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.

A Sermon for the Feast of All Saints (Year A)
November 5, 2023

Text: Matthew 5:1-12

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

“Who lives? Who dies? Who tells your story?”

If you’re familiar with the world of musical theater, you probably recognize this popular refrain. It comes from one of my favorite musicals—one that’s become incredibly popular over the past eight years since it debuted on Broadway in the summer of 2015. Of course, I’m talking about the Tony Award-winning musical, Hamilton, which was written and composed by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, Hamilton tells the story of Alexander Hamilton, one of the founding fathers of our country, the first Secretary of the Treasury, and the creator of our national banking system. The show begins with Hamilton’s arrival in the British colonies only a few years before the start of the Revolutionary War and spans his entire life, culminating in his famous duel with Aaron Burr.

Now, unfortunately, I’ve never had the opportunity to see Hamilton in person, but I’m very familiar with the music. I can’t tell you how many times our family has listened to the original cast recording! It’s unique and unlike any other musical that’s ever been written. The story is told not only through dialogue but also through an interesting blend of hip-hop and rap and various other styles of music, opening up the world of musical theater to a whole new generation. Once you hear it for the first time, it’s hard to stop listening!

But, for me, what makes Hamilton even more compelling than the music is one of the central themes of the show—a theme found throughout the Scriptures as well: we all live; we all die; and our story continues through the people we know and love, the people who carry us with them in their hearts long after we’re gone.

At the end of the Gospel of Matthew, we see a good example of this in the Great Commission, which takes place not long after Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus meets his disciples on top of a mountain in Galilee, and as he’s preparing to leave them and ascend to the Father, he says, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

In his final moments with them, Jesus empowers his disciples to continue the mission he began, giving them the courage and strength they need to carry on and continue telling the story so that future generations will come to know who he is.

The final act in the musical, Hamilton, also captures this idea that we continue to “live on” through those who come after us. You see, the finale of Hamilton isn’t told from the perspective of the main character but through his wife, Eliza Hamilton, who shares with the audience all of the many things that she’s able to accomplish in her life after the death of her husband.

She keeps his legacy alive by sharing his story with future generations and by continuing to do important work in her own life. In the final moment of the show, the company sings the refrain, “Who lives? Who dies? Who tells your story,” encouraging the audience to ponder these questions as they leave the theater.

So, today, dear friends, I ask you to consider these same questions. “Who lives? Who dies? Who tells your story?” What stories do you want future generations in the Church to tell about you? What kind of legacy do you want to leave behind?

It’s good for us to consider these questions as we celebrate the Feast of All Saints and give thanks for all those who’ve come before us in the faith, guiding us with their wisdom and providing us with examples of holy living.

Some people refer to All Saints’ Day as the Church’s “memorial day,” but it’s actually a lot more than that. It’s also a time for us to consider how we might pattern our lives on Jesus and live more fully into our own sainthood.

We have special days throughout the Church year when we commemorate the lives of individual saints, well-known figures like the apostles, Peter and Paul; Mary, our patron saint; and Francis of Assisi; but All Saints’ Day is the day when we commemorate the lives of ordinary saints, people like you and me who’ve committed ourselves to living a particular way of life—the way of Jesus—which calls us to live with open hearts so that God’s love may flow through us and be made known to others.

The saints who’ve come before us have important stories to share. Some of those stories are about falling short and struggling to remain faithful. Some of them are about sacrifice and self-giving. In the past ten months, since I began serving as your Rector, I’ve heard lots of stories about the saints of St. Mary’s—people like George Proctor and Tammy Portemont and Kathy Kyzar, just to name a few. A lot of them have banners hanging in the Parish Hall next door, reminding us of the lives they lived and the legacy they left behind.

We also have important stories to share, stories that will surely be told long after our time on earth has come to an end and our banners continue to hang in the Parish Hall of this church.

Our lives are unique to us as individuals because of the stories we have to tell, and yet, as Christians, we’re also part of a single, ongoing narrative, one that began long ago with Jesus and the first disciples and one that will continue for generations to come. When we commit ourselves to Christ through the sacrament of Baptism, we add our own, individual stories to that ongoing narrative.

