A sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, February 23, 2020.  The lectionary readings are Exodus 24:12-18, Psalm 2, 2 Peter 1:16-21, and Matthew 17:1-9.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

“They fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.”  That’s how St. Matthew describes the disciples who are with Jesus on the mountain.  Peter and James and John have seen a lot already, but they couldn’t have possibly been ready for what they see in this vision, this vision we call the Transfiguration.

Jesus leads them up the mountain and when they get to the top, something happens:  Jesus begins to shine— brightly, like a light.  Then the disciples see others, figures they come to recognize as Moses and Elijah.  In the midst of this great clash of epochs and meanings, as Jesus is blessed by the tradition of the prophets (embodied in Elijah) and the tradition of the law (symbolized by Moses), there’s more light, and sound, and God is there.  Peter and James and John fall down.  They’re done.  They’ve had it.  This completely takes them out.

The more literal translations of this verse say that the disciples didn’t just fall down.  They “fell down on their faces.”  It sounds a little odd to us and is mostly just the way the phrase was constructed, but if we pause for a minute to think of how much time and energy we put into “saving face,” or putting on a “good face,” then to “fall on one’s face,” really does say something. It suggests a place of humility, of abandon, of being reduced to just about nothing, a place of being stripped bare.

If we think about it, people fall down all through scripture.  And sometimes they “fall on their faces.”  St. Paul hit the ground hard.  The Acts of the Apostles tells us “as [Saul] was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him.  He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’” (Acts 9:3).

Jacob doesn’t so much fall to the ground, as he is pushed or wrestled to the ground. (Genesis 32).  Jacob is taken down by a stranger who wrestles with him all through the night and leaves him limping.

Often in the scriptures, when people have some kind of significant religious experience, it throws them off balance, and they fall down.  But sometimes it’s not a religious experience.  Sometimes it’s just life—life’s harshness, life’s unfairness, life’s injustice—that simply knocks a person off her feet.  Sarah, Hannah, Judith, the woman accused of adultery, Mary Magdalene…. They all knew what it was to be pushed aside, thrown down, and left to lie alone on the ground.

Think of Joseph, Joseph who was sold into slavery by his brothers and thrown into a pit. Job, too, fell down, as he was robbed of his family, his possessions, and even his health, so that he was reduced to sitting in ashes on the street, using broken pieces of pottery to pick at his sores.

Even the Blessed Virgin Mary falls.  Mary the Mother of Jesus knew what it meant to be called a “fallen woman,” when it became known that she was pregnant.  Even though Joseph married her, there must have been talk.  And then there was the exile, living as a refugee, until finally, she could raise her son in Nazareth.  But Mary never forgot what it felt like to be knocked to the ground.  That’s why she could include in her song a particular message from God for the lowly, the hungry, the poor, and those who most need mercy.  That’s probably why one of the most popular and loving images of the Blessed Virgin Mary is the pieta: Mary sitting, or kneeling, or crouching, as she bears on her lap the weight of her dead Son, who also has fallen.

Beginning next week, as we walk the Stations of the Cross, we will remember Jesus falling three times.  Though this a stylized and symbolic falling, it puts into words and prayer a theological falling.  But as Christ falls, he rises.  Each time he falls, rises again.  And he rises stronger.  We can see him practicing this falling and rising again on the night before he is arrested, as he prays in the Garden of Gethsemane.

There in Gethsemane Jesus falls to his knees.  There on his knees he is reduced, broken, and totally given over to the will of his father:  “Not my will, God, but thine.”  And there in his brokenness, he finds strength—not his own, but God’s strength.

