Counted Among the Saints

A Sermon for The Feast of All Saints (Year A)
The Baptism of Dorothy Weeks Atkinson
November 1, 2026

Text: Revelation 7:9-17

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.

As many of you know, we have a Wednesday morning Bible study that meets each week in the Library. Back in the spring, as we came to the end of our study of the Book of Romans, we had a conversation about which book of the Bible we wanted to study next, and all of us agreed that in the fall we should tackle the Book of Revelation.

It’s a book that many of us aren’t very familiar with.

It’s filled with mystery and symbolism and imagery that can be difficult to understand and even harder to connect with our lives.

And I think that’s why so many Christians tend to stay away from it—including preachers!

But I saw it as a challenge and a good opportunity for us to address some of the common beliefs and misconceptions people have about Revelation.

So for the past few months, we’ve been digging deep into this mysterious book, one chapter at a time.

One thing that’s really surprised me—and I think others as well—is how often the book returns to these beautiful scenes of heavenly worship.

For a lot of people, they think Revelation is about predicting the future or how to avoid getting “left behind” when everyone else is raptured up into heaven—things they’ve read about in novels or seen in movies.

Or they tend to focus on the really frightening parts—like the four horsemen of the apocalypse or the monstrous creatures that bring chaos and destruction to the earth.

Now, I’m not suggesting we should overlook the difficult parts of the text, but what we’ve discovered in our Bible study group so far is that even with these terrifying and mysterious images, Revelation is a book about hope.

We see that so beautifully in our lesson this morning.

John—the author of Revelation—witnesses a great multitude of people gathered from every nation, tribe, people, and language. And they all stand before God’s throne, clothed in white robes, worshiping the Lamb.

John writes that these are those who have come through the great ordeal. These are the saints gathered around God’s throne in heaven.

They aren’t people whose lives have always been easy or free from suffering. They are people whose faith has been tested and who now share in the victory of Christ.

These are the ones who have endured through the end and now stand before God. The Lamb who was slain has become their shepherd, and God promises to wipe away every tear from their eyes.

What this means for us today, beloved, is that even though we live in a world filled with conflict and suffering, God is still the one who sits on the throne.

We can’t always control the circumstances around us. We can’t eliminate every hardship. And following Jesus won’t always be easy.

But our call is to remain faithful, just like the saints who’ve come before us.

Our call is to continue to worship God, to love our neighbors, to serve those in need, and to proclaim the Good News of God in Christ to the world.

Our faith is rooted in the hope that one day, God will make all things new. All that is broken will be restored, and God’s Kingdom will finally be fulfilled, ushering in a new heaven and a new earth.

That’s the hope we find in the Book of Revelation, and it’s the same hope we celebrate today on the Feast of All Saints.

On this day, we remember and give thanks for the saints who’ve gone before us.

Some of the saints we remember today are well-known figures in history. Others are ordinary people whose faith shaped our lives—family members, loved ones, and even beloved members of our church family.

Today, we give thanks for their lives and trust that they now rest in the eternal presence of God.

A little later in the service, when we come to the Prayers of the People, we’ll name aloud all those saints in our lives whom we love but see no longer.

But All Saints’ Day is more than just the Church’s Memorial Day.

It’s also about remembering who we are as Christians and the vows and promises we make in Baptism.

All Saints is one of those days that’s especially appropriate for Baptism, because through the sacrament of Baptism, we are woven into the tapestry of Christ’s Body—the Church—and become part of the communion of saints.

That communion includes both the faithful departed and those of us still living who carry on the work of Christ.

Death doesn’t sever the bonds that unite us.

One of the most beautiful things about our worship in the Episcopal Church is that we celebrate the Eucharist every Sunday.

And every time we gather around this altar to receive the Body and Blood of Christ, it’s not just those of us who are here physically.

We join our voices with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven, including the saints who’ve gone before us.

We are all connected as the Body of Christ and part of that great cloud of witnesses that stretches across time and space.

And because of that, it’s important for us to reflect on what it really means to be a saint.

The first thing we should remember is that sainthood isn’t reserved for a handful of exceptionally holy people.

We do have feast days throughout the year when we remember the lives of certain, individual saints who led holy lives and who teach us what it means to live faithfully.

But the New Testament repeatedly uses the word “saints” to describe ordinary, Christian believers.

Being a saint doesn’t mean we’re perfect or that we never make mistakes. It means we belong to God and are set apart to live faithfully as followers of Jesus.

It’s like that hymn we sang just a few moments ago: “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God.” Saints aren’t just figures from the past. They’re ordinary people living out their faith in everyday life—just like you and me.

A lot of people think that in order to live faithful lives, we have to retreat from the world or renounce everything we consider worldly.

But that’s not our calling.

We’re called to be in the world, but not of the world—to proclaim the Good News of God in Christ and participate in God’s work of healing and restoration.

Thankfully, we don’t have to do it alone.

In Baptism, we are welcomed into a community that promises to walk with us. And today, we have the joy of welcoming a brand-new Christian into that community.

In just a few moments, together with her parents and godparents, we will welcome Dorothy Weeks Atkinson—also known as “Dodie”— as the newest member of the Body of Christ.

Together, we will renew our own vows and promises of Baptism and recommit ourselves to following Jesus.

Through the waters of baptism, Dodie will be welcomed into the household of God and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Baptism is a gift from God—an outward and visible sign of God’s grace. It’s not something we can earn or deserve.

None of us can do anything to earn or deserve God’s love, yet God claims us as his own and welcomes us into his family.

The same will be true for Dodie.

Josh and Collie, together with Dodie’s godparents and family, will promise to nurture her and help her grow in the Christian life and faith.

But they’re not making that commitment alone.

All of us will be asked: “Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support this person in her life in Christ?”

And with a loud voice, we’ll answer: “We will.”

That promise is about more than just being present at Dodie’s baptism today. It’s about being present in her life.

It’s about being there when she needs the love and support of her church family.

Dodie will learn what it means to follow Jesus not only from her parents and godparents but also through the example of the people in this church.

She’ll need that example because there will be moments when life is hard. There will be moments when she’s confused and afraid and unsure of which path to follow.

Because the Christian life isn’t always easy and the ways of the world have a tendency to draw us away from loving God and our neighbor.

There will be moments when Dodie struggles with her faith, just like we all do. There will be times when she falls short of her calling and makes mistakes.

Thankfully, we have a loving and merciful God.

At every baptism, we promise to persevere in resisting evil and, whenever we fall into sin, to repent and return to the Lord.

And our response to that promise is always: “I will, with God’s help.”

We depend upon the grace and mercy of God and the support of our brothers and sisters in Christ to help us live lives worthy of the Gospel.

In our lesson this morning from Revelation, John sees a great multitude of saints gathered around God’s throne in heaven, united in worship.

And today, through the waters of baptism, Dodie will be welcomed into the household of God and counted among the saints.

Just as we’ve been supported by those who came before us, we now promise to support her.

That’s one of the most beautiful things about the way we do baptism in this church.

It’s not just about the person being baptized.

It’s about all of us remembering who we are and promising to love and support this new Christian in her life in Christ.

There’s no doubt she’ll have the love and support of her parents. She has some really good parents.

She has the love and support of her godparents and her family and this parish.

And together, we will be with her as she grows and matures in her faith and discovers how God is calling her to live as a follower of Jesus.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Love Your Neighbor. No Exceptions.

A Sermon for the Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 25, Year A)
October 25, 2026

Text: Matthew 22:34-46

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.

In today’s Gospel reading, we continue our journey through the twenty-second chapter of Matthew, which we’ve been hearing over the past few weeks.

Jesus is teaching in the Temple in Jerusalem when some Pharisees gather around him, and one of them, who’s a lawyer, asks him a question to test him.

“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

Jesus responds, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment.”

But then something unexpected happens.

Jesus continues.

“And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

Now, this commandment to love your neighbor wasn’t anything new to the people listening to Jesus. Even in the earliest days of Judaism, God’s people were commanded to love their neighbors. It comes directly from the Hebrew Scriptures, and we heard it ourselves in our lesson this morning from Leviticus.

But what’s significant here is that Jesus presents these two commandments together. He wants us to understand that loving God and loving our neighbor are inseparable.

We can’t do one without the other.

To love God with all our heart, soul, and mind means that we must also love our neighbor as ourselves. And to love our neighbor is an outward expression of our love for God.

But so often, we try to separate these two things.

We think about loving God, and it’s easy to love God because God is so great! God loves us unconditionally. God is perfect. God showers us with so many blessings.

It’s easy to love God because God loves us so much.

But the second part of that commandment—the part about loving our neighbor—is where we tend to struggle the most.

Because our neighbors, as we all know, aren’t always so great.

Our neighbors don’t always love us unconditionally. Sometimes they don’t love us at all. Sometimes they treat us as enemies, or we treat them as enemies.

Our neighbors aren’t perfect. They make mistakes. They may even try to hurt us or take advantage of us.

Sometimes our neighbors seem to care only about themselves.

And so we ask ourselves: Why should we care about them? Why should we love our neighbors when they don’t treat us the same way?

And the answer is simple. Jesus lays it out perfectly clear in our Gospel this morning.

Because that’s what we’re called to do.

If we want to love God and follow the way of Jesus, then we have to be willing to love our neighbors as ourselves.

And I want to go a little further with that.

