— Editor.

https://covenant.livingchurch.org/2019/06/10/a-blind-mans-pentecost/

And yes, part of the point of our cross is that you might recoil in horror or disbelief upon first seeing it, because surely that was part of the point for the people of Israel wandering in the wilderness getting bit and killed by snakes. What else were they supposed to think, lying there in fiery pain, when Moses came around the corner with a snake held up on a pole, saying, “Everybody, look!”

What is a snake in this immediate context but the very last thing you want to see? And what is a snake in the bigger story of the people of God up to this point but a symbol of sin (Eden) and idolatry (Egypt)? As if God has given up on Israel’s capacity to interpret his subtle hints, God is now saying the quiet part out loud: The spiritual consequences of your sin have now taken on material form. If you’re going to choose the way of the snake, then I will send you snakes.

But God telling Moses to cast a serpent in bronze and set it on a pole makes it look like God is telling Moses to rub a dog’s face in its mess. The Hebrew word for pole comes from the word used for standard, as in battle standard. And so the symbolic reading of the story appears obvious: What unites these people? What is their calling card? God? No. Their sin. The story makes no sense because the opposite is happening: they are being healed by looking at this reminder of their sin.

What is the cross of Jesus if not something upon which you would — and should! — recoil in horror and disbelief upon seeing for the first time? God so loved the world that he sent his only Son, this unalloyed presence of holiness and love, and we couldn’t handle it. Humanity had an allergic reaction to God’s love. We rebelled so intensely that we decided to kill the best thing that’s ever happened to us. Good Friday is, pure and simple, the worst thing humanity has ever done. But the irony of the bronze serpent is the same irony as the cross of Christ. That which only reminds us of our disobedience becomes the means of our healing. That which is the symbol of us at our worst becomes the instrument of our salvation. That which is hard to look at becomes our saving grace. The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. God uses precisely the worst thing we have ever done as a means of saving us.

God much more understandably could have treated the cross as the last straw. The incarnation was God’s epically romantic gesture of love, and we threw it in the trash. God could have raged. God could have sent another flood or earthquake and wiped out the human race once and for all, but God simply can’t not love us. Such that now, on the other side of the resurrection, the cross of Christ has become, for Christians, not a symbol of our shame, but ironically, the ultimate symbol of our hope.

And that’s what the image of this processional cross tries to capture. It’s not just a bronze serpent on a pole after all. It’s a bronze serpent on a cross, a merging of the Old Testament story with the New. It plays on the mythological too, bringing tomind the Rod of Asclepius, that deity associated with healing and medicine; and indeed, something similar is being communicated here. The Greek word pharmakon means both poison and medicine. One must come close to what kills to find what heals. Others might see an echo of the Ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail, that image of eternally repeating cycle of life and death.

And yet our cross is less ambiguous than Asceplius, more triumphant than the Ouroboros. Our serpent does not ascend a pole with a life and will of its own. It is not lying limp or crouching in preparation to strike. It is instead bent into the shape of a Celtic knot, forming a new kind of Celtic cross. It is sin and shame bent into something holy; a symbol of everything that has gone wrong now forced to obey the holy purposes of God. One’s healing is not left to the random prescriptions of Fate, but is certain and once for all. It is not a symbol of apathetic resignation, but one of perfect infinity, of paradise. A Celtic cross, notably, is not a cross; it is not an instrument or torture. It is decorated, embellished; it’s the kind of cross that can only exist after the resurrection, as is this one. This is the epicenter of our salvation: God taking something bad and turning it into something good.

This cross shows what God does with our sin and shame, not just in the big, cosmic, soteriological picture, but in the humdrum, everyday shape of our discipleship and sanctification as well. It’s turtles all the way down. Our sins, our varieties of idolatries, are not something that we often set aside time to look at. But that is precisely what the season of Lent is for, to look at that in ourselves which is hard to look at, which is why we wanted to use this cross specifically for the Lenten season. We are invited, as we prepare to celebrate the Paschal feast of Easter, to devote ourselves to disciplines of fasting and penitence. These are exercises of looking directly at the serpents in our lives, the snakes lurking in our hearts and imaginations.

