A Sermon for the Sunday of the Resurrection: Easter Day
March 31, 2024

Text: John 20:1-18

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.

Where were you four years ago on Easter Sunday? I remember exactly where I was. I wasn’t at church. I wasn’t getting ready to lead worship or preach an Easter sermon.

It was April of 2020—about a month into the pandemic. I was sitting on my living room couch at our home in Alabaster, getting ready to watch the Easter Sunday service live-streamed from the National Cathedral in Washington, DC.

During the service, our Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry, preached a wonderful sermon, as he always does, and there was a virtual choir and orchestra made up of Episcopalians from all over the country who recorded themselves performing my favorite Easter hymn—the one we sang just a few moments ago, which begins with the words, “The strife is over, the battle done, the victory of life is won, the song of triumph has begun. Alleluia!”

That morning, our family watched the service on our television and listened to the beautiful music, and we did our best to muster up as much Easter joy as we possibly could, despite the circumstances. We even had a makeshift altar set up in the living room with candles and a colorful arrangement of flowers.

Normally, we would’ve invited family members over for the weekend to help us celebrate, but since times were so uncertain at the start of the pandemic, we decided to “play it safe” and not take any risks.

So, our family celebrated Easter alone that year, as so many families did. It was different than any other year, but then again, so were a lot of things.

At the time, we were in the middle of a statewide lockdown, and I was working mostly from home, trying my best to keep things running smoothly at our church in Alabaster.

At the same time, I was trying my best to be a full-time, stay-at-home dad and school teacher since all of the public schools were closed and teachers had no choice but to offer instruction online.

One memory that’s stuck with me from that time was a conversation I had with our son, Jude, just a few days before Easter, on Good Friday.

He probably doesn’t remember this, but his teacher had given him a reading assignment. She told him to choose any book he would like to read and then answer some questions about it. Since it was Holy Week and we were getting ready for Easter, Jude decided to pick out an Easter story.

He read the story by himself, and when he was done, he started answering the questions.

One of the questions was, “What would you change about the story to make it better?”

You can probably figure out where this going. Jude thought about it for a moment, and then he said, “I would change it so that Jesus didn’t have to die.”

I looked at him, and he looked back at me.

He wasn’t sad, but I could tell that he understood the weight of the story. It had a happy ending, of course, with Jesus being raised from the dead, but in order to get there, Jesus had to sacrifice himself. Jesus had to endure much suffering and die on the cross in order to be raised back up again. There would be no Easter without Good Friday.

I think Jude understood this, but it didn’t make the story any easier. For him, the happy ending of Jesus’ resurrection was wonderful, but the story would be so much better without the part about Jesus having to die on the cross.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame Jude for wanting to change the story. It’s difficult to read, especially for a child. It’s even more difficult to imagine what it must’ve been like for Jesus in those final hours of his life—the pain he suffered, how alone he must’ve felt.

How many of us, if we were given the opportunity, would change what happened to Jesus? How many of us would do everything we could to spare Jesus from the agony of the cross, even though we know what happens in the end?

Suffering is something we try to avoid at all costs, especially when it involves the people we love, and I think that’s probably why the church is a lot more crowded on Easter Day than it is on Good Friday.

We would much rather skip over the painful parts of the story and go straight to the joy of Easter. What we sometimes forget, though, is that Good Friday is part of the story, whether we like it or not. It can’t be forgotten or ignored. Without Good Friday, there would be no Easter.

Without Jesus going to the cross and dying for all of us, there would be no redemption—no promise of new life with God. This is the Paschal Mystery—the mystery we’re invited to experience each year during Holy Week and Easter.

The darkness of Good Friday gives way to the light of Easter morning. Jesus has passed over from death into new life, and we are changed forever.

Jesus said it this way, just a few days before his death. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

As followers of Jesus, we are part of the mystery as well. By joining with Christ in his death and resurrection, by renouncing the evils of this world and committing ourselves to the way of self-giving, sacrificial love, we too have passed over from death into new life.

It’s why we celebrate the sacrament of Baptism, which is part of why we’re gathered here today. In just a few moments, we’ll welcome three new members into the Body of Christ—three new children of God who will be sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. During this part of the service, we’ll join with those who are committing themselves to Christ and renew our own baptismal vows as well.

I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Easter. I can’t think of a better way to proclaim the joy of resurrection than by receiving three new members into the Body of Christ and recommitting ourselves to following the way of Jesus.

Baptism isn’t just about those who are being baptized. It’s about all of us and the work we’re called to do as the Church in proclaiming the Gospel of Jesus Christ by word and deed. Baptism is an outward and visible sign to the world that this Jesus who was struck down and crucified has been lifted up and raised to newness of life. That’s something worth celebrating.

Good Friday may be part of the story, but it isn’t the end. We know what happens on the third day, and we know what it means for those of us who follow Jesus.

On the third day, something happened that no one thought was possible. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene discovered that the tomb where they had laid Jesus’ body was now empty. Jesus was risen. Death was put to flight, and love lived once again.

If we truly believe that, dear friends—if we truly believe that death has been defeated once and for all, then we have no reason to ever doubt that God is with us. If we truly believe that Christ is risen from the dead, then we have no reason to be afraid and every reason to spread the Good News of our Lord’s resurrection to the world. So, let’s say it again…

Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

A Sermon for the Great Vigil of Easter
March 30, 2024

Text: Ezekiel 37:1-14

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

From the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel: “The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’ I answered, ‘O Lord God, you know.’ Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.’”

Each year, at the Great Vigil of Easter, we begin the service outside in darkness. The memory of Good Friday still lingers, but the hope of Easter has been kindled in the lighting of the New Fire.

Then, after we light the Paschal Candle and process into the Church, we hear sacred stories told from Scripture, recounting the history of our salvation, beginning with the story of Creation in Genesis and continuing with the story of Israel’s freedom from bondage in the Book of Exodus.