And, even though we all lead different lives and we all have different gifts to share, we’re joined together by that central story—the story of Jesus—the one who lived and died and rose again, the one who calls us to share in his death and resurrection through the sacrament of new birth.

Our Gospel lesson for this morning from Matthew—commonly known as the Beatitudes—offers those of us who have committed our lives to Christ words of comfort and reassurance as we continue to work for the building up of God’s Kingdom.

Jesus says to the crowd, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…” “Blessed are the merciful…” “Blessed are the pure in heart…” “Blessed are the peacemakers….” “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake…” “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you…”

Now, notice what Jesus doesn’t say (even though we like to pretend he does).

Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are you who have everything figured out in your lives.” He doesn’t say, “Blessed are you who have perfect faith in God all the time and never doubt.” And, he doesn’t say, “Blessed are you who do everything perfectly.”

The life of a saint isn’t about being perfect. Being set apart and called by God doesn’t mean that we have to have all the answers figured out or that we aren’t allowed to make any mistakes. Actually, I think it means quite the opposite.

Being a saint is about having the humility to realize that we don’t have all the answers and that we desperately need a savior to lead us and guide us to the truth.

It’s about being willing to show up for Jesus and to be transformed by the power of God’s love so that we can go out and change the world, even when the going gets tough. It’s about sowing seeds for God’s Kingdom so that future generations will be willing and able to continue in our footsteps.

In just a few moments, we’ll once again recommit our lives to the work of Jesus as we renew our baptismal vows, and as we do, let us remember the saints who’ve gone before us and consider how God is calling us to continue their legacy of sharing the Good News of God in Christ with the world. Amen.

A Sermon for the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21, Year A)
October 1, 2023

Text: Matthew 21:23-32

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, in September of 2016, a video was released online featuring our Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry. This was only about a year after he was elected to serve as Presiding Bishop, and it was before the world knew him as the charismatic bishop who preached at the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

In the video, Bishop Curry talks about the Jesus Movement. Now, this should come as no surprise to any of you who have heard our Presiding Bishop speak or deliver a sermon. He loves to talk about the Jesus Movement!

For the past eight years, everyone in the Episcopal Church has been talking about it. In fact, the phrase has become so popular among Episcopalians that it’s even shown up in our merchandise. Yes! You, too, can buy a bumper sticker that says, “We are the Episcopal Branch of the Jesus Movement.” 

But what, exactly, is the Jesus Movement?

We use that phase a lot, but I think it’s important that we talk about what it really means. In Bishop Curry’s video, he paints us a picture of what the Jesus Movement is by reflecting on an important moment that happens every week in our Sunday worship.

Slowly walking in the midst of the noise and busyness of Manhattan, the Bishop describes that moment in our liturgy when we stand and sing praises to God as we prepare our hearts and minds to receive God’s Word through the reading of the Gospel.

We stand, and we sing. The Gospel Book is held high as the procession moves from the Altar to the center of the Nave where the words and teachings of Jesus will be read in the midst of the people. And, as all of this is happening, everyone in the congregation turns in order to see the place where the Gospel will be proclaimed.

Quite literally, we turn toward Jesus, and in that moment, according to Bishop Curry, “the Church has become the Jesus Movement, with life re-oriented around the teachings of Jesus and around his very spirit— teachings and a spirit that embody the love of God in our lives and in this world.”

I love Bishop Curry’s message in the video, and I recommend that you go online and watch it for yourselves. It’s very short—only about four minutes long. All you have to do is go to YouTube and search for “Jesus Movement…Michael Curry.” You’ll be glad you did.

Often, when we hear the word, “movement,” we think about a group of people working together to make some kind of change happen in the world or a campaign focused on matters of equality or social justice. I think about the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s or the movement for women’s voting rights in the early part of the twentieth century.

But, that’s not the kind of movement Bishop Curry is talking about. It’s not a rally for social or political change. It’s a movement that’s been going on for thousands of years, a movement of the heart that we, as members of the Body of Christ, have been called to continue and share with the world in our own time and place.

The Jesus Movement is what happens when the people of God stand up and re-orient themselves toward the Gospel. It’s the path we’ve been called to walk as followers of Christ.

