A Sermon for the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20, Year B)
September 22, 2024

Text: Mark 9:30-37

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

A few years ago, while my family and I were on vacation down at the beach, I had the privilege of performing not one, but two baptisms in the Gulf of Mexico.

As a priest, every baptism I get to do is special, but these baptisms were especially important to me.

I got to baptize my younger sister, Haiden, and her daughter, Everly, who was only nine months old at the time.

It was a day I’ll always remember.

We woke up on Saturday morning, ate breakfast, and got ready to head to the beach for the service.

But, before we left the house, I had some time alone on the front porch with my sister to talk with her about the significance of baptism.

By the way, this is something I do with everyone who’s preparing for baptism—not just members of my family.

We sat down, and I asked my sister, “Why do you want to be baptized?”

I asked her this question, not only because I wanted her to think about it beforehand, but also because I was genuinely curious.

Neither of us grew up going to church regularly. So, I wanted to know what she was feeling. I wanted to hear, in her words, why it was important for her to be baptized.

I think she was a little surprised by my question. Judging from her reaction, I cold tell that she didn’t quite know what to say at first.

But, after a moment of thinking about it, she told me, “I want to be baptized so I can invite Jesus to live in my heart.”

It’s probably the same, exact reason that lots of people have made the choice to be baptized.

I looked at her and gave her a little nod, and I said, “That’s a great reason.”

But, then I continued on.

And, I told her that baptism is about more than just inviting Jesus into your heart.

When we’re baptized, we take on a new way of life, and we make a commitment to abide in God’s love.

To live, not just for ourselves—but also for others.

Yes, we’re cleansed of our sins through the waters of baptism.

But, even more important than that, we become living members of Christ’s Body, called to do the work of building up God’s Kingdom.

When we receive the sacrament of baptism, we make a place for Christ to live in us, but we also promise to live in Christ.

We make a vow to love and serve Christ in all persons, just as we ourselves have been loved and served by God.

She looked at me as I explained all of this, and I think she understood what I was talking about.

After our talk, we made our way down to the beach, and I couldn’t help but express my gratitude to God for giving me this amazing gift—to be able to welcome my sister and niece into the household of God and to share this beautiful moment with my family.

During the first part of the service, we gathered near the water to hear the reading of Scripture and for the presentation of the candidates.

Then, after the prayers, we moved closer to the water, where I stood ankle-deep in the Gulf and said the prayer of thanksgiving over the water.

In that moment, I was moved to tears.

I think it had a lot to do with where we were and what we were doing, but I think it also had a lot to do with the weight of those words and the understanding that the sacrament of baptism connects all of us with something so much greater than we often realize.

In that prayer of thanksgiving over the water, we’re reminded of our salvation history and how the same God who delivered the people of Israel out of their bondage in Egypt is the same God who grants us freedom and peace in our lives.

We’re reminded in that prayer that the same Spirit who moved over the waters of creation and was present at the baptism of Jesus is present with us, here and now, breathing into us new life and new possibilities.

I was so emotional that I barely made it through the entire prayer.

For a moment, I thought I was going to have to ask someone else to say the words for me.

But, I made it through. And Haiden and Everly were baptized that day, and there was great rejoicing in heaven as we added two new members to the Body of Christ.

After the administration of the water, I anointed each of them with the oil of chrism, saying the words, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.”

Then, we made our way back to the beach and shared the Body and Blood of Christ around a makeshift altar in the sand.

I wanted to share this story with you because I think it has a lot to do with what’s going on in our Gospel lesson for today.

Jesus is with his disciples.

And he tells them that the Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands. He will be killed, and then three days later, he will rise again.

This isn’t the first time the disciples have heard a prediction like this.

If you were in church last week, you heard a similar prediction made by Jesus.

He told his disciples, “that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

If you recall from last week, Simon Peter was having none of it.

He took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him, but Jesus, being fully aware of his mission and what he came to accomplish in his ministry, rebuked Peter, saying, “Get behind me Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

So, it’s no wonder that, in today’s Gospel reading, the disciples respond quite differently to Jesus after he tells them about what’s coming.

They say nothing.

They don’t understand what Jesus is talking about. If he’s the Messiah, how could he possibly be handed over and killed?

They probably thought to themselves, “If he dies, then all of this was for nothing.”

So, they don’t say a word.

They don’t question Jesus. They don’t ask him what it all means. They just pretend like it never happened and continue on.

As they continue traveling, Jesus overhears the disciples arguing about something, and when they come to the city of Capernaum, he asks them what they were arguing about.

Again, there’s silence.

Perhaps they were already aware of the fact that what they were arguing about was childish and unimportant.

They had been arguing amongst themselves about which of them was the greatest.

So, Jesus sat down and called them over and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”

Then, as a way showing them what it means to live as a servant, he places a little child in front of them, picks it up, and says, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

In Jesus’ time, children were considered among the lowest in society. They had very little worth except for the fact that they would eventually grow into adults who could contribute to the community.

So, for Jesus to use a little child as an example was his way of saying that we’re called to serve everyone—but especially the lowest and most vulnerable among us.

I was recently reminded of a favorite quote of mine from St. Augustine of Hippo, who once wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.”

Isn’t that great?

Let me say that again.

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.”

Jesus doesn’t just want us to make a place for him in our hearts. It’s a wonderful thing to do, and it’s part of what it means to be a disciple.

But, most of all, Jesus wants us to rest in him—to abide in him.

To know that, no matter where we go or what we do, we belong to the Lord. We are a new creation, bathed in the waters of baptism, and empowered to live our lives as followers of Jesus.

What that means is that we don’t have to worry so much about being the greatest at anything—at least not according what the world says is great.

To be considered great in God’s kingdom, we don’t have to worry about whether or not we have more money or nicer things than the person next to us.

We don’t have to worry about being the most successful person at our jobs.

And, we don’t have to worry about being the most popular or influential person in our community.

It’s not that making money and being successful are inherently bad, but these worldly concerns can easily become distractions from what it is that we are truly called to do in our lives—what we’ve made a commitment to do.

To live in Christ, to abide in Christ—just as he lives and abides in us.

In all that we say and do—this should always be our first priority. 

To be considered great in God’s kingdom is actually pretty simple, and Jesus lays it out for us in today’s Gospel lesson in a way that’s easy to understand.

“Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”

Or, to put it another way—in a language that we Episcopalians are familiar with—If we want to be first in the kingdom of God, we must seek to serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.

It’s part of our Baptismal covenant—something we’ve all made a commitment to do.

To be great in God’s eyes means to live more fully in Christ, more fully into our lives as Christians. May God grant us the strength and wisdom we need to be faithful in our calling. Amen.

A Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19, Year B)
September 15, 2024

Text: Mark 8:27-38

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.

Imagine, for a moment, that you’re taking a walk through what appears to be a very nice neighborhood. You’re walking down a sidewalk lined with tall, luscious trees and beautifully landscaped yards.

Judging from the appearance of the homes in this neighborhood and the people who live here, it’s probably made up of mostly middle to upper class families.

There’s no trash on the ground anywhere, and you imagine that it would be a grave sin to even consider going more than a couple of weeks without cutting the grass.

The appearance of this neighborhood is well-maintained, and you imagine that the residents who live here want to keep it that way.

After a few blocks of walking down the sidewalk, you come to what appears to be a church in the middle of this pristine neighborhood.