The purpose of this time is for us to remember.

To remember God’s great love for us and all of Creation. To remember how God called us into covenant with him and remained faithful, despite our broken and sinful ways. To remember how, time and again, God showed mercy and called us to repent and return to the Lord.

Through the prophets of Israel, God renewed our hope for salvation, which is why I have a particular love for this passage from Ezekiel that we heard earlier tonight.

In the prophet’s vision, he is guided by the Lord to the middle of a valley filled with dry bones. It’s a dark, desolate wasteland filled with brittle, dried up, human bones—too many to number. Ezekiel doesn’t just stand in one place. The Lord God leads Ezekiel through the valley where he notices that these bones are very dry. We don’t know how long they’ve been there, but we know that it’s been a very long time.

And, after God shows him this vast valley full of dry bones, he asks Ezekiel, “Mortal, can these bones live?”

Ezekiel shakes his head. He couldn’t possibly know the answer. Only God knows whether or not these bones can be restored.

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

It’s a renewed promise to the people of Israel.

It’s God’s way of saying through the prophet, “You who have been in exile for so long and held in captivity in Babylon—you whom I love—you will be restored and brought back to your home in the land of Judah. I will breathe my spirit over you, and you shall live once again.”

In my mind, this story is a beautiful reminder and a sign to all of us that, even in the midst of death and despair—even when it feels like we’re walking through the valley of dry bones—there is always hope for new life.

God has the power to breathe new life into what was considered lost and hopeless. And, on this night especially, we’re reminded that God has the power to raise up that which was cast down.

God took what happened to Jesus on Good Friday and made a way for us to be reconciled with him forever.

Because of our Lord’s sacrifice on the cross and his victory over death, there is no power—in heaven or on earth—that can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Sin and death have been defeated once and for all, opening up for us the way of freedom and eternal life with God.

That’s what this night is all about. It’s about victory. It’s about the light of God’s love overcoming the darkness. “This is the night,” as we heard earlier in the words of the Exsultet, “when all who believe in Christ are delivered from the gloom of sin, and are restored to grace and holiness of life. This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.”

So, back to the question that the Lord asked Ezekiel when he showed him the valley of dry bones. “Mortal, can these bones live?”

Because of Jesus, we already know the answer, and we never have to ask the question again. Now and forever more, “Yes, Lord! These bones can surely live.” Amen.

A Sermon for Good Friday
March 29, 2024

Text: John 18:1-19:42

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

Last month, I—along with a few members of our parish—traveled south to Daphne, Alabama, for the annual convention of our diocese. We had a wonderful time, and while we were there, we had the opportunity to reconnect with old friends and meet new people and to hear some wonderful presentations on evangelism and Christian formation.

On the last day of the convention, during the closing Eucharist, our bishop preached a sermon and shared a story that I’ve been thinking a lot about ever since.

He could tell it much better than I can, but it basically goes like this…

In his former life, before going to seminary and becoming a priest, the bishop worked as an architect, and part of his job was going and interviewing with potential clients to try and get work.

One of his strangest meetings was with a church.

This church was incredibly popular and successful, and they had grown so much that they needed to build a new building to accommodate all the new people who were coming to worship.

So, the bishop interviewed for the job.

This church was so prosperous that they decided to hire an outside consultant to come in and tell them what they needed to include in the new building.

So, this consultant came in and surveyed the people, and they came up with three recommendations for the new building.

Number one. Put cushions in all the chairs. No pews, only chairs…with lots of cushion.

Second, include lots of technology, and spare no expense. Screens, speakers, all the works.

And their third recommendation. Do not put a cross anywhere in the building. Because apparently, the people they surveyed felt the cross wasn’t pleasant to look at every time they went to church and they thought it was a bit outdated.

When the bishop said those words, my jaw dropped.

And you could hear groans coming from the congregation. For a group of Episcopalians, the idea of not including a cross in a church speaks completely against what we know to be true about Jesus, the one who said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

Now, I don’t know whether or not this church actually followed through with it.

But, just the idea of not including a cross—the symbol of our Christian faith—in a church should cause us to pause and wonder why.

This isn’t an isolated occurrence, either.

I recently came across an article from 2018 written by an Episcopal priest from the Diocese of Louisiana, who wrote about a time when he once returned home and went to the church he used to attend during college breaks.

He noticed that the wooden cross on the front lawn had rotted at the base and fallen down, and when he asked the pastor when it was going to be put back up, the pastor responded, “We’re not going to do that. The cross is such a negative image for so many people. We’ll find something more positive to focus on, instead.”

Like with the bishop’s story, I was stunned when I read those words.

Dear friends, if all people see when they look at the cross is an instrument of pain and death, then we have a serious problem. If the only thing people feel when they look at the cross is sadness and despair, then we haven’t done our job as a Church. I’m not talking about just St. Mary’s. I’m talking about the Church as a whole.

As Christians, we know better. Or, at least we should. We know that the cross isn’t just a sad reminder of something that happened two thousand years ago on a hill outside of Jerusalem. It’s a symbol of hope that’s endured for centuries—a reminder for all of us that, through Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross, salvation has come to the whole world.

The cross isn’t something we should ever be ashamed of because we’re afraid it might make people feel uncomfortable. It’s not something we should ever hide or take down in order to make people feel better about coming to church or belonging to the Christian faith.

The cross is something we should share because we know its true meaning and power. It’s something we should share because we who have been baptized into the death and resurrection of Christ know that the way of the cross is the path that leads to abundant life with God.

Paul wrote about it this way in his first letter to the Corinthians: “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

Because of God’s great love for the world, he took an instrument of death and turned it into the means of our salvation. Because Jesus was willing to endure the pain and agony of the cross and to give up his life, we have been reconciled with God. The powers of sin and death have been defeated once and for all, and we never have to live in fear again.

