The Rev. Eric Mancil

The Lord is My Shepherd

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year C)
May 11, 2025

Text: Psalm 23 and John 10:22-30

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 my time as a priest, I’ve had to help plan a lot funerals. That may sound sad and depressing, but actually, it’s a great blessing for me to be able to share that special time with families who’ve just lost a loved one.

One of the first things I do when I meet with a family to plan a service of burial is ask them, “Which readings from Scripture would you like to include in the service?”

Thankfully, The Book of Common Prayer provides a list of appropriate readings to choose from, which makes the process a lot easier.

But, still, it can take some time, because most people want to choose what they feel is most appropriate for their loved one.

Nine times out of ten—when it comes to planning a funeral—there’s one lesson from Scripture that families always choose.

You can probably guess what it is.

It’s one of the lessons appointed for today.

And, that’s the Twenty-third Psalm.

It’s printed just about everywhere.

You can find it on bookmarks, coffee mugs, and just about any other gift you can imagine in a Christian bookstore.

You can find it on posters in just about any Sunday School classroom, usually with an image of Jesus gracefully walking through a pasture, carrying a sheep in his arms.

Even those who haven’t grown up in church are likely familiar with the opening words—probably from the King James Version of the Bible.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.”

They may not be able to recite the whole thing, but there are parts of this beloved text that even the most unchurched people are familiar with.

Phrases like, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

And “…thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

There’s a reason why families in mourning often choose Psalm 23 to be read at the funeral of their loved one.

And, there’s a reason why it’s become so engrained in popular culture that even those who don’t go to church or read the Bible are familiar with the words.

Because—in the simplest of terms—it speaks of who God is, and it speaks of the kind of love that God has for each of us.

A love that is personal and intimate.

A love that knows no bounds or limits.

When we hear those long-familiar words, “The Lord is my shepherd,” it brings us comfort and peace in a way that’s hard to describe—almost like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.

It reminds us that God is always with us—not only in the good times but also in those moments when it feels like we really are walking through the “valley of the shadow of death.”

The Twenty-third Psalm reassures us that—no matter where we go, no matter how far we fall away—God has taken us by the hand and will never leave us.

We are his forever.

There’s no doubt that Jews living in first-century Palestine would’ve been just as familiar with Psalm 23 as we are today.

The Psalms were part of the Hebrew Scriptures and were written centuries before the time of Jesus.

They were engrained in the hearts and minds of the people.

They were used in prayer and temple worship, similar to the way we use them in our own worship today.

Most Jews could recite Psalm 23 from memory in the same way that most of us can recite the Lord’s Prayer, which is probably one of the reasons why Jesus often used the images of sheep and shepherds in his teaching.

They were very familiar to the people.

In the tenth chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus describes himself as the “Good Shepherd” who lays down his life for the sheep.

Every year on this day, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, we hear a lesson from the Gospel of John having to do with Jesus as the Good Shepherd.

In today’s lesson, Jesus is walking in the temple in Jerusalem during the Festival of the Dedication, which we know now as Hanukkah.

Some of the other Jews who are there for the festival gather around Jesus and ask him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”

They want clarity from Jesus.

There’s no doubt they’ve heard of the miraculous things Jesus has done—like the Feeding of the Five Thousand or the healing of the man who was born blind.

And, there’s no doubt they’ve heard stories about his teachings and how he claims to be the Son of God.

But, he doesn’t fit their expectations of who the Messiah will be.

He’s not a military leader.

And, he doesn’t seek political power or wealth as an earthly king would.

He doesn’t quite fit the mold of what they expected in God’s Chosen One.

So, they want Jesus to tell them clearly whether or not he is the Messiah—the One whom God has sent to bring healing and restoration to the world.

Jesus looks at them and responds, “I have told you, and you do not believe.”

“The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep.”

In other words, Jesus says to them, “I’ve clearly shown you who I am, but because of your hardness of heart, you refuse to believe.”

There’s a saying we sometimes use.

Maybe you’ve heard it before or even used it yourself.

It goes like this:

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

And, a similar saying goes like this:

“Actions speak louder than words.”

Now, a lot of times, we use these sayings in a negative way about people who have lost our trust or people who have hurt us in some way.

But, I think these sayings are true all the way around—both the good and the bad.

People show us who they really are—they reveal their true identity—in the way they live their lives and in the way they treat other people.

The same is true for Jesus.

If we really want to know who Jesus is—and, if we really want to know who God is and how God is calling us to live our lives—all we have to do is pay close attention to his life and ministry.

All we have to do is look at the life Jesus lived—what he taught and stood for—and what he gave his life for, and we’ll know who he is.

He is the Good Shepherd—the one who loves us and cares for us more than we can imagine, the one who provides for us all the days of our lives, the one who leads us—through the good times and the bad.

He is the one who restores us when we fall down, the one who comforts us in times of pain and sorrow.

He is the one who heals us—our Great Physician and only source of true healing and peace in our lives.

He is the one who saves us and promises to be with us forever.

King David—a pillar of ancient Israel and author of many of the Psalms, including Psalm 23, described it best—

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Amen.

Feed My Sheep

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter (Year C)
May 4, 2025

Text: John 21:1-19

Have you ever felt like you turned your back on God? Have you ever had a moment when you realized how far you’ve fallen away and were unsure if God could ever forgive you?

Not just a little bit.

I’m talking about a time when you really messed up and felt like you let God down.

If so, you’re in good company.

Because I think all of us, at one time or another, have felt like that.

Maybe we promised to do something, and, for whatever reason, we didn’t do it.

Or, maybe the fire we once had for coming to church and being involved in ministry has fizzled out, and we no longer feel connected in the same way we used to.

Or, maybe the wellspring in our souls has dried up, and we no longer feel close to God and wonder if he’s even there.

If any of those sound familiar to you—know that aren’t alone.

We’ve all struggled with failure.

We’ve all fallen short of our call to walk in love as Christ taught us.

We’ve all experienced moments of doubt and uncertainty.

And, hopefully—for all of us—we’ve known what it means to be forgiven and restored.

A few years ago, after the worst of the pandemic was over, I found myself spiritually and emotionally exhausted.

I was serving at a small parish in Alabaster at the time—just outside of Birmingham.

The pressures of having to lead a church during COVID were heavy, but even harder than that was having to come back to church and pick up the pieces after it was over.

When things began to return to “normal” (if you could call it that), I realized that I wasn’t okay.

Something had changed.

I was exhausted all the time and frustrated that people weren’t come back to church, and I began to seriously question if God was still calling me to be a priest.

I was in the process of slowly burning out in my ministry.

I was still showing up to church when I needed to and leading services on Sunday mornings, but my spirit just wasn’t in it.

I felt like a failure.

I felt distant and dried up, and I finally came to realize that, if something didn’t change, I wasn’t going to make it as a priest.

In my prayers, I asked God to show me the way and to lead me where he would have me go.

As it turns out, the place where he was calling me to go was right back to where the story of my life began.

So, we moved back home to Andalusia, and we found a community at St. Mary’s that loved us and welcomed us in with open arms.

A community with a passion for service and outreach.

A community that takes very seriously our call to live and love like Jesus.

And, it was during that time when I found that fire again that I once had.

It was during that time when I realized that God wasn’t done with me yet—that God still had important work for me to do as a priest.

I want to take you back a couple of weeks to Good Friday.

If you were in church that day, you heard the story of our Lord’s Passion and death retold from John’s Gospel.

