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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

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.

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.

Seeking to Understand

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 5, 2023

Text: John 3:1-17

There are a lot of important figures found throughout the Gospels. If you think back to the stories of Jesus, you can remember a lot of these important figures. Some of them show up more than others. Some of them tend to be minor characters. Some of them tend to be major figures.

But, one of my absolute favorites is Nicodemus.

Now, we don’t really know a lot about Nicodemus. We don’t know about his past, and he only shows up three times in the Scriptures—all from the Gospel of John.

But, I really like Nicodemus, and the reason why I like him so much is because he’s a seeker.

He comes to Jesus not to criticize him or tell him he’s wrong. He doesn’t come to try to convince him to stop performing miracles or to stop preaching and teaching.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus because he’s genuinely curious about what he has to say. He comes to Jesus, seeking to understand.

I also like Nicodemus because he’s not afraid to take risks. Yes, he comes to Jesus by night—probably to avoid any unwanted attention from others—but he takes a risk by stepping out of his circle—out of his comfort zone. If he was seen with him, it could possibly ruin his credibility as a religious leader. But, he goes anyway. He takes a leap of faith and goes to Jesus to learn from him.

When Nicodemus approaches Jesus, he says, “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher sent by God. There’s no other way you could perform these signs if you weren’t sent by God.”

Jesus responds, “Very truly, I tell you, no none can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Another way you could translate it is, “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born again.”

Nicodemus doesn’t understand. So, he presses Jesus to explain what he means by asking some clarifying questions. He asks him, “How can anyone be born after having grown old?”

Jesus then says, “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. The wind blows where it chooses.”

Nicodemus still doesn’t understand. This teaching of Jesus doesn’t line up with what he’s always been taught and what he’s always known to be true about God. So he says to Jesus, “How can these things be?”

In their interaction together, Nicodemus brings with him questions and curiosities about God, and in return, Jesus challenges Nicodemus to believe—not only with the mind and not only with what he’s always been taught to believe—but with his heart, what he knows in his heart to be true about God.

I feel like now is a good time to share with you that one of the things I love most about being an Episcopalian is that we encourage seekers. We encourage those who don’t pretend to have all the answers figured out and who are genuinely curious about God and God’s relationship with us.

And, I think the reason why we encourage seekers is because we recognize the fact that—in one way or another—we’re all seekers. It doesn’t matter if you’re brand new to our church or you’ve been a life-long Episcopalian. We’re all pilgrims on a journey together to better understand who God is and what God is calling us to do with these lives we’ve been given.

We’re not afraid to ask hard questions, and we’re perfectly comfortable letting some things remain a holy mystery.

That—by the way—is the actual definition of theology. It means “faith seeking understanding.” It doesn’t mean “faith seeking to find all the answers.”

In my office at my previous parish, I had a Peanuts comic strip stuck to the side of my filing cabinet. In the comic, Charlie Brown walks up to his pal, Snoopy, who’s sitting on top of his dog house, typing. He says to Snoopy, “I hear you’re writing a book on theology.” “I hope you have a good title.” Snoopy stops typing, looks up from his typewriter and says, “I have the perfect title.” “Has It Ever Occurred to You that You Might Be Wrong?”

There are some things we’ll never know. And that’s okay. Because God is God, and we aren’t. And somehow, there’s great freedom in knowing that we don’t have to have all the answers figured out.

Not only that, but when we come to Jesus with our questions and curiosities, seeking to better understand, something happens to us in the process.

This was certainly true of Nicodemus.

Something happens to Nicodemus in his encounter with Jesus because later in John’s Gospel, in chapter seven, we learn that Nicodemus tries to protect Jesus from being arrested by reminding his fellow Pharisees that it’s against the law to judge someone without a proper trial.

And then much later in John, in chapter nineteen, after Jesus is crucified, Nicodemus—along with Joseph of Arimathea—brings a hundred pounds of spices in order to anoint Jesus’ body for burial. Nicodemus no longer comes by night. He comes in broad daylight—unafraid of what others might say—in order to show his love for Jesus.

Something happens to us—new and abundant life with God happens to us—when we seek to know Jesus, when we come, not pretending to have all the answers figured out—completely open to new possibilities and stirrings of the Spirit.

But, in order to do that, in order to come to Jesus, we have to be willing to take a leap of faith, and we have to be willing to take risks—just like Nicodemus did when he came to Jesus.

