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The Light Shines in the Darkness

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Sermon — December 29, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

So even though I’m a dad, I try not to repeat myself too often, although my cornier jokes do sometimes emerge again and again. But if you’ve known me for a couple of years, there are two things about my life that you may have heard me say more than once (or maybe not!) One is that I’ve lived my entire life within about a seven-mile radius of this point, except for the three years when I moved down south for seminary in New Haven, Connecticut. (Sorry… That’s one of the corny jokes.) The other thing that you may have heard me say many times is that I loathe—I despise—I simply cannot stand—winter in New England.

You might see this as a bit of a paradox: If you hate the winter so much, you might reasonably ask, why have you never moved? And, well… honestly, I don’t know. I think I just love the spring and the summer and the fall so much that I forget about winter, but then, inevitably, we arrive on some morning where the weather forecast tells me it feels like -3 outside, and it does, and I feel—inexplicably—both surprised and betrayed. And also very cold.

But these days, I’m lucky. I only have to deal with the shoulder-hunching, skin-drying, cough-inducing of the cold winter air and the dry winter heat; but I have an office with windows, and short walk to work. It’s the darkness that’s the worst part of winter, in a way, and for me, the darkness was never quite so bad as the year I spent commuting an hour on the subway to work in a windowless room. If you live in Boston and you spend the hours from 8am to 6pm with no windows, there will be a few months where you really just don’t see the sun.

And I actually used to count down: I’d think, on November 21st, okay, it will only be this dark until January 21st—we still have a month to go until the solstice, so it will be two months until we’re back to this depressing length of day. And I took great comfort in that. Because as the winter solstice approached and the days grew shorter and shorter, that time grew shorter, too, until I’d reach a day when I could say; This is the darkest day of the year. This is as bad as it gets. And every day to follow will be brighter.

Of course, this is only a trick. December 29 is still quite dark. The day is really short. There is still less light than there was back on December 1. But it feels much better to me, because by December 29, we’ve passed through so much darkness, and we’re headed in the right direction again.

“In the beginning was the Word,” St. John writes in the beautiful and famous prologue to his Gospel, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:1-5)

In the beginning was the Word, the capital-W Word, in Greek the Logos, the transcendent principle and underlying logic of the universe, through which all things were made and according to which all things operate. The Logos, the Word, is that indefinable, almost indescribable thing that artists and musicians call Beauty, that mathematicians and computer scientists call Elegance, that philosophers might identify as Truth—although any philosopher worth her salt would probably dispute everything I’ve just said. It’s what ordinary folks like us might be Joy or Love or Awe—that beautiful Thing that exists outside all things yet fills the best of things and suffuses them with goodness. The remarkable thing about the Prologue to the Gospel of John is not John’s claim that such a thing exists; that there is some divine order or structure to the universe. The remarkable thing about the Gospel is what John tells us in verse fourteen: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. (John 1:14) Not that the Word became human, not that it walked the face of the earth, not that it was embodied, but that it became flesh, that messiest and most limited way of describing ourselves. That the Word of God took on frail flesh and lived a frail human life, coming in the world at a time of great darkness, and bringing new light. And “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

You know how this story ends. You know what’s on our calendar for the spring. You know the story from Christmas to Good Friday, and from Good Friday to Easter. If Jesus is the light of the world, and if “darkness” is John’s way of talking about the evil and the suffering of the world, then it makes sense to us as Christians to say that “the darkness did not overcome it,” because while Jesus died, he rose again, and he lives, still—and so we can understand why you might say “the light shines in the darkness,” in the present tense, “and the darkness did not overcome it,” in the past.

But the darkness isn’t only in the past. The light shines, even now, and that’s good news—but the light shines in the darkness, which is still here.

The world is still full of suffering and pain, injustice and oppression. The light has continued to grow. We’ve spread that single candle’s flame. Whatever its flaws may be, 21st-century America is a much better place than 1st-century Rome; in a thousand ways, from food security to medical treatments to the almost-global abolition of slavery, the world is less dark than it was two thousand years ago. And yet it’s still a far cry from an afternoon in June.