And, that’s the reason why we call this particular day, “good.”

Amen.

A Sermon for Maundy Thursday
March 28, 2024

Text: John 13:1-35

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

Ever since I joined the Episcopal Church, I’ve had a deep and abiding love for Holy Week. I’ve attended Holy Week services more times than I can remember over the past twenty years, and I’ve tried hard not to miss a single one. During my senior year of seminary, I actually did an independent study with one of my professors on the liturgies of Holy Week.

Because I love this time. I love all the special parts of the services that we only get to experience once a year. I love the unfolding drama that takes place between the events of Palm Sunday and Easter. I love the mystery of Holy Week and how this time invites us into a deeper and more meaningful relationship with Christ.

But this time is also deeply emotional for me and for so many others.

Every year, I get particularly emotional as we get closer and closer to Holy Week. I might be working on a sermon or a service bulletin, and I’ll just start to get choked up for no explainable reason other than the fact that this week is heavy—in more ways than one.

It’s heavy because we know what’s coming. We know that, before we can experience the joy of resurrection on Easter, we have to walk with Christ from the Upper Room, where he shared a final meal with his disciples, to the Cross, where he suffered and gave up his life, and then finally to the Tomb, where his body was laid, awaiting the day of resurrection.

This week is heavy because we love Jesus, and to be reminded once again of what Jesus went through in the final hours of his life is heart wrenching. The betrayal. The humiliation and the pain. The undeserved death.

This week is heavy because we don’t just listen to the story from the outside, as if we were reading a book or watching a movie. These liturgies—especially on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil—draw us into the story and invite us to walk with Christ as active participants in his death and resurrection.

So, in the spirit of being drawn into the story, I’d like for us to reflect on our Gospel reading for tonight, which takes place on the night before Jesus died.

I’d like for us to reflect on three characters in particular—three perspectives. You might think of this as a time of “holy imagining,” of wondering what it might’ve been like for these three individuals on that last night with Jesus and then wondering if we might have something to learn about ourselves and our relationship with Christ in the process.

So imagine, for a moment, that you’re in the Upper Room, seated around a large dinner table with Jesus and the others. In the time of Jesus, Jews didn’t sit up at the dinner table, as we do today. They reclined on pillows and cushions and were seated around a table that was low to the ground.

It’s night time, and the only light in the room is provided by candles and maybe a few oil lamps.

Supper has ended, and there’s still food left on the table—including the bread and the wine that Jesus blessed and shared, signifying his Body and Blood.

Then, all of a sudden, Jesus gets up from the dinner table, takes off his outer robe, and ties a towel around himself. Then, he carefully pours water into a basin and begins making his way around the table, kneeling down and washing the feet of his disciples.

He eventually comes to Peter.

At first, Peter is shocked by what Jesus is doing. He thinks to himself, “Disciples are supposed to wash their masters’ feet. Not the other way around.” At first, he refuses to have his feet washed by Jesus. But, then Jesus tells Peter that unless he washes him, he can have no share with him. Unless he allows himself to be served by Jesus, he can never learn how to serve others.

Peter’s pride gets in his way, at first. Or maybe…just maybe…Peter felt deep down that he wasn’t good enough to be served by Jesus or that he wasn’t worthy of such love and compassion.

Do you find yourself in Peter’s place?

Like Peter, do you struggle with letting pride and your ego get in the way of your relationship with God? Do you find yourself thinking that your way is better than God’s way? Do you find it hard to accept God’s unconditional love?

Then, as Jesus continues around the table, he eventually comes to the Beloved Disciple—the one whom Jesus loved. This disciple is unnamed in the Gospel of John, but most people agree that it was likely John himself.

The Beloved Disciple is the one who reclined next to Jesus while they were eating supper. He is close to Jesus. I would imagine that when Jesus comes to wash his feet, there’s a lot of confusion as to what’s going on.

Did Jesus know something he didn’t? Was something terrible about to happen?

Maybe he could tell that pressure was mounting outside in the city. Maybe he knew deep down that this was the last time he would share a meal with his friend and teacher. Maybe there was an air of sadness and mourning in the room.

Perhaps what began as a lively meal with laughter and conversation had quickly turned into something much more serious. Perhaps the Beloved Disciple was afraid for what was about to happen to Jesus and felt helpless in being able to stop it.

Do you find yourself in the place of the Beloved Disciple?

Do you find that fear is a stumbling block for you in your faith? Do you feel helpless in being able to serve Jesus—especially in those moments when the evils of this world seem to be closing in and getting stronger?

Finally, Jesus comes to the one who was about to betray him.

Yes. Jesus washed Judas’ feet, too.

Maybe Judas is the one we understand the least. Or maybe he’s the one we understand the most. How could he betray Jesus, knowing good and well what the religious leaders planned to do? How could he betray the one who loved him so much? Maybe it was greed. He was a thief, after all.

Or maybe he really didn’t understand what it was that Jesus was trying to accomplish.

Or maybe…just maybe…Judas was frustrated and angry. Maybe he was angry because Jesus didn’t live up to his expectations. He wasn’t the warrior king that he—or anyone else—expected in the Messiah.

We don’t really know exactly what caused Judas to turn his back on Jesus, but something did.

And even though his plans to betray Jesus were already in motion, Jesus washed his feet anyway, and he gave Judas every opportunity to repent and be forgiven.

Do you find yourself in the place of Judas?

We’ve all betrayed Jesus in our lives, in one way or another. Every time we allow our own self-centeredness to get in the way of our ability to serve and follow, we turn our backs on Jesus. Every time we fall short of our baptismal promises, we turn our backs on Jesus.

The Good News, dear friends—and it really is Good News—is that Jesus loves us anyway. Despite our shortcomings and failures, Jesus loves us more than we can possibly imagine and always leaves the door open for us to repent and be forgiven.

