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People of the Way

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter (Year A)
May 7, 2023

Text: John 14:1-14

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This past Friday, I discovered some devastating news. Some time around 2:00 am, on Thursday, May 4th—just a few days ago—someone broke into St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Amarillo, Texas, and vandalized their sacred space.

When I saw the name and location of the church, my heart sank, not only because I once served as a priest in that part of the country but also because a friend of mine now serves as the rector of St. Andrew’s.

As soon as I heard the news, I reached out to him to offer my support and prayers.

The details of what happened were heart-breaking.

Whoever was responsible entered through the front door of the church and proceeded to cause as much damage as they could, intentionally targeting holy objects for desecration.

They destroyed the beautiful tapestry on the altar and carved holes into the altar table.

They broke the processional cross in half and left the top half laying on the altar.

They shattered the glass vases behind the altar and left all the flowers scattered on the floor.

They knocked the door off the tabernacle—one of the most sacred parts of any Episcopal church, where consecrated bread and wine are kept for administering Holy Communion to those who are sick or homebound.

And even worse, they dumped all of the consecrated hosts onto the floor.

The most damaged part of the church was the baptismal font—the place where we welcome new Christians into the Body of Christ and mark them as Christ’s own forever—a beautiful sign of God’s love for us.

The perpetrators poured all the blessed water out of the font and shattered pieces of the stone structure, intentionally targeting the carvings of saints.

Sadly, these kinds of attacks on places of worship happen far too often. St. Andrew’s in Amarillo is just one example of the kind of hate being directed toward worshiping communities all the time and in places all across the country.

The shooting at St. Stephen’s in Birmingham last June is another good example.

And, it’s not just Christian communities being attacked. It’s communities of all faiths who are being targeted.

I don’t know why, other than the fact that we live in a broken world full of broken people who sometimes do terrible things in order to hurt others.

As I read the news of what happened at St. Andrew’s, I thought to myself, “As a priest, how would I respond if something like that happened here at St. Mary’s?” “What words of comfort would I have to give, and how would I encourage you to keep going?”

Well, I hope I would have the wisdom and grace to respond the way my friend did.

On Thursday evening—the same day as the attack—my friend, the rector of St. Andrew’s, stood up and addressed the congregation during a prayer service that was held at the church.

And as he was speaking, he reminded the people of who they were as followers of Jesus—as people of the Way.

“We are a people who gather,” he told them. “We are a people who pray together. We are a people who love each other and the world. No exceptions. No matter the person, no matter the situation, the day or the difficulty, we choose love. Always. We choose love. Hard day. It’s a weird world, but love always wins. Not because we are so great or because we are so lovable, but because God is love. That’s why love wins.”

I wanted to share this with you today, not to make you feel scared or angry or hopeless about the world, but to remind you that, no matter what happens to us in our lives—as individuals and as a community of faith—God is always with us.

And the reason why God is always with us—why God has promised to never leave us—is because God loves us more than we can possibly imagine.

It’s true.

No matter where we go or what we do, through the good times and the bad, God is always near.

And we know this is true because of Jesus—the one who came to live as one of us and to show us the path to abundant life with God. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we know who God is, and we know how God calls us to live our lives as people of the Way.

Our Gospel lesson this morning takes place on the night before Jesus died. It’s from a section of John’s Gospel commonly referred to as the Farewell Discourse.

Jesus is with his disciples in the Upper Room. He’s shared with them a final meal. He’s washed their feet. He’s given them a new commandment to live by.

And, he’s told them that he’ll only be with them a little while longer and that where he’s going, they cannot come.

The disciples are deeply grieved in spirit because they desperately want to stay with Jesus.

So he says to them, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house, there are many dwelling-places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.”

These are words of hope and comfort for a group of disciples who’ve already started to mourn the loss of their friend and teacher. In his compassion, Jesus reassures them and promises that he will always be with them.

This passage from John is one that’s often used during funerals and memorial services in the Episcopal Church, and rightfully so. They are comfortable words, and they offer grieving families and friends the reassurance that, no matter where we go—whether we live or die—there’s nothing in heaven or on earth that can separate us from God.

But, this passage offers us more than just words of comfort and reassurance. It also reminds us of who we are and how we’re called to live. We are people of the Way, and Jesus has set for us an example to live by.

When Jesus says to Thomas, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” he’s not talking about the way to get to heaven or what happens to us when we die. He’s saying, “If you want to know how to follow God, follow my way. If you want to know the truth of who God is, listen to my voice. If you want to know the path to abundant life with God, look at my life and my example and do likewise.”

Many of you already know this, but this passage from John—especially the part when Jesus says, “No one comes to the Father except through me”—is often used as a way to exclude non-Christians or to use fear as a means of getting people to follow Jesus.

But, if we read this passage in the larger context and think about what’s going on at the time with Jesus and his disciples, it really has nothing to do with who’s in and who’s out, and it has nothing to do with who’s going to heaven and who’s not.

At the heart of this passage is a promise.

And the promise is this. No matter where we go or what do, God is already there.

When people hurt us or when unexpected things happen and it feels like our lives are falling apart, God is already there, ready to pick up the pieces and bring us healing and wholeness.

When it feels like we’ve lost our way and we don’t know where to turn, God is already there, ready to forgive us and lead us back home again.

When it feels like the world is against us and all hope is lost, God is already there, ready to bring us strength and courage to carry on and to remind us of who we are.

We aren’t people of the world because we know there’s nothing in this world that can bring us the abundant life that God wants to share with us. We are people of the Way.

And the way is Jesus. Amen.

Eucharistia

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter (Year A)
April 23, 2023

Text: Luke 24:13-35

Several years ago, before I went to seminary, I came across a short video online that was posted by an Episcopal priest. The title of the video was “Eucharistia.” If that name sounds familiar, that’s because Eucharistia is where the word “Eucharist” comes from. It’s a Greek word, which means, “thanksgiving.”

What the priest created was basically a video meditation about the significance of the Eucharist and its place in our lives as followers of Jesus.

It featured a small group of people, including a priest and several lay people, gathered together in a large, open room. Among them was a shy, young woman—a stranger to the group—who was reluctant to participate at first but eventually came to realize that what was happening around her was so important that she had to be part of it.

One thing that made the video so interesting was that it was shot as a silent film. So, the only thing you could hear was a bit of music playing in the background. The story was told through actions and gestures rather than dialogue.

At the beginning of the video, the group sat in a circle on the wooden floor as they watched the priest prepare a place in the center for the Eucharist to be celebrated.

On a square piece of white cloth, the priest placed a ceramic chalice filled with red wine, a plate with a loaf of bread, and something else, something unexpected—a wrinkly, folded up newspaper.

