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“Then the people as a whole answered, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’” (Matthew 27:25, NRSV)

The above verse is certainly a harsh one. It has been abused over the centuries, twisted to fit an anti-Semitic agenda. I am here to argue that this acceptance of responsibility for murder, this horrid line in the Passion narrative, is not an indictment of the Jewish People. It is an indictment of people. You, me, us. The people as a whole.

Among the best triduum traditions in the Episcopal Church, and surely others, is the quasi-dramatic reading of the Passion. It is not a particular individual or group, nor the narrator, who shouts, “Crucify him!” It is the entire congregation, in unison, stone-faced and profoundly disturbed. Of course, we think to ourselves, we would have remained loyal to Jesus, had we only been there. Yet two of Jesus own disciples betrayed him—albeit to differing degrees—during the hours leading up to his crucifixion. Surely, many more who heard his words and saw his miracles with their own eyes turned away, too. Surely, these followers are in the crowd, begging for blood. On Good Friday, many churches have a ritual of allowing congregants to hammer nails into a cross. This is an even more direct representation of what the Gospel tells us. While we may mourn the crucifixion, we must always remain aware that we demand and perform it. We ourselves execute Christ—not out of cruelty, for the most part, but out of sheer need.

In my own Lenten discipline this year, I have become more sharply aware than ever of my utter inability to do everything God as would have me do it. Try as we might, we fall short. Even in the span of forty days, even in the span of one, we fall short. Our need is evident. Our hearts cry out for the bread to be broken, the wine spilled. Every Sunday, we are told that this was done for us, and we accept the gift; Holy Week brings us greater awareness of what this gift means. Sometimes it takes a hammer and a nail to truly understand how much of our burden we can, and must, put on Christ.

We are the ones falling asleep in Gethsemane. We are the ones leading the march to Golgotha. We are the ones betraying, denying, accusing, spitting, flogging, shouting, nailing, needing. At our best, we are Veronica, wiping the sweat from Jesus’ brow, humbly striving to meet others’ needs. We are all of these people; we are supposed to be. In this holy potential, comingled with holy, childlike dependency, lies the beauty of human life—thus the “good” in Good Friday. At the altar, sometimes consciously and contemplatively, sometimes not, we accept the blood of Christ. Now is the moment to look in grateful awe upon how much we need it.

Tomorrow, the church celebrates a day often lost or forgotten in the US, buried in the aftermath of the holiday season: Epiphany. We remember the story, found in Matthew Chapter Two, of the Magi reaching young Jesus to pay him homage. They are, in many ways, the opposite of the shepherds who were the first to worship the Christ Child—high in socioeconomic status, well educated, journeying from afar. One might see this longer journey, this far removal, as foreshadowing Jesus’ later statement in Matthew 19 regarding how difficult it will be for the wealthy to reach the kingdom of heaven. Here we receive the memorable image of a camel trying to pass through the eye of a needle (v. 24). In a classic case of value-inversion, money, a remover of worldly obstacles, becomes an obstacle itself in godly matters—indeed, more money, more problems. Upon hearing Jesus’ metaphor, the disciples are understandably frightened. In this world, it is impossible to thread a needle with a pack animal. With all our shortcomings and challenges, the cumbersome weight we bear, it is impossible for us to deserve what God desires to give. But the disciples have shown again that they are of little faith. Jesus points out to them that God knows no impossibility. The Magi had a long journey to make, perhaps because of their wealth and so-called wisdom. Yet, by starlit grace—and, we may imagine, by camel—they reach their destination.

Christians often fall into the trap of speaking as though Jesus’ birth represents an independent action on the Savior’s part, jumping in front of humanity to block the wrath of God. We misconstrue the belief that Christ is an intercessor, that the cross is mercy, to mean that the Father and the Son represent prosecution and defense. In our fervor to emphasize grace, we wander back to legalism. Instead, we must recall our conviction in God’s triunity. God does recognize our sins; God does see our failures. God also forgives, conquers, strengthens, and guides. In this kingdom, justice and grace need not be at odds. In fact, God’s recognition that the human race strays again and again in its multi-millennial journey is itself a gift. If our Guide did not acknowledge our deficiencies, understand our starting point, how could we even take the first step? We are not fugitives, concealed by Christ as we flee from a murderous overlord. God is not Herod. God is in the manger. God is with us. God both meets us on Earth and invites us to draw nearer—nearer to Bethlehem, and nearer to heaven.

Much has been said about the 2017 Warner Brothers film Wonder Woman. Naturally, the script, effects, and acting performances have been reviewed. Gal Gadot’s immense talent has been duly lauded. As this movie is one of few to revolve around a powerful, complex, female protagonist, and, some might say, the most feminist superhero movie to date, gender politics have rightfully been central to the discussion. However, as an Episcopalian and an aspiring 21^st Century theologian, I brought a slightly different perspective into the theatre.