We live on December 29­—not just today, but always. We live in a world in which the days are still dark, but the light has begun to grow. God has promised brighter days ahead. God “will not rest,” as Isaiah says, “until [our] vindication shines out like the dawn, and [our] salvation like a burning torch.” (Isaiah 62:1) The light will continue grow, and the days will become less dark.

You can’t always see this trajectory day by day. To stretch the analogy just up to the breaking point, the light we see isn’t only astronomical, it’s meteorological, as well. To put it in simpler terms, a rainy day in spring can feel darker than a sunny day in late December. But the clouds come and go, and the light continues to grow. As Dr. King said, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” Over the course of a human life, or over the course of human history, we make many wrong turns. We go down paths that turn out to be dead ends. Sometimes we can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel.

But even now, while it’s still dark, we are not alone. “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts,” Paul writes, freeing us from the power of evil, and making us children of God. (Gal. 4:6) “We have his glory,” and we have seen his light. Human history since the birth of Christ looks a lot to me like the darkness in church on Christmas Eve, as what begins with a single light shining the darkness spreads and spreads. We can keep one another’s candles lit. We can shelter one another against the draft. In a thousand ways, big and small, we can share that light with the people we love, with the people around us, and with all the people of the world. And we can know that the Holy Spirit is with us, leading us toward the truth.

“For the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Christmas is the Strangest Holiday

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Sermon — December 24, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Behold, I bring you good news of a great joy, which will come
to all the people; for unto you is born this day in the city o
David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. (Luke 2:10, 11)

Christmas really is the strangest holiday.

I don’t say this just because on Christmas Eve, we await with joyful anticipation the arrival of a bearded man in Coca-Cola red whose greatest aspiration in life is to fit down the chimney of every home in the world. Santa’s not strange, he’s just part of the magic of Christmas. And I don’t say that it’s strange because the ways in which we celebrates the season have become so detached from the original story of Jesus’ birth. That’s normal for a holiday; just ask Saint Valentine. It’s not strange because you won’t find reindeer or snowmen in Bethlehem this time of year. I have nothing against reindeer or snowmen; I like Frozen as much as the next guy. (Maybe more, now that I say that out loud.)

No, I say that Christmas is the strangest holiday because on Christmas Eve, we gather here in church to proclaim, in story and in song, that Christmas changes everything; and then we return into a world where nothing has really changed.

For a holiday that commemorates a great day in history, that’s kind of weird.

Compare it, for example, to the Fourth of July. On Independence Day, we commemorate the birth of a nation in a grand hall in what was at the time the second-greatest city in America. The great leaders of the age declared their independence from the British Crown, and while the years ahead were hard, they won their Revolutionary War. When they looked back a decade later, it made sense to say that on that first Fourth of July, everything had changed.

On Christmas we commemorate another birth; not of a nation, but of a child; not in a grand hall in a great city, but in a stable full of straw in a small, provincial town. An angel of the Lord declares that things have changed: that while Augustus may be emperor, and Quirinius may be governor, “to you is born in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” (Luke 2:11)

And it was an even more dramatic scene than Philadelphia on the Fourth of July, because suddenly the heavens were ablaze with a multitude of angels, singing a celestial song. And the shepherds were amazed, and they went and found the child—and then they went home, and that was that.

There was no revolutionary war to put the little lord Jesus on his King David’s ancient throne. There was no encore to the angels’ song. Mary treasured all these words, and pondered them in her heart, but that’s about it. If you looked back on Christmas Day, a decade later, you would have no idea that anything at all had happened. Christmas came and went and in the eyes of the world, nothing had changed.

For Mary and Joseph, of course, everything had changed. But on Christmas, we claim that everything changed for us, as well, and for our world—not only in Judea and Galilee two thousand years ago but here and now:

For a child has been born for us,
            a son given to us;
authority rests upon his shoulders
            and he is named
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
            Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)

But what has really changed? The Prince of Peace has been born, and war still covers the earth. Authority rests on his shoulders. But the authorities rarely seem to follow his “wonderful counsel.” The angels have sung their “Glory to God in the highest,” but it seems that we weren’t listening when they sang, “and on earth peace, good will toward men.” This world is not quite what was promised when the shepherds watched their flocks by night.