God is a mystery, one that will never fully be understood, at least not on this side of heaven. There will always come a point in our journeys with Christ where our ability to understand and reason will fail us, and all we’re left with is what we believe to be true in our hearts—that God really did send his only Son to us—to live and die as one of us, to give us the perfect example of what it means to love as God would have us love—to bring healing and restoration to the whole world. That’s John 3:16, by the way. That’s the central message of the Gospel.

It’s not a message of fear or hate.

It’s not a message of shame.

It’s a message of love—the perfect, unreserved love that God has for all of God’s creation.

When we think we have all the answers figured out—or worse—when we think that we’re the ones with all the right answers and everyone else is wrong—we tend to put God in a box of our own design rather than allowing God to live and move in our lives and to bring transformation and renewal.

Be curious about God. Be curious about how God is at work in your life and how God is calling you.

Because you never know where it might lead.

Like Nicodemus, it may lead you to question what you’ve always believed to be true.

It might lead you to come out of your comfort zone and serve in a new way at church or in the community.

It may lead you to act on an idea for a new ministry that’s been longing to be born for a long time.

It may lead you to consider becoming a deacon or a priest.

It may lead you to places and people you never could’ve dreamed of.

That’s the power of God’s Spirit, God’s breath. It blows where it chooses. Amen.

Fall in Love

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent (Year A)
February 26, 2023

Text: Matthew 4:1-11

I have a confession to make, and since we’re now in the season of Lent, it seems like a good time to make a confession. So, here it is…

I really don’t like Lent all that much. I know that may be surprising for you to hear coming from a priest, but bear with me for a moment.

When I say that I don’t like Lent all that much, what I really mean is that I tolerate it in the same way I tolerate going to the dentist twice a year. I know that it’s good for me and that, in the end, I’ll be glad that I did it.

But, it’s not something I look forward to. Maybe you feel the same way as I do.

Lent is a sacred time in the life of the Church—a period of forty days and forty nights (not including Sundays)—set apart for the purpose of mending our broken relationships with God. It’s a period of time we’re given each year to be intentional about falling back in love with God—to reconnect with the one who formed us from the dust of the earth.

Historically, Lent is also a time when converts to the Christian faith were prepared for the sacrament of Holy Baptism, which would be administered during the Great Vigil of Easter, and to this day, Lent remains a time for deep, spiritual formation for those preparing to be baptized.

The reason why I compare Lent to an appointment with the dentist is because I know that, in order to reconnect with God, as we’re invited to do during this time of the year, I have to be willing to make some changes in my life, which is something I really don’t want to do. I know that, in order to “do Lent” well, I have to be willing to let go of my need for control and my belief that I can do everything on my own.

In the days and weeks leading up to Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent, we’re encouraged to think about what our Lenten spiritual disciplines will be. I talked a little bit about this in my sermon on Ash Wednesday.

We ask ourselves, “What am I going to give up during Lent this year? Will it be chocolate? Will it be coffee? Will it be some other indulgence? Or, will it be taking on a new spiritual discipline? Will it be spending more time each day in prayer? Will it be volunteering more of my time at church? Will it be reading a book of daily devotions each day during Lent or some other practice that goes beyond my normal routine?”

Every year, I ask myself those same questions, and most of the time, I wait until the very last minute to decide. I put it off as long as I can because it’s something I really don’t want to do even though I know it’s something I need to do.

More often than not, I try to convince myself that life is already hard enough without having to give something else up or take something else on. Life is already stressful and complicated enough without having to worry about adding something else to my ever-growing list of things to do.

Perhaps you feel the same way as I do about Lent, and if you do, you’re in good company.

We know deep down that it’s good for us, but we struggle to put in the extra time and effort required to do it well. And then, when we don’t do it, we end up feeling guilty about it, as though we disappointed God.

Most of us, I think, would much rather go about the days and weeks of Lent as if nothing has changed. We’d much rather skip over our time in the wilderness with Jesus and go straight to Easter morning.

The problem with this way of thinking, though, is that it can cause us to miss the point of Lent altogether. It’s not about giving something up or taking something on just to say that we’ve done it. It’s not about adding something extra to our daily list of things to do. It’s about taking stock of our lives and paying special attention to those things that have control over us—the things we often use to make ourselves feel better apart from God.