The church, like the neighborhood in which it resides, is beautiful.

The front yard is immaculate, enclosed with red, brick columns and a black, wrought iron fence.

You imagine that it must take a lot of work to maintain such a lovely appearance.

Upon further investigation, you discover that this church is an Episcopal Church, and as you continue walking by, you witness a very shocking sight, indeed—something out of of place and unexpected.

From a short distance, you see what appears to be a homeless person, covered up with a long blanket and sleeping on a park bench next to the church.

You ask yourself, “How did they get here? How could there be a homeless person sleeping here in the middle of this perfect neighborhood?”

You decide to move a little closer to see if there’s any way you can help. Maybe they need some food or a little bit of money.

So, you move closer, and as you approach the covered up person on the bench, you notice something strange about their feet—the only part of their body that isn’t covered up with the blanket.

You notice that each foot has a large, round scar in the center, and then it dawns on you. This isn’t just any homeless person.

These are the feet of Jesus.

In February of 2014—almost ten years ago—St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Davidson, North Carolina, installed a bronze replica of Homeless Jesus, a sculpture that was originally designed and created by a Canadian artist named Timothy Schmalz.

The original sculpture was intended as a visual translation of the passage in the Book of Matthew, in which Jesus tells his disciples, “As you did it to one of the least of my brothers, you did it to me.”

The rector of the church at the time stated that the sculpture is “a good Bible lesson for those used to seeing Jesus depicted in traditional religious art as the Christ of glory, enthroned in finery.”

Well, as you can imagine, the church received mixed reactions from the community at first. Some people loved it. Others found it revolting.

One woman from the neighborhood actually called the police the first time she drove by because she thought it was an actual homeless person.

Another person wrote a letter to the church, claiming that the statue was creepy. 

Others felt that it was insulting to depict Jesus as a homeless person.

I have to admit that, when I first saw the pictures of Homeless Jesus, I didn’t quite know what to think.

On one hand, I found it to be incredibly powerful.

The sculpture serves as a vivid and poignant reminder that, in order to serve Jesus, we have to be willing to serve our others, especially the most vulnerable among us.

On the other hand, it challenged my perception of who Jesus is.

It made me realize that I’m not very comfortable with the idea of a Savior who sleeps on a park bench, covered up with an old, tattered blanket.

It made me realize that I don’t really know if I want a Savior with scars on his feet, reminding me that this Christian life to which we’re called is one that requires us to take up our own cross in order to follow Jesus.

Like Peter, in our lesson this morning from the Gospel of Mark, I don’t want to hear about Jesus having to go through great suffering and being rejected and killed.

No, I want a Savior who’ll reassure me that everything’s fine and under control—a Savior who’ll tell me that I can follow him without really having to do anything or give up anything in return.

I want the long-expected Messiah, the mighty king who will come and fix everything that’s wrong with the world.

If I’m being completely honest, I want a safe Jesus—a Jesus who’ll protect me from getting hurt and shelter me from any kind of suffering.

In other words, I don’t want Good Friday Jesus.

I want the resurrected Jesus.

The problem with that is that we don’t get to separate the two. We don’t get to skip over Good Friday and go straight to Easter.

We don’t get to look at the homeless Jesus lying asleep on the park bench and say, “That’s not my Jesus.”

Whether we like it or not, our Jesus is the one who lies covered up on the park bench, waiting for us to reach out in love.

Our Jesus is the one who suffers right alongside those on the margins of society.

Our Jesus is the one who goes to the cross, who is persecuted and killed, in order to teach us that the way of the cross is the path to eternal life with God.

N.T. Wright, once wrote, “Jesus’s call to follow him, to discover in the present time the habits of life which point forward to the coming kingdom and already, in a measure, share in its life, only makes sense when it is couched in the terms made famous by Dietrich Bonhoeffer: ‘Come and die.’

Jesus didn’t say, as do some modern evangelists, ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.’ Nor did he say, ‘I accept you as you are, so you can now happily do whatever comes naturally.’

He said, ‘If you want to become my followers, deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me.’”

Dear friends, God does love us more than we can imagine, and God does have a wonderful plan for our lives.

But, that plan doesn’t involve material things or worldly comforts, and it doesn’t involve freedom from suffering or passively waiting around for someone else to come along and do the work for us.

God’s plan is for us to participate in the building up of God’s Kingdom, to help bring healing and restoration to the world that God has made.

Jesus began this work in his ministry and sacrifice on the cross, and it’s the work that we’re called to continued as his disciples.

God loves us and accepts us as we are, but that doesn’t mean that God wants us to stay as we are.

As followers of Jesus, we believe that new life is always possible and that forgiveness and redemption are always within our reach.

This Christian life to which we’re called is a lifelong journey of transformation, but in order to experience the transformation that God wants for us, we have to be willing to let go of the things that are holding us back, including our false ideas and expectations of who Jesus is and what Jesus calls us to do.

My brothers and sisters in Christ, may we always hold on to the image of the homeless Jesus lying on a park bench, reminding us that his place—and our place—is with the poor, the sick, and the oppressed.

May we always hold on to the image of the scars on Jesus’s feet, reminding us that his journey to the cross is the journey we’re called to make as well.

And finally, may we always hold onto the words of St. John Chrysostom, a pillar of the early Christian church, who once wrote, “If you cannot find Christ in the beggar at the church door, you will not find Him in the chalice.”

Amen.

A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18, Year B)
September 8, 2024

Text: Mark 7:24-37

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 January of 2019—about five and a half years ago—my family and I were living in Chelsea, Alabama—a small suburb of Birmingham. I was serving as the priest at a small, Episcopal church called St. Catherine’s while Chelsea was working as a nurse at a pediatric clinic in downtown Birmingham.

One night, as I was cooking dinner at home, Chelsea and the kids were in the backyard playing on the trampoline. Jude was seven years old at the time, and Sophie was nine.

I remember that it was dark outside and very cold.

All of a sudden, I heard Chelsea scream my name from outside. I had no idea what was happening, but as a parent, my mind immediately went to the worst case scenario.

Something’s happened to one of the kids.

I quickly went outside to see what was wrong, and I found Jude lying on the trampoline in terrible pain. Chelsea told me that they had been playing around and that Jude fell hard on the side of his left arm.

He didn’t fall off the trampoline. He just fell on the mat. So, at first, I didn’t think it was very serious.

We helped him down and took him inside where we could see his arm more clearly, and that’s when we knew it was much more serious than we thought.

Not to get too graphic, but Jude’s left arm looked like a limp noodle.

Being a nurse, Chelsea knew right away what we needed to do. So, we loaded everyone up in the car and drove to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital.

Even though it was a short trip, it was one of the longest thirty minutes of my life.

Jude handled it much better than I did.

I was a nervous wreck the whole way there. More than anything, I just wanted him to be okay and to get the help he needed as soon as possible.

When we arrived at the emergency room, we had to wait much longer than I had hoped, which added even more anxiety to the situation.

I expected Jude to be seen right away. But, instead, it was hurry up and wait.

Finally, we were seen by a nurse, who was able to give Jude some medicine for the pain, and we were taken back into a room and seen by a doctor.

They took some x-rays of Jude’s arm, and we were told that his arm was fractured completely, right above the elbow and that he was going to have surgery the following day.

Well…needless to say, that made matters even worse.