That’s what happens with Peter and James and John on the Mount of the Transfiguration.  They fall down, but are given new strength.  Not their own. It’s not as though they think of some new plan, or combine their energy to stand.  It’s Christ who picks them up. It’s God who reaches down to give them a hand and raise them up.  “They fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.” But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

Richard Rohr suggests that this is the real secret to life: that “the way up is the way down.”  Growth, maturity, meaning—anything worth having, only happens through sacrifice, a “going down,” or a “being taken down.”  We go up by going down.  We gain by losing.  As Rohr says, “We gain spiritually much more by doing it wrong than by doing it right.” (This is an important thing to remember as we approach the Season of Lent, with the various spiritual disciplines we may try out.)  Rohr points out that this is the “little Way” of St. Therese de Lisieux, the Way of Poverty of St. Francis, and the way of powerlessness in the first step of twelve-step recovery programs.  This is what Paul means when he tells the Corinthians, “It is when I am weak that I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:10)  [Falling Upward, p. xxiv]

Rainer Maria Rilke reflects on this in Book of Hours:

How surely gravity’s law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world….
This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.”
[Book of Hours, “Book of Pilgrimage,” II, 15-16, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy]

Rohr reflects further, “God knows that all of us will fall somehow.   Those events that lead us to “catastrophize” out of all proportion must be business as usual for God—at least six billion times a day.  … God must say after each [falling or] failure of ours, “Oh, here is a great opportunity! Let’s see how we can work with this!”  [Falling Upward, p 158.]

This Wednesday begins the season of Lent.  I don’t know where you are or will be as Lent begins.  It might be that you’re already on your knees, or feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.  Maybe you’re standing tall and will accept the invitation of Lent to “bend the knee of your heart” [As in the Prayer of Manassah], bend the knees of your body, or bend the knees of your activity in service to others.  Or perhaps you’re at an in-between place, on your way up from being down, or feeling as though you’re falling very slowly.

Wherever you may be on the edge of this season, Christ extends a hand—a hand to hold while we’re down, and a hand eventually to help us up again.  May the season ahead of us fill us with faith so that with Christ we may rise in glory.

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

A sermon for the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 16, 2020. The scripture readings are Deuteronomy 30:15-20, Psalm 119:1-8, 1 Corinthians 3:1-9, and Matthew 5:21-37.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

In our first scripture reading from Deuteronomy, Moses is giving Israel an enormous pep-talk. After forty years of wandering in the wilderness, of wondering if God is still directing them and leading them, of worrying about what might come next, Israel is on the edge of moving into the Promised Land. I don’t know the geographic setting for the speech, but from its imagery and majesty, I wonder if it wasn’t on a hill somewhere, overlooking a great expanse of land down below, and far away. Moses speaks to the occasion in grand terms, “I have set before you today life and prosperity, death and adversity. If you obey the commandments of the Lord your God, walking in his ways, and observing his commandments, decrees, and ordinances, then you shall live and become numerous…[You will be blessed.] But if your heart turns away and you do not hear, but are led astray to bow down to other gods and serve them, [then] I declare to you today that you shall perish; you shall not live long in [that] land….” Life and death, blessings and curses. “Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord you God, obeying him and holding fast to him; for that means life to you and length of days.” Choose life.

Choosing life can be every bit as dramatic as Moses makes it sound. We choose life when we move into a new relationship. We choose life when we plan for a child. We choose life when we make a new and better decision about the direction in which we’re headed.

But choosing life also involves smaller decisions. Choosing which conversation to be a part of, choosing what to eat or drink, and even choosing how we move or exercise—all can mean choosing for life over death (in the long run).

In the Gospel today, Jesus gets down to the nitty gritty, as he points to some of the guidelines for our choosing.

Jesus is talking about our living with what is sometimes simply called “the Law,” meaning the Law of Moses—the Ten Commandments, but also, with the wisdom associated with the law and its interpretation. This Gospel can sound like a real “laying down of the law.” It can sound like a faith that leaves out people. In fact, if we were to miss the fine points of the Gospel, most of us would probably find ourselves left out.
Jesus is re-interpreting the old law, saying, “it’s not enough just to keep the law. That probably won’t work very well, anyway. The key to living faithfully is to try to understand the things that move under the surface, the motivations and moods, the fears and fantasies that lead us off-track.”

Jesus repeats the commandment, “You shall not murder.” But then he goes further by uncovering some of the things that lead to murder. We might hear the talk of murder as extreme, until we begin to think of the anger, the frustration, the road-rage, the minor annoyances that can all too easily escalate. We might begin by harboring a grudge or nursing a resentment, and if we’re not careful, we can end up in court.