So, tonight, whether you find yourself in the story in the place of Peter, or the Beloved Disciple, or Judas—or maybe a combination of the three—be at peace in knowing that God is merciful and kind. Be at peace in knowing that, in the end, we really have nothing to fear because God is with us and will never leave us to walk this journey alone.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday (Year B)
March 24, 2024

Text: Mark 14:1-15:47

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

I love the way we worship in the Episcopal Church. One of the reasons why I love it so much is because it involves everyone, not just the clergy. It’s not just one person standing up in the center of the room, doing all the work. Sure, there are parts of the liturgy led by the priest, but there are also parts of the liturgy led by lay people. There are also parts that are spoken responsively, as a call and response between the priest and the congregation.

For example, if I say, “The Lord be with you,” you already know what comes next, don’t you? Let’s try it.

The Lord be with you. And also with you.

And, if I say, “Lord, have mercy,” you already know what comes after.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

You’ve proven my point. There are parts of the liturgy that we know by heart—words that’ve shaped our lives and become part of who we are as followers of Jesus. The Lord’s Prayer is another good example. These words have meaning. They help us understand who God is and how God is at work on our lives.

Several years ago, when I was a parishioner at the Church of the Nativity in Dothan, our priest taught the congregation a new call and response in one of her Sunday sermons. I’ll never forget it because it was one that I had never heard before and one that you won’t find in The Book of Common Prayer.

It’s very simple, and it goes like this. I say, “God is good,” and you say, “all the time.” Then, I say, “All the time,” and you say, “God is good.”

Let’s give it a try.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

The reason why I’m sharing this with you is because I want you to hold on to these words, today and in the week to come, as we join with Christ in his journey to the cross. If we truly believe that liturgy has the power to shape our lives and form us as Christians, then I want you to consider this a type of liturgy that you can return to, time and again, and be reminded that there’s never a time when God isn’t good, even in those moments when it feels like God has abandoned us or forgotten us.

I want you to hold on to these words as we hear the story of our Lord’s Passion and death unfold, as we bear witness to the beautiful parts as well as the excruciating parts.

So, let’s say it again.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words as we remember the final days and hours of Jesus’ life—how he made his way into Jerusalem, riding on the back of a donkey while crowds of people chanted, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words as we remember how shouts of praise from the people of Jerusalem quickly turned into calls for Jesus’ execution. Hold on to them as we remember the times we’ve betrayed Jesus’ trust and fallen short of God’s call.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words as we remember the upper room where Jesus shared a meal with his disciples for the last time and washed their feet, just before he was arrested and handed over to Roman guards. Hold on to them as we remember his prayer to God while sitting in the Garden of Gethsemane, saying, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.”

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words as we remember the betrayal of Judas and the denial of Peter. Hold on to them as we remember the times we’ve denied knowing Jesus in our own lives. Hold on to these words as we remember the humiliation and pain that Jesus endured, the whips and the crown of thorns, the nails piercing his hands and feet.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words as we remember Jesus crying out on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Hold on to them as we remember Jesus drawing his last breath and giving up his spirit.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words, dear friends, because they’re absolutely true. Despite the horror and humiliation of the cross, there was never a moment in Jesus’ life when God wasn’t good, and there was never a moment when God wasn’t near, weeping for Jesus and surrounding him with love. Hold on to these words because they hold a special meaning in our lives. If God was with Jesus in his suffering, then we know that God is with us as well, especially in those moments when we experience great pain and loss. We know that God is on the side of the oppressed and the persecuted, those who have been victimized and weighed down by the evils of this world.

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Hold on to these words because we know how the story unfolds, for Jesus and for those of us who have chosen to walk the way of love with Christ. In the end, there is resurrection and new and abundant life with God. In the end, darkness gives way to light, and death is defeated, once and for all. As we begin our journey through this most sacred time in the life of the Church, may we hold these words in our hearts:

God is good, all the time.
All the time, God is good.

Amen.

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
February 14, 2024

Text: Psalm 103:8-14

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

From Psalm 103: “As a father cares for his children, so does the Lord care for those who fear him. For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust.”

I don’t often preach on the psalms, but it’s not because I don’t think they’re important. It’s because most of the time, I feel drawn to preach on the Gospel lesson appointed for the day. The Gospels serve as our best and most reliable source for learning about the life and ministry of Jesus, which is why we consider them especially important and why most priests in the Episcopal Church tend to focus on the Gospel lesson in their preaching.

But the psalms offer us something different. The psalms offer us a window—a glimpse into the lives of an ancient people who put all their hope and all their trust in God. The psalms are a collection of prayers and hymns, expressing a wide range of emotions—everything from joy and thankfulness to pain and sorrow. I think that’s one of the reasons why the psalms resonate so deeply within us. They’re honest about the human condition and the struggle we all feel in trying to be faithful to God.

It’s likely that many of the psalms we use today in public worship were used in a similar way during the time of Jesus in temple worship. There are psalms of lament, expressing Israel’s grief and their hope that God will reach out and save them from their suffering. There are psalms of praise and thanksgiving, expressing Israel’s joy in knowing that God is a loving and merciful god. There are other categories as well, but mostly, the psalms can be divided into two categories: psalms of lament and psalms of praise.

It’s almost impossible to know exactly when the psalms were written and who wrote them, but we do know that many of the psalms, like the one we read just a few minutes ago, are attributed to King David from the Hebrew Scriptures.

Psalm 103, the one appointed to be read every year on Ash Wednesday, falls under the “psalm of praise” category. It begins with the words, “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.” You would think that the creators of our lectionary would choose a psalm of lament to be read on Ash Wednesday during the Liturgy of the Word—a psalm that expresses our plea for God to be merciful and kind, to rescue us from our wicked and sinful ways.