I was already worried about Jude’s broken arm, and now he was going to have to go through surgery. The surgeon told us he was going to have to use screws and rods to fix his broken arm.

As a parent, the last thing you want is for your child to have to go through something like that. To have a broken arm is one thing but to have to be put to sleep and go through a serious surgery is another thing entirely.

The next morning, we had to wait much longer than expected for Jude’s surgery.

But, finally, the time came. I said a prayer, and they took him back to the operating room. 

After a few hours, the doctor came back to the room and told us that everything went well with the surgery.

Chelsea and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Jude was going to be okay. It was going to take a long time for him to recover and heal from the accident, but thankfully, everything was going to be okay.

I wanted to share this story with you because, as a parent, I know what it’s like to feel helpless and to want more than anything for your child to be healed.

I know what it feels like to anxiously sit and wait, wondering whether or not your child is going to be okay.

And, I know that, as a parent, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure my children got the help and care they needed if they were ever in harm’s way.

There’s a story in our Gospel lesson from this morning about a mother who’s trying to do the same thing.

She’s trying desperately to find help for her daughter, who’s been possessed by an unclean spirit—a demon that’s killing her.

The Gospel doesn’t give us any details about why or how this little girl came to have an unclean spirit. All we know for sure is that she’s in terrible danger.

Her mother’s probably tried everything she can think of to get her the help she needs, but so far, nothing has worked.

So, when news gets around that Jesus of Nazareth has come to town, she takes action. She’s heard of this man from Galilee who has the power to heal and cast out demons.

She goes and finds Jesus alone in a house, probably trying to find a quiet place where he can rest for a while.

She bows down at his feet, and begs him to cast the demon out of her daughter.

She knows it’s a lot to ask—especially with her being a Gentile and him being a Jew—but she’s desperate. And, she’ll do anything to get her daughter the help she needs.

What happens next in the story is pretty shocking.

Normally, we’d expect Jesus to have mercy and compassion for the woman right away and to say, “Of course I’ll help your daughter.”

But, that’s not what happens—at least not at first.

Instead of helping the woman, Jesus says to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

This doesn’t sound like Jesus, does it?

It doesn’t sound like the Jesus we know and love—the Jesus we expect to read about in the Gospels who, up to this point in his ministry, has spent years preaching about the Kingdom of God and healing the sick and casting out demons.

The Jesus we know would never disrespect and talk down to this woman in such a dismissive way, especially when she’s already going through so much.

And yet, here we are.

We’re left wondering what to do with this passage from Scripture and what to do with this Jesus who seems anything but merciful and kind.

For centuries, Biblical scholars have wrestled with this text (and the one similar to it in the Gospel of Matthew), and there’ve been many attempts at trying to explain exactly what’s going on.

Some interpreters, for example, try to sugar coat it and insist that the Greek word for “dogs” is better translated, “puppies” and that it’s not really as derogatory as it sounds.

Some suggest that it was common in the time of Jesus for Gentiles to be referred to as “dogs” and that Jesus was simply using a phrase or a saying that wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary.

But, neither of these interpretations explain why Jesus was so dismissive to the woman.

And I think, for most of us, that’s the crux of the matter. The fact that Jesus so easily dismisses the mother’s request for help is what bothers us the most.

So, I want to offer a few words on what I think is really going on in this passage.

Jesus was a first century, Jewish man, who lived in a very particular time and culture and who experienced the harsh disdain that Jews at that time had for Gentiles—those who were non-Jewish.

Gentiles were often referred to as “dogs” because they were considered unclean and impure. For Jews at that time, even standing close to someone who was non-Jewish was to risk being made unclean.

Jews, on the other hand, were God’s chosen people—the people with whom God had an eternal covenant. God promised, in the fullness of time, that he would send the Messiah—the anointed one—to redeem Israel and usher in a new era of peace.

Jesus was perfectly aware of his mission from the very beginning and knew that the focus of his ministry had to be with his own people.

So, when he says to the woman, “Let the children be fed first…” he’s not saying it out of hatred or because he doesn’t think that the woman and her daughter deserve to be helped.

He’s saying it because he’s focused on the urgent matter at hand. He’s come to redeem the children of Israel, and for now, that’s his only mission.

The woman knows this.

Even as a Gentile, she knows the role of the Messiah and never questions Jesus or his priorities.

But, she’s persistent.

She knows Jesus has the power to relieve her daughter of this terrible burden.

So, she replies to him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

I think it might’ve been her way of saying to Jesus that, even though his priority is to his own people—the children of Israel, maybe there’s enough of God’s grace for everyone.

And she’ll take even the smallest morsel—the smallest crumb—of God’s grace that he has to give for the sake of her daughter.

It’s an eye-opening moment for Jesus, and he comes to understand that maybe his ministry and his mission are much larger than he first realized.

In response to the mother’s plea, he shows mercy and compassion and immediately restores her daughter to fullness of life.

It’s a remarkable story, isn’t it?

And it’s one that gives us a lot to think about, especially when we stop to wonder who is and who isn’t worthy of God’s grace.

The focus of this story is not so much on the miracle that Jesus performed in healing the woman’s daughter.

It’s the fact that, despite his initial response and any preconceived ideas he might have had about this Gentile woman, he showed mercy and compassion.

Because of Jesus, we know that no one is beyond the limits of God’s grace, including those we might consider unclean or unworthy.

Because of Jesus, we know that the mercy and compassion of God are open to all people, not just a select few.

And, as followers of Jesus, we’re called to demonstrate this radical and abundant love in our own lives, wherever we go.

Because you never know who might need our help.

It’s why, in our Baptismal covenant, we promise “to strive for justice and peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being.”

Not just some.

All people.

Every human being.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17, Year B)
September 1, 2024

Text: Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

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, our church recently started offering our Laundry Love Ministry again after a long pause during the pandemic.

For those of you who are new to St. Mary’s, Laundry Love is a ministry that was started several years back.

When it first started, the idea was that a few churches around town—including St. Mary’s—would come together once a month to offer free loads of laundry to anyone in our community who needed it.

The churches provided laundry detergent, dryer sheets, and coins to operate the machines.

Once the pandemic hit, Laundry Love became a thing of the past—until our church decided to bring it back this past June.

In the spring, Susan Stephens and I met with the owner of the laundromat down the road to discuss our plans. We made signs and put the word out to the community through the local radio station and social media.

We started collecting money at the church using the coin boxes that have Laundry Love printed on the front. And we even had laundry detergent and dryer sheets donated to us from another church.

There was so much excitement and enthusiasm from members of the community. Several people reached out to tell us how wonderful it was that we were bringing this ministry back.

Which is why I was surprised when another member of the community shared with me that they didn’t think the church should be doing Laundry Love at all.

Basically, this person’s comment was that the church doesn’t need to be spending money helping people with their laundry and that the kind of people who go to the laundromat are just going to go out and use the money they save to buy things they don’t need.

I have to admit I was kind of shocked when I heard it, and I didn’t really know how to respond. Nothing I could’ve said would’ve convinced this person otherwise.

I wasn’t angry or upset.

Mostly, I just felt sorry for the person I was talking to.

Because their heart was hardened to the truth of who Jesus really is and what Jesus calls us to do in our lives.

After giving it some thought, what I would love this person to know—and really what I want all of us to know—is that we don’t do Laundry Love (or any other ministry, for that matter) because we feel sorry for the people we help or think that they deserve a handout.

