October 25, 2009
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
Mark 10:46-52

It’s hard enough to be blind. But to be blind and so poor that you have to beg for money to eat? Bartimaeus sat on the ground, by the road. A crowd was forming, and he listened carefully to the excited voices. Jesus of Nazareth was on his way. He had heard of him, that controversial rabbi who, it was rumored, had the gift of healing. A miracle worker. 

Bartimaeus had lost his sight somewhere along life’s way, perhaps because of a disease or accident. We are told that he said “Teacher, let me see again.” Again. His memory of colors, faces, and landscape was getting dim. But he remembered enough to long for his sight to return. He wanted his sight more than he wanted relief from poverty. For when he was asked what he wanted, it was not money. It was his sight. 

But there was something else he wanted. There was some latent desire for a deeper, more meaningful life, too. How do I know? Because after he was healed, he got up, left his life behind, and followed Jesus. Many others were healed, but they didn’t follow Jesus. Bartimaeus did. He must have hungered for what Jesus offered beyond physical healing: a closer walk with God, peace of mind, a community that wouldn’t reject him just because he was blind and poor. 

As Jesus approached, Bartimaeus felt these desires rising up in him. Overcoming self-consciousness, feeling both his desire to see and his need for God, he shouted out “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” Help! They shushed him – his neediness was an embarrassment in a world where we act as if we have it together. But he would not be stopped. He yelled even louder. 

Bartimaeus had been told many times, no doubt, that his blindness and his poverty were his own damn fault. That was the common view of the day. “Just shut up and humbly beg, over in the corner there, where you belong.” Nevertheless, Bartimaeus sensed Jesus’ compassion, and he boldly risked. His persistence is what got him through the resistance of the crowd, through the noise and the confusion. Now that he had Jesus’ attention, he said what he needed, right out loud.

I can’t think of any positive change in my life that happened without my persistence. I can’t think of anything changing because I prayed about it just one time or because I had a single insight. Instead, I have prayed daily, over and over again, for the same thing. I have talked about it with people I trust. I got frustrated because nothing happened. I applied myself again. I asked for help. I dreamed. I discovered how others, like those around Bartimaeus, resisted my efforts to change. More importantly, I discovered how I resisted change. I prayed some more. Gradually, grace prevailed.

Persistence in prayer, effort, insight, and against resistance always pays off. We might think that one prayer is enough for God to hear us, and anything beyond that becomes complaining or a sign of faithlessness, but that isn’t how it usually works. We seem to need to keep at it until we have moved through the crowded noise and confusion of mixed intentions. As we move through what we thought we needed, through the supposed reasons for and solutions to our situation, we come to a place of greater clarity. Persistence gets us to this point. 

But Bartimaeus was not only persistent. He made himself completely vulnerable: no place to hide, emotionally naked before a whole crowd of disapproving people. Jesus asked him what he wanted, and Bartimaeus spoke his heart’s longing.  He named his need. “My teacher, let me see again.” 

And this, too, seems to be essential in our healing. We know how it is in relationships. Others can only connect with us when we allow them to see the real, unblemished self behind our persona. I believe that the same is true with God in prayer. Nothing seems to happen as long as we politely, formally, ask for help from a distance. 

It is another thing altogether when we get to the point of truly feeling what we feel, really admitting our dependence upon God, saying “Please! I want to see. I want to be free. I want to know you. See me in my weakness and have mercy upon me!” When we are this way before God, it is as if the walls of separation come down, and God’s love and grace are able to flow. 

This is another way of describing how it is to have faith. When we are vulnerable to another person, it is because we trust them. When we are vulnerable in prayer, it is because we place our trust in God. Or we place our trust in life. Or we place our trust in the people around us, in our own ability to eventually put things together and move forward. All of this together is faith, placing our trust in the force of wisdom and love within and around us that we call “God.” 

A few weeks ago I spoke of a welcoming prayer, where we say to whatever is happening in our life “I welcome this.” Not that we like it or think that by welcoming it, it will therefore become permanent, but that for however long this is a part of our life, we say “yes” to it. Why would we do such a thing when we don’t like what is happening? Because we trust that there is something good in it, a gift from God. We place our trust in what life is doing. 

Jesus said to Bartimaeus “Go, your faith has made you well.” Jesus did not say “I possess magical powers. Sit down and let me zap you.” He said “Your faith has made you well.” It is faith that heals us, too, because when we trust, we are then able to receive the gift that is offered in our situation. 

