From time to time, people ask me quite interesting questions about one of our readings, or about some other Biblical or theological question. I’ve realized that some of the questions and answers may be of more general interest! I thought I’d try writing up and sharing answers to some of these questions from “the Rector’s AMA inbox.” (For anyone who’s blessed not to spend too much time on the Internet, that’s “ask me anything.”) I love answering these kinds of questions, either by email or off the cuff, so feel free to grab me at Coffee Hour or any time and ask!

On Sunday, we read the story of Paul and his companions traveling to Macedonia to spread the Gospel, following a dream in which Paul saw a “man of Macedonia pleading with him and saying, ‘Come over to Macedonia and help us.’” (Acts 16:9) Symbolically, this is a huge deal: the Acts of the Apostles tells the story of the spread of Christianity from east to west, beginning in Jerusalem and ending in Rome, and this brief journey across the sea from Troas to Philippi marks the dividing line between Asia and Europe in both ancient and modern geography. Paul’s missionary journeys spanned much of the ancient Eastern Mediterranean, and so one of you asked me a very good question: How did Paul communicate with people on his travels? i.e., When Paul goes to a quiet place of prayer down by the river to speak with Lydia and her friends, what language did they speak?

It’s a great question. Paul’s journeys landed him, at various points, in areas that are now part of Israel and the West Bank, Lebanon, Syria, Turkey, Cyprus, Greece, and Italy; he was just a stone’s throw from parts of modern Macedonia and Bulgaria. These days, if you went on that journey you’d encounter people speaking Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, and Italian, and not all of the people involved get along particularly well. If you only spoke one of those languages and went on that same journey, you might have an awkward time.

Although, more likely, you’d more or less get by traveling through the region speaking English. And indeed, in the 21st century it’s fairly common to hear two people, from two different countries, neither of whose first language is English, speaking English together; it’s what we call a lingua franca in much of the world.

In the ancient Eastern Mediterranean, the lingua franca was Greek.

The Greek language had always been the native tongue of the coastlands and islands around the Aegean Sea, as well as various cities that originated as Greek colonies in southern Italy and around the coastline of the Black Sea. After the conquests of Alexander the Great, the Greek language spread throughout the former Persian Empire, and became the language of government, administration, and culture, especially in the areas of modern Turkey, Syria, and Egypt.

Greek coexisted, in these areas, with other local languages, to varying extents. So for example, in Egypt, Greek was the official language of the ruling dynasty and the upper class, and coexisted alongside a Greek-influenced form of ancient Egyptian that developed into Coptic. In greater Syria (modern Syria/Lebanon/Israel/Palestine), the same kind of urban/upper-class Greek coexisted along with Aramaic, the dominant language of ordinary people and the countryside. (Because of the way these things work, Aramaic itself had spread as the language of administration used by the Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Empires, and had mostly supplanted earlier local languages, including Hebrew, a few centuries before!) And in areas that were ruled by Greek-speaking governments for longer, local languages like Phyrgian died out entirely.

And Greek was also the language of philosophical and literary discourse in much of the Western Mediterrean, even in areas where people would otherwise speak Latin. This was certainly true for Christians in the West, communicating with other Christians in the East: not only Clement of Rome (writing to Corinth) but Irenaeus of Lyons (in what’s now southern France) wrote in Greek. But this was even true for non-Christians. So, for example, when the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote his philosophical Meditations, he didn’t write them in his native Latin; he wrote in Greek.

Jesus grew up in Galilee, where he certainly spoke Galilean Aramaic and very likely grew up fluent in Hebrew, as well. (Whether Hebrew was still a spoken native language in parts of Judea or Galilee at the time is somewhat debated, although I’m inclined to accept the view that evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Mishnah suggests that it was. Hebrew was definitely in continuous use as a religious language and Jesus would have been steeped in it weekly from birth, in any case.) A local businessman like Joseph would likely have spoken a bit of business Greek, but it’s unlikely that Jesus went around teaching in Greek; while the original versions of the Gospels are written in Greek, this is almost certainly a very early translation of Jesus’ teachings. (We don’t have any Aramaic originals.)