But instead, we’re given a psalm of praise, a psalm that expresses our thankfulness to the God who loves us more than we can possibly imagine, the God who is always ready to forgive us and welcome us back home again. I think this is an important detail to consider as we contemplate the significance of this day and the beginning of our journey through Lent.

Unfortunately, we often get Lent wrong, and we do so to our own detriment. I harp on this every year on Ash Wednesday. What I mean by that is that our common perception of Lent is that it’s a time when we’re supposed to just suffer in our own guilt and think about the ways we’ve been awful to each other and to God—like a parent who punishes their child by telling them to go and sit in a corner and think about what they’ve done to deserve such a punishment.

Another common perception of Lent is that it’s a time when we’re supposed to give up things that we enjoy, usually material things like coffee or sweets or Facebook.

But, when we think of Lent in this way, we run the risk of missing out on how incredibly life-changing it can be. One of my goals as a priest each year, around this time, is to offer a better and more helpful way to think about Lent.

It isn’t a punishment from God. It isn’t God sending us to “time out” for forty days and forty nights. It’s actually a time for us to draw closer to God, a time for us to be intentional in rebuilding our relationship with the one who created us, the one who loves us with no exception.

Overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt are useless in this work. Now, that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t acknowledge those moments when we’ve fallen short of God’s call or our need to repent and return to the Lord. But, if we spend all of our time in Lent focused on our sinfulness and what we’ve done wrong, we create a stumbling block for ourselves.

So, I want to offer you another way you might begin your journey through Lent this year.

I want to suggest that, rather than focusing on all the things you’ve done wrong, think about how much God loves you and cares about your life and your relationship with him. Instead of beginning this season with an overwhelming sense of guilt about things done or left undone, begin with gratitude.

Start by saying “thank you” to God.

Start by saying thank you, Lord, for your loving-kindness. Thank you, Lord, for your love and mercy. Thank you for your willingness to forgive us when we sin against you and each other. And, thank you for giving us the grace in our lives to be transformed, to change and draw closer to you.

Back in February of 2021, after almost a year of living through a global pandemic, a former professor of mine from seminary wrote an article about observing Lent. In the article, he asked the question, “Must we do Lent this year?” And the answer, of course, was “no.” No one was forcing us to do Lent—even during the height of the pandemic.

It’s a question that many of us might ask ourselves each year when we come to Ash Wednesday. “Must we do Lent this year? Life is already hard enough, and we’re too busy to take on one more thing. Must we do Lent?” And the answer now is the same as it’s always been. No one is forcing us to take the journey.

But, my question is, “Why wouldn’t we?”

Why wouldn’t we accept the Church’s invitation to observe a holy Lent? Why wouldn’t we accept another opportunity to grow and seek new life with God, to be reminded each day of God’s unending love for us?

It’s true. Lent can be an emotional time, especially as we move closer and closer to Holy Week. We all know how the story of Jesus unfolds, don’t we? We know that he’ll go through much suffering and pain in Jerusalem before he’s finally sentenced to die on the cross. But, we also know that the story doesn’t end there. The story ends with joy and resurrection and new life. This is the journey we’re invited to take with Jesus over the next several weeks, a journey to rediscover who we are as God’s beloved children. I hope you’ll join me and accept the invitation. Amen.

A Sermon for the Feast of the Nativity (Year B)
December 24, 2023

Text: Luke 2:1-20

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

It’s been a tradition in our home most years to go and pick out a live Christmas tree for the holidays, usually right after Thanksgiving so we can get one that’s been freshly cut. When we lived in Virginia for a short time, we even ventured out to a local, Christmas tree farm and cut down our very own tree that we got to pick out ourselves. In recent years, we’ve had to settle for going to a place like Lowe’s or Home Depot to get a live tree, which is exactly what we did this year.

The weekend after Thanksgiving, we loaded the truck and drove to the Lowe’s in Enterprise, where we searched through piles of wrapped up Frasier firs before we finally found the tree we liked the most. The person who was helping us at the store trimmed off the bottom of the trunk and wrapped it up in plastic netting, and we brought it back home to Andalusia.

When we got back home, we left the tree in the garage and put it in water so that it would stay fresh until it was time to bring it inside and decorate it.

A few days passed, and we finally decided it was time to decorate the Christmas tree. So, we  brought it inside, took off the plastic netting, and let the branches fall naturally into place.

And, then disaster struck!

In a scene that could’ve easily been part of some Christmas comedy, what seemed like half of the needles on this tree fell right onto the floor in front of us. It reminded me of that scene in A Charlie Brown Christmas when Charlie Brown and Linus go to the Christmas tree farm and find that tiny little tree with barely any needles left on the branches.

Needless to say, we were all shocked by what happened. All we could do was stand there in disbelief, with our eyes wide open, wondering what to do next.

“Do you think we should we throw this one out and try to find another live tree?” I asked Chelsea. “Or, should we go out and get an artificial tree to replace it? Or, should we just keep the one we’ve got and make the best of it?”

Well, in case your wondering, we decided to keep the half-dead tree. We put lights on it, and decorated it with ornaments the best we could, being as careful as possible not to touch any of the branches to preserve as many needles as possible.

I’d like to say that I handled the situation well, but looking back on it, I know I could’ve handled it better. It was disappointing, to say the least, because in my mind, I wanted it to be this special moment for our family, but instead, decorating the Christmas tree this year turned out to be more of a chore than anything else.

And, I think I know the reason why.

Looking back on the situation, I can recognize it now for what it was—a great example of what happens when we allow our unfulfilled expectations to prevent us from enjoying the present moment.

I don’t know about you, but I tend to have high expectations when it comes to Christmas. I want it to be perfect every year, and in order to do that, I have a checklist of things that have to get done before December 24th—

Pick out the perfect Christmas tree.
Decorate the house, inside and out.
Bake the Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses.
Watch all of the must-see Christmas movies.
Design and mail the Christmas cards.
Pick out and wrap all the presents.
And the list goes on and on.