At this point in the story, there is one little part I have always overlooked. Jesus says “Go, your faith has made you well.” But Bartimaeus doesn’t go. The story says that immediately, after regaining his sight, he followed Jesus on the way. He left behind his occupation as a beggar, which may not have been lucrative, but at least it was dependable, it was familiar. He walked into the unknown, with Jesus. He became a part of the community known as “The Way,” as early Christians called themselves. 

In their company, he saw something very few had ever seen: women and Gentiles and lepers and sinners and wealthy folks and children and social outcasts all treating each other as equals, eating and talking and praying as if there were no higher or lower, better or worse. All children of God. 

But most importantly, if Bartemaeus was like others in the Way, he did more than see new things. He became a new person, unlike that isolated, frightened beggar of yesterday. He changed, he became stronger and more himself. And then he was able to do what Jesus did. He fed, loved, healed, forgave, prayed, shared, and sacrificed. As a new man, he gave himself for others. 

When by God’s grace we are healed, when we are freed from being stuck, we are given this opportunity as well. God’s intention in healing us, in deepening our spiritual life, is never just so that we can return to a former state of comfort and peace of mind. It is so that we will change, so that we move forward into a new way of living, beyond what is familiar and safe. And it is so that we can use our new way of being, our newfound freedom, wisdom, and strength to be of some service to others. 

A recovering addict is expected to live a different kind of life, and then to take the message to others, to help them find sobriety, too. A cancer survivor becomes a different person along the way, and then can helpful to others undergoing their own difficult and potentially transformative experience. As a Christian, you are made new, and then asked to share with others what has been helpful to you. 

When we think of Bartimaeus, we may call to mind some poor homeless person on the street. But you are Bartimaeus, too, and so am I. We stand on the side of the road, blind, poor, and in need of God. We long for healing, we long for a truer connection in the Spirit. 

When we are persistent, we will move through resistance and confusion, and get to God with greater clarity about our need. When we are vulnerable, we connect with God. When we welcome our situation and trust in it, our faith makes us well. And when we are healed, we are asked to follow along the Way, become a new person, and give to others what we have been so freely given. 

October 18, 2009
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
Mark 10:35-45

Jesus’ disciples just don’t get it. This is the third time he has told them that his destiny – and theirs, by extension – is the cross. The last time he brought it up, Peter rejected it out of hand, and Jesus slapped Peter down, calling him “Satan.” 

The disciples still clung to the idea that they would end up on top of the world with Jesus. In today’s gospel, James and John are blunt about it: “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand, and one at your left, in glory.” In Matthew’s version of this, they get their mother to make the request. 

What were they thinking? Jesus talked all along about the last being first and self-denial and becoming like children and taking up your cross and drinking the cup of suffering that he would drink. And they still thought would get a crown and a throne? What is their problem? 

Finally Jesus spells it out. “Look. We’re not like the Gentiles. Your position as an apostle is not going to be one of authority and greatness. You are to be least of all, a servant. Haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve been saying all along, haven’t you watched me in action?” 

It’s amazing how many of Jesus’ disciples today, especially clergy, still don’t get this. 

We humans are drawn like a moth to the flame towards power, glory, and all things grand. Even in the church, where our whole purpose is to serve God and the world, we want to become successful servants. 

We’re like the missionaries who went to do good and ended up doing very well. In serving God, we want to do big things, to make an impact. Little acts of kindness are nice, but come on, let’s raise some money, start a movement, and change the world! 

But in talking about servanthod, Jesus points downward, to the lowly, the small, the invisible, someone like the guy sweeping the sidewalk in front of your hotel, that invisible nobody who doesn’t lift up his eyes when you pass by. He’s doing a small thing just because it needs to be done. 

Jesus said if you give even a cup of water to another, you serve God. Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing. Quietly visit a sick person, feed a hungry soul, or give clothes to someone in rags. 

It’s not so easy to live this way. We’re so wired to think that bigger is better. It’s hard to accept ourselves as the least of all, doing little things that somehow still matter. 

A group of us just got back from our annual diocesan convention in El Paso. There, I was reminded of what a small and insignificant group we are, but how seriously we take ourselves.  In a world of nearly 7 billion people, we were a few hundred people in a room, that’s all, one diocese out of a hundred in a small denomination that most people don’t know anything about. 

And yet in this hotel ballroom we obscure few get all worked up about little things that seem so important to us. It was a tempest in a teapot. And I was thinking “What difference can we possibly make in this world?” If we are called to be servants, and all we’ve got is this hokey, bumbling little diocese to work with, what’s the point? 