Because a lot of times, when we hear the commandment to love our neighbor as ourselves, we think it means loving our neighbors as much as we love ourselves.

But what I think Jesus is trying to say here is something even more challenging.

What if Jesus is calling us, not just to love our neighbors as much as we love ourselves, but to love our neighbors as an extension of ourselves—as people whose lives are deeply connected with our own?

We all share a common humanity. We are all beloved children of God, created in God’s image and likeness.

And that means we’re called to care for the well-being of all people. Not just those we like or agree with. Not just those who look like us, or think like us, or believe the same things we believe.

But all people.

A couple of weeks ago, not long after the hurricane made its way through the Gulf and hit the Florida Panhandle and parts of Alabama, I received a phone call from Bishop Russell.

I wasn’t surprised at all when he called.

As most of you know, last year the bishop made an arrangement with St. Mary’s and other parishes around the diocese to help us purchase a large barbecue trailer, with the agreement that we would keep it at the church and use it to feed people as we needed.

But if there was ever an emergency or natural disaster, the trailer could also be deployed to other parts of the diocese to help feed large groups of people.

So the Bishop called and asked if we would be willing to bring our barbecue trailer down to Milton, Florida, to grill hamburgers and hot dogs for people who had been affected by the storm.

And I immediately said yes.

Then I got to work rounding up people to go down there and help.

There was a lot of planning involved and quite a few logistics to work out, especially because this was the first time we’d done anything like this.

But we made it happen.

We purchased all the groceries we needed, thanks to the wonderful help of Terry Kyzar. We called on people in the parish and put together a team willing to make the trip.

And then, early Thursday morning, we loaded everything up and headed down to Milton.

As we drove through town, I was shocked by the amount of devastation the storm had caused.

There were trees blown down, debris scattered along the roads, traffic backed up with people trying to make their way through town, and utility trucks everywhere working to clear debris and restore power.

I don’t think I was fully prepared for the amount of devastation we encountered.

But as we made our way through town, I was especially thankful that the bishop had called us to come and do this work, because I could see just how much it was needed.

When we finally arrived at St. Mary’s in Milton, we were greeted by the priest and several parishioners, and we immediately got to work.

We fired up the grill and started cooking hamburgers while others worked inside the Parish Hall preparing food and assembling lunch bags.

Working alongside the parishioners in Milton, we got everything ready to distribute to people in the community who came by for a meal.

People came by from all walks of life. Some knew we were there and came specifically to get a meal. Others were completely surprised when we asked, “Would you like a free lunch?”

One thing I noticed from everyone was just grateful they were for us being there.

But there was something else that caught my attention that day.

When I walked inside the Parish Hall at St. Mary’s, I noticed a banner standing in a corner of the room. It was a sign I’d seen before—one that a number of Episcopal churches have displayed over the years.

And it read:

Love Your Neighbor.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t look like you.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t think like you.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t love like you.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t speak like you.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t pray like you.

Love your neighbor who doesn’t vote like you.

Love your neighbor. No exceptions.

And when I saw that sign, I immediately thought about our Gospel lesson for this morning.

Because that’s the whole reason we were there.

We were loving our neighbors.

We were putting our faith into action.

We weren’t worried about who was there or showed up to receive a free meal.

We were simply there to share the love of Christ.

It was a long, hard day of work. But at the end of the day, I think all of us who made the trip were so grateful for the opportunity to serve.

And to put into practice the very commandment Jesus gives us in our Gospel lesson this morning.

I agree, by the way, with everything on that banner.

But for me, the part that stands out the most comes at the very end.

The part that reads, “Love your neighbor. No exceptions.”

Because when we think about loving our neighbors, we tend to focus mostly on those who are the easiest to love—the ones who look like us, think like us, believe like us, or vote like us.

But what about those who don’t?

If Jesus commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves, then we have to ask, “Who actually is our neighbor?”

Jesus answered that question in the Gospel of Luke when he shared the story of the Good Samaritan.

It’s a story most of us are very familiar with. And yet, the term Good Samaritan gets thrown around so casually these days that it’s begun to lose its deeper meaning.

A lot of times, when we hear the term Good Samaritan, we think of someone who’s simply done a good deed.

But if you look closely, the story of the Good Samaritan is about much more than someone doing a good deed for a stranger.

It’s a story about crossing boundaries.

In the parable Jesus tells, it’s a Samaritan who makes the decision to help the person in need.

The most unlikely person crosses the road and comes to the assistance of someone who desperately needs help.

It wasn’t the priest. It wasn’t the Levite.

It was the Samaritan—the most unlikely person.

You see, Jews and Samaritans had a long history of hostility and religious disagreement. Many Jews regarded Samaritans as outsiders and believed associating with them would make them unclean.

So, for Jesus to make a Samaritan the example of what it means to love our neighbor was a powerful challenge to his listeners.

Because Jesus was trying to convey something important about who our neighbor really is.

Our neighbors are those who are similar to us, but also those who are different.

Those we would normally associate with, and those we wouldn’t.

Those we agree with, and those we don’t.

Loving our neighbor requires us to cross those boundaries that we don’t like to cross because doing so makes us uncomfortable.

And there are plenty of boundaries dividing us today.

Some would have us believe that people who practice other religions or have different beliefs should not be trusted.

Others would have us believe that people who vote differently than we do should be treated as our enemies.

But Jesus doesn’t tell us to love only the people we agree with.

There’s a quote I’ve come across before that’s always stuck with me, and one that I return to often. I’m not sure who wrote it, but I think it’s a powerful reminder of what it means to love our neighbors.

And it goes like this:

“You will never look into the eyes of someone God does not love.”

It’s worth thinking about.

And it brings us back to this idea of loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves, and how it’s impossible to do one without the other.

We belong to God, and we belong to one another.

Even those who are different from us.

Our lives are connected. We are wrapped up in each other’s lives, and we are called to care for the well-being of all people.

We don’t get to decide which of our neighbors are worthy of love.

Jesus has already made that decision and given us the commandment.

Love God. Love your neighbor.

No exceptions.

Amen.

Come to the Table

A Sermon for the Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23, Year A)
October 11, 2026

Text: Matthew 22:1-14

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.

One of the vows I made at my ordination to the priesthood was to uphold the doctrine, discipline, and worship of the Episcopal Church. What that means is that, when it comes to planning worship, I tend to keep things pretty traditional.

That will come as no surprise to most of you!

Almost every part of our worship at St. Mary’s comes directly from The Book of Common Prayer or some other approved resource.

But, on occasion, I like to shake things up a little bit.

For example, while I was serving at my previous parish in Alabaster, one of the things I started doing was adding a special invitation right before the Eucharistic Prayer.

It was something I had seen done before at other churches. So, I decided to give it a try.

And people really liked it.

In fact, on more than one occasion, people who were new to the church made a point of coming up to me and telling me how much that part of the service meant to them.

Now, in the back of my mind, I was thinking, “Well, technically, I’m not really supposed to be doing this since it’s not in the Prayer Book.”

But I was glad they found it meaningful. And more than that, I was glad it made them feel more welcome. Because that was the whole reason I started doing it in the first place.

Each week, after the Table had been set and I stood at the altar preparing to lead the Eucharistic Prayer, I would speak these words to the congregation:

This is the Table, not of the Church, but of our Lord Jesus Christ.

It is made ready for those who love God and who want to love God more.

So, come, you who have much faith and you who have little.

You who have been here often and you who have not been for a long time or ever before.

You who have tried to follow and you who have failed.

Come, not because the Church invites you. It is our Lord Jesus who invites you to be known and fed here.

Now, I do have a confession to make.

The Bishop of Alabama at the time made her annual visit one Sunday, and I made sure she was aware of this extra part of the service so she would know what to expect.

But…I might’ve gotten in a little bit of trouble for it.

She wasn’t upset, exactly, but she did question me about it and wanted to know why I added something to the liturgy that wasn’t in the Prayer Book.

And my answer was pretty simple.

I wanted everyone in that church to know that, no matter where they were in their lives or what they were going through, there was a place for them at the Table.

I wanted them to know that they didn’t have to have everything figured out. They didn’t have to have perfect faith. They didn’t have to pretend to be something they weren’t.

Because the invitation wasn’t coming from me or even from the Church.

It was coming from Jesus.

Jesus was the one inviting them to come to the Table—to receive his grace and to take part in his life.

And I still believe that.

That invitation—to come to the Table, to take part in what God is doing in the world through Jesus—is really at the heart of what our Gospel lesson this morning is all about.

It picks up right after last week’s Gospel, where we heard the Parable of the Wicked Tenants.

Jesus has already entered Jerusalem. He’s already gone into the temple and upset the religious leaders.

He’s in the final days of his earthly life, and he’s challenging those who believe they already belong to God’s Kingdom to consider what it actually means to respond faithfully to God’s invitation.

So he tells them another parable.

It begins with a king who prepares a wedding banquet for his son. When everything is ready, he sends his servants to call those who’ve been invited.

But they refuse to come.

So, the king sends even more servants, and this time the response is even worse.

Some of the people who were invited make light of the invitation and continue to go about their daily work. Others mistreat and even kill the king’s servants.

The king becomes furious, and the story takes a violent turn. He sends his troops to destroy those responsible and burn their city.

But the banquet is still ready.

And the king still wants the wedding hall to be filled.

So, he sends his servants out into the streets with instructions to invite everyone they can find.

And that’s exactly what they do.

