When we read the parable of the Wicked Tenants with the resurrection in mind, we can see both a warning for those that think they own the vineyard, and the reality of new life for the whole vineyard. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 27 A
Texts: Isaiah 5:1-7, Philippians 3:4b-14, Matthew 21:33-46

Beloved church, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

It’s been a crazy few days for the Jewish religious leaders.

Passover is coming up, which is always a busy time, and worshippers are arriving in Jerusalem from all over Judea.  And just yesterday there was a huge commotion when some rabbi from Nazareth rode into the city on a donkey, like he was some kind of Messiah.  The people thought he was a prophet and they didn’t check with the chief priests and the Pharisees – they just started spreading their cloaks in front of him and waving their palm branches, and singing “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”  A huge disruption and a great way to catch the eye of the Roman occupiers. 

And if that wasn’t bad enough, this Jesus went straight into the temple and started turning over tables!  What were those chief priests supposed to do when Jesus chased out the money changers and the dove sellers? When he threatened and condemned the whole temple economic system that they relied on?   And then Jesus had the audacity to park himself there all day, healing the sick, with no regard for the proper procedure of their sacred spaces. And the children wouldn’t stop singing that chorus, over and over again. 

And the chief priests and Pharisees had had enough. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, they thought.  We have systems. This is OUR temple! 

And so when Jesus came back the next day, they confront him.  Last week we heard them, summoning all their bluster, practically frothing at the mouth, “By what authority are you doing these things?”  The thing is, they don’t really want an answer to the question. They want to maintain their power, and the status quo.  They want their tables back in their places.

And Jesus is pretty frustrated too. I imagine that he still smelled a little bit like donkey, that he still had splinters in hands from the tables he was tossing around, that he still had the words of the song the children were singing stuck in his head.  And he can see the path that he is on, and where it will lead by the end of the week.  And here are these chief priests and Pharisees, the ones who absolutely should know better, the ones who should have understood what was going on, and they are quibbling about authority.

So Jesus tells them a story. 

A story about a landowner who planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a winepress in it, and built a watchtower.  And then leased to tenants.  And not very good ones as we soon find out.  He tells a story that is pretty harsh.  With some uncanny similarities to what is about to happen.  A story that doesn’t end well. 

This is a story meant for specific people.

Not only is it directly addressed to the chief priests and Pharisees, it is a story that was deliberately constructed for them too.  It was clearly meant to be heard by those who really knew their scripture. Right off the bat, Jesus makes an allusion to Isaiah 5, the Song of the Unfruitful Vineyard, in which God sings about planting a vineyard, digging a winepress, and building a watchtower.   In that passage, the prophet Isaiah is warning the people of Judah.  “You may be God’s cherished garden, but God will not abide your rotten grapes forever.”  

The religious leaders would have picked up on this, would have realized that by invoking Isaiah 5, Jesus meant the parable to be a warning.  In fact we are told explicitly that they knew that Jesus was speaking about them.  They knew that they were the wicked tenants. 

But they couldn’t bear to give up the idea that the vineyard was theirs. 

Of course, the kingdom of God wasn’t theirs and deep down they probably knew it.  But they were so resentful of the fact. They wanted it to be theirs.  Just like we sometimes have to remind ourselves that this isn’t our vineyard. It’s God’s. It’s not our kingdom, it’s God’s. It’s not our church, it’s God’s.  We aren’t even the tenants.

We are the vineyard. 

We are a vineyard that doesn’t always produce good grapes.  But we are beloved and cared for and lovingly tended by God. We are the vineyard that God plants and builds a watch tower over and agonizes over.  The vineyard that God would send the Son to claim and save. The vineyard that the Son would die for.  

And if only the chief priests and Pharisees had taken a moment to consider, wait a minute, what if we don’t have to be the tenants?  What if they had given up their claim to the power and the systems they were clinging to? What if they embraced their place as part of the vineyard?  They might have produced some good fruit. 

And at this point, we have to talk about the end of the story.