We could say the same thing about this parish, our jobs, or our lives, for that matter. What difference can we make? What’s the point of small, insignificant servanthood?  

You’ve probably heard the story of the two people who were walking along the beach, and there were thousands of starfish that had washed up in the tide. They would, of course, dry up and die. 

As the two strolled and talked, one of them kept picking up the occasional starfish and throwing it back into the sea. The other asked “Why are you doing this? There are thousands of these, and this is only one beach. What difference can it possibly make?” As the other picked up another starfish and tossed it into the water, he replied “It makes a difference to this one.”

When one of you visits a parishioner in the hospital, you aren’t going to create a more caring healthcare environment for all. When one of you even goes to Ecuador or Haiti or Nicaragua and helps with a local project in some town there, you are not going to make much of a dent in the suffering of the world, or even in the suffering of that country. 

But when we serve in our small ways, we make a difference where we are. This always matters to the person we help, the causes we support. We are not called to change the world, but simply to be faithful where we are, in our time in history, in our little corner of the world, and to leave the results to God. 

What this means is that we must learn to serve without being attached to the results. After all, every improvement is temporary. The world is never all fixed up. There is no payoff, there is nothing we can point to and say “There, I did it. I improved the world.” There is only the serving. We have no control over the results of our service. 

Something that helps us with this perspective is in the well-known passage of the 25th chapter of Matthew that I referred to earlier. Jesus says that when we feed the hungry, take in the stranger, or visit the prisoner or the sick, we have done it to him. 

What does this mean? Is he saying that by serving others, we remember that God is there watching us and is pleased with what we’re doing? 

I think Jesus meant exactly what he said. When we serve another person, that person is Christ. Not a reminder of Christ, but Christ himself. He inhabits the person who is being served. Every person, every worthwhile issue we get involved in, every ministry each one of you participates in here is God. God is not off in heaven somewhere, but incarnate, in the flesh, here and now. 

So when I looked around the room in the hotel in El Paso, I was looking at God. When you take communion to an elderly member in her home, you’re looking at God. When you write a check to support this community, you’re giving money to God. 

I don’t know about you, but when I look this way at other people, at the world I live in, I feel differently. No longer am I just seeing the other as someone with attractive or annoying personal traits, as someone who might or might not appreciate or benefit from what I’m doing. 

Instead, I look through their outward form, as it were, into them, and see God. Then their face, their personality, even their faults and struggles become part of the complex and beautiful manifestation of God that this whole world is. All creation is God’s body, a glorious and complicated and interconnected body. And each individual is a part of it. 

When devout Hindus and Buddhists greet one another, they put their hands together prayerfully and bow, saying Namaste, which means “the God in me reverences the God in you.” 

If we can see the world this way, then we’re not serving because we think we can change the world, or because we think we should in order to be a good person. We serve others as an act of worship. Just as we might light a candle as an act of devotion, we touch another with kindness as an act of devotion to God. 

This becomes an attitude, a reverent way of living, where it is natural to seek not our own will but the good of all, as an act of continual devotion to the One who is in all. 

Can you try to look at the world this way? Can you look beneath the surface and honor the Spirit within? When you do, there is no longer any small or big, significant or insignificant. It’s all part of one divine reality. 

There is no longer any question of whether it is more important to pass a bill in Congress or give a cup of water to someone who is thirsty. It is all the same thing. It is all worship. It is all service to God. 

In today’s gospel Jesus strips away our aspirations of glory. He does not do this to condemn us, but to get us in touch with reality. He wants us to wake up and serve the divine presence that is everywhere, in everyone. He wants our daily lives, our every action, to be a humble act of worship. This is our purpose, and it is when we are most alive. 

St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church   
Albuquerque, NM 87107 
Sunday October 11, 2009
Preacher: Christopher McLaren 
Text: Mark 10:17-31

There is nothing quite like the angst of a preacher in one of the wealthiest nations in the world being asked to proclaim the good news of a text that is so overtly about money like the Parable of the Rich Young Ruler or as I like to call it the Loaded but Sorrowful One. When the lectionary, our program for reading through the Bible is a systematic way, deals a text like this to me, I feel like I am between a rock and a hard place. If I take on the text and preach about money, even once a year, members of the congregation will perceive that the church is always talking about money and trying to make them feel guilty about their good fortune of living in this country. If I figure out some clever way to avoid the text I could be compromising my calling to proclaim the gospel with integrity. And all of this is quite clearly Jesus’ fault as he spent a great deal of time talking about economic issues, the seductive dangers of wealth, the need to protect the vulnerable from economic exploitation all the while demonstrating a radical form of communal living that scared the authorities witless.  Jesus could be downright confrontational in a tough sort of way that we’d really like to avoid in church if possible with all of our good taste and delicate sensitivities. 