Of course, Wonder Woman, as it is based on the DC Universe and reimagines Greek mythology, is not a movie one attends for the purpose of theological criticism. I visited the cinema with entertainment as my only goal. This changed when Hippolyta, mother of Diana, our protagonist, uttered the line, “Be careful in the world of men. They do not deserve you.” The word deserve is a loaded one in Christian theological thought, particularly when it comes to the essential struggle of grace versus legalism. In a nutshell, the idea is that divine grace operates contrarily to human logic. In our world, rules are rules—thus the legal in legalism—and fair is fair. People ought to get what they deserve. Many Christians would say that Jesus inverts this system, confounds our earthly values, and, above all, gives a love so unconditional and so unmerited that it can be difficult to accept. This, I would posit, is what Episcopal liturgy terms the Mystery of Faith: we are freely given what we do not deserve, and our task is to let go of our reservations and take part. Ideally, we will mirror this divine example by giving others gifts unearned.

In Wonder Woman, Diana, a fleshly but divine being, visits Earth uninvited to save humanity from self-destruction. Disappointingly, these humans cannot be made to behave themselves, but Diana’s belief in their essential goodness moves her to fight for them anyway. She refuses to ignore the suffering of the weak and disenfranchised. She calls out and upends corruption. She makes friends with the outcasts and misfits. She leads a group of people inspired by her selflessness. To those who have read with the Gospels, this is a familiar story. Of course, Christianity holds no patent over it; for example, Diana’s empathic horror upon encountering human pain calls the narrative of Siddhartha to mind. Regardless of religion, the concept of graceful love plays a role in all our stories. We may call it unconditional love, pure love, free love, no-matter-what love. By any name, this grace, this manna, this radical forgetfulness of what is “deserved,” is so often our salvation. The writers of Wonder Woman recognized this, and, essentially, the climactic struggle between Diana and war god Ares is the struggle between grace and legalism. The bloodthirsty villain argues that Diana should give up on the human race because they are, indeed, autonomously capable of evil—they do not deserve her. His words are the siren song of earthly gracelessness. However, a display of self-sacrificing love inspires her to stand firm, giving the unmerited gift of her compassion to humanity.

This is not to say that Wonder Woman is making a Christian theological statement. In fact, the presence of themes I would term “grace versus legalism” in a secular film shows that said themes are relatable and relevant to the intended audience of Wonder Woman: you and me. The people of the United States. The film asks us all to see, and perhaps even promote, grace in our daily lives. As our country faces political discord, we may find ourselves mistrusting the goodness of our fellow humans. But, counterintuitive though it may be, offering grace to those around us will improve our own lives. Beyond this, it is what we are predisposed to do—give and receive love, unreservedly, whether or not it is deserved.

Today, the church celebrates the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin, and we will soon celebrate Pentecost, the bestowal of the Holy Spirit on the disciples. While these two observances are at opposite ends of Jesus’ life—one before his birth, the other after his ascension—their adjacency in the liturgical calendar is much more appropriate than it seems.

In the Gospel of Luke, the Holy Spirit is first mentioned in the context of John the Baptist; “…even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit” (Luke 1:15). When Mary asks how she, a virgin, can conceive, Gabriel points to the Holy Spirit, as well as “the power of the Most High,” as the agents of this miracle (Luke 1:35). Most significantly for this holy day, Mary’s greeting to Elizabeth causes the latter to be “filled with the Holy Spirit,” and the unborn John the Baptist “[leaps] in her womb” (Luke 1:41). The voice of this young, unwed, relatively powerless woman invokes a member of the Trinity, which proceeds to inspire Elizabeth—Elizabeth, whose barrenness has been transformed into miraculous fertility. The Spirit moves Elizabeth to proclaim Mary’s blessedness to her; “…blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord” (Luke 1:45).

Of course, these are not the only two Biblical women who experience miraculous pregnancies. Sarah, the original matriarch, mires herself in serious trouble by failing to believe that she could bear a child in her old age, but God delivers on the promise of a son. The lectionary for today includes the poem of praise spoken by Hannah in 1 Samuel 2 (which, of course, is strikingly similar to Mary’s Magnificat.) Hannah, while praying fervently for a child, is scolded and dismissed by Eli, the priest, as a drunkard—much as the disciples will be upon receiving the Holy Spirit at Pentecost! One might argue that the Holy Spirit fills her with faith, which results in a prayer so passionate, whole and unbridled as to make her seem intoxicated, and then with grateful joy, which results in an exultant song of praise.

Like Hannah, Mary raises her voice to God, but, unlike Hannah’s pregnancy, Mary’s will make life significantly more difficult than it otherwise would have been. For one thing, it will be rather startling to her future husband. Yet, Elizabeth recognizes God working through Mary, who, while obedient, showed some trepidation at first. Elizabeth acts as a mirror for Mary, helping her to be aware of her blessedness, of the Spirit’s presence with her. Being reminded this, Mary turns the fear that Gabriel recognized (v. 30) into triumphant thankfulness. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” she says (vv. 46-47). Her soul and spirit, the most essential and godly parts of her, are celebrating, and she gives attention and voice to them.