This is hard work. But we believe, as Christians, that though it is hard, we ultimately have nothing to fear from it; that, in fact, the small shape of our spiritual disciplines mirrors the cosmic shape of our salvation, so that looking directly at our sins and shortcomings can become a source of healing and grace. This is what the sacrament of confession is for. You put your sins out into the open air before a priest, and in doing so, are led by their counsel into renewed wisdom. This is what therapy is for. This is what saying you’re sorry is for. This is what being a Christian is all about. This is the power of God: That through Christ, God can take any sin, any mistake, and through the cross, work it into my salvation. That through the church, by the Spirit, our sins and our shame can become gifts unto our sanctification. God can mold our mistakes into something holy, even beautiful.

The Rev. Zac Koons is rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Austin, Texas.

Antoni Gaudi’s dream was to create a Bible out of stone, a dream that became — actually, is still becoming —  the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia, the most ambitious piece of Christian architecture in the modern era, the icon of Barcelona, and my single favorite church in the world.

Gaudi began his “Bible” in 1883 and he wanted to start with Christmas; that is, the first piece of his temple would be a grand entrance façade dedicated to the Nativity. This would be one of three entrance façades that, when combined, would preach the basic contours of the gospel to the world — the second being devoted to the Passion and the third to Christ’s second coming. Sadly, despite dedicating 42 years of his life to its construction, Gaudi never got to see even his first façade finished. On a summer morning in 1926, walking to church to make his daily prayers and confession, Gaudi was struck by a streetcar. So ascetic were his habits — eating frugally and wearing worn-out clothes and shoes — that passers-by assumed him to be a beggar, and so he did not receive adequate medical care. He died a few days later, having only seen one of the four Nativity bell towers completed.

But Gaudi’s Christmas story in stone still contains plenty for us to ponder. His plans and principles were followed fanatically — in both spirit and letter — by subsequent generations of his architectural apostles. And with the Nativity façade now standing in final canonical form, it invites exegesis like unto a scriptural text. And when we dig into it, we discover not just another dime-a-dozen Christmas crèche with sentimentalized sculptural accoutrements, but a shockingly fresh and deeply theological telling of the birth of Christ — one which, through the process of its design and construction, transformed Gaudi himself from a public celebrity of high society to an obsessively devoted and self-denying disciple.

It is an incarnational telling of the Incarnation in the deepest sense.

And so, in a moment of travel bans and still-depressing lockdown, allow me to offer a window of momentary escape to the bright skies of Barcelona. You can even stand with me virtually before the Nativity façade if you like.

The first thing one notices is not the sculptures at all, but rather everything filling the space between them. What looks to be a thousand abstract sandcastles melting into the stone are actually a thousand varieties of fauna and flora. On the whole, they give the façade an organic sort of unity, making one scene melt into another as if to say, “All these different stories are really one story.” Individually, they work both to set geographical context and to make theological argument through symbol, often intentionally blurring the lines between what is ancient and what is modern, what is biblical and what is Barcelonan.

The portal on the left, for example, where one finds the Holy Family’s flight, is decorated in the rich vegetation of Egypt, particularly of the Nile, where ducks and geese (the centerpieces of many a Christmas feast) float amongst riverbank reeds, water lilies, and papyrus; while the portal to the right, where one finds scenes of Jesus’s childhood and adolescence, is adorned in the desert climate of Nazareth, hosting spiky century plants and chameleons where gargoyles ought to be. Easter lilies and irises, along with branches from olive, cherry, and peach trees, emerge within the central portal as if planted in the plaster, while the central doors are flanked by two giant Mediterranean palm tree pillars that each rest on the back of turtles (actually, a tortoise to the left and turtle on the right, meant to distinguish which side of the church is closest to the sea). The central pillar is the beginning of an ascending theological typology, moving from the serpent-wrapped tree of the knowledge of good and evil at the bottom all the way up to the crowning Christmas cypress tree of life, with the Matthean genealogy, a pelican, the annunciation, and the centerpiece Nativity sculptural group taking up the middle.