As someone once confided in me, it is not the parts of scripture that I don’t understand that trouble me, it is the parts of scripture that I do understand that give me the most trouble. Today’s text is one of those passages. 

Jesus is headed for Jerusalem and all the conflict that awaits him.  It is probably not a great time to sneak in a conversation about religious devotion, but sensing an opening, a rich man seizes the opportunity. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life? Jesus, who appears to have a low tolerance for rich, upwardly mobile, spiritual overachievers delivers a brush-off line. “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”  Jesus is not exactly exuding warmth, Things do not look promising in the meaningful dialogue department. 

Rabbi Jesus, follows this up with a kind of stock lesson about keeping the commandments rattling off 5 of the ten best ways, thinking it may end the conversation. However, the rich man is not deterred. To Jesus’ surprise the rich man answers that he has kept the commandments since he was boy in Sabbath school.  Wow! Who of us can actually say that with a straight face and a pure heart? There is a kind of youthful confidence here but also the sincerity of a truth seeker. Jesus, catches his breath, looking the young man over. He sees the beautiful clothes, the Calvin Klein robes, the North Face tunic, the Keen no make that Gucci sandals, the expensive shades, the trendy watch and all the gold around his fingers.  He looks deeper, into the rich man’s proud eyes and handsome face, pondering this child of God in front of him. Behind the protection of wealth, past the good breeding, and underneath all that excellent education, he senses a hunger about this young man, a hunger for something more than ordinary life affords. A hunger for life itself, rich with meaning, unfettered by the expectations that bind and circumscribe the everyday, alive to the movement of God. 

The text is poignant. It tells us that “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.” Has this happened to you? Have you found yourself staring into the eyes of the one who is “for you,” in the biggest sense of that word? Have you looked into Love’s eyes, eyes that want nothing less for you than life, life that keeps growing, keeps expanding, keeps getting more interesting… life eternal? 

Jesus looses his sharpest arrow at the most tender part. “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come and follow me.” The arrow finds home. Go, sell, give, come, follow. The young man staggers, under these five new commands. His disbelieving heart is bleeding. “How could you,” his eyes plead? How could you make it so hard? The conversation dissolves in grief. This loss is too much. It cannot be embraced. This truth is something to escape from; back to the creature comforts, back to the balm of beauty, back to the safety of success. 

There is silence as Jesus’ friends struggle to understand. Perhaps there is silence for us as well. This story is a little too close to home. It is certainly not a story about charitable giving or turning in your pledge card this coming week even if this reading always seems to comes up during stewardship season. No, this is a story about the very center of life. It is about the deep demands of discipleship, of following hard after God.  The famous theologian, Paul Tillich, defined faith as one’s ultimate concern. Bob Dylan reminded us all that, “You gotta serve somebody.” Jesus baffled his disciples by challenging their idea of wealth as a pathway and sign of  God’s blessing despite the popular thinking of the day and ours for that matter.  Jesus viewed wealth as a hindrance to entering the Kingdom of God which amazed his disciples. 

So what are we to do with this text. It is strange that this demanding text about selling everything and about how hard it is to enter the Kingdom of God follows Jesus’ teaching about receiving the Kingdom of God as a child. The message that the kingdom of God is easy to enter, that it must be  received as a child would receive a gift, is contrasted with this passage in which the kingdom of God demands our best obedience and all that we have. In fact, all we can do is not enough to achieve the life we desire.  Such wholeness, such salvation is possible only from God, and we can only receive it as a gift. 

In essence this passage tells us: 
How hard it is for anyone to enter the kingdom of God, but for rich people it is quite impossible, like the amusing image of a fully loaded camel trundling through your grandmother’s sewing needle. In fact humanly speaking it is impossible for anyone to be saved rich or not; but don’t despair, don’t lose heart. With God all things are possible.  Jesus’ teaching to his disciples puts gift and demand together in a paradox that is the matrix for the Good News. You cannot earn the kingdom of God but you cannot just do nothing either. Belonging to God, becoming a part of the Kingdom of God is both gift and demand. It is an astonishing paradox but true. It is simple like a gift but it is demanding like your life. It doesn’t cost more than you can afford but it does cost all that you have. 