And, we don’t do it to make ourselves feel better.

We do it because we believe that God’s love has the power to transform lives and to heal the world.

We do it because we believe that God has called us to be instruments of his love and compassion in the world and that through us, others may come to know the love of God at work in their own lives.

It’s really as simple as that.

We do these things because we believe that even the smallest act of kindness and generosity—like helping someone pay for a load of laundry—might be a sign for others that God really is here and that God really does care about them.

A few weeks ago, at our last Laundry Love, I met a friendly, young lady who was fairly new to Andalusia. She had only been in town for about a year.

I told her who I was and where we were from and that it was Laundry Love day.

At first, she didn’t understand. So, I explained to her why we were there and how it all worked.

And, she was so surprised when I told her. The look on her face told me that she didn’t come to the laundromat that day expecting people to show up and help pay for her laundry.

In fact, she had already washed her clothes. So, I offered to help her get started with the dryers. She put her clothes in the machines. I put the money in and hit the start button.

After a few minutes, we continued talking, and after a while, I started to get the sense that something was weighing on her heart.

So, I asked her, “Is everything okay?” “Can I pray for you in some way?”

And, that’s when she shared with me that she had been in an abusive relationship and that she was just trying to get her life back on track.

I told her that I would pray for her.

And, in that moment, I could tell that she was sincerely thankful that we were there.

Friends, I truly believe that God guides us into people’s lives for a reason.

Sometimes, we don’t know why, and we may never know why. And, then there are some days, when it all comes into focus and we know exactly why we were sent.

It didn’t take much for us to be at Laundry Love that day.

A little soap. A few dryer sheets. A few rolls of quarters.

But, God took what we had to give and used it to bring a little bit of light to someone’s life who I think really needed it in that moment.

And I’m so thankful to have been part of it.

That’s why we do what we do. To be a small part of God’s plan to bring healing and restoration to the world.

In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus is having a debate with some of the Pharisees and scribes from Jerusalem.

When they gather around Jesus, they notice that some of his disciples are eating without first washing their hands.

Now…for most of us, we wash our hands before a meal because we want to stay healthy. We don’t want to take the risk of getting sick by not washing our hands.

But, in Jesus’ time, washing your hands before a meal was something that Jews were expected to do, not for sanitary reasons (like we do today), but because the ritual of hand washing was such an important part of their tradition.

Many believed that if you ate food without washing your hands first, you would be considered unclean and unacceptable before God.

Israel’s religion included many laws about ritual purity and holiness, and many of those had to do with dietary restrictions.

A good example of this is Leviticus 11 where the Lord instructs Moses and Aaron to tell the people of Israel which animals are acceptable to eat. This is where the Jewish restrictions on eating pork and shellfish comes from. 

But, if you look closely at the Hebrew Scriptures, there was no law about washing your hands before eating.

This was a man-made tradition that emerged over time from a very loose interpretation of Exodus 30, which required temple priests to wash their hands and feet before ministering at the altar.

There was no actual law requiring Jews to wash their hands before eating. It was a “tradition of the elders,” something that was expected but not required.

So, when the Pharisees and scribes question Jesus about his disciples not washing their hands, they’re not accusing them of breaking God’s commandments.

They’re criticizing them for not living according to the tradition.

Well, Jesus doesn’t take very kindly to the criticism.

He responds by calling them hypocrites who are more concerned with upholding human traditions than actually living according to the commandments of God.

Then, he gathers a crowd of people around him and says, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.”

It was Jesus’ way of saying that it’s not what we eat that makes us unclean. It’s what comes from our hearts and what comes out of our mouths that makes us unclean.

For Jesus, he’s not concerned with whether or not someone washes their hands before they eat or whether or not someone washes a piece of fruit from the market before they eat it.

His concern is what comes from the heart.

It’s what comes from the heart that defiles us and makes us unclean.

Jesus wants us to be healed and to be made whole, and he taught us that, in order to do that, we have to take a close look at our hearts.

Because the heart is where evil thoughts and intentions come from.

Jealousy, anger, resentment, hatred for those who aren’t like us, judgment toward others for their lifestyle choices and circumstances.

All of these are matters of the heart.

And when our hearts are hardened, it makes it really difficult for us to see how God is at work in our lives and in the lives of those around us.

The heart is the root of how we think, feel, and act.

This is what Jesus was concerned about—not what we put into our bodies—but what comes from our hearts.

Because he knew that in order for us to live as God has called us to live—in order to be faithful in our call to love and serve others—we have to allow the love of God to flow through us.

And the only way for that to happen is for us to allow those hard edges around our hearts to break open for those who are suffering.

To realize that, maybe, it isn’t our job to judge other people after all but to love them, despite their choices and circumstances in life.

To realize that, maybe, jealousy, anger, resentment, and hatred—those things that harden and infect our hearts—aren’t life-giving but life-draining.

God wants us to take a close look at our hearts and to think about the ways that we need to be healed.

Why?

Well, it’s not just for our sake.

It’s for the sake of the Gospel. Because in order to be faithful to God—in order to do the work that God has called us to do—our hearts have to be in the right place.

In the words of Mother Teresa, “May God break our hearts so deeply that the whole world falls in.”

Amen.

A Sermon for the Patronal Feast of St. Mary the Virgin
August 11, 2024

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.

A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected gift from a long-time member of our parish. It happened after church one day when our dear friend, Pricey Best, came up to me in the Parish Hall during fellowship and said, “I have something I want you to have.”

She reached down and handed me a book with a picture of St. Mary’s on the cover and a bright, red binding. The title of the book was St. Mary’s Second Sunday, named after our long-standing tradition of hosting potluck lunches after church on the second Sunday of every month—a tradition that continues to this day.

St. Mary’s Second Sunday is a cookbook, filled with recipes from members of the parish. Pricey shared with me a little bit of the backstory. She was asked several years ago to help put this cookbook together so that the church could sell copies. So, she got to work and spent countless hours collecting, sorting, and organizing all the recipes that would be included in the book.

What made this gift extra special for me was that this was Pricey’s very own copy of the cookbook. If you turn to the inside cover, it even has her name printed at the top with a special word of thanks from the parish for all the work she did in putting it together.

Now…she didn’t know that I was going to share this with you today (and Pricey, I hope you’re not embarrassed). As I was thinking about St. Mary’s Day and the purpose of us taking the time to celebrate the feast of our patron saint, I started thinking about all the people in years past who have made this parish what it is today.

Some of those people are listed here…in the pages of this cookbook. Some are still with us. Some have moved away to other places. Some have passed into the nearer presence of God. 

When I received this special gift, I began flipping through the pages and seeing all the names listed next to the recipes. Some names I immediately recognized, and some I had never heard of, and as I continued flipping through the pages of the cookbook, what I eventually discovered is that the most important part wasn’t actually the recipes themselves.

It was what was included at the very beginning—a detailed history of St. Mary’s, beginning with a small but mighty group of Episcopalians in Covington Country during the 1920s who began meeting in each other’s homes for worship, long before St. Mary’s was ever established as an organized church and before the original church building was constructed on Second Avenue in 1947.

As I was reading the history, I came to realize something.

In the history of the church, St. Mary’s has been served by a number of clergy. Some were temporary, serving as supply priests or interim priests. Some were vicars, who served St. Mary’s when the church was still small enough to be considered a mission of the diocese. And, some were rectors, like me, who served St. Mary’s after the church grew and became recognized as a parish.