But Paul was a Roman citizen, born and raised in Tarsus in Cilicia. (One of those majority-Greek sections of what’s now the southern coast of Turkey in the map above.) He almost certainly grew up speaking Greek as a native language, and his letters show it. While he doesn’t have the elevated style of a classical Athenian orator, he clearly thinks in Greek. But as an observant and educated Jew, Paul was also intimately familiar with written and spoken Hebrew, and almost certainly fluent in Aramaic.

So: How did Paul communicate with people on his travels? Greek and Aramaic gave him everything he needed! Most of his ministry and most of his letters were written to congregations who shared his native tongue of Greek. Others, like his letter to the Romans, could easily have been translated from Greek to Latin by any educated Roman. And when his travels took him to Jerusalem, or rural parts of Syria, he could get along just fine in Aramaic.

I don’t think this kind of bilingualism was uncommon, but it did sometimes take people by surprised, especially if they didn’t know who Paul was. When he visited Jerusalem, for example, the Roman tribune, thinking that Paul was a rural Egyptian rebel, was surprised to hear Paul address him in Greek (Acts 21:37); but in the same scene, the locals are surprised to hear him address them in Hebraisti, likely in this case meaning “in the Jewish dialect of Aramaic” but possibly (and more literally) “in Hebrew.” (Acts 22:2)

Paul’s ability to communicate in these two idioms both reflects and enables Paul’s remarkable position in the church: as the apostle to the Gentiles par excellence, the one person responsible, more than any other, for the spread of Christianity from its Jewish origins into the Gentile world. In a sense, the question “How did Paul communicate on his travels?” opens up into the whole story of Christianity—not only in the first century, but in the twenty centuries since, in which the stories of Jesus have been translated into and adapted for nearly every language and culture in the world.

Earlier this week, Alice and I had one of those funny conversations where you suddenly realize that different people take different things for granted. It was early in the morning. I was finishing off a cup of coffee. She was making a cup of tea. Murray was still asleep. And I said something like, “I think I’m going to go for a run. I was going to take the day off, but it’s pretty nice out, and it’s low tide, so I might as well.”

She looked at me like I had grown a second head. “You know what the tide is?” she asked.

Well, I’d never really thought about it before, but sure. I run pretty much every day along the water—usually up Bunker Hill Street past the Harvard-Kent to the Navy Yard, then back up along the Mystic to Schrafft’s, and home. Or sometimes the other way: to Schrafft’s, then along the boardwalk for a while and over toward the High School. In any case, the water is the point. I love the ocean, and the glorious smell of the river or the harbor lifts my spirits. You get it all throughout the neighborhood when the weather is warm, and especially when it’s a little humid. And you get it most strongly along the water at low tide, when the seaweed and the muck are uncovered.

So of course, as I run along the water, I notice the tide. And it shifts by an hour or so each day, so that for a few days at a time, it’s low when I’m running, then higher, then high, then lower, then low, then higher, then high…

I may be unusual for knowing about the tide, but we all inhabit these cycles in time. Perhaps you rhapsodize, like some of my family do, over the waxing and waning of the moon, continually amazed by how full and how bright it can get. Perhaps you’ve been delighting in this spring’s bright green leaves and blooming flowers, or bemoaning how high the pollen count has been. Perhaps you’ve rolled your eyes at the parking notices that have appeared on lamp-posts and windshields throughout the neighborhood this week, like little migratory flyers coming home to Boston for Construction Season. And if you’re a really astute worshiper, you may have noticed that our readings on Sunday mornings repeat themselves every three years; if it feels like you’ve heard them before, it’s probably because you have.

Sometimes it can feel like we’re trapped in these cycles, returning to the same patterns over and over, for better or for worse. (Are they really tearing up Main Street again?) But as the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “No one steps in the same river twice.” Everything changes and flows continuously. When you return to the same river, it’s no longer the same river, but new water from upstream. And you’re no longer the same person, either.

And these cycles of life—whether they’re as short as the tides or as long as our lectionary—offer a continual invitation to reflect. Do I remember the last time the tide was so low, or the moon was so full? Do I remember when the flowers started to bloom last year, or when my eyes started to itch? Where was I when last construction season began? (And where on earth did I manage to park my car?)

