This homily is a short “starter” homily that encourages the assembly at our 5:00pm liturgy to add their own insights and reflections in conversation with the preacher. Gathered in a circle in the early evening, we enjoy this evening Eucharist as a more intimate form of worship on the Lord’s Day.
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A crucible is a metal container, roughly in the shape of a cup, that you heat to very high temperatures to manipulate chemical compounds. But in history, the word crucible has also referred to a lamp that is placed near a crucifix. Crucible … crucifixion … excruciating. These words are related. I wonder if the objects they describe are also related — the alchemist’s device and the devout Christian’s chapel lamp. Think about it: the alchemist uses the crucible to put chemicals under the pressure of intense heat. Perhaps, by the light that burns near the cross, you can endure the pressure of seeing things you normally would not see, or would not want to see.
In my years as a couples therapist, I studied the work of David Schnarch, who coined a new term, the sexual crucible, to describe what couples need to do if they want to grow and change together, toward the goal of reviving and invigorating their long-term, monogamous relationship. One member of the couple needs to take a calculated and dreadful risk, by telling the other person what they want, or who they are; they need to tell them something honest that the other person needs to hear.
When they do this hard task, the person is going through their own personal crucible: they are being brave. They are doing something truly difficult. It’s scary! Can you relate? Imagine telling someone you deeply love something about yourself that they might find hard to hear — a desire you have that you’re pretty sure they don’t share with you; a hope or ambition you have that could threaten their dreams.
When Andrew and I watch television programs, I often imagine “crucible” conversations the couples on the shows could have with each other. (Okay, I also imagine “crucible” conversations Andrew and I could have, but I don’t have his permission to list them as examples here.) If the show is, say, Resident Alien, I want Kate to go through her crucible and screw up the courage to tell her husband Ben that staying in Patience, Colorado, is a deal-breaker for her, and if he doesn’t want to follow her to New York, then they need to assess whether they should stay married. And I want Ben to respond positively to that challenge — and by responding positively, Ben would go through his crucible — and accept this reality about his wife, and dare to trade his safety and security for a scary but potentially thrilling new adventure for their family.
All of this brings me alongside Jesus of Nazareth, recently baptized and driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. The wilderness is the crucible for Jesus, the dreadful praxis where he finds out who he truly is. Mark the Evangelist doesn’t say much at all about this experience, only that he is “tempted by Satan,” and that he spends time “with wild beasts.” Maybe the gift of Mark the taciturn evangelist is that we get to fill in the details with our own temptations, our own wild beasts. These are the things and the beings that we would use to escape our own crucibles.
I have a few.
A major temptation I have is to yield to my basic longing to be liked, to receive approval. But the crucible of faith demands that I step outside of that safe zone. For years I’ve sung a hymn — really a song more than a hymn, and usually at diocesan events, not at St. Paul’s — that includes this imagined question that Jesus asks of us: “Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name? Will you care for cruel and kind and never be the same? Will you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare? Will you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?”
Wow. Yeah, I don’t know if I will. It’s scary to “leave myself behind.” It’s hard to “care for cruel and kind” (though that one runs right down the middle of my vow as a priest!). But recently, not to pat myself on the back, but a couple of times recently I have “risked the hostile stare” by preaching things that are things I think should be said, but things that are painfully provocative. This is all rough. And I want my life to attract others, not scare others. But even an attractive vocation is daunting. Attractiveness can spark imposter syndrome. It’s easier to stay snug in the safe zone where I don’t say or do anything significant.
As for the wild beasts in the crucible of the wilderness, well, I have a few of those, too. Dreadful creatures in my psyche; creatures like selfishness, being judgmental, unkind or unjust aggression, and the dreadful wolf of unchecked privilege, the wild beast who dresses like a mild sheep even as it does unspeakable damage.
And so I wonder — did you know this was coming? — I wonder about your crucible. Our faith tradition sets aside forty days to do “crucible stuff,” to meet the accuser or tempter, to wrangle wild beasts, to discern who we really are. We always have the option of “noping out” of all this, just skidding to Easter without much thought or concern about any of the truths that find us in that wilderness. (And hear this Gospel truth: if you skip Lent entirely, you’ll still be warmly welcome at God’s Easter table: God’s rainbow arcs above all of us, no matter what. Life is a lot. Do what you can. Pace yourself if you need to.)
But … what might be your crucible? Can you identify a wild beast, or two? Do you wonder whether Noah is apprehensive, having survived a harrowing flood and unsure whether he’s up to the task of rebooting the whole human race? How does the lovely yet wild season of Lent find you? When God’s angels minister to you, what might you tell them about your experience?
I invite your brief reflections and insights.
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Preached on the First Sunday in Lent (Year B), February 18, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Genesis 9:8-17
Psalm 25:1-9
1 Peter 3:18-22
Mark 1:9-15