My first thought was, “Ok. I get why the bread and wine are there, but what’s going on with the newspaper? What’s that for?”

Finally, the Eucharistic prayer began. The priest held up the plate with the loaf of bread. Then, she lifted up the chalice of wine, and even though I couldn’t hear the words that were being spoken, I was familiar enough with the prayer that I could understand what was going on.

After the prayer, the bread was broken and passed from person to person, each one having the opportunity to share the Sacrament with the next person in the circle.

Then, the chalice was passed around in the same way. One by one, each person took a sip of wine and passed it on to the next person in the circle.

After everyone had received the bread and wine, something different happened—something we normally don’t do when we celebrate the Eucharist.

The priest took the folded up newspaper, tore a piece of it off, and passed it to the next person. Likewise, the rest of the group did the same. The newspaper was passed from person to person, each one having the opportunity to tear off a piece and read it.

At first, it took me a moment to understand what was happening and why it was important.

And, then it clicked.

The newspaper symbolized the group’s connection to the outside world and the work that all of us are called to do as followers of Jesus. As they read their torn-off pieces of newspaper, you could sense that the boundaries of the circle were fading away.

For the group on the video, the newspaper served as an important reminder that what we do when we’re gathered around the Altar is about much more than just a single act of worship.

The Eucharist is not about serving ourselves. It’s about serving our Lord Jesus, the one who continues to send us out, beyond the walls of the church.

In the Eucharist, we come to the Altar, not only to be fed with the Body and Blood of Christ, but also to offer ourselves as living bread so that others may come to know the love of God through us.

Our lives are filled with countless opportunities to be Eucharist for others—to be the hands and feet of Christ in a world that’s hungry for the Good News we have to share—that God in Christ has indeed been risen and that salvation has come to the whole world.

There are a lot of stories about feeding and being fed in the Gospels.

There’s the Feeding of the Five Thousand—a story that’s familiar to most us and one that appears in all four Gospels.

There’s the Institution of the Lord’s Supper, where Jesus shared a final meal with his disciples on the night before he died and instructed them to continue breaking the bread and sharing the cup.

And then, there’s our Gospel lesson for today, which takes place on the day of the Lord’s resurrection. Two of Jesus’ disciples are traveling along the road to Emmaus—a small village about seven miles from Jerusalem—discussing the events that just took place. As they’re walking along, they encounter someone who appears to be a stranger.

They begin talking with the man, unaware that it’s the risen Lord, and sharing with him their fears and disappointments after Jesus was crucified.

They had hoped that he was the Messiah—the one who would come to redeem Israel and set them free from Roman oppression. They’ve heard rumors of his resurrection, but they haven’t seen it for themselves.

Then Jesus, beginning with Moses and the prophets, begins interpreting to them the Scriptures about himself.

As they approach the village, the two disciples invite Jesus to stay with them because it’s getting dark outside and unsafe to travel. Jesus agrees, and when they come inside, they share a meal together around the dinner table.

At the table, Jesus takes the bread. Jesus blesses the bread. Jesus breaks the bread, and then he shares it with the two disciples.

And in that moment, they finally realize the truth. Jesus was with them all along. The man they assumed was a complete stranger turned out to be the risen Christ.

Jesus was made known to them in the breaking of the bread. He never once told them who he was. It was in the breaking of the bread that their eyes were opened to the truth.

So, it should come as no surprise to anyone that our central act of worship in the Episcopal Church takes place around a table where bread and wine are shared. It’s in this sacred meal—in the breaking of the bread—where we discover the risen Christ and the true meaning of what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

We take ordinary bread and wine, the fruits of our labor, created by human hands from the gifts God has given us in creation.

We acknowledge God’s goodness and pray for God to bless the bread and wine that they may become for us spiritual food.

We break the bread and pour out the wine so they may be shared among us.

And finally, we give these gifts back to God. By receiving the holy mysteries of Christ’s Body and Blood in the Eucharist, we become that which we receive—the Body of Christ, broken and poured out for the life of the world.

We take the bread and wine.

We bless it.

We break it.

And we give it.

And we do these things, not only for our own sake, but for the sake of others.

St. Augustine of Hippo, who lived during the fourth and fifth centuries, put it this way in a sermon he once wrote about the Holy Eucharist: “One of the deep truths of Christian faith is that through our participation in the sacraments (particularly Baptism and Eucharist), we are transformed into the Body of Christ, given for the world.”

This is the way Christians have been worshiping for centuries.

And we continue that tradition today.

Every time we come to the Altar to receive Communion, we should be reminded that it isn’t just about us. It’s about reconnecting with God and being strengthened and nourished in our faith so that we can be instruments of God’s grace in the world around us.

Just as Jesus made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of the bread, Jesus continues to make himself known to us, and we continue to make Jesus known to the world when we go forth from this place.

Eucharist isn’t just a nice thing we do on Sunday mornings, and it isn’t just a symbolic meal or a way for us to retell the story, week after week.

It’s our pattern for living. Take. Bless. Break. And give.

If we can remember that, then there’s nothing we can’t do for the good of God’s Kingdom. Amen.

Christ is Risen

A Sermon for the Sunday of the Resurrection: Easter Day
April 9, 2023

Text: John 20:1-18

“I have seen the Lord!” These are the first words spoken by Mary Magdalene to the disciples soon after she discovers the risen Christ and runs to tell them the wonderful news.

“I have seen the Lord,” she says.

You can imagine the excitement in her voice when she announces to the disciples that Jesus has returned. Jesus—their friend and master who was crucified—has triumphed over death and risen from the grave.

But, if we back up a bit in our Gospel lesson for today, Mary Magdalene’s first encounter with the risen Christ isn’t very exciting.

In fact, she doesn’t even recognize Jesus at first. She sees and talks with a man who she assumes must be the gardener. Now, I don’t really know why she assumes that Jesus is the gardener, and the Scriptures don’t really provide us with any other details.

All we know is that, when Mary turns from the two angels sitting in the empty tomb, she sees a man standing in the garden. The man asks Mary, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”

Assuming that the man has done something with Jesus’ body, Mary says to him anxiously, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

Mary’s love for Jesus is strong. It’s obvious in the way she cares for him, even after his death.

As readers of John’s Gospel, the author has given us a special insight into the story.

Unlike Mary Magdalene, we don’t have to guess the identity of the man in the garden. We already know that it’s the resurrected Jesus, and so it’s no surprise to us at all when Mary finally discovers the truth.

Like the Good Shepherd who calls out to his sheep, Jesus calls out to Mary by name, and in that moment, she knows exactly who he is.