At the beginning of the story, after Jesus was arrested in the garden and taken away, Simon Peter and another disciple followed behind him.

They came to the courtyard of the high priest, which is where Jesus had been taken for questioning.

The other disciple—the one who was with Peter—was known to the high priest.

So, he was allowed to go in with Jesus while Peter had to stay outside.

The other disciple went out and spoke to the woman who was guarding the gate and convinced her to let Peter in.

The woman asked Peter, “Aren’t you one of this man’s disciples?”

Peter responded, “I am not.”

The servants and police who were standing in the courtyard had made a charcoal fire in order to stay warm.

Peter also stood with them next to the fire.

A little while later, after Jesus was questioned by the high priest, Simon Peter was still standing next to the fire in the courtyard.

The others who were there asked him, “Aren’t you one of his disciples?”

Peter denied it.

“Not me” he said.

Then, finally, one of the high priest’s servants, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off in the garden, said, “Didn’t I see you in the garden with him?”

Again, Peter denied it, and at that moment, a rooster crowed.

Peter knew what he had done and immediately remembered what Jesus had said to him earlier that night.

“Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.”

That’s the last time we hear from Peter in John’s Gospel until after Jesus is raised from the dead.

But, Luke’s Gospel adds even more emotional weight to the story.

In Luke’s version, after Peter denies Jesus a third time, Jesus turns and looks at him, and he remembers what Jesus told him.

Luke’s version of the story also adds that Peter went out and wept bitterly.

He had failed as a disciple.

He had failed his friend and teacher.

How could Jesus ever forgive him?

Thankfully, Peter’s story doesn’t end there.

Later in John’s Gospel, in chapter 21—which is where our story picks up today—we learn that Jesus appears to his disciples one final time after his resurrection.

This time, Simon Peter—along with six others—are fishing along the Sea of Galilee.

They’ve been fishing all night long and haven’t caught a single fish.

Soon, after day break, Jesus appears on the beach, but they don’t recognize him at first.

He says to the disciples, “Good morning! Did you catch anything for breakfast?”

They tell him no.

So, he tells them to throw their net to the right side of the boat and see what happens.

They do as they’re told, and all of a sudden, there are so many fish in the net that they can’t pull it back in the boat.

At once, the beloved disciple recognizes Jesus and says to Simon Peter, “It is the Lord!”

Simon Peter wastes no time.

He puts his clothes back on, dives into the water, and swims to shore.

A little while later, the other disciples come in by boat, pulling the net full of fish behind them.

Jesus tells them to bring some of the fish they caught and join him on the beach for breakfast.

After breakfast, Peter is alone with Jesus on the beach.

It doesn’t say this in the Gospel, but in my holy imagination, he’s anxiously waiting to hear what Jesus will say.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together since the night when he turned away from Jesus.

He’s probably thinking to himself, “Will he be angry?”

“Will he be disappointed?”

Or, worst of all, “Will he be done with me?”

Jesus takes him aside and says, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

Peter says, “Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”

“Feed my lambs,” Jesus says.

A second time, Jesus says to Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

And a second time, Peter responds, “Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”

“Tend my sheep,” Jesus says.

A final time, Jesus says to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

This time, Peter feels hurt.

Maybe it was because he desperately wanted Jesus to believe him.

Or, maybe it was because of the shame and guilt he felt from denying Jesus and abandoning him in his most desperate time of need.

He says to Jesus, “Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.”

“Feed my sheep,” Jesus says.

Three times, Jesus asks, “Do you love me,” taking Peter right back to that night when he denied Jesus three times.

Three questions for three denials.

It’s not to scold him or make him feel worse about what he’s done.

It’s not to shame him or make him feel guilty.

It’s his way of bringing Peter back to life again.

In that moment, Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter.

He does something far more miraculous.

He restores him.

And—even more than that—he reassures Peter that there is still a place for him.

Despite his failure, all is not lost.

This is why Jesus doesn’t just say, “I forgive you.”

He says, “Feed my sheep.”

In other words, “It’s time to get back to who you are and who you were called to be.”

Maybe, in that moment, Peter was taken even further back in his story with Jesus and reminded of the time when he and his brother, Andrew, were called to follow.

The very first time Jesus laid his eyes on Simon, he looked up and said, “You are Simon, son of John. From now on your name is Cephas.” (or Peter, which means “Rock”).

When we fall away from God, Jesus makes a way for us to come back.

When we fail God or fall short in our calling, Jesus doesn’t just forgive us. He restores us to fullness of life.

When we struggle with doubt and uncertainty—when we wonder whether or not God can still use us, despite our worst mistakes—Jesus is there to remind us of who we are and who we were called to be.

“Feed my sheep,” Jesus says.

It’s not just for Peter.

It’s for all of us.

It’s for all of us who have answered God’s call to follow and who need to be reminded of God’s grace and mercy.

It’s for all of us who need to be reminded that God isn’t done with us yet—that there’s still a place for us next to Jesus and much work still to be done.

Amen.

Victory

A Sermon for the Feast of the Resurrection: Easter Day
April 20, 2025

Texts: John 20:1-18 and 1 Corinthians 15:19-26

In the Episcopal Church, we have lots of beautiful and uplifting hymns we love to sing during the season of Easter as we celebrate the resurrection of our Lord.

One of my favorites has a refrain that goes like this:

“This is the feast of victory for our God. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!”

I love that word—Victory!

I think it perfectly sums up what Easter is really all about.

We celebrate this day because Christ is risen!

We celebrate this day because Christ endured the worst humanity could inflict upon him, and God glorified him and raised him up on the third day.

We celebrate this day because we who share in our Lord’s death and resurrection, through the waters of Baptism, have been made a new creation.

Death has been put to flight, and the death of our Savior has set us free.

Not long ago, I came across a story I wanted to share with you this morning.

I think you’ll appreciate it.

It was written by an Episcopal priest who used to love to share it on Easter morning.

The title of the story was, “The Shortest Easter Sermon Ever Preached.”

That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?

It was about a bishop in the Church who used to visit the same parish every year on Easter Sunday.

I don’t know who the bishop was or the church he used to visit.

All I know is that it was somewhere in Pennsylvania.

One year, during the bishop’s visit, the time came for him to preach his Easter sermon.

So, he got up and walked over to the pulpit.

What he didn’t realize at the time was that, since his last visit, a sounding board had been installed above the pulpit.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, a sounding board is an ornate, wooden covering, that’s sometimes hung over a pulpit to project the preacher’s voice outward toward the congregation.

It’s kind of like a fancy roof over the pulpit. A lot of times you’ll find them in old, historic churches.

Well, the bishop went into the pulpit without realizing the new sounding board was there.

And, the worst part is that no one bothered to tell him, even though he stood well over six feet tall.

He stood in the pulpit and was ready to preach.

And the very first thing he did was thrust his hand into the air with his pointer finger extended and shouted, “Victory!”

Well, you can probably guess what happened next.

The bishop broke his finger on the sounding board.

Then, he fainted, and had to be carried out of the church.

And, that’s the story of the shortest Easter sermon ever preached.

It was one word.

“Victory!”

It’s a funny story.

But, I think it’s also kind of perfect.

Because, when you think about it, what else really needs to be said?

We’ve walked with Jesus over the past week through his suffering and death.

We’ve experienced the excitement of Palm Sunday—how Jesus entered the holy city of Jerusalem riding on the back of a donkey with crowds of people shouting “Hosanna” and laying their cloaks on the ground to make a way for Jesus.