Instead, Jesus says we should work at reconciliation. He speaks of going to the temple in Jerusalem for worship, but if you remember your neighbor has something against you—stop your worship and go work things out with your neighbor beforehand. Notice how Jesus puts this—he doesn’t even say, if “YOU” have something against your neighbor, but rather, if your brother or sister has something against YOU. That changes the responsibility for reconciliation, doesn’t it?

Our tendency is to ignore the problems. Especially at church, or in any organization, we think that if we just avoid “such and such” or act a certain way or say a certain thing, then future conflicts can be avoided. But when we come to the altar, we feel the break in community and it haunts us. Here, Jesus is exaggerating his point.

If one left the temple in Jerusalem to go and be reconciled to a neighbor, it might take hours or days. You wouldn’t just leave the goat or turtledove or whatever you sacrifice might be sitting there on the temple steps. And yet, his point is made, isn’t it? Until we at least begin to pray for the person who has a problem with us, or with whom we have a problem, whatever we offer at the altar will be less than what it might be. And we won’t be free.

Prayers of confession are a beginning. A note, or phone call, or email, or conversation with another person is a beginning. A prayer for one’s enemy or one’s hard-to-get-along-with brother or sister, is a beginning, and that opens the heart to God’s grace. If we took Jesus’ words literally, we would have a whole lot of unused communion wafers every Sunday. But instead, what we do is we confess that we are broken people on the mend, and we ask for God’s grace to restore us and help us restore broken relationships.

As we move further into today’s Gospel, Jesus leads us into messy territory. “You shall not commit adultery,” he reminds us. But then goes on to warn about lust and about all the urges and senses that, if given energy and encouragement, lead to adultery. His answer is to watch the emotions, watch the heart.

And then, Jesus talks about divorce. This is one of those topics (like abortion, like homosexuality, like many issues) that really warrants an entire series of looking closely at what scripture says, at how the culture of the time influenced the scriptures, at how faithful people through the ages have understood the movement of the Holy Spirit. As people of faith, we continue to believe that “All Scripture is inspired of God and beneficial for teaching, for reproving, for setting things straight, for disciplining in righteousness” (2 Timothy 3: 16-17) but just as much (if not sometimes, more) we believe that the Holy Spirit helps us interpret scripture for our own day and our own lives.

There are times when a divorce is an unfaithful decision, made out of selfishness or spiritual immaturity. But there are also times when divorce is the ONLY faithful decision, and then one really needs all one’s faith to continue choosing life even in the midst of dark days. Choosing life in that case means reconciling as much as possible. Choosing life means praying for the other people involved, it means working on one’s issues, and choosing life after divorce or the ending of any relationship means being open to a new relationship or re-marriage when God opens that possibility.

We choose life with the attitude we adopt when we wake up in the morning. We choose life in our thoughts, in our conversations, in our willingness to apologize, in our ability to forgive, in our faith to move on in the Spirit of God, and in our thinking about what will follow us in the future.

Choosing life is not as easy as simply memorizing and repeating commandments and trying to harness every bit of energy we have in order to live by them. There’s no joy of Christ in that sort of life. There’s a moral slavery—exactly the kind of bondage from which Christ has come to liberate us.

Sister Joan Chittister, a Benedictine nun, sometimes sounds a lot like Jesus as she points to the limits of phrases and platitudes. Some of her words from an interview a few years ago resurfacing on social media. She cautions against using phrases and words to without following them out to their conclusion. In the interview, she specifically talks about so many of her brothers and sisters who would define themselves as “pro-life.”

She says, “I do not believe that just because you’re opposed to abortion, that that makes you pro-life. In fact, I think in many cases, your morality is deeply lacking if all you want is a child born but not a child fed, not a child educated, not a child housed. And why would I think that you don’t? Because you don’t want any tax money to go there. That’s not pro-life. That’s pro-birth. We need a much broader conversation on what the morality of pro-life is.” Notice she’s not disagreeing with the people she mentions, necessarily, but she’s pushing all of us to get beyond the sound bite, the talking point, or the rallying cry.