Barbara Brown Taylor preached about this in a sermon she once wrote, referring to those things in our lives that have control over us as “pacifiers,” the things we often use to help fill the empty spaces in our hearts.

She wrote, “I am convinced that ninety-nine percent of us are addicted to something, whether it is eating, shopping, blaming, or taking care of other people. The simplest definition of an addiction is anything we use to fill the empty place inside of us that belongs to God alone. That hollowness we sometimes feel is not a sign of something gone wrong. It is the holy of holies inside of us, the uncluttered throne room of the Lord our God. Nothing on earth can fill it, but that does not stop us from trying.”

Lent is a time for us to be reminded of the fact that nothing on earth, no material thing or possession or habit, can fill the space in our hearts reserved only for God. It’s not just about what we choose to give up or take on. The purpose of Lent is for us to spend some time in the wilderness, to be mindful of those “pacifiers” that tempt us to put our trust in things other than God, and to recommit ourselves to the work that God has called us to do in our lives.

Jesus’s forty-day journey through the wilderness provides us with an example to live by as we make our way through the season of Lent. In the Gospel story, shortly after his baptism, Jesus is driven into the wilderness by the Spirit, where he’s tempted by the devil three times.

Each temptation is particular because the devil knows who Jesus is, and he knows what will tempt Jesus to use his power.

In his first temptation, Jesus is hungry, and the devil says to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” Knowing that the devil is trying to convince him to use his power to satisfy his hunger, Jesus responds with a quote from the book of Deuteronomy.

“It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

Then, the devil takes Jesus to Jerusalem and places him on the pinnacle of the temple and says to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” Knowing that the devil is trying to tempt him to use his power for safety and protection, Jesus once again responds with a quote from Deuteronomy.

“It is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”

Finally, the devil takes Jesus to the the top of a high mountain in plain view of all the kingdoms of the world and says to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Knowing that the devil is trying to seduce him with promises of power and dominion, Jesus responds yet again with a quote from Deuteronomy.

“It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

The devil tempted Jesus to use his power to relieve his hunger, but Jesus denied him.

The devil tempted Jesus to use his power to save himself, but Jesus denied him.

The devil tempted Jesus with power and dominion over the world, but Jesus denied him.

Jesus knows what it feels like to be tempted by the most tempting things imaginable, and yet, despite the best efforts of the devil to deceive him, Jesus refuses to let his temptations control him.

Jesus refuses to put his trust in things other than God.

What kinds of fears and temptations are you struggling with in your life?

How are you being tempted to fill your heart with things other than God?

As we continue our journey through Lent, I invite and encourage all of us to consider these questions and to be honest with ourselves about those places in our lives that need special attention so that we may grow in love with God.

As you consider these questions, I commend to you a poem that I came across several years ago that’s always been meaningful to me. It was written by a Jesuit priest named Pedro Arrupe.

What I love about it so much is that it beautifully captures the true purpose of the season of Lent, which is to fall back in love with the God who created us and to make a place in our hearts for God.

The title of the poem is, “Fall in Love.”

Nothing is more practical than finding God,
than falling in Love in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination,
will affect everything.
It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart, and
what amazes you with joy and gratitude.
Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.

Amen.

Wretched

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
February 22, 2023

Text: Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

I’ve been an Episcopalian for about twenty years or so—almost half my life—which means that I’ve gone to church on Ash Wednesday a whole lot—at least twenty times—but probably more than that since many churches offer more than one service on Ash Wednesday.

I’ve walked through this liturgy many times.

And, I really do love it.

I love it because it draws us out of the ordinary experience of worship we have most Sundays, reminding us that this is an important day in the life of the Church—set apart for a very specific purpose. We began the service, for example—not with a loud, opening hymn like we usually do—but in silence. This is a solemn day. Not a sad day, but certainly one to take very seriously.

I love the liturgy for Ash Wednesday because it sets the tone for the rest of the Lenten season. I always tell people, “If you want to have a good start to your journey through Lent, come to church on Ash Wednesday.”

The vestments and altar hangings are a deep purple, reminding us that this is a penitential season—a time to be intentional—a time to take a close look at our lives and to be open and honest with ourselves and with God.

There are no flowers on the altar during Lent. They’ve been replaced with the arrangements you see behind me—sticks and twigs—reminding us that this is a season of simplicity and a time for us to journey with Christ through the wilderness.