These moments provide a chance to look back, and to see that the cycles shape our life, not so much into a circle as a spiral. We spin around and around, following the same cycles over and over, but we’re also constantly moving and changing. We arrive at this moment in spring and find that our children are a year taller, or our joints are a year creakier, or our losses or pain are another year in the past; that new things have happened, for better or for worse, and that we are not the same people we were the last time around.

Maybe all this motion is random. Or maybe there’s some sense to it all. Maybe God is drawing you slowly in one direction or another. (Or maybe you’re running away.) But pay attention to the tide—whatever that may be for you. Pay attention to the cycles of your life, as they ebb and flow, and as you continue to change. Because it’s true: We never do step into the same river twice.

I wrote a short note last week about our annual Clergy Conference, including the wonderful work our speaker, the Rev. Becca Stevens, is doing at Thistle Farms.

This week, I wanted to offer some observations gleaned from conversations with my clergy colleagues. Some of these may be more churchy than spiritual, more ecclesiological than theological. But I suspect that some of you are rather churchy people, so I thought you might be curious to hear some reflections on the state of our church, and of the wider church, right now.

First: life in smaller churches can be hard, but it is beautiful. During one afternoon session, I sat around a table with the rectors and priests-in-charge of a handful of small churches scattered around Massachusetts, talking about how our congregations are involved in their communities, and what support small churches need to thrive. Many of those present shared reflections on the same struggles: shortages of volunteers and of resources, aging buildings and ailing congregations, the danger of burning out the faithful lay leaders who keep small churches afloat. But all of us also shared the same profound sense of joy: There is a beauty that comes from the life of a small church that is hard to replicate in a larger setting. Larger churches divide up naturally into smaller groups—you can only get to know so many people at once—and these are often based on age, or interest, or activity. But in smaller churches, we are more or less one large small group; people get to know one another who might never interact otherwise, and this is a gift. Personally, I thank God every day that I get to know all of you so well; we do not have an Associate Rector for Pastoral Care and an Associate Rector for Children & Youth, we just have the one Rector, who therefore gets to take the children’s questions and concerns as seriously as he does yours.

Second: relatively speaking, St. John’s is now a medium-sized church. Or rather… the median church in the diocese is now a relatively small church. To put it in terms of Average Sunday Attendance (ASA), which is one of the pieces of long-term statistical data the church collects: on the average Sunday in 2023, the median church in our Diocese had 51 people at worship. St. John’s had 48. Roughly speaking, there are as many Episcopal churches in eastern Massachusetts that are smaller than St. John’s as there are that are larger than us. I’m accustomed to thinking of St. John’s as a small church, and perhaps that’s also true. But I think it’s useful to recognize that if we’re a small church, then most of our Episcopal churches these days are small churches, too, and some much more so!

Third: to paraphrase Anna Karenina, all full-time priests’ schedules are alike; all part-time priests are part-time in their own way. Many of you know that I’ve served St. John’s at 60% of full time since my arrival here in 2020. For me, that means being here every Sunday with a sermon in hand, and scaling down in the number of days I’m available during the week. Some other parishes share a priest 50-50 to provide a full-time job, with services at both churches each Sunday (but economies of scale in worship planning and sermon writing!); other churches have a part-time priest, who (for example) is paid half-time and is at church every other Sunday. Our bishop has spoken about wanting to support collaboration between parishes to ensure more full-time positions are available. It’s led me to reflect on how glad I am that our particular model works. I’m often at church 8:30am-2pm on Sundays, and those are the most important hours of my week; I couldn’t imagine trying to cram in another service somewhere else during the day, and missing out on community and fellowship here. (And just for the sake of clarity, I’m very happy with our set-up and am not able to move up to full-time work at the moment due to my family commitments!)

All of which is to say: we are at a time of open questions, a time of threats to the sustainability of many churches which is also a time of great opportunity. My experience here over the last few years has suggested we’re also in the early stages of a period of revival or renewal in the life of the church; the post-Covid period has come with a hopefulness and joy for the future that is different from the sense of long-term decline and loss that came before it. There aren’t any easy answers for what the model looks like for ministry in the church going forward… But this year’s Clergy Conference gave me a new sense of hope and trust in our Bishop and other diocesan leaders to help us work through it.

