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.

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.