Yes, the colorful flowers that adorn our altar on most Sundays will return, but for now, we wait. We wait, and we prepare ourselves to experience the gift of new life on Easter Day.

And, perhaps most of all, I love the liturgy for this day because it reminds us of the fact that, even though we’ve fallen short of God’s call to love and serve others, there’s still an abundance of grace and mercy. You’ll hear these comfortable words later on when we say the Litany of Penitence together.

But—there’s one part of the liturgy for Ash Wednesday that’s always bothered me, and I think it has a lot do with my understanding of who God is and what kind of relationship God desires to have with us.

It comes at the very beginning of the liturgy when the priest says the Collect of the Day. We heard it just a few minutes ago.

There’s a single word in that prayer that I have a real problem with.

It’s that word, “wretchedness.”

Do you know what I’m talking about?

In the middle of the prayer, the priest says, “…worthily lamenting our sins, and acknowledging our wretchedness…”

To be honest with you, if I had the freedom and authority to change the wording of that prayer, I probably would, but that’s not how things work in the Episcopal Church. We don’t get to change the Prayer Book just because we disagree with it.

In a sense, it’s a lot like Holy Scripture. Just because something in the Bible makes us uncomfortable or angry, it doesn’t mean we have the authority to take it out. Sure, we could ignore those difficult parts altogether, but if we did that, we might also be missing out on something we need to hear or a hidden truth that needs to be uncovered.

So…it makes me wonder if there might be a hidden truth to the word “wretchedness” in the opening prayer for Ash Wednesday.

When I hear that word, the phrase that immediately comes to mind is, “good for nothing,” describing someone who’s “rotten to the core” or unredeemable.

That’s one definition—probably the one most of us think about when we hear the word, “wretched.”

But, another definition—and this is the first one listed when you look it up in the dictionary—is describing someone who’s “in a very unhappy or unfortunate state.”

With that definition in mind, maybe the wording of our opening prayer on Ash Wednesday isn’t to make us feel lousy about ourselves or unworthy of God’s love.

Maybe it’s the exact opposite.

Maybe the purpose of the prayer—and the purpose of this day—is to help us realize and acknowledge the fact that, without God in our lives, we’re completely lost.

I think that might’ve been what Jesus was trying to say to his disciples at the end of our Gospel lesson for today when he says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

In other words, the way we go about our daily lives really does matter. The way we spend our time and energy; the way we treat other people; the amount of time we spend with God; and the way we fill the hours of each day—all of it matters to God.

And so, during the season of Lent, the Church invites us into a period of self-examination and repentance—a time to take a close look at our lives and re-direct ourselves back toward God.

We do this in a variety of ways. Some people choose to give things up for Lent or commit to a time of fasting on certain days or abstain from other things they find distracting in their lives. Some people take on a daily, spiritual discipline, such as a new prayer practice or committing themselves to reading a daily devotional or a different passage from Scripture each day.

Whatever you decide to do—or not to do—I hope you’ll be intentional about it. Because this time during Lent is a gift. Lent is a chance to re-connect with God—to remember who we are as God’s beloved and who we’re called to be as followers of Jesus Christ.

I hope you’ll also be intentional about coming to church on Sunday mornings and continuing this journey with the rest of us. Lent is a time that’s very personal, but it’s also a journey we take together in community. So, come to church, and experience the richness of Lent each Sunday as we make our way to Holy Week and Easter.

Finally, I want to say a little bit about the imposition of ashes because it is the focal point of our liturgy today.

In just a few moments, each of us will receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

There’s a reason why the ashes we’re about to receive are in the shape of a cross and not just some random smudge of ash. Not only are they a sign of our mortality and our call to repentance, but they’re also a sign of our baptism. Just as we were signed with the oil of chrism in Baptism, so we are marked with the sign of the cross on Ash Wednesday to remind us that nothing can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Even in our wretchedness—in those moments when we’ve lost our way and fallen short of God’s call—the cross of ashes reminds us that we’ve been sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Nothing can ever change that.

So, as we begin this holy season, let us do so with open hearts and open minds, trusting that God loves us and deeply cares about the decisions we make and the way we live our lives, and let us enter into Lent with the knowledge that, even now, the Holy Spirit is working in us in ways beyond our understanding and leading us to new and abundant with God. Amen.