The one thing that’s remained consistent through the years is not the clergy. Because clergy come and go, depending on where they’re called by God to serve.

No, the one consistent thread that you can read about in the history of St. Mary’s is the people—the people, who, through the years have remained committed to loving and serving our neighbors as Christ has taught us.

This cookbook may not seem like much to some people.

But, to me, it’s a treasure. It represents the truth of who we are as a community of faith, rooted in the love and service of our Lord Jesus Christ, and It reminds me of something Michele Gerlach said in a meeting we had a few weeks ago.

“We are the church that feeds people.”

And, we feed people in more ways than one.

Sure, we love our Second Sunday potlucks and any time we get the chance to gather for good food and fellowship.

Yes, we’re a church who feeds people through ministries like our Rice and Beans Ministry and our community dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But, even more than that, we’re a church that feeds people’s souls by letting them know that there are people in this world who care about them and love them and by letting them know that there’s a place for them in our church. St. Mary’s is a place where all are welcome.

That may sound like a cliché or a platitude because of how often we say it.

But, it’s the truth.

At St. Mary’s, all are welcome, and I can’t tell you how incredibly important it is that we remain committed to that belief. Because, friends, we live in a world where people feel more divided, more isolated, and more alone than ever before.

We live in a world that’s so inwardly focused and self-consumed that we’ve forgotten what it means to be part of a community and to rely on each other for help.

That’s why our work as a parish is so important. We get to remind people through our ministries, through our words and actions and our presence in the wider community, that there’s still goodness in the world and that the love of God in Christ Jesus is still present and active in our lives in more ways than we can imagine.

Our Gospel lesson for today is one that’s familiar to many of us, especially those of us who are well acquainted with the Prayer Book and the tradition of praying the Daily Office.

Luke 1:46-55 is commonly referred to as the Magnificat, or the Song of Mary. In the Prayer Book, it’s one of the canticles that we read or sing during Morning and Evening Prayer.

It’s also the Gospel lesson appointed every year for the feast of St. Mary the Virgin, our patron saint. There are many passages in the Gospels that could’ve been used for the feast of St. Mary, but I think it’s especially appropriate that, on this day, we hear the  beautiful and poetic words of Mary’s Song.

But, to fully understand the significance and weight of this passage, we have to understand where it fits in the larger narrative of Luke’s Gospel.

Earlier in chapter one, Mary is visited by the angel Gabriel, who makes the surprise announcement that she will conceive and bear God’s only son. At first, she’s confused. She doesn’t understand how this will come to pass since she’s a virgin, and the angel tells her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.”

Humbly, Mary agrees to do what the Lord has asked her to do.

Then, she goes and visits her relative, Elizabeth, who has also conceived a child, even though she is much older than Mary.

When Mary arrives at the home of Elizabeth and Zechariah, the child in Elizabeth’s womb leaps for joy when he hears Mary’s greeting!

Elizabeth tells Mary, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

And, in response to Elizabeth, Mary says,

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

for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;

he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,

according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”

What stirred my imagination this week as I thought about these words in relation to our parish and our celebration of St. Mary’s Day was the fact that Mary isn’t just praising God for the good things he’s done for her.

It starts out that way. Mary begins by praising God for blessing her with this awesome responsibility of bringing Jesus into the world.

But, then it quickly changes, and Mary begins praising God, not only for the things he’s already done but for the things he will continue to do through her and the child she’s carrying.

She has so much confidence in God’s goodness and God’s faithfulness that she uses the past tense to refer to the things that God has promised to bring to fulfillment.

“He has scattered the proud…”

“He has brought down the powerful…and lifted up the lowly”

“He has filled the hungry with good things…”

These words aren’t referring to things God has already done but things that God is doing and will continue to do. Mary seems to instinctively know that the child in her womb will have the power to change the world.

Through this miraculous birth that God has planned and set into motion, God will bring redemption and healing to God’s people. Through Jesus, God will bring to fulfillment what God has always promised to do.

To restore heaven on earth.

This is the reason why we celebrate St. Mary’s Day. Yes, Mary is our patron saint, and yes, it’s good for us to celebrate our common life together as a church family.

But, mostly, we celebrate this day so that we can offer our thanks and praise to God, not only for the things God has already done through us and those who came before—but also for the things that God is doing and will continue to do.

God isn’t done with St. Mary’s. In fact, I’d say he’s only just begun.

So, on this St. Mary’s Day, as we begin a new program year and give thanks for God’s goodness and God’s faithfulness in our lives, let us recommit ourselves to the work that God has given us to do in our own time and place. Let us recommit ourselves to being “the church that feeds people,” not only their bodies but also their souls.

And, let us recommit ourselves to the work of sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ through our words and actions, that the world around us may see and know the love of God at work in their own lives.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13, Year B)
August 4, 2024

Texts: Ephesians 4:1-16 and John 6:24-35

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 the letter to the Ephesians: “I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

“I beg you, “ the author writes, “to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called.”

I love these words.

To me, they convey a sense of Christian responsibility and urgency, and they remind us that this life to which we’ve been called, as followers of Jesus, is built upon a foundation of compassion and human decency.

As Christians, the way we treat our brothers and sisters really does matter. We have the ability, through our words and actions, to be examples of God’s love to those we meet in our everyday lives—whether that’s in person or through a text or phone call or on social media. The author of Ephesians uses very specific words to describe how we’re called to speak and act—words like humility and gentleness, patience and love.

And Lord knows, the world needs all of these things, perhaps now more than ever.

I think there’s something else, though—something more to be discovered from this text. To me, these words from Ephesians also seem to suggest that our calling is actually a gift from God.

Have you ever considered that before? Have you ever thought of your call to follow Jesus as a gift from God? We tend to think of God’s call as something that’s extended to everyone, and that’s true. As Christians, all of us are called to live lives worthy of the Gospel, and God gives each of us the freedom to choose whether or not to respond to that call. 

But, I’m not sure that we give enough thought to the fact that God’s call is actually a gift, extended to us in love.

Perhaps, that’s because responding to God’s call is sometimes very difficult, especially when it requires us to let go of things that we so desperately want to cling to. Things like bitterness and hatred and jealousy and contempt for those who don’t think or believe the same way as we do.

Sometimes, God’s call feels more like a stumbling block than anything. Sometimes—or maybe most of the time—God’s call to love others with humility and gentleness and patience feels more like an obstacle to overcome than a blessing.

What do we do, then, when we feel as though we’ve reached the limit of our ability to sow seeds of God’s love in a world that seems broken and beyond repair? What do we do when our call to walk in love feels more like a burden than a blessing? Where do we go when we need a renewed sense of hope and reassurance?

Well, I have some thoughts about that, but first, I want to share with you a story.

Several years ago, when I was in my first call as a priest in northwest Texas, we put on a Vacation Bible School program called, “Abundant Life,” which was inspired by the work of Episcopal Relief and Development—an organization of the Episcopal Church that works to alleviate poverty, hunger, and the spread of disease in countries all around the world.

The goal for our Vacation Bible School program that summer was to offer children the opportunity to consider the many ways that God calls us to be good stewards of creation. So, we talked about God’s gifts of water, soil, seeds, and animals and how all of these gifts impact our relationship with the earth. We listened to stories from Holy Scripture. We planted flower seeds in clay pots that the children decorated themselves. We played games and sang songs, and we had a wonderful time doing it all.