In the Episcopal Church, the way we worship prepares us for the work that God has given us to do when we leave this place. So, there’s a reason why we stand and turn our bodies to face the place of the Gospel. Not only is it a sign of reverence for the words of Jesus, but it’s also preparing us to stand and turn toward Jesus in our everyday lives and to get back on track in those times when we’ve fallen short of our call.

In the language of the Church, we have a special word for when we turn or re-orient ourselves toward Jesus, and it’s one that we don’t use lightly. We call it repentance. Repentance is what happens when we turn away from the things that are weighing us down or holding us back in our relationship with God and turn back toward Christ.

And, it’s not something we do once or twice in our lives. It’s an ongoing, life-long series of  mistakes and failures, of falling down and asking for forgiveness, of confessing our sins and making changes in our lives that will bring us closer to God. Thankfully, our God is a god of grace and mercy, and we’re given opportunities in our lives for true repentance, to turn from death to newness of life.

I think this is the point Jesus is trying to make in our lesson today from Matthew’s Gospel.

There are two parts to this Gospel reading. In the first part, the chief priests and elders of the people come to Jesus while he’s teaching in the temple and question his authority. This happens not long after Jesus arrives in Jerusalem along with his disciples. They ask Jesus, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?”

Well, Jesus knows exactly what these religious leaders are up to. They’re trying to trap him into a corner and publicly discredit him. If he claims his own authority, he’ll be seen as a fraud and false teacher. And, if he claims that his authority comes from God, he’ll be accused of blasphemy. It’s a dangerous situation for Jesus.

So, rather than playing the game of the chief priests and elders, Jesus turns the tables and asks them a question. “Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?”

The religious leaders begin arguing amongst themselves, carefully weighing each option. They finally decide that there’s no good answer that won’t expose them to public scrutiny. If they answer, “from heaven,” the people will ask why they didn’t believe in John the Baptist. And, if they say, “of human origin,” the people who regarded John as a prophet will revolt. Their only concern in all of this is maintaining their authority and status among the people.

So, rather than answering the question, they say to Jesus, “We do not know.”

Then, Jesus tells them a parable about a father and his two sons. In the parable, the father asks both sons to go and work in the vineyard. The first son initially refuses his father’s request. But, after some time, he changes his mind and goes to work.

The second son immediately agrees to do as the father has asked but later decides not to go. Jesus asks the chief priests and elders, “Which of the two did the will of his father?”

Without hesitation, they respond, “The first.” Jesus then says to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and prostitutes believed him; and even after you saw it, you did not change your minds and believe him.”

The nineteenth-century Danish theologian, Søren Kierkegaard, once wrote a spiritual reflection on this parable entitled, “Under the Spell of Good Intentions.”

In his reflection, Kierkegaard suggests that the most important lesson from the parable is not how to distinguish the difference between what is and what isn’t God’s will but to learn the importance of being faithful to the vows we make before God.

Kierkegaard writes, “The good intention, the ‘Yes,’ taken in vain, the unfulfilled promise leaves a residue of despair, of dejection. We do not praise the son who said, ‘No,’ but we need to learn from the gospel how dangerous it is to say, ‘Lord, I will.’”

The son in the parable, who quickly responded, “I go, sir,” and later rejected the will of his father, and the chief priests and elders, who turned away from God when they refused to accept the teachings of John the Baptist, are examples of how quickly our good intentions and unfulfilled promises can cause us to turn our backs on God.

The Good News, though, is that God grants us the ability to change our minds—like the other son in the parable who first said, “No,” and later changed his mind and did what his father asked. 

God grants us the ability to turn back when we’ve lost our way—to repent when we’ve fallen short. God knows that all of us are going to make mistakes from time to time, but even in those moments when we’re unfaithful, God is there. God isn’t done with us yet. There is mercy and forgiveness, and God is always ready to welcome us back home again. Amen.

A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19, Year A)
September 17, 2023

Text: Matthew 18:21-35

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.

Several years ago, when I was in my last year of seminary, I had the opportunity to take a class from a retired bishop named Mark Dyer. Bishop Mark, as we called him, was a beloved member of the seminary community, and any time he offered a class, students would jump at the opportunity to take it.

One of his favorite things to do in class was to tell stories from his his experience as a bishop in the Episcopal Church, and there’s one that I remember fondly.

It was a story about a prominent bishop within the Anglican Communion who was once invited to celebrate the Eucharist by the rector of a church.