Moving to the sculptures themselves, though predictable in content — one sees the Annunciation, Visitation, Presentation, shepherds, magi, a burdened donkey fleeing towards Egypt — their style was determined by Gaudi’s theological interests. Instead of molding idealized forms that imitated Greek sculptures or Renaissance paintings, Gaudi insisted on using the normal, working-class people of Barcelona as his models.

He recruited, for example, one of his own construction workers to pose for Joseph and a well-known neighborhood drunk for Judas; while the local military bugle corps, who regularly practiced in a nearby field, were the models for the trumpeting angels. He convinced a menacing giant of a man with six toes known to regulars of a nearby bar to pose as the Roman soldier carrying out Herod’s horrid orders. Gaudi took this incarnational logic to obsessive extremes. He borrowed a local peasant’s underfed donkey and chloroformed it so he could then cast the actual living animal in plaster (a process he repeated with all the chickens and geese). Perhaps too incarnationally, the sculptures of the slaughtered innocents are modeled on casts of actual stillborn children Gaudi obtained from a local hospital.

This intensity, even if occasionally overwrought, grew out of a theological commitment. Gaudi did not simply want to transport the people of Barcelona to first-century Bethlehem, he wanted to show them what it would look like for Christ to become incarnate in the Barcelona of his time. Gaudi’s Nativity façade is more than a Bible; it is a Bible come to life; it is a richly written Catalonian Nativity pageant.

There is another very subtle trick of incarnational theology hidden in Gaudi’s architecture: inverted proportions. That is, not all the sculptured scenes are the same size; instead, they are each intentionally distorted according to where they live on the façade. The higher up on the façade, the larger the sculpture is; the further to the left or right, the more proportionally distorted in the inverse direction. The intent being, all the scenes are oriented towards one viewing spot, one exact instance of latitude and longitude, designed so that, from there, you can take in the entirety of the story at once.

Or to put it more theologically, for Gaudi, the entire complex story of the Incarnation, spanning geographies, genres, and generations, not only has internal cohesion as a single story, but is all a single story pointed at you. It is shaped to and for humanity, in one particular time (modern Barcelona), yet for all times (meant to stand for centuries to come). This, for Gaudi, is about more than just telling the Christmas story with faces Catalonians would recognize; it is told in such a way that each person coming to see this Christmas story in stone actually comes to see themselves as characters in the story. Like Byzantine icons use inverted perspective to draw someone in and through themselves towards God in prayer, Gaudi’s façade does the same. The viewer, standing and staring, are themselves a sculpture in the story. Gaudi has invited you out of the audience and onto the stage.

Finally, Gaudi’s theological vision ascends one level higher, revealed when one steps further back and allows one’s gaze to float upward. The higher one looks on La Sagrada Familia, the more one leaves the world of the Bible and enters the age of the Church. The four bell towers of the Nativity façade are each devoted to an apostle (which totals twelve towers when including those on the other two façades). Toward the very top of each, curved episcopal shepherd’s crooks emerge from squared signet rings, and each are crowned with what look to be bishop’s mitres. The sculpted words “Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus” run horizontal across each tower while “Hosanna” and “Excelsis” fall down vertically. One’s viewing experience, as it drifts upward, is transposed from catechesis below to worship on high. Gaudi’s intention is clear: when the tower bells ring, it is the apostles themselves inviting you to come inside. Gaudi’s church is more than a Bible, it turns out, and more than a pageant too; it is an entire journey of discipleship in stone.