They gather everyone, both the good and the bad, until the wedding hall is filled with guests.

That’s an important detail.

These weren’t necessarily the people anyone would’ve expected to find at a royal banquet.

They hadn’t done anything special to deserve a place at the king’s table.

But the king invited them anyway.

I think that’s a wonderful image of God’s grace.

It’s open to everyone.

But then the story takes another turn.

When the king enters the banquet hall and sees all the guests, he notices a man who isn’t wearing a wedding garment—which was something that probably would’ve been expected at a royal wedding.

He asks him, “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?”

The man is speechless.

And the king orders him to be bound and thrown into the outer darkness.

That’s a pretty harsh ending to a story that began with such a wonderful invitation.

And I don’t think we should gloss over it. Actually, I think we should pay close attention.

It’s easy to hear the Parable of the Wedding Banquet and get overwhelmed by some of the details—especially toward the end of the story.

But, I don’t think Jesus is trying to scare us or intimidate us. And I don’t think the point of the story is that God is waiting for us to mess up or make a mistake so he can cast us out.

After all, the servants were told to invite everyone they could find— both the good and the bad.

The people at the wedding banquet weren’t there because they were perfect or because they had done anything to earn a place there. 

They were there because the king wanted them the be there.

So, what are we supposed to make of this man without the wedding garment?

One possibility—and I think it’s a strong one—is that, throughout Scripture, clothing is often used as an image of the new life we’re called to live as followers of Jesus.

In his letter to the Colossians, Paul writes:

“As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.”

And then he goes on to say, “Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

I think that’s a helpful way to think about the wedding garment.

In fact, St. Augustine, one of the great theologians of the early Church, preached a sermon on this very parable in which he suggested that the wedding garment actually represents love.

Not being perfect all the time or having all the answers.

But love.

Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to understand about the man who showed up without a wedding robe.

He had accepted the king’s invitation. He had taken his place at the banquet. But he wasn’t prepared for what that invitation truly meant.

Because accepting God’s invitation means more than simply showing up at the banquet.

It means allowing ourselves to be transformed by the love of the One who invited us.

And that transformation isn’t something we can accomplish on our own. It’s something God works within us through grace as we learn to follow Jesus.

So if we take nothing else away from this parable, we should remember this: the Christian way of life isn’t passive.

When we promise to follow Jesus, we’re committing ourselves to a new way of life—a life shaped by compassion, kindness, forgiveness, humility, and, above all, love.

That love isn’t just something we talk about on Sunday mornings.

It shapes the way we care for one another and the way we participate in God’s work of healing and reconciliation in the world.

God doesn’t simply invite us to come to the Table to take up space.

God invites us to lay down our lives and be transformed in the process.

And I think that’s especially important for us to remember when we gather around this Table each Sunday.

When we come to the Eucharist, we’re doing more than simply remembering something Jesus did a long time ago.

We receive the grace of God that nourishes us and transforms us into the people God has called us to be.

St. Augustine, who I mentioned a moment ago, once preached a sermon about the Eucharist in which he reminded Christians that, when we receive the Body of Christ, we’re also being called to become what we receive.

Each of us belongs to the Body of Christ, and together, as the Church, we’re called to embody Christ’s presence in the world.

Every time we come to this Table, we’re reminded that the life of Christ is meant to shape our own lives—in the way we love, the way we serve, and the way we care for one another.

We don’t come just to receive something for ourselves.

We come because we need God’s grace to help us live more like Jesus.

God doesn’t just invite us to take a seat at the Table.

God invites us to share in his very life.

So, as we prepare to gather around this Table once again, I want you to hear those words one more time and take them to heart:

This is the Table, not of the Church, but of our Lord Jesus Christ.

It is made ready for those who love God and who want to love God more.

So, come, you who have much faith and you who have little.

You who have been here often and you who have not been for a long time or ever before.

You who have tried to follow and you who have failed.

Come, not because the Church invites you. It is our Lord Jesus who invites you to be known and fed here.

Amen.

Leave No Trace

A Sermon for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 22, Year A)
and A Liturgy for the Care of God’s Creation
October 4, 2026

Text: Matthew 21:33-46

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.

Growing up in Enterprise, one of the most formative and memorable experiences of my childhood was participating in Boy Scouts.

I started as a Cub Scout in first grade and continued in Scouting all the way through high school, eventually earning the rank of Eagle Scout, which is one of my proudest achievements.

I have my parents to thank for that! They encouraged me to keep going when it would’ve been much easier to give it up and focus on other things.

During those years, I learned so many valuable lessons about how to be a good and responsible citizen and helpful skills that I carried with me into adulthood.

One of my favorite activities in Scouting was getting to go camping on the weekends and learning all the skills that went along with camping. We went to places like Lake Jackson down in Florala and St. Andrew’s Bay in Panama City. And of course, we spent a lot of time at our local scout camp in New Brockton—Camp Alaflo.

One of the things we learned early on as we were learning how to be responsible campers was a rule called “Leave No Trace.” Basically, it meant that when you left a campsite, you should leave no trace that you were ever there. And not only that, it meant that you were supposed to leave it better than the way you found it.

One of the ways we practiced that was at the end of every camping trip. After everyone had packed up their tents and we were ready to leave, we would all form a long line, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Then, we would walk across the campsite together, almost like a long police line. When we came across a piece of trash in our path, we would pick it up and throw it away. We would sweep back and forth across the entire campsite, making sure there was no trash left behind. And it didn’t matter whether or not we were the ones who put it there. We picked it up anyway.

That experience of learning how to be a responsible camper instilled in me a respect for the earth and for God’s creation. It probably explains why, even today, it makes my blood boil when I see someone throw trash out of a car window or when I see trash scattered along the side of the road.

It makes me upset because it means that someone had such little care and regard for the earth that they couldn’t take the time to throw away their trash where it belongs.

Those experiences in Scouting instilled in me a reverence for the earth, long before I ever had a way to put it into spiritual or theological language.

By learning to “leave no trace” and to clean up after ourselves, we were learning to care for something much bigger than ourselves so that the people who came after us could also enjoy its beauty. We were learning to think not only about ourselves, but about those who would come after us.

And on a spiritual level, we were learning to tend and care for something God had given us—not to use it just for our own purposes, but to be good stewards of God’s great gift of creation.

Because the earth is not a garbage can—and it’s not ours to do with as we please. The earth and all of God’s creation have been entrusted into our care—not to use however we want or to expend all of its natural resources for our own benefit.

When we read in the story of Creation that humanity has been given dominion over the earth and its creatures, that doesn’t mean we get to use everything frivolously or however we please. 

It means practicing good stewardship and taking great care of that which God has given us.

Stewardship is really at the heart of our Gospel reading for this morning.

Jesus tells a story to some religious leaders about a landowner who planted a vineyard.

He put a fence around it, dug a winepress, and built a watchtower. The landowner did everything necessary to prepare the ground and create a vineyard that could produce good fruit.

But then he entrusted that vineyard to tenants. He leased them the land to care for while he went away to another country.

When the time for the harvest came, the landowner sent his servants to the tenants to collect the produce that belonged to him.

But the tenants began to act as though everything belonged to them.

They abused and killed the landowner’s servants. And eventually, when the landowner sent his own son, they killed him too, thinking that if they killed the heir, they could keep the inheritance for themselves.

At the end of the parable, Jesus asks the religious leaders what the landowner will do when he comes.

And they answer that he will put those tenants to death and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at harvest time.

Jesus then tells them that the Kingdom of God will be given to a people who produce the fruits of the Kingdom.

And when the religious leaders hear this, they realize that Jesus is talking about them.

This story is a warning from Jesus about what happens when we’re unfaithful to the work God that has called us to do.

Just like the landowner, God calls his people to work for the building up of his Kingdom on earth, and part of that work means taking care of all the many gifts God has given us.

It also means remembering that everything we’ve been given comes from God and that nothing actually belongs to us.

The tenants’ mistake was that they began to treat something entrusted to them as though it belonged to them, which is why this parable is a great lesson about stewardship.

It invites us to consider what we’ll do with what God has given us to take care of.

Part of our calling as builders of God’s Kingdom is to care for God’s creation—to be good stewards of the gifts and natural resources God has given us.

If we read this parable through the lens of creation care, then it becomes a call to care for the environment and for all the creatures of the earth.

They are not ours to squander.

They are not ours to do with as we please.

They’ve been entrusted to us to tend and care for, just as God intended from the very beginning.

As I was writing my sermon for this morning, I came across a commentary about this Gospel reading that talked about two very different economies at work.

There’s an economy of domination, and there’s an economy of grace.

The economy of domination says that the things entrusted to us are expendable. If something benefits us, we can take it and use it however we want. We can consume it. We can take from it until there’s nothing left.

But that’s not the economy of God.

The economy of God is one of grace, and grace begins by recognizing that everything we have is a gift from God. And because it’s a gift, it isn’t meant to be hoarded or used only for ourselves. It’s something to be received with gratitude, cared for faithfully, and shared with others.

As human beings, we’ve learned to live in a world that often thinks of creation as expendable for our own benefit. But we have to learn to think about creation, not through dominance, but through grace.

Practicing good stewardship of God’s creation isn’t just about what we’ve been given.

It’s also about how we use it.

It’s about what kind of world we want to live in and what kind of world we want to leave behind for those who come after us.

Our decisions—even some of the smallest ones—can make a difference.