We’ve experienced the last supper Jesus shared with his disciples—how he humbled himself and washed his disciples’ feet as a lowly servant, giving them an example of how they should love one another.

We’ve experienced the pain and agony of the cross—how Jesus was betrayed and deserted by his friends and how he willingly offered himself as a sacrifice for the sins of the whole world.

And, last night, during the Great Vigil of Easter, we celebrated the Passover of our Lord—how Jesus passed over from death into new life, opening up for all of us the way to eternal life with God.

So, I can think of no better word for us to use today—on this day of the Lord’s resurrection—than “victory.”

You and I are here today because of Christ’s victory.

We are reconciled with God and promised eternal life because of Christ’s victory.

We are bound together as one Body because of Christ’s victory.

In all that we say and do—in every word and action—we are called to live as a sign to the world of Christ’s victory.

Because we are Easter people.

We proclaim it every Sunday in the words of the Nicene Creed:

“For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;
he suffered death and was buried.
On the third day he rose again
in accordance with the Scriptures;
he ascended into heaven
and is seated at the right hand of the Father.”

And because we are Easter people—because of our Lord’s death on the cross and his glorious resurrection, we have no reason to ever live in fear again.

Because of Christ’s victory, death no longer has any dominion over us.

There is nothing—no power in heaven or on earth—that can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

The Lord has taken us by the hand and will never let us go.

We are his forever.

And yet—

Far too often, it’s so easy for us to fall into a lack of faith, even though we know what happens on the third day.

It’s the same story we hear every year on Easter Sunday.

We know that Christ Jesus rose victorious from the grave.

We know that sin and death have been defeated.

And yet, we spend so much of our time acting as though death has the final word.

We turn on the news, and all we hear are stories of doom and gloom.

The world is coming to an end, and there’s no hope for any of us.

We hear stories of wars and famine and people starving around the world, and we think to ourselves, “What hope do we possibly have?”

We hear stories of people in positions of power who use their influence and wealth—not for the good and welfare of others—but for their own, personal gain, and we wonder, “Where is the love?”

We hear stories of violence and oppression and people committing terrible acts of hatred against one another, and we ask ourselves, “Where is God?”

Well, I’ll tell you where God is.

He is here.

He is in the midst of his people.

He is with those who suffer.

He is with the hopeless and those who live in fear and uncertainty.

He is in the hearts of the faithful—with you, and me, and all those who call upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

And, he’s called us to live—not for this present age—but for the life of the world to come.

To work—not for the kingdom of this world—but for the Kingdom of God, that God’s will may be done on earth at it is in heaven.

The apostle Paul said it this way in his first letter to the Corinthians:

“If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died.

For since death came through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ.”

My brothers and sisters, this is the feast of victory for our God.

It’s a day worth celebrating—a day that fills the hearts of those who believe with great joy and gladness.

But, it’s more than just a celebration.

It’s also a declaration to the world that the powers of sin and death have been defeated, once and for all.

Christ is risen, and love lives again.

Christ is risen, and we are redeemed.

In the end, it’s God who has the final word, and the final word is this—

Say it with me.

Victory!

Amen.

Via Dolorosa

A Homily for Good Friday
April 18, 2025

Text: John 18:1-19:42

I speak to you in the name of one God: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I want to share a story with you about a time when I was in my first year of ministry as a priest in northwest Texas. My family and I were living in Abilene at the time, where I served as curate at the Episcopal Church of the Heavenly Rest.

Not long after I began my ministry there, I was invited to attend a retreat for new clergy at a Catholic retreat center in San Angelo, which was about an hour and a half away from Abilene.

I was told that it would be a great way to meet other clergy from around the diocese and to learn some helpful things about how to get started in a new ministry.

The time came for the retreat.

So, I packed my bags and headed south for a few days.

It turned out to be exactly what I needed—a chance to get away for a while from the regular routine of parish ministry.

There was plenty of time for learning and asking questions.

But, more than that, it was an opportunity to simply rest in the presence of God without having to worry about any other responsibilities.

One day, during some free time, I decided to go for a walk outside and explore the surrounding area.

The campus was very beautiful and well-maintained.

It felt like an oasis of green in a part of the country that’s normally very dry and brown.

As I walked around for a bit, I eventually came to a long, winding pathway.

At first, I wasn’t sure where it would take me or how long it would take to walk the path.

But, I was curious to see where it led.

So, I decided to keep walking.

And, as I continued on, I quickly realized that the path was leading me toward a river that was close by.

I could hear the sound of the water getting louder as I continued to walk.

Then, I came upon something unexpected.

This wasn’t just a path to get down to the river.

This path was leading me to the Stations of the Cross.

The retreat center had their very own, outdoor Stations, depicting the final hours of Jesus’ life—similar to the fourteen stations we have hanging on the walls of our church.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Stations of the Cross, let me take a moment to explain.

The Stations of the Cross is an ancient, prayer practice which began centuries ago when pilgrims would travel to Jerusalem to walk the Via Dolorosa, “the way of sorrow”—the same path that Jesus walked on his way to Calvary.

Each of the fourteen stations represents a moment in Jesus’ suffering and death, and to this day, churches all over the world continue the practice of walking The Way of the Cross.

It’s especially meaningful during Lent and Holy Week.

Some churches have stations installed inside their buildings.

Some have outdoor stations.

But, the purpose is all the same—to walk with Jesus, to remember the sacrifice he made for all of us, and to remember that we, too, are called to take up our own cross and follow.

It’s a powerful and moving experience.

And, for those of you who are interested, tonight at 6:30, you’re welcome to come back to church and join us as we walk The Way of the Cross together.

I was surprised to discover the outdoor Stations on my retreat in Texas.

And, it wasn’t my intention to keep going and pray through each one.

But, since I had the time, I decided to keep going.

The only problem was that I somehow managed to find the end rather than the beginning.

I was at the fourteenth station—the one where Jesus is laid in the tomb.

So, I had a choice to make.

Do I try and find my way to the first station and start from the beginning?

Or, do I keep going in the direction I’m already headed?

I decided to be bold.

I kept going.

I walked from the fourteenth station to the thirteenth station—the one where Jesus is taken down from the cross.

Then, I walked from the thirteenth station to the twelfth—and so on.

I just kept walking and praying through each one of the stations—watching the events play out in reverse order.

As I moved further and further away from the twelfth station—the one where Jesus dies on the cross—a thought came to my mind that’s stayed with me ever since and led me to a deeper and more loving relationship with Jesus.

Jesus could’ve said “no.”

He could’ve easily walked away from all of it and spared himself the pain and humiliation he endured.

When faced with the agony in the Garden of Gethsemane—knowing that his time was soon coming to an end—Jesus could’ve handed that cup back to the Father and said, “This is too great of a burden for me to bear.”

When he was flogged and given a crown of thorns to wear by Roman soldiers, he could’ve said, “I’ve had enough,” and walked away.

When faced with Pilate’s interrogation—the one where Pilate questions him and tells him he has the power to release him or to crucify him, Jesus could’ve thrown his hands up and walked away.

Jesus could’ve walked away from all of it.

He was vulnerable to the same fear and pain and humiliation that all of us are.

And yet, he chose to keep walking.

He chose to endure all of it—for you and for me and for the whole world.

God didn’t force Jesus to go to the cross.

The choice was always his to make.

Jesus willingly sacrificed himself so that we might be reconciled with our Father in heaven.

He was obedient in his call to walk in love—even to the point of death.