Whether you agree with Sister Chittister, or not, notice that she is raising the same point Jesus raises. “Choosing life” can’t be about picking and choosing which life to choose, or which aspect of life to choose. Instead, we are either moving towards life, or we are moving towards death.

Before us is set “life and prosperity, death and adversity.” If we obey the commandments of the Lord our God, walking in his ways… then we shall live, and we shall live in such a way that our life is outlived by the one who is Love Himself.

Redeemed by Christ, empowered by the Holy Spirit, let us choose life this day and for ever. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 9, 2020. The scripture readings are Isaiah 58:1-12], Psalm 112:1-9, (10), 1 Corinthians 2:1-16, and Matthew 5:13-20.

Listen to the sermon HERE. 

This morning’s first scripture reading is from the Prophet Isaiah.  At first hearing, it can sound like a rousing encouragement to join in the noise of the day, to jump into the argument, launch a new Twitter account, and let loose—all in the name of God.  Using the images from today’s scriptures, we might be tempted to throw salt into the eyes of the evil ones, and then blind them with the light of truth!

“Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet! Announce to my people their rebellion, to [everyone, everywhere] their sins. Yet day after day they seek me . . .  as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness and did not forsake the ordinance of their God …”  Those are preaching words. Prophetic words.  Words that easily find their target in our day.

It’s tempting to yell and scream and raise our voices to match the volume of those yelling around us.  And the temptations are going to grow stronger in this year of a presidential election (though I’m not sure there has been much break in the angry volume of words in the last three years.) And so, as people of faith, what do we do? Do we join the fight, Bibles in hand?  Do we go to the other extreme and check out completely?  The Biblical vision is one that integrates—justice with mercy, freedom with responsibility.

Isaiah’s encouragement is as much for looking inward as it is for looking outward.  He’s reminding people that if they claim to follow God, that faithfulness needs to be evident in the nitty-gritty, the everyday, the right-here, and right-now of life. Religious practice is done to show off and be seen, but it’s hollow on the inside.  In words that we will do well to remember when the Season of Lent begins in a few weeks, Isaiah reminds us that we’re all called to practice fasting—but not to show off our religious practice; not as a means of self-improvement, but the fast God desires is one of humility, humility in action.

To lower oneself so that one can see those who have been thrown down—and then to work with them to alleviate injustice, to free the imprisoned, to feed the hungry, and house the homeless.

Isaiah says that if we try to live like God’s people, then light will break forth like the dawn and healing will take place all around.  Isaiah is trying to get people to understand the mind of God, the Spirit of God, which God has planted in each one of us.

In the second scripture reading, St. Paul describes this Spirit of God—the Spirit being that part of God’s movement and energy in the world that appears when words fail.  And he says that if begin to forget what God is like, we simply have to look to Jesus, to seek the “mind of Christ.”

In that Jesus Christ was fully God and fully human, his mind was filled with God and the things of God. And so, to be like Jesus Christ is to set our mind on the things he values and teaches and lives out.  To be like Jesus is to allow our mind to be filled with God and God’s Spirit.

Filled with the Spirit, we discover a funny thing: all of a sudden, we are acting and thinking and living like the people Jesus has described in the Gospel. With the Spirit of God pouring through us, we shine like light for others—not in a self-conscious or self-aggrandizing way, but in a way that comes from God. And we become salty, as well—not in a way that overpowers or offends, but in a way that is distinctive and delights.

If you cook at all, you know that too much salt overwhelms a food and so you taste nothing but the salt. But just enough, and the salt encourages other flavors, and the whole dish is made better.

It’s that way in the world, as well. Empowered by the Spirit of God, we add our own Christian perspective and find that it adds to, rather than obliterates; it promotes rather than dominates.  Salt is strong enough to stand on its own, and that’s just the way our faith ought to be.