From September 1 to today, we’ve been observing the “Season of Creation.” This is a relatively new observance in the life of the Church, and it’s not just for Episcopalians.

Christians from many different denominations around the world have begun setting aside this season each year as an intentional time to think about God’s creation and the responsibility God has given us to care for it.

It gives us an opportunity to think about what it actually means to practice good stewardship of the earth and its resources.

It gives us an opportunity to ask ourselves, “Will we be good stewards of what God has entrusted into our care?”

Or, will we be like the wicked tenants in Jesus’ parable and treat God’s gifts as though they belong entirely to us, to use and abuse for our own benefit?

There are big questions right now about the work of creation care and our impact in the environment, and many of them can feel far beyond anything we can do as individuals.

But there are things we can do right here, in our own lives and in our own community.

They can be as simple as turning off the lights when we leave a room.

Or turning off the water instead of allowing it to run.

Taking the time to recycle things that can be recycled.

Picking up a piece of trash when we see it lying beside the road—even when we weren’t the ones who put it there.

Volunteering in the Good News Garden at church.

These may seem like small things.

But they’re everyday acts of stewardship.

Or, we may feel called to get even more involved and find even bigger ways to work for the care of creation.

All of these are ways of remembering that what we’ve been given is not just ours to consume. It’s been entrusted to us by God.

That’s what I first began learning all those years ago as a Boy Scout, walking shoulder to shoulder across a campsite and picking up trash that wasn’t even ours.

We were learning to leave something better than than the way we found it.

We were learning to think about the people who would come after us—not just ourselves.

And without realizing it, we were learning something about stewardship and how to care for a gift that we neither earned nor deserved.

May we all learn to do the same.

Let us pray:

O merciful Creator, your hand is open wide to satisfy the needs of every living creature: Make us always thankful for your loving providence; and grant that we, remembering the account that we must one day give, may be faithful stewards of your good gifts; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

A Place In the Vineyard

A Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20, Year A)
September 20, 2026

Text: Matthew 20:1-16

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.

There are some parables of Jesus that are easier for us to hear than others. We understand what Jesus is trying to teach us, and we’re right there with him.

And then there are parables like the one we hear this morning that make us a little uncomfortable.

Because if we’re being honest, there’s something about this story that doesn’t seem quite fair.

Jesus tells his disciples about a landowner who goes out early in the morning to hire people to work in his vineyard. He finds some workers, agrees to pay them the usual daily wage, and sends them out to work.

A few hours later—around nine o’clock—he goes out again and finds more people who need work. So he sends them into the vineyard, too.

Then he goes out again at noon.

And again at three.

And then again—around five o’clock—he goes out when there’s hardly any time left in the work day.

Each time he goes out, he finds people who haven’t been hired yet, and he says basically the same thing: “You also go into the vineyard.”

Then, at the end of the day, the landowner gathers all the workers together and pays them.

And that’s when things get interesting.

The people who arrived at five o’clock—who had only worked for about an hour—receive a full day’s wage.

So naturally, the people who’ve been there the longest get excited. They probably think to themselves, “If they got that much, imagine what we’re going to get.”

But when their turn comes, they receive the same amount as everyone else. And they’re not happy about it.

And I have to admit, I understand where they’re coming from.

They worked all day. They did most of the work. And these other people showed up at the last minute and received exactly the same thing.

It doesn’t seem fair, does it?

But I wonder if sometimes we get so focused on the workers in this story—who worked the longest and who received what—that we miss out on the person Jesus really wants us to notice.

That’s the landowner.

There’s something remarkable going on with the landowner.

He doesn’t just go out once looking for workers.

He goes out again and again looking for people to work in the vineyard.

And if we see the landowner as an image of God, then maybe Jesus is trying to tell us something important about who God is.

God never stops calling people into the vineyard. God never stops calling people to follow the way of Jesus and to work for the building up of his kingdom.

That invitation began a long time ago.

Jesus called disciples like Peter and Andrew and James and John.

“Follow me,” he said, and they did.

Then eventually, others joined them.

Then more came after that.

And through the centuries, generations of Christians have followed.

Until finally—somewhere along the way—someone told us about Jesus and invited us to follow.

The same thing is true about St. Mary’s.

None of us started this church. None of us started the work that God has been doing here since the 1940s.

Generations of people were worshiping and praying and loving their neighbors through this parish long before most of us ever walked through those doors.

Some of you have been part of St. Mary’s for decades.

Others have only been here a short time.

But every one of us stepped into something that was already happening long before we arrived.

And one day, our chapter in the story of St. Mary’s will be over.

Someone else will sit in our pew.

Someone else will serve at the altar.

Someone else will prepare the meals and teach the children and visit the sick and sing in the choir and serve on the vestry and do all the other things that make up the life and ministry of this parish.

Because, like I mentioned in my sermon last week, this church doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God.

And part of our responsibility here is to make room for the people who will come after us—to invite others to join us in ministry.

As your priest, I see it all the time.

I’ve watched people come into this community who were new and weren’t quite sure where they fit in or what they had to offer.

And then someone invited them to get involved.

Maybe they stopped at a table during a Ministry Fair. Or maybe they had a conversation with someone who was already involved in a ministry and that person said, “Come and join us.”

And they started to notice that they had gifts to offer as well.

They found things they enjoyed doing and formed relationships with new friends.

And before long, they weren’t simply attending St. Mary’s anymore.

They had become part of the ministry of this church.

Sometimes all it takes is an invitation.

That’s what the landowner does in our parable this morning.

He goes out. He meets people who are looking for work. And he says: “You also go into the vineyard.”

There’s a place for you here.

I think that’s something we all need to hear.

Because sometimes we assume ministry is for other people.

It’s for the people who’ve been here the longest or the people who already know how everything works.

Or maybe we think ministry is only for the people who have their lives figured out or people who are more faithful than we are.

But if you don’t hear anything else from my sermon this morning, please hear this: there is no pre-requisite for serving God.

God meets us where we are and calls us all to work in the vineyard.

Whether you’ve been here thirty years or thirty minutes, there’s a place for you at St. Mary’s to discover how God is calling you to serve.

But, of course, that still leaves us with the uncomfortable part of Jesus’ story. Because at the end of the day, everyone gets paid the same.

And the people who’ve worked the longest don’t like it.

But we should remember something about the beginning of the story. The landowner hasn’t cheated anyone.

He gives them exactly what he promised. Their problem isn’t really with what they received. It’s what everyone else received.

They see the landowner’s generosity toward those who arrived later, and suddenly what seemed fair that morning no longer seems fair at all.

In this story, Jesus isn’t talking about wages. He’s talking about grace.

Because grace isn’t something God gives us according to how much we deserve or how much we try to earn.

Grace isn’t a paycheck for doing hard work.

It’s a gift.

We don’t accumulate more of God’s love because we’ve been Christians longer or because we’ve served on more committees or volunteered more of our time or given more money.

God’s grace is freely given.

And that means the work we do can never be transactional.

We don’t serve God so that God will love us more. We serve because God already loves us more than we can possibly imagine.

We don’t serve in order to earn God’s grace. We serve because we’ve already received it.

That’s why everything we do in service to God and others—whether it’s volunteering our time at Rice and Beans or serving in worship on Sunday morning—should be done with a spirit of gratitude and thanksgiving.

Later this morning, after worship, we’ll be having our annual Ministry Fair.

When you walk into the Parish Hall, you’ll see tables and displays set up around the room representing many of the different ministries that make up the life of our church.

And yes, there will be opportunities to sign up and volunteer.

But what I hope you’ll see this morning at the Ministry Fair is something more than just a recruitment drive.

I hope you’ll see it as a sign that ministry is happening all the time here at church, and there are so many opportunities to serve.

Because church is more than just what happens here on Sunday mornings. We don’t come here one a week, spend an hour with God, and then put our faith away until next Sunday.

What we do here prepares us for what we do out there.

We hear the Word of God. We pray. We confess our sins. We gather around the table and receive the Body and Blood of Christ. And then we’re sent out.

Ministry doesn’t end on Sunday mornings. It’s where ministry begins.

There are plenty of ways to serve God during worship, and all of that’s important. But the ministry of this church continues throughout the week.

It happens when hungry people are fed or when someone who is sick or homebound receives a visit.

It happens when children and young people learn about the love of God and are reminded that God is always with them.

Ministry happens when someone prepares a meal or washes dishes.

It happens when people gather to make prayer shawls or when people donate coats and blankets for those in need.

All of that is ministry.

So when you walk into the Parish Hall this morning and see all those tables set up, I want you to think about our Gospel lesson for this morning.

Every table—every display—represents some little corner of the vineyard that God is calling us to tend.

And the invitation is open to everyone: “Come and join us.”

Come and see what God is doing in and through this church.

Come and discover the gifts God has given you.

Come and find your place in ministry.

Or maybe you’re already involved in several ministries and your call for today is to invite someone new to join us in the work that God has given us to do.

That’s what the landowner does.

Early in the morning, he goes out and looks for people to tend the vineyard. And then again and again, he goes out. Still looking, still inviting.

Because there’s still work to be done.

There are still people to be welcomed.

There are still gifts waiting to be discovered.

That invitation began long before us and will continue long after we’re gone.

But for this moment, this is our part of the vineyard—our part of God’s Kingdom—to tend.

So whether you’ve been here for decades or you’re brand new to our church, hear the invitation again:

God is calling people to work in the vineyard.