At the end of this parable it seems like the tenants win. The Son is dead. With no grapes to show for it. But we know that’s not the end. Jesus died, but he didn’t stay dead. 

The resurrection has to change the way we read this parable. 

It takes the rhetorical question asked in Isaiah, “What more could I have done for my vineyard?” and answers it forever.  God sends the Son, the Christ, God’s own self to be with us.  And not just to die, but to live! To create life where there was no life. To restore and renew everything!  When we read this parable with the resurrection in mind, we can see that it isn’t about God’s wrath, it is about God’s closeness. It is about the Gospel that comes as a person to be close to us.  A story about a God that is so close that you could trip over him, like a stone you didn’t see and stumbled over.  And it is a story about how easy it is to trip and fall on that stone if your eyes are set on protecting your own power. 

This parable is a warning to all those who think that they own the vineyard, but it isn’t a categorical rejection of the chief priests and Pharisees, because that’s not the end of the story. Punishment comes, yes, but so does reconciliation, because God came to save the whole vineyard, including the Pharisees.  And we know that because a Pharisee who wrote half of our New Testament!   

Paul was one of the very people that this parable was meant for.  

He rattles off his entire pedigree to the Philippians: “circumcised on the 8th day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee, as to zeal a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless.”

Before he met Jesus, Paul thought the vineyard was his.  Maybe he even thought he was doing God a favor by persecuting the church, when all he was really doing was protecting his own position.  Paul thought he knew it all. Until he stumbled right over the stone that the builders rejected on the road to Damascus.  When Paul meets the Son who died and rose for the vineyard, he realizes that all of those credentials, everything that he might have boasted about, everything he knew before – it’s all rubbish. The real value, the surpassing value, is knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection.  

The resurrection makes all the difference.

For Paul and for us. This is the end of the story.  The end that is just the beginning.  New life in Christ. For everyone.  For disciples and for Pharisees. A beautiful, beloved vineyard, built on the cornerstone of Christ.  

This is the Lord’s doing. And it is amazing in our eyes!

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The church that Jesus describes in the gospels is beautiful and messy.   Life and love in Jesus sometimes means leaning into the messiness of being church, because we are bound to each other.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 23 A
Texts: Ezekiel 33:7-11, Psalm 119:33-40, Romans 13:8-14, Matthew 18:(+10-14) 15-20

Beloved church, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The word “church” (ecclesia, in Greek) only appears in two places in the Gospels. 

It appears lots of times in the book of Acts and in most of the epistles, but Jesus only mentions the church twice, and only Matthew’s gospel.   In fact, we heard him say the word “church” for the first time a few weeks ago.  When Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!”  Then Jesus came back with, “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it!” 

The first time we hear of the church, it is ascendant. A church that death itself cannot prevail against. A church built strong on the rock of faith, of Peter’s faith in the Living God who came in love as Christ. This church is a glimpse of God’s beloved community, of life and love in Christ. It’s beautiful!

And now, here we are, just two chapters later, and when Jesus speaks of the church this time it is in conflict and disarray. Jesus describes a wounded church, where members are hurting each other and aren’t listening to each other, and the church represents the last-ditch effort to restore peace. It’s messy!

These two chapters tell a tale of two churches. The best of times and the worst of times. So divine. So human. Beautiful and messy. And isn’t that just like the church? 

Because church is often messy, isn’t it?

Even this church. I haven’t been here long, but I’ve been reading the wonderful history of Mount Olive that was put together for the 100th anniversary. It has been such a lovely way to get to know more of the rich history of this place. But it’s also a tale of two churches (at least 2!) There have been many beautiful moments and many messy moments in this place.

And in the wider church as well.  Some of you shared with me this week your own painful stories of the messy church and the ways you have been brought down and let down, sometimes by people who sanctioned their actions with these very texts. It’s all too easy for “2 or 3” people to claim God’s authority to push away or even excommunicate some sheep who makes things just a bit too messy.  Whose “sins” (real or imagined) threaten the idea of the beautiful church. And the conflicts weigh us down. And they hurt. 