Due to a second COVID-19 surge in Europe, the Sagrada Familia is currently closed to the public — an appropriate, but still tragic reality during, of all times, the Feast of the Nativity. At the same time, many of us are implementing our own appropriate but still tragic precautions this holiday season — we can’t travel to family; family can’t travel to us — marring this typically great feast with isolation and discouragement. Still, perhaps Gaudi’s Nativity contains a Christmas message of hope that meets this lonely moment like an antidote. Gaudi reminds us that Christmas isn’t about us doing the traveling anyway. It is about God traveling to us. All the way to Barcelona even. All the way to wherever we are. All the way to you. Gaudi’s Christmas story in stone is not about Christ coming among us then. It is about Christ coming among us now. The Incarnation is pointed at you. Merry Christmas.

The Rev. Zac Koons is rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Austin, Texas.

Allow me to refresh your memory: It’s 2016, game seven of the World Series, bottom of the tenth inning. There are two outs, the Chicago Cubs are up by one run, and Michael Martinez of the Cleveland Indians is at the plate. On the second pitch, Martinez hits a short-hop grounder toward third base, which is fielded by National League MVP, Kris Bryant, who collects the ball, throws the runner out at first, and falls to his knees. Bedlam ensues. The Chicago Cubs have just won the World Series.

This, dear reader, was one of those moments where the fabric of the universe gets pulled back and for one fleeting second you see its underlying logic. Call me crazy, but just about everything you need to know about the Christian moral life is embedded in that five seconds.

Let me explain. There are three things present within those five seconds I want to mention.

Number one: First and foremost inside those five seconds is the palpable presence of the Curse. If you’re a Cubs fan, you know about the billy goat. You know that it had been 108 years since the Cubs won their last World Series, which is a drought twice as long as the next team in line. And you’re confident the reason for this is because the last time the Cubs came close to winning a trophy in 1945, a Wrigleyville pub owner was kicked out of the stadium because his pet goat, Murphy, whom he brought with him into the stands, smelled so bad it was bothering other fans, and that in an act of retribution, that pub owner put a hex on the Cubs organization, leading them not only to lose that World Series but also keeping them from ever making it back .

Evidence of the curse has been abundant: from the stray black cat incident of 1969, to the Bill Buckner error at first base in 1986 at Shea Stadium (he was wearing a Cubs batting glove!), and, of course, the Bartman foul ball fiasco of the 2003 NLCS. The curse hangs in the consciousness of Cubs fandom during this five seconds, so that even though a short-hop grounder to third ends in an easy out 99% of the time in professional baseball, they know better than to presume those same odds apply to them. They practically expect an error.

Like Cubs Nation, the weight of a curse looms large in our daily lives. It’s called sin. Its existence is even harder to deny than the curse of the billy goat. Not only do we see its effects everywhere around us in every act of injustice, every illness, and every death, but we feel it inside our own consciousness, too. It changes the chemistry in our brains, so that things that shouldn’t be difficult to do, like go to the gym, or make eye contact with a homeless man, or pray, turn out to require much more significant moral rigor. The deck is stacked against us.

Number two: If you watch these five seconds through an alternate camera angle, one zoomed in on Cubs third baseman, Kris Bryant, for the duration of the play, you’ll see something miraculous — that in the same millisecond the ball comes off the bat, the same millisecond Bryant realizes the ball has been hit toward him, but still long before the ball is safely in his glove, much less the glove of the first baseman, Kris Bryant is smiling. He’s beaming, actually. Ear to ear. It might be the most beautiful moment I’ve ever seen in sports.

You see, even though it’s not quite done yet, he can already see in his mind everything that’s about to happen. Even though it’s still four seconds into the future, he can already see a future where the curse is broken. The horizon of a whole new world is unfurling before him. And in this new reality, why couldn’t the Cubs win it again next year? Or for the next five years? It’s an amazing moment. The game isn’t quite over; technically the curse is still in effect, but Bryant is already feeling the effects of redemption in his bones. He is, in some strange way, already living in the future.