He stretched out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross so that the whole world might be drawn in.

That’s the reason why we take special care to observe this day.

It isn’t to be overwhelmed with feelings of guilt or shame—even though we’re all guilty of turning our backs on Jesus.

No, the true purpose of this day is to remember—to remember the sacrifice Jesus made so that we might be reconciled with God.

And, to remember that we’re part of the story as well.

As followers of the one who emptied himself and laid down his life for others, we’re called take up our own cross and do the same.

Just as it was for Jesus, it’s our choice to make.

Do we walk away from the path we’re called to follow?

Or, do we say “yes” and keep walking—trusting that, even in times of uncertainty and doubt—our “yes” will lead us to experience new and abundant life with God?

I want to close with a prayer that comes from the liturgy we’ll use tonight as we walk The Way of the Cross together.

Let us pray:

Almighty and everliving God, in your tender love for the human race you sent your Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

The Lord Needs It

A Sermon for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday (Year C)
April 13, 2025

Text: Luke 19:28-40

I speak to you in the name of one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Whenever I write a sermon for Palm Sunday, there are two things I try to keep in mind. Number 1: Keep it brief. The focus of our service on Palm Sunday should always be the reading of the Passion Gospel.

Every year, we hear the story of our Lord’s passion and death re-told from one of the three Synoptic Gospels—Matthew, Mark, or Luke.

At St. Mary’s, we hear it proclaimed in a very moving and dramatic way with members of the congregation reading different parts.

The story is powerful enough on its own, and there’s really not much more I need to say in a sermon.

So, I try my best to keep it short and to the point.

The second thing I try to do in my preaching on Palm Sunday is to stress the importance of Holy Week.

Palm Sunday marks the beginning of our journey through Holy Week.

And, it’s important that we take time out of our busy lives to walk through this week together as a community of faith, participating in as many services as we can—especially in the three days leading up to Easter.

I hope you’ll remember that as we leave church today and go about the week ahead.

This special time time between Palm Sunday and Easter is the single most important week for Christians around the world, and we’re called to observe it faithfully.

In our journey through Holy Week, we’re renewed in our faith and reminded of what it truly means to be a follower of Jesus Christ—the one who laid down his life for us, opening the way of salvation for all people.

So, as you’re thinking about the week ahead and how you’re going to spend your Holy Week, make plans now to come back to church on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.

Come back to church on Saturday night for the Great Vigil of Easter and help us celebrate the Passover of our Lord as we move move from the darkness of Good Friday to the joy of resurrected life.

I promise you won’t regret it.

But, what I can’t promise is that you won’t be changed in the process and come out on the other end of this week with an even greater and deeper love for Jesus.

Come back to church this week as often as you can.

Make it a priority for you and your family.

Embrace the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection.

Because the truth, dear friends, is that it’s not just about Jesus and something that happened 2,000 years ago.

It’s also about you and me and this life we’re called to live in Christ, which leads me to the point I really want to make in my sermon for today.

And, to do that, I want to draw your attention to the passage from Luke’s Gospel that we heard outside in the Garden.

Think back to the story we heard earlier.

Jesus and his disciples are on their way to Jerusalem.

And, as they approach the towns of Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, Jesus sends two of his disciples ahead of the group to go and find a young colt that’s never been ridden.

He says to the two disciples, “Untie [the colt] and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’”

The disciples do as Jesus told them.

They walk ahead of the group, and when they arrive in the village, they find everything just as Jesus said they would, including the young colt.

As they’re untying it, the owners come out and ask them why they’re taking the colt.

They respond as Jesus instructed them.

“The Lord needs it.”

One thing I love about this passage from Luke is that it says something pretty remarkable about Jesus—something we don’t often consider.

Jesus asked for help.

He trusted his disciples to do what they were asked and shared his ministry with them.

But, even more than that, Jesus needed his disciples to help carry out God’s plan for salvation.

He couldn’t do it alone.

Luke’s account of the triumphant entry into Jerusalem involves both Jesus and his disciples.

His disciples are the ones who secure the colt that will bring him into the city.

His disciples are the ones who’ll throw their cloaks on top of the colt and place him on its back.

They’re the ones who will praise God joyfully as he approaches the city gates, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”

His disciples are the ones who will make a way for him to enter the holy city to complete his work of salvation on the cross.

I think there’s something incredibly powerful about that.

Presumably, Jesus could’ve done all of it himself.

He could’ve come among us as a mighty king and accomplished all he did without anyone else’s help.

But, that’s not what happened.

Instead, “he emptied himself,” as Paul writes in his letter to the Philippians, “taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.”

Jesus lowered himself and became vulnerable to the temptations and pain of this world and, by doing so, gave us a perfect example of humility and obedience to God.

His disciples played an important part in his journey.

And, just like they did when they made a way for Jesus to enter the city, we’re called—in our own time and place—to make a way for Jesus.

That’s what our journey from Palm Sunday to Easter is all about.

Not only recalling the story of Jesus’ death and resurrection —but also remembering who we are in the process and who we’re called to be.

We are the hands and feet of Jesus, and our ministry is one of service, just as Jesus came, not to be served but to serve others.

We are his Body, broken and poured out for the life of the world.

And he’s calling us, once again this Holy Week, to be renewed in our faith and to recommit ourselves to the work we’ve been given to do.

If you need to be reminded why, remember these words:

“The Lord needs it.”

Amen.

Selfless Love

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year C)
March 15, 2025

Text: Luke 13:31-35

Our lesson today from the Gospel of Luke takes place as Jesus and his disciples are on their way to Jerusalem. They’ve been stopping in various towns and villages along the way in order for Jesus to teach and heal the sick when suddenly, a group of Pharisees come up to Jesus and warn him that Herod Antipas—the local ruler of Galilee and the person responsible for killing John the Baptist—is out for blood.

He sees Jesus as a threat to his power and authority, and he wants him out of the picture.

But, Jesus has no concern over Herod’s threats.

He tells this group of Pharisees, these religious leaders, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.’”

The only concern Jesus has in that moment is being faithful to God and completing the mission he’s been given to do—to open the way of salvation for all people and to bring healing and restoration to the world.

He isn’t worried about himself or his own well-being.

The only thing he’s focused on is fulfilling his mission.

But, Jesus knows that his time is short.

Soon, he and his disciples will arrive at the city gates.

Jesus will be welcomed by crowds of people with great joy and celebration, waving branches from trees and laying them on the ground, making a path for him to enter the city.

But, the celebration will be short-lived.

Eventually, the crowds who welcome him into the city with shouts of “Hosanna!” will be the same ones who call for him to be crucified.

He knows that Jerusalem is the city where God’s messengers go to die.

And, he laments over the fact that, despite his best efforts to share the message of God’s love with the people he came to save, they will reject him and hand him over to suffering and death.

He says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!”

“How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

“See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

I love that phrase Jesus uses.

“…as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…”

I think it’s such a beautiful image.

Jesus describes his love for God’s people by comparing himself to a mother hen who takes care of her brood.

Now, I’ll be honest.

I don’t know much about farming or farm animals, but I do know that hens—when they’re brooding—are fiercely protective.

They will do anything to protect their chicks from danger, even at the cost of their own safety and well-being.

In the first century, the Greek historian, Plutarch, praised the many ways that mother hens cherish and protect their chicks, lifting them up as a symbol of motherhood.