On the last evening of VBS, during our closing Eucharist, I explained to the children how the fruits of the earth that we receive from God can be used to create things that nourish us, such as bread.  

During the sermon, I held up a large bowl full of flour, and I asked the children, “Who knows what this is?”

Many of them already knew what it was.

They shouted out, “Flour!”  Then, I passed the bowl around so they could feel the flour in between their fingers, and as I passed it, I asked them, “What kinds of things can we make with flour?”

Well, as you can imagine, I received some pretty colorful answers.

Without hesitating, one child raised their hand and shouted out, “Cake!”

Another shouted, “Bread!”

Then, another shouted, “Cookies!”

And then, my favorite response of all, “Peanut Butter Balls!”

I didn’t know what they were, but they sounded wonderful.

The children continued passing the bowl of flour around, and when the last child in the group had a chance to touch the flour, I said, “Yes, we can make lots of things with flour, and like someone already mentioned, we can make bread.”

Then, I walked back to the Altar table that we had set up in the Parish Hall. I held up several flat, round loaves of bread that I had baked the day before, and I explained to the children that we can use bread in different ways.

It tastes good, and we use it to nourish our bodies. But, we also use it during communion at church because it’s a sign for us that God loves us and that Jesus is here with us when we receive the bread and the wine.

I told them, “When we receive the bread and wine in communion, we carry Jesus with us wherever we go so that we may love others as Jesus taught us to love.”

“In what ways does Jesus teach us to love others?” I asked them.

Then, I read a familiar passage from the Gospel of Matthew, a children’s version of Matthew 25.

“The Kingdom is yours,” I said. “Come. When I was hungry, you fed me. When I was thirsty, you gave me a drink of water. You welcomed me when I didn’t know anyone. When I needed clothing, you gave me some. You took care of me when I was sick and visited me in prison.”

“That is how we love like Jesus wants us to love,” I told the children. “We love by taking care of other people, especially those who have less than we do, those who have no one else to care for them.”

I’ve been a priest for a little over nine years, and in that time, I’ve experienced moments of grace that are beyond anything I could’ve expected or imagined. One of those moments was getting to celebrate the Eucharist at the end of Vacation Bible School one summer with thirty children gathered around a makeshift Altar table.

I believe children instinctively know what’s going on when we receive the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist. They may not be able to articulate it, but they know something special is happening. They may not seem overly interested in what’s going on, but the Holy Spirit is present. God shows up when we gather around the Table.

But, God does more than show up.

God uses simple things like bread and wine to show us how to live as Jesus lived. God uses bread and wine to form us into the Body of Christ and to give us the spiritual food we need to continue the journey.

So, back to my questions from before.

What do we do when we feel tired and helpless, like the weight of the world is too much to bear? How do we walk in love when we feel like we have no more love to give?

I think the answer is in our lesson today from John’s Gospel when Jesus says to the crowd, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

When we feel lost or afraid, we hold on to Jesus. When we feel like we have nothing left to hold on to, we come to the Table to be fed. We remember that there’s nothing in this world, nothing other than Jesus, that can fill us with what we truly need for the life to which we’ve been called.

It’s the reason why the Eucharist is seen as our principal act of worship in the Episcopal Church and why it lies at the center of everything we do as a community of faith.

The abundant life to which we’re called by God is one of self-giving, sacrificial love and a commitment to serve God’s people. But, it isn’t easy, and we can’t go about this work alone. We need to be strengthened and renewed in our walk with Christ. We need Jesus to be present in our lives and to fill us with that spiritual food which only he can provide.

I want to leave you with some words that’ve been a comfort to me over many years, words of invitation to communion from the Iona Community, which I’ve used from time to time in my own ministry as a priest.

Listen to these words. Carry them with you, and remember them, especially in those moments when it feels like God’s call to walk in love feels like too heavy a burden to bear.

“This is the table, not of the Church but of 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 Christ who invites you to be known and fed here.”

Amen.

A Sermon for the First Sunday after Pentecost: Trinity Sunday (Year B)
May 26, 2024

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.

Several years ago, when I was in my first year of seminary, there was a short video that started floating around on Facebook right around St. Patrick’s Day entitled, “St. Patrick’s Bad Analogies.”

The video—which became quite popular, especially among those of us studying to be priests—features two, cartoon Irishmen having a serious, theological conversation with a talking icon of St. Patrick.

Yes, you heard me correctly. They were having a conversation with an icon—you know, those images of saints we often hang on our walls and use in our prayers. If that’s hard to imagine, you’ll just have to trust me and then go and watch the video for yourself. It’s still available on YouTube, by the way.

I would describe the video as “serious” because the two Irishmen throw out a lot of technical, theological language that no one really understands, but “serious” may be too generous of a word to describe it. It’s actually quite funny and a little “off-color” at times, but it’s used to illustrate an important point about the Trinity—our fundamental belief, as Christians, that God co-exists in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Legend has it that, many years ago, St. Patrick used a shamrock, or three-leaf clover, to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity when he was first introducing Christianity to the people of Ireland. So, it makes perfect sense that the creators of the video would use a conversation between two cartoon Irishmen and a talking icon of St. Patrick, holding a three-leaf clover, to convey the deep, theological mystery that is the Holy Trinity.

So…if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I want to share with you a portion of the conversation that these three characters have in the video.

***

At the beginning, the two Irishmen—in their thickest Irish accents—say to Patrick, “Okay, Patrick. Tell us a little more about this Trinity thing. But remember that we’re simple people without your fancy education and books and learnin’, and we’re hearing about all of this for the first time. So, try to keep it simple. Okay, Patrick?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, “there are three persons of the Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Yet, there is only one God.”

The two Irishmen say to Patrick, “Don’t get what you’re saying, Patrick. Not picking up what you’re laying down here, Patrick. Could you use an analogy, Patrick?”

“Sure,” Patrick says. “The Trinity is like, uh, water and how you can find water in three different forms: liquid, ice, and vapor.”

One of the Irishmen yells, “That’s Modalism, Patrick!”

“What?” Patrick asks.

“Modalism. An ancient heresy confessed by teachers such as Noetus and Sabellius, which espouses that God is not three distinct persons but that he merely reveals himself in three distinct forms. This heresy was clearly condemned in Canon 1 of the First Council of Constantinople in 381 AD and those who confess it cannot rightly be considered part of the Church catholic. Come on, Patrick! Yeah, get it together, Patrick!”

“Okay,” Patrick says, “then the Trinity is like the sun in the sky where you have the star, and the light, and the heat.”

“Oh, Patrick,” one of the men says. “Come on, Patrick. That’s Arianism, Patrick!”

“Arianism?” Patrick asks.

“Yes, Arianism, Patrick. A theology which states that Christ and the Holy Spirit are creations of the Father and not one in nature with him—exactly like how light and heat are not the star itself but are merely creations of the star. That’s a bad analogy, Patrick! You’re the worst, Patrick!”

“Alright! Sorry,” Patrick says. “The Trinity is like, uh, this three-leaf clover here.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Patrick,” one of the Irishmen says. “You’re about to confess Partialism.”

“Partialism?” Patrick asks.

“Yes, Partialism. A heresy which asserts that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are not distinct persons of the Godhead but are different parts of God, each composing one-third of the divine.”

“And who confesses the heresy of Partialism?” Patrick asks.

