Sermon preached at the Sunday Mass on 17th August 2025 at St. Michael and All Angels' Episcopal church in Corona del Mar, California.

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

First of all, thank you for inviting me. I like visiting California. It is a completely different world from my hometown, Rome, Italy, also known as the Eternal City. The weather is always right here, the scenery is beautiful, the people are welcoming, and there is always something nice to do here. But how different it is from Rome.

The first thing that comes to mind is how spotless everything is around here. Everything is also very new around here. The beautiful art deco of Los Angeles is old history; the 18th-century early Spanish chapels of Southern California are pre-history. You might have a feeling of where this is going, but this European didn’t come to brag, just to share some thoughts.

Two days ago, I was talking to a lovely lady from this side of the pond, and she enquired whether we less-ancient Romans had heard of this new social media trend in which people are asked how often they think about the Roman Empire. That was a very interesting question for me to ponder. I never really thought about that! 

Americans in that discussion came up with all sorts of ideas which, I have to be honest, truly flattered me. Whether it was aqueducts, bridges, roads, or architecture, they certainly had a lot of examples. This born-and-bred Roman, however, didn’t think much about it. Sure, my fantastic grandmother loved taking me to museums and historic sites, and so did our school. 

We studied Latin and grew up being proud of our heritage. I was proud, too, of our tap water in Rome coming through ancient aqueducts, but I actually never did think about the Roman Empire all that much—it was always around me, with the Colosseum in the background being a fantastic roundabout.

Then came the realization: I only think about the Roman Empire when I travel. Seeing Roman ruins in Jordan, Greece, Germany, Egypt, the Holy Land, or Morocco, France, always filled me with pride. Then came England, and with England I took pride in seeing how even modern empires were inspired by our law, architecture, and way of thought. And through the English over-generosity in sharing their ways with the rest of the world came your very continent.

I won’t deny feeling a certain sense of pride when visiting Washington, D.C. for the first time, looking at your Capitol, your National Archives Building—designed in the imposing architecture of Ancient Rome, which we ourselves borrowed from our Greek siblings. The name of Newport is Latin too; it comes from the Norman Novo Borgus, and from the Old French to the Latin Novus Burgus is not that much of a change. So, when one thinks of Rome, one thinks of great things. This leads us into today’s Gospel.

In one of the most striking and challenging passages of the Gospel that we’re about to hear this morning, Jesus will tell us: “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” (Luke 12:49–51). These words are not gentle or comforting. They are burning, urgent, and difficult. They confront us with a deeper truth about who Jesus is and what His mission demands—not only in His time but in ours.

At the historical level, Jesus speaks these words during His final journey toward Jerusalem. Tensions are rising. The Jewish people live under Roman oppression, divided internally by religious factions, and many are longing for a Messiah who will restore national glory through force and overthrow the Roman government.

But Jesus refuses to conform to these expectations. His kingdom will not come through violence or political schemes, but through the cross—a path of sacrificial love and inner transformation. When He speaks of bringing fire, He does not mean destruction, but purification. In the biblical tradition, fire symbolizes God’s presence and action: the burning bush, the pillar of fire in the wilderness, the tongues of flame at Pentecost. Jesus is speaking of the fire of divine love, of the Holy Spirit, of the truth that exposes lies and purifies hearts. It is a fire that judges and renews, that consumes the old and gives birth to the new.

This fire, however, is not neutral. It demands a response. And this is where division enters. Jesus says that His coming will divide families—father against son, mother against daughter, and so on. He is not glorifying conflict; He is warning that faithfulness to the Gospel will provoke resistance, even from those closest to us. Truth creates crisis.

The kingdom of God is not an optional lifestyle addition—it is a total claim on the heart, and many will reject it. Division is not Jesus' desire, but it is the inevitable consequence of a world that refuses to be changed. When Jesus says He has a "baptism to be baptized with," He is referring to His Passion—His suffering and death. This is the moment when He will be fully immersed in the cost of our salvation. Letting us try to kill him and showing us the price of our violence and his way of turning the other cheek. And He is in anguish until it is accomplished—not because He fears it, but because He longs to fulfill the Father's will. This is the depth of divine love: it does not avoid suffering but embraces it for the sake of redemption. Christian tradition offers rich insights into this passage. Not doing an eye for eye.