It’s heartbreaking. In my cynical moments, I think about God’s promise to do anything we ask – IF “two of you can agree.” – I imagine God thinking, “Oh I’ll take that bet.  Two of you need to agree on something?  Yeah, sure. If two of you can agree on anything, I’ll do it.  Good luck.”

But of course, that’s not how God thinks or what God wants.  God wants us to agree, wants us to love one another, wants us to live! Telling the prophet Ezekiel, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live!”  But how? How do we turn and live? How do we muddle through the messiness of living side by side? 

Well, God has given us a good place to start. It’s called “the law.”  

We Lutherans love gospel so much we like to give the law a bad name. But the law is a gift. It is supposed to help us.  It’s a good thing.  It was the desire and delight of the writer of Psalm 119. And it’s what Paul offered to the Romans who were trying to navigate their own very messy church. Paul helpfully summarized for them and for us that “the law” is really just love. Love for our neighbors.   So that we can turn and live!  So that maybe we can be that first beautiful version of the church a little bit more often. 

But as helpful as the law is, the love and life we find in Jesus goes even beyond that.

This passage in Matthew 18 is often called “The Rule of Christ” – but it isn’t just sensible conflict management advice.  This is the kind of love that doesn’t just follow the law, it fulfills it. This is the love that goes to find the lost sheep that has gone astray.  The love that doesn’t want a single one of these little ones to be lost.  The love that brings every single one back. 

That’s what we are commanded to do here.  If a sibling in Christ has sinned against you, has hurt you, has offended you, has annoyed you, whatever it is, you don’t shut the door on them. And you don’t just take it like a doormat.  You go out and you meet them face to face.  You might need to bring along others. You might have to bring along the whole dang messy church if you need to, for the sake of one. That is restoration and reconciliation that will go to every length. 

Which sometimes means that we need to be a little bit flexible for the sake of reconciliation.  

We need to learn to lean into the messiness. Sometimes that might even mean re-evaluating the rules the law has given us.

And God gives us that flexibility!  Jesus says, not once, but in both of these passages where he mentions the church, the same phrase:  whatever you bind on Earth will be bound in heaven. Whatever you loose on Earth will be loosed in heaven. This isn’t God setting us up as little tyrants with terrifying cosmic power.  This is God reminding the church to go to every length to reconcile, to restore, to turn to life.  You aren’t bound to the law.  If the law isn’t working to bring every sheep back, be released from it.  If you need a few new rules to help you love each other into life, go for it. 

You aren’t bound to the law.  You are bound to each other.  

Which means that when you need to hold others accountable (which sometimes you will), you can’t forget to hold them. ¹

Too often, these passages are used to wash our hands of those who have hurt us or those we don’t think should be a part of the church. 

Sometimes we are so afraid of a messy church, we want so badly to skip right to that beautiful church, that we are really tempted to read that part about Gentiles and tax collectors as license to exclude. To leave those sheep to wander on their cliffs. 

But that isn’t the church.  We only need to look at the way that Jesus treated Gentiles and tax collectors to see that.  Jesus wasn’t afraid of messy. Jesus knew that the two churches, beautiful and messy, are really only one church.  Because the church that death cannot prevail against is the same church desperately trying to hold itself together.  Not two churches. One church in Jesus. Who has already gone to every length to reconcile us to God, to bring us back into the fold, who doesn’t want to see a single one be lost. 

And don’t forget, dear church: Jesus is here.  He promised. 

Where 2 or 3 are gathered in my name, I am among them. In my beautiful, messy church, I am among them. 

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

 

_{1. This idea was inspired by Kazu Haga, a trainer of Kingian Nonviolence, from a line in his book Healing Resistance: A Radically Different Response to Harm (Parallax Press: 2020).}

 

God does not determine worth by the amount of seeds we sow successfully–God already holds us knowing we have unimaginable worth and hopes that we will be brave to sow seeds to bring God’s reign.