Mary now views the challenge ahead as a gift, knowing that those through whom God works are indeed, as Gabriel called her, “favored.” As Hannah did, Mary extols God’s quality of lifting up the lowly while frustrating pride and greed. She knows she is a servant, and, as Elizabeth has helped illuminate, the opportunity to serve is wonderful—terrifying though it may be. In the story of the Visitation, the Holy Spirit brings life into the wombs of two women, then brings them together so that they may encourage and support each other in God.

On Sunday, when we celebrate the Pentecost, we will do well to note that the Holy Spirit, the person of the Trinity who both gives Christ and is given by Him, is not just any gift. This is the gift of a challenge. Each of us is blessed and chosen by the Spirit in different ways, and we are called, like mothers, to nourish and to bear our contributions to the world. We are also called to look for the Spirit in others—to act more like Elizabeth than Eli—supporting each other so that we may rise to this gift-of-challenge with gratitude over fear.

It has occurred to me that, since my middle name is Grace, the title of this blog could appear to be thinly-veiled narcissism. While there may be something to that, I feel I should explain what was at least the conscious reason for defining my theology this way. So, here you have it—the argument my closest friends are absolutely exhausted of hearing—the case for grace theology.

Above all else, I believe in a God of love, who, by extension, is also a God of grace. A God who works on a plane with which we are unfamiliar, who is judge, jury, bailiff, and bail. The justice of this God is unjust in earthly eyes. We are freely given what we do not deserve.

This is not to say that anything goes or that there are no rules. It is to say that the rules themselves are not God. God transcends the type of rule that our world is prone to understand and cling to. Surely, being a spiritual person involves abiding by spiritual laws. There is immense value in such discipline. However, it’s not that simple. Not that easy. We are called to do more, yet, in an often-frustrating twist, loved even when we do less. We are called to heal on the Sabbath, yet paid a full day’s wage when we work only half a day. We are called to detach ourselves from the need for earthly possessions, yet told that, in God, a camel can pass through a needle’s eye. Christ intercedes on our behalf even as we nail him to the cross. We can make no sense of this. It is ridiculous. It is grace.

This system works by neither carrot nor stick, and is therefore difficult to live by in a world which seeks binary order. It is much less challenging to attend church faithfully than it is to rejoice in knowing that the stranger sitting in your usual spot on Christmas is just as beloved of God as you are. This is where bounty, the daughter of grace, comes into play. We live as though love is a scarce resource, no matter how often God shows the infinity of love. Like Moses looking at the multitudinous stars, we are unable to comprehend the volume of the blessings laid before us, unhesitatingly. We begrudge love to others and even ourselves so insistently that we might as well carry an umbrella when it rains down upon us. In ironic imitation of the brother of the Prodigal Son, we are so hung up on what we do or don’t deserve that we eschew the feast which God pleads with us to attend. A life in Christ involves accepting that invitation. To me, this is the challenge of faith: to take up a cross the world sees as foolishness—the cross of grace. Amen.

The gifts may be opened, New Year’s champagne popped, and even the tree placed gingerly on the curb, but, in the church, Christmas is still kicking. The little wise men of our crèches draw nearer, day by day, to the manger. We persist in our celebration of Christ’s birth.

Indeed, what do we celebrate? We claim to be a society without hope, but, in recent moments, we have certainly contradicted ourselves. At the dawn of a new year, we dance, sing, gather with loved ones, pop poppers, share memories. Perhaps we shed a tear for those we’ve lost. Why would we celebrate life, why mourn death, if we were hopeless? Why resolve to improve ourselves? Why kiss? Why love at all?

The most conclusive proof that we are not as cynical as we proudly claim to be is our reaction to the sight of a child. If we did not have hope, if we did not ourselves “so love the world,” we would pity little ones for having been born. We don’t. We smile at them, coo, make silly faces. We want to see them smile back. Their very newness, openness, and fullness of possibility gladdens our hearts.

Christmas is made of this same gladness. When we celebrate the Christ Child’s birth, we celebrate the advent of love incarnate. We celebrate the greatest news: there is hope. This little baby, who is from God and who is God, is also just like us. God with us, entering into our condition and our tumultuous world. Embracing what we sometimes long to shun—humanness, uncertainty, vulnerability. God so loved the world, the world God made and saw was good. God did not forsake the creation in need of redemption, but engaged with it in the ultimate act of empathy. We are called to do the same. We are called, whether shepherds or kings, to the manger to adore the humbly-housed figure of hope. We bring all we can offer and follow the light. Amen.

As we near our celebration of Christ’s birth and a New Year, I, a would-be, not-always-wise-woman, bring a humble offering: my thoughts. They are hardly fit to be called a gift, but I pray that they will bring benefit to some reader, somewhere. I approach you as a child, an infant theologian, with little knowledge, but much hope. In the spirit of said hope, may you have a blessed holiday season.

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