And neither are our lives. The message of Christmas, after all, isn’t just about the big issues the world; it’s for you. But peace and joy, in our lives and in our world, are often hard to find.

This December, more than any other year, I’ve noticed a common thread in the conversations I have with people around town. “How are you,” your earnest young pastor says, “in this Advent season of quiet expectation, as we approach the joy of Christmas Day?” To which almost everyone’s answer goes something like this: “Aaaaahhhhhhhh!” Perhaps it’s the timing of a late Thanksgiving, perhaps it’s the fact that every year since 2021 we’ve piled more and more back onto our calendars, perhaps it’s the anxiety and fear that have been rising all around the nation and all around the world in recent times, but this December for many people it has seemed especially hard to summon up the Christmas spirit of peace and joy—for many people, it just doesn’t quite feel like “All is calm, all is bright.”

The angels claim that Christmas changes everything; but year after year, nothing seems to change. And so it seems to me that Christmas really is the strangest holiday.

And yet.

No change worth making ever happens on one day. Not even on the Fourth of July. Nothing really changed, after all, from the 3rd to the 4th to the 5th. The struggle for independence was already underway. and the struggle would go on for nearly a decade more. In fact, the struggle to make the ideals that inspired the Founders a reality has continued ever since. On the Fourth of July, we commemorate the events of one day not because the work was finished on that day, but because we need the reminder every year that the work is still going on.

That’s true for Christmas, too.

When God works in the world, when God works in our lives, it isn’t like the lighting of a Christmas tree, an on-off switch from darkness into light. It isn’t like the signing of a declaration, a bold and public claim that something has changed. It’s more like the birth of a child. Everything does change for a couple people all at once, but the rest of the world goes on, more or less the same. And yet as all of us grow up, our lives touch more and more people. And the lives of the people whose lives we’ve touched touch more and more people. And the love and the light that a single child brings into the world continues to spread, long after that child is gone, in ways that aren’t obvious at all unless you take the time to try to trace them back, and then you see.

On Christmas, a new light came into the world. That light shines in the darkness, still; and the darkness has not overcome it. That light shines in your life, still, even if you cannot always see it, even if you don’t always believe it.

And our Christmas traditions, both serious or strange, exist to keep that light alive, maybe even to help it grow. When we sit here, in a world ravaged by war, and we proclaim a Prince of Peace, that’s not naivete; it’s a pledge to follow a different way of being in the world. When we sit here and we sing, “all is calm, all is bright,” silently stressing about the holiday preparations ahead, that isn’t hypocrisy or insincerity; it’s a prayer. The reindeer and the snowmen and the cookies are a claim that in the darkest days, we can choose to rejoice. We can choose to light a candle, and sing a song, and drive away the darkness and the cold. And when we do we are transformed, bit by bit, into the thing we seek, into that holy light that God has kindled in our hearts. And our lives shine a bit more brightly with the gentleness and the love of Christ.

And that’s the good news of Christmas: that we still “walk in darkness,” it’s true; but “we have seen a great light,” and that in a world that often breeds despair, we can choose to practice joy instead. “For behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” Amen.

An Advent Devotional Calendar

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Many of you reading this message will be familiar with the Rev. Tom Mousin, formerly Rector of this parish and now serving as Rector of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Portland, Maine. The fact that so many of you aren’t familiar with Tom is a testament to the vibrant and growing community he fostered at St. John’s during his time here, a community that has welcomed me and many of you in the last few years.

It occurs to me this Advent that if you don’t know Tom, then you might not know about Tom’s Advent calendar. For the last 35 years, Tom and the Rev. Merry Watters, who once served as pastors of neighboring churches in Vermont, have collaborated on an Advent devotional. Each day of the calendar includes a suggested short reading from the Bible, a brief invitation or intention (“Light one candle!” “See newness,” and “Be ready” began this week), and an illustration. Each year’s calendar also includes an Advent poem.