“Mary!” Jesus says.

She turns at once and, in Hebrew, responds, “Rabbouni!” which means, “master.” For Mary, this wasn’t just a title of respect for Jesus but also a term of endearment. This was the man who welcomed her into the sheepfold, the one claimed her as one of his own.

For the author of John’s Gospel, the point of this Easter story isn’t to prove that Jesus died and rose from the tomb.

As Christians, we already know this and believe it to be true. No, the point of this Easter story is that, when Christ calls us by name, like Mary Magdalene, we are changed forever.

When Christ calls us by name, we are claimed as his own and drawn into a new way of life—a resurrected life.

In the Church, we have a way of celebrating this new way of life and welcoming new Christians into the Body of Christ. We call it the sacrament of Holy Baptism—which is the sacrament of new birth.

Since the earliest days of the Church, Christians have been using the time leading up to Easter—the forty days of Lent—as a time of preparation for those seeking to be baptized.

So, there really is no better time to be baptized than Easter.

And, for those of us who’ve already been baptized, Easter is also a good time to remember the vows we made in our Baptism. And that’s exactly what we did last night at St. Mary’s during the Great Vigil of Easter.

Last night, after we heard stories told from the Hebrew Scriptures, recounting the history of our salvation, we recommitted ourselves to the work of the Gospel by renewing our own baptismal covenant.

We vowed, with God’s help, to continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers.

We vowed, with God’s help, to persevere in resisting evil and to repent and return to the Lord when we fall short of our calling.

We vowed, with God’s help, to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ.

We vowed, with God’s help, to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.

And finally, we vowed, with God’s help, to strive for justice and peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being.

Through the waters of Baptism, we are buried with Christ in his death and raised to newness of life in his resurrection. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Nothing can ever change that.

Like Mary Magdalene in our Gospel lesson for today, Jesus calls each of us by name, and we are his. In my opinion, this is the real miracle of Easter. Of course, we love to hear the story of the resurrection on that first Easter Day, and we rightfully should. But, the real miracle, dear friends, is what Easter means for us and for all who believe in Christ.

Through his sacrifice on the cross and his glorious resurrection, Jesus has opened for us the way to life and peace with God. Sin and death no longer have dominion over us. It is no longer we who live but Christ who lives in us.

In a sermon that she once wrote, Barbara Brown Taylor once described Easter as “the unnatural truth.”

She wrote, “To expect a sealed tomb and find one filled with angels, to hunt the past and discover the future, to seek a corpse and find the risen Lord—-none of this is natural. Death is natural. Loss is natural. Grief is natural. But those stones have been rolled away this happy morning, to reveal the highly unnatural truth. By the light of this day, God has planted a seed of life in us that cannot be killed, and if we can remember that then there is nothing we cannot do: move mountains, banish fear, love our enemies, change the world.”

My brothers and sisters in Christ, we are resurrection people, and it’s our call to live as resurrection people, transformed and made new for the work of sharing the Good News of God in Christ with the world.

The Easter proclamation, “Alleluia, Christ is risen,” isn’t just something we say on Easter to make ourselves feel better, and it isn’t simply a reminder of an event that happened long ago.

It’s our proclamation to the world that what was once cast down has been raised up. The dead live again. There is victory for those who believe. The same is true today as it was yesterday and forever more. Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed! Amen.

Hope for the World

A Homily for The Great Vigil of Easter
April 8, 2023

Text: Romans 6:3-11

Let none fear death, for the death of the Savior has set us free. Christ is risen and the demons have fallen. Christ is risen and the angels rejoice. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I would be lying if I told you that I had some deep, theological insight into the mysteries of Holy Week and the events of our Lord’s Passion, death, and resurrection.

The truth is that the words I have to offer are really just a feeble attempt to make sense of something far greater and more powerful than we can possibly imagine.

Which is why I’m so thankful for the Prayer Book and the liturgies of Holy Week that help us better understand the meaning and significance of this special time in the life of the Church.

The liturgies of Holy Week—including Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter—preach themselves in a very profound way, not only through the words we speak and the hymns we sing but also through the experience of walking with Christ from the Upper Room on the night before he died, to the cross on Good Friday, and finally to the tomb, where he was laid to rest, awaiting the day of resurrection.

Think about all we’ve experienced with Jesus over the past three days—

The washing of feet on Maundy Thursday, reminding us of our Lord’s commandment to love and serve others.

The Bread and Wine of the Eucharist, reminding us that we are the Body of Christ, broken and poured out for the life of the world.

The Stripping of the Altar, reminding us that our Lord was betrayed and handed over to suffering and death.

The crown of thorns, reminding us of the suffering servant who went to the cross on our behalf.

The hard wood of the Cross, reminding us that Jesus died so that we may be forgiven and reconciled with God.

The newly kindled fire, reminding us that not even death could contain Jesus.

The water of Baptism, reminding us that we have been buried with Christ in his death and raised to newness of life.

And the first, “Alleluia,” our great Easter proclamation, reminding us that death has been defeated once and for all and that Christ has indeed risen from the grave.

All of these are outward and visible signs that the Holy Spirit is at work, stirring up in us that which the world cannot give—a hope that can no longer be contained.

On this night, we celebrate the Passover of the Lord.

“This is the night, when all who believe in Christ are delivered from the gloom of sin, and are restored to grace and holiness of life.”

“This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.”

“This is the night,” according to one author, “that is like day, the dawn of reconciliation, peace, and the forgiveness of sin.”

This is the night, when we are once again reminded that not even the shadow of death can separate us from the love of God and that darkness always gives way to the light.

In the sixteenth chapter of John’s Gospel, just before Jesus is betrayed and arrested, he tells his disciples that he’ll be with them only a little while longer and that they’ll soon grieve and mourn for him.

Knowing that his time is short, Jesus says to them, “Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.”

“Now is your time of grief,” Jesus says, “but I will see you again and you will rejoice…”

Rejoice. It’s the first word of the ancient Easter hymn, the Exsultet, proclaimed each year at the beginning of the Great Vigil of Easter.

“Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…”

“Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth…”

“Rejoice and be glad now, Mother Church…”

Rejoice is the word we use to proclaim that death and sin no longer have dominion over us and that grief and suffering have given way to joy.

That’s what this night is all about.

But, it’s important for us to remember that the joy of Easter isn’t a cure for the brokenness of our world, and it isn’t a goal to reach, as if everything else we’ve experienced during Holy Week is simply an obstacle to overcome.

In other words, we can’t forget everything we went through to get to this night because the life of a Christian—and the work we’re called to do—is full of both Good Friday moments and Easter moments.