He once wrote, “…we have before our eyes every day the manner in which hens care for their brood, drooping their wings for some to creep under, and receiving with joyous and affectionate clucks others that mount upon their backs or run up to them from every direction; and though they flee from dogs and snakes if they are frightened only for themselves, if their fright is for their children, they stand their ground and fight it out beyond their strength.”

The 16th century Italian naturalist and writer, Ulisse Aldrovandi, once described how, at the first sign of a predator, mother hens will immediately gather their chicks “under the shadow of their wings, and with this covering they put up such a very fierce defense—striking fear into their opponent in the midst of a frightful clamor—using both wings and beak—they would rather die for their chicks than seek safety in flight.”

He also describes how a mother hen allows her chicks to eat their fill before satisfying her own hunger.

Thus, he said, mother hens present, in every way, “a noble example of love for their offspring.”

A mother hen provides protection and warmth and comfort for her chicks, always putting the needs and safety of her offspring before her own.

Some might describe this as the kind of love a mother has for her children.

Another word I would use to describe it is selfless.

So, I think it’s perfect that Jesus uses the image of a mother hen to describe the kind of love he feels for God’s children.

It’s the reason why he laments over the city of Jerusalem.

His selfless love for the people there—and for all of God’s children—is like the love a mother hen has for her chicks.

He would do anything to save them—including lay down his own life.

This is the depth of God’s love for each of us.

A love that will be on full display in just a few short weeks when we come to Palm Sunday and our journey through Holy Week.

A love that will lead our Savior to be nailed to a cross.

And yet, we reject God’s love every time we refuse to listen to Jesus and live our lives as he’s called us to live.

In our Gospel lesson for today, Jesus isn’t grieving over the fact that he’s going to be killed in Jerusalem.

He’s grieving for the people there who will fail to recognize him as the Lord’s Messiah and refuse to accept his message of God’s redeeming love.

As much as it pains me to say this, I think Jesus grieves for us as well.

Jesus grieves for us every time we refuse to listen to him and choose instead to follow our own, selfish ways.

Jesus grieves for us every time we refuse to forgive those who’ve hurt us or caused us harm.

Jesus grieves for us every time we see someone hungry or in need and do nothing to help.

Jesus grieves for us every time we stand idly by and allow God’s children to be oppressed or taken advantage of.

Jesus grieves.

But, Jesus also forgives and longs for us to repent and return to the Lord.

Because—like a mother hen cares for her brood—it’s only under the shadow of his wings where we’ll find true peace and joy with our God.

In order to get there—in order to find that peace and joy we seek in our lives—we have to learn to listen for his voice and answer his call to follow.

When you think about it, that’s really the purpose of this season of Lent—this special time we set aside each year to renew our relationship with God.

Sometimes, we get off track and forget how to listen for the sound of Jesus’ voice calling to us in our lives.

Sometimes, we choose to go our own way instead of following the one who came to live and die as one of us and show us the way to eternal life with God.

And so, we learn how to listen again with open minds and open hearts.

We learn how to love again as Jesus taught us to love.

And, we’re reminded, once again, that our true home is with God, under the shadow and protection of his wings.

Amen.

Christ Be With Me

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent (Year C)
March 9, 2025

Text: Luke 4:1-13

I spent the summer after my first year of seminary participating in a program called Clinical Pastoral Education, or CPE for short. Basically, it’s pastoral care boot camp for those who are training to be priests.

It’s where we go to learn how to be pastors and how to listen and care for people who may be going through difficult times in their lives.

Most of the time, it’s done in a hospital or some other kind of healthcare facility.

I was fortunate enough to do my chaplaincy work at a hospital right down the road from my seminary, not far from where my family and I were living at the time.

On my first day of CPE, I showed up to the hospital, eager and ready to learn all that I could.

There were actually two of us there from the same seminary.

We both walked into the chaplain’s office, and Pat, the director of pastoral care, began explaining some of the things we were going to be doing over the next few months and orienting us to the hospital.

As she was talking, the phone rang.

She picked it up and started talking to the person on the other end of the line.

My friends and I just sat there and waited until she was done with the phone call.

When she was done, she hung up the phone, looked at both of us and said, “Follow me.”

As we were walking, she told us we were headed to the emergency room, but she didn’t tell us anything else.

When we got there, we heard loud cries coming from one of the rooms, and when I say “room,” what I really mean is a small area separated by a curtain.

We walked over to where the cries were coming from.

They were coming from a woman who had just unexpectedly lost her husband due to a heart attack.

Pat told us to wait outside of the room and listen to what was going on.

She drew back the curtain and walked in and immediately started caring for the grieving wife.

The woman was hysterical.

She was crying and kept saying over and over again, “He wasn’t supposed to die today. He wasn’t supposed to die today.”

Pat wrapped her arms around the woman and began to comfort her, and I’ll never forget the words she said to the wife.

Softly, she said to her, “Just imagine it’s Jesus holding you.”

It was a sacred moment, and even though my friend and I were standing on the other side of the curtain, we knew that God was there.

After some time passed, Pat came out of the room, and we walked back to the chaplain’s office, where we had a conversation about what happened.

She told us that things happen like that from time to time, and when they do, it’s our job to show up and do the best we can to offer care and support.

Well, needless to say, I walked away from my first day of CPE less excited than I was when I got there.

Because, to be very honest, I didn’t think there was any way I could do what Pat did that day.

I walked away from my first day of CPE thinking, “There’s no way I can do this.”

“I don’t have what it takes.”

“I’m in way over my head, so I might as well give up now.”

But, what I eventually came to realize is that I was there for a purpose.

I was called by God to go to seminary and be formed as a priest, and part of that call meant going through hospital chaplaincy and learning how to be a pastor.

I wasn’t always going to get it right.

But, I had to trust that, if God was calling me to be a priest and pastor, then God would be with me through it all, including the hard parts.

What I also came to realize is that those thoughts of self-doubt were not from God.

They were from the tempter—the one who uses subtle lies and deception to make us doubt ourselves and think we aren’t good enough or capable enough to do what God has called us to do.

For me, hospital chaplaincy was definitely a time in the wilderness with God.

Most of the time, I really had no idea what I was doing, but I could trust that God was with me through it all, leading me and guiding me and giving me the strength that I needed.

When God calls us to do something, he doesn’t leave us to do it alone.

God empowers us and gives us strength and wisdom by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Eventually, over time, I gained confidence in my ability as a chaplain and pastor, and every time I got anxious or nervous about a situation, I had a prayer that I would pray as I walked to a patient’s room.

I kept it in a little green book of prayers that was given to me on my very first day of CPE, and It goes like this:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Anytime I needed to be reminded of the fact that God was with me wherever I went, I would always return to that prayer.

And, even now, to this day, I return to it from time to time, and I’m reminded that God is always with me, even in those moments when it feels like I’m walking through the wilderness, unsure of where I’m going or what I’m being called to do.

Because, that’s the thing about walking through the wilderness as a follower of Jesus.

Often, we really have no idea where we’re being called to go.

But, we can trust that if we put our faith in God, we can face any challenge that may come our way.

We can trust that God will always be with us.

The reason why I wanted to share this story with you today is because it’s easy to think that the only temptations we face in our lives are external.

In other words—those things we do or say to make ourselves feel better or to satisfy some hunger we have or to fill that God-shaped hole in our hearts.

And, it’s true that sometimes they are.

Sometimes, we indulge in material things that make us feel better, at least for a short time.

But, often they’re things that cause us to turn away from God or things that prevent us from living more fully into who God created us to be.