St. Ambrose teaches that the fire Jesus speaks of is the fire of charity: God's love igniting our hearts, burning away sin. St. John Chrysostom interprets the baptism as Christ's cross, and His anguish as the holy tension between love and suffering. St. Augustine emphasizes that Christ "divides" us from the world not to isolate us, but to unite us more deeply with God and through that to unite us with each other.

And St. Catherine of Siena, aflame with mystical love, writes of being consumed by the fire of divine charity—a fire that wounds, heals, and transforms. In the final verses, Jesus turns to the crowd and rebukes their spiritual blindness: “You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?” (v. 56). He is saying: you can predict the weather, but you are blind to the signs of God at work in your midst. This is a call to discernment—to recognize that now is the moment of decision, the time of God’s visitation, the hour to choose whom we will serve.

So what is Jesus ultimately going to be saying in this difficult passage? He will tell us that His mission is not to preserve our comfort, but to set the world on fire with love and truth. He comes to totally ignite hearts, to purify consciences, to demand a decision. The Gospel is not safe; it is not soft. It divides not because it is harsh, but because it is holy. It reveals what is hidden. It forces a choice. “Be hot or cold but if you’re lukewarm, I will spit you out”. And this fire—though painful—is the beginning of true peace. Not the false peace of compromise or indifference, but the deep, lasting peace that only comes when sin is burned away, and love reigns.

To follow Jesus is to allow this fire to burn within us. It is to embrace the baptism of suffering and the possibility of rejection. But it is also to live in the light, to walk in truth, and to become ourselves flames of His love in the world. This passage is not meant to frighten us, but to shock and awaken us. It reminds us that now is the time. The culture of God is not someday. It is here. And it is burning. “I came to bring fire to the earth. And how I wish it were already kindled.”

How does any of this fit into my introduction on the Roman Empire? Let us try and identify ourselves as the most skeptical critics of Christianity. A certain carpenter from Bethlehem, who surrounded Himself with all the wrong people and who many others considered to be mentally deranged, was deemed to be a threat by His community. We tortured and killed him”

And then, when He came back from the dead, He entrusted His most trusted friends with the mission of converting the world and spreading His message of love—a message of love so strong that within decades, it reached Rome and managed to shake the very foundations of the most powerful empire the world had ever seen until then.

Jesus came to bring chaos—a chaos that found its place in the most ordered society of the time, where a powerful political machine could help spread it around the known world. Jesus came to make sure we left our comfort zones and got out into the world. We shouldn’t fear earthly divisions and the weak earthly dominions and princes, but we should trust in Him—our rock and our solid foundation, our way to salvation through faith in His name.

George Keith, a Scottish missionary who ultimately converted to Anglicanism, though not widely known today, left behind a hymn that shook empires—“How Firm a Foundation”—a bold declaration that Christ alone is the unshakable ground for the soul. In a time when the British Empire seemed immovable, much like the Roman Empire was at the time of Jesus—built on wealth, war, and the cruelty of slavery—Keith quietly proclaimed another foundation: one rooted not in domination, but in the mercy and justice of God.

Though not a loud voice in political halls, through his hymn and his faith, he stood against the corrupt foundations of his time. In America, where his hymn echoed in churches and on plantations, Keith’s words became a spiritual weapon—lifting the hearts of the immigrants and the enslaved and reminding the faithful that no empire stands forever, but Christ endures. In his own way, Keith joined the fight—not with swords, but with Scripture; not in politics, but in music. And today’s Mass will end with the beautiful words of this hymn:

How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,

is laid for your faith in God's excellent Word!

What more can be said than to you God hath said,

to you who for refuge to Jesus have fled? Amen.

NB. With special thanks to my friend, Fr. Scott Shane-Hamblen, the rector at St. Michael's, who kindly invited me to preach.