As Christians, we’re baptized into the death and resurrection of Jesus.

St. Paul said it this way in his letter to the Romans:

“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”

What this means is that we’re continually called to die to self and to love others as Christ loved us—with the same self-giving, sacrificial love he demonstrated on the cross.

And in the process of dying to self and following the example of Jesus, we grow more and more into the full stature of Christ and experience the resurrected life that God desires for each of us.

The Lord needs us.

Because, even in the midst of our Easter joy, the world continues to revolve, and people continue to suffer, looking for signs of God’s light and God’s love in the midst of the darkness.

The Lord needs us to carry the light of Christ with us wherever we go.

The great joy that we experience at Easter is hope for the world—a sign that all is not lost, that God is still present in our lives, working in us and through us.

Our great joy at Easter is the hope that, in the fullness of time, God’s dream of heaven on earth will finally be fulfilled.

But, until that day comes, let us continue to serve God by offering ourselves as instruments of God’s love and mercy to this broken and suffering world, and let us rejoice without ceasing in the saving work of God in Christ. Amen.

Love Always Leaves a Mark

A Homily for Good Friday
April 7, 2023

Text: John 18:1-19:42

Loving God, on this most solemn day in the life of the Church, we ask you to be gentle with us and to show us your love and mercy. Help us, we pray, as we bear witness to the events of our Lord’s suffering and death and as we contemplate their meaning for our lives. And then use us, we pray, as instruments of your healing in this broken and sinful world. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Several years ago, Chelsea and I went to the movie theater to see a wonderful film. Some of you may have seen it before. It’s called The Shack, and it was based on a book by William Paul Young. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it to you.

The main character in the film is a man named Mack who suffers a terrible loss early on in the movie when his daughter, Missy, is abducted and killed.

Several months after the tragedy, Mack receives a strange note in his mailbox, inviting him to go to “the shack,” the place where police discovered evidence of his daughter’s murder.

At first, he’s hesitant to go, thinking that it might it be some cruel joke. But, eventually, he decides to go, and when he arrives, he discovers that God is waiting for him.

In The Shack, God appears to Mack as three different people—each representing a different part of the Trinity. God the Father, or “Papa,” as he’s called in the movie, appears to Mack as an African American woman played by Octavia Spencer.

God the Son appears as “Jesus,” a young, Jewish carpenter, with olive skin and dark hair, and God the Holy Spirit appears as “Sarayu,” a young Asian woman.

There are so many memorable scenes in The Shack, but there’s one in particular that moves me to tears every time I watch it.

It occurs early on in the film, after Mack meets Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu for the first time. Papa invites Mack to come inside the house and help her make bread for supper.

And after some time, while they’re working in the kitchen, Papa tells Mack that she knows there’s this great divide between them because of what happened to his daughter.

She tells Mack that she wants to heal the broken relationship between them.

But Mack is angry. He tells Papa that she abandoned him and his daughter when they needed her the most. He tells her that she must have a bad habit of turning her back on those whom she supposedly loves, including Jesus.

“He said it himself,” Mack says, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Then, Papa looks at Mack and shakes her head.

“No, Mack,” Papa says, “you misunderstand the mystery.”

Then, she takes his hands in hers and shows him the scars on her wrists. She says to Mack, “Don’t ever think that what my son chose to do didn’t cost us both dearly. Love always leaves a mark. We were there together. I never left him. I never left you. I never left Missy.”

Now, The Shack is just a made-up story. It’s a wonderful story, but it’s a work of fiction, based on the ideas and imagination of one person.

But, to me, this scene between Mack and Papa and the conversation they have serves as a beautiful illustration of the kind of love that God has for each of us and the kind of love that Jesus demonstrated on the cross.

It’s a powerful scene, and I love that line toward the end that Papa says to Mack.

“Love always leaves a mark.”

And, I think it’s absolutely true.

Think about it for a moment. Think about all the great loves you’ve known in your life and how they’ve impacted you. The love of a child. The love of a husband or a wife or a significant other. The love of a parent. The love of a close friend or family member.

We wouldn’t be who we are today without the people in our lives who’ve loved us and touched us in some way.

Because love always leaves a mark.

True love—when it’s self-giving and sacrificial—leaves behind an impression that marks us and changes us forever.

And there’s never been a truer love than the love of Jesus, who endured the worst that humanity could inflict upon him and laid down his life on our behalf so that we might be forgiven and reconciled with God.

It’s why we call this day Good Friday.

It’s not because of the suffering Jesus endured.

It’s what God was able to accomplish through the suffering. An instrument of pain and death has become for us the instrument of our salvation.

If Palm Sunday invites us to contemplate the shock and scandal of the cross, Good Friday invites us to contemplate the healing power of the cross—that through our Lord’s Passion and death, he conquered death and opened up for us the way to eternal life with God.

God didn’t force Jesus to go to the cross, and I don’t believe that it was God’s will for Jesus to suffer and die the way that he did.

God sent Jesus to teach us a better and more loving way to live and to save us from the power of sin and death, and despite the pain and suffering it caused him, he never strayed from the path that God called him to walk.

Jesus chose to go to the cross for you and for me so that we might never be alone again, and because of that great act of love, we have been changed forever. Death has been defeated forever. We have been marked as Christ’s own forever.

Because love always leaves a mark. Amen.

Tender Love

A Homily for Maundy Thursday
April 6, 2023

Text: John 13:1-17, 31b-35

God of love, we come to you this night in prayer, and we ask you to draw near to us as we continue our journey through Holy Week. On this night, we especially pray for the will and strength to persevere in our call to walk in love with grace and humility, following the example Jesus has set for us and remembering his commandment to love one another as we have been loved. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

During the Spring semester of my junior year in college, I experienced something at church for the first time that left a lasting impression on my life.

At the time, Chelsea and I had just started attending St. Dunstan’s in Auburn, and we were still in the process of learning about the different customs and traditions of the Episcopal Church. Chelsea grew up Roman Catholic. So, she had a good idea of what to expect.

But, I was brand new and had very little experience with any kind of liturgical worship.

So, I really had no idea what to expect when Holy Week came around in the Spring of 2004.

As a member of the choir at St. Dunstan’s, I knew that Holy Week would involve a lot of extra time at church—probably more than I wanted to spend in the course of a week.

I knew there were special things that would happen during the week that didn’t happen any other time of the year. And, although I didn’t understand how important it was at the time, I could sense that it was a really big deal.

A lot of time and energy were put into planning and preparing for those services.

So, by the time Palm Sunday rolled around, I thought I was ready for what was about to happen, but as it turned out, I had no idea how impactful my first journey through Holy Week would be.