Sometimes, we turn to things like alcohol to dull the emotional pain we’re feeling over a loss or heartbreak or to make life a little more bearable when times are hard.

Sometimes, we lie, cheat, or steal in order to get what we want.

Sometimes, we turn to gossip or talk about other people behind their backs because it makes us feel better about ourselves.

There are lots of ways we’re tempted by external things.

But, I’m convinced that perhaps something even more destructive are those internal temptations we face—those subtle whispers or thoughts that the tempter uses to make us feel like we’re worthless.

The subtle whispers that cause us to wonder whether or not we’re worthy of God‘s love or whether or not we’re good enough or capable enough.

The tempter—whether you call him Satan or the devil or any other name—will use deception and subtle lies to make us believe these things are true.

But, I’m here to tell you today, friends, that all of these things our lies.

You are the Lord’s possession.

God has called you by name for a purpose, and he will never leave you.

God will send his Holy Spirit upon you to lead you and guide you in your life and to give you the strength and will to persevere in your walk with Christ.

That doesn’t mean it’ll always be easy.

There will be temptations along the way, but with Christ, we know that we have an advocate and guide—someone who will take us by the hand and never let go.

In our Gospel lesson for this morning from Luke, we hear the story of our Lord’s journey through the wilderness, where he was led by the Spirit and tempted by the devil for forty days.

There’s a reason why this story comes right after the story of Jesus‘s baptism.

And, I think this has a lot to do with us as well in our own lives in Christ.

To be baptized means to be set apart for a special purpose.

It means renouncing the ways of the world—the ways of sin and death—and giving our lives over to Christ and serving only him.

When we do that, we will be tested.

Our lives will be tested.

Our faith will be tested.

Our trust in God will be tested.

That doesn’t mean that God is the one testing us or waiting for us to fail in some way.

It means that every day when we wake up, we have to make the choice of whether to follow Christ or follow our own selfish ways.

We have to make the choice of whether to serve others or serve ourselves.

We have to make the choice of whether to put our trust in the Lord or to put our trust in material things.

These are the temptations we face in our lives every day.

Some are external. Some are internal.

But, they all threaten to make us lose sight of who we are as God’s beloved.

Just as Jesus was tested in the wilderness, we also will be tested.

And, just like Jesus, we can make the choice to put our trust in God and to always remember that God will be with us no matter where we go or what we do.

If you ever need to be reminded of that, I know a great prayer you can use:

Amen.

Sometimes, We Kneel

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
March 5, 2025

Text: Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

There are so many things I love about being a priest. I love getting to walk alongside people in their journeys with Christ, to see them grow in their faith, and to remind them that God loves them more than they can possibly imagine.

I love getting to celebrate the sacraments and to share them with God’s people, those outward and visible signs of God’s inward and spiritual grace, like Baptism and Eucharist.

They remind us that God is always at work in our lives, leading us and guiding us with his Spirit and giving us the strength we need to continue our walk with Christ.

I love getting to pronounce God’s blessing over God’s people and to assure penitent sinners that they are indeed forgiven by a merciful Lord who wants nothing more than for all of us to be in right relationship with him.

But, if I’m being completely honest—and Ash Wednesday seems like a good day to do that—there are some things I miss about being a layperson.

One of the things I miss most is being able to simply sit in the presence of God in worship and not have to focus on anything but participating in the service.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

It’s an incredible blessing and privilege to be called by God to lead worship, and I try my best never to take that for granted.

Because it really is a wonderful gift to be able to serve as a priest in God’s church.

But, sometimes…I really do miss being able to just soak it all in, without any responsibility of leadership or making sure the service runs smoothly.

Sometimes, I miss the rhythm of sitting in a pew, holding my Prayer Book and hymnal, and waiting for someone else to direct the congregation on what to do next.

Sometimes, I miss being able to walk up to the altar rail during Communion and kneel alongside everyone else, waiting expectantly to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

To me, there’s something special about being able to just worship—to simply sit in God’s presence without any other responsibilities or thoughts running through my mind.

It’s hard to explain, but I think it has something to do with getting back in touch with who I really am at the center of my being.

On those rare occasions when I do get the chance to just sit in a pew and participate in the service, I’m reminded of the fact that, first and foremost, I am a child of God—just like everybody else.

And, just like everybody else, I’m in desperate need of a Savior.

That’s the power and beauty of our worship.

It humbles us and reminds of who we are and who we were created to be as God’s beloved.

In our liturgy, in our prayers and every time we confess our sins to God, we’re reminded that, without him, we are helpless.

We feel it in our bodies every time we stand to sing God’s praises and every time we sit to hear the Word of God proclaimed in Holy Scripture.

And we feel it, especially, when we kneel.

Sometimes, we kneel to pray and confess our sins because it’s the only posture that seems appropriate.

Sometimes, we kneel, not because we’re afraid of God, but to show our love for God and express our gratitude for all the many blessings we’ve been given.

Sometimes, we kneel to receive the Body and Blood of Christ and to recommit our lives to serving only him.

And sometimes, we kneel to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads, not because we’re worthless, but because we realize that, sometimes, we need to be reminded of our own mortality and need for repentance.

Sometimes, we need to be reminded, once again, that our lives belong to God and that we need to make amends, for things done and left undone.

That’s why we’re gathered here today as we mark the beginning of our journey through Lent.

It isn’t to beat ourselves up or to dwell on past mistakes.

It’s to be reminded of who we are and to be reconciled with God, to confess our sins and acknowledge that our only help is in the Lord our maker.

The prophet Joel put it this way in his call for repentance to the people of Israel:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

It was a practice in ancient Israel for people to mourn their sins and express their grief through outward signs like wearing ashes on their heads, wearing sackcloth, and tearing their clothes.

But, to me, what Joel is really saying in this passage is that God doesn’t care so much about outward signs if they’re not also expressing a deep, inward desire to change one’s life.

So, on this day, we come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

Not just for the sake of doing it.

And not because it’s something we’re obligated to do once a year.

We do it because we know we’ve fallen short of our call to walk in love as Christ has taught us.

We do it because, deep down, we long to be reconciled with our Father in heaven.

We receive the ashes on our foreheads because we know that God is our God, and we are his forever.

From the dust of the earth we were created, and to dust we shall return.

On this Ash Wednesday, be comforted in knowing that God loves you and cares about you in more ways than you can imagine.

But, also know that God cares deeply about the way you live your life and wants nothing more than for you to draw closer to him.

Listen once again to the prophet Joel and his call for repentance:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

Amen.

The Beatitudes

A Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year C)
February 16, 2025

Text: Luke 6:17-26

I want to share with you a story this morning. Some of you have probably heard it before, especially if you’ve been a part of the Episcopal Church for a while.

It begins many years ago—in April of 1965—when a an Episcopal seminarian published an article about his journey south into the Black Belt after responding to Martin Luther King, Jr.’s televised appeal for clergy across the country to come to Selma, Alabama, to help secure the right to vote for all citizens.

In his article, the seminarian described in painful detail the types of atrocities that he and other civil rights activists witnessed during their times in Selma—acts of violence and oppression that good people endured simply because of the color of their skin.

During his time in Selma, the seminarian encountered racism and bigotry at its worst, even from parishioners and clergy at the local Episcopal church.

At the end of his article, the seminarian wrote, “Our life in Selma is filled with ambiguity, and in that we share with men everywhere.”

“We are beginning to see as we never saw before that we are truly in the world and yet ultimately not of it.”