Vicar Mollie Hamre
Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year A
Texts: Isaiah 55:10-13, Psalm 65:1,8-13, Romans 8:1-11, Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

Beloved in Christ, grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“A sower went out to sow.”

As Jesus often does in parables, he does not give much context, motivations of the character or even who this person is. Instead, he tells a story that sounds simple, but is also a lot to digest. Parables ask that we learn from each other and listen to the different ways that a story can be heard. In recognizing that Jesus does give an explanation today, that does not mean it is the only thing we learn from this parable.

The story starts with an individual going out to sow seeds–to plant what might be grain in the future. For those that have planted, there are two parts to caring for seeds. There is the experience side that tells us temperature, kinds of soil, water, drainage, among many other things, all play a factor in having a successful harvest. The other part is the hope and bravery that comes with planting. At some point, how the seeds grow is out of your control. As much as you can plan and prepare, there is a chance that nothing might grow which is a risk you take.

Sowing seeds is not for the faint of heart.

It takes patience, time, and commitment. Learning with one another, asking questions, trial and error. And eventually, we hope that we learn from experiences and grow from them.    

Planting anything is quite literally an act of trust because we place hope into the Earth’s soil that it might flourish and grow. That in itself takes bravery. But what comes of those seeds? The ones that hold hopes and failures? What if we plant in the wrong places? What if, even with experience, we find failure?

A simple story about planting seeds, quickly becomes much more.

We are talking about the ways we live and plant all over in our lives. The ways that we treat one another, invest in each other, show compassion, even to ourselves. The seeds that you sow when you stand up against racism. Stand up against aggression towards our trans siblings. And call for peace and justice in our world.

The seeds you sow when you call to check in on a friend or remind those around you that they are loved. When you have difficult conversations about caring for your neighbors with a family member and it feels like rocky ground. Those are brave seeds to plant. The ones that we are not sure what kind of soil we are encountering, but have hope and trust that God brings growth and the Spirit’s presence amidst it. The times that we put our hearts out there, on the line, with hope that change will happen. And even have to ask: about the times we do not feel successful?

Looking back to the parable, the sower is all across the board for results.

God is not looking for perfection. God is not a stranger to failure or working within imperfect people. So much focus can go to the seeds that land on good soil and bring forth grain, but the output is not the focus and results have never been a part of this for God.

The grain that does grow is enough to fill a whole community. For the hearers of the story thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold was a sign of abundance to be shared. But this grain would not be there if it was not for the time, patience, learning, and growth that is done together first. We are called to bring God’s reign to our world, that means reaching out to one another with grace to learn, grow and share together. This kind of abundance takes community effort, not the perfection of one person

All the seeds in your life will not be planted in perfect soil. You will get confused and lost. You will have success and you will have failure. And as a community, we hope that when we fail, we hold each other up and grow together.

While we can plan and prepare, we also hold as followers of Jesus, God with us, that some things are simply out of our control. And God tells us that is okay. The Triune God does not determine worth by the number of seeds we sow successfully. God already holds us knowing we have unimaginable worth and hopes that we will be brave to sow seeds to bring God’s reign.

“Listen!” Jesus says “A sower went out to sow.”

One of the bravest things you can do. For our world that lays so much stress on success and accomplishment, the Triune God does not. A sower goes out into the world and decides to have hope that seeds might sprout into a harvest, some a hundredfold. And sometimes those seeds do not.

Sometimes we fail and everything does not go according to plan, but that does not change the importance of the work you do. Because God continues to bring rain and snow and sunshine–all signs of God’s growing abundance and presence. These gifts that helps our community learn about soils, planting depth, watering and that is why we rejoice and embrace learning together. And when that seed brings forth grain, we rejoice too. Because in your own ways, just as all the seeds do, you each bring essential grain that feeds the community and gives it nourishment in order that we may hope together for God’s peace and justice in our future.

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Vicar Mollie Hamre

The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 12 A
Texts: Jeremiah 20:7-13, Matthew 10:24-39

Beloved in Christ, grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Our scriptures today are not saying what you might think. 