H.W.L.F

A Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 12, 2023

Text: Matthew 5:21-37

This past October, Chelsea and I finally had the opportunity to do something we had been waiting to do for a long time. We attended a Cursillo weekend up at Camp McDowell, which is the camp and conference center in the Diocese of Alabama.

Cursillo is a Spanish word, which means “short course,” and that’s exactly what it is. It’s a short course in the fundamentals of the Christian way of life that takes place over the course of a three-day weekend. But, it’s also much more than just a weekend retreat at camp. It’s an opportunity for Christians to grow in their faith and find new life in their walk with Christ.

It’s not uncommon at all for people to come away from a Cursillo weekend with a restored sense of purpose and a desire to give more of their time and energy to their local parish.

Cursillo is especially helpful, I think, for those who are feeling sort of lukewarm or lackluster about their faith or those who are struggling to feel a connection with God. It’s also helpful for people who may be wondering where their place is in the life of the church and how they can use the gifts God has given them to better serve others.

It’s a wonderful ministry—one that’s also very active right here in the Diocese of the Central Gulf Coast, and if Cursillo sounds like something you’d like to do, I’d be happy to tell you more.

But…I can’t tell you much more.

Because another thing you’ll quickly learn about Cursillo is that there are a lot of surprises that happen throughout a Cursillo weekend, and if I told you exactly what was going to happen, it would ruin the experience.

So, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that Cursillo is a great blessing to our Church and something I would highly recommend, especially for those who are needing a little jump-start in their faith.

This past week, as I was reflecting on our Gospel lesson for today, I thought about my Cursillo experience this past Fall and a gift that was given to me by my small group leader.

How many of you remember those bracelets that were popular back in the 90s that had the letters “W.W.J.D.” printed on them? Do you remember those? Apparently, they’ve made a comeback recently.

Well, I never owned one of those bracelets myself, but I do remember what the letters stood for, as I’m sure most of us do. They stood for “What would Jesus do?”

And, if you remember as I do, the idea was that people would wear these bracelets to remind themselves of this important question as they went about their everyday lives.

If someone made you angry, for example, and you didn’t know how to respond, you could ask yourself, “What would Jesus do?”

If someone hurt you in some way or betrayed your trust, “What would Jesus do?”

If someone asked you for help, “What would Jesus do?”

You get the idea.

Well, my small group leader at Cursillo didn’t give me a bracelet with the letters “W.W.J.D.” on it. Instead, he gave me one with the letters, “H.W.L.F.”

I actually wore it to church this morning to show you.

When I first received it, I had no idea what the letters stood for.

So, I went up to him and asked him, “What does this mean.”

He looked at me and replied, “What would Jesus do?”

“H.W.L.F.”

“He would love first.”

Above all else—above every possible answer to the question, “What would Jesus do?”—Jesus would love first.

I wanted to share this with you today because I think it’s important for us to remember—especially when we’re given such a challenging Gospel lesson as we are this morning.

On the surface, Jesus’ words seem very harsh, don’t they—especially when he starts talking about plucking out eyes and cutting off hands and being thrown into hell.

It would be easy for us to read this passage and think that Jesus is ready to condemn anyone who violates God’s commandments.

But, I think, in order to understand where Jesus is coming from in our lesson for today, we have to back up a little bit and look at something Jesus said to his disciples in last week’s Gospel lesson.

Earlier in Matthew, after Jesus teaches his disciples about salt and light, he says to them, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished.”

Jesus has come—not to abolish the law and the prophets—but to fulfill them.

So, he teaches his disciples in today’s reading from Matthew that simply following the law of Moses—as it’s been handed down from generation to generation—isn’t enough.

In order to live as God would have us live, Jesus says, we have to do more. We have to go above and beyond the letter of the law.

He says to his disciples, “You have heard the commandment, ‘You shall not murder.’” But, then he goes on to say, “Even if you’re angry with a brother or sister, you’ll be liable to judgment.”

Jesus isn’t talking about righteous anger—the kind of anger we feel when someone is treated unfairly. He’s talking about the kind of anger that can build up inside of us over time and cause us to forget that all of us—even those who hurt us and make us angry—are beloved children of God.

Jesus says, “You have heard the commandment, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’” But, then he goes on to say, “Even looking at another person with lust is a sin.”

Jesus isn’t talking about romantic or physical attraction between two people. He’s talking about the kind of lustful desire that can cause us to forget that every person is created in God’s image and worthy of dignity and respect.