“For through the bramble bush of doubt and fear and supposed success we are groping our way to the realization that above all else, we are called to be saints.”

“That is the mission of the Church everywhere.”

“And in this Selma, Alabama, is like all the world: it needs the life and witness of militant saints.”

The seminarian’s name was Jonathan Myrick Daniels, whom we commemorate in the calendar of the Episcopal Church every year on August 14th.

Nearly four months after his article came out, Jonathan and a few of his companions were arrested in Fort Deposit, Alabama, for joining a picket line and transported to the jail in nearby Hayneville.

Six days later, they were unexpectedly released.

They walked around the corner to a small store near the jail and upon entering were confronted by a man named Thomas Coleman, who was armed with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

He cursed them and threatened to kill them if they didn’t leave the store.

Jonathan immediately pulled seventeen-year old Ruby Sales, an African American girl, to one side in order to protect her.

Coleman fired, and Jonathan was shot in the chest and killed instantly.

On October 1st, less than two months after Jonathan’s murder, Thomas Coleman was found not guilty by an all-white jury after only two hours of deliberation.

Although he was only twenty-six years old when he died, Jonathan’s work and his commitment to the Gospel of Jesus continues to inspire new generations to work for justice and peace.

Every year in Hayneville, on the second Saturday in August, pilgrims from across the southeast and from other parts of the country gather to hear Jonathan’s story and honor the sacrifice he made.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to attend the Jonathan Daniels pilgrimage for the first time.

We began on the front lawn of the Lowndes County Courthouse.

We formed a long procession, walking in the August heat from the courthouse to the former site of the Lowndes County Jail where Jonathan and his friends were imprisoned.

Then, we walked around the corner to the site where Jonathan was killed.

And all of a sudden, the signs that were carried in procession came into full focus—large, black and white photographs of Jonathan and all the martyrs of Alabama who were killed during the struggle for civil rights.

One by one, pilgrims took their turn kneeling on the steps and touching the storefront porch where Jonathan gave his life, offering silent prayers.

The procession ended back at the courthouse, where we celebrated the Eucharist in the same courtroom where Thomas Coleman was acquitted for Jonathan’s murder.

The judge’s bench, which is still used today, became an altar, and together, we shared the Body and Blood of Christ and recommitted ourselves to the work that God has given us to do.

“To be truly in the world,” as Jonathan once wrote, “but ultimately not of it.”

Looking back on my experience in Hayneville, it was one of those grace-filled moments when I was reminded of the fact that our lives are not really our own—that we’re part of a story that began long ago and one that will continue until God’s Kingdom is fulfilled.

Seeing the photographs in the procession…

Hearing the stories along the way…

Sharing the sacrament in the courtroom…

It was like being surrounded by the saints in light—that great cloud of witnesses that continues to inspire us and teach us about what it means to love as Christ loved.

That’s the legacy of Jonathan Daniels and all the martyrs of the faith who’ve given their lives as an example of God’s love.

It’s a legacy of compassion and mercy, of sacrifice and reconciliation.

Jonathan’s story serves as a reminder to all of us that this Christian life to which we’re called won’t always be easy.

Sometimes, it’ll challenge us to come out of our comfort zones and draw us to places we never expected to go.

Sometimes, it’ll compel us to stand up and speak out in order to protect those who have no voice or power for themselves.

It’s a life that calls us to work for justice and peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being.

A life that calls us to help tear down those systems of injustice and oppression in the world that threaten to weigh down and destroy the children of God.

This is painful, difficult work, my friends, but it’s work that must be done—work that Jesus calls us to do in our own time and place.

In the words of Blessed Jonathan, we are called to be saints on earth, which means fully living into the vows and promises of our Baptism.

Pope Francis once said that the best description of a saint, their “identity card” as he put it, is found in the Beatitudes, which we heard earlier this morning from Luke’s Gospel.

In our Gospel lesson, we learn that Jesus came down to a level place to be with his disciples and a large crowd of people from Judea, Jerusalem, and the coast of Tyre and Sidon who had come to hear him preach and be cured from their diseases.

After all of them were healed, Jesus looked up at his disciples and said…

“Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.

“Blessed are you who are hungry now,
for you will be filled.

“Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.

“Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.”

“But woe to you who are rich,
for you have received your consolation.

“Woe to you who are full now,
for you will be hungry.

“Woe to you who are laughing now,
for you will mourn and weep.

“Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.”

A lot of people, when they read the Beatitudes, think that it’s a list of commandments.

In other words, they read the line, “Blessed are you who are poor,” and think that Jesus wants them to go out and give away everything they own.

Or, they read the line, “Woe to you who are rich,” and think that Jesus must be condemning wealthy people.

But, that’s not what Jesus is doing here.

The Beatitudes—whether we’re reading Matthew’s version or Luke’s version—aren’t a list of commandments.

They’re a call to action.

They’re Jesus’ way of saying to his disciples that, when God’s Kingdom is finally fulfilled, the world as we know it will be turned upside down.

There will be no more poverty, no more starving people in the world.

Sadness and despair will give way to joy and peace among all people.

Enemies will become friends.

And people everywhere will finally realize and understand that the only thing that will save us is God’s redeeming love.

When we read the Beatitudes faithfully, as Christians, we come to understand that they’re not requirements for getting into heaven.

They’re God’s vision of heaven on earth.

And, it’s our job as followers of Jesus, to help make it a reality, now and in the life of the world to come.

So, in the spirit of the Beatitudes and thinking about the saints and martyrs of the faith who’ve come before us, like Jonathan Daniels, I want to offer my own list of blessings and woes—things we might consider as we seek to be faithful in our own time and place.

Blessed are the poor—Not just financially but also spiritually.

Those who rely on food stamps and other programs to help make ends meet.

Those who struggle to pay their utility bills each month.

Those who are embarrassed to have to ask for help.

Those who have no warm place to lay their head each night.

Those who feel like a failure in life.

For theirs is the kingdom of God.

Blessed are the hungry—

Those who wonder where their next meal will come from.

Those who worry about whether or not they’ll have enough to provide for their children.

Those who have to rely on churches and other groups for a hot meal.

Those who anxiously watch the price of groceries go up each month.

For they will be filled.

Blessed are those who weep now—

Not just for themselves but also for the state of the world.

Those who mourn the loss of loved ones.

Those who are lonely, anxious, or afraid.

Those who live in war-torn countries around the world.

Those who seek refuge from violence, oppression, and discrimination.

Those who have lost their jobs and source of income.

Those who simply want to be treated with dignity and respect.

For they will laugh.

Blessed are those who are hated, excluded, reviled, and defamed—

Those who are treated as unwanted and unlovable.

Those who are told they need to “go back to where they belong.”

Those who are turned away because of the color of their skin.

Those who are made to feel they are “less than” and unworthy.

For they will rejoice.

But woe to those who are rich—

Not only financially but also in power and authority.

Those who do nothing with what they’ve been given to help anyone but themselves.

Those who see people hurting and do nothing to help ease their pain.

Those who use their wealth to manipulate and control others.

For they have received their consolation.

Woe to those who are full now—

Those who have plenty to live on but are unwilling to share.

Those who live comfortably but are unwilling help someone in need.

For they will be hungry.

Woe to those who are laughing now—

Those who are so consumed with their own lives that they fail to see the suffering around them.

Those who take for granted the many gifts they’ve been given.

Those who think they have no responsibility to help anyone else but themselves.

For they will mourn and weep.