Why is it that we put so much pressure on ourselves each year to have the perfect, Hallmark-quality Christmas? In a time when we should be focused on the true meaning of the season, why is it that we tend to load ourselves down with so many extra things to do?

There are probably more reasons than we can count.

But, I can tell you why I do it. I do it for my family. I do it because, more than anything, I want my family—especially our children—to have the best Christmas possible and to have memories of this time that they’ll be able to look back on for years to come and share with their own children.

I also want them to know how important it is that we take time to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Unfortunately, it’s that last little bit—the Jesus part—that often gets lost in the busyness of the season.

We rush through the four weeks of Advent, struggling to keep up with our growing list of things to do, and when Christmas finally does arrive, we hear the beautiful story of the Nativity that we all love so dear—the same story we heard just a few moments ago from Luke’s Gospel.

Sure, we talk about the birth of Jesus, and we put on cute, Christmas pageants at church. But, that’s about it. We rarely spend much time at all talking about the real significance of why Jesus came to live among us in the first place.

We don’t spend nearly enough time talking about the significance of the Incarnation—our fundamental belief as Christians that God sent his only Son to be born among us, to live and die as one of us, to lead us to the truth of who God is, and to save us from the power of sin and death.

The story of Jesus’ birth is more than just a cute tale about angels singing, “Glory to God,” and shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night. It has real meaning for our lives as Christians and should be seen as a reminder for all of us that our lives are wrapped in the story. It’s not just about a single event that happened in history over two thousand years ago.

We continue to give birth to Jesus in our own lives—to make the love of God in Christ Jesus known to the world through our words and actions.

Jesus came to live among us, not to be served but to serve, and to teach us to do the same. He came not to be loved and worshiped but to love others and to show us how to do the same. Jesus came not to rule with an iron fist like other rulers but to show the world that the Kingdom of God begins with mercy and forgiveness.

In every aspect of his life on earth, Jesus showed us the perfect example of what the self-giving, sacrificial love of God looks like.

And that’s why, dear friends, in the words of St. Paul, “at the name of Jesus, every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

Jesus is the reason we’re gathered here tonight in this place of worship.

He’s the reason for all of it—the music, the candles, the flowers, the greenery, the pageantry—all of it. Without Jesus, there would be no reason to celebrate this night.

Christmas isn’t about finding the perfect Christmas tree or having to complete everything on our to-do-list before December 24th or buying the perfect Christmas gifts for our loved ones. It’s about acknowledging the fact that we’ve already received the greatest gift we could ever hope to receive in Christ Jesus. It’s about making room in our lives for Jesus to come among us and remembering that the light of Christ still burns deep in our hearts—a light that we’re called to share with others.

So, tonight, if you’re stressed about the things that still need to get done or the things you haven’t had time to do, find comfort in knowing that you’re exactly where you need to be. Find comfort in knowing that Jesus is here with us tonight. Find comfort in knowing that you don’t have to have everything marked off the check-list in order to have the “perfect” Christmas, because the truth, dear friends, is that every Christmas is perfect. Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent (Year B)
December 17, 2023

Text: John 1:6-8, 19-28

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

Several years ago—way back in 2006—an old friend of mine and former priest from college, Father Wells, wrote a children’s story about the life and ministry of a famous bishop who lived a long time ago, during the third and fourth centuries.

You may have heard of him before. His name was St. Nicholas.

And, in case you’re wondering, “Is that the St. Nicholas?” Yes, it is.

The story of Santa Claus began centuries ago in an ancient city known as Myra, which was located in modern-day Turkey. St. Nicholas was the Bishop of Myra, and in the Episcopal Church, we celebrate his feast day every year on December 6th.

Father Wells used to celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas each year with the children of St. Dunstan’s in Auburn. During the service, he would give the children chocolate gold coins, and in place of a sermon, he would share with them the wonderful story he wrote about St. Nicholas.

And, I want to share it with you today.

It is a children’s story, but it’s also a beautiful illustration of the kind of love we’re called to share with others as followers of Jesus, and I think it’s a wonderful reminder for all of us—especially as we move closer and closer to Christmas—that it’s much better to give than to receive.

***

THE STORY OF ST. NICHOLAS

Long ago, in a City far away, there lived a homeless boy with no Father, or Mother, or Brothers, or Sisters. The boy was all alone in the world. Early on Christmas Eve, the boy walked the crowded streets of the City. It was early morning, and he was cold and hungry.

He turned the corner and saw Angus Pennypincher, the Greedy Grocer, selling fresh oranges and red apples, roasted nuts and chocolate candies. They looked and smelled delicious! When old man Pennypincher looked away, the boy stuffed oranges and apples and nuts and candies in his pockets and ran down the street! “Stop, thief!” cried Angus Pennypincher. “Catch him! That red-headed boy has stolen my goods!”

Just then, the High Sheriff arrived, and the boy ran right into his arms. “That’s the one,” cried Pennypincher. “The red-haired boy! He is a thief! Arrest him! Arrest him!” The High Sheriff arrested the boy and threw him into the prison wagon.

Suddenly a tall man appeared, dressed in red, with big black boots and a shepherd’s staff. He was Father John, the Bishop of the City! The Bishop spoke sternly to the Greedy Grocer. “Angus Pennypincher, I will pay you for your trouble, but this boy belongs to God.” He placed three gold coins in Angus Pennypincher’s greedy hands.

Then the high sheriff let the boy go free. “Come with me, my son,” said the Bishop. “It’s Christmas Eve!” He began walking toward the Great Cathedral, and the boy hurried after him.

“I am Father John, the Bishop of the City,” said the tall man. “What is your name, my young friend?” “I am Nicholas,” said the red-haired boy. Father John asked, “And where do you live, Nicholas?” “I am an orphan,” said Nicholas. “I have no home.”