Of course throughout the ages the church has tried to understand this wild teaching of Jesus in a number of ways. The literal or eschatological reading of this passage was no doubt important in the early church. With the expectation that Jesus would soon return in glory the early Christian community took the command to go, sell, give, come, follow quite literally creating a radical sense of community and commonality of possessions that was experienced as receiving a hundredfold houses, brother, sisters, mothers and children and fields as they awaited Christ’s return.

Later, as life continued and had to be sustained an ascetic or restrictive reading of this text took center stage out of necessity. The passage was still read literally but was applied only to certain people in the Christian community not all disciples. The reading of the text took on a institutional form in vows of poverty of the religious orders and for certain individuals who were led to a life of radical renunciation of possessions and total dependence upon God. Those engaged in this kind of life were meant to be a kind of example to others about the costly nature of discipleship and a prophetic witness to the dangers of possessions. 

Yet another popular way to understand this text today especially among Protestants is to spiritualize its meaning. The story is no longer meant to be taken literally but rather has particular spiritual meaning for all disciples who are called to root out of our lives whatever may hinder our following of Jesus.  The hindrance in each of our lives is highly personal and applies to the particular individual. 

In our efforts to take seriously Jesus’ teaching, we institutionalize, generalize, or spiritualize the message and in doing so we discover many things that are true and helpful to our spiritual lives. Yet the tension of this radical text resists easy resolution that removes all pressure on us as followers of Jesus. After we have done our best to make this text say something less upsetting to our system of values, Jesus looks intently at us and continues to quietly affirm that life is to be had not by accumulating things, but by disencumbering ourselves. “One must travel light.” In essence Jesus proclaims to us, here and now that the way to be really rich is to die to wealth.  It is a message that takes our breath away. And therein is the good news, that Jesus still can shock and amaze us back into life if we are only willing to listen. You are no fool to give up what you cannot keep to gain what you cannot lose. 

I want to go back to the loving gaze of Christ. This seems to me to be at the center of this story. We’ve already proven that we can quickly give you any number of ways to explain this passage of scripture away.  But that is to keep Christ at arms length. It is in the eyes of Christ that the power of this passage is found. Jesus looked intently at the rich man when he said, “go, sell, give, come, follow.” and he looked intently at the dumbfounded disciples when he answered there question about who could then be saved, “For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.” I want to challenge you to do some God gazing, to look deeply into the eyes of Christ. Perhaps you will want to spend some time with an Icon of Christ the teacher, the Pantocrator, or perhaps you can already see the eyes of Christ searching for you. I want you to spend some time this day or this week just looking and praying into those ocean deep eyes of compassion. Looking into the eyes that loved the rich man. Opening yourself up to hear the love of Christ’s command. “Go, sell, give, come, follow.” God knows where your tender parts are. God knows how to draw you into the dance of discipleship. God knows what it will cost you. God knows you can afford it. God knows your life depends upon it. 

Struggle and Joy
Oct. 4, 2009 Michaelmas/St. Francis 
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Today is the feast of our patron saints – St. Michael and All Angels. This year it falls on the same day that the church celebrates its most famous deacon, St. Francis of Assisi. 

This gives us an opportunity to smash this unlikely pair together and see what new thing emerges. One thing that came out of it here in this room is a fantastic cornucopia of plants, animals, saints, angels, and color. 

I’d like to explore a theme that is common to both Michael and Francis. It is a story of struggle. Michael contends against evil; Francis confronts corruption and indifference. But it is also a story of joy. For Michael and Francis, in the midst of struggle, there is victory and transcendent peace.

With Michael, this story is played out in broad, mythic strokes. He and his angels fight against Satan in a war in heaven. Michael is victorious, but the war continues on earth, because the devil is cast down here among us. We must now fight against evil. However, we know that in this battle, too, God will ultimately be victorious. It is a cosmic, eternal story of darkness and light, conflict and resolution. 

With Francis, this same story of struggle and joy is played out through the complexity and contradictions of a human life. And it is with his story that I would like to remain awhile. 

First, the struggle. Coming out of a wealthy family that was part of the social elite in Assisi, Francis chose to live in poverty and in service to people that society routinely ignored or openly mocked - lepers, the mentally ill, the poor. He lived with them, on the margins of town. And for this, he was ridiculed, rejected, disowned by his father. What happened to our son and friend Francis? Where is our troubadour, our party boy? Why did he turn his back on a very successful family business? The fool!