Woe to those who are greatly loved and admired—

Those who are in positions of power but don’t use their influence to help others.

Those who are only concerned with maintaining their own reputation and status in society.

Those who use their Christian faith as a way to boost their own power and popularity.

For they have received their reward.

The Beatitudes aren’t just something Jesus intended for a group of disciples two thousand years ago.

They aren’t something we’re meant to read and think to ourselves, “Oh, that’s nice, but it doesn’t really apply to us.”

They are words for us to live by.

Because all of us are called by God to be saints.

And that call comes with a heavy weight and responsibility to refuse to accept the idea that things are the way they are and will never change.

We are called to be a source of light and hope for the world.

To help make God’s vision of heaven on earth a reality.

To show others—through our words and actions—that there’s a better and more loving way to live.

Amen.

Called by God

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year C)
February 9, 2025

Text: Luke 5:1-11

When I was a teenager, I never dreamed that I would one day be a priest in the Episcopal Church.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know what the word “Episcopal” meant until I was a junior in college.

I went to school to study music education with the hope that, one day, I would get a great job teaching music to high school students and enjoy a long career as a choir director.

When I made the decision to study music in college, I felt sure that it was the right path for me to take.

Music had been such an important part of my life in junior high and high school, and being a choir director was something I knew I could do really well, something I knew I would enjoy doing.

So, I worked hard and eventually graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music education.

I began teaching at a high school in Savannah, Georgia, and for the most part, it was wonderful!

After years of hard work, I was finally getting the chance to do the work that I felt called to do.

But, something happened during my first year of teaching—something I never saw coming.

It was almost like a light switch was turned on.

I started asking myself questions like, “Is this really what God wants me to do with my life?”

“Am I really being called to be a music teacher? Or, is there something else I should be doing?”

“What if God is calling me to be a priest?”

“A priest! How ridiculous!” I thought.

“I’m still a brand new Episcopalian! I’ve only been confirmed for about a year.”

“Who do I think I am? There’s no way that God could be calling me to be a priest!”

So, I quickly dismissed the idea and continued on with my career as a teacher, but those thoughts and those questions never completely went away.

About two years later, I was teaching music at a different school, and I was finally able to talk with someone about these thoughts and feelings I’d been having about the priesthood.

I was finally able to say the words out loud.

“I think God may be calling me to be a priest.”

I can honestly say that I’ve never experienced such a weight lifted from my shoulders as I did in that moment.

It felt as if I was finally able to pass through this door that God had prepared especially for me, a door that God was waiting for me to walk through.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy as a teacher.

I could’ve kept teaching for the rest of my life and been perfectly fine.

But, I always would’ve felt this lingering sense that something was missing.

They say that when God calls someone to a particular ministry, that call doesn’t just go away. God is persistent.

And, for me, what started as a gentle nudge from God eventually turned into a calling that I could no longer ignore.

I wanted to share this with you today because the truth of the matter is that all of us—not just me or anyone else who wears a collar—all of us are called by God to serve in some way.

And, I think all of us—at least at some point in our lives—have questioned whether or not God could actually use us in ministry.

Because, let’s be honest.

Most of us are really good at doubting our own self-worth.

We’re really good at putting ourselves down and coming up with reasons why we shouldn’t do something we feel called to do.

We have this internal voice that tries to convince us of things like, “You’re not good enough.” Or, “You’re not smart enough.” Or, “You have no business serving anyone else when you can’t even get your own life together.”

“What makes you think God can use you?”

Does any of that sound familiar?

We’ve all struggled with these thoughts.

And, I’m here to tell you, dear friends, that it’s all a lie.

God can use you, just as you are.

You are enough, despite what the world or anyone else may try to tell you.

God is calling you by name to love and serve others in the name of Jesus Christ.

In our Gospel lesson this morning from Luke, we hear the story of Jesus calling his first disciples, which happens not long after a series of healings in Galilee, including the healing of Simon Peter’s mother-in-law.

Jesus is standing near the lake of Gennesaret, which was another name for the Sea of Galilee, when a crowd starts to gather around him to hear his teaching.

The crowd gets so large that the people start to press in on Jesus.

So, he decides to get into one of the fishing boats he sees on the shore, the one belonging to Simon Peter.

And, he asks Simon to push the boat out a little from the shore.

Then, he sits down in the boat and begins to teach.

When he’s done teaching, he tells Simon to take the boat further out into the lake where it’s deeper and to let his nets down into the water for a catch.

Simon and the other fishermen are tired from working all night long and not catching anything.

So, he thinks it’s pointless to try and catch anything at this point.

But, he tells Jesus, “If you say so, I will let down the nets.”

So, he puts the nets down into the water, and when he draws them back up again, they’re filled with so many fish that the nets start to break.

He calls the fishermen in the other boat to come and help, and by the time they’re done, both boats are loaded down with so many fish that they start to sink.

Simon Peter is so amazed by what he’s witnessed—so overwhelmed with emotion—that he falls down on his knees and says to Jesus, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

It’s his way of saying to Jesus, “I’m not worthy.”

“I’m not good enough to stand in your presence.”

I like to imagine that, in that moment, Jesus stopped what he was doing and smiled at Simon Peter and thought to himself…

“If you could only see yourself as God sees you, Simon.”

“Then, you might start to understand that you are worthy of God’s love and compassion and that you’re so much more than your worst mistakes and failures.”

“You are God’s beloved, and God has called you for a special purpose.”

Jesus tells Simon Peter, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

And, as soon as they return to shore, Simon, along with James and John, drop everything they own and follow Jesus.

Unfortunately, we don’t have Jesus standing right in front of us, pointing us in the direction we’re meant to walk.

In our own lives, the call to follow Jesus isn’t always so easy to hear.

Sometimes, we don’t know what it is that God is calling us to do with our lives.

And so we pray and try to listen for God’s voice, and we rely on each other to help guide us and keep us on track.

In the church, we have a special name for this process of exploring our call.

We call it discernment.

It’s a way of being open to the movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives, without any agenda or selfish ambition.

It’s a way of being honest with ourselves and open to where God is leading us to go.

Through that process, we ask ourselves questions, like “What are the gifts God has given me?”

“What talents do I have?”

“Where am I needed the most?”

And, we do a bit of holy imagining, wondering and dreaming about the possibilities of how God might be calling us to use those gifts and talents we’ve been given to help others.

Frederick Buechner, the Christian writer and theologian, once wrote that “Vocation (or our calling) is the place where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.”

I’ve always loved that definition.

And, I think it’s a helpful way of thinking about the process of discerning one’s call.

Of course, when you finally get to the point where you start to feel that nudge or that tug on your heart to serve in some way—when you start to feel God’s call—then comes the hard part.

Saying “yes.”

Because when we say “yes” to God—when we say, “Here I am, Lord, send me,” it often means we have to give up something else in return.

Like the first disciples did when they left everything behind to follow Jesus.

But, we can trust that when we do say “yes” to God’s call, God will be with us every step of the way.

The process of discernment is a spiritual discipline, and it’s an important part of our Christian faith.

Because every single one of us, by virtue of our baptism in Christ, has been called to a life of ministry and service.

Despite our shortcomings and mistakes, despite our self-doubt and fear of the unknown, God can use all of us as instruments of his love and mercy in the world.

God can use you, just as you are.

You are enough, despite what the world or anyone else may try to tell you.

God is calling you by name to love and serve others in the name of Jesus Christ.

All you have to do is say “yes.”

Amen.