This is a lightly-edited version of my Holy Week post from 2022, with updated dates and some changes to the opening reflection. If you remember reading it back then, kudos! Your memory is better than mine.

I’ve experienced many strange things as a priest, but by far the strangest was being mocked by a man wearing tights and carrying a musket for shamelessly going around outside without wearing a hat.

It was a Monday morning in mid-April, and I was at the Old Burying Ground in Lincoln, where I had been invited to offer prayers for the fallen British regulars who’d been buried there after the Battle of Concord in 1775. (The Congregationalist minister was invited to pray for the fallen colonial militia. Go figure.) Except for the two clergymen and a rather-uncomfortable representative from the British Consulate, the event consisted entirely of historical reenactors: men dressed in the uniforms of the British Army or the humble clothing of the Minute Men, shooting off blanks from authentic flintlock muskets in memory of the events of the past.

Our Holy Week can sometimes like feel an historical reenactment of the same kind, as we remember the events of the last week of Jesus’ life and act them out: waving palms, washing feet, breaking bread, and even giving voice to the main characters of the story in dramatic passion plays.

But Holy Week is not quite a historical reenactment. We don’t try to replicate the details of clothes or tools. We don’t dress in ancient garb or use first-century towels to dry our feet. Ours is a symbolic reenactment, pulling out a few key practices and moments from the events of Holy Week and reshaping them into the form of our liturgies.

But we share the same simple idea: that human beings are more than disembodied minds. By reenacting what has been, we learn from and experience the events of the past and allow them to shape us in the present and for the future. By reenacting the struggle for freedom, we strive to remain a free people. By reenacting Jesus’ acts of love, we allows ourselves to be formed into more loving people.

The services of Holy Week are always quieter and more intimate than our larger Sunday liturgies. It can be hard to fit them into an otherwise-busy week. But I want to invite you to join us this year, even for just one or two, and to allow yourself to reenact, for a moment, one part of the story of God’s love for you.

Palm Sunday — April 13 — 10am

We celebrate Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem with a parade of palms, and remember the crushing disappointment of his betrayal, arrest, and death with a reading of the Passion According to Luke.

This year’s service will begin in the Sanctuary with a celebratory anthem from the Junior Choir.

Maundy Thursday — April 17 — 6pm

As Jesus gathered with his disciples for a Last Supper together, we share a simple meal. As he taught them his “new commandment” to love one another as he loved them, and then humbly knelt to wash the dirt from their feet, we wash one another’s feet. As darkness fell and he went out to the Garden to pray, we strip the decorations and ornaments from our sanctuary and bring the Blessed Sacrament to rest in a Garden of Repose.

The service begins around the table in the Parish House, and moves to the Sanctuary for foot-washing and the Eucharist. (Participation in foot-washing is completely optional!)

Good Friday — April 18 — 7pm

We remember again the events of Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, trial, and death with a solemn service of readings and prayers, and venerate the cross on which he died and through which he destroyed the power of death.

Holy Saturday — April 19 — 12pm

One of the simplest, most austere, but most moving services of the year, the Liturgy of the Word for Holy Saturday reflects on the day in which Jesus rested in the tomb, and offers prayers drawn from our funeral services.

This is a short service of prayer and reflection, with no music.

The Great Vigil of Easter — April 19 — 7pm

Our celebration of Easter begins with the kindling of a new fire and the retelling of the whole story of salvation, stretching from the moment of creation through Easter morning, followed by a festive celebration of the first Eucharist of Easter.

The Easter Vigil is the first celebration of Easter, so we follow it with a festive champagne and chocolate reception to break the Lenten fast!

Easter Sunday — April 20 — 10am

We journey with the women who followed Jesus to the door of his empty tomb, and see their astonishment to find him risen, crying aloud our words of praise: “Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

This is a large and celebratory service, followed by an Easter Egg Hunt in the Garden for our kids!