Jesus says, “Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate of divorce.” But, then he goes on to say, “Anyone who divorces his wife causes her to commit adultery, and anyone who marries a divorced woman commits adultery.”

In the time of Jesus, women had very few rights and were treated as little more than property. The law of Moses dictated that men could issue certificates of divorce to their wives for any reason, often leaving women stranded and homeless. So, when Jesus speaks of divorce, he isn’t talking about it in the same way we think about it today. He’s talking about an easy and convenient way for a man to casually dismiss his wife and move on to someone else.

Finally, Jesus says, “You have heard the commandment, ‘Do not bear false witness.’” In other words, “Don’t make empty promises to God.” But, then he goes on to say, “Don’t make any promises at all.”

Jesus isn’t saying that we shouldn’t make a commitment to God—far from it! He’s saying that actions speak louder than words. “Let your word be, ‘Yes, Yes’” Jesus says, “or, ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one.”

In every example Jesus provides, he’s teaching his disciples—and us—that it’s not enough to simply follow the law as it’s written.

In order to experience abundant life with God, we have to be willing to go above and beyond what’s expected. We have to learn to open our hearts and allow the love of Christ to be our guide.

These words of Jesus in our Gospel lesson for today may sound harsh to our twenty-first century ears. But, at the heart of the Gospel is a message of love and compassion. Jesus didn’t come to condemn the world. He came to save us from the power of sin and death and to open up for us the way to abundant life with God.

God’s greatest desire is for us to be reconciled with him and to experience new and abundant life, but the only way to do that is for us to be in right relationship with each other.

Jesus gives us ways we can do that…

By being willing to forgive and seek forgiveness

By remembering that each and every one of us is beloved by God and created in God’s image

By making good on our promise to respect the dignity of every person

So, if you ever have a question about how God is calling you to treat a brother or sister, think about Jesus and ask yourself, “What would Jesus do?”

And the answer is the same now as it’s always been. He would love first. Amen.

Let Your Light Shine

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 5, 2023

Text: Matthew 5:13-20

A few years ago, while I was serving as the priest at my former parish in Alabaster, I was contacted by a couple from the community who owned several laundromats in the area.

They reached out to see if our parish would be interested in partnering with them to offer days throughout the year when people from the community could come to the laundromat and do their laundry for free.

Their only stipulation was that we would provide the laundry detergent and dryer sheets and that we would send volunteers to help greet people as they came in and get them started on the washers and dryers.

Without even hesitating, I told them we would love to help.

We called it “Laundry Love.”

As I understand it, St. Mary’s has been involved with something similar in the past.

We got started in the summer of 2021—in the height of the pandemic, and we decided that we would offer “Laundry Love” every three months. It started off kind of slow, but as more and more people heard about what we were doing, the ministry continued to grow.

After about a year of offering “Laundry Love” to the community, we were doing close to two hundred loads of laundry at each event. I was amazed by the number of people who came. A lot of people knew about it in advance, but most were completely surprised when they came into the laundromat and we told them it was “free laundry day.”

This past October, I attended my last “Laundry Love.”

Everything was going as expected.

And then, toward the end of the evening, I was approached by a gentleman who was really touched by what we were doing.

Before he left, be came up to me and said, “My mother used to do my laundry for me. She’s no longer living, and it’s so nice to know there are still people who care enough about me to come and help me with my laundry.”

I told him that we were happy to do it.

I was so thankful that he took the time to share with me how much that ministry meant to him.

His words reminded me that we can have a real impact on people’s lives—sometimes without even realizing it.

In that moment, I was also reminded of why we were there in the first place.

Yes, we were tending to the physical needs of people in our community by offering free loads of laundry. But, even more importantly, we were tending to their souls by showing them that they were loved and cared for.

In the language of the Church, you might say it was sacramental—an outward and visible sign of God’s inward and spiritual grace.

I wanted to share this story with you today because sometimes it’s easy to forget why we’re here.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget why God has called us together as the Body of Christ—especially when we focus so much of our time and energy on what happens here at church.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Church life is incredibly important—especially when we gather for worship on Sunday mornings. I want you to come and worship as much as possible. And, I want you to be involved in other church activities and ministries as well. It’s how we’re strengthened and nourished in our discipleship and how we grow together as a community of faith.