Happily, the bishop accepted the rector’s invitation, but he had one stipulation. He told the rector that he would need a private room before the service began in order to prepare, and of course, the rector agreed to the bishop’s request.

The day of the service arrived, and when it was time for the service to begin, the rector of the church looked around and suddenly realized that the bishop was nowhere to be found.

So, he quickly went to the bishop’s room, and when he opened the door, he found the bishop lying face down on the floor with his arms stretched out on both sides. In the language of the Church, we call this “lying prostrate.” It’s a sign of humility and respect for God.

The rector told the bishop that he needed to hurry in order to make it back to the church in time for the service, but the bishop refused to go. “I’m sorry,”  he told the rector, “but you’re going to have to find someone else to celebrate the Eucharist. I have been hurt so deeply by someone that I can’t forgive him, and if I can’t forgive him, then I can’t celebrate the Eucharist.”

And that was the end of Bishop Mark’s story.

The point he was trying to make to the class was that, as Christians, we are a people who are called to seek forgiveness and reconciliation—not only for ourselves but also for the sake of the Church. When we don’t seek peace—when we don’t work to restore and mend broken relationships—it affects all of us.

This is why we take the act of confession seriously and why we practice it every week in worship. Before we share in the sacred meal, we must first be at peace with our brothers and sisters in Christ. 

This was the point I think Jesus was trying to make in our Gospel lesson from last week when he gave his disciples a list of instructions on what to do when conflict arises in the church—when one member of the church sins against another.

What it all boils down to is this: when another member of the church hurts you, don’t bottle it up or pretend it never happened. Don’t go to other people and talk about that person behind their back. Don’t retaliate against them.

Instead, go and seek peace with the one who hurt you. Hold them accountable for their words and actions, and let them know what they’ve done. By doing so, we can begin to heal and hopefully be reconciled with the one who hurt us.

In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus has even more to say about forgiveness.

Peter goes to Jesus and asks him, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus responds, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.”

You’ve got to love Peter. He thinks he’s impressing Jesus by suggesting such a large number. Forgiving someone seven times would’ve been seen as going above and beyond what was expected at the time.

But, Jesus shakes his head at Peter’s question, and says, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.” Some translations of the text say, “Not seven times, but, I tell, you seventy times seven.” What Jesus is getting at is that our willingness to forgive shouldn’t be limited to a specific number. 

And then, to drive the point even further, Jesus tells a story—this one about a king who forgives the entire debt of one of his slaves. This wasn’t just some ordinary debt. This was a debt beyond imagining—one that never could’ve been repaid in his lifetime. In the time of Jesus, it would’ve taken a common laborer 200,000 years to pay off the slave’s debt to the king. In his mercy, the king releases the slave and forgives his entire debt.

Well, not too much later, that same slave comes upon another slave who owes him money—100 denarii (the equivalent of 100 days’ wages)—and rather than forgiving the man’s debt, as he himself was forgiven, he has him thrown in prison until he’s able to repay him.

Word gets back to the king, and he isn’t too happy about the news. He summons the slave and tells him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?” In his anger, he hands the slave over to be tortured until he repays the entire debt.

Now…before you jump to any conclusions about this parable, I want to say this. The king in our story is not a metaphor for God.

And, the reason why I want to make that clear is because the God we worship, the God in whom we put all of our faith and trust, is not a transactional God. He doesn’t grant us mercy and forgiveness because of what we do, and he doesn’t punish us because of what we don’t do.

Our God is a god of grace and mercy, and he’s given us these gifts—not because we’ve earned them or deserve them—but because God loves us and wants us to be restored to fullness of life. God is always ready and willing to forgive us, and his mercy is everlasting.

And because of that, we too should be willing to forgive. That’s the point of the parable in today’s Gospel reading and what Jesus is trying to teach us. Because God has forgiven us and continues to forgive us when we fall short, we too should be willing to extend that same mercy to those who sin against us.

I know it isn’t easy.

There’ve been moments in my own life when I was so deeply hurt by another person that I was unsure of whether or not I would ever be able to forgive them. At one point or another, we’ve all felt like this.

We’ve all experienced deep grief and pain from people who’ve sinned against us, and often, the people who’ve hurt us the most are the one’s we least expect to hurt us. In moments like that, how do we begin to forgive? How do we seek peace with people who’ve hurt us so badly?