And there’s room for you, too.

Amen.

We Belong to Christ

A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19, Year A)
September 13, 2026

Text: Romans 14:1-12

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.

From Paul’s letter to the Romans: “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

These words from Paul express something about what it means to be the Church. We don’t exist because we all think alike or have everything figured out. We exist because we belong to Christ—and because we belong to Christ, we belong to one another.

Many of you have heard at least some of the story of how I found my way into the Episcopal Church. But some of you haven’t.

And since today is Come and See Sunday, I wanted to share that story with you again—along with some of the things I love most about the Episcopal Church.

In my junior year of studying music at Auburn, a fellow member of the Auburn University Concert Choir told me that his church was looking for a bass to sing in the student choir, and he asked me if I knew anyone who might be interested.

It was an Episcopal church, and the members of the choir received a small stipend for singing each week during the service.

I had never even heard of the Episcopal Church. But earning a little extra money each week and getting connected with a church sounded appealing. So I told him I was interested.

Chelsea and I went together that first Sunday to St. Dunstan’s in Auburn.

I sang in the choir, and she sat in the congregation. And it turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made.

The worship was very different. The prayers and hymns were unfamiliar, and there were moments during the service when everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do while I was completely lost.

But even then, there was something about the community that felt familiar. It felt like coming home.

The people of St. Dunstan’s showed a genuine love for one another. People from all backgrounds and walks of life were welcomed into the community.

We didn’t feel as though we had to understand everything or believe the same way as everyone else did.

They simply opened their arms and welcomed us in.

Week after week, we worshiped, broke bread together, and offered our prayers for one another and for the world.

St. Dunstan’s also taught me that Church isn’t just about what happens on Sunday morning. It’s where we are nourished by the sacraments, formed through our common life, and strengthened to follow Jesus in the world.

It’s also where I came to know my good friend and mentor, Father Wells, where I was baptized and later confirmed, and where the first seeds of my calling to ordained ministry were planted.

The people of St. Dunstan’s changed the course of my life, and I’ll always be grateful for the love and hospitality they showed us.

That experience shaped what I love about the Episcopal Church and what I hope people encounter here at St. Mary’s.

If you’re visiting with us today for the first time, welcome. You may not know what to expect. You may not know when to stand, sit, or kneel during worship, or even what you believe about God. And that’s okay.

Because the Church was never meant to be a place for people who know everything. It’s a community of people learning together what it means to follow Jesus.

That’s what our lesson from Romans this morning is all about.

Paul is describing the kind of community where people from very different backgrounds are learning how to cooperate and live together as one Church.

You have to remember that the early Church in Rome included both Jewish and Gentile Christians. Jewish Christians had been raised within the covenant traditions of Israel. Practices involving food and special days of observance were part of their cultural and religious identity and how they honored God.

Gentile Christians, on the other hand, had not grown up with those traditions, and many believed that life in Christ freed them from those practices.

Now these two different groups were trying to come together as one Church. They worshiped the same Lord but disagreed about what following Jesus should look like.

The problem was that those disagreements were starting to tear the Church apart. They were judging one another and beginning to believe that faithfulness required everyone else to see things exactly as they did.

So Paul writes, “Welcome those who are weak in faith, but not for the purpose of quarreling over opinions.”

Paul wasn’t saying that what they believe doesn’t matter. He wasn’t asking them to pretend their differences weren’t real. Instead, he reminds them that something deeper holds them together.

“Whether we live or whether we die,” Paul writes, “we are the Lord’s.”

We don’t have to agree about everything to belong to one another because, first of all, we belong to Christ.

That’s one of the things I’ve come to love most about the Episcopal Church.

There are many others—and since today is Come and See Sunday, I’d like to share some of those with you.

I love that there’s room here for questions.

We’re allowed to wrestle with our doubts without feeling shame or that we’re somehow being unfaithful. We can come to church without having to check our brains at the door. Our minds are gifts from God, and we believe that honest questions can lead us more deeply into faith.

I love that when we say “all are welcome,” we mean that ALL are welcome, with no exceptions. And not only that, but you’re invited to bring all of who you are.

God sees you, and God knows you. You don’t have to hide the complicated parts of your life or the parts that no one else understands. You can bring your faith and your doubts, your joys and your sorrows, your hopes and your fears. God meets us where we are—not where we pretend to be.

I love the beauty and reverence of our worship and the way our prayers connect us with something much greater than ourselves.

These prayers have carried generations of Christians through every season of life. Now they carry us. Our worship is rooted in ancient tradition, but it’s still very relevant to our lives. Each week, we gather to worship, and we bring with us our gratitude, our fears, and our hope for the world. All of it’s gathered into prayer.

I love that we can disagree and still worship together.

That doesn’t mean our disagreements don’t matter. It means we don’t have to agree on everything in order to belong. We don’t gather because we all think alike. We gather because we belong to Christ. We carry different experiences, opinions, and beliefs. But, we listen to the same Scriptures, speak the same prayers, and kneel at the same Altar. We find unity—not in thinking exactly alike—but in turning together toward God.

And I love that our faith is incarnational—which means embodied in the way we live and move and have our being.

Faith isn’t just about what we believe or what we express with our words. It’s about how we live. In worship, we stand, kneel, and sing together. We exchange the peace. We hold out our hands and receive the Body of Christ so that we can go into the world and become the Body of Christ.

The grace we receive here becomes food for the hungry, companionship for the lonely, care for those who are suffering, welcome for the stranger, and love for our neighbors. At the end of every service, we are sent out with words like, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” It’s a reminder that, even though our worship has ended, our service continues.

Before we’re Episcopalians, before we’re members of St. Mary’s, before we agree or disagree about anything, we belong to Christ. And because we belong to Christ, we belong to one another.

The Episcopal Church isn’t perfect, and neither is St. Mary’s. Sometimes we fall short of our call to walk in love. But our failures don’t change who God is calling us to become.

Christian community gives us people who will pray with us when we can’t find the words, rejoice with us when life is good, and sit with us when life falls apart. It also gives us a place where our gifts can be discovered and offered for others.

That kind of belonging has the power to change the direction of a life. I know because it changed mine.

Years ago, I walked through the doors of an Episcopal church because someone invited me to sing in their choir. I had no idea where that small invitation would lead.

But Chelsea and I found people who welcomed us. We found room to wrestle with our doubts and ask questions. We found a  way of worshipping God that spoke to our lives and a community that allowed us to belong while we were still finding our way.

Most importantly, through all of those things, we found Jesus.

And that’s what I hope every person finds here at St. Mary’s. If you’re visiting today—or if you’ve been coming for a while but still consider yourself new—you don’t need perfect faith, and you don’t need to have everything figured out. You’re invited to pray, ask questions, and discover alongside us what it means to follow Jesus.

And for those of us who already call St. Mary’s home, today is a reminder that welcome is more than just something we say.

It’s a way of life.

It means making room for people as someone once did for us—including those who are different than we are. It means listening before judging and inviting others to share in our worship, ministries, and common life together.

It means remembering that this community doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God, and we belong to Christ.

And anyone Christ brings through these doors is someone we’re called to receive with love.

That’s the Church I discovered all those years ago at St. Dunstan’s.

And that’s the Church I believe God is calling us to become more fully together.

Not a church with all the answers, but a church willing to ask honest questions.

Not a church where everyone agrees, but a church gathered around the same Lord.

Not a church filled with perfect people, but a church where we can experience the transforming love of God in Christ.

Here, we can bring all of who we are.

Here, we are nourished by the grace of God.

And from here, we are sent to embody that grace in the world.

So whoever you are and wherever you are on your journey with Christ, you are welcome.

There’s a place for you here at St. Mary’s.

Amen.

Another Way

A Sermon for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18, Year A)
September 6, 2026

Text: Matthew 18:15-20

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.

There are some passages in the Gospels where it’s difficult to understand exactly what Jesus is asking us to do. Our lesson for today isn’t one of them.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus gives his disciples a very simple set of instructions. If another member of the Church sins against you, go and speak to that person privately. If the two of you can’t resolve the matter, take one or two others with you. If the problem still can’t be resolved, bring it before the whole church.

The “what” of Jesus’ teaching is easy to understand.

The deeper question—and the one I’ve been asking myself a lot this past week—is “why”.

Why does Jesus care so much about how to deal with conflict?

Why does he give his disciples this carefully thought out process for addressing hurt or wrongdoing?

I think the answer has to do with the kind of life Jesus was calling his disciples to live.

Jesus didn’t call people to follow him as individuals. He called them into a community. He brought together people who would pray together, eat together, learn together, serve together, and share in his ministry.

Jesus knew that this way of life could never be lived alone. Following him would require the gifts, faith, strength, and companionship of other people.

That’s certainly been true in my own life.

Some of the greatest gifts I’ve received through the Church have come through Christian community: long-lasting friendships, people who’ve become like family, and the privilege of working alongside others in ministry.

And we see that kind of shared life all the time here at St. Mary’s.

When we feed the marching band before an away game, like we did recently, it takes many hands to prepare and serve the food.

Our Rice and Beans Ministry and our Community Dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas depend upon people cooking, packing meals, setting up, and delivering food.

The Bayou Feast we do each year would be impossible without the whole parish working together to sell tickets and prepare for the event.

The same is true every Sunday morning.