“The first season of the cartoon program, Voltron, where five robot lion cars merge together to form one giant, robot samurai. Obviously!”

“I’ve never heard of Voltron,” Patrick says.

“Of course you haven’t. It’s not going to exist for another fifteen hundred years, now Patrick. Yeah, get with the program, Patrick! I mean, really, Patrick!”

“Alright, I’ll try again,” Patrick says. “The Trinity is like how the same man can be a husband, and a father, and an employer.”

“Modalism again!” one of the men yells.

“Alright! Then, it’s like the three layers of an apple.”

“Partialism revisited!”

“Fine!” Patrick yells. “The Trinity is a mystery which cannot be comprehended by human reason but is understood only through faith and is best confessed in the words of the Athanasian Creed, which states that we worship one God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity, neither confusing the persons nor dividing the substance, that we are compelled by the Christian truth to confess that each distinct person is God and Lord and that the deity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit is one, equal in glory, co-equal in majesty.”

The two Irishmen pause for a moment and then say, “Well, why didn’t you just say that, Patrick? Yeah, quit beatin’ around the bush, Patrick!”

***

I never get tired of watching that video. As funny as it is, it really does a great job at illustrating an important truth about God.

And, here it is: there are some things that are—and always will be—a holy mystery. There are some things that simply go beyond our ability to understand.

Now, that doesn’t mean we haven’t tried. All you have to do is watch “St. Patrick’s Bad Analogies” to be reminded of the fact that, for centuries, theologians and leaders of the Church have tried to explain the unexplainable through fancy doctrines and theological debates.

Now, I’m not suggesting that the work of theology isn’t important. Quite the opposite, in fact. Theology literally means, “faith seeking understanding.” It’s the way we go about trying to put into words what we believe to be true about God.

But, what I am suggesting is that our theology—our particular set of beliefs about God—always needs to be met, first and foremost, with the knowledge that God is God, and we aren’t.

There are simply some things that we’ll never understand, at least not on this side of heaven. There are some things that will always be a mystery—like the doctrine of the Trinity, which we celebrate on this day, the First Sunday after Pentecost. 

One of the great gifts of our Anglican heritage is a willingness to embrace the mysteries of God. It’s one of the first things I fell in love with when I discovered the Episcopal Church—knowing that it was okay for some things to remain a mystery—knowing that it was okay to have questions and even doubts about God and knowing that not every question could easily be answered with a simple, “black and white” response.

Coming to those realizations and knowing that I didn’t have to check my brain at the door when I walked into the church was hugely impactful for me, as it is for so many people who find their way here.

I like to tell people who aren’t very familiar with the Episcopal Church that Episcopalians are much more comfortable with asking questions than providing answers. I think there’s a lot of truth in that, and personally, I find it very comforting.

Over the years, it’s allowed me to experience God with a sense of wonder and awe, a freedom and peace of being able to simply sit in the presence of God without needing to have the answer to every question figured out. What a gift that is.

In our Old Testament lesson for today, the prophet Isaiah describes a vision of God, sitting on a throne in the temple, surrounded by heavenly beings who are praising God and singing, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

The part of this short lesson that really caught my attention as I read it this past week was the part where Isaiah describes the hem of God’s robe filling the temple, as if he’s only granted the ability to see one, small detail of God’s glory. It’s almost too great and wonderful to imagine.

In Isaiah’s vision, God is so big that only the hem of his robe can fit inside the temple. God is so big that not even the temple in Jerusalem—the holiest of holy places—can contain him.

I think this is an important lesson to remember in our own time because, no matter how hard we try, God will not be contained. God will not be contained inside a building. God will not be conformed to what we happen to personally believe about God. God will not be limited to what we can and can’t express with our fancy words and doctrines. God is God, and we aren’t. And God is in the habit of surprising us in the most beautiful ways imaginable, if we’re willing to embrace the mystery. Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year B)
April 21, 2024

Text: John 10:11-18

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.

Back in January of 2021, while I was still serving as a priest in the Diocese of Alabama, we had an investiture service for the newly ordained Bishop of Alabama, the Rt. Rev. Glenda Curry. This was only about ten months into the pandemic. So, most of the diocese—including myself—had to watch the service online.

Now, you may be wondering, “What exactly is an investiture?”

Well, in the Episcopal Church, when a new bishop is elected to serve as the head of a diocese, he or she is ordained and consecrated to the episcopate, which is just a fancy word for “order of bishops” (and where the term “Episcopal” comes from).

In most cases, the newly ordained bishop immediately begins serving as the Diocesan Bishop—like Bishop Russell did when he was elected to serve as the bishop of our diocese.

But, in some cases, bishops are elected and consecrated before the current bishop retires in order to allow a time of transition while both bishops are still serving. When this happens, the new bishop is referred to as Bishop Coadjutor, which is a fancy way of saying “bishop-in-waiting.”

The Investiture and Seating of a Diocesan Bishop takes place when a current bishop retires and a new bishop takes over. It’s a ceremonial “passing of the torch” and an opportunity for the Church to ask God’s blessing upon the ministry of the new bishop, who’s been called to lead and offer guidance and care to the entire diocese. It’s a huge weight and responsibility.

Part of the investiture ceremony of a new diocesan bishop is the handing over of the bishop’s crozier, or pastoral staff. If you were at church a couple of weeks ago during Bishop Russell’s visit, you saw him carrying his crozier.

This is one of the many symbols associated with the office of bishop. It symbolizes the bishop’s authority as chief priest and pastor of the diocese. If you look at it closely, you’ll notice that a bishop’s crozier has a very particular shape. The bottom end of the staff is straight and narrow, like a walking stick, but the other end of the staff is curved like a hook. You probably know where I’m going with all of this. The bishop’s crozier is actually a shepherd’s crook, which makes the bishop a shepherd and the entire diocese his or her flock.

When we came to the passing of the crozier during Bishop Curry’s investiture, the former bishop handed her the staff and said, “On behalf of the people and clergy of the Diocese of Alabama, I give into your hands this pastoral staff. May Christ, the Good Shepherd, uphold you and sustain you as you carry it in his name.”

It marked the beginning of Bishop Curry’s ministry as the new leader and shepherd of the diocese and was a beautiful moment to witness.

Being a shepherd isn’t an easy job. And, it isn’t a very glamorous job, either.

In Jesus’ time, shepherds pretty much kept to themselves and were seen as very low on the social ladder. Their primary job was to keep watch over their flock and to get them safely to wherever they needed to go.

It was dangerous work. Shepherds had to protect their sheep from thieves, robbers, and wild animals, and this is one of the reasons why they carried a shepherd’s crook with them wherever they went. The straight, narrow end of the staff could be used as a weapon to protect the flock.

The other end of the staff—the curved end—was used to gather the sheep and lead them to wherever the shepherd wanted them to go. Contrary to popular belief, sheep aren’t dumb animals. They can’t be pushed or prodded from behind to get them to go where you want them to go. They have to be led by someone they trust, someone whose voice they recognize. The shepherd goes ahead of the flock and calls to the sheep.

This is why Jesus says to the Pharisees in our lesson today from John’s Gospel, “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father.” When Jesus calls, we know his voice and follow because we love him and put our trust in him. He is the Good Shepherd, the one who leads us and guides us in our lives.