Well, I wish there was an easy answer. But, the truth is that forgiveness—like with most things that are difficult—takes a lot of time and patience. It doesn’t happen overnight, especially when we’ve been hurt so deeply. And, it takes practice—sometimes much more than we really want to give.

The alternative to forgiveness would be to allow the pain and hurt we’ve experienced to consume us and cause us to become bitter and resentful. And, when that happens over a long period of time, we begin to lose sight of who we are and who God has created us to be.

Forgiveness isn’t just about the person who’s caused us harm. It’s also about us and the freedom that comes with letting go of the anger and hurt we’ve kept bottled up inside. 

So, we keep practicing forgiveness, and then, when we fail, we get back up and try again. And, we keep practicing forgiveness until it becomes a little bit easier each time. Sometimes, it’s a long process—much longer than we would like—and even when we think we’ve totally forgiven someone for something they did a long time ago, those feelings of anger and resentment come rushing back, and we find ourselves in need of forgiving again.

This is hard work, but it’s also important work.

So, while we’re at it, we should also remember to be gentle with ourselves in the process. God knows we aren’t perfect and that we’re striving each day to live more faithfully as he’s called us to live. And, God knows that we’re going to fail and that there will be moments when our hearts are just too broken to be able to forgive and begin to heal. And, in those moments, there’s always grace.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Sermon for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18, Year A)
September 10, 2023

Text: Romans 13:8-14

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.

Where were you on 9/11? It’s been almost twenty-two years since that terrible day back in September of 2001, but in some ways, it seems like only yesterday.

Like with most traumatic events we experience in our lives, we can still remember vivid details of that day. I remember exactly where I was when I first heard the news that the World Trade Center had been hit. At first, people assumed that it was a small, personal aircraft. It wasn’t until later in the morning, after the second tower had been hit, that we realized the truth of what was happening. Our country was under attack.

I was living with my grandparents in Andalusia at the time, and I had just started my first semester at LBW. That Tuesday morning, I got up and got ready to go to my first class of the day, and as I walked the into main education building, I noticed, as I walked by each classroom, that people were gathered close together around the television.

At first, I thought to myself, “What in the world is going on?” “Why is everyone starting at the TV?” It wasn’t until I got to my classroom that I learned the news.

Well…needless to say, we didn’t get much accomplished that day in any of my classes. We just kept watching the news, staring in disbelief and waiting to see what would happen next.

I remember other details of that day as well.

I remember sitting on the stage of the auditorium in the Dixon Center at LBW, praying that we would be safe in our little corner of the world. Looking back on that day, it seems silly to think that Andalusia would’ve been the target of a terrorist attack, but at the time, the fear was real. The people responsible for 9/11 had accomplished their goal. People everywhere were scared for their lives.

I remember going home that day from class and hugging my grandmother for a lot longer than I normally did. She gave the best hugs.

I remember calling my mother and just weeping—not only for all of the people who had died in the attacks—but also out of fear for our country. What was going to happen next? Will there be more attacks and more innocent lives lost? Does this mean we’re going to war? There were so many questions that day and so little answers.

I remember being glued to the television for the rest of the day and night, watching the news and waiting to see the latest headlines and updates. Life as we knew it came to a standstill, and all we could do was watch and pray.

Where were you on 9/11?

We all have stories from that day and vivid memories we’ll carry with us, probably for the rest of our lives—memories of people scared and suffering, wondering, “Where is God?”

But, there are other memories of that day I’ll carry with me as well. Images of heroes who, instead of running away from danger, ran toward it. Images of first responders—police officers, firefighters, paramedics, and probably so many others we don’t even know about—who risked their own safety and well-being in order to help those in need.

Many of them made the ultimate sacrifice that day, giving their lives in the service others, and each year on the anniversary of 9/11—which we’ll commemorate tomorrow—we pause to remember their bravery, to remember how, in the midst of darkness, their heroic acts of service served as a beacon of hope for the world and an example of love overcoming hate, of light overcoming the darkness.