“Fear not, my son,” replied the Bishop. “You may come to live in the Great Cathedral. If you wish, you can work and study and grow up to serve God and the Church. Would you like that, Nicholas?”

“Yes, I would,” said Nicholas. “Thank you very much, Father John!” So, the homeless red-haired boy came to live in the Great Cathedral, where he was baptized and given his very own room behind the High Altar. Nicholas worked in the Sacristy, polishing brass and silver. He swept and mopped the Narthex of the Great Cathedral. He washed the stained-glass windows. He greeted the people, rich and poor, who came to worship God. In the cathedral services, Nicholas carried the brass processional cross.

In time, Nicholas became a scholar and a priest. Nicholas was a kind young man, and he never forgot the kindness shown to him by Father John.

Nicholas enjoyed visiting people, and he cared for the poor. He gave them food and clothing. At night, he would often return silently to the poorest homes and leave fresh oranges, red apples, roasted nuts, and chocolate candies on doorsteps and windowsills.

Great sadness came to the Cathedral one day. Nicholas was away, visiting the poor. The beloved Bishop, Father John, was dying. He called the other bishops and priests to his bedside and said to them, “I have had a vision from God. The first person who comes through my door will be Bishop!”

They turned toward the door of the Bishop’s bed chamber, and immediately Nicholas appeared before them. “Father John! Do not leave us!” cried Nicholas, with tears in his eyes. “God’s servant and fried has come!” said Father John. “Behold your Bishop!” Nicholas was very surprised and sad at the same time.

The bishops and people buried Father John in the Great Cathedral. The next day, they brought Nicholas to the High Altar and placed him in the Bishop’s Chair. Three Bishops from near-by cities laid their hands on his head and consecrated Nicholas the Bishop of the City.

The new Bishop of the City was given beautiful vestments—a red cope and miter, big black boots, and a shepherd’s staff carved of the finest wood. They also gave Father Nicholas a white horse, which he named “North Star,” for the star that leads travelers home.

Good Nicholas was a kind and loving Bishop. Throughout the year, he rode his horse North Star to visit the churches and people. And every night, Father Nicholas made secret visits to give fresh oranges, red apples, roasted nuts, chocolate candies, and gold coins to poor children.

Winter nights were cold, and snow fell in great drifts, but Good Father Nicholas wore a heavy cloak and fur cap over his red vestments to keep safe and warm. His beard grew long and white, for his red hair had turned to the color of snow. For many years, Good Father Nicholas continued to give unexpected gifts. Soon his good work spread far beyond the borders of the City.

At Christmas time, children everywhere began receiving fresh oranges and red apples, roasted nuts and chocolate candies, toys and cakes, gold coins and goodies.

The Verger of the Great Cathedral secretly helped Nicholas. He was a tiny old man with a long white beard. He gathered sacks from Weavers, toys from Carpenters, and cakes from Bakers in the City. Each night, the Verger loaded North Star with goodies for Father Nicholas to leave on doorsteps and windowsills without a sound or a whisper.

In different parts of the world, Bishop Nicholas became known as “Father Christmas” and “Saint Nicholas” and “Santa Claus” and “Sinter Klaas” and “Pere Noel” and “Grandfather Frost”—and so he is known to this very day!

***

I hope you enjoyed that story as much as I have over the years.

The reason why I wanted to share it with you today is because it isn’t just about St. Nicholas. It’s about what one person can do to make a difference in the lives of others and how acts of love and kindness and generosity can spread over time.

Think about it for a moment.

At the beginning of the story, Father John, the old Bishop, shows compassion toward Nicholas and provides him with food and shelter and a purpose in life. His kindness inspires Nicholas, who eventually grows up and becomes a priest and bishop himself and a symbol of love and compassion for the whole world. His actions inspire others to continue the work he began, and that legacy continues today—centuries later.

Sometimes, it’s easy to lose sight of what Christmas is all about, especially when we get wrapped up in that growing list of things to do during the holidays. But, the spirit of Christmas is the same as it always has been. St. Nicholas embodied that spirit in his desire to serve the poor and give to others.

Like Nicholas, we have the ability to embody the spirit of Christmas in our own lives and to inspire others with our words and actions.

This is part of our call as Christians—not to draw attention to ourselves in the things we say and do but to point others toward Jesus, the one true light.

At the beginning of our Gospel lesson for this morning, the author introduces John the Baptist with these words: “There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.”

John the Baptist understood his calling from God. He understood his role in preparing a place for Jesus to come into the world.

He knew that he wasn’t the Messiah but that one was coming after him who would bring salvation to all people. His role was to “testify to the light.”

I love that phrase.

It makes me think of St. Nicholas and how he would visit the poorest homes in the city at night, secretly bringing gifts to the children. Maybe it wasn’t just for the element of surprise. Perhaps, it was his way of testifying to the light—his way of saying to the world that the light always overcomes the darkness.

Like John the Baptist, Nicholas understood his calling. He understood his role as one who testifies to the light—not drawing attention to himself but always pointing others toward Jesus.

I think we all have our own special ways of testifying to the light.

Some of us are great with words. Some of us are better with acts of service. Some of us share the light of Christ through art and music.

I see it all the time here at St. Mary’s. I saw it yesterday at Rice and Beans as we gave away bags of food and coats and blankets to our neighbors in the community. I saw it last Sunday when members of the EYC went shopping for Christmas gifts for children in our community. I see it every time someone shows up to church, ready to volunteer for whatever needs to be done.

We do these things, not for our own glory or benefit, but to point others toward Jesus—to tell the truth of who Jesus is and to show others the same kind of love we’ve been given.

This is our calling, and there’s no better time to be reminded of that than now, as we make our final preparations for Christmas. Amen.

A Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent (Year B)
December 3, 2023

Text: Mark 13:24-37

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.