Worship is the work of many people working together: the Altar Guild, the choir, our wonderful and talented organist, the ushers, the readers, the acolytes, and all those who quietly take care of details behind the scenes that most people never even notice.

That spirit of cooperation is one of the things I appreciate most about our church. This is a congregation whose members know how to work together.

That doesn’t mean we always agree or that we never disappoint one another. It means that people here understand that the life and ministry of the Church belong to all of us.

Healthy churches are built by many hands.

But whenever human beings live and work together, conflict is inevitable.

Eventually, we hurt one another. We say something we didn’t really mean. We fail to listen. We make decisions that other people disagree with. We do something that causes hurt feelings, sometimes without realizing it and sometimes because we’ve behaved wrongly.

A healthy church isn’t a church where conflict never happens.

A healthy church is one that’s learned how to deal with conflict honestly and graciously.

Conflict within a church can be especially painful because a church is more than just a civic organization. It‘s a community of faith. In many ways, it’s like a family. We pray together. We stand with each other at baptisms, weddings, and funerals. We come to the altar together to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

When a relationship within the Church is wounded, that wound rarely affects only the two people involved. As St. Paul often reminds us, we are one body. When one part of the body is hurting, the whole body feels it.

That’s why Jesus begins today with a very simple instruction: go and speak directly to the person who’s hurt you.

Not to everyone else.

Not behind their back.

Go to that person privately and tell the truth.

There’s grace in the privacy of that first conversation. Jesus is protecting that person from unnecessary shame. He’s creating space for honesty, repentance, and forgiveness before the conflict spreads through the whole Church.

It’s not meant to be an attack. The goal isn’t to win an argument or prove that one person is right and the other is wrong. Jesus says that if the person listens, “you have regained that one.”

That’s the whole reason for this process: to regain a brother or sister, to heal what’s been broken, and to restore a relationship when restoration is possible.

This passage isn’t about dividing the Church into sinners and saints. If it were, none of us would know which side of the line to stand on.

It’s an acknowledgment that all of us will eventually fall short of our call to love one another, and all of us, at some point, will need someone to tell us the truth when we’ve caused them pain or suffering.

What Jesus describes in this passage is a simple process, but it’s not easy.

Most of us don’t enjoy conflict. I know I don’t.

We would rather avoid an uncomfortable conversation, bury our resentment, or convince ourselves that the problem isn’t that important.

And when someone tells us we’ve hurt them, often our first instinct is to defend ourselves.

We say things like, “That’s not what I meant.”

Or “You misunderstood me.”

Or “You hurt me, too.”

We try to explain ourselves when what the other person really needs is for us to acknowledge the pain we caused.

In our Rector’s Forum last Sunday, we talked about the things we sometimes need to say “no” to in order to say “yes” to God.

Maybe one of those things is trying to protect ourselves from ever having to admit that we were wrong.

Sometimes following Jesus means saying no to our pride, no to our defensiveness, and no to our need to have the last word.

Sometimes it means saying “I was wrong, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

But Jesus is realistic.

Not every conversation will immediately lead to reconciliation. Some people will refuse to listen. Some will deny the harm they’ve caused. Some patterns of behavior are so destructive that appropriate boundaries or even a period of separation may be necessary.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending that harmful behavior is okay.

Reconciliation can’t be forced, and trust may take a long time to rebuild.

And in some circumstances, it may never be safe or possible to restore a relationship to what it once was.

Jesus doesn’t ask us to deny the truth for the sake of keeping the peace.

He gives the Church a way to be honest, to seek accountability, to protect those who’ve been harmed, and to seek reconciliation.

Eventually, Jesus says that a person who refuses to listen should be regarded “as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

That sounds harsh at first—like a command to cast the person out. But we should remember how Jesus himself treated Gentiles and tax collectors.

He continued to reach out.

He told them the truth. He didn’t approve of everything they did, but also didn’t declare them beyond the reach of God’s mercy. He continued to offer an invitation to repentance, healing, and new life.

Sometimes a boundary has to be drawn. Sometimes reconciliation isn’t possible right away. But grace doesn’t require us to lock the door and throw away the key.

Grace leaves room for repentance. Grace keeps the door open for the possibility of healing.

And that may be one of the most important gifts the Church can offer the world right now.

We live in a time when people are quickly divided into one side or another.

We assume the worst about people who are different than we are.

We talk about people behind their back.

We publicly shame those who fail.

And we use disagreement as a way to put up walls between us.

Jesus calls his Church to walk a different path.

The Church’s witness isn’t that we never disagree. It’s not that we never hurt one another or that we somehow rise above all the struggles of human relationships.

Our witness is how we respond to each other when those things happen.

Because of Jesus, we can speak the truth without being cruel.

We can acknowledge wrongdoing without humiliation.

We can forgive without denying the harm that’s been done.

We can respect boundaries.

We can learn to heal wounded relationships when healing is possible.

St. Paul tells us in today’s reading from Romans that all the commandments are fulfilled in the words, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

We love each other because God first loved us.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven.

We offer mercy because every one of us depends on God’s mercy.

That truth is woven into our worship.

Every Sunday, we confess our sins together. All of us acknowledge that we’ve sinned against God and our neighbors and that we need mercy and forgiveness.

Then we exchange the Peace. The Peace is more than a friendly greeting or a break before Communion.

It’s a sign of reconciliation.

Before we approach the Altar, we turn to each other and share the peace of Christ.

Then we gather at one Table—not because we all agree about everything, not because every relationship is perfect, and certainly not because any of us is worthy.

We gather because God invites us all to receive the gift of God’s grace.

When Jesus promises, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them,” he’s speaking directly to the difficult work of reconciliation.

Christ is present when two people sit down and have an honest conversation.

Christ is present when someone finds the courage to say, “You hurt me.”

Christ is present when another finds the humility to say, “I’m sorry.”

Christ is present when we start to forgive, when trust is slowly rebuilt, and even when boundaries must be drawn while the hope of healing remains.

This is difficult and holy work. But we don’t do it alone. Christ is among us.

In a world that would rather be divided than healed, the Church is called to walk a different way and to show the world what reconciliation looks like.

Not perfectly, but faithfully.

We tell the truth.

We seek healing.

We leave room for reconciliation, when it’s possible.

We protect those who’ve been harmed.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven.

And we trust that, through it all, Christ is with us.

Not just for our own sake, but so that our life together may be a sign to the world—a sign that the love of God has the power to change lives and draw us into deeper relationship with God and each other.

Amen.

Follow Me

A Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17, Year A)
August 30, 2026

Text: Matthew 16:21-28

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.

If you’ve ever been to a baptism here at St. Mary’s or in any Episcopal church, you know that there are certain things to expect during the service. For example, there’s a moment in the liturgy when we ask the candidate for baptism a series of questions.

We call these the renunciations and affirmations.

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?

And each time, the answer is the same:

I renounce them.

Then, the questions turn from what we’re leaving behind to what we’re taking on.

Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?

Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?

Do you promise to follow and obey him as your Lord?

And each time, the answer is, “I do.”

We renounce the evil powers of this world and all sinful desires that draw us from God’s love and we turn to Jesus and promise to follow and obey.

Those words are very familiar to most of us.

But did you know that Christians have been answering questions like these at baptism for more than seventeen hundred years?

The exact wording has changed over the centuries, of course, but the basic pattern is very similar: What do you renounce? Whom do you believe in? And whom will you follow?

And in the early Church, those questions weren’t answered only with words.

They also answered them with their bodies.

Imagine going back seventeen or eighteen hundred years ago.

It’s the night before Easter, and everyone is gathered for the Easter Vigil—the traditional time when candidates for baptism would be presented.

You’ve spent months—perhaps even years—preparing for this moment. And now, in the darkness of the Easter Vigil, you’re standing with others who are about to be baptized.

But before you go down in the water, you’re told to face west—the direction of the setting sun. The west represents darkness.

And facing west, you renounce Satan and the powers of evil.

In some parts of the Church, you might even stretch out your arms as you spoke the words—a physical way of rejecting the old life you were leaving behind.

Then you’re told to turn around.

You turn from the west toward the east—from the darkness toward the place where the sun will soon rise.

And facing that direction, you confess your faith in Jesus Christ.

Then you go down into the waters of baptism.

The whole thing is almost like a sermon preached with the body.

As if to say, “This is the way I was going. Now this is the way I choose to go.”

It’s a powerful image and I think a helpful reminder for all of us that getting baptized and becoming a Christian isn’t just about believing certain things about who Jesus is.

It’s about changing directions.

It’s about deciding whom we’re going to follow.

Will we choose to follow our own way or will we follow the way of Jesus?

And I think that’s exactly the question Jesus puts before Peter in our Gospel lesson this morning.

In my sermon last Sunday, I talked about how Peter got everything right.

Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”

And Peter answered correctly: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praised him and told him that he would be the rock on which he built his church.

But almost immediately, everything changes.

In our Gospel reading for today, we hear Jesus explaining to the disciples what he must go through.

He tells them that he must go to Jerusalem. That he will suffer. That he will be rejected and killed.

And that on the third day he will be raised.

But Peter doesn’t accept what Jesus has to say.

He takes Jesus aside and begins to rebuke him.

“God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”

It’s obvious that Peter cares deeply for Jesus and doesn’t want to see any harm come to him.

But there’s more to it than that.

This wasn’t the plan he thought it would be.

This wasn’t what he or any of the disciples expected in the Messiah.