Just a few days after 9/11, the late Rev. Billy Graham, in a prayer service at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., had this to say: “The lesson of this event is not only about the mystery of iniquity and evil, but second, it’s a lesson about our need for each other. What an example New York and Washington have been to the world these past few days! None of us will forget the pictures of our courageous firefighters and police, or the hundreds of people standing patiently in line to donate blood.”

It’s true.

Even though 9/11 will forever be remembered as a tragic day in the life of our nation—and the world—I also see it as a sign that, even when all hope seems lost, God is there, working to restore and build up that which has been lost and torn down.

God never abandoned us on that terrible day. God was there, present in the brave men and women who showed up in the midst of the chaos and confusion, the pain and the suffering.

As so, it’s good for us, as a church, to remember their sacrifice and offer our thanks to God for their willingness to serve others.

And it’s good for us to remember and give thanks to God for all first responders everywhere, for those who serve in ways that we may never understand or hear about, for those who work while others sleep, for those who put themselves in harm’s way to be a force for good in the world when others seek to do harm.

That’s the purpose of this day, which we’re calling “First Responders Sunday.” This is not a church-wide feast day in the Episcopal Church or a special day of remembrance. This is something that we, as a parish at St. Mary’s, have decided to do to show our appreciation for those who serve our community and to ask for God’s blessing to be upon them in their work.

As I was preparing for my sermon this past week and reading the lessons appointed for today, there was one verse in particular that I thought was especially appropriate, and it comes from our lesson from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans.

Paul writes, “The commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not steal; You shall not covet’; and any other commandment, are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

These aren’t Paul’s words. These are the words of Jesus.

Paul, in this instance, is merely pointing others to them and reminding the church in Rome that the truest form of love—the love that God calls us to share with others—isn’t an emotion or a feeling, not that those are bad things.

True love is an act of service. Loving one’s neighbor as one’s self means putting the needs and concerns of that person before our own. Love is self-giving and sacrificial, never selfish.

And, this is what Paul means when he goes on to write, “put on the Lord Jesus Christ.”

As Christians, in all that we say and do, in the way we treat friends and strangers alike, we are to “put on the Lord Jesus.” We are to clothe ourselves in the love of God and imitate Christ in walking the way of the Cross, trusting that God will be with us wherever our journey may lead.

On this day, we give special thanks for our brothers and sisters who put themselves in harm’s way every day in order to serve and protect others. We give thanks for those who’ve laid down their lives while serving in the line of duty. And, we look to all of them as an example of what it means to love as Christ has called us to love. We may not all be called to serve as police officers, firefighters, or paramedics, but we are called to a life of service through our faith in Christ Jesus, who said to his disciples, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Amen.

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14, Year A)
August 13, 2023

Text: Matthew 14:22-33

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

There’s an old story that preachers love to tell—one that some of you may have heard before. It’s been around for a long time, and there’ve been many versions of it told. But, it basically goes like this…

Once upon a time, there was a terrible storm that came through a small town, and the downpour quickly turned into a flood. As the waters rose, a local preacher knelt down in prayer on the church porch, surrounded by water. As he looked around, he noticed that many people from around town were trying to evacuate by boat.

One of them came up to the preacher in a canoe and said, “You better get in, Preacher. The waters are rising fast, and if you wait too much longer, you might not make it.”

“No,” said the Preacher.” “I have faith in the Lord. He will save me from the flood.”

The man in the canoe shook is head and paddled away.

Still, the waters rose even higher, and the Preacher decided he better climb up on the balcony of the church. By this time, he was wringing his hands in supplication when another person from the town came by on a motorboat.

“Come on, Preacher! We need to get you out of here. The levee’s gonna break any minute, and if you wait too much longer, you might not make it.”

Once again, the Preacher was unshaken. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “The Lord will save me from the flood.”

“Suit yourself,” said the man in the motorboat, as he continued on his way.

Not much longer after that, the levee broke, and the flood rushed over the church until only the steeple remained above the water. The Preacher climbed up to the very top, clinging to the cross, when, all of a sudden, a helicopter descended out of the clouds, and a state trooper called down to him through a megaphone.

“Grab the ladder, Preacher! This is your last chance!”

But, once again, the Preacher insisted that the Lord would deliver him from the flood. So, the pilot took off to go and save as many people as he could.

Well…as you might’ve guessed, the Preacher drowned and went to heaven.