During Tom’s time here, this calendar became—and has remained!—a part of the Advent life of many people here. This year, with so many members new to the church since Tom departed in 2019, I thought it would be worthwhile to share it again with you all, as an inspiration to take a moment each day for prayer, and a moment’s reflection, as we the day of Jesus’ birth again draws near.

You can download the calendar or subscribe to the daily devotion email, at thomasmousin.com.

Thank God for You

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Thank God for You

 
 
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Sermon — December 1, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“How can we thank God enough for you?” (1 Thess. 3:9)

Advent is a season of contrasts. The sense of quiet anticipation in the Advent liturgy of the church contrasts with the frenzy and exhaustion of the Christmas Season on our calendars and advertisements. The beauty and joy that we associate with the coming of the Christ child at Christmas contrasts with the chaos and confusion of “the Son of Man coming in a cloud” on some frightful future day. The words of Paul this morning, offering his heartfelt gratitude and prayers for the Christian disciples in Thessalonica contrasts with Jesus’ words of warning and vigilance delivered to the disciples when they are in Jerusalem.

We can talk about this contrast in a number of different ways. So for example, you might describe Advent as a season in which we prepare both for the first coming of Christ, in the birth of that sweet little child on Christmas Day, and for the second coming of Christ, on some future day, when we will finally stand before the Son of Man. Or, you might think of Advent as a time when our readings and our prayers tend to emphasize the fact that Christian life is always both “now” and “not yet”; when the promises God gives us in Christ have already begun to be realized and have not yet been fulfilled. God has already now established a kingdom of peace and love on the earth, but it has not yet fully taken hold. God has already now invited each one of us to begin a new life of faith and hope and love, but we are not yet perfect practitioners of faith, or hope, or love.

It can sometimes feel strange to live suspended between these two extremes. It can be alarming to come back to church after a Thanksgiving break, or maybe longer, ready to get into the Christmas spirit, ready to remind yourself of “the reason for the season,” and to be told instead that “there will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves!” (Luke 21:25) It can be discouraging, year after year, to hear prophecies of “justice and righteousness in the land,” to hear that “the days are surely coming” when “Jerusalem will live in safety,” and then to look around at our world, wondering where that justice and righteousness may be, wondering when Jerusalem, or Beirut, or Khartoum, or Kyiv will live in safety. It’s hard to be told, again and again, that we have been given the gift of eternal life, and then to say goodbye to people we have loved and be left with only the hope that we will see them again some day.

Advent is a season of contrasts, but here’s the thing: Our ordinary lives right run down the middle. Advent is the First Coming and the Second, the Now and the Not Yet, the Promise and the Fulfillment, and “Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.”

In just a few minutes, I’ll baptize Hugo Watson. And baptism fits, in a strange way, with this “now and not yet” truth of Advent.

In the Episcopal Church we practice both adult and infant baptism. In other words, baptism is available, of course, to adults or older children who haven’t been baptized before and are beginning a life of faith. But it’s also available to infants, and to young children, who may not even be able to speak for themselves, let alone articulate their own beliefs. And that’s actually the norm, across the church, right now and for, oh… 16 centuries or so.

Of course, I could explain this to you historically. If you’d like the detailed historical account, come ask me at coffee hour. But I think that there’s a deeper spiritual truth at play. We don’t require people to come to a full understanding of faith before they can be baptized because we know that in this life, our faith, like all God’s work, is always both “now and not yet.” We are, already now, journeying along the long road toward God. And we have not yet any of us, however old or young, arrived in the place where we will see God face to face.

But we do not journey alone. In baptism, each one of us is brought into the community of the Church. And I hope you can hear the capital “C” in that. We are not only baptized into the community of St. John’s Episcopal Church, Charlestown, but into the one, holy, catholic—which just means “universal”—and apostolic Church with a capital C, the one Body of Christ of which all Christians are members. But we are also members of this particular church, because while the united life of the Church universal is not yet been revealed, we have the life of this church now.

In our baptismal prayers, we turn away from all the spiritual forces of evil in this world. We turn toward Christ. And then soon enough, we turn to Coffee Hour. And that’s no less a holy thing. Because while God’s work in us has already begun, it is not yet complete, and here we are—stuck in the middle with each other.