The Messiah was supposed to come and save them from oppression and restore the kingdom of Israel.

They were looking for a great warrior who would lead them in a fight, not someone who was getting ready to die.

So you can understand Peter’s reaction.

He was expecting a Messiah who would triumph over Rome—not one who would end up on a Roman cross.

In response to Peter, Jesus says to him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Those are harsh words, and it’s easy to imagine that Jesus is casting Peter out, almost like saying, “Get away from me. I’ve had enough of you.”

But if we closely at the original Greek, a more helpful translation of that verse might be, “Get back in line.”

A disciple follows the teacher, not the other way around.

Peter’s problem is that he’s forgotten his place as a disciple.

He’s trying to impose his own will—his own plan, and in the process, he becomes a stumbling block for Jesus, an adversary to what God is trying to do.

And Jesus says, “No.”

Get back in line.

Remember your place.

Follow me.

Peter isn’t an evil person.

But he is resisting the way Jesus has chosen to walk—the way of the cross—the way of self-giving, sacrificial love.

Jesus tells him, “You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Peter wants Jesus to go his way and to be the Messiah he wants.

Jesus is calling Peter to trust him and to follow God’s plan.

That’s really what this Gospel is all about and where it meets us in our own lives.

Do we choose our own way and try to impose our will over God’s will?

Or do we trust and follow Jesus?

Jesus says it this way:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

There it is again.

Follow me.

Get behind me.

Let me lead, and I’ll show you the way.

That reminds me of those ancient Christians waiting for baptism on the night before Easter.

Facing one direction.

Renouncing the evil powers of this world.

And then turning toward the light.

Friends, that turning doesn’t happen just once.

We only get baptized once.

But we spend the rest of our lives learning how to live more fully into our baptism.

That’s one of the reasons we often renew our Baptismal vows.

It’s not just something nice we do in church from time to time. We do it because we need to be reminded of who we are and who we’ve chosen to follow.

We do it because every day there are moments when we find ourselves standing exactly where Peter stood, faced with the choice of following our own way or the way of Jesus.

Paul gives us some good examples in our reading this morning from Romans.

Our way says, “Look out for yourself.”

The way of Jesus says, “Extend hospitality to strangers.”

Our way says, “If someone hurts you, hurt them back.”

The way of Jesus says, “Bless those who persecute you.”

Our way says, “Get even.”

The way of Jesus says, “Do not repay anyone evil for evil.”

Our way says, “Hate your enemies.”

The way of Jesus says, “If your enemies are hungry, feed them.”

Paul sums it all up when he writes: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

These may seem like small decisions. But over time, they determine the direction of our lives.

And in those moments, the question is the same:

Whom do we follow?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once put it in very simple terms:

“Your ‘Yes’ to God demands your ‘No’ to all injustice, to all evil, to all lies, to all oppression and violation of the weak and the poor, to all godlessness and mocking of the holy. Your ‘Yes’ to God demands a brave ‘No’ to everything that will ever hinder you from serving God alone, whether it be your profession, your property, your house, your honor before the world. Faith means decision.”

I love that last line.

“Faith means decision.”

Maybe not one big decision all at once.

But a thousand small decisions made over a lifetime.

A thousand opportunities to say “no” to what draws us away from God and “yes” to what brings us closer to God.

There will be countless times when we realize that we’ve put ourselves and what we want in front of what God wants.

We start telling God where we think we should go instead of allowing him to lead us.

We start deciding what we think discipleship should look like instead of allowing him to form us.

We start setting our minds on human things rather than divine things.

But in those moments, Jesus doesn’t cast us aside.

He says, “Get back in line.”

Remember your place.

Follow me.

That’s what the Christian life looks like.

We renounce evil.

We turn toward the light.

And we follow the one leads us to abundant life with God.

And when we discover that we’ve started walking our own way again, by the grace of God, we turn back.

Back toward Jesus.

Back toward the way of the cross.

Back to the one who says to Peter, and to every one of us:

Get behind me.

And follow.

Amen.

Just You

A Sermon for The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16, Year A)
August 23, 2026

Text: Matthew 16:13-20

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.

Earlier this year, I was wandering through a used bookstore when I came across a book by Nadia Bolz-Weber called Accidental Saints. Some of you may be familiar with Nadia. She’s a Lutheran pastor and author, and she’s probably not what you would expect when you hear the words “Lutheran pastor.”

She’s covered in tattoos. She’s very open about her complicated past, and she’s known for being pretty blunt and honest about her own struggles with faith.

I’d heard of the book before, and it was only a few dollars. So I picked it up, brought it home, and did what I often do with books I intend to read: I put it on the shelf.

And there it sat for several months.

Until recently, when I picked it back up and started reading.

And there’s one story in particular from the book I want to share with you this morning.

Several years ago, Nadia was invited to speak at a national youth gathering in New Orleans.

And it wasn’t just a youth retreat with fifty or sixty kids. We’re talking about tens of thousands of teenagers gathered inside the Superdome.

And at first, Nadia wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. When she was invited to speak, she said no.

She didn’t think she was the right person for the job. She didn’t think she knew how to talk to teenagers. And she certainly didn’t think she had anything to say that they would find meaningful.

The organizers asked her again, and she still said no.

But eventually, she agreed to do it.

And almost immediately, she began wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

She asked people what they thought she should talk about. She bounced ideas off of trusted friends and family members.

Nothing seemed right.

And there was something else.

Not everyone was happy that Nadia Bolz-Weber had been invited to speak at the event.

Her story isn’t exactly neat and tidy. She had struggled with addiction. She had spent years away from the Church. Her path to becoming a pastor had been anything but ordinary.

And there were people who wondered whether someone with a story like hers was really the person who should be standing in front of thousands of teenagers talking about Jesus.

I imagine that only made the question in the back of her mind that much louder:

“What could someone like me possibly have to offer?”

But then something happened on the way to New Orleans.

On the flight there, Nadia was sitting next to a teenage girl named Chloe. Chloe had pink bangs, and she was quiet and kept mostly to herself.

And as they began to talk, Nadia discovered that Chloe knew something about what it was like to feel different—to feel like maybe she didn’t quite fit the mold of what other people expected her to be.

Nadia knew something about that, too, and as they talked, she began to realize something.

Maybe she didn’t need to figure out how to become the kind of person who could speak to thousands of teenagers.

Maybe the thing she had to offer was simply her own story.

Finally, the moment came.

Nadia walked onto that stage in the Superdome and looked out at thousands of young people.

And she told them the truth.

She told them about herself. About the ways she had struggled. About the mistakes she had made. About the ways her life hadn’t always followed the nice, straight path we imagine a Christian is supposed to follow.

She didn’t give them some polished version of herself.

She gave them the truth of who she was.

And somehow, God was at work in all of it.

The person who was convinced she had nothing to say to these teenagers connected with them in a way she never could have imagined.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that story this week—and about how easy it is to believe that we have to be the perfect Christian, or the perfect disciple, before God can really use us.

And I think our Gospel reading for this morning has something to teach us about that.

In our lesson from Matthew, Jesus asks the disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”

They give him the answers they’ve heard. Some say John the Baptist. Others say Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets.

But then Jesus makes the question personal.

“But who do you say that I am?”

Peter answers the question.

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus responds, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah,” and then he says something extraordinary:

“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”

Of all the disciples, Peter is the one who first confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God.

If you know anything about Peter, you know he’s anything but the perfect disciple.

He isn’t a scholar or religious leader.

When Jesus meets him for the first time, he’s working as a fisherman with his brother Andrew when Jesus simply says, “Follow me.”

And Peter does.

From that point on, Peter follows Jesus faithfully—but not perfectly.

As we heard in our Gospel lesson a couple weeks ago, Peter is the one who sees Jesus walking across the water and actually has enough faith to climb out of the boat and walk toward him.

But then he notices the wind and waves. He becomes frightened and begins to sink.

“Lord, save me!” he says.

That’s Peter.

Faithful enough to climb out of the boat but frightened enough to doubt.

And perhaps the best example comes right after the story in today’s Gospel.

Peter has just answered correctly.

He says to Jesus, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praises him and calls him the rock on which he’ll build his church.

But then, only a few verses later, Jesus begins explaining to the disciples that he must go up to Jerusalem, suffer, and die.

Peter pulls him aside and rebukes him.

And Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan.”

That’s quite a turn in the story.

One moment, he says to Peter, “On this rock I will build my church.”

A few verses later, he says, “Get behind me, Satan.”

And of course, much later in the Gospel, Peter says to Jesus that even if everyone else abandons him in his time of need, he will never leave him.

And we all know what happened there.

On the night when Jesus is arrested, Peter denies even knowing who Jesus is. Not once, but three times.

And yet this is the man Jesus chooses.

Because Jesus knows Peter.

He knows his courage and his fear.

His faith and his doubts.

He knows Peter will sometimes get things right and sometimes fall short.

And still Jesus looks at him and says:

I will use you to build my Church.

Not some future version of you.

Not the Peter who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

I wonder how many of us have a hard time believing that about ourselves.

Because it’s easy to fall in the trap of believing that God can only use us if we’re the perfect disciple.

We think to ourselves, “If I only knew the Bible better…”

Or “If I only prayed more…”

Or “If only my faith were stronger…”

Or “If only I hadn’t made those mistakes…”

Maybe then God could use me.

So we hold back.