If we are centered on the Spirit, allow God to make us light and salt, then that second part of the Gospel really sort of takes care of itself.  The second part talks about the commandments of God remaining firm, and how, if we should break a commandment or teach others to do so we will be “least in the kingdom of God.” If we keep the commandments and teach others to do so, the Gospel says, we will be “great in the kingdom of God.”  All of this takes care of itself. Enlivened by the Spirit of God, we realize it when we fall, or fail, or break a commandment. And so we say we’re sorry. We might go to confession. We stop and re-evaluate and pray for the grace to carry on. Keeping the commandments is not the focus of our faith, but it becomes a natural by-product of living faithfully.

And so, how do we get this mind of Christ? How do we get the Spirit of God?

It begins at baptism.  There and then, the Holy Spirit is given to us. But we spend our lives living into the Spirit of God, through the process the church sometimes calls sanctification—a way of being made holy.

Another way of allowing the Spirit room in our lives is through prayer.

Some of you are familiar with the type of prayer known as Centering Prayer.  There are other forms very similar—Christian meditation, Buddhist and non-religious meditation, and others.  Centering Prayer works very simply.  One sits still in a chair or on a prayer stool or a mat, and one simply opens oneself to the Origin of all that exists. When a thought shows up, simply let it pass on through. Just return to the silence, the space, the place where you are inviting God to be. Sometimes a “centering word” is helpful.  It’s a little different from a mantra, which would be repeated over and over.  In Centering Prayer, the silence is welcome and the “centering word” is simply used to bring one back to center.

It can be anything like “grace,” or “blessing,” or Jesus’ word for God, “abba” or perhaps “amma.” The word isn’t the focus, it just reminds you to come back to center and simply “be.”

Centering prayer usually happens for about 20 minutes or more. It takes practice.  It’s counter-cultural because in such prayer, we’re not struggling to keep up with emails, with news, with tasks, with people, with expectations, with hopes. We’re not improving or producing or creating.  We’ve not even paying attention to our own faith, or beliefs, or prayers. It’s a time for being quiet, for practicing the quiet. As Cynthia Bourgeault describes it,

What goes on in those silent depths during the time of Centering Prayer is no one’s business, not even your own; it is between your innermost being and God; that place where, as St. Augustine once said, ‘God is closer to your soul than you are yourself.’ (Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening, p. 6)

Whether it’s Centering Prayer, meditation, a good cup of tea and quiet few minutes, or a particular walk in the park—I encourage you to find something that centers you, that calls you again to the Spirit of God within you.  Each us is called to be salty, bright, freed and forgiven people, living in the Spirit of God and sharing God’s love with any who will have it.

Especially when we get caught up in the news of the day or simply get overwhelmed with our own lives, we can pause and seek the mind of Christ.  We can slow down, breathe, notice, and give thanks for the integrating, healing, renewing, and loving Spirit within us.   And then, we allow God to use us to change the world.  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A sermon for February 2, 2020, called The Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple, or “Candlemas.” The scriptures are Malachi 3:1-4, Psalm 84, Hebrews 2:14-18, and Luke 2:22-40.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

Yesterday, I was at an event down at the Church of Calvary-St. George’s. At lunchtime, I sat next to a woman who seemed familiar with the place, and so I asked her if she was a part of that parish. “No,” she said. “I used to be, but I’ve moved to Brooklyn.” She went on to say how she occasionally goes to her neighborhood church, but “it doesn’t offer much.” And so she visits around. As she talked about the churches she frequents, it soon became clear that everyone seems to fall short. She spoke of a church that’s famous for its music, but said it can seem cold. I suggested that maybe whenever I’m there, I hear God so strongly in the music, that it makes everything else ok. “Yes,” she said, “but sometimes it’s just a performance.” I suggested she check out a church closer to her that has a new rector. “I hear really good things about him,” I offered. “Oh no,” said the women, “I’m not liberal enough to go to that church. You know, it’s like scripture says, ‘They shall wander from sea to sea, and from north to east; they shall run to and fro, seeking the word of the Lord, but they shall not find it.’” (Amos 8:12) In a rare moment of recall, I was able to suggest, “Yes, but scripture also says, ‘the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart for you to observe.” (Deuteronomy 30:14). We then talked about the sandwiches.