            So like I said at the beginning—well, like Paul said, at the beginning— “How can we thank God enough for you in return for all the joy that we feel before our God because of you?” (1 Thess. 3:9) He writes these words to a group of Christians in Thessalonica, a church that he himself had founded during his travels spreading the good news. He’d been run out of town when he was there—as was often the case for Paul—but the people he’d gotten to know there are still in his prayers.

And I find myself feeling the same way, on this post-Thanksgiving Sunday, this baptism Sunday, this first Advent Sunday, and I find myself asking, “How can I thank God enough for you in return for all the joy I feel before our God because of you?” Not because of who you will one day be, in some heavenly reality where all our imperfections fade away. But because of you, who you are now, each one of you. Some of you I know very well. Some of you don’t really want to be known. Some of you have only stepped foot in this place for the first time. But I thank God for each one of you, for walking together for at least a little part of this journey.

Because every one of us is still a work in project. Every one of us is still waiting for God to fulfill the promises God has made. Every one of us is still praying for the strength to face the things we face right now, let alone in days to come. But we have God to accompany us along the way. And we have one another, too; to share those burdens and to celebrate those joys, to live life together as the beloved community of God.

So “may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, just as we abound in love for you. And may he so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.” Amen. (1 Thess. 3:12-13)

A Kingdom We Don’t Get to See

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A Kingdom We Don’t Get to See

 
 
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Sermon — November 24, 2024

Michael Fenn

Lectionary Readings

Did you notice anything cool about the lectionary today? Something I didn’t think actually happened; or rather, something I had never noticed happened, happened today. We get not one, but two different apocalypses in the lectionary readings for today. What a rare and wonderful treat to preach on. 

The apocalypse genre itself gets a bit of a bad rap; I would say first because of the modern connotations of the term apocalypse. And second, because we don’t get a lot of exposure to the genre. Although it was a relatively popular in the ancient world, we really only get two proper apocalyptic books in the Bible: Revelation and Daniel. 

Although the modern connotation is different, what an apocalypse does at its core is reveal something about God’s intention for the world, for humanity, and history. It often uses elaborate codes and imagery to convey its message. For Daniel, he was writing about a past period of captivity in the Babylonian exile, but the author likely actually lived under a different empire entirely. In any case, Daniel’s wider point that he makes; and the point that he makes in our reading today, is that the people holding him and his people captive are not God’s vision for the people.
In Revelation, the author is struggling under the regime of the Roman Empire. The author is given to us in the text as John of Patmos; he was likely on the island of Patmos after having been exiled on account of his faith and prophetic works. Even so, the vision that got him exiled far from his homeland was one that Caesar is not Lord, and that God has a vision for humanity that does not include the oppression of the Roman Empire. 

In both of these apocalypses, we can see a vague gesture towards the life and ministry of Jesus. For Daniel, we as Christians might read into how Jesus seems to fit the bill of the one who is “like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven…[and] given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him” it sounds a lot like how we talk about Jesus. In Revelation, we see not only a repetition and interpretation of Jesus’ ministry, but the hope and expectation that Jesus will come back, and rule the kings of the earth. 

What we hear from Jesus himself today echoes this sentiment, while also turning the idea on its head. If Jesus is supposed to be this great king who rules over the nations, he does not necessarily do a great job [by the standards of the time]: he doesn’t take down any leaders, not even the local ones, much less the emperor. Instead, Jesus responds to Pilate with the basic fact of matter that the kingdom Jesus will rule over is not of this world.  The kingdom of God is, by this Gospel’s account, incompatible with the world Jesus lives in; and the one we live in now. 

As followers of Christ, of a king whose kingdom is not of this world, we belong to a kingdom we do not get to see. We belong to a kingdom where the powers that are important in our world are not the powers that will prevail in God’s ultimate plan: no empire, no government, no nation. None of these powers are God’s ultimate plan, and to none of these powers do we truly belong as Christians. 

As reassuring as this may or may not be, it does not really make the practice of faith that much easier. 

