taken to denote that area of human experience in which people encounter the Reality behind reality as a power which both judges and to their flourishing transforms them, you cannot teach religion.

To the extent that God is One whom we can never make the object of our speculation without to one degree or another reducing God to a god fashioned in our own image; to the extent that God can never become an ‘It’ which we reach at the end of a logical demonstration of divine existence, but remains always an ‘I’ confronting us with divine imperatives at times and in ways which we cannot control; to the extent that the most profound and subtle words we use to describe God are at best the crude metaphors that a blind man must resort to when speaking of the appearance of the sun which he knows only by feeling its warmth upon him, you can never teach God as an academic subject; to the extent that the deep and crucial questions with which religion is concerned involve people in every phase and area of their lives — to speak of a philosophy of teaching people religion is a kind of absurdity.

What then is left after all these resounding negations? What is it that Hirsch and the leadership team of Student Ministries intend to do teaching your children and mine religion at Saint Francis? Only this, I think, and it is plenty: to try to convince students — even the 7th grader who already tends to look upon religion as a cumbersome and implausible irrelevance (which much of the time it is) — that it is not religion in itself that matters, but the Reality to which true religion points.

This Reality is Jesus Christ in at least a double sense. First, in the life of Jesus as a human being is made manifest human life as it was created to be, a life where all our tragic estrangement from ourselves, from others, and from God as the true center of our being is overcome in sacrificial love. Second, in the event of Jesus as the Christ — his life, death, resurrection and ascension — a power is released among us which brings us to God and recreates us in His image.