On Palm Sunday, we remembered the events of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, waving palm branches and processing inside the church. Then, the mood of that service quickly changed from one of celebration and excitement to one of deep sadness as we heard the story of our Lord’s Passion and death retold.

The week continued on.

On Wednesday night, we gathered around a large table in the Nave of the church and shared a Seder meal—the traditional meal served in Jewish households during the festival of Passover. For Christians, this is also where we trace the origins of the meal we share around the Lord’s Table when we celebrate the Eucharist each week. It’s believed by many that the Passover meal—or Seder, as it was later called—was the meal Jesus shared with his disciples on the night before he died.

Then we came to Maundy Thursday, and I experienced something that night in worship that’s remained with me ever since.

The word “maundy” comes from the Latin word, mandatum, which means “commandment,” and the reason why we call Thursday in Holy Week “Maundy Thursday” is because this is the night when we remember the final moments Jesus shared with his disciples in the Upper Room before he was betrayed and handed over to the authorities.

This is the night when Jesus got up from the dinner table after supper, tied a towel around his waist, poured water into a basin, and began washing the feet of his disciples—an act of lowly service that would’ve normally been done by disciples for their Master, not the other way around.

This is the night when Jesus gave his disciples one final commandment. “Love one another,” Jesus said. “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

It’s a tradition in many Episcopal parishes during the service for Maundy Thursday to remember Jesus’ commandment to all of us by participating in the washing of feet.

And on that night, back in 2004, in the chapel at St. Dunstan’s, I had my feet washed in church for the very first time.

I don’t remember all of the specific details, but I do remember that, when we came to that point in the service, I got up from my seat, removed my socks and shoes, and walked to the front of the church where there were two stations set up for the foot-washing.

I sat down in front of Leigh Warren, the wife of Father Wells—the priest at St. Dunstan’s. She took my bare feet and gently washed them with warm water from a pitcher, dried them with a clean towel, and then went a step further by anointing them with oil.

She took her time, and there was a tenderness in the way she washed my feet.

Now, I’m not going to lie and pretend that I was perfectly comfortable having my feet washed by someone I barely knew at the time.

But, the image of that moment has lingered with me all these years because in that moment of having my feet washed, I experienced a small glimpse of what it means to love others with the heart of a servant, which is exactly what we’re called to do as followers of Jesus.

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus says to his disciples, “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

There’s a reason why I wanted to share this story with you tonight.

And that’s because in a few moments, I’m going to invite you to come forward to have your feet washed as an outward and visible sign of God’s love and a reminder of the kind of love we are called to share with others.

If you’ve had your feet washed in church before, you already know what to expect.

But, if you’ve never done this before, I want to put your mind at ease.

There’s nothing to worry about, and if you decide not to participate, there’s no shame in that at all.

But, if you do decide to participate, I’ll ask you to remove your socks and shoes before coming forward, one at a time, to have your feet washed.

We’ll start with the choir, and then anyone in the congregation is welcome to come forward.

You’ll sit in the chair in front of me, and I’ll kneel down and wash your feet. And once I’m done, you’ll return to your seat, and the next person can come forward and sit down.

We’re going to take our time with this.

Because this is holy time.

It’s a time for us to remember who we are as the Body of Christ and what God has called us to do in our lives. It’s a time for us to remember the sacred story and to find our place in it.

Whether or not you come forward for foot-washing, I invite you to use this time to reflect on the Gospel passage for this evening and imagine what it must’ve been like for Jesus’ disciples on that last night before he was handed over to be crucified.

Imagine the tender love Jesus shared with his disciples as he washed their feet—the care and attention he gave to each one of them.

And then remember that it’s with the same care and attention that Jesus loves each of us, more than we can possibly imagine. Amen.

The Way of the Cross

A Homily for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday
April 2, 2023

Text: Matthew 26:14-27:66

Loving God, as we begin our walk with Christ during this most sacred time of the year, we ask you to draw close to us and to help us know and feel your presence among us. Break open our hearts and lift us up as we make our journey with Christ to the cross of salvation. May this time be one of transformation and renewal, that we may recommit our lives to your service. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”

If you’re familiar with the psalms, you might recognize these words as the opening to Psalm 22. During Holy Week, we normally hear these words recited on Good Friday.

And, we will again this year.

But, for now, on this Palm Sunday, the opening words to Psalm 22 cut especially deep. In Matthew’s version of the Passion Gospel—which we heard just a few moments ago—they’re the final words of Jesus before his death on the cross.

As Jesus is hanging there, he says, in Aramaic, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani,” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”

Some of the bystanders who are standing near Jesus mistake his words as a cry to Elijah, and they mock him, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.”

Then, Jesus, with a loud voice, cries out and gives up his spirit.

I can only imagine how Jesus must’ve felt in those last moments before he died.

The pain and humiliation of the cross. The feeling of betrayal and abandonment. The overwhelming sense of being completely alone and cut off from everyone—including his Father in heaven.

Not that I believe that God ever abandoned Jesus, but that’s a topic for another sermon.

The scene is almost too painful to even think about, isn’t it, when you consider the magnitude of Jesus’ suffering?

Only the women who had followed him from Galilee—people like Mary Magdalene—remained with Jesus until the end. They watched from a distance as he died on the cross.

The crowd in Jerusalem—those who had welcomed him into the city only a few days earlier and hailed him as their king—turned their backs on Jesus and called for his death.

Peter—his disciple and friend—denied ever knowing Jesus. He quickly fled after he was accused of being one of his disciples.

Judas betrayed Jesus and handed him over for thirty pieces of silver. Later, when he realized the mistake he had made, he tried to take it back, but it was too late. The decision to crucify Jesus had already been made. Unable to live with the thought of condemning an innocent man, Judas took his own life.

And the other disciples—those who had come to know and love Jesus, those who had followed him all the way to Jerusalem—fled out of fear after Jesus was arrested.

The way of the cross was too much for them to bear.

And in the end, Jesus was left alone to die. Almost everyone, including his most trusted disciples, abandoned him out of fear or grief. If it weren’t for the cross, Jesus might’ve died from a broken heart.

Palm Sunday—the Sunday of the Passion—invites us to pause and consider the shock and scandal of Jesus’ death—not only at the hands of his persecutors—but also at the hands of those who denied him and betrayed his trust.

Ordinary people—just like you and me—who decided that it was better to take care of themselves rather than stay with Jesus in his most desperate hour of need.

If that makes you a little uncomfortable, I think that’s exactly the point.

Because at any given moment, on any given day, each of us is given the choice of whether to follow Jesus and be faithful in our calling or to turn our backs and say that the way of the cross is too much to bear.