The poor woman I met yesterday struck me almost as a character in C.S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce (which we’re reading this month and discussing at 10 am.). She’s not very happy in this life, and chances are that she’ll have a hard time being happy in the next.

That lunchtime conversation (and today’s scriptures) reminded me of an interview by Bill Moyers with the legendary world religion historian, Huston Smith. Smith had spent much of his life travelling the world, learning other languages, studying with gurus and spiritual teachers, and praying in just about every way imaginable. When Moyers heard that Smith attends his local United Methodist church when he was at home, Moyers asked how that could be. Smith quoted an Indian teacher who said simply, “If one wants to find water, one does better to dig one very deep hole than to dig many shallow ones.”

Please don’t misunderstand: I’m not suggested that you should never visit other churches or other religious traditions. Far from it. Visit them and learn from them, and then bring back things we can learn from, things we can do better. But also, come back and give thanks the many ways in which we experience God right here.

In today’s Gospel, Anna and Simeon recognized Jesus as the Messiah, God’s unique expression in our world, partly because they are THERE. Through habits of showing up, of being open to God’s changing and saving grace, and being open for the ongoing revelation of God, they saw the new light in Jesus.

On this Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple, the Gospel doesn’t pay so much attention to the building. It focuses on the people. Jesus, the flesh and blood baby, now forty days old, is brought to the temple for a blessing. His mother Mary comes also for her traditional blessing. And then, the bulk of the Gospel involves the reaction and response of Holy Simeon and the Prophetess Anna.

Simeon has waited at the temple. He has received a vision that he will see the Messiah before he dies, and so he waits. He sees Jesus, he holds him, and then Simeon gives thanks to God for bringing such life and light into the world. Because of this little baby, because of the coming of the Messiah, there will be peace and glory and salvation, salvation for all.

Anna, too, is in the temple, night and day, fasting and praying. With her trained spiritual eye she too sees Jesus and recognizes him. She too gives thanks to God and tells others that Jesus is the way to salvation.

Simeon and Anna are people whose faith outshines the temple itself. They know to look for God in the flesh, and because of this, they recognize Christ when he comes among them.

By showing up, by being open to God’s changing and saving grace, and by being open for the ongoing revelation of God.

They show up.
In what way might God be asking you to commit more deeply to the place that nurtures you spiritually? What might that look like?

Anna and Simeon fast and repent, which is to say, they admit they don’t have all the answers and that, left on their own, they will only fall into increasing despair at the condition of the world around them. But by fasting and penitence, by being open to God’s changing grace, they age but grow younger. They become wise, but more open to new thoughts. They slowly move beyond annoying sins and habits that threaten to do them in. What is God calling you to turn over or let go of?

And finally, Anna and Simeon know what to look for in God’s ongoing revelation. Do you need to sharpen your spiritual vision in some way? By reading, by studying, by developing new habits of prayer? How might God be calling you to see more clearly so that you’ll notice God’s presence, when he’s in front of you?

The epistle reading today, from the Letter to the Hebrews, reminds us “[Christ] did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham.” Jesus was made human in every respect, so that he might offer all of his humanity to the service of God, clearing the way for us to reach God. The lesson concludes with those beautiful words of hope, “Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested.”

Without faith in the light, we’re doomed to live in darkness, to be overwhelmed by the political currents of our country and many countries, to be confounded by changes in climate and natural disasters, and to be terrified of every new, strange threat to our health. Faith in Jesus Christ offers us a way into the light.

In presenting his own body in the temple, Jesus leads us to present our bodies as well. We present all that we are to God, that he might consecrate us and purify us and help us to live more faithfully. In the Presentation, we are also reminded of that choice that comes for us every time we enter the temple: do we look for God with the angels, or do we look for God in the broken-but-healing lives all around us? And finally, the candles we light on this day remind us that here is the source of our light, that even on the darkest of days, God comes to us in this place, in sacrament, in prayer and in the outstretched hand of Christian community.

On this Candlemas, may the light of Christ be rekindled in our hearts that we may shine forth with his love in the world. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.