But Moses said to God, “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.” He said further, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘I AM has sent me to you.’” (Exodus 3:13–14)

Throughout history and in the present day, many people have done many things in the name of God. Emperors have converted nations at the point of the sword. Popes have declared Crusades that led to mass bloodshed because Deus vult, “God wills it.” People have advocated and condemned slavery, abortion, same-sex marriage, and immigration, with religious leaders taking stands on both sides of each issue, and all in the name of God. In Sunday sermons all around the world, clergy claim to speak to the people in the name of God, and we should be trembling in our boots. (And many of us do.)

But the name of God itself reveals an elusive and enigmatic person, nearly impossible to pin down.

This Sunday’s reading from Exodus includes a fascinating exchange between Moses and God on the theme. And as is often the case when I suspect something important might not make it into the sermon, I thought I might write a few words here, instead.

Moses has just heard his name called by the voice of God, speaking out of a burning bush. “Moses, Moses!” the voice says. And Moses replies, “Here I am.” (Exodus 3:4) God tells Moses, “I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry.” (3:5) And God sends Moses to speak to Pharaoh and to lead God’s people Israel out of slavery in Egypt.

But Moses says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” (3:11) He’s just a shepherd, for now; a prince, nearly killed at birth, saved and found floating in a basket on the river but now fled into the wilderness as an adult. “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” And God replies, “I will be with you.” (3:12) And Moses asks, essentially… Okay, but who are you? He puts it more politely, of course. Knowing that the Israelites live among a people of many gods, he asks what name he should give when they ask which God has sent him.

And God answers, not with a name, but with a tautological claim: “I AM WHO I AM.” (3:14) And Moses is still silent, but God goes on, “Say this to the Israelites, ‘I AM has sent me to you.’” (3:15) This is one of my favorite patterns in Biblical narration. When a character speaks, and then the same character speaks again, it’s meant to emphasis the pause. It’s as if there were a script, and one person’s line is just a big “…”

God: I AM WHO I AM.
Moses: […]
God: Tell that, “I AM sent me.”

And then it happens again! Moses is still completely at a loss. And God goes on to clarify: “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob…This is my name forever, and this is my title for all generations.” (3:15)

We often print these words in “all caps.” The LORD, printed like this, always stands in for the Hebrew name YHWH, the divine “tetragrammaton” that Jewish tradition considers too holy to pronounce, replacing it with Adonai (the Lord) or HaShem (the Name) instead. “I AM” here is Ehyeh (spelled ’HYH), and both rabbinic tradition and some modern scholars make a connection between these sets of names—while there’s no definitive answer, there may be some connection between the proper name YHWH and the notion of being.

Be that as it may, this exchange should give us pause when we find ourselves claiming to speak in the name of God.

The god we worship and in whom we believe is not one we can or do give a name. Modern scholars have reconstructed the pronunciation of YHWH as Yahweh; others as Jehovah. But neither has been in common use as the name of God, in traditional Christianity or Judaism. We capitalize the common noun “god” and make it a proper name, “God.” Or we use some appellation like “the Lord.” But our traditions have been hesitant to speak the name of God itself. But if we hesitate to speak the name of God, then perhaps we should be more cautious than we are about claiming to speak in the name of God—unless and until we see a burning bush.

“I am who I am,” God says. In other translations, and equally accurately, “I will be who I will be.” (Ancient Hebrew has no past, present, and future tenses, only a “perfective” and “imperfective,” so the present and the future are usually the same.) The God we encounter in the Bible is often unpredictable, a real character with a real personality. The God we encounter in the Bible seems to learn and change, to make decisions and then regret them. God is not a series of principles written down, God is a person, who chooses to say and do particular things, and interact with the world in particular ways—ways which even the prophets often fail to understand!

Sometimes all we can rely on is that God is. “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘Ehyeh has sent me to you.’” “I am.” “I will be.” We often claim to speak in the name of God, but what God would do or what God would say can only be a guess, guided by the character of God we see revealed, a God of compassion and love who cares especially for people who are poor and for people who are strangers in the land in which they live. We don’t always know what God would say, but we know that God is, and that God will be—and that the sufferings of the people of God do not go unnoticed, for “I have heard their cry.”