Each of us is given the choice of whether to say “yes” or “no” to Jesus.

It would be a grave mistake for us to think that the story of Jesus’ Passion and death is just about events that took place a long time ago in a land far away from here.

Earlier in Matthew’s Gospel—after Jesus tells his disciples that he must undergo great suffering and be killed and then raised up on the third day—he says to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

Jesus continues to speak to us today. And his message is this: The way of love is the way of the cross, and it is the path to abundant life with God.

We are his disciples. We are his Church. And just like those disciples who lived long ago—we also have to decide whether or not to walk the way of the cross with Jesus.

It won’t always be easy. And, it’ll always require us to give of ourselves in some way. But, we can trust that God will always be with us when we do.

This day marks the beginning of Holy Week—the most sacred time of the year for Christians around the world. Over the course of the next several days, we have the opportunity to experience the story again with open minds and open hearts—to walk with Christ from the Upper Room on Maundy Thursday to the cross on Good Friday, and then to experience once again the joy of resurrection on Easter.

If we allow it, this week can be a time of transformation and renewal. But, in order to do so, we have to let go of the idea that we have nothing left to learn from the story.

So, I invite you, my brothers and sisters in Christ. Open your minds, and open your hearts to where the Spirit is leading you this week, and may God be with us all. Amen.

New Life, New Hope

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 26, 2023

Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14 and John 11:1-45

A few days ago, I came across a picture that a friend of mine had posted on Facebook. In the picture was an Episcopal priest—someone I knew personally—sitting on the floor of his church with his back propped up against a wall and his head hanging low.

He looked sad and defeated.

At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. I was concerned because the priest in the photo was a friend of mine, and it looked like something terrible had happened.

But, then I noticed the date that the picture was originally taken. It was March 19, 2020—a little over three years ago, at the start of the pandemic—when everyone was told to shelter in place.

The picture reminded me of my own experience of being a priest during that time—the rector of a small parish—and what it was like when the Bishop of Alabama informed the clergy that all in-person worship services were suspended until further notice.

It wasn’t surprising when we received the news, but that didn’t stop it from hurting any less. I was deeply grieved, along with everyone else in the parish where I was serving.

Church was supposed to be the place where we could always go to be surrounded by people who loved us and cared for us, the place where we could always go for strength and renewal and to be reminded of the hope we have in Christ Jesus.

But, in March of 2020, that place—that sanctuary—was taken away.

They say that the Church isn’t a building—and I agree with that a hundred percent—but the building is the place where the Body of Christ gathers together for worship, to comfort each other, and to build each other up in the life of faith.

When that was taken away—when we were no longer able to gather in person as a community of faith—an important piece of who we are was all of a sudden gone. We felt lost and afraid, as did so many others.

What was initially a two-week suspension of in-person worship turned into several more weeks, and then weeks turned into months.

At the start of the pandemic, I led Sunday morning worship by live-streaming a simple service of Morning Prayer in the basement of our home in Alabaster.

Then, I started learning how to record myself with a cell phone inside the church and piece it all together in a pre-recorded video that was later uploaded to our Facebook page.

For the longest time, I couldn’t visit anyone in their home or go to the nursing home or hospital. I had to settle for offering pastoral care through phone calls, e-mails, and text messages. I even had to offer Last Rites over the phone to a member of our parish who was dying in the hospital due to the coronavirus.

We had to be creative when it came to things like Sunday school and Vacation Bible School. We had to settle for what we could do from home during important seasons of the Church year like Holy Week, Easter, and Christmas.

All of it felt so incredibly sub-standard and less than what we should be doing as the Church.

And, for me, I think that was the most difficult part of being a priest during the pandemic.

It was hard to let go of the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough and that we weren’t doing enough as a Church, and I wrestled with what it meant to be a priest when I could no longer administer the sacraments or lead public worship or care for those in need, especially the members of our parish.

I think the best word I can use to describe it is “helpless.”

I felt helpless.

And, if I’m being completely honest with you, there were times when I felt a bit hopeless as well—times when I wondered whether or not we would ever make it through to the other side.

Something tells me you can probably relate.

For the longest time, we were left wondering, “When will all of this be over?” “When will life finally get back to normal?” “Will we make it through to the other side?” “And…if we do, who will be left to help pick up the pieces?”

I know I’m preaching to the choir here, because every church—big and small, including St. Mary’s and other churches like it—struggled with these same questions.

And in some ways, even though things are much better than they were before, we’re still struggling with them today and dealing with the aftermath.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that living through the pandemic felt a lot like walking through the valley of the shadow of death, as the psalmist writes.

It felt a lot like what the prophet describes in our lesson this morning from Ezekiel—like walking through a desolate valley full of bones, wondering whether or not God can breathe new life into those dry bones and cause them to live again.

In Ezekiel’s vision, the valley full of dry bones represents Israel—God’s chosen people—which, at that time, was a shadow of its former self.

Israel was all but decimated after the exile in Babylon—after almost seventy years away from their home and living in captivity, and no one—not even them—believed that God could restore them to their former glory.

God asks Ezekiel in his vision, “Mortal, can these bones live?” Ezekiel replies, “O Lord God, you know.”

So, God instructs Ezekiel to bring a prophecy to the people of Israel.

“Prophesy to these bones,” God says, “and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

It almost sounds like the scene out of a horror movie, doesn’t it?

But, it’s actually a beautiful sign—a beautiful reminder—of God’s never-ending love for his people.

The Hebrew word that the prophet uses for “breath” is ruach, which means “breath,” “wind,” or “spirit.” It’s the same word used in the story of Creation when God’s breath, God’s Spirit, moves over the face of the waters.

It’s the same word used in the book of Exodus when God’s breath, God’s Spirit, parts the Red Sea, allowing God’s people to pass over on dry land.

In their greatest times of need, when all hope seems lost, the Spirit of God moves over God’s people, bringing them new life and a renewed sense of hope.

Nothing can stop it—not even death—as we witnessed in our Gospel lesson this morning from John when God’s word is spoken through Jesus, who cries out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

Like the story of Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones, the story of Jesus raising Lazarus to new life—and so many other stories like it—serves as a vivid reminder for all of us that God is Lord over all—even death—and that God isn’t finished with us yet.

Sometimes, it may feel like death might’ve had the last word. I think that was certainly true during the height of the pandemic.

But then, just when we think that all hope is lost, God shows up and starts to breathe new life into these dried up old bones.

God shows up and reminds us that he alone has the power to bring us out of death into newness of life. As Christians, it’s the foundation of our faith. It’s the story of Easter, as we’ll soon experience once again. And, it’s what we hope for above all else.

New life, new hope, new possibilities.