Jesus tells us that he comes not to bring peace, but a sword. That there will be separation. That those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life, for Christ’s sake, will find it. It sounds like a whole lot of tension, distress, and loss. This does not sound like our Jesus. The one that is supposed to be advocating for peace, not a sword. The one who feels gut-wrenching compassion for his sheep, not separation.

And while peace, compassion, and love continue to describe Jesus, today he is addressing another part of our faith lives. How do we live into these loving characteristics and trust God when we face conflict, discouragement and are overwhelmed? When the tension of our faith lives leave us with questions. When we are now part of that gut-wrenching compassion, it is more than we can handle. What does that mean for us now?

The Prophet Jeremiah knows about this. 

We hear Jeremiah describing images of a fire burning within him and weariness from holding it in. Exasperated by the world he sees. The laughingstock he has become to the people around him. He is exhausted. And yet, he declares God’s presence and continues to work towards justice. And I can not help but wonder why he is sticking around. Jeremiah did not want to feel alone, excluded, or ridiculed. The easiest option would be to pack one’s bags and give up. So what brings him back giving him hope and trust in God?

It is a question we do not talk about often. 

What is calling us back? Why do we continue to seek out the Triune God when we know, just as Jesus’ disciples are learning, that living into God’s reign will not be easy, but will instead leave us with questions and tension as we look at our world. Why do people hate? Why are people marginalized in our country? Why is there judgment and sides being drawn? What changes are happening as pollution settles over our cities and debates ensue about taking care of our Earth. These are all heavy loads. If this is the tension we carry today, connecting with Jeremiah suddenly becomes a little less difficult. 

In his laments, Jeremiah comes to a conclusion about this tension: 

Leaving is not an option for him, but neither is being quiet. The reality of God’s reign of peace, justice and loving the neighbor is one that is actually possible to him and needs to be proclaimed. If this could be the way that all of creation could live, why wouldn’t we be compelled to work towards it? Somewhere in his distressed and messy world, Jeremiah holds that God is within it and cares for it. Cares for creation and hopes for the future it could have. One without violence, corruption, divides. That even when we feel frayed and wanting to give up, God doesn’t. Instead Jesus, God with us, comes to be with us. 

The presence of God, Christ within us, the Spirit around us. 

With the Triune God so abundant and present, what other option do we have but to seek out peace, justice, and loving the neighbor? What other option do we have but to pursue God’s hope for the world and stand those that are marginalized? To bring healing to our Earth? To live our lives in ways that remind one another that each person is beloved, important, loved as they are. More valuable to our world than any amount of sparrows as Jesus says. Like Jeremiah shows, God’s reign is continuously reaching out, being embodied, and can not be ignored. 

And the good news for us is we do not have to carry this weight alone.

The Gospel of Matthew tells us “for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.” God’s compassion, love, and healing is abundant and can not be covered. It will be brought to light from the shadows and proclaimed from the housetops. That the world and creation will be held by God’s love for them. 

That God is doing this not only through you, but your communities, your neighbors, and everything in between. God is constantly within us, compelling us to work for change, and it can be scary. It causes tension, separations, disputes with those around us and inside of ourselves. 

Jesus tells us that he comes with a sword because such a proclamation is jarring, abrupt, and transforming. These texts are not an invitation to go pick a fight or to point out someone’s faults. It is not an opportunity to shame those we determine are wrong. But our hope and peace is that God alone prevails. Not the sides we have made, not our winning and someone else’s loss, but instead that God moves through us and those divisions are dissolved and God’s reign becomes what exists. 

And that is what God calls us to today. 

To trust that the Triune God’s reign is uncovered, brought to light, and proclaimed from the housetops in our world and that you are a part of it. That you are told to have no fear because you are deeply beloved and worth more than you can imagine. That, just as the men and women who entered into the early days of the church, anxious of what the future may bring–they knew God was with them. 

They knew that when they cared for, loved, and embraced those around them, God’s reign was uncovered and continues to be by each of us. As we navigate this world together, guided by God.