When he arrived, he went and spoke with God and asked the Almighty, “Lord, I had unwavering faith in you. Why didn’t you deliver me from the flood?”

God shook his head and told the Preacher, “What more did you want from me? I sent you a canoe, a motorboat, and a helicopter.”

It’s a funny story, isn’t it?

I just love it—not only because of the humor—but also because there’s a lot truth in it. I think this story has something to teach us about God and the way God has a tendency of showing up in our lives in ways that are surprising and unexpected.

The Preacher in the story is convinced that God is going to somehow reach down from heaven, pick him up, and deliver him safely from the flood. But, what he fails to realize—over and over again—is that God isn’t just waiting around up in heaven, choosing whether or not to intervene. God is already there, working in the lives of the people who are trying to save him.

The Preacher can’t see it, though, because he already has his mind made up about how God is supposed to respond. He believes, without a doubt, that if he has enough faith, God will save him from the flood with his mighty power.

In my experience as a priest, I’ve met a lot of people who fall into the same line of thinking as the Preacher in our story—people who are convinced that, if they have enough faith, God will reach out and save them in some miraculous way.

Now, I’m not saying that miracles don’t happen. I believe miracles happen every day, sometimes in ways that are beyond our ability to comprehend. But, I also believe that God is God and that God has the power to act in whatever way God chooses.

And, probably more times than not, the way God chooses to show up in our lives is through other people whom God has empowered and called to serve. A really good example of this in recent memory is the way people reached out and served others during the pandemic, especially those who worked on the frontlines—nurses, doctors, other healthcare professionals, and those who worked so hard to control the spread of the virus.

God didn’t reach down one day and magically put an end to the pandemic. But, that doesn’t mean it was any less of a miracle.

There’s no doubt in my mind that God was at work through it all. God never left us or abandoned us to suffer through it alone. God was there, directing us and giving us the strength to carry on.

Because that’s what God does. God shows up—sometimes in ways that we least expect.

Our lesson today from the Gospel of Matthew is another good example of how God tends to show up in our lives in unexpected ways. It’s a story that most of us are very familiar with. Even those with little knowledge of the Bible have likely heard the story of Jesus walking on the water.

It takes place right after the feeding of the five thousand. After the crowd has been fed, Jesus immediately tells his disciples to get into the boat and cross over to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Then, he dismisses the crowd of people and goes up to the mountain to pray.

When evening comes, the wind gets stronger and starts battering the boat and tossing it from side to side, carrying it far from land. This continues throughout the night.

When morning finally comes, the disciples see something strange approaching on the water. They don’t know what or who it is. It could be Jesus, but they aren’t sure. So, they cry out in fear, “It is a ghost!” But, Jesus reassures them, saying, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

Despite all they’ve seen Jesus do up to this point in his ministry, they still don’t believe it could be him, walking on the water.

Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

“Come,” Jesus says.

Peter gets out of the boat and steps on the water, slowly making his way toward Jesus. But, then he becomes frightened because of the strong wind and begins to sink into the water.

He cries out, “Lord, save me!”

Jesus grabs him by the hand and lifts him up. “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” Jesus asks. When they both return to the boat, the wind dies down and all the disciples worship Jesus, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

One of the things I love most about this story is that it serves as a reminder to all of us that, when we put our faith in God, God will be there to lift us up when we fall down. It doesn’t matter where we are in our lives or what kind of storms we may be going through. God will always be there, ready to reach out and lift us back up again.

He is our constant help in times of trouble, and I don’t know about you, but it brings me great comfort in knowing that.

Another thing I love about the story of Jesus walking on the water is that it challenges us to open our minds to new possibilities about God and God’s saving power in our lives. Peter and the other disciples doubted that the figure on the water was Jesus, coming to save them from the violent storm. It wasn’t until Jesus rescued Peter from the water and came into the boat that they truly believed.

God has the power to work in our lives in ways that we may never see coming—like the Preacher in our story from earlier. His preconceived ideas about God blinded him to the truth. The miracle he was waiting for was right in front of him the whole time.

And, I have a sneaky suspicion that if we were to look around ourselves, we too might see miracles unfolding around us all the time, especially in those moments when we feel lost or afraid.

Because that’s what God does. God shows up—sometimes in ways that we least expect. Amen.