To return to Revelation. The aforementioned author, John of Patmos, naturally brings up what I have come to know as the “John problem” here. There are a number of Johns in the Bible, and it is unclear which one we are named after, and it is unclear exactly how many distinct Johns there are. The general consensus is that our John of Patmos, of Revelation fame, is a different John than the one who wrote the Gospel. If this is true, then it likely puts John of Patmos into a category of people whom I admire greatly: the “second generation” of Christians. People like Phoebe, Silas, and Timothy. A group of people who neither got the chance to meet Jesus, nor got the benefit of having multiple generations of Christian witness to guide them. 

Phoebe appears in the New Testament as the deliverer, and likely first interpreter, of Paul’s letter to the Romans. Silas and Timothy appear as travelling companions, coworkers,  and occasional co-authors of some of Paul’s letters. For these people, and John of Patmos, they followed a ‘king’ they had never met, and travelled far from their homes to witness that to others. With seemingly only the stories they had heard about him, and their experience of faith. This is to say, John of Patmos lives into belonging to a kingdom that is not of this world in a profound way; his vision of a world beyond our own is from a fellow follower for whom faith was likely a very hard thing to have and live into.

One of the silly hobbies I have in graduate school is that I still read for fun in the small amounts of free time I am able to steal away. I was recently enamored with a book called The Bright Sword. It takes place just after the main events of the legend of King Arthur. That is, King Arthur is dead, as are all the other noteworthy heroes from the stories. All those left when our protagonist shows up to audition for a place at King Arthur’s court are the unfortunate dregs and leftovers: knights who nobody remembers, and Nimue: Merlin’s apprentice. 

Similar to John of Patmos, Phoebe, and the rest of the “second generation”, I admire these non-heroes as they grieve the loss of almost everyone they knew, while trying to repair a broken realm, and figure out what it is they should do in the absence of their leader and his magical sword. In about the middle of the book, they attempt to perform a quest that they believe will get Arthur back; or at the very least another magical king to replace him, and get therefore them off the hook for trying to save the realm. The quest, unsurprisingly, does not work. In the end, they end up doing nothing more than fading into myth and legend, left largely forgotten. However, their labor for a king who is no longer there, and for a vision of a brighter world, remains admirable nonetheless. 

Although I find John of Patmos, Phoebe, and my beloved characters from The Bright Sword inspiring. It does not necessarily make the fact of belonging to a kingdom, and to a king, I never get to physically see that much easier. In a theological sense, I have not found a great answer for this aside from pointing to the various others who have lived and also belonged to this kingdom that is not of this world. It is difficult, as we go about our daily lives with our economies, our careers, our nation, to live into the fact that as Chrisitans we are called into a kingdom that moves towards love and community, and away from economy, careers, and nations with human kings. It was likely difficult for those Christians who lived through the Plague; or who lived through colonization; or who lived through any number of strange and tragic historical events. That is to say, if it is hard, we are in good company, historically speaking and today. 

To that end, I will leave you with a story and a poem. In 1820, a sperm whale attacked and sank a Nantucket whaler, The Essex, in the middle of the southern Pacific Ocean. Its twenty-man crew were stranded at sea in open row boats for 95 days; eventually they managed to come ashore on the west coast of South America; five of the twenty survived. In 1847, a poem was written in their memory by the captain of another Nantucket whaler, The Three Brothers. The poem is “row on”

Clouds are upon the summer sky;
There’s thunder in the wind
Row on, row on, and homeward high
Nor take one look behind

Row on, row on, another day
May shine with brighter light.
Ply, ply the oars and pull away
There’s dawn beyond the night

Bear where thou goest the words of love
Say all that words can say
Changeless affection and strength to prove
And speed upon the way

Like yonder river would I fly
To where my heart would be
My barque would soon outsail the tide
That hurries to the sea

Row on, row on another day
May shine with brighter light
Ply, ply the oars, and pull away
There’s dawn beyond the night

But yet a star shines constant, still
Through yonder cloudy skies
And hope, as bright, my bosom fills
From faith that cannot die

In the name of the one who loved us first.