Francis struggled with his order, too. He was caught up in a high vision: that the religious community he started would become a social movement, transforming medieval Europe and the church of his day. Devoted to a life of prayer, preaching the love of God, and serving the poor, they would be living examples of Christ on earth. They would overcome class division and the corruption and indifference of both church and society. They would turn people’s hearts to love. 

But by the end of his life, Francis was convinced that his social movement had failed. In his embrace of poverty, simplicity, and service, he had seen nothing but struggle, and very little to show for it. In spite of the thousands who had flocked to his new order, the poor and the sick were still ignored, the church was as corrupt and divided as ever, savage religious wars went on, and his order became so concerned with authority and security that, in disgust, he resigned as leader.

And Francis was a tortured soul internally, too. To the end, he was haunted by a God he didn’t fully understand. His constant prayer was “Who are you, my dearest God, and what am I, but your useless servant?” God would always remain a mystery to him. He felt that he could never adequately express his faith, that he was an inarticulate bumbler. He was hounded by temptations of lust, anger, self-righteousness, and impatience. Francis wrestled with his faith. 

But this is the amazing thing. In the midst of all this struggle, all throughout it, Francis was also a man of joy. Even as he despaired about the church, the world, and his own soul, there was peace and an energetic light that wove its way through him. 

Paradoxically, as he renounced a worldly life, he was free to fully enjoy the world. Knowing that he didn’t possess anything or anyone, he possessed everything. Like Jesus, he was at home with hunger and plenty, mourning and dancing, health and disease. He saw all creation as alive, calling it sister moon and brother wind, sister water and brother fire, mother earth and sister death. He was at home in the family of creation.

Francis’ joy spilled over as he drew thousands into his vision of a revitalized life, a renewed church and world. They would not have flocked to him had he not radiated the truth of a transformed life. He was a living saint who showed them that they, too, could be made new, gulping in the abundance of God’s love, and pouring it out freely to others. 

And so his life was woven together with struggle and joy, suffering and happiness, conflict and peace. He never reached a permanent state of bliss, and he never was free from human struggle. He embraced the paradox of both at once. 

This is hard for us to do. For we usually think in linear terms. Stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. After A ends, you go to B, which then goes to C and D. Set your goals, overcome obstacles, and achieve results. 

But Francis’s life shows us that struggle does not finally end, and then we then reach joy. It is interwoven with it. One hour we live under oppressive, dark skies, and in the next we breathe the open desert air. One day we believe that all shall be well, and the next we are not so sure. At one point we feel God’s presence and a clarity about our purpose, and at another we say “Who are you, God, and what am I?”

We may make progress in our spiritual journey - and I believe we do if we apply ourselves to it - but this journey will never be anything but hills and valleys. We shall never spiritually evolve to the point where we are free from dark moods, frustration, or hardship, and then dwell permanently in peace and happiness. 

It isn’t enough, however, just to recognize that life has its ups and downs. Everybody knows that. The question, the spiritual quest, is how to move through both with grace, with some sense of equanimity, with hope, perspective, and patience. The quest, for Francis and for us, is how to find a through-line with God, instead of being a victim of life’s inconstancy. 

What Francis and other saints teach us is that this through-line comes as we cultivate a life of faith. I’m not talking about the kind of faith that tries to convince ourselves that everything will work out for us. I’m talking about the kind of faith that learns to trust – to really place our trust - in God, no matter what. 

We have some choice in this, you know. When things are going badly for us, we can let ourselves be taken by the drama and unfairness of it all; we can become absorbed in the dark cloud; we can scramble to make it go away as soon as possible. 

But we can also choose to trust. We can choose to believe that the Spirit of life is always working, even in this. We can welcome our difficulty as something good, rather than defending ourselves against it as an enemy. We can see God in both brother sun and sister death. 

I know that this is much easier for some than for others. Some of us grew up distrusting life for very good reasons, and we have much to overcome. But the issue is the same for everyone – to cultivate trust. Every time we choose this option – and it is always offered to us – our faith becomes a little stronger. Then, when we have the experience of embracing whatever life sends our way, and find that there is good in it, our faith is confirmed.

If we cultivate faith, there will always be a through-line of grace. Our darkness will always be penetrated by light. Struggle will have, underneath it all, a foundation of joy. We come to know peace in the midst of conflict, gratitude in deprivation, and transcendence even as we are fully engaged in the problems of this world. 

This is the gift that Francis, by his life of struggle and joy, offers to us. It is the gift that Michaelmas offers, too – that even though there be war in heaven, even though the devil and his angels have been cast down to earth and live among us, the victory is God’s, and joy is ours.