This is the moment we live in. This is the already-but-not-yet. This is what Advent is all about. Redemption isn’t done quite yet, but by reading the prophets, and looking to Jesus, we can see that future on the horizon. We know what it will be like. The lion will lay down with the lamb. All wrongs will be made right. Death will be no more. And we’ll experience eternal companionship with God and one another. We can see that future from here.

In fact, we can already feel the effects of redemption in our bones. Salvation is something we experience now. Our sins have been forgiven. And we’ve been given the Holy Spirit in our baptism, who is working in our bodies and in our communities to bring about redemption here and now, through repentance and reconciliation.

Which is why — to put it simply — being a Christian means being someone who often can’t help but smile. Christians are definitionally a joyful people. Being joyful does not mean ignoring the pain, the brokenness, or other not-yet-redeemed parts of creation. Being joyful does not preclude being sad, heartbroken, or even depressed. The joy of the Christian smile comes from a deeper place. This deeper place knows that though the curse still lingers in the air, its existence is temporary; that despite all the heartbreaking realities of our world, in the end God wins; and that we can, to some extent, already experience that victory. To be a part of the Church is, in some strange way, to be already living in the future.

Number three: Even though Kris Bryant is smiling, he still needs to throw the ball and get it to first base. Even though we can see comprehensive redemption in our future, there’s still work that needs to be done. The name for that work is discipleship.

How do we do discipleship? Well, how does Kris Bryant successfully field that grounder and throw it to first base? Training. Actually, you’d be hard pressed to find a better, more theologically rich metaphor for Christian discipleship than the particular kind of training undergone by baseball players.

The way one becomes a good baseball player is more about the formation of instincts and habits than it is the repeated rehearsal of individual plays or shots. A batter at the plate has a fraction of a second to decide whether or not the pitch coming at him is a ball or a strike, and therefore whether or not he should swing. That’s not enough time to think. Instead, he must develop instincts, so his bat practically responds involuntarily, almost automatically. And he forms instincts by developing habits, by facing so many thousands of different kinds of pitches that his bat is ready, in the game, to respond to whatever kind of pitch comes next. Likewise, Kris Bryant doesn’t prepare to field that grounder by having some machine duplicate exactly that kind of short-hop, slow-moving, left-spinning grounder a hundred times. There are a tremendous number of ways a ball can come off a bat. The key is to have taken so many thousands of different kinds of grounders in practice that in the game you’ll be ready to field whatever kind of hit comes your way.

The truth is that Kris Bryant had no idea what was about to happen when the pitch was first thrown. And it’s the same for us. We often have no idea what’s coming at us next. Will it be cancer? A new boss? A larger salary? A car crash? A divorce? Or an unexpected healing? As in baseball, and so too for us, there can be long seasons when it feels like nothing is really happening. But the truth is on that last play, every single Cubs player was on the tip of their toes, ready for the ball to be hit to them.

Christian discipleship is not about being able to predict or control what happens to you next. It’s about developing the right kinds of holy instincts so you can respond Christianly to whatever comes your way. Our habits aren’t calling balls and strikes. They are going to church. Reading the Bible. Praying. Living in Christian community and friendship. Doing works of mercy. They are eating and drinking the Eucharist. It’s precisely through repeated reps at the Christian plate that we can hope, when those crucial moments come in our lives, to respond with forgiveness instead of vengeance, to react with patience instead of anger, to almost involuntarily respond with kindness instead of selfishness, or peace instead of violence. We all know it’s not a question of whether or not these moments come. They always do. And if we want to get the ball to first base, we have to develop holy instincts.

You can see, actually, how the well-developed instincts of Kris Bryant make his smile possible. He was so confident in his instincts that he could relax and enjoy the most intense moment of his career. Christian joy, it turns out, is actually a moral accomplishment. And so the reason to undergo training, the reason to keep going to church, to keep reading your Bible, to say the Daily Office yet again, is all about more than just doing the right thing in life’s important moments. It’s about joy. It’s about you being able to smile.

The Rev. Zac Koons is rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Austin, Texas.