Today is the Fourth Sunday of Easter, also known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” Each year, on this day, we hear a lesson from John’s Gospel having to do with Jesus as the Good Shepherd—the one who lays down his life for the sheep.

On this day, we also hear one of the most popular psalms—the Twenty-Third Psalm, which begins with the familiar words, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters.” This is the psalm we go to when we think about Jesus as the Good Shepherd. He’s the one who comforts us when we’re lonely and afraid, the one who loves us and cares for us when we’re suffering or in pain. Jesus is also the one who leads us, the one who goes ahead of the flock and guides us to where he would have us go.

Sometimes, I think we forget that part of Jesus’ role as the Good Shepherd. Yes, Jesus comforts us and loves us, but Jesus is also there to lead us and guide us. Sometimes, that includes to places where we don’t want to go or places that challenge us to come out of our comfort zones in order to love and serve others. I can think of lots of examples in my life when I was perfectly happy and comfortable going about my business only to have Jesus come along and say, “Follow me.”

It’s no wonder, then, why Jesus, the Good Shepherd, is also our model for ministry in the Church and why people like bishops and other ministers are called and entrusted to be shepherds. It isn’t easy or glamorous work, by any means, but it is work that’s necessary in the building up of God’s Kingdom.

We need shepherds who are willing minister in Christ’s name, who are willing to go ahead of the flock and guide us, even to places where we may not want to go. We need pastors who are willing to sit with us when we’re hurting or in pain, but we also need pastors who are willing to help us get back on track when we’ve gone astray from the rest of the flock, to help us remember what the voice of the Good Shepherd sounds like.

Now, this is the point in my sermon when I tell you that you don’t have to carry a bishop’s crozier or wear fancy vestments or a white collar to be a shepherd or a pastor. All of us who share in the baptism of Jesus are called to be pastors in some way. The water of Baptism is our investiture. All of us are called to share the love of God in Christ with those who are suffering or in need. All of us are called to help lead the flock of Christ. 

Bishops serve as the chief shepherd of the diocese, and priests lead by serving as pastors of individual parishes. But, you don’t have to be ordained to be a pastor. All of us are called to be pastors in some way. All of us are called to look toward Jesus as our perfect example of what true ministry looks like.

My prayer for all of us is that our wills may align with that of the Good Shepherd, that we may look to Jesus, not only for guidance and comfort, but also as an example for what our own ministries might look like in the Church. May we, who share in the ministry of the Good Shepherd, be prepared not only to be guided to places that challenge us but also to lead others there as well, trusting that the way of Jesus will always bring us to greener pastures. Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter
April 14, 2024

Text: 1 John 3:1-7

See what love the Father has given us that we should be called children of God, and that is what we are. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

There’s a short passage from the Gospel of Matthew where the disciples come to Jesus and they ask him, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” Then, Jesus looks around a sees a child standing nearby. He calls the child to come over and sits the child down in the midst of the disciples, and he says, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child welcomes me.”

When you think about it, it makes a lot of sense that Jesus would use the image of a child as an example of how we’re supposed to come before God and serve God in our lives.

Children aren’t arrogant or overly concerned with themselves. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. In my experience, children tend to care for others before themselves. If you look at a group of children playing, they tend to care about serving others before they serve themselves.

Children play with reckless abandon. They’re care-free. They have curiosity and use their imaginations without stopping to worry about what other people will think.

Children also depend on their parents to keep them safe. They trust their parents to love them and care for them, no matter what.

Thinking back to my own childhood, the thing I remember most was being told by my parents, over and over again, that there was nothing I could ever do that would make them love me any less. And that continued into my young adult years and even now. I don’t get to see my parents in person very often because we live in different places. But I know—without a doubt—that what they’ve always told me is true. There is nothing I could ever do that would make them love me any less.

The reason why I’m sharing this with you today is because I think that the relationship between a child and a parent is a beautiful way of understanding our relationship with God and the unconditional love that God has for each of us.

As I was reading today’s lessons, the passage that really drew my attention this week was our lesson from 1 John, and in particular, the very first line: “See what love the Father has given us that we should be called children of God, and that is what we are.”

There is a word of reassurance in this passage, a word of comfort. It’s almost as if the author is writing, “Don’t be afraid. You are God’s beloved, and there’s no where you can go where God isn’t already there.”

1 John—along with 2 John and 3 John—are New Testament letters often attributed to John the Evangelist, the same person who wrote the Gospel of John, although most scholars agree that they were most likely written by a different author, writing in the style of John the Evangelist. It’s hard to be sure, but it’s obvious that whoever the author was, they drew inspiration from John’s Gospel.

The author of 1 John is an elder of the Church—someone who’s obviously been around a while—writing to a community of early Christians who are brand new to the faith and who are struggling to follow the way of Jesus in a world that doesn’t understand or know him. This letter was written probably written some time between the years 95 and 110—only 60-70 years after the death and resurrection of Christ. The Church at this point is still in its infancy. It has yet to spread to the far corners of the earth as it has today. And the pressures felt by those early Christians must’ve been extraordinarily difficult.

I would say that it’s hard to imagine living in a world that doesn’t know or understand Jesus. But, I would be wrong.

In the past two thousand years, the Church may have spread to the ends of the earth. There may be far more Christians now than there were in the first century. But, even today, we still struggle to follow the way of Jesus. We still feel the pressures of the world around us, telling us that we should only live and care for ourselves and that our worth is measured by material things.

But, that isn’t who we are. We aren’t children of the world. We are children of God. That is what we are.

The world will try to convince us that we are what we do and that our worth is measured by how successful we are in our work.

The world will try to convince us that we are how much money we make and that our worth is measured by how many homes we own or how many vacations we can afford to take each year.

The world will try to convince us that we are the perfect life we present to others on our Facebook pages and Instagram accounts and that our worth is measured by how many likes we get or how popular we are.

The world we also try to convince us that we are our worst mistakes and that we aren’t worthy of love or forgiveness.

But, dear friends, none of that is true. Because at the core of who we are, at the deepest levels of our being, we are children of God.

And, if we live into that identity, the world will not know us or understand us. We live in a culture that values individualism more than anything. The world teaches us to care only for ourselves and what we want. The world won’t understand why we live for Jesus because to live for Jesus is to follow a different path, to turn from sin and self-centeredness and to offer ourselves in God’s service.

So, we have a choice to make. Actually, on any given day, we have lots of choices to make. Will we live as children of God or live for what the world expects of us?

To live as a child of God means to go against the grain of what the world expects. As one author writes, “In a culture of individualism, we belong to a community—the Body of Christ. In an age that seeks security through violence, we seek solidarity, forgiveness, and peace. In a society that finds personal identity through social networking, we find our true name in baptism and in following Christ.”

As hard as it is to believe some times—and it is—God has claimed us as his own and set us free to experience abundant life in his Kingdom, abundant life as his children.

Often, we doubt our worthiness of God’s love and think to ourselves that it surely can’t be true because we’re constantly trying to live up to society’s expectations and who the world says we should be.

But, we have no reason to ever doubt our belovedness. From the beginning, we were created in the image and likeness of God as God’s beloved. Because of our Lord’s sacrifice on the cross and his victory over death, we have been redeemed with God, and marked and claimed as Christ’s own forever.

Because of Jesus, we can believe the message to be true in our lesson today from 1 John. We aren’t who the world says we should be. We are the beloved of God. “See what love the Father has given us that we should be called children of God, and that is what we are.” Amen.