Even now, we can see signs of new life springing up all around us. All you have to do is stop and look around. God is at work, and it’s only the beginning. Thanks be to God!

Amen.

God Is With Us

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 19, 2023

Text: John 9:1-41

Several years ago, I came across a story about a young woman from North Carolina named Kate Bowler. Some of you may be familiar with Kate and her story. She’s written several books over the past few years, and she’s been interviewed many times on national television.

But if you don’t know who she is, let me share with you a little about her.

The first thing you should know about Kate is that, while she was in her twenties and thirties, she spent over a decade researching the “prosperity gospel.”

If you’re unfamiliar with this term, the “prosperity gospel” refers to a popular belief among many Christians that, if you have enough faith in God and do all the things you’re supposed to do and live your life a particular way, God will reward you and shower you with many blessings, including abundant wealth and a long and healthy life.

The “prosperity gospel” also teaches that, if something bad happens to you—like a terrible illness or a natural disaster—there must be a reason for it. Maybe you didn’t have enough faith in God. Or, maybe you didn’t pray enough or use the right words. Or, maybe you did something to make God angry.

Kate spent years traveling and meeting with teachers of the “prosperity gospel,” mostly televangelists and megachurch pastors. Her years of research eventually led her to write a book about the history of the “prosperity gospel” in America.

And then, her life took a dramatic turn.

At the age of thirty-give, she was diagnosed with stage-four colon cancer, and she was told by her doctor that she only had a fourteen percent chance of survival.

All of a sudden, her life was turned upside down, and she had no idea whether or not she would live longer than a couple more years.

She had the life she had always wanted—a newborn son, a loving husband, and her dream job as a professor at Duke Divinity School. She felt like all her hard work had finally paid off, and then everything suddenly came crashing down around her.

And all she was left with was the question, “Why me?”

“I’ve done everything right up to this point. What did I do to deserve this?”

Even though she had spent years researching the “prosperity gospel” and was familiar with its teaching, she couldn’t escape the idea that she might’ve done something to deserve her illness.

What Kate eventually came to realize is that—contrary to what a lot of people think—not everything happens for a reason.

She wasn’t being punished by God for something she did or didn’t do. She wasn’t given this disease because of her lack of faith, and God wasn’t testing her or using her disease as part of some grand, master plan.

She actually wrote a book about it that I highly recommend called, Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved.

I wanted to share with you Kate’s story this morning because it’s important for us to remember that sometimes, bad things happen for no good reason at all.

Bad things happen all the time. They happen to the most faithful among us and the most unfaithful. It doesn’t mean that God loves us any less or that God is angry with us.

Sometimes, bad things just happen, and we have no logical way of explaining why.

But, that doesn’t stop us from trying, does it?

And when we do, we end up believing in things like the “prosperity gospel” because they offer us a simple, clear-cut way of providing answers to life’s most difficult questions.

And who doesn’t want that? Wouldn’t life be so much simpler if it was based on a formula? In other words, if you do x, then you’ll never have anything to worry about, but if you don’t do x, then you should be prepared for the consequences.

But, that’s not how life works, and it’s certainly not how God works, either.

Our lives are filled with moments of joy and moments of suffering, and most of the time, we have no way of knowing which way it’ll go from day to day.

One day, life could be great, and the next, it could feel like everything is crumbling down. Life isn’t fair, at least not according to our standards of fairness.

All we can really do is hold onto to the hope that God is with us—even in those moments when we experience great suffering and loss—and that, in all things, God is working to restore us to healing and wholeness.

God is our Great Physician. We may not always know what healing will look like, but we can trust that God is always there and that, eventually, healing will come, one way or another.

I think our Gospel lesson for this morning is a really good example of that.

At the beginning of our lesson, we encounter Jesus walking along, when he suddenly discovers a man who had been blind since birth. We don’t really know anything else about the man. We don’t know his name, and we don’t know where he’s from. All we know is that he’s been blind since birth.

And, as soon as they see the man, Jesus’ disciples ask him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

If we stop and consider it for a moment, it’s interesting that the first question out of the disciples’ mouths is, “Who sinned?” In other words, “Who’s responsible for this?” “ Who made God angry enough to cause this man to be born blind?” “Was it him or his parents?”

To us, it may seem like a strange question.

But, in the time of Jesus, it wouldn’t have been strange at all. In fact, it would’ve been perfectly reasonable—based on certain scriptures from books like Numbers and Deuteronomy—to assume that either the man or his parents had done something to provoke God’s wrath and cause his blindness.

In some ways, it’s a lot like our modern-day “prosperity gospel.”

In response to their question, Jesus says to his disciples, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”

Jesus doesn’t provide his disciples with an easy answer. He offers them no reasonable explanation for the man’s blindness.

What he does say is that God’s love and God’s mercy will be revealed through him.

Now, it’s important that we take a moment to clarify something. Jesus isn’t saying that the man was born blind in order to show God’s power, as if God caused the man to be born blind for a specific purpose.

No, what he’s saying here is that, when we suffer, God is with us and that, out of our suffering and pain, God has the power to bring healing and wholeness to our lives.

That’s certainly what happens to the man in our story.

Jesus spits on the ground and makes mud.

He covers the man’s eyes with the mud and tells him to go wash his eyes in the pool of Siloam.

And for the first time in his life, he’s finally able to see.

God showed up and brought healing and wholeness to the man who was born blind.

And God continues to show up in the messy parts our lives—and in the lives of others—creating paths toward healing and wholeness that are sometimes hard to explain or understand.

Sometimes, God’s healing comes in ways that we don’t expect.

Sometimes, it comes in ways that we didn’t ask for.

And sometimes—most of the time—it takes a lot longer than we would like.

But, healing will come—in one form or another—in this life or in the life of the world to come.

It’s not because we deserve it.

It’s not because God rewards us for our faithfulness or whether or not we pray the right words.

It’s because God loves us, and we are his.

Amen.

The Woman at the Well

A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 12, 2023

Text: John 4:5-42

Last week, I—along with a few of our members from St. Mary’s—traveled down south to Pensacola for the 52nd annual convention of the Diocese of the Central Gulf Coast.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with what this means, our diocese gathers once a year to conduct the business of the church. It’s something we’re required to do, but it’s also something we enjoy doing because when we come together, it really feels like one, big family reunion.

I had such a great time getting to spend time with old friends and meeting new people. It was great to spend time with one another and to worship together.

This year’s convention theme was “This is my story, this is my song.”

We reflected on the story of Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus, which we heard last week in our Gospel lesson from John. We talked about how stories are important— the way we make meaning of our lives, and we shared parts of our life story with other people at our tables. We also reflected on moments in our lives when we felt the Holy Spirit moving in our lives and in the life of our parishes.