But, as a church, we can’t ever lose sight of what it is that God is ultimately calling us to do. And that is to go out and be the hands and feet of Christ in the world.

This is why, at the end of every celebration of the Eucharist, we say words of dismissal, like “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” These words aren’t just a nice way of saying, “The service is over.” They keep us mindful of the fact that what we do here on Sunday mornings isn’t really about us.

What we do here—when we gather to hear the Word of God and receive the sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood—is preparing us for the work God has given us to do in every corner of our lives.

Church is the place where we come each week to experience God’s love and to be filled through Word and Sacrament, but our commitment to Christ is more than just an hour a week on Sundays mornings.

The real work of ministry begins when we leave this place—when we take all the love we’ve been given and go forth into the world to share that love with others.

That’s not always easy, though, is it?

When we’re here at church—surrounded by people who love us and care about us—it’s easy to share that love right back.

At church, we can be ourselves without feeling judged or looked down upon. We can talk openly about our faith in God and even those moments when we struggle with our faith. We know that when we walk through those big, red doors, at the front of the church we’ll be welcomed in with open arms.

For most of us, church is a sanctuary and a place where we feel the love of God at work in our lives in a very real and tangible way.

But, when we leave this place, it’s not always easy to feel God’s presence, and it’s not always easy to be faithful in our call to walk with Christ.

Sometimes, we want to keep God’s love to ourselves, because if we open our hearts to others, we stand a really good chance of getting hurt or taken advantage of.

Sometimes, it’s just easier and safer to keep to ourselves and not worry about sharing God’s love with anyone else.

But, the problem with that, dear friends, is that God’s love isn’t ours to keep.

It belongs only to God, and Jesus teaches us that God’s love is meant to be shared.

In our Gospel lesson for today—which is a direct continuation of the Beatitudes from last week—Jesus says to his disciples, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Don’t you see?

God’s love—God’s light—it doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God.

And, God has entrusted us to share that light with the world so that others may come to know the love of God in Christ through us.

It’s like a lighthouse keeper who keeps his lamp burning at night. He doesn’t keep the lamp burning for himself. He keeps it burning for anyone who needs help finding their way back home again.

We are the light of the world—all of us, and we have the responsibility of carrying the light of Christ with us wherever we go.

Because you never know who might need a little light or a little love in their lives.

It isn’t always easy.

But, we can be comforted in knowing that God’s light can never be extinguished. It’s always with us. We’re reminded of this every time there’s a baptism at church when we light a candle from the Paschal candle and share it with the newly baptized.

The light of Christ we received in our baptism—it burns forever. We may try to hide it at times, but it never fully goes away. It’s always there—waiting for us to open our hearts so that others may see it.

We are the light of the world. So, let your light shine for all the world to see! Amen.

God’s Dream

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany
Text: Matthew 5:1-12

A couple of weeks ago after church, I met a gentleman from the community who had come to the parish office looking for some assistance.

He told me his name, and he shared with me some details about his life. He had been homeless for some time and was now living with someone else from the community who offered him a place to stay.

He also told me he had a job at a local restaurant and needed a way to get in touch with his employer in case they wanted him to come in and take some extra shifts at work. So, he asked if there was a way that the church might be able to provide a phone for him to use.

At first, I didn’t think there would be a way for us to help, but then I realized that we might be able to at least provide him one of those pre-paid cell phones—one that wouldn’t require a monthly plan.

So, I told him, “I think we can help.” And, we got in my truck and drove down the road to the Dollar General Store where I bought him an inexpensive phone and a 30-day, prepaid phone card.

On the way back to the church, he shared with me a few more details about his life.

He told me that all of his family members were gone and that he didn’t really have anyone in his life. He told me that he really hoped that this new job would help him get back on his feet.

And, then the conversation turned to God.

He said to me, “You know, I really don’t think God gives us more than we can handle.” And, then he paused, and I could tell he was waiting for me to say something.

So, I took a deep breath, and I said, “ I don’t think God causes bad things to happen to us. I really believe that God loves us and wants what’s best for us in our lives.”

He listened to what I had to say, and then the conversation turned to something else.

I don’t know if he believed what I said, but I hope—at least on some level—that a seed of grace was planted and that he could start to believe that God wasn’t responsible for all the bad things in his life.

I hope—at least on some level—that he could start to believe that God loves him more than he could possibly imagine, despite the tragic circumstances that left him homeless and without any family to take care of him.