I came across an article on Facebook a few years ago that was written by an Episcopal priest from the Diocese of Missouri. Since it was close to the First Sunday of Advent, the title of the article immediately caught my attention. It was simply called, “The Waiting.”

In her article, the author wrote about an experience she recently had while waiting in traffic for fifteen minutes in order to get to a meeting at her church.

Since my family and I were living in the Birmingham area at the time, I could easily relate to the author’s experience. Living in Birmingham meant always having to plan ahead to get to where you’re going because you never knew if there was going to be an accident on the interstate or construction work going on. And, you could always count on rush hour traffic to add an extra twenty to thirty minutes to your trip.

We all know very well what it’s like to sit and wait in traffic, don’t we? We know what it’s like to yell at the driver in front of us who won’t speed up and go as fast as we want them to. We know what it’s like to get angry with the person who cut in front of us in order to get ahead in traffic. 

And, those of us from Andalusia know what it’s like to get frustrated when cars are backed up  on the bypass during the summer as people are trying to make their way down to the beach.

In her article, the author described those same feelings of frustration and impatience that we all get while waiting in traffic to get to where we’re trying to go. She also suggested that the season of Advent can help us slow down and take a breath during the busyness of the holiday season and to appreciate the present moment rather than worrying about all the things that need to get done in the days and weeks leading up to Christmas.

She wrote, “The irony of the fact that I spent a good part of yesterday submerged in Advent liturgy was not lost on me. It’s only a few days after Thanksgiving, but the Christmas season has descended upon us with a throb and clash of activity. Yet we Episcopalians stubbornly push back against the headlong leap into Christmas for another full month, observing instead the subtle discipline of waiting, of anticipation and patience in the face of instant gratification.”

I love that phrase the author used in her article. “The subtle discipline of waiting.”

To me, it captures so perfectly what the season of Advent is all about. It’s about slowing down and being intentional. It’s about waiting in hopeful expectation as our celebration of Christmas draws closer and closer, week after week. It’s also about preparing for that great day when Christ will return to be our judge and finally bring to fulfillment all of God’s creation.

The season of Advent is a wonderful gift and an important part of our tradition in the Episcopal Church. Through it, we’re invited to practice “the subtle discipline of waiting.”

But waiting is hard, isn’t it?

As Episcopalians, I think it’s especially difficult for us to wait because it contradicts everything else that’s going on around us during this time of the year. 

It’s difficult to wait when everyone around us is already singing “Joy to the World,” and we still have four weeks of Advent left at church before we start singing Christmas carols.

It’s difficult to wait when the commercial side of Christmas seems to get earlier and earlier each year. This year, stores were already busy advertising for Christmas and stocking their shelves with holiday items and decorations before Halloween was even over.

Now, I’m not suggesting that these things are right or wrong, and I’m not saying that we shouldn’t celebrate the holiday traditions we’ve come to know and love. What I’m saying is that it can be difficult for us to see the benefit of waiting when our culture teaches us that there’s really no need to wait—that we can and should have everything we want, whenever we want it.

As Christians, we’ve learned a thing or two about waiting, haven’t we? It’s really become part of who we are, especially when you consider the fact that the earliest Christians expected Jesus to return soon, certainly within their own lifetime. Yet, here we are. It’s been over two thousand years since Jesus walked the earth, and we’re still waiting for him to return.

In our lesson this morning from the Gospel of Mark, Jesus speaks to his disciples about the day of his return, saying, “But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.”

This isn’t the Gospel lesson we expect to hear on the First Sunday of Advent, is it? As the world around us is already celebrating the joy and excitement of Christmas, we’re sitting here in church talking about the Final Judgment.

This passage from Mark’s Gospel is full of alarming images and warnings from Jesus for us to “beware” and “keep awake,” for the Son of Man is coming again with great power and glory. It isn’t sparkly decorations and Christmas lights. It isn’t “Joy to the World” or “Silent Night.”

It’s Jesus saying to his disciples, “In those days, after that suffering the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”

That sounds scary, doesn’t it? I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do on December 3rd, is think about the end times.

I’d much rather jump ahead to the joy and festivities of Christmas, but the Church would have us do otherwise. The Church has set aside these four weeks of Advent for us to prepare not only for the coming of Jesus at Christmas but also for his coming again at the end of the age.

Jesus’ description of the Final Judgment in our Gospel lesson for today isn’t meant to scare us or intimidate us. But, it is a wakeup call. It’s meant to inspire us and fill us with the hope and urgency for the day of his return. It’s a reminder of God’s love for us, a reminder that God will never leave us and that one day, all of God’s creation will be restored.

Until that day comes, we wait, but we don’t wait for Jesus to come and fix everything for us. We use the gifts we’ve been given to prepare for his return.

We continue to do the work that God has given us to do as the hands and feet of Christ in the world. We continue to work for justice and peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being. We wait in hopeful expectation, keeping in mind that the Christ we find in the manger at Christmas is the same Christ we find in the homeless person on the street or the hungry person in need of a warm meal.

Yes, waiting is difficult. With all the darkness and evil in the world, it can be easy for us to get frustrated and impatient waiting for Jesus to return. We don’t want to wait any longer. We want so desperately sometimes to jump ahead to the ending—for Jesus to come back now.

But, there are gifts to be discovered in the waiting. We’ve been given the gift of time on this earth to join with Christ in his redeeming work, to carry the light of Christ with us wherever we go, and we’ve been given the gifts of grace and mercy to share with the world, to strive more and more each day to turn toward Jesus and to love others in the same way that Jesus taught us.

So, my invitation to you this Advent is this—

Be patient in the waiting, but also be eager for Jesus to return. Use this time in Advent to slow down and take a breath and think about your calling in Christ as we prepare to welcome the newborn King at Christmas, and let us all look ahead to that great day when Christ will come again to be our judge and to bring to fulfillment God’s dream of a world redeemed in love. Amen.