From the Rector

Dear Friends in Christ,

One of the hardest things Jesus’s disciples had to bear was powerlessness. They fled. They deserted. They watched as the soldiers took Jesus away. They saw him mocked. They watched him tortured. They knew what would come next. They were powerless to stop it.

The disciples had known people who had gone through this before. They had watched the Roman Empire scoop up the troublemakers and revolutionaries and make them bear the cross. Before the cross ever became something that would mark the faithful it was used as the mark of traitors and rebellious slaves. It was the way the powerless were reminded again and again of their utter and complete inability to resist the power that occupied the land, gripped their future, and owned their fear.

I imagine we’ve all felt powerless these last two weeks. These last two years. These last two decades. Again and again we’ve said, “never again.” Yet here we are—feeling powerless as more victims flash on our screens, seemingly unable to resist this thing that grips our psyche and owns our fears.

And yet. Yet. The cross stands. 

It stands not as the mark of powerlessness but as the symbol of the breaking of power. Those who carry it, claim it, and are claimed by it know that what seemed weakness was strength. What seemed an end was a beginning. 

Thoughts and prayers. That’s the refrain. It’s become a cliche hasn’t it? It’s become a way to mock Christians, too. A way to mock our seeming ineffectiveness. It’s become not just mockery but a cheap dodge—a way to get out of doing too much that will anger too many.

It may be mockery. It may be a cheap dodge. It is also our most potent tool. It is the thing we need now more than ever.

A new law is not going to fix old hatreds.

A new policy is not going to mend shattered homes.

An election isn’t going to bring about a new spirit of loving mercy.

We need all those things but we need much, much more. We’re not powerless. We can vote, lobby, call, march, and more. But that’s not where the power of the Christian lies.

The instruments, tools, or mandates of the state won’t be the way this truly and really ends. 

It was not the hammer and nails that were the instruments of real power. It was the wounds. It was not the crown on his brow. It was the blood that came down that made a king. It wasn’t the spear or the soldiers that showed his power. It was his call for mercy—his command to forgive and love.

Our thoughts and prayers must not be bent toward begging God alone to act but, rather, toward begging God to bend our own hearts toward justice. Our thoughts and prayers must be for some inspiration, some commitment, some new sense of the desperation at the heart of these violent acts.

Our power won’t be made manifest in defeating this or that politician. Our power won’t be revealed in a landslide election. Our power won’t be anything until it is what Christ’s was: an unbroken, unbowed, unshakable desire for God to pour out his mercy. 

Stopping this violence is not going to be an act of law. It will be an act of love. We can be part of that. That is our power. It always has been. We are not powerless, my friends. But our power is not understood by the world. It can’t be. It never was. Until the cross became something more.

We may feel powerless. And yet. Yet.

Yours in Christ,

—Fr Robert