One of the highlights of the convention for me was hearing a remarkable presentation from a woman named Becca Stevens. Becca is an Episcopal priest and the founder and president of an organization called Thistle Farms, which was created back in the mid-nineties to serve as a ministry for women survivors of abuse, trafficking, and prostitution. The mission of Thistle Farms is to create a safe space where abused and neglected women can come to be healed and then carry that light with them out into the world.

One of the ways people know about Thistle Farms is because of the products they make to support their ministry—things like candles, soap, and essential oils—all things to promote health and healing.

Keeping with the theme of the convention, during her presentation, Becca shared with us a story about a woman named Ty. The way Becca tells the story, Ty was the victim of abuse from a very young age, which eventually led to trafficking and prostitution. One day, she was arrested and charged with multiple felonies and sent away to prison for several years.

After she got out of prison, she went to Thistle Farms and began the long road to recovery. While she was there, she learned how to make candles, which according to Becca, is a big deal because that is their trademark product. After about a year and a half at Thistle Farms, she had to go back to court because she had one more pending charge against her, and despite the glowing testimony from the people at Thistle Farms, the judge said she had to serve fourteen more years in prison.

So, she went back to prison, and thanks to the efforts of the people at Thistle Farms and lawyers who worked for Ty, she only had to serve an additional three years.

Here’s the most incredible part of Becca’s story.

The very next day, after Ty was released, she came back to Thistle Farms and started making candles again. Becca asked her, “How are you doing it?” “How aren’t you so mad?” “How can you come back here and continue on?”

She said, “I need this as much as anybody.” “I need community.” “And you guys didn’t abandon me, and I’m not going to abandon you.”

Today, Ty serves as the Director of Manufacturing for Thistle Farms.

The love that was once shown toward her in her most desperate time of need is the same love she’s now sharing with others in their time of need.

That’s what happens when we encounter the love of God in Christ Jesus—a love that is merciful and full of compassion. It heals us and makes us whole, and it prepares us to be a source of love for others.

I wanted to share that story with you today because I see a lot of Ty’s story in the story of the Samaritan woman in our Gospel lesson for today and her encounter with Jesus.

Now, before we can talk about the significance of the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan woman, we have to take a look at the cultural context.

First, if we back up a few verses—to the very beginning of the fourth chapter of John—we learn that, soon after Jesus’ interaction with Nicodemus in Jerusalem, some of the other Pharisees get word that Jesus is baptizing more disciples than John the Baptist (although the author of John writes that it wasn’t actually Jesus; it was his disciples).

Jesus decides it’s time to get out of town to avoid any conflict. So, he plans to head back home to Galilee.

And the author of John’s Gospel writes, “But he had to go through Samaria.”

Now…if you look at a map of first century Palestine, you can easily see that Jesus didn’t have to go through Samaria to get back home. Yes, it was the most straightforward route, but he didn’t have to physically go through Samaria.

He chose to go through Samaria—through the land of the Samaritans—a group of people who were despised by the Jews. For Jesus and his disciples, this was like traveling through enemy territory. The Jews hated the Samaritans, and likewise, the Samaritans hated the Jews.

Rather than taking the longer but safer route around Samaria, Jesus went straight through it. And when he arrived at a Samaritan city called Sychar, he stopped to rest by a well in the blistering heat of the noon sun.

Normally, no one else would be around the well to get water at that time of day. Most people came to the well in the early morning or evening, before or after the sweltering heat of the day.

But, while he’s resting there, he sees a woman of Samaria come to the well to draw water, and he says to her, “Give me a drink.”

The woman is shocked by Jesus’ words. Jews didn’t speak to Samaritans, and even more than that, men didn’t speak to women in public.

The request Jesus makes by asking the Samaritan woman to give him a drink might not sound like a big deal to us in our own time. But, in the time of Jesus, it would’ve been considered highly inappropriate.

But, that doesn’t stop Jesus.

What follows is a long exchange between Jesus and the woman at the well—the longest conversation that Jesus has with a single person in all four Gospels.

To me, this seems to suggest that this is a very important story—one that we should pay close attention to—and one that was probably very important to the earliest Christian communities, including the first audience of John’s Gospel.

There are so many layers to this Gospel text that we could focus on.

But, the part I want us to focus on today comes at the very end of the story.

Astonished by everything Jesus has said—astonished that Jesus would show compassion and take the time to speak with her, a Samaritan woman who has likely been outcast from the rest of the community given her history of five previous marriages—the woman goes and tells other Samaritans what she has seen and heard.

The author of John writes that many Samaritans from the city come to Jesus and believe in him because of the woman’s testimony. They ask him to stay longer, and he ends up staying two more days. And other Samaritans come who believe in Jesus—not because of the woman’s testimony—but because of what they’ve seen and heard themselves.

They tell the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”

Because of Jesus’ willingness to go where others don’t want to go—because of his willingness to cross boundaries that others aren’t willing to cross—he shows us what it means to love others as God would have us love. He shows us that true love—in the fullest sense of the word—means being willing to “let go and let God.”

What that means is being willing to let go of our own selfish need for control and those barriers in our lives that prevent us from loving more fully and allowing the love of God to flow through us.

The Samaritan woman in our Gospel lesson for today represents that person or that group of people in our lives that we would rather take long way around to avoid.

She represents that person or group of people who we would rather forget even existed.

This is an important lesson for all of us because we all have those groups of people in our lives, don’t we? Those groups we despise, or reject, or think less of.

Maybe it’s people who look different than we do or act differently.

Maybe it’s people who practice a different religion or speak a different language.

Maybe it’s those who have less money than we do or those who live in the poor parts of town.

Maybe it’s those who are less educated than we are.

Or, maybe it’s people like Ty—who, on the outside might seem like a helpless cause, but who are actually waiting for someone to show them a little bit of love so they can begin to heal.

Those are dividing walls we create for ourselves.

They’re not God’s walls. They’re ours.

And with God’s help, we can work to tear them down.

Because the truth, dear friends, is there’s not a single person in this world we can look at and see someone who isn’t loved by God.

The story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well teaches us that there’s no where Jesus isn’t willing to go—nothing Jesus isn’t willing to do—in order to show others—and us—the magnitude of God’s love. This truth will come into sharper focus in just a few short weeks as we come to the beginning of Holy Week and our journey with Jesus to the cross.

God loves each of us more than we can possibly imagine.

But God’s love isn’t ours to keep for ourselves.

It’s ours to share so that others may come to know the love of God in Christ Jesus at work in their own lives. Amen.