When we got back to the church, he thanked me again for my help, and we went our separate ways. And, in that moment, I stopped to give thanks to God for putting me—and our church—in a position where we could help a stranger in need. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And, sometimes, all it takes is a little something to change someone’s life.

Now, I didn’t share this story with you today to draw your attention to something I did.

I shared it with you to draw your attention to something God did through me and our parish.

Think about it for a moment.

It was God, through the guidance and power of the Holy Spirit, who put it into the hearts and minds of the people of St. Mary’s to call a full-time rector to come and serve this parish and this community.

And, it’s God, through the love and example of Jesus Christ, who continues to inspire the people of St. Mary’s to give generously of their time, talents, and resources to support the ongoing mission and ministries of this parish.

Through your faithfulness and commitment to service, we were able to help someone in need—someone who might not have been cared for otherwise.

It’s not something I did or that we did on our own. It’s something God did, through us. Apart from God, we wouldn’t be able to do anything. God is love and the source of every ounce of love we have to give.

Through the power of the Holy Spirit, God has equipped us and empowered us to proclaim the Gospel through our words and actions, and that, my friends, is something worth all of our thanks and praise.

Today’s Gospel lesson from Matthew is a helpful reminder that God loves each and every one of us and that he cares deeply about what happens to us in our lives—especially the most vulnerable among us.

But, it’s more than just a helpful reminder of God’s love. It’s also a call to action for those of us who have answered God’s call to follow Jesus.

At the beginning of our lesson this morning, Jesus is gathered with his disciples on top of a mountain.

And he begins a long series of teachings—spanning three chapters in Matthew—commonly known as the Sermon on the Mount.

The first part of the sermon—which we call the Beatitudes—is one of the most well-known passages from Scripture and one of the most important teachings of Jesus.

In it, we hear Jesus share with his disciples what it means to truly be blessed by God.

Of all the ways Jesus could’ve begun his Sermon on the Mount, he chose this particular way—by telling his followers about the love of God overcoming death and despair and by offering hope to those who had none.

The Beatitudes set the stage for everything that would follow in Jesus’ life and ministry. It was his way of preparing his disciples and showing them that his ministry would be like no other.

It was also his way of saying that the Kingdom of Heaven has come near.

Now, before I continue on, I want to take a moment to clarify something that’s often misunderstood or misinterpreted in the Gospels.

When Jesus refers to the “Kingdom of Heaven” (as he does in our Gospel lesson this morning) or the “Kingdom of God” (as he does in other Gospels), he isn’t talking about some far-off place where God is and we aren’t, and he isn’t talking about the place where we go after we die.

When Jesus preaches about the “Kingdom of Heaven” or “Kingdom of God,” it’s his way of describing God’s dream of a world redeemed in love—a world where all of God’s children are treated with dignity and respect, a world where no one goes hungry or worries about whether or not they’ll have a warm place to sleep at night.

The Beatitudes of Jesus teach us that this dream of God isn’t just some far-off dream or something that will happen a long time from now. The Beatitudes teach us that God’s dream is becoming a reality—here and now—and that God’s dream is being accomplished through us.

We—all of us who are sitting here today—are part of God’s plan to help bring healing and wholeness to the world God created.

To illustrate this better, I want to share with you a slightly different version of the Beatitudes, which was written several years ago by Archbishop Desmond Tutu in his storybook Bible, Children of God.

The title at the beginning reads, “Jesus teaches the secret of happiness.”

One day, Jesus told his followers about God’s dream of a world where all the children of God are loved and cared for, and no is left out.

Blessed are you who are poor, for all God’s world is yours.

Blessed are you who are hungry, for God will feed you.

Blessed are you who are sad, for God will comfort you and you will laugh again.

Blessed are you who feed the poor, for you are the hands of God.

Blessed are you who comfort the sad, for you are the arms of God.

Blessed are you who work for peace, for you are the voice of God.

Blessed are you who are loving and kind, for you are the heart of God.

I love this version of the Beatitudes because I think it brings it all home and helps us better understand the true meaning and significance of the Scripture.

Not only does God promise to restore this broken and sinful world, but he blesses those of us who have answered the call to help make it a reality.

We are the hands and arms of God. We are his voice. We are his heart.

May we answer the call to serve faithfully, and may we always remember that it’s God, working through us, who is able to accomplish these things. Amen.