Because somewhere deep inside of us is that same question Nadia was asking herself:

What could someone like me possibly have to offer?

And if you think priests and clergy are immune to that question, I’ve got something to tell you.

We aren’t.

There are moments in my own life—even after eleven years of being a priest—when I question myself and wonder what in the world God was thinking when he called me to this ministry.

But one of the amazing things about Scripture is that it’s filled with so many beautiful examples of how God calls imperfect people—like Peter—to do extraordinary things.

Throughout history, the Church has been filled with imperfect people. People who were courageous one moment and frightened the next. People who loved Jesus but also struggled to be faithful.

People like Peter and Nadia.

People like us.

And maybe that’s where God’s grace comes in.

God doesn’t expect us to be perfect.

God meets us where we are and begins working through us there.

God takes what we have to offer and does things with it that we never could’ve imagined.

That’s what Nadia discovered at that youth gathering all those years ago.

She thought she needed the perfect message or the perfect words.

But all she really needed was to be herself.

And God used it.

Some of the things she thought made her unqualified to speak were the things that allowed her to connect with those teenagers.

And I wonder if that’s sometimes true for us, too.

Maybe some of the things we wish we could erase from our past are the very things that allow us to recognize someone else’s pain.

Maybe our struggles have taught us compassion.

Maybe our failures have taught us humility.

Maybe the places where we’ve needed grace the most have become the places where we can offer grace to someone else.

God can use all of it.

When I hear Jesus say to Peter, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church,” I hear something wonderfully hopeful for all of us.

You don’t have to have everything figured out.

You don’t have to have the perfect words.

You don’t have to become some perfect version of yourself before God can work through you.

You just have to be willing to offer what you have.

Your gifts.

Your experiences.

Your story.

Your faith—even when it’s not perfect.

Your authentic self.

God is asking for you—just as you are.

Whatever you may think you have—or don’t have—to offer, you are enough.

Jesus looks at you just as he did with Peter and says, “I will use you.”

Not some future version of you.

Not the you who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

Amen.

Magnify

A Sermon for the Feast of St. Mary the Virgin (Transferred)
Sunday, August 16, 2026

Text: Luke 1:46-55

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.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend, Salem, over the past couple of weeks.  Salem was a beloved priest in our diocese who served as priest-in-charge at St. Anna’s Episcopal Church in Atmore.

He passed away a few weeks ago after a long series of complications in the hospital.

Last Friday, a few of us from St. Mary’s who knew Salem drove down to Pensacola for his funeral at Christ Episcopal Church.

It was a beautiful service.

Bishop Russell was there to lead the service and to preach, and people came from all over the diocese. 

There were friends, family members, parishioners, and a great many clergy who had traveled from near and far to remember Salem, to give thanks for his life and ministry, and to commend him into the loving hands of God.

And as I sat there listening to the Bishop preach, I found myself thinking about the life Salem lived.

He had already lived a full life of service before he ever became a priest.

For many years, he practiced medicine in Brewton.

Then, after retiring from medicine, he eventually discerned a call to ordained ministry. He went through formation, was ordained, and served our diocese in many ways.

But Salem was also someone who loved God’s creation.

He had a tree farm outside Evergreen that he loved dearly. If you spent much time around Salem, it probably wasn’t long before he invited you to come out and see it. I think it was one of the places where he felt closest to God.

Over the past several years, he invited people from around the diocese to gather there during Easter season for a special service called Worship in the Woods. He wanted people to walk through that beautiful place and experience something of the wonder and beauty of God’s creation.

Eventually, Salem also built a chapel out there.

I had heard about it for some time, but I finally got to see it for myself this past January when our vestry went out to the tree farm for a retreat.

Salem and his wife, Dianne, welcomed us with the same hospitality with which they welcomed so many others. Their home, their land, their chapel—it was all something they were willing to share.

That was Salem.

On a personal level, I had the privilege of getting to know him a little better during his formation for the priesthood. In his final semester at the local school for ministry, I served as a sort of mentor for Salem.

He came here to St. Mary’s several times, and we had some wonderful conversations about ministry and priesthood and this strange and beautiful work to which God had called us.

Salem and I shared a certain tendency. We both like to stay busy.

And I remember telling him more than once, “Salem, you’ve got to slow down! You can’t do everything. You don’t want to burn yourself out!”

Which is advice I occasionally need to hear myself.

Salem even preached here at St. Mary’s. He became friends with a number of people in this parish.

And whenever I saw him, he almost always greeted me the same way. He would give me a big hug and say, “Hey, brother. How are you?”

And I loved that.

Because when Salem said it, you knew he meant it. He made you feel like he was genuinely happy to see you. He made you feel welcomed and cared for, which is a rare gift.

And I’ve been thinking about that a lot these past couple of weeks.

I’ve been thinking about all the things Salem did in his life. He was a healer and pastor and lover of souls. He cared for the land. He welcomed people to his home. He preached the Gospel, not just with his words but with the way he lived his life.

And it occurs to me that there’s a word in our Gospel lesson for today that describes something of the life Salem tried to live.

Magnify.

Today is St. Mary’s Day—the day when we celebrate the Feast of St. Mary the Virgin, our patron saint, and mark the beginning of a new program year here at church, and in our Gospel lesson we hear perhaps the most famous words ever spoken by Mary:

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

Those words come from a particular moment in Luke’s Gospel.

The angel Gabriel has come to Mary with amazing news: she will conceive and bear a son, and through this child God will do something extraordinary.

Mary says “yes” to God, even though she can’t possibly know everything that her “yes” will require.

Then she goes to visit her relative Elizabeth, who is also expecting a child.

When Mary arrives and greets Elizabeth, the child she’s carrying—John the Baptist—leaps for joy in her womb, and Elizabeth recognizes that something remarkable is happening.

She blesses Mary and the child she’s carrying.

And then Mary sings her song:

“My soul magnifies the Lord.”

I love that word: magnify.

To magnify something doesn’t mean we change the thing itself.

A magnifying glass doesn’t make an object larger. It helps us see more clearly what’s already there.

And that’s exactly what Mary does.

Mary doesn’t make God greater than he already is. She helps us see the glory of God more clearly.

She doesn’t bring attention to herself. She turns our attention toward God.

God has looked with favor upon the lowliness of his servant. God has done great things. God has lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry with good things, and remembered his promises of mercy.

Mary’s Song points beyond herself and helps us see what God has done and what God continues to do.

In a way, Mary shares something with the child who leapt in Elizabeth’s womb that day.

John the Baptist would spend his whole ministry pointing beyond himself toward Jesus.

Later he would say, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Mary says, “My soul magnifies the Lord.”

John says, “He must increase.”

They both know what their lives are for.

And I think my friend Salem understood something about that too.

He didn’t become a doctor so that people would admire him. He didn’t become a priest so that people would think more highly of him. He didn’t open a tree farm or build a chapel or give so freely of himself so that people would say, “What a remarkable person he is.”

His life pointed beyond himself.

Through healing. Through hospitality. Through friendship. Through a love for creation.

He helped people see something of the goodness of God.

He magnified the Lord.

And here’s what I want all of us to hear this morning. If you don’t hear anything else, hear this:

You don’t have to be a priest to magnify the Lord.

You don’t have to wear a collar. You don’t have to stand behind a pulpit or have a degree in theology.

Every one of us is called to live in such a way that others can see the goodness of God at work in our lives.

Sometimes that happens in very ordinary ways.

You notice someone who’s lonely and take the time to sit down and talk.

You make room for the newcomer who walks through the door.

You sit with someone who’s grieving and offer a listening ear.

You feed someone who’s hungry.

You forgive.

You pray.

You offer your gifts.

You show kindness when it’s hard.

That’s what it means to magnify the Lord—not thinking only of ourselves but making the love of God known.

And what’s true for each of us individually is also true for us as a community of faith.

Today we celebrate the life and witness of St. Mary, our patron.

But we also celebrate the life and witness of this parish.

We give thanks for this church, for its history, for the saints who’ve gone before us, for the ministry that happens here each week, and for all that God has done in this place.

And as we stand at the beginning of a new program year, we pray that God’s blessing will be upon us and all we have to offer.

We pray that God will continue to guide us and strengthen us for the work we’ve been given to do.

And we pray for a renewed sense of commitment to serving as the hands and feet of Christ, in our parish and in our community.

But our deepest purpose isn’t to have successful ministries or programs. It isn’t to stay busy or to even grow the size of our church.

Our purpose is to magnify the Lord.

St. Mary’s doesn’t exist for our own sake.

We exist so that through the life we share here, others might come to see and know the love of God in Christ Jesus.

We gather here to encounter the risen Christ in Scripture and Sacrament, in prayer and fellowship, and then we carry Christ with us when we leave this place.

We follow the example of our patron saint.

Mary was called to be the mother of our Lord. She carried him in her womb and brought him into the world.

That’s our calling too—to say “yes” to God, to carry Jesus with us wherever we go, and to make him known.

So perhaps the question for us today isn’t simply, “What will we do this year?”

Maybe the better question is, “How will we magnify the Lord?”

How will our worship, our service to others, and the way we love one another make Christ more visible to those in our community?

May we join with Mary in singing her song:

“My soul magnifies the Lord.”

And may it become our prayer as well.

For our own lives.

And for this new year of ministry at St. Mary’s.

May we live in such a way that Christ increases.

And may our souls, together, magnify the Lord.

Amen.