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Vicar Mollie Hamre

The Seventh Sunday of Easter, Year A
Texts: Acts 1:6-14, Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35, 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11, John 17:1-11

Beloved in Christ, grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Dropping my husband off at the airport is always a challenge.

As someone who has terrible flying anxiety and who has a spouse that flies frequently for work, you might be able to imagine why sending your spouse on a plane could be nerve racking. By the time we get to the airport, my heart is pounding, I am anxious and dreading the drive back alone, knowing he will not be in the car with me anymore. It is a quiet time I usually dread because I am transitioning into a week on my own.

For our readings today, the men and women in Acts that follow Jesus are in a similar situation, except the person they are missing is the Messiah and it is long term. The person who has been their guide and walked alongside them. He is gone and they are living in a space where they do not know what the future holds. 

Alongside them, Jesus is mirroring this sense of absence in the Gospel.

We find him as he is praying to God, in front of his women and men followers knowing he will be leaving his people soon. I can’t help, but wonder what that felt like for Jesus.

These people that have been his family surrounding him–he has to let go, trust he has done what he can, and know his followers can take it from there. Everything we have been talking about the past seven weeks of Easter. 

Jesus states all of this in his prayer with hope that his disciples might find eternal life through knowing God in their present moment. That in being present in their world they see that they are surrounded by community, loved, and hear the dreams that Jesus has for them. 

Hearing this intimate prayer between Jesus and God is crucial for the days ahead so that everyone knows Christ’s presence, even when he is physically gone.

But this must have been strange for the men and women in ancient times.

What’s coming Jesus? No longer in the world? Protect us from what? I imagine a build of anticipation, with confusion and disorientation. Jesus who they have experienced the whirlwind of death, resurrection, and ascension is now physically gone. These men and women are looking in the unknown. Living where we are–in the days between. The time between Jesus ascending and his followers not knowing what is coming next. 

What are we supposed to do now? 

These views comparing the reading from Acts and Gospel are important to hear as we live in that in between time. 

We experience these liminal spaces often whether it be before a big trip, when closing a chapter of our lives, or whenever we enter into any place uncharted. We live in a world of unknowns and as much as we try to predict, anticipate, and listen–we are like the people in Jesus’ day. Waiting in the in between, unsure, and praying for God to guide as we search for what is next.

For the women and men in Acts, this time meant gathering in a prayerful community with a sense of anticipating that God might be doing something new within and through them. They lived into the space of tension, and at some point, had to trust that God would be with them in it. 

But living into the moment is not that easy.

It asks us to release control, to reground ourselves in the moment, and to be present in that tension alongside Jesus as we live in the transitioning spaces of our lives. Change and the unknown are difficult to live into. It comes with big emotions of excitement, anxiety, stress and scariness that can all exist together. And yet, Jesus calls us back to the community and his prayer, telling us that Jesus, God with us, prays for us, journeys alongside us, and is within us. All of these lessons we have been learning throughout the season of Easter come to life.

Jesus tells us that we are God’s creation and hopes that we will embrace what that means–eternal life. Eternal life is not something far off in the distance but what unites us with the Triune God back into the present. Embracing it and letting it bring you back into this moment with God and with the community. 

I think I will always have anxiety when dropping my husband off at the airport. 

And that is okay. I know I do not have control of the pilot, or the weather, or the outcome of the trip. But at some point as I live in that transitioning space, I find myself praying. I feel a shift inside of me and I realize I have to let go. I have to trust God will care for my husband, keep him protected, and bring him home from his trips. I find myself trusting that my husband knows how to navigate his trip, that the pilot knows how to fly, and that God carries all the intricate pieces in between. 

And in that moment, that prayer changes me. It focuses me back into the present. It reminds me I am not alone.

The Triune God is found within those moments, within you, within the community. Even though Christ is no longer in the world and we anticipate what is to come, we trust that God moves us, changes us, and renews us as we boldly enter into our futures. 

What do